When Redemption Isn't Enough

Dedicated to Al for invaluable beta reading and immense moral support and fiber.
 
<><><>
 
It rained again, for the fourth time that week. Rain fell steadily from the low, grey clouds in misty droplets. Dirty puddles pooled at the dingy curbsides, reflecting the color of wet cement from the sky. This sort of weather was the kind that put people in a bad frame of mind. Men and women hurried along Petticoat Lane in London's East End, pulling their clothes tightly about them self. Hat brims were worn down over the eyes, and scarves were wrapped snakelike around throats. A black umbrella was held above every head in the street, serving as feeble protection against the flying raindrops that managed to dampen coats and moods alike.
 
Amid the crowd, a young woman in her early twenties drifted dispiritedly along. Beneath her umbrella, her rosy cheeks were rather placid from lack of sleep. A faded red headscarf was tied loosely over her dark brown tresses, but it didn't keep the springy curls from falling over her face from beneath. She wore a simple brown overcoat over her small frame and a cream colored muffler around her neck. Under one arm was an angular package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. The other arm that kept the black umbrella above her ached from being held in one position for too long. The fingers that curled around the bent plastic handle were numb from the frigid winter air.
 
Tiredly, she raised her head and moved the umbrella back to look at an ancient apartment building to the side. The red bricks on the wall were dulled to a drab grey-brown with grime and mold. Murky water pattered down from the rim of the roof as the rain washed away gathered dirt. The small, square window of her apartment had its ratty pink curtains drawn shut tightly.
 
The woman sighed deeply and walked up the cement steps to the front door. Stiffly, she folded her umbrella and walked inside. The air inside was musty, dry, and blissfully warm. She rubbed her frozen hands together gratefully, then fished out a small key from her coat pocket. From the roll of narrow aluminum mailboxes, she found the number "63" and stuck the rusty iron key firmly into the equally rusty keyhole. The lock clicked faintly, she slipped her index finger into the curved indention on the door and pulled it open with her nail. Inside was a small stack of pale envelopes, she quickly spotted two that were made of yellowed parchment and plucked them up quickly. She read the front of the first one.
 
Miss H. Granger
17 Petticoat Lane, Apt 63
London, UK
 
She ripped it open and extracted a short piece of parchment, folded in half. With a flick of her finger, she unfolded the letter and read quickly.
 
Dear Recipient (it flickered and became Miss Granger),
We're pleased to inform you that Ministry Apparation and Misuse of Magic tracking charms are back in full function! You are now allowed to use magic and Apparate once more. Thank you for your patience for the past three weeks.
 
Sincerely,
(Signed) Cornelius Fudge
Minister of Magic
 
She gave a small squeal of delight and clapped her hands together. Instantaneously, she vanished in a faint shower of silver glitter.
 
A moment later, she reappeared inside the slightly cramp living room of the apartment she shared with her boyfriend, "Honey! Have you heard? The Ministry finally allow magic again!" She tossed her wet umbrella into the corner of the room and made for the bedroom quickly. "Honey?"
 
The bedroom door was shut firmly.
 
"Shit," she heard someone swear inside the bedroom through some muffled thumps of footsteps.
 
"Is there something inside that I shouldn't see?" She asked playfully, placing a hand against the bumpy mahogany surface of the door. A delighted smile lit up her tired complexions.
 
The noises inside became more frantic, causing the door to shake. She waited no more and wrapped her fingers around the dull silver handle of the door. Without hesitations, she twisted the knob and shoved forward. Quickly, she stepped into the small room; her feet landed on the white linen sheets which were draped across the twin bed in the morning. She looked up, and staggered with a sudden fit of weak ankles.
 
"Hermione, this isn't what it looks like," inside, a man with untidy black hair gasped, hopping on one foot to get into his trousers. He stumbled on the hem of a trouser leg and fell sideways, crashing sidelong into the bedside bureau. Two half-empty wine glasses toppled off the chest-of-drawers and toppled onto the light beige carpet. Crimson red liquid went everywhere, some landed on his face; some over the bare breasts of a leggy blonde woman huddling at the foot of the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of indecent lingerie.
 
Her face was a frozen, marble mask devoid of emotions as studied the scene with bated breath. Then, with difficulty, she swallowed and inhaled deeply.
 
"I can explain," the young man started toward her, looking for all the world like a young Adonis with the buttery lamplight shining at his back, fringing his body with soft gold. His pair of deer-like emerald eyes that she fell in love with shone with earnesty.
 
