A/N - I can't believe I'm typing this... warnings for unfortunate but necessary harry/ginny and hermione/ron.
the rewritten DH scenes happen at the juncture b/w chs 18-19, pgs 295-299 in my bloomsbury uk edition. in this construction, harry & hermione are already at the forest of dean when they have their argument about dumbledore.
[c/w for shades of ptsd, violence, injuries, and ~~ANGST~~]
Hogwarts Year 7, First Term
Hermione stroked the cover of her new Arithmancy textbook with barely-constrained glee, unable to keep herself from smiling. After all this time, finally.
"Harry," said Ron, though half a sausage, "she's doing it again. She's stroking the textbook."
"''Mione," said Harry from behind the Sports section of the Prophet. "We've talked about this. No stroking the textbooks at meals."
"Honestly." She swatted at him, punching a dent in the paper. "You two could show at least some interest, a year ago we would've given our left feet to come back to Hogwarts!"
"I dunno, I'm rather attached to my left foot." Ron grinned at her, nudging her leg with said left foot under the table. Hermione blushed and shifted away.
"The old Hogwarts, maybe." Harry put down the paper and went back to his porridge. "And I'm not you, Hermione, I don't foam at the mouth at the mere mention of homework."
"What's on this morning, Harry?" Ron was digging into his eggs now.
"Transfiguration," Harry replied. "Then Charms."
"Double Defense this afternoon," Hermione cut in. "With that new professor from America."
"Rivers." Harry nodded. "She seems like the real thing."
"Better be," said Ron. "Just because we defeated the most powerful Dark wizard in history doesn't mean I can pass my NEWT."
Harry chuckled, and Hermione glanced at her watch. "We should be going," she said. "McGonagall won't cut us any slack." Even though she was now Headmistress and had handed off most of her teaching responsibilities to the new Transfiguration Professor, McGonagall had insisted on teaching their year. Hermione had a sneaking suspicion it was a backhanded way of making sure certain people didn't start skiving off in her absence.
"All right," said Ron, taking a last bite of his toast.
Harry made to stand up, glancing down the table where Ginny was sitting with some sixth-years. Hermione looked away, busying herself with stuffing her book into her bag.
As they walked out of the Great Hall, Harry paused next to Ginny and squeezed her hand, giving her a smile that would melt chocolate at fifty paces. Hermione looked away and kept walking. When she reached the end of the table, Ron fell into step beside her, smiling.
"Ready, then?" he said, bumping her arm with his elbow.
Hermione smiled back and nodded. "Yes."
The clock on the wall chimed midnight, and Hermione glanced out the window, feeling an odd pang of déjà vu. How many times had she looked outside a window exactly like this one, in another part of the castle, in another dormitory, another life? It was pitch black outside — of course it was — and she could hear the rain pattering softly on the roof. The rain was heavy and cold for October, even in Scotland, and she was sure that winter this year was going to be brutal, though at least she wouldn't be stuck in a poorly-insulated tent.
Hermione sighed, dropping her gaze back to her parchment. She was already three inches over the minimum for her Potions essay, but the end was in sight. She went back to work, the scratching of her quill drowning out the ticking of her clock.
In many ways, it was lovely having her own room. That was all McGonagall's doing, once they'd gotten past the biggest repairs to the castle. They'd added on another turret to Gryffindor tower and built two dozen small, single bedrooms to accommodate the returning "seventh" years — those whose final year had been interrupted by the war, provided that they wanted to return for their NEWTs, of course. Several people hadn't, not that Hermione could blame them, and others had gone abroad to pursue secondary programs at other institutions. The other houses had likewise received similar additions onto their dormitories for the extra "seventh" years, and the younger students had been accommodated as well. They'd had the choice of either repeating the year outright, or sitting a series of qualifying exams to see whether they could test into the year above. Ginny was one of the students who had opted to test into seventh year, following a summer of intense revision. Hermione couldn't fault her for it — it was what she would've done, herself.
Now, Hermione and the remaining people from her original year were shuffled into classes along with the other seventh years. It was strange, spending time and sharing classrooms with people she didn't really know, people who already had their rivalries and friends and inside jokes. And they certainly had their opinions about the Golden Trio… She, Harry, and Ron had had to put up with more than their fair share of sideways glances and whispering. But that had only lasted for the first few weeks — thank goodness — then everybody had relaxed, and the world continued to turn away from the shadow of war.
