Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets. ~ Paul Tournier
~*~*~*~
When she hears a soft pop of Apparition, Hermione doesn't bother to look up. She already knows who her visitor will be. "So much for knocking first," she mutters quietly under her breath, then finally lifts her head to give Harry a wan smile. "Hi. Fancy a cup of tea?"
Harry blinks, then glances at the teapot on the table as if taken aback by her matter-of-fact greeting. "No, thank you." He walks slowly into the room, shrugs off his cloak and drapes it over the back of the nearest chair, his movements measured and precise. "I'd rather have a conversation with you that doesn't end with you rushing out of the room." He glances at her, his expression guarded. "That is, if you don't mind."
His manner is painfully polite, and the distant look in his eyes makes her heart sink. "Harry, I…" she starts to say, then stops herself, pressing her lips together. She can't just start blathering away about her muddled feelings, not when Harry's head is obviously too full of the Order's latest plans to think about anything else, not when she still doesn't have the faintest idea of how to even begin to make things right between them.
The dull beginnings of a headache stirring into life behind her temples, Hermione looks down at her half-empty teacup. "I'm sorry," she offers, tapping her fingernail against the rim of her teacup. "I was tired."
Harry snorts. "Bollocks."
She lifts her head, intending to defend herself with a swift retort, but the words die on her lips. Standing much closer to her than she realised, Harry is glaring at her as though he can't decide whether to throttle her or kiss her. Dressed in his customary black, he looks pale and weary and dangerously attractive, and her little kitchen suddenly feels very crowded.
Taking a deep breath, she does her best to sound as though she's not on the brink of having a mild panic attack. "Bollocks that I'm sorry, or bollocks that I'm tired?"
"Both." He raises one dark eyebrow, but otherwise his expression doesn't change. "You're angry with me."
It's a statement, not a question, and Hermione hastily takes a sip of the tea she no longer wants, wishing he would sit down, wishing he would stop looking at her like that. "Everything's not always about you, Harry."
He frowns. It's not a real answer and they both know it. "I never said it was -" he breaks off and glances downward, the stern set of his features softening. Crookshanks has wandered into the kitchen - his sleep disturbed for the second time that night - and is now winding himself around Harry's legs like a furry orange pretzel, purring loudly. "Hello there," Harry murmurs, reaching down to stroke one hand along the length of Crookshanks' spine, instantly sending her cat into yet another bout of leg-rubbing ecstasy.
Hermione narrows her eyes at her pet. Traitor, she thinks darkly, trying to douse a foolish flicker of envy. Surely it wasn't normal to be jealous of one's cat?
Still patting Crookshanks, Harry lifts his gaze to hers, a faintly accusing look in his bright green eyes. "You expect me to believe that you went rushing out of Grimmauld Place the way you did because you were tired?"
Curling both hands around her teacup, she returns Harry's gaze steadily. "Yes."
An odd, almost wounded expression flashes across his face, then it's gone, as though she imagined it. "So you're perfectly fine, you're not angry with me, and you only left because you were tired."
Hermione resists the urge to cross her fingers. "That's right."
He doesn't say anything for quite a while, just trails his hand down the length of Crookshanks' back over and over again. Finally he mutters, in a voice so low she can hardly hear him, "Don't you ever get sick of this?" He doesn't look at her as he speaks.
She frowns. "Sick of what?"
Harry straightens up - much to Crookshanks' obvious disappointment - and slips his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. "Pretending that it never happened."
She stares at him, vaguely aware that she is gripping her teacup so tightly that it's in danger of shattering in her hands. This is the closest they've come to discussing That Night since they decided to 'wait until the war was over', and her stomach once again feels as though she's swallowed a dozen baby snakes. "I'm not pretending, Harry." She manages a smile, but her face feels frozen. "I was tired. I wanted to come home. End of story." She pushes away her teacup with a jerk, the china saucer scraping against the wooden tabletop, then starts to rise to her feet. "And, if it's okay with you, I'd actually like to get some sleep now."
"Running away again?"
The words pierce her heart like a splinter sliding beneath her skin. She gets to her feet and pushes her chair neatly under the table, gripping the back of it with trembling hands. Torn between anger and the uncomfortable knowledge that his accusation is all too justified, she lets anger win out. "That's rich, coming from you."
