Engaged

1. Foreseen

Disclaimer: I do not own HP. Period.

Chapter One

Capture your dreams.

FORESEEN

"I'm getting married."

It was spoken with such casual ease, her tone breezy and nonchalant. As if it was just part of an ordinary conversation, with no importance in her statement. Spoken with no accent, no dramatic gestures, no hesitation. It came without announcement or warning, and shot out like a bullet. She sounded happy. And satisfied. And blissful. Perfect hit, right on target. Harry choked on his coffee.

"WHAT?" he thundered, pulling his vibrant gaze to meet her soft, hazel eyes.

They were having breakfast in a petite restaurant, somewhere along a tiny street situated in London. Ron had called for the three of them to meet up just yesterday, for a "special occasion" with a "special pronouncement". Of course, it wasn't at all what Harry was expecting. He had just returned from one of his secret missions, and hadn't even had time for a short nap. He was thoroughly exhausted. But friends always came first on his list, and one could only oblige when they call. He had decided that he could make a small sacrifice of his sleep, in order to have a quick chat. He did want to see them, anyway. Especially Hermione. Now, he wasn't so sure if he had made the right decision.

It was a Saturday. Outside, the sidewalks were crowded with roaming people, engaged in their lives, with people to visit, places to go. Their destination was their business, lost in a world of billions, a world of frivolity. Harry watched them walk past the glass window, wishing he could be one of them, whose goals were served on sliver platters. The sun was shining high above the clouds, its radiance reflected in the smiles on the faces, in the glint of the lime green leaves that wavered and danced in the wind. Strange how it had started out as a beautiful day, but was now so revoltingly ugly.

Harry was at a loss for words. What was there to say? What could he possibly tell her? His mind, previously engrossed with thoughts of a comfortable, feathery bed, had suddenly turned blank, along with his expression. He stared at her with shocked, mystified eyes, searching her face for any trace of sarcasm or humor. Though his heart was beating with ferocity, pleading it to be a mistake of his hearing, a cruel nightmare, he knew the finality of her voice, the sincerity of her stare. She was dead serious. And he was dead meat.

"You're joking, right?" He asked, his tone disbelieving.

"Relax, mate. She said she's getting married." Ron laughed lazily, effortlessly, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder. He patted Harry on the back with his large, heavy hands, and leaned forward to give him a smile. Harry wanted to wipe the smirk off his face.

Relax my bloody arse.

"Did you know about this?" Harry demanded, pointing an accusing finger at Ron. The redhead raised two arms in the air, in defense, still chuckling.

"Hey, it's not my fault that you're so busy all the time. You've been missing out on too much of the stuff going around you, mate. You need to catch up on some recent events."

Harry looked down at the rim of his cup sourly. It was true. They haven't seen one another for over a month. He was always gone on business, and though Hermione and Ron frequently tried to contact him with owling service, he never found time to respond. It was indecent of him to treat his best pals so badly, and he hated himself for it. But it wasn't entirely his fault, either. Some things had to be done. Even if it meant distancing himself from his friends. But marriage! It was just overwhelming.

"I agree, Harry. But before we reveal any more of our secrets, tell us about your most recent trip. Beat any dementors?" Hermione asked, twirling her auburn hair in her fingers. The condition of her hair had considerably improved when she got it straightened in their seventh year, but now it hung in large, silky curls around her lovely face. The look suited her perfectly. Still, she never seemed to notice the turning heads when she walked down the streets, or the perverted men gawking. She hadn't changed much, besides her appearance. She was still somewhat a bookworm. Harry loved that about her. It was just so Hermione.

"There's nothing to say. I just stunned some guys, and beat the hell out of there. Just, you know, the usual routine," Harry responded, not wanting to provide the details. He couldn't think straight, anyway, given that he was still obviously distraught.

"'Just stunned some guys?'" Hermione laughed, "Harry, since when did you get so modest?"

Since you told me you were getting married, stupid wretch.

"Oh, don't mind him, Hermione. He's always like this nowadays." Ron interrupted, though not impolitely. "So, how's it going with Darren? Are your wedding plans being carried out?" Ron asked, secretly enjoying the display of emotions running across Harry's face.

Harry, on the other hand, was rather curious.

"Darren? Darren Smith? That Quidditch player? The blonde one with the blue eyes? The one you've been talking nonstop about last month? I thought you broke up with him. You're marrying him?"

That arrogant, brainless, retarded mule?

Hermione ignored the insult in Harry's tone, rolling her eyes. That was how Harry usually responded to every boyfriend she ever dated. They could never meet up to his standards. To be truthful, Hermione occasionally wondered why he was so picky and fastidious when it came to finding her a mate, but she never thought much about it, knowing he was only trying to be a protective friend. He was just too protective, sometimes. Ron laughed out loud, his eyes dancing and knowing, but revealing nothing.

"Harry, it's not as if you know him. You haven't even met the poor guy. He's a real charmer, though, I assure you. Suitable for Hermione, I must say. Not to mention he's wealthy, and good-looking. She'll be fine with him." Ron said, nudging Hermione's arm playfully. A blush stained her cheeks, and she couldn't stop smiling.

Harry suddenly felt sick.

How could anyone be so dense?

"Sure," Harry muttered, fingering his cup. He could already picture the bastard. With a smug, snarling smile, and tall, probably with broad shoulders. But still undeniably handsome. And charismatic. And polite. Hermione's type.

"You'll love him, Harry, I promise. He's a good man. There's so much to like about him. And you even share the same interest. You still play Quidditch, don't you?" Hermione pleaded, wincing at the disapproving look on his face. She peered at him from under her long, curly eyelashes, slightly afraid of his reaction. She did want Harry to like Darren. It was just an unsaid consent that she had to receive. Harry didn't look up from his steaming mug.

Oh, god. Just shut up.

"Do you love him?" Harry blurted.

The question was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. From the surprised expression on Hermione's face, he wished he hadn't asked. Feeling ashamed, Harry gazed more intently on the mug, developing a sudden fascination with the simple imprints of its design. He couldn't see Ron's amused expression. He was busy preparing and bracing himself for her answer. He dreaded it. He had a sudden impulse to run out of the cafe before she opened her mouth to reply. And yet, he was begging for the answer he wanted to hear.

"Of course."

Her response was firm and genuine. Harry felt a painful stab in his chest. He looked down at his shirt, almost expecting to find a bleeding wound. He had the sudden impulse to scream, or knock the table over. He was suddenly nauseated, and his head throbbed painfully. The exhaustion from over working suddenly washed over him, and he found that he could barely sit straight. Love? She loved him. She loved him. She loved him.

And that Him was not who it was supposed to be.

"Harry, you look tired. Are you getting enough sleep?" Hermione asked instantly, worried for her friend's health.

No. And I don't think I'll be able to sleep for the rest of my life.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just busy, I guess." Harry answered truthfully, rubbing his eyelids.

Ron sighed dramatically.

Insensitive git.

"I'm really worried about you, mate. You're just too caught up in your work. You're almost twenty-six years old. Don't you think it's about time you settled down? Made a commitment? Found your soul mate?"

Harry glared at Ron. Hermione laughed.

"No. I'm not interested. Plus, the ministry needs me. I have enough interaction with the female population, anyway."

Hermione coughed loudly, purposely making Harry uncomfortable. His "interaction" never lasted longer than a week. He was always switching girlfriends, going through women one after another. Of course, there was a reason to why he never bothered to "love". His relationships were more based on lust. He got every women he ever fancied, simply because of his charm and good looks. He knew that half of the reason was because of his fame. But his friends were different. They loved him for who he was, not his name, or his popularity. They never tried to get any publicity out of being friends with "The Savior of the World". They accepted him as Harry, not Harry Potter.

"Sure, it's always the same fuck-and-dump routine. You've never had a serious relationship, Harry. It's unhealthy."

And it's also none of your business.

Harry suddenly wanted to leave. He felt so out of place, sitting with his best friends. He held no interest in continuing the conversation. All he wanted was to go home. Lie on his bed. And maybe fucking cry his heart out. Wishing for a hot shower and a long, leisure nap, he debated on whether he should run off or not. He needed to vent off some of the anger. All his attention was focused on the fact that Hermione was getting married.

MARRIED. Forever.

He pictured Hermione standing at the alter, dressed in an elegantly stunning wedding dress, staring up at the man she was going to marry, her eyes shining, her face glowing with happiness. The priest would be finishing his words, and Hermione would jump into that man's arms, then enveloping each other in a long, torturous kiss. He saw her smile, her scent, her laughter. All devoted to one man. She was no longer his. He was never going to get to hold her. He was never going to get to kiss her. He was never going to be able to tell her that he loved her, with all his heart. Never.

"Look, I have to go."

Harry stood up suddenly, causing the table to slide back a few centimeters. He didn't bother to apologize. He didn't want to. He didn't feel like it. He was too confused, too distraught. How could she do that? How could she tell him straight to his face, without so much as batting an eyelash, that she loved another man? How could she not know? How could she break his heart? It wasn't fair. Nothing was fair. He was losing everything around him. Being Harry Potter was the most disastrous thing that could ever happen to anyone. Harry was already looking out the panel window of the cafe. He slapped a few bills onto the table. Ron stood up hastily, too, stalling for time.

"What's the hurry? Is something wrong?"

Hermione's voice was only a buzz in the background. Harry didn't answer. Instead, he pushed open the glass door, and was strolling down the road, one lone figure in the distance.

A/N: Edit.

2. God Forbid

Disclaimer

Chapter two

Treasure moments in life.

GOD FORBID

Harry could barely open his eyes. The sunlight seeped through the window, blinding his vision painfully. He wondered how the sun could be so bright when the temperature was so cold. It was simple the irony of a sunny day in the middle of winter. He raised an arm to block the sun, squinting a little. He wanted to go back to sleep, and continue dreaming about Hermione. The alarm clock was screaming at him to get up. Literally.

"Potter! Move your filthy ARSE! Don't you see the SUN shining outside your window? Can't you hear the birds chirping? Don't you taste the fresh air? GUESS WHAT THAT MEANS?? It's MORNING, you MORON. Remove your ARSE off your bed, and TAKE A BLOODY SHOWER, you FILTHY DISGUSTING - "

Slap.

Taking his large hand off the "off" switch on the clock, Harry swung his legs off the feathery bed, stretching his arms in the air. He groped for his glasses on his bedside table, and relaxed when his blurry vision focused. He made a mental note to switch the voice on the alarm clock. The screaming witch was really getting on his nerves. Standing up, Harry rubbed his abdomen slowly, running his hands over his smooth, packed muscles. He flexed a little, yawning, and made his way down the expensively decorated hall. Passing five guestrooms, he was making his way to the fridge, where he hoped to grab a morning snack.

As soon as he stepped into the kitchen, the aroma of blue mountain coffee hit his nose in a wave. Someone was bent over the stove, spatula in hand, presumably making blueberry pancakes. Harry's favorite. Noticing the footsteps that had been echoing through the corridors, the woman looked up from the frying pan.

"Oh, hello Harry," Hermione started, looking up, "good - "

And then she screamed.

The reason for that, as careless as she had been, could only be the obvious. And the cause was a rather disturbing one. Harry had a habit of sleeping naked. And of course, that would mean he had a tendency to walk around naked in his house, when no one was present. Harry smiled broadly; entirely shameless, glad that Hermione was here, in his kitchen, cooking breakfast. It was just something only a girlfriend would do. What a glorious morning.

Hermione turned away, blushing furiously, turning into a deep crimson. She did her best to calm her beating heart, and the churning in her stomach. She silently wondered why her best friend would have this effect on her. But she hadn't expected his member to be so BIG. It was just disturbingly huge. She mentally slapped herself for even daring to be thinking about that, and tried to regain her composure. Harry, on the other hand, couldn't help but smile to himself, almost glad he was able to show off his nicely built and tanned figure. Grabbing the tablecloth, Harry hastily tied it around his waist, to save the awkward moment.

Hermione refused to look at him. In fact, she refused to even turn to his general direction. Which included the stove. She refused to even look at the frying pan. It was slowly sliding from the stove, threatening to drop off dangerously. Hermione, who was still slightly distressed, was completely unaware of this. She turned around, and knocked the handle of the pan with her elbow. With her un-flexibility, there was no way she could save the pancakes. Those poor little squishy pies.

Fortunately, Harry was one step ahead.

With his fast reaction, he had already caught the frying pan, and had unconsciously wrapped his other arm around Hermione, though that had been a useless and unnecessary move. Placing the pan back on the stove, he slipped his hand from her waist, grinning sheepishly.

"Careful, darling. Wouldn't want you to burn yourself."

Hermione, who had made the mistake of looking up at Harry's face, made a strangled coughing noise, and turned redder than before, if it was even possible. She then made the mistake of looking down, since her gaze only landed vaguely on the area of the bulge between Harry's legs. She pulled herself away from his proximity, taking the pan with her, and slid two nearly burnt pieces of pancakes onto Harry's plate. Setting the pan aside, she sat down on the seat opposite of Harry's, indicating for him to sit down. She cleared her throat before speaking.

"Eat up. And don't blame me if it's slightly burnt."

Her voice still came out unnaturally high, to her own ears, and she looked irritated at herself. Harry came and sat down across from her, still grinning broadly. She looked even more annoyed. Grabbing his fork like a two-year-old, Harry stabbed the silverware into the pancake, and stuffed a huge bite into his mouth. Attempting to cheer Hermione up by acting silly, he made gurgling noises and tried speaking with his mouth full.

"Mmmmmmm, pon keek shhh guuuuuuuud."

His attempt was successful. Hermione burst into a helpless heap of giggles. Harry only watched, admiring the blunt beauty before him, noticing how her auburn hair was reddish gold in the sun. Her laughter trailed away at his intense stare, but she smiled at him, to show that she was no longer annoyed at him. He broke into another grin, and leaned forward, reaching out to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. The tips of her ears turned slightly red, though her face remained straight, her expression hard to distinguish.

She was always in control of herself. Always. So why was she feeling so dizzy now? Why wasn't she behaving normal?

"How's the pancake? I couldn't be sure if you liked it or not, since you were speaking gibberish."

"It's perfect."

Like you, Hermione.

"Thank you."

"So," Harry said, leaning back in his chair, displaying his muscular chest pleasurably, "What brings you over, my dearest Hermione?"

"Just checking up on you. And your diet. If I didn't come over, you would have probably ate that nasty little jar of pickles in your fridge." She said, "And, while we're on the subject, you really do need to fill your fridge, Harry. It's practically empty."

"Except for that jar of pickles." Harry added.

"Which you would never eat, anyway." She pointed out.

"But I look fine, don't I?"

Puffing out his chest, Harry flexed both his arms, so his muscles bulged. She laughed at his exaggerated movements, suddenly remembering all the reasons she loved Harry. He smiled stupidly at her, and felt like kissing her right then. But he managed to resist. A little. He leaned forward and planted a friendly peck on her face, which caught her by complete surprise. Her rosy cheeks seemed to be glowing. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on. It's such a shame she could never be his.

"I've missed you," Harry said gently, stroking her cheek.

She took his palm off her cheek, and kissed the back of his hand.

