The Beginning
by Bingblot

Rating: G
Ship: Harry & Hermione
Canon: Books 1 - 6
Genre: Romance
Status: Complete
Length: 3,012 words in 1 chapter
Published: 22 Jul 2007
Last updated: 22 Jul 2007

He should be happy; he was with Ginny, living his happily-ever-after-- wasn't he? Harry realizes there's something
wrong. One-shot.

From the Unofficial Portkey Archive: https://portkey-archive.org/story/7436/

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1. The Beginning

Disclaimer: It should be absolutely obvious now that I am not JKR and, in fact, rather heartily hate the woman.

Author’s Note: A short one-shot written before DH as a way of preparing for the worst (only the worst I imagined was not
nearly as bad as the reality…)

The Beginning

There was something wrong.

Harry wasn’t happy.

He should be happy, he thought. He should. He was sitting on the couch with Ginny curled up next to him after a snogging
session. One of the bi-weekly Weasley family dinners which Mrs. Weasley insisted on holding now (Mrs. Weasley’s maternal
caring and devotion to her family had only been increased after having lost two of her sons—three by some standards—and
so she insisted that they all have dinner together at least once every two weeks, all always including Harry and
Hermione as a matter of course now.)

It had been a good dinner, as Mrs. Weasley’s dinners always were, and now, finally, several months later, Harry no
longer felt quite so stifled with guilt when he was with them. He no longer saw Ron in the face of every member of his
family. The Weasleys were still mourning Ron and Charlie but they were recovering too with the resilience that came from
having a loving family—and Harry was seeing firsthand just what a difference having a family would make. It was
something he’d never seen before the Weasleys since he didn’t count the Dursleys as being happy. (Oh they didn’t fight
and certainly Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia doted on Dudley but he discounted that as it wasn’t accompanied with any
real kindness and Dudley was a disgusting specimen of humanity anyway).

It had a charm he hadn’t quite considered before but he was never with the Weasleys now without marveling at their
solidarity in spite of everything—and marveling that he was a part of it now.

He should be happy. He had been absorbed into the Weasleys and Voldemort was gone and defeated, the wizarding world
slowly but surely putting itself to rights again. And he was with Ginny.

It had all happened almost exactly as he’d wanted. If it weren’t for Ron and Charlie—and Sirius and Dumbledore—being
gone, it would be exactly as he’d wanted, wished for it to be.

He still mourned Ron, missed him so much at times it felt like a physical pain, but the pain was less now, more
bittersweet.

He should be happy. He had Ginny and Ginny was everything he’d ever wanted…

Wasn’t she?

Was she really?

And that was the problem.

He should be happy—but he wasn’t.

More and more, he found himself making up excuses to avoid seeing Ginny; more and more he found himself feeling
restless, edgy, dissatisfied. And when he was with her, he found that it took effort for him to even pretend to be happy
to be with her; it took effort not to let his edginess show. More and more, he was beginning to feel like an actor in
his own life, playing the part of being happy, of being the victorious hero in his happily ever after.

And tonight it was worse than usual.

The dinner had been over and Ginny had, as usual, slipped her arm through his and led him off to another room ostensibly
to talk to him but really to kiss him. (Mrs. Weasley winked at this procedure. In all honesty, she was so delighted at
Harry and Ginny’s relationship that she did almost everything short of pushing them into bed together to encourage the
relationship—and Harry sometimes felt a stab of pain at the thought because he could guess how Ron would laugh at it. He
could see the way Ron would wriggle his eyebrows in mock suggestiveness at one of Mrs. Weasley’s not-quite-subtle hints;
he knew the way Ron would poke gentle fun at Mrs. Weasley for match-making—and at those times, he really did miss Ron so
much it felt like he was missing a limb.)

It was what usually happened. He would get dragged off. Bill and Fleur would make their excuses. Fred and George would
go off to make some more mischief. Mr. Weasley would disappear into his shed to tinker with his Muggle devices. Mrs.
Weasley would clean up, helped by Hermione, before Hermione also made her excuses and left.

But today, today somehow, it felt—wrong.

He wasn’t sure exactly why—or no, he was. He knew why today felt different.

It was because of Hermione. It was because he’d somehow caught a glimpse of Hermione’s expression as he left with
Ginny—and the look in her eyes had stabbed at him, tore at his chest.

It wasn’t that it was a particularly sad look—he knew no one else would have noticed it; no one else would have seen
anything but the smile on her face. But he knew Hermione too well now (even better after these past few months of
sharing a flat with her), was too attuned to her. And the look bothered him.

It had stayed in his mind even while Ginny was kissing him, had refused to leave even when he tried to focus on Ginny
and her lips on his.

But he couldn’t.

He’d cut short Ginny’s kisses for precisely that reason, almost before the kisses had begun, had shifted away until
Ginny had ended up curled up next to him, leaning against him.

He should be happy—spending this quiet time with Ginny, surely he should be happy—but he wasn’t.

