Disclaimer: I don't own anything familiar relating to "Harry Potter"! The lyrics used in this songfic belong to Nickelback; the song is called "Because of You"
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Summary: With Sirius gone, Hermione must pick up the pieces.
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Because of You
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This is the last time.
Next time, I swear I won't go.
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Hands on the mirror,
Can't get much clearer,
Can't make this all go away
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Something isn't right. I can feel it, in my very bones. Slowly, I break away, out of the laughter and the talk and simple interaction, and I lean my hands against the frame of the old mirror on the wall. I can see my reflection – I look unusually tired and drawn and sick.
There's helplessness in my eyes as well. A sense of inevitability, of resignation to my cause and my fate. Incredible, how a mirror can give you such a clear picture of who you are and how you feel. I can't escape this. I'm trying not to let my thoughts take me that way. But inevitably, they travel that way anyway ... I can't make it go away, I know that ... and I can be sure that in a corner of my mind, I can somehow hear a voice calling me. Calling for me ...
No, I'm imagining it. I will not respond to it. It cannot be happening. Not again. I won't believe that it's happening again, and if I don't believe, nothing will happen. Or will it? What if it's real, that I'm wrong? What then? No, I just won't go. So what if it's real? I am not the architect, the painter, the sculptor! I cannot put the pieces back together every time. I just will not respond. That cry in my head can go on, but I will not respond. I've got my own problems, doesn't he see? I'm not going to spend my life worrying about his. He's got to stop expecting me there. I just won't go ... then he'll learn.
If I don't go, what if something happens? What if he just waits for me, and doesn't realize I'm not coming? By the time he realizes, it might be too late. I'm beginning to feel cold, to feel afraid already.
It won't hurt to respond, to check ...
I've got to check.
"Where are you going?" Ron asks, as I start towards the stairs.
I smile reassuringly. "Just to fetch something."
"I think I'll turn in," he replies, stretching his arms over his head, "It's late."
"Don't be silly," I say with a laugh, "This hour – late, for you? Ridiculous. There's no need to go up to your room now. Stay here and finish the game; you don't want to lose this one, do you?"
"Are you trying to keep my from my room?" He asks with a grin, and with unusual astuteness.
"Planning a surprise party," I joke.
I'm brilliant, if I do say so myself. Or maybe I'm just a fool. I've kept it hidden for so very long.
As soon as I can be sure that they won't hear me, I start to run. I don't know why, but suddenly it no longer matters that I promised myself I wouldn't respond. All that does matter is getting there, to check, to find out, to make sure he's all right ... and to save him if he isn't.
Again.
The door is closed, just as I expected. I should subtly induce Neville, Seamus, Ron or Dean to station one of themselves in that room at all times. That way, he'll never be able to do this. The door is also locked. But since when has a locked door ever been able to stop me? I stare at it, a cold wave of that familiar – all-too-familiar – fear washing over me. I'm frightened. I don't want to unlock this door and go in; I know what I'll see. I could just turn around and go right back to the common-room. Yes, I could do that. No ... I don't think I could. I care too much.
I pull out my wand: "Alohomora!"
The door clicks open, and I walk in, quickly locking it behind me. And I see that my fears have taken a real, solid form.
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Now that you're bleeding,
You stare at the ceiling,
And watch as it all fades away
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Harry's lying on the floor – again. He's on his back, but I can see the wand-created wounds on his wrists. There's blood seeping into the rug, staining it a rich scarlet – again. I can see Harry's eyes as they stare emptily up at the ceiling, clouded with pain and with fear. He did call me. He cut his wrists with the hope and intent of ending all his pain and his grief, and – too late – his nobility reasserted itself and he realized what a mistake he'd made, and he called out for me, silently in his mind – again. Somehow, the bond between us ensures that I hear him. I heard him, and I came to save him from his own self-induced death. Again.
But even though this must be the fifth time I've seen this sight, it hasn't stopped hurting me. I freeze near the door for a moment, staring at the broken and shattered body and mind of my best friend – a hero to our world – and my vision is blurred over with new, unshed tears. Harry ... oh, Harry ...
And then I act.
Hermione Granger's brisk efficiency returns.
I conjure up the bandages and dump them on his bed, beside the rug on which he lies. His glassy gaze shifts; he looks at me. There's relief, gratitude and also immeasurable sadness in his green eyes.
