Miracle

Disclaimer: JKR owns HP; I just borrow.

Miracle

Chapter 1: Something Missing

There was something missing.

Harry lay flat on his back staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom in his flat. There was something missing in his life.

He’d become aware of a vague sense of dissatisfaction with his life; there was simply something missing.

He had a good life; he should be happy—but somehow he wasn’t. He liked his job, working with the Aurors; he had his best friends whom he would give his life for and knew they’d do the same for him in a heartbeat; he had a second family in the Weasleys. He had a good life—but there was something missing.

And he’d finally figured out what it was.

He was missing having someone to come home to, someone to be for him what Luna was to Ron—not necessarily a wife (although that was exactly what Luna was to Ron) but someone to make him feel that little glow of warmth he could see in Ron’s eyes and hear in Ron’s voice when he mentioned Luna.

It had started more than a week ago when he and Ron had met up for dinner and drinks. He had grinned at Ron and asked, “Another round?” and Ron had answered, “Sure,” before he’d glanced at his watch and then added, “Wait, no, actually I think I’ll pass on that and just head home.”

He had glanced at his watch too, to see that it was only just after 9 at night. “Early night?” he’d commented.

Ron smiled a small, content little smile. “Luna said she should be getting back late, maybe after 10, tonight, and I want to make sure I’m home when she gets back.”

And he had seen the almost imperceptible brightening of Ron’s entire expression, the little glow in Ron’s eyes and heard the way Ron’s tone softened when he said Luna’s name and the anticipation when he spoke of Luna’s coming home—and he’d suddenly felt a pang of jealousy. Luna had been away, traveling somewhere in an attempt to find proof of the existence of some creature she called a Crumple-horned Hoolilalea, but she was coming back that night—and Ron was, he could see, absolutely delighted about that.

He was happy for Ron and Luna, glad that Ron was so happy with her and he had grown quite fond of Luna—but he found himself, in that moment, struck with an unexpected pang of undeniable envy. He wanted what Ron had, he realized. He wanted to have a person who just thinking about made him happy, wanted to have someone to look forward to seeing with that anticipation he could see in Ron at the thought of seeing Luna.

He wanted someone to love like that, someone to be the most important person in his life.

It had been more than a year since he’d last had a serious girlfriend, or a relationship with a girl that had gone on for longer than a few weeks. Not that he ever had trouble with finding girls willing to go out with him; much to his own annoyance most of the time, his fame had that one by-product. He did seem to have trouble keeping a girlfriend for very long. Ron teased him that he was becoming a serial dater, Love-‘em-and-Leave-‘em Potter, who never let a girl get too close or last too long before he ran as far away as he could. (Harry had promptly thrown a cushion at Ron’s head which Ron had ducked, as he cackled madly.)

But Ron’s teasing aside, there was some truth to it in that he hadn’t had a serious girlfriend for going on a year and half now, although he’d gone on a lot of first dates. He found he just got bored with the girls he dated; they didn’t really know him except for the heroic stories everyone knew and a lot of them, he could tell, could have cared less about him as a person with their overweening interest in him as the most recognizable and best-known wizard in the wizarding world. (Defeating the most powerful evil wizard the world had seen in more than a century before his 18^th birthday had done wonders for his fame and his reputation—much to his disgust.) As Ron had joked, girls lined up around the block and would wait out on the street all night in order to date Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. The problem, he’d realized, was that he wasn’t sure how many of them would do anything that inconvenienced them in the slightest in order to date just Harry, a normal bloke. He was willing to bet that not many of them would.

This, combined with the fact that his early experiences and the admittedly exciting life he’d led made him be easily bored with girls who had never experienced a more traumatic event than being caught outside in the rain or something (which, given they were witches, was not exactly an event), girls who had no idea and no understanding of just what it had taken him to defeat Voldemort. Girls who didn’t know how often he still had nightmares from the last battle and the other battles, who didn’t care that he still made a point, every year, of visiting Dumbledore’s grave and the stone marker he’d had erected next to his parents’ graves for Sirius, on the anniversary of the days they’d been killed—as if, in some small way, that he didn’t forget, would never forget, could make up for the lingering sense of guilt he still felt even though Sirius had been gone for ten years now. None of them knew, none of them understood—and even if they did know, they wouldn’t care because it would just be a story to them; it wouldn’t mean anything to them because they hadn’t lived it like he had.

Ron had managed to move on; he didn’t, Harry knew, have nightmares about the battles and had enjoyed being able to return to a more normal, danger-free life. Ron enjoyed Luna’s remaining detachment of sorts to the rest of the world; although she’d gotten much less dreamy as she’d gotten older, she still somehow managed to exude an air of having access to an entirely different existence. Harry, fond as he’d become of Luna, couldn’t entirely understand how Ron managed to live with her—but then, he shrugged, Ron loved her and Luna adored Ron.

And he was alone.

He wanted someone in his life, wanted to meet the special woman whom he could love—and he was tired of casual first dates with women whose main interest in him was for his fame. He wanted more than that, wanted something more meaningful than that.

And he didn’t want to be alone.

~*~*~

Harry sat back and grinned at Ron in the dim light of the pub. “So did Luna end up finding any evidence of the Crumple-horned Hoolilalea?”

Ron chuckled. “Apparently not but you know her, she never gives up and always insists they’re out there.”

“Right.”

Ron grinned and took a drink of his butterbeer.

Harry paused, studying the expression in Ron’s eyes when he spoke of Luna, and then spoke up. “I’ve been thinking of getting married.”

