Falling by What contented men desire

Rating: G
Genres: Angst
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 7
Published: 06/07/2012
Last Updated: 24/08/2012
Status: Completed

In the Tent, on the path to the fulfillment of Destiny, Harry Potter is falling. Heroes do that,
you know; they fall. And even the greatest heroes need someone to pick them up. DH-Compliant For a
change.




1. Falling
----------



Copyright: What elements of this story that I own, and are not the property of anyone else, are
licensed CC-BY-NC-SA. That means that you can take anything in this story, up to and including the
whole thing, and use it however you like, as long as you promise me three things:
1. You will link back to me (preferably to my author page)
2. You will not make money off whatever you do
3. You will share your work under these same conditions

This is something that came to me on the train, so I dashed it off. Took me about two and a half
hours, so I apologize if it's not what you've come to expect of me. I'm sure you'll
be able to figure out the setting, but this is (mostly) DH-compliant, for a change. Enjoy, and
don't forget to leave a comment!

**Falling**

*I'm falling.*

***

There are two ways of waking up. One is slow, leisurely, where your brain is stretching its legs
and taking its sweet time figuring out what's going on. The other is sharp and rude, an
all-together-awakening that somehow leaves you even more disoriented.

Harry Potter woke in the latter way.

It was still dark; a musty, closed-in dark. The wind whistled, tree branches creaked, and
somewhere in the distance a wolf howled. He was in a tent. Why was he in a tent?

“Harry?” A female voice, nearby, groggy with sleep. A familiar voice. Of course; that explained
the tent. “Are you okay”?

Yes, now he was; now that the mystery of the Where had been solved. “Just a bad dream.” He
replied. “Go back to sleep, Hermione.”

But Hermione did not go back to sleep. Instead, a bright ball of light erupted from mid-air, its
glow illuminating the face of Hermione Granger, his best friend and, as of recently, sole
companion.

He rolled over, away from the light. “It was nothing, Hermione; go back to sleep.” He hated the
concern in her eyes, the fact that she was awake because of his stupid dream. He hated that she
slept so lightly now, that every suspicious rustle of his movement woke her and demanded she make
sure he was alright.

“Don't do that, Harry.” She pleaded, and he instantly felt guilty for his harsh words.
“Don't push me away. Don't…”

*Leave me*. She didn't say the words, but she didn't need to. Ron had walked out
only the day before, and it stung both of them deeply. Harry had been, and still was, disappointed
in the redhead, who had sworn to help, to stand with him through all obstacles, and who had left.
It made him angry, but it also made him grateful for the friend he had left, the loyal and
steadfast, who would not leave him and would not let him down.

The friend he was now pushing away.

Ashamed with himself, he rose from the bed and embraced her. He was wearing no more than boxers,
and she only a slightly-frayed nightdress, but that didn't bother him as he wrapped his arms
around her, and it didn't bother her as she wrapped her arms around him. They were beyond
unnecessary modesty, the two of them; living in a confined area for an extended period had that
effect.

“I'm sorry,” He murmured into her hair, intensely conscious of the warmth and smell of her.
It was comforting, like a summer's breeze. “I shouldn't have said that, not after Ron…”

She pulled away, surprising him, and when he met her eyes where was a fire in them. “This
isn't about Ron,” She stated emphatically. “I'm done crying over him; he made his choice,
and I made mine.”

“Do you regret it?” He asked, thinking of all she had given up to be in this tent with him: her
family, her home, her school. Her life.

He knew that all of those things, and probably more, crossed her mind, remarkable as her brain
was, but she didn't so much as bat an eyelash before answering an unequivocal “No.” He hugged
her again, and she hugged back.

“I don't know what I'd do without you.”

“You'd survive, Harry.” She replied simply. “That's what you do.”

He shook his head. “I'd survive without Ron,” He told her honestly, not feeling the least
bit guilty for it. “But I'd be lost without you.”

She teared up, highlighting the honey-brown eyes that drew him in, but she brushed them away and
adopted her best stern look. The blush that rose in her cheeks somewhat diminished the effect.
“That's very sweet, but you're stalling. Sit down and tell me about your dream.”

