Complicated

Disclaimer: Everything Harry Potter-related belongs to J.K. Rowling.

A/N: The plot bunny for this was, oddly enough, spawned from an episode of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”, hence my little nod of thanks to Joss Whedon in this chapter.

For Gil, Anne U and happy_daze88, for the encouragement and the wonderful writing that continues to inspire me. *glomps*

Complicated Chapter One: It Takes a Stranger

The man stood alone, staring out with brooding eyes over the sea that was currently reflecting the slate-gray of the sky.

The man was young but there was something about him that gave people an impression of maturity, of age.

Perhaps it was because of the faint lines around his mouth that spoke of a troubled past. Perhaps it was the directness in his gaze or the wariness and suggestion of restrained power in his stance at times. Or perhaps it was the cloudy shadows in his eyes that spoke of seeing much and surviving much, of ordeals that aged the mind and soul as well as the body.

There was something severely solitary about the man that kept other people at a distance from him. It was as if they sensed the dark thoughts going through his mind, the memories that kept him in their grip.

He was glad it was cloudy today. Cloudy gray days were more congenial to his thoughts than bright sunny ones and he had discovered that he found the frequent sunny days to be irritating, as well as the persistently warm weather.

Cloudy days reminded him of England… And whatever the memories that he couldn’t bear, the people he couldn’t bear to think of, he found he missed England.

Oh yes, he missed it, missed it so much that there were moments when he almost resolved to return, to end his self-imposed exile. But then, the dreams, the nightmares, the memories returned and he knew he couldn’t. He wasn’t ready. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

He sighed and turned away from the ocean.

He was alone and he would stay alone until… Until he overcame the power of his past.

He dreamed of her that night.

She smiled at him, the smile that came straight from her heart and always brought a warm feeling to his chest and the assurance that he had one person who would always be there for him.

He smiled back. “Hermione,” was all he said, softly, holding out one hand.

But instead of taking it, she turned with a glance at him over her shoulder, her look saying she wanted him to follow her.

She walked down away from the castle, towards Hagrid’s hut and into the Forbidden Forest, with him following. The forest was as dark as it always was, except for occasional shafts of sunlight that had managed to break through the thick foliage of the trees.

He expected the centaurs to challenge them but they continued on until they reached a small hollow where there was a clearing and he realized she had led them back to where Hagrid had kept Grawp so many years ago. One of the many adventures they had both shared, drawing them inexorably together, insensibly, subtly, making her seem the natural partner of any experience…

She stopped in the clearing and turned to him, holding out her hands, which he took. Their eyes met, hers warm, shining with reassurance and, well, love, drawing him nearer, almost involuntarily. His head lowered and his lips brushed against hers, the softest of touches, barely a kiss at all. He heard her breath catch but then forced himself to draw back, as images flared in his mind again, the images that haunted him day and night.

No, he couldn’t do this…

He awoke, alone as he always did now, alone and feeling the cold emptiness in his chest.

He returned again to the ocean that day. Something about its ceaseless restless movement, the sound it made, was both comforting and appealing to his own restlessness. He could stare out at the water for hours, did so in fact, until he reached into his pocket and pulled out what was possibly his most precious possession in this place where he had very little other than his clothes and some money that he had never really cared for.

The picture was worn at the edges and crumpled, a reminder of the times he had wanted to stop feeling, tried to rid himself of what was haunting him, connecting him to the world and the past he wished he could forget. He stared at the three young, smiling faces looking up at him, himself, Ron, Hermione. His best friends…

It happened when he was least expecting it.

“Harry Potter.”

The voice was unfamiliar, that of a young woman, and it came from right beside him.

The hand holding the picture flew to return it to his deepest coat pocket while his other instinctively searched out his wand.

“Do I know you?” he asked warily, studying the woman.

She was young, around 20, he guessed, with short reddish brown hair and blue eyes.

Something about her somehow reminded him of Hermione and he relaxed slightly.

“You are, you really are, Harry Potter.” The girl laughed one of those I-can’t-believe-this laughs, before smiling at him directly in a friendly fashion. “Sorry. I’m just a little amazed that you’re, well, you and you’re here. I- I’m Katrina Whedon.”

He shook her offered hand somewhat awkwardly. “Hello, uh, Miss Whedon.”

Katrina laughed and shook her head. “No, no, just Katrina or Kat is fine.”

He felt himself smile almost before he thought of it. “I’m Harry.” He paused before adding, “You’re a witch.” It wasn’t quite a statement but it wasn’t quite a question either.

“Yes, I am. I just couldn’t help talking to you when I realized who you were. I know what you’ve done.” She stopped, looked uncomfortable. “Everyone knows what you’ve done. And yeah, I just wanted to thank you.”

The words took him by surprise. He didn’t think anyone had ever thanked him, not really, no one except for Hermione, that is.

He had a sudden memory of 6^th year, just about to return to the Dursleys again and Hermione stopping him with a hand on his, saying simply, “Thank you, Harry… for everything.” And she’d smiled at him, what he thought of as her heart-felt smile and kissed his cheek.

“You’re welcome,” he had finally answered softly. She had smiled at him again before turning to her parents…

He shook himself mentally, returning to the present. “You’re welcome,” he said, smiling at Kat who grinned back. “I’d say, any time, but it’d be a lie,” he added dryly.

She laughed. “If you don’t have anything to do, can I take you to dinner?” She blushed slightly and added hurriedly. “I mean, not like a date or anything, I just figure it’s the least I can do for the hero of the Wizarding world and all.”

He looked at her, his smile fading, a little taken aback. “Oh, er, alright.” He added with more confidence, “That’d be nice.”

“Great.” She smiled and began to walk down the pier, leaving him to follow her, in some bemusement. One thing he would say about Americans, they certainly were friendly.

It was during dessert when she brought up the question he’d been rather dreading. Until then, the conversation had been kept onto neutral matters. She’d told him about herself and her life. He had talked a little, briefly, about where he’d been, told some old stories from Hogwarts, about Ron and Hermione, the few memories he still allowed himself to think about… They had talked about Quidditch, since Kat loved it and had actually been the Keeper on the team at Salem Wizarding Academy.

“Why are you here, Harry?” she asked quietly, breaking the silence that had fallen.

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand the question. “It’s complicated,” he finally said, his voice grown cool, distant.

Katrina narrowed her eyes slightly at his evasive answer. “Of course, it always is. Well, I’ve got nothing but time. Try me.”

He looked at her, noting that her expression was completely serious, her eyes devoid of the sparkle he’d already noticed was habitual to her. And suddenly he realized he trusted her. He needed to tell someone. Who better than someone who was a part of the Wizarding world but had been uninvolved in everything?

“I had to leave England, had to leave the people I knew, the ones that survived at least…” His voice trailed off, as his eyes darkened again with painful thoughts. “They were making me a savior, planning grand parties in my honor. I didn’t want to be there for that. I didn’t feel like celebrating.”

Katrina frowned at this, opened her mouth to speak but decided against it and closed it.

“Voldemort was gone. He wouldn’t be coming back, either. But that left me… I didn’t know what to do with myself anymore. I’d lost my purpose. Maybe I had saved the world, as they knew it, but really, it hadn’t been me.”

He paused, staring broodingly down at the table, as he played with the straw in his glass. “I’m the same as Voldemort,” he said in a low voice. “I’m the same. That’s why I was the only one able to defeat him. It’s because we’re the same. I- I killed Voldemort. I am Voldemort.”

He fell silent, still toying with his straw, now nearly glaring at the table.

“And you’re a coward.” Katrina’s quiet sentence cut through the silence. “You feel guilty and so you left, so you wouldn’t have to deal with it. That’s not honor, Harry, that’s not virtue or anything. That’s just cowardice, plain and simple. And I have to say, that’s the last thing I ever thought anyone could accuse you of.”

He looked up at her, eyes hard and flat as gemstones. “You don’t know what the bloody hell you’re talking about,” he said flatly.

“Maybe I don’t,” she admitted coolly. “But I know this. You’ve got friends, people who care about you and that you care about, back home and they’re probably all wondering and worrying about you right now. Go back, Harry, and face your demons. You’ll never get anything done wandering the world the way you’ve been doing.”

People he cared about… He thought of Hermione, thought of Ron, the Weasleys, Hagrid, Remus, Tonks, even Professor McGonagall… He could see Hermione in his mind’s eye, smiling, laughing, frowning, crying… He deliberately pushed the image away.

Could he return? Could he face everyone again? He didn’t know.

He looked up at Katrina. She looked sympathetic now, her brief flare of anger having died.

“Go back, Harry. I don’t think you’ll believe me, considering you just met me a few hours ago, but you shouldn’t feel guilty either. You’re not Voldemort. I suspect your Hermione will tell you that better than I can, though.”

“She’s not my Hermione,” he protested automatically, his mind preoccupied with the notion of returning to England.

Katrina raised a skeptical eyebrow. “So you say,” she said carelessly though her expression conveyed her disbelief.

She pulled out some Muggle American money to pay the bill, standing up as she did so.

He stood as well. “Thanks for dinner. I would say, thanks for listening, but I’m not sure I’d really mean it after being called a coward,” he added with a somewhat forced smile.

Katrina grinned at him. “Trust me. It’s good advice.”

“I’ll take your word for it, since I’m fairly certain it wouldn’t be healthy to disagree,” he said, forcing a lightness he didn’t really feel. “I can Apparate from here,” he added. “Thanks.”

She put out her hand, which he shook, smiling at him again. “Think about what I said. Look me up if you’re ever in this area again. I’m glad I got to meet and talk to you, Harry Potter.”

“Bye, Katrina,” he said softly, as she stepped back and disapparated with a pop, before he disapparated as well.

He couldn’t sleep that night. His thoughts were too confused, too muddled. He had believed for the past year that he could do this himself, that he could overcome his own memories and his problems alone. It was his task, just as facing Voldemort had been his task. He had been alone; he was alone. Or so he had thought.

Katrina had reminded him forcibly that he really wasn’t. He never really had been. He had always had Ron. He had always had Hermione. Hermione…

And for the first time in months, he allowed himself to remember…

Remember those years at Hogwarts, those wonderful, terrible years… Remember a hug, in the depths below the castle, after a nearly deadly chess game… Remember a young boy looking at his parents for the first time in a mirror… Remember a veil fluttering in the center of a large room and Sirius’s expression as he fell behind it… Remember Hermione, lying so stiffly on a hospital bed, clutching a piece of paper that had solved a puzzle… Remember a kiss on the cheek at King’s Cross Station… Remember Hermione, unconscious in the Department of Mysteries… Remember so many moments in so many years of friendship, of faith, of unwavering loyalty…

Yes, he remembered it all, would never forget.

But could he return to where it had happened, the people who had been through it all with him, who still believed in his being a hero? He didn’t know.

Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to JK Rowling.

