A/N: I'm not entirely certain this chapter makes any sense. I didn't finish writing it until this morning, so I haven't had the chance to read it over a dozen or so times and make sure that I like where it's going. It looked alright to me just now when I gave it my final read-through, but I'm not fully awake at the moment, so I'm not certain I really trust my opinion just now. If any of it seems incoherent, I'd appreciate it if someone would let me know! Oh, and think good thoughts for me tomorrow; it's my first day of work in the new building which we have *not* been allowed to see (leading us to guess that it must be really horrible if they're that scared of what our reactions will be). Thanks to all my lovely reviewers! I'm trying to get them all replied to, but it's still going to take some time. Thanks for your patience!
Section 12:
The cold weather melted into spring. Flowers bloomed. Birds sang. Harry was miserable. The wedding plans were coming along beautifully. The bridesmaids' dresses were complete. The flowers had been ordered. Harry was miserable. Gryffindor had a clear lead on the Quidditch cup. The only match they had left to play was against Ravenclaw whose seeker was still far too green to be any real competition. Ron was on cloud nine. Harry was miserable.
Hermione hadn't spoken to him in weeks. At all. And she hadn't let Harry speak to her. He hadn't realized how hard it would be not to talk to her. He'd always rather thought of himself as the strong, silent type. Growing up with the Dursleys, he had quickly learned that the best way to stay out of trouble was to be as small, quiet, and unobtrusive as possible. And then on the train to Hogwarts, he'd instantly become friends with Ron, who never had a shortage of things to say. Filling silences was something that Ron did, or maybe Hermione, but never Harry. So why was it he felt like he was going to burst from all the things he wanted to say to Hermione?
He wanted to tell her that Remus had started dating Tonks (and it had to be true love since he called her Dora and she let him get away with it). Hagrid was planning a trip to France and was trying to teach himself French, and it physically hurt Harry to think that he wouldn't be able to share a quiet laugh with Hermione over Hagrid trying to speak with a French accent. Harry had gotten owls from half a dozen different ministry department that he'd never even *heard* of offering him jobs, and he wanted Hermione to help him look them up. Lavender wouldn't let him have a groom's cake of chocolate frogs, which he thought was bitterly unfair (after all, he didn't particularly want petunias to be in the wedding flowers, but *he* hadn't kicked up a fuss about it the way Lavender did at *his* suggestion), and he was certain Hermione would agree with him. He wanted Hermione's thoughts and opinions on all of it. He wanted to see if he could phrase something in just the right way to make her laugh. He wanted to know what responses she'd come up with to make *him* laugh over the little annoyances in his life, the way she always did. He just wanted her, back in his life, where she was *supposed* to be.
He dreamt about her practically every night. He'd dream that he'd go down to the common room and she'd be there, smiling at him and waiting for him. He'd realize that all the distance between them was a mistake, or a misunderstanding, or that he'd imagined it all in the first place, and they'd curl up on the couch together while he told her every little thing that happened to pass through his head. He'd always wake up from those dreams with a sense of happiness and contentment matching the huge smile on his face that lasted as long as it took for him to realize that it had just been a dream.
He didn't try to approach Hermione anymore. It didn't take a genius to realize that anytime he got within fifty feet of her, Malfoy would magically appear at her side. The git seemed to have some sort of Harry-radar that let him know whenever Harry even *thought* of trying to talk to Hermione. As painful as it was to see Hermione avoid him, it was even more painful to see her turn to *Malfoy* to protect herself from him. To her credit, she didn't make him watch it often. She knew his habits better than anyone and it was a fairly easy matter for her to avoid him altogether outside of classes.
He didn't even see her at meals which, according to Dobby, she mostly took in her rooms, when she remembered to eat at all. She had the tendency to forget things like food when the year end exams approached, and he could only imagine how much worse than usual she must be since the year ends this time were the N.E.W.T.s. He hoped she was taking care of herself. He hoped she wasn't pushing herself too hard. He hoped… well, deep down he kind of hoped she was as distracted and unhappy as he was, because then maybe she'd give up on this nonsense and let him be her friend again.
