I Was There and Waiting by Angie Crawford

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 7
Published: 07/12/2008
Last Updated: 03/04/2009
Status: In Progress

Up late at night, Hermione remembers a time when she could have changed her destiny. Was her
choice worth it?




1. The Book
-----------



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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2. The Look
-----------



Disclaimer: Still not mine.

AN: New chapter, Harry's POV. Let me know what you think!

Chapter 2—The Look

Hermione hardly spoke to me anymore, not even when we were alone together. She certainly
hadn't tonight. But then again, I didn't exactly encourage her. I was terrified of what she
might say.

Tonight, she had slipped up for just a second. I had come in for a break from helping Ron patch
up their roof and asked Hermione if she had any lemonade. Busy trying to clean up Hugo (he'd
been rolling around in mud, by the looks of him), she had just motioned absently to the
refrigerator. I smiled at her distraction, reminded of my own son's antics.

After pouring myself a tall glass of the cool beverage, I sat down at their kitchen table. I
always deliberately sat on Ron's chair, much to his annoyance. I secretly hoped I'd leave
some dirt on it, so he'd know I'd been there. Wriggling around for good measure, I caught
Hermione's smile.

“What?” I asked innocently, although my devious grin gave me away.

She laughed. “You know he hates that, and yet you provoke him.”

“Well I can't help it if this chair particularly appeals to me.” Another wriggle.

Hugo had caught on by this time and was cheering me on, laughing. “Dad is gonna be soooooo mad!”
he giggled. His little hands clapped gleefully. It seemed he had inherited the mischief gene.

“Yep,” I said proudly. “And I expect you to carry on this noble tradition, Hugo.”

My godson laughed again. I took that as a `yes.' Hermione rolled her eyes at us, getting up
and wringing out her washcloth in the sink. While her back was turned, I got up and hefted her
still-muddy son onto his father's chair. Motioning for him to be quiet, I left my empty glass
on the table and apparated outside with a *pop*.

I was almost halfway up the ladder to the roof when I heard Hermione's frustrated yell and
Hugo's accompanying laugh. I chortled to myself. I loved making her mad. It was so
endearing…and so easy.

Ron was waiting for me to return, looking at me a bit strangely. “Not messing with my wife
again, are you Potter?” he asked, a smile quirking the edge of his lips.

“Always,” I responded, picking up a hammer and quickly enchanting it to nail down a few tiles.
“Might've taught Hugo a new trick, too.”

Ron laughed, shaking his head as he charmed the roof tiles to fly into place. He had no idea.
That poor son of his was going to drive him up a wall with his recently acquired skill.

I said nothing else. Strangely enough, my mind had gone to Hermione in the kitchen below. I
wondered vaguely what she would be doing now. I could see her, sitting alone at the table, Hugo
having run off to dive into the nearest mud puddle again. I thought about that smile she had given
me when she caught me smudging dirt onto Ron's chair. And I wondered if she had meant to smile
at me with love in her eyes.

I forced myself to stop. I was sure the love in that look had been all for her son and all for
Ron, with none for me. But Merlin, for a moment—for just a second of that smile—it was like she
remembered, too. Gods, how I hope she does.

*I wonder what ever happened to that phoenix book.* The thought was there before I could
stop it, and it stayed with me for the rest of the afternoon. It was still there when I sat at
their table again that night, waiting for Ginny to Floo over after work so we could head home. It
was there when Hermione walked through the kitchen to get Rose's book—I almost asked her—and it
was there as I stood over my daughter's bed that night, watching her sleep.

I looked down at Lily's sleeping face and smiled. Her small hand was curled protectively
around her latest treasure, a magical stuffed dragon that puffed out smoke every few minutes. The
toy fidgeted under her embrace. I reached down and stroked my daughter's hair out of her eyes.
She was so beautiful.

I was ashamed of myself for thinking about events that had long since passed. I had no right to
regret my decisions, not when I had such an amazing family and wonderful friends. I sighed,
snapping my fingers to turn on Lily's small volcano nightlight, which gurgled and hissed and
exploded on cue.

