It’s freezing cold here, outside the tent, but I really, really needed to take a breath. Is there something not wrong anymore? --Post-War Fic. COMPLETED WITH LAST OPTIONAL CHRISTMASEY CHAPPIE ;)
From the Unofficial Portkey Archive: https://portkey-archive.org/story/7713/
Hey guys! ^_^
How you doing? So, I had this written a while ago, as a self-therapy after romance in DH, which I'm not even commenting… The thing is that I wasn't sure if I liked it enough to post it -perhaps because of its canoness.
But I thought that perhaps someone might like it, so, there. It's NOT part of the Bench series, by the way.
This might be a two-three shots at best. It all depends on if my idea, a two-paragraph idea, evolves into something else. I can't obviously post a two-paragraph chapter, can I? ^_^ Ok, my idea and your opinion, lol.
Cheers!
I'm reposting this first chapter, because now it's beated by my lovely Steph, who has been working 24/7 last week, the poor thing :D
NOT WRONG
It's freezing cold here, outside the tent, but I really, really needed to take a break.
The silence is solid. So solid that I can feel my ears buzzing, my heart pulsing, my mind wandering.
I'm surprised when I realise just what has been running through my head. Is there something not wrong anymore?
Well, no. There's not.
The snowy land before me is beautiful. It would be soothing, I'm sure of it, if it just didn't make me think of snowy feathers. And then I wish there weren't so much snow around at all.
Some nights, among all the Voldemorts, Ollivanders and Naginis, Hedwig slips into my nightmares, too. In them, she's never flying, delivering letters, asking for treats. She is just there, staring at me from the floor of her cage with lifeless, blaming eyes. And very still. Forever still. Funny how six years of seeing her full of life can be easily outweighed by just one moment of horror. I guess that's how it works after all.
Sometimes Ginny's the one who comes unexpectedly. No trace of those more-than-pleasant dreams I used to have at Hogwarts, though. No. In these ones, she's being tortured. Or dead, or dying, whatever it particularly fits my subconscious for the night. Just last night I realised that several days had passed since I last checked for her dot in the Map. I'm too tired to even think of the reason why.
But she's not the only redhead invading my nightmares. He, the one I thought -I think- of as my only real friend, has had his good share of stellar moments, too. I take a deep breath, the cold air somehow soothing the weight inside my chest. Thinking of him does me no good lately.
I shift to a more comfortable position on the ground. I don't know how long I've been here, but my body is aching, and I hadn't even realised. Even so, I don't really want to go back inside.
Am I still angry? Is that the reason? No, I don't think I am. Desperation led to anger, yes, but that anger turned into numbness at some point during the night. The kind of numbness you feel when you realise that nothing is not wrong anymore.
I still can't believe my wand is broken. That it was she who broke it, even if by accident. But I try to be totally honest with myself- searching for the anger, for the resentment, for the bitterness. I'm better off knowing if any of those horrible feelings are there, an invisible wall between me and my best friend.
The fact that she's still here with me, by itself, might have had something to do with my anger ebbing for good. But there's something else. It's finally sunk in, that's all. The fact that she saved my life, both our lives, yet again, has finally sunk in. Of course she would do anything to save my life. A stupid wand wasn't her priority.
And now I feel like scum for having been angry at her even for a second. She's been working so hard for what we're doing; she has Obliviated her parents, who now don't even remember her. How painful is that? And she watched Ron desert us, desert her. And yet she's still here, inside this tent. I suddenly feel the need to get inside and start planning something, whatever, with her. I don't want her to be more hurt than she already is. I don't want her to think I'm mad at her, because I'm not only not mad, but absolutely grateful for her presence, for her support. For her.
Careful of the cloak around my body, I walk back to the tent.
And I see her.
She hasn't heard me come in, totally focused in the task at hand. Saving thoughts about the dangers of her inattention for a later conversation, I observe her.
Sitting on the floor, my broken wand before her, she's muttering something. Whatever it is, it doesn't work. Then she tries again. And again. And once more. Her voice is catching in her throat, I can tell.
“Reparo!” she repeats, but still nothing happens. “Reparo!”
She knows, just as I know, that there's nothing we can do to mend the damage. But there she is, unaware of my presence, wiping furiously at the tears in her eyes with the back of her hands, only to continue with her task.
“Please, Reparo!”
The lump in my throat barely allows me to swallow. I've never felt this wave of… I don't know, of this, whatever this is, for Hermione before. Is this what Ron feels when he looks at her? No, of course not. He loves her the way I love Ginny. This is different. I know it is, because I've never felt like this for Ginny. Like I'm going to burst with gratefulness and tenderness and pride and…
And I don't know when I started to move, or when I took the cloak off. But in a second I'm there, whispering her name. She looks at me, and her eyes tell me that she's ashamed. Ashamed that I found her like that. Ashamed that she broke my wand. Ashamed that she can't mend it.
“Harry, I--”
“Come here,” I say, my hand inviting her to get up before she can say anything.
She looks at me hesitantly. She believes I'm still angry but trying not to be. She finally takes it.
I'm realising so many things so quickly. I never imagined Hermione, my best friend Hermione, would be one of them.
I realise, for example, that I've never hugged her, really hugged her, like I'm doing now. She feels tiny in my arms, as strong as she is. I haven't got much experience with girls in my arms, and neither I should be comparing, but I can't help myself. Holding Hermione feels so different from holding Ginny. Of course, holding Ginny usually involves snogging, while this embrace clearly does not. I'm very aware of her waist in my arms, on her arms around my neck, of her breath on my neck. Is this what Ron…No, not again. This can't be the same thing Ron feels. But in this moment, with my eyes closed, my hand on her back and my nose in her hair, I can't imagine anything more that Ron could feel.
“I know you're still mad at me, Harry,” her voice brings me back. “I'm so sorry, I've tried to mend it, but I can't.”
I hug her tighter, because I want her to believe me.
“I'm not mad at you, Hermione.”
She disentangles herself from me, and I don't like it. I want to hold her. Or hold onto her, I'm not sure. Perhaps I miss Ginny more than I thought.
“Harry, you don't have to pretend,” she tells me, looking me in the eye. “I broke your wand. I've left you wandless, Harry,” and she can say no more, because she's trying not to cry again.
I take a breath. Or a sigh, I'm not sure.
“You broke my wand, Hermione,” I say, and suddenly I notice that my hands took hers at some point. I don't care. “And saved my life. I'm sorry I got so upset with you…I wasn't mad at you, Hermione.” Not anymore at least, I think privately, and guiltily. “How much longer do you think I could have kept my wand with me if You-Know-Who had caught us?”
She looks troubled, but I know she's listening to what I'm saying.
“Not much longer,” she finally admits, the corner of her lips curling up a bit. And then she's suddenly looking at me, her eyes wide open. “Harry, you're freezing! God, come here.”
I hadn't noticed, I promise. I hadn't noticed that I was shaking from the cold, but now, as her tiny hand has grabs mine and leads me to the armchair by the fire, I suddenly realise I am freezing.
Thanking Merlin for the armchair and the fire, I watch her prepare hot tea, waving her wand --our wand now, here and there. She finally comes with the two mugs and hands one to me. I take a sip, adding `tea' to the list of things I'm thankful for today. When I look up, I find her staring at me. I know she's dying to apologise all over again. She's hoping I've not lied to her, that I'm not angry, and she's grateful I'm actually attempting to relax. Most of all, her look is practically screaming that she's scared to death for me. Has she ever not been?
“Come on, Hermione,” I suddenly say. “There's enough room for the two of us here.”
It's not exactly true. The armchair is not big enough for the both of us to sit comfortably. But I want her near me again. I want her as close as possible, actually. I don't know why, though I suspect it has to do with the overwhelming gratefulness I'm feeling today. That's why I've never felt like this with Ginny, I'm sure of it. Because although I care for her, I'm not indebted to her. This is overwhelming gratefulness. I think.
She hesitates a little, and then I feel a pang of something that tastes a lot like guilt, and shame, and makes me think of Ron. But I don't want to think anymore. I just want to rest. Damn it, I'm tired.
It takes a while for us to find a comfortable position. When we find it, she is half resting on my chest, my right arm around her shoulders, stroking some locks of hair distractedly.
Maybe I was wrong, I think to myself.
There's still something not wrong after all.
oOoOoOoOo
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NEVER WRONG
The sounds of forks and knives and somewhat nice chat are barely registering. More than a dozen people gathering at the Weasley table for dinner should be enough to keep me focused on my surroundings. Instead, I find myself silent, barely eating the delicious dinner, and wanting nothing more than Apparate home, have a cup of tea and get into bed.
I'm not the only absent one, though. Right in front of me, George, or the half of him that survived the war, is eating in silence, his features hard to read. He's not talking much, but again he hasn't talked much since then. Five months have gone by, and still no one can reconcile this George-shaped shadow with George Weasley, from Gred and Forge Weasley, owners of Weasley Wizard's Wheezes.
