Waiting to Happen

Author's note: This is the first chapter of a five-part story. Chapter 1 was inspired by this drawing, Aurors, by midnight_ljc (aka ComfortablyLaura). Several readers asked me to continue the story, so I did. I've written four chapters and hope to write the fifth and final chapter soon. This is a single story, told from multiple points of view, depending on the chapter.

Chapter 1 - Heart Burn

You have no idea how you got here, right here, your back pressing against the hard wooden desk in Harry's office. One minute, you and Harry came up in the lifts to find something in his desk, your bodies marked with bruises from your latest encounter with Dark wizards. Moments later, his mouth was on yours, his lips pressing insistently, tongue sliding between your lips, hands wandering up and down your body, his breath hot and slick as he suckled the column of your neck.

"I shouldn't be doing this," you tell him, your breath ragged as his fingers pull at the neckline of your uniform shirt, exposing your shoulders, while his lips move hungrily down toward your collarbone. "I'm marrying Ron next month."

"I know," he says huskily, hands pushing up under your skirt, tugging on the waistband of your knickers. "Invitation's on the cork board."

Your eyes go wide even as your heart beats like a drum in your chest. Harry's right -- a piece of pale parchment bearing the words Ronald and Hermione and 8 o'clock hangs limply from the cork board not five feet from where Harry has bent you back onto the desk, his hips wedged firmly between your legs.

"Her-mi-on-ee," he breathes, his tongue licking the shell of your ear in a slow, deliberate motion that almost makes you come on the spot. One hand finds its way under your shirt and seeks out your nipple; as Harry rolls it slowly between his fingers, his other hand snakes between your legs, his fingers finding that spot that now throbs just for him.

"Oh God," you moan as his fingers continue to work their magic on you. "Oh God, I shouldn't, but this feels so good. You feel so good, Harry."

He leans away from you momentarily, his fingers leaving your body, and you find yourself aching for his touch. Cool air rushes beneath your skirt as Harry slides your knickers down your legs, letting them dangle from one ankle. You bite your lip, your back arching as his left thumb strokes between your legs; from the corner of your eye, you watch his right hand undoing his belt and pushing his pants and trousers down past his knees. His thumb presses hard, moving in circles that your body matches as you roll and shudder beneath his hand. Your legs spring up of their own accord, bruised knees rising high above the desk, your left foot hooking between Harry's legs as he slides onto his forearms and hovers above you.

"So stupid," he mutters as he drags his lips up and down your jawline while his body rocks slowly between your legs. "So stupid for so long. Wouldn't let myself be selfish back then. I let you get away. Not tonight. Not…now," and he's sheathed inside you, filling you up until a tear leaks down your cheek.

"Why now?" you murmur as he rocks slowly, pushing your back into the desk. "I wanted you six years ago, Harry….ohhhh…I loved you….oh God…but then I almost died and then there was the Prophecy and you wanted Ginny and I thought you'd never want me so I went after Ron, and he's been good to me, Harry, better than I ever thought, and I love him now, not the way I loved you, but ohhh, no, don't stop--"

Harry's lips cut you off. He pushes harder, you push back. It's a dance you could have done, should have done, back before you convinced yourself that you and he would never be together like this. But now you are, and it's better than you'd ever thought it could be (not that you'd thought about it, because you knew you shouldn't).

And you feel worse than you ever thought you could feel.

His thumb finds your hot spot again and you arch against him once more, your pelvis rolling beneath his as he pumps harder and faster. Your foot slides up his backside, urging him on as you shiver and moan his name. Harry shakes as he comes, beads of sweat falling from his forehead onto your face. The sweat rolls down your cheek until you can taste it with your tongue.

His sweat tastes bitter, like the bile that's rising at the back of your throat.

He pulls out, turning around as he fixes his clothing. You pull your knickers back on and straighten your skirt, then cast a quick Reparo on the shoulder of your shirt so that Ron won't ask why it's torn.

"I'd better leave by myself," you whisper, your hand resting lightly on his arm as he sits, shoulders slumped, on the edge of his desk. "See you Monday."

Harry nods, looking at you sidelong from beneath his long black lashes. "See you then."

On Monday morning, you go back to work, just as you have every Monday for the past four years. You walk briskly to your cubicle, ignoring the hum of gossip among your co-workers, not letting your eyes linger on anyone else's workspace -- until you pass Harry's office.

It's empty, stripped bare of personal belongings. The jumble of parchments on the cork board is gone too -- and so is the invitation to your wedding.

A tear rolls down your cheek until you can taste it. It's more bitter than salty, but not as bitter as the bile at the back of your throat.

^*^*^

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Author's note: This chapter is the flip side of chapter 1.

Chapter 2 - Heaven and Hell

How did this happen?

How did you get from the door of your office to the top of your desk, with your partner of two years (and your best friend for eleven) lying beneath you, her legs parted for you the way you've dreamed of for years but never, never until this moment, thought she might ever part them for you?

You'd been chasing Dark wizards again, for the thousandth time (so it felt) since you'd joined the Auror division after finishing off Voldemort. She was bruised a bit, and so were you, and all you needed in your office was some of that Bruise Healing Cream that Ron's mum got from the apothecary in Diagon Alley. All you need to do is spread some of that cream on your hands, then on Hermione's arm, then on her shoulder. But you couldn't touch her there, on the back of her shoulder, rubbing that cream into that enormous bruise, without shuddering at how her skin felt beneath your fingertips. That shudder went down to your groin, and the next thing you knew, your lips are on hers, catching both of you by surprise.

You shouldn't be doing this.

She's engaged to my other best friend…

As usual, she's read your mind.

“I shouldn't be doing this,” she says, her breath ragged as you pull at the neckline of her uniform shirt and begin to kiss your way hungrily down her soft, beautiful neck. “I'm marrying Ron next month.”

She would say that, of course. Always the practical one. Always the moral one. Not so moral now, though, as your fingers slide under her skirt and she says nothing, doesn't even flinch, when you start to tug at the waistband of her knickers. The room is spinning around you as you fumble with her knickers and your erection strains against your trousers and all you can think of is that Hermione, your Hermione, is planning to marry Ron, not you, next month, and how did they ever get that far in that train-wreck of a relationship they'd been struggling with for years when you, Harry, had known since you were 17 that Hermione was the girl you wanted, needed, couldn't live without? But she'd run after Ron when you started chasing Ginny, and by the time you figured out who you really wanted, it was too late. Hermione and Ron were together, and they seemed happy. How could you say anything? How could you ruin their happiness? So you said nothing. You always reckoned that one day, the fights would tear them apart. Hermione would see that she and Ron weren't good for each other.

But she never did, and now they're getting married.

“I know,” you answer, amazed that your brain can still function while all the blood in your body has rushed below your belt. “Invitation's on the cork board.”

