What Happened Before the Wedding

Disclaimer: Not mine. All things HP belong to JK Rowling. I’m just trying to fix what she did wrong and I only get money from this in my dreams.

Author’s Note: This is a fic that I started months ago for a ‘1 Year After’ collection, to commemorate Stupid Canon Day (a.k.a. the day JKR proved she’s an idiot). It’s something of a more direct way of telling JKR that she can take her canon and, well, do something impolite with it. ;-)

Starts out H/G (and R/Hr) but it will all be fixed, I promise. Rated PG-13 or so, for now. Enjoy!

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What Happened Before the Wedding

Chapter 1: Doubts

It was going to be the wedding of the century. Possibly even bigger than that—the wedding of the millennium? (And, of course, afterwards, they were going to live happily ever after.)

Harry stared at three supposedly different versions of the wedding invitation. Each was on heavy parchment that almost screamed wealth and were ostensibly in different colors—ivory, cream, and snowflake. Harry couldn’t for the life of him see the difference. They were white. He frowned and squinted at them, tilted his head, and then stepped around to the other side of the table as if the difference in angle would make the whites look different.

It didn’t.

And they had all sorts of fantastical curlicues and flowers bordering the cards and framing the scripted words in the middle.

The words, at least, were definitely the same on each.

You are cordially invited to the wedding of Harry James Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and Miss Ginevra Weasley, youngest daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur and Molly Weasley, on July 20, 2000.

He grimaced, wondering why Ginny had insisted on including his ridiculous, so-called title, on the invitation. Or rather, he knew why she’d insisted—he only wondered why he hadn’t insisted more forcefully that it be left off.

She had insisted it should be on there as a tangible message to everyone that the War really was over, that everyone, including him, was moving on with their lives. And then she’d given him that cajoling smile which she always gave him whenever she was trying to persuade him to do something and he had, as usual, given in.

It was essentially the same reason she’d given him for why they should make their wedding such a huge event, inviting (at last count) more than 350 people and that number was getting larger by the day.

Mrs. Weasley had thrown herself into the preparations for the wedding with all the considerable energy and enthusiasm at her disposal and she was so happy to be doing so, to be planning for the event that would finally, officially, make Harry her son, that he could not protest. She was so happy over it all, touchingly so, as if this wedding were giving her a reason to finally come out of her mourning for Fred and, yes, Remus and Tonks too, and he understood and even sympathized too much to do anything else.

He did understand; truly he did.

He just wondered, as he stared at the sample invitations, why—at times like this—increasingly more frequently, it seemed—he was starting to feel almost… trapped, as if he’d been captured by the Devil’s Snare or something like that.

As if the thought had almost summoned her, he heard the quick, perfunctory knock on the door of the flat he shared with Ron and Hermione and then Ginny had slipped inside (she didn’t bother to wait for permission to enter; she didn’t even always knock, so sure was she of welcome in the flat shared by her brother and her fiancée).

He managed a smile of greeting for her. “Hey, Ginny.”

“Hi, darling,” she greeted him with her usual bright smile and fit herself under his arm—as she usually did, before she reached up to bring his head down so she could kiss him.

Her kiss was long and passionate and he felt himself sinking into it before he drew back.

“Mm, I missed you,” she whispered against his skin. “Did you miss me?” she asked with a flirtatious glance at him through her lashes.

He blinked at her, biting back his automatic response that he’d seen her barely six hours ago when they’d had lunch together and instead said, “Of course.”

She smiled and kissed him again and, again, he was the one to draw back first.

He didn’t know why, really, didn’t know what had gotten into him. Usually, he was more than happy to kiss her but today, for some reason, he was finding her clinging to him to be somewhat annoying.

Gently he reached up and drew her arms down from around his neck, smiling at her to soften his drawing back.

“I was just looking at the invitations.”

“What do you think of them? Aren’t they lovely?”

He looked again at the invitations. Lovely wasn’t precisely the word that came to mind when he looked at them—ridiculous, perhaps, ostentatious, definitely, excessive even—but lovely? “Yeah,” he agreed instead. “They are. Which one are we going to use?”

Ginny tilted her head to one side as she studied them with as much care as if the fate of the world depended on it. “I think I’m leaning towards the ivory one; the cream just seems a little off to me, not the right shade, and the snowflake one just doesn’t look quite the way I want the invitations to look. What do you think, darling?”

Harry looked again at the invitations and tried, desperately, to remember which of them was the ivory one and which the cream and which the snowflake. They all looked the same color to him—they were all white—and the only differences were in the borders, all of which were about equally ornate. “Erm… the ivory one looks good to me too,” he finally said. He couldn’t remember which was which and, as far as he was concerned, they were all about the same.

Ginny beamed at him and threw her arms around his neck again. “Oh, Harry, I knew you’d agree with me. We always do think the same thing, don’t we, Harry?”

He automatically put his arms around her. “I guess so,” he agreed, for lack of anything else to say—and really, what could he say?

They did tend to agree, in that he hardly ever disagreed with her simply because it was easier not to and because half the time, he didn’t care that much, and, entirely aside from that, because he wanted her to be happy.

Ginny nestled her head against his shoulder. “We really are perfect for each other, aren’t we, Harry?”

Perfect for each other? Was this what perfection felt like, he wondered? And if it was, how was he to know? It wasn’t as if anything in his life before had ever been perfect.

“I guess so,” he said again—again, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. ‘I don’t know’ wasn’t exactly the answer she was looking for.

“We’ll be like this forever, won’t we, Harry?”

Forever…

Funny, the word sounded awfully… final…

Forever…

Forever was such a long time, he thought inanely. How was he to know what things would be like even a year from now?

He didn’t say anything, didn’t know what to say or how to respond and absolutely refused to simply say, ‘I guess so’ again. That would, he thought, just be too much.

Fortunately, Ginny didn’t seem to notice his lack of response.

She only kissed him again and then deliberately slid one hand down his chest and stomach to cup him through his trousers and he jerked, flinching away.

“Ginny!”

She gave him another look through her lashes, one that had, more than once, made him react even if he was across the room from her at the time.

“What do you say, we go to bed and… celebrate picking our wedding invitations?” she whispered against his ear.

He’d never before thought the word, celebrate, could sound so explicitly sexual.

He kissed her, waiting to feel the familiar tug of desire, the familiar flare of heat.

Nothing happened.

He drew back from the kiss almost apologetically. “We can’t, Ginny. Ron and Hermione will probably be back soon and you know we’re going out tonight.”

She rose up on her toes to kiss his earlobe, letting her breath tickle his ear and his neck. “Skip it and stay with me. I’m sure I can think of some way to keep you busy,” she breathed into his ear.

He managed a slight smile even as he drew back. “I promised Ron and Hermione.”

“Oh, they’ll understand.”

He put her arms from him and stepped back, firmly. “I can’t, Ginny, really. You know this is our one evening just for the three of us.” And, he surprised himself a little by thinking that he would rather spend the evening with Ron and Hermione than with Ginny. This was one of their designated trio nights when it was just the three of them—they tried to make them at least twice a month but didn’t always manage it—because it seemed like otherwise it was rare for it to just be the three of them. Ginny was around or Ron would be away with the Cannons at a match or practice or (more often) Hermione would stay late at St. Mungo’s and not be home for dinner at all.

She gave him a pretty pout. “And you can’t skip it even for me?”

“No, I really can’t.” He kept his tone gentle.

“Oh, all right.”

She gave him another long, lingering kiss, this one patently designed to make him regret his decision (in which intent it, rather oddly, failed.)

“I’ll go tell Mum that we decided on the ivory and that way we can send the invitations out maybe next week.”

“Next week?!”

“Do you want to send them out sooner? We could probably manage it by the end of this week if you wanted to.”

Harry goggled. “Sooner? No, I was thinking that even next week is too soon. The wedding’s more than 10 months away! Can’t the invitations wait for a couple more months at least?”

“I suppose they could, if you really want to.”

Ginny didn’t sound or look particularly pleased about the idea but for once, he ignored it, too preoccupied with his own reaction to hearing that the invitations were going to be sent out so soon.

“Let’s wait, then, at least for now.”

“Okay; I’ll tell Mum that you’d rather wait to send them out.”

He kissed her again, this time by way of apologizing for not wanting to send the invitations out immediately, and ended the kiss more slowly this time. “I’ll see you later, Ginny.”

“Yes, bye, darling.”

He gave her a smile and a half-wave as she went out the door and then escaped to open a window, almost gulping in breaths of the cool, crisp air, his heart unaccountably pounding as if he’d just had a narrow escape.

Next week! Great Merlin, she’d wanted to send the invitations out next week!

He stared out the window, blindly, not seeing anything of the city, as he forcibly tried to calm down.

He didn’t know what had happened but when she mentioned sending the wedding invitations out, he’d known a moment of stark, blind panic, feeling an irrational urge to run or raise his hands to ward off… something, he didn’t even know what. He didn’t know what had prompted it, aside from the inexplicable feeling of suddenly being suffocated, knowing only the unthinking, instinctive, primal reaction of ‘I can’t do this!’ screaming in his brain.

He was being ridiculous but his reaction and his need to postpone sending out the invitations had been too powerful for him to ignore and he’d simply had to try to push it off. He hadn’t even stopped to think about it; he’d simply acted.

