Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.
Author's Note: I am beyond sorry for how long it's taken me to update this fic! I don't know how to apologize other than to blame RL and some computer troubles for getting in the way and distracting me so I forgot to update this fic here. Chapter 5 is done too, and I intend to post that this week, to make up for the long, long wait for this chapter.
On a happier note, I wish you all a happy, harmonious 2011!
What Happened Before the Wedding
Chapter 4: Lessons of the Heart
The next few months were something like a tapestry of relief, guilt, irritation and confusion.
Relief (mingled with guilt at feeling relieved) at being free. Guilt over how much he'd hurt Ginny and disappointed the Weasleys (he only saw Mr. Weasley once in the first few weeks afterwards and Mr. Weasley had only said, rather gruffly, how sorry he was and he received a very kind-very painful-letter from Mrs. Weasley that had him writhing with guilt, every line of it full of her sorrow and her regret and her conflicting feelings between her loyalty to Ginny and her affection for him, her other son, before she'd finally-with palpable sadness-asked him not to come to the weekly family dinners for a little while). Irritation at the media for the way they made the story of his broken engagement the big news story of the wizarding world for about a week. And confusion over… over the only good thing he really remembered from that time: Hermione.
She was the only good thing about those months. If he had ever had any doubts about how much he needed Hermione's friendship, they would have been answered-and then some.
If it wasn't for Hermione, he had no doubt he would probably have taken the coward's way out and fled the country, leaving Ginny to face the scandal and the media frenzy alone. (And then Ron would probably have hunted him down and murdered him on sight.)
And it was a scandal. All the media furor that had flared up at the news of his engagement to Ginny was completely eclipsed by the positive explosion of media attention at the news of his broken engagement. In comparison, it was as if the media had been completely indifferent to the news of his engagement.
Everyone had their own ideas as to what had happened and no one seemed to be at all shy about stepping forward to give their views as to why, with the very notable silence of himself, the Weasleys, and Hermione.
Some reports said he'd cheated on Ginny, others that Ginny had cheated on him. Some said that he and Ginny had fought over wedding preparations. He was alternately vilified and pitied. (The notable exception to all this was one editorial in Witch Weekly that blithely declared it didn't care about the reasons; all it cared about was that he was once more the wizarding world's most eligible bachelor. George had cut out that particular editorial and sent it to him in an envelope addressed to "The Most Eligible Bachelor.")
If that had been all, he would have been fine-but some of the news organizations weren't nearly satisfied with infidelity, as Harry would find out.
Hermione shoved open the door of the flat she shared with Ron (Harry having moved into Grimmauld Place, temporarily, so that Ginny didn't have to avoid visiting her own brother-not that Ginny had ever come to the flat after he'd moved) and almost stomped over to the table, dumping the armful of papers she was holding onto it.
Ron looked up in surprise. "Bad day?" he asked rather tentatively, his tone careful. He always was careful around Hermione when she was like this, could not help a flicker of intimidation. (Self-preservation?) She really could be bloody scary at times.
She grabbed one of the sheets, which Ron now saw was one of the tabloid magazines, and shook it in his direction. "Have you seen this?" she demanded.
"No, what does it say?"
"Some idiot dug up all those old stories about Harry from 5th year that imply he's violent or crazy or something and they used that to say that he must have threatened Ginny or hurt her in some way for her to break off the engagement."
Ron's expression abruptly stiffened. "He did hurt Ginny," he said flatly.
Hermione gaped at him and glared. "Ron! How can you say that?"
"It's true!" Ron snapped. "Maybe not physically but he did hurt her. He broke her heart. And if you weren't so preoccupied with making sure that Harry isn't hurt or lonely or sad or anything, you might remember that!"
"He's your best friend too!"
"Not," Ron bit out, "at the moment. Not when my little sister hates to leave her house because of all the attention she gets whenever she goes out! She went into Diagon Alley the other day and came home crying, do you know that?"
Hermione sighed. "I'm sorry about that."
"You could do a better job of showing it. You're never the one going over to see if Ginny's alright."
"Ginny doesn't need me. She has you and your parents and everyone else. Harry's alone."
"He can bloody well stay that way! After what he's done to Ginny-if you think I'm about to be sorry for some stupid article about him, you can think again. He deserves every bit of it."
