Somewhere You Can't Follow

Somewhere You Can’t Follow

Laugh and cry

Live and die

Life is a dream we are dreaming

- Then You Look At Me, Celine Dion

---

It was strange, the things you thought about moments before your death. Some people thought about all the things they had done wrong, in hopes that perhaps God would forgive them for their sins. Most people conjured an image of their loved ones for a last time, as if there was an unspoken rule that stated that you could take with you whatever you saw last.

Or more sensibly, perhaps, whatever you saw last was what you would miss most, more than anything in the world.

Harry Potter stood alone in fog. To be in the presence of Lord Voldemort was to be very much alone, after all. He thought he saw his sinister eyes glow red in the distance, or maybe those were just some distant lights. Maybe lights from heaven. Would he go to heaven?

Voldemort had always been rather verbose with him, in all encounters before. He had rather liked to laze about and talk as if they had all the time in the world. Except he had been wrong, and his habit of wasting time had nearly been the death of him; he had given time enough for Harry to get help.

He didn’t seem to want to make the same mistake this time. He stepped out of the fog and into Harry’s line of vision. He was cloaked, and his face hooded. The mystery of not knowing the expression upon his face only added fear. Fear of the unknown, he thought with a bitter laugh.

Voldemort raised his wand. He did not ask Harry if he had any last words. He did not laugh at his foolishness. He did not remind him that he had prevailed at last. He did not speak.

Harry closed his eyes and waited, with his mind as clear as possible, his body light with the knowledge that death could take nothing away from someone who had nothing.

“Avada—“

With nothing to lose, eternal peace was on the other side, and he was teetering on the edge of a discerning line. He was so close, that he could almost feel the comfort of infinite rest within his grasp.

“—Kedavra!”

His eyes snapped open to meet a familiar green light. He expected an image of his mother, engulfed together in the same final burst of light at last.

But the only thing he saw was a pair of big, brown eyes, brimming over with tears.

And then, he died with a gasp.

--

“Harry.” The voice was familiar. Ron. His mess of red hair was getting in his face as he leaned over with concerned eyes.

Harry opened his mouth. He realized he no longer had a voice. So, this was heaven? Why was Ron here?

“Are you alright?” Ron asked, a frown creasing his forehead. He then realized his hand had been pressing into Harry’s stomach and let go.

Harry let out a cough as he breathed for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. His head cleared, and he opened his eyes wide and clear.

“I’m not dead,” he said hollowly. The night echoed with the sound of Ron’s hesitant laughter.

“Of course you’re not, Harry,” he reassured him with a pat on the head. Relief flooded through Harry. Although—hadn’t he wanted to die? “You’re at The Burrow with my family and Herm.”

Harry felt something in his stomach stir, as if something Ron had said had caused the reaction. Had he eaten something off before going to bed? He racked his mind for the memory. No. Mrs. Weasley’s dinner had been excellent.

“Should I go wake Hermione, then? You want to talk to the both of us about your dream?” Harry jolted again. Hermione. His mouth ran dry.

“No, no,” he said. “That’s not necessary. I’m fine.”

Ron peered at him.

“Well, obviously, you’re not,” he said, pointing at the sweat drenching his hair. Harry gave him a scowl.

“You’d be sweating too, if you dreamt you had been killed by Voldemort,” he snapped. Ron made a small noise of surprise.

“Nasty dream, that must have been,” he said. His sheets ruffled as he climbed back into bed. “No wonder you were frowning like that.”

Harry murmured in response, propping his head against his arms as he pretended to drift off into sleep again.

He couldn’t tell Ron, he thought, his eyes closing again. He couldn’t tell him why he had been frowning as if he had had a sudden revelation.

What revelation?

Then, some inner voice in him grumbled back in a voice strongly reminiscent of a certain bushy-haired girl.

Don’t be so dense, it scolded. You know very well which revelation.

Harry fell asleep to the sound of his fluttering heart.

--

He woke up late the next morning. The sound of clattering plates and forks awakened him. Rubbing his growling stomach with the promise of food very soon, he stretched and got up. Then, he glared at the window; the sun was shining annoyingly bright.

Giving a last yawn, he kicked his still packed trunk and rummaged around for a shirt that wasn’t disfiguringly wrinkled and a pair of trousers without juice and ketchup stains on them.

He grabbed his clothes, then made for the bathroom, running into someone soft, mid-yawn.

“Oh, sorry, Harry,” Hermione patted his shoulder gently. She had been wandering around, engrossed in the latest issue of The Daily Prophet. Wearing a large T-shirt advertising dental (there was a scary picture of a girl with alarmingly large braces)—Harry realized he had not been breathing. When he did, a distant, flowery smell wafted over to his nose.

