The Beginning

Bingblot

Rating: G
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 22/07/2007
Last Updated: 22/07/2007
Status: completed

He should be happy; he was with Ginny, living his happily-ever-after-- wasn't he? Harry realizes there's something wrong. One-shot.

Chapters

1. The Beginning

1. The Beginning

Disclaimer: It should be absolutely obvious now that I am not JKR and, in fact, rather heartily hate the woman.

Author’s Note: A short one-shot written before DH as a way of preparing for the worst (only the worst I imagined was not nearly as bad as the reality…)

The Beginning

There was something wrong.

Harry wasn’t happy.

He should be happy, he thought. He should. He was sitting on the couch with Ginny curled up next to him after a snogging session. One of the bi-weekly Weasley family dinners which Mrs. Weasley insisted on holding now (Mrs. Weasley’s maternal caring and devotion to her family had only been increased after having lost two of her sons—three by some standards—and so she insisted that they all have dinner together at least once every two weeks, all always including Harry and Hermione as a matter of course now.)

It had been a good dinner, as Mrs. Weasley’s dinners always were, and now, finally, several months later, Harry no longer felt quite so stifled with guilt when he was with them. He no longer saw Ron in the face of every member of his family. The Weasleys were still mourning Ron and Charlie but they were recovering too with the resilience that came from having a loving family—and Harry was seeing firsthand just what a difference having a family would make. It was something he’d never seen before the Weasleys since he didn’t count the Dursleys as being happy. (Oh they didn’t fight and certainly Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia doted on Dudley but he discounted that as it wasn’t accompanied with any real kindness and Dudley was a disgusting specimen of humanity anyway).

It had a charm he hadn’t quite considered before but he was never with the Weasleys now without marveling at their solidarity in spite of everything—and marveling that he was a part of it now.

He should be happy. He had been absorbed into the Weasleys and Voldemort was gone and defeated, the wizarding world slowly but surely putting itself to rights again. And he was with Ginny.

It had all happened almost exactly as he’d wanted. If it weren’t for Ron and Charlie—and Sirius and Dumbledore—being gone, it would be exactly as he’d wanted, wished for it to be.

He still mourned Ron, missed him so much at times it felt like a physical pain, but the pain was less now, more bittersweet.

He should be happy. He had Ginny and Ginny was everything he’d ever wanted…

Wasn’t she?

Was she really?

And that was the problem.

He should be happy—but he wasn’t.

More and more, he found himself making up excuses to avoid seeing Ginny; more and more he found himself feeling restless, edgy, dissatisfied. And when he was with her, he found that it took effort for him to even pretend to be happy to be with her; it took effort not to let his edginess show. More and more, he was beginning to feel like an actor in his own life, playing the part of being happy, of being the victorious hero in his happily ever after.

And tonight it was worse than usual.

The dinner had been over and Ginny had, as usual, slipped her arm through his and led him off to another room ostensibly to talk to him but really to kiss him. (Mrs. Weasley winked at this procedure. In all honesty, she was so delighted at Harry and Ginny’s relationship that she did almost everything short of pushing them into bed together to encourage the relationship—and Harry sometimes felt a stab of pain at the thought because he could guess how Ron would laugh at it. He could see the way Ron would wriggle his eyebrows in mock suggestiveness at one of Mrs. Weasley’s not-quite-subtle hints; he knew the way Ron would poke gentle fun at Mrs. Weasley for match-making—and at those times, he really did miss Ron so much it felt like he was missing a limb.)

It was what usually happened. He would get dragged off. Bill and Fleur would make their excuses. Fred and George would go off to make some more mischief. Mr. Weasley would disappear into his shed to tinker with his Muggle devices. Mrs. Weasley would clean up, helped by Hermione, before Hermione also made her excuses and left.

But today, today somehow, it felt—wrong.

He wasn’t sure exactly why—or no, he was. He knew why today felt different.

It was because of Hermione. It was because he’d somehow caught a glimpse of Hermione’s expression as he left with Ginny—and the look in her eyes had stabbed at him, tore at his chest.

It wasn’t that it was a particularly sad look—he knew no one else would have noticed it; no one else would have seen anything but the smile on her face. But he knew Hermione too well now (even better after these past few months of sharing a flat with her), was too attuned to her. And the look bothered him.

It had stayed in his mind even while Ginny was kissing him, had refused to leave even when he tried to focus on Ginny and her lips on his.

But he couldn’t.

He’d cut short Ginny’s kisses for precisely that reason, almost before the kisses had begun, had shifted away until Ginny had ended up curled up next to him, leaning against him.

He should be happy—spending this quiet time with Ginny, surely he should be happy—but he wasn’t.

