The Power He Knows Not (Harmione)

Chapter 3 - The Best Laid Plans...

The following days stretched into weeks or months. Harry couldn't determine which. It seemed like every hour lasted three times as long. He honestly had no idea how much time had truly passed. All he knew is that this felt like the darkest time he'd spent yet. So bad in fact, he almost wished he was back at the Dursley's until the time came to return to Hogwarts. At least there he wouldn't have to keep up this charade. He wouldn't have to pretend his eyes were helplessly following her whenever she entered the room. He wouldn't have to convince himself he didn't love the way she walked, the way she spoke, or the way that caramel strand of hair always seemed to fall from her plait and cascade down the right side of her face.

At least at the Dursley's he wouldn't have to be deliberately curt with her to convince her not to fall in love with him, although he felt completely arrogant at the thought she even could fall for him. This part of the plan was the pinnacle of his despair, intentionally hurting Hermione without being able to tell her why. He thought about it of course; telling her. He waged a constant battle in his own head. One voice reminded him how much he loved her and told him to give up this stupid game. The other voice snapped him back to reality.

He wanted to talk to Ron, but in the bustle that was the Weasley home, there was hardly a time when he could get him alone. On the times he did, he rarely figured out how to phrase it before they were interrupted by someone else. So he plodded along with "the plan." It was an infernal plan he couldn't stand but it was the only plan that would ensure she was safe from Voldemort.

He always returned to that thought in the end.

His time with her consisted of short, one-word responses, cold unfeeling looks, and reasons to avoid being in her presence. He was so tired. He was utterly depressed, but he appeared to be successful. Within this time, Hermione's demeanor had changed. Her quiet tone of voice and timid demeanor around him had given way to a sort of "Super-Hermione" reminiscent of the one they had first met...only this one seemed to dislike him even more.

Harry didn't care, at least he didn't admit it that he did. His plan was working. She obviously wasn't falling in love with him. She was averting his stare, snapping at him regularly, and had stopped acting the least bit concerned over anything having to do with him. Yet the war in Harry's head raged on.

Where he seemed to hash this matter out inside his own mind, Hermione had suddenly taken to journaling, or writing, or something. She had received an owl shortly after their encounter at the wooded trail and began writing what seemed like rolls of parchment afterward. The owl made weekly trips and returned to its master laden with a letter the size of a bolt of fabric. Harry knew the owl's destination. She was writing to her mother, she had to be. Who else could she pour her heart out to like that, who else could she ask for "boy" advice.

Harry was jealous. He wished he could talk to his father or Sirius the way she could talk to her mom.

"Harry, I think it's time we had a little chat." Mrs. Weasley's voice broke into his musings while he sat on the back patio. "I tried to be discreet earlier, but this calls for drastic measures." Harry looked at her with a furrowed brow. He knew what she wanted to discuss.

"I really don't want to talk about it Mrs. Weasley," he preempted.

"Harry, you must. I've seen what's been going on between you and Hermione this summer and you have to understand it's perfectly natural to be scared!" She said warmly.

Scared? Could Mrs. Weasley have figured out what he was so worried about? After all, she is a member of the Order, she knows about the prophesy-it should be obvious to anyone with the information why he's pushing her away. He felt a glimmer of hope that he could finally talk about this with someone. But it didn't last.