Since Feeling is First
-Diana-
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
e.e. cummings
In the end, it was his silence that had been her undoing, their undoing. He could, and would, go for hours without saying anything at all, content to sit in his sturdy leather armchair reading Faulkner, or perhaps, if he was in a particularly pensive mood, Tolstoy. He was silent as he stirred and chopped, sprinkled and sniffed, except maybe to quietly ask her to pass him an ingredient, or to kindle the fire. What really brought her grief, though, was his silence as they lay side by side in his black canopied bed, the only sound their erratic breathing and racing hearts. No words of affection whispered breathlessly in the dark, no happy sighs of contentment from this one; oh no, only the steady, rhythmic movement of his hand caressing her neck, her collarbone, her stomach and, occasionally, the press of his lips on her smooth, pale skin.
Ironic how it was his quietude that had first drawn her to him. In her chaotic world of books, lectures, war, where voices haunted her both in and out of sleep, she needed, she craved a little silence. She fell in love with his intensity, his serenity, his quiet force. The way he could completely control a class with barely a word spoken, the way he made potions with a docile power that commanded more respect than any 'foolish wand waving' ever could. She could sit and watch him brew his potions for hours, captivated by the subtle strength of his hands, the lean lines of his body, his face.
When she came back to Hogwarts, after 6 long, monotonous years filled first with study, then with mind numbing office work, she wasn't prepared to face him. To be honest, she hadn't even really thought of him since she had graduated, except maybe in passing if she happened to catch a glimpse of long, raven hair glinting in the sun, or dark robes billowing about an anonymous tall figure. But when she walked into the Great Hall for the first time in what felt like ages, arm in arm with her old mentor Professor McGonagall, and caught site of him, sitting, back held erect, in his place at the Head Table, hair as lank as ever, still forming a curtain over the sides of his face, memories flooded over her and she felt her heart contract and her knees go weak, just like in the movies.
Their eyes met, and she could have sworn she saw something pass over his face. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, the world started revolving again, and she kept walking, Professor McGonagall guiding her gently.
She sat next to him at dinner that night, with Professor Sprout on her other side. Her body felt strangely tense; usually fairly unselfconscious, she was suddenly abnormally aware of every little movement: every breath she took, every shift in her chair, every gesture of her hands. In typical fashion, he didn't say one word to her throughout the entire meal except to ask for the salt; when she passed it to him, the tips of their fingers met and she felt a delicious tingle of energy go through her entire body. Their eyes met again, and at that moment she knew, she just knew, that her feelings weren't unreciprocated, that he felt that same strange exciting mix of fear, arousal, affection, companionship as she did.
The first time they made love, it was like being in a movie, minus the soundtrack. There was sweetness, burning desire, a gentle sort of arousal, even a few tears. No words, though, at least not from him. Her whispered 'I love you" was met with an intense gaze that said more than words could ever convey. When it was over, and they entangled in each other's arms, breathing hard and slightly sticky from the sweat of their arousal. She felt happy, safe, loved, like she never had before.
Which was what made it so hard to leave him. She loved him more than she ever thought she was capable of loving someone. The feeling of being in his arms was beyond bliss, beyond anything. That and the way he looked at her, like he would go to hell and back for her at the drop of a pin, like he would give anything to touch her, to hold her. The look on his face whenever she told him she loved him was thrillingly indescribable and utterly endearing in a way that made her heart feel like it was being smashed into pieces.
But one day, it just wasn't enough. The way he looked at her, touched her, made love to her was all well and good, but she was so goddamn tired of the silence. Why he couldn't just say a few little words of affection, of love to her just once and awhile was beyond her. Sure, he could talk for hours on end about the properties of asphodel, monkshood, gillyweed, the various ways to stir mixtures, the impact cauldron size had on the potency of a potion. But when it came to emotions, to feelings, he was practically a mute. Just once, she wanted some kind of verbal sign from him; his thoughts, his feelings, impassioned declarations of love, anything. Anything but this impenetrable silence, the nameless purgatory they were stuck in.
So she packed her bags, ready to leave again, this time for good. The acceptance of her application to teach at Beauxbatons had arrived the other day, and she had quietly let Professor Dumbledore know of her decision and entrusted him to tell the other professors. It broke her heart to leave them, to leave her childhood home, but it was necessary. Any more of this and she would go crazy from frustration.
She walked out of the bedroom, trunks reduced and stored safely in her bag, save one, a light carryon, and came face to face with him. Her heart stopped. They stood there studying each other for a moment. She could just barely catch his almost inaudible intake of breath when he saw her luggage. He understood what was happening. He always understood. She kissed him once, on the cheek, and walked out of the door, struggling very hard to keep her face from crumpling into a mask of tears. So engrossed in this was she that she missed the whispered 'I love you, Hermione" that followed her out of the door.