Silent Tears by tasty_pork

Rating: G
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 04/07/2005
Last Updated: 04/07/2005
Status: Completed

Hermione Granger wasn't always a bookworm. She led a frightened, intimidated childhood which
she would never let down. This is a one shot fic from Hermione's perspective, telling about her
greatest regret, how she came to love books, and how she came to know a kind, tiny, raven-haired
boy.




1. Silent Tears
---------------

Disclaimer: Only the plot is mine. Harry Potter belongs to the great JKR.

**Silent Tears**

I wasn’t always a bookworm.

Books, reading, studying, writing... These were all foreign to me. They were figures of one’s
imagination. Figures which I would not think about or go near unless pressured by teachers or
parents. They were only to be utilised by those who I foolishly believed to be in the ‘loser’
category. Even at the age of six, this was what I was influenced into believing by those bigger and
stronger than me.

Boy, have times changed.

I was always a bright child, reading when I was just two and remembering snippets of information
from the daily news. My parents educated me to be a conscientious student, one who enjoyed to learn
and would be successful in life. I didn’t initially have a love for reading; I was just good at it.
I would remember pieces of information without even intending to.

They educated me too well, however. Or too less, I’m not sure.

I vividly remember my first day at Primary school. I walked into the gate, more excited and
ecstatic than a baby with a lollipop, with my schoolbag held firmly in my arms and a huge smile
plastered on my face. I stood on the path, gazing in awe at the playground littered with other
chattering students.

“GET OUT! I’M NOT DRIVING YOU AGAIN, BOY!” I heard a loud, furious voice yell from behind me.
“YOU CAN WALK ALL THE WAY HERE AND BACK FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE FROM NOW ON!”

Never, ever in my life had I heard such a terrible, heartless voice. I turned around towards the
source and looked on with horror as a tiny figure with messy black hair and broken glasses was
roughly pushed out of a car onto the pavement beside it, landing hard on his knees and hands.

Through the car window I could see the person who had yelled; a plump man with a chubby face,
small eyes and double chin. He sneered at the child fallen out of the backseat, looking pleased and
amused by what had happened.

“Have a good day, Dudders. Do daddy proud,” he said, this time with a sickening happiness to his
gruffy voice.

Another figure came out of the backseat, although it climbed out carefully rather than being
shoved out. It was the image of the parenting driver, just much younger. He deliberately trod on
the small child, who was halfway through scrambling upwards.

The child fell back down, but no tears fell from his eyes; there was only blood dripping from
his hands and ripped, baggy pants.

The large, plump kid sneered at the child. “Loser,” he muttered in disgust, then threw his
backpack over his back, waved back to his father and came towards the gate.

I stood, transfixed in disbelief. This large kid had thrown the other, much smaller and much
skinner, child out of the door, injuring him, then trod on him deliberately, causing further
injury, and called him a loser. And he was *smiling*.

Sure, being six, you wouldn’t think that social standings and popularity would matter, and you
wouldn’t think the word ‘loser’ would exist in a child’s vocabulary. But I knew what it meant,
because as I said before, I was bright for my age. I had learnt and been educated about what it
meant to be popular.

This is what brought about my foolish and regretful downfall.

The large kid halted in front of me, taking in the schoolbag in my arms and the pigtails of my
bushy brown hair.

“You new too?” he asked, with a similar voice to his father’s, though much higher-pitched.

I found myself cowering. Literally backing away, in fear and insignificance. That was the low
point in my whole life, giving into this kid who was much wider and taller than me.

Domination and power were the foundings of society, and I became another victim.

“Yes,” I squeaked, clutching the book bag tighter.

“Right,” said the boy. “I’m Dudley.” He gave me this superior look, which plainly said ‘Don’t
mess with me’.

I was bemused and afraid. At first thought, I figured that this boy too must have been
intelligent because of his mature insight into the way society seems to run. But then, the theory
on superiority is perhaps the most immature concept in the history of the world.

Thinking back on it now, it is laughable that I ever thought that of Dudley Dursley, for I
quickly found out that he was the opposite, and only knew about how to reign over others because of
his strength.

