A/N. My apologies for the lateness. Work has been crazy busy and Harry gave me the usual trouble I have with him. I re-wrote many times and I finally have a version that I think I can live with. The entire chapter is in the past so I dispensed with the use of italics. It is quite long, longer than my usual. I thought about cutting it in two but that would have been more torture for you :) I couldn't do that to you!
The reviews have been amazing. Your kind words and suggestions keep me going. My sincerest thanks to everyone.
Here's the 'affair' mostly from Harry's POV. Needless to say there is requisite sexually explicit content in this chapter (duh). Usual warnings apply.
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Chapter 43 - Dandelions
It's just after noon and I am knocking on her half-open office door. On the adjacent wall there is a freshly mounted sign.
H. Granger
MOM Adviser for Internal Affairs
"Come in," Hermione answers from somewhere within.
I step in. She is behind her desk pouring over a stack of files.
"Hey."
"Hey."
She looks up and greets warmly then asks me to give her a second and goes back to what she was doing. I end up standing in the middle of the room so I take the opportunity to look around. She has been in London for a few days. I see her shelves are already filled with books, there's a recent picture of her Mum and Rosie at the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg and a Muggle landscape hangs on the other window-free wall.
"You look settled."
"Just about," she replies, up on her feet at last and now giving me her full attention, "What can I do for you?"
"Social visit. Do you have time for lunch?"
She hesitates, points to the mountain of folders on her desk and mumbles that she probably shouldn't with an excuse about stalled projects she wants to work on today. She is thinking about this way too much.
"Let me rephrase that. We're having lunch."
She resigns herself to the fact that it's going to happen. I've been meaning to see her but I didn't want to crowd her so I waited this long. I decide that if I want to reconnect with her then I have to make a better effort.
We navigate through the chaotic Atrium and on my suggestion we walk to Finnigan's. She is quiet, too quiet. The silence bothers me and silence never used to bother me. I glance at her. She seems immersed in her own thoughts.
I can't stand it so I ask, "Everything okay?"
"Yes," she responds quickly and asks me how my day has been.
We're small talking and neither of us are small talkers. I note how different she is today compared to that night at Finnigan's. Her hesitation to come and the reticence puzzles me. I make up a few theories on our way. Maybe she's just busy. Maybe she does have a lot on her plate today.
When we get to Finnigan's we reach for the door at the same time and my hand ends up on hers. The brief unexpected contact brings about another uncomfortable reaction within me. We apologize to each other more than necessary as she steps back and lets me be a gentleman. I open the door for her and I assure myself that it's nothing, that it will eventually go away.
We take the first empty booth we find. She's having a salad; I get a sandwich. I see her hand on the table and remember how soft it felt in mine just moments ago. What the hell is wrong with me? The silence now bothers me more and I bring up a topic I know we can talk about for ages.
"How is Rosie adjusting?
"She loves it here," Hermione replies, there is relief mixed with anxiety in her eyes as she recounts an incident, "I picked her up from daycare yesterday and she didn't want to go home. Then when we got home she wanted to go to the Burrow. I must be doing something horribly wrong."
I laugh and tell her I know exactly how she feels, that my boys think 'Dad' is that man who takes them from one fun place to the next. In the end we conclude that grandmas and teachers exist to perpetuate our insecurities. She admits that she is constantly second-guessing herself when it comes to making decisions about her daughter.
"I always figured you for the type who would know exactly what to do with your kid," I tease her.
"Really?" she blushes and we share a chuckle, then she answers, "Parenthood has been a humbling experience...just when you think you know everything. The one thing I am sure of is keeping things at home as Muggle as I can."
I understand why. It is just in case Rosie turns out to be non-magical. The experience would also give her a better perspective of both worlds and a better appreciation of what a wonderful thing magic is. I had wanted the same for my sons, at least until both of them showed signs of being able to do magic, but Ginny would have found it hard to live like a Muggle.
"How does Ron feel about that?"
"He said it was an unreasonable expectation," she answers, "I asked him to try and he actually did."
"Did he have a hard time?"
My question entertains her, "Considering his perception of being a Muggle father is limited to playing with Rosie and nothing else? I don't think so. But the good thing about not being with him anymore is that even if I don't think he's trying hard enough, it won't bother me as much."
We talk about James and Al. I am impressed that she already notices how distinct their personalities are.
"James has this inherent mischievous side in him and a brashness that he can get away with anything. He is fearless and he's kind of like Ginny in a way. Al is the more sensitive one, quiet but he's very observant."
"Yeah, I worry about James," I share with her, "He's only two and a bit and he's already a little troublemaker. And Al, he should learn to stand up for himself more."
"Al is 15 months old," she reminds me, she thinks I am expecting too much too early.
"I know. But I don't like how he never complains and lets his brother and his cousins walk all over him all the time."
She is amused and I have to ask, "What's so funny?"
"You do realize Al takes after you."
"No!" I deny, "I don't let people walk all over me."
"I don't think Al does either. He just doesn't care about the little things. He doesn't make a big deal unless he has to."
My face feels warm. It has been a while since anyone has given me an earnest compliment.
I chide her for my awkwardness, "You're evil. You're purposely making me uncomfortable."
She chortles lightly; I would say that she's pleased at herself for making me feel the way I am feeling now. And I'm pleased that she's pleased. I can't help but think when Ginny and I last had such a conversation and a knot grows in my chest. It was too long ago to remember and they are far too rare. We've been too busy I think.
Her next thought displaces mine, "I never dreamt that having children would reduce us to insecure worrywarts. They're amazing though, aren't they?"
"How do you mean?"
"They bring new meaning into your life. It's not just you to think about anymore and you'd do anything to make your boys happy."
I totally agree.