He could still see Hermione, still see that look in her eye. Not of sadness, not of jealousy but something more elusive
than that. Something—almost like resignation, perhaps? Something—and he’d wondered, with the flare of pain that usually
accompanied thoughts of Ron, if Hermione was thinking of Ron, wondering whether she and Ron would be sneaking off to
snog too if Ron were around.

And for some reason, it had struck him fully just how—alone—Hermione was. He’d never thought it before; Hermione was as
much a part of these dinners as he was. She got along well with Mr. Weasley and Bill and Fleur and could laugh and talk
with the twins. But at the end, he’d thought suddenly—she was alone.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were a natural unit, as were Fred and George. Bill and Fleur, too, were a couple. He and Ginny…

And that left Hermione.

God, what was he doing? He was suddenly swamped with a tidal wave of guilt and self-disgust. He was Hermione’s best
friend; he should be with Hermione now.

He wanted to be with Hermione.

He stopped, the thought taking him by surprise as he recognized its truth. He did want to be with Hermione. And he
didn’t want to be with Ginny.

He didn’t know how he hadn’t thought it or realized it before but it was true. Had been true for months now—had always
been true, even.

He would rather spend time with Hermione than with Ginny.

Ginny was pretty and- and cute and fun to be with (at least, usually)—and he cared about her—he did. But in the end, he
couldn’t talk to Ginny, not really. He liked to snog Ginny, explore her body—but he didn’t really talk to her.

And oddly, he hadn’t really noticed it until now because, he realized with a shock, he always talked to Hermione. He was
used to it now. He snogged Ginny—but in the end, when he simply wanted to talk or when he just wanted to be quiet, when
he was troubled, he had always had Hermione. So he’d never felt a lack of any kind in his life.

And it was only now that he realized, wondered—shouldn’t it be different? If he were really with Ginny, if Ginny really
was all he wanted, shouldn’t he want to spend more time with Ginny than with anyone else he knew?

What was he doing? Snogging Ginny when Hermione was left alone and was unhappy over something? Snogging Ginny when he
didn’t even really want to be with Ginny? Snogging Ginny—when all he could think about, all he could see in his mind’s
eye was that expression on Hermione’s face that had torn at his heart.

What was he doing here when he didn’t really want to be here? Why was he here when he had to pretend to be happy with
Ginny now, when he had to pretend that all was the way it should be?

He gently disengaged himself from Ginny and stood up. “I have to go, Ginny.”

Ginny stared at him in surprise. “So early? But Harry, it’s not even 8 yet. Why do you have to leave so early?”

He could hardly blame her for her surprise. After all, he usually stayed at the Burrow after one of these dinners until
past 9 at night.

“I’m sorry but Hermione’s had a tough week so I don’t want to leave her alone,” he said, only half-truthfully. It was
true that Hermione had not had the best of weeks, having come home discouraged from her training at St. Mungo’s, but
that had been two days ago and Hermione had been her usual self yesterday and today.

“Oh, Hermione!” Ginny scoffed rather dismissively, he thought with shock, staring at her. “She’s always clinging to you
as if she can’t do anything on her own.”

The utter injustice of it stung him to irritation. “That’s not true. Hermione’s never asked me to stay around just for
her, but I do anyway, because she’s my best friend.”

Really, it was laughable how wrong about her Ginny was. He could only wonder how it was possible for Ginny to obviously
be so utterly blind about Hermione.

“She’s your friend; that doesn’t mean she can monopolize your life.”

“She doesn’t! She wouldn’t ask—she didn’t ask me to get back to the flat early but I want to.”

“Oh, Hermione, Hermione! It’s always Hermione to you, isn’t it, Harry? You’re always saying you need to spend time with
Hermione for some reason or another! Why do you care so much about her?”

He stared. He could hardly believe the words that were coming out of Ginny’s mouth. He knew she was angry—with some
reason—but that didn’t make her words okay. Although, he had to admit, that she was partially right. He did tend to use
Hermione as an excuse—admittedly a truthful excuse—when he simply didn’t feel like seeing Ginny or any of the Weasleys,
or anyone else, for that matter. Days when he was tired, days after one of his nightmare-haunted nights when he didn’t
sleep and stayed awake for most of the night. Hermione was the only person he wanted to be around then.

“She’s my best friend. Without Ron, don’t you see, she’s all I have now? She’s my only best friend now.”

“She’s all you have now,” Ginny repeated slowly, flatly, and he realized belatedly how that had sounded. And yet… it
really was true…

“What about me, Harry? What am I?”

He sighed. “I don’t know, Ginny.”

“You don’t--” Ginny stopped, paling as her eyes narrowed. “You don’t know—but you know that Hermione is all you have
now? God, Harry, how can you say that?”

“Because Ron isn’t here anymore!” he burst out. “Because we both lost our best friend!” He didn’t add that Ron had been
something more than Hermione’s best friend—not quite her boyfriend, in all the chaos and darkness of the last year,
there hadn’t been time for that, but he knew that Ron had been more than Hermione’s best friend.