Perhaps because he's not the same person they used to know anymore. His family and friends try to understand him, but I don't know if they truly do. He's not only sad, or destroyed, or desolated, or desperate. He's just… not entirely here anymore. He's a twin. A half of a whole. And without Fred, there's no George either, but what's left over. I do understand.
As if sensing my thoughts, he stops the spoon midair and looks up. He says nothing, only the ghost of an understanding curling of lips. But when our gazes meet I can hear him all the same. He says I'm right. He says he's glad he has his family around, safe. He says he'd like to be miles away from here.
His brother Percy is sitting at his right, engaged in deep conversation with Charlie, who surprising as it is, seems to be truly listening to him. Bill and Fleur have come tonight, too, in spite of Fleur's huge belly size.
My eyes catch a glimpse of Mr. Weasley, sitting at the head of the table next to his wife. I think I hear words like `Ministry' and `such good expectations', and I suddenly hope he's right and his real worth is being finally acknowledged. He deserves it.
Looking at his smile, his words come to my mind again.
A month or so after the final battle, Mr. Weasley and I walked through Muggle London in our way back from the New Ministry of Magic. We could have easily Apparated straight away, but as if by some unspoken agreement, we found ourselves walking instead.
We didn't talk much, though. We were both pensive. After a while, he spoke. He told me that the war would be over our heads and our lives for such a long, long time. That things would never be the same as they were before, but he was hopeful. In time, he said, we all would find happiness, one way or another.
I couldn't bring myself to say much, barely managed a nod. It was the most I could offer.
We kept on walking in a comforting silence, until we reached an Apparition point. Just before parting ways, he looked at me, and his right hand came to rest on my shoulder. And he told me the one thing that no one had told me until then -and I had been told a lot. He simply told me that he knew. He knew that I could look like him and talk like him -though there was a change in that, too- but he knew I wasn't Harry Potter anymore, the Harry they met seven years ago. And there was no need for pretending to be him anymore. What was truly important, he said, was to feel whole again, whoever we ended up being.
And then he Disapparated, leaving me there, staring into space.
As I watch him now, I understand that those were the most honest words he could have said. They're still trying to mend their lives after all the losses, especially Fred. And Tonks and Lupin. But, just as he said, they are trying, and they are hopeful. Because Fleur is getting bigger everyday, foolproof fact that she's bearing a Weasley. Because the new Ministry seems a dream that is finally coming true. Because Charlie is moving back to England. And because their youngest children are safe and most definitely happily in love.
Ginny's hand on my arm brings me out of my reverie. She says something about going somewhere tomorrow. I nod, but I don't add. She looks disappointed, but she smiles anyway, giving me a peck on the lips before turning back to her conversation with Fleur. Against all odds, Ginny's being decent to her lately. The war changed everything, indeed.
Everything.
Because she doesn't seem to realise that, like George, I wish I were somewhere else. Or maybe she does, but chooses to ignore it.
Five months is a lot of thinking time for someone who is now constantly over-thinking. I've been recalling many moments of my life, of the year, and I'm always amazed at how different I feel.
One of the things that particularly struck me when I first thought of it, was my reaction when I saw Ginny again at Hogwarts, after so many months of staring longingly at her little dot in the Map. I wondered whether she had been that beautiful before our time apart.
Not the same Harry Potter, indeed, Mr. Weasley. Because this Harry can't believe those were the first thoughts of that Harry after reuniting with the girl he so loved. After the battle, and for a while, when she had made it and I had made it and we were alive and everything was going to be ok, everything had seemed so clear to me. But now…
Now I don't know anything anymore. It's not that I don't love her, I do. Her hair still smells wonderful, and her presence is comforting, and she makes me honestly happy. The problem is that…well, that it's not enough anymore.
I was right about one thing that day at the tent: No, I wasn't grateful to Ginny.
Gratefulness. Oh Merlin, how I laughed that night, alone in my room, when I first saw face-to-face that gratefulness I had felt towards my best friend. And how tears mingled with my laugh after the realisation.
My eyes wander before I can take control of them. As always, they find her. They always do, no matter where we are or what we're doing.
And right now, she's smiling, sitting across the table, at my left. She and Ron are talking as they eat dinner, and she's laughing at something he's said.
I take a bite of my dinner, which is getting cold, just to have something to do. But I've not been fast enough. She noticed.
She always does. Sometimes I wonder if she hasn't already guessed. She has caught me staring at her more than once. And she must have noticed by now that I spend less time with them. We used to be a trio, but now we're more like a duo with interchangeable parts. Yes, I want them to be happy, but sometimes…well, it all becomes too much.
I've become disgustingly good at pretending nothing's changed, though.
I can sense her eyes on me, so I look up. After the many weeks we spent together on the run, we have developed a scary sixth sense wherever the other is concerned.
Hermione is looking at me now, pretty thoughtful herself. It's ok, my eyes tell her. No, it's not, her frown answers.
I give her a smile. I don't want to ruin her dinner, because she'll worry, and we're celebrating New Year's, after all. And she seems to be having a nice evening with Ron attentive to her every move. My best friend, my almost-brother, has changed a lot, indeed. Loving Hermione makes him good, no doubts on that.
Suddenly, I don't feel like eating. Or like celebrating. I'm feeling very tired, the desire of going to bed now overwhelming. I'm about to announce that I'm going upstairs, when I take in Mr. Weasley's form. He's looking at me, straight in the eye. For a moment I falter; he knows, I think, but then it's not possible that he knows what I've been thinking. But when he smiles that smile at me, I know he knows. No need to pretend, he said. Aim to be whole, whoever you are now, he's saying all over again.
I finally stand on my feet, announce that I'm not feeling very well, and bid everyone Happy New Year. Ginny stands immediately after, worried, telling everyone that she's leaving, too, then. As politely as I can, I refuse, promising her that it's nothing, that I only want to sleep.
“But it's New Year's, Harry,” she tries, her soft hand on my upper arm.
“I know, Gin, I'm sorry. I'm really tired, that's all.”
She looks at me, and for a fraction of a second, I think I see hurt. And acknowledgment. Perhaps she knows now, too. Perhaps she knows that my life, our life, is not nearly as fulfilling as it should be, and that this…this emptiness, has nothing to do with deaths and dark lords anymore. She is bright, Ginevra Weasley. Perhaps she has known all along, but like me, she just chose to look elsewhere.
And so here I am, in my bed in Ron's room. It's been a while since I reconciled with the idea that darkness soothes me in some strange way.
Some nights, like tonight, I just lie down and think of our days in the tent. Of the nights watching the black sky, sometimes starred, sometimes not, above me. Hermione checking up on me, bringing me a glorious cup of steaming tea. Hermione lost in some book. Hermione checking the little beaded bag. Hermione crying over my broken wand. Hermione sitting with me in the armchair by the fire.
Hermione.
Just thinking about her while at the Burrow makes me feel ten different levels of guilt. This wasn't supposed to turn into this. Things were supposed to be all right.
I should have known better. Had it happened right now, I would have known in a second. I would have realised that gratefulness could never explain what that feeling was. I guess it was all part of the journey, and while old Harry's conscious thoughts were of Ginny's hair, Ginny's beauty, Ginny's kiss, his unconscious ones were thinking of books and bear hugs.
Tonight was a good night, after all. Because I made up my mind, and my chest feels finally lighter.
As I turn over for the ninth time, I kind of feel sorry for Mrs. Weasley. I know she's been secretly planning her only daughter's wedding since she heard of us being together. She loves me like one of her own. I really hope Mr. Weasley helps me on that one. I'm in for a hell of a situation.
Lost in thought, I nearly miss the soft knock in the door. I sit up all of a sudden. I recognise that knocking.
“Harry?” she says, whispering. “Are you awake? It's me. It's Hermione.”
As if I wouldn't know.
I invite her to come in, and after a second, the dark wooden door opens and closes noiselessly, and she is here.
“I hope I didn't wake you,” she apologizes as she follows my motioning for her to sit on the bed. “I should be back soon,” she explains, looking somewhat guilty. “I told them it would be only a minute. Ginny didn't like it too much, I think. But well, they know how I am,” she finishes, smiling ruefully.
I smile along with her. I know, too.
It was, I say to myself as I look at her, amazed. What I felt that day, it was exactly what Ron feels every time he looks at her. Pride. Admiration Tenderness. Gratefulness…
Love.
She starts to play with her hands.
“What happens, Harry.” It's not a question.
“I'm going to break up with Ginny,” I blurt out. It's better this way. No point in talking in circles; she'll find out in the end.
She looks at me, eyes wide open. I mentally grin; she wasn't expecting it. I can surprise Hermione Granger.
She's at a loss for words, looking at me, and at the window, and then at me again.
“I don't know what to say, Harry. I'm sorry --”
“Don't be,” I say, and I suddenly notice she is not asking for the whys. Maybe it wasn't such a surprise after all. “It's just…remember what Mr. Weasley told me that day, in Muggle London?” She nods. “Well, he was right all along. Pretending to be Old Harry isn't working. Perhaps Ginny was the perfect girl for that Harry. But he isn't here anymore. So…” I end up lamely.