"Ron!"
They glared at each other for a moment before Ron left, almost slamming the door of the flat behind him.
Hermione glared at the door for a minute-as she seemed to do so often these days. She and Ron had always bickered but ever since The Break-Up and Ron's stubborn insistence on blaming Harry for the entire thing, they seemed to fight more than ever, usually over Harry but not always-because Ron still had the not-so-charming habit of being incredibly defensive and picking out references to Harry in even the most innocent things she said. She cared about Ron, she truly did, but… But-But she refused to finish that sentence. She wouldn't think it; it was just anger and she didn't really mean it. Truly, she didn't. She cared about Ron and that was all, no ifs, ands or buts about it. Truly.
And yet…
She glared at the door again before her gaze fell, focusing inexorably on the headline that screamed out at her from the cover: Harry Potter an Abusive Boyfriend? And she forgot about her irritation with Ron in favor of focusing her anger where it truly belonged-at these damn, sodding idiots who were just barely stopping short of outright libel and showing all the common decency and integrity of pond scum. Those damn idiots! "Argh!" She was too tense, too angry still, to even think of sitting down. She felt as if her head might explode, she was so angry. Impotently angry-angry at the pricks propagating this bullshit but angry, too, at how she couldn't fix this. She hated being helpless and in this case, she was. She couldn't do anything about this. She'd done all she could in clearing out every stand in Diagon Alley that had carried a copy of the scurrilous rag but she knew-she knew-she couldn't do anything. Denying it would do no good and she didn't want to stoop to arguing with a piece of garbage-but still! Harry abusive?! And before she'd even stopped to think, she gathered up the armful of the magazine and left as well.
Harry greeted her with a rather weary smile and Hermione fought back another wave of fury mingling in with her automatic concern. She knew it was hard for him going into the Ministry to work every day; he'd once confessed (the first, last and only time he'd ever admitted directly to how hard it was for him) that he wished people would just ask him directly about the engagement instead of the constant watching him or glancing his way when they thought he wouldn't notice and the whispers that started whenever he entered a room. She knew he'd never admit how hard it was, partly because it wasn't his way and partly because he felt like he deserved it for having hurt Ginny. And it made her worry about him even more than she already would.
"I'm so sorry, Harry."
He blinked. "For what?"
"This." She dumped the armload of magazines onto the table in the front room of Grimmauld Place.
"What is it?" Harry asked, reaching for one of them but Hermione stopped him, grabbing his wrist before he could.
"Don't read it, Harry. You shouldn't, really."
"What does it say, Hermione?" he asked quietly.
"Nothing!" Hermione assured him quickly, suddenly thinking that coming to see Harry may not have been the smartest idea she'd ever had. At that moment, she could have cheerfully murdered everyone who'd had anything to do with writing the piece of garbage; she knew that tone. It was his bracing-for-the-worst tone. "It's all nonsense anyway; some bloody idiot dug up those damn stories about you from 5th year and--" she broke off as a slight smile actually crossed Harry's face. "What are you smiling at?"
Harry promptly sobered. "I'm sorry. It's just-I don't think I've ever heard you swear before."
"Well, I don't remember the last time I was this angry." She flicked her wand angrily at the pile of magazines on the table, shredding them until it was a pile of scraps of paper. "I mean, really! Making all sorts of disgusting insinuations about how you might have abused Ginny in some way-it's-it's-it's just so wrong!" She made a gesture of impotent rage. "They all owe you their lives and this is how they repay you for everything you've done? By suspicions and ugly insinuations? And of all things to say-you might not be perfect but you'd never hurt anyone!"
She's beautiful when she's angry. The irrelevant-and inappropriate-thought darted into his mind as he watched her-because she really was. He always thought she was pretty-he'd given up on trying to pretend he didn't-but now, her cheeks flushed with emotion, her eyes flashing, glittering with that light that boded ill to the object of her wrath, she was beautiful. (He wondered, peripherally, before he slammed the door on that thought, if this was something similar to what she'd look like flushed with a different kind of emotion, flushed with passion… He caught his breath sharply-he wasn't going to wonder, wasn't going to think it-but she was beautiful.)
