This is a fic that I've been working on for the past few months. I know it's short, but it took me FOREVER to write. It's a bit angsty (okay, a little more than "a bit"), but hopefully you'll still enjoy it. Please remember to review if you have the time!!
Harry can't sleep.
It's admittedly only ten before eleven, but even if it were half past two, Harry would be wide-awake.
Four hours ago, Hermione went on another date with Jonathon.
Harry is fairly sure tonight's will be the last.
When he had come to pick her up that night, Jonathon had appeared unnaturally nervous, his eyes constantly darting between Ron and Harry, Hermione's best friends and flat mates. His anxious gaze, however, seemed to linger on Harry, as if he was frightened of him. Harry knows this routine well. Too well for his liking. While Ron will physically attack anyone who hurt Hermione, everyone knew that the last person you want to offend is Harry – even now his temper often spirals out of control, and though he never physically harms anyone…
It just isn't a wise idea to end up on his bad side.
Hermione, of course, always naïve when it came to her relationships, failed to notice that Jonathon wasn't listening to a word she was saying, and that he just nodded his head every other sentence. That's Hermione, always seeing the best in everyone around her, refusing to believe that anyone could ever do intentional harm.
It's what Harry loves about her.
It's also what he hates.
And so it is that Harry sits up in his bed as the front door creeks open and then closes, just as softly. He walks out of his room as he hears feet shuffling into the kitchen, and as he enters the kitchen, his suspicions are affirmed.
The ring on Hermione's ring finger is gone. When Hermione looks up, Harry sees that her eyes, though absent of tears, are red and swollen. Worse, her usually rosy cheeks are paler than any of the Weasley's fair skin.
"Hi," Harry says softly, sitting in the chair next to hers.
"Hi," Hermione whispers back, her voice shaking.
There's silence for a few moments, and Harry wonders what to say next. No matter how many times this happens, and oh, how many times it has, he never knows exactly how to comfort her.
As Harry is about to open his mouth to speak, another figure enters the room, tousling his red hair.
"Hey," he greets them. He opens the fridge and grabs some food, not noticing the odd quiet that has settled in the room, or the fact that he is clearly disturbing it. Not until the two respond does he notice the tone of Hermione's voice and realize that something is wrong. Over the years, Ron finally developed an ability to decipher emotion, a trait that Hermione attempted to bash into his head while they dated. She failed miserably, and it wasn't until Luna Lovegood stepped in that Ron finally acquired the emotional range of something slightly more than a "teaspoon".
"Are you okay?" Ron asks, not sitting down but leaning against the counter, eyeing his best female friend of sixteen years.
Hermione nods her head, but doesn't look up.
Ron frowns. "What happened? You look like someone just died or something."
As much as Ron has frustrated Harry in the past, nothing compares to this very moment. Harry wants to strangle his redhead friend, tell him to shut up and leave the room, before he makes her night worse (if that's at all possible).
"He…he called it off," Hermione says, laughing in that way of hers that breaks Harry's heart every time. It's a miserable laugh, a laugh lacking any warmth. So unlike her usual burst of happiness that can make even the worst days feel like they were something out of a dream.
"Called off what?" Ron asks, his mouth full of some sort of pastry.
Hermione looks like she's going to cry again, but manages to keep her tears at bay. "The engagement. He broke it off."
"He what?" Ron's mouth falls open, and he drops the rest of his food on the ground. "He didn't!"
Hermione only nods.
"That son of a bitch," Ron mutters under his breath, and Hermione's lips tremble.
"You're not helping," Harry whispers urgently. Ron looks offended, but Harry doesn't care. He'll care tomorrow, when it will be useless to apologize, but right now…
"I'll just go then," Ron says, gathering the food from the floor and dumping it unceremoniously into the rubbish bin. "I'm sorry," he adds as he leaves the room. Once again, Harry wants to hit him. Hermione closes her eyes, whispering something to herself – most likely an attempt to keep calm.
If there is one thing Hermione hates during the post-break-up mess, it's hearing, "I'm sorry." Because "I'm sorry," as she explained the first time Harry made this mistake, fixes nothing. It's just a way for someone to feel as if they did something, a means of keeping away their own guilt. It's a quick form of comfort, and a lacking one at that.
"I'm going to go take a shower," Hermione says, not catching Harry's eye. Harry nods; the routine is imprinted in his mind. Hermione leaves the kitchen, and Harry soon hears the water running. In a few minutes, Harry will boil the tea – herbal tea. Always herbal. He could save time and simply heat it with his wand, but the muggle way of making tea always has a comforting effect on both of them.
When Harry hears the shower turn off, he grabs two mugs, making sure that one of them is Hermione's favorite – the one her grandmother gave her for her 20th birthday. Her grandmother had died a few weeks later, and although it was a rather plain mug, it remained treasured. Harry grabs the steaming pot, fills both cups three-quarters of the way, and adds two sugar cubes to his and one to Hermione's. He sets the steaming mugs on the table, sits down, and a minute later Hermione walks in. Her eyes, though still red, are less puffy, and her usually bushy, brown hair falls down her back in wet, straight strands. Her robe covers her outfit, but Harry knows that she's wearing her flannel pajamas, the one her mother gave her for those "off nights," since there's, "Nothing like flannel to improve a terrible day." Somehow, Harry thinks flannel won't be enough this time.
