Second Chances by Bingblot

Rating: PG
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 10/11/2005
Last Updated: 14/12/2005
Status: Completed

He had given her up for the sake of friendship-- and left England immediately afterwards. Harry
receives a surprise visitor and learns a lesson. But is it too late for love?




1. Prologue: You're Wrong...
----------------------------

Disclaimer: All things HP belong to JKR, no money is being made, etc etc.

Author’s Note: Written for the hhr_serendipity ficathon on LiveJournal and posted there
first.

Partly inspired by Charles Dickens’ “The Christmas Carol.”

Much love and hugs to Anne for reading this over and giving me feedback on it.

**Second Chances**

*Prologue: You’re Wrong*

“Thanks for giving me a shoulder to cry on these past few days,” Hermione said with a grateful
smile at Harry.

He smiled back. “Anytime. What else are best friends for?”

An odd expression he couldn’t read flitted over her face. He wondered at this reaction to
something he’d said lightly enough though with perfect sincerity, but dismissed it.

He opened his mouth to say something about how she’d done the same for him before but her mouth
was suddenly in the way. She flattened herself against him, kissing him with a passion he’d never
dreamed of.

He stiffened in shock before his arms went around her automatically, his lips softening
unconsciously…

*This was Hermione and he cared about her and even though he’d never allowed himself to think
about kissing her before, she tasted so good and this felt so- right- somehow…*

And she had just gotten over telling him she loved Ron and crying over their break-up.

The thought quenched his growing response with the efficacy of a bucketful of ice-cold water and
he stiffened again, gently putting her away from him.

“No, Hermione, I can’t. We can’t,” he blurted out, looking anywhere but at her lips, slightly
swollen from their kiss.

“I know you’re hurting but this isn’t what you need or want. *I’m* not what you want. You
want Ron and- and we can’t do this. Not now, not when you only want this for comfort,” he said as
gently as possible, given that he was torn between wanting to kiss her again or run as fast and as
far as he could.

“Oh Harry…” she sighed and he finally dared to look at her.

She was pale but there was a hint of some new resolve in her face, of gathering her courage and
he waited tensely for what she was going to say.

“I do love Ron; of course I do. He and I—we just—we’ve been together for so long; he was my
first real boyfriend…” she trailed off, looking down and then looked up at him meeting his gaze
again bravely. “But Harry, I love you too.”

He tried to smile but only managed a brief twitch of his lips. “Yeah, I know. I love you
too.”

She let out a breath that was almost a laugh though there was no amusement in her expression.
“No, Harry. I’m *in love* with you.”

There was a strange buzzing in his ears as he stared at her, convinced he must be hallucinating
and wondering wildly if his knees were going to give way. She hadn’t—she couldn’t have—just
said…

“I- you- *what*?” he croaked.

A small, sad smile crossed her face. “I’m in love with you, Harry. It- it’s partly why Ron and I
broke up because I- I realized that and lately he’s been hinting—hinting that I should stop working
and- and we should…” she trailed off and finished miserably on a sigh, looking down at the floor,
“get married… It- it just wasn’t going to work anymore…”

“No,” he said, his voice sounding strange in his own ears, feeling his head move back and forth
in automatic, instinctive denial, feeling as if the world were suddenly collapsing in around
him.

“No,” he said again. “You- you can’t. I- you- no…”

He remembered seeing Ron’s pale face when he’d dropped by Ron’s flat a few days after Hermione
had come crying to him over their break-up. Remembered the empty bottles of Firewhiskey around him
and the dull, emotionless way he’d greeted Harry. “Hi, mate. Come to help me drown my sorrows?”
he’d asked with a sardonic twist on his lips.

Ron had been—was—so hurt, oddly resigned, but hurt and trying (and failing) to cover it with a
mask of cynicism and detachment.

Harry had stayed, not drinking much but only watching as Ron slowly but steadily went through
another several bottles, still retaining some coherence, amazingly enough, listening as he rambled
about Hermione… About how he guessed he’d always known they wouldn’t last but he hadn’t wanted to
acknowledge it, how he loved her no matter how angry she could sometimes make him, how he missed
her and wanted her back even as part of him knew that, somehow, they might be better off apart…

Harry had been miserable, between his sympathy for Ron and his sympathy for Hermione; they were
both his best friends and seeing both of them so wretched tore at his heart.

And now—and now—Hermione was telling him why, or at least, partly why, all this had happened and
both his best friends weren’t talking and were unhappy…

And he knew what he had to do.

He forced himself to take a few deep, calming breaths, refusing to meet Hermione’s eyes so he
couldn’t see the vulnerability, the desperate hope, the appeal, in them.

He managed a smile though it felt stiff and unnatural on his lips. “Thank you but you and I both
know it’s not true,” he began gently, hating the awkward formality of his tone and words but unable
to help it.

He closed his ears to her little intake of breath and his heart to the incredulity warring with
pain in her expression and her eyes. “You love me, yes, as your best friend, just as I love you.
But it’s Ron you really love. Ron, not me. If you think about it, you’ll realize I’m right.”

He stopped, having run out of words to say and suddenly, miserably aware that, even if he
didn’t—he *couldn’t*—believe Hermione’s confession, part of him desperately *wanted* to
believe it…

Part of him *wanted* to believe that Hermione really did love him in that way, wanted to
believe it because maybe- just maybe, he might care about her in that way too… And then he cut off
that thought, killed it before it could grow.

Good God, no. He didn’t—he couldn’t—he’d never thought of Hermione in that way! She was his best
friend, had always been his best friend, had been Ron’s girlfriend since their 7th
year—and he’d never thought of her that way…

And yet—and yet… Part of him *did* want to believe that Hermione really loved
*him*…

And the realization stunned—and horrified—him. What kind of friend was he to *want*
something that would hurt his best friend? No, Hermione was mistaking her feelings for him as real
love from gratitude at his having been there for her these past few days, putting her feelings for
Ron onto him because she’d been hurt by Ron somehow… She had to be… And Ron loved her; they should
be happy together…

She hadn’t said anything, was still only staring at him as if she couldn’t believe what she was
hearing.

He made himself move closer to her and brushed a chaste, very platonic kiss against her
forehead. “Goodnight, Hermione,” he murmured and left her flat before she could speak.

*Goodnight* was what he said; what he meant was *goodbye…*

~*~

It had been surprisingly easy to be transferred from Auror Training in England to the American
equivalent in Boston for the last remaining months of the program.

There had been notices posted in the Auror Training Headquarters in London, asking for
volunteers to complete their training and then begin work in Boston, as the number of trainees in
America was significantly less than their counterparts in England. He’d signed up the next day with
only a brief pang at the thought of all he’d be leaving behind. But this was what he needed to
do…

Transfers were effective immediately and he’d only had time to see Ron and say goodbye. He had
bent the truth saying he’d been told to transfer, leaving out the fact that he’d volunteered to
avoid any uncomfortable questions.

He had not seen Hermione, did not want to see Hermione, was almost afraid to see her. He sent
her a short letter explaining his transfer—and that he’d be cut off from owls during training which
was true although not as strict a rule as he deliberately implied…

*Dear Hermione,*

*When you read this, I’ll already have left for America.*

*The Aurors there are low in numbers and I’m being sent to finish training in Boston and then
start my actual work there.*

*I’m sorry I didn’t have time to see you before I left, and sorry, too, that I won’t be able
to send or receive owls during the last few months of training in Boston.*

*I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. I wish I could say when I’ll be back but I don’t
know.*

*I just wanted to say, goodbye…*

*I’ll miss you, Hermione. You are—you’ll always be—my best friend and I love you.*

*About the other night, I honestly believe you and Ron should try again. You love him, you
know you do. And I want you both to be happy.*

*Take care of yourself; don’t work too hard as you tend to do. And be happy, Hermione.*

*Love, Harry*

~*~

Hermione finished reading the letter, swiping away the tears she was tired of crying.

Harry thought she really was in love with Ron, that she hadn’t fully thought about what she was
saying to him…

Slowly she folded the letter back up and put it away.

“Goodbye, Harry,” she said softly to the empty room. “But you’re wrong…”



2. Chapter 1: The Visit
-----------------------

Disclaimer: See Prologue.

Author’s Note: Thank you to everyone who reviewed the Prologue.

