Pensive’s Pieces of Pumpkin Pie

Pensive’s Pieces of Pumpkin Pie
A Harry Potter Short Fanfiction Collection

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated copyrighted ideas are used without permission and are the sole property of J.K. Rowling and her associates. This means they are not mine, and I am not attempting to derive any profit from using the wonderful world provided by JKR. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I only hope I can live up to that standard. So again, not mine. After all, if it were, I’d write this and keep it to myself until it was published so I could be even moreso the richest woman in Britain. Except I’m not rich, female, or British. Anyways, I think that’s enough of a disclaimer.

Overall Rating: NC-17

Spoilers: Books 1 – 6

Description: This is a collection of one-shots and possibly short stories that will take place in the Harry Potter universe, detailing, as the title indicates, the Harry-Hermione relationship.

These short stories, unless otherwise indicated, are unrelated to each other, and take place in separate, individual timelines of the Harry Potter Universe.

Each story will receive its own individual rating. Not all of them will be NC-17. Further, each story will be classified, in the author’s (with input from the beta reader) judgment, from one (1) to five (5) on its level of angst, romance, adventure, and humor. It will also be ranked on its status relative to the main canon plot – i.e., the Second War with Voldemort.

Further, the whole point of this activity is to return my short stories to the front page each time I write a new one, so that I get more hits and more reviews. So read and review.

I hope this is clear.

Stories:

Either Must Die

Rating: PG-13
Canon Plot: Summer Before Sixth Year
Word Count: 1,077
Description: Harry’s just told Hermione and Ron the full extent of the prophecy, and now Hermione has to make a decision while Ron and Harry sleep in another room… one that explains certain aspects of Half-Blood Prince.
Excerpt: Ginny Weasley was asleep.

Which meant that Hermione Granger was left free to contemplate a horrible, horrible reality.

“From what it said, it looks like I’m the one who’s got to finish off Voldemort…At least, it said that neither of us could live while the other survives.”
Genre Rankings:
Angst: 1 Romance: 4 Action/Adventure: 0 Humor: 0

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Faking It

Rating: NC-17
Canon Plot: Post-Voldemort
Word Count: 4,726
Description: It took six bloody years to defeat Voldemort, in which many things, including significant others, were lost. A year and a half later, Harry and Hermione are trying to forget their pain by faking that it is gone, not remembering that every action has a consequence. Even fake ones.
Excerpt: The sound of it filled her senses and she was filled with happiness. She knew he needed this, this escape, to get away from the grief, the pain, the loss. She was the only one he trusted, the only one he let his guard down with.

The only person he dared reveal it to.

His breathing slowly returned to normal. “I’m sorry, Hermione,” Harry Potter whispered.
Genre Rankings:
Angst: 4 Romance: 4 Action/Adventure: 0 Humor: 0

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Through Another’s Eyes

Rating: PG-13
Canon Plot: Late Seventh Year, One Horcrux Remaining
Word Count: 1,556
Description: As the end of the war approaches, Harry and company have one thing left to do before facing Voldemort, but fortunately, another makes their seemingly impossible task much easier. REPOSTED from a separate story on Portkey because I want more reviews.
Excerpt: He had to admit, she had grown attractive of physical form, and there was no denying her intelligence, yet it was the blood flowing in her veins that made her worthless.

For that matter, even Potter was half a Mudblood, so there was certainly no harm, perhaps, from a bit of dalliance from his perspective. But cuddling her, with her draped all over him, in public…

Disgusting.
Genre Rankings:
Angst: 0 Romance: 1 Action/Adventure: 4 Humor: 0

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Shadows

Rating: R
Canon Plot: Approximately five years post-Hogwarts, before the Final Battle
Word Count: 4,218
Description: Harry’s bid to hang on to the one thing he cannot lose could result in a disastrous end to the Second War, and more importantly, his friendships.
Excerpt: His wand had just come out, and Ron, currently kissing Hermione rather chastely on the lips, had gone flying backwards into a fortunately soft pile of rubbish located directly behind him. “How could you?” he had finally snarled at Hermione, sitting with a shocked look on her face, staring at the violence etched on his face, displayed for the entire world to see.
Genre Rankings:
Angst: 3 Romance: 4 Action/Adventure: 2 Humor: 0

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Just Another Quiet Friday Night Alone

Rating: PG-13
Canon Plot: Three Years Post-Voldemort, Approximately Four Years Post-HBP
Word Count: 3,604
Description: Just another hard week of Auror training gone by, and Harry comes back to the Trio’s flat for a night of light reading.
Excerpt: 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.
Genre Rankings:
Angst: 3 Romance: 4 Action/Adventure: 1 Humor: 0

Either Must Die

Rating: PG-13

Ginny Weasley was asleep.

Which meant that Hermione Granger was left free to contemplate a horrible, horrible reality.

“From what it said, it looks like I’m the one who’s got to finish off Voldemort…At least, it said that neither of us could live while the other survives.”

She shivered, and pulled the covers of the extra bed more tightly around her. That had been a few days ago, and just today, she and Ron had pressed the full text of the prophecy out of him.

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…

Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…

and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have the power the Dark Lord knows not…

and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…

He had to fight, that confirmed it, though she had always known it would be him, in the end. Their confrontations, everything they had ever done, the shadow that had loomed over them for years, ever since their first year…

First year… Voldemort had, unknowingly, brought the Trio together, with the troll.

Sixth year… Hermione was afraid Voldemort was going to tear them apart. But… Ron had said it first year…

“You’ve got to make some sacrifices! I take one step forward and she’ll take me – that leaves you free to checkmate the king, Harry!”

“But – ”

“Do you want to stop Snape or not?”

Except it was not Snape. It had never been Snape. Always the Dark Lord. Always the shadow and the specter of fear.

But one had to die. Harry said he was not afraid, and so, Hermione tried not to be. She had even let Harry talk her into playing Quidditch with Ron and Ginny, despite how much she hated… was afraid of… flying.

She wanted to be there for him, as she knew she could not be much longer…

In the end, the prophecy proclaimed, it would be one on one. Harry versus Voldemort. Hermione could sense it… her role was ending. Ron’s too.

The fight would be Harry’s alone.

“Harry - you’re a great wizard, you know.”

“I’m not as good as you.”

“Me! Books! And cleverness! There are more important things – friendship and bravery and – oh, Harry – be careful!”

Indeed. More important things. And one of those things was that Harry be ready, in the end, to face Voldemort alone. She knew Harry could do it. He had done it, in first year, and in some confused world second year, and fourth year, and briefly June as well.

Could she handle it, in the end, watching him go to the possibility of his death? The possibility that the world would hang on the shoulders of a seventeen year old boy?

I hope he does actually reach seventeen before that day…

She had to. That was, unfortunately, the way this magic stuff worked. Illogical, improbable, but still…

It was Harry.

Hermione smiled in the darkness. She had fixed his glasses that first meeting on the train. She had gotten him through the snares and flames of first year. Second year, she had saved the school by finding that vital piece of information for them.

She was not too proud to admit her role in that.

