Is This Love

He had no reason to leave. There was no excuse for his walking away, his deserting them. That was a cold, solid fact.

And that fact was a blessing.

These days - or had it only been hours, not even a day, since he had left? - anger was, for Hermione, easier to come by, easier to hold on. Clutching at that one comfort, the fact that she had a right to be angry, made everything more bearable. It made her feel like she was actually doing something, instead of sitting around, struggling to look anywhere but where she was staring at the moment.

Of course, it was perfectly ridiculous. But since when had anything about him been logical?

She had to work at it. Every time she found herself starting to think his name, she'd quickly think of her parents. It was difficult (how can you tell yourself not to think of something without thinking of it?) but necessary, for only decent people, good people, deserved names, and it was so hard to be angry with someone who had a name and a family and goals and hopes and dreams…

Sometimes, the anger was easier to find than others. Sometimes, it was surges and surges of white hot rage that left her stock still, her eyes become wet with indignant tears. Those were the good times.

But at other moments, like now, as she sat on a stool and stared at his radio, it was difficult. She felt like she was drowning, flailing for a rescue she knew wouldn't come. She felt like she was on fire, reaching for a bucket of water that was just out of reach. It was as though she was tearing completely apart. The dying, rational part of her brain only had time to beg Is this love? to any invisible listening personbefore giving into despair.

He knew what he was getting himself into -

None of you did -

We all had an idea, we all knew it was going to be tough -

He was angry at both you and Harry, he acted without thinking -

He should've come back, why didn't he come back -

He thought you wouldn't take him back -

He's just being an idiot -

You've always thought that, and it didn't bother you before, not in your sixth year -

He was and is a jerk -

- and now he knows what it's like to be second best, he thinks you've chosen his best mate over him -

Don't say that -

Even her thoughts started to sound anguished and choked, and Hermione felt her control slip. She was gone, spiralling, falling, and the ground was speeding towards her at a speed so fast it was surreal, and she had no time to prepare, because she was going to crack when she hit it -

Two hands had appeared in front of her, pushing themselves through her half-crazed thoughts. She stared blankly at them for a moment, then, remembering Harry, placed her own small hands in them. He pulled her up, and, after watching her seriously for a beat, reached around her neck and pulled the Horcrux up over her head.

Hermione felt the cold leave her skin, and the madness leave her thoughts. It was the Horcrux making me slip like that, she thought, making a desperate stab at relief, though she knew that the Horcrux was only feeding on the thoughts she already had

There was a quiet thud, and she saw that Harry had dropped the Horcrux on a bunk. She looked up at him for an answer, and was momentarily confused by how stiff and unused her face felt.

He was crouched fiddling with the radio, turning the knobs this way and that, and Hermione just had time to feel a swell of gratitude towards Harry before the very anger that she was grateful for overtook her.

He shouldn't be touching that - he's got no right, it belonged to - and an image of her mother's face on her father's birthday swelled inside of her to beyond normal size.

The anger was more feeble than usual, true, but it was better than nothing, and she clung to it with fierce determination.

He stopped touching the radio, and an old song Hermione remembering hearing at a family barbeque played. Harry began to move to the music, moving her arms around as he danced.

She tried to stubbornly hold it back, but a smile escaped her lips and fluttered, breaking through the still and solemn feel of the day with its delicate wings. It felt so good, and it was much easier, so she gave into it, dancing around the tent with Harry.

It was a mixture of waltzing and pure teenage instinct, and Hermione was reminded as they twirled around of the Yule Ball. Just like then, she had no idea how to dance, but it didn't matter, and she was spinning around and laughing, and she would until -

Her father's expression when she mentioned Viktor inviting her to spend the summer with him came to mind.

A few more twists, spins, and laughs later, she'd managed to forget about almost thinking his name. It was innocent, goofy, beautiful fun, the type of fun she hadn't had in a while. Harry was laughing too as he wrapped his arms around her and twirled her out. Her face, which had been stiff before, felt wonderfully tired as she giggled when he nearly sent her flying. She was gasping for breath as he pulled her back in. As the music started to slow down and get quiet, they went into a very clumsy waltz position - they could've been hugging - and simply swayed.

Being with Harry is so easy, she found herself thinking, resting her chin on his shoulder. It was true. With Harry, there was no tension over the tiniest of actions, no worry that he would take what she said to mean something different. Dancing with Harry was like dancing with her brother -

See, he had no reason to leave, she thought in what could be considered a happy way. She smiled to herself, and she relaxed into Harry -

He had no reason to leave. With a feeling that felt like poisoned candy settling into her stomach, she wondered what a tall, lanky boy with sunset coloured hair and eyes the colour of wishes would look like if he saw this moment.

His eyes wouldn't realize what they would seeing. He'd blink. Then, in a split second, heartbreak would be etched on his face. He'd blink again. He'd try to cover up his pain with anger. He'd tried to convince himself he didn't need them. He'd blink. He'd know that he had been right all along, that Harry and Hermione really were better off without him. He'd blink. And blink again, his beautiful eyes starting to drown. The boy -

His name was Ron. Hermione didn't want to be angry with him anymore. It was killing her.

She pulled her head off Harry's shoulder slowly, an emotion so strong that it was unrecognizable coursing through her veins. His eyes met hers. His face had an expression on it which she knew must mirror her own; muted horror, creeping guilt, and a sadness normally associated with death.

She took a step back, away from Harry, away from dancing, away from everyone, and sat silently down on the stool by the radio.


Like it? Love it? Hate it? Tell me whatever the case. I'd also like to know what you think the message is I'm trying to send to my readers, because I honestly don't know. I would quote John Lennon right now, except I don't know the exact words... yeah, awkward (turtle). Oh, and I'm publishing this at ten-thirty at night, so there will probably be loads of mistakes, so I'd really appreaciate it if you could all play Beta and point them out (believe it or not, I like it when people point out my flaws).

Brownie points to anyone who listened to "Jar of Hearts" while reading this (such an AMAZING song).

~ Cierra, who rules the world behind everyone's back