Not a word nor a sound of dissent passes her lips as you bend her back against your desk and wedge your legs between hers. You can feel your cock beginning to weep with anticipation. She's here, with you, responding to your touches and fevered kisses. You can feel her heart beating like a drum as you slowly, deliberately lick the shell of her ear.

“Her-mi-on-ee,” you breathe into her ear, her name like prayer on your lips. Please God, don't make me stop. Please, if I do nothing else, let me have one good taste of her. Let me know what I'll be missing for the rest of my life because I couldn't tell her I loved her…

She's so soft and warm, and being so near her makes you even harder. Your hand slides under her shirt, seeking and finding a nipple. You roll the hard nub between your fingers while your other hand slides under her knickers - those silky knickers that are now wet for you -- searching for that other hard nub, the one that will make her feel the way you feel now, like you'd burst at the slightest touch.

“Oh God,” she moans. You've always wondered what she would sound like if you put your hand to her body just so...and now she's doing it and that sound urges you on, despite your better judgment. “Oh God, I shouldn't, but this feels so good. You feel so good, Harry."

This is the only chance I'll ever have to do this with her. She'll marry Ron and we'll never -

The thought cuts you as it strengthens your resolve to do the worst thing you've ever done. You lean away from her, then tug at her knickers and slide them down her legs until they're dangling from one ankle. Then your left thumb finds that hard nub and strokes it while you undo your belt and push your trousers and pants down below your knees. Hermione bites her lip as her body arches against your hand. Her legs fall to the sides, inviting you to take the next step. Taking the hint, you slide between her knees and hover above her on your elbows.

This will change everything. Forever. No going back. I've been a bloody fool for too long. And now I'll be a traitor.

"So stupid," you mutter as you drag your lips up and down her jawline, your body rocking slowly between her legs. "So stupid for so long. Wouldn't let myself be selfish back then. I let you get away. Not tonight. Not…now," and you enter her quickly, before you can change your mind.

A tear rolls down her cheek. You wonder if you've hurt her. You know this will hurt all three of you.

"Why now?" she murmurs as you rock slowly inside her sweet, wet warmth. "I wanted you six years ago, Harry…ohhhh…I loved you…”

She loved me...

“...oh God…but then I almost died and then there was the Prophecy and you wanted Ginny and I thought you'd never want me so I went after Ron, and he's been good to me, Harry, better than I ever thought, and I love him now, not the way I loved you, but ohhh, no, don't stop--"

Your lips find hers and cut off her murmuring. There's no way you can stop now, no way to avoid what will tear you away from her, and from him. It's inevitable, like the tides or the sun rising in the east. You push inside her as hard as you can, hoping to claim some part of her soul to make up for never having her body again. She pushes back even harder, her desperation seeming to match your own. You slide your thumb between your body and hers, determined to make her shake and rumble as she's never done before. She arches against you again and again while you pump harder and faster. Her stockinged foot slides up your naked bum and she moans your name. It's heaven to hear it, and hell to know that you'll never hear it that way again. Harder, faster, more, need more of Hermione - more of your skin on hers, your cock inside her, where it belongs.

You're home now - but you can never go home again.

As you come, a bead of sweat falls from your face onto Hermione's and rolls down her cheek until she tastes it with her tongue. Her expression changes dramatically; wild abandon gives way to a look of ineffable sadness. It's more than you can bear. You pull out and turn away, your heart breaking, and pull up your pants and trousers. When you turn back to Hermione, she's straightened her clothing and repaired the shoulder of her uniform shirt, the one you tore in your haste to make love to her.

You lean against the edge of the desk, your shoulders slumped with defeat. You've tasted of the tree of knowledge; now you know what you'll be missing once she marries Ron. It's more than you can bear.

“I'd better leave by myself," she whispers, resting her hand lightly on your arm. "See you Monday."

You can't look her at her right now. Maybe never again. “See you then,” you say, your voice level despite the jumble of your emotions.

She walks calmly, too calmly you think, from your office, apparently prepared to go on with her life. But now, that's the last thing you can do with yours. Nothing will ever be the same because you have known Hermione, and you know that no other woman will ever make you feel this way again.

And then there's Ron.

Oh God. You've both betrayed him horribly. He'll never understand. He'll hate both of us forever.

For the first time since you killed Voldemort, you cry. The tears fall until your glasses are sloppy with them. You tear off your glasses and wipe your eyes with the dirty cuff of your shirt as you hunt for a piece of parchment. Quickly you scribble a note, fold it roughly and tack it to your boss's door with a sticking charm. An empty box under your desk becomes a makeshift suitcase as you tear all your possessions off the walls, desktop and sideboard, mumbling about how you've gone from stupid to selfish to totally cocked-up in a single night.

When you finally Apparate home, you've made your decision. You can't stay and watch her marry him, and you can't see her without wanting to have her again.

Now you know what hell is.

(to be continued…)

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Chapter 3: The Other Shoe

Ron/Hermione (with H/Hr subtext) – PG –13.

The usual HP disclaimers apply. Many thanks to my wonderful betas, HystericalHystorian and tome_raider, for their excellent advice on this story as well as the rest of my writing.

^*^*^*^*^

I’ve been wondering when it would happen. When the other shoe would drop. I guess it’s happened now.

Over the years, Hermione’s relationship with me has evolved from friend to girlfriend to lover and finally fiancée. We’re engaged to be married in less than a month. She ought to be focused on our wedding, our honeymoon, our future as husband and wife. But she’s not. Never was, if I’m honest with myself. Somehow, in the back of my mind, this doesn’t really surprise me as much as it should.

Because she’s still focused on him.

I’ve tried to be understanding, tried to ignore her fixation on Harry. But it’s got in the way of my relationship with her.

Our friendship, among the three of us, has always been complicated. I thought things would be easier after Harry got rid of – when it was over. He’d go back to Ginny, and Hermione and I would finally have a real relationship. Harry would be happily paired up, so Hermione would stop worrying about him.

Only he didn’t, and neither did she.

Harry never went back to Ginny. Said he’d realised that he was just lusting after Ginny back then. He didn’t really love her, even told her that she deserved someone who did.

Hermione couldn’t stop worrying about Harry, even when everything settled down. That would have been like expecting her to stop breathing or raising her hand in class. I wouldn’t have minded if she’d ever seemed as worried about me as she did about him. Oh, she did during the war, when we were hunting Horcruxes. But when it came time for Harry to go and fight You Know…Voldemort…by himself, Hermione kissed him on the cheek, watched him leave – then cried for the next half-hour.

When he came back carrying the nasty old bastard’s wand, she’d like to have squeezed the air out of his lungs. The way she kissed his neck and the way he clung to her like he might never let her go…well, if I were smarter I would’ve put two and two together. I’m not so smart, though, so I didn’t figure it out right then.

But now I have. And oddly enough, it doesn’t sicken or hurt me nearly as much as it ought to.

