Two Minutes

Vicarious Leigh

Rating: PG
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 31/12/2004
Last Updated: 31/12/2004
Status: completed

Written in response to the pumpkinfest New Year's Eve challenge #47 (on pumpkinpie.org) which read, "Hermione hates all manner of New Year's Eve traditions and it's up to Harry to change her mind."

Chapters

1. Two Minutes

1. Two Minutes

This was written in response to a challenge included in the pumpkinpie.org pumpkinfest for New Year’s Eve 2004. As always, thanks to my awesome betas CheeringCharm and Danielerin! I thought it fitting to post this on Portkey today J.

Happy New Year,

Vicarious Leigh, 12/31/2004

Two Minutes

Pumpkinpie.org New Year’s Eve Challenge No. 47

“Hermione, dear, are you sure you don’t want any more Shepherd’s Pie?” Molly Weasley asked as she began clearing the dishes from the table. Hermione flopped back against her chair and rubbed her stomach.

“I couldn’t eat another bite if I tried. I’m not even sure I can drag myself from this chair to help you,” Hermione replied. Molly waved her hand toward her threateningly.

“You’ll do no such thing. I can manage these dishes just fine,” she answered. “You, as I’m told, haven’t seen Ron or Harry in weeks.” Hermione dropped her eyes to the table. “So scurry along to the parlor and catch up,” she ordered as laughter erupted from the adjoining room. “Shoo!” Hermione glanced toward the parlor door and saw her two best friends engaged in a violent chess match. Long-forgotten wrapping paper was strewn around the room as the weary fairies continued to flit about on the branches of an impressive fir tree.

Hermione wrenched herself from the chair and walked toward the parlor. She leaned against the doorway and looked at the surrogate family she’d come to adore. Ginny was balled up on the sofa playing with a misty gray kitten. It was fighting a large cardinal bow wrapped around its collar and looking none too pleased with its progress.

Next to Ginny sat Neville Longbottom. He was lounged back in the chair looking quite proud of himself. Not only had the kitten been quite the winning gift, but the diamond ring that hung from its bow stole the show. Hermione’s ears still echoed with the harmonious squealing from both Ginny and her mother as they realized why Neville had dropped to his knee. Neville looked up at Hermione and winked. Hermione couldn’t help but smile. Neville had garnered significant praise over the last few hours for his ingenuity and she intended to let him relish in every compliment. No one needed to know that his method of proposal had been Hermione’s idea.

Fred and George Weasley were cheering on the chess pieces with particular interest. In an effort to finally beat Ron at the game, they’d given him a new set for Christmas. It was a chess board from their own imagination and therefore required a fair amount of caution. Ron set his knight upon Harry’s rook just as the board opened up and cast the knight into a leaping flame. Seconds later, the piece bounded from the fire and screeched, exploding on the spot. “Brilliant!” George sputtered as he wiped a tear from his eye.

“Does every square on the board have some horrific ending?” Ron growled as he dusted what was left of his knight from the board.

“You’ll have to determine that for yourself, Ron,” Fred replied with a chuckle. “But I’d avoid B3 at all costs,” he continued before dissolving into laughter. Fred and George continued to operate their joke shop in Diagon Alley. In the two years that passed since their grand opening, they’d become the most successful retail business in the district. They lived in separate London homes, only a few doors apart, and after a year of operation, paid off the Burrow in full. They continued to invent (and test) new products on anyone willing – and sometimes those not so willing. But as carefree as they appeared on the outside, they’d become the cornerstone of the Weasley family. They’d had little choice and assumed the responsibility admirably.

During Hermione’s final year at Hogwarts the fated battle arrived. Voldemort had dispensed with the cloak and dagger routine and in an act of desperation attacked Hogwarts. The battle was swift but devastating. The Order rushed to the students’ aid as did Aurors from the Ministry and outraged wizards from Hogsmeade. Most importantly, the hundred or so house elves that served the castle joined the fray. Hermione ended up fighting alongside them and lost track of Harry and Ron. When she finally found them, all three – Harry, Ron, and Voldemort – were lying on a knoll near the lake. Harry and Ron recovered but Voldemort was dead. In the months that passed since that night, Harry had not spoken to anyone about it. Well, at least he hadn’t spoken to Hermione about it.

Hermione could only speculate as to what gave him the power, if not the fury, to kill the Dark Lord. She’d heard enough from Ron to know Harry had seen Mr. Weasley killed during the battle. She also knew he’d watched both Bill and Charlie die as well. But that was all she knew. She had no idea what happened when Harry and Ron found Voldemort waiting in the Dark Forest. Neither of them would talk to her about it. In the end, she could only reason that Harry must’ve thought Ron was dead as well. Nothing else could’ve enraged him enough to cast an effective killing curse. And that was just what he’d done.

Harry yelped and jumped back from the chess board. Fred and George doubled over in laughter as a miniature mountain troll burst from the board and threw Harry’s bishop across the room. It pegged Hermione just above her right eye and snapped her from her reverie. The room dissolved into howling laughter and she couldn’t help but join the fray. Although Fred and George’s gasping cackles were infectious, it wasn’t long before George calmed and caught her eye. He gave his head a quick upward jerk and furrowed his brow in question. Hermione smiled and nodded. His obvious concern was the side of Fred and George that only the family saw – she couldn’t express how privileged she felt to be counted among them.

“So Granger,” Fred interrupted her thoughts. “Are you planning to stand in the doorway all night or are you going to join the festivities?”

“Hermione doesn’t do festivities,” Ron said. Hermione cocked her head to the side, swallowed a sporting retort, and dropped into a chair near the chess board. It didn’t escape her attention that Harry didn’t seem to notice her presence. He hadn’t looked at her all night. In all honesty, this incomprehensible awkwardness is what had driven her away from both of her best friends. She couldn’t take it and every time she saw them it only grew more palpable.

“What do you mean she doesn’t do festivities?” George replied. “Surely you’re not still prefecting people around,” he sputtered.

“No,” Hermione rebuked. “And for your information, I do engage in festivities. Meaningful festivities,” she finished.

