Waterloo Sunset

Chapter 1: Nice to see you too, Harry

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the product of J.K. Rowling's imagination.

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For the first time in four years, Harry Potter sets foot in London. And for the first time in four years, Harry Potter sets his eyes on Hermione Granger. Beaming, radiating, glowing Hermione Granger, with her pink cheeks and her bushy hair. For a second, the hustle and bustle of Waterloo Station goes still. And all Harry sees is Hermione.

He looks at her, and he feels his heart burst. He looks at her, and he feels his heart break. He suddenly remembers why he's in London. He suddenly remembers why he's meeting up with her. He suddenly remembers that she's getting married. For a split second, sadness crosses his face, but he immediately wipes it off. He chides himself that this is no time to wallow. So, instead, he slowly makes his way to her.

But when he finally reaches her, he is speechless. All he can do is smile.

“Nice to see you too, Harry,” she finally says.

Instead of replying, he hugs her. And when she hugs him back, all he can think about is that he can stay this way forever.

But Hermione has other plans, and she lets go of him.

“You haven't said one word,” she says.

“I don't know what to say,” he replies. He really does not know what to say.

“Oh Harry!” she throws herself at him, and hugs the daylight out of him. He hugs her back, and runs his hand down her hair while she sobs on his shoulder.

“I missed you,” he finally says, and Hermione gives a whimper. He disentangles himself and stares at her tear-stained face.

“Why are you crying?” he asks, as he wipes the tears off her face.

“It's good to see you,” she manages to say. Harry kisses her forehead.

“Let's get out of here,” he whispers. Hermione gives a nod.

With one hand holding a suitcase, and the other holding Hermione, Harry finally feels content. Kissing the top of her head as they walk out, he realizes that four years does not really change anything.

Waterloo Station is still Waterloo Station.

Hermione is still Hermione.

And he is still in love with her.

*****************

He was at the foothills of the Himalayas, when a foreign owl dropped a rather tattered envelope in his hands. He was quite shocked when he received the letter, and immediately deduced that it contained something very important. He hadn't entertained any of his friends' letters since he started his sojourn, and as expected, they stopped writing after two years of no reply. To receive a letter after two years of silence, something special then must have happened. With deep curiosity and excitement, he opened and read the letter.

Harry Potter cursed the day he decided to `find himself'.

Dear Harry,

How are you? I haven't heard from you in a long time (four years is a long time)! I'm sure you're enjoying yourself, being yourself for once, without Rita Skeeter's henchmen following you around, and prepubescent girls kissing your shadow! Putting my lame jokes aside, I'm writing to tell you that something very special is about to happen to your best friend.

Your bushy-haired, buck toothed, miss know-it-all best friend, is going to be Mrs. Krum in a week. I'm getting married Harry, and I am so happy, and so content, and, oh, I can just see you roll your eyes! I sound pathetic don't I? Sometimes I find myself sickeningly happy that I have to restrain myself!

But anyway, I'm also writing to force you to please, please, please, come to my wedding. It's very special to me, Harry, and it's just not right without you there. You have to be there Harry. Please. You don't even have to bring anything (although an Asprey dinner won't hurt! Kidding!), just be there. So Harry, I hope I convinced you enough. Please make this day really special for me. It's just not the same without you.

Love, Hermione

Harry was thankful that he received the letter at the foothills of the mountain range, rather than at its peak. Given his state of mind, he would probably have jumped off to his death. But fate decided it wasn't the right time. Instead, he found himself at the bottom—at the bottom of the ranges, at the bottom of his life. Hermione was getting married.

He tried to console himself. He tried to chide himself. He tried to reason that nothing happened between Hermione and him. He reminded himself that he left Britain not only for soul searching, but to repress the not-so-friendly feelings he had for Hermione. He left Britain in hopes that the feeling would pass away, to no avail.

He left Britain because he was a coward.

Sure, he defeated Voldemort and saved the population of probably the whole world, but he never got the courage to tell her that he loved her. He was a coward, and for that he had to pay the price.

*****************

“What are you thinking of?” Hermione asks him quietly. Immediately, he returns to his senses. He feels like saying the truth— that his world is slowly breaking to pieces now that she's getting married. Instead, he just gives her a shrug. She seems content with that, and gives a small smile.

“So, tell me, what have you been doing those four years?” she asks again as they walk to her apartment.

“Well, I've been traveling really. Seeing all those places in Dudley's `Amazing Sites of the World' picture book,” he answers with a chuckle.

“That's nice, so what was your favorite?”

“Hmm, I haven't really thought about that, good question.” They fall silent again. He searches his soul for the answer. He tries to think of the time when he actually felt the happiest. And then it hit him. Today. Seeing her again, seeing her smile, seeing her and touching her, and just being with her. Today, he realizes, is the happiest day of his life—despite the fact that he feels her sliver band against his fingers.

He gives a sigh. He wonders why he punishes himself. And immediately, he knows the answer: Hermione, anything for Hermione. This is why he's once again in London, this is why he's holding her hand, and this is why he's allowing himself to lose her.

The next thing he knows, they're in front of an old Georgian building, in a quiet district of London. She gives him a smile again as she searches her bag for her keys. She can't find it.

“Alohamora,” she mutters instead. The door opens, and she goes in.

Harry lingers for a second. He has a tear in his eye, but she does not notice.

Author's Note: Kindly review please! It's what keeps me going! If you have any suggestions, feel free to share them!

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Chapter 2: I just like to be organized

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the product of J.K. Rowling's imagination.

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Hermione's apartment, Harry notices, is very Hermione. From the high arched ceilings to the beige walls to the dark hardwood floor. Books inside the enormous bookcases softly whisper her name. Pictures hanging in the walls illuminate her smile. Even the aroma of the room is distinctly hers: cinnamon, spicy cinnamon—the color of her eyes, the scent of her skin, the hue of her hair.

“Well, what do you think?” she asks with a tone of amusement.

“Amazing, really amazing. It's very you.” He answers. His eyes look at the picture on top of the fireplace. His picture.

“Good, since you're staying here the rest of the week—”

That brings him back to his senses. He cannot stay here the rest of the week if he wants to keep his sanity.

“I don't think—” he tries to tell her he cannot stay, but she continues to talk.

“Well, not exactly the whole week, since it's in two days—” she disappears from his sight. She goes to one of the rooms. He finds himself face to face with a picture of Krum staring back at him. He closes his eyes.

“— The wedding, I mean. But you get my drift. Anyway, come over here, Harry, I'll show you your room,” Hermione calls out. Ignoring the spasms inside him after hearing the word, wedding, he follows the sound of her voice.

