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x.x.x
Harry walked up the staircase, feeling a little nervous. After Pansy had agreed to help him, he'd said he'd tell her the rest later. His plan was this: Pansy would start a rumour that might be true; something that nobody knew. So that he wouldn't be betraying her, Harry told Pansy to go and see Moaning Myrtle and ask her about Hermione. He was thinking about the time that Hermione had unknowingly turned herself into a cat. If Ron truly cared for Hermione, then he'd stay by her side even though the rumour was true. If not, then Harry might think of telling Ron about his feelings.
The next morning at breakfast, Harry tried not to do anything as Ron was sickly sweet to Hermione. She looked surprised and pleased at the same time. Harry, in an emotion he had hardly experienced in this way, felt a sad twinge of jealousy. He knew that Ron had been more special to her from the fifth year on. He had never known what it was like to have her smile at him not because she was happy, but because she cared about him just a little bit more. He wanted that right now, more than anything.
By lunch the jealousy was still there, a reminder of why he was going to tell Pansy to spread the rumour at dinner that night. By breakfast it would probably be everywhere. He felt guilty, but consoled himself by saying that Hermione was strong. He remembered quite clearly how she had handled herself with the Rita Skeeter rumours; he was certain that she would be alright.
Yet, as he neared the corridor he had told Pansy to meet him at, he felt himself wavering. Was he really about to do this? No. NO. He couldn't do that to Hermione. It would kill her. This was not a fabricated lie of Rita Skeeter's – she couldn't just laugh and say that Rita Skeeter was an idiot. This was true, this was harsh. He couldn't do it, no matter how much he loved her. He would just have to tell Pansy that he'd…that he'd managed to do it on his own. She'd be angry, no doubt, but he could deal with that. He couldn't deal with Hermione being hurt and angry with him.
Heart set, though he knew what the consequences would be, Harry walked through the double doors, through to the chamber to the left of the Great Hall.
He entered and saw Pansy there, her back turned to him. She was laughing, a horrible sound – the sound of one who hasn't laughed in a long time. She turned around and smirked.
"Oh, hello Potter," she sneered. And she stepped away, giving Harry a full view of Hermione, tears running down her cheeks.
And it all came crashing down on him. Pansy had just gone and insulted Hermione, which was the first thing that Harry had said she could do. She hadn't listened to anything he'd said after that. Oh no.
And suddenly he was yelling at her. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? HAVE YOU GONE MAD? HOW COULD YOU?"
Pansy looked at him innocently. "But you told me yesterday to insult, hurt her, something of the sort."
Hermione gave a gasp and recoiled from him. "No," she whimpered, "no."
Harry saw Pansy's smirk and he knew that he never could have trusted her. She was still hurt from the Malfoy thing and she was…well, she was Pansy Parkinson.
Harry put his head in his hands, feeling the full throttle of the irreversible damage Pansy had inflicted. It would probably never be the same between them anymore. If there is a "we".
Pansy suddenly brushed past him saying, "Well, talk to you later, Granger. Have fun with him."
Hermione had stopped crying. Her strength was commendable. Harry knew that she was stronger now, after dealing with the ordeal of her parents' death.
"What's going on, Harry? What's wrong? Was she lying to get me riled up against you? What is this? Care to explain?" she said shakily.
"I can't…I don't…really…" Harry tried to explain.
Hermione bit her lip, then brushed past him, using the heel of her hand to wipe away tears. Harry was painfully reminded of the time in their first year when she had brushed past him, also wiping away tears, though that time it had been because of something that Ron had said. And he, Harry, had put his friendship with Ron above her. How many times have I done that? Harry wondered, sadness lacing through is stomach.
He had almost placed his friendship with Ron over his friendship with Hermione. And yet, she was always there, right beside him, fighting alongside him, always on his side. Like in their fourth year when Hermione had stood by side even Ron wouldn't. It was mainly to her credit that he and Ron were still friends.
All the times he'd pushed her away, she was still there. When he'd ever pushed against Ron, he stayed away. Hermione knew that when he did that, that he needed her more than ever.
What have I done?
x.x.x
Neither Ron nor Hermione were speaking with him. It was worse than the second year when he'd had both Ron and Hermione on his side. It was worse than fourth year when he'd had Hermione on his side.
He could not say that he'd ever felt so alone.
Ron and Hermione sat together now. Harry sat alone. When he was doing his homework that night he pushed his paper across the table without realizing. It was a habit he'd developed; he'd pass the paper to Hermione, who'd read it over (she'd loosened up considerably that year. She wanted Harry to get good marks for the N.E.W.T.S). He looked up to the empty seat across from him, over to the table at which Hermione was sitting. She was grasping across the table for something that wasn't there; Harry's essay that she would have been correcting.
She looked over to him and he quickly looked away, but he could still feel her eyes on him, most likely thinking something along the same lines as he was. With a pang, Harry was again faced with the notion that they might never do that again. And it's my entire fault.
x.x.x
After a week, it became unbearable. He knew that Hermione would be open to listening what had really happened, but he didn't want to tell. That might hurt her more that not knowing. Then again, if this was as painful for her as it was for him, not speaking, then he might tell her.
After another three days, Harry knew that he had to talk to her. He was painfully reminded of every little thing Hermione had ever done for him, and the very few things he'd done in return. He'd taken her for granted; it was easy to do, as she was always by his side. That wasn't going to happen anymore. He wouldn't let himself repeat the same mistake. He was going to tell her. He had to.