Gone
Title: Gone
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Sexual References
Characters/Pairings: Hermione, references to Hermione/Ron, Harry-Hermione friendship.
Word Count: @600
Author's Notes: Companion to Sins of the Father, contains spoilers for Chapter 21. Inspired by this: Also, part of me is crying - loudly - for a small Harry & Hermione piece, dealing with...
She wasn’t sure how she managed to sit there, in the room with the posters of orange-clad Quidditch players, on the bed that she had attended to in secret many a night during her time spent in the Burrow. She wasn’t usually this masochistic, but there was something freeing about the pain that pulsed inside her as she sat in the room made dim and grey by twilight.
Her fingers twisted the material that had been a tissue, but which was now nothing more than its remains: damp, shredded bits of white and a hundred flecks of lint against her red palms. Her body convulsed again and she broke into fresh sobs. She reached for a fresh tissue, and then another, and another, and attempted to soak up the misery as it flowed freely over her face.
She abandoned the hopeless endeavour and lay down, clutching an orange pillow and curling up around it. She took a deep, shuddering breath, and as she did so, even through her stuffy nose, she could smell him. She felt a physical pang at her very centre and held the pillow tighter, pressing her face against it, treasuring the scent, torturing herself with it. She wept loudly and the pillow consoled her by absorbing the sound of her pain.
The grief tore her apart, her heart pounded with the fury, her soul stung with the longing. Yet, she still couldn’t believe it. He was gone; tomorrow was the funeral.
The funeral.
He was gone.
His arms would never hold her again. She would never grin into his lips while running her hands along his freckled skin. She would never repress a smile while he tried to distract her from a bad mood with a bad joke. There was no walking down an aisle towards him, no with devious, bushy-red haired children…
She sobbed harder into the pillow. The orange pillow that smelt like Ron. In the orange bed where she’d learnt every part of him, giggled mischievously with him, sighed in pleasure with him, looked into his eyes and known without a doubt that she loved him, that he loved her.
Gone. Gone. Gone.
She hated the pain, but she clung to it because she knew the space it filled, she knew when the anguish was over there would only be emptiness. So, she lay there, crying, engulfed in sorrow. She didn’t think of the time, she didn’t notice as the last of the light faded from the room and left her in complete darkness.
Suddenly, a hand touched her arm tenderly, and she felt a weight settle on the mattress beside her. Her body naturally rolled towards the new indentation, and she opened her eyes to see a soft light cast in the black room by the bedside lamp. A question rose to her lips, but it died when her brown eyes met the green ones that looked back at her, full of loss and pain and grief. Those eyes she hadn't seen in months.
“Harry,” she whimpered, and wave of undefinable emotion swept through her. She slid into his waiting arms and clung to him. He held her just as tightly, his cheek against the top of his head. His heart pounded and his body shook.
“He’s gone,” she whispered. “He’s gone.”
“I know,” he said, his voice cracking. “Hermione, I know...” His voice was lost in the heave of a dry sob, and he fastened his arms more tightly around her. He rocked her back and forth as they sat their on the bed of their best friend, two parts of a broken whole, lost without their third piece.
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Sexual References
Characters/Pairings: Hermione, references to Hermione/Ron, Harry-Hermione friendship.
Word Count: @600
Author's Notes: Companion to Sins of the Father, contains spoilers for Chapter 21. Inspired by this: Also, part of me is crying - loudly - for a small Harry & Hermione piece, dealing with...
She wasn’t sure how she managed to sit there, in the room with the posters of orange-clad Quidditch players, on the bed that she had attended to in secret many a night during her time spent in the Burrow. She wasn’t usually this masochistic, but there was something freeing about the pain that pulsed inside her as she sat in the room made dim and grey by twilight.
Her fingers twisted the material that had been a tissue, but which was now nothing more than its remains: damp, shredded bits of white and a hundred flecks of lint against her red palms. Her body convulsed again and she broke into fresh sobs. She reached for a fresh tissue, and then another, and another, and attempted to soak up the misery as it flowed freely over her face.
She abandoned the hopeless endeavour and lay down, clutching an orange pillow and curling up around it. She took a deep, shuddering breath, and as she did so, even through her stuffy nose, she could smell him. She felt a physical pang at her very centre and held the pillow tighter, pressing her face against it, treasuring the scent, torturing herself with it. She wept loudly and the pillow consoled her by absorbing the sound of her pain.
The grief tore her apart, her heart pounded with the fury, her soul stung with the longing. Yet, she still couldn’t believe it. He was gone; tomorrow was the funeral.
The funeral.
He was gone.
His arms would never hold her again. She would never grin into his lips while running her hands along his freckled skin. She would never repress a smile while he tried to distract her from a bad mood with a bad joke. There was no walking down an aisle towards him, no with devious, bushy-red haired children…
She sobbed harder into the pillow. The orange pillow that smelt like Ron. In the orange bed where she’d learnt every part of him, giggled mischievously with him, sighed in pleasure with him, looked into his eyes and known without a doubt that she loved him, that he loved her.
Gone. Gone. Gone.
She hated the pain, but she clung to it because she knew the space it filled, she knew when the anguish was over there would only be emptiness. So, she lay there, crying, engulfed in sorrow. She didn’t think of the time, she didn’t notice as the last of the light faded from the room and left her in complete darkness.
Suddenly, a hand touched her arm tenderly, and she felt a weight settle on the mattress beside her. Her body naturally rolled towards the new indentation, and she opened her eyes to see a soft light cast in the black room by the bedside lamp. A question rose to her lips, but it died when her brown eyes met the green ones that looked back at her, full of loss and pain and grief. Those eyes she hadn't seen in months.
“Harry,” she whimpered, and wave of undefinable emotion swept through her. She slid into his waiting arms and clung to him. He held her just as tightly, his cheek against the top of his head. His heart pounded and his body shook.
“He’s gone,” she whispered. “He’s gone.”
“I know,” he said, his voice cracking. “Hermione, I know...” His voice was lost in the heave of a dry sob, and he fastened his arms more tightly around her. He rocked her back and forth as they sat their on the bed of their best friend, two parts of a broken whole, lost without their third piece.