Okay, um, I'd like to start this chapter with a little short author's note.
In response to a review, I'm sorry that you think I made the magical world
"unmagical", but I figured that if J.K. Rowlings could create a world full
of fancy and imagination in the middle of a very practical world, then I
should be able to create an equally mundane story in the middle of a world
of magic. So, I am sorry that you don't like my story, but if you truly
dislike it, don't read it. Oh, and thanks to all of you who do like it and
continue to support and encourage me through your reviews. They mean a lot
to me.
Disclaimer: Come on, did you really think I would stop these? As much as I'd like to, I think it might be required, so yes, all to J.K. Rowlings.
All right, enough of that, here's the next chapter.
~`~`~`~`~ Chapter 6: Moving, Bickering, and Angry Leaving ~`~`~`~`~
Hermione returned to her flat soon, barely arriving before Remus and the Potters. She waited for them on her sofa, looking around at the plain walls of the sitting room thoughtfully, trying to store the memory of the warm creamy feeling it gave her when she walked into the room. She glanced at the large clean windows and the slightly dusty shelves and end tables that gave the atmosphere a definite "Weasley" feel. As much as she adored her late husband's family, she did resent the fact that wherever a Weasley seemed to take residence, the usual bit of untidiness tended to follow. All in all, the picture that ingrained itself into her memory was one of happiness and serenity.
"All right, I suppose we could pack up the sitting room first and..." The voice came from the door and Hermione looked up to see her new husband and her new friends looking at her a bit apprehensively. She stood carefully and folded her arms across her chest. The silent staring battle continued for several moments before Hermione ended it with a light chuckle that was far from its former fullness, but was very close.
"What are you all looking at? If I am to move any time soon then I suggest we get started!"
And with that sleeves were rolled up, boxes were conjured, and spells were cast to put every piece of furniture, decoration, and knick knack safely into their packaging. In barely more than an hour, the entire room was piled into two dozen neatly stacked boxes and bags.
Hermione looked at them all, her hands on her thin hips and a satisfied smile playing at her lips. "We made good time." She stuck her willowy wand in her back pocket. "I never would have thought that we could have fit all of this clutter together in so short a time. And in so few boxes. Ron and I had a bet that if we ever were to move that it would take at least--" She stopped abruptly as she realized what she was saying. "Anyway, let's get the kitchen. That bit of junk must take longer than this.
The people were quiet then, no longer chatting idly and lightheartedly as they worked, but a sort of tense and heavy feeling hung about their hearts. Each wondered what they ought to say to break the uneasiness and though many ideas came up, none were brave enough to actually speak. That is, until Hermione dropped a dish when she happened to lose her concentration.
The crash startled everyone and as Hermione knelt over cursing to see which it was she had broken and Hannah quickly said an incantation, causing all the glass shards to swarm together and reconnect in their former shape. She came down beside Hermione and offered her an arm to help her up, but stopped suddenly when she saw the tears of frustration in her eyes.
"What's the matter, Hermione?"
The nearly shaking woman turned to her companion with a fierce light in her eyes. "I shouldn't have dropped it. I should have been paying more attention. Don't you understand, Hannah? I shouldn't have dropped it. It's not a Hermione thing to do, to go about dropping things and crying at the fall of a hat." She laughed. "Look at me! Normally I'd scream or yell or quarrel or something, but now I cry." She looked into Hannah's eyes with an almost glare. "I DON'T cry. Do you get it? Hermione doesn't cry. Not anymore. I've had enough with that these past years."
Hannah shook her head, as though trying to make sense of what she was saying. "Well, yes, Hermione, I know it isn't usual for you, but, considering the circumstances, I think that it's--"
"No, you see, that's just the problem. There are no circumstances." She stood and began to pace back and forth through the kitchen restlessly. "I've had so many similar circumstances happen, nearly once a year there has been reason for me to truly lie down and have a good cry. Ever since I came here when I was eleven. But by now I should have overcome that feeling." She turned on Harry. "You have. I haven't seen you shed a tear in years. You're so above that sort of thing. Not since Sirius died have I seen you cry." Harry's mouth tightened into a thin line that was almost imperceptible to the eye. "If you can do it, why can't I?"
Hannah stood beside her and wrapped one plump arm about her narrow waist. "Because you're a woman, Hermione."
Hermione jerked away from her as though she might contract some contagious disease. She pounded her fist into her opposite hand harshly, causing everyone to flinch. "Damn that excuse!" she cried. "Everyone says it's all right for a woman to cry but the minute some man does, the situation becomes dire." She turned on them all. "Did you ever notice, when you saw a movie or a play or something, when the women cried, yes, it was sad and everything, but the minute it was the man who was crying, then things were truly traumatic. Every eye in the audience was filling up and you could hear some old lady in the back sobbing. Why is that? How come when I cry no one really cares, but if it were Harry, this would be the worst thing to happen since Voldemort returned almost five years ago?"
