Notes: Thank you for continuing on this journey. It's guaranteed to be messy and complicated, but also hopefully heartfelt and genuine. I feel I must once again state, as it says in the initial notes, that this is not a story that fits into a ship. Everything is messy and that's how it's going to be because these characters are stressed, and flawed and simply trying to survive. They're also only teenagers. I don't know about you, but I definitely didn't have full control of my emotions when I was their age. Anyway, hope you enjoy.
WARNINGS: Minor references to violence, child sexual abuse and sexual assault.
25. Burden of My Own Love's Might
Hermione hovers near the edge of the kitchen, just beyond the arch of the doorway. A mixture of familiar voices echoes beyond. The boy she used to love, who tries his best to understand what is yet to come. The boy she will pretend to love, who knows all too well the horrors that may await them. And finally, the boy she loves, who will destroy everything if they let him.
They fall silent as she rounds the corner. Harry's eyes widen, but that's the extent of his reaction. Draco raises a refined brow, but turns quickly away to continue studying the map in front of them. Tom doesn't bother looking at her at all.
She's not surprised. They can sense each other. It's not a product of magic, but their heightened awareness of the other. Every time he enters a room, the hairs on her arms prickle and she feels a dull throb in her chest. They both ignore it; they have more important things to worry about than the growing attraction between them.
And it is that, an attraction. Hermione remembers how it felt those first few months when Harry pursued her. The way her hands would sweat and her mouth would tingle. The rush of adrenaline every time he entered the room.
Tom is a tidal wave compared that. His presence is a physical blow, the air escaping her lungs in a rush. When their eyes meet, the air sizzles between them, the scent of ozone clogging her nostrils.
It isn't real, of course. They're not vaporizing the air like a spell might, but the effect on her is real enough. But she's avoided him long enough.
She no longer shies away from him. Rather, she learns to grit her teeth and steel her body against his magnetic pull. He makes no effort to pursue her; he knows the chaos within her broken soul.
They share more cigarettes than can possibly be healthy. It takes the edge off for both of them. She learns he started smoking before he left the orphanage for Hogwarts, that he would hide the Muggle cigarettes in the bottom of his trunk and retreat to the edge of the Forbidden Forest to smoke them. It makes him uncomfortably human, a world apart from the monster she knows he can become.
They start to talk of other things. Things that have nothing to do with Voldemort or magic. Places they'd like to travel. Books they wish to read. Plans for lives they'll never get to live.
She learns to breathe easy, to accept that her imprisonment is over and that her next will be different. She's walking into this with her eyes wide open, with people who will not accept failure at her side. More than anything, she trusts that Tom will not let Voldemort hurt her again.
Whatever is the same between their split souls, they are two different creatures now. One is only darkness, distilled down into a vessel of agony and rage. The other is fractured by light, brought to the surface through suffering and truth.
One night, the trails of their cigarettes painting pathways to the stars, he tells her about the warden at the orphanage. Hermione listens, her body coiling with rage, then softening to empathy.
Tom insists the experience was nothing like what they endured. She supposes he would know, but still, the awful truth builds another block of humanity into his foundation. She wonders if Voldemort is simply a reflection of people and their fear, their reluctance to accept the strange and grotesque.
Tom suffered silently at the orphanage, until his hope was stripped from him, until he saw power as the only means to survival. And when he arrived at Hogwarts, Dumbledore only saw his dark actions, not the agony that drove him. And everyone else saw nothing but a handsome young man, too charming for them to search deeper.
He is responsible for his own decisions. She knows that. But perhaps the world is more accountable than they would like to consider. Perhaps it is all a million shades of gray and fighting isn't the only way to defeat evil. She thinks the power of love is stronger than even the darkest of her fears.
Tom finally turns to her, deep sapphire eyes filled with everything she cannot express. His lips twitch, the barest hint of smile.
"Can we help you?" he asks, voice deep and rough. They really need to stem their smoking habit. It's altered both of them, their words rasping and gritty.
After, she tells herself. They can deal with everything once they are free.
Hermione clears her throat, attempting a normal timbre. "I'd like to speak with Harry."
It's the eve of their deception. If she doesn't talk to him now, they may never speak again. Hermione may be angry with him, but even anger cannot keep her from a peaceful parting.
To her surprise, Harry's gaze skitters to Tom. Emerald eyes fuse with sapphire for a long moment before Tom nods.
