Tortuous Moments

Ella Marie

Rating: R
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 27/05/2004
Last Updated: 29/05/2004
Status: completed

A responce to Muddgutts's "It's Not Your Baby..." Challenge. One-Shot. The night before Harry is to face Voldemort in the deciding battle, he bids Hermione goodbye in a most special way, despite her relationship with Ron. What will she do when she finds out she's carrying his child?

Chapters

1. Tortuous Moments

1. Tortuous Moments

Disclaimer: I sadly do not own the Harry Potter franchise. I wish I did, but alas, no money is being made.

Author's Note: This is my first fan fiction that has lived to see daylight. I rarely let anyone read any of my works, but after a few very warm replies to this story on the HarryHermione community on Livejournal, I decided to post this here.

This story is a one-shot, inspired by Muddgutts's “It's Not Your Baby…” challenge. I had a bit of difficulty with it, but thoroughly enjoyed writing it. Thanks to Muddgutts and everyone at LJ who took the time to read and review. I cannot tell you how much each comment meant to me.

Please enjoy and review.

Thanks,

Ella

***

The day started as normally as any other. Ron greeted me with a kiss before we headed down to breakfast. There was no sign of Harry, not in the common room nor the Great Hall. It wasn't surprising. Harry seldom made an appearance anywhere except class, and even then he didn't always show. Today, however, I knew he'd be there. He had promised me.

It was the last N.E.W.T exam. Potions. He had insisted he wasn't going to take it, but I pleaded with him. Eventually, he agreed with a slight smirk that left me wondering if he was just having me on the entire time.

Harry rarely spoke to anyone. He and Ron had not said a word to each other in months. He had tried to push me away, as well, but I did not, could not allow it. I wasn't like Ron, who thought it was best to give him space. Harry didn't need space, he needed his friends. He needed me and I… I needed him.

Other than class and the occasional meal, I only saw Harry at night when I was up late working on revision and the common room was empty and silent except for the scratch of my quill against the parchment and Crookshanks purring. He would offer me a small smile as he entered the common room and pulled up a chair beside me. We would work for an hour or so, then put our things away and talk. We spoke of many things and I told him things I'd never told anyone before. We talked about school and our futures, Voldemort and the Prophecy. I was the only one, aside from Harry and Professor Dumbledore, who knew about it.

I didn't push Harry during these conversations, not like I used to. I had learned how to tame my tongue with him. He knew what he was doing, even without my lectures and my nagging.

We did not speak at all that day. I sat near him in the Great Hall for our written exam. He saw me, but did not smile at me as he usually did, keeping his expression guarded. I was instantly worried.

I finished my practical Potions N.E.W.T. with little difficulty, despite the fear and worry I felt for Harry. He would tell me later, I knew. He always did.

When he did not appear at the bottom of the staircase that night, my heart lodged itself in my throat. I waited for him, but he did not come. Finally, unable to wait any longer, I ran up the boys' staircase and crept into his dormitory. His bed was empty. My worry increased tenfold. I went to his trunk and removed the Marauder's Map and the Invisibility Cloak, only vaguely surprised he'd left them behind.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good!” I whispered, tapping the map with my wand. I searched for his name frantically and, with a sigh of relief, found it pacing the Astronomy Tower. I pulled the cloak on, made sure it was on securely, and left.

At the door of the tower I hesitated, looking over my shoulder. The corridor was clear. I looked down at the map; Harry's dot had ceased moving.

“Mischief managed!” I said quietly and put the map in the cloak's pocket as it cleared. I opened the door and removed the cloak before climbing the spiral, stone staircase.

He did not seem surprised to see me. He greeted me with his small smile, tears in those emerald eyes. Looking at him then, bathed in moonlight, I felt a sensation I had never felt before. I did not, at the time, allow myself to acknowledge it. It was too new, too sudden, too much. Too wrong.

I sat beside him, my back against the stone terrace. “What's wrong, Harry?” I whispered and he looked away. His knees were pressed against his chest. His arms were wrapped around his legs, but I wanted them around me. His hair was as messy as ever, but I wanted to run my hands through it. I swallowed. What was I thinking?

