Finding Jane

A/N: I wrote this story for Hermione's birthday and posted it to my LJ communities on the 19^th of September. This is, primarily, a tribute to that wonderful character, but seeing as I suddenly have this opportunity to enter this in the Elder Wand Competition (the deadline got extended, apparently), I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea. ^_^

If you're expecting a red-hot romance, it's not happening in this one-shot. However, there's a strong possibility this gets a part 2. For the meantime, this can stand by itself, and it's likely that part 2 will stand by itself, as well. Thanks very much to scribooty for inspiring me to write a post-DH fic. I couldn't come to terms with how JKR ended things until I read her Louder Than Words.

This was also inspired by all the Janes in Harry Potter. If you're a true-Harmonian, you'll know what that means.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finding Jane

By AdamantEve

When Hermione Jean Granger was 9, her mother, Rose, gave her a book to read, and it was fiction. Hermione remembered giving her a questioning stare, wondering how on earth the practical Rose Granger ever got the notion to give her a book about silly girls matchmaking and rich men finding wives.

“Emma?” asked Hermione.

“By Jane Austen,” Rose replied.

Hermione's brows had knotted. She turned the book over in her hand, reading the underside of the jacket. “This is a romance novel. Jane Austen writes romance novels.” She took umbrage at that.

Rose had just smiled and said, “Read it. All textbook and no fiction makes Hermione a dull girl.” She had, of course, invented that saying, but Rose Granger would use it many times through the course of Hermione's life. In the meantime, that would be the first time Rose would use the adage, and it would mark Hermione's first foray into fiction.

She had opened the book and found a name scribbled at the front in a calligrapher's script. “Hermione Jane Granger.”

“Jane?” Hermione asked.

Rose had shrugged. “I thought you'd be a Jane when I first bought that book for you.” Other newborn babies got golden booties or silver rattles. Hermione Granger got a book. “Your father liked Jean better. No matter. It's just two letters.”

It had bothered Hermione. She wanted to change that name to reflect her real one, but her mother hadn't been fussed, so neither should she, she thought.

Hermione remembered heeding her mother's advice about reading the book, and she recalled, rather sheepishly, that she had enjoyed reading Emma exceedingly. When her mother had asked her about it at dinner that night, Hermione replied with a long and technical literary analysis of why Jane Austen had written a masterpiece. Rose had looked mildly disappointed by her daughter's response.

Hermione had been confused at that. She had thought her mother would be pleased by her intelligent and well-thought-out insight and opinion. For a long time, Hermione never figured out why.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione Jean Weasley, 38, found Emma hidden underneath a pile of books about magical theory and history. Its salmon-colored hardcover was slightly crisp at the edges, but the bindings seemed solid as she picked it out of the box. It opened with a soft crackle, and on its blank first page she saw her name—or what should have been her name.

“Hermione Jane Granger,” she read out loud.

Ron looked up from his own box of thingamajigs questioningly.

“It's what my mother had wanted to name me. Dad preferred Jean, though.”

His eyebrow arched and he went back to work. “I was talking about Granger, not Jane. At any rate, you can change that name cleanly with a spell.”

A heavy silence descended upon them, though he continued to pack her things.

“What for?” Hermione finally asked.

He sniffed. “You're right, of course. No sense in changing it now.”

No sense indeed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione Jean Granger sat in a quiet coffee shop two days later, Harry Potter across from her on their small table. He seemed deep in thought as he fiddled restlessly with his hands. His wedding ring glittered in the sunlight as he twisted it.

She looked at her own hand. Her finger now lay bare, with nothing but a lighter shade of skin to mark what once was there.

“Really, there was no point in him coming,” Hermione said in as chatty a tone as she could. “The divorce papers were signed and all. Just needed to be notarized, so I suppose he didn't actually have to be there…”

His gaze met hers, and she knew she could never get a lie past Harry. He almost always knew what she was thinking, and right now, he probably understood how much it meant for her to have had Ron present at the finalization of their divorce. Not that divorcing Ron Weasley was an occasion to celebrate, but in spite of everything that led to the demise of their marriage, Hermione had hoped that the friendship that had kept them together for twenty years would have meant something, even on a day like this one. She had already lost a husband. She had hoped she would be able to keep her best friend.

“Give him time,” Harry said, giving her hand a soft squeeze. “You have two children together. He's not going far.”

She squeezed back. “What if—what if he runs off with our kids and—“

He shot her a disparaging look.

