Today

The sun was out today. Unusual weather for late January; it had to be at least seventy degrees. However, the inhabitants of flat 4B had their music up to loud, and this was what finally woke Harry Potter at 11:43 in the morning, not his alarm nor the sunshine streaming through his window. He would have preferred to stay in bed all day, but fate clearly had its own plans.

He made coffee in just his boxers. Why bother to dress? But Harry would, for her. He had until four o'clock, when she always came. Every year, January the 28^th, four PM, same brown curls and chocolate eyes, but no smile. She wouldn't smile for him anymore. He had taken that from her, too.

Harry collapsed on the beat-up futon, sending splashes of coffee flying everywhere. He stared blankly as they burnt his skin and didn't care. Grabbing the remote and clicking on the tv, he settled in to watch his favorite news broadcast. At two the soap operas would start. When he compared the overplayed dramas to his own life, it always brought a dry laugh.

***

The clock on tv guide channel, by which he measured his life, read four o seven. She wasn't here yet. She was never late. Harry had missed the last half hour of One Life to Live to shower and dress, just for her. Where was she?

***

5:57. It was happening in just five minutes, five years ago today. She still wasn't here. How could she leave him to face this alone? It was his fault, and Harry needed to hear that it wasn't. Every year, she told him it wasn't. How could she abandon him to this? <how could you abandon her?>

He hadn't really, had he?

She couldn't want him, didn't want him after that. After what had occurred five years ago, four minute ago, today. Yet she came each year, four o'clock, out of pity. She told him what he needed to hear. Until today.

He needed her. How could he never have thought that maybe, she needed him to?

It was his fault.

Mind fuddled, he disapparated to her flat, the flat that they had shared until five years ago.

He needed her.

***

It smelled the same, clean and fragrant with the flowers that were still there. Harry thought, maybe hoped, it wouldn't. Looked the same, too. And there she was, lying on her back on the pale yellow couch, gazing at the ceiling and at nothing at all. She hadn't heard him; it was unlike her. But he knew immediately she wasn't really there.

He approached her, meaning to shake her, call out to her, anything to get her attention. Why hadn't she come? He reached out a hand, about to brush the bare skin of her arm… and stopped. He couldn't touch her. Didn't deserve to touch her, such a beautiful portrayal of life, stilled, it seemed, only for him. So he posed there, stilled as well, waiting…

Her eyes moved slowly, rolling toward him. They paused for a moment, locked with his, before realization dawned and she jumped up, clearly startled.

“Harry!” she exclaimed. “You came.”

His eyes narrowed as the first touches of anger he wasn't aware of overcame him. “You didn't.”

“No.” Was all she could think of to say.

“Why?” He inquired, stepping closer to her as she backed away.

She paused a minute, searching for an answer he would want to hear. Hermione had always been smart, had always been guided by logic and reason. Until today. She had no answer, no excuse… or maybe she did.

“For this. For you to come to me.”

“Why?”

She swallowed. Why. The three letter word that tied up all mystery. What to answer, what to say. Her first instinct was `I love you', but that was quickly swallowed and stored for a later time, maybe for good. Then it came to her, in a sudden rush of power and purpose that had been lost for so many years. The words that he most feared, and least expected: “It's your fault.”

Hermione sat down, suddenly, turning her face from the image of Harry's. It wouldn't leave.

It seemed like forever, his mouth wouldn't close. The words echoed in his head repeatedly, but his mind refused to comprehend them. Suddenly he felt his knees hit the ground, and the tears wet on his face. A glance gave away her position, and he crawled to her, to ashamed to stand in her presence.

“It is my fault.” The tears pounded like the blood in his head. Which was louder? Harry couldn't tell. “I'm so sorry, Hermione, so sorry.” His head, bowed and heavy, suddenly lifted with great effort. “God, I'm sorry!” he cried, finally collapsing against her knees.

Hermione's hand touched his face, and he tried and failed to wrench himself from the comfort he didn't deserve. “I'm weak,” he sobbed, “so sorry…”

“Harry, she's with God now. He wanted her, and he took her to be with him. You didn't make it happen, you *didn't* kill her. It's not your fault.” Her hands, wet with his tears, tangled in his hair. She, too, was crying. How to tell him. How to make him understand.