She looks at me, and nods. “So.”
God, how I wish it were different, and she had fallen for me as I fell for her during those months, even if I didn't know at the time. But she didn't, and I like to think that I don't really want my best mate heartbroken. I'm happy for Ron. I'm happy that he's happy, that she is happy. That has to be enough.
“Don't worry, Hermione,” I say in a dismissing tone, because suddenly I need her out of here. “I'll be ok.”
We're both startled by the sound of the fireworks from St. Ottery Catchpole's New Year's celebrations. I look at Ron's watch on the table. It's nearly midnight.
“You should go back, Hermione.” I hate the weakness in my voice, and how my hand reaches out for her soft cheek, pinching it lightly, in what I pray looks like a friendly-love gesture. “It's midnight. Go to Ron.”
The fireworks start drawing the countdown in the sky. Thirty seconds and we'll all be facing a new year, full of hope and dreams and—
“Harry,” she says, her voice a whisper, and when I finally look at her, I know she knows. Perhaps I haven't been as subtle as I thought. Perhaps I didn't want to be. Her beautiful eyes are wide open, her brows knotted, her mouth open. Smart witch, my Hermione.
I hear footsteps coming upstairs. I don't want her to welcome the New Year upset, and all because of me. I want her happy.
“We can't choose who we are, Hermione,” I say, attempting to lighten the mood, taking her hands in mine. “Or who we love, can we?” I look into her eyes. I want her to believe me. “You both are safe, and happy. And that's enough.”
I look at the sky. Barely ten seconds away from midnight, the door of the room opens again, and two smiling redheads appear.
“We couldn't welcome the New Year apart, could we?”
As the clock ticks midnight, Ginny's warm lips press in to mine, the same way Ron's do to Hermione's.
“Happy New Year, Harry,” Ginny whispers in my ear after a few seconds, and I feel like the bastard I'm going to become when morning comes. She deserves better.
“Happy New Year, mate,” and all of a sudden I have a smiling Ron hugging me like the best mate I don't deserve to have. As I return the gesture, I look at Hermione, who is staring, but quiet. “Things will be better this year. I mean, bloody hell!” And I find myself laughing along, for his same reasons, and some others of my own. Bloody hell, indeed.
It takes me a while to make Ginny understand that I don't really want company, no matter what day it is. I just need silence and darkness and dreamless sleep.
She finally accepts, although reluctantly, and kisses me again before she heads back downstairs. Ron follows, leaving Hermione to close the door. She looks back at me one last time before leaving.
“Harry,” I hear her say as I find a comfortable position. I hear an apology hidden in the way she speaks my name. Only she would apologize for being happy. But she says nothing else, and I suddenly feel about seconds away from falling asleep.
“Hmm?” I manage, eyes still closed.
Warm lips descend on my forehead. On my scar. On my soul.
For a moment I think that she will never know how much comfort her simple gesture provides. But then her lips linger there longer than one would expect.
Maybe she knows, after all.
“Goodnight, Harry,” she finally says.
I smile. A New Year's just started. It's going to be ok.
“Goodnight, Hermione.”
oOoOoOoOoOoO
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Hello!
Next instalment here. I want to profusely apologise, because I know I said I was going to post soon, and it didn't happened in the end. I know what it is to be waiting for a chapter you are expecting, so if that was the case of any of you out there, really, sorry! I hope you like this one anyway. One chapter -or two, not sure- more to go.
As always, thanks to my lovely beta Steph! She's missing in combat again, so any mistakes you spot, my fault and only mine. Sorry in advance! ^_^
And especial thanks to the lovely HipogriffLover (yes, the incredible author of Love Hurts and A Blossoming Courtship), whose inspiration played a big part in this chapter (aka I stole a paragraph from her, lol).
Take care,
Madelaine
PS: Of course, standard disclaimers apply still. If only… *sighs*
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NOT EXACTLY RIGHT
***********************************
The London streets are so crowded today that I wonder if there's some sort of festival going on.
As I try not to bump into anyone, I check the time again. I was late ten minutes ago.
Last night, as I was in the kitchen making dinner, Ron's voice came out of the fireplace. He Flooed me to ask if we could have a couple of drinks tonight, adding hastily that everything was ok before I could even ask. He just wanted to have a few drinks with his best mate, he said.
He was right. It has been a while, so I agreed.
When I finally reach the door of the pub, I realise that perhaps I was overreacting. This place is ten times as crowded. I spot Ron's head at a table on the corner. He gestures to let me know where he is. It wasn't necessary; I've spent half my life next to that head.
“Hello, mate,” he greets me. “You're a bit late, were you busy? You could have said -”
“No, no, it's ok,” I cut in, noticing his awkward posture and face. No, everything's definitely not ok. “The streets were so crowded; it took me forever to get here.”
“You could have Apparated,” he says half amused, half annoyed. He was raised a wizard, he just doesn't understand.
“Ron, it's a ten-minute walk from here. And, just so you know, it's good to walk once in a while.”
He shakes his head, amused. “You're such a Muggle, Boy Who Conquered,” he says with a smirk. Boy Who Conquered. I stifle a sigh. And here I thought there couldn't be anything worse than Chosen One.
The waitress, a beautiful blonde with the tightest clothing ever, and some other obvious assets, comes to take our order. I'm no expert on this field, but I know she's openly flirting with me. It's not that I particularly like it -that has never changed over the years- but it's a good change to know that she isn't trying to get the attention of Harry Potter. In Muggle London I'm just a regular bloke.
I follow her with my eyes as she leaves. There's something familiar in her…
When I turn to Ron again, he's smirking.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he says, still smiling. “Only that for a moment I thought she was going to snog you right here.”
“Ron,” I warn, a little uncomfortable. He's still Ginny's brother, even if it's been almost two months since Ginny and I went back to being friends… or almost friends.
“What?” he insists, visibly amused by my blushing. “It's not like you were ogling her as she walked away …”
Oh, Merlin.
“I wasn't looking at her like that, Ron.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says, this time a little more serious. “But maybe you should, mate.”
I look at him, wondering if I'm hearing him correctly. It's not like he was happy about my breaking his sister's heart, but I never thought he would encourage me to look at other women. But then again, perhaps he's a better friend than I am.
The waitress' return with our drinks saves me from answering. When she winks at me, I can almost hear Ron laughing.
“I wasn't looking at her like that,” I insist. “It's just that she has-”
“Hermione's hair.”
“Yeah,” I say, still looking at the waitress' hair. That was it. The hair. The waitress has Hermione's hair, only a different style and a different colour. “But…”
“…she's not Hermione, is she?”
“Of course she's not,” I chuckle, still observing the waitress. “She's blonder,” I point out. “Hermione's shade is more natural, with those beautiful lighter strands in the summer.”
When I look back at Ron, he's staring at me. I'm about to ask what I missed, but then the last thirty seconds and what just transpired comes to me. I feel caught and exposed, and I can't fathom whether he's noticed something out of place in what I said.
“Yes, I know,” he finally says, oddly quiet, taking a sip of his beer. “She could never compete with Hermione.”
So that's it. Is that why I'm sitting here with my best friend tonight? Or could he possibly know…?
Ron doesn't explain further, so I decide to change the subject, for both our sakes. He'll tell me, in time. That's Ron Weasley's way.
“Well, tell me then Ron, how's everyone?” I try lamely, but I'm honest. I haven't visited the Burrow that much since the break up.
“They're fine,” he says, still quiet but past the awkward moment. “Well, you know Dad's being busy with the Ministry rebuild and all. I haven't seen him so happy in his life.”
“I know. He deserves it so much, Ron.”
“Yeah,” and the smile that forms on his face talks of a son's pride. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he says, his voice suddenly leaking excitement again. “Dad told me that Auror training could start in just two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” I say, suddenly excited, too. Ron and I had a long talk about what we wanted to do after New Year's. He had been sure that, after all the horrors and the fighting they had to endure, he would pursue a Quidditch career, something he had been secretly considering since Weasley had been King of Gryffindor, what seemed to be from another life. But now, he said, the thought seemed alien and shallow. He wanted to be an Auror.
I understood him so well. I made the same decision.
“We're in for hell, mate,” Ron says, his tone humorous. “Or that's what I've been told. If we start the last week of February, we won't have a break until almost Christmas!”
I laugh, too. “Yeah, but I don't think that we, of all people, will find training against the Dark Forces that bad.”
“No, not at all.”
I know I have to ask about her sooner or later.
“And your mum?”
He looks at me, and his expression falls.
“She's fine,” he finally says, and I only nod. “Most of the time, that is,” he continues. “It's harder for her. Sometimes she still calls Fred along with George,” he tries to smile through his own grief. “I still look behind George when he Apparates, you know.”
As he spoke, his eyes got lost somewhere behind his glass. And when he raises his head and looks at me again, the lump in my throat is choking me, so I take my own glass and drink.
He seems to understand. You're not best friends with someone for what feels all your life for nothing.
“It will get better, Harry,” he says. “For all of us.”