Harry looked at her sharply and almost angrily. "We do care when you cry, Hermione. Where did you ever hear that shit about it being truly traumatic when the man cries? What are we living in, the 18th century? Hermione, you are far stronger than I am. There have been many times that I've cried and you haven't been there to see the tears. Ask Hannah!" His arm jerked out behind him towards his wife who looked so forlorn and uncertain standing in the middle of the kitchen like a meek mouse. "I wake up nearly every night screaming from things I remember. You act as though it's only women who can feel tears and sorrow and, goddammit Hermione; I feel it just as much as you do. It's your own bloody fault that you believe that. Just- -just stop being so self centered! We're all hurting just as much as you are. Get over yourself and try to do something worth while. We can't help you get happy again if you don't let us." He sighed. "You have to let us help you."
Hermione had been feeling terrible and guilty about what he had been saying up until the bit about them all hurting as much as she. She knew for a fact that none of them were feeling this agony inside. It took every bit of self control she had to get herself up in the morning, and every last remaining bit she had left over to get herself to sleep at night. They might know some of the dull ache in her head and the hole in the heart, but they couldn't possibly feel that gaping emptiness that took place in her soul, somewhere in a place she couldn't locate but could feel all the same. She knew that he could not feel that, and perhaps never would until he lost his wife, God forbid, and was left to live for many years after their death.
She stared at him incredulously for a moment before setting her jaw and walking up to him very slowly and deliberately. She stopped when her face was less than an inch from his and said menacingly. "You know nothing about how I hurt, Harry." Her voice was low and dangerous. "You know nothing."
And with that she stormed from the room and out of the flat. Her footsteps echoed in the empty hall, but she ignored the ear wracking sound. She could hear them calling her to come back, but she didn't let the words register. Before they had a chance to catch up to her, she apparated to the place she figured that they'd least expect her to go. Grimmauld Place, the one place she truly did not want to be.
As she popped in at the street, she quickly thought of the address in her mind and watched appreciatively as it appeared before her. She stormed up the walk and entered the heavy door without knocking. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to speak with someone who could maybe make her feel a bit better. And maybe make her heart a little lighter and her conscience a little clearer.
~`~`~`~`~
All right, it's a very short chapter, but it's a chapter nonetheless. I hope you liked it. And, yes, I know, it's moving along slowly, but as they say, Rome wasn't built in a day. I want to make this a very detailed fic, focused mainly on Hermione and her inner feelings and dilemmas. I know she may appear a little emotional and a little OOC, but she did, after all, just lose her husband, so bear with me please. Until next time!
Disclaimer: Come on, did you really think I would stop these? As much as I'd like to, I think it might be required, so yes, all to J.K. Rowlings.
All right, enough of that, here's the next chapter.
~`~`~`~`~ Chapter 6: Moving, Bickering, and Angry Leaving ~`~`~`~`~
Hermione returned to her flat soon, barely arriving before Remus and the Potters. She waited for them on her sofa, looking around at the plain walls of the sitting room thoughtfully, trying to store the memory of the warm creamy feeling it gave her when she walked into the room. She glanced at the large clean windows and the slightly dusty shelves and end tables that gave the atmosphere a definite "Weasley" feel. As much as she adored her late husband's family, she did resent the fact that wherever a Weasley seemed to take residence, the usual bit of untidiness tended to follow. All in all, the picture that ingrained itself into her memory was one of happiness and serenity.
"All right, I suppose we could pack up the sitting room first and..." The voice came from the door and Hermione looked up to see her new husband and her new friends looking at her a bit apprehensively. She stood carefully and folded her arms across her chest. The silent staring battle continued for several moments before Hermione ended it with a light chuckle that was far from its former fullness, but was very close.
"What are you all looking at? If I am to move any time soon then I suggest we get started!"
And with that sleeves were rolled up, boxes were conjured, and spells were cast to put every piece of furniture, decoration, and knick knack safely into their packaging. In barely more than an hour, the entire room was piled into two dozen neatly stacked boxes and bags.
Hermione looked at them all, her hands on her thin hips and a satisfied smile playing at her lips. "We made good time." She stuck her willowy wand in her back pocket. "I never would have thought that we could have fit all of this clutter together in so short a time. And in so few boxes. Ron and I had a bet that if we ever were to move that it would take at least--" She stopped abruptly as she realized what she was saying. "Anyway, let's get the kitchen. That bit of junk must take longer than this.
The people were quiet then, no longer chatting idly and lightheartedly as they worked, but a sort of tense and heavy feeling hung about their hearts. Each wondered what they ought to say to break the uneasiness and though many ideas came up, none were brave enough to actually speak. That is, until Hermione dropped a dish when she happened to lose her concentration.
