In Our Bedroom, After the War

VipyGirl831

Rating: R
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 7
Published: 24/01/2008
Last Updated: 15/02/2008
Status: completed

She wished he would tease her about eavesdropping, nudge her with a crooked smile, or huddle up next to her; whisper in her ear, asking what she’d heard. Like he used to. Things were different now.

Chapters

1. The Beginning After the End

2. The Night Starts Here

3. Take Me To the Riot

4. My Favorite Book

5. Midnight Coward

6. The Ghost of Genova Heights

7. Personal

8. Barricade

9. Window Bird

10. Bitches in Tokyo

11. Life 2:The Unhappy Ending

12. Today Will Be Better, I Swear

13. In Our Bedroom, After the War

1. The Beginning After the End

Summary: Not all wars are fought on the battlefield—some we must fight within ourselves. An epilogue inclusive story of endings, beginnings, and, ultimately, growth.

A/N: I began writing this story as a challenge to myself. I decided to do a few things that I either always wanted to do or have never been able to do, namely, I wanted to write a piece of fanfiction that based entirely off of an album, with each chapter following a song of the album, and I wanted to write something that was full of angst, as I've never written anything other than fluff, humor, or parody.

The album that I decided I wanted to base a story on was “In Our Bedroom After the War”, an absolutely brilliant album by a Canadian band called Stars. I'd recommend them to anyone who enjoys the Indie genre, including bands like Death Cab For Cutie, Sufjan Stevens, Metric, Broken Social Scene, or even Rilo Kiley. I'd also recommend them to anyone who enjoys male/female harmonies. Each song from the album marks a new chapter, and as such, there will be 13 different (short) chapters.

At first, I was going to write a post-DH story, without the epilogue, as that would tie in nicely with the post-war theme of the album, but then I figured, heck, I've already made this challenge to myself difficult, why not go all the way? And so I did, making this a post-DH story—epilogue and all.

(Semi) important part of A/N: To sum up that lengthy author's note: I'd recommend reading the short song lyrics at the beginning of each chapter, as they do tie into the story. Also, as this is my first time writing angst, and really, anything so obscure, I'd appreciate your comments, constructive, if possible. Furthermore, this is a story that includes the epilogue, so it will contain Harry/Ginny and Ron/Hermione. One last thing—play close attention to the dates at the beginning of each chapter; this story will jump around quite a bit.

I hope you all enjoy. Thank you for reading.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, and as such, belong solely to her. Furthermore, all song lyrics belong to Stars.

The Beginning After the End

Oh, the blood and the treasure,

And the loosing it all;

The time that we wasted,

And the place where we fall.

Will we wake in morning and know what it was for,

Up in our bedroom after the war?

August 5, 2017

Time, has a funny way about making itself known. A glance in a mirror, a forgotten memory, an old friend, a new smiling face; everyday flashes that let us know that time has not forgotten us—It still holds us in its hands, and no matter how far away yesterday seems, or how recent twenty years ago feels, Time has merely tricked us into believing we have escaped its hold. Fools, we are, to fall into its traps, fall into its lulling deceit and distortion of our very lives. Can we pretend that Time will allow us to forget, or to forgive that which seems unforgettable or unforgivable? Can we allow ourselves to succumb to the blissful ignorance that Time offers? As Time passes us by, beckons us to follow, can we leave our sins behind? And what of our conscious? Does Time dilute those morals we once held strong, those beliefs we thought vital to our very being? No, perhaps not. Perhaps Time, as powerful as it is, can only bury all these things: our guilt, our regrets, our sin, and our principles. But how deep? What does it take for us to realize that these things still remain? A touch? A smile? A look? When the memories resurface, despite Time's work on them, can anyone stop them?

She crumpled up the sheet of parchment.

No, Time has not been merciful to me. Instead of helping me forget, the guilt only opens a new wound every time I remember.

She sighed, leaning her head into her hands.

And how often I remember.

Reflection, before any other vice of hers, would certainly led to the destruction of her sanity. She often wished she could forget or go back in time to change things, but then, shortly after, to her horror, another wanton thought would creep in her mind, you don't want to forget at all; you wouldn't change it, because even after all these years, even with so much regret, that one moment still makes you feel more alive than you've felt since then.

And that, no matter how much she wanted to deny it, was only the truth.

After accepting this, and she had done so long ago, she could only let desperation seep in; the tell-tale weariness of a life gone wayward. She wished she could escape the agonizing feeling, escape the pain of remorse that wretched through her gut shortly after the pang of longing she felt all too often. It was an endless, vicious cycle.

I want to leave; I want to get away and leave it all behind. Why can I not let it all go?

“Mummy! Mummy! Hugo said that I looked like an ugly chipmunk so I called him a repulsive Neanderthal and then he asked Daddy what that meant and Daddy didn't know because he doesn't read like me and you Mum, and then Daddy said that I was a little know-it-all just like you and that I was a handful and laughed like it was a big joke and he didn't punish Hugo at all for being so mean to me!”

Ah, there you are. How could I possibly leave that behind?

Hermione rose from her chair and walked over to her daughter, pulling her into a hug. “You shouldn't let your younger brother get to you, honey.”

Or your father, she added mentally.

Rose Weasley sniffled. “I know mum, but he's just so mean sometimes. Why isn't he nice to me?”

Hermione smiled, wiping the stray tears from her daughter's face. “Well, he's obviously jealous of the most beautiful, intelligent, and kind young lady I've had the pleasure of meeting.”

Rose grinned, but then scrunched up her nose. “You just have to say that because you're my mum!”

“It doesn't make it less true. Did your father let you get the books you wanted?”

The young girl immediately brightened. “Oh, yes! I picked up the newest version of Hogwarts a History, Brooms That Aren't Meant For Sweeping, and Twenty-Three Steps to Harnessing Your Wandless Magic Potential.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Wandless magic? Starting young are you?”

“Uncle Harry said that he'd help me start on it so I'd give the `brightest witch of her age' a run for her money. He meant you, Mum.” Rose added, unnecessarily.

“You know doing magic before you get to Hogwarts is illegal, honey.” Hermione fought to keep a smile from forming.

“But Mum! Uncle Harry said that he knew how to make sure that I didn't get in trouble! Uncle Harry said that even you did loads of things that were `illegal',” Rose quoted with her fingers, “but only because you wanted to help him and Daddy and you always learned new things when you did it. You do want me to learn, don't you?”

Ah, hook, line, and sinker.

“We'll talk about it more later, darling. Why don't you run upstairs and wash up before supper?”

“Okay Mum!” Rose gave her a big hug. “I love you!” She called as she raced up the stairs.

Hermione smiled softly. “I love you too.”

“Hey Herms, could you give me a hand with these? I swear Rosie gets more like you every day! She tried to buy the whole bloody bookstore—I had to practically drag her out.”

“Language, Ron.” She scolded, plucking one of the levitating bags from the air.

He grinned sheepishly. “Sorry.”

Eyeing the bags he levitated in front of him, she shook her head. “More Quidditch rubbish?”

“Hey! Hugo and Rosie need to be ready! They're obviously both going to be on the Gryffindor team. James is already one of the chasers, so when Hugo gets there he'll be keeper, and Rosie can be another chaser, and I think Harry said Al is showing some beater tendencies, which is rather odd, that kid's pretty shy, but anyways-- and Lily's a load like Ginny, so she'll probably go for the chaser position as well. We'll have a whole Quidditch team of Weasleys and Potters!” Ron seemed to nearly salivate at the thought.

“Well, first of all, you know Rose wants to be a seeker.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “That's just because Harry's been putting those ideas into her head. Dunno where he gets off—”

“And second of all, we already have enough Quiddich equipment to outfit three teams as it is, so I doubt any more is necessary.”

“Shesh Herms, don't get your knickers in a twist.”

Hermione expelled a breath, willing herself to stay calm. “There's something else we need to talk about, Ron.”

“What now?”

Stay calm, and don't grind your teeth. You'll wear them down; remember what your parents taught you. “It's about Rose.”

“What about her?” Asked Ron nonchalantly as he dropped the bags he was floating with a flick of his wand and threw himself down on a leather couch.

“You can't keep picking on her all the time, Ron.”

“Aw Herms, I'm not `picking' on her, just teasing, that's all.”

“By calling her a know-it-all? I fail to see how that's teasing Ronald. Teasing usually entails both the teaser and the teased laughing.”

“Well, Hugo thought it was funny, and `sides it's not like she started crying or anything.”

“Not until she came home, at least.”

“Oh.” Ron looked down. “Ah. I'm sorry, Herms.”

“I'm not the one you should be apologizing to.” Hermione huffed. “And do try and punish Hugo sometimes as well. He shouldn't be calling Rose names either.”

Ron nodded, rising from the couch and lifting his bags once again.

“Don't forget that we're having dinner tonight at your mum's.” She called after him.

“At six, I know.” He shouted back.

Hermione sighed and sat down, grabbing a book from the bag.

The title, Twenty-Three Steps to Harnessing Your Wandless Magic Potential, winked up at her in shinning gold letters.

Life will always be a fight, an endless struggle.

She traced the letters with her finger, remembering the excitement in Rose's sparkling brown eyes as she rattled on about wandless magic.

But then, some things are worth hanging on for.

A/N: Rose's line `You do want me to learn, don't you?' is inspired by the greatest comic of all time: Calvin and Hobbes. Calvin always used the learning excuse to get his mom to buy him Dinosaur paraphernalia.

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2. The Night Starts Here

The Night Starts Here

The scary part, the aftershock, the moment it takes to fall apart.
The time we have, the task at hand, the love it takes to destroy a man.
The ecstasy, the being free, that big black cloud over you and me.
And after that, the upwards fall, and were we angels after all?

August 12, 2017

“Rose! Rose! Dad’s taking me to the Puddlemere Quidditch game tomorrow, and he got us three tickets, one for me, and one for him, and one for whoever I want to take! Do you wanna come?”

“Ooh, Al! Of course I do! You’re the best friend ever! Do you think that Puddlemere will win? I do, because I’ve been looking at some statistics, and I did a few calculations and Johnson has a higher average in goals than Dawish does, and, hey! Hugo, give me back my book! I wanted to show it to Uncle Harry!”

Hugo ran away, only to be caught almost immediately by Albus.

“Al! Geoff me!”

“Then give me Rose’s book!”

“Hugo’s getting beat up by Al!” Exclaimed Lily as soon as she ran into the room.

“Stop whinging Lily!”

“Mummy! James told me to stop whinging!”

“Settle down, you midgets!”

“Uncle Ron! Did you bring Hugo’s and Rose’s brooms? Can we play Quidditch? Huh? Can we? Can we?”

The Weasley household, despite the relatively small number of visitors, was in complete chaos. Molly Weasley, in her element amongst her youngest grandchildren, bustled around, giving away hugs and kisses in-between checking on her dinner and repairing various picture frames and pottery pieces knocked over by the five wild children running around the house.

“Oh Hermione dear, thanks so much for coming over tonight. You know how much I adore seeing the children.”

“Thank you for having us, Molly. I’m still not sure how you manage it all.”

She laughed. “You seem to have the touch, Hermione, Rose and Hugo are such dears.”

“It’s not fair that you get to go to the game and not me!” Hugo moaned.

“Well maybe if you didn’t whinge so much Al would like you better and you could’ve been the one who he picked,” came Rose’s quick reply.

“Well, at least I’m not a know-it-all.”

“At least I’m not brainless!”

Hermione smiled ironically. “Ah yes, regular angels those two are.”

Molly chuckled. “They’re siblings, dear. It’s only natural that they bicker all the time.”

“You’re so ugly, you scare blind people away.”

“You’re so stupid, you can’t get from A to B without going through the rest of the alphabet!”

“You’re so ugly you have to sneak up on a mirror!

“You’re so stupid, your brain cell died of loneliness!”

