Bend and Not Break

Title: Bend and Not Break

Spoilers: Books 1-5

Disclaimer: I think we all know this one. Also, this is a sort-of-not-really song fic. The title comes from the Dashboard Confessional song `Bend and Not Break,' possibly my favourite song of the moment and kind of the theme song for Bend and Not Break. BUT, because I love to be confusing, the song that goes along with this chapter isn't `Bend and Not Break.' It's another Dashboard song (and if you don't own his latest album A Mark, A Mission, A Brand, A Scar, you must go buy it immediately), that was originally supposed to be the theme, but is now merely the theme to chapter one. Confused yet? You should be.

A/N: This could very possibly be labelled as angsty sap. Yes, there is such a thing, as you will discover upon reading. Harry's thoughts are in italics, so don't get it confused with the dialogue.

Thanks to my lovely betas James and Kristin for both telling me that they liked it and for correcting the errors. Thanks to Kaze whose lovely in progress fic Magnolias was a source of inspiration. And thanks to Joogie and Danielerin for the nomination in the Portkey awards.

Breathe in for luck, breathe in so deep,

this air is blessed, you share with me.

This night is wild, so calm and dull,

these hearts they race from self control.

Your legs are smooth as they graze mine,

we're doing fine, we're doing nothing at all.

My hopes are so high,

that your kiss might kill me.

So won't you kill me? So I die happy.

My heart is yours to fill or burst.

To break or bury, or wear as jewellery,

whichever you prefer.

Hands down, this is the best day I can ever

remember, always remember, the sound of the

stereo, the dim of the soft lights, the scent of your

hair that you twirled in your fingers, and the time

on the clock, when we realized it's

so late, and this walk that we shared together.

The streets were wet, and the gate was locked,

so I jumped it, and I let you in.

And you stood at your door, with hands on

my waist, and you kissed me like you meant it,

and I knew that you meant it.

-Hands Down, Dashboard Confessional

***

Harry hated it here.

Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Despite their overwhelming clean-up attempts the previous summer, the house had never seemed bleaker. Perhaps it was because Sirius' presence permeated nearly every room of the house. Harry felt as though he stumbled into his godfather's ghost with every step he took.

Still, it wasn't the Dursley's. And anything was better than being cooped up at Number 4 Pivet Drive in the Little Whinging.

The door opened and Harry glanced up, pulling himself out of his musings. Ron was standing at the entrance to their shared bedroom, tugging nervously at his collar.

“Hey, mate…” Ron said, looking intensely uncomfortable. “D'you have a moment?”

Harry sighed and glanced forlornly down at the homework he'd been trying to do. Pushing it off to the side, he stood and gave a long stretch. “Sure,” he said, yawning. “What's up?”

Ron took a deep breath, seeming to gather his courage. “There's err… something I think we should talk about.”

“Yeah?” said Harry casually. “Ron, if this is about Sir—”

“No, no,” Ron said hurriedly. “No, err… it's about Hermione, actually.”

Relieved, Harry felt a little friendlier. Curiously, he surveyed his best friend. “What about Hermione?”

Ron tugged at his collar again. “Well… the thing is…” Ron looked behind him into the empty hallway. Clearing his throat, he shut the door and started pacing nervously around the room. “The thing about Hermione is…”

Harry sat back down at his desk and raised his eyebrows in Ron's direction. “The thing about Hermione is…?” he prompted.

Ron sighed heavily and sat down on his bed. “Oh, bullocks,” he muttered. “This is more difficult that I thought it would be.”

Harry, watching his friend in amusement, had a sudden sinking suspicion.

“Right… err…” Ron took a deep breath. “I sort of… fancy her. Hermione, I mean.”

Harry blinked a few times, feeling his stomach drop even further. “Oh.”

“Yeah…” Ron gave a nervous chuckle. “Weird, eh? It's not like I meant to. I think I've been… struggling against it for a long time.”

Harry nodded, looking away from Ron. “Yeah… I think you have, too.”

“I think that… well, I think I'm going to say something to her.” Ron's voice turned quieter. “I mean, if you don't have a problem with it.”

Harry swallowed with difficulty, suddenly finding the floor to be intensely interesting. “Why would I have a problem with it?”

“Dunno,” Ron said. “It's just that… we've never really talked about it, you know? And I just wanted to make sure…”

“Make sure of what?” Harry asked, finally looking up from the floor. Ron was peering at him, clearly hesitant but determined.

“You don't… I mean… do you fancy Hermione?”

“Of course not,” Harry responded quickly.

“Okay… good,” Ron said, grinning a little. “That's really, really good.” He jumped up, bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet.

For some reason, Harry found that his mouth was suddenly very dry. “So, err… what are you planning on telling her?”

Ron blushed deeply and shuffled his feet. “Don't really know,” he admitted. “But I'm a Gryffindor, right?”

“Right,” Harry said weakly, suddenly wishing that Ron would just leave. The room felt entirely too small all of a sudden.

“I think she deserves to know…” Ron said quietly. “About how I feel. I reckon that… I have a good feeling about this, Harry.”

“That's great, Ron,” Harry said heartily, his voice sounding overly cheerful.

Ron's mouth split into a wide grin. “Yeah, it is, isn't it?”

Harry grit his teeth. Just leave, he thought. Just. Leave.

“You two would make a good pair,” Harry said, finding himself unable to look in Ron's direction.

You liar.

“Yeah,” Ron said, still grinning, and shooting the door hopeful looks. “Well, err… I'll see you later, then.”

“Yeah,” Harry said quietly. When Ron left, Harry glanced back down at the homework sitting on his desk. He pushed it back in front of him, doing his best to pay attention.

I hate this place, he thought to himself.

Involuntarily, his mind shifted back to the conversation he'd just had with Ron. I don't want to think about it, he decided. I don't want to think about it.

So. Ron and Hermione. Fancy that.

His stomach twisted painfully. Harry grit his teeth. I don't have a problem with it, he told himself. I don't have a problem with it.

And what possible reason could he have for having a problem with it?

Ron had fancied Hermione for ages. Everyone knew it. And the pair of them were always sniping at each other like an old married couple.

Maybe that was it, he reasoned. Maybe his stomach was twisting itself into knots because he couldn't bear the thought of Ron and Hermione bickering more than they already did.

//Do you fancy Hermione?

Of course not.//

Harry closed his eyes and for a moment wished that Ron would come back because he found that he did have a problem with it, he had a rather large problem, at that. Not that I could have told him so, Harry admitted to himself. Ron's my best friend.

Ron had been right about one thing, they never had discussed their feelings for Hermione. It went by unspoken agreement that the three of them were friends. Best friends. Hermione was off-limits, feeling anything more than friendship with her would throw the everything off balance. Their friendship was precarious; if two were to get closer the scale would dramatically tip in one direction. They were Harry, Ron and Hermione—the golden trio of Hogwarts.

Ron and Hermione.

Harry felt a small flash of jealousy. Bitterly, he felt as though they were leaving him behind. They were the only people he had—and he was suddenly faced with the possibility that they cared more for each other than for him.

Now I'm just being ridiculous.

Ridiculous or not, Harry couldn't help the feeling that settled in his stomach. It was a feeling very much like betrayal. They were about to go somewhere he couldn't follow. Intentionally or not, they were leaving him behind.

Stop it, he ordered himself. If they're happy, you should be happy for them.

Harry slumped down, leaning his forehead on the cool surface of his desk. He couldn't quite stop the nagging, whispering voice in his head. What about you? What about what makes you happy?

//Do you fancy Hermione?

Of course not.//

But he'd never exactly taken the time to think about it, Harry reflected. Not once. Hermione was his best friend, and Ron fancied her, and there were enough rumours circulating about the two of them as it was. He didn't have to think about it because she was simply Hermione. She was simply one of his two best friends, a girl, yes, but still only his best friend.

So he'd told Ron the truth. He didn't fancy Hermione.

Well, have you ever even considered it before?

No, he'd never thought about it before. He suddenly realized that is was a little odd. Even when Skeeter's articles came out, even when Krum expressed jealousy… he'd never once considered what it could mean to think of Hermione “in that way.” Sure, she was rather pretty, and it wasn't that he wasn't attracted to her, exactly. It just wasn't something he'd thought about.

//Of course not.//

I don't want to think about this, Harry thought desperately. It's too late, it doesn't matter. Ron likes her. Don't think about it… don't think about it…

But it seemed as though he couldn't stop thinking about it. Hermione. His best friend Hermione, who'd always stayed by his side, who worried herself sick over him, who stayed calm in the face of his anger, who always treated him as just Harry and not The Boy Who Lived.

And he was back in the Department of Mysteries and Dolohov's curse hit her in the chest and he was watching as Hermione crumpled to the ground. It didn't matter that it was months ago, Harry felt the familiar whine of panic start up in his head. Not Hermione, something inside him said. I can't lose Hermione.

That thought snapped him to attention. His eyes snapped open; focusing on the dull, grey room of his bedroom at Grimmauld Place. He wasn't in the Department of Mysteries and Hermione was fine.

But I can't lose her.

Harry sat up a little straighter, as he felt the realization surge through his system. If he had lost Hermione that night…

Harry shivered as the thought crossed through his mind. Vehemently, he denied it. He found himself suddenly overcome with the urge to go and find her and reassure himself that she was alive. Can't, remember? His mind said bitterly. Ron's with her.

There was another flash of jealousy. It was all because Ron had simply realized before he did. If he, Harry, had realized first, he could be the one going to find Hermione…

No, Harry said to himself. Stop it. You don't fancy Hermione. You told Ron so.

But the idea Ron and Hermione together caused a feeling of nausea in the pit of his stomach.

Yes, you do, he said to himself. You like her, you've liked her for a long time and you're only just realizing it now because you're a daft git.

Harry suddenly felt helpless to stop himself. The more he thought about it, the more he couldn't come up with a reason for why he shouldn't feel that way about Hermione. He saw her again, falling down with a small “oomf” of surprise. He saw her falling through the veil…

“No,” he said aloud.

He shook his head, trying to clear his brain.

I need her.

I'd be lost without her.

I can't lose her.

A surge of protectiveness rushed through him. I'll keep her safe, he vowed to himself.

That's ridiculous. You can't promise something like that. Besides, this isn't the Middle Ages, do you really think Hermione would appreciate being whisked away to a castle under the protection of the shining hero?

Harry knew she'd hate it. She'd want to stand next to him every step of the way. Fight with him, help him, keep him safe.

For a desperate moment, Harry wished he could go back into time. Before Ron had brought Hermione into the equation. When he'd been ignorant of his feelings and Ron's feelings. And he still didn't know Hermione's feelings but he was suddenly desperate to know even if it didn't matter, anyway, because Ron was his best friend and he couldn't move in on his best friend's girl.

But that wasn't fair, either.

Because Harry was certain that Ron's feelings were nowhere near his own.

No, it wasn't anything like how Ron felt. Ron fancied Hermione. Ron had a crush on Hermione.

Harry was certain he didn't. Whatever he felt for Hermione, it went deeper than a crush, it went all the way through him so much that he didn't understand it himself. It was dangerous and thrilling and he felt as though there was a hand closed around his throat… choking him…

Because Ron had realized his crush first. Which wasn't really fair, Harry reflected.

Stop it, he told himself firmly. There is nothing you can do.

What were they doing now? Had Ron already gathered up enough courage to talk to her? Maybe they were already together. Maybe he was already too late.

It. Doesn't. Matter.

That thought firmly in mind, Harry did his best to push Hermione out of his thoughts. He had no right to interfere. He would not begrudge them their happiness.

