Title: Hope is a Lying Bitch
Summary: When it seems that patience and hope have finally paid off for Oliver, something goes wrong.
Rating: PG-13 for title
Author's Notes: I read the expression 'hope is a lying bitch' in an Anita Blake novel and fell in love with it. For months I've wanted to use it as a theme or a title or SOMETHING in a story, and this opportunity presented itself, for which I am eternally grateful. This is the third in the 'Hope' series.
Oliver wisely kept his distance from Hermione for some months, waiting for her to make her decision, but Christmas came and went with no word from her, and he fell back into his old habits of haunting the library. It seemed Hermione was aware that he was doing so, for if he appeared, she was walking out the door, and of course he’d look like a fool if he were to follow her out.
He knew she’d be uncomfortable after breaking down in front of him, but he didn’t expect her to go quite so far to avoid him. He didn’t want to force the issue, of course, but he was desperate to get back on friendly footing with her. In his estimation, pretending as if the conversation had never happened would be the best way to proceed, and he spent hours in his room strategising how to go about it. He laughed a bit to himself, that one girl had him in such knots that he was planning their next encounter as carefully as if it were a match he intended to win.
He got up with the sun one bright Saturday morning and made his way quickly to the library, where he hid in the darkest corner he could find that had a clear view of the entrance. He waited in the corner, picking up the first book he saw and absentmindedly turning the pages as he watched the door. His patience was rewarded just as he was thinking he’d head down to the Great Hall for lunch; she walked in quickly, glancing around in a distracted manner before heading straight for his corner.
Oh, bullocks! he thought. She started in surprise when she noticed him, but it was clear she knew she couldn’t retreat.
“Hogwarts, a History? she queried as she assembled her books on the table, taking a seat across from him. He looked down at the slightly battered tome in his hands and stifled a groan.
“Ah, lass, so now we’re back to you questioning my reading material, are we?” he asked with a chuckle. She muttered something under her breath, which sounded suspiciously like ‘Better your reading material than your wit,’ but he decided to ignore that.
“How goes your studies?” He decided to change the subject, giving her less time to think of an excuse to vacate the premises.
“Argh! Wood, I might have to strangle Professor Slughorn!” she cried. This declaration caught him somewhat off-guard, as he’d always thought she enjoyed schoolwork more than anything else in the world, excepting, perhaps a late night cup of cocoa that Winky would sometimes bring her when she pulled yet another all-nighter in the common room.
“I suggest poisoning his mead instead, lass; you’re less likely to get caught,” he joked, but the stricken look on her face made him realize instantly that he’d said something wrong. “What?”
“It’s just – you couldn’t possibly know of course – you were gone long before that happened – but still…” she trailed off, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth in what had to be the most endearing way possible.
“Someone actually poisoned his mead?” Oliver asked incredulously.
“It wasn’t mead – I think it was elf-made wine – and it wasn’t for him.” She must have seen his confusion, for she took a deep breath and continued in a calmer, more Hermione-ish way. “It was our sixth year, and Harry had been given some chocolates spiked with a love potion. He never ate them, but they fell out of his trunk when he was getting Ron’s birthday present out. Ron thought they were for him and ate the whole box. He was apparently daft with love over a saucy little twit named Romilda Vane, and Harry took him to Slughorn’s office for an antidote. When he came to his senses, Slughorn offered him a birthday drink. They didn’t know it at the time, but Malfoy had poisoned the bottle, since it was supposed to be a Christmas present for Dumbledore. Ron drank it – and he nearly died…” her voice grew faint, and Oliver was aware that she was no longer seeing him. She was lost in memories of how Weasley must have looked, half-dead of poison in the Hospital Wing. Something in her voice told him that this event had been a turning point for them.
“I’m sorry. You’re right; I didn’t know,” he said, trying to bring her attention round to him again.
“No, it’s alright. You couldn’t possibly have done. It just – I meant to not talk about Ron to you anymore,” she muttered. “You were very kind to me that one night, and I’ve been a horrid friend to be so distant with you lately because I was embarrassed.”
“It’s fine, really, lass,” he murmured, trying to catch her eye, but she was looking determinedly at the table, a faint blush staining her cheeks.
“I just don’t want you to have a worse opinion of him than you must have already because…” she looked up suddenly, and the intensity in her brown eyes nearly knocked him backwards. She took a deep breath and finished. “Because I’ve been thinking a lot about what we talked about, and you’re right. I know I’ve been dreadful lately, and I understand if you have changed your mind – in fact, I rather expect you have, and that’s fine, too, of course – but I thought I’d let you know first, since you were so understanding – and you needn’t feel obligated, because I’ll be fine.” She looked up at him hopelessly, and it was clear by the look on her face that whatever she was trying to say, she was not fine with it, nor would she be anytime soon.
“Hermione,” he began, clearing his throat. It was the first time he’d ever called her by her first name in her presence, and he was painfully aware of it. “I’ve not changed my mind about anything we talked about, then or any other night. So, come, sit her next to Uncle Ollie and tell him what’s wrong.” He pulled the chair on his right away from the table and patted the seat comfortingly, hoping that whatever it was she was trying to say would be over with soon.