Hermione bores a hole in the side of Tom's perfect jaw. She doesn't need him to fight her battles for her. Sensing her scrutiny, he looks over his shoulder. She continues to glare as he gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes.
She harrumphs, turning her focus to Harry. He stands slowly from the table, movements tentative, as if she will change her mind at any moment.
Hermione steps fully into the kitchen, her hand snaking into the breast pocket of Tom's leather jacket. She clutches two rolled cigarettes between her fingers as she pulls away. Tom catches her wrist, and pulls her down until his satin lips skate over her ear. She can't help the shiver that traces down her spine.
"I'm right here if you need me."
She pulls back far enough to see the blazing heat of his eyes. "I know."
His grip loosens and she steps away. Harry has heartbreak oozing from every pore. She meets his glossy green eyes for only a moment before she has to turn away. She knows the price her decisions have wrought upon him, but he's the one whose choices shattered them.
"Let's take a walk," she murmurs.
She doesn't look to see if he follows as she retreats toward the cottage entrance. His footsteps shuffle behind her as they step out into the moonlit night. The late summer heat lingers on the sand as they make their way to the shore. Hermione relishes the contrast of the cool air and the latent heat.
Her loose jeans and oversized hoodie have become another type of armor. The type that hides her body and her pain. She still wears her sundresses to the beach, her oversized hat flopping at her brow, but otherwise, she relishes the fabric cocoon. Her hoodie smells sharply of smoky cloves, but Hermione is accustomed to the scent. She no longer notices the acrid tang at the back of her throat.
They stop just before the gentle lap of the water reaches the rough sand of the beach. She pulls her wand—purchased by Tom at the local Wizarding district—out of her back pocket and lights a cigarette.
Harry stares at her, brows drawn together and mouth pinched.
She inhales long and deep before blowing the smoke downwind of where they stand. "Whatever you want to say, Harry. Just say it."
His eyes trace the path of her exhale. "That's a disgusting habit."
"I know," she agrees, voice husky and deep. "But we all have to cope somehow. Would you rather I start abusing dreamless sleep again?"
He blinks, long and slow. "I didn't know."
"I wasn't interested in you knowing," she replies, eyes drifting to count the glowing buoys bobbing on the horizon.
Harry sighs, shoulders slumping as he turns to face the water. "It's never going to be the same, is it?"
"No. But there's still so much for each of us. We've hardly begun to live, Harry. I have to believe our lives can be bigger than this."
His shoes scuff the sand. "I didn't ever want my life to be bigger. Maybe when I was still stuck with the Dursleys, but not since coming to Hogwarts. And certainly not after learning the truth. My entire life is about being this larger-than-life savior who will change the world."
Harry shakes his head, raven curls backlit by the rising moon. "But I'm just a boy. You know that better than anyone. I make mistakes that can't be fixed. I'm fallible. I'm nothing like what the world needs. But I don't get a choice. Because of some prophesy, this is my destiny."
Hermione is silent. She has no idea what to say. She wants to offer wisdom, but Harry's right, they're just teenagers trying to find a way. Even Tom is scarcely old enough to enter a pub, despite the year of his birth. Their brains are a mess of hormones, chemistry swinging wildly from one extreme to another. And yet, they're expected to save the world over and over again.
Hermione remembers how angry Harry was the year after Sirius died. She wonders how they aren't all equally furious every day. She hates that they've resigned themselves to this fate, this never-ending sacrifice.
She has paid far too high a toll.
The smoke burns in her lungs as she takes another drag. She offers the smoldering cigarette to Harry. He shakes his head, mossy eyes lost in the moonlight.
Perhaps he's paid more than his fair share as well.
"I think destiny's rubbish," she says, after the silence stretches too long.
The corners of his lips twitch, although she can't discern the emotion behind the movement. "I wish my opinion mattered the slightest bit."
"Me too."
Harry watches the moon climb the sky and Hermione watches him. He's different than she remembers, his edges ragged and worn. The brightness that drew her to him has faded, his shoulders slanting inward where they used to stand firm.
In this moment, she wishes she could forgive him. That she could press her lips to his and erase the past year.
But even if she had the power, she wouldn't make that choice. She wants her body returned to her, pristine and free of the scars of agony, but not at the cost of this victory. They are on the brink of Voldemort's destruction and that means all of this has to be worth it.