**Second Chances**

*Chapter 1: The Visit*

*7 years later…*

Jacob Morton paused as he passed by Harry’s cubicle. “So they’ve finally caught up with the
Muggle Subway Menace?” he asked, referring to one of the other Auror partnerships, Norman Seawell
and Zoe Lungren, and a case they’d been working on for the past few weeks of someone who had been
taking cruel glee out of wreaking havoc in Muggle subway stations around Boston, the latest
incident having claimed two Muggles’ lives.

Harry looked up. “Yeah, and it only took them 3 weeks to do it too.” He grimaced and Jacob
laughed.

“I hear you. Bit slow of them, wasn’t it. We could have done better.”

Harry frowned slightly, not responding to Jacob’s jaunty grin. “No,” he said slowly. “The man
was more clever than that; his methods were very unorthodox; it was hard to find any sort of
pattern other than that they all took place on the subway. But all the times of day were different,
all the devices he tampered with were different—and for the first few of them, he was clever enough
to make it look like just a regular case for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.”

Jacob sobered, listening to Harry’s analysis. Harry hadn’t become one of the youngest heads of
an Auror team in the history of the Boston Branch of the American Ministry of Magic’s Auror
Department for his fame or that jagged scar on his forehead.

Harry continued on, a thoughtful expression on his face, turning fully in his chair to face his
junior partner. “That was the thing; the problem at first was that the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts
Office was called in when we should have been called in immediately. But those first few incidents,
besides being seemingly random, didn’t do anything other than inconvenience and annoy the Muggles,
who could dismiss it as machinery being crazy. Muggle-baiting takes many forms, you know; it’s
getting harder to weed through which ones are accidental and meant for the Misuse of Muggle
Artifacts Office and which should go directly to us.” He paused and then added, “He slipped up,
though, when he decided to jinx the controls of that subway train; he was getting too confident
after weeks of slipping by us and decided to do something that could injure or kill dozens of
Muggles at its worst. If he’d stayed with the smaller incidents, he might have been able to escape
a little while longer but he got ambitious.” A rather grim smile crossed Harry’s lips. “It seems to
be one thing these evil guys have in common: an overweaning sense of ambition. They don’t stop with
one Muggle injured; they have to aim for the hundreds.”

“You’re right, Harry,” Jacob acknowledged seriously, his earlier levity gone.

Harry blinked, seeming to come out of what Jacob irreverently thought of as Harry’s Evil
Occlumency phase, when he analyzed the characteristics and salient incidents of a particular case
and where the culprit had slipped up. “Anyway, yes, they caught him; he’s in questioning right now
as a matter of fact,” he said in something approaching his normal tone.

Jacob sometimes wondered in those moments how much Harry’s earlier experiences with evil during
his childhood contributed to his insight into evil’s motives and how much was simply what seemed to
be natural aptitude, but then dismissed it as being unimportant.

“Good to know. I just came by to let you know I’m off for the night,” Jacob said.

Harry smiled. “Ok, I’ll see you on Monday, then.”

Jacob threw a mock salute. “Yes, sir, Chief. I’ll be reporting for duty bright and early Monday
morning.”

“Don’t call me Chief,” Harry corrected automatically, though he grinned at what was something of
an ongoing joke between him and his junior partner.

Jacob, at 25, was two years younger, age-wise, three years behind him, experience-wise, and what
sometimes felt like a decade younger in his way of acting and thinking. It was at times like this
when Harry realized just how quickly he’d had to grow up at Hogwarts, thanks to Voldemort.

He turned back to the file he was completing for the last case he and Jacob had just completed
along with going through a back-log of files that had piled up in the last week since he’d been out
of the office for most of it doing the actual leg-work and action part of being an Auror.

He liked his job and was good at it and while he couldn’t say that doing the paperwork for it
had gotten to be one of his favorite aspects of the job, there were times he didn’t mind it. It
rather gave him a chance to unwind from the constant tension of being out of the office when on the
job and just go through the more mundane part of being an Auror. His mind would go into one of his
‘must finish assignment’ modes and he would work relatively steadily until he was done—while at
other times, he pushed off the paperwork as long as possible.

*Besides*, the thought darted into his mind, *what point was there in going home when
there was no one to go home to? He may as well stay and get some work done…*

It was some time later when Harry looked up, massaging a crick in his neck from having bent over
his desk for too long and shaking out his cramped fingers from holding a quill for hours, to see
that his desk clock was pointing to 8:30 and read, ‘Long past time to stop working.’

He sighed, putting away the files he’d finished, and grabbing his wand and his cloak, left his
cubicle, not surprised to see that the rest of the office was empty. Being a Saturday, most people
had probably left a little earlier than usual, which meant around 5:30, so he was undoubtedly one
of the last people left in the Ministry of Magic building. This was confirmed as he saw no one on
his way to the Apparition point in the building.

He grimaced when he Apparated to the closest Apparition point to his flat (after five years in
America, he still thought of it as being a flat and not an apartment), and saw that it was raining
in one of the random rain-showers that plagued Massachusetts and, with a quick glance around, cast
a surreptitious Water Dispelling Charm on his glasses, (a sudden memory darting into his mind of
Hermione running down from the stands to cast the same charm on his glasses during that one
incredibly wet Quidditch match in 3rd year), but not bothering to cast one on his cloak
as he ran through the rain the two blocks to his flat.

He used a Drying Charm on his cloak and hair once inside his flat, hanging up his cloak, before
going into the kitchen to heat up some of the pizza he had left over from yesterday’s dinner.

He ate quickly, idly watching the telly, before getting up to go to his room and throwing
himself into the chair there to skim through the Boston area wizarding newspaper.

He jumped slightly as a flash of lightning lit the room followed by a rumble of thunder and then
tensed, automatically reaching for his wand as he thought he heard another sound, a faint
*thump* from the other room.

Frowning, he stepped quietly toward the door, wand at the ready when he heard another noise,
this time from behind him and whirled around, the word, “Stupefy” on the tip of his tongue…

The word died on the first syllable as his jaw dropped and he stared blankly, his wand
lowering.

“Hello, Harry,” the man- the vision- the ghost—*whatever-it-was*—said.

Harry forcibly closed his mouth, then opened it, swallowed and then managed to croak,
“S-sirius?”

It *was* Sirius—and yet it wasn’t. He looked ghostly, rather like the ghosts at Hogwarts,
but oddly more solid than that. Harry *knew* he was more solid than the Hogwarts ghosts
because the Hogwarts ghosts never made noise when they moved into objects—and Sirius had.

But- but what in the name of Godric was the vision of Sirius doing, standing here in his bedroom
in Boston, grinning at him as if there was nothing at all unusual about his being here—as if he
hadn’t died more than a decade ago…

“But- but- you’re dead,” Harry blurted out unthinkingly.

Sirius let out the familiar laugh that sounded like a bark and, almost insensibly, Harry found
himself smiling too.

“Sirius—I- it’s good to see you—I guess…” he finished awkwardly, realizing how odd his greeting
sounded.

Sirius grinned. “Nice to know you haven’t forgotten my name, Harry, since you seem to be going
out of your way to forget everyone else you used to know.” Sirius waved a hand. “Sit down, Harry,
and for Merlin’s sake, you can put down your wand.” He lifted his hands. “I don’t even have a
wand.” He paused, tilting his head and then admitted with something like a smirk, “Then again, I
don’t need one to do the sort of magic I’d want to do.” And with a wave of his other hand, he had
conjured up another chair and seated himself in it.

Harry sat, part of his mind wondering if he were dreaming and were going to wake up any minute
now. “What- what are you doing here?”

Sirius sobered. “I’m actually rather bending the rules here but your parents and I decided we
had to when we saw the mess you’d made of your life.”

Harry stiffened, promptly deciding that no, he couldn’t be dreaming this; he would never have
dreamed Sirius telling him this. “I haven’t made a mess of my life!” he protested. “I’m the
youngest Head of a team of Aurors that the Boston Ministry has ever had! I’ve done well and I’m
good at what I do—not just because of my name or my scar or anything, either.” He paused and then
frowned at Sirius. “And what rules?”

