Chapter Text
She sighed mournfully as she leant back, letting the strong mahogany bookshelves behind her support her weight. She closed her eyes and rested her head on the sturdy shelf.
Why did she do this to herself? What was she thinking? Was she even thinking at all?
The soft sounds of movement made her eyes snap open. She leaned forward, raising herself up on tiptoes to peer through the gap in the shelf. She watched the young man who was sitting bent over a textbook at the table beyond. He had just thrown down his quill with a sigh and was rubbing his eyes tiredly. Her heart surged with sympathy for him. He’d been working there all night.
‘And you’ve been watching him all night’, the unfortunately rational voice inside her mind observed. ‘What happened to that transfiguration essay you were supposed to write…?’
She sighed once more, this time in exasperation. She really couldn’t afford to get behind on any more homework. Her newfound feelings for her best friend had overwhelmed her, until she found herself unable to concentrate on anything else.
She’d been working late each night on her own in the common room just to stay on track, because whenever she was near him she simply couldn’t manage to keep her mind on her work.
She let herself fall back on the shelves, closing her eyes again. She was bone tired. Too many sleepless nights had left her in a state of delirious exhaustion. She needed rest. She needed sleep. She needed to go one night without dreaming of Harry.
But most of all, what she needed to do was finish her essay before class tomorrow.
“Hey.” The deep voice invaded her reverie. She opened her eyes to find the man of her dreams standing before her. He looked just as tired as she felt. “Did you get the essay finished?”
For a moment she could only stare. How had he sneaked up on her? Then she found her voice.
“Yeah, all done.” The lie came out without her having to think about it. “Did you?”
“Yeah, finally. Seriously, you’d think McGonagall’d go easy on her own house, right? Snape does.”
“That’s not really a fair comparison, is it?”
“True, true.” The words were interrupted by a yawn. “Well, I’m done in. I’m going to bed. See you in the morning.”
She mumbled something non-committal as she watched him walk away, her attention so completely focused on him that she barely registered his words.
He was beautiful. Dark hair contrasted sharply with his soft, pale skin, accentuated by the startlingly green eyes that hid behind his thick, round glasses. Even when he was exhausted, his face was so alive. Just being near him imbued her with a sense of energy and adrenaline.
She always hated to say goodnight to him. It was the worst part of her day. It was clichéd, she knew, but the thought of the night ahead, alone with her books, was daunting. Once the books had been her friends, her only companions during a lonely childhood. Now, though, they served as a reminder of the expectations that surrounded her, straining her to breaking point.
While she daydreamed, fantasising about late night Quidditch Pitch assignations and moments of closeness beneath his cloak, the anxiety and the demands of living up to her reputation melted away. When Harry left her, the pressure came flooding back.
As the library door swung closed behind him, she whispered, “Goodnight, Harry.”
Her feelings were utterly hopeless. Harry would never see her as anything more than a friend. Deep down she knew that and so she had resigned herself to the fate of loving him from afar.
She collected her books and followed him out of the library. There was no point staying now he was gone. When she reached the common room, she was slightly surprised to find it empty. He must have been quicker than she’d thought and headed straight to bed.
She settled herself in a comfortable armchair in a dark corner and began to write. The fire burnt low, leaving the room in shadows. Lost in her work, she didn’t notice the time passing until a sudden noise made her look up from her parchment.
It was the sound of the portrait door swinging open. She turned, curious to see who was coming in at so late an hour, only to find the hole empty.
She frowned. The portrait wouldn’t open on it’s own, surely? She was just getting to her feet to investigate when the invisibility cloak slipped shimmering to the ground and Harry appeared in the middle of the room.
She gasped softly, then covered her mouth. He was the last person she’d expected to see. She stayed back, cloaked in the shadows, quiet as a mouse. If he didn’t know she was there, she thought to herself, she could watch him freely.
As she studied his strong, lean profile admiringly, he stooped to pick up the cloak from the floor. As he stretched his arm, he winced visibly. Her eyebrows knitted together as questions raced through her mind – was he hurt? What had happened to him? Where had he been?
Straightening, Harry fingered his arm gingerly, then rolled up his sleeve to examine it. By the pale glow of the gibbous moon shining through the windows, she could see that it was scored along its length with long scars. Some were completely healed, shining dully in the moonlight, but others were more recent. A few were an angry red, raised against his skin, and some were still bleeding.
Her heart stopped beating and everything froze in that instant. She felt like she examined his arm for long minutes, each cruel line branding itself in her memory. Her eyes were wide with horror, her face devoid of colour, but all that she was aware of was Harry’s arm, stark and white in the moonlight.
White, except for the dark, ruinous lines that ran from his elbow to his wrist.
She was hit with a sudden realisation, an epiphany that made her heart break and her stomach sink.
Her friend – her love – was in pain. He had been in so much pain that he had hurt himself, over and over again.
He had been in pain and she hadn’t even noticed.
Suddenly her feelings for him seemed childish and silly. A schoolyard crush, a teenage infatuation. She had been so absorbed in her own small world that she hadn’t seen, hadn’t known, hadn’t been there as her friend had spiraled downwards.
Guilt overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes to hold back tears. When she opened them again, he was gone.
In that moment, she thought, she hoped, that she’d been dreaming. Maybe what she’d seen wasn’t true. Maybe she would wake up with her head on her half-finished essay and remember this nightmare moment with relief, knowing it wasn’t real.
She hoped, desperately and fervently, that it wasn’t real.
The rational voice that refused to be silenced spoke up, as it always did when there was something she didn’t want to hear.
‘Stop pretending. You know full well that what you just saw was real. Now, what are you going to do about it?’
What was she going to do about it? What was she going to do about it? It had happened only seconds before and already her subconscious expected action? No. She hadn’t even had time to absorb this. It was too much. It was too hard.
She gulped, trying to swallow the lump that had risen in her throat. She knew exactly what she was going to do about it: she was going to break down and cry.
So she did.