“What’s this? My two favorite niblings arguing?”

“Uncle Harry!” Rose and Hugo chorused, immediately forgetting their argument.

Hermione entered the room in time to see Rose jump into Harry’s waiting arms. He spun her around a few times, then set her, giggling, on the ground. He then ruffled Hugo’s hair; he laughed and ran away.

“Uncle Harry, how many times do I have to tell you that ‘nibling’ isn’t a real word?”

“Sure it is, nymph. It’s a neologism.”

Rose wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t mean it’s a real word, just that it’s made up!”

“Well then, how do new words ever get created Miss Smarty Pants?” Harry teased.

Rose giggled. “When they get put in a book!”

Harry smiled fondly at her. “So, when I write a book and use the word ‘nibling’ then it’ll be real?”

Rose seemed to contemplate this for a moment. “I guess so. But I don’t think you’re going to write a book, Uncle Harry.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Mum says that you’re not a very good writer.”

Hermione laughed. Harry glanced up at her, surprised, over the top of Rose’s head, but then grinned, looking back down at Rose. “She said that, did she?”

Rose nodded eagerly. “Yeah, but she also said that,” she paused as though wanting to quote her mother’s exact words, “that you were really good at talking. She said that you could inspire a million people if you wanted to because you really believe what you’re talking about, and that that’s the reason why you’re not a good writing—you think it’s too passive.”

“Well, I think your mum’s got me figured out, eh?” Harry asked looking directly at Hermione.

Hermione’s breath caught.

“Duh, Uncle Harry! My mum knows you better than anyone in the whole world! She knows your favorite Bertie Botts flavour, and your favorite song, and your favorite—”

Hermione interrupted. “Rose, honey, why don’t you go see if Grandma Molly could use some help setting up the kitchen?”

Rose looked disappointed; Hermione couldn’t blame her.

“Okay mum, but I still want to show Harry my book.”

“When you’re done helping Grandma Molly.”

“Okay!” She raced off, leaving an awkward silence behind.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it into an even more unmanageable state. “Hello, Hermione.”

“Hello, Harry.”

Hermione twirled a lock of hair around her fingers. “Rose is convinced you’re going to teach her everything there is to know about wandless magic before she goes to school in September.”

Harry laughed, albeit softly. “Well, she’s a bright girl, not to mention very powerful. I’m sure she’ll be a master of it someday; better than you and I combined.”

“Only time will tell I suppose.” Hermione responded, biting her lip.

They fell silent, Harry looking at Hermione closely and Hermione avoiding his gaze.

“Hermione—”

“Don’t, Harry.”

“I was going to ask you how work was.”

She met his gaze. “You were not.”

“No, you’re right, I wasn’t.” His eyes bore into hers, not giving way, even after admitting to his fib.

Hermione’s breath hitched in her throat; she felt a jolt in her stomach—a combination of nervousness and something she didn’t feel like naming at the moment.

“Harry, I can’t—”

“Can’t what, Hermione? Speak to me?”

Frustration seeped into her voice. “Not when you look at me like that, no.”

Tense silence. The kind that fills the very room and threatens to suffocate its occupants. The kind that fills the air with a feeling that is hard to identify—a strange mixture of restraint and desperation.

“Mum, I finished helping Grandma—”

Hermione jumped; she noticed that Harry did as well.

Her daughter looked at them both suspiciously.

“What’s going on?” She accused.

Harry forced a grin; it didn’t meet his eyes. “We were just talking about you, oh favorite niece of mine. Your mum tells me you have a book to show me.”

Rose’s eyes lit up, biting into the distraction. “Oh yeah! Lemme go get it, Uncle Harry! I’ll be right back!”

She left, taking the escape from discomfited silence with her.

“Distraction by book. It never fails.”

The corner of Hermione’s mouth twitched upward. “Used that one before, have you?”

“Once or twice.” He grinned. Her heart jumped.

“Uncle Harry! Uncle Harry!” Rose yelled as she thundered into the room. “I got my book, but my dense brother ripped the cover. Stupid berk.” She muttered.

“Rose.” Hermione scolded gently.

Harry snickered and waved his hand over the cover. Rose watched, mystified, as the rip sealed itself.

“That’s so cool, Uncle Harry! Can you start teaching me now, before dinner?”

“Sure, nymph, let’s get to it.”

Watching them, Hermione felt something akin to sadness well up from within her. She cleared her throat, in a futile attempt to reign in the feeling. “Well, I’ll just, pop in to say hello to the rest of the family.”

Harry looked up, giving her a piercing look.

*Don’t look at me like that Harry. For the love of Merlin, stop looking at me like that.*

“When you come back I’m going to be better than wandless magic than you are, Mum!” Rose giggled.

Hermione could only manage a faint smile before she quickly left the room. She flattened her back to the wall of the hallway, her breath surprisingly irregular.

Hot, hot, heat, the friction of two bodies, of two hearts. The taste of ecstasy, of being free. The flight of senses, the wild abandon. Poised on the brink of a pit of insanity, on the brink of feral passion.

She took a shaky breath, closing her eyes as though to ward off thoughts unwanted.

“Like this, Uncle Harry?”

“Yes, that’s perfect, nymph. Now close your eyes. That’s it. Relax even a bit more. Breathe in, and out. There you are. Deep, just like that. Now concentrate, but don’t tense up. Stay relaxed, but keep your goal in mind. Do you see it?”

Hermione couldn’t resist peaking around the corner. They both sat on the floor of the room, legs crossed, facing each other. Rose, eyes closed and breathing deeply, perched her hands over Harry’s wand, which lay out in front of her. Harry watched her intently.

“Feel the magic of the wand in front of you. Call that magic to you, gently now, just will it towards you. Feel the magic, call the magic.”

The wand flew into her hand. Her eyes snapped open. Hermione’s mouth dropped; Harry’s eyes widened in surprise.

“I did it! I did it!” She squealed, jumping up. “Uncle Harry I did it!”

Hermione turned away, walking away from the scene at a brisk pace. Not a moment too soon, Hermione arrived in one of the living rooms, which was blissfully empty, though she could hear children shrieking not too far off.

“Mummy! Mummy! I did it! I did it!” Rose came barreling into the room, nearly knocking Hermione over. “I did wandless magic mum! Real, controlled, wandless magic!”

Hermione couldn’t hold back the few tears that escaped.

Rose, always perceptive and thoughtful, immediately stopped her celebration. “Mum? Why are you crying?”

It was all she could do to not burst into sobs. “Oh, darling, I’m just so proud of you. Not only are you intelligent, but just look how powerful you are—controlled wandless magic, and at the young age of eleven.” Hermione paused, wiping away her tears and beaming at her daughter. “You’re going to do so many great things Rose Weasley, and I’m very proud to call you my daughter.”

Rose flushed, looking rather pleased with herself, but trying to hide it all the same. “Really?”

“Really, really.” Hermione wrapped her daughter into a crushing hug.

“I’m sure,” came Harry’s voice, “that both your parents are very, very proud of you, Rose.”

Hermione did not look up; she continued to hold her daughter—her lifeline, steadying her as she wobbled precariously on the brink.

A/N: Couldn’t resist throwing in a few of my favorite insult jokes from back in the elementary school days. Good times.

3. Take Me To the Riot

Take Me To the Riot

I'm there; yeah I serve them,

The one with the empty looking eyes.
Come closer, you'll see me:

The face that is used to telling lies.

August 19, 2017

“Harry! Are you even listening to me?”

“Of course, Ginny,” He lied easily.

She nodded, pleased. “Good. Now change out of those old jeans and clean up. Teddy will be here soon.”

“Why should I clean up for Teddy? He comes over at least four times a week.”

“You should always look your best, Harry.” She said with a frown. “No matter who the company is.

He looked up at her briefly. Her appearance certainly mirrored this belief. With her hair flowing around her face without a hair out of place and her elegant, short black dress, Ginny looked as though she were getting ready for a photo shoot, not a family dinner.

“I’ve laid out your clothes,” she added.

“Okay.” He grumbled, heading in the direction of the stairs.

“Harry?”

He stopped on the stairs, not turning around. “Yes?”

“You haven’t told me what you thought of my outfit.”

“You look fine.” He responded immediately, continuing up the stairs.

A green, silk dress shirt accompanied by a black tie and pants lay out on their bed, neatly pressed. A black, dressy robe with green embroidery floated magically along-side the ensemble. He frowned at the outfit, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Ginny liked to buy nice things; liked to wear nice things, and liked her family to wear nice things. Flaunting of wealth always served to make him uncomfortable, so naturally Ginny’s choice in his outfits never sit well with him.

He ran his hand over the fine silk, sighing deeply.

“Harry! Merlin, will you hurry up? Teddy will be here any moment,” came the shrill cry from below.

Harry, grumbling, quickly dressed, foregoing the tie and robes and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

She’ll just have to deal with it. I can’t be perfect all the bloody time.

“Teddy’s always late anyways,” he replied belatedly as he walked down the stairs.

Ginny frowned at his appearance, but said nothing.

“Daddy!”

Harry grinned, scooping up his daughter in his arms and spinning her around. “Well, there’s my favorite girl!”

She giggled. “Do you like my dress robes Daddy? Mummy bought them for me in France!”

Merlin, Ginny is going to spoil this kid rotten.

“You look beautiful; just like a princess.” She beamed. He set her on the ground and watched, amused, as she flicked her hair over her shoulder and straightened out her robes.

“Will Teddy be here soon?” She asked hopefully.

“Lily’s got a crush on Teddy!”

Lily spun around to face her eldest brother. “I do not, James!”

“Lily and Teddy, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

“Shut it!”

“Lily. James. Stop fighting and come help your mother with setting the table. Harry, go check on Al. I have no idea where that boy has gone off to.”

Harry looked around the room, feeling guilty for not noticing Al’s lack of presence. Al had the ability to get lost in a crowd, to escape unwanted attention. In that way, he was very much like Harry.

Harry climbed back up the staircase and headed toward Al’s room, knocking gently on the door as he reached it.

“Come in.” Came the soft voice from within.

Al was sitting on his bed, hands in his lap, looking little a perfect little gentleman. He wore silk, emerald green robes, polished, brown shoes, and his hair, though usually as unmanageable as Harry’s, was smoothed down with a liberal amount of gel.

Harry felt his heart well with pride.

“Teddy’ll be here soon, kiddo.”

Al nodded, then glanced up at Harry, his brown eyes shinning with something Harry couldn’t quite define. “Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“What was your first day of Hogwarts like?”

Harry smiled, sitting down on the bed next to Al. “Still worried a bit about school, eh?”

Al nodded sheepishly. “Just a bit. James keeps telling me these scary stories.”

“Al, you know you shouldn’t believe a word out of that boy’s mouth.”

“I know.” He paused. “Can you still tell me though?”

“Well, as you know, I grew up in the muggle world, so I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.” Harry grinned. “Hagrid was enormously unhelpful in his helpfulness; he didn’t tell me how to get on the train, just that it was at platform 9 ¾. So I wandered around the train station, asking around for 9 ¾, which of course made everyone think I was completely mad. I was at the point of giving up when I came across a rather large family of redheads, nearly all of whom were pushing trolleys.”

James grinned. “The Weasleys!”

“Yes, of course. Molly, your grandmum, took pity on me of course, and helped me get onto the platform, though I must tell you how terrifying it was going through that wall the first time. I lost sight of the Weasleys and boarded the train, finding an empty compartment to sit in and feeling like a complete outsider.”

Harry must have looked a bit sad, for Albus patted him on the shoulder.

“That’s when your Uncle Ron barged into the compartment, looking utterly disheveled. He sat down and then started gaping at me. We were both fascinated with each other, really. I had a scar and he had a normal wizard lifestyle. We got along rather famously, as you can imagine. Ron was just about to show me a spell and then, Hermione barged in.”

