Just Another Quiet Friday Night Alone
Rating: PG-13
The awkward squeezing sensation of Apparation spit Harry Potter out into the silenced entryway to the three bedroom flat he shared with his best friends, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. The whole place was warded to allow only the three of them in that way.
Shrugging out of his blue Auror trainee outer cloak, he tossed it on a peg among all assorted jackets and cloaks before proceeding into the flat. It took him less than three minutes to settle into his chair for his Friday evening ritual - Hogwarts, A History, a tumbler of firewhiskey, and a bottle of butterbeer.
The first was just fascination. During those final four days of the hit and miss battle that raged all through the castle, he had become fascinated with the castle's secrets. And while not as fast a reader as his best female friend, he certainly should have finished the book itself by now. Except for the fact that when he came across a particularly fascinating topic, he always found at least one more book on that to read before going on. It was, in a way, like his own personal History of Magic course, but far more interesting than old Professor Binns could have made it. Ron continually teased him about becoming more like Hermione, but Harry failed to see how that was a bad thing.
As for the firewhiskey, that was so he would not think about it. It was a lot of different things, originally though, it was the battle, the nightmares, the deaths - the sheer horror of the war with Voldemort. Now it was something else. It was the fact that it was Friday night, and he was sitting alone in his flat that he shared with his best friends in the entire world. Who were together, somewhere, doing something. It was the sensation that everything was completely unfair - he had been the one who suffered his entire life, had unspeakable horrors inflicted on him, suppressing who he really was, and by the time he had figured out what he really wanted, it was too late.
The butterbeer was merely to help him relax. Auror training was exhausting and hard on the body physically. Six days and five nights a week it was a never ending series of mock duels, studying, testing, lecturing, and training scenarios. And while most of it was easier than the things he had faced before even leaving Hogwarts, that did not make running eighteen or more hours a day for six days straight any easier.
He shook his head, and with a flick of his hand - for he never bothered with his wand for simple things any more - he turned on some light music that Hermione had introduced him to. Then he drained the firewhiskey, cracked open the butterbeer and took a swig, before he opened his book to where he had left off four weeks before, the end of a dragon attack during the goblin rebellion of 1675.
As he finished the first page and reached again for his butterbeer while he turned it, an unexpected sound drew his attention. The door to Ron's room had opened.
"Ronald Bilius Weasley, how dare you?! I told you I wasn't ready for that!"
Well, Hermione is certainly mad at Ron. I've never heard her use his middle name before. I wonder what he did. As Harry's eyes found Hermione in the doorway, he detected nothing out of the ordinary, other than her usually perfect clothing was certainly rumpled - creases where they should not have been, her blouse untucked from her skirt.
In the split second it took for this observation to make any sort of impact on him, Hermione turned around. The damage to her outfit was more noticeable from the front. Her blouse was half unbuttoned and shifted sideways, revealing a tantalizing amount of skin.
Something that normally would have caused a rush of blood away from his head was brought short by the expression of utter fury on Hermione's face as she took the first step out of Ron's bedroom, an expression that morphed into horror as she made eye contact with him, causing her to freeze in place for a moment, then bolt down the hallway to her own room, slamming the door.
Even without his Auror training, when Ron appeared in the doorway a moment later without a shirt on, it was painfully obvious what had just happened in Ron's bedroom. Or nearly happened.
When Ron's eyes widened at the sight of Harry in the big chair - Harry's chair, huge, squishy, comfortable, reclining - no one but Harry sat in that chair - and Harry noticed there seemed to be extraordinarily small levels of guilt on his face, considering how upset Hermione was, Ron had no chance at all to react.
Magic exploded out of Harry, and pinned his best friend to the wall. It only held Ron there for a second or two, but
that was enough for an extremely angry Harry Potter to cross the room and physically use his arm to pin his taller best
friend to the wall. "What the hell did you do to her?"
"Oi! Put me down!"
"What did you…?"
Ron interrupted him. "Put me down and I'll talk." It was at that point Harry realized he actually was suspending Ron off the floor with his arm. He stepped back, allowing Ron to fall.
"Talk," he growled.
