Learning to Deal

dtown_curly_q

Rating: PG13
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 7
Published: 07/01/2006
Last Updated: 30/10/2013
Status: in_progress

Post-Hogwarts. After the Final Battle, Harry, Ron, and Hermione live together outside of London. But when they think the worst is over, can Hermione help Harry work through yet another struggle?

Chapters

1. Reliving

2. Losing

3. Talking

4. Blaming

5. Crying

6. Breathing

7. Shattering

8. Burning

9. Reading

10. Watching

11. Learning

12. Distracting

13. Admitting

14. Author's Note

15. Coping

16. Dancing

17. Attacking

18. Betting

19. Scoring

20. Warning

21. Author's Note

22. Sacrificing

23. Remembering

1. Reliving

Reliving

"That's absolutely disgusting," I mumble, watching as Ron and his flavor of the week make use of his couch. I have half a mind to walk up and start explaining how kissing like that is the number one way to spread germs, but my other best friend's hand is clamped on my arm so I don't do just that.

"Then quit watching," his deep baritone says smartly in my ear. I roll my eyes.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious!"

After another minute or so of the Tongue Olympics, I turn away. Brushing the hand from my arm, I make my way to the kitchen with Harry in tow.

It is at times like these when our living arrangements become uncomfortable. After graduation, Harry, Ron, and I realized that the Final Battle would be easier to cope with if we stayed together. Hence, the ultra-humongous flat that Harry insisted he pay for himself has been our home for the past six years. It's tucked away into a small village in the countryside, just south of London. It's, by far, the biggest, most expanse house I've ever seen. With four floors, I have to tilt my head back to see anywhere near the roof. It's quite picturesque, actually. Ivy crawls up the white brick walls and slowly curling roses grow up trellises on each side.

The top floor is our general space. It's a cheery sort of place with pal blue walls and soft furniture lying pell-mell across the plush carpet. Harry and Ron's marble wizard's chess set sits on a small table in between two chairs in the corner, next to the towering fireplace. I usually sprawl on the pouf a few feet away, reading a book for the gigantic shelf that the boys transfigured for me.

The third floor is Harry's. You can walk up the stairs and into his small living area, and you automatically relax. "The Den," as he calls it, consists of a coffee table, a looming black marble fireplace, and a soft ebony couch. Pictures of his parents and us are scattered on the mantelpiece, giving it a distinctly cozy feeling that I don't quite get anywhere else. Harry's flat holds the only kitchen in the house, complete with a dining room and breakfast nook, so we all meet there every day for at least breakfast, if we can't make it for any other meal.

Ron has the bottom level, mainly for reasons that are now resting on his couch. Ron, out of the three of us, comes and goes more than Harry and I combined. We decided it would be horrid to have him trumping up and down the spiral staircase at all hours, so we gave him the place closest to the door. The entire floor is your classic bachelor pad: game room, with pool table and dart board; bedroom, with a bed that hasn't been made since he moved in; and a living room, littered with beer bottles. (I swear, the boy wouldn't recognize a cleaning charm if it danced naked on his nose.) And the walls are painted a startlingly bright orange, to show his devotion to his Quidditch team, the Chudley Cannons.

My floor, as you've probably already deduced, is the second one. Harry and Ron, forever thinking of me (and being greatly over-protective), sandwiched me in between them with the philosophy that the only way someone could get to me, with the anti-apparation wards activated, was by going through either one of them.

Not that there's anything wrong with my flat, of course. Where Harry's is darker, and Ron's is so stunningly...orange, mine is a happy medium. The walls are a deep burgundy, but the windows allow a significant amount of light in. My flat is set up the same as Ron's with the exception of my study, which I pointedly refused to make into yet another bachelor hangout for the boys.

I slowly climb the elegant staircase from Ron's flat to Harry's, where I open the door and he follows me inside, closing it behind him. That familiar homey feeling engulfs me as I fold myself into the couch in front of the crackling fire.

"Want anything?"

Harry asks from the doorway to the kitchen.

"Cocoa would be nice," I suggest as he nods and disappears. I look down at the coffee table, at the tiny picture frame that Harry claims holds his favorite picture. I lean forward and lift it from the table, setting it in my lap. Brushing my fingertips against the glass, I smile at the image: Harry, Ron, and I, sitting in our graduation caps and robes, with me in the middle. Harry and Ron each lean to kiss me on the cheek. I watch with a smile as my photographic self ducks, and the boys' eyes fly open when their lips are mere centimeters apart.

The couch shifts under Harry's weight as he sits at my side, handing me a mug of hot cocoa. I smile over in thanks and set the frame back on the table. Harry sets his own cup on his knee before leaning his head against his hand. His other hand comes up to take off his glasses and rub his eyes, which are shadowed by dark rings. My smile ices over with sternness.

"Why didn't you tell me you were having them again?"

He sighs heavily.

"You know I hate to bother you with them..."

"That doesn't matter; Dr. Sylvan said you should tell someone if they started back up."

"I don't care what the damn shrink said, Hermes."

His tone steers me into silence. After the Final Battle, many of us attended both group and individual counseling, Harry's lasting the longest. Even though it seemed to help him sort out everything, I think the act of spilling his feelings to a complete stranger made him uneasy, and made things worse in the long run.

My sessions, along with Ron's, were often short, sweet, and to the point. Very cut and dried. No emotional breakdowns or mental realignments needed, at least on my part.

Counseling, I found, was an outlet. Where Harry was uncomfortable with sharing things with a stranger, I embraced it, spilling every thought, every emotion, every memory. The atmosphere of the office seemed to comfort me. The feeling of the downy pillows against the back of my head, the lingering scent of used parchment and old books. It became my haven from life, both present and past. Though, I admit, the past still seems to haunt me.

It's funny, really, that I seem so traumatized by the battle. I don't remember much about it, even though I was there through it all; even though I was the key to it all. Most of it was told to me when I woke up afterward.

The last thing I remembered was Voldemort standing between Ron and me. We were shackled and chained to either side of him, binding our fate to his. Both of us, broken and bloody from hours upon hours of torture just hoped for the end.

Perhaps I can remember more than I think.

I remember Harry. He was standing about twenty feet from us. His clothes had been ripped and torn from the onslaught of spells and curses he had taken. His wand was clutched tightly in his hand; his face had instantly paled at the sight of us.

Maybe that was what had startled me the most. I was met with the sight of something I'd never seen in all of our years of friendship...a scared Harry Potter. For years, it had always been just the two of them. Harry Potter versus the Dark Lord. And now we had been pulled into the mix. Or perhaps we had always been there, just off to the side, not knowing our use.

"Here we stand, once and for all. The famous Harry Potter against the powerful Lord Voldemort," the snakelike figure cackled, "I've brought some guests, surely you won't mind."

I saw Harry's eyes flicker to Ron and me, then to the chains magically locked around our wrists and ankles. Voldemort let out another wild stream of laughter.

"You can only imagine how stupid I felt when it came to me. I had spent years searching, trying to find this 'power' you possess, Harry. Just think about how ignorant I felt when I realized it had been right under my nose," he gestured toward the two of us.

"This ends tonight, Harry. Sixteen years of waiting. Sixteen years of being thwarted by someone so insignificant, so weak. And it'll all be over."

Harry's hand tightened around his wand, his knuckles turning white as he glared at the Dark Lord with a gaze of pure hatred that I didn't know he was capable of.

"And for being such a good little boy," Voldemort continued, "I'll spare one of them. Just one. So make your choice wisely. For one can't live while the other survives...much like us, isn't it?"

Harry's eyes grazed the both of us again. They lingered on Ron, who was in considerably worse shape than I was, then shot to me, holding my gaze for only a moment before turning away.

"Let him go," he said in a half-whisper, pointing to Ron.

"Tut, tut, Harry. I'm disappointed. I thought you would choose the Mudblood."

With a flick of his wrist, Ron's bindings disappeared and he fell limply to the ground.

My breath was coming out in short gasps. My heart was resting somewhere along the bottom of my stomach, and my head had begun to spin.

I'm going to die.

A moan escaped Ron's mouth, along with a trickle of blood.

"Pathetic," Lord Voldemort sneered.

But I didn't register any of it. I still couldn't process the thought that, after nearly seven years of friendship, Harry had chosen death as my fate. The magically trained part of my brain scanned through a multitude of words, spells, and potions in the thousands of tomes I had researched through in our quest for the horcruxes, the plethora of information rocketing through my mind in seconds, trying to assure myself that expiration would not be my outcome. The analytical portion of my mind, however, concluded that searching for another explanation was useless. Ron had been Harry's friend first. He'd been the brother, the family, that Harry had never had. I had been second best. I wouldn't live to graduate from Hogwarts. I wouldn't live to get a job, get married, start a family. My life would end here, as many other's lives had.

I searched out Harry's gaze, but he averted his eyes. As if bracing himself, he raised his wand toward Voldemort, so slowly, that I almost didn't sense the motion. The Dark Lord was in his own twisted world, explaining how he would make Harry beg to kill him instead of me. How his plan all along had been to give him a priceless ultimatum: our lives for his.

The Harry I had known for the better part of my life would have jumped on the offer. For years, Dumbledore had prepared him to make the ultimate sacrifice. To save the world meant to die, to give up any hope of a future. Yet the Harry standing before me didn't seem to give it a second thought. Perhaps, giving us up, making Harry choose, was a way of teaching him to let go...

" It's okay," I croaked, my voice hoarse from screaming, interrupting Voldemort's tirade. I didn't much care. I would be gone in a few moments either way.

Harry's shaking hand steadied, and he finally met my eyes, the intensity of his gaze burning a hole through mine. Voldemort never knew what hit him...

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

There was a flash of green light, an antagonizing scream, blinding pain, then total darkness.

And the next thing I knew, I was waking up. Mr. Weasley sat at my side, beaming down at me with tears in his eyes as he shouted for Ron. I touched my face...I was alive.

Mr. Weasley was instantly replaced by Ron, who was sobbing uncontrollably against my neck, babbling incoherently. It took a while for Ron to calm down, and when he did, he took a seat at the edge of my bed, his hand holding mine in a deathly tight vise grip. I swallowed, wincing at the feeling of a hundred knives being jerked down my throat.

"Harry..." I rasped.

"Shh," Ron cooed, stoking my hair, "You need your rest. Dad just went to get Healer Valdez; it can wait until tomorrow."

"Now," I strained, digging my nails into his palm to get my point across. Didn't he understand that I needed to know what had happened? How I'd survived?

He hissed in pain, and released my hand. He gazed at me for a moment, then pulled out his wand and cast cloaking and silencing charms around my bed and conjured me a glass of water. I held the cup to my lips and fought to keep my eyes opened. It felt as if sandbags were hanging from my lids.

"What happened?" I asked after Ron had taken the goblet from my unsteady hands.

He took a shaky breath, but didn't speak.

"Ron?"

"Do you remember when Harry was training with Lupin and Shacklebolt at the beginning of the year, and all of a sudden, his lessons weren't with us anymore? How he said it was because they were teaching him dark defensive spells that he'd need to fight Voldemort."

I nodded, even in my haze, taking note that Ron didn't stutter over the name anymore.

"He lied. They were actually taking him from Grimmauld Place to McGonagall's office to talk to Dumbledore's portrait. He spent all this time learning how to perform this one spell...the Resurrection Charm...have you heard of it?"

I responded with a shake of my head.

"I hadn't either. Apparently it's only been performed successfully by Merlin himself. Even though there isn't a spell powerful enough to awaken the dead, he could take the injuries of someone who was barely alive, and take them upon himself. Then he could use his powers to nurse himself back to health."

My exhaustion was abruptly shoved away by this knowledge.

"But something of that capacity would have taken ages to master and magic beyond anything Harry might possess to carry out."

"It doesn't matter, Hermione. Harry knew that, since the killing curse wasn't meant for either of us, it would kill us slowly. He knew that I wouldn't survive the surge of the curse in the shape I was in. He knew you would be alive."

My head swam for a few moments as I tried to organize this information in my mind.

"You don't mean that-"

Ron's hand tightened over mine.

"Oh, God," I murmured, going into severe panic mode, "Where is he? I have to see him."

I swung my legs over the side of the bed with strength I didn't know I had and lowered myself to the floor.

"Hermione, don't-"

"I need to see him," I cut in, stumbling as my knees gave out. Ron caught me around my waist just before I hit the floor.

"CAN WE GET A HEALER IN HERE?!" Ron yelled, pulling me up to cradle in his arms. Seconds later, a Mediwitch rushed into the room and began to levitate me back into my bed.

"NO! I have to see him! RON! Please, just let me see him-"

"What's the commotion in here?" Healer Valdez spoke over the noise, his clipboard clutched in his hand.

"She wants to see Mr. Potter, sir, but Mr. Weasley advises against it," the Mediwitch squeaked, pushing up her inch thick spectacles.

"Mr. Weasley," Healer Valdez addressed him, "Are you a relative of Miss Granger?"

"No, but-"

"Are you her boyfriend?"

"No, I'm-"

"Are you her husband?"

"I'm not, but-"

"Then you have no say in what Miss Granger does in this hospital while she is conscious."

Ron's mouth opened, as if to retaliate, but he decided against it.

"Ms. Carlisle, would you please conjure Miss Granger a wheelchair and send her to the fourth floor?"

"Yes, sir."

The girl piped, immediately obeying her orders.

It took a few minutes to get up to the Rare Spells Ward, where Harry was held. He had a room to himself where he was being monitored 24/7. Ron offered to go in with Healer Valdez and I, but I insisted he stay out. He hadn't wanted me there in the first place; why should I want him with me?

The sight that met my eyes when the hangings around his bed were drawn back took my breath away. There was no way that this was my Harry. His skin was deathly pale and held an almost bluish tint where the sheen of yellow and purple bruises didn't reach. Gashes and cuts were strewn across his shirtless torso, and a particularly nasty hole in his side made my heart skip a beat. I could vaguely remember Wormtail jamming a dagger into my side as he demanded I tell him the location of Harry's whereabouts.

"What else is wrong?" I choked out.

"He was hemorrhaging. We were able to get that under control. He has some broken ribs, a sprained ankle, and both of his legs are pretty much shattered. If he lives through this, I don't know if he'll ever walk again."

"Why--why hasn't he been healed yet?"

"We've done our best, Miss Granger, but they just won't-"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEY WON'T HEAL!"

"Miss Granger, the spell that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named cast on your wounds to keep them open transferred to Mr. Potter. You must understand. Any of the wounds you had, he's dealing with now. Has been, for the past week."

I didn't care that I'd been out of it for a week. Nor did I care that I suddenly felt light-headed, or that I hadn't eaten anything solid for a week. All I knew was that I had to stay with him. That I couldn't rest until I saw him open his eyes...

"Hermes, are you okay?"

Harry's voice brings me back to the present.

"Yeah," I say, shaking my head to rid myself of the memory, "Just spaced out for a second."

He gives me his trademark grin and throws his arm around my shoulders. I return his smile, leaning my head against his chest and letting the crackling of the fire and the steady rhythm of Harry's heartbeat lull me to sleep.

A/N: Thanks a million to Mabel, my awesome beta, for helping me get this story up. Please review…just push that button…

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2. Losing

Losing

"...and starting for the Chudley Cannons, we have Podeski, Sanchez, Carlson, Salini, Salini, and the league's top keeper and Captain of the English National Team...RONALD WEASLEY!" the commentator announces over the roaring crowd.

I'm sitting in my usual seat in the top box among a spray of red-heads wearing orange rosettes and waving Cannon pennants. Looking to my right brings to my attention that one-third of the trio is conspicuously absent. Harry's seat is empty, which isn't all that unusual; Harry has this strange tendency to be late to all of Ron's games. I'm not one to worry though. He always shows up at the perfect time, so mostly, Ron can't tell that Harry's lying when he says he caught Ron's start-of-the-game save.

The referee blows his whistle and my eyes turn back to the goalposts, leaving all thoughts of Harry in the dust.

ª

Two hours and a Cannon win later makes me realize that my cheering buddy was a no-show. On the field, Ron clambers off of his broom stick and is instantly surrounded by rabid fans. Somehow, his eyes find mine and his eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. I shrug, silently telling him that I have no clue where Harry is. It takes about forty-five minutes for the hype to die down, and as I hug Mrs. Weasley good-bye, Ron appears at my side.

"Maybe he got held up at work," he suggests.

Well, I think, that wouldn't be the first time.

After the final battle, Harry, like most of us, wasn't sure what to do for the rest of his life. We had gone into battle not planning to come out, but gradually, each of us had to find our calling. Harry's, we all figured, was obvious. `The Boy Who Lived,' `The Chosen One,' `The Man Who Defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named;' someone with a title list like that was destined to be an Auror to fight villains 'til the end of his days.

I should've known though. Since when had Harry Potter ever been predictable? No, he stunned everyone by venturing into the medical field. With the help of my trusty old time-turner, Harry completed both magical and muggle training that would have taken decades, in the span of four years, graduating close to the top of his class in both schools. Even though he was offered many positions at St. Mungo's, he chose to start at the bottom of the ladder at St. Vincent's Children's Hospital in London and is now the facility's youngest Chief Resident.

It didn't come as a surprise, however, to find that Harry would be working in the Intensive Care Unit. Of course Harry Potter, with his outstanding hero complex, would want to be in the thick of things, helping people when hope was hard to come by.

Eventually, after signing a few autographs and a few more hugs, Ron and I head home, chatting about the game, to find Harry's silver Mercedes in the driveway. We share a knowing look before dashing through the front door and up two flights of stairs to Harry's floor. Opening the door, we walk to the only lighted room.

Harry sits at the dining room table, clad only in his loose-fitting chinos and his old, black-rimmed glasses, pouring over file upon file of paperwork. His eyes are bloodshot and his cheeks are tearstained, but I don't ask any questions and I can tell Ron is uncomfortable. He doesn't handle any sort of emotional situation well.

"Er...mate?" he asks tentatively.

Harry doesn't even look up when he answers, "What do you want, Ron?"

Ron stiffens at his best friend's sternness. "You...er...you weren't at the game...and we just..." his voice trails off and Harry's shoulders sag.

"I'm sorry," he replies, looking up for the first time and now I'm sure that Ron knows what's up. This has only happened once before; that was the first time Harry couldn't save one of his patients. "I just lost track of time-"

"It's alright, mate," Ron assures, and I can tell that the tension is getting to him, so I motion toward the door, silently telling him he can go. I wait until he shuts the door behind him before I pull out the chair next to Harry's, sliding into it and laying my hand on his bare shoulder.

"Who was it?" I ask softly.

His eyes clamp closed, as if to hold back tears. He swallows, and in a voice I can barely hear, "Allie."

The air rushes out of my lungs in a sharp exhale, and I lean my head against the cushioned back of the seat.

Allie was Harry's first special case. She had been brought in from the ER for internal bleeding. Harry, who was on duty that night, took charge of her. After exploratory surgery, Harry and his team found the cause; her lungs had been lacerated in the car crash that had brought her there. Her parents were divorced; her father was in prison serving a fifteen-year sentence for money laundering and possession of cocaine and her mother was drunk when she picked Allie up from day-care when she hit a van head-on. Allie only just survived, while her mother passed away. After having one lung removed and the other cleaned up, she was admitted into the Intensive Care Unit under Harry's constant watch.

Allie stayed there for seven months, and it didn't take long for Harry to fall in love with the tiny three-year-old girl who had already stolen the hearts of everyone in the ward. At the eighth month, she was moved to the Permanent Care ward and was put on a donor waiting list to replace both of her lungs. Harry meanwhile, continued to visit her before and after his shifts for the past year. He slowly became the closest thing she'd ever had to a father, bringing her presents on her birthday and teddy bears on Valentine's Day. He even got a court order to take her from the hospital to our flat for Christmas last December. I can still see her black-curl-framed face gazing in awe at our ten foot Christmas tree...

Harry takes off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose and I take this time to quickly scan the files in front of him. All the papers dictate what he ordered to be done on Allie in her nearly two years in his care. I can tell he saw me looking, because he offers, "I thought that maybe I did something wrong. I wanted to see if I should've done something different-"

He stops mid-sentence when I close the open folder and slide the pile to the other side of the table.

"Hey!"

"You don't need to stress yourself out like this. There's nothing you can do now, Harry. You can't change the past.”

He turns away from me, fixing his gaze on the table top. It takes a few moments for him to move, and all he does is take off his glasses and rub the bridge of his nose again, but at least he's reacting to this. I'd be more worried if he didn't show any emotion.

