Thirsty
Summary: Everything she was thirsty for was always just out of her reach, mocking her as she hoped for something that could never be.
The lights flickered on in the bare room—it was really a kitchen. But it was a strange kitchen; actually, it wasn't, and that's exactly why it was so strange. There was no paint, no colorful dish towels, beautiful wooden floors, artistic paintings, or family pictures. It was so blank, sucked of all personality, that it was hard to imagine that anyone lived there.
But someone did; and that someone was walking across the white linoleum floor towards the ugly blue plastic card table. Her black cloak swishing around her legs, lightly dragging across the floor as she made her way across the room.
Boxes lay out along the corners of the room, half unpacked and some never touched, hiding in the shadows of the room; almost out of sight, like it was painful to remember them.
Ugly garage sell-type furniture, bare rooms and unpacked boxes were usually associated with a new house, a new life. But she hadn't just moved in, she had lived there for seven months, plenty of time to get things around.
It was almost funny how unattached she was to her own house; walking around like she was a guest. Wondering from room to room, afraid to make anything resemble a home—home…her own home—
With a deep sigh she took off her big wooly cloak and scarf, placed them on the table and just…paused.
It was late, and it was dark, and she was tired. And she didn't yet feel safe to sleep because this wasn't home and she didn't feel safe, and this wasn't right, and she was…thirsty.
Thirsty and safe and home. It was so silly and so stupid; how those little things could take her back to her real home… take her back, back before…
When she was little, she felt that to be truly at home, you had to be comfortable in your house and knew where things where located, and the people had to know the house and love you because you were in the house and you made that house not just a house, but a home. And that's really the truth at any house. And to be home, you knew the house, and to know the house you knew a home. And she declared that if you knew her and her house, you knew where the glasses and cups were because you knew the house and you were family.
If you knew where the glasses were, you were family.
And her friends were close at Hogwarts, she considered them family. So one day after sixth year during the summer; when Harry had come to visit and asked for a drink. She had shooed him away. Told him to do it himself, she had research to do.
The first bang of the cupboard doors made her look up. Harry had a cup in his hand and was making his way to the refrigerator. He had found them on his first try. Of course, Harry would.
And she laughed, because it was so like him, and he was family.
He grinned at her behind the cup, the loveable fool, not exactly knowing what was going on.
Their seventh year was filled with more horrors than even she could have predicted. It was a dark place—and it always had been—just hidden—almost out of sight. But then…then everyone saw it and was terrified. A great upset—a massive heave of old silly thoughts and a donning of unshakable-biting truths. But they had an edge this time—no one was to know. And no one was to know the extent that the fighters against Voldemort were scoped out to. They were just children after all.
So when she had been hurt—hurt real bad; she grabbed Ginny and apparated away—because there was to be no trace—it had never happened.
They appeared in the kitchen—her parents were away—thank God. She wouldn't know how to explain it to them; she wouldn't know how to explain any of it to anyone. It had all gotten too big—too real, and she was scared. Scared for them—scared for her.
Ginny had a tight grip on her arm—trying to stop the blood flow. And she was squeezing her side—as the crimson slowly drip.drip.drip. onto the floor. She gritted her teeth and breathed out heavily—it hissing between her clenched jaw.
"Towels…water…" she commanded as Ginny raced about the room, leaving red handprints behind her.
She shook her head, trying to clear the dizziness—it was squeezing her mind—the edges were becoming black.
"You're dehydrated." Ginny pushed a glass of water into her hands.
It took her a minute to realize Ginny had found the glasses. Because what did that mean? Did that mean…hope? Was there hope?
And it was funny. It was funny with Harry, and it was funny with Ginny. Everything was funny. The red handprints were funny. The wand held tightly in Ginny's hand was funny. The sunrise peeking threw the window was funny. And the single drop of blood into the water was funny as it faded to pink.
And it was surreal. And it was faded. And it was all too much. Because everything was slowly fading away from her—and all she could do was watch.
They all thought it would be over by their last year in Hogwarts, even she did. Because they had done so many great things before, and solved so many past problems over the years. So it was simple that it would end with their school years, end with the teen puppy love, and the teen angst, and the teen horror filled realizations; end when they were still invincible—no, they weren't clueless, but they still had their whole lives ahead of them after it.
