Cold Feet

One day you look at the person and see more than you did the night before, like a switch was flicked somewhere. And the person who was just a friend is suddenly the only person you can imagine yourself with.

“The Rain King” ~ The X-Files

~*~

Hermione baulked as they approached the ornately carved door in Diagon Alley. “I’m not sure this is a very good idea.”

“You promised you’d help me.”

She gave him a pleading look. “But not with this, Harry,” she protested, looking at the glittering trays in the jewellers’ window. “Shouldn’t this be something you and Gin do together?”

“We have,” he said, unable to keep a twinge of weariness out of his voice. “Twice now.”

“And you didn’t find anything you liked?”

“I did.” He gave her a rueful smile, knowing she’d understand without him actually having to say anything more.

She did. “Ah.” They shared a grin, then she slipped her hands into the back pockets of her dark trousers. “Well, you know girls. Sometimes it takes us a long time to make up our minds.”

You’re not like that, he suddenly wanted to say, but stopped himself. It didn’t feel right to be comparing Hermione to Ginny, even if it was only in his head. Even if, he thought with more than a twinge of guilt, it seemed to be happening more and more often lately.

He watched her as she peered through the window, her attention captured by the glittering stones in spite her protests, and knew that despite what she’d said, he really didn’t know girls at all. Well, he knew Hermione, he amended, but she was his best friend. Ginny was so much more of a mystery to him, but surely that was a good thing when you were planning to spend the rest of your life getting to know someone, wasn’t it?

“Well, if you’re determined to make me do this, let’s do it,” Hermione announced, drawing his attention back to the here and now. He followed her as she headed towards the door, his feet suddenly feeling as though they’d rather go in any direction but the one in which he was walking.

The uniformed doorman – Woodkins was the most exclusive Wizard jewellers in London, according to Ginny – dipped his hat as he opened the door to them, and beside him he heard the familiar sound of Hermione trying to stifle a giggle. He grinned, then did his best to look dignified as they walked through the doorway. After all, he told himself sternly, they were twenty-four years old, not fourteen.

The tall brown-haired man he’d seen during his last visit here with Ginny came swooping towards them, beaming. “Mr. Potter, how delightful to see you again!” he crooned, then turned to Hermione, “And Miss-” he broke off abruptly, looking confused.

“Granger,” Hermione supplied helpfully. “And it’s Ms., actually.”

The man – his name was Richard, Harry suddenly remembered - looked at her, then he looked at Harry, then he coughed delicately. “Am I to understand that-” he paused, casting another significant glance at both of them in turn, his eyebrows raised so high they almost vanished into his hairline.

Harry stared at him, then he felt his face flush as he realised exactly what he was implying, and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it earlier. “Miss Granger is one of my best friends,” he hastened to explain, ignoring Hermione’s finger poking him in his ribs. “She’s here to help me find the perfect ring for Miss Weasley.”

Richard’s face cleared. “Ah, trés bien!” he exclaimed, and Harry could almost feel Hermione rolling her eyes. “Please, come right this way.”

As he scuttled away, Hermione put her lips to Harry’s ear and whispered, “If he’s French, then I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

Harry choked back a strangled laugh, then forgot about laughing as the brush of her lips against his ear sent a ripple of goosebumps dancing up the back of his neck, making every single hair stand on end.

What the bloody hell?

Startled, he pulled away from her, and she shot him a curious look. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head, but it didn’t help. He could still feel the touch of her lips on his skin and that didn’t make sense because it was Hermione and, well, he didn’t feel that way about her. He frowned, feeling as though he’d just missed something quite important and his thoughts were fumbling to catch up. “Nothing,”

Something.

Everything.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Richard beckoning to them to join him at one of the larger display cases in the shop, and gratefully seized the distraction. “Come on,” he muttered to Hermione, almost flinching when she wrapped her hand around his elbow as she walked behind him. It was something she’d done ever since he’d known her, usually trying to stop him from doing something blatantly foolhardy, as she’d once laughingly put it. It was a gesture that should have felt utterly familiar and completely routine, so why did he feel as though his arm was tingling?