Involuntarily, she stumbled forward, a little breathless. Just as he was only inches away, she raised a trembling hand against his bare chest.
 
For a moment, they gazed into each other's eyes, his full of regret (that was drowning in tender love), and hers brimming with despaired frustration and betrayal.
 
Then, with surprising strength, she shoved him away, sending him stumbling back into the bed. He sat down hard as the edge of the bed knocked into the back on his knees. The springs beneath him groaned as he rocked up and down lightly looking in a daze.
 
She marched the length of the room in three firm strides and stood towering over the blonde woman in the corner.
 
"Get up bitch!" she snarled, yanking the woman on the floor viciously to her feet. The blonde stumbled a little, and stood, gazing at the brunette uncertainly with crystal grey eyes. Color flooded her cheeks as her lower lip quivered. She was afraid.
 
The man gazed at her, looking a bit frightened, "Hermione, what--"
 
"You’re doing this OUR bed now? Have you no respect for me anymore? If I’m becoming tiresome, then GO! Why do you bother to fucking sneak behind my back you son of a bitch? You asshole!" Stamping her feet down, she shrieked hysterically, her voice sandy and scratched with emotions. "I don't want you anyway! Harry Potter, I should've left you the fist time this happened!" She raised a shaking finger at the man on the bed, tears cascading down her cheeks.
 
"Why..." Her eyes widened in her fury, the whites showing all around her dark pupils. "God damn it! WHY?" She screamed, clenching her fists until her knuckles became smooth white hills upon her hands. In an explosion of red sparks, the man and his lover vanished from sight.
 
At that, she crumbled to her knees and leaned against the doorframe. "Why did I have to fall in love with you..." She choked, crying hiccuping sobs against her hands.
 
<<>><<>><<>>
 
Hermione didn't leave her apartment for two weeks and didn't go to work for a whole month. She owled her boss explaining that she would be off work, due to a major injury.
 
"It takes time to heal," she explained. To heal a broken heart.
 
On the beginning of her second week home, an old snow owl dropped by to her apartment and left her a large box of white chocolate and a note. She untied the violet velvet ribbon around the parchment and read,
 
Hermione my love,
I'm very sorry for what happened. I love you too much to let you go. Please forgive me, I will never do such a thing again. You see, I was seduced-
 
Closing her eyes, she crumpled up the note before she even finished reading. She kicked away the warm quilt over her legs and grabbed the golden chocolate box on her lap. Swiftly, Hermione strode across the room and flung the dusty window open wide. A gust of angry winter wind rushed right at her, scraping against her face with harsh dryness. She held her arms back and hurled the fancy hard paper boxful of chocolate and the note together into the streets.
 
Her hands shook violently as she held onto the windowsill, feeling a lump growing in her throat. Never again, she vowed solemnly, Never shall I take him back again. Tried as she might to struggles against her jagged, painful emotions, she failed; involuntary tears flooded her eyes.
 
From below, someone yelped with surprise as the box hit the ground with a dull thud and burst open. Creamy white nuggets scattered across the dark sidewalk where they were quickly trampled down to mush under the hurrying feet. The crumbled note drifted into the middle of the road; a bright red limousine ran it over. Inside the crimson vehicle sat the same green-eyed man that fell into the streets shirtless just a week ago. He held an enormous bouquet of dusky roses in his arms as he peered up at the window where she stood.
 
Hermione stared blankly down at the street for a moment, and pulled the windows back, pushing the latches back into place. Firmly, she drew the tattered pink curtains together. Her shadow disappeared from behind the drapes.
 
"Stop here," Harry told the driver quietly as he fingered his collar nervously. Quickly, he opened the door and leaped out before the driver got around to come do it for him. His long legs took three steps at a time; he disappeared into the dark doorway. Too impatient to wait for his eyes to adjust to the dark, he clambered up the stairs. Blindly he half-ran down the dim corridor, and rammed his forehead straight into Hermione's door at the end of the hall.
 
"Who's there?" She called humorlessly from inside, scuttling across the living room while slipping her dressing gown over her head. "What?" The door flew open; she tilted her chin upward impatiently, holding onto the doorframe with both hands.
 
"Hermione?" His eyes went wide with disbelief at her disheveled, unwashed brown hair and dark bags under her eyes. Over her shoulder, he saw the living room a complete mess; clothes, books and food strewn everywhere. It was so unlike her to allow her life to fall into such disarray.
 