"I've missed you too."

"Ron told me all about what I missed out on. He was trying very hard to make me jealous," Harry added with a bitter laugh, "I heard your bookshop is coming along very well. I'm glad to hear that, Hermione. I wish I could have been here to help."

"So do I."

There was an awkward silence. He could see her expression changing, doubts and questions flashing across her mind. He knew only too well what she was thinking. Her mouth opened to speak, but no words came out. She spoke for the second time, trusting her voice. Harry instinctively knew what she was going to ask. Sure enough, the subject came.

"Harry," she began, hesitantly, "Where have you been?" She paused, scratching her forehead, "I know it's a stupid question, but can't you be more specific about your work? We're best friends. There shouldn't be any secrets between us. I feel like you're always running from telling the truth. Running from me. Running from Ron. Why is it that you never bother to call or even write? You're always so evasive."

Her voice came out more serious than she had wanted.

Harry was silent for a second. His green eyes darkened, and his expression became unreadable, hiding. How could he explain it to her? It was so complex. So much more than just wand swishing and charms. Hermione wouldn't be able to understand. He would confess the truth one day. Just not now.

"I'm busy, Hermione. You know that I work for the ministry. It's all very complicated."

"It's always work. You're always busy. And you're never there."

"It's cause I've been hiding from you, Hermione, you nasty little witch. I didn't want to catch your cooties." Harry teased, trying to ease up the topic.

"I'm serious, Harry."

Harry sighed audibly, and leaned back in his chair. Hermione reddened again, but concealed her embarrassment with a few coughs. She could see that he didn't want to talk about it. It could always wait till later. No big deal. If he didn't want to talk about it now, she'd have a proper chat with him some other day. Plus, she couldn't concentrate anyway, with him looking like that. Changing the subject, she steered the conversation onto a lighter note.

"Fine. Don't tell me. By the way, Harry, why did you have to leave so early that day? I was worried, you know. That I might have scared you off. With my cooties."

"You're always worried," Harry laughed, shaking his head, "I was just tired, that's all. And I really needed a good shower."

Alie. Not exactly a good one. But Hermione wouldn't be able to tell.

He paused for a moment.

"You know, you really surprised me by your announcement. I mean, marriage. Wow. Are you sure you want to marry that arse- that man? I mean, are you sure you're ready?"

"I just thought it was time. I'm already twenty-five, Harry. And I really love Darren. I just thought he could be the One, you know. And if I don't get settled now, I never will."

The ONE? That's me, Hermione.

"But Hermione, there are millions of people single at the age of twenty-five. Take me, for example. I'm still single."

"But you're a guy. Women have to get married earlier."

"Sexist."

"Hey. It's common belief."

They fell silent again. Harry watched Hermione slowly sip her coffee, licking her lips when she put the mug down. He felt like he couldn't breathe. Those perfect, cherry red lips. Kissed by the stupid quidditch mule, before Harry had a chance to claim it as his. Images of Hermione together with another man flooded Harry's thoughts, and he suddenly felt extremely sad, yet extremely guilty.

"Hermione," he began tentatively, "wouldn't your boyfriend-, I mean, fianc?be suspicious if you came over? Won't he get jealous?"

"Oh, no. Why would you think that?" she gave him an odd glance over the brim of the cup. "He knows we're just friends."

The statement stung him. He nodded quietly, with a smile still pasted on his face.

"Best friends," Hermione corrected herself, laughing airily.

"I see."

Chomping down on the rest of his pancake, it was a matter of seconds before he finished his breakfast. It tasted rather bitter in his mouth, and had too much sugar, but he ate every crumb, just to please Hermione. She smiled at him, loving him for eating her food, which was never exactly edible. Darren always complained when she tried to cook for him. He was just tactless. And brutally frank, all the time. But somehow, even if his insults did sometimes hurt her feelings, it was mostly true. And it really didn't matter so much. She loved him for his virtues, and his faults, all the same.

Standing, Hermione went to the bronze coffee machine, pushing the top filter open. She dumped coffee beans into the sac, and added hot water. Automatically and magically, the coffee machine started working. She held the container up in the air.

"Coffee?" she asked, turning her head around to look at Harry.

"Black. No sugar."

She carried the glass pot over to his seat, and poured it straight into his mug. She watched the steam rise up in fascination, suddenly relaxing. Harry was looking up at her, noticing that she had put on a bit of makeup, which she usually didn't, unless there was a special occasion. His spirits lifted dramatically. Had she done it for his sake? But she was only wearing a white sweater with a pair of dark blue jeans. Nothing fancy.

Better double check.

"Herms," he began, sipping at his coffee, "I like your sweater."

Hermione beamed.

"Thanks. It was a gift from Darren," she replied, smiling. "I'm meeting him in about half an hour at the airport."

He almost spat out his coffee.

DAMN. Bloody mule.

His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. He was supposed to be Hermione's friend. He was supposed to be ecstatic about the news of her marriage. He was supposed to be supportive. It didn't matter how much he wished. Or how hard he tried. He simply couldn't feign the cheerfulness. He hated himself for being so petty. And so bloody jealous.

"Well, I'd better get to work now. I need an early start."

Work? What work?

Hermione looked taken aback and hurt by his sudden declaration, but she kept her mouth sealed. Harry stood up, pushing his chair back, saying nothing. He felt horrible for being so incredibly rude, but he simply couldn't look at her without feeling depressed. And angry. And sad. And a number of emotions he couldn't name, couldn't identify, wouldn't dare let escape. Hermione tried not to stare at his exposed chest, though she found herself admiring the lines that carved out his sculpted muscles. Feeling stupid, she picked her purse off the counter, deciding that she had to leave before she lost her nerve.

"I won't bother you anymore. Guess I'll be going, then."

Harry felt defeated, and a headache was starting again. Why did her departure have to be so abrupt, so unscheduled? You told her to scram, he reminded himself. There had to be some sort of mistake. He accompanied her to the front door, walking behind her so they wouldn't have to talk. The thought of her meeting up with Darren was giving him another heartache. He was getting heartaches a lot, recently. But he still had to show some curtsey. Pushing the front door open, he held the door open for her while she stepped out, squinting a little at the blazing sun.

"It was nice; visiting. I'll drop by another time. Good bye, Harry." Hermione said, putting a hand on her forehead to shed her eyes from the sun.

"Bye."

And that was it.

Harry watched her walk to the front gate and close it behind her, until her shadow was only a spot in the distance. Closing the door, he leaned back on the mahogany wood, sliding slowly onto the floor. Shutting his eyes tightly, a bitter laugh escaped from his throat. And then the house was silent again, empty and alone.

A/N: What considerable amount of bullshit.

3. Him

Disclaimer

Chapter Three

Jealousy is dangerous. Envy is poison.

DARREN SMITH

The crystal chandelier hung high above the ceiling, illuminating the room with its magnificence. There were waiters serving tall, sleek glasses of champagne, the golden sizzle proving it to be not only of high quality, but magical. A slow, melodious music played in the background, from the corner of the lobby, where the musicians performed, oblivious to the moving crowds before them. They were lost in their music, timelessly entranced. Everyone was dressed in suits and elegant attires, each looking glamorous.

It was all Hermione's idea, of course. She wanted everyone to meet her fiancé, and had decided to congregate people to a gathering, for a proper introduction. After all, they were getting married, and it wouldn't do if nobody knew him. She cared a great deal about Harry's opinion, and was simply dying for Harry to meet Darren. On the other hand, however, he was not at all interested in meeting the bloke. In fact, it was probably the last thing he wanted to do. Still, for Hermione's sake, he agreed to throw a banquet at his mansion.

Harry was sitting at the bar near his private living room, unseen by the rest of the wizards and witches. The last thing he wanted was to attract attention to himself. Harry ran a hand through his thick, soft hair, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Quietly sipping a cocktail, He observed the crowd, his gaze lingering on only one person he cared about. Hermione was biting her lip in nervousness, looking quite distressed. She was dressed in white, her gown made of satin and silk, making her skin look translucent. There were jewels sewn into the low V-neck of the evening dress, which matched her diamond necklace and earrings perfectly. Her dark brown hair tumbled over her back in curls, wild and messy. She turned her back to Harry, totally unaware of the fact that he was gawking at the slim line of her figure.

Darren had failed to arrive on time. He was "approximately" twenty minutes three seconds and thirteen milliseconds late. And no, Harry was not counting. He wanted to clap in glee at Darren's tardiness, since it was obviously an indication of rudeness. But he was immediately guilty at having felt so. Because he was sorry for Hermione. She was trying so hard to please him.

The guests left their seats one by one, now navigating to the dance floor, where they slowly waltzed. Harry spotted Ron in the near center of the room, a pretty blonde in his arms, swaying in rhythm to the music. Couples quickly identified themselves, rested in each other's embrace. Harry found himself feeling embarrassed. Wondering what caused the reaction; he stood up, straightened his posture, and strolled off into the crowd. He was recognized, then flattened against the wall by admirers and attractive women, practically kissing his feet.

Harry was about to leave the throng when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Turning around, he quickly acknowledged the stunning beauty before him as Auhurel, an Auror he had dated years before. She was a blonde, with natural highlights. She had piled her hair on top of her head, and long tendrils that slipped from the clasp framed her high cheekbones. Smiling gently, Harry nodded at her. She slipped her arms around his neck, her gaze in a deadlock with his.

"Dance with me," she whispered, giving him a mysterious smile.

Her voice was cool and feline, a silky whisper that caused Harry to feel both annoyed and light-headed. He gave no resistance. She dragged him towards the dance floor, and started to flirt with him, staring up at his face and blinking rapidly. Her garments were hardly suitable for the formal ball. Her shirt was filmy, and Harry could tell that she wasn't wearing a bra. She flashed her legs eagerly, and pressed her body so close to his that he wondered if she had splattered glue all over herself. Harry was faintly disgusted. But she was gorgeous. Anything would do.

Her face was now so close to his; he could feel her breath on his neck. She smelled like expensive perfume. The song was slowing to an end. She looked up at him, her blonde hair silver in the light, her startling blue eyes exploding with sexual longing.

With something like an animalistic leap forward, she pressed her lips against Harry's. Before he even had a chance to react, her tongue was already exploring his mouth. He didn't protest. Harry was suddenly pleased with the idea of comfort sex. It was going to be just a fling, but he was in desperate need of one. He needed someone to take his mind off Hermione, along with the certain acquired knowledge. So he did nothing. She arched her body towards him, and was kissing so hard that Harry's mouth began to feel sore. He pushed her away first. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, his lips red, his mouth aching.

"You haven't changed." Auhurel said breathlessly, her flawlessly applied lipstick now smeared around her mouth. She smiled a little dazedly, and grinned like she had turned dumb. She was still breathing heavily, her eyelashes slightly wet, her eyes gleaming. Harry was almost intimidated by her appetite, but his confidence allowed him to keep his dignity. He gave her a smile, and leaned to whisper in her ear.

"You know where to find me."

From the corner of his eye, he saw a stir amongst the crowd. It could only signify one thing. So, Harry thought, the mule finally arrives. He observed the figure that stood distinguished in the crowd, cursing under his breath. He was standing too far away for Harry to get a clear view of his face. Auhurel turned her head towards the man's general direction. Looking slightly interested, she turned back to Harry, watching the change of his expression.

"What's wrong?" she asked, wrapping her arms around his neck.

It took seconds before Harry turned back to face her.

"Nothing," he lied, smiling tightly. He stopped a passing waiter, taking the champagne off the silver tray, and drained the glass in one gulp. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve in a manner that was barbaric, he half-threw the glass back onto the tray, and dismissed the waiter with a wave of his hand. Auhurel watched him with curiosity, looking mildly startled.

Harry could see that Hermione had steered Darren towards his direction. The couple was now moving towards him, past the guests that stopped them occasionally to shake hands and exchange a few words. Harry turned his back towards them, his heart slowly sliding to the pit of his stomach. He dreaded the final confrontation. What could he possibly say to the mule? Congratulations, fucker, you're marrying my best friend. Smiling bitterly at the marble tiles beneath his feet, Harry pushed a tangle of black curls from his eyes, pushing it from his forehead. He was counting the seconds in his head, though he was positive that it was not going to be accurate. He suspected that he was counting too fast.

Harry smoothed his tailored suit, and stood straight, squaring his shoulders. Auhurel made an attempt to fix his messy hair, smiling coyly. Perhaps she had caught on. She then walked away from him, pointing to her messy lipstick, heading towards the restroom and winking over her shoulder. He watched her shadow disappear in the crowd, feeling slightly lost with himself.

"Harry?"

Responding automatically to the familiarity of Hermione's voice, he turned around to face her, smiling. But as soon as he made an about-face, his smile rapidly evaporated.

It was him.

Standing next to his best friend was her fiancé, the legendary Darren Smith. And very much to Harry's frustration and displeasure, he was every bit as perfect as described. The Mule was a Greek god. His sandy colored hair was sleeked back, and his enchanting blue eyes bore directly into Harry's. It was disturbing, almost. Darren smiled, and Harry suddenly felt very ugly. BLOODY FUCK.

Darren extended a big hand. Harry took it in his, hoping that his pasted smile wouldn't fail him. With crushing force, Darren shook his hand, then released it. Harry fought the urge to scream aloud. The war had only begun.

"Hello," Harry said with easy politeness, noticing his inferior height compared to The Mule.

"Nice to meet you." Darren replied, smiling. His voice came out an octave lower than Harry's, yet was smooth as silk, and rich as dark chocolate.

Harry felt liking telling him to shut up for the rest of the night.

Popping out from behind Harry, Ron came up and stood next to him, leaning slightly on Harry's shoulder, beaming at Hermione and Darren. Harry's face had already turned sulky, and his eyes had the impenetrable look of a murderer. Ron patted Harry on the back, as if to console him and put him at ease.

"Well, well, well," Ron said cheerily, "if it isn't Darren and Herms." Ron laughed, watching the dangerous expression on Harry's face, noticing that his jaw was clenched tightly. Stepping sharply on Harry's foot, Ron forced a few words out of his mouth.

"Yes, we've all heard so much about you." Harry added bitterly, wincing a little.

"Of course you have. We are, after all, getting married."

Thanks for the bloody reminder, MULE.

Harry turned his head towards Hermione helplessly, wishing she would cause some sort of distraction so he wouldn't have to continue the conversation with the mule. She only gazed at Darren in adoration, her expression a mixture of pleasant reassurance and comfort.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Auhurel entered the scene. Her lipstick had been reapplied perfectly, and she had loosened her hair, so it was a golden cloud that floated around her face. She slipped beside Harry, and put a manicured hand on Harry's chest, flashing Darren a cold and fatal smile. Hermione looked at her with interest, though her smile did not falter in the least. For some reason he could not explain, Harry felt himself deflate in disappointment. Hermione had never been jealous of his girlfriends. Auhurel looked up at him expectantly, waiting for him to introduce her to the engaged pair.

"Um, this is Auhurel. She's an Auror." Harry said uncertainly. Ron looked like he had a hard time taking his eyes off her chest, but Darren looked otherwise unperturbed. The Mule slipped a hand around Hermione's waist, pulling her closer to him. She blushed furiously, her gaze cast to the floor. Harry had the sudden flashback of himself holding the frying pan in his hand, with his arm around Hermione's slim waist.