Hermione sits down, not looking at Harry but rather at the wall on her right. Her hands encircle her mug, and she holds it so tight that Harry's afraid she's going to break it. Finally, he works up the nerve to interrupt the silence.
"If you want to talk to me, I'll listen. I mean, I know you have Ginny and Annie and everything, but if you want…well, I'm here." It's what he always says, and it's how the post-break-up session always ends. Hermione will smile and murmur, "Don't be silly, Harry. I don't want to bore you." Then she'll thank him for the tea, apologize for not finishing ("I just don't have the stomach for it," she'll say), and, with one last smile and a good night, go off to bed.
Only this time she doesn't smile, and when she speaks, words that Harry never thought he'd hear come tumbling out of her mouth. "He told me I didn't love him." Hermione stares deeply into her mug, as if scrutinizing the existence of tea.
Harry does a double take. "What?" he manages to spit out.
"He told me I didn't love him," Hermione repeats monotonously. "That I never loved him. That there was only one person I loved, and he most certainly wasn't him." Hermione lets out a small, bitter laugh. Another laugh to which Harry isn't accustomed.
"How could he say that?"
"Because it's true," Hermione whispers, staring at her bare ring finger. "It's absolutely true. I didn't realize it until tonight, really, but…Merlin. I never loved him. I never loved any of them. I cared for all of them, of course, but I could never make myself love them. Not in the way that I…" She breaks off, sighing.
"That what?" Harry asks.
Hermione gives Harry a soft, almost pitying smile. "Just not in the way I should." She takes in a deep breath, wipes away the stray tears that escaped onto her cheeks, and heads over to the counter. As she places her mug into the sink, Harry stares after her. Whatever has just happened, and he's sure something has, he knows it's important. And, as usual, he has no clue what it is.
Harry listens as Hermione cleans out the contents of her mug, staring at his own. He idly runs his finger around the rim before, over the noise of the steady stream of water, he hears a small sob. He immediately glances up, and is shocked to find that Hermione's shoulders are shaking.
"Hermione?"
"I'm fine," she manages to choke out in between sobs. "Don't mind me. I'm j-just being silly." The sobs are becoming more extreme by the second. "M-Merlin, look a-at me. A-acting like…like s-some school g-girl." Harry hears the crashing of ceramics as she drops the mug and slumps over, her hands tightly gripping the edge of the counter.
Harry jumps up and rushes behind her, pulling her into a firm hug from behind.
"Breathe," he commands softly, but she only cries harder. Harry isn't sure if it's from hysterics or the realization that she broke her grandmother's mug.
Harry gently lays his head on her shoulder, pulling her closer to him, and waits for her sobs to subside. When they do, he gives her one last squeeze and then lets her go, knowing she'll want her space.
"Thanks," she whispers, and then looks at the broken pieces of ceramics scattered across the sink.
"Don't worry," Harry says immediately. "It's easy enough to fix." He takes out his wand. "Reparo."
She thanks him once again and then takes the treasured mug out of the sink and places it gingerly into one of the cabinets.
Harry follows her as she returns to the table. By now her tears have subsided all together, but when she looks up and Harry finally sees her eyes, he realizes that there's something more frightening than tears – emptiness. Her eyes, though a plain brown, are always lit up, sparkling with ideas and, in rare instances, mischief. Tonight, however, they're brown. Just brown. Like every other brown-eyed girl in the world. What has made Hermione unique for all these years – her fierce spirit and intelligence – doesn't exist, at least tonight.
And Harry wonders how many times he'll have to kill Jonathon for destroying her. Hermione was always the strong one. When Harry fell, she was there to drag him back up, even when he refused to stand up. She was the one who always knew what was best, who knew which road to follow and where it would lead. Now there's just confusion. After all these years of defiantly resisting mockery and torture, how could one man tear her down?
"Hermione…" Harry whispers, grabbing her hand.
Hermione stares at him, and then replies. "I love him." Her voice breaks.
And it's at this very moment that Harry realizes that Jonathon didn't break her. How could a man who she never loved cause her so much pain? No, it's someone else, someone Hermione has clearly loved for some time now. Harry's brain is working fast, and it doesn't take long for him to realize that, "Not in the way that I…" wasn't, "Just not in the way I should," but rather, "Not in the way that I lovehim."
Whoever this him may be.
"Hermione," Harry says in a whisper. "Who is he?" Because when I find out, he thinks to himself, Ron and I are going to be having a little chat with him.
"What are you talking about, Harry?" Hermione is a picture of innocence, and if Harry hadn't known this woman since she was a young girl of eleven, he would've fell for it.
"The bloke you really love?"
"Don't be silly, Harry," Hermione laughs (empty once more), and looks away.
"Hermione…"
"Harry, please, don't?" She's pleading with him now, and all Harry can do is nod. "It doesn't matter. He doesn't…" Hermione trails off, clearly not wanting to delve any further into the subject of this mystery man, and instead announces, "I'm going to sleep now." She sounds distant, Harry realizes, and it frightens him. "Thank you for everything, Harry. Goodnight." And within moments, she's gone, leaving Harry at the table with a mug for company.
Harry swears under his breath. If only he knew whom this guy was, this idiot who was breaking Hermione. He sighs as his eyes fall to the contents of his tea.
It never occurs to Harry that the man in question is staring back at him.