“The rule that says we spirits aren’t supposed to interact with the living world or try to
change events that happen. We’re allowed to do so exactly once and only when the Powers That Be
approve it.” He paused and then admitted with something like a wry twist of his lips, “The Powers
haven’t exactly approved all of what I plan to do in this little chat with you so I expect I’ll
either find when we get there that I can’t do it at all or I’ll manage to pull everything off and
I’ll just have set myself up for a scolding from the Powers.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile at this evidence that even in the after-life, his godfather was
still Padfoot, one of the Marauders, at heart.

Sirius continued on, more seriously. “And by the mess you’ve made of your life I didn’t mean
your professional one. You have done well here and you *are* a good Auror. That’s not what has
your parents and I concerned.” He paused and then asked pointedly, “Tell me this, honestly now, are
you truly *happy*?”

Harry opened his mouth to say, of course he was happy—why wouldn’t he be happy—but something in
Sirius’s gaze stopped him. “N-no,” he finally admitted, drawing the word out. “Not really.”

Harry had a sudden memory of all the times he’d come home, late at night, tired with the sort of
emotional and mental exhaustion that went so much deeper than the physical after weeks of trying to
outwit evil and get into the mindset of criminals, and wished his flat was more comforting, more a
real haven, rather than just a place he ate and slept. All those times he’d wanted Hermione… In
those moments, he always knew he wanted Hermione, missed Hermione, simply as his best friend if
nothing else; she had always been able to calm him, somehow, understand his mood and his thoughts.
She’d always been able to replenish his spirit when he felt it lagging… But he didn’t have her…

Sirius nodded, as if satisfied with this answer. “And when was the last time you went back to
visit England and all your friends there?” He paused for barely a second before he answered his own
question. “Never. You’ve never gone back to England, not once, since the day you left seven years
ago.”

He continued his questioning. “The last time you owled either Ron or Hermione?”

Harry felt himself flush uncomfortably at the mention of Ron and Hermione and at the look Sirius
was giving him. “Uh, last year, I think?” he guessed.

Sirius gave him an exaggeratedly ironic glance and responded with pointed sarcasm. “Oh you call
that two-line note an actual owl? Kids these days—what you consider to be correspondence, and with
the best friends you’ve ever had, too…”

Harry shrugged, a flicker of annoyance starting inside him. “People grow apart; it happens all
the time,” he said lightly although his tone was slightly higher than usual with the beginnings of
defensiveness.

Now Sirius stood up and frowned. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Harry! You and I both know that that’s
not what happened between you three, so stop pretending! What happened is that *you* decided,
all on your own, that Hermione had to be confusing her feelings and that she really belonged with
Ron and so you left! And so you ran, ran to the other side of the bloody Atlantic Ocean, instead of
taking a chance and facing what you were too afraid to face!”

“But she had just broken up with Ron! She was hurt and vulnerable and- and she’d always loved
Ron!”

Sirius sighed, sitting down again. “Yes but that still doesn’t mean she was wrong or that you
were right to do what you did, practically laughing at her confession that she was in love with you
like that.”

“I- I didn’t laugh,” Harry said lamely but it was a token protest and Sirius didn’t even bother
to respond, only continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

“You decided, arbitrarily, that Ron and Hermione belonged together and that you would be in the
way, so you left. You cut yourself off from them, from just about everyone, and started over. But,
Harry, look at yourself, look at your life! You’re not really happy; you’re content, maybe. You
have casual friends and you’ve had a few casual relationships over the years but nothing else. And
you once had so much more… You could have had love, the best friends anyone could have asked for,
happiness, a family of your own…”

“But- but Ron… He would have been so hurt; it would have ended our friendship.”

Sirius sighed. “Yes, he would have been hurt, but I think, Harry, you under-estimate the
strength of your friendship; you under-estimate his affection for you.”

Harry flinched, for the first time wondering if Sirius was right… But he was saved from regret
at the sudden thought of another objection to Sirius’s theory.

“But I didn’t—I don’t—love Hermione like that!”

Sirius didn’t say anything, only looked at him, skepticism written all over his face so clearly
he might as well have said, *oh don’t you?*

There was a pause while Harry tried to process all that Sirius had said. It was too much. First,
his godfather who’d died more than ten years ago, showed up and then said godfather proceeded to
ream him out over choices he’d made seven years before and told him, in so many words, that he’d
mucked up his life… It was too much.

Harry shook his head slightly as if to clear it.

Sirius watched in silence and then finally stood up. “I know it’s a lot to think about, Harry. I
figured it would be. Come on, then, get up. We’re going to take a little trip. After all, seeing is
believing, isn’t it?”

Harry blinked, even as he stood up automatically. “We’re going to travel?”

A little smile quirked Sirius’ lips upwards. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Let me get my cloak,” Harry said and then stopped as Sirius started to laugh. “What?”

“Oh, Harry. Believe me, you won’t need your cloak where we’re going.”

Harry felt a flicker of doubt—not exactly fear but he wasn’t comfortable. He’d trusted Sirius
before, in life—but who knew what this ghost of his godfather really had in mind… He reached for
his wand automatically, slipping it into the pocket of his jeans. “Okay…” he let the word trail
off.

Sirius stepped over and grasped Harry by the arm. His grip was solid enough—but oddly cold too
and Harry had to refrain from shuddering and instinctively stepping away.

Sirius gave another wave of his free hand and only said, simply, “Let’s go.”

And then they were gone…

*~To be continued…*



3. Chapter 2: What Could Have Been
----------------------------------

Disclaimer: See Prologue.

Author’s Note: I hope you’re all enjoying GoF weekend! This chapter and the next chapter might
be a little confusing because there are two Harry’s- the real one and the one in the vision. I
tried to distinguish between them as much as I could to make it clear and I hope I succeeded.

**Second Chances**

*Chapter 2: What Could Have Been*

*Of all sad words of tongue or pen,*

*The saddest are these: It might have been…*

~John Greenleaf Whittier, “Maud Muller”

*~*~*

Harry opened his eyes to find himself and Sirius in a familiar place, a place he hadn’t been in
since one fateful evening seven years ago: the sitting room of Hermione’s flat.

“Oh, good, it worked. I guess the Powers decided to allow this interference after all,” Sirius
muttered, more to himself than to Harry—and Harry, glancing at Sirius saw that Sirius glanced
upwards with a slight smile, as if to thank someone.

And then he heard sounds from Hermione’s bedroom, unmistakable sounds that made him color and
then sizzle a glare at Sirius. “You brought me here when Hermione’s shagging someone?” He had to
force himself to keep his voice quiet.

Sirius didn’t respond to his glare, only said casually, “Oh, shout if you want to; we can’t be
either seen or heard by the people we’ll be watching in this alternate world.”

Harry continued to glare at his godfather. “I want to leave. If this is an example of what you
want to show me, I’ll pass.”

An odd little smile crossed Sirius’s face. “I think you’ll change your mind about that. Just go
inside her room in another minute or so.” He paused and then answered Harry’s unspoken objection.
“You can walk through walls in this alternate world since you don’t actually belong here, so you
won’t have to open the door.”

There was a last cry from inside Hermione’s bedroom and then silence as Harry avoided looking at
his godfather and tried to ignore the funny feeling inside him- rather like he was going to be
sick- at the thought of Hermione in bed with someone- with *anyone*…

Sirius nodded at him as if to tell him he could go through and with a last distrustful glance,
Harry swallowed hard and forced himself to walk forward to the wall between the sitting room and
her bedroom, half-expecting, despite Sirius’s assurance, that he was going to walk into it but he
passed through it much as he passed through the barrier of Platform 9 and ¾ at Kings Cross.

It was dim inside her room and at first he deliberately focused on the opposite wall and the
picture he could see on it, one of himself, Ron and Hermione. They were all smiling and in it,
Hermione had put her arm around each of them. He felt a pang of something like homesickness and for
the first time in a long time, allowed himself to dwell on the memory of Ron and Hermione and miss
them.

He blinked and then finally, slowly, turned to look at the bed and the two figures in it and
then stiffened in shock as he saw—*himself.*

He had a sudden memory of 3rd year and having to watch himself, Ron and Hermione when
he and Hermione had gone back in time using her Time Turner—and again, he was in a position to
watch himself- or another incarnation of himself or something.

