Happily Ever After by Goldy Rating: PG13 Genres: Angst, Romance Relationships: Harry & Hermione Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6 Published: 21/08/2005 Last Updated: 21/08/2005 Status: Completed Harry and Hermione are getting married. As usual, things are perfect, right until they fall spectacularly apart. 1. untitled ----------- **Title**: Happily Ever After (1/1) **Keywords**: Hermione, Harry/Hermione, post-HBP, post-Hogwarts, mentions of past R/Hr and H/G. **Summary**: Harry and Hermione are getting married. Things ought to be perfect, right? **Author’s Notes**: I tend to dislike fics with babies and/or weddings. *shrugs* But this bunny bit me and wouldn’t leave me alone. I think it’s my way of giving the finger to OBHWF. **Author’s Notes 2**: For Kaze. Happy twenty-first birthday! Ginny was written just for you. *snerk* **Word Count**: 2, 860 “My, but you’ll have the same initials!” they say, always, like it’s some kind of irrefutable proof that you’re destined for one another. You pretend to be surprised. You chuckle and tell them what a coincidence it is. *How romantic*, the papers say. *Friends for a decade, finally realizing what was right in front of them.* In reality, it was never that easy. It almost didn’t happen at all. There were *things* that got in the way. You both came close to having red-headed children. Oh, you laugh at it now—all those years you spent together without realizing. You wonder how long you’ve loved him for. If that even matters. “I needed you too much, Hermione,” he explains, as if it’s that simple. “Could you imagine if we got together and it didn’t work out?” No. “No.” He laughs. “Then I reckon it was a good thing we waited so long. Got some time in with other people first.” Other people—like, say, the Weasleys, for example. *Awful* shame that never worked out, Molly always says. Imagine! We came so close to being a *real* family! That’s right, you suppose. You and Harry can’t be *real* Weasleys unless you’re married to one. Your time with Ron was one of the most difficult periods of your life. Not that Molly Weasley ever saw *that* part of it. It was full of angry fights and jealous rages. But a part of you clung to the idea that it was that *spark* that *made* things so right. That’s where the fire, the *passion* came from, wasn’t it? Your sex life with Ron was conducted in the same fashion as the rest of your life with Ron. You solved arguments by shagging, you got your way by shagging, you shut each other up by shagging. It was always *rushed* with Ron, hurry up and get your clothes off, get there, get there *quickly*. You couldn’t keep your hands off each other, even when you were fighting, and the shagging was like the fighting, really, only with fewer words. The worst part about it was that you *cared*. You both did, but it never seemed to matter, because you were too good at getting under each other’s skin. You cared, but you still couldn’t make it work. You cared and neither of you could ever express it properly and things rapidly fell apart. You’re still friends, thankfully, because it’s Ron, and it’s you, and it’s Harry, and the there of you cannot exist properly without each other. When you and Harry kissed for the first time, it was woefully unromantic. There you were, watching Muggle television, enjoying each other’s company. He turned and you turned and you kissed. It was awkward and soft, barely there at all. And that was it. He looked at you and you looked at him and you both knew—that was it. So you kissed again. Your arms wound their way around his neck and he cupped your face in his hands. You stood there kissing him and you knew you would never kiss anyone else again. You made love that night in much the same way. There was no big passionate scene, no awesome revelation. You went slow and looked into his eyes and he entered you, his lips kissing every inch of your face. Afterwards you held him and stroked his hair, mentally saying good-bye to a friendship you’d clung to for years. You could feel his breath on your neck and you held him tighter. Ron pitched a fit, accusing you of wanting Harry the whole time, ever since you were fourteen. You had a huge row over it. You didn’t realize you were waiting for Harry until it happened. Ron shook his head. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?” You needed him too much, you explained. You *couldn’t* allow yourself to feel that way about Harry because your friendship was too important. “And what about me?” Ron demanded. “What did that make me?” Well, you said, you liked Ron very much and you were happy for the time you had together, but it *was* the past. And, honestly, you hardly thought it worth the sake of your friendship for him to be so furious about it. If he couldn’t accept it, that would be too bad. You and Harry could no longer stop was what happening. Harry once told you that he’d always thought you too good for him. It almost made you cry—him, the most famous wizard in the world, thinking he was unworthy of your love. He’s like that with you. Brutally honest about how he feels—expressing himself so much better than with poetry and love letters. Ron once joked that everyone thought you had the most boring sex life in the history of the world. “Oh, for Merlin’s sakes,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. You would