They only openly acknowledge it once (outside of Ron’s head, where it is always acknowledged). It is the night before their wedding, and he and Hermione are drinking silent tea in the Warren’s cramped kitchen.
Hermione keeps trying to carry on ordinary conversation, but her mind is so far from one-track as to be a bloody railway terminus.
“Work,” she says apologetically, waving an absent gesture about her head, after breaking off mid-sentence to grab parchment and quill.
“Tell me,” he says. He doesn’t mean to sound plaintive, but he is not fearless. Though he’s all right with not being the one chosen this time, to give her up to keep them both, only to lose these vital parts of her that she shares with him—that would be the unbearable thing.
After a pause, she says quietly, “Harry,” obviously no longer thinking of laws and creature rights. “I’m getting married tomorrow. To Ron.”
“You’ve never been one to say what’s already obvious to everyone else,” he says, dry.
“I suppose not, but—” She bites her lip and looks at him, and he thinks she too sees that what will happen tomorrow was not ever, is not now inevitable. “But maybe it needs to be said sometimes. The obvious, I mean. So many people ignore it completely! I mean, just look at the historical resistance to all kinds of perfectly self-evident—”
He laughs, suddenly sure that they’ll never really lose each other. Through his laughter, he manages, “You’re right, of course. Just look at S.P.E.W.”
She looks over at him, equal parts indignance and fond amusement, and he grabs her hand, warm from wrapping around her charmed mug, across the table. They both look down at their clasped hands, and she gently rubs her thumb over the words I must not tell lies.
“I love you, Harry James Potter, and that’s the truth.”
He couldn’t have heard that even a few years ago; he still struggles to hear it now. But this is important. If he ever has to condense himself into a vial of ephemeral memories, better this, better the world in full color than the world confined to negative space, to lack.
Maybe he is not as happy as he could be; maybe he doesn’t have his heart’s desire. But he knows war and death and emptiness, and he doesn’t think this is a world where he’s allowed it, anyway. Most days he is fine with this, his consequent.
And then there are some days when he thinks that majority does not always rule, most is not always most powerful—but he knows war, and this only makes him more certain that if he is not doing precisely what he wants, he is at least doing what he must.
harry/hermione - the thing to do (2/2)
Hermione keeps trying to carry on ordinary conversation, but her mind is so far from one-track as to be a bloody railway terminus.
“Work,” she says apologetically, waving an absent gesture about her head, after breaking off mid-sentence to grab parchment and quill.
“Tell me,” he says. He doesn’t mean to sound plaintive, but he is not fearless. Though he’s all right with not being the one chosen this time, to give her up to keep them both, only to lose these vital parts of her that she shares with him—that would be the unbearable thing.
After a pause, she says quietly, “Harry,” obviously no longer thinking of laws and creature rights. “I’m getting married tomorrow. To Ron.”
“You’ve never been one to say what’s already obvious to everyone else,” he says, dry.
“I suppose not, but—” She bites her lip and looks at him, and he thinks she too sees that what will happen tomorrow was not ever, is not now inevitable. “But maybe it needs to be said sometimes. The obvious, I mean. So many people ignore it completely! I mean, just look at the historical resistance to all kinds of perfectly self-evident—”
He laughs, suddenly sure that they’ll never really lose each other. Through his laughter, he manages, “You’re right, of course. Just look at S.P.E.W.”
She looks over at him, equal parts indignance and fond amusement, and he grabs her hand, warm from wrapping around her charmed mug, across the table. They both look down at their clasped hands, and she gently rubs her thumb over the words I must not tell lies.
“I love you, Harry James Potter, and that’s the truth.”
He couldn’t have heard that even a few years ago; he still struggles to hear it now. But this is important. If he ever has to condense himself into a vial of ephemeral memories, better this, better the world in full color than the world confined to negative space, to lack.
Maybe he is not as happy as he could be; maybe he doesn’t have his heart’s desire. But he knows war and death and emptiness, and he doesn’t think this is a world where he’s allowed it, anyway. Most days he is fine with this, his consequent.
And then there are some days when he thinks that majority does not always rule, most is not always most powerful—but he knows war, and this only makes him more certain that if he is not doing precisely what he wants, he is at least doing what he must.