She shot back with a stubborn frown. “My kids hate me. They think this divorce is all my fault. Why wouldn't they think that? I'm the one who's always uptight. I'm the one who nags everyone in the house. I'm the one who makes Ron feel like—like… they'd gladly run off with their father—“

“Your kids do not hate you. They probably hate the situation but they don't hate you, and Ron will not run off with them. Ron could be many kinds of prat, but not that kind.”

Harry was right, of course, but she began to cry anyway, and Harry, sighing, scraped his chair close to hers so he could comfort her properly. The warmth of his arms around her was reassuring and it felt good to cry.

He gave her his handkerchief. She used it to wipe away her tears. She fingered the gold and red monogram, HJP.

“Did Ginny embroider this?” Hermione asked nonsensically, stuffy nose and all.

“Every single stitch,” he said.

She strangled a snort. Ginny Potter, the homemaker.

At least she managed to keep her husband, unlike some career women I know…

She smudged the letters with her dark brown eyeliner. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“Don't worry about it. Lots more where that came from…”

She nodded, wiping off more tears. “Maybe this is the sort of thing I should've done for Ron. Maybe I should've stayed home and embroidered his initials on handkerchiefs and made elegant home-cooked meals and crafted pretty, clever party favors every time we had friends over for dinner…”

Harry's lips straightened to a line. “Hermione, don't.”

“I'm just saying,” she went on miserably. “Molly raised him to expect that kind of thing from a wife, instead he got me. Ginny's certainly an expert. She's an Enchanted Homes magazine favorite—and how many kitchens do you have in your house? Three? I can't even run one properly. No offense to your wife, but she makes me look pretty damn bad!”

He said nothing, and she wondered if she had crossed some kind of line.

“I'm sorry,” she said half-heartedly. “I didn't mean to sound like I hated her. I don't. I'm just jealous, maybe.”

“Don't be,” he said, then he blushed, which made Hermione wonder if there was more to what he had just said.

It occurred to Hermione that she hadn't seen Ginny in person for quite some time. Sure, she had read the magazine articles, but it had been a while since Mrs. Potter had invited them for tea or dinner. That might have been on account of the divorce proceedings she and Ron had to deal with in the last few months.

“How is Ginny, by the way?” she asked.

“Alright,” he replied, quickly. Too quickly.

“Good.” She fidgeted uncomfortably with the handkerchief.

“She wants another baby. Did Ron tell you about that?”

“No. Does she, now? Probably missing having children in the house, what with you sending Lily off to Hogwarts and all.”

“Probably.”

“Does she want a girl or a boy?”

“Another girl, maybe. She's still deciding.”

That sounded odd and Hermione chuckled. “Oh, is she? Has she set a deadline for this decision, or is she anticipating a future circumstance that may provide her with an answer?”

Now Harry really frowned.

“I'm terrible today, aren't I?” Hermione hastily said. “I didn't mean anything by it.”

“She's a very loving wife, Hermione.”

“I know. I know. I'm a complete berk.”

“She lives for me, our children, the house… she's perfect…” His voice trailed.

Hermione eyed him suspiciously as he seemed to get lost in his own thoughts, but then he was smiling again, and he was asking her if there were still things that needed moving from her house to her parents', where Hermione would be staying until she could find a new place while her and Ron's lawyers were selling the one they previously shared.

“Some books,” Hermione replied. “Old ones, but I'd like to keep them.”

“Come on, then,” he said, helping her to her feet. “I'll help you transport them in case Ron isn't there to help.”

“He won't be there,” she said quietly.

Harry just nodded as he let her lead the way out of the shop.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ron wasn't there, and without the children, the house was depressingly quiet.

Everything was immaculately clean. It was much easier to keep house when the kids weren't there to make messes, not that they were horrible at it, just that Hermione got annoyed each time she had to pick up after everyone, resenting the fact that she had to tell Ron to help her do it, rather than have him do it at his own initiative.

“I think you missed a spot right here,” Harry said, wiping an imaginary speck of dirt off the doorknob with a vigorous rub of his sleeve.

She chuckled. “No teasing. I'm a divorced woman today. Nothing should be funny.”

He smirked, too sure that he could still make her laugh, anyway.

They headed up to the attic and there were two boxes of books yet to be sealed. They weren't very heavy, and they could very well be levitated to make carrying them easier, but Hermione appreciated the company.

Harry got on his knees and took the sealing tape nearby. He glanced briefly at the top of the pile. “Is that a fiction book I spy? I didn't know you read fiction.”

“You're teasing again. You very well know I read fiction, Harry. And that happens to be one of my favorites. Emma, by Jane Austen.”