Full of something that feels a lot like pride, I smile at the man in front of me, the man Ronald Weasley has become. I don't think he knows how grateful I am to whichever higher beings made him befriend me. He likes to remind me of the fact that, for once in his life, he saved my life that day at the lake. He doesn't even suspect that that wasn't the first time he'd done it. He saved my life years ago, the moment he offered his friendship along with his hand on that first train ride to Hogwarts.
“I know,” and I nod distractedly, not really comfortable about my next inquiry. “And…well, how is Ginny?”
He looks at me, finding my hesitance kind of amusing.
“She's a tough one, my sister. Just don't ask her to be chummy yet. She loves you, you know.”
Breaking up with Ginny was exactly as hard as I had expected. Because the first time I did, back at Dumbledore's funeral, I had had real reasons for my decision. Stupid noble ones, perhaps, but at least they were reasons. I wanted her safe, and I was convinced that she would never be if we were involved.
But now there was no Voldemort, no danger, no war. So how do you tell someone you care for, someone who has loved you her whole life in some way or another, that your only reason for leaving her is that you don't love her the way she loves you anymore? She stared at me, shock written all over her features. But, like that day at Hogwarts, she didn't say much. She asked me, so softly, if it was something wrong with her. I promised it wasn't. She said `Good,' and then she asked no more, as if she didn't need further explanation.
As if she knew.
Everyone was surprised by this turn of events, especially Mrs. Weasley.
Well, not everyone.
Mr. Weasley remained silent when I announced it, watching his wife rush up to his daughter's bedroom. `I'm sorry,' I said. But he came next to me, and put his hands on my shoulders. `Don't be sorry for being honest, Harry,' he said. And I let him hug me. I had never envied Ron more than in that moment.
“You don't have to be sorry, Harry,” I hear Ron's voice, bringing me back from my own thoughts. “You were honest with her. And even if she's hurting, she appreciates that.”
I nod silently.
“Harry,” he says, or commands, I'm not sure. “We can't choose who we love.”
Merlin.
“No,” I say, unable to look at him at the moment. “We can't.”
I wonder if I look as scared as I feel, under Ron's look. “Harry, I… I didn't ask you to come here just to have a drink.”
“I know.”
He looks grave now. Something's wrong and I'm starting to really worry. Because I know it's about Hermione.
“I think,” he begins, only to continue after a pause to take a breath. And gather courage, it seems. “I think I should break up with Hermione.”
I couldn't have been more stunned if Ron had told me he was running away to the circus. I can't think; I can't speak. I don't know what to say. To buy myself some time, I take a long pull of my bitter, realising I'm going to need another pint if the conversation is to go on in this direction. To my luck, or perhaps not, Hermione's doppelganger comes up with a fresh pint, breaking the profound silence.
“Looks like you could use another one, love,” she says, her accent rudely reminding me she is definitely not Hermione.
Deciding to get it over with, I force myself to speak. “What are you talking about, Ron?”
Ron places his glass with precision on the table. Someone bumps into him from behind, nearly rendering his action useless, and spilling some over his hand. He starts to reach for his wand, forgetting we're in Muggle London. I wave my hand surreptitiously and the mess is gone. He finally seems to realize.
“Bloody pub's overcrowded,” Ron mumbles, and I can tell he's going to start going off about Muggles.
“Don't change the subject, Ron.” A few moments ago, I was stalling, but now I'm dying to know.
Ron avoids looking me in the eye, perhaps afraid I am going to hex him, but I'm really not, I promise.
Not when I feel like the answer to the universe could be in what he says next. Will it be the beginning or end of mine? On the one hand, I want the world for Ron -that goes without saying. But on the other, I can't help but want the world for me. Somehow, I don't think they're the same thing.
“I… I don't know what to do anymore, mate,” he says, playing with his pint. “I feel like I should just save her the trouble and break things off.”
“Save her the trouble?” I'm astounded. “What are you talking about, Ron?”
This time he does looks up. He looks miserable.
“I don't think we've ever, you know…you and me,” he seems nervous. “We've never talked, really talked, about Hermione and me.”
I nod in silence. It's true. Ron and I have always talked about many things, Hermione among them, of course. It couldn't be otherwise, her being our girl. But once she became more his girl than mine, the fact that he now knows her in a different way it's been carefully omitted. I just didn't want to stir the depths; Ron's reasons, I don't know.
“Harry, Hermione…” he trails off, as if looking for the right words. “I knew I liked her before the war, and during the war… but these months with her have been something I wasn't expecting, mate. I never thought…It's thanks to her that I have been able to cope with everything. She is everything.”
I can do this, I repeat to myself while I try to remember that he is my best friend, and that's what he needs now. I better not think of what I need.
“I'm sorry, Ron,” I manage somehow. “But I think I still don't understand. Why would you want to break things off then?”
He frowns, and turns his eyes to the little hole on the table he's been digging on with his nails.
“Because she doesn't love me, Harry.”
I don't think I've heard correctly. But I must have, because I feel dizzy, and there's a buzz in my ears that has nothing to do with the overcrowded pub. My brain is shooting questions in all directions. What's happening, really happening, inside their perfect relationship? Is it like it was with Ginny? Has Hermione ever hinted she doesn't love Ron? Is Hermione talking about some other guy? Are they back to their nasty bickering again?
Does she…?
No. I can't go there. And no. She doesn't.
“Of course she loves you, Ron. You know Hermione. She wouldn't be with you if she didn't.”
I see him smile a little.
“Well, I guess she does. But Harry, what I feel for her… she doesn't feel the same. I'm not that oblivious anymore, mate.”
“I don't know what to say, Ron.” And it's true. I don't. “Hermione has never really said something about you two as a couple. But you guys seem to be doing ok… I mean, you look happy.”
“So did you and Ginny.” And he sighs. “We are happy, Harry. I know I am, and I don't want to think she's unhappy either. It's just…like sometimes she has to remind herself we're still as good as we were at the beginning, right after the war.”
Merlin, Ron. Please, just stop.
“She seems…distracted lately. And always busy now. Lately we'd been bickering a lot too, and when I say a lot, you can imagine what I'm talking about. I thought that perhaps she could have met another bloke or something,” he says, and I join him in his fears, “but I know it's not that. So perhaps it's just me.”
I look at him, his shoulders hunched, his eyes on the table, his fingers distractedly touching his glass. And for the first time since we started The Talk, I find myself genuinely wishing they could work it out. Wishing that of course he's good enough for her and for any other woman in the world. But then I remember it's Hermione. The only woman in the world, for both of us.
“Now, there's this book Dad bought for Mum in a Muggle bookstore a while ago. It's about grieving and such,” here he clears his throat uncomfortably. “I took a look at it once and then couldn't take my hands off the bloody thing, and there's a chapter that got me really thinking. It's about how people sometimes take rushed decisions in times of despair, or after difficulties, survival, and other stuff like that, and I can't stop thinking about this. When exactly did Hermione and I start dating? I mean, we began our… whatever it was, right after you told us about the bloody prophecy, Harry. And then, when did we have our first kiss? Right before you went off to get killed by Voldemort! If that doesn't tell something's wrong here, then I don't know what can…”
I don't know what to think, least of all say, so I just listen to his venting. He looks like he needs it.
“Perhaps,” he says miserably, “she has finally come to her senses. Perhaps she has finally seen I'm not good enough for her, that I…”
“Ron,” I abruptly interrupt, trying not to voice my real thoughts, which are shouting `you don't know her at all' at this moment. “I think it's time for you to stop thinking that everything is about you.” He looks up, and I realise I must have revealed more than I wanted to, because I can read surprise and hurt there. I sigh, and try again. “What I'm trying to say, Ron, is that you need to stop thinking you're not good enough for her.”
“But maybe I'm not, Harry. I've always thought…” he stops, hesitant to go on, and I suspect where he's going. I don't know how much longer it will be until I come up with a lame excuse and walk away from the table. “You know, the stuff you saw when I destroyed the Horcrux. I always thought she would choose you in the end.”
Enough.
“But she didn't, did she? She chose you over me and over everyone. Perhaps you are not perfect, and perhaps you two are too different, and perhaps sometimes you can't understand her and she definitely can't understand you. But for some reason, it's you she is with. Not me, not Viktor, not anyone. Doesn't that tell you anything at all?”
It's only when the last word has left my lips that I realise what I've just done. Ron's looking at me like he's seeing me for the first time. After all, I practically spat on his face out of repressed bitterness. I feel my face flush, and before I can mutter some sort of apology for my outburst, he smiles at me.
“I've always been thick, Harry,” he starts, and I don't know what's going on. Has he finally realised? Have I lost the best friendship I've ever had for good? Damned pints. They never did me any good. “I'm sorry you have to get so frustrated with me.” He shifts on his chair, looking uncomfortable. “I don't really tell you this often, but you know you're my brother, right? The best friend anyone could have.”
Merlin Ron, please, stop.