Gently, so as not to startle him, I take his hand and tug him up from his chair leading him to the couch. I sit down and he sinks next to me, collapsing against the back. We sit in silence for a few moments, and then he shifts sideways on the couch, pulls me toward him so that I'm sitting in between his legs, wraps his arms around my waist, and buries his face in my hair.

"Hermes," he says, his voice muffled.

"Hmm?"

He lifts his head and sits his chin on my shoulder with a sigh. With the innocence of a child asking if there really is a Santa Claus, he whispers, "Why does everyone I love die?"

My finger, which has been tracing spiral patterns along his thigh, stops. I've always known that this question would come one day, but I've hoped that I wouldn't be the one obligated to answer it. I let out a sigh of my own, pulling one of his hands from my waist to hold it in both of mine.

"Everyone dies someday, Harry.”

"I know, but why does everyone have to go so...fast?"

"I dunno," I respond.

My fingers run against his palm. His skin is weather-worn and rough with calluses on his middle fingers where his tools rub during surgery. I've always loved Harry's hands, perhaps because I've seen all that they can do. It never ceases to amaze me that the hands that vanquished the most powerful dark wizard in a century are the same ones that perform heart surgery without the slightest tremble or hesitation.

"But she was so young," he says.

Tears threaten to spill from my eyes, but I know I can't let them fall. I have to be the strong one this time.

"Maybe..." I say, "maybe God needed another angel..."

I know that Harry's never had any sort of religious background, but this is the only explanation I can think of and it brings some comfort to me, at least.

"Yeah," he replies, his voice strained, "that's probably it."

I twist my head around to get a better look at him. The rings under his eyes are darker than usual and his normally peachy-tan skin is pallid.

"You need to get some rest, Harry," I tell him, getting off his lap and bringing him to his bedroom.

Harry's room is immaculate; everything is in its place. I'm still not sure if that's a trait acquired from living with the Dursley's or from being a surgeon. I let go of his hand and turn down his duvet cover, revealing the creamy, white satin sheets underneath. I grab his hand again and push him onto the bed, which at the moment, looks drudgingly inviting. He takes off his belt and his glasses, placing his wand on the nightstand, and slides soundlessly under the covers. I place a kiss to his forehead before heading to the door.

"Hermes," he calls, making me turn back.

"Yes, Harry?"

He sits up a bit, timidly stretching a hand out to me, the dust of an embarrassed blush settling on his cheekbones. "Will you stay with me? At least until I fall asleep?"

I stare at him, and for a moment, I can see the eleven-year-old boy I met on the Hogwarts Express thirteen years ago that had never known love or comfort. I smile gently. I can't deny the man anything when he looks like that.

"Of course."

His green orbs shine with gratitude as I lie next to him, pushing his shoulder slightly so that he lies down on his back. I prop myself on my side on one elbow, one hand cradling my head, the other lazily running its fingers through his hair. For a second, the image of the paperwork piled up in my study waiting to be filled out flits through my mind, but I shove it away. He's more important.

Harry's eye lids flutter for a few moments before finally closing. He doesn't fall asleep right away though. It takes about half an hour for his breathing to even out and his face to relax. This is the first time in a long while where I've actually seen him at ease. His nights are usually plagued by nightmares and his days, by illness.

I'm seriously debating slipping under the covers with him when my trained ears detect the sound of footsteps. They pad heavily to the closed door, stop, then the door cracks open and Ron sticks his head in. I raise a hand, signaling for him to come in, and he literally tip-toes across the room to Harry's bedside. Ron takes a seat on the edge and glances concernedly over at Harry.

Instantaneously, I'm jolted back to a similar scene a few years back.

Ron and I, along with Harry, are in the same position, but the surroundings are completely different. Instead of being in Harry's bedroom, we're in a hospital room. The smell invading our senses is that of strong anti-septic potions instead of the clean, airy smell of our flat and the possibility of losing one of our own hangs like a thick shroud between Ron and me.

Ron's left wrist is in a brace, his only long-standing injury. I'm still in my hospital gown and slippers, balancing on the tip of the seat of my wheelchair. It had been four and a half weeks since Voldemort's defeat, and while the wizarding world was rejoicing, Ron and I had been thrust into a feeling of unreality. Neither of us had left the hospital since we first arrived. Ron had been asked to visit the Burrow to celebrate the Dark Lord's downfall with the twins and his parents, but had declined to stay at Harry's bedside with me. I was still in the hospital for `observational purposes.'

Harry had shown signs of consciousness a little more than three hours before that point; his eyes seemed to crack open and one hand tightened weakly around mine. Ron and I had been waiting anxiously ever since. The two of us had just shared a sidelong glance at each other when a strangled groan came from the boy between us.

Harry's fingernails dug painfully into my palm as his grip became almost unbearable.

"Mate?" I heard Ron mutter.

Harry's eye lids flitted open, only enough for us to see a bit of his jewel-like emerald irises. He swallowed with difficulty, then rasped, "Hermes?"

"Right here," I answered quickly, "you did it, Harry! Voldemort's gone, and Ron and I are both here."

The ghost of a smile appeared on his face.

"So sleepy..." he murmured, his eyes sliding shut.

"Sleep then, Harry," I cooed, brushing his bangs away from his face.

"Sleep?" Ron said incredulously, "He's been asleep for four weeks!"

I slapped his arm and we laughed for the first time in a month.

My memory slips gradually into a dream as I sink into the soft warmth of Harry's mattress. The sun begins to set, casting the room in an orange glow. By then, I'm in such a deep sleep that I don't notice Ron shut off the lamp, pull the covers over my shoulders, and leave the room.

A/N: Tons of cyber hugs to all of you who reviewed! All your comments meant so much to me. Please keep them coming...

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3. Talking

Chapter 3

Talking

I wake up the next morning to a cool breeze fluttering the covers around my legs. The soft colors of dawn stain the off-white walls a pale pink as I stretch my hands above my head. It takes me a few moments to realize that I have Harry's bed to myself; by now, he's probably already out for his morning run.

I heave myself up and begin my usual ritual of making the bed (though most mornings, it's my bed), drinking in the feel of the early autumn breeze against my warm skin. I pull the sheets taunt and smooth out the comforter, smiling at my small accomplishment, before making my way downstairs to my bedroom. I quickly select my clothes for the day and then go to the bathroom, prepared for a nice, long bath. My bathroom is by no means extravagant, but Harry made sure I have the luxury of a Jacuzzi tub.

I shut the door behind me, sitting on the edge of the tub and turning the taps, filling it with hot water. I stop up the drain and pour in the champagne bubble bath Ron got me for my birthday. Once the tub is considerably full of water, I cut off the taps, peel off my clothes, pull my hair into a loose bun along the way, and slide in.

I sigh in contentment, resting my head against my terry-cloth bath pillow. The water is as hot as it can get without burning my skin and it makes my flesh tingle. I reach across the tub and grab my loofa, soaking it in the water before dragging it over my neck. I'm so lost in my own little Eden that I don't hear the first knock on the bathroom door. The second, a much louder one, however, brings me crashing back down to Earth.

"Hermes?" I hear Harry's muffled voice outside the barrier.

I sink down into the bubbles, making sure nothing is visible but my head, shoulders, and feet.

"Come in," I reply.

Harry trudges into the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. He's dressed, not in his usual jogging pants and wife beater, but in black slacks and a white button-up. His tie is loosened, and the first two buttons on his shirt are undone, his black sports jacket resting lightly over his arm. He gingerly sets the jacket down next to the sink and leans against its base.

"Where did you go?" I ask, my eyes trailing over his weary frame.

"The hospital," he answers, "I had to make arrangements for Allie's burial."

He says it like it doesn't bother him, but the deadened look in he eyes tells me all I need to know.

"When-"

BBBRINNNNNG!

Harry jumps. If our situation wasn't so serious, I would laugh.

"I'll get it," he states, rushing out the door the get the telephone I insisted be installed on all levels of the house. I distinctly hear him pick it up and answer.

"Hello?"

Silence...

"Oh...er...yeah, hold on," he says, and I hear his footsteps come toward the bathroom again. He walks in and hands me my portable phone, "It's Darren."

Darren is one of my co-workers at the Ministry. He's an Unspeakable, like me, but I work in Elemental Research and he works in Ancient Code-breaking. He's about 5'10" with messy dark brown hair and intense, royal blue eyes. He's also my boyfriend.

We met about sixteen months ago at a board meeting, and he asked me out a week later. Of course, since I don't date all that often, I was worried about Harry's and Ron's reactions. When I first brought it up, Harry seemed uncomfortable about the whole thing. He still does. Once, when Darren came over for dinner, Harry went through the entire evening without saying a word. Ron didn't talk much either, and the whole event was quite awkward.

"Hey," I say into the receiver.

"Hey, `Mione!"

I cringe slightly at the nickname. It sounds like he's trying to say "my knee." At this point, Ron walks into the room, dressed in his plaid boxers and white t-shirt. He yawns, the glances from me to Harry.

"Who's she talking to?"

"Darren."

"Oh. Is he the wanker that looks like you?"

I don't even think about reprimanding Ron for his name-calling. I'm too busy rolling my eyes at the statement in its entirety. I'll admit that Darren does bear an uncanny resemblance to Harry; if you stood them side-by-side, you would think they were brothers. Both have a lean, but muscular build, are on the southern side of six feet, have messy dark hair, and amazing eyes. Ron is convinced that this is the only reason why I'm dating him; because he's Harry without all the deep friendship attachments. Which is a load of bull; Harry and Darren are completely different when you get down to it.

"...anyway, I was thinking that maybe we could go out tomorrow. Maybe walk through Harrods's, stroll along the Thames and grab some lunch..."

I smile, glad that I didn't miss anything important. "That sounds lovely."

"Good. I'll pick you up at about 10:30."

"Okay."

"Bye."

"Good-bye."

I hang up. Both Harry and Ron are gone, and I can smell the scent of bacon wafting through the vents already. I finish my bath and don my white robe and slippers. Both are monogrammed with my initials in periwinkle (birthday gift from Harry, of course. A gift like that takes thought beyond Ron's motivation).

Walking up the stairs some twenty minutes later and into the sun-filled breakfast nook, I see that only Ron is there, rushing around with a piece of toast in his mouth.

"Where's Harry?" I ask.

"Hmm goomf calm mmf."

I stride to his side and jerk the toast out of his mouth. "Come again?"

He swallows, snatching back his breakfast. "He got called in. Have you seen my wand?"

"Yeah," I reply, picking it off the table where it was sitting in plain view.

"Thanks," he mutters, grabbing his practice robes off the chair, "Gotta run!"

He smacks me sloppily on the cheek and disapparates with a `pop.' I groan. Now there's nothing keeping me from that work in my study.

?

Five hours later, I'm sitting in my Italian leather office chair, pouring over mountains of paperwork on the basis of elemental powers. It may sound boring, but it is actually really fascinating. For years, the Ministry has tried to find out how an element becomes part of a person. We learned a little about elements in 7th year. Professor Flitwick performed a charm that would reveal what element inhabited each of us, explaining how each one, Earth, Water, Wind, and Fire, ranked on the power scale; fire being the most powerful, then Water, Wind, and Earth. He explained that if we reached deep enough within ourselves, we could harness the element, control it, and use it to our advantage. I remember the day well...

It was early December and we were outside. Ice and snow covered the grounds like a glittering white blanket. Professor Flitwick had already performed the charm on Ron. A strong wind had swirled around him, picking up stray snowflakes and blocking him in a semi-transparent sheet of snow, lifting my hair up to my eyebrows. It only lasted a moment, but Flitwick was thrilled.

"A true Wind, Mr. Weasley! Very impressive!"

Ron beamed and stepped aside.

"You next, Miss Granger."

I stepped into the clearing and took a nervous deep breath. I barely heard Flitwick's words as almost immediately, the snow around me melted into fine water droplets that rose around me in a thin wall of water. As soon as it started, however, it was gone, the droplets crystallizing back into snow. The class broke into a mild applause at the display.

"Excellent, Miss Granger! Absolutely wonderful, though not unexpected!" Flitwick cried, clapping his small hands together with glee. I smiled and walked somewhat smugly back to my place among my classmates.

The rest of the awaiting students took their turns. Most of them were Earth with a few Wind scattered amongst them.

"Alright, is that everyone?" Flitwick asked.

"Harry hasn't gone yet!" Ron pointed out. Harry had been silent for most of the class; he seemed to shrink back slightly at Ron's revelation.

"Ah. Mr. Potter, I believe, already knows his element," Flitwick answered for him.

My forehead wrinkled in confusion, as did Ron's.

"What is it Harry?"

"Yeah, why didn't you tell us?"

Whispers ran through the group like wildfire.

"How does he know-"

"Did he do the charm himself-"

"Bet Dumbledore told him-"

"Settle down, class!" Flitwick's voice rose above the chatter, "Why don't we let Mr. Potter show us?"

A murmur of assent passed through the crowd. Harry was pushed to the front and he seemed to question himself.

"Are you sure it's okay, Professor?"

"It's perfectly fine, Mr. Potter."

Harry nodded, inhaled deeply, and let his eyes close. He stood there for a moment, and then opened his eyes; a look of utmost concentration set in them as he raised his palm to his lips, and blew a small stream of air across his skin. Almost instantly, a small flame appeared, shimmering with an odd golden light within his hand. A collective gasp came from the class. A flicker of a smile tugged at his lips.

I, however, couldn't comprehend this. How could the fire come in such close contact with his skin, but not burn it? It defied every law of physics imaginable. Once my curiosity got the best of me, I walked toward him, my gaze glued to the flame dancing in his grasp, entranced by it.

"Does it hurt?"

"No," he replied, snickering at my look of disbelief.

"Touch it," he dared.

I was scared it would hurt me, but I didn't let it show as I placed my fingertips into the fire. The burning sensation and scorching pain I expected to feel didn't come. Instead, a tingly sort of feeling ran up my arm.

"It tickles," I said, dumbfounded. I looked up at him, as if asking for an explanation.

"I wouldn't let it hurt you," he whispered, and for a moment, something of the fire seemed to flicker behind his eyes...

The sound of a door opening startles me out of my daze, and I realize that I've been sitting here for what seems like forever and I've gotten nothing done.

"Hermes?" Harry calls out tentatively.

"Not now, please, Harry," I say, a bit colder than I intended, going back to my papers.

"But-"

I sigh.

"I have a ton of work to do," I return, spinning in my chair to face him. He's still wearing his navy blue scrubs and his hair is standing on end, no doubt from him constantly running his hands through it, "Can we do this later?"

"Not really. It'll only take a second-"

"Later, Harry."

"No, I just need to tell you about tomorrow-"

"NOT NOW, HARRY!"

He opens his mouth, as if to retaliate, but shuts it, his face taking on a stony _expression.

"Whatever," he mutters, and leaves, slamming the door in his wake.

A/N: Before anyone says anything, THIS WILL TURN OUT H/HR. Just needed something to thicken the plot, is all. Cyber hugs to all who reviewed...I wasn't gonna update until Monday, since my birthday is Sunday, but I thought, "Hey. Here's my gift to you guys. Happy birthday to me...send me a long review and I'll love you for eternity.

Oodles of thanks to Mabel for beta-ing. I hope this chapter answered some questions that some of you reveiwed about. Anyone have a fave part??? Just push that button…

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4. Blaming

Chapter 4

Blaming

The sun shines in my eyes as they flutter open. I frantically grab for my alarm clock; 9:30 flashes in bright red. Stumbling out of bed, I try my best to untangle myself from my sheets.

Wait...my sheets? When did I get in my bedroom?

I fish through my memory. Okay. Last night, Harry left, I worked on paperwork, skipped dinner, worked some more...and I fell asleep. That must be it. I fell asleep and Harry or Ron carried me here.

I exhale loudly, glancing at my clock again.

9:30. Darren's picking me up in an hour!

In a flurry of movement, I take a quick shower, throw on a pair of jeans and a baby blue sweater, pull my hair into a high ponytail, slap on some mascara, and stash some lip gloss in my purse. Clipping on my watch, I check the time again.

10:28.

I dash upstairs to Harry's place. He and Ron are sitting in the breakfast nook, eating egg sandwiches. I grab the one meant for me, and peck each one on the cheek before swiftly heading to the door.

“I'm going out with Darren! I'll see you this afternoon!”

“Hermione-”

“Hermes-”

They interject, but I'm already rushing down the staircase and out the front door. In the driveway, Darren is sitting in his Jeep. I hop in, and he restarts the engine; his auto clock reads 10:30.

“Right on time,” he comments, “As always. He places a light kiss to my lips before pulling out onto the road toward London.

©

Our morning was wonderful. We spent two hours walking through Harrods's, where I bought a few scarves and a green fleece jacket, then we picked our way through the riverside shops along the Thames, stopping at a small cafe for lunch. Finally, hand in hand, we make our way back to the Jeep, laughing at an elderly couple snuggling on a park bench a few feet away.

The drive back is quiet, however. Though it's hardly three o'clock, both of us are exhausted. Darren pulls into the driveway and gives me a hug and a kiss before I get out, and he drives off with a wave. I tread happily to the front door, noticing it is locked, then lay my hand against the cool metal of the keyhole. With a faint click, the door magically opens, and I go in.

“Harry! Ron!” I call.

“Right here,” Ron's voice says dully from behind me on the porch. I spin around to see that they must have just gotten back a few moments ago. I take in their attire: formal black dress robes.

“Hey, where did you guys go?”

Harry's eyes flick to me for a moment, just long enough for me to find them sleepless and red-rimmed. He silently pushes past me into the house and up the stairs. I look to Ron for my answer.

“Allie's funeral,” he says, unbuttoning his cuffs.

For a few seconds, life seems to freeze, and all I'm aware of is the fact that I just made a major mistake.

“Excuse me?”

“Harry said he tried to tell you. Hell, we both tried, but you kept brushing us off. I wanted to glue you to your chair, burn all your work, and make you listen, but Harry said he wasn't going to force you to do anything that would disrupt your plans.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “But-but I was here all day yesterday!”

Ron shrugged, pulling off his top robe as he went. “Look, Hermione, he said you wouldn't give him the time of day. Perhaps,” he added, “if you hadn't been so inconsiderate, he would have been able to tell you. And if you hadn't been so caught up in getting out to Darren, you could've found out this morning.”

My remorse and pity quickly flare into anger. “Is that what this is all about?” I sneer, catching Ron off guard.

“What?”

“You're blaming all this on Darren, aren't you?”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Maybe, but that's what you're doing!”

“No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are!” My voice rises a few level to a full-out yell. “I should have known from the start that-”

“FINE!” Ron explodes, making me take a step back, “Yes, I blame everything on Darren. In fact, everything can be blamed on Darren! How you've fallen behind at work, how you have no time to have breakfast with us, but can blow off a meeting when he invites you to lunch, and the way the entire balance of our friendship has been thrown off!”

He turns away from me, taking a deep breath. It takes a few minutes for him to continue, and when he does, his voice lowers, loosing its fury, but doubling in sadness.

“I've never seen Harry like he was today. It was worse than after Sirius died. Like someone had just taken his entire world and set it on fire right in front of his eyes. He was scary, Hermione. Soulless almost and you weren't there. I think that's what killed him.” He turns back to face me and I see emotion shining in his eyes that I didn't know he was capable of.

“We're a team, Herm. You, me, and Harry. But when it comes down to it, Harry needs you more than he needs me. Sure, we're best mates and all, but I can't reach him like you can. You guys have something deeper. You have always been there for him, but today, when it really mattered, you couldn't come through.

“You know, you always said that no one could come between the three of us. But you've let Darren do that. In a way, I guess you've let us both down...”

His voice trails off and I don't realize I'm crying until a tear drop slides onto my bottom lip, the bitter saltiness harshly stinging my tongue, though not as much as his words. Ron's face slackens and his shoulders shrug, his turquoise eyes boring into mine. I can just make out his whisper.

“What did he do with our Hermione?”

A/N: Sorry it's so short compared to my other chapters, but I can't write as much with school back in session. Cosmic kisses to my reviewers. Keep them coming, pretty please. Just push that button...c'mon...you know you wanna...I know people like you…reading and not reviewing. Why don't you just make a girl's day and review???

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5. Crying

Chapter 5

Crying

Hours later, I lay in bed, Ron's words still running through my mind. My sheets are twisted around my legs, cocooning me in a tight vise of ivory Egyptian cotton. I roll over in frustration, catching a glimpse of my digital alarm clock-- 6:29 a.m. I've been lying here for eight hours and haven't gotten a wink of sleep. I try in vain to get comfortable, but to no avail.

