Time to Say I Love You

Disclaimer: All things HP belong to JKR, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

Author’s Note: Written for Cheering Charm’s birthday.

Time to Say I Love You

It was going to happen now.

She knew it in a split second. Knew it in her bones.

What they’d been avoiding, stepping around the unspoken like it was a puddle they didn’t want to wet their feet in, for months now.

She’d never said anything; he’d never said anything. There had been little moments, little touches, words begun but cut short. Times she’d caught his gaze on her lips—or her gaze had fixated on his mouth.

But nothing had been said, nothing had been done overtly.

Because of the past—of those few months with Ron. She knew it and she knew he knew it and every time he might have said or done something to cross the line, she knew the thought of Ron and what he might think—to say nothing of the additional danger it would put her in—would stop him.

And they would go back to their little dance of tension and unacknowledged feelings.

She had begun to think of it as their dance; it almost seemed like one. She took a step; he took a step in parallel with her; they moved together it seemed, sometimes awkwardly admittedly, but together—so far and no further.

Because of Ron… Ron and her and their history… Because no matter that she and Ron had ended relatively amicably after what seemed like a couple months of snogging, fighting, crying and then more snogging—there was still a history.

And she and Ron couldn’t get past it. Just like she and Harry couldn’t get past it. She supposed it was inevitable.

It was the shadow of the past.

She could almost have laughed; it seemed so cliché, so much the warning in all the stories and movies about what happens between a trio of friends when two are of one sex and one is of the other. Love triangles and awkwardness because naturally it would be impossible to stay platonic forever.

She and Ron were over—but there were moments, memories intruding and making things awkward even when the feelings behind the memories were gone. She knew Harry remembered every time she and Ron had disappeared to snog and then returned flushed and breathless. She knew she remembered every time she’d felt guilty about abandoning Harry like that. And they hadn’t been particularly happy months.

She’d felt guilty over every time she and Ron spent some time alone (and guilt was not conducive to romance, she’d found); she’d felt miserable and hurt every time she and Ron fought (which, amazingly, seemed to happen more often when they were together than when they’d only been friends) and always, along with the guilt and the hurt, she’d worried over Harry and the horcruxes and Voldemort. No, they hadn’t been happy months and she’d felt mostly relief when she and Ron had let their relationship die what seemed a natural death, snogging sessions becoming less and less frequent and when they did occur, shorter and more and more awkward, until finally she’d looked at Ron and he’d looked at her and she’d just said, with some regret, “It’s not working, is it?” It hadn’t really been a question, more a statement, and he’d sighed too and just shaken his head.

It had taken weeks for her to feel even relatively normal around Ron again but then neither of them had had time to think about their personal lives. She’d thrown all her energy and her waking (and often her sleeping) moments into helping Harry.

And it had taken months before she realized that she wasn’t just helping Harry because he was her best friend (although he was) and the dread she felt every time she even thought about Harry facing Voldemort wasn’t because he was her best friend either—but because she loved him. Because he was the most important person in her life. It was why she tried so hard these days to get him to smile or laugh, why she sometimes had to stop herself from just hugging him, hard, and never letting go—as if by holding on to him, she could protect him from whatever was out there.

She loved him—and she’d absolutely die if anything happened to him.

But she hadn’t said anything. Because there was still Ron but more because, at first, she didn’t know how he felt about her.

But eventually she’d realized that he must love her too—somehow. Not that he ever said anything or treated her differently—but she knew.

And still neither of them said anything.

For so many reasons, really. There was no time for romance when they were fighting a war and Harry was in near-constant danger, when they were destroying horcruxes and trying, desperately, to keep up with Voldemort’s movements. And he refused to put her in danger. He’d broken up with Ginny for that reason; he wasn’t going to put her in even greater danger.

It hadn’t been the time.

But now—now, it was.

They were out of time now. And he’d be leaving in a few minutes to face Voldemort for good. They had a plan, knew where Voldemort was going to be—and they all knew this was the end. The final horcrux had been destroyed just hours before—and they knew Voldemort had felt it. He hadn’t felt the other horcruxes being destroyed—but he had felt the last one, and he knew now that he was vulnerable. So he wouldn’t wait, would attack once he’d gathered his forces—but Harry was attacking first in what would look to anyone, Voldemort included, like a suicide mission—except for the knowledge she, and a very few others, had—that Harry had found, through the help of Dumbledore’s portrait and Professor McGonagall, an old, old spell more powerful than anything they’d yet found to separate Voldemort’s soul from his body once and for all and destroy the last remaining part of Voldemort’s soul.