Author’s Notes: This is for Anne U. for reading this over, thephotoman for the candy, and Lissanne, who never fails to inspire.

Complicated Chapter Two What the Heart Remembers

The man had black hair, wind-ruffled, and he was wearing dark colors. From behind, he looked like him.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat against her will, even as her conscious mind knew that it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him. It wasn’t his stance, his way of walking. It just wasn’t him.

She forcibly calmed her breathing down. If only she could keep her heart from aching as well.

How long had it been now? One year, 7 months, 1 week and 4 days. 19 months, 1 week and 4 days. 83 weeks and 4 days. 585 days…

She wasn’t counting.

Or she was, just keeping track of how long it had been, the longest she had ever gone without seeing him in all the years she’d known him.

Oh she missed him so much. Every day, even after he’d been gone for so long, she missed him, expected to see him, wanted to talk to him.

Whenever something funny happened, something interesting, she always thought first, I must tell Harry, and then would come the realization. Even now, she could picture his face in her mind, whenever she closed her eyes, hear his voice in her ears…

She knew she always would remember.

There were some things that a girl never forgets. She would never forget the way he looked when he was flying, the look of freedom on his face. She would never forget his shy grin. She would never forget how his eyes changed color to reflect his moods, from the purest brightest emerald-green, to dark pine-green, to light green when he was happy. She would never forget watching him, looking so incredibly small, against the terrifying size of the Hungarian Horntail, her heart in her throat. She would never forget the sight of him, clutching Cedric Diggory’s corpse in one hand and the Tri-wizard Tournament Cup in the other, that dead, bleak look in his eyes. She would never forget his pain during 5^th year, his anger that had hurt her so much even though she knew it wasn’t directed at her. She would never forget the way he’d looked after the final battle, not just the physical injuries but the look in his eyes that told her that the injuries he’d received were more on his mind and heart than on his body.

And she would never forget waking up one morning to find him gone, with only a short note.

Dear Hermione and Ron,

I’m leaving. I have to go. Don’t know when I’ll be back. Don’t worry about me and don’t try to find me.

Take care.

Harry

It had hurt that the letter had been addressed to Ron as well, that he hadn’t left any other more personal message for her… Even more than it had hurt that he had even felt it necessary to leave so abruptly.

She wondered, yet again, where Harry was, what he was doing, thinking… She worried about him. After spending nearly half her life worrying about Harry, it was a hard habit to break, she realized. And now she couldn’t even see him.

She believed that wherever he was, he was fine. She believed it in part because she had to. She hated the idea that if anything ever did happen to him she wouldn’t be able to help him because she wouldn’t know about it. She was quite irrationally certain that she would know if something happened to Harry. Somehow, deep inside her, in a way that completely defied any rational thought, she believed that she would know it if Harry was ever in serious trouble, danger, or Merlin forbid, killed.

But then her feelings for Harry had always defied rationality. She who prided herself on her intelligence, her reason, and her logic, had always had one very big weakness, namely her best friend, the Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter. There was no explaining it away; she had tried. It was simply the way it was. The sun rose in the east and set in the west. Voldemort had been evil. Draco Malfoy would always retain a little Malfoy arrogance, no matter what Ginny saw in him. And she would always worry and care about Harry Potter.

She was distracted all day with thoughts of him.

She was usually much better. She had accustomed herself to his absence, was perfectly capable of going for hours at a time without even thinking of him, when she lost herself in her work.

It was that man, that man that had reminded her of him with his messy black hair.

She decided against apparating to her flat as she usually did, reflecting that maybe the noise and bustle of the Tube would do her good.

She supposed she should have known that a day that had begun and continued to be littered with things to remind her of Harry would continue its current trend long after work had ended.

There was a new advertisement that had a lightning bolt on it, making her think of the famous scar, that Harry had usually, ineffectually, tried to conceal with his hair. One of the models on an advertisement had green eyes. Harry’s were much greener, she reflected. Oh, she missed Harry’s eyes.

She sighed as she unlocked and entered her empty flat.

For the first month or so after Harry had left, she had never returned to her flat without a small hope that Harry might have returned while she was gone and she would find him sitting on the couch, with his familiar grin, and he would say, “Hello, Hermione, I’m back. Did you miss me?”

She supposed she had known even then that it was a nonsensical hope, had given up after a while. Now, it was only occasionally that she wondered when Harry would return.

But a person can get accustomed to just about anything, even being hanged, as the old Irishman once said, she thought with a feeble attempt at humor.

She busied herself with work after her dinner, looking through some of her notes about her current patients at St. Mungo’s, and then reading some of the latest journals on antidotes to poisons. But she was glad when she heard a knock at the door.

“Ron! This is a surprise.” She stepped back, allowing Ron to come in, knowing instantly that he had something to tell her. There was an air of suppressed excitement and joy about him.

He managed to wait until they were seated, each with a bottle of butterbeer, before telling her his news.

She gave him a look that said, “Well, what is it?” as they sat, Ron smiling a little to himself.

“I’m engaged to Luna,” he said quickly, watching her carefully for her reaction.

She blinked before standing up to throw her arms around his neck and hug him. “Oh Ron! I’m so happy for you! That’s wonderful! When did you ask?”

Ron hugged her back, kissing the top of her head in brotherly fashion, before grinning at her. “Today at lunch, actually. I’d been thinking about it for a while now, but was never really sure, until today, we were having lunch together and it just seemed like the right time.”

Hermione grinned happily at him, her melancholy mood slipping away. “Congratulations. I must owl Luna and congratulate her as well. Have you told your parents? And Ginny? What did they say?”

“Yes to both. Mum and Dad were thrilled, the twins said they knew it was going to happen all along and that they were going to make t-shirts saying: ‘It’s about bloody time’. Ginny nearly strangled me when she heard the news, she was so excited. You know how she gets.” Ron winked at her, pretending to shake his head over his sister’s exuberance.

She laughed. “That does sound like Fred and George.”

They smiled at each other in comfortable silence for a little while.

Ron was the first to speak, seriously now, his voice low. “I wish Harry were here. He would be happy, don’t you think?”

Something was tickling at the back of her mind, a strange awareness that someone might be watching her and Ron. But she knew that was ridiculous… It was only Ron’s mention of Harry along with all her thoughts about Harry this particular day that had her feeling that odd sort of awareness she’d always had whenever Harry was around… It had to be. Harry was miles away, Merlin only knew where. She resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder and smiled instead, reassuringly, at Ron. “Yes, he’d be happy. He always liked Luna, remember? And defended her even when you thought she was Loony Luna back in 5^th and 6^th year? He’d probably say it’s about bloody time, too.”

Ron looked at her for a moment. “Do you ever think about when he’ll come back?” he asked quietly. They had never really talked about Harry’s return, both uncomfortable, for some reason, about mentioning it.

She sighed. “All the time. It was strange; I thought about him all day today. Somehow everything I saw reminded me of him in some way; I saw guys who had messy black hair… I usually don’t think about him that much, these days.” She looked at Ron who was toying with his bottle with an introspective expression on his face. “I’m being silly, I suppose.”

“No, you’re not,” was all he said. “I wish we knew why he left,” he began abruptly.

She sighed and closed her eyes briefly. “We’ve talked about this, Ron. We don’t know exactly what happened or how Harry killed Voldemort. We only know that Harry refused to talk about it, which is never a good sign. And I think we can safely guess that part of it, at least, was just Harry wanting to get away and be alone. You remember the parties, the celebrations being held in his honor. And you know how much Harry would have hated it.”

“Yeah, I know,” Ron replied briefly, looking momentarily sheepish. He himself had rather enjoyed the attention he’d received, but he knew Harry was different, understood that now, what he hadn’t understood when he was 14.

“He’s been gone for more than a year now, Hermione… How much longer until he comes back?” Ron paused, before adding with a grin, “I’d kind of want to have a best man at my wedding, that I won’t have to worry about turning me into a big canary or something for the ceremony.”

She laughed, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “He’ll come back. Don’t worry.”

She only wished she could be as certain as she sounded.

“Now, come on, you interrupted my work. A welcome interruption, of course, but still, I need to get more finished tonight,” she said, getting up and dragging him up with her.

Ron grinned teasingly down at her. “Spoilsport. Mione, Mione, when will you stop being such a bore?”

She laughed at the ongoing joke between them. “Ron, Ron, when will you stop being such a clown?”

He shrugged, looking comically repentant. “I’m sorry but never. It’s just too much fun.”

Hermione laughed up at him before giving him another hug. “Congratulations, again, Ron. I really am happy for you, you know.”

He returned the embrace. “Yeah, I know. Love you, Mione,” before adding in typical Ron-fashion, “even if you are a spoilsport.”

“Love you too, Ron. Now, goodbye.” Hermione smiled at her best friend of so many years before shutting the door behind him. Dear Ron, he would never change…

But she sighed through her smile. Ron had Luna now. They would always be best friends, she knew, but things would change. And she was still alone…

“Harry, where are you? Come back to us, to me…” she said softly.

Disclaimer: Anything and anyone you recognize belongs to JK Rowling. Anything you don’t recognize is mine.

A/N: This is for happy_daze88, whose ficlets never fail to make me smile. *glomps*

Complicated

Chapter 3: Coming to Conclusions

Rachel Taney was bored and having a decidedly slow day.

Which was why she noticed the man who strode in to the motel at that moment.

Of course, he was the type of man people would look twice at and not just for his looks. He was handsome enough, but what made Rachel and other people look twice at him were two things about him. He had the brightest green eyes Rachel had ever seen in a person’s face and there was a uniquely shaped scar, like a lightning bolt, just off center on his forehead.

All in all, she was intrigued.

She put on a smile. “Hello, can I help you?”

He seemed distracted, didn’t smile, in fact, barely glanced at her. “Yes. I want a room.”

“Ok. One room coming up. Just need your name.”

“My name… right-” he stopped and she looked curiously at him, saying, “It’s not meant to be a trick question.”

He forced a little laugh. “Sorry, just got distracted for a moment. My name’s James… James Black.”

Black… and getting blacker by the day, he thought half sadly, half amusedly, as he gave the name he’d been using ever since that day he’d left England so many months ago, of Sirius and his jokes about the Black family name. Sirius… The memory of him was no longer just painful; it had become bittersweet. And yet, and yet… it was still his fault and he couldn’t forgive himself for that.

He blinked, coming out of his brief reverie to find the receptionist girl looking oddly at him, a key in her hand.

“Here you are, Mr. Black. Room number 22, just up the stairs on the first floor.”

He forced another smile. “Thank you.”

Once in the small room, Harry threw himself on the bed and closed his eyes wearily.

He was back in England now. He had come back home.

Home… Did he have a home anymore? Hogwarts had always been his home, but now it wasn’t. Hogwarts was just another part of his past.

