Unofficial Portkey Archive

A/N: Thanks to everyone who gave me support and encouragement on this story and everyone who left feedback. Special thanks to Victoria Tonks, Connaka, and danielerin for nagging for updates. Thanks to Demosthenes for the icons. Thanks to James for the beta. And thanks to Kaze, for being my partner in crime… go check out our joint-fic Webs.

I am fairly agile

I can bend and not break

Or I can break and take it with a smile

And I am so resilient

I recover quickly

I'll convince you soon that I am fine

-Bend and Not Break, Dashboard Confessional

**

Her hands are still bleeding.

She should be tending to them-water-disinfectant-a band-aid.

She doesn't want Harry to see her like this.

She knows what it'll do to him.

/Best friends, Ron? Is that what we are?/

Downstairs things are falling apart and she can't do anything to stop it.

Hermione Granger-insufferable know-it-all-the girl who was always right-has no answer for this.

No way to fix what is happening to them.

/You betrayed me. You snuck around behind my back. You've spent a month lying to me./

It was never supposed to come to this.

She was never supposed to fall in love with one of them.

She was never supposed to fall in love with either of them.

But especially not one.

Not one of them.

/ What the fuck happened to us, Harry?/

She stares down at her bleeding hands while the rational part of her mind screams at her.

Guilt.

This is what she's feeling-guilt, so much guilt. Guilt is what's keeping her hidden in her room, her hands throbbing from the cut glass.

You're punishing yourself.

That's not healthy.

Not that anything she's been doing lately is healthy.

Sneaking around… lying to your best friend… and secretly thrilled about having Harry all to yourself…

It shouldn't have come to this.

Never this.

She shouldn't have let it.

Because she knew this is where it would inevitably end up. Knew it when Harry first kissed her up on the rooftop of Grimmauld Place. Knew it when they made the decision to deliberately lie to Ron.

To spare his feelings.

She almost laughs.

The house is suddenly quiet and Hermione feels her heart begin to speed up.

What now?

She almost wishes that Harry and Ron are still yelling at each other because then she can at least know what's happening.

She hates the silence.

The silence of Grimmauld Place is oppressive. It's everywhere. It leaks out from every corner and crack in the house until she wants to scream to make it end.

But it's the creaks that are the worse. The way the house cracks and moans. She doesn't know if it's Buckbeak or someone moving around upstairs or if it's just Kreacher.

Maybe it's just Grimmauld Place itself.

Almost in answer to her thoughts, the floor gives a low creak. But this one is recognizable-comforting.

She looks up and there he is-there's Harry, staring at her from the doorway to her room. For a long time he says nothing, just stares at her, the intensity in his gaze causing her heart to beat faster.

"Hey," he finally says softly. "Can I… can I come in?"

She nods and he enters her room, his face carefully blank.

He's gotten better at hiding his emotions, Hermione realizes with a start.

It disturbs her because he was always the one person she knew. Harry always let his emotions run across his face, and no one had been better than her at reading them.

She remembers the way he stared at Ron down in the kitchen. The way his eyes had betrayed his barely controlled violence.

And it was Ron.

Harry's best friend Ron.

Her best friend Ron.

She can't bear the thought that Harry might look at her like that one day.

Losing Sirius changed him, she thinks.

No, that prophecy changed him.

She can still hear him telling her about the prophecy, she can still feel the walls of the bathroom as they seemed to close in around them, and she remembers the way their harsh breathing had echoed through the room.

/It won't be you. I won't let it be you./

But she can't help but wonder what Harry will have to become in order to win that battle.

She's seen flashes of it-flashes of that Harry-the Harry that has power in him. The power he needs to kill Voldemort-to win when no else had been able to.

She wants so badly to hang on and bring him somewhere else-away from it-away from all of it. She wants to hide him away and keep him from ever fighting Voldemort because she's so terrified of what that prophecy might mean for him.

"Hermione?"

She blinks at him, having almost forgotten that he's there. He's still staring at her with the same intensity in his eyes and she still can't read him.

"Hermione…" he says again, swallowing deeply. His face changes and she sees that he's… concerned.

For her.

"Hermione, your hands," he says roughly, reaching for her. She flinches and pulls away. Harry draws back and shoves his hands in his pockets. "We have to… you should get those cleaned up."

"Why does the house creak so much?"

Hermione's stunned to hear her own voice. She hadn't really meant to ask the question and she can tell that she's surprised Harry. He stares at her, mouth hanging partially open in confusion.

That's it, she thinks. I've gone mad.