The crash startled everyone and as Hermione knelt over cursing to see which it was she had broken and Hannah quickly said an incantation, causing all the glass shards to swarm together and reconnect in their former shape. She came down beside Hermione and offered her an arm to help her up, but stopped suddenly when she saw the tears of frustration in her eyes.
"What's the matter, Hermione?"
The nearly shaking woman turned to her companion with a fierce light in her eyes. "I shouldn't have dropped it. I should have been paying more attention. Don't you understand, Hannah? I shouldn't have dropped it. It's not a Hermione thing to do, to go about dropping things and crying at the fall of a hat." She laughed. "Look at me! Normally I'd scream or yell or quarrel or something, but now I cry." She looked into Hannah's eyes with an almost glare. "I DON'T cry. Do you get it? Hermione doesn't cry. Not anymore. I've had enough with that these past years."
Hannah shook her head, as though trying to make sense of what she was saying. "Well, yes, Hermione, I know it isn't usual for you, but, considering the circumstances, I think that it's--"
"No, you see, that's just the problem. There are no circumstances." She stood and began to pace back and forth through the kitchen restlessly. "I've had so many similar circumstances happen, nearly once a year there has been reason for me to truly lie down and have a good cry. Ever since I came here when I was eleven. But by now I should have overcome that feeling." She turned on Harry. "You have. I haven't seen you shed a tear in years. You're so above that sort of thing. Not since Sirius died have I seen you cry." Harry's mouth tightened into a thin line that was almost imperceptible to the eye. "If you can do it, why can't I?"
Hannah stood beside her and wrapped one plump arm about her narrow waist. "Because you're a woman, Hermione."
Hermione jerked away from her as though she might contract some contagious disease. She pounded her fist into her opposite hand harshly, causing everyone to flinch. "Damn that excuse!" she cried. "Everyone says it's all right for a woman to cry but the minute some man does, the situation becomes dire." She turned on them all. "Did you ever notice, when you saw a movie or a play or something, when the women cried, yes, it was sad and everything, but the minute it was the man who was crying, then things were truly traumatic. Every eye in the audience was filling up and you could hear some old lady in the back sobbing. Why is that? How come when I cry no one really cares, but if it were Harry, this would be the worst thing to happen since Voldemort returned almost five years ago?"
Harry looked at her sharply and almost angrily. "We do care when you cry, Hermione. Where did you ever hear that shit about it being truly traumatic when the man cries? What are we living in, the 18th century? Hermione, you are far stronger than I am. There have been many times that I've cried and you haven't been there to see the tears. Ask Hannah!" His arm jerked out behind him towards his wife who looked so forlorn and uncertain standing in the middle of the kitchen like a meek mouse. "I wake up nearly every night screaming from things I remember. You act as though it's only women who can feel tears and sorrow and, goddammit Hermione; I feel it just as much as you do. It's your own bloody fault that you believe that. Just- -just stop being so self centered! We're all hurting just as much as you are. Get over yourself and try to do something worth while. We can't help you get happy again if you don't let us." He sighed. "You have to let us help you."
Hermione had been feeling terrible and guilty about what he had been saying up until the bit about them all hurting as much as she. She knew for a fact that none of them were feeling this agony inside. It took every bit of self control she had to get herself up in the morning, and every last remaining bit she had left over to get herself to sleep at night. They might know some of the dull ache in her head and the hole in the heart, but they couldn't possibly feel that gaping emptiness that took place in her soul, somewhere in a place she couldn't locate but could feel all the same. She knew that he could not feel that, and perhaps never would until he lost his wife, God forbid, and was left to live for many years after their death.
She stared at him incredulously for a moment before setting her jaw and walking up to him very slowly and deliberately. She stopped when her face was less than an inch from his and said menacingly. "You know nothing about how I hurt, Harry." Her voice was low and dangerous. "You know nothing."
And with that she stormed from the room and out of the flat. Her footsteps echoed in the empty hall, but she ignored the ear wracking sound. She could hear them calling her to come back, but she didn't let the words register. Before they had a chance to catch up to her, she apparated to the place she figured that they'd least expect her to go. Grimmauld Place, the one place she truly did not want to be.
As she popped in at the street, she quickly thought of the address in her mind and watched appreciatively as it appeared before her. She stormed up the walk and entered the heavy door without knocking. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to speak with someone who could maybe make her feel a bit better. And maybe make her heart a little lighter and her conscience a little clearer.
~`~`~`~`~
All right, it's a very short chapter, but it's a chapter nonetheless. I hope you liked it. And, yes, I know, it's moving along slowly, but as they say, Rome wasn't built in a day. I want to make this a very detailed fic, focused mainly on Hermione and her inner feelings and dilemmas. I know she may appear a little emotional and a little OOC, but she did, after all, just lose her husband, so bear with me please. Until next time!