Sweat.
Tears.
Hot.
Cold.
Fury.
Pain.
“It's all right. It's all right, I'm here!”
Pain.
~*~
Her hands tore off his sweaty T-Shirt with great difficulty,
shreds of his shirt clutched in her trembling hands. Still he
struggled, his flushed skin gleaming with sweat. On his heaving,
glistening chest burned a white-hot locket, and without a thought
Hermione seized the circle, ignoring the pain exploding in her
palms.
She wrestled it furiously, her hands feeling as though the skin
was about to melt off. Finally, she released it, feeling
breathless sobs shuddering in her throat. She stumbled backwards,
thrusting a hand into the pocket of her jeans and whipping out
her wand with her burned fingers.
Gasping, she clamped her hand down around his tense arm and
pressed her wand to his chest.
“Severios.” she muttered, and a horrible scream rent the air. She
leapt back, locket clattering to the wood floor. The scream
ended, but Hermione's sobs did not.
She sank to the ground, staring blankly at the white and pink
burns on her fingers and feeling tears well up in her eyes again.
This illness—or whatever this was—was almost possessing Harry...
and somehow it felt like it held her too. She knew she must be
overreacting to this; surely there was some way to help him—and
yet she'd tried everything. Sleeping draughts, Pepper-Up potion,
and she'd already used Essence of Dittany.
Nothing helped, nothing brought calm to Harry's face... she'd
even yelled at him, commanding him to snap out of it.
She'd always wondered how it felt to be truly, completely
desperate and alone.
She wished she'd never found out.
~*~
She didn't trust herself to try to mend the burns on her fingers.
So she struggled to her feet and stumbled to the bathroom. She
thrust her hands under the icy water, unable to stop the tremors
even under the flow.
The bathroom echoed dully with the sound of her uneven sobs.
Suddenly her stomach heaved, and she barely managed to make it to
the toilet before she vomited what precious little she had eaten
that day.
She curled up then, forehead leaning against the cracked tile
floor. Her fingernails bit into her already aching palms. Her
mouth tasted bitterly of vomit and tears, and Hermione found
herself whispering to the ground, to the tent around her, “Please
help me, please, anyone, I don't know-- I don't-- don't let
him...”
She choked again, burying her face in her hands.
“I don't know what to do anymore--”
She hated the fact that her mind had failed her in the moments
when she needed it the most. The times when she needed to merely
think the facts and not the feelings... but her heart's wild,
feverish whims had taken over, and all she thought was dictated
by the wild emotions burning in her stomach and in her mind and
on her lips and in her eyes....
She lifted herself up to her knees and clutched the towel rack
for support as she pulled herself to her feet again. Then she was
at his bedside again.
He was muttering to himself, feverish, low muttering that sounded
nothing like she was used to. Suddenly he stiffened.
“No...”
“Harry.” she breathed, and something within her forced her to
rise to her knees, to clasp his hand. “Listen to me-- listen.
Please.”
He let out another moan, and Hermione knew then what it felt like
to have one's heart broken. It had nothing to do with you, it was
another's pain that did it. She couldn't remember the last time
she had felt... felt anything, really. She lowered her forehead
to rest against his hand.
“Harry James Potter.” she murmured quietly, not knowing what she
intended it to do. “You're all right. You're-- you've got me.”
Even to Hermione, the words sounded ridiculous. It was perfectly
obvious that while he didn't mind having her along, he would
rather have Ron or Ginny. Or anyone.
Tears seared her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, feeling his sweat
dash her forehead as his hand shifted.
“Harry, please wake up.” she begged hoarsely, “I'm sorry I've
been so distant, I'm sorry I didn't trust you, I'm sorry-- I'm
sorry I didn't stop you... I'm sorry I--”
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. The words felt so inadequate, so useless...
Or more accurately, perhaps Hermione felt inadequate. Useless.
Desperate.
“I've been no help at all-- I let you go and I'm sorry--”
He moaned again, and she rose, leaning over him. His face was
contorted into a grotesque look of pain, and her heart
constricted. She bent closer, noticing the scars barely
distinguishable along the thin bridge of his nose.
His hot, erratic breath burst against her neck, and the smell of
his sweat swept into her nose. She could see the cause of the
smell dribbling in sticky rivulets down his face, staining his
messy hair a shining jet black.