At the sight of him, her pair of glazed brown eyes suddenly darkened and spat angry sparks. She pulled her mouth into a thin line and set her jaw firmly. Without a word, she slammed the door in his hopeful face.
 
The wooden surface swung at him, knocking into the bridge of his nose. He stumbled back, then knocked her door again resignedly. On his third knock, the door flew back to reveal her glowering face once more. Her eyes glared into his with such hatred, that he looked away hurriedly.
 
"I know you must hate me," he started humbly, keeping his voice soft and low.
Nervously, he hugged the bouquet a bit tighter.
 
"Damn right," she replied glacially, her voice harder than diamond.
 
"But I still love you, and I'm begging you for a second chance," he continued, sneaking glances at her as he spoke, looking quite pathetic.
 
"I'm not going fall for your fucking begging anymore!" She snapped, "I've given you more second chances than I could count! Let me tell you something, everyone knows how unreliable love is, you see somebody and you like her looks and boom- we call that chemistry, Freud called it sex drive, I--"
 
Harry interjected hurriedly, afraid to hear more, "No, no! Love is when you really want to give to someone else, give feelings and thoughts, help, pleasure, all of it! Everything you can..." he trailed off.
 
Hermione gave a hollow, scornful laugh, "Surely you don't think I buy such piece of claptrap? And if that's what you believe in, then you're the biggest fucking hypocrite anyone has ever seen!"
 
He opened and closed his mouth several times, looking rather like a helpless fish out of the water. "Hermione, I'm sorry. I...I'll never let anything like this happen again, I'll--"
 
Abruptly, he broke off when she slapped him with all her might across his left cheek. A crimson handprint was imprinted over his face as the flesh around it paled. A tear trickled from the corner of his eye, but he didn't notice. Hermione watched the clear droplet slid down his high cheekbone silently, cradling her hand against her collarbone.
 
"Go away Harry, it's over between us," she said with finality, bending her head, letting her dark curls fall over her face. "I don't ever want to see your face again." Her voice was adamantine.
 
Harry took the bouquet in his arms and made an attempt to shove it into her arms. Hermione merely stood there with her head hanging to her chest, hiding her face behind a curtain of tangled curls. Defeated, he let the bouquet fall at her feet and turned to leave. Before he ever reached the end of the corridor, he heard a soft click as she closed the door. Harry looked over his shoulder, the bouquet laid at the foot of the door, partially crushed.
 
He hastened his strides.
 
<<<>>><<<>>><<<>>>
 
Just as Albus Dumbledore had feared, Harry's fame went to his head. There just wasn't a way to preserve his modesty and humbleness as they drowned in a sea of inappropriate idolization. But, he wasn't entirely to blame. His struggle for self-preservation was a losing battle from the start.
 
It is overwhelming for anyone of any age to be worshipped as the savior of the wizarding world, and Harry was no exception. The discomfort and bewilderment of being in the constant limelight fled him, as it had become a routine; the limelight never ceased to flash into his face. He took it for granted quickly, as it was part of his life, as though naturally.
 
The incessant flattery and adoration changed him from the humble and shy boy that he was, to the arrogant and conceited young man he become. His idolization in the magical community altered his way of seeing himself. The reflection he saw in the mirror was a powerful, righteous, and swoon-worthy hero; not the brave and lucky human individual he truly was.
 
After graduating Hogwarts, and being presented with any job he like, plus being awarded Order of Merlin first class (including a million Galleons worth of award money for the five times that he defeated Voldemort). His final shred of humility died right there and then at the graduation ceremony, as he accepted his diploma and awards while flashing his winning smile at hundreds of winking cameras.
 
Who needs work with a million Galleons? Not Harry Potter. Together, he and his girlfriend Hermione lived together in a cramp apartment in London (much to his displeasure). Together they went to Medi-Medical School, though Harry didn't do much other than retelling his heroic tales and displaying his famous lightning scar. And wherever he went, he found adoring witches (classmates and professors alike) of various ages hurling themselves at his feet. He felt he deserved it, for after all, he had probably saved all of their lives defeating Voldemort.
 
Hermione was too clever to not see his infidelity, but for too many times had she forgiven him of his rash flings. So often in fact, that her was taken for granted that she would never leave him.
 
<><><>
 
It was sad that when Harry finally became determined to pull himself together, she wouldn't have him ever again. For months he pursued her without avail until he was almost stalking her.
 
Then one day, it dawned to him that it was indeed, over.
 
She had moved on.