He finds himself in a small room, which unsurprisingly contains stacks upon stacks of books, all neatly arranged on a bookcase that covers an entire wall.

“Well, sorry for the books. This is actually the den, but I converted it into a bedroom for you. The bed was actually the desk before I transfigured it.”

“Why am I not surprised?” he asks teasingly. Hermione rolls her eyes. He wonders if she does that to Krum.

“Anyway, I'll leave you alone for a second while I call for take out. Do you want anything?”

“Nothing really.” He drops the suitcase on the floor.

“All right then, so pizza's fine?”

“Yeah, no problem with that. And Hermione—”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

“Anything, Harry,” she says in a soft voice. Then she's gone.

He closes the door, picks up his suitcase, and opens it. He unpacks his clothes. He unpacks his shoes. He unpacks the last four years of his life. But he keeps the canvases inside. The five different canvases that project his soul, obsession, and torment.

*****************

He watches her take a bite out of her pizza. For a split second, she closes her eyes. He feels like proposing to her, right then and there. But his suddenly overactive inner-voice tells him otherwise: she's already engaged, you moron. With a sigh, he focuses his eyes on somewhere safer instead, like the pizza box.

“By the way, nobody knows you're here,” she says out of nowhere.

“Huh?” he asks, confused.

“Ron, Ginny, Luna, Mrs. Weasley?”

“Oh!” he manages to say, comprehension dawning on him. He feels guilty. Ron, his best friend Ron, will go berserk when he finds out.

“I presumed that it's best if nobody knows you're here yet—but I can owl them if you like!”

“Oh no, that's all right,” he says as he removes the anchovies.

“Oops, sorry about that,” Hermione says with a giggle, “I forgot that you hate anchovies!”

“Nice hostess you are, Granger!” he says as he playfully throws an anchovy. It hits her nose.

“Harry Potter!!!!” she shrieks. “Your manners are atrocious!”

“Well, this is my first time to actually sit down and have dinner with someone!” he answers defensively.

“Well, you could have invited me! At least you'll have someone to talk to when you've had enough of your `soul searching'. But then, you deserve it. I'm still mad at you for running off like that.”

Suddenly, the mood turns somber. Harry turns to look at the pizza box again. He hears her take a deep breath. He knows she's struggling to find the right words. He knows she wants to ask him the real reason why he left. He decides to steer the direction away from there, and asks,

“Are you still mad at me?”

A smile breaks out in her face.

“No, of course not! I was kidding!”

“Relax, I was just asking,”

“By the way, speaking of asking, I'm quite shocked you haven't asked me about Viktor, or my wedding yet. You do know about the wedding don't you?” she asks, clearly oblivious to the fact that Harry is turning pale.

“Yes,” he manages to say.

“Well?” she asks with a look of confusion in her face.

“Well what?” he asks back, dumbly.

“Honestly, Harry, did that `soul-searching' of yours leave you incapable of speaking?” she asks sarcastically.

Harry takes a deep breath. He tells himself it's bound to happen.

“Actually no, I'm just playing dumb to avoid hearing you gush, and go, `Vicky is just so adorable!'” he teases.

“I do not gush!” she defends herself. A giggle suddenly erupts. Harry finds himself experiencing a slow, painful death. He bites his lip.

“Anyway, I'm just so happy that Ginny's planning everything. I won't survive without her. You're probably wondering why I'm not going crazy two days before the big day, but I decided to stop being neurotic. Don't get me wrong though, I do worry, and I do panic, but Ginny assures me everything's in good hands, so I'm at peace. Besides, with 40 guests, I guess it's not too big of a worry.”

He watches her the whole time. She widens her eyes when she says `survive'. She squints her eyes when she says `two'. She takes a deep breath between `neurotic' and `don't'. Her tone changes from thankful to shock when she says `Ginny' and `without her'. She crumples her nose when she says `worry'. She does all these, and he notices everything—especially the flush of her cheeks, and the glow in her face.

He realizes that she's happy.

He realizes that she's content.

He realizes that he's lost her, forever.

*****************

He feels like drowning himself in the bathtub. But then decides against it since it will be too much trouble for Hermione.

“Oh dear God, I am pathetic,” he mutters to himself. He's all too aware that he is crossing the borderline between sanity and depression. Immediately, he jumps out of the tub to repress any more thoughts. He wipes the warm towel around his body. He inhales her scent. The towel smells of cinnamon. Images of her flash his mind. Immediately, he wraps the towel around his waist to repress such thoughts. He decides to shave his three-day stubble instead.

He rubs the shaving gel around his lower face and down to this throat, neatly. He grabs his razor and works it downward. Suddenly, he cuts himself.

“Holy—” he screams, a little too loudly for his taste. Blood streams down from his cheek and he washes his face immediately. He does not hear the door open.

“Harry? Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” he manages to say as he continues to wash his face. He turns off the faucet and gets a fresh towel from Hermione.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

“What happened?”

“Stupid razor,” he answers. He holds the razor up for her to see. She makes a face. Blood. He throws it on the bin.

“Do you have a new one?”

“Yeah, I'll get it,” she makes her way to the cabinets, and grabs a wicker basket with a label that says, `Hair'. From the wicker basket, out comes a smaller container with a label that says, `razors'. She gets one and hands it to him.

“OC, aren't you?” he teases.

“I just like to be organized!” she answers back.

He starts squirting the shaving gel into his hand again. He notices that she's still standing there, watching him. A look of curiosity is on her face.

“You like what you see?” He flexes his bicep. She sticks out a tongue. But she does not leave.

“I do get quite conscious, you know,” he says again. Finally, she takes a deep breath.

“Actually, let me do that,” she finally says. She grabs the razor from him.

“What?” he asks, confused.

“I said, let me do that. I want to shave that stubble off your jaw,” she answers, matter-of-factly.

“Why would you want to do that?”

“I don't know, practice?”

“Hermione, you shave your legs, not your jaw.” And then it dawns on him. She wants to learn how to shave Krum. He feels his jaw tighten.

“Oh Harry, just let me do it, please?” she asks, her doe eyes shining with excitement. He gives out a small smile, and sits on the counter. He wipes the gel from his hand and gives her the can.

She squirts the gel. She scoops a little and rubs it on his right cheek.

“More,” he instructs.

She scoops more and rubs it all across his cheek and down to his jaw. She squirts more from the can and rubs it on the other side. He closes his eyes. His breath hitches. Her hands are on his throat. Her soft hands are touching him softly and lightly, and he finds it very sensual.

