Seen and Unforeseen

A/N: Thank you, as always, to Lariope, who inspires this story with support and probing comments.

Chapter 3 – Seen and Unforeseen

He couldn't look away. The scene in front of him was unravelling much too fast, and his brain couldn't seem to focus long enough to send the signal to his eyelids that they really needed to cut off his vision. His whole body had suddenly turned into something cold and heavy, unable to move, or even feel. Shock held him in place as he watched Harry fumble with the sword in his hand, trying to find solid ground on which to put it. Fumble, in order to get his right hand free to stroke the smooth skin of the leg that had come up to lock around his waist. Fumble with the object they'd been hunting for months and which might very well be their only hope for success in the impossible quest which lay before them! His vision mixed with red as he watched the sword fall into the warm, bubbling clay, not ten feet from where he was standing, disillusioned, in the shadows. He followed the beautiful metal lines to the sharp point, indignation rising inside him as the ground burst around it and sent flecks of mud onto the shiny goblin silver. Wordlessly, he raised his hand and summoned it to him.

The sword connected with his palm, and he felt a rush of warmth go through him, melting the icy shackles that had held him in place. He could breathe again, think again, close his eyes and ears to the scene unfolding just yards away, where Harry Potter seemed well on his way to ensuring that...no matter the outcome of his last meeting with Voldemort...he would not die a virgin. His eyes flashed upward momentarily, finding Hermione's face...or what part of it he could make out behind Harry's dark, wet head. He hardly recognised her...and still, she was exactly the same girl he'd seen every day for the past six years. As Harry broke away from their frantic kisses to hoist her half-way out of the water to press against the nearby mountainside, he took in every feature. She was beautiful like this, he thought, masses of wet curls tumbling everywhere, lips swollen and half-parted in panting breaths. He was grateful that the geyser drowned most of the sounds they made. He didn't think he could have handled the full picture.

You never had a chance, a voice in his head told him angrily. You never showed what you felt. Hell, you didn't even know exactly what it was until a short time ago!

Turning away from the water, he moved along the side of the pool, a sense of purpose finding its way through the rising bitterness and irrational feelings of betrayal. The sword was warm in his hand, strengthening and comforting him as he moved over to the pile of hastily discarded clothes he recognised as Harry's. Reaching down, he found the end of a silver chain and pulled the Horcrux locket free from its confines. He looked at it for a long time, trying to see the object that had haunted him for so long in its silver surface. It seemed strange to him now how a thing...albeit a cursed thing...could have tortured him so, simply by whispering soft lies into his heart. He moved his gaze from the locket to the couple in the pool, eyes hardening. Pearls of sweat and hot water were trickling down Harry's back, down to where Hermione's thighs hugged him closely. One arm was hidden from view, wrapped around her back, holding her in place and aiding their movements. The other moved in rough patterns, guiding the handsome hand over arm and shoulder, down along a pale thigh and up again, settling over a plump breast. His best friend. Ironic how the truth could be so painful and make everything so clear all at once.

Never taking his eyes off the two lovers, he dropped the locket to the ground, raised the sword in two hands and drove it into the stone with everything he had. There was a sharp flash of green light, and a piercing scream tore through the air. Then... nothing.

It was over. He stumbled backwards, away from the sword, which stood proudly...buried almost a foot deep in the grey rock. The locket lay there, destroyed, black smoke rising softly from the wound in its heart. It was over. With one last glance over his shoulder, Ron Weasley turned the corner of the ravine and Disapparated into the night.

He'd let Fawkes free as Harry Potter entered the clearing. He hadn't expected him to sing; the bird had kept silent after finishing its lament over the former Headmaster, and hearing him now served as a vivid reminder of all that had been lost. To his ears, the song took on a tune of sadness and sacrifice, each phrase connecting with the part of his being which he tried most diligently to suppress. There were notes of encouragement in the song, little moments of silent valour amidst melodies of strength in the face of the impossible. A sense of loss rose within him, and for one terrible moment, he thought it would overpower his resolve and break him, allowing grief to take over. He had not grieved Dumbledore. There had been no time, no possibility and, most importantly, no inclination on his part to do so. Strength was in control, in the mastery of emotion. To admit attachment was to admit leverage; in order to protect what needed protecting, emotions must stay clear of the equation. This was where Dumbledore had failed...love for one boy coming in the way of duty to the world he was sworn to save. He knew...had known for a long time...what must happen to Harry Potter in the end, and to know this and allow an attachment to form would only lead to failure. Fortunately, the boy was enough like his father to give him solid focus on which to base detachment and dislike. He avoided dwelling on other parts of the boy's character as best he could. He had made the mistake of letting someone into his heart once. It would not happen again.

