My stomach lurched when she did that. Her lips were more delicate than a wild rose, and I could barely control myself. She was so beautiful.
"Hermione." I touched her lips, begging her with my eyes not to do what seemed so natural. "We have to talk." I was serious, and she knew it. Sitting down on the couch with her I opened my mouth to speak. Nothing came out, and I sighed. I wondered what she was thinking, and how she was going to take what I had to tell her. I looked away, breathing deeply and swallowing hard. But nothing could remove the ever-present and ever-growing feeling that I didn't have much longer with her, with anyone. Not that anyone else was left.
"Harry, if you have something to tell me, do it. We've been through too much together to keep secrets from each other." Her gentle fingers turned my face to her. Nothing could have been more difficult than staring into her warm chocolate brown eyes and seeing her face dotted with little flecs of flour she had been baking with.
"You've got a spot," I remaarked casually, brushing the tip of her nose. She just stared harder, her ilttle fingers twitching the way they did when she was getting annoyed.
"Herms, I went to the doctor a week ago and got an MRI. They couldn't quite figure out what had gone wrong with my broom arm after the quidditch match last month, and they thought a full body scan might help them diagnose the problem. When the results came back they found something," I said, almost choking. "In my brain. Herms, I have a brain tumor." Her eyes were glazed over. I didn't even know if she heard me.
"That's not funny, Harry. Don't tell me that. Don't lie to me." My eyes told her that it wasn't a joke, that I wasn't lying. "But you're the boy who lived! You can't die. Nothing can kill you." Her voice caught, and her eyes came into focus. Slowly she got up, went into the kitchedn, and began rummaging through the cabinats mumbling softly to herself. She finally pulled out a bottle of Vodka and a glass. She knew I had always hated it, and that I didn't drink at all.
"Pour me one, too." After all, I thought, desperate times call for desperate measures. I could see the tears running down her face as she downed the first shot. And then the second, and then the third. She hadn't heard me at all.
"Hermione, stop it. Alchohol won't help with this problem."
"Alchohol always helps. Draco says so. It stops the pain. He told me so." She poke in a broken robotic voice. I was worried, she was too small to drink so much. She lifted another shot to her mouth.
"Hermione," I began, but she cut me off.
"Don't come another step!" she screamed, spitting vodka everywhere adn shaking with each sob of heart wrenching magnitude. She threw her glass against the wall. I had left my wand in my jacket by the door. Slowly moving towards it I watched as she attempted to pick up the peices of broken glass, her blood mixing itself with the clear liquid spilled areound. I gritted my teeth, trying to remember a spell to freeze time. Unable to, I pointed my wand at the spilled Vodka, whispering "Scorchio" under my breath.
"Hermione." I touched her lips, begging her with my eyes not to do what seemed so natural. "We have to talk." I was serious, and she knew it. Sitting down on the couch with her I opened my mouth to speak. Nothing came out, and I sighed. I wondered what she was thinking, and how she was going to take what I had to tell her. I looked away, breathing deeply and swallowing hard. But nothing could remove the ever-present and ever-growing feeling that I didn't have much longer with her, with anyone. Not that anyone else was left.
"Harry, if you have something to tell me, do it. We've been through too much together to keep secrets from each other." Her gentle fingers turned my face to her. Nothing could have been more difficult than staring into her warm chocolate brown eyes and seeing her face dotted with little flecs of flour she had been baking with.
"You've got a spot," I remaarked casually, brushing the tip of her nose. She just stared harder, her ilttle fingers twitching the way they did when she was getting annoyed.
"Herms, I went to the doctor a week ago and got an MRI. They couldn't quite figure out what had gone wrong with my broom arm after the quidditch match last month, and they thought a full body scan might help them diagnose the problem. When the results came back they found something," I said, almost choking. "In my brain. Herms, I have a brain tumor." Her eyes were glazed over. I didn't even know if she heard me.
"That's not funny, Harry. Don't tell me that. Don't lie to me." My eyes told her that it wasn't a joke, that I wasn't lying. "But you're the boy who lived! You can't die. Nothing can kill you." Her voice caught, and her eyes came into focus. Slowly she got up, went into the kitchedn, and began rummaging through the cabinats mumbling softly to herself. She finally pulled out a bottle of Vodka and a glass. She knew I had always hated it, and that I didn't drink at all.
"Pour me one, too." After all, I thought, desperate times call for desperate measures. I could see the tears running down her face as she downed the first shot. And then the second, and then the third. She hadn't heard me at all.
"Hermione, stop it. Alchohol won't help with this problem."
"Alchohol always helps. Draco says so. It stops the pain. He told me so." She poke in a broken robotic voice. I was worried, she was too small to drink so much. She lifted another shot to her mouth.
"Hermione," I began, but she cut me off.
"Don't come another step!" she screamed, spitting vodka everywhere adn shaking with each sob of heart wrenching magnitude. She threw her glass against the wall. I had left my wand in my jacket by the door. Slowly moving towards it I watched as she attempted to pick up the peices of broken glass, her blood mixing itself with the clear liquid spilled areound. I gritted my teeth, trying to remember a spell to freeze time. Unable to, I pointed my wand at the spilled Vodka, whispering "Scorchio" under my breath.