Her hand lifted, and habitually, instinctively, she pressed it to
the side of her jaw. She choked again on a sob, and cautiously,
she lowered her hand. She hesitated, then brushed away the hair
plastered to his forehead.
She'd grown so used to distance these past two years she'd
forgotten how precious nearness could be. Nearness of partnership
in a common goal or nearness of laughter.
She drew back, feeling somewhat winded.
Perhaps nearness was precious only in moderation.
She sat back, brushing the tears away from her cheek and staring
at the wood siding of the bunk. A thought had come to her then.
She had forgotten how to be afraid.
Her fear had become so animal recently; survival had become her
goal. That kind of survival didn't call for emotion; it didn't
call for kindness or friendship...
This fear, this one she had been feeling tonight-- it was
motivated by friendship and bravery and...
It would be best to let that thought end there, as it always
had... always, perhaps, will.
“No...”
He moaned, and she sat up. As she saw his face, his familiar
face, something like tenderness flooded her heart, and she rested
it on his cheek, cautiously caressing his cheekbone with her
thumb.
“I'm here.” she whispered, and it seemed to her than she'd
expressed more emotion in those two words than she had even when
she'd talked to him about love. “You'll be fine.”
She continued to stroke his cheek, closing her eyes. His skin
felt slick under her finger, and she felt his tears and sweat
stinging her burns. She felt so tired—
Suddenly, she let out a small noise of pain. His hand had clamped
around her wrist, and his moans increased.
“Harry, it's all right!”
The feeling of peace left her in an instant, and suddenly his
eyes snapped open. His green eyes were dazed, but very much alive.
“Hermione--” his voice grated against the silence.
She felt sobs bubble up her throat, and she felt herself losing
the will to remain upright next to him. His grip relaxed on her
hands, and she swayed suddenly as she suddenly felt rather dizzy.
He struggled upright, and she felt him hesitantly catch her other
hand.
“What happened?”
“You've been ill.” she knew she was weeping by the sound of her
voice, “Very ill.”
Somewhere amid her spinning vision, his green eyes focused on her
face.
“Hermione, you look terrible.”
A hysterical combination of a sob and a laugh left her trembling
mouth.
“That's rich, coming from you.”
He swung his legs over the side of the bunk, casting aside the
sweaty blanket. He saw the shreds of his T-Shirt on the ground,
and frowned.
“What happened?”
“It-- it stuck to your chest--” she whispered feebly, “I had to
use a Severing charm to get it off-- I'm sorry.”
“Don't apologize.” he said rather roughly, staring hard at his
chest. Then his countenance softened. “Look, I didn't mean to--
I'm sorry, too. Let me take watch; you look terrible.”
She sank back onto the ground, feeling weak and undone as tears
streamed down her cheeks.
“Oh, Hermione.” he said with gentle impatience, “You know I
didn't mean it that way. Where's my wand?”
Her trembling hands found the broken pieces of his wand in her
pocket, and he stared at it, looking whiter than before.
“It shattered in the explosion.”
“Mend it.” he said hoarsely, breaking the silence.
“I've tried--” she protested miserably, but he looked at her
imploringly.
“Please.”
She raised her wand, and barely managed to whisper, “Re-- Reparo.”
The wand's wood grafted awkwardly together, but the phoenix
feather was sticking out in a terrible direction. Harry took it
in his hand as though he were handling a wounded pet, pursed his
mouth, and stared hard at it.
Hermione stared at her knees, lips pressed together, and felt
herself shiver uncontrollably. She'd left him wandless and
defenseless-- how he must hate her now.
“Why does everything I care about break?”
Harry cast the wand aside, his green eyes burning in anger and
despair.
“Harry?”
He stood up, pacing feverishly up and down the tent, breath
shuddering and hands clenched. His lips were white with the
pressure exerted on them by his mouth.
“My family's dead, Sirius died, Ron ran off and there went our
friendship, Dumbledore's dead and my trust in him is gone, my
wand's broken, my only home is being controlled by Death-Eaters,
and you-- well, look at you! Look at us!”
His words pierced her to the core as he whirled around, eyes
blazing.