Some bloke she knows interrupts us. I recognize him as a hotshot Healer from St. Mungo's. He is sweet-talking Hermione and openly asking her to go out with him on a date.
I am pissed. I am pissed that he is interrupting and for the reason that he is. Hermione sees I am miffed and her eyes remind me to calm down. As I hear her turn him down graciously I do but the git is persistent. This is when I snap. I get off my seat and get in his face.
"Take a hint. She said 'no'. Now run along and go save lives," I say firmly.
I meet his glare and he leaves embarrassed.
"That was rude," Hermione comments, eyebrows raised, not angry but baffled by my outburst.
"He was rude," I defend myself, "You and I may be just friends but you're with me. And you're not even officially divorced yet. He obviously only wants to take advantage."
She tries to quiet me down.
"Thanks for defending my honour but I think you're overreacting."
"Don't be so naïve. Blokes would know another long term relationship is the last thing you have on your mind right now. Guess what they're really after," she's about to say something but I cut her off, "And don't even argue with me about this because I know - I'm a bloke."
The Healer was the last straw. I mention two nameless assholes at work who thought to go through me with the same intention of asking her out.
"I'm jinxing the next person who asks me if you're back on the market."
"Harry!" she thinks I'm joking.
"I'm serious," then I realize, "Unless you actually want to start seeing people again."
I would be disappointed if she did. My expectations of her are high, I guess. I know she's not the type but sometimes I think that as successful and as brilliant as she is in most of the things that she does, she constantly falls for the wrong guy for the wrong reasons. I see what blokes see in her; she is intelligent, great at what she does and is an attractive woman. Honestly, if I weren't married and we weren't friends I would be one of those gits. Eventually Hermione will be seeing other men but there are not many out there who would know how to be with her. She needs someone who won't feel diminished by her accomplishments and who will let her be herself.
She says she doesn't and I am relieved.
Over the next week we do a couple more lunches and a few work meetings. I am helping her get re-acquainted with the inner workings of the Ministry while she easily slips back into being my sounding board. Things between us are back to normal, except for my occasional 'sensitivity' to her touch and her fragrance. She doesn't even wear much perfume and it is unnoticeable most of the time. It is only when I get too close unexpectedly that I have a problem. I now accept that this physical response is there and is normal. I may be married but I do have a pulse. It will pass.
It is quite stressful around the office nowadays. Except for a few wizards we've been keeping an eye on, there has been a significant lull in Dark Arts activity and I find that in the absence of real work people make work. The politics lately has been suffocating. It is obvious that the Unspeakables are continually undermining not only the Auror Office's authority but the Minister of Magic's as well. I try not to get involved but sometimes I have to. Hermione reminds me it is a necessary evil, particularly in my case because I would eventually become Head Auror, and though I know she's right I continue to avoid it when I can.
At home things are better. My hidden resentment about Ginny's choice to put her career before the kids is no longer resentment. A recent talk with Hermione set things in perspective for me. Ginny won't be playing professional Quidditch for much longer and it won't be like this all our lives. I conclude that this compromise is part of being married. To that, Hermione disagrees. She thinks it is part of being in love.
I wanted to argue her point then but I was afraid about the conclusions I would draw from it. I reach them anyway. It is hard to admit. Ginny and I have been married for three and a half years, and the way I love her has changed. The constant rush that I felt the days before we married tapered off over time, starting sometime after we went back to work and became busy with our separate lives. It doesn't help that I can't talk to her about my work and that when she talks about hers she feels like what she does is so unimportant compared to what I face every day.
I think Ginny senses the change too, maybe even feels the same way about me. But we never talk about it. And as in the typically course of things we decided to get pregnant, maybe a part of us even hoping that would change things back. We had James and then Al, and while I do appreciate her more because she is the mother of my children, how I feel about her never went back to the way I remembered it to be. I believe that part of it is because it does take more than hay to keep the horse going. Really, aside from the kids, we share very little now and I am at a loss as to how to change that. I still love her, I care about her and what she does, but it's not the same.
I guess I shouldn't have expected the feeling to remain unchanged. Ron's divorce and Terry's bitterness make me wonder if this is how things progress. That at some point in marriage love does wane and things you would willingly give up before for the other become much more difficult compromises.
I wish I had my parents to ask for advice. I obviously can't talk about it Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and there is really no one else to ask for those around me seem to be fumbling around their marriages as well. I figured Hermione and I were both right. Giving in selflessly is a sign of being in love but it is also something that one does because of marriage, to keep one's vow of eternal love, when love is no longer enough.
In a way I am a coward. I avoided that conversation with Hermione because I don't want this truth out in the open. I don't want Ginny to know because I don't want to hurt her. I've been told that there are things couples say and do to each other that are very difficult to forgive and never come back from. Knowing Ginny, admitting to this is one of them. Divorce is not an option. I made the vow; I intend to keep it. I just don't know if I can love her the way I did before. Maybe it's just the way it is. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe how I love her now will be enough that she won't ever mention that things have changed. And I don't think I need more than what she is currently giving me. Things aren't bad. I can live with this.
The days go by fast. It is early July, a Saturday afternoon. James, Al and I are heading over to Hermione's house. Ginny was supposed to come but a team practice was called last minute and she couldn't make it. With the Harpies playing so well and her getting back to the physical form and condition she was in before she had James and Al, the team was in the running for the World Cup.
It is a big deal and I am very excited for her and the team. But it means longer practices and extra meetings. It's wearing Ginny down. She feels guilty that she's spending more time away from home and the kids. I do let her know I understand that it is something she has to do and I think that helps. It's wearing me down too but I comfort myself with the thought that it will get better.
When we get to One Pine Hill Hermione tells me it's okay if we don't stay long. I think she's thrown off that Ginny cannot be here. I assure her I'm fine, josh that I'm not as helpless with the kids as she thinks, and that James and Al are excited. That makes her relax a bit.