“What do I do next?” she finally asks. He notices that her voice is a little deeper.

“Start on my right cheek,” she obeys.

“Do short, slow strokes—” she presses the razor downwards.

“Don't be too hard—” his voice is definitely animalistic now. He feels a hand on his shoulder.

“—But don't be too light, either—”

He hears a sound emit deep within her throat. His self-control is slowly dwindling.

“Just… be—” he tries to finish what he's saying, but he finds it too hard to speak. The razor is dangerously close to his mouth. Her hand is moving down his chest. His lower body is emitting too much heat.

“Just be what, Harry?” she whispers. She stops moving the razor.

“Firm.”

She starts shaving again. He decides it's best not to open his eyes. He feels her instead. He feels her wipe off the gel with her hands. He feels her splash some water in his face. He feels her wipe it off with a soft cloth. He feels her.

And he regrets the fact that she'll never do this to him again. So he opens his eyes. He finds himself staring into hers.

“How'd I do?” she asks, softly. He notices that she's breathing unevenly. Her chest is rising up and down. Her eyes are glossy. Her cheeks are flushed.

He touches his face. He feels for any hair. There's none.

“Good job,” he manages to say.

Hermione gives him a smile. The one that makes his heart burst. And he realizes that maybe, just maybe, not all is lost.

She kisses his cheek.

“Thanks for letting me do that,” she whispers. Then she leaves.

Harry sits on the counter for the next five minutes.

Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews! I really appreciate it! Do keep them coming though! It makes me motivated! Hee hee!

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Chapter 3: You just had to know, Harry

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the product of J.K. Rowling's imagination.

Author's Note: Because you guys were all so nice to review, here's another chapter! Anyway, I really appreciate the reviews, so please keep them coming! I'm sorry if I don't get to reply as often, but I don't want to spoil the story, lest I slip something! So keep on reading, and I hope you enjoy this!

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Sometimes he stays up all night to listen to the clock tick. From the ancient brass clock in a hotel room in Venice, to the minimalist silver clock in Tokyo, he listens to them all. Every second past means he's a second older. Every minute past means he's a minute closer to death. But when he's not feeling morbid or existential, he creates a symphony of ticks in his mind. The first few ticks are the first few bars in his piece, while the last few ticks fade away with his consciousness.

Tonight he's hearing the clock tick again. But he's not listening to it. Tonight, he is thinking about her. This is what usually keeps him up all night. Listening to the ticking sound does not happen often. Thinking of Hermione, on the other hand, does.

In Sofia, he hears a violin playing outside his building. He imagines her playing for him. In Shanghai he watches a Chinese opera on TV. He imagines her singing for him. In Rio he hears the samba in the room next to his. He imagines her dancing for him.

Tonight, however, he does not imagine.

Tonight he thinks about her. Really think about her. He does not put her in the goddess pedestal tonight. He thinks of her as she really is—and what she does to him. He still feels her fingers graze his jaw. He still feels her hand press his shoulder. He still hears her shallow breaths. He still feels the intensity of her concentration. And he thinks that she's too complex.

Tonight he conjures many answers to the question. She wants to practice. She wants to learn how to shave a man's beard off. She wants to learn everything in the world. She wants to shave his stubble off so that he won't hurt himself. Yet, he realizes, each answer he comes up with is weaker than the one before.

He decides to leave tomorrow—for the sake of his sanity.

*****************

In his dreams, he hears whimsical noises. He hears the sound of birds chirping, the sound of a butterfly's flight, the sound of floating footsteps. In his dreams, he hears a creaking sound and a whisper. And more whispers. A lot of whispers. And a loud,

“Ow! Bloody mother—Ginny, you little twerp! That was my foot!”

Immediately, he sits up. He's no longer dreaming. Ron and Ginny are arguing. He's awake. Ron and Ginny stop arguing. He puts on his glasses. Ron and Ginny are staring at him. He smiles. Ron and Ginny smile back. He does not say anything. Ron and Ginny don't say anything—for a couple of seconds, until Ron bellows,

“Harry, you bloody bastard!”

“Ron! Your language!” he hears a dreamy voice call out from behind the door. Luna.

“Oh for heaven's sake! Did you wake him up?” Hermione.

“Ron did!” Ginny answers.

Harry does not know what to do. He wants to stand up and give them a hug. He wants to go back to bed and sleep. He wants to talk to all of them. He does not want to talk to anybody. He wants to see Hermione. And for the first time in his life, he does not want to see her either. But Ron decides for him. Immediately, he rushes toward him, gives him a light punch in his arm, and hugs him for a second.

“Good to see you mate!” he says, solemnly.

Harry pats his back.

“Harry! Why didn't you tell us?” Ginny asks as she too rushes towards him and hugs him. Harry just shrugs and smiles.

“Hey Harry, how was Hong Kong?” Luna asks as she too gives him a hug.

“Good morning, Harry,” Hermione greets. Unlike the others, she's leaning against the open door. Harry gives her a smile. She smiles back.

“Harry, mate, why aren't you talking???” Ron asks.

Harry motions Ron to come closer. He does. He opens his mouth and breathes into Ron's nose.

“Oh bloody hell, Harry! That was disgusting! Brush your bloody teeth!” Ron roars amidst the loud “eews!' of the girls.

Hermione rolls her eyes.

“Do I have to repeat myself again? Your manners, Harry, are atrocious!” she says disapprovingly.

He gives a shrug. She smiles. He stands up and heads towards the door. She kisses his cheek. He makes his way to the bathroom. He touches his cheek.

He turns on the faucet. He wonders if she remembers last night. She acts like she doesn't.

He tells himself that he's overacting.

“It's nothing. She just wanted to learn how to shave. It does not mean anything.” He mutters as he squishes the toothpaste.

****************

“So, how did you find out about me? Did Hermione tattle?” Harry asks as he piles on the pancakes.

“I did not!” Hermione retorts.

“Actually, if it weren't for Skeeter's boy toys, we wouldn't know!” Ron answers, in between bites. A slice of pancake comes out of his mouth. The girls all give him a look of disgust.

“What??? It's just a pancake!” Ron states. The girls all roll their eyes.

“What do you mean Skeeter's boy toys?” Harry asks with confusion as he spread the butter.

Hermione's nose twitches and she gives a look of annoyance. She grabs the Daily Prophet from the counter and gives it to him.

He opens it.

“Rita Skeeter is Satan's spawn and Voldemort's mother,” Hermione mutters.