Ron choked on his butterbeer and stared at Harry. It took him a few minutes to regain his breath and his ability to speak from the butterbeer going down his throat the wrong way but finally he forced out, gaping at Harry, “Um, Harry, did you acquire a girlfriend and not tell anyone?”

Harry allowed himself a smirk at Ron’s dumbfounded expression before he sobered. “I didn’t mean, immediately, and I don’t have any specific person in mind. I was just thinking that it seems like everyone’s getting married now. You and Luna. Neville. Seamus. Charlie. Fred and George. Even Draco bloody Malfoy’s married—and I’m still the lonely bloke without even a girlfriend.”

Ron grimaced. “Don’t mention Malfoy and marriage to me in the same sentence.”

Harry grinned. Ron had been the one with the worst reaction when Ginny had told her family that she was dating Draco Malfoy, despite the fact that he had defected to the side of the Aurors and even been instrumental in helping out at the Last Battle. (Ron’s reaction had been only slightly more tempered than it might have been had Ginny announced that she was dating Snape or possibly Voldemort himself.) And even though Ginny and Malfoy had now been married for more than three years now and it couldn’t be denied that Ginny was happy, Ron had yet to forgive Malfoy for the heinous crime of marrying his baby sister and still being- in Ron’s eyes- an arrogant git.

“Seriously, though,” Harry sobered, “I don’t mean I have someone specific I want to marry or even that I necessarily intend to get married in the immediate future. I just—I just want someone to be what Luna is to you, you know what I mean. I’m tired of going on casual dates with girls who only care about the sodding scar on my forehead.”

Ron nodded. “Okay, well, it’s not like there’s a shortage of witches who’d love to be your girlfriend. What are you looking for in a woman?”

Harry sighed a little and shrugged. “Well, someone who’s not more interested in my scar and my fame than in me, for one thing. She doesn’t need to be brilliant but she needs to be smarter than some of the girls I’ve met so she can talk about something other than the latest fashions she read about in Witch Weekly.”

Now Ron looked amused. “That’s it? Gee, Harry, lower your standards some, why don’t you? Anything lower and all you’re going to require is that the person is female and under the age of 50 and not already married. Come on now, if I’m going to ask Luna or Ginny or anyone else to start looking around, you’ve got to give me more than that,” he said, deliberately leaving Hermione’s name out of the conversation. Of course, for anything else involving Harry, Hermione would be the first person he talked to—but for this, he had a sneaking suspicion Hermione would rather not be involved in finding Harry a girlfriend. Then again, he had no intention of speaking to Luna or anyone else about looking for a potential girlfriend for Harry either. “Describe your ideal woman,” he finished with a grin.

Harry laughed shortly and thought for a few moments. “Okay, then, ideally, she should have a sense of humor too. She’s going to need to be able to understand me and where I’m coming from. For the rest, well, I want someone who won’t bore me even if I spend all day with them, someone I can talk to about things. Someone who won’t treat me like I’m a hero or some sort of savior and who won’t act as if everything I say is either brilliant or the most amusing thing she’s ever heard—someone who can tell me when I’m wrong or when I’m being a prat. She should be kind and honest and loyal.” He paused and then quirked a smile. “She doesn’t need to be pretty but it wouldn’t hurt.”

Ron returned Harry’s smile before sobering and pretending to think seriously about all the qualifications. “You know what, I think I know just the girl. She’s perfect for you and I happen to know for sure she’s not dating anyone right now.”

Harry raised an eyebrow somewhat skeptically. “She’s perfect for me? And you’ve come to this conclusion in the past minute?”

“No, I’ve thought you and she would be perfect for each other for a long time now. I just never said anything because I didn’t know if you’d be interested,” Ron answered composedly.

“Okay, then. Who is this paragon?”

Ron stifled a laugh. “Oh she’s not a paragon. Far from it, but she is a good friend and I’d trust her with my life—or with you,” he added with a teasing wink.

Now Harry looked intrigued. “What’s her name?”

And then, in a move that was probably not the nicest thing he could have done but to get a sort of revenge on Harry for what he’d done earlier, Ron waited until Harry had taken another drink of his butterbeer before saying with deliberate calm, “Hermione Jane Granger.”

Now it was Harry’s turn to choke on his butterbeer. He spluttered and gaped at Ron for a moment, as if Ron had just suggested that Harry propose to and marry Professor Trelawney, before he finally recovered his voice. “You’re mental!”

Ron shrugged. “Maybe. But it doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

“Have you lost what little remained of your mind? I can’t date Hermione!”

Ron tilted his head to one side as he studied Harry. “Why not?” he asked succinctly.

“Because!”

“What, did you suddenly regress to 5 years old again?”

“Because she’s my best friend!”

“So what? I consider Luna to be one of my best friends.”

“She’s your wife; it’s different.”

Ron shrugged a little. “There’s nothing wrong with dating your best friend. Hermione and I dated for a while, remember?”

“Yeah but look how well that turned out.”

Ron waved a dismissive hand. “That’s because Hermione and I were never meant to be more than friends; we couldn’t get past the bickering and it just got worse when we tried to be more than friends, you know that. But we dated and we’re still best friends.”

Harry gave Ron a look that suggested he thought Ron was severely mentally deficient. “You two broke up and then you barely spoke at all to each other for more than two months afterwards!”

“It was awkward for a while,” Ron admitted, “but we got over that and now we’re better friends than ever.”

“I can’t date Hermione,” Harry insisted. “I just- can’t. It’s ridiculous to think I could.”

“Why? She’s your friend, not your sister. You’re both single and you get along really well. You’ve certainly acted like you cared more about Hermione than you have about most of your girlfriends.”