Back in our bedroom, Ginny had already fallen asleep, exhausted after a long day at work. I sat
on the edge of the bed, still thinking about the past. I hated how I tormented myself like this.
Everything that had ever passed between Hermione and I had been through a suggestive glance or
loaded conversation. Everything had happened years ago. But still I couldn't forget.

Sighing, I finally lay down next to my wife. *I love Ginny. I do. But sometimes…*

My thoughts stopped there, and I fell asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

AN: So what do you think? Continue or no?

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3. The Sneak
------------



Disclaimer: Not mine.

AN: I apologize for taking so long to post this chapter! However, be prepared for tension, lots
of tension.

Chapter 3: The Sneak

Yesterday had started out just like any other day. I wasn't particularly anxious about
anything; all of my cases with my department had ended and—at least for the moment—I was free to
come and go as I pleased. Naturally, this meant that I had to arrive on time as always.

After dropping off Rose and Hugo with a very flustered apron-wearing Ginny, I apparated with a
*pop* into the Ministry of Magic, still juggling my morning cup of tea and the large stack of
paperwork I had taken home for some light reading.

Acknowledging the bustling witches and wizards around me with a mild frown, I made my way to the
elevators while pushing the crowd out of the way with my elbows. I didn't reserve much patience
for the dense population of Ministry employees that chose to linger in the Atrium; it was better
that I got to my office before my temper exploded.

But my office wasn't the refuge I had hoped for. After Harry had helped Ron patch up our
roof last weekend, I had been aching for the chance to see him again. Some part of me insisted that
my vague longing was inappropriate, but I was convinced that I simply missed talking to him. After
all, we hadn't done very much of that lately, especially with our families always in tow.

I don't remember when I made the decision to illegally breach the Auror department, but
sometime around the lunch hour I found myself creeping down their hallway poorly concealed by a
Disillusionment charm I had performed on myself.

It was unnecessary, really. But I wanted to talk to Harry without worrying about anyone running
off to tell Ron about it. He still had his jealous moments, poor man. But I felt guilty as I tried
to convince myself that his jealously was completely irrational. Some part of me knew it
wasn't.

I found Harry sitting alone at his desk, fiddling with his quill as he stared glumly at a pile
of paperwork. His inbox must have been a foot high. And the outbox? Empty. So very Harry.

I crept up behind him without him noticing anything, but when I reached my hands out and covered
his eyes, my plan fell apart. “Hermione,” he whispered, a smile in his voice as he turned around to
face me. “Still the brightest witch of your age if you got past my wards.”

I released the spell, appearing before him and grinning broadly. “I'd only ever be so
motivated to visit you, Potter,” I laughed, reaching forward and wrapping him in a tight hug.
“I've missed you.”

His arms wrapped around me, pulling me closer to him. I could feel his cool breath against my
cheek and his lips at my ear. “You've been a stranger lately,” he whispered, pulling me closer
still as I tried not to shiver under his touch.

I pulled back in his arms and shrugged. “We've been busy with the kids. Hugo has started
refusing to bathe and Rose won't stop trying to hex him every time he comes near her.”

His laugh was genuine. “Oh, what's a godfather to do?” he exclaimed, hugging me once more.
“For what it's worth, Gin and I have had our hands full with James and Lily.”

“And the baby,” I added, nodding against his shoulder in sympathy. Ginny was already several
months pregnant with their next child.

He sighed in agreement. “And the baby. If only I could get a minute's rest between it
all!”

I laughed, nestling myself deeper into his embrace. His fuzzy Weasley sweater tickled my nose.
He smelled wonderful. I had forgotten how comforting his hugs were.

“Hermione?” he queried after a moment, looking down at me.

“Mmm?”

And then his hand was resting on my stomach, rubbing it gently. I looked down at it, then up at
him, a thousand questions in my eyes.

“Sometimes I wish…” he trailed off. A minute of silence passed before he sighed and took a step
away, stretching and looking up at the clock in his office. “I guess I wish I'd see more of you
and Ron around our house. Maybe dinner this week, yeah?”