“Jane Austen… oh, now I remember. She's one of your favorite authors. Your mother's, too, if I recall correctly.”

It was amazing how Harry remembered things like that. “Absolutely correct. That book's at least 38 years old. Mum gave it to me supposedly on the day I was born.”

“You sure you didn't come out of her holding it?”

“Haha. Contrary to popular belief, I wasn't born with a book stuck up my arse.”

Harry lifted the front cover. “Hermione Jane?”

“Mum thought I'd be a Jane when she bought the book for me. Dad preferred Jean.”

Harry thought about it. “I like Jane. Jean's nice, but Jane seems such a lovely, comforting name.”

Hermione smiled in spite of herself.

They worked together sealing the boxes, and when the boxes were secure enough, Harry levitated them down the stairs. Shrinking made Apparating with them easier, and when they got to the Grangers' front porch, he un-shrunk them with a quick wave of his wand.

“Thanks, Harry,” Hermione said. “Care to come inside? I bet mum misses you. She's been stocking up on her jars of honey and jams. Some of them have your name on them.”

He grinned. “I'll come by again soon enough. Right now, I have to get going. Photo-shoot at home…” His grin waned a bit.

“Enchanted Homes again?”

“Magical Gardens, this time. Same publication, different name.”

Hermione examined the glazed look in his eyes. “Do it for Ginny.”

He sighed. “Who else do you think I do it for?”

She shrugged. “It means a lot to her.”

He just smiled. He paused, was about to say something, but seemed to decide against it. “I have to go. Take care, Hermione.”

“You too, Harry.”

He kissed her cheek and walked off, a slight slump in his shoulders.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Look, mum,” Hermione said, plucking the old book from the top of the pile. “It's Emma.”

Rose seemed mildly surprised for a bit before she smiled. “Your first book.” She always called it Hermione's first book, even if there were many non-fiction books that Hermione had read before it. In Rose's mind, she gave the book to her daughter on the day Hermione was born, so it would be Hermione's first book.

Rose pushed back the hardcover. “Oh, you never changed the name?”

Hermione smirked. “I suppose I never did.” She waved her wand and the letters in Jane switched cleanly to spell Jean.

Rose seemed surprised. “I meant—oh, never mind. It's just as well.”

Hermione knew what she meant, of course, but Rose was right. It was all beside the point.

“Was that Harry outside just now?” Rose asked, carefully opening the book to the first page.

Hermione nodded. “He just helped me haul these. He had to hurry back to their house to make it to another photo-shoot. Sends you his love.”

“He always does. How are the Potters doing?”

Hermione paused too long. Rose's eyebrow was arching in seconds.

“They're fine,” Hermione said.

Rose didn't push. She wasn't a gossip. Hermione liked to think she wasn't, either.

“I love Mr. Knightley best,” said Rose as she got further along in the book. “'Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them…' Possibly the only person in this book with any sense, though the other characters are so charming anyway that I could only love them all for it.”

Hermione gave it a brief thought. “Mr. Knightley? Really?”

“Well, who do you like best, then?”

Hermione shrugged. “Emma, imperfect as she is, has a rather firm place in my affections. She is so forgivably human and endearingly well-intentioned. I relate to her greatly.”

“Do you? Interesting.”

“You don't agree?”

“Well, it's a matter of personal opinion, is what I think.”

“No, tell me what you think. Don't you think I make a fine Emma Woodhouse?”

Rose laughed at that. “Why does everyone aspire to be Emma? Jane Austen would be scandalized. She had no desire to have her readers admiring Emma so. She had, in fact, thought that she made Emma properly unlikable.”

“Never Emma! She's a dear! So kind, yet so clueless. Don't we all feel like we're Emma?”

Rose shrugged. “Oh, I like Emma exceedingly, but I always thought of you as a Mr. Knightley…”

“Oh, well, that's natural, what with my top hat and breaches.”

“Silly girl, you know what I mean. He is the wisdom and reason of the vivacious and impulsive Emma. He leads her down the right path. He is her true friend. Anyone should want to be the Mr. Knightleys for the Emmas of the world.”

Hermione laughed. “So you agree that there are indeed many Emmas?”

“No. I agree that there are Emmas, but I don't think there are a lot of them. They are, in fact, a rather rare breed.”

“Indeed. `Handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seeming to unite the best blessings of existence.' You're right. They're rare enough!”