They said home is where the heart is. His heart… well, his heart had always been with Hermione, but was Hermione even his?

He doubted it, after seeing Ron and Hermione together that evening. They had looked so comfortable together, complete. He could still see Hermione hugging Ron and Ron’s casually kissing her hair. It had been achingly, painfully clear that such gestures of affection were customary between them.

Ron and Hermione… Somehow he had never really considered the possibility of Ron and Hermione becoming anything more than just friends. They had always bickered and fought so much, although he knew, better than anyone, that when it came down to it, they would each have died to save the other. But that had always been the case between the three of them, had never meant anything more than the friendship and loyalty that had always existed between the trio. Right?

His leaving had probably helped their closeness. He let out a brief, almost bitter laugh. He had left to clear his mind, because he couldn’t bear to be around Hermione without telling her how he felt and yet couldn’t tell her how he felt. He was Harry Potter. He was the same as Voldemort, had that same power within him. He could feel it and it frightened him. How could he possibly be in any kind of relationship, tell Hermione how he felt knowing the truth about himself? And now his leaving had lost him the one thing that he had clung to, in nearly two years of exile.

She had looked well and happy, though. He felt a vague sense of guilt that he had barely spared Ron a glance, only noticing off-hand that he hadn’t changed. All his attention in the minutes he’d watched them from outside Hermione’s window had been focused entirely on her. The sight of her in real-life, flesh and blood, after so many months of dreams, had hit him like a well-aimed punch to the gut. None of his dreams had done her justice and suddenly he knew that no girl or woman he’d ever seen in his many months away could ever hope to equal Hermione in his eyes. But then that had always been the case.

He had first realized she was pretty when he was 14, could still remember every detail of how she had looked in her blue gown the night of the Yule Ball. He had had other moments of realizing afresh just how lovely she was and always would be, in his eyes. He remembered that moment towards the end of 6^th year when she had just looked up at him and smiled at something he had said and he had been struck with the sudden thought, clichéd as it was, that Hermione’s smile was his sunshine on a cloudy day. He remembered staring at her, until she had asked him whether he was ok, the smile on her face fading to a look of concern that had caused his second revelation of that otherwise ordinary day. He was in love with his best friend.

It had surprised him. Cho had been the first girl he’d ever really noticed as a girl and the fiasco that had been Cho, combined with all that had happened at the end of 5^th year, had effectively taken over his thoughts. Until Hermione. Until that moment when he had really looked at her and seen the beauty in her, both inside and out. And he had known that he didn’t deserve her.

He was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. The title was representative of his so-called heroism. He hadn’t done anything spectacular; he had simply lived. He had only survived through a sacrifice on the part of his mother and a destiny that had granted him some powers he had never wished for and still didn’t want. It wasn’t really any of his doing.

Hermione had been the first, the only, person who understood that, who didn’t see him as some sort of hero to be treated differently, who understood that he hated the fame that came along with his name and his scar.

Maybe it really had been from that first moment on the Hogwarts Express, nearly a decade ago, when Hermione had noticed him and then passed over his fame as if it were inconsequential. And since that moment, she had never treated him any differently.

It was only around her and Ron, to an extent, that he could be himself, just Harry.

He loved her for that, loved her for being able to scold him and tell him when she thought he was being a prat, appreciated the acceptance and friendship it represented. He loved her for caring, for her smile.

He loved her and he wanted to see her smile at him again, hear her voice again. It had been too long.

But before he did, he had one visit to make.

~*~

He moved slowly, though his steps were certain, through the graveyard, until he reached some graves set apart from the rest.

There were two tombstones, one for his parents and the other the one thing he had made certain to do once the war was finally over.

He looked down at them in silence, before kneeling to run his fingers over the names engraved into the stone.

Lily Evans Potter James Potter

1959-1981

Beloved Wife Beloved Husband

Beloved Mother Beloved Father

They died so that their son could live.

For their sacrifice, their memories will live forever.

And next to this, another lone tombstone for an empty grave.

Sirius Black

1959-1996

Devoted Friend and Godfather

He gave his all for his friends.

He will not be forgotten.

At the bottom, he had arranged for there to be a paw print, for the first time he had ever seen Sirius. He knew, too, that it had meant something to Remus to have the one subtle mention of Padfoot included.

He sighed, blinking back tears, as he pictured again Sirius falling through the veil, heard in his mind his own anguished scream at losing the closest thing to a parent he had ever known, felt again the grief and the guilt that had never left him since that day.

He bent, putting down the flowers he’d brought next to other fresh flowers that had been there. Who would leave flowers on his parents and Sirius’ graves? Curiously, he reached for the slip of paper he could just see from underneath the flowers. It was just a small plain card, with two handwritten words on it that had his heart clenching, even as he smiled.

For Harry.

It was Hermione’s handwriting.

Of course. Who else would think to do this, keep flowers on his parents and godfather’s graves since he hadn’t been there to do so himself? It was just like Hermione to think of this, like her to remember. He hadn’t thought of it, hadn’t expected it, but now that he knew, he found he wasn’t much surprised.

“Thank you, Hermione. I love you,” he whispered, fingering one of the flowers, saying the words for the first time aloud. He had never spoken them before, to anyone, still didn’t know if he ever would, but somehow now, at this place, in light of this gesture of friendship that touched him to the heart, he could say them. She must have visited the day before. If he closed his eyes, he could picture her, placing the flowers on the grave, stopping to say a few words and to think and remember.

***

Hermione moved with quick steps through the graveyard in the gathering darkness, not stopping until she reached the two marble stones separated from the rest.

Quickly, she stooped, placing the flowers in front of the stones, before also sliding the plain small card under the bouquet, the card that said why she was doing this. Leaving flowers every week for 3 people not related to her, two of whom she had never met.

She supposed she was being quixotic, ridiculously sentimental, really. But she couldn’t bring herself to stop. It was comforting, to know that she still had this one link to Harry, wherever he was, whatever he was doing. Comforting to know that she was doing what he would have done had he been around.

It had been an impulse at first, a random thought she had had just after Harry had gone leaving only that note behind. Maybe she had half hoped to find Harry there. Whatever the reason, she had come here that first week after Harry left, only to find a withered bunch of flowers. Flowers that she knew Harry must have put there before he left.

And somehow she kept coming back.

She did owe both Lily and James Potter and Sirius for saving Harry’s life. It was a rather tenuous connection, perhaps, but it was there and she felt it and so she acted on it.

Not for the first time she wondered why she had never told anyone, including Ron, about this. Maybe she was afraid of being laughed at, thought overly emotional.

She laughed softly to herself. She thought she was being overly emotional at times!

But she still came back every week.

She looked down at Sirius’ tombstone, before reaching out a hand and trailing her fingers across the top of it. “Hi, Sirius, it’s Hermione again,” she found herself saying aloud. “I don’t really know what to say. I want you to know that I’m sure Harry is okay. I just know he is. And I want you to know that I’ll always be there for Harry, that I’ll do anything for him, just like you would have, like you did. We have that in common, I guess.” She smiled a little to herself. “Well, goodbye for now, Sirius. I guess I’ll see you next week.”

She paused for a moment to picture a familiar smiling face, green eyes, round glasses, and murmured “Come home, Harry,” before turning away.

***

Harry knelt down in front of the marble, uncaring that the grass was still a little damp from yesterday’s rain.

“Hello mum, dad, and Sirius,” he said softly. “It’s me. I’m sorry I haven’t been around. I needed to get away for a while. I don’t know what to do now. I don’t know where I belong. Do you think you could tell me? I miss you so much, you know, wish you could tell me where I belong, what I should do now. I’ve been gone for so long…” He let his voice die, ending his rambles, wondering idly whether his parents and Sirius were listening to him, from somewhere.

He stayed there in the graveyard for some time, not speaking again, just remembering, thinking about the people who had cared so much for him and had done so much for him… And when he left, he took with him in his coat pocket the small white card that told the story of months of silent friendship, a reminder of one other person, at least, who had never stopped thinking of him.

When there was a knock on her door that evening, Hermione expected it to be Ron. Ginny hardly ever visited without notice and no one else she knew ever did. Ron was the only one that stopped by entirely unannounced, whether it was only to grab a bottle of butterbeer from her fridge because the supply he kept in his flat had run out or just because he was bored.

She opened the door with a smile, saying, “Ron, I wasn’t expec-” before stopping as if her sentence had been cut off.

For a moment, the world stopped, her thoughts spun, she stopped breathing, and all of existence narrowed down to just herself and the man standing right outside her door.

She was dreaming.

She was hallucinating.

She had to be.

She opened her mouth and found her voice, although it sounded unnatural. “Harry?” was all she could say, in a disbelieving squeak.

“Hello, Hermione.”

Disclaimer: Usual disclaimer applies, you know the drill.

A/N: Many many apologies for how long it’s taken to write this chapter!! *glares at RL and AWOL muses* I’ll try to have the next chapter out soon.

For Gil aka Romulus Lupin, and galtxtr. :-)

Chapter 4 Reunion

He was there. He was really there. After months and months of missing him, of wondering where he was and how he was doing, he was really there. Somewhere in the back of her dazed mind, she noticed that he looked tired, dispirited, as if he’d lost something important, but for now, all that mattered was that he was there.

Harry had come home.

In another minute, another time, Hermione might have been embarrassed at her loss of control as she leaped at him and hugged him as hard as she could. But not now. Not when Harry, her Harry, whom she had missed so much, was really there. It was him, his face, his voice, his smell, his arms as he returned the embrace somewhat awkwardly, and his little breathless laugh, as he finally managed to gasp, “Um, Hermione, breathing becoming an issue.”

She released him with a little laugh, still keeping a hold on his hand as she pulled him inside the door, shutting the door behind him as if afraid he was going to leave again. “I’m sorry, but oh Harry! I- you- it’s- where in the name of Merlin have you been?”

Harry looked slightly guilty at this reminder that he had not written at all while he was gone. He had meant to. Merlin knew how many times he had picked up a pen or a quill, intending to write, if just a postcard, to Hermione, but then had decided against it. He knew he could write and tell her that he was fine and he missed her but he didn’t want to write if all he could tell Hermione would make any communication the short, impersonal note of casual acquaintances. He knew that if he was going to write to Hermione, he would confide in her his doubts and questions and all that had made him leave, because he didn’t know how to write impersonally to Hermione. He trusted her too much, was too used to confiding in her. “I traveled, first over Europe, stopped off in Egypt, then Canada and America.”

Hermione opened her mouth to ask the inevitable question, Why, but she saw a flash of something like apprehension, even dread, in his eyes and wisely changed her mind. “Have you seen Ron yet?” And when she saw Harry relax almost imperceptibly she knew she’d done the right thing. Whatever had driven Harry away and whatever it was that had made him come back, he wasn’t ready to talk about it. And she knew from experience that butting her head against the brick wall that was Harry Potter brought little but bruises and frustration.