“I’m Hermione,” I said nervously. He nodded and moved away, ready to go and intimidate
others.

Something brushed my shoulder. I turned and faced the other boy, with slender shoulders, tape
between his glasses, and a pale, frightened face, with a scar on his forehead.

And his *eyes*. Eyes of the sort which I had never seen before, not even on the television.
Eyes so strikingly emerald green, like the canopy of a rainforest. I found my own locked into
them.

I could see the tears welling behind them, urging to burst out, but being forcibly restrained. I
could see the pain behind them, a pain so strong that I felt like bursting into tears myself.

“Hello,” said the boy, and his voice was much the opposite of the others; a tiny, kind voice
which sent chills down my spine. He didn’t look at his bleeding hands, nor did he cast a glance at
his grazed knees. I had a feeling he had been through this kind of treatment for a long time, and
this pained me even more. I could see the kindness in him at first glance.

How could someone be treated like he was? I did not know where he came from, what had happened
in his life, how he was related to these other people, but I knew that no one, especially this boy,
should have been treated as inhumanly as he was.

“Hi,” I said back, smiling at him confidently.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw him smile. The wave of hope and happiness which crossed
over his face, colouring his cheeks, was so strong, so relieving. I knew with dread that the boy
hadn’t smiled for a long time, or met anyone who appreciated him. He smiled back, looking much more
confident, and the tears disappeared from behind his eyes. It was the most beautiful thing I had
ever, and have ever, seen in my life.

“I’m Harry,” he said.

“I’m -” I began abruptly, but was cut off by a loud grunt from behind me.

I turned, and felt the hope and happiness drain from me in an instant. Dudley had returned, and
had his hand on my shoulder, sneering at Harry.

“Don’t go near him,” said Dudley forcibly, as though he was threatening me, “he’s got
cooties.”

I didn’t know what cooties were, but I didn’t care. I looked back at Harry, whose face had
fallen and paled again. He stared at Dudley, in a determined stare full of hatred, and then ran
away into the playground of chattering students.

That was the last time I talked to him for a long time. He hadn’t even gotten to know my
name.

Dudley released my shoulder and stared at me. I cowered again, feeling instantly inferior. I
knew, by all my readings and knowledge, that I shouldn’t mess with someone like this. I should do
what he says to keep myself liked by others. To keep myself safe.

That had to be the stupidest thing I knew.

“Okay,” I said in a tiny voice, giving in. I wish I never had.

“What’s that in your bag?” Dudley asked, looking suspiciously at my bag packed with children’s
books.

“Um... books,” I answered fearfully.

Dudley grabbed the bag out of my hands and pulled the zipper open, taking out the books from
inside and handing me back my bag, now with only food inside.

“Books - bad,” said Dudley, and he ripped a few pages from one to my horror, then threw the
entire pile into a garbage bin beside him. “Don’t read them, that’s for losers.”

That was the end of my reading hobby for a long time. I nodded numbly, and stumbled into the
playground beside Dudley, where other students were already gazing in intimidation at him and
I.

During the following years, I always followed Dudley and his other friend, Piers, around, like a
sheep in a paddock.

That’s what I would have been if I knew about magic and Animagi at that age – a sheep. I
couldn’t think for myself, always in constant frightful intimidation by Dudley and Piers. I didn’t
read, much to the disappointment of my parents, and inside, to the disappointment of myself.

But youngsters can be fools, and I was number one in that category.

Books were classified uncool, and you were teased by Dudley and Piers if you were seen reading
one out of class. The teachers never knew, of course. But all the students all knew that they were
the leaders in our grade, not to be messed with. They said what went, and everyone obliged. That
is, everyone bar one person.

Harry, easily the smallest kid in our grade, even with my short standard, seemed to always be
teased by Dudley more than anyone else, and anything he did seemed to be the opposite of what
Dudley wanted. He wouldn’t give into Dudley’s demands. I knew not to talk to him, like everyone
else did. 'Talk to Harry and you would be beaten up by Dudley and Piers', was the number
one rule.