"Charming," Darren drawled, nodding his head at her.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "You look familiar," she commented, "did you two date before?"

"Yes, three years back. I met Harry on one of his secret missions," Auhurel replied, her voice silky. Ron squirmed comfortably beside her, his eyes still glued to her body.

"No wonder," Hermione said, smiling. "I thought I've seen you before. Once or twice."

Auhurel looked as if she had been insulted. Her lips were curving into a snarl.

"And I remember you, too, vaguely. The friend of Harry's. I don't think he ever mentioned you much in his conversations." Auhurel snapped.

"That's hardly surprising," Hermione replied, oblivious to the previous insult. "Harry's always so busy with his work."

"Oh?" Darren interjected, looking interested, "What do you do for a living, Potter?"

Stay out of my business.

"I work for the ministry." Harry answered curtly, not wanting to elaborate.

"And what kind of job do you have at the ministry? What do you do?" Darren pressed on, either out of personal interest or out of personal interest in pissing Harry off.

"I'm the SA. Specialized Auror. Basically, I track down anyone who works for Voldemort, and put them in Azkaban, where they belong."

"Interesting," Darren smirked, wearing the your-job-is-lame expression.

"Believe in justice, don't we?"

There was no mistaking the mockery in his tone.

"And I suppose you think you're so much better, don't you?"

It took two seconds for Harry to realize he had said this aloud. Hermione looked shocked, Darren surprised, and Ron highly entertained.

"Excuse me?" Darren asked incredulously.

"Are you any better? I shouldn't think so, if I were in your position. After all, you are only a weenie Quidditch player," Harry replied, his anger having caught up with him.

"Really, Potter, I have no idea what you're talking about - "

Harry slammed Darren against the wall. He lifted Darren by the collar, as if the action was effortless. His face was a mask of evil cruelty and hatred. He felt like spilling blood.

"You don't know me at all, bastard. You have no idea of what I am capable of, where I live, where I go, and what I do. I don't plan on ever informing you, either. So right now, why don't you just wipe that smirk off your face, and shut the fuck up."

It was Hermione's shrill voice that brought him to his senses. She stepped up behind him, and slapped Harry hard. Harry didn't blink. He stared at her moistened eyes, on the brink of tears, wondering why he suddenly felt so lost.

"What's wrong with you?" Hermione screamed, though she didn't expect an answer. Harry was immobile for a long moment. He silently stared at Hermione's face, still beautiful in his eyes, suddenly hating himself. Harry loosened his grip on Darren's collar, knowing full well that his face was burning in shame. Darren coughed and straightened himself, rubbing his neck slowly. Hermione was instantly all over him, touching his cheek tenderly, while giving Harry glares that he did not dare look up to receive.

Harry looked up at Hermione, catching her glare that shot daggers in his heart. He had to mend the situation, to make it up to her, to let her know what he felt. Unconsciously, he extended his hand, touching her face. She slapped at him, heavy enough to make him flinch and pull his arm back.

"Don't touch me," she growled, disgusted.

There was no mistaking now, that he was nothing compared to Darren. Realization ripped through him, and he shook violently, wanting to hug himself. His head felt like it had been slamming against a brick wall. All he felt was a numbing pain, a shock that scarred his mind. Her words sounded so trivial. So insignificant. She wouldn't understand. She could never. That it meant so much more to him than just a biting comment.

Harry could feel the eyes drawn towards him. The staring, unbelieving eyes, terrified and confused at the events that had just taken place. Ron was silent beside him, mutual, not taking any sides. He was suddenly bared. He felt like slipping through the floor beneath him, so he could disappear and never see anyone again. It was, truly for the first time, that he had lost his temper so disconcertingly. Auhurel stood wide-eyed, though she had begun trying to break the tension in the room, ushering the crowd away from the scene. Harry stared at his feet, his blood pounding loudly in his ears, his curls covering his eyes. He had never felt so humiliated in his life. Never felt so at a loss. Never felt so hurt and pained.

Harry slipped away from the mass as quietly as he could, not daring to meet anyone's stare. He stalked out of the ballroom, past his private bedrooms, his head down the whole time. Nobody made a move to follow him. Feeling betrayed and drunken, he wandered through his house aimlessly, unsure of what to do. He left his mansion from the back door to his garden, opening the door carefully. He sank into the soft grass, listening to the door swing shut behind him. He stared up at the skies above, now a grayish black hue, a drifting mist. A dry, cracked cry rose from his throat, scratching and tearing at his insides. Burying his face in his hands, he never looked up to see Ginny standing in the shadows watching him, her purse still in her hand, indicating that she had just arrived.

4. Biased

Disclaimer

Chapter Four

Forgive and forget.

BIASED

The doorbell rang. She flinched at the sound, but did not move to answer the door. The doorbell rang again. She stayed immobile on her seat, her back arched and frozen. Her neck was stiff. It rang for the third time. Deciding that she could not ignore the bell forever, she got up from her chair. Hermione strolled to the front door, anticipating yet dreading whoever waited outside. She opened the door slowly, and saw an impatient Ginny. Hermione found herself relaxing instantly, and released a breath she did not realize she had been holding.

"Hey," Hermione greeted, forcing a smile on her face.

"Hey," Ginny replied softly. "Are you going to let me come in or what?"

"Oh. Sorry."

Hermione hastily stepped back from the door, and Ginny gingerly stepped into the house. The flat was neat and orderly, as pristine as she had imagined it to be. There was a kitchen to her right, with a dining table, and the living room was positioned to her left. She guessed that the bedrooms were located down the hallway. She surveyed the new furniture with interest, touching the leather couch. She did not say anything, and offered no explanation for her visit. She hadn't called to say she would be there. But then again, Ginny had always been rather spontaneous. And surprising.

"Where's Darren?"

"Oh, he's practicing Quidditch."

"Huh." Ginny said, her eyes brows raised, and smirked.

"I'll go get coffee." Hermione said, and walked towards the kitchen. There was no door, and the counters that were displayed modernly, with cabinets above the sink, stuck on the walls.

When she came back with a silver tray, Ginny was seated on the couch, a gold-framed photograph in her hand. She looked up when Hermione set the tray on the glass table, studying the weary face of her friend. Hermione looked tired. There was a reason for her to be, though. She had been moving into Darren's apartment, and had insisted that she moved all her belongings by herself, even when her friends offered to help. Hermione was stubborn that way. She did not like to owe anyone anything. Favors were not her thing, though she was always generous in giving them.

"Remember the Spring Party?" Ginny asked suddenly, passing the photo to Hermione. She saw a smile creep from the corner of Hermione's mouth.

"Like yesterday," Hermione answered, not removing her gaze from the picture. "Ron had gotten himself a date that night. I don't remember her name." After a pause, added, "And Harry danced with every girl that attended."

"Including you."

"Yes," Hermione whispered, "Including me."

"Are you going to forgive him?"

Hermione didn't answer. She had known Ginny was going to get around to asking the question. Ron had visited only two days ago, inviting her out to have a drink. Ginny had gotten to the point a lot faster than he did. She stood up, and placed the photograph back onto the shelf, next to a picture of Darren and herself, with his arms wrapped around her waist.

"Is that the reason why you've come?"

She heard Ginny sigh audibly, from behind her back. Hermione turned around to face her. She felt furious. She couldn't exactly understand why. It could be her hormones, but she was no longer a teenager. She didn't feel like talking about it. About Harry. He was a thing of the past. She would never comprehend why he was never happy for her. He was supposed to be her best friend. She had wanted him to like Darren so much. But of course, he had to ruin everything. She wasn't about to forgive him just yet. And she certainly didn't need him to send someone to talk her into being friendly again. They stared at each other silently for a minute, neither moving, neither blinking. It was Ginny who spoke first this time.

"You haven't talked to him in three weeks," she said pointedly, her gaze steely.

"I know," she said, with some satisfaction. "I intend for it to last longer."

"Do you know what you're doing to him?"

Her voice had changed. She sounded angry. Demanding.

"I know that he needs more self-control."

"I don't know about self control, Hermione," Ginny replied, "You seemed to have lost yours that night at the party."

"But he started it first," Hermione complained, noticing how childishly weak her argument was.

"Perhaps you'll realize someday, the reason for his outburst," Ginny said, standing up, dusting her skirt.

"And then maybe you'll realize your own stupidity for not having seen it sooner."

Picking her purse off the couch, she strode briskly to the door.

"Pay him a visit sometime. He might just die if you don't."

And with that, she closed the door behind her, leaving Hermione to the raging silence.

Harry called three days later. The conversation did not go smooth. She heard the phone ringing down in the living room, and had a foreboding feeling that it was going to be Harry Potter. For a second, she didn't want to pick up the receiver. She convinced herself that she was just acting paranoid again, and went to answer the phone. But she had been right. It was Harry. She was definitely going to trust her instinct next time.

There was silence when she brought the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" Hermione asked, not bothering to conceal the annoyance in her voice.

"Hermione."

His voice came out in a pleading whisper. She shivered, suddenly cold. He sounded desperate. He sounded dead. She cast a side-glance towards the living room, where she knew Darren was sitting, reading the newest edition of the Quidditch Monthly. Then she was angry with herself. Why should she care if Darren overheard her conversations with Harry? There wasn't anything going on between them. Why should she feel guilty? Why should she even bother to talk to him on the phone?

She held the receiver away from her ear for a moment, just staring into the end of her phone, where she could hear the faint sound of Harry's ragged breathing. She felt like hanging up on him. She imagined Harry sitting in his room, clinging onto the phone like his life depended on it, his eyes red and blood-shot. But that would never happen. He never cared that much about her. He didn't need her as a friend. She was just another in the crowd, no more important to him than anyone else. Perhaps he even favored Auhurel over her.

"Yes?" She replied coldly, her voice sharp.

She could almost feel him cringe.

"I.... I wanted...I wanted to apologize for what I did to Darren the other night."

"And?" She knew she was being harsh. It hadn't been that big of a deal. But she was bloody pissed at him. And she was going to hurt him as much as she wanted to.

"I'm so sorry."

His voice was so soft she almost couldn't hear him.

"Maybe I'll forgive you when I'm in a better mood."

"Hermione, please listen-"

"I'm afraid I don't feel listening right now."

"I...I need to tell you something-"

"Some other day, Harry. When we're both ninety years old, and about to die."

Then she hung up.

He was supposed to be mature. He was supposed to be calm. He was supposed to act like he didn't care. But it was too difficult to pretend. He had just lost his best friend. The love of his life, more accurately. And now, more then ever, he realized the significance of her presence. Her being, whether next to him or not. Her smiles, her hugs, her encouraging words, her never-ending loyalty. Her compassion, her acceptance, and her love. It was the reason for his existence. It was the support for him to go on living, despite the up and downs in his life. And though her love was only given as a friend, it had been enough for him.

Now it wasn't.

He wasn't sure what he was looking for. What he sought after. He wanted to be with her forever. That was all there was to it. Simple as that, period. All he ever wanted was for her to be close to him, just within his reach. It didn't matter if he couldn't speak to her. It didn't matter if she would never love him. It didn't matter if she only saw him as a friend, someone she confided in, shared dirty secrets. He had came to realize that it wasn't enough. He wanted more. He wanted to explore her like a lover, know her like a lover would.

He was so tired of being the perfect companion.

So tired of just being a friend, and nothing more.

Harry sat on the wet grass of his backdoor garden, watching the rain pour from the sky. It fell in huge teardrops, blurring with his, and he could taste the salt on his lips. His raven hair was in clumps on his head, some falling in front of his eyes, obscuring his vision. He was shivering slightly at the cold, but he refused to acknowledge its existence. If anyone had seen him, they would have thought he was out of his mind. The raindrops hit his face hard, pelting on his skin as the storm approached. In the rain, for the first time, with the cold wind blowing so hard he could hardly feel his hands or feet, he felt lonely. He told himself it was over. There was nothing left for him. He closed his dark green eyes, the grayish hue mirroring the skies.

Out of all the things he had in life, the only thing he ever truly desired was for her to be his. Now it was painfully clear that she wasn't. She wasn't ever going to be his. And no matter how much he wanted her to be, that was one fact that would not change. He had waited so long to have her. Ten years. Ten years that felt like a lifetime of longing for a prize that he simply wasn't going to get. She wasn't an object; he knew that. She was so much more. But that was the only way he could put it: he wanted her. He wanted her so badly he wondered how he could even stand gazing at her without crushing her with the forcefulness of his lips.

Then he remembered.

She was engaged.

She already belonged to another man. A Quidditch player, no less. Someone that could never meet up to Harry's standards. But what did it matter? She loved him. She didn't love Harry. Period.

Harry couldn't even remember when he started to have feelings for her. It seemed like a lifetime ago. He watched her in silence, not wanting to be an obstruction. He was happy when she was happy, heartbroken when she was heartbroken. It crushed him every single goddamn time she smiled at another one of the man she dated, scarred his mind with burning coals. He simply had to get away. He took to looking after his job, seeking after the Dark Lord, savagely killing off any wizard with the Dark Mark. He welcomed the pain; it took his mind off her for a moment.

Just a moment.

But it was still of odd comfort to him. He went out with women, tossed them around like trash when he got tired of them. They weren't much help. He tried to find as many brunettes as possible, people who looked like Hermione, yet no matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn't picture any of them as the actual person herself. He closed his eyes when he made love, wishing that the women that lay underneath him were someone else. They were nothing but fantasies.

She was nothing but a fantasy.

Everything he ever wanted.

It was silent for a long time. It was silent until Harry got up from the grass and went back into the house, having forgotten why he was sitting out in the rain in the first place. I don't love her, he told himself over and over again. I don't need her. I can be fine on my own. But even as he stepped into the house, he knew that he would always have that hollow in his heart, still waiting to be filled.

A/N: Short Chapter.

5. Wrong

Disclaimer

Chapter Five

Sacrifices she will never know.

WRONG

Night was restless. It was like a taunting hollow, endlessly black, reminding him of his triviality, his insignificance in comparison. It whispered, it breathed. It swiveled around and around, terrifyingly, dizzily. It made him believe he was alone. And he was. He was alone, battling life, battling himself. Battling loss. Battling love. Battling jealousy that burned, that stung with incredible fierceness. For once he knew what losing felt like. It was desolate. It was cold. It was bitter. Inevitable.

It was raining. The weather had been plagued by a cold disease, rain clouds hovering and covering up the sky, so that it was only a blockade of gray mass, misty yet impenetrable. The rain had not stopped for two days. Two days, two nights, of falling tears. Falling. Glistening as it hit the ground, dividing into a million particles, lost amongst the crowd. Same, unchanging, dark. Two days without sunshine. Two days without the blue sky. He had shriveled and curled up in two days. Just two days, he was already half gone. Half dying.

Then he saw her. Hermione was navigating towards him, her high heels tapping on the pavement with irrevocable echoes, brisk. He hid in the shadows, his black cloak offering him protection. He watched as she walked towards her apartment door, a goddess in the iniquity of the night. She was like the North Star in the sky, brilliant and glowing, soft and warm. She was so close to him, now. His hand reached out for her, longing to touch her hair, her cheek, her slender neck. He stepped closer.

