The Casualties

Acknowledgements go to JKR for her characters and canon. Additional acknowledgement must go to Caina Fuller, who provided the challenge for this fan fiction.

The cuts hurt under the bandages. And Hermione's doorstep looked different in the daylight: not so inviting, or protecting in the harsh sunlight.

He rapped at her door with skinned knuckles, the resounding echo of the knocking ringing in his ears. He wondered if she'd let him in. He wondered if she'd answer. He wondered if she'd hit him again. He knew he'd probably deserve it if he did.

Behind the blue front door, he could hear stirring within the house. A curtain flashed across from one side, and he knew that she was aware of his presence. There was silence for a few minutes. Then the door opened a crack.

--

She hated it when he got that drunk. Harry was not a fun drunk, like Ron, who got giggly, or Ginny, who got even more brazen than she normally was, or even Neville, who simply lay back and looked comfortably content and sleepy. The few times she and her friends had gone drinking after their graduation from Hogwarts, it had been Harry that had left first after misinterpreting what someone else had said, or getting into a fight. Sometimes she felt guilty, slipping away with the Weasleys or Luna without inviting Harry by owl, but she never had to worry about a fight being caused by a man so much as daring to look in the girls' direction, or a snappy comment about people knowing their place.

To be honest, he wasn't that much fun regardless of blood alcohol level. His default mode was one of 'tired and cranky', and he'd snap at anyone who'd come in arms' length of him. Ginny had put up with enough about six months earlier, tossing him and his belongings unceremoniously onto the footpath in front of her block of units. At first, Hermione had been unwilling to take sides until she finally visited Ginny and saw the upturned tables and holes in the wall. He's like a child, she'd told Hermione tearfully while picking at a fraying corner of sleeve, one moment he'll be helpless and weak and the next moment he's turning my place upside-down. I can't help him. I don't think anybody can help him.

She knew how tired he was: understanding that with his new job came thirty hour shifts, no weekends and a constant confrontation with death every day. She didn't want to know what went through his mind whenever he was sent to dispose of a rogue troupe of dementors. She'd half-hoped that as a more senior Auror, Tonks would be able to offer him some guidance, but she knew better than to ask a woman with no time or husband and two small children who depended on her to spread herself even more thinly than she already was.

Thus, out of a moment of guilt, she'd sent him a letter apologising for not seeing him in so long - the excuses ran the predictable gamut from work has been so stressful to I've not wanted to interfere with your work - and inviting him around for a quiet dinner to catch up. Maybe one glass of wine would loosen him up, rather than make him sullen or enraged. A glass of good Australian red (a Muggle coming-of-age gift from her father, and the last gift from him that she'd ever receive) and warm food and quiet conversation and she might be able to make him feel better and open up to somebody. The gulf he'd created between himself and everyone who'd once held him dear had opened too wide, she once thought to herself.

--

She was wearing a thick cardigan over a long-sleeved shirt, and her arms were crossed over her chest. Harry thought she looked worse than any other time he could remember: not even covered in blood and bruises had she looked so diminished and regretful. He noticed how quickly she walked, and how she kept looking over her shoulder to make sure he respected the distance. The shards of glass had been swept up from her hall, but he could still smell the perfume heavy in the air - as if it had seeped into every surface in sight. When he entered the kitchen, he saw Hermione behind the counter, fiddling with the kettle.

"Thanks for letting me in," he said quietly. "I didn't think you would."

"It's cold out," she said with a stiff voice, dropping teabags into a pair of mugs.

He nodded. She passed him a mug of milky tea, and he realised it was the cockroach mug - a present from Ron one birthday which he knew she reserved for guests she wasn't fond of and used as a signal to other people let in on the joke that she didn't like someone. He smiled grimly, bringing the mug to his lips - realising that she'd not sugared his tea for him.

He looked at her from across the bench. Her lip was almost purple, and he noticed that she took care to drink from the other side of her mouth to not aggravate the swelling. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her hair was greasy and frizzing at the ends, and her hands shook when she sipped from her own mug. She looked as if every second was an enormous undertaking to maintain her own dignity. Finally, she looked up at Harry and set her mug down.