He felt his brain rebelling at the incredible weirdness of seeing himself—seeing himself and
Hermione in bed together.

His other self was lying half-propped up against the pillows with his arm around Hermione who
was leaning against his chest, half on her side. One of his hands was idly playing with Hermione’s
hair as he brushed his lips against her forehead.

Something about the sheer- *tenderness*- of the gesture brought a lump to Harry’s throat as
he watched, staring in helpless, half-reluctant fascination at a scene, an image, he would never
have dreamed of seeing or experiencing.

A sheet was mostly covering both his other self and Hermione but he could still see the top
curves of Hermione’s breasts, still make out the line of her figure through the thin sheet and his
eyes wandered of their own volition down her body. He could see the slim litheness of her body, the
curve of her hips and the length of her legs—good God, she was- she was *beautiful…* Harry
swallowed hard and the thought darted into his mind: *this is what I’ve been missing…*

His other self was the first one to break the comfortable silence, his voice quiet, as he asked,
“Did you mean what you said earlier?”

Harry frowned slightly—what had she said earlier? When was this supposed to be?

Hermione moved her head to look up at him. “Yes,” she answered simply and then sighed softly.
“Yes,” she repeated. “I’m in love with you.”

Harry, watching, stiffened as those five words seemed to crash into his consciousness and he was
suddenly transported back to that evening seven years ago when she’d first said those words to him
and he’d denied it, rejected her… And realized this must be what would have happened if he’d given
in to his mad impulse and kissed her again that night—if he hadn’t happened to remember seeing Ron
so miserable—if he hadn’t been too afraid to believe that she might be telling the truth, too
afraid to acknowledge that he just might love her too…

His other, *braver* self—Harry thought with the first little twist of regret—responded with
another kiss, his hand moving to weave his fingers with hers as it rested on his chest. And then he
said quietly, “I- I think I’m in love with you too.”

*I think I’m in love with you too…*

*Had* he really been in love with Hermione seven years ago? Could they have really worked
if he’d been braver, if he hadn’t run away as he had?

Then again, given that he was here, now, watching what might have happened, he supposed he knew
the answer to that second question.

And somehow, looking at the expressions on his face and hers—had he always had that look in his
eyes when he looked at her?—Harry found he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, could hardly think
except for the one thought that seemed to burn his mind: he *had* been in love with
Hermione…

But even then, he couldn’t think that he’d been wrong. How could he have just taken his own
happiness at the expense of Ron’s?

As if on cue, the other Harry sighed. “What will we tell Ron?” he asked, his voice subdued, a
flash of guilt crossing his face.

Hermione sighed as well. “I- I don’t know. I didn’t—I couldn’t—tell him I’d realized how I
really felt about you—and I didn’t want it to sound like that was why we were breaking up when it
wasn’t. It was—it was just something I’d been thinking about and putting off because I didn’t want
to hurt Ron and I kept hoping something would change and things would get better but they didn’t
and I finally decided I couldn’t do it anymore. It wasn’t fair to either of us.”

“When-” he hesitated and then continued on, almost as if the question asked itself against his
own better judgment, “when did you realize? How did you realize?” What remained unspoken was the
question, *how do you know this is real?*

A sad smile curved Hermione’s lips. “It was a few weeks ago, the last argument Ron and I had
before- well, before what happened four days ago—another one of our arguments about my working too
many hours and not spending enough time with him—do you remember how I told you about it?”

“Yes.” Harry realized, too late, that he’d inadvertently blurted out the word but neither his
other self or Hermione heard, as Sirius had said they wouldn’t.

“I remember,” his other self answered.

“I know you must have hated it because you always hated feeling like you were caught in the
middle of Ron and my fights so I never went to you after most of them but somehow, this last one
just seemed to bother me more and I just had to talk to someone and you were the only person.
Ginny’s a good friend but she’s Ron’s sister and so it’s too awkward. And you’re my best friend.
I’m sorry, by the way, if I made you feel like you were caught in the middle that night.”

An uncomfortable expression crossed his face and Harry knew he didn’t want to say that it had
but wasn’t going to lie either. His other self finally settled on saying, “It’s okay.”

Hermione’s hand tightened on his as she continued. “Do you remember how you just listened to me
talk and let me let out my anger? That was what I really needed; you didn’t take Ron’s side or my
side or anything; you just let me talk. And then at the end, when you hugged me and kissed my
cheek—I don’t know if you remember—but I- I felt something then. I- I wanted to kiss you, I
realized, and the thought scared me—and that was why I left your flat in such a hurry.”

A smile quirked his lips. “I didn’t realize the thought of kissing me was so terrifying.”

She laughed and kissed him deliberately. “You know what I mean and why it was scary then.” She
sobered. “I spent a lot of time thinking about that, why I’d felt that way, what it meant… and
finally realized that I didn’t just love you as a friend, that, somehow, I was in love with you—and
not with Ron as I’d always sort of assumed I was.” A half laugh escaped her lips. “It sounds so
silly but I had rather assumed that I must be in love with Ron; he was my boyfriend, no matter how
much we argued, and we’d just been together for so long. But the more I thought about it, I
realized that I loved Ron as my best friend; I was *in love* with you.”

Harry felt his throat get tight as he listened to Hermione’s words and thought about the
Hermione he knew. She would never have said those words to him if she hadn’t been sure, if she
hadn’t thought about it long and hard before-hand; he knew her analytical mind and how she usually
tended to think about things too much. And in something like this, something so important, of
course she would think about it before she said anything, especially in a situation like this, when
it would be too easy to sound like purely a rebound thing.

He should have known better, should have thought about it more—and his only defense was that
he’d been too much in shock to think very clearly about anything and had taken the easy way
out.

But look at what he’d missed…

His braver (and smarter, apparently) self sighed. “I wish this wouldn’t hurt Ron as much as it
will.”

“I know,” Hermione said quietly and her own guilt was audible in her voice. “But what can we do?
We can’t help what’s happened or how we feel…”

He sighed again. “Sometimes I wish we were 11 again and didn’t have to worry about all these
feelings, romance, or jealousy.”

“Are you-” Hermione hesitated and then finished, “are you sorry?”

He met her eyes. “Not about us. Just sorry that this is going to hurt Ron, but no, I’m not sorry
about *this*.”

He tightened his arm around her and kissed her—and Harry averted his gaze, feeling
uncomfortable—and suddenly aware again of the oddness of his situation in being able to watch
himself kiss Hermione…

He turned, passing through the wall again into the living room to see Sirius waiting for
him.

“Well?” was all Sirius said.

Harry couldn’t bring himself to say what he’d realized, what he’d seen—but he did need to know
one thing. “What about Ron? How did Ron take it?”

Sirius’s answer wasn’t in words; he gripped Harry’s arm again and gave another wave of his free
hand.

Hermione’s flat faded around them and Harry blinked, to find himself in a restaurant that he
recognized as being the Camelot Café, a wizarding restaurant just off of Diagon Alley.

Looking around, he could see himself and Hermione at a nearby table, although he wasn’t close
enough to hear what they were saying.

She was smiling—and he couldn’t help but notice that she had gotten dressed up, her hair partly
pulled back to leave a few curls brushing her neck and he could only wonder at his own
self-restraint in not kissing her neck where the curls touched her skin.

As he watched, though, his other self reached over and took her hand, saying something that made
Hermione laugh and then blush.

He felt Sirius touch his arm and glanced at him as Sirius said, “Look,” and gestured with his
head towards the entrance to the restaurant, and tensed automatically.

Ron was standing there—with another man whom Harry didn’t know but whom he assumed to be a coach
for one of the Quidditch teams-- his eyes riveted on his two best friends, obviously sharing a
romantic dinner. He was pale and Harry could see a muscle working in his cheek as he swallowed.

Ron was clearly reluctantly fascinated at this sight of Harry and Hermione, together and very
obviously happy—and then he seemed to remember himself and turned to his companion, saying
something which Harry couldn’t hear but could guess was some sort of manufactured excuse for why
they should go to another restaurant instead of eating there.

And with a last backward glance at Harry and Hermione- who hadn’t seen him- Ron left the
restaurant.

Harry sighed, feeling more confident that maybe, he hadn’t made the wrong decision to leave five
years ago. He would have hated to hurt Ron, would have hated not being friends with Ron—and he
could clearly see just in this moment, that what had happened between his other self and Hermione,
however they had told Ron about it, had made the old friendship impossible.