The potions for healing flesh wounds are in a secret compartment in his trunk. The first time, when I nearly found him too late, I put them there, secretly. I knew he would do it again. I take out the potions and drip the right ones into the wounds in his wrist. I poke my wand at it and mutter the incantations. My voice shakes, my eyes tear – but I do it just the same. My heart is racing. Panic threatens to overcome me. Was I too late? Did I stand around and hesitate too long? Did my stubborn refusal – could it now have caused Harry's death?
No ... I breathe a sigh of relief as the wounds heal. The veins are repaired and the skin is closed. He'll live. His eyes slowly begin to lose the glassy emptiness that appears as he lies, waiting for and fearing death, and watches the world and all that is in it, fade away into the mist.
"Scourgify," I murmur, and the blood is cleaned up – off of his clothes, off the rug, simply wiped away.
But it cannot be wiped out of my mind.
Without a word, I help Harry up. He sits on the edge of his bed, with his head in his hands, and I conjure up a glass of water for him. It helps to be a clever witch on these sorts of occasions. As he slowly drinks the water, I look at him. He looks so sad and alone and lost ...
And in that minute, I hate him.
How dare he? I know he hurts, but we hurt too. We lost Sirius, too!
And he knows how much we love him ... how can he even consider taking his life to end his pain, and putting us through more misery and pain than we've already endured? I think of the magical and Muggle worlds, and Voldemort ... doesn't he realize all hope is lost for us if he ends things for himself?
I am angry now. But my pain is greater than my anger, and my compassion is too strong. So I just stand there. I don't shout. I don't cry, and I don't even shake him until he cries out.
I just stand there ... looking for the right words.
Strange ... I love you because you're my best friend, Harry. But I hate because you are my best friend too. Do you ever think about us anymore? Or have you forgotten Harry Potter and remember only James and Lily Potter, Sirius Black, Cedric Diggory, and all those who have somehow hurt you?
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From what you do, because of you
You know I can't be there each time that you call
I swore not to come but I'm here after all
I know by the look that I see in your eye
I won't stand around and I won't watch you die
From what you do
What's become of you?
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I can't do this anymore.
"Harry," I say quietly, making him look up at me, and I see the regret and pain in the green eyes all over again. "You're not making this any easier on yourself ... or on me. I can't go on like this. There's more to my life than solving your problems. I'm not going to be here. I can't spend my life always staying close by just to make sure I can get here in time."
"No one's asking you to," he says softly.
"You do. Don't deny it."
He lowers his head, looking at the empty glass of water in his hand. He knows it. He is inherently honest, and so he can't deny it either. He knows that in the depths of his mind, a stricken voice calls for me each time he realizes what he's done and that what he's done is a mistake. He knows that he calls.
There is complete silence in the room. Through the window, I can see the snowy outline of Hedwig. She's as angry and upset about all of this as I am, the only other living creature in this world who knows just what a wreck Harry Potter has become.
"You are a coward," I say, hoping to rouse him into anger.
He smiles sadly. "You don't understand."
"Understand?" My voice is deathly quiet; that makes me angry. "Understand? You can't possibly be talking to me about understanding! I'll tell you what I understand, Harry! You're a wreck! A mess. You spend a few days, a few weeks building yourself back up and then you willfully break yourself again. That's what I understand from all of this. You break and scatter your pieces everywhere."
"YOU DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH IT HURTS!"
I don't even flinch. "And do you know," I ask quietly, "How much it hurts me to see you like this? To walk into the room and find you bleeding and dying on the floor? To know that one day I may not be in time?"
"I'm sorry," he whispers, tired and broken. "I – I'm sorry."
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Now that you did this, you ask for forgiveness,
Doctor, could you be my priest?
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He's sorry. I look down at him, sitting on the edge of the bed, and I can't believe he's saying those words. Yes, they mean something. They mean plenty. But at the same time, they mean nothing to me anymore. ''Sorry' can't bring a dead man back to life' ... my mother used to say that to me when I was a child, and only now do I realize just how true it is.
He can't give back all that he's taken from me.
He can't take away the memories.
He can't take away the pain.
Sorry, Harry, but 'sorry' isn't good enough anymore.
