What Could Be

Bingblot

Rating: NC17
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 7
Published: 01/08/2007
Last Updated: 05/08/2007
Status: completed

He could never tell how or why it happened; neither could she. But in the end, that didn't matter. It DID happen-- and it changed their lives forever. Very angsty affair!fic.

Chapters

1. Part 1: For Love

2. Part 2: For Friendship

3. Part 2b: For Happiness

1. Part 1: For Love

Disclaimer: Is this really still necessary? JKR wouldn’t be caught dead posting fic here on PK because she’s an idiot, as she so thoroughly proved in HBP and DH.

Author’s Note: My first (posted) fic, written completely after DH and with DH spoilers (although I still haven’t read the book so the spoilers are all general.) This might be one of my fics which I’m proudest of, in terms of how it came out (working on how to up the tension between H/Hr before they so much as kiss.)

That said, for those of you who have thanked me for not leaving the fandom in the aftermath of That Damn Book—well, you might be taking your thanks back, after this fic. Smut with loads and loads of ANGST. Consider yourselves warned.

What Could Be

Part 1: For Love

He could never explain how it happened.

Neither could she.

But in the end—did the how really matter?

What was important was that it did happen—and they knew why it had happened—and it changed their lives forever.

Hermione studied Harry carefully out of the corner of her eye as she cleared the table, moving their plates into the dishwasher with a flick of her wand.

Ron was away at Quidditch training camp and Harry had come over for one of their usual weekly dinners; it never mattered if Ron was there or not to whether Harry came and sometimes she liked the times alone with him. It gave her the chance to talk to him about some of the things which she knew he didn’t like to talk of when Ron was around, in spite of the trust between them.

There was something slightly… off… about him tonight and it was concerning her.

Oh, it was nothing overt about his manner; no one else would have noticed it, she knew. But she knew him too well from years of close friendship and shared dangers that had made them so close at times it was like they were extensions of the same mind. And there was something not quite right…

He had been chatting easily, making light conversation all evening—and that was almost more worrisome than anything else. Because with Harry, usually, his easy conversations tended to serve as a shield for things which really bothered him. And while his distractions worked for almost everyone else he knew, it had never worked for her.

(And what was always left unsaid, unacknowledged, even in the silence of their own hearts was the fact that when he was troubled about something, he didn’t talk to Ginny about it. Somehow, perhaps out of the force of habit, he didn’t turn to Ginny. When he turned to anyone at all, he turned to her, and to Ron, but usually to her. It was one facet of their relationship that was never acknowledged and hardly conscious but it was there nonetheless.)

So she watched him as they got up and took their tea into the sitting room before she decided that, clearly, he wasn’t going to bring it up.

“Okay, Harry, what is it?”

He started a little, looking up at her, as her question broke the comfortable silence.

He opened his mouth but she forestalled him. “Don’t say it’s nothing.”

A slight smile crossed his face. “I suppose I should know better than to try an evasive maneuver with you around.”

She returned his smile with one of her own. “That’s right. You should. I was quite the heroine in the last war, you know, or so some people say,” she said teasingly.

He laughed. “You were the heroine,” he said and then repeated, more soberly, “You were a hero.”

Her smile softened. “So tell me what’s wrong,” she repeated, her tone gentle.

He let out a small sigh. “It really is ridiculous,” he began in a self-deprecating tone.

“Harry, if it’s bothering you enough that I noticed it, then it’s not ridiculous,” she told him logically.

“It’s just… I had a dream about my parents, about Sirius and Remus,” he confessed softly. “I mean, the dream itself wasn’t important; it was only that it was one of those dreams that felt real.”

She sighed. “Oh, Harry…”

“So… I’ve just been missing them, somehow, today.” He paused. “See, I told you it was nothing. I’m sorry I worried you.”

“Harry, if it’s bothering you, I want to know about it, no matter how small it might seem to you. I know you and you don’t get bothered about things that don’t matter. And this… I don’t know, Harry. I don’t know what to say. You know they’d be proud of you, so proud of you.”

He let out a breath. “Yeah. But I still… miss them.”

“Winning doesn’t bring them back, does it?” she asked softly.

He shook his head. No, winning didn’t bring any of them back. Not Sirius, not Dumbledore, not his parents, not Remus, not Fred…

“It’s what you do after the winning, Harry, as long as you keep acting in a way that keeps their memories alive, as long as you’re happy the way they’d want you to be.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

He met her eyes. “Thanks for listening. It helps.”

She smiled. “Anytime.”

She got up to go to the kitchen to get a drink of water, touching his hair in a light, fleeting, automatic caress with her hand as she passed him.

It wasn’t anything she hadn’t done before and he could never tell why it happened, why he reacted the way he did.

He closed his eyes fleetingly at her touch and then, without even thinking about it, grasped her wrist before she could move away and brought her hand to his lips in a quick, spontaneous gesture of affection and gratitude.