“Seeming is the right word. Many Emmas have convinced themselves and the rest of the world that they are whom the people around them paint them to be. The Emmas are easily convinced, simply because it seems more comfortable that way. They fancy themselves blessed, but when they have their Mr. Knightleys remind them of their responsibilities, they often rebel, and only realize in the end that Mr. Knightley was the right one all along. A lot of celebrities are Emmas, I'd wager, and not all of them have Mr. Knightleys, the poor dears.”

Hermione could only grin. “It seems to me that I'm nothing without an Emma, then. Who shall my Emma be? Ron?”

“Well, that would be rather silly, wouldn't it?” Rose said, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Ron would be more of a Harriet… don't you think so? Hanging on to the perfect image that is Emma—relying on her just because she's convinced herself that she couldn't get on, on her own. Aspiring for the wrong man once or twice, even?”

Hermione shot her mother a sardonic look. “Thanks for that. Wrong, am I?”

Rose patted her hand sympathetically. “Dear, you and Ron just got divorced.”

“Right. So if Ron is Harriet, I assume you're telling me I haven't quite found my Emma.”

Rose looked thoughtful again. “I don't know about that. I used to fancy Harry being Emma.”

“Oh, he'll look smashing in a dress.”

Rose snapped the book shut. “Laugh if you like. Jane's never wrong. There's a reason I gave you this book, you know. I had hoped you'd learn a thing or two from it. Maybe you should reread. You obviously missed the point.”

Hermione was greatly amused.

Nevertheless, she tucked the book back into her box, resolving to do as her mother advised. Perhaps her perspective of Emma since she read it at 9 would be different, and perhaps next time she gave her opinion of it to Rose, Hermione might actually discover what her mother had wanted her to find in the first place.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You're not in the picture,” Hermione said, staring at the latest issue of Magical Gardens.

She didn't quite know what was so important about it that she had to mention it like that to Harry. She always knew Harry showed up in these photo-shoots for Ginny, but she felt surprised by his absence in this one nonetheless. Maybe because she thought she had talked him into doing it that day.

So there was Ginny; so were their lovely dogs. No Harry.

Harry looked casually over at the magazine, as if he didn't know already. “Oh, yes, I'm not on that one, this time.”

“Yes, I can see that. Is that a cat in the back?”

Harry nodded. “Indeed it is. Lovely, isn't she? I saw her in a pet store and bought her straightaway. Ginny didn't think it was a good idea, what with the dogs and all, but Patchet's a tough little beastie. I think she clawed the head dog on the nose. The rest of them have been nice to her since. Thought that earned the cat a place in the picture.”

“I distinctly remember you saying you were going home for this photo-shoot.”

“I did go home for the photo-shoot, and I did make it, but when the proofs came back, Ginny thought I looked horribly unenthused. The layout director agreed with her, so they took me out.”

“Took you out?”

“Edited the photos. See, if you look close enough, there's actually a void just where Patchet is. That's where I used to be.”

Hermione looked closer and did indeed notice some sort of empty space. “They can do that with Wizarding photographs?”

“Apparently. Looks rather nice without me, anyway. Ginny looks perfectly fine by herself, don't you think?”

Hermione set the magazine aside. “Harry, I hate to pry, but is there something wrong?”

“Wrong?”

“Yes, wrong.”

“With what?”

“You know what.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

Hermione shot him a penetrating look. He stared right back, stubbornly.

“You are the worse liar, Harry,” she said after a bit, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You can't ever hide things from me.”

The stubborn jut of his jaw eased and he gave a rather resigned smile. “No. I can't ever. I can only tell you that I'm not quite ready to talk about it, yet.”

“You're not ready for me to talk sense into you, you mean.”

He laughed wanly. “Well, right now, I'm not quite sure what's sense and what isn't, so I'm likely not to recognize it, anyway.”

“Harry.”

He shrugged. “Will you be at your parents' house tonight?”

Hermione noted the quick change of subject but didn't insist further. “Yes. Mum said I ought to be. Not like I've got a full schedule…”

He nodded. “Maybe because I'll be there. I'm helping your dad rework your basement.”

She grabbed his sleeve. “Get out while you still can,” she whispered forebodingly.

Harry laughed. “Oh, stop making fun of your father. I'm sure he's not that bad.”

She affected dreadful gravity. “He's gone through three contractors, Harry. That basement's never going to get done—not with the way he keeps switching things around.”

“Oh, but I've got a wand.”

“He'll be worse for it, I promise you.”

“We'll see. It ought to be fun, anyway. I always liked your dad.”

She smiled. “Everyone likes my dad. Even Ron loves him. I think Ron loved him more than he loved me…”

It hadn't come out as jokingly as she had hoped.