have liked to explain that nothing could be further from the truth. You trust Harry in bed the way you trust him in every other part of your life. He broke through you inhibitions and your walls by the sheer virtue that it was *him* and it was *you*. The complete sexual freedom you feel with Harry is different than anything you’ve ever experienced. But Ron came around, as you’d known he would. He still makes comments and faces, but he’s happy for you. Ginny stared at you when you first broke the news to her. “But you’re like brother and sister,” she said. Like you’d made a terrible mistake. You shrugged and smiled, unsure of where to go. Ginny confuses you—still. She and Harry had spent too many years on and off again and you think she wasn’t ready to accept that it was off again. For good. You hate the way Ginny can make you feel so unsure of yourself. She’s beautiful and elegant and walks with a self-confidence that makes others take notice. She can make Harry laugh when you can’t. They could never keep their hands off each other when they were together and you always wondered why they could never make it *work*. “Well, we never really *talked*,” Harry said. “I never saw a future with her, Hermione. We had fun, but I think we both knew something was missing.” You frown because you doubt that last part—you know that Ginny doesn’t think *anything* was missing. It’s not that you dislike Ginny, not exactly, but you drifted from her after she became Harry’s girlfriend. You hated knowing you were no longer the only girl in his life. You clashed with her over what you each thought was best for him. You’d been looking out for him just fine since he was eleven-years-old. Harry looked at you oddly when you told him you were jealous. “Didn’t you know?” he said, blinking. “Gin… she never really got us. It used to drive her crazy whenever I mentioned you. We fought about it all the time.” “Really?” “All my girlfriends had trouble,” he said. “I think they all thought they could replace you.” He smiled dryly. “Which was, of course, impossible.” You laughed and kissed him, relief sweeping through you. **** “My, but you’ll both have the same initials!” Yes, you will, and it’s all so very terribly meant to be. Mrs. Weasley sobs her eyes out on your wedding day. You wish you don’t suspect it’s only because you’re shattering her dream of seeing you and Harry join the Weasley family. Despite that, it goes off without a problem. Neither you nor Harry get cold feet. Ginny does your hair and makeup, oohing and ahhing in all the right places. Ron kisses your cheek and tells you you look beautiful. Your mother is weepy, your father is proud. Professor McGonagall breaks down completely and tell you how she glad she is—how right you and Harry are. The guest list is surprisingly small, despite Harry’s popularity in the wizarding world. It’s what you want. The whole thing—the music, the audience, the dress—it’s all ceremony. All you want is Harry’s ring on your finger—showing the rest of the world the commitment you made when you first kissed. **** Things fall apart at the reception. You were supposed to dance and feed each other cake and kiss and make everyone else jealous. Only. Mrs. Weasley keeps crying, Ron is scowling, and Ginny has glued herself to the stool next to the open bar. Still. You try and ignore them. This night is about you and Harry. So you slip your arm through his and he turns his head to kiss your temple. You have so much to be thankful for. You both survived the war and now you *belong* to each other. Until. Ginny makes a scene, right there in the middle of the Great Hall at Hogwarts. She’s drunk. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. It’s not her fault. But. She isn’t happy for you, she says, and she’s tired of pretending she is. “Everyone here knows this isn’t right!” You can’t help but notice how beautiful she is with her cheeks fiery red and her eyes wide and teary. “It’s such a shame that you’ve reduced yourselves to *settling* for each other.” Her words slur, the whiskey sour slopping over the sides of her glass. You remember how she smiled at you when she did your hair. “Gin, think about what you’re saying,” Harry says quietly. “I’m saying what no one else has the guts to say!” She draws herself up to her full height. And that’s Ginny, passionate and irresistible and you hate the way she’s captivating Harry’s gaze. Your Harry, who can’t seem to bring himself to tell her to sit down and shut it. “It’s not too late,” she says and her chin trembles. “We can still… fix things. Whatever went wrong between us, Harry, we can fix it.” She *should* look pathetic, begging and crying at *your* wedding, but she doesn’t. You feel like the other woman and you can’t stand it. You hate that there’s a part of Harry that’s still attracted to her. “I just…” a tear drips down her cheek and slides off her chin. “I couldn’t let you go without trying.” Harry’s jaw drops and everyone is staring at you and him and her. You can’t move or speak or get properly angry. You almost feel bad for her. And. Harry hasn’t said anything either, he can only stare at Ginny. Your Harry, your fiancée, your husband, *who shares your initials*. The Hall is quiet, breathless, waiting for Harry to choose. Mrs. Weasley has stopped sobbing. She dabs at her eyes, waiting for Harry to say something. *I love Hermione*. That’s all he has to say, but time stretches out. Something in you twists and you take a step back, unable to comprehend what’s happening. Harry turns around and looks at you, his gaze lost. He’s looking at you for the answer, but you don’t have one for him—not for this. Your stomach gives a violent jump and you glance down at yourself; your dress is white and perfect. “Well, that’s fine,” you say and your voice comes from far away. *Gave it a good go. Awful shame things didn’t work.