euncie

In which: Harry is so kind, you wish he loved you less. *inspired by “less” by OR

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A nudge to your side brings your eyes back to focus, your brain snapping back into the present. You blink, once again submerged into Ron and Hermione’s lively conversation about who does which chore more often in their flat. A warm hand finds its place intertwined with yours, and you turn your head to meet the concerned eyes of your worried boyfriend. 

Your heart skips a beat, but it feels almost like fear.

Harry squeezes your hand in his, and although you try to give him a reassuring smile, you know neither of you fully believe it. He returns it nonetheless, turning back to the couple in front of you. You take a sip of your butterbeer, hand slipping from his as you use it to cradle your mug. 

Laughing at Ron’s defensiveness after his fiance accuses him of never washing dishes, you miss the way Harry’s hand clenches by his side, and the knowing glance he gives you after you look away.

The rest of the night goes as usual, the three of them chattering and occasionally stopping to learn more about you. For the most part, you’re a third party observer- not quite one of them yet, maybe not ever. It feels normal like this. You even think it feels good.

The walk leaving is laughter and swinging on streetlights. Harry’s jacket weighs heavy on your shoulders while you link arms with Hermione, walking three steps back from the rambunctious boys. Ron’s impulsiveness rubs off on Harry, and soon they’re singing pub songs and hanging off icy lampposts like they’re tipsy. Your eyes linger on Harry, but they never stay long.

Eventually, you and Hermione disentangle, the pairs once again finding their natural order. Ron’s hand slips into Hermione’s naturally, and Harry’s arm slips around your shoulders like second nature. You say your goodbyes with a hug and apparate back home.

You tug off your shoes at the front and convince yourself that the heavy feeling on your chest is simply nausea from the quick travel, but you haven’t felt that in years. Your boot gets caught on your heel and Harry is quick to kneel down and pull it off your foot.

Something ugly rears its head inside you. You hate how this romantic gesture feels like alarm bells ringing in your head, hate how it questions every feeling in your black heart. Once again irritation sparks within you, once again tears well in your eyes, and once again Harry is reaching out to comfort you.

“What’s wrong, love?” His voice is quiet, and it feels like you both already know the answer. Still, you shake your head, biting back sobs into his shoulder. He shushes you, his hand running along your hair. “You can tell me the truth, darling. I won’t be mad.”

And how could you corrupt this kindness? How could you tell this sweet soul that he was ‘what’s wrong’? How could you be so cruel?

“Nothing,” you slide your hands up his chest, your fingertips memorizing the sensation of his sweater, your nose imprinting the scent of his cologne. You feel your tears dampening wool, hear his heart beating, betraying the fear you both already know is true. “I don’t know.”

You feel his hesitation. You hear the way the silence rings out in the empty entryway of your home. It’s deafening.

“Is it me?”

You’re off him immediately, shaking your head no as you wipe tears from your cheek. The action provides him little comfort, and you both know that.  “Can we just- let’s not talk about this right now. Let’s just go to bed, please?” 

Harry agrees with a little hesitation, and for the rest of the night the both of you are quiet. You brush your teeth in silence, get dressed for bed while the sound of the shower runs in the other room, and crawl into your empty bed once the water stops. 

When he comes out of the bathroom, you’re still awake. Harry sits at the edge of your side of the bed, hands reaching out in the form of an apology he shouldn’t have to make. They grip your feet through the covers, massaging them gently. 

His love makes your breath stop. You wonder if you’ve felt that yet.

“Why don’t we go to Madam Puddifoot’s tomorrow?” Harry’s hopeful smile receives one of your own, the tension in his shoulders releasing at the reciprocation. Your heart flutters in your chest and you cling onto that feeling. It may not amount, but it would be enough for tonight.

The bed creaks as he leans forward, your lips meeting each other casually. Your hands slide beneath his raggedy t-shirt and his rest just above your head, his forearms surrounding your head.

You undress and make love and something still feels not enough.

+++

“Let’s just go home.” Harry’s irritation seeps into his voice, impatience fueling the tapping of his foot against wooden floorboards.

You know he’s tired of this same old dance. You’re tired too.

You cover your face in your hands while tears silently slip from your eyes, praying nobody else really notices. But how could they not? Not when Harry seethes every word he says, when your shoulders shake with frequent hiccups, and when the two of you have sat there in the same positions for the past 20 minutes. 

It started off nice. You really believed it did. Harry lent you his jacket in the crisp walk there like he did all those years ago, and you strolled into Madam’s laughing. He pulled out your chair much smoother than he’d done on your first date, and you teased him about the past as you sat down.

But it had built without you even feeling it. That same old feeling, once again, rearing its ugly head in your gut.