Third year… third year she had helped Harry save Sirius. She had been the one learning all the extra material, the extra classes. Fourth year, she had stood by him, desperate to help him survive the tournament.

Last year… last year she had trusted him almost to the point of her own death. And it probably would have been her death, if it had not been for Harry.

The power the Dark Lord knew not…

What it could be, Hermione had no idea. She let her mind drift, in the broadest terms, considering what Harry had and had learned each year…

First year, he had learned friendship, something he had never known as a child. Second year, he found his courage, facing the shade of Tom Riddle and the terror of the basilisk on his own. Third year, he learned forgiveness, and his own power.

Fourth year… Harry had learned about betrayal, and had learned confidence in himself, had learned to face down what came at him.

Last year… Harry had gained leadership ability, and then, with Sirius, he had learned an even more heartbreaking lesson of loss than his life had once given him.

The possibility of Harry losing someone close to him barely phased her, in the idea of it happening again. It was a war, after all. People died in wars.

Harry… Harry this year, it appeared, from the prophecy, would need to learn to work on his own, because in the end, it would not be his friends or his leadership that mattered, but his own abilities.

To learn that, Harry would have to be alone.

Hermione realized she would have to abandon Harry to his fate, really. She would have to be distant, not so helpful to him.

Alone. If she did that, though, Harry was not the only one who would be alone. Without Harry, there was no one. She needed him with her, to complete her.

It had been Harry’s idea first year to rescue her, not Ron’s. Harry’s visits to her in the hospital second year had been detailed to her as well.

She smiled at the thought.

Harry needed her, she knew, and he had to not need anyone. His need for people would make him vulnerable, his reliance on them would make him dead.

And more than anything, there was no way Hermione was going to attend that funeral.

She would have to let him do it on his own, and the horrible reality of losing the best and only truly selfless friend she had ever had caused the tears to stream silently down her cheeks.

She was going to miss him this year… but Hermione Granger would miss Harry Potter far more if out of selfishness she let him die.

Their relationship, or Harry.

Voldemort destroyed, or her heart.

Either must die.

It was not a hard choice at all, she realized. She had always been braver than she was smart.

The End

Faking It

Rating: NC-17

She was faking it.

Of course, she had been doing that a lot recently, so she had gotten quite accomplished at faking it.

Her eyes closed, squeezing shut, as she felt the man on top of her quickly losing his own control. She had gotten really good at the timing, as a particularly ragged thrust actually sent a spark of pleasure through her, causing her to gasp breathlessly.

A gasp she turned into a squeal of false pleasure as she concentrated everything on tightening herself around him. It never took much of her doing that to bring him pleasure, and she felt him pump through the forced contractions of her sensitive walls, once, twice, before the heat of his pleasure flooded her body.

The sound of it filled her senses and she was filled with happiness. She knew he needed this, this escape, to get away from the grief, the pain, the loss. She was the only one he trusted, the only one he let his guard down with.

The only person he dared reveal it to.

His breathing slowly returned to normal. “I’m sorry, Hermione,” Harry Potter whispered.

She knew she was not supposed to hear it. Many nights she knew she never had, but still she knew, that he said it anyways. He would not be the same Harry Potter if he had not done so.

She was not sorry, she had never been sorry. As much as she hated the routine, as much as she hated that he did not return her feelings, she still loved him.

She knew what he was apologizing for. For being too weak to resist ‘taking advantage’ of her. For being too weak to save everyone. For being too slow when they had sought the Horcruxes.

She knew he could not have gone any faster. She knew that all three of them, then four of them, once Ginny finished school, and Harry could not keep her away, could not have done it any sooner. She knew Harry blamed himself for those two deaths in particular.

She knew Harry blamed himself for all the deaths. Thousands of them. The Prophesied Savior of the Wizarding World. Which was even more of a joke, in Britain anyways, now, for there was hardly a remnant of that world left.

Everything they had known before their quest was gone. Hogwarts, the Ministry, Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. Thousands of wizards were dead as they tried to resist in the wake of Dumbledore’s death. Harry, Hermione, and Ron had vanished into their quest following the wedding… the wedding where most of the remaining Weasley’s had been wiped out.

Only Ginny had survived, and only barely. They had not stood a chance, and they had run, the three of them. They had had to, of course. They were the only ones, the only way to beat him.

Wizards died by the thousands after that.

Dumbledore had taken nearly four years to locate two Horcruxes and only managed to destroy one before he died. It had taken six years, but just as Voldemort was bringing his campaign in Britain to a close, Harry had confronted him in London.

In fact, in a park right outside Buckingham Palace, an event which shattered the illusion the Wizarding World had tried to maintain for so long…

Not that anyone really knew what had happened, but it had been the four of them and whatever support they could rally. She really could not remember the faces at this point, so many dead, they were all gone, not one of them known, but it was over now.

She and Harry had been the only survivors. The only reason she had survived was because Harry had thrown himself over her as Voldemort had been destroyed…

He had saved her with his body. Now, it was the only place she had left that she felt safe. Under him, surrounded by him.

He was still just Harry to her. But he was so much more than just Harry as well. He was the only one she could ever love, could ever imagine loving.

And as she had always done, she gave him everything she could, helped him in every way.

Even this way. It was the way he needed most. Safety, security, the ability to drop the barriers he had around his heart. To let himself feel, even for a brief moment.

He used her, and she was there for him, and she no longer cared what his feelings were for her, as long as she got to have him like this, the only way that she ever would.

She shivered, and realized the weeping had stopped. They both cried, she knew, afterwards. She, for the love she would never get from him, him for his weakness, his failure, his inability to be strong for the only person he had left.

She glanced at him, and gently pushed him off of her, and smiled as he unconsciously snuggled against her, his head pillowed on her breasts as he slept.

“I’m sorry too, Harry,” she whispered, for her lack of strength, her need of him, her sorrow that he would never feel what she did. “I love you.” She would keep on going, though.

Harry needed her. And that was enough for the witch who loved him. Even if she had to fake it.

* * * * * *

He was faking it.

He had no idea how much longer he could, too. It was becoming slowly more and more difficult, to put the effort into something he knew Hermione did not want to do each night. He tried, he really did.

He wanted it to be good for her, not just for him. And not just the physical release, the emotional one, the mental one. For the few moments that the complete and total loss of everything was driven away.

He wanted to share that with her. He wanted her to return his feelings for her too, but he knew she would never do so.

He knew why she did it, though. Gave herself to him whenever he demanded it, nearly, that was.

She cared about him… and she no longer had a reason not to. She knew it was what he needed, and she had been a good friend, always giving him what he needed, helping him however he needed. Which was what she did whenever she let him take her.

He had, originally, tried to pretend they both wanted it. But he knew she had broken after the final battle. The pain, the loss had caught up to them, and she had broken, Hermione’s strength finally going out at last.

His had too. He needed her desperately. He knew he loved her, he knew he should not take advantage of her weakness, her inability to resist giving him what he needed, as she had always done, just trying to make life normal again.

And so, to forget, to move on with life, it had started.

Harry sighed softly, and rose off the couch. She would be getting home soon, and he had promised to have dinner ready.

