he twirls Hermione's wand emptily between his fingers; it's cold, dark, and the silence is unnerving. the moon dimly shines from the patches of the trees, and Harry's left wondering if the thoughts in his head will rip open and spill onto the ground. there's too much quiet. too much.
he remembers the fight quite vividly; Ron's harsh words had only left a bruise on his pride, a bruise he shields with antagonizing difficulty. she can see it quite clearly though- she notices everything. out of the corner of his eyes, he watches her shadow enlarge as she approaches the lamp inside the tent. they had not spoken since the event. for hours she had quietly sat on his bed, her hand constantly spreading hopelessly over his green covers. and all he could do is stand and watch, waiting. for something to heal. for them to heal.
but time is merciless. like a vulture, it drops and tears at their bonds, cutting them one by one, until all he can do is sit on this ground and wait like a fucking idiot, while she hovers near the lamp, waiting for warmth.
Harry plays with the thought of going inside. apologizing. this gap of not knowing, not touching. but what will she say? there's nothing left to say. it's bitter, cold, and he's the one chewing on the wrong side of this relationship.
"you look tired," is all he hears; her voice is tinged with sadness. a wave of grief washes over him; he should have come to her first.
"i'm not really. just thinking." they can go in these circles. keep playing at this game of masks and toys like five year olds. he doesn't mind, really. he's been too lonely with this silence dragging him to the ground.
her fingers trace his as she slides down to the ground; do you think about him? he wants to ask, as he plays with his fleece sweater. the knots tangle up in his stubby fingers. it's true- he wants to ask her so many things: why she even bothered coming, why she didn't leave him when Ron left them, why she obliviated her memories out of her parents- so many sacrifices. just for him.
"you should come inside," she says at last. her voice changes tone now, and Harry sense her silent agony, her determined but tired eyes, her bleeding lip that still hasn't healed from the fight. he wants to turn and look at her. but Ron, Ron -
his eyes burn up; turning away, his other hand clenches dirt. it's cold, and damp, and like everything in this forest, it sweeps up his warmth and returns nothing but desolation.
but his other hand is still laced with her soft fingers. he lets them play around on his coarse palm, and shaking his head, he keeps quiet. there really isn't much to say here. one by one, all these walls drop to the ground, crumbling at her touch. this is why she's here. this is the reason he needs- wants her. it doesn't matter what her reasons are. a laugh bubbles at the pit of his stomach- he never cared, did he? she's always there, behind his back. it's only now that he sees that. sometimes, Ron is right. he's a total dimwit.
"i'll come in later. you should get some rest." his eyes slide toward her, soaking in her image. fierce eyes, her hair full of tangles and dirt, her face smeared with mud and concern, and yet there's something his eyes hold on to. something in the soft jawline, the delicate eyelashes, the way she pulls in her lip so that he can't see her fear, or that small tear. he closes his eyes, perhaps, just for a second, Harry smiles.
the weight of her hand is just enough, to keep his spirit alive.
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timeasmymeasure
harry/hermione; when did we become mor than just friends? g;
Date: 2010-11-30 05:34 am (UTC)he twirls Hermione's wand emptily between his fingers; it's cold, dark, and the silence is unnerving. the moon dimly shines from the patches of the trees, and Harry's left wondering if the thoughts in his head will rip open and spill onto the ground. there's too much quiet. too much.
he remembers the fight quite vividly; Ron's harsh words had only left a bruise on his pride, a bruise he shields with antagonizing difficulty. she can see it quite clearly though- she notices everything. out of the corner of his eyes, he watches her shadow enlarge as she approaches the lamp inside the tent. they had not spoken since the event. for hours she had quietly sat on his bed, her hand constantly spreading hopelessly over his green covers. and all he could do is stand and watch, waiting. for something to heal. for them to heal.
but time is merciless. like a vulture, it drops and tears at their bonds, cutting them one by one, until all he can do is sit on this ground and wait like a fucking idiot, while she hovers near the lamp, waiting for warmth.
Harry plays with the thought of going inside. apologizing. this gap of not knowing, not touching. but what will she say? there's nothing left to say. it's bitter, cold, and he's the one chewing on the wrong side of this relationship.
"you look tired," is all he hears; her voice is tinged with sadness. a wave of grief washes over him; he should have come to her first.
"i'm not really. just thinking." they can go in these circles. keep playing at this game of masks and toys like five year olds. he doesn't mind, really. he's been too lonely with this silence dragging him to the ground.
her fingers trace his as she slides down to the ground; do you think about him? he wants to ask, as he plays with his fleece sweater. the knots tangle up in his stubby fingers. it's true- he wants to ask her so many things: why she even bothered coming, why she didn't leave him when Ron left them, why she obliviated her memories out of her parents- so many sacrifices. just for him.
"you should come inside," she says at last. her voice changes tone now, and Harry sense her silent agony, her determined but tired eyes, her bleeding lip that still hasn't healed from the fight. he wants to turn and look at her. but Ron, Ron -
his eyes burn up; turning away, his other hand clenches dirt. it's cold, and damp, and like everything in this forest, it sweeps up his warmth and returns nothing but desolation.
but his other hand is still laced with her soft fingers. he lets them play around on his coarse palm, and shaking his head, he keeps quiet. there really isn't much to say here. one by one, all these walls drop to the ground, crumbling at her touch. this is why she's here. this is the reason he needs- wants her. it doesn't matter what her reasons are. a laugh bubbles at the pit of his stomach- he never cared, did he? she's always there, behind his back. it's only now that he sees that. sometimes, Ron is right. he's a total dimwit.
"i'll come in later. you should get some rest." his eyes slide toward her, soaking in her image. fierce eyes, her hair full of tangles and dirt, her face smeared with mud and concern, and yet there's something his eyes hold on to. something in the soft jawline, the delicate eyelashes, the way she pulls in her lip so that he can't see her fear, or that small tear. he closes his eyes, perhaps, just for a second, Harry smiles.
the weight of her hand is just enough, to keep his spirit alive.