It was a last, desperate risk, a last, desperate gamble—and if- if it failed—no! She refused to think it! She could not think it!

But now the time for avoidance and denial was over.

There was only now—because there might not be a later…

And had the sudden realization that really, the reasons for why she’d never acted on her feelings before, were incredibly silly and inconsequential. Yes, she and Ron had been together; it was over now, had been for months; she loved Harry and he loved her—and everything else didn’t matter.

She moved across the Great Hall quickly, where Harry stood talking quietly and intensely with Professor McGonagall and Remus, going over the last-minute details of when Harry would leave and when the Order, nearly every single member capable of combat with any experience, would follow. The Order’s force would include herself, Ron and Neville, over the objections of nearly everybody, because, as she’d argued forcefully, she and Ron were the two people most concerned with this and no one had more right than they did to be fighting alongside Harry at the end—and no one could deny Neville’s right, quietly asserted, to face Bellatrix Lestrange.

“Harry.”

Her voice was quiet but it seemed as loud as a gunshot would have been, despite the low hum of conversation in the Great Hall.

He abruptly stopped talking as Professor McGonagall and Remus seemed to discreetly melt away into the rest of the crowd, and turned to face her.

Her feet suddenly felt as if lead had been poured into them but she forced herself to move forward, her heart thundering so loudly she was convinced it must be echoing in the entire room.

Her eyes never left his, held his gaze steadily—and for the first time, she didn’t try to hide her feelings, didn’t look away or blink or any of the other tactics she’d used over the past few months.

I love you, Harry.

There was a flicker of a smile in his eyes. I know. I love you.

She was now within 3 meters of him. Her steps slowed, a first pang of nervousness (for what, she didn’t know) going through her—but she saw the look on his face and as quickly as it had come, the fleeting uncertainty was gone.

And she closed the rest of the distance between them in a rush, throwing her arms around him in a hug—much like the hugs she’d given him before but never before had she hugged him with so much feeling—or, for that matter, before so many people.

She had the vague thought that this should really be happening when they were alone—but after all, it didn’t matter in the slightest that they had an audience. None of that mattered; nothing mattered—except him and her and this moment, right now, when she was finally, finally, crossing the line.

Her face was buried in his shoulder for a long moment as she simply breathed in the scent of him.

She didn’t say anything and neither did he. They just held on to each other, tightly, as if they were drowning and the other person was their only chance of survival.

He was the first one to let go, his arms loosening their embrace as they drew apart slightly, just enough for him to see her face.

Their eyes met in wordless communication.

We should be alone.

It doesn’t matter.

And then his hands cupped her face, gently, and he kissed her with a mixture of tenderness and passion. Kissed her as her eyes closed, her arms sliding around his neck. Kissed her in front of just about every person they’d ever met. Kissed her as if they were alone—and until she felt as if they were alone, alone in the room and in the world… Kissed her as if he’d been wanting to kiss her for months, even years, and was finally acting on it. Kissed her as if he could happily go on kissing her like this forever, as she knew she would be…

Kissed her as if it were the last time—and by God, he was going to make it count…

She had no idea how long the kiss went on; it seemed to last both no time at all and forever—and she had the odd feeling that this was what she’d been waiting her whole life for.

They finally drew apart, both of them flushed and out of breath, neither of them noticing—and wouldn’t have cared if they had—the complete and utter silence in the room as every eye in the room stared.

The slightest of smiles curved her lips as she looked up at him; he didn’t smile but his entire expression softened, lightened, as he looked at her.

They hugged again, although it was gentler this time.

And then the moment was over; they stepped apart, people resumed their conversations albeit in a more subdued fashion.

She could see the change in him, as he switched into his single-minded determination mode, the hero in him coming to the front.

Professor McGonagall and Remus appeared again and they finished their conversation—and said their own goodbyes.

But at the last second, when all the other spoken and unspoken goodbyes had been said, before he left (to be followed by the Order in 10 minutes if he didn’t send a prearranged signal), his gaze searched for, found, and held hers.

I love you—and I’ll come back to you.

I know…

And she knew an odd, completely irrational, moment of peace and certainty. He would survive and he would come back.

She wasn’t even sure why she thought so, but she did, knew it somehow. This wasn’t the end; could not be the end, for him, for them…

~The End~

Author’s Note: Well, I lied. From popular demand, I wrote this, a companion fic/sequel to “Time to Say I Love You.” Fluff.

