Harry Potter 1. i

**i.**

**Immobulus**

_"__If I command the moon, it will come down; and if I wish to withhold the day, night will linger over my head; and again, if I wish to embark on the sea, I need no ship, and if I wish to fly through the air, I am free from my weight." - Thessalian Witches_

_TW: character death, suicidal thoughts, eventual self-harm and nsfw. _

* * *

In the end, it wasn't any Death Eater. No killing curse rebounded, catching him unawares on an Auror's mission. No basilisk, blinded, poisoned him with its deadly venom.

No. It wasn't anything quite so dramatic. Nothing nearly as exciting. In the end, it was (as it always is, I suppose) more simple than that. When his body was bony and starved, what little energy it received being dealt out to the tumors that riddled his system, it did what bodies do best.

It – Harry, the boy who lived – died.

*"*"*"*"*

I lie in bed, now. I've been doing this often, and during all hours of the day. I remember how punctual I used to be, quite rational and level-headed – but now I have an excuse to lie here stewing, at least; it's nighttime.

I know that this isn't healthy (obviously, I'm not entirely daft), but I'm not certain if I care or not. Harry's death seems to have taken something out of me, and of course I know that Ron is worried. But it's all that I can do to open my eyes most mornings, blinking dazedly in the morning sunlight before pulling my blankets over my head (I've never been one to use magic as an excuse to be lazy, and I can't seem to justify using my wand to close the curtains). How can I find a quill to send an owl, or open the front door, when I can't get out of bed?

Unfortunately, lying in bed gives me quite a bit of time to think. I'm picturing Harry's eyes, now. I remember holding him, the night before the end, his skin chalky enough to match the hospital bed sheets. He was thin, his clavicle sharp, ribs like fish bones, but his eyes – his eyes were green like holly leaves and they were clear despite the fever that caused his forehead to sheen and drip with perspiration. He moaned and clenched his teeth, near delusion, but his eyes were bright and alive.

I kick my blankets off. Their warmth and comfort makes my body ache.

"*"*"*"*"*

It's 3:07 in the morning again. I seem to wake at this hour more and more often, now. Some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder, most likely – at this exact minute, fourteen days ago, Harry died. How my sleep-wake cycle knows that, however, is a mystery to me.

Ten days since Harry's funeral (he said that he didn't care about the arrangements, just the burial place, which was to be Godric's Hollow); eight days since I last saw Ron (coffee). Seven days since I got more than one hour of sleep (Muggle sleeping pills, three). Four days since I showered last (was going to go out with Ginny, fell asleep and woke up naked with damp hair, one hour late). Two days since I last ate (toast).

Logic screams that I should leave my bed. I'm beginning to smell rather repugnant, and I won't get back to sleep. Anyway, I'm meant to go out for breakfast tomorrow with Ron. Today, with Ron, if one wants to get specific (I can't bring myself to care either way, although specifics used to drive me mad).

He's worried, I can tell. Perhaps I will get up and go. Then again, if I don't, it won't exactly have been the first date I've missed since Harry's death. I used to see him every day. I used to see _them_ every day.

Ron won't mind.

But I know I'm being cruel, and I shouldn't be. There isn't any need to be unkind. Ron has enough problems as it is – he's been covering Harry's assignments at The Department of Magical Law Enforcement until the Ministry is able to find an auror to replace him.

Which may not be for quite a while, I suppose. Who could ever take his place?

I'm crying, now – I ought to take a calming draught if I'm ever to make it to this breakfast date.

"*"*"*"*"*

At the funeral, it rained. I wove a wreathe of orchids and lilies for Harry's grave, reluctant to use any magic. The press was everywhere, vultures made of flashing lights and quick quotes quills.

"*"*"*"*"*

The draught makes me slap-happy and hungry, but mostly I find myself feeling numb. When I undress and stand underneath the showerhead, I don't want to wash myself. I just want to stay here, until the water goes cold, until my fingers and toes wrinkle like prunes.

I read once that our digits wrinkle under water because of evolution – to help us get a better grip while wet.