Maybe I had imagined the whole thing. Maybe he hadn't been about to—

“Yeah, sure, Harry. That sounds great.”

“I'll let Ginny know,” he smiled. Were his eyes duller than usual? I couldn't tell.
“Listen,” he said suddenly. “I've got to get going. We've set up an apparition window and
I've got a team heading out in a couple of minutes. I really need to be with them.”

Something was off. He was avoiding looking at me. “Wait—before you go, tell me something.”

“What's that?”

“How did you know it was me in your office?” I asked, truly curious.

He looked down at his quill again, picking it up and twirling it awkwardly. I almost thought he
hadn't heard me, but then his eyes met mine, burning with an emotion I didn't want to
place. He smiled sadly, slowly. “Who else smells like vanilla and Hogwarts?” he breathed before
disappearing with a *pop*.

-->



4. The Chance
-------------



Disclaimer: Never was mine, never will be,

AN: Harry's POV, with a flashback. I hope this starts to explain what's been going on
between them.

Chapter 4: The Chance

Ron and Hermione had cancelled on our dinner plans a month ago. I couldn't help but wonder
if what had—or rather, *hadn't*—happened at the Ministry between Hermione and I might have
had something to do with that. Now, when Rose and Hugo came over for play dates it was Ron who
dropped them off. He just thought Hermione was trying to keep him busy. I knew better.

I felt like a terrible person. I had thought I was over her.

I looked over at Ginny from my seat on the couch and took in her rounded belly that contained
our third child. Albus if it was a boy, Dora if it was a girl. Gin smiled at me when she caught me
staring. “The baby's kicking a lot today,” she beamed, a hand lingering on her stomach.

I forced a smile, willing it to reach my eyes. “Better be careful today then, right?” I teased.
“Can't have you going into labor while I'm off at Hogwarts, can we?”

“Oh, Harry.” She dismissed me with a wave. “We're not due for months yet! I'll be
fine.”

“I know,” I replied. Getting up, I placed a kiss on her cheek and went upstairs to finish
getting ready.

I make an annual appearance in Neville Longbottom's Herbology classroom, putting on the show
of a dumb celebrity and always ultimately getting swallowed by one of his carnivorous plants. The
idea had been Ron's at first, but my first performance—dressing in a suit and tie with
sunglasses, rudely interrupting the class with cocky comments, and provoking the Weeping Willoughby
by poking it incessantly—proved such a hit that I've been terrifying students about the dangers
of not paying attention ever since.

Obviously, Ginny doesn't find this pastime nearly as hilarious as I do, but some part of her
(the one most related to Fred and George, no doubt) turns a blind eye to the dangers. And
considering the fact that there's two separate herbologists and a mediwizard hiding behind the
Fernacious Ferns each year, I don't think she has much to worry over.

The thought of once again inducing a chorus of terrified screams as I was devoured alive made me
smile, and I wondered if this was something my father would have approved of. Sighing, I
uncomfortably adjusted my tie. *Blasted muggle thing*, I thought, vaguely wondering if a noose
would be cozier.

But thinking of my parents and old school friends pained me, especially now that I was so
uncomfortable around Hermione. I focused instead on getting dressed, tightening my shoelaces and
romping downstairs to fetch my robes. Shrugging them on, I silently hoped for my best female friend
to pick up Rose and Hugo tonight. Maybe then I'd finally get a chance alone with her. It was
time to talk.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was the fall of seventh year and Hermione was unbelievably angry with me. Even though she had
agreed to go for a walk with me, I could tell I wasn't forgiven just by the crease at her brow
and the defiant fold of her arms across her chest.

I sighed.

We walked down by the lake in silence, our crunching footsteps the only sound as we slowly made
our way across a lawn of fallen leaves. I reflected on that past year sadly—the stupid Phoenix
book, her relationship with Ron, going into hiding, beating Voldemort, and then returning to
school. There were so many things in our past, and I had been such a bloody prat about such a
ridiculous thing.

I sighed again. Hermione looked at me, brow raised expectantly as I floundered for words.