Harry couldn’t help the large grin that spread across his face. “’Has anyone seen a toad? A boy named Neville’s lost one.’” He mocked in a high voice.

Al laughed.

“Ron tried the spell, and of course, it didn’t work. Hermione took the mickey out of him, naturally, and Ron, unsurprisingly didn’t like her very much. She was rather high-strung in her early years, I suppose, and Ron couldn’t appreciate her brilliance, and neither could I, for that matter.” Harry’s smile faded a bit. “I didn’t become friends with Hermione until the troll incident, which you’ve heard all about. As horrible as it was, I thank Merlin constantly for that troll storming the girl’s bathroom. I doubt I’d be alive if it wasn’t for Hermione’s help over the years.”

“What about Mum? Did you meet her on your first day?”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Well, yes, I met her with the rest of the Weasleys. She didn’t say anything to me. In fact, your Mum and I didn’t start to become close until my 5th year.”

“James said that some of the older years told him that everyone met their ‘true love’,” Al grimaced, “on the first day at Hogwarts.”

For a moment, Harry pictured a young girl with rather large front teeth and bushy, brown hair bursting into his compartment.

“Hmm… maybe.” He shook his head slightly, clearing his thoughts. “But then again, you meet most of the school on your first day of Hogwarts, and most wizards tend to marry someone they met in school, so that has something to do with it.”

Al blanched. “I don’t want to marry anyone! Girls are weird.”

“Well, you might change your mind later, son.”

“But Dad, Rose said—”

Harry raised his eyebrows.

“—Rose said that sometimes there’s a difference between the person you marry and your ‘true love’.”

“Did she?” Harry swallowed, wiping his palms on his pants and avoiding Al’s inquiring gaze.

“Yeah, is that true? Because I said that nobody would ever marry someone that wasn’t best for them, and isn’t that what a ‘true love’ is? Someone that’s best for you?”

“Ah, well, I dunno, son.”

“Did you ever know anyone who didn’t marry their ‘true love’?”

Harry grinned, rather weakly. “What’s with all these questions?”

“Oh, it’s just Rose was talking about it because—er—I was just curious, that’s all.”

A loud chime rang throughout the house.

Harry ruffled Al’s hair, much to Al’s displeasure. “Come on kiddo, sounds like Teddy’s here.”

Al jumped up, excited, and ran out of the room. Harry heard him thunder down the stairs. “Teddy! Teddy!”

He followed at a much slower pace, smiling at the sight of his three children jumping Teddy in their enthusiasm.

“Harry, is everything alright?” Ginny asked as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

No, Ginny, nothing’s ‘alright’. I’m trapped in a marriage, with a woman I don’t love. I have to see the woman I do love everyday, without being able to touch her, to kiss her, to show any sort of affection for, because I know that if I do any of those things I won’t be able to stop. And to top it all off, I feel a horrible guilt every time I think about her. So, no, everything isn’t ‘alright’.

“Yeah, Ginny.” He replied with a false grin. “Everything’s fine.”

A/N: A chapter from Harry’s point of view; we’ll have a few of those.

For some reason, I’m having trouble with formatting; none of my italics are showing up, so I apologize for the excessive use of bold font.

4. My Favorite Book

My Favorite Book

Because I never knew a home, until I found your hands, when I'm weathered
You come to me, you're my best friend.
And that is why we'll always make it.
How I know your face, all the ways you move.

You come in; I can read you.
You're my favorite book.
All the things you say, the way you shift your eyes.
I never knew there was someone, to make me come alive.

August 20, 2017

It surprised her—that she heard the soft sniffling through the haze of her anger.

It made her pause, standing in front of her son’s door, and listen cautiously for any further noises. She was just about to move toward her own room when she heard it again—a slight sniffle, this time followed by a quiet whimper.

Slowly, she pushed the door open, attempting to adjust to the dim light in the room.

“Hugo? Honey?”

Dead silence met her call.

She moved closer to the bed. The bright orange comforter stood out in the darkness, as did the top of Hugo’s head, sticking out from underneath it.

“Hugo?” She called again softly.

The covers peeled back to reveal his tear-streaked face.

Hermione instantly enveloped him in a hug. “Oh, honey, what’s wrong?”

She felt his small arms snake around her back, clutching her tightly. His sniffles turned into sobs. She rubbed his back reassuringly, placating him with gentle words.

“M-mummy?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

He pulled away slightly, and looked up at her. His brown eyes still held traces of wetness. “D-Do you love me?”

Hermione’s heart broke. “Honey, of course I do! With all my heart! What would even make you ask a question like that?”

Hugo looked down and wiped at his nose. “It’s just that—” he trailed off for a moment. “I heard you and Dad arguing.”

Swearing internally, Hermione smoothed down Hugo’s hair. “We just lost our tempers, honey, and said nasty things we didn’t mean. The argument didn’t have anything to do with you, Hugo, and it certainly doesn’t make me love you any less.”

“It’s just that, well, you and Dad argue a lot.” He stated, now fidgeting a bit. “And everyone says I’m a lot like Dad—”

For just a moment, Hermione gaped at her son. “Hugo, honey, I—I love you very much. Please never doubt that. You’re my world, sweetie.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

“And—and you’d do anything for me, right Mum? You’d—you’d even give up everything for me?”

Hermione pulled him into another tight embrace.

Oh, honey, I already have.

“Of course, Hugo, of course.”

Looking over Hugo’s shoulder, she noticed it was raining outside.

Life was funny that way.

October 2, 2005 (Flashback)

The rain fell in heavy sheets pounding upon the roof.

She loved these days, curled up with a cup of hot tea and a good book. It helped matters that the sound of the rain alone echoed throughout the house; Ron was out on business.

She closed her eyes, enjoying the tranquility of it all.

The doorbell startled her; she wasn’t expecting company.

Her hand gripped her wand tightly; even after over seven years she still retained the caution she learned in the war.

She moved toward the door warily, still grasping her wand. Through the glass, the distorted image of Harry waved at her. She let out a breath, rolling her eyes, and threw open the door.

“Harry! Why didn’t you Floo? It’s a mess out!”

He shrugged sheepishly and grinned.

Hermione noticed it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I felt like a walk.”

She shook her head and pulled him into the house, casting a quick drying spell.

He grinned again, and this time, his eyes sparkled.

“Thanks, gorgeous. What would I do without you?” He wrapped her in a hug and planted a kiss on her cheek.

“Very little, I’m sure.” She replied with a smirk. “Now, what’s the matter?”

“What makes you think something’s the matter?”

She shot him a knowing look.

A slight smile appeared on his face. “Right.” He paused, the smile disappearing completely. “Ginny’s pregnant.”

“Oh. I—That’s—” Her brow furrowed. “I should be congratulating you.”

“Yes, I suppose you should.”

“You wanted more kids.” She took a step closer to him. “What’s the matter, Harry?”

He closed his eyes, sighed, and then began to speak hurriedly. “I don’t know. It’s—well—have you ever made a decision that you thought was right, at the time, and then, over the years, you grow to regret it more and more, until it begins to plague your every thought, every day?”

She watched him carefully, painfully aware of the short distance between them. “Yes.”

He visibly swallowed.

“Harry, what—?”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Just—make me feel better.”

Her answer was immediate and firm. “Okay.”

His eyes conveyed an immeasurable amount of gratitude. He placed his head gently on her shoulder; she raked her hands through his hair.

Outside, the rain continued to fall in loud splashes.

“Would you like some tea?” She asked softly.

He nodded into her shoulder and, after a moment’s pause, stepped back.

She headed toward the kitchen; silently, he followed her. She felt his eyes on her back as she bustled around, preparing his tea.

For once, she was glad she could blame the slight twitch of her hands to her torture by Bellatrix Lestrange so many years ago.

When she finished she handed the cup to him and watched as he took a sip and smiled, pleased she had remembered how he liked it.

“Come on.” She nodded toward the living room. “Let’s have a sit.”

He nodded, following her to the overstuffed couch in front of the television.

“Do you want to watch the telly? I’m sure there’s a football match on. Ron certainly seems to find one every moment he’s home.”

Harry smiled crookedly. “He tells me that you watch them with him, from time to time.”

“Ah, well, only when Beckham’s playing,” she quirked, with a smile of her own.

“Didn’t take you for the fan girl type.” His eyes sparkled.

“You haven’t seen my Harry Potter shrine, then? I swear that bloke is just too dishy.”

He laughed loudly and placed an arm around her shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze. She sighed contently, and leaned into him.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you, Hermione.”

She pulled away slightly to look at him. The smile was gone, replaced by a tender look that caused her breath to stick in her throat. Their eyes locked; an unbidden thought passed through her mind before she quickly pushed it away.

This is dangerous. She realized. It’s like we’re banging rocks together in a firework warehouse; eventually, a spark is going to catch, and then everything’s going to explode.

His eyes shifted to look over her shoulder. She knew his gaze had moved to the large picture of the trio hanging on wall near the television. It was likely the most important material possession she owned.

Harry stood up and walked over to the framed photograph. She followed him, slowly, her eyes soaking in not the picture, but rather Harry’s expression.

In the picture, Hermione stood in the middle of the two boys. Ron’s arm draped around her shoulder, Harry’s arm curled around her waist. Though the picture was magical, the three did not move much, only smiled, softly, as though they had a harmless secret the rest of the world was not worthy to know. More important, however, was the resolute belief in Harry’s eyes, the belief of better things to come.

Hope.

It shone through the weariness.

But now, now a myriad of emotions passed through his eyes at a nearly impossible rate. While his face was impassive, no clenched muscles or furrowed brow, his eyes revealed the feeling the rest of his face lacked.

Sadnessregretnostalgialongingrestlessness.

Turmoil.

His eyes closed suddenly, blocking emotion’s escape.

“Stop,” he whispered.

For some reason, she whispered back. “Stop what?”

“Reading me. You—I can’t—do this.”

She licked her lips and swallowed heavily.

His breath quickened; his jaw clenched.

“What’s happening to us? We—We were fine, better than fine even, and we never, never tried to—Oh Merlin. I don’t even know what I’m talking about, goddammit!” She swore, true desperation hitting her.

She wasn’t quite sure what was happening, or why it made her shake.

She did know however, that she needed to leave.

And then Harry opened his eyes.

And she couldn’t.

The emotions escaped, breaking through and pouring into her very core, one overpowering all others.

Need.

The shear intensity caused her to take a step backward.

She let out a small gasp as her back hit something solid. His hands came to rest on either side of her head, flat against the wall.

“Tell me to stop,” he demanded, green eyes piercing into hers, his face suddenly tantalizingly close.

She opened her mouth to respond; only her ragged breath escaped her lips.

“Hermione,” he growled. “Tell me stop.”

He must have taken a step closer, for now she felt his hot breath on her face.

Or perhaps she was just more aware.

Aware of the warmth pooling through her, of the pounding in her chest, of the tingling, electric feeling spreading—like limbs awakening—shaking off the numbness.

Aware of being alive.

“Hermione,” Harry pleaded, begged her to be the strong one.

And she couldn’t.

“I—I can’t.”

It happened too quickly for her mind to process.

The spark caught.

Then she was pressed fully up against the wall, against his body, grinding, withering, and her hands tangled into his hair, grasping, clenching.

His lips, or hers, crashed, bruised, fused.

His hands grazed the side of her breasts; she moaned into his mouth.

Her hands moved to his shoulders, gripping the fabric tightly, pulling him closer; She wanted, needed him closer.

He pinned her arms above her head with one hand, moved up her thigh with the other.

She bit his lower lip.

He hissed, letting go of her hands and pressing her further into the wall.

She tugged at his shirt; he pulled away, breathing heavily.

No words. Deep silence.

She pulled his shirt over his head.

I’m yours.

You’re mine.

He unbuttoned her blouse.

I’m yours.

You’re mine.

The world exploded in flashes of green, blue, red, and yellow.