His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, flinging her body towards his chest. Her scream was stifled as her face became buried in his cloak. She kicked and twisted for a moment, but she was put to an abrupt halt. Her body relaxed, almost as if she had just received an overdose of methane, and she stopped struggling. She knew it was him. She could recognize his scent anywhere. The bittersweet tang of peppermint, the smell of fresh laundry mixed together. Harry. Then she pushed him away forcefully, and glared at him with ferocity.

She was so right. There was no mistaking the emerald eyes, the midnight hair, the scar on his forehead. Harry Potter stared down at her, his eyes ablaze, arms still open, longing to surround her with his warmth. She surveyed him coldly, watching the droplets of rainwater fall from the strands of his hair, stuck together from the wetness. His robes were soaked and dripping. She found herself wondering how long he had stood in the rain waiting for her.

"Hermione-"

"Shut up."

She turned away, about to run into her apartment in hopes of escaping, but he was too fast. He hugged her waist and pulled her close, tight and secure. He buried his face into her brown curls, taking in a breath full of her strawberry scent. He was never going to let her go. She froze in his arms, and she could feel his breath upon her neck, fast and shallow, as if he couldn't breathe. She wanted to hug him back. But she couldn't. Her stubbornness wouldn't let her. She wrenched away from him.

"What do you want?"

I want you to love me like I love you.

"I want to see you." Harry said lamely, the pain visible on his face, his eyes.

Her expression softened. She could be harsh, rude, and cruel to him over the phone. But never when he looked at her that way. Never when he was sad, and wet, soaked to the bone. Not when he was shivering like a lost puppy. Not when he had stood in the rain waiting stupidly for her. He was a mess. His hair was damp and tousled, his eyes red, his glasses crooked. His flesh was pale, ivory in the moonlight. His lips looked bruised, purple. There was a gash on his cheek, but from what she didn't know. He stared at her helplessly, his heart in his throat.

"I came here to see you, Hermione." He said again, watching her face.

All of a sudden, she beamed.

Harry's throat constricted. His heart swelled, and his breathing stopped.

She walked towards him, and wrapped her arms around his neck. He knew she was smiling, even as she leaned forward to whisper in his ear so that her hair covered his vision. He stood there, in a state of shock and worry, wondering she was doing.

"You're so foolish, Harry. Did you honestly think I was going to stay mad at you forever?"

It was seconds till he answered.

"I couldn't last the wait."

And he pulled her closer, his warm hands on her back, smiling too. He felt like he was complete, when he held her. He was whole. For a long moment, they both stood in the pouring rain, hugging each other, oblivious to the cars that drove past, honking at them for standing in the middle of the street. He wanted to stay there forever, listening to her soft sighs, feeling her warmth seep through him, knowing that his heart belonged to her, and only her. Forever and always.

"I love you so much, Hermione." Harry blurted.

He wished he could swallow his words. But it was too late. Time seemed to be suspended as he waited for her response, his cheeks turning crimson at what he had just confessed. He could feel his heart beating wildly in his ribcage, threatening to jump out. He was sure she could hear his heart hammering. He was positive that she could feel the vibrations from his thumping chest. The only thing he was aware of was how his heart was in rhythm with hers.

"I love you too, Harry."

Then she released him, and looked up at his blank face, her eyes dancing. She raised herself on tiptoes, and planted a kiss on his cheek. She took his cold hands in hers, and tugged at him.

"Come on. We'll go upstairs and dry you up. Darren's waiting.'

The name hit him like a ton of bricks. Darren. The mule. For a second, he felt like pulling away from her.

She didn't understand. She didn't know what he actually meant. He didn't just love her. He loved her with every fiber of his being. He was in love with her. It wasn't a friend-to-friend emotion. He loved her for being Hermione, the one who haunted his dreams, who occupied his mind every minute, every second. He wanted to be with her forever. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to make love to her. He just wanted...her.

He pulled away from her. She saw fleetingly the flash of pain in his eyes, so familiar. She looked up at him, her face wondering, her expression soft.

"Are you all right, Harry?"

No. I'll never be.

He wanted to turn on his heels and run away. But instead, he stood stock still, and nodded silently at her, his lips pressed into a grim line. She looked at him queerly, but did not question further. She stepped closer to the door, and inserted a silver key into the knob. Stealing a glance at Harry, she grabbed a handful of his wet robes, and pulled him towards the door. When the door swung open, it revealed a dusty elevator. Harry stood there dumbly, wondering if there were any rooms behind the old and cracking wooden box. Hermione dragged Harry into the lift, and gave him a small smile.

"Top floor, please."

It was like traveling with floo powder. The next second, Harry was face to face with two huge mahogany wooden doors, with two silver handles in the shape of a serpent. Harry noticed the snake instantly, and the green gem that was embedded into it, a substitution for the eye.

"He's Slytherin?" Harry asked in disbelief, staring at Hermione.

She only gave a light shrug.

That shrug hurt him more than any punch in the jaw.

All of a sudden, the door creaked open, and Harry watched, helpless and disgusted, as Darren grabbed Hermione and kissed her -right on the lips. They were frenching right in front of him. With all the sound effects, too. He could hear every slap of the tongue, the whirling of the saliva. He felt like vomiting. He couldn't believe he was watching this happen. The blood was pounding in his ears. Hermione had her eyes closed, looking as if she was in paradise.

Paradise can kiss my ass.

He pulled her arm back, so her lips were detached from Darren's, and coughed loudly. She looked startled, as if she couldn't remember what was happening, then turned scarlet. Her hands went to her red cheeks, then touched her red ears, looking uncomfortable and embarrassed. She opened her swollen lips to speak, stuttering and tripping over her words.

"I'm...umm...Sorry, that was..."

"Just let me in, all right? I'll be gone in a second."

The mule looked at Harry, as if seeing him for the first time, and gave a slight frown. Glancing sideways at Hermione, he looked back at Harry again, then positively sneered. Right at Harry's face. It was all he could do not to deliver a fist to Darren's face.

"What are you doing here?" The mule spat, giving Harry a once-over.

"He's soaked, Darren. Let's just give him some time to dry up, so he won't catch a cold, okay?" Hermione answered for Harry, giving him a little push towards the entrance to their home.

Their home.

The term made Harry's stomach turn.

The mule sneered, and gave Harry a pitying look. Harry's fists balled at his sides, and he strained to keep his temper under control. He walked stiffly into the apartment, aware of the noises Darren was making behind his back. Hermione led him to the couch, and ordered him to sit down, then ran off into her bedroom to retrieve hot towels.

Harry was alone, with the mule.

It was Darren who started the war.

"I know you want her."

The statement surprised Harry, yet triggered his anger at the same time. He was momentarily unsure of what to do. He just sat there, shivering, not offering a response.

He heard the mule give a taunting laugh.

" 'I'm we-t, won't you let me go to your house, Hermione?' " The mule went on, doing a childish imitation of Harry complaining.

"What a pathetic excuse. I know you just want a chance to get it on with my fiancée."

The word was like a stab in the groin.

Fuck you, prick.

Harry sat in silence, feeling as if he was going to explode if he didn't find a way of release. Preferably, he would like to liberate his anger through beating Darren to pulp, but that would upset Hermione terribly. What a shame. It would be so pleasurable.

The mule walked towards Harry, and crouched down right in front of him, so their faces were level. His blue eyes pierced Harry's emerald orbs, his lips stretched in an acerbic smile.

"It's just too bad, Harry. But you're never going to get her. She's mine. I'm the one that gets to fuck her every night. Not you."

In his fury, he could feel tears stinging his eyes. Harry was surprised with his own reaction. But the mule's comments wounded him deeply. They stung, even if he did his best to concentrate on his anger. Darren didn't understand. Darren would never know how much Hermione meant to him. How he lived and breathed for her being. He was made to love her. He could never fall for anyone else.

"You'll never get to hear her naughty little moans."

Then control was a thing of the past.

Harry leaped at Darren, knocking him to the floor with a loud thud. They wrestled together on the floorboards, and Harry was only vaguely aware that he was punching Darren's face. His hands were getting slippery. Everything was a blur. All he could register in his mind was the taste of blood in his mouth, the slippery feel of his hands, the rotating ceiling. He was spinning away, he was in a whirlwind.

He felt himself calm down. His taunt muscles were relaxing, and his beet red face was draining, paling. His vision cleared, and he looked down at his hands, slimy with blood. Darren was lying beneath him, his bloody face contorted in anger. He shoved Harry off his chest, and gave him a swift kick in the chin. Harry's neck snapped back, but he made no sound. He pulled himself to his feet, swaggering, wiping his own mouth with the sleeve of his robes.

"Who's laughing now, big boy?" Harry asked triumphantly, expression smug.

"Nobody."

Harry turned his head, his smirk fading as he saw Hermione standing in the doorway.

A/N: Sorry I deleted the other story; I really don't feel like continuing. I feel like I'm wasting my life writing this crap. There's nothing different about my writing. Millions of others do better. I might stop writing this fic, too. It's getting boring. I want to sleep and die or sumthing.

6. Lie

Disclaimer

Chapter Six

The taste of vengeance is betrayal.

LIE

It was like murder. She took his heart from his ribcage, smiled, then tore it to pieces. Her eyes were loathing, constructed purely of hatred. He wondered what had been done to her kindness, her tolerance, her beautiful self. She continued tearing. Shreds and shreds and shreds. Until there was nothing left, but the shadow of his image. It was like murder for incorrect justice. He wasn't sure who had been the one that made the mistake. He wasn't sure if he stood on the right ground. Maybe he never truly possessed courage, or any of the supposed "virtues". Maybe all his abilities have been driven by anger. Furious, raging, anger, directed at the whole entire world. For everything he didn't have, and never will receive.

He cried out.

A sobbing figure, curled at the corner of his dark room. Shaking, shivering, cold, and drenched. He recognized the figure as himself. Himself since childhood. Always huddled in a dark corner, endless tears welling up in his eyes, soaking his shirt. Praying for someone to take him away, to care, to be there for him unconditionally. Praying for love. His prayers were in vain. Love never came. At some point in his life, he thought he could finally deal with it. He could live a foreign life, detached from everyone else. He thought it made him stronger than anyone, if he was by himself. If he lived a life that didn't need love. He was wrong. He still went home when his wall resolved, locked up in his closet.

He stopped praying.

Then, when he met her, he fell in love. It was like being able to live again. Being able to smile, to laugh, to run, to jump. It was like a whole new experience. Something he had never felt before. He was breathing again. The world seemed different. More beautiful, more enchanting, more mysterious. The people around him cheered for him, loved him for who he was. He gave them trust. But he presented himself to her whole, flawed, true and real. She accepted him for his mistakes, his imperfection. He thought that was love. He tried to tell her so many times. And when he finally mustered enough courage to tell her, he was too late. She had somebody else.

He was crushed all over again.

And it hurt the most, because he had given everything he had. There was nothing left of himself. His days went past in a blur. In the blink of an eye, he was an adult with a job. He was panicking. He went through women one after another, out of his anger and spite. He flicked them away like bugs when he got tired of them, and got himself another within a day. That was the way things went. He still waited for her. He still held on to hope, his dreams. He was patient for that day when she came back to him, for her to see that he had been there in front of her all along.

That day was never coming.

Hope evaporated.

Another empty glass smashed against the wall, shattering into sharp pieces. Harry threw the whole entire bottle of whiskey on the floor, smiling as he heard that satisfying explosion of glass. One after another. He flipped his table over, roaring in anger, his eyes swollen and red, his face beet. Turning another shelf over, he kicked at his furniture angrily, in the dark, smashing whatever was in his way. He threw a chair towards the window, glass shards flying all over the place. He shattered a mirror with his fists, took the broken frame off the wall, then flung it down at the floor. He fell to his knees, choking on his sobs, hardly able to breathe. He bellowed in anger, the veins on his neck popping with his screams, and the whole house seemed to shake. Every window shattered. He was losing control and restraint of his dark powers.

He stood up shakily, his black hair in his face. He tasted blood on his lips. Walking over to the phone, he stepped on the crushed glass, oblivious to the shards digging into his heels. He dialed the number, holding the receiver close to his ear.

He got the answering machine.

"Hello, this is Hermione Granger. I am currently unable to answer your call, so please leave a message at the beep."

Harry hated muggle phones. Darren adored them.

"Hermione," Harry panted into the phone. "I know you're there. Please pick up. I know I've already called. I just want to hear your voice." He paused uncertainly.

"I'm sorry for what I did to Darren. But if you'd just let me explain...I know what I did was unforgivable, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I can't be happy for you. I'm sorry if I've been such a...bad friend. What am I supposed to say? How can I express how...how...sorry I am? I made a mistake. I lost control of myself. What is done is done. I can't reverse the damage, Hermione! I'm so sorry. I want you to be happy, Hermione. I really do. Please believe me." He sucked in a shaky breath. "I haven't been completely honest with you. There's so much I need to tell you. I can't. Don't you understand? I want to be there for you. I can't. It's hard to explain. I don't want to tell you over the phone. But...Hermione, I-"

"Harry."

He stopped at the sound of her voice. His heart stopped beating.

"If you ring me again, I'm going to have to call upon the Order."

"I...Hermione..."

"Good bye, Harry."

He heard the dial tone buzzing in his ear.

He stood there unmoving, still holding the phone. Then without warning, he ripped the cord from the wall, and flung the telephone across the room. He smashed the receiver again and again against the wall, unaware that he was ruining his own hands in his destruction. Splinters stuck to his wrists, and a large slab of skin hung loosely from his hand. He had managed to get blood everywhere. He screamed, then heavily tossed the damaged phone to the living room, where it joined the skeletons of three other phones. He slumped to the floor, leaning his head back against the wall. He knocked the back of his skull painfully towards the wall again and again, fury blinding his conscience. And just when he thought his head could crack into two halves, he had a memory flashback.

He was in the their house again. He was kneeling over the mule, his fist clenched, his teeth bared. There was a steady pain from his gut, where the mule had successfully delivered a kick. Darren lay underneath him, breathing hard, his face bloody and bruised.

'Who's laughing now, big boy?'

'Nobody.'

Hermione was standing in front of Harry, wand in hand. Her eyes were red, and she looked as if she was on the verge of tears. He saw her lower lip quaver. She nervously bit her lip, still pointing her thin, black wand at Harry's scar. Perspiration was forming on her forehead, trickling down the side of her face. There was a tint of red in her cheeks, and her lips were pink and moist. All Harry wanted to do was to hold her in his arms and wipe away her tears. He wanted to be the one to tell her that everything was going to be okay. She wiped the sweat from her brow, her eyes clouded with worry and fear. She whispered something incomprehensible, then raised her voice.

'Stupefy!'

Harry was instantly frozen. There was a burning sensation around his neck, and he found he couldn't blink. Couldn't so much as flicker his eyelid. He stopped breathing. His heart paused it's beating. It was like dying. He could feel his lungs close off, his blood circulation halt. Then he could no longer feel. There was a tingling numb, and then nothing at all. It was fascinating. It was like an arrow through the heart.