“I…wanted to apologize for what I said the other day,” I finally whispered, finding strength in
the setting sun. “Ron has every right to take you to Hogsmeade. I just…I don't know,” I
faltered. I looked to her in exasperation, my eyes tracing the warm orange sun on her delicate
features.

Almost imperceptibly, her eyes softened in the fading light. She smiled shyly up at me, tugging
me to a stop with a single pull on the hem of my robes. We sat on the moss facing the lake, feeling
the heavy breeze as it brought in the coming storm. Then, after so much silence, she spoke.

“I know, Harry.” Her voice was so soft I hardly heard her. I looked up, curious and confused, to
meet the most gentle pair of brown eyes I had ever known. “I know,” she repeated, reaching a hand
to caress my cheek.

My heart leapt against my will, my eyes fluttering closed. I sucked in a breath I didn't
know I needed. She was leaning closer to me, her nose pressed against mine. Her breath tickled my
lips, her warm scent enveloping me. This was what I had wanted—needed—for so long.

Why was she doing this? I didn't know. I didn't care.

But then, as I leaned in to touch my lips to hers, my voice cracked and escaped my throat,
betraying me.

“Ron,” I coughed hoarsely, and she pulled away, a frown marring those beautiful features.
“Ron's going to propose, Hermione.”

She looked at me in shock. “Ron's going to *what*?”

“He's had the ring for weeks. I swear, Hermione, I didn't want to tell you. I swear that
this had nothing to do with the Hogsmeade thing. I just—”

“Please, Harry.” Her voice was flat, and her eyes flashed dangerously. “Please just go.” She
brought her knees up to her chin, wrapping her arms around her legs like a child.

“Hermione,” I whispered. “I—”

“Just go!” she yelled, hands over her ears. A single tear fought its way down her cheek.

I couldn't walk away, not from her or from the cleft that had divided us. In one swift
movement I closed the distance between us. She stared morosely back at me as my hand cupped the
back of her neck, pulling her face to mine. I willed every ounce of feeling I had for her to flow
free as I looked urgently at her, trying to blink back the pain.

“Tell him `no,'” I whispered, letting my hands entangle themselves in her wild curls. She
rested her forehead against mine, releasing a shuddering breath and wordlessly meeting my tormented
eyes.

The passion and pain I saw in her was so clear, it was like an electric charge went through me.
Somewhere in the distance, I heard myself gasp at the surprise of it. And then—too late to register
anything else—I was kissing her, my lips pressing against her soft ones, begging her to see what I
could offer her. I felt elated, vindicated; I felt her arms around my shoulders, tugging me closer,
urging me forward.

We pulled apart, my fingers rubbing away her tears and smoothing down her hair. “Say `no,'”
I repeated.

She nodded and sniffled slightly, looking back out over the lake. Thunderclouds were rolling in,
darkening the sky and shading her face from me. The cool wind tore at my body, making me shiver.
But Hermione made no move to stand, so in silence I slowly collected myself before walking back to
the castle alone.

-->



5. The Glop
-----------



Disclaimer: As usual, not mine.

AN: Hermione's POV. This is a long one! The rating has been changed for upcoming
chapters.

Chapter 5: The Glop

Professor McGonagall's owl came just after lunchtime on a bright afternoon in May. Written
in her dignified hand was a hasty summons to Hogwarts, where Harry had apparently done something
extraordinarily stupid.

*“Your extreme discretion is advised in this matter. Speak to no one until arriving in my
office.”*

Needless to say, upon reading those words I dropped my tattered old copy of *Hogwarts, A
History* like it was on fire. I nearly flew to the fireplace, my hands shaking as I drew out the
Floo powder. McGonagall had written that she'd opened her fireplace to the Floo Network for the
moment—just enough time for me to arrive safely.

A moment later, I'd gathered my wand and my coat and had tossed the powder into the
fireplace. The green flames burst up and I felt the usual odd warmth as I stepped into them,
shouting, “McGonagall's office!”