^*^*^*^

It was Friday night, about half-eight. Hermione wasn’t home yet. She was off somewhere, working.

With Harry.

They were partners, of course, and it would’ve been wrong for me to complain about that.

"The Auror Division pairs people based on aptitude, skills and the Ministry’s needs," she’d explained, smiling and patting my arm as she told me how they’d been selected as partners. "It’s an efficient system. I’m very lucky my partner is Harry and not some smarmy old git."

Very lucky for him, I thought, but said nothing. I just smiled at her. Thought she might recognize it as a fake smile, but I reckon she didn’t.

Now I sat in the kitchen, nursing a firewhisky, wondering if something had happened. When she popped in through the Floo a few minutes later, she looked wrung out.

"Are you okay?" I said, getting up to hug her.

She nodded. "It’s just been…a very long day," she said. Her voice was quieter than usual. Her knees were scraped and her Auror uniform was dirty and torn. I wanted to fold her in my arms, hold onto her, kiss away her troubles. I tried to kiss her, to make things all better. But she turned away and my kiss landed on her ear.

"What happened?" I asked, wondering what had kept her at work so late.

Her eyes went big as saucers. "I…er… we were on a stake out, in Elephant and Castle. We had a tussle with the suspects we were surveilling. It was more physical than we usually deal with. I got bounced around a bit, that’s all. Nothing too serious."

"You were down there all this time?"

She hesitated before answering. "Yes."

"Harry okay too?"

Another hesitation. "Yes. He’s fine. Nothing to worry about."

My turn to hesitate. Something in her words was not on. She was telling only part of the truth. "Right. Good. Then I won’t."

No reason to worry about Harry, except that my fiancée had come home from work three hours late after a long, dangerous day with him, and she smelled like sex.

No reason to worry at all.

^*^*^*^

The weekend was extremely weird. Hermione seemed to be in her own little world, with no room in it for me. I wanted to believe it was pre-wedding jitters but now I realise we were both avoiding – avoiding the thing that we weren’t going to discuss, whatever had really happened Friday night.

I should have known something really serious was going on the next morning. It was Saturday, and usually Hermione and I would have a bit of a lie-in. Sometimes we’d sleep in until half-nine, then we’d have a slow, lazy shag. That morning, though, when I woke up, her side of the bed was empty and the sheets were already cold.

I found her sitting in the kitchen, wrapped in her dressing gown. She was staring out the window with a mug of coffee in her hand.

"Morning," I said. No response. I tried again, a little louder. "I said, good morning, Hermione," I repeated, sitting down beside her.

She turned her head slightly, so that I could just barely look into her eyes. They looked empty and the rest of her face was blank, like she was trying to avoid feeling something. If I had to put a word to her expression, I’d say she looked lost.

"Morning," she finally croaked back at me.

"Want to tell me what’s bothering you?"

Hermione shook her head slowly. "Nothing, really," she said finally in a flat tone.

Her words said "nothing" but everything else said "something big." I put my arm around her shoulder to console her. She flinched.

I suppose that should have told me something was really off.

"Okay," I said, trying to lighten the mood, which seemed heavier than a sack of Galleons. "I missed you in bed this morning. Want to come back after breakfast and play?"

I looked at her hopefully, turning on the charm.

"I’m … I’m not in the mood, Ron. Sorry."

She took a long sip of her coffee, then stared at a photo on the wall over the sink. It was a picture of her and me and Harry, taken about a year ago. She was in the middle, and I had my arm around her. Harry stood on her other side, a bit apart from the two of us. She and I were smiling at the camera and I noticed a blush rising in her cheeks. I looked more carefully and saw that her pinky finger was locked with Harry’s. He wasn’t smiling – but he seemed to be blushing too.

Funny, I never noticed any of that before.

^*^*^*^

Hermione never seemed like herself during the weekend. She stopped seeming so blank, which was a good thing. But there was no nagging, no bickering about little things, no fussing about little details. It was like her body was there, but her head was somewhere else. I stopped asking what was bothering her; I reckoned she would tell me if it really were something important.

Every few hours I would ask if she wanted to make love. I think I was polite about it. I was trying to take her mind off her troubles, but maybe she thought differently, because she kept begging off. By Sunday night it had been an entire week since we’d made love, which was unusual for us. I wanted to shag her something fierce, but I was willing to settle for something less than a shag, just to reassure myself that she still wanted me that way.

About two hours after dinner, I found her in her study, reading some fat book. Tiptoeing across the room, I stopped behind her chair, wrapped my arms around her shoulders and kissed her delectable neck. She stiffened and continued reading, acting as though nothing had happened.

"Come on, Hermione, please," I breathed into her ear, nibbling on her earlobe. She usually loved that, but this time she twisted around in her swivel chair until her face was directly under mine.

"I’m trying to work, Ronald. Perhaps you didn’t notice the book, or the stack of papers on my desk."

"Can’t we just have a snog and play a little?" I pulled her up until she was standing in front of me, then pushed the chair away with my foot.

Her face was stony. "I’m really busy right now. I need to catch up on my reading and I’ve several reports due in the morning. You know I bring work home on the weekends. I’ve been distra – remiss this weekend and left everything until this evening." She tried to pull her chair back, but I caught her arm. Holding her wrist with one hand, I swept the book and papers off the desk and leaned her against the edge of the desk.

"Ronald!" she protested, though I couldn’t tell if she was more upset about the books or my attempt to romance her.

"I used to hate when you called me that," I answered. While I dragged my lips up her neck, my free hand roamed up and down her side until it found the hem of her short, flouncy skirt. Hermione squirmed against me. I wanted to believe she was enjoying my attentions.

"Please, Ron," she grunted as my hand slipped under her skirt and slid up her thigh.

"Come on, sweetcakes, you want it too, don’t you?" While that hand roamed higher, my other hand clutched her bum.

She squirmed again, pushing herself out of my grasp.

"What the hell are you doing?" she shouted in my face.

"I want to make love to you, dammit," I shouted back. "We’re engaged. We’re going to be married in less than a month. We’ve been shagging for years. Why is a little nookie a problem now?"

"Because I told you, several times, that I’m not interested tonight!" She looked as angry as she sounded.

"Not tonight, not since last weekend. Are you ever going to be interested again?"

"Not until you stop treating me like a piece of meat!"

She pushed me away so hard I almost stumbled.

"Yeah, well, maybe I’ve lost interest in you too," I snarled at her, making to leave.

The book she’d been reading just missed my head.

*^*^*^*

I reckon my last comment was what made her avoid me the rest of the evening.

When I went to bed around half-past ten, she was still in the study. She’d not come out the rest of the night. I expect she was reading that big, dusty book or working on those reports she’d managed to skive off all weekend. The fact that Hermione had skived off something work-related was puzzling in itself. That was even stranger than her not wanting to fool around.

I fell asleep alone.

