Unofficial Portkey Archive

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author's Note: Apologies for how long it's taken to post this but RL got in the way. I hope this chapter is worth the wait. And Happy Thanksgiving to everyone in the US!

What Happened Before the Wedding

Chapter 2: Questions and Answers

~~

It was happening again.

He saw it all again, heard it all again, felt it all again…

All the danger and the darkness and the flashes of light from curses flying around-and then, suddenly, the sound of Hermione screaming under the Cruciatus.

He heard Ron's voice yelling "Hermione!"

And he could only look, helplessly, at Hermione as she lay on the ground, could only hear her screams, feel her screams, the sound tearing at him, ripping at him, until it felt like something was trying to shred his heart in his chest.

Screaming, always screaming…

And she was calling his name, needed him to save her but he couldn't. He couldn't save her…

"Harry! Harry, wake up!"

Harry jerked awake with a sharp gasp, disoriented, sweating, to feel someone holding his hand and shaking him by the shoulder. He blinked, his vision focusing until he could see Hermione's face as she bent over him.

"Hermione," he gasped.

She stopped shaking him but retained her grip on his hand. "Harry, it's okay. Everything's fine," she said soothingly.

No, everything wasn't fine. Part of him wanted to retort but he couldn't bring himself to say it, couldn't bring himself to speak.

He sank back onto his pillow and stared back at her, seeing the worried frown on her face, trying to forcibly relax his muscles, letting the firm warmth of her grip on his hand anchor him back to reality again.

"I thought you'd stopped having nightmares," she finally said softly.

He had to exert himself to answer her. "They happen less often now but, no, I still have them."

"Oh, Harry…" she sighed.

He sensed that she wanted to say she was sorry but she didn't, only looked at him with so much concern he felt the look in a wash of warmth rather like the warmth from the sun and thought, vaguely, that now he understood why a sunflower moved to follow the sun the way it did.

He looked up at her, studied her so-familiar (so dear) features, something about the very familiarity of her face soothing him. It was an oddly calming thing to see her, the pale oval of her face in the dimness of his room-her dark eyes, in shadow right then, her nose, her lips…

It was silent around them, the silence of the deepest part of night, both too late and too early for the world to be stirring yet, and all he could hear was her soft breathing along with his own, and the beating of his own heart.

It was so very… intimate was the only word that came to mind, lingered in spite of his mental recoil at the word. He was suddenly very aware of his surroundings, how dim it was, how late it was, how quiet it was, how alone they were-and the warmth of her hand in his… He fancied he could almost feel the warmth from her body, sitting as she was beside his bed, even through the bed covers.

His breath stilled in his throat, the atmosphere suddenly seeming to change, quiver, with something, something he couldn't quite name, was almost afraid to name, something that was more than simple awareness, although awareness-both physical and more than purely physical-- was certainly part of it. Something that had his heart suddenly speeding up, his skin heating, every sense in his body becoming suddenly very acute… something almost like… desire…

But no.

He blinked, mentally shaking himself, and whatever spell had held him-and possibly her too-was broken.

And he tried to forget that it had even happened.

After a few moments, she stirred, as if something had just occurred to her, standing up and trying to free her hand from his grip. "I'll go Floo-call Ginny, Harry."

"No!" The word burst out without his even needing to think about it. "No, don't," he added more gently, seeing the flicker of hurt cross her face. "It's late; don't wake her up over this."

"But, Harry," Hermione protested, even as she did sit back down, "you shouldn't be alone after a nightmare; you should have someone here. You're engaged to her; don't you think she'll want to be here for you?"

"I'm not alone. I have you," he answered automatically, thoughtlessly.

Her expression softened. "I know but you're engaged to Ginny and once you get married, you won't have me around after your nightmares. That's what your wife is for," she added after a moment's pause.

Harry opened his mouth to respond but then stopped, shocked at the thought that had come into his head. Then I won't marry Ginny, if it means you won't be there after my nightmares.

He pushed it aside, tried to forget about it-it was utter insanity anyway-and finally settled for saying, instead, "I'm sorry I woke you up."

"It's okay, Harry. I'd want to be here for your nightmares."

Warmth settled into his chest at that simple declaration. "Thanks."

She smiled a little. "What else are best friends for?"

"I don't know. To tell me when I'm being stupid?" He managed a rather wan smile and was surprised at the underlying seriousness to the lightly-spoken words. He did rely on Hermione to tell him when he was being stupid-and that was important too. He had the niggling sense that it was somehow incredibly significant but he couldn't think why.