And loyal to the bone and probably the kindest person he'd ever met as well as being, without a doubt, the smartest person he'd ever known (including Dumbledore in some ways, he believed)…
It was an odd thing but he found he was almost indifferent to whatever ugly insinuations might have been made in the magazine piece. He knew that no one whose opinion he cared about would believe it; he didn't care for himself what it might have said. What he did care about was how angry it had made her.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Hermione this angry-and it was for him, for his sake, that she was angry. And the thought made a dangerous warmth well up inside his chest. This was for him. It was on his behalf that she was going into what Ron termed her "brilliant but scary" mode, he thought with the usual flicker of hurt that always accompanied any thought of Ron these days, only this time the hurt was easily overshadowed in his concern for her.
He cut into her furious words. "Hermione."
She stopped, mid-sentence, mid-word, in all honesty, and simply looked at him and even before he said anything else, he could almost see her regaining her calm, or at least some semblance of it. And he didn't know why-he would never understand why-but that was the moment when he first thought, consciously thought, Oh God, I think I might love her.
He was insane. Truly. Why at that moment-that utterly inappropriate moment-he had to think that insane thought... Why that moment-what was it about her at that moment?
He didn't know. Maybe it was in how he could tell when she was regaining her poise; maybe it was in how quickly she could calm herself-he lo- liked and admired that strength of will in her that was so uniquely, innately Hermione-- maybe it was, after all, a belated reaction to thinking she was beautiful when she was angry. Maybe it was the depth of her loyalty and her friendship-she was the most loyal person he'd ever known.
Maybe it was because he knew that half her anger was out of sheer frustration at her helplessness. Because this was Hermione and she always wanted to help, whether it was helping Neville find Trevor on the Hogwarts Express that day so many years ago to helping the house elves (whether they wanted it or not) to, yes, helping him. She cared so much-and Harry had seen too much indifference, seen too much of the harm that indifference could do, not to appreciate it in her. She would never stand back and do nothing if there were any possible way for her to help, no matter what it might cost her. He could hardly remember a time when Hermione had not done what was right over what was easy-and the amazing thing was that he knew the easy path never even occurred to her as a possibility. It was the reason she was the voice of his conscience, the reason that he found himself wondering, what would Hermione do, in certain times. It was the reason, too, that he tried so hard. It wasn't easy-and Merlin knew, there were times he could almost hate her for being his conscience-but he knew she made him a better person.
And maybe, after all, there was no real, good reason for it except that it was Hermione and she was his best friend and the most important person in his life and… and… and he thought he might love her as more than a friend…
He really needed to stop thinking about this.
Hermione sighed a little. "I'm sorry, Harry. It just made me angry."
He quirked a small smile. "I didn't notice."
She let out a brief laugh-and he tried very hard not to suddenly feel like a king for being able to make her laugh.
He sobered. "Seriously, Hermione, I don't care all that much. I've almost gotten used to the stories and not many people will really believe it. Besides, the story will probably die once Mrs. Weasley hears about it and has her say." He paused. "But thank you for- you know-" he waved one hand to indicate the pile of paper scraps on the table, "wanting to defend me. My hero," he said with a smile, meaning for it to sound like a joke and then mentally grimaced at the underlying note of utter sincerity. He hoped she wouldn't catch that.
Her expression and her smile softened. Of course she heard it too. "What else could I do?"
"Not spend a small fortune buying up every copy in sight, for one."
"It wasn't a small fortune and I couldn't leave those disgusting lies out there."
"Well, thank you for it." He finally gave in and gave her a quick hug-God, the way she felt against him, the warmth of her body-before stepping back hastily.
But she kept her hand on his arm, looking up at him with so much affection in her face that he could not move away from her as much as he probably should have. "And you really don't mind all that much?"
He manufactured a small smile. "I think you're angry enough for the both of us."
She let out a soft huff of laughter. "I suppose I am."
He stared down at her and slowly, his smile faded, as did hers. His gaze dropped down to her lips-had her lips always been so… perfect, so… kissable? His breath stilled in his chest, he could swear the entire world stopped, time pausing, as he stared… Desire slammed into him with a force that left him breathless-God, he wanted to kiss her, he thought rather numbly. He wanted to kiss her, wanted to touch his lips to hers, wanted to feel her breath against his lips, wanted to taste her… He wanted… He wanted… At that moment, he was quite sure he wanted to kiss her more than he wanted his next breath.