He watched as Hermione ran towards Darren, falling to her knees. Then, they were locked together in a tight embrace. She tenderly touched his bruised face, tucking his perfect blonde hair behind his ears. She traced a line along his angular jaw, and outlined his lip. It was worse than watching a horror movie.

"Did he hurt you?"

Darren smiled at her.

"It's all right. I'm fine."

"But I should get you to the hospital."

He laughed. "For this little thing? It's no big deal, honest."

She looked at him hesitantly. Then glanced sideways at Harry.

"Okay. If you say so. Come on, I'll clean your cuts."

They left the room.

His hearing was dwindling, along with his vision. Everything was becoming blurry all of a sudden; his world was blacking out. He could hear faint noises coming from the bathroom. The light had been switched on. There were soft murmurs, which later blended into a steady hum. Then there was no sound at all. Just an infinite silence.

Then Hermione appeared beside him. She was crying. He could not hear her weep. Her face was unrecognizable, but he could tell it was she. Teardrops splattered onto his immobile face, where his green eyes were still wide open. He could no longer see. He had no recognition of what happened after that. When he awoke, he found himself in his bedroom, on his own bed. He just lay there for an entire day, listening to the seconds tick by, watching his window turn orange, purple, then black. And when he finally pulled himself out of bed, he called her.

There was nothing but rejection.

He was tired of waiting.

Harry stood up. He lumbered into a bathroom, turning on the light with a snap of his thumb and middle finger. He stood in front of the sink, and tugged at the tap. He watched the water swivel and slide, rotating in the porcelain. He looked up. His reflection greeted him in the mirror. He could do nothing but stare. There was blood all over the left side of his cheek, and a gash was visible under his eye. He violently pulled the mirror from the bathroom tiles that made up the wall, and smashed it to pieces against his knee and thigh. He left the bathroom, stumbling toward the corridor, in search of another telephone.

The light was left on.

Auhurel entered the house. She had been thinking about him all week. Despite the fact that she had been anticipating the damage, it was still a shock to her. The place looked as if it had been bombed. Everything was in ruins, scattered across the floor. There was the distinctive stink of alcohol in the room, mixed with sweat. She looked at the broken windows, surveying the wreckage.

"Harry?" She called, her voice shaking.

There was no response.

"HARRY?!"

She stepped into the ex-living room. The place was dark. She could not find a light switch anywhere. Stepping over the remains of the broken furniture, she looked for suitable places to walk on. Her hair fell in her face as she bent over, trying to see in the darkness. Annoyed, she pulled a rubber band off her wrist, and quickly tied her blonde hair into a ponytail.

"HARRY!!"

Only the silence welcomed her.

Suddenly, she was afraid. Goosebumps appeared on her flawless skin, and she rubbed her arms, as if she was cold. She spied the kitchen around corner, and quickly hopped over. She put her hand on the counter, trying to regain her composure as nausea slapped her in the face, from the strong odor of the alcohol. Her hand came in contact with a wet fluid. She thought it was whiskey at first. But when she sniffed at her own fingers, realization swept through her. Blood. Her pulse accelerated instantly.

"Harry?" She whispered, her knees feeling weak.

She pulled her wand from the pocket of her coat, her hand trembling.

"Lumos!"

A spark set off at the end of her wand, and grew into a large glob of glowing light.Her vision focused, andshe could see clearly. There was a trail of blood on the floor, some splattered on the wall, in red, flashing dots. She saw the light from the corridor. No longer afraid, she quickly walked toward the bathroom, still on the look out for Harry. Just as she was about to enter the restroom, she saw a crumpled form near the foot of the stairs. She knew it was Harry instantly. She ran towards him, and cradled his head in her lap.

"Harry! Please wake up!"

He moved a little, as if considering her plea, but did not open his eyes. She looked at his tearstained face, the dried blood that crusted the side of his mouth, his left cheek. She saw the ruins of his mangled hand, the blood soaked front of his shirt. She shook his shoulder gently, pushing the hair out of his face, so that his lightening bolt scar was visible. She leaned to whisper in his ear.

"Wake up."

This time, he responded.

"Hermione?"

A/N: I hope that was satisfying. I can't write any more chapters after this. I guess I am not as rigid as I thought, considering that I have decided to post another chapter. I cant remember whom to thank. I'm surprised that people could actually be so devoted to fanfic. I thought this was something you do in your spare time.

7. Luck

Disclaimer

Chapter Seven

Truth lies at the unreachable bottom.

LUCK

Ronald Weasley had never been more pissed off in his life.

"How can you say that, Hermione?? Doesn't he mean ANYTHING to you?"

"Not after what he's done, Ron."

"You're just going to throw away your friendship because of a stupid misunderstanding?"

"There ISN'T a MISUNDERSTANDING, okay?? You SAW what he did to Darren! What is done is done. There's simply no excuse for what happened."

"But you didn't even give him a chance to explain!!"

"I DON'T THINK THERE ARE ANY ACCEPTABLE EXCUSES TO WHAT HE'S DONE. DO YOU THINK WHAT HE'S DONE CAN BE EXCUSED?"

"You still don't even know half the story!"

"And maybe I don't want to listen to any more explanations! Maybe I'm tired of his outbursts! Maybe I'm sick of his rudeness! He's not the same person anymore, Ron. Don't you see that?"

"But he is! He's still Harry Potter!! He'll always be Harry Potter! And maybe it was Darren's fault -"

"HOW DARE YOU TRY TO BLAME DARREN FOR WHAT'S HAPPENED. HARRY BEAT HIM UP, FOR CHRISSAKE! AND YOU'RE STILL TRYING TO DEFEND HIM?? DARREN HAD TO GO TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM!! THAT'S HOW BADLY HE WAS HURT, RON. I CAN'T IMAGINE HIM DOING ANYTHING TO DESERVE THAT KIND OF TREATMENT -"

"God, Just LISTEN TO YOURSELF!! All you talk about is Darren, Darren, DARREN!! I'm sick of it, Hermione!! And you don't even understand Harry at ALL! To think you're his BEST FRIEND!! Haven't you noticed why he's acting so upset?? Don't you know anything?"

"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!! GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!! I DON'T WANT TO LISTEN TO YOU!!"

Ron's face turned the shade of his flaming hair. For a second, he considered hexing Hermione. He couldn't believe what she was saying. He couldn't believe Harry, either. He was just so mad. How could people be so STUPID? So blind?

They stood glaring at each other, across the glass table placed in the center of the living room. They were no longer sitting. Ron had arrived at Hermione's flat for one sole purpose, and he had long forgotten what it was. Their conversation was turning downright ugly, and neither could do anything to stop it. Anger had made them sightless, only so they could point an accusing finger to each other's noses, amidst their shouting. Hermione, who was usually calm and composed, was finally brought under a transformation. Her nostrils flared, along with her temper, and she had been shouting with the same vigor as Ron.

While Ron was having a hard time believing Hermione, she was equally disturbed. She simply couldn't comprehend why everyone was so keen on being part of Harry's allies. She had done nothing wrong; and yet the whole world was against her. Even her best friend, Ginny, had screamed at her for being a "complete and total bitch". She couldn't figure out why everyone hated Darren, either. He was polite, charming, and, naturally, perfect. There was nothing contemptible of him, but everyone seemed to despise him nonetheless. Even Ron, who was in favor of Darren in the beginning, had changed his mind. She understood Harry least of all. She had graciously forgiven him, though she admits that she had been a little too harsh, but the next second, he's turned his back on her again, and beats her fiance to pulp. Nothing seemed to make any sense.

Just as Hermione was opening her mouth to holler again, Ron delivered a slap to her face. She touched her stinging cheek in shock, gasping. The room was suddenly eerily silent.

"In case you're wondering, Harry is hurt badly. And I daresay that it's your fault completely."

Hermione's mouth slacked a little.

"What happened?"

Ron gave her an irritable look, before casting his eyes angrily at the ground.

"Don't start acting like you still care about him, Hermione."

"But, Ron-"

"You broke his heart, you know?"

Ron interrupted, looking up at her, his eyes filled with angry tears. He stared hard at Hermione, lips pressed tightly together. She only stared back, with eyes wide open, unsure of what to say. She wanted so badly to beg for her forgiveness. She wanted so badly to wrap her arms around Ron, so they could cry together. She was tired of the constant fighting. They had been the golden trio, once. She wished she could go back to those perfect days. They were never meant to be apart.

She saw the fleeting image of Harry then, sitting at the Three Broomsticks Bar after the big night of their graduation. His eyes were alight with happiness, gleaming like green emeralds. His smile was so broad; she couldn't help but smile back at him. He looked at Ron with brotherly love, then turned his eyes to rest on her. She felt important; like she finally belonged. She remembered thinking she saw something in his eyes, when he looked over at her, his smile soft and eyes tender. It was only a flash, less than a heartbeat, then it was gone.

"To us, because we were meant to be together always."

They brought up their mugs of butterbeer, in a loud cheer, and their glasses crashed together, so that it's contents spilled on the table. They laughed, then slumped in their seats, taking a huge gulp out of their drinks. Hermione couldn't help but wonder why Harry had been staring at her as he said those words. Her heart was fluttering, but she had ignored it. The phrase repeated in her head now, resounding.

Together always.

"I'm sorry,"

Hermione whispered, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

Ron didn't respond. He just stared at her without really seeing, blinking back his tears.

"You should be saying that to Harry."

Then he apparated, vanishing into thin air.

It was the solitude that caused the downpour of tears.

Harry Potter slumped in his seat, sighing.

"This is just great. Now on top of my wounded pride, there's my wounded arm."

Ginny looked at him without much sympathy.

"You can only blame yourself, idiot." George pointed out, earning a laugh from Fred. When they saw the frown on Ginny's face, their laughter died immediately.

"Sorry." Fred and George mumbled in unison, casting their eyes to the floor. Then they burst out laughing again, unable to contain themselves.

Harry pretended not to notice, and Ginny gave him a sidelong glance. Nothing could bother him anymore. He had hit rock bottom. He shrugged, then reached for another biscuit, with his good hand. Ginny leaned forward, intending to get the biscuit for Harry herself.

"I don't need help, thanks," Harry snapped, and Ginny shrank back into her seat, crossing her arms almost protectively over her stomach.

"Have it your way, Potter. But remember, I did bake them."

His mood was still unstable, due to the rather disconcerting events last night. Auhurel was already home, dismissed by Harry with a half-hearted thanks. He had slept over at the Weasley residence, while the hired house elves cleaned up his wreckage. He could go home, and spend the rest of the days in solitary. But right now, he preferred sitting here at the dining table, surrounded by a bunch of redhead goons.

There was the faint sound of someone entering the house, and Ron's face appeared at the entrance to the dining room. He walked in silently, his face blank. He took a seat beside Ginny, and sighed heavily. He looked at Harry, lips parted open to speak.

"You really blew it this time."

Everyone's face turned towards Harry, anticipating his reaction.

He shrugged again.

"I know."

Ginny threw her hands up.

"That's it, then? You're going to leave it at that? In case you haven't realized, Harry, you do have a life to return to. You can't sit at this table forever and sulk about Hermione."

"Thanks for the reminder, genius, but I think I knew that." Harry spat irritably, raking his hand through his black hair.

"Why don't you get on with it and bloody tell her that you love her?" Fred asked.

Harry seemed to slide lower in his seat.

"Doesn't matter. Too late now."

"I can't believe that just came from you, Harry Potter. Are you telling me that you're a quitter?" Ginny exclaimed, now pacing front and back in the room.

"No. I'm just telling you that I'm tired. She's made it clear that she harbors no feelings for me whatsoever, and their wedding is only two weeks away. The only sensible thing to do would be to return to my life."

"And spend the rest of it as a pathetic little man who couldn't even confess his own feelings to his best friend?" Ginny retorted, her voice shrill.

"What do you suggest I do? She won't even answer my goddamn call! If I show up at her door, she's only going to slam the damn thing in my face! She wanted me put away in prison. I've lost her trust. I've lost her everything."

I've lost her.

"You're a man, Harry. Don't you know how to fight?"

"She doesn't want to listen to me anymore. She simply doesn't give a shit. She's so smitten with that Darren wanker, it's like she's lost her mind."

"I don't think so," Fred interrupted calmly. "Put yourself in her position. She doesn't know why you hate Darren so much. She doesn't understand why you're so intent on punching the lights out of the wanker. She doesn't know the truth behind why you've leapt on Darren like a madman. She doesn't know anything, really. Hermione is a sensible woman. She knows what's right; but the only facts she sees points only to you acting like a lunatic."

"You know, Fred's got a point," Ginny admitted, hoping this would encourage Harry.

"For once," George snorted, rolling his eyes.

"That doesn't mean anything. Nothing's going to change if she knew. She's going to forgive me, sure, and we'll just go back to being friends. Don't you people get it? I was always just a friend to her. And that's all I'll ever be. So I might as well just get over it and just be happy for her."

Ginny got up from her seat, standing up and staring straight into Harry's eyes. "If that's your decision, it's fine with me. I'm not the one throwing my life away. Some things were meant to be, Harry. Why don't you figure that one out?"

"I'm off to bed," she announced, looking away from Harry. "Good night."

Ginny walked out of the room, her footsteps faintly echoing on the stairs.

Harry felt ridiculously cheap as he walked down the street, holding a bouquet of roses in his hand. It was so clichéd, to be begging for forgiveness. A part of him knew that it was something he had to do; yet he felt his rage bubbling beneath his skin. The unfairness of it all. This was the only reality that was living, and he was part of the nightmarish game.

He rounded a corner, wondering what he was to say when he saw her. She'd probably slam the door right at his face. He didn't know if he could take it for another second. He had to see her. Every minute he spent away from her was torture. She was the magnet, and he was a succumbing piece of iron. And what of it? He wasn't going to get what he wanted. It was solely for the purpose to be able to claim, "at least I tried."

Harry's arm had began to tingle from the cold, and his shoulders trembled in fatigue and pain. He stopped in front of the building, his breath coming in short little puffs. White smoke blew out from his mouth, and the tip of his nose was frozen red. His cheeks were flushed. He caught a shadow of a figure exiting the lift.

Darren.

He ducked behind the door in a swift motion, hoping the mule hadn't spotted him. He could feel his face growing hot with the magnitude of his anger. That man was the man that ruined his entire fucked up life. And how dare he? He was only an outsider, not part of the triangle that the trio had formed. Another added angle would make it a quadrilateral. But then again, perhaps Darren had already replaced Harry's spot.

There was no place for him now.

This is stupid, Harry thought angrily. Darren was heading his way. Harry could only hope that the shadows would be his temporarily sanction. Yet God was punishing him again, almost demanding that the offer of one last chance to be eliminated. Too late. Darren turned and stared straight into Harry's eyes, not bothering to mask his hatred. The only tiny pleasure Harry received was seeing Darren all bandaged up, and knowing at least he had paid back with little harm. But it still counted as something.

At this point, anything counted as something.

"What are you doing here?" Darren spat, stealing a glance at the red roses in Harry's hand.

"Hermione," Harry managed to choke, suddenly feeling very exhausted.