“I guess you have big plans for New Year’s Eve then?” Ron asked.

“I said meaningful, Ron. New Year’s Eve is nothing more than a socially acceptable excuse to get pissed and feel up some random person of the opposite sex,” Hermione replied as she perused the holiday copy of Witch Weekly.

“You don’t mean that,” a misty voice contributed from behind her. Hermione turned around to see Luna Lovegood drying her hands with a dishtowel and setting herself on Ron’s lap.

“Yes, Luna, I do mean that,” Hermione reiterated, only moderately irritated to see another girl cozied up with her former boyfriend. She hoped her effrontery would change the conversation. The traditions associated with New Year’s Eve made the hair on the back of her neck stand at attention. She’d been to her fair share of New Year’s celebrations. The Gryffindor house parties had become legendary and she’d attended every one of them. They always ended the same. She’d sit near the fire, listening to the revised lyrics of Auld Lang Syne (usually as presented by Seamus Finnegan) and watch the whole of Gryffindor commence to snog each other senseless whilst no one noticed her sitting alone. When given the opportunity, not even Ron or Harry could bother themselves to notice her when distracted by the likes of Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil. During her seventh year, she’d managed to sneak up to the girls’ dormitory and avoid the obligatory embarrassment. As she heard the assemblage burst into cheers below she vowed never to attend another New Year’s celebration again.

“What about resolutions and turning over a new leaf and all that?” Luna argued.

“Why must you do that on January the first? Where is it written that you can’t resolve to accomplish something in February or July or October, for that matter?” Hermione shrugged off her waning jealousy and glanced back at the best and worst dressed of the year.

“So does that mean you won’t be coming to my flat for New Year’s, Hermione?” Neville asked from the other side of the room. Hermione looked up and surveyed the room. Activity in the parlor had come to a conspicuous and sudden end. Every person, save one, was looking at her.

“I’d actually planned to go into work rather early on the first,” Hermione mumbled.

“Hermione!” Ginny exclaimed. “You’re going to work on New Year’s Day?”

Her frustration growing, Hermione tossed the magazine onto the side table and sat up. “Honestly, it’s just another day! How is January the first any different from December the thirty-first? Moreover, how is June the fifth different from June the fourth? It’s just another day!” she argued.

“Hermione,” Ginny lamented. “What about new hopes, new dreams, the promise of a new day? That’s what New Year’s is all about! That’s what people celebrate…the chance to get things right, to start over,” she explained.

“How are hopes and promises and dreams any different – or more feasible – at 12:01 than they were at 11:59?” Hermione replied. “I’m not saying those things aren’t attainable. I just don’t think you need to change your calendar in order to strive for what you want,” Hermione said. “If people were serious about their resolutions, they wouldn’t have to wallow in alcohol, loud music, songs no one knows the lyrics to and midnight snog sessions in order to attain them.”

“So, you’re not coming,” Neville clarified.

Hermione hesitated under the pressure of several sets of eyes. She didn’t want to disappoint her friends, but she had no desire to spend a late evening engaged in festivities she’d sworn off. “I’m sorry Neville. No.”

“Oh, come on Hermione,” Ron scoffed. “You’ve locked yourself away in that bloody office and hardly spoken to anyone since we left Hogwarts. Would a little festivity kill you?”

She looked at Luna, still perched on Ron’s lap, and replied, “I hardly expect you to understand.”

She rose from her chair and stepped out onto the patio. The cold breeze cut through her jumper but she didn’t care; her annoyance kept her warm enough. She crossed her arms over her chest and watched her breath spiral into the sky. She was avoiding the issue and she knew it. She’d become adept at doing that very thing. In the past few months, she’d become so proficient at avoiding Harry, they’d not shared a comfortable conversation in weeks.

“What wouldn’t Ron understand?” his voice wafted across the patio. Hermione turned in place and caught his eye.

“Harry!” she startled. “I didn’t hear you come out.”

He blew air through his hands and rubbed them together as he settled into a chair at the patio table. “You didn’t answer my question,” he responded.

Hermione turned back around and looked at the stars twinkling in the night sky. She wasn’t sure what to say. She certainly didn’t want to tell him she’d sworn off New Year’s celebrations due to an acute case of poor self-esteem. “It’s not important.”

“Not important?” Harry scoffed. She turned to look at him, awaiting his argument, but it didn’t come. He stared toward the patio floor wringing his hands together. If she didn’t know him better, she’d have sworn he wanted to say something. But who’s to say she knew him at all any longer. The mere thought broke her heart.

“Harry,” she whispered. “I know a lot of things changed that night…”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “If you didn’t want to talk, then why come out here?”

He cut his eyes toward hers and without speaking she’d heard his message loud and clear. They weren’t going to discuss what mattered tonight, either. She’d tried to discuss the battle before and in every case he’d never allow her to air the demons she harbored. He rose from the chair and stood in awkward silence casting the same discomfort over her that she’d come to the patio to escape.

“Good night, Harry,” she declared as she stepped toward the patio doors.

Harry grabbed her arm, stopping her in her tracks. Hermione was closer to him than she had been in months. The heat of his hand burned through her wool jumper. “Why won’t you come to the party?” he whispered.

She glanced at his hand, wrapped around her upper arm, and replied, “I detest all those ridiculous traditions: the eggnog, that song no one knows the lyrics to, the resolutions…the kissing,” she muttered. “It’s just not my idea of a well-spent evening.”

“You used to celebrate with us,” he prompted.

“Well those evenings didn’t work out so well for me either,” she lamented.

She felt Harry turn toward her and cast a glimpse in his direction. When her eyes met his, she found an expression she’d never seen before. He was as serious as she’d ever seen him and his eyes burned with an emerald glow that pierced her soul. “I can change your mind.”

Unable to maintain eye contact, she looked away. “Not likely,” she retorted, willing her heart to stop racing.

“Be ready by ten o’clock.”