“Of course I cared more about Hermione; she’s my best friend.”

Ron studied Harry but refrained from mentioning that one thing almost all of Harry’s former girlfriends had had in common was that they hadn’t gotten along too well with Hermione. Admittedly, Hermione had never been one for many female friends but he suspected that Hermione’s generally cool behavior towards Harry’s girlfriends and their even-cooler behavior towards Hermione had had another source—jealousy. None of Harry’s girlfriends could have missed the fact that, as far as Harry was concerned, he and Hermione came first. After nearly a decade and half of friendship and all their shared experiences, it wasn’t surprising, Ron supposed, especially with how loyal a friend Harry was—but he also could understand why Harry’s girlfriends hadn’t appreciated being relegated to second-or third- place in Harry’s life, after Harry’s two best friends, one of whom was another woman.

Ron wondered if Harry realized that it wasn’t necessarily a given, that one’s best friend meant more than one’s girlfriend. He would gladly give his life for either Harry or Hermione—but Luna had become more important to him than his best friends.

“Well, it’s your life,” Ron gave in, giving up (for the moment) against the brick wall that was Harry when he’d made up his mind. “But I still think you and Hermione would be great together. Think about it.”

Neither of them said anything more about it as Harry hastily changed the subject by bringing up the upcoming Quidditch match England would be playing against Ukraine, which effectively distracted them both.

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: I realize it’s been an unconscionably long time since I posted the last chapter but RL got busy and distracted me. I’m sorry!! I swear by everything holy that the next chapter will not take nearly so long to post!

Miracle

Chapter 2: Maybe

Harry blamed Ron.

It was all Ron’s fault.

He had brought up the possibility of Harry dating Hermione—and, even though Harry still thought-no, knew- that it was impossible—he somehow couldn’t stop himself from looking at Hermione- when she wasn’t looking- and wondering- wondering all sorts of things he’d never wondered, never allowed himself to wonder before, wondering things he should not be thinking about now. Wondering what her hair would feel like between his fingers (about the most innocent of his wonderings), wondering what her skin would feel like, wondering what her lips would feel like, wondering what she would taste like, wondering what sort of knickers she wore and wondering about taking them off her—at which point he slammed the figurative door shut on his wonderings and mentally backtracked fast enough to nearly make himself dizzy.

But it was bothering him.

And worse, he knew she’d noticed.

They had met up for dinner and a drink as the three of them did at least once a week when Ron wasn’t off traveling with the Cannons, and he had learned several things.

First, that eating dinner could take an incredibly, amazingly long time—when you were uncomfortable and wanting it to hurry and end. (He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to escape Ron and Hermione’s company—but now, because he was uncomfortable with Hermione and his somehow-changed view of her, he did.)

Second, that eating and drinking could somehow look seductive, even though seduction couldn’t have been further from the intentions of the person eating and drinking. (It was! Seeing the way her fingers curved around her glass, seeing the way she licked her lips after a bite, seeing the way she closed her mouth around her fork—he nearly envied her glass every time she drank from it because her lips were touching it.)

Third, that trying to act normal when your thoughts were absolutely not normal and absolutely forbidden wasn’t easy—especially when you were with the two people on earth who knew you better than anyone else.

Fourth, that trying to carry on a normal conversation with your two best friends while also trying not to look at one of said best friends doesn’t work so well.

He had thought it was going pretty well, actually. He didn’t appear to have said anything egregiously out of character or out of place as neither Ron nor Hermione had reacted with surprise to anything he had half-said, half-mumbled tonight and he had managed to talk with Ron about Quidditch for about five minutes before Hermione had put an end to that conversation.

He had thought he was doing a good job of hiding his distraction—until Hermione had paused, sighed a little and pinned him with her eyes. “Okay, Harry, what’s wrong?”

“What? Nothing! Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine,” he hastened to assure her, inwardly wincing at how much his voice had risen on the first two words and then how he’d protested too much. This was Hermione, after all, and he’d never been able to lie very well to her, certainly not after 14 years of friendship.

She gave him a look, half-exasperated and half-concerned. “You’ve hardly said two words to me all evening, Harry. Something’s bothering you. What is it?” Her voice softened, as did her expression. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

He swallowed hard. The level of affection and caring on her face both warmed his heart—and terrified him, because of how much it affected him. But he also caught the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes and he had to reassure her. “Yeah, I know,” he said, sincerely this time. “It’s nothing serious, really; I’m just a little tired.”

She didn’t look entirely convinced (she was too smart and she knew him too well, he decided) but she let the subject rest as he managed what felt like his first real smile of the evening for her.

Hermione. Hermione. Hermione.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her now. It was as if Ron’s words had opened up a Pandora’s box and now all these forbidden thoughts, all these things he’d never allowed himself to think, were crowding into his mind.

Dangerous thoughts—thoughts that, if true and if he acted on them, could rock his entire existence off its stable foundation. Thoughts that could make the floor tilt beneath his feet and turn his world upside-down and inside-out, to say nothing of the potential for future disaster.

And yet… And yet… He couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Remembering all the years of friendship, remembering how he’d sometimes felt- though he’d never really put words to the feeling or said it aloud- that seeing her smile or hearing her laugh was the brightest thing in his life during the dark months after Dumbledore’s death and before the final battle. Remembering how she always seemed to understand him and know what he was thinking, even without words.

The level of comfort, of trust, of- intimacy- he felt with Hermione had never been matched—not even close—by anyone.

But it was, he thought, the sort of trust and understanding Ron had with Luna, somehow, what he wanted for himself.

From somewhere in his mind, he heard a small voice ask, Then why not simply date Hermione?

