Terrified

Terrified

Hermione Granger sighed and without further thought, brought the bottle to her lips and took a swig of the drink. She immediately set down the bottle hard on the counter as her eyes teared at the fire spreading down her esophagus now. No wonder it's called Firewhiskey, she thought and shook her head, which felt as equally on fire. There's no way I'm drinking any of that ever again, she made up her mind as she screwed on the top and slowly made her way into the living room.

Suddenly she was assailed by a swoop of nausea in her stomach. The sofa was within reaching distance. It still smelled like him, she was sure, and of them, and it reminded her of that time they hadn't been able to make it to the bedroom... and the coffee table, where he'd prop his feet up every day and she'd scold him for it, but laugh as he'd pull her down on his lap. He could never be serious, unless it was about sex. And he'd been so damn arrogant... and the memories of him where everywhere, pressing in on Hermione as though she were claustrophobic. And she wasn't. But she was of William. And she had to get away.

Grabbing her cloak as tears of anger blurred her vision, she slammed the door on her way out and didn't even bother locking it. The cold bit at her skin and she knew her cheeks and nose were red, the strong December wind tousling her messy curls, but she could barely see straight. She was sure the Firewhiskey gulp hadn't been that much, but she could've misjudged in her depression-slash-anger. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and started (attempting) to walk to down the side of the street, trying not to think of William, but of anything - anyone - else. She came to a memory of a night like this, at the Burrow her seventh year. She'd got out for a breath of air after the Weasleys' conversation had heatedly turned to Percy, and Harry had followed her.

Harry James Potter... the Boy Who Lived, the Quidditch star of all their years in school, but most importantly, he was her best friend. Was being the key word, since she hadn't heard a single word from him in three years, when he went into hiding because of Voldemort. It turned up in the Daily Prophet a month later that Voldemort had been defeated, but Harry hadn't written her back, nor had he written back Ron. He'd followed Hermione because, like her, he didn't want to be an eleventh wheel (or twelfth) and whenever the Weasleys fought they always asked Harry and Hermione to choose sides. Hermione'd stood at the veranda railing, holding her bare arms, as she'd worn short sleeves since the inside of the Burrow was hot with food cooking, her eyes staring out at the snow-covered yard.

"You've got to be freezing, why didn't you just sneak upstairs or something?" Harry said, a grin lighting his eyes up - a grin she rarely saw, if ever, since their fourth year.

"Because Ginny would have come looking for me, I'm sure, and I'd rather freeze than be dragged into an argument," she smiled. "With you, I've got an excuse... I could be helping you with girl problems, or something." He snorted.

"Yeah, for me to have girl problems, there'd have to be a girl I fancy." Hermione looked down at her shoes.

"And you can't tell me there's not."

"Well... not really. I mean, there's this one girl... but I'm not sure if I quite fancy her. I mean, I do, but there's just something more. Ah, forget it." Harry looked uncomfortable, as though he wanted to tell her everything he'd felt about this grl but couldn't find words. And he looked scared, at the same time. Hermione pressed a hand against his upper arm, and he looked at her.

"Who is it?" He just stared at her a moment, and her breathing grew ragged and short as he leaned closer in near her, and she could feel his breath against her cheek. Every bit of her ached for him to kiss her, and yet he didn't... her eyes opened and then he pulled back and cleared his throat.

"Does it really matter?"

"No."

Hermione shook her head from the memory, but it just wouldn't leave her. Why had Harry looked so damn tortured when he'd been talking about the girl? So he'd been scared... Ron had told her that much when she'd asked about it later.

"Yeah, he's terrified of this girl. Even more than, er... V-Voldemort," he had never quite gotten used to saying his name. "I don't know who it is, he won't tell anybody."

Then, as soon as Hermione had asked herself who on earth it could be, it hit her like a Bludger to the face (which, she had never experienced before, but imagined it would be quite painful). She stopped walking.

"Me."

The word was icy in the frosty night, and she felt dizzy. She slumped on the curb, her head in her hands. How was it that she hadn't spotted it before? She, Hermione Granger, top of her class all seven years of attendance, prefect two and Head Girl her seventh, accepted to no less than thirty wizarding universities all over the world. And she couldn't even see that her best friend was in love with her. That's why he'd refused to tell anybody, it would have somehow spread like wildfire, and she would've found out. But why had he been afraid of her, 'terrified' in Ron's words?

Lifting her head from her hands, she looked up around her to figure out where her house was from here. She frowned when she didn't recognize the place, and she stood, plunging her hand into her pocket for her wand. Her frown deepened when she didn't feel it. She didn't remember grabbing it when she went out of the door, she was so distraught. She couldn't even call the Knight Bus now. Perfect. This is just great. Sitting back down on the curb, she pulled her cloak tighter around her body and tried to think of how she felt about Harry in return.

Sure, she had wanted him to kiss her that night at the Burrow, but what if it had just been hormones? Oh sure, dismiss it as hormones, Hermione, because that's always the case. Your problem is that you're making it too clichéd.

"Right!" she exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. "I think it's clichéd for Harry to fall for me, the best friend, and I'm making it to be clichéd on my end of things. I'll end up falling in love with him, too... or have I already?" She ran her hands through her hair. Why don't you just Apparate over to his flat and tell him you're madly in love with him, want to make love to him, and have his babies unto the ending of time?

"APPARATION!" she yelled, standing for the second time. Without thinking, she concentrated on Harry's cottage in Godric's Hollow, hoping against hope he still lived there. After she knocked on the front door three times and got no answer, she turned and started to Apparate home, when the door opened.

"Hermione?"

***