* “If you don’t want…” You take another step back. “Wh—what?” Harry says, looking even more lost. You and Ginny look at each other and her eyes are determined—there is no sympathy there. She goes after what she wants, Ginny. “It’s alright, Harry,” she says and she takes his arm. You snap, anger and jealousy taking away your ability to think coherently—*you hate that*. A wine glass shatters behind you. Ginny gasps and holds tighter to Harry’s arm. “Hermione, calm down,” she whispers. A murmur spreads through the crowd and you take several controlled breaths, not looking at her, and especially not looking at him. You muster as much dignity as you can. “Should’ve known not to let a Weasley near the bar,” you mutter. “Whose idea was it to have an open bar anyway?” Harry licks his lips. “Yours.” You both smile and a frown appears on Ginny’s forehead. The others in the Great Hall glance at each other, confused. You look down at the ring on your finger, simple, elegant, straight to the point. You twist it around, once, and then you meet Ginny’s eyes. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand what Harry and I have,” you say. “No one does.” And then you walk out of the Great Hall. You don’t look back, you don’t think about what you’re doing. You keep your posture straight and your face composed. “Hermione!” You’re almost out when Ron stops you. You swear and turn to meet him. “Ron,” you say from between clenched teeth. “I can’t take anymore. Not from you too.” “Herm—” He swallows and seems to think better of what he was going to say. Instead he hugs you, pulling you close. You let out a tiny sigh, thankful for the show of support. “He does love you, you know,” he whispers in your ear. “I know,” you whisper back. “And you do look beautiful.” You blink back tears. “Thanks.” **** You spend the first night of your married life alone in an empty hotel suite. You leave your dress spread out on the bed, taking your pillow with you to the couch. You and Harry were going to spend one night in the hotel before leaving for your honeymoon. You organized the trip, planning days at museums and monuments and historic sites. Harry laughed. “Whatever you want,” he told her. “I’ve never been on vacation before, so I honestly have no idea how to go about it.” So he let you plan it and you were sure to schedule in things *he* would like—Quidditch games and the like. Only now you’re in an empty hotel room, turning your wedding ring around and around on your finger. How like you to run out on your own wedding. You lie back and look up at the ceiling, smiling instead of crying, biting your lip instead of screaming. *** It’s strange to knock on the door of your own flat. You jump from one foot to the other, nervously playing with your hair—it still hasn’t settled down even after all these years. When Harry opens the door, you choke back a sob. He looks relieved and miserable and terrified all at once. He’s unshaven and his clothes are rumpled and you fall in love with him all over again, right in that moment. You watch his eyes drift to your ring—his ring—and he slumps, holding onto the door for support. “I thought you’d left me,” he says, his voice a croak. You shake your head soundlessly. “I thought…” he’s at a loss and sighs, his eyes studying the ground. “I know,” you whisper. “Me too.” You both wait for what feels like an eternity. You take a breath. “Do you remember when you proposed?” “Of course.” “We were sitting down to dinner… and you were shifting and pushing your food around. I kept asking what was wrong. I thought you were ill.” You pause. “I asked you to pass the salt and pepper. And you said—” “Only if you marry me,” he finishes softly. He looks at you and you look at him and then you’re hugging and laughing and crying. He’s kissing your cheek and jaw and earlobe and telling you over and over that he loves *you* and not Ginny. You. You. You. You think you might burst so you say “I know” and “I love you too.” You understand now. You thought things with Harry ought to be perfect. But they’re not. You’re still you and he’s still him and you still fight and drive each other crazy. You tell him so, but he’s busy kissing your neck and trying to undo your shirt from your trousers. “I never got to take off your dress,” he says, sounding terribly disappointed. “That’s alright,” you say. “I still have it.” He makes a face, but gives in. “Hermione Jane Potter,” he breathes. It sounds strange, but it makes you shiver. “Harry James Granger,” you retort, fingers sliding into his hair. He laughs and his lips tickle against your skin. “You know,” he says. “We have the same initials now that we’re married.” “Hmm,” you say, as if it’s a surprise. “I suppose that means we were meant to be, doesn’t it?” “Guess so.” And it’s not perfect, but it’s worth it, *he’s* worth it and you’re worth it together.