She’s my best friend.

And again, the small voice that actually sounded a lot like Ron now, retorted, So what?

She’s my best friend.

That’s not a reason not to date her.

And now he couldn’t even insist that he was not at all attracted to Hermione in that way—he was, he couldn’t deny it now, not after spending hours earlier that evening distracted by very un-platonic thoughts of Hermione. Thoughts that, now that he reflected on it, weren’t as unprecedented as he’d thought—except for the first time, he was openly acknowledging their existence and not attempting to rationalize them away.

He thought of the girls he’d dated, their open, uncomplicated smiles, their easy laughs, the simplicity of some of their questions about his experiences in the war—the boredom he’d felt so quickly and the closing himself off.

And he thought of the one girl in his life who had never bored him, whom he trusted, who he relied on and who had been by his side for everything and so understood him better than anyone else in the world.

He caught his breath, his head suddenly spinning with the revelation, of sorts. Maybe, just maybe, none of his relationships had worked out because none of the girls could compare to Hermione. Maybe, just maybe, his subconscious mind had been comparing every girl he dated to Hermione and they had all fallen short…

He wanted to date someone like Hermione; that was what he’d been subconsciously looking for all this time. Someone like Hermione.

But no other girl he’d ever met- no other girl- could possibly be like Hermione.

Hermione was—Hermione. Unique.

Hermione, who understood him so well and who had been there with him for just about everything. Hermione, whom he trusted more than anyone else on earth. Hermione, whom he cared about more than anybody else. Hermione, whose smile or whose laugh brightened his day like few other things could. Just Hermione…

Maybe, just maybe, he really did want to date Hermione.

She’s my best friend, the small voice spoke up again, persistently, although with a little less conviction.

She was his best friend—but maybe, just maybe, she could also be more than that… Because, he realized, he wanted her to be more than just his friend. He wanted her to be his girlfriend—his everything, he thought.

But what did she want?

He was just Harry, her best friend, to her.

Wasn’t he?

~*~

If he didn’t know better, Harry could almost think that Professor McGonagall had set out to do this.

In his more irrational moments, he could almost feel angry at Professor McGonagall. In his rational moments, he knew perfectly well that Professor McGonagall was only doing her job and had probably never stopped to think of him.

But knowing that didn’t mean he liked the situation any better.

It started with a Floo call from Hermione suggesting that they meet up for dinner as she had something to tell him. (She mentioned that she would be sending an owl to Ron to let him know since Ron was away for training with the Cannons and would be for the next week.)

He had only noticed that there was some emotion he couldn’t quite place in her tone and in her expression but he’d been in the middle of going through a file on the latest information about the whereabouts of a serial Muggle-baiter whom he’d been tracking for the past three months and had been somewhat preoccupied at the time.

It was the first time he and Hermione would be alone together since he’d realized that he had more-than-friendly feelings for Hermione—but he figured that he would be able to act normally and perhaps find out if she had any feelings beyond friendship for him.

The acting-normally plan lasted as long as it took for him to greet her and for them to be seated at a table in the café.

Because that was when Hermione began, “Oh, Harry, I’m so glad you could meet up tonight because I really wanted to be able to tell you my news in person. I can’t quite believe it yet myself but the most wonderful thing has happened. Can you guess what it is?”

She was positively beaming, he realized, and looked more thrilled and excited than he could remember her looking in a long time. And he surprised himself by feeling a pang of something very like- envy- that someone, something unrelated to him, could make her so happy. (Irrational as it sounded.) His own heart lightened at the sight of Hermione’s bright smile and brighter eyes—and he could only wish that he could one day bring the same look to her face.

He grinned involuntarily, responding to her smile. “I can’t guess. What is it?”

“I’m going to teach at Hogwarts!”

He gaped at her. Whatever he might have been expecting- she’d found a new cure for some magical ailment, perhaps- it had not been this. “You- what? How?”

“Professor McGonagall Floo called this morning, completely unexpectedly, and said that Professor Flitwick had decided to retire this year, after teaching at Hogwarts for more than 70 years, and would I be interested in taking over Charms for him.”

Harry stared again. “Flitwick is retiring?” He blinked. “Wow. I guess I always figured he would end up like Binns and keep on teaching after he died. I mean, Hogwarts without Flitwick- that just seems odd.”

Hermione nodded. “I know. But he finally told Professor McGonagall he didn’t feel he could keep on teaching, that he’d been there for too long and wanted to enjoy the rest of his life without working. And Professor McGonagall asked me to be his replacement.” Hermione paused and colored, her eyes lowering to look at the table instead of at him as she confided, half-shyly, “According to her, I did the best on the O.W.L’s and then the N.E.W.T’s in Charms than anyone in the past 50 years, even without our 7^th year.”

He managed a smile although he felt oddly numb. “Of course you did. That doesn’t surprise me at all.”

Hermione was going to teach at Hogwarts.

She was going to be at Hogwarts.

He mentally shook himself out of his stupor to ask something that was rather bothering him—the least of the many things about this that bothered him but the only one he could give voice to. “I didn’t think people so young could teach at Hogwarts.”

“They normally can’t,” Hermione admitted. “In fact, Professor Snape was the youngest professor in Hogwarts history when he was hired at 31.”

“Until you,” Harry interjected.

“Yeah. I just couldn’t believe it; I mean sometimes it still feels like yesterday that we were all at Hogwarts ourselves. But she said she couldn’t think of anyone better qualified,” Hermione admitted looking a little embarrassed as well as pleased and flattered.