She nodded and walked around the table, meekly sitting down. She continued to bite on her lower lip, and Oliver wanted nothing more than to cover the abused skin with soothing kisses. When she’d settled herself into the chair, she turned her face up towards his own, and he saw the faint sparkle of tears on her lashes. He wrapped his arm about her as he had before, and tucked her head up underneath his own, resting his chin on her hair.
“Ach, lass, dinna fash yersel’ sae,” he murmured into her hair, unaware that he’d slipped into the rougher speech of his native land.
Hermione laughed a bit. “I can hear your voice rumbling in your chest,” she said softly, burrowing her face into his collar.
“Now, what’s all this fuss about?” He whispered the words into her hair, inhaling the sweet scent of whatever shampoo she used and trying to tamp down his body’s response to having her nestled against him. She’s coming to you as a friend, you bloody ass! She trusts you!
“I’m going to break up with Ron,” she said quietly. “I’m sure there will be a fuss at the Burrow, and I’ll have to find somewhere to live – perhaps I can stay on here. I just can’t do it anymore.”
“I told you, lass, you’re welcome to my flat. It’s not much, only one bedroom, but you can have it. I’ll take the sofa when I’m home, which I don’t expect to be often. Training camp starts up again next week, and I’ve been invited to rejoin my team. It’ll be a year or so before we’re ready to have a league again, so I’ll be away most of the time.” He held his breath, positive she was going to refuse.
“You really mean that, don’t you?” she didn’t wait for his response. “I know I shouldn’t – oh, the fuss everyone is going to make about it – but – okay. If you’re really serious, then I accept your offer.”
His heart felt like it would burst. She was moving into his home. Friends, remember? called a little voice in the back of his head, but he disregarded it, tightening his arms around her small frame briefly.
“We’ll get you settled in over your Easter holidays,” he said confidently, giving her no room to back out. She nodded. He could tell she was a bit dazed, and he didn’t want to push his luck, but a grin broke over his face at the prospect of her in his home, puttering around his tiny flat. She looked up and caught it and smiled back.
“Thank you,” she said seriously, leaning over to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. “If it hadn’t been for you, ‘Uncle Ollie’, I might not have had the courage to do this. I promise not to be a bother to you, but I have to tell you how much it means to me to have a friend like you.” Her faced turned a pretty pink, and Oliver gave into the urge to drop a kiss on the top of her head. Her gasp delighted him, until he heard the whispered word leave her mouth, and he looked up. Standing not ten feet from them was Ron Weasley, a look of horror, anger and dejection on his face. His girl pulled herself away and faced her boyfriend confidently. Oliver slipped his wand out of his pocket and kept his hand under the table, just in case it was needed, and tried to be as unobtrusive as possible as Weasley shuffled over towards them.
“Krum, McLaggen and now Wood? Rita Skeeter was right about you,” he spat.
“Ronald, don’t be ridiculous!” she snapped. Oliver relaxed. Perhaps she’d hex him on her own.
“I’m not being ridiculous, Hermione. I came in here to see if you wanted to get lunch with me, since you hardly eat anymore, and find you in his lap kissing him! How am I being ridiculous?” His voice was controlled, but the anger was still threaded through each word.
“I kissed his cheek, Ron, because he’s my friend and he’s helped me – I’ve done the same to Harry and you never objected,” she pointed out, her hands in tightly-clenched fists at her side.
“That’s because it’s Harry, for Merlin’s sake! Besides, you weren’t sitting on Harry’s lap,” he shot.
“I wasn’t in Oliver’s lap, either, I was in my own chair and he was comforting me,” she continued calmly, though Oliver could see her knuckles were turning white.
“Oh, comforting, eh? Is that what it’s called now when you try to steal another bloke’s girl?” Ron turned his attack to Oliver, clearly accepting the futility of trying to outwit Hermione.
“Aye, comfort – what a real man does to a wee lass when she’s clearly upset because her pig-headed boyfriend is being daft,” Oliver responded mildly, his fist tightening on his wand. He knew he was going to be painted blacker than You-Know-Who himself when people found out that Hermione was living in his flat, but he really hadn’t been prepared for this eventuality. The entire Wizarding world was going to think he was the reason the second-favorite couple of the century had broken up.
“Wood, it’s alright. Just let me handle this,” Hermione said, not taking her eyes of Ron.
“Yeah, Wood, mind your own business,” Ron snarled at him, and Oliver had to drop his wand into his lap before he picked it up and cursed the bloody git into the next life.
“Ron, this has absolutely nothing to do with Oliver. Why don’t we go somewhere quiet where we can talk for a few minutes,” she reasoned.
“It has everything to do with him, Hermione! I caught you kissing him, remember?” His voice was full of contempt.
“Ronald Weasley, do you really want me to do this in front of an audience?” It seemed that Hermione’s tremulous hold on her control had finally snapped. Oliver felt like applauding until he saw Weasley’s face. In the space of a heartbeat, it had gone from belligerent and accusing to resigned and miserable.
Shaking his head and staring at his feet, he turned around to leave. “It’s alright, Hermione. I was never good enough for you anyway, so it’s really okay.” He shuffled out of the room, and Oliver turned his eyes back to the face he loved so well, expecting a sigh of relief or something similar. What he saw instead had him floored. She was crying, gasping and sobbing and his heart melted at the sight.
“I have to go,” she whispered between sobs and chased after her boyfriend.
Oliver sat, dumbfounded, after she left, staring at the scattered books and assignments she’d left on the table.
