Disclaimer: All things HP belong to JKR; I'm only borrowing to fix her stupid mistakes.
Author's Note: Written for the H/Hr ficathon sponsored by anythingbutgrey on LiveJournal, for winterpolaris who requested post-DH angst, H/Hr from another character's point of view, and the quote: "Love the heart that hurts you, but never hurt the heart that loves you." - Vipin Sharma. Ignoring the Crapilogue because it doesn't deserve to be acknowledged anyway.
Brave Enough
Chapter 1
"Hey, Hermione. How's my favorite Healer?" Harry greeted Hermione with a smile and a quick half-hug with one arm as she stepped inside his flat.
"Oh, busy as always," she smiled, returning his hug with one arm while her other one put down her bag and unfastened the clasp of her cloak. "The pasta smells great, Harry," she added, sniffing appreciatively.
"You know, sometimes I can't tell if you come over because of me or because of the food," Harry commented with an air of mock injury.
"The food, of course." Hermione threw him a laughing glance.
Harry pretended to stagger, clutching his chest melodramatically. "You cut me to the quick!" He straightened, dropping the pose, and joined in with her laughter.
"Prat," Hermione accused him, the word belied by her smile and her indulgent tone.
Harry pretended hurt. "Prat, am I? Well, that's fine thanks I get for risking life and limb to save the world."
"Was it that serious?" Hermione asked, sobering, even though she knew Harry had been jesting.
Harry had just returned from a week he had spent in Cornwall, where there had been growing rumors of increased suspicious activities and a few troubling disappearances. Harry was a sort of adjunct Auror-a special position created essentially for him. He was nominally under the authority of the Head of the Aurors but in reality, he tended to answer directly to the Minister of Magic and when there were any suspected rumors of Dark activity, it was usually Harry who was sent to look into it, for the obvious reason.
And before that, there had been an epidemic of Dragonsbreath Virus which had kept Hermione so busy that she and Harry had actually not seen each other for almost a month.
"No, it wasn't. It was just a few idiots playing at being the next Dark Lord, basically."
Hermione studied Harry for a moment but didn't contradict his light words. She could tell that it hadn't been quite as easy as he made it sound but she could also tell that it really had not been that serious a threat.
Harry shrugged. "There was really no need for me to go; a regular team of Aurors would have been fine. But you know how Minister Hamlin gets."
"You can hardly blame her for that," Hermione responded.
The new Minister of Magic, Linda Hamlin, had lost her husband in the War; he had been murdered by Death Eaters. Minister Hamlin had been Minister for just over a year now and while she was highly regarded and Harry respected her quite honestly, it could not be denied that she had a tendency to over-react to the smallest rumors of Dark activity. "No, I don't blame her."
They exchanged small, sober smiles, smiles of understanding, before they settled into the easy conversation of two old friends, while he told her more of what had happened in Cornwall and she told him about her work at St. Mungo's and her a new project she was starting to research the causes of the Dryditch Fever.
It was later, after they had eaten and were relaxing over their drinks that Harry looked over at her and asked, "Has anything else happened lately?"
"No, nothing in particular. Except…" she paused and then finished, "Vince Williamson asked me to go on a date with him."
Harry stilled in the act of lifting his bottle of butterbeer to his lips. "What did you tell him?" he asked, more by rote than as if he really was unsure of the answer. He knew what she would say and he was proven right when she gave him an odd look.
"I said no, of course. It would just make things awkward, dating someone I worked with, and I wouldn't want to do that to our friendly working relationship."
Harry studied Hermione for a moment, noting the way she kept her gaze studiously fixed on the tabletop as she traced idle patterns on it with one finger. This was predictable, expected; he'd seen it several times in the past few years since Ron and Hermione's divorce. There had been a few fellows who had been courageous enough to ask her out, unmindful of the coolly professional demeanor she cultivated like a shield of armor and the long hours she kept, but Hermione had rejected them all with the same ease and certainty as she'd rejected Vince Williamson. And it was getting damnably irritating. "Is that the real reason?" he asked quietly.