We let the kids play. Energized by the sight of new environment to explore the Potter boys tear through her house like a tornado and prove to her that it is not child-proof enough. Rosie is already picking up some of James antics, kids are like sponges, and is seemingly the one kid who consistently gets a rise out of Al. I love that she does and I allow her while her Mum disapproves.
"It's a teaching opportunity."
"You do realize you are being mean to your son," she scolds me half-heartedly.
"They can both learn from each other," I argue, sensing she can be swayed, "We tell Al to voice out that he wants her to stop and Rosie can learn to listen."
So I don't know much about fifteen month olds but she humours me anyway. A couple of hours later we flop onto her sofa, both of us trying to catch our breaths as James, Rosie and Al walk-run around us over and over again. After half a minute of just watching them she turns to me and then begins to laugh hysterically. She tells me how we both look like we've been through an ordeal.
We are in stitches, laughing at how our kids have managed to accomplish a feat no dark wizard or witch has ever done - tire us both out. Normally I'm fine with Al and James but I swear adding Rosie to the mix has a potentiating effect on them. I would have never thought looking after three toddlers would be so exhausting.
As I look at Hermione my mind goes off on a tangent. It just hit me. She was really doing this. She was raising Rosie on her own. I am so proud that I have to tell her.
"I really admire you."
"Sure you do."
She thinks I'm pulling her leg.
"Seriously. It takes a lot of courage to leave Ron and decide to raise Rosie on your own."
"Divorcing Ron had nothing to do with courage. I just regained my common sense," I hear her say and decide she is only half-joking, "And I'm not really raising Rosie on my own. Ron will be around."
"Still, it takes guts to go against conventional social expectation and stand your ground."
Her eyes show worry and she confesses that the confidence is only skin deep.
"I don't feel courageous. When I look at Rosie I feel mostly guilt."
"About?"
"Giving up on marriage, setting a terrible example. I'm probably about to scar her for life."
"No, you're not," I try to encourage her, "Rosie will be fine. And someday you'll find the right person, fall in love and get married again."
I surprise myself that in spite of my current impressions about marriage I still believe in it. Or maybe I am trying to hang on to my belief to justify my staying in mine.
She holds her hands up and with a chuckle guarantees, "I'm never getting married again."
"Never?"
"Never," she says with conviction.
"Why never?"
"Marriage is a vow of eternal selflessness. It's tough to keep up. I've already broken it once and I know I'll break it again."
"And you're sure you will because...?"
"I just am."
So she has indeed picked up some of Ron's annoying debate tactics.
"Never is such an absolute. You'll get married again. Someone will come along, sweep you off your feet and make you eat your words."
"I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you," she quips and then looks over to where the kids are.
I think what I just said hit a sore nerve and she doesn't want me to know. I realize that she is just so bruised that she can utter such depressing absolutes, but what saddens me the most is that she is broken so badly that she is giving up on finding someone she can spend the rest of her life with. I think going through life without someone like that is tragic. I want her to be happy. Her happiness is important to me.
"So, you're saying that you're not getting married again."
"Never," she reaffirms.
I summon a crayon and construction paper, and I hand them to her, "Here. Write it down."
She looks at me dumbfounded, "Write it down? What for?"
"No arguments. Just do as you're told. I - will - ne-ver ..."
I bully her good-naturedly and she shushes me and follows, curious about what I would do with it. As soon as she finishes I take the paper from her and put it in my wallet.
"I'm giving this back to you when marry again. Then I'll torment you about being wrong for the rest of our lives."
She is laughing and I can't keep a poker face.
"It'll rot in your pocket. It's never going to happen," she is confident.
"I predict it will."
"Harry, you're not Seer. You can't predict the future," she taunts me in her all-knowing tone.
"Me better than you," I say and I make her pay for what she just said, "At least I didn't drop out of Divination."
We laugh some more and I feel a small hand tugging at my shirt. It is James is asking me why I'm 'happy'. While I'm trying to think how to answer that Rosie calls her Mum. She wants to go to the park.
My boys want to go too. No surprise there. There is one about five minutes from Hermione's house so we go. The sun is up, as bright and as cheery as the entire day has been for me. I follow Al and James to the slides. Seeing the boys having fun is always a treat. They have the childhood I never had.
Hermione's easy laugh carries to where we are and I turn and squint against the glare to watch mother and daughter. She is all smiles while she gives Rosie a hug. Rosie just handed her something yellow.
Dandelions...
They are in the midst of a field of dandelions. How she looks with the flowers in her hand gives me a jolt. I've seen this picture before and it flashes across my mind - I am collecting dandelions off the park across the street from her place on Grimmauld, nervous and excited at the same time as I give them to her. She is blushing a crimson red.
"Are you okay?"
It's Hermione. She has left the weed infested field is now in front of me with a very concerned expression on her face.
I breathe, not realizing until she spoke that I wasn't breathing. Was it real? Did it really happen?
"I - I'm fine."
"Are you sure?"
She knows I'm not fine. She reaches for my forehead but I feel her hand even before it is on me. It is tender and soothing, with an intimacy that is eerily familiar. It may not be her intention but I sense there is more than friendship in her touch.
Her light flowery scent makes me more aware of how close she is. The more I breathe the faster my heart beats and the more I am being drawn into her. My mind gets away from me and for a split second I forget my place. I lose the battle. My gaze falls upon her slightly open lips, imagining what they taste like, thinking about leaning in to prove that they are as sweet and as soft as I suspect they are.
This attraction to another woman may be okay for a married man but giving in to the temptation, to act on it, can't be. And Hermione is my friend. It is too late to keep this to myself. I know she knows. She sees where my eyes have rested upon. Since she hasn't moved I can only conclude that she feels something too. And somehow, knowing that she does makes what I feel like doing right.
