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In the deep of night the the Burrow’s forest rattled with dark magic, Harry could hear it, smell it even, everything dark in that forest was alive tonight. It should probably be scaring him but it didn’t. He could only assume that the looming war had intensified the dark magic that was awaiting him behind every corner. Harry didn’t think of himself as a particularly gifted or special person, more like a scrawny git that was insanely lucky most of the time. But tonight he felt different, in a good way for once. Like everything in his head had stilled for a moment, the searching night. The dark magic in him was probably searching for a companion, if it even could be that sentient, it felt like it was alive in him, he was sure of it. Because at night he heard whispers of death, torture, complete and utter horror and so he stayed up to grip his sheets forcing himself to be grounded, tethered to reality. Harry didn’t wanna be bad. Didn’t want to be evil or cruel or hurtful to anyone and others may think of that as a weak but it was the only thing that kept him sane. Recently he felt a rage, an anger that he didn’t think was possible before. He usual had kind of a dramatic temper, his emotions would come in short yet intense waves, drown him in it for a bit before spitting him back out completely fine. He could be angry at someone sure for at bit longer but he wasn’t particularly petty or vengeful to normal people – but this new found anger was so so much worse. If his normal temper was a like waves this new one was like an erupting volcano: everything he’s ever felt came back in flashes and tales as he got angry, he’d so many horrible things and that anger, that wrath would tenfold. It made him feel like he was gonna burn up from the inside or start spewing lava or something. So, he stood outside in the autumn chill and stare into the night. Just stare, as he stood in the kitchen. Looking out the open window.
Lighting up a cigarette he was moved as quick and silent as a mouse, ready to throw it away if Mr. or Mrs. Weasley woke up. He hadn’t changed out of his normal clothes yet, which was dumb because now they were gonna smell like fags in the morning. Which again was dumb, since they were leaving tomorrow morning for their mission, smelling horrible off the bat when you don’t know when or how you’re gonna shower in the next couple months isn’t a good idea. It’s all bloody stupid.
When the evening cold hit him like this he became weirdly nostalgic, like he had aged ten to twenty years in a couple minutes – he felt fragile and helpless against the sudden need to reminisce. He supposed this beautiful night was perfect for that anyways.
Harry wondered if they loved him. His parents obviously, if they truly – honestly wanted him as theirs - as their boy or if he had been some horrid mistake. If they just happened to not take their moonshine that night or if they had wanted a kid in the middle of a war. Maybe he was just some big surprise that soon left a sour aftertaste. He sucked a long drag from his cigarette and blew.
“That’s a rotten habit, ” Hermione walked in, her hair big and assumingly mussed from sleep. A sleep that turned to be brief, Hermione was usually a heavy sleeper. Harry shrugged.
“Those things can kill you Harry,” She said.
“Everything can,” he said back. She slithered closer to him, shoulder to shoulder and they looked out at the Burrow’s big lawn. She knew what he meant by that, she had to.
The moonlight shone gently on ‘Miones skin. Her dark skin was what Harry noticed first about her – ‘Just like me,’ he thought. Little Whinging wasn’t all that diverse so when he saw someone that looked like him, he grew curious. He thought she bore it better though, all mysterious, beautiful, and sweet. Harry had always thought that she was pretty, but he could understand why she curled in on herself. Hermione was a very political person, a very moral person and therefore she knew, logically, she wasn’t worth any less than anybody else. She knew, rationally, she was worth it – that’s the funny thing about feelings though. They defy all forms of logic. You easily know that you can’t die from sadness, but it feels overwhelming, deafening and isolating. Like a storm brewing right outside your door, you just ride it out and wait – there’s not really anything you can do. Feelings are fickle. ‘Annoyingly so,’ he grumbly thought.
“Ron asleep?” He asked. She nodded looking bashful. He grinned cheekily, secretly to himself, they are both so smart yet so stupid at the same time.
Harry understood why she was acting so small and meek when she was anything but that. He understood the shame that brewed beneath one’s skin when said skin wasn’t what others thought it should be. He just wished that he took take that away from Hermione, take the pain away and bear it for her forever. She didn’t deserve that, not his sister.
He may not know if his parents wanted him, but he did know that he had good people around him, maybe even too good, and he loved them, so it doesn’t matter.
He bumped his shoulder into hers, earning a scoff and a shove. Nipping it in the bud, he stamped his cig out and threw it out. The rest of the night in the kitchen was spent in silent companionship, skin against skin. Brown to brown, as they weighed their options.
A war was coming.
*
“Ron!” Hermione screamed, “Ron come back!” her voice was wobbly and heaving as the tears fell from her misty eyes. The cold holding onto it as they slid down her brown bruised cheek.
“You can’t just leave! Ronald! Come back!” Her voice was getting shriller by the minute, more and more desperate. She wanted him to stay, needed him to stay, why couldn’t he just understand that? He didn’t listen to her though, he was too blinded by rage and jealousy, too blinded by the locket and with a clap of thunder he was gone.
Hermione stared at where he’d gone, stared at the footprints in the thick snow and sobbed. Her knees buckled; she could feel the ice hit her knees harshly as the cold bite into her.
‘He won’t be able to find the camp again, we’ll have to leave tomorrow morning’ she thought, weepingly as she whimpered. “Harry, Harry,” – “He won’t be able to find us,” she cried.
His face was stormy, opening his mouth Hermione could tell that he was biting a mean remark about Ron back. He kneeled next to her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, bringing her closer.
“We can stay here as long as possible, but we’ll have to move at some point ‘Mione,” He whispered.
She started shaking even more and he could tell she was holding back.
“ok, ok…”
“Mione – “he muttered quiet, voice blubbering “Mione I am so sorry,”
She didn’t say anything, she just stared at the in dents of what’s left of Ron in the snow.
“Yeah, I am too,” Her teary eyes looked back him, and Hermione moved to hug her brother, they both needed some comforting.
Hermione loved them both, she needed them both, they were her family, but the ache in her heart was too fresh and real. She missed Ron, she loved Ron. She couldn’t love anyone like she loved Ron, she knew that for sure. She rested her head on Harry’s shoulder, her tears fresh and freezing she gripped his arm to her as a life line as she cried her heart out. Shoulder to shoulder, skin to skin, brown against brown – they sat there in the storm of winter greying from war.