Stumbling almost instantaneously out onto the cold stone floors I'd grown so accustomed to
in my years at Hogwarts, I immediately looked for my old professor. She stood in a far corner of
the room, facing the window, and did not move to acknowledge my presence. My heart fluttered
despairingly as I took in her appearance. It was unnaturally cold, her mouth set in a grim line and
her eyes dark.

Looking out over the grounds, she seemed to pass judgment over all before her. I prepared for
the worst, swallowing back tears. “Professor?” I queried.

“In all my time as a professor here,” she began slowly, still looking off in the direction of
Hagrid's hut, “I have never met anyone as prone to accident as Harry Potter.”

“What happened?” I was desperate to know.

McGonagall turned sharply to look at me, her eyes shrewd and black underneath her glasses. “He
was *consumed* by one of Professor Longbottom's plants!” she exclaimed, her nostrils
flaring. “The Galumphing Godel!”

“What!” My knees gave way. I sank helplessly to the floor, my head leaning back against the
stone wall.

“Yes, Mrs. *Weasley*,” she emphasized contemptuously. “And I'll thank you for allowing
your husband to suggest such a stunt in the first place! Why, if the healers hadn't been there,
we'd be telling a pregnant woman that her husband didn't have the good sense to live long
enough to support his children!” McGonagall was fuming. “To *think* that I have to contend
with such *nonsense* from fully grown adults! It's an outrage!”

I could only gape openmouthed at her. “Harry's alive?”

McGonagall nodded grimly.

“And Ron did *what?*”

“It doesn't matter,” she spat. “Follow me.”

With a swish of her robes, she brushed past me, descending the revolving steps and making a
beeline for the grounds. We arrived at Greenhouse Five almost immediately; it was still surrounded
with terrified first years and, unsurprisingly, a small pack of Daily Prophet reporters.

“Mrs. Weasley!” one called, stretching out his wand for better voice amplification. “What's
going on? Has he died? Is Mrs. Potter on her way?”

“Bugger off,” I replied, savoring the flabbergasted look on his features before the greenhouse
door slammed in his face. Being Ron's wife certainly had its advantages.

McGonagall led me to the far corner of the greenhouse, where a single mediwizard crouched next
to what appeared to be a large glob of pink goo. That is, until it moved.

I gasped, my stomach lurching. “Harry?”

He looked terrible and smelled even worse. He was absolutely covered, from head to toe, in what
can only be described as bubble gum pink goo. It wobbled worrisomely as he turned to look up at
me.

“Mmph,” he replied, his mouth ejecting a copious amount of the fluid.

McGonagall's eyes were nothing but slits. “Mr. Potter,” she hissed through her teeth.
“Hermione has agreed to attend to you. Perhaps she will be able to get some of this mess off, since
our scouring spells have had no effect.” She turned to leave with the mediwizard, but whirled back
around once again. “And I *will* be having a discussion with you, *in my office*, about
setting a better example for my students. Good day.” And with that, she was gone.

I sighed. Leave it to Harry to get himself stuck in a situation like this. “Hi Harry.”

“Mmph, Miomph.”

With a flick of my wand, I conjured up a washcloth. If scouring charms didn't work, then
maybe some good old muggle scrubbing would. After all, nothing worked better on my muddy little
Hugo.

“I thought you'd died,” I told Harry quietly as I set to work scrubbing. His eyes, nearly
hidden beneath the slime, glanced up at me in concern. “I suppose I should be relieved you
didn't.” The area around his mouth was nearly clear. “Open up.”

The slime oozed out, trickling down his chin. He coughed, the goo gurgling out his mouth until
he nearly choked. I tried to use the washcloth to scrub his tongue, but he pushed me away, leaving
globs of the gunk on my arm.

“Stop,” he spat, sending flecks of pink stuff airborne.

“Fine,” I agreed. “But let me keep digging through this mess on your face.”

He nodded and stopped trying to squirm away from me, but it was hard for me to concentrate on
getting him clean. For a fleeting moment when I was up in McGonagall's office, I had truly
thought my best friend had died. To have him so close to me just minutes later was a shock that I
was still recovering from. I wanted more than anything to throw my arms around his neck—to hold him
close and reaffirm that he was, in fact, alive and in the safety of my care. But for his sake, I
pushed those compulsions aside. Instead, I tried my hardest to put on a stern face and in the end
settled for lecturing him.

