A/N: So I know I have another story waiting for the next chapter; it's nearly done, I promise. In the meantime, here's another oneshot with a pairing I've never tried. Let me know what you think of it- pros and cons are always accepted and welcomed. Thanks. Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me. It's all JKR's. This Emotion, this Named Thing. by: carpetfibers
Oneshot
He never notices her watching him; he never notices the way her eyes never leave his face. He doesn't know the number of days that have passed since their first meeting, and he doesn't know the number of times she's sworn to move past him. He exists in ignorance, in a world free from the bitterness she tastes each morning, and there's a half of her that hates him for it. But her habit of loving him is too strong to be forgotten.
He tells her, on a morning dusted with late autumn frost, that he's taking a break. "We only argue lately, and we both decided that taking some time away from each other can give us some perspective."
She waits, watching the way his pomegranate stained lips move. "How long?"
He brushes the crumbs from the table, nonexistent particles from a breakfast only half finished. "For a month. After that, we'll try again."
She tries to ignore the discontent in his familiar eyes and prays that he misses the hopefulness in hers. "Then, I have a suggestion."
He inclines his head, his features composed in curiosity. She promised herself this, years before when he first declared his love for someone else. She promised that she wouldn't back down, that she wouldn't lose the chance; she promised that she would take whatever small scrap of happiness was tossed her way. She would seize it with both hands and not let go.
"Use me then, during that time. Let's become. . . friends with benefits."
He's there, beside her, on her, and in her, and with each harsh movement she relishes the pain the pleasure gives her. She lives in the now, in the present second, and tears down the calendar from the wall that reminds her of the countdown. He comes at night, on the rare lunch hour, and even, once, before the sky had welcomed in the spectrum. He avoids her lips, and when she cries, moments later, a raw sound that echoes too loudly, she makes him believe that it's from pleasure.
"Tell me what it is you're thinking."
She thinks only of him, and it's how she's always thought, even before her heart had names for the things she dreamt and wondered. When she was fifteen and he turned to her and smiled, like he did so many times before then, and for two seconds, she didn't breath, didn't think, and instead there was only wonder. And then the dreaming that night. Two years later, under an unknown sky and in an unnamed forest- she felt it again. Her body woke then with a gasp, a grating push of air that forced knowledge into her blood. She felt it then, and she knew its name; it is greedy.
"Tell me what it is you're wanting."
She wants only him, and it's what she's always wanted, even before her mind had names for the things she felt and tasted. When she was nineteen and drinking through her first break up, he came to her and smiled, like he did so many times before then, and for half a breath, she drew on faith and prayed, as beggars must pray, for even the slightest touch of hope. His hand rested on her shoulder, then, a well meant gesture of comfort, and when she trembled, she felt it then, that named emotion. And when she bit down sharply on her cheek, in the blood, she tasted it, that named emotion; it thirsts.
"Tell me."
The calendar is gone from the wall, but she knows the time is running short. Her mind, a misery of organization and actualized itineraries, sounds the warning alarms each morning- that time is not slowing, that the heavens have paid her wishes no attention- that she can pray and hope and implore, but time is not slowing. Not for her, not for this. He still avoids her lips, avoids her kiss, and she smiles away the concern that flickers distantly in his eyes. She tells him that it's fine, this is just a temporary enjoyment- a mutual fulfillment of an adult pleasure. She's careful to use words and phrases that bely nothing of her heady rage or acute pain. She's careful to hide her selfishness, and when she bites his shoulder, he thinks it's only because he asked. And when her teeth find his throat, he thinks that this too is only because he asked. He confuses tears for perspiration, and when she trembles, finished, he kisses her forehead.
Like they're only friends.
She feels something break when that mark of heat touches her skin, a touch she longs to have on her lips, a taste she's hungered for long before she knew the right words to name it. She is not careful this time, four days before it ends, and he sees the hurt then. He sees the blankness in her eyes, and he is too accustomed to her brightness to not notice the sudden darkening. Even he is not that dense; but he stays quiet.
"Your eyes, they're really a light brown, almost hazel color, aren't they?"
His fingers graze the thin skin that surround the delicate organs, and her breath catches. Three days, she reminds herself, three days left.
"And your hair, it's far softer than I thought. Somehow, I always imagined my hand would catch in it."
His fingers trace through her scalp, ending to cup the back of her neck. Two days, she reminds herself, two days left.
"You look best in sunlight. I never noticed it before, but when the sunlight catches you, just right, you have freckles there, along your cheeks."
His fingers linger on her skin, his thumb teasing near her mouth. One day, she reminds herself, one day left.
"Not today. That is-"
She knows that it was pressing the odds, forcing the illogic, to think that this day, the last day of a self-imposed separation between two who loved each other, would be a time for a tryst in the afternoon. She hasn't slept since the night before, and she knows the face she gives him hides nothing. She smiles though, at his greeting, and his words stop. His lips curve to return her glance, and then, that too, pauses.
