SUMMARY: A distraught and ashamed Hermione finds solace in an unlikely
friend.
RATING: A very healthy G.
DISCLAIMER: They're all mine! Mine, I tells ya! Um, sadly no. They're all
JK's. Insert long-suffering sigh here
AUTHOR'S NOTES: My first-ever HP fiction. TA-DA! And no, I'm not going to
ask you to go easy on me. Go ahead and criticise, if you must. This story
was inspired (however remotely) by a scene in Legends of the Fall, when
Tristan sits alone on the mountain, crying by his brother's headstone, and
Susannah finds him. The story is completely different, I just had that
image in my head, and that's where Don't Apologise stemmed from.
DON'T APOLOGISE.
It was on top of a soft, green, damp hill he found her. She sat alone under the starless night sky, hunched over and silent, back to him and face towards the wind. Her head hung in a sort of limp, frightening way, while the wind let her hair ravage her face, covering it like a shroud. Her arms were wrapped around her stomach, as though in some childish attempt to comfort herself. She made no movement or sound as he approached, and had he been any other person he might have believed she was oblivious to his presence. But he knew her. Knew the Dictionary of Her Body Language back to front. Knew every little twitch, the slightest movement. He'd seen, as he climbed the hill, that she sensed him coming. The muscles at the back of her neck, which the misplacement of her hair had exposed, tensed ever-so- slightly, and her arms seemed to creep further around her stomach, her little fingers clutching at the sides of her robes. She was embarrassed, he realised. How infuriatingly like her. Embarrassed to be there, sitting by the lone headstone of one of her dearest friends. Embarrassed to be still grieving, when it seemed all others around her had gotten on with their lives.
His pale face twitched into a sort of apology for a smile; it was more like a grimace, so tainted was it with sadness. Before he could allow himself the indulgence of sorrow, however, she spoke.
"I just wanted to look at it."
He closed his eyes, frowning. She shouldn't have to feel ashamed.
"Don't do that, Hermione."
"Do what?"
"Apologise."
"I wasn't ap-"
"You were," he cut her off. "In your own way. You always do. You can't even cry without apologising."
She remained silent, but lifted her head slightly to the biting night wind, pushing her hair behind her ear. She sniffed quietly, and even though she wasn't facing him, he could tell she was furiously trying to blink back new tears. With a few steps he closed the distance between them and, adjusting his long black robes, sat down beside her.
"You're allowed to do this, you know. You don't have to sneak off at night. You're allowed this," he emphasised, looking intently at the side of her face. "Look at me, Hermione."
A few silent moments passed before she turned her face to his. His trained eyes swept over her face quietly, taking note of the bloodshot eyes, red nose and tearstained cheeks. It was like taking inventory, and he was quite used to it. He surmised that she had been sitting here crying for. perhaps an hour and a half. He tilted her face up towards his with his index finger.
"You're allowed to grieve, little Gryffindor," he said, this time more softly. Her chin began to quiver and her eyes shone with fresh tears. A quiet sob escaped her throat before she could stop it, and the tears spilled onto her cheeks. She tried to compose herself, wiping her eyes with the palms of her hands and taking a couple of deep, shaky breaths. It wouldn't do to be this weak.
"There's much to do," she said, pulling herself out of it. "There's no time for wasting tears on dead friends." She moved to stand up, but his hand on her arm stopped her. Without a word, he gently guided her back down and pulled her into his arms. She protested silently, shaking her head and pulling away from him, but she didn't trust herself to speak. If she opened her mouth now, she feared all that would come out would be a horrible wailing.
"Be still a moment. Please, Hermione. Just sit with me," he said soothingly, his liquid voice lulling her into compliance. She gave up, allowing herself to be held close and rocked like a child. Suddenly it was too much for her. She began to sob uncontrollably into her professor's chest, utterly ashamed of her uncharacteristic display of emotion.
All these months. she'd felt so alone. Nobody else seemed to still be overcome by grief the way she felt, so she'd kept her sorrow for nights like this, or for spilling onto her pillow while her dorm mates slept. She'd shared her heartache only with him, and even then she kept herself in check, never allowing herself more than a few moments of anguish around him before forcing herself to 'be normal' again. It seemed an unlikely friendship, especially to her, but the closeness she felt with this man, her confidante and mentor, was unparalleled by anything she'd experienced. Three years of battle had brought out the best and worst in everybody, and Hermione and her Potions Master had seen facets of one another they could never have guessed at before the war. Through sheer matters of circumstance, Hermione had found over the last three years a constant source of comfort and reassurance in her surly professor. And Severus himself drew an abundance of strength and wisdom from Little-Miss-Know-It- All, especially when he was at his lowest and weakest.