"That too," Hermione agreed with a smile before sobering. "Will you be okay now? Do you want to talk about it?"

"It was about you," he blurted out without even meaning to and then winced at how that sounded.

Surprise flared in her eyes and then understanding as her gaze softened. Of course she would understand; didn't she always somehow understand?

"Well, I'm a very frightening person," she quipped lightly-and somehow gently too.

He smiled as he knew she wanted him to.

She touched his cheek fleetingly with her hand, a touch so light and so quick he could almost think he'd imagined it. "It's all over now, Harry, and I'm fine. We're all fine."

"I know," he said so softly it was almost a whisper. "But it doesn't make the memories much easier to think of, does it?"

"I suppose it doesn't." She gave his hand a light squeeze. "You were afraid for so long, I suppose it's only to be expected that the nightmares would linger for a long time. But it'll get better, Harry. It'll get easier."

"I know. Thanks. You should go back to bed, Hermione. I'll be okay, really."

"If you're sure…"

He managed a smile. "I'm fine, Hermione."

"Okay, then, sleep well."

With a last pressure on his hand, she left, closing his door quietly behind her.

Harry closed his eyes, hoping against hope that he would be able to fall asleep-but as if on cue, as if his brain had only been waiting for him to close his eyes again, all he saw in his mind was Hermione, writhing on the ground under the Cruciatus.

His eyes snapped open, feeling a desperate urge to call for Hermione to come back, stay in his room to keep the nightmares at bay, to provide tangible reassurance of her safety by her presence.

But he stayed silent. He couldn't ask her to come back. She needed to sleep; he knew she would likely be up with the dawn as was her custom these days and it would hardly be fair to keep her up half the night for his own selfish reasons.

He thought of how she'd offered to Floo-call Ginny to come over; his reaction had been instinctive and hadn't required any thought but his reasons… While it was true that he wouldn't want to wake Ginny up, the real reason-what he hadn't said to Hermione-was that Ginny didn't know he still had nightmares.

For various reasons, he and Ginny had never spent a full night together. At first, it had been mostly because Ginny had been in her last year at Hogwarts and so he only saw her at holidays. Afterwards, though, in the past few months, it had been him.

Ginny didn't stay over in the flat because of the awkwardness it would create for Ron-and a tiny corner of him had to admit that he rather wanted it that way. He wanted to keep this flat, as much as possible, just a place for himself and Ron and Hermione, still the closest people to him. And in the Burrow, out of respect to the Weasleys-even though he suspected that they would have turned a blind eye to it-he still slept in Ron's old room as he always had while Ginny slept in her own room.

He knew it wasn't fooling anyone as to his physical relationship with Ginny-impossible, considering how openly affectionate Ginny always was-but he preferred it that way. (And some little corner of his mind shied away at the idea of really sharing his bed, spending a full night with anyone else. It seemed such an intimate, a personal, thing to do and something in him seemed to balk at it. Lust was one thing but actually sharing a bed and sleeping together seemed so much more personal and he wasn't ready for it.)

So she didn't know about his nightmares. He certainly never told her of them. He wasn't given to confidences much as it was but when he did feel like talking, his first thought was, as always, to turn to Hermione for most things and to Ron.

He had assumed-hoped-that the nightmares would cease with the end of the War but he knew now that he'd been overly optimistic.

The War had been too intense, had scarred him too much, changed him too much and he could not recover from it, could not simply put it behind him and move on. It had made him what he was and he could not escape it.

He was vaguely-uncomfortably-aware (in his rare moods of introspection, generally avoided when he could) that there were shadowed corners of his memories, his mind, that he had never shared with anyone, suspected he would never share with anyone. But the only people who came close to knowing any of it were Hermione and Ron.

But on a more obvious level, the fears of the past few years, the dangers and the darkness could not be gotten over so soon.

It had taken him months before he'd stopped starting at every unknown noise, months before he'd been able to relax at night, months before he'd been able to feel comfortable going to unfamiliar places. It had been even longer than that before he had stopped wondering at the end of every day whether the next day would be the last, when he had stopped thinking of the future in terms of days, weeks at the longest.

Now, more than a year afterwards, he was mostly himself, relaxed and comfortable, again-but the nightmares, those nightly visitations from the darkest corners of his memories, lingered. And he didn't know if they would ever completely stop.

