Guilt

by Ydream08

Chapter 2

Hermione wished she could have done more than lunge at Ron with a rucksack and leaves she fisted from the ground. It would have been more satisfying to slap him like she had done Malfoy in third year—with how Harry had retained her wand, that was the most creative she could have gotten.

But truthfully, she was just so tired. So very tired. The hunt stretched out, no hope whatsoever in the horizon, and no peace for her and Harry at the brink of Ron's abandonment. Although, there was a silent acceptance whenever the two of them shut the outside world.

That was all true until the daft glutton came in like beam of sunshine, a smile to his face, waiting for a hug or something that he returned.

After she took out her frustration, the news of the locket's demise and arrival of Gryffindor's sword helped Hermione make peace with the presence of her childhood crush.

Harry was there to soften the conversation, or warn her with a certain quirk to his eyebrows whenever Hermione pierced Ron with her looks, or when needlessly harsh words shot out of her mouth.

"You alright?" Harry would whisper when Ron was not so far away to watch the campsite.

"Yeah, I'm perfectly fine." Harry looked funny at her scowl. "It's just- nothing is as they used to be anymore."

Harry shrugged, as if to say that was given, but Hermione didn't let go the intuition as easily. Because it wasn't about the war, what she was feeling.

That feeling was overwhelming when she and Ron destroyed the Hufflepuff's Cup in the Chamber of Secrets. When Ron glanced at her in a way that she had wished he would have looked at her the past two years. He acted to grab her to perhaps steal a kiss. Hermione wouldn't know, because she acted first, instead, grabbing the sword and nodding at him. "Let's head up. It's not over yet."

That couldn't be said for their… friendship? Is that what they had? As long as Ron looked at her that way, she doubted Hermione could see the boy she laughed at his antics, admired for his chess-play or acknowledged best for his loyalty.

She doubted she could find that boy. This young man had hurt her too much for Hermione to give him a second chance. She couldn't look for that boy before pealing away her resentment, chagrin and guilt.

She was at Fred's funeral, regardless. She couldn't just tear herself away from Ron—from the Weasleys. There was much history there.

Fred was her friend, foremost. Had been.

Nevertheless, Hermione had pointedly stood by Harry instead of next to Ron.

Ginny was once again crying on the shoulder of the raven-haired young man. Ron was at her side, grasping her shoulder while he cried himself. The rest of the Weasleys were at that side as well.

Hermione only had Harry next to her.

Only he saw her tears and listened to her sobs.

She didn't know when, it was the umpteenth time she wiped away her face with her hands, tried to reign in her wheezing. She felt her back stroked, calming her down. Then when the motion stopped, a hand slipped into hers.

Hermione looked to the hand holding hers—bigger, strong, fingers long and thin. She followed the arm attached, and finally her eyes met with Harry's.

More tears stung her eyes, and her breath caught.

Hermione wiped away her eyes with her free-hand, and fiercely nodded her thanks to Harry.

This pain and devastation was perhaps the first version experienced as uncontrolled and open. No fear, paranoia, anxiety or hopelessness tainted them.

War was over and they mourned.

More awaited them. Tonks, Lupin, Colin, Susan Bones, Narcissa Malfoy…

Harry squeezed her hand. She squeezed back.

The Burrow was eerily quiet. Mrs. Weasley's household charms were on hold and nothing cooked in the kitchen. Mr. Weasley was away in the Ministry as was Percy. The normally crowded living room was occupied only by her, Harry and Ginny. The rest was scattered around. Hermione only knew that George was locked in his room.

He hadn't come out since Fred's funeral.

It's been two weeks.

When Hermione read the same sentence for the tenth time, she at last closed the book. This was making her restless. This…this waiting.

They were waiting for a miracle. All of them.

Tears stung her eyes at the thought of it, but Hermione could admit that every single occupant of the house was waiting for the ones they lost to barge in from the front door and realize that everything had been a dream. A nightmare.

Hermione couldn't take this anymore. Not when she felt restrained from searching for her parents. She had to review the counter-curse to unlock their minds, then track them down in Australia. She wanted to have them beside her just as Ron had his parents. Just as Ginny had them.

Most importantly, Hermione was aware she was having problems in her mind. She begun having nightmares. Silencing charms around her room prevented her from scaring the hell out of people –it wouldn't be kind to wake people to screams as though she was Crucio'd- but the past few days she woke up with cuts and bruises. Yesterday, being woken up in the kitchen, she realized she sleepwalked. Merlin knew how much worse this could progress, but Hermione didn't want to get admitted to St. Mungo's just yet.

She had to find her parents. The sooner, the better.

She had to get away.

Her eyes finding Harry, she looked at the couple who hadn't moved since she arrived in the room. Harry sat at the end of the couch, his hand holding up his head as though his thoughts weighted it down tremendously. Ginny lied down, with her head resting on his thighs, and her eyes were closed as she breathed softly. Probably asleep.

Harry's hands absentmindedly played with Ginny's hair.

Hermione's eyes strayed to his fingers. Red locks slid from between them as if water. He occasionally grabbed a few strands, gently, and twirled it around his finger. Ginny's hair immediately turned into their straight formation, not maintaining the curl Hermione naturally sported.

Without realising, her own fingers reached for her hair. It was soft but handful in her palm. She let go and opted to take a hold of a single curl. That was much more fun to play with. She used to do this in the History of Magic class. Professor Binns used to have the ability to entrance them, the lesson felt as if listening to a story.

