fanfic_t00bs (fanfic_t00bs) wrote,


Title: When
Author: Nardaviel
Email: nardaviel [at] aol [dot] com
Category: Drama
Pairings: Ron/Hermione, Harry/Hermione
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None that I can think of.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Thank you, Amethyst.
Author’s Note: My betas rock. Particularly since I sent this in Sunday evening. Yes. You people are brilliant. And... that is all.


When Hermione told Harry with eyes glistening like broken stars that Ron had left her for Lavender Brown, Harry hated himself for his elation. He held her, comforted her, stroked her hair, memorized the way her body felt against his, inhaled her scent, and mentally smacked himself repeatedly. He was her best friend, he had no business longing for her when she was in this state. His duty was to be a good friend. Friend. That's all.

Friend. The word seemed awfully hollow.

Hold her.
Hate him.
Kiss her.
Don't kiss her.
Smell her.
Hurt him.

When Hermione had to blink back fresh tears when Ron was mentioned, Harry felt his stomach muscles become taut with rage. Best friend or no, he wanted to hurt Ron severely for what Ron had put his Hermione through. He wondered when he had started referring to her -- only mentally, of course -- as his Hermione. He decided he didn't really care. What mattered was that seeing his beautiful, bright Hermione hurt brought on a wave of possessive anger that was completely new to him. And if anyone made his Hermione unhappy, there would be hell to pay. This he knew.

Hurt him.
Help her.
Comfort her.
Touch her.
Don't touch her.
Avenge her.
Hurt him.

When Hermione tried to talk to Ron, a hopeless, desperate look on her face, only to be bluntly turned down, Harry punched him. Hermione would berate him, but he had what he had wanted. The one who had dared hurt his light, his own personal piece of the sun, had known pain. And really, what else matters?

When Lavender slapped Ron in the common room one night and stalked off towards the girls' dormitories, Hermione's face lit up and Harry's heart felt about to rip in two. Half of it wanted to rise in happiness -- Hermione hadn't looked this happy in weeks -- but the other part wanted to sink like a stone to the bottom of a lake. There was no doubt whatsoever in his mind that Ron deserved what Lavender had done; indeed, he deserved much worse for hurting Harry's Hermione. But Harry was also entirely certain that Ron was not at all worthy of his Hermione. And he knew -- he knew -- that Ron would come running back to Hermione.

Running out of time.
Kill him.
Tell her.
Don't tell her.
Smell her.
Taste her.
Don't taste her.
Touch her.
Don't touch her.
Touch her touch her TOUCH HER.

When Hermione told Harry that Ron had taken her back, her face like a candle after months of darkness, the pieces of Harry's shattered heart were in complete agreement and dropped to the floor almost as though they were still whole. She mistook the look on his face -- somehow -- for relief, laughed, hugged him, told him how grateful she was for all his help. Kissed him on the cheek. Harry clung to her like she was a rock and his emotions were trying to drag him out to sea to drown. His cheek burned where her lips had touched it, and he could swear that he could still feel them. When she left, still glowing, he ached with emptiness. His arms wanted to hold her, his body wanted to be next to hers, his face wanted to feel her hair against it, his entire being knew that she was home, and that therefore, he was a vagabond.

Hate her?
Miss her.
Hate him.
Love her?

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