“Honestly, Harry,” I scolded as his crusty eyes looked up at me. “That was the most ridiculous,
the most worthless, the *stupidest* thing that you have ever done.”

I scrubbed harder at his forehead, leaving clean pink skin in my wake. He shifted uncomfortably
beneath me. “Why are you here, anyway?” he challenged, his face a horrid mixture of embarrassment
and anger.

“I was owled,” I sniffed, now picking out the sludge from his ears. “Ginny was out with the
kids, so here I am.”

“Lucky me,” he mumbled, glaring at the washcloth in my hand. “You know I can take care of
myself, right?”

“Of course you can,” I acknowledged. “But how would I have the pleasure of being angry at you
otherwise?”

“Right.” He allowed himself a grimace, clearly intending—and failing—to smile. He let me scrub
at him for a few more moments before saying more. “You probably think I'm an idiot, eh?” he
asked sheepishly, leaning back on one elbow and tilting his face up so I could clean his chin.

I sighed. I was leaning over him rather uncomfortably, struggling with the sticky pink mess, as
I formulated a reply. “Not an idiot,” I finally decided. “Decidedly stupid, maybe, but there's
still hope for you.”

He laughed despite his embarrassment. “That's promising,” he agreed.

“Didn't they cover carnivorous plants' digestive systems in Auror training?” I teased.
“I would have thought you'd know better than to get yourself eaten by one.”

He grumbled lowly. “I do this every year. It's always been fine.”

“Well, clearly the plants were sick of it.”

“Clearly,” he smiled in spite of himself.

I ran my washcloth over his eyebrows for good measure, brushing out the flakes of glop still
encrusted there. Almost done.

