Ah, this strange one parter. I thought it up in the middle of the night one night. I wrote it much later, and it's so long… For me anyways. The pairing's somewhat H/Hr, and it's in Hermione's POV. I don't own Harry Potter, as I'm not a billionaire. That's about it, I think.
Oh, and "Of all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are those; it might have been." isJohn Greenleaf Whittier... He was a poet, I think.
She couldn't move. She tried to move something, anything, but she was frozen in place, muscles tight and locked into the perfectly still position. Her breaths came shallow and brief, adrenaline still running through her blood as though it took her too much effort to breathe properly.
She was terrified. Harry stood ahead of her, far, far ahead of her, facing Voldemort, wand in hand. She would have to watch them duel. And if Harry lost, she would die a painful death. But this was not what concerned her.
If Harry lost, not only would they both be six feet under, but the entire world would be screwed. And she did not want any more people to die.
She couldn't close her eyes, or look away, or even try to blink. Her eyes welled up with tears. She did not want to watch Harry die. Or anyone die, for that matter.
The battle was long, and Harry made a fatal mistake. One second, that was all it took… The ray of green light crashed into him, throwing him backwards unto the ground. He was dead before he even hit the floorboards.
She couldn't even scream.
And then I woke up.
When I opened my eyes, the whole of my dorm was gathered around my bed, only a few inches away from my face. So many people so close so soon after a nightmare only served to terrify me more. I screamed loudly.
The gaggle of girls surrounding my bed backs up, intimidated by me, as they always had been. At the front, of course, were Lavender and Parvati, who both looked awfully suspicious. I attempted to steady my breathing and calm the frantic staccato of my panicked heart.
"Hermione, why were you screaming?" A timid girl asked curiously.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair.
"Do you mean why I was screaming just now or before?" I said, answering her question with another.
"Before," Parvati states boldly.
"I was having a nightmare," I explained, rolling my eyes.
I didn't look flustered, though I was. I was frustrated with myself. The nightmares themselves were nothing new to me. I'd been having nightmares for as long as I could remember, and I'd been having them about Harry since I'd met him that day on the train. Over the years, these nightmares have become more frequent, frightening, and deadly as we've gone through more dangerous moments as the years have gone by.
I have about one nightmare a night, sometimes more, but I'm used to it. I'm not used to screaming, though. I haven't screamed since the summer. I think I woke up the entire hotel every night with my yelps. But, see, I was in France then, and no one knew me there except for my parents. But here, well, I could say some terribly incriminating things.
It didn't help matters that a headache was brewing in my head, intensifying with each passing minute. Their high voices so early in the day definitely didn't help.
"Well, Hermione, why were you screaming Harry's name?" Lavender asked dumbly.
I rolled my eyes. She was being a twit.
"I was having a nightmare about him, Lavender," I said, yawning.
Parvati looked at me understandingly.
"Oh, so it was one of those dreams, Hermione…"
She jumps to conclusions too easily, ignoring facts. Kind of like Divination. Maybe that's why they're all so obsessed with it.
"No!" I bristled.
Parvati nods like she doesn't believe me and Lavender follows.
"Riight, Hermione… Keep on rowing down De Nile…" She mutters sarcastically.
I snorted. That's not even proper grammar. Of course, I know that she meant it as denial, a coping mechanism in which a person rejects the truth in favor of a lie. It's The Nile, as in the river in Egypt. She could've at least made a Cleopatra joke, but I suppose that would've been too clever for her. She never was too bright, unless you count Divination, and the past seven years hadn't much changed that.
"Oh, you're one to talk! Everyone in Gryffindor Tower can hear you positively screeching about Ron at night!" I retorted.
I had been unable to sleep on many a restless night, and had been up to hear the moans of Lavender in her sleep quite clearly. Her feelings for Ron were as obvious as the nose on her face. I knew it was true and she did too, so Lavender had the grace to blush. I noted, ironically, that it was the exact same hue as Ron's hair. Parvati glared at me. And there was that nasty headache coming back at me with a vengeance. The other girls giggled and I winced.
"Well, Hermione, what were you dreaming about?" She asks slimily.
"Firstly, that's none of your business. Secondly, I wasn't dreaming, I was having a nightmare!" I hissed, frustrated.
They rolled their eyes. Ugh, see, this is why my friends tend to be mostly guys. Sure, I'm emotional when I need to be, or indeed, had the time to be, but I've always been able to think rationally. Every one of these witches was reminding me incredibly of Draco Malfoy. I really didn't like thinking about the little ferret anyways.