Things were going back to normal. Almost.
She finished the last sentence of her essay and put down her quill, blowing gently on the glistening ink. The only thing she had to do now was update her planner.
A few minutes later, she changed into her pajamas and bathrobe, then stepped into the quiet, darkened stairwell and pulled the door shut behind her. While her room was generously furnished with its own fireplace, sink, mirror, and the wizarding equivalent of a hot plate, the one thing it didn't have was a toilet. She, along with the other girls in the tower, had to use a communal bathroom.
There wasn't anybody else in the toilets, and Hermione kept to her routine. Face, teeth, hair. She separated her hair — which was getting long again — into two sections and braided them into two chunky plaits, absently wondering if she ought to do box braids again for the winter. She'd missed doing it the year before, and a part of her wanted to restart the tradition.
For a moment, she was flooded with memories from her childhood — camped out in the sitting room watching the Doctor Who marathon while her mum braided her hair, carols floating in from the kitchen where her dad was making mulled wine and mince pies, flurries of snow drifting past the window. Hermione closed her eyes, letting herself indulge in it, because she could now that her parents were safe and knew who she was again. She no longer had to close herself off from the first eighteen years of her life, no longer had to try to forget two people she loved more than almost anybody else.
Almost, her brain echoed back at her, and she opened her eyes, staring at her reflection. Even with her dressing gown, she could see the edge of the small scar on her neck, could feel the ghost of the blade, the ghost of his hands as he held her—
Hermione switched off the light and made her way upstairs, her heart hammering in her throat. She'd done such a good job not thinking about it, and here was her treacherous brain, thinking about it. She'd assumed schoolwork would be enough for her to—
Hermione looked up just in time to avoid crashing right into Harry as he was coming down the stairs. She jumped back as if electrocuted, and he stared at her, gripping the handrail.
Well. Wasn't this just perfect.
"Sorry," they both said, then Harry, "It's my fault, I should've—"
"Don't be ridiculous," she said in a rush, clutching her dressing gown. "If I'd only been looking where I was going—"
They both fell silent, staring at each other. The tower was empty, and like her, Harry was in his pajamas. He looked a wreck — his hair was vertical, his top was rumpled, and even his glasses were sitting crooked. She couldn't help but wonder why, at nearly one o'clock in the morning, Harry was still awake.
"—He shared a damn sight more of what he was really thinking with Gellert Grindelwald than he ever shared with me!"
"It doesn't matter, Harry, none of that matters! You have got to stop thinking about what you don't have and realize what you do have. Whatever Dumbledore did or didn't do, whatever he said or didn't say, he's gone, and you will drive yourself insane wishing for something he couldn't give you! Because you have people, real people, supporting you, sacrificing everything for you—"
"Charms," he blurted out, and Hermione blinked at him. "I was finishing that worksheet."
"Oh." She nodded, a little too quickly. "Right."
"You think I don't know that?!" he bellowed. "You think I don't know, don't feel guilty— And he made it worse, he made it so much worse because he didn't—"
"He cared, Harry, of course he did— if he didn't, he would've told you everything right from the beginning. But he wanted to protect you, he never wanted you to feel like you couldn't trust him!"
"I don't care!" And there was so much pain in his voice that Hermione took a step back. "What good does it do now? How can I trust his word, when there's so much he didn't tell me? Did he even want me to succeed, to live, or am I just supposed to be the martyr?"
"Don't say that," she said, her voice trembling. "Don't you dare say that. You were everything to him, to all of us, you have no idea—"
"Show me proof," he said, closing in on her, his voice grim. "Show me that I'm doing the right thing, because I haven't got the faintest idea, Hermione!"
Something inside her snapped. "You want proof?!" she yelled up at him, several weeks' worth of frustration pouring off her in waves. "I'm proof, Harry! I'm proof that you are exactly where you need to be, where Dumbledore wanted you to be, because I am the most logical person in the world and I'm the one who didn't walk away!"
A ringing silence fell as he stared at her, broken and whole and furious and scared. She stared back, her chest heaving with emotion, daring him to step closer — or further away.
"What about you?" he said, all pleasant and friendly and not at all awkward.