His eyes flash with irritation. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Hermione's heart is pounding. She knows that she is only making things worse, but she is suddenly filled with the urge to push him, to crack the seemingly impenetrable shell he's built around himself. "Look me in the eye and tell me that you're not secretly excited to be going off on another Boys' Own Adventure with Moody and Remus?"
Harry stares at her, his eyes glittering with more emotion than she's seen him show in weeks. "How can you ask me that?"
"How can I not?" she shoots back. She can't quite able to believe she's saying these things, but she can't seem to stop. It's as though someone has charmed her tongue and is making the words fall out of her mouth, as though everything she's kept herself from saying over the last two years are welling up inside her, forcing their way out. "I've known you too long, Harry. You may not want to admit it, but we both know that there's some part of you - deep down - that thrives on danger. And let's face it, anything would be more exciting than just hanging out at Grimmauld Place with your old school chums, right?"
He flinches as though she's slapped him, and Hermione's face burns with shame. "I didn't mean -"
"Forget it," he says flatly, his gaze drifting away from hers.
An awkward silence envelops them, and Hermione knows with a sickening certainty that the distance between them has just grown wider. To her horror, she feels the hot prickle of tears behind her eyes. She grips the back of the chair a little tighter, vaguely noting that the smooth wood is cool against her palms. "Why are you here, Harry?" she finally asks in a small voice, not knowing if she's ready to hear the answer but too tired of wrestling with her feelings to care.
He glances at her, looking almost startled by her question. Leaning back against the edge of the kitchen table, he stares down at his feet. "Moody would like you to come back to Grimmauld Place." He runs one hair through his hair, then his eyes meet hers once more. "He and Remus need to speak to you."
It takes a few seconds for the full implication of his words to sink in but when it does, a hot, hollow sensation wells up in the pit of her stomach. "So that's why you're here?" She almost winces at the sound of her voice, so thin and reedy. "You're running an errand for Moody and Remus?"
He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, an old habit dating from his first muscle-straining Quidditch-playing days, and Hermione has the sudden feeling that he is choosing his words with care. "No," he says eventually, "I just offered to save them having to send you an Owl." His eyes lock with hers. "I'm not here as their message boy."
Releasing her white-knuckle hold on the kitchen chair, Hermione wraps her arms around herself, hating the surge of pure relief that rushes through her. She hates that she cares so much about what he thinks of her. She hates that he has such power over her. And sometimes, just sometimes, she hates that she loves him so much.
"Hermione?"
With a start, she realises that Harry is waiting for her reply, his gaze watchful. She fumbles hastily through the cotton wool of her thoughts for the thread of their conversation. "Why do they want to see me?"
Their eyes meet as he hesitates just long enough to for her to realise that he does know, then his gaze flicks away, one shoulder lifting in a half-shrug that is anything but casual. "I'm not entirely sure."
Not entirely sure? What utter rot. Hermione, the daughter of dentists, fights the urge to grind her teeth and instead narrows her eyes. "I thought this wasn't my battle any more?" Harry flushes at the reminder of his earlier words, but refuses to be drawn, and her already frayed temper suddenly frays a great deal more. "Fine. Be like that. Bloody well be Harry 'I'm so bloody mysterious' Potter. I'm going to bed. Come on, Crookshanks."
Scooping up her cat, she stalks out of the room. She knows that she is merely proving Harry's point about running away, but she also knows she is about to lose the battle with her tears. Damn you, Harry, why couldn't you have just left well enough alone?
Even as she thinks this, Harry is again following her, close on her heels as she strides into the living room. "Hermione, wait."
"You can tell Moody and Remus that I'll see them in the morning." Crookshanks squirms in her arms, a sure sign that she's squeezing him too tightly, and she loosens her grip with a silent apology. "Surely whatever they want to say can wait until then."
"I need to talk to you too." He sounds annoyed, but there's something else in his voice as well, an unspoken plea that almost stops her in her tracks. Almost. An hour ago he was treating me like a familiar but dull piece of the furniture, and now he wants to have a heart-to-heart? It would have made her laugh if it didn't make her so angry.
"You can wait until the morning, too," she tosses sharply over her shoulder. She's never spoken so rudely to anyone, let alone Harry, but she knows that if she stops walking, if she looks at him, she will be lost. "I'm going to bed."
"This can't wait."
"Oh, come on, Harry, waiting is what we do best, remember?" Her voice is thick with unshed tears. "After all, that's all we've been doing for the last couple of years, remember?" Her whole body is gripped with the urge to flee, to put as much space between them as humanly possible, but when she feels a gentle hand on her shoulder, her feet suddenly seem to be glued to the carpet.
