Words Unspoken

Words Unspoken

It's funny, the way these things happen. These moments of pure clarity of reason and purpose. A million individual acts over years lead you to them and yet ... You never see them coming until they happen. And then it all seems so clear.

I can see him across the room, despite the mass of people. Hundreds of people, all of them covered in various combinations of blood, dirt, sweat, tears and other unmentionable substances. Myself included, actually. The smell is cloying, and should be unpleasant, but it isn't, in some strange way. It is the scent of battle, of hard work, of death ... the scent of victory. Of freedom. All around me, people, no, not just people, my friends and family, are laughing, crying, embracing, shouting with joy and relief. I have been hugged so many times I have lost count. Someone says to me, "Can you believe it, Hermione?" with a maniacal smile, and I shake my head numbly, because, truth be told, I haven't quite managed to accept it yet. I am bone-weary, utterly, utterly tired, and my brain, which has been pushed to the limit for the past seventy-two hours, is not recognizing that almost foreign word. Victory.

I can still see him across the room, accepting hugs, and kisses, and manly slaps on the back. He wears the same shell-shocked expression, as I'm sure I do, as if he too can't believe it. He is too far away from me, and I feel the absence keenly. I have spent the last three days with him, in the mud and rain, fighting back to back. Some of the bloody smears that stain his robes are mine; his blood is on me, as well. Even now, even with people screaming, "We've won! It's over!" I don't think I can relax until Harry comes over and says it to me himself. Only then will I join in the celebrations. Call me crazy, or cautious, or pessimistic - many people have over the years - but watching this boy, no this man, who I have grown up with, across the room, I am forcibly reminded of what we have suffered for the last eight years.

I remember watching Harry come out of that maze, clutching Cedric, his eyes closed tight against the horror he had just witnessed. I remember that night at the Ministry, that awful night that Sirius died. I remember when Harry had finally told Ron and I what the prophecy had revealed, and how that was the first time I had seen Harry cry. I remember standing at Ron's grave, feeling the gaping hollow that his death had left in us. I remember seeing Harry so close to death, after an attempt on his life.

We have been fooled before. Twice we thought that we had won, that the war was finally over. We were wrong. And despite the fact that, not four hours ago, I saw Voldemort's demise at Harry's hand, I am still so scared that this is not the end. I don't think my heart - or my head - could take it if I let myself believe, and then was disappointed. Again.

I look around the room, seeking something to distract my busy mind. The Great Hall of Hogwarts has changed very little since I was here as a student. Above me, the same enchanted ceiling shows the stormy sky above. All around me, the four long house tables sit. This room, this whole place, holds so many memories, and a wave of nostalgia passes through me, so strong I almost feel light-headed. So much of my growing up was done here; this place is part of me. Those years we studied here ... They were a simpler time, a happier time. We felt safe here, secure in our knowledge that the world was ours for the taking. I close my eyes, and I can almost see Harry, Ron and I sitting over there at the Gryffindor table as sixteen-year-olds, laughing and eating, chatting away about how much we hated Draco Malfoy, or how badly Neville had messed up his Revealing Potion in our previous lesson. I can see us in the Gryffindor common room, doing our homework, Ron and Harry rolling their eyes as I lecture them about Jupiter's moons. I can see myself, sitting in the stands of the Quidditch pitch, my heart leaping every time one of them tried out a risky new move, though I never showed it. Even now, I can almost hear Ron's derisive snort. "Oh, come off it, Hermione, you sound like Mum!"

Every memory I hold of this place, I share with the two of them. My boys, I used to call them affectionately. The best friends I ever had, or ever will. It feels wrong, that Ron isn't here tonight. Our fearless trio was destroyed the day he died. Harry and I were at his home in London when the news came. We had been wondering why Ron was so late, and we were even more surprised at the knock on the door, for Ron never knocked, he just strolled in, his gangly presence seeming to fill the room. I'll never forget the look on Ginny's face when Harry opened the door to her. We both knew the moment we saw her that something was horribly, horribly wrong. She had started to tell us - an attack, five Death Eaters, nothing anyone could do - but the details didn't matter, and still don't. All that mattered was that Ron was dead. That was the moment our lives changed forever, that we lost our basic belief that we were immortal. Harry had looked at me, and I at him, both of us begging the other to say this wasn't really happening. I can still pinpoint the exact moment Harry accepted it. The look in his eyes ... My God. I've never seen it again, and I hope I never have to. Fear, and pain, and guilt, and anger, and over-shadowing them all, a sort of hopeless, desperate sorrow, all swirling in those green depths.

