AN: Y'all got me to 50 reviews and over 200 followers with the last update so I figured you deserve this.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but my insane plot which stems from my equally crazy mind
WARNING: same as always, I have no beta and don't really proof read much
Chapter 7: Depression Part 3: Weeping Whirly Pops
She should be more excited.
Well she had been initially, when the thrill of actually being noticed by a real live member of the male population had still been fresh; and a sought after international Quidditch star at that. But then Ron had to open his big fat Weasley mouth.
Hermione loved Ron, she really did. He was her brother in all but blood after all… However the gangling redhead had a syndrome, one that could get him killed one day should it make itself prevalent at the wrong time, one that ran rampant in the blood of the fiery tempered Weasley household. This condition is known as Foot in Mouth Syndrome by the general population but is also known by a misfortunate few as Slap to Face Disorder. Ron Weasley had recently become one of the misfortunate few.
See Hermione Granger wasn't a girl to the male populace of Hogwarts. No to them she was the barricaded little sister of the Boy who Lived and his Weasel sidekick, both of whom went off to fight dark wizards and thought with their wands- the actual wooden, magical kind mind you, so no perverted grins or 'my wand can be quite magical' s or 'you make my wands wooden' s, if you please - not their lacking diplomacy. Hermione had always been the attaché of smooth talk in their group, the girl who could absolve most any tension with a warm smile and musical laugh. Now that's not to say she wouldn't be right by their side with hexes flying, or a fist to the face in Malfoy's case, when someone truly tested her patience, or was just a downright evil git, but in the boys' case there was no alternate to hex first ask questions later; particularly when it came to protecting their 'Mione. A fact that the guys of Hogwarts were painfully aware of, especially after the unfortunate incident the previous year when a certain Ravenclaw suitor found himself hanging by the bullocks from a tower balustrade consequently following his attempts to move in on our darling bookworm during her lonely moments that correlated with what was to become known in the Golden Trio as the Great Scabbers Incident of '93. Needless to say Hermione became a bit of an untouchable amongst any of the Hogwarts male population that didn't enjoy having a very sore set of balls, which was of course the entirety of said population.
So yes, to the boys of Hogwarts Hermione Granger was an unattainable Goddess covered in red tape and great big signs that read no trespassing. The foreign visitors had no such dilemmas, seeing as the story of a certain Terry Boot's calamity was kept under tight wraps; because, of course, the boys responsible had a strong desire to keep their bullocks out of the blissfully unaware Hermione's grasp. So no, to a certain visiting Bulgarian seeker Hermione Granger was a very attainable goddess surrounded in an appealing Gryffindor golden girl glow.
Thus, when Ron wrongly assumed the bookish beauty was unilaterally leaning, all while implying she was an undesirable last resort deserving of his pity, he was subsequently handed his arse in the form of the punishing sting of a red hand printed cheek courtesy of the palm of one Hermione Jean Granger.
The night of the ball Hermione and Ron were hardly on extremely tense speaking terms and, with Harry so wrapped up in his own Cho drama, the lacking presence of her best friends brought a whole new bitter sting to the season's most anxiously awaited event. Staring in the mirror at her full red painted lip, Chesnutt curls in an elegant, diamond studded chignon, and sparkle coated whiskey eyes framed by long lashes and winged liner she sighs. She doesn't feel like herself, and it's not the lack of books nor her actually tamed riotous hair that makes her feel this way. It's the lack of someone to share it with. Not many people know that beyond her books and oft time forced sensibleness lies an empathetic soul who crusades for the world's happiness and sees no purpose in her own joy without some form of decent company to go along with it. Without Harry and Ron to share in the joy of primping, and the future laughing and dancing, and her actually feeling beautiful for once in her life the night had a bleak outlook.
Hermione shook her head, Harry and Ron may not be there for her but they would still be there… Plus she would have Viktor with her the whole night, she may not know the burly Bulgarian all that well, but from her experience she had gathered he was a sweetheart, who was surprisingly -in her opinion anyway- very into her, so she knew he was definitely a far more than worthy companion to share in the night's splendor.