Dinner was, as always, a silent affair. He felt horrible about what he did, taking advantage of her, using her. Like tonight, when it got to him the most, he tried desperately to make it up to her.

His hands were on her, touching her, feeling the softness of her body, and he drew her into a rough kiss, hungry, demanding. He hated that he did this, that he could barely control himself any more, but her faking emotion no longer helped him any more.

Of course, he knew that she faked other things when they were in bed, and he hated that too, that she had to. That he was unable to give her what she gave him. He would try, he swore, tonight, he would do his best.

He made that oath every night, though. Tonight he was going to keep it, he swore, though.

He tore her shirt off, the echo of the buttons hitting hard surfaces oddly ringing in his mind. He would repair it tomorrow, he knew. He always did.

His hand squeezed her breast, earning him a soft moan from her, his thumb rubbing across it until he could feel the hardening of the point inside the second layer of cloth. With the amount of experience he had with her, that piece of fabric was gone quickly enough, too.

His tongue was on her breast, lathing across the nipple, hungrily, his teeth scraping across her skin, fastening onto her to suckle gently at the hard nub. She was moaning more now, which was what he liked to hear. His hand slipped between her legs, caressing her inner thighs, moving upwards to press against her through her jeans, eliciting a louder moan as he rubbed her.

He lay her back on the bed from the standing position they had been enjoying, and peeled off his shirt before climbing on top of her. He had tried other things, but she always refused anything but having him here.

He had no idea why that was.

He returned his attentions to her breasts, his hands caressing and squeezing and kneading them, rubbing her nipples which stood out firmly, hardened in natural response. Just her body, not her mind. His lips trailed along her jawline, to behind her ear, hungrily. She was moaning again as he pried her legs apart with his knee, using it to rub against her.

He felt her arch up under him, eagerly. It had been quite a while since he caused that reaction, he knew, and he continued to force himself to focus on her. He rubbed his knee against her, feeling the heat building there. He could feel her breasts, soft and heavy, filling his hands as he rubbed them, wanting her to feel pleasure tonight that he so rarely actually gave her.

He heard a whispered sound, that sounded like “Please,” and so he took it to the next level, her remaining clothing coming off in a few, well practiced movements. She was so beautiful, so faithful, so utterly committed to his needs.

He could not ask for more from her, he could not ask for his love returned. It would be too much, especially for his only remaining friend.

His fingers drifted up the inside of her thigh and she shivered slightly before his caress reached the heat of her. She arched up, trying to deepen the contact, but he pulled his hand back, letting it barely remain against her…

Which was when he pressed down, his fingers opening the petals of flesh to seek the sensitivity beneath them. His tongue flicked out against her breast, flickering across her hardened nipple as he found that singular spot between her thighs with a fingernail…

She whimpered softly, so he did it again, earning himself more and more whimpers, which soon became moans of pleasure. She was oblivious to anything but his touch he realized, slithering down her body until he was between her legs. He looked up her sweating, glistening body as it writhed on the tip of his finger, so that when his finger stopped, he saw her begin to lift her head…

Which is when he flicked out his tongue against her, giving him a gasp as Hermione’s head fell backwards onto her pillow again. He grinned slightly, his fingers exploring her gently as his tongue shifted back and forth over her most sensitive of spots. Her whimpering was getting louder…

A lot louder…

And nearly became a scream when he slid his fingers into her body. He kissed her, he licked her, he moved his fingers deeper and faster, the heat all around him, the scent of her, the wetness, he wanted more, so he gave her more…

And he got more and more, and the more he got, the more he gave…

And then he stopped, his grin devilish as he raised his head to look at her. Her whimper now was of frustration, and sounded suspiciously like “Nooo.”

He scraped his fingernails over the wet, hot, flushed folds of her most intimate spots, and let his tongue do just ever so briefly what his fingers had been doing a moment before, when he heard her demand…

“Fuck me, Harry.”

He knew why she phrased it that way. Because she did not love him, so it was not making love, and he did not own her soul, so he could not possess her. So it came down to the only option left, the crudest, animalistic expression of the act…

He wanted more. She wanted more, but not from him.

None of that mattered at the moment, of course. He was far too far gone to refuse, even if he had wanted to…

His clothing was gone in an instant, a trick picked up from the war, though usually used in reverse. He climbed up her, his fingers still stroking her gently, keeping her keyed up, ready.

He knew she was not faking it for his sake tonight when her legs parted more and wrapped around his hips eagerly, and he found himself pressed against her. This was what they both needed right now, his soul, her body.

There was no more waiting, delaying. He gave in with a single thrust, driving his hips into hers powerfully. The sheathing was exquisite, hotter and wetter and closer together than he could remember in…

Forever.

He could feel her body adjusting, gripping him tightly, realizing his presence, and he moved, swiftly, lifting his hips up, then dropping them down. Harry set a quick pace, his still toned athleticism letting him breathe almost evenly with the effort…

Or it would have, if it had not been for intervening factors, like the steady explosion building inside him… four days since the last time was not factoring into a measure of control that he needed…

He gritted his teeth. He was not going to add yet another failure to an already impressive list. As he grew rougher, wilder, he could feel her under him, bucking up against him, adding her own motions…

The kiss surprised him, especially in the midst of their intensity, that it was so soft, undemanding.

It cost him everything. He lost it, white flashing behind his eyes as he cried out hoarsely, his pleasure roaring through him, spilling out of him…

And Hermione screamed his name…

Not the little screams she used when she was faking it, not the wordless sounds she made when he had failed her yet again, when she was thinking she was fooling him.

Which was how he knew, this time, he had not failed her. Her scream ended as he collapsed heavily, sparing her, barely, his full weight.

It was a long moment before he rolled off of her, their breathing slowly returning to normal. He thought to hide it under the cover of his heavy breathing, when he whispered, “I’m…”

She cut him off with a finger on his lips. “Not tonight, Harry.” He smiled, for once.

It was the most talking they had ever done afterwards.

Sleep was claiming him, pulling him under, too tired to resist it, even as a horrible thought came to his mind…

We didn’t say the charm…

Darkness.

* * * * * *

She was faking it, again.

No, not that. The last month had been a lot better where that was concerned, actually, since that one night…

That night…

She had realized neither of them had done the charm a few minutes after Harry had gone to sleep, and she had laid there, wondering with her hand resting in the patch of curls on her pelvis if there was a chance…

Hoping against hope that there was…

She regretted that now as she threw up again, spitting whatever was left of last night’s dinner into the toilet.

She had forgotten about it the next night, and Harry had been extra careful, and she realized that he had noticed too, after the fact…

And so she did not remember. Even when she was late. That had, after all, happened before…

She had remembered the second morning in a row she had woken up to heave whatever she had consumed in the past twenty four hours into the bowl of the toilet. That had been yesterday…

She always woke before Harry, but she never got out of bed until he did, so even he would have to realize something was going on, eventually…

She had just hoped they could have spared the moment a bit longer, but he had woken up early today, and ran into the bathroom when he heard her…

He was standing there, watching her throw up, a terribly worried, what-do-I-do expression on his face. Finally, she felt him kneel down as she rested her forehead on the cool porcelain.