“I lost my brother!”

Harry suddenly hated himself but he knew what he had to do. For the first time in what felt like months, he knew what he
needed to do. “I know, but you have your family. Hermione doesn’t; her parents don’t know; they can’t understand. Don’t
you see, Ginny, I’m all she has—and she’s all I have too?”

Ginny blinked back sudden tears. “But, Harry, I waited for you. I waited for you and it was always supposed to be us,
wasn’t it?”

He sighed again. “I don’t know,” he admitted again. Maybe—in some way, in some other world—it had always been supposed
to be him and Ginny. But now, in this world, it wasn’t; it couldn’t be… Because Hermione came first for him—she always
had and he knew she always would. “But I don’t think so, Ginny, not anymore.”

“Then that’s it?”

“I’m sorry, Ginny,” he said softly. “I really am.”

He hated himself; he could hardly stand to look at her, see the tears in her eyes and know that he had done that to her.

But he hadn’t been able to do anything else. He had to tell her; it would have been more wrong to keep on as they had
been and not tell her.

And when he walked out of the Burrow, he wondered rather bleakly, when he would return again—would he even be welcome
again? But even as he wondered it, he knew that he’d made the only decision he could have.

It hurt, to think he might have lost the Weasleys—it did. But he knew now that what he really needed, what he really
wanted, was Hermione. She was all he had—and all he really needed…

Hermione looked up in surprise as Harry entered their flat. “Harry, what are you doing back so early?”

For a fleeting second, he hesitated and then finally answered, “I- I wanted to make sure you were okay. There was an odd
look on your face earlier and I was worried.”

“Oh, Harry,” she sighed. “You didn’t have to do that. I’m fine; really I am. I hate that you cut your evening short just
for me when it’s nothing.”

He threw himself into his usual spot on the couch and looked at her. “Too late for that now. What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” she insisted.

He only waited, studying her, until she relented with something of a sigh. “I was just thinking of Ron, wondering where
he is now, what he would think if he were here. I was missing Ron.” She stopped, not adding that for once, she hadn’t
been missing Ron for Ron so much as she’d been missing another person to be with. In a world where things naturally
seemed to end up in pairs, two by two, she was alone and for a fleeting moment that evening, she had missed Ron as the
person who would have completed a pair with her. Not for the first time, she’d thought that if Ron were there, then she
too would have someone to go off to a corner with and talk to, snuggle with—and she wouldn’t be alone.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I thought you might be. I was thinking of him too. I always think of him when I’m there.”

“I know.” Her voice was quiet, understanding. For a moment, they were both silent, lost in their own thoughts, but then
she added, her voice brisk, as if trying to shake off the melancholy, “I’m sorry you had to cut short your evening with
Ginny. I know you don’t spend enough time with her.”

“No, it’s okay. I- I realized…” he trailed off, hesitated, and then he met her eyes squarely as he finished, “I realized
that I’d rather be here with you anyway.”

“Really?”

“Of course, really,” he said with an attempt at lightness. “Do you think I moved in with you because I had nothing
better to do?” He sobered. “You’re my best friend. Of course I’d rather be with you.”

She smiled a little. “I’m glad,” she said simply.

And that was all.

They sat there in comfortable companionship for the rest of the evening, occasionally speaking when they wanted to,
silent when they wanted to be.

Harry studied her as she read her book, savoring the peace and the contentment of the evening, settling over them both
like a blanket. This was really what he liked best, he sometimes thought. He liked how he didn’t need to talk when he
was with Hermione; he didn’t need to pretend to be more light-hearted or energetic than he was (unlike how he usually
felt with Ginny). He liked how he could just be himself. He was just- happy with her…

It was several hours later when she finally stood up, putting her book away. “I’m going to go to bed now.”

“Hermione,” he stopped her with a word and with a hand on her arm as she turned to go to her own room.

She paused, looking at him.

“Good night,” he said softly—and brushed his lips ever so lightly against hers.

He heard her slight intake of breath before she replied. “Good night, Harry.”

She left then, closing her door behind her. He stood there, wondering, realizing that he could still feel the warmth of
Hermione’s lips against his, still feel the softness of her lips, brief as the touch had been.

It had been an impulse, a crazy impulse perhaps, but he had done it. It had been the softest, lightest of kisses, hardly
more than what might happen between best friends.

But it had happened—with all its significance and all it could have meant, all it did mean… He wasn’t sure exactly what
he wanted. It was still too soon; he and Ginny had only ended hours ago. He didn’t know exactly what he felt for
Hermione, other than knowing he was happy when he was with her and would rather spend time with Hermione than anyone
else he knew. He didn’t know exactly why he’d kissed Hermione; he just knew at that moment, he’d wanted to tell her how
much he cared, that he was happy with her… It had been an impulse born of the moment.

It had happened-- and Harry knew, somehow, some way, that it had been a beginning. A beginning of what, he didn’t quite
know yet, but it had, nevertheless, been a beginning…

~The End~