"The house," Hermione finds herself saying again-though she really doesn't comprehend why. "It's always… creaking. I don't… it bothers me."

Harry shuts his mouth and thinks, his expression carefully neutral. "Well," he finally says. "It's an old house… it's probably just settling. You shouldn't let it bother you."

She nods gratefully, somehow reassured by his explanation. Maybe because it's Harry and Harry always makes her feel safe, makes her feel like he'd do anything to protect her.

Harry reaches out to take her hands and, this time, she lets him. He runs his thumb gently over the back of her hand before studying the small bleeding cuts the glass has left behind on her palms. His eyes darken at the sight of her blood and she feels something inside of her clench.

Should've cleaned up before he got here, should've taken care of myself, should've been Hermione Granger-the rational girl who always has an answer.

"C'mon," he whispers. "Let's get these cleaned up."

Once again she nods, allowing him to lead her to the bathroom. This is where we were when he told me about the prophecy, she thinks, looking around her. It's not a setting one would normally think of for a life-changing confession.

Harry closes the toilet lid and sits her down. She can hear him shuffling about, the water running, and she smiles to herself thinking about she'd taken care of him after he'd thrown up…

He comes back around, carrying a white towel in his hands. Obediently she holds out her palms while Harry cleans her wounds, the cloth warm and damp against her skin.

"Stupid thing for you to have done," he says, pressing the towel to her hands and turning his eyes up to meet her. "If I hadn't-"

"I know."

"You should be more careful," Harry says gruffly, taking the towel away-now stained red-and coming back with band-aids.

Hermione remembers the way that Ron had turned to her in the kitchen. She remembers how fierce his eyes had been, the pain and betrayal lined into his face.

/Have you fucked him yet?/

My fault, she thinks, with a small shiver. This is all my fault…

She feels something inside her break and despair floods her body. This is what they've become. Her, Harry, and Ron… this can't be possible… not after everything they've been through together…

She feels a tear slide down her cheek and she tries so hard to stop herself, she doesn't want Harry to see, doesn't want him to know, doesn't want to worry him-make things worse. Another slides past her nose, lingering on the corner of her mouth until she can almost taste the salt. A lump gathers in her throat and she struggles to swallow past it, refusing to give into the urge to sob.

"Hermione?"

She shakes her head valiantly, still trying to force back her tears, but they're coming in rapid succession now. She doesn't look at Harry, but she can feel how tense he is.

"Hermione…" he trails off helplessly. "Hermione… what's…"

She shakes her head again and a loud sob tears its way out of her throat. She sneaks a glance at Harry, who looks half anguished and half terrified at her tears. It makes her feel guilty because she knows how much he hates it when girls cry.

She wishes that she could talk and reassure him, but only more tears come. She can't stop herself-and that scares her more than anything.

Harry's look of mingled fear and confusion quickly changes to worry. "Hermione, talk to me," he pleads and Hermione hears that his voice is shaking. He brushes a trembling hand over her cheek, brushing away her tears with his thumb. "Please… tell me what's wrong…"

She bows her head, biting her lip. She can't talk to him-even if she wanted to. She doesn't know how to explain where this is coming from. These feelings are bursting out from her and she can't do anything but let them.

Harry shifts uncomfortably, looking awkward and out of place. "Hermione, please… tell me what to do…"

"Can't," she whispers, throat dry and scratchy. She wants to tell him that she's sorry-so very sorry-but she doesn't know how. She suddenly wants nothing more than to be at home in bed, curled up and gripping an old stuffed animal.

A moment of indecision before Harry hesitantly puts his arms around her. She lets him, leaning her head on his shoulder, even as her tears continue to cascade down her face. Her throat hitches and Harry's arms suddenly strengthen around her, holding her tightly and rocking her. He's whispering things to her-she doesn't know what, but it doesn't matter. He's there-he's strong and he's safe and she lets go.

Slowly she begins to calm, her loud sobs changing to small sniffs. Harry keeps rocking her and whispering to her and Hermione shuts her eyes tightly. She has a sudden flash of Harry after his kiss with Cho in the Room of Requirement. His lost look, his confusion, his inability to understand his feelings and hormones. Most of all, she remembers his embarrassed omission that he'd sort of patted her on the back a bit.

And here he is now, comforting her like it's the most natural thing in the world. She doesn't know how to react to that-not least of all because it's usually her that's comforting him.

She's gotten his sleeve all wet where she's cried and neither of them care. She holds him almost as tightly as he's holding her, drawing in a shaky breath. She's filled with a need to never let go. She wants to hold him forever, right this way, where they're both safe and nothing can touch them.