“And you know what? I think you're right, Harry,” he says smiling, looking hopeful now. “Perhaps she doesn't want me to be perfect. Perhaps she's just feeling stressed lately, or post-war anxiety is striking back, or something like that.” I nod, and I think I mutter something, but I can't exactly tell what. “I do want this to work out. We'll make it,” he reassures himself.
He is so happy at his revelation that fails to notice my own. And it's good, because there's no way he would have missed the phoniness of my smile.
I don't think I've ever felt such loathing for anyone as I'm feeling for myself right now.
Suddenly, he looks alarmed, and tells me he's totally forgotten about something he had promised his mum to do. I say it doesn't matter, that I understand and I'm tired too, and so he rushes out of the pub, not before giving me a brief hug, thanking me again for being the best mate one could hope for, and promising I will be, of course, the godfather of their first child.
The waitress flashes me a seductive smile from the bar the moment I found myself alone. I call for another barman to pay for the pints, and leave.
Some time later, in the darkness of my flat, the uneasiness I've been feeling since Ron opened his mouth materialises into a race to the bathroom, where I finally throw away the mixed contents of my stomach and my soul.
Damned pints, indeed.
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Hey beautifuls!
Sorry for the author's note, I hate them, but it is in order. In a typical me fashion, I've uploaded the wrong version of chapter 4. I had not read it before posting it, but after some reviews sensing the same, I came and read it…and well. No wonder it feels odd, because this one was a draft written even before the Harry/Ron chat. Dammit, where's my chapter???
Anyway, the scenario isn't much different, but their interaction slightly is, so I'm taking this off until I find the real chapter 4, which I hope it's today... Anyway, about Hermione, I think it's the first time I write about an Hermione not in love with Harry from the beginning of the story, and that might feel odd. But this story started as canon as possible, which means Hermione wanted to be with Ron, not Harry.
Sorry for…I don't know, for my obliviousness, lol. And thanks so much for pointing it out!
~ Madelaine
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Hello beautifuls!
I'm really really REALLY sorry for the lack of updating when I said I was going to update. Again, whereas I have no real life, my beta has, and I depend on her magical touch :D.
I didn't find the right chapter (I most probably deleted it thinking it was the draft…) so I had to rebuild it entirely. It took me hell, to be honest, but well, I hope you like it.
Thanks a bunch for reading!
Madelaine x
PS: On a side note, rebumping up stories in here is more complicated than any Einstein's theory, good lord… ;-D
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MENDING THE WRONG
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“Harry, you're coming tonight, right?”
Today was the last day of Duelling Training for a while, and even though we're all beat and tired, a sort of celebration has been planned for tonight.
“I'm sorry, Helena, I don't think I'm going.”
She's not satisfied with the answer; she never is, so I brace myself for -
“Come on, Harry! You never go anywhere with us!
She's right, of course. Unlike Ron, who is always up for it, I am less inclined to hang out with our training classmates. Somehow she guessed I wasn't planning on going tonight either. Black-haired, slender, athletic, beautiful. And very determined, she is. And still…
It's been more than nine months since Ginny and I broke up. It was a long process, but Ron was right. As painful and uncomfortable as it was, Ginny is a tough one, so after a while, things went back to normal. We're not best friends -in truth, we never were- but at least things stopped being extremely uncomfortable.
Helena, along with a rather high number of witches, seems to think that it is time for old Harry Potter to have some fun. I don't get why they all think I'm in dire need of cheering up. I really don't. I'm ok. Honest. More ok than any of them can imagine. For the first time in my life, I feel free and loved. And if not content, because I still dream of The War every night, at least content with the state of things…almost, anyway. But overall, all is well.
I try to convince her that I'm just tired and I don't really feel like partying, but she doesn't seem interested in my excuses. She tells me I don't need to worry about her throwing herself at my feet tonight, since I've made it abundantly clear that I'm not interested in her, or any other witch, for that matter. The way she says it would have made me feel a little guilty had I not known that she hasn't really given up. And neither have the other witches, to my utter embarrassment most of the time.
“Come on, Harry,” she says, stepping closer. “You always look so tired and gloomy. And we really want you to be there, yes?”
I consider for a moment. Well, it's a special party after all; Ron and Hermione will be there, too. And we're taking a well-earned break. The first since we started months ago.
As soon as she realises I have somewhat agreed, I feel a pair of strong arms around my neck. Too tight of a hug, actually.
“Harry, are you— oh, I'm sorry,” a voice comes from the door, where Hermione is standing, looking slightly shocked, and probably deciding whether she should stay or leave.
Helena lets go of me and storms out of the room, barely acknowledging Hermione, but not before reminding me that I'm a man of my word and I have finally said yes.
I can't help but smile at Hermione's stunned face. She's never really liked Helena since Day One, and the feeling is definitely not one-sided. They couldn't be more different, considering Helena is a scary mix between Parvati, Lavender and Ginny, all rolled into one. At the beginning of Auror training, when we first met Helena and she was seriously set on winning my affections, she confessed to me that she was so very jealous of Hermione, who, though happily dating Ron, always gave off this territorial vibe wherever I was involved.
Well, Hermione was very good at protecting me from the hordes of fan girls I had to deal with since my break up with Ginny, and I must confess that I was more than pleased with it, so I gave her free reign on the matter. We never discussed it, ever, but after New Year's Eve, I knew she knew. And because she knew, I'm sure she felt somewhat responsible of my supposed `unhappiness.' Bless her.
“And?” I hear Hermione say, bringing me back to reality. She's looking at me, raising an eyebrow.
“And, nothing. She just came to invite me to the party tonight.”
“Well, she can be really convincing, I see.”
I can't help but laugh as I put the last of my things into my training bag. From time to time, I indulge in the fantasy that Helena's Auror instincts are correct and Hermione does get slightly jealous.
“So…are you going, then?” she asks me as we walk together towards the closest fireplace.
“Well, I don't feel much like partying, to be honest. More like having a long, long shower and sleeping for a week. But I said I'd go. I never do anything with them, you know.”
She smiles. “I know.”
She does know. Unlike Ron, who is always willing to have some fun with the rest of the trainees, Hermione is not a great fan of outings, either. She used to go along with him, to silence Ron's complaints mostly. But other times, she would stay to keep me company at home, a regular occurrence once she didn't feel obligated anymore.
Sometimes I wish she didn't stay; that she would go with Ron and the others, too. But I can't tell her that without hurting her feelings, so I've had to re-master my talent of, in those days, think of her as I used to before…well, before things changed for me. Or didn't change at all. I just realised.
I look at her, walking beside me, smiling and saying goodbye to some people as we stop in front of the fireplace.
“Ron's going, by the way,” she says, reaching for some Floo powder.
“He is?” I laugh. “He didn't send you to convince my gloomy third of the Trio to show up, did he?”
I love her smiles. I truly do.
“Actually, yes, but…” she pauses, not looking at me. “Well, I don't think I'm going, so I can hardly pester you, can I?”
I look at her, suddenly suspicious of that little barely there smile.
“Is everything ok, Hermione?”
She looks at me for a moment, the powder in her hand, with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
“Yes, Harry, of course. Grimmauld, right?”
Several seconds pass before I nod and watch her disappear into the flames.
Five minutes later we are in my kitchen. She's staying for lunch, as she often does. I listen to her while preparing the pasta. I like cooking without magic -I like doing many things without magic, actually- so she takes seat at my kitchen table, asking me about this and that and...
And I know her. She's telling me she'll leave me to prepare for the party. Perhaps I'm imagining things, but there's definitely something amiss with her today. Especially when I see her trying to smile as she explains her plans, which involve just staying at home, having a relaxing bath, and reading a bit. Or, even better, she says, watching Pride and Prejudice yet again.
And then I suddenly know. For some reason, she needed one of our best friends' nights tonight. Perhaps she came to suggest it when she found me with Helena. But of course she won't tell me. Not after last summer.
It's scary, that déjà vu feeling.
“Ok, Hermione. What's wrong,” I state more than ask, putting her plate in front of her.
She tries to talk like she's all right and has no idea of what gives me the idea. But I know her; and she's not trying that hard, anyway.
I choose to be a Gryffindor this time.
“You had plans for us tonight and I ruined it all, right?” I try to sound light, almost teasing, but I see her redden all the same.
“Don't be silly,” she says to her pasta. “You didn't ruin anything. And you know I still am very sorry for that, Harry.”
I can't help the little smile that appears on my face.
My Hermione.
That, as she calls it, was the worst fight in our history as best friends. I had never thought I'd see the day when Hermione Granger would get angry and bitter because I had made plans -a dinner with a witch that ended with me in bed, alone, by eleven- the same day she had come to invite me for dinner.
Angry as she was, I got even angrier. Angry, but mostly hurt. She had no right. But when the very next day she Apparated to my door -she didn't want to intrude in case I had someone here, she said- with puffy eyes and blurting apologies and bear hugs, all was forgotten.
“I just…” she trails, and finally looks up. “I just assumed you weren't going to attend. I know, I mustn't assume, Harry. But don't worry, it's ok,” she smiles now. “I can always go to bed with Mr. Darcy.”