He could still see Hermione, still see that look in her eye. Not of sadness, not of jealousy but something more elusive than that. Something—almost like resignation, perhaps? Something—and he’d wondered, with the flare of pain that usually accompanied thoughts of Ron, if Hermione was thinking of Ron, wondering whether she and Ron would be sneaking off to snog too if Ron were around.

And for some reason, it had struck him fully just how—alone—Hermione was. He’d never thought it before; Hermione was as much a part of these dinners as he was. She got along well with Mr. Weasley and Bill and Fleur and could laugh and talk with the twins. But at the end, he’d thought suddenly—she was alone.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were a natural unit, as were Fred and George. Bill and Fleur, too, were a couple. He and Ginny…

And that left Hermione.

God, what was he doing? He was suddenly swamped with a tidal wave of guilt and self-disgust. He was Hermione’s best friend; he should be with Hermione now.

He wanted to be with Hermione.

He stopped, the thought taking him by surprise as he recognized its truth. He did want to be with Hermione. And he didn’t want to be with Ginny.

He didn’t know how he hadn’t thought it or realized it before but it was true. Had been true for months now—had always been true, even.

He would rather spend time with Hermione than with Ginny.

Ginny was pretty and- and cute and fun to be with (at least, usually)—and he cared about her—he did. But in the end, he couldn’t talk to Ginny, not really. He liked to snog Ginny, explore her body—but he didn’t really talk to her.

And oddly, he hadn’t really noticed it until now because, he realized with a shock, he always talked to Hermione. He was used to it now. He snogged Ginny—but in the end, when he simply wanted to talk or when he just wanted to be quiet, when he was troubled, he had always had Hermione. So he’d never felt a lack of any kind in his life.

And it was only now that he realized, wondered—shouldn’t it be different? If he were really with Ginny, if Ginny really was all he wanted, shouldn’t he want to spend more time with Ginny than with anyone else he knew?

What was he doing? Snogging Ginny when Hermione was left alone and was unhappy over something? Snogging Ginny when he didn’t even really want to be with Ginny? Snogging Ginny—when all he could think about, all he could see in his mind’s eye was that expression on Hermione’s face that had torn at his heart.

What was he doing here when he didn’t really want to be here? Why was he here when he had to pretend to be happy with Ginny now, when he had to pretend that all was the way it should be?

He gently disengaged himself from Ginny and stood up. “I have to go, Ginny.”

Ginny stared at him in surprise. “So early? But Harry, it’s not even 8 yet. Why do you have to leave so early?”

He could hardly blame her for her surprise. After all, he usually stayed at the Burrow after one of these dinners until past 9 at night.

“I’m sorry but Hermione’s had a tough week so I don’t want to leave her alone,” he said, only half-truthfully. It was true that Hermione had not had the best of weeks, having come home discouraged from her training at St. Mungo’s, but that had been two days ago and Hermione had been her usual self yesterday and today.

“Oh, Hermione!” Ginny scoffed rather dismissively, he thought with shock, staring at her. “She’s always clinging to you as if she can’t do anything on her own.”

The utter injustice of it stung him to irritation. “That’s not true. Hermione’s never asked me to stay around just for her, but I do anyway, because she’s my best friend.”

Really, it was laughable how wrong about her Ginny was. He could only wonder how it was possible for Ginny to obviously be so utterly blind about Hermione.

“She’s your friend; that doesn’t mean she can monopolize your life.”

“She doesn’t! She wouldn’t ask—she didn’t ask me to get back to the flat early but I want to.”

“Oh, Hermione, Hermione! It’s always Hermione to you, isn’t it, Harry? You’re always saying you need to spend time with Hermione for some reason or another! Why do you care so much about her?”

He stared. He could hardly believe the words that were coming out of Ginny’s mouth. He knew she was angry—with some reason—but that didn’t make her words okay. Although, he had to admit, that she was partially right. He did tend to use Hermione as an excuse—admittedly a truthful excuse—when he simply didn’t feel like seeing Ginny or any of the Weasleys, or anyone else, for that matter. Days when he was tired, days after one of his nightmare-haunted nights when he didn’t sleep and stayed awake for most of the night. Hermione was the only person he wanted to be around then.

“She’s my best friend. Without Ron, don’t you see, she’s all I have now? She’s my only best friend now.”

“She’s all you have now,” Ginny repeated slowly, flatly, and he realized belatedly how that had sounded. And yet… it really was true…

“What about me, Harry? What am I?”

He sighed. “I don’t know, Ginny.”

“You don’t--” Ginny stopped, paling as her eyes narrowed. “You don’t know—but you know that Hermione is all you have now? God, Harry, how can you say that?”

“Because Ron isn’t here anymore!” he burst out. “Because we both lost our best friend!” He didn’t add that Ron had been something more than Hermione’s best friend—not quite her boyfriend, in all the chaos and darkness of the last year, there hadn’t been time for that, but he knew that Ron had been more than Hermione’s best friend.

“I lost my brother!”