"Hermione…" his voice is nothing but a whisper. "Hermione, are you…"

"I'm fine," she says softly and pulls away. She knows she must look a fright, her eyes swollen and red, her hair mused and her face pale. Harry studies her with some of his earlier intensity and she feels her heart rate go up a notch.

"Tell me what's wrong."

His voice is gentle, but it's a command and she suddenly realizes what this must be doing to him. He's only just come back from facing Ron and now, here she is, crying her eyes out in the bathroom without any kind of an explanation.

"I don't know," she whispers, her voice still strained. "I'm sorry-I don't… I don't know what came over me."

Harry's expression doesn't change and Hermione's suddenly struck by just how pale he is. His gaze is steady but she can see how tired he is. There are deep circles under his eyes and she suddenly finds herself wondering how much sleep he's been getting recently. She traces her fingers along his cheek and his eyes flutter closed. His hand comes up to envelope her fingers, squeezing gently before letting go.

Her heart constricts with so much mingled love and pain. Looking at him like this and she knows that she'd do anything for him.

But she feels the burden of responsibility on her shoulders. With Sirius gone and his fight with Ron, she feels like she's the only thing he has left. With the prophecy and the war and the impending fight with Voldemort, she doesn't know if she's strong enough to be the only thing he has.

She looks at his pale face and tired eyes and feels desperation claw up in her. "You must fix things with Ron."

His eyes fly open, surprised, before he quickly masks his feelings. "What?"

"You need him!" she says insistently. "You two-you're both being stubborn-you're being silly-I know that you miss each other!"

He pulls away from her and she feels the loss inside her. She's left sitting on the toilet seat as Harry paces restlessly in front of her.

"It's over," he says flatly. "Ron and I-it's over."

"It's not-"

"Yes, it is!" he yells, stopping his pacing.

Hermione feels a lump gather in her throat and her eyes fill with tears again. Hurriedly, she looks away from him. "I just think…" she says shakily, willing for her voice to stay calm. "He was your first friend-your longest friend. I… don't think it's worth giving up."

"It's over," he says again-firmly. "We can't go back now, Hermione."

She hears the tiniest bit of regret in his voice and it fills her with hope. She looks back up at him. He's staring off into space, almost like he's forgotten she's still there. He blinks, focusing his eyes on her again.

"Oh," he says, in a defeated tone of voice. "I made you cry again, didn't I?"

"It's alright," she says faintly, giving a watery smile.

"No-it's not… it's…." Harry stops, looking caught. "You know what? Let's get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

She nods-a little reluctantly. She doesn't want to be alone.

He takes her hand, leading her out of the bathroom. They pass the bedroom he shares with Ron without comment and make their way to her room. Hermione shoots him a look, his attentions suddenly becoming clear.

"Harry-" she says haltingly. "Maybe this isn't-"

"Look," he says, cutting her off. "I figure that we both need to rest. And we'll do that better together." He gives her a ghost of a smile. "You just have to promise me that you'll keep your hands to yourself, Granger."

Her jaw drops, unable to reconcile the fact that Harry-her Harry-has just made a joke.

"Oh, c'mon," he says weakly. "Don't look at me like that. I'm a handsome bloke. It could happen."

She snorts, succeeding in making him look slightly offended. In a moment, he's replaced his hurt look with a small smile-a sad smile, but still a smile. She feels herself smiling back, hesitantly, as if her mouth isn't accustomed to the movement.

"Alright," she concedes "I suppose… I suppose… I can keep my hands to myself."

Harry gives her a real smile then and she's struck by how much younger it makes him look. It makes him look like a boy again-the boy she remembers seeing on the Hogwarts' Express for the first time all those years ago. The boy with broken glasses and wide eyes and a nervous expression.

****

Neither of them have slept.

Not that it's stopped them from pretending

She stares up at the ceiling, willing her mind to relax, to stop thinking, to stop replaying the events of earlier that evening.

It's a lost cause.

"Harry?" she whispers.

For a moment, she's afraid that he's not going to answer her-or that he really has fallen asleep.

"Yeah?" she finally hears.

She shifts slightly, rolling over on her side so that she can see his face. He's not wearing his glasses and she's surprised at how different it makes him look. More… vulnerable, somehow.

"You know… all that stuff Ron said… you know it's rubbish, right?"

"Which part?" he asks heavily.

"You know which part."

"There were a lot of things Ron said."

Some part of her realizes that he's making it difficult for her on purpose, but she plunges on anyway.