Now that Ginny was gone, though, and he was calmer, that moment came back to him along with the instinctive thought that he couldn’t do this.

He didn’t want to think about it; thinking about it wouldn’t lead to anywhere good, he was somehow sure. Ignorance was bliss after all.

He’d been silly, stupid, to react as strongly as he had. It was only the invitations.

Never mind the fact that something about seeing the date printed out like that on paper had somehow seemed to make the entire thing so much more real to him. It was as if, up until that moment, he’d almost been playing with the idea of marrying Ginny, as if it was all just a play of some kind, and then suddenly what had been playing had become stark, unyielding reality.

Silly of him. Very stupid of him to react like that. There was no reason for it. None whatsoever.

He was going to marry Ginny. Of course he was going to marry Ginny. He wanted to marry Ginny.

He did.

Didn’t he?

Even as the question formed in his mind, he dismissed it, mentally backtracked, tried to forget that he’d even wondered.

Of course he wanted to marry Ginny.

He must. He cared about her, certainly, generally enjoyed her company and everyone was so happy for them…

It all was so perfect, as if it had been planned by some benevolent Fate (he chose to forget the fact that, up until now, Fate had never been particularly benevolent where he was concerned). He would marry Ginny and finally become an official member of the Weasley family, would gain a real family of his own. And he knew he wanted that, wanted it with an intensity that made him feel an almost physical pang of longing. Always, as long as he could remember, he’d wanted to be a part of a family and now, he would be.

And it seemed even more right, even more meant to be, that he and Ginny looked almost like a mirror image of his own parents, the love that had really started it all.

How much more perfect could it get?

Of course he wanted to marry Ginny.

He wouldn’t have agreed to Ginny’s suggestion—and Mrs. Weasley’s open encouragement—that they marry, if he hadn’t. Ginny was pretty and fun and she loved him.

Of course he wanted to marry Ginny.

He pushed away that momentary doubt; he was being ridiculous.

At that moment, the door opened and he glanced over his shoulder to see Hermione.

She smiled at the sight of him. “Oh, hi, Harry.”

“Hey.”

Hermione paused and then asked, with her customary directness, “Is something bothering you?”

He smiled, only half-humorously. “You read minds now?”

She put her bag down on the floor and came over to stand next to him. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing, really. I’m just being an arse, that’s all.”

She nodded. “Oh, well, that’s nothing unusual, then.”

He laughed, as he knew she’d intended for him to do. “Thanks. Your support is overwhelming,” he retorted wryly.

“Seriously, Harry, what is it? Can I help?”

It was such a characteristic offer for her to make, he reflected idly. She always wanted to help.

“No, not really. I just need to straighten some things out in my head.” He gave her a wry smile. “Ginny was just over; we picked out the design for the invitations,” he blurted out and he wasn’t even sure why he did but the words just came out.

“Oh, did you?”

Hermione wandered over to where they were laid out on the coffee table. “Which one did you choose?”

“Erm, it was the ivory one but I don’t know which one that is,” he admitted sheepishly. “They all look the same color to me.”

Hermione bent to study them closer, frowning a little, before she looked back up at him. “In all honesty, Harry, they look about the same to me too.”

“Oh good, so I’m not crazy.”

She laughed up at him. “Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. We could both be crazy, you know.”

Looking at her, at the (adorable) quirk of her lips, her dancing eyes, he felt a sudden, insane impulse to kiss the corner of her lips which hinted at the mischief in her.

What?!

He hauled his thoughts back from that precipice with a violent mental jerk. Great Merlin, what had gotten into him?! He was beginning to think he might not have been joking when he’d said he might be crazy. First, doubting his marrying Ginny and now—now suddenly wanting to kiss Hermione? What was wrong with him? It was insane.

He’d never wanted to kiss Hermione before! She’d always been firmly in the category of ‘Forbidden’ and he’d never even thought about wanting anything more than friendship.

He didn’t want anything other than friendship with her.

He blinked, mentally floundering to remember what they’d been talking about. Oh. Right. “You’re the sanest person I know.”

“That’s a relief,” she grinned.

He returned the smile, relieved to find that he didn’t react to her grin other than wanting to smile back.

Of course he didn’t want to kiss Hermione.

He was going to marry Ginny and Hermione was just his best friend.

That was just the way things were, the way he wanted them to be, he corrected himself.

And anything else was just insanity. Temporary insanity. He was sure of it.

Really, he was.

~To be continued… (of course)

Author’s Note 2: I was planning on having this fic start out more definitely H/G but then I started to write it and found that I’m completely incapable of writing Harry as if he’s in love with Ginny (*shudder*) or, more simply and importantly, as if he’s not in love with Hermione (he is, the silly boy’s just in denial!)

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

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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…

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: Apologies for the very long wait but RL and some computer problems have gotten in the way of updating this story. I promise it won’t take so long to update this next time!

This is a rather short chapter because I have a hard time writing Ginny in a non-snarky, relatively sympathetic sort of way (and this chapter should be proof of that.)

What Happened Before the Wedding

Chapter 3: Confessing the Truth

~~

“Ginny.” Harry tried to interrupt Ginny’s enthusiastic story of Mrs. Weasley’s and her visit to one store (the first of many such planned) to find her wedding dress.

“Of course,” Ginny said with a small, flirtatious little laugh and a sideways glance at Harry, “you won’t be able to see me wearing the dress until our wedding day.”

“Ginny,” Harry tried again.

“But that doesn’t matter right now since I didn’t really love any of the dresses we saw today. What would you think of my designing my own, Harry?” She didn’t pause for his answer, only continued, “But Mum says Phlegm’s mentioned a few stores she knows in Paris and we’re thinking of visiting those too.”

“Ginny!” Harry raised his voice slightly, making her name more emphatic and she finally stopped, looking at him with some reproach in her eyes.

“Harry, you don’t need to snap at me.”

He softened his voice, cringing inwardly at how much more reason she would soon have to look at him reproachfully. “Ginny, we have to talk.”

“About what, Harry? You’re sounding and looking very grim. Come on, Harry,” she said cajolingly with one of her prettiest smiles, “smile at me. You know how handsome I think you are when you smile.”

He didn’t. “Ginny, I’m serious.”

“What is it, Harry?”

He looked at her, seeing the slight smile playing on her lips and in her eyes, her utter confidence in their relationship making him flinch.

“I- I don’t think I can do this,” he finally blurted out, his voice very low and his eyes faltering before hers.

“Do what? Harry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He forced himself to look back up and meet her eyes, confused now. “This isn’t going to work. I- I can’t marry you, Ginny.”

There, it was out. He’d said it.

For one terrible second, she only stared at him, as if willing him to say that he hadn’t meant it, that he’d only been joking or something, as if willing herself to have been imagining the words. “But- but we were—we are—so happy together…”

He flinched again. “Yes, we were,” he conceded, “but not lately. Lately… you’ve been happy but I- I haven’t been, not really. I’m sorry, Ginny.”

“But- but we’re perfect together… This is how everything’s supposed to be…” She pushed herself out of her chair and moved to sit on his lap, putting her arms around his neck. “You can’t mean it, Harry,” she said softly, seductively. She shifted on his lap to press herself closer to him, one hand undoing the buttons of his shirt to slide inside and caress his chest. “You know you don’t really mean that, Harry.”

She tried to kiss him and he flinched, turning his head so her lips brushed his cheek instead of his lips. He captured her wandering hand with his, pulling it away. “Don’t, Ginny. I’m serious.” He grasped her arms, pushing her gently away. “I just can’t marry you.”

He finally managed to escape her embrace and retreated, putting some space between them.

“But- but you love me, Harry. I know you do!”

He flinched again, guilt flaying him with every word she said. “No, I don’t—not enough, at least. I thought I did—but I- I just can’t…” he finished so softly the words were barely audible.

But in the silence, they seemed about as loud as an explosion would have been.
He was unnaturally aware of the pounding of his heart, of the sound of her breathing—could almost swear he could hear her blinking, he was so miserably, intensely conscious of her—and the hurt he was causing her.

“But Harry… I love you…”

He had to look back up at her at these words that were almost a wail and then wished he hadn’t at the sight of the tears in her eyes, the pleading in her expression.

This was why he’d tried never to disagree with her before, because he hated to see the look of hurt, of pleading, hated to see her tears. It always made him feel as if he’d just kicked a puppy or some other defenseless thing.

“Ginny, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry… I thought—I thought I could, thought I- loved you enough but I just can’t… I’m sorry…”

He was a right prick. How could he hurt her so much?

But he couldn’t marry her either.

“You- you deserve better than me, Ginny. You deserve someone who- who adores you.”

And he could not be that man. He could not be the perfect hero she wanted and thought he was.

“I don’t want anyone better. I want you! I’ve always—always—from the first time I saw you, wanted to marry you.”

“I’m sorry, Ginny,” was all he could say, again, his voice very low.

“How could you do this to me, Harry?” she cried. “What will everyone say? Everyone knows we’re engaged—the scandal—how could you do this? Why did you have to wait until now when we’ve already planned so much?!”

“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner; I should have but I just… didn’t. I thought I could, thought this was what I wanted too…”

And at first, they’d been happy together. He’d been happy, thought this was all he wanted.

“How am I ever going to go outside again? There’ll be so much talk and gossip and—Merlin, Harry, how could you do this to me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that, Harry! If you’re so sorry, if you really care so much, then fix it and we can get married like we planned to!”