They enjoyed the show.

A/N: First of all, thanks for all the great reviews I’ve been receiving! You guys are awesome!

Secondly, surely you all saw this coming! I know a lot of people have a problem with the idea of Harry and Hermione having an affair, and frankly, I tend to be one of them, but as you can hopefully see from the first few chapters, they’ve spent quite a long time wallowing in their guilt. For me though, an event like this would certainly explain how Harry and Hermione went from the people we saw together in the cemetery in DH to the two people who didn’t say a word to each other in the epilogue.

This song, actually, was the song that stood out to me from the entire album in terms of its relevance to Harry and Hermione. I think it describes Hermione’s feelings toward Harry perfectly.

The idea for Hugo’s question (Would you give up everything for me?) comes from a story my friend told me about how, when she was younger, she and her mom would play a game asking how much they would give up for each other. It would start out small (‘I would give up my favorite marble for you’) and always end up with them everything for each other.

A friend of mine had some artwork done for me from a scene in this chapter, which you can see here: http://imstillsleeping.livejournal.com/11442.html Enjoy!

Remember to keep the dates in mind!

5. Midnight Coward

Midnight Coward

What can't be decided
In the morning it will bring itself to you.
What can't be decided
Can fool you into thinking maybe you can choose.
I can see what's coming,
But I'm not saying it.

October 3, 2005 (Continued Flashback)

When he awoke, it was dark outside. The rain still fell at a steady pace, banging loudly against the windows. The noise had not awoken him, however.

He was too content to sleep.

For the first time since he could remember, he neither wanted to go back in time nor go forward; he wanted to remain in this very moment for eternity.

And of course, it was impossible.

He breathed deeply, noting with interest that Hermione, even now, smelled slightly of a library—a combination of old books and new ink and parchment. He caught himself thinking she smelled like Hogwarts, like home. The idea was at once terrifying and comforting.

But then, recently, most things associated with Hermione have fulfilled that contradiction.

He twisted his head to glance at the alarm clock sitting on the dresser. Hermione insisted on keeping one, even in school. The block red numbers blared, and blurry as his vision was, he could still make out the time.

Midnight.

Hermione shifted in her sleep, pressing closer up against him and mumbling incoherently. He was struck by how beautiful she was—beautiful in that subtle way that was so typically Hermione. His heart clenched painfully.

For a moment, he almost thought he had a choice.

The moment ended quickly, and he was left empty. He attempted to disentangle himself from her quietly and without waking her. It proved difficult; she clutched him and furrowed her brow, muttering under her breath. When he succeeded, he reached for his glasses.

Bitterly, he realized they reminded him of Ginny; the new square frame was far more stylish than his former clunky round one, not to mention the unbreakable charm on them was rather useful, as an Auror.

No more oculus reparo, she had said.

He glanced back down at Hermione, memorizing her features.

No more oculus reparo, indeed.

Hermione stirred, blinking sleep out of her eyes.

“Harry?” She murmured.

He should have left earlier.

“Hey.”

She sat up, bringing the covers with her, and searched his face for a long moment.

He sighed; she nodded.

“Okay.” She nodded again. “Okay.”

He reached out and touched her face, briefly, gently. For some reason, it felt more like betrayal than any previous act had.

He didn’t care.

Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply.

He pulled away, stood, and gathered his clothes with a quick spell, a flick of the wrist. She watched him as he dressed.

He opened his mouth to speak; she shook her head. “Don’t. Please, don’t.”

I don’t want to leave.

I want to stay, with you, forever.

I need you.

I love you.

Goodbye.

He closed his mouth and walked away.

Without a sound.

July 17, 2006 (Continued Flashback)

His cell phone rang loudly, awakening him from his slumber.

Only four people ever called him, and only one would call him now.

He sprung out of bed and flipped the phone open.

“Hello?”

“HARRY? HARRY, CAN YOU HEAR ME? HERMIONE TOLD ME TO CALL YOU ON THIS BLOODY THING. SHE’S HAVING THE BABY, HARRY! COME QUICK!”

“Ron! Stop yelling. Bloody hell. I’ll be there soon.”

He ended the connection without saying goodbye and scrambled around the room, looking for some robes to throw on.

“Harry?” Ginny called, groggy with sleep.

“Hermione’s having the baby.” He rushed out. “I have to go now. You stay here with the kids. I’ll owl you.”

He apparated out without waiting for a response.

When he arrived, St. Mungo’s was in complete chaos, as was the norm. He hardly noticed; he moved through the lobby in a daze, barely acknowledging the receptionist, so intent on reaching his destination.

At the door, however, he found himself blocked by a resolute Healer.

“We can only have one person in at a time, Mr. Potter.”

He ranted, raved, shouted, even pulled his fringe up to reveal his scar (“I’m Harry fucking Potter! I killed Voldemort, you bastard, and I’ll damn well do the same to you! Let me in the bloody room!”), all to no avail.

So he sat.

Stood up and paced.

Sat again.

Thumbed through some magazines.

Paced again.

His thoughts flew by like snitches, out of reach, incoherent, except for one, over and over.

Hermione’s having a baby, now, and I’m not there.

I’m not there.

I’m not there.

“Harry?” Ron, looking utterly worn out and utterly happy, stood in front of him.

“Is she okay? Is everything all right? Did she have the baby? Is it okay? Is it a boy or girl? What does it look like? Is—”

“Whoa, whoa Harry!” Ron laughed. “You’d think your wife had a baby, not mine!”

Harry felt his heart constrict painfully. “But she—”

“She’s fine. Tired, but fine. Yelled like a bleedin’ banshee, I swear—frightening, that. I’m bloody knackered though, and hungry. Hope the food isn’t rubbish here.”

Harry swallowed; feeling overwhelmed, “But—Ron—”

“Oh, and it’s a girl.” Suddenly, Ron’s face lit up completely. “Harry—I’m a dad! Can you believe it! I have a daughter!”

Shakes, such that he’d never felt before, overtook his body.

Guilt.

Awful, gut-retching guilt.

A familiar companion, by now.

He fought the urge to vomit.

“You can go in now, Harry. She wants to see you, of course.” Ron smiled, still basking in happiness, and clapped Harry on the back. “A dad, me.” He chuckled, then left.

Harry stood in front of the door, silent, staring.

“Mr. Potter?” It was the Healer, the one he had yelled at earlier.

“I’m sorry,” He blurted.

He actually laughed. “Oh, I’m certainly used to it by now, though usually it’s the husbands who put up such a fuss, and I must admit, you’re rather more intimidating than anything I’ve had to deal with before.”

He failed in procuring a smile.

“You can go in now, though. Mr. Weasley just left.”

“I—yes.” He gripped the doorknob tightly. “Thank you.”

He wiped his brow, abruptly noticing its dampness.

He wished he could define what he was feeling at this moment.

He turned the knob and walked in.

And then he only felt warmth.

Hermione lay in bed, a bright glow to her face, a placid smile upon her face. In her arms, the child, the baby girl, wrapped in a pink blanket, clashing horribly with the smattering of red hair atop her head.

“Hermione.” He croaked.

She looked up.

Their gazes connected.

A long moment.

A new, treasured memory.

He walked over to her, feeling unsteady. “I—she’s beautiful.”

Hermione licked her lips. “She’s yours.”

So abrupt, so blunt, so classically Hermione to put it such a way.

The room spun; he gripped the railing of the bed for support.

“How—how do you know? Are you sure? She—her hair—”

“Harry.”

The way she said his name surprised him, cut short his babblings. It was an odd mixture of tenderness, heartbreak, regret, guilt, and, Merlin help him, love.

“She’s yours. I know, for sure. It’s a spell. I did it after Ron left. It shows magical signature—the combination of—well it doesn’t matter. She’s yours.”

He looked down at the small figure in Hermione’s arms, tiny arms and hands peaked out from the blanket, as though in a stretch, as she yawned.

Harry, despite it all, felt pride well up within him.

“I suspect,” Hermione began, “That her hair colour came from your mother.”

He reached out a shaky hand to gently touch the wisps of red curls.

A long pause.

“I haven’t named her yet.”

Harry looked up at her, furrowing his brow. “Why?”

“Well, I’m not about to let you chose it, what with you naming your second Albus Severus, I mean honestly. But—”

“Oye, I didn’t chose that one, Ginny did—said it was heroic.”

They both scoffed, and for a moment he felt that familiar comfort he had always associated with Hermione.

“But, well, I did think that you should, that is to say, have, perhaps, some input on the matter.”

“Hermione—”

“I was thinking Rose.” She cut him off quickly.

“Rose?”

“Yes.” She paused momentarily. “I thought—well, your mum’s side of the family does seem to have a fixation with flowers, what with Lily and Petunia, so I thought—” She trailed off.

Harry’s throat closed up, making it hard for him to speak.

“I don’t mean to be presumptuous,” she rushed out. “Maybe this was a horrid idea, but I—”

Harry, for the first time in nine months, touched her, laying his hand on top of one of hers, effectively silencing her.

“It’s perfect.” He looked down again at the baby, at his baby, at Rose. “She’s perfect.”

He removed his hand, backing away.

“I should go.”

She nodded.

He stared at her for a moment longer, watching a stray tear fall down her cheek, then at Rose, watching her let out another tiny yawn.

He opened mouth to offer congratulations, but then realized the situation did not warrant for it.

He closed his mouth and walked away.

Without a sound.

A/N: Couldn’t help poking fun at Albus Severus’ name. I mean, really, come on.

The idea for Rose’s name comes from a wonderful post-DH story entitled Someday by Ivesia19. I highly recommend it. I thought it a great point and just had to borrow it, with her permission of course. Ivesia19 is also my beta, and I’ve just realized I haven’t acknowledged her contribution to this story. I don’t know what I was thinking! Thanks Ivesia19!

This is probably my favorite chapter, though I’m not sure why. I hope you all enjoyed it.

6. The Ghost of Genova Heights

The Ghost of Genova Heights

You did wrong that you thought was good,

And now you're back in the neighborhood.
I see you when I never should,

Now you're back in the neighborhood.

August 25, 2017

“Mum? I know Unforgivables are really, really horrid, but I think someone would have the right idea if they used one of them on the bloke who invented the Floo.”

Hermione laughed gently. “I hardly think the Floo is that bad, Rose.”

“Ug—I think I’d rather eat a week of your cooking than take the Floo once.”

“Rose Weasley!”

She was saved from a scolding by her brother’s arrival through the fireplace.

“I love Flooing!”

Rose looked at him in disgust. “How am I even related to you?”

Hugo, with graceful maturity, stuck out his tongue.

“Hermione! Hugo! Rose!”

“Hello Aunt Ginny!” Replied the children simultaneously, rushing over to give hugs and kisses.

“Where’s Ron?”

Hermione couldn’t resist a roll of the eyes. “Running late as usual.”

Ginny, looking slightly cross at Hermione, opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off by Rose.

“Aunt Ginny, you look quite pretty today.”

Hermione really did love her daughter.

“Why thank you Rose!” Ginny beamed at the young girl. “You look quite pretty yourself!”

“Thanks Aunt Ginny. Hugo and I are going to find Al, James, and Lily now. Are they upstairs?”

“Yes, sweetie. Run on up and find them.”

The children thundered away; Hermione heard their shouts of greeting after a moment or two.

“Rose is such a dear.” Ginny gushed.

“Yes, I’m quite lucky to have her.”

Ginny laughed. “More than you know! Do you know what the chance of having a girl with a Weasley man is? A Weasley man hasn’t had a girl in—” She paused, thinking. “Four generations, aside from me and Victoire, but I was a 7th try, and Victoire, well, that’s Veela blood influence for you. And to top it all off, you had Rose on your first try. Lucky, lucky woman.”

“Oh yes, very lucky.” Hermione said with a bitter half smile.

Ginny did not appear to notice.

An awkward silence descended on them.

