Unofficial Portkey Archive

If you are reading this, it means this infernal piece of work is finally finished. This story has been sitting expectantly on my hard drive since November 2003, and it repeatedly ended up on the backburner because the writer:

a) Wasn't in the right frame of mind
b) Was writing other things.

Thus leaving me feeling extremely guilty and ashamed of myself. This is a bit different, it did not turn out the way I wanted it; hence I'm not sure how successful it is. I hope you enjoy it.

Harry sighed as he sat down at the kitchen table in the flat he shared with his two best friends. He cupped the fresh mug of hot chocolate with both hands, feeling the warmth of the mug through his fingers.

They would always do this after a hard day. Sit around the kitchen table with mugs of hot chocolate, and just talk freely. Or one would just talk and talk, while the other sat and absorbed the words as earth soaks up rain. Simply knowing that the other heard every word was enough and the speaker felt cleansed afterwards and could then sleep peacefully. Sometimes there wouldn't be any talking at all. Just drinking up the warmth of the chocolate and the warmth of each others company. There was nothing profound about it, but it was a ritual nonetheless. Though tonight, something was different.

'It was always you, you know,' he started. Harry was studying the intricate designs in the tabletop, refusing to look up.

'It was always you. Before I even knew what it was. Even when I thought I was interested in someone else. It took me the longest time to recognise it for what it was. Is. Then to admit it to myself. I could give you reasons. I could tell you that in those days I had a lot on my mind. No one can argue with that. But that makes it sound rather trivial.

'Sure, at first I was too young to understand, but when that excuse expired, why didn't my keen observation skills that serve me so well in Quidditch kick in? Why didn't I observe you? Every time something happened that should have made me start questioning, I never did. Perhaps that's the problem. I never stopped to question anything when it came to you. Never feeling the need to question you is the reason I have come this far. But it's also the reason it took me so damn long to realise.

'I've always had this annoying habit of taking you for granted. I always assumed you'd never question my decisions. It was always a rude shock on those occasions you did. No one expects to be questioned by their living constant. But the times you did have always been in my best interests.

'Another thing I took for granted. Your unwavering support. So when your questions shook my faith to their core, I had failed to understand you weren't questioning me out of doubt, but out of honesty, sincerity and concern. I see that now. I see a lot now.

'Perhaps I refused to question all of this because I knew it would land me here. After knowing you for so long I have stopped asking questions. The ones that matter. Because I know you so well.'

Silence fell. Harry stared into his mug, swirling around the dark creamy contents; watching how the liquid caught the light.

'So to finally accept and understand that I love you; when the time has passed to say anything to you. Why bother telling you now? I'm not going to defend myself, explain why I thought the things I did. None of it matters anymore. The point is I can admit it to myself now. That is all I can do.'

He set down the mug to press his fingers into his temples as he closed his eyes, fingers that slowly eased their way up and through his hair until his hands came to rest on the back of his neck.

'But I'm a fool. You don't deserve a fool. I'll be there for you in every way possible, except for that. Because there is someone out there who won't be as blind as I was, and certainly not as foolish.'

Harry's eyes snapped open at the sound of the front door opening. He lifted his head as keys jangled, the door shut again, and then a sigh. Harry looked wistfully at the vacant chair opposite. Hermione was home.

His drink was stone cold. He got up and moved to the sink to pour it down the drain.

Hermione entered the kitchen quietly, seating herself at the table where she always did.

'Where's Ron?'

'Conveniently off somewhere,' Harry answered without turning around.

'You started without me,' she said quietly as he set about to prepare her hot chocolate.

'I didn't expect you back this soon from your date. I thought your dinner with Jacob would go on till quite late.'

'Well, as you can see, it didn't.'

'Why not? Turned out to be a prat, did he?'

'No, he was lovely.'

Clank. The spoon slipped out of his hand and landed on the counter. He quickly retrieved it. She didn't appear to notice. Now that Harry thought about it, she didn't sound quite right either.

'Then what's wrong?'

'There's nothing wrong. At least, nothing should be wrong, should it? It was a perfectly pleasant evening with a perfectly pleasant guy.'

Harry turned around, and with a fresh mug for both of them presented Hermione with her mug before seating himself again.

'If the evening passed so smoothly, why does it sound as though the whole thing seems so wrong to you?'

Hermione gave him a smile that reflected both her weariness and her gratitude that Harry not only understood, but wanted to hear her explanation. As if Harry wouldn't be interested in something that was bothering Hermione. It was then her turn to ponder the contents of her mug.

'It sounds so odd to say it. But nothing else makes much sense,' she thought aloud.

'Go on.'

'I'm tired. I never thought that I'd be tired from a dinner for two. The fact is I'm tired of the whole thing, of dating. I've had enough. I have better things to do than go through all this ridiculous courtship. It all seems so unnecessary. I can't help thinking that I don't have to go through all this.'

Hermione didn't notice Harry shift suddenly and continued to explain.

