Half Sick of Shadows

by She's a Star

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is J.K. Rowling's. Like whoa.

Author's Note: This is quite bizarre, but the idea came to me and I thought it was kind of interesting. We don't see an incredible amount of weakness in Hermione's character, and so I got to thinking what it would be like if she were to lose someone close to her (oh, say, the love of her life) and the effect it would have. And, well -- voila! Zee fic!

Set post-book 7.

---

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror's magic sights,

For often thro' the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

And music, went to Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead,

Came two lovers lately wed:

"I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott.

-Tennyson

---

She shatters more easily than he'd have ever expected her to.

It makes him sick sometimes, to watch her. She thinks she's hiding it so well; she's always been so aware of everything, Hermione, and now she's different and it's obvious and still she pretends. He doesn't know how to stop her.

Tuesday night takes on a tentative rain, and she shows up at his front door, thinking her tears are effectively masked. He sees them in an instant, knows that even a storm can't hide some things, but ignores this -- it is what she wants -- and lets her fall into his arms. She shakes, her face buried in his shoulder.

"I thought you might want some company," she murmurs into his shirt, still regal; a fallen queen.

"Yeah," he returns, because it's what he has to do. "Yeah, I'd like that."

She nods; pulls away and sniffles once, and then brushes past him and inside. Like she'd never clung to him in the first place, like she's perfectly okay and she doesn't need him at all. Her perfume lingers in the air, a little; the same kind she's been wearing since halfway through fifth year. He thinks of his own losses, and knows that he can't say anything. It wouldn't be right. Not yet.

She fixes them tea with her practiced, graceful hands; liberal amounts of sugar in his, none in hers. He's lost his taste for sweet things, lately, but he can't tell her that. Instead, he forces a smile and sips it. Disgusting, but he doesn't wince.

She sits across from him, and meets his gaze with a seriousness that's almost comical. He feels like they're back at school, and he's McGonagall giving a particularly important lecture about N.E.W.T.s. That's what that sort of look is for, after all. Not conversation between friends.

"How's Ginny?" she asks him, not quite caring but inquiring anyway. He thinks of Sunday, coming home with her, overwhelmed with relief as she twisted a strand of red hair around her pointer finger and said all the things that he'd been thinking, that everyone was hurting but that this was just too much, that she had to open up, to let herself grieve.

'It's ruining her,' she had determined, simple and unfeeling, a doctor's diagnosis.

He'd felt odd at that, protective. Like he had to stand up for her somehow. 'So you think she's being stupid, then?'

'No,' with that same reason in her voice, but a softness now, too. 'But I think that someday she's just going to have to let go.'

And then she'd kissed him, very carefully, and he wants her here now as he sits at the counter. She knows how to handle things, in a way that he doesn't.

"She's fine."

"That's good," Hermione says briskly. He watches as she sips her tea and recalls something she told him once -- that he had a saving people thing. And he wants to laugh now, thinking that, because if it were so true then they wouldn't be here in this moment. If it were so true, he would've saved both of them, wouldn't've he?

She attempts at small talk for the next few minutes -- the rebuilding of the Ministry; the sale at Flourish & Blotts; Seamus Finnigan and Lavender Brown were engaged, did he know? He answers as best he can, feeling awkward and inadequate as he makes progress on his tea. She is halfway through commenting on the Cannons' performance in the previous week's Quidditch match, a surprising victory, when realization strikes. Her eyes seem to darken, and she swallows and stands up.

"Bathroom," she says simply. "I'll be back in a minute."

He nods mutely and watches her go, then, feeling foolish, pulls her teacup toward him. It's empty now; for a second, he searches desperately for messages, tries to recall whether he'd learned anything or not in Divination as he studies the pattern of the leaves.

His mind is blank. Predictably.

After a moment, he laughs shortly to himself -- there's a sharpness in it that reminds him of Sirius -- and then stands up. He steps as quietly as possible down the hall; pointedly ignores the photos that line the walls, the ones that he and Ginny had picked out, Ron grinning and waving from so many of them.