She has no choice but to believe that.
The tide is slowly trickling out to the sea. She slips her worn trainers from her feet and rolls the legs of her of jeans.
She takes a step into the watery sand, relishing the slide of the silica against her toes. The damp sand sucks her downward, the earth consuming her. She imagines sinking deeper, until even her head slips under.
Harry sighs and she remembers her fight is not quite over.
"Let's go."
He stares, emotions battling in the depths of his eyes. Finally, he nods and slips off his shoes.
They walk into the darkness together, the retreating tide lapping at their ankles. Hermione closes her eyes, blocking out the moon and the banket of stars. She lets her mind empty, thoughts dripping away like glossy moonlight upon the water. She feels only the scrape of sand beneath the worn soles of her feet. Even her breath is subsumed by the soft woosh of the tide.
It is almost peace.
"I heard about the damage."
It is nothing like peace.
Her eyes snap open. Harry is looking at her, the contours of his agony a grotesque play of shadow. She does not look away.
"He shouldn't have told you that."
"I kind of forced the point."
She doesn't doubt it. Harry and Tom are like oil and water, entirely incompatible. That Draco has managed to force the two of them together is no small miracle. She thinks the blond boy could have been so much more, if he'd only been given the opportunity.
He has a chance to prove himself tomorrow, to redeem his inaction and misdeeds. She thinks he will not let her down. Draco is no longer the scared boy who failed her so completely.
Hermione is no longer the girl who thought Harry Potter was worth sacrificing her body and soul for.
She slants a look at Harry. He's still watching her, the look on his face a cross between regret and something deeper.
She twirls her second cigarette between her fingers. The first has long since burned to ashes. "I'm not sure what you expect me to say, Harry."
His jaw works silently. He looks away, across the water sparkling with the majesty darkness. "I don't know either. I suppose I just wanted you to know that I understand how much my choice cost you. That I know it's not something you can ever forgive. But that I'm not going to stop loving you either. Even if there's no hope for us, even if I find someone else, I will always love you."
It's a romantic declaration. Almost worthy of one of her novels. But all she feels is pressure, the chains of his attachment circling her chest like a python around its prey. If Harry Potter didn't love her, Voldemort would never have broken her. If she were merely a member of the Order, she'd have had the luxury of slipping from this mortal coil with a simple Killing Curse.
But she's Hermione Granger and that only means something because of Harry Potter. She knows better than to be bitter. She made her peace with this consequence of her friendship with Harry years ago. But being the girl Harry loves is so much different than being his best friend.
Ron Weasley was never sent to the bowels of Malfoy Manor. Ron was never even taken before Voldemort. His mind would have cracked like an egg, but the Death Eaters couldn't be bothered to try.
If they had found their way into his head, they would have found little of use. Hermione and Harry kept their Horcrux research from him at the end of their final term at Hogwarts. Ron knew the gist—that they searched for magical objects—but not the true nature of their targets.
Perhaps they'd sensed the power of his jealousy even then. Their friend had always been so sure Hermione would one day be his. And Harry and Hermione had known they had to protect their fight against such volatility. So they'd obscured the truth into something the Death Eaters would find unremarkable, a quest for magical objects to assist in the destruction of Voldemort.
Which meant that when Ron was taken, the only thing at risk was the boy himself.
But Harry dropped everything anyway.
Hermione doesn't blame him for that. Compassion can hardly be a fault. But he lost sight of everything and they went from the Death Eaters having nothing of value to them having everything—Hermione.
Even now, she isn't sure Harry understands the magnitude of his mistake.
She trusts that Tom will prevent him from making another such miscalculation.
"I think the thing I need the most from you, Harry, is to let me go." She speaks to the ghostly shadows dancing atop the minute waves.
"I don't know how."
"If you love me so much, like you claim, you can find a way to set me free."
She knows it isn't that simple. Emotion is beyond logic's control. She can hardly stop her feelings for Tom. But she's found the strength prevent them from dictating her actions. She will not be ruled by any boy or the feelings he evokes.
Harry smiles, a sad fractured thing that is nothing like joy. "I'll try, for you."
"That's all I could ever ask."
She smokes the other cigarette as they return to the cottage. Neither says a word until they're standing on the doorstep, their feet leaving damp impressions on the doormat.