***

There was a knock at his door. Harry, who had long since abandoned his homework, and thrown himself face-down on his bed, rolled over and squinted into the musty darkness of his bedroom.

“Harry, dinner!” Ginny called, knocking on the door again. “Is Ron in there with you? Haven't been able to find him anywhere…”

Harry closed his eyes momentarily. Blearily, he found his glasses and stumbled to open the door. If Ginny was surprised by his dishevelled appearance, she didn't make any outward signs of it.

“No,” Harry said, voice tight. “Haven't seen him since earlier this afternoon.”

Ginny frowned at his tone. “What about Hermione? Can't find her, either.”

Harry swallowed. “Dunno where she is, Gin.” Harry stopped as a wave of pain slam into him. “Maybe they're off… together… somewhere…”

Ginny looked doubtful. “Maybe.”

Slowly they made their way downstairs, Ginny shooting him confused looks the entire way. “Something wrong, Harry?” she finally asked. “You seem a little, well… are you alright?”

“I'm fine.”

Ginny sighed. “Mum's not going to be happy that Ron and Hermione have disappeared. You know how she worries, she's bound to call the entire order together when Ron doesn't show up for dinner.”

Harry didn't say anything.

Dinner was a tense affair. Mr. Weasley had been held up at work again. George and Fred were spending their summer in Diagon Alley trying to get their joke shop off the ground. Tonks and Lupin stopped by for a short period, hastily grabbing a bite to eat before rushing off again.

Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, and Harry ate in relative silence. The chairs on either side of Harry were empty. Mrs. Weasley, thankfully, had not made any comments except to say that Ron and Hermione had better not come down in an hour expecting her to make them dinner.

The house seemed more forlorn than usual. Harry missed Ron's light attempts at humour and the teasing he'd indulge in with Ginny. He even missed the sounds of Ron and Hermione sniping at each other. Anything was better than the silence.

He remembered how Sirius had sat at the same table the year before. His godfather had been bitter, even then, at being cooped up inside.

Familiar pain washed over Harry and he pushed his plate off to one side.

Mrs. Weasley looked over at him, a look of sympathy on her face. “You barely ate, dear.”

“I'm not hungry,” Harry muttered. “Sorry, it was delicious, Mrs. Weasley.”

Harry glanced back at the empty chairs next to him. Where were they? Immediately images assaulted his mind… Ron and Hermione snogging… Ron and Hermione off together…

Harry shook his head and gathered up his stuff. “I'm really tired,” he mumbled. “G-night.”

Placing his dishes in the sink, he left, eager to get away from the kitchen. The hallways of Grimmauld Place were hardly any better. Grimy and dusty, they exhibited an aura of barren emptiness.

Slowly Harry climbed the stairs, wondering if he should wait up until Ron went to bed. He desperately needed to know what had happened—what was happening—while another part of him wanted to pretend that it wasn't happening at all.

Reaching his bedroom, Harry was spared having to make that decision. Ron was sitting on the floor, back against the foot of his bed. Lazily he was throwing a ball against the wall and catching it again as it rolled back to him.

Ron didn't bother looking up as Harry entered. He continued tossing the small, rubber ball against the wall. Besides the small thunk of the ball against the wall, the silence in the room was oppressive.

Harry licked his lips and stared at Ron uncertainly. He turned, going back out of his bedroom and leaving Ron behind. Barely aware of what he was doing, Harry made his way up a second flight of stairs. These ones led to the roof of Grimmauld Place. Because of the charms placed on the house, any occupant of the house remained unseen by Muggles as long as they remained on its property. Though the roof was outside, Harry knew that he would be perfectly safe.

What am I doing? Harry asked himself, continuing up the stairs. He knew that this was a bad idea. He should be with Ron, trying to draw from him what had happened.

Harry paused, his hand on the handle at the top of the stairs. If I do this, there's no turning back.

Harry took a deep breath and opened the door. The sounds of the Muggle world hit him—the honking of cars, the loud wail of sirens, cats mewling, and dogs barking.

Sitting by the edge of the roof, perched on its corner was Hermione. Her legs were curled up under her. Her hair danced around the back of her neck with each puff of wind.

Harry approached her cautiously, aware of the sounds of his heavy breathing. Hermione visibly flinched as she became aware of another person.

“Ron,” she said without turning. “I know you're upset, but I just don't think I can take anything more tonight. Please… just go back inside.”

Harry froze. He could turn around now, he realized. He could go back and Hermione would never know. Ron would never know.

Go back inside!

“Hermione,” he said, instead. “It's not… I mean, I'm not…” Hermione stilled at the sound of his voice and turned around. “Ron,” Harry finished, rather uncomfortably.

Hermione brushed hair out of her face, eyes looking a little watery. She's been crying, Harry realized, the feeling unsettling him. “Oh, Harry…” she whispered. “I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was you. What are you doing here?”

Harry moved closer to her, thrown off by her presence. She looked vulnerable in the night air. She was wearing a small, black t-shirt and she rubbed her arms in the cold. Hermione stood up and Harry came to a stop in front of her, mere inches separating them. She sucked in a sharp breath.

“How are you?” Harry whispered, wishing suddenly that he could get closer.

A faint blush spread over Hermione's cheeks. “Oh… did Ron… did he say something to you?”

“Yeah,” Harry said quietly. “He might've. But I don't really know… what happened?”

Their eyes met. Harry's heart began to pound and he found himself unable to make a sound or move as her eyes burned into his. His mouth was desperately dry and he found himself helpless to look away. This is dangerous, his mind warned, even as another part of him wanted to get even closer to her. Hermione's breathing was coming out in small, harsh gasps and she seemed just as frozen was he was.

Stop it. Stop it. Ron's your best friend. He's your best friend.

“Harry…” she said, his name no more than a whisper.

He found his resolve weakening and he took another hesitant step towards her, desperately wishing to reach out. She looked so cold, and he felt so unbearably warm.

“Harry,” she said again, as if trying to reassure herself that he was really there. Her eyes flickered shut for a moment, abruptly ending the trance that had seemed to fall down upon them. With difficulty, she took a step backwards.

Harry's heart was beating so hard that he could hear it echoing in his ears. “What did Ron say?” he asked again, suddenly desperate to know.

Not that it matters. She's off-limits. You can't do this to Ron.

“Why does it matter?”

Harry was ready to yell with frustration. “Please, Hermione…” he said. “I need to know what happened. Just tell me.”

Hermione gave a small shiver from the cool night air. “Ron fancies me.”

The words hung in the air between them and though she was only a few feet away from him, Harry felt as though the words were a physical barrier holding him back.

“You don't feel the same away about him.”

Harry's tone was flat and his words had an instantaneous effect. Hermione visibly flinched, her eyes screwing up in an attempt to keep control over her emotions. But Harry knew what he'd said was true—known it from the moment that he'd found Ron shut up in his bedroom. Known it when he came searching for Hermione.

You're betraying Ron.

I don't care.

Yes, you do.

“Hermione,” he said, in a gentler tone. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—”

“No, you're right,” she cut in, looking downcast. She rubbed at her arms again, which had broken out into small goose bumps. “I don't fancy Ron.”

“There's someone else,” Harry said, finding her eyes again. Hermione steadfastly shook her head, but Harry saw right through her. “It's alright,” Harry said. “You don't have to tell me.”

What if it's me?

What if it's not?

What if it is?

Hermione's bottom lip trembled. Harry couldn't take it anymore. Without being fully aware of what he was doing (or the consequences of his actions), he reached out to pull her against him. Hermione seemed to fall against him easily, her face pressing just below his neck. He rubbed her arms briskly, feeling the cold radiating off her skin.

Hermione let out a little sniffle and Harry was momentarily worried that she was going to start crying. Instead, she pressed herself tighter against him, as if that could stave off her fear and her cold.

“Tell me who it is, Hermione,” he whispered insistently. I'm going crazy not knowing.

“I can't," she whispered.

"Why not?"

"Because it's not—right—for me to feel that way about him,” she finally said hesitantly, her words coming out in short, quiet gasps. “But I don't think—I can't—stop. He can't know. Not ever. Because—it would—mess things up. Things are delicate. If we—ever—people would get hurt. But I…” here, her breath caught. “I wish that he did—know. Because I want so desperately to know if—he—could ever…” Hermione trailed off helplessly. “What d'you think, Harry?”

Harry shut his eyes, feeling tiny shards of glass slicing at his heart. “I think,” he said, in that same, hesitant tone. “That he likes you back. I think that he's found feelings for you that are so strong that it's terrifying him. But he knows—she's right. They can't—because people will get hurt.”

“Their best friend will get hurt,” Hermione whispered heavily. “And neither of them can stand that pain.”

“But it's not really fair…” Harry continued, as if she hadn't spoken. “They can't hide it forever, can they? It's bound to explode, if they push it aside.”

Hermione looked up at him, the unshed tears in her eyes glistening in the moonlight. “Oh, Harry…” she whispered. “What do we do?”

Ron's your best friend.

So is Hermione.

You can't do this to him.

You can't to this to yourselves.

You're betraying him.

I don't care.

Then his mouth was covering Hermione's, pressing furiously against her. She gave a muffled moan and leaned against him, her arms winding around his neck, pushing closer, closer, closer...

His hands slid down her arms, his fingers scraping and prying at the bottom of her t-shirt. Her tongue probed against his and he was helpless to do anything but kiss her harder. His fingertips were under her shirt, sliding over her stomach, coming to rest just below the lace of her bra.

What if we get caught?

What if Ron comes up and finds us… and… oh, God…

Hermione seemed to come to the same realization he did because they wrenched themselves apart at the same time. Harry was with his skin tingling, his mouth still feeling the pressure of Hermione's lips against his, his body aching for more.

Hermione stood shocked, eyes wide as a flush settled out over her cheeks. Her lips were red and swollen from their furious kissing and Harry forced himself to look away.

“Oh… what have we done?” she moaned quietly, as she pressed a finger wonderingly to her lips.

“We kissed,” Harry said aggressively. “It's what we both wanted.”

“I know, but—oh—this wasn't supposed to happen!” Hermione looked near hysterics. “Harry, we can't do this to Ron. We can't.”

“I don't care.”

Their eyes met again and Hermione valiantly shook her head. “Yes, you do,” she said desperately. “He's your best friend—you'd love to not care, but you do.”

“Are you sorry, then?”

Hermione blinked rapidly, looking anguished. “That's an unfair question, and you know it.”

“It's not unfair,” Harry said quietly. “It's simple. Are you sorry or not?”

“I'm sorry about Ron,” Hermione finally said. “I can't be sorry that we kissed.”

Harry slumped, feeling the anger drain out of him. “Fuck,” he said. “I can't believe this.”

Hermione looked startled by his use of language. “Maybe if we talk to him…”

Harry let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, I'm sure he'll be perfectly understanding.”

“Well, what do you want to do?” she snapped, beginning to lose her temper. “Lie to him? Pretend this never happened?”

“I don't know,” Harry admitted with difficulty. “I don't know, okay?”

Hermione looked even more upset. “Then maybe you should have thought it all out before kissing me!”

“I'm going to bed,” Harry ground out, feeling like the situation was growing steadily more out of control. He took a deep breath. “I'm just going to go in and go to bed.”

“We can't make it go away,” Hermione said quietly. “I can't make what I feel for you go away.”

Neither can I.

For a long moment, they just stared at each other, not moving, caught helpless. Finally, Hermione shook her head. “Fine,” she said softly. “I'm going to bed. I'll see you tomorrow, Harry.”

“Yeah. Okay,” Harry said dully.