Until then, he'd continue to mope around and be miserable. He spent a lot of time being miserable. He ate, he studied, he slept, he played Quidditch, he snogged his girlfriend, and he was miserable.
He didn't hide it well. Harry was good at a great many things, but acting simply wasn't one of them. Everyone knew he was upset. The real speculation wasn't on *if* he was upset but *why*. The newspapers claimed that the solitude of being a hero was getting to him, and blathered on nonsense about the eternal loneliness of great men. The professors thought it was the after effects of the battle and Harry's confusion over what to do with himself now that he no longer had "Defeat the Dark Lord" on his to-do list. Most of the students thought he was simply moody. Ron thought he was nervous about leaving Hogwarts and facing the rest of the world. (No one knew for certain what Hermione thought. Whenever anyone asked her, she brushed off the question saying that she was sure that Harry was fine.)
Lavender was convinced that it was pre-wedding jitters and tried to cheer him up by being overly enthusiastic about the wedding herself, hoping to spur some interest in him by getting him involved in the proceedings. Her efforts had one effect: Harry might not have been happy, but he was certainly busy. Any time that wasn't expressly devoted to classes or Quidditch was appropriated by his fiancée to go over the wedding arrangements. Harry's days were filled with flowers, ribbons, invitations, RSVP cards, cake samples (Ron liked that part, and Harry would have been more than happy to turn it over to him if Lavender hadn't *insisted* he do it himself), and music arrangements. Harry watched with a mounting sense of horror as the wedding seemed to take on a life of its own. Dreams about Hermione were interspersed with nightmares of being chased by a pit bull in white tulle with a garland of petunias around its head.
In a vague way, he wondered why he wasn't more excited. This was his *wedding*, after all. He'd finally have a family: the one thing he'd always wanted. His wedding was supposed to be a dream, not a nightmare. Married couples always talked about their weddings as the happiest days of their lives. That was what he'd always imagined his wedding day would be.
He spent a lot of time looking at the locket Hermione had given him. The pictures of his parents had been taken from their wedding pictures, and they looked so happy. Every now and then, the pictures would turn to look at each other; every time their eyes would meet, their smiles would absolutely glow. There was no hint of nervousness or fear of the future visible in their expressions. The sheer certainty of the happiness they seemed to share wasn't something Harry could ever remember feeling before. In fact, the only time he had seen anything that even resembled it was… but no, he didn't allow himself to think about that.
For all the effort that Harry had spent on cracking the charm on Hermione's parchment, he had spent ten times the effort trying to forget what he had seen. He wasn't surprised that Hermione, as strong as she was, hadn't been able to resist returning to the mirror over and over again if that was what it showed her. The image had been haunting its beauty, and the happiness, the peace, the *completeness* that radiated from picture-Harry and picture-Hermione made something in Harry's heart ache every time he thought of it.
That was why he didn't let himself think about it very often. It wasn't real, it was just a picture. There was no way that anything could be that perfect in reality. There was no way that he'd get that look on his face, like a lost piece of himself had finally been found, just because Hermione lay her lips on his. And even though holding onto Hermione had always felt right for as long as he had known her, that didn't mean that keeping her close, not letting her go, holding on to her for the rest of eternity would be the key to never feeling lost ever again.
It wasn't real, he told himself, more times than he could count. It was just a picture. It *couldn't* be real, because he was in love with Lavender. Yes, yes, he *was* in love with Lavender, of *course* he was in love with Lavender. He'd asked Lavender to marry him and she had said yes, and they were going to have the wedding of the century (whether he liked it or not). He'd given her his word and his ring and his pledge of honor to marry her and love her for the rest of their lives. And she's said yes. At the time, he'd been *happy* that she'd said yes. And he'd be happy again, he was sure of it. As happy as his parents had been. As happy as he had seemed in that picture that wasn't real, couldn't be real, and would be soon (please Merlin, let it be soon) forgotten.