It's not helping at all.

See? Funny. I can do this. Hermione, you can do this. Yes, I can.

"*"*"*"*"*

After Harry's funeral, Ron and I sat underneath a large oak tree in the cemetery. Close to Harry, but not close enough for the reporters, the journalists, the Potter Fanatics to notice us.

Ron whispered to me: "I wish that we could hide him away in a big, stone cave, closed off from all these bloody lunatics."

"*"*"*"*"*"

I attempt to dress well, but I've never been very fashion-inclined. In the Wizarding world, anything goes, but I live in a Muggle apartment complex, and I can't just go for a stroll in anything I please. Under normal circumstances, I could simply pass as someone with poor fashion taste, but I haven't opened my door in days – with the pile of newspapers in the hallway in various stages of decomposition, the neighbors might think I've snapped.

Sod it. A sweater and jeans will have to do. Ron doesn't know the difference. He'll arrive in robes, and my neighbors will think I'm loony anyway.

I hear someone knocking on the front door (Ron says that doorbells are "bloody freaky") and I walk towards the entranceway, slowly, so I don't get dizzy. Lack of sleep and sustenance coupled with an extra-strength calming draught does not lead to optimal performance, and everything is slightly blurry, but I do my best.

I half-heartedly smooth down my hair before I open the door, and Ron greets me, wide-eyed and evidently _not _expecting an answer at the door.

"'Mione? Bloody hell, you look aw..." he falters. "I mean, well, it's good to see you." His eyes are shiny and red-rimmed, like he's been having a cry, and judging from his hair, you'd think there'd been a hurricane (although, that's hardly abnormal; it always looks like that). I know that mine isn't any better, anyway, so I don't comment. He leans in for a hug and I find myself tensing, unaccustomed to his touch after days without so much as exchanging a word. But we fit comfortably together, and with my face pressed against the silk of his black robes, I feel my lower lip start to wobble.

"Yes," I say quickly, pulling away from him and crossing my arms. I don't want to cry. I shouldn't be so ridiculous. Don't be daft, Hermione, shut up and don't snivel. "You too. Just…let me get my bag."

It's funny, that I don't care about worrying Ron when I'm lying in bed and letting him bang on the front door, but when he's right in front of me, I'm suddenly a mess.

My bag is in my room, but I feel myself beginning to sob and I have to stop in the hallway, just out of Ron's view, clutching the doorframe. In hysterics, I can't help but collapse on the stairs, and my house smells bad enough to turn my stomach, and my head is a mess of exhaustion and longing for Ron and something else, a hole in my stomach that isn't hunger but anguish and _Harry, Harry, Ha –_

Warm, freckled arms are around my waist and across my chest like a seatbelt, now, and I twist to bury my face in the robes of the man who these arms belong to, Ron. Painfully aware that I've been speaking Harry's name aloud, but unable to stop, I sob as Ron rocks me.

"You're fine, Hermione, shhhh, you're fine. Everything is going to get better, I swear. Merlin, Hermione. Are you sure you're up to going out?"

_Harry, Harry, Harry…_

"I know, Mione. I miss him too."

But it's not enough. It's never enough.


	2. ii

**ii.**

**Aparecium.**

When I was finally able to stop crying, tears turning from sobs to embarrassed hiccups and finally halted breaths, Ron declared that he would be staying with me for the day. At least, he said, until I "felt better". I admit that I had internally scoffed when he said that (thinking, _you may be here for quite a while_).

Now it's early evening - and I do, in fact, feel moderately better. Slightly more…myself. I'm existing on only a quarter dose of calming draught (less than I have in ten days) and I'm sitting in the living-room, staring at the copy of 'Merpeople: A Comprehensive Guide to their Language and Customs' that sits in my lap. I would usually be quite fascinated by this book, but now I pretend to read for something to do – really. I'm listening to Ron's long, even breathing. He's asleep on the couch, his arms and legs draped over arm rests and spilling onto my carpeted floor and his mouth open ever so slightly, drooling. I feel the sudden urge to smile but quell it – I'm meant to be reading, not ogling Ronald. I look down at my book again, trying to concentrate.