What he said barely registered in her ears before she turned to argue the point. But it was too late. He retreated into the house and closed the door behind him. She stood on the patio, mouth agape, and tried to process what had occurred. She’d stepped out on the patio to escape her issues and as a result had twice the problems now than she’d had a moment ago. Not only did it appear she had no choice in attending the insidious New Year’s Eve celebration, but she’d be attending it with the best friend she’d ardently avoided for several months. What’s more, he didn’t ask her. He told her that she would attend with him. She shook herself to her senses and stepped toward the door. She had a mind to tell him off, but couldn’t bear to do so when she’d entered the parlor.

“Harry, dear,” Molly said. “So soon?”

She hugged him as a mother would her own child and thanked him for coming. He complimented the delicious Christmas dinner and turned to Ron. “Try not to knock over the ficus tree when you come in tonight.” He looked at Luna and winked. “If you come in tonight. You woke me up three times last week.” Molly gasped and shot a scathing glare toward Ron and Luna. Harry’s eyes floated to Hermione’s for a brief moment before returning to Ron’s reddened face. Harry winked at Ron and walked into the adjoining room. The eruption of green flames from the fireplace was the only thing that drowned out Molly’s derisive commentary about “kids today” and “proper decorum until marriage.”

Harry’s departure opened the flood gates. Soon everyone was making their rounds and saying farewell. The gifts were gathered, leftover food wrapped up and shoved in everyone’s hands, and the Burrow began to empty as quickly as it had filled. Hermione flooed back to her flat still bewildered over what had occurred. Moreover, she was at a loss to figure out what would occur.

She draped her cloak over the back of the sofa and dropped into the chair by the hearth. She was exhausted but she knew sleep wasn’t imminent. She stared into the dancing firelight and pulled her fleece throw around her.

This was Harry. This was her best friend. The prospect of spending an evening with him should not feel so uncomfortable.

***

Hermione ran her finger along the dusty spines of the leather bound tomes in the Ministry’s book stacks. She’d barely slept the night before so the darkened quiet of the room was beckoning her to take a kip. She didn’t want to do that either. When she finally did fall asleep last night her subconscious wandered through a mélange of images (both real and imagined) of her life at Hogwarts and of that beyond. The only thing that remained consistent was the tone of Harry’s demeanor. She’d dreamed about their first year at school, mostly before the troll, and the several months since they’d left. It had been as awkward now as it was then. She couldn’t describe the tension but, in her heart, she knew where it had come from.

She wasn’t there.

She’d fought alongside the house elves and left Harry and Ron to deal with Voldemort alone. It had not been intentional. She’d followed Dobby down the kitchen corridors and when she turned around Harry and Ron were nowhere to be found. She’d spent her remaining time fighting the Death Eaters whilst looking for her best friends. When she finally found them, it was too late. When Harry awoke in the hospital wing, he was different. Something in his eyes, the timbre of his voice…something had changed and she’d never had the courage to ask him what it was. She couldn’t bear to hear him tell her that he couldn’t forgive her for leaving them alone. Why would he forgive her when she’d yet to forgive herself?

Somewhere in her musings Hermione returned to her office and dropped into her chair. The holidays had become her most productive time. She didn’t have the constant interruptions of her coworkers and the Ministry was, for once, silent and calming. She glanced at the name plate on her office door and felt the guilt churn in her stomach. After Hogwarts she’d thrown herself into her career, avoiding the awkwardness with Harry and Ron, and ascended the ranks with alarming speed. At nineteen she was named the Head of Experimental Charms for the Ministry of Magic.

While she’d become successful at the Ministry, she was inept, as ever, with her friendships. Her subconscious demanded she just talk to Harry about everything, but so much time had passed, she couldn’t help but think it was too late.

And yet he was taking her to the New Year’s Eve party.

“Ugh!” Hermione growled and snapped a book closed. She’d been at work for five hours and hadn’t accomplished a thing on her list. She’d spent the majority of her time thinking about Harry, festering in her own guilt, or dreading another invisible midnight among friends. She dropped her head back against the chair as she stared out of her conjured window.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Hermione blinked her eyes and refocused them on the glass communications tube on the adjacent wall. Each Ministry department had its own tube to the street level above. It granted access to owls delivering messages from the outside. In this case, Hedwig was tapping her beak against the glass with a reproachful glare. Hermione shook herself from her reverie and crossed the room to the tube. The snowy owl flew in with a decisive flap of her wings and landed on the stack of books assembled on her desk.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Hermione chided. “I didn’t see you there!” Hedwig hooted an indignant response and stuck her leg out. She untied the scroll of parchment from her leg and jumped out of the way as Hedwig shot across the room and disappeared up the tube. “Owls,” she mumbled as she unrolled the letter.

Hermione,

The New Year’s Eve party begins at 10:30 p.m. I’ll come by your flat at 10:15 p.m. to pick you up.

Harry

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” she grumbled. She tossed the parchment on her desk and pulled her cloak off the peg behind her door. “I can’t wait!” she announced sarcastically. “How exciting! We can sit there, not speaking to each other, and watch an assemblage of adults behave like children, drink copious amounts of alcohol for no purpose whatsoever, make unattainable resolutions we’ll forget within a month and then snog each other senseless if only because the clock struck midnight and the world is suddenly supposed to be different than it was a moment ago.” She fumbled with the button closure for her cloak as her voice rose. “Oh! Wait a tick! I nearly forgot! I’m Hermione Granger and men don’t snog me senseless on New Year’s Eve! So let me just sit here and watch you run along and find some winning strumpet to lock lips with.” She flipped the hood over her head and spun on her heel toward the door nearly slamming into an overzealous intern that apparently had no social life either.

“Er, Miss Granger,” Matthew said. “Who are you talking to?” he asked as he handed her a file requiring her signature. Hermione felt the heat of embarrassment rise under her collar. She took the file from his outstretched hand, scrawled her signature across it, and handed it back.

“No one,” she mumbled. “What are you doing here? You do know the Ministry is closed over the holidays?” she asked, trying to divert the subject from her questionable outburst.

“I had some work to finish and I knew you’d be here to open the office,” he answered.