“No. I just got back yesterday and you’re the first person I came to see.” His voice was quiet and she smiled at him.

“I’m so glad you did.” She paused, then continued, her voice low and sincere. “I missed you, Harry.”

He smiled then and the last remnants of awkwardness at being together after so many months apart vanished as if they had never existed. “I missed you too, Hermione.”

She smiled and kissed his forehead quickly.

For a moment, he remembered all the other little gestures of affection and friendship Hermione had shown him over the years, so many little actions that had warmed his starved heart, even if he didn’t realize it at the time.

“How is Ron?” Harry asked, wondering how Hermione would react to the question.

Her face lit up as she suddenly realized something. “Oh, Ron will be so happy you’ve come back, Harry! He was just telling me yesterday that he hoped you would come back in time for the wedding! I told him, of course you would be.” She let out a small laugh and grinned at Harry. “Thanks for proving me right!”

He forced a smile. Wedding? He hadn’t thought that Ron and Hermione would be engaged, even if they were together. “Glad to help,” was all he said.

“Let me owl Ron. He has to know you’re back,” Hermione said, going to her desk.

Harry was silent, just watching her as she wrote, wondering idly how many times he’d seen her write in her neat small handwriting over the years.

If he hadn’t left, would Hermione and Ron still be together? Would Hermione be his now, if he hadn’t left?

The questions bothered him and he started speaking, only vaguely aware that he was voicing his thoughts aloud. “I’m happy for you. I know I couldn’t expect you to wait for me when I left with only a note and didn’t write while I was gone. I—”

Hermione interrupted him, and he realized with dismay that he’d been rambling aloud. “Harry, what are you talking about? Wait for you, how?”

He looked at her in some bemusement. She was staring at him, frowning, lines in her forehead that always formed when she was confused about something. “I mean, you and Ron.”

“Me and Ron! Harry, what maggot’s got into your head? Ron’s engaged to Luna. He just proposed to her yesterday, actually. Me and Ron! Honestly, Harry! What on earth made you think it?”

“I- well, I was watching you two yesterday and you just seemed so comfortable together, so complete together… I just assumed…” his voice trailed off. He had all but told Hermione how he felt. He hoped desperately Hermione hadn’t noticed, or would not mention it. Idiot! And now, actually explaining his assumption made it sound even more far-fetched than Hermione apparently found it, from the look on her face.

A silence fell, this one not so comfortable as Harry called himself names mentally and Hermione wondered if she had just imagined the wounded look in Harry’s eyes as he talked about his thinking she and Ron were together.

Ron… Suddenly Hermione laughed, amused at herself.

Harry stared at her. “What’s funny?” he asked, half-suspiciously, afraid she was laughing at his own stupidity.

“Oh Harry, your coming back must really have muddled my thinking. Why am I writing a note to Ron when I could just floo him and tell him to come visit? It’d be so much easier and quicker.”

She got up, going over to the jar of Floo powder she kept on the mantelpiece when Harry stopped her with a word. “Don’t.”

This time it was her turn to stare at him. “Why not? Don’t you want to see Ron? He’ll be so glad you’re back, you know.” She sobered. “It was all Ginny and I could do to keep him from trying to find you, somehow, when you’d been gone about a month. Ginny finally threatened to physically tie him to a chair and confiscate his wand if he wouldn’t promise not to do any such thing.”

“Oh,” was all he could say, somewhat limply. He hadn’t given much thought to how much Ron and Hermione would worry about him, despite his assurances. They were too used to worrying about him from all their years at Hogwarts to stop, no matter how high of an opinion Ron, at least, had of his ability to take care of himself.

He came out of his guilty reverie to realize that Hermione was frowning slightly, one brow lifted in a questioning expression, and he realized that she had asked him why he didn’t want her to contact Ron. He couldn’t think of anything to say, so instead just reached into his pocket and took out what he mainly wanted to bring up first.

It was the card that she had left on Lily, James and Sirius’ tombs.

“Oh, that,” she said lamely, wondering if Harry wanted to know why she had continued to leave flowers there after so long, wondering how she could explain her motives when she didn’t fully understand them herself…

“I just wanted to say…” he paused then met her eyes directly, “thank you.”

And she smiled and suddenly knew that, whatever had made Harry leave and whatever had kept him from coming back for nearly two years, it hadn’t been because of anything she had done, as she had sometimes feared in some of her moments of self-doubt. “You’re welcome.”

He smiled too and realized that he felt happier, lighter, just standing here in Hermione’s flat than he had in months, years even.

“Now you can tell Ron,” he added.

Hermione’s expression turned suddenly mischievous. “Actually, I think I’ll just tell him to come here and let him be surprised. I want to savor his expression of shock,” she winked at Harry, who laughed and agreed.

Less than 5 minutes later, Ron knocked on the door and Harry looked over at Hermione, who nodded and got up, while Harry moved out of the line of sight from the front door. He could hear Hermione greeting Ron, calmly enough, and Ron’s response and then Ron stepped into the room and saw Harry and stopped dead as if he’d just run into a brick wall.

Hermione slipped past him, just as Harry smiled at Ron and said, “Hi, Ron,” as casually as if it had just been a couple days since they had last met.

A strangled noise, halfway between a gasp and a laugh, escaped Ron’s open mouth as he stared at Harry, blinked as if expecting Harry to disappear, and then stared again. “Harry?” he finally managed to croak.

Harry took one step forward, still grinning and only said one word. “Ron.” And as if the word or the action had broken his paralysis, Ron crossed the space between them in two bounding steps, clapping both hands on Harry’s shoulders as if to make doubly sure he was real, while a wide grin stretched across his face. “Harry, my God, mate! I can’t believe it’s you! I mean, bloody hell, Harry, where in the name of all that’s magical have you been?!” He continued on, speaking quickly. “Wait’ll Mum and Dad find out, and Ginny! Mum nearly went ballistic when we told her you’d gone, and even Dad looked worried. Ginny was upset until Fred and George started teasing her about still having a crush on you and then she got angry and threatened to hex them. And Remus! Does he know you’re back yet? Remus was, I think, the most worried of all of us, well, except for Hermione, I think,” he added, glancing at Hermione who had been watching all this with a smile. “Remus will-“

Ron stopped short, as he suddenly realized something, turning away from Harry and fixing a mock accusing glare on Hermione. “You! You sly thing! You should have told me or warned me or something, before you had me come here! You shocked ten years off my life! If I had had a weak heart, I would be dead by now and it’d be on your head.”

Hermione only grinned at him. “Oh but really, it was too much fun to resist. It’s not every day I can see you gaping like a fish out of water, you know. Besides,” she continued after a pause as she saw Ron’s lips twitch with suppressed laughter as he struggled to maintain his stern expression, “it wouldn’t be fair for you to have had a warning when I didn’t have one either.”

Ron gave up the attempt to look accusing and grinned. “Okay, okay, you win.” He grinned at Harry. “It’s good to have you back, Harry! Look at us, the Trio’s together again.”

Harry grinned back at Ron and then smiled at Hermione, the look on his face softening ever so slightly as he looked at her.

Ron noticed Harry’s expression change as he looked at Hermione, saw the look that flashed in his green eyes and nodded to himself. Harry was in love with Hermione. He’d wondered about it before Harry had left but never brought up the subject, especially since Harry’s disappearance, afraid to hurt Hermione. But now he knew. That fleeting look in Harry’s eyes had told him everything he needed to know. Now Harry and Hermione just needed to be nudged- ok, not nudged, pushed, together… And he was just the friend to do it too, he decided.

Ron slung one arm around Hermione’s shoulders and one arm around Harry’s shoulders in a companionable fashion, as he’d done so many times over their Hogwarts years. “Harry, mate, you’re lucky you came back now. If you’d stayed away much longer, I’d have sent out dragon-hounds to find you and drag you back!”

Harry laughed along with Hermione, feeling some of the gaping emptiness he’d felt in his chest since he’d left England, close up. They were together again and it did feel good. The Trio, the unbeatable team that had faced countless dangers and evil together and defeated it all… Together again. And for the first time in a very long time, Harry wasn’t afraid of the memories or of the future. He was with his best friends in all the world. What couldn’t they face if they were together?

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: This is for all of you who have reviewed the last few chapters asking when this was going to be continued. I hope this is worth the wait, and I’ll try not to keep you waiting so long for the next part!

Chapter 5 For Now

He struggled to stand up even though it felt like his bones were being crushed. He had to stand; he couldn’t do this while kneeling. He would not kneel to him, not with him standing there laughing after he cast the Cruciatus.

“Still so stubborn, refusing to accept the inevitable. You’re a fool,” Voldemort mocked in his cold rasp of a voice. “Just as much of a fool as your parents were, and you’ll die just like they did.”

The mention of his parents pushed him to his feet, his wand trembling in his white-knuckled grasp. He hurt, all over, and his scar was burning, searing, as if someone was holding a red-hot poker to it. But his head was clear. He knew what he had to do.

He watched, carefully, until the very moment Voldemort raised his wand and opened his mouth. The split second when he too yelled “Stupefy!” It was the only hex he could think of at the moment. He knew it would have no more effect on Voldemort than a mosquito bite but it served the purpose.

A jet of white light shot out from his wand and hit the jet of green light from Voldemort’s. And again, the two beams of light connected, merged, and held, turning gold and thrumming with power. Beads of white light were moving along the merged beam of light connecting the two wands.

It was exactly the way it had been three years ago in the graveyard in Little Hangleton, the same gold light and the same power making the light hum. And there was the phoenix song, clear and sweet and pure.

It was the same and yet different. Then he hadn’t known what was going to happen; now he did and he was ready. Or if not exactly ready, as close to it as he was ever going to be. He was alone, again, just as he had been that night, but he knew he had an army behind him, a silent army and a small one, but a powerful one for all that. The army of the dead, those who had already died in the war to defeat Voldemort. He knew his parents were there, knew it as if he could see them. Sirius was there; Hagrid, Dumbledore, Mad-Eye Moody, Bill Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and others, people whom he didn’t even know, Aurors and other members of the Order. And he knew they were giving him strength.

And he had Hermione, in his heart and his mind. Could hear her voice in his head, as clearly as if she was standing next to him, saying, “You can do this, Harry. I believe in you.” And then, just as she had before every Quidditch game he’d ever been in, “Good luck and be careful, Harry.”

His hand and arm was beginning to ache from the grip he had on his wand, that was vibrating with more and more force as the seconds became minutes.

He forgot about the pain in his body, forgot about the way his head felt as if something were trying to claw its way out of his skull. All he was aware of, every particle of his mind and body and heart were focused on the light connecting his wand to Voldemort’s. Pushing the beads of light away from him and into Voldemort’s. The beads trembled, hesitated and then slowly, began to move towards Voldemort, whose eyes were wide with impotent rage as he watched. The first bead of light just touched the tip of Voldemort’s wand; the phoenix song was interrupted by a shriek of pain coming from Voldemort’s wand.

