Title: The Death of All Hope
Summary: After a year of living together platonically, Hermione makes an announcement that tears Oliver apart.
Rating: R
Author's Notes: I'm in a rather melancholic mood tonight, and though this isn't how this little piece was supposed to turn out, I'm still rather pleased with it nonetheless. The title is a play on 'The Sum of All Fears', and the prompt I used this time around is a rather famous quote (which I merely reworded) "If I love you, what business is it of yours?"
“I’ll be gone about two months,” Oliver explained, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Hermione watched its progress, nodding thoughtfully, and he took the moment to admire her unobserved.
“And you have to leave tonight?” she mumbled.
“Well, as comfortable as that new sofa is, lass, I’ll admit to looking forward to my hard bed back at camp - at least I can stretch out fully on it,” he teased, but still she did not meet his eyes.
“I - can you stay a bit longer?” she asked hesitantly. “I’ve got something I need to talk to you about.” He dropped his bag instantly and the resultant thud startled her into a strangled squeak. He wrapped her against his side and led her to the sofa, where he settled her into the crook of his arm.
“Now, what’s on your mind?”
She took a deep breath and stared at the blank television. “I won’t be here when you get back, Oliver,” she began, her voice slightly breathy. “I’ve been with the Ministry long enough to have a quite substantial savings - more than I should, since you’ve not let me pay for anything since I moved in.” Her tone turned humorous and she smiled at him briefly.
“I’ve taken advantage of your kindness far long enough,” she said as she steeled herself for what he knew must be coming. “I’ve found my own flat, not far from here. We can still have our film nights when you’re home - but it’s time I took care of myself.”
Oliver struggled to keep still - her words struck him hard, and he had to fight to keep from doubling over and letting loose an almighty howl at the pain. Things had been going so well to his mind. This two month trip to try out for the Scottish National Team was supposed to show her just how much she’d miss his bi-weekly visits home; it was going to be his opening to tell her, at long last, how he felt and to prove to her that she could feel the same way if she’d but give him a chance to show her.
He wanted to laugh bitterly at her comment on their ritual. To be sure, their film nights were the highlight of his haphazard existence - not even the chance to play in the Cup excited him so much as sharing a bowl of popcorn with her, his arm around her shoulders while she cuddled under it. Countless nights she’d fallen asleep against his chest and he’d relished the opportunity to pick her up and carry her off to her bed. After the first few nights she’d stopped protesting and merely snuggled into his arms. He would lay her don and help her settle herself under the covers; more often than not he’d end up sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand tangled in those silky whisky-colored curls and the other clasped in hers as he fought the urge to lean down and kiss her.
And she was taking that away from him.
He sat in silence and let his new reality wash over him. No Hermione to welcome him home with a hug and the latest news. No books on the coffee table, the pink and silver markers sticking out while Crookshanks batted at the tassels. No flowery scent lingering in the shower after her morning ablutions, nor candles burning on the mantle, lacing the air with their crisp apple-cinnamon smell, nor burnt foods he’d try heroically to eat. All of the reasons he bothered to come home at all - gone.
An empty flat, an empty bed - an empty life.
He realized he’d been quiet for far too long, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. There was a lump in his throat and he was terribly afraid he would begin to cry if he tried to open his mouth.
“Oliver, say something,” she whispered, having the nerve to sound tortured. Words wouldn’t come and he could feel her eyes boring into him. He was suddenly angry. She was tearing his life to pieces and she wanted him to say something? His head spun around to face her and she recoiled from the obvious fury in his face. His arm locked tighter around her waist and his other hand moved of its own volition to plunge itself into the mass of curls at the base of her neck.
Some remote part of his brain registered that she wasn’t fighting him, that she had actually leaned in - that her eyes had fluttered closed and those beautiful sooty lashes were resting on her creamy cheeks. The rest of him was merely reveling in the feel of her in his arms before he lowered his mouth to hers with inexorable slowness and lost himself in the feel of her lips under his.
Without warning, those perfect lips parted slightly and he stifled a groan as he took the kiss deeper. He felt her arms come around him, one hand fisting into his robes and his heart soared. For a year he’d resisted doing this, afraid she’d scream - or worse, curse him into oblivion. He’d never once dared to hope that she’d be so responsive. Her fingers were fumbling at the ties on his chest; he could feel the fluttering touches burning against his skin as she pulled her mouth away to focus on the task of unlacing his robes.
He turned his attention to her neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the smooth column of her throat, nipping at the base. Her moan, so much sexier than his best dreams, brought him to his senses.
“Hermione?” he said, not quite sure what he was actually asking.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Wood, don’t stop NOW!” she exclaimed, exasperated. “Surely six months is more than enough time for me know my own mind.” He raised startled eyes to hers, and saw they were glittering with amusement and barely concealed lust.
“What?” she demanded. “You didn’t think I was awake enough all those nights to know what you were doing?”
