A/N - Wow, first story on Portkey! Guuhh scary.
Well, please tell me what you think, this story will be around 7 chapters long hopefully, so not too long. It won't be NC-17 until a later chapter, just so you know.
Please comment if you enjoyed the chapter or want to suggest something, I'm always up for polite criticism! Oh, and spelling corrections are ALWAYS appreciated.
Enjoy! :)
It was raining. Again.
Was that the only weather this God forsaken country knew? It was ridiculous.
Pat. Pat. Pat.
He could hear the tinkle of water dripping down the roof and watched as the droplets travelled past his dark and glossy windows. They slid randomly, with no apparent care as to which direction, down his window pane and out of sight.
The night was cold and bitter. Grateful for the warmth of the fire he stretched out in front of it at ease, reading a book. He felt rather like Hermione. It seemed like a `her' thing, confiding in a book because of the lack of anything constructive to do.
Hermione.
Just today he had sat at their spot, in that same café in the secluded and quieter end of town, smiling back at her so familiar face. She had been wearing a long cream turtleneck, the one she wore for deaden days such as this. There was a certain way to her, in which he knew she was content with their mid morning meeting. They didn't need to talk if it was not called upon, they were comfortable just sitting. If chatter was the outcome it was light and carefree, regardless of their lives outside those walls. The long sleeves of her too-big jumper curled around her fingers, with only just enough exposed to grasp the mug firmly in her small hands. Her shoes lay discarded underneath the table and her legs crossed themselves in the little space she had on her favourite couch. Her eyes remained bright and sparkling despite the cold, and they both knew that they could sit here for a lifetime and never be disturbed by the wizarding world. They were at peace.
This was how it always was, and Harry never wanted it to change.
`So there I was, standing in the doorway and staring at them in a very compromising position, if you catch my drift…'
He watched as his elaborate retelling was received. Hermione was shaking with laughter, clutching her sides and rolling about her seat. She only laughed like that at his jokes, and he silently grinned to himself at the sight of her in such a state of good humoured hysteria and disarray.
It was common knowledge that Hermione Granger took herself too seriously. High strung and often buried in her work, she seemed to rarely have the time to laugh anymore. She had never dealt well with stress, as Harry very well knew. And to make matters worse, the stress seemed to be smothering her in elaborate amounts these recent weeks.
It was seemingly impossible for anyone to work harder or longer than Hermione did. She was first one there in the morning and last to leave at night, had never once missed a day of work, never asked for a pay rise and yet still managed to remember everybody's birthdays. If that was not enough, she was present at every single Sunday brunch at The Burrow with a cheerful smile on her pretty little face. Though on that particular note, Harry did not fail to notice the weary bags that had begun to slowly creep beneath her eyes. Yes, it was fair to say that Hermione Granger had an excuse for taking herself too seriously.
Additionally, there was one other aspect of her existence that made Hermione particularly agitated these days. That, unfortunately, took the form of flaming red hair and freckles, and the third of the Golden trio, Ronald Weasley.
Harry loved Ron, he really did. Closer than brothers, the pair could safely agree that they had been through more than enough struggles to call their friendship and secured one. Yes, Ron might be called immature and it was no news to anyone that he was rash, unethical and downright unreasonable, but he wasn't a bad bloke. Ron was just a tad rough around the edges. He was, after all, Harry's best mate. However, Ron and Hermione were a whole different story. In passing conversation, Harry could confidently say that nothing had changed since their time at Hogwarts. If anything, it had gotten even more disastrous.
In short, Harry was extremely over it. You would think a person as intelligent as Hermione could see that the relationship was going absolutely nowhere.
But apparently not.
No, yet again the dynamic pair went ploughing on, ignoring Harry's polite insistence. It was rather like watching two people stumbling around in the dark while refusing to accept a flashlight.
It also seemed that the more hours went into the fighting and the screaming and the effort, the progressively worse it seemed to get. And, as nothing had changed since Hogwarts, Harry was still resolutely rammed in between them.
In the beginning, Hermione could handle it. She was a big girl, and let's face it, no one could say that she didn't have the nerve. However, as the months dragged on, and they grew up, the charade became more and more tiresome. A girl could only handle so much of Ron whilst having Hermione's short temper. The worst part was that Harry could see that she loved him. He could see that she genuinely wanted it to work and boy, did she try. But though she might wish it with every fibre of her being, some things were never meant to be.
Unfortunately for them, their relationship was one of those things.
The problem was, they were completely and utterly oblivious to that fact, and Harry found it highly inconvenient.
So Harry had come to the conclusion that it was up to him to provide the good humour in his best friend's day, and had hence taken up the role with considerable gusto. The good news was that it seemed to be working, though he wasn't sure for how long his silly jokes and happy-go-lucky temperament would last, before she finally cracked, and the Golden trio became no more.
Harry wanted more than anything in the word for his two best friends to remain so till the day he died, but it was considerably difficult when they continued on this ludicrous rampage, ignoring his wistful warnings. Ron was becoming more easily irritated and rarely stopped by Harry's house anymore, unless they had confirmed Hermione was not going to be there. Whenever Harry might ask after Ron's relationship, he would mumble a few incoherent words and change the subject, or else bombard Harry with reasons as to why he was right and she, wrong.