"Hermione, please." His voice is soft and beseeching and much too close for comfort. "I need to talk to you."
Hermione closes her eyes for a few seconds, her whole body going slack at the feel of his hand on her shoulder. She can't remember the last time he touched her like this, touched her deliberately, not just an accidental brush of the hand or nudge of the shoulder. His hand curls around the curve of her shoulder, the tip of his thumb grazing her collarbone, bared by the round neckline of her shirt, and a tremor shoots down the back of her legs.
Crookshanks seizes the opportunity afforded by her sudden stupor to leap from her arms, but she barely notices. "There's no point," she says, unable to keep the misery from her voice. His hand tightens on her shoulder, and she feels herself being slowly turned on the spot. She doesn't resist. She can't. Her whole body feels boneless. Heavy.
His eyes glittering behind his glasses, he gazes at her intently. "Why not?"
The best way to keep him alive is to keep him focused on the fight ahead. You can't allow anything to distract him, or yourself, she tells herself desperately, but this time her well-worn mantra doesn't work. This time, she hears herself saying something quite different. "Because everything's such a mess."
He shakes his head. "That's not an answer."
She takes a deep breath, trying desperately to ignore the fact that the heat of his hand on her shoulder seems to be creeping across her skin, warming her blood. "There's no point, Harry, because you've made it quite clear that there's nothing I can do to help you. There's no point because it's obvious that you and I don't want or need the same thing."
"This is unbelievable." His voice is low and rough as his hand tightens on her shoulder and, for a frightening instant, Hermione sees in his eyes the impulse to shake her. "Do you have any idea what the last two years have been like for me?"
"Of course I do," she says with fierce indignation, "it's been bloody awful. The war -"
"I'm not talking about the war," he shoots back in a tight voice, his hand dropping from her shoulder. "I'm talking about you and me."
She stares at him, her heart pounding so loudly that she wonders why he can't hear it as well. "What are you - "
He cuts her off. "I'm talking about having to spend the last two years pretending that what happened between us wasn't the most amazing thing that's ever happened to me."
Hermione's thoughts scatter, her resolve crumbling like a Muggle child's sandcastle. Her hands are pressed flat against her thighs, but she still feels them trembling. "I don't think we should talk about this now."
He mutters something under his breath, then fixes her with a piercing stare. "I do."
Hermione's mouth goes dry, her stomach feeling as though she's swallowed a dozen pepper imps at once. She used to think that facing Voldemort was the most frightening prospect in her life, yet somehow the fear of telling Harry the truth about her feelings has become the monster inside her head. When did I become such a coward? she wonders unhappily. She's been hiding from this for so long that it's become ingrained, almost second nature and Harry, for the most part, has seemed content for it to be that way. But now he's saying all these things and everything is being turned on its head and it's terrifying.
Harry is watching her carefully, and something he sees in her face makes his expression soften. He touches her on the forearm, then nods to the nearby couch. "Can we sit and talk for a while?" The ghost of a smile plays about his lips. "I promise to be on my best behaviour."
Oh, God, she thinks in despair, this is very bad. Her skin is still tingling from the feel of his hand on her arm and he's making jokes about the couch and this is such a bad idea, but she's so tired of running and hiding and lying to him and lying to herself. She lets Harry led her to the battered Chesterfield couch, settling herself in a corner and clutching a cushion to her chest like a child's security blanket. When Harry looks as though he's about to speak, she beats him to the punch, saying the first thing that pops into her head because she doesn't know if she's ready to hear what he wants to say and maybe because - deep down - she really is a coward.
"What did Ron say when you left to come here?"
Harry is sitting forward on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands loosely linked. "Surprisingly little." He looks sideways at her then, his gaze searching her face. "He knows, doesn't he?"
She swallows hard, considers a dozen different while lies, then takes a deep breath that does nothing to steady her nerves. "I'm not sure about anything else," she begins hesitantly, the truth feeling rusty on her tongue, "but he knows what happened at your 16th birthday party."
He frowns, but it looks - she thinks, she hopes - more like an expression of confusion than of anger. "How?"
She takes another deep breath. God, why is this so hard? Because it's Harry, she thinks, answering her own question, and nothing is ever simple when it comes to Harry. "I told him."
He looks at her as though she's suddenly become a distant cousin of Fluffy and grown another head. "What? When?"