What did he do with our Hermione?

“Ahh!” I groan, burying my face into my pillow.

Thump...thump...thump.

I raise my head, straining to hear what seem to be footsteps on the staircase just beyond my bedroom.

Thump...thump.

Softer this time. I get out of bed and make my way to my window, pulling the sheer curtains back to see outside. In a matter of seconds, I hear the front door open and shut and see Harry, in worn out jeans, a white t-shirt, and an old Yankee's baseball cap from our trip to New York last spring. He walks to his car, sets something in the trunk, and then gets in and drives off. There's no question in my mind about where he's going.

Hurriedly, I throw on sweat pants, an old shirt, my trainers, and the fleece jacket I bought the day before. I bolt down to Ron's bedroom, where he is tossing under his blankets.

“Ron!” I say, shaking his shoulders.

“I'd like that Super-sized,” he murmurs, rolling over.

“Ron!”

“-with one of those Diet Coke things-”

“Ron!”

“-and don't forget the ketchup-”

“RON!”

“Whassthat?” he slurs, sitting bolt upright, “Hermione?”

“Ron, where was Allie buried?”

“Huh?”

“WHERE WAS ALLIE BURIED?”

“Godric's Hollow...why?”

But I don't answer him; instead, I promptly disapparate, which was a stupid thing to do, really. I realize this a second too late when I find myself in the middle of a small diner-like pub about a mile outside Godric's Hollow that is filled with Muggles; all of their eyes are set on me.

“'Owed you do that?” the barman voices.

“Very carefully,” I say, pulling my wand from my pocket.

“Maxia Obliviate!”

For a minute, all of them blink rapidly, then go back to what they were doing before I appeared out of nowhere.

“'Ermione! Corking to see ya'!” the barman calls out. Harry, Ron, and I stayed at the Inn here when we were searching for the horcruxes. Sam, of course, is oblivious to the magical world. To him, we were simply three friends on holiday.

“Hello, Sam. Harry hasn't been by here recently, has he?”

“'S'matter `o fact, `e `as! Came `n ordered some `ot chocolate roundabouts ten minutes ago!”

“Thanks,” I reply, exiting the pub and making my way down the winding countryside road to Godric's Hollow.

It would be a nice walk if it wasn't so nippy. The chill in the air bites at my nose and fingertips. I pull my coat tighter around me as I approach the edge of the small village. I can see Harry's car parked outside of the wrought-iron gates of the cemetery. I step through the passageway, following the cobblestone path through the headstones. I spot Harry near the back corner of the property; he's on his knees, a spade held in one dragon-hide-gloved hand, planting small white and lavender flowers around a headstone. On top of the flat, polished rock is a stone sculpture of a small angel sitting on a bench, staring down at her dangling feet. Polished granite puddles dot the stone ground under the bench.

By now, I'm sure Harry knows I'm here, but he pays me no mind, diligently working on his flowers. I notice that despite the coldness of the morning, he isn't wearing a jacket.

“Are you cold?” I ask out loud.

“No,” he replies stiffly, obviously still angry with me; not that he doesn't have every right to be. I decide to try again.

“What are you planting?”

“Impatiens,” he answers, still not looking at me, “They bloom in the winter.”

He makes no attempt to further the conversation, and in the silence, I allow my eyes to wander back to Allie's tombstone. The inscription shines against the background:

Allie Reneé Potter

August 18, 2001-September 27, 2004

Beloved child, daughter, and

Guardian Angel

“Potter?” I question, surprise evident in my voice.

“Yeah,” he says, stopping his gardening for the first time, “I-uh-I adopted her last week. I didn't want to tell you and Ron about it until the final papers from her father's prison went through. It took forever for him to sign them; he didn't want to hand her over to someone else. I don't know why he cared; he didn't know her.”

His voice catches, and he ducks his head, making like he's wiping sweat from his brow when I know he's brushing away tears.

“He'd never held her, or talked to her, or even seen her before. But he knew if he ever got out of jail, he'd get monetary assistance from the government because of her condition. He wanted her put in temporary foster care if she ever got out of the hospital.”

His words become rushed, and he can't hide the flood of tears that engulfs him. His fingers brush the death date on the stone.

“I went there that day, to the prison. I knew that if I talked to him in person about the extent of her injuries, he wouldn't want to deal with her. I was right. He signed the papers within five minutes; said she was a hassle he was glad to be rid of.

“I got the call on my way back to the hospital; an infection had set in and her immune system couldn't stand the stress. Her vital signs were plummeting, and her lung was failing. They were able to keep her conscious, but her condition was rapidly deteriorating. When I got there, she was stable, but I knew she wouldn't last long. She was beyond medical help, and no amount of morphine would ease the pain or trauma in her body.”

“Harry,” I interrupt, “You didn't-”

“I knew she had about an hour left, maybe a few minutes more. It takes at least four hours for magic to harm the body of a non-magical human. So, I ordered her off all the machines and cleared the room. I did a pain reduction charm on her. I wasn't sure it worked at first, but then she asked me what I did, because her chest didn't hurt anymore.

“I sat in the chair next to her bed and picked her up and held her. And we sat there, and I told her that her daddy said she could come live with me. She said she didn't know what I meant. That I was her daddy, and that she--that she--”

“Loved you?”

He nods, staring at his hands as he speaks, slower now, almost in a whisper.

“She told me she was tired, and I said I'd rock her to sleep. Her breathing steadied after a while. It lasted for about forty-five minutes, then it slowed and eventually just...stopped.”

“Oh, Harry-” I say, tears streaming down my cheeks and blurring my vision. I rush to him and pull him into my embrace. He clutches onto me, his face buried in my neck as heart-wrenching sobs wrack his body.

“She was finally mine, Hermes,” I hear him whisper. “She was finally mine.”

And for once in my life, I have nothing to say, no advice to give. For now, all I can offer is comfort.

A/N::: Well? Whadda ya think? Review, pretty please. Thanks for everyone who does so regularly. Oh, and sorry about the longer wait. I've had oodles of homework and projects and papers due and the like. All the teachers at my school are rabid. I'm a fiction author, not a poet. Bah....oh well...REVIEW, MY DARLINGS!

~MaNdY

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6. Breathing

Chapter 6

Breathing

It's been a week.

Seven days.

One-hundred and sixty-eight hours.

Ten-thousand and eighty minutes.

Six-hundred and four thousand, eight-hundred seconds.

Thirty-six million, two-hundred and—

Sorry, I'm sure you get the point.

It's been an entire week since he's said a word to me, and look at what it's done to me. I'm sitting here calculating, down to the millisecond. I feel pathetic. It's how I always feel whenever he gets like this.

My soul hurts for him. Does that make sense? My whole being is filled with it. I've prayed every night that I'll find a way to ease his pain, but nothing has happened. He visits her grave every day and every day I follow him there; watch him. I never let him see me, though I'm sure he knows I'm there. He's always had a sixth sense about that sort of thing. At least with me, anyway. But he's put up this proverbial wall again. The one I want to attack with a proverbial jackhammer.

Right now, we're at the Burrow. The whole place is in its usual chaotic state. Ron is sitting in a huge leather chair next to the roaring fireplace, little Weasley grandkids arranged in a tight semi-circle around him as he delights them with one of his more exaggerated versions of our early-Hogwarts adventures. They all `ooh' and `ahh' at precisely the right moments and gasp during the exciting parts.

Molly and Arthur are in the kitchen. I can hear her scolding him as he tries to sneak a treacle tart from the heaping plate on the counter.

“NOT BEFORE DINNER, ARTHUR!”

“Aww, but Mollywobbles...”

“I said, NO!”

Fred and George are running around here somewhere. Probably upstairs, from the sound of it. It sounds like a bloody war's taking place with all the explosions.

Harry is curled up in the on Weasley's overstuffed couch, gazing into the flames with a glazed look in his eyes. For a moment, I consider leaving the small group I'm with (Bill, Charlie, Fleur, and Fred and George's wives, Gemini and Felicity, both expecting) to sit next to him, but a motion on the stairs stops me. I whip my head around to see Sophie, Fleur and Bill's youngest, scooting down the staircase. Her light-pink-socked feet make no noise as she crosses the living room floor. Her destination is obvious.

Quickly, I make my way to her and crouch down to her level, halting her journey with an arm around her waist. She gives me a confused look, one very reminiscent of the kind that grace Fleur's face, and yawns cutely, her tiny mouth stretching in a small oval.

“Where are you going, Sophie?” I ask softly, a smile spreading over my face as she struggles to get past me. At only two years old, Sophie is possibly one of the most determined people I've ever met.

“Uncle Harwy.”

I glance over at said subject; he hasn't moved a muscle since I last observed him. I don't think he's even blinked. However, I'm a bit afraid of letting Sophie go over to him. I'm not sure how he'll react to someone so much like Allie.

“Sophie, honey, why don't we let Uncle Harry rest. I can take you upstairs and you can finish your nap, huh? Then you can see him after.”

A look of absolute disappointment washes over her, and for a second, I'm compelled to let her go. But my concern for Harry overpowers me, and I hold out a finger to her, which she grasps in her tiny hand as I lead her back to the stairs. As I set my right foot on the bottom stair, it takes half a moment for me to suddenly realize that the warmth of her hand is gone. Looking back reveals her tiny figure scuttling as fast as she can toward the couch. Manipulative little devil. Takes after her uncles, she does.

I watch, frozen, as her momentum carries her into the side of the couch's cushions, rebounding her soundly onto the hardwood floor. She doesn't cry out, like I expect her to. She simply stands herself back up and grabs the hem of Harry's shirt, using it to haul herself onto the couch beside him. This startles him out of his stupor, but it doesn't affect her as she makes herself comfortable facing him on his lap.

“Hi, Uncle Harwy.”

“Hello, Sophie,” he answers softly. She stares up at him, holding his gaze, as her miniscule fingers toy with the delicate lace on her sock.

Harry's eyes flick down for a moment then his hand reaches toward her sock and tugs lightly at the cuff. A small gasp escapes her, and for a second, I detect the ghost of a smile on Harry's face. He tugs a second time, pulling her sock clean off and with one elegant motion, slides his index finger down over the arch of her foot. Her laughter is loud, but it jingles, like the sound of a lot of high-pitched bells ringing. Harry's face breaks out into a heart-stopping smile, and he repeats the action, his laughter ringing with Sophie's.

Happy tears blur my vision as I watch the pair of them. I relax, leaning against the wall for support.

Maybe he'll be okay...

©

“'Mione? `Mione, did you hear anything that I just said?”

Darren's voice fades into my thoughts. It's the day after dinner at the Weasley's, and I haven't been able to get the vision of Harry and Sophie out of my mind. I've spent the better part of a week trying to get him to laugh, to smile, to blink even. And she just plops herself on his lap, and he's all sunshine and daisies.

But I shouldn't be thinking about any of that right now. Darren dropped by my office and offered to take me out to lunch. We've been here for about an hour and I haven't absorbed a word that he's said.

“Sorry, I zoned out for a minute.”

“A minute? More like the whole time we've been here. Is something wrong?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then what is it?”

I shrug. “Work's just been a little hectic lately.”

What else was I supposed to tell him? Well, for the past day all I've thought about is how Harry's eyes lit up when Sophie laughed. Sure. That would have gone over well.

“Well, I was saving this for later on in the week, but since you seem so stressed...”

“What?” I ask, a sudden, unexpected feeling of foreboding engulfing me.

He smiles, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small velvet box. He flicks it open with one skilled hand to reveal a sparking emerald-cut diamond solitaire. The stone must be at least five carats. It's huge.

My fork hits the table with a clatter. I can't catch my breath. It almost feels as if I'm being buried alive...

“No.” Did I just say that?

His face falls. “Excuse me?”

“I can't.” When did my head give my mouth permission to speak on its own?

“Why can't you?”

“I-I just-” Breathe in, breathe out. It feels as if someone has just sucked all of the oxygen out of the room.

“Sweetie-”

What a horrid pet name. It's almost as sickening as `Mione. “Don't call me that.”

“'Mione-”

“Not that either. It sounds like you're trying to say `my knee.'” Inhale. Exhale.

“Is it too soon?”

Anytime is too soon. “Yes.”

“We can wait then. I can wait until you're ready.”

I'll never be ready for you.

Images flood my mind. Darren and I getting married, on our honeymoon, having children, growing old together, the rest of my life laid out before me. They blur together in a whirl of color, making me nauseated.

You'd be settling, my mind whispers. For once, my mind and my heart agree, even though my soul doesn't quite understand.

“I'm sorry,” I mutter, standing up swiftly.

My chair crashes to the floor, attracting the attention of everyone in the café. I grab my purse and get out as fast as my feet will carry me. I break into a run, ignoring the looks of the passerby as I jog down the road toward the outskirts of the city.

Inhale. Exhale.

A/N:: Hey, everybody. I know it's been a while, and I apologize, but even though this chapter is short, I wanted to give it the flair that I try to give my longer chapters. Cyber hugs to my FANTABULOUS reviewers! And remember...reviews are a writer's motivation. Maybe I should mandate some sort of reward...like, I'll add an extra 500 words to my next chapter (after 1000 words) for every...hmmm...ten reviews...yeppers...that sounds good. So review, my dears!

~~Mandy

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7. Shattering

Chapter 7

Shattering

The cool wood of my office door soothes my burning forehead as I lean against it. My hair is a mess, my shoes and the hems of my pants are covered in mud, and my shirt is plastered to my back. After a few minutes, my breathing evens out and the immediate urge to hyperventilate has passed. I push myself away from the door, wishing I could take a shower. Cleaning charms work just fine, but nothing calms your muscles like a good shower.

I walk behind my desk and plop into my chair, relaxing against the cold leather. With a few soft `pop's, three departmental memos materialize above my head. Tiredly, I reach a hand out and let them land lightly in my palm. All three are from my secretary, Malia, who is a stickler for taking messages.

The first one alerts me of the annual Ministry of Magic Masquerade Ball, held every October 31. I toss it into the rubbish bin and go to the next one. It reads in Malia's tidy scrawl:

Mr. Weasley stopped by to take you to lunch. I told him you were out with Darren. Said he'll drop by again later.

Great. Maybe if I had gone with Ron, I wouldn't be in this whole proposal mess. For a moment, the image Darren holding out the velvet-boxed ring flashes in my mind. We haven't been going out long enough to think about marriage; we haven't even talked about it. And seriously, what was he thinking when he bought that ring? It's ENORMOUS. It could sink a bloody cruise ship! There's no way I would walk around the likes of Diagon Alley wearing such a monstrosity. I bet he could just picture us, parading around like a couple of show dogs.

Still simmering, I lay the note aside and open the last one.

Your mother rang you on that fellytone thingamajig of yours. Wants to know when you, Mr. Potter, and Mr. Weasley can come by for dinner.

Mum. When was the last time we were over at the house? Gosh, it's been ages. Mum fell in love with Harry and Ron within moments of meeting them when I brought them both to the house for dinner the night after Harry announced that he had just bought us a house. Mum and Dad were anxious to meet the two boys...men...that had been my life for the better part of seven years. Harry instantly volunteered to help her in the kitchen, delighting her by donning the red-and-white-checkerboard apron she handed him and whipping up a last minute batch of chocolate truffles for dessert. Ron, of course, ate with gusto and kept her smiling and blushing throughout the meal with buckets of praise. It suddenly hits me how much I miss her and Dad. I hate how I seem to have pulled away from everyone over the past few months. Perhaps Ron was right; maybe I have made Darren too big a part of my life.

“Ms. Granger!” Malia's somewhat shrill voice echoes throughout the room. I hate this newfangled magical speaker system the Ministry is using.

“Yes, Malia?”

“Mr. Weasley is back. Are you available?”

I take a deep breath, pausing a second to mumble a few refreshing charms on my exhausted body.

“Yes, send him in.”

From behind my door, there comes a glowing blue light, a harshly muttered `Ouch! Bloody contraption!' and a series of clicks.

“Come in, Ron,” I say in the sing-song voice I reserve especially for him. My door knob turns and Ron walks in, shutting the door behind him and holding the fingers of his right hand in the other.

“Must we always do that when we come visit you? That stupid laser thingy always stings my fingers.”

I smile, despite my current situation.

“I'm sorry, Ron, but yes. Security thing, you know.”

“Yeah, whatever. Are you still hungry? `Cause if you are, we can go catch a bite.”

“Yes,” I say gratefully, grabbing my purse and looping my arm through his, “I've had the most horrible day...”

~*~

Four hours later, after seeing Ron off to a last minute practice session, I apparate onto our front porch, looking forward to that shower. However, I am surprised to find two vehicles in our driveway, not one. A brown mini-cooper stands in sharp contrast next to Harry's silver Mercedes. The now familiar panic that took over me this afternoon envelops me again, and I take a few deep breaths before muttering a soft “Alohomora” and tip-toeing into the foyer. Cautiously, I leave my Doc Marten's on the mat by the door and climb the stairs.

The door into Harry's flat is cracked just enough to let a stream of light issue onto the hallway floor. With a small push, the door swings open silently, and I make my way into the den. There, I hear Harry's baritone from the kitchen. It sounds fatigued, as if he's been arguing with someone for quite some time.

“She already told you no, Darren.”

Darren's slightly higher alto answers exasperatedly, “But she obviously wasn't thinking clearly. I mean, c'mon Harry, we're perfect for each other! We work in the same department, enjoy doing the same things. She's just scared because marrying me means leaving the two of you on your own. Doesn't like change much, does she? But sacrifices must be made for these sorts of things. All in all, I believe the transition in living arrangements will do her some good.”

Not thinking clearly? Transition in living arrangements? How dare he? And `Do her some good,' my arse. Pfft! I think that one swift kick in the groin would do him some good.

“There is nothing wrong with her living arrangements,” Harry counters, and I can bet the muscle in his jaw is clenching, even though I can't see him. The stern note in his voice confirms what I already know.

Harry's always been a bit sensitive about the three of us living together. I think he knows that one day we'll all meet someone, get married, and move away, but a part of him wishes that things could just stay the way they have always been. That the three of us can have the unburdened years together that we didn't have when we were at school. Personally, I don't see the reason why the three of us shouldn't stay together. After all, we have been friends for...well...ever, really. And I don't quite know what I'd do if I woke up and knew I wouldn't be seeing them at breakfast that morning, or that I wouldn't be able to listen to them babble endlessly about Quidditch over dinner, or argue over the remote control with my dad when we visit my parents' house. For a second, I forget about the interactions I'm listening to and wallow temporarily in the realization that one day, when I do decide to get married, they won't be the most important part of my life anymore.

“Pish-posh,” Darren's interjection brings me back. “It's unhealthy for a woman of her stature and emotional status to be in the constant presence of two single men; especially two that rely on her for so many things. Seriously, mate, when all this gets straightened out, I don't know how the two of you will get on without her here to do your bidding.”

The loud crash of a chair falling over and a tea cup clattering on the ceramic-tiled floor makes me start, and I use the commotion to mask the sound of me hastily opening the kitchen door just enough to see through the crack in between the hinges, hoping they won`t notice the difference in position. I struggle to hold back a gasp at the sight. From the looks of it, they're too pre-occupied to worry about the door.

Darren is pinned against the wall with Harry's hand firmly fixed at the base of his neck. The air around the two of them seems to crackle with static.

“First of all,” Harry growls, his voice shaking with apparent rage, “let's get one thing straight. You're no mate of mine, and the sooner you realize that, the better. Secondly, Hermione isn't here to `do our bidding,' I believe you said, and neither is she with you to do yours. Any wizard who plans to reproduce knows that.”

Darren's face is turning an unbecoming plum sort of color from lack of oxygen, and I silently pray that Harry doesn't hurt him. As Harry's grip tightens on Darren's neck, the first explosion occurs. With a load tinkling of glass, one of the wine bottles in the kitchen combusts, sending glittering shards through the air and dark red liquid onto the floor. All my thoughts of intervening quickly disperse; with Harry's magic out of control, I don't want to risk any injury to the three of us.

“You crazy bastard,” Darren chokes out, and a second bottle shatters. This time, the glass is thrown their way, the shrapnel leaving cuts on their cheeks. Darren flinches away from the pain, gasping for breath, but Harry doesn't seem to notice. I want to cry out; I want to stop it, to help them somehow, but my muscles are frozen, and my shout is stuck somewhere around my tonsils.

“And thirdly,” Harry continues, his tone a deadly calm, “if anything in Hermione's life is unhealthy, it's you. Last time I checked, she, Ron, and I defeated the most powerful Dark Lord in a century. I don't believe people who go through that sort of ordeal are doing anything unhealthy by living together, do you?”