“I'm leaving tomorrow,” he said quietly, after a few moments of silence which were broken only by the distant hooting of an owl.

My heart plummeted. “What?” I said, my voice choked.

“Dumbledore called me into his office this morning. I'm leaving tomorrow.” He sighed, inspecting the end of his loosened tie. “I just don't know why we didn't do this sooner,” he said flatly.

I grabbed his arm without thinking, made an illegible sound, and stood. “Don't speak that way,” I whispered when I found my voice. “You know why we've waited. You're prepared now… if you weren't, Dumbledore wouldn't send you.”

Harry laughed bitterly and I looked at him. He was standing, too, running a hand through his hair. “Don't be naïve, Hermione. Dumbledore is old and he's tired of this damn war, so much so that he's blinded by his exhaustion. I'm no more prepared than I was in fourth year. I have a wand and I can run fast.”

I felt tears sting my eyes, but I glared at him. “You have Occlumency, Harry. You have bravery. Not to mention you're the greatest—“

“Stop,” he demanded, returning my glare. “I don't want to hear it. I don't want to argue. I just… want this to be over.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “We all do.”

“No, not just the war.” He waved his hand dismissively, but his gaze softened. He turned away before I could make sense of the change.

“Harry, wh—“

He turned back. He walked toward me, stopping just inches away. I felt it again.

“I may never have this chance again. I'm sorry, Hermione.” Before I was able to interpret his words, he did it for me. His hand cupped my face and his lips met mine. I gasped but didn't pull away. If he was surprised when I returned the kiss, he did not show it.

My hands ran through his soft, raven hair, and I whimpered as his tongue moved past my lips to stroke mine. I had never known such bliss; not with Viktor, nor with Ron. Though bittersweet, nothing can compare.

My mind lingered on Ron for a moment. I knew I shouldn't be kissing Harry. I knew it was wrong, but… why did it feel right?

My thoughts were interrupted as his hand left my face to help the other unclasp my robes. They felt to the floor, and our ties soon joined them. I unbuttoned his shirt as he untucked mine. His hands caressed my waist and I whimpered again into his mouth. He deepened the kiss.

Our shirts soon lay forgotten on the floor, our shoes and socks following. He left my mouth and created a trail of kisses along my jaw line and neck, eliciting breathless moans from my lips. He nibbled my flesh mercilessly, driving me mad with desire. As his hands snaked around me to fumble slightly with the clasp of my bra, he kissed his way down my breastbone.

I trembled as I felt my bra loosen, and he nipped at my skin, proud of himself for overcoming that particularly difficult obstacle. Once the pale pink garment was discarded, he pulled away to look at me for a moment. He murmured something under his breath, before tossing his glasses aside carelessly and returning to me.

He kissed my lips softly, his hands cupping my breasts, his thumbs grazing my nipples, which hardened at the attention. My whimper turned into a moan as his mouth left mine to replace a thumb. I bit my kiss-swollen lip as he suckled, introducing me to a world of pleasure I never knew existed.

His hand crept beneath my skirt, shaking slightly, caressing my thigh, as he left my breast and placed hot kisses over my stomach. His fingers traced the hem of my knickers, and he pulled the damp garment down to my ankles. I stepped out of them, pushing them aside with my foot. My skirt followed, landing in a grey pool around my feet.

I looked down at him, my hands finding their way to his hair once more as he kissed around the dark curls that hid my aroused womanhood. He lifted my leg, placing it over his shoulder, and ran a finger over my slick folds. I moaned, my hips bucking against his hand as the finger grazed my clitoris.

“Harry,” I gasped. “Harry, please…”

His lips replaced his finger for a moment, but he pulled away.

My legs could not hold me any longer, I knelt before him and he kissed me again. I felt his desire pressed against my belly as he pushed me back gently, so that I lay on my robes. His weight on top of me felt wonderful. His hands caressing my sensitive skin were maddening. I needed more.

