Trio

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or magical concepts in this fiction. All characters and concepts belong to J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers, and no infringement of copyright is intended, nor is anyone making any money whatsoever from this piece of writing. Please do not reproduce any of the content without contacting me first.

A/N: One-shots are ruining my degree. They come in to my head and won't leave until I write them out. I'm not even sure about this one, but it's done, and now I can go attempt to salvage my qualification from its tattered shreds. This, obviously, is not canon. Harry is almost twenty in this story, and the circumstances leading up to his final confrontation are not particularly relevant, but as you will see, they are not canon. The location of the 'revelation' is not particularly relevant either, but in case you are curious, it occurs in Harry's bedroom in Grimmauld Place. The part after the first line break (just after the first short paragraph) is a flashback from Hermione's perspective. The part after the second line break is Harry's point of view, and is in the present tense. Thanks for reading!

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It is incredibly awkward. The realisation was excruciatingly embarrassing, but the consistently awkward atmosphere no matter where they are living - the Burrow, Grimmauld Place - is thick between the three of them. It used to drive her mad when people would say friendships between women and men could never be purely platonic, certainly not from the male perspective. She still believes that that is a stupid theory, though now her friendships are of no use in disproving it.

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Not one to ignore situations of great importance, Hermione had refused to pretend she hadn't heard their heated conversation, their whispering purposeless at its raised pitch, their aggravated hisses. Their familiar but strained tones vibrating through the grimy, closed bedroom door had drawn her attention, and so she had listened. They were in the habit of excluding her from important conversations. Protectiveness, they called it. Condescension, she called it.

She had confronted the situation after listening for less than thirty seconds. Thirty seconds which changed their friendship utterly. Well, thirty seconds which changed what she had previously believed their friendship to be, utterly.

"Look, much as I'd rather pretend I don't know you feel the same way about her as me, Harry, I can't. So what are we going to do?"

Silence.

"What do you feel for her, Ron?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"If you think I feel the same about her as you do, tell me what exactly you feel for her."

"I'm in love with her."

Silence.

"I guess we're too similar then. Taking the best friend thing a bit far, isn't it?"

An uncomfortable laugh from Ron.

She hadn't needed to hear Ron's answer. She already knew that about him. So, she had known immediately what he thought Harry felt. Harry's brief silence after Ron answered was what had left her breathless. His dry reply had taken a moment to filter into her logic, like freezing cold water flowing down her oesophagus, then warming quickly deep inside her.

Knowing her behaviour around them would change tellingly if she had to hold in these revelations of which she was not supposed to be aware, she pushed open the door. To express how she felt would be a completely different matter, always had been for her, but making them aware that she knew of their feelings was strangely easy. It only involved walking through a door. It was easy - as though she wasn't doing it herself. Maybe shock made physical things easier to carry out. Less comprehension of the consequences and no emotions, no fear. Either way, she had found herself pushing open the door.

The two young men had moved only their eyes to her as she entered the room. They looked horrified, their bodies stiff, like as if to move would be to disturb a delicate equilibrium. Hermione maintained the equilibrium too, as she stood stock-still, just inside the doorway. Both boys watched her, their best friend; both waiting with a macabre curiosity. What could possibly come next? Her eyes flickered between both of them, but lingered on Harry longer each time. She was used to knowing what Ron felt, but Harry was a revelation. He looked devastated. She wasn't quite sure why. She was obviously never supposed to find out. Ever. They had stared only at each other then, the fundamental change in their relationship taking place within the very moment that they stood there, the strangest energy flowing along the path of their matched gaze. Shock, worry, surprise, happiness, understanding, buried attraction, a strange type of grief. Relief. Resignation.

The knowledge of a unique and rare connection between them had always been there, but Harry was innately detached, solitary, and both had silently understood that their friendship would not settle into itself until after the war, because Harry was simply not fully present. They couldn't be all that the connection promised until after everything was over, when he could be right there with them all, not half a world away, alone with his past and his destiny. It was unspoken, and understood. She had never suspected that their connection would hold any other type of love from either side than... whatever type of love it had been before. Come to think of it, she should probably have questioned the fact that she could never have defined the type of love they shared before this moment, if she was asked to. But she realised now, that she was rather detached herself. Maybe even more so than Harry. She was a member of his army after all. She had to be. It wouldn't do to get too attached to one's Brigadier.