"Oh— uh, essay." Hermione tried to smile. Why did it have to be so weird when they were alone? They were fine around other people, they were normal— "On the Exstimulo Potion."
Harry's face broke into a sudden grin. "The one that's not due for three weeks?"
Heat crawled sharply up her neck. "Yes."
"Of course." He tapped out a quick rhythm on the bannister and glanced behind her. "Anyway, I'd better—"
"Yes!" Hermione stepped to the side, letting him pass. He smelled warm, but there was something musky as well— smoke, and vanilla?
"See you at breakfast?" he threw over his shoulder.
"Breakfast," she replied, still trying to figure out what that scent was.
Harry nodded as he stepped into the men's toilets. "Night, 'Mione!"
"Night." Frowning a little, she started up the stairs again.
"I understand, Harry," she said, before he could say anything. "I understand that you're angry, that you feel betrayed. You have every right to be angry, especially with me—"
"I'm not," he said, his voice low but firm. His gaze was impenetrable and dark in the shadows of the tent. "I'm not angry with you. You did what you had to do to get us out of there alive."
Something relaxed inside Hermione, a tension she hadn't known she'd been carrying, and she forced herself to nod. "Okay. But please, Harry. Don't focus on the choices of a dead man. Focus on what you can learn from his mistakes, from what's in front of you."
"What's in front of me," he repeated, and something about the way he was looking at her made her shiver.
Lost in thought — she knew what that smell was, she just couldn't place it — Hermione continued up the stairs to her room. The portraits on the walls were slumbering, though more than one occupant cracked open an eye as she passed, no doubt curious as to why she was awake.
"We can do this, Harry." She reached out and gripped his wrist, wishing she could make him believe it. The warmth of his body beneath the fabric of his sweater grounded her. "We got through Godric's Hollow, didn't we?"
Harry glanced down at her hand, then he nodded. When he met her gaze, his eyes were smoldering, intent, and she shivered again. He was so close now, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his irises, and when he leaned in, she surrendered with a gasp.
Their kiss was sloppy, desperate, full of heat and energy and everything else that hung unsaid between them. It made her dizzy, overwhelmed, because Harry's hands were in her hair, his thumb was under her jaw and his tongue was doing unspeakable things to her mouth and she'd never been kissed like this before, not by anyone—
Hermione looked up and just barely avoided bumping into yet another person. She pressed up against the bannister, her heart hammering as she met Ginny's gaze.
They were outside Harry's room, and Ginny's face was flushed, her eyes bright, her pajamas rumpled. Like Harry, she smelled like something smoky and sweet, and when she gave a sheepish grin, the pieces slid together in Hermione's mind.
Firewhisky, she thought, then her stomach turned over. And Ginny's shampoo.
"Sorry," Ginny said, closing the door to Harry's room behind her. "Am I in trouble?"
As Head Girl, Hermione could dock points and give detention for catching Ginny out of her dormitory past curfew, but she wasn't on duty. She shook her head. "Don't worry about it."
"Cheers, Hermione." Ginny grinned and gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. "Goodnight!" And with that, she dashed down the staircase, heading back to her own tower.
Hermione stood there for a moment, her heart hammering, her knees wobbling.
Their teeth clacked and they broke apart, panting. Harry's breath was hot on her cheek when he turned to look at the entrance of the tent.
"Pull yourself together," she muttered, and continued up the steps to her own room, closing and locking the door behind her. It was mostly dark now that she'd put out the lamps and banked the fire, and she crawled into bed, pulling the covers up over her head. Crookshanks curled up against her chest, but his presence did nothing to calm her racing heart and burning face.
"What?" she murmured, her fingers curling into his sweater, trying to pull him close again. All she could think about was how badly she wanted this, wanted him, here and now and every day after that. But an eerie white glow had filled the tent. "What is it?"
It took a moment for Harry to reply, and when he did, he sounded astonished. "It's a doe."
Thunder rolled above her and the rain picked up. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, doing everything she could to forget.