Darren laughed coldly.

"You can forget about it, you piece of shit," he said evenly, though his voice was edged with icy malice. "She doesn't need a murdering psycho around her."

Psycho. So that was what it all came down to. He was a dangerous threat to her. He ought to be put away in jail. Harry was silent, his gaze glued to the floor.

"Just get the hell away from here."

Harry didn't need to be told twice. He turned and walked away, listening to the sound of his heart breaking. He stopped at an alley. There would be a garbage can there. He strolled past, dumping the entire bouquet into the black plastic bag that looked like a swallowing hole. There was a triumphant air of liberation as he continued walking, knowing that somehow, by walking away, he would make everyone happy.

It didn't matter much, anyway. It was better that Darren told him to piss off, rather than Hermione.

What a piece of luck.

A/N:

About time I finished something, for a change.

But really, when I'm depressed, I can do whatever the fuck I want.

And gentlemen, please be more courteous towards ladies.

8. Mistake

Disclaimer

Chapter Eight

The past is an obstacle to the future.

MISTAKE

He had been the first customer to her bookshop. When he entered, she had been on all fours, knees bent, desperately wiping the dust-covered cupboard that was soon to be her personal storage. She had crawled into the little cube, to get better access, and her small frame caused no burden. Then Darren came in, soundlessly, through the open door, almost as if he was floating. Hermione figured he probably had spent quite an amount of time viewing her bottom before he finally chose to speak. She was still slightly embarrassed on the subject; it was no ordinary introduction.

"Miss?" He asked, as politely as he could, careful not to project his voice.

It still surprised her nonetheless.

She immediately responded to his voice, though it only resulted in slamming the back of her skull against the wooden boards. She winced, and shouted "Ouch!" simultaneously, and she heard a stifled chuckle behind her. Feeling defensive and indignant, she backed out of the cupboard, and straightened her back, drawing herself to her full height. Then she whirled around to face the intruder, prepared to launch into a full lecture about common courtesy.

She found herself staring at a polo shirt. Or rather, the chest of a man clad in a polo shirt. It irked her to know that she was shorter in height, and it further irritated her that he was standing so close. She felt the urge to shove him backwards, but she was aware that this man was her first customer. She stepped back, to get the full view of his face.

It took every fiber of her being not to swoon.

His tantalizing blue eyes bore directly into her brown pools. Hermione felt her knees go wobbly. He grinned, suddenly, two dimples appearing on his clean-shaven cheeks, and his eyes were sparkling with a boyish mischief. She thought she was going to melt. He ran a hand through his ash blonde hair, his gaze glancing briefly at the floor, then traveling back to meet Hermione's level stare.

He chuckled again.

Hermione snapped back to reality.

"Excuse me, sir, but I don't think it would do any harm to knock next time before entering," she said, primly.

He laughed out loud, tilting his head back a little, then promptly stopped.

"So sorry, miss. Does your head hurt?"

Hermione was momentarily confused.

"What?" she asked distractedly, wondering if the man had lost his mind.

"Your head. You bumped it against the cupboard a while ago."

She mentally cursed herself for being stupid.

"No. I mean yes. I mean no, I know what you meant, but yes, my head does hurt."

He looked genuinely concerned.

"Let me see."

And before Hermione knew what he was doing, he had cradled her head against his chest, and was running his large hands through her hair. He touched her bump gently. Hermione was stunned. Who was this man? And why does he have to be so damn attractive?

"Well, your head does have a little bump, but other than that, I'd say there are no permanent damages."

He released her, and she immediately wanted his hands back in her hair.

"I'm Darren Smith, by the way."

Hermione's jaw dropped.

"No, you're not serious! I had no idea! You're the actual Darren Smith? The representative player for Sweden? I watched almost all of your Quidditch matches! I didn't know you were so good-looking in person-"

She cut herself off mid-sentence. Did she just say that out loud? Hermione could already feel her cheeks burning. The tips of her ears turned red, and she cupped her hands around her cheeks, wanting to disappear.

"I'm so surprised! The famous Hermione Granger, a fan of mine?"

Hold on a minute. How on earth did he know her name?

"You know who I am?"

"Of course I do. The only female member of the golden trio. Best friend of Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived. I still remember the time your picture appeared on the Daily Prophet. I spent days staring at your profile."

Well, this man certainly wasted no time.

She felt a pang of hurt at the mention of Harry's name. She had announced the opening day of her bookshop a few weeks before, and Harry had promised he would make it to the party. But he had failed to arrive. He didn't show up. It had been an important day to her; and it made her angry to think that her best friend had missed it. Harry had gotten an emergency mission. It was "a must", as he liked to put it. He sent her flowers and cards to make it up to her, but she had never truly forgiven him for it.

After all, the old Harry would have never missed out.

"Are you all right?"

Darren's voice interrupted her thoughts, cutting in sharply.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"You looked a little lost there."

Hermione managed to squeeze a smile.

"I was asking you if you wanted to join me for dinner. It would mean a lot to me if you'd say yes."

Hermione felt her cheeks flush. She couldn't believe her luck. Standing right in front of her, wearing a polo shirt and a cheeky smile, was the man of her dreams. Well, not exactly the man of her dreams, but pretty darn close. And he was interested in her. That counted as something. And he seemed pretty sincere.

"Are you asking me out on a date?" Hermione found herself asking.

Darren shrugged his broad shoulders.

"If you want me to be."

Who could resist him?

She spent the rest of the day with him. They chatted happily through dinner, and Darren had taken her to an ice cream pallor to grab an evening snack. They walked together down the street. Hermione couldn't remember when it had started, but they were holding hands, smiling at each other, oblivious to the chill of the night. It felt exactly like love. And it was.

They dated steadily for five months, while Harry was away, working. She called him as often as possible, updating on the events of her life, events between herself and Darren. Harry had not been happy when she told him that she was seeing someone new. He had never shown any interest in any of the men that she's dated, and was often critical. He had almost convinced Hermione that there was no one suitable for her in the world; until Darren came along. And she knew, from the first time she looked up to see his smile, that he could be the one. None of what Harry said could change her mind. So she said the words "I love you", and got engaged.

Everything was perfect.

She should have known it wasn't going to last forever.

Because she knew that no matter how hard she tried to hide it, she still had that soft spot for that someone all along.

She still thought of that man, even when she was wrapped in Darren's comforting arms.

The strong denial that had stood strong grounds in her heart had been diminished the day Harry came back from his mission in Ukraine. He had written to neither Ron nor Hermione to announce his return, so it turned out to be a complete surprise. She had been dating Darren for three months, and was head over heels in love - it seemed, until she saw Harry.

He was in her apartment when she came home, warming his hands by the fire. It seemed such a ridiculously old fashioned thing to do; but there he was, sitting, rubbing his hands together. It shocked her with such intensity that she simply stood by her door, dumbfounded, with her door wide open. She hadn't made any noise when she entered, but Harry had sensed her presence. He always seemed to know exactly when she entered a room. It always unnerved her, this special talent of his, yet it pleased her a great deal. He turned to her then, just his head, his skin glowing by the dim light of the fire.

He had changed. She had never noticed it before, but he had. It wasn't the accentuated line of his jaw, or how the color of his eyes had became a green that was so disturbingly enchanting, but there was this sadness about him that she had never noticed before. And he had every right to feel sad; of course he did. He had lost so many people that were close to his heart - but she had never actually seen him cry. He wasn't crying, but the melancholy aura about him could not be mistaken. He wasn't going to remain that naughty disobedient boy forever, she knew that for certain, but he had changed in a way that was foreign to her. For a split second, she had absolutely no idea who the man sitting by her fireplace was. Of course the thought was preposterous. But she still had it nevertheless.

He stared at her for a long moment. She stared right back, suddenly realizing how attractive her best friend was. The midnight hair, the curls that always fell in front of his eyes, his emerald orbs that were dancing and wicked. Then she almost cursed out loud for even having that sort of notion, but she couldn't help herself. Yes, there were certainly reasons to why he was so popular amongst the female population. He was the most elegantly handsome man she had ever laid eyes on. For a split second she was almost sorry she was with Darren. But it was only a second.

Then he whispered her name.

He said it in a way she never thought possible. She never heard Harry use that tone of voice with her. It was like some sort of purr, a wounded, deep, guttural sound. A plea of desperation. It sounded like he almost...well, almost wanted her. Badly. But of course that was impossible. Of course. But in that instant, she realized she wanted him too. And all of a sudden, she was very, very, afraid. She wanted to smile and envelope him in a friendly hug, as she had so many times before. She wanted to laugh and ask how his trip had been, to savor over every little detail he offered her. But she couldn't. All her attention was focused in that deep arousal he had caused in her. She stood until she thought the tension would snap her body in half. Then she fled. Ran as fast as her legs could carry her. She didn't hear Harry call after her, to inquire what had caused such a reaction. Perhaps he understood. Perhaps. She turned on her heel and left him there, still sitting by the fireplace, a hollow look on his face.

She spent the night with Darren.

When she woke the next morning, everything felt normal. She left Darren before he woke from his bed, with a simple note telling her that she had gone home. And when she made her way back to her flat, she discovered both Ron and Harry, quarreling over the last chocolate frog she had stored in her sweets cabinet. She interrupted them with an eruption of laughter. For no reason at all, the sight of them fighting over something as trivial as a chocolate frog was so frighteningly familiar, she just found it so...hilarious. And of course, they started laughing together, although Harry was blushing in that adorable way he does. Then everything was the way it had always been, Hermione chatting nonstop about Darren, whom Harry had never met.

He never mentioned the incident again.

She went along with it. She was fine with never having to have a discussion. She didn't want to deal with her newfound emotions. She had been so surprised; the only course of action she could think of taking was to ignore it. Pretend like it never happened. Besides, she was happy with Darren. So that was that. Neither Harry nor Hermione ever talked about that night. Perhaps Harry had felt it wasn't of much importance; after all, nothing outrageous had occurred. But it had shaken Hermione, because she was the one that held the conflicting emotions. So she busied herself with Darren. And when she was with him, she forgot about Harry completely.

Harry left for another mission two days after his return.

She didn't know whether she should be relieved or heartbroken.

So she was neither.

It felt like a lifetime of loving the one thing he could not have.

He knew it was only about a decade, how he'd fancied her for all those years. She never seemed to notice. She was the same, his best friend, mentor, and companion. She still scolded him bossily when he forgot to finish his assignments, gave him textbooks every year at Christmas. It was torture, the waiting. And yet, was he really waiting? What did he expect to happen? She wasn't about to turn into his lover over night. She wasn't about to start noticing him as anything but a friend.

He had lost his chance ten years ago.

And now she was getting married.

What could he possibly do? He couldn't make her fall in love with him within two weeks. How could he force her into loving him? The entire concept was wrong. She was in love with another man. Darren, the mule. Time to face the bloody truth. And even if it was going to hurt him, he still had some satisfaction knowing that she would be happy.

And that was all that really mattered.

He had always been the "watcher". Viewed her from a distance, making sure that nothing harmed her in any way. He came to think of himself as her guardian angel. And Hermione would need him there to protect her. Of course she never thanked him for any of his deeds, since the coming onslaught never actually occurred, but he knew she would be gratified. That was good enough for him.

He was damned to be this way.

Just watching from the shadows.

A/N: I said it was about time I finished something. I don't see how that ends my story.

9. Unexpected

Disclaimer

Chapter Nine

Expect the unexpected.

UNEXPECTED

Harry sat on his mattress couch, hugging his knees, staring out the window. It would soon be snowing. The whole world was a mysterious blue; and the mist only contributed to the overall effect of the midnight ocean. A chilly wind blew outside, running through the grass, making the window vibrate softly. He coughed, his breath coming in white wispy puffs, then shivered involuntarily. He gave an exasperated sigh, summoned his wand, and lit the fireplace. He was sitting too far from the flames to get warm, and the vastness of the house could not be illuminated with so feeble a blaze. The room was hushed and cold. Harry continued to gaze out the window, his eyes focused on the same spot, his mind wandering to places.

It was the knocking that broke the spell.

Harry turned with dull eyes to the general direction of the banging. He felt too tired to move. His limbs were as heavy as lead. He desperately wanted the pounding to stop; it was beginning to give him a headache. Slowly, torturously, he rose from the cushions, and then strode over, opening the front door a tiny crack. He peered from behind his door, wary and mildly irritated.

Hermione was the last person he expected to be standing there.

And yet, there she was, right in front of him, still stunningly beautiful. Without even the faintest of smiles. Her eyes were glazed over, her lower lip trembling, her face stony. Harry stared, speechless, incapable of doing anything but gawk idiotically. Her face was blank, and Harry was unable to read her expression. They did not exchange any words, or a single nod of acknowledgement. Then Harry looked away, feeling as if his lungs were collapsing, his pulse fading.

"Harry," Hermione started, her voice shaky.

Then she burst into tears.

He watched her bury her face in her palms, staring mutely as her shoulders began to tremble. Her sobs echoed through the empty room. He was aware that he should be baffled by her strange behavior, but he only felt a numbing calm. He wondered if he had unconsciously been waiting for this moment all along. It seemed like his last guilty chance to catch her in her emotional state and confess his feelings for her. Harry took a step forward, and wrapped his arms around her. She immediately grabbed his shoulders, her nails digging into his flesh, her head falling into the familiar cradle of his chest. He stroked her hair, soothing her, whispering into her ear.

"What's wrong?" Harry murmured, a little breathless.

She looked up at his face, her red face blotchy and tear-stained. He brushed his thumb over her pale, smooth cheek, longing to kiss her. She took a long, wobbly breath, trying to calm herself, but her face crumpled, and she let out another pungent cry. Harry just stood there, holding her, more satisfied than he had ever been in his entire pathetic life. He hated himself for even daring to be content in her misery; but she was in his arms at last. That was all that mattered.

"It's D-Darren." Hermione finally said, barely able to choke out her words.

Harry stiffened. His arms dropped from her waist, and he hung his head, forcing himself to listen to her words. He didn't want to talk about Darren. He didn't want to hear his name. Not coming from Hermione's lips. Never.

"He cheated on me."

What?

"He's been cheating on me the whole time, Harry. He's been screwing around with another woman."

She spat the words, as if they were fungus on her tongue. Harry didn't know whether he wanted to comfort her or beat Darren into pulp. That bloody, bloody mule. He didn't even deserve Hermione. How could that bastard? How could he even bring himself to leave her for another shit of a woman? The idea was so outrageously absurd, Harry had to wait five seconds before the words finally sank in.

Hermione swallowed, then squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, there was only rage. A furious, ravaging anger that left Harry aghast.

"How could he do that to me? I loved him so much, Harry. How could he just trample all over me? How could he treat me like I was some trash? Do you know what he said? He told me that we weren't right for each other". That we should reconsider. That marriage was a big mistake. That we should just remain friends". Friends! After all those months that I spent together with him, he delivered his speech without so much as batting an eyelash."

She paused for breath, her chest heaving up and down heavily. Harry felt like he was being sliced up, his heart being shredded, mutilated. He was aching for her. Hermione's auburn hair fell over her flushed cheeks, and her fists were clenched tightly. She couldn't stop shaking.

