Disclaimer: See Part 1.
Author's Note: *looks out cautiously* I said that the last part was the end-and it was-but I also wrote this, an alternative ending and you can pick the ending you like. An AU ending-a happier ending. Takes off after the first scene in Part 2 and I think you'll all see where this diverges with what happened in Part 2. Thank you, all, for reading and reviewing. Enjoy!
What Could Be
Part 2b: For Happiness
He looked quite as miserable and conflicted as she felt, she noticed with a pang, when she opened the door to his knock that was, somehow, both uncertain and hurried (as if he'd been hesitating at the door before finally deciding to knock) at once. (And then she wondered when she'd gotten so fanciful to read his state of mind through his knocks.)
She stepped back hastily as he hovered barely inside the door, just looking at her with a look that made her insides quiver and drew her towards him with a force as compelling as gravity. She wrapped her arms protectively around her middle, increasing the distance between them. "Don't touch me," she pleaded, although he hadn't moved, "I can't think straight when you touch me."
Something flickered in his eyes that might have been a smile if it hadn't also been tinged with so much melancholy it made her heart ache.
"That makes two of us, then," he admitted.
Silence fell, stretched, for a long few minutes after his confession before he finally broke it by bursting out, "I can't do this."
And even though she'd already known-or thought she'd known what they'd have to do-forget-she flinched a little and felt a ridiculous pang of hurt.
But then he continued on, speaking rather recklessly as if the words were impelled from him almost against his will, "I can't give this up. I can't give you up. I don't want to hurt Ginny or- or Ron,"-his voice trembled slightly on Ron's name-"but I can't pretend this didn't happen. I can't give you up."
"But Harry, we can't." Her voice was almost a wail.
He flinched but met her eyes. "What choice do we have? Can you forget about this, about us?"
She shook her head, no, in a jerky movement, almost before she knew what she was going to do.
He looked at her for a long moment. She looked at him-and something inside her seemed to crumple, give way.
"I love you," he told her quietly.
Her breath caught in her throat. Those were at once the sweetest and the most painful words she'd ever heard.
"Do you love me?"
"Yes, oh yes, Harry," she burst out before she could think-but even if she had stopped to think, what else could she say? She did love him and she could not lie to him.
"Then how can we give this up? How?" His throat worked for a moment. "I can't do it," he said in a rough whisper.
She couldn't speak, couldn't move, only stared at him, and he stepped closer to her. "Give me your hand," he said simply.
Confused, she blinked before, slowly, she did.
She shouldn't touch him, she knew, even such a simple touch, but when he looked at her like that, when he spoke to her like that, she could no more deny him than she could walk on water. She had always known, somehow, that she would do anything for him; it was only now that she understood the full power and significance of that.
His hand closed around hers, not forcefully but gently, simply holding her hand in his.
The memory of his lips on her hand, what the touch of his lips to her palm and her wrist had done to her, flashed through her mind so vividly that her eyes closed for a fleeting second, her lips parting on an involuntary gasp.
She opened her eyes to see him watching her.
"Do you see? Do you feel it?" he asked rather hoarsely.
Her eyes fell from his to focus on their hands. How could something so simple as holding hands mean so much, be so much?
"How can I give this up when just holding your hand makes me happier than I've ever been?"
The question shattered her with its simplicity and its poignancy. And she knew she couldn't do it. Even if it was wrong-how could something so wrong feel so right?-even if it broke several hearts and caused untold amounts of pain-and it would-she could not do it.
"You can't. We can't." And with those words, she accepted their futures, with all its guilt and its pain and its sorrow-and all the possibility of so much more, the joy, the friendship, the (eventual) laughter, the passion, the trust, and all the potential of what could be, what would be…
He tightened his grip on her hand. His lips parted but all he said was one word. "Together."
The word was a promise. They would get through it together-as they always had.
~*~
Hermione returned home one evening to see Harry staring at a very ordinary, harmless-looking envelope on the table as if it were a poisonous snake poised to strike.
"It's only paper, Harry. I don't think it'll bite," she said teasingly.
He didn't laugh. "It might," he answered and looked up at her and her smile faded as she saw the expression in his eyes.