There was a harmony in the phoenix's song, trailing softly in the background, trying to get passed his defences. Little trickles of hope, tintinnabulating softly in his ears. No. He closed his eyes for a moment, warding his heart and tuning out the music. Turning his gaze back towards the pool, he watched, dispassionately, as Potter tugged at the scraps of white, transparent cotton still shielding Hermione's body from view, pulling them off to claim her more fully. His eyes roamed over the joining bodies, over smooth skin, flushed cheeks and tangled hair...over the image of young love, brought forth by passion. The phoenix continued to sing as the scene evolved, Ron Weasley entering the stage, a look of shock followed by utter defeat in his eyes. Before him, the redhead finished the task he had set up for Potter, pushing the ancient artefact into the ground with solemn finality. His face echoed what he, himself, already knew: that the beautiful songs of the golden bird were a lie; that hope was not, and would never be, part of this war. The Wizarding World might be saved, this time, just as it had been countless times before, but there would be no hope for the ones who sacrificed themselves to ensure its salvation. It would be easy, naturally, to forget these facts and lose oneself in beauty, in hope and friendship...perhaps even in love. And lose focus, which would ultimately lead to losing the war. Closing his heart more firmly to the ever more alluring melodies from the sky, he looked on as Hermione's face opened up in pleasure, little pants coming from between rosy, passion-bruised lips. She was pressed against the rough edge of the mountainside, and he could see flickers of pain enter her expression as the boy quickened his pace, mindlessly driving her harder into the unrelenting rock. Remembering the beautiful, smooth back he'd seen for the first...and most likely only...time just hours ago, he raised his wand and sent a wordless Cushioning Charm her way. Her eyes fluttered open for a moment, bewilderment and relief clear to him, before her breathing picked up and she let herself fall back into sensation. They were beautiful together, he noted...but also here, beauty was of no consequence. This, too, was a lie, a means of escape through an expression of false hope. He had watched the boy closely for the past year and thought he had a pretty good idea of whom his heart truly belonged to. It was not here, not with this girl, though he could understand the confusion...the illusion they made together was very compelling. In some forgotten part of him, he felt a tug of regret...he remembered illusions. They were wonderful while they lasted, engaging, powerful. But in the end, they always vanished, like so much smoke and mirrors. From the look on young Mr Weasley's face earlier, he had known that his was not a passing fancy, though he might have retreated to lick his wounds and save his pride just then. When the boy got his head together and decided to come back, things would not be pleasant. He pitied the girl.

Withdrawing a small flask from a hidden pocket in his robes, he left the shadows and laid it down, gently, next to the gleaming sword. It would be useful to her, and he was nothing if not useful. Summoning the phoenix to him, he held out an arm in invitation and stroked it softly along the back when it settled down, looking back at him serenely.

"Hogwarts," he stated simply, grabbing on to the tail. The bird nodded in understanding and spread its wings. A second later, they were both gone in a swirl of flames.

Her body hurt. It was the first coherent thought to make it through her mind once it was over. Her back ached with a dull pulse, and she seemed to have hit the back of her head against the stone sometime during... well, she really didn't know what word to use to describe what had just happened. From the moment she had glimpsed the sword at the bottom of the pool and dived for it, to the moment just seconds ago when Harry had shuddered against her, holding her so closely she'd felt as though they'd ended up slipping into each other's skin, her mind had been jumbled...too overloaded with sensation to reflect on what was happening or to try to make logical sense of things. Reality was coming back fast, however, hitting sore spots on her body with unrelenting blows. She noticed how her legs were wrapped around Harry's waist and how one of his hands was latched around her back, keeping her in place against him. She didn't feel him as clearly as she had a moment ago, but she could still sense him inside her, lodged firmly where she had not imagined he would ever touch her. Emotions were flooding her, starting in the deep pit of her stomach and working their way up in an agonising wave. How did this happen? How did she lose herself like this? She remembered clearly how excitement had spread through her, how the feeling of wanting, of being wanted had made her almost dizzy as she'd responded eagerly to Harry's touch. The world had seemed so clear, so bright, filled with passion and romance...songs of hope, love and belonging weaving their web around her, surrounding her, filling her, driving her need and making her yearn to surrender. And surrendered she had. They both had. Oh, God...