“Hermione, are you okay?” His voice was worried, worried for his friend, his…

…fuck buddy.

The term just seemed to fit, but she had never thought it just like that before, and it hit her instantly why she never told him to take her, to claim her, to make love to her. Because he did not love her.

He used her, fucked her, and she enjoyed it, needed it… Like him, she used it to forget. But not the things she had lost, the failures… Just the one thing she could not have.

“Yes, Harry,” she said after a moment. “I’m alright. Just a little sick to my stomach. Nothing to worry about.”

Please please please let him believe me.

She did not want it to end, but she knew, in her heart, that this would end it between them, and she would never feel him again, never have him take her breath away, never hear his pleasure again, never experience that little spike of electricity when his skin brushed innocently on hers.

“Hermione, we’d better get you to the hospital.”

It would have worked on Ron, was her first bitter thought. But Ron had never been Harry, despite all the growing up she had seen him do, despite all she had cared for him, it had never been Ron.

Always Harry. Even when she was with Ron, trying to forget that Harry would never love her.

She sighed heavily. “There’s no need. I’ll just pack up my things and go, Harry.”

She saw him blink as she rose unsteadily to her feet. His mouth dropped open. “Whaaaa? Why?”

She realized she had left out the important fact, but passed on it for now. “We can’t keep doing this, Harry. It’s time to move on.”

He fell on the floor, stunned, the light in his eyes completely fading. “No,” he whispered, uncomprehending.

“Yes,” she responded simply. “I can’t think of myself any more, or even you. There’s someone more important now.”

The pieces clicked into place behind his eyes. She had always loved that about him, when he finally had the right information, he always got the right conclusion. “Our baby will not grow up without a father. I’ve failed too many other things to fail this too. We’ll get married.”

She was stunned. He had not asked, just assumed. That was his way, taking on responsibility. She loved him for that too.

But she had to be sure that he wanted this. “Harry, we don’t have to. I know you feel responsible,” and you are, thank god, “but I don’t want you doing this because of your saving people thing.”

He glared at her, truly and awesomely angry, but his voice was surprisingly quiet and she shivered as green ice bored into her brown eyes, as she realized this was the last thing Voldemort had seen, had heard… this Harry…

One she had never known… and loved instantly. “Hermione, if you refuse to marry me, you’ll still see me just as much every day. I’m not going to let any child of mine grow up without two parents.”

“Okay,” was all she whispered. Inside, her mind was screaming.

YESYESYESYESYESYES!

* * * * * *

He was faking it.

He bit his lip to keep from slamming his fist through the chair arm as another scream tore through him like his very own agony.

Which it was, really, as Hermione’s vise like grip nearly crushed the hand she held.

It did not hurt, of course, not at all. Not a single bit.

How could he have done this to her? How could he have made her hurt for him like this? How utterly selfish was he? His best friend, lying there in agony.

And it was all his fault.

His hand was crushed again as Hermione screamed once more. His vision started to go a bit red around the edges as Hermione squeezed again, but he heard a calm, soothing female voice. “Almost there, luv. Just one more push will do it…”

The pain was not quite as bad the next time when Hermione cried out, the voice not as high pitched.

Well, Hermione Potter’s cry wasn’t high or loud.

The newest Potter, on the other hand…

Harry instinctively snatched his free hand to his ear to try and block out the sound.

It did not work. At all. The crying drowned out the Healer’s voice, though, as she tried to present the child, all the messy business completed, the blood wiped away, the little body wrapped in a blanket.

The eyes were closed, and Hermione released Harry’s hand, as the Healer gave her the child. Harry leaned over to examine the small human as Hermione cradled it, where upon it instantly shut up at her touch.

“She looks like you,” he murmured unthinkingly.

He could feel the shocked silence, and turned his head to meet Hermione’s gaze. “Weren’t you listening, Harry?” He shook his head, realizing he’d missed something important. “It’s a boy.”

He blinked. “Oh.” Calmly, he reached down and lifted up the blanket slightly and peered underneath. “Oh.”

Hermione giggled at that, and Harry smiled. It had been a very long time since he had heard that. “Well, we’ll just have to call him Ronald James Sirius Remus Albus Frederick George Potter, then.”

“Harry,” Hermione began but broke off in surprise when Ronald fastened his lips on her and began to suck gently. She swallowed, and recovered slightly. “What about the next one?”

Next one? Are there twins? He looked at the Healer confused, who was standing there, ready to write down whatever name they chose.

Which is when the light clicked on in his head, behind his eyes. More like a spotlight. Or a sunburst.

She wanted to have more children with him. She wanted to go through all that pain all over again. For him. For children with him.

There was only one reason she could possibly want to suffer that much, as that had appeared far worse than anything he had ever gone through fighting the war.

She loved him. She wanted to have more children with him.

Of course, he would not have been Harry Potter if he had not managed to say some totally inane thing at that very moment. “Next one is going to be a girl,” was what he came up with, as if to explain his insistence on such a long name.

Hermione giggled for a moment, and finally got it under control, turning to the Healer, still poised with the quill. “Ronald Sirius Potter,” she said softly.

He nodded. Perfect. They could honor their other friends with the rest of the children. Their children.

The Healer smiled at them and left the room, giving them their first time as a family. He leaned over and kissed Hermione softly on the lips and she gasped in surprise, looking at him suspiciously, before looking back the baby still on her breast.

He had rarely shown her such blatant public affection. He smiled tenderly. “I just realized something, Hermione, and I thought now that I knew it, I should tell you something else.”

She looked up from the boy. Their boy. Their baby boy. “Yes, Harry?”

“I love you, Hermione Potter.”

“I love you too, Harry Potter.”

He grinned at her. “I know. That’s what I just figured out.”

Hermione laughed. “And of the two of you, Ron was supposed to be the thick one.” She looked down and cooed to the baby, “No, not you, your namesake.” She looked back at him. “Honestly, Harry, I’ve loved you for forever. Do you think I would have stayed with you if I hadn’t, especially for the last two years?” She was crying. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

He was lost for words as she rambled on, crying with happiness, with sadness for the time they had lost. He joined her.

But it was the last time they cried for their old life. The last time they cried for pain.

* * * * * *

They were both faking it.

“Ronald Sirius Potter! You will get in here right now and tell me what you did to make your little sister cry!” Harry’s voice carried completely through the house, and Hermione cringed.

Lily Minerva was Daddy’s little girl, at five years old, a year younger than Ronald, who she resembled in everything but looks, though her penchant for getting into trouble, or, at least, getting caught, was far lower.

Harry had been right. The next one had been a girl. Though the twins after that had had their names as a given.

“Won’s in twouble,” two-year old Frederick James giggled as Hermione struggled to strap his five minute older brother George Remus into his seat for dinner.

Neither one of them, they had realized about an hour after they had brought little Ronald home, had the slightest idea how to raise a child.

Harry was always harsh but imminently fair with them. He never spoiled them, and he never neglected them. He never planned it, but as the family grew and grew, she had noticed, and then, she began to clock him.