Alone on the roof, he let out a long breath, pacing restlessly to the stoop overhanging the house. He knew the roof was enchanted to prevent anyone accidentally slipping off and felt perfectly at ease leaning against the edge, overlooking the Muggle world around him. Perhaps because it was night time, even that seemed dark and grey.

Harry knew that Grimmauld Place was located in a relatively poor section of town. The houses were run-down, porches and steps were cracked and shotty. Paint was chipping and peeling. Lawns had shrunk to dried up shrivels of dirt. In the evening, the occupants of Grimmauld Place could often hear the scuffles of rival gangs out in the streets.

None of these people know, he thought, as he watched a young Muggle woman nervously walk her dog. She kept casting suspicious looks over her shoulder, looking distinctly more unsettled by the moment. None of them know what will happen if….

If I die.

If Voldemort wins.

Harry shut his eyes. He didn't want to think about the prophecy at the moment. Not with everything else he had weighing down on him.

He had kissed Hermione, helpless to do anything else. Even now, every fibre of his being called out to her. He wanted to damn the consequences, damn Ron's feelings, damn everything else to Hell and back, because that kiss was worth so much more.

And yet, it now hung out between them, a scar on the friendship he held with Ron and Hermione. They had betrayed Ron.

A feeling of shame settling in the pit of his stomach, Harry turned away from the edge of the roof and returned back to the house. He was suddenly drained and his feet shuffled along the floor as he made his way down to his bedroom.

He could hear Ron's snores from all the way out in the hall. Clearly, Ron had slept through everything that had transpired between his two best friends.

/I have a good feeling about this, Harry./

Entering his bedroom, Harry felt a small stab of indignation. He should have known, Harry thought bitterly, glancing at his sleeping friend.

It's not his fault, he protested to himself. He was just happy to think that Hermione might return his feelings. He had every right to be.

Just like she had every right to like you and not him.

Harry climbed into bed, feeling his guilt tighten with every snort that Ron made.

Can we even pretend that nothing happened? Can I pretend that nothing happened?

This… thing that he had with Hermione, now that he was aware of it, was permeating every part of him. It wasn't going away.

Harry screwed his eyes shut, willing his mind to drop off onto sleep.

-->

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews after the first chapter. I really wanted to respond to everyone, but I simply didn't have enough time. I'm really hoping I'll find time this weekend to respond to reviews for this chapter. As usual, thanks to Kristin and James for the beta, support, and lovely feedback.

I catalog these steps now, decisive and intentioned

precise and patterned specifically to yours.

I'm talented at breathing, especially exhaling,

so that my chest will rise and fall with yours.

I'm careful not to wake you, fearing conversation.

It's better just to hold you and keep you pacified.

I'm talented with reason, I cover all the angles.

I can fail before I ever try.

Try to understand, there is an old mistake that fools will make.

And I'm the king of them, pushing everything that's good away.

So won't you hold me now? I will not bend, I will not break.

Won't you hold me now? For you I rise for you I fall.

I am fairly agile, I can bend and not break.

Or I can break and take it with a smile.

I am so resilient, I recover quickly.

I'll convince you soon that I am fine.

- Dashboard Confessional: `Bend and Not Break'

***

“Okay, what's going on between you three?”

Harry, Ron and Hermione all jumped, as if caught guiltily sneaking around Hogwarts after hours. Hermione was curled up in her armchair, book spread across her lap. Ron was down on the floor flipping through a Canon's magazine and Harry was in a corner polishing his Firebolt.

Ginny stood at the entrance to the living room, her lip curled in suspicion. “Oh, don't give me that look, Ron. No, I will not `shut up about it.' Something is clearly going on between the three of you.”

Hermione looked as though she was about to make a reply, but she stopped herself at the last moment and went back to her reading. Ron stared at Ginny coolly, not making a sound.

Harry cleared his throat. “What d'you mean, Gin?”

“I mean,” she said, gesturing around her. “You three have barely spoken to each other in the last week! I know something is going on.”

Ron abruptly shut his magazine, stood up, and brushed by Ginny as he made his way silently out the room. Hermione turned another page in her book, emitting an annoyed sigh as she did so.

“Everything's fine, Ginny,” Harry said weakly.

In truth, nothing was fine, and everyone knew it. He felt a gnawing guilt every time he looked at Ron. Things between Ron and Hermione were awkward and, consequently, they were speaking very little to each other. Harry found that he couldn't quite meet Hermione's gaze and he found himself battling duelling urges to talk to her about what had happened between them that night on the rooftop and dragging her out there so they could do it again.

Ginny blinked at them. “I'm not stupid, you know.”

“Ginny,” Hermione said coolly. “It's hardly any of your business what goes on between Harry, Ron and I. Kindly leave us alone.”

“No,” Ginny snapped. “You three are making it downright miserable for the rest of us.”

Without another word, Hermione slammed her book shut and followed Ron's example, leaving Harry alone with Ginny.

Harry went back to his broomstick, deciding to ignore her. After a moment, Ginny left, clearly less than thrilled.

He felt his eyelids drooping, the mechanical process of polishing his broomstick bringing on a trance-like state. He hadn't been sleeping well recently—not since that night at the Department of Mysteries. His dreams had only become worse after the night with Hermione on the rooftop and their entire friendship had spun out of control.

“What are you scared of, Harry?”

Hermione's voice pulled him out of his thoughts, and he glanced up at her. She'd come back down, without her book, and was staring at him in intense concentration. “I'm sorry?” he managed.

“Oh, don't give me that,” she snapped. “You know as well as I do that Ginny was right.”

“So?” he demanded. “What's that got to do with anything?”

“You're scared of something,” Hermione said plainly. “Something—us, maybe.”

“There is no `us,'” Harry returned, going back to his broomstick. “Snogging once doesn't qualify as dating.”

Harry knew that he'd gone too far. Instead of leaving him alone like he hoped she would, his comment only seemed to strengthen her resolve. She tore the Firebolt out of his hands and hurled it to the other side of the room.

“I—hey! Watch what you're—”

“Get up.”

“What?” Harry said, glancing over at his Firebolt.

“Get. Up,” she snarled.

Harry stood up, facing her angry rage. “Don't you dare and try and pin this all on me,” he said in a low voice. “You've been avoiding me just as much since that night.”

“Fine,” Hermione said, eyes narrowing into tiny slits. “But I'm facing it now. I'm willing to face it now—with you.”

“Maybe I'm not.”

“Maybe you're just scared,” she parried back angrily.

“You don't have any idea what you're talking about, Hermione.”

“Oh, yes, I do,” she said, taking a small step closer to him. “I know a lot more than you think I do, Harry. I know you're hiding something from me and I know that whatever is scares you badly. So badly that you feel you need to push me away.”

Harry felt fury rising in him. What right did she have to act all condescending? She didn't know anything.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, clenching his jaw. “Go away, Hermione.”

Frustration began to grow in her eyes. “No, I will not go away. Not until I hear something from you.”

“Fine,” Harry snapped. “Then I'm going.”

Without another look in her direction, he picked up his fallen broomstick and headed out of the room. Harry climbed the stairs towards his bedroom, clenching his Firebolt tightly in one hand.

You shouldn't have left things like that.

Not that he could have done much else. They could have yelled at each other for hours, as far as he was concerned. And they'd never come to any kind of a solution.

He found Ron sprawled out on his bed, lying flat on his back. He was staring intently at the ceiling, eyes wide.

Hoping Ron wouldn't try and talk to him, Harry hurriedly placed his broomstick in a corner and rushed back toward the door.

“She's right, you know.”

Harry froze. Slowly, he turned back around. “Who's right?”

Did he hear us? Is he talking about Hermione?

“Ginny.” Ron rolled over on his side so he could face Harry. “Things have been awkward as hell around here lately.”

“Ron—”

“It's my fault,” he interrupted seriously. “If I hadn't decided to open up my big fat mouth. Things could still be the way they used to be.”

“It's not your fault,” Harry said quietly.

Ron rolled his eyes. “I'm not stupid, Harry. I can't even really look at Hermione anymore, you know? I dunno how she feels around me. Probably hates it. And I know it's rubbing off on you, too. Shouldn't have to be that way just `cause there's problems between me and Hermione.”

“I'm not—”

“You've been walking eggshells around both of us,” Ron said with a scowl. “Look—I'm sorry, Harry. I would never have said anything if I had known it would mess things up this badly.”

Harry was desperate to get away. Looking into Ron's face, shining with guilt, sent his stomach gurgling. “Ron, I swear to you, this isn't your fault.”

For a moment, Ron looked a little suspicious. Shaking his head, he flopped back down on the bed, gaze returning to the ceiling. “She was really nice about it, too, you know.”

Harry felt his stomach tighten a little more. “Well—that's Hermione for you, Ron. She's your best friend, you know she cares about you.”

“Yeah,” Ron said, still staring at the ceiling. “She didn't seem to think that we'd be very good together. `Cause we argue too much or something.”

Stop it. Stop talking about this.

“Well…”

“Maybe she's right,” Ron said, ignoring Harry. “Maybe we do argue too much.”

Ron looked as though he wanted to say more, but he tapered off, his scowl deepening as he studied the ceiling. Harry looked longingly at the door, wanting to be out of the room and away from Ron's misery.

Harry sighed. “C'mon, I have an idea.”

Without waiting for a response, Harry left, knowing that Ron would follow him. Without saying another word, Harry led Ron to Sirius' old bedroom. Pushing away the bitter feelings that rose in his throat, Harry opened the door and walked in. The room was well cleaned, Harry knew that Mrs. Weasley went through and vacuumed every week. The bed was made, the surfaces dusted.

Besides that, nothing had been touched. Sirius' old belongings littered the floor and dresser. A flashing clock was blinking on the bedside table. A pair of pants was tossed causally over the corner chair. Several pieces of parchment lay messily on the dresser. A mirror hung over the backside of the door, cracked and smudged.

Harry had to stop, the lived-in atmosphere of the room making him dizzy for a moment. “We should clean this place out,” he finally said softly, gingerly walking around.

Ron was staring at him like he'd gone mad. “You feeling alright, Harry? You sure you want to be—”

Ron stopped when Harry opened the bottom drawer of Sirius' dresser and pulled out several bottles of Oldgen's Firewhisky.

“Oh,” Ron said, comprehension dawning in his eyes. “Oh…”

“Yeah,” Harry said, tossing Ron a bottle. “I figured that Sirius would have a supply stashed away somewhere.”

Ron stared down at the bottle in his hand, an internal battle waging on his face. “You sure this is a good idea?”

Harry shrugged and popped the bottle open. “Dunno.”

“That's comforting,” Ron muttered, but he opened the bottle Harry had tossed him.

“I think we should get drunk,” Harry finally said, staring down at the bottle in his hand. “This seemed like a decent enough place to start.”

Ron gave him a look that was half awe and half terror. “What if Mum catches us?” he said hoarsely.

“She won't.”

“But what if she—”

Without waiting for Ron to finish his sentence, Harry brought the uncorked bottle to his lips and took a large swallow. The liquid burned as it made its way down his throat before settling warmly in his stomach. Harry clamped down on the urge to gag, waiting for the liquid to settle into his system.

Unwilling to be outdone, Ron took a swig from his bottle. Unlike Harry, he gave a rather large sputter of indignation afterwards.

Harry grinned. “Nice one, Ron.”

“This stuff's foul,” Ron said, looking at the bottle appraisingly. Shrugging Ron took another sip, managing to stop himself from gagging this time.