Being human has its downsides. It can take so much effort and willpower to do the right thing and yet less than a blink of an eye to make all that worthless.
Slowly, I lean forward, closing my eyes, taking in the feel of her warm breath as it falls on my lips...this is okay...this is right...
"I'm sorry," she apologizes, abruptly turning away and stepping back before we actually, I actually, oh Merlin.
"Not your fault. Totally mine."
It scares us both and we say to each other almost at the same time.
"We should... "
"You should probably..."
"...go."
"And Harry..."
I look at her anxiously. She is as tense as I am.
"Yes?"
"Nothing happened."
I nod and repeat, "Nothing happened."
I pack the kids up in record time and after we get back home I call Ginny. I ask her Mum to mind the kids and I take her out to dinner. The spontaneity pleases her as I hoped it would. I feel better.
Over the next few days Hermione and I both act as if nothing happened. As she pointed out nothing did happen. I continue to ask her to have lunch with me to prove that everything is fine and I know she says yes to prove the same.
But things are definitely not the same. She talks a lot now and more pressured, like she wants to fill our time together with any topic under the sun besides what did not happen between us at the play park. I am a mess. When I see her I think about those dandelions and when I don't I am plagued by what-ifs. And there's the smell of her perfume now etched firmly in my memory that comes at idle moments and reminds me of what I almost did and what I'm afraid I still might do.
I am also beginning to recall events of that time years ago when Ginny and I were not together and Hermione just got back from Hag training. I remember spending time with her (as I have been recently) to get to know her better. I remember getting suspended with her and for her, missing her while she was in Perth, then working to get Grimmauld ready when she returned. I remember the look on her face when I showed it to her the first time and I remember helping her fix it up. I remember the short time we were partners and how having her in the car with me became somewhat awkward just like it is now. I thought about crossing the line then. Did I cross the line then?
Most days I am sure I didn't but the question continues to plague me and it shows. Even Ginny in her busyness notices that something is amiss. It is naturally difficult to look into your wife's eyes directly when you're thinking about another woman inappropriately. I've weighed the pros and cons of broaching the matter with Hermione again; she is a friend I want to keep. It is my hope that having this out with her will take care of my weed problem and end the persistent temptation.
But since she hasn't said anything I decide not to. She is going through a lot. I just happened to be the hypocritical git who caught her during a moment of weakness and tried to kiss her. She doesn't need this headache. Why am I giving her this headache? She obviously will never cross that line even if the attraction is mutual and after what didn't happen, neither should I.
I tell myself again. It'll eventually go away. It has to.
The following weekend I am at the Burrow. It is Fred's 5th birthday and most of the Weasleys are here. Even Ginny took the time off to be here.
A bunch of red headed kids whiz by me. It always amazes me how this chaos, that is so different from what I experienced growing up, looks normal to me now. Sometimes I do feel out of place probably because I never imagined being a part of such a big happy family.
Having never had a proper childhood, I remember fantasizing about spending special occasions with my parents as a son. I don't recall ever having a concrete thought about what my own family would look like although on vague occasions I naturally tended to think of myself like my father; parent to one, husband to a wife with a smallish family, living a quiet life. The Weasleys aren't exactly smallish and quiet with them is a hypothetical state of mind.
I suppose that is all moot. I am married to Ginny and hers is a most kind hearted family who took me in and welcomed me when I needed somewhere to belong. I should be thankful. I am thankful. I owe the Weasleys a lot. I'm sure they would be what they are to me even if I didn't marry Ginny.
I look over across the room to where Ginny is. She is with the Weasley wives (and one ex-wife) and is telling them about progress on the construction of our house. Ginny is beautiful, maybe even more beautiful now than she was before. She is a good person and a very attractive woman. We have two great boys. Why am I messing with a good thing?
"We're thinking of calling it The Pitch," I overhear her say.
"Wat eez diz room beezide ze main bedroom for?" Fleur, one of Ginny's brothers' wives asks, pointing at a sketch that we had brought over so she could show her Mum and Dad.
"Oh that," Ginny answers with a light laugh, "We're not sure if we are going to do that yet but Harry thinks it's a good idea to have another bedroom there, for when he's working late, so that he doesn't wake me when he comes home."
"That is so considerate," Percy's wife, Audrey, comments.
"Zweet 'arry," Fleur adds.
I feel the weight of someone's gaze upon me and I gravitate to it. It is Hermione looking at me with a frown. She doesn't believe Ginny's version of things and she is right.
I don't think the second bedroom is a good idea. That would only make us spend less time with each other. I still hope Ginny will decide not to have it built although if I continue with my mental infidelity for much longer I wouldn't mind having one at our place right now.
"It's good to have Hermione back at the Ministry," Percy's remark about Hermione attracts my attention, "She gets things done. She cuts through the red tape mercilessly, sometimes more than my liking, but she gets things done. I don't know how she does it. The other day, she told Jean Haute in front of the committee that he had delayed the Atrium construction long enough and that if he didn't start the Atrium centrepiece he was commissioned to do within the week, she'll get some other artist to do it or do it herself."
That did sound like something Hermione would do. I excuse myself as I see her leave the sitting room and head for the kitchen. I need to talk to her, not about 'what did not happen' but about something else.
When I get there the kitchen is in a bit of a chaos. Angelina, Fred's Mum, is visibly stressed. Mrs. Weasley has stepped out and left her in charge. The knives, cutting boards, pots and pans disagree.
Hermione offers to help and I do too. We take over, telling Angelina to go and join George who is entertaining the kids with some special Wheezes. I don the apron, rub my hands together and start up the stove while Hermione stops the enchanted knives, picks up one and starts cutting tomatoes the usual Muggle way. It is a spaghetti-with-meatballs birthday party - easy enough. A cake with a Muggle children's TV character is on the kitchen table.