Harry suddenly hated himself but he knew what he had to do. For the first time in what felt like months, he knew what he needed to do. “I know, but you have your family. Hermione doesn’t; her parents don’t know; they can’t understand. Don’t you see, Ginny, I’m all she has—and she’s all I have too?”

Ginny blinked back sudden tears. “But, Harry, I waited for you. I waited for you and it was always supposed to be us, wasn’t it?”

He sighed again. “I don’t know,” he admitted again. Maybe—in some way, in some other world—it had always been supposed to be him and Ginny. But now, in this world, it wasn’t; it couldn’t be… Because Hermione came first for him—she always had and he knew she always would. “But I don’t think so, Ginny, not anymore.”

“Then that’s it?”

“I’m sorry, Ginny,” he said softly. “I really am.”

He hated himself; he could hardly stand to look at her, see the tears in her eyes and know that he had done that to her.

But he hadn’t been able to do anything else. He had to tell her; it would have been more wrong to keep on as they had been and not tell her.

And when he walked out of the Burrow, he wondered rather bleakly, when he would return again—would he even be welcome again? But even as he wondered it, he knew that he’d made the only decision he could have.

It hurt, to think he might have lost the Weasleys—it did. But he knew now that what he really needed, what he really wanted, was Hermione. She was all he had—and all he really needed…

Hermione looked up in surprise as Harry entered their flat. “Harry, what are you doing back so early?”

For a fleeting second, he hesitated and then finally answered, “I- I wanted to make sure you were okay. There was an odd look on your face earlier and I was worried.”

“Oh, Harry,” she sighed. “You didn’t have to do that. I’m fine; really I am. I hate that you cut your evening short just for me when it’s nothing.”

He threw himself into his usual spot on the couch and looked at her. “Too late for that now. What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” she insisted.

He only waited, studying her, until she relented with something of a sigh. “I was just thinking of Ron, wondering where he is now, what he would think if he were here. I was missing Ron.” She stopped, not adding that for once, she hadn’t been missing Ron for Ron so much as she’d been missing another person to be with. In a world where things naturally seemed to end up in pairs, two by two, she was alone and for a fleeting moment that evening, she had missed Ron as the person who would have completed a pair with her. Not for the first time, she’d thought that if Ron were there, then she too would have someone to go off to a corner with and talk to, snuggle with—and she wouldn’t be alone.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I thought you might be. I was thinking of him too. I always think of him when I’m there.”

“I know.” Her voice was quiet, understanding. For a moment, they were both silent, lost in their own thoughts, but then she added, her voice brisk, as if trying to shake off the melancholy, “I’m sorry you had to cut short your evening with Ginny. I know you don’t spend enough time with her.”

“No, it’s okay. I- I realized…” he trailed off, hesitated, and then he met her eyes squarely as he finished, “I realized that I’d rather be here with you anyway.”

“Really?”

“Of course, really,” he said with an attempt at lightness. “Do you think I moved in with you because I had nothing better to do?” He sobered. “You’re my best friend. Of course I’d rather be with you.”

She smiled a little. “I’m glad,” she said simply.

And that was all.

They sat there in comfortable companionship for the rest of the evening, occasionally speaking when they wanted to, silent when they wanted to be.

Harry studied her as she read her book, savoring the peace and the contentment of the evening, settling over them both like a blanket. This was really what he liked best, he sometimes thought. He liked how he didn’t need to talk when he was with Hermione; he didn’t need to pretend to be more light-hearted or energetic than he was (unlike how he usually felt with Ginny). He liked how he could just be himself. He was just- happy with her…

It was several hours later when she finally stood up, putting her book away. “I’m going to go to bed now.”

“Hermione,” he stopped her with a word and with a hand on her arm as she turned to go to her own room.

She paused, looking at him.

“Good night,” he said softly—and brushed his lips ever so lightly against hers.

He heard her slight intake of breath before she replied. “Good night, Harry.”

She left then, closing her door behind her. He stood there, wondering, realizing that he could still feel the warmth of Hermione’s lips against his, still feel the softness of her lips, brief as the touch had been.

It had been an impulse, a crazy impulse perhaps, but he had done it. It had been the softest, lightest of kisses, hardly more than what might happen between best friends.

But it had happened—with all its significance and all it could have meant, all it did mean… He wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted. It was still too soon; he and Ginny had only ended hours ago. He didn’t know exactly what he felt for Hermione, other than knowing he was happy when he was with her and would rather spend time with Hermione than anyone else he knew. He didn’t know exactly why he’d kissed Hermione; he just knew at that moment, he’d wanted to tell her how much he cared, that he was happy with her… It had been an impulse born of the moment.

It had happened-- and Harry knew, somehow, some way, that it had been a beginning. A beginning of what, he didn’t quite know yet, but it had, nevertheless, been a beginning…

~The End~