"It's time for you to patch things up then. It's time for me to find better things as well." Her hand catches on the door frame, the wind having loosened her hair, offering a token of mercy in its helpful disguise. He cannot see her eyes this way. "See you later, Har-"
"Hermione." She forgot that his eyes are better than most, even when weaker than most. She forgot that he's started watching her now- that he's seen her now as well. "Why are you crying?"
She thought that one month of having this, of having this piece of him, would be enough. Wasn't this what she prayed for? Wasn't this what she begged the angels to grant her? She had her month, her thirty pieces of silver, and now, she realizes, it is not enough. This emotion, this named thing she now knows: it is selfish. "I'm not."
"You are, too. What's wrong?"
She must be careful now, because her bitterness rests too close to the surface, her self-disgust too rawly exposed. "Tired, really. I guess you wore me out."
She speaks the words as a joke, but no one laughs. Her short words land heavily, and history is heard in them. A history of following dutifully, of watching closely, of relishing each careless touch, of cherishing each solitary moment- the words leave her lips, and she gasps. Even he is not that dense; and he does not stay quiet.
"It's been broken off- for good."
She closes her eyes but cannot release the door. She's waiting for the catch, for the extra line to climb in and strike a tasteless blow. "Why?"
He shrugs, a careless gesture that reminds her of the marks she's left beneath his shirt collar. She smiles then and feels like weeping. "Never mind," she says, and steps to leave, to cross the threshold, and then there's a press against her shoulder, a slight weight that forces her to still. "Harry?"
"I've seen you concentrate, I've seen you when you're determined. I've seen you angry and silly, drunk and serious. I've seen you sad. . .but I can't remember when I last saw you happy. Hermione, why is it that I've only noticed these things about you now?"
The weight moves, lightly, from her shoulder to her bare arm. She closes her eyes and sees his fingers there, a touch she's known for so long, yet never quite like this. "I don't know."
"You've always been there, this constant presence, but I only just realized what it was I was always missing when you weren't there. When I was with someone else, what it was I was always attempting to find. Did you know, Hermione, that you smell like rosemary?"
His lips tickle her ear and she shivers, not from the contact, not from the thrill his breath rushes to her spine- she shivers and shakes and trembles because these are words she never imagined him speaking. His other hand teases at the base of her skirt, a faint pressure that hinted at fingernails and a warm palm. "Hermione, did you know, I'm trying to find that scent, that perfume no matter where I am? And then, when it's there- when you're there, I feel right again."
"Harry-" Her voice breaks and she pushes away from him, placing the door frame between them. "It's my detergent, Harry. Nothing else. Just soap for the laundry. You're making it sound like- the way you're speaking, it's as if-" She lifts her eyes to his face, sweeping her hair free from her cheeks. She knows she's crying, she can feel the damp soak of her cheeks and the taste of salt at the corner of her mouth. "I told myself I would be happy with this. That this would be enough, so please don't use words like that. It's too easy for me to think-"
And then she's being pushed, roughly and callously to the floor. His movements are greedy, his hands bruising. He bites sharply against her collar bone, and the thrill she feels in it, the slice of pain and exhilaration- none of it, however practiced in days prior, is enough. He whispers, unlettered words, that burn at her skin; she realizes this is his magic at work, more so than any spell or charm- this was always his particular magic. That he could translate such emotions, those named things she refuses to speak, into sounds and meanings- she opens her eyes and her hands seize his face, silencing the non-words that spill from his lips.
"Stop." She loathes the weakness in her voice, the trembling fear that pervades each utterance. Even her fingers quake against the warmth of his cheeks and the coolness of his mouth, that mouth that avoided her ministrations and caresses- that mouth that refused her a taste from its ripened flesh. She fingers crawl towards his temples and gently she removes the silver lined frames from his gaze. "Tell me, really, can you see me, Harry?" she whispers.
She hears his answer in a light touch, a hesitant murmuring press of ice against her mouth. I see you. Her eyes close and the world has devolved into a singularity of existence, a universe of unvoiced expression. I see you. He answers her again, the touch warm and damp in its repetition. I see you. A third time, he answers, and then she too leaves behind words and responds with a language her lips have dreamt a fluency in. She hears the words in each echoed response, the syllables repeated with each achingly gentle taste of her lips.
I see you.
She has always known its name, that named thing that fed from her, that skimmed from her blood and clung to her heart. She has always known its name, even before she dared give it definition with spoken word. She has always known it, and now she realizes, as he floods her with an unending reply- IseeyouIseeyouIseeyouIseeyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou- now she realizes, this emotion, this named thing, it is a glutton.
He kisses her again, and now she- she only prays for more sin.
End