A Million Pieces: HERMIONE
I sat in the far corner of the tent chewing my lower lip with growing anxiety. My fingers tapped away on my knee, drumming out some quiet skin song better felt than heard. I was trying to focus on the numbers on the radio's tiny luminescent screen but the sounds of his movements about the small enclosure kept stealing away my focus. My other hand, I kept on the dial for fear that if I didn't occupy it, its shaking would warrant too much attention. Which is what I was both seeking and dreading in equal measure. What a perplexing juxtaposition, not too dissimilar from the position we found ourselves in just then.
I wished he'd look at me. Once. Just once. A brief, "How are you?" and a "Do you need any help researching?" was all I got out of him, and those exchanges happened hours ago. 'Do we even know how to form words anymore or was that beyond us?', I wondered. I found myself pulling at a loose thread in my frayed grey cardigan.
Eyes drifting to a rough canvas wall of the tent, I could make out his shadow flickering in the gaslight. It moved almost randomly, gathering objects into its silhouette of a backpack. He was restless. I could tell. I could sense the hesitation in his steps and movements. He knew that I was listening to him. He knew I wanted an explanation. He knew I deserved one. My fingers froze on the dial when I heard his footsteps move towards the tent flap. The metallic clicking of the zipper ripped through the silence.
"Hermione, I'm uh, heading out." I started at the suddenness of his voice, not expecting him to actually tell me he was leaving. It was loud the way something was loud when it was the only sound in the room. It filled it, enveloped it. It became it.
'Where do you even go?' I wanted to ask. I thought better of it and said "Stay safe.", instead.
It took every bit of strength to keep my voice from wavering as much as my hands. I didn't turn around, but I could imagine his nod as he slipped out the tent. I could imagine him walking away dutifully, ducking tree branches and kicking up dirty snow.
I released the breath I'd been holding only to draw in and hold another lungful when I turned in hopes of catching a glimpse of his retreating figure. But of course, he was long gone. I listened until it was impossible to hear his footsteps among the night sounds. My eyes stayed on the partly open flap for a minute, maybe two. Harry was a careless git when he wanted to be; Perhaps he forgot something.
After a whilst I gave up on that wishful thought and my attention returned to the books I'd neglected for far too long. The tattered edge of my bookmark was sticking out from the nearest one, and there was no good reason not to start where I left off. It was hard not to crinkle your nose at the Dictionary of Dark Artifacts. As much as I loved books, this one's moist, scaly cover made me shudder every time I deigned to touch it. I could practically feel it quiver in anticipation as I turned to the last page I was on. Honestly, I kept the thing locked up in a separate trunk every night in case it suddenly developed an appetite for human flesh. I wouldn't be surprised. It was breathing for Merlin's sake.
I ignored my disgust and got to reading.
'The object must suffer damage that is impossible to repair by muggle or magical means. Once the Horcrux is irreparably damaged, the fragment of soul within is destroyed. Very few magical spells or objects are able to damage a horcrux and the object cannot be destroyed by normal smashing, burning, or breaking...'
After reading the passage I'd read a thousand times, my hand reflexively reached for the pendant that dangled on my neck. Salazar Slytherin's locket sat heavily in the hollow of my collar and the unpleasant weight reminded me that it was time to pass it back to Harry. I forgot to give it to him before he left.
Dumbledore and Boy Wonder thought they found it in a cave by the sea, a nasty little cavern that demanded more than blood for its clever replication. Our summer search lead us to Regulus Black, and then Mundungus Fletcher, and finally that right bitch, Dolores Umbridge. I was hoping never to see her miserable face again but as luck would have it, I saw her and her horrid pink attire in the Ministry. As plans went, that one was not our best, but I couldn't begrudge it too much since our prize was currently trying to burrow under my skin like a badger making tunnels in wet sod.
My mind wandered to the fugitives we overheard, before Ron lost it and decided anywhere was better than here. Some days I don't blame him. Other days, blaming him felt more right than the answers I scribbled out on my O.W.L.'s exam.
I coughed and shifted in my seat, wandering off memory lane before I got too lost. Griphook and Gornuk were muttering something about a sword in the Lestrange Vault being a false. Harry and I put two and two together and figured that the Sword's pattern was not much different from the locket's. It was not a horcrux, no. Even better. The Basilisk venom in the blade meant that it could destroy horcruxes, making it all the more valuable to us. I wish I could break the bloody locket with the sheer will of my anger, but the Sword would do. It would do very well, if we knew where the real one was.