“I- I can’t, Ginny.”

He tried to put a comforting hand on her arm but she leaped up before he could. “Don’t, Harry! Don’t try to make this better!”

She grabbed her purse and her cloak with a muffled sniff and almost ran out of the flat, slamming the door behind her so hard it rattled the hinges.

He dropped heavily into a chair.

It was done—but God, he hated himself! At that moment, he detested himself almost as much as he felt sure Ginny did—as she should.

But he’d had to do it…

How could he marry her doubting the way he did? How could he marry her when he still felt he couldn’t truly talk to her?

From some corner of his mind, he heard Dumbledore’s voice say, do what is right rather than what is easy…

He laughed a bitter little laugh. Well, he’d done that. Hadn’t he?

But Dumbledore had never mentioned how doing what was right could make you hate yourself.

He was still flagellating himself hours later when he heard running footsteps and just barely had time to stand up to face the door, knowing it would be Ron and he couldn’t avoid what was going to happen now.

Ron flung the door open with a gesture of suppressed violence. “How could you do that to her, Harry?” he demanded, dispensing with any normal greeting.

“I had to. Do you think I would have done it if I’d had any choice? But I just can’t do it. I can’t marry Ginny, Ron. I’m sorry.”

“You should have realized that before you got engaged to her!”

“I know that,” Harry admitted quietly. “I wish I had but I just didn’t know until now…”

“And what’s so wrong with my sister that you had to decide that you can’t marry her?”

“There’s nothing wrong with her. It’s me. I just… I don’t love her enough, can’t love her enough…”

Ron’s face turned almost puce. “So you’ve just been using her as a casual shag or something then?”

Harry opened his mouth to protest but before he could, Ron lashed out again, “Damn you!” his fist hitting Harry squarely on the cheek, knocking his glasses askew.

Harry’s head snapped back sharply, stars exploding in his head for a second as he staggered before steadying himself.

He felt a quick flare of anger at Ron’s unjust accusation—Ron, of all people, should know better!—but that was quickly nudged aside by the pricking of his own guilty conscience.

Because it did look rather like that, his conscience prodded, and he had used Ginny badly, even if it had been unintentional. He could hardly expect Ron to overlook or quickly forgive the insult to his own sister.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

Ron let out a sharp, sardonic laugh. “That’s bloody rich! Didn’t mean to hurt her—yeah, well, you did and saying sorry isn’t going to make things right! How could you--”

The rest of Ron’s angry words were cut off as the door opened and Hermione came in, her gaze immediately flying to the two of them, taking in their expressions and the no-doubt rapidly forming bruise on Harry’s cheek.

She dropped her bag carelessly to the floor and almost flew across the room to where they were standing.

“Ron!” she scolded. “How could you?” She turned to Harry in the same breath and asked, her voice softening remarkably, “Are you okay?”

Harry nodded silently.

She turned back to Ron. “Ron, really! How could you punch him?!”

Ron gaped at her. “You’re taking his side in this? Hermione, how could you? He just broke Ginny’s heart and she’s your friend too!”

“This has nothing to do with taking sides; there are no sides in this. Ginny is a friend and I’m sorry Ginny’s hurt but it’s not like Harry’s very happy either and Harry’s my best friend. Since he was having doubts, it’s better that he say so now before they actually did get married when anything else would hurt Ginny a lot more in the long run.”

“I can’t believe you’re defending him! He broke my little sister’s heart!” Ron turned his gaze to Harry. “And I trusted you!”

“Ron, stop it!” Hermione deliberately edged in front of Harry, although as tactics went, it wasn’t entirely successful as Harry was tall enough to see over her head and Ron certainly was.

“Hermione, it’s okay. He has a right to be angry,” Harry spoke up, trying to intervene but for once, Hermione ignored him, in favor of continuing to face Ron.

“Ron, be fair! You know Harry better than that!” Hermione forcibly gentled her tone, her voice softening, becoming persuasive, logical, reasoning. “Do you think he would hurt Ginny and disappoint your parents like this if he felt he had any choice? Do you think he’s getting any fun out of this?”

Ron apparently didn’t find her softened tone any more persuasive than before, his scowl not lessening. “Oh fine, take his side!” he snapped. “You always seem to anyway! I’m going to see if Ginny’s alright, since somebody should.”

He stormed angrily out of the flat, only pausing to throw a last reproachful glare at Harry.

There was a moment of almost ringing silence in the flat after that, the sound of the slammed door almost seeming to echo.

Hermione turned to Harry, her entire expression softening, changing, until it was almost hard to believe that this was the same person who had faced off with Ron just a moment ago. “Here, Harry, sit down and let me take a look at your cheek.”

“I’m fine, Hermione. Really. It’s just a bruise.”

She ignored him, almost pushing him onto the sofa and then summoning a small jar of ointment from her little collection kept for personal use.

She slipped his glasses off with a gentle hand, putting them aside, as she bent over him, her fingers remarkably gentle as she touched his cheek.

“How badly does it hurt?”

“I’m fine, Hermione,” Harry said again in a futile attempt to make her stop.

“You’ve got a little cut on your cheek and a nice bruise forming, Harry,” Hermione went on smoothly as if he’d never spoken. “I’m going to put on just a dab of ointment to make the cut heal and take care of the bruise after that.”

Harry gave up, knowing when it was useless to try to argue against Hermione.

“Thanks for defending me,” he finally said. “My hero,” he added with an attempt at humor that fell flat.

“It was nothing.”

“I’m sorry for making you argue with Ron,” he ventured a little uncertainly. He usually tried so hard to keep out of Ron and Hermione’s relationship, since it was hardly fair to them, but he’d been dragged fairly into the middle of a fight now, inadvertent as it may have been. He felt a small pang of guilt at the thought of how Ron had glared and the anger that had been clearly visible.

“Don’t worry about it. You know I wouldn’t have defended you if I didn’t honestly agree.”

He did know that and that made her defense mean all the more. She had defended him this time but she was also just as likely to tell him he was being an arse when she thought he needed it. He hadn’t thought about it before but it made her loyalty mean more, made it precious. “I know.”

“This ointment might sting,” was her only response.

He blinked, focusing on her face hovering above his, a slight frown of concentration creasing her brow (a very familiar expression), her fingers almost impossibly gentle as she put a dab of the ointment on the cut and worked it into the skin.

The ointment did sting a little but he hardly noticed it, distracted instead by the warmth of her hands and her body as she stood over him so closely, distracted by the very gentleness of her touch…

It was an odd thing and he could never explain why but he couldn’t deny his reaction to the light touch of her fingers on his bruised face, feeling a bubble of desire begin and spread through him. And somehow, like her touch, this desire was a gentle thing—although he’d never before thought that desire could be gentle. And yet somehow, this feeling was. It wasn’t an entirely sexual thing, although it was definitely a physical reaction, but something other than that as well, something different than purely sexual. There was no passion in this feeling, no burning need; it was gentler than that. (He wondered if she had any idea how very… seductive… gentleness could be, wondered how he’d never before known how seductive gentleness could be—because he was attracted, was seduced in an odd, lazy sort of way.)

And he looked at her and thought that he wished he could sit there and just have her fingers touch his face like this for days, possibly even a lifetime, and he wouldn’t want anything else. He looked at her and wondered what it would feel like to kiss her, not passionately, not heatedly, but softly, just brush his lips over hers…

There was no compulsion about it; he only wondered…

And then his rational brain caught up with his wonderings and he stopped short. Great Merlin, he’d lost his mind.

He must have lost his mind.

He jerked away from her touch. “That’s enough.”

He caught her look of mingled surprise and confusion and a touch of hurt and promptly felt like a bastard. No, he was a bastard. He might have gone insane but that was no excuse to be so short with her, the best friend he’d ever had—and more than a friend too, a tiny voice in his head inserted but he squelched it quickly.

His voice gentled. “Thanks, Hermione. I feel as good as new now. I just… don’t want to be a bother, you know,” he explained, rather lamely, he felt.

She managed a slight smile. “I’m glad the ointment helped.”

He tried for a smile and managed one. “It did help, thanks.”

“Ok, good. And it’s not a bother. I do this for a living, remember?”

“Luckily for me,” he quipped, trying to make light of it, trying to forget his utterly inappropriate reaction.

“Tell me if it still hurts after a while.”

“I will,” he said, even as he added the mental disclaimer that he wouldn’t unless he felt like he was going to die from it. He didn’t dare. Not now, not when he could still feel the warmth of her fingers on his face.

She was so gentle and she cared so much—and he hadn’t known enough of that sort of caring in his life to be able to shrug it off.

He cared about her, trusted her more than anyone else; she was, as she’d always been, his best friend…

And he was beginning to suspect, somewhere in the most hidden corners of his mind, so deep it was mostly unconscious as yet, that he could, if he let himself—that he might—care about her as more than just a friend… That he could love her…

~To be continued…~

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 5^th 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 5^th 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…)

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: As promised, Chapter 5, in which Ron and Hermione (finally) break up.

What Happened Before the Wedding

Chapter 5: Between Best Friends

It was over.

Hermione almost collapsed onto the couch in the flat, exhausted, feeling drained of everything in her, too drained even to feel much joy and relief, although they were definitely present.

Evelyn Acheson was going to be okay.