Harry took another sip from his, eyes watering a bit as it burned down his throat. “Don't reckon Sirius had much else to do,” Harry muttered, throat still tingling.

Ron, who had gone through almost half the bottle, looked at him, eyes somewhat unfocused. “What d'you mean?” he slurred.

“I mean,” Harry said, taking another swig and resisting the urge to shudder. “He must have gone through a whole lot of this stuff.”

“Seems like,” Ron answered cheerfully. “How many bottles did ya' find in there?”

“Dunno,” Harry said, taking another sip. “Lots.”

“Lots, eh?”

“Yeah.”

Feeling somewhat unsteady on his feet, Harry stumbled over to where Ron was leaning back against the closed door. He leaned on the wall next to him, willing for the room to come back into focus.

“Good stuff, you found,” Ron said proudly, nearly all the way through his first bottle.

“Sirius' stuff,” Harry said, his thoughts straying to his godfather for a moment. “Dumbledore should never have cooped him up in here,” he said quietly.

“Safer, though,” Ron said, stumbling over to the bottom drawer for a second bottle. “'Member how the Malfoys knew he was an animagus?”

“I s'pose,” Harry said. “But he hated this house. I hate this house.”

“S'not so bad, Harry,” Ron said comfortingly, taking a sip from the second bottle.

Harry merely grunted in reply, watching in morbid fascination as Ron started going through his second bottle of firewhisky at nearly the same rate as his first. Though Harry's stomach rumbled in protest, he took another large gulp from his own bottle.

“Hey, Harry?”

“Yeah?” Harry said, glancing over at Ron.

Ron had a funny look on his face, like he was trying to make himself smile, but couldn't quite do it. “D'you think that…” Ron trailed off, all traces of a smile vanishing completely from his face. “There's someone else?”

Harry felt his heart speed up. “Why d'you mean?”

“I reckon that…” Ron swallowed hard. “I reckon that Hermione… that there's someone else.”

“Why would you think that?” Harry said, his voice sounding funny to his own ears.

Ron blinked a few times, as if he couldn't quite understand what Harry was saying. “Well—it's just that…” he said hesitantly. “When I told her… you do know I told her, don't you?”

“Yeah…” Harry said, smiling a little. “You told Hermione you fancied her.”

Ron snickered as if it was the most hilarious thing he'd heard all day. “And it was right stupid of me,” he said proudly. “Went and messed up our whole friendship.”

“Nahh…” Harry said, making a sweeping gesture with his arm. “She messed up.”

“Don't matter who,” Ron said slowly. “Only that it is.”

“That it is,” Harry repeated.

“Yeah,” Ron said. “That's right.”

“That don't make any sense.”

“Sure, it does,” Ron said brightly. “It makes loads of sense. It makes sense upon sense of sense.”

To punctuate his statement, Ron squeezed his eyes shut and drowned more of his bottle. He coughed a few times, but looked up proudly afterwards.

“But there is someone else,” Ron said, waving the bottle around so that firewhisky sloshed over the sides. “Hermione's in love with another bloke.”

“Nu, uh. Hermione doesn't love nobody,” Harry said, quickly drinking more from his own bottle.

“Wish I knew who,” Ron said in a dejected voice. “I think I'd kill him.”

Harry started choking on his firewhisky and Ron thumped him on the back a few times.

“S'probably that git, Viktor Krum,” Ron continued, eyes darkening. “Always knew he was up to no good.”

"S'not Viktor, Ron," Harry said, not quite able to stop himself.

Ron frowned and took another swig from his bottle. "S'not, eh? You don't know who it is, do you?"

"'Course I do."

Ron snickered. "Very funny, Harry. You don't know any more than I do."

"I know everything about Hermione," Harry said, grinning.

"Haha," Ron said, rocking back on his feet. "Don't know everything, Harry. Wish I did, though. Wish I knew who it was."

Harry felt his stomach give a small little lurch and he wasn't sure if it was from the alcohol or from what Ron was saying. "I don't feel too good, Ron."

"Aww... suck it up, Harry... tha's pathetic... can't hold down your liquor..." Ron shuffled over to the drawer to get them both more bottles. "Oops!" he said, banging his shin on the opened drawer.

For some reason, Harry found that wildly funny. "Alright, Ron?"

"Bloody hell! I'm bleeding!"

"Own damn fault for running into it."

"Can't see nothin'... room's all topsy turvy..."

"It's 'cause we're drunk."

"I'm not drunk." Ron emerged victorious with the two bottles of firewhisky. "I have a Weasley constitution. We don't get drunk."

Harry snorted. Ron shuffled back and Harry accepted the bottle. Silence descended upon them as they both struggled to open the new bottles, suddenly finding it much more difficult this time around.

"What's do you reckon I should do, Harry?"

"Get drunk," Harry said knowingly.

Ron snorted. "No..." he said. "About Hermione."

"Oh. Well—nothing, I s'pose."

"Nothing?" Ron said, a look of misery passing over his face. "Harry..." he said quietly, suddenly serious. "It wasn't supposed to be this way."

Harry took a long gulp of from his bottle and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "Maybe this is the way it's supposed to be. Maybe you aren't supposed to be with Hermione. Did you ever think of that?"

Ron blinked and looked as though he didn't quite understand what Harry was saying. "Just wish it didn't hurt, though," he said quietly. "It's an awful feeling."

Ron seemed to have lost interest in his bottle of firewhisky and it dangled uselessly in one hand. Harry felt a gloominess descend around them, changing the entire feel of the room. Feeling really quite sick by this time, Harry set down his own bottle of firewhisky, a wave of dizziness slamming into him. Ron didn't look any better, and Harry was somewhat horrified to see that he was struggling against tears.

"C'mon, Ron, s'okay... there's plenty of other witches, honest..."

"Who do you think he is?" Ron asked abruptly, staring at Harry intently.

Harry felt a pang of fear. He knows. No... Harry shook his head. He couldn't know. It just wasn't possible.

"Could be anyone," Harry said with a shrug. "Let's go to bed, really tired..."

"Yeah... okay..." Ron said dully.

Since Ron seemed prepared to wallow in his misery, Harry put all the bottles back in the drawer, unwilling to leave any kind of evidence for Mrs. Weasley to pick up on.

"C'mon, Ron... let's go... don't fancy getting caught by your Mum..."

Ron blinked sleepily and gave a great yawn. "Dunno, Harry. I'm not sure if I can move. Things are spinning awfully fast..."

Harry sighed, and threw an arm around Ron's shoulder to help him along. "Whoa..." Ron said, snickering a bit. "Slow down there, Harry..."

"We haven't even moved yet!" Harry snapped, trying to usher him forward.

Ron leaned on him heavily, seeming to sink back down into his gloom. Harry shuffled them forward, feeling rather faint himself. He felt like there was something alive in his stomach, trying to claw its way up his throat.

"If we can just make to our room..." Harry wheezed out. "We should be okay."

The words had barely left his mouth when Harry became aware that they weren't alone. Hermione was pacing nervously in front of their room, wearing a disapproving frown. She had clearly been there for a while.

"What's going on? What are you two... are you drunk?"

"No," Harry snapped at the same time as Ron said, "Yes."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "How did you... why did you... where did you..."

"Excuse us, Hermione," Harry said crossly. "But we're trying to get to our bedroom, if you don't mind."

Instead of angering Ron, Hermione's presence only seemed to deflate him further, something that Harry found rather worrisome. "Hullo, Hermione," he said, trying to sound cheerful and, as a result, his voice boomed out loudly. "Harry thought that if I got drunk then I'd be able to get over you."

Hermione took a step back, eyes flying to Harry's face. "Oh..." she whispered, quietly.

"Dunno why he thought that," Ron said, continuing in that same loud voice. "I don't think it's working."

"Oh, Ron, I'm so—"

"S'not your fault, Hermione. Harry and I have decided, you like some other bloke."

"You and Harry have..."

"Decided, yeah," Ron said, completely oblivious to Harry's wince. "I understand. I'm going to kill him, but I understand."

Hermione closed her eyes and took in a breath. "Ron, get some rest," she said, her voice shaky. "You should go to bed."

"You've been crying," Ron said sharply. "Aww... I'm sorry, Hermione... all my fault... never should have said anything... made things as awkward as hell around here..."

Surprised, Harry focused on Hermione's face, startled to see that her eyes were red and puffy. She had been crying.

Hermione gave Harry a significant look. "No, Ron," she said firmly. "Listen to me, none of this is your fault, alright? You are not the reason I was crying."

No, that would be my fault, Ron.

Ron slumped even more, looking unconvinced. Harry, not quite able to look Hermione in the eye, continued to help him along. Hermione moved out of the way to let them pass, clearly upset. Huffing and puffing, Harry helped Ron to their bedroom and deposited him on his bed. Ron promptly rolled onto his stomach and was asleep within seconds.

Harry stared at his friend for a moment, feeling dizzy and guilty.

"Well—do you feel better?"

At the sound of Hermione's voice, Harry turned around, only to feel something in his stomach give way. Pushing past her, he ran the length of the hall, ripped open the bathroom door, and stumbled to the toilet before retching violently. Spent, he rested his forehead in his hands, waiting for his stomach to settle.

He heard the sound of water running and he drew in a shaky breath, things inside him beginning to feel normal again. The toilet flushed, making Harry aware that he wasn't alone. He slowly raised his head, startled to see Hermione crouched down beside him, a wet washcloth in her hands.

"Here," she said kindly, reaching up to smooth the washcloth over his chin. Harry closed his eyes, the cloth cool and clean against his skin.

"Thanks," he said weakly, when she was done.

She smiled. "No problem. I should warn you, though, you smell awful. Bit of a mix between firewhisky and vomit. It's an interesting combination."

Harry leaned his head back, resting it on the cool marble of the toilet. There was a dull pounding beginning to form behind his eyes. "I don't think I'm ever going to drink again."

"Oh, I highly doubt that," Hermione said.

"No, believe me, I'm never drinking again," Harry repeated, the pain in his head increasing.

"I suppose I just don't understand whatever possessed the two of you to go and get drunk in the first place," Hermione said quietly.

"Why do you think, Hermione?" he said coolly.

Hermione flinched. "Harry..."

Harry took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for." He thought for a moment. "I'm really sorry I made you cry," he said sincerely.

Hermione didn't say anything, but she moved a little closer to him. "How's... how's Ron doing?" she whispered.

"He knows."

Hermione shifted her head around to look at him. "What... you think he..."

"Some part of him does," Harry answered darkly. "Some best friend I am. I can't even tell him the truth about us."

"There is no 'us,'" Hermione said sharply. "That's what you said, isn't it?"

Harry swallowed with difficulty, aware of the pain he heard in her voice. "I lied."

Hermione was even closer to him now. "Why?"

She was close, too close. Harry stood up, momentarily unsteady on his feet. He braced a hand against the wall to steady himself. "Look... forget it, Hermione... I'm just talking crazy. I'm going to—”

"No," she said quietly, rising to face him. She stood firmly in place between Harry and the bathroom door. "No," she said again, voice going up a few notches. "We're going to talk about this."

Harry's head was swimming with pain. "There's nothing to talk about."

Hermione took a step closer to him, her eyes flat. "Yes, there is. There is. We have to figure this thing out, Harry. Before it destroys us."

"Maybe it already has," he said hoarsely, backing up against the wall.

Hermione was still coming towards him. "What are you afraid of?"

Everything.

You.

Ron.

That prophecy.

Dying and leaving you alone.

"You can't understand."

Hermione stopped suddenly, looking defeated. "Fine," she said quietly. "If that's what you think."

Harry sighed. "Hermione... look, it's..."