Before we had learned of Harry's diagnosis, Ron and I had been planning to move in together. But after Harry learned of the cancer, we decided that it would be best for everyone if we simply postponed the move – just until Harry got well again, we said. A few months. He protested, but I think that Harry was thankful, quietly, and we left it at that. Ron and I were happy to help – anyway, I used to joke, when Harry got well again he could help with the packing.

Obviously, that never came to pass.

I mustn't think about this, now – I'm nearing tears again.

I miss him.

"*"*"*"*"

When it happened, we were both sitting in my kitchen, drinking tea and flirting – I had been making a list, that evening. Colour-coded and comprehensive, it outlined everything that I would need for the move to Ron's house.

"Blimey, Hermione, do you really need three copies of 'Hogwarts: A History'?" Ron was playing with my hair, trying to distract me, and I remember how soft his hand had felt when I jokingly smacked it away.

"Yes, I do, because – stop that, Ronald! –, for your information, one is from your mother, the other Professor Flitwick gave me, and the third is from the Hogwarts Lib –"

"You nicked a book from Hogwarts?"

"No, of course not –"

Then the fireplace lit up a bright green, and there fell Harry, sooty and sweat-covered, swaying, and the rest of the night was a maelstrom of apparating, IV drips and empty diagnoses from healers - and finally reporters, ones who could only be kept out with threats of arrest.

"*"*"*"*"

It's nearly seven-thirty and Ron's stirring, now, snuffling into my couch cushion and retracting his arms and legs from their spread-eagle position. He rolls over and blinks at me.

"Oh, hey 'Mione." His voice is soft, gravelly and rough with sleep, and I dog-ear my book before putting it down.

"Hi," I say. "You've been asleep for quite a while."

He sits up and straightens his robes, rolling his shoulders back and stretching. "Yeah, it bloody well feels like it – feels like I've been hit by the Hogwarts express. You feeling any better?"

I try not to blush, images of earlier running through my mind. I move my lips to form a smile that I know comes across as a grimace. "Yes, actually, thank you. Er, I'm sorry about before."

Standing up to give myself something to do, I tidy up the living-room – book goes in the book shelf, blanket on the back of the chair – and as I pass by Ron to retrieve a dirty sock from the floor, he stands up.

"Hermione, uh…"

"Yes?" He's standing behind me, hands in his pockets and pale like a little boy, his face drawn.

"I…Are you doing okay?"

"Yes, absolutely!" I put down the sock and scratch my wrist, a newly developed nervous habit that I hope he doesn't notice. "I've been rather upset, lately, but I'm feeling quite a bit better – honestly, Ronald," I add in a laugh for good measure, "you worry too much."

"'Mione…" his lowers his voice, pitying, and I feel annoyance rise as heat, to my cheeks. "It's okay, I mean…you don't have to –"

"Ron, I'm fine! I am honestly, truly okay – I may have been having a difficult time, lately, but I have been dealing extremely well and I –"

"Merlin's beard, Hermione, you haven't opened your door in a week!"

He's angry now and I feel my eyes begin to sting. I can't handle this right now, another yelling match, I know that I'll go mad.

"A couple days ago I shoved an Extendable Ear underneath your door and listened, just to be sure that you hadn't offed yourself! I asked Ginny to ask you out to check on you and you turned up nearly an hour late, which is _not _like you, and now you look like you might've had a run-in with an angry Hippogriff!"

He pauses and softens, and I realise that I must be crying – yes, my cheeks are wet, good god…

"'Mione…c'mon, you know I'm not really angry, lookit, don't cry…"

But it's too late, and I breathe deeply and cross my arms to stop from shaking. I can feel that my face is strawberry red and I sniff.

"Thank you for going about all that effort." I must not cry, I must not cry…

He steps forward, and I pray that he won't attempt to hug me, but he only places a hand on my shoulder.

"It's what you woulda' done for me."