"Just before lunch on the first day we all spent at the Burrow after the end of sixth year." She knows that she sounds as though she's supplying the answer to an exam question - something she suspects happens more often than not - but the day in question is burned rather deeply into her memory.
Harry's puzzled frown becomes one of concentration. "The first day of holidays after the end of sixth year…" he mutters. "Wasn't that - " he stops abruptly, his face turning a dull red as realisation dawns.
"- the day you and I weren't really on speaking terms because the previous day I'd had to watch Cho Chang give you a passionate farewell kiss while standing right in the middle of the Great Hall," she says, finishing his sentence for him. The day after I had to sit and pretend that I didn't care that you were being snogged to within an inch of your life by the one person who always seemed to have the power to make me feel like an unattractive dullard who didn't deserve to be seen with you. Even now, four years later when it should be - when it was - ancient history, the memory of that day still has the power to make her squirm. Even though it had been obvious to everyone - especially Cho - that Harry wasn't a willing participant, it still had the power to sting.
Looking more than a little sheepish, Harry shakes his head. "I'm sorry."
Oh, Harry…She bites back the sudden urge to laugh, suspecting that it would come out as a hysterical giggle. "Harry, it was years ago. I think you can stop apologising now." She manages a weak smile. "I know it wasn't your fault - I was there, remember?"
He doesn't return her smile. "Why did you tell Ron?" A shadow flickers across his face. "Did he ask you out?"
"What?" She throws him a quick glance, both startled and pleased by the unmistakable note of jealousy in his voice. "No, nothing so scandalous. He found me crying and asked me what was wrong."
"What did you tell him?"
"Only a little." She glances at the fireplace, wishing she could blame the merrily crackling fire for the heat in her face. "He guessed the rest."
"What did he say?"
Hermione digs her thumbs into the embroidered cushion in her arms, trying to focus on the feel of rough fabric and delicate seams against her skin rather than the almost nauseous churning in the pit of her stomach. "Harry, it was years ago. Does it really matter?"
His gaze is unwavering. "Yes."
She wants to refuse but perhaps, she admits reluctantly, he needs to hear this as much as she needs to tell him. Taking a deep breath, she fixes her gaze on the small spot of carpet between her feet and begins to tell him about the one of the most awkward conversations of her life.
~*~*~
"What's the matter?"
She turns away from the sound of Ron's voice, wishing she was holding Crookshanks so she could hide her face in his fur, wishing she'd picked a better place than the Weasleys' backyard to give in to her tears of frustration and hurt. "Nothing, I'm fine," she says hastily, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
Ron looks somewhat offended. "I'm not an idiot, you know. Unless Mum's had you peeling a sack of onions, you're upset about something."
Her tears hopefully eradiated, she peers up at Ron from her cross-legged position on the warm summer grass. "I'm fine, really, I am."
He takes a seat on the ground beside her, folding up his long legs awkwardly. At almost seventeen, he's already taller than his father and almost as tall as Bill. "Must be something pretty bad. I mean, you only cry when you get really mad, and not even the fake wand thing last week made you that mad. Not that I thought it was funny," he adds hastily." I swear I didn't know George had swapped it."
She shakes her head. "It's Harry."
Ron tosses her an easy grin. "So what else is new?"
"Not just Harry," she mumbles thickly, distracted by her damp eyes and nose and wishing she'd thought to tuck a handkerchief into her pocket this morning. "It's about me as well."
"You and Harry," he repeats almost absentmindedly, and then his whole body seems to stiffen. "You and Harry." He slowly turns his head to look at her, his bright blue eyes locking with hers. "What about you and Harry?"
She actually feels the palms of her hands grow damp. Oh dear, this is very bad. "I, uh, we, well - "
They stare at each other for a few seconds, then she sees the realisation hit him like a Stunning Spell. "You and Harry," he says flatly as he looks away. "Right."
Hermione feels faintly sick. "It's not what you're thinking."
He doesn't look at her. "I doubt that very much."
The misery in his voice makes her want to reach for his hand, but she knows that would also be a very bad idea. "I'm so sorry, Ron. I shouldn't have said anything."
His jaw tightens, and there is a decidedly belligerent note in his voice. "Why not?" Reaching down one long arm, he pulls up a several bright green blades of grass from the lawn with an almost vicious flick of his wrist.
