Everything was blurry. Foggy. Everything but the faces. Looming at her.
Harry's face. Green eyes, twin emerald lanterns in her foggy mind. He
cocked his head to the side, smiled at her. Not a happy smile. The smile of
the mad. "Why didn't you save me, 'Mione? Why?" NO! "I tried, Harry, I
tried! You have to believe me." "Why didn't you save me, 'Mione? Why?" She
whimpered into the fog, "No. Please, no!" Green eyes. He had green eyes.
The fog was fading. Green light blew it away. The light from his eyes. Everything else was gone. Everything but his face. His green eyes. Green fading. Grey. His eyes were grey. Dark and grey. Fathomless. His face blurred. A dementor, he was a dementor. A hood, grey eyes. Puckered lips, closer and closer...
"Shh...it'll be okay. Shh..." a voice whispered to her. A safe voice. She was safe.
"Shh, 'Mione. It's okay, everything is okay. It's just a dream, 'Mione, it's just a dream..." the soothing voice she somehow recognized droned on, a hand stroking the side of her face to calm her. It took her a few minutes to calm her shaking body, to stop the tears from streaking her cheeks, to regain her composure.
Hermione sat up. She slowly opened her eyes, half expecting to see a dementor standing there.
Everything was blurry again. But this was a safe blur, not like when she saw Harry in the fog. That had been terrible, dreamlike. This was safe, this was real. Her glasses, being pressed into her hands, they were real too. She put them on, her hands still shaking with remembered terror.
Ron was sitting on the edge of her bed, he had handed her her glasses. It was nighttime, she was in the infirmary. There was a look on his face, wistful and sad and sick and lonely and hurting, all at once. She hadn't seen him emotional in so long, and now he was choking on it. What a contrast it made.
His red hair was dishevelled, almost as badly as Harry's would get... but it suited him somehow. Even so, she knew it meant he hadn't slept enough. The bags under his eyes said the same thing. But it was his eyes... his blue eyes were the darkest blue the sky turns at night, the color right before black. His whole expression was something she had only read about, the sorts of faces you never think people will make in real life. He looked like he wanted desperately to laugh or cry, but his face had been set in its straight lines for too long, he couldn't loosen his jaw enough to smile or frown. So instead he sat there, completely tense, but with worry and sorrow and hope filling to the brim and spilling over from his beautiful blue eyes. It had taken far too long for her to notice that he was crying.
He knew that she had seen his tears, wiped his face halfheartedly with his sleeve. But removing a few teardrops did nothing to disguise the pain in his eyes. He made no effort to camoflauge that, perhaps because it was futile. Perhaps because he did not care that she saw. His hand continued to caress her face. It was that touch that woke her up, that gentle touch. Hermione closed her eyes, savored the feeling of his fingertips against her cheek. It was soothing, reassuring, comforting, and pleasant. Especially pleasant.
Hermione never spoke. She did not ask why she was in the infirmary, did not question Ron's presense so late at night. She did not thank him for being with her, for saving her. Somehow, she knew Ron did not want to talk, did not want to think at all. He just wanted to be there, with her. Hermione was more than happy to oblige.
They stayed there, Hermione lying in bed with Ron sitting beside her and stroking her cheek, for a long time. Eventually, Hermione drifted off to sleep. She was tired, it was late at night. Ron did not leave her side. When he too grew tired, he lied down beside her in bed, his arm draped protectively across her shoulders.
That was how Madame Pomfrey found them in the morning, lying together in bed. She purposefully ignored them. She murmured to herself as she walked away, "I doubt it matters if they lie in the same bed, I doubt they even kissed. After what they've been through they deserve a little sleep. They'll deserve much more before all this is through..."
The fog was fading. Green light blew it away. The light from his eyes. Everything else was gone. Everything but his face. His green eyes. Green fading. Grey. His eyes were grey. Dark and grey. Fathomless. His face blurred. A dementor, he was a dementor. A hood, grey eyes. Puckered lips, closer and closer...
"Shh...it'll be okay. Shh..." a voice whispered to her. A safe voice. She was safe.
"Shh, 'Mione. It's okay, everything is okay. It's just a dream, 'Mione, it's just a dream..." the soothing voice she somehow recognized droned on, a hand stroking the side of her face to calm her. It took her a few minutes to calm her shaking body, to stop the tears from streaking her cheeks, to regain her composure.
Hermione sat up. She slowly opened her eyes, half expecting to see a dementor standing there.
Everything was blurry again. But this was a safe blur, not like when she saw Harry in the fog. That had been terrible, dreamlike. This was safe, this was real. Her glasses, being pressed into her hands, they were real too. She put them on, her hands still shaking with remembered terror.
Ron was sitting on the edge of her bed, he had handed her her glasses. It was nighttime, she was in the infirmary. There was a look on his face, wistful and sad and sick and lonely and hurting, all at once. She hadn't seen him emotional in so long, and now he was choking on it. What a contrast it made.
His red hair was dishevelled, almost as badly as Harry's would get... but it suited him somehow. Even so, she knew it meant he hadn't slept enough. The bags under his eyes said the same thing. But it was his eyes... his blue eyes were the darkest blue the sky turns at night, the color right before black. His whole expression was something she had only read about, the sorts of faces you never think people will make in real life. He looked like he wanted desperately to laugh or cry, but his face had been set in its straight lines for too long, he couldn't loosen his jaw enough to smile or frown. So instead he sat there, completely tense, but with worry and sorrow and hope filling to the brim and spilling over from his beautiful blue eyes. It had taken far too long for her to notice that he was crying.
He knew that she had seen his tears, wiped his face halfheartedly with his sleeve. But removing a few teardrops did nothing to disguise the pain in his eyes. He made no effort to camoflauge that, perhaps because it was futile. Perhaps because he did not care that she saw. His hand continued to caress her face. It was that touch that woke her up, that gentle touch. Hermione closed her eyes, savored the feeling of his fingertips against her cheek. It was soothing, reassuring, comforting, and pleasant. Especially pleasant.
Hermione never spoke. She did not ask why she was in the infirmary, did not question Ron's presense so late at night. She did not thank him for being with her, for saving her. Somehow, she knew Ron did not want to talk, did not want to think at all. He just wanted to be there, with her. Hermione was more than happy to oblige.
They stayed there, Hermione lying in bed with Ron sitting beside her and stroking her cheek, for a long time. Eventually, Hermione drifted off to sleep. She was tired, it was late at night. Ron did not leave her side. When he too grew tired, he lied down beside her in bed, his arm draped protectively across her shoulders.
That was how Madame Pomfrey found them in the morning, lying together in bed. She purposefully ignored them. She murmured to herself as she walked away, "I doubt it matters if they lie in the same bed, I doubt they even kissed. After what they've been through they deserve a little sleep. They'll deserve much more before all this is through..."