She looked up at him, her expression changing. "What do you mean by that? Of course it's the real reason! What other reason would there be?"
Her eyes were flashing dangerously and for a moment, Harry hesitated, as a hasty, "nothing" trembled on his lips, followed by some light comment that would change the subject, avoid talking about something so personal, keep their conversation light and bantering. But even as he hesitated, his gaze dropped to her lips and he knew a familiar pang of longing and instead of his disclaimer, he found himself saying, "I don't think that's the real reason. I think you're afraid."
"Afraid! Don't be silly, Harry, I'm not afraid. I'm busy and I'm quite happy as I am." She paused and then added, the words seeming impelled from her almost against her will, spoken so softly they were more to herself than to him, "Besides, I'm not cut out for a happy relationship."
"That's nonsense, Hermione. You haven't let anyone close enough to know if you could be happy with them. There is no reason why you can't be in a happy relationship," he said more sharply, exasperated with her stubbornness.
"You don't know that!" she burst out, as if finally pushed past her patience. She stood up, pushing herself away from the table and turning away before she continued in a brittle tone, "I couldn't even make Ron happy, you know that. And I-I did love him and I wanted to make him happy and tried so hard to make it work but I couldn't. I couldn't…"
"He didn't make you happy either," Harry pointed out, his tone gentler now, feeling an odd, poignant mix of pain and pleasure to see and hear Hermione's emotion. It had been so long now since she'd really talked about anything so personal; it was almost the first time she'd directly mentioned her divorce since she and Ron had decided to split up. And while he hated to hear the hurt in her voice, he was glad, too, so painfully glad to finally see her showing some emotion. "But that doesn't mean that you can't be happy with someone else."
"No! You don't understand! I failed Ron; I failed myself…"
"And now you're so bloody afraid of failing again, so afraid of being hurt again, that you've just cut yourself off from anything resembling emotions, let alone romance!" he interrupted her heatedly, standing up in his turn. "Hermione, what's wrong with you? Don't you see that's what you're doing?! You've cut yourself off! Look at your life! You work and then you go home and you work some more! You don't really have many friends; I'm the only friend you still see on a regular basis and if it weren't for me, Ron, and the other Weasleys, I doubt you'd ever have any real human contact. And you don't even see the Weasleys that often as it is."
"You, of all people, know why I stopped visiting them nearly every weekend!" she flared.
"Don't give me that, Hermione. They forgave you years ago and you know it and I know it. Now you're just avoiding them the same way you avoid most people outside of work."
"That's not true. I was at the Burrow just a few weeks ago!"
"Ron and I practically had to kidnap you before you agreed to go to Mrs. Weasley's birthday dinner. And as for anything else, you've been on exactly one date since you divorced-one, and you can't tell me it's because no one's asked you!"
"That's not--" she began but he cut her off.
"Yes, it is. I know you, Hermione; I know how much you hate to fail and I know how much you dislike the idea of anything you can't learn from books or solve by reading more. But one failure can't dictate the rest of your life; you need to move on."
"Don't tell me that! I have moved on! I'm happy the way I am, Harry; I have my work and I have friends and--"
"I'm not talking about that and you know it!" he burst out, the last remnants of restraint evaporating, as he closed the distance between them in a few long strides. "I'm talking about this!" He grabbed her arm, spinning her towards him, as his lips covered hers. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it wasn't about tenderness and it wasn't remotely platonic. But even in spite of his anger, there was no violence in his kiss. His lips claimed hers, almost demanding a response rather than seeking it. This kiss was about passion, was about need, was about desperation.