She is busily chopping away and I grab the opportunity to ask her about Grimmauld, if she was considering selling it.
"What made you think that?" she answers my question with a question.
"I was just wondering. You're not living in it and from the sounds of it you don't have any intention to."
I am trying to be discreet. I've heard through the grapevine that she is struggling to keep things afloat financially since she is paying for two houses. And she would be too proud to ask me or any of her friends for money. She asked a goblin to help her pay me off for Grimmauld. She was that proud.
"I'm not really thinking of selling," she answers, "But if you want it back..."
She looks worried.
"Only if you're selling it."
"I'm not," she is firm.
"Okay."
I'd have to think of some other way to help. It's her turn for questions.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"What's this about a second master bedroom?"
It's really none of her business but like in Hogwarts she is making it her own. I think she just wants to know she is right. I tell her. She is not impressed.
"You suggested it hoping she would say 'no'."
The way she said it made me feel like an idiot.
"Yeah."
And she didn't."
"She's still thinking about it," I defend my wife.
"Don't tell me it's some sort of a stupid test you're putting her through that she has no clue about."
"Huh? Of course not."
"I thought not because you're not capable," she tells herself, "Then I don't get why you won't just tell her you don't want it."
Hermione is shaking her head and I can feel a rant eager to be heard.
"Go ahead."
"No, it's none of my business," she tells me now but only after a long drawn out breath.
I hear vigorous chopping, more vigorous than what the tomatoes require. She needs to let it out and I know I can make her.
"Many couples owe their marriages to a second bedroom."
She scoffs at the remark.
"How?"
I give her one of the architect's examples, picking something I know she can relate to.
"Snoring."
"What?"
"Didn't you ever wish you could sleep in a different room with Ron snoring away?"
"No."
"No?"
I'm surprised. I certainly did.
She explains, "Because I knew what to expect. If it bothered me that much then I wouldn't have married him."
There is an annoyance in her tone that sort of implies she thinks Ginny should have realized that he worked horrible hours.
"It didn't bother you when he came home late and woke you up?"
"I actually preferred it when he woke me up. I slept much better after knowing he was safe."
"My wife isn't like that," I defend Ginny again.
"Apparently not."
I say, "And I don't want her waking up everytime I come home or losing sleep thinking I'm on some dangerous mission."
"But regardless of where you slept it would only be natural if she did, wouldn't it? If she wanted to sleep worry free then she should have married someone with a less dangerous job, like someone in professional Quidditch," she says pointedly then takes it back, "Sorry, that was totally inappropriate. As I said, it's none of my business."
I am taken aback by her displeasure of Ginny's choices of late. She isn't usually this vocal about her disapproval and I have never heard her say anything like this about Ginny without Ginny being present. The fact that she cares and is so upset for me fuels the egotistical moron within me to dig deeper. I wonder if like me she is wondering about what ifs and before I can stop myself, I open my big mouth.
"I gave you dandelions once."
She stops cutting for a couple of seconds, then continues.
"You remember."
It took long for her to answer but at least she didn't lie.
I continue, quite proud of the details I was able to recall, "It was Valentine's four years ago. I said I'd be at Finnigan's that night but I stood you up."
"Not just me. The rest of the gang too," she corrects.
"Still," I don't let her get me off so easily.
"Fine, that was shitty," she jokes. "And you apologized with weeds. Classy."
"You mentioned you were easy when it came to flowers," I reply to her playful barb, "You liked the tulips, too."
"The tulips were good."
"Did I do that often? "
"What?" she stalls.
"Give you flowers."
"No," she answers quickly.
"Do you still like getting flowers?"
"Not as much anymore."
There is a tinge of sadness in her answer. I think I know what happened. I eventually made an advance and she turned me down. She's too kind to make me remember.
Somewhat deflated by the thought I reach across her for the salt shaker only to realize it is much farther than I think it is. My arm brushes against hers and she recoils as if I've hurt her in some way. Next thing I know she is at the sink, running water on her left hand, swearing under her breath. I see blood on the cutting board.
I have paper towel in my hand.
"Let me have a look," I tell her.
"No, it's fine," she stubbornly shuns my offer.
"Let me before you bleed all over the place," I force her and she reluctantly faces me.
I have her hand and I am pressing hard against the gash on her finger. She is still upset. I tell her to stop swearing, reminding her how she is in a house full of kids eager to add colourful words to their vocabulary.
She agrees, laughing at my joke and I momentarily keep her mind off what's upsetting her. I don't even know what's upsetting her. I study her face. She is conflicted about something as she stares at her cut finger. I sense her restlessness, her discomfort.
"It's fine," she wants me to let go.
"Keep still for a sec," I scold her.
"I can take care of it," she insists.
"Just let me. It'll make me feel better."
She finally looks up at me.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
And we stand there looking at each other seemingly forever. I see with exquisite detail her caring brown eyes and her kind face, reflecting what I know is true of her heart. Who she is has never changed, not since we became friends at eleven. She is my one constant, the only one who knows me well enough to know how I feel and what I need without me having to say much, and I am not one who says much.
I missed her more than I thought I did and it is in our time together since her return, when I felt more alive than I have been that I realize my life is not the same without her. Giving her dandelions is not so troubling anymore and I wonder what if we are more than friends. I wonder if we will both be happier than we are now.
"We should stop this, Harry," she says quietly.
Of course, she knows. And it didn't escape me that she said 'we'. A part of me is glad that I am not in this alone but a part of me wishes she didn't say that. It would have been better if I didn't know.
"Yeah, we should," I agree, "Tell me how."
"I don't know," she replies gravely.