And he knew the moment was right. It was time.

He closed his eyes, drawing up every last reserve of magical power left in him. And he thought of Hermione, saw her face in his mind as he’d last seen it, streaked with tears but smiling bravely, because he’d once told her he didn’t want her crying face to be his last memory before he left.

He opened his eyes again, saw the red glare of his nemesis. “Deleo Spiritus!” The words came from his throat with every last bit of energy he had inside him, with the power of all the anger, sorrow, fear and hate he’d ever felt because of Voldemort.

There was a flash of blinding white light, a last shriek from Voldemort, one long drawn out “Noooooooooo!” Harry staggered back a step as he felt the surge of pure magic, of life, rush into him.

And then there was nothing.

Just a pile of black robes where Voldemort had been standing and on top of that, his wand.

Harry dropped his arm, breathing hard, feeling his legs beginning to weaken now that the tension was gone. He faltered but then managed to stagger the steps until he reached the pile of cloth and the wand that was all that remained of Voldemort.

Just one last thing to do and then his mission was done.

A quiet “Incendio” and the robes were lit on fire, burning, until there was only a pile of ashes.

He bent, took Voldemort’s wand in his hands, and broke it in half. It had already wreaked enough destruction. Never again.

The world was beginning to swim around him. He staggered and then fell, still clutching the two halves of Voldemort’s wand along with his in one hand. With the other, he reached into his own robes, his fingers closing around a handkerchief, the one personal object he’d brought, charmed to be a Portkey, the handkerchief Hermione had once lent him to clean his glasses which he’d inadvertently not returned.

His last memory was of the jerk he felt as if a hand was pulling him along by his navel. The world spun around him. He was going home…

And then the world went black.

Harry awoke with a start and a gasp, looking around disoriented for a moment.

And then he remembered. He was in Hermione’s flat, in her guest bedroom. He had come home, to England and to her…

It had just been a dream, his usual one, reliving the last battle against Voldemort. Just a dream…

He relaxed back into the pillows, shuddering slightly as he thought of that last moment of Voldemort’s life. He hated to think of it, and yet he dreamed of it constantly, as if his unconscious mind was trying to force him to accept what his conscious mind didn’t want to.

He looked down at his hands, clenched into fists clutching the blankets and forcibly relaxed them, before slowly, almost reluctantly as if some force other than his mind was making him do this, he lifted his hand, his gaze fixed on the small clock beside the bed, watching as the clock wobbled a little before floating upwards. He lowered his hand and the clock settled back down on the nightstand.

He closed his eyes, a grimace of something like pain crossing his features. He didn’t know why he kept doing things like that, tentative tests of his own power, when every time only confirmed his thoughts. Told him the truth of who and what he was…

Harry’s thoughts were interrupted by a tentative knock at the door followed by Hermione’s voice asking softly, “Harry? Are you alright?”

He reached over and put on his glasses as he answered, “Yes, come in.”

The door opened to reveal Hermione, still in her pajamas, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

Harry swallowed and promptly decided to keep his gaze fixed on her face. Not that Hermione’s pajamas were at all revealing; they were as practical and simple as one could expect from Hermione. It was just seeing Hermione, whom he’d loved for so long and missed so much, like this, just awoken from her sleep… There was an intimacy to the situation, heightened by the fact that it was still night, an intimacy that made his heart clench with a mixture of longing and fear. Seeing Hermione when she woke up every morning- was this something like what she would look like? He wanted that, wanted her- but he couldn’t have her… She was his best friend; he would accept that and be grateful for it…

Hermione sat down on the edge of the bed, frowning slightly as she studied him. Her eyes, made sharp from years of worrying about him and loving him, noted the shadows in his eyes, the lines around his mouth, making him look older than his years. “Hey, are you okay?” she asked softly, trying to keep her concern out of her voice.

“Yeah,” he answered briefly.

She tilted her head to one side, eyes narrowing slightly as she looked at him. “Was it a bad nightmare?”

“How did-” Harry began and then stopped.

He looked as if he rather regretted his words but she answered his unfinished question anyway. “I heard you cry out, Harry, and besides, how well do I know you?” Her second question was spoken with a slight smile as she remembered all those years at Hogwarts; they’d been good years even if they had been dangerous at times. Years of getting to know Harry better than she knew anyone else from watching him and thinking about him.

Harry smiled rather sheepishly. “I should have known you’d know.”

Hermione returned his smile with a small one of her own. “So what was it about?” she repeated her earlier question gently.

Harry looked away to his hands as they fiddled with the blankets before looking up and meeting Hermione’s eyes. Should he tell her? The nightmare itself was basic; she didn’t need to know the worst part of it, the part that still haunted him. Did he trust her? Even as he thought the question though, he knew it was a foregone conclusion. Of course he trusted Hermione, with everything he had. It wasn’t a question of trust, never had been. Ironically, the problem was trusting her too much… He wasn’t ready to tell her everything but he wasn’t used to keeping things from Hermione; it felt unnatural… “It was about killing Voldemort,” he finally said honestly.

He heard her suck in her breath sharply before she took his hand in both of her own in a gesture of friendship. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked quietly.

For a moment, he hesitated, looking at Hermione, the sympathy and understanding in her eyes. And he thought of all the other times during their years at Hogwarts that he’d told her what was bothering him, all the times she’d comforted him…

But then he thought of his greatest fear—remembered that moment in the Department of Mysteries and Hermione telling him he couldn’t attack a baby, even a Death Eater with a baby’s head, remembered the horror in her eyes at the thought… Pictured Hermione drawing back from him, the same horror in her eyes; pictured the friendship that had sustained him, the friendship that had kept him alive he often thought, crumbling, the affection he’d seen in her eyes and her smile being replaced with coldness…

And he looked at Hermione and finally answered, “No.”

He sensed her slight hurt and softened the harsh word by adding, “Not now, maybe later,” and further added but only in thought, Maybe never…

Hermione studied him, seeing the way his face and eyes had closed, going blank, so she couldn’t read his thoughts, the expressionless face he adopted when he wanted to shut people out. She sighed. She hated knowing that Harry didn’t feel free to tell her things, hated the feeling of being shut out of his thoughts and feelings, after she’d spent their years at Hogwarts with the comforting, if unspoken, knowledge that Harry confided in her, trusted her…

This Harry was different though, no longer the boy she’d known and loved but a man, whom she still loved and so similar in some ways to the boy she knew so well and yet different. There was a new hardness, a resilience, about him—just a hint of a difference in his air and his eyes but it was there, hinting at what he’d gone through in the last duel with Voldemort.

She pressed his hand in a gesture of affection before standing up. “If you’re sure…” She bent and brushed her lips against his forehead in a quick kiss.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, realizing yet again how much he valued Hermione’s little touches of friendship. Growing up in a household with no love whatsoever, Hermione’s affectionate gestures had been the first ones he’d ever received, the ones that had taught him to give and receive touches as signs of caring, from the first hug he’d ever gotten down below the castle in his first year, to his first kiss in his fourth year… Every little touch, every little gesture, was stored and treasured in his memory. Ron and he clapped each other on the shoulder and occasionally hugged briefly but they weren’t like the little casual caresses Hermione bestowed as a matter of course, somehow didn’t convey the same depth of feeling, the same level of loyalty… Not that he doubted Ron’s friendship or loyalty; it was only that Ron’s didn’t display itself through gestures. Hermione’s did. She had kissed Ron’s cheek in their 5^th year to wish him luck in the Quidditch match. She kissed his cheek to reassure him that she would always be with him as she had at the end of 4^th year, or touched his hand to comfort him, or squeezed his hand before nearly every Quidditch match he’d been in as she told him to be careful… It was simply her way… And after all these years, he had grown from being made uncomfortable by it to expecting those little touches, wanting the reassurance every brief caress conveyed…

“You know I’ll always be here to listen when you want to talk,” Hermione said simply as she drew back.

He smiled slightly, his eyes warm with affection, the closed look gone. “I know. Thanks.”

The words were simple but there was a wealth of meaning in his tone and she smiled, meeting his eyes. He was thanking her not just for tonight’s offer of support but for everything-for the years of loyalty, of trust, of faith, and for the years of friendship to come… She knew it and she knew that he knew that she understood, just as she had always been able to understand without words what he meant…

Neither of them said anything more, only a soft “Goodnight” before Hermione left, closing the door behind her, leaving Harry to settle back in the bed, closing his eyes.

Maybe to anyone else listening to the few words they’d spoken, one would have said it had been completely meaningless. But then their communication had always been beyond mere words…

Harry lay back against his pillow, feeling a warmth beyond the mere physical warmth of the blankets. And even the memory of his nightmare and the thought of Voldemort, of himself and Voldemort—didn’t seem as chilling as it had been…

And Hermione smiled to herself as she closed the door. Harry was still her Harry for all that…

He still had secrets, yes, had still not told her why he’d left or anything about his final encounter with Voldemort. There were still questions to be answered, still more words to be spoken… but that was for later.

For now it was enough that Harry knew she would always be there for him… Enough for Hermione to know, that whatever secrets he kept, it wasn’t from a lack of trust in her. Enough to know that their friendship was as strong as ever, despite the secrets and the months apart…

It was enough. For now…

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Author’s Note: I’m so sorry for how long it’s taken to write this!!! I know it’s been forever since I last updated. I hope this longer-than-usual chapter halfway makes up for it and will try to have the next chapter out soon. (At any rate, I’m determined to have this fic finished before HBP comes out.)

Enjoy and thank you for your patience!

~Complicated~

Chapter 6: Searching for Normality

Hermione handed Ron a bottle of butterbeer and sat down herself with her cup of tea.

They were both silent for a moment, thinking, before Hermione finally spoke, quietly. “All the while Harry was gone, I kept on thinking that if he would just come back, everything would be fine. Everything would go back to normal…”

She sighed and Ron finished the thought for her. “But it’s not.”

She didn’t need to ask how Ron knew what she’d been about to say, even if he had never been the one to be able to understand her thoughts without her having to say a word. That had always been Harry, Harry with whom she could communicate without words, not Ron. But this time, she knew Ron had been thinking much the same thing and that was actually why she’d floo-called Ron today and asked him to come over anyway. Harry was having dinner with Remus so she knew he wouldn’t be back for a while yet.

Once again, the team to Save Harry Potter From Himself, had to meet to discuss Harry.

Harry had been back for nearly two weeks now, although so far only she, Ron, the Weasleys and Remus knew that. He’d been adamant about that; he didn’t want the wizarding world to know he was back, didn’t want the publicity, the intrusive questions he was sure to receive about his long absence and, worse, how exactly he’d defeated Voldemort. So it was only them, those few people closest to Harry and who cared most about him, who knew and he’d sworn them all to secrecy.