Harry rubbed her arm soothingly. “That's not true…”

Hermione shrugged. “Doesn't matter. We're divorced. We were both lacking in love somewhere.”

There was a brief silence.

“Have you spoken to him lately?” Harry asked. It had been two months since the divorce. The last time she saw Ron was a month ago, when the house got sold. They hadn't talked much. There was really hardly anything to say. Their kids were in Hogwarts. There was nothing else to tie them together.

She shook her head. “Sent him brownies once. Daddy liked the fishing bait Ron sent him, so I owled the brownies…”

Harry blinked. “You baked him brownies?”

“What? Goodness, no. They were from my mother. She just didn't know how to send them to him, is all.”

“Oh. Did he owl back?”

“Yes, he did.”

“And what did he say?”

“Well, how should I know?”

“You didn't read his owl?”

“Well, why should I? It was for mum. I suppose he thanked her for the brownies. It's only right.”

Harry sighed then laughed. “Well, of course.”

She laughed, too, but more sadly. “He's not speaking to me. Why should he? I'm the one who asked for the divorce, not that he didn't think it was a good idea, but sometimes I feel… I could've tried harder. Ron tried everything. He even bought those books—you know? How to Save Your Marriage?”

“His luck finally ran out with the How To-Books, I suppose.”

She sighed. “Maybe he just read the wrong book, this time.”

“Maybe. You know, I actually thought you and Ron were quite perfect for one another. Guess I read the wrong book, too.”

Hermione didn't know why, but she found that quite funny. He seemed to think that was funny, too, so they laughed together, not quite knowing why.

“Why are we laughing?” Harry asked.

She giggled. “I don't know… I suppose, I just like laughing with you.”

“It's a blast.”

It took a while, but they finally settled down, grinning at one another across the coffee table.

“You know, we might have made a great couple,” Harry said all of a sudden.

Hermione blinked. “What?”

“Us. If we dated. We might have made a great couple.”

She felt her cheeks grow warm, and she couldn't believe Harry didn't seem embarrassed about it in the least. “Nobody seemed to think so…” Then she thought about her mother, and how Rose's Mr. Knightley-ing and Emma-ing might have conjured images of her and Harry being together…

“Well, I can mention at least three people who were almost convinced we were together,” Harry said.

That surprised her. “Oh? Who are these three people?”

“Well, there was Viktor, Molly, and Ron, himself. Not to mention Rita Skeeter and half of Wizarding England…”

She knew about Molly, and even Rita Skeeter, but Viktor and Ron? This was news to her. “Really? Ron? And Viktor? Why?”

He shrugged. “Well, apparently, Viktor said you talked about me excessively. And Ron… well, he just thought we were closer than friends.”

Her brows knotted. “Do I talk about you excessively?”

“I don't know. Do you?”

Did she?

“I think we would've worked out,” Harry continued after a brief silence. “I always thought you were good for me, even if we never really went out. And I almost always like your company.”

She sneered. “Almost always?”

He smirked. “Well, a man's got to be left alone sometimes, you know.”

“That might have worked out. Ron always thought I never took care of him enough.”

“Funny. I thought you always took care of me.”

Hermione sniffed. “Too bad you're not my husband.”

That seemed to amuse him vastly. “Yeah. Too bad.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“The result of this distress was, that, with a much more voluntary, cheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope for at the moment, she was able to fix her wedding-day—and Mr. Elton was called on, within a month from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin, to join the hands of Mr. Knightly and Miss Woodhouse.

“The wedding was very much like other weddings, where the parties have no taste for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton, from the particulars detailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby, and very inferior to her own.—“Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a most pitiful business!—Selina would stare when she heart of it.”—But, in spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union.”

Hermione turned the last page of Emma and set the book aside, stretching on her couch in a rather ponderous state. She was rather glad to note that her rereading of Emma had brought with it the same fine flavors from so long ago, when she first read the book at 9. She even dared to think that she gained more reading it with a more experienced mind. The years between 9 and 38 seemed to open her eyes to the nuances of every character in the book, and every unsaid word. Or perhaps her mother's fanciful substitution of characters in the book helped more than Hermione was willing to admit.

She had read the book, inadvertently thinking of the parallels of Mr. Knightley and Emma to her and Harry. She had pondered the similarities of Ron to Harriet and even went so far as to dub Robert Martin as Luna, from time to time. In one of her most outrageous flights of fancy, she equated Mr. Elton to Lavender and even guiltily assigned Mr. Churchill to Ginny. She had indulged herself, assigning people of her acquaintance to this elegantly crafted tale of mismatched lovers, well-examined letters, and revelations of life.