He stares at the front-page picture. Hermione and him at the Waterloo Station, hugging.

He reads the news, amidst the snickers of Ron, Ginny, and Luna.

He's Back!

A Daily Prophet Exclusive by Rita Skeeter

October 30—Four years after he left Britain, Harry Potter's back. Looking older in a camel coat and facial hair, Mr. Potter arrived at Waterloo Station yesterday afternoon. His best friend, Hermione Granger (fiancé of Quidditch champion, Viktor Krum) was there to greet his arrival. The initial contact was emotional. Teary hugs (see pictures, A2) were shared amidst the commotion and flock of people.

Mr. Potter's sudden arrival could be attributed to Ms. Granger's wedding tomorrow. There is still no word on whether he plans to stay after the wedding.

“I swear! I have no idea how she found out!” Hermione complains, with spite.

“Well, at least she didn't make you sound like a cheating scarlet woman!” Ron responds, cheekily. Hermione glares at him. Harry chokes on his orange juice.

“Are you OK, Harry?” Luna asks, looking at him curiously. He nods his head.

“But I'm still mad at the two of you! Why didn't you tell us?” Ginny asks.

“Well, I presumed that Harry wanted some peace before people found out he's here.” Hermione answers, looking at him.

“Right, Harry?” she asks, clearly for support.

“Yeah, but we were planning on telling you this morning,” he answers.

“Maybe because she doesn't want Viktor to know that Harry's staying at her place,” Luna says in a trance-like voice.

Ron and Ginny turn to Hermione, who at the moment is blushing furiously. He looks at her curiously. Hermione takes a deep breath and purposely avoids his eyes.

“Well, OK, maybe that is also a reason,” she says meekly.

“Why didn't you tell me, Hermione?” he finally asks, after an uncomfortable silence.

“Well, I wanted to spend time with you—before I get married. I was so happy when I found out that you were coming, and I made it a point to spend the two days before the wedding with you—”

“Oh! So that's why you suddenly stopped with your incessant bugging and craziness about the wedding!” Ginny says with a snap and a look of comprehension on her face.

“Well, yes, I didn't think you'd notice that though—”

“Won't notice that??? Are you insane??? Hermione, I had to ask Viktor to take you to Bulgaria for a vacation so that you'd stop bugging your supposed `wedding coordinator' about the wedding!”

“ANYWAY—” Ron cuts in, “it's over, so let's leave it at that, and just question Harry about the last four years of his life.”

“So, mate, did you get laid those four years because I have!”

“Ronald, you are so not getting some tonight!” Luna retorts with an amazingly steely voice. Ron turns red, but goes,

“Well?”

Harry feels his cheeks go unabashedly warm. He looks at Hermione, but her emotions are undecipherable. Suddenly, he is in an internal struggle on how to approach Ron's question. I did get laid, but I was drunk and miserable those times, he tells himself.

“Well, I'll take that as a yes,” Ron finally says. All the girls giggle. Even Hermione. He gives a sigh, shrugs, and says,

“I have needs.”

Everyone in the room erupts with laughter.

*****************

“What are you going to tell Viktor?” he finally asks her as they wash the dishes.

“Well, I'll tell him the truth,” she answers as she rinses a glass.

“What truth?”

“That you wanted peace—”

“Did I tell you I wanted peace?”

“—and that I want to spend time with you without anyone knowing or else chaos will ensue,” she finishes, ignoring his last statement.

“Do you mean that?” he asks quietly.

She puts the plate that she's rinsing down and turns to face him. She looks at him straight in the eye, and answers,

“Yes, Harry. I mean that. I want to spend time with you. If that wasn't true then I'd be going crazy with the wedding right now. You know me, Harry.”

He breaks into a smile. But his insides are churning. The wedding. Tomorrow.

“Are you excited about the wedding?” he asks.

You just had to know Potter.

Out of nowhere, she hugs him, soapy hands, and all.

“Excited is not the word Harry. It's happy. I'm happy Harry. I'm happy because someone actually acknowledges me and finds me worthy of marriage. I'm happy because someone actually looks pass my brains. I'm happy because someone tells me I'm beautiful when I'm sad. I'm happy because someone whispers `I love you' to me. But most of all, I'm happy because you're here. Making my wedding special.”

He feels like dying. This is torture, he thinks. He regrets the fact that he doesn't tell her she's beautiful. He regrets the fact that he doesn't tell her that she's worthy and that she's everything to him. He regrets the fact that she doesn't know he loves her. He loves her, he loves her, he loves her. This is why he's punishing himself. This is why he asks her these questions. This is why he's here, in front of her, listening to the things Krum makes her feel.

“I'm happy too, Hermione,” is all he says.

She lets go of him and gives him a smile. They continue washing the dishes.

*****************

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Chapter 4: Paint me

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the product of J.K. Rowling's imagination.

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Author's Note: Well guys, I hope you like this! That's all I'm saying! ;-) Oh, and thanks for the reviews again! Please keep on the reviews if you want the next part! (Evil cackle!)

He watches her as she talks to Ginny and Luna. She has her legs sprawled on the loveseat while she rests her head on her hand. He compares her to an Egyptian queen, regal and sacred, and he wishes to draw her at that exact moment. He feels his hands itch, just like when inspiration strikes him. When that happens, he normally rushes to get the spare canvas in his suitcase. But not today—nobody knows about this. He finds it too sacred for anyone to know.

He thinks about the first time. Sitting in a diner in New Mexico while waiting for his order, he finds himself drawing her face, from memory. From there, his soul gives birth to this passion and obsession. In the beaches of Sardinia, he draws her naked, except for the rocks that cover her sacred parts. Atop the Space Needle, he draws her with the moon and the stars. Everywhere he goes, her vision haunts him, so he draws and draws until his scrapbook overflows with pictures of her that he decides to buy a canvas. He pursues this obsession that only a dedicated artist can understand. He pursues this obsession until he has five different paintings of her.

He finds himself longing to paint her again. But he realizes that he cannot do it, because if he does, he will have to tell her the truth. He cannot paint her without giving her the reason why. But watching her talk, watching her giggle, watching her babble about her research for her new book on the significance of pumpkins in love, he has to bite his lip so hard to stop himself from rushing to his room to draw her. When the urge subsides, he finds himself thinking about how peculiar it is that the need strikes him at that moment.

But before he can rationalize on the answer, Hermione calls out to him, and asks,

“Harry, you're coming with me to the rehearsal tonight, right?”

He does not understand.

“Rehearsal?” he asks.