"Because, uh - " She stops, suddenly realizing that the truth would drive a stake right through the heart of their friendship. They both know the reason she shouldn't have said anything, even if neither of them is willing to say it out loud. "Because there's really nothing to tell you," she says in a rush, unhappily wishing the ground would rise up and swallow her whole.
Resting his elbows on his knees, he hunches his shoulders, his gaze focused solely on the long blade of grass he's slowly shredding between his fingers. "So…you and Harry," he says in a hollow, sing-song voice.
She blinks, the warm pressure of impending tears pressing behind her eyes. "Don't, Ron."
"How long has this been going on?"
"Nothing is going on, Ron."
His expression has a stubborn set to it that she knows only too well. "How long, Hermione?"
She sighs, defeated. "Since his 16th birthday party, I guess."
A look of pure shock flashes across Ron's face. "What? You mean for the past year you two have been - "
"No!" Taking a deep breath, she closes her eyes for a moment. Why didn't I just fob him off with a lame excuse and escape inside the house? "We haven't been doing anything, Ron. I told you, nothing's going on."
Looking both unconvinced and unhappy, Ron stares at an unseen point on the horizon. "So, what happened at his birthday party?"
Hermione says nothing. Ron darts a quick glance at her, then looks away once more, as though he can't quite bear to see her face. "Must have been good, whatever it was. He seemed almost cheery when he told us about the prophecy about old You-Know-Who."
She knows she should be angry with him for saying such things, but his snide words do nothing to disguise the misery in his voice, and it's all she can do to stop herself from patting him on the shoulder. "It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it like?"
"It was just a kiss," she says, knowing that the truth of the matter - that it was so much more than just a kiss - will hurt Ron much more than a lie. "Actually, it was hardly a kiss at all." She hesitates, hating the fact that she feels the need to trivialize one of the most important events in her life and yet knowing that she must. "It was more of an accident than anything else," she adds softly.
Ron opens his mouth as if to toss back a scathing reply, then seems to think better of it. He takes a deep breath, then goes back to studying his hands, the blade of grass having been reduced to a few dots of green confetti. "And is that how Harry saw it? An accident?"
Again, she says nothing. She can't. Nothing she says now will make this any better. Ron mumbles something under his breath, then turns his head to stare at her. "Why didn't one of you tell me sooner?"
"I didn't tell you," she begins slowly, careful not to use the dreaded 'we' word, "because nothing really happened. And nothing has happened since then." Reaching out a tentative hand, she touches his arm, gratified that he doesn't pull away. "I didn't tell you because I didn't want anything to change between the three of us."
Ron doesn't answer. He glances quickly at her hand on his arm, then bows his head to morosely study his feet once more. Feeling beyond awkward, Hermione withdraws her hand as discreetly as possible and they sit in silence for what feels like a long time. Finally, Ron clears his throat. "Well, I guess that explains it," he mutters, still staring at his feet.
"Explains what?"
"Why Harry stopped watching Cho when we started Sixth Year," Ron says gruffly, "and started watching you."
She feels a flush of colour rising up in her face. "Rubbish."
"I guess Cho noticed too," he goes on, ignoring her retort, "and that's probably why she snogged him on the last day of school, to show him what he'd been missing all that time." He blinks, his gaze wandering over her tearstained face. She can almost see the cogs whirring in his head. "Is that why you're crying?"
She shrugs, picking aimlessly at the seam of her jeans with her fingernails, wishing Ron had picked a different time to suddenly develop an insight into the female psyche. "It's a little more complicated than that."
"How?"
Hermione smiles sadly. "If I could explain, it wouldn't be complicated."
~*~*~
When she finishes speaking, Harry stares at her for a long moment, then frowns. "Then what happened?"
"Mrs Weasley called us in for lunch and Ron avoided me for the rest of the day." It had actually taken the better part of a month for Ron to look her in the eye, and several weeks into their last year at Hogwarts before things between them had begun to feel normal again. To a casual observer, it would have seemed as though everything was the same between the three of them. It wasn't, of course. Nothing had been the same from the moment she and Harry had shared that first kiss at Grimmauld Place.
"The first day we spent at the Burrow after sixth year finished…" Harry stares at his linked hands for a moment, his brow furrowed, then he looks at her. "That was the same day he accidentally broke my nose while we were playing Quidditch."
Guilt tugs at Hermione's conscience, and not solely due to the less-than-subtle hint of accusation in his voice. Trust Harry to put unerringly his finger on yet another secret millstone hanging around her neck. "Yes, I know."