Something bumped into her table and Hermione glanced up, irritated. This was her spot in the library, a fact she had established and maintained since third year, and she did not tolerate interruptions—
Draco Malfoy looked back at her, his expression a complex mix of embarrassment, hostility, and honest-to-God fear. His bookbag was over his shoulder and he had two books in his arms. "Granger," he said, by way of greeting. "All the other tables are taken, and I was wondering if I could… well, you know, if it would be all right for me to…"
Hermione understood at once, and for a moment, she was going to say no. This was Draco Malfoy, for crying out loud, and just because he'd cooperated with the Ministry didn't guarantee him any sort of favors. And really, out of every table he could've chosen in the whole of the Library, he'd come to hers—
She glanced behind him, and noticed that everyone else nearby was watching him. Watching them. Whispering to each other, staring daggers. "Death Eater freak," she heard one of them mutter, and for some reason, that lodged in a weird space between her ribs.
As accurate as that might be, Draco had already endured his fair share of public scorn. Between the summer of wandless house arrest and the concurrent trials of the few remaining Voldemort supporters, he'd shouldered all of it with a peculiar kind of grace. He'd turned witness against the Death Eaters, against his own father, all without the guarantee of a place at Hogwarts at the end of it. He'd had to fight tooth and nail for it, endure a degree of investigation and speculation that she wasn't sure she could imagine, just for a chance at finishing his education at a school full of people who hated him. All this, when Durmstrang had offered Draco a place without any conditions, or so she'd heard.
Perhaps Draco Malfoy is a little bit brave, she thought. Or very very stupid. Or both.
Maybe it was pity, maybe it was the lack of a good night's sleep — between running into Ginny and the storm, she'd been tossing and turning all night — or maybe it was the lingering postwar sense of camaraderie. But something made Hermione nod and kick the chair opposite her out from beneath the table.
Relief flashed across Draco's face before it was replaced by a kind of wariness. He put down his books and took the seat, pulling out a few scrolls of parchment, his bottle of ink, and a neat black quill. Around them, some people were still openly staring. Others had turned away, perhaps disappointed that the confrontation hadn't come to blows. Hermione wondered if she was a bit disappointed, herself.
They passed a few minutes in companionable silence before Hermione glanced at one of the huge books — which, to her chagrin, she didn't recognize, even though Draco was in most of the same classes she was. Curiosity got the better of her. "What are you working on?"
"Ancient Runes," he replied, then tapped the other book. "And Potions." Draco glanced up, his gaze flinty and skittish. "What about you?"
"Arithmancy."
"The proof?" He shook his head. "I couldn't get through it, had to take a break."
Hermione nodded, looking down at her calculation sheet with a touch of irritation. It was giving her trouble, as well.
They lapsed back into silence for the next few hours, and when Pince announced that the library was closing for the night, they both stood up and started packing.
Draco shouldered his bag and glanced at her. "Thanks, Granger."
"Sure," she said, then he turned and was gone.
The next day, he didn't have to ask. She just nodded, and Draco sat down in the same chair, relief evident on his face. "You can call me Hermione," she said, and he gave her a nod, a slight flush hitting his cheekbones.
"The Chancey coefficient," he said on the third day, when she was ready to tear her parchment in half out of sheer frustration. "I know, Hermione," he added, when she opened her mouth to argue, "but try it."
"I have patrol with Justin tonight," she said on Friday. "So I'm only here until eight."
Draco's nose was an inch above the page of his Charms textbook, his quill tapping a rhythm on his parchment. "Glorified babysitting, you mean."
Hermione choked, fighting the urge to laugh. "No," she forced out. Even if she agreed that that was all being Head Girl really amounted to.
Draco flashed her a grin, so sharp and bright and sudden that she again had to keep herself from laughing.
"Stop it," she hissed, chucking a crumpled bit of parchment at his arm.
Four days later, he hung back and walked out of the library with her, the castle quiet and cold around them. Hermione fought off a shiver and tucked her hands into the sleeves of her robes.
"I know," Draco said, his gaze sliding along the few burn marks left on the walls. "Sometimes I feel the ghosts, too."
Hermione was too surprised to speak. She looked at his profile, at the ever-present purplish circles under his eyes, and realized that of course, he'd lost everything, too.
"Really?" Ron said to her one night, when he met her on her way back to the Tower and saw her saying goodnight to Draco. "Malfoy?"
Hermione shrugged, too tired for a fight. "He's better, now."
"Nah," said Ron dismissively, but he didn't look too sure.