“The wedding rehearsal, Harry!” Ginny answers, sarcastically.

He stares at the three girls and his hands twitch.

“Oh, the rehearsals,” he manages to say.

“Yes, the rehearsals. So can you make it?” Hermione asks, brightly.

He wants to tell her that no, he can't make it because it's going to kill him. To see her `practice' going down the aisle with Krum is euthanasia. But he just says,

“No.”

Hermione frowns a little, and says a small “oh”.

“I'm a little tired Hermione, is that ok? I'll be at the wedding anyway,” he adds. Inside he's bleeding, but he has a smile on his face.

“All right then! I guess that's good enough!” she answers, happily.

It is at that moment that he decides he finally has to tell her that he has to move out. It is there that he fully acknowledges the fact that he's lost her and that he can never have her. It is there that he realizes that he must dissociate himself from her. It is there that he realizes that things will never be the same.

*****************

He approaches Ron. He needs all the help he can get to convince the otherwise inconvincible Hermione.

“Ron, I need your help,”

“Can it wait?” Ron asks back. He is in the middle of his “pasta and chocolate” snack. Harry wonders how the hell Ron manages to stay fit despite his borderline gluttony. But then he remembers that he's a Quidditch professional.

“Well yeah, but I've go to do it today,”

“What's this about?” Ron asks in between bites.

“I need to get out of here,” he answers, ignoring the sausage bit on Ron's right cheek.

“Oh, sure, no problem. I just have to finish this. You're lucky, I actually checked out the various neighborhoods in the area, and I found one that us boys can enjoy—”

“What are you talking about?” Harry asks, confused.

“Well, you said you want out, right? There's this place by Soho, Dean and I visited the other day, and man, the ladies were—”

“Not that you bloody, over-sexed moron!!!” Harry cuts in. Great, he plans to bring me to a stripper. What a great way to make myself feel better.

Ron rolls his eyes, and retorts,

“Well I presumed that that's what you were talking about!”

“No! That is the complete opposite of what I was talking about. Listen, Ron, I need to get a room. I can't stay here. It's unhealthy.”

“What do you mean unhealthy? Hermione feeds you! She has all these food in the re-fuggidabudid.”

Harry sighs. Sometimes, he feels sorry for the boy. Most of the time, however, he feels like strangling him. Like a primary school teacher, he explains,

“Ron, I am a boy. Hermione's a girl. Hermione has a fiancé. Hermione is getting married tomorrow. What do you think will Krum say?”

“Oh,” comprehension dawns on Ron's face.

“This is why I need your help. I want you to help me tell Hermione that I can't stay here because she won't agree. We have to make her agree—without letting her feel bad.”

“Ok, no problem with that. I must say I completely understand where you're coming from. I don't want Krum to beat you up, that man can turn you into a bloody pulp.”

*****************

So he tells her. He tells her that he needs to go. She asks him why. He gives her an answer. Not the truth, but an answer, nevertheless. She accepts it, but with disappointment. Still she smiles, and it breaks his heart. He consoles himself that this is for the best.

“I'm still meeting you after the rehearsal, right?” she asks timidly.

“Yes, of course,” he answers as he picks up his suitcase.

“Wait, you never told me where you're staying!” she cracks a crooked smile.

“Oh! The Leaky Cauldron, Ron apparated to get me a room,” he answers with embarrassment.

“All right, see you soon, Harry,” she finally says. He kisses her cheek and lingers there for a second, inhaling her scent and drinking on it.

Finally, he moves away. And with a pop, he apparates. He realizes how eerily it resembles the day he left, four years ago.

*****************

Staring at the people below him, Harry finds himself thinking about getting out of London after the wedding. Wizards and witches alike are staring at him, waving at him, and calling out his name. He gives them a wave and a small smile, and turns away from the window.

“I'm getting out of here after the wedding,” he says to Ron.

“Well, do make it a point to write and visit us when you do,” Ron replies. Harry notices a fleeting tone of hurt in his statement.

“I'm sorry, man,” he apologizes.

“Why didn't you write back to us?” Ron asks.

Harry thinks of an answer. His mind goes blank.

“I don't know, I really don't know,” he finally answers, with a sigh. Ron looks at him, peculiarly.

“Why'd you leave?” Ron asks again. From the way Ron's ears are turning red, Harry realizes that this is as hard for Ron as it is for him.

“I wanted to find myself,” he answers, mechanically.

“Don't give me that bull, tell me the real reason,” Ron counters, quietly. Harry suddenly finds himself feeling very cold. Ron is still looking at him with the same peculiar look. He closes his eyes.

“What do you mean?” he finally asks.

“That was not the real reason.”

Suddenly, out of nowhere, and much to his surprise, Harry finds himself answering,

“Because I love her.”

He stares at Ron, as if daring him to retort or to give a sarcastic reply. But he doesn't, instead he says,

“Wow.”

“I left because I was scared. I was scared that she might hate me if she finds out. I was scared that our friendship will go into ruin because of me,” Harry finds himself saying. For once, he feels a part of the load being taken away from him. This is the first time he admits the truth to anyone.

“Harry, love her or hate her, she'll always love you,” Ron replies.

“What do you mean?” Harry asks, in shock.

“She can never hate you.”

“She can never love me, either.”

“But she does love you, Harry.”

Harry gives out a snort. This is wishful thinking, he tells himself. If Hermione loves him, then she won't be walking down that aisle tomorrow. Or if she will, she'll be walking down that aisle to meet him.

But you left her, and she's moved on.

*****************

He's in bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the cobwebs. He has a pencil on one hand, and a canvas on the other. He wants to draw her again, from memory. But this time, he can't. He feels like an impotent man. He cannot think straight. Thoughts of her walking down the aisle to meet Krum, keep replaying again and again on his mind.

Suddenly, he finds his vision blurry. He finds his cheeks wet. He finds himself crying. Suddenly, he remembers the day he first he realizes he loves her. He remembers holding her in her arms while she cries and shakes. He remembers Hagrid telling Grawp to behave. He remembers her fingernails dig against his nape. He remembers her heart beating rapidly against his. He remembers smelling her hair, thinking of how good it smells, amidst the chaos. He remembers himself at peace in that brief second because he's holding her in his arms. He remembers how the thought of loving her creeps quietly into his consciousness instead of coming with a large bang. He remembers the first time he tells himself he loves her. And this makes him cry. If he isn't a coward, then Hermione might be in his arms now.