“I thought you didn't believe in Divination.” He wondered aloud, nevertheless doing as she
had requested.

She huffed, sitting herself beside him and pulling him close. The wandlight went out, and then
there was nothing more than the feeling her her. “Sure, dreams predicting the future is rubbish,”
She agreed, “But they can tell a lot about what's going on in your head. Freud said that dream
interpretation was the royal road to a knowledge of the unconscious activities of the mind.”

“Who's Freud?”

She swatted him, lightly. “Don't change the subject.”

“I'm falling,” He said suddenly. “Falling through blackness. There's a little speck of
light below me, but no matter how long I fall it never gets any closer. If anything, it just gets
further away. Then I wake up.”

She was silent for a while, holding him. It was nice. He could see her in his mind's eye,
with her brow furrowed and her eyes darting this way and that, reading from a book that only she
could see. He could picture her biting her bottom lip as she struggled through a particularly tough
bit of the puzzle, and the wave of satisfaction that broke over her face when she finally put it
all together.

“You're anxious,” She said finally. “You've got a big job to do, and you don't think
you can do it; it's like success is always just out of your reach.”

“You didn't need to hear my dream to know that.”

“I know.” As well she should; she knew the path before him better than anyone. “But sometimes it
helps to talk it out.”

“I can't do this.” He agreed after a pregnant pause. “I'm no good at…anything, really. I
don't know how to destroy dark magic, or even how to start looking for the horcruxes that are
left.”

“Maybe not,” She admitted, “But you'll find a way. You will,” She insisted, heading off his
protest before he could even say it, “You're a great wizard, Harry, and a great man. You're
brave, resourceful, and you inspire people to follow you. You'll find a way. I know you
will.”

“You really believe that?”

“I absolutely do.”

They sat in silence for a time. It was hard to disagree with her, hearing how passionately she
defended him. She really, truly believed he could succeed, and her faith became his strength.

“Hermione?” She grunted softly in reply, betraying her exhaustion. “Thanks for believing in
me.”

Her fingers passed gently through his hair. He liked the sensation. “Always. Now go back to
sleep. Tomorrow's another day.” Slowly extricating herself, she returned to her own bed and
soon enough the paid drifted into unconsciousness.

***

*I'm falling.*

The dream returned; Harry fell for eons in the black, deep and existential dread filling his
very soul as he fell. He could faintly make out shapes, just at the edge of his perceptions. He
didn't want to know what the shapes were.

But then something changed. He was no longer falling, he realized as his hands sunk into warm,
brown feathers.

*I'm flying.*

A great brown eagle was bearing him aloft, soaring towards a speck of light that grew larger and
larger.

***

Harry's eyes opened, and he found that, rather than waking him, Hermione had joined him in
the night, her warm body wrapped around, holding him close, comforting him. The scent of her filled
his consciousness, invading his senses and making him soar in new and unimaginable ways.

*Oh yeah,* he thought has he burrowed his nose into her head, gently, so as not to disturb
her. *I'm falling.*
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2. Fallen
---------

Copyright: What elements of this story that I own, and are not the property of anyone else, are
licensed CC-BY-NC-SA. That means that you can take anything in this story, up to and including the
whole thing, and use it however you like, as long as you promise me three things:
1. You will link back to me (preferably to my author page)
2. You will not make money off whatever you do
3. You will share your work under these same conditions

I honestly didn’t expect to be adding to this, but the idea came to me and I thought it was just
too perfect NOT to add. We’re mostly DH-compliant here, taking place in the aftermath of the Final
Battle. I changed a little bit – made it more of a battle and added some other deaths to match, but
those are secondary elements. Enjoy!

**Fallen**

*It’s finished*.

Harry Potter remembered, a long time ago, looking up into the vaulted ceiling of the Great Hall
and being amazed to see the stars. Now he was looking up again, and he saw those stars, but he was
more sad than amazed, the illusion shattered by the broken timber and masonry that lay at the edge
of his vision. For these stars were no magical trick, no great feat of power designed to wow young
children. These stars were the real deal, laid bare by the crumbled ceiling of the once-Great Hall,
looking down from their place in the heavens upon the destruction wrought by Lord Voldemort.