She opened her eyes, meeting Harry's, and had to quickly close them again as tears threatened to spill onto her cheeks. Forcing her emotions back under control, she blinked twice and tried again...only to realise that Harry had averted his eyes as well. Quickly, they started to untangle themselves, breaking the intimate connection and pulling away. Unprepared for the sudden demand to support her own weight, Hermione faltered, losing balance on the slippery ground. The second the hot water touched her back, she screamed, the dull ache she'd felt transforming into piercing pain. Immediately, Harry's arms were around her, lifting her up and moving quickly towards the edge, hugging her tightly and whispering desperate apologies into her hair. She couldn't think. The pain was too much, travelling up and down her spine like liquid fire. Hard, icy raindrops pelted her as they emerged from the hot spring, stinging like tiny thorns against her over-sensitised skin. She started to cry, unable to hold back, tension spilling over. She buried her face against Harry's chest, holding on to him tightly, refusing to let go even as he lowered her onto the ground and clumsily tried to wrap her in what she supposed must be his winter jacket.

"Hermione, please," he whispered, a very strained quality to his voice, as though he, too, was seconds from breaking apart. "I have to reach my wand." She loosened her grip a fraction and felt him pull away, rummaging through the clothes on the ground.

"Impervio!" The rain stopped, and she gratefully looked up at him from where she huddled on the ground, shivering from the cold. Seconds later, warmth spread through her, and the rock on which she sat softened under her skin. Wordlessly, Harry motioned her to turn around, pointing his wand at the damaged skin on her back. Relief flooded her as she felt the pain dull to a more bearable level.

"Is it bad?" she asked, looking over her shoulder at him. He nodded, lips tightly pressed together as he met her eyes. She spotted her bag over at the rock where she'd left it before and mentally went through its contents. There should be some Dittany left in there. She made an attempt to get up, but Harry held her down, having just come to the same conclusion.

"Accio Dittany!" She expected the bag to come flying for them to retrieve the phial inside it and almost jumped as something small swished by her from the opposite direction. Harry caught it in his hand and revealed it slowly. A small flask, bearing the Hogwarts seal, came into view, clearly marked with small, black letters. Harry's 'How?' mixed with her startled gasp, and humiliation flooded her as she realised who must have brought it to them. Professor Snape had been there...had come in person to deliver the sword without her noticing. Had seen her. Seen the two of them... Oh, God! The Dittany burned on her back as Harry administrated it, and this time, she welcomed the pain. She turned her head and spotted what he must have seen also: the Sword of Gryffindor sticking proudly out of the rock, cutting through the middle of a broken and slightly charred locket.

They had failed. Not only had they not found a solution to how to destroy the cursed thing on their own, but when given the tool to complete the task, they had discarded it because of a mindless, lust-filled impulse. Shame flooded her cheeks, and she curled up into an even tighter ball, trying to hide from the world...trying to hide from herself.

She remained there as she felt Harry quickly dress and walk away, watching as he grabbed the hilt of the sword and pulled it easily out of the rock. The feeling of wonder that had filled the place before had evaporated now, and the overt symbolism of the act felt empty. They weren't heroes, and they never had been...just teenagers playing around in shoes that were too big, keeping alive by being lucky.

She kept watching him as he scanned the area, their breaths stopping in sync when he suddenly noticed another small object, half-hidden in the muddy ground. Bending down, Harry reached out and closed his fingers around it, face deathly pale with shock. Returning to where she was sitting, he collapsed into a shaking pile, an almost inhuman, wailing sound tearing from his body. Gently, she took his hand in hers, prying it open, mentally steeling herself for what it might contain.

Dumbledore's Deluminator fell into her palm.

Ron.

Ron had come back, had managed to find his way back to them.

And now he was gone.

The flicker of hope she had nourished since the day he'd left them faded and died. He had been back and left again without a word. It was hardly a mystery as to why. Clarity broke in her mind; all illusions were gone, and in their place, reality echoed harshly. The answer was there, right in front of her, and had probably, on some sub-conscious level, been there all along.

She would never see him again.

A/N: Please review!