“How did you know I’d be here?” Hermione asked.

Matthew shrugged his shoulders. “You’re always here,” he replied. “Thanks,” he said waving the file in the air. “I’ll get this to MLE right away.” He turned and strode off down the maze of cubicles and disappeared around the corner.

Hermione’s shoulders slumped as she looked around the office. He was right. She knew the people who worked at these desks better than the people she’d counted among her friends. In truth, this Hermione didn’t have many of those. She’d worked too hard to make new friends and run so far she didn’t recognize the old ones[J1]. That was the thing that hurt the most. She didn’t know Harry and Ron anymore and that was something that had to change. She couldn’t run anymore. She couldn’t hide behind her guilt and continue to avoid the two people she’d loved more than anyone. This had to stop.

Be careful. That sounds like a resolution.

It is not…it’s a goal with fortuitous timing.

***

“Hermione?” a familiar voice called. “Are you all right?”

Startled out of her trance, Hermione looked up to see Ginny settling down at the table across from her. Her smooth auburn hair tumbled over her shoulders as the glow of the leaping firelight warmed her pale complexion. “Yes, I’m fine,” she answered.

“And I’m in love with Draco Malfoy,” Ginny said sarcastically. “You owled me for tea. You never owl me. What’s the matter?”

Hermione couldn’t argue the point. She didn’t call anyone to tea these days. Content to settle into the life of a hermit, she’d rarely engaged in anything social. Ginny was astute enough to realize Hermione had ulterior motives behind the request. Searching for some way to start the conversation Hermione began, “It’s about the New Year’s Eve party.”

“No!” Ginny interrupted. “You are not skiving off the party, Hermione.” Ginny’s eyes flashed with stubborn indignation. A young witch with a tablet in her hand waltzed over to the table and approached Ginny. As she opened her mouth to inquire as to her order, the smile slid from her face and she conspicuously moved to another table. “You have to come! You promised!”

Hermione tried to assuage her concern. “I’m still coming to the party, Ginny,” she assured. “But,” she tripped over the word, “I need some advice.” Ginny’s forehead wrinkled in question. “I don’t really know what I’m asking,” Hermione continued. “I don’t know where to start.”

“This is about Harry, isn’t it?” Ginny asked. Hermione fiddled with the hem of the tablecloth and nodded. “Thank Merlin!” Ginny announced. “It’s about bloody time,” she finished with a victorious smile. Ginny spun around in the chair, spotted the serving witch across the room and waved her to the table. She flipped open her notepad as she approached and Ginny ordered an Irish coffee for them both. “And tell the barkeep not to skimp on the spirits…this is a serious discussion,” she instructed as the witch took their order to the bar.

“Ginny, you are on holiday from Hogwarts!” Hermione hissed with a scathing glance toward the retreating server.

“I’ve only got a few months to go,” Ginny answered. “And it’s taken everything I have to keep my mouth closed on this subject.”

“So go ahead and say it,” Hermione offered.

She knew this wasn’t going to be a pleasant conversation. Ginny had become quite the outspoken member of the Weasley family and would voice her opinion on any topic whether you were interested or not. She had also failed to learn the subtle art of diplomacy but you couldn’t fault her insight. Most importantly, she was Ron’s sister and had a better idea than anyone how much damage had been done to their friendship over the past few months. Hermione knew all of this when she asked Ginny to tea, but it didn’t mean she was looking forward to the conversation.

“You’re bloody idiots. The lot of you,” Ginny began. Hermione winced as the blunt force trauma of her words nearly knocked the breath out of her. It only made it worse that Ginny was right. “Listen, I don’t claim to know what happened. Ron doesn’t talk about this any more than you do. But the whole scenario seems like a monumental waste of a good friendship to me.” Hermione continued to pick at the tablecloth like a scolded child.

“I know,” she whispered.

“Hermione,” Ginny reached across the table and stilled her hand. “Talk to me,” she implored. “What happened between you?”

Hermione cleared her throat. “The battle came so quickly after we’d decided to call our relationship off, I guess I…”

“No, Hermione,” Ginny interrupted. “I know what happened between you and Ron.” Ginny’s inquisitive gaze sent a chill up Hermione’s spine. “I want to know what happened with Harry.”

Hermione fell silent. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew Ginny would ask this question. Even so, she wasn’t prepared for it. To answer her question would require giving life to the boggart she’d locked in the basement of her heart. The guilt she’d harbored for months boiled within her and the table distorted through the misty glass of her eyes.

“I don’t know,” she evaded. The witch returned with their refreshments and Ginny dropped Hermione’s hand and sat back with a raised eyebrow.

“Bollocks,” she rebuked. “You know exactly what happened. The question is whether you’re too afraid to tell me or too ashamed to admit it.” Ginny picked up her steaming mug and nipped at it whilst she awaited an answer.

The silence was deafening. Hermione couldn’t take it. Where this subject was concerned, Ginny had the patience of Job and would obviously not flinch until Hermione told her what seeing Harry in the hospital wing that night had done to her. She’d disappointed him and the mere thought of it was more than she could stand. She’d fallen into a downward spiral of guilt and withdrawal because she’d stood alongside a house elf while Harry faced Voldemort.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Hermione evaded. She couldn’t bring herself to give a name to the guilt that consumed her. “But it did, and I can’t get past it. It is the proverbial pink elephant. I can’t look at Harry or talk to him without feeling like this. I thought if I ignored how I felt, it would go away. But the only way to ignore it is to ignore him. It strangled our friendship before I realized what was happening.”

Hermione looked at Ginny and was surprised to see that the answer appeared to satisfy her. At least the smirk on her face was enough to make her believe so, but Hermione couldn’t understand Ginny’s reaction. This was nothing to be cheerful over and she couldn’t help but wonder if they were talking about the same thing. “And now I think it’s too late.”

“Hermione,” Ginny asked, propping her elbows on the table. “Have you ever talked to Harry about this?”