Though he would never take sides, it was hard to rationalise Ron's point of view when he surveyed the weary, deflated looking profile of Hermione. She just looked so tired these days. Tired of the fighting, tired of the stress. Of course she would never admit it to Harry, for her Granger stubbornness was that of legend, but he knew nonetheless. He could not claim to have befriended her and remained her most beloved companion since the age of eleven if he didn't. Some things were better left unsaid. In any case, Harry and Hermione's friendship was strong enough that they didn't need to ask. They already knew.
It was this particular bond that made their mid-morning pit stop so successful. At exactly eleven fifty in the morning, the door to the little café would tinkle cheerfully and allow passage to Harry, who would stride down to the farthest end and occupy the two squashy couches that most tended to ignore. He would fling a jacket over the small table in front of him and open the newspaper that had been tucked in his back pocket. A quiet but seldom irritated young waitress of around twenty seven years old would wander over, knowing she was in no hurry to reach his table. After fiddling with her notepad and grasping the pen behind her ear she would take his order with a polite but knowing look upon her face. He gave her a brief smile and she would walk away with a short nod of the head. By this time, usually eleven fifty eight, Harry would hear the sound of the door bell once more, and Hermione would bustle into view, her cheeks slightly pink from the cold. She would pull her scarf from her neck and fold it neatly before collapsing on the couch opposite and giving Harry a glittering smile.
This was their routine, once a day, every day. The exception was of course, Mrs Weasley's Sunday brunch. Though it was only forty five minutes of their day, both would be lost if it weren't for this moment in which Hermione would fold Harry's jacket automatically and he have her hot chocolate steaming and ready by the time she had settled. It was their time to sit and merely enjoy each other's company.
Though on this particular day, Hermione had seemed…different. Her smile, still honest and true had looked faltered or slightly strained, and she was quieter. To Harry, he had been greatly relieved when he had gotten her to laugh, and even then it had taken a good twenty five minutes to get his best friend to loosen up.
It was getting harder and harder to hear that soft chuckle of hers that she gave in spite of herself, or the shake of her shoulders whilst appreciating his company. Harry knew it wasn't anything to do with him, and the fact that he had to stand here and do nothing caused an increasingly bothersome effect in the pit of his stomach.
When she had got up to leave, after giving Harry a brief glare for stealing the bill from under her finger and re-wrapping her scarf around her neck, they walked to the door together and nodded once at the lady making coffee,, stopping only when the tinkling tune of the door had ceased behind them. Hermione fumbled for the handle of her handbag briefly before gazing up at Harry and smiling appreciatively. He nudged her gently and shrugged into his jacket as a result of the new and brisk breeze.
"Well," she sighed, nudging him back. "See you later, and don't forget to tell Neville that I'll stop by to-
`Hey `Mione,' Harry interrupted, looking down at her with a piercing gaze. His tone reflected something that had been on his mind for a long time, and importance seeped out of his every word.
`Take care of yourself, okay?'
Hermione stopped bustling about her pockets and met his eyes with a small, surprised look. He could tell she was trying to decipher his face but he stood his ground, and her expression softened, comprehension dawning on her face. With her smile clearly faltered, she looked at him for a long moment before flinging her arms around his neck in a tight hug. No explanation was needed, and neither bothered to ask. They already knew.
`I will,' she whispered in his ear before retreating. With one final wave, she had turned the corner and disappeared from sight.
What with Hermione so frantic and Ron so distant, Harry felt a tad lost. He was supposed to be the rock in the middle of their bickering, but how could he be trusted to do that when he felt so off balance?
He sighed and closed the book he had barely begun, not surprised that he had scarcely made it through the first few pages. Harry rarely had his mind in one place at the moment. The fire crackled softly and disturbed his thoughts briefly. He needed to stop worrying about her. No good would come of it, that he was sure. Harry spent the majority of the day thinking about Hermione, whether conscious or unconscious. Additionally, when he wasn't thinking about Hermione he was with Hermione, something Ron had been quick to notice.
He had thought Ron had gotten over the petty jealousy he had had for Harry's fame and fortune a long time ago, but sometimes he could see the teenage Ron poking through. It was uncomfortable, greeting Hermione with a kiss on the cheek at Sunday brunch and knowing Ron's suspicious eyes were boring in to the back of his head. How many times had Hermione complained to him about Ron's newest distrust of the new guy three apartments down, or someone who might have smiled at her while passing in the street?
The main thing idling away in Harry's head was that the whole situation made him uncomfortable. However, it was not because he was afraid of being a third wheel, or being the barge between them. Neither was it the continuous worry he had for Hermione's well being.
The reason for Harry's troublesome feeling was that he was involuntarily and ridiculously in love with her.
It was absurdly inopportune.
Now, you might think; `Well then, why not just tell her, you prat.', but it merely wasn't that simple. No, Harry James Potter, The-boy-who-lived, conqueror of the Dark Lord and saviour of the world was not able to utter a word.
Why? Because he was scared shitless.
That, and the fact that she was his best friend, was dating his other best friend, and most definitely did not need another complication like that in her life.
So, Harry did the honourable and cowardly thing. He stayed well out of it, put on a brave face and was there to catch Hermione when she fell.
For now, that would have to be enough.
Or so he kept telling himself.
Again, please review! Thank you!
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