Five minutes later, he was hopelessly confused, and not just about the rings. Beside him, Hermione was chatting easily about carats and settings, but all he really noticed was that her shoulder was pressed against his as they leaned over the glass-topped display case. He could feel the warmth of her skin through both her summer jumper and his shirt, and he had no idea why it bothered him so much because it was Hermione and he couldn’t remember ever thinking about the warmth of her skin or – he frowned as she leaned a little closer – the fresh scent of her hair.

“What do you think, Harry?”

He blinked. “Sorry, what?” he muttered, his eyes snapping back into focus to find both Hermione and Richard looking at him expectantly.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “About these?” she asks with more than a touch of irritation.

He looked at the tray she’d pushed in front of him, and his heart sank. They’re beautiful rings, every single one of them – he’d been right to ask for Hermione’s help - but he was quite sure they’re also rings Ginny had dismissed on their last visit as not being ‘quite right’. “Um, I’m not sure.”

Hermione turned to the man waiting anxiously on the other side of the display case. “Could we have a moment, please?”

Richard nodded. “Certainly.” He smiled with studied politeness, then faded discreetly toward another browsing customer while still managing to keep one eye on them, as if waiting to spring back into action at the slightest hint of a decision.

Hermione sighed, one fingertip trailing along the edge of the velvet-lined tray in front of them. “What’s the matter, Harry?”

He looked at her - really looked at her – for what felt like a very long time. He looked at her and it was as though someone had flipped a switch in his head, shining a bright light on what he’d thought was familiar and safe but he realised now was something completely different. He looked at her, and the shock of realisation that rushed through him was both terrifying and exhilarating.

He wanted her.

Not just her friendship, not just to have her in his life.

He wanted all of her.

Oh, God.

This was bad.

This was very, very bad.

Feeling faintly light-headed, he put both hands on the display case, his fingertips flexing against the sparklingly clear glass. She had been his best friend for so long that what he was thinking right now should be ludicrous. He should be absolutely horrified about what he was thinking because he knew he was about to hopelessly and irrevocably complicate his life, but he didn’t. All he could think was that this was something that had been inside him for years, just waiting for the right time to burst into life, and it was something he suddenly wanted very, very much. “You were right.”

She frowned. “About what?”

Hardly anything was making much sense right now, but at least he had finally figured out one very important thing. “About this being not a very good idea.”

An injured expression flickered across her face. “I thought you wanted my help.”

He shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s not you. It’s just-” The words stumbled and faltered on his tongue because how could he possibly tell her that he’d just realised that everything he thought was right was all wrong?

She looked at him for a moment, her expression quietly serious, then she turns and gives a hovering Richard a discreet wave. He was back behind the display case in the blink of an eye, his eyes bright with anticipation. “We might have to come back another time,” Hermione told him quietly. “I think we really need to have Miss Weasley here to decide.”

“But, of course, Miss Granger.” He glanced at Harry, his expression a battleground as disappointment warred with obsequiousness, then he smiled. “Hopefully, we’ll see you again soon, Mr. Potter.”

“Thank you,” Harry said automatically, trying not to think of the prospect of paying a fourth visit to a place that suddenly made him feel as though he’d been covered in itching powder. “I’m sure you will.”

~*~

Fifteen minutes later, Hermione put down her half-empty coffee cup and fixed him with a worried but determined stare. “Do you want to tell me what that was all about?”

They had left Diagon Alley and were now sitting in one of her favourite Muggle coffee houses in the middle of London. Once they’d left Woodkins, she’d grabbed hold of his arm and told him that they were going for coffee – and possibly cake, she’d added as an afterthought – and he hadn’t had the strength to resist. If he were perfectly honest with himself, he hadn’t wanted to resist, which made things even worse, and now they were sitting in a corner booth that was private enough to make him nervous.

And <i>that</i>, he thought with growing despair, was enough to make him want to drop his head into his hands and wish he knew what the hell was going on, because this was Hermione and being nervous around her was definitely not something he was supposed to feel. “I’m not sure.”

She gave him a scathing look he recognises from the days of admitting he hadn’t done his homework, then sighed as she picked up her spoon and began to stir her already sugared coffee. “May I ask you something?”

