Author's Notes: This is the first HP fic I've written in ages, so no flames please. This is a one-shot, H/Hr. Enjoy. Don't kill me for the present tense thing.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its characters, settings or plotlines. I only own what I created, in this case the steaming pile of crap that is this piece of literature ;-)
Short, blunt footsteps echo the corridor leading to the Quidditch pitch, sharp sobs stabbing the air between steps.
"I love Ron, Harry!"
"But Hermione…!"
She spun around, soft eyes now aflame. "But what?"
"I… I…"
Words escaped him. He breathed deeply and pulled her body close to his, lowering his lips to hers. The kiss deepened, and they became lost in the moment. Harry felt her relax against him and a moan escaped her lips. Colours spun around them, enveloping them in a bright canvas of light so that the outside world disappeared and dwindled into nothingness. Nothing existed but the moment and Hermione. Her skin felt silky and delicate to the touch, her hair smooth ringlets coiled around his fingers.
A door is flung open, hinges screaming shrilly into the pitch black night, a cage around the cloaked figure travelling through its depths.
Suddenly, Hermione realised what she had done and stepped back, breathing heavily. Eyes that had been aflame were now extinguished by tears.
"Harry…"
"I love you," he smiled, raising his hand to caress her face. She took hold of his sure and steady wrist with trembling fingers.
"I love Ron."
"But…"
"But nothing, Harry! This was a mistake."
"A beautiful mistake!"
"No! A twisted, ugly mistake! It was nothing more!" she sobbed, throwing back his hand. The glint of an engagement ring caught Harry's eyes, taunting him, teasing him.
"Ron never needs to know."
"I'm marrying Ron! I love him! I don't have to worry that he'll die the next day like I did with you! When I told you that I loved you, you were about to walk to your death, Harry! Ron was there for me. He took his chance. You didn't. Live with it."
She turned to walk away.
"I… can't," Harry whispered. "I'm nothing without you."
"Shut up!" she screamed. "You're Harry Potter, the boy who lived. The great one! The one who killed Voldemort. Every single day, there's something in the papers about you! We're not silly schoolchildren anymore. We're adults. Hogwarts was five years ago! I love Ron, and I'm going to marry him a month tomorrow in Barleydale Church and Luna will be my maid of honour and you were supposed to be Ron's best man! Why do you want to shatter my perfect picture? The only perfect picture I'll ever have! Why, Harry?"
A heart shatters and another sob flows from cursed lips.
I don't want to shatter your picture Hermione, he wanted to say. I want to make a new one, with you and me and my engagement ring glistening on your finger.
"I don't!" was all Harry could manage. "I love you so much."
Hermione breathed softly and came back to him. She was coming back! She was his! Reaching for her hand, Harry lowered his head, preparing to kiss her. The love of his life nestled in close to him.
"Harry…" she whispered, and then slapped him across the face. "You disgust me."
The great Harry Potter, the boy who lived, watched, frozen, as she briskly exited the flat, his heart cold and despairing.
Frozen winds whip at the figure's ankles, robes billowing. Their grip on the broomstick tightens as they make their way onto the pitch.
The sobs still come.
Crisp grass crackles beneath his feet.
The leather sofa crackled underneath Harry as he sank down, his strength ebbing away, his world ripping apart and shredding itself. Live with it, she had said. Could he really?
"I know what I am doing, Hermione," he says, his murmur barely heard above the roar of the wind as he mounts the broom. "And I do it for you."
The broomstick shoots up into the air regardless of the storm. A full moon casts sinister light upon the scene. Slowing down, he comes to a halt at the moon, hovering a few hundred metres above the London Quidditch Pitch.
"Look after her for me, Ron."
'Look after my fish' Harry had written on a scrap of paper and shoved it through Mrs. Allon's door. Then he went back inside and put on his Quidditch robes.
The figure hangs in the moonlight. The winds have slowed. There is silence apart from the chirping of crickets. Trees rustle gently. Stars shine expectantly. The figure is still sobbing gently, but apart from that all is peaceful. It's almost picturesque.
And then he lets go.
The broomstick floats in the air.
The sobbing has stopped.
Morning comes. Sunshine ebbs through the window of a modern London flat as a couple stir. A slender pale hand reaches out to the bedside table and fingers an engagement ring left there. The rest of the body follows as a woman slips out of bed, looking around the room. Clothes are strewn over the floor, her fiancé's boxer shorts and her own lacy underwear closest to the bed. Realising suddenly, she looks down and sees herself naked, exposed. She remembers the spots where Harry laid his hands when they kissed. Even touching them gingerly cuts into her like a knife. Ashamed, the woman grabs some clothing from the floor and pulls on a man's shirt.
She fingers the buttons gently and looks back to the man in the bed, guilt-ridden. While it was true that she and Ron had been sharing a bed for months now, ever since the kiss with Harry, even flirting with Ron was making her feel strange. Why should it, though? She loves Ron, not Harry! Right now, she hates Harry, but she tells herself that they will laugh about it in later years. Probably not. She's choosing to ignore the voice in her head that's telling her that everything isn't well.
Ron stirs. "Hey, babe."
"Hey," she says quietly, still fingering the buttons on his shirt. She pulls one open, her stomach now bare, and leans over to kiss him. The strange feeling returns, but she ignores it, intensifying the kiss. Voices scream in her head. Memories of two nights ago flow through her head. She sees her lips on Harry's, feels how hungrily he kissed her, the passion flowing through her veins. Now Ron kisses her eagerly, ripping the buttons from the shirt, both their senses alive, and as he gets to the last button…
"No," she pulls away, shaking slightly. The voices fade, but the image of Harry does not weaken Ron's facial muscles show surprise.
"No? But 'Mione…"
"No… I… have to make breakfast," she gives him a fleeting smile and stumbles to the kitchen, fingers quivering as she buttons the shirt.
"Make us a cuppa, will you? I just need to find my boxers…"
"In a minute, sure."
Something knocks at the window. It's an owl with the Daily Prophet clutched in its beak. The woman lets it in and swaps the paper for a few small coins. She glances at the main article.
The rip of paper fills the flat.
A scream.
Another scream.
Another.
A thump.
She trembles on the bathroom floor. Harry… dead… no… all her fault…
The article circles her head.
POTTER SUICIDE AT LONDON QUIDDITCH ARENA
Harry Potter, top Seeker for the London Hippogriffs, was found dead this morning at his home grounds in the London Quidditch Stadium, his loyal broomstick still hanging in the air. Although Aurors were called to the scene, they are reported to have said that 'no Dark Magic here, except the memory of it'. Could the memories of his parents and friends deaths have finally proved too much for Harry? Was it the memory of Ginny Weasley's death a number of years ago? Or was it something different? A note was found in his robe pocket, written in ink at least twenty times, reading 'Live with it'. Live with what? No-one will ever know now. However, it is now known for definite that Potter death was in fact a tragic suicide. His death is possibly the greatest loss to the wizarding world since the death of Albus Dumbledore, we here at the Daily Prophet will join the millions mourning his passing…
(Read more on Page Six)
She has caused another to take their life…
A life…
A life for a life…
A friend for a friend…
Part of her is still wondering if it's too late to change her mind about loving Harry.
A life for a life…
Live with it…
The guilt…
Guilty…
A life for a life…
Live with it…
Guilty…
A life for…
Hermione's eye catches on a razor.
Well, wotcha think? This is my first Harry Potter fic in ages, so no flames!