Harry was always the target; Dudley’s play toy, or literally, his punching bag. Even if he
wasn’t reading, Dudley, Piers and I, hovering in the background as always, would wander over to
him.

“You’re not reading, loser,” sneered Dudley, advancing on him.

“Good observation, Dudley,” replied Harry, not intimidated at all.

“Loser,” echoed Piers, looking proudly superior.

“I thought not reading was, what do you call it, ‘cool’?” said Harry.

“Shutup,” said Dudley. “Let’s teach him a lesson, Piers. Get his glasses.”

Piers struck forward and plucked Harry’s glasses from his nine year old face.

“Hey!” shouted Harry, standing up. “I can’t see properly without those!”

“Good,” said Dudley, and with a huge swipe, his fist whammed into Harry’s nose, causing Harry to
stumble backwards into a tree trunk, with his hands clutched over his face.

Piers and Dudley howled with laughter, then Piers struck Harry in the shin with his football
boot, causing Harry to buckle to the ground in a bleeding heap.

I just stood there with silent tears.

The end of lunch bell would go, and Dudley and Piers would stumble towards the classroom, still
snickering to themselves. I stared at Harry, the pain and guilt welling over me. I wanted to do
something, I wanted to help him, to comfort him... but I couldn’t.

“Come on, girl,” yelled Dudley.

They didn’t want to know my name, no one really cared, not even the teacher called me by it. I
was just the girl with the bushy hair who hardly spoke to anyone. Harry was the boy with messy
hair, who sat on his own all the time, absorbed in his own world, who hardly spoke to anyone.

I hesitated as Harry’s hands came away from his nose, which was freely bleeding. I could see the
tears falling down his cheeks. He stared at me, almost pleadingly, with his silent tears dripping
on his jumper. I stared back, my silent tears dripping on my blouse.

The battle inside of me was waging faster than ever before; to help, or to give in again to
Dudley? Even though I didn’t want to, I gave in to Dudley; his side was much more superior. He had
one the war for that day. War is such a bitch.

I was such a bitch.

Back in the classroom, I would sit at my usual table, not taking in most of what the teacher was
talking about. Harry would enter the room five minutes after the bell, stopping the bleeding flow
from his nose with his baggy sleeve, and sit down in his lonely seat at the back corner without
complaining or saying anything at all.

“What happened, dear?” asked the teacher kindly, once everyone was at work. I listened
closely.

“I fell over on the stairs,” lied Harry.

“Come, I’ll help you fix it up,” said the teacher, and she led him out of the room.

Dudley and Piers grinned after him. I sighed sadly and shamefully. He was much too proud to tell
the truth. But then again, I realised that if he told, and the teacher contacted his family, he
would probably suffer even more taunts and beatings for complaining.

I looked down at my maths worksheet, hiding the silent tears which trickled down my cheeks.

This situation continued until the last day of school before the summer holidays at the end of
fourth grade, when I was ten.

I was wandering home for a change as my parents were both working late at the dentist. On the
path ahead I could see another child from school, with black hair sticking up at all angles.

The guilt bubbled up again as I advanced on him, knowing that I had every opportunity to help
him for four years, but didn’t. I let this caring, nice person, be taunted and bashed, by giving
into Dudley rather than standing by him, like I know I should have.

I wish I had.

He must have heard me coming up behind him, because he stopped walking and turned slowly around,
dreading the worst.

On sight of me, his face seemed to relax, to lighten up even. But the uncertainty behind his
startling eyes was clearly visible. “Hi,” he said feebly.

I stopped before him. The pain, the shame, ripped at my insides. I didn’t know what to say. How
could I ever apologise? How could I ever have been so foolish and ignorant not to have befriended
him after our first encounter?

I don’t know why; I never will. Humans evolved to dominate over others, and did so however
possible. I was only human.

I just know that I will always regret it.

“It’s okay,” I assured him. I didn’t want him to be frightened of me, but I could see that he
was. I would have been too in his position. I smiled at him.