He bent his head, irresistibly, unconsciously, their lips inches apart…
She blinked and she was the one to step back, hastily, looking away and busying herself with sending the scraps of paper to the trash. "I should be going, Harry. I brought some work home with me that I really want to get organized."
Her voice sounded remarkably calm and unaffected-and, although at almost any other time, Harry would probably have been able to detect the tension in her tone that betrayed how much effort it took to speak so calmly, Harry was too nonplussed, too relieved to think that she hadn't noticed, hadn't felt that same flaring attraction, to hear it. She hadn't noticed; thank God she hadn't noticed. Of course she hadn't noticed. He was losing his mind. That was all and thankfully, she hadn't noticed, didn't know how close he'd nearly been to kissing her and making a colossal mistake.
Or so he told himself repeatedly, deliberately avoiding looking at her face-and so he didn't see the flush of color on her cheeks or notice the brittle quality of her slight smile.
He'd almost kissed her. What had he been thinking-or not thinking? This was Hermione, his best friend, Ron's girlfriend. He couldn't kiss her. He wouldn't kiss her. He shouldn't want to kiss her.
Except… except he did. Oh God, he did want to kiss Hermione.
She picked up her bag and gave him a small smile, although her eyes were focused more on the level of his chin than on his eyes. "I should get going. I- Ron will probably be waiting," she added hastily, hating herself for lying but the words just seemed to slip out. Ron. It was as if she needed to say his name, needed to hear his name spoken, to remind herself why this-this insanity that seemed to infect her around Harry-was just that, insanity, dangerous insanity at that. She was suddenly nervous and, for the first time in her memory really, wishing she could get away from Harry. She couldn't stay here any longer; she had to leave.
"Right, of course." Harry hesitated and then added, "Say hi to Ron for me, will you?"
"Yeah, I will." She finally met his eyes, sympathy winning out over awkwardness, at his even needing to ask. But Ron was persisting in being stubborn and, though she'd forced him into having dinner with Harry several times, any improvement in Ron's civility had been marginal. "We should all have dinner again sometime soon."
"Yeah, we should."
Harry closed the door of Grimmauld Place behind Hermione with a sense of relief-mingled with a pang of sorrow that he even felt relief. He let out a breath that was half-groan, letting his head fall forward to rest against the door with a soft thump.
He'd wanted to kiss Hermione.
He suspected he'd wanted to kiss her for much longer than he cared to admit to himself but now he couldn't deny it any more, had to face the fact head-on.
He didn't even need to close his eyes for him to see her, so clearly, too clearly really, in his mind; he could picture her smiling, laughing, frowning, biting her lip as she read something intently… (It couldn't speak well of him that he was so familiar with the shape and curve of his best friend's girlfriend's lips...)
He bumped his head against the door as if that would jar the images of Hermione from his mind.
It wasn't only that he wanted to kiss her. It was that he just wanted her. He wanted her. He wanted to know what she looked like after a kiss, wanted to see her eyes clouded with arousal, wanted to know what she looked like when she was flushed and aroused… He wanted to know her taste and her touch and-
He cut off his thoughts before they could go any further. He did not need to think about this.
Because he couldn't kiss her. She was his best friend and, more importantly, she was with Ron.
She was with Ron; she was with Ron; she was Ron's-she was off-limits.
But he wanted her.
Harry groaned and banged his head against the door again, not hard enough to really hurt but harder than was strictly comfortable.
He really was an idiot.
~*~
Some weeks later…
Hermione threw down her quill with a sigh, staring blindly down at the book in front of her for a moment, before she let out a shuddering breath and closed the book, almost leaping out of her seat.
She needed to get out, needed to stop this worrying.
She hastily threw some files into her bag and grabbed her cloak and left, walking swiftly.
She hadn't left St. Mungo's earlier than 8 in the evening for three days now and it felt like longer but tonight- tonight, she just needed to leave.
She was too tired and dispirited after days of trying- and failing- to come up with something to help little Evelyn Acheson. Her thoughts were beginning to spin around in her head until she thought she might go mad and nothing was helping.
She just needed to get out, needed to clear her head a little, needed... More strength. She needed her confidence back.
And it wasn't a conscious decision. She didn't think it in so many words.