Bypassing the giggling, girlish hubbub in the common room as the primped up harpies gossiped about who was going with who and how hot the boys of Bulgaria were, Hermione goes down to the main stairs leading to the great hall, perhaps feeling a little smug that one of those 'hot boys of Bulgaria' were hers for the night.
She felt like the perfect cliché of every romanticized muggle prom movie as she descended the marble stairway in all her finery to see the popularized, Quidditch celebrity dream date waiting for her all black tie – or the wizarding equivalent rather- wearing at the bottom. But something was glaringly missing from this moment that epitomized every school girl's fantasy, something that made the brilliant smile she gave her waiting suitor fight to turn down at the ends…
The butterflies. The earthshattering, mind-numbing, all-encompassing spark that all the greats from Jane Austen, to Shakespeare, to Nicholas Sparks acknowledged as the end all be all in their world-renowned works of literary art. Now Hermione wasn't a giggly school girl, nor a horny house mother, but with her persistent romanticism added to her ever-present optimism and zeal for lifting up the down trodden, it was an accurate statement to claim she 'viewed the world through rose colored lens;' and, Merlin darn it, if those rose colored lens showed lightning, fluttering metamorphosed bugs and the full on grand finale of a new year's eve fire work display as love, than that's what she wanted to have.
Maybe the butterflies were a secondary response? Maybe they came with the dancing, and the talking and the touching? Maybe it was, quite literally, 'in his kiss;' thank you, Betty Everett, for those words of wisdom.
For once, Hermione Granger, bookworm extraordinaire, actually did not know the answer to this tremendously vexing quandary. All she did know was that she wanted it. No, she needed it. She needed the pounding heart beat that pitter pattered an affectionately nervous tattoo on her chest. She needed those intensely endless pools for eyes that bore straight into her soul and displayed her every desire in their fathomless depths. And she thought she'd felt that once, last year, but as the time passed it was easier to tell herself that she was certain she was wrong; after all Hermione Granger did not fall for rugged older men, particularly not of the escaped ex-convict variety, no matter how wrongfully accused.
Shaking her rumination Hermione turns up her megawatt smile to take Viktor's arm and be led into the opening number with the rest of the competitor couples. His touch was soft yet firm as he led her in the dance and she found his hand and expression both to be pleasingly warm. Perhaps it really is in his touch, she thought as they twirled about the floor… but still she knew something was missing.
She chose not to focus on her perceptions of a seemingly lackluster night, turning instead to the pleasant sensation it was to be the center point of anyone's single-minded devotion. She only hoped that single minded devotion was to her personally, not her knickers.
She let the thrill of being wanted, even if by someone she didn't wholeheartedly want back herself, wash over and lower her inhibitions for the night. The lacking spark was no longer a preclusion of enjoyment, it was instead a preclusion of pressure that made the night all the more carefree; she had no one to impress. Her new found bliss gravitated her towards her friends, towards forgiveness of Ron's far from tactful tongue, and towards her own undoing. So as Viktor poured them glasses of the likely spiked punch, she made her way over to make peace with the bumbling red head and share, as she had wanted to from the very beginning, her delight in the nights events; it was unfortunate that her attempt at extending the metaphorical olive branch had to turn into an almost literal Treaty of Versailles [1].
"You came with him?!" Ron demanded after she had given a cheerful greeting and forgiving smile to Harry and himself.
Hermione drew back in affronted shock, as if he had struck her in the same way she had him all those days ago, "What? Viktor," she asked in confusion.
"Yes, Viktor Krum," Ron emphasized as he glared down at her with clear disdain written across his features. "As in the famous Bulgarian seeker and Triwizard Champion! You're out there frolicking about with Harry's competition, he shouted accusingly.
She looked between her two best friends. Harry had reddened to the tint of Ron's hair in embarrassment, opening and closing his mouth in an uncanny resemblance to a fish while he tried, and failed, to find something to interject into their brewing argument. The king of weasels, as she had come to calling Ron in her recent anger –only internally of course-, on the other hand was beyond red into the purple category in his trademark Weasley anger as he heatedly berated Hermione about her choice in dance partner.