“You smell good,” he burst out suddenly. Hermione looked up.

“Oh? Yes, that’d be my shampoo…” she glanced at Harry’s head. “You should try using some today.”

Harry flushed slightly and murmured an okay or two. Locking himself into the bathroom, he took off his pajamas, turned the water on and climbed in, wondering at the awkward encounter. Had Hermione done something to herself? She looked…different. Harry tried to remember. Her hair was still poofy and silly, albeit smelling very nicely. Her face had the same brown eyes, the same slightly upturned nose, and thin lips. Her arms, her legs—Harry felt himself blush as he thought of those bared legs, the shirt skimming just smack dab in the middle of her thighs.

So, he thought, with a would-be casual shrug. Hermione was a girl. So what? He had seen plenty of girls. He had even kissed one. He grabbed a bottle of shampoo almost angrily. No big deal. One of his best friends was of the female gender. That was all.

“Agh!” Yelling out loud as he slipped on spilt shampoo, Harry sat on the cold bathtub floor, his buttocks throbbing slightly. He glared at the pink shampoo bottle, as if it were the cause of all his new problems.

I wonder if Hermione has ever slipped in the shower like this? He thought nonchalantly, before catching himself.

He was obsessing over Hermione. Hermione Granger, for heaven’s sake. He had to stop. And it would, he calmed himself by saying.

What it was, was shock. Shock of seeing her face pop up in his dream. It wouldn’t happen again, and he would forget about it.

He would forget about her.

--

He was holding a beautiful brunette in his arms. He shook the book off of the chair—it was just cluttering things up, anyway--and held his lips against her neck. He inhaled her lovely scent, feeling more and more intoxicated by the second.

“Harry,” she was whispering, her body curving wantonly. Harry felt aroused, and his hands were snaking lower. Then, she began to moan his name in a sweet and decidedly lascivious voice…

--

It was the last straw. He had had the same variations of dreams for the last five days, all of them starring Hermione Granger. Either his brain had taken a mighty fall, or he was harboring some kind of feelings for her.

He’d rather it be the former. Having feelings for someone usually complicated things.

“You look a bit off color, Harry,” Ron commented over chess. He was playing by himself.

“I’m fine,” Harry replied, but nevertheless ruffled his hair in frustration. Perhaps he would skip dinner, he thought, as he realized he would have to face Hermione then. How could he not blush as red as a Weasley, watching her innocent face, the same face that had done so many scandalous things to him last night?

But that was the dangerous part. The fact that she was doing these things to him without even knowing it. What if—what if she was already involved with someone? Perhaps she really was interested in Krum. Or—Ron. Harry suddenly shot a dirty look at his friend, before he could stop himself.

“What?” Ron asked incredulously. Evil girlfriend snatcher. What did she see in him? Harry stopped himself then, cursing silently. Hermione was not his girlfriend. He was not going to be his girlfriend. They were brilliant friends. She was brilliant, anyway. She was brilliant at sex, too, according to his dreams—

“Gah!” he shouted loudly, throwing his hands up in the air. Ron looked frightened. Harry breathed loudly, taking a few moments to calm himself down. He shrugged at Ron.

“Shouldn’t be chess playing by yourself, that’s all. It’s pathetic,” Harry muttered, kicking himself as he forced his way into a humiliating game of chess.

And perhaps he had lost so badly, due to the fact that all of the chess pieces were beginning to resemble a beautiful, brown haired girl.

--

Dinner was a normal affair, by anyone else’s standards. The Weasleys and Hermione chattered happily, cheerful noise filling the house as usual. Mrs. Weasley made it her mission to get every person to get at least two helpings of each dish.

“You’re all much too skinny!” she clucked her tongue, pouring a disgusting amount of mashed potatoes in front of Ginny. When Mrs. Weasley turned away, she exchanged a glance with Ron, and then she quickly shoved a few spoonfuls toward Ron’s plate.

And all through the familiar commotion, Harry sat quietly, staring at his plate, watching his awkward reflection. Well, he didn’t have to stare at his plate, really. Just anywhere but across the table, one seat to the left. That was where Hermione was sitting, sharing with Mr. Weasley her views on House-Elf rights. Ron was going red, still muttering, “What rights?” to which Hermione would shoot daggers at him.

Harry moaned into his plate. He had sneaked a look at Hermione, yelling hotly at Ron. She looked so fiery, exactly how she would look in the heat of passion—

“No,” he said, louder than he meant to. Some of the chatter slowed down.