But even the closest of friendships have secrets. Hermione had hidden her pain from him, too guilty and humiliated at the fact that she was unable to move past Neville's death while everyone around her seemed to be bravely battling on. She couldn't stand it if he thought she was fragile and pathetic and self-indulgent. She felt disgusted with herself every time she came to this hill, but couldn't seem to stop herself from coming. Here, where she finally allowed herself the luxury of emotion, was one of the few places she'd truly felt alive these past months.
And now, here she was. Throwing all that self-control and careful constraint to the wind. Crying like a baby in Severus' arms. She was so angry with herself, but couldn't seem to stop. The dam wall had broken and she had to let it run its course. Her arms crept around his waist and her frail body pressed against him, wracked with sobs. She tried to speak between tears and moans and shaky breaths.
"It's so. unfair," she said, her voice hoarse with emotion. "He didn't d- do. anything! He could. never. hurt anybody. And his. his b-blood was pure! Why Neville?"
"I don't know," Severus told her honestly, resting his chin on the top of her head as he stroked her hair gently.
"It's so unfair!" she cried again.
"Of course it's unfair, Hermione," he said softly, his voice low and silky but tinged with bitterness. "It's war. War's unfair. Innocent people are killed and their killers are rewarded. Nothing in this world is more unfair than war."
"But Neville." she whispered.
"We'll never know why." He offered no more than that, but in some strange way, it was exactly what Hermione needed from him. Reassurance that she couldn't do anything to understand this. There was no library book, no hidden clue that would help her decipher the reasons behind Neville's death. She couldn't research this, couldn't solve it like a puzzle. She could only love his memory and let him go. It had taken many months, but finally Hermione had gotten what she needed: peace of mind. And from such an unlikely source.
Minutes later, when Hermione's sobs had quietened to whimpers, she sat back and looked up at Severus shyly, briefly meeting his gaze before lowering it to his chest, where his robes hosted a rather large wet patch. She bit her lip and, smiling awkwardly, reached out to touch it.
"I'm s-"
"Don't. Apologise." He smirked.
FIN.
DON'T APOLOGISE.
It was on top of a soft, green, damp hill he found her. She sat alone under the starless night sky, hunched over and silent, back to him and face towards the wind. Her head hung in a sort of limp, frightening way, while the wind let her hair ravage her face, covering it like a shroud. Her arms were wrapped around her stomach, as though in some childish attempt to comfort herself. She made no movement or sound as he approached, and had he been any other person he might have believed she was oblivious to his presence. But he knew her. Knew the Dictionary of Her Body Language back to front. Knew every little twitch, the slightest movement. He'd seen, as he climbed the hill, that she sensed him coming. The muscles at the back of her neck, which the misplacement of her hair had exposed, tensed ever-so- slightly, and her arms seemed to creep further around her stomach, her little fingers clutching at the sides of her robes. She was embarrassed, he realised. How infuriatingly like her. Embarrassed to be there, sitting by the lone headstone of one of her dearest friends. Embarrassed to be still grieving, when it seemed all others around her had gotten on with their lives.
His pale face twitched into a sort of apology for a smile; it was more like a grimace, so tainted was it with sadness. Before he could allow himself the indulgence of sorrow, however, she spoke.
"I just wanted to look at it."
He closed his eyes, frowning. She shouldn't have to feel ashamed.
"Don't do that, Hermione."
"Do what?"
"Apologise."
"I wasn't ap-"
"You were," he cut her off. "In your own way. You always do. You can't even cry without apologising."
She remained silent, but lifted her head slightly to the biting night wind, pushing her hair behind her ear. She sniffed quietly, and even though she wasn't facing him, he could tell she was furiously trying to blink back new tears. With a few steps he closed the distance between them and, adjusting his long black robes, sat down beside her.
"You're allowed to do this, you know. You don't have to sneak off at night. You're allowed this," he emphasised, looking intently at the side of her face. "Look at me, Hermione."