Ginny knew nothing of this, though. He'd never told her, never really wanted her to know. He still, in some part of him, felt he needed to be the Boy Who Lived, the hero, for her. She believed in him so, thought he was so brave, the perfect hero; he knew it from idle things she'd said, knew it from the way she spoke.

He hadn't really stopped to think about the significance of this-it was simply the way things were. It had always been that way, really, from when he'd first started to fancy her in 6th year and in all the time when they'd first been together.

He hadn't told her-but he'd always had Ron and Hermione to talk to, so he didn't need to tell Ginny.

But now, tonight, Hermione's words had shaken him. That once he married, she would, of course, not be there to comfort him after his nightmares. Ginny would be that person; she would be the one sleeping beside him so of course she would wake up when he had nightmares. And Hermione would not be there, could not be there.

Ginny-his wife-would be the person he had to turn to, should turn to, the person to comfort him, the person he should confide in.

Not Hermione.

And somehow, crazily, undeniably, that thought had him thinking-again (and it had returned, unwillingly, several times in the past weeks)-I can't do this.

And this time, he could not deny it. This time, it stuck, stayed in his mind with all the persistence of a truth, every doubt he had ever had coalescing, solidifying, in his mind.

How could he do this? How could he marry Ginny?

He cared about her-but he didn't, couldn't somehow, talk to her. More, he couldn't even imagine talking to her about his nightmares; she didn't know-how could she?-all he'd been through.

And with that-how could he marry her? Live every day with her, spend a lifetime with her?

He suddenly remembered Ginny's asking, We'll be like this forever, won't we, Harry?

Oh God.

Forever…

To her, he knew, it sounded wonderful. To him, it sounded… stifling…

Forever… He suddenly saw himself, years from now, still not able to tell Ginny certain things, still giving way to her on most matters because it was easier than listening to her cajole him- he shuddered.

And he didn't kid himself that it would change, that even if he did start disagreeing with Ginny, even arguing with her, that it would succeed. He had already tried that over a few things and had found that Ginny simply didn't really listen. It was almost as if any words that didn't fit with what she thought he should say, what she thought he should think, were some sort of foreign language which she didn't comprehend-couldn't comprehend. And she was so very confident in her ability to cajole and tease him into agreeing-not entirely unjustifiably, either, he had to admit.

Because he did care about her and he did hate to see her pout or frown and he did want to make her happy-and because, at first, he'd thought it endearing, charming, that she was so confident. Her… brightness-the brightness of her smile, the brightness of her blithe spirits, almost echoed in the vivid red of her hair-- had attracted him the way a candle attracted a moth; she was so different from all the darkness he had known so much of, so apart from all the fears and the dangers-so pure, he'd thought.

But could he live with it?

How could he live with it?

He couldn't do this.

He couldn't not do it.

They were engaged, the date had been set, all the preparations were going forward, propelled, as it were, by the enthusiasm of Mrs. Weasley and Ginny.

It was all perfect, all just what he'd wanted-but it wasn't.

He wanted to be a part of the Weasley family, wanted to have a real family of his own-but living with Ginny, a lifetime with Ginny, forever with Ginny… He just didn't think he could…

He wished he could, wished he'd never stopped to think, wished he'd never started to doubt or question-wished he could change to be the person Ginny wanted him to be.

But wishing didn't make it true.

He couldn't do this.

But could he really break off the engagement-how could he do that to Ginny, to the Weasleys, after everything?

He didn't sleep that night.

He was distracted and preoccupied the next day. He knew Hermione noticed, caught a few concerned looks but thankfully, she seemed to assume it was from his nightmare and didn't question him closely.

In the stark light of day, it all seemed even more impossible to end his engagement. His doubts seemed more trivial-- it wasn't as if he could claim that he absolutely did not care about Ginny or that he'd met someone else or that he was miserable with Ginny. He wasn't; he just wasn't sure... And it seemed like over-reaction to break off his engagement, with all the hurt and all the awkwardness that would entail, because he wasn't sure...

By day, it all seemed ridiculous. But at night, every night now, the doubts persisted...

He needed to talk to someone, wanted reassurance or confirmation or advice-something…

But there was no one he could really talk to.

He reached over to the nightstand, picking up one of the two pictures he kept there, one from his parents' wedding, with the rest of the Marauders standing beside James, all grinning happily. (In a fit of anger, he'd cut Pettigrew out of the picture because he couldn't stand to see the man there, knowing that Pettigrew was probably already a Death Eater and a traitor.) He focused on the smiling faces of his parents with a sudden pang of longing, more intense than he'd felt in years. That was what he wanted; he wished he could talk to his parents about this. His parents would know, could tell him, if his doubts about marrying Ginny were natural, the sort of cold feet that everyone supposedly experienced or if they were more serious, meant more-if he could, if he should, really marry Ginny.