Darren's fingers claw at Harry's skin, but Harry only pushes him harder against the wall.

“Do you?”

Frantically, Darren shakes his head no, and Harry releases him from his grasp, letting him fall unceremoniously to the floor.

“I thought so,” Harry says.

For a moment, I am jarred by how much they resemble each other. Not just in appearance, but in emotional intensity as well. Suddenly, their fight doesn't seem to be directly about me and my well-being anymore. It's about their places in my life. It's about their status almost. The revelation both frightens and excites me. At no point in my life have I been in this sort of situation. And finally, I realize that this isn't a fight; it's a battle, a war. And obviously, it's something that's been brewing for a while without my knowing about it.

Darren's eyes shoot him a fiery gaze as he struggles to get up. Harry turns, probably with the intent of cleaning up the mess he just made, when Darren picks up a particularly large piece of glass and pulls back his arm, as if to strike him with it.

“You really don't want to do that,” Harry states, almost offhandedly, and flicks his hand toward Darren's. The shard rises sharply out of his hand.

“Evanesco,” Harry mumbles, and the glass disappears.

An awed, yet crazed look comes over Darren's face.

“You're insane. No wizards or witches besides Grindlewald and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named have been able to perform wandless magic. I'll bet all the money in Gringotts that the Ministry doesn't know about this little talent of yours. And won't the Daily Prophet be pleased to hear that their Golden Boy possesses evil powers like the Dark Lord himself. Dumbledore's Man, indeed. You're just a worthless piece of trash that got in his way of solitary victory and he used you as a weapon, as a way to channel He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's thoughts.”

A third, fourth, and fifth bottle explode, and I can almost feel the atmosphere darken as Harry's temper skyrockets. Of course, Harry knows that every word out of Darren's mouth is misinformed. Darren knows nothing at all about the prophecy that laid out Harry's fate. Yet, deep down, I know that what Darren is saying is awakening long laid-away doubts that Harry was simply a stand-in, a pawn in Dumbledore's plan to vanquish Voldemort.

“I'll ask her again when the time is right,” Darren goes on, “and when I do, she'll be begging me to take her away from you.”

“Really, now,” Harry replies, his eyes glittering dangerously. “Why don't you ask her that yourself?”

“What are you on about?”

Harry smiles. It's sardonic, yet victorious, and that, along with his words, chills me to the bone.

His voice rings out in the harsh silence of the room, “Come on in, Hermes.”

A/N:: I was soo pumped when I read everyone's reveiws! Thanks so much for all of your support. Of course, without my precious reviewers, there would be no story. Kudos, yet again, to Mabel for beta-ing this chappie! And always remember:: Reviewing is good for the author's soul!

~Mandy

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8. Burning

A/N: Before you read this, promise me you won't hate me. Hopefully you will enjoy this chapter as much as I did when the plot bunny began hopping about in my head! So, without further ado, I give you...

Chapter 8

Burning

"Come on in, Hermes."

Oh. My. God.

Those three words repeat in my mind like a broken record as I step into the kitchen. My heart is beating a tattoo against my rib-cage, and yet, my breathing is even. I've learned to never wear my emotions on my sleeve. Darren's eyes widen at the sight of me as he struggles to stand up, using the wall as support. My concentration, however, is focused on Harry, on his eyes, which are boring into mine.

"Perhaps," Harry says cordially, as if the prior confrontation never occurred, "we should all sit down."

Darren snarls, but I hurriedly shoot him a somewhat nervous glare.

"Yes, I believe we need to sort some things out," I reply, pulling out a chair and sitting down, watching Darren reluctantly do the same with his eyes trained on Harry's form. Harry, however, stays standing. It's something he's always done when he feels the starving need to be in control of a situation.

A tensely uncomfortable silence prevails for a moment or two, in which Harry's eyes meet Darren's. They hold their gazes, as if they are in the midst of a mental battle. I barely catch the flash of light in Harry's eyes before Darren stands up swiftly.

"I don't have to take any crap from this psycho. C'mon, 'Mione, we're leaving!" He snaps, grabbing my forearm and jerking me out of my seat.

"Darren, stop!"

"No! The sooner I get you away from him, the better."

"Darren, I-"

"GET YOUR BLOODY HANDS OFF OF HER!" Harry interjects. Darren looks back at him with a somewhat crazed _expression, pulling me tightly against his chest.

"Make me."

Instantaneously, Harry shoves his hand outward in my direction, and a sudden intense feeling of warmth invades my every pore. It's as if my skin is on fire. The burning sensation invades my senses, and for a moment, I feel like I'm dancing within the flames, swirling in a haze of smoldering, pleasure-laced pain.

Darren's figure flies from mine. My eyes open as the fiery feeling leaves my body as soon as it came. He's holding his hand in front of his eyes, watching his inflamed skin begin to blister. The outline of my form is burned into his shirt and pants in a charred black. His eyes dart to Harry, the blazingly blue orbs filled with inescapable fear.

"To hell with the both of you," he mutters, stumbling out of the kitchen and running as fast as he can down the stairs. I hear the front door slam shut and his car speed out of the driveway before I collapse, letting the darkness take over.

~*~

I wake up to find myself lying on an impossibly comfortable couch. Cracking my eyes open reveals a blur of orange. Must be Ron's couch. Why didn't I ever notice how wonderfully soft it was before? No wonder he has so many women come here. I would go out with Ron just to spend an hour lying on this piece of cushioned heaven.

My eyes slide shut again as a hand flattens across my forehead.

"It's good to see you up, Herm," Ron's voice states, "You've been out for a while."

"How long?"

"About three hours."

While I take the time to mull this fact over, Ron reaches into a small basin on his tea table and pulls out a wet rag, laying it where his hand had been moments before. The cool excess water drips down into my hair, but the sensation it creates is soothing.

"You still have a bit of a fever. Keep the rag on your head and drink some of this," he says, handing me a glass of pumpkin juice, "Harry said it should help bring your temperature down."

I nod, my eyes scanning the room.

"Where is Harry? Did he tell you what happened?"

Ron sighed, pulling the table toward the couch so that the basin of water was within my reach.

"When I got home, I went up to Harry's place to grab a bite to eat. He met me at the door in hysterics, saying that he had done something rash and stupid and that he had hurt you. He took me into the kitchen. You were lying on the floor, and there was glass and wine everywhere. You looked horribly flushed, so I bent down to touch you. You were burning up; I mean, your temperature was through the roof.

"Well, Harry's the healer in the house, right? So I told him to pick you up and do something to bring down the fever, but he kept saying that he was afraid to touch you. That he was afraid it would happen again."

"That what would happen?" I interrupted. My curiosity had peaked at the mention of Harry's fear. Had he been the cause of the scorching feeling I'd felt earlier?

"I dunno. I didn't get anything else out of him, really, except for how to break your fever. He left about two and a half hours ago. I have no clue where he went."

Ron stole a glance at the darkened window. Drops of water padded against the pane.

"He'd better be inside someplace. We're supposed to have one hellacious storm."

~*~

Three hours later, when my body temperature had lowered to Ron's approval, I sat in my study, staring at the bottommost drawer of my desk.

It's been locked up for years without you needing to read it, a small voice in my head whispered. It had a very valid point. The file contained within the twelve-by-sixteen-inch space hadn't been opened since I first read it. Then, I'd believed its contents to be ludicrous. How could someone as intelligent and wise as Albus Dumbledore himself come up with something so amazingly outlandish? The entire conclusion had seemed as if it was pulled right out of thin air. But now...

Perhaps the old codger was right.

No. It's not possible. It's just not.

Really?

In all actuality, it is entirely possible. The report that lays in the bottom drawer was the drive behind my desire to work in elemental research. And in my five years of working in that particular field, I have learned that the occurrence of such an elemental anomaly is possible, but highly doubtful. There have only been two people in wizarding history that have experienced such an enigma.

I sigh in exasperation, my fingers fiddling nervously with the threadlike gold chain that has hung around my neck for the last six years. The small golden key that dangles from it rests lightly against the skin between my breasts.

No. I can't open it. I can't rehash the fact that what is written on the parchment could actually be true. It would alienate him. The press would have a field day. He'd be made into the Ministry's personal science experiment.

But what if it helped him?

I pause, fixing my eyes on the drawer's tiny keyhole.

You could help him.

My hand grasps the miniscule key and gives it a sharp jerk, snapping the chain from my neck. I shakingly slide the key into the lock and turn, sucking in a sharp breath at the sound of the faint 'click.'

The drawer slides open effortlessly, revealing a single manila folder. The four words written on the cover in Dumbledore's scrawl glare up at me.

Harry Potter: Idiosyncratic Elemental

A/N: *Looks timidly at faithful readers* PLEASE REVIEW! I'M SORRY FOR THE CLIFFE, BUT IT'S VITAL TO THE STORY! So send me your fave parts, suggestions, comments, whatever. Just give me your opinion...

~Mandy

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9. Reading

Chapter 9

Reading

“Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to come visit me, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said politely from his portrait as I stood in front of it.

“Of course, Professor,” I replied, unbelievably curious about the purpose of our meeting. The late Headmaster had often requested the presence of Harry, Ron, and I to instruct us along our Horcrux hunt, but this was the first time that one of us had been called out separately.

“Perhaps, it would be best if we went on and hit the nail on the head.”

I nodded in assent.

“Very well. If you look at the bookcase to your left, you will see an assortment of Muggle cookbooks halfway down the third shelf. The spine of one reads A Taste of New Orleans for the Southern Traveler. Remove it.”

Not stopping to debate why Albus Dumbledore would have kept a collection of non-magical cookbooks in his study, I hastily went to the bookcase, located the tome, and gave it a heave. Though the force behind my tug was great, the book did not budge from its place.

“Ah, I feared that would happen. No matter' tap it thrice with the tip of your wand and say Aspherise.”

After carrying out his instructions, the book slid easily off of the shelf. With it clasped tightly in my hands, I went back to my position in front of the portrait.

“Between pages 134 and 135 you should find a small gold key. Use this key to unlock the bottommost drawer on the right-hand side of Minerva`s desk. Inside is a file which I feel the two of us should discuss.”

It took mere seconds for me to obtain the file. The ink on the front of the folder shone up at me, spelling out an all too familiar name.

“Professor--”

“Pull up a seat, Miss Granger. This, I believe, is something that may require a bit of listening.”

Confusion filled me as I sat in on of the cushioned chairs next to the bookcase.

“As only you probably know, more of my time than everyone believes is focused on the life of our Mr. Potter. I knew from the moment he was born that he was destined to be powerful, as the son of Lily and James Potter could only be. His first confrontation with Voldemort reinforced my belief, as did the ones following some eleven years after. However, in the past few years, some other factors concerning Harry's magic have come to my attention. You have learned in Charms, of course, about a witch or wizard's core element and how it plays in the person's life.”

I nodded. Professor Flitwick had revealed our elements to us just days before.

“Then you have undoubtedly found out that the elemental cores of most wizards remain dormant and that they usually cause no problems or disruptions with said wizard's lifestyle. However, very few wizards and witches in history have possessed an elemental core so strong that it can be potentially problematic. Two, to be exact. Their names and significance are neither here nor there but I have reason to believe that Harry may be one of these wizards.”

“Professor,” I began carefully, “with all due respect, wouldn't Ron and I have noticed something this...unordinary?”

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled merrily behind his half-moon spectacles.

“A wise question, Miss Granger, but no. I don't believe that either you or Mr. Weasley would have paid any attention to this. The changes here have been undeniably subtle. Though, without a doubt, you are observant to a fault, I do not think that even you would have noticed this slight development, since this problem lies centrally in Harry's magic.

“Obviously, I have informed Harry of my findings, though I have not indulged to him what I believe to be the severity of his case. I don't feel the immediate need to lay yet another burden on his shoulders. Rather, I have been trying to teach him to control the fire within him without telling him directly about the possible side effects of a total loss of mental or emotional control on his part.

“That file you hold is documentation of every occurrence of Harry's idiosyncrasy that I have witnessed.”

My fingers idly stroked the cover on the thick file. “But Professor, what would I need this information for?”

The Headmaster eyed me thoughtfully for a few moments before he answered, “You know as well as I that we are nearing an end to the war. With all of the Horcruxes destroyed or in our possession, the Dark Side will stop at nothing to obtain information on any of Harry's weaknesses. If the contents of that file were to be found out, the consequences would be a devastating blow in their favor. Miss Granger, the protection of this information is of the utmost importance. No one must know of our conversation here today. You will speak of this to no one. This must be kept confidential until after the war is over. Even then, try to put what you will read in that file out of your mind. I am giving this to you with the request that you guard it with your life. Do I have your word?”

Though Dumbledore's spirit is present only in magically realistic oil on canvas, it didn't stop his crystal eyes from burning into mine. I stared right back, unable to keep my fingers from tracing Harry's name on the cream parchment.

“You have my word.”

Now, six years later, my eyes gaze down at the dulled ink scrawling miniscule words across pages and pages of parchment. I flip the first few sheets over and come to an entry dated a few days after the death of Sirius.

June 2

The time I have spent in effort to understand fully the events that occurred in the Department of Mysteries has been wasted until today. I have repeatedly recalled the memory of the scene to no avail, yet I believe I have finally isolated part of the confusion.

Harry spoke once to me that, during his possession by Voldemort, he felt a burning sensation unlike any other, as if he were being pulled into the bowels of Hades itself. I, however, have come to believe that this feeling was, in all actuality, Harry's pyro-elemental instincts acting in his defense. Through his connection with Voldemort, he too felt the pain that the reaction was causing his enemy. This has also caused me to think that the element responds instinctively to an extreme feeling of threat, pain, panic, or, quite possibly, love. This is the first solid evidence I have found that demonstrates the abnormal power of Harry's element.

“Herm?” Ron's voice startles me, causing me to jump and spin my chair around to hide the parchment spread over my desk.

“Yes?” I question breathlessly.

Ron eyes me suspiciously. “You've been in here for a while. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yes, of course. Just finishing up some last minute reports. Did you need something?”

“I felt a shift in the anti-apparation wards. I think Harry's back.”

Mustering up the best smile that I can, I nod back in response. “I'll just tidy up here, then perhaps I'll see if he can explain what happened.”

You already know what happened.

“Yeah, I think that would be good,” Ron replies quietly, shutting the door behind him, leaving me in silence.

A/N::: So sorry for the late update everyone. I know this chapter wasn't all that exciting, but I hope it answered a few questions. And no major cliffe...just to ease your minds. Anywho...please, Please, PLEASE review!! I love knowing how everyone feels about where I'm taking this.

Toodles,

Mandy

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10. Watching

Chapter 10

Watching

I spend the next two hours trying to convince myself to go up to Harry's room. I'm not sure why I can't seem to muster up the courage.

The small clock on the mantle piece chimes once. One o'clock. This sound sparks my determination and I heave myself out of my chair, slipping out of my flat and up the stairs to Harry's. The door opens soundlessly as I make my way to his bedroom. Twice I find myself stopped in the middle of the hall, filled with the urge to turn back, but something inside of me keeps me going. The door to his room, the last one on the left, is cracked open, a soft stream of pale moonlight gleaming against the hardwood floor. My breath picks up as I turn the corner, steadying myself on the doorframe, to find him...asleep.

I exhale sharply in relief, stepping further into the room. He's dressed in the same clothes he had on earlier with his body flung haphazardly across the disheveled satin sheets. The light from the window rests upon the contours of his form, enhancing the slightly blue tint to his lips and glaring upon an empty glass vile clutched loosely in his hand. I brush his hand and sleeve as I pluck the vile from his relaxed grasp. The icy dampness of both cause me to jerk back. Upon further inspection, I find that his clothes are rain-soaked and the empty tube had once contained a Dreamless Sleep Potion. Instinctively, I pull out my wand and mutter a quick drying and heating charm, readjusting his body and pulling the covers up to his chin.

With a soft sigh, I turn to leave, but a bluish glimmer from his closet holds me in place. Curiosity overcomes my better judgment and I push the door open to reveal a weathered stone basin filled with a gleaming air-like liquid. A Pensieve. I can barely contain my amazement, having seen only one of such an item in my entire life in Dumbledore's office. How had Harry come to possess one? Why had he kept such an artifact from Ron and me?

I step closer, allowing my finger to brush over the ancient runes around the edge of the smooth rock. As I gaze into the silvery depths, the haze clears, and I find myself staring down into an all too familiar room: the common room of our safe house in Godric's Hollow. It had taken the magical power of the entire Order to reconstruct the ruin that had once been the Potter estate and to reset the enchantments to make it Unplottable, but it had been done in a surprisingly short amount of time. The house, though large, had held a warm sort of coziness in the midst of a cruelly cold war, yet the memories made inside were far from happy. Without my knowing, I find myself suddenly leaning forward toward the surface of the memory as I notice two figures standing a few feet from each other. From my position outside of the basin, I am unable to hear what they are saying. Automatically, I reach out and let my fingers graze the now transparent surface.

For a moment, everything is dark as I fall into blackness, then I land heavily on my feet and find myself staring at...myself, only seven years younger, with a Jiff peanut butter jar clutched in my hand. My ever-bushy hair is pulled into a ponytail high at the top of my head and my reading glasses are perched on the end of my nose.

“Harry, how many times have I asked you to throw away the peanut butter jar if there isn't any peanut butter left?”

I spin around sharply, meeting Harry's tired eyes and a wave of deja-vu hits me. Why on earth would he have chosen to keep this memory?

“I dunno, about a thousand.”

“Then why do you insist upon leaving it in the pantry?”

He shrugged in return, his _expression showing how ridiculous he thought this conversation was. Now, looking back, I wonder why I pushed him. Perhaps it was because of the total frustration that hovered over us like a storm cloud.

“Answer me, damn it!” I watch myself cry, grabbing his shirt sleeve to keep him from turning from me.

He whips around, slapping my hand away. From my fly-on-the-wall position, I see the iced over look in my younger self's eyes.

“How dare you?” I spat, staring at him with a look of disgust that I didn't know I could possess.

“How dare you?” he sneered back, taking a step toward me, “Yelling at me over something as bloody stupid as a jar of peanut butter when we're in the middle of a war!”

“Come off it!” I screamed, “As if you're doing anything to help our side! Disappearing to who knows where at all hours! Having meetings with Kingsley and the rest of the Order where you say you don't learn much at all! Cut the martyr act, Harry! It's getting old.”

I shake my head at that little segment. Now, of course, I know exactly what Harry was doing during that time, learning how to perform the Resurrection Charm. I can feel myself choke up as I watch the argument escalate.

Harry's shoulders squared; his _expression hardened. Yet now I see something that I didn't notice a few years ago: the expectation in his eyes, as if he was slowly but painfully reaching a goal.

“-and you don't talk to me about anything anymore-”

“Maybe I don't want to talk to you about anything anymore.”

I continued as if I hadn't heard. “-you just ignore me as if I'm not even here-”

“AND WHAT HAPPENS WHEN I TELL YOU?” he exploded, and I watch myself reflexively step backwards. “What happens when I tell you about everything I've been doing, huh? You already know too much, Hermione! What happens when he finds out you know how he can be defeated? What if our charms don't hold and Death Eaters find out where we are? What if we slip up somehow and they take you or Ron?”

His eyes widened and his voice, _expression, and actions became slightly manic. I remember the feeling that came over at that exact moment; that those panic-filled eyes of his weren't actually looking at me, but through me, as if he couldn't really see me at all. His hands grabbed my shoulders and pulled me closer to him as he leaned his forehead against mine. His voice lowered to a shaking whisper.

“I can't let anything happen to you. The only thing that keeps me going is knowing that I can keep you safe. He tells me that I can't. At night, when I try to sleep, he gets inside my head and tells me that I can't protect you but I know that I can. You just can't know about anything that I do. You're already high enough on his list. He'll stop at nothing to get to me, he already knows how much-”

He stopped. His eyes fluttered closed and I watch him take me into his arms, burying his face into my neck.

“Please, don't make me tell you. You're better off not knowing. Just trust me. Please,” he pleaded, and I don't notice I'm crying until I feel the coolness of tears against my cheeks.

Suddenly, the room blurs in a haze of color. It takes a moment for me to realize that the venue is changing. The blurred shapes start to re-define themselves, and I find that I am in the same house, but in Harry's bedroom. His back is to me and he sits at his desk chair, writing feverishly on a piece of parchment. I walk to him and peek over his shoulder to read.