The Final Battle had come, and it had come swiftly and it had come terribly. Voldemort had
massed a terrible army of beasts maligned by Wizards, and the forces of Light had been all but
overrun: Giant warriors, whose armored footsteps shook the foundations of the Earth, trampled all
who stood in their way and beat the ancient stonework into submission; Dementors swept through the
opposing army, leaving few soulless in their wake but driving their terrified enemies into the
waiting jaws of Vampire and Werewolf legions; the acromantula colony, woken from their dark home,
came to pick up the pieces.

The Order fought bravely: Kingsley had amassed what Aurors and Hit Wizards were loyal, Minerva
had roused the Suits of Armor from their long sleep, the fifth, sixth, and seventh years stood by
those Professors who were most capable, House Elves flung spells from the upper ramparts, and
Hagrid and Grawp held their line as only they could. Even the centaurs emerged from the Forest and,
though they were effective at rounding up the acromantulas, not even they could turn the tide. All
seemed lost, until Charlie Weasley rode in with a team of dragon-tamers.

All this long while, Harry battled Lord Voldemort: a battle of Spirit, in which Harry died and
was reborn, and a battle of Magic, in which the Dark Lord died and did not return. And then it was
over. It was over for most, and it was Over for some, and as Harry turned his gaze from the ruined
ceiling of the Great Hall he saw. He saw the Some, rows upon rows of plain white sheets, and he saw
the Most – who didn’t look particularly numerous – hovering over the sheets belonging to those they
had lost. The surviving Weasleys were there, huddled in solitude around two sheets; Parvati Patil,
a lump on the floor, broken down by the strain of deciding which of two to visit first; Dennis
Creevy, so young, sobbing over another. Then he saw Her, looking as lost as he felt, owning none of
the Sheets and yet all of them at once. He took a step towards her, but the floor under his foot
was unsteady. He looked down.

He had stepped on a hand. A female one, it looked like. His eyes followed up the leather-clad
arm to where it became a Sheet. From the top of the sheet, he could see the barest hue of bubblegum
pink bleeding through the white fabric, and something broke in him. He wasn’t able to delude
himself anymore: the happy fantasy that held him together ruined by this sight of pink. He could no
longer pretend that the Sheets were not People, people who had died in the war that only he had
been able to stop. He saw the Hall with new eyes, the bile rising in his throat. The surviving
Weasleys were still there, huddled in solitude around the bodies of Fred and Charlie; Parvati
Patil, still a lump on the floor, broken down by the strain of deciding whether to visit her sister
or her best friend first; Dennis Creevy, who still looked so young, sobbing over his big brother.
And Her, looking as sickened as he felt, grieving for all of the Dead at once.

He wanted to scream and cry and break things and be broken and vomit. He felt the weight of
their deaths on his shoulders, and he felt his knees buckle, but saw the arm again and he couldn’t
bear to fall. So he chose the next best thing, and fled. He didn’t see Her look up, see Her take in
the look on his face as he contemplated the arm and the Sheet, see Her lips form his name, see the
rest of the Hall look up as he fled, see Her moving after him, see Her stopping as he ran faster.
He didn’t see these things, or indeed anything at all. He just ran.

***

It would have been impossible for him, if asked, to say precisely where he ended up when he
finally stopped running. He had wanted to get Away, try to get above the dark clouds that had
settled on the castle, fly over the stench of Death. Looking over his final location, he decided
that he had done about as well as he could do.

He was in one of the Towers, the highest one still standing, but not a single identifying
feature remained to indicate exactly which tower it was; the events of the Battle had demolished
much of the tower’s structure, leaving the stone floor on which Harry stood exposed to the
elements, and exposed to the noxious black smoke that taunted his efforts to rise above. Hogwarts
still burned, in some remote areas, and the fire was not merely limited to stone if the heavy
stench of fat was any indication. He looked about, helplessly, searching for some way above the
pain. The smoke and the scent and, most of all, the view did nothing but remind him of all he had
caused, the lives his dallying had rendered him unable to save, the families that had been torn
apart, and the wounds that would never heal.