But he stops himself. He scolds himself that this is not right. He needs to get over her. He needs to get over this. Inflicting pain, punishment and torture by thinking about what can happen will not help him in any way. He needs to move on. He promises himself that tomorrow will be a new day. Tomorrow, everything will change—except his love for her.

So he gets out of bed. He decides to get a drink. Hermione is still in the after-practice dinner and will not arrive anytime soon. Besides, his stomach is grumbling. But when he opens the door, all thoughts about drinking and dinner immediately leave his mind. She's standing at his door. Her eyes are red, and she's crying.

“Hermione?” is all he can say. She does not answer. Instead, she gives him a small, sad smile. She wipes a tear away from her eye, and straightens her back. He moves aside as she walks into the room.

“What happened, Hermione?”

She does not answer. He closes the door and moves towards her. But she moves back.

Instead, she does the unthinkable.

She unbuttons her shirt.

“What's going on?” he asks, his voice shaking. He can see the roundness of her breasts and the milky skin down to her navel.

She pulls her trousers down.

“Hermione, stop—” he tries to say, but the words die down when he sees the curve of her hips and the long stretch of her legs.

She unclasps her bra.

All he can feel now is lust. He tries to regain his rationality.

She removes the final piece covering her body, her panty. And then she stands before him, naked. He closes his eyes, and counts to three. He opens it again, but she's still there—the vision of all that is holy and lovely. He cannot speak. All words are lost on him. And she realizes this.

She moves closer to him, and whispers,

“Paint me.”

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Chapter 5: Am I worthy?

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the product of J.K. Rowling's imagination.

*****************

Author's Note: Well, what can I say? Your reviews did it! So here is the chapter you've been waiting for! Anyway, I'd also like to mention that the story is ending really soon. So keep the reviews coming guys!

“Paint me” is all she says, and he comes undone. His whole world collapses around him at that instance because she knows. She knows his passion. She knows his obsession. And he panics. He panics because once again he does not know what to do. But then he remembers her words, and he realizes that he needs to listen to her. He realizes that he needs to listen because he has no other choice.

But he does not understand why. He does not understand why she's naked in front of him. He does not understand why she's asking him to paint her. He does not understand why she hasn't gone completely crazy after discovering his obsession. He does not understand anything and he tries to tell her. But no words come out. So he closes his eyes instead. And he feels her fingers graze her face.

“Paint me,” she says again. He tightens his jaw, trying hard not to react from her soft touch. She presses her body against his and for a second he feels like falling. He's shaking. His hands are twitching at his sides. He does not trust himself to touch her.

She breathes into his ear, and says,

“Paint me like I'm worthy to be painted.”

He opens his eyes. And when he looks at her, he realizes just how vulnerable she is. He realizes her self-consciousness. He realizes her shame. And yet he also realizes her willpower despite all these.

She moves away from him. She has her eyes down. She has tears in her eyes. For a few seconds, they just stand there, not really doing anything. Not really knowing anything. Finally, she stoops down to pick up her discarded clothes. He suddenly feels an urge of unexplainable emotions. He tells her,

“Stop.”

She looks at him, in shock. For a second, he curses himself. For a second, he panics. But then she nods her head and she leaves her clothes on the floor. She stands up, straightens her back, raises her chin, and looks at him straight in the eye.

Sacred. Regal.

He motions her to sit on the bed. He grabs the blanket and wraps it around her lower body. He does this without touching her. He transfigures a chair into an easel and grabs his materials. He takes a final look at her. And then he begins to paint.

With a pencil he draws her silhouette. He outlines the soft curve of her face and the strong angle of her cheeks. He sketches the leanness of her arms and the roundness of her breasts.

With a brush he creates the only palette that can project her—cinnamon, in all its shades and hues. Her hair is the darkest of all shades. Her skin is the lightest of all hues. Her eyes are the shiniest of all finishes. Her lips are the plumpest of all textures.

He does all these without saying a word.

He works without stopping. He works till the hours tick. He works without wondering whether his muse is turning numb. He works without thinking. He works without knowing. He just lets his passion overcome him. He lets his obsession take over. He lets his soul go free. He drinks on the pleasure of finally doing this in her presence.

And when he finishes, he feels content. It is his best work. For the first time, he smiles. For the first time he looks at her. Really look at her.

And he realizes she's crying.

“Hermione?” he whispers. She covers her whole body with the blanket. She rocks back and forth. She tries to suppress her whimpering.

“Hermione, what's wrong?” he asks again.

She does not answer. Instead, her cries become louder. He feels his heart ache, watching her like this. But he decides not to say anything. He decides to let her cry instead.

Finally, after a couple of minutes, she stops. He expects her to say something, but she doesn't. Instead, she gets out of the bed to stand up. The floor creaks. He turns to face her, and for a second, he holds his breath. He is in awe because she is ethereal under the moon's illumination. The blanket is sheer against her body and her face projects an untouched innocence. And he feels dirty before her. He feels dirty and sacrilegious. He feels that he has no right to see her in this light. But then she proves him wrong.

She removes the blanket again, and engulfs him to appreciate her naked glory.

He closes his eyes, but she tells him to look at her. So he opens his eyes. He captures the smoothness of her shoulders, the pinkness of her breasts, the delicacy of her hands. And then he looks at her eyes. He sees a manic glint. Suddenly, she pulls him up. Suddenly she presses against him.

“What do you see Harry?” she asks, softly.

“I see you,” he replies.

She traces a finger down his jaw.

“Do you think I'm beautiful?” she whispers. Her eyes look at his with apprehension.

“Hermione—” she does not let him finish. She looks as if she doesn't want to know the answer.

“Am I worthy?”

This time no words come out. He tries to answer her. He tries to tell her that she's the worthiest of all that is worthy and sacred and holy. But he cannot find the right words. He cannot find the right words that will bring justice to what he wants to say. She does not mind though. She just continues with her questions, as if in a trance.

“Am I worthy enough to be in a portrait?” she asks as her hands move down his chest. He can feel her breath now.

“Am I important enough to actually spend some time on?” He closes his eyes. He has all the answers to her questions. He just cannot say it.

“Do you think a man will actually have me?” she has her hands on his nape and her fingers are crawling up his scalp. Finally, she asks,

“Will you have me, Harry?” And with that, she grabs his hand and places it on her breast. He tries to grasp all the coherence left in him before it leaves him to do something he will regret.

“What do you feel, Harry?” she asks.

Suddenly, she moves away. She begins to cry, again. She collapses to the floor and she starts to shake. He touches her naked skin for the first time. He holds her against his body and wraps his arms around her. He rocks her back and forth to relieve her sobbing.