Over the course of a week, he spent within five minutes, exactly the same amount of time one-on-one with each child. And he did it without thinking about it, because she had asked him. He really was an amazing man. He was a natural at it, despite having been so very scared at first.

Harry carried a squirming six-year old, who, almost to Hermione’s disappointment, had lost the brown curls he had started with in favor of his father’s black mop. She would not have had it any other way, she realized.

Lily matched her namesake, red hair and green eyes, but Fred and George were the first ones that really looked like a combination of their two parents, black hair, chocolate brown eyes.

Harry sat Ronald down in his dinner chair and scowled at him. “Apologize to your sister,” he said calmly, though his gaze was on his wife, and he heard his eldest son sincerely apologizing to his sister, though not the words.

She was far more prone to spoil them than he was, and he knew where it came from. She had been raised in a family that loved and cared for her, was always there for her and around her, and Harry growing up on his own, realized that there were things children had to learn to do for themselves.

They had just understood it after the first three months of having Ronald home with them. They had not needed to discuss it. They just knew. Harry had refused to let him become a Dudley, but he managed to not withdraw so much the child was like him either. Hermione, naturally, clung slightly more to the newest child, who was first Lily, and was now the twins.

And, she had told him last night, in eight more months, whichever that one was.

Since Ronald had been born, that had been the only faking going on. That they knew what they were doing.

They both loved every minute of it, though. And they knew they would get through whatever the four, soon to be five, children, brought them.

Because as a family, they were not faking it at all.

The End

Through Another’s Eyes

Rating: PG-13

The damp, cold early March grass scraped against his body as he moved. He was surprised he had gotten this far, through the forest in which he had once hidden and onto the grounds.

But then, Dumbledore was gone now. Young Malfoy had been properly punished for his failure, and Snape for his idiocy. The man had to have known he was more valuable as a spy, even if it had resulted in that foolish old man’s death.

As skilled at magic as Minerva McGonagall was, she was little match for Dumbledore in terms of sheer power and breadth of knowledge, and as such, she could hardly replace him as a leader to the Dark Lord’s enemies, though she was certainly capable of replacing him as Headmistress. Not that it mattered particularly. The wards had let him through, for whatever reason, and that was all that mattered. He would find them, and he would kill them as soon as an opportunity arose.

For thirteen years he has shown that he had patience, festering in his hatred and his fear. He would find them, and he would strike, and all that suffering would be worth it. With both Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore out of the way, the era of Lord Voldemort would last forever.

That was why this mission had been trusted to no one else.

The soft sound of laughter drew his attention, and he moved towards it. He tasted the smell of the water, the grass, of young children, taking in the disgusting aroma of their play, their happiness, their carefree attitudes.

He could hear the water now, lapping gently at the shoreline, the lake. Young Malfoy had said they spent quite a lot of time down here, looking over the water, as if their lives were as calm and peaceful as the lake they loved so dearly.

He wondered if the boy would be alone. That would be easier, safer, with a greater chance of success. If there were others, he would probably have to wait. But that was no matter. He had all the time in the world.

After all, even Boys-Who-Lived had to use the toilet alone sometime.

The whiff of lavender caught his attention first, and he knew she was close. And where the jumped up, arrogant little Mudblood was, Potter would not be far away. Even Crabbe and Goyle had been able to identify the great feelings the two had for each other, and those feelings, like they had been for Dumbledore, would be their downfall. Indeed, as he moved towards the scent, the unique odor of the Chosen One came to him, and he tried to flatten himself more into the grass to cover his silent approach.

He wished he could scoff at the idea of Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-to-be-Seventeen-Because-His-Mother-Was-Braver-Than-She-Was-Smart, killing Lord Voldemort, greatest wizard to ever live. Perhaps fortunately, his current situation would not permit it, so he would be making no noise to draw attention to himself.

Then when they came into sight, he reasoned that would not have been as much of a problem as he feared. That really was disgusting, that much physical contact with the Mudblood, even for one as debased and foolhardy as Potter.

He had to admit, she had grown attractive of physical form, and there was no denying her intelligence, yet it was the blood flowing in her veins that made her worthless.

For that matter, even Potter was half a Mudblood, so there was certainly no harm, perhaps, from a bit of dalliance from his perspective. But cuddling her, with her draped all over him, in public…

Disgusting.

But, best of all, they both appeared to be asleep. That would make this far easier. He crawled up onto the rock the two lay on, feeling its sun warmed hardness under his belly. Despite its lack of the ground’s softness, it was obvious why the two had chosen the dry heat of the rock slab.

Perhaps he would curl up and watch them die from the relative comfort of the rock before he returned to the cool, wet grass.

The sensual feeling grew within him now, that heady rush of power shooting through his veins, his mind, as he raised his head up, the deadly smile adorning his face as he poised himself to strike…

“HARRY!”

By the blood of his forefather, he hated the Weasleys. “Harry! Hermione! Look out!”

Viperish speed was apparently no match for the Boy-Who-Lived’s Quidditch honed reflexes, whose ill-timed sitting up caused the strike to slide off his arm, rather than dig into his chest as planned.

The Mudblood vanished from sight as Potter shot to his feet. If nothing else, the boy’s reflexes were excellent, just as his father’s had been. They had not saved James Potter, and they would not save his son.

But they had today. Time to make good his escape, as he was discovered, and there would be no chance of success now. “It’s her!” he heard the dark-haired boy say as he slipped back into the tall grass, speeding away.

“Don’t let her get away!” He could feel the footsteps as they began to run after him. Few would have noticed the vibrations in the ground, but as he was now, they were particularly expressive. They were spreading out, trying to encircle him.

Without magic, in terms of ground speed, he was faster than he was normally, but they were all young. He was outrunning them towards the forest, though not as fast as he would have liked, and a shout and a gout of dirt spraying airborne ahead of him showed the folly of that plan.

A straight line was far too predictable, and it would only take one spell to stop him. He zagged to his left, just in time to avoid another spell, this one cast silently from his left. The Mudblood.

They would be gaining on him now, possibly, as he moved randomly to his right, avoiding a gleaming red spell blast. These children were becoming annoying, as more and more spells began to tear up the ground, around him.

Familiar flashes of light exploded ahead of him, bringing forth something he had been unaware Potter could do.

“Stop her!” he heard Potter command in Parseltongue.

“No,” he replied to them, more forcefully than Potter’s command, “slow down Potter.” They slithered past his longer form, hissing angrily at the wizards pursuing him.

“Good job, Harry!” came the voice of the red head, dripping with sarcasm, before heat rolled up from behind him, no doubt Potter and his Mudblood slut vaporizing the snakes.

That was the when agony shot through him, a slicing hex slashing into his back half. The heat of the blood flowing from the wound warmed the cool grass around him, soaking the ground red as he continued to move. He wanted to scream, but could not. His life was flowing away, draining him of his strength, and he fought it fiercely.

He could feel himself dying, something he had worked so hard against, as he heard Potter’s voice. “Good job, ‘Mione.” The affection he could hear, even more than the pain, made him sick. Love. Nasty stuff that. Unreliable and dangerous. Much better to have a simple, strong hatred. Struggling forward, he kept pushing towards the forest, unwilling to let Potter win so easily, but the wound had weakened him too much. More words, and he felt himself frozen in place as the Full-Body Bind wrapped him in its magical embrace.