He had been right to leave—it was what he’d done for his best friend’s sake, because he cared
more about preserving his friendship with both Ron and Hermione as it had been than anything
else…

But even as he thought this, he felt Sirius grip his arm again and they’d been transported to
another place, another flat—and he recognized with a shock, his old flat which he’d been living in
before he’d moved to Boston.

But it was different—somehow. There were new things he didn’t recognize; it looked neater than
he had usually kept it…

His other self was sitting on the couch, idly skimming the Daily Prophet and glancing at the
clock frequently and frowning slightly.

Looking at it, Harry saw that it was past nine in the evening and had just begun to wonder who
or what his other self was waiting for when the door opened and Hermione walked in, hanging up her
cloak with a sigh.

His other self stood up hurriedly and walked over. “Hi,” he greeted her with a kiss. “You’re
late.”

Hermione slid her arms around his waist, closing her eyes for a moment as she leaned against him
and then opened her eyes, answering, “I know. I’m sorry. Just as I was getting ready to leave, an
emergency patient arrived with a severe case of accidental poisoning from an improperly brewed
potion and it took us a while to figure out what had gone wrong with the potion.”

Harry saw himself nod. “I thought it was something like that—but I couldn’t keep from worrying a
little anyway. There’s food waiting for you in the kitchen.”

Hermione smiled a little wearily. “Oh bless you.”

They turned to walk into the kitchen and Harry noticed for the first time the glint of a diamond
ring on Hermione’s left hand and stiffened.

*Oh my God, he and Hermione were married! Or engaged! No wonder the flat looked neater than he
had usually kept it; it was because Hermione lived here too now…*

He didn’t know why but somehow the thought that, if he had just answered her differently that
one night, he and Hermione would be married now, suddenly filled him with more regret than he’d yet
felt. They could have been married by now…

Hermione settled herself on the couch with her dinner, leaning back against his other self, and
even Harry, watching, could see how comfortable they were together. Comfortable, at peace—and he
could recognize in himself the subtle relaxing of his shoulders and his air now that Hermione was
home. The hint of waiting, of nervousness, of worry, that had been bothering him earlier was gone
now and he was simply relaxed. It was the kind of peace Harry himself never really knew, the kind
of peace that came from not wanting or needing anything else to be happy for one particular moment
in time—and he knew a moment of fierce envy for his other self.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a knock on the door at which both his other self
and Hermione jumped.

He got up to open the door after glancing at the wards to make sure they indicated whoever was
outside was a friend—and then stopped.

Harry moved to see who had come calling and understood why his other self was standing there in
shock.

It was Ron.

“Can I- er- come in?” Ron asked and the sound of his voice seemed to jolt Harry into action.

He moved to let Ron come in and opened his mouth but Hermione spoke before he could.

“Ron! Oh it’s so good to see you!” she cried and in another second, she was hugging him leaving
Ron to smile tentatively and return her hug.

Hermione finally let go and stepped back to smile at him, rather tearily, as she slipped her
hand into Harry’s.

Ron’s gaze lowered to their joined hands and Hermione flushed, seeming to recollect herself and
let go of Harry’s hand, as an awkward silence ensued.

Ron was the first one to speak. “I- er- I heard you two were engaged.”

“Yes,” Harry nodded rather hesitantly and then rushed to continue. “We were going to tell you
but we weren’t sure how or if you’d want to know or hear from us so we were—waiting…”

A half-smile crossed Ron’s face. “You should have told me; it was hearing about it that made me
realize just what a pig-headed prat I’ve been.”

“Oh, Ron, no,” Hermione said softly. “You’re not- you haven’t been a prat.”

Ron shrugged, looking up from where he’d been determinedly studying the floor to meet Harry’s
and Hermione’s gaze. “No, I have been. It just took me until now to realize that I was letting my-
my sense of hurt pride get in the way of thinking rationally about it. I- I know I said some things
when you told me, things I didn’t really mean. I just--” he lifted his shoulders slightly in a
gesture of helpless regret and self-deprecation. “I just want you to be happy—both of you. You’re
my best friends and- and I know you didn’t mean to hurt me and you didn’t go behind my back. I want
you to be happy,” he repeated. “I’m *glad* you two are happy together.”

Ron managed a little smile. “And I’m sor--”

“No, it’s ok. It doesn’t matter,” Harry interrupted him and moving forward, hugged Ron in one of
their rare hugs, a hug which Ron returned.

Harry stepped back a little, letting Hermione join the circle and they stood for a moment in an
awkward, 3-way hug, letting silence heal the wounds of the past months.

Then they were smiling and then grinning and then laughing together—at what, they didn’t quite
know, unless it was just from sheer happiness at being able to laugh together, as a trio,
again.

And Harry, watching, had to turn away from Sirius’s too-penetrating gaze in an attempt to deny
his suddenly tight throat and pricking eyes at this evidence that he really had been wrong. About
Hermione’s feelings, about Ron, about—everything…

*To be continued…*



4. Chapter 3: The Sum of His Desires
------------------------------------

Disclaimer: See Prologue.

Author’s Note: This is a short little interlude of a chapter to tide you all over until after
the long weekend. Enjoy!

**Second Chances**

*Chapter 3: The Sum of His Desires*

Harry found himself in an unfamiliar little house. He glanced around, surprised at how odd it
felt not to have Sirius beside him- somehow- during this particular part of this vision. Sirius had
said, though, that he would still be able to send Harry out of the vision world and Harry was
hardly in a position to argue, this being a realm of magic no living person could know.

Looking around, he could see that little kids lived here, in the scattered pencils and
children’s books on the table plus a pair of tiny children’s shoes.

Then the front door opened and he saw himself walk in, looking a little tired, it’s true, but
with an indefinable air of *something* about him which Harry couldn’t quite identify.

His other self had just hung up a light summer cloak and called out, “I’m home,” when Harry
heard the sound of childish running feet and a gleeful cry of “Daddy!”

Before Harry had time to even try to mentally adjust to the idea of seeing himself as a father
or indeed had time to do anything other than catch his breath, a little girl with long, rather
bushy, brown hair, who looked to be about five, ran into the room. His other self swooped down on
her with a laugh, lifting her up as he asked, “How’s my little princess Emily doing?” and kissing
her on the tip of her nose, before setting her down.

And Harry suddenly knew what it was in the very air with which his other self moved, looked,
now. It was *happiness*, the simple and yet profound contentment of one who is safe in the
knowledge that he returns home to the dearest things in life to him…

The little girl promptly took the other Harry’s hand and began leading him out of the room
towards another room. “Mummy, Daddy’s home!” she announced to the unseen people in the next room
and then in the same tone looked back at her father to declare with all the pride of having been
elected Ruler of the World, “I finished reading my book today and then I helped Mummy teach Andy
how to count to 20.”

Harry hardly heard his other self respond in a tone of properly impressed pleasure, “Did you
really?”. Harry followed behind, staring in helpless fascination at the little figure of his
daughter—his daughter!—as she walked on, studying every detail of her body from the sturdiness of
her little legs, her hands as she confidently grasped that of her father, her hair, so like
Hermione’s he smiled in spite of himself. He hadn’t been able to see her eyes and wondered whether
her eyes would be brown, like Hermione’s, or if she’d inherited his own green ones. There was so
much innocent cheerfulness in her voice as she prattled on and he felt his throat close up and his
eyes sting with involuntary tears, filled with an emotion he wasn’t quite ready to put a name
to.

He had a daughter! Or his other self did… He could have been a father!

They had entered the other room, a little quasi-play room and children’s classroom, where
Hermione looked up and another little figure broke away from Hermione as she tried to neaten his
clothes, to attach himself to his father’s leg.

Laughing, his other self detached his little son, lifting him up and settling him on his arm.
“Has Andy been a good boy today?” he smiled into the little boy’s face so close to his own—close
enough that Harry could see, with some emotion, the resemblance between them.

The little boy nodded. “Uh huh.”

Harry watched as he put little Andy down after a quick kiss on the forehead and a “That’s my
boy”, letting him run off to join Emily in giggling at the antics of some plastic figurines of
circus clowns and animals, charmed to perform on their own.

