Suppose

Viopathartic

Rating: G
Genres: Romance, Humor
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 24/07/2008
Last Updated: 19/09/2014
Status: completed

One-Shot: Harry supposes to Hermione. EXCERPT: Hermione smiled softly and delicately brushed her hand against his cheek. Harry turned his head so that his lips would touch her palm and then sighed, at ease with her presence around him. He could have been asleep, for his soft breathing and closed eyes could have been indicators. But no, Harry was merely reveling in being with the one he loved, the one he cherished every moment with.

Chapters

1. Supposement

1. Supposement

Suppose

Viopathartic

Summary: Harry supposes to Hermione.

A/N: I’M FINALLY SIXTEEN AS OF JULY 4!

Alright, settling down now.

: )

I have a very dear friend who loves to use the word suppose. I suppose this, I suppose that, she uses it in almost every conversation we have together. I don't hate it; it's just another thing I love about her.

Suddenly, I began to hear (no, I am not schizophrenic) voices in my head—lines, really, with the word suppose in it. So I guess you can say that I started out small with one situation and expanded it to make a one-shot.

Suppose takes place in some universe. I find that it's just too complicated to place it after this book or before that book, so I decided to create my own. This involves the Horcruxes, but not Ginny. Harry, Hermione, and only one or two character(s) will be featured in this. Harry and Hermione are most definitely together. You can say that it's just how I write my stories. Less characters= less complications, and that's good, oui?

Hopefully you'll enjoy this one-shot.

Harry Potter was the only person to suppose.

Although it may be true that other people of his age—of all ages—wondered, believed, or wished, Harry was eighteen-year-old wizard to suppose.

There was always a chance that his thought would be completely wrong, his belief be proven false, and his wish to never come true. 'Supposing', or making a 'supposement', was his way of touching the line with his toes but not crossing it.

When he supposed, he would put out a thought in a way that would ask for comments but not actual agreement. Harry forgot the moment that it all started. One day he wondered, the next he supposed. It did sound much better than the dull, repetitive, "I think" or "I believe".

Harry had never voiced his "supposements" but rather kept them to himself. Some were humorous, some serious, and others that may or may not be understood—he didn't know...

...until one late night in the living room of Grimmauld Place.

"Hey, Hermione?" he asked, glancing up to see his friend sitting with her knees against her chest, thoroughly immersed in a book. Her eyes were furrowed as if she was trying to determine something of importance.

"Hmm?"

Harry pushed himself up and dragged himself across the couch. He put a hand on her knees and pressed them down so that her feet would touch the ground, and her lap would be unoccupied. "Can I ask you to do something?" He then settled rested his head on her lap and situated himself into a comfortable resting place.

"Sure," she replied noncommittally, seemingly unaware of Harry's movement.

"Well, suppose that after all this, another insipid, affection lacking dilweed wakes up one morning and says, 'hey, I kind of want to kill some people,' therefore calling for my assistance. What do you think will happen then?" Harry tipped his head back, and despite the sarcasm in his tone, he was genuinely curious as to how his girlfriend would answer.

"Hmm," Hermione hummed, "I suppose you can let the Aurors take care of it. After all, it is their job." She flipped to the next page of her recent book Blindness, which probably had to do something with—Harry astutely guessed—blindness, and once again, her attention was lost.

Harry clucked his tongue, dissatisfied with the lack of thought in her reply. He soon let the rejection of his 'supposement' pass and promptly shut his eyes. A hand began to play with the locks of his hair, a feeling that he reveled in. Hermione probably wasn't aware of it, but caressing Harry Potter's hair was a great—er—bad habit of hers. When she was thoroughly occupied with an assignment or a book (like in the current situation), her hand would stray and find itself buried in a mass of black hair.

Harry opened his eyes, determination set on his face."Okay," he said, gesturing with his hands, "how about this…suppose we find out that Voldemort has actually split his souls into twelve Horcruxes."

"And where, Harry, could they possibly be? After all, you're saying that we defeated six but still have six more to go," she asked skeptically.

Her answers, Harry realized, were impeccably timed. They usually came after five seconds, but he wondered whether they were given with much zest.

Flip.

He decided that her question needed a reasonable, thoughtful response. "I dunno. In his pockets, in his wallet..."

"Shush, Harry," Hermione admonished, lifting her hand that was buried in his unruly hair to lightly smack the top of his head.

He caught her hand, but Hermione playfully pulled it away. Harry knew that she wasn't mad at him.

"Hermione?" He sang her name so that it sounded like Her-myyyyyyyy-oh-neeeeeeeeeee.

Cough.

"Let me get to page 98 at least or else I will defenestrate you."

"Defenestrate? Is that another word for 'castrate'? They both end in 'trate' so...okay, nevermind," Harry said once he saw a, quite frankly, nasty glare from Hermione. He sighed, kicked his feet so that they stretched across the couch, and interlocked his fingers so that they'd rest on his abdomen. For awhile, he was content to just watch himself twiddle his thumbs.