We all, needless to say, took Ron's death very hard, but Harry ... It was my first brush with death, but Harry had seen it before, too many times. His parents, Sirius - people who had loved him. Whom he had loved. He shut down for a while afterwards, we both did. The guilt he felt, still feels now, was just too much for him. They were dark times, and we didn't see each other for a few months after the funeral. We just couldn't, it felt so - so wrong, with just the two of us. Both of us felt acutely the gaps in our conversation, gaps where Ron would have said something funny. But the strangeness passed, eventually, and we got used to the fact that Ron would never laugh with us again.

Oh, Ron. I wish he was here with us tonight, I wish he could see what we've become. I wish he could see Harry at twenty-three, the man he is. I wish he could see me, see how tall I've gotten, see that I've lost some of my bossiness, my dogma. Most of all, and I wipe a tear from my eye as I think this, I wish I could have seen him grow with us. Would he have retained his lanky frame as the years went by, his head of hair? Would he have married, and had little redheaded babies? They are all just unkept promises now, a live unlived.

As I wipe my face, taking grime away with the tears, I look up and see Harry. He's making his way across the room now, and he's looking at me. I can see the concern on his face, and nearly laugh. Typical. Harry worries about me too much sometimes, and it has almost killed him before. He got the scars on his back carrying me away from the rubble of my destroyed house. I'm sure he got a few on my behalf tonight. But it's okay ... Both of us have been there for each other in the two years since Ron's death, both of us fighting fiercely, back to back, trying to keep the other alive. Each of us so scared of losing the other. I bear a few scars as well.

I watch him, trying to get through the crowds, hampered by well wishers who want to congratulate him. A tall woman, a pretty one, leans into his path and kisses him on the cheek. His cheeks flush red and I'm surprised to feel a stirring in my stomach at the sight. Three years ago, I may have expected this. Back then, my feelings for Harry ... Well, they were not just friendship. We had a connection, the two of us. I'm sure he knew how I felt; though we never spoke about it. His feelings on the matter were an enigma to me, and whatever they were, they didn't matter, for nothing ever came of them. I was wary to take that chance, mainly because of Ron, whose feelings towards me were somewhat less than ambiguous. And then ... Then Ron died, and neither Harry, nor I for that matter, had anything left to give.

If I'm honest, which I generally am, I have to say that, over that time, I did feel something for Harry. Exactly what, I'm still not sure. All I knew was that Harry was the one steadfast thing in a crazy world, the one person who knew me back to front and inside out. I was afraid of losing that. And yet, and yet... As I watch him now, I can't help but marvel at how different he is now than the scrawny boy of eleven who I met on the train. Watching him, I feel a sort of disbelieving pride at how well he's grown up - at the fact he even made it this far. There were so many close calls. The last time he faced Voldemort, he barely escaped with his life. I remember rushing through the hallways of St. Mungo's, practically flying - and then stopping dead at the sight of Harry in his hospital bed. It was the only time I'd ever seen Harry look weak.

I think that's what made me break down, actually. Harry had always been the strong one; the one who would say that everything would be all right, even when both of us knew it wasn't true. I was allowed to be weak, but not him, never him. He had woken as I entered, and I had stood there, willing myself not to cry at the sight of his bruised and battered body. Ron's death had come so soon previously, and selfishly, all I could think was that I was going to lose him, as well. Harry had looked up at me then, closed his eyes, and muttered, "Is this how it's going to be, Hermione? Is this my life?"

It scared me well and truly, because if Harry had given up, how could any of us believe in what we were doing? I don't think I ever answered him. I didn't know how. I had sensed the desolation in his words, and what could I say to make that go away? There are not enough words in the English language to heal that kind of pain.

His hand on my arm breaks my reverie. He looks, well, awful, as I'm sure I do. Torn robes, matted hair, cuts and bruises. A nasty looking gash runs the length of his jaw on the left side of his face. Another scar to add to the collection.

"Are you okay?" he asks, and I'm not sure I know the answer.

"Yes..." I say slowly, and he knows I'm lying, he always does. A wry smile curls the corner of his mouth, and he raises an eyebrow at me. I shake my head.

"I am, I'm just ... I'm just thinking about things. Ron, mainly. I wish he was here." The smile disappears, and a shadow passes across his eyes.

"I know. I was thinking about him earlier. Molly came up to me, and she said the same thing." He stretches his arms and shoulders, as if trying to ease the burden of something heavy. Both of us are silent for a moment, each of us caught up in our individual memories. Then he moves to sit on the bench behind us and I follow his lead. I watch as he clasps his hands in front of him, favoring the right, his wand hand. Without asking, I pick it up and examine it. A long, angry burn is stamped across his palm, and I touch it gently. He doesn't wince, but sighs quietly and shuts his eyes.

"From tonight?" I ask, and he nods. He looks exhausted.