But before she'd realized it, she was getting off the Tube at the nearest stop to Grimmauld Place-and she knew.
She needed Harry. (She'd tried to avoid being alone with him for long lately but now, in her current state of mind, she didn't think of that. All she knew was a desperate, incoherent, half-unconscious need for his presence.)
She knocked quickly on the door, hoping desperately that he would be home, and then the door opened and there he was.
"Hermione!"
She mustered a smile that tried to seem casual. "I thought you might want some company over dinner."
His eyes narrowed slightly, a frown flickering over his face, and she knew he hadn't been fooled by her light tone. Of course he hadn't been fooled. Anyone else she knew- with the possible exception of her parents- would have been, but not Harry. For a moment, she tensed-she didn't want to talk about it, not yet-but in another moment, she saw that she needn't have worried. Because this was Harry and, somehow, as always, he could see that she didn't want to talk.
So he only smiled and stepped back. "You're a mind-reader now? I was just thinking that I hate eating dinner alone."
She felt herself grin at him, falling in with his banter with a sense of relief. "Well, you know how clever I am."
"And so modest too," he quipped. "But thanks for sparing me from a fate worse than death, a solitary dinner. It's just pasta tonight."
"It smells great. Certainly better than anything I could come up with."
"I know. Why do you think I always volunteer to cook? You could probably kill people with some of what I've seen you make."
She threw him a mock glare. "Hey! Don't underestimate my cooking skills, Mr. Potter."
"Believe me, I don't," he deadpanned. "They're quite… amazing."
She tried to glare at him but her lips twitched and finally she gave in and laughed, feeling the knot of tension that had been inside her chest for days now, it seemed, begin to loosen.
She didn't know how it was but he could always do this. Just a smile, even a quirk of his lips, a teasing word, and he could make her smile as well, could calm her with a word.
Harry sent her plate of pasta over to where Hermione was seated at the table with a quick flick of his wand and then carried his own plate over to the table.
She smiled her thanks at him as she began to eat but he kept one eye on her as he began eating as well.
There were dark circles under her eyes that told him she hadn't been sleeping well lately and he wondered what was bothering her. He guessed it was work-related; he knew, better than anyone, just how much she cared about all her patients at St. Mungo's. He loved that about her…
Whatever it was, he was somewhat relieved to see that the shadows that had been in her eyes when he'd first opened the door to see her were gone now. She looked better, still tired, but there wasn't as much of that frustration, that hopelessness, that was so painful for him to see.
It was, he thought, the most precious thing in the world to him-an achievement that meant more to him than anything else, including having defeated Voldemort (not that he'd ever taken much credit for that)-just knowing that he could comfort Hermione when she was tired or discouraged.
Later-he knew her well enough by now to assume this-she would be ready to talk over whatever it was, but for now, she just needed a distraction, needed to forget what it was for a little while.
With that in mind, he launched into an amusing story he'd heard at the Ministry that day involving one of those classic misunderstandings of the Muggle world and felt his entire heart leap when she laughed.
Dear Merlin, he loved to see her smile and hear her laugh… He could happily spend the rest of his life just looking at her when she smiled like this…
And that was when he knew.
He froze in the act of lifting his fork to his mouth as he just stared at her and he knew what this was, why everything to do with her meant so much to him. The certainty slammed into his gut with all the force of a tree falling on his head (and, for a moment at least, the same befuddling effect on his thinking.)
He was in love with her.
It wasn't that he could love her or that he might love her. It was that he did love her.
He was in love with Hermione. He loved her-loved her as he'd never loved anyone before, loved her as he would never love anyone else.
He was, somehow, very sure of that. This love was for the rest of his life. This was the forever he had never really believed in with Ginny, hadn't-if he were completely honest-really wanted with Ginny. He had cared about Ginny but he'd never loved her, not for real, not enough, not like this. He could see that now with a clarity he'd never had before.
What he'd felt for Ginny had been an almost casual affection, stemming from who she was, as Ron's younger sister and one of the Weasleys, and he'd wanted to believe it was love, had thought it could be love, because he knew she loved him and that had meant something to him. And he had desired her too. He couldn't deny that; he could remember just how powerful the attraction, the lust, had been between them at first-but it hadn't lasted. It hadn't been enough.
