PG is for angst & language—Harry's mad at the world in general
Worse
by Amy
By now, I guess, I wouldn't know what to do with perfection if it bit me. I think the longest I've ever been perfectly happy was for a year—the year before my parents died. Does it count if you were too small to remember it? It has to count, or I don't think I could bear it.
I may not know what to do with it, but I'd sure as hell better be able to recognize it. Cho and I fooled ourselves into thinking we had found it. Twice, at that. I can tell the difference by now. I know what I've lost.
Couldn't we have had a few more months? I'd have broken my record.
If only it wasn't so damned mundane! I guess you can never really leave the Muggle world. I tried to, and look how it gets its revenge—with a fucking Honda! I should laugh. It'd almost make more sense than crying.
I always rather thought I'd go out with a bang. Me and the rest of the wizarding world. It turns out we were wrong. I'll just sit here in this lobby and stare at the wall until the flesh rots off my bones.
Who's that? Is it worth the effort of turning around?
If it's Ron, I won't say anything. I'll stare at that tile in the wall until it cracks or he goes away.
If it's Hermione…I don't know. But I won't cry. It's always been her crying, me comforting. As long as I can remember, at least on the few occasions that either of us have cried.
The world's upside-down enough already. I will not cry. I swear it. I swear it…
"Harry?"
Fuck off. "Who is it?"
"Harry, it's me."
Hermione. Shit. I bite my lip. No one speaks. I had forgotten what blood tastes like.
"Harry, are you all right?"
What the hell do you think I am? Tell me again why they made you Head Girl—"Fine."
"No, you're not."
There, I knew you were smart. "I'm fine."
The plastic seat scrunches. Did she sit down? My eyes won't focus. I can't even remember if I'm wearing my glasses. Malfoy should see me now. He'd laugh, and I wouldn't even care.
"You're not. Harry, look at me."
I can't and I won't. She doesn't need to see my eyes, anyway. She's my sister. She can see into my soul; she's always been able to.
"Ron's in shock too; we all are. God, Harry, you should see Percy…"
That's it, that does it. That does it. "Percy! What the hell does Percy know? He hasn't seen her in years! What the hell does Percy know…" I can feel my voice about to break. I had better leave, now, before this gets any worse. If it can get worse.
I jerk my hands out of my pockets and stalk toward the doors. As I'm about to shove them open, I hear a little clinking noise and a tiny gasp. I turn around.
There's a ring on the gray linoleum. I've seen it before; I bought it, and I put it carefully into my pocket this morning. I know every little facet on the single stone; I know the inscription as though it is graven on my heart. And Hermione is staring at it, her face gone gray as the hospital tiles.
It can get worse.
***
Author's note: For some reason, I feel this story requires some explanation. Perhaps I just need to convince myself why it is that I'm all of a sudden writing angsty little sketches. I'm in the middle of writing my longest (so far) story, which is lighter than Tenebrae or Fidelius, and, well, I suppose it's all that fabled teen-age depression coming to the fore.
As to the more concrete stuff: yes, the woman in question is Ginny Weasley. Harry's at least 25, probably older, and he was going to propose to her. At least, I'm pretty sure. I'm not a H/G shipper (actually, I can't really see Harry with any of the girls we've met so far), and I've never thought I'd be able to write romance. In fact this isn't really romance, but if I decide later that I hate this one, I'll know that I can't even write post-romance so romance is definitely out. Though this isn't really how I see Harry and Ginny, it is how I see Harry and Hermione, if you're looking for a little insight into the mind that produced this crap.
~Amy, 5/21/00