Hermione was livid, and there was nothing Harry could say, even if he wasn't in a state of gaping confusion, to bring her off the warpath of her righteous furry. "Yes Ronald Weasley I am here with Viktor Krum, the 'famous Bulgarian seeker' you seemed to be in love with last week," She screamed, throwing his earlier words back in his face.
"That doesn't" matter he seethed back, "your fraternizing with the enemy! He's probably only with you to get to Harry or your knickers! Hey maybe he wants to go for the two for and is trying to get away with both!"
He'd said it. He brought voice to a hitherto unnamed fear. A fear that said no one would want her for all that she was. That no one would want her past her books or her burgeoning beauty. That no one would want her for her heart.
At that point she could no longer hold back her impending waterworks as she slapped Ron for the second time that week. "You, Ronald Weasley, are an arse," she managed to squeeze out of her tear clogged throat before she fled the great hall.
She could hardly hear Harry's gasp at her shocking vernacular as he called pleadingly after her. But she couldn't stop. She wouldn't. She needed to get away, she needed to get away to a place where she wasn't suffocating in her own misery, to a place where she could think, where she could do what Hermione Granger does best and rationalize the situation. Though if there was one thing she had trouble rationalizing it was herself, her feelings… it was what some people in her life would call the one thing she couldn't do; but that was only if they knew her plight of course, which no one cared to do. In reality there were many more things the labelled illustrious Hermione Granger couldn't do. She had no illusions of her own grandeur. She was no goddess. Certainly not one of quidditch; she was pants at quidditch. That thought made Hermione snort for a short moment as she continued to run through the halls, but the choking tears soon took control again.
No one got her, no one saw this side of her that feared; that wanted to be loved fully and unequivocally. The part that wasn't just the bookworm or a pretty face, but a human being that was illogical, and irrational when it came to maters of the heart. The girl whose heart was behind most everything she did just as much as her book filled brain was, if not more. The girl who fought for the beliefs and desires of that large, yet fragile, heart she had with her every breath and was always one step away from breaking as she tried to hide that it was on her sleeve. Obviously she was good at hiding, at being what she needed to be, because no one knew how much she felt. Sure she could solve a problem and think past charging in blind just because 'Snape's a greasy git' and 'Malfoy's got to get what's coming,' but that didn't make her any less emotionally charged then the rest of Gryffindor house; she just showed it differently. She solved problems, wrote perfect essays, and cried in secret; well secret for the most part.
No one knew her heart.
Except…
For someone so smart that has to be the most illogical, fantastical line of thinking I have ever come across. People are selfish beings and the world is a cruel place, you need to take your heart off your sleeve before someone stabs it; I worry for you kitten.
Isn't that what his letter had said?
I can just see you waving your little fist in the air narrating this letter preaching about house elf rights as you wrote it.
Hadn't she done just that?
You were crying while you wrote this, weren't you pet? Gingeylocks is an idiot princess, and no boy, not even my godson and especially not Ron Weasley, deserves your tears.
Had she not had to spell water marks off the paper as her tears stained the pages?
Someone did know her heart. Understood her, even after such few personal meetings, from a mere piece of parchment; a note sent from miles away.
Sirius Black did what her best friends, her brothers failed to do. What her teachers, peers, and neighbors failed to do. What even her own parents failed to do. He got her, he saw her heart, sitting right there on her sleeve, and didn't turn a blind eye to it because she was just Hermione Granger the Gryffindor book worm, so good at hiding behind her pages.
Sirius Black got her and, somehow, that made her feel a little less alone; because even if he wasn't always there for her, even if she didn't merit a mere second thought for him, she would always be there for the man who did what she had thought impossible… The man who got her heart.
Hermione Granger had been at Grimauld place for a month now.
A month of sending letters that were purposefully, painfully vague. A month of receiving replies whose words were far from passively aggressive about being kept in the dark. A month away from her parents to learning how to fight the good fight for Dumbledore's 'greater good.' And a month with the man who made all those struggles seem worthwhile, made the unbearable bleakness of it all fade away with his jovial air, the air that even Azkaban couldn't steel away, even with all its years and all the other damages the prison held over him, damages she could see in his soulful eyes. Yes, a month with Sirius Black.