Ron had shifted then, from his right foot to his left, the brushing of his jeans breaking the silence. Hermione turned her head to him, and he looked up from underneath his red hair, head bowed. His eyes were a shocking blue in contrast with his hair. Those hurt blue eyes. They sometimes left Hermione disconcerted with their intensity at times, intensity that didn't really belong in the eyes of such a simple, and often childish, character. He knew how Hermione felt about him. Or didn't feel. He hadn't pushed it. He couldn't make her feel it.

"Molly says dinner is ready," came Hermione's soft voice, deepened a little with her growing maturity.

The voice, though lower in tone even than the vibrations of their overheard conversation, seemed incredibly loud after the triangle of stillness that had fallen between the three. They formed a line and shuffled out the door, and headed down the stairs to the kitchen.

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It is time. No one's spells will help him. It will be one-on-one. His destiny is singular. The rest of them are just variables in the equation. There are endless ways to calculate it, yet still reach the same solution. Harry prefers to think that they aren't all just variables, that they are all part of the destiny itself. Maybe they are. She is. Though maybe she has a separate destiny, the path of which has just happened to cross with his. He doesn't care either way, as long as she is part of his equation.

The group of people surrounding Harry hug him tightly, ruffling his hair with a faux-casual grin, slapping him gently on the back of the neck, as tender a gesture as the men will make. Ron hugs him, not holding back this time, because he might never get another chance. He and Harry look at each other, and years of Chocolate Frogs and doomed chess games, bewildered speculating about the mystery of the female gender, Quidditch games and Butterbeer, shoving and play-fighting in lieu of hugs, fights and laughter fits, huddling under the Invisibility Cloak, poring over the Marauder's Map, studying in the common room, Hermione... all of it comes thundering to the forefront of their minds. They flash their lop-sided boyish grins at each other, and Harry pushes Ron on the shoulder so that he stumbles slightly and laughs. They have reached a silent understanding. She chooses. And it might be neither of them. Their chances, not taking into account Harry's significantly lower chance of living past his twentieth birthday, are probably equal, because neither of them has looked Hermione in the eye properly for three months now.

The room quietens suddenly. Sensing Harry's perpetual need for solitude, Remus encourages the group out of the door into the kitchen, where they will sit around the kitchen table having a forced conversation, but will really be listening for the slam of the front door of Grimmauld Place. Possibly the last place he will live.

Harry stands in front of the window, staring unseeingly through the filthy net curtains at the black railings across the street, and the forest green leaves of the hedges behind them.

He was born to stand here alone. Alone since he two years old. The Restricted Section of Hogwarts Library flies into his head as an embarrassingly weak analogy. Imperative, but left alone because it is dangerous in its purpose. Locked away, someone in control of it at all times. Trust him to come up with a library analogy - will he ever get her out of his head? No, she always works her way back in there. She has always worked her way back into the Restricted Section too. He hasn't seen her yet today.

In the silence of the filthy sitting room, he hears the creak of the door opening. It's her; he knows. A very Hermione entrance. He doesn't turn around, and he keeps his hands shoved deep in his jeans pockets, still boyish, even at this moment. He doesn't have much time before he leaves. If he turns around now, he will see her blocking his exit, and he will let her continue to do so. He feels her approach. Silly Harry. She would never stop him from leaving. He feels warmth to the left side of his back where she stands close, and the warmth seems to increase up along his neck and then against his ear, until it feels almost hot.

"It's you," she whispers in his ear. "For me... it's you."

The shock makes him turn his head to the left where her mouth hovers near his ear, but her lips catch the side of his mouth before he can meet her eyes with his. His body still faces the window, his hands still in his pockets, but her chest leans against his upper arm, her hands balancing her as they rest lightly on his shoulder, and she kisses him. It's a clumsy kiss, but sexier for it, his mouth just barely open, lips still yet relaxed, letting her move her lips against the edge of it insistently, his eyes closed to better burn the sensation into his memory.

She rises up on her toes to move her lips up to his temple, where she presses them gently, almost maternally, staying there for a moment before she increases the pressure and then slides them away to press her forehead in place of them. They stand like that for a minute, silently, her face resting against his profile, her sweet breath light on his neck, and he lets her decide when to walk away. That is when he will leave.