Her honestly tears through both of us. The glowing sight of who she is to me fills my heart with an intense longing of that intangible that only she can give. This attraction isn't all physical. I have no exact word for it. It is beyond my limited vocabulary to describe. It is understanding, loyalty, faith and love all in one. And I feel the same for her. It was once friendship but is no longer just that.
A choking sensation clamps around my throat. The Burrow fades away and we are in a different kitchen. It's in Grimmauld; her blood on the tomatoes...running water on the sink…the feel of her hand in mine…being this close to her. I say something funny; she laughs; I like it that she does. Without hesitation I kiss her. She kisses me back in a manner I've never known could come from her. I am blown away by how spontaneous we are and how further intimacy isn't a hope but an expectation.
Our kiss deepens, her fingers are in my hair and our bodies strain against each other. My mouth leaves hers and I languidly nip at her neck. An encouraging soft moan escapes from within her. Her skin is absolutely soft and I can't get enough of how heavenly she smells, the very same scent that haunts me nowadays.
I lift her up, cupping her bottom as she wraps her legs around my waist and begins undressing me. I am trying to get us somewhere but wherever that is we won't make it. My heart is banging hard against my chest. I want her as I've never wanted anyone else in my life. We are making out, making love on the kitchen floor…Merlin...
"What's going on?"
My wife's voice pulls me back to reality. I look around and the sights and sounds of the Burrow come back to the forefront. Ginny is standing by the counter, looking as puzzled as I was feeling. I don't have an answer but Hermione does.
"I was stupid. I cut myself and Harry is trying to prevent me from bleeding all over the place."
To my relief we are still standing and I am still holding her finger. As real as it felt we didn't really do what I thought we did - at least not then and not in the Weasley kitchen.
"It looks like it stopped bleeding," Hermione directs my attention to her injury.
"Looks like," I answer, probing her face for any sign that she saw what I saw; there isn't.
Hermione takes her hand from mine and motions over to the countertop right in front of Ginny, "You have enough tomatoes. I'll go check on Rosie."
Hermione leaves us and Ginny helps me finish. I don't mind that she has taken her wand out and takes over.
The incident bothers me and did not let me sleep that night. What troubles me the most is how vivid the scene is. I did not imagine it. I couldn't have. But it didn't make sense.
The next morning I try to get some work done but I am too distracted to be productive. I take the rest of the afternoon off and even though every fibre in my body wants to rush to find Hermione I don't. I need to think. I need to breathe. I need to try and recall every little detail of the events before and after Gaunt and each and every bit I remember adds to the growing pit in my stomach.
I am driving and I suddenly think Sutton. When I get there I let the memory of her voice guide me through its streets. I know I will find her sister's grave beside her Dad's even before I get there. It is sunset when I get to the Lookout and I stay and watch the night fall. I feel her with me. We kissed here.
My assumption last night was incorrect. She didn't turn me away. We were lovers. I still don't know what happened but I am no longer as clueless as I was. Thinking about Hermione and how she was right after awaking from her injuries four years ago it is difficult not to draw the conclusions I have drawn. I hope I'm wrong. Let me be wrong.
I drive back to London purposely slower. There is no going back to the comfortable life of ignorance and innocence after tonight. And even though I have so much to lose and not much to gain by opening up this can of worms I owe it to her to not let this go.
I park in front of her Grimmauld property. It is empty. I know she hasn't been renting it out as she has been telling us all this time. Breaking the wards she put up is easy and I step into the main entrance.
A rush of memories greets me like a punch in the face. Each room in the house isn't just a room but a reminder of her being there with me, of what it was like, of what it could have been, and of what it couldn't be anymore.
It is just as I left it that night four years ago. I am immediately swept back to that time and I remember everything; from that night I realized I wanted her to be more than just a friend to me, to falling in love with her, to declaring my unconditional and undying love for her, to finding out she felt the same way about me and then asking her to marry me.
I reach the top of the stairs and go into our room. I remember that last argument, how she gave me back the ring, and how we worked things out because we needed to be together. This love for her is overwhelming and more complete than anything I have ever felt for anyone else, including Ginny.
I feel tears running down my face. It's not hard to accept that things cannot go back to the way they were. It just hurts. It hurts that she didn't trust me enough and chose not to let me know. She must think I didn't love her, that I lied, that all this was a farce to me.
As I leave and head back for the stairs something out of the usual catches my attention in the unfinished smaller room. I walk into it. The walls are painted a light green, little broomsticks flying halfway around it and in corner beside the window an empty crib.
Seeing this and remembering rips me into pieces. My legs give way and I am on my knees sobbing. She was pregnant. She lost our baby that night and nobody even knew she did. I imagine how she must have felt that time, all this time and I cry harder. How could she not say anything? How could she not tell me? How could she have chosen to go through this alone?
Mindlessly I open a fresh can of green paint, pick up the brush and dip it into the pail, my uneven strokes contrasting against my better ones. I am shaking and I have to constantly blink away the tears from my eyes so I can see better. I want finish what I started years ago.
I don't know how long it took me but finally I'm done. I take my phone out and ring her.
"Hi," she picks up.
She knows it's me. I try to speak but I can't because I'm crying again.
"Harry?" there is worry in her voice now, "Are you okay?"
"No," I manage to say, "I'm- I'm at Grimmauld."
XXXXXXXXXX
It is almost 8 and I am on the phone with Ron. He has a week off and has Rosie for the next few days.
"Now remember..."
"I know. Bedtime is at 7 and read her two books," my soon to be ex-husband interrupts me in his usual annoying way. I let go of the fact that Rosie is still awake and not even in bed yet, "And I won't forget to brush her teeth."
As I hang up I remind myself.
He's her father. You just have to be okay with this.
I'm gonna miss her but it is good timing. I need time to sort out this thing with Harry.