"Everything I've done for him all amounts to nothing. Why couldn't he see my efforts? He told me that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. He told me that he loved me with his heart and soul. Heart and soul my bloody arse! I saw them. It was awful. I walked in on them. He was fucking her on our bed," She shook her head, panting. Why did it have to be me? Why doesn't anyone ever love me? Why can't men stay loyal? Nobody loves me, Harry. No man ever will. They all want to be friends-"

"That's not true, Hermione-"

She didn't seem to hear him. She continued ranting and raving, throwing her hands up in the air crazily, her eyes wide and wild.

"I worked so hard to be something; someone... I wanted to prove myself to the world. I wanted to show them that I wasn't just a loser. But I was wrong. They were right all along, Harry! I'm pathetic. Pathetic. I'm just Hermione the bookworm, the mudblood, the filth. I've wasted my entire life. Look at me. I don't even have a proper job! And now I can't even have a family. I've only dated three men my entire life. Only three men out of millions have ever noticed me. Is it because I'm ugly? I'm not smart enough? That I'm too much of a bore-"

"No," Harry interrupted firmly, grabbing her hand in his.

"You're beautiful, Hermione. And you're the smartest woman I'll ever know. You're generous, sweet, caring...you're perfect. Men would walk through the Sahara for you, whether you realize it or not. And you are someone. Dr. Hermione Granger, so fucking sexy and brilliant. You're the world to me. You're my whole entire fucking world, Hermione. You're everything to Ron, the whole Weasley family, your parents, friends...do I even need to continue? You're standing at the top of the world and you can't see that cause it's too cloudy. That's all. Don't let Darren get you down; he was only a fool that wasted your precious time."

She shook her head, her curls fanning out, falling limply in front of her face.

"You're biased as a friend, Harry. I know that you feel the need to be protective and stand on my side, but the truth is, I don't need your sympathy. I can see now. See myself and my goddamn stupidity."

"Why is it so hard for you to believe you're loved?"

She looked startled by the question. She looked up at Harry, finding his gaze locked with hers, his eyes flashing. He had a look of determination on his face, mixed with something else she couldn't quite place. She became self-conscious, and fidgeted a little under the intensity of his stare. It felt awkward, how she was standing so close to this friend, this man, who was so irrefutably attractive and handsome with his raven hair and green eyes.

She had no answer. There was only one thought occupying her mind.

Why am I not with him?

Her stubborn pride was forcing her to say something. Anything.

Kiss me.

"Because..."

But she was silenced when Harry's lips came crashing down on hers.

It was almost ironical, how he answered her prayer immediately. Then she was melting into a hot puddle of heavenly bliss. Her mind fogged over, and she could only succumb to the intensity and tenderness of the kiss. Harry only knew urgency, his hands touching her cheeks, her neck, her hair, scorching her skin. He had waited a lifetime for this moment, fantasized about it for years, but nothing measured up to the kiss of reality. Hermione felt as if she was floating in a surreal dream. One minute she was exploding, the next she was swept off her feet by a gentle wave. Then all of a sudden, there was only clarity. Inimitable light.

She was falling for her best friend.

And it was wrong.

"Stop."

She didn't even want him to.

It was a pleading command, razor-sharp. Something shattered in him. Harry froze, and Hermione shoved him hard in the chest. He stumbled backwards, dazed and confused. He could still taste her on his lips. He focused on her face, the eyes that were red and puffy, swollen and bruised lips.

"This is a mistake."

The little wound on his heart tore open an inch wider.

He had to bring himself to ask the question.

"Is it because of Darren?"

Hermione nodded her head slowly. There was only a dull aching.

"Do you still have feelings for him?"

He had been careful not to use the word 'love'. She shook her head sadly.

"I don't know."

She could see that he was hurt.

"You can't just do this. You can't just walk into my life and ruin me forever. You can't just turn up at my door and expect me to do whatever you want me to -"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean, Harry?"

He didn't even know what he was saying anymore. He was just so fed up with everything, so fed up with rejection. It just kept coming. He was a pool of dead water that the mosquitoes just wouldn't leave alone. And every time he thought he could finally get over it, he was having his heart broken again. Again and again and again.

Fuck that.

"You've been ignoring me for quite a while. To be honest, I'm sick of it. I'm sick of pleading for your forgiveness. I'm sick of feeling like a miserable fuck. I'm sick of you and I'm sick of Darren. I'm sick of waiting for you to return my calls. You've locked me out of your life, offering me nothing but a cold shoulder. I can't deal with this shit. Just minutes ago you still hated me, and the next you're crying in my arms. Hot and Cold. What comes next, Hermione? What am I supposed to wait for?"

She felt like screaming.

"Excuse me? Am I hearing you correctly? Do you even deserve my forgiveness? You've given me reason to ignore you. You were beating up my fianc? remember? You humiliated me publicly. I just don't understand why you couldn't be happy for me, Harry. I've given you chances, and you just keep blowing them away. I can't keep on giving you chances, Harry. It just doesn't work that way."

I'm fucking in love with you, you fucking retard. I'm fucking in love with you.

He could only shake his head, forlorn.

"Why are you even here, Hermione? There's nothing for you anymore."

She looked surprised, shocked, then angry. She shook her head almost disbelievingly.

"I thought we were friends. I thought you could at least be a little understanding. I thought you could offer comfort; the way you've always been able to. I didn't think my expectations were high. I didn't think I was asking too much."

She still somehow made him feel like a complete failure.

She lifted her eyes to him, icily. She wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted him to hurt like he had hurt her. The room was starting to spin. She felt puzzled. There was an obscure murkiness blurring her mind, distorting her thoughts, impeding her from thinking properly.

Why are you even here, Hermione?

"What the fuck do you think you were doing?"

Harry looked pained. She was aware that she should stop, but she couldn't. It was as if her mouth had a mind of it's own. Tell Harry off, it said, and the words poured out like hot acid. She felt the need to destroy him. Crush him like dirt. To make him feel worthless. What had he done to her? Why had he kissed her? Why had he toyed with her emotions? Why did he have to steal her heart so effortlessly?

"I just broke up with Darren. All I wanted was a little respect from my friend. Instead you treat me like filth. Do you think I accompanied you through all these years, just so I could end up like one of your trashy girlfriends? One of those sluts? Brainless, air-headed women who can't even recite the alphabet? I'm not one of your fuck dolls, Harry. And I don't appreciate you approaching me like that."

She shrugged, and it was tedious, as if she didn't have a care in the world. Then she smiled, her tears betraying her grin. She looked like a drunk hysterical woman, standing lopsided, her face tilting at a strange angle.

"I guess I'm through with you."

Then she breezed past him, out the doorway, her hair swinging behind her.

"I've given you everything."

He whispered into emptiness.

A/N:

You're entitled to your own opinion. Just don't be mistaken into thinking that I actually care to know it.

Still a few chapters left, I guess. I am going to finish this shit, once and for all.

10. Correction

Disclaimer

Chapter Ten

“Such drama.”

CORRECTION

_______________________________________________________________________

“I'm leaving.”

There was only exhaustion.

“Leaving? Where?”

“Another mission.”

Dry laughter.

“Don't get yourself killed.”

Ginny winced inwardly when Harry grimaced.

“Don't worry. I wouldn't die even if I tried to kill myself.”

“Speaking from experience?”

He grinned lopsidedly, and rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

“Not really.”

She bent over to give him a hug, but he flinched and drew back.

“Are you okay?”

He stared at her through his spectacles, viridian eyes wide in hysteria.

“Yes,” He blinked, and looked down at his hands, firmly clasped on his lap.

But of course he wasn't.

“It's going to be all right, you know.”

She wondered why she even bothered. Such meaningless words.

He nodded slowly, unable to look up.

“Of course,” He mumbled.

“When are you leaving?”

He raised his eyes, as if it was a huge effort.

“Now.”

“Now?” The surprise was barely suppressed.

He seemed exasperated.

Repetitive fool.

“That's what I said.”

“Okay, then, Harry. Good luck.”

His eyes seem to soften as he heard his own name, spoken so gently.

This time, when she hugged him, he did not draw back.

“Thank you.”

_______________________________________________________________________

It was always the same. The description of a battleground. The occasion just seemed more likely to occur during the moroseness of the night, so the stealth and the dirt would be concealed. And the weather was never at its peak. Usually rainy, the atmosphere damp and heavy, clouds ominously swallowing the moon. Somewhere in an open field, where the two opposing sides would collide and fail in the middle. But this was no battle. And there was no battlefield. No contradiction. Only shades of gray.

“Malfoy,” Harry acknowledged with a slight nod of his head.

The silence seemed to stretch into eternity.

“When exactly do you plan to hex me into oblivion?”

Those gray eyes were cold and humorless. Harry could barely make out the silhouette of his figure drenched in absolute darkness, buried in the shadows. Only his eyes gleamed in the murky dimness of the light, mocking and as arrogant as ever. Harry almost laughed. Some things never change.

They were inside an uninhibited manor, and there were no doubts as to why it was unreserved. The structure was older than time. Simply ancient. Every cautious step produced a loud squeak, and the ceiling was on the verge of collapse. It wouldn't hold, if they were to have a duel. There was little to be skeptical about. Draco had entrenched himself behind a glass case displaying a stuffed claw of a Griffin, in the otherwise empty lobby of the Hall. The tome that rose up to twenty feet had a top of a glass window, where the pale crescent of the moon was sharply visible. The gentle light cast off from the skies elucidated the circular patterns on the rotted wood in dire need of waxing.

They were intricate designs. It seemed to spiral inwards, almost like an illusionary whirlpool. Harry was momentarily transfixed, just staring at the spinning circle. He felt the unbalanced sensation of falling, while staring at his shoes, firmly rested on the floor. It was wonderful yet intimidating, at the same time.

Harry sighed.

“I wouldn't have to use my wand at all, if you would just surrender.”

Harry imagined Draco smirking in the shadows.

There was another moment of lethal calm.

Then Draco stepped into the light.

He was thinner than Harry remembered. He looked worn, his robes filthy, and the dark rings encircling his mirthless eyes were an obvious indication of sleepless nights. His blonde hair lacked luster, and his face was devoid of color. All this was to be expected. From what he had last heard, Draco had been on the run for months, after his escape from Azkaban. His soiled face was contorted in an expression of plain hatred, the corners of his mouth twisting into an unattractive smirk. He spat on the ground.

“Surrender. How easy you make it sound,” Draco laughed, his coarse voice scratching at the cold air. “But in case you've forgotten, Potter, I no longer have anything left to lose. Except my pride, and maybe my life. And who do I have to thank for this miraculous gift, Potter?” He paused dramatically, as if soaking in the effect. “You. Who else but you? Who else but the golden boy, annihilator of all evil?” He chuckled again. “Surrender? To you? I don't think so. I'd much rather die, then surrender to you,” He drew his wand. “So fuck off.”

“Look, Draco, I did what I had to do.”

Malfoy hissed loudly, stretching his arm so it was straight as an arrow. He pointed the wand directly at Harry's forehead. His frustration only grew at the sight of Potter's undaunted, passive face. He watched as Harry removed his spectacles from the bridge of his nose in a delicate sweeping gesture, and began to cleanse the glass with the hem of his shirt. He found himself mildly speculating over where Potter had hidden his wand, because he was still showing no signs of drawing it out. This had always been the weakness of the Boy-who-Lived. He was too trusting. Still innocent, as part of his ever- present Gryffindor foolishness.

“Don't you ever call me by my first name, Potter,” Draco snarled, and flicked his wand.

“Diffindo!”

Magic was a conceptual thing. But every time when he witnessed the sparkling light shooting from the tip of his polished wand, it gave him purpose. His world seemed to make more sense. He was a servant of the Dark Lord, and he would serve no other. He would meet his requirements at his utmost ability, till he could do no more. Grip tightening on the wand, he focused his anger and energy. The mere action of casting the curse made him tingle in pleasure. He wasn't going to miss his target. Not this time. Not as he had, so many times before, failed his father.

He watched Harry smoothly sidestep the hurtling curse.

He missed. Again. Failed his father. Again.

His arm fell at his side, useless.

He should have known. It didn't matter if he won or lost. Missed or hit the mark. This was the outcome, whenever something had to do with Potter: nothing. Draco stared at the exposed half of the Dark Mark on his upper arm, where the sleeve of his robe tore, his flesh like a manifestation of maggots in the black dirt.

“I'm sorry.”

The whisper was so low; Draco could barely make out the words.

“What?”

“I'm sorry,” Harry repeated, voice stronger this time.

“For what?” Draco spat angrily, deeply annoyed. He had no wish of seeing the Boy-who-Lived in emotional turmoil, much less giving an apology. It made it hard for him to focus his anger.

“For what I did to your father.”

Draco snorted.

“A little late for an apology, don't you think? You killed him before my eyes. You let me watch my own father as he suffered and died. You could have let him go, you could have walked away, but you still murdered him. So don't even think about tossing me some bollocks apology right now, you piece of shit. Fucking bastard.”

Harry looked at him, stepping closer. His jade eyes flashed eerily in the light.

“What would you like to do to me?”

Another step.

“I can let you kill me, if that's what you want.”

Draco was momentarily confused. Was this some kind of sick game? What the hell was Potter up to? He couldn't answer. His throat felt parched dry. His heart began hammering loudly in his chest as Harry took a few more steps closer, closing the distance between them quickly, in measured strides. He didn't stop until they were almost touching. Draco felt as if he was frozen to the spot on the floor. His legs had turned into stone. Potter gently touched his hand, in which Draco was still clutching the wand tightly around his fingers, as if letting go would mean releasing his life. Draco stared at his wrist, where Harry had placed his warm, slightly calloused palm, unable to look anywhere else. He felt a surge of something course through him, but the feeling was not unpleasant. Potter lifted his wrist slowly, until Draco's wand was jabbing right into the ugly scar on Harry's forehead. When Draco finally tore his eyes away from Harry's slender hand, he found himself staring into the emerald depth of his eyes.

Endless regret, mixed with the pain of loss.

He knew these emotions only too well.

Harry smiled.

“Avada Kedavra.”

_______________________________________________________________________

She was convinced there was something embedded in her chest. It would explain why it was so hard to breathe, so hard to walk, so hard to think. Hermione inhaled another deep breath, wrinkling her brows when the heavy dust and thick scent of leather-bound books filled her nostrils and entered her lungs.

Even the library was of little comfort.

Hermione sighed, and flopped down on her favorite black and green armchair. She wasn't certain if all of her anger had gone. She was probably never going to forgive Darren for cheating on her. And she was never going to set foot into his Slytherin house, unless it was to retrieve her belongings and to ensure she was never going to have to see his sorry ass ever again. It amazed her that she didn't even feel that miserable. It was almost a relief, to be single again. No standards to meet. No need to be cooperative. Free, at last.

The door burst open, and Ron stalked into the room.

Judging from the look on his face, she still had some apologies to make.

“I can't believe Ginny let you in here.”

Hermione shrugged lightly.

“Well, believe what you want, but I'm here.”

Ron wasn't particularly in the mood for sarcasm.

“I heard that wanker kicked you out.”