'Don't expect me to be grateful because there's another damn thing we've got to find.' Ron's words echoed in my head. He was frustrated. We all were. The world is a big place and our snowball's chance in hell seemed to be melting away to nothing in the flames.
My eyes caught sight of an opened ink bottle. I found its cover between my note parchments and screwed it back on. Looking around the room, I couldn't find anything else to distract me from the burning beneath my eyelids.
Crying over two of my best mates in the same week? Again, pathetic. But no matter how much I berated myself, there I went, continuing to be ridiculous and continuing to berate myself for it. My forehead felt hot when I placed it in the palm of my hand. I rubbed at my temples, trying to ease the pressure that was promising to build into a throbbing headache.
'I just need more time to clear my head,' Harry had said.
Which meant: 'I can't stand to be in the same room with you for more than two hours at a time right now so don't come looking for me.'
I asked to go with him on his treks but he refused, claiming that it was too dangerous for me. That I needed to 'Stay and watch our things.' What a load of hogwash. Flaming anger bubbled up from my gut. Only someone as daft as Lavender couldn't tell he was trying to get away from me, and for what I couldn't figure out. All these books and not one of them could explain how we got so twisted so soon.
Memories of a few days ago floated up and it was almost as if I was there again. The way the sheets felt, how cold the air was, and how red my cheeks were blazing. It was like one of those corny movies you caught on the telly past ten at night. His smiles, his hands, the taste of his lips. I wish I could bottle up that moment and keep it in a pensive since a metaphysical shift occurred in our already undefined relationship. The cold shoulders and his inability to look me in the eyes were clear signals that I'd just shattered our fragile truce. Perhaps I dreamt the whole thing.
It hurt. It hurt even more than when Ron left because Harry was both here and not here. Gone, but not forgotten.
I sighed and got out of my seat. There was no use in making myself any more miserable than I already was, I decided. I spent the next couple of hours pouring over the literature, sprucing up the tent, and putting everything meticulously in order. It was a habit that came from my mum. She always cleaned obsessively when dad didn't come home before dark. I usually stayed up with her and manned the living room whilst she ferociously attempted to make the tiles in the bathroom bleed. She would have succeeded, had I not almost dragged her away from the bleach every other night so she could get some sleep. I wonder how they were doing and if they were even still together. If I was the only reason they tolerated each other's presence, what had become of them now that I cease to exist in their world? Is my mother still pitifully scrubbing the floor hoping that making them that much whiter would make him stop smacking her around? Are they wondering why they never had any children? Were they trying for one?
I got that lung-collapsing feeling again just thinking about them and everything else I left behind. And for what?
The familiar clinking of the zipper met my ears again and I turned towards the tent flap without even thinking about it.
"Hey." He stood there with that goofy half-smile of his. It was the same one that almost always made me forget why I was mad in the first place. Almost.
He was bundled up, covered with melting snowflakes and back way sooner than I thought he would be. Had I been expecting him, I'd already have a set of blankets and something hot waiting near a transfigured smokeless fire whilst I was somewhere pretending to not hear him. I didn't return his pleasantries and instead moved to get the kettle from its perch.
"I have a really good feeling about getting to the middle of this forest," he said. Where his hunch came from, I had no idea. I had a really good feeling that we weren't getting anywhere.
His boots dragged in mucky snow and the squelching noises they made sloughed at my nerves with each soggy plop. For some reason his footprints looked darker than they should. I clenched my teeth, face pinched. Harry looked at me and then eyed the floor. He must have caught on because his next words were "Sorry. Didn't think –"
"Do you ever?" I snapped. Harry gasped in mock pain with a hand over his chest.
My hand quickly flew to my mouth but I lowered it moments later. I didn't know where that came from, but it was exactly how I felt right then. I shouldn't have to apologize for it.
"Try not to bite my head off, will you?" He sat down on a stool. "I think if we keep forging forward, at this rate we'd get to the centre in no time at all. We're close."
"Closer than we were a month ago?" I asked. I wasn't loud but my tone spoke volumes. He paused and looked at me in the midst of pulling off a glove, as if he was derailed by the fact that I was pressing him on the issue.
"Much closer," he replied tersely, his eyes finally leaving my face as he tugged off the gloves and began working on his boots.
"You think you could, oh I don't know, maybe tell me what the hell we're looking for?" I asked. I could feel the tension in the room building but I didn't stop. If I was going to be living in the wilderness without casting anything more complex than house elf magic, I wanted answers.