“What have I done to you?” his voice broke wretchedly. “I've
broken you, I've broken us.”
“We're not broken!”
A surge of strength had crashed over her, and Hermione stumbled
to her feet, and weak as she was, passion had pushed her to cry
out in defense.
“I haven't left you!” she cried, her heart thudding wildly
against her ribcage. “You haven't left me! We're together!”
“But we've broken.” he whispered. “Don't tell me you haven't felt
it?”
“Felt?” Hermione took a shaky step nearer to him. “Felt? I
haven't felt for ages, Harry-- I haven't felt anything!”
“I've felt it.” he said sharply. “We don't even talk anymore.”
“That's not true!” Hermione stumbled, and he reached out. She
shied away from his arms and he let out a sound of frustration
and triumph.
“You won't let me help you, you don't talk to me about anything
but Voldemort and the power he knows not and all that rubbish--”
“Rubbish?”
“Yeah, rubbish.” he said roughly, “It's rubbish if it hurts the
people I care about.”
“That's not what hurts me.” she said, her voice rising, “It's not
that--”
“Oh, so it doesn't hurt, then, does it, to ship your parents off
to Australia?” he said, almost savagely, “It doesn't hurt to have
to wear a bit of Voldemort's soul round your neck or to nearly
starve?”
“You know it hurts--” she said, angrily swiping away tears and
feeling her knees tremble. “You know it does.”
“And you know it's my fault that all of that happens.” he said in
a low voice.
“Even if it was,” she retorted, “We haven't broken.”
She would have gone on, but her breath and knees gave in at the
same moment. He made a swift movement, and for a moment she was
afraid that he had turned away, but then she felt him wrap his
arms around her. She realized then that she could feel his
heartbeat against her cheek, and hear his breath heaving in his
lungs.
He was holding her tightly, and she didn't try to pull away. He
was breathing hard and shallowly as he drew back, clasping her
hands in his.
His cheeks were quite flushed, his eyes still fiery and boring
into hers. He licked his chapped lips and whispered rather
feebly, “I know something's changed. I know something has. I'm
not as thick as Ron, Hermione. I know you better than that; at
least, I used to.”
“Then you should know that it's not you, Harry.” she choked,
miserable that he should know what she knew would slip out. “It's
me.”
His eyes narrowed in puzzlement, and Hermione stumbled on.
“I'm just-- I'm so... I feel so... I feel--”
She shuddered.
“What do you feel, Hermione?” he spoke softly, and she went on.
“I don't know.” The words tumbled out in a stammer, a sob. “I'm
just afraid… you'll leave me, like he did.”
His eyes softened.
“I was afraid you were going to leave, too.” he said quietly, “I
was afraid you'd had enough.”
A silence fell heavily over them, as they stared at each other.
Hermione felt her heart flutter, just a little, in a vaguely
familiar feeling-- perhaps it was affection?
He reached out and took her wand from her hand, and mended his T-
Shirt before throwing it back on over his head. She watched him
mutely, still keenly aware that through the dirty material, his
eyes were still steadily on her hers.
“Hermione,” he said finally, in a rather shaky voice, “I--”
He coughed, looked down, and then looked up again.
“I want you to know that I--”
She still watched him, breathless, confused, and out of sorts.
“I hope you... I want you to...”
He dropped his head.
“Ron's very lucky to have someone like you.”
Her heart seemed to drop a bit at his words, though she didn't
know why.
“And Ginny.” she spoke finally. “She's luckier.”
He nodded, looking at her rather oddly.
“But Harry--” she suddenly felt quite nervous. “Ron hasn't got
me, at least, not at the moment... you've still-- I mean, I'm
still here for you. If you need me.”
His eyes grew somewhat wide.
“What?”
“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.” she said quickly.
He was silent, then he spoke.
“Ginny hasn't got me, either.” he said finally, “Not anymore.
She's better off-- with someone safer.”
Why was her heart suddenly pounding like mad?
“But you know I... after this is over...”
He dropped her hands.
“You're probably the... I'm very lucky to have you with me.”
That broken sentence would drive her mad.
But then again, it wasn't necessarily broken, Hermione thought as
she thanked him quietly, just unfinished.
And what a difference that made.
Tears.
Hot.
Cold.
Fury.
Pain.