“Hermione, what's wrong?” he asks while he runs a hand down her hair, and the other holds her tightly.

“Tell me what's wrong, Hermione,” he repeats.

“I'm disgusting Harry, aren't I? Whoring around the night before my wedding—” she finally says. She starts to shake again, and Harry feels her turn warm, in shame.

“No, Hermione, you are not disgusting. You can never be disgusting,” he comforts her.

“Well, I'm ugly and worthless, then,” she says in between sobs.

“What are you talking about?” Harry pulls her away and looks straight into her eyes. He can see the hurt, and the longing, and the pain. He can feel anger rising up inside him. Hermione gives a deep sigh.

“Awhile ago, after Viktor left for his bachelor's party to be precise, I overheard one of Viktor's `girl friends' telling some friends of her I'm quite plain—”

“That is just one girl's jealous opinion—”

“And then she asks them what the hell he's doing with a girl like me…” she closes her eyes. Her breathing becomes uneven and Harry can just feel how painful this is for her. He wants to stop her from telling him, since it's too painful on her part, but she continues,

“She asks them what he's doing with someone unworthy. Someone not good enough for a Quidditch star. Someone not beautiful enough, and someone that no man, in Viktor's position, will have.”

“Hermione, that girl is a jealous twat. She does know bull about you. Look Hermione, you're beautiful. You're worthy and special, and the most important girl to me… and to Viktor. He's marrying you, not her.”

Hermione breaks out into a smile. She wraps her arms around him.

“Do you mean that?” she asks.

“Yes, Hermione, I mean that,” he answers.

“Have you lost your self-respect for me?” she asks, timidly. He pulls back to face her. He looks straight into her eyes, and says,

“No, I can never lose my self-respect for you because—” He stops. She looks at him with deep curiosity. She looks at him with deep anticipation.

“Because you mean so much to me,” he finally says. She gives a small, sad smile and hugs him again. He wonders why he can't say the words `I love you'.

They stay that way for a while. But when the clock hits `1', she finally moves away.

“I have to go,” she says. He gives a nod. She stands up and wraps the blanket around her while she picks up her clothes.

“By the way, you never asked me how I found out about your talent,” she says with a small smile. He suddenly remembers. He gives her a questioning look, but does not say anything. She continues,

“You left your suitcase open. The nosy parker that I am, I took a look at the canvases. I thought they were souvenirs, turned out I was wrong.”

“And you're not mad? Or freaked out?” he finally asks.

“No, I'm not. On the contrary, I felt really special. Nobody has done that for me. That's why I returned the favor, by shaving you.” Harry looks at her, in shock. Suddenly, everything makes sense—the peculiar look in her face, the shaving, everything.

Finally, Hermione walks towards him, and kisses him on the lips. Suddenly, a fire burns inside him. Suddenly, he feels alive. But she pulls back, almost immediately. She gives him a smile, and tells him,

“See you tomorrow Harry. Don't be late.”

And with a pop, she's gone.

Harry realizes that she has the blanket with her.

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Chapter 6: Since forever

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the product of J.K. Rowling's imagination.

Author's Note: THE FINAL CHAPTER

OK, I just realized one bad thing about cliffhangers—you bring to much expectation on the next part. I realized this from the mixed-reviews! Anyway, I do take criticism without feeling bad (OK, maybe a teeny bit!), and I really appreciate your feedback.

But, I'd like to make a certain point. This is a story that does not wrap itself in every chapter. There are some things that are hard to understand—especially if it's not read from start to finish. I purposely do not tie the strings together in every chapter because I have to use it later on in the end (meaning this chapter). There are a lot of things to explain still, and it is here. It's very crucial that Harry and Hermione talk about these things in the final chapter because it contributes, and leads, significantly to the ending.

Having said that, I hope you enjoy this. I had a fun time writing the story, and I'll be taking a long break after this. Who knows, inspiration might strike again and I'll be back! Thank you for your wonderful reviews.

Lastly, I suggest listening to the Kink's “Waterloo Sunset” while reading the final chapter. That was the inspiration, and it continues to inspire me.

Cheers, everyone.

*****************

The sunlight streams inside the room, illuminating his face. Slowly, he opens his eyes. His vision is blurry, but he looks around him. He makes out an easel, he sees some paint marks on the floor. He also smells the paint. And then he smells it. Cinnamon. He wonders if he's going mad. For some reason, he actually believes he's going mad. The events last night are just too hard for him to comprehend. She comes, and she goes. She cries, and she kisses him. He does not understand what exactly is going on, and it drives him crazy.

He lingers in bed a little bit more. Her wedding is in the afternoon, so he doesn't move. He wonders if he should still go. He wonders if he can survive the whole thing without crying. He wonders if he is a glutton for punishment. And then he gives out a snort. He is a glutton for punishment. Last night, he recalls, is a prime example. Any normal, rational man will not let things end that way. Any normal, rational man will ask her questions. Any normal, rational man will find her actions too cruel. She stands naked in front of him, she seduces him, she kisses him, she cries, and then she tells him not to be late for her wedding.

But he is not any normal, rational man.

He loves her. He loves her to the point of madness. He loves her with so much faith. He loves her with so much devotion. He loves her enough to justify her actions. He loves her to the point of irrationality. He loves her without understanding anything. He loves her even if it kills him. And that, he tells himself, is love. She does not have to give him anything. She does not have to reciprocate it. The fact that he loves her is enough.

So he gets out of bed. He leans before the window and stares outside. He admires the fall foliage. He admires the way everything seems golden and beautiful. The way the skies open up to let the sun seep in. The way the trees all raise their arms in praise of the heavens. The way everything seems to be perfect. Perfect for Hermione's wedding. And he smiles. He may be bleeding inside, but he still manages to smile because this is where Hermione's happiness lies. And he's not going to take that away from her.

He loves her. He loves her. He loves her.

That's why he's giving her up, without any bitterness in his heart.

*****************

He stands outside her apartment building. He knows she's inside, along with Ginny, Luna, and her whole entourage. He knows this because he can see their silhouettes in the window. He knows this because there is a black Rolls Royce with a bouquet of flowers in the fender, behind him. He knows they're leaving soon. He knows this because the chauffer of the limo keeps on checking his watch.

After looking at the silhouettes above him for a couple of minutes, he finally leaves the painting in the front porch. He puts it in an unassuming corner. It has no wrapper, so he leaves it backward. He takes a final look and a deep breath. He looks at her apartment window again.

“Good bye, Hermione,” he mutters under his breath.