Two men strolled into the living room that time—one with red hair and the other with slightly graying threads. They both smiled at the sight before them.

"Well, this is a cute scene," Lupin remarked as he walked up to the two. Ron followed reluctantly.

"Better run fast, Professor. This 'cute' scene, as you say it, will quickly manifest into a hormonal, lust-driven snogging fest," Ron said, a hand pushing against Lupin's back to tell him to hurry up the stairs.

"Uh-oh,' Lupin said and with a laugh, he sprinted towards the stairs as fast as his age could last him. Ron smirked and in a stage whisper, he said, "Remember, Harry, abstinence is—" and suddenly, no more was heard from him. Ron cast Hermione a vicious look before bounding towards the stairs in search for his wand. Hopefully he knew the countercharm to Silencio.

Hermione cleared her throat in a not-so-discreet way that fordone her facade of innocence. Her wand, which Harry knew was not present before, lay guilelessly next to his legs.

"Nonverbal magic is improving, I see," Harry airily commented.

"Yes. How about yours?"

A pillow suddenly materialized into the air, and as if controlling its own movement, it set itself between Hermione's head and the back of the couch. "Ah, thank you, Harry."

"Only for you," answered the wizard.

Hermione smiled softly and delicately brushed her hand against his cheek. Harry turned his head so that his lips would touch her palm and then sighed, at ease with her presence around him. He could have been asleep, for his soft breathing and closed eyes could have been indicators. But no, Harry was merely reveling in being with the one he loved, the one he cherished every moment with.

"Love?"

Hermione felt Harry's head lift up from her lap, and this time, she barely managed to quell her annoyance. He was sweet most of the time, but honestly, she needed quality time with her books. '"Mm-hmm?"

His next "supposement" came out as a whisper, and there was no need to discern the tone of his statement, for the smallness, the vulnerability, was loud enough on its own.

"Suppose, love, that I die."

The grip on her book faltered until finally, Hermione closed it with a snap, tucking in her chin. Blazing brown eyes found an unguarded set of green. Once seeing her friend shameful looking face, her eyes softened to a lesser degree, her voice taking on a cognizant, almost reverent tone. "Harry, why are you asking this? Do you honestly expect me to answer that?"

He was quick to mollify her. "Suppose—"

But Hermione didn't want to suppose; she refused to the even think of it! Harry was, after all, her best friend who she had known since they were eleven. To have the thought that he might die and unceremoniously leave the world—leave her—was something that Hermione defiantly eschewed.

Hermione sighed angrily and shifted so that she sat on her legs and faced a troubled Harry, "Alright, suppose that I answer the question. If you, Harry Potter, died, I would jump with joy and rapture because ding-dong the wizard is dead. All the while, I would burn all of the books in the world and subject elves to slavery."

Harry blinked, narrowed his eyes, and said, "Your 'supposement' is a complete—"

"Farce? Yes, it is, love. Do you know why? Because it will never happen…just like how your death will never happen!"

Seeing her friend about to open his mouth, Hermione pushed through.

"I've known you for so long. I've been by your side and taught you everything as well as you taught me. You're a part of me, Harry. If you go down, then I will willingly do so too. I know that you are paying the debt that you are forced to pay, but soon enough, everything—all this fighting and terror—is going to disappear. And you, Harry…I know that you will not die that easily. Look at how far you have lived to. Eighteen and going on nineteen. You have studied and worked your butt off to get this far. Nothing should or will stand in the way. So by God, I know that you will not die."

Harry, hearing Hermione talk with such passion when it came to him, grabbed the back of her head and pushed against it with a hand so that their lips would meet. She had made an 'mmph' sound when she felt Harry's lips upon her; his kisses always came on as surprises. Nevertheless, she leaned into the kiss and delicately wrapped her arms around his neck. The room was quiet as the young couple communicated in their shared language, letting their hearts speak instead.

Hermione stopped to take a breath, cheeks flushed, and finished simply with, "Besides, I won't let you die."

She gazed fiercely into Harry's eyes, daring him to argue with her. But, he said nothing—he was gazing at her with pure adoration—and for that, Hermione was satisfied. She picked up her book and immediately set her eyes upon the text so that she could signal that the conversation was done.

"Well," Harry asked, he being the irked one this time, "what do you suppose I will do?"

Flip.

"You will marry me and spoil me and my children—excuse me—our children with stacks and stacks of books," his beautiful and intelligent Hermione simply replied.

It was then that Harry brought his head back down to rest on her lap, a corner of his mouth creeping upward. Hermione's hand in his hair resumed with its fluffing and caressing, and her attention was diverted back to her book, letting her fall into the familiar hypnosis of words.

Black-haired/brown-haired bookworms. Late nights with story time. Daily errands to the bookstores.

Hermione.

Content and lackadaisical, Harry mumbled as a reply to his girlfriend's command:

"I suppose."