He spends his nights in California, watching
The stars on the big screen
Then he lies awake and he wonders, why
Can't that be me
Cause in his life he is filled with all these good intentions
He's left a lot of things he'd rather not
Mention right now
* * * *
"Why can't it be that easy?" His expressive green eyes, dark now with remembered pain, were fixed unwaveringly on the television screen. He'd thought - hoped - that he could take this, that after so long the hurt might have dulled enough to let him see her now without bringing tears to his eyes.
But one look at Hermione Granger, the famous actress, had slapped him in the face with the truth of what he'd done. He had saved her life, yes, had given her power beyond anything she would have once imagined, but what of the dreams she'd had? What of her freedom?
"She would have died," he said fiercely, pointing out that indisputable fact, the same fact that had driven him to so harsh a decision. But truly, had he any right to do what he'd done? There was little doubt in his mind that Voldemort, in his insatiable desire to rid the world of Muggle-borns, would have done her harm if drastic measures had not been taken to ensure her safety. And yet . . .
He was her best friend. She'd trusted him, and he'd betrayed that trust, betrayed everything he'd once believed so strongly in. But war had dimmed even his belief in human nature; had forced him to acknowledge the darkness that existed in everyone, and in himself most of all.
And so he had done what he must, the one thing that would protect her as he himself could not. He had erased her memory.
Hermione Granger no longer knew of a world other than her own, of a world where magic reigned and the fantastic beasts of Muggle legend still roamed. No longer knew of the wizarding school where she had spent nearly seven years, and in all ways was entirely ignorant of the fate she had so narrowly escaped.
She remembered nothing of her past, other than what he had deemed safe for her to know. And, above all, she did not remember a boy named Harry Potter.
He had understood how dangerous it had been, even in the beginning, for her. But he had selfishly ignored the subtle threat of the darkness that had threatened them all; had chosen to go on with the belief that Voldemort's power had forever ended on the terrifying night that had robbed him of his parents.
But Voldemort had returned, bringing with him all the terror of those long years when trusting your best friends could leave you dead, when the enemy was sometimes the only thing between you and complete destruction. When life itself suddenly seemed so unbearably dangerous. And he had been the only one who could stop it.
He'd done it. He'd fought, as he must; what choice did he really have? But war had broken him, and he had fled the world he'd nearly died to save. And now he sat here, guilt-stricken by what he'd done to her, unable to move past that one day when his world stopped making sense, and wept for someone who no longer knew his name.
* * * *
She spends her days up in the north park,
Watching the people as they pass
And all she wants is just a little piece of
This dream, is that too much to ask
With a safe home, and a warm bed, on a
quiet little street
All she wants is just that something to
Hold onto, that's all she needs
* * * *
Hermione settled onto the park bench, avoiding the curious eyes of the women near her. She'd dressed casually, in jeans and a T-shirt, and she knew it was not the clothes that made her stand out.
Rather, it was an air of cool aloofness that she had tried for years to conquer, all to no avail. She was what she was, that was all. She was a celebrity, rich and famous and without a care in the world. But not happy. She wondered why she was not completely satisfied with the life she led, why she felt drawn to this place, even against her will, but she sensed that the answer was forever hidden to her, if to no one else.
And so she spent hours here, searching for something she knew was missing, though what she sought she could not have explained. It was a feeling, more than anything else, a feeling of peace she was unable to find anywhere else. And him.
She didn't know him; who he was remained a mystery to her. All her money and influence could not produce a straight answer, and after a few weeks she'd stopped trying. He was handsome, with those striking emerald eyes, but that was not what captured her attention. Rather, was that sense of absolute power - of authority - that seemed to surround him, even in his darkest moments, when those green eyes were filled with a sorrow far beyond his years.
She fleetingly considered that he'd known her before the accident that had robbed her of her memory, and found relevance in the thought, though she wondered why he'd never come to see her - he would not have been the first person she'd forgotten.
He glanced over at her, and she met his gaze without hesitation, seeing the pain in his eyes, and sympathizing. Surprise registered briefly on his face, and he rose slowly, crossing the distance between them with silent strides, leaning over her with surprise evident in face and stance.
"You can't remember me," he said softly, but he seemed somehow uncertain. "You don't remember me?" It was a question this time.
"Not really," she said truthfully. "But you . . . I don't know. It's like something draws me here, and I'm helpless to resist."
"Magic," he murmured under his breath. "Of course you'd react to my magic."
"I believe in magic," she added, in an attempt to be helpful.
"I imagine you do," he said dryly. "Considering who you used to be."
"Explain," she demanded. "And stop standing over me like that. It's intimidating."
"Fine." He glanced around, a bit nervously, then shrugged. "Oh, well," he sighed, and suddenly a folding chair appeared behind him. "Haven't lost my touch after all," he commented, to all appearances pleased, and, turning the chair around, sat down, resting his arms on the back of it.
"'Mione, does the name Harry Potter mean anything to you?"
"Yes . . . I'm not sure what, but . . . But that's you," she finished, smiling at him. "Would you tell me who you are?"
"Are you happy here? With your career, I mean," he inquired, avoiding her question.
"Sort of. I mean, it's very nice not to have to worry about . . ." She winced, ill at ease, and he laughed.
"Not to have to worry about money? Don't worry, Hermione, I'm not that easy to offend. And I assure you that, while living in a mansion is definitely not my style, I'm probably one of the richest wizards in England. I just happen to like these jeans - old and faded, in my opinion, means comfort, and that's all I'm concerned with."
"I didn't mean to offend," she apologized. "But, um, your sanity is another matter. Wizards?"
"Certainly. You're one of them, you know." Since she took that pretty well, he continued. "You spent seven years at one of the top wizarding schools in England, learning magic. You were the best in our year, too, for all that I've been famous since I was a baby."
"You're famous?"
"Not here, 'Mione."
"And that's another thing. Why do you shorten my name that way?"
He shrugged. "Habit, I guess. It's been . . gosh, it's been nearly four years since . . never mind."
"Since what?"
"You would have to be so perceptive, wouldn't you? It's been four years since I erased your memory, if you must know."
"Why?" She sounded slightly hysterical, and he couldn't blame her. "You sound like you care about me, so why would you do something like that?"
"Because if I hadn't, you would be dead," he said flatly. "Wizards are human, Hermione, for all that we have powers no normal person does. There are evil wizards, and magic, naturally, just makes them more dangerous. Especially someone as powerful, magically, as Voldemort was."
"Don't say the name!" she snapped. She didn't know why a mere name upset her so, but was finding herself helpless to surpress her reaction.
"All right," he soothed, as though he'd hoped for precisely this response from her. "Apparently even a memory charm goes only so far. I erased your memory because you come from a family of people who, until you, had no powers of their own. Which is why Riddle hated you so much. And, of course, being my best friend didn't help your cause."
"Riddle?"
"Tom Riddle is Voldemort's real name."
"This isn't making much sense."
"I didn't think it would. I hoped, but nothing more. And I can't reverse it now. Sorry, 'Mione." With a wave of his wand, he erased any memory of their encounter, backing away quickly.
"Who are you again?" she asked, puzzled.
"It doesn't matter," he answered sadly. "It never did."
He stayed a few hours more, until the park was deserted, leaving him alone with his memories once more.
"It's irreversible," he reminded himself, then shrugged. "Well, I never did like being the hero." He pointed his wand at himself.
"Obliviate."