As if he knew what I was thinking, he moved to unbuckle his belt and remove his trousers. He returned quickly, and looked into my eyes. What I saw made me gasp softly. A mixture of love and desire clouded those green eyes. I kissed him again, hungrily.

He guided himself into me and I gasped again, breaking the kiss, at the stab of pain I felt as I gave him my virginity. He kissed my forehead, lingering there as he paused. He pulled back after a few moments. My nails dug into his shoulders, but I wrapped my legs around his waist, telling him without words that I wanted him to continue. He buried his face in my neck and thrust. Pain and pleasure seemed to entwine, enveloping me. I closed my eyes.

My face was wet with tears and perspiration as he moved in and out of me, each thrust bringing more pleasure, which ebbed away at the pain. My hips soon met his movements, matching them as we created a rhythm all our own.

He kissed my neck, making his way back to my lips where he kissed me deeply. Only when climax overcame me did I break the kiss. Arching my back, I cried out, his name upon my lips as I tightened around him, trembling. He came moments later, groaning my name into my hair.

He held me in his arms and kissed away my tears. I had never felt as content as I did then. I fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

When I woke at dawn, I was on the common room sofa, fully clothed. I had no evidence of the night we spent except for the dull soreness between my thighs. When I went to the table where my books lay, a note was waiting for me.

Goodbye.

*

I never told anyone about that night, not even Ron. I didn't leave him. I stayed and mourned for Harry with him, though in a very different way. I mourned the night we had spent together, under the moon and stars, lost in each other. I grew more distant with Ron, guilt and love for another plaguing me every waking and sleeping moment.

I couldn't leave Ron. I stayed in an effort to hold onto that which was quickly disappearing, our friendship, our love. I loved Ron, I did, but not in the way I once had. Our relationship was suffering because of my feelings, naturally. I snapped at him more often, I did not return many of his embraces. I couldn't… not with Harry so vivid in my mind.

I knew he was alive, though the looks Ron gave me told me he doubted it. That only served to create more distance. I accused him of not having faith in Harry. I knew it wasn't fair, but I couldn't stand the way he shook his head as I told him I could feel that Harry was alive. And I could.

My feeling was confirmed when he arrived at Grimmauld a fortnight after his departure.

We had had no news of him during those two weeks. They had passed slowly, each moment was excruciating. I did not attend the parties held by my classmates, who were spending their last days at Hogwarts celebrating and getting pissed. Ron had asked me to go, telling me that my Head Girl status no longer mattered. I did not speak to him for two days after that. Even when I did begin speaking to him again, we fought constantly.

I left Hogwarts more depressed than ever. I did not return to my parents' house straight away. I didn't want to spend another moment with Ron, but I had to know when Harry returned. I had to be there.

I was in the entrance hall, lighting the glass lamps as the sun began to set, when Ron came up from the kitchen. He pulled me into a hug, kissed my lips.

The front door closed suddenly and I jumped, knocking an unlit lamp over as I turned to see who had arrived. The crash of the lamp sent Sirius's mother wailing, but I barely heard it. I was lost, drowning in two pools of emerald.

Ron had run to cover Mrs Black's portrait with the help of Bill, who had entered at the sound of the screams.

As the rest of the Weasleys and Remus entered the hall, I simply stared, lips parted slightly, silent tears running down my cheeks.

Harry was dirty, bleeding, thin. But he was alive. He looked older than his seventeen years. But he was alive. He tore his hurt, haunted eyes from mine. But he was alive.

I sobbed, leaning against the table the broken lamp had previously occupied. Harry was alive. I had known all along, but a feeling of relief washed over me, as if some part of me had feared, had doubted. I was no better than Ron.

The screams stopped and Ron was at my side again. He wrapped an arm around my waist and kissed my forehead, trying and failing to comfort me. I felt Harry's eyes on us as he was ushered up the stairs by Remus and Mrs Weasley.