“Merlin, no!” Hermione replied. “He wouldn’t…he would…,” she stammered. “I mean I know how he must feel,” she continued. Hermione tipped her mug back hoping to drown the guilt in the warm comfort of her beverage. She chanced a glance toward Ginny only to find the widening smirk more irritating than her nonchalance.

“You have to talk to him,” she declared. “Maybe it’s not as bad as you think. Maybe he understands how you feel better than anyone in the world.” Hermione stopped at this. Harry did write the manual on living with a festering guilt complex. Perhaps he would understand.

“I don’t know,” Hermione whispered. “It’s been so long since we’ve really talked. I’m not even sure how to do it anymore.”

“Well, there’s no time like the present,” Ginny said. Hermione looked up in question. “Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve.”

“So?”

“So, Harry is bringing you to the party. Invite him over a might early. Use the time to your advantage; talk to him.” Ginny slugged back the last of her drink and rose from the table. She tossed a few galleons next to the centerpiece and winked at Hermione. “After all, it is New Year’s!” With that she flashed a stellar smile toward her and left Hermione to contemplate their encounter. She nursed her drink until it chilled and mulled over a thousand ways she could start the conversation with Harry.

***

Hermione flopped into the armchair that sat next to the window. The entire contents of her closet were strewn over the bed. She propped her elbows on her knees and buried her head in her hands. “Get yourself together, Hermione,” she said aloud. “It’s just a bloody outfit. Make a decision and get on with it!” She snapped her head up and cast a scathing glance at her wardrobe.

She’d wrestled with this issue for what seemed like hours. She wasn’t the type of girl to spend more than five minutes contemplating what clothes to wear. Nearly everything she owned was some variation of brown. It was all very sensible and suited her position in the Ministry. It was conservative and comfortable – in short, boring. She’d pulled her entire wardrobe into plain view in search of something that would be appropriate for a party. She didn’t own anything.

She gave a quick glance to the clock on her bedside table and realized she only had an hour before Harry would be arriving. She hadn’t strummed up the courage to follow Ginny’s advice and ask him to come early. It was just after nine o’clock and time would stop for no one. She decided to await enlightenment from the fashion gods and take a quick shower in the interim. She walked into the bathroom, flipped on the light and started the water. As the steam began to cloud the mirror she looked at herself through the fog.

The relentless pursuit of her career kept her in perpetual motion. Hence, she maintained the physique she’d enjoyed during school. She didn’t have glaring physical issues that served to belabor her self-esteem. However, a small but well-placed engorgement charm would’ve done wonders for her chest. She heard several girls from Hogwarts had done so upon a night of drunken festivities. Hermione smiled as she gathered the image of Pansy Parkinson fighting to annunciate the spell properly. It couldn’t have been too awful; she only spent one evening in St. Mungo’s spell damage ward. Hermione laughed aloud as she climbed into the shower and pulled the curtain closed.

She braced her arms on either side of the shower head and let the steaming water race down her back. She rolled her head from one side to the other in a vain attempt to work the building tension from her muscles. She worked the shampoo and conditioner through her hair and watched the tiny white bubbles cascade down her arms as she rinsed. As she ran a soapy loofah over her body, she heard a distinct noise from her bedroom.

She lived alone and saw little reason to close the door behind her when taking a shower. As her heart pounded in her throat, she cursed her own casual habit. She craned her neck in the direction of the door that was open on the other side of the shower curtain. With a trembling hand she pulled back the curtain a few centimeters and peeked out.

“Who’s there?” she called, not entirely sure why she’d done so. It’s not as if she was in a position to welcome company, whether they were invited or not. Thankfully, no one answered. She turned around and shut off the water. Pulling her terry dressing gown from the hook near the shower, she threw it around her shoulders and stepped onto the fluffy bath mat. She poked her head out through the open door and noticed an exhausted aging owl sitting on her bed with a parcel attached to its leg.

She blew a breath through her teeth and her shoulders sank with relief.

“Erol!” she snapped as the bird startled on the bed. “You scared the life out of me!”

Hermione crossed the room and untied the package from the bird’s leg. “I should talk to Ginny about teaching you to be a little less clumsy,” she muttered as she noticed the picture Erol knocked onto the floor as he’d flown through the window. He nipped at her finger, a bit too hard for affection’s sake, and flew out of the window he’d pushed open. As a cold wind swept through the room, Hermione closed the window and unrolled the note attached to the package.

Hermione,

I’m not sure what you intend to wear this evening but knowing you it’s beige. I thought I would lend you an outfit I think would look smashing on you! You don’t have to wear it if you don’t wish, but I forbid you from entering Neville’s flat in anything plaid, tweed, woolen, or approximating the color of brown!

See you tonight!

Ginny

Hermione huffed as she tossed the note onto her bed. She didn’t own anything that would be welcome at the party. With marked hesitation, she unfolded the brown paper from the parcel Erol had delivered.

“You can’t be serious!” she gasped aloud.

Her eyes nearly popped from her head as she slipped a finger under the smooth satin fabric of a flame red top. She held it up and felt her face flush with embarrassment. The top had a halter neckline that tied in the back allowing wispy red straps to play across the open back. The front was cut out in a diamond pattern that would reveal cleavage she was sure didn’t exist. The body of the garment was slit to the empire waist and, if caught in any breeze, would reveal every bit of her stomach. Realizing her jaw was planted on the floor she tossed the blouse to the side and refocused her attention on the black fabric still folded on the packaging.

“Well, at least I won’t freeze in these!” Hermione snipped as she pulled a pair of sleek low-rise trousers from the parcel. They had a matching black sash that tied on the hip and allowed the sash to hang at her side. Hermione tossed them on top of the blouse and flopped onto the bed.

She stared at the ceiling and wondered what Ginny had been thinking. She wasn’t in a position to walk around looking like some tart sprawled on the hood of an American automobile. She was Hermione Granger for Merlin’s sake! Hermione Granger was sensible, efficient and practical and knew the limits of propriety.

Maybe that’s why she sent it to you.

It’s inappropriate!

It’s a party! You remember parties…laughing, socializing and enjoying yourself! Live a little. It’s New Year’s Eve!