The Last Will and Testament of Harry James Potter

I, Harry James Potter, being of sound body and mind, declare that this Will and Testament be binding to my beneficiaries at the time of my death.

To Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Weasley, I leave the entire contents of my secondary Gringotts vault, along with my undying gratitude for taking me into their home when they didn't have to.

To Mr. Remus Lupin, I leave all title and property rights to Number 12 Grimmauld Place, along with any monetary legacies left to me by my late godfather.

It is my final wish that the entire contents of my main Gringotts vault, control of my stock in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, the title and property rights to the Potter Family Estate in Godric's Hollow, and all items of personal and/or sentimental value, be divided equally between my two best friends, Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Hermione Granger. Also, I ask that each be given the sealed envelopes enclosed upon the reading of this will.

Signed,

Harry James Potter

Where was I when he was doing this? I never knew of him writing such a thing. Of course, the three of us had brought up the subject on one of our drearier days, but we had quickly brushed it off. Writing out a will would have made everything seem too real, too final; as if we didn't believe we could win. Obviously, Harry had taken the idea a bit more seriously than Ron and I.

Then my eyes scan to two wax-sealed envelopes on the desk next to him; my name shines in emerald ink on the leftmost one. I reach out a hand to take it, overwhelmed with curiosity over its contents, but my hand simply glides through it. Of course, I'm in a memory. It's not as if I can just pick something up and move it.

Harry sighed as he rolled up the scroll and slid it, along with the two envelopes, into a small velvet bag. He stood up and brought the sack to his trunk, taking great care to place it at the very bottom before closing the lid.

Memory-Harry made his way out of his room, shutting the door softly behind him. I follow, my frustration at not being able to read the letter eating at my insides. I hear voices coming from our common room. Harry stopped and I do the same at his side where he stands looking down into the room from a small balcony in the corner.

I can see the younger versions of Ron and me lounging on the rug in front of the fire. Ron's back is propped up against the couch, and my head is resting in his lap as he plays with my hair.

“Ron, have you thought about what might happen if we don't make it?” I asked, and I watch as Ron's hand ceases its ministrations.

I remember this conversation as if it were yesterday. It's odd how that happens, isn't it?

“You can't think like that, love,” Ron replied and looking back, I can see that Ron was never all that comfortable with the two of us using terms of endearment, but he used them when he felt a situation was becoming uncomfortable, as if to distract me from the topic. That had occurred a lot in our on-again-off-again relationship. Even then, I could tell that the nickname sounded awkward.

Harry shrunk back into the shadows, but stayed at a short distance from the overhang, so as to still hear the conversation below.

“But don't we have to, in a way? We've been preparing all this time, but what if we just can't? What if he can't? His whole life has worked up to this. What if it doesn't turn out like we hope?”

Ron sighed.

“Don't worry about Harry. I reckon he can take care of himself. Why don't we just spend as much time together as we can, okay?”

I don't watch Ron lean down and brush his lips against my forehead. I'm too busy looking at Harry, whose face turned away from the affectionate display, but not before I see a fleeting look of longing in his eyes. And before I know it, the colors are all blending together again. After a moment of confusion, I find myself in a different place, a different time, and a different memory.

This time, I find myself standing in the middle of our dining room. Obviously, there is a dramatic amount of time between this memory and the last one. Ron and Harry are sitting across from each other at the table, both in black slacks and button-up dress shirts; Harry's blue, and Ron's maroon. The two are indulged in a heated but hushed conversation, and I move closer to make out what they are saying.

“You've got to calm down, mate, they'll be here any minute.”

Harry's hand raked through his hair as he replied stiffly, “I am calm.”

“No, you're not. You can't protect her from other guys, Harry. You're going to have to let her make her decisions based on what she knows about him, not what you know. You say he's a complete prat, but you have to let her learn that on her own.”

“But he's not worth the ground she walks on. I've heard about how he treats his witches. She deserves someone better-”

“How do you know that she's wasting her time with him, huh? Maybe they'll hit it off; you know how Herm is with dating. You could count the times she's gone out with guys that aren't us on one hand. I think she deserves to have a bit of fun. How do you know that Darren won't be that for her?”

“I just do, okay! She needs someone who understands all that she's been through, who appreciates her, who loves her for everything she is. Someone-”

“-like you?”

Harry bowed his head, his eyes studying the wooden tabletop as Ron sighed, then spoke up, “Look, I'm not all that pumped to meet this bloke either, but you have got to keep a cool head about this. Otherwise, she'll make you pay for it later.”

Silence.

“Harry?”

Harry stood up abruptly, pushing is chair under the table.

“Yeah, of course,” he agreed, his tone full of forced offhandedness, “I'll calm down. Could you get the door when they get here? I think I left something in the oven...”

His voice trailed off and the memory starts to fade before my eyes. The colors and shapes swirl before me until they mold back together to form Harry's living room. The fire crackles in the grate, but my view of the flames is partially blocked by the appearance of three red and gold stockings hanging from the mantelpiece. Our Christmas tree glitters in the corner of the room, sparkling with silver and gold tinsel, crystal ornaments, and jewel-bright fairy lights. Under the tree, lying on top of three sleeping bags, are me, Harry, and Allie. Allie and I are asleep; Allie's small body is curled against mine, her ebony curls resting on my arm as it cradles her. Harry is on Allie's other side, his head propped up on his elbow as the fingers of his other hand reach out to brush her cheek.

Before his fingers reached their destination, however, she stirred, her tiny eyes fluttering open to gaze around her.

“No Santa yet?” she asked innocently.

“No, sweets, not yet.”

Sleepily, she crawled the two feet to his side and lay down with her back to his chest. Instinctively, it seemed, his arm went around her small form, hugging her body to his.

“Doc?”

Harry smiled down at her.

“Yes, Allie?”

“Are you `n Ms. `Mione marwied?”

“No.”

“Then why does she sleep in your house?”

“Because she's my best friend.”

“Oh...she's pwetty.”

“Yes, she is.”

“I think you should marwy her.”

Harry chuckled, but it seemed more somber than humorous.

“You think so?”

“Yep...Doc, when will Santa Claus come?”

“When you go to sleep.”

“Oh, alright. Goodnight, Doc.”

“Goodnight, Allie.”

The memory lasted a few moments more, long enough for Harry to lay an already half-dozing Allie at my side, then to brush a light kiss to both our foreheads.

The full realization of Allie's death hits me full-force and I can feel the sobs build in my throat.

“Get me out of here,” I think, concentrating on Harry's bedroom so as to pull myself from the myriad of memories.

But for some reason, I can't seem to do it. Instead, the setting is changing yet again. It sharpens, more quickly than the others, into a place I have hoped to see again only in my nightmares: the graveyard.

This time, I am standing behind Harry. His wand is thrust out, pointing forward.

“AVADA KEDAVRA!”

My eyes follow the jet of bright green light as it passes from his wand to Voldemort. The curse hit him directly in the chest and he let out a blood-curdling scream before collapsing to the ground in a pile of robes. However, the light continues and I see it pass, quick as lightening, down a chain from the Dark Lord's limp wrist to mine. In a flash, Harry is at my side, Voldemort's body forgotten, his hands roaming my neck to find a pulse and coming up blood-stained.

Frantically, he dug through his robes, pulling out his worn pocket knife he got from Sirius. With a manic grace, his fingers flicked at the blade and it sprung from its sheath. He didn't even flinch as the blade slashed against his hand, leaving a trail of red in its wake. He moved the hand to my chest, just over my heart and began to mutter something under his breath. I faintly recognize a few of the words as “life” and “death,” but the incantation is in Latin and I can't make out most of the rest. As he finishes, he seems to weaken and his skin visibly pales. His breathing becomes ragged, and I notice that the wounds on my body seem to be disappearing without a scar to be seen. My attention is distracted when Harry let's out an animalistic cry. I spin around to see his pallid skin break and bleed, the substance soaking through his robes.

Sobs escape my throat as he yells out again, louder this time, and I try to block it from my mind.

“Get me out. Just bring me back home.”

This time, I feel a tug at my back as if I am attached to a thin rope, and I am pulled out of the memory, landing hard on my knees on Harry's bedroom floor. Sobs claw at my throat and I glance at Harry's form on the bed. Through my tear-clouded eyes, I can just make out the razor-thin, white scar on his palm. Hurriedly, I fly from the room, one hand clutching at my chest, the other shutting the door, and I let the tsunami of emotions crash into me.

A/N:: THERE IT WAS! I hope that you guys wanted a longer chapter, so you got it! So I expect a good amount of reviews. Because I believe that millions of reviews motivate an author to write a longer chapter!! Love ya'!!

^Mandy^

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11. Learning

Chapter 11

Learning

“Ms. Granger! What a pleasant surprise!” Albus Dumbledore's voice floats over me like a comforting blanket as I take a seat in front of his portrait.

“What, may I ask, has brought you to me at this time of night?”

I raise my head to face him with a sigh. His smile falters a bit at the sight of my still tear-filled eyes.

“Ah, and what is it that our Mr. Potter has done?”

As in depth as I can manage, I explain the night's events: Harry's confrontation with Darren, the burning, Harry's reaction, and my journey through Harry's Pensieve. Dumbledore's _expression remains neutral until I mention my struggle to detach myself from the memories and my sharp transfer to Harry's memory of the Final Battle.

“I believe what you experienced is called a Necessary Memorandum Paradox. There are many similar recorded instances of this phenomenon. Have you read any of them?”

I scrape my mind, vaguely remembering the term.

“I think so. Someone compiles a collection of memories in a Pensieve. When the memories are reviewed, one specific memory must always be relived for you to be released from the Pensieve.”

“Correct, as always, Miss Granger. However, do you know why?”

“No, Professor.”

“In most cases, the memory has tragically imprinted itself upon the owner's mind. Thus, the memory never really leaves the person when they put it into the Pensieve. It's always there, in the back of their mind.”

Dumbledore's eyes burn into mine, much like they did six years ago when I sat in this very seat.

“In every scene you observed tonight, the conversation revolved around you; or Harry was watching you with someone. The last memory, the one of the Final Battle, depicted Harry's performance of the Resurrection Charm on you. Perhaps you saw the memory that you did because that is what Harry sees every time he looks at you...”

*

He's wrong.

This has gone through my mind for the last four hours as I swirl my long-gone-cold tea in its cup. As far back as I can remember I have always seen Albus Dumbledore as an infinite source of optimism, both in life and in death. Yet, after tonight, I'm not so sure about that anymore.

I swipe at my weary eyes angrily with my handkerchief. I've been crying on and off since I got out of the Pensieve, and the continual wiping away of tears has made my eyes raw and swollen. The candle on my desk flickers for a moment in the breeze of the opened window, casting peculiar shadows against the walls of my study. Emotional exhaustion sweeps over me, and I let my eyes flutter closed, sinking into the soft leather of my couch.

Thump.

My ever-cautious reflexes, honed by years of being on guard in case of a sudden Death Eater attack, spring to life. In half a second, my wand in clutched confidently in my fist and pointed at the closed door.

Thump...thump...

Footsteps. They continue steadily down the stairs, and then slow their pace as the distance between their owner and my study is closed.

Wait...down the stairs? No intruder would scale a four-story mansion; they would get in from the bottommost floor of the house.

I will my pounding heart to calm itself, listening more closely to the approaching footfalls: the sound, the time between each step, the care that the person takes to avoid the boards that creak. When the steps cease outside of my door, I lay my wand down on the table and walk to the door with a sigh. The knob turns easily in my hand, and I push against it to find Harry on the other side, looking quite startled to see that I'm still awake. Instead of calming my nerves, the sight of him seems to spike the tension in the room ten-fold.

“I...I was just...I thought that I'd...”

I reach out my left hand and let it enclose Harry's wrist.

“...see how I was doing?”

He nods, his eyes studying the floor as if it holds the interest of a Picasso original. Gently, I tug at his hand, and he sort of stumbles into the room. I guide him to the couch, then let go of his wrist to go back and shut the door. The latch slides into place, and I pause, leaning my back against the dark wood as I turn to face him.

“What are you doing up?” I ask, “The sleeping potion--”

“--guarantees that your sleep will be dreamless; it doesn't guarantee a full night's sleep in itself.”

I nod in understanding, grabbing my handkerchief as I pass my desk on the way to the couch. I sit next to him, only to have him get off and kneel in front of me in response.

“Sit back,” he commands lightly, and I instantly recognize the clinical air in which he is conducting himself. I acquiesce, allowing his hands to run along my forehead and down my neck, putting pressure on various spots.

“Your glands are still a bit swollen. Do you feel any pain anywhere?”

“No.”

“Any sort of pressure around here?” he questions, his fingers sliding along the bottom of my jaw.

“No, I-”

“Did it hurt?”

The sharpness with which he delivers this question startles me into silence, and it takes a few moments for me to catch my breath and answer.

“Not really. It was like...well, it only lasted a second or two, but it...it felt...” I sigh in exasperation, “I don't really know how to describe it...”

Harry's hands glide back up to my neck, but not in the same physician-like way that they had gone down. His fingertips seem to linger on the hollow of my throat, the pulse-point not far from it, and the patch of skin just below my ear.

“Try,” he insists, his gaze making me shiver slightly with its intensity.

What's going on? I wonder, my stomach doing somersaults when one of his fingers brushes against my bottom lip.

“Well...um...it was like...like I was standing in the middle of a strong fire...but it didn't hurt exactly...it felt like...like...”

My voice chokes mid-sentence when I allow my gaze to meet his. For a fleeting moment, it seems as if his emerald irises are replaced with flickering jade flames.

“Like this?” he breathes, before his lips crash against mine and fire blazes through me.

A/N::: I know, I know, I know; it's short to the extreme. So pretty please keep the "write longer chapters" to a bare minimum.

I'm a writer who generally takes things slow, so in response to many (and I mean MANY) reviews asking for the romance---Ta Dah! Hope you all enjoyed the start of the good stuff! I promise the next chapter will be longer, being that it's summer and all that jazz.

Toodles,

Mandy

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12. Distracting

A/N::: I thought that, for a change of pace, I'd put my author's note at the beginning. For one, I hope that everyone enjoys reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it! Second, thanks to Mabel (my excellent beta), and a few reviewers who have been with me since the beginning: danfan4ever, dianablack, Ori, and swivelchair. Thanks a million for your constant reviews…keep them coming! Also, special thanks to my best friend Kate, who helped me jump into a bit of the fluff for everyone! So, without further ado, I give you---

Chapter 12

Distracting

But it's different this time.

This time, there are no flames, no spurts of fire. It's more like a volcano has erupted deep in my gut, and the burning sensation comes, instead, from electrically-charged lava, rushing through my body to the tips of my fingers and toes. The force behind the kiss is so brutal that I can feel the scorching heat in every pore, on every inch of skin. I feel myself cool slightly as the feeling ricochets off my nerve endings, drawing my attention to the concentrations of heat radiating from the hand on my neck and the one on the small of my back. I jerk forward slightly as one of his fingers slides under the hem of my shirt, causing my chest to clash against his. Vaguely, I register the sound of Harry groaning deep in the back of his throat; the vibrations from the action seem to shock my hands into movement, and, as if of their own volition, they claw at the bottom of his t-shirt, shaking with the desperate need to touch his bare skin. Suddenly, the pressure on my neck and back disappears, and his hands struggle to pull mine away from his clothing just as my fingertips brush his side.

Almost frantically, his lips leave mine as he shoves himself away from me. I can physically feel the loss of warmth at his departure, but my mind is still too caught up in the heated haze for me to care. The punch-drunk sensation lasts through the echoing of his hurriedly retreating footfalls, the clatter of him stumbling over the rug, and the rattle of him grappling for the door knob. The feeling is finally chased out by the slamming of my study door, leaving me cold and lonely.

*

"Herm, tell Harry that it's my day to read the sports section first!" Ron's request is the first thing I hear when I walk into the kitchen the next morning. I'm already dressed for work--black and white pinstriped dress slacks and a fitted black turtleneck sweater--hoping to make a quick entry and exit at the breakfast table.

Not that I'm trying to avoid Harry, or something of that nature. No, I'll just tell them that I have a lot of work to catch up on and that I can't stay long or maybe that I promised my mum that I'd meet her for brunch. But definitely not trying to avoid Harry Potter like the plague. Nope. Not at all.

My black Doc's thump softly against the floor as I walk to the dining table and pick up the first page of the Daily Prophet. Harry is currently hidden behind the sports page, blatantly ignoring me. Honestly, could he be any more immature?

"Harry," I sigh in exasperation, "you know that Ron gets the sports section first on Mondays."

"The Cannons got steamrollered by the Wasps-" Harry speaks, not to me, but to Ron.

Ron whines in return, "Can it, Harry! I want to read it myself."

"-170 to 490-"

"Stop it! You're ruining the experience!"

"-and the Cannon's seeker caught the snitch!"

Ron sticks his fingers in his ears and starts humming loudly.

"The Cannons'll have to win nine back-to-back matches to even think about qualifying for the playoffs."

"La, la, la...I'm not listening..." Ron screeches in a sing-song voice.

"SHUT UP! BOTH OF YOU!"

Ron eyes me with something just short of contempt.

"Well, if he would just give me the bloody paper..."

Ding!

Harry flicks the paper closed and slides it over to Ron as he rises smoothly from his chair.

"The muffins are done," he announces to no one in particular, but I know that the phrase is meant for me. I can smell the mouthwatering scent of Harry's white-chocolate cranberry muffins coming from the vicinity of the oven, where the baker of said muffins is currently bending over in just a loose fitting, worn out pair of jeans, sticking a toothpick into the top of each one. The muscles in his arms and back flex nicely as he reaches toward the back of the oven to continue his poking. For some slightly uncomfortable reason, the sight of that alone gives me goose bumps and heightens the tone of my voice as I ask,

"Why don't you just take them out to do that?"

"Because muffins are just like cakes; they'll fall if you take them out before they're completely done."

"Oh."

He stands, muffin tin in hand, and shuts the oven door. How is he so unaffected by what happened yesterday? I'm entranced. I can't seem to keep my eyes off of him. Different things seem to distract my sight all at once. How his chest rises and falls with each breath. How tightly his creamy skin is stretched over his toned stomach. How his jeans swing low on his hips, offering me a glimpse of the black snail trail that disappears under his waistband...

"Hermione? Are you alright?"

Damn. He caught me.

"Yeah, I'm-" I flick my eyes up to meet his. The flickering heat of his gaze sends a shiver of excitement through me, causing me to turn away.

"I'm fine."

I grab a muffin from the tray, mutter a quick goodbye, bolt out of Harry's flat, and fly down the stairs, apparating to the Ministry the second I hit the porch.

A/N:: Review!! Pretty Please!!!

Mandy

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13. Admitting

Chapter 13

Admitting

It's half past eleven. I've been at work for three hours, twelve minutes, and...twenty-three seconds. I've re-alphabetized my address book, assorted the pens in my top drawer by ink color, purpose, and brand, and have assembled possibly the world's longest paper clip chain, which, at the moment, consists of exactly nine hundred and fifty-six of the metal wonders. I have not, however, started to do anything that may be the slightest bit productive, and it's all because of what is sitting at the far left corner of my desk - a white napkin covered in muffin crumbs.

I finished the muffin when I fled the house within five minutes after I got to the office. The remnants of said muffin are now taunting me from next to my day-by-day calendar. If I close my eyes, I can still taste the gooey white-chocolate chips and soft cranberries...

Only the good Lord knows the lengths I would go to for another one. Just one; even half of one would suffice.

I suppose I could just Floo Harry and ask him to owl me the leftovers...

I look to my window, and find myself heavily irritated to find that it is mimicking the rainy day about three stories above. Well, that plan crashed and burned. There's nothing worse than soggy muffins.

He could always bring them over himself, couldn't he?

Nope. That wouldn't work either. It would completely ruin the whole Ignoring Harry thing I have going. He's on call, anyway. He may have been dispatched to the hospital for something, so he may not even be at home. Which means that the muffins are just sitting there in the kitchen, alone and unprotected...

Maybe I could sneak back to the house and get one...

Another futile idea. Apparating or traveling by Floo inside of my office would make the security charms on and around it go haywire. No need to make a spectacle, and passing my secretary to get to the Apparation Center is out of the question. I've already been in and out of my office four times to get more paper clips from the storage room. Last time, she told me that if I go back out there, she'll have me committed.

Perhaps Ron can bring them...what day is it...?