My sobs had subsided, but my tears remained, when Mrs Weasley came back downstairs, several minutes later. She was muttering under her breath and wringing a corner of her apron in her hands.

“How is he?” I asked.

“He's not thinking properly!” she exclaimed on a sob. “He wants to leave. He says he can't stay here, but I won't let him leave without something to eat and some rest. I don't care what Remus says. He hasn't had a proper meal in ages!”

“He's leaving?” I asked, breathless.

Mrs Weasley nodded and dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron. “He's going with Remus to his house in Scarborough.” She sniffled loudly and continued into the kitchen.

“I'm… I'm going to talk to him,” I whispered, more to myself than to Ron.

Ron's grip on me tightened. “Don't nag him, Hermione. He's been through enough.”

I glared at him, pushing him away. “I'm not going to nag him, Ron! I'm going to talk some sense into him!” Without waiting for his reply, I ran up the stairs and to the room Harry and Ron once shared. I hesitated before knocking.

“Come in,” said Remus, and I entered.

Harry was lying on his bed, but he sat up when he saw me. His eyes looked pained and tired, but the wounds on his face had been healed. He arched a brow at me.

Remus stood and left the room, touching my shoulder gently as he passed. The gesture was comforting, and I smiled softly in thanks.

I didn't know what to say to Harry. I just stared. He stared back. We remained silent for a while until he sighed and closed his eyes.

“Was there something you wanted?” he asked.

“I… I just wanted to see you…”

Opening his eyes, he raised both brows. “How's Ron?” he said after a moment.

“He's… He's… Harry, can't we talk about something else?” I said, taking a step closer to him.

“You haven't told him,” said Harry, calmly. I didn't reply, but bowed my head. He yawned loudly. “I'm tired.”

“Harry, you don't under—“

“Go back to Ron, Hermione,” he whispered.

Mrs Weasley chose that moment to enter the room with a trey of food. I had no choice but to leave. I ran from the room, but did not return to Ron. I went to the room I had once shared with Ginny and cried myself to sleep. I woke hours later to hear the front door slam shut. I knew he had gone.

*

Harry had defeated Voldemort; newspapers had screamed it the next morning. Week after week, more Death Eaters were imprisoned and kissed by their former allies, the Dementors. Arthur Weasley had replaced Cornelius Fudge as Minister of Magic and the Wizarding World was alive with celebration. In honour of Harry Potter, people celebrated for a week straight, after the Dark Lord's demise. But Mr Potter was no where to be found.

Despite the Order's claims, many believed him to be dead, having sacrificed himself to protect wizard kind. They spoke his name with a reverence normally reserved only for gods.

Two and a half months had passed, and that belief showed no sign of wavering. I sighed presently, looking down at Harry's glossy face blinking up at me from the cover of Witch Weekly. I set it on the table next to me, face down. I can't look into those haunted eyes without bursting into tears.

Healer Jacomus entered the small, white room with a pleasant smile that I returned. He was a kind, middle-aged man who didn't ask too many questions.

“Good morning, Miss Granger,” he said cheerfully.

“Good morning.”

He looked down at my chart and raised his brows slightly, but turned back to me with his former smile, removing his wand from his pocket. I didn't ask any questions, but waited as he muttered a vaguely familiar incantation.

My jaw dropped as a pale blue light surrounded my abdomen.

*

My courses had always been unpredictable, so it did not come as a shock when I skipped a month. Two passed, and I was too busy to be worried. I didn't allow myself to face the obvious, but kept working on reports for S.P.E.W., which Minister Weasley had promised to promote.

Three months had passed when I finally forced myself to go to the doctor. I successfully convinced myself it was something else entirely. I couldn't be pregnant. I'd only had sex once, and while I knew that didn't matter, I could not let myself believe it.

I was terrified. I had just turned eighteen and I was going to have a child. Harry's child. I was still with Ron and I was going to have our best friend's child. Dear Merlin, what was I going to do?