He watched the spoon as she gracefully swirled it in an ever-decreasing circle, and wondered when it had become difficult to meet her eyes. “Sure.”

“What made you decide to ask Ginny to marry you?”

Startled, he looked up at her. “I don’t know.”

She gave him an odd little smile. “That’s not very flattering to Gin, Harry.”

“Sorry, it’s just that-” How could he say that every single person he knew seemed to have been waiting for this very thing since the moment he and Ginny started dating? The Weasleys, the members of the Order. Everyone.

Taking a deep breath, he did his best to explain. “Every single person I know – and everyone I don’t - seems to expect an announcement every time they see us together.” Hermione stayed silent, and he couldn’t resist adding, “Even you, Hermione.”

Her eyes widen as she opened her mouth to speak, before shutting it again, pressing her lips into a tight line. She looked down at her coffee cup, her voice oddly strained. “Surely that’s not the only reason.”

He felt his face grow hot. “Of course it’s not.” His thoughts were suddenly as scrambled as though he’d been hit with a Confundus charm. “There are lots of reasons why I asked her,” he said a shade too loudly, wanting very much to be able to recite a dozen reasons why he’d decided that Ginny was the person he wanted to be with for the rest of his life.

But the words didn’t come and he knew then that he was a very bad person because all he could think about was the fact that Hermione’s knee kept bumping his under the small table and that he could still smell her perfume despite the heavy scent of freshly ground coffee beans.

“I know you think we all expect the two of you to get married, but honestly, Harry,” she looked up at him, the tip of her nose faintly pink, “You and Ginny have broken up and got back together so many times, it’s actually been a bit hard to keep up.”

He nodded, not quite knowing to what he was agreeing, watching the curve of her lips as she spoke, hating himself for it and yet unable to stop. You love Ginny, he told himself fiercely. You’ve loved her since you were sixteen years old.

It doesn’t work.

“Did you like any of those rings?” he heard himself ask abruptly, and he wasn’t sure which one of them was more shocked by the question. Once again, Hermione’s brown eyes widened. They shared a glance that lasted long enough to make his heart begin to thump against his ribs, then she shrugged.

“I thought they were all very beautiful.”

“If you were getting married,” he persisted, still at a loss as to what the hell he was doing, but clinging to the one thing that had never let him down – his gut instinct. “Would you want to choose your own ring to make sure it was just right?”

Her face turned pink, matching the tip of her nose. “I- I’ve never thought about it.”

Her answer surprised him. She and Ron had had a memorably tumultuous almost-two-year relationship after they’d left school, and Harry had always thought it had been quite serious. He doesn’t want to mention Ron now, though, because that’s just one more reminder of everything he was about jeopardise. “But?”

“But I suppose,” she said softly, not quite meeting his eyes, “that I’d like to think the other person knew me well enough to be able to find one that was just right.” She had stopped stirring her coffee, but she was still gripping the spoon, holding it so tight that her fingertips were turning white.

Harry sat back in his seat, feeling as though the breath was being squeezed out of his lungs. “That’s what I think, too.”

She put the spoon down on the table with a faint clunk, then said in a small voice, still not quite meeting his eyes. “This isn’t just about a ring, is it?”

“No.” He looked at her - at the quiet beauty of her face, the dark eyes that were both familiar and enigmatic – and, for the first time in a long time, he knew exactly what he wanted to do. “It’s about me and Ginny being wrong for each other.”

Her head snapped up. “Oh, Harry, I’m sure that you’re just having cold feet,” she insisted with a smile that looked more than a little forced, “After all, they do say-”

“Actually, it’s not really about me and Ginny.” He didn’t bother glancing around the coffeehouse before he reached across the table for her hand. Not only was their booth rather secluded, he realised that he really didn’t care about prying eyes. “This is about you, too.”

She pulled her hand away, out of his reach, her eyes suddenly glittering. “Don’t,” she whispered almost angrily. “Whatever it is that you’re about to say, just don’t.”

He stared at her. “Why not?”