Oh yes, Monday. Ron's day to have the sport's section first. Also the National Quidditch League's “Recruiting Day” for the England national team; meaning that Ron will be out drinking until the wee hours of the morning, unless, of course, he gets picked for the national team. Upon selection, the players for the England team are required to undergo a sobriety charm, which automatically alerts League officials to alcohol consumption. If even a trace is found in their blood, the team member is immediately expelled and replaced. So, really, there's no point in disturbing him.

Which leaves me sitting in the middle of a mile-long rope of paperclips with a perfectly organized pen collection, an immaculately alphabetized address book, and no muffins.

I sigh in exasperation and slide another paper clip onto my chain.

Nine hundred and fifty-seven.

This is ridiculous, really. I mean, if I want another muffin badly enough, I should shelve my pride and ask Harry to bring them over.

Nine hundred and fifty-eight.

Budge up, girl! Where's that old Gryffindor courage?

Nine hundred and fifty-nine.

C'mon! It's just Harry...

Nine hundred and-

My hand hesitates.

That's it; just good old Harry. You know, the one whose bones you almost jumped this morning.

-sixty.

Ugh. This is getting me nowhere fast. Just pop your head in for just a moment, tell him to bring the muffins, and leave it at that.

With steeled resolve, I push away my clip creation and stride to my fireplace, where I toss a handful of greenish-blue powder into the flames and state clearly, “Harry's flat.”

I lean my head into the flames, and Harry's common room comes into stark focus. There he is, sleeping on the couch. Typical male. It's his one day off, and he's snoozing it away.

“Harry!”

He groans at the sudden noise and shifts on the couch so that his back is to me. He's still wearing those blasted jeans.

“HARRY!”

In an instant, he's up and alert with his wand drawn. I guess old habits die hard.

“Hermes?”

“Yeah. Listen, do you have any of those muffins left?”

He tilts his head a bit in thought.

“I think so. Unless Ron took some before he-”

“GREAT! Look, I'm in a bit of a pinch and can't waste any time outside of the office, so could you bring the rest of them to me?” I spit out so rapidly that I'm surprised he absorbed any of it.

“I guess I can. Hey, are you alri-”

“Thanks! Bye!” I reply, promptly jerking my head from the fire and cutting the connection.

“Ms. Granger, Mr. Potter is here to see you,” Malia's voice rings over the magical speaker as I lower myself back into my chair.

Wow. If only pizza delivery was this fast.

“Send him in, Malia,” I answer, trying to look as if I'm busy doing important paperwork instead of hoping I have enough paper clips to make it to one thousand.

The customary blue light shines from under my door, and I hear Harry hiss in pain as the laser sensor reads his fingerprints. Within seconds, my door is flung open and Harry is standing in the middle of my office, looking a bit disheveled in untied trainers, a rumpled smoke gray t-shirt, and those stupid blue jeans.

“What's wrong?”

The question startles me.

“Nothing.”

“Don't lie to me, Hermione.”

“I'm not lying to you.”

“Yes you are. Something's up and it's got you all out of whack.”

I scoff at this very accurate accusation.

“Quit trying to psychoanalyze me, Harry. Nothing is wrong. I`m just very busy at the moment.”

For a moment, he holds my gaze, and just as I open my mouth to speak again, I feel an almost imperceptible shift in my mind. Like a random jumble of thoughts that morphs into a soft...presence.

“Stop it,” I growl, trying my best to block my mind to his Legimency. “You know I hate it when you do that.”

The foreign feeling in my mind increases, and the beginnings of memories skim through my consciousness, as if someone is riffling through a filing cabinet.

“I said STOP!” I shout, pushing with all the power I can manage. I feel the presence recede, but for some reason, the feeling doesn't stop there. It's as if my thoughts are carried with it back to its host, and suddenly, I'm seeing flashes of Harry's memories instead of mine.

Harry showing us the deed to the house.

Ron's elated face when he was accepted to the Cannon's.

A pair of gloved and bloody hands pulling a sheet over someone's head.

I will my mind to slow down, and the memories seem to last a few seconds longer.

Allie and I sitting under the Christmas tree, her eyes lighting up with glee at the golden, winged ball that Harry had gotten her hovering just above her head.

“It's like magic, isn't it, Doc?”

Harry smiling back, “Yeah. It is.”

It switches again.

Harry and my mum chopping vegetables for dinner, laughing at something or another.

“Thank heavens you can cook, Harry. My little girl may be brilliant, but she's incompetent in the kitchen! It's good to know that you're there to save her.”

Harry chuckles, “Always, Mrs. Granger. Always.”

And again.

Ron saying earnestly, “It's Hermione, mate. Face it. If she's so blind that she hasn't caught on by now, she's not going to. At least not with a little help-”

“Help? I've been dropping hints for the past four years, Ron! What will it take, huh? Me waltzing up to her and telling her that I-”

“ENOUGH!” Harry bellows, and I feel myself being violently pushed from his thoughts.

But his words are still echoing in my mind.

I've been dropping hints for the past four years...

My head starts to spin and I take a few deep breaths to steady myself.

What will it take, huh?

“What is it that I haven't caught on to?” I ask, my words coming out dangerously quiet and slow.

“It's nothing important,” Harry replies in the same tone, his face turned away from me.

“Not important?” I question, rising from my chair and rounding my desk to stand behind him, “If it's something big enough to keep from me, I'd think it was something very important.”

My comment is met with silence, and I can't help that my next words come out snidely.

“What are you going to have to `waltz up to me' and tell me, Harry? Because obviously I`ve been `so blind' that I haven't noticed it before.”

He turns, his shoulders and demeanor sagging. He almost looks...defeated. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but sighs, as if he's at a loss for words. This action sends my brain into automatic overdrive.

Oh my God. He's about to tell me something horrible, like Voldemort has somehow come back. Or he's got some sort of terminal disease. Or that he's been leading a double life as a Swedish trapeze artist named Sven Googlheim. Or something equally disturbing.

His hand reaches out to slide against my jaw as he closes the distance between us. The amount of heat I can feel just through this small amount of contact is unbelievable, though it holds no comparison to my previous experiences. He leans down so that his lips just barely brush against mine as he breathes out,

“I love you.”

Whoa. Love? As in something not platonic? Like I-want-to-spend-the-rest-of-forever-with-you kind of love?

His hands run down my arms to clasp mine. The heat he generated into me dulls, probably because my blood seems to have run cold. What am I supposed to do? To say?

His lips capture mine in a kiss I don't return, regardless of my body's insistence that I do. Instead, I pull my hands away from his and lay them on his chest, pushing him back.

“Harry, I...I don't think that we should...I mean, this is a bit sudden,” I stumble.

“Sudden! Hermione, I`ve lov-”

“Don't, please,” I choke out, “Don't say it again.”

I only let my eyes rest on his face for a second, but it's long enough for me to register the crestfallen expression on it before he throws up an emotional wall, making it impossible to read him. He turns on his heel, facing me just as he gets to the door and snarls,

“You can get your own damn muffins.”

A/N:::: Ah!! There it is, a bit longer than I expected (though I'm sure you all don't mind!). Thanks a million to Mabel, my terrific beta. This chapter was positively RIDDLED with grammar mistakes, so thanks for having my back! Thanks also go to my regular reviewers (I luv you guys!) and to my bestest chica, Kate, who helped my come up with the whole muffin idea for this chapter! Read and review, my peoples!!! I'm hoping to break 500!!!

Much love,

Mandy

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14. Author's Note

Contact me at----- dtown_curly_q@yahoo.com for questions, comments or suggestions

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15. Coping

A/N::::: First, allow me to apologize for the absolutely HORRID wait I've put on this chapter. Second, let me apologize for the absolutely HORRID condition of this chapter. WARNING::: IT IS UNBETA-ED!!!! (Sorry Mabel!) But there was no way that I could wait the extra day or two to post this chapter, even though it is undoubtedly the shortest one yet. This was the first official mind block that I've had while writing this story, and trust me, I wrote this thing about twenty different ways before settling on this garbled version.

So, here it goes...

Chapter 14

Coping

The silence of the house is deafening as I climb the stairs to Harry's flat. I have no clue what I'm going to say to him, but I have to fix things somehow...

The first thing I notice when I reach the landing and enter his common room is that the picture of the three of us is missing from the coffee table. The mantel is also devoid of the photographs that dotted its surface. My breath quickens as I make my way to his bedroom. I open the door and turn into the room to find it-

-completely empty. The large four-poster bed in the center of the room has been stripped of its covering. The closet door on the other side of the room stands open, holding nothing but two wooden clothes hangers. His desk next to the window has been gutted, the drawers half-closed and emptied of their contents, bar a few scraps of blank parchment. All signs that someone once inhabited this room are gone.

My feet pound against the hardwood floor as I rush to the kitchen, my heartbeat quickening with a sudden rush of panic.

The kitchen looks exactly as it did when I left the house this morning. The pots and pans are all neatly put away in the glass-front cabinets; the newspaper lays on the dining room table. Sitting on the countertop, however, is a single muffin perched on a white napkin with my name scrawled in hurried handwriting in the corner along with the word `Enjoy.'

All at once, I take in the absence of a third of my life. There is no briefcase in the corner, no laughter from the next room, no humming from the bathroom after he gets out of the shower. The entire flat lacks a warmth that I didn't realize was there in the first place.

My heart drops somewhere in the vicinity of my stomach around the time that my knees give out and I collapse against the side of the refrigerator. He's gone.

I don't try to stifle the sobs that seem to erupt from deep inside my chest and fill the air with a cacophony of sound, causing me to gasp for breath between heaves. Tears blur my vision so completely that I simply close my eyes to the view of the white tile. The trails they carve down my cheeks feel like iced razorblades slicing at my skin, but the sensation doesn't hold a candle to the sorrow that grips my soul like a vise, squeezing until I feel as if I'll die from the pain.

My mind surrenders all control to emotion, and my fingernails etch lines of red on the skin of my arms as I wrap them around my body.

This is how Ron finds me at three in the morning: four and a half hours later.

*

For the past week, I've been running on autopilot. I get up, go to work, go home, go to bed, and repeat the same thing the next day. Ron tells me he doesn't know where Harry is, but I know he's lying. He can never meet my eyes when he says it.

I don't even feel like myself anymore. Everyday I wake up to an empty house. Most mornings I don't eat anything, mainly because I can't bring myself to go back to his flat alone. Ron is away at all hours for various practices and publicity events for the National League, since he was chosen to start for the English team, leaving me to wallow in my misery.

Three days ago, I sent an owl to St. Mungo's and threw my name around to find out about Harry's schedule, but the receptionist informed me that he no longer makes weekly visits to the magical institution and that he is to report there only in the event of a major emergency. Trying to contact St. Vincent's is useless. The staff there may know me, but giving out the working hours of a physician is strictly forbidden, regardless of who is inquiring.

Thus, the end of the week finds me sitting at an immaculately laid out tea table across from a very pregnant Ginny Malfoy. I've just spent the last half an hour explaining my current situation from start to finish.

“You've really mucked this one up, haven't you?”

The normal Hermione would shoot the speaker of such a thing an icy glare, or launch into a tirade about how I most certainly did not muck things up. But looking back upon the last week, I know that she's putting it lightly, and I bow my head in response.

I hear her take a deep breath, as if she's about to start in on a long lecture, but her action is interrupted by a soft 'pop' from the living room.

“Mummy!” a small voice cries excitedly as Ginny and Draco's four-year-old daughter, Danielle, rushes to her mother's side from the next room. Draco's exhausted sigh punctuates the air as he leans against the back of Ginny`s chair and lays a kiss on the top of her head, loosening his tie.

“Mummy! Look what I painted today in pwe-school!”

I can't help but smile at her uncontained excitement, and neither can Ginny, who takes the picture from her daughter's hands and begins to ooh and ahh at the smear of colors. To any observer, they are the picture of a perfect family. Draco, tall, strong, and debonair. Ginny, small and glowing. And Dani, a perfect combination of the two with fine strawberry-blonde hair, the sharp Malfoy features, and a smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose. For a moment, a pang of longing stabs me, but the feeling is gone as soon as it comes.

“You okay Granger?” Draco's alto pulls me back.

“Of course,” I reply, obviously a bit too quickly, because he eyes me suspiciously.

“Dani, you're absolutely covered in paint! Let Daddy run you a bath so Mummy can finish talking to Aunt Hermione.”

“Don't worry about that, Gin,” I say, now thankful for the interruption of our conversation, “I should be on my way anyhow.”

“Not at all! Draco is more than capable-”

“Later, Gin,” I stress. I don't feel like staying here any longer. I feel as if I'm intruding on one of those private family moments.

Ginny shoots me a glare that pointedly says that she'll hold me to my statement.

“Draco, why don't you show Hermione out?”

“Yes, dear,” he answers. The man is positively whipped.

In an exaggerated gesture, he offers me his arm and escorts me to the foyer, opening one of the giant double doors.

“Thanks,” I say, squeezing his arm affectionately in goodbye.

“Anytime, m'lady,” he croons, and pecks me lightly on the cheek before letting me go.

*

Back at the Ministry, I enter my office to find the largest bouquet of roses I've ever seen perched in the center of my desk. Their perfume is so strong that the scent makes me gag. I've never been a big fan of roses. Only single, long-stemmed pink ones like my father always sends me on my birthday.

A tiny ivory square is nestled among the center buds, and I wrestle my way through the velvet petals to reach it. When I finally extract the card, a burgundy satin ribbon comes with it, looped around the card's crease. The paper feels heavier than it should, even with the addition of the ribbon, and the card is tented open a bit, as if something is secured inside. I slide my fingernail under the waxed seal and open the

tri-folded cream paper.

Attached to the ribbon is an all too familiar looking diamond ring. But my eyes are drawn, instead, to the black inked message written on the paper.

My offer still stands.

---Darren

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16. Dancing

A/N:: I came up with this chapter after listening to "Dance With Me" from the Cheetah Girls 2 Soundtrack a few times too many. Yet another un-betaed chapter. This is the longest chapter I've written in a loooong time. So no complaints, ya' hear! Well, read and review, my dears! Without further ado, I proudly present----

Chapter 15

Dancing

“You're coming, and that's final,” Ginny's voice resounds from my fireplace, “There's absolutely no way I'm dealing with all of Draco's stuffy, rich boy business associates by myself.”

After a half hour's worth of arguing, my resistance to her pleas is wearing thin. Tonight, Draco is hosting a gala at his and Ginny's estate to honor yet another successful year of his company, Malfoy Enterprises, which coordinates and funds the research of magical medicine. Many big-time philanthropists have donated millions of galleons to his cause, eager to earn an invitation to what is possibly the biggest annual social event to hit the magical world. I've never attended the party, though I've had to strategically dodge Ginny's begging every year. This year, however, I don't have the energy to lie about a busy schedule or long-made plans.

“I don't have anything to wear...” my voice trails off.

“Nonsense. You'll wear something of mine! Just pop on over and we'll fix you right up!”

“Maybe later, Gin. I mean, I've got to finish some paperwork, and the flat is a mess...” I ramble, my last futile attempt at escape.

“Don't give me that bull, Granger. With all that's happened lately, I'm sure that house is spotless, and you're probably a week ahead at work.”

I sigh in resignation. She's right, of course. When I get frustrated, angry, or downright sorrowful, I clean; fanatically. Before Ron and I broke things off, I was known to take my post-fight provocations out on the Prefects' Bath.

Ginny's victorious smile lights up her face, and she reaches out a hand to me.

“Well, budge up then.”

Shaking my head, I take her hand and step into the flames.

*

“You can't honestly expect me to wear this,” I say flatly, holding up the designer dress from Ginny's closet.

“Of course I can. It's not as if I can wear it right now, and it deserves a night out.”

“Where's the rest of it?”

“What do you mean `the rest of it'? That's how it's supposed to look! You act as if it's completely tasteless!”

“Well, how do you think this is going to stay put? One slip, and I'll be in some serious trouble-”

“Magic, my dear. Sometimes I think you forget you're a witch.”

“Oh,” I reply stupidly. Magic. Of course.

“Here, let me help,” she offers, taking the dress from my hands, her dress rustling around her ankles.

I train my eyes on her as she waves her wand over the seams. She looks exquisite. As usual, Draco has spared no expense. Her Greek-styled, off-the-shoulder ivory dress drapes over her in layers of sheer material, flowing gracefully over her swollen stomach. A satin, bone-colored ribbon weaves through her loosely plaited hair, highlighted by the fifteen-thousand galleon string of cultured pearls around her neck and the matching studs in her ears. Her white moccasin covered feet peak out from under her skirt. She wears no makeup, since it “just doesn't suit her complexion.” But she looks amazing nonetheless.

“There you go!” she states proudly, holding the dress out to me and admiring her invisible handiwork, “Just step into it, so it won't mess up your hair. There's a rack you can hang your things on in the corner. I put your heels on the footstool. Don`t take too long; `tails start at eight.”

She reaches for the door knob, stepping out into the hallway, but turns around at the last minute,

“Oh, Hermione--”

“Yeah?”

“That's a `no knickers' dress.”

She smiles wickedly and shuts the door behind her.

The woman is positively evil.

Sighing heavily, I bring the dress behind a Chinese-type partition, shed my t-shirt and sweats, and slip into it. After that small feat is accomplished, I turn to Ginny's full length mirror to assess the damage.

The bodice of the dress fits like a second skin, the smooth black material conforming to every curve, cutting in sharply under my breasts. My right arm and shoulder are covered by the dress's only sleeve which clings to my arm until it flares slightly at my wrist. My other arm and shoulder arm bare, save for an elbow-length, black satin glove. The neckline slants down and to the left, then slopes directly toward the floor along my ribcage, stopping just above my hip to curve around my bum. The dress is completely backless, and I shiver slightly as a light breeze flits through the open window and around the room. The material splits just past my hipbones into multiple layers of sheer material. The top layer is the same black as the rest of the dress, but the bottommost layers are different shades of blue that flutter around my calves when I walk. With my hair spun into a complicated knot secured only with a rhinestone chopstick, I nod at my reflection. Not half bad.

Checking the time, I hurriedly plop onto the antique bench next to the door and slide into the four-inch high strappy sandals. The string of rhinestones that runs along the ankle strap exactly matches the ones that line the seams of the dress, and they sparkle in the low light, distracting me for a moment with their glittering facets.

“Hermione! C'mon!” Ginny's voice urges from the hallway, just outside the door.

“Coming!” I reply, slipping a teardrop diamond into each ear before opening the door and striding into the hall.

Draco stands next to Ginny, her arm tucked into his, and he lets out a low whistle.

“Nice legs, Granger.”

My eyes dart downward in confusion to find that the panels of material in the dress's skirt split when I walk, revealing an ungodly amount of my leg, stopping about three inches below the tops of my thighs.

“Ginny!” I gasp, tugging at the material, “I can't wear this around all those people!”

“You can, and you will. You are Hermione Granger, the girl with a big brain. It's about time the world saw you as Hermione Granger, the girl with a nice rack.”

“Ginny!”

“--and really nice legs,” Malfoy interjects.

“Draco!” This exclamation comes from Ginny who eyes her husband with an openmouthed expression.

“Not anywhere as nice as your legs, love.”

“They'd better not be,” she mutters huffily, trying her best to look angry when he lays a soft kiss to her temple.

“Well, let's not keep our guests waiting.”

“Your guests, Draco,” Ginny replies, “After all the formal mumbo jumbo is over, Hermione and I are going to find a nice quiet corner and veg out on hors d'oeuvres, and leave the professional talk to you.”

Draco simply smiles and pats his wife's hand, her wedding set gleaming obscenely atop her elbow-length gloves, with his white-gloved one as he leads her down the staircase to the ballroom.

“Coming, Granger?”

“Yeah, just give me a moment.”

“Well don't dawdle...” Ginny's voice trails off as they venture downstairs.

After tugging on the dress for a solid minute, I realize that there is no way that it is going to get any less revealing.

Suck it up, Granger, a voice that sounds eerily like Malfoy sneers in my head.

Steeling my resolve, I lay my hand against the banister and descend, my heels tapping as they hit the stairs. Somewhere in the middle, the ballroom opens up before me, a sea of gowns and dress robes. My eyes scan the crowd looking for a familiar face among the Wizarding World's elite. A few of them nod or smile in greeting, recognizing me as a member of the Golden Trio. Others cast me lingering glances or ignore me all together.