His gaze flicked upwards, and became locked on the sky. Through patches in the smoke, brilliant
stars winked coquettishly at him, mocking him from their High Place, taunting him with the
knowledge that only in their realm could he finally be above the suffering. He took a step towards
them, every fiber of his being stretching out, seeking to join them.

He had been very small when he first saw the stars, when Vernon had locked him outdoors
overnight for some imagined offence. At that time, he imagined that every Good Person turned into a
star when they died, so that they could look down on those they had left behind. He imagined his
parents up there, looking down, trying to protect him by whatever means they could. It was a silly
notion, a childish fantasy to try and make sense of the cruelty in his world, but it had been
attractive then, and it was attractive now. He imagined them up there again, his mind filling in
the lines between dots until there was Lily Potter in the sky, arms opened to her son.

He took another step. There was James Potter, ready with a warm smile and a pat on the back.

Another step. There was Sirius Black, restored to his glory days of hearty laughs and boyish
likeability.

Another…

A tight grip on his shoulder stopped him dead. His eyes broke from the sky and looked down, at
where the floor should have been but was not. His one leg was outstretched, ready to take that next
step, but there was nothing solid for it to land on; nothing but smoke and, he knew, the fall. He
brought his leg back, seeking solid ground again, and tried to ignore the sickness in his stomach
as he turned to face the one who had stopped him, his rescuer or his torturer, depending on your
perspective.

He could have handled pity. He could have handled disappointment. He could even have handled
anger. If he had seen any of those emotions reflected in her sweet, brown eyes, he would have been
okay; he would have been able to carry on, and maybe in the not-too-distant future he would have
been able to take his place among the stars. But understanding? Empathy? Those broke him. Those
ensured that all he could remember was how close he had come to making that woman, his most loyal
friend, feel pain that would never go away. The shame, the anger at his own selfishness, it met the
sorrow of Death in his heart, and mingled together, exerting a force so powerful that Harry slid to
the floor, unable to support the weight of his guilt.

He felt her kneel beside him. He knew what she would say: that he was being stupid, that Death
was not his to control, that he had no right to kill himself. He wished she wouldn’t say those
things, even though he knew he deserved to hear them.

He felt her small, warm hand cover his larger, cold one where it sat on the cold stone.

She didn’t say a word.

They sat there, the two of them, in silence. Part of Harry wondered what was going through her
mind, what she thought of him in that Low moment, but his voice failed him, and he could not ask.
He couldn’t even look at her; all his shattered conscience would permit him to do was sit on the
cold stone, staring blankly into the floor, with her hand on top of his the only source of warmth
he felt.

No, not the only. There was something else, a gentle warm that spread over his hand and under
it, so slowly that he was only barely conscious of it until it was all the way there. He turned his
head, slowly, to see that his hand was sitting in a shallow pool of blood, that there was a fine
line of it running down the side of his hand, and that the fine line led up Her arm.

He knew where the blood was from, he realized as the old familiar sickness knotted his stomach
again: Her scars, the ones on her arm that she had suffered at his expense, protecting him and his
mission. The pain he felt at the reminder of her injury was no less potent to him than the pain of
all the Death he had seen that day, but she was there, and they weren’t; she was there for him to
apologize to, to make even the most pitiful attempt at redemption, to ease the guilt on his
soul.

He brought his eyes up to her, intent on saying the words that he knew – hoped – would soothe
his suffering. But then he saw her eyes, and he could not. She knew what he was thinking, she must
have; known how he had come to realize that her scars had been caused by him, that his presence had
caused her pain unimaginable, and that knowing this was tearing him apart. He saw her eyes and saw
the last thing he expected to see:

Forgiveness.

She could not deny the truth in his mind, that if she had not met him then she would not be in
pain. As much as she had often tried to, she could not deny that he had, directly or indirectly,
caused her to hurt more than any eighteen-year-old girl should be expected to hurt. But she forgave
him. She knew what he had done, and what he had failed to do, and she forgave him.

A small smile, the barest of upticks of the mouth, grew on his face, and it was returned.

She forgave him.

In the end, maybe that was all he had ever needed to know.