She caught her breath at the rather uncharacteristic gesture, feeling her heart fill with a dangerous warmth.

He felt the slight, almost imperceptible tremor of her hand and looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers.

And maybe that was when it all changed. Maybe that was when it all became irresistible, inevitable, somehow.

His eyes met hers, held hers—and it was insane but somehow, something changed in the air around them, hanging in the atmosphere that was suddenly charged with something neither of them quite dared to put a name to.

Deep in his eyes (deep in his soul?), something sparked.

And she felt a shiver go through her in response.

Something… something that was the beginnings of desire but it was also more than that, something darker, more dangerous than even desire… Temptation.

It was temptation, the temptation of desire, yes, but what was more powerful than that was the temptation of dreams, the temptation of possibility, the temptation of what could be… The temptation of all the most secret fantasies and wonderings of their hearts, all the times they’d secretly, guiltily, wondered, what if…

Slowly, feeling rather as if he were in a dream and not in complete control of what he was doing, he turned her hand over to press his lips to her palm.

Another shiver passed through her body, her eyes darkening, as her lips parted on a soft gasp.

She had never thought her palm was particularly sensitive; it never had been an erogenous spot on her body. But then he’d never touched his lips to it before either.

The vague thought swam into her mind and then dissipated almost before she could grasp it, that he could probably turn her entire body into an erogenous zone, somehow…

His lips just on her palm were doing the most amazing things to her body; she could feel the heat arrow straight through her body to tingle in the core of her, feel her insides melting.

Slowly, with excruciating slowness, his lips traced a path up her palm to the inside of her wrist, where he paused, touching his lips to the spot where he could feel her pulse fluttering and then he just touched his tongue to the spot as well, leaving a damp spot on her wrist.

He met her eyes again and she felt a flare of pure, white-hot heat flash through her body to pool in the secret place between her thighs at the way his eyes had darkened with a passion, a desire, she’d never seen in him before, never associated with him before. (She knew his kindness and his humor and his courage and his stubbornness; she knew his vulnerability and his streak of impulsiveness; she knew his protectiveness and his gentleness and his honesty. But she’d never known his desire, never known his passion—and somehow, some way, she couldn’t help but think that maybe it was high time she discovered this last facet of him, whom she already knew so well.)

His eyes held hers as, with equal slowness, his lips continued on, feathering the lightest trail of butterfly kisses up the sensitive, sensitized skin of her inner arm. It seemed as if every nerve ending in her body was rushing towards that one spot where his lips touched, as if every sense she had was centered, focused on that one spot.

Her breathing was fractured, her lungs having ceased to function properly. (For that matter, her brain had ceased to function properly, her thoughts congealing until she couldn’t remember who they were or why they shouldn’t, couldn’t, do this, couldn’t remember why this was wrong; all her thoughts, all her awareness, was focused on him, on his lips, on his lips on her skin, and beyond that, nothing and no one else existed…)

She couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could only watch, mesmerized as much by the light touch of his lips on the inside of her arm as by the way his eyes were burning her and, more than that, mesmerized by the touch of awe, almost of reverence, (tenderness?) she could sense in his touch.

This wasn’t only desire; it wasn’t only temptation; it was more than that… The wispy thought floated through her mind, only understood somewhere in her subconscious, but dissipating before her conscious mind could grasp it.

But as if even the subconscious understanding of that thought were enough, she let out a gasp, the soft sound shattering the intense silence up until now. “Harry.” Just the single word, his name, left her lips on a gasp—it wasn’t a question but it was, somehow, a confirmation that this was him, this was her best friend—always her best friend, never more than that—doing this to her, wielding a power over her senses which she’d never even dreamed of, never dreamed anyone could… Until now, until him…

Something flared in his eyes at the sound of her voice and slowly—not in the same dreamlike state he had been in but more deliberately, as if some decision had been made, even unconsciously—he stood up, his hand still gripping her wrist, his thumb beginning to move in light caressing strokes, brushing back and forth over her sensitized skin.

He stood up so he was suddenly so close to her, closer than he’d ever been (or so it seemed—because he’d never been close like this), their breaths mingling. So close he could feel her breath hot against his skin, so close he could see the way her eyes had darkened, dilated with arousal, so close he could breathe in the familiar, light, floral scent of her shampoo and her lotion. It was a subtle scent, one that was, somehow, suddenly, enticing, curling through his senses, subtly arousing.

A surge of desire swept up inside him, stealing his breath and his wits, so strong it almost weakened his knees.

His free hand came up of its own volition to touch her cheek, his fingertips just barely brushing her skin in a caress as light as a butterfly’s wing, as light as air. Her skin felt amazingly soft and smooth even at this lightest of touches—and it only made him want her more.