She found, however, that she could not seem to figure out who Jane Fairfax ought to be. Odd as it was, no one seemed to fit Jane's description.

Naturally, Hermione didn't lose sleep over it. It was only fiction, literary classic though Emma may be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry emerged from the back door, stretching his arms far above his head.

Hermione laughed from the swing seat. Two months to the day Harry agreed to help her father with the basement and they still weren't done. “I warned you.”

He looked at her questioningly, mid-stretch, then laughed, joining her on the seat. He sighed contentedly, leaning his head back and draping his arms along the back of the seat. He looked exhausted, but he was grinning. “Oh, it's not so bad. Rather enjoy helping him out, actually.”

She noticed. She had, in fact, wondered if he wasn't finding this routine too comfortable. Not that she minded too much. It was nice to see Harry on a more regular basis. He certainly livened up the Granger table, able to engage in serious conversation with her mother and make silly jokes with her father. Harry brought a good balance with Hermione, too, making her laugh whenever she got stubborn and bossy.

Still, she felt a bit guilty—like she was hogging his time from where he ought to be, or at least where her logic thought he ought to be. She felt an obligation to ask, and she had put off the conversation long enough. “I'd imagine Ginny must be wondering what sort of treasures you were finding in Alfred Granger's basement that it would keep you from her most nights.”

His eyes snapped fiercely in her direction before he looked guiltily away. “She understands. She has her friends over most nights, anyway. I'll only get in the way.”

“You're right. Three kitchens, four living rooms, three dining rooms, two recreation rooms, and twelve bedrooms. You're in dire danger of knocking heads.”

He sneered. “Stop funning.”

“Oh, believe me, I'm not funning.”

He sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. “You and your mother…”

“Ready to get sense talked into you?”

“You don't want me to be here?”

She frowned. “That is completely unfair, Harry. Of course I like it when you're here, but shouldn't you be… I don't know, with your wife?”

“Like I said. She has her friends.”

Hermione pursed her lips, tempted to end the discussion, but her conscience, for some reason, nagged her. “When did her friends start coming to your house?”

“What do you mean when? Her friends always came to the house.”

“I meant routinely. More often than they used to.”

He slunk down on the seat. “Month and a half ago,” he muttered.

“Excellent, so has it ever occurred to you that your wife has her friends over because she's lonely—because her husband hasn't been there—“

Harry groaned. “Look, I don't have to be there for her every single minute! It wouldn't kill her to have some time away from me.”

Hermione frowned, but she turned away as well, a flush rising in her cheeks. “I'm sorry I brought it up. I'm sticking my nose into something that's none of my busi—“

“It's not—“ He stopped and gave another frustrated sigh. “I'm an awful husband. Why don't you just go ahead and say it.”

She stared at him in surprise. It took a moment, but her expression softened. “I don't think you're an awful husband, Harry. I don't know anything about it, so I've no right to judge you like that.”

He massaged his forehead briefly, lost in his thoughts. “I miss my kids. I miss having them in the house. I miss having—I miss having her attending to them instead of just me. Everything has to be about me; my decision. Every flowerpot and every tile has to go by my opinion. She agrees with every single thing I say—even when she disagrees, it's like she's agreeing. When she decides things by herself, it's because she knows I'd like it. She's exceedingly good at knowing what I like, by the way. And still she manages—there's this huge portrait of me sitting on the fireplace. Lord, I hate it. I just hate it. She doesn't get it—God!” He paused, taking a deep breath. He went on more calmly. “So I think this is good; that she has friends over. Maybe she'd think about other things, for once. I'm so tired of her—hovering around me…”

Hermione's brows knotted and she stared at Harry like she didn't know him, yet she did. Even with him ranting this way, she understood where he was coming from, even if she didn't quite know what to feel about him. “Harry, I—that was the unkindest thing I've ever heard you say…”

The effect was instantaneous. He turned horribly red then he looked horribly guilty.

She hastily continued. “Unkind, but… it's a real issue. Have you spoken to Ginny about it?”