'Dinner with Jacob was everything a woman could ask for on a date. No awkwardness, the conversation flowed freely, the food was exceptional, Jacob was the perfect gentleman; taking my coat and such … not one horrid faux-pas throughout the night. Yet at the end of the evening … I felt nothing.'

'This was one date Hermione. You're not the sort to fall head over heels instantly. You make it sound like he's too perfect. Is perfect such a bad thing? In time maybe you'll --'

'No Harry. I won't.' Hermione interrupted gently as she finally looked up from her mug.

There was something in Hermione's expression at that moment that he didn't recognise. She looked almost as though she was waiting for something. Her expression gave him the strangest feeling, as though this conversation wasn't about Hermione at all. Somewhere, a part of Harry told him to run, yet he remained in his seat.

'I don't understand.'

Her expression didn't waver as she continued.

'I've always felt there was this line I had to cross. And once I did, I'd find something, whatever I was looking for, I guess. But whenever I came to that line, I'd stop. I couldn't Harry, I just couldn't cross it. Do you know why, Harry?'

Not only had her expression not wavered, it had grown stronger in its intensity. Her eyes seemed to have taken on a new clarity, and the richness of the brown in her eyes had never been more compelling.

Looking at Hermione now, he suddenly recognised that expression. He'd seen it before. But not in this context. His mind was suddenly pulled back many years ago, to that night in the common room, when he had returned after one of Umbridge's many detentions to be greeted by Ron, Hermione and the essence of Murtlap. They had been talking about finding someone who could really teach them Defence Against the Dark Arts. It was Hermione's answer then that was echoing in his head now.

That was what she was telling him now, and the realisation threw him completely. No … she couldn't possibly. She mustn't.

Although he had briefly thought he should run earlier, now that he knew he should, all feeling seemed to have left his legs, and Harry knew a hasty exit would result in leaving him a crumpled heap on the floor.

'Answer me Harry,' she whispered.

'I … can't tell you. Even if it would make a difference, it's too late for that.'

'Well Harry, at least that's not an outright denial, I have to give you credit for that.'

'Why did you have to tell me, why?' he pleaded. Why, why couldn't Hermione have just gone on more dates with Jacob until she felt something other than indifference?

'You would rather live in blissful ignorance then?'

'You know I don't have a brilliant record when it comes to taking the truth well,' he ground out.

'So you would rather I keep it to myself? Deny my feelings then?' Hermione countered.

Harry sighed and looked back at his own mug. 'No, I cannot ask you to do that. But…'

'But what?'

'You don't need me. When has Hermione Granger ever needed Harry Potter? It's always the other way round, when it would have been much safer to --'

'Silencio!'

Harry clutched at his throat. He looked up to see Hermione pointing her wand at him. Harry couldn't believe it; Hermione had used the Silencing charm on him!

'Hermione!' he tried to say, but nothing. He couldn't even feel the sounds vibrate through his throat.

'I'm sorry Harry, but you don't understand.'

He glowered at her, but she had turned away, looking straight ahead.

'When has Hermione ever needed Harry? When hasn't she? She needs to see him walk down the stairs every morning. She needs to hear him laugh at one of Ron's jokes during breakfast. To see how joyous he is when he is off flying. She needs to see him smile, even for no reason at all, just so she knows he is OK and he is happy. She needs him to feel he is loved, for he has so much love to give, but he doesn't realise how much he is loved back.

'Hermione not need Harry? Nothing could be further from the truth. She has never needed him more.'

The Silencing charm was fairly redundant now. Harry could only gape at her.

As suddenly as it had appeared all of the spirit Hermione had displayed in her words left her as she shook her head. Her previous fire had now faded and now all Harry could see was … hurt? Hermione waved her wand at him again. 'Finite Incantatem,' she mumbled.

Something stirred in Harry as he watched her move to leave. He grabbed her arm to gain her attention, so that she would look at him again.

'You've never lied to me, have you? I never asked you, because I was terrified of the truth. Any truth.'

Hermione rose out of her seat and reached to intertwine her hands with his so she could pull him out of his own seat. Harry was hardly surprised to discover his knees were shaking.

'I have never lied to you Harry. I meant every word,' Hermione answered, leaning into him, and then …

A kiss. Another kiss. And then … a kiss.

The kiss was like a lungful of air Harry had been deprived of all his life. Harry hadn't even thought about her technique yet. The only thought in his mind was closer. So pull her closer was exactly what he did.

I'm sure you'd like a blow-by-blow account of what followed. I'd be happy to give it to you. Except, that when you're in the heat of the moment, there is no narration. There is no "she placed her hand there". You only feel the sensations his hand created. Sometimes, you don't know where her hand is. You're just glad it is and hope it keeps doing whatever it is doing. It's all a whirl of sensations, sounds, heavy breathing and possibly broken furniture. At the end, there is peace. Then, if you want to, you can ride the whirl again. So long as the bed is still intact.