Disclaimer: JK Rowling's characters, not mine.
A.N.: This is my first attempt at something less-than-happy. Let's see how it goes.
Ten minutes ago I was with Harry. He was downstairs, sitting alone in the kitchen. His feet-clad in socks with large holes by the heels-were comically propped up on Ron's favorite dining chair, and his gaze had directed itself out a nearby window. His hair was all mussed up as usual, and his battered jeans and worn t-shirt testified to all the handiwork he had helped Ron with earlier. He had seemed preoccupied this morning, and so when I quietly padded into the kitchen to pick up the book Rose had left on the counter, I didn't speak. He didn't, either. I guess he was waiting for Ginny.
I sighed and grabbed my daughter's book-which a quick glance at the cover revealed to be about Merlin-and went upstairs. Ron left earlier this evening after being called away by the Ministry. Something about forgetting to file some paperwork, he told me, swearing like a sailor as he shrugged on his jacket and apparated away. Our bedroom felt empty without his presence there, and I briefly wondered if this-the sudden melancholy loneliness-was what it would feel like to be single again. I shook the feeling off. It was silly, anyway. I love Ron.
Instead of getting ready for bed, I wandered over to the window, staring out into our backyard. The sun had set hours ago; the black shadows had consumed my rose garden, the children's old swing set, and the grimy shed at the very back of our property where Ron tinkered with Muggle contraptions like his father once had. I smiled, but the bittersweet memories brought forth by this small reminder made me think another old friend, one who had been painfully distant for too long.
Talking to Harry has been so hard ever since Ginny. Their wedding was beautiful-nothing too showy or too expensive, just plain and simple like their love. I even cried as they exchanged their vows, but after the war crying came a lot easier to me, anyway.
But their relationship has consumed both of them, young as they were and young as they still are in their hearts. It's like they still only have eyes for each other, like they're best friends. I miss Harry-miss his smile, his warmth, his absolute dim-wittedness sometimes. We spent all those months growing closer as he prepared to fight Voldemort-prepared to die-and then he married Ginny right after she graduated Hogwarts.
And yes, I married Ron and love him and our children very much. But sometimes, when I'm sitting on the porch overlooking our backyard as the sun sets and the day fades away, I wonder how things could have been different. It's then, as the shadows consume my rose garden and the children's swing set and toys, that I can remember a night from a long time ago.
It was a night I will never forget-or forgive myself for.
~~~~~~~~~~
It was sometime near Christmas of our sixth year, and Harry and I had been sitting around the Gryffindor fireplace for the better part of the evening. We weren't really talking, but we weren't really silent either. We were just content to be next to someone who, no matter how different from ourselves, understood.
Harry broke our relative silence first, stretching and yawning as he twisted to look at me in the chair beside his. "Some fire, eh?" he queried, his eyes suddenly twinkling with an unknown mischief.
I glanced up from my dusty tome-Threading Theories though Thoughts, if I remember correctly-and stared at him with what was very likely the blankest stare I had ever given another human being.
His grin only intensified. "I mean, it's brilliant, isn't it? Bloody well warm and cheerful. Makes one long for a good game of wizard's chess. Or Quidditch," he winked.
I laughed at that. "Harry, what on this planet does not make you long for Quidditch? You're remarkably hopeless." I was happy to see him laughing, no matter what nonsense he was giving me. "Why are you so chipper tonight, anyway?"
He shrugged happily and turned back to the fire. "Dunno. Guess I just like the smell of a good book burning."
My head snapped up at this, my horror-struck eyes flashing to the fire. Sure enough, a large book was covered in flames, being devoured by the overpowering heat. Shocked, I couldn't tear my eyes away. "Harry," I whispered incredulously, my fists balling at my sides.
"Shh," he whispered back, his laughter evident in his voice. "Watch."
I was. A single page was fluttering helplessly, turning to ash second by second. An author's thoughts going up in flames…I had no words to express my horror.
Suddenly, the book-now confined to a few tattered, scorched remnants of leather and paper-exploded, purple smoke billowing out at us. My eyes, wide with surprise and definitely confusion, turned to look at Harry. And that's when I saw it.
He was looking right back, his green eyes twinkling with merriment. There was something in his gaze that made me nervous-something serious, something soft. Something real. "Accio book," he whispered, his wand extended and his gaze never leaving mine.
I hardly had time to register what was going on before I heard the distinct thump of an object reaching Harry's outstretched hand. I had even less time to recognize the object before he handed it over to me, still smiling almost hopefully.
"It's a book," I said dumbly, turning the tiny, still-warm object over in my hands. Not just any book, either. It was a beautiful red leather, with a ribbon bookmark and gold edges. I sighed in astonishment, completely befuddled as to how it could have survived the flames.
Harry laughed at my wonder. "Of course it's a book," he chortled, watching me run my fingers across the cover. He met my eyes again, but quickly looked away. "Why don't you open it?" he suggested offhandedly, addressing the armrest of his chair.
Still confused, I turned to the cover page. And then I understood. The book's title, "Phoenix Tears: The Healing and the Hope," made it clear. But it was the cramped, printed calligraphy directly beneath the title that startled me enough to look up at Harry. His writing, although messy, was perfectly clear: "Because even love can be reborn."
He was still staring at his armrest, but his words came too quickly. "I figured it was something you'd like. After you read the first chapter, the book grows a little, and by the time you're done, it's all worn and tattered. But that's ok, because you can just heave it into the fireplace and it'll be good as new." He glanced up at me at this, undoubtedly noticing my gaping mouth and attributing it all to the book. "I mean, I thought it was brilliant, and I thought that you'd at least think it was clever, and-"
"Harry." He looked up again at the sound of his name, his face in shadows next to the fire. His features had contorted-he was frowning, his lips thin and his hair ruffled. I couldn't speak, couldn't tell him how his words had affected me. I couldn't tell him how long I had been waiting for him, even though he was in torment over his gift-his revelation.
"It's part of a poem," he whispered.
"Thank you," I responded quietly, pretending to study the book's binding. I couldn't say more. Neither could he. I finally glanced over at him, reluctantly meeting his bright eyes and hopeful smile. "Um, right," I said, clearing my throat uncomfortably. "Um, I should get upstairs. Plenty to be done tomorrow."
Harry's face fell, his hope disappearing instantly and his shoulders sagging as he leaned back into the chair in an attempt to remain nonchalant. I got up to leave, hurriedly gathering my book, my supplies, and Harry's gift.
I was at the stairs to the girls' dormitories before I heard him call my name. I turned slowly to face him, but was unable to see anything of him over his high-backed chair. "Yes?"
"Happy Christmas." His voice was hollow, broken. I stifled a sob.
"Happy Christmas to you too, Harry." And with that I ran away from Harry Potter, fleeing up the dormitory stairs and into my bed. I couldn't let myself love him. I couldn't tell him I was there and waiting for him. I just couldn't….
~~~~~~~~~~~
"Hermione?"
The voice, so close behind me, startled me back into the present. Looking up quickly, I saw Ron's reflection in the window, approaching me with a content smile on his face. I closed my eyes. Drawing a long breath to steady my reeling thoughts and long-buried emotions, I turned to face my husband with my ever-present, ever-false smile dependably plastered on my face.
"Hi sweetheart," I whispered, blinking to fight back tears. "How was your night?"
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