The next morning I must not have felt her get out of bed, if she ever came to bed that night. Maybe she’d slept in the study. She did have a nice, comfy chair in there, and sometimes I’d find her curled up on the chair, asleep with some big book in her lap. Sometimes I thought she loved her books more than she loved me. Anyway, she was up and gone before I got out of bed. I tried not to think much of it. She was probably still upset about the night before. I imagined she’d left the flat early so she could continue avoiding me.

I went to work at the usual time. The twins were off in Italy on a buying trip, so I was in charge of the shop. Five o’clock came; I closed up and was home before half past five. What I found when I arrived at the flat was something I’ll never forget.

Hermione had come home early. She was lying on her side on the sofa, curled up in a ball. Her hair was a complete mess, and her face was red and blotchy, like she'd been crying for hours. I walked to the sofa quickly and put my arms around her.

She shrank away from me. Her eyes were wild.

"He’s gone. He’s gone. He left. He’s not coming back. They don’t know where he is. He’s gone. He’s gone. I’ll never see him again. I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t…he’s gone…don’t want to be… can’t be…he can’t be gone…"

The words tumbled out so fast I barely caught them. "Hermione," I said quietly, petting her hair, "what’s happened? Who’s gone?"

"It’s Harry. He’s gone. He left and nobody knows where he went, and he’s not coming back!" she wailed. Gigantic sobs wracked her body as she pushed me away from her again.

It was then I knew. I understood. The other shoe had finally dropped.

"Harry’s gone?"

She nodded. Gigantic tears clung to her eyelashes as her chin trembled.

"He went away? And no one knows where he is? But—"

I didn’t need to ask why. There could be only one answer, only one thing that could have made her best friend, and mine (or so I’d thought all those years) run away like that. Only one thing that could make him willingly leave the two of us.

Betrayal.

And since I knew I hadn’t betrayed him, he must have betrayed me.

The only way he could have done that was with Hermione.

Now I understood why she’d been such a wreck all weekend. They had betrayed me together. She’d been acting guilty about betraying me with him. Now she was out of her mind with grief because he was gone.

It had to be something really big. I didn’t want to believe it. But what else could it be?

"When?"

She sat up slowly, rubbing the tears out of her eyes. "When what?"

"When did you shag him?" There, it was out.

Her eyes went as wide as they had done a few nights ago.

"That’s it, isn’t it? You and Harry shagged. And the son of a bitch couldn’t face what he’d done so he ran away." I got up and paced, my head buzzing with rage. "Fucking son of a bitch! I’ll kill him."

At my outburst, the waterworks started again. It was a heat of the moment comment, but it sent Hermione into another round of sobbing; for the next five minutes she remained slumped on the sofa, crying her eyes out. Then she suddenly seemed to pull herself together as though she had made a decision.

"It wasn’t planned, Ron. We didn’t mean to hurt you."

"But you did anyway."

"Yes. We did." Her face was somber.

"Want to try to explain it to me? Not that I’ll feel less betrayed, mind you. I just want to know."

I didn’t really want to hear it, but I knew she would tell me anyway. I was just making it easier for her.

She nodded, gathering her thoughts. When she finally started talking, it felt like she didn’t stop for ten minutes.

"We’d been on that stakeout in Elephant and Castle, as I told you later. That much was certainly true. We both got a bit tossed around, and Harry said he had some bruise-reducing salve in his desk. When we got up to his office, I sat on the edge of his desk while he was rummaging through the drawers. I must have had my legs crossed or something; I suppose my skirt was riding up a bit higher than normal. Suddenly he began to stare at me, at that part of me, in a very – " her voice broke slightly – "a very sexual way. I’d never seen him look at me that way before. It was a bit scary, but…I don’t know what happened, really…well I do…I don’t know how or why, but suddenly he was kissing me and we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. It was like being consumed by a smoldering fire that suddenly burst into flames—"

She stopped, looked up at me. I reckon she could see the pain in my eyes; I wasn’t trying to hide it. "Go on," I said, unable not to listen, unable to look away.

"It was…" She looked pained again. "It was passion like I’ve never felt before. And the next thing I knew I was on my back on his desk and he’d pushed his clothes away, and mine, and he was inside me and I couldn’t…I couldn’t not respond."

My fists began to clench while she talked. "Did he force himself on you?"

She shook her head slowly. "No! No, it was nothing like that. I didn’t plan for it to happen, but once it started to happen, I didn’t want to stop." She looked up at me, her eyes full of sadness. Was that sadness because she’d betrayed me? I really couldn’t tell.

"Would you want to shag him again?"

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to. The way she responded to Harry’s disappearance told me everything I needed to know.

"You love him, don’t you?" I said. The words almost wouldn’t come out of my mouth.

Her lower lip trembled. "Yes, of course I do. He’s my other be—"

"Don’t give me that shite, Hermione!" I screamed. I could barely keep from shaking her. "I love him too. He’s like my brother. But you -- you’re in love with him, aren’t you? Aren’t you?"

She nodded. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "But I do love you, Ron, you know that."

"Yeah, I know you love me. But are you in love with me?"

Those big brown eyes stared at me for what seemed like forever. Then she said simply, "No. I’m not in love with you. I’m in love with Harry."

I needed to know, needed to understand. "Because of one shag?"

"No, dammit!" Now she yelled at me. "Because of eleven years of caring for him more than I’ve ever cared for anyone else -- including you."

The final clue. The final dagger to my heart.

The whole scene should have been much more dramatic. I should have yelled back at her, advanced on her, shaken her where she sat. I should have told her no, you don’t mean it, it’s not possible. You could never love him that way.

Except I knew, as soon as I heard the words from her lips, that what she’d said was true.

My brain flooded with memories of all the times Hermione had put Harry before me. She was my girlfriend, we were living together, but no matter when he contacted her – at dawn, during dinner, or the middle of the night – she always rushed off to deal with whatever he wanted. I’d told her I resented it, resented him intruding on our time together. She brushed off my concerns every time with "But it’s Harry; he needs me."

That’s what it all boiled down to -- Harry needed her more than I did. And if I was honest with myself (not that I wanted to be), I knew that she needed him more than she needed me.

When all these thoughts finally stopped racing around inside my head, I said, very quietly, "I reckon I knew that. Just never let myself think about it too much, for obvious reasons."

She sat up on the sofa and nodded, biting her lip. With her feet crossed primly at the ankles, she motioned for me to join her. I sat down about two feet away from her. No way I would sit any closer, now that I knew it was over between us.

"So, what are you going to do now?" I asked cautiously.

Hermione raised her eyes to mine. Not surprising, they were puffy and red, but she wasn’t crying any more. In fact, a look of resolve had settled on her face.

"I’ll leave here, of course." I nodded. "I’ll find another place to live, at least temporarily. Then I suppose I’ll go find Harry."

Of course.

I don’t know what else I had expected. It was exactly what he would do if she had run away.