“Wha - what?” he stammered. She let loose a deep, husky laugh and he felt his control begin to unravel.
“I thought you’d never make a move, so I decided to force your hand a little,” she explained with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I figured if I pretended I was moving out you would either confess what you felt or you wouldn’t - and if you didn’t I would have two months to figure out another way to keep you.”
“You’re not leaving?” he asked, drawing in a breath.
“No,” she laughed. “I’m not leaving - unless, of course, you want me to?”
“You mean…” he trailed off.
“I mean this: I love having you as a friend, Oliver. You really are the best friend I’ve ever had, but I want more than just your friendship,” she said, rolling her eyes.
Oliver felt like his chest would explode and he realized he was still holding his breath. He took in everything - he wanted to remember every detail about this moment: the flickering of the candle on the mantle; the reflection of her wrapped in his arms in the television; the picture of the two of them, arms slung round one another after one of his matches that she’d come to see that hung upon the wall, the two figures in it looking happily at each other; the naked lust bordered by amusement in her chocolate eyes. He wanted to cherish this memory in vivid detail, but that look made it nearly impossible to keep from closing his eyes and resuming their kiss.
His hands began roving across her back of their own free will and he nearly groaned at the softness of her skin under the pink flannel pajama top she wore. He deftly slipped one arm under her knees and picked her up with a skill born of many nights’ practice.
“Oliver, what are you doing?” she asked, looking up at him curiously.
“Hermione-lass, I’ll not be doing this on the bluidy sofa,” he growled as he carried her towards the bedroom. “If this is going to happen, and not just in my dreams, then it’ll be done properly, in the bed I bought for this purpose.”
“Oh, stuff!” she laughed. “You didn’t buy the bed for that! You bought that bed over a year ago…” she trailed off, realizing there was no humor in his eyes.
“A year?” she asked quietly, looking steadily into his face. “You’ve wanted me for a year?”
“Longer,” he said simply, terrified to say just how long and praying she would not ask.
“How much longer?” Damn. “Oliver, how. Much. Longer?” her voice was deadly as he laid her upon the bed. He joined her, turning on his side to face her, letting her read the truth in his eyes.
“Since you were but a wee lass of fourteen,” he confessed.. He lowered his eyelids, pretending to close his eyes as he watched her face hungrily for her response. She turned pensive and the fire he’d relished just moments before went out.
“That’s why…” she whispered. “I always wondered why you offered to let me move in here - we weren’t very close - we barely even knew one another, and there you were, suddenly offering me a way out of a difficult situation. I should have known you had some ulterior motive!” she exclaimed, dashing the tears away from her eyes.
“No, Hermione, no,” he denied earnestly. “I knew that you’d never want to be more than friendly with me, but I was so in love with you that I didn’t care how you felt about me if it meant I’d be able to see you whenever I wanted to.”
“Love?” she squeaked. “Who said anything about love?”
Double damn. He said nothing.
“Oliver, answer me!” she demanded and he felt himself growing angry again. What right had she to demand he tell her how he felt about her?
“What business of yours is it if I love you?” he shot angrily. “They’re my feelings! I shouldn’t have to tell you about them so that you can throw them back in my face and laugh!”
“I would never laugh at you, Oliver, but don’t you think I had the right to know that all this time, when I considered you to be the best friend I’ve ever had, you were in love with me?” she asked rationally.
“No, lass, that I don’t,” he argued. “You say I was your best friend - well who better than that to be in love with you?” He stood up and shook his head. “It isn’t my feelings that matter here, Hermione, and it never has been. I’ve known my own mind and heart since I was eighteen. Now it’s your turn to figure out what is in your own.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, following him as he strode out of the room.
“Now that it’s come to the point,” he explained, picking his bag up from the floor, “I find that I’ll not be content with the scraps of your affection. I want it all, Hermione-lass. If you can’t give me that, then I’ll continue to be the best friend you want me to be, but it will be one or the other, lass. I’ll not be taking anything in-between.”
“So you’re going to issue an ultimatum and go - just like that?” she asked quietly.
“It’s not an ultimatum,” he said. “I just want you to take the time that I’m gone to figure out what it is that you want from me. I know what I want, and I’ll not settle for anything less than it, so you need to know if that is what you want.”
“I won’t be here when you get back, Oliver,” she said calmly, staring at him. “You aren’t who I thought you were at all.”
He fought the tears that threatened with her words. He would be her friend until the day he died, but he didn’t want a casually intimate relationship with her, and she was too damned stubborn to realize what it was he was trying to say, he knew.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he answered. “Good-bye then, Hermione. I’m thinking there won’t be any need for me to be contacting you when I get back. I wish you nothing but happiness.” He left the flat before she could answer, and if his eyes were a bit moist when he Apparated to his dorm in the training camp, he could easily blame it on the rushing sensation that came from that particular form of travel.