“Well of course, she’s right,” Harry managed to say. “Wow, Hermione, that’s great. I’m so happy for you.” He inwardly winced. Even to him, his words sounded lame and unenthusiastic.

He knew he should be happy for her. This was a great opportunity and a wonderful chance for her and it was an honor to be the youngest professor Hogwarts had ever had. He was her best friend; of course he should be happy for her.

This was—great news. A wonderful thing. Something to celebrate.

He should be thrilled for her. He should be—he should be…

He wasn’t.

This was—a catastrophe. A terrible thing. Even tragic.

He was a truly horrible best friend, he decided. His best friend in the world had received this honor—and he couldn’t bring himself to feel happy.

His insides felt as if they had decided to congeal into a large cold mass of dismay.

Hermione would be leaving. She would move to Scotland, to Hogwarts—that was, he suddenly realized, an incredibly long distance away.

He wouldn’t be able to see her nearly every week or drop by randomly at her flat whenever he felt like it. He wouldn’t even be able to Floo call her when he wanted to.

She was leaving.

Oh, he knew he’d be able to owl her and he’d probably be able to see her every few weeks, even, during the school year and more often during the summer term. But it wouldn’t be the same.

He knew her, knew how much she would devote herself to teaching and how busy she could get.

He would hardly get to see her.

Dear Merlin, he wondered desperately, how was he supposed to live without her nearby?

She hadn’t even left yet and he was already missing her.

It wasn’t even that he had just realized days ago that he wanted to be much more than just Hermione’s friend; it was—everything.

He suddenly realized just how much he relied on Hermione’s nearness, the comforting knowledge that she was just a Floo call away, a moment’s Apparation away, that he could see her almost any time he wanted to. She was always there when he needed her—but not anymore.

She was moving on, to another life—one that didn’t feature him as a central or even a particularly large part of it.

This was a disaster.

And it was only now, when faced with the loss of it, that he realized just how essential it was to him, to know that Hermione was nearby. The knowledge of her nearness was somehow inexplicably vital to him, to know she was close enough to see whenever he wanted to.

It was only now when faced with the thought of Hermione moving on, so far away (and the distance between London and Hogwarts may as well have been thousands of miles for the intensity of his reaction), that he realized it wasn’t that he wanted to date someone like Hermione or that he wanted to date Hermione.

It was that he was in love with her.

That was why he had subconsciously compared every girl he’d ever dated to Hermione. That was why there had always been something missing in every other relationship he’d had. He was in love with Hermione and he couldn’t pinpoint a time when it had begun but it was real and it was deep and it was—

It was hopeless.

He was just Hermione’s best friend and she was moving to Scotland.

He bit back a sigh and met Hermione’s eyes to see that she looked somewhat deflated at his less-than-enthusiastic congratulations.

Oh God…

He felt a pang of self-reproach for his own selfishness and promptly manufactured as wide a smile as he could manage and put it on for her benefit. For her, to make her smile again… “I think I envy your future students. You’ll be a great teacher, Hermione.” He grinned, sincerely this time, and added, “You certainly got enough practice at teaching from all the times you helped me and Ron with our work. If it hadn’t been for you, Ron and I would probably have gotten D’s in all our O.W.L’s and not a single N.E.W.T.”

She laughed a little and shook her head. “That’s not true. You weren’t that bad.”

“That’s because we had you to help us.”

She smiled softly. “Thanks.”

“I mean it, Hermione. I always thought you would make a good teacher.”

Hermione felt herself flush at Harry’s words and then stilled as she saw a flicker of a shadow pass across his face as he looked at her. It was a fleeting expression, gone almost before she noticed it, before being replaced with a smile but she could detect a hint of strain in his smile now, the same strain from a few moments ago, the almost imperceptible stiffness in his smile that told her he was forcing his smile. It would have been unnoticeable to anyone else but her eyes were made sharp by years of friendship and worrying over him and she caught it when no one else would have. And felt a flicker of hope, of uncertainty—could it be? Could he possibly care--?

She swallowed and felt her smile fade as she met Harry’s eyes directly. She didn’t know if she had any reason to hope but now, with this offer, she had to try. Just once. “Harry,” she began softly, hesitated and then finished, trying not to let her voice tremble with pent-up emotion, “can you give me any reason why I shouldn’t move and accept Professor McGonagall’s offer?”

Harry stared, his throat closing. Yes, I can. I love you and I don’t want you to move; I want you to stay with me, always. A small voice from his heart shrieked the response—yes, he could think of a reason why she shouldn’t move.

But he remembered the radiance of her smile and her eyes earlier as she’d told him about the offer, remembered the mixture of excitement and pride and happiness in her tone and her expression when she told him. She had been so happy…

And he knew he couldn’t—wouldn’t—try to keep her behind. Not when he knew she’d been feeling rather restless about her job in the research department of St. Mungo’s for months now—not when this would be such a great opportunity for her, one she was perfect for.

He met her eyes seriously. “I can’t,” he said. For her, to make her smile… To make her happy…

“Oh.” Hermione stifled a sigh, sternly suppressing the hurt and the disappointment she felt. Of course he couldn’t give her a reason. He was her best friend; of course he would want her to take this job that would almost certainly make her happy and certainly represented an honor. Of course…

He lifted his glass to her in a toast. “To you, Professor Granger,” he smiled and then added, more softly and more soberly, “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Harry.”

Their gazes met and held for a long moment—and he thought of how much he was going to miss her and she thought that moving away from him might prove to be among the hardest things she’d ever had to do.

He was the first one to blink and look away, breaking the oddly-charged silence. “I can’t wait to find out how Ron reacts.”