She'd come to learn a few things over that month. About the man. About his life. About his family. She'd also learned a few less than pleasing bits about her headmaster but that wasn't the point she was focusing on as she stared out the library's bay window. She was focusing on just how badly she wanted to cry, and just how hard she was holding those tears in, and just how everything this man had been through made him both the perfect and imperfect man to hold her through them.
Perfect because he knew just how much it hurt to have your heart shorn and imperfect for that same reason, he knew just how much it hurt to have your heart shorn by the loss of a friend but he knew so much more pain then that. He knew true agony that meant if her heart had been shorn his had been obliterated. He knew this pain from reasons wholly more awful then her own, reasons that would never be entirely mendable as hers were; if anything, in fact, they were entirely unmendable.
Her being so weak where he is strong, where he goes on from every day, after facing things so much worse than she- so much worse than any human being should ever have to face was inexcusably sickening. Her crying and breaking in ways that he never openly showed with that jovial air and flirtatious grin… It felt wrong. The guilt it wrought to want to burst out in tears and seek comfort from a man who didn't break under an elephant's tonnes where as she broke under the weight of a bird's feather could only be described as extremely, excruciatingly erroneous.
Then again she thought that maybe he had been broken. Sometimes she could see it in his eyes, behind that jovial air, behind that flirtatious smile, beneath all that banter and his easy laugh were eyes that showed a very broken man. In those moments, when those Grey eyes could no longer hide the agony of his shattered heart, she wanted to take all of his pain… But how could she when she couldn't even bare the weight of her best friend being angry at her?
So she sobbed. She sobbed in a muffled, reclusive agony, filled with both sorrow and enraged antipathy. Sorrow at being subject to her friends pained and wrathful words. And an angering self-resentment at her own failures. Failure to convince Dumbledore of her friend's need of them, of their transparent support in the wake of the most awful competition victory in history. Failure to be what Harry needed most under the restraints of her commandeered and edited writings. Failure to protect him when he needed her, a job she had long ago assigned herself. And finally, failure to assist the man who made her feel a little less alone in this world, a little less different and wrong, in chasing away his demons. She tried so hard to be what everyone needed, to be strong, and brave, and unyieldingly compassionate but she was never enough. She always failed where she was needed most, no matter how much she read, or how many smiles she gave, or how many angered vents she'd sat through and soothed she was never enough. This is a fact that was never more blatantly clear than in it was in this moment; the moment when Harry, her neglected brother to protect, said that he hated her.
Where's the Hermione that punched Draco Malfoy in the face when you need her? The witch wondered as she stared at the derelict garden from her rickety seat on the tumbledown window ledge in the musty, ramshackle library of Grimauld place; the house painted the very picture of dilapidated but it was her heart that felt the most like ruins at the moment. She could've really used some of that Mike Tyson, quick jab to Malfoy's condescendingly lifted nose courage in that moment; she had some real issues to fight through right then but all she could do was sob.
So sob she did, she cried until her throat hurt and her eyes were red, she cried until the lights went out and the moon came up, and she was still crying when the door creaked open and his telltale surefooted, confident steps hit the libraries worn Persian carpet; a green rug of course, a Black family home wouldn't have anything in the classic red associated with the rival Hogwarts house of Gryffindor to their typical Slytherin. Typical but not entirely mutually exclusive, a fact proven by the very man striding into the room, Sirius Black, the first Black to ever be sorted into Gryffindor's pride -a possibility once thought antithetical to the ancient Black name- and the very definition of bravery in the heart of a lion.
Hermione turned fully to the window in an attempt to keep her flowing tears hidden, biting down hard on her plump lower lip and clenching her fists to keep from making the telling motion of wiping her eyes. She clenches her eyes shut, feeling the dampness of her long lashes on her already wet checks as his signature footsteps approach. His hands on her shoulders turn her around to face him as her eyes flutter open, stormy skies meet dark bourbon whiskey as Hermione takes a sharp breath. Her mouth was open in a soft 'o' of surprise at the raw emotion in his eyes, ones of compassion though she didn't dare think love. He said nothing as he hauled her into his chest letting its lean muscles catch her continued whimpers.