“It's all right. It's all right, I'm here!”
Pain.
~*~
Her hands tore off his sweaty T-Shirt with great difficulty,
shreds of his shirt clutched in her trembling hands. Still he
struggled, his flushed skin gleaming with sweat. On his heaving,
glistening chest burned a white-hot locket, and without a thought
Hermione seized the circle, ignoring the pain exploding in her
palms.
She wrestled it furiously, her hands feeling as though the skin
was about to melt off. Finally, she released it, feeling
breathless sobs shuddering in her throat. She stumbled backwards,
thrusting a hand into the pocket of her jeans and whipping out
her wand with her burned fingers.
Gasping, she clamped her hand down around his tense arm and
pressed her wand to his chest.
“Severios.” she muttered, and a horrible scream rent the air. She
leapt back, locket clattering to the wood floor. The scream
ended, but Hermione's sobs did not.
She sank to the ground, staring blankly at the white and pink
burns on her fingers and feeling tears well up in her eyes again.
This illness—or whatever this was—was almost possessing Harry...
and somehow it felt like it held her too. She knew she must be
overreacting to this; surely there was some way to help him—and
yet she'd tried everything. Sleeping draughts, Pepper-Up potion,
and she'd already used Essence of Dittany.
Nothing helped, nothing brought calm to Harry's face... she'd
even yelled at him, commanding him to snap out of it.
She'd always wondered how it felt to be truly, completely
desperate and alone.
She wished she'd never found out.
~*~
She didn't trust herself to try to mend the burns on her fingers.
So she struggled to her feet and stumbled to the bathroom. She
thrust her hands under the icy water, unable to stop the tremors
even under the flow.
The bathroom echoed dully with the sound of her uneven sobs.
Suddenly her stomach heaved, and she barely managed to make it to
the toilet before she vomited what precious little she had eaten
that day.
She curled up then, forehead leaning against the cracked tile
floor. Her fingernails bit into her already aching palms. Her
mouth tasted bitterly of vomit and tears, and Hermione found
herself whispering to the ground, to the tent around her, “Please
help me, please, anyone, I don't know-- I don't-- don't let
him...”
She choked again, burying her face in her hands.
“I don't know what to do anymore--”
She hated the fact that her mind had failed her in the moments
when she needed it the most. The times when she needed to merely
think the facts and not the feelings... but her heart's wild,
feverish whims had taken over, and all she thought was dictated
by the wild emotions burning in her stomach and in her mind and
on her lips and in her eyes....
She lifted herself up to her knees and clutched the towel rack
for support as she pulled herself to her feet again. Then she was
at his bedside again.
He was muttering to himself, feverish, low muttering that sounded
nothing like she was used to. Suddenly he stiffened.
“No...”
“Harry.” she breathed, and something within her forced her to
rise to her knees, to clasp his hand. “Listen to me-- listen.
Please.”
He let out another moan, and Hermione knew then what it felt like
to have one's heart broken. It had nothing to do with you, it was
another's pain that did it. She couldn't remember the last time
she had felt... felt anything, really. She lowered her forehead
to rest against his hand.
“Harry James Potter.” she murmured quietly, not knowing what she
intended it to do. “You're all right. You're-- you've got me.”
Even to Hermione, the words sounded ridiculous. It was perfectly
obvious that while he didn't mind having her along, he would
rather have Ron or Ginny. Or anyone.
Tears seared her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, feeling his sweat
dash her forehead as his hand shifted.
“Harry, please wake up.” she begged hoarsely, “I'm sorry I've
been so distant, I'm sorry I didn't trust you, I'm sorry-- I'm
sorry I didn't stop you... I'm sorry I--”
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. The words felt so inadequate, so useless...
Or more accurately, perhaps Hermione felt inadequate. Useless.
Desperate.
“I've been no help at all-- I let you go and I'm sorry--”
He moaned again, and she rose, leaning over him. His face was
contorted into a grotesque look of pain, and her heart
constricted. She bent closer, noticing the scars barely
distinguishable along the thin bridge of his nose.
His hot, erratic breath burst against her neck, and the smell of
his sweat swept into her nose. She could see the cause of the
smell dribbling in sticky rivulets down his face, staining his
messy hair a shining jet black.