Her eyes fluttered closed for a fleeting minute as if to savor his touch and his reaction this time had less to do with want than it did with a purer, simpler, and yet deeper impulse of emotion, of caring. He did care about her so much… more, he was beginning to realize, than he’d ever thought—and that was what made all this more, more dangerous than simple desire, more powerful than simple lust, more frightening and more compelling than anything he’d ever felt before.

It was as if the entire world, time itself, seemed to pause, hover, and for that moment, he was keenly aware of all the chaos and all the turbulent emotion they were about to unleash, turning their worlds upside down. But he was no more capable of stopping it, of stopping himself, than he was capable of stopping the ebb and flow of the tides.

He could no more stop himself from kissing her than he could stop his heart from beating or stop the sun from rising.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he lowered his head until his lips touched hers and he kissed her for the first time. It began gently, his lips soft and yet firm against hers, lightly brushing and then increasing the pressure until she parted her lips and allowed him access and he tasted her.

The kiss deepened, lengthened, as their tongues met and melded, stroked and caressed, in a leisurely exploration of their mouths. He tasted her; she tasted him; and nothing had ever felt more right.

Oddly, perhaps, it wasn’t an explosion of passion; it felt more like a natural growth of desire, seeping, spreading throughout their bodies, slowly and steadily building, consuming them both. And it was all the more seductive for its very slow build-up, all the more tantalizing, all the more irresistible, as all the reasons why this was wrong and they should not, could not, do this evaporated from their minds like so much smoke.

Heat and arousal were building, pulsing through her body, making her toes curl and scattering her wits, as she felt herself falling into his kiss. She let out a small sigh of pleasure which was swallowed by his mouth, as she melted against him, her body swaying to press against his.

He broke the kiss on a gasp, resting his forehead against hers, before he moved to stare at her, his eyes wide and clouded with desire. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to say something, his lips parting, but all he said, all that emerged from his lips was, “Hermione.” Just her name, half-gasped in a throaty voice that sent a fresh wave of heat swirling through her body just at the sound of it.

“Harry,” she answered him, her own voice husky, and she asked the question she could sense in his eyes. “What are we doing?”

What were they doing? How had this happened?

“I don’t know,” he breathed, his voice hardly audible. “But I know I can’t stop.” And it was true. At that moment, he wanted, needed, her more than he wanted, needed, his next breath; he couldn’t think to care about the reasons or how this had happened, he only knew he wanted this, wanted her…

“Neither can I,” she admitted in a tone just above a breath of sound.

The admission drew a soft sound of surrender from him before he covered her lips with his again.

And then the explosion happened, pure lust surging up inside them, its force seeming all the greater for the build-up to it. His lips slanted across hers, their tongues tangling now in an almost fierce and entirely arousing duel.

His arms closed around her body, bringing her body more firmly against him. Her fingers which had been tangled in his hair moved to clutch at his shoulders, his back, roaming restlessly over his body. She was intensely, supremely conscious of his body hardening against hers, and arched against him so her body rubbed against him in an unconscious, instinctive movement, seeking to relieve the tension building between her thighs.

His groan was swallowed by her mouth as she flattened her body to his. God, she could not get close enough to him, could not get enough of his mouth and his hands and his touch; she wanted more, more, more…

She wanted to feel his skin.

Her hands tugged impatiently at his shirt to slide underneath, flattening her palms on his stomach and his chest, loving the way the muscles flinched in reaction. Her fingers brushed across his flat nipples and he let out a sharp hiss. With a touch of mischief, she did it again, flicking her fingertips across his nipples, and he broke their kiss on a groan as he hastily tore his shirt off over his head, dropping it blindly behind him.

The moment his shirt was off, his hands went to her blouse, unbuttoning it with fingers made clumsy with haste and lust. She moved to help him and then shrugged out of her blouse.

In some small corner of her mind, she couldn’t help but think that she ought to feel some sense of oddness at being bared to his gaze except for her bra—this was Harry, whom she’d always insisted she loved like a brother, like her friend-- but she didn’t; she couldn’t. All she was conscious of was a thrill of arousal shaking her at his sharp intake of breath as he stilled and simply stared at her.

Slowly, almost reverently, his hands came up to cup her breasts through her bra (which might as well have been nonexistent for all that she could still feel the heat of his touch) and she arched into him, pushing herself into his hands, encouraging him. His hands slid around to her back to unclasp her bra and she felt it tighten and then fall away.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed hoarsely as he cupped her now-bare breasts with his hands, his thumbs flicking over her nipples as they budded, darkened with arousal. His hands alternately stroked, caressed, and kneaded, applying first more pressure, flattening her breasts, and then less, until her breath was coming in gasps and moans and she thought she might be losing her mind to the pleasure shooting through her.

She flattened herself against him, her lips finding his again as she kissed him with all the intensity of the lust roaring through her body.

He gave a strangled moan at the feel of her breasts pressed against his bare chest and then he felt her hands slide down between their bodies in a slow, wicked caress before she palmed, cupped, his arousal through his trousers—and he nearly exploded right then and there.