"Why are you here?"

--

She wondered how long it would be before he finally got the hint to go home. It was already two-thirty, and she'd already offered him a glass of water in the hope that he would realise that no more coffee and cake was forthcoming. He hadn't even said anything in the past ten minutes - he'd just stared at an old print on her wall, his mouth open slackly.

He'd not said much over dinner, either - replying briefly with short responses to questions about his work, his Quidditch bets and his cat - a nasty stray called Tom that frequently scratched him across the hands. ("Appropriate name if you think about it," he told her as he picked at a scab on his wrist - his sole moment of humour.) She'd wished for the time to run faster as he descended into a quiet sulk. She'd wished for him to be called out urgently, or even for a minor catastrophe to happen outside her snug kitchen. But fate ruled against her and the wizarding world was at peace as Harry picked at his moussaka and guzzled her precious wine until she wrested it from his grip and shelved the tiny bit left at the bottom of the bottle on the highest shelf she could reach.

"You know what's weird, Hermione?" She almost jumped out of surprise that Harry might initiate conversation with her, even if his words were slurred and his voice was lazy.

"What?"

"How you completely shun anything magical these days."

"Oh." It was a deliberate decision, certainly, but with the exception of the friends she'd made at Hogwarts she kept nothing of her old life close at hand. She found cooking the old fashioned way from scratch soothed her nerves and appealed to the preciseness that she clung to in her academic work. She found the vibrations of public transport, or the bracing wind on her back as she walked to her destination, a much more pleasant travel experience to having the air constricted out of her by apparating or flooing. "Well, I rather like the slower pace," she said thoughtfully, running her finger along the rim of her glass.

"Must be boring," said Harry darkly. "not having any excitement or magic in your life."

"Well, not really. I find there's magic in everyday things as well. Like watching a leaf catch the sunlight, or finding a spider's web covered in dew."

"Bullshit," said Harry. "Say all you want about leaves and webs, but nothing picks you up quite like a potion every now and then to keep your mood in check. Mind, think your wine did a good enough job with that before."

"Yeah." She yawned, loudly, and exaggeratedly stretched her arms above her head. "It's getting late."

"I assume by that you want me out of your hair, I suppose," said Harry, setting down his glass and looking intently at her.

"No, it's not that at all! I just have fifty essays to get marked tomorrow, my students want to find out their final marks before they go on Christmas break."

"I see." He stood, summoning his travelling cloak from the stand in the kitchen, and pulled it around his shoulders. "Well, don't want to keep you up all night."

"Harry, don't be like this." She picked up his glass from the table, and walked over to him. She stood close, and slowly let her arms wrap around his waist. "You're tired, you need to sleep. You can around tomorrow afternoon, if you like, for a cup of tea. I just--"

"No, it's all right. I'm sorry."

"It's fine." She held him tighter, and felt his hands rest against her shoulders. "We worry about you, you know."

"Been talking about me again?"

"It's not like that. Ron misses you especially. He wants to see you again."

"Right." Harry pulled away from her, wrapping his cloak even more tightly around himself. "Well, best be off then."

"Don't be a stranger around here," she said, leading him to her front door. "You're welcome at any time. It's nice to see you again," she lied.

"Thanks for having me tonight."

Hermione lent up and brushed a quick kiss against his cheek. "Come around tomorrow?"

He looked at her oddly. The way he was staring at her so intently and focused, yet so far off this world, chilled her, and she crossed her arms. She lent back a little, and looked askance at him. "Harry? Are you all right?"

The next thing she knew, she felt her head knocking against her wall harshly as she felt hands pawing at her, lips pressing at her own and the bulk of Harry's body pinning her to the wall. She pushed at him weakly, dazed and confused. "What are you--" she tried to say before he forced himself on her again. She tried to raise her arms to push him away again, and it was only when he felt his hands grab at her wrists and hold them tightly above her head that the panic bells started to go off in her head.