“Because you are happy with Ginny,” she shot back, each word clipped and brittle, as though she was biting them out through clenched teeth. “You’re happy, Harry, and that’s good enough for me.”

“It’s not enough for me, not anymore.” Scarcely able to believe what he was saying - this morning everything had been so normal - let alone doing, he reached for her hand again. This time, she didn’t pull away. Their fingers tangled as the warmth of her palm fitted against his, and his mouth went dry. He’d held her hand half a dozen times in the last year alone, but it had never made him feel as though a fire had been lit in the pit of his stomach. “And it shouldn’t be good enough for you, either.”

Her face froze. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I do.”

“No.” She shook her head almost violently, hard enough to make several long toffee-coloured curls escape from her loose ponytail, her hand flexing in his as though she wanted to pull away but couldn’t make herself do it. “It’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t think so,” he said calmly, amazed that he could sound matter-of-fact when his heart was hammering so loudly he was quite sure she could hear it. “In fact, I think this is the most sensible thing I’ve done in years.”

Hermione went pale. “What about Ginny?!” She threw the words at him with an angry desperation. “You asked her to marry you!”

“I can’t marry her if she’s not the person I want to be with,” he muttered urgently, gripping her hand tighter, suddenly fighting the urge to lean across the table and kiss her shock-parted lips. “That’s not fair on any of us!”

The words hung in the air between them. “Any of us?” Her throat worked as she swallowed hard. “What exactly are you saying, Harry?” she whispered unsteadily. Her gaze finally locked with his, and what he saw in her eyes made his heart leap and his willpower crumple into dust. Giving up - giving in - he leaned across the small table and kissed her.

He kissed her in the way he’d never, ever dreamed he would, and the feel of her mouth against his was the answer to every question he’d never asked. She tasted of warm coffee and sugar and he kissed her harder, the blood roaring in his ears, liquid heat sliding through his veins as his whole body tightened with a sudden, shocking hunger.

She made a small, soft sound in the back of her throat, then her mouth opened under his like a flower, returning his kiss with a fierceness that made him want to sweep their coffee cups to the floor and haul her across the small wooden table.

Then her hands were suddenly on his chest and she was gently pushing him away. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was grateful, because they were in a public place and there were many things that needed to be said and done before this – whatever this was – could go any further.

Feeling as though he’d just played a full game of Quidditch – and won – he looked at her and saw the truth of what was between them shimmering in her eyes. “That’s what I’m saying,” he said softly, lifting his hands to cup her face, feeling the silky warmth of her skin against his palms.

“Very eloquent,” she quipped, her voice trembling with the same shocked realisation that was making him very glad he was sitting down. She drew back, putting a suitable ‘just friends’ distance between them, although it was already painfully obvious they would never be that again. “No room for misinterpretation,” she added, giving him a shy smile that made his stomach clench.

“I should hope not.”

Taking a long, shaky breath, she looked at him, her expression flickering between elation and distress, something he understood all too well. “This is going to be messy, isn’t it?”

He nodded, his heart sinking at the thought of what lay ahead if he did what every instinct in his head and his heart was telling him to do. He had loved Ginny since he was sixteen years old. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was to hurt her. The thought of her hating him, of the Weasleys turning their backs on him, was almost too awful to consider. But the alternative was pretending that today hadn’t happened, and that simply wasn’t an option.

He would be seen as the villain, but that didn’t worry him – it was nothing he hadn’t faced before, after all. However, the prospect of both Hermione and Ginny being dragged through what he knew would be a very public scandal was horrifying. Messy suddenly seemed the biggest understatement ever uttered in the history of mankind.

“Yes,” he admitted. “It’s going to be awkward and messy and painful and everyone is going to be talking about it.” He reached for her hand once more, shocked all over again by the perfect fit of her palm against his. “And I still want to do it anyway.” He caught her eyes with his, desperately trying to see everything she wasn’t saying, desperately hoping that he hadn’t totally misread her. “Do you?”

She stared at him, and he saw the fear in her eyes, the same conflicting emotions that were careening around inside him. She was silent for so long that he began to feel sick, then she smiled, the feel of her hand curling around his making his heart take flight. “Yes, I do.”

~*~