He felt as impatient as if he were the teenage boy he hadn’t been for several years now, a teenage boy first touching a girl at that.

Her fingers brushed teasingly, deliberately, against the bulge in his trousers as he felt her undo the fastenings.

God, he wanted her. He wanted her so much it hurt, ached for her, needed her—and she was driving him mad.

How he managed to shove his boxers and his trousers down, he never quite knew—he certainly had no memory of it—but somehow, he did it, freeing his erection.

Immediately, her wonderful, evil hands were on him, first feathering along the hot, hard length of him and then wrapping around him, stroking him at first slowly and then with increasing speed, until he was groaning and his hips thrusting uncontrollably into her hand.

The universe narrowed down to him and her and her hands on his body and the amazing, wonderful, thought-shattering pleasure she was evoking in him.

He opened his eyes that had fallen shut to see the expression on her face—and even in spite of the arousal that was clouding his brain, stealing his breath and his wits, everything inside him seemed to still at that moment. He knew that expression, recognized it—it was the expression of concentration, of mental focus, when he knew that all the cleverness and all the determination and all the intensity that made Hermione Hermione were focused on one topic. He had seen it most often during the last year of the war, when she had been focused almost to the exclusion of all else on the horcruxes and how to defeat Voldemort—and it was back now. Only now, she was focused on him.

He wouldn’t have believed it possible but he hardened even more to the point of pain, his need growing. There was something indescribably… hot… about seeing that expression on her face and know she was focused on him, on what she was doing to him. But mingled in with all the arousal was something else, something even more intense than physical need—something more, something stronger… He couldn’t think to put a word to it but he felt it, recognized it in himself—and all he knew, somehow, was that that something was why this was happening now.

He was going to die if she didn’t stop. He grabbed her wrist with one hand, jerking his hips back away from her. “No more,” he panted. “I need you now.”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes.” And then she was in his arms again, flattening her body against his, as his hands roamed greedily down the smooth skin of her back to cup her butt through her jeans and then swept around to the front to hastily undo the fastenings and then shove her jeans and her knickers down, his hands trembling a little from his haste and his impatience.

She kicked her jeans and knickers off her legs and she was naked—and he forgot how to breathe. And he’d thought she was beautiful before… That was nothing compared to what she looked like now, her skin flushed with arousal…

He slipped his hand between her thighs, groaning at how wet she was. God, he couldn’t wait. He needed to be inside her now…

She wrapped one leg around his as his erection slid in between her legs, just nudging the spot where he was dying to be.

His hands cupped her butt, lifting her against him as she wrapped her legs around his hips and he surged inside her with one forceful thrust, crying out at the exquisite sensation of her around him.

His knees buckled from the sheer, mind-blowing pleasure of it—and he hadn’t even begun to move yet—and he sank down blindly onto the couch as she straddled him.

He gritted his teeth, letting his head fall onto her shoulder, as he fought for some semblance of control but it was all too much, she was too hot, too wet, too tight around him.

Her hands clutched at his shoulders, her breath coming in sobbing gasps, (the sound arrowing straight to his groin) as she began to rock on him.

His hands grasped her hips as they found a rhythm and it was incredible.

It was passion and it was lust and pure, carnal need, all swirled together mixed in with that something else, the temptation that had begun it all, coming together in an explosive combination.

Her muscles were tightening, clenching around him, and his hips jerked, his hands tightening convulsively on her hips, and she came with a strangled cry. The sensation of her hot, wet tightness clasping him pushed him over the edge, drew his pleasure out to the breaking point, and he exploded inside her, his hips shuddering, his vision graying for a moment until the only thing he could see, somehow, was her face, the look of complete abandon to physical pleasure…

She sagged against him as he fell backwards on the couch, just managing to turn his body so that he was lying on his back as she fell forward on top of him.

He wrapped his arms around her, brushing his lips against her temple, as he felt himself relax, sliding into the deepest peace he had ever known…

But not for long.

He fought the return of reality, of rationality, trying desperately to cling to this peace for just a moment longer—but knew, even as he tried, that it was hopeless.

A tidal wave of guilt and recriminations surged up and swamped him, engaging in a pitched battle with his heart.

What have you done?

I couldn’t help it. God help me, I couldn’t resist it, couldn’t resist her…

You have to help it! Forget this happened. You have to forget it.

But I’m in love with her!

And somehow that thought didn’t surprise him the way it should have. It only filled him with acceptance of its truth, the knowledge settling into his heart as if he had always known it, somehow, some way, in the most secret corner of his heart where he hadn’t even acknowledged its existence —and a deep, piercing sorrow to realize it now when it was too late, when the realization only hurt all the more.

I know. But it doesn’t make it right.

This doesn’t feel wrong… it feels… like everything I’ve been meant for…

You have to forget it. Get over it. Deny it. Pretend it never happened.

I know…

He had to forget—but how?