"Maybe you should pack now." I reckoned she might as well leave as soon as possible. "You don’t want to be here anymore, and to be honest, I don’t want you here."

A strangled little sound came from her throat. She rose from the sofa and crossed the room, then turned back toward me. "I’ll leave as soon as I can pull my things together," she said in a scratchy voice.

I nodded, unable to move or look at her.

"And Ron, thank you for not hating me," she finished as she opened the bedroom door.

"Who says I don’t?" I mumbled, once she’d left the room.

^*^*^*^

Hermione left about two hours later. Her belongings were neatly packed; Crookshanks sat mewing in his wicker cage. I was at the kitchen table, nursing a large glass of firewhisky, when she came in and put one hand on my shoulder. I flinched. Turnabout was fair play.

"I’m going now," she said softly

"You do that," was all I could say.

"Oh, Ron." Maybe I heard a note of regret in her voice; I’m still not sure.

"Just go. Please." If I were a girl, I probably would’ve spent the past two hours crying. Instead, I was sitting in my own kitchen, getting good and sloshed.

She backed out of the room slowly. "Goodbye, for now."

I nodded, starting into my glass.

She was gone two minutes later.

I drained that glass of firewhisky pretty quick, had another, then took out some parchment and a quill and wrote a note to Mum and Dad. I didn’t give them all the details, only that Hermione and I had decided to call off the wedding. I knew they would handle the rest.

No need for them to hate my best friends too.

One day, I’ll look back on this and laugh. Well, maybe not laugh, more like not want to pull my hair out and drown myself in alcohol. I might even stop having homicidal thoughts about Harry. Maybe it was for the best. Because, really, when I think of it, Harry and Hermione were an affair waiting to happen.

I just wish their affair hadn’t happened to me.

####

Chapter 4 - "Starting Over"

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed the previous chapters. Your comments mean a lot to me. Special thanks to my wonderful beta readers, hystericalhystorian and tome_raider, for their advice and support.

This is the second-to-last chapter. I’m writing chapter 5 now but I’m not sure when it will be done because I write very slowly. I hope you’ll stick around for the ending.- O.H.

He has to be here…

That thought crossed Hermione’s mind for at least the hundredth time since she’d boarded the ferry at Caolila two hours earlier. Leaning on the starboard railing near the bow, she could discern the outline of a small, rugged island a few miles out in the Firth of Lorne. As the ferry plowed through the choppy waters, the ocean wind whipped her hair about her face; shivering, she pulled her cloak closer around her body.

It was three weeks since she discovered that Harry Potter had disappeared.

Three weeks since she and Ron Weasley had broken off their engagement and she’d moved out of the flat she shared with him.

Three weeks and almost three days (minus a few hours--not that she was counting) since she had found herself on her back on Harry’s desk, skirt hiked past her hips, as Harry made love to her in hard, hot, frantic strokes that sent her orderly, predictable world crashing down around her.

Now, if she were lucky, it would be a few hours, or less, until she found Harry and the two of them figured out what to do about what had happened between them.

The past three weeks and three days had been strange and difficult for Hermione. The raw passion of her encounter with Harry gave way to crushing guilt, followed swiftly by denial so deep that she blocked the memory of it from her mind over the weekend. But when she returned to work three mornings later and found his office empty, stripped of his belongings, the guilt returned, followed by anger at his cowardly retreat, then denial about possibly never seeing him again. Grief finally set in when she went home early, her head pounding. As she lay on the sofa, her headache gave way to a river of tears.

That was how Ron found her, crying her eyes out about Harry. As the ferry pulled into the dock, Hermione thought of her final argument with Ron. She’d expected him to hold onto her tenaciously. Instead, his rage petered out quickly as he forced her to admit something she’d not realised until that day – that she was in love not with him, but with Harry.

She left Ron a few hours later. She’d spoken to him only once since then, to let him know that she thought she knew where Harry had gone, where he was hiding, where he probably hoped he could avoid her – and his best mate – for the rest of his life.

"Where’s that? The first level of hell?" asked Ron, his voice dripping with bitterness.

Probably best not to relay that to Harry right away.

^*^*^*^

The ferry docked at Scalasaig, the largest village on the island. Hermione had no vehicle, no way to get around. She’d boarded the ferry on foot after taking a Portkey to Oban. Now she needed to try to find the Auror safehouse where she believed Harry was hiding.

The gray skies of the ferry ride had given way to a steady rain. Hermione would have used an Impervius charm to protect her clothes, but the sight of a young woman in perfectly dry clothing amidst the rain would have disturbed the villagers. So she allowed herself to get rained on and, in the process, quite wet. The irony of the smartest witch of her age getting soaked was, perhaps, part of her penance for being stupid enough to get into this situation in the first place.

Apparently a lone young woman arriving on foot was not an everyday occurrence in Scalasaig. It was mid-September now, almost Hermione’s birthday. The rain was cold and bone clenching, and she took shelter under the eaves of the nearest building. A lanky older man in a yellow macintosh and wellingtons pulled up in a bright green car; a sign in the window said Cab for Hire. Hermione wasted no time jumping in. When she’d described her destination, the man seemed perplexed.

"But miss, noon lives theer," said the driver. "‘At’s an ould stone bairn, dinna noon live there in morn theerty yers."

She pulled out at twenty-pound note, which quickly silenced his objections.

The ride was slow and silent, much like the rain. Hermione paid no attention to the rugged, windswept scenery, which ordinarily would have delighted her. She sat in the back seat, mulling over what she’d done the past three weeks. She pestered everyone she knew in the Ministry of Magic, especially her fellow Aurors, but no one had seen hide nor hair of Harry that weekend, nor could anyone tell her where he might have gone.

After eighteen days of research during her spare time, she thought she’d figured out where he might be. The Division had a series of safe houses that undercover Aurors used during highly sensitive or dangerous investigations. Most were in rural areas of England, Scotland and Wales. She decided that Harry would think those were too accessible, too easy to find. He would want to go somewhere remote, some place she’d never been. She narrowed down the list to three places and chose the one that would appeal most to Harry’s brooding nature: the safe house on Colonsay.

Twenty minutes into the cab ride, the vehicle slowed to a stop where the road crossed about fifty yards from an aging stone barn. The rain had not abated, but Hermione didn’t care. The moment she left the cab she sent the driver on his way, standing alone in the rain as the cab moved down the road.

The barn faced away from the road. When Hermione was sure the coast was clear, she Apparated to a spot just to the north of the building. Dusk was approaching, and what little light was left was fading rapidly in the rainstorm.

The barn appeared to be dark.

Perhaps she had been wrong. Perhaps Harry wasn’t here after all.

Her instincts, though, screamed to her that Harry would retreat to a place just like this. If not here, where could he be?

She’d come too far to give up her hunt so quickly. She needed to investigate more.