She felt a pang of cold dread. "What is it?"
"It arrived by owl just a few minutes ago," he said, flatly.
And she understood.
She dropped her purse and her jacket and her grocery bags carelessly on the floor, closing the distance between her and the table in a few short strides.
"It's not Professor McGonagall's handwriting," she noted and wasn't sure whether it was with relief or not. (McGonagall was the only person in the wizarding world who actually knew where they were-in case anything happened where Harry would need to come back. Her parents knew but, other than that, no one else did-and her parents would not send an owl.)
"I know."
He sounded so paralyzed and unlike himself that Hermione momentarily forgot the letter entirely and turned to hug him.
His arms went around her with enough force to push the breath from her body as, for a moment, he simply held her.
"God, Hermione, an owl, it's an owl…" He didn't say anything more, just tried to catch his breath in deep gulps of air as he tried to calm himself. But he clutched her with the sort of desperation she hadn't felt from him in years.
This owl had completely shattered the harmony and quiet of their lives for the past years and done it with a swiftness that almost frightened her.
And for a fleeting moment, she almost resented it. Because they had been happy. In spite of the guilt and the moments of missing everyone they'd left behind; in spite of the dreams of times past that sometimes haunted them, they had been happy. And they had known with every day that went by, every morning that they woke up to see the other's face, that they had made the right decision.
They had cut themselves off from their home and their country and their best friends-and yet, somehow, it had been worth it.
It was worth it all, every moment of pain and guilt and the memories that haunted them. It was worth it for every time she smiled at him, worth it for every time his hand slipped into hers while they were walking, worth it for every kiss and every touch and every night spent in his arms. It was even worth it for the occasional disagreements they had-worth it because, even in anger, she valued the utter honesty of their relationship.
It was worth it-but that didn't make the pain of remembering any less. It didn't make the pain of missing their friends and family any less.
And now this owl had arrived, to shake up their hard-won peace.
She brushed her lips against his ear, his cheek, his lips. "Putting it off isn't going to solve anything."
His lips moved to capture hers again in a slow, lingering, possessive kiss that sent familiar heat spiraling through her body and stole her breath and her wits.
She tore her lips from his with a small gasp. "Harry! This isn't--" she let out an involuntary sigh as his tongue flicked lightly at the sensitive spot on her neck, "helping."
"Isn't it?" he breathed half-teasingly, half-seriously against her skin. "Kissing you always seems to help me."
She smiled in spite of herself even as she squirmed free of his arms. "Harry! The owl-remember?"
He gave in with a slight sigh. "I was hoping to distract you. I don't really want to open it."
She gave him a look that was at once amused and understanding and gently chiding at the same time, as she reached for the envelope and opened it.
It was a very plain, ordinary piece of parchment, covered in a handwriting that looked vaguely familiar to Harry but he didn't recognize it-and wondered if he were relieved or disappointed that it wasn't Ron's untidy scrawl.
"It's from Neville," Hermione said and he straightened.
"Neville!" He paused and then glanced down at where she was still looking at the letter. "You haven't even skipped to the end to see the signature yet. You recognize Neville's handwriting?"
"Mm," Hermione nodded absently. "From the times I helped him with homework."
And in spite of the tension and the nervousness, he couldn't help a slight smile. "Only you, Hermione, would remember his handwriting after all these years."
She glanced up at him. "Are you going to read the letter or not? It's addressed to you, you know."
He mentally shook himself for his own cowardice. It was a letter from Neville; it couldn't bite him and it was Neville-how harmful could it be?
He took the two sheets of parchment from her and slid into one of the chairs as she sat down beside him, looking at the letter over his shoulder.
Dear Harry,
I don't know if this owl will find you or not. I hope it does. I suppose I should admit that I'm writing to you in secret and I'm not entirely sure how Ginny will react when and if she finds out. If you don't receive this, then it doesn't matter and she'll never know. If you do-well, then, I guess it's up to you.
I'm sorry; that wasn't the most coherent beginning to a letter, was it? This is awkward for me-and I was never exactly the most gifted fellow with words to begin with. I suppose I should just blurt it out. I'm going to marry Ginny, Harry.