Moments later, Harry Potter knelt in front of him as he lay on the ground, his friends standing, flanking him to either side, their wands still leveled. “Well, I would suggest that when you slither back to Master, you tell him that we’re coming for him.” The Chosen One smiled darkly. “But you’re not going to see your Master again, Nagini.” The boy stood slowly and leveled him own wand. “You were the hardest one to find, and I was not relishing the thought of taking you and Voldemort in the end. But you’ve made it easy for us now. Thank you.” He saw Potter’s eye brighten, and then his wand raised up. “Adeste Fideles.” The Mudblood and the Weasley placed their hands on Potter’s shoulders, then Potter’s arm slashed downward, his wand a blur. “Abscido Voldemort!”

There was blinding pain, shattering, pulling at his body, and he felt himself being ripped free of his snake that he inhabited, that he had possessed for the strike against Potter. But it was not just him, and in that instant, the being known to the Wizarding world as Lord Voldemort knew the truth, knew why he had felt weaker in the past few months. The last thing that he heard, before returning to his own body, hidden away… far away from the magical school in Britain, was “DELENDA EST ALMA!”

Blinding light shot through him, severing the connection to Nagini completely and permanently, shattering his peaceful little world into a million silvers of light, before darkness slammed down and cut off everything.

When he awoke, Tom Riddle was cold. Very cold. And he stank of fear.

The End

Author’s Note:

Adeste Fideles – Be present, faithful ones.

Abscido Voldemort – Separate Voldemort.

Delenda est alma – The soul must be destroyed.

Shadows

Rating: R

Somewhere in Manchester…

The shadows moved slightly, and the cloaked man smiled. There you are. You’re better than the last one, but unfortunately, if your leader is not willing to come out of hiding, I don’t think any of you are going to score on me now. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure you’ve dropped into a wait and see stance…

Given what today is, and the information we have now. Two years of dancing with and in shadows, and I’m tired of it. Thank god it’ll be over soon.

Goodbye, Death Eater. The aurors will find you. The cloak waved with the smallest motion of the man’s hand, and a noise flickered in the distance. The shadow moved again, and a flare of red pierced the darkness. The shadow collapsed.

A whisper of a pop and the man in the cloak was gone…

Somewhere in Muggle London…

Damn it… The Cauldron should have been around this corner. The cloaked formed moved slightly more under the cover of the shadows. I’m already late, and I’ve missed the last two. I know he has other ways of checking, but…

There was no one else on the street. No one but the person in the cloak, and the shadow. The ones they’re sending definitely keep getting better, or maybe the same one is actually learning… Now that’s a scary thought. Later, though. I’ve got to lose this one, or I’ll end up stunning him. And that ruins it completely.

I’m supposed to be smarter than they are, after all… If only we knew how they had figured out how to trace Apparition and Portkeys, even if they can only do it from up close. On the other hand… She felt her wand slip into her fingers, most of it still up her sleeve. She paused, looking at the street sign while her fingers sketched an invisible symbol onto the pavement. Cocking her head briefly, she moved, and slipped down the side road.

The shadow followed her… and avoided the ward-rune. Damn it. Time to do this the obvious way. She whirled, her cloak billowing out in a manner vaguely reminiscent of Snape had she thought about it, and her wand slid down into her fingers. Wordlessly, the spell shot straight at her pursuer.

A slight motion of the shadow sent her spell flickering off directly into her ward-rune on the sidewalk and they consumed each other in a ball of light. At the same time, a light-blue purple spell shot directly at her. She dodged it effortlessly, though her attacker’s sudden movements had dislodged his cape’s hood. “Come on now, Granger, we don’t have time for games.”

Malfoy? The silver blonde hair was a dead give away. But why is he showing himself to me?

“You were late,” the figure continued, stepping towards her. He did not walk like Malfoy. His voice was wrong, too. Everything about him was familiar, and yet…

“How long have you been following me?” she challenged.

“Twelve ye… six blocks.” The slip up gave him away. Twelve years was their safety code, to make sure neither one of them was not themselves. Of course he has his hair like that. He can’t go around with everyone recognizing him. That would defeat the whole point of the exercise.

“Right,” she replied carefully. “I don’t want to be any later, of course. I’d better go.” A smirk stole across her face as the shadow in front of her raised his hand.

“Her…” With an intentionally loud crack, she was gone.

Elsewhere…

When he got there, his gaze flickered about desperately for her. It had been three weeks since he had seen her properly, four since what the last time what he had planned for that night had occurred.

He knew she would not be hiding far. He allowed himself to briefly dip into the magic around them, and just used that to spot her, the waves of energy that flowed off her body, tinged with the odd pattern he only saw in her, and usually only around these times.

Her physical desire was affecting her magic.

“Hermione?” he called softly, playing her game for now, knowing she was unable to tell his eyes were fastened on her magical signature, watching as it rippled as she kept her amusement in the situation silent. She is good, I have to give her that. Maybe what we did for her and Ron’s protection was unnecessary. Both of them have nearly gotten through my guard the last time they tried to hex me. But no, I’m just slow because I trust them.

He blinked once, bringing back his normal vision, Hermione all but vanishing, and then, only because he knew exactly where she was. Turning away from her deliberately, he began walking in the other direction, but not precisely with her perfectly behind him. That would have been as dead a give away to her as heading right at her.

He felt her begin to move slowly after him, her dark form silent and careful, still hiding. It was a game, after all. Harry grinned.

There…

Unmoving, the cloaked figured watched, a playful grin on her shadowed face as the darkness before her solidified without a sound. He’s always so quiet now. Not at all like Ron. I know he can see me, though I’m not really sure how. One day, I’ll have to get him to teach me, assuming it isn’t like Parseltongue and can be taught.

Hearing him call her name as he pretended to look around for her was a treat, especially because she could feel his eyes burning on her, despite her inability to see them under his matching cloak, to which he had replaced the hood after her departure.

The movements were always just so, with him. So precise, so languidly perfect, as if, despite having the weight of the world on his shoulders, he bore no burden at all. She watched, fascinated, as he turned away, ostensibly seeking her. A game, just like Quidditch. If he seeks me out, we both win. As Harry walked away from her, she grinned even more. Too bad he’s wearing that cloak. His arse is fantastic in those black pants.

Despite the heeled boots she wore, when she stepped forward, she was silent, brushing forward like the wind, her cloak silent around her form, incasing her in darkness.

All of a sudden, air rushed by her as she flew backwards, victim of a motion of Harry’s hand, the wandless magic he had become so good at. Better than a month ago, apparently, she realized abruptly, feeling the bricks she pressed against melt around her upwardly stretched arms, trapping her against the wall.

He was there, his body, his presence, so strong, so masculine, towering over her helpless form as she felt the rush of heat tingling between her thighs. It isn’t the helplessness, it’s his magic. The power is such a turn on.

