Pain

Notes:Just thought I'd post this old story on here, since it seems more fitted to AFF, anyway. So much has changed since the last time I posted on here. o_O

Notes2: It’s always the girl that needs to be reassured in everything, and for some reason, that just recently pissed me off. Inspired by that, and dedicated to all those who are always tired of it being the girl.

Warnings: Not-so-graphic sex (note the rating anyway), AU, and a slight amount of Harry-angst. Set immediately after Deathly Hallows, so spoilers. No official pairing.

Pain

Everyone expects him to be the epitome of a hero. They expect him to be some saint – some strong man who can have his entire family die, and the world crumble at his feet, and still remain tall, proud, and unaffected. They expect him to smile right after burying the last person connected to his parents, to pose for pictures, to act as if this war were just another safe wizard’s duel, and the people who had died were actually just on an extended vacation. Ignore the fact that he’s only seventeen years old. Ignore the fact that he should have been in school this year, taking his NEWTS, instead of going off to save the Wizarding World from the creature that had murdered his parents. Ignore the fact that over the past three years, he’s lost and lost and lost, and has never officially been given proper time to mourn. Ignore the fact that, when he goes to the graves of his friends and family, he needs privacy, not flashing cameras.

I expect him to be him. I expect him to be the stupid teenaged boy he should be – practicing magic outside of school just because he can. I expect him to be out in the backyard of our best friend’s house, playing Quidditch and twisting and turning in dangerous stunts as though he has never tasted his own mortality. I expect him to just smile that dazzling smile, without it masking the pain and the hurt and the loss and the torture that has plagued his life since the fateful night sixteen years ago. I want him to be that.

And I think he does, too.

Which is why he has me pressed up against the outside wall of Hogwarts, his lips brutally attacking mine, his hands traveling and exploring my body with unabashed, feverish need. His eyes are closed as he presses his body against mine, his mouth moving to my jaw, his breath hot on my neck. Neither of us make a sound – we both know that this isn’t passion or desire. His hands slip beneath my shirt, creep across my stomach and up, before pulling back and harshly pulling the offending material from his path. His lips attack my collarbone, sucking, biting, pleading. Suddenly, his hips jerk in a desperate movement, and he pauses, eyes finally opening, allowing me just a glimpse of unshed tears, before they dart away. With one movement, or two, his own shirt has joined mine on the ground, his pants unbuckled and waiting. He moves back to me, now. His kisses flutter across my still covered breasts. His lips are quivering. His shoulders are beginning to slightly quake. He’s falling. We both know it. There’s no stopping it.

Only slowing.

I allow my hands to travel now, across his lithe, pale chest. Across little nicks and scars, to his unhealthily protruding hips, and finally to his own offending garment.

It’s not sex. Not with the lack of passion and desire and the presence of need and grief. He’s considerate, of course – not even war could take that from him. I’m willing – I would do anything for him. But as we move, there’s no urge to claim, no yearning to satisfy. The moans that escape his lips are more cries of loss, the urgency of his movements a belated wish of how quick he wishes he could have been that night. I call back to him, running my hands along his back in reassurance, placing kisses to his chest to soothe. He only moves faster.

“Her … Hermione.” His voice isn’t wanton as he says my name, but rather childlike – sorrowful in destroyed innocence. He’s shivering now – violently. His eyes are open now, the tears that had been held in falling with exceeding joy at being released. He’s biting his lip, not in pleasure, but in pain. Pain. Always pain. “Hermione. Please. Please.”

“Please what, Harry?” I ask softly, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. We’re still moving – more brutally than before. He buries his head into the crook of my neck – I can feel his tears and his short breaths. He’s so close to the ground now.

“Please. Please tell me you love me. Please. Please.” It’s within inches. He knows he’s going to hit. He knows it will hurt. I pull him closer.

“I love you, Harry.” It was almost a growl. “I love you. You’re my best friend. You mean the world to me. I wouldn’t be able to live if anything happened to you. I need you, Harry. I love you. I love you.”

Upon my last syllable, he cries out, and our upper bodies pulls away instantly. I can’t help him any further, he knows. He has to fall on his own. No one can catch him. Not this time.

And when it’s over, he’s the one leaning back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest, sobbing into his arms. Carefully, I cover him with his robe, before quickly pulling on my own. I take a final look at him before departing. I can’t help him any further. He’s hit the ground now. When he’s ready to recover, I’ll return.


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It’s three days before I see him again. He’s kneeling in front of the Casualty Monument in front of the school, head bowed, a squirming, infant Teddy Lupin in his arms. He’s muttering words I can’t hear, words that weren’t my business to hear. Ron’s standing just beside him, resting a supporting hand on his shoulder. Our eyes meet, and between us passes an understanding.

And then the sound of a boot crunching a twig snatches our attention. I barely have time to see Harry stiffen as I whirl around to face two Daily Prophet reporters, each carrying a camera and a hungry look in their eyes, poised and ready to strike. Without a second thought, I whip my wand from my sleeve, setting their contraptions ablaze with a simple mouthed curse, smirking as they back off with an unimaginable speed.

I turn back toward Harry and Ron, making my way to them as though nothing had happened. Slowly, cautiously, I reach out and place my hand between my best friend’s shoulder blades. He tenses for a mere second, before turning his face toward mine. We stare at one another for a moment, each searching the others’ eyes for it.

And then, for the first time in days, a smile slowly flitters across his face, and behind his back, Ron takes my hand and Teddy coos at us all. I return Harry’s smile.

There isn’t a mask anymore.

Finished