She and Draco worked together during their overlapping free periods, too. The Library was less crowded then, and they didn't have to glare at people for whispering too loudly. One afternoon, they managed to get everything done before dinner, and they walked down to the Great Hall, quiet and a little bleary-eyed from their success.
"I've been meaning to say," said Draco, as they made their way down the main staircase. He looked nervous. "I want to apologize to you. For everything, if that's even possible."
Hermione stopped, staring at him. A beat passed, then he glanced at her, nervous and just a touch vulnerable, and she said, "It's a start, I suppose."
The corner of his mouth lifted. "Good. Because I am sorry, for the name-calling, the bullying, the whole being-a-self-entitled-and-prejudiced prick. It was immature, and foolish, and it wasn't right. I know that now."
"I'm glad to hear it." And somewhat to her surprise, she actually was. "But it's not just me, you know. It's Harry and Ron, too."
Draco nodded, his expression getting a touch more serious. "I know. I'm working on it."
"All right." She shot him a smile. "For what it's worth, you're doing well so far."
"Thanks, Hermione." They'd reached the bottom of the stairs and he nudged her with his elbow. "See you tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," she echoed, and they parted ways.
On Halloween, Hermione caught him frowning at a group of giggling second-years and raised an eyebrow.
"Bloody Halloween," he said in response, closing his book with a snap.
She smiled down at her Defense essay. "Not your style?"
"It's so pedestrian. And yes," Draco added before she could open her mouth, "I know I sound like an uptight prick, but it sends everyone in the castle around the bend."
"Do you even like the feast?"
Draco considered this. "The feast is all right."
Later that evening, slumped in her favorite cushy armchair in the Gryffindor common room, Hermione had to agree with him. The feast was certainly all right.
"This was a good Halloween," said Ron from the floor, where he was leaning up against her legs. A few feet away, the fire crackled merrily.
"Yes," Hermione sighed, happy and warm and full of pastries. She'd also had a few nips off Pavarti's secret stash of Gigglewater, which helped.
The common room was alive with heat and energy, in stark contrast to the sleet hitting the windows. Students were squeezed into every corner, playing Exploding Snap or Jackknifing Jenga, trading sweets, listening to the wireless, and telling jokes. It was Hogwarts at the best of times, and she felt a great surge of affection for all of it, deepened by the knowledge of how close they'd come to losing it.
Her eye snagged on an armchair at the other end of the room. Ginny and Harry were tucked into it together, laughing at a joke Seamus was acting out, surrounded by a smattering of other sixth- and seventh-years. She watched them trade a grin, then Harry pressed a kiss to Ginny's cheek and she gave him a squeeze in return, delighted.
Hermione turned back to the fire, feeling a touch hollow. She carded her fingers through Ron's hair and said, "Let's go on a date."
Ron tilted his head back to look at her, not bothering to mask his surprise. She'd been putting him off this exact thing for weeks now. "Really?"
She nodded, ignoring the faint tremor of anxiety in her stomach. Her instincts told her this wasn't the right thing, that this would only be unkind to both of them in the long run, but maybe, just maybe, her instincts were wrong. It wouldn't be the first time, and she'd have to find out one way or another. Courage, she told herself. "Yes. The Three Broomsticks, tomorrow night?" They could go to Hogsmeade whenever they wanted to, now that they were seventh-years.
"Yeah," said Ron, grinning happily, and he pressed a kiss to her knee.
Their 'date' — a shared meat pie and pints of ale at The Three Broomsticks — ended with a tender, quiet kiss outside her door. Hermione sighed into Ron's mouth, telling herself that she was happy, that this was enough. "Goodnight," he whispered, his eyes alight with a kind of warmth she just couldn't return.
"Goodnight," she whispered back, but when she closed the door behind her, she felt lonelier than ever.
Hermione watched as Harry disappeared beneath the surface of the frozen pond, shivering from the cold as well as fear. This was idiocy, lunacy, why was she letting him do this—
Stop it, she told herself, redoubling her grip on her wand. She had to be ready to blast him with a dozen Warming Charms the moment he resurfaced, to throw him a spare change of clothes. She couldn't afford to panic, not now, not when they had no idea what lay beneath the surface of the lake. It had remained impervious to every diagnostic spell she'd thrown at it, and she couldn't shake the feeling that this was a trap, no matter what Harry said.