In a last-ditch effort to cheer Harry up and make him enjoy the wedding preparations, Lavender organized an engagement party at her parent's estate. Surely, she thought, a night of good food and good music and spending time with all their family and friends would be just the thing to brighten Harry up. She even received special permission from Dumbledore to allow her, Harry, and a few other guests (namely Lavender's bridesmaids and Harry's groomsmen) to leave Hogwarts on the Thursday evening before the Friday night party and stay away until Sunday evening so they could have a long weekend to relax on the estate.
The estate was lovely. The Browns really were wonderful people. The party was a smashing success. Lavender was in her element, circulating around the room and accepting everyone's congratulations and well-wishes for the future. Everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time. Harry was miserable. Ron found him hiding in the library about an hour into the party, slouched in a leather armchair with a copy of a book that he clearly wasn't reading open on his lap.
"You're reading 'Hogwarts, A History?'" he asked in surprise when he looked over Harry's shoulder and saw the heading on the top of the page.
Harry shrugged and blushed a bit. "It was the first thing on the shelves that caught my eye," he replied, just a tad defensively.
Ron nodded affably and seated himself in an armchair next to Harry's. "Nice digs," he commented as he settled into the comfortable chair.
"Hmm," Harry agreed, not really looking up from the book.
"Great party," Ron tried again.
"Hmm."
"Excellent spread; have you tried the little sandwiches with pink stuff on them?"
"Hmm."
"Are you going to tell me what's going on with you and Hermione, or do I need to tie you to that chair and read 'Hogwarts, A History' to you until you crack?"
At this, Harry actually did look up. "What?"
"Are you going to tell me what's going on with you and Hermione, or do I need to tie you to that chair and read 'Hogwarts, A History' to you until you crack?" Ron repeatedly calmly, as if he'd asked Harry about the weather or his health.
"I told you what's going on with me and Hermione," Harry answered hesitantly. "She caught me going through her stuff, we had a big, blow-out fight, and now she's not speaking to me." That was the story he had told Ron the morning after the fight, and he had stuck to it in all the weeks that followed.
"Liar," Ron replied succinctly.
"It isn't a lie," Harry protested.
"No, but it's not exactly the truth, either, is it?" Ron retorted knowingly. "You found *out* something; something she didn't want you to know. And I'll bet I know what it is."
"Ron, you couldn't possibly-"
"She's in love with you, isn't she?"
"I… she… I…" Harry stammered, looking a bit like a fish that was enormously startled to find itself out of water.
Ron flashed him a quick smile. "It's okay, mate, I've had my suspicions on that one for a long time. She never told me; I think she wanted to spare my feelings; but once I stopped insisting that she and I were meant to be together, I started seeing the signs. So you finally figured it out as well?"
"I… sort of found something of hers that made it clear," Harry answered hesitantly. "That much of what I told you was true. And we did have a big fight about it."
"And how did it end?"
Harry scowled. "It ended with her avoiding me like the plague, or haven't you noticed? She said she needs time to get over this, and until she does, she can't even be friends with me anymore. Can you believe that? After all these years, after all we've been through."
"Is it really that hard to understand?"
"What?" Harry asked clearly astonished. Ron was supposed to be on his side. Wasn't that the way that it worked? Women did ridiculous things that made no sense, but blokes stuck together and consoled each other by saying that it didn't make any sense to *them*, either. "You mean you think she's *right*?"
"Hey mate, I've been there. I was right barmy over her for a stretch there. It… hurt when she told me she'd never feel the same way." A flash of pain crossed Ron's face, but was quickly gone.
"Besides, look at us," Ron continued, gesturing around them. "We're sitting in your fiancée's house. You know, the girl you're going to marry? The girl who has practically spellotaped herself to your side since the engagement became public? Hermione's in love with you, Harry. Do you really want to make her sit around and watch the two of you plan your wedding at all hours of the day?" Harry's stomach twisted with guilt as Ron's words sunk in. Lav had gotten rather *demonstrative* since the engagement became public. It hadn't occurred to Harry to wonder how it made Hermione feel to watch that. Guilt was forgotten, however, with the next words out of Ron's mouth.
