Happy Birthday, Hermione

a/n: Here you go, Lord Vader – hope this will help. Please excuse me if it takes me several days to post all chapters. I wrote this (by hand) several months ago, but never put it on my computer, and quite frankly my keyboarding skills are rather pathetic. Oh yes – I don’t own these characters. That would be J.K.R.

Happy Birthday, Hermione Chap. One

Hermione Granger turned the key in the lock of the door to her flat, her senses automatically on the alert for the indicators that the protective wards had been breeched. Thankfully, as usual, everything was intact. She smiled, recalling Harry’s insistence on putting in place the multi-layered security measures, stating that if she were going to live alone, she at least needed to take extra precautions. Even though Voldemort was dead, gone nearly five months now, Harry kept reminding her that there was still plenty of danger in the world - both magical and muggle. He’d made the comment while helping her move in that if he was to sleep in relative peace at night, he would need to be extremely certain that she was safe. It was this offhanded comment that made her agree without much of a fuss. After seeing him endure years of nightmares and sleepless nights, the last thing Hermione wanted was to be the cause of Harry’s insomnia.

Hermione had chosen to walk home this day instead of apparating straight in as she normally did. It was a lovely day and she needed some “thinking” time. She entered the flat, closing the door behind her, noting the barely detectable sensation that was the wards re-setting. She kicked her shoes off, bending over to pick them up. A ball of ginger fur padded across the room and began winding around her feet.

“Hello, Crookshanks,” she crooned, bending once more in order to scratch behind the ears of her hirsute familiar. “At least there’s someone here to greet me.”

She straightened back up, taking her shoes and her weary body to her bedroom. Crookshanks returned to his perch on the back of Hermione’s sofa. She dropped her shoes by her bed, then dropped her body onto it, stretching languorously. Employing relaxation techniques, she tried to clear her mind – tried, unsuccessfully, to push recent events from her consciousness, but they wouldn’t budge.

Following the defeat of Voldemort, Hermione could have written her own ticket. Her reputation was impeccable, her brilliant mind in demand, the potential career opportunities almost limitless. Her need to prove herself, as well as her insatiable desire to learn, to uncover new information, led her to accept an internship in the Department of Research and Spell Development at the newly reorganized Ministry of Magic.

She had once upon a time confided to Ron and Harry that she never wanted to be accused of resting on her laurels. Ron had thrown his arm around her, chuckling, and told her that she worried too much. Harry had caught her eye, nodding his understanding, grinning as Hermione rolled her eyes. Ron could be so dense sometimes. At times, Hermione wondered what it was she saw in him.

Having finally acknowledged their attraction to each other, Ron and Hermione had given their relationship a try. Ron. Sweet, funny, affectionate Ron. So unlike Harry, who was so often distant and serious. But Ron was also jealous and possessive. He couldn’t let go of his feelings of inferiority. At first, things had been fine. Ron had tried hard to be sensitive and considerate, to please her. At first.

After Voldemort’s defeat, Ron seemed to overcompensate, becoming arrogant, boastful. He relished the attention and notoriety he was receiving. He couldn’t understand her desire to avoid the spotlight. And to top it all off, he began to take advantage of his newly found fame for personal benefit.

It became his obsession to play professional Quidditch. He tried out for and was handed a position with Puddlemere United – one that a number of people, including Harry and Hermione, felt he had not earned. They had supported him, knowing his fragile ego, and as George had rationalized, if someone was stupid enough to grant him the position because of who he was, whose fault was that? Hermione only hoped that he could live up to the expectations, both for the team’s sake and his own.

Quidditch meant travel, and Ron had wanted Hermione with him. He had made the assumption, wrongly so, that she would want the same. He’d been less than supportive of her decision to take the internship. He couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried, comprehend her independence, her need to achieve not for notoriety, but for personal satisfaction. He’d become possessive of her, of her attention, her time, as though at any moment she’d be taken from him – or leave him behind. Hermione had tried to be patient and tolerant, tried to reassure and bolster him, until she grew weary of trying – and failing – and finally stopped. Perhaps that had been exactly the issue: they were both having to try so hard to be what the other wanted, needed, that they’d worn themselves down.

Then Ron had begun to drop hints, pressure her. He’d begun making comments about marriage and family – and Hermione had balked. It had only been a few months, she’d reasoned, just a few months that they’d really been a couple, since the fall of Voldemort. They were all just beginning to settle in, to find themselves. For pete’s sake, they were only eighteen!

The last straw had been one evening when Ron had made it clear that his wife would not be a career woman,but would take care of home and family as his mother had; that as the man, he would be the bread winner. Hermione’s incensed response had been that he couldn’t possibly be considering her for that role if those were his expectations. This had led to a huge row, not their first, and the airing of all of their inherent differences. They’d split up a week later. That had been three days ago.

Hermione sighed. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she pulled herself up, stretched and yawned. She quickly shed her work clothes, exchanging them for a pair of sweats and a t-shirt.

“It’s not like I have anywhere to go tonight,” she mumbled.

Out of habit, she grabbed her wand, tucking it into the waistband of her pants, and proceeded to her small kitchenette. Several minutes later, hot cup of tea in hand, she settled herself on her sofa, legs tucked up to one side. Crookshanks raised his head momentarily, having made himself at home just over her right shoulder.

“Well, Crooks,” she stated, twisting her head so that she could see the orange feline. “It looks like it’s just you and me tonight.” The animal simply yawned disinterestedly.

Hermione chuckled. Picking up the remote and flicking on the telly, she began scrolling through the listings, resigned to another evening alone.

A/n: It’s been pointed out to me ( and rightly so) by a couple of reviewers that I went a little over the top with Ron. I’m not sure what my frame of mind was in when I wrote this. I generally like Ron (just not R/HR) and am usually more forgiving of