*****************

He is in Waterloo Station again. He has his suitcase in one hand, but no Hermione in the other. Instead, what he has is a ticket for Scotland. He has a ticket for Scotland because it is the only ticket available for last-minute passengers, like him. He has a ticket for Scotland because he wants his last memory of London to be at the Station. This is where he first saw her, after all those years, and he wants to relive that moment. It may be torture to some, but he's past that already.

So he's sitting in the waiting area. His watch says that the train arrives in ten minutes. But he doubts that, knowing full well about the transit system's inconsistencies and delays. So he just sits in one lone corner, staring at his hands. There are still a few paint marks left, and he likes it. He likes it because those marks are the result of a special creation. Hermione. He corrects himself, Mrs. Krum. The wedding is to end at four. It's already twenty-past-four.

“Cheers,” he mutters under his breath, and for a brief second he wonders if she notices he's not there. He cuts that train of thought, immediately. He stands up instead and looks at the posters at the wall. He does not find anything that interests him, so he leans against it instead.

He's standing there, whistling out-of-tune, when he feels a touch in his shoulder. It is a soft, brief, and gentle touch. One that can only come from,

“Harry,” she says.

He closes his eyes. He counts to three. He tells himself that it's but a dream. But when he opens his eyes again, the hand is still there. Finally, he turns around.

“Hermione,” he says, breathlessly.

For a moment, they don't say anything. They just stare at each other. He notices that she's not in her wedding gown but she has her face fully made up. He notices that she's wearing her clothes from the night before, but she has her hair up, something she does not do. He notices that she's alone, with no Krum, and no entourage. He notices all these, but once again, he doesn't understand anything.

Finally, she asks him,

“Why did you leave Harry?”

Her gaze does not waver. Her eyes do not flinch. They are open, wide open, in anticipation—for his answer, for the truth.

“Leave where? I wasn't at the wedding,” he answers, weakly.

“No Harry, I meant four years ago,” she corrects him.

He gives a sigh. He tells himself that there's no harm in finally admitting the truth. So he asks her,

“What time is it?” She gives him a look of confusion, but she checks it, nonetheless.

“4:25,” she answers.

“Good, I've got five minutes then,” he replies. He takes one long lingering look at her before he starts. He sees she's looking vulnerable, and that makes him stronger. So finally, he tells her,

“I left because I love you.”

He closes his eyes, he takes a deep breath, and he shuts out the noise around him. He finds the feeling of finally telling her the truth too overwhelming. For a couple of seconds, he stays that way, and when he's calm enough, he continues,

“I left because I was a coward. I was scared that you'd hate me and that it would ruin our friendship. I was scared that you'd reject me and that I would never see you again. I didn't want that to happen, so I left.”

When he finishes, he finds himself looking at her, instead of closing his eyes. This time, he's brave enough to see her reaction. This time, he wants to know exactly what she feels about this. This time, he wants to know what she feels about him. And when her gaze finally wavers, he finds himself holding his breath.

“I know,” she says.

He looks at her with incomprehension. He looks at her with shock.

“What do you mean, you know?” he asks.

“I know that you love me,” she answers, simply.

“Since when?” his voice is shaking, but he has to know.

“Since you got back,”

“How come you never said anything?”

She gives a sigh, and she looks at him with remorse.

“You never said anything,” she finally answers.

He closes his eyes. The next things he knows, tears are flowing down his eyes. But he wipes them off. And when he looks at her, he gives a shrug and a smile. Finally, he tells her,

“Well, you're married now, so what can I do? You're the one that got away.”

He expects her to sigh. He expects her give him a look of pity. He expects her to pat him on the back. But she does not do any of those. Instead, she replies,

“No Harry, I'm the one that almost got away.”

And when she says that, she raises her left hand for him to see— and to understand. And he does. He sees her hand. He understands.

“What happened?” he asks, tears flowing down his eyes again. He chides himself. Bloody, bawling, Potter.

This time, she's the one taking deep breaths. This time, she's the one closing her eyes. This time, she's the one shaking.

“I decided not to get married,” she finally answers. He closes the gap between them. He realizes she's crying, so he wipes the tears away.

“Why not?” he asks, quietly.

“Because I love you too,” she finally answers.

He feels his heart stop. He feels the whole station stop. He feels the world stop. Everything at that instance ceases to exist. It is just the two of them. And he finds himself shaking. Shaking with happiness. Shaking with understanding.

“Since when?” he manages to ask, despite the uncontrollable tears in his eyes now.

“Since forever,” she replies with a smile. The smile that makes his heart beat.

“Even the last two days?” he asks again.

“Yes, even the last two days,”

“Then why did you plan on marrying Krum?”

“A girl can't mope around forever,” she answers. It hurts him a bit, but he sees the rationality behind it.

“How come you never told me last night? Or any time for the matter, since I got here?”

“Harry, I was supposed to get married. How complicated would that be?” she asks, in standard Hermione voice, and he gives a laugh.

“Is that why you went starkers? Is that why you seduced me?” he asks, this time he's grinning. And when he sees her cheeks turn red, he cusps them into his palms.

“I was irrational last night. I was hurt. I never told you the whole story—Viktor was there the whole time. And all he did was laugh. He never once defended me.”

Suddenly, he feels his insides turn cold. Suddenly, he feels like going after Krum. But then she covers his hand with her own, and tells him,

“What I did was selfish and cruel. But I didn't tell you because I know you would go crazy,” she whispers. He wants to tell her that he has every right to go crazy. He wants to tell her that Krum has every right to turn into a bloody pulp. He wants to tell her, but he can't, because Hermione kisses him.

And he explodes.

So he kisses her back. He kisses her with urgency. He kisses her with all the passion stored inside him. He kisses her until his mind goes blank. He kisses her until his lips are bruised.

And when they finally stop, all they can do is smile. But then she begins to giggle. And he feels his heart flutter. She's giggling for him. So he grabs her again and he kisses her. But immediately she moves away, and she says,

“Let's get out of here.”

So he holds her hand. And as they walk out, it occurs to him that there is still one unanswered question left.

“By the way, how'd you find out I was here?” he asks her.

“The painting in the porch told me,” she answers.

“What do you mean?”

“It told me you were leaving, it told me you weren't coming back. I searched for you everywhere, and when I finally felt hopeless, it occurred to me that you might be here. Turns out I was right.”

“You are always right,” he murmurs as he squeezes her hand.

“No, Harry, I never told you how much I love you from the very beginning,” And with that she kisses him while the sun gently sets behind them.

THE END.

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