Ron rubbed his chest where Harry's arm had been across it. "We ate dinner in tonight, because I knew practice was going to run long, and there were no movies at the cinema we wanted to see. So after we'd cleaned up, we were getting pretty heavy on the couch," involuntarily, they both glanced at it, "and we realized it was getting late and you'd be back soon, mate. She suggested we take it somewhere more private, so we ended up in my room. We'd been in there, and gotten back to the state we were at before, maybe fifteen minutes after we moved." Ron paused, obviously somewhat uncomfortable with discussing one best friend with the other best friend.
Harry made a gesture and growled, "Go on."
Ron swallowed, and Harry knew they were getting to the important part. "Well, when I took my shirt off and she didn't say anything, I assumed it was okay. I mean, she'd been the one who suggested the bedroom, but when I started to undo her shirt, she pulled up short and shut me down…"
Harry made a face, and tried to control his own feelings, though the thought of Ron manhandling Hermione like that made him want to, well, be sick, if nothing else. "Ron, given what she said when she stormed out, I'm going to guess you two had discussed this?" Ron nodded. "And what was the outcome of that discussion?"
Ron looked down at his feet. "That she'd tell me when she was ready for that level of physical intimacy."
"And did she tell you?" Ron shook his head. "Then I think you know exactly what the problem was. I think you're probably lucky she didn't hex your bits off."
Ron glared angrily at Harry, then turned and punched the wall. "Why is she so damn stubborn about it? It's going to happen eventually, right? You'd think she was a pureblood's daughter the way she keeps her legs so tightly crossed…"
It was at this point that Ron found himself the proud possessor of a broken, bloody nose and a cut forehead as he slumped the floor. When his blue eyes cleared up at bit, he found the business end of Harry's wand pointed directly at him. Trailing up the wand, then arm, he found that horrid, icy mask.
There was a single second, then two, as Ron knew what Voldemort must have felt like at the end. "Get. Out. Now." Harry's voice made late January at Hogwarts warmer than high summer in the Sahara, and his eyes were so cold they were merely black, despite the fact that they seemed to be glowing. "You're supposed to love her, Ron, and you talk about her like that." Ron could not look away, no matter how hard he tried. The cold disappointment in Harry's voice was worse than any anger, even the anger that Ron could see was there. "She's our best friend, and you're talking about her like she's one of your Quidditch groupies." Harry flicked his wand, and Ron was lifted onto his feet. "Put on a shirt and go to the Burrow. Now."
Ron shook his head, willing to take the chance. "This is my flat too."
Harry's expression morphed into an ugly sneer. "I'll buy you out right now if that's the way you want to play it. Go now, and you have a chance of coming back one day." When Ron shook his head, Harry growled wordlessly, sparks flaring from his wand. "Ron, I'm giving you ten seconds, one for each year you were my friend. But then I'm going to throw you out. One, two, three…"
Ron wheeled into his room and grabbed his shirt and shoes from earlier. "Four, five, six…" He brushed past Harry without a word and moved across the common room. "Seven, eight…" He turned at looked at Harry from the Apparation room. "Nine…"
"I thought you would understand, mate." He blinked away. There was a loud crack, since the door was open.
Harry looked at the emptiness, lowering his wand, and then whispered to his now absent friend. "Ron, you don't know how much and how little I understand." Harry looked down at his watch and muttered, "I give him four hours."
* * * * * * * * * *
Fact of the matter was, Harry overestimated his friend. It was just over three hours later when the loud crackle of the wards bouncing an unauthorized Apparation back to its source woke him up.
It took about five more minutes before he heard the key turning in the lock, followed by a shout as yet another ward threw Ron back into the hallway outside the flat. Harry smiled grimly, then heard a soft tread in the hallway. It was not Ron, which only left Hermione.
Harry was out of bed like a shot. If she had calmed down, she might let Ron back in, and Harry was not yet ready for that. He stopped out of sight when he heard Hermione open the inner door and Ron's voice. "Hermione! Can you let me in? Harry tossed me out cause I made you cry."
He tried to cover up a snort, grateful when Hermione responded icily. "No, Ron, Harry didn't throw you out because you made me cry. He threw you out when you talked about me like a whore." Harry heard Ron trying to protest. "Ron, please go back to the Burrow before one of us does decide to do something we'll regret later."