But it didn't end with Hogwarts, and that was almost as horrifying as the whole situation.
Because it was supposed to pass, and they would move on; but the problem, as dark as it was, began to grow. It was incredible—indescribable. The fear, the terror, the lies, the back-stabbing, never trusting, second-guessing—on and on it went.
It was right after they had left Hogwarts—right before their native hope began to diminish; that Ron did it. Actually got over himself and asked her.
They were sitting in her kitchen—her parents kitchen really. She was of age now and needed to start her life.
They were having lunch, she had just sat down the plate of sandwiches when he unexpectedly got up from his seat and walked over to the cups—filled two with water—and placed one before her.
Ron had smiled broadly, the tops of his ears already turning red. She quirked an eyebrow, lifting the glass to her lips and barely felt the cool wetness brush her tongue, when—a ring dropped down from the bottom of the glass, stopping at her lips—in a kiss.
She quickly sat the glass back down startled; then looked back at Ron. He was even redder now, playing with the top of his own glass. She felt herself color, not believing that it was finally happening—that he had remembered her goofy theory.
Silently she slid the ring on her finger, grinning at the boy across from her. She lifted the glass back up to her lips.
And drank deeply.
To what was to come, what they had now, and to hope, To hope for anything than what they had. To hope for more. To hope for better.
And things would be better; she had thought. Because Ron was there, and they were bonded together. Bonded together with jewelry, with gold and silver, metal and nickel, gems and jewels, body and minds, hearts and heads; souls in this fight together, always together.
And family.
Bonded as family. Because family was blood and family was heart. She fought for family, because that's all she knew. For Harry, for Ginny, for the Order, for Mum, for Dad, for Ron, for the family that had died before them. Because it's what she knew, and its how she lived, and it was love, and it was right…
No, it was not right. Not right how that green light was shinning eerily over your house. Because it was her house! It was her home! It wasn't possible for someone to do that to her house, her home, her love, her life…!
So she ran inside, because it was just a symbol. And a symbol didn't mean anything. How could that symbol mean anything—it couldn't, because than the symbol she stood for didn't mean anything.
It was—it was—it was her. She wasn't anything! She wasn't anything so they couldn't be anybody. It couldn't be true, the red in the glare of the green, the parents now swept away with the grandparents, with the great-grandparents, with the great-great-grandparents, with the generations.
Family.
They could do that? Cut it out; take it away from her that easily? That easily? Family was…family was…everything. It was love, it was life, it was home, it was Harry, Ginny, Hogwarts, the Order, it was…no! No. No! NO! Not Ron! It couldn't be! They would all be revoked from her. And she couldn't just watch it fade; she couldn't just watch it fade, anymore…
So she left. She had no home anymore, so it really didn't matter anyways. She put her life with Ron on pause. She wouldn't start another family, not while it could still be taken away from her. She wouldn't let it happen again.
And she fought. Oh, yes, she fought. Although her symbol may be cracked, and although there was no more family, not anymore, still there…beyond the darkness waiting…was hope.
And that's what she could do. Hope for Hope.
So she stood there. In her house that was not a home, and she was thirsty. She was thirsty for many things, but she still had to wait.
Across the room her shadowed figure glided and reached for a handle, to pull the cupboard open…
Plates. It was plates. It was—It was—IT WAS NOT HOME!
The cupboard doors flew open. The room becoming black, the sounds of screams and breaking china.
PLATES.PLATES.PLATES.BOWLS. SILVERWARE. PLATES.
She couldn't even be home! She couldn't even be wanted anywhere! Not home in your own house—!
The fireplace blazed and a tall figure walked forward, his eyes resting only on her, her who was breathing heavily, hands slashed with cuts, china pieces broken across the floor, slumped defectively on the ground, and staring up at the one closed cupboard. The home she couldn't have, the family that was taken from her. Shut tight, closed off…just out of sight…
"Hermione?" the voice echoed quietly.
And she looked up, into his blue eyes, seeing there what she should have seen long ago…
He reached up and slowly opened the cupboard door, taking a glass in his hands, the hands that she used to hope for, the hands that used to be hers…and…
Drop.
Her home wasn't here. And she wouldn't hide from herself, not anymore. She had a family, and even though her safe home wasn't there yet, there was still hope. Hope that she could continue, and live.