“Yeah, I know. I wonder how his practice is going.”

“I’m sure it’s going well. You know he always does better in practices anyway. Besides, he loves every minute of it. The Cannons never had a more enthusiastic Keeper.”

They exchanged comfortable smiles, slipping into conversation as only old friends can, and neither of them allowed themselves to think about the lost hope for something more than friendship. They were—and always would be—best friends—and that was something. That was enough.

Wasn’t it?

~To be continued...~

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: I apologize for how long it’s taken to write and post this chapter! Just an Epilogue to go and then this fic will be done!

Miracle

Part 3

Friends and Lovers

Harry tossed back another shot of firewhiskey, setting the empty glass down on the table with unnecessary force.

Ron frowned and grabbed the bottle, removing it from Harry’s reach. “Okay, mate, you’ve had enough. What’s wrong with you tonight, anyway?”

Harry eyed the bottle of firewhiskey before saying grimly, “Nothing.”

Ron let out a disbelieving snort. “Right, Harry, you’re drinking like you’re on some sort of sacred mission to get seriously sloshed tonight and you’ve hardly said two words to me since I got here. What is it, honestly?”

Harry sighed and then found himself blurting out—the alcohol must have loosened his tongue, he thought idly—“It’s Hermione.”

Ron stifled the urge to pump a fist in the air in victory. “What about her?”

“She’s leaving.”

“She’s going to be at Hogwarts, Harry, not on the other side of the planet. And she’s not leaving, as you put it, for weeks yet.”

“Hogwarts is too damn far from London. And then she’ll be busy with teaching and stuff.” Harry paused and then added in a disgruntled tone that made him sound much younger than his 25 years, “I don’t want her to go.”

“It’s a great opportunity and you know Hermione would be a great professor. She’s already got all the rules memorized and you know how she loves to be able to enforce rules,” Ron said with a smile that was half-teasing. “So what’s your problem with it?” he asked, although he suspected he knew the answer.

For a split second, Harry considered telling Ron the truth but then decided he couldn’t and opened his mouth to make some excuse, he wasn’t even sure what—but then heard, to his horror, his own voice say, “Because I love her and I don’t want her to be so far away.” He shut his mouth, making a mental note to never drink so much again; his tongue seemed to develop a mind of its own when he got enough alcohol in his system.

Ron fought hard to keep from smiling but couldn’t quite restrain the beginnings of a smug smirk. “Have you told her that?”

Harry looked at Ron as if he’d suggested the impossible. “What? How could I?”

“Pretty easily, I think. It only takes three words and you do know how to talk.”

Harry glared at Ron. “Haha, funny,” he shot back. “And no, I didn’t tell her, considering I didn’t even realize it myself until after she told me she was leaving.”

Ron sat back and studied Harry. “So why didn’t you tell her then?”

“I couldn’t do that! She even asked if I could think of a reason why she shouldn’t go—I told her I couldn’t. She wanted to accept; she was so excited about it,” Harry added softly. “I couldn’t take that from her.”

Ron briefly considered banging his forehead against the table in frustration but decided that inflicting pain on himself would hardly be the smart way to act, to say nothing of being unpleasant. “But you didn’t actually tell her.” He didn’t wait for Harry to respond before he continued on. “You know, Harry, and I say this as your best mate, you really can be an idiot sometimes.”

Harry glared at Ron again. “Thanks, you pick me right up there,” he said sarcastically.

Ron sighed a little as he studied Harry. “You should tell her how you feel, you know. How do you know she doesn’t care about you that way too?”

“She’s never said—she doesn’t act differently around me,” Harry began. “And if I told her I loved her and she doesn’t care about me, then that’ll make things really awkward between us and I don’t know if I could deal with that.” He paused and then added, so softly Ron had to strain to hear him, “I don’t think I could live without Hermione as a friend. She’s always been my best friend.”

Ron sat back, understanding. It was typical of Harry, who valued friends so much from having grown up without any for so many years, to be more afraid of losing a friend than hopeful for more. He should have guessed that Harry would much rather stay just Hermione’s best friend for life rather than risk potentially losing her friendship. Harry was brave—no one doubted that, least of all Ron, who knew better than anyone else just what Harry had faced—but not when it came to relationships, his friendships.

“I think, Harry, you’re underestimating the strength of your friendship,” Ron began more soberly. “You’re right that you’ve been best friends with Hermione forever; I think if Hermione was going to stop being your best friend so easily, it would have happened years ago,” he added with a small smile.

Harry didn’t respond, just stared moodily down at the table and his empty shot glass as he considered Ron’s words.

“Besides,” Ron continued carefully, “are you so sure that Hermione doesn’t love you too? You know how much she cares about you. Hell, half the time when Hermione and I were together, I was jealous of you.”

That got Harry’s attention and he jerked his head up to stare at Ron. “You were? Why?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Do you have any idea how much Hermione talks about you when you’re not around? She was always worrying about you, talking about you, thinking about you; you’ve been the most important person in her life for as long as I can remember. Do you honestly think she doesn’t love you too?”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” Harry answered lamely.

“I think, Harry, if you just let her go without telling her how you feel because you’re afraid, then you’re a bigger idiot than I ever thought you could be.”

Harry gave Ron a tired glower. “Thanks, mate. If I’m ever in need of a pick-me-up for my ego, I’ll be sure to give you a ring,” he informed Ron sarcastically.

Ron sighed. “Harry, seriously, tell her how you feel. I am willing to bet a hundred Galleons that she loves you too.”

Harry stilled before looking up at Ron with a mixture of hope and uncertainty in his eyes. “What if she doesn’t?” he asked very softly.