What he felt for Hermione-this was different, this was more. The contrast was as stark as if he'd been seeing everything in black and white and only now was he seeing the world in full color, as if he'd been blind and only now learned to see. There was nothing casual about this. It wasn't only the force and the intensity of his desire-although that was unmistakable. It was because he knew he'd do anything for her, to keep her happy and smiling, how he knew it would kill him to see her cry, how he hated seeing her look tired. It was because of how much he trusted her, had always trusted her with his secrets and his life and his fears. It was because his first instinct, always, was to turn to her-in bad times and in good times; she was always the first person he wanted to tell just about anything to. It was because of how well he knew her and how she understood him. It was because she'd never treated him differently because he was the Boy Who Lived, because she didn't hesitate to tell him when she thought he was wrong and with all that, she was still the most loyal friend he'd ever had.
It was in how just making her smile could make him feel like a king, as if he'd just single-handedly won the Quidditch World Cup, as if he could fly without the use of his broom.
He loved her.
For a moment, he felt a flare of anger-irrationally, at Hermione, for making him fall in love with her, and at himself, for loving her and for only realizing he loved her when it could do nothing but cause him pain.
Why did he have to love her? (Not that he could have helped it.) Why couldn't he have fallen in love with someone else-almost anyone else, really-someone he actually had a chance with?
But even as he thought it, he knew he was being idiotic, not only because it was a little late to regret but also because he didn't want to love anyone else.
There was only her. How could he possibly love someone else? She'd been the most important person in his life for years now, his best friend for so long- his entire life, it seemed like. How could anyone even hope to compare with her? No one could. No one else had her loyalty and her kindness and her cleverness and her courage; no one else's smile could brighten up his world so much; no one could understand him the way she did, somehow. And with all that, how could he love anyone else?
He couldn't. He didn't even want to.
It was only her, could only be her. It was as simple as that.
He loved her. Would always love her.
For better or worse, he was hers.
Even if she never knew it, even if no one but him ever knew it…
"Harry? Do I have some sauce on my face or something? You're staring at me like I just grew another nose."
He forced a small laugh, as he knew she expected, managing to tear his eyes away from her, from her eyes and her lips and her so-familiar, so-dear features. "No, sorry. I was just- uh- thinking about something else," he said hastily. "How does the pasta taste?"
"It's good. Certainly better than anything I could make."
Her smile hit him like a physical force. He caught his breath, blinking. And for a fleeting second, he had to remind himself what they'd been talking about. The pasta. Right, the pasta.
He managed a smile, trying to shove aside his feelings. "It wasn't that complicated."
"Still beyond me."
"Thank Merlin," he said with mock fervor.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, though he could see a slight smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "And why is that?"
He shrugged. "It proves you're human. It just wouldn't be fair for you to be so clever at everything, you know."
He spoke lightly but was surprised to see a flicker of something- something he couldn't quite name but which made him uneasy- in her eyes.
"I'm not clever at everything."
"First time I'm hearing it," he quipped, hoping to coax a smile from her-he loved her smile. He wondered peripherally if there was anything he wouldn't do to make her smile.
It was, he realized though, the moment he said it, somehow the wrong thing to say. The something was back in her eyes and now he recognized it- hurt.
"Not clever enough," she muttered. To his horror, her face crumpled and she covered her face with her hands for a moment.
He started up, his hands going to her shoulders. "Hermione- don't. Hermione…"
A slight shudder went through her and then she lowered her hands, looking up at him, her effort to control herself visible.
"I'm sorry, Harry. I didn't mean to--"
He cut her off. "No, Hermione, it's okay. Do you want to talk about it?"
"It's one of my patients at St. Mungo's, a little girl. She- she was brought in a few days ago and- and I can't figure out what's making her so sick. She hasn't gotten any better and her parents haven't slept in days and-and oh, Harry, I just don't know what more I can do and what good is all my vaunted cleverness when I can't even save a little girl's life?"
Pain rang in her voice and he flinched, suddenly, terribly conscious of his own helplessness. What could he say? How could he possibly help her when he didn't know? She didn't want platitudes; she deserved more than that-and he had nothing to say. And he hated it. He hated to see her hurting, hated to see her like this-and hated his own helplessness. He would have sold his soul to make her happy-but he couldn't save this little girl's life and he couldn't make it better for Hermione.