Almost on cue, in the picture, James tightened his arm around Lily, pulling her in tighter to kiss her temple as Lily smiled up at him and even in the picture, there was so much love and so much happiness in her smile that Harry felt his throat get tight with emotion. His parents had been so happy that day… The sort of happiness he wanted but had never really had… The sort of happiness he had never-not even months ago before these doubts had really started-somehow been able to imagine he would have with Ginny…

"Did you ever feel any doubts, Dad?" he found himself speaking aloud, addressing the picture without even realizing he was going to. "No, of course you didn't; you always fancied Mum and wanted to marry her, didn't you? But how did you know? Are people supposed to feel doubts before they marry? Am I making too big a deal out of this-should I still marry Ginny, even if I'm not sure?"

His parents only continued to smile at him from the picture and he sighed. Talking to a picture-now he knew he really was losing his mind.

His parents weren't here, couldn't help him.

His gaze moved on to focus on Sirius, looking so young and carefree-infinitely younger than he'd ever been when Harry had known him-and Remus, also looking decades younger than when Harry had known him. (It was in looking at pictures of Remus from this time, before everything had happened, that Harry could understand just how Remus could have been such close friends with his father and Sirius when it seemed like Remus was so different from both of them, so much more solemn, so much more, well, Prefect-like. In these pictures, Remus looked quite as young and quite as capable of mischief as either James or Sirius did.)

He wondered what Sirius or Remus would say, too, about his marrying Ginny. They'd known Ginny-would they have approved?

Sirius only grinned up at him from the picture before jostling Remus playfully with his elbow, making Remus laugh and make a mock-threatening gesture with one fist.

He felt a familiar pang of grief and regret. They weren't here anymore either.

There was no one he could talk to about this. He was alone, suddenly felt more alone than he'd ever been.

When it came to something as important as his marriage, he had no one to talk to, no one to discuss his doubts with-and he was alone.

For some things, he might talk to Mr. Weasley but he could hardly discuss his doubts about marrying Ginny with her father.

The same restriction went for why he couldn't mention this to Ron.

There was no one he could talk to. Except…

There was only… Hermione…

He was reluctant to do so because it would be awkward for her-and another part of him inserted that it would be equally awkward for him because she was, unconsciously on her part, the main person who had made him start doubting. Because, somehow, without wanting to (indeed, actively trying not to), in spite of himself, he found himself thinking, wishing, if only Ginny could be more like Hermione… Hermione, who did understand, whom he could talk to, who listened to him… And that led him to other, more dangerous thoughts…

But there was no one else. There was only her.

He sighed, getting out of bed with a quick movement. The decision to talk to Hermione should have, perhaps, made him feel better but it didn't particularly relax him-but then again, with the prospect of breaking off his engagement hanging over his head, he doubted anything would relax him much.

He slipped out of the room trying not to make any noise; it was late and he didn't want to wake Hermione up. (Ron was away, again, at the Cannons practice camp.)

He looked out the window to the lights from the city; it looked like a quiet night. He wondered, half idly, how many different nights he'd been up, unable to sleep, looking out into the darkness. So many, too many really…

He didn't hear anything but somehow he knew she was there before she spoke. He didn't know how or why; it was almost like a sixth sense that was attuned to her presence. Something about the air just seemed to feel different when she was near, he thought fancifully-and it shouldn't. He shouldn't-couldn't-- feel that way, think that way, about her… And yet… he did somehow know when she was there.

"Harry, what is it? What's bothering you?"

He let out a breath. "I don't think I can do this."

"Do what? Marry Ginny?"

He wasn't surprised that she understood him. She almost always did-and more prosaically, there was very little else that could preoccupy him to such an extent right now, for once. "Yeah. I thought I could. I thought… I wanted this and I did, for a while. Part of me still does… but I just don't know." She didn't say anything and he continued on, the words rushing out of him now, in stops and starts, as if he'd been holding them back for too long and now they had to be said. "I don't know if I can promise her forever. I thought I could but-but I'm beginning to realize just how long that is, how long a lifetime is. It-it was so much easier when I was still thinking in terms of days and weeks and months. Now… I think about it and I just don't know… I don't know what to do…"

Because he did care about Ginny, he knew that, and he was-- had been-- could be-- happy enough with her-but not forever.