He gave a small smile too. The second most beautiful smile I have ever seen. But looking at him,
I could feel the tears rising up again, knowing what I had done, or rather, not done. I could see
the purity in him, the gentle kindness which no one, perhaps even himself, knew was there.

The silent tears fell.

He upon instinct must have understood what I was feeling then and there. He somehow could sense
my guilt, pity and regret – I could tell by the way he was looking at me. A few silent teardrops
fell onto the pavement under his feet.

I was astonished; overwhelmed. He was crying, but they weren’t tears of pain, not tears of
fright.

They were tears of happiness.

“Have a good holiday,” he said after a moment, smiling.

I couldn’t produce words; what we had just shared was phenomenal. I watched as he turned away
and walked across the road.

A book slipped out of his open backpack as he wandered off the pavement. When the last glimpse
of him had disappeared behind a fence, I bent down curiously to pick it up.

*The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe*, read the title of the book. I opened the cover and
saw his name, 'Harry’, scribbled messily on the inside cover, and smiled to myself.

I finished the entire book in one very long, very late, sleepless night.

My love for reading blossomed again that summer because of that book, and I haven’t stopped
reading since.

During the holidays, unexpected, came a letter delivered by an owl, telling me that I was a
witch, and was invited to go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

I was a witch! A witch, very different to the evil one in *The Lion, the Witch and the
Wardrobe*, I reminded myself. I was ecstatic, and immediately told my parents to confirm to the
school that I would go.

And then I remembered. Harry. I would be leaving him alone, leaving him back in non-magic school
to deal with the taunts and bashings of Dudley and Piers. Just after we had reached some sort of
understanding, and I had decided that my loyalties lay along with his, rather than with Dudley.

I would be abandoning the kind boy who had indirectly put my love for reading and the confidence
back into my life. I was abandoning the person, who, even when I was just ten, and who I didn't
even know properly, had somehow fallen for.

The summer was not a good one; I was fighting another inner battle, of whether to go to magic
school or non-magic school. I knew that I had already told my parents that I was going, so there
was no turning back.

I read about Hogwarts, and spells, and famous wizards and witches, to try and convince myself
that going to magic school would be worth it. It kind of worked – I was extremely fascinated by it
all, but my heart was still leaning towards staying with Harry.

On September first, I took my trunk filled with robes, magical supplies and Harry’s book, to the
boot of the car, but did not place it in, instead staring, heart-torn, at the trunk.

My dad ruffled my bushy hair, giving me a broad grin. “Ready to go then?”

I didn’t answer. He put the trunk in and slammed the boot. I hugged my mum goodbye and let my
feet drag towards the car, while giving my mum a fake smile.

“See you,” was all I could say as my dad closed the door after me.

The entire trip to Kings Cross was composed of me staring out of the window at the passing
houses, with tears involuntarily falling once again.

Dad didn’t notice; I was too good at acting for him to even suspect that I was feeling as if I
had just murdered someone by accident.

I climbed aboard the Hogwarts Express after bidding goodbye and stacked my trunk in a free
compartment. I needed to distract myself from my thoughts so I dressed into my new robes.

By the time I had done that, the train was filled with students and had begun moving.

A chubby faced, cheerful looking boy came into the compartment, and asked uncertainly, “Can I
sit in here with you?”

“Sure,” I said. This time, I would be sure to make *real* friends.

He grinned and sat with me, placing his toad onto the seat beside him. Harry’s face was still
swimming inside my head, so to distract myself, I began telling the boy, who’s name was Neville,
about all the things I’d read about Hogwarts.

A little while later, Neville gave a scared, worried yelp. “Trevor is gone! He must have gone
out of the compartment!”

“Let’s go look for him,” I told Neville, and he grinned at me gratefully.

The tenth compartment we searched was occupied by a boy with a pointed face and sleek blonde
hair. Sitting on both sides of him, like two guards, were two very large boys.

The blonde-haired boy’s face lit up on sight of Neville. “Hello, Longbottom,” he drawled,
sneering maliciously at Neville and I.