She stared at her wand briefly; the tip began to glow like a torch. Pulling her sodden cloak more tightly about her, she crept around the outside of the barn, sticking close to the stone walls.

No sign of life on the east side, either. Perhaps the barn really was abandoned.

When she turned the corner to the south side of the barn, her heart skipped a beat. A few feet above her head, a stone lintel ran about eight feet along the wall. Beneath the lintel, light spilled from a long, high, narrow window.

Better yet, she could see a white owl perched on the window ledge.

If Hedwig was here, Harry must be, too.

Heart hammering in her chest, Hermione stood up from her crouch and strode along the front of the barn until she found a battered wooden door. She would use the secret knock only she and Harry knew.

She took a deep breath. He would answer the door. He had to.

^*^*^

It was almost dusk. A steady rain beat against the tin roof of the old stone barn. Down on the ground level, a young man lay face down, motionless, on a moth-eaten old sofa. A candle guttered on a battered wooden table, melted wax threatening to overflow the tin candleholder.

The young man stirred on the sofa, his unconscious mind full of images his conscious mind was trying to forget. A hiked skirt, bruised lips, dark brown eyes full of remorse. The throbbing of his cock quenched by the wet heat between her legs. A piece of parchment on a wall… a blur of names and emotions he couldn’t face anymore. The fragments of the dream were always the same, merely rearranged from night to night, shifting around like a puzzle he could never solve.

A sound intruded on the dream, a sound he hadn’t heard since he’d come to the island. Knocking, like someone was at the door.

Harry Potter stirred, his conscious mind suddenly taking over.

The sound came again. Three slow knocks, a pause, then four quick knocks.

He sat up, suddenly wide-awake. The shiver he felt had nothing to do with the cold, damp weather.

Three slow knocks, a pause, then four quick knocks. The knocking was becoming louder and more insistent.

I must still be dreaming, thought Harry as he stood up and moved slowly toward the door. The only person who ever knocked like that was hundreds of miles away, about to marry his best friend.

He opened the door and looked out into the rain.

Standing a few paces away was the last person he expected to see: Hermione. Her hair was plastered to her head, her cloak sopping wet, and on her face was a look Harry had seen many times – a look of grim determination.

"Hello, Harry," she said simply.

"Hermione." His voice quavered. Maybe she wouldn’t notice.

"Surprised to see me?"

"More than a little."

A silence louder than the rain formed a gulf between them.

"It’s rather wet out here," she said finally, " and I’ve traveled a very long way. May I come in?"

"Of course."

Opening the door wider, he ushered her in with a wave of his hand. Hermione stepped into the house, her cloak and hair dripping on the brushy mat inside the door.

"You’re soaking wet," said Harry, taking her cloak and hanging it on a peg. A flick of his wand later, the cloak was dry as a bone.

"Thank you," said Hermione, passing her own wand over her clothes to dry them herself. She set her small overnight bag on the floor near her cloak.

The smallish room, she noticed, was sparsely furnished with a ratty-looking sofa, a small table with only one chair, and several oil lamps. Next to one wall she saw a small metal sink and a cooker similar to the one Mrs. Weasley used at the Burrow. A fireplace took up most of the opposite wall.

"Have a seat," said Harry, nodding toward the table. Hermione, however, sat down primly at the end of the sofa closest to the fireplace. For the next minute, neither said a word. For Harry, the silence came honestly. He’d never expected to see Hermione again. Considering what happened the last time they’d seen each other, he assumed she would never want to see him again. He’d attempted to arrange his life so that it would be removed from hers forever. Yet despite his best efforts, there she was, sitting less than ten feet from where he leaned against the stone wall.

She must have come to see him on business. That was the only answer that wasn’t insane.

"So," he said, breaking the silence, "what’s up in the Auror Division that Breakstone sent you to retrieve me? I told him I wouldn’t be coming back for at least three months."

"Breakstone didn’t send me. I came here on my own."

"Why would you – how did you –"

"I pestered everyone in the division for three weeks, trying to figure out where you’d gone," said Hermione as she rose from the sofa and leaned against the back of the wooden chair. Her fingers kneaded the top of the chair nervously. "It was a lot of work, narrowing down where you might be. You were foolish, Harry, if you really wanted to stay underground, not to find a Secret-Keeper. You left too many tracks."

She was staring at him now, her brown eyes boring into his..

"Why’d you come? Why would you want to see me again? After what I did—"

"NO!" she yelled at him. "No, not what you did! What wedid together!" In three sharp strides she was standing less than a foot in front of him, her face darkened with rage, her fists balled tightly at her sides.

"You didn’t seem all that broken up about it when we were shagging on top of my desk!" he shot back. "You straightened yourself up and went home to him." Harry couldn’t bring himself to say his other best friend’s name. Speaking his name would be like betraying Ron all over again. Even thinking about him made Harry break into a sweat. "You didn’t tell him about it, did you?"

Now Hermione was practically toe-to-toe with him. "You think I would tell Ron that you and I betrayed him? I didn’t have to tell him. He figured it out. When I found out you’d run away, I went home and cried. When Ron came home, he found me crying on the sofa. I’d been crying for several hours. Crying over you, Harry. Crying because you had left. Crying as though my own life was about to end."

He stared at her, unable to grasp what she’d just said. "You’re not making sense, Hermione. Why would you cry about me?"

"Because I couldn’t imagine not having you in my life," said Hermione, her eyes filling with tears.

"I don’t understand," he said quietly, trying desperately to tone down the tension in the room. "Ron knows about – what we did – and he’s okay with it? So you’re still going to marry him? Then why did you come all this way to see me?"

"Stop being so bloody oblivious! Dear God, do I have to spell it out for you? Ron is not okay with it. I’m not okay with it. I’m not going to marry him. I’ve moved out. Ron figured out what I couldn’t…that I’m in love with you. Not Ron, you!"

As she raged against him, Hermione’s breath was hot on Harry’s face. Lip quivering, she stood shaking in front of him as tears spilled onto her cheeks. Hermione’s last words seemed to suck the air out of the room. His stomach fell; his mouth went dry. It was too much to believe.

"No!" he burst out. "No, that’s not…you can’t mean that. You’re just saying it to make me feel less guilty!" He turned away, afraid to let her see the tears in his own eyes.

Suddenly Hermione’s hands were clutching his arms, her fingers digging into them painfully. "Harry…Harry! Look at me! You think you’re the only one who’s wracked by guilt? What about me? Once I got back from…being with you, I could barely look at Ron. I shut down. I couldn’t let him touch me. I couldn’t let myself examine what I was feeling because it was too terrifying. Why couldn’t I let my fiancé make love to me? When I discovered that you’d gone away I couldn’t function. I thought I would cry for the rest of my life."