"That doesn't change the fact that you cried out his name," Parvati retorts.
However, even the best among us has their own large emotional outbursts. Harry proved this in our fifth year, and Ron in our fourth. I, however, haven't had one year of constant emotional outbursts, just tiny snippets here and there over the years.
"Do you know what it's like to almost die? Huh, do you? Do you know what it's like to realize that your best friend will be lucky to live through the year? Have you ever fought Death Eaters? Do you know of the devastation they have wrought upon the world? Have you fought Voldemort? Can you even say Voldemort? Can you even think his name? Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort! Well, I have! And Harry has! All by himself! And we both will again! He first dealt with Voldemort when he was only a year old. And he's dealt with him every year since he's been here at Hogwarts! He's been called evil, crazy, a liar, a madman, a scoundrel, foolish, cocky, stupid, strange, and anything else you can imagine, not only by kids, but by teachers, our own government, the forces of darkness, his own family, his friends, and the newspapers! As a matter of fact, I was dreaming about death. I dreamt that I was watching my friend die," I snapped angrily, tone chock-full of emotion.
Then I shoved off the blankets, snatching my wand and running downstairs, anger blurring my mind. However, on the way down, I ran into Harry, one of the many people I didn't want to run into at the moment.
"Oof!"
I blush, helping him up.
"Sorry, Harry," I mutter, biting my lip.
He just smiles at me and motions for me to follow him to the couch we always sit on in front of the fire. I sit down and finally get a good look at him. He looks like he's just gotten out of bed, hair tousled, clad in only a pair of green boxers.
"So, uh, you look… er, different," He says, gesturing towards my appearance.
My hair's pretty messy, but not much different than it is during the day. I'm wearing a pair of shorts and a shirt. You know, muggle sleepwear. I smiled a little.
"Harry, I don't wear black robes to bed," I joked.
He smiles a little, muttering something I can't hear under his breath.
"So, Harry, why are you up so late?" I ask, nervously changing the subject.
Harry looks down, as if ashamed.
"You scream awfully loud, Hermione."
I blush. He heard me? All the way over in the boy's dormitories? That's not a good sign.
"Sorry I woke you," I apologize half-heartedly.
Harry shakes his head, smiling a little.
"Actually, I'm glad you did. I was in the middle of a nightmare and it woke me up. You did me a favor, to tell the truth," Harry continues awkwardly.
He runs a hand through his hair nervously, yawning.
"Hermione, why were you screaming?" Harry asks cautiously.
I bite my lip. Should I tell him? I don't want to make him worry about anyone else. I might as well though. It's only a nightmare, right?
"Oh, nothing really, I was just having a nightmare," I say nonchalantly.
I'm trying to make him think that I'm fine even though I'm not really. He sees right through my pitiful attempt.
"Must've been bad," He remarks off-handedly, gazing into the fire.
"The worst," I nod, sinking my head into the puffy couch.
I sighed and he sighed too. He turned to me, and then I knew that he would ask it. The single question I hoped he wouldn't ask. But he opened his mouth and asked anyways.
"Hermione, was your nightmare… Was your dream ab-… What was your nightmare about?" He stutters, stumbling over the words he wanted to ask.
He knows. I know he knows. He didn't want to ask that question, but he did anyways. Of course, the other one would sound quite strange to ask a close friend.
Of course, I could always lie. I could say I was having a nightmare that I was being killed. Well, technically, that one isn't a lie. Or that Ron died. Of course, he wasn't even in the dream, so that's a possibility too.
But I can't lie. I think he knows this. I guess that it's a good thing that I'm not an auror, right? I'd be blabbing secrets left and right.
"Well, Harry, I don't quite know how to put this, but, well… It was about you," I explained, somewhat uncomfortable myself.
He nodded seriously, as if this fact was not surprising at all to him. I suppose it's because he's had his own share of the exact same nightmares. It's far worse for him though because he dreams of his parents and Cedric and Voldemort and Sirius and everyone else.
"I'll face him soon," He says, as if this is a fact and not a likelihood.
And then I know that he's talking about the final battle. The date hasn't been set, but everyone can feel it approaching. All of us at the D.A., the teachers, the Death Eaters, but mostly Harry. He can feel it, feel it in his blood, more than all of us, except perhaps Voldemort himself.
I nod, for there is nothing else I can do in that moment.
