Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all its lovely characters are not mine.
Pairing: Hermione/Harry
Genre(s): Angst/Horror
Rated: M
A Stalwart Heart
"If only I could rip out the part of me that's still in love with him," she confessed, "I'd put it out of its misery."
She held the bottle of Firewhisky, squinting at the clear glass—wasn't it full of amber liquid only moments ago? A large, freckled hand reached over and pried it out of her grasp.
"That's enough of that, I think," Ron said. He set the bottle on the table with a thud; its echoes bounced around inside her skull. "You can't keep doing this to yourself, Hermione."
Her elbows planted on the dining table. She cradled her temple with one hand. "What else can I do?" she muttered. "We said we would still be best friends after we broke up—I promised—but, I don't know if I can handle it!" Her arms gave out, folding on the glass surface. Her forehead swiftly followed, thumping against the top of her hand. "It kills me to see him every day—" she mumbled, "—to talk to him about pointless shit like how horrid the heat has been all summer or how so-and-so is fucking up their Ministry assignment. I hate having to sit next to him at gatherings and not be able to hold his hand or lean over to kiss him." She raised her head and fixed her gaze on her companion, whose features blurred and swam as tears flooded her vision. "I can't do it, Ron. I can't be Harry's best friend—not while there's a part of me that's still in love with him."
"Just give it time," Ron said, his normally booming voice gentle. He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
...
"If only I could rip out the part of me that's still in love with him," she confessed, "I'd put it out of its misery."
She did as he suggested, gave herself time—six months' worth of pining and of little heartbreaks.
Hermione tried to bury the part of her heart that longed for her best friend; the part that sank to the pit of her stomach whenever he casually mentioned to others that he was single; the part that clawed the inside of her chest whenever he showed a passing interest in another woman.
Each time she was tested, the mask she donned in his presence peeled and cracked.
...
"If only I could rip out the part of me that's still in love with him," she confessed, "I'd put it out of its misery."
The first time she said it, she knew she was being absurd.
But the words turned into ideas, and the ideas turned into plans, and the plans turned into experiments, and the experiments yielded results.
And while she could admit she was an absolute fool in love, Hermione was still a very bright witch.
...
"If only I could rip out the part of me that's still in love with him," she confessed, "I'd put it out of its misery."
Her hands were clapped on her mouth. She didn't know if she should laugh or cry or vomit.
Months of toiling with little sleep and even less nourishment had come to an end—the product of her potion stood across from her.
She wanted to separate the part of herself that was still in love with Harry Potter, and she succeeded—though, as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, the heart that still ached for Harry throbbed under her sternum.
Terror gripped her ribcage—she knew what she would find when she opened her eyes—
Her own face, marred with misery and desperation and regret.
And her wand—pointed at her stalwart heart.
"I'm sorry this has to happen," her other half said.
"Don't do this," Hermione cried. "I'm—I'm you—I'm part of you—"
"A part I no longer want," replied her doppelganger.
There was a finality to that tone.
There would be no mercy.
She closed her eyes.
...
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