Ron met Harry’s eyes honestly. “You won’t know until you try and I’m pretty sure that she does.” He paused and then added with a slight smile, trying to lighten the moment, “And if she doesn’t, then I’ll owe you a hundred Galleons.”

Harry gave a wan smile and only nodded once.

Ron sat back, changing the subject to one less charged, and hoped he had read Hermione correctly—although it occurred to him that he’d never had the almost psychic ability which Harry had always had to understand Hermione’s thoughts.

~*~

Hermione opened the front door of her flat and smiled when she saw Ron. “Ron! What are you doing here? Did Luna get back safely?”

“Hi,” Ron greeted Hermione. “Luna’s fine; she says hi and that we should all meet up for dinner in the next week.”

Hermione nodded. “Of course. So, what’s up?”

“I-er- just have a quick question to ask you.” Ron looked suddenly a little uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

“Okay, what is it?”

“Hermione, you’re my best friend in the world along with Harry,” Ron began.

Hermione smiled but gave Ron an odd look. “I know that, Ron.”

“Right,” Ron let out his breath and then decided to simply blurt it out. He was sure he was right… “Are you in love with Harry?”

Hermione gaped at Ron, for a moment convinced she’d misheard him. He could not—he had not—how had—she had thought she’d been so successful at concealing her feelings… “I- I…” she floundered, not sure what she could say to such a direct and entirely unexpected question, feeling color flood her cheeks.

Ron grinned suddenly on seeing Hermione’s rather uncharacteristic speechlessness and shell-shocked expression, seeing everything he needed to know in the hot blush coloring Hermione’s cheeks and in the look in her eyes. “I knew you loved him.”

He let out a brief laugh and with a light, “I’ll see you,” let himself out of her flat before Hermione could recover from her surprise and embarrassment.

Hermione blinked at the closed door of her flat for a long moment, her thoughts a mass of confusion. Oh God, Ron knew… But what about Harry? Surely- surely Ron wouldn’t tell Harry—would he?

She suddenly dreaded seeing Harry, was terrified that there would be some change in his behavior that would tell her that Harry knew how she felt and was trying to let her down gently, not wanting to hurt her.

Thank goodness she’d be moving to Hogwarts within the next two months…

~*~

“Harry, what--” Hermione began, frowning slightly as she opened her door the next night to see Harry leaning against the door frame.

He gave her a slightly crooked smile. “’lo, Hermione.” He half-stepped, half-stumbled inside and she drew back in shock.

“Harry, you’re drunk!” she scolded, although she kept her tone mild.

“No, not drunk,” he corrected. “I’ve been drinking, yes, but I’m not drunk.”

And after all, Hermione could see that he was right; she knew what Harry was like when he was drunk and he was speaking too clearly to be drunk.

“What are you doing here?” Hermione asked, moving to sit down on the couch but he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“I lied,” he blurted out.

For a moment, shock flattened her features and he waited until she blinked and then frowned a little. “Lied? About what? When?”

He studied her for a moment and then finally spoke, taking the last step off the metaphorical cliff. “I lied before when you asked me if I could think of a reason why you shouldn’t move to Hogwarts.”

“What- what do you mean?”

“I can think of a reason,” he said softly, stepping closer to her. “I can think of a reason,” he said again.

Her lips parted to ask what but he spoke before she could.

“This,” he breathed, his voice oddly both rough and yet tender at the same time. “This is why you shouldn’t move,” and with that, his mouth crashed down on hers in a hard kiss, his hands cupping her face gently.

And part of him was shrieking that he was being incredibly stupid and reckless—but he ignored it and kissed her anyway, kissed her with every particle of love and passion and desperation in him. Any second now, he thought, she was going to shove him away from her. Any second now, she would tear her lips from his and slap him for acting like some sort of caveman and just grabbing her. Any second now, she would hex him into the next century. Any second now…

She didn’t.

Instead she wrapped her arms around his neck, her body arching against his, as she kissed him back forcefully, her tongue tangling with his. And he just had time to feel a spurt of elation before she pressed her hips close to him, her body nudging at the growing hardness in his trousers and any coherent thoughts he had left disappeared like a puff of smoke. Oh dear God…

He finally tore his mouth from hers when oxygen became a dire necessity, although he kept his arms around her, holding her against him. He stared down at her, eyes wide, panting. “Hermione, I—you--” he stammered.

A small smile played on her lips and she leaned in and deliberately kissed him again, her lips teasing his, her tongue tracing his lips until he groaned deep in his throat and pulled her in even tighter against him, claiming her, possessing her…

Passion rose up inside them and took hold of them both—passion and something deeper, stronger than that: need.

Need fueled his actions as his hands slid over her body, touching, exploring, discovering, caressing…

Need took over his mind, stopping any conscious thought until he found that they had somehow managed to stumble their way into her bedroom and onto her bed and some semblance of rationality broke through his lust-clouded mind when he had succeeded in baring her body to his gaze from the waist up.

He sucked in his breath sharply, pausing to simply stare, admire, savor the sight. She colored hotly under his scrutiny but didn’t otherwise move, just lay there, staring up at him, her eyes dark with desire. “God, you’re so beautiful,” he breathed and reached out to touch her, caress her.

His hands cupped, stroked, teasing her nipples until they hardened even further, and until she was flushed and making small, incoherent noises of arousal and desire that went straight to his groin. He discovered, explored, learned her body with his hands and then with his lips and his tongue, until he felt like he was on fire, dying, yearning… Until the softness and smoothness of her skin was all he knew in the world…

She was the one that took the initiative to divest him of his own clothes until they were both naked and reaching out for each other, skin against skin, their breath mingling, the very beats of their hearts mingling, their hands wandering until they seemed to be everywhere at once and they were both panting and burning and beyond any sort of coherence or rationality.