She shrieked, loudly, hoping for her neighbours to hear - hoping for anyone to hear, but she felt one of his hands take both her wrists in it and a hand struck at her mouth. She felt nothing but warm saltiness in her mouth, and when she saw the hand rise to strike again she pursed her lips and whimpered. She struggled to free one hand, and when she did so her arm flew to the little table at the entry, where her wand was stored in the top drawer. She brought it up, struggling to remember the stunning spell when she felt it pulled out of her grip and tossed across the room.

She could smell alcohol and taste the blood, and she felt her hair being pulled out at the roots as he fumbled at her clothing with one hand. Her hand flailed uselessly and helplessly, trying to reach for any object in reach. She wanted to sink into the wall and hide behind anything and everything. She wanted to set fire to the house and burn her alive, only so long as it took him with her. She wanted to sink her nails into his flesh and gouge at his eyes and spit in his face. She cried, her lips burning and her skin searing, and when her hand finally stumbled across a tiny old bottle of perfume in the drawer beside her, her heart leapt.

Crash. She brought it to his head, hard, striking him on the temple. He staggered a little, but maintained a hold. One leg was a bit freer, and she kicked hard wherever she could, and when her foot finally made contact with his shin he backed away enough for her to beat him again.

She brought the bottle down on him again, and again, and she felt herself screaming things at him - never knowing precisely what words she was using, or in what order. She hit him over the arms and chest and head until the bottle shattered and the perfume spilled onto her floorboards, and even then she allowed herself no respite between using the bottle as a weapon and using her fists and her feet. She wondered how much she was hurting him, but she didn't care. She pummelled and beat and kicked, her voice hoarse from the screaming, and she barely felt the bruises and cuts rising on her knuckles, nor her toenails breaking and tearing with every kick into his sides. Finally, she relented, and she dizzily slumped against the wall as she watched him stir, slowly and painfully, and make for the front door as quickly as his battered body would take him.

--

It hurt when he breathed. He thought that every single rib had broken and burst into his lungs with every breath. As he sipped his tea he felt his busted lip sear with pain, and thought he could feel her eyes burning into his skin.

"I -- I wanted to apologise. For last night."

Hermione nodded. "Right."

"I shouldn't have done it, it was a stupid thing to do."

Hermione said nothing, merely setting her mug down and looking at him with crossed arms.

"I never should have-- " He paused, trying to stimulate the tiniest bit of saliva in his dry mouth. "I... yeah. I don't have much to say."

She nodded. "I see." She picked up her mug again, and drained it before setting it back on her countertop. "I think you'd best go, Harry."

"Please, I can explain--"

"Just go," she said quietly.

He clenched his hands into fists and felt the blood rush into his face. The coolness of her expression and voice only served to increase his own rage, but he swallowed it back, merely thrusting his hands into his robes and looking away from her.

"If this is how you want it, to have all our years of friendship ruined. Your choice."

Hermione's face grew red. He saw her reach for the mug in front of her, and in a moment of remarkable foresight ducked as he saw her hurl it in his direction. It exploded against the back wall of her kitchen, shards of porcelain embedded in the wallpaper, and when he raised his head back up over the counter he saw the tears streaming down her face.

"How dare you," she said, walking around behind the counter and jabbing her finger in his direction. "How fucking dare you pin this on me."

He felt her finger thrust into his chest, and his lungs burned. He tried to grab for her hand but he missed, and her palm collided with his face, just as it had with Draco Malfoy's.

"You bastard." She kept poking him, her hands getting rougher and more frenzied. "You're the one who ruined our friendship, and it wasn't even last night! That was just you showing how little you've thought of me all along!"

"Bullshit."

She stopped her attack, staring up at him with a clenched jaw. She tried to speak, but to Harry it sounded as if her throat had simply given in on her. "I--" She coughed, her body shaking furiously, then looked up at him again. "If you loved me at any point of our friendship, you never would have done that to me last night."

"What, you don't like people thinking you're attractive?"