“What was that, Harry?” Mrs. Weasley asked. Harry blinked owlishly, feeling Hermione glance at him worriedly.

“I meant, no more rolls, please,” he covered quickly. Ron shrugged from beside him, as if to say, ‘He’s been going bonkers all week’. Which, he had been.

“Yea, mum, you’re going to kill us all, the way you’re gorging us,” Fred noted from the end of the table. Mrs. Weasley huffed.

“Well, I’ll have no one in my house ever go hungry,” she said vehemently. Ginny patted her mother on the back consolingly, and then rolled her eyes when she was not looking.

But Harry ignored most of this. It was not that he was dense, or ignorant.

He was just not feeling well, was he? He noticed plenty of other things, after all. Like how Hermione held her fork, her fingers curved around the metal elegantly as she stabbed at the chicken potpie. Or, how her hair kept getting in the way of her food, and how she irately brushed it away with a small grunt every few seconds. Or, how her mouth formed an ‘o’ when she closed her mouth to chew her food, and how her neck bobbed when she swallowed. Or plenty of other things, each one as trivial and unimportant as the next, and yet all regarding Hermione bleeding Granger.

“Pass the peas,” a voice said, interrupting his hopeless thoughts. Harry jumped. Hermione was staring at him with a beauteous smile. He couldn't take it a moment longer. It really was the last straw.

“I love you, Hermione,” he said whimsically, without thinking. All talk quieted down. Hermione’s face blanked, and she blinked slowly, then again, and again. She had long, thick eyelashes, he noticed.

He gave her an extra large spoonful of peas before excusing himself from the dinner table.

--

He didn’t have to wait long before she came for him. He knew it was her by the way her footsteps sounded on the carpet. Not thundering, like Ron’s, nor slightly defiant, like Ginny’s, but soft and almost invisible.

The door creaked open.

“Mind if I come in?” she asked timidly. Harry almost laughed. Since when was she timid? He turned to face the wall. He didn't want to watch her laugh at him.

“Might as well, since you’re here already,” he said offhandedly. She padded in, and sat on the edge of his bed.

“Are you alright?”

He didn’t answer.

“It’s okay,” he said instead. She looked confused. He elaborated, playing with a rubber ball stuck in the side of the bed. “If you don’t lo--if you don't like me back, I mean.”

Silence greeted him. Just as he thought, anyway. She was probably having a wild tryst with both Ron and Krum. He was probably the last thing she would ever think about for days on end, as he had.

“You think I don’t love you?” she asked softly.

“You probably think I’m a jerk now,” he said wistfully. “Probably hate me.”

“You’re stupid.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t,” she said heatedly, and then her hands were turning his face around. Before he could open his mouth to apologize, her lips were covering his, and her tongue gently caressing the inside of his mouth. Harry immediately responded, in more ways than one, but she quickly broke off, much to his dismay.

“You don’t know,” she repeated. Harry stared at her blurry eyes.

“Why are you crying?”

“Because you’re stupid!”

“Oh.” He was really quite disappointed. He had thought that maybe, she would like him now, if she was kissing him…

“I can’t believe you didn’t know that I loved you, you gigantic fool,” she cried, before launching herself on him again. This time, the kiss was more prolonged, and she was more eager, more passionate.

She pushed him down aggressively and came up for air.

“How could you ever even think that?” she asked, punching him gently in the stomach. Harry gasped.

“I-I dunno,” he wheezed. “I didn’t even know I loved you until I had a dream--”

“What dream?” Hermione asked. Harry sat up, and then fidgeted, before reluctantly telling her.

“I was with Voldemort. He did the killing curse, and...I was dying,” he said. “And then, a moment before death--I saw you.”

Hermione stood quite still. So still, Harry wondered if something was wrong. Perhaps he shouldn't have told her about his dream.

“I’m sorry if that upset you...I’m just really thick, and I’m an idiot...”

“Shut up, Harry,” she said softly. “It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Harry’s face broke out into a relieved grin. Hermione smiled back weakly.

“So, what? You realized you couldn’t live without me, or something?” she asked, half jokingly. Harry placed a hand on her waist and gently laid her down on the bed, smiling.

“Well, yes,” he said. “But it was more that I realized at the last moment that I didn’t want to give up to Voldemort.” His breath tickled her chin, his nose pressed up against hers. Hermione felt slow tears drip down her cheeks as if they had been squeezed from the happiness welling up inside of her. Her tears disappeared against Harry’s skin, and he whispered to her some more.

“Not when I would be going somewhere you couldn’t follow.”

-fin-