It was the sort of day Hermione Granger longed for. It was peaceful for starters, as very little noise found its way into her courtyard garden, and so the only thing left to stir her from her reading, or from her daydreaming, was the rustling of the tree overhead and the occasional fall of blossom.
It being a Saturday was also significant. Not only was it a day off, but it was a day in which she need not fret over her work, leaving Goblin Rebellions and House Elf Liberations to those with yet more insignificant social existences than her. It was the way she wished it, of course, but she still acknowledged it with a sort of wistful smile that others might have mistaken for a deep regret.
She lived alone in a small, two-story house just outside London, and continued to do so despite many well intended requests by her friends to move in together and share a living space. They did this, she believed, because they thought her lonely, but she was quite content, and quite sure in any case that a housemate would not chase away her troubles.
Of course, she was not entirely alone. The reminder of which came as she peered over the edge of her book to see a large, bandy-legged feline covered in long, thick ginger hair and ready to pounce on an oblivious looking sparrow picking through the soil in her garden.
"Crookshanks!" she cried, her voice filling the garden, making both the predator and its prey jump in fright. "Bad Crookshanks, stop that!"
The cat regarded her with a most indignant expression, not bothering to struggle when she picked him up and carried him inside but rather staring at her as if to remind Hermione just how much of an inconvenience she could sometimes be. His nightmares would be filled with that rubbish scrapped from a tin and into his bowl, and he had half a mind to do as a dog would do and chew to pieces her favourite pair of shoes just to spite her. But then all of a sudden she had sat him on her bed and was smiling at him, scratching him on that spot behind his ear that only she and that Potter bloke seemed to know about. All was forgiven – at least until she chased away his next meal.
Hermione, having been distracted from her reading and wary that other obligations lay ahead, found herself standing in front of her bedroom mirror, a rather rare occurrence when it lasted more than a few moments, and holding various outfits against herself in what seemed an almost pointless attempt to find the one that best suited her. It was over a year since she had last gone clothes shopping, the reason being that after twelve hours spent traipsing up and down Oxford Street with Pansy Parkinson the experience rather lost its allure. Pansy still regularly requested she join her on these little jaunts into Muggle London, but the former Slytherin girl was also smart enough to know when to take no for an answer.
"I really don't want to look like I'm trying too hard," she said to her reflection and Crookshanks, being the only other living creature in the room, sat up briefly and made a mewing sound. "I am not desperate. I do not want to be fixed up with anyone. It's just a party. There's nothing wrong with being alone."
Half an hour and a short, sharp owl to Pansy Parkinson later and her friend was stood there with her by the mirror, reaching so deep into Hermione's wardrobe that she half expected her to find Narnia.
"This one looks nice," Pansy encouraged, holding a somewhat short, black dress against Hermione's lithe frame. "Very classy but you'll still turn heads."
Hermione sighed, took the dress and gave her friend an imploring look. "I don't want to turn heads, Pansy. And you know why."
"No, actually, I don't know why," she replied immediately. "I know who and that's it. Three years later and I'm still waiting for the why."
"It's too ridiculous to put into words."
Pansy led Hermione over to the bed, placed the dress down beside them and wrapped a comforting arm around her. "Then be as ridiculous as you need. I want to hear it."
Hermione sighed again, this time rather irritably, but eventually, and despite her wringing hands, she elaborated. "I mean, how can I move on? It's like he's haunting me. You're going to say this sounds silly – Merlin knows it does – but I have this feeling that I can't explain. Like he and I were waiting, pushing and pulling, yes, but waiting to see who left first. He did, just as I knew he would, but it didn't feel like the end. Perhaps I've borrowed too many sappy books from your collection but I can't help but think that he left with the promise that I would follow and that I would find him some way, somehow. Again, I know it's silly," she turned towards her friend with a despairing look, "but I truly believe that if I'd have left he would have found me eventually."
"You're right, Hermione," Pansy deadpanned and then paused a moment. "That is silly."
Hermione turned away, attempting to stifle her amusement, before spinning back around and gently shoving her friend until she was teetering off the edge of the bed.
"As helpful as ever, Parkinson," she grumbled, picking up the dress and disappearing off into the bathroom. "What time did Ginny say to be there?" she added, calling through the thin wood of the bathroom door.
"Oh, I don't know," Pansy replied, distracted as she was by her own reflection in the mirror. She had readied herself early. Early enough, in fact, to give her date the cold shoulder the moment Hermione sent her distress call and still not miss a beat. "Seven thirty, maybe. I suppose all the Gryffindors will be there on the dot, playing musical chairs and sipping fruit-based, non-alcoholic punch."
The sound of Hermione laughing from the other side of the door brought a smile to Pansy's face. Such a sound was always welcome as, in her opinion, her friend worked far too hard. The Ministry bled her dry and often, it seemed, she encouraged it. It was not unusual for Pansy to turn up on a weeknight, a bottle of wine in hand, only to see Hermione about to be crushed by the enormous mountain of paperwork teetering over her. Hermione, it appeared, believed the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures could not function without her.
Pansy had twice offered to pay for them to go on vacation. And not just any vacation, either, but a year long, around the world trip, the escape they both desperately needed. Hermione because she was depressed, even if she hid it well, and overworked to the point of exhaustion; and Pansy because since she had discovered that yes, she had friends and yes, it was real, she enjoyed nothing more than spoiling and spending time with them.
"How do I look?" asked Hermione as she shuffled through the bathroom door, pulling off a demure pirouette when her friend continued to gawk. "Classy… but I'll still turn heads, right?" she added with a roll of her eyes.
"Every head in the room if you're not careful," was the response as Pansy gave her friend a decidedly sly wink.