There, it's out.
You don't have to worry; I'm not writing to invite you to our wedding-well, not exactly. If you want to come, I, at least, won't mind. I can't promise how Ginny will react, though. She doesn't talk about you much. If at all. She is still angry-and hurt, too, I think-although I don't doubt that she loves me now.
I suppose I should hate you, for breaking the heart of the woman I love and all. I don't, if you're wondering. But I think it's easier for me because I wasn't involved with it and because, well, to be honest, I always rather thought you and Hermione would end up together anyway. Not that I didn't think she and Ron would be happy or that I wasn't happy for you and Ginny-but still, when I heard about you and Hermione, I didn't feel the surprise that I think a lot of people did. I'd known you two for so many years and I always thought there was something there. I don't know if I can explain it, really, don't know if I even need to, but I'll try. You and Hermione were always such friends, you know, Harry; I don't think you even realized it sometimes, how you were always turning to her when you needed something or how, whenever something happened, her first thought was always for you. You didn't see her face the night of the Third Task in our 4th year, obviously, but I did-and, well, even if it was just because of the look on her face that night alone, I don't think I would have been that surprised to hear about you and Hermione. [Harry turned to glance at Hermione, seeing the slight look of embarrassment and self-consciousness on her face, and slipped his hand into hers, squeezing it, before he continued.] All of this is just to say that I think I understand why you two did what you did.
Plus, I know you and Hermione well enough to understand that you would never have hurt Ron or Ginny unless you knew you really couldn't do anything else. I hope Hermione is well, by the way. I would say that I hope you're happy with her-and I do-but I don't think I need to; I'm sure you are.
I'm sorry this is such a disjointed letter but I didn't exactly plan it. I was just thinking about the wedding and I happened to think of you and decided to write to you.
I don't know if you'll feel comfortable coming, with all the Weasleys there. I can't even say how they'll all react to your coming. I think Mr. Weasley, Bill, Fleur, Charlie and George would be okay with it, but I don't know about Mrs. Weasley.
And as for Ron-I don't know about him either. But I don't think he's that angry at you anymore. Ginny and I were over at his flat for dinner with him and Luna (oh, yes, did you know that Ron and Luna are dating now? They started dating a few months ago and they seem really happy together.) a few nights ago and I saw a picture Ron had put up on the mantelpiece. It was of you, the three of you, one of Colin's pictures from about 5th year, I think. You're all smiling and you look happy; it's a nice picture. I don't think Ron would have that picture up if he was still angry with you. [Harry's fingers tightened automatically on the parchment, crumpling it slightly, before he forcibly relaxed his grip. "Oh, Ron…" he heard Hermione sigh and squeezed her hand briefly. He was afraid to hope that Ron might have forgiven him-but oh, how he wished he could believe it…]
I don't think he'd mind terribly if you and Hermione showed up for the wedding. I don't know if you and Hermione would want to, but I thought I'd mention it. We're getting married a month from now, on the last Saturday in August, at the Burrow, of course. It would be… nice… if you and Hermione could come-I think. I hope, at least.
Oh, yes, before I forget, Harry, thank you for that 'anonymous' tip to the French Aurors. That was you, wasn't it? I'm sure it was; it was too convenient a tip for it not to be-and I think I recognize your handiwork in your way of leaving them all trussed up and Stupefied but not physically harmed otherwise. Most official Aurors are rather rougher than that, you know. I suppose, because it was anonymous-as were all those other tips here and there to other European Ministries-that you don't want people to know and I won't tell, but I wanted to thank you anyway. It made things easier over here on our end, for sure. That gang had been making life annoying at the Ministry for a while because of their way of their harassment of all the British-born Muggle tourists in France and even some of the Muggle-born wizarding tourists. So, thank you. And thank Hermione as well, since I'm sure she helped you. Just like the old days, I guess.
I guess that really is all I wanted to say to you. Ginny and I are getting married and if you and Hermione wanted to show up, that might be nice. But on the other hand, if you'd be too uncomfortable, then I understand that too.
Take care, Harry and Hermione. I hope you're well and happy, wherever you are.
Neville
Harry let the letter fall from his fingers as he turned to look at Hermione. "Do you want to go?" he asked softly.