"The part where he said that I'd made a mistake-that choosing you was a mistake." Her voice is shaking. "You know that's rubbish, right? Right, Harry?"

It's a long time before he answers. "Yeah."

She wishes that it's brighter in the room so she can see his face. She wants so badly to look at him and be able to read his emotions-like she's always been able to do.

"You don't sound very convinced."

He sighs. "I'm convinced."

"Now you're just saying that to placate me."

Harry doesn't make any reply. He stares up at the ceiling and she finds herself wishing that he would turn towards her.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks.

"The fact that I'm lying in bed with my girlfriend. And we're both fully clothed."

She gapes at him in surprise-not sure if that's what he'd really been thinking about, or if he'd just said it to change the subject.

"Girlfriend?" she finally repeats. "I'm your… girlfriend?"

"Well-yeah," he says, somewhat bewildered. "I mean, I sort of assumed so. Unless we're doing this whole thing terribly wrong."

"Oh, of course," she says hurriedly. "I just wasn't aware that we were putting a label on it, that's all."

"Maybe it's best if we don't," he says softly.

Her head snaps up and she's so desperate for him to look at her-she needs to see his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe it's best if we don't show the world what we have," he says.

"Oh," she says blankly. Her hands begin to quiver and she has to look away from him. She stares at the sheet covering the bed. Lilac-she's always liked lilac.

"I just…" his voice is quiet and oddly strained. "There's no reason why we have to make you an even bigger target than you already are. The last thing I want to do is make it bloody clear to the world who the most important person in Harry Potter's life is."

She stares down at the sheets-lilac sheets-that smell fresh and clean. She always loved going to bed after her sheets were straight out of the laundry and still held a tinge of the detergent her mother used on them.

"Harry, please… just tell me what you mean."

"I'm saying," he says, voice controlled. "That it's not going to be easy. That it's not going to be strolling through the streets of Hogsmeade and dates at Madame Puddifoot's. That no one can know about us. That there will be no balls for us or kisses in the common room. That's what I'm saying. "

"You're serious, aren't you?" she whispers in disbelief.

When she doesn't get an answer, she makes a small sound of disgust and rolls over onto the opposite side.

Ridiculous thing to be telling her.

She can't shake the feeling that he's trying to test her-as if pushing to see how far she'd go for him.

And she's tired of playing that game.

"Hermione…" he sounds frustrated and she can hear him shifting around. "For Merlin's sakes, what's going on with you?"

"Go to sleep," she says coolly. "It's late."

"No, I will not `go to sleep,' Hermione. You're obviously in a right state over something. Look, if this is about-"

"You don't get it, do you?" she interrupts, sitting up. "It's not about what you said, but why you were saying it."

"The hell are you talking about?" he demands, reaching for his glasses. "You're reading too much into this."

Furious, she throws back the blankets and climbs out of bed. She whirls around so she can see him-finally see him. She's pleased to see that she has his full attention.

"You have all of me," she says slowly. "Do you understand that? All of me. I don't know many different ways I can say that-how many different ways I can show you that. I don't care about Hogsmeade dates or kisses in the rain. But I sometimes think that you wished I did. I sometimes think that you wished I thought you were a mistake-or that I chose Ron, instead. Would that make you happy? Would that make you happy, Harry?"

He pulls his knees to his chest and for a moment he looks lost and confused. "No…" he says with difficulty. "That wouldn't… I couldn't think of anything that could make me less happy."

She feels the fight go out of her and she suddenly feels exhausted. "Well-good."

"But Ron was right, Hermione," he whispers. "I'm scared out of my mind. Scared that you might resent me one day. Scared that I'll lose you the way I lost Sirius."

She swallows past a lump in her throat. Carefully, she sits down at the edge of the bed, beginning to feel as though he's finally letting her in.

"But…" she says, voice strained. "You know I'd do anything for you, right?"

Slowly, he nods. "And that's scary enough on its own."

"Oh, Harry," she sighs. "You have enough in your life to fight without having to fight me-us-as well."

He cracks a small smile. "That's true."

"And, no," she continues, making her voice light. "The things to fight don't include Ron."

"Don't think I really have a choice on that one," he mumbles.

"Oh, there's always a choice. It's just trying to decide what that choice is."

"Dunno about that," he says, averting his eyes. "Seems like my destiny has been planned out since the day I was born. Don't s'pose I have much choice when it comes to Voldemort."

"Of course you do," she says gently, sliding in next to him again. He looks grateful and she reaches for his hand. Their fingers entwine together and she can see some of the tension go out of his shoulders. "All the prophecy did was tell you that you can defeat him. Now it's up to you to decide what to do about it."