Hermione repeated the thought to herself, smiling tiredly, as she remembered that moment when she’d been able to tell the happy news to Mr. and Mrs. Acheson, who’d been waiting for so long to hear just that. She still wasn’t sure exactly where the idea had come from but while she’d been looking through one of her reference books for another patient, she’d come across the mention of a root and its uses and—on something like a desperate impulse—she’d decided to add it to another potion, hoping the combination would have some effect on little Evelyn. She’d used it sparingly, unsure as she was of its effects, but it had worked; it had taken a few long, endless minutes but then the girl’s breathing had eased and, for the first time in days, she’d stirred a little. She hadn’t woken up fully, not then, but Hermione had known that the crisis was past.

And now she was home, a little early, and very conscious of the fact that she wanted to be with Harry. Harry was the first person she had thought of that afternoon, the first person after the Achesons whom she’d wanted to tell and celebrate with—Harry, who had comforted her when she’d been discouraged and who would understand just what this meant to her.

But she could not go to him now. She wouldn’t.

All she could do- all she would do- was send him a quick owl telling him the good news.

Hastily, she scrawled a few jubilant sentences on a piece of parchment and sent it.

She’s better! She’s going to be okay!

Cryptic but she also knew that Harry would understand. Which brought her thoughts—now that her worry and preoccupation over little Evelyn had been eased--back to the other, disquieting realization which she’d been trying to avoid for weeks now but which had finally refused to be ignored.

It was over.

Her relationship with Ron- the more-than-friendship part of it at least- was over. Or to be strictly accurate, it wasn’t working.

Hermione sighed.

She cared about Ron. Truly, she did. She always had. But caring wasn’t enough. She’d thought—hoped—wished, really—that she loved him or, at least, that she could love him since she knew she cared about him. But it hadn’t happened and she had to admit that being with Ron wasn’t making her happy. And she suspected it wasn’t making Ron happy either.

They’d been happy at first. She couldn’t deny that. Ron was her best friend and he knew how to make her laugh and even though they still bickered and fought (as they always had), the making-up from their fights had been much more pleasant.

But lately—and she could see now that it had been happening gradually in these past months—the arguments had become both more frequent and more hurtful and the times in between the arguments (after they’d kissed and made-up) had been more tense. The disagreements were never really settled even when they did make up; she and Ron were too different for that.

She was too independent, too much of a know-it-all, and Ron didn’t appreciate it now much more than he had when they’d been 11 and he’d been irritated at it. She was too serious for him; he was too careless about certain things for her.

He expected, wanted, her to make him the absolute center of her existence, the way Mrs. Weasley always had for Mr. Weasley and the family. Oh, he’d never said (and she didn’t think he’d even thought) anything about wanting her to stop working at St. Mungo’s; he knew her better than that. But he did not understand why she chose to work as hard or as long as she did and he did sometimes get irritated when she was too busy over work to come watch one of his Quidditch matches. (Her continuing disinterest in Quidditch itself did not help matters.)

Their disagreements over Harry after his break-up with Ginny had only made the problem worse because with Harry, who’d always served as a sort of buffer to prevent at least some arguments, out of the flat, it had only increased the frequency of their fights.

Hermione was guiltily conscious that she had taken to staying at St. Mungo’s later than she needed to, going in on weekends even when it wasn’t necessary, bringing home more work than she should, as an attempt to avoid spending much time alone with Ron because it seemed like every time they were alone, they would bicker over something. And she was, quite frankly, tired of it. She was tired of the disagreements and even more tired of the constant tension that stemmed from worrying about the disagreements and dreading the next one. It was simply no longer comfortable to spend time with Ron and she suspected Ron felt the same. She’d moved back into her own bedroom, had stopped spending most nights in his—and he had not commented, had not even seemed to notice it although she knew he had, or care all that much.

And now… sitting there, Hermione acknowledged to herself with a sigh, that pretending she and Ron were still happy together would do no good. The problems weren’t going to go away and denial wasn’t going to work anymore either.

It wasn’t working. They needed to admit that, accept it, and move on.

She was terribly afraid that if they tried to keep up this pretense of being more than friends, of being lovers, when it really, irrevocably ended, their friendship would end with it. And she cared about him too much for that. He was her best friend; he could still make her laugh and they had been through too much together for her to be able to imagine life without him now.

Hermione curled up on the couch, wrapping her arms around her knees, as she tried to fight tears. She hated crying and she hated this sort of uncertainty and, most of all, she hated this feeling of failure. Oh she knew, in some rational part of her mind, that she couldn’t really blame herself for this, any more than she could really blame Ron; they had tried and it simply hadn’t worked. But it did feel like failure.

She heard Ron outside the door and had barely a moment to sit up straight, hastily swiping at the annoying tears that would well up in her eyes, before the door opened and he came in.

Ron stopped short, a flicker of some expression Hermione couldn’t identify crossing his face, before he quickly controlled his expression. “Hey,” he said with rather obvious casualness, managing a smile. “You’re home early today.” He busied himself by making rather a production of hanging up his cloak and then turned towards the kitchen. “Did you have a good day today? What do you think we should have for dinner since we can actually eat together? Maybe we can light some candles and make a nice evening of it. It’s been a while.” While he was speaking, he got himself a bottle of butterbeer and steadfastly avoided looking in her direction even as he spoke with such apparent good humor.

Hermione inwardly flinched. She hated this too. She hated how they had to try so hard around each other, try to pretend nothing was wrong, try to pretend they were still happy together, try to keep the conversation as neutral as possible so they wouldn’t fight again.

“Ron, we need to talk.” And then Hermione almost winced at how that had sounded, even if she’d made her tone as soft and kind as possible. The words, ‘we need to talk’, never preceded anything good and Hermione thought peripherally that it might just be the most terrible sentence in the English language. Why was it that no one ever said, ‘we need to talk’ before saying anything good?

She could see Ron stiffen and it seemed like an endless moment before he turned, his expression now carefully, uncharacteristically, blank.

She tried to smile, patting her hand on the spot next to her. “Sit down here. I promise I won’t bite,” she added with a lame attempt at humor that fell flat.

He sat, keeping his eyes focused on his bottle of butterbeer, one finger picking at the corner of the label and then smoothing it out again, with as much concentration as if the fate of the world depended on it. “What do you want to talk about?”

Hermione sighed, studying him, and suddenly felt a wave of poignant affection for him, this best friend of hers, the boy she’d known for years. She knew the shape of his ears, his profile, his red hair. She’d kissed him and touched him and laughed with him and she knew, in spite of everything, she would give her life for him, as he would for her. “Oh, Ron…” she reached over and put her hand on his arm, waiting until he finally looked up at her before she finished, softly, “You know it’s not working between us.”

His fingers tensed and in one tiny movement, that was more of an involuntary jerk than anything else, he ripped off the corner of the bottle label he’d been fiddling with. He put the bottle down on the coffee table. Hermione bit her tongue to keep from reminding him to use a coaster. He paused, staring at the bottle for one odd moment, and then he picked up the bottle, reaching for a coaster, and used it. Leaving Hermione fighting a hysterical urge to either laugh or cry at this tiny gesture; only now, when it was too late, was he finally making this compromise, of his own accord. (In the middle of some of their fights, there had been many times when he’d deliberately not used a coaster, as if daring her to scold, and those moments had seemed to build up until it had precipitated yet another explosion.)

He sighed in his own turn and then said, in a more sober tone than Hermione could remember hearing from him in years, if ever, “I know.”

And even though she’d expected them, knew they were true, the two words still sounded like a kind of death knell to her.

“We- we’re too different, Ron,” she finally said. “It’s okay when we’re best friends but- but we just don’t work as anything more than friends.”

“I know.” He turned his hand up to grasp her hand, giving it a light squeeze. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I- I do care about you, you know.”

She returned his grip of her hand with pressure of her own, staring down at their joined hands, her mind suddenly flooded with memories of their first few months together, the fun they’d had, the times he’d teased her and kissed her, the first few months when even the bickering had seemed pleasant. The tragedy was that it hadn’t lasted, as honeymoon periods never truly do. “I care about you too, Ron, so much. But it just isn’t enough.”

He was silent for a painfully long moment before he sighed and said, very softly, “I guess I haven’t really made you happy, have I?”

“I didn’t make you happy either.”

“I’m sorry,” Ron blurted out. “Sorry for all the times we fought, sorry for all the times I tried to annoy you. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too. I should have tried harder, been more understanding, should have shut up about things.”

He looked up at her, a serious sort of smile on his face. “We were happy together at first, though, weren’t we?”

She smiled a little. “Yeah, we were.”

He leaned over and brushed his lips against her cheek, lingering for just a moment, in almost the first spontaneous gesture of affection he’d given her in what felt like weeks. “Still best friends, right?”

It was a question although she guessed that he hadn’t meant for it to be one.

“Of course. We’ll always be best friends.”

He gave her a slight smile with a hint of his old teasing in it. “Promise?”

Her heart leaped at the sight. He hadn’t really dared to tease her for weeks now, the atmosphere between them had been too tense for that. And she hadn’t realized just how much she’d missed it, Ron’s humor, until now. It really did feel better—sadly, right—now that she and Ron were agreed to simply be friends and no more than that.

She pretended to ponder that for a moment. “Mm, I don’t know, you can be awfully annoying at times,” she teased gently.

