Anchoring…
It’s been quiet up here for
so long that the footsteps on the stairs are deafening. I roll over on my side
and face the window, where the rain trickles down in irregular patterns that
distort what little light is getting through, making it dance over the walls
and the things on my dresser. Maybe if I stare at this long enough I’ll fall
asleep. Maybe this time I won’t dream.
The footsteps are getting
closer, and I wish like hell that they’d stop, falter, or disappear
altogether. They don’t sound like Ron, which means I stand a pretty good
chance of being ignored, left in peace... For once. I’m so sick of the
spotlight I could vomit.
The footsteps reach the
door, and stop, which is strange. We don’t stand on ceremony in Gryffindor
tower. Anyone who lives here just sort of barges in. But there’s a hesitation
before the door is pushed gently open. And now I know it’s not a Gryffindor
boy, because the door just doesn’t sound like that. I’m getting good at
predicting individual door openings. Ron has a purpose on entering every room,
and so opening the door for him is a necessary action toward something else.
Wood, when he was around, burst through it with all the enthusiasm that keeps
him out on the Quidditch pitch thirty minutes longer than everyone else. No
polite knocks for him; it was all about getting me out of bed as quickly as
possible.
And this? It’s tentative,
as though they know better, as though they can sense that they’re unwelcome. Which
means that it’s a girl. And I have a pretty fair idea which one… Which isn’t
to say I’m all that inclined to turn around.
I squeeze my eyes shut as
the footsteps cross the room, but I can still see the rain in the blackness.
She stops at the other side of the bed.
“Harry?”
It’s a whisper, and while
I’m definitely not turning around, there’s a faint tug inside. She knows I’m
awake. She always knows.
There’s a shift behind me
that means she’s sitting on my bed. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, hoping
she’ll take the hint. But I know she won’t. Hermione doesn’t deal in hints,
just facts. And the fact of the matter is that I’m curled up in a ball of
anxiety and anger, pretending that I’ve just forgotten to take my glasses off.
Damn.
“I know you’re awake.”
I’m still not saying
anything, because I am that stubborn. Sirius would have said that I got
that from him…
Maybe I did.
But she sounds strange.
Strangled, as if…
She’s been crying.
I can’t help it, my eyes
flicker open. I open my mouth to ask her what’s wrong, but then I remember
that I’m asleep. And that I already know what’s making her cry. It’s me, of
course, but I can’t fix it and she won’t believe me if I try. So I bite my lip
and pretend that I can’t hear it, and that we both don’t know I’m lying.
“I’m here.”
I know she means it, but
who’s to say that it’s true? How can any of us make that promise to each
other? And who’s to say that I deserve it? I know I don’t, and I know that
it’s not going to stop her promising. I want to believe her, I really do, but…
There’s a hand on my arm,
and I freeze without thinking. The violent tug of war begins, as I pull myself
in every direction; longing and accepting, ashamed and frightened. I’ve
identified these feelings without growing any closer to a conclusion to the
struggle. And I don’t want to think about it. Which is why most of the time I
just freeze up. And most of the time they pull away and I don’t have to make a
decision.
She doesn’t.
Before I can stop it, before
I can get control, a tear slips out. I don’t mean it to, and I never even saw
it coming, but it’s there, rain-coloured and warm. The fear mounts – I don’t
want to let this go. I can’t. Not now. So my arm stiffens, and she pulls
away. And now I’m scared, because losing control in front of people is bad
enough – losing it alone is a thousand times more frightening. There’s no one
to anchor you…no one to catch you.
The weight leaves my bed and
I clench at the sheets. A sweat breaks out on my forehead, a cold sweat, and
sudden. Safe from her gaze now, I sit up, gasping for breath, and lean on my
knees, my head in my hands, trying to stop the spinning. I drag my hands
through my hair and try like mad to breathe. It’s not as easy as it sounds.
The sweats get worse, and now there’s an element of panic. What is
happening to me?
All of a sudden there’s a
hand on my arm, and I jerk up without thinking. It’s her. If the touch of her
hand wasn’t enough to know she’s not imagined, then the look on her face would
be, and for a moment I forget to try for breath. She’s crying. But it’s not
pity. It’s not sympathy.
Suddenly I’m scared – more
scared than ever, because now it’s real. The instinct is to run – in any
direction – but her hand is still on my arm, and her face is still in front of
me. She reaches for me, touches my face and it’s only now that I realise…I’m
crying too. There’s a split second where I might have run. What actually
happens surprises me more than it does her. Because all of a sudden I’ve
grabbed her, hugged her to me, and buried my face in her robes; and the tears
have no barriers now. She kisses my head, and I can feel my face crumple.
With every ragged breath I think that it’s finally too much, but then she
anchors me back somehow, and it’s ok until I breathe again.
And now I think…I might just
believe her when she whispers that she’s here.