It shouldn't have happened. He wasn't supposed to remember. Death was clueless when I asked It why Harry was regaining his memories. It had the gall to accuse me of seducing Harry back, insinuating that maybe, this is exactly what I want to happen. It was pointless to argue with Death.
But regardless of what he remembers he's a married man. He shouldn't be dicking around with his family's future. That's why I thought it was okay to come back. It had been a long time. He was settled. And I needed to come back, to be near him at least. I lost myself so badly I need him to find my way again. But as friends, not as this, whatever this is.
And the fact that I think Ginny is doing a piss ass job as his wife shouldn't excuse me from discouraging Harry to carry on with another woman. I have to talk to her. She's losing him.
My phone rings. It's Harry. I rush to Grimmauld.
I call out his name as I enter the foyer. He is not answering. If he got this far then he knows more than he knew last night. I have a feeling about where he is and I go with my gut.
I find him in our baby's room. He has his back turned towards me that I can't see his face and he is clutching the rails of the crib, his knuckles white from clenching them. I feel his rage.
The room is changed from the last time I was in it. The fresh coat of paint is obvious. He finished it. He's been here a long time thinking Merlin on knows what. I approach slowly and stand beside him. His eyes are shut, his jaws set and he is trying not to explode. I focus on the tiny broomstick on the wall in front of us.
"Did we have a boy or a girl?" he asks.
"A girl."
"Broomsticks okay?"
I am thinking books, flowers or butterflies but really, now is not the time.
"Broomsticks are fine."
"Good."
Then he is silent. I think he wants me to start the conversation.
"You have the right to be angry," I say to him calmly.
"Do I?" his tone is harsh, dripping with sarcasm.
"Of course, you do. You think I should have said something."
"And you don't think you should have?"
He won't like my answer to that one so I don't respond.
"Open your eyes, Harry."
I ask him again. Tears are in mine. He is shaking his head.
"Open them and look at me."
"I don't want to," he says.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want you to see how angry I am."
"Please. I want to see," I reply bravely.
He finally does and I am stung by what I discover. Yes, he is angry, but over and above that he is suffering.
Trying to control his emotion, he asks me, "Why do you want to see this? Haven't I hurt you enough or do you want me to feel guiltier that I keep on hurting you?"
"Just let go it."
"I can't be angry at you!"
"It's okay."
"No it's not! If there is anyone who should be angry it should be you!"
"I was but what happened isn't, wasn't your fault, Harry."
"Then why didn't you tell me?"
"I couldn't."
"Why not?!"
He is getting more frustrated. He is raising his voice more.
"It was difficult."
"More difficult than going through all this on your own?! You should have said something!"
"Like what?" I speak up, figuring that I need to say what he expects me to say, "Like, pardon me for interrupting your happy married life but we had a thing going and would you mind it so much if I ask that you love me instead of Ginny?"
He unleashes his temper, not so much on me but upon himself, "No, something like you're an asshole and a lying bastard! What kind of a person are you to not be around for me when I lost our baby and how can you be stupid enough to marry while I was in a fucking coma!?"
"I don't blame you!"
"That's what I'm trying to say! You should!"
"Well I don't and neither should you!" I chastise him, "You didn't want this to happen but it did and there's no point pointing fingers. Just let this go, I have."
"You want me to let go. Just like that."
"Yes."
"How?"
"I'm fine. I really am. You don't have to feel guilty. I'm fine with the way things are."
"You're fine but I'm not fine about not being given a choice when it still mattered."
I have to say it even if it's going to hurt him, "I woke up and you were married to Ginny. Whatever choice I had didn't matter. So don't talk to me about not being given a choice because let's face it. Even if you were given a choice, you wouldn't have left her for me."
He face is red but the truth settles him down somewhat. He catches me offguard with his next remark.
"Do you still love me?"
Reflexively in self defense and for the better good, I answer, "I don't."
My fib angers him again.
"You're lying!"
"I'm not!"
"Stop telling me what you think I want to hear! I want the truth! Do you still love me?!"
"If you won't accept my answer then just don't! Quit badgering me!"
"I want to hear it!"
He's frustrating! Ugh!
I try to reason with him, "Why does it matter to you?! Can you not leave me with my dignity so I can look at you and not know that you know and yet you chose to be with someone else!?"
"Say it!"
I am fed up with this. I give in.
"Fine! I love you! Okay? Happy now? I love you and I'll always love you! You're my forever and my unconditional! And thank you for making me say it one more time than I swore to myself I would!" I yell at him, meeting his glare pound for pound. We are both crying. I have to finish this and not allow it to fester like an open wound, "Can we go on with our lives now? Can you handle this or should I move away again?"
He brings one hand up to my face, brushes my tears off my cheeks then tips my chin up and looks into my eyes. I am forced to look into his and I see what I thought I would never see from him again - his warm affection, or whatever it was that he felt for me years ago that I thought was love. I want to push him away but he is holding me, he knows I want to bolt. And I can't fight him, not when he shows me he does care about me for this stupid part of me will always accept what he has to give, no matter how less it is than what I wish for.
I feel him inching closer. His lips touch mine and he kisses me with a tenderness that takes me far away from sane thoughts. I kiss him back because I need to. And in that moment we lose ourselves for very different reasons.
It doesn't take long before the kiss rekindles past flames. My desire for him, long ago abandoned and forgotten awakes with a vengeance. I am melting in his arms. I can't do this. I can't let him do this.
I push him away with all the determination I can muster.
"We can't...you can't..."
He silences me with more kisses for he knows me too well.
I have to be the voice of reason, "Listen...wait...I love you...I can't let you lose what you have just because you want to make it up to me. I'm fine. I really am."
With plain honesty he replies, "This isn't about that. I..."
His words trail off. He looks at me with hesistation. He wants to tell me something but he thinks it's not a good idea.
"What?" I ask.