What does it matter? came the silvery, cool voice from the locket where it was nestled against her chest. He's going to die anyway, it's just a matter of when—
Shut up, Hermione's brain fired back, her heart pounding in her mouth. She had to close herself off, seal her mind, she couldn't let herself be distracted—
A bubble burst across the exposed surface of the water, and she took a step forward, a jolt of adrenaline clearing her thoughts in an instant. Was that—?
Suddenly, Hermione found herself flung violently backwards, yanked away from the shoreline, a ripping, cutting line of fire exploding across her neck. She hit the ground hard, pain blossoming in her back, head, and shoulders, fresh snow flooding her jeans and sweater, but none of that mattered because she couldn't breathe—
Choking, she kicked out, her fingers scrabbling at her neck, where the chain of the Horcrux was digging into her windpipe. But it was no use — the necklace was pulled tight and dragging her away from the pond. Black spots burst across her vision and tears squeezed out of her eyes as she tried to scream, tried to find something to grab onto, she couldn't leave Harry—
Something came bursting out of the bushes and leapt straight into the water. Hermione's fingers found a tree root and she clung onto it for dear life, even as her vision began to fade and her body began to slacken. She wanted to scream, wanted just a single gasp of air, but voices were yelling inside her head, full of rage, and the chain around her neck pulled tighter and tighter. Her whole body seized, her mouth gaping in a silent yell, the snowy branches above her disappearing into black—
There was another huge splash, and Hermione felt a few drops of icy water hit her legs. Someone nearby was shivering violently, she could feel it, hear it, and she gagged, her body going numb—
A third splash, then a bellow of "HERMIONE!" Hang on— she knew that voice—
A flash of silver, a cold, high-pitched hiss that echoed around the trees— "Ronald Weasley, the coward—"
A yell, a burst of energy, the chain around her neck breaking—
A shadow and a flash of green exploded across the clearing, and Hermione was flung face-first onto the ground, knocking the small amount of breath she'd managed to regain out of her lungs. She gagged again, black and white spots bursting across her vision, then inhaled dirt and snow in the same breath. Air, wonderful air, flooding her lungs cold and clear, even as her throat burned to take it in—
"Why didn't you take the damn thing off?!" came that voice again, then hands were on her body, rolling her onto her back, and she blinked up at the snowy trees, tears blurring her eyes. A ginger mop swam into view, and below it, Ron's anxious, angry face.
"Harry," she choked out, then broke into a coughing fit. She flung out an arm towards the pond. "Get— Harry—"
Something in Ron's face shifted, and he backed away, giving her space. "He's fine, Hermione, he's out of the water, he's just over there—"
Hermione rolled onto her side, blinking as the scene in front of her came into focus. Harry, curled up at the edge of the pond, soaking wet and shaking, his eyes half-lidded and blacker than night. Relief overtook her and she broke into another coughing fit, fighting the urge to pass out—
Hermione woke on a scream, her throat raw and her ears ringing. She screamed and screamed, choking on air that she didn't have, her skin crawling, the room swimming in front of her eyes—
The door banged open and suddenly there were hands on her arms, her face. "'Mione, it's just a dream, you're having a nightmare—"
She broke off mid-scream and burst into tears, clinging to the person in front of her. "Harry—!"
"He's alive," said the voice, Ron's voice. "You're alive, I'm alive, we're all alive. You're at Hogwarts, and you're having a nightmare."
Hermione exhaled in one long, shuddering breath, and the room stopped spinning. Everything was blurry, but there was Ron, his face only inches away, pale and worried—
"Ron," she forced out between sobs. "What— what are you—"
"You sent a Patronus," he said, rubbing her back. It was weirdly soothing. "I don't know how you did it, but you did — it was definitely yours. It came into my room and woke me up."
"Oh." Hermione kept trying to breathe, but her throat was still tight. A wandless Patronus? She'd never done that before. And when she was sleeping? How on earth—?
"There now," he said. "Just keep breathing."
She tried to obey, some corner of her mind wondering when Ronald Weasley had gotten so good at this kind of thing. Maybe at Shell Cottage… maybe this past summer…
"Was it the locket?" he asked, his gaze on her hands. She realized she was rubbing her throat, at the now-healed and scarless wound that had left her without a voice for over a week. "Were you dreaming about the locket?"