I saw the two guard-like boys flex their palms threateningly, and found myself speaking with a
confidence unknown to me ever before.

“Hello, who are you?” I asked innocently. I knew which kind of reaction I was going to get. I
knew upon a first glance that this boy would be like Dudley was, and this time, I was not going to
give in.

I was not going to make that same mistake again.

“Draco Malfoy,” answered the boy pompously. “And who do you think you are?”

“Hermione Granger,” I said. “Listen, Draco, have you seen a toad?”

“Yeah, he’s standing right beside you,” said Draco, and his two friends snorted in laughter.

I rolled my eyes and led a flushing Neville out of the compartment. We split up then; I took to
the back of the train to search for Trevor.

The next thing that happened was the happiest moment of my life.

I slid a compartment door open, and was greeted with the sight of two boys the same age as me,
eating chocolate frogs. One of the boys had bright red hair, the other, black.

No... It couldn’t be, could it?

“Has anyone seen a toad? A boy called Neville lost one,” I asked, trying to get a look at the
raven-haired boy’s face.

“No,” said the red haired boy, frowning at me.

The other boy looked up. I almost had a heart attack.

It was the very same Harry. I realised with a feeling of sorrow and pity that the famous Harry
Potter, with his lightning-bolt scar I had taken hardly taken notice of it at school, who I had
read about in books the previous holidays, was this very Harry. The Harry who I had known since I
was six, and who must have also got a letter telling him he was a wizard.

“I’m Hermione Granger,” I said clearly, looking at the red haired boy purposely, to suppress my
excitement. My emotions were overwhelming me – gratefulness, happiness, surprise, and guilt all in
one. “And you are?”

“Ron Weasley,” said the boy, looking irritated.

“Harry Potter,” said the other boy. I looked back at Harry; at his eyes I had fell in love with
at first sight. Briefly, a flash of recognition may have passed over his face, but he quickly
looked away to the other boy.

A weight seemed to lift off my shoulders at that moment. Either his absorption in having a new
life blinded any memory of me, or more likely, out of kindness and respect, he did not show any
knowledge of our history, and hasn’t spoken of it ever since. We were both given a fresh start. For
that I am eternally grateful.

I left them to their conversation and returned to my own compartment, almost singing with
glee.

Goodbye, bitchy, ignorant, shy, intimidated, girl.

Hello, Hermione Granger.

Sitting on the edge of Harry’s four poster bed today, I remember the four years of my life which
I wasted in the company of Dudley Dursley. The four years of my life which I will never let down,
which I will always regret.

Harry is sitting beside me with his head resting on my shoulder, with silent tears pouring down
his cheeks. He had lost his parents when he was a baby, and now he had lost Sirius.

I hold him closely with those familiar tears streaking onto my robe. I’ve never told him that I
knew him before, that I was the same girl he knew who stood by and watched as his glasses were
broken time and time again. If he knew it was me, he still hasn’t told me.

No one but me knows Harry Potter, other than Harry himself. Even Ron sometimes sees Harry as the
Boy-Who-Lived - the famous saviour of the Wizarding World. But I just see him as the caring, kind,
huge-hearted boy named Harry. The Harry who I had come to love more than anything, and who’s smile
melts my insides each time I see it.

I am ashamed of my past. I hate what I did. But what has passed has passed, and not even a time
turner can repair it. I know I’ll never forget who I once was, but I know I have to forget it and
move on. If there’s one person who taught me to be strong, it was Harry.

With my free hand I reach into my robes and feel the edge of the book which had fallen out of
Harry’s bag five years ago. I carry it around sometimes, for no particular reason. I don’t think he
knows I have it, and I don’t really intend on telling him.

I kiss him softly on the forehead, and he looks up at me, a small smile forming on his lips,
contrasting with his pained expression and watery eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He looks at me, puzzled, but does not ask what I’m sorry for. We had reached an extent of
understanding in which it was unnecessary for me to explain. He nods, and I smile back.

He has forgiven me.

I release the book and hold him ever tighter, staring through the window into the sunset, with
silent tears falling down my cheeks.