I entered my flat, feeling ill. As rain began to pour outside, I lay on the sofa, a hand resting on my stomach. I thought of Flooing Ron, but that made me feel even more ill. How in Merlin's name was I going to tell him this?

After a less than pleasant trip to the loo, I summoned all my Gryffindor courage and grabbed my jar of Floo Powder. I lit a fire with my wand and threw a bit of powder in. I put my head in the green flames and shouted, “The Burrow!” I closed my eyes against the mad spinning and the ash, feeling as though I might be sick again. When the spinning ceased, I opened my eyes to see the Burrow's kitchen and Ron, sitting at the table, reading the paper and eating toast.

“Ron,” I said, and he turned to look at me. He smiled. I felt sick again. This was not going to be easy. “I need to talk to you, but… not like this. Come over.”

The last thing I saw was his worried frown before I pulled out of the fire.

He stared at me, confusion distorting his handsome face. I looked down at my lap, where my hands were wringing nervously. Another wave of nausea washed over me and I had to close my eyes.

Ron and I had never been intimate. There were times, before my night with Harry, that I had wanted to, but I never allowed it to happen. My duty as Head Girl and as a positive example for the younger students had always stopped me. If anyone found out, my nearly flawless record would be tainted. I could wait a few more months.

I wasn't thinking properly that night in the Astronomy Tower. I was overcome by a very new feeling for my very best friend, and all thought of positive examples evaded me. I had known of his need for me and mine for him. While I do not wholly regret my actions of that night, I can't help but feel ashamed of my thoughtlessness, my inconsiderate impulsiveness that has now led to the ruin of my relationship with Ron and the rest of my life. I am too young to have a child.

He didn't speak for a long time, but I could feel his mounting anger. I squirmed slightly in my seat.

“Who?” he asked simply, harshly.

“Harry.”

He stood from the table abruptly, knocking his chair over. I started, looking up at him, at last. He remained silent, running a hand through his ginger hair roughly.

When he spoke at last, his tone was harsher than before. “So you won't let me touch you, but you'll go to someone who doesn't give a damn about you?”

I stared at him, unable to believe such words had come from his mouth. “Harry does give a damn—“

“Where is he now, Hermione?” Ron snarled.

“I don't—,“ I stopped, tears stinging my eyes.

His blue eyes shot daggers at me. “I hope it was worth it.” He turned away from me, making his way to the door. He did not look back, but left, slamming the door behind him.

Crookshanks hissed. I didn't follow.

*

I owled Remus as soon as I was able. I'd become better acquainted with the toilet after Ron's departure, and I felt slightly better without my breakfast.

I was forcing myself to eat lunch when my owl returned. I abandoned my food immediately and tore the letter open, sending Bronte flying away, hooting indignantly at my impoliteness.

Remus's return owl was short and precise. I memorized the address before throwing it into the fire.

*

The sun was setting as I walked along the narrow road, lined with thick trees. My hand was clutching my wand nervously. Years of fighting Death Eaters had made me paranoid. I reminded myself of Moody, and a wistful smile curved my lips. Despite his harsh madness, he was greatly missed.

A sigh of relief escaped me as Remus's house came into view. I ran to it, unable to stop myself. The front was covered with vines. It was unkempt but it also held a strange elegance. I fell in love with it. I stopped at the brown door, panting and closing my eyes for a moment to compose myself. With a deep breath, I opened my eyes, raised my hand, and knocked.

Tortuous moments of silence passed. I was shaking, wringing my hands, waiting. I heard footsteps approaching suddenly. I swallowed the lump in my throat just as the door opened.

Harry…

I tried to smile, but I faltered. He stared, a smile, not meant for me, fading from his face.

“Hermione…” he whispered.

He continued to stare, and the sick feeling grew within me. “Can we—“ I stopped, covered my mouth, and closed my eyes. What a wonderful way to greet the man I love.

“Hermione, what's wrong?” he asked, worry evident in his voice as he pulled me inside.

I shook my head, but that did nothing to help my predicament. He led me to a bathroom, and I leaned against him, barely noticing Remus watching us from the sitting room.