“She was murdered, because of me. Our precious little girl. I tried to protect her from all that, and I failed. It was my fault. You said so yourself.”

“Harry, look at me,” Hermione pleaded. “Please, look at me.”

His head raised slowly. Green eyes met brown, and where overcome by what they saw there. Harry forced himself not to look away.

“I love you,” said Hermione, her voice breaking. “I have for longer than I've known, and I always will. You loved me, married me, and together we had a beautiful child. That child was taken from us, and you left me. I needed you Harry, you needed me, and you just left.” The anger was rising now. So much she had wanted to say for so long. “Never asking me how I felt, shielding me from how you felt. You stopped speaking to me. And you left. For five years, I've visited you, hoping to get a word, a sound, something to tell me the man I loved was still there. Nothing. I gave you everything, and you left me with nothing!”

She was on her feet now, and Harry was looking up at her… no, not looking, at some point he had closed his eyes. But he could see her in his head, and that was bad enough.

Silence. Never had another sound ever so pained his ears. If yelling was bad, silence was infinitely worse. Yelling is still expression, and silence, giving up. “I… I… what can I say?,” he whispered, more to himself. “Sorry is inadequate.”

“It is,” Hermione affirmed.

“I don't hope for forgiveness.”

Silence. It seemed like years. He turned to go…

“Harry?” she called softly.

He stopped.

“You have it.”

“I don't deser…”

“Please. I love you. I… don't leave me again.”

He turned around, and there she was. Her hair, her eyes, and what if… Harry opened his arms, and unspoken invitation that said more than words ever could. Her… smile?

And she was in his arms. It had been so long. “I love you too.” He whispered. “Maybe we could… start again? I'd marry you again, though I can't imagine why you'd want me. Give me another chance to give you forever, I promise I won't let you down again.”

She pulled back, and when he saw she was still smiling, he couldn't help but reach up and trace her lips. “We still are.”

Harry's brow wrinkled in confusion. “But the papers, I signed them all and sent them to you…”

“I never signed them.”

“Then…”

“We're still married,” she repeated.

He almost smiled, but caught himself. “So what happens now?”

She took his hand, and glanced over at the clock. “It's been 5 years, and a half and hour.” Her smile had faded. “Have you ever visited…”

Harry swallowed hard. “Her grave? No.”

“I think we should. Put it all behind us, give us some closure…”

“I think that might help. And after that…?”

“Well, we are still married.”

“You mean…. oh” he couldn't help but smile now, just a little.

She leaned up to kiss him, a short kiss full of affection and promise and hope. And off they went, to end one chapter of their lives, and together start another.

*** A Year Later ***

Harry had charmed the carriage to float slightly above the rocky ground, hoping none of the muggles would notice. His son was asleep, and the longer he remained so, the better. Hermione, walking alongside her husband, pretended to push. The path was slightly uphill and caused her some pain, but Hermione had insisted they walk as she, just two weeks after delivering her second child, was convinced she needed the exercise.

As the approached a small tombstone, bearing on its top a tiny carved angel, Harry's hand covered his wife's. This would be little Sirius' first visit to his sister's grave, and Harry knew Hermione was having a difficult time, thinking how her children would never meet. His own thoughts were similar.

They parked the carriage under a tree, and Hermione knelt before the grave as Harry lifted a rather cranky Sirius from his bed, rocking him and bringing him to join his mother.

Hermione smiled at her husband and wailing son as they knelt down beside her. She took her son's tiny hand and gently ran it over the lettering on the tomb.

LILIAN REBEKAH POTTER

~2001~2004~

Beloved child, daughter, may she

rest in peace

“She's your sister,” Harry told him. “You'll never meet her, but you look just like her. She would have loved you.”

“You see, Sirius,” Hermione said, “other people may have big sisters to yell at them and play with them and stand up for them, but you're special, because you're big sister is your guardian angel.”

Harry smiled at his wife. “And she's ours, too. I never thought of it like that, until today.”

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