He blinks a few times. "Well-I don't really fancy losing."

She feels that same protective instinct rise up in her again-the same feeling she felt when he first told her about the prophecy. The determination to do anything to help him win-to be by his side up until the very last moments.

Harry simply cannot lose to Voldemort. Anything else is unacceptable.

So she smiles at him warmly and squeezes his hand, hoping to convey her feelings.

"Then we're on the same page."

He smiles. "As usual."

"As usual."

***

When she wakes up, it's still dark. She can tell without looking at the clock that it's early morning.

She's always had a good sense of time. She's needed it to get by through the years-managing homework assignments and Quidditch games and classes and time turner's and… Harry.

Harry who has an arm thrown across her torso and his head buried in her shoulder.

Fantastic job at keeping his hands to himself.

But she feels pleasantly warm and safe. She's reluctant to move, but she knows she'll never fall back asleep now.

She's never been able to sleep in. Her mother always said it was because she was far too stressed.

`That's our little Hermione,' she'd tell people. `Always ready to start the next thing. She's far too busy to sleep.'

She shifts a little, trying to detangle herself from Harry's protective arm. She only succeeds in making him strengthen his hold.

She can't help her small smile. That's her Harry-always protective.

"Harry," she whispers, brushing her fingers through his hair. "Come on, Harry…"

"Ummph."

She bites her lip to keep from giggling. "I'm getting up… so I need you to let go of me, alright?"

"Mmph."

Though he doesn't move, his hold on her loosens and she gently pries herself away from him. She feels an immediate pang at the loss of contact. She glances back at Harry, who's fallen back into a deep sleep.

She watches him for a moment, glad of it. Harry rarely sleeps well.

The early morning air is cool and she shivers before wrapping herself up in a bathrobe. Rubbing her arms, she walks briskly through Grimmauld Place's empty halls.

With the sun just beginning to rise, the little light streaming in casts an eerie glow on the house. She resists the urge she feels to glance behind her, hating the fact that merely walking through the house makes her nervous.

This is the safest house in Britain.

The floorboards give a small creek under her feat and she immediately flinches, finding herself wishing for Harry.

Let him sleep.

Summing up her courage, she breezes into the kitchen before stopping dead in her tracks.

Ron.

She sucks in a breath, caught off guard, before slowly releasing it. He's sleeping, his body hunched over in one of chairs, his head resting on his folded arms on the table.

She glances around the kitchen, chewing her lip. Making a decision, she heads for the coffee part and busily sets to making herself coffee.

She spies the broken glass from earlier brushed into a pile in the corner. The blood-her blood-is gone. She's momentarily thankful-she doesn't want anyone else (besides the three of them)-to know what happened.

Coffee finished, she pours two mugs and calmly sits herself down at the table across from Ron.

Unsure of where to go next, she studies him for a moment. He's snoring loudly and she finds the noise somewhat soothing.

It's better than the quiet.

With a sigh, she reaches over and pinches the skin on his upper-arm.

He wakes with a yelp, banging the table in the process. The coffee sloshes over the sides of the mugs.

Hermione passes him one. "Good-morning," she says serenely.

Ron blinks sleep out his eyes, face going from bewilderment, to confusion, to panic, before settling on slight fear.

"Her-Hermione…" he winces and rubs his arm. "Bloody hell, what are you doing?"

"Drinking my coffee," she says, gesturing to her mug. "And I was hoping that… we could talk."

His eyes narrow and he glances down at his coffee mug suspiciously. "I hate coffee."

"I know."

"I prefer tea."

"I know." She shrugs and takes a sip of her coffee-black coffee-she's always liked black coffee. "I made coffee."

"Err…alright…" he says, looking at the mug disdainfully.

Silence descends on them and Hermione drinks her coffee as a way of distracting herself from the tension.

Ron gets up and adds enough milk and sugar to his coffee to make her wince. Afterwards, he stirs it without taking a sip.

She's already growing irritated by it.

She feels relief-if Ron can still annoy her then, then there's hope. Hope for them.

"Hermione?"

She looks up at him, startled that he's the one that spoke first.

"I'm-I'm sorry for how I spoke to you last night."

/Have you fucked him yet?/

She looks at him and sees that it's true. He's not sorry for confronting her, but he regrets his words.

"That's… alright," she says.

"Good."

His eyes are worn and tired. His freckles stand out on a pale face-this isn't any easier for him than it is for Harry and her.

Maybe harder.

At least she and Harry have each other.