“How- how can I fix this?” Harry’s fingers slide beneath his glasses, pinching at the bridge of his nose. His tired eyes squeeze shut as you place your hands back in your lap. The anxiety forces your nails to pick at your skin.  “I feel like- I mean, we’ve tried everything, love.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Your voice is meek and empty, and it doesn’t sound like you. You sniffle, quickly wiping the remaining tears from your eyes and meeting his. “There’s nothing to fix, I promise.”

Harry bites back a groan and slumps forward in his seat, his fingers rubbing tired eyes. You both know you’re in denial. Neither know what to do.

“I’ll just leave this here for you two,” the waitress, her eyes intrigued yet still sympathetic, tries her best to snoop in on the conversation while simultaneously pretending not to notice anything. A black leather checkbook is placed on the table beside the finger foods, and she scurries away as Harry looks at the bill. You examine the cracks in the wall of the building next door.

The tension weighs heavy on you both as Harry drops a few coins on the table and gets up, still making sure that you’ve put on his coat before leading you outside in the cold to apparate. His hand interlinks with yours, more so out of habit than comfort. Still, you take the familiar friction of his thumb running along your knuckles.

You get home and it’s so much worse. You’d thought you’d like nothing more than to get somewhere private, where nobody could access your vulnerability, but it just left you with nothing but the unspoken drift between you and your boyfriend and the overpowering doubt from your thoughts.

You’re quiet as you go back though that door you’d entered many times before, and Harry drops on one knee to take off your boot. Once upon a time, this action would fill your heart with so much affection you wouldn’t know what to do with it. Once upon a time, you would’ve kissed him and told him how much you loved him.

How come you couldn’t now?

As your feet meet cold tile floors, you watch as Harry’s mind works overtime, searching for any triggers that might’ve ignited your recent funk. You know he comes to that same answer that scares both of you. You refuse to believe it. He’s not so resistant.

“Are you… are you happy?” You hate the way his voice cracks. You hate that you caused this pain in him. You have to look away from him. “I just- are you happy with me?”

The tears that run down your cheeks are acid. They burn rivers down your cheeks you’re not sure you’d be able to fill. Your hesitation is enough. You try to remedy it, but there’s no stopping a tower from collapsing when the ground is taken from beneath it. 

“There’s these- I just can’t stop thinking.” You don’t want this to be the end. But the object was put into motion already. “And I don’t think I mean them, and I just don’t know-”

“You don’t ‘think’?” Harry chokes the words out, and you know for a fact he’s crying. The entryway tightens around you. “Love, are you happy?”

He repeats the question, but he already knows your answer. He knows you better than that. Sometimes, he knows you better than you know yourself.

When he stands up beside you with his shoes still on, you know his resolve is set. The sand was slipping between your fingers, and each and every grain slid from your skin no matter how many times you tried to catch it. You flinched as he grabbed your hands, shaking your head no as his red eyes met yours.

Those same determined eyes that you fell in love with, the same eyes you doubted, the same eyes that loved you but you couldn’t love. You wanted to fight it, but it was no use. Harry’s decision was solid/

“I love you so much,”

A sob broke from your throat. Harry’s chin trembled as a sad smile spread across his face.

“I want you to be happy, love. I’m not making you happy.”

You shook your head, vision blurry with tears. “No, no you are-” your protests were no use. Harry shushed you, a tear trickling down his cheek. You cupped his face, fingers trembling as they tried their best to imprint the feeling of his stubble against your palm. “Please...”

You can’t leave me.

Harry’s jaw clenched beneath your hand, tears dripping onto your thumb. You were quick to wipe them away, but his hands made their way to your wrists, forcing them to let him go. You gasped in a breath, shaking your head.

“I love you,” Harry had to gather his breath, hands still grasping your wrists, “so this… we must end. Because I can’t make you happy the way I want you to be. The way I know you can be.”

You hated him for it, but you knew he was right. You knew by the way that feeling in your gut unravelled. Knew by the way that invisible guilt was lifted from your shoulders, that feeling of dread vanishing from your mind.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, pursing your lips. Your voice was thick and warbling, unlike how you’ve ever sounded before. You choked back a sob. “I love you.”

Harry didn’t say anything, just released your wrists to run his hand along your hair like he always did when he comforted you. He leaned forward and his trembling lips met yours in a final goodbye.

You tried to remember the way his cologne smelt. The way the stubble above his lip brushed against your skin abrasively, the way he tasted like mint tea and your favorite chocolate chip scones he always bought you from Madam Puddifoot’s. 

But when you parted, it all vanished immediately. He gave you a strained smile, brushed his knuckles against your cheek one last time, and left the way you came, apparating into the freshly falling snow.

You dropped to the floor crying, watching the snow wishing he had loved you less.