Diatribe done, Hermione let go of Harry’s arms and wiped her face with her sleeve, wondering if she’d broken through that thick skull of his. Through teary eyelashes she watched his face, hoping for some sign that he understood what she’d gone through, the price she’d paid, for what they’d done together. Myriad emotions seemed to play across Harry’s face until he finally spoke.

"So you don’t love Ron anymore."

"No, I do love Ron. I’ll always love him, though right now I think he despises me – and you too."

Harry grimaced.

"He has every right to be angry at both of us," she went on. "I just hope he cools down in a few months. I can’t bear the thought of losing his friendship forever. But what I feel for you," she paused, her eyes searching his face, "is more, and different, than I’ve ever felt for him. Although I love Ron, I’m not in love with him. But I love you and I’m in love with you."

I’m in love with you. Words Harry had never heard from anyone, much less considered hearing from Hermione. He knew in some deep part of his heart that she did love him, probably had for years; her actions spoke as much, though she’d never said the words before. But the idea that she could be in love with him too, that she might feel the same passion for him that he felt for her, was something he’d never let himself hope for. And now she’d come five hundred miles to tell him….

"Harry?"

Her voice brought his mind back to earth. He looked down at her.

"Please say something." She gave him a hesitant, questioning smile.

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t say everything that was tumbling through his mind and heart; he could only show Hermione what being with her meant to him. Cupping her cheeks in his palms, he looked deep into her eyes and gave her a tender, lingering kiss on the lips.

When he finally pulled away, he saw new tears on her cheeks and eyelashes. Alarm clutched his heart for few seconds until Hermione wove her hands around his neck and pulled him down for another kiss.

Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her tightly to him, finally letting himself revel in the feel of her body against his own. Her lips were soft and yielding and needed no coaxing when his tongue sought to enter her mouth. As he took his time learning the contours of her lips and tongue, one hand drifted down to cup her bottom while the other twined in her hair.

Hermione sighed, pressing herself firmly against him until he was fully aware of her femininity and, he thought, she must be fully aware of his maleness as well.

"What are you thinking?" she breathed, shivering as Harry dragged his lips up the column of her neck until he reached her earlobe.

His breath was hot and urgent against her ear. "I’m thinking I like doing this better than talking about it."

"We’re almost done talking," she said, suddenly pulling away and taking a deep breath. Twining her fingers with his, she asked, "I’ve given up the life I’d planned and traveled five hundred miles so I could tell you what was in my heart. But if being with me is only about sex for you, I’ll leave. Please, Harry, tell me it means more to you than just a roll in the hay."

"Hermione…" He stood there grasping for words. "What we did before, it wasn’t just about sex. It meant more to me than I can say. It was what I should’ve done years ago, before you and Ron ever got together, but I was too stupid to realise it then. I didn’t leave just because I felt guilty. I left because I thought I would never have you again, and I couldn’t watch you marry him once I knew what it felt like to be with you that way. I couldn’t watch the woman I love marry another man, not even my best friend."

His free hand stroked her cheek, drifted down to her shoulder, then to her breast, which he cupped lightly.

Hermione sighed again, her nipple hardening at the touch of his palm. "I was so angry with you. I thought you’d left me forever. I didn’t know…you never said anything before."

"I know," he whispered, his hand roaming back down until he could squeeze her bottom. "My fault. Can we stop talking now? I want to make love to you properly. No quick shag on a table top this time."

Stroking the nape of his neck, she gave him a naughty giggle. "I’m sure I want it as much as you do."

"But not here," he replied, pulling her close to him again. "Not on that shite sofa either."

A moment later Hermione found herself and Harry in a different part of the barn, in a room with a beamed ceiling and a rough-hewn bed. She realised that it must be a loft above the room they’d just been in.

"This is where you sleep?" she asked, noticing the unmade bed, as well as piles of clothes, a few books, and Hedwig’s cage on the floor.

"Haven’t gotten much sleep since I came here," he muttered, sitting down on the bed. "Maybe a few hours a night. I kept dreaming about you."

He did look rather haggard, she thought. His clothes, which used to drape nicely on his lean frame, seemed big again, as though he’d lost weight; there were dark circles under his eyes and he hadn’t shaved in several days.

"I’ve not slept well either," she admitted, straddling him as she placed gentle kisses on his forehead. "I couldn’t rest, not knowing where you were. And once I’d figured out where you’d gone, I could barely wait to find you. I suppose I’m running on adrenaline…and a bit of anxiety…not to mention" – she rocked against his erection, which was hard and hot under his jeans -- "a rather strong need to feel you inside me as soon as possible."

"No more words," said Harry, thrusting back against her jeans. Hermione’s head rolled backward as she moaned. Harry undid the row of buttons down the front of her jumper, stopping briefly after each one to admire the newest bit of exposed flesh. Undoing the front clasp on her bra, he breathed in sharply at the sight of her breasts. For years he’d longed to see those breasts, to touch and taste them; they were neither large nor small, but just right, fitting perfectly in the palm of his hand as he squeezed one breast gently while his lips found the other. She squirmed against him, her fingers kneading his scalp as his tongue swirling against first one nipple, then the other.

When Harry stopped for a breath, Hermione pulled his tee-shirt over his head and tossed it off to the side. A charge of lust shot through her as she pressed her naked breasts against his skin and wrapped her arms around his neck. His chest was lean and lightly muscled, with a sprinkling of hair between his pectorals. Shifting her weight forward, she tipped him onto his back on the bed. He gazed up at her with flushed cheeks and a wicked grin.

"Evanesco clothes," he whispered, and suddenly Hermione found nothing between herself and Harry’s manhood, which throbbed between her legs.

"I wanted to strip you," she pouted, sliding down his body until his nipple was under her tongue.

"Couldn’t wait," he moaned as her tongue slid further down his torso, tracing the thin line of hair pointing below his navel.

"No more words, remember?" She pushed his legs apart and settled between them.

He was about to offer a weak objection when he suddenly felt something warm, wet and slippery surrounding his cock. Hermione’s head bobbed slowly up and down, her tongue dancing in spirals around his engorged flesh, teasing and goading him. At the instant he was sure he would explode inside her mouth, she pulled away. Rolling onto her back, she spread her legs and pulled him by the hand until his head was near the apex of her thighs.

"Please," she moaned, her hands twined in his hair, "please, Harry."

"Please what?" he teased, sliding his thumb between her folds until he found the throbbing nub he was seeking.

"No more words, remember? Instructions only," she rasped as his thumb rubbed her clit while his forefinger slid inside her soft, wet heat. He thought he might keep his thumb and forefinger there all night, massaging and kneading her until she couldn’t see straight, but that didn’t seem to be what she wanted.

"Use your mouth, please," she begged him.

"Like this?" Spreading her legs further, he wrapped his arms under her thighs and leaned his mouth down to her folds. His tongue slowly explored every inch of that delicious flesh, occasionally darting inside her then retreating so that his lips could suckle her clit until she cried in ecstasy. She was squirming delightedly beneath his mouth when she suddenly uttered a different cry.