On the heels of his despairing realization, he felt her shudder and then the wetness of her tears on his chest as she gave in to the guilt and the sadness racking her.

Oh God, what had they done? And what were they going to do now?

Even though he knew he shouldn’t—he couldn’t—he could no more refrain from tightening his arms around her and trying to comfort her than he could have commanded time to stand still.

He hauled her tighter against his body, curling his body around hers as if to shield her from all the pain and suffering in the world (he only wished he could), his hand stroking her hair, even as every one of her muffled sobs slashed at his heart. “God, Hermione, don’t. Please don’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

And even though she knew she shouldn’t—that turning to him now would only make it a thousand times harder in the end, she could no more keep herself from clinging to him as she cried, her tears wetting his chest—no more stop herself from sagging into the haven of his arms—than she could have stopped her heart from beating-- than she could stop her heart from breaking.

And maybe that realization was more terrifying than anything else. He was still the one person she automatically turned to for comfort. He was still, in spite of everything, her haven.

And that scared her into pushing herself away from him, swallowing back the rest of her tears. She sat up, moving to the other chair, needing to put some distance between them, and curled up on it in a futile and belated attempt to shield her body from his view, as if that would change anything. She didn’t look at him; she couldn’t look at him. “I’m okay. I’m sorry. We can’t do this, Harry. You know we can’t.” She knew he could hear the pain in her voice but she couldn’t help it.

“Hermione, I l--”

“Don’t!” she cut him off sharply. “Don’t say it! Please, don’t say it! You can’t say it; you shouldn’t feel it!” she burst out, even though she knew the words were ridiculous. He could no more help it than she could—but she couldn’t bear to hear the words. She knew she couldn’t bear it. “Please, Harry, just leave. We have to forget this ever happened. We have to!”

“I know, but how?”

She’d never known before that you could hear heartbreak in a voice but she heard it then. Heard it in the plaintive note of desperation edging his question.

And she had no answer. “I don’t know.”

She kept her eyes and her face averted as she heard him retrieve his clothes and get dressed again, trying to keep her mind from picturing his body, trying desperately to erase the image of him from her memory. She sensed his hesitation and his unhappiness, sensed his gaze on her—sensed rather than felt the hand that reached out, irresistibly, to brush her hair in a feather-light, fleeting caress (she closed her eyes at the touch and fought to keep herself from breaking down and turning to him). She heard his sigh and sensed his struggle for words, for something to say, before he gave up and left, leaving her alone with her guilt and her misery and her confusion.

His last question seemed to echo in her mind.

How? How were they supposed to forget this? How were they to go on as if it had never happened?

She didn’t know. It was almost bitterly, painfully funny—in a gut-wrenching sort of way—that now, when she really needed to know the answers of how to salvage their lives and their friendship, she had nothing, knew nothing.

~To be continued…~

2. Part 2: For Friendship

Disclaimer: If you really think I’m JKR, then I think I’m insulted.

Author’s Note: Inspired in part by the brilliant Lori’s PoU cookie, “Someday.”

ANGST. Consider yourselves warned.

What Could Be

Part 2: For Friendship

She didn’t know how she got through the next day but she discovered that it was possible to go on, possible to think and concentrate on work. She learned that it was possible to act normally, even when she felt as if her world had fallen into pieces around her and she was left to try to patch it together again. Possible to go on when it felt as if her world was ending.

Somehow, she managed to concentrate; somehow she managed to give her patients the attention they deserved. Somehow…

Until she was heading out of St. Mungo’s for her lunch break and as she passed a storage closet, felt a hand grab her wrist and yank her into it, the door closing, trapping her in the darkness.

It happened too quickly for her to cry out, too quickly for her to know more than a split second of shock, before lips came down on hers, kissing her—and she melted into his kiss with a small sigh of surrender that was swallowed by his mouth.

She couldn’t see him and she hadn’t registered it in that first second, but she knew his touch, knew his kiss. And oh, her body remembered his touch.

Even if she never saw him again, even if she never touched him again, she knew she would remember his touch and his kiss. She could forget everything else but she would remember this, would remember him…

His lips were hard, unyielding, his tongue forceful, as he kissed her as if he would die if he didn’t, clutched her to him as if he were a drowning man and she were his life-boat. His arms and hands were greedy as they wrapped around her body, touched her, caressed her.

And she met his passion and his desperation with her own, her tongue dueling with his, her hands equally impatient, insistent, as they touched his body, explored his body.

Some tiny part of her mind couldn’t believe this, couldn’t believe she was doing this—this wasn’t at all like her—it was wrong, so very wrong, it was insane, they had to forget this and this wasn’t forgetting, was only making it worse—but even as part of her protested, the rest of her couldn’t help it. And she knew that in spite of everything, where he was concerned, she could never resist. It didn’t matter that this was going against everything she believed in, going against everything she thought she knew about herself and her own integrity, going against every law of marriage and friendship and morality. Where he was concerned, nothing else mattered; when he was touching her, kissing her, this passion, this intensity of need which he—and only he—could evoke in her, erased everything else from her mind.