She looked at him as well, seeing the conflicting emotions in his eyes. She knew he wouldn't be entirely comfortable with seeing Ginny (even now, after so many years) but that was off-set by how much he missed Ron and would want to see Ron, especially with the hope provided by Neville's letter. "I think so," she replied softly.
"Do you think Ron will have forgiven us?"
"I don't know… I hope so but…" she trailed off, leaving unsaid what they both knew, that he had been so angry at them both and-what was worse-so hurt, almost as much by Harry's betrayal than he had been by Hermione's…
"I miss him," he said softly.
"I know. I do too."
"I'm just… afraid… What if he's still angry? What if he hates me?"
Hermione sighed, putting her arms around him, hating to see the pain in his eyes and hear it in his voice. "I don't think he hates you. We'll go and see. What's the worst that could happen? If he's still angry, then we'll come back here. It won't change us, you know that." She paused and then added teasingly, trying to coax a smile out of him, "You'll still be stuck with me for the rest of your life, and is that such a terrible fate?"
The ghost of a smile crossed his face as the shadows in his eyes lessened and he turned to pull her into his arms, burying his face in her hair. "It's the only fate I want, the best fate. As long as I still have you, it's enough."
She smiled softly. "And you'll always have me. So it can't be that bad, right?"
"Right."
She drew back just enough to meet his eyes. "Then, let's go home."
He managed a smile. "Yes, let's go home."
~
It had been so long, nearly five years now.
Harry found his throat full and his heart aching just at the sight of the familiar place where he'd spent so much time over the years, the place that had been, after Hogwarts, the first home he'd ever known. He glanced at Hermione, seeing some of the same wistfulness he felt reflected in her face, and slipped his hand into hers, gripping it, seeking and finding some renewed courage just from having her hand in his.
She was with him now, would always be with him-and she was his home. No matter what happened…
They lingered at the bottom of the hill, just within sight of the Burrow but not close enough to be particularly conspicuous to all the people mingling in the front yard.
It was late so most of the other people had already left; they had timed their arrival that way. They didn't want this first meeting (no matter what the outcome) to happen in public. So most of the heads in the front yard were Weasley red, along with Fleur's always distinctive shiny blond head and the fair hair of Luna and her father, as well as Neville's brown hair and the gray hair of his formidable grandmother.
Harry couldn't see Ginny (wasn't even sure he wanted to see Ginny) but his gaze arrowed straight to where Ron's familiar head was visible and then his breath caught in his throat as Ron began to make his way idly through the crowd, talking to Luna, Harry saw.
His throat closed on a pang of poignant regret mingled in with guilt and happiness, too, as he saw Ron grin and then laugh at something Luna said. God, it had been so long since he'd seen Ron grin- just look happy like that.
Automatically, his mind flashed back to that ghastly day, the last time he'd seen Ron. Hermione's tears, Ron going from pale with hurt to red with fury, tears glittering in his eyes as he looked from Hermione to Harry. Harry flinched at the memory and felt Hermione move closer to him as if she sensed it, felt it.
He never knew what made Ron suddenly lift his head and turn around-to look straight at them.
They had put on a glamour to somewhat disguise their appearance (not wanting to broadcast their presence). It wouldn't be enough to fool anyone who knew them and gave them much more than a passing glance but it was enough that anyone who only glanced at them in passing would move on and not recognize the Boy Who Lived and his equally famous best friend (and now, lover.)
So Harry now sported nondescript brown hair and brown eyes, his features somewhat changed to give him an entirely different expression and no glasses. Hermione had become a mousy blond, her nose somewhat lengthened, her lips thinned, her cheeks made plumper.
Even from that distance, Harry could see the way Ron stiffened, as doubt, incredulity, shock, hurt, anger all flashed over his face in swift succession, until it was replaced by wariness.
Slowly, Ron turned to Luna saying something, no doubt to excuse himself, and then he left, slipping away from the crowd, thankfully unnoticed.
Harry and Hermione stepped back within some trees, out of sight from everyone in the front yard. This first meeting with Ron should take place in private, just the three of them-the three of them as it had always been, until now.