“How’s work, Hermione?”

“Oh, rather well thank you. And how’s the Daily Prophet?”

“Fine. Things have been slow.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yes.”

Internally, Hermione cringed. She was not sure whether her guilt or Ginny’s mistrust caused such an uncomfortable tension between the two of them, but it never failed to make her squirm.

She rather hated visiting the Potters.

“Ginny, can we make the potatoes scalloped? You know that Hermione likes them—” Harry came round the corner, freezing at the sight of her. “Hello, Hermione.”

“Harry.”

Ginny, as usual, moved closer toward Harry. “But the all rest of us like them mashed, Harry.” She turned to Hermione. “You don’t mind, do you, Hermione?”

“Of course not.”

Harry hates mashed potatoes. But I suppose I shouldn’t know things like that.

“Okay.” Harry moved back toward the kitchen.

“I better go help him, Hermione.” Ginny supplied with a tight smile. “Make yourself at home, of course.”

“Thanks, Ginny.” She did not bother to ask if they needed help; she knew Ginny prevented her from spending any more time with Harry than was necessary.

Women’s intuition, she supposed.

She headed toward the library—the only room in the house that was not made up in Ginny’s version of perfection. She felt mildly comfortable there, in comparison to the rest of the house.

When she reached the large, oak, double doors, she noticed they were cracked open, with voices coming from within.

“—you think Al?” She caught.

“I dunno—”

She was about to push open the doors when Rose’s next question stopped her.

“But don’t you think it’s weird, how they act around each other?”

“Sure it’s weird, but I dunno why.”

Hermione tensed, hoping they would stop talking.

Al continued after a short pause. “It’s—well—like they see each other as two different people.”

“What?”

“Well, Dad talks about Aunt Hermione all the time, but I hardly ever see him talk to her. It’s like the Aunt Hermione in his stories isn’t the Aunt Hermione he sees in real life. Something’s—well—different.”

“That’s how Mum is as well!” Rose sounded almost excited. “I just wish I knew why.”

“I guess something happened in-between the times of their stories and now.”

“But—” Rose began, frustrated. “It’s not like they don’t like each other any more—because they do, so I don’t think they had a big fight a long time ago.”

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

Hermione wished she could make herself move and interrupt the conversation; a dangerous fascination, however, held her in place.

“I asked Dad about it once. He said that sometimes, people just drift apart. I didn’t understand, but then again, I don’t think anyone does, really.”

“Except my dad and your mum.”

“Hermione?”

She jumped, spinning around to find Harry behind her.

She wished he would tease her about eavesdropping; nudge her with a crooked smile or huddle up next to her; whisper in her ear, asking what she’d heard.

Like he used to.

Instead he stared at her blankly.

“Time for dinner?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll get Rose and Al.”

He nodded and walked away.

She hated coming to the Potter house.

It only reminded her of what she had lost.

A/N: I think Rose would be a pretty perceptive kid; anyone with a combination of Harry and Hermione’s genes would have to be.

Sorry for the extended wait on this chapter. School work caught up with me and then yesterday was the premier of LOST—‘nough said.

I’ve have out another chapter very soon, I promise.

7. Personal

Personal

Grieving over loss,

Sorry to be heavy, but heavy is the cost,

Heavy is the cost.

August 30, 2017

The graveyard was empty.

He appreciated the silence.

No noise came from the church; its stained glass windows shinned brightly, reflecting the sun into his eyes. He was thankful for the sun—it gave him the façade of warmth.

Walking away from the back of the church, he interweaved among the rows of tombstones, passing Kendra and Ariana Dumbledore to reach the white marble headstone two rows behind.

A fresh wreath of roses lay on the grave. He brushed his hands against the petals, a heavy feeling in his chest.

Hermione

He knew she came here, nearly as often as he did, though they never discussed it. She always left behind roses, of various colors, and a certain residue of her essence; it made him feel as though she were beside him—a source of infinite comfort.

His hand moved up to trace his parents' names.

He licked his lips and began. “Hello, Mum, Dad.” He paused. “You'd think this would be easier, after so many times, but it doesn't. That's good, I guess, because I know it still holds as much meaning, coming here, as it did the first time.”

He closed his eyes, remembering the shade of night, the soft carols, the feeling of a warm hand pressed into his, so many years ago.

“I wish you were still here, everyday. Things would be easier, I think. Maybe you could help me with—well—everything. It's hard, because I know what I should do, and I do it, for the most part, but still—” He trailed off. “Still, I think about her all the time, especially when I shouldn't. I don't know why I can't stop. I should be able to stop!”

His breath came out in heavy pants. He became aware that his fingernails dug into his palms, leaving small, bloody marks. For some reason, the sight of his blood calmed him. He stared at his hands as he continued.

“She comes here, a lot. I suppose she talks to you, like me, but I dunno what about. Probably the same things I do.” He laughed softly. “We're a mess, she and I; you're probably tired of hearing us talk about it.”

He looked up, watching a small bird, of a brilliant red color, land on a tree branch and begin to sing.

“I love her, you know, even after all these years, even after trying so hard not to. It isn't normal; to feel this way about someone you have practically no contact with. How can one moment, 11 years ago, change so much?”

He sighed, leaning back on his heels.

“I love you and miss you both. Bye, Mum and Dad.”

Laying a bundle of flowers on the grave, he turned to leave. He stopped though, when we saw an elderly man, trimming the hedges along-side the church. It was the first time he had seen another person in the graveyard aside from himself, or Hermione. When the older man turned around, Harry noticed the clerical collar he wore; it caused his shoulders to stiffen, if only slightly. The priest waved at him with a smile. Harry felt obliged to walk over and greet him.

“Lovely day, isn't it?” The priest's voice was gravelly, but kind. It matched the look of his face, weathered, but soft.

“Yes. Fine weather.”

The priest stared at him for a moment. “You know, of all the graves here, the one you were at gets the most traffic, which is odd, considering I've only ever seen four different people visit it.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, an odd couple I've only seen once, at the beginning of my time here, a woman with brown hair, about your age, and you. You and the woman used to come together, but that stopped some time ago. ”

“You've quite the memory.”

The priest chuckled. “Oh yes, it makes my parishioners mighty glad for that wall that divides us during Confession.”

Harry, surprised at his curiosity, found himself asking, “Does it work?”

“Work? Confession?” The priest's eyebrows rose. “That depends on your point of view, I suppose. If you mean `work' in terms of obtaining God's forgiveness, then yes, it works.” He looked at Harry expectantly. “But I don't suppose that's the `work' you're referring to.”

Harry squirmed. “I mean, does it allow you to forgive yourself?”

“An interesting question, my son.” The priest appraised him. “One that most people don't consider. Most people feel that after admitting to a sin, being truly sorry for committing the sin in the first place, resolving never to commit it again, and then doing a form of penance, they can forgive themselves. But ultimately, to answer your question, I believe it depends on the person. Confession can't help you forgive yourself if you don't want to be forgiven. Actually, if that's the case, I don't think anything will help.”

Harry bowed his head.

“The key is, you see, to believe you deserve to be forgiven.”

“But how? How can someone deserve that if they've done something so awful, so terrible—” He trailed off.

“Because you must. If you spend your life wallowing in self-pity, how can you begin to make up for what you've done? Self-infliction only causes more pain; it does not help anyone in any way. It's better to do good than feel bad, and if you cannot do this for yourself, then do it for others.”

“I—I can't. Because now, the only person I'm hurting is myself. I can't let it go, because I can't tell her, because if I tell her, it'll cause the pain I've been trying to keep from her.” He babbled.

The priest turned back to his shrubs and began cutting away.

“Do you know why I prune my shrubs, Mr. Potter?”

Harry, taken aback at the abrupt chance in subject and the use of his name, merely shook his head.

“It's an interesting way of helping a plant. You see me, now, cutting away at the plant, leaving it looking, well, not in the best shape.” He pointed to a shrub to his left with missing branches, leaving barren spots. “The form of pruning I use on this particular shrub is called thinning, for it involves the removal of entire branches. Surprisingly, in removing these branches, I encourage new growth in the plant, growth that will more readily bear beautiful flowers, in fact.”

The priest paused in his pruning and turned to smile at Harry.

“You see—sometimes, in order for growth to occur, a little bit of pain and unpleasantness is necessary. You'd be surprised what the benefits may be.” He gestured toward the blooming white flowers of the plant, then resumed working on the shrubs.

“Do you love your wife, Mr. Potter?”

Harry, tired, responded honestly. “No.”

“And do you have children?”

“Yes.”

“And you love this woman who visits your parents' graves so often?”

“Yes. Gods, yes.”

“Then how are you helping anyone by remaining in this marriage? How can you bring happiness to your wife and children when, deep-down, you resent them for keeping you from your own happiness?”

“I don't resent my children! It's for them I've remained married.”

“I doubt, Mr. Potter, that it has escaped their notice that there are problems between your wife and you. Children are wonderfully observant in that way.”

Harry sighed, feeling utterly exhausted.

“I do not know you, Mr. Potter, nor do I presume to understand your situation, but it seems to me that in order for you to forgive yourself, you're going to have to do a bit of pruning.”

A/N: A tribute to the greatest scene in canon—the graveyard scene. And yes, I brought in a priest, so sue me. Don't worry; I'm not bringing in religion. He just popped into my head and into my story, only for this scene. As for the pruning, perhaps an abrupt metaphor, but my priest always speaks in riddles like that, so there.

I felt bad for posting such a short chapter, so I decided to post another, equally short, chapter. Hope you all enjoy!

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8. Barricade

Special Disclaimer: As always, the characters and ideas associated with Harry Potter belong to JK Rowling, but this chapter (as it is the actual epilogue) takes out direct quotations from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows; I do not have any right to these things. Unfortunately.

Barricade

I found you on a Saturday, and that was where I lost you.
You had to finally walk away because of what it cost you.

Years later when I saw your face
In line to catch the morning train,

You looked like you'd been softened.

September 1, 2017

“Ah, there they are!”

A group of four people walked over to where they stood alongside the very last carriage. Hermione took in the faces of Harry, Ginny, Albus, and Lily.

“Hi,” said Albus, sounding immensely relieved.

Rose, who was already wearing her brand-new Hogwarts robes, beamed at him.

Hermione glanced down at the girl fondly.

“Packed all right, then?” Ron asked Harry. “I did. Hermione didn't believe I could pass a Muggle driving test, did you? She thought I'd have to Confund the examiner.”

No, I didn't,” Said Hermione, “I had complete faith in you.”

—Complete faith that you absolutely would Confund the examiner.

Ron walked off with Harry to place Al's trunk on the train.

“When I go to Hogwarts, I'm going to be in Gryffindor.” Lily stated confidently.

“Maybe.” Said Hugo with a shrug. “But you might be a Hufflepuff. I'm gonna be the best Gryffindor ever though.”

“That's what you think.” Lily said, poking him in the stomach. “But you're wrong, so it doesn't matter.”

Hugo stuck out his tongue. “I will so be in Gryffindor!”

“If you're not in Gryffindor, we'll disinherit you,” Said Ron, back from the train “but no pressure.”

“Ron!” Hermione scolded.

Lily and Hugo laughed, but Albus and Rose looked solemn.

“He doesn't mean it,” said Hermione and Ginny, but Ron was no longer paying attention.

Hermione glanced down at Rose and Al, who were exchanging worried glances. Cursing Ron internally, she bent down to speak with both of them.

“Ron doesn't mean it.” She stated again. “It doesn't matter what house you get sorted into—we'll all still love you just as much.” She paused, seeing them unconvinced. “You know,” she began, addressing Albus, “your Dad was almost put in Slytherin.”

Al and Rose both gasped.

“It's true. Though, you mustn't tell him that I told you. It's a bit of a secret, I think. Al, do act surprised if he ever tells you.” She added hurriedly. “The point is, Harry's the best man I know, and if he was almost put into Slytherin, well, that's a credit to their house.”