Hermione nodded, her terror still too fresh to put into words.
Ron sighed a little. "I've had that one, too. It's nasty. I always wonder, what if I hadn't been there? What if I hadn't gotten to you in time? What if I hadn't gotten to Harry in time?"
"Ron," she whispered, blinking back a fresh stream of tears. "Not helping."
"Sorry."
With Ron back, it was several hours before Hermione could corner Harry alone — she waited until Ron was in the shower, and cast a strong Muffliato just in case. She didn't have much of a voice, and her throat was now heavily bandaged, but she figured she could make herself understood regardless.
"Don't," Harry bit out, once he realized what she was doing. "We can't, Hermione."
"Just tell me," she managed to whisper, wincing at the pain. But it was nothing compared to the pain of not knowing, of him never touching her like that again. "Tell me what you want."
"Don't you see?" he replied, stepping away from her. "It doesn't matter what I want, not anymore. Putting aside the fact that I'm apparently a living, breathing Horcrux, Ron came back because of you, Hermione. He came back to win you over, to prove himself to you, and I can't jeopardize that, not now. Not when I need all the help I can get, not when I already lost him once."
"That's it?" Hermione was shaking now, tears threatening behind the hot wave of anger building in her chest. "After everything, that's all you have to say to me? That you don't want to be with me because you might hurt Ron's feelings?"
Harry shook his head, looking more tired, more grey, more beaten than he ever had before. "It was the adrenaline, Hermione. Tensions were running high and we didn't know what we were doing."
Something inside her broke and was falling, falling, falling. She wanted to fight him, but she couldn't. "Okay," she managed.
"But we're friends," he said, with such conviction that she realized he was trying to convince himself just as much as he was trying to convince her. "We're best friends, and nothing's going to change that. So we just… go back to normal. It never happened."
She had to get out of here. "Okay," Hermione whispered again, then stepped away. In that instant, she caught a bright flash of hurt in Harry's eyes, but she couldn't bring herself to care. She couldn't do this anymore.
She left him standing there in the kitchen and went to her bed, where she buried herself in a massive pile of blankets and squeezed her eyes shut, the tears finally flowing free. Hermione let herself cry, let herself mourn, because tomorrow, it was back to the war. She could put aside what might have been, and keep everything else.
"What time is it?" she said, her gaze darting to her clock. In the half-light of her banked fire, she couldn't read it from this distance. Crookshanks poked his head out from under the bed, staring at her with evident worry.
"Half past three," said Ron. "You're on the train at ten o'clock, right?" At her nod, he glanced at her trunk and said, "At least you're already packed. I'm not so lucky. Nor's Harry, I s'pose."
Hermione took a shuddering breath and almost smiled. "Ever the procrastinators."
"Yep." He shot her a cheeky little smile, his hand still tracing circles on her back. "Want me to stay?"
That gave her quite the jolt and she blinked at her comforter, trying to hide her surprise. "It's all right, I don't want you to get in trouble—"
"Nah, don't be silly." Ron stood up and closed her bedroom door, then went to the sink and got a glass of water. "I'll sleep in the chair."
Her surprise doubled. She accepted the glass and took a sip, weighing the situation in her head. Even now, it was difficult to shake the ghost of Harry, standing in that tiny kitchen, shattering her world with only a handful of words. "You don't have to sleep in the chair."
Ron paused where he was scooting said chair closer to the bed and looked at her, surprise evident on his face. "You sure?" he said.
Hermione nodded, wiping her face with her sheet. "Only sleep, mind you. Nothing else."
He shot her a smile, easy and warm. "No worries."
And it really was that simple. Ron climbed into bed behind her, draped an arm across her middle, and sighed into her neck. "I can't believe it's already the Christmas hols."
Hermione looked out her darkened windows, where snow was glowing on the sills and awnings below. She fought off a shiver. "Me, either."
A/N cont'd - just want to make it clear - this isn't the whole backstory, so you don't have all of the answers yet. more is coming, lol. this def made me want to rewrite all of the books ahaha. I also wasn't planning on writing a "Second Term" chap, but this was lots of fun - should I? and I'm sure the way I've written certain characters is going to piss some ppl off, but this is my sandbox, bitches 8)
ilu guys & ur comments 3 3