“I'm sorry, Hermione, really. I didn't know.”
“Of course you didn't, silly. I'm glad you didn't, and I'm glad you're having some fun at last.”
“Hey, I have lots of fun.”
She laughs. “Of course, Potter,” and she takes another forkful of pasta in her mouth. “What I still can't believe,” she says, and stops to properly chew and swallow. “It's that you finally said yes to…what's her name again?”
“Helena.”
“Ah, yes, Helena. As in Helen of Troy. Look how well that went.”
Now it's me who bursts out laughing and almost chokes on my food.
“You're terrible, Hermione!” I say, and she rolls her eyes. “And it's not like it's a date. I said yes to going there with the rest of the team, you know.”
I hear her muttering something, and I can't help but feel all warm inside as I watch her finish her meal. She does love me after all, no matter if entirely platonic. Hearts don't make those sorts of distinctions. They just feel the warmth.
When we're finished, we move to the couch. It's only 4pm, so I turn on the telly and go through the channels.
“You know there's nothing worth watching at this time of day,” she says, amused, making herself comfortable on the couch. She hands me a couple of pillows.
I finally find some animal documentary, look at her and smugly tell her that I knew there was something interesting out there.
And she shouldn't do that.
She shouldn't look at me that way.
“Come here,” she beckons softly, and I can't help but wonder if she ever thinks of that day at the tent. The first of many days. She ruffles my hair as I get closer, and before I can do something, my head is on her lap and her hand is caressing my hair and I don't know how I manage.
****
The next time I open my eyes, the TV is off, and the room much darker. I remember then that Hermione's fingers were in my hair, that I must have fallen asleep at some point, and Hermione must be home by now.
Well, I'm wrong.
I'm not alone on the couch.
Hermione didn't go home.
I don't remember her laying beside me, but she is. Her left arm around my middle, her left leg on top of mine. And her breath... She's breathing into my neck, and I suddenly feel the need to get away from this couch. It must be around seven, anyway.
She is free now, I tell myself, as that part of me is been whispering since that night at the Burrow, not three months after the night at the pub with Ron, when they surprised everyone with the news of their break up. They never said a word about the particulars, only that they had decided that it was for the best, and they were going to be ok.
I never asked. Not openly, at least. Hermione gave me a tight hug when I told her I would be there for her, no matter what. And Ron…well, we met again in the pub a week later. It's for the best, Harry, really, he said. I really am not oblivious anymore, eh? He tried to lighten up the situation, but the sadness in his eyes told me otherwise. He had opened his heart to me, after all. I felt genuinely sad for him, while trying to remember if I could have said something, do something that day that made things worse somehow. Apparently, I didn't.
And what now? What have I done? Nothing. We have lunches, and dinners, and training together. But those nights alone with her that I equally treasure and dread. I have to give her time before…well, I don't know. Before the memory of my best friend's pained look in the pub, playing with his pint fades away. Before she can think of me differently. Before I can gather some courage. Or those are my excuses, anyway, for it is better than thinking that she simply doesn't want me.
I try to move without making too much noise. I don't care if she stays here, sleeping. She's hardly been sleeping lately. But then I feel her stirring behind me.
I feel other things, too.
“Harry?” she mutters, half asleep, and I roll on my left to face her. I instantly miss her arm around me, but she has tucked her hand under her head, just like the other was. In the dim light of the room, her gaze feels different.
“Yes?” I barely whisper, afraid to end the moment if I speak louder.
“I fell asleep.”
“I know,” and I smile. “Me too.”
“It must be almost seven. You should be going.”
“Yes.”
“Because you said you'd go.”
“Yes.”
But I don't move, I can't move, and she's not moving either. She's just looking at me, in my eyes. In my soul. And when I look back, I can't stop my words from coming out.
“Do you want me to stay, Hermione?”
She moves slightly. She's closer now. Too close.
“Harry—”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” she breathes.
And then I close my eyes, because I can feel her hot breath on my mouth and my breath on hers and I can't move.
The next thing I know is that Hermione, my best friend since forever, Ron's ex-girl, the woman I love above all things and creatures, has her lips on mine. There's no mistake.
She's kissing me.
As I lie there, frozen, I search for a logical explanation, the reason as to why she's doing this. Most likely I was right and she's feeling down. But this is not a friendly kiss. She shouldn't…
But she is, and I can think and feel nothing but her mouth, which is now doing more, trapping my lower lip between hers, caressing, tasting.
The question, buried for months, surfaces again. Is this what Ron felt every time they kissed? Merlin, I don't want to think anymore.
And that's probably why one of my hands suddenly grasps her nape, and the other caresses her face, and her hands grab my shirt, and we're kissing, properly kissing, closer than we've ever been. Merlin, I never knew…
But the kiss ends, leaving us there, both breathing heavily, our features darkened in the dim light of the room. And as suddenly as it started, the moment ends, and she sits up, her mouth open in horror, or shame, I can't tell, but definitely not the one I have envisioned in my dreams so many times.
I dread what's coming.
“Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry,” she sounds like she's about to cry.
I sit up beside her. I don't understand.
“Don't,” I try to sound soothing and natural, but she can't even look at me. “Hermione, look at me.”
She does. And I fall in love all over again.
“What's wrong? I'm the one wh -”
“I've spent my whole life wanting you to be happy, Harry,” she says with such a calmed tone that scares me. “Me hurting you is simply against my nature. And still…”
She pauses, taking a deep breath before going on.
“Perhaps I'm assuming too much here, but last Christmas, something changed. Like…like you…” she looks extremely embarrassed. “Why did you leave Ginny, Harry?”
The question should be simple enough to answer, since I've known the answer forever, and I suspect she's assuming correctly, too.
“I didn't love her,” I finally say. “And she deserved more. She deserved being loved in the same way she loved me. I couldn't offer her that.”
She nods, her head down, and I realise she's having trouble keeping the tears at bay.
“The simple idea of me hurting you in any way kills me, Harry. I've told you, it's against my nature. After New Year's Eve…everything changed. In my head, anyway. For weeks I couldn't stop thinking, wishing things were different, and you could go back to Ginny, or meet a wonderful witch- ” She pauses, looking down, a small sad smile on her lips. “But as it turned out, every time the opportunity presented itself, I despised any woman who dared to come close to you. So much for your happiness meaning everything to me.
“In my head, I was just being overprotective. Of course it made sense that I was overprotective of you, I guess,” she continues, “I was your best friend after all. How stupid…But I soon started to run out of excuses. `It's normal to care for Harry, he's my best friend', I'd reason. `It's normal to think of what Harry will be doing. It's normal to think of him and smile and feel giddy when I know I'll be seeing him.' Oh, Merlin, I am stupid. I should have known better. Well, maybe I knew,” she says, “but chose to look elsewhere. The alternative…well, the alternative scared me more than I had ever been. Ever, Harry.”
“That horrible, uh?” I say smiling, and I swear I don't know how I manage to sound light when my heart is practically breaking my ribs.
“Silly,” she smiles back, her eyes moist. “I was with Ron. I truly thought I loved Ron. I had waited for so long. But then… I didn't even bother to fight with him anymore, Harry. It was just not worth the effort most of the time. I know he loved me, he made sure he told me often enough, but I…I felt so horrible,” she says, her voice finally cracking. “I didn't want to hurt him. I didn't want to hurt you. And in the end I hurt everyone. Everything was going to be so good for all of us this year…”
For a moment I'm sure I won't be able to stop myself from kissing those tears away, but we need to talk, so a conjured handkerchief will have to do. She even pauses to sincerely thank me for it.
How I love this woman.
“And then,” she continues, handkerchief in hand, “then we had that horrible fight last summer.” She looks at me then. “We had a fight that day over your plans just because I was jealous, Harry. That is the sad truth: I was plainly and utterly jealous. I had no right to be angry at you for having plans that didn't involve me, but someone else. But I…” she trails, looking at her hands, which are playing with the little piece of fabric. “I…well, I had planned something that night. I thought… Merlin, I don't think I can tell you.”
I take her hands in mine, caressing her soft skin with my thumbs. And because I don't think I can go on without her reassuring touch.
“You know you can tell me anything.”
She nods, looking down at our joined hands, a shy smile on her lips when she looks up again.
“I was going to take you out.”
I stare at her, waiting for her to continue, but she seems to be expecting something else.
“On a date, Harry,” she explains. “I was going to ask if you…well, if you could or would go out, on a date, with me.”
“Oh,” I say, unable to elaborate beyond that.
“You don't have to show how elated the prospect of a date with me gets you,” she teases, and I realise that I must look as confused and lost as I'm feeling. Little by little, her words reach my brain, but the implications of what she's saying, or what I am understanding… Merlin, what is she really saying?
“That's why you were so angry, of course,” I finally say, things making sense in my mind at last. “I ruined our first date in the worst possible way.”
Our first date.
She smiles, and I feel her fingers caressing my hands. Perhaps she needs reassurance, too.