"Fine! Stay here with Harry Goddamn-Fucking-Wonderful-Can-Do-No-Wrong Saint Potter!" There was a loud crack, signalling Ron's leaving, and Harry heard both doors shut. He stayed where he was when he heard Hermione moving into the kitchen, giving her a moment. He watched silently as she moved into the common area, and looked between the couch, the loveseat, and Harry's chair.
She was definitely crying, but she had the entire supply of pumpkin ice cream curled up in her arms. And then she sat in Harry's chair.
No one ever sat in Harry's chair. But Hermione did. And not only did she sit in the chair which made her look so tiny, she snuggled, no, burrowed into its cushions. In silence, Harry watched as she reached out and caressed his two-year old latest edition of her favourite book, the last edition of which she had known by heart. For a second, Harry thought she was going to pick it up to read, but she did not. Her fingers skimmed it, and then picked up the picture that sat on the end table next to Harry's chair. It was a graduation photo of the three of them, of the graduation that had been pushed back to allow the Head Boy, the Head Girl, Ron, and about half of the other seventh years to actually attend once they got out of the hospital wing. He heard her words, so soft, so broken. A mere breath, not even a whisper. "What happened to us?"
Harry pretended not to hear, but the next words made his breath catch in his throat. "Were we just supposed to remain the Golden Trio, three best friends, with no entanglements, no unreturned feelings?"
What does she mean by that?
Harry stepped into the room, and she looked up immediately. "Hello, Harry." Her voice was distant, shaken with tears. Then she looked away, and Harry rapidly crossed the room to her. The chair was more than big enough for both of them, especially as Harry pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her as she wept. With a flick of his finger, he banished the ice cream back to the kitchen.
"Hermione," he said, a long time later, when her sobs had stopped. "I'm sorry."
She looked up at him, her brown eyes liquid chocolate with her tears. "Harry, it's not your fault."
He had changed, but not that much. He felt like it was his fault, to a tiny extent, because somewhere, deep inside, he had wanted her to break with Ron. But he was not apologizing for that. "I know that, 'Mione. I'm sorry you're hurt, I'm sorry you heard what it was Ron said about you, I'm sorry that I didn't see it coming so I could have spared you the pain."
She shook her head, rustling her hair against his arm. "No, Harry. It's my fault this happened." She looked away from him, yet still managed to snuggle closer. "I knew this would happen eventually. That I wouldn't be able to give him what he wanted from me."
She sighed softly, pausing. Harry prompted her after a moment of silence. "What do you mean?"
Beautiful brown eyes, red rimmed from pain, turned back to him. "I liked kissing him, I really did. It was fun, and relaxing." She shivered, and Harry tightened his arms around. "But… but every time he tried to touch me, to go beyond just the kissing, and a bit of petting, it was like something cold curled up inside me and died." Harry's emerald eyes widened in shock. "I couldn't let him do that." The crying began again. "I tried so hard to get over it, to just see if I could let myself get taken away by the physical, but I couldn't. It wasn't enough to just feel good in my body. Every time, it was like my heart was frozen."
Harry looked down at her in shock. "You didn't love him at all, did you? Not that way."
She shook her head. "No, I didn't. I wanted to love him, because he loved me." Tears splattered against Harry's shirt. "Or I thought he did, anyway."
"I think he does," Harry replied. "I just think he's really hurt by your rejection, just…"
Hermione lifted her hand up and placed it on Harry's lips. "That doesn't excuse what he said, Harry. You don't have to defend him. He's our friend, but that doesn't mean we don't have to acknowledge his faults."
Harry leaned his head down and rested it against Hermione's. "Of course not. It's just, I always feel like I'm either coming between you two or trying to put you back together. As if that does make this my fault."
The bushy-haired young woman shook her head. "No, Harry. I should have ended it a long time ago, I should have realized that there was something, someone that would keep this from working." Her smile was harsh, sarcastic. "Me. And what I feel that couldn't let me be intimate with Ron." There was a bitter laugh, and she pushed her way out of Harry's embrace. He let her go.