Harry didn't sound so hopeful, but it's all he can do to keep fighting. It's all any of us can do to keep fighting.
An image of the man the entire world fears (though the muggles don't know it yet) pops up in my head, unbidden. A gaunt white face smooth and suspiciously free of any wrinkles or blemishes, thin lips of a conspicuously sallow pink, straight and gleaming perfectly white teeth surrounded by a deep murky void of a mouth that no light can penetrate, a thick head of somewhat long black-as-night hair that gleams with each curse he casts, soulless cat-like blood red irises with pupils as dead as his heart, ashen cheekbones that protrude almost painfully from under his darkly-circled sunken-in eyes, a tall and lean yet somewhat imposing form covered in billowy charcoal robes, pale and slender bony fingers with pasty, somewhat long nails, and a highly polished thirteen and one-half inch wooden stick, a wand, of course, with a phoenix feather from Fawke's tail for its magical heart tightly clutched in his skeletal hand.
It is an image of the most evil man in the world, a wand-twirling diabolical madman, a wizard consumed completely by hate. And thus, it is ironic that love is the one thing that will defeat him, for he despises it so.
Voldemort and Harry grew up in situations that were very much the same. Voldemort's mother died while giving birth to him, and his father wouldn't have him, so Voldemort wound up growing up in an orphanage. Harry was orphaned at the age of one by Voldemort himself, so Harry ended up with the Dursleys, being treated just as awful, or perhaps worse than Voldemort. Both of them are "half-bloods" as Harry's mother was a muggleborn, like myself, and his father a "pure-blood", and Voldemort's father was a muggle, yet his mother was a "pure-blood".
Harry's scar, his blood, Slytherin's Parseltongue, and Lily's love bind them together with an inexplicably complicated connection, a connection that can only be broken by death and perhaps not even then. But Voldemort went one way, the way of darkness and hatred, while Harry went the other, the way of light and love.
We are all haunted by Voldemort. I am so deep into my thoughts that I do not even notice that he's staring at me until he turns my head to face him. My face reddens in embarrassment.
There is an intense gleam in his eyes as he gazes at me. The force in his look scares me a little. It is not a good look to see in those emerald orbs, and it has never been, yet it is the look they most often display.
"I'm sick of waiting for him to come after me. I'm sick of anticipating a Death Eater to pop out from inside my wardrobe and kidnap me. I want to get this whole mess over with! He has total control over the situation and I have absolutely none! I'm powerless, yet he doesn't control the world!" Harry rants, frustrated.
I can't do anything except put a hand on his shoulder and attempt to pacify him.
"Harry, there's a reason Voldemort doesn't control the world. It's an awfully good one. Harry, you have lots of power. You know every curse, jinx, countercurse, and evasive maneuver known to man… er, wizard. You can cast any Defensive spell necessary and you have the skills to avoid any spell they can cast at you. You can throw off an Imperius Curse, survive a Cruciatus Curse, and you're the only person who's ever survived an Avada Kedavra Curse. Harry, let him come to you. Be patient, so you can achieve all that you need to before you face him," I reassure him.
A strange look rests in his eyes, but he does look much calmer than before. This is an emotion that I've hardly ever seen in his eyes, a look that's never been directed towards me, well, at least to my knowledge. For once, I don't know what to think.
"Hermione, there's a fifty-fifty chance that I'll die during the battle," Harry states heavy-heartedly.
I know this already, but hearing him say this only manages to scare me. I exhale and say what I must say then.
"Harry, there's a fifty percent chance that you'll live," I reply in response to his statement.
A bitter smile crosses his face.
"Yes, I suppose so," He mumbles, smile falling, "Voldemort knows magic way more advanced than anything I know."
He thinks so little of himself.
"If you do not know, ask," I answer.
He is not above asking for help, but he is not below it. If he needs to do it, there is always Dumbledore. Let the young and brilliant ask the old and brilliant!
He nods meekly and I give his shoulder a comforting squeeze. This act of compassion seems to strengthen his formerly weakening resolve.
"Harry, do this for all that you have lost and all that you will stand to gain," I propose, wondering if I ask too much from him.
He looks up at me, the look from before of the emotion I cannot place once again in his expressive jade eyes, a smile, a true one, overtaking his chiseled face. He leans towards me a little when suddenly an unfamiliar owl swoops down, delivering a message which lands atop his messy raven locks. He opens it, a frown toying at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes quickly scan the page, widening a little, a full scowl forming on his lips. I can tell by the pained expression on his face that something has just come up and I nod slowly, shooing him off.