Not when he'd just begun to realize how very little he could talk to her about the bigger things. For the smaller, everyday, trivial things, it was fine (which was why he hadn't really started doubting until now) but for the most important, the things he found hardest to talk about at all, he simply could not imagine telling her of those things.

Hermione sighed. "Oh Harry… I can't tell you what to do. All I can say is, do you love her, Harry? If you love her, the answer should be easy."

He was silent for a few minutes but then asked, "Thing is, how do you know what that feels like? How do you know that you love someone enough, that you love someone like that?"

"You don't ask easy questions, Harry," she said with a rather wan attempt at humor.

He glanced at her with the faintest glimmer of a smile. "Sorry. I shouldn't have asked that."

"No, it's okay." She paused and looked away out the window, her gaze becoming distant, thoughtful. "I can't really answer that, Harry," she finally said slowly. "But I think… I think you need to think about whether she makes you happy." She stopped and finally added, quietly, "Can you see yourself growing old with her? Is she the most important person in your life? I read somewhere that you shouldn't marry someone you can live with but someone you can't live without. If Ginny's that person for you, then there's your answer."

No.

The answer to all those questions was, no.

Did he love Ginny like that, love her enough? No…

He wanted to-his marrying Ginny was so perfect, after all. He had wanted it, had wanted that perfect family, the perfect future, which Ginny seemed to promise-but he didn't love her enough, couldn't love her enough no matter how he might wish it.

And he could not marry her, could not promise her forever.

He sighed and looked at Hermione and he knew she saw his answer, his decision, in his eyes, his face.

"I still wish I could," he admitted quietly. "I wanted to really have a family, be a part of the Weasley family. I really wanted that, still want it. I guess I thought… I hoped that because I wanted to be a part of the Weasley family so much, it also meant that I wanted to marry Ginny-but that wasn't true."

"Oh, Harry…" she said softly. "I'm sorry…"

"It's okay. This is me, after all; when have I ever had it easy?" he tried for some humor but he knew it didn't work. "I wanted to be a part of a family so much… I guess I should have known it could never be that easy for me."

"Oh Harry, no, don't say that. You know how much the Weasleys care about you; you don't have to marry Ginny to be a part of their family, not really. You already are a part of their family; you know Mrs. Weasley thinks of you like another son. If she had her way, she would probably have adopted you officially to make you Harry Weasley years ago," she added, trying to coax a smile from him.

She succeeded, winning a slight, fleeting smile, and for the moment, that was enough. His eyes were no longer as dark and shadowed as they had been, had brightened.

"Families are more than just about the blood relationships or ties by marriage. It's also about love and loyalty and caring for each other so you've essentially been a part of the Weasley family for years now. Not marrying Ginny shouldn't change that-it won't change that."

He grimaced. "Ron's going to hate me." He stopped and then added, with a tinge of bitterness, "Everyone will probably hate me. What kind of prick breaks his engagement like this?"

"The Weasleys will be disappointed but they won't hate you, Harry."

"But this is going to break Ginny's heart. How can they not hate me for this? I would hate me for this, if I were them."

"Oh Harry, don't think like that. Really, you shouldn't. They'll be disappointed and maybe a little hurt and Ron will probably be angry for a while but eventually, they'll forgive you because that's what families do. And," she added after a brief pause, "not everyone will hate you. I won't hate you."

The words were said with a slight smile, trying to gently tease him out of his bitterness and his guilt, but he heard the unspoken-and entirely serious--promise that she would always be his friend, she would always be loyal-as she always had been before. He depended on it too.

He managed the ghost of a smile for her. "I know."

She put a hand on his arm. "It'll be okay, Harry. Ron will come around."

He looked down at where her hand was resting on his arm; he could feel the warmth of it so strongly through his sleeve, was suddenly aware with every sense he possessed of the touch of her hand, of how late it was and how alone they were…

He was suddenly intensely, insanely, conscious of the fact that they were the only two people in the flat, that it was late, an hour of night where most people never saw each other unless they were lovers…

The thought, the word, darted into his mind and seemed to burn it.

His gaze was drawn, irresistibly, inexorably, to her face, to her lips-and he wondered if he were imagining it but, in spite of the dimness, her lips almost seemed to glisten…

And he felt the tension in his frame, recognized the heat pooling in his groin, was suddenly, blindingly aware of nothing except that he was male and she was female and they were alone and… and he wanted her…

He'd wanted her for weeks, even months now, a tiny voice somewhere in the back of his subconscious whispered-before he could shut it up.