Hermione was the first to speak, "Seems I'm ruining your shirt with my blubbering half of the time we meet, perhaps I should give you money for dry cleaning," She said, looking up at him from her place against his chest; both unready and unwilling to let go yet.
Sirius chuckles, "Wizards don't need dry cleaning Kitten, and this only the second time since the world that you've in your own words 'blubbered all over me.'"
"Hey! I didn't say I 'blubbered all over you,' I only acknowledged that I have a propensity for ruining shirts with aforementioned blubbering, and what was the other time after the world cup?" Hermione protested with what Sirius thought was an adorable huff.
"Ruining my shirt with all your blubbering implies that you blubbered all over me so same difference," He smirked as Hermione rolled her eyes and puffed a breath of annoyed acquiescence. "Though in answer to your question Hermione I have only three words for you, Weeping Whirly Pops."
"Hey, that's not fair Sirius! That time doesn't count, the twins know my weakness for lollies so I can't help it that they used me as a tester for their latest prank," she argued with a scowl that looked more like a cute little pout on an angry bunny to Sirius; and the stomping foot just added to the aesthetic.
"You still bawled on me Pet," Sirius said with a wink.
"Oh get stuffed mutt," she says pushing him playfully on the shoulder.
"I usually prefer to do the stuffing myself Pet, I don't really swing that way," Sirius responded with a wriggling of his eyebrows.
Hermione gazed up at him in confusion, letting out a questioning, "Wha..?" Before comprehension clouds over her features and she burrows her blushing face against his chest in embarrassment. "Siriusss," she groaned in chastisement.
"Yes kitten," He asked with feigned innocence.
"Don't you yes kitten me," she started, pulling away from his warm body again, but she gasped in realization before she slapped his chest in peevishness. "I know what you're doing," she accused.
Sirius cocked a brow, "And what would that be Kitten?"
"You're distracting me," she claimed as she pushed a finger into his breastbone.
"Umhmm, and why ever would I do that Kitten?" he asked nonchalantly.
"So I'd forget about what's making me cry, but it's not going to work, this is too important," she declared.
"Of that I have no doubt Hermione, you don't strike me as one to cry over boys or other such frivolities. I just wanted to calm you down before we talked about it, I find that makes thinking clearly far simpler," Sirius acknowledged.
"You wanted to calm me down so you figured striking up an argument was the best way to go," she laughed as she looked at him with mirth shinning in her eyes.
"It was a friendly argument," he countered with a smile.
"True enough," Hermione nodded.
Sirius' mood suddenly turned, well, serious, some would even say somber. "Now what are you crying about," he asked.
Hermione turns her head away, "Well it's certainly not frivolous," she began, staring at her small, slippered feet on the floor, "but it is about a boy," she finished, looking up at Sirius once more. When she sees the furrow to his brow and the deep frown of befuddlement on his face she rushes to explain, subconsciously reaching up to massage the crease out from between his eyes. "But not in the way you were thinking when you said that earlier. He's not that kind of a boy, he's just my brother, well not my birth brother, you all know I'm an only child, but that doesn't matter he's still my brother, I've loved him like one for going on five years now… Oh gosh I'm rambling. Anyway, it's about Harry. What I'm crying about, it's about Harry."
"Harry?" Sirius asked for confirmation.
"Yes, Harry."
"What about Harry," he inquired with interest.
"He just said he hates me and I'm leaving tomorrow," Hermione cried. "How am I supposed to fix this if I'm leaving tomorrow?!"
The desperation in Hermione's voice as she asked this question made the air thick with tension, "Hermione he doesn't really hate you-" Sirius began before the witch interrupted him.