Her hand lifted, and habitually, instinctively, she pressed it to
the side of her jaw. She choked again on a sob, and cautiously,
she lowered her hand. She hesitated, then brushed away the hair
plastered to his forehead.
She'd grown so used to distance these past two years she'd
forgotten how precious nearness could be. Nearness of partnership
in a common goal or nearness of laughter.
She drew back, feeling somewhat winded.
Perhaps nearness was precious only in moderation.
She sat back, brushing the tears away from her cheek and staring
at the wood siding of the bunk. A thought had come to her then.
She had forgotten how to be afraid.
Her fear had become so animal recently; survival had become her
goal. That kind of survival didn't call for emotion; it didn't
call for kindness or friendship...
This fear, this one she had been feeling tonight-- it was
motivated by friendship and bravery and...
It would be best to let that thought end there, as it always
had... always, perhaps, will.
“No...”
He moaned, and she sat up. As she saw his face, his familiar
face, something like tenderness flooded her heart, and she rested
it on his cheek, cautiously caressing his cheekbone with her
thumb.
“I'm here.” she whispered, and it seemed to her than she'd
expressed more emotion in those two words than she had even when
she'd talked to him about love. “You'll be fine.”
She continued to stroke his cheek, closing her eyes. His skin
felt slick under her finger, and she felt his tears and sweat
stinging her burns. She felt so tired—
Suddenly, she let out a small noise of pain. His hand had clamped
around her wrist, and his moans increased.
“Harry, it's all right!”
The feeling of peace left her in an instant, and suddenly his
eyes snapped open. His green eyes were dazed, but very much alive.
“Hermione--” his voice grated against the silence.
She felt sobs bubble up her throat, and she felt herself losing
the will to remain upright next to him. His grip relaxed on her
hands, and she swayed suddenly as she suddenly felt rather dizzy.
He struggled upright, and she felt him hesitantly catch her other
hand.
“What happened?”
“You've been ill.” she knew she was weeping by the sound of her
voice, “Very ill.”
Somewhere amid her spinning vision, his green eyes focused on her
face.
“Hermione, you look terrible.”
A hysterical combination of a sob and a laugh left her trembling
mouth.
“That's rich, coming from you.”
He swung his legs over the side of the bunk, casting aside the
sweaty blanket. He saw the shreds of his T-Shirt on the ground,
and frowned.
“What happened?”
“It-- it stuck to your chest--” she whispered feebly, “I had to
use a Severing charm to get it off-- I'm sorry.”
“Don't apologize.” he said rather roughly, staring hard at his
chest. Then his countenance softened. “Look, I didn't mean to--
I'm sorry, too. Let me take watch; you look terrible.”
She sank back onto the ground, feeling weak and undone as tears
streamed down her cheeks.
“Oh, Hermione.” he said with gentle impatience, “You know I
didn't mean it that way. Where's my wand?”
Her trembling hands found the broken pieces of his wand in her
pocket, and he stared at it, looking whiter than before.
“It shattered in the explosion.”
“Mend it.” he said hoarsely, breaking the silence.
“I've tried--” she protested miserably, but he looked at her
imploringly.
“Please.”
She raised her wand, and barely managed to whisper, “Re-- Reparo.”
The wand's wood grafted awkwardly together, but the phoenix
feather was sticking out in a terrible direction. Harry took it
in his hand as though he were handling a wounded pet, pursed his
mouth, and stared hard at it.
Hermione stared at her knees, lips pressed together, and felt
herself shiver uncontrollably. She'd left him wandless and
defenseless-- how he must hate her now.
“Why does everything I care about break?”
Harry cast the wand aside, his green eyes burning in anger and
despair.
“Harry?”
He stood up, pacing feverishly up and down the tent, breath
shuddering and hands clenched. His lips were white with the
pressure exerted on them by his mouth.
“My family's dead, Sirius died, Ron ran off and there went our
friendship, Dumbledore's dead and my trust in him is gone, my
wand's broken, my only home is being controlled by Death-Eaters,
and you-- well, look at you! Look at us!”
His words pierced her to the core as he whirled around, eyes
blazing.
“What have I done to you?” his voice broke wretchedly. “I've
broken you, I've broken us.”
“We're not broken!”