And in the madness of the moment, the intimacy of it, the heat of it, he felt his head lowering, his eyes focusing (more than they already had been) on her lips…

He sensed rather than heard the flutter of her breath between her parted lips as her breath hitched and then stopped…

Ever afterwards, he never knew what happened then, never knew what made him stop, never knew what had the voice of his mind assert itself with an inner shriek of, What are you doing?!

He blinked and even then, it took every ounce of will he possessed to draw back, step away from her. Even when his hitherto-dazed mind came awake and was shouting at him-great Merlin, what had he been thinking? What had he been about to do?

He'd almost kissed Hermione. He'd wanted to kiss Hermione.

He hoped to the Fates that she hadn't noticed.

"You should go back to b-sleep," he managed to say, correcting himself quickly before he could say the word, bed (that way lay insanity). His voice was not quite his own but at least it didn't tremble.

"Yes. Goodnight, Harry."

"Night, Hermione."

He closed his eyes on a slight shudder as she left.

He was an idiot. An insane idiot, at that. Because this, whatever-this-was that seemed to infect him whenever she was near, was insanity, stupidity, and absolutely impossible.

~
Hermione let out her breath once she was safely back inside her room.

God, what was she doing?

She pressed a hand to her cheek, aware that she was probably flushed-she felt flushed and overly warm.

She'd just put her hand on his arm, had only wanted to reassure him, but somehow the moment had turned into more…

She'd suddenly been almost painfully aware of the solid warmth of his arm under her hand, the nearness of him, the fact that they were alone in the flat… The very air around them had suddenly seemed to heat, her skin beginning to tingle, her breath growing short. And she'd been aware, too, of the bleakness in his expression, the guilt, and-as always-she'd been swamped with the need to help him, to comfort him.

Wanting to help Harry was familiar but it was the recent, added physical element that made it thrilling, made it dangerous.

She didn't know why or how it had started-but she remembered very vividly the first time it had happened. She'd been pulled out of sleep by the sound of him crying out and, as always, she'd gone to him, waking him up from his nightmare. It had been just like other times when she'd been the one to wake him from nightmares, had been so familiar-but then in one moment, it had changed. He'd only looked at her and she'd suddenly had to fight to breathe, suddenly been very conscious of the fact that he was in his bed and it was night and… and the lingering shadows in his eyes had filled her with a mad impulse to wrap her arms around him, to kiss him and hold him so he could feel her warmth and know that he wasn't alone…

Thank goodness she'd regained her sanity in time, before she'd had the chance to do anything monumentally stupid and insane, like acting on her impulse.

She didn't think he'd noticed; of course he hadn't noticed. Why would he notice? He would never think that of her, didn't see her like that, would sooner expect to receive a Valentine from Millicent Bulstrode than have her kiss him-and probably react with nearly as much dismay too.

She'd blocked it from her mind, had thought she'd succeeded-but then tonight had happened.

Tonight-and she'd felt it again. And for a fleeting moment, before she'd pulled back, she'd felt herself leaning forward, drifting closer, would have been in his arms in another minute…

Before she'd realized and stopped herself.

She had almost kissed him.

God, what was happening to her? Since when had her body seemed to ignore the dictates of her rational mind?

She looked at the picture she kept on her dresser, one of her with Ron and Harry and as she watched, Ron slung his arm casually over her shoulders, pulling her into a half-hug to kiss her cheek. She focused on Ron's smiling face, suddenly missing him intensely, if only because when he was around, she didn't seem to feel this-thing-for Harry.

But Ron was away so much with the Cannons and even when he was around, she was busy with her work at St. Mungo's and it seemed like they hardly ever really talked anymore. When they were together, it was fine, so easy to just be with him and Ron, at least, always seemed to feel as if talking was almost like a waste when compared to snogging.

She suddenly felt a wave of relief. That must be it, the reason why she was suddenly reacting so strangely to Harry when they were alone. It was because she was missing Ron.

That was it. That had to be the reason.

It didn't mean anything else, couldn't mean anything more than that. It was just physical and she could forget about that, would never act on it anyway. She was a rational person, however unruly her body seemed to be getting, and she could certainly control herself.

It was only physical and didn't mean anything. It had to be that. It couldn't mean anything…

~To be continued…