“You didn't know, Harry. You couldn't know that I had spent the last months thinking of every reason for not doing anything, and most importantly, the one reason for doing it. I wasn't even sure that you felt…well, something for me anymore. But, just my luck, the day I finally gathered the courage to ask you out, you had plans with another woman.”
There are so many things I want to tell her right now. Like how she didn't have to spend any second worrying over that woman, or any other woman, because she wasn't her. That she shouldn't have felt horrible for knowing, when I was the one who messed things up, even if unintentionally. That I love her more than I thought I was capable of loving anything or anyone, so of course I still had feelings last summer, and right now, and forever.
Instead, I only whisper the next best thing.
“Hermione…”
She brings my hands to her lips, placing the most gentle of kisses there. My sight is blurring, but I still can see her eyes, her beautiful and intelligent eyes, that seem to be still troubled by something.
“I shouldn't have assumed that you still wanted to…well, that you —”
“Loved you?”
She smiles, reddening.
“I didn't know, Harry. Not really. And I was so afraid that you could think I was just taking advantage of the fact that you…well, that things had changed for you. I didn't even know if after all that time...And, besides, I was starting to believe that I was a scarlet woman, jumping from one best friend to another just like that.”
I laugh, the tension I've been feeling for the last few minutes coming out in a deliriously happy laugh. Suddenly calm again, it's her hands I kiss this time.
“Can you forgive me, Harry?” she suddenly says, and a fear that I got it all wrong suddenly grips my heart. “Can you forgive me for hurting you?”
“You've not hurt me, Hermione, you never have. Even if I, well…even if things changed for me and I couldn't have what I really wanted, I knew you loved me more than anyone has ever loved me. Ever. And I knew you were happy, both of you, so that was enough.”
She moves to look at me, but barely, so I can still hold her.
“It was?” she asks me, sadness in her voice.
“It had to be.”
As I stare into her eyes, and she into mine, I just know I have to ask, no matter how weak it may sound.
“Hermione,” I say, closing the distance between us.
“Yes?”
“I need to hear it.”
Her palms find my face, her soul my soul. She understands, of course.
“I love you, Harry.”
Her words reeling in my head, I fear looking like a ninny, tears and all.
Of course, she understands, and places a gentle kiss on my mouth before speaking again.
“After so many months thinking of everything we've gone through, from that fateful Halloween night in the girls' toilet to last Christmas, I now know it. It's you Harry, it's always been you for me. It runs so deep within me that it took some time for me to recognise it for what it was. For what it is. And perhaps I am assuming too much once again but, if you'd still have me, I'd want nothing but to be able to tell you how much I love you, every day.”
I don't know how many times I have dreamt of this very moment, the moment Hermione Granger puts an end to my past life, a life full of misery and struggles and death, simply by telling me that she feels the same, that she loves me, totally and unconditionally. In my dreams, I always find the right words, which in turn make her whisper my name softly, while I wipe little happy tears off her lovely cheek.
Now the dream is reality at last. She loves me. She has put an end to my misery, making me feel that everything I've been through, everything, is been worth it if it was leading me to this moment. But as it, I can't mutter a word, and as much as I try to swallow it, the blasted lump is closing my throat. And it's her, not me, the one wiping tears off. My tears.
“Hermione,” I finally whisper, wiping her tears off her cheeks, too. “My Hermione.”
She smiles. And nods. And it's all I can remember before our lips meet again.
*
The room is darker than dark, now. I don't know what time is it, but I should be at the party, as I promised. But I think I'm just going to lay here, in the darkness, with this wonderful woman finally in my arms, and this stupid grin on my face, and letting this new-found peace engulf me until morning.
oOoOoOoOoOoOo
Poll: Needs wrap up chappie or not? What do you think?
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Pre-chapter warning: this will make a lot more sense if you read the previous chapters first ... ;-)
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A Year Later
*****************
The sounds of forks and knives and nice chat are barely registering, even if I positively know that they are all there. More than a dozen people gathering at the Weasley table for dinner should be enough to keep me focused on my surroundings. Instead, I find myself enjoying the delicious dinner, but wanting nothing more than Apparate home, have a cup of tea and get into bed. My eyes shift slightly to my left while I grin at the thought. It's been a while since my bed has been mine alone.
When I lift my eyes again, I catch George Weasley looking at me, the spoon midair, and a big cheeky grin on his face, and I wonder, blushing a bit, if I'm that easy to read.
After a year and a half, George still isn't the person we used to know. He knows, just as his family and friends now know too, that he won't ever be the person he was again. Still, he tries; whether for his sake, for his family's or for Fred's, no one knows, but he does try. And so after a long time without even mentioning the shop -let alone Fred's name- one day, out of nowhere, he announced that he was going to spend the night there, in the little backroom where he and Fred used to devise all their creations.
To this day, no one has a clue of what happened that night in that backroom. He hasn't told, and no one has asked, not even Molly. The only thing we know is that, the next morning, he came back to the Burrow with a smile and in good spirits, talking about resuming work with the new set of articles they were working on before Fred had to go ahead of him.
His cheeky green turns into one of amusement, and I rise my glass to him.
Percy is sitting at his right, engaged in deep conversation with Charlie and Bill. Fleur is eating and watching over little Victoire, who is sleeping peacefully in her chair despite the madness surrounded her. She's a Weasley, after all. And Weasleys, it's a proven fact, can sleep through anything.
My eyes catch then a glimpse of Mr. Weasley, sitting, as usual, at the head of the table, next to his wife.
As I watch him now, I feel warmed by something that feels very much like pride. Something very much like the pride a son would feel for his father. For an incredible man whose faith in a new future never wavered, not even through the worst times. The New Ministry, although still rebuilding, is already better than it ever was before.
Suddenly, Ginny's voice comes for the other end of the table, her frustrated “For Merlin's sake, Ron!” followed by a silent room, and then a fit of laughter at Ron's reddening face. The two brothers have been at different levels of disagreement ever since Ginny, seemingly out of nowhere, surprised everyone by starting seeing a boy that used to go to Hogwarts too, in our same year.
Ron had come to me then in desperate need of an ally. “He's dark, mate. He. Is. Dark. He hasn't changed, I just feel it. What the hell is my sister thinking? Perhaps she's not even thinking. Perhaps he has drugged her. And why are you doing nothing about it? I mean, you dated her, Harry. Merlin, I don't even want to imagine…do you think they have done more than kissing?”
While I admit that the thought of Draco Malfoy and Ginny doing more than kissing is not one I especially like to entertain, I discovered, then and there, that the idea of the two of them together didn't bother me as much as I had expected. As Ron pointed out, she had been my girlfriend after all, and he my mortal enemy since we were eleven.
But the War changed everybody, even the Malfoys. Draco and I didn't become friends overnight, of course. Far from it, I don't think we exchanged more than nods for months, and then the occasional and mandatory training partnerships and little assignments as months went on. Because, yes, Draco Malfoy wanted to be an Auror.
I don't know whether Narcissa Malfoy told her family about our little encounter, either. But the thing is that, for whatever reasons, Malfoy had changed.
And after the change, Ginny had somehow found our former enemy someone she could actually stand. And more than stand, as it turned out.
But the jealousy? Jealousy did not come. Hasn't come to this day, perhaps because nowadays I am too busy being selfish, all wrapped up in my happiness.
I feel a hand on my arm, bringing me out of my reverie.
“You alright?” she asks softly. She's looking at me the way she always looks at me when I have been silent for a while. I give her hand a squeeze back.
“Yes,” I answer with what must be the most stupid grin ever.
Her smile widens, and so does mine, and I am back to that day.
That glorious evening, little more than a year ago now, Hermione and I talked and talked for hours. Of everything and anything. Of how much she had always cared for me, more than she had known. Beyond what she had known. Of how I had struggled on that New Year's Eve, wishing things hadn't changed for me, wishing I had not seen my heart's truth and life could go on as we had envisioned. Of how I only wished for her to be happy.
She apologised again and again, and I reassured her again and again.
And we made love, too. Again and again. It wasn't planned. We really didn't think the night would end that way. But then again, perhaps we knew somehow, for it was everything we had been looking for our entire lives, and more.
For months we went on as we always had. We decided to keep it low. Everything was too new, too wonderful. It's not that we didn't want to tell every single soul put there. It was more like we craved being just us, in private.
For my part, every morning I woke up, put my glasses on, and just stared at her sleeping form for a while. Forcing myself to believe believe she was there, with me, and that she loved me.
Not that she didn't tell me often enough.
After a while, we decided to tell Ron first, in private, just the three of us. Hermione and I had talked about it, and brazed ourselves for some Weasley temper.
I would have settled for anything, actually. I never felt the best of mates after that night at the pub, so many months ago. But then Hermione told me that Ron had known all along, before she was even sure of it herself. When they broke up, he just told her. He told her what was the reason why it wasn't going to work between them. He told her everything he felt and everything she felt. And that was the evening that Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger began to understand each other in a way they never had, not while being just friends, and definitely not while being a couple.