“And how’s Emily and Andy’s mummy doing?” the other Harry asked in a softly teasing tone,
kissing Hermione on the cheek and sliding his arm around her waist.

“Emily and Andy’s mummy is doing fine,” Hermione smiled into her husband’s eyes.

Harry couldn’t help but notice that even though Hermione looked rather weary, she was also
beautiful—more beautiful than he’d ever seen her somehow—with the added maturity and warmth that
motherhood had given her.

Watching the cozy little family scene, Harry was pierced with pain, a mixture of love and loss
and longing and regret, so profound and so poignant he wondered how he could remain standing. And
he suddenly knew that in dismissing Hermione’s confession of love that fateful night 7 years ago,
he’d also dismissed *this*—this living fantasy of all he’d ever wanted in life…

Oh God, what he could have had if he hadn’t been such a monumental, colossal idiot! Harry had
never hated himself more than at that moment.

He was pulled from his painful thoughts by the sound of a knock at the front door and was spared
his curiosity as to whom it might be when Emily and Andy promptly lost interest in the circus
figurines and ran to the door with twin cries of “Nana and Grampa!” as his other self and Hermione
followed, after ending the charm placed on the circus figurines so they resumed their inanimate
state.

The door was pulled open by Emily and Harry recognized with something like a shock, Hermione’s
parents. They looked older, of course, than he remembered but were otherwise very little changed.
They were greeted with obvious excitement by Emily and Andy and affectionately by himself and
Hermione.

Mr. Granger smiled down at Emily as he asked, “Are we all set to go then, love?”

Emily nodded. “Yes, I am!” as Hermione quickly and quietly summoned two small children’s
backpacks and helped Andy put his on before letting Emily take hers.

Mrs. Granger hugged her son-in-law and then her daughter and Harry heard her say, “You two have
a good time tonight.”

“We will. And thank you for letting Emily and Andy stay with you tonight,” his other self
answered.

Mr. Granger waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, no need to thank us. If you didn’t ask us to take
them every once in a while, Clare’s liable to kidnap them just so she can indulge them to her
heart’s content.”

The little group of adults all laughed and Mrs. Granger gave her husband a look of smiling
reproof. “As if you’re any different, Doug,” she teased.

Mr. Granger grinned. “I never said I wouldn’t be aiding and abetting your kidnapping.”

Hermione chuckled, kissing her father on the cheek. “Thanks, anyway, Dad.”

His other self knelt in front of Emily to say, “You be a good girl for Nana and Grampa and take
care of Andy, okay, love?”

“I will, Daddy.”

He then turned to Andy, ruffling the little boy’s already untidy black hair. “Be good and Mommy
and I will see you tomorrow.”

And after another few minutes of goodbyes, the door closed behind Emily, Andy and the Grangers,
leaving Harry and Hermione alone.

Hermione turned into his arms with a little sigh. “Well, Mr. Potter, 24 hours of freedom from
the children begins now.”

He smiled. “Finally. I can have my wicked way with you.”

Hermione laughed softly and kissed him long and lingeringly.

Harry averted his eyes, envying his other self so fiercely he could taste the bitterness in his
mouth.

“Mm, happy anniversary, Hermione,” Harry heard his other self say, softly, when the kiss finally
ended.

“Happy anniversary, darling,” Hermione responded and then asked after a pause, “Can you believe
it’s been eight years?”

“Eight years… and every year has just been better than the last one.”

Harry saw Hermione smile and then begin to tug his other self toward the stairs. “I think it’s
about time Andy had a little sister or brother, don’t you?” she asked with a meaningful little
smile playing on her lips.

And the last thing Harry heard before the little house faded from around him was his other self
saying, “I knew I loved you for a reason.”

*To be continued…*



5. Chapter 4: Regret
--------------------

Disclaimer: See the Prologue.

Author’s Note: Thank you, everyone, who’s read and reviewed this so far!

**Second Chances**

*Chapter 4: Regret*

Harry blinked, disoriented, and it took him a moment to realize that he was back in the bedroom
of his flat, back to his real life, his life where he was alone, where he had cut himself off from
both Ron and Hermione… His life, that, successful and busy as it was, suddenly seemed incredibly
empty and bleak…

He sat down heavily in a chair, closing his eyes as he rested his head on his hands,
remembering, thinking of all he’d just witnessed… A silent, unseen witness to the joy he could have
had and all he had been missing these years.

He started when he heard Sirius’s voice, not having realized that apparently Sirius had returned
from wherever it was he had gone.

“Well?”

Harry looked up. “I was an idiot, wasn’t I?” he said bleakly.

“I wouldn’t say—ok, yes, you were an idiot,” Sirius admitted and Harry cracked a wan smile.
Sirius continued on more soberly. “You made a mistake, yes, but I can’t say you didn’t have good
intentions. It’s good that you’re loyal to your friends, good that you want what would make them
happy. It’s always been one of your strengths. But as you saw and as you should understand by now,
you weren’t why Ron and Hermione broke up. You were only one of many causes—and your leaving didn’t
mean that Ron and Hermione would get back together again either. And Harry, it’s okay to be selfish
sometimes.”

Harry blinked, frowning slightly. “What?”

“It’s okay to be selfish sometimes. Obviously not all the time or you’ll turn into some sort of
Slytherin creep but sometimes, it’s what you have to do for yourself. Sometimes that’s more
important; sometimes it’s the right thing to do.”

He paused, sighed a little, let his head drop to look at the floor, and muttered more to himself
than to Harry, “Now I wish Lily had come instead of me; she’d be better at saying this.” He looked
back up after a moment, continuing. “You and Hermione had love, the sort of love that really only
comes once in a lifetime—and you gave it up. Harry, when you get the chance for that sort of love,
you hold on to it with all you have in you. You don’t give it up, no matter the difficulties. You
don’t take the easy way out. Do you understand what I’m saying, Harry?” His tone was quiet,
understanding.

Harry looked up at the ghost of his godfather with so much naked emotion in his expression that
Sirius felt uncomfortable for a moment, seeing Harry so vulnerable, so open. And for a moment, he
looked much younger than his 27 years, looked for a moment like the little boy he had been when
Sirius had first seen him after his escape from Azkaban.

“What- what can I do? Is it too late? Did- have I lost my chance?”

Sirius sighed. “That’s not for me to say. Your parents and I have done what we could just in
showing you what you could have had; we can’t tell you what Hermione will say or do. We can’t
guarantee you a happy ending, Harry. Now it’s up to you, to decide what you’ll do now that you know
the mistake you made and how you allowed yourself to stray from all you could have had.”

Slowly Harry stood up, a new purpose and determination in his expression. “I’m going to go
back.”

Sirius smiled approvingly. “I thought you would.”

“I’m going to go back and see if I’m too late. She loved me then; maybe, somehow, she still
loves me now… But even if she doesn’t, I have to find out; I have to try…” His voice dropped and
the last phrase was spoken more to himself than to Sirius. “Because without her, nothing else will
really matter…”

“Then my work here is done. And, Harry,” Sirius paused, putting a hand briefly on his godson’s
shoulder, “good luck.”

Harry smiled slightly. “Thanks, Sirius, for- for everything.” He hesitated and then added, “And-
and tell my parents, I- I said thank you, too.”

Sirius nodded. “I will.” He stepped back and grinned slightly. “And we’ll still be watching you
so we’ll know what happens.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, without really knowing why.

And with a last smile, Sirius was gone.

Leaving Harry to stare for a moment at the empty space where just a moment ago, the ghost-like
figure of his godfather had been standing—before he blinked and shook his head slightly to clear
it, beginning to mentally plan all he needed to do before he could return to England—and to
*her*…

He’d never imagined this would be how it would be.

In the few times he’d allowed himself to think about what it’d be like to return to England, to
see Hermione again, he’d never thought it’d be like this.

Hiding under his Invisibility Cloak outside her flat, waiting for her to come home… Because even
though he was a Gryffindor, an Auror, and had faced Voldemort and Death Eaters, somehow, the idea
of facing Hermione knowing what he did, feeling what he did, scared him more than anything
else.