He swallowed and Hermione could see his hands shaking a bit. “Yes. Each time, I hurt her worse with the things I say. God, it's not her fault, Hermione. None of it is. And really, what has she done wrong? My kids and I… we're everything to her. We're all that she lives for, but—I once thought she—“ He paused, trying to find the words. “She had so many other plans back then. She wanted a career and she had so much ambition. I used to admire her for wanting it all, but then… it's like I became her career, and I thought I'd like that at first, but good Lord…”

“Harry, how long have you felt this way?” Hermione asked, almost disbelieving, even if she knew, deep down, that it made some kind of sense. As appreciative of love Harry was, he was essentially an independent soul. He loved those he loved, and he relied on those he trusted, but ultimately, his independence was ingrained in him. Too many years in the cupboard, perhaps. Too many years fending for himself…

“The kids helped a lot,” he said, as if in reply to her question. “They really did, but now that they're all off to Hogwarts…”

All this time…

“Oh, Harry…” she whispered. “That's terrible. Why did you… oh, Harry…”

“It was no party for her, either,” he continued miserably. “I've been a complete jerk most times.”

“But you never fight! Ginny never said you did, did you?”

“They weren't yelling fights,” Harry said quietly. “We never yell, just… long, uncomfortable… pregnant silences. We know the words. Hurts without saying them.”

“And the kids don't know?”

“They think everything's perfect. Ginny sort of made a point of it…”

Hermione sighed. “And is this why she wants another child? Work things out with you, maybe.”

“Probably.”

“It would be a mistake.”

“I know. But it's not easy, isn't it? Getting a divorce.”

She frowned. “Divorce isn't always the answer. I meant working it out between you and her without a child playing referee…”

A bitter laugh escaped him. “If we knew how without a sprog, don't you think we would've figured that out by now?”

Nineteen years…

Hermione felt a deep sadness for her best friend. She saw all those years of affection wasted on broken hopes and promises. She knew his capacity to love. She mourned that it hadn't had a proper outlet. If it hadn't been for the children, Harry might have lamented those nineteen years even more.

She laid her head on his shoulder, offering what little comfort she could. His arm on her shoulders felt heavy, but he didn't let go.

The stars overhead shone brightly through the clear spring sky and they both looked up, as if searching for answers amidst the constellations.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I figured out who Jane Fairfax is,” Hermione told her mother as she helped Rose roll balls of cookie dough. The calendar on the kitchen wall was unmarked, yet Hermione could've born a hole through the 21^st of April.

Rose looked over her shoulder. “Is the answer on the calendar?”

Hermione smirked. “No, but the date gave me an inkling. Today's the day Harry and Ginny will see their divorce lawyer.”

Rose didn't seem quite so surprised. “That ought to make your father happy—means Harry will spend more time here.”

Hermione paused at that, mildly surprised that her mother had taken news of Harry's divorce in stride. Then again, this was her mother…

“I thought you liked Harry, mum.”

“I adore the man. Just that with him around, your father will never finish the basement.”

“Well, I think they both like not finishing it. They could be doing worse things.”

Rose shot her a look. “Like what? Have wild parties and piss the night away snorting cocaine? Harry's approaching middle-age and your father's ancient. I don't think those two are up to partying like Rockstars at their age, even if you Portkeyed them straight to a nightclub dancefloor with scantily clad women.”

Hermione threw her head back and laughed. “Mother!”

“It's true!”

“Oh mum… well, Harry's not that old. He's a wizard. He doesn't age quite like a Muggle. At 37, he's more like in his late 20s by Muggle standards. Harry's still got plenty left in him.”

Rose's eyebrow arched. “Oh, does he? Well, that's a bit more than I'd care to know…”

“What—mum!” She didn't know why she was so mortified by it.

“I didn't mean anything by it. And what was it you were saying? About Jane Fairfax?”

Hermione welcomed the slight change in subject. “I've been trying to figure out who she is. You said I'm Mr. Knightley, Harry's Emma, and Ron's Harriet. I started thinking up substitutions for the other characters, too. Gave me quite an interesting perspective. Couldn't put a name to Jane Fairfax, though. Stumped me for a bit, I'll admit.”

“But now you know.”

“Yes. Jane Fairfax is Harry.”

“Well, Harry can't be both Emma and Jane. They're two completely different characters.”

“That's just it, see. There's Harry, and there's what everyone thinks of him. Jane was always the more perfect, more enigmatic version of Emma, but we know from Emma's point-of-view that she's the more realistic version of Jane, whether she likes to admit it or not. Everyone still loves Emma, but Jane's allure is irresistible to everyone else, still. Don't you think Harry's like that? There's that Jane in him, that everyone sees and admires, and then there's Emma, his true self, and the one Mr. Knightley knows in all her flaws and foibles. Besides, since I assigned Mr. Churchill to Ginny, it only makes more sense. Mr. Churchill is in love with Jane. He pretended to be in love with Emma, when all this time it's Jane he's in love with. Don't you think it fits in view of the circumstances?”