She wasn’t conscious of his hands shoving aside her clothing, wasn’t conscious of her own hands fumbling for the fastening of his trousers and pushing them down so her hand could cup and stroke the hard, aching length of him. And then he was inside her, filling her, and in another moment, she shattered, fractured around him, stifling her cry in his shoulder, her nails digging into his skin, as his hips shuddered and he exploded inside her with a strangled groan.

His lips moved back to hers, kissing her with more tenderness now, his lips feathering kisses along her jaw-line up to the small, sensitive hollow before her ear (making her gasp) until finally he simply rested his forehead against hers as they waited for their heartbeats to slow, their breathing to calm.

“Hermione,” he finally breathed.

She felt rationality slowly seep back into her brain along with the enormity of what had just happened—and it somehow felt even more earth-shaking than the first time had been. Because now it was real, it was tangible—and she knew that it wasn’t going away. This madness—this sanity? This truth?—had taken possession of her, body, mind, and soul. “Oh, God, Harry, what are we going to do?”

He let out a shuddering breath as he managed to step away from her. “I don’t know,” he whispered and she could hear all his bewilderment and his uncertainty and his longing in his voice. “But I know I can’t stop. I can’t forget this; I can’t forget you. You’re in my blood now, in my soul. How am I supposed to forget you?”

“Oh Harry, I know.” Her whisper was almost a wail. “I know… but what else can we do?”

He kissed her again, long and lingeringly, as if he had to, as if he would die if he didn’t.

“This is wrong,” she whispered, even as she returned his kiss, her fingers tangling in his hair, keeping him close to her.

“It doesn’t feel wrong, though. Why does this feel so good, so right?” he breathed, punctuating his words with soft kisses.

“Harry…” she whimpered. “We can’t do this; we have to stop…” Her words ended on a sharp gasp as his lips traveled down to her neck, unerringly finding the sensitive spots with his tongue (and somehow, it only felt natural that he, who already knew her so well, would know her body as well…)

He finally broke off the trail of kisses, pulling himself away from her with palpable reluctance. “I know,” he admitted. A self-deprecating note entered his voice as he added, rather wryly, “Believe it or not, I wasn’t really planning on this when I came here. I just wanted to see you again, talk to you…” In the dark, she heard him put his clothes back to rights again and she did the same.

Her heart softened, melted, at the slight edge of embarrassment in his voice as he admitted, “I can’t seem to help myself when you’re around now.”

“Oh Harry… Neither can I.”

She heard him suck in his breath and could picture him closing his eyes, could picture the expression on his face of one battling inner demons. “Don’t tell me that!”

She shivered almost in spite of herself at the suppressed intensity in his voice. How was it possible for this man whom she’d known for so many years-- for Harry-- to suddenly affect her so much?

For a moment, a silence that was at once both comfortable and yet oddly charged, too, with emotion and suppressed passion, fell.

And then he stepped forward, giving her one last hard kiss that effectively scattered her wits and breathed just one word, “Tonight,” before he was gone.

Leaving her to somehow gather her thoughts and her wits so she could get through the rest of the day.

Any physical traces were relatively easy to get rid of, a few minutes in the loo and a few charms later, she looked presentable again. What wasn’t so easy was trying to push him from her mind now.

Tonight. They were going to talk about this tonight.

It wasn’t even the physical part of it that made all this so terrifying.

(Although, Merlin knew, the force of the passion that had flared up between them shocked her too. She’d never thought she was a particularly sensual being; she’d always prided herself on her cleverness and her rationality. But last night with Harry—and again this afternoon—had effectively proven her wrong. She wanted him with a primal force that was almost frightening; his kiss and his touch brought out a sensual side of her nature which she’d hardly known existed. Until now, until him…)

If it had been only the physical, the thought of giving him up would have hurt less. But it wasn’t the physical part, the passion, that made her feel as if she were dying at the very thought of losing this.

It was the peace she’d felt in his arms; it was the shattering tenderness with which he’d held her and comforted her when she cried last night. It was the gentleness of his kisses and his touch; it was in the way he had made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world with the way he’d touched her and looked at her.

It was… just everything about him that had made him her best friend for so many years.

And now that the blinders had been ripped from her eyes, she saw her reasoning that she only loved Harry like a brother, like a platonic best friend, for the excuse, the delusion, it was.

She didn’t love Harry in a platonic fashion; she just loved him, was in love with him.

But she loved Ron too.

And that was the tragedy. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Ron; she did. It was that she loved Harry more… It was that loving Harry, now, somehow, felt as natural, as right, as if she’d been meant for this, meant for him. It was in how they fit together, not just their bodies but their minds, their hearts—how their minds had always fit together really.

But it was too late for them now.