Tonight. The word conjures up a thousand images, but the one that I know is burned into my memory forever is the sight of Harry standing to face Voldemort. Our final battle had taken place right here at Hogwarts, and I hope never to see the likes of it again. I think we all knew, going in, that tonight would be the end, either way. Harry, I think, knew this more than anyone. He never said anything, but there was something about the grim look of determination in his eyes, the stubborn set of his shoulders ... It was different. He had meant to fulfill the prophecy tonight, whatever it took.

We had been separated from the others quite soon into the battle, and had fought our way towards Voldemort. My God, how we fought. I remember thinking quite clearly at one point, the blood of Death Eaters on my hands, that this was not the life my parents had wanted for me, that I was not supposed to be a soldier. And I remember that feeling of pure terror when Harry went down, seemingly dead. "This is it," I had told myself, "This is the end." It's strange though, because although I was more terrified than I had ever been in my life... it was almost a relief. I was so tired, not just physically, but in my soul. We had seen too much blood, too much pain, and too much death. The cost was too high. A feeling of peace had stolen over me.

And it was the end - but Harry wasn't dead. He had pulled himself up off the ground, squared his shoulders, and stared down Voldemort, stared down death. The way he looked at that moment ... I'll never forget it - or the way it felt. The aura of power radiating off him, the energy - it was palpable. The very air seemed to crackle with it, like ozone before a thunderstorm. I felt it inside me, as well, like the notes of the phoenix song, filling me with hope. Harry had closed his eyes, and whispered, "No." I don't remember much after that. The world seemed to explode with light, and the next thing I knew I was waking up on the cold, hard ground.

I replace his hand, not knowing what to say. I want to tell him how proud of him I am, but I can't find the words. He beats me to it.

"If feels wrong, doesn't it?" he asks me quietly, watching my face.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, it feels wrong that Ron isn't sitting here next to us. I always thought ... When I imagined this day, I imagined it with him here. And now this day has come ... and he's not."

I can barely summon the courage to ask the question I so badly want the answer to.

"Has this day finally come, Harry? Is it really over?" I hate that my voice is trembling. He doesn't answer me right away, but wearily rubs his face with his un-injured hand. And then he looks up at me and says slowly, "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

I believe him. Looking at his exhausted face, I see the hope and relief in his eyes, and I let myself accept it. Victory. Oh my God. And then suddenly, I'm crying. No, not just crying, weeping, and uncontrollably. I don't know why; I don't know whether they are tears of joy, or sorrow, or a mixture of both. Harry, for his part, does not get flustered at the sight. Instead, he puts his arm around me, pulls my head to his shoulder and lets me go to pieces. I hear him ask why I'm crying, and I don't know how to answer. I'm crying because this victory is bittersweet, because I'm remembering all we lost and all we sacrificed to be here. I'm crying because I'm happy we're alive, and because I'm sad so many others aren't.

I'm crying for him, for the burden he carried while we were growing up, for everything he suffered these last years. And I'm crying for myself, as well. Because of what I've become, and all I've lost ... My innocence. My friends. My faith. I'm crying, because at some point, I lost my way, lost my ability to care, to love, because it just hurt too much. Incoherently, I choke this out, and he listens patiently, his arms warm around me. Oh, God. I'd forgotten how much it hurts to feel like this. It's been so long since I let myself. Harry continues to listen, and as I get the part about losing the ability to love, I feel his grip tighten. He pulls me upright to look at him.

"No, Hermione! No ... you can't really think that. You never lost your ability to care. You - your friendship ... it's what made me keep going when I just wanted it to end." His eyes are blazing, and his grip on my arms is almost painful, but he's not angry. It's something else, something I can't quite put my finger on. At his words, the lump in my throat tightens, and I close my eyes because it hurts too much to look at him. His words ... They make me feel a little more human again. I glance up and find he's looking at me with an expression of incredulity and sorrow. He shakes his head.

"How could you not have known that, Hermione? I'm so sorry ... I should have ... I'm so sorry," he says softly, and I'm shocked to see the tears in his eyes. He brushes them away swiftly, and hugs me fiercely. My own tears drip onto his shoulder. Oh God.

It's been two years since we embraced like this, but it is still so familiar. I inhale the scent of him, and it is so comforting, like going home. I feel safe. His hand is warm on my back, and I realize, quite suddenly, that he's right - I do still care. Or rather, I never stopped. It was just that I had nothing left of myself to give. When it's all you can do to keep going, you have no choice but to move inwards, to shield yourself from more pain.

With him, though ... We both drew back, we had to, to survive - but always, always, when he needed me, I was there. When I fell down, he picked me up. We kept each other alive. And as we sit here, crying together, holding each other up, the words "If only..." come into my head. Those words, those futile words - I banned myself from saying them, after Ron died. It was just too hard, too naïve to wish things were different. But now - now I catch myself thinking, 'If only I had told him ... If only I could have admitted what I wanted ...' Because I loved him, back then, and I still do - and now it's too late.