She can't quite contain a small pang of victory-though she's disgusted with herself for it.

Harry chose her.

She understands this is something they can never discuss-never even acknowledge. But it's something she and Ron have always been aware of-just there, hovering in the back of their minds.

Who the real best friend is.

She looks at Ron-Ron, pale and freckly and tired-and she can suddenly feel for him. She looks at him and sees all the things he lost when he confronted them.

"Things'll never be the same again, will they?" he says quietly, staring into his coffee mug. "We'll never… they changed forever last night."

He no longer sounds angry, only empty and defeated.

He's given in.

"No, Ron, they'll never be the same again." She feels a loss-a loss of what they had (the Golden Trio of Hogwarts, inseparable). "But maybe… I know we don't have a right to it, but I hope that one day… you might forgive us."

"Yeah, maybe," he mumbles. "Harry doesn't want it, though."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Harry's not interested in… Harry doesn't give a fuck about whether or not I forgive him."

"That's not true."

He snorts. "Yes, it bloody well is. You saw it. He's… he's changed, Hermione."

She looks down. "I know."

"I don't… I don't really know what to make of it."

Harry-the one subject they'd almost always been able to discuss without sniping at each other.

But now… even that seems fake.

"You lied to me," Ron whispers. "Why?"

Because they didn't want to hurt him.

Because they didn't think the time was right.

Because they liked it-having their secret.

"I don't know, Ron," she says. "I thought I knew but… I don't know anymore."

"Do you love him?"

She shuts her eyes and nods.

"You're too young to understand what love is," he says and he sounds disgusted. "You're sixteen."

"Don't do this."

"You can't understand love," he continues. "You-you have no idea what love is."

"And would it make things easier for you if you believed that? Would it make it easier for you to hate us?"

"Fuck, Hermione. I don't need that to hate you two."

"You don't mean that."

"I bloody well do!" he says. "I'm tired of… of being in the background, of having you two outshine me, of-of losing to Harry! It wasn't supposed to be this way!"

"How was it supposed to be, Ron?" she whispers, watching him in concentration.

He's beginning to get frustrated-as he so often does with her. But (for once) she's not interested in a fight. For once she's understanding him-these are things that Ron's been hiding (from them) for years.

"You, us… it-it wasn't supposed to be Harry. He doesn't need…"

"What, Ron?" she prods gently.

"You," he finally manages, sounding defeated. "Not like… not like…"

"The way you were supposed to need me?"

Miserably, Ron nods and stares down at his hands.

"Ron… you don't honestly expect me to be with someone so they can feel better about themselves, do you?" she sighs. "Stuff like this… it's not about self-image. I'm not here so you can feel better about yourself."

"I know," he says meekly, still staring down at his hands.

She nods because she can see that he does know.

"I never even liked you all that much, anyway," he mumbles. "At least, not like that."

"I know."

"It wasn't even about you, not really. It was about…"

"Harry."

Ron bows his head.

"He needs you, you know. Ron… you must understand. He doesn't even know that he-"

"Harry," Ron cuts in. "Lied to me for a month, Hermione. He has no respect for me. And I'm tired of standing in his shadow, alright? Whatever we were-whatever the three of us were-that's over."

Hermione studies him for a moment-the anger, the resentment, the jealousy. And she makes a split decision.

I'm sorry, Harry.

"He might die."

Ron's head snaps up. "What?"

"Harry," she says. "He's-he might not have that much time left, Ron."

He's staring at her and she can see his throat working furiously. "Well-yeah. I mean, he has an insane, psychopath after-"

"No, Ron. Listen to me, will you?" She takes a deep breath. "It was in that prophecy from the Department of Mysteries. Harry has to kill Voldemort-he has to. Because neither of them can live while the other survives."

Ron's breathing is laboured. "How do you know this?" he whispers harshly. "This isn't something you can… the prophecy was destroyed, Hermione!"

"Harry told me," she says calmly. "Dumbledore told him what was in it."

He's even paler before and she can slowly see him crumbling-the anger, the bitterness-it's leaving him and he slumps, exhausted.

"We're all he has, Ron." She speaks clearly, her voice ringing through the kitchen. "We're all he has. Don't you see that? Be angry with us for what we did to you, but don't, don't for one second, don't you dare be jealous of him."

He looks at her-eyes exhausted. "He has to kill… Vo-You-Know-Who… or-or You-Know-Who will kill him? That's it? That's… that's the only possible outcome?"

She nods. "That's it. He's your best friend, Ron. And it's up to you to decide whether or not you'll hate him when-when Harry and Voldemort finally face each other."