A surge of strength had crashed over her, and Hermione stumbled
to her feet, and weak as she was, passion had pushed her to cry
out in defense.
“I haven't left you!” she cried, her heart thudding wildly
against her ribcage. “You haven't left me! We're together!”
“But we've broken.” he whispered. “Don't tell me you haven't felt
it?”
“Felt?” Hermione took a shaky step nearer to him. “Felt? I
haven't felt for ages, Harry-- I haven't felt anything!”
“I've felt it.” he said sharply. “We don't even talk anymore.”
“That's not true!” Hermione stumbled, and he reached out. She
shied away from his arms and he let out a sound of frustration
and triumph.
“You won't let me help you, you don't talk to me about anything
but Voldemort and the power he knows not and all that rubbish--”
“Rubbish?”
“Yeah, rubbish.” he said roughly, “It's rubbish if it hurts the
people I care about.”
“That's not what hurts me.” she said, her voice rising, “It's not
that--”
“Oh, so it doesn't hurt, then, does it, to ship your parents off
to Australia?” he said, almost savagely, “It doesn't hurt to have
to wear a bit of Voldemort's soul round your neck or to nearly
starve?”
“You know it hurts--” she said, angrily swiping away tears and
feeling her knees tremble. “You know it does.”
“And you know it's my fault that all of that happens.” he said in
a low voice.
“Even if it was,” she retorted, “We haven't broken.”
She would have gone on, but her breath and knees gave in at the
same moment. He made a swift movement, and for a moment she was
afraid that he had turned away, but then she felt him wrap his
arms around her. She realized then that she could feel his
heartbeat against her cheek, and hear his breath heaving in his
lungs.
He was holding her tightly, and she didn't try to pull away. He
was breathing hard and shallowly as he drew back, clasping her
hands in his.
His cheeks were quite flushed, his eyes still fiery and boring
into hers. He licked his chapped lips and whispered rather
feebly, “I know something's changed. I know something has. I'm
not as thick as Ron, Hermione. I know you better than that; at
least, I used to.”
“Then you should know that it's not you, Harry.” she choked,
miserable that he should know what she knew would slip out. “It's
me.”
His eyes narrowed in puzzlement, and Hermione stumbled on.
“I'm just-- I'm so... I feel so... I feel--”
She shuddered.
“What do you feel, Hermione?” he spoke softly, and she went on.
“I don't know.” The words tumbled out in a stammer, a sob. “I'm
just afraid… you'll leave me, like he did.”
His eyes softened.
“I was afraid you were going to leave, too.” he said quietly, “I
was afraid you'd had enough.”
A silence fell heavily over them, as they stared at each other.
Hermione felt her heart flutter, just a little, in a vaguely
familiar feeling-- perhaps it was affection?
He reached out and took her wand from her hand, and mended his T-
Shirt before throwing it back on over his head. She watched him
mutely, still keenly aware that through the dirty material, his
eyes were still steadily on her hers.
“Hermione,” he said finally, in a rather shaky voice, “I--”
He coughed, looked down, and then looked up again.
“I want you to know that I--”
She still watched him, breathless, confused, and out of sorts.
“I hope you... I want you to...”
He dropped his head.
“Ron's very lucky to have someone like you.”
Her heart seemed to drop a bit at his words, though she didn't
know why.
“And Ginny.” she spoke finally. “She's luckier.”
He nodded, looking at her rather oddly.
“But Harry--” she suddenly felt quite nervous. “Ron hasn't got
me, at least, not at the moment... you've still-- I mean, I'm
still here for you. If you need me.”
His eyes grew somewhat wide.
“What?”
“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.” she said quickly.
He was silent, then he spoke.
“Ginny hasn't got me, either.” he said finally, “Not anymore.
She's better off-- with someone safer.”
Why was her heart suddenly pounding like mad?
“But you know I... after this is over...”
He dropped her hands.
“You're probably the... I'm very lucky to have you with me.”
That broken sentence would drive her mad.
But then again, it wasn't necessarily broken, Hermione thought as
she thanked him quietly, just unfinished.
And what a difference that made.
Finding Hope in the Unfinished
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| The Ultimate Harry Potter Analysis Source |
| Choosing what is Right over what is Easy |
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