"My Family gave me until Harry arrived to stay with Ron and his family, they think I'm still at the burrow! I haven't been since the first day of hols and my parents don't even know it. Harry isn't even supposed to be here yet, but now since the dementors attacked I'm forced to either lie to my parents or leave my best friend again after he just finished telling me how much he hated me in the first place. Sirius I can't keep lying to my parents but I just can't go home right now," she moaned in dismay.
Sirius pulled her tight to him once again, "You can Kitten. You can go home, and as much as I'd hate to see you go I think you need to. Dumbledore pulled you into this dirty old house from the second you got off the train to be in the company of racist portraits and nasty, decrepit old house elves, well it was only the one house elf but still," Hermione giggled despite her usual giving of a S.P.E.W spirited defense of said elf Kreacher. "And to make it better, since the moment you set foot in this house you've dealt with not only that abuse and prejudice but also fighting for what you believe in with Harry essentially on your own."
"You fought with me," Hermione contradicted. "You wanted him here just as much as I did. And a fat lot of good it did us too, he's pissed at the both of us."
Sirius laughed, "That he is Kitten," he agreed.
"I was still glad to have at least someone on my side," Hermione said, managing a weak smile.
"I'll always be on your side Kitten, even when we disagree," Sirius grinned.
Hermione rolled her eyes, "Sirius that doesn't even make any sense."
"Sure it does," he contended.
"How so?"
"It means that even when we're arguing I'm still going to be there for you, I'm still going to be your friend, and I'm still going to protect you with everything that I am," Sirius explained in an earnest proclamation.
Hermione let out a puff of air as she gazed, wide eyed at Sirius. "I don't know what to say to that," she breathed, her lips pursed as she acknowledged this.
"You don't need to say anything Pet, just back your bags and go home for a little while. We'll all miss you but I'm sure that with some time apart Harry will be writing to you begging forgiveness for being such a hot head within the hour," Sirius promised.
"You may be right," Hermione sighed.
"Oh I'm definitely right, I may have met him only a little over a year ago but I know my Godson," Sirius smiled.
Hermione laughed, "It may not be within the hour though."
"You're right, it'll be the half hour," Sirius calculated.
"I was thinking more along the lines of three," Hermione guessed.
"Sorry dear Kitten, I'm going to have to say you're wrong on this one," Sirius smirked.
"Do you want to take that bet Sirius Black," Hermione asked fluttering her lashes at him in a show of innocence.
"How much?"
"Five Galleons."
"You're on Kitten," Sirius accepted with a grin. "If Hedwig isn't flying out the window within an hour of Harry finding out you're gone I'll owe you five Galleons, we'll tell Ron and he'll monitor."
"Deal," She agreed, reaching out to shake his hand.
Sirius takes the proffered hand as an excuse to pull her in for another tight embrace, "It really will be okay Kitten, I'm sure you'll come here to find the usual clueless Harry the second you return from your parents."
"You seem to always be soothing me Sirius Black, as much as you really don't portray yourself to be the type," she smiles at him glibly as he gives her a petulant pout. Her mood is solemn when she continues, "you're a good man Sirius Black."
Sirius doesn't say anything, he just held her all the tighter at the assertion, but she realized something at that moment. As much as she meant that statement and realized it to be true, she intended it in so much more than the typical sense. Not only was he the stereotypical 'good man,' he was a good man for her. He had said it himself, he was always in her corner to protect and support; she truly meant something to him outside being his Godson's best friend. Just as she felt more for him than one generally would for a best friends Godfather. What this 'more' was, was yet to be determined, but what Hermione did know in that moment was that it was an extraordinary feeling to have someone to count on, to be there for you as unconditionally as Sirius Black claimed to be for her, and she loved it.
I hope you liked it, I was really happy when I wrote this and I hope it makes y'all smile as well, let me know if it did! Also, you should listen to Betty Everett's It's in His Kiss it was playing through my mind in a loop as I wrote some of the first part of this and I love it.
The Treaty of Versailles marked the end of world war one and essentially forced Germany to claim full responsibility for the war's happening, the reparations paid resulting in an impoverished nation that lived in painful infamy caused the persecuting treaty to be justly viewed as a direct cause of World War II
All my love,
~3lw
