Ironically, the outside situation begins to fall apart when Draco Malfoy is taken.
Invited to his initiation, they say. Caught by the Ministry, they say. Run away from his father, they say. Smuggled to Italy by his mother, they say.
"What do they know," complains Hermione.
The Trio huddles closer now. The puzzle pieces gleaned from Harry's dream, the Weasleys evacuated from the Burrow, and Draco's own fevered words to Hermione after the last prefect meeting-- put together, it's not something they'd wish on their worst enemy.
Though it's too good for Tom Riddle.
Harry says as much when Dumbledore obliquely hints at them, eyes alarmingly calm, to keep their conclusions to themselves.
They go one further. They keep to themselves, an armored shell of three and twos when they walk each other to class, and a warm, quivering one behind Hermione's bed curtains.
"If one Malfoy heir doesn't count for anything, how much more the rest of us!" says Ron, when Hermione asks why he was taking it so hard. Harry silences him with a kiss.
It's a different thing for Hermione to be privy to the boys' antics. Usually she lets them have their privacy; boys are boys. She's resigned to that. But tonight, watching them pull at each other, she feels curiously hot, on the edge of discomfort. She wants to take her blouse off. For the first time she feels odd and exhilirated, like an egg on a high wall, or a woman.
"Are you all right, Hermione," Harry says. Ron looks belatedly guilty. Hermione can only think how kiss-swollen Harry's lips are, how Ron's blush spreads down his neck.
And she hiccups, or sobs, or something that draws them to her side. It all feels so stupid and breakable, with the monsters thronging beyond the walls, that she's made them stop something so beautiful. It feels unsafe, and she wants to feel anything but that.
For once, Ron says exactly the right thing. "C'mon, Hermione. You're lovely."
Her insides feel like Elastic Taffy. She gets a hold of herself, and looks from one to the other. It dawns on her, as her fingers speed Harry's breathing, that she's ashamed of wanting. They are waiting for her explanation. As they always do.
"All together?" she asks. The boys immediately know what she means. No-- Ron and Harry do.
Harry kisses her brow. It's easier to speak up now in spaces where he'd have ordinarily kept silent. "It's always seemed equal."
Ron lays a hand on her thigh. When she shivers, so does he. "You don't have a problem with the two of us, do you, luv?"
Her eyes flutters at the endearment. "No, no..."
"The two of us, she means. I mean," Harry's hands wave between them, trying to demonstrate the complex arithmetic they've built. "Ron, if I... if we, er, Hermione and I..."
Ron's eyes flash briefly. Yes. Of course I would be jealous. "And you?" He says after a moment.
Harry looks away. Not quite incriminating, but it still twinges.
Hermione tugs them for a kiss each, her hands knotted in their shirts. "It's strange with just one of you. I've gotten used to it..." she trails off and shakes her head. "I can't say 'I' when I say this. It makes it seem like 'Hermione has two boyfriends' or 'Harry's shagging them--'"
"Not that I have."
"Or, 'Ron Weasley's got them both on his string.'" Ron plops down, bouncing the bed. "I get it. So what happens if one of us..."
All the king's horses and all the king's men.
Harry takes off his glasses and captures Hermione's lips. Ron watches, thinking Harry really loves kisses. Harry's voice is soft and pensive when he pulls away.
"With you, Hermione, it's like warmth and," he struggles, "sweets and fairy lights and Christmas. But it... with Ron, it tingles."
Hermione swallows. "I feel that way about you, Harry. Ron... you're my comfort."
Ron's lips tighten. He doesn't need to say that he's always wanted Hermione.
They sit back and contemplate this triangle they've created. It's almost a relief that they've found out this way. That still doesn't make this daisy chain any simpler: he wants him who wants her who wants him; she loves him who loves him who loves her.
"Mum," Ron says, "will go spare."
Harry's eyes widen at the thought of the three of them arriving at the Burrow (when it is safe, not if), and greeting Mrs. Weasley as a 'them'. As an item. Being subjected to the brothers' teasing, Mr. Weasley's flabbergasted reaction, Mrs. Weasley's oblique hints about grandchildren.
He glances at Ron and Hermione and sees they've been hit by the same Bludger. It's too late for second thoughts. 'We're a we.'
"Right," says Hermione at last. The boys look relieved, and she nearly laughs at their transparency. "If something happens to one, we're going to stay friends."
"And no stormclouds," Harry quips, but his eyes are serious.
"If it's two..." Hermione gasps aloud when they both take her in their arms. She buries her face on Ron's neck, cradles Harry's cheek. If Voldemort takes two of us, it can't be put together again. "If it's two, then whomever's left should grieve and move on. No stormclouds there either," she nags. There's a shaky laugh.