She had stiffened in surprise but he persisted until she relaxed. And she responded. For one fleeting, interminable, foolish, glorious moment, she kissed him back, feeling her entire body go up in flames, reacting to his touch like dry paper when a lit match is held to it. And she forgot her own anger, forgot what they'd been talking about, forgot all the reasons why they shouldn't do this, forgot who she was and who he was… She forgot to be cautious, forgot to feel afraid-and for just that one moment, she simply lived.
It had been so long, so very long and it felt so good; he tasted so good and all the vague feelings, longings she'd ignored and pushed aside for the past few years, buried beneath her work, came surging up to the surface and dear God, it felt good…
But it was only for a moment before sanity-and a good bit of panic broke through her foggy thoughts. Good God, what was she doing?! She tore herself away, one hand automatically going to her lips although she wasn't sure if it was to shield them from him or to savor the way they still tingled, the way she could still feel Harry's lips pressed against hers. She stared at him, her breath coming fast and desperately keeping her wide eyes fixed on his eyes and not on his lips. "What-what was that?"
He let out a weary half-sigh, a mixture of lingering anger, frustration and apprehension and regret and desire roiling inside his chest in a confused, chaotic mass of emotion. He was almost glad that she had covered her lips with her hand so he couldn't see them, swollen as he was sure they must be after that kiss. Dear Merlin, that kiss! That kiss that had been the impulse, the madness, of a moment, that kiss that had started in anger but had turned into something warmer, something deeper, from the moment his lips had touched hers. He had wondered for so long now what it would feel like to kiss Hermione and now he knew the passion that could be between them, had tasted it, experienced the searing sweetness of her-and all he could think was that he wished he hadn't. It was going to hurt so much more now…
Part of him-the part of him that never wanted to hurt her and hated to see her upset-wanted to apologize; the word, sorry, hovered on his tongue, but another part of him was still angry. Another part of him knew that if he backed down now, she would retreat behind her self-constructed barrier of the rational, the familiar, the safety of work. And he knew he couldn't let her do that, couldn't let her retreat again. He missed her, damn it! He missed the real Hermione, the Hermione that was the cleverest person he'd ever met, yes, but was also the kindest, the Hermione who didn't barricade herself behind her work but who had put all her work aside for a weekend because she wanted to make sure he was okay after he and Ginny had broken up. The Hermione he'd fallen in love with.
"I think it's called kissing, or don't you remember what that is anymore," he said, deliberately misunderstanding her. He was being snide, goading her, and part of him hated himself for doing it, but he was just so damn angry at her for doing this to herself, at Ron for having hurt her, at himself for having waited so long without saying anything, at St. Mungo's (irrationally) for recognizing her brilliance and relying on her so much. He was angry and frustrated and tired of it; he was tired of waiting for her to move on, tired of waiting for her to realize what she was doing, tired of having to try so hard to make sure that she never pushed him away, tired of loving her and only being her best friend.
He'd been waiting for years, wanting her for years, watching her close herself off and become this other version of the girl he'd always known and loved so much. This was Hermione and he, of all people, knew how diligent she'd always been, knew how hard she'd always studied and worked-so it should have been natural; even Ron hadn't really seemed to notice just how different Hermione was, how unnaturally focused on work she had become. Yes, she'd studied hard and thrown herself into her studies-- but she was also the girl who had broken more school rules than he cared to count in order to help him, the girl who had been taking so many classes that she needed a Time-turner to get to them all but still cared enough to risk his anger and have his Firebolt confiscated, the girl who had given up her 7th year of school to help him. This new Hermione hardly had time to see her best friends anymore, had to be cajoled, teased, persuaded and even forced into spending time with him and Ron and it was nearly as difficult to convince her to spend time with him alone.
And he had had enough. Enough of waiting, enough of silence, enough of patient sympathy.
Her eyes flashed dangerously. "Don't be stupid, Harry," she almost snapped. "Why did you do that?" Her voice rose on the question until she ended on a near-hysterical note.
"Because I wanted to! Because I've wanted to do that for years now! Because I'm in love with you!"