A kaleidoscope of emotion dances across his usually stoic face. "I guess it obviously wasn't as accidental as I thought."
Privately she tends to agree, but she certainly isn't going to say that out loud. "He didn't mean to do it, Harry, not consciously," she says briskly, hoping she sounds more confident in her words than she feels. "He was absolutely horrified, don't you remember?"
"Funnily enough, what I remember most is all the blood." Leaning back on the couch, he tilts back his head to stare at the living room ceiling, his fingers now toying with the cuffs of his long sleeved t-shirt. "Why didn't you ever tell me that he knew? I understand why you didn't tell me straight away, but why not tell me later?"
Hermione is very glad that he's looking at the ceiling rather than at her. "Because things were already - uh, well - awkward between you and me, and I didn't want to make it worse by bringing Ron into it."
"But I could have talked to him about it - "
Inwardly blanching at the thought, she shakes her head. "Trust me, Harry, that would not have been a good idea."
"Why not?" The irritation in his voice is plain to hear but before she can speak, he's already answering his own question with surprising accuracy. "Because you didn't want to hurt his feelings any more than you already had?"
"Partly."
Harry glares at the ceiling, as though it too has been keeping secrets from him. "What about your feelings? Or mine, for that matter?"
It's all she can do not to squirm in her seat, and she stretches one hand down to stroke a purring Crookshanks as he curls himself around her legs, the solid feel of his furry warmth beneath her hand instantly reassuring. "I really don't want to talk about this tonight."
"See, this is what I don't understand," he mutters, sounding very much as though he is gritting his teeth, "Our best friend used to fancy you. He probably still fancies you." He finally stops staring at the ceiling, and turns to look at her. "Why do we have to keep pretending that he doesn't?"
Sometimes, Hermione thinks wearily, there really is a very good reason for not rehashing the past, and this would be one of those times. "He may have had a crush on me at school," she states in a firm voice, hoping that the Muggle myth about lightening bolts striking down bare-faced liars doesn't apply to those who deliberately understate the truth. "Trust me, he doesn't fancy me any more."
"How can you be so sure about that?" Suspicion glitters in his bright green eyes. "Or shouldn't I ask?"
His words hit her like a slap in the face. Furious with him for the tawdry implication and herself for letting him make her feel as though she needs to explain herself, she tosses the cushion to one side and scrambles inelegantly off the couch, startling Harry and sending Crookshanks stalking from the room in a orange-coloured huff. "I think you should go."
Harry hastily gets to his feet, a stricken expression etched on his pale face. "I'm so sorry, Hermione. I shouldn't have said that."
Once again, she feels foolishly close to tears. "You're right, you shouldn't have, and I really think you should go."
Looking more flustered than she's seen him a long time, he runs an agitated hand through his hair. "I don't want to go anywhere until we've talked about this."
And here we are, right back where we started from, she thinks miserably. "I think you've said enough for one night."
"Hermione -"
"Don't." She holds up one hand, gratified to see that it looks rock-solid, quite different to the violent fluttering of her pulse and the unsteady hammering of her heart. "Just don't. I'm going to bed."
"This is ridiculous." He takes two steps toward her as he speaks, and she instinctively takes a half-step backward. His gaze narrows. "Why do you do that?"
Hermione links her hands behind her back, twisting her fingers together. "Do what?"
"Cringe when I come anywhere near you."
"I don't cringe -"
"You're still worried about violating one of your damned unwritten rules, aren't you?"
"My rules?" She glares at him. "When did they become my rules?"
He suddenly looks ten years older, the broad line of his shoulders slumping as if in defeat. "They've always been your rules, Hermione," he says softly.
She sucks in a sharp breath. "You were the one who said you didn't want to sneak around and hide in corners. You were the one who said we needed to pull back."
"I know. But I didn't realise that it would turn into a case of 'all' or 'nothing', that we'd go from one extreme to the other."
"That's not true," she protests, but even as she denies his words, she knows he's right. They went from best friends to lovers to two people who had no idea how to behave around each other, and she has the awful, dreadful feeling that it was - is - all her fault.
"Isn't it?" Harry looks as unhappy as she feels. "You can barely bring yourself to touch my hand, let alone hug me or kiss me on the cheek the way you used to do before we -" He breaks off, his face flushed.
"Before we slept together," she says, giving him a brittle smile.