Ron tips her chin up and kisses her deeply, hungrily, as though kisses will stop the world. He's stubborn-- then so are they. Harry, having discerned the look on Hermione's face when this started, begins to undo her buttons. He touches her skin as it's revealed, feeling her shiver. He has another thought: of a well-lit cottage with a pond and a garden and a tree with a tyre swing and three chairs at the breakfast nook and three broomsticks at the door.
He'd share this thought, if not for the pressing matter of soft skin and thick hair and that smooth spot on the small of her back. He and Ron exchange looks as she settles. If they're three now, there's no stopping them from planning a surprise for the one.
6:42 PM
"Oh God. Under the weight of life
things seem
brighter on the other side."
I have to say that this time around -- it was the stupidest. At least that first winter, some three years ago, I had no idea what was happening to me. This time, I'm on my own, aware, armed... and I still got careless, still went for the easy out, and I'm getting exactly what I had coming.
Heh. How to screw up your life in three easy weeks. School, friends, job prospects, loving girlfriend, sound body, keen mind. Trust me, you don't want to try this at home.
I'm just now coming back to myself (and naturally facing the daunting task of cleaning up after my own hurricanes). Back from where? Well, long story short, not feeling anything except extreme panic, irrational fear, and a cozy numbness. Afraid of my own friends-- which just blows, because I end up doing the same thing to everyone, friend and enemy alike: going away. Even if you'd gotten a hold of me, (though you could've), there would have been no one you recognized.
I'm not writing this entry to score sob points, or place blame, or show gratitude, or apologize. I'm writing because I gracelessly left you all to pick up the pieces. I'm not even sure you'll believe me when I say that's all I could do. (Though at this point, I don't really care if you believe me or not.) Even in hindsight it was better to leave than smash more things. I caused a lot of mayhem just staying still; none of you deserve what would have happened if I'd stayed, and *actively* screwed you over. (More than I already had.)
Anyway, you guys deserve an explanation before you go off and say 'What did *I* do?' (and it's probably too late to stop that.) The answer, by the way, is nothing. I should tack the serenity prayer on my forehead, or something. I can screw up my life on my own, thanks, but IMO you're only gonna go down with me if you choose to do so. So here goes:
I was going to go offline anyway. That was the plan, and I was not sticking to it. Everything hinged on that. I'd get online to do one thing and end up staying for days. No, I am not exaggerating. I didn't want to leave you guys, even for a little while, which directly conflicted with what I needed to do.
The boys left me four to six weeks before I left. This was not anyone's fault. I was straining to play them, and they just weren't there. I'm sorry I left the House the way I did, but I would have gone before the year was out. I love the House. Some of you know that I fought hard for it, and stuck with it when it all looked bad. I wouldn't trade that for anything... but here's the 'but'. It was a giant Naismith, sucking me dry, and even if I'd been able to control it, the silence in my head's made the decision moot.
The rest? Fear. Pride, probably. The realization that in my condition, any victory would have been a pyrric victory. Wounds I should have let heal a year ago, months ago, weeks ago. But as you may have noticed, closure isn't something I normally do.
* * *
Cowardice isn't just for cowards, I guess. The nature of my problems draws me into issues which most people dealt with when they were seven or eight years old. For one reason or another, I never got that chance. It's humiliating, to say the least, that I've survived so much worse-- and yet, as a grown woman, can't stand up to what amounts to grade school insecurities. It's frustrating to know my strengths and weaknesses from the first baby step and have this thing which brings out all the weaknesses.
I trust myself first, others later. This is what happens when I cannot trust myself. I've only told one or two people in my life to leave, just completely go, and they were true sociopaths. But if the people in my life take a look at me, and decide they cannot stay for the moods, the silences, the confusion, I don't stop them. They know where to find me. I am not an easy person to deal with, even without this sickness. I've had all my life to consider this approach; it is a far greater disservice to seek out and subjugate and make people stay than let them choose on their own. Even if I knew how to do that kindly, I probably wouldn't. Anti-social? Probably. Living without people has rarely been a problem for me, even if it's detrimental. Living with people is fraught with complications because of who I am, but I keep chancing it anyway. Sometimes people stay. Just not for long.
Boohoo, poor me. Heh. Not really. That's the way the blood hits the fan. Why can't I be nicer? Well. Why can't I be me?
Sunday, January 05, 2003
9:32 PM
On the radio: DJ Shadow - You Can't Go Home Again
~60K of graphics :: Koani by
Alice in Wonderland :: Scorpion by Ushikai Background and buttons by Triple Orbit Graphics ~ Sadly it's no longer at its former website.