For a moment, Ron almost looks like he's going to cry, but he pulls himself together at the last second and rests his forehead on the palm of his hand, looking defeated.

Hermione gets up from the table and goes to pour herself a second cup of coffee, giving him his moment.

A moment that could decide the fate of their friendship.

**

It was the dreams that woke him-as it so often was.

Harry opened his eyes, heart pounding and hands shaking. He squinted into the dusty light of the bedroom, the sun shining brightly in through the windows.

He lay still for a moment, feeling the last vestiges of the nightmare cling to him. He couldn't remember what it had been about, but he'd been awoken in such a similar manner enough times to know that it had been a bad one.

He crawled out of bed, squinting at the sun pouring in through the window.

Honestly, Harry, how many times do I have to explain? If you shut the blinds, you miss the best part of the morning!

Shaking Hermione's voice out of his thoughts, Harry wandered aimlessly about her room, trying to calm the wild panic he'd felt upon waking from the dream. He caught sight of himself in the mirror overhanging the dresser and paused.

He still looked the same.

Granted, his hair was messier than usual, his clothes were rumpled, and his eyes were blurry from having just woken up, but there was little else that differed from the reflection he normally saw.

Sometimes it shocked him just how normal he did look.

Ever since Dumbledore had read him that prophecy, he kept expecting something different when he looked in the mirror.

Some sign… some indication that he did have the power to defeat Voldemort and it wasn't just Dumbledore making a mistake…

But he was still the same.

Just Harry Potter.

Just Harry Potter who had the power to defeat Lord Voldemort.

He shifted his eyes from the mirror, eyes landing on the surface of the bureau. On it he could see little bits of things that were so Hermione. A S.P.E.W. badge. A clipping from the Daily Prophet. A photo of her parents. A hair tie. A small sheet of paper covered with her hastily scribbled handwriting. It was organized enough that it didn't feel cluttered, but it suggested a harried sort of haste that he associated with Hermione.

He fingered the S.P.E.W. badge and it suddenly occurred to him just how much potential Hermione had to be anything.

And here he was, taking up most of her time and energy, forcing her to hide away in a house that belonged to a dead man, and risking her life in his fight against Voldemort.

This wasn't how anyone deserved to spend their summer.

Hermione should have been with her family, she should have been spending her days reading and… being brilliant.

/They'll kill her like they killed Sirius. Just because you care./

Harry turned away from the mirror, feeling sick.

It all rose in him then… his confusion over his destiny, his friendship with Ron, his desire to protect Hermione and his worry-his constant worry-he was going to lose her.

Just like Sirius.

And yet, he couldn't let her go. He couldn't about her with anyone else (least of all Ron).

She made a choice, Harry reminded himself, raising his eyes to the mirror again. His pale face stared back at him

She made a choice.

**

Harry changed and brushed his teeth and, stomach rumbling, made his way down to the kitchen.

He stopped in the doorway, surprised to see Ron and Hermione sitting at the kitchen table. For a moment, he could only stare-overcome with a feeling of nostalgia.

Things used to be simpler.

They weren't saying anything to each other. Ron was staring in avid concentration into his coffee mug as he stirred it. Hermione was flipping through the day's issue of the Daily Prophet.

They were both sitting stiffly in their seats and it was clear-to him, at least-that things were far from comfortable.

But they were sitting together.

He took a deep breath and entered the kitchen. Silently, he sat in the empty seat between them.

For a long moment, none of them said anything.

Hermione flipped another page in the Daily Prophet and Ron mechanically stirred his coffee. Neither of the seemed particularly startled to find him there.

"Morning, Harry," Ron finally mumbled, not looking up from his coffee.

"Good morning," Hermione echoed, still engrossed in her paper.

Harry looked back and forth between them. "Err… hi."

Ron pushed his coffee mug away from him, looking disgusted. "It's gone cold."

"Well, that's because you didn't bother drinking any of it," Hermione said huffily.

"I told you, I don't like coffee."

Hermione sniffed and folded the paper down in front of her. "Fudge is announcing his official `resignation.' Fired-most likely."

"Yeah?" Harry said, not finding it within himself to care all that much. Fudge and the Ministry seemed part of a life that was terribly far away.

Ron shook his head. "Moron."

Hermione gave a hesitant smile and the three lapsed into silence. With the harsh light of day surrounding them, Harry had trouble remembering the angry scene that had taken place in the very same kitchen only hours earlier.

But their secret was out. Ron knew. And that changed everything.

"Well-" Ron finally said. "It's a good thing this isn't awkward."