It had been two weeks since Sirius—or Sirius’s ghost—had visited, two weeks of remembering and
thinking… Two weeks where he’d managed to settle everything with his supervisor for being
permanently transferred back to London, two weeks of saying goodbye to the few friends he’d made in
Boston, two weeks where he’d been unable to think of anything besides Hermione—and what a
monumental idiot he had been to let her go…

Two weeks of alternately hoping for and dreading this moment of standing outside her door.

His dread had momentarily conquered his hope, hence why he was standing outside under his
Invisibility Cloak so he might, at least, see her without her seeing him.

And as if the thought had called her, he heard her voice coming up the stairwell and froze at
the familiar sound.

“You really didn’t have to, you know,” she was saying.

“I know,” responded another voice, an unfamiliar, male voice—and he stiffened, now immensely
thankful for his Cloak. “I wanted to, though, and besides, it’s pretty much on my way, anyway.”

“It’s a waste of time,” Hermione protested half-laughingly and then he saw her for the first
time in 7 years.

She hadn’t changed much. Her hair looked slightly tamer but since it was pulled back away from
her face, he couldn’t really judge. She was dressed as simply and as practically as she had always
dressed, in pants and a loosely-fitted blouse—she was lovely.

His eyes took in these details of her appearance but they didn’t quite register as his mind was
preoccupied with the sight of Hermione’s companion, whom Harry didn’t recognize but irrationally
resented on sight just for the seemingly-proprietary way in which he had a hand on Hermione’s
arm.

“Thanks for dinner,” Hermione smiled up at her friend.

“Anytime. It was my turn anyway,” the man smiled and Harry didn’t even have time to react to the
implication that they met and had dinner together on a regular basis before his world seemed to
stop, his heart cracking, as Hermione kissed the man on the cheek with obvious affection and gave
him a quick hug.

Harry felt himself retreat instinctively until he felt the wall at his back, leaning against it
as he felt his body sag.

He was too late.

He was too late; Hermione was already involved with someone else, someone whom she clearly cared
for (he could see it in the way she smiled at him, hear it in the tone of her voice as she talked
with him).

Of course he was too late. What had he been expecting, that Hermione would have been pining for
him these past 7 years, just waiting for him to realize his mistake? She wouldn’t have done that;
he knew her too well to think it. She was so strong, independent; she would have moved on. And it
wasn’t as if there would have been a shortage of fellows for her to choose from; Hermione was smart
and pretty and kind and caring and…

And he had thrown away his chance.

He sighed heavily, trying to reconcile himself to a future that would bear no resemblance to the
one which he’d seen, before slowly straightening, shrugging out from under his Cloak since Hermione
had gone inside while her friend had left. He couldn’t completely give up now, not until he saw her
and heard her tell him he had no chance. He had to try… He had to tell her…

With that resolve in mind, clinging desperately to his tiny remaining shred of hope, based on
the very sincerity of her tone and her expression when she’d told him she was in love with him so
many years ago, he raised his hand to knock.

Then he hesitated, dropped his hand, sighed, and then shook his head. This was ridiculous. He
was a Gryffindor, wasn’t he? He’d been running from and denying his feelings for years now; it was
about time he faced up to them.

On that thought, he took another breath and knocked firmly.

The door opened promptly with Hermione’s smiling voice, “David, did you for--” And then she saw
him and her words cut off abruptly as she stared, her eyes widening and her breath catching in her
throat.

He managed a smile. “Hello, Hermione.”

“Harry?” she asked faintly and then again, louder this time. “Harry?” Then she had thrown her
arms around him in a hug that took his breath away. “Oh Harry!”

His arms closed around her as he rested his head on hers, breathing in the remembered and
familiar smell of her shampoo and that essence that was simply *her*. Oh God, he had missed
this—and he wondered now how he could possibly have stayed away from her for so long, how he could
possibly have convinced himself he didn’t need her, didn’t love her, could live perfectly happily
separated by an entire ocean. If what he’d seen in Sirius’s visions hadn’t convinced him, he knew
that this moment of seeing her, of hugging her again, would have done it. And he knew he could
never leave her again. No matter what she said to his question, no matter what her feelings for him
still were… He couldn’t leave her. He needed her in his life, even if it was simply as his best
friend.

It was a few minutes before she stepped back, suddenly recalled to herself. And in the rather
awkward silence that ensued after she let him into her flat, he realized just how much he had
damaged their friendship.

“What- what are you doing here, Harry?” Hermione finally asked quietly, not quite meeting his
eyes.

He took a deep breath and finally just blurted out, “I- I came to tell you that I’ve been an
idiot. I *was* an idiot.”

An odd expression he couldn’t quite decipher crossed her face fleetingly. She didn’t need to ask
what he was talking about; she understood, as always, and in spite of everything.

“I- I was scared and I didn’t want to hurt Ron and- and I was a prat.” He sighed, running an
absent hand through his hair, before meeting her eyes squarely to say what he’d come back to
England to say. “I love you, Hermione. I’m in love with you. I was in love with you then; I always
*will* love you.” He paused, regret momentarily twisting his features as he saw the pained
expression on her face, and then continued on. “I- I love you, Hermione—and I came back to tell you
that and to ask… Am I too late? Can you forgive me? Do- do you still care?”

She turned around so her back was to him, her shoulders shaking slightly—and his heart
broke.

“Hermione, please,” he burst out, knowing he sounded desperate, which he was, and not caring,
“please. I- I know I was an idiot and I don’t deserve it. I- I don’t expect you to still love me
but at least give me another chance. Please, just give me one more chance. Give me some hope…” he
trailed off.

It seemed an eternity before she turned around again, although it was really only a few minutes,
an eternity in which he remembered all he’d seen in the visions and wondered bleakly, how he was
going to live if she said it was too late.

But finally, she did turn to face him again, slowly, turn so he could see the traces of tears on
her cheeks and the tears still glistening in her eyes. His heart twisted at this evidence of just
how much he must have hurt her.

“You broke my heart,” she said quietly. There was no reproach in her tone; it was a statement of
fact.

He flinched and moved one step forward, closer to her. “I know. I’m so sorry, Hermione.”

“You left, letting a letter say goodbye, at a time when you knew Ron and I weren’t really
talking and left me alone, without the help of either of my best friends. I had to move on
alone.”

He paled slightly, closing his eyes briefly as if to brace himself. “Am- am I too late?” he
faltered.

“I don’t know, Harry,” she answered honestly. “I just don’t know. I- I’m not the same person I
was back then. I changed; I had to. And it’s been so long. I- you can’t just show up after 7 years
and expect me to have been pining for you all these years!” she burst out, anger flaring up
suddenly.

He flinched again as if he’d been struck, remorse and regret written all over his face as he
looked at her. “I know. I- I don’t expect, didn’t expect, you to have been waiting. I- I just need
to know I can try, need to know it’s not too late.”

And finally, finally, she smiled slightly—and he knew he had her answer. He could have his
second chance. The soul-deep relief he felt nearly brought him to his knees and he closed his eyes
momentarily and let out a breath before looking back up at her.

“Have dinner with me tomorrow night?” he asked quietly, holding his breath for this answer on
which it seemed his entire future life depended.

A few moments of silence passed, and then—“Yes,” she answered.

He smiled.

And with that one word, the first step was taken to rebuilding their friendship and moving
toward the future he had so blindly thrown away…

*To be continued…*



6. Chapter 5: Confessions
-------------------------

Disclaimer: See Prologue.

Author’s Note: First of all, I’m sorry this has taken so long to post! Unfortunately, RL (and
final papers) got in the way.

For those who were wondering, David is just a good friend of Hermione’s.

The happy ending you’ve all been waiting for; thanks for reading and reviewing! Enjoy!

**Second Chances**

*Chapter 5: Confessions*

“Your Harry is waiting for you outside the waiting room.”

Hermione looked up from the chart of the patient they were getting ready to discharge. “He’s
not-” she corrected automatically, before she was interrupted by her friend and sometime mentor,
Abby Brantley, making a skeptical noise.

“Hermione, that man is so head over heels in love with you a blind man could see it. All you
have to do is say the word and I have no doubt he’d do anything you ask. Merlin, Hermione, the way
he looks at you sometimes, the way he smiles when he sees you… It’s enough to make *me* go
weak in the knees and believe me, that doesn’t happen easily when you’ve been married as long as I
have.”

