Do you Remember Love? by Rosali

Rating: PG13
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 06/12/2004
Last Updated: 06/12/2004
Status: In Progress

Harry, Hermione and Ron have been separated for almost four years and none of them feel the
persons they used to be back then. Accompany them in a journey to find themselves again. WARNING:
Drugs are mentioned and it may contain sexual oriented scenes




1. Am I still human?
--------------------

A/N: This fic was inspired in a wonderful fanart made by someone I really don’t know. I was
going through some of my album of Harry Potter Fanart and stopped on this 
picture. The expression of their faces was so deep and lonely, I couldn’t help it. If anyone
knows this artist, PLEASE let me know so I can tell him/her how wonderful s/he is.

R&R if you would be so kind, and enjoy!

**Do you remember love?**

*Look for the girl with the broken smile*

*Ask her if she wants to stay a while*

*And she will be loved*

*And she will be loved*

*(She will be loved*

*by Maroon 5)*

***

She sat in a dark room, the flickers of blazing flames reflected on her face, twisting it into
strange, deformed expressions. She felt the warmth making her face flush, but her heart was cold,
she didn’t think she could home feelings like that anymore; she didn’t even feel human enough to
feel emotions other than shallow and emptiness.

Some days, she just sat there, waiting for someone to jump on her back and attack her and she
had to remind herself that it was over, and it had been over for a long time now. When it all
ended, they parted ways, unable to see the darkness they all shadowed.

She pushed a curly brown lock behind her ear, her eyes never leaving the incandescent orange of
the base of the flames. She had a job, she had a life and she managed to put on her mask whenever
people were around, but her eyes were empty, empty blankness from an innocence that was forced from
her, way before its time.

Hermione Granger was twenty three years old and held a very high position in a Parallel
Organization from the Ministry of Magic. They were in charge of the organization of most of the
economical system in the Wizardring World and worked directly with Gringotts, the Wizardring
World’s most renowned and trusted economical organization.

At work and in her daily life, no one saw beyond that mask except very few people and two out of
the four that could see that, were gone from her life, not to come back ever again… She surely
missed them, especially him, but she didn’t want them to see what she’d become, the void inside her
was too big to ever fill it. She wasn’t the Hermione Granger they had known and loved, she wasn’t
half the person she used to be; she had seen too much and gone through too much to not be
broken.

And little by little, every battle, every loved one she had lost had taken a piece of that soul
she used to posses. And there was nothing left, she had nothing more to give except her brains and
that’s what she did during the day. But at nights it was definitely another story. At nights, the
real Hermione came to the surface and she wondered if she was insane.

Finally, her tired eyes told her she should go to bed, for the next day, she had to sustain a
case of some Quidditch player that had spent all of his money and borrowed from the Goblins some
more without ever giving it back. She ushered herself to the one-bedroom of her flat in London and
got into her PJs, slowly drifting of to a empty sleep… empty as the rest of her.

***

Three in the morning and he was bursting into his hotel in the middle of roaring laughters and
giggles from very drunk Team-aids –as they liked to call themselves-. He himself was rather drunk
also and followed the group much to the disgruntled looks of the muggle filling the night shift as
receiver.

He returned the glare mockingly, his flaming hair falling to his face as he did so. His team
mates saw his gesture and broke into another wave of raging laughs. One of the Team-aids -Vada was
her name, he thought- was attached to his arm and every once in a while, her hand “slipped” and
pinched his butt with desire.

They all got on the elevator and one by one, they started unloading, all with his respective
partners for the night. They were celebrating their fourth Championship in a row for the European
League of Quidditch.

The captain’s room was the one in the top floor; the biggest, with the most wonderful view of
the beautiful city. Ron Weasley occupied it, so he was supposed to be the last one to leave the
elevator, with two witches, one in each hand.

He had started playing professionally just after Hogwarts, and due to his ability –which had
bettered incredibly since he started playing with Gryffindor-, they had started a winning wave that
wouldn’t stop. His special ability to design strategies added positively to this, so he had gained
a quick promotion in the Cannons and the National Team.

The elevator stopped and the door opened to reveal an amazingly big room with a readied hot-tub
in a corner and a Queen-size four-poster bed in the middle of it. As soon as the door opened, Ron
pushed the two girls away and got off, his mask falling to pieces as the two girls asked, annoyed,
what the matter was.

He had an important appointment the next day and was supposed to get as much rest as he could,
but as usual, as soon as he closed his eyes he was haunted by his past, a past he would very
willingly forget. Images were imprinted in the back of his eyelids and played themselves over and
over again in front of his eyes until he drifted into a troubled sleep.

Back then, he saw it partly as a game, partly as loyalty to his best friend and partly out of
love. But now he realised it had been far from a game or just saving the world, he knew each wizard
he had killed -Death Eater or not- had killed part of him and now he felt in the edge of a huge
abysm and was very tempted to jump in it very often, just to see what was beyond and end all of
this… this farce.

He threw his things to the nearest armchair, his look distant. While he played and was with his
team mates, he didn’t feel it, because he felt nothing, nor he wished to because almost everything
he had ever loved had been taken away in that merciless war. But when he was alone, that’s when he
started to feel, unwillingly, but he did.

