Something's Gotta Give

Herminia

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 01/03/2007
Last Updated: 01/03/2007
Status: completed

After the war, Harry and Hermione struggle to strike a new balance in their relationship.

Chapters

1. untitled

1. untitled

The war is over.

It's become her mantra.

The war is over. The war is over and he doesn't need her anymore, not even to fetch his coffee in the morning. Peacetime brings unexpected problems: for the first time in their life together, she's disposable. It's a horrible feeling, a gnawing pain in the pit of her stomach that refuses to go away.

She and Harry had vowed to start afresh after the war, renting a three-bedroom apartment in the city, picking out bath towels and dinnerware - novelties after a year-and-a-half of hunting Horcruxes and sleeping under the stars. They'd started over with the best of intentions, but the apartment was cramped and Ron was everywhere they turned: Ron propping his feet up on the table, Ron leaving his dirty laundry in a heap on the bathroom floor, Ron emptying the fridge at two o' clock in the morning…

Best intentions unceremoniously brushed aside, they've fallen into a rut.

* * * * *

It's been six months, Harry reminds himself -- as though he could ever forget, ever stop marking the days since Voldemort's downfall.

The victory parades and galas are long over and Harry Potter is forgotten too, in a way. Production stalled on a statue being erected of him in front of the Ministry of Magic over a month ago. Harry says it's better this way and he means it. He doesn't care for statues and commerative coins. He doesn't care about acting the hero in the public eye. He only cares what's on Hermione's mind and in her heart. She's always had a thing for heroes, Hermione has, and he likes to think that he's always been hers… but now the deed is done: Voldemort is dead and for the first time in his life, he is Harry, Just Harry. Rubbish With Girls Harry, he thinks grimly. He can't bask in his moment of triumph forever. It's been six months, he tells himself again, and already he's just another has-been they pull out of the broom closet for ribbon cuttings and commencement speeches. He's an object of interest, surely, but no hero anymore. Not as long as he spends his day at the Quidditch Pitch, watching Ron train.

* * * * * *

Hermione has to remind herself that Quidditch is good for him; it takes his mind off things, even though he comes home already fed and watered and collapses on the couch to sleep, without even bothering to kick off his tattered sneakers. She tries to reassure herself that Harry only wants to live an ordinary life. She wants this for him. Normalcy. Hermione is fond of saying that she's never met The Chosen One; his fame as always been an ungainly appendage in her eyes, a hurdle to be overcome -- not an altar to worship at, but day after day, she starts to worry - what if Harry doesn't feel the same way? What if he doesn't want to write off this chapter of his life? What if he wants it to linger? She even wonders vaguely if there's Someone Else in his life: some simpering fan, some gold-digger, someone prettier than Hermione - prettier and less complicated, someone who encourages him to take back the spotlight, to soak up all the glory the Wizarding World owes him…

She'd always thought that when all was said and done, they'd pick up where they left off. But as time passes and nothing changes, she's beginning to cast off her delusions.

He catches her as she's retreating to her room for the night, Harry in his too-short pajama bottoms, Hermione in a faded, flimsy nightgown, toothbrush in hand. “Hermione?”

She pauses, resting her forehead against the doorframe and waiting for the words she fears will come: “Hermione, this isn't working. We should move on. Give up. It's not worth it.” She knows something's got to give.

“Hermione, I—I—” He plunges his hands into his pockets and stares fixedly at the raggedy patch of carpeting between them. “I think we should date,” he says, finishing in a rush, “You. Me. As a couple. Roses and chocolates and—” he pauses, brow knit in thought, “and whatever else people do. When they date. When life is normal.”

“I—okay,” she replies, caught off guard.

“I'll pick you up at seven o' clock tomorrow night,” he adds, a hint of a grin playing across his lips. They can both sense the irony of him picking her up for a date at her bedroom door, the one with the SPEW petition tacked to the front, just for old time's sake. A smile spreads unchecked across his face, as though he can read her mind as she's thinking all these things and then -- just as suddenly -- he's a step ahead of her. Before she knows exactly what's happening, he's closed the space between them and is pressing his lips to hers, an experimental move that reminds them both of how things used to be: love in wartime, love on a tight timetable. .

“Until then,” she murmurs, raising her fingertips to her scorched lips.

The fire still burns.

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