The door to the bathroom is carefully closed; he leans his head against it and listens as she cries.

When she comes out, he's sitting in the living room, browsing through a magazine he's snatched from the coffee table on a whim, in hopes that he might make his performance more convincing.

She raises an eyebrow. "Witch Weekly?"

He blinks; flips it closed and inspects the cover. A blonde woman smiles up at him, her eyes vacant and dead. He glances up at Hermione.

"It's Ginny's."

Hermione crosses the room and sinks primly down next to him. She folds her hands in her lap. "I can't believe she reads that rubbish."

"Yeah," he agrees automatically. "Me neither."

The witch smiles up at the pair of them, and it's stupid, but he almost thinks there's pity in her face. He sets it back onto the table, face-down.

And so they sit in silence.

Her arm brushes his, and it's unsettling, somehow. He wants to move, but doesn't. He's frozen here next to her.

"How are you?" she asks, finally. Inevitably.

Outside, it rains. He listens.

"I'm . . ." He's not fine. None of this is fine. And so he rebels, just a little bit, and tells her the truth, or part of it. "It hurts. I miss him."

She tenses next to him, and for a minute he's overcome with the wild hope that maybe she'll admit it, maybe she'll burst into tears the way she always used to, and he can almost hear it now, see it, feel her pressed against him as she sobs. "Oh, Harry, I try not to fall apart, but it's so hard. Oh, God, I miss him, I miss him so much."

He's careful not to look at her.

He sees her hand before he feels it; swift, as she brushes it against his cheek and then places a finger under his chin, leading his gaze to meet hers. She's going to tell him, he's positive, and the relief is almost dizzying.

And then, instead, she leans forward and kisses him.

It's strange, like nothing else has ever been. He thinks of Cho, the nervous leaps of his stomach and the odd, giddy half-thoughts that filled his head when he'd kissed her; Ginny, and the rightness of her mouth and hands.

She's chaste, her lips carefully brushing his, and he's sure for a second that it's nothing more than a platonic action, some gesture of reassurance or comfort that he doesn't need. But then she doesn't draw away.

It bewilders him. It seems like a parody, almost, like they're two actors in a play. A fitting representation of romance, but without passion.

Her thumb absently grazes back and forth across his face; he thinks of Ginny and places his hands on her shoulders. Lightly moves her away.

He says her name then, quietly, because he doesn't know what else to say.

She reads something in his face. "I'm sorry." Their knees are barely brushing, and she pulls away like she's been shocked. "I . . . I don't know why I . . ."

"You miss him, too," he points out recklessly.

She nods, shame written in her eyes.

"Why can't you say so?" he persists, and then he knows he's gone too far. He can't quite see what he's done; it would be too simple then. But something in the air changes, and something else looks out at him through her eyes. Something, just something, and he wishes it could all be made more clear.

"I have to go," she says and stands up abruptly.

"Don't--"

"I have to," she repeats; smiles blandly. "I promised my parents I'd come over for dinner tonight."

He wants to stop her somehow; to reach for her arm; to say her name; to tell her to let go, though his words would never be as graceful and wise as Ginny's, and maybe he isn't suited to say those kinds of things.

Instead he just sits, his eyes trained on her as she leaves; he echoes her goodbye.

The door shuts quietly behind her, a subtle torment. He thinks of Ron, what Ron would want. It's not this, but for some reason, he can't see beyond that. Maybe he's afraid, or ashamed. He's supposed to be great -- some kind of savior, isn't he? But when it comes to her, he freezes. All he can do is watch her decay, with this numbed mild interest, like it's some sick kind of spectator sport.

One day, he promises himself. One day I'll fix all this.

It's just that he's never liked Tuesdays. That's all. And it's got to that, hasn't it? It's reached the point where he's making up crap excuses like that one, and he laughs to himself again, like Sirius; too loud, alone -- You think the dead we loved ever truly leave us? -- and so he listens to the rain, the scent of her perfume lingering to haunt the air.