I catch Ginny's eye near the center of the crowd, and she beams at me, shooting me a thumb up. I smile back, rolling my eyes at her antics, and continue my scan. Just before I reach the bottom, movement in the mostly empty seating area captures my attention. There, Danielle perches daintily on the edge of a footstool in front of a man in navy velvet robes. His blue-gray gloves rest on the arm of the couch he sits on, his hands in Danielle's hair, twining it into two braids. I freeze, relief and fear bombarding my muscles simultaneously. I'd recognize that hair anywhere.

I step onto the marble floor, seeking out Ginny's eyes. She shoots me a pointed look and turns away from me to have her hand kissed by a debonair looking old man with a precisely trimmed mustache.

My eyes lock back onto the sitting pair, reveling in the sight of him.

It's been an entire month. A month without a letter, a phone call, anything. A painful ache settles in my chest, and I want nothing more than to fling my arms around his neck and apologize for everything. But I know it won't be that easy. With Harry, nothing is ever that easy.

Harry secures the second braid with a baby blue ribbon, and Dani stands up, looking like a china doll in her delicate blue and white nightgown. Her matching slippers pad against the tile when she spots me.

“Aunt Minnie!”

Harry's head snaps up, and he stops in the middle of replacing his gloves.

“Aunt Minnie! Look! Uncle Harry braided my hair! Mummy let me come downstairs so he could do it. I got to stay up a whole hour after my bedtime! Don't tell Mummy, but she can't do it good like Uncle Harry. She never ties the bows right...” Dani rambles, carrying on the conversation all on her own.

“Miss Dani! You must be getting to bed now!” Tessie, the Malfoy's house elf bustles to the girl's side, taking her hand.

“Hello, Miss Granger. Tessie doesn't wish to be rude, but Miss Dani needs to be getting to bed.”

“Of course. Have a good night Tessie. Sweet dreams, Dani.”

“G'night, Aunt Minnie,” Dani replies before being escorted back up the stairs to her room.

I turn my attention back to Harry, who is standing, his gaze lighting on anything but my eyes. I close the distance between us, and he doesn't move, just glances toward the dance floor.

“Harry,” I get out, before I'm interrupted by the arrival of a pixie thin blonde, who slips her hands through Harry's arm.

“I'm sorry I took so long. The crowd is massive.”

Her eyes find me, and a smile spreads across her face.

“Harry, aren't you going to introduce us?” she coos.

“Tori, this is Hermione Granger, possibly the most gifted Unspeakable to grace the ranks of the Ministry. Hermione, may I present Healer Victoria Carson. She was just accepted as St. Mungo's Chief of Staff.”

“So you're the great Hermione Granger. Harry's told me so many stories,” Victoria comments, resting a hand on Harry's bicep. Something inside me flares up, wanting to slap it away.

“Funny, I haven't heard any about you,” I shoot back as sweetly as I can.

What the bloody hell is wrong with me?

My gaze falls on Harry, and for the first time tonight, our eyes meet.

“I need to talk to you,” I say to him, “Alone, if you don't mind.”

His voice and answer are formal.

“Maybe later, perhaps, when things start to wind down.”

“Sounds perfect,” I reply. I take care in making sure that my answer is as icy as possible before I spin around and head toward the bar.

*

As the evening progresses, Draco takes the time to acknowledge the more prominent members of wizarding society, along with their dates; Harry being among them. Why hadn't I known that Harry was one of the company's main benefactors?

After his speech, the crowd grew around the bar and on the dance floor, dancing to the live band. I dance with four different men during the slow waltz, including Draco. A few faster songs are played, but I sit those out, choosing instead to brood over an apple martini.

The current song ends to a smattering of applause, and the band leader holds his wand to his throat, magically magnifying his voice.

“Good evening, Ladies and Gents. Next for you, we're going to play a tango. Are there any volunteer dancers?”

Ginny smiles from her place on Draco's lap and exclaims, “Harry can tango.”

A few of the single men knock Harry's shoulder, snickering.

“Yeah, Potter.”

“Show 'em what you've got.”

I shake my head at the scene. Harry took ballroom dancing lessons as a part of his physical therapy after the Final Battle. I helped him on a few occasions when he needed to practice at home.

Harry's eyes flick to Victoria, who waves her hand in dismissal.

“I have two left feet. I can barely walk across a stage flawlessly, much less tango.”

“Aww, c'mon ladies! Someone here must know!” The band leader goaded the semi-drunken crowd.

“Budge up, Granger!” Draco's voice resounds.

“What?”

“You and Potter. Tango. We all know you can do it. So get up there and wow us.”

The crowd seems to agree with their host, unfortunately, and within moments, I find myself in the middle of the dance floor with Harry's arm around my waist.

“What in the hell our we doing?” my voice bites, shooting a contemptuous glare at the Malfoy couple.

“Dancing, apparently,” he replies, lacing the fingers of my right hand with those of his left.

The music starts. Deftly, we move across the floor, keeping perfect time with the drummers beat.

“Is she your girlfriend?” I murmur, at one point when his cheek is resting against my temple.

“You know she isn't.”

“How would I know? You haven't exactly been around for me to ask.”

He spins me out, whipping me back so sharply that his chest slams against mine.

“I've been staying at her place.”

“Oh, and I suppose nothing has happened between the two of you. She thought she'd just be a good samaritan and take in the great Harry Potter, with the complete absence of ulterior motives.” Sarcasm coats my voice.

“Why are you so jealous?”

My leg hooks around his hip as he dips me backward, my back bending almost in half before I roll back up.

“I am not jealous.”

“Yes you are. That's why you've been glaring daggers at her all night.”

“I have not--”

“Why won't you just admit that you feel something for me beyond friendship?”

His voice lowers with suppressed annoyance as we cross the floor, our feet a blur of complicated footwork.

“I will if you come home.”

The bargain slips from my lips before I realize it. Harry's hands maneuver me so that my back is against his chest. The song must be close to its end. We start to move again, our steps more precise than before, slowing down with the music.

“Deal,” he whispers, his lips brushing against my ear. I close my eyes as heat zings through my body at the contact.

Applause brings me crashing back to reality, and Harry releases me.

People flood onto the dance floor, patting Harry heartily on the back.

“Didn't know you had it in you, Potter.”

Women bombard me with comments.

“How intense.”

“So romantic.”

“Where did you learn that?”

But I don't answer any of them. I'm too distracted by the knowing smile on Ginny's face.

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17. Attacking

Chapter 16

Attacking

He's doing it on purpose.

Every morning for the past week that he's been back home, I've trudged up the stairs to his flat and entered the dining room to find Victoria What's-her-name perched in the fourth seat of our table, munching away on my white-chocolate, cranberry muffins. Victoria with her perfect white-blonde hair, her perfect milky skin, her perfect pixie-like body, and her perfect position at St. Mungo's. Furthermore, my seat is directly across from the one she occupies, meaning that I have a blindingly clear view of her perfectness. On good days, I keep quiet while she and Harry discuss work over breakfast, feeling like a complete hag compared to her. On bad ones, I entertain the notion of stomping her face in with one of her high-lacquered heels and other similar scenarios that involve putting blood on the walls.

Most nights, she's here for supper, too, unless she stays late at St. Mungo's to oversee a patient. Unfortunately, tonight is not one of those nights, and I am being subjected to a Friday night with just the three of us, while Ron is enjoying a week and a half long trip to Greece to promote the England National Team. Some friend he is.

Victoria says something particularly witty, and I look up from my lemon-roasted chicken to see Harry throw his head back and laugh.

I don't understand what he sees in her. I mean, she graduated second in her class. Second. Clearly she lacked any sort of dedication to her studies, since she was chasing after a snitch in her spare time. My research--which Malia, my secretary, scoffed at when I wasted three lunch hours on it--has found that she was the fifth woman in her family to be appointed as Head Girl at the Salem Witches' Institute before she came to England to study magical medicine. How flighty of her to leave such a distinguished family to go gallivanting around another country. Shows where her priorities lie, if you ask me.

I sigh heavily in irritation, my composure leaking away with every chirp of her voice. His eyes expertly avoid mine, giving her his undivided attention.

He's doing it to make me jealous. It's working.

I want to be the one he picks up from work, the one he spends his breakfasts, dinners, and suppers with. I want to be the one who washes the dishes while he dries (an exceedingly annoying habit the two of them have picked up). I want to be the one who makes him laugh like that. In fact, I want to be the only woman who can make him laugh like that. I want to be the only one to light up his face. The only one, every day for the rest of his life. . .

I am so jarred by this sudden realization that I let my fork clatter onto the tabletop. Neither of my tablemates notice, however, which is a good thing, seeing as I feel as if I've just run into a plate-glass door. I suppose saying that I feel like I've been hit by a ton of bricks would also be appropriate, but at least you can see a ton of bricks coming at you. A glass door is invisible until you crash through it.

I gaze to my right, reveling in the way his eyes sparkle when he smiles, in the ways his shirt skims over his shoulders, in the way his hand grips his wine glass.

The wave of possessiveness that rolls over me tenses every muscle in my body, and the anger and annoyance toward Victoria that I've been holding at bay taints my every cell. I struggle to harness the magic I feel thrumming through my veins, but some of it is uncontrollable, and spider web cracks crawl up Victoria's goblet, shattering it and sending deep red wine onto her pristinely white Chanel suit.

“Bloody hell!” she exclaims, standing up to avoid anymore damage. Harry's wand is out in an instant to clean it up, but she holds a hand out to stop him.

“Don't! I have a special potion in my bag for stuff like this. Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

Harry nods and points her toward the hallway. He waits to here the bathroom door close and the lock to click into place before turning to me, standing up and sliding his chair under the table.

“Would you like to explain what just hap--”

But his sentence is cut off. I suppose that's what happens when your best friend has practically vaulted over the table to assault your mouth with hers. The force of my attack slams him against the wall, and satisfaction flits through me when I hear the painting not far from us rattle on its nail. His response is instantaneous. His arms encompass my waist, pulling me more tightly against him, and he relinquishes a stronger attack on my lips. It's a good thing we weren't eating at a restaurant; otherwise, we'd be creating quite a spectacle.

This time, when the flaming sensation sears every fiber of my being, I relish it. The sharp chill of the rim of his glasses stings my cheekbone, and I hurriedly whip the modern silver frames from his face with a catlike hiss, flinging them over my shoulder. A small groan escapes him at the sound of the lenses fracturing on the tiles, but I ignore it. I've gone about minute and a half wanting to ravish him and not doing a bloody thing about it. I'll be damned if I go any longer without it. I won't allow anything to interrupt this moment.

Nor anyone, as Harry finds when Victoria's heels clack toward the kitchen, and I begin to trail lazy kisses down the side of his neck.

“Hermes,” he gasps out in warning.

I respond by playfully sinking my teeth into the place where his neck and shoulder meet.

“Hey, Harry, do you need any help clean...” Victoria's voice trails off as she spots us. At least I assume that's what stopped her. I'm far too busy trying to pretend that she's not here to notice.

“Am I interrupting something?” she asks loudly. How rude of her. Isn't that question a bit obvious?

Harry's hands find a way in between us, making a gap between our bodies. Bloody idiot. He's trying to stop me.

“No, not--” he starts.

Being the mature person that I am, I tug his shirt from the waistband of his slacks and allow my hands to roam his back in retaliation.

Perhaps the action is a bit more effective than I imagined, because the muscles in his neck slacken and his head thumps back against the wall.

“Yes,” he whistles the word through clenched teeth, “Definitely interrupting something. Perhaps you should leave and come back later--”

My fingers skitter to his front and begin to unfasten the buttons on his shirt at record pace, all without my teeth leaving his skin.

“--or not. You could just leave and stay home, and I'll see you tomorrow at the hos--”

I shift to slide the completely unbuttoned shirt from his shoulders.

“--or I may just call in sick. You know the way out...”

His voice falters with the quickly retreating, highly disgusted clacking footsteps of Victoria What's-her-name. I make out one word before he recaptures my lips.

“Finally.”

A/n::: There it is. A snippet I wrote at Beta Convention inbetween competitions. Hopefully I'll be able to punch out a longer chapter soon. Yet again, unbetaed. Sorry.

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18. Betting

A/N::: I apologize until the end of time for the pause I have put on my story. Traveling this past summer has left no time for the pleasures of writing. However, I've made a vow to squeeze time into my schedule for this project. After the horror that was the Epilogue of Book 7, I suppose that my story is now extremely AU. Hopefully none of you cares. I hope that this sort of pause hasn't caused you to loose interest, as I'm sure has happened with many of my faithful readers. Regardless, I give those of you who would like it . . .

Chapter 17

Betting

“Hermes...”

Harry's voice is faint, as if it's coming from a long distance.

“Hermes...”

Louder this time.

“Hermione! Wake up!”

A hand shakes my shoulder, startling me and causing me to almost fall out of my chair.

“What happened?” I mumble, rubbing a hand across my eyes and clenching them shut when they burn in reaction to my smeared mascara.

“You fell asleep. One minute you were eating and the next you were zonked out next to your chicken and pasta.”

I blink, confusion washing over me.

“Asleep?”

Harry's brow furrows in concern, and his eyes search my expression.

“Yes. Asleep. Are you feeling alright? It's so unlike you to do something like that.”

Asleep? You've got to be kidding me.

“So we didn't...” my voice trails off, my brain racing through the night's events.

“Didn't what?” Harry asks, his hand reaching out and brushing against my forehead.

I groggily bat his hand away and bring mine to his collar, pulling it to the side. My inspection yields no results. No lovebites. No marks. Nothing.

Bloody hell.

“Where's Victoria?”

Harry eyes me cautiously before answering,

“She left a few minutes ago. Are you sure you're alright? You seem a bit disoriented.”

Disappointment covers me like a thick blanket. Lately, work has been really hectic, and I actually was prone to chronic fatigue and spontaneously passing out during my more complicated Hogwarts years, not that Harry knows anything about that though. But, seriously. A dream?

I push myself up from the table, a bit unsteady, and turn a little too fast for my knees to handle, and I stumble. In half a second, Harry's arm is around my waist, holding me up.

“Actually, no. I think I need to lie down.”

Harry reaches under my knees and scoops me into his arms, making his way out of the dining room and down the hall.

“Where are we going?”

“My room. The last thing I need to do is drop you down the stairs on the way to yours.”

“That wouldn't be very pleasant,” I mumble as he lowers me onto his bed.

I make no noise of disapproval as he vanishes my blouse, shirt, and heels with a wave of his hand and helps me into one of his old t-shirts. The material is worn and pliable, and I burrow into its warmth and the familiarity of Harry's scent. He pulls the sheets up to my waist and brushes my hair away from my forehead before leaving the room, allowing me to drift back to sleep.

*

The tickle of fingers sliding against my scalp pulls me from the depths of slumber. However, I don't open my eyes right away. No. Instead I lie in awe of the burning heat of Harry's body against my back, of his fingers in my hair, of his lips, which are coincidentally sliding softly against the nape of my neck.

“Good morning,” he rumbles against my skin, and I start at the breaking of the silence. I scramble to get out of the bed, embarrassed at being caught awake, but I'm halted by his arm curling around my waist. Struggling is futile, but it doesn't stop me from fighting for release. Despite the faded images and emotions left in the wake of yesterday evening's dream, I still can't wrap my mind around Harry`s feelings for me. The whole idea throws me out of my element, and every time the subject enters my thoughts, I shove it back into the shadows.

“I've come to a conclusion,” he says calmly, ignoring the pulling of my hands against his forearm until I tire and slump back against him in defeat, “I've spent the better part of my life doing things for others. First I was my aunt and uncle's housemaid, then the savior of the wizarding world, and a doctor after that. I've saved lives and endorsed companies and donated to charity, and for once, I'd like to do one thing for myself.”

The hand not around my waist runs down my arm, entangling his fingers with mine and pulling them to his face, kissing my fingertips lightly. My eyes, which followed the path of our hands, flutter shut at the contact.

“Look at me.”

His tone is only slightly commanding, but I obey anyway. His eyes pull me in, his entire body oozing a confidence I'm not used to him displaying.

“You're the only thing in my life I've ever been sure about. Loving you comes as easy to me as flying, as breathing. I don't even have to think about it; I just do it. I know now that I'm never going to feel this way about another person. I can't imagine there being a feeling any stronger than this.”

My back, once against his chest is now flat against the mattress and his arm is no longer wound about my waist. It's his eyes that now pin me in place, holding me as securely as his hands did.

“There's no doubt in my mind about whether I will spend the rest of my life with you. I will have you, Hermione, sooner or later.”

“You're awfully confident,” I breath out.

“With good reason,” he replies, smiling more with his eyes than his lips, “I'm willing to bet I get a ring on your finger in month or two.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“A month?”

“A month.”

He knows me well enough to know that I refuse to back down from a challenge. How clever of him to present the rest of my life to me in the form of a bet. Me, become Harry Potter's fiancee, in a month or less? How ludicrously impossible. I would never allow myself to be shoved so forcefully from my comfort zone, much less put my most valuable friendship in jeopardy in the process.

“You're on,” I whisper, unable to pull my gaze from his.

Harry's smile is smug and uncontainable,

“Let the games begin.”

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19. Scoring

Chapter 18

Scoring

It's been six days since Harry and I agreed on our little…proposition. Ron, who returned from Greece five days ago, has already been informed of said proposition. At first, I was afraid that he'd take the whole thing badly. Fortunately (or unfortunately; I'm not quite sure which), he's totally gung-ho for the idea. Thinks it's hilarious, he does. He's even gone so far as to post a scoreboard on the refrigerator in the kitchen, and it is this ridiculous item that has been holding my attention for the past few minutes. The shining red ink glares back at me mockingly.

Harry: lll

Hermione: 0

Yes. I have somehow allowed him to one-up me. THREE TIMES. It is because of these three marks that Harry has been strutting around the house with a smug smile on his face. Every time that I complain about the unfairness of the scoring system, Ron takes the time to explain to me, in great detail, exactly why Harry deserved his points. Traitor. I practically have his little speeches memorized by now.

First, there was THE LIST. In all caps. The afternoon after Ron magicked the scoreboard onto the fridge, Harry hung up a scrap of paper next to it. Actually, maybe scrap is a bit of an understatement; it's really more of a Snape-regulation essay detailing every reason why we should be together. It's numbered and everything, too, and every time he thinks up another reason, he adds it to the bottom. Ron sat in a chair in front of it for half an hour reading it over before awarding Harry the first two of his three points. He said that, and I quote,

“It takes a lot for a bloke to write shit like that down. The whole thing's pretty bloody deep.”

Whatever. He got his third point for sharing a blanket with me while we listened to the WWN. I heartily protested this, pointing out that we have done this for years. However, Ron stated that that was before our little arrangement and that every gesture of physical comfort is now a point for Harry's side.

I glance at THE LIST. Yes, I have read it. I sunk to my lowest low and read the game plan of the opposition. Despite the fact that THE LIST is a significant blow to my defense, I can't help but admire his dedication to the cause. This thing must have taken him hours.

2 - We're best friends.

Which, of course, is my number one reason for why we shouldn't be together.

Granted, a friendship is a good foundation for a relationship, many relationships that spring from friendships end in disaster, and two people who once held each other so dear build a wall between each other. I couldn't imagine anything quite so drastic happening to Harry and me.

5 - No one understands me quite like you.

True. I'll let that one slide.

24 - I think the whole “take charge, business suit-wearing, smart girl” thing is a turn on.

Ah, yes. One of the more “personal” listings. One that I didn't believe until a day or

two ago, when Harry stopped by to take me to lunch. (Ron had suggested Harry receive another point for this outing, which I fought tooth and nail against, causing him to drop the subject.) I had just come from a meeting with the Minister concerning the recruiting for my department. I had dressed for the occasion: matching black, knee-length A-line skirt and fitted blazer over a ruby red cashmere tank and red satin, round-toe stilettos, my hair curled and tied into a messy bun. Not my usual work attire, but after working at the Ministry for over five years, I've learned that dressing sort of “laid-back risqué” as my co-workers call it, makes the Minister sit up and take a bit more interest in what I'm saying. Anyway, after rushing back to my office, my hair was starting to fall out, small curls dangling in front of my eyes now that my small pair of reading glasses was perched near the end of my nose.

“Mr. Potter is waiting in your office,” Malia informed me. I thanked her and walked in, greeting Harry, who was lazing in the chair behind my desk. I laid a stack of resumes in my in-tray to go over later, then scribbled a few lines on a slip of parchment and attached it to the top sheet of the first resume, waving my wand to page Malia through the magical PA.

“Yes, Ms. Granger?”

“Malia, please owl Mr. Hector Carter and inform him that he has a two-thirty interview tomorrow with the Minister to go over possible induction as an Unspeakable. Make it clear that if he misses this meeting, his application for acceptance will be rejected.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Thank you.”