He actually laughed, softly. “Thanks a lot,” he huffed with mock offense. “With friends like you…”

She returned his smile with one of her own, reaching up to pat his cheek teasingly. “Just trying to keep your ego in line before it gets too big for you to stand.”

“Nice of you, thanks,” he deadpanned, his lips twitching.

She laughed, leaning her head briefly against his shoulder companionably, before she looked back at him.

Their eyes met and held and slowly his smile faded, his expression sobering, before he blurted out, “Why couldn’t we be like this before, when we were together?”

She sobered as well, her heart clenching with regret. “I don’t know,” she finally admitted softly. “I don’t know but I think… I think it’s because when we’re together, we have to try too hard.”

That may have been it, she thought, surprised at the almost accidental insight. That simple sentence may have just summarized just why she and Ron could never last: they had to try too hard. It wasn’t that she believed relationships should be easy—very few things that were easy were worth it—but for her and Ron, it was a constant struggle, a constant fight against their own characters, their own wishes, it seemed. And no matter how they tried, it was like trying to fit a circle into a square puzzle.

“We have to try too hard,” he repeated slowly. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

She gave him a smile and replied lightly, wanting to banish the regret clouding his eyes. They just weren’t right together; it wasn’t his fault any more than it was hers. “Of course I’m right. Aren’t I always?”

He laughed a little but it sounded rather hollow. “Well, that’s a dangerous question.”

He paused, sobering as he looked at her. “I really am sorry, Hermione. I know I’ve been a right prick.”

“Don’t, Ron. It doesn’t do any good to blame yourself. It just wasn’t meant to be.” She managed a rather wobbly smile before changing the subject. “How about dinner? Do you want to just owl out for something?”

He blinked. “Yeah, sure, that sounds good. What do you feel like eating?”

“How does pizza sound?”

He smiled. “Fine; I’ll cover it this time too.”

The pizza arrived soon enough and they sat down to eat and it was… comfortable, normal. But not completely so. It wasn’t glaring and it was certainly nowhere near the level of tension that had tended to invest the atmosphere between them of late but it was there and it was undeniable. It was just a touch of awkwardness, of constraint, between them, only noticeable in the occasional silences, in the barely perceptible note of strain in their laughter at times. And Hermione couldn’t have told whether it was from any lingering emotions between them or from regret or from guilt or even from relief that their relationship was back to simply friendship but whatever it was, it was there. (And maybe, after all, although Hermione hardly allowed herself to think this, it was from the one forbidden topic that still loomed up between them, the one topic that neither she nor Ron brought up anymore and still wouldn’t, still couldn’t: Harry.)

But whatever the cause, she was almost glad—regretfully, reluctantly glad—to retreat to her room when dinner was over, as she usually did, to get some work done.

She and Ron were over and she knew it had been the right thing to do, the only thing to do. And she was sure that last lingering constraint would dissipate and vanish soon enough.

As for the subject of Harry—and Ginny—well, she could only hope that their self-imposed embargo on the subject would end soon enough too. She knew Ron and she knew his quick temper but she also knew that he wasn’t the sort to remain angry for too long, wasn’t overly given to long, festering bitterness. He’d managed it for this long, helped by his natural loyalty and his affection for Ginny, the closest to him in age and his only baby sister, but she couldn’t believe that Ron was still as angry at Harry as he had been, couldn’t believe that Ron would stay so unforgiving for much longer.

~

Harry opened the front door of Grimmauld Place, expecting to see Hermione. (No one else visited him.) And then he stared, feeling his heart suddenly leap up into his throat.

He opened his lips, swallowed, and only managed to croak one word. “Ron?”

Ron tried to smile. “Hey, Harry.” But the attempt at casualness fell flat and he was left looking distinctly awkward as they just looked at each other.

Harry’s mind was spinning with the suddenness of this and the surprise of it. Ron hadn’t sought him out for months now since that last fight they’d had just after he’d broken up with Ginny.

He’d barely seen Ron except on those times when Hermione had deliberately planned for the three of them to have dinner and then had to persuade, cajole, nag or even threaten Ron into coming. And at those dinners, Ron had generally made a very good imitation of pretending that Harry wasn’t present, except on those occasions when Ron had made some remark, ostensibly addressed to the table at large, but which had always contained a veiled (and sometimes not-so-veiled) jab at Harry—a remark on how some people thought they were so important they could just go around breaking girls’ hearts and expect to get away with it, for example. And Hermione would either glare and cut Ron off with some sharp retort or she would immediately start talking very fast and in a tone that was a shade too loud and forceful to be natural on some completely neutral topic. Several times it had even been something as bland as the weather but usually she tried to talk about something like Quidditch or something else designed to bring Ron in. Oh, those commentaries on Quidditch! She tried so hard but this was the girl who’d once called the Wronski Feint the Wonky Faint and, although she’d at least corrected that, she didn’t know much more. And Harry always felt something melt inside him listening to her, even as he had to fight back a laugh at some of what she said. She was trying so hard and this was probably the one subject in the world on which she really couldn’t speak with any authority at all and yet, she tried and she was doing it for them, for him… At times like that, he’d had to fight to keep from spontaneously hugging her and he could only think how very dear she was, this best friend of his. And he would always step in and answer her, making a concerted effort to keep the conversation going.

He’d certainly never been alone with Ron since their fight over Ginny.

But now, here Ron was, looking quite as awkward and ill at ease as Harry felt—but he was here.

“What- what are you doing here?” he blurted out bluntly and then inwardly winced. Well, that was a way to make Ron feel welcome.

“Are you going to let me in or leave me to stay out here in the cold?”

Harry stared. He heard the thread of amusement in Ron’s voice, saw the slight quirk of his lips, the glimmer of humor in his eyes—he hadn’t seen it in months, certainly not when talking to him, but it was there now.

He wasn’t sure exactly what had brought this on or why Ron was here but he didn’t care, only fell in with the familiar teasing. He pretended to ponder the question. “Hmm, I don’t know… It’s not safe to let in all kinds of riff-raff…”

Ron snorted.

Harry stepped back, out of the doorway. “Yeah, I guess you can come in.”

Once Ron was inside, though, they were both ill at ease.

Harry sat down, got up again, moved the dirty plate from the table and into the sink in a transparent attempt to keep busy, and then finally glanced over at Ron, trying to sound casual. “Want some butterbeer or- or something?”

“A firewhiskey, if you’ve got one,” Ron said with a vague air of relief.

“Right.” Harry passed Ron a bottle of Firewhiskey and then forced himself to sit down as he opened his own bottle. “So- er- how have you been?” he asked with rather forced heartiness.

Ron visibly winced and then looked up at Harry. “Hermione and I broke up,” he stated flatly.

Harry stared—and if he’d been thinking of it at all, he might have realized that in his surprise at Ron’s news, he completely forgot all of the awkwardness in the room. “What?” He blinked, swallowed. “When?”

Ron sighed, taking a long swig of firewhiskey before he answered. “Just today but, honestly, it’s been building for a while. It- it hasn’t been good for a while.”

“I- I’m sorry,” Harry faltered. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what to think. Didn’t know what to feel. He was torn between sympathy and some relief, concern over Hermione—where was she, how must she be feeling now—and guilt at feeling relieved—what kind of friend was he to feel relieved that his best friends were hurting?

“What happened?”

Ron took another drink of the firewhiskey before staring at the bottle as if it would somehow provide the answer. “I don’t know- nothing- everything. It just… stopped being right. We started arguing more. I mean, we always fought, you know that.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed carefully.

“But the arguments, sort of, changed somehow. They got worse, lasted longer. It got to be that sometimes just looking at her made me angry again—I don’t even know why! It made no sense and I was a real arse about it too…”

He sighed. “I made her cry,” he mumbled, more to himself than to Harry.

Harry flinched, stifling as much as he could the surge of emotion he felt in response to that short confession. The image of Hermione crying… He wanted Hermione to be happy, had thought she was happy with Ron—now, hearing that she hadn’t been, he had to fight the upwelling of anger—at Ron for hurting her. How could anyone hurt her? When he sometimes thought he would happily spend the rest of his life trying to make her smile…

Ron looked up at Harry. “I think Hermione said it best when she said we just had to try too hard to make things work between us. It just wasn’t… right…” Ron took another drink of firewhiskey. “I knew it was coming. It’s just… it was still a surprise, you know? And we talked about it and we both agreed it was the right thing but… but it still bothers me, somehow.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

There was a silence as they both sat and drank their firewhiskeys, before Harry finally broke it by asking, “How’s Hermione?”

“She seemed a little sad but okay,” Ron answered slowly and then added with a wan attempt at a smile, “You know Hermione; she’s stronger than both of us.”

Harry frowned a little. Hermione was strong but he knew she wasn’t quite as invulnerable as Ron made it sound; she just refused to show her weaknesses to people. But he forced himself to respond, “That she is,” in as casual a tone as he could muster.

Another silence and another pause and then Ron was the one to break it this time, abruptly. “I’m sorry about, you know--” he waved one hand in a small, rather awkward gesture meant to be inclusive of all the past months of estrangement, before finishing, “being such a git.”

Harry felt himself relax a little, feeling the last remnants of awkwardness dissipate and leave the room at Ron’s apology, less than eloquent as it might have been. “As long as you know you were a git,” he retorted half-teasingly. He sobered and added, “I’m sorry too. I never wanted to hurt Ginny like that, you know.”

