Requiem Sempiternam by midnight pain

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 20/12/2005
Last Updated: 20/12/2005
Status: Completed

She can’t remember what it was like to be whole. She stands in the shower, hot water sliding
over her skin, as she’s trying to wash away time. If only she could wash away the memories. Maybe
then it wouldn’t hurt so much.




1. Requiem Sempiternam
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Requiem Sempiternam

She's forgotten sunrise. There doesn't seem to be much worth waking for. Not anymore.
She thinks she remembers being a child, maybe, remembers being young. What happened to those days?
Those years? It seems funny how you can miss something you aren't entirely sure you really had.
She remembers a younger age, a time before this. She remembers faces, voices. But that's not
enough. She may remember a smile - does she remember what it feels like to smile anymore? Maybe.
Maybe not. It's hard to tell these days; it's hard to tell anything these days. She
remembers his smile. She remembers his voice. Even now, she remembers his eyes and the way he used
to say her name.

*I miss you.*

She can't remember what it was like to be whole. She stands in the shower, hot water sliding
over her skin, as she's trying to wash away time. If only she could wash away the memories.
Maybe then it wouldn't hurt so much. Her lips tremble and she isn't sure which on her face
is tears and which is water. It doesn't matter. She can't wash away the empty, the hollow,
the ache. If she closes her eyes, sometimes, she can still feel his touch. If she tries hard
enough, she can feel the way his hands used to caress her skin so softly, the way his lips used to
taste on hers. Her hair clings to her face and neck and shoulders in wet tendrils as she shivers
slightly. The water burns her skin but she isn't warm. She's never warm.

The nights are something she's grown to hate. When she dreams he seems too real, and the
pain is too deep when she opens her eyes, clutching air, finding the place where he used to be
empty and cold. She thinks this might be what it feels like to be dying. Cold. Pain. Empty. And she
can't face the days. Daylight is no comfort. In place of dreams there are empty spaces. There
are too many crevices and rooms that still feel like him, and each one is as empty as the last. But
she can't leave. She needs this place. This house was him; this house is him. She sits across
the table from Ron, her name a dying whisper on his lips when he murmurs a thank you; she takes
care of him now, as best she can. They used to be three. They're only two, now. She can't
eat because food tastes like ash. She pushes her food around, trying not to choke on tears. She
can't look Ron in the face, even when he asks softly *Hermione, are you ok?* They're
not ok. He knows. She knows. They won't speak again for days.

And there's too much silence.

She walks down the hallway in the same directions he once did. She stops by the same doors. By
Ron's door there is only silence, because he's too quiet now. This changed him. She
doesn't know if he smiles because she can't remember his last. She tries not to hear the
sounds at night, tries not to notice the tears and pain she can't take away. It hurts too much
to think about. She goes into his room and she runs her fingers gently along the things he left
behind, books and trinkets, little things she never thought she'd been attached to. It's
strange to be here, to see all of this, to see everything that was essentially him and feel his
absence. The same floorboards creak by his bed. She smoothes her hand over the comforter, careful
not to undo anything he had done to it, and she's sorry for always chastising him about not
making his bed. She lets her fingers linger over his pillow. Its case is grey, soft beneath her
skin. She remembers watching him at night, his head rested there, and the way it felt to watch him
sleep. She remembers the way it felt to watch him breathe. It was the simple things, she knows,
such simple things. The bed still squeaks when she sits down and she remembers the way it used to
groan under their weight at times. This was theirs, right here; this place was them. Him. Her. It
was what they shared. She realizes she hates the past tense. A tight knot forms in her throat as
she carefully takes up his pillow. It hurts this way. It still smells like him. It hurts too
much.

There are pictures, always pictures. They smile back at her; they wave, incessant in their life
and splendor. They're everything they used to be.

Memories.

*I miss your face.*

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