Ron interrupted her pep talk.

“So that's little Scorpius,” said Ron, under his breath. “Make sure you beat him in every test, Rosie. Thank God you inherited your mother's brains.”

Though, hopefully not your father's ability to incur the hatred of all Slytherins.

“Ron, for heaven's sake,” said Hermione, half stern, half amused. “Don't try to turn them against each other before they've even started school.”

She turned back to Rose and Albus, ignoring Ron's next remarks.

“I'll be proud of you both wherever you end up.”

She gave both Al and Rose hugs and stood up, looking around the station. She glanced over at Harry, feeling his eyes on her; he looked tired and beaten, as though worn out from the endless struggle of life itself.

James reappeared with news on Teddy, but Hermione found it difficult to listen, and refrained from adding to the conversation. She felt as though she were stuck in some sort of strange and unnatural dream, watching her eldest child go off to Hogwarts.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Harry bend down to whisper to Al, hopefully further assuaging his fears of going to school, and couldn't prevent the fond smile that formed on her face.

On her right side, Rose slipped her hand into hers. “Mum? You'll write me, right?”

“All the time, honey. I dare say you'll get tired of hearing from me.”

Rose giggled and hugged Hermione's waist. “Never!” She pulled away and bit her lip.

“What is it, Rose?”

“Do you—do you think Uncle Harry will write me as well?”

“I'm sure he will, honey. He'll probably miss you nearly as much as I will.” Hermione felt her eyes water.

Rose gave her another hug. “Don't worry, Mum. I'll stay safe.”

“I know you will, Rose, but you must promise me not to spend too much time in the library.”

“But, Mum! It's so big! There are so many things to learn about, so many thing to research, and—”

Hermione cut her off gently. “I know, honey, but there's more to life than books and cleverness.”

She glanced over at Harry as she said it, and noticed he was finishing up with Al.

“Like friendship and bravery, right Mum?”

“Yes. Like friendship and bravery.” She repeated. “Now, Rose, you must hurry, the train's about to leave.”

Rose ran over and gave Ron and Hugo hugs, then came back to Hermione to grip her tightly round the waist.

“I love you, Mum.”

“I love you too, Rose.”

She jumped into the carriage with Al, and Ginny closed the door behind them. Students were hanging from the windows nearest them. A great number of faces, both on the train and off, seemed to be turned toward Harry.

“Why are they all staring?” demanded Albus as he and Rose craned around to look at the other students.

“Don't let it worry you,” said Ron. “It's me. I'm extremely famous.”

Albus, Rose, Hugo, and Lily laughed.

Hermione spared a glance at Harry, who grinned warily at Ron, but still looked uncomfortable for the attention he was receiving. She wished she could reach out and grip his hand.

As the train began to move, Harry walked alongside it, waving at Albus and Rose. Hermione did the same, watching her daughter's smiling face drift further and further away.

“He'll be alright,” Hermione heard Ginny murmur.

Harry touched his scar absentmindedly; Hermione forced herself to look away.

“I know he will.”

“Me!” The young girl exclaimed, bushy hair flying around. “Books! And cleverness! There are more important things—friendship and bravery and—”

And love.

Hermione risked another glance at Harry who still stared at the train tracks.

As if I could ever forget love.

A/N: Yes, the actual epilogue in all its… erm… glory. Different spin on it though.

And yes, I used the books and cleverness line. I couldn't help it, really. For me, that moment defines why Harry and Hermione are so brilliant together. I still can't believe JKR couldn't see what she'd written in them.

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9. Window Bird

A/N: Once again, I’m having problems with formatting—oh joy! So, forgive me for the strange spaces and use of bold instead of italics to represent (in this chapter’s case) an echo of a past scene or emphasis.

Window Bird

When you want to go,
You can't get out through the back door.
When you're going to leave,
Wait out fear and look for me.

September 9, 2017

The rain fell in heavy sheets pounding upon the roof.

She loved these days, curled up with a cup of hot tea and a good book. It helped matters that the sound of the rain alone echoed throughout the house; Ron and Hugo had gone to a Quidditch game and Rose was at school, leaving only silence behind.

She closed her eyes, enjoying the tranquility of it all.

The doorbell startled her; she wasn’t expecting company.

She moved toward the door warily. Through the glass, the distorted image of Harry waved at her. She stared at him for a few moments, curious, but then opened the door.

“Harry! Why didn’t you Floo? It’s a mess out!”

He shrugged sheepishly and grinned.

Hermione noticed it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I felt like a walk.”

It was only then that she realized Harry hadn’t been over to visit her alone in nearly 12 years. The similarities between that day and this one disturbed her.

“Well, come in, come in.”

He stepped in and dried himself off with a wave of his wand.

They stood there in awkward silence.

“Er—Harry, do you—need anything?” He looked as though the question pained him. She could understand why—she remembered a time when asking him that question would have been considered ridiculous.

Things had changed.

“I’m going to divorce Ginny.”

She stared at him. It took a moment for his words to sink in. When they did, she felt unstable. “Oh, I—that’s—oh.”

‘I should be congratulating you.’

‘Yes, I suppose you should.’

Harry nodded and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know.”

“Harry, what—?”

He shook his head.

‘It doesn’t matter. Just—make me feel better.’

‘Okay.’

“Do you—do you want to talk about it?” Hermione asked. The question was tentative; she hated the uncertain tone of it.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

She headed toward the kitchen; silently, he followed her. She felt his eyes on her back as she bustled around, preparing his tea.

She hesitated just before adding the sugar, and then added two lumps.

When she finished she handed the cup to him and watched as he took a sip and smiled, almost bitterly.

“You remembered.”

She stared at him for a moment. “Come on.” She nodded toward the living room. “Let’s have a sit.”

He nodded, following her to the overstuffed couch in front of the television.

When they sat down, the gap between them was noticeable, but by now familiar.

“So—”

“I just—can’t do it anymore, Hermione—pretend.”

“Pretend what, exactly?”

“That I love her.”

He made it sound so easy, putting it so simply.

She swallowed heavily. “But Harry—your children—Albus, James, Lily—how can you—?”

“They deserve better, Hermione. They deserve parents who love each other, not a sham of a marriage where their parents hardly speak!” He suddenly stood and began to pace furiously. “And dammit, I don’t deserve it either! I don’t fucking care if it’s selfish, because I can’t—I can’t—” He froze abruptly, staring at the empty wall next to the television where a particular picture used to hang.

“You took it down.”

Hermione looked at her lap. “Yes. I just couldn’t—couldn’t look at it without—” She trailed off.

“I understand.”

And she realized, quite unexpectedly, that even after all these years, he still was the only one that really did.

Silence, but this time, of a slightly less uncomfortable variety.

“You’re really going to do this, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Does she have any idea? Do your kids have any idea?”

“No. I wanted—needed to tell you first.”

Hermione paused. “Harry, did you ever love Ginny?”

“I—no—I don’t think so.”

“Then why did you marry her?” She hadn’t raised her voice, but it still came out sounding forceful and accusatory.

“Why did you marry Ron?” He snapped back.

She licked her lips before answering. “There was no one else. After you and Ginny—” She looked away. “There was no one else.”

Harry sighed. “How could I have known, really, what love was? I was 16, for Merlin’s sake, when we started dating. She was the first person I’d ever really dated, and then—well—we separated for the war, and then Molly and the rest of the Weasleys—” He took a deep breath. “You remember how it was—how they couldn’t wait to have me for a son-in-law. I just thought—just figured that that’s what love was—making all those people happy, and Ginny was happy, and I did care for her, I just—”

“—Forgot to think about yourself, as usual. Oh, Harry—”

Harry looked at her strangely. “You must have known I didn’t really, well, love her. We were so close back then, after the war. I told you everything—how I was feeling about everything. You must have known.”

“I couldn’t have possibly told you not to marry Ginny! You seemed so happy, and I—”

“You what?”

“I was in love with you.” She whispered. “I just wanted you to be happy.”

“I was happy.” He said finally, after a long pause. “Because everyone else was so happy.”

“Oh, gods.”

Harry abruptly began to laugh. “We’re so fucked up, Hermione.” He gasped out.

She couldn’t find any humor in the situation, but also couldn’t stop from joining in Harry’s riotous laughter.

I do believe I may be going insane.

The thought made her laugh harder; so hard, in fact, that tears started to spring from her eyes.

The tears though, likely would have been there with or without the hysterical laughter. And indeed, once her laughter died away, the tears still flowed down her face.

She couldn’t remember the last time she cried.

“Hermione?”

“Hmm?” She sniffed out.

“Will you lie down with me?”

“What?”

Harry sat on the floor and lay down, stretching his long legs out. “Lie with me.”

“Okay.”

She got up from the couch and gingerly lay down next to him, taking care not to touch his still figure.

“It’ll be alright, Harry. It’ll be okay.”

He turned his head to look at her; their noses almost touched. “Do you think so, really?”

“Yes. I do.”

And as she lay there, feeling the warmth from his body, so close to her own, she really did.

A/N: Look—a touch of optimism in this angst-y story of mine. Imagine that. Things are starting to move forward now—only four short chapters left.

10. Bitches in Tokyo

Bitches in Tokyo

Temporary battles
Can take up half your life.
How you dig your bed,
Will it help you sleep at night?
Forgiveness like a blanket
That you want to forget.
But you still crumble at my name.
You still crumble at my name.

September 27, 2017

When Ginny came home from work, he was waiting for her in the living room, his foot jingling and a mug of Butterbeer in his hand. Ginny, however, did not appear to notice his strange disposition, and instead, plopped down on the couch next to him and let out a long moan.

“Hello, Gin. Long day?”

“Ugh—you have no idea. I got this job so I could stay at home more often, not so that I would have to put up with the overall incompetence of the Daily Prophet late into the night. I swear, my imbecile editor doesn’t know the difference between a quaffle and a snitch. Merlin!”

“Hmm.”

“One day, I’m going to show them the difference when I show them both up his arse! Bloody wanker.” She stewed in silence for a moment. “Did you and Lily have a nice time today?”

“Oh, yeah. She was disappointed when I told her we wouldn’t be doing any shopping, but still liked the park.”

“You took her to the park?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

“Oh, no. I just thought it an odd choice.”

“Why? It is my favorite place to go in the neighborhood.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, it is. And I thought Lily might like to share it with me.”

“Hmm. Sweet of you.”

“Thanks.”

Ginny played with her hair for a moment.

“Ginny?”

“Yes?”

“We need to talk.”

“Oh.”

Harry fidgeted in his seat, but held Ginny’s gaze. “Ginny—I—can’t—”

She sighed, breaking eye contact by looking down.

He swallowed and tried again. “I can’t do this anymore. I care about you, I do, it’s just—”

“You don’t love me, do you Harry?”

Harry’s face twisted, as though pained.

“Please, Harry. Tell me the truth.”

“I—no. No, I don’t.”

Ginny looked away, blinking back tears.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but I—I tried Ginny, and you’re wonderful and beautiful and a great mother. I don’t—I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I just—can’t. You deserve better than that—better than me.”

“I thought that you might—might not.”

“Gods, Ginny. I’m such an arse. I didn’t mean to—didn’t want to hurt you, I swear.”

She smiled at him tearfully. “I know, Harry. I know that.” She wiped away a few stray tears. “But I never really knew you, did I?”

“Ginny—”

“No, it’s true. I love you, Harry, but not in the way you need, I think.”

“Ginny, don’t. This is my fault, completely my fault. Please don’t think—”

“It’s okay. I’ve—I’ve been preparing myself for this for a long time.”

Harry would have preferred that she scream, yell, throw things.

“I’m sorry, Ginny. So sorry.”

“I know.”

“I wish—”

“Please, don’t.”

Harry finally looked away, feeling worthless. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

There was a long, terrible pause.