Too late for this realization, this knowledge, that somehow, in some way, she had always been meant to love Harry…

If she had only realized it sooner—before she and Ron had gotten together (before they’d been married, even), before Harry and Ginny had gotten together and married, just before…

But they had missed their chance to know the love they could—the love they did—share.

It was too late now.

She felt as if her heart were dying.

~~

She stepped back hastily the moment she’d opened the door at Harry’s knock, crossing her arms protectively around her stomach.

He looked, she noted with a flinch, as miserable as she felt and she quickly looked away. If she looked at him much longer, she knew she’d give in. She loved him; she couldn’t stand to see him hurting, never had been able to bear it and certainly not now.

She knew what they had to do, knew what she had to say—but now that the moment was here, she couldn’t say it. Her throat closed up and she couldn’t say it.

How could she do this? She loved him, some part of her had always loved him, and she knew that she always would love him. How was she going to give this up?

“What are we going to do?” he finally asked, his voice gravelly with misery.

She struggled, fought, swallowed back the lump in her throat, and managed to say, “We have to pretend this never happened.”

“But how? I don’t know how to do that, Hermione; I can’t do it! Not now, not when I know what it’s like…” Not when he knew what it felt like to kiss her, to touch her… Not when he knew all her passion, all her responsiveness…

Oh God…

“We could do it if we forgot this ever happened,” she managed to say in a voice that wasn’t her own. “We have to Memory Charm ourselves, just erase the memory so it’ll be like this never happened.”

He visibly flinched at her words as if she’d struck him. He stood up as if he couldn’t bear to sit down any longer and finally, whirled to face her. “What if I don’t want to forget? What if I don’t want to pretend this didn’t happen? What if I want this?”

“Harry, don’t! You know we can’t. Do you want to break Ron’s heart, break Ginny’s heart? You know you don’t.”

He sagged. “No, I don’t.”

And somehow, all the heartbreak in the world was contained in those three words.

He sat down heavily and there was a long moment of painful silence, which he finally broke. “I love you, you know,” he said softly.

And that was the moment her heart broke, shattered. And she gave in to the longing which she’d been feeling since the moment he’d arrived (or since the moment he’d left her that afternoon) and threw herself at him, as his arms closed around her with stunning force.

“Oh Harry, I love you too!” she half-sobbed into his shoulder, clutching at him as if she would never let him go, clutching him as if she could not get enough of him. “I think I’ve always loved you. I just wish I’d realized it sooner--”

He cut off her words with his lips, kissing her with a passion that bordered on desperation, kissing her in a kiss that claimed her heart and her soul, kissing her in a kiss that was meant to ease the longing of a lifetime.

And she kissed him back as if her life depended on it, kissed him back with an intensity of emotion that seared his very soul.

The kiss couldn’t last at such white-hot intensity and gradually, slowly, it gentled, his lips softening, and gradually, too, his lips left hers to brush fleeting butterfly kisses over her face, learning her familiar features with his lips.

And when the kiss ended, they simply sat there, holding each other, for what felt like forever and yet, simultaneously, no time at all. (A lifetime wouldn’t be long enough for this…)

They didn’t speak—what more was there to say? The important things had already been said.

Hermione closed her eyes, just listening to the steady rhythm of Harry’s heart beating, and let herself savor the warmth, the peace, of just sitting here in Harry’s lap with his arms around her. And she couldn’t help but wonder if she would ever truly know this sort of peace again, the peace of simply being held when there were no other motives, no other reasons. It was odd—and something she hadn’t even realized she needed or wanted—but now she found she did want and need it. Just the simple comfort, the simple joy, of being held—held not for passion, not because of desire, but simply for the sake of holding, for the sake of that closeness to another person. Held, simply because he wanted to hold her.

But even that peace couldn’t last—and Hermione knew that the longer they stayed here like this, the harder it was going to be in the end.

And yet still, she lingered, not wanting to move…

It took the sound of his sigh before she managed to say, “I think it’s time.”

She brushed her lips against his one last time before she stood up, feeling chilled from the moment his arms dropped from around her.

They faced each other, wands in their hands.

Her heart was in her throat, filling it, making it difficult to swallow, making it difficult to breathe, even.

His chest was aching as if his heart were trying to break out of it, aching as if someone had stabbed a knife into it and now were twisting it savagely.

God, he didn’t know where he was going to get the strength to do this. Didn’t know how he was going to survive this—except once it was over, he wouldn’t even remember it had happened. And somehow, oddly, that thought hurt more than anything else. He would rather feel heartbroken than go through the rest of his life not knowing what he was missing, not knowing just what could have been…

He didn’t know how he was going to do this—but then he thought of Ron, remembered years of friendship and laughter and loyalty, remembered Quidditch games and giant spiders, remembered Norbert, the baby dragon, remembered the Department of Mysteries and horcruxes and danger… And he knew he could do nothing else. Ron was the first friend he had ever had; he could not break Ron’s heart.