Harry held my hair back as my lunch made a comeback. It's funny how they call it morning sickness, isn't it? I felt too awful to be embarrassed. When the sickness passed, he left me alone to wash my mouth.

Looking at myself in the mirror above the sink, I sighed and silently encouraged myself to do what I needed to do. I rinsed my mouth and ran my fingers through my hair before opening the door and making my way across the hall to the sitting room. Remus was no longer there, and Harry was pacing in front of the hearth.

He looked up as I entered and I had to stifle the urge to throw myself in his arms. “I'm sorry,” I said instead. “I've been… a bit under the weather lately.”

“Are you okay?” he asked.

I nodded in reply, hesitating.

“Harry, I… there's something I need to tell you.”

“There's something I need to tell you, too,” he said, approaching me. He took my hand and led me to the sofa, sitting with me. He didn't let go of my hand, but stared at it. I waited for him to speak.

“I'm sorry, Hermione, for everything.” He squeezed my hand so I wouldn't argue. He knows me too well. “If I hadn't have pushed you, things would be easier… You wouldn't—“

“Harry,” I whispered. “You don't… you don't have anything to be sorry for. I don't regret what we did.”

He looked into my eyes, ran a hand through my hair. “I expected you to leave Ron for me, Hermione. I shouldn't have expected that. I shouldn't have left the way I did. I shouldn't have pushed you. If I hadn't, you wouldn't be… you and Ron wouldn't be fighting.”

I gaped at him. “How did you know?”

He looked back down at our hands. “He owled me around noon, just before your message arrived.”

“Did he—?”

“Yes.”

I closed my eyes, cursing Ron silently. “That's… not how I wanted you to find out, Harry. I'm sorry…” I bit my lip, as his grip on my hand tightened slightly, and looked at him again. He was watching me closely. “What… what else did he say?”

“Not much else,” he replied, nonchalantly. “I don't want to talk about him, though. I just… want you to know that I'm here. I… I love you, Hermione. I do care, despite what Ron may think.”

Not much else, indeed, I mused silently as tears blurred my vision. He wrapped his arms around me and I felt content, suddenly, as I had in the Astronomy Tower, underneath him and the blanket of stars.

*

I held Hermione close, scared of letting her go. I felt as I had the night we made love. It was right. We were right. I've never experienced this feeling with anyone else. I was meant to be there, with her.

As I tangled my hands in her soft brown hair, I remembered the owl I had received from Ron. I didn't tell her everything he'd said. I didn't want to upset her, nor did I want her to agree with his words. I didn't want her to think I'd abandoned her. I didn't want her to think I didn't care. I had left because I cared. Because I cared too much.

I couldn't stand seeing her in his arms, but I was powerless. If she was happy with him, I could not interfere any more than I already had. I resisted all urges to tell him, to rub it in his face. I was hurt. I had dreamt of returning from my battle with Voldemort, to find her waiting for me. Ron was out of the picture in my dream. It was just her and me, in our own world.

I had fought Voldemort for days. Our wands were useless against each other, rarely cooperating as we dueled. We had had to abandon them, replacing them with our swords.

The morning of the fourth day of our battle dawned and we lay panting on the dewy ground. My legs and arms held deep gashes; I could barely hold myself upright, but I did, forcing myself to forget the pain.

Voldemort tried to stand, but fell back. The red of his iris had seemed to spill over into the whites of his eyes. A black-red substance was clashing against the alabaster of his abnormal skin, trailing from the corner of his nearly nonexistent lips, down the side of his face. He smirked at me and I picked up his sword, hiding a wince of pain.

I stood over him, glaring at the being that had made my life hell for sixteen years. “This ends here, now,” I said quietly.

He gave a slight shrug, coughing up more blood. “I can't die, Harry,” he said softly, but I noticed the undercurrent of doubt in his words.

“I'll take that chance,” I whispered, before plunging both swords, that of Gryffindor and that of Slytherin, into his chest.