She put up a hand. "It's alright," she said, the same soft tone to her voice. "You don't owe me anything."

"Hermione..." he said desperately, reaching out to her. She froze, but didn't move. Slowly, he trailed his fingers down her cheek. "This it's..."

"Difficult..."

"No," he said firmly. "It's... not that, exactly..."

"Oh, Harry," she whispered, her eyes wide and filling with tears. "Why are we doing this to ourselves?"

"Stupidity," he murmured, stepping closer to her and cupping both of her cheeks. She blinked up at him, her breath coming out quickly.

"You smell so... awful..." she said weakly. "Wish you would take a shower or something..."

However, she didn't take any steps to get away from him.

"Hermione..." he whispered. "There's something you have to know..."

She was gripping his arms with a force that was painful. Fearful eyes were boring into his own.

She knows this isn't good.

"It's about... Voldemort... and me..." Harry said hesitantly. "See, the things is, Hermione... the prophecy… it wasn't destroyed, not really… Dumbledore, he told me what it said…”

Hermione paled. “Wh—what?” she managed. “You—and Dumbledore—and the prophecy—Oh…Oh, my…”

Harry took a deep breath. “Well, there was a lot of riddles and nonsense, but the long and short of it is... I guess Voldemort and me can't be alive at the same time. One of us has to kill the other."

There was a long pause while Hermione continued to grip Harry's upper arms in fear. The sounds of their breathing reverberated through the emptiness of the bathroom. Somewhere above them, the floorboards gave a loud creak.

"Hermione..." he said, almost pleading. "I'm sorry, look... I know I shouldn't have told you—”

Harry's words were cut off when Hermione threw herself into him in a hug that had him stumbling back several feet. "It won't be you..." she said fiercely. "I won't let it be you."

You can't make promises like that.

Despite that, however, Harry felt reassured by the certainty in Hermione's simple words. She was holding on to him to the point of pain and he returned her hug in kind.

She pulled away from him as abruptly as she had hugged him. She swallowed with difficulty before setting her jaw. "You listen to me, Harry. This is not yours to share alone, do you hear me? I won't let you—”

"Yes, you will," he said in a low voice. "That prophecy has my—”

"Fuck the prophecy!" Hermione yelled sharply, her words exploding into the stillness of the bathroom and down the hall.

Simultaneously, they both turned to the open door with wide, searching eyes. When no one came running, they slumped in relief.

Hermione's outburst seemed to drain her of the last of her energy. "Harry... please... you must understand... I would do anything for you." She looked near tears now, her voice becoming raspier as she gestured with her arms. "You can't do this alone. When will you accept that you need me?"

Harry met her eyes and felt as though she was burning right through him. He shook his head, tearing his gaze away from hers.

Intense. Fire. Burning. Desperation.

This was quickly spinning out of control. Had it only been an hour ago when he and Ron were attempting to drink themselves into a stupor? Was it possible that Ron was sleeping while such important things were transpiring between his two best friends?

When he didn't say anything, Hermione slowly began walking towards him. She put her hand on his chest, her eyes searching his face. "Please, Harry... we'll defeat him. Please believe that... please believe in me... us..."

Harry slid his hand over hers and her eyes tilted up until they were meeting his again. He suddenly couldn't think at all, his heart was pounding madly in his ears. Alarm bells were going off in his mind, but he ignored them, following the need, want of his body...

He was tugging her closer, his other arm encircling her back. Then they were kissing, and dear Merlin, nothing else mattered...

Despite their precarious position, Hermione was pushing insistently against him and Harry found his back pushed firmly against the wall. He leaned against it heavily because his legs weren't doing much to support him. Her tongue was in his mouth, pushing and demanding. His head was spinning he felt dizzy... so out of control....

"Harry..." she gasped out, between their kisses. "My Harry..."

And he couldn't think of a single way to respond to that, except to kiss her harder, crush her closer. She was everywhere and she felt so good. So good, when nothing else seemed to. When things were crashing down all around him.

They pulled away, breathing heavily.

Harry remained leaning against the wall, sure that if he moved he'd go crashing to the floor. Panting, he watched Hermione try and gather herself together. Her cheeks were slightly red, her lips swollen. He had to stop the nearly overwhelming urge he had to reach for her again.

My Harry...

He shook his head, willing to clear it, to think straight again.

"We can't stop this," Harry said, his words seeming louder than he intended. Such a simple sentence, it hung in the air between them. There, right there, and there was no way they could make it go away, no way to stop it.

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath. "Alright," she said simply.

***

When Harry awoke the next morning, it was to a vicious, pounding headache. Light was pouring into the room, from where he couldn't tell, but he wished that it'd go away. With a muffled groan he rolled over, tugging his pillow down on his head.

He heard someone else give a yelp of pain and there was a loud huffy sigh.

"Honestly, you two, it's well after noon... if you don't get up soon, Mrs. Weasley's going to come in here, and I'm sure you'd both rather she didn't know what the pair of you were up to yesterday..."

Harry tossed his pillow aside, and picked up his glasses, squinting into the brightness of the room. Hermione was standing near the window, where she'd just peeled back the curtains, her eyes narrowed and accusatory.

Ron was sitting up in bed, rubbing at his forehead and making, low muffled moaning noises.

Hermione looked disgusted. "Here," she said, holding out two glasses. "I brewed these up for you."

Ron continued to moan in pain. "I feel sick..." he muttered to himself, rubbing at his eyes.

Harry looked at the mugs in suspicion. "What... what is it?"

Hermione thrust one of the mugs and him before handing the other one to Ron. "They should make you feel better. Though, I'm almost tempted to let you suffer through the consequences of your ill-conceived drunken party last night..."

Still looking at the brown liquid swirling in his cup with suspicion, Harry decided that it couldn't hurt. He took a tentative sip, surprised to find that it didn't taste as awful as he was expecting. Quickly, he drained the mug, relieved to find that it made his headache ebb nearly immediately.

Ron looked like he wanted to be far, far away from Hermione.

“Err… thanks,” he mumbled awkwardly. “Just remembered though… gotta take a shower…”

Grabbing his mug, he bolted out of the room, taking his towel with him. Harry and Hermione listened until they could hear the sounds of water running. They both slumped a little in relief.

"Hey..." Harry said slowly. "Did we do something last night? It's all a blur... I didn't say anything to you, did I?"

Harry was present for one of the few moments when Hermione was caught off guard. She went very still and stared at him with fearful eyes. "You... you don't remember..." she whispered. "Harry... we... well, we—”

"Oh, no," Harry said, muffling a grin. "We didn't kiss or anything did we?"

Hermione stared at him for a moment. Suddenly, she narrowed her eyes. "You're having me on, aren't you?"

Harry raised his eyebrows. "A bit, yeah."

Hermione sagged in relief and tentatively sat down on the edge of his bed. "Harry, I was thinking last night... after I went to bed... that, well... it might not be a good idea to—”

"Tell Ron?" Harry finished wryly. "Yeah, I had the same thought."

Hermione glanced fearfully towards the open doorway. "I mean," she said hastily. "We should tell him eventually, but not... now. It's too soon, I think."

Harry nodded, feeling relieved by her suggestion, even as another part of his mind whispered that it was wrong.

Lying will only make it worse.

Yet, another part of him was secretly thrilled by the prospect of keeping things with Hermione private. She was just... his. What they shared, it was something no one else had a right to know. It was theirs, their little secret.

Just ours.

Hermione smiled a little at him, seeming to know exactly what he was thinking.

This is wrong.

This can't lead to anything but trouble.

I don't care.

I don't care. I don't care. I don't care.

***

-->

A/N: Thanks for the feedback, guys. I'm still trying to respond to everyone who reviewed chapter 2. I'm working on it, I promise. *grin* No Dashboard songs this time around, though it wasn't for lack of trying. And I don't feel like this chapter is quite R-rated, but it is rather *strong* PG-13. Just as a warning.

Harry Potter was afraid that he was becoming claustrophobic.

At some point, he'd discovered that he hated large crowds, he hated small spaces, he hated the feeling of being boxed in without any escape… lungs burning, no way out, trapped…

It's probably all because of the Dursley's, he reflected grimly.

With a flash, he remembered the walls of that cupboard under the stairs. The way that dust cascaded down every time Dudley ran up or down the stairs. The way Uncle Vernon used to lock him in there for days at a time…

Harry repressed a shudder.

Whatever, he figured. I just hate being closed in.

Harry sucked in a breath of the cool, night air, reveling in the way that it flowed freely through his lungs. Open space, open air, freedom…

The roof of Grimmauld Place. Ever since that kiss he'd shared with Hermione on the rooftop, it had become somewhat of a haven for him. A place to go when he felt too boxed in.

Grimmauld Place was almost always empty. Headquarters of the Order of Phoenix it might be, but very few actually spent any length of time there. With good reason—the house exuded an aura of death and bleakness.

Sometimes he wondered how Sirius had been able to stand it for as long as he did. Harry was already counting down the days until he'd be allowed to return to Hogwarts.

Dumbledore should have never left him cooped up in here.

Ah. And there was his anger with the Headmaster again. Burning, persistent, Harry felt a sharp pang go through him at the thought of Dumbledore. Yes, he realized, it was easier blaming Dumbledore for Sirius' death.

Easier than blaming himself.

Easier than remembering the fight he'd had with Hermione before rushing off to the Department of Mysteries. Every time he looked at her he wondered why he didn't see the accusation in her eyes. He'd nearly gotten her killed, nearly gotten them all killed… he'd really gotten Sirius killed…

So he expected to see some kind of disappointment in her eyes. Some kind of vindication that she had been right and he had been wrong.

But not once, not once has he ever looked into her eyes and seen blame.

Harry instinctively flinched as the door to the roof swung open.

Alone, I want to be left alone. Can't deal with people and enclosed space and, Oh God, I really am claustrophobic… all Voldemort has to do is lock me in a box for a few hours and that'll be the end...

Harry snorted at his own internal joke, not caring if he was thought to be going mad.

It was Hermione.

Which he probably should have expected. She was the only one who knew where he went when he wanted to be left alone. She was the only one that ever dared approach him when he was “in a mood.”

“Hi,” she said quietly. She was carrying two small plates.

Harry squinted at her, surprised to see that there was a piece of cake on each plate. Chocolate cake with vanilla icing, one of the pieces had a the very bottom of a golden letter inscribed on it, though it was impossible to know what letter it had once been…

Happy Birthday Harry!

One step closer to fulfilling your destiny, Harry.

Could be your very last birthday.

Better enjoy it.

“I brought you some cake,” Hermione continued softly when she didn't get a response out of him.

Harry finally roused himself from his internal musings. “Thanks,” he muttered, accepting the piece of cake. He jabbed his fork at it a few times, not feeling in the least bit hungry.

“Everyone's wondering where you got to,” Hermione said.

Harry shrugged. “Are they?”

Hermione peered at him shrewdly. “Is everything alright, Harry?”

Harry jabbed at his slice of cake with more force than was necessary.

Things are just bloody perfect, Hermione.

“Fine,” he said mechanically, continuing to jab at the cake. Jab, jab, jab.

Hermione sighed and settled down silently next to him. She didn't say anything else, just sat there, looking out over the rooftop of Grimmauld Place and into the street beyond it.

“Why don't you hate me?”

The words slipped out, Harry barely aware of what he was saying. He almost opened his mouth to take them back, but then decided that he didn't want to. He stared straight ahead of him, suddenly curious to know her answer, know the truth.

Hermione was silent for a very long time. “Well—” she finally said hesitatingly. “I don't really—I don't have much reason to hate you, do I?”