She shook her head, bewilderedly. "I hate you." She wiped her eyes on her jumper sleeve, and leant back on the counter. "You never would have hurt me, or ignored what I wanted, or scared me like you did. If you cared in the slightest." Harry saw her knees shaking, and his guts turned to ice as he saw her sink to the ground, her arms wrapping around her legs. "I keep smelling that perfume, it's like it's burnt itself into my nose, and I can't stop thinking of what you did to me." A sob took over her body, and it was several minutes before she could compose herself again. Harry wanted to bend down, to touch her face - anything, but the thought of her keeping him at an arms' length from him was far more painful than the idea of her hitting him again. "I used magic for the first time last night - boarding up all the windows, casting wards on the back door. I even got up into my fucking chimney and sealed that off too. Then I sat in front of my front door and just waited. I didn't charm it, because I thought that if you came in I would kill you."

"Why didn't you kill me," Harry said, his voice shaking. He knelt down in front her Hermione, but she shrank back from him, and his heart sank. "You could have killed me, and turned me into a bone, like Barty Crouch did, and just hidden me away from the rest of the world."

She hiccuped, and withdrew into herself tighter. "There's nobody there anymore," she whispered. "I send letters to people and they don't respond to me. Mum and dad--" She sniffled, and picked at her sleeve. "When Remus died, it... he... they've all gone, Harry. And you're here, but you're not here anymore. It's like your ghost is with us - empty and shellshocked and angry. You're so angry. And you drive us all away, but I can't... don't want to let go."

He grabbed her arm, and was almost shocked that she didn't flinch or move it away from him. "Why did you do it?" she whispered, her bloodshot eyes locked with his. "I... how can I ever trust you again? How can I ever not be afraid to be alone with you?"

"I..." He lowered himself down beside her, and as he took her hand in his he felt his body convulsing as the tears welled behind his eyes and the lump in his throat seized his ability to breathe. "I need... I... Hermione... we can start all over, if you forgive me, we can mend everything, you won't have lost me and I won't have lost you and--"

"I lost you two years ago," she said, pulling her hand out from under his.

"Then you can find me again."

--

The hours blurred into each other as she watched the front door. The smell of the perfume made her feel dizzy, and the draught from under the door was chilling her feet and legs. Every small noise made her jump, and every spare inch of skin below her neck was covered. She'd crossed her legs as tightly as she could and tried to ignore the itch of the soap on her sensitive skin.

She scrubbed everywhere. Behind her ears, her back, her legs, between her thighs. She'd especially scrubbed her chest, having felt his skin raze it earlier. The water was almost boiling, and her skin was raw and red and scalded, but it wouldn't come off. The clothes she put on didn't cover her enough. The curtains weren't thick enough. The house wasn't quiet enough: eventually she switched off the old wireless in her kitchen, only to find the silence as maddening as the sound.

She wanted someone, anyone, to come and find her. She wanted to hide, like she did that night in the woods as the North Tower burned to the ground, the children locked in and screaming for someone to save them. She wanted to hide like she did when Remus Lupin was led, by a rope around his neck, to the edge of the woods, where he was hanged from a branch. But she didn't want to die until she saw Kingsley Shacklebolt remove a Death Eater's head at the jaw with a simple flick of his wand; until she saw Nymphadora Tonks, eight months pregnant, disembowelling the man who'd murdered Remus with a spell of his own invention; until she saw Harry Potter drive his wand into Tom Riddle's eyesocket and watched it come out the other end.

There was nothing literally magic about the items that hid her that night: merely, rustling trees that seemed to groan and creak in sympathy with the people being led to their deaths. She remembered how magic the smallest things had been in her childhood: a visit from the tooth fairy, or a sticker that reflected the light in a million ways whenever she'd get a perfect score on a spelling test. And she remembered from her childhood that she'd never felt safer than she had amongst the mundane.

Magic would no longer protect her, or set her apart.

But she stared at the door, her wand pointed directly at it. It felt odd, in her hand - she'd lost the callus on her middle finger and thumb, and it rubbed painfully against her skin. She knew she'd be too angry to cast any of the unforgivables, but she would try her best.

--

It felt like hours before Harry felt he could speak again. Hermione hadn't moved from beside him - neither had she looked at him or spoken.

He'd racked his brain and wrung every possible sentence, or excuse, or apology from his imagination.

"Hermione... if I told you things, would you listen?"