"Ron-"

"Don't `shush' me, Hermione," he snapped. "We all know that we're walking on eggshells here."

"Well, what do you expect? We've… we just need time."

"I'm not sure that's going to do it, Hermione," Harry said quietly, eyes on Ron.

Ron met his gaze. "Funny that you should say so."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, I don't know!" Ron said. "Maybe that you don't tell me anything? That my friendship is just one-big-lie!"

Harry looked away. "That's not true," he said. "You-you're not… things weren't supposed to come to this, Ron. Honest."

"Why didn't you tell me about the prophecy?" he asked flatly.

Harry gaped in surprise and glanced at Hermione. She steadfastly looked away, biting her lip nervously and twisting her hands in her lap.

"What?"

"You heard me," Ron said. "The prophecy. Remember? The one that says you might kick the bucket! Just slipped your mind, did it?"

"Well… I…" Harry swallowed. "It didn't-it never came up. Besides…" he continued weakly. "That's not what's up for discussion."

"Oh, I think that's exactly what's up for discussion," Ron said steadily. "I think that's exactly what's wrong here."

"What?" Harry demanded. "When did this-my personal business-become about you and me?"

"When you decided my trust meant nothing to you!" Ron hollered.

"That's not true!" Harry shouted. "It means-it means-that I didn't want to talk about the fact that I could die! That fighting Voldemort might be the last thing I ever do! I'm sorry if I didn't feel up to discussing it! I'm sorry if that hurt your feelings!"

"Stop it!" Hermione broke in shrilly. "You're both being ridiculous! Just-stop-yelling! You'll wake up the entire house!"

Harry clenched his jaw, eyes not leaving Ron's face. Ron stared back at him, taking several breaths in an effort to calm himself.

"So it's true then?" Ron finally managed. "The prophecy? You might… you and You-Know-Who have to-"

"Kill each other?" Harry offered. "Yeah, it's true."

"Oh," Ron said, going even paler. "Bloody hell."

"Yeah."

Harry held Ron's eyes for another moment.

"Hermione, could I have a word with you in private?"

Hermione jumped, sloshing coffee onto the table. "Of course," she said, voice overly bright.

Ignoring Ron, Harry led the way out of the kitchen and Hermione followed him. Out in the hall, Harry silently counted to ten before whirling around to face her.

She stared defiantly back at him, lips pursed. "I did the right thing," she said, before he opened his mouth.

"It wasn't your decision to make," he said, trying to keep his voice down. "That wasn't-you had no right to tell Ron."

She narrowed her eyes. "Someone had to tell him, Harry! You were clearly never going to do it! I know you two better than anyone-he wants to help you, Harry."

"He has a funny way of showing it."

Her eyes flashed. "He has a funny way of showing it? You've just been the epitome of understanding and compassion! He just found out his best mate might die, I think he's taking things rather well, all things considered!"

"It still wasn't yours to tell," Harry said. "I trusted you with this."

"Then trust me!" she said, eyes beginning to fill as she became more desperate. "He had to know. He's not stupid, he knew something was going on. Don't you see? You need both of us, you need-"

"Don't tell me what I need!" he burst out, before dropping his voice. "You don't know everything about me, Hermione."

She scoffed. "I know enough."

He couldn't come up with an appropriate reply, so he turned away, feeling like it was entirely too much to take in for one morning. Hermione moved closer to him, though she didn't touch him. Harry was glad she didn't, still feeling rather resentful towards her.

"We'll get you through this, Harry," she whispered. "Don't you understand that? He may be hurt, he may be angry, he may even hate you a little bit… but he'd do anything for you. Both of us would."

Harry very carefully avoided looking at her. She sighed and touched his hand lightly.

"Harry?" she prodded.

Finally, he nodded. "Yeah, I know."

He could see her small smile out of the corner of his eye.

"It'll…" she hesitated. "We'll be okay."

Harry knew she was lying-nothing could be okay. There was no way to know how much longer they had left. There was no way to know if he could defeat Voldemort, if he could ever find that power in himself.

But she believed every word she was saying.

And he believed her.

He turned his eyes on her, feeling for the first time a sort of calm rise in him.

This was why he had to win. For her, for them, for Ron.

So that they could be okay.

She exhaled a little in relief when he looked at her. Standing on her tiptoes, she brushed her lips over his in a quick kiss.

"I'll be in the kitchen," she said. "When you're ready… you know where to find us."

Harry gave her a forced smile and watched her walk away from him.

And, after a waiting a moment, he followed her.

The End

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