“We need to think of the children.”

“We need to tell them in person. Both of us.”

“Yes.”

“We can wait, until a better time.”

“I think, Harry, that we’ve waited long enough. We can take Lily up to visit James and Albus and tell them then.”

Ginny placed her head in her hands.

“I don’t want to fight about anything, Ginny. You know you can have anything you want, I just want to be able to spend time with the kids.”

“We’ll talk about the particulars later, Harry. I’m—I’m going to go to bed.”

She stood, mascara running down her cheeks, still managing to hold her head high. She started to walk away, but then froze.

“You—you love her, don’t you?” She asked softly, without turning around.

Harry didn’t ask whom she was referring to. “Yes.” He closed his eyes. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t.” Ginny said, her voice remarkably strong.

“Why—why aren’t you mad at me?” Harry finally blurted out, unable to keep himself from doing so.

“If I know you at all, Harry, you’ve punished yourself enough over this, more so than I could ever do.” She took a few more steps toward the stairs. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“I didn’t,” he choked. “I swear, I didn’t.”

“I know, but I can’t talk to you anymore.” She paused. “Let me go, Harry. Let me let you go.”

She walked up the stairs without another word.

Harry looked down at his left hand and slowly removed his wedding band.

A heavy weight left him.

A/N: I really dislike Ginny in the books when she’s with Harry, but I wanted to give her some dignity—sort of. My beta says she couldn’t picture Ginny being so dignified, but agreed it was a nice change from the norm, so I stuck with it. Sometimes I like to try something different. And honestly, the chapter/song title was completely a coincidence—Lol. We now have only three chapters left! Also, I know this chapter was short, but I felt like nothing else really needed to be said, and I’m certainly not one to add superfluous material, just for the sake of making a chapter longer. I’ll update again soon though!

11. Life 2:The Unhappy Ending

Life 2: The Unhappy Ending

Here is the part where you save me.

Here is the scene where you save the day.
Why can't the ending be happy?
Why must it always resolve this way?

May 23, 2018 (8 months later)

“Decent of you to come home, finally.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and hung her light coat in the entranceway. She wondered if she could manage to delay the impending argument until morning.

No harm in trying, at least.

“Ron, I’m rather tired; we had a full case load today—you wouldn’t believe the things I had to put up with from Marla Jenkins, I swear—”

“And you don’t think I’m tired?” Ron appeared in the entranceway, looking sullen. “I spent the entire day with Hugo and then he didn’t want to be dropped off at Bill’s! I had to finally bribe him—”

So much for sleeping.

“Well, see, that’s why he won’t listen to you.” Hermione breathed out, exasperated. “I’ve been telling you for years that you need to discipline him more, but do you listen to me? Of course not.”

“Well, maybe if you were around more—”

“Oh, honestly, Ronald. This is the first Saturday I’ve worked this year.”

“Yeah, well,” he grumbled, trailing off.

“Intelligent input, darling.” She nearly sneered.

“Don’t act so damn high and mighty, Hermione. I’ve had it up to here with you.”

“You’ve had it up to here? You’ve—Ronald Weasley, you are the biggest arse I’ve ever met. You selfish, inconsiderate, infuriating—”

Ron had the decency to look frightened, if only for a moment. “Yeah, Hermione. I’ve had it up to here. You never spend time with me alone any more—never speak to me unless it’s to talk about Hugo, Rose, or someone else, hardly look at me unless you have to, and I can’t even remember the last time we’ve had sex!”

“Well that’s because—” She sighed. “Never mind, I just want to go to bed.”

Ron held out his arm to stop her. “No, what? Why is that, Hermione?” He snarled. “I want to know what it is that’s keeping you from looking at me, dammit!”

“Ronald, let me through.” She gritted out, barely managing to hold in her temper.

“No. Not until you tell me what you were going to say.”

“Merlin! You’re like a bleeding first year!”

Ron’s gaze only hardened. “Tell me. Now.”

With a flick of her wrist, she sent Ron spiraling to the ground. Through the haze of her anger, she was rather impressed with her wandless magic.

She leaned over him. “You’ve no right, Ronald. No right to tell me what to do. I don’t give a damn if you’re my husband or not.”

‘Have you ever made a decision that you thought was right, at the time…?’

She spun around and headed back towards the front door, opening it and moving into the warm night, slamming the door behind her.

“Sodding—arrogant—ridiculous—pratt.” She grumbled, moving at a swift pace along the sidewalk. Her hands clenched and unclenched into tight fists, in rhythm with her heavy breathing.

When she reached the corner, most of her furor had dissipated, leaving a familiar emptiness behind. Lately, it seemed like these were the only two emotions she could manage. It was such a depressing thought that she ended up sitting on the sidewalk, her head in her hands.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

It was all she could do

Slowly, breathe in and out.

In and out.

It was then she started to long for Harry.

Really long for him.

Like she longed for air, water, or food. She had missed him before, wanted him, needed him, but never this—this—a gut-retching feeling, tearing at her stomach, crawling under her skin, bashing about her brain. It was more than missing, more than wanting, even more than needing. It was more than that; more, in a way she could not describe.

It was desperation, it was hopelessness, it was nothingness.

Because when it came down to it, without Harry, she could never be whole.

“Hermione?”

Feeling started to return to her; the feel of a soft carpet beneath her, the warm glow of lights, the sound of soft footsteps.

“Hermione?” Harry called, a bit more desperately.

Apparition, she realized faintly.

Strong hands gripped her arms, shaking her gently, but urgently. “Hermione! Gods, please—are you—what’s—” Panic flooded his voice.

Her hands snaked out to grip his shirt, to feel him.

“Harry?” She croaked.

“Hermione.” Her name came out as a sigh of relief. “Merlin—are you okay? I thought—I didn’t know—you just appeared on my floor—I was so—Gods! Are you okay?” His voice wavered slightly. She could not remember the last time it had.

She buried her head into his chest.

“Harry—I—”She choked on her words.

“Shh—it’s okay. It’s alright.”

“I know—I know.”

And it was, with him. His presence surrounded her, calmed her.

His arms loosened around her, but still remained, lightly touching her sides; he pulled back to look at her. “Hermione, do you want—”

“I want you to save me.” She cried out. “I need you to save me.” She clarified, slower, steadier.

He stared at her for a long moment. “I will.” A pained look crossed his features. “I will if you let me.”

She moved back from him, pushing herself up to stand. He followed her lead, standing to look her in the eye.

“I want to. You know I want to let you.”

“I need you too—I need you to save me too. I always have.”

“I will.” She licked her lips. “I promise, I will.”

She apparated back to the corner with a small pop.

They had not warned her, in training, that when you apparate, you could leave your soul behind.

A/N: Hermione’s line (“Intelligent input, darling.”) comes from the Kate Nash song, ‘Foundations’. I thought about making a fic just based on that song. I think it describes Ron and Hermione rather well.

On a side note, this is my favorite song off of the album; I’d recommend listening to it before any other. It was also the 2nd hardest (after Personal) to fit into this story, because it doesn’t have much to do with anything. Oh, well. I managed.

I also thought I should clarify my reasons for painting Ginny in such an unusual light in the last chapter. While I, like many of you, dislike Ginny’s character, I do not think she’s unobservant, or stupid in any way. Yes, in the books she is rather hot tempered and easily irritated, but in the books she’s also 15 when we see the most of her. People do grow up over time. In this story, when Harry and Hermione stopped having any real contact with each other, Ginny immediately became suspicious. That would be something everyone would notice, and obviously neither one of them would discuss it in great depth, creating more suspicion. I think, in the back of her mind, Ginny would always wonder if their falling out had to do with something happening that she’d always feared, especially considering Harry still cared a great deal about Hermione (hence the potatoes comment several chapters ago), and vice versa. In regards to Ginny’s anger (or lack thereof) I think she was just too resigned to muster any hot anger. Rest assured, Ginny’s angry with both Harry and Hermione, but it’s more of a slow burn.

Regardless, thanks to everyone for expressing their opinion! I know a lot of you may still disagree with me, but I don’t mind! It makes for interesting comments!

12. Today Will Be Better, I Swear

Today Will Be Better, I Swear

The closet's been shaking with bones.
Little reminders that you're out on your own.
Today is going to be a better one.
There's nothing more to take in
That's going wrong.

May 23, 2018 (Same Day)

The house was completely silent when she walked in, though a slow glow came from the living room. She headed toward it, feeling uneasy and unsettled.

“You’re back already?” Called Ron from the couch, a bottle of Firewhiskey in hand.

“You’re drinking already?” Retorted Hermione.

Ron shrugged. “Just started really.” He held up the bottle and shook it. “See, almost full.”

Hermione sighed, looking down at her shoes; they were old and worn.

“What? No ugly retort?”

“No.” She sighed again. “No, not today.”

She heard the clink of the bottle as Ron set his Firewhiskey down. “Hermione?”

She swallowed heavily.

“Hermione?” Ron called again.

“I’m sorry, Ron. I’m so sorry.”

Suddenly Ron was standing in front of her, and she looked up to see concern written on his face. The sight made her feel a great deal worse, if possible.

“Hermione, what’s going on?”

“I—I’m sorry. I just—” She trailed off, choking on her words.

“Stop apologizing!” Ron began to sound panicked. “You—what happened?”

Hermione took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “I’m not in love with you, Ron.”

Dead silence.

Ron stared. “What?”

“I said, I’m not—”

“I heard what you said, Hermione.” She watched, almost fascinated by the way his jaw clenched and unclenched. “I’m just wondering why the fuck you said it!”

“Ron—”

“Shut it, Hermione! Just shut it!”

His jaw and fists now clenched and unclenched in unison, mirroring his labored breathing.

She watched him silently, with her last vestiges of regret. She had not realized she had any left.

“We’ve been married almost 15 years.” He sneered. “What made you decide that you didn’t—you didn’t—” He faltered at the end, almost loosing his rage.

“I’m sorry, Ron—I—”

“Don’t apologize!” He yelled, nearly spitting into her face. “Don’t fucking apologize! Just tell me why! Tell me how! For Merlin’s sake, tell me when!”

She paused, looking down and stalling for time. She wondered if she was strong enough to do this, break Ron’s heart like this. But really, he deserved better; he deserved someone who did love him, without limitations or misgivings, and this was the only way she could ever let him have that.

And maybe, just maybe, she would let herself have that too.

“The truth is—The truth is I’m not quite sure—well—”

“Dammit, Hermione! Spit it out!”

She griped her right hand in an attempt to keep it from shaking but found it was her entire body that quaked.

“I’m not sure if I ever loved you at all.”

Ron’s entire face screwed up and for a moment Hermione had no idea what he was going to do next—hit her, storm out of the room, or break into tears

.

After a moment, he ended up slumping onto the couch in defeat.

This is what you’ve done to him. You’ve reduced Ron Weasley, a man of courage and love, short temper and occasional thoughtlessness, boyishness and kindness, to this.

This is what you’ve done.

She felt the need to explain herself, but realizing it would only serve to make herself feel better, remained silent.

“Why—” He croaked. “Why did you even marry me then?”

“I—I thought I might—love you—and I do, in a way, just not—”

“Not in the way you’re supposed to.”

“No.” She sighed. “I wish I could, Ron. I do honestly wish I could—it would be so much easier.”

Ron, his head in his hands, snorted, either from disbelief or humorless laughter.

“I was always surprised—always surprised that you chose to be with me.”

“Stop it, Ron! This isn’t about you at all!”

He stood suddenly, snapping back into a towering rage. “Not about me? Not about me! Of course it’s about me!”

“It’s not.” She whispered back. “You’re a wonderful man, just—”

“Just.” He mocked. “Just not what? Not handsome enough? Not rich enough? Not smart enough? I’m fucking tired of not being enough!”

“—Just not the man I love.”