OOO
They arrived just after eight o'clock, Pansy having convinced Hermione that it was absolutely vital they finish off their bottle of wine. Feeling sufficiently frivolous, Pansy gave a jaunty knock on the door and after a moment they were greeted with the smiling faces of Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley.
"You know, we have booze here," Harry said in way of greeting, his arm wrapped securely around Ginny's waist, "you didn't have to get smashed on the way."
Pansy waved away his light-hearted objections and pushed herself between them, grabbing Ginny by the arm and dragging her into the house. Harry stayed put and offered his somewhat tipsy friend a gentle smile.
"I remember when you were just an innocent little girl on the Hogwarts Express searching for Neville Longbottom's toad. And now here you are on my doorstep, boozed up and looking absolutely beautiful, if you don't mind my saying."
Hermione rolled her eyes but returned her friend's smile. "Feeling nostalgic are we, Harry? Is that what one does at an engagement party?"
"I don't know," he replied amusedly, shrugging and indicating with a nod she should follow him inside, "I suppose we'll find out."
The house Harry and Ginny shared was quite stunning. It was located in a small village by the sea and their cottage was spacious but cosy, leading out into a large garden that opened up onto a sandy beach. It was picturesque, more so given that Hermione was quite sure she had never seen Harry or Ginny happier in all the time she had known them. Of course, it was also bittersweet, but she tried not to cling to this realisation. Perhaps she was being silly again but whatever this was, whatever word people needed to use to describe it, she believed it was, in her case, something quite unattainable. It had slipped beyond her grasp and into the ether, leaving behind only a few measly words and an immense heartache.
"You know who that is over there talking to Luna Lovegood? His name is Aaron Lewis and he's–"
"Don't you dare, Harry Potter," Hermione interjected irritably, "I'm not in the mood."
Chuckling lightly, Harry held up his hands and slowly backed away. "Okay, okay. But when you're the old cat lady clipping articles out of the Daily Prophet, don't say I didn't at least try."
Hermione's lips twisted into a reluctant smile for she had no desire to encourage Harry's warped sense of humour. Eventually she found her way over to Ginny and Pansy, clucking like a pair of hens and quickly pouring her a glass of wine so tall she was afraid she might drown in it.
"To Harry and Ginny," Pansy said quietly, raising her glass in a private toast between three friends. "And to happily ever after and all that nonsense." They brought their glasses together and they drank, enjoying their moment alone before the party enveloped them.
OOO
By midnight at least half the guests had said their goodbyes, given their gifts and departed. Only Harry and Ginny's closest friends remained, as well as those too inebriated even to stumble home. Harry, Ron and several others were out on the beach playing an impromptu, drunken game of Quidditch which, while certainly good-natured seemed rather messy and almost… violent. Still, the laughter that carried over from the beach and into the garden, where Hermione stood, leant against a tree and alternating between watching the game and staring into space, reminded her why she loved these people – Harry, Ron, Ginny, Pansy, the Weasleys, the Longbottoms, and many more who did not immediately spring to mind but who nonetheless held a special place in her heart.
Through the kitchen window behind her she could just about make out the voices of Ginny, Pansy and Hannah Longbottom. She had earlier excused herself from their conversation, feeling utterly distracted and not wishing to seem rude. It was why she hated drinking. She was fine when drunk, easily amused and not easily bothered, but when she came down off that high and sobriety began to invade her mind she caught herself overthinking literally everything and working herself into a frenzy. Her job, how hard she worked and how little difference it at times seemed to make. Her friends who, much as she loved them, much as they only wanted what was best for her, managed to inadvertently remind her of what she truly wanted. And then him and his handsome face, his silver tongue, his capacity for both great tenderness, fleeting as it was, and immense cruelty; the depths of his twisted soul, his desperate heart and, finally, a scar that did not disgust or frighten her as he once believed but that, ultimately, only made her want him more. His imperfections defined him and she craved them all.
When she looked out into space, over the dark sea, the inky cloak overhead littered with stars, she wondered where he was, what he was doing at that exact moment. If, perhaps, he too stopped and stared, wondered about the past and the future, what could have been and what now would never come to pass. And while it saddened her greatly, it never brought her to tears. It was simply a heavy heart, dryness in her throat, and the very real fear that he had taken something from her, something significant, and he meant not to return it. She laughed wryly and smiled despite herself, looking up at the stars and speaking in a low voice.
"I never did share your talent for self-delusion."
She turned from the sky, having found within its depths no solace, and made for the kitchen, pulling her jacket tight around her shoulders as a gust of wind suddenly blew through the air. Before she stepped inside, however, the hooting of an owl gave her cause to turn and the creature glided through the night sky, quite empathic in its flight, and landed on a windowsill nearby. She looked around, at first unsure, but the creature was staring right at her (right through her, in fact) and there, hanging from its spindly little leg was a thin roll of parchment. Hermione approached, swallowing the lump in her throat, attempting to still her trembling bottom lip with her hand.
It was from work, she assured herself. There was a sudden break in negotiations with the Goblins and they needed her to come in right away. That was it. That had to be it. The alternative was frightening – exhilarating, absolutely – but so utterly terrifying that she was in no state to confront it. The owl made a cawing sound and lifted its leg, giving an impatient flap of its sizeable wings and urging her forward. She was moving but she could not remember her brain sending the signal to her body. Everything was still. The laughter faded. The voices died. It seemed even as if the sea had suddenly stopped lapping at the shore. She wanted this. One way or another, she wanted this.
She snatched at the note and squeezed it in her hand, seeking strength. The irony was for the moment lost on her, all those little notes back and forth, declarations of love and loathing, and again, three years later, three years apart, such misery, a despairing loneliness like a hole in the heart, and again it came down to a single scrap of parchment. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she unfurled the note before her eyes and devoured the scrawl.
He's alive.
TF