"Maybe…" Ron suggested as delicately as he could manage, "maybe it really would be better if you just give her some space for now so she can get past this."
Harry's eyes snapped up to glare at Ron. "How could she be 'better off' if I leave her alone? I'm her best friend, aren't I? If I'm not there for her, who will be?"
"She does have other friends, you know."
"Who? Who'd be a better friend to her than me?"
"Not better," Ron protested. "Just… different. You know she's close to Luna and Gin, and they're… you know. Girls. They'd understand this better than we would, anyway."
"She doesn't like girls," Harry insisted. "I mean, yes, she likes Luna and Gin, but she's always been more comfortable just being one of the guys; you know that."
"Well…" Ron added hesitantly. "There's Malfoy." Harry's only reply was a low-pitched, dangerous-sounding growl. Some of the color went out on Ron's face, but not for nothing was he a Gryffindor. He continued. "You haven't seen them at the prefect meetings; they're friends, whether we like it or not. I tried to argue it out with Hermione once and got absolutely *reamed* about passing judgment without getting to know him, and blaming him for what his father had done, and a load of other stuff that I didn't really bother to listen to. I let it go just to quiet her down, but I still kept an eye on him around her after that, just to be sure, you know."
Harry slowly nodded his understanding, and Ron was very pleased to note that he was no longer growling.
"He… takes pretty good care of her, actually. He makes sure she doesn't skip meals, and he talks to her when he sees she's upset, and he even manages to cheer her up, most of the time. I talked to Luna about it." Ron smiled softly as he thought about his girlfriend. Talking things over with her was always interesting; Luna's perspective on things was absolutely unequaled. "And she really doesn't think it's an act." And when Luna smiled up at him with that look of love and trust that she always used when she looked at him, and told him with such confidence that she knew he was far too good a friend to Hermione to stand in the way of a friendship that obviously made her happy, Ron had been quite willing to agree.
"They don't make any sense as friends," Harry protested with a mutinous scowl.
"You… think they're more than friends?" Ron asked uncertainly.
"No!" Harry protested, harshly and instinctively. "She wouldn't… she *couldn't*… She'd never let that ferret-faced bastard lay a *finger* on her." Harry's vehemence faded quickly, replaced by a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Would she?"
"No! No, of course she wouldn't," Ron agreed quickly and placatingly. "She… she likes brunets!"
"Yeah," Harry agreed, not quite sounding convinced.
"But…" Ron added hesitantly a few moments later. "I mean, would it really be so awful if they did get together?"
"Of course it would be awful," Harry spat out. "It would be *Malfoy*."
"Well yeah, I know, and I'm not saying I like him any better than you do, but she seems to get along with him well enough, and…"
"Spit it out, Ron," Harry snapped. "Why are you pushing the idea of Hermione and Malfoy getting together?"
"Well, it would fix the problem, wouldn't it?"
"What problem?"
"If Hermione got together with Malfoy, then she'd get over you."
The words weren't magical, Harry told himself. Ron hadn't cast a spell; he didn't even have his wand drawn. So there was no reason why those words made him feel like his insides had been frozen.
"No," Harry croaked out moments later.
Ron opened his mouth to reply, but soon shut it again. Harry looked dreadful, like he'd just gone nine rounds with a mountain troll. Now wasn't the time to try to make him see sense. Now was the time… to back away slowly and let Harry think. Ron picked a random book off the shelf and settled himself comfortably back in the chair. It was about the history of Russian sculpture, but Ron didn't much care. He wasn't sitting there for the sake of the literature; he was sitting there to be supportive of his friend.
The party continued on in its bright and sparkling glory in the main hall. The guests laughed and talked and danced and toasted each other with glasses of champagne. Silence reigned through the library. And Harry was miserable.