A Moment in Time

It began with her saying his name.

“Harry.”

How many times had she said his name over the past 7 years? Millions, he thought idly in the portion of mind that was irrationally clear and thinking of other, inconsequential things—like remembering Dumbledore’s saying nonsense words like “nitwit, blubber, oddment and squeak” in place of a welcoming speech—the small portion of his mind not focused on strategy and planning for this, the final attack.

He’d heard her say his name so many times in so many different tones. He knew them all, too. The way she said his name when she was sad or worried or afraid. The way she said his name when something he’d done or said touched her for some reason. The way she said his name in exasperation and annoyance and sometimes anger. The way she said his name when she was amused.

But he’d never heard her say his name like she did now. There was so much emotion in it, all those things he knew she must be feeling at that moment. Fear and hope, dread and an odd excitement at the end finally being near—and more than anything else, love. Love and loyalty and friendship and trust—all those things which she’d given to him over the years, all those things which he felt for her as well… Love.

And just hearing the way she said his name in that moment put an end to the doubts which he still occasionally felt as to how she felt about him—did she, could she, care as much about him as he cared about her? Sometimes, in his worst moments, he couldn’t quite believe that she might. He needed her so much, needed her in a way that scared him with its intensity and its single-mindedness. He couldn’t quite believe that she—who was so strong, who made him stronger in his moments of weakness—could possibly need him, love him, as much as he loved her.

But now, hearing the way she said his name, he knew. She did.

He stopped talking, breaking off mid-sentence—and while a moment ago, he’d thought that strategizing and planning with Professor McGonagall and Remus was the most important thing and the biggest priority at this moment, he suddenly knew that it wasn’t. Planning and strategy could wait.

He knew it even as Professor McGonagall and Remus gave him understanding looks and quietly stepped away, leaving him alone.

And slowly he turned to face her, his eyes searching for and finding hers as she moved closer.

Her gaze didn’t waver, never left his face and for the first time, all her feelings were clear to be seen on her face. There were no barriers, no masks; everything had been stripped away in this moment.

This moment which was one of those defining moments of life, and he knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

I love you, I love you, I love you… I need you…

His thoughts were repeating themselves in a litany and he could see the same confession in her eyes and felt a surge of happiness that drowned out everything else, the worry, the uncertainty, the doubts…

None of it mattered anymore. It didn’t matter that she might be in danger—it was too late for that. It didn’t matter about Ron or that he wasn’t entirely sure whether Ron would be okay with him and Hermione getting together. Nothing mattered at that moment except that she loved him and he loved her—and they were finally going to put an end to all the evasions and the avoidance and the denial.

Her steps slowed, almost paused, and then she closed the rest of the distance between them at a run and before he could think, she was in his arms, knocking him back a step with the force of her embrace.

He closed his arms around her, tightly, holding her to him, his eyes closing, his face pressed against her hair. And he just held her, savored the familiar—and yet new—sensation of her in his arms, her body pressed against his, the warmth of her, the familiar smell of her, the comfort of her… And he had the sudden thought that he could stay like this forever, just holding her in his arms; he never wanted to let her go…

He wondered if he should say something but after all, there was no need to talk. He knew she understood and any words would ruin the moment.

He only let her go so he could look at her face, his eyes roaming over the familiar features as if he wanted to memorize them, with the vague, unacknowledged fear in his heart that maybe this would be the last time he’d get to really look at her…

Hermione…

And he forgot that there were more than a hundred other people in the Great Hall, probably all watching them. His entire world narrowed down to just the two of them, together.

And he lifted his hands to cup her face, tenderly, and did what he’d thought of doing, wanted to do, for months now but never had before. He kissed her, his lips caressing hers, learning the feel of her lips, the softness of them, the taste of her. Kissed her as he’d never kissed anyone before because, after all, this was different. Different because it was her and him and he somehow knew that he’d been wanting to do this for a lot longer than he’d known, that this was something he could almost swear he’d been waiting his whole life for…

He kissed her so that even if this were the end, she would know he loved her. Kissed her deeply, thoroughly, so he’d have one less regret if- if things didn’t go well…

He should have kissed her like this months ago. He knew a sudden sick regret at all the days and weeks and months he’d wasted, wasted by not really seeing Hermione as she really was, wasted by not understanding just how much he needed her and how much he cared about her—as so much more than just his best friend—wasted by not giving in and kissing her every time he’d found himself staring at her lips before. They could have had so much more time... He’d said it before to Ginny but only now did he truly mean them, now when he knew that this thing with Hermione, his feelings for her, were real and strong and maybe, just maybe, had always been there.