The words hang in the air between them, and Hermione feels her pulse spike dangerously. He takes one, two, three slow steps toward her, then they stare at each other for a long moment, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the room. When he lifts his hand to her face, his palm warm against her cheek, her heart feels as though it's about to burst out of her chest. "I don't remember doing much sleeping."
Heat bursts into life beneath her skin and she jerks away from his touch. "Please don't," she whispers desperately.
"Why not?"
"Because I can't do this." She wraps her arms around herself. "I can't casually discuss that night as though we're discussing the weather or the Quidditch results." She hesitates, uncomfortably aware that her voice is wavering. "You were right, Harry," she finally whispers unsteadily. "I'm sick of pretending it never happened."
"Then let's stop pretending."
She stares at him. "What are you saying?"
His hand is suddenly tugging at hers, coaxing her arm back down to her side. "This isn't how I want things to be between us." He threads his fingers through hers almost gingerly, as though worried about her reaction. "I don't know what I thought would happen, but I never wanted it to be like this."
Hermione sucks in a deep breath, hoping it will cool her heated thoughts. "Then why didn't you say something?" she demands, pulling her hand away from his. So much for cooling her thoughts, she thinks darkly. "For God's sake, Harry, it's been two years! Two years during which you were apparently perfectly happy for things to be the way they were!"
He grabs her hand again and holds it fast. "I was the one who said we needed to pull back. It seemed only fair that you were the one who set the ground rules." His eyes search her face, as though looking for the answers she's not giving him with her words. "I didn't realise that it was all wrong until it was too late."
Hermione opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again. What can she say? She can't argue with him, because he's bloody well right. It all went wrong and now it's a huge mess and she's afraid that it really is too late.
"Why did you really leave tonight?" he asks softly, staring down at their entwined hands. "And don't tell me you were tired, because we both know that's not the reason."
Trying not to notice that his thumb is making slow circles on the back of her hand, she shrugs. "I had to get away."
He lifts his eyes to hers. "You had to get away from me."
"Yes." The word is little more than a whisper.
An almost inaudible sigh escapes his lips, and it's all she can do to stop herself from pulling him into her arms. "Why?"
There's a lump in her throat the size of an orange. "You know why."
His hand tightens around hers. "I want to hear you say it."
Her thoughts begin to blur with panic. "You'd already made the decision to go with Moody and Remus, and I didn't think you needed my help packing."
Harry looks less than impressed by her feeble attempt at levity. "Hermione…"
"Fine, I'll tell you. I left because you were planning to vanish with Moody again, and even though you nearly died the last time, I knew that there was nothing I could say or do to stop you from leaving -" She breaks off, swallowing the rest of her words, hoping he hasn't already seen 'leaving me behind' in her eyes. "I couldn't stop you leaving the last time, and this time isn't any different."
He shakes his head. "This time is different."
Hermione swallows hard, but that orange sized lump is still in her throat. Harry suddenly seems to be standing much closer - she can smell the familiar scent of lemon soap and warm skin. "Why is it different this time?"
"Because everything is different now," he says simply.
Again she finds herself opening her mouth to speak, then closing it again without saying a word. She suspects she looks rather like a confused goldfish, but she truly has no answer to that statement. "What are you saying?" she finally asks.
"I'm saying that we should stop pretending. I'm saying that I was wrong. I'm saying that I'm sick of waiting for the right time to be together." She stares at him, speechless once more. "What if we don't win this war?"
Dismay helps her find her voice. "Don't say that."
"Listen to me." He leans closer, taking her other hand in his. "What if this is it? What if there is no afterwards?"
She can feel her mouth trembling. It makes her voice sound shaky. "You remembered."
His lips curve in a rueful smile. "I remember everything you've ever said to me from the moment we met."
She closes her eyes, feeling the warm sting of impending tears prickling behind her eyes. "I didn't tell you the whole truth about tonight," she whispers. It suddenly seems very important that she tell him this particular secret. "The truth is that I left because I didn't think you needed me anymore."
He makes an odd sound that is halfway between a laugh and a snort. "I need you, Hermione. I need you so much that sometimes it frightens me."
She opens her eyes to gaze at him in disbelief, not quite able to reconcile this Harry with the one who had looked straight through her in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place earlier this evening. "Then why did you - why were you so- " She stops, feeling somewhat light-headed, struggling to think of a polite way to ask, "why were you acting like a complete and utter prat?"