“Oh, but Mr. Churchill gets to keep Jane,” Rose pointed out.

Hermione shrugged. “This is real life, mum. Harry can be split in fiction, but not in real life. Besides, perhaps Ginny gets to keep her Jane Fairfax through the divorce. She no longer has to keep being disillusioned by the real Harry and Harry doesn't have to worry about constantly being Jane.”

“Huh. That actually makes sense. Looks like you learned something after all, dear. You have finally impressed me.”

Hermione was mildly surprised. “You mean it?”

“Of course, dear.”

“But—back then, when I was 9, you weren't happy with my analysis of the book!”

“I wasn't.”

“How could you have known back then that this would be the right answer? Or that I would ever come to figure it out? I didn't even know Harry and Ron and Ginny—“

“Well, there's no right or wrong answer, sweetheart. I was just disappointed at the time that you didn't actually read the book!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione flipped the book in her hand as she sat with Harry on the back porch of her townhouse. She had a swing-seat there, too, and they both had one foot up on the wicker table in front of them.

Harry was still in his business robes and he was smoothing down his tie, idly. “We got quite a way through with the divorce proceedings,” he said.

She patted his arm. She knew how harrowing it could be.

“I didn't expect to feel sad.”

She nodded, knowing what he meant. “It comes when you least expect it. You realize that you're legally separating yourself from the person you spent the last twenty years with. If you're the least bit human, twenty years will mean something.”

He seemed to understand. “Have you talked to Ron, lately?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. Rose had a Quidditch game and we were sort of forced to be civil with one another, but it turns out we missed being friends. It turned civil to friendly rather quickly.”

“That's good, because now he's not speaking to me.”

“Sorry.”

“It's alright. I understand. I'm divorcing his baby sister.”

“Do you want me to talk to him about it?”

Harry waved the offer away. “Don't. You and Ron have your own thing to work out. I'm a big boy and I can fix things with Ron by myself.”

They descended into a comfortable silence, rocking gently on the seat. She leaned back on the seat and felt his arm on her shoulders. She relaxed even more.

“Are you hungry?” Hermione asked several minutes later. “I think I can fix you something inside.”

“I can't. Your mother made me promise to save my appetite for dinner tonight.”

She sneered. “Does she make you wash your hands before eating, too? Tell you to brush your teeth before going to bed, maybe?”

He chuckled. “Hey, her house, her rules.”

“Honestly. And she called you middle-aged. You'd think she would treat you like a middle-aged man instead of a middle-school boy.”

“She called me middle-aged? Oy, I've still got a lot in me, you know.”

“That's what I told her!”

“Oh, did you?”

She blushed. She didn't know why, but she did. “Anyway, just don't let them sucker you into getting too comfortable at their house.”

He grinned. “You don't want me there?”

She rolled her eyes. “It's not that! Just that a grown man ought to have his own place, is all. Stop teasing!”

“I can't help it. You're so easy to bait.”

“Am I?”

He nodded, still smiling.

It was perhaps around that time she realized that his fingers were playing with her hair. It was slightly distracting, but it felt quite nice.

She smiled and leaned her head on his shoulder.

He looked at the book in her hand. “That Emma?”

“Yes… thought maybe you'd like something to read. I know you're not a big fan of—“

“Sure, I'll read it. It's one of your favorites, innit?”

She smiled. “Yes. It's light, and amusing. Something to calm your frayed nerves. There are going to be a lot of those from hereon…”

He understood and he smiled appreciatively. He gave the book another quick examination. “Hermione Jane Granger. You're never going to change that, are you?”

She paused. “I did, actually. It was already Jean just right before I brought it out here with me.”

“But you changed it back to Jane?”

She shrugged. “Yes. It was Jane for 38 years and…” She looked up, her gaze meeting his. She smiled broadly. “I finally get it.”

He looked at her quizzically for a brief moment before he chuckled with a shake of his head. “Well then, Hermione Jane, thanks for the book, and for thinking of me, and for… honestly, everything. I don't know what I'd do without you.”

“Well, I'm not going anywhere, so you'll just have to figure out how to put up with me.”

He kissed her forehead and they leaned back on the seat together.

After several minutes of comfortable silence, Hermione spoke. “You'll be late for dinner at mum's.”

“Oh,” he replied. “I think she wouldn't mind if I was a bit late.”

Somehow, Hermione didn't think her mother would mind, either.

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