“I know.”

Ron finished his firewhiskey in one long drink before he looked at Harry. “Move back in to the flat,” Ron said abruptly.

Harry stared. “Really?”

Ron had the grace to look sheepish for a moment, in tacit admission that it was his own pig-headedness that had made Harry move out in the first place. “Yeah, really. It’s… it’s your flat too, you know.”

Harry grinned, suddenly feeling almost giddy. Grimmauld Place had been fine as a temporary refuge, of sorts, but he couldn’t say that he enjoyed having to live there. The house was gloomy and haunted by too many memories, memories of Sirius and of his 5^th year, for him to ever feel completely comfortable in it. To say nothing of the fact that it was lonely too. “Have another drink while I go pack.”

Ron grinned, his eyes meeting Harry’s, and that was when Harry knew—for good—that everything was back to normal again between them.

Hermione stared at the treatise on the uses of powdered asphodora root, trying to keep her mind on it, as dull as it was, but without much success.

Ron had left the flat soon after Hermione had retreated to her room, and now, suddenly, Hermione was finding the empty flat very… lonely. It was, no doubt, a temporary thing, Hermione told herself bracingly, a natural consequence of some lingering melancholy over having to end things with Ron, but knowing it didn’t make the emptiness of the flat much more comforting.

She was just fine. Really, she was. She would be just fine. She had her work and her family and her friends; Ron was still her best friend, without any of the tension that there had been lately over their arguments, and there was always Harry. Harry—she suddenly wondered what he was doing then. She wished she could go over to Grimmauld Place but didn’t dare, not after what had (almost) happened the last time she’d sought Harry out for comfort. That odd physical awareness of him that she felt and couldn’t deny any more. She’d wanted to kiss him, wanted him to kiss her, just… wanted him—but nothing could happen now. She wouldn’t risk their friendship for physical pleasure and she wouldn’t treat Harry like some sort of rebound thing after ending things with Ron. If anything ever happened with her and Harry—and in some small corner of her mind, mostly unconscious as yet, Hermione acknowledged that she wanted it to happen—it couldn’t happen yet.

Hermione heard the door of the flat open and knew Ron must be home. He was earlier than she’d thought he would be; she’d assumed he’d probably gone over to the Burrow or something but if he was back so quickly, he couldn’t have gone to the Burrow.

Harry glanced at Ron and then went over to knock on Hermione’s door.

“What is it, Ron?” Her tone was a little wary and a little tired, as well, and Harry felt a pang of concern, his expression softening unconsciously.

“It’s not Ron.”

He heard her small gasp and then she flung her door open. “Harry! What--”

Her gaze flew from Harry’s face to the bags he’d left on the floor in the front room of the flat to Ron standing a little behind Harry, a tentative half-smile on his face.

“Oh Ron!” And the smile she gave him could have lit up the entire flat at night before she threw her arms around Harry.

“Oh, Ron, I’m so glad!” she addressed Ron even as she hugged Harry and Harry let out his breath in a half-sigh, returning her hug. Harry threw a laughing glance at Ron before he said, teasingly, “Actually, my name’s Harry, remember? We’ve met.”

Hermione laughed, although her laugh held an almost tearful note, even as she poked him in the side. “Oh, Harry, honestly!”

She gave him one last squeeze and then released him, backing up as she glanced between Ron and Harry. “Is everything okay between you two now?”

“Well, you know, when Ron went down on his knees and tore his hair and begged for forgiveness, it seemed like it would be awfully mean to stay angry,” Harry deadpanned.

“Haha, Potter, very funny,” Ron shot back with mock offense, trying to glare but failing and after a minute, he gave in and joined Harry’s and Hermione’s laughter.

Hermione looked from Ron’s grinning face to Harry’s, feeling that odd sensation of something being off-kilter in the world in these past months of estrangement between her two best friends vanish. They were together again- the Trio- and for the first time in a long while, she suddenly felt that all was right with her world.

~To be continued…~

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: For avidbeader, because she asked for more of this fic.

Brace yourselves for a chapter in which nothing happens between H/Hr. Also, Ginny’s back—but don’t worry. Harry’s not as stupid as JKR would have him be.

What Happened Before the Wedding

Chapter 6: Regrets and Reconciliation

“It’s Mum’s birthday on Thursday,” Ron said, his tone indicative of nothing in particular, breaking the comfortable silence in the flat as Hermione read through some papers for work while he and Harry had just finished playing a game of wizarding chess.

“Oh, that’s right, it is, isn’t it? It had slipped my mind,” Harry responded rather idly.

“We’re all getting together at the Burrow for dinner on Saturday to celebrate,” Ron went on.

Harry managed a quick smile. “That’s nice. Wish your mum a happy birthday for me.”

“And me,” Hermione added.

“Actually,” and for the first time, Ron’s tone changed slightly, held just enough tension that Harry focused his gaze on Ron curiously, “you can wish her a happy birthday in person. Mum said she wanted you both to come too.”

Harry straightened up in his chair. “She did? Really?” And he didn’t need to glance at Hermione to know that she was staring at Ron with the same expression. In the month since Ron and Hermione’s break-up, Hermione hadn’t been to the Burrow at all; as for him, he hadn’t seen any of the Weasleys besides Ron and, occasionally, George, at all in the nearly seven months since his breaking up with Ginny.

“Yeah. She specifically told me she wanted you both to come.” Ron looked a little uncomfortable before he looked at Harry. “So, will you?”

“Of course,” Harry said immediately.

“Yes,” Hermione answered at the exact same time.

Ron relaxed into a smile. “Good, then. Mum said we should arrive around 6.” He paused and then added, “Oh, and she also said that we weren’t to bring her any gifts, on pain of not being given any dessert.”

Harry made a face of exaggerated shock. “Denying someone dessert is just cruel! After such a dire threat, I don’t think I’ll ever dare get anything for your mother again.”

Hermione laughed and Ron grinned. “I think that was her point.”

“Well, you can tell your mother her warning has been duly noted,” Harry quipped. “In fact, I’m so intimidated I don’t know if I’ll even find the nerve to wish her a happy birthday anymore.”

Ron looked at Harry and then looked at Hermione. “He really is quite the coward, isn’t he?” he asked, conversationally, as if Harry wasn’t in the room at all.

“Hey!” Harry protested in mock offense.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hermione joined in the fun, making her tone musing. “Your mum can be rather scary when she’s riled. Some might say being intimidated by her was just common sense.”

“My mum is about as intimidating as a two-day-old kitten, certainly nothing that should intimidate the great Harry Potter,” Ron said, straight-faced, although his voice shook with suppressed laughter.

“We should write the Daily Prophet: ‘Harry Potter Scared of a Kitten.’” Hermione just managed to gasp before she and Ron gave in to their laughter.

And Harry just managed to say, in a tone as deliberately pompous as Percy had ever been, “I’ll have you know my courage is legendary!” before he, too, succumbed to laughter, setting Ron and Hermione off again.

“That,” Ron gasped out in between chuckles, “was the worst imitation of Percy I have ever heard.”

Harry tried—and failed—to look offended at this statement, making them all laugh harder.

It was one of those moments that made Harry very aware of how much he’d missed this in the months he and Ron had been estranged; he’d missed the laughter and the teasing. He’d missed the Trio, the interaction of the three of them together that simply could not be replicated when it was only two. Much as Hermione meant to him, she couldn’t replace Ron.

Ron went to bed soon after, leaving Harry to flip through the latest issue of one of the several Quidditch magazines they received and Hermione to return to her work.

Harry found, though, that, for once, he could not get particularly interested in Quidditch, distracted by the thought of Saturday’s dinner at the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley’s invitation seemed to indicate that she was now over her disappointment and her regret over his breaking up with Ginny. He hoped so. It was something he’d hated about these last months, this sick wondering if he had lost the Weasleys, the only family he’d ever really known, as a result of his own stupidity in not realizing sooner that his feelings for Ginny were not deep enough. He had known the Weasleys would be hurt and angry, but as the months had gone by, more and more, he’d begun to fear that, after all, he had lost the Weasleys, that Mrs. Weasley, especially, would never be able to forgive him for what he’d done to Ginny. He was less worried about Mr. Weasley, as he had actually spoken to Mr. Weasley a couple times since the break-up—awkward conversations, every one of them, but at least, they’d spoken. Even the fact that he’d received a Christmas gift from the Weasleys had not particularly comforted him because it had been so clearly chosen by Mr. Weasley, a book that was a compendium of sorts of Muggle devices from the point of view of the magical world. For the first time, he had not received one of Mrs. Weasley’s usual Christmas jumpers.

As for Ginny, he didn’t expect that she would have forgiven him, didn’t know if she ever really would. He had almost resigned himself to it.

But he could not resign himself to losing Mr. and Mrs. Weasley as well. It was not something he could have put into words but he was eternally grateful to them for the way they’d unhesitatingly welcomed him into their family fold. If he did not, exactly, look upon them as parents, he certainly considered them in the light of an aunt and uncle—and cared for them much more than he had ever cared for his real aunt and uncle. They had given a lonely, friendless orphan the first glimpse of family he’d ever known and he would never forget it. Aside from Ron, their hurt and disappointment and anger had been what concerned him most, even more than Ginny’s feelings over their break-up.