“Yes, you do,” Harry said again, back to jabbing at his cake. It was beginning to crumble now. Little balls of chocolate cake sticking to his plate and icing smeared around the corners. “You have loads of reasons to hate me.”

Hermione actually smiled. “Harry…” she said gently. “This is ridiculous, you know I could never—”

“I'm not being ridiculous,” he snapped angrily, furious that she wasn't taking him seriously. “Hermione, you nearly died. You were right. You were right, Voldemort hadn't taken Sirius—he was just trying to lure me there because I have a fucking saving-people's thing! And you know what? It worked. And now he's DEAD! And you nearly died! And you've never once blamed me—not once—not ever—and I just don't understand… why.”

Hermione stared at him for a moment before placing her half eaten piece of cake on the floor and nudging it off to the side. She heaved a great sigh. “I could explain,” she said quietly. “I could give you a hundred reasons for why I don't blame you, for why I could never blame you, for why I can't hate you, Harry. But you won't ever accept any of them, so what's the point?”

Harry swallowed past the lump in his throat. “But…” he rasped. “I just don't understand.”

“I know,” she whispered, shifting a little closer to him. “You don't have to understand, you just need to accept it.”

Harry blinked at that. “I—I don't know if—”

“Stop,” she said, her voice still a quiet whisper. She curled up against him, placing her head against his chest and wrapping her arms around him. “Just accept, Harry. Just accept it.”

Just accept it.

“Hermione…” he said softly, his hand stroking through her hair. “Hermione… I…”

I what?

I need you so badly that it scares me.

“Did you know?” she asked inquisitively, as if he hadn't spoken. “You make me feel safe? Safer than… anything else. You always have.”

“I… really?”

Hermione's head bobbed up and down. “Yes, really.”

He so badly wanted to know why, why she felt safe with him, why she didn't blame him.

“Do you trust me?”

Hermione turned her head so that she could peruse his face. “Of course I do,” she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Why?

Seeing the look on his face, Hermione smiled comfortingly. “C'mon, Harry,” she said softly. “We should go back. Everyone's come here to see you.”

“Not everyone.”

Hermione's eyes darkened. “Yes,” she said. “Not everyone.” Standing up, she held a hand to him, which he reluctantly grasped. “He wouldn't want you to wallow in self-pity, you know.”

“I don't think you have any idea what he'd want.”

Hermione met his challenging stare, her gaze unblinking. “I don't want to see you wallow in self-pity, neither does anyone else.”

“I'm sorry, then,” he snapped, feeling furry rising. “Next time and I'll try and not grieve around you.”

She sucked in a breath. “That's not what I said and you know it.”

“Stop acting like you understand when you don't understand anything!”

For a moment, Harry was sure Hermione was going to hit him. Either that or she was going to turn on her heel and walk away. Instead she did neither, just stared at him for a long moment, as if lost in her thoughts.

“Fine,” she said, resigned. “We're back here, I see. Very well. Happy birthday, Harry.”

She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek before turning away. “I think it'd be decent of you to come in and at least say hello to everyone.”

“Yeah, well… maybe all I want is to be left alone…”

Though Hermione's back was to him, Harry could sense her annoyance. “You've made that quite clear.”

Harry clenched his jaw. “I didn't ask you to come up here, Hermione!”

Hermione let out a long sigh and began walking back towards the house. Then, so softly that Harry was sure she hadn't intended him to hear it, she said, “Maybe I should have chosen Ron, after all…”

Something inside of Harry snapped. He charged after her, catching her just before she opened the door to go back inside. Gripping both her arms, he spun her around so that her back was pressed up against the door. She gasped in surprise and Harry registered a small flicker of fear pass through her eyes. He loosened his grip on her arms, but didn't back away.

“Harry…” she said faintly. “What are you—”

“Did you mean it?” he said sharply, moving closer to her still until he had her trapped against the door, his body pushing against hers.

She let out a harsh breath. “Mean what?”

“I'm not stupid, Hermione,” he snapped.

She met his eyes. “And what if I did?” she said softly. “What would you do, then?”

Her gaze was defiant as it bore into his. Harry could scarcely think properly and the pounding of his heart echoed in his ears. “Tell me you didn't mean it.”

She swallowed with difficulty. “I most certainly will not!”

He was lost—so very lost and he couldn't do anything but push closer to her, so close that their noses nearly brushed. “You didn't mean what you said, I know you didn't.”

Her breath was coming out in short gasps. “You don't know anything.”

Her control was weakening and his entire foundation was rocking underneath him. Blood was roaring in his ears. He was beginning to tremble. He could feel her pressed up against him, touching all the right places…

He felt a clawing desperation to hear her take back those words. To know that she belonged to him and him alone…

They were so close now that they were breathing into each other's faces. Hermione had gone absolutely still, all the breath seemed to have gone out of her lungs as she watched him. She was challenging him, he knew…

He let go of her arms, hands going to her hips. He nuzzled the side of her neck, pressing his lips into delicate kisses to the skin just under her ear, sliding up and peppering kisses along her jaw line. Hermione let out a low moan, tilting her neck backwards in pleasure. Her arms entwined themselves around his neck, her fingers sliding into his messy hair.

“Tell me you didn't mean it,” he breathed, just under her ear.

He received no reply but Hermione's harsh breathing. He kept pressing his lips up against her skin, her scent, the feel of her, driving him crazy…

“Tell me that you didn't mean it,” he repeated again.

“Oh…” she moaned. “I didn't… I didn't mean it…”

She turned her head and their lips met, clashing together in a kiss that was almost painful. Harry pushed more insistently against her and she leaned heavily backwards against the door, her fingers tightening in his hair.

He pulled away to hover just over her lips. “Tell me you're mine,” he whispered.

Instead of answering, Hermione urged him forward again until they kissed, tongues clashing and hearts pounding.

“Say it,” Harry hissed, pulling slightly away from her.

Hermione closed her eyes. “I'm yours,” she finally said hoarsely.

They kissed again, desperate and so full of want… need…

“I'm yours,” Hermione whispered again, against his mouth. “I'm yours…”

Mine.

He moved away from her mouth, letting his lips lingers over the corner of her lips before sliding down. His hands slid under the material of her t-shirt, rubbing against the smooth skin of her stomach. He kissed his way down her neck, taking his time and enjoying the low noises she was emitting.

“And you're mine,” she gasped out. “You're mine, Harry.”

He pulled away from her, staring intently into her eyes and listening to the sounds of their harsh breathing. Finally, he nodded.

“I'm yours,” he said.

Her eyes told him everything he needed to know. She pulled him forward again and crushed his lips to hers.

-->

A/N: Thanks for all the continued support on this fic. I wish I had time to reply to every single review, but, even though I don't, they are all appreciated. Thanks to Kristin and James for being fantastic beta readers. *glomps them*

In the end, he followed her back inside.

It's your birthday, Harry. You must thank everyone that came to see you. It's only proper.

They walked down the stairs together, holding hands and listening to the sounds of people laughing and talking below. It was a rare moment for them, they had spent the last couple of weeks sneaking around, pretending all was normal. Ron and Hermione had seemed to reach an unspoken agreement where they simply did not discuss Ron's confession. In all, the trio was surviving—it was hanging on by lies, by affectations, by a petty show, but it was surviving.

They'd reached the second floor and let their hands drop. Hermione turned to him, chewing her upper lip rather nervously. “Harry…” she said hesitantly. “Now… I know it might not seem obvious to you, but we look rather like we were… well, you know…”

Harry took the opportunity to really study Hermione. He realized with a sharp flash that she did look like they were just off in a broom closet having a good snog. Her hair was tangled, her cheeks flushed, her lips were rosy and her shirt was crooked and wrinkled. Harry could only imagine that he looked no better.

He reached for her hand again and pulled her up against him. “Yeah…” he said. “You look rather, err… kissable, actually…”

“Stop it,” she hissed warningly. “You know we can't—”

“Ahh, Harry! Hermione! Excellent!”

The two teenagers spun away from each other, completely horrified.

“Mr. Weasley!” Hermione stuttered in surprise. “What's… what are you… how much did you see?”

To Harry's complete astonishment, Mr. Weasley let out a low chuckle and tottered back and forth dangerously on his feet. “My dear girl,” he said. “I have seen plenty! Comes from working at the Ministry, you know.”

Hermione stared.

“He's drunk,” Harry said quietly. Hermione's eyes alighted in comprehension and she sagged a little in relief.

“I assure you!” Mr. Weasley said, puffing out his chest. “That I am no such thing. Bad, bad example to be setting for you young'uns…”

Mr. Weasley's eyes slid unfocusedly past them, and focused on a point over their heads.

“Well… I'll, uh… just go and use the lavatories, see if I can make myself less… incriminating,” Hermione said to Harry, glancing at Mr. Weasley suspiciously. “It's probably best if we don't go downstairs together.”

“Err—right,” Harry said, as Mr. Weasley stumbled past him, apparently engaged in a loud conversation with the wall.

Harry started when Hermione left, not finding the prospect of facing everyone at his birthday party particularly appealing. Slowly he descended the stairs, the loud ruckus of the party noise coming up to meet his eardrums.

I hate crowds, he thought to himself, stopping himself on the landing. His pulse quickened at the thought of going back in there, surrounded by so many people…

Get over it, Potter. If you can't even talk to a bunch of people for five minutes, how the fuck are you planning on vanquishing Voldemort?

“Ah, good, Harry… just the person I wanted to see…”

Harry felt weak with relief, eagerly welcoming the presence of Albus Dumbledore. His feelings towards the Headmaster were less than flattering at best, but at the moment Harry welcomed anything that would prolong his having to re-join the birthday party.

“I was rather hoping that we'd have an opportunity to talk,” Dumbledore said conversationally, nodding his head back towards the upstairs where Harry had just come from.

Harry nodded and followed the Headmaster upstairs. “What's… uh, is everything alright?”

Dumbledore smiled pleasantly. “Of course,” he said easily. “Is there, perhaps, some place where we won't be overheard?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, leading him towards the room that he shared with Ron. Once there, he shut the door behind Dumbledore, feeling awkward. He glanced around the room, feeling a touch of embarrassment. He and Ron hadn't been doing a lot of cleaning recently and, as a result, clothing and other scraps lay strewn about.

Dumbledore didn't make any comments about the mess, just settled himself down on the edge of Harry's bed as if he belonged there. Harry, after thinking it over for a moment, went over and sat on Ron's bed before looking at Dumbledore expectantly.

“Well—first,” Dumbledore said, smiling serenely. “I wanted to wish you a happy birthday, Harry.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, wishing that Dumbledore would get to his point without wasting time on formalities.

“Very many people showed up to celebrate with you,” Dumbledore continued. “It's good to see—I can't imagine anyone else who is more deserving of the concern.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, shifting his gaze to the floor. He would much rather have preferred a quiet birthday. Ron, Hermione, maybe Ginny and the rest of the Weasleys. This was too much and only served to remind him of who wasn't there…

“Sirius would have been proud of you, Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly, as if sensing his thoughts. “I'm sure he'd tell you as much if he could be here.”

“Yeah, well, he's not,” Harry said, looking Dumbledore in the eye. He felt the familiar anger at him burning in his veins.

Dumbledore heaved a great sigh. “I'm very sorry, Harry.”

Harry couldn't quite contain his small snort. “That's hardly—”

“Good enough,” Dumbledore finished tiredly. “It's difficult for me, you see. I've found that it's rather troubling for me to… see you in pain.”