Harry bites his lip before he curls an arm around her. His embrace is at once familiar and foreign. She doesn't lean into him. He presses a soft kiss to her temple and steps away.
"Whatever happens, know I am on your side, Hermione Granger."
It is better than any declaration of love. She finds his hand and mashes their fingers together. "And I'm on yours."
He nods and turns toward the night. Her fingers trail across his until the last second. Harry gives a final nod over his shoulder, eyes glittering like the stars. She holds his gaze until apparation rips him from the air.
She collapses against the door.
A tingle at the base of her spine tells Hermione she's not alone. Tom slips from the shadows, cigarette glowing at his lips.
It's their last night too. Tomorrow, Draco becomes her only ally.
She wonders how much they will leave unsaid.
Tom smothers the embers of his cigarette beneath his boot as he reaches out a hand. His lithe fingers close over her wrist, gently drawing her to him.
Tom is a piece of art in the moonlight, all strong lines and alabaster skin. She forgets to breathe for a second. When her breaths do come, they're too rapid, edged by the adrenaline coursing through her.
Tom's head ducks closer, ebony waves falling over his charged sapphire stare. His voice is a rough baritone that ignites every nerve in her body. "I'm going to kiss you now, unless you tell me to stop."
Hermione doesn't say anything.
He slowly closes the distance between them, giving her every chance to retreat. But her body no longer shies away from the promises written within his stare. She is not ready dive into the depths of intimacy, but she will implode if she doesn't feel the brush of his lips against hers.
Hermione is the one who closes the gap.
He groans, low and needy. Their mouths open, their tongues intertwined within an instant. She doesn't think. She can't think. All she can do is feel the heat of his breath, the velvet of his lips, the sharp edges of his teeth. They are devouring each other with a hunger she never imagined, let alone experienced.
They have teetered on the brink of this for months and now they are in free fall. Hermione never wants to land.
Tom presses her gently back against the brick wall of the cottage, careful never to put too much pressure between them. She senses his ravenous want in the way their lips crash together, but he never lets her feel the press of his arousal. He never moves his hands beyond the slope of her neck or the tangle of her hair.
His caution allows her to melt into his touch. They find a languid rhythm, their swollen lips brushing and sucking lazily, the initial heat of the kiss transforming to a slow burn.
The moon slips towards its apex. They draw apart only for the briefest breaths.
Hermione tastes nothing but cloves and aching hunger.
Tom smiles wantonly against her mouth when he finally retreats. His lips are deep red, bruised to pure temptation. She has no idea how she ever resisted.
"Not half bad for your first kiss."
She is breathless in a way she's forgotten. It takes her a moment to process his words. "I've been kissed before, Tom."
"Not since…"
She lets out a low laugh. "You missed out on that honor too."
"What?" His eyes flash the darkest hue of midnight, mirroring the sky above.
"You'll have to ask Draco."
It takes serious self-control not to laugh at the array of emotions that contort his features. He settles on incredulity, brows soaring into ebony bangs. "You and Draco have kissed?"
"Don't get any ideas," she cautions. "But yes. We decided it was best to practice for our upcoming performance."
If anything, Tom's pupils dilate further as he contemplates this revelation. She almost regrets telling him. "Seriously, whatever you're thinking. It's never going to happen."
He bites down on his lip in the most lascivious way possible. Hermione groans and smacks his shoulder. Her hand meets hard muscle and it takes most of her control to let her fingers slide away. But she knows exactly what he's doing and he isn't going to succeed. One kiss does not make her suddenly susceptible to his vast arsenal of charms.
"You should go," she admonishes.
He sighs, gaze flitting to the door. She is not his only goodbye tonight. For once the idea of Draco with Tom doesn't fill her with jealousy. Perhaps it's the taste of Tom's lips still coating her own. Perhaps it's the knowledge that what lies ahead is so much greater than any of this.
"Go to him," she whispers against his mouth as their lips brush one last, desperate time.
She swears she can see his façade fracturing in the depths of his crystalline eyes. But perhaps it's merely the harsh angle of the moonlight.
"Remember, I love you."
Tom's hand shakes as it turns the knob. "I could never forget."
Hermione lets him slip into the shadowy depths of the cottage. She pulls the door shut once more and gazes up into the infinite abyss of stars. She will wish upon each one until dawn chases them from the sky.