And now, this invitation to a family event…

He suddenly remembered how Hermione had told him, when he’d first told her of his doubts about marrying Ginny and his fears that the Weasleys would hate him, 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…

“You shouldn’t worry, Harry. Mrs. Weasley must have forgiven you to invite you over again. I told you she would forgive you eventually.”

Hermione’s voice broke into his reverie, her words fitting so perfectly into his thoughts that he wasn’t even startled by the interruption. He didn’t know how she did it; it was just part of the magic that was her, and he felt his heart give a dangerous throb of emotion. “When did you learn to read minds?” he asked, trying to laugh a little.

She smiled, as he’d known she would. “I can’t, but I do know you, and I knew you weren’t thinking about Quidditch, because you haven’t turned a page in more than 15 minutes.”

He glanced down at the Quidditch magazine he still held open in his lap, having forgotten about it entirely, and had to laugh. “As always, you’re right. I wasn’t thinking about Quidditch.”

She lifted one shoulder into a half-shrug. “You shouldn’t brood over Saturday’s dinner, Harry.”

“I wasn’t brooding, I was… pondering.”

Hermione looked rather as if she wanted to mildly scold him for his half-hearted attempt at evasion but her lips curved up into an indulgent half-smile. “Well, then, don’t ponder. It’s going to be fine. Exactly how many times have you been invited to the Burrow in the past six months?”

He shot her a somewhat narrow-eyed glance, but gave up on even trying to be annoyed at her. “None, and you’re right. Mrs. Weasley would hardly ask us over if she didn’t want to see us.”

She smiled. “There? You see? Now, stop worrying.”

“Yes, ma’am,” was all he said, giving her a half-teasing salute, and she just shook her head a little, although a smile tugged at the corners of her lips, as she returned to her work.

He looked back down at the magazine, succeeding in pushing any thoughts of Saturday out of his mind.

~

“Ron! Harry, Hermione, come in.” Mr. Weasley opened the door to their knock, greeting them expansively. He gave Ron a quick hug, put his arm around Hermione’s for a half-hug, and then turned to Harry. “Harry, it’s good to see you.”

Harry attempted a completely natural smile, but was conscious that he failed, his smile being a little wobbly, uncertain. “Hi, Mr. Weasley.”

Mr. Weasley shook his hand heartily, gripping it tightly, after an almost imperceptible hesitation. “Harry, how many times do I have to remind you to call me Arthur?”

Harry relaxed at these words, familiar as they were, but then instantly tensed up again as Mrs. Weasley appeared.

“Arthur, why are you all still standing about in the hallway? Come in, come in. Ron,” she greeted her youngest son with a hug.

“Hi, Mum, happy birthday.”

Mrs. Weasley also gave Hermione a hug, somewhat more tentatively than usual. “Hello, Hermione.”

“Happy birthday, Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione smiled.

“And, Harry, how good to see you!” Mrs. Weasley proceeded to give him one of her usual motherly hugs, which should have comforted him except for the fact that both Mrs. Weasley’s voice and her hug were a shade too enthusiastic.

“Hi, Mrs. Weasley. Happy birthday.” He hesitated and then added, more quietly, the words almost impelled from him, “I’ve missed you.”

For a split second, Mrs. Weasley’s smile faltered and he saw the sadness and the disappointment she’d felt—because of him—reflected in her eyes. But then, she quickly masked it.

“Come in to the kitchen. We’re all here now and dinner’s ready. Are you all hungry?”

Mrs. Weasley’s cheerful tones accompanied them as she hustled them into the kitchen, and promptly began bustling around in her usual manner.

Harry suppressed a brief sigh, but then was comforted as he felt Hermione grasp his hand and give it a surreptitious squeeze, and was able to smile and greet Bill, Fleur, Charlie, and George with more cheer.

The conversation became general and he was grinning and talking to George when Ginny came in. For one moment, everyone—with the exception of Hermione-- glanced from her to him, all conversation stopping, and then everyone began talking again, a little too quickly.

Ginny greeted Ron with a hug, Hermione with a smile, and then showed every indication of planning to ignore him altogether, but Harry stepped in, edging forward until she had to face him. This first meeting since their break-up would be the worst, he knew, and it couldn’t be avoided. “Hello, Ginny.”

“Hello.” The word was spoken so coldly he was half-surprised that icicles didn’t form from it. With that, Ginny turned away from him, immediately beginning to talk to Charlie and Fleur with a brightness that was too overtly blithe to be real.

He had a sudden memory of the way she’d always used to greet him before, the brightness of her smile, her immediate hug and kiss, and the stark contrast hit him like a slap. He felt a sudden surge of regret, not because he wanted her back, not in that way, but for the affection he’d lost. Affection of any kind had been too scarce for him for so many years and meant enough to him that he hated to lose it—and to lose Ginny’s, even if he knew he deserved it and even if he’d been expecting it, somehow hurt.

He pushed aside his emotion, promptly manufacturing a smile, as he turned back to George and tried to seem completely natural.

Now was not the time to think about his changed relationship with Ginny or anything else. He concentrated instead on appearing casual, steadfastly ignoring the proverbial elephant in the room in the awkward undercurrents, as everyone else appeared to be trying to do. It got easier, helped by the fact that George was his usual self.

There was a brief moment of returning tension when they all moved to sit around the table, as Ginny made something of a production of ensuring that she was seated as far from Harry as possible, but as everyone ignored it, Harry found it easier to do so as well. And knew he succeeded in appearing unaffected when Hermione stopped giving him quick, half-concerned glances.

As always at one of the Weasley family dinners, the table was groaning under the weight of all the food Mrs. Weasley had prepared and, under the influence of the food and the casual atmosphere that prevailed at these dinners, Harry found himself relaxing. It felt so much like it had always been, nothing really changed. He could almost imagine it was back during their Hogwarts years, long before anything had happened between him and Ginny, long before anything he’d ever done had marred the Weasley’s family peace. If it hadn’t been for the absence of Fred and Percy—and for the way Ginny immediately looked away whenever their gazes accidentally met across the table, steadfastly ignoring his presence—he really could have imagined nothing had ever happened and all was well again.

But Ginny did ignore his presence. It shouldn’t have been quite so obvious, given how many people were sitting at the table, but somehow it was, perhaps made so by the contrast to how Ginny had always behaved with Harry before. Before, she’d always had a smile for Harry, hung onto his every word as if everything he said was the wisest, funniest, most fascinating thing she’d ever heard. Now, Ginny smiled and talked with everyone at the table except Harry and did it all with such studied carelessness that it was almost enough to make Harry wonder if he’d somehow slipped underneath his Invisibility Cloak without realizing it. She wasn’t really ignoring his presence so much as she was acting as if he wasn’t present at all.

It was pointed. It was deliberate. It was unmistakable. And it was making everyone uncomfortable, a constant reminder of the reason for the underlying tensions.

And Harry felt another surge of regret swamp him. He hadn’t wanted this. He didn’t expect Ginny to have forgiven him yet; he certainly didn’t expect, or even want, her to treat him anywhere close to the way she’d treated him before. But he didn’t want them to be enemies either. He might not love her, but he did care about her and he didn’t want her to hate him.

And this thought was what compelled him to waylay Ginny as they all got up to go into the family room after dinner, stopping her from following with a quick hand on her arm. A hand he immediately dropped as she sizzled a glare at his offending hand. “Ginny, wait.”

“What?”

Her tone was about as welcoming as a Manticore, but Harry persevered. He was conscious of an odd sensation of… ease… in spite of the acid taste of regret in his mouth. It was ridiculous; why should he feel strangely more at ease with Ginny now? But even as he thought it, he suddenly realized why; it was because, for the first time since he’d met her, she wasn’t treating him with any trace of hero worship. He’d never known exactly how to react, never felt completely at ease, with her hero worship and now, he felt… more at ease with her, oddly enough. Now, in spite of his regret and her anger, he could be more straightforward with her. “Ginny, I’m sorry. I- you have no idea just how sorry I am for hurting you. I hate knowing that I hurt you. Can’t you forgive me? I’ll do anything—let me know what I can do to try to make it up to you and I’ll do it,” he promised recklessly.

“You want to know what you can do to make me forgive you?”

“Yes.”

Ginny studied him for a moment, and then answered, coolly, with a slight narrowing of her eyes, “Marry me, in July, like we were planning to before.”

He recoiled slightly. He couldn’t help it. Hated himself for reacting so obviously, but it was automatic. “Ginny! You—I—we—I can’t!” he blurted out, less than fluently. He hesitated and then, “You- you still want to marry me, even after what I did?”

“This isn’t about you, Harry,” she snapped. “It’s about what you can do to make it up to me for what you did.”

“But- Ginny, I- I can’t marry you,” he faltered.

Her eyes flashed. “Then I can’t forgive you. Do you have any idea what these past months have been like for me? Do you?!”

“I- no,” he admitted.

“People staring at me, pointing at me, a moment of silence the moment I walk into a room before everyone starts to talk, wondering why you didn’t want me. I’m the Girl Who Was Dumped by Harry Potter, and now everyone thinks there’s something wrong with me that made you not want to marry me!”

“Can’t you—you can tell people that you were the one who decided you didn’t want to marry me.”

