The State of Things

They've been back from Christmas break for about a week or so, and as Harry walks to the library with Hermione he sighs, wishing things could just go back to the way they were at the beginning of the year. One glance at Hermione's stony face, however, tells him what an impossible wish that is.

Harry grimaces. He isn't all that happy with the state of things either, after all. When Ron started dating Lavender, Harry hadn't cared much either way, other than to worry about how Hermione would take it. Lavender was - just a girl in their year, and she was someone Harry had never thought much about either way. But after several weeks of "Won-Wons" and constant (and vaguely nauseating) public displays of affection, not to mention Lavender's absolute refusal to leave Ron alone for more than five seconds, Harry's ready to change his opinion: he's not much of a fan of Miss Brown. In fact, he's starting to downright resent her. He can't remember the last time he got to do anything with his best mate without Lavender there as well. Although it seems ludicrous, Harry's grown convinced that Lavender's actually been trying to cut him out of Ron's life, so she can have her boyfriend all to herself. The constant snogging, sometimes just a few feet away, the disgusting baby talk, and the not-so-thinly-veiled insults directed at Hermione got under his skin in a hurry. He tried to stick it out, so as not to give Lavender the satisfaction; and, for that matter, because Ron always gave him the most pathetic, imploring look whenever he showed signs of wanting to get away. Don't leave me alone with her, Ron almost seemed to be saying, but that doesn't make any sense at all - if he doesn't like being with Lavender, Harry reasons, he should just break up with her. And Ron doesn't seem to be intending to do any such thing.

After awhile, Harry found he really couldn't stand it anymore. He still sees Ron in class, and in their dorm; Ron's his best mate and always will be. But his stomach just can't take a heavy dose of Lavender every day. He needs fresher air.

And, for what it's worth, Hermione needs him more than Ron does right now, he suspects, in any case.

He's tried to talk to her over the past week, tried to get her to stop being so angry at Ron, because maybe if it was the three of them again they could overpower Lavender once in awhile. Hermione has refused to even talk about it, though, and Harry's forced to admit that he can't really blame her for being angry. He doesn't want her to forgive Ron because Ron especially deserves it; he just wants things to go back to the way they're supposed to be.

At the library, Harry tries to focus on his essay but he can't stop thinking that maybe he just hasn't found the right words to make Hermione see how much better it would be if they could all be friends again. He looks over at her and tries to think of a different way to plead his case, and in the process he sees her - really looks at her closely - and realizes why it's a lost cause.

Hermione isn't angry, she's hurt.

She's scribbling on her parchment, the words flying from her quill, and her face is screwed up in concentration. But beneath that, Harry can see fine lines at her eyes and circles beneath them. She's pale and tired and he hasn't seen her really smile in forever, and his heart aches for her as he acknowledges what he's known all along: that Hermione's heart is breaking, a little bit each day, every time she sees them together and every time she forces herself to keep her chin up and never let anyone see how hurt she is. She's got to be angry because it's all she has to go on.

"I miss him, too," he blurts out.

Hermione stops writing abruptly, her quill hanging in the air over her essay until a drop of ink falls with a softly audible "plop". She moves, then, setting the quill down, but she doesn't look at him; she just sits there, staring at the table, the expression on her face unchanging.

"Harry, I can't," she says finally in a near-whisper. "I know this is hard for you. But... I can't be... around..."

"I know," he says, cutting her off. "No, Hermione, I know. It's not your fault."

She looks at him then, and he can see her eyes are filled with tears she won't let herself shed, not now, not where anyone can see. Not even him.

Harry reaches out hesitantly, uncomfortable and awkward, not knowing what to do, really, but knowing, for once, what he wants to say. "I'm sorry, Hermione," he tells her, and he takes her hand.

He isn't good at this, and he's never known how to talk about his own feelings, let alone someone else's. But sitting here with Hermione, he understands that this is part of being a friend, a real friend - not just a school chum, and not just a colleague in the fight against evil, but just someone who cares, someone who doesn't have all the answers and can't make anything better, but who wishes, so very much, that they could. He thinks back over the years of Hermione's steadfast loyalty to him, and her worry and her concern, and he knows for the first time how she must feel whenever there's no reaching him, whenever he tells her that nothing she can do will help. Whenever he snaps out at her for even trying. He flushes with regret and shame, even more so because he knows she's never held it against him.

He squeezes her hand and she squeezes back, takes a deep breath and tries to smile a little. She isn't very successful, of course, but it doesn't matter. He's got a saving-people thing, Hermione told him once, and he admits it's true: but for the first time he understands how much harder it is, in the end, when you just have to let go.