So he was happy for us. He had had a lot of time to accept the truth, he said. I will never forget what I felt when he gave me a hug. Nor how embarrassed we both were when we realised we were powerful wizards, hence we couldn't be seen hugging for more than three seconds and with our eyes suspiciously bright.
Ginny was another story, as we knew it would be. But despite all her resentment, she had something in common with her brother; she had known, too. She knew the moment I broke up with her, on New Year's Day, she said to me. She knew it was Hermione. That it always was Hermione. And as much as I would have liked to say different, I stayed silent. Because she was right.
She didn't speak to us for a while. Until my birthday, when the Weasleys decided that enough was enough, and threw a party at the Burrow. It was time to rebuild the Wizarding World. All of it.
So here we are now, her hand on my arm and my hand covering hers.
Some corner of my mind registers the sudden silence in the room. Reddening like the proverbial kid with his hand in the cookies jar, Hermione and I let go of each other, unable to look at the various levels of amusement displayed on the Weasleys' faces.
“Harry, mate, Hermione is Hermione after all, but you, my friend, are disgustingly pathetic.”
I can't help but laugh along the rest of the table at Ron's comic relief.
Bill's voice interrupts us to remind us we're minutes away from the countdown. A rush of glasses and cups and bottles flying around ensues then, to finish almost when the countdown begins.
As the clock ticks midnight, I turn to the witch whose hand I'm holding again. Her eyes are everything; because when she looks at me the way she does, the way she's doing right now, I forget. I forget that there was a time that I couldn't look at her the way I do now, that I couldn't hold her, kiss her. That I had resigned myself to love her forever, alone. And suddenly any suffering I ever went through, any pain I endured, feels only like a distant nightmare. Like one of those bad dreams I still occasionally have, rarer as the days pass, because it's her who holds me afterwards. It's her who whispers in my ear that everything's ok. That she's there. That she loves me.
She smiles at me before her warm lips fly over mine, and as corny as I know I may sound, my heart takes a leap at the prospect of another year with her; another three hundred and sixty five mornings with her being the first thing I see when I wake up, and the last before sleep claims me. Another year of walks in the park and dinners and movies and little arguments and bad cooking and happiness. Sheer happiness.
“Happy New Year, Harry,” she whispers in my ear after a few seconds, and I feel the luckiest man in the world. And the most amorous too, because, right now, I really have to fight the urge to take her in my arms, spend about two seconds in goodbyes, and Apparate in our bedroom.
“Happy New Year, Hermione,” I whisper instead.
She smiles. She loves when I say her name. She says I intone it like it was sacred. She doesn't know that's exactly what she is.
“Happy New Year, mate,” I hear behind, and all of a sudden I have a smiling Ron hugging me like the best mate I still think I don't deserve to have. After I return the gesture, I look at Hermione, who is staring, her eyes bright with tears.
“Oh, boys,” she says, only to throw her left arm around Ron, and her right around me.
“Whoa, Hermione, relax! Bloody hell!”
oOo
“You ok, mate?”
I hear Ron's voice at my side. I haven't heard him come. He stops and places his arms at the veranda, too. The fireworks from St. Ottery Catchpole's New Year's celebrations fill the clear night sky.
“Definitely,” I say without hesitation and a small smile.
“You know,” he smirks, looking at the fireworks. “You don't have to be so smug about it.”
I startle at his comment. Things are ok between us, but it doesn't change the fact that I fell in love with his girlfriend, broke her little sister's heart, and then started dating said girlfriend in the span of a few months. I still feel some residual guilt. I still feel that, somehow, I robbed him the most precious thing in the world.
“I was joking, Harry,” he suddenly says. Perhaps I'm too easily read. Or perhaps you aren't friends with someone who goes to hell and back with you without noticing certain things. “You really need to start believing that I don't resent you, mate.”
“I know you don't, Ron,” I say, perhaps too quickly to sound casual enough.
“Yes, you know, but you still don't let yourself believe it.” He pauses, his eyes focused on the grass he's picking at with his hand. “I wasn't only being supportive, or doing what a good best mate was supposed to do. I wasn't faking my acceptance of you and Hermione, as I didn't fake that at first it would be weird for me.”
“I'm sorry,” I blurt, surprising both of us.
He turns his head to me sharply, surprised.
“What for?”
What for indeed. For ever having made him feel less than he ever was. For being forced to hear the word sidekick more than he ever should. For never let him see how important he is to me.
“For loving her,” is what I finally say, though.
He laughs.
“Nah, you're not,” he says, smiling.
I feel flushed, but smile.
“You're right. I'm not.”
“What's there not to love, anyway?” Ron goes on. “Nah, you can't be sorry for that, mate. She is the most amazing witch we will ever know,” he says, and I nod wholeheartedly. “We were lucky she chose to stick with the pair of us when we were eleven.”
I smile at the memory of eleven year old Hermione. She was something else, even then.
“I always thought it would be you, you know, as that disgusting thing let us see,” he continues, disgust all over his features while remembering that particular day. “Plus, Hermione's favourite word has always been `Harry'.”
“Nah, I think `honestly' ices the cake. And `Ronald' is a worthy runner up, you know.”
The sound of Ron's laugh carries in the chilly night air.
“Don't even remind me,” he says, but he's smiling. Suddenly, I feel I shouldn't have said that. Memories of their good times together are bound to surface. And I'm the one that ruined it all.
“It wasn't your fault, Harry. She loved you more than she ever loved me. And I don't even have the blame outlet, you know, or the right to feel cheated. She didn't even know at the time.”
“She loved you, Ron,” I say, incredibly uncomfortable now.
“Yeah, she did. But it wasn't…well,” he gestures towards me. “Hermione never looked at me the way she looks at you, Harry. Never. And even then, there was something in her voice when she spoke of you. Some…tenderness, she never felt that for me.” He chuckles. “It turned out, it wasn't tenderness at all.”
“I really wish it was different, Ron,” I tell him, trying to discern how true and untrue a same feeling can be.
“You do?”
I don't reply immediately.
“No, I don't. But, at the time, I truly wished I could go back to how things were. You and her and Ginny and me.”
“But then you realised what you had to realise, and that's all. And she did too. Oh, and by the way, what are you waiting for, mate?”
I don't understand his meaning immediately.
“Waiting?”
“Yes. When are you going to ask her.”
I have never thought of that. It's something that we know will happen eventually, so we haven't really discussed it.
“We're very young, Ron. We've only been dating for a year.”
Ron arches his brows. “More like a lifetime, you mean.”
I smile. It feels like that, indeed.
“What detains you, then?”
What, indeed.
An unexpected wave of warmth shakes my entire body, for I can't even begin to show him how much he means to me, to us.
“You are the best friend, the brother anyone could hope for, Ron. I hope you know that” I tell her with all the seriousness which I am feeling.
He pats me twice in the back before going inside.
“I know. And now let's go back inside before we worry her and she comes out to fetch us with one of her `honestlys'.”
I laugh with all my heart, and follow him.
oOo
Apparating after a Weasley dinner is never a good idea, so we take the Floo tonight instead.
Hermione is talking about the evening, something about Victoire reminding her terribly of Ginny, but I am too distracted to really get into the conversation.
Damned Ron.
She has gone to the bathroom. As I start to divest myself, I realise that no matter where I look, Hermione's presence in my home, in my life, is everywhere.
It's in the way she always rearranges the books on the shelves.
In the way the sheets smell permanently good.
In the way the drawers and cupboard are delicately and neatly tidy.
In the way that there's always coffee in the kitchen ready for her.
In the plain pyjama top and bottoms that she finds incredibly boring and I find incredibly sexy, waiting for her on the bed.
In all the little ways she lets me know over and over again that she's happy, that we made the right decision.
And suddenly, just like that, I can't wait a minute more.
Hermione comes out the bathroom just when I'm halfway there.
“Harry, were you listening? I was telling you that—”
“Marry me,” I tell her when I release her lips after kissing her like I haven't kissed her before. Without thinking that she may not want it. Without thinking that I have no ring, no fancy restaurant, no nothing. Without realising that the best woman in the world is just receiving the worst proposal in history.
“Harry, what?”
“Marry me, Hermione,” I whisper on her lips, clearly and slowly.
She looks at me, her mouth agape, my heart in my eyes.
And then she smiles widely. I think her eyes look a bit watery, although I can't tell for sure because mine are faring no better.
“Right now?” she asks cheekily, her voice trembling a bit.
“Right now. Tomorrow. Next week. Forever.”
She doesn't actually say yes. Or she does, I can't know for sure; it's a bit difficult to talk while devouring your love's mouth.
No better way to begin the rest of your life, if you ask me.
****
Ok, here it is! It's been more than a year since I semi-wrote this final chappie. I never posted it because I am not very happy with it. Plus, it's unbetaed, so you're bound to find TONS of unpardonable mistakes. I apologise and promise to revise 8993854 times more.
But I thought you might want to know the basic end of the story, unpolished as it might be, in the proper time of the year, for this is a New Year's Eve moment. I hope you find it tolerable, at least. If not, you only have to ignore it and consider last chapter the end, lol.
Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New year, my lovelies!
Madelaine x
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