She sucked in a sharp breath, all color leeching from her face, as she stared at him, shaking her head in almost unconscious denial of his outburst. "No. No, you can't." Her voice was quiet, too quiet, until she burst out, "Don't tell me that! Why did you tell me that? I don't want to hear it-I can't-you can't--" Irrationally, she covered her ears with her hands in an uncharacteristically childish gesture that, at any other time, might have made him laugh, but he was too far gone for that. It only made him angrier.
He caught her wrists in his hands, forcing her hands away from her ears. His grip was firm, not enough to hurt her-even in his anger, he wouldn't, he couldn't, hurt her-but too firm for her to free herself. His eyes held hers, burned into hers. "No, you are going to listen to me! You've been hiding too long and I've been waiting for too long and you are going to listen. I. Love. You." He clipped out the words precisely, emphasizing each one, ignoring the look in her eyes as if something had shattered inside her, even as it made him flinch to see it. His voice gentled, became softer. "You can tell me no; it won't really change things. I'm your best friend; I'll always be your best friend. But you are going to listen and if you say no, say it because you don't love me, because you know you can't love me. Do it because you honestly don't feel that way about me." His tone was amazingly steady, given that each scenario lashed his heart like a whip, tearing him apart at the possibility-the probability-of rejection, of losing her forever with not even hope to keep him going
He swallowed and forced himself to continue. "Vince Williamson fancies you; he respects you and he might be good for you. I know how much you like him and how well you get along. But you have to choose; you have to face it. You can't hide or run from the possibility of romance anymore. If you really, truly, in your heart, don't want to date anyone right now, then don't. But don't hide behind feeble excuses of being busy because you're too scared of getting involved with anyone again, because you're too scared of failing, as I know you have been doing." He paused, his grip tightening slightly as he shook her once, with an odd gentleness (and it should have been impossible but his touch was gentle as he shook her-somehow, in spite of the strength of his grip, with all the gentleness lacking in his tone and in his eyes). "I want you to be happy-not just content as this shell of the girl I once knew which you have been. I know you and you're not the coward you've been acting like." He paused and the ghost of a smile glimmered in his eyes, curved his lips, humor-less as it was. "You're a Gryffindor; you faced down Voldemort; you're not going to run from emotions anymore."
He stopped, running out of words after his long speech of everything he'd been thinking but never saying for so long now, his anger spent. His throat was tight with anxiety and apprehension and love and painful, tentative hope, as he waited for her response. Had he gotten through to her? Would she listen? Had he been too harsh? Would she forgive him? Could she love him?
He got his answer in her tone even more than her words as she finally spoke. "Let go of me!" Her tone was cold, dangerously so, and with an edge of so much pent-up fury it sliced straight through him.
He released her wrists as if they'd burned him, stepping back as his hands fell to his sides.
And she left, without another look or another word. She hardly paused to grab her cloak and her bag before she fled, letting the door close with a chilling finality.
She was gone.
And if her tone had been any indication, she wasn't going to be back.
He had lost her.
Damn it! Sodding, effing, bloody hell!
He almost welcomed the sudden flare of anger, that drowned out the hurt he knew was coming.
Damn it! Damn her stubbornness and her certainty in her own rightness! She had cut herself off; she had pushed everyone away while she threw herself into her work at St. Mungo's with a single-mindedness that left no room for anything else in her life. He'd been right in what he'd said-he just wished he hadn't said it.
As quickly as it had come, his anger dissipated, leaving only the hurt behind.
He'd been right-but that was poor comfort now. To know that Hermione was angry at him-justifiably angry at him, because he had been harsh (and he, of all people, knew that she didn't react well to being lectured at)-to know that she was hurt-was a high price to pay for having told the truth.
He had lost her. He had never really had her-and now it looked like he never would.
Bereft of hope, bereft of the most important friendship of his life, Harry slumped down on the couch and buried his head in his hands. He had lost her-and what was he going to do now?
~To be continued…