She couldn't remember the last time Ron had said anything as rude.

“You could put it that way. But that `wanker' does have a name, and he didn't actually kick me out. I left him because he played me,” Hermione retorted, then shrugged again. “All's fair.”

Ron looked placidly surprised at her mild attitude, but didn't comment.

“So what are you going to do about Harry?”

Hermione almost groaned. Great. This was the moment she had been dreading for the entire day. Every time someone mentioned his name, she felt her shoulders tense. And the memories flooded her again, his hands around her waist, the soft strands of his inky hair, his warm, wet…stop. She hoped she hadn't blushed, because her cheeks were stinging with heat. This was so humiliating. How could she admit this to anyone? Kissing Harry Potter? Her supposed best friend? And having actually…enjoyed it?

She had to confess he did pull on some heartstrings, but how could she be sure if he was serious or not? If he had really felt anything for her, then why didn't he ever say anything before? And most importantly, he had kicked her out of his own house, by the end of it. The rational half of her mind told her it was because she had literally shoved him away, but he didn't have to do anything as dramatic as throwing her out. Okay, so he didn't really kick her out, but he made it clear he didn't want her to stay, either. This was just altogether too confusing for her factual mind to bear.

Why are you even here, Hermione?

She felt herself grow angry, all over again.

Damn him.

Damn him.

How could she even think about Harry, after she had just canceled her own bloody wedding?

“I'm not sure,” Hermione finally declared.

Ron snorted.

“Leave it to you to be the know-it-all. Guess you don't have the solution to everything, huh?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Hermione demanded haughtily, standing from her armchair.

But Ron just snickered and left the room, banging it shut behind him.

________________________________________________________________________

A/N: I'm so very sorry for not updating in so long. It seems pointless to express my apologies because the time has already passed, but I just thought I had to be clear. School sucks. Anyway, I should make it clear that most of you should just ignore my AN, because they're mostly directed to the flamers. I naturally assumed you people would have enough common sense to know that I'm truly grateful to the nice reviews; after all, I am a human being. Thanks again.

I think I'm going to cry. What is up with the punctuation?

-->

11. Confession

Disclaimer

Chapter Eleven

See the beauty within.

CONFESSION

________________________________________________________________________

Ronald Weasley had seen Harry Potter emerge from numerous battles victorious, haggard, bleeding, and half-dying - but he imagined he was probably never going to grow accustomed to it.

And there they were once again; congregated around a sick bed at St. Mungo's, peering down at a disorientated Harry Potter who looked a little bruised and was in recovery from several vicious hexing charms.

The Weasley family had already visited, though Ron and Ginny remained. Being close friends as they were, they hadn't failed to notice the deadened look in Harry's eyes - and in all honesty it scared Ron more than anything.

“You're sure he's dead then?” Ron asked again, to fill the silence.

“Yes, Ron, I'm sure.” Harry croaked, and stared at his spread fingers, “I killed him.”

“Good riddance, wouldn't you say? That bloody spawn of Lucius -”

“RON! Could you be any more insensitive? Have some respect for the dead.” Ginny interrupted, glaring daggers at her brother.

“No.”

Both Ron and Ginny paused to stare at Harry.

“No, I don't think it's good riddance. In fact, I find Draco Malfoy commendable - at least he fought for what he believed in. He never lost courage, and he never lost hope; the whole time he stayed true to his values…”

“Merlin's Balls, mate! Listen to what you're saying! It's Draco Malfoy we're talking about here, arrogant wanker supreme, son of Death Eater Lucius -”

“BUT AT LEAST HE DIED WITH GLORY!” Harry suddenly shouted, “He'll be remembered in history as a hero for the dark side, a martyr to the Dark Arts. He's a better man than I am…”

“That's pushing it a bit too far, Harry,” Ginny said softly.

Harry whipped his head up. “You know what? You know what I've finally come to realize? I don't want to be an Auror anymore. There's no point. I'm…I'm tired of murdering people, I'm tired of the last-minute heads-up missions, the secrecy…I mean, the Dark Lord is already history. There are only his minions left to be vanquished. And I think I've done enough for the Wizarding Community, I really have - the Order can settle down the uprising on their own, there are so many other excellent Aurors out there -”

Ron's eyes boggled so much they nearly popped out of their sockets. Even Ginny looked genuinely surprised.

“I…I want to quit. Yes, I know I'm too young and there's a lot in store for the future - but maybe I can finally devote my time into some other interests…something positive…like working here, for example! Becoming a medi-wizard! Maybe I can even help out at Fred and George's shop…or even open my own store! In Diagon Alley -”

“Oh please, with your skills in Potions -?” Ron mocked, though his laugh was nervous.

“Harry,” Ginny, ever observant, cut off his tirade softly, “is this about Hermione?”

Harry averted his eyes. “No. I just - need a break. I've been neglecting all the things in my life…I don't even know who I am anymore. But I want to stop. I want to devote myself to other things…to things I care about. And that includes you both.”

Harry looked up at Ron and Ginny, and there was such sadness in his usually vibrant green eyes, such desolation, that neither of them could find any words of admonishment.

Ron's voiced cracked as he spoke, “Well, mate, you know I'm always behind you one hundred percent, no matter what kind of idiotic situations you get yourself into…”

Ginny could only nod.

________________________________________________________________________

Hermione had been moping in her apartment for almost a week. Of course she hadn't forgotten her duties in her bookshop, however - because Merlin forbid she be anything but responsible for her own career, if not her life. Recently though, she'd been doing a lot of self-introspection, amongst her usual cleaning around the house, reading routines, and more wallowing in self-pity and self-hate. And she simply couldn't believe what a little shit - how she'd been behaving.

But most importantly she couldn't believe how she could have misjudged a person so badly. Hermione had always liked to believe she was attuned to her sensitive side, and was rarely wrong about a person's character. Darren Smith, despite his career as a Quidditch player, was not a brainless jock or a stupid man. He made for intelligent, stimulating conversation, was extremely entertaining to be with, worldly, plus he was handsome to boot. And she adored his Swedish accent. Perhaps she had been a little smitten and became blinded to everything else, even her close friends - okay, she had been a lot besotted. But she had been desperate, had fallen head-over-heels, and was in disbelief she had such a great catch.

Despite her transformations in maturation over the years, Hermione still never had much faith and confidence in herself. She knew she wasn't nearly as pretty as the next witch, and she had never been one for excitement and adventure - she had enough of mischief to last her a lifetime in her Hogwarts years with Harry and Ron, thank you very much. She was a right bore. And aside from her relatively healthy intellectuality, what was there to like about her? What was there to…love?

Perhaps that's why Hermione found comfort in her books. In the world of fiction she could escape from her feelings of self-worthlessness and knowing she'd never be good enough, not only as a lover or friend, but as a person. In literature she became what she wasn't in reality, and fulfilled all of her feelings of un-fulfillment. Simply reading of heroines fighting for their goals, their ideals, their love - was sufficient to satisfy her hunger. Because privately, Hermione thirsted for red hot passion, to be burned and consumed by it entirely. And doesn't every girl secretly wish to be swept off their feet by the man of her dreams?

She got her wish, in the end. She got burned. Except she forgot that it would hurt.

Oh God, and the way she'd treated Harry, her supposed best friend - and everyone else, for that matter -

“Hermione! Come quickly!”

Startled, Hermione slid from her seat and rapidly walked to the hearth at hearing Ginny's voice calling her name. It had been a long while since she had received any firecalls.

“What is it? Is it an emergency?”

“Hermione - it's Harry. He received a mission last night, and he went, the bloody hard-headed fool he is -”

Hermione felt her heart start to pound ferociously in her ribcage.

“Is it bad? Is he hurt? What happened -?” She pressed breathlessly, dizzy with worry.

“He's back. He's all right, a little burnt and bruised…he's at St. Mungo's right now, in the recovery ward. If you still have a sliver of compassion left in you, please pay him a visit,” Ginny said, and her face hazed wildly in the flames, “that's all I wanted to say. Bye.”

Hermione flew to grab her cloak.

Please let him be all right. I haven't even apologized.

________________________________________________________________________

The corridors of St. Mungo's had never seemed so endless. Hermione pushed her way through the heavy wooden doors of Room 124 and abruptly stopped in her tracks. Harry was reclined on a hospital bed not far from where she stood frozen, and she had never seen him look so pale and wan. She was suddenly so angry at him for doing this to himself again, so angry at The Order - and so angry at herself. Things between them were in shambles. What if something had happened to him? She would have spent the rest of her life in painful regret. Hermione tip-toed to his side, not wanting to wake him, and conjured a chair to sit upon.

Harry's glasses lay on the counter of the bedside table, and he looked strangely vulnerable without them perched on the bridge of his nose. There were shadows under his eyes, and he looked as if he hadn't been able to use a shaving knife for a couple of days. His wild raven hair appeared more untamed than ever, fanned out in a mess on the sterile white pillow. Hermione felt herself exhale a soft breath. Blood pumped through her veins, warming her, and she felt her initial trepidation and anxiety subside. Gently, she placed her slim hand over Harry's.

She felt an awful lot like crying.

Unexpectedly, the hand underneath hers moved. Harry took hold of her hand in his and intertwined his fingers with her own. And Hermione found herself staring into the familiar depth of his viridian eyes, blinking lazily up at her face. He seemed so glad to see her, his expression open, contentment written on his face. His lips split in a side-grin sluggishly.

“Have you finally come to visit me?” Harry asked, voice rough, though the question didn't seem to warrant a reply. She nodded anyway.

“I hope…I hope you're doing okay. I mean obviously you're okay…I mean -” Hermione trailed off; “…Do you hurt anywhere?” she finished feebly.

Harry's grin grew wry. “I thought you'd never come after what happened. If this is what it takes to see you - then I should probably be getting myself into life-threatening situations every chance I get.”

“That's not funny.”

Harry said nothing. He just gazed at her for a long moment, with some foreign emotion in his eyes that Hermione couldn't read. She was physically right beside him, yet it brought her little consolation - she had never felt more distant.

In the past when Harry had been wounded or ill, whether from some dangerous battle or childish misdemeanor, she had often been in the same place beside his bed, watching over her best friend. Sitting here now, she was overcome by an intense feeling of déjà vu, only circumstances were…different. So many things had come between them lately. Hermione didn't have that many close friends. Though she still could not understand why Harry had acted the way he did - she could shamefully admit now, that she had acted in complete selfishness. She didn't even know if she deserved to be where she was now. But after hearing the news from Ginny, she hadn't bothered to think things through at all - before she knew it she had already apparated to St. Mungo's.

Hermione was distressed to find something wet pouring down her face. She wiped at her tears hastily, cheeks reddening, “Oh, what's this now, this is so embarrassing -”

“Don't cry.” Harry whispered, brushing his thumb over her cheek tenderly.

He let his hand fall back on the bed sheets. They sat in momentary silence.

“How…how did the mission go?” Hermione asked at last, voice watery.

There was a long pause before Harry spoke.

A glint of determination ignited in his eyes, and he sat up a little straighter. A sense of grand acceptance seemed to wash over him. His broad shoulders relaxed slightly, and his jaw slackened.

“I killed Draco Malfoy,” Harry said abruptly.

“Do you know what he said before he died?”

Hermione shook her head, but Harry wasn't looking at her.

“Before he died…he said to me, `At least I've lived my life without regrets.' And…And it was like a wake-up call, a hard slap to the face. It's hard to describe what I felt after hearing his last words…” Harry trailed off, but tightened his hold of her hand reflexively. “You know what, Herm? I've been keeping something from you. I was too much of a wimp to say anything before. Isn't it ironic? I'm supposed to be a courageous Gryffindor, savior of the Wizarding World - yet when it comes to you, I'm an utter coward.”

Hermione listened quietly, dumbfounded as to what Harry was implying. Harry turned his piercing eyes on her, but there was something soft in his gaze.

“You've always been the smart one, the bookworm. Yet you've remained completely oblivious to…to this all these years. Because, you see…the answers aren't always in the books. The way I've been behaving…it's not entirely without reason. You know I've never been good at controlling my temper. I hated seeing you with Darren. I hate even more that he hurt you. I hate seeing you…with any man, truthfully; I don't want to see you happy with some other guy,” Harry scratched the back of his neck; “I'm not explaining things very well, am I? I'm not any good at this…

“You see…what I'm trying to say is…I…I love you. Not as a mere friend. I love you in the romantic sense, as in I'm in love with you, as in I want to kiss you, hold you, make love to you,” his voice wavered slightly, “I know…I know you don't feel the same way. I know that maybe we're not even a possibility. But I just thought… I'd be honest for once and let you know what I feel. What I've been hiding. And I know it's not any excuse for the things I've done recently - but I hope you will be able to make some sense of it.”

Then he released her hand.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, “I'm not going to lie; it's been painful - you not knowing. Maybe I've just ruined our friendship. I'm…I'm sorry, Hermione. I don't know why, but I just can't help it. I just can't seem to fall out of love with you. Merlin knows I've tried - hence my trail of past relationships - but it doesn't matter.”

Harry tore his eyes away. “I don't expect anything to happen. I don't want you to say anything in response. Just don't make me stop -”

Hermione stood from her seat violently, and the chair disappeared with an inaudible `pop'. Was she really hearing this? Was this really coming from Harry Potter, her best friend - in Merlin knows how many years? She was in so much shock; shaking so hard she could barely muster any strength in her legs to stand straight. It was mind-bogging. It was overwhelming.

It was too much.

“Stop -!”

Harry fell silent. He turned his face away.

“I…I'm having such a hard time believing - I need time to process this.” Hermione gasped, scrunching her brows, and scrambled hastily to the exit.

Harry didn't need to turn back to know that he would be seeing Hermione walk away from him for the hundredth time. He didn't think he could stand the sight of her back turning from him once again.

It would only bring him heartache.

“Don't make me stop loving you.” He whispered to the empty room.

________________________________________________________________________

A/N: Hi Everyone! It's been four years since I've written anything. I've basically forgotten about this story; it wasn't until I got an email alerting me of being “favorited” that I checked back on it. I feel a lot older now that I've entered college, and my interests have drifted to…other things. I'm a little embarrassed to say that I didn't even finish reading the entire Harry Potter series, though I did hear the epilogue sucked. Lol. (Sorry Rowling fans) Looking back and re-reading what I've written - actually I couldn't stop laughing and cringing at the same time. God I was a depressed little dweeb. Not that I'm much smarter now. But I can't believe anyone actually LIKES it!

But I do remember what it was like looking forward to an update from a fanfic that I liked - there really are some talented writers out there. And how much I hated unfinished fics. I'm on break now, and after reading some encouraging reviews I decided I'm going to finish writing the story - just for the heck of it. But it's going to be irresponsible writing. (It might suck because I haven't written anything in absolutely ages.) And I'm too lazy to edit all of the bullshit in the chapters I wrote before (too many plot-holes, lacking descriptions, excessive BS, sudden entrances/exits…the list goes on). At least I recognized that my writing was awful then. I don't remember how I originally intended the story to finish. In the end, though, I hope it's… satisfactory? Only one (or two) more chapter(s) to go! Sorry about the long message.

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