Harry's anger surged. “Really?” he said bitterly. “That's odd… I would've thought… me being vanquisher of Voldemort and all... that'd be the only thing you'd care about.”

Dumbledore didn't seem at all affected by Harry's words. “Believe what you will, Harry,” he said calmly. “However—”

“NO!” Harry shouted, standing up. He was so tired of people having control over his life, of others hoarding their power over him. This was his prophecy, his destiny and he was not going to let Dumbledore manipulate him. “That's all I am, isn't it? Just the `vanquisher of Voldemort' the `grand savior of the wizarding world.' Well, you know what? You don't get to tell me your sorry! You don't get to tell me how you care for me! You lied to me! You lied to me for 15 years!”

Harry stopped and glared at Dumbledore, waiting for the Headmaster to make the next move.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers together, his face completely impassive. “Sit down, Harry.”

“No.”

“Sit down.”

“No.”

For the first time, a hint of frustration appeared on Dumbledore's face and Harry felt a small thrill of victory. “Regardless of your… feelings towards me, there is a matter we must discuss.”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest, still standing. “What?”

“Your relationship with Miss Granger.”

Harry froze, the colour draining from his face. “How do you… how do you know about that?”

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “There are ways in which information can be passed on. Even secret information.”

Harry bristled, feeling intense resentment that Dumbledore felt he had the right to intrude on his relationship with Hermione.

This was supposed to be ours.

Another, more disturbing thought, swept over him. If Dumbledore knew, then who else? Could Voldemort know? Suddenly chilled, Harry rubbed his arms and forced himself to meet Dumbledore's gaze.

“What about our relationship?” he said challengingly.

Dumbledore leaned back, knowing that he had Harry's full attention. “First—I daresay a congratulations is in order. Miss Granger is a fine girl.”

“Yeah, she is,” Harry bit out. “But that's not what's at issue here.”

”No, it's not,” Dumbledore conceded impassively. “I must admit, however, I was rather taken by the idea that you would—”

“Just cut to the point!” Harry interrupted angrily. “What does it matter what our relationship is?”

Dumbledore watched him for a very long time. “I should think that would be obvious, Harry,” he finally said.

Harry clenched his fists, growing angrier by the moment. “Yeah, and that is?”

Dumbledore bowed his head, appearing lost in thought. “Harry,” he finally said calmly. “I'm sure you understand that your delicate… situation… requires much thought. Your relationship with Miss Granger could very well affect the decisions you make in the coming years. Are you prepared to deal with that?”

Never before had Harry ever been so frustrated with Dumbledore's inability to simply say what he meant. “Prepared to deal with what? My decisions… Hermione has nothing to do with—”

“I think you will find, Harry,” Dumbledore interrupted calmly. “That she has everything to do with your future. Let me ask you something, if it was ever a question between your life or her life, what would you chose?”

Harry stared. “Excuse me?” he demanded. “That's… I can't answer—”

“Who would you chose?” Dumbledore cut in sharply.

Harry swallowed heavily, heart pounding.

What does it matter?

What's he really saying?

“I would…” Harry trailed off, before meeting Dumbledore's gaze. “Hermione. I would choose Hermione.”

Dumbledore inclined his head slightly, looking as though he had expected the answer. “Even at the world's expense?” he said lightly.

”At the world's…” Harry trailed off, feeling a sick feeling settle in his stomach. “What's… I don't understand—”

“Your life, Harry,” Dumbledore said simply. “Is worth a great deal more to the world than that of Miss Granger's.”

Harry felt his knees weaken. He sat down heavily on Ron's bed, the full impact of Dumbledore's words hitting him.

If Hermione were to ever…

The prophecy has my name on it…

I won't…can't loser her…

Her life's worth more to me than my own…

“Take your time, Harry,” Dumbledore said kindly. “I am sure I have given you much to think on.” The Headmaster released a long sigh. “My apologies—I seem to have remarkably bad timing. This is hardly the way in which I wanted you to spend your birthday.”

“I don't care about the world,” Harry said, his hands trembling slightly. “I don't care.”

Dumbledore smiled serenely. “For the greater good, sometimes one must sacrifice his own happiness. That is all too often the way of the world, I'm afraid. But, perhaps, the most beneficial thing to do in this case would be to talk to Miss Granger.”

Dumbledore left, leaving Harry in the room, caught in a whirlwind of tumultuous emotion.

I should end things between us now…

What more do I possibly have to give up?

I don't care about the world…

Does Voldemort know?

How did Dumbledore find out?

//Your life is worth a great deal more than that of Miss Granger's//

For the world, Harry.

One must make personal sacrifices.

For the greater-fucking-good.

There was a knock at the door.

“Go away,” Harry said, staring transfixed off into space.

The door opened. It was Hermione. She shut it behind her and turned to look at him, worry causing her eyebrows to furrow.

“Harry?” she questioned softly, approaching him. “I was wondering… you never showed up downstairs. Dumbledore said you were in here. Is everything…” Hermione trailed off and her face alighted in concern. “What did he say to you?”

Harry glanced up at her. “He… he said—”

“Oh!” she cut in furiously, without hearing what Harry had to say. “On your birthday! Hasn't he done enough? How much more responsibility can he possibly put on your shoulders? Harry, you listen to me, no matter what he said to you—”

“He knows about us,” Harry interrupted flatly. “He knows… he knows everything, Hermione.”

Hermione's mouth opened and closed. “Oh,” she said faintly.

“Yeah,” Harry said heavily. “You better… I think you had better sit down.”

Hermione sat down and Harry rested his forearms on his knees, staring speculatively out in front of him.

“What would you do for me?” he asked, finally.

“What would I…” she repeated in confusion. “Harry, what's… you're not making any sense.”

“For me, Hermione,” he said insistently. “Would you do anything? Would you give up your own life? Would you…” Harry stopped and clenched his jaw before continuing. “Would you give up the lives of others?”

Hermione sucked in a harsh breath. “I don't… why are you asking me this?”

Harry turned towards her, feeling the desperation clawing up inside him. He had to know. He had to know that he wasn't alone. She stared at him breathlessly, embarrassment and worry colouring her cheeks. Her hands were fisted together on her lap.

“Tell me,” Harry said sharply. “Tell me what you would do for me.”

“I—” Hermione took a deep breath and shifted her gaze to the twisting hands in her lap. “Anything,” she finally said quietly. “I would do anything. Yes, I would give up my own life. Yes, I would give up the lives of others… I would do anything.”

Harry swallowed, reaching out to take her hands in his. “Me, too,” he whispered.

Hermione finally seemed to understand. “Dumbledore talked to you—about us… he must've… the prophecy… and you would, for me…. Oh, Harry!”

She threw her arms around his neck, gripping him tightly. “You mustn't let him separate us,” she babbled senselessly. “I know it's selfish of me, Harry. But I don't care—I don't care. You've lost so much already…”

“So none of the rest of it matters?” Harry said. “Not the prophecy or Voldemort or… or any of it?”

“Of course it matters,” Hermione said, pulling away so she could see his face. She gripped his hands with a force that was almost painful, as if unwilling to let him go. “But… not… not as much as…”

“I know,” Harry said softly. “I know and it's selfish of me because Dumbledore's right. Because I would so anything to keep you safe and maybe that's wrong, but I don't care. I can't lose you, Hermione. Do you understand me? I can't lose you.”

Hermione bit her bottom lip so hard she drew blood. “Harry…” she whispered sadly. “That's not… he is right… don't you see? You are first. You do come before me. The world… you're so much more needed than I am.”

“What about what I need?” Harry said hoarsely. “Doesn't any of that matter?”

Hermione's eyes flickered shut for a moment. “Of course it matters, but that's not—”

“It's everything,” Harry said flatly. “Everything.”

Hermione stared at him for a long time, breathing hard. “Alright,” she finally said weakly. “Alright…”

“Tell me you'll never leave me,” Harry said quietly.

Hermione blinked up at him, looking caught. “Oh, Harry, you know I can't… there's no way to—”

“Please, Hermione,” he cut in. “Just… tell me.”

Hermione swallowed. “I'll never leave you,” she whispered.

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” Hermione said. “I promise. I'll never leave you, Harry.”

“Even if that means that the world comes second,” Harry continued desperately. “Even if that means we're putting ourselves before the greater good?”

“You're first,” Hermione said. “It's already happened. There's nothing—I can't change it now. You're first.”

***

-->

A/N: So after giving this chapter a good re-write, I'm beginning to think that the warning in the last chapter may have been slightly dramatic. And I've decided to extend this thing to six chapters—so this one isn't the last. So it's going to end slightly less open-ended than I originally intended.

This is where I say I've had enough
and no one should ever feel the way that I feel now.
A walking open wound,
a trophy display of bruises
and I don't believe that I'm getting any better.

Waiting here with hopes the phone will ring
and I'm thinking awful things
and I'm pretty sure that few would notice.
And this apartment
is starving for an argument.
Anything at all to break the silence.

Wandering the house
like I've never wanted out
and this is about as social as I get now.
And I'm throwing away the letters that I am writing you
'cause they would never do,
I would never do.

So don't be a liar,
don't say that "everything's working"
when everything's broken.
And you smile like a saint
but you curse like a sailor
and your eyes say the joke's on me.

-Dashboard Confessional, Saint and Sailors

***

“Have you ever been outside of England?”

They're in Hermione's room. She's leaning against the headboard of her bed, his head in her lap. Her fingers are slowly combing through his hair.

They almost look…

Normal.

“Yes,” Hermione says, not seeming to find the question strange.

“I've never been,” Harry mumbles, closing his eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if I ever will. I'd like to. I think… I think I'd like to live somewhere warm.”

“Somewhere warm?” Hermione repeats, her eyebrows raising slightly. “Would I be there?”

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “Of course you'd be. I mean… if you'll come with me… you will come with me, won't you?”

He's anxious now and she's delighted by it.

“We could live in a little house… by the ocean…” Hermione says. “With big windows, so that the sun will always come in. You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

“I'd love it,” Harry says.

“Once a week we could walk into town to buy groceries,” Hermione muses. “Otherwise, we'd be completely secluded.”

“We'd be completely safe,” Harry continues. “All alone… nothing would ever bother us.”

Their expressions are changing now, becoming darker as they fight a losing battle. There's a long moment of silence as Hermione continues to comb her fingers through his hair. Harry heaves a great sigh.

“Oh, sod it,” he mutters. “That's never going to happen and we both know it. No point in deluding ourselves.”

“Sometimes it's easier,” Hermione whispers. “Don't you ever think about the future?”

“No.”

Hermione looks distressed—long gone is her relaxed teasing. “Never?”

Harry swallows. “It's too difficult. I can't… I can't think past what might happen.”

“I think about the future.”

“Yeah?” Harry says listlessly.

“Yes,” she whispers. “And you're in it.”

“Hermione…”

“It's alright,” she says. “You don't have to say anything.”

“I might not—I probably won't—you shouldn't think about stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he says softly. “I can't promise that there will be a future for either of us.”

“You don't have to.”

He doesn't say anything more, but he's looking at her with such intensity—like he desperately wants to promise.

Finally, when he speaks, it's with hesitation. “Hermione… do you… are you in love with me?”

Ron never stayed to hear the answer to Harry's question. Instead he fled—back to his own room, where the walls were quiet and empty and he was painfully alone.

Ron isn't sure who they think they're fooling.

They're certainly not fooling him—though he suspects he's the one they're most trying to hide from.

It baffles him, really. She's the brightest witch of her age and he's… well… he's Harry Potter. The Boy Who Should Know These Things.

Their “secret” hasn't been secret for a long time.