They finally drew apart and he looked into her eyes, seeing the love in them and the happiness that they’d finally crossed the line between friendship and something more that they’d been skirting the edge of for months now.

The smallest of smiles curved her lips and looking at her, he felt the regret at the time they’d wasted fade. Because, after all, it hadn’t been entirely wasted time. They had grown so much closer together; he’d realized just how much he needed her and she’d always been there for him. They had argued when tempers got short thanks to stress and lack of sleep; he’d snapped at both her and Ron when he’d gotten frustrated—and she’d put up with him and through it all, she’d been his friend. She’d been his friend, his strength, his sanity—and she’d shown him over and over again that she loved him.

I love you, Hermione…

He didn’t say the words aloud, only thought them as he looked at her and knew that she understood. She knew.

He tightened his arms around her again in a last hug, brushing his lips against her hair.

And then it was over—it had been a little moment outside of time.

But there were things he needed to do, plans needed to be finalized and strength found from somewhere inside him to do what needed to be done.

He turned back to Professor McGonagall and Remus. “I think 10 minutes will be enough for me to find him and hold him off—and then the Order will need to come in, distract the rest of the Death Eaters, while I perform the spell.”

Professor McGonagall nodded and Remus said quietly, “We’ll be ready to follow you in whenever you need us, so if you get there before the 10 minutes are up, just send a signal—your Patronus should work—and we’ll move in.”

“Okay.”

Remus put a hand on his arm, squeezing it lightly. “Good luck, Harry.”

Professor McGonagall swallowed and also said, “Good luck, Mr. Potter—and be careful.”

Harry managed a slight, serious smile. “I will.”

He turned, found Ron watching him with an odd look on his face, the look that Ron occasionally got when he was feeling a lot more than he was comfortable expressing. Harry moved to hug Ron- a real hug- felt Ron hug him back.

“Be careful in there, mate.”

“Yeah, I will.” Harry smiled. “You too.” He paused and then added soberly, “Take care of Hermione, will you?”

Their eyes met and held for a moment—and Harry knew that Ron understood he meant to watch out for Hermione during the battle—and also afterwards, in case—in case something happened.

Ron nodded. “Of course.”

It was time; he needed to leave.

But he had one last thing to do…

He turned, his gaze immediately finding Hermione, their eyes meeting. He could see, even at a distance, the slight quiver pass over her face as she tried not to cry and even forced a smile.

I love you.

I love you too.

Be careful.

I will; you too.

And as he looked at her, he was suddenly sure that he would survive. For the first time, he felt no fear that he might not make it through the battle; he would; he had to. He had so much to live for…

He had so much to live for—so he would live, for her, for them…

His lips twitched in the ghost of a smile.

I’ll come back to you, Hermione.

Her expression lightened almost imperceptibly and somehow he knew that she understood. Yes, he would come back; he would survive…

I know…

And with the image of her face in his mind, he turned and left the safety of the Great Hall to face his nemesis and his destiny.

~*~

She was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes again. Her somewhat blurry face, and the smile that lit up her expression when she saw him open his eyes.

“Oh, Harry.”

Just his name- again- but that was enough.

He blinked, to clear his vision, conscious now that her hand was gripping his and that there were tear stains on her cheeks.

He tried to remember what had happened—tried and failed. He remembered saying goodbye, remembered going to the deserted fortress which Voldemort had taken over, remembered feeling his scar explode with searing pain—and then nothing else.

He swallowed, opened his mouth. “Is- is it over?” he managed to croak.

And she smiled a smile brighter than any he’d ever seen, a smile that made him think of a sunrise.

“Yes, it’s over. You did it, Harry. It’s over now.” Over—and with very few casualties, amazingly few. But the Death Eaters had rapidly given up the moment they realized that Voldemort was dead and gone, for good this time. And they were all alive with only a few serious injuries among them—all of them had survived, except for Snape. But she didn’t mention that. There would be time later to tell Harry the details; for now, all he needed to know was that it was over. And all she needed to know was that Harry would be okay.

He smiled, his eyes closing again. “’s good,” he mumbled. And then forced his eyes open again to look at her. “Stay with me,” he said softly.

“Of course.” She smiled softly. “I love you, Harry.”

“Love you too,” he half-mumbled, his hand tightening its grip on hers.

And she smiled and leaning over, gently brushed her lips over his scar.

The End

(for real, this time)