Yes, I know. At 12:01 the world will be magically transformed into a perfect society devoid of poverty, grief, and…

“Hermione?” Harry’s voice floated up the staircase.

“Er,” Hermione replied, snapping her head toward the clock and scrambling off the bed. “Just a minute.” She spun around in her room surveying her wardrobe one last time. “You’re early, aren’t you?”

“I hope you don’t mind,” he answered as his voice grew closer. “I had a few errands to run and I finished sooner than I expected.” His voice stopped outside her bedroom door. “Can I come in?”

“No!” she exclaimed, cinching the terry robe around her waist and snatching Ginny’s clothes from the bed. “I mean…I’m not dressed yet,” she clarified. “Give me five minutes,” she requested.

“Sure,” he answered. “I’ll wait downstairs.”

His footsteps retreated down the staircase. Hermione looked at the garments clutched in her hands and realized she’d run out of time. She drew a deep breath and shrugged off her robe. She pulled on the trousers and tied the halter top at the back of her neck. She cast a few spells to dry and style her hair and brushed on a bit of makeup to even her complexion. Drawing a deep breath, she turned to survey her appearance in the mirror.

Her face contorted with embattled emotions. While she didn’t approve of Ginny’s choice of attire, a quiet voice inside her head admitted that it was a flattering style. Although Hermione never gave into rote exercise, she was rarely seen without four volumes of heavy books in hand and the halter top showcased the lean but defined muscles on her arms. The pants clung just above her hips and the slit in the blouse flapped open to reveal a shapely midsection while the opening above seemed charmed to enhance a bit of cleavage. A mildly impressed smirk curled the corner of her lips before the infernally logical voice in her head ordered it to stop. Too exhausted to fight her inner turmoil, she pulled a cashmere pashmina from the back of the armchair and headed for the stairs.

When he came into view, Hermione hesitated on the staircase. His head was turned slightly away from her as he inspected the litany of photographs adorning her mantelpiece. His hands were shoved in the pockets of a pair of sleek black trousers. His arms held back the sides of a casual black blazer to reveal a v-neck grey jumper over a white collared shirt. His hair snapped her back to her senses. It didn’t look any more tamed than it ever had, but she’d been overcome with the urge to run her hands through it while gazing at him from her perch. It was a completely unexpected inclination and it scared the hell out of her. She shook the image from her mind and continued her descent toward the parlor.

“I hope you don’t mind that I let myself in,” he said as she entered the room. He appeared fixated on an old Hogwarts photograph taken of them both days before the final battle.

“I don’t mind,” Hermione responded. “But I’ve changed the password over the last few months. Did you guess it correctly or coerce it out of Ginny?” Hermione asked with a chuckle.

A smile broke the corner of Harry’s lips and he turned to face her. “No, I used the k…” His words caught in his throat upon seeing her properly. He stood there, staring at her, with his mouth bobbing open and closed. The hearing impaired wouldn’t have noticed a difference, but there was no sound coming from his mouth.

“Harry?” Hermione prompted.

He cleared his throat and looked at his feet. Rocking from one side to the other he tried to finish the sentence he’d seemed to have forgotten. “I, er…I used…” He cleared his throat again and squeezed his eyes closed.

“Harry? Are you all right?” Hermione asked, crossing the room and stopping a few feet from where he stood fidgeting before her.

He drew a breath, opened his eyes, and looked at her. “I used the key,” he said quickly. He held up a small brass key Hermione hadn’t seen in months.

When she’d first moved into this flat, she’d experimented with several security charms. She wasn’t convinced she needed the protection of defensive wards so she charmed the door against the alohomora. The only way in and out was through the use of a small brass key she’d enchanted with the counter charm. She’d only produced three of them. She’d given the others to Ron and Harry. The media frenzy that followed her in the weeks after their exit from Hogwarts, and Ron’s undiplomatic assertion that her charms could be broken, finally convinced her to allow the Ministry’s Magical Law Enforcement to set up defensive wards around her flat. She’d not used the key since that day.

“Oh,” she responded, suddenly without a viable topic of conversation. They fell into awkward silence.

The only thing comfortable about the situation was its familiarity. Since the aftermath of Voldemort’s defeat, they’d spent an increasing amount of time in this very position. The uneasiness of it was the driving force behind her gradual withdrawal from Harry all together. She couldn’t take the look in his eyes and the guilt it inspired within her. She couldn’t take the knowledge she’d disappointed her best friend.

“Er,” he broke through the silence. “You, er…look…nice.” Hermione was suddenly reminded of her appearance. Her eyes dropped to her shoes and she fumbled over her embarrassment.

“Oh, thanks. It’s Ginny’s outfit. She owled it to me with strict instructions I not wear anything of my own.” She knew she was beginning to ramble but embarrassment tended to do that to her. “It’s asinine! Honestly, I have plenty of clothes that are…”

“I like it,” Harry interrupted quietly. He cast a nervous glance toward his watch. “Do you want to grab a bite? We have some time before the…big moment,” he offered waving his hands in the air.

Grateful for the existence of conversation, Hermione tossed her pashmina around her shoulders and replied, “Big moment? Yes, I’d hate to miss the clock moving from 11:59 to 12:00,” she said rolling her eyes. “The world could change and we’d miss the whole thing!”

Harry chuckled aloud. “I think changing the world would require at least two minutes.” Hermione looked up at him and couldn’t stop the smile that broke her expression. She’d missed the banter between them. She’d missed him.

“I’m starving. Dinner sounds wonderful.” His emerald eyes sparkled at her consent and he motioned toward the door.

***

“So,” Harry said, dipping his spoon into the bowl of soup he’d ordered. “Do you have any resolutions for the new year?”

Hermione sipped her Chardonnay. “I don’t do resolutions,” she answered. They’d managed to find conversation throughout their meal, but it was mostly rehashed stories of better times or topics of conversation they already knew the outcome to. In matter of truth, she was a little annoyed with the question. Unless he didn’t listen to a thing she’d said about New Year’s Eve, he knew the answer before he’d asked the question.

