Fire & Rain
… I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again
- from “Fire and Rain” by James Taylor
Hermione Granger had grown to be a woman who did not deal with emotions loudly. At work and in her social life, she was a pusher, a puller, a bull-dozer even. But when it came to emotions, Hermione turned inward, a river rock being overturned into the muck.
Those who were being kind to her after the war described her as “pragmatic;” those who harbored more pettiness against her opted for descriptors like “callous.” Hermione wasn’t either of those things—she wasn’t so steeped in reason that she could avoid feeling, nor was her heart frozen over. No, if anything, Hermione had simply become more private since the war. However others decided to view her was their prerogative; there was a select few that truly understood her, and that was good enough for her.
Hermione’s hands shook almost imperceptibly. She was sat on her sofa, alone in her flat. Afternoon light shone through half-open, floral curtains. Little dust motes twirled about in the light; silent, easy. She found herself staring at those dust motes. If she were to exist as one, instead of this jumble of flesh and bones, everything would be easier. She could float about in the light of day, land in stillness on carpet or curtain or sofa, twirl about in every gust of air. She could do all those things and not have to worry about other people. Emotions. Life. Death.
The unfortunate reality was that she was not a dust mote, nor was she a wildflower, or even a seagull stealing chips at the beach she and her parents used to visit. In the gathering dusk of her living room, she was still Hermione. She watched her hands shake; not so imperceptible now. She felt her rib cage tighten, her eyes go dry.
At some point, as dusk gave way to evening, strong arms enveloped her. A scent, one she’d savored many times before, wrapped around her. She leaned into the comfort, and the darkness. Her ears strained to hear his comforting words steeped in deep velvet. It felt like cotton had been pressed into her ear canals, with how far away his voice seemed.
When the evening turned to night and night shifted to morning, Hermione was alone again. She stared at the dust motes. Her hands had stopped shaking. If there had been anyone around to hear it, they would have heard one sob—simple in its delivery but complex in its single sound, breaking through the glass-like stillness of her flat.
In seemingly interminable moments following, Hermione collected herself, piece by piece. She reached for the scrawled note of spidery handwriting on the coffee table. Smiled, for a small moment, before it faded. A half-hour later she was freshly dressed, leaving her flat, the door swinging shut behind her with a whoosh of air. In the silence afterward, the dust motes lifted, little whirling tornadoes in the mid-morning light.