Up close, now, I can see that he's exhausted. Pale and gray, his freckles stand out like wounds on his face and his eyes are red-tinged and watery. His robes hang from his normally broad chest, and he looks as though he's cut himself shaving several times- unlike him: his perfectly sculpted stubble (he says that he's growing a beard) is his pride and joy.

Or, at least it used to be.

Ron and I both jump as a sharp tapping noise comes from the balcony. The ugly face of a Scops owl comes into view behind Ron, its image obscured by the glare from the lamps inside my apartment.

"You should get that."

I nod, tucking my hair behind my ear as I walk towards the balcony and let it in. It flies onto the couch, hopping down onto the armrest and squawking, holding out its leg towards me – tied to it is a scrap of parchment, wrinkled.

"That's Ginny's owl," Ron says, and suddenly I recognize it – Molly had presented it to Ginny when she moved out, proud as ever and completely unaware that Ginny absolutely cannot stand owls. Not in the slightest. It was a kind thought, though, and Ginny uses it off and on. She named it Anthony.

I've been neglecting Ginny.

"Yes," I say to Ron, untying the piece of parchment from Anthony's leg. The owl flies toward the balcony and Ron slides the door open just in time for it to fly out – he jumps back, then, slamming the door shut with a panicked expression, like it might try to fly back in again.

_"Hermione,_

_I'm at Hogwarts giving a presentation to the first years this week, I'd love to see you. _

_Meet for a butter beer at Hogsmeade tomorrow, if you're free? I miss you and would love to talk._

_I'll be there at eleven – if you're not there I'll just assume you feel asleep…haha._

_Ginny"_

Ron's leaning over my shoulder, now. "What'd she say? She hasn't sent me anything in days."

"She wants to meet at Florean Fortescue's in Diagon Alley tomorrow." It's best to lie – Ron's in the habit of wanting to spy on his sister, and we've developed ways to evade him by now.

"The ice cream parlour? It's November."

"Well, that's what she said – you can take it up with her, if you're so violently opposed to the idea." I shrug and roll my eyes, smiling gently to show that I'm kidding. "Anyway, Ron, it's getting late – if you'd like to stay for dinner, I can make something…" Cooking is something that I've never been good at, but I suppose that I can pull something together.

But Ron shakes his head, causing his hair to fall into his eyes. Looking at it, now, I can see that he needs a haircut. I remember how I cut Harry's, years ago while we were searching for horcruxes, and I feel a pang in my stomach.

"Nah – sorry, 'Mione. Gotta get home and showered for the late shift, I'm covering Har…" He trails off, eyes apologetic. "I've gotta get to work."

I should be angry; it's not as though I'm made of glass. I can hear his name without crying, thank you, and there isn't any reason to refrain from saying it. Harry, Harry, Harry.

But I'm not. Instead, I'm aware, suddenly, of how close we are, of how I look, of the stench of my apartment: stale sweat. He shouldn't have stayed the day. He shouldn't have made me tea, or picked up the laundry that was in a pile, dirty, on my couch. We aren't doing this anymore. We haven't been for a while.

"Oh – well, be safe, then.

"I will." He leans forward, and it looks as though he plans to kiss me. I duck, hugging him quickly before stepping away and folding my arms.

"I'll send you an owl, later."

His face falls, suddenly, wounded like he's been kicked. He takes a step back.

"Yeah, alrigh'. Bye, 'Mione."

And then he's gone, apparating with a sharp crack, and I'm alone.

Again.

"*"*"*"*"

Many months before the funeral, a cold night in March, I found myself in Ron's kitchen – we went out for coffee, watery and luke-warm, and then apparated back to his house. I had left one of my books there and had wanted to retrieve it, but he insisted on making me a cup of tea and I agreed to be polite. We hadn't spoken for a week.

The tea was too hot and I burnt my tongue, taking my first sip just as he frowned and said: "I don't think I can do this anymore. Maybe we ought to take a break."

My tongue was numb for days.


End file.

Harry Potter, Angst, Hurt-Comfort