Harry sets the jar down on the bedside table gingerly. You can feel his gaze travel over your curled up frame, but you keep your eyes hidden against the pillow. “It’s Essence of Murtlap,” he says, his voice raw and uncertain. “I remembered that you gave it to me during fifth year.”
He hesitates when you don’t answer, then sits down gingerly on the bed next to you. His weight pulls down the edge of the mattress and your body tilts toward him, knobby knees digging into a too thin back. He is about to reach for the jar when you stop him, your cold fingers wrapping around his wrist.
“It will make you feel better, Hermione,” he insists, his voice gentle.
But you don’t want to feel better. You don’t want to be soothed. Your arm throbs with bone-deep pain and the warped letters burn scarlet against the backs of your lids when you close your eyes, but you don’t mind. Because that is how you remember.
So you pull Harry’s hand away from the murtlap and slowly, carefully begin to trace out the letters on his hand with the pad of your thumb (you think you hear his breath catch when you linger over lies). Then you lift your hand to brush aside his hair and trace the jagged bolt with your fingertip.
“I don’t want it to fade,” you whisper, finally lifting your eyes to his. “I don’t want to forget.”
He stares at you for a long time before nodding in understanding. Then he squeezes your hand gently, and you sit with your fingers intertwined until Fleur comes to fetch you for dinner.
iv.
It happens in a muggle library, of all places. Your mother has been begging you to join her book club (it’s a kind of magic we can share, she insists), so there you are, searching the stacks for Mrs. Dalloway while Harry peers at you from the other side of the shelf. He’s not much for libraries (many, many things have changed but that is not one of them), and you are certain that Ron has begged him to keep an eye on you while he’s away on business for the day.
Then it happens. One moment Harry is catching your eye between the books, and the next moment you are doubled over with a sharp oh.
“I think I’m going into labor,” you manage after a few seconds, trying to keep your voice even.
In the space of an instant, it seems, someone has called for an ambulance and you are being whisked away to a muggle hospital (we could apparate to St. Mungo’s, Harry suggests with an anxious whisper, but you both know it’s far too dangerous). And suddenly you are in a sterile white room and Harry is holding your hand tightly and it is all happening so much faster than the books ever told you it would. Somewhere amidst the haze of pain you hear the word breach and your head begins to buzz with a sharp sense of panic.
“I think I should send Ron a Patronus,” Harry whispers in your ear, his voice heavy with fear.
“Don’t leave me,” you beg frantically, your eyes wide. “Please don’t leave me Harry.”
And so he stays and you lock your eyes with his as doctors and nurses and scalpels whirl all around you. He threads his fingers through yours and your wedding rings clink together (it feels, for a moment, as if you’ve used a time-turner to go back and right all of your life’s wrongs) -- and then she is there. Flawless and warm and so unbelievably small in your arms that it takes your breath away.
Harry beams through tears as he leans forward to press a gentle kiss against your damp forehead. I love you, he breathes, a whisper meant for just the three of you.
(Years later you can still feel his words against your skin. Rose is perfect just the way she is, you think as you run your finger along the scar that rests just below your navel. But sometimes it seems almost impossible that her tangled mass of curls is not jet-black and that her eyes are not a deep shade of green.)
Re: harry/hermione -- could you leave me with a scar? (2/3)
Harry sets the jar down on the bedside table gingerly. You can feel his gaze travel over your curled up frame, but you keep your eyes hidden against the pillow.
“It’s Essence of Murtlap,” he says, his voice raw and uncertain. “I remembered that you gave it to me during fifth year.”
He hesitates when you don’t answer, then sits down gingerly on the bed next to you. His weight pulls down the edge of the mattress and your body tilts toward him, knobby knees digging into a too thin back. He is about to reach for the jar when you stop him, your cold fingers wrapping around his wrist.
“It will make you feel better, Hermione,” he insists, his voice gentle.
But you don’t want to feel better. You don’t want to be soothed. Your arm throbs with bone-deep pain and the warped letters burn scarlet against the backs of your lids when you close your eyes, but you don’t mind. Because that is how you remember.
So you pull Harry’s hand away from the murtlap and slowly, carefully begin to trace out the letters on his hand with the pad of your thumb (you think you hear his breath catch when you linger over lies). Then you lift your hand to brush aside his hair and trace the jagged bolt with your fingertip.
“I don’t want it to fade,” you whisper, finally lifting your eyes to his. “I don’t want to forget.”
He stares at you for a long time before nodding in understanding. Then he squeezes your hand gently, and you sit with your fingers intertwined until Fleur comes to fetch you for dinner.
iv.
It happens in a muggle library, of all places. Your mother has been begging you to join her book club (it’s a kind of magic we can share, she insists), so there you are, searching the stacks for Mrs. Dalloway while Harry peers at you from the other side of the shelf. He’s not much for libraries (many, many things have changed but that is not one of them), and you are certain that Ron has begged him to keep an eye on you while he’s away on business for the day.
Then it happens. One moment Harry is catching your eye between the books, and the next moment you are doubled over with a sharp oh.
“I think I’m going into labor,” you manage after a few seconds, trying to keep your voice even.
In the space of an instant, it seems, someone has called for an ambulance and you are being whisked away to a muggle hospital (we could apparate to St. Mungo’s, Harry suggests with an anxious whisper, but you both know it’s far too dangerous). And suddenly you are in a sterile white room and Harry is holding your hand tightly and it is all happening so much faster than the books ever told you it would. Somewhere amidst the haze of pain you hear the word breach and your head begins to buzz with a sharp sense of panic.
“I think I should send Ron a Patronus,” Harry whispers in your ear, his voice heavy with fear.
“Don’t leave me,” you beg frantically, your eyes wide. “Please don’t leave me Harry.”
And so he stays and you lock your eyes with his as doctors and nurses and scalpels whirl all around you. He threads his fingers through yours and your wedding rings clink together (it feels, for a moment, as if you’ve used a time-turner to go back and right all of your life’s wrongs) -- and then she is there. Flawless and warm and so unbelievably small in your arms that it takes your breath away.
Harry beams through tears as he leans forward to press a gentle kiss against your damp forehead. I love you, he breathes, a whisper meant for just the three of you.
(Years later you can still feel his words against your skin. Rose is perfect just the way she is, you think as you run your finger along the scar that rests just below your navel. But sometimes it seems almost impossible that her tangled mass of curls is not jet-black and that her eyes are not a deep shade of green.)