He shook his head and muttered "You have got to be kidding me." under his breath, as if I couldn't hear him. I told him that I heard every word, every single syllable down to the last le–
"Give me a break, Hermione," he said. His voice started at a forte and then decrescendoed by the end of my name. Exhaustion was his conductor, but I was in another orchestra.
"No, you give me a break! Do you even know what you're doing? Am I just supposed to tag along and keep a bloody smile on my face whilst you go out and play the fucking hero all the time?"
"Pardon?" He looked gobsmacked and dumbfounded. I was pleased. "I'm trying as hard as I can to piece together this ridiculous puzzle and it would help if you stop patronizingme every goddamn chance you get –"
"Patronizing? That's a rather big word. Where'd you learn that one from?" His face contorted into a scowl, like gnarled tree roots. A sense of satisfaction rose in me at my knack for getting a rise out of him. Like a child's, his excess magic crackling in the air around us in response to my words. The hairs on my arms stood stiff straight. My lips curled into smirk of their own accord when I realized that I couldn't care less how angry he got. Hell, the angrier, the better. Spells were tingling at my fingertips and it was about time I got to lash out. "Maybe you should have your little girlfriend look it up for you."
"My what?" He was on his feet now, stalking towards me. "Herms, I'm not –"
"Don't call me that!" My voice sounded warped and vile but I didn't stop to ponder this change in tone. My head was throbbing. I hissed and rubbed my temples, trying to ward off the sickening pain. Fury lit up in me, a grenade. It was his fault, all of it. "If I never met the bloody Boy-Who-Lived, I might be more than just a sidekick in the Golden Trio. You should have kept this nonsense to yourself and not drag me into it."
"Drag you into it? You volunteered!"
"Aren't you listening?" I yelled. "You know what? I'm wasting my time."
I grabbed the beaded bag from beside the radio. The kettle on the stove was whistling loudly. I pushed the tent flap open and felt the cool winter air on my skin. It did nothing to relieve my inner burning.
"Oi! Tell me what all this is about!" he said, as he grabbed my arm. I sharply pulled away and turned around with a sneer.
"I'm. Sick. Of. You. Slow enough? Want me to say it louder in case you missed it?"
"I told you to stop talking to me like that so just sit the fuck down and explain." Things in the tent started rattling and he breathed deeply to recollect himself. He was in my face now, boiling hotter than the kettle behind us. I could see the confusion behind all that anger. I could see the fear too, in the way that his eyes darted between me and the opened slit in the tent.
"You can't stop me," I laughed, crossing my arms defiantly. Pain flashed across his features but it was gone almost as soon as it came.
"You could have left ages ago, Sweetheart." His voice was clipped and I could tell he was gritting his teeth as he talked. "Just tell me why."
"Let me go before you lose your hand."
"Whatever." He walked away from me and started throwing my belongings at my feet. There he went again, making my decisions for me. A dish soared across the room and caught him on the shin before shattering into a million pieces on the floor. He kept on as if it didn't happen. His indifference irritated me, like an itch deep in the folds of my brain. In that moment I would have tossed the steaming hot pot if I wouldn't burn my fingers first. He kicked the pile closer to me.
"I'll send the rest of your stuff to Hogwarts. Or wherever you want, somehow." He wasn't thinking straight. Neither was I. "Well go on, then. Get out."
I turned to go but I was livid. By doing what I wanted to do, by finally doing what I wanted to do, I would be inadvertently following his orders, just like I always was. And that was utter bullshit.
My wand was in my sleeve and the possibilities were endless. I didn't know who I was anymore, and so I became whomever I wanted to be. Ask me if I cared that the Ministry and whomever else will probably be able to trace my wand. Go ahead, ask me. I bet they couldn't get here in time to hear their little hero scream. I faced him, an unforgivable rolling off the tip of my tongue.
"Cru –"
I stumbled back and landed flat on my arse. The tension melted away from me like that snowball from hell found its way down my back. I looked up and saw the locket dangling gently back and forth on its broken string. Torchlight glinted malevolently on the copper and metal surface. I could feel my anger draining when I realized what had just happened. Too little too late. I was caught between absolute horror and torrid shame.
I stood and opened my mouth.
"Don't apologize." He started grabbing things around the tent. "Our magic is everywhere. We have to leave. Right now."
He was right, for once.