As I think this, my grip tightens, because I know I'll have to let go soon, and I have no idea how I'm going to do it. Without meaning to, I whisper, "I wish - " I stop myself in time, swallow down the words. I hear him catch his breath, and he draws back.

"You wish ... what, Hermione?" he says quietly, looking me straight in the eye. I want to look away, but I can't. The expression on his face - he knows what I'm thinking, and it shows in his eyes. There is fear there, but it's mostly hope. I barely recognize it; it has been so long since I've since that emotion there. I wish I hadn't seen it. It makes this so much harder.

"Harry... no... it's too late, too much has happened." I force the words out.

"Why? Why is it too late for this, Hermione?!" I start to look away from him, but he tilts my chin so he can see my eyes. "For God's sake, why won't you look at me?" he says. He sounds hurt.

"Harry...things aren't the same as they used to be. We can't just go back to where we were, it doesn't work like that!" I can see his frustration mounting. As I watch, a large hand rakes its way through already untidy black hair, a sure sign of his rising temper.

"So? So what?! It doesn't matter, Hermione. Bloody hell!" He stops, apparently realizing how loud his voice has gotten. Taking a deep breath, he says slowly, "Maybe we can't go back to where we used to be, maybe things will never be the same - but it doesn't matter."

"It does, Harry, we-"

He cuts me off, but he doesn't sound angry anymore, he just sounds exhausted, and sad.

"For God's Sake, Hermione - aren't you listening to me? I. Love. You. I love you! And now I can finally tell you, without being terrified that you'll be killed because of it, and you tell me it's too late?"

I feel my mouth fall open in shock. Those words - I feel like I've been waiting a lifetime to hear those words, and at the sound, something inside of me comes back to life, something that I didn't even know was dead. A lone tear snakes it's way down my cheek, and Harry brushes it away.

"Mione," he says in a low voice, "If you tell me you don't love me, I'll believe you. If you tell me that I've lost my chance, I'll believe you ... but please, please - just tell me the truth."

I open my mouth to say it - now is my chance to stop this, my chance to prevent more pain for both of us. But I can't do it. I can't lie to him, or to myself like that. He's watching me struggle for words, and the silence seems to stretch for eternity, both of us acutely aware of what the words unspoken mean.

And then, before I can even think, or breathe, he's kissing me, and God, it feels so natural, so right. His lips are soft against my own, his stubble tickling my face. The kiss is soft at first, both of us holding back, and then - every feeling we've denied, every word we've wanted to say, but hadn't - it's like a dam, finally breaking after years of pressure. I feel his arm around my waist, drawing my into him, almost crushing me, and I feel alive, feel whole, for the first time in so long. All around us, people are starting to laugh, and whistle, and cheer, and I realize I really don't care at all. Maybe I'm being reckless, or stupid, but as I kiss Harry, I realize exactly what has been missing from my life.

We break apart, but neither of us moves to separate. He reaches down slowly and brushes an errant curl of my face, and I feel a smile spread across my lips, the first true smile in a long time. It's not that I'm not afraid; oh, God, I'm terrified, terrified of what this means. But I've spent too long being afraid, and look where it got me. To love is to risk everything you have, to put your faith in something much larger than yourself. And I think I'm finally ready to take that risk. I open my mouth, because there are so many things I want to say to him, so many that I don't know where to begin. And then I smile, and shut it again, because I have forever to say them.

Instead, I find myself giggling. Harry looks down at me with confusion.

"What? Am I that bad a kisser?" he says with a bewildered smile. I can't help but laugh harder at that, and before I know it, my sides hurt, and tears of mirth are sliding down my cheeks. The look on his face - it's priceless. Eventually though, I take pity on him.

"I'm just... I'm just imagining what ... what Ron would say ... if he had seen that!" I gasp out between giggles. Harry thinks about that for a moment, and then he too dissolves into hopeless laughter. People are staring at us now, obviously wondering if we have finally lost our precarious grip on our sanity. I don't care. This feels like old times, and I finally feel like me again. The laughter subsides, but I can still feel it fizzing in my blood. I lean up towards Harry, and kiss him again.

"Oh, and I love you, by the way," I say into his ear. He is silent for a moment, but I can feel the smile spread across his face, and he laughs softly.

"Imagine what Ron would say if he heard you say that!'

It's funny, the way these things happen. Maybe it's not a storybook romance; it certainly wasn't love at first sight. But Harry and I ... The last twelve years have led us to this point. It wasn't a straight path, and neither of us saw it coming, but it's right. We just had to hit the ground, hit the bottom, before we could see that. Before we could pick each other up.