Harry was back, in body, yes, but there was a barrier which she felt and somehow hadn’t managed to get past. Not since the first night after the nightmare he’d had, had he allowed her that close to him. And even that night, he hadn’t confided in her or told her anything; there had just been the unspoken understanding of his trust that had comforted her. But since that night, he’d been different. She couldn’t even quite describe it other than that. Except that she knew that something was bothering him, something he didn’t feel he could tell her about. His lack of confidence in her hurt with an almost physical pain; to think that after all these years and all they’d been through together, that somehow Harry still felt he needed to deal with his problems alone, hurt her.

“Has he mentioned anything to you?” she asked quietly.

“No. He’s been really careful to keep any conversation from going near questions on why he left or that last battle with V-voldemort.” Ron’s tone was serious, despite his discomfort with saying Voldemort’s name (which had improved greatly in the past few years but still didn’t sound natural by any standards).

She sighed. “He hasn’t said anything to me either.”

“And whatever it is, if it’s bad enough that he’s not talking about it at all, we know how bad a sign that is,” Ron added with an attempt at lightness that fell flat.

“I know. That’s what’s worrying me so much.”

“I’ve been racking my brains but I haven’t come up with any ideas as to how we can break down the brick wall that is everyone’s favorite Boy Who Lived. Have you?”

She half-smiled at Ron’s phrasing to describe Harry and his stubbornness but shook her head. “I think our only option right now is to wait and see. Something might happen to make him change his mind and tell us.”

Ron nodded and then added with his usual grin, “And in a few weeks if nothing’s happened, I’ll ask Fred and George for some special products that should be able to force it out of him.”

She laughed as she knew he wanted her to and for the moment, allowed herself to relax a little. After all, Harry was back, which meant something. She would find out what was troubling him later and she would help him. Just as she’d promised herself to help him face Voldemort in their 6^th year. Harry wasn’t alone, whether he knew it or not; she wouldn’t let him be alone…

~*~*~

Remus sat back in his chair and looked thoughtfully across the table at Harry, seeing as he always did, the echo of James in Harry’s face. And not just his face either; Harry had some of James’s mannerisms too, the same way of shifting in his seat and rubbing the back of his neck with one hand when uncomfortable. And his eyes were as expressive as Lily’s had been. Remus hadn’t known Lily as well as he’d known James but he had become her friend since they had been Prefects together and once she started dating James and gotten to know her well enough that he could usually make an educated guess at Harry’s emotions and thoughts. And this, combined with the wisdom of experience plus his own knowledge of Harry, told him Harry was still restless, still looking for something and not finding it, still hiding things.

“You’ve changed, Harry,” he finally began, meeting the gaze of the young man whom he loved as his own son in many ways.

Harry frowned slightly. “I suppose I have. Being away from everything and everyone you know for so long tends to do that to you.” And for just a moment, a shadow of something that Remus could have sworn was bitterness, crossed Harry’s expression.

Remus paused and then decided to be blunt. Indirection was going to get him nowhere. “Harry, what’s wrong? And don’t tell me it’s nothing.”

Harry visibly stiffened, opened his mouth to say something, seemed to consider and then closed it again.

Remus waited with the patience born of years. Waited and wondered if Harry would finally break down and say something of what was bothering him, why he’d left England and stayed away for so long…

Harry got up, moving to pace the length of Remus’ sitting room restlessly. He was amazed that he was even tempted to tell Remus at least something of what had driven him away, what was still tormenting him. He thought he’d decided years ago not to tell anyone—how could he? He was Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, Hero of the Wizarding World, etc. How could he tell anyone what he really was?

Maybe it was just being back, here in England, the emotional upheaval of being with these people he cared about so much that tempted him to tell…

He looked at Remus again, seeing the gray in his former professor’s hair, the lines around his eyes, the affection in his eyes.

“I-” he began, hesitated and then finally just blurted out, “I never told you what happened at the final battle. I never told anyone about it,” he amended his words, speaking to the wall rather than to Remus.

Remus stiffened but otherwise didn’t react. He’d known it must have something to do with the last battle; Harry’s silence on the subject and avoidance about talking about it had been telling enough- to him and to everyone who knew Harry well enough.

Harry looked as if he were again regretting whatever impulse had led him to even say as much as he had, but slowly, reluctantly, he turned to face Remus. “Watch.”

He lifted one hand, his gaze focused on one of the framed pictures on the mantelpiece. The picture moved, rising, and then flew straight into Harry’s hand. His hand closed around it for a moment before he sent it back to the mantelpiece.

Remus had sucked in his breath sharply, staring at Harry, his eyes wide. “Harry- you—when did that happen?” he asked, his voice sounding rather strangled.

Harry dropped his hand to his side, lines of strain framing his mouth. “Since I defeated Voldemort,” he answered flatly.

Remus was silent, his mind racing. Wandless magic. It was a rare, very rare, ability. In fact the only two wizards in the last two centuries at least who were known to have the power to do wandless magic had been Dumbledore and Voldemort. Wizards and witches, even the most powerful, required their wands to be able to do magic except the sort of uncontrolled, unfocused magic wizarding children performed in moments of extreme stress and emotion. To be able to simply call forth magic, without the use of a wand and with only a thought, was so rare as to be nearly unheard of. Dumbledore, he knew, had been able to do wandless magic, a power he rarely used and almost never mentioned, but one which was generally known nevertheless. Voldemort had learned it after years of studying the darkest arts until his powers had grown beyond what he already had and there was nothing left of Tom Riddle and there only remained Lord Voldemort. Tom Riddle had, to use a clichéd phrase, sold his soul for the ability to do wandless magic in his quest to become the Dark Lord.

And now Harry had it, could control his wandless magic.

He stared at his former student as if seeing him for the first time. Harry’s back was to Remus but he could still see the tension in Harry’s body; tension was positively coming off Harry in waves.

Wandless magic—what other powers did Harry have? And what did it mean that Harry was so powerful?

Another clichéd phrase suddenly crossed his mind. Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Power corrupts…

Surely Harry couldn’t- he wouldn’t- be corrupted… Would he?

And for the first time, Remus felt a flicker of—something very like fear as he considered Harry. Because now he knew just what it was about Harry that had struck him as being different, the subtlest of changes and usually unnoticeable- but now he recognized it. It was power. The suggestion of power, restrained and usually carefully hidden, but there nevertheless. Power—and Harry had it in immense amounts.

Remus shuddered slightly. Dear God- what had happened at the final battle that Harry would come out of it with this much power and Voldemort would be gone?

“Harry, I think it’s time you tell someone what actually happened at the last battle,” Remus spoke quietly, finally breaking the silence. “You don’t have to tell me; just tell someone. Someone needs to know, if only because it’s too much for one person to carry alone.”

Harry laughed shortly, not out of amusement but out of a bitter incredulity at Remus’ suggestion. “What’s there to tell? I defeated him and in doing so, I took his powers into myself. That’s all.”

“It isn’t all,” Remus contradicted, his voice still quiet but now with a hint of steel in his tone. “And you know it. Magical ability doesn’t transfer from one wizard to another without some extraordinary circumstances.”

Harry shrugged, his voice cool, dismissive, distant. “Nothing about my life has ever been ordinary so this shouldn’t be that much of a surprise. As for the knowledge of what actually happened being too much of a burden for one person, that’s nothing new either. The story of my life so far has been of knowledge I didn’t want, things I didn’t want happening that did happen, fame and power I didn’t want. I can’t be normal.” He let out another cynical laugh. “Harry Potter. Resident freak, that’s me.”

“Harry, don’t talk like that!” Remus said sharply. “It’s not like you; you know it isn’t. It’s fine if you don’t trust me enough to tell me- but don’t just dismiss it like that! It isn’t nothing and I know you don’t think it is; you wouldn’t have left England and stayed away for so long if it meant so little to you,” he finished shrewdly.

Harry’s shoulders suddenly slumped, his irritation and his sudden anger disappearing as quickly as they had flared up at Remus’ words.

“It does matter,” he finally said, his voice so soft Remus could barely hear it, more to himself than to Remus. “But how can I burden her with this? After everything I’ve already put her through, how can I add yet another burden to that? Make her part of my darkness? I can’t do it.”

At any other time, Remus might have smiled at this confirmation of Harry’s feelings for Hermione which he’d long suspected and, yes, even hoped for. But not now.

He sighed instead. “I think, Harry,” he began slowly, quietly, “you should leave that decision up to Hermione. She’s strong and more importantly, you know how much she cares for you. I suspect she would tell you she’d rather be burdened with the knowledge than know you were carrying it alone. She would want to help you.”

“I- I can’t,” Harry said again in a choked whisper, finally looking at Remus. “I can’t tell her what I did, what I am…” He didn’t think he could ever tell anyone… Not Hermione, the person he trusted more than anyone else in his life; not Ron, not Remus. He couldn’t bear to think of how these people whom he cared about, who cared about him, would react to knowing just what he was, what he’d done, the blackness of his soul…

Remus felt a sudden chill of apprehension reach inside and grasp his heart. “What you did?” he asked cautiously.

Harry looked at Remus again and he gasped at the look in Harry’s eyes, the bleakness, the darkness in it and knew he was seeing a tortured soul. Whatever Harry had done, it was terrible, had done something to him, changed him. And he suddenly wondered if he even wanted to know.

Harry was pale, his green eyes standing out starkly against his chalk-white face, as he stared at Remus and finally said hoarsely, as if the words were forced out of him by some impulse he couldn’t control, “I- I’m a murderer.”

Remus sucked in his breath sharply at the harsh, flat statement but before he could speak, Harry had run out of the flat as if he couldn’t stand to be in the same room as his former teacher anymore now that he’d told Remus what he was.

Remus leaped up and ran after Harry but he knew, even before he stepped outside that he’d be too late. Harry could Apparate and he had.

Leaving Remus alone.

“Hermione.”

Hermione started at the sound of Remus’ voice, turning sharply to face the one fireplace in her flat which was connected to the Floo Network and Remus’ head which was floating in the flames. “Remus, what is it? Where’s Harry?” she asked, her voice rising slightly in instinctive, automatic concern.

“I don’t know,” Remus admitted, sighing and running a hand through his graying hair. “He just Apparated away.” He paused, seeming to consider his words before he said, “I- I finally asked him what was wrong and he- well, he told me some of it.”

She caught her breath, stifling the unbidden pang of hurt that Harry had told Remus more than he’d told her, that he trusted Remus more than he trusted her. “I see.”

She didn’t bother to ask just what Harry had said; she knew Remus wouldn’t tell her, not when he knew very well that Harry didn’t want to tell her himself. He wouldn’t betray Harry’s confidence.

