Hush

Hush

*

The common room is quiet tonight, just the scratching of quills on paper, crackling of the fire, and the soft, steady sound of Harry breathing, in and out and in.

Take her perfect melody, bind it up in a box with a little turnkey, and listen: it plays this.

*

She should be reading. Or doing her essay. Or something besides watching Harry sleep. Her Arithmancy marks are sliding; Padma Patil will beat her on the next exam. . . .

And Harry, he has work to do as well. His books are scattered on the coffee table in front of him; a piece of parchment lies abandoned in his lap. It's the only reason he stayed down here with her, she's certain; Ron went to bed hours ago. He needs to do work - his marks are terrible these days, she knows that for a fact.

But she's not about to wake him. She knows how Harry spends most nights - Ron tells her, although he doesn't really have to. It's all there in Harry's face every morning, in the shadows behind his eyes and the stark red of his scar.

Tonight he's found peace with her, and he will keep it.

*

Harry wakes before it gets bad. He's become good at that, a skill he taught himself, no Snape required. Maybe he doesn't sleep so much anymore, but that's all right. Plenty of time to sleep when he's dead.

Hermione's still here; he can feel her nearness, close enough to touch. Harry indulges for a tiny moment in the thought of her soft lips cooling the burn on his forehead, maybe travelling elsewhere, afterward.

It's comfortable and warm and he doesn't want to open his eyes.

*

He does.

She's still studying, reading from some parchment, and he smiles at the familiarity of it all. "Hermione," he says, yawning, "take a break."

"I was," she says, and it's her tone that jerks him fully awake. Not confused, not scared, not sad, but somehow all these together. "I was tidying up our things, and I found this."

He blinks, figures out what she's holding. "My Divination homework?"

"Yes." Her voice is still strange, uncertain, not-Hermione. "Harry - when? When did you start believing it? You never would've given her what she wanted before, you would've made up a hundred ridiculous scenarios, but never this."

Harry considers laughing it off, saying he wrote a prediction of his death at the hands of Lord Voldemort just to see Trelawney's reaction.

He doesn't.

"The Department of Mysteries," he says. "That's when." Harry reaches out to take the page from her, but she clenches it tight. "I notice you're not telling me I'm wrong."

"I want to," she says, her voice cracking. "Merlin knows I want to."

Hermione wraps her arms around his neck then, and he hugs her back, letting his hands get lost in her hair. It feels good to have her so near, and he closes his eyes, falls into it.

But she's crying now, and he doesn't want that.

"Hermione, stop. Please. Please stop," he says, trying to see her face. "You don't need to - just stop, please -"

She turns her head and her lips are so, so close to his. "What if I want to?"

Harry draws back - not much, just a little, but it's enough.

Hermione kisses his cheek and leaves him alone with the quiet.

*