Harry swallowed hard and released his grip on Hermione's hand. Ron knew that he and Hermione were together, of course, but there was no need to rub it in.
And then he was there, facing them, for the first time since their last terrible conversation (fight?).
And Harry's throat closed. He hadn't planned for this moment, hadn't planned what to say, had just hoped that something would occur to him on the spot.
Ron didn't speak, only looked from him to Hermione, in quick glances, as if he couldn't decide which of them was least painful to see.
The silence stretched, lingered, until finally Harry blurted out, absolutely inanely, "Hello, Ron."
"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" Ron demanded, his voice flat, all emotion leeched from it so there was no anger in his voice-but no warmth either.
"We- we wanted to see you," Hermione ventured, studying him, the boy, the man she knew so well-her first fancy, her first love, her best friend-and the ex-husband whose heart she'd trampled on. She flinched at the thought.
"Neville wrote us about him and Ginny," Harry finally managed to say. He didn't know this Ron, this cold stranger standing in front of them. He would have sworn he knew Ron better than anyone else except for Hermione-but then he would also have sworn that he would never have betrayed Ron the way he had.
"Neville," Ron repeated flatly, not with any surprise but in a resigned tone as if he should have guessed. "Ginny doesn't want to see you."
Harry nodded a little. "Okay." He hesitated and then he asked as if the question was compelled from him, "What about you? Do you-did you want to see us?"
Something flinched in Ron's eyes. "I don't know."
Hermione sighed softly. "Oh, Ron, we're so sorry…"
"Can you forgive us?" Harry asked, his voice so quiet it was hardly audible.
"I don't know that either," Ron said bluntly.
It was Harry's turn to flinch and his fingers reached out automatically for Hermione's.
Ron's eyes fell automatically to their joined hands, the sight oddly painful and yet almost comforting too-in a bitter way. It had been, he could see, a purely instinctive gesture; he doubted Harry was even aware of it but it was proof, if he'd needed it, of just how naturally Harry turned to Hermione, just how much Harry needed Hermione.
And what shook him to the core was the thought that it wasn't new. It had always been like this, really; Harry had always needed Hermione; there had always been that odd connection between them. It had been one of his fears for so many years and he hadn't been able to completely blot it out, even when he and Hermione had been dating, then engaged, then married; some tiny corner of his heart had still feared it, had still wondered… As if, somehow, in spite of everything, some part of him had almost known… that if Harry and Hermione ever stopped being platonic best friends, that would be the end of it. He hadn't admitted it to himself, had pushed it away, had denied it-but somehow, looking at their hands now, he couldn't help but think that Harry and Hermione had been skirting the edge of friendship and something more than that for years, long before anything had happened. And it would have taken very little, would have been so easy-just the work of a moment, a fleeting second, and that would be it.
It really was, he thought numbly with the clarity provided by a distance of more than four years, as if, in some tiny, unacknowledged corner of his heart, he hadn't expected his and Hermione's relationship to last forever. How could it-when Harry was there?
He finally looked up and met Harry's eyes. "I don't know if I can forgive you," he said with almost brutal honesty. "But I think…" he hesitated, looking at Hermione and then back at Harry again, "I think I miss my best friends more."
Harry sucked in his breath sharply.
And Hermione murmured, "Oh, Ron, we've missed you too."
Harry visibly hesitated before he stepped forward. "I am sorry, you know," he told Ron quietly.
For the first time in almost five years, Ron met Harry's eyes-and he saw the unspoken words, But I need her; I can't go on without her, in Harry's eyes as well. "Yeah," he finally said. "I know."
It was the closest he had come to accepting Harry's apology.
Harry stepped forward and put a tentative hand on Ron's shoulder, feeling Ron stiffen but he didn't step away, and Harry felt something settle, relax inside him.
His hand tightened around Hermione's, feeling her fingers return his grip, and knew she understood, as always, how he was feeling, the knot of emotion in his throat.
It wasn't everything; it wasn't perfect forgiveness or absolution-and maybe their friendship would never be-could never be-restored to what it had been before. But it was a beginning-and that was enough.
~The End~
Author's Note 2: Do you forgive me now?