Doubt

He'd never told her that he loved her. Oh, she understood. Really, she did. It was, after all, one of those understood things. She knew he did. At least was pretty sure he did. It was just that he'd never actually said it. They'd been best friends for years now, almost too many to count; almost half her life. She was twenty-one years old now, and only for another few weeks. He was throwing her a party. She almost always hated parties.

To think of it, he'd never actually even said they were friends. Everything was understood, it had all just fallen into place. She didn't mind…it was just that…it was never so totally understood to erase all doubt. And friendship isn't exactly the same as love. A fine line. Not particularly fine at all, but very, very thin. Maybe…maybe he didn't love her at all. Maybe they had never really progressed passed those first awkward stages of friendship. He was, after all, still a child emotionally.

Ron's told her a hundred times that the boy just can't tell people how he feels, least of all people he cares about. He's right. But…Ron's been able to say how he feels. Ron's held her so many times. Ron's showed it too. He's let her go, hasn't he? (She's not even sure why she needs to be on her own, she just knows she does.) She is crazy about Ron. He is her best friend. She hopes that someday he'll find a girl who's worth him.

Harry, however, refuses to talk. She continually asks him if he's alright, happy. He always forces a smile (“everything's fine”). Somehow she doesn't believe him. He's touched her twice of his own accord. He held onto her for dear life before he left for his final confrontation with Voldemort. He collapsed into her arms when he came back. Twice she's known, without question, that he loves her. But he needs to say it.

Ginny broke up with him because of his inability to be emotionally intimate. Hermione's glad. Ginny loved him. But she didn't love him. Not like she does. Yes he can be angry, and strange, and moody, but he's worth everything. And it's not uncommon for him to be absolutely brilliant.

Then again, he also has a history of being incredibly stupid, a prick. She loves him anyway. And that's why she has to do this: to find out what he really feels….

***

It's a starry night, her 22^nd birthday party. The dress she wears is pale blue satin, reminiscent of the dress robes from fourth year. Her hair is, as usual, bushy, but the clear, cool night has let it curl. A chocolate colored ribbon keeps her straightened bangs side-swept and the rest of her hair back. She looks beautiful and stumbles her way across the dance floor. Getting clumsier in her 3-inch heels after every drink she has.

Her fifth fall is the worst, a kind of trip, a kind of slip. A suddenly Harry is there with an arm under her, making it look like he's dipped her in a sexy tango. His blazer is black, a little less intense than his messy hair; his t-shirt is almost as green as his eyes. He's caught her and she feels safe. He asks if she'd maybe like to go out on the balcony, a little fresh air might be good; she's almost drunk. She slips off her stilettos and lets him lead her out.

“Mmmmmm you smell nice Harry.”

“Er…thanks `Mione. So do you.”

“Harry do you love me?”

“What?”

“Do you love me?”

As she asks the second time her eyes water up. She seems to him hopeless, lost, resigned to a “no”. All the boy wants to do is hold on to her, make sure she stops crying. He couldn't bear it if she did. She'd mess up her makeup; it would mean she's unhappy.

“Hermione I….I…How could you ask such a stupid question?”

“I'm drunk, Harry, just tell me straight.”

“Hermione I love you. You're my…my best friend. You're always there, even when I don't want you to be. I don't know how I'd deal with it if I lost you. Ron is like my brother, and you are my…best friend. That means I love you like crazy. You…you…how could you ever doubt that?”

“Oh.”

Because suddenly she realizes that, when she asked herself if he loved her, she wasn't asking that at all. What she'd really meant was how he loved her. And now she knew. It was enough, oh surely it was enough. But then…then why was she so unhappy?

“Wait…oh? That's all you can say?”

“Yeah…now I know how you love me, Harry.”

“But I don't know if you love….what do you mean `how'?”

“You love me as a best friend. I love you too, Harry.”

“Well was there really any other way? I mean it's not like you'd love me back if I did love you like that.”

It's not like you'd love me back if I did love you like that. And how did he know that? It wasn't as if he'd ever asked her if she thought they would work. He'd just assumed she didn't love him because he didn't love her.

“…Right Hermione?”

“Oh…of course. I'd never love you like that.”

“That's sarcasm.”

“I'm drunk, Harry.”

“You mean you do? You do love me like that? Are you in love with me?”

“Oh well I suppose I am.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Sorry? Why?”

“That I didn't do this sooner.”

That was when he kissed her. A static shock made them jump as they touched. Sparks! They felt sparks! Everything was right. It only lasted for a minute. And as they pulled apart she bit her lip, only to taste him better. And the understood had become spoken word. It was a sure thing now, this `them'. And she wouldn't ever have to doubt him again.

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