“I’m worried about him,” Remus said, breaking the silence that had fallen as she wondered frantically where Harry was, what he was thinking, feeling right now. “He’s changed and he seems determined to stay alone. But he needs you, you know that, don’t you? You have to find a way to break through the barriers he’s put up; if you can’t, no one can.”

She meet Remus’ concerned gaze directly. “I know,” she said simply. “And I won’t leave him; I’ll help him.”

Remus finally allowed himself a tired little smile. “Then I know he’ll be alright, eventually.”

It was her turn to sigh now even as she straightened her spine and lifted her chin. Yes, she would help him; she would save him from himself. It was what she did. “I’ll do whatever I have to do, to help him,” she said aloud, addressing Remus but also renewing the promise she’d made to herself years ago, to help Harry.

“I know you will,” Remus said, smiling again, though his eyes remained serious. “I’ll leave him to you, then.”

“Yes. Goodnight, Remus,” she said a little absently as her thoughts turned to worry over where Harry was right now, when (and if) he would come back.

“Goodnight.” And then Remus was gone from the fireplace.

She paced back and forth in her flat, wondering if Harry would even come back at all. Maybe he would simply leave again…

No, he couldn’t! He wouldn’t!

But even as her heart protested in instinctive denial, she knew he could and he would, if he wanted to.

He could just leave England again… and who knew when he would return if he did…

She wrapped her arms around herself as she tried to calm her sudden fear that Harry would leave again. She’d endured his absence once; she didn’t think she could endure it again, not now, not so soon after he’d returned to her finally…

And no matter how he’d changed (and he had), no matter the walls he kept between them, the secrets he kept, she didn’t want him to leave. He was still Harry, her Harry, the same Harry she knew so well and loved so much… Still Harry who could make her laugh and whose smile could warm her heart and make her knees feel weak…

A slight noise in the direction of the spare bedroom, the bedroom where she’d insisted Harry stay instead of returning to the motel room he’d got or in Grimmauld Place, which he did technically own, made her heart leap up into her throat as her feet rushed her to the room.

Harry was there, holding his cloak in one hand.

He looked pale and exhausted and there were shadows lingering in his eyes, lines of strain around his mouth, she noted in some part of her mind, but he was there. He hadn’t decided to leave again.

She crossed the distance between them in three large steps and then she was hugging him, her arms going around him to hold him tightly. “Harry, you’re back! Thank God you came back!”

He stiffened slightly in shock, his arms automatically going around her. “Of course I’m back. I came back last week, remember?”

She stepped back, recovering her composure and suddenly embarrassed at having lost it so completely at the sight of him. “I wasn’t sure you’d come back here again tonight after the way you left Remus.”

A slight flicker of some expression she couldn’t quite read crossed his face at the mention of Remus but he said nothing.

“He floo-called me to say that you’d Apparated away without a word and I- I was afraid you might have decided to leave again without telling us,” she continued.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping a little. “I thought about it,” he admitted quietly, “but I couldn’t.”

She managed a smile. “Good, I’m glad. I don’t want you to leave again like that, Harry. Promise me you won’t leave without telling me- in person,” she added, her eyes searching his.

He hesitated for a moment and then he gave in. “I promise.”

It was her turn to hesitate now before she finally gathered up her nerve and asked, tentatively, “Do you want to talk about why you left Remus’ flat so abruptly? What happened, what did you say?”

He glanced sharply at her. “Remus didn’t tell you?”

“You know he wouldn’t, Harry,” she chided gently.

His expression eased almost imperceptibly. “I- I can’t tell you,” he said, reluctantly but firmly for all that.

“Why can’t you, Harry? You know you can trust me; I’m your best friend—aren’t I?” she asked, suddenly unsure of herself.

He sighed. “Yes, you are my best friend. But I still can’t tell you; I can’t!”

There was a tinge of desperation in his voice on those last two words and she gave in, not able to resist the pleading in his tone. “Okay,” she said on a silent sigh. “But Harry, you know that I’ll always be your friend, right? Nothing you say or do could ever change that.” Her voice was quiet but intense, sincere.

“I know,” he responded, equally quietly, and then kissed her cheek quickly. “I’ll tell you—someday,” he said softly.

And she knew that he meant it; there was a promise in his gaze, hesitant as it might be, but a promise nonetheless. He wouldn’t give in tonight but he would tell her—someday.

And that was something. Someday…

She could wait a little longer to find out his secret burden. And she would, she thought quietly, as she left the room, closing it gently behind her.

She would wait a little longer… And trust that Harry would confess—someday…

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: I am so sorry for how long it’s been!!!! I had hoped to have this finished before HBP but it didn’t happen and then HBP and the Interview of Doom happened, distracting me from this fic for months and months. However, it is, finally, finished—and this is the end! I only hope this chapter is worth the wait.

(The rating has been upped to PG-13 and may qualify for PG-15…)

Complicated

Chapter 7

My Confession

Hermione was woken up to the sound of the Detection Charm she’d set up around her one fireplace which was connected to the Floo network to notify her when she was floo-called and out of the room.

She blinked, staring at the clock by her bed and then frowned. It was just after 2 am. There was something seriously wrong.

She grabbed her robe and threw it on as she hurried out of her room and into the living room to find Arthur Weasley’s head in her fireplace.

He looked pale and tense but relief crossed his face when he saw her. “Thank Merlin you woke up. I’ve already tried Ron’s flat but he sleeps like the dead and all my calling didn’t wake him.” He spoke rapidly, looking harried.

“I had a Charm set up so an alarm goes off in my room,” she explained quickly. “What is it?”

Mr. Weasley’s mouth set in grim lines. “I think you’d better awaken Harry so I can tell you both together—and I thank Merlin he’s back.”

Oh God… No. Not now, not like this.

The wizarding world needed Harry again. She fought back her instinctive protest that he’d only just returned and was entitled to live as a normal private person for a while, only nodded and knocked quickly on the door to the spare room.

After a moment she heard a groggy response and then the door opened to reveal him, his hair standing up on all end as it tended to after he’d been sleeping, in a t-shirt and sweats. His eyes were alert as they met hers.

“Hermione, what is it?”

“It’s Mr. Weasley. Something’s happened and he needs you.”

Harry stiffened visibly, a shadow crossing his face, but he said nothing as he followed her back into her living room.

“Good, you’re here,” Mr. Weasley said briskly as he saw them. “Harry, we need you to help the Aurors. I got a floo-call from Tonks—you know she’s one of the leading Aurors now—and Minister Stendall and her two children have been taken hostage in their home.”

Hermione interrupted at this point, frowning. “The Minister’s house is one of the most secure private homes in the country; how did they—”

Arthur sighed. “That’s exactly it. The Aurors don’t know how they got past all the wards, which is why Tonks contacted me to get either you or Ron’s input because of your closeness to Harry and first-hand knowledge from the war, not knowing that Harry’s back. An initial team of Aurors was sent out and they can’t get into the house; whoever did this is extremely powerful and the shield around the house is beyond the Aurors’ capability to break through, short of destroying the house itself and everything in a 20 meter radius of it.” He turned to Harry. “Harry, I know you wanted to keep your return secret for a little while longer but this is an emergency. They’re asking for the release of all the highest security prisoners in Azkaban.”

“Death Eaters,” Harry said flatly, his voice and his expression grim.

“Yes, undoubtedly, their intention is to recover some of their leaders and form again- without Voldemort or not, continuing his mission.” He paused and then added, “The ransom note which first alerted the Aurors to this is quite vicious in their condemnation of Minister Stendall being Muggle-born.”

“Obviously we haven’t released any of this information to anyone and won’t until all rescue options have been exhausted. It’ll only start a general panic as it’s the first sign of a resurgence of the remaining Death Eaters and panic is the last thing we want.”

“Harry, will you help?”

Hermione wondered that Mr. Weasley could even ask the question; surely he knew that Harry was fundamentally incapable of not helping out in a situation like this. It was just part of who he was; what made him a hero, that he always wanted to help.

“I’ll need the coordinates of the Minister’s house,” was Harry’s only answer and Mr. Weasley nodded, giving them to him.

“Thanks, Harry,” Mr. Weasley said and then his head vanished from the fireplace.

Hermione shivered slightly, though not from cold. It was happening again; Harry was needed to be the hero again—he would be in danger again. He would be in danger again.

Harry didn’t say anything as he left the room and she followed, hurrying into her own room and quickly dressing.

She found him dressed, his wand in his hand, as he looked at the paper on which he’d jotted down the coordinates of the Minister’s house.

“I’m coming with you,” she said, breaking the silence.

“No, you’re not,” he countered flatly, finally looking up at her. “These people are dangerous; you’ll be a target for them.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I can take care of myself. And I can help you; you know I can!”

The restraint he’d been keeping around his emotions vanished and he whirled on her. “No! You’re not coming; I won’t have you in danger- not now, not again, not ever.” The last 6 words were spoken softly, more to himself than to her, but she heard them and the level of caring in his voice shook her resolve.

“I can help you- even if I never go into the house, I can help you break through the wards,” she spoke calmly, rationally.

His face changed, his entire body stilled, his gaze suddenly becoming distant, remote, as if he was only there physically while his mind had gone some place far away. “I can get past the wards,” he said and it was a simple statement of fact.

There was something- cold- about his tone and she flinched involuntarily, for the first time feeling a flicker of fear—not of Harry- she knew he’d never hurt her- but of what he was, the power he had. And she suddenly realized she really didn’t know just how much magic Harry was capable of. The thought disturbed her, made her feel—somehow, almost irrationally—as if she really didn’t know Harry at all… As if he had suddenly become a stranger—an immensely powerful stranger—in front of her eyes.

But then he blinked and he was her Harry again, the Harry she knew and loved. “Let me come with you.” She kept her voice calm, gentle.

He shook his head. “No,” was all he said but the finality of his tone was eloquent enough. He turned to look at her, one hand gripping her arm. “Promise me you won’t come.”

“Harry, I--”

“Promise me!”

“I promise.” She couldn’t deny him when he looked at her like that, couldn’t deny the desperate plea in his eyes. She would have to let him go alone. “Just—be careful.”

He nodded, his expression and his stance easing slightly with her promise not to come with him. “I will.”

She threw her arms around him, hugging him hard, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek quickly.

He returned the hug somewhat stiffly, looked back at her one last time, and then he had Apparated away.

Leaving Hermione alone.

~*~

She had no clear idea of how she got through the day. She went through work as if by rote, just barely managing to summon up enough concentration to treat the patients with something approaching her usual skill. And she had never been more thankful in her life for the day to end, for once not staying later to finish up any research on special Healing Charms or Spells but hurrying back to her flat the minute she could.

He was back, sitting in the living room of the flat, his wand out on the table in front of him. He was staring at his open hands and his wand as if he’d never seen them before, as if they were foreign objects to him. Something about his position, the utter stillness, struck a chill to her heart but she ignored it, telling herself she was being ridiculously paranoid.