She gave him a look that could have pulverized rock. “Don’t be stupid! Do you really think anyone will believe that? I could swear until I was blue in the face that I was the one who chose not to marry you, and no one would believe me! You’re Harry bloody Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and no one would ever believe that any girl would dump you!!”

“I- I’m sorry,” was all he could say, helplessly, a little stunned at the depth of Ginny’s anger. He hadn’t thought—hadn’t known—hadn’t realized just what calling off their engagement would mean to most people. Because, now that Ginny mentioned it, he knew she was right. The few stories blaming him aside, the vast majority of the wizarding public persisted in thinking of him as the perfect storybook hero, the Boy Who Lived and Savior of the Wizarding World. Given that, it was natural, inevitable, that Ginny would be subjected to ridicule and insulting conjectures about why he’d decided not to marry her.

“So don’t expect me to forgive you, Harry. I can’t. I won’t.”

“Maybe… if I explained that it was my fault…” Harry ventured.

“No one would believe you either. They’d just think you were acting like the noble hero and taking the blame,” Ginny shot back. “Just stop it! I can’t forgive you and, frankly, I wish I’d never need to see you or hear your name again!”

And then she left, storming out of the kitchen, while her words still seemed to be ringing in the air.

Harry stared after her, feeling a little stunned and a lot dismayed, before he too left the kitchen. He took one step towards the family room and then stopped. He couldn’t go in there. Not now, not yet. He couldn’t face the Weasleys now, not when he still felt Ginny’s words sting like the lash of a whip. He was too miserably conscious of what he’d done to her, to their daughter or their sister, to dare face them now. Instead, he turned and walked out the back door, not stopping until there was some distance between him and the house, although he didn’t leave the yard.

The March night was cool and Harry almost welcomed the slight chill in the air, that rather seemed to match his mood.

He saw the light from the back door opening and knew who it was even before he turned to glance at the person who walked outside to stand beside him.

“It’s getting a little stuffy inside so I wanted to get some air,” Hermione explained.

“Right.” Harry knew perfectly well that Hermione’s reason for coming out had been to look for him, but he appreciated her delicacy and let the statement stand.

“It’s been a nice evening,” Hermione finally said, her tone just a shade too casual.

“Yes, it has been,” he agreed readily, and even sincerely. It had been a nice evening, notwithstanding his little confrontation with Ginny and the awkwardness of the greetings when they’d arrived.

“Fleur is looking very well, not even showing at all.”

“No, she’s not,” he agreed again. Ron had mentioned a few weeks ago that Bill and Fleur had told the Weasleys that Fleur was pregnant, and tonight was the first time either he or Hermione had seen Fleur since finding out.

“George says that Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes is doing well.”

He felt a rush of tenderness for Hermione at what she was doing, how she was deliberately keeping the conversation light. She had joined him outside out of concern and sympathy, but she was also giving him space, and time, to decide if he wanted to talk about it or not, and if not, her bland words told him that she wouldn’t press.

Merlin, but he really did love her…

It was amazing that even after his talk with Ginny that left him flagellating himself with guilt, he could so soon be comforted, distracted, by the thought of Hermione. And yet, there it was. She managed to comfort him, somehow, by her very presence, and then she also showed her understanding in letting him choose whether or not to talk to her. She simply seemed to know when she should press him and when she shouldn’t, knew when he needed a simple distraction with uncomplicated words.

And he loved that about her…

“So Ginny hates me,” he finally blurted out, his tone conversational enough that anyone who didn’t know him well would have thought he didn’t care at all. He knew Hermione wouldn’t think so, would be able to hear the truth in his voice, to say nothing of knowing him well enough to know how he would be feeling.

Hermione didn’t respond immediately, and he could sense her slight hesitation before she ventured, “She doesn’t hate you, Harry. She’s angry at you; she might even think she hates you right now, but I don’t think she really does.”

His lips quirked into the ghost of a smile. “She only thinks she hates me? That’s comforting,” he said dryly.

She let out a brief, obliging laugh, but sobered quickly. “Seriously, Harry, give her some more time. I think it’ll be easier for her to forgive you when she’s happy with someone else.” She paused and then added more quietly, “Sorry, should I not have said that?”

“If I was going to have issues with Ginny seeing someone else, I wouldn’t have broken up with her,” he reasoned. Which was true enough. But it was a little lowering, nonetheless, to think that he might be replaced so completely, especially to Ginny, who’d always worshipped him—and then he had to laugh silently to himself at his own conceit. Because it wasn’t jealousy he felt at the thought of Ginny with anyone else; it was just a prod to his ego.

“Give her some more time,” Hermione repeated.

“I don’t know if even time will do it. She said… she said everyone now looks at her and wonders what was wrong with her to make me not want to marry her. That I’ve made people think she’s some sort of freak.” He let out a sound that was almost a bark of unamused laughter. “She’s right, too. I didn’t even think of that in my own selfishness, but I did humiliate her. And of course people will think it was me who ended the engagement, not her, everyone being so convinced that I’m some bloody perfect hero.” He ended on a rather savage note. He hated the pedestal people seemed determined to place him on, hated that the damn pedestal had made this whole mess with Ginny that much worse, as if it weren’t bad enough to begin with.

“Oh, Harry…” Hermione sighed and said nothing more.

He was glad that she didn’t even try to tell him it wasn’t true—but of course, she didn’t. Not for Hermione were those comforting, placating lies people tended to tell in times like this. Hermione comforted, yes, but she didn’t lie.

“And I don’t know what to do, don’t know what I can do to make it up to her. I don’t even know if I can make it up to her at all and that’s almost the worst thing of all. How do you get forgiveness for a wrong when you can’t do anything to make amends?”

Hermione said nothing but he felt her sympathy and he found himself turning to her. “Can you think of anything, Hermione? You’re better at this than I am. Can you think of something I can do to try to make it up to Ginny?”

“Harry… I don’t know… I mean, I’ll try but…” Hermione faltered, rather uncharacteristically, but then he hadn’t asked a fair question. “Maybe… maybe if you went with the Weasleys to some public place, where people could see you.” Her voice gained some confidence as she went. “Let people see that you still care about the Weasleys, that you still care about Ginny as a friend, and it should make them, at the very least, question their beliefs about who’s to blame. Ginny won’t need to do anything but show up and she’ll have all her family there to support her, if she needs it.”

“That’s… brilliant, Hermione,” he said honestly. A moment’s thought was enough to tell him that. It would allow people to see him with the Weasleys and with Ginny, allow people to see him treat Ginny as the younger sister of his best friend that she was, and if Ginny only treated him with a fraction of the disdain which she’d shown him tonight, it would still appear as if she had really been the one to break off their engagement. It might revive some of those news stories about him that had made Hermione so angry, but he doubted the revival of those stories would last any longer than the original ones had. And it would be a fitting part of his attempt to make amends.

She relaxed into a slight smile. “I’m glad I could help.”

He returned her smile. “You always do.” Their eyes met and held and, for a moment, he felt the now-familiar tug of attraction before he quickly looked away. “Anyway, enough about me,” he said, with manufactured briskness. “What about you? You haven’t come here since you and Ron ended either.”

“That was different, Harry. We both agreed to it, you know, so the Weasleys don’t blame me for breaking Ron’s heart or anything.”

She spoke matter-of-factly, but Harry slanted a glance at her. “I wasn’t only thinking about the Weasleys’ reaction. How are you doing?” They had not talked about her breaking up with Ron at all; it had barely even been mentioned, just accepted as true. But he was still a little concerned; he knew Hermione too well to think that she was quite as unaffected as she acted, and as Ron believed she was.

Hermione lifted one shoulder in a noncommittal gesture. “I’m fine, Harry. I- I’m still rather sorry that Ron and I didn’t work out but I know it was for the best.” She essayed a smile. “How did that one song put it? ‘Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention’?”

He managed a smile. “And you did it your way.”

She gave a brief laugh. “Yes, exactly. You don’t have to worry about me, Harry. Ron and I are still best friends, and it’s better this way. I’m happier this way.”

“Okay.”

Another brief silence fell, a dangerous silence as all these little silences between him and Hermione were now. Silences made him too aware of her, of his attraction to her. Silences led to temptation.

He forced a small laugh. “Listen to us. I’m beginning to think I should start a club.”

She gave him a curious glance. “A club for what?”

“Something like an ‘I used to date a Weasley’ club, the Society of Weasley Ex-es,” he said lightly.

She rewarded him with a laugh. “Now that’s an idea.”

“We could invite Lavendar and Dean.”

“Don’t forget Michael Corner,” Hermione added. “And I’m sure we can find some ex-girlfriends of Bill’s and Charlie’s too.”

“Perfect. I’ll start planning the agenda for the first meeting immediately. I’m thinking of including a group discussion on the attractions of redheads and Weasleys,” he deadpanned.

Their eyes met and they both gave in to their laughter.

“Oi, here you two are.”

Ron’s voice cut across their laughter and they both turned to see Ron standing in the doorway. “Come on inside. We’re about to cut the cake.”

“I’d hate to miss the cake,” Harry agreed lightly, and then turned to follow Hermione inside.

Inside—to face Ginny again, and endure whatever awkwardness would linger in the atmosphere. But he found he felt… better, more confident. His talk with Hermione—and the suggestion she’d given him—was comforting. And he was suddenly quite sure that everything with his relationship to the Weasleys was going to be fine. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But eventually, things would be fine.

And he could begin to move on.

~To be continued…~