Thankfully, she doesn't have to resort to such bluntness. "It wasn't anything you'd done," he says quietly. He releases her hands as he speaks, and she's vaguely aware of circulation returning to her fingers. She hadn't realised he was holding onto her so tightly. "It was a combination of a lot of things, and some of them were about you, but it wasn't anything that you'd done, trust me." His gaze locks with hers. "I shouldn't have spoken to you like that."
She would dearly like to fling her arms around him, but her thoughts are still darting in a dozen different directions. Most of those thoughts are questions she suspects he can't - or won't - answer, but she needs to at least try to get this straight in her head. She needs to get this straight in her head. "Did you have an argument with Ron before I came into the kitchen?"
"No."
Realisation dawns like a bloody great light bulb going on inside her head. "You had an argument with Moody and Remus, didn't you?"
"Not exactly an argument." He manages to sound evasive and earnest at the same time, and Hermione can't help but admire such a skill. "Let's just say that a few strong words were exchanged."
"Anything to do with why they want me to come back to Grimmauld Place?"
"Maybe."
Biting back a sigh, she puts her hands on her hips and frowns at him. "That's not an answer, Harry."
"I know," he offers her an apologetic half-smile, "but until you come back to Grimmauld Place and speak to them, it's the only answer I can give you."
She nods slowly, the nervous, churning sensation in the pit of her stomach returning as she takes a mental step backward, trying to see the whole picture. Trying to see what he's not telling her. "Are you leaving me - and Ron - behind because you want to keep us safe?"
His smile fades. "It's not as simple as that."
"It is as simple as that. Ron and I have been fighting at your side for the last ten years. We're not helpless children who need to be protected."
"I know that."
"Then explain to me why we can't go with you."
"There's more than one way to fight at someone's side, Hermione."
"That sounds like Remus talking, not you." He shrugs and says nothing, and Hermione can literally feel him slipping away from her. "Ron and I were put in Gryffindor for a reason, Harry."
Amusement dances in his eyes. "As if the Sorting Hat would ever put a Weasley anywhere else but Gryffindor."
"That's nit-picking and you know it. You know what I mean."
They stare at each other for what seems like an eternity, then he lifts his hands, as if in defeat. "Ron understands that I have to do this," he finally says, a note of despair straining his voice.
She can't stop the words that rise up in her throat any more than she can stop breathing. "Ron isn't in love with you."
He stares at her, his eyes finally alive, no longer those of a stranger. Over the last ten years, she has forced herself to speak only of friendship and loyalty. She and Harry have never talked of love. They have never allowed themselves the luxury. She sees the memory of their one night together burn in his eyes, and a heat that has nothing to do with the nearby fireplace creeps across her skin, dancing up her spine, prickling her scalp.
"Do you ever think about it, Hermione?" His voice is rough and dark and makes her think of things of which best friends have no business thinking, things like the heady combination of cool sheets and warm flesh. Things like the taste of his mouth, the smell of his skin and the feel of him inside her.
She has a scant few seconds to appreciate the fact that he's repeating her own long-ago question, then he lifts his hand to her face, his fingertips grazing her heated skin in a soft caress that chases the thought from her head and coaxes a breathless answer from her lips. "Yes."
"So do I." He brushes his fingertips along her collarbone, the light caress sending a flurry of goosebumps across her skin. "Some days I can't think about anything else." The longing in his voice makes her heart flip over. He is looking at her with such passion, his sea green eyes almost black in the half-light, and all her words flee in the face of the naked emotion on his face. "Some days," he adds in an unsteady whisper, "I can't look at you without wanting you."
Her heart suddenly feels as though it might sprout wings and fly right out of her chest. Speechless, she brings her hands up his face, no longer able to resist the temptation to touch him, to feel his skin against hers. He watches her through half-lidded eyes as she traces the contours of his face with trembling fingertips, exploring the hard curve of his whisker roughened jaw, teasing the cleft of his chin with her little fingernail. When she strokes one finger along his bottom lip, he makes a thick sound of frustration and grabs her wandering hand. "Don't."
She knows that there are still far many secrets between them, but the rush of blood beneath her skin is intoxicating. She's been thinking so hard about so many things for so very long. At this precise moment in time, all she wants to do is feel. "Why not?" she whispers, brushing her thumb across the warm skin of his palm, a silent challenge to echo her words.
His hand tightens around hers. "Because today is one of those days."
~*~*~*~*~