“Why not?” Harry asked. Hermione took another sip of the wine and placed the glass back on the table. She was so tired of this.

“Harry, you know the answer to that already,” her voice did not disguise her disdain and it was not lost on Harry. He looked away as would a scolded child. They fell into the familiar silence she’d come to loathe. After five minutes, which felt like an eternity, Harry broke the silence.

“Are you ready?” he asked. “Ginny and Neville are expecting us.” Hermione looked at her watch. It was nearly eleven o’ clock.

“Yes, we should probably go.” She wiped her mouth with the linen serviette and pushed back from the table. She dug in her pocket for money to cover the bill.

“I’ll get it,” Harry said, tossing a few galleons on the table.

“You don’t need to do that, Harry. It’s not like we’re on a date,” she replied with a half-hearted giggle. As soon as she said it, she realized her mistake. For lack of a more appropriate description, they were on a date. His head jerked upward and he looked at her with a serious expression.

“I want to,” he responded. Hermione was not one to argue with the expression on his face. He grabbed his blazer from the back of the chair and escorted her to the door. As the cold air prickled her skin, she pulled her wrap securely around her shoulders. It didn’t stop her teeth from chattering.

“Here,” he whispered. Harry shrugged off his blazer and placed it around her. It was still warm from the heat of his body and she fought the disconcerting urge to reach out for his hand.

“Won’t you get cold?” she questioned.

“It’s not far,” he answered as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

Hermione felt entirely selfish for accepting the gesture while watching him shiver but based on his reaction in the pub, she didn’t want to challenge his chivalry a second time. They walked in familiar silence until reaching Neville’s flat a few blocks away. As introverted as she was, she welcomed the faces that greeted her. Moreover, she welcomed the ability to assuage the awkwardness that plagued Harry and her.

“It’s about time!” Ginny barked as they entered. Her eyes floated over the blazer still draped over Hermione’s shoulders and a beaming smile broke her disdain. “Or should I be happy you managed to make it at all?” she whispered with a Cheshire grin.

“We, er, grabbed a bite to eat on the way,” Harry interjected before Hermione could answer. It was obvious from the tone of his voice that he didn’t want to talk about their evening.

Over the past few months, Ginny had become a strange sort of liaison between them. Because of that role, Hermione never voiced her inner turmoil about the final defeat to her. Their tea earlier in the week had been the closest she’d come and even then she’d been purposefully cryptic. Ginny must’ve recognized the same tone in Harry’s voice because the glare she’d cast toward Hermione shook her from her thoughts.

“So, you didn’t do a lot of talking, did you?” she asked.

“Of course we did,” Hermione replied. “We’ve been talking most of the night.”

Ginny’s expression did not change in the least. Hermione knew she was evading Ginny’s question. They hadn’t talked about anything important. She hadn’t broached the subject of their final days at Hogwarts nor voiced her feelings about her absence from the prophesied battle. Ginny let out a huff and turned her glare toward Harry.

“Talking most of the night?” she reiterated. “Did he ask you about your resolutions?” she asked, without taking her eyes from Harry’s, whose own were now fixed on the floor. Hermione furrowed her brow in question.

“He asked, but I’ve already answered that question for all of you. I don’t do resolutions,” Hermione responded.

“Apparently, you’re not the only one,” Ginny responded, eyes still locked on Harry, as she turned on her heel and walked back to a group of girls sipping wine and laughing. Hermione watched her walk away and looked toward Harry questioningly.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Harry mumbled. “Here, let me hang these up for you,” he said, obviously discomfited by the subject. He pulled his blazer and the pashmina from her shoulders, his fingertips trailing along her bare skin and sending an unauthorized shiver up her spine.

“You’re not still cold, are you?” he asked. Hermione cursed her obviousness.

“No,” she replied. “I’m fine.”

It was her turn to search the room for salvation. The next half hour passed in a blur of barely attentive conversation. She mingled around the room, engaging in the same inane chatter that always accompanied these functions, and tried to ignore the emptiness that consumed her. Harry was sitting on the sofa, talking with Ron and reacting with a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. She didn’t have any idea how long she’d been staring at him before she realized his eyes were locked on hers as well.

“Everyone get a glass!” Neville called throughout the room.

A mass of bodies began moving toward the kitchen as Hermione’s eyes remained trained on Harry’s. He tossed back whatever manner of drink he’d been nursing and stood up with a determination she hardly recognized. He crossed the room to where she remained rooted to the spot and took her hand.

“We need to talk.”

He pulled her from the main parlor and down the corridor. Without paying any attention to their destination, he pulled her through the first door he found. It was Neville’s bedroom.

“Harry?” Hermione asked, looking around the room with thinly veiled concern.

“Call it a resolution, call it a commitment…I don’t care what you call it. But I promised myself that we would not start the New Year the way we’ve finished this one.”

Hermione looked away.

“No,” he responded, putting a finger under her chin and raising it to his. “I need you to talk to me.”

“Harry,” Hermione’s voice trembled. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for this conversation but it appeared she had no choice.

“I have to know if you hate me,” Harry said. Hermione’s eyes snapped to his in alarm.

“Hate you?!” Hermione scoffed. “Harry, don’t do that. Don’t try to cover your disappointment in me by turning it around on yourself.”

“Disappointment?” Harry asked. “Why would I be disappointed with you?”

Hermione couldn’t take the games. She pulled away from him and stalked to the window.

“Honestly! Like I have to explain it to you.” Harry’s silence infuriated her. “This! This awkward silence. Everything between us is different than it was and every bit of it is my fault!”

“What?!” he barked. “Your fault?! Hermione…”

“I wasn’t there! I left you alone and for what? For the House Elf Liberation Front? We were supposed to defeat him together!” Her voice began to shake. “And I left you to do it alone!” The tears she’d strangled behind a façade of strength finally began to leak from her eyes. “I wasn’t there…”

Her eyes blurred with the salty sting of withheld tears. Before she knew it, his arms were around her, crushing her to his chest. He pressed his lips to her forehead as her body shook against him.