"God, Hermione, I'm sorry," he sighed. "I'm so sorry but believe me, I'm sure you're helping. You're making a difference. We- we can't save everyone; sometimes, there really is nothing we can do…" His voice trembled slightly but he swallowed and went on. "We just have to keep on trying…"
"And hope that the ones we do save will somehow make up for, or at least, outnumber the ones we can't?" Hermione asked, with a wan attempt at a smile that failed.
It was poor comfort, at best, and he, of all people, knew it. "Yeah," he agreed.
She gave a shuddering sigh, letting her head fall. "It doesn't make it any easier, though."
"No, it doesn't," he admitted softly.
Her face crumpled again, one hand going up to her mouth to cover the sob that escaped. "She's just a little girl, Harry!"
He flinched and then tugged her into his arms where she buried her face in his shoulder, her hands fisting in his shirt. It was a stupid thing to do, he knew it was stupid-beyond stupid, since now he knew just what kind of temptation he was setting himself up for-but he could not do anything else. He couldn't. Even if he died for it, he could not keep from comforting her, in whatever way he could. And so he closed his arms around her, wishing desperately, irrationally, that in doing so, he could somehow fence out all sorrow and grief from her life. He held her, his cheek resting against her hair, breathing in the scent of her-the familiar mixture of parchment and ink and a faintly floral scent and something else that was just uniquely her-and for those few seconds, allowed himself to forget about Ron, forget all the reasons he could not, should not, do this. For those few seconds, he just remembered that she was hurting and he loved her…
It couldn't last, of course.
It was barely a minute before Hermione stirred, seeming to realize where she was, who she was clutching, and lifted her head, stepping back out of his arms.
"I'm okay now, Harry. Really. I'll be fine." She tried for a slight smile and managed just to tighten her lips into a semblance of a smile that would not have fooled anyone for a second. "I'm sorry."
He let her go, ignoring the falseness of her smile from necessity, and forced a lightness into his tone and his expression which he did not feel. "It's okay. What else are best friends for, right?"
"Right," she agreed with equally false calm.
"I'm sorry about the little girl, Hermione. I hope she gets better," he said more soberly, his voice soft.
"Thanks."
She looked up at him, her eyes meeting and holding his, and she stilled, seeing all the depth of his sincerity and his emotions in his eyes.
He stared at her too, so familiar, so dear-and irresistibly, without conscious thought, his hand lifted of its own volition to brush back a lock of her hair that had fallen forward. His fingers barely brushed her skin, so tender was the gesture, and so unmistakably a caress.
Her breath caught in her throat, her lips parting and forming the shape of his name, although no sound escaped. For one fleeting, interminable second, when it seemed as if the entire world ceased its motion, held its breath, neither of them moved, his hand still lifted to her face, just barely touching her.
One fleeting second in which her eyes darkened, as did his, and they both stared, caught in the grip of the strongest temptation either had ever felt. He knew, suddenly and certainly, that if he kissed her, she would let him-no, that she even wanted it. And she knew with equal certainty and equal suddenness, that he wanted to kiss her, that she wanted him to kiss her… They were still close enough; it would have needed only one quick movement, one small impulse, and she could have been back in his arms, her lips on his, her body pressed against his… One fleeting second, as they both hovered on the edge of desire, the edge of betrayal.
And then it was over.
Neither one knew who was the first to draw back, who was the first to blink, to breathe, but it happened and at the moment, it didn't matter who'd been first-maybe, after all, they'd acted in unison. But they did act; they did resist.
She stepped back, busying herself with putting away their plates. He turned away, grabbing his glass of water and tossing it back as if it were a much-needed tonic-- as if he wished it was alcoholic.
He was the one to break the silence, for once in his life, needing her to leave, just go away. "You'd better go." He paused and then added, with some truth, "Knowing you, I'm sure you plan to check on the girl again tonight."
"Yeah, I do," Hermione agreed. "Thanks for dinner and, well, everything," she finished lamely, with a small wave of her hand.
"It was nothing."
"Thanks, Harry. I- I'll see you later, then."
She barely waited for his own goodbye before she was gone, almost obviously running away.
Leaving him to fall back into his chair and swear, long and low, calling himself every name he could think of.
Nothing good could possibly come of this.
~To be continued…~ (I promise…)