"You should go," I declare, standing up.
He gets up, and the unreadable expression returns. He remains there, standing in front of me, our eyes locked in a look I can only call intense, though the word doesn't seem to fit the circumstance. He broke the silence with a sigh, and he looked sadder than ever.
"Do you have any regrets, Hermione?" Harry inquires, sounding much older than his seventeen years.
I'm not sure if I have regrets. I have things I wish I'd done, things I know I should've done, and things I wish I hadn't done, just like anyone else, but I don't get what he means.
"We all have regrets, Harry. Some just regret more than others. The real question is what you regret," I answer slowly, for once unsure.
He nods and I can see that this hasn't helped him at all. But maybe I can, at least, a little. I shrug softly, turning my wand in my hands and gesturing towards Harry's dorm.
"Accio clothes!" I demand, and seconds later, the clothes zoom out.
I hand them to Harry, who is blushing a little for some reason. I grin back at him.
"Of all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are those; it might have been," I said thoughtfully.
Suddenly, Harry's entire expression changed. On his face was a look of utter urgency. This was a look he usually used when he was fighting Voldemort. And just like that, a shot of white-hot fear struck me. What if that letter was from Voldemort, asking him to fight? Was he going out to fight Voldemort or run an errand for Dumbledore. I couldn't help it, but I was terrified all of a sudden.
Ugh, I cannot believe him! Going off to fight Voldemort all by his bloody self, not even telling us that he was going to leave! Ug-
And then something very peculiar happened.
He kissed me. I'm kissing him back.
I can't think. I can only be.
I feel so many things. But there isn't a word to describe it. Yet, somehow, I know there is. There's got to be a word for this feeling.
But, by the time the word's on the tip of my tongue, we've stopped kissing and he's staring at me, a dazzling smile stretched from ear-to-ear. He looks happy, really happy, truly happy for the first time since I've known him.
"Hermione, hold down the fort for me?" Harry begs, grasping unto his clothes harder.
I nod, grinning dumbly.
"That's why I'm Head Girl, Harry," I smirk.
He grunts in assent. Then he fixes me with one of those looks, a slow grin overtaking his face.
"No regrets," He says softly, giving me a one-armed hug, and kissing me sloppily on the cheek.
It occurs to me that this could be the last time I ever see him. I know that he expects me to respond to his statement. But how can I? How can I respond when I've just figured out what I've been missing all along? Truth is, if he doesn't come back alive, I might have even more regrets.
But I smile sadly, my eyes misting up, vision blurred. I pull him to me in a bone-crunching hug, pressing a kiss to his cheek with all that I have in me. Somehow I know that if I do what I really want to do, I'll just have more regrets. And so, I pretend.
"No regrets," I repeat, trying to keep the tremor from my voice.
And then he turns and leaves. He's going off to Dumbledore and then to fight Voldemort. I can't do a thing to stop it either.
I can only wait here, keep the place running, and hope that Harry wins.
But now, as he is gone, I can finally place that emotion in his eyes. Desire.
It's funny how I realize everything now that he's gone.
Now the emotion I felt before, it hits me. I know what it is and I struggle to keep it from overcoming my being. If I let my love for Harry overcome everything, then the world's doomed. I'll just have to be content without him.
Except I'm not.
Because I'm in love with Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World. I wish he could be just Harry, with no titles attached, for once. But he'll always be Harry Potter and I can't change that, even with all my cleverness and smarts.
It is then that I realize something. Something much lighter and carefree. Harry didn't put on a shirt, shoes, socks, or even pants when he walked outside. Now I'm laughing hysterically, ironically, in the one, single moment when I shouldn't be laughing.
And then a moment later I hear a screech.
"Potter! I don't care if you're the savior of the whole bloody universe, you do not go around the hallways without clothing!" A person, obviously Professor Snape, bellows rather loudly.
Snape would never give Harry a break, now would he? Honestly. Not even when he was jetting off to fight the forces of darkness. What is wrong with the world today?
Oh, right, Voldemort.
Well, here's to hoping that Harry'll fix that problem.
My lip curls into a smirk and I chuckle, curling up on the couch, basking in the warm glow of the fire, and slowly rereading Hogwarts: A History for the billionth time.
Loren ;
Oh, I do happen to have a weakness.
They're called reviews.
Man, I wrote this so long ago… I think it's been a year. It's so odd and… fluffy.