He didn’t move, didn’t look at her, even though she knew he knew she had come back.

She moved to stand next to his chair, looking down at his unruly hair.

“How is Minister Stendall?” she finally asked softly.

“She’s fine; her children are fine; they’re all fine.” He spoke grimly.

And even though she’d never really doubted that he would, she couldn’t keep from saying, “You did it. You saved them. Oh Harry…”

“Don’t!” His voice rang out sharply in the silence of her flat, as he leaped up from his chair, backing away from her. “Don’t say that as if I’m a hero, as if I’ve done something admirable. I’m not a hero. I- I don’t deserve to be treated like one.”

“But, Harry--”

He cut her off again. “I killed him.”

She sucked in her breath sharply, feeling all the blood leave her face. “Killed who?”

“The leader who planned this. Sebastian Rosier. He was the one who managed to get past the wards of the Minister’s house. I killed him. Broke his neck.”

His voice was so—distant, so harsh, his face suddenly looking gaunt, his nose standing out in sharp relief, as his expression hardened.

“I’m no better than the Death Eaters.”

She caught her breath again, this time from dismay, and she didn’t need to hear anything more. Denial—instinctive, immediate, and absolute—surged up within her at his words and for a moment, she couldn’t speak for the intensity of her reaction. But she forcefully swallowed past the obstruction in her throat.

“You’re not!” Her voice was sharp, firm. “You’re nothing like them! You could never be. You’re not capable of that sort of evil.”

“How can you be so sure?” He spoke in a tortured whisper, not looking at her and making an instinctive move back, increasing the distance between them as if he couldn’t bear to be close to her right now.

“Because I know you,” she said simply and stepped closer to him. She touched his chest and then his forehead gently, feeling him shudder slightly from the touch as if he wanted to push her away but couldn’t, as she said, again, “I know you and I know that you’re a good person, a good man. I know you—and I love you.”

She hadn’t meant to say the words right then but somehow she knew it was right that she did. It was the best way to tell him, to convince him that, no matter what he might have done, he was a good person—and she’d never leave him.

He stiffened, sucking in his breath audibly. “Hermione, I- you- you shouldn’t- I- I’m not good enough…”

“Don’t say that! You are nothing like Voldemort; you’re a good person, I know you are,” she insisted and before he could respond, she kissed him. Acting out of instinct and desperation, she kissed him, firmly, not letting him push her away and not letting go of him.

He had stiffened and his hands closed around her arms—but he didn’t try to push her away. He knew he should; his mind was screaming that this wasn’t right, he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be allowing this—but he couldn’t help it. His lips softened and he angled his head slightly to allow him better access as his hands let go of her arms and flattened themselves on her back instead, bringing her in closer to him.

Her arms went around him and she arched against him making a soft noise in the back of her throat as the kiss changed, became more tender, more sensual, the heat of desperation gone now.

His hands roved over her shoulders and back and down to her butt in a restless caress, feeling every inch of her body pressing against his, knowing she could feel the growing hardness of his arousal.

In some part of his mind he was vaguely aware that he should stop this before it went too far, that this wouldn’t solve any problems, would only complicate things further—but then her hands slipped inside his robes to caress his chest and he was lost. Lost to the desire, the lust, the passion, the love… He’d wanted this for so long, dreamed of this for so long—and now that she was here, in his arms, he couldn’t stop this.

His hands cupped her bottom as he lifted her up against him, carrying her blindly to her room, not breaking the kiss until he put her down again.

He tore his lips, finally, from hers, to plant kisses along her jawline and down her neck, finding a sensitive spot that made her shiver and her head fall back with a breathless moan.

His last coherent thought as she lay back on her bed, taking him with her, her hands busily removing his clothes, was that this- this passion, this irrevocable next step in their relationship- was somehow inevitable. It had always been going to happen- somehow. And not all his denials of his feelings for her before he admitted the truth, not all his fears and his secrets, not all the months he’d spent away from her- had changed that. It had always been meant to happen, was, somehow, only right. That after knowing her for so long, knowing everything about her so well, he was getting to know her body as well…

And then he stopped thinking altogether, lost in the feel of her, the heat of her, the beauty of her…

~*~

She was sleeping, snuggled up next to him. Not surprising, since he knew she hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before since Mr. Weasley had awoken them.

But he couldn’t sleep. Was suddenly, inexplicably, wide awake.

Dear Merlin, what had they just done?

The question drifted through his mind- not with regret so much as simple disbelief.

He’d just slept with Hermione. He’d had sex with Hermione. He’d made love to Hermione.

And he loved her. God, he loved her so much! He wouldn’t have thought it possible but he loved her more now than he had before- loved the passion of her that he’d only just discovered, loved the responsiveness of her, loved the sounds of her, loved the way she moved…

He just loved her. And he couldn’t leave her.

No matter what his fears, no matter what his deep-seated reluctance to burden her with his secrets, no matter what he knew he was—he couldn’t leave her now.

He saw their faces- the blank, expressionless, lifeless faces- in his mind and shuddered, his arm tightening convulsively around her.

God, how could he tell her—and yet, how could he not?

He couldn’t stay here, with her, and not tell her—and he couldn’t leave her either.

He knew she was awake before she spoke, felt the increased tension in her with the return of awareness, felt a pang of guilt at having woken her with his tightened grip.

“Harry…” her voice was quiet, full of sympathy, of faith, a silent question in her tone… And there wasn’t the slightest bit of surprise or awkwardness or regret in her tone from waking up beside him—and that fact warmed his heart almost in spite of himself.

God, what would he do without her? What would he do if she hated him for what he was about to tell her?

He closed his eyes, so he couldn’t look at her—and finally, finally, felt the words, the truth, he’d held inside him for so long, come from his lips. He knew there was something—wrong—about simply blurting this out in the aftermath of what had just happened between them, but he couldn’t help it. Now that he had decided to tell her everything, it seemed as if the confession was simply spilling out of him.

“I- I have to tell you something.” He felt her stiffen at his very un-lover-like beginning, to say nothing of his grim tone, but she didn’t say anything and he continued on, wondering with a rather sick feeling if she would even want to stay next to him, if she would ever let him touch her again, when she knew the truth about him. The thought—the fear—that she might not, hurt him with an almost physical pain, but he had gone too far now to go back. And he had promised to tell her.

He moved his arm from around her, rolling over onto his back, so he was no longer touching her in any way but simply lying beside her. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t—be touching her when he told her.

“It’s about the last battle. You- you know that Dolohov, Bellatrix Lestrange and Wormtail died. But what you don’t know is that I- I was the one who killed them.” His voice dropped so low she could hardly hear it. He spoke dully, flatly, as if inured now to the darkness he was confessing. The sound of her sudden intake of breath sliced through him like a knife but he persevered, finishing his confession. “I killed them. In duels- but I killed them. I could have let them live- could have just let them be imprisoned—but I killed them.”

She could stay quiet no longer. “That doesn’t make you a murderer, Harry! It was self-defense; they would have killed you if you hadn’t! You can’t blame yourself for that!”

“But I don’t!” his voice sounded harsh now. “I’m not sorry I killed them; I’m glad! I- I wanted them dead! I still do… And that’s what makes me just like them. What kind of man am I- to kill and not regret it? I- I’m a murderer, a killer, just like Voldemort, his equal. I am!” His voice cracked and when he spoke again, it was hoarse, low. “So now you know. Know why I’m not worthy, why you shouldn’t love me, why this whole thing is just wrong… Why you should hate me…”

She cut his words off with her lips- again. She pushed herself up, her lips finding his and lingering until she felt his automatic, instinctive response.

He tore his mouth away with a gasp, staring at her wide-eyed. “Hermione- I- you…”

She met his eyes and her own were clear, direct, and filled with the sincerity of her words. “I love you, Harry, for now and for always—and you’re not a murderer. You’re not. You killed them for what they’d done to you—and the very fact that you blame yourself, that you feel guilty for not feeling guilty, shows that you’re not like Voldemort. He enjoyed killing; triumphed in it. It torments you. No, Harry, I know you—and you are, whatever you might have done, a good man. I believe it- and I believe in you.”

She put all the force of her emotions, all the force of her love and her faith, into her words, willing him to believe her. She was shaken—she couldn’t deny it—by his confession, but she also knew him. Somehow, deep inside her soul, she knew him—and the knowledge was what gave her the strength to comfort him now. She could only guess at the depth of his own self-torment; it had been enough to drive him out of England and kept him away for years. But he wasn’t alone now; he had her now—and she wouldn’t leave him. She would help him—somehow, some way…

“I- I wish I could believe you but I don’t know if I can… I don’t know if I can… How- how can you possibly love me, knowing all that I’ve done?”

“Because I know you,” she said again, simply. She cupped his cheek in one hand, bringing his gaze, troubled and dark green, to meet hers. “And you don’t have to believe it all right now. You just have to believe me, trust me… And I’ll help you believe. Just trust me…”

“I do…” And, looking into her eyes, he thought for the first time, that maybe- just maybe- she was right… He didn’t have to believe in himself all at once; he just had to trust her…

And after all his fear about telling her, all his dread of rejection, all his guilt—it came down to this. Love and trust.

It wasn’t going to be easy; it wasn’t going to happen soon. And maybe he’d never be completely reconciled to what he had done, would never be completely comfortable with the amount of power he had.

But he did trust her—as he had always trusted her. And if she believed in him, with her beside him, he could believe—for the first time in a very long time—that things might not be so bad. Because she believed in him…

“I love you,” he found himself blurting out. It was the last confession, now that she knew the worst about him and was—miraculously—still with him, still cared…

She smiled, her expression lightening for the first time. “I love you too.”

He finally let himself kiss her again, reaching for her, bringing her closer to him, holding nothing back… And as his hands roamed over her body, feeling her hands touch him in response, her lips on his, he felt—for the first time—a measure of peace. This—this woman, this love, this trust—was all he needed…

After years of running, running from the truth of this, avoiding the thought of what he’d done and what he was capable of… He had thought it was so complicated—and yet… It really wasn’t.

It only came down to this: the truth of loving and the simplicity of trust… For now, forever…

~The End~

A/N 2: If you want to read a very fluffy sort-of past/future cookie from this fic (where you get a glimpse of the Happily Ever After), you can find it here: http://fanfiction.portkey.org/story/3830/14

I have been blind, unwilling
To see the true love you’re giving
I have ignored every blessing
I’m on my knees confessing…

I have been wrong about you.
I thought I was strong without you
For so long
Nothing could move me
For so long
Nothing could change me…

You are the air that I breathe;
You’re the ground beneath my feet.
When did I stop believing?

‘Cause I feel myself surrender
Each time I see your face
I am staggered by your beauty
Your unassuming grace
And I feel my heart is falling into place
I can’t hide
Now hear my confession…

~“My Confession”, Josh Groban