"I don't want your apology," I say coldly, my voice trembling with emotion, "When you know as well as I do that in another two weeks' time I'll walk in here and find you on the ground again ..."
"No," he shakes his head, "Don't say that, Hermione! You're wrong."
I stare at him. "Will you do this ever again, Harry?"
"Of course not," Harry laughs a little as he says it, as if the mere suggestion is just a joke and is highly amusing. He's trying to make light of the situation, I know. "Of course I won't ... never again."
"You're a liar," I say softly, and with truth.
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Say 'you're mistaken', but look what you've taken
You laugh as you lie through your teeth
From what you do, because of you ...
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He looks at me, green eyes meeting my brown. Equal sadness, equal cares, equal anger, equal love ...
Not even this can destroy the bond we share and he knows it. I stole his pride by coming in here that first time and finding him, and although I've saved his life, he'll never forgive me for stealing his pride. He stole my laughter by doing this to himself, and though he gave me something to live for, I'll never forgive him for shackling me to his sorrow and his pain. I know Harry can't face me like he used to, and Harry knows I can't trust him like I used to.
But a golden thread, strong as rock, bonds us irrevocably together. Ron too, only with Ron, there is only laughter. Ron is our only channel towards humanity and towards an old day long forgotten.
"Am I a liar?" he asks with a tired, sad smile.
I look at him sadly, and realize that I've had enough. I can't go on picking up the pieces for him. He's got to learn to put his life back together himself ... and keep it there, together. Fixed. Unbroken. I know his pain runs deep, but he has to pull himself together or he's lost.
"Listen to me, Harry," I say sharply, and my tone makes him look up again, "This can't go on. You know I won't be here forever. You can't keep raising your wand to make those wounds. This is the last time you'll have me." I catch the flash of scorn in his eyes, and I know I deserve it. Each time I tell him it's the last time, and the next time, I return because I know that if I don't, he'll die.
Hang him!
"I mean it," I say, "This is the last time. I don't care, Harry." I'm an accomplished liar. "Yes, understand that. I no longer care. You've stripped away all my feeling. I'm bled dry. You didn't just bleed yourself, Harry. You bled me as well. And now there's nothing in me left for you to bleed. This is the last time. If you want to die, die. If you want to do this and kill yourself, go ahead. But understand this, Harry: I won't watch it happen. I will not watch you die."
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You know I can't be there each time that you call
I swore not to come but I'm here after all
I know by the look that I see in your eye
I won't stand around and I won't watch you die
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"I'm all right now," he says hollowly.
I turn around and I walk out of the room. But I don't go back to the common- room just yet. Instead, I stand in the corridor midway between the dorms and the stairs going to the Gryffindor common-room. I'm sick ... sick and tired. I wasn't lying. He isn't alone when he bleeds ... I bleed, too.
I'm dying too.
I know his pain ...
But I can't do this anymore.
I've cleaned up the mess today. I've picked up his pieces and I've put him – again – back together. But never again. It breaks my heart, but I'm used to it. My heart breaks, but I will not care again. If he wants to die, let him die. If he kills himself, let him do it. I won't stand around and I won't watch him die.
But I know I'll have to. Unless I bleed and die first. Unless I bleed and die before he does. Unless ...
I nearly laugh out loud. I can't do that. First his parents, then Sirius, then one of his best friends? No, I couldn't do that to him. He does it to me nearly twice a month, but I won't do it to him. He doesn't deserve that much pain. That would surely kill him, and I'm not a killer.
I can hear voices from the common-room. I'll have to go there and explain what I went to fetch (I have nothing but I wand in my hands), and I'll have to explain why I took so long. Then I'll have to rejoin the game with the rest of them and laugh with Ron, and no one will know that Harry Potter nearly died. It's almost funny. If I told them now, they'd be shocked, horrified, despairing, grieved. If I tell them this is the sixth time he's done it, I'll see shock, horror, despair, grief. But soon, they'll get used to it, won't they? And then, if I enter the common-room and say, "You know, Harry nearly died just now" ... well, they just won't care anymore. But that won't happen, I know, because I've shattered the chains that bind me to Harry's pain.
This is the last time.
Next time, I swear I won't go.
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THE END.
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A/N: This is just something I wrote on impulse after listening to the song. Please, please review!