“Well, I've finally uncovered your face,” I announced. “Now, take off your shirt.”

~~~~~~~~

When Rose was born, Ron was out of town on assignment with his father's office. That day, I
had been tidying up around the house, humming an old tune I remembered from my days at Hogwarts,
when I went into labor. It was a cold winter morning, a Friday, and I knew that in my state of
panic I was in absolutely no condition to apparate or use the Floo Network. Panting in pain, I sank
helplessly onto the couch, clutching my stomach in terror.

Frantically, I tried to think of the spell for the talking Patronus. Nothing. Merlin, it was
like the time I'd been frozen by the sight of that troll in the girl's bathroom. I was
useless like this, a terrible excuse for a bloody witch. I moaned, feeling the baby kick.

It seemed like sheer luck when the loud *pop* of a wizard apparating filled my ears just
minutes later. I looked up, sweating and scared, to see Harry come around the corner from the
dining room.

“Hermione?” he gasped, rushing over to me.

“Harry,” I moaned, grasping at his shoulders. “Help!”

“Oh, God,” he whispered, reaching to pick me up. I saw a mild panic in his eyes as he looked
down at me, but it clouded over almost instantly. “Hang on,” he whispered, and I felt the familiar
pull of side-along apparition. In the work of a moment, he was settling me into a wheelchair in the
maternity ward of St. Mungo's and brushing back my hair reassuringly. “I'll call for Ginny
and owl Ron,” he promised, kissing my forehead. “And I'll be back in two minutes, I
promise.”

By the time he returned, the healers had gotten me onto a bed in the delivery room. He rushed to
my side, his fingers interlacing with mine. “Ginny's on her way over. She'll take my place
here if you want.”

“No,” I protested. “Stay, Harry. Please.”

His eyes burned down at me as he nodded in consent, squeezing my hand. “All right,” he
promised.

Hours later, Harry's strong hand was still clasped protectively around mine as I screamed in
pain. “It's ok,” he chanted softly in my ear. “It's ok. It's ok. We're going to do
this. It's ok.”

As promised, he never left my side, not once through all the hours of labor. And when the doctor
was ordering me to keep pushing and I was crushing his hand and screaming, he never once flinched,
instead brushing back my hair and whispering encouragement.

Then, when the first cries of my daughter finally reached our ears, he looked down at me with
such a triumphant smile on his face and such happiness in his eyes, I could hardly believe it was
just him—my best friend—standing there in the place of my husband.

Later, after the room had been cleared out and after Rose was cleaned up and returned to me, my
first visitor was Harry. He sidled through the door rather sheepishly, smiling uncertainly at me
from across the room. I was briefly afraid that he would think I was rather repulsive after
everything he'd just witnessed. I could feel my damp curls hanging limply around my face and
knew that I was undoubtedly still covered in a sheen of sweat, but as he neared I saw plainly the
smile twitching at the corners of his lips.

“How is she?” he asked, breaking into a full grin at the sight of the small bundle in my
arms.

I looked down at my daughter's wrinkly, red face and watched her blinking up at me.
“She's wonderful,” I breathed. I could hardly take my eyes from her.

Harry smiled warmly. “Can I hold her?”

Carefully, I let him pick Rose up and cradle her against his chest. His eyes were wide with
wonder as he rocked her slightly, supporting her tiny head with a hand. “Hi Rose,” he whispered.
“I'm Uncle Harry.”

“You're her godfather, too, Harry,” I added.

His grin made him look absolutely giddy. “I am?” he asked in wonder.

“Of course you are,” I laughed. “What else would you be?”

The smile faded suddenly at my words as he continued looking at his goddaughter. After a moment,
his eyes flicked to me, heavy with words unspoken. He held my gaze silently for just a second,
then—

“Oh, I don't know—the creepy old uncle always stopping by for dinner?” He was grinning
again, but his eyes were still dull, almost haunted.

I decided I was clearly imagining the whole thing.

“Well, you'll be that too, I'm sure,” I teased.

He passed Rose back to me and I found myself humming an old lullaby, one I vaguely remembered
from my own muggle childhood. Harry slowly began to quietly gather his coat and belongings,
preparing to leave.

“Thank you, Harry,” I said softly, interrupting the tune for a moment. “I don't know what I
would have done without you today.”

He smiled down at me and bent to kiss my forehead. My eyes fluttered closed at the feeling of
his lips on my skin. “You were amazing today,” he replied, his breath hot against my forehead.
“You're beautiful, you know.” His lips pressed against my temple once, then again, hesitating.
Then, as if it hadn't happened, he straightened and looked down at the baby in my arms.
“*She's* beautiful. And you're going to be a wonderful mother, Hermione.”

“Thank you, Harry.”

“Anytime.”

And, with a soft *click* of the door, he disappeared.

~~~~~~~~

“Take off my *what?*” Harry exclaimed, his eyes wide.

“Oh, come on,” I sighed. “We're both adults. And you're a mess!”

“Fine,” he grumbled, his fingers reaching down to undo the buttons. But he was still covered in
the slimy liquid and was struggling to make the buttons cooperate.

I reached out to him, brushing his hands aside. “Here, let me.”

Suddenly it was my hands that wouldn't work, *my* hands that shook as I slowly undid
each of the buttons on his shirt, trying so hard to focus on each one rather than look up at my
best friend. His breathing had hitched when I touched him, and I could feel his eyes blazing into
the top of my head, daring me to look at him.

Despite the gross pink slime, despite the smell, despite everything…I was attracted to him. I
silently hated myself for it, even as I shifted closer to his body, close enough to feel the heat
radiating from his skin.

I finished undoing the last button and he shrugged off the shirt, baring his chest. Finally, I
allowed my eyes to raise and was immediately shocked at the unrestrained passion in his gaze. I
gasped in spite of myself, frozen over his body on the floor of the greenhouse.

“Hermione,” he whispered, sitting up and cupping my face in his hand. I felt the sticky goo
attach itself to my skin.

“Harry,” I squeaked, helpless under his gaze.

Suddenly, a noise at the front of the greenhouse alerted us to someone's presence. I backed
away, putting as much distance between us as I could before—

“Oi, Harry! What mess are you in now?”

In his ignorance, Ron had walked right up to us and was now happily smiling down at his
adulterous friends.

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