I watched him writhe. I heard him laugh the same cold, high-pitched laugh that haunted my dreams. I witnessed his death and felt no remorse.

He crumbled to ash before my very eyes and I barely had the time to feel the burden lift from my shoulders before I collapsed.

I never knew exactly how long I'd slept, but as soon as I woke, I began making my way to Grimmauld. I needed to see Hermione. I needed to hold her again. I needed to tell her how I felt. I needed to <i>show</i> her how I felt. It seemed as if an eternity had passed since I saw her last, but in reality, it was only two weeks.

I avoided Wizarding transportation. I was not prepared for the inevitable tidal wave of reporters or photographers or anyone, really, who wasn't Hermione. I'd taken taxis to London, obliviating the drivers when they would not accept gold.

Finally, I arrived at Headquarters. I wasn't completely sure she'd be there, but if I knew Hermione as well as I believed I did, she was. I opened the door, and while she was there, I realised I didn't know her as well as I liked to believe.

Ron was standing with her. Kissing her.

I looked at my former best friend for a moment, shutting the door behind me. Hermione jumped and turned to face me, knocking a gas lamp to the floor and waking Mrs Black. I looked at her as Ron ran to cover the painting. Three of the six remaining Weasleys, Mrs Weasley, Fred, and George, entered the hall with Remus. I looked away from Hermione as Mrs Weasley hugged me.

As I was led up the stairs and to my old room, I looked at Hermione again. She was crying, Ron had an arm around her. He smiled softly at me. I knew then that he didn't know.

Three months had passed. I had left that night with Remus, after speaking with Dumbledore. I couldn't stay and watch her with him. No one asked questions when I decided to leave, though Mrs Weasley was rather upset. They all assumed my reason was Sirius. I let them believe that. I didn't want anyone to know that I'd been declared second to Ron again.

I eventually told Remus what had happened and he had shaken his head slightly, telling me only that, “Hermione was going spare while you were gone, Harry. She loves you, I'm sure, but you have to understand… Ron was the only source of consistency during that time. I can see why she stayed.”

And why did she continue to stay now that I had returned?

It was a question I asked myself every day. The answer I came up with did nothing to comfort me. She didn't love me. She loved Ron.

But how could she love Ron? He didn't know her as I did. He knew her favourite colour, but did he know her secret fears? He scoffed at S.P.E.W., would he scoff at her other dreams and goals? Did he even know the twinkle that appeared in her warm eyes as she spoke of her future as President of the prestigious Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare, as wife to a man who loves her unconditionally, as mother of two, a boy and a girl?

I knew and I didn't scoff. We had spoken of her future many times during our late night conversations at Hogwarts. We didn't speak of mine often, as I hadn't believed I had one.

After seeing Ron kissing her, I never wanted to see them again. It was easier to hate Ron. He and I hadn't even talked in months, and his arms were wrapped around her, as mine should have been.

I didn't hate Hermione, nor did I really, completely hate Ron. Part of me believed that if she was happy, I should be happy for her. The other part of me refused to cooperate. Angry and blinded by a pain more keen than Voldemort's sword, I swore I'd never forgive her.

I know now that there's nothing to forgive. For years she has done all she could to stand beside me, to help me, despite my efforts to push her away. She stayed with Ron, and by doing that, she stayed with me, a part of me that was lost over the years, but remains with him. The part of me that vanished after it witnessed the price I had to pay for being the Boy Who Lived. I miss that part of me, but my nostalgia is vague. Life before war seems foreign to me now; a different life than the one I now lead.

Now I know that life is too short for hatred. I kiss her hair, letting myself savour the love and life I was mean to have. The world of hatred I was born into is no more, and I thank Merlin, as I run a hand over her still-flat stomach, that my child would not be born into a world of chaos.

There will be no expectations, no prophecies to be held over my child's head. He will not dread his birthdays or summer vacation; he'll complain about homework. He will not know hatred; he will be loved. He will not be thankful he had survived past his thirteenth birthday; he will take his days for granted. He will live a life without fear, and he will enjoy it.