"OWWW!"

"Oh fuck!" He pulled away from her, searching her face. "Did I hurt you?"

"Just a bit," she answered with a tiny grimace. "Just keep your teeth away from there, okay?"

"I’m so sorry," he muttered, pulling himself up to her side. "Are you all right?"

She was so beautiful, he thought, with her hair fanned out on his pillow, her cheeks flushed with exertion, her eyes even darker than usual. Her naked body glistened with a sheen of sweat; it pleased him that he had caused her to sweat like that, to squirm and squeal and respond to every kiss and caress, other than an unfortunate moment of stray teeth.

"I’ll be okay. How are you doing?" Gazing down his taut stomach toward his thighs, she couldn’t miss that his cock was still at attention, apparently waiting patiently for what she and Harry both wanted.

"I’m ready when you are," said Harry, not missing how she was examining him.

She nodded, giving her unspoken permission for him to proceed. Now there really would be no more words, nothing that made sense to anyone but the two of them.

With her feet flat on the bed, Hermione let her knees fall to the side as Harry hovered above her, one arm bearing his weight while his other hand guided his cock inside her an inch at a time. She lay still, almost holding her breath as he moved slowly, torturously, inside her until his hot, hard flesh totally filled her. As soon as he was fully seated, she began to rock rhythmically against him, her fingernails drawing circles on his back.

Rolling his pelvis, Harry pumped into Hermione cautiously at first, then faster and harder, with more abandon. Her enthusiasm egged him on; she wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him closer, capturing his lips in a fierce, hot kiss, her tongue exploring his mouth for several minutes in a rhythm that mimicked his.

Breathless, Harry drew away from Hermione’s lips. He would come very soon, he was sure…he wished he could hold back until she was done, but the feel of her body around his made it difficult to retain control. With a strangled cry he came hard inside her, then finished up with a few short strokes. A whine escaped her as she arched her back and dug her nails into his arms. Although Harry was sated, he pumped a few more times as Hermione ground her pelvis against his until she shuddered and moaned, her lust for him finally spent.

He was getting sleepy now, as he always did after an orgasm, so he rolled gently off Hermione and pulled up the tattered quilt until it covered both their bodies. Her breathing was returning to normal and a sly smile played on her lips.

"That was very nice," she sighed, her fingers lightly stroking his chest.

"Not perfect, or amazing?" He pretended to pout, but could help smiling at her.

"Well, there were a few rough spots – like your upper lip and those errant teeth – but overall it was quite lovely. Best of all, it was you and me, making love naked on a bed, instead of fumbling guiltily on a desk with most of our clothes on. It was like starting over on this new phase of our relationship."

"You and me," he repeated, his mind drifting peacefully, "starting over"…

He fell asleep in her arms, just as Hermione had hoped he would. As the rain continued to beat a steady rhythm on the metal roof, she lay silently, stroking his hair, brushing kisses against his forehead, until darkness overtook the barn and sleep overtook her as well.

^*^*^*^

"You still take your coffee with milk and one sugar?"

"You remember!"

"I watched you drink coffee every day at school," said Harry, handing Hermione a freshly-brewed cup at breakfast the next morning.

They’d made love again that morning; this time was slower, less frantic, and more satisfying for both of them. Hermione sat at the table wearing one of Harry’s wool shirts, which hung halfway to her knees. Harry, clad in pyjama bottoms and a tee shirt, transfigured one of the oil lamps into a second chair and set it down next to the adjacent side of the table.He made scrambled eggs and sausages and wouldn’t sit down to eat until she’d tucked into her own meal.

"My compliments to the chef," said Hermione, patting her lips delicately with her serviette when she’d sampled the meal.

"I remembered that you liked this too," said Harry as he ate his own breakfast more heartily than usual. It was true, he thought -- sex made you hungry, and good sex made you ravenous.

"Thanks for lending me this shirt," said Hermione. "This barn is rather chilly and the few clothes I brought aren’t nearly heavy enough for the weather here. How do you stand the cold and damp?"

Harry laughed. "It’s no worse than Hogwarts. ‘Course I don’t have any of the luxuries of Hogwarts here either. I actually have to go into the village to get food."

He rested one ankle against Hermione’s leg; she rubbed her other foot up and down against his and petted his cheek, which he’d finally shaved.

"I don’t want you to have to go into the village to get food anymore. Come back to London, Harry. That’s where you belong, not here. You came here to hide. You don’t need to hide any more now that we’re together."

"I don’t think Ron would agree with any of that," said Harry glumly. "I might need to hide from him if I go back."

"Harry, listen to me," said Hermione in her most no-nonsense tone. "I repeat, there’s no need for you to hide up here or anywhere else. You still have a job in London and our boss is anxious for you to return. Besides, I have no intention of staying here, not even for you."

He raised an eyebrow. "You’d leave me here after everything that’s happened between us?"

"Of course not. You need to come back with me." She arched an eyebrow in return, as though adding silently, If you know what’s good for you.

Harry recognized that look; it was Hermione’s I won’t take no for an answer look. He stroked her hand with his thumb as he considered his options.

"I ‘spose I could go back and lay low for a week or so before I returned to work. I didn’t give up my flat. In fact I still have a week left on this month’s rent."

"See, there’s no good reason for you not to come back," she said soothingly. "Other than how Ron might react, of course, and you know Ron – it might be a long time before he’s willing to see either of us."

Harry flinched when she reminded him of what he was losing – he hoped temporarily – to be with her. "But what about the rest of his family? I reckon I can’t avoid all of them forever."

"No, you can’t. Nor can I." She paused, biting her lower lip as she considered Harry’s dilemma. "Listen… Ron said he wouldn’t tell his family exactly why we broke up. You and I are already honorary Weasleys. Molly and Arthur will expect to see both of us occasionally. We’ll just find a way to visit when Ron’s not there."

Harry nodded morosely, then kissed her palm. "I should’ve known you’d be able to knock down all my objections."

Blushing, she lay her cheek against the back of his hand. "I’m highly motivated. I want you to come back with me."

As she rose to put her dishes in the sink, Harry pulled her toward him until she landed in his lap. Hermione’s mouth made a small "O" of surprise as her plate broke when it hit the floor.

"Harry!" she squealed as his arms wrapped around her middle and his lips found the spot behind her ear that drove her wild. He suddenly realized the best part about going back: he would have plenty of time to learn every inch of Hermione’s body. Something else struck him in that moment – something Hagrid said at the end of his traumatic fourth year at school.

"Harry?" she asked, seeing a change come over his face. He seemed calmer, more settled. "Are you okay?"

"I’m fine. Just thinking of something Hagrid told me a long time ago." He would try his best not to worry about what Ron, the Weasleys or anyone else thought about him and Hermione. "Whatever happens, happens, and we’ll take things as they come."

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