The blue-purple light shot at her again from his hand, and her eyes widened in surprise just as it struck her abdomen and she felt the familiar tingle. She blinked as he moved in closer, realizing that it was the same charm he had sent at her in the alleyway in London… the same charm they used three out of every four times they were together, on average. She never saw it cast from that far away.

A toss of the man’s head and she shivered, gazing into his eyes. He didn’t just go with Malfoy’s hair. She opened her mouth to speak, but something caught her, his eyes linking to hers, silencing her long enough for his hands to be on her, brushing the front of her cloak open, caressing her stomach through the thin material of her black blouse. She struggled to free her hands, to push him away until he did something to fix his damn hair, or more importantly, his eyes, but she could not.

His hands reached her breasts, and Hermione sighed softly, then muttered, “Harry, did you have to pick Malfoy of all people to…” The blonde haired and grey eyed man cut her off with a hard kiss, his tongue moving hungrily past her open lips as instinct tried to carry on the rest of the sentence. Somehow, as sensation returned to her from the stars that burst in her eyes, she discovered his hands were inside her now open blouse, caressing her through the thin lace of her bra. She gave in to her feelings, and arched up to him, her tongue seeking out his in an ages old dance.

Finally, leaving her gasping for breath as his fingers unhooked the front closure of her bra, he pulled back, and the grey eyes flashed a reassuring green to her, before once more, his lips descended on hers. This time, though, there was absolutely no hesitation when Hermione returned his kiss, arching into the touch of his rough, warm hands on her breasts, tenderly squeezing and rubbing them, his thumbs circling her hardened nipples. She moaned softly into his mouth when he pinched them, twisting them ever so gently over his index fingers, before letting go.

She realized she wanted to touch him, to feel his body under her hands, but his damn wandless magic was keeping her from that. Groaning, she struggled against the bonds, but she could feel that was only making him want to play the game more…

Here…

Harry felt, more than heard, Hermione’s groan of frustration, through his hands on her breasts and his mouth on hers. The fact that it was exactly what he had been hoping to hear did not make it any better for him, of course. The sound of her was delectable, and he finally broke away again, staring at her, his hands skimming down her torso, over her waist, and onto her thighs. He grabbed the leather and pulled on it, bunching the fabric about her hips as he crushed his hips against hers, pinning her more securely to the wall.

He could feel the smoothness of her skin under his touch, the shivering of her body as he raked his nails along the insides of her thighs, ever upward until he pressed firmly against the boiling heat of her desire, separated by a thin shred of fabric.

Her legs were around him, pulling him into her, and he knew she could feel the bulge through all the layers that kept them apart. As he raked his nails in a line over the silky, wet fabric, she whimpered with pleasure, his name included somewhere in the incoherent sound, and he could stand it no longer. His hand, magically active, jerked downward, tearing Hermione’s knickers open and opening his own clothing at the same time.

The next touch was one of him against her newly bared flesh, the throbbing, heated length of him burning against the soft wetness. Her next words prompted the release of the bindings on her wrists, and more, the movement of his hips, which in turn provoked an incoherent cry of pleasure from her lips.

Driving into her, slamming her against the wall, he felt her hands in his blonde hair pulling him into another desperate kiss. Her gloves I’m not wearing gloves, it’s not cold, why is she? melded the only spot of light back with the shadows, and in the darkness, the muffled sounds of their enjoyment of each other, as mist rose up to hide them from prying eyes.

Then…

The sunlight had blared down on the tableau in front of Harry Potter, whose green eyes were blazing with fury at the sight in front of him. Betrayed by his best friends, here, in Diagon Alley, in front of the whole Wizarding world.

He had not spoken the words, his fury was so terrible. His wand had just come out, and Ron, currently kissing Hermione rather chastely on the lips, had gone flying backwards into a fortunately soft pile of rubbish located directly behind him. “How could you?” he had finally snarled at Hermione, sitting with a shocked look on her face, staring at the violence etched on his face, displayed for the entire world to see. He held his position long enough he knew someone would be getting a camera.

Hermione had slowly risen and moved to check on Ron, and then had given Harry the darkest look he had ever gotten from her. “He’s not dead, if that’s what you were intending.”

Anger had crackled as static in the air around him. “I trusted you both. And you betrayed me, sneaking around behind my back with my best friend! I thought you loved me.”

She had merely looked disgusted. “Loved you? Don’t be silly. I love Ron.” Hermione had stood slowly, and walked towards him, looking utterly confident that he would never touch her. He would not, of course. He could not. He had shivered slightly when she raked her fingernail along his chin, and Hermione grinned triumphantly. The smile was cold. “You still want me, even now, don’t you?”

She had shaken her head sadly, and Harry’s wand had drooped, hanging limp in his arm. “You’re the bad boy, Harry. The Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One. Did you really think I would pass up the chance to share your bed? I mean, honestly, a real celebrity? A plain mudblood girl like me? It did help that you were rich, too. All those nice things you bought me.” The grin was colder than any grin Harry had ever seen from Voldemort himself. “And hell yes, you were fucking magnificent in bed.” The grin transformed into one of pure wickedness. “And everywhere else. But even you, for all your charms, can’t compete with love.”

She had shrugged oh so elegantly, and trailed her fingers ever so gently on him as she walked in a complete circle around him. “I admit it freely, even to Ron, that you’re so much better in bed, but girls don’t marry the bad boy. They marry the nice boy they can take home to Mum. You’re not him, Harry. Ron is. He just loved the thought of pulling this one over on you for as long as we could.” The sickening thing was how brightly she had smiled at him.

Harry had been trembling with rage, sparks shooting into the cobbles of the Alley randomly. “I hate you,” he had shouted, spitting at her. She had stepped nimbly aside. “I never want to see either of you again for the rest of my life!”

That had prompted a laugh from Hermione. “Well, fortunately, we shouldn’t have to wait very long then. When you and your precious Order die taking out Voldemort, Ron and I will get along just fine without you. Goodbye, Harry Potter.” That was when she had turned away from him and moved back to Ron, still unconscious in the rubbish heap.

A snarl crept onto Harry’s face. “I’ll survive, if only to spite you, because there are now four people on my list of people to kill. Don’t let me see you again.” Harry apparated away with a loud crack before he could cry.

Before…

“This is the third time they’ve gone after your parents in the month since we took out Nagini, Hermione. We’re not going to keep being lucky, especially if they keep attacking Ron’s parents at the same time too,” Harry said with a sigh, looking at his two best friends, Hermione in his embrace on the couch in their flat, Ron in the seat opposite them.

Ron nodded slowly. “All that’s left is V- Vol- Voldemort himself now.” He looked brightly at Harry. “How do we do it?

Hermione sighed, and cuddled closer against Harry. “I don’t think we can, Ron. Both Snape and Malfoy can’t tell us where he is, and he’s in hiding, trying to regain the strength he’s lost from the destruction of most of his soul. It’ll come back eventually, and Harry has to,” her voice caught briefly, “face him and destroy him before then. He just knows too much magic for Harry to ever catch up.” She looked at him apologetically.

Harry shook his head. “I accepted that a long time ago, Hermione. Only with all three of us are we going to beat him. Love… friendship… that is the Power He Knows Not. Which is why I can’t afford to lose either of you, especially now that we have him right where we want him.”