“Oh my God,” Harry’s voice warbled. “You think I’m angry with you for it.” She nodded against his chest. He tightened his grip around her until she felt she wouldn’t be able to draw breath. “No,” his voice cracked. His arms disappeared and she felt the vice grip of his hands on her shoulders, pushing her to arm’s length from him. “Listen to me. I’m glad you weren’t there. I’ve always been glad you weren’t there…I wouldn’t have…I couldn’t have…” He fell silent.

“Couldn’t have what?” Hermione prompted while mopping the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. Harry stepped back from her and looked out of the window.

“I couldn’t have defeated him if you were there,” he whispered. He leaned against the wall and hung his head.

Hermione got the distinct impression this was the first time Harry had spoken of the battle. She wasn’t inclined to stop him.

“I thought he’d killed Ron. His skin was so blanched. He wasn’t moving. I didn’t know where you were and I panicked.” He looked with unseeing eyes to the street below. “He must’ve realized it. He thought he’d use it to his advantage.” Harry huffed through his teeth. “He told me he killed you…he said that’s why you weren’t there.”

“Oh my God,” Hermione whispered. Her hand flew to her throat. He turned around and faced her properly.

“I don’t know what happened. A rage erupted in me I’d never felt before. I leveled my wand at him…I wanted him to die. I wanted to watch it. I wanted to do it.”

Hermione couldn’t take her eyes from his. She couldn’t breathe.

He shook the memory from his mind and continued. “The last thing I saw was this expression of pure shock etched on his face.” He looked away. “I don’t remember anything after that.”

Hermione grasped one of his hands in hers. He looked up, his face streaming with tears.

“When I saw you,” he whispered, “I was so relieved…and so ashamed.”

“Ashamed? Harry, why? You survived. You defeated him.”

“I killed him.” Hermione shook her head with confusion. Harry dropped her hand and turned away. “I became a murderer. I became what he had been when he killed my parents…when he’d tried to kill me.”

Hermione’s heart broke for him…for herself, for them both. They’d carried equal guilt for so long and had distanced themselves for the wrong reasons. They’d needed each other more over the last few months than they ever had, but their pride and stubbornness allowed them to reach a precipice that nearly ruined their friendship forever.

“Harry,” she implored. She placed a hand on his shoulder and pulled him around to look at her. “Look at me, please.” He turned slowly, his eyes failing to meet her own. She ducked under his gaze to force his eyes to find hers. “I’m so sorry,” she lamented.

“Why?”

“You’ve needed me to help you through this and I’ve done nothing but push you away,” she muttered.

“I do need you,” he replied, his full-bodied voice suddenly changing the tone of the conversation. Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed with curiosity. His hands grasped hers and he stepped closer to her. He drew a breath and looked her in the eye. “It took me weeks to realize why I’d become so enraged.”

“Why?”

“When he told me he killed you, my life flashed before my eyes. I didn’t see mountain trolls, and basilisks. I didn’t see tournaments or the Department of Mysteries. I saw you, sitting at that same bloody table in the library, twisting a lock of your hair around your fingers as the dying sunlight highlighted your face. I felt your arms around my waist on the back of Buckbeak. I saw you cheering for me on the Quidditch pitch…I saw your smile. I couldn’t breathe. I was alive but my life to come was blank. It didn’t have you as a part of it. I couldn’t imagine what that life would be…and I didn’t want to.”

He looked away briefly and chuckled. “It took weeks for my head to realize what my heart had been trying to tell it.” Hermione sucked in a quiet breath. “I’m in love with you, Hermione. And this awkwardness between us has been a silent prison for me.” His voice cracked audibly. “I need you.”

Hermione couldn’t see his expression through the tears rolling down her cheeks. Somewhere in the back of her consciousness, she heard the crowd counting down the seconds to midnight in the next room. She felt the warm palms of Harry’s hands cup her cheeks and turn her face upward. Before she could react, his lips were upon hers.

The warmth of his lips pierced through hers sending a bolt of radiant warmth through to her knees. His lips lingered on hers, neither of them moving as their rapid breaths intermingled with each other. She felt his right hand slide from her cheek and wrap around the small of her back. His fingers played across her exposed skin, charging her body with violent electricity.

As she melted against his body, his demeanor changed. He sucked in a breath through his nose and pulled her tight to his chest. He tilted his head to the side, hers falling in the opposite direction, and ran his velvet tongue along her lips. Her mouth opened to his and their tongues engaged in a lazy tango of exploration that turned her knees to water. Thankfully, he wrapped his other arm around her, holding her against him. She moaned quietly, the vibration of her voice reverberating in his mouth, and she wrapped him in her arms as tightly as he was holding her. Harry peppered her lips with several short final kisses before burying his head in the hair that fell across the crook of her neck.

He held her tightly as she felt him whisper in her ear.

“I missed you.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what to feel. Her body was on fire and rational thought eluded her. “I missed you, too,” she replied. “Harry,” she started. He released her and Hermione caught his eye. “I promise I’ll never push you away again.”

“Careful, Granger,” he remarked. “Most of the world would consider that a resolution.”

A smirk broke the corner of her mouth and her eyes locked on the crimson tinge of her lipstick that stained his lips.

“I have a feeling I’ll never look at the world the same way again,” she whispered. He leaned in and captured her lips with a soft, lingering kiss.

“And you said the world couldn’t change in two minutes.”

Hermione shook the electric haze from her field of vision. “What do you mean?”

“Look at your watch.”

Hermione pulled her arm from around his neck, not truly remembering when she’d looped it behind there, and gazed at the timepiece on her wrist. “It’s 12:01,” she reported.

“I told you I would change your mind,” Harry replied, a lopsided grin sprawling across his face.

In that moment, Hermione Granger realized that being wrong can, occasionally, have its advantages. As she rose on her toes to press her lips to Harry’s, she suddenly didn’t mind the drunken, disharmonious rendition of Auld Lang Syne Seamus was leading in the other room.

Fin.

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'" [J1]Good sentence.