Otter and Ferret ✓

Letter of Reminiscence

- Letter of Reminiscence -

Dear Granger,
I'm so so so sorry.

It was a folded little piece of parchment, torn carefully so as to look cut, handwriting as neat as the writer could make it. She knew that he had most definitely pondered on many letters beforehand. Before deciding on these few simple words, that aggravated her by their simplicity.

And she tried to tell herself that he was not in fact sorry; and it was probably true, but still, she found herself staring at the words until they turned fuzzy and if she looked at them again they would imprint all over the paper a dozen times.

It was also the fact that he still had the nerve to call her Granger, even after everything. Sure, she found it ... Hell, flattering, or personal, or even cute, but now it was painful to read, let alone hear it from his lips again. The same lips she had let seal the gap with hers, let kiss all over her skin, leaving goosebumps and sweet, wet marks.

What woman would or could forgive a man for what he had done? She, Hermione Granger, for one, was not about to.

Even if she was to lie with her neck and head against pillows, face wet with warm and fresh and salty tears. He was a goddamn heartbreaker, and had a reputation for it. What hurt the most, though, was the thought that somehow, when she was with him, somehow, it was as if his lips were owned by her. As if they were labelled with her lips, reserved. Reserved for her body and her lips. And no one else. But that wasn't true; course it wasn't.

She'd seen it right in front of her eyes.

And it was the same with his hands; the fact that they had been hanging and grasping so lazily on her waist. And Hermione had believed that they only belonged around her smaller hands, her waist. Her skin, her face. Her body.

But yet, so easily, they'd not.

What was the point, then, in the evenings in which she had denied and denied and denied over and over that she didn't like him. The pale boy who teased her over and over at school. What was the point, then, when she had clutched his warm hand, her's sweaty, and sat and told Harry that they were together? What was the point, then, in buying little cakes in spotty wrappers, and sitting on wooden tables and drawing faces with their fingers in steamed-up windows? What was the point in holding fistfuls of silver-blond hair, staring fiercely into silver and the slightest blue eyes, nose to nose, forehead to forehead, and whispering sweet and secret things in the dark?

Because now, there didn't seem to be any point. Not anymore. Heck, had there ever been?

Was that golden little single second in time, when she had felt her stomach flip, her insides crumble; when she had been so sure that she loved him, and he loved her, wasted?

Yes.

No?

Maybe.

For something that had been inexplicably ferociously fought for (their love), it was wasted now.

She might as well have died. Laid on the ground made of mud and old grass and been stabbed one hundred times.

There was a time where she felt she could forgive him for anything. Sure it was love; blind and unknowing to the future of them.

Was there any point in letting her stare at his mark until it almost reduced her to the point of vomiting? Was there any point after, after that, whispering into his hair that is was okay and okay and it was hard for her to understand but she would try?

Any point in sitting next to each other in potions and charms and playing with each others' fingers and hands and that thing he did; when he would take Hermione's hand and circle her palm so that she relaxed and her whole being softened and melted into his?

And what did it mean, then. When they had passed in corridors weeks before admitting and caught eyes at least one hundred times and been so sure that they had seen and brought something out in each other that no one else could?

When, in that time too, he would secretly position his seat so he could look through the teacher and at her? Be able to admire her locks and her curls and light freckles and curled eyelashes and lip-biting, which made her pale lips blossom out into red and pink. Be able to do all that with no fear existent. Belong only in his thoughts and no one else had to know.

And; her too. Look up every moment or two and admire the exact place on his face which cut off to shape his jaw. Or the way that he always smirked with the left corner of his lip upturned. Or the green and blue veins that struck and jarred out just under the surface of his skin and webbed up to the edge of his hand. Or his platinum-blond hair that was almost white in summer and darker in winter.

The Slytherin boy with the messed-up attitude who really was someone else inside.
And the Gryffindor girl who loved and was patient in everyone. Who snapped however at what she regarded a fault. Who loved with passion and everything he couldn't posses.
She gave him it and slowly it grew into him, too.

But now it was over.

Heck, had it even ever been there?