Ron’s right eye twitched once; in one fluid motion he picked up the Firewhiskey bottle from the table and threw it into the wall.

“I suppose there is a man you love then, eh, Hermione? A man you’re leaving me for?”

“It’s not what you think, Ron.”

“Not what I think? Well here’s what I think.” He picked up a vase and threw that against the wall as well. “I think you’re in love with someone else! I think you’ve betrayed me and the rest of this family! And I think you’ve been fucking him behind my back!”

Hermione looked down, resigned. “It was once. Once. Over 12 years ago. And I’ve regretted that moment every day since then.”

“And I suppose that justifies it, then? Because you’re sorry!”

“No.” She said, her voice surprisingly steady. “It doesn’t.”

Ron’s shoulders slumped; with this motion the rage left his body once again. “Why can’t you act like a stuck-up know-it-all now? I need—I need to be mad at you—but I can’t—I can’t when you’re—”

“You should be mad at me. I—I need you to be mad at me as well.”

He chuckled, cynically, without humor. “I suppose you really have been beating yourself up about this for 12 years. Hell, you used to rag on yourself for weeks if you got a test question wrong.”

“It—it doesn’t matter. I still can’t—forgive myself for the awful thing I did.”

He sighed and looked at her strangely.

“You need to go. I can’t—”

She nodded mutely and turned to leave.

“Hermione?” Ron called, before she left the room.

She froze.

“It’s Harry, isn’t it?”

She turned to face him, almost surprised, then nodded.

“It’s always been Harry, hasn’t it?” He then smiled bitterly. “Rose always did seem more like him than me.”

“Ron—”

“Don’t.” He shook his head. “Don’t. Just go.”

She left the house quickly, but only made it to the front steps until she collapsed, drained of all her strength. She looked at her watch, illuminated by the moon, following the movements of the second hand.

Tick

Tock

Tick

Tock

Midnight.

A new day.

Today will be better.

It has to be.

A/N: Poor Ron. I really do feel bad for him. I see Ron, even in adulthood, as a person with a bad temper, one that runs hot, but burns out relatively quickly. I don’t think Ron is a bad guy—I do like his character at times, but really, he and Hermione are terrible for each other.

Only one chapter left (though that chapter does include an epilogue), which will probably be posted on Friday! I can’t believe this story is almost done!

In other news, if you’re tired of how depressing this thing is, I recently posted up an absolutely silly one-shot on fanfiction.net that is more in my usual (read: absurd) style. It’s called The One Where The Entire Gryffindor Common Room Lusts After Harry Wearing Quidditch Pants and Hermione is Persuasive, or more simply (because FF.net wouldn’t let me post that whole title) Of Quidditch Pants and Persuasion. And yes, it is as ridiculous as it sounds. However, it may be a nice break. Actually, I wrote it while I was in the middle of this story and feeling terribly upset with what I was writing. Haha. Anyways, the story is here: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4068063/1/Of_Quidditch_Pants_and_Persuasion

13. In Our Bedroom, After the War

In Our Bedroom, After the War

The war is over and we are beginning.
Here it comes! Here comes the first day!

Here it comes! Here comes the first day!
It starts up in our bedroom after the war.

May 17, 2020 (Two years later)

The rain fell in heavy sheets pounding upon the roof.

She loved these days, curled up with a cup of hot tea and a good book. It helped matters that the sound of the rain alone echoed throughout the house; she was alone.

She closed her eyes, enjoying the tranquility of it all.

The doorbell startled her; she wasn't expecting company.

She moved toward the door warily. Through the glass, the distorted image of Harry waved at her. She stared at him for a few moments, curious, but then opened the door.

“Harry! Why didn't you Floo? It's a mess out!”

He shrugged sheepishly and grinned.

“I felt like a walk.”

She shook her head at him, but ushered him in nevertheless and then cast a quick drying spell on him.

He smiled at her softly. “Thanks. What would I do without you?”

She stared at him, seeming to actually ponder the question. “I don't know.”

“Not a whole lot, I imagine.” He quirked.

“Harry—why are you here?” She asked, almost tentatively.

“I'm ready, Hermione.”

She licked her lips. “How? How can you—”

“I saw Father Kolter again today.”

“Oh. What did he say?”

“'How many years does to take to gain atonement? How long until you can let yourself be happy?'”

Hermione gaped at him.

“I know. Philosophical, isn't he?”

“But—”

“I also saw Ron.”

“Oh.”

“He said we should just get over ourselves.”

“But—”

“I think—I think they're right, Hermione.”

The way he said her name made her pause and consider his words.

“It's time to move on. It's time for us to move on.” He took a step closer and cupped her face in his hands. “Let's begin, Hermione. Let's start anew.”

She closed her eyes, reveling in his touch.

She felt a bit like a actress stepping out of a particularly consuming role—a role so overshadowing that she could not remember how not to act; could not remember how to breathe, move, think, or speak how she used to, before she started pretending. It took some time before she could adjust to the strange sensation, but when she did, she realized what, exactly, Harry was offering, and her response was automatic.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He sounded disbelieving, as though he thought after all this time, after all the years of pain, both given and received, she would have decided he was not worth the effort.

Silly man, for thinking such a thing; she had never been able to stop loving him, even at the worst times.

He should have known that, by now.

She opened her eyes and smiled. “Okay.”

How could a single word open up such a gateway of emotions; break down a dam over a decade in the making? How could two simple syllables cause her senses to overload; allow her life to take on an entirely new direction?

It felt unreal—a dream or illusion.

She reached up to touch his lips, her fingers brushing against their slight roughness, moving over their slight part and onto the smooth skin of his cheek.

This is real.

This is what you've been waiting for.

This is Harry.

His green eyes studied her intently as she continued her exploration, up the side of his face, into his hair, back down to his neck, finally coming to rest of his chest. She looked up to meet his gaze, rid of the overriding numbness and ready to feel his warmth.

“I love you,” he breathed, releasing the words; prisoners in his mind for far too long.

She knew then she would have gone through it all again, if only to hear him whisper those words in her ear, if only to hear the bare honesty in his voice.

“I know,” she whispered. “I love you too.”

He smiled tenderly at her. “I know.”

His lips brushed against hers, softly, gently, full of promise.

And there it was: the last and first day, the finish and start, the destruction and foundation.

The beginning after the end.

The war is over and we are beginning.

Anew.

Epilogue

It's us—yes, we're back again,

Here to see you through, 'til the day's end.

June 21, 2022 (Two Years Later)

“Mum!”

“Rose! Hugo!”

Her two children launched themselves into her arms, but soon enough Hugo had detached himself and looked up at Hermione with large eyes.

“Mum, when we were on the train Rose—”

“Mum! Don't listen to a word Hugo says—I had to punish him on the train! It's my duty as a prefect!”

A chuckle came from behind her. “Like mother, like daughter.”

Rose's entire face lit up and she jumped into Harry's arms, nearly managing to knock him over, despite her small size.

“You give hugs like your mother too.” He said with a fond grin.

“Hey, Dad!”

“Hey yourself, nymph. I hope you kept James, Albus, and Lily in line as well.”

“James is such a troublemaker,” she moaned, after releasing him. “He was especially bad this year, since it was his last.” She smiled slyly. “But the Head Girl managed to keep him in line.”

“By snogging him in the broom closet,” quipped a voice from behind. “'Lo, Dad. Hey, Aunt Hermione!”

“Hello, Al. How was your school year?” Hermione replied giving the boy a hug.

“Uneventful, but alright. Those OWLs were nasty though.”

“Oh, Mum—the OWLs—I know I wrote you about them saying I thought I'd done fine, but then I realized that I might have put Entwhistle instead of Entwistile on that one History of Magic question, so I'm—”

“Ugh—not again. You're barmy, Rose.”

“Shut it, Hugo!”

“You are—completely mad, that one. I'm going to find Dad, Mum.” His lip twitched uncomfortably. “Hi, Uncle Harry.”

“Hey, Hugo.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged glances. He shrugged; she sighed and took his hand in her own.

“Well, that was sufficiently awkward. Hey, Dad, Aunt Hermione.”

A smirking James Potter emerged from the crowd, his arm around an attractive girl with dirty blonde hair and a Head Girl badge still pinned to her robes.

“James! And this must be your Head Girl! I've heard quite a bit about you, Selina.” Harry extended his hand and the girl shook it, blushing furiously.

“Selina, this is my Dad and my, erm, Aunt Hermione.”

“Pleased to meet you, Selina.”

“Hello Mr. and Mrs. Potter—erm—Weasley—erm—Granger?”

Harry, Hermione, Rose, Albus, and James all laughed.

“Any, or all, of the above, actually.”

“Don't worry, Sel,” James said with a smile. “Everyone gets confused.”

“It's a rather unusual situation.” Harry admitted with a wry grin, squeezing Hermione's hand gently.

“Someone confused about family titles again? Eh, what's new?”

“Hi Daddy!” Rose moved from Harry's side to give Ron a hug.

“Hugo and Lily have been telling me about your school year, Rosie—sounds like you've got them on a tight leash!”

Rose rolled her eyes. “Hugo and Lily are just bitter because I always catch them. At least James has the decency to be sneaky. Where are they anyways?”

“With your Aunt Ginny. She and `Call me Stanley Jr.' are over on the other side of the platform.”

The kids laughed.

“Ron—”

“Hermione, he's terrible! Honestly, what a wank—”

“Ron!”

“It's your fault, really, if you and Harry had just—”

Harry shook his head, cutting Ron off. “I'll never know how you manage to make jokes about the most dramatic episode of our lives, Ron.”

“Eh, defense mechanism. `Sides, I'm mature and whatnot.”

James snickered and nudged Selina, who was staring at the trio with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Yes, my family is crazy. Yes, they're always like this. No, things aren't always as awkward as you'd think.”

“Oh, as mature as a crup, Ronald.”

“Ah, but see, I've matured past the flobberworm level, so I'm moving up in the world!”

“Honestly!”

Harry grinned, watching his two friends bicker, feeling oddly satisfied. Hermione leaned further into him; he wrapped his arm around her waist.

Perhaps things we not perfect. Ginny only spoke to them when absolutely necessary, and Lily and Hugo tended to avoid the situation all together, but really, in the end, he had his health, his best mate, his children, and Hermione; all was well.

A/N: Originally, I had a relatively different ending, without the epilogue portion and a few other major differences. I was fine with this ending, as in the end, I wrote it as a challenge to myself, and I was just happy to be done with it. (Really happy to be done with it; I had a terrible time writing this story). But then I received so many lovely reviews, and so many people expressed interest in Rose that I decided to expand on my original concluding chapter. After all, I felt it only proper that I write an epilogue of my own. (And yes, I used the same last line—It was only appropriate, now that things really are well.)

As for the ridiculously happy ending—well, Harry and Hermione deserved it, I think. I really put them through hell in this one. And besides, I'm simply unable to write anything but a happy ending. Lol.

Thanks to everyone who read this story, and especially to those who even reviewed—I very much enjoyed both your encouragement and criticisms! I wasn't expecting nearly so much response; I thought this fandom was rather dead now, actually, but apparently, we're still hanging in there! Actually, this was going to be my last piece of fanfiction, (and though I'll definitely never write something this heavy again), my muses did decide to jump-start after Harry Potter ended. Go figure. Right now I have a story in the works, already longer than this one, based off of the `Death Eater Hermione' challenge. It's a ton of fun to write, not at all like pulling teeth, as it was for IOB, ATW. So anyways, look out for `Our Nameless Will'.

Thanks also to my wonderful beta, Ivesia19. I wouldn't have posted this story at all without you.

One last thing, if any of you ever want to talk about music (or anything), hit me up at my Live Journal (http://imstillsleeping.livejournal.com) —I put up recommendations there all the time, and I'd love to receive recs from you all as well! I'm such an indie junkie. Heh.

Thanks again everyone, I hope you all enjoyed the ride!

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