Subject: Boy, Interrupted (Sequel, HP, H/Hr, R) Date: Monday, May 19, 2003 10:43 PM TITLE: Boy, Interrupted AUTHOR: Anne Hedonia SEQUEL TO: Sheep's Clothing (in GO archive) SHOULD I READ THAT FIRST? If you don't, you won't know why Harry's losing it. MEDIUM: Harry Potter PAIRING: Harry/Hermione RATING: R-esque, a bit non-con SUMMARY: It's called the cycle of abuse for a reason. BETA THANKS to Medie and Grandfille! You gave me what I needed to know. :) FEEDBACK: is sexy. firstname.lastname@example.org
Hermione follows Harry through the halls. He is refusing to talk to her, and she is refusing to accept it. She knows she's nagging, but after all these weeks the time has come to ignore her usual sympathetic side, she thinks.
She is blithe and determined, tossing a hand grenade to and fro, thinking it's a softball.
She tells Harry's unresponsive profile how she's glad he's been hanging around her and Ron again, but now he's like a ghost, fragile as eggshell, practically battle-scarred. He seeks out their company but shies from their confidence. He continually looks like he's about to cry.
At that, Harry shoots her a sour look. He walks faster.
Hermione can also walk faster.
"Why have you been meeting with Dumbledore so often? What are you two talking about? And Ron knows you aren't sleeping." Her voice loses its nagging quality and breaks with concern. "What happened?"
His eyes crackle with unearthly emotion. His face is determined in a way Hermione's never seen. It isn't a pleasant way. It is the culmination of several weeks' worth of silence, Hermione knows, yet she still does not respect it as she should.
He stares at her for a long minute. "You want to know what happened?" he croaks.
Hermione swallows her sense of foreboding. "Yes."
"You want to know what's wrong?"
Growing impatient now. "You know I do."
Harry grabs her arm and pulls her across the hall.
It's hurting her, and this fact alone sends red-flag warnings all through her system, because Harry doesn't know or care. For the first time, Hermione begins to comprehend: this Harry is different from her Harry.
He opens a closet near MacGonagall's classroom and shoves her inside.
Hermione turns to voice her indignation and finds it smothered by Harry's mouth.
His mouth. His long-awaited mouth.
Now cruel and sure and starving.
She tries to keep up but is utterly outclassed, and besides, he isn't waiting for her.
She feels her knickers dampen with the realization of a thousand bedtime fantasies, all the while fighting off something else that makes her want to cry. Her hands flail for his shoulders to push him away. He pulls back first.
"Shaqular," he whispers.
Hermione's hands fly back and slam into the wall behind her. She cannot move them. "Ha--" she begins.
"Silencio," he sneers, and her insides wrench while her voice fails her. She cannot make a sound.
Their eyes meet. She knows her shock has laid her open. In his eyes, the fragile eggshell quality has been replaced by steel, and a queasy kind of fire.
His voice bites into her, quiet and sinister, like when he's speaking Parseltongue: "Is this what you wanted? Is this what you wanted to know about me?" She tries to tell him to stop, but there's nothing and he impedes her lips with the crush of his own and the sudden taste of blood.
His hands peel back the layers of her cloak, sweater, shirt. Hermione's mind reels. These simple actions cause waves of excitement, even in places he hasn't touched. Especially in places he hasn't touched.
She's never been so ashamed.
He thrusts a hand in to grasp her breast, like it was his birthright. His thumb grazes the nipple, but his attention is detached, unimpressed. She feels both the goosebumps and the wrongness; she never wanted it like this.
"You wanted to know what happened. You wanted to know..." he keeps accusing, his voice growing angrier and more raw each time. His body is pressing her hard and she's surprised to realize he's shaking too, probably harder than she.
She feels his other hand on her thigh, slithering underneath her skirt.
She remembers that her legs can kick.
Kick they do.
One knee connects angrily with Harry's groin. Harry lets out a yell, flinching hard and then falling away. Hermione's breath returns in gasps. When Harry looks back to her, Hermione expects anger and braces for the fight. Instead he looks startled and exposed, as though awakened at 3 am.
She watches him blink at the state of her clothes, as though she'd just walked up to him like this without explanation. He moves toward her absently, reaching out to button her up. She stiffens, ready to defend.
The move causes Harry's expression to crumble in horror.
"This is me," he declares softly, bitterly, talking to the floor. "This is what I am now."
She tries to say his name. Harry sees her lips move and winces. "Finite incantatum," he murmurs.
Hermione lets her trapped arms drift back to her sides, feels dizzy as the blood starts running again. "Harry," she rasps, and the lack of bitterness in her tone makes Harry's head jerk up, his lip tremble, his eyes suddenly well.
"Who did this to you?" she whispers shakily. "Who put it in you?" Her voice threatens to break. "I don't recognize you."
Harry's eyes are awash in tears.
"Now you understand," he croaks hopelessly.
He hesitates, miserable, his body flinching with reconsidered urges. His arms drift toward her but Hermione's body cannot let go of its defensive clench and finally he flees. His running footsteps echo in Hermione's ears as she collapses against the wall, crying into her knees.
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