And he thought that nothing in his entire life—nothing in the entire universe—was as important as her, as being with her like this, as touching her, as caressing her, as showing her with his lips and his hands and his body just what he felt for her…

He lost touch with the world as she became his reality, the bounds of his universe narrowing down until it only consisted of him and her, the heat of her, the wetness of her, the passion of her—and it seemed as if the sum total of his entire life was in her eyes… She filled his senses, his mind, his heart, his very soul, until there was no room for anything or anyone else…

He entered her in one smooth stroke, feeling her stiffen and bury her face in his shoulder as she clutched at him, and he stopped for a moment, valiantly ignoring the fact that he felt like he might just explode then and there, to savor the heat of her and the wet tightness of her around him, surrounding him. God, yes… He’d never felt anything better in his entire life…

He met her eyes and was slightly stunned to see the sheen of tears in her eyes. “Hermione, I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

She shook her head swiftly, blinking back the tears and cupping his face between her hands to bring his mouth to hers to kiss him long and lingeringly. “No, I just can’t believe you’re really here, that this is happening.”

At any other time—if it had been anyone else who’d said it, he might have smiled—but somehow at that moment, he couldn’t. It was too important to smile—and he felt the same way. “It is,” he only said, very quietly and very certainly.

There was a flicker of some emotion he couldn’t quite identify in her eyes and then she tugged him back to kiss him again. “I want you,” she breathed softly against his mouth.

And the sound of her voice, husky and full of all her own arousal and desire, restored any of the urgency which had been momentarily pushed aside, making him shiver, and broke through what little restraint he still possessed and he began to move.

Their bodies fit perfectly together, flowed, danced in the most primeval rhythm—in harmony, as they always had been… Until it all exploded around them in glory, a blaze of passion that roared through them and momentarily transported them to that heaven that only lovers can know, until they returned to earth…

It was some time—minutes? hours? it could even have been years for all he was aware of time passing—before some semblance of sanity returned to him along with the stunning reality of where he was and why and what had just happened.

My God… It really had happened. He had just come over to Hermione’s flat with no clear purpose in his somewhat alcohol-induced sluggishness of thought—at least enough alcohol to get rid of the filters between his brain and his mouth which usually operated to stop him from blurting all his thoughts out—and in a moment of insanity, he’d kissed her. He had kissed her—and she had kissed him back. The thought warranted emphasis because it was one of the things he remembered very, very clearly, before his body had completely taken over his mind and—and—she had kissed him back… She had kissed him and touched him and returned all his dizzying lust and passion in full and equal measure.

And that brought him here now, lying naked in Hermione’s bed, with Hermione lying equally naked in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder.

He had just slept with Hermione. He tried out the thought again more matter-of-factly: he had just had sex with Hermione. (He blotted out the automatic insertion of ‘absolutely amazing, wonderful sex’ from that statement.) More than that, he had just made love to and with Hermione.

It had been love-making; it hadn’t just been a shag or about lust. He loved her, was in love with her, absolutely, irrevocably, so deeply he couldn’t imagine how on earth he hadn’t known it before, so natural did it seem now.

And she—what did she feel? He knew she obviously felt something more than platonic friendship for him; that had been made blatantly, delightfully clear—but was it love?

He somehow sensed that she was going to speak before she did, sensed that she was going to break the comfortable silence.

Her voice was quiet. “Did you mean it? What you said earlier, did you mean it?”

He let out his breath, sternly clamping down on his sudden nervousness—ridiculous, given where they were and what they’d just been doing. “Yes,” he paused, and then added, “and, well, no.”

He sensed rather than felt her slight flinch and intake of breath and he shifted his head to meet her eyes, seeing the combination of confusion and the beginnings of hurt in them—and somehow, seeing that flicker of vulnerability in her eyes told him what he needed to say. “I meant it because I don’t want you to move so far away—I meant this,” he added on impulse, moving his hand in an unmistakable caress on her bare back, and knew she understood in the sudden flush on her cheeks and the warmth of her eyes.

“But I won’t—I can’t—ask you not to go.” He felt the pressure around his heart relax slightly at the words. He hadn’t quite realized he would say them but now that he had, he knew they were right. “I- I love you; I’m in love with you,” he confessed, rather baldly but there was nothing else to say. “But I know what a great opportunity this is for you; I know how much it means to you—and I am glad for you. I just- I just couldn’t let you leave without telling you.”

An odd expression passed over her face and then she sighed. “Oh, Harry, I love you too and I’ve been waiting to hear you say you loved me for years now.”

“I- I didn’t know,” he said lamely.

A smile crossed her face before she kissed him quickly. “As long as you know now.”

“I do.” He smiled into her eyes, seeing all the love he’d ever wanted in them, and wondered how he’d ever gotten so lucky to be here with Hermione, to have Hermione love him.

They smiled at each other for a long, quiet moment, which she finally broke by saying, “I don’t want to leave you.”

His arm tightened around her, a sense of calm filling him. “We still have these next couple months and then, we’ll have the weekends…”

“And Floo calls and owls,” she added, understanding as she always did.

“Yes.”

And as he kissed her again, his fingers tangling in her hair, he knew they’d be okay. He would miss her but he wouldn’t- he couldn’t- hold her back from taking a position she would excel at. And he trusted her, loved her—and, after all, that was what really mattered.

The trust of loving and the faith of being loved—what more did he need?