A few silent moments passed before she turned her face to his. His trained eyes swept over her face quietly, taking note of the bloodshot eyes, red nose and tearstained cheeks. It was like taking inventory, and he was quite used to it. He surmised that she had been sitting here crying for. perhaps an hour and a half. He tilted her face up towards his with his index finger.
"You're allowed to grieve, little Gryffindor," he said, this time more softly. Her chin began to quiver and her eyes shone with fresh tears. A quiet sob escaped her throat before she could stop it, and the tears spilled onto her cheeks. She tried to compose herself, wiping her eyes with the palms of her hands and taking a couple of deep, shaky breaths. It wouldn't do to be this weak.
"There's much to do," she said, pulling herself out of it. "There's no time for wasting tears on dead friends." She moved to stand up, but his hand on her arm stopped her. Without a word, he gently guided her back down and pulled her into his arms. She protested silently, shaking her head and pulling away from him, but she didn't trust herself to speak. If she opened her mouth now, she feared all that would come out would be a horrible wailing.
"Be still a moment. Please, Hermione. Just sit with me," he said soothingly, his liquid voice lulling her into compliance. She gave up, allowing herself to be held close and rocked like a child. Suddenly it was too much for her. She began to sob uncontrollably into her professor's chest, utterly ashamed of her uncharacteristic display of emotion.
All these months. she'd felt so alone. Nobody else seemed to still be overcome by grief the way she felt, so she'd kept her sorrow for nights like this, or for spilling onto her pillow while her dorm mates slept. She'd shared her heartache only with him, and even then she kept herself in check, never allowing herself more than a few moments of anguish around him before forcing herself to 'be normal' again. It seemed an unlikely friendship, especially to her, but the closeness she felt with this man, her confidante and mentor, was unparalleled by anything she'd experienced. Three years of battle had brought out the best and worst in everybody, and Hermione and her Potions Master had seen facets of one another they could never have guessed at before the war. Through sheer matters of circumstance, Hermione had found over the last three years a constant source of comfort and reassurance in her surly professor. And Severus himself drew an abundance of strength and wisdom from Little-Miss-Know-It- All, especially when he was at his lowest and weakest.
But even the closest of friendships have secrets. Hermione had hidden her pain from him, too guilty and humiliated at the fact that she was unable to move past Neville's death while everyone around her seemed to be bravely battling on. She couldn't stand it if he thought she was fragile and pathetic and self-indulgent. She felt disgusted with herself every time she came to this hill, but couldn't seem to stop herself from coming. Here, where she finally allowed herself the luxury of emotion, was one of the few places she'd truly felt alive these past months.
And now, here she was. Throwing all that self-control and careful constraint to the wind. Crying like a baby in Severus' arms. She was so angry with herself, but couldn't seem to stop. The dam wall had broken and she had to let it run its course. Her arms crept around his waist and her frail body pressed against him, wracked with sobs. She tried to speak between tears and moans and shaky breaths.
"It's so. unfair," she said, her voice hoarse with emotion. "He didn't d- do. anything! He could. never. hurt anybody. And his. his b-blood was pure! Why Neville?"
"I don't know," Severus told her honestly, resting his chin on the top of her head as he stroked her hair gently.
"It's so unfair!" she cried again.
"Of course it's unfair, Hermione," he said softly, his voice low and silky but tinged with bitterness. "It's war. War's unfair. Innocent people are killed and their killers are rewarded. Nothing in this world is more unfair than war."
"But Neville." she whispered.
"We'll never know why." He offered no more than that, but in some strange way, it was exactly what Hermione needed from him. Reassurance that she couldn't do anything to understand this. There was no library book, no hidden clue that would help her decipher the reasons behind Neville's death. She couldn't research this, couldn't solve it like a puzzle. She could only love his memory and let him go. It had taken many months, but finally Hermione had gotten what she needed: peace of mind. And from such an unlikely source.
Minutes later, when Hermione's sobs had quietened to whimpers, she sat back and looked up at Severus shyly, briefly meeting his gaze before lowering it to his chest, where his robes hosted a rather large wet patch. She bit her lip and, smiling awkwardly, reached out to touch it.
"I'm s-"
"Don't. Apologise." He smirked.
FIN.