He would break his own first. He was breaking his own heart.

He stared at her now, seeing the shimmer of tears in her eyes, tears that tore at him, and couldn’t imagine how he could have seen her, looked at her, for so many years and never seen the unutterable beauty of her—how could he have looked at her and not seen her as the woman he now knew he’d been meant to love, meant to hold?

He didn’t know but now he was paying for his own blindness as for a crime.

He tried—and failed—to remember a time when he’d hated the unfairness of the universe, of who he was, more. He loved her, he loved her, he loved her—and he didn’t want to go back to being the Harry who didn’t know what he was missing, who didn’t know that he was meant to love Hermione. He didn’t want to go back to the Harry who would never know how much more love could be, how much more passion could be… He felt as if he’d only been half-alive until this past day and night, as if until now, he’d only been a chrysalis waiting to fully grow, waiting to become what he was meant to be.

Even now, when he felt as if he were dying, he also felt conversely that he’d never been more alive, never felt so intensely. He was, he thought, the truest and the best version of himself now, with her—and he didn’t want to lose it.

But he knew he had to. They had no choice in this; it was too late for them, had been too late for them for years now.

She swallowed hard. “On three?”

Her voice shook, sounded unnatural.

He didn’t try to speak, only nodded.

“One. Two…” Her voice trembled even further. “Thr--”

She never finished the word. Her voice broke altogether and she suddenly threw her wand down, her hands going up to her face. “I can’t do it!” she burst out.

He threw his wand away as well, hauling her into his arms, pressing her face into his chest as his hand stroked her hair. “I know.”

“I just don’t think I can do it,” she gasped, her hands clutching at him. “It feels wrong. It feels wrong to deny it, feels wrong to deny this.”

“It feels like cutting off an arm or a leg,” he murmured, his own throat tight with tears, and felt her shudder of agreement. It felt like a violation.

“I don’t want to forget this. I don’t want to forget how it felt; I don’t want to forget what this was like. I don’t want to forget you.”

“I know—but what can we do?”

They had to forget—for the sake of the people they cared about and who cared about them…

She turned her face blindly towards his, her lips seeking his, and he responded, kissing her hard.

His arms were locked tight about her body as if he never wanted to let her go again (he didn’t), his lips and tongue claiming her, possessing her, stealing her breath and her wits and her heart, her very soul… And she kissed him back with perhaps more energy than accuracy, slanting her mouth over his, her tongue meeting and dueling with his.

He could taste her tears on her lips as he kissed her in the sort of kiss that she couldn’t have broken if the fires of hell were licking at her feet.

It seemed an eternity before the kiss gentled, softened, became more loving than passionate, his lips touching hers now with an exquisite tenderness that made her heart ache even more than his passion had. He kissed away her tears, his lips tracing the tracks of her tears up to her eyes and then back down again to kiss her lips again, one last time. And this time, it was truly a kiss of farewell, a kiss to last them forever.

And then the kiss ended, his arms falling from around her, as she managed to make herself step back.

Her eyes met his, seeing all her own pain and longing reflected in the shadows of his green eyes.

“I love you, Harry,” she said.

“I love you too.”

“Always.” Even though neither she nor he would remember it, even though after this, they would return to being the old, platonic best friends they had always been. Even though after this, she would return to Ron and he would return to Ginny and they would never even know what they were missing, never know what could have been…

His eyes closed fleetingly in an expression of acute pain before he opened them again to meet hers.

“Always,” he repeated her words back to her, and it was a promise, a vow.

And she was somehow, oddly, comforted.

They wouldn’t remember this; they wouldn’t miss what they could not remember, what they did not know—but at least now, just for this moment, they knew. They had experienced what could have been—and even though she felt as if her heart was breaking, she couldn’t help but think that, maybe, after all, in spite of everything, they were lucky, too, just to know, just to have realized, what could have been…

Even if she never remembered it again, at this moment, right now, she knew what it felt like to have Harry’s lips on hers, stealing her breath and her heart and her soul; she knew what it felt like to have his hands on her; she knew his tenderness and his passion and his love…

He had touched her soul—as she had touched his…

And even if they never remembered it, it had happened; they had had their chance, fleeting as it had been—and maybe, just maybe, that would be enough…

Until some other life, some other universe, when they could be given back this gift they’d discovered.

She met his eyes and saw that he understood, somehow, what she’d been thinking.

“I love you,” he said again.

“I know.” And those two words also meant, I love you.

And he was the one to begin this time as they both bent to pick up their wands.

“On three.”

She nodded, meeting his eyes and letting herself savor all the love in them for one last time.

“One… two… three.”

And it was done.

~The End~

Author’s Note 2: *runs and hides* This is what I call Canon With a Vengeance—what happened before the Crapilogue, if you will.

Now I’m off to join the Witness Protection Program…

3. Part 2b: For Happiness

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?