Whatever the thought was he buries and replaces it, "Just tell me you don't want this. Tell me to go away and I promise I won't bother you again."
My courage fails me. I am not strong enough. I am hoping he is.
I plead and beg him, "I can't be the other woman. I would hate myself. Don't make me be that woman."
"I'm sorry."
He isn't strong enough either. He takes my mouth with his and kisses me thoroughly as he lifts me in his arms and carries me into our room. He draws the window curtains back and opens the French doors wandlessly. Basking in soft moonlight we are swept by the spirits of the place back to a time when we only have each other and have no one else to think about.
Our lips are still locked when he lowers me smoothly onto our bed and covers me with his muscular frame. He is pinning my arms against the cushion on both sides, our fingers intertwined while our bodies find that comfortable grove we know exists. His tongue is seeking entrance and I let it in, greeting it with mine. I miss this. I miss him.
Butterflies are fluttering in my stomach. He lets go of one hand and unbuttons my blouse, delicately tracing my exposed skin with his warm fingers as we deepen our kiss further. He slides the other around my back and unclasps my brassiere, freeing my breasts and cupping and caressing one of them. I am tingling where he touches me. We breathe each other in, savouring the moment we are stealing from the present.
In time we are feverish and in various states of undress. His mouth and tongue are sucking my bosom and I writhe under him, while my fingers are now lost in his hair, pulling him in closer. At the same time, he slips one hand under my skirt and is stroking his way up my thigh.
I spread myself for him. Encouraged, he hooks his fingers beneath my undergarment and pushes a part of covering off so he can fondle me there. I can only moan as he does this and he muffles my response with a searing kiss. I kiss him back hard, sliding his shirt off his shoulders and back but it does not completely come off for his one hand is still busy. The feel of his bare chest on mine arouses me even more. I reach down and free him from his pants, my hands take liberty with his firm buttocks as I am slipping his trousers and boxers off. I want him and he knows.
He stops fingering me and ends our kiss, shaking his shirt off. I am about to protest until he slowly pulls my underwear down, brushing his mouth against my inner thigh as he does and then, at the same languid pace, back. I watch him pleasure me.
We are both completely naked now, physically, emotionally, mentally. This is me in my barest and it is something that only he has been able to strip me down to. There is not a part of me that he has not touched or kissed or both. I am burning, melting from his caress.
My body yields to him without question, arching back so he can have more of me, as much as he wants. I am, after all, all his. My hands and my lips are as keen as his are and I too cannot get enough of him. After a while, a long agonizing while, his mouth finds mine again. Our tongues engage and we can't stop. I can feel every inch of his flesh that connects to mine, every beat of his heart, every touch and every caress. My world is spinning from this reality.
Betrayed by our physical need for air we break off our kiss. He holds himself above me. With jagged breaths, pounding chests, eyes glazed and smouldering from desire, we look at each other.
He loves me, I feel he does. I sense he wants to say it but he can't because he said it before and married someone else. He thinks I think he lied then and he can't say it because he can't bear the thought of me thinking that he is lying again.
I brush his messy hair lightly off his forehead and I see that he is a man desperate to redeem himself even at the expense of destroying himself even more. It breaks me to see him broken like this. I want to give him an out he can live with.
I say to him, "It's fine. I know and I believe you. You don't have to do this."
He acknowledges with a nod but no amount of reassurance from me will convince him. He can't forgive himself and I think it hurts him more that I tell him that I feel this way. His face contorts in agony, he is gritting his teeth but the tears come anyway. He needs to do this.
My heart bleeds for him. I reach up around his neck, pull myself closer and kiss him passionately, hoping that he will feel better, knowing that he won't. He kisses me back with the same ardour. As he lowers himself on me, he takes my thigh and gently draws it up against his hip. I make more room for him and I feel his hardness pressing against my aching loins. In a single motion he slides into me and fills me with all of him.
And we are one. He finds us a slow, steady rhythm and we kiss each other affectionately while we move. I love him. Coming back and being close to him again made wanting him this way inevitable. I will burn in hell for this but I don't care. I've been there and back and this is worth it.
His thrusts are becoming deeper, faster and with more urgency. My fingers dig into his back. I am so close. I brush my lips against his bare shoulder and his chest, nipping at him. I want him deeper, faster, and he obliges. I can see his face, we are both about to peak and the sight of him and of us connected this way tips me over. I explode inside, a sound escapes from within me, and I am clinging onto to him as the wave of pleasure comes. I hear him moan the same time he erupts inside me. His warm, wet, pulsating firmness pushes me into another climax. I cry out his name, he drives himself inside me once more and I come again. God...
We both ride that last pleasurable tide together. He collapses on me. We are flushed and breathless for some time. Soon after, he rolls me over to rest on top of him, his arms wrapped around me holding me snug. There is concern in his eyes. I press my finger against his lips as he is about to say something. He understands. I don't want to talk about it; not yet. I want this to last a little bit longer. We kiss tenderly.
We spend the night in each others' arms. I find the thing I miss the most is rubbing my feet against his. Well, that and the rest.
He has a lot of questions and I answer as best I can, all truths except I can't tell him about Death and where the real Hallows are. I decided last night that if it ever came to this I wouldn't. I prefer to keep him as far from the Hallows as I possibly can.
Later on, he has me in a warm embrace and he thinks I'm asleep. I feel his eyes on me and I hear him whisper.
"I love you."
I wait and when I can't hold it anymore I turn away from him. Warm tears escape from my closed eyes.
His words are meaningless to me. I feel so heartbroken that they are. I want to believe him and I thought I did but in the end reality hits me like a Bludger. He is married to someone else and I am the other woman who is about to destroy his life.
XXXXXXXXXX
A/N. Hope that was worth the wait.
The next one should have how this 'affair' ended and a continuation of the present.