The movement in front of her eyes stopped. So did Hermione. She woke up from her stupor and found Harry sighing. He messed his hair and helplessly removed his glasses. With the hand that no longer played with Ginny's hair, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Harry?" Her whisper caught his attention and Hermione mimicked the small smile that turned his lips. A sweet warmth enveloped her as she looked at him. He was Harry, her Harry. From his messy hair, to his quirk to push back his glasses. Her eyes blurred with tears as she couldn't form the words. She desperately hoped Harry would agree with her.

She felt so alone and trapped here. Awkward and unwanted.

His brows creased as his lips formed her name. "Hermione?"

She couldn't look him in the eyes as she asked. She, instead, stared at his lips. Praying for them to move in affirmation when she asked.

"Can we go, Harry? Stay somewhere else?"

"Kingsley said they could use more Aurors," Harry blurted out. Hermione rose her gaze from her plate and stopped chewing her pancake. Harry had his back turned to her, currently at the process of cooking another pancake, so Hermione had a few moments to catch up to what he was saying.

He closed the stove and slid the pancake onto a plate, then put the pan back. When he sat down once again, Harry took his time before elaborating. "He said I can join the training."

"Well, Professor McGonagall is yet to send for the graduation details." Hermione said as if that was the end of conversation, but doubt crept into her tone. Did Harry consider to join without taking his N.E.W.T.s?

His brows knitted together but he didn't respond still.

"We can study together and take our exams together. Maybe after that—"

She was interrupted by Ron's voice. "Mate, you awake?"

The smell of the pancake must have lead the way, and in the blink of an eye, Ron entered the kitchen. He swatted his sweatshirt to get rid of the soot and wiped his hands on his jeans afterwards.

Hermione scrunched her face when he reached for a piece of cheese. "Hands, Ronald."

"I'm not staying," Ron replied and shot her a grin. "Hey, Harry, you owled Kingsley back, yeah? He waits us in the Ministry."

Hermione turned to Harry this time. No person could be more uncomfortable while ignoring the presence of one another. Harry fidgeted as his eyes found Ron.

"I'll grab my things, then we can go."

Hermione wanted to intervene, ask what was the matter with Harry. Surely he didn't wish to pursue this…proposition without finishing his school first. And what was with Ron? Was this how a best friend should behave? He was practically dragging Harry along! It's been only two months, her mind screamed. Harry shouldn't be jumping to every opportunity that presented itself!

When Harry got to his feet before she could say anything, Hermione lost no time to follow him. She left a Ron nicking food from the table to catch up with her bespectacled friend.

"Harry, wait—"

She took the stairs three at a time, but just when Harry was in her reach, his bedroom door closed on her face.

She groaned. Knocking the door, she called for him.

"You can't just drop Hogwarts, Harry. What about the exams? You aren't qualified to be an Auror without them. This is serious, Harry. You can't possibly —"

The door abruptly opened that left her hand in the air. His emerald green eyes held her gaze.

"Yes, I can."

He persisted forward and forced Hermione to move away. Her eyes strayed to his hands that fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. He had changed into black slacks and a white-button up shirt. Formal. For a job interview.

Not that she thought there was going to be one.

Hermione was on his tow as he went downstairs. She hated the house-elf heads hanging above the stairs as they made their way, but she and Harry hadn't got the chance to redecorate Grimmauld Place before inhabiting it. It was one funeral after the other. They had needed a place to sleep and for the first time the Burrow had felt far from home to them. Granted, Hermione had asked to move out, but Harry hadn't been eager to stay, she learned.

"Why, Harry? Don't you need time?" Hermione knew, as she asked, they were actually the reasons why she would take everything slowly herself. Very slowly.

Since the news of her father's death during the War, Hermione required peace of mind. Something she wouldn't obtain in the near future. Regardless of the Sleeping Draughts stocked in her drawer.

"It's still too early to decide what you want to do with your life. Nobody expects you to spring back and fight dark wizards, for Godric's sake. You haven't even graduated yet."

Harry halted at the end of the stairs. Hermione nearly slipped and fell when she stopped with him.

"I have to move on," Harry gritted out. He clenched his hands to fists. "I can't live as if the war hasn't ended, holed up in here."

Hermione's eyes popped open. Was coming here a mistake? Did she cause him distress? She didn't mean to, but neither of them had anywhere else to go. Her parents' house was in shambles. The Death Eaters that were sent after them had burnt it down to the ground. The Private Drive had never been an option, either.

"Sirius' room is the same. His broom is on his desk where he left it. Did you know he polished it every day? When he woke up?"

Hermione touched Harry's shoulder and only then did he turn around. In a swift motion, both pulled each other to an embrace. As Hermione was up two stairs, Harry buried his face to her chest for a change.

She brushed his hair as tears fell to her own cheeks. "I didn't know. I'm sorry."

He sniffed, but aside from his firm grip, Harry made no move to show he was even breathing. Then, he slowly extracted himself. His eyes were red rimmed, but he smiled tiredly.

"I want to do this. Be an Auror. I've been doing it all my life, actually. Shouldn't be that hard. I'm the Chosen One, right?"

Hermione snorted but didn't object. Fine. If he wanted to chase bad guys and eat himself away with the stress of it, that was his choice to make. She couldn't tell him what to do. She could, however, help shoulder that stress and chide him to eat and sleep in the meanwhile. Well, that, if she could extract herself from research.

She still needed to find the proper counter-curse of Obliviate for her mother. She wouldn't let her rot in the Psychiatry Ward of St. Mungo's.

"You know where to find me if you're in trouble. But, please, come before a death peril."