In his peripheral vision, he saw her nod. He breathed deeply, clenching and unclenching his hands.

"I... do you hate me?"

She shook her head.

"Do... do they all hate me?"

She nodded. His world gave way beneath him. "Oh, God."

"It's like you locked us out. After the war. Like you didn't love us enough to trust us, to let us help you. We were there, but you didn't want us anymore."

He nodded. He reached out for her hand again, and saw her taking his in it. "I keep seeing things. I know they're not real, but no potion in the world can stop me from seeing them. I told Ron one night - the look on his face, I... I couldn't tell him anymore."

"You could have told me. I wouldn't have minded. I would have tried to help."

"I haven't slept in two weeks. I hate going into work because I see Tonks there, and... she's stopped changing her looks again. She can do it, I just don't think she wants to. I can't look at her anymore, I just--"

He felt his hand being squeezed by hers. "Shh. Go on."

"Hermione..." He stared at his feet, trying to find the words, but only managing after minutes of silence and shallow breathing, "they're gone."

He heard a sob from behind him. Impulsively, he threw his arms around her, resting his chin on her head. He pressed a kiss on her forehead, and felt hands clinging onto his arms. His lungs burned and he winced as he felt her brushing against the cuts on his hands and face, but he held her tightly all the same.

"Ginny, she... she used to get me to talk, at night. And I started telling her things. And she got so scared when I told her things that she just stopped wanting to hear them. What... the fuck..."

He felt her settle her head against his neck, and her breath on his skin. "I wish I got killed back then," he admitted into her ear.

"So did I."

"Neville, and Ron, and Ginny --"

"They talked about it. Sometimes they'd go so far that I'd have to leave the room and barricade myself in the bathroom just to avoid hearing them."

"And now they're normal," he said.

"And now I don't go outside my backyard unless I go to work or Ginny's. And now I can hardly so much as look at a wand."

Harry felt his breath easing, and his sobbing subsided. He rubbed his eyes and felt his skin slick against his fingers with oil and dirt.

"I want to be able to talk to them again," he said quietly. "I want the noises and the sights to go away. I want my friends back."

Hermione nodded.

"Hermione... will you please forgive me?" he forced himself to whisper - knowing that there was a great chance of him regretting the answer eternally.

"It wasn't Harry who did that last night," she replied. "I lost Harry years ago. I barely know who you are."

"I can tell you everything about me. I can let you into everything, I'm not afraid. I want my friends back, all of them. I know it will never happen, but I want to start with you, more than anything, and I will never hurt you again."

Hermione sighed deeply. He saw her fiddling with her free hand, and she finally pulled her other out from his grip. "Harry, I... I'm so sorry. I'm never going to stop hurting from last night."

His lungs constricted, and his eyes filled with tears. "No... I'm so sorry, please, I'll do anything, give you anything you want."

"I want time," she said quietly. "I just need time."

He nodded, and kissed her on the side of the head. "However long you like, you can have it, I just... I can't..."

She pulled away from him, rising to her feet weakly. "Then if you ever want me in your life again you'll leave me be."

"Right." He stood as well, looking at the floor, waiting for any words of ambivalence, but none came. "Just... you never have to be afraid of me anymore. I don't feel angry anymore."

He felt her arms wrap around his neck, and her body press against his. He held her tightly, feeling her little frame against him, and tried to stop the deluge of tears.

"I'm glad," she said in a quiet voice. "Good bye."

--

It took Hermione until the end of term - when the papers had been handed back to her eager class and when they'd emptied her classroom - to sit down at her desk and, for the first time in years, pull a quill and little inkwell from her top drawer.

She'd stared at the parchment for ages now, and it took her forever to finally decide how to word her letter.

She wondered if he'd been true to his word, and allowed her all the time she needed, or if he would simply hurl her message into the fire. She wondered how he'd respond to the letter. She wondered if he'd finally gone to see Ginny, or Ron, or Neville. She wondered a million different things from vocabulary to the colour of her ink to how cramped her handwriting was.

And then she bit the bullet, and put the quill to parchment, and the sounds in the room seemed to die.