"I couldn't give up on my hope, and I knew that if I were to go there with Ron, I would never be able to have what I really wanted." Harry's confusion must have showed on his face. "Harry, honestly, did you ever feel I belonged with Ron?"
"If it made you happy."
She smiled, still bitter. "It's things like that… Things you say, why couldn't you just let me move on, Harry?"
Shock. "What are you talking about, Hermione?"
She collapsed in the middle of the floor, her tears returning. "Why must you always say something that makes my hope flare back up, that makes me feel like there's a chance, and then, never, ever do anything more… until right before my hope dies again? Why do you have to play with me like that?"
Harry knew he was missing a single key point, in what he was fairly sure was the most important conversation he had ever had. "I don't know what you mean, Hermione. I'm sorry." She looked at him blankly, tears silently streaming down her face. "You're my best friend, and I've never wanted to hurt you how I obviously have. I never wanted to lose you as my best friend."
She pushed off the floor, and walked slowly over to him, and for the first time, Harry noticed she was wearing his Quidditch shirt from sixth year. "Harry," she said softly, crawling back into his lap, though somehow, not in a way that screamed 'comfort me', "I didn't want to be your friend." He blinked. "I wanted you to be where Ron was. I wanted you to be the one who touched me like that." She pressed closer to him. "That's why I wouldn't let him be with me, Harry. I wanted it to be you. I've always wanted it to be you."
Harry blinked, and opened his mouth, trying to get some words out. Any words. All that came out though, was, "Me?"
The girl he knew he had loved for more than three years, and perhaps loved far longer than that, nodded, then whispered. "Yes, you, Harry." She shivered in his lap. "My skin tingles at the most casual touch from you, while gestures of affection set me on fire. When I close my eyes at night, I dream about you, not Ron. You're everything I wanted, and everything I could never have, so I tried, for everyone's sake, to make what I wanted Ron." Tears once more fell. "But I failed."
One thing in particular caught Harry's attention, and he leaned closer, bringing his eyes just into line with Hermione's. "Why couldn't you have me?" he questioned simply.
Hermione Granger failed to answer with words. Instead she pressed her lips forward, meeting Harry's. Sparks flew at the simple touch, and then Harry returned the kiss. He felt the softness of her breasts press against his chest, the warmth of her small body moulding against him. Heat flooded him, rushing southwards as her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him against her. Hermione's legs slipped to either side of Harry's thighs, and his fingers on her back arched her into him…
Her lips opened with a moan, and his tongue met hers, hot, wet, hungry… Something nearby shattered. A twitch of her hips made him groan in return, and his hand slid around her body, grasping at her breast covered in the burgundy fabric. The room was getting hotter… too hot, in fact.
Harry broke the kiss, thinking there must be a fire… Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he was breathing heavily. Hermione's eyes were misted like his own. "Harry," she whispered, "take me to bed."
Harry swept her up in his arms, and stumbled down the hallway. He was not entirely sure which bedroom he pushed into, which bed he dropped her on, kissing her hungrily once more. The shorts that were Hermione's second and only other item of clothing were gone, as was his white tee shirt, and Harry was unsure as to where. Finally, Harry broke the kiss. "Hermione, no… we shouldn't do this." It was the hardest six words he had ever said.
The hurt in her eyes tore at his heart. "Don't you love me, Harry? Am I so ugly you can't even do this? Can't you do this, just this once, for me?"
He squeezed his eyes shut. "Hermione, I love you more than my own life. That's why I can't do this tonight." She looked confused, hopeful, and still hurt. "Hermione, please understand. I want this, I want you, I need you, love you, with everything I am." He kissed her lightly. "But that's why I can't do this, Hermione. Not with everything that's been said today. I will hold you, and I will kiss you, and I will comfort you, and I will spend this night in your bed, but I will not make love to you tonight." The silent question in her eyes begged him to explain. "Hermione, I love you too much for the pain you're going through tonight to be the cause of this. It can't be a dream filled with pain. When this happens, this has to be right."
Tears were falling from her eyes, and Harry tightened his embrace around her, drawing her into his chest. Hot water burned his already heated skin, and slowly, after a long time, the tears stopped.
Hermione was asleep. Harry joined her.
The End