Sometimes he wants to yell and scream and rage because how could they be so stupid to think that they could ever keep their relationship private?

He heard it from the portraits originally. Though, once he became aware of “it,” Ron quickly realized that his best friends are not-exactly-subtle.

The big secret—the real secret—is the fact that he knows.

He knows and they're too blinded by each other to notice anything—anyone else—around them.

And he doesn't want to know if it's love, because they've made such a game out of pretending. Such a game.

Everything is fine.

Everything is a game and it's fine and nothing's changed and he's not allowed to know.

Only that's a lie.

Everything is wrong.

Everything is wrong, and he doesn't know why—and they lie to him, continue to lie to him, and he's beginning to hate them.

And sometimes he thinks about how he may have unknowingly set them into motion.

There's always been something different about Harry and Hermione.

And now that it's happened—inevitably, irreversibly—he can no longer ignore it.

He's an outsider.

He's an outsider looking in and his best friends don't even have enough respect for him to give him the truth.

He hates them a little for that.

He hates the fact that he's hanging on to them with everything he has left, because being part of the trio, even a little part, is so much better than not being part of it at all.

He hates that he tiptoes around the house, now, because he hates disturbing them when they're together. There's always something so intimate about them and intense and he hates seeing it, hates interrupting it, hates them for putting him in that position.

And they should have known that they couldn't keep up the façade forever. They should have known that everything would eventually explode. They should have known.

He's drying dishes with Hermione. Mum's out doing stuff for the Order, and they're stuck at home, doing things the Muggle way. They're playing the game—they're pretending—and he's growing angrier, because she's lying to him. She's washing dishes and laughing with him and it's all a lie.

“So,” he begins conversationally, throat burning as he methodically passes her a dish that needs washing. “Have you fucked him yet?”

The reaction is immediate.

Crash.

The dish falls to the floor and shatters into millions of tiny shards of glass.

She's staring at him, her face pale and her hands beginning to tremble.

“Wh—what?” she whispers.

Ron almost feels bad. Almost.

“Harry,” he says—surprised by how calm he is. “Have you—”

“Don't finish that sentence,” Hermione says sharply, tears beginning to form in her eyes now. “Don't you dare finish that sentence.”

“Why not?” Ron says challengingly, prodding at pieces of broken glass with his shoe. “I think it's the kind of thing I have a right to know, don't you? I mean, after all… it's only my two best friends we're talking about!”

“Oh, Ron,” she whispers, but she sounds less angry now—she sounds terribly sad. Ron wishes she were still angry. “I'm so sorry. We've—I know we should have told you, but we—”

“Don't bother,” he mutters. “It's not worth it. I don't want to know.”

“You must be so upset…” Hermione says sympathetically and Ron wishes she would stop. He wants her to be angry. “I'm so sorry, Ron. Really… there's nothing…” she drops her voice and lowers her gaze. “I hope one day you can forgive us.”

He doesn't know what to say. So he says nothing at all, just stares down at the pieces of broken glass scattered across the kitchen floor.

Hermione follows his gaze. With a small sniffle, she bends down and starts picking up them up. She cuts her finger on a piece of glass and little droplets of blood trickle out. She bites her lip in pain, the blood mixing with the glass on the floor.

China, Ron realizes. It was a china dish before it smashed all over the kitchen floor. Mum isn't going to be happy. And now it's in pieces and covered in Hermione's blood…

“What the hell is going on here?”

Ron raises his head.

Harry.

Harry, whose eyes are flat as they meet his—flat and… murderous. Ron represses a shiver and he understands, suddenly, why it's always Harry that has to face Voldemort.

“What the hell is going on here?” Harry repeats, moving into the kitchen.

Ron realizes how it looks. He's standing there over Hermione… Hermione who's bleeding and crying and…

“Harry, it's alright,” she says hurriedly, still crying. “It's—I dropped the dish… and I cut myself picking it up…”

Harry clenches his jaw, his eyes emotionless as he keeps them trained on Ron. “What did he say to you?”

Ron nearly laughs. “Oh, that's right!” he yells. “That's right! Big, strong Harry Potter is here to save his beloved from scary Ronald Weasley!”

“Careful, Ron,” he says warningly, coming even closer to him now.

“I'd never lay a finger on her and you know it,” Ron says calmly. “I'm not the one who stabs my friends in the back. That's your job.”

Hermione's holding onto the pieces of glass so hard that they're beginning to tear into her hand. She's bleeding even more heavily now. “Oh, don't,” she whispers. “Don't…”

Harry's eyes tick over to her, and he swallows with difficulty at the sight of the glass clutched in her hand. “Hermione, throw out the glass,” he says, with surprising gentleness. “Throw it out, Hermione.”

Hermione does, as if she's been awakened from a long dream. She looks frightened and stares down at her bleeding hands in incomprehension.

Harry looks back at Ron and the message is clear.

You did this.

You hurt her.

Ron swallows and he backs up against the kitchen counter feeling weak and dizzy and wondering when it all came crashing down so fast. Harry's talking to Hermione in soft, hushed tones and Ron can't hear anything they're saying, but he can feel Harry's anger radiating off him and—

Ron suddenly fears for the idiot who will ever dare try and touch Hermione.

Hermione's leaving. Harry's made her feel better and she's leaving and he's… Harry's…

“I didn't touch her.”

Ron's surprised at how calm his words are because he's suddenly terrified. He's terrified of Harry and what his best friend is capable of.

Ron gathers himself together. They lied to him—they've been lying to him—they betrayed him.

“I didn't touch her,” he says again firmly—challenging. “I'd never hurt her, Harry. You know that.”

Harry stops moving towards him. He struggles with himself for a moment. “Alright,” he acquiesces. “But if you ever so much as think—”

“Bloody hell!” Ron cuts in sharply, feeling blind fury rising in him. “Is that what you think of me? Hermione's my best friend, you git!”

“But that's not all you want her to be,” Harry snaps.

Rage floods through Ron's body, but he takes a breath, refusing to give Harry the upper-hand “What—are you afraid?” he says in a low voice. “Afraid that she's finally going to wake up one day and realize her mistake?”

Harry flinches. “What are you talking about?”

“I think that you know,” Ron snaps, coming closer to him. They're nearly nose to nose. Glass crunches under their feet. “One day, Harry. One days she's going to wake up and know that choosing you was the stupidest thing she's ever done.”

“You know nothing.”

Ron snorts. “Don't lie, Harry. You're so fucking afraid that she'll realize she's made a mistake.” Ron keeps his voice low and steady because he knows how much this is hurting Harry.

His best friend.

And it's nothing—nothing compared to what Harry did to him.

These are only words.

Just words.

Harry betrayed him.

They're so close to throttling each other. Neither of them have their wands out, but the air is thick around them.

We don't need wands.

Ron keeps pushing—needing to make him suffer, if only a little bit.

“You're afraid she won't be able to put up with it anymore—she won't be able to put up with you anymore.” Harry's breathing is harsh and his chest is heaving. And Ron feels sick satisfaction in it—and disgust. He's disgusted at what they are—what's he's… they've become.

“And what do you think, Ron?” Harry says steadily, regaining his composure. “What do you think? That she'll come crying to you?” Harry takes a step back, calming himself. “She'll never feel that way about you, Ron.”

“Don't be so thick, Harry,” Ron snaps. “I don't even want her anymore.”

And Ron realizes that it's true.

He doesn't want her anymore.

Not anymore.

What he does want is to be threes months ago back at Hogwarts when Harry was his best friend and he bickered with Hermione because he liked her and he didn't know how else to act.

Harry looks as if he's been struck. “Don't talk that way about her.”

Ron doesn't want her anymore. He doesn't want something that (so clearly) belongs to Harry.

She's not just something, his mind says. She's Hermione.

Hermione.

“Look, Harry,” Ron says, his voice softer. “I just don't feel that way about her anymore.”

Harry eyes him in clear distrust.

Ron doesn't care. He's telling the truth—he doesn't want Hermione. What he wants is to have his friends back. He wants the friends that would never have lied to him.

“It bothers you, though, doesn't it?” Ron says softly. “It bothers you that I might still have feelings for her. It bothers you because you think that you're not good enough for her.”

Harry still doesn't say anything, but his fists are clenching and Ron feels a small thrill.

“And you know why you feel that way, Harry?”

“Why, Ron?” Harry says steadily. “Why, if you're such an expert?”

“Because it's true.”

Harry makes a small sound of disgust. “You know nothing, Ron. You don't understand anything.”

Ron snorts. “We've been best friends for five-years. I know you better than you think I do.”

“Best friends?” Harry echoes. “Best friends, Ron? Is that what we are?”

“That's what we used to be at any rate,” Ron mumbles, backing away from him. “Don't s'pose the term means much to you anymore.”

They've reached a weary truce. Ron backs against the counter, breathing heavily. He feels the anger drain out of him, leaving a sort of numbness in its wake.

Harry's staring at the floor… the broken pieces of glass, still covered with Hermione's blood.

“You can't protect her, you know,” Ron says, studying his (best) friend. “They'll come for her and you won't be able to stop it. You won't be able to do anything.”

“Shut up.”

He's still staring at the floor and Ron feels a shift in the room. Power, he has it—he has it (for once) and Harry doesn't.

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

“Shut up!”

Harry's advancing now—angry, he's so very angry. And Ron's so numb.

“What happened to you?” Harry says with disgust. “I don't know who you are anymore.”

Ron feels a flicker of fear. He can see the traces of what Harry really is—what he's capable of.

“I don't know you,” Ron retorts. “D'you even remember, Harry? I asked you if you fancied Hermione. I asked you. And you said you didn't!” Ron stops and draws a breath. “You betrayed me. You snuck around behind my back. You've spent a month lying to me.”

For the first time, Ron sees a hint of remorse in Harry's eyes.

“Ron,” he says heavily. “I'm sorry. I didn't know—I didn't, I swear. I… when you asked me. I thought I was telling the truth.”

“Fat lot of good that does now,” Ron mutters.

“Yeah,” Harry says, relaxing his posture. “Yeah,” he says again. “But I am. I'm really sorry.”

Ron runs a hand through his hair. “I know.”

A heavy silence descends on the room. Water from the tap drips down against the ink, ringing through the air.

Drip, drip, drip.

There's a barrier between them—holding them back.

Ron wonders if they'll ever be able to overcome it.

“I should… I have to check on Hermione,” Harry mumbles.

Ron nods. He doesn't care.

“What the fuck happened to us, Harry?”

Harry stops in the doorway, his back to Ron.

“I don't know,” he says, without turning. “I don't know.”

“We used to laugh,” Ron whispers.

Harry's shoulders slump, and he draws in a sharp breath.

“We used to laugh,” Ron says again. “All the time.”

“Things used to be simpler, Ron,” he says, gripping the edge of the doorway.

“I know there's something you're not telling me,” Ron persists, keeping his voice controlled. “I just… I don't understand why we never laugh anymore.”

Harry's gone pale. “Do you really want to know why, Ron?”

Ron opens his mouth to say `yes, of course he does,' but something holds him back. If he knows, it might take away his justification in being able to hate Harry just that little bit.

Instead he says, “We used to be a trio. You used to tell us both everything.”

Harry has no response to that—he only continues to state at him, steady and unblinking. Ron's words slowly drift back to him.

We used to be a trio.

Used to be.

Used to.

A trio.

“Go find Hermione,” Ron says, voice unsteady. “Go make sure she's alright.”

Harry does and Ron is left alone with nothing but the dripping tap and the jagged pieces of glass at his feet.

-->

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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