His eyes looked as the ones of someone whose life was slipping off their body, because of a
curse he had thrown. Of course he hadn’t done it because he wanted to, but he had still done it,
and he had also tortured and seen the look of horror, of unbearable pain as he watched and waited
for what he wanted.

He sat on the edge of the bed and took both his hands to his flaming red hair, pulling it hard,
maybe *that* he would feel. He squeezed his eyes shut, his elbows resting on his knees, and
the image of them two came to his head. He hadn’t seen them for almost four years, and he wasn’t
sure he wanted to see them again. Intrinsically they represented all the darkness inside him, one
he couldn’t fight but hide from everyone and everything.

He sighed and went to his bedside table. He unlocked the drawer and took out a small package; he
stared at it for a while and then opened it. There lay what kept him from going crazy at times, and
now was one of those times. Yes, he had this important meeting tomorrow morning, but right now he
needed it. He spread the white powder along the little paper and sniffed it. He looked up at the
sky and felt everything go numb inside him; his mind wondered away and he let himself fall back to
bed.

After moments of absolutely nothing but a sensation of no sensation, he closed his eyes, watched
the images float against his eyes with amused pain and then drifted off to sleep.

***

Once more he found himself in the same situation; kill or be killed. He wouldn’t even think of
it anymore, he just did it whenever he had to and he had even learned to rather enjoy it or he
would’ve already gone mad… maybe he had, after all. He didn’t enjoy the killing itself, but he
enjoyed the feeling that he was ridding the world of someone who could kill someone else’s parents,
someone’s teacher, someone’s loved one.

He was supposed to be the good guy, the one that kept everyone safe; the boy who had saved the
world from the big bad wizard. But right now, he just acted because he had to. He let his dark side
take over whenever he was sent off in a mission, and although he knew dark wasn’t evil, he didn’t
think he knew the difference anymore. The only thing that had kept that growing sinister person
inside him in line was gone now.

They had parted ways after the final battle for several reasons, but the main one had been their
own mental health. The three knew that the ones they had clung to all that time were nothing but a
reminder of what they wanted to forget in order to try and lead a normal life. They knew that
wasn’t possible after all, but even so, tried to separate and make their ways by themselves.

He didn’t know if that had actually pushed him to the limit or if it had been him being screwed
from the beginning; he didn’t really want to go there. The eyes of the man looked into his emerald
green; the ones that had once shone with hope and spark of life, were now darkened, empty, cold…
just like he was.

He raised his wand and with a madman grin, he performed the killing curse and stared at him
while all life left the caramel eyes of the Death Eater. His body lay limp and Harry turned around
without further ado. He waved his wand and the body disappeared, shipped to the morgue of the
aurors. He walked away, dissapparating moments later.

When he appeared in the Hallway of number twelve Grimmauld Place, he sagged and his face fell.
He covered it with both his hands and pressed his eyeballs, willing the image he had just witnessed
away from him.

The big house was empty, at one moment, it had been filled with life and joyful chants, but even
back then, Harry Potter had felt as an outsider, like he had nothing to celebrate. He didn’t know
if they had felt the same, but in that moment, Harry had known he would never be able to love
again.

How could a murderer love? How could someone love a person that had killed so easily? Harry had
no idea. A boy who kills is unable to love, a seventeen year-old boy who kills doesn’t have a
heart, and he had lost his a long time ago.

With every other murder, he had lost what was left of him. With every other murder an innocent
memory had vanished and frozen to not be melted ever. He belonged with his kind in the depths of
hell, with the rest of the murderers, with Lord Voldemort… and he fell deep in there whenever he
got to that big house and was alone.

He looked at the ceiling and thought of them, what would they say if they saw him right now?
You’re a crazy madman, who are you? Truth be told, he didn’t know who he was anymore. He didn’t
know what had become of the innocent little shy and insecure boy that had mounted the Hogwarts
Express twelve years ago. When the trio had been broken, he had been nothing but a murdered and now
was the same.

Harry Potter was now a complete stranger to himself and more than once, he had cut himself just
to see if he still bled, if there was still something left inside that shallow being. He knew that
wasn’t normal, but normal had never been a word that applied to Harry Potter, the boy who lived; or
Harry Potter the youngest seeker in over a hundred years; or Harry Potter, the one with the power
to conquer The Dark Lord.

He surely missed them, but he was utterly scared of seeing their faces again. Seeing her
beautiful eyes, which had been exorcised from the sparkle of innocence a bright little girl should
have. Seeing his flaming red hair, and his big grin whenever he exceeded his own expectations.

Harry smiled bitterly at the memory and shook his head. *Don’t think about them, it’ll just
make it worse, they won’t recognise you; you don’t even recognise yourself anymore.* He was the
one guilty for having stripped many of the members of their families, for putting their lives in
danger countless times, for ripping their childhood from them mercilessly. No, he couldn’t do that
to them anymore, they probably had their own deserved lives by now. They had probably made their
ways apart from him and were grateful for it.

***

A/N: I know it’s depressing but just look at the 
picture and you’ll see what I’m talking about… And again, if anyone knows the artist, please
owl me at ciliotta@yahoo.com

And if you really like my work, you can visit this group me and two more wonderful PKY authors
started: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/BrainstormQuill