I sighed heavily, a bit of post-meeting stress leaking from me, as I grabbed my purse and turned back toward Harry.

“Ready to go?”

The way he was staring at me stopped me mid-sentence. He looked at me as if he'd like nothing more than to stay here for an hour and do me on my desk. A barrage of extremely inappropriate mental pictures bombarded my mind and, for a second, I almost let him.

Of course, the impeccable Granger self-control stepped in and beat the thought to into submission. With a small smirk, I swung my bag over my shoulder and led the way out of my office.

Yep. That was quite a realization. Now I make certain that my self-control is tightly reigned in at all times. Wouldn't want anything scandalous to hit the Daily Prophet, would we? Besides, such actions would a definite mark in the W column for Harry. Grrr.

*

The next morning, I wake up for work to find a white chocolate-cranberry muffin on my nightstand. It's still piping hot, thanks to the warming charm placed on it by its creator, and is essentially perfect: Crispy on the outside, soft and gooey on the inside. Every bite makes my outlook on my day a bit brighter.

58 - White chocolate-cranberry muffins. Every morning. For the rest of your life.

Hmm. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. . .

“Cut it out, Granger, we've got a point to prove!” a voice in my head shouts.

“Shut up,” I reply out loud. And for the rest of the day, it does.

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20. Warning

A/N::: I realize this has been a loonnnggggg time coming ((we're talking YEARS, here)), and I'm sure many of you who were so faithfully reading my story before have totally forgotten about it.

But here's a snippet for those who haven't.

Happy reading.

Chapter 19

Warning

Despite my excellent morning—no doubt made perfect by my unexpected, bedside white chocolate-cranberry muffin—the rest of my day has not followed suit. First, Malia is out with a case of the wizard's flu, and the minister called a last-minute meeting of all high-ranking officials in the Department of Mysteries. While rushing to make it to said meeting on time, I scuffed the toe of one of my favorite ivory, babydoll pumps and managed to misplace one of the pearl earrings that my grandmere had given me last Christmas. Then, the infernal meeting only lasted a blasted SEVEN AND A HALF MINUTES, and a perky bottle-blonde intern cornered me just as I was leaving the boardroom to gush out the usual “blimey-you're-like-Harry-Potter's-best-friend-don't-you-like-live-with-him-have-you-ever-walked-in-on-him-showering?” bit, getting oil prints from her over-moisturized fingers all over the sleeve of my blouse. And to top off my morning, I return to my office to find that I'd snagged my favorite pair of sheer black thigh-highs on the corner table next to my door. With a muttered, “Bloody hell,” I slam the door shut and hike up my black A-line to undo the fastenings that hold the stockings to the garter belt with the infuriated decision to just go barelegged. Though it seems as if the whole world is against me, since the miniscule clips simply refuse to unlatch. I'm so engrossed in cursing every known deity for my no good, very bad morning, that I don't hear the first cough that comes from behind me. The second is much more purposeful and pronounced, causing me to spin around, wand in hand.

“Do you require assistance, Miss Granger?”

It takes approximately three seconds for my brain to register that the person perched behind my desk is actually behind my desk and another three for me realize that some people just don't know when to quit. In a sign of irritation, I feel my shoulders square and my jaw go rigid.

“No, Darren, I think I can manage.”

His face breaks into a lopsided smile, the one that made me start dating him in the first place. My thoughts bounce from his possible intentions to the engagement ring that lies in the top right-hand drawer of my desk, exactly where it's been since he sent it to me in the bouquet of roses.

“I've noticed that you have yet to return my ring,” he points out.

“It's in the top drawer on your right. Take it. I don't want it,” I spit, returning to my wand to its thigh holster and refocusing on my stockings, “and get the hell out of my office.”

“I thought that, perhaps, you might want to reconsider.”

“Unless marrying you doesn't entail spending the rest of my life with you, then I'll pass.”

“I think, perhaps, you may want to reconsider,” he repeats. Annoying bastard.

“Trust me, Darren. There is nothing, I mean nothing that would persuade me to…” but my voice trails off as I turn again to face him.

My gaze falls on the manila folder in his hand, without a doubt the only thing that would make me reconsider his proposal.

“How did you get that?”

My voice is harsh, but the undercurrent of closely-held terror makes it unsteady.

“You didn't think I'd come by your house just to ask Potter to get you to marry me?”

Actually, that's exactly what I had thought.

“But that drawer is under specific identity-lock enchantments—“

“Hermione…I'm a code breaker. Did you expect a few enchantments to deter me?”

Try as I may to keep my emotions in check, the raw panic that grips my being is palpable.

“Imagine my surprise, finally opening the one locked compartment in my girlfriend's desk to find information that could very well turn wizarding society on its end. You know I always wondered why the great Hermione Granger—brightest witch of the age, possible candidate for Minister—settled for a job as an Unspeakable-“

“I'll have you know, my position in the Ministry is extremely reputable-“

“To be sure,” he interrupts, “but really, Hermione. Everyone has always speculated as to why you settled for an office in the Department of Mysteries. Won't they all be pleased to find out that their brilliant Miss Granger managed to stage the biggest cover-up to ever hit the wizarding world? That she planned her job, and therefore the rest of her life, around assuring that no one would ever find out that The Chosen One was actually a danger to society.”

“Preposterous! Harry has always shown an unparalleled amount of self control! He would never—“

“Is this evidence of self control?” he shouts over me, shoving the right sleeve of his shirt up to reveal the telltale scars of healing burns, “I'm sure the Daily Prophet would love to hear all about St. Mungo's Golden Healer's little quirk. Though I'm not all that sure that St. Mungo's would want someone displaying such…abnormalities dealing with patients. One little slip and…” he trails off.

My eyes narrow in disgust.

“You wouldn't.”

“Oh, love. I would. And I will, if the two of us can't reach some sort of…compromise.”

“You're absolutely barking.” I murmur, trying to kick-start my brain into gear.

“I like to think of myself more so as…goal-oriented,” he smirks, lifting himself from my chair and coming to stand in front of me, “If your precious Harry Potter is so important to you, why don't you prove how much? It's a fair trade isn't it? Your future in exchange for his.”

Darren reaches a hand up to brush against my waist, my shoulder, the line of my jaw, and I pour all my concentration into not shivering in revulsion and contempt. A light chuckle escapes him.

“Wasn't that your plan all along? To keep him happy, safe? Don't you think the great Harry Potter has suffered enough at the hands of our world…? Don't you want to save him the backlash that will occur after his dirty laundry is aired as the headline of the Prophet's Evening Edition? Especially so soon after the death of a child under his care?”

The surge of magic that sweeps through my veins at his words is nothing but pure, unadultered power and rage, and I concentrate all of it on the stack of papers in his hands. The wall of magic hits it with enough force to knock Darren into the wall, but the files are left undamaged.

“Hermione, love, you should have known I would take all the necessary precautions.”

“Leave,” I snarl.

His reaction is delayed, making the mere moments it takes for the sardonic smile to spread across his face seem like days spent in a room crackling with static electricity.

“You have until this time tomorrow. That should be enough time for you to pack your things.”

By the time I have my wand drawn he has already fled the room and disapparated from the hall beyond it.

Rattled and shaking, my wand clatters to the floor and I collapse onto the nearest piece of furniture.

What now?

A/N::: I'm trying to find time to finish this out of guilt. Bear with me, please.

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21. Author's Note

A million apologies to my once-faithful readers.

After two VERY difficult years at uni, paired with two equally trying summers, I'm afraid I left this story, and my promises to finish it, in the dust.

However, this summer is different. I received a review in late February that rekindled my love for this story, and this summer, I am seeing it to the end.

For those of you who haven't lost interest.

So, expect an update soon, my darlings.

More is to come…

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22. Sacrificing

Chapter 20

Sacrificing

The average person takes 21,600 breaths per day.

Breath 900 of my 24 hours finds me in my flat. My hands and feet, on autopilot since Darren's exit from my office, have carried me to my bedroom and begun sorting my belongings into three suitcases without consent from my mind. Every part of me is numb to thought, to decision. I feel as though I'm actually sitting dazed in the corner, watching my body go through the motions of surrender.

Blouses, skirts, t-shirts and jeans are folded into neat piles and set into the luggage.

For all I know, the world around me has stopped spinning, and I am the only moving being in the midst of almost-frozen time. Time, for me, has narrowed to a number after each exhalation.

However, I am brought back into reality by a streak of pain across the back of my neck and look down to see a glittering strand of gold snagged in the yarn of the Weasley-knitted sweater I'm folding. For a moment, I stare—dumbfounded—at the thin rope of my entangled necklace and the small key dangling from it. Involuntarily, the memory of the last time I used it flits through my consciousness: the night after Harry and Darren's confrontation.

After.

After.

One word that sends my mind careening into overdrive.

Breath 920 catches in my throat.

I snap the chain with a sharp flick of my wrist, and the key slides off it into the palm of my hand.

I'm in my office in seconds, shoving the key into the tiny keyhole of my desk drawer and jerking it open. I gaze upon Dumbledore's file at the bottom.

Breath 930.

931.

932.

Every breath wasted with indecision leaves my lungs like the passing seconds of an armed explosive. I don't take the time to determine whether the file in my possession is the original or a copy Darren made that night to cover his tracks. In the end, it doesn't matter.

Before I exhale Breath 935, I'm already disapparating outside the front door, folder in hand.

*****

Too many breaths are lost as the elevator climbs to the 5th floor of St. Vincent's Hospital. The ding of it reaching its destination signals breath 948.

Every clack of my heels against the tile is like a gunshot in the quiet hallway.

My eyes graze the face of the nurse at the nurse's station. The girl is younger than me—probably just out of uni—and her eyes meet mine as I approach the desk.

“Can I help you?”

Her voice drips with disdain, most likely due to my somewhat noisy entrance into the otherwise silent ward.

“Is Harry here?”

“Dr. Potter is currently in surgery.”

“Do you have any idea when he will be done?”

Her reply is accessorized with a stiffened spine and narrowed eyes.

“I'm not at liberty to discuss the intricacies of Dr. Potter's schedule with the…public.”

It takes every morsel of my willpower and concentration to keep my hands from encircling her neck. I exhale loudly in lieu of committing manslaughter.

Breath 956.

“Fine. I'll just wait in his office.”

The two-octave rise in her voice is directly proportional to the amount of arrogance she laces into her words. How is it that the ONE day I'm on a deadline, I have to deal with some pompous, newbie, Dr. Potter fan-girl?

“I simply cannot allow that. However, you may leave and return later. Or you can wait in the waiting room just beyond—“

“I know where the blasted waiting room is, you—“

“Hermione?”

The hand that rests on the small of my back, while comforting, also seems to serve as a warning against the continuation of my rant.

“Is there a problem here?”

For a second, I fear the question is directed at the difficult little twit in front of me, and apparently, so does she, since she begins to answer,

“Dr. Potter—“

“Camilla,” Harry interrupts. The authority in his voice sends a small shiver up and down my spine, “May I introduce my best friend, Miss Hermione Granger. Hermione has visited this ward countless times before, and has always been let into my office upon request.”

Camilla has the decency to blush at this slight scolding and manages to muddle together an excuse.

“Dr. Potter…I'm grievously sorry…I wasn't informed that she was a cleared visitor…”

I almost feel sorry for the poor bint. Almost.

“Perhaps then, Camilla, it would serve you well to reacquaint yourself with the list of cleared visitors posted next to your computer.” His tone is condescending enough that she blanches and mutters another hasty apology.

Harry doesn't catch the look of longing in her eyes as his arm wraps around my waist and steers me toward his office door, but I do. I've almost managed to misplace the reason for my visit when I whisper, “Dr. Potter, I do believe you have an admirer.”

“And I believe you've acquired an enemy, Miss Granger,” he rumbles into my ear, doing nothing to abate my sudden case of the chills.

I'm slammed into reality as Harry's office door shuts behind me. I watch silently as he removes the surgical cap covering his mop of hair, throwing it into the trash can behind his desk, and plops unceremoniously into his ergonomic desk chair. Its wheels hiss softly against the carpet as he slides forward to lean his arms on the tabletop.

“What's so important that you feel the need to terrorize my poor, new unit secretary?”

His eyes glitter in the low light, and my reply catches in my throat. Where do I start?

“Hermes?” Worry creases his forehead. He stands, covering the distance from him to me in the time it takes me to inhale Breath 981. All I can do is weakly extend the hand holding the folder entrusted to me by Dumbledore. The one thing I've ever sworn to guard with my life.

When I first laid my hands on the file earlier this evening, I had envisioned myself asking Harry to take the brunt of my situation. I wanted him to find a way to fix this whole mess, to use that doctor logic of his to keep me away from making a sacrifice I had promised to make a long time ago. I had expected him to be the hero…again.

But now, standing in front of the boy—the man—who was willing to risk his life for me when he was just 17, his hand clasping the other side of the file, my selfishness falters. Shame floods my veins. How can I ask him to ruin everything he's built for himself just help me break my word?

I exhale Breath 985 and shakily reply,

“I made a promise a long time ago, that I would keep this information a secret from everyone…even you.

The worry on his face turns to confusion, and I watch his knuckles go white against the soft beige of the folder.

“And I…I want you to know that no matter what happens…you have been and always will be the most important person in my life.”

“Hermione—“

“Just read it,” I cut in softly, and I'm a bit surprised when my words stop his, despite their gentle delivery. I flip the folder in his hand so that the emerald ink on the front gleams in the lamplight and catches his eye. The weight of them sinks him to the top of his desk. He seems stunned. Whether it is at the inscription on the paper or the cryptic air of my speech, I'm not certain. Luckily, one of them—or the combination of both—has rocked him enough to keep him silent and stationary. I linger long enough for him to find the coordination to flip open the folder, uncovering the first page of Albus Dumbledore's elegant scrawl. His face turns to stone, and I seem to steal Breath 999 from him as I press a kiss to his temple.

He doesn't note my exit from his office, and Camilla doesn't even acknowledge my presence as I breeze past her and into the elevator. I don't realize I've been holding Breath 1000 in until I reach the apparition point just beyond the hospital's back entrance.

Reaching inside my pocket, I pull out Darren's engagement ring. The flawless diamond shines beautifully, but the shiny platinum smarts at me in the dying sunlight. Sliding it onto my left-hand ring finger feels like a death sentence, and I let the tingle of apparition skitter across my skin as I make my last trip home.

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23. Remembering

Chapter 21

Remembering

When I re-materialize inside my bedroom, he's sitting on the edge of my bed.

Roughened elbows rest on his knees; shaggy hair obscures his face as he stares at the object in his hands. Long fingers are curled around a small silver frame no larger than his palm. For a moment, we are motionless. Silent. I watch his chest rise and fall once, twice, three times before he replaces the photograph face-down on top of a small stack of sweaters next to my suitcase.

He runs a hand over his face, a sigh slicing through the quiet of the room, before his blue eyes meet mine.

I know what will happen before it happens.

He reaches a hand out to me, and I take it, feeling the familiar compression as we apparate away.

*************************************

*************************************

The flowers are in bloom, just like Harry said they would be. White, pink, and lavender, all trimmed in glittering frost.

It's quiet here too, but a different sort. The silence here blankets the air like the soft white powder that is settling on the ground, moonlight caressing the crystals. Our breaths hover in front of our faces in small, white clouds, but the haze does nothing to blot out the etched stone in front of which we stand.

Allie Reneé Potter

Warm hands settle on my shoulders—large, strong, familiar. Hands that have held mine in fear, in love, in sorrow, and in happiness. Hands that have pushed me far beyond my comfort zone and shielded me from harm. Now, they feel like anchors keeping me tethered to reality, snatching me back from the enemy, saving me from myself.

“I won't pretend to know what's going on,” he begins, his voice hushed, as though he may disturb those who lie sleeping around us, “But if you're leaving, it can't be good. I know you, and I know that you think you can handle everything on your own without telling anyone about your problems, and I'm not saying that's wrong. But I do think it would help—just a bit—if you talked to someone. And maybe that someone isn't any of us.”

Chapped lips press against my temple, and he makes to step back and leave.

“Don't.”

The word escapes me without my consent, but the desperation in it rings out across the headstones.

“Don't leave.”

I crumble. It starts slowly at first, tiny grains of my composure loosening, then falling. By the time his arms wrap around my shoulders and crush me to his chest, I am an emotional landslide, sobbing out the same incoherent apology over and over into a well-worn Weasley sweater.

*****************************

*****************************

“Bloody hell, Hermione.”

It's an hour and a half and a long story later, seated on a cemetery bench when he speaks that oft-spoken phrase. I nod in response as I watch tiny snowflakes melt when they hit the arc of Ron's heating charm. I take a moment to admire the strength of his spellwork.

It took years for me to notice a change it Ron. It was subtle, sneaking. The bickering between us began to taper into good-natured squabbles. What was once a friendship, held—sometimes barely—by the string that was Harry Potter, became a bond that could survive unaided. After a while, even Harry began to notice the metamorphosis of Ronald Weasley. The underlying current of jealously that ran beneath their brotherhood trickled down to nothing. He no longer felt the need to compete with The-Boy-Who-Lived, and he slowly began to warm to the realization that, perhaps, he was the one who really had it all: a loving family, unfailing friends, and an adoring fan-base from his dream career. He is still the Ron we know and love, only greater.

We sit in companionate silence as he mulls over my recount of the last few days. I take the time to observe him, his baby blues staring across the headstones. He is a giant who manages to fill any leftover space around him. Where Harry is lean and defined, Ron is bulky and muscular with a build reminiscent of a male gymnast, like an upside-down triangle. Harry is polish and sharp edges. Ron is rough, blurry, and slightly rumpled. Hard and soft. Steel and oak. Scotch and vodka. Each the physical antithesis of the other.

My eyes have slid from the ever-present five o'clock shadow that darkens his jaw to his ruddy, freckled cheekbones when he speaks again.

“She loved you, Hermione. She may not have understood why you were going, but she still would have loved you just the same.”

He's being too nice, side-stepping the potential to hurt my feelings.

“No,” I reply, “she'd have been disappointed. She saw us as a unit, Harry and I, and I would have been breaking that.”

“You don't know—“

“But I do.”

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. The ghostly fingers of a headache creep across my temples.

“There was a moment last Christmas when we were sleeping by the tree. She woke up and was asking Harry questions about us. Why weren't we together, and didn't we love each other. He saved it in his pensieve. She would have thought I was abandoning them, Ron…that I was leaving them for something I thought was better.

“I don't want to leave. Playing into his game is the last thing I want to do, but I can't let Darren take that folder public. I feel like he's backed me into the corner of a room that's slowing filling with water—it's his way or drown, and I can't decide which way to die.”

I pull my hands away to see Ron hunched over, knees on his elbows, staring ahead.

“Well, that's just it, isn't it?”

I turn to him, confused.

“I, I, I. We're the Golden Trio, Hermione. When was the last time you ever solved something this big alone?”

His simple comment silences me.

His brow is furrowed, and for a moment, I see him in first year astride a stone horse, zigzagging his way across a black and white room.

“You don't see a way out, because that's not what you do. I'm the Strategist. I look at what we have and where everything stands, and I figure out the easiest way to get where we want to go. Harry's the Enforcer; he's the one who carries out the plan and has the blind nerve and quick thinking to come up with an exit strategy.”

“And what am I?”

“In the end, you're the Protector. You're the one who looks at everything and tells us what we haven't thought of or what's wrong and how to fix it. You take the parts Harry and I mucked up and make them whole. You know that the devil is in the detail. But above all, you know that keeping us safe and the protecting the plan are tantamount. From what I can tell, you're arse over elbows in solutions and details, when what you really need is a plan and a quick exit…”

I thread my left arm through the crook of his right and lean my forehead against his shoulder.

“But I started this alone. And I'm so far in that I don't even know if it's possible to turn around and start over with a different goal.”

“Here's the thing; you've carried on all these years protecting—protecting me, protecting Harry, protecting Allie, and your parents, and God knows who else, but you forgot to protect yourself. You've been so bloody busy being independent that you keep forgetting that we're always here to catch you.”

I sigh.

“But this will be such a mess.”

He nudges my head with his shoulder.

“Since when have Harry and I run away from a mess? By now, I'm starting to think messes are our specialty.”

This gets a small chuckle out of me.

“Hermione, you have to stop seeing this situation as a problem to fix.”

I quirk an eyebrow at him.

“And start seeing it as…?”

His grin bleeds across his face as he bows his head to meet my eyes.

“A chess board.”

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