Hermione smiled slightly, shrugging aside Abby’s words and returning her attention to her work
but they came to mind again a few minutes later when she had finished all her tasks for the day and
walked out to join Harry.

He was talking to a young boy who was also in the waiting room with his father and even from
where she was, Hermione could see the hero worship glowing in the boy’s eyes as he listened to
Harry, no doubt telling brief, modest stories of his years at Hogwarts to appease the boy’s
curiosity about his life as the famous Harry Potter.

Unconsciously, her steps slowed and her expression softened as she watched Harry interact with
the boy and she suddenly thought that this was what she loved about Harry, what she’d always loved
about him. That even with his fame and despite the way he’d been brought up by his detestable
relations, he was still such a kind person. Not perfect—she, of all people, knew that—but still, he
was, in the simplest terms, a nice person.

He looked up and saw her and smiled and she thought that Abby had been right. There really was
something in the way he smiled when he saw her… He was just *happy* to see her…

He turned back to say a quick goodbye to the boy before walking towards her and somehow that
little gesture, that he’d remembered the boy, told her everything she needed to know.

It was what Harry was, a hero but a modest one, a powerful wizard, a loyal friend, and just a
good person—and she loved him.

She had loved him as just her best friend for years and she was in love with him now, still,
always.

“Hi,” he greeted her.

“Hi. It looks like you made a new friend,” she smiled, gesturing at the boy.

He shrugged slightly and grinned. “He’s a nice kid. He wanted to know whether it was true I
defeated a dragon when I was 14 years old.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I didn’t defeat the dragon; I said I basically tried to play Quidditch with it and sort of
won by default.”

Hermione laughed. “That’s one way of putting it.”

Harry sobered and said, more earnestly, “And mentioned that if it hadn’t been for you, I’d have
been fried for the dragon’s lunch before anything else.”

“That’s not true, Harry,” she protested.

He stopped walking, putting a hand on her arm to make her pause as well as she glanced at him
curiously.

“It is true, for that and for just about every other crazy thing that happened at Hogwarts, I
couldn’t have done it without you. And I never quite thanked you for it. Until now.”

“Harry, I…”

He shook his head slightly. “It is true—and thank you.”

And then he smiled; she smiled back; then they continued walking.

Outwardly, nothing had changed and nothing much had just happened—but she knew differently.

Something had changed, somehow.

And she was in love with Harry, had never stopped loving him even though she’d tried and even
convinced herself that she’d succeeded.

She’d never stopped loving him.

It was why it had never worked with any of the guys she’d dated in the last 7 years. It was why,
somehow, almost subconsciously, she’d always compared every man she dated with Harry- only to find
them lacking. It was why she knew she would always remember that moment of his return and hearing
him finally say what she’d never thought he would say. It was why she’d felt, on hearing him say
the words, that she’d been waiting her whole life for that moment and those words…

And it was why she was going to tell Harry that she loved him tonight.

She just needed to decide when and how…

~*~*~

*Stupid, stupid, stupid,* Harry berated himself mentally.

He hadn’t meant to say his thought aloud but he had. And now Hermione was looking at him
strangely.

She had just commented, as their server, whose name was Emily, left after taking their order, “I
always liked the name Emily.” She smiled a little, her tone becoming nostalgic. “When I was little
and didn’t like having a name like Hermione that was so different, I used to pretend my name was
Emily; it was my idea of a perfect, pretty, and common enough name.”

He hadn’t meant to say what he’d thought aloud. “I know. You named our daughter Emily.”

There was an odd silence and he suddenly realized what he’d said and how incredibly insane it
sounded. *Oh bugger.*

Hermione was staring at him as if he’d just sprouted horns.

“Oh God,” he blurted out, “I didn’t mean to say that out-loud.” He thought frantically but
really, what choice did he have but to explain all about Sirius’s ghostly visit and the visions
he’d seen? There was no explanation he could give that would make him sound sane—there was only the
truth.

“I- er- I can explain what I just said. I’m not crazy—or at least, I don’t think I am,” he tried
to joke, lamely. “It- I- that is- something happened to me before I left Boston and it was why I
left, why I came back home to England—to *you*.”

He let his breath out in a half-sigh before meeting Hermione’s questioning gaze bravely. “Sirius
came to visit me,” he finally began bluntly.

“S-sirius? Harry, you- you know he’s dead…” she said, rather hesitantly, in the tone of one
breaking an unpleasant truth to someone whose sanity is questionable.

He let out a brief laugh. “That’s what I said when I saw him. It was his ghost, or his spirit,
or something, really. And he told me—he told me that he and my parents had been watching me and
they’d decided to intervene because of the mess I had made.”

Hermione was still frowning slightly; he could see every logical part of her brain trying to
rationalize what he’d just said and failing. “The mess you’d made? Of what?”

“The mess I’d made of my life.” He managed a self-deprecating smile. “He told me, in brief, that
I’d been a monumental idiot to leave you. And then—this is the part that’s really going to sound
crazy—he showed me an alternate universe.”

“A- a what?” Hermione was peripherally aware that she probably looked and sounded rather like an
idiot but she couldn’t help it. All that Harry was saying was so- so unbelievable. And while she’d
gotten used to accepting things that weren’t rational since she’d first been introduced to the
magical world, this was in the realm of the impossible—and the insane. But- but she knew Harry
wasn’t crazy; she’d spent so much time with him in the last few weeks since his return…

Harry’s gaze dropped from hers to focus on the tabletop as his hand idly played with his napkin.
“He- he showed me the answer to the question of what could have been… Beginning from that last
night before I left—” he glanced up at her quickly, “the night you told me you loved me,” he added,
his tone and his expression softening, becoming tender, “he showed me what would have happened if
I’d responded the way I should have—the way I wanted to respond and kissed you again…”

He paused and then continued, still addressing the table more than her, “And he showed me the
future, the future we could have had, the future I still hope to have…” His voice lowered until she
could hardly hear it. “We- we were married and we had two children.”

She gasped softly as he continued on, not looking at her.

“Our daughter was named Emily. She looked like you—she was so beautiful… And we had a son, Andy,
who looked like me.” He managed a slight smile. “Poor boy; his hair was just as messy as mine
always is.”

He finally looked up at her, love and hope warring in his eyes. “It- it was the most amazing,
beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, that future. It was—it was a glimpse of all I’ve ever wanted in my
life. And I realized then that I needed to come back and see you. I needed to see if I had any hope
of making that dream come true…” He paused and then finished with a smile that tried to be casually
cheerful, “Plus, after Sirius came back to this earth just to tell me in no uncertain terms what an
idiot I’d been, what else could I do but admit that he was right?”

“Oh Harry…” Hermione finally said softly, blinking back the tears that had welled up at the
depth of the longing in his tone as he described what he’d seen.

He shrugged slightly, trying to smile and not quite managing it. “So now you know what made me
come back, how I finally realized what a blind prat I’d been. And you know,” he added softly, “just
why I’ll wait as long as I have to, do anything, to show you how much I care and I’ll never leave
you again…”

She swallowed the lump of emotion in her throat, reaching across the table to take his hand, a
wavering smile on her lips as she met his eyes. “I don’t need time; you don’t need to wait. I love
you too.”

He caught his breath, a new light beginning to dawn in his eyes. “You mean…”

She laughed slightly, a laugh more of happiness than amusement. “I mean, I never really stopped
loving you. I told myself I had and I tried to move on, tried to date, but there was always
something missing, something not quite right… Some of those fellows were so- nice—but they weren’t
*you*.” She paused, smiling into his eyes. “After all, I think I’ve loved you for so long that
loving you is just part of who I am now and nothing can ever change that.”

“I love you,” was all he said in response, though the look in his eyes was much more
eloquent.

He brought her hand up to his lips, kissing it and as he smiled, he said a silent *thank
you* to his parents and Sirius, knowing that somewhere, they were watching and smiling.

And he thought that, after all, maybe it was for the better that it had taken him this long, had
taken *them* this long since they’d first realized their feelings, to reach this
understanding. It made this moment, this happiness, that much more precious. He knew, now, just how
much he needed Hermione. He knew that he *could* live without her in his life—he just didn’t
want to. And as he met Hermione’s eyes, he knew he would never have to live without her again.

*~The End~*