“Except we don’t know where that is either,” Ron quipped, earning him a glare from Hermione and a chuckle from Harry.

“True. Which is why, until we find him, I need to make you two and your families not targets.”

“That’s impossible, mate,” Ron began hotly, but cut off when Hermione sat up abruptly.

“There’s only one way to do that,” she said, “and I don’t know how we could ever accomplish it believably.”

“Can you kiss him?” Harry asked her, and Ron’s eyes got wide as Hermione’s glare returned full force.

“You’re not serious.”

“Was I that bad a kisser?” Ron enquired, but Harry overrode him.

“Perfectly serious, love. It has to be done like this. No one would believe it otherwise.”

Ron glared fiercely at both of them, and shouted loud enough to break in. “You’re doing it again, that communicating without words thing. Let me in on the plan, if you don’t mind, since I presume my part in this involves kissing Hermione?”

Harry sat back, and Hermione moved away from him, tears welling up in her eyes. “Harry and I have to break up, publicly, in a way that puts you on my side, Ron. A way in which neither one of us would ever speak to him again. A way that disassociates us with the Order as well.”

Ron gaped at her, and blinking, turned to Harry for confirmation, who nodded. “But you were gonna ask her to…” The snarl that formed on Harry’s face was enough to shut Ron up, demonstrating that he did not like this any better than the two of them. “But that still won’t protect my family, or even Hermione’s family in the long run.”

Harry shook his head. “It’s not a perfect plan, obviously. The Weasleys are too involved in the Order for a spat between us three to withdraw them from it. Even if they did, it would look suspicious, and Voldemort is smart enough to smell a rat like that. Breaking the two of you from contact with me will at least protect Hermione’s family to an extent. I can’t save both families again like I did today with any real chance of success, especially given their separation. I got lucky.”

“Yeah, that Apparition hopping back and forth was brilliant, mate. I don’t know how you did it, though, that many, so close together.”

“As I said, lucky. Besides, the Death Eaters will set wards next time. They’re not idiots, unfortunately. We’ve got to remove the threat as much as possible from Hermione’s family. After the break up, they go into hiding.”

Hermione nodded. “They’ll understand.”

Ron looked puzzled, and Harry waited for it. It was not long in coming. “I still don’t get how people are going to believe Hermione and you broke up, Harry. And what my kissing Hermione has anything to do with this.”

Hermione sighed, the tears were running silently down her cheeks. “You and I have to have an affair, Ron.”

“A WHAT?”

The grin which crossed Hermione’s face was slight, but noticeable. “Well, Harry has to catch us having an affair in public, anyway. And then the three of us have to be extremely nasty to each other.”

“Oh. Can we actually be that nasty to each other?”

“Well, Ron,” Harry began, with a significant glance at his lover, but Ron cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“Okay, what I actually meant was can either of us be that nasty to you?”

Hermione bit her bottom lip. “We’ll just have to find out, won’t we?”

Now…

They had moved inside after their quick coupling in the shadows outside the little Muggle hostel. Curled up in the bed, naked, they were talking, both of them having completely done away with the concealing and glamour charms they had been wearing, as no one could see them now. Even still, it was dangerous to their charade that they had maintained for two years. Harry missed Ron desperately, and knew his oldest friend missed him just as much, but the once a week contacts with Hermione were all they dared chance, probably more than was smart, and Ron had understood why she was the contact and not him.

After all, Ron knew who he would rather shag, given the option of Harry or Hermione.

Well, they were not talking any more. Now it was that kind of heavy snogging that leads up to more coital activities, but Harry broke it off suddenly. After the second time, we always leave. I don’t want to go yet. So I probably ought to go ahead and tell her.

Hermione looked at him questioningly. “What’s wrong, Harry?” Her brown eyes were filled with concern quickly replacing the desire that had deepened them a mere moment before.

“We found him, Hermione.” Harry could see her brain working quickly behind her eyes, but the intensity of their earlier activities and the late hour had obviously left Hermione a little slower than normal. “We’ve found Voldemort. This may be our only chance. We’re going tomorrow. Apparently he’s stuck for at least a day making some sort of replenishing potion that’s helping him get his strength back more quickly, and it can’t be moved.” His green eyes clouded over, and he squeezed Hermione a little tighter. “That was the last thing Snape said to us before he died. He splinched himself on the way out, slashed open by his own curse, used by Voldemort. Malfoy never made it out, as far as we can tell. Tomorrow night we throw everything to the wind, and the final battle will begin. The Wizarding world lives or dies with me, I suppose.”

Hermione’s expression was shocked, and slowly her brain wore through it. Well, slowly for Hermione anyway. Lightning fast for anyone else. “You’re not going to die, Harry. Ron and I won’t let that happen.”

Harry smiled fondly at the brown haired witch in his arms. “I know that, Hermione. As long as I have you by my side, I can do anything.”

“And Ron,” she reminded him.

“I most certainly cannot do Ron,” Harry said with an affronted look, deliberately misinterpreting her, and Hermione giggled. It had been ages since Harry had heard such a sweet sound, and he kissed her soundly, though swiftly. “Also, I burned all your books and most of your other things, since you weren’t coming back.” The deadpan voice gave away his joke, though, and the struggle he was going through to keep emotion from entering in. “Had to make it look good for the Death Eaters who were watching us.”

Hermione grinned. “No, really, Harry, what did you actually burn?”

He chuckled. “Daily Prophets and condolence letters from my adoring public that I transfigured into books.”

Hermione kissed him softly. “Wonderful. You know, I didn’t actually get as much hate mail as I expected.”

Harry smiled. “I managed to have it blocked, through a variety of cutouts.” She grinned at him, and then it fell away as he continued. “Maybe we should go and rest for the battle, instead of…” A finger to his lips shushed him.

“No, Harry.” Hermione grabbed Harry’s magic wand, as his was closer than hers, and she just had to drag her lithe body across Harry’s chest to get to it, rather than the other side of the bed. Pressing the tip to her abdomen, she murmured, “Finite. Conceptus.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Hermione, what are you doing?” But before he could ask any more, she silenced him with a kiss.

“Just in case, Harry. Just in case,” she whispered, her lips moving along his jaw.

Harry fought the sensation as long as he could, trying to stay coherent. “After the battle, Hermione?” She made a soft sound of encouragement, knowing instinctively he was not questioning her motives. “Will you marry me, Hermione Jane Granger?”

“Of course I will, you dolt,” she whispered in his ear. “I love you more than life itself.”

“I love you too, Hermione,” Harry said, grinning, pulling her into a proper kiss, not that he minded what she was doing to his ear, if the growing pressure between their bodies was any indication.

“Where’s my ring?” she asked playfully as she slid into a position straddling his hips.

Harry grinned. “You’ll have it before we go tomorrow night.”

“I should think so. Two years is more than long enough after you bought it,” she grinned at his shocked expression, then ground her hips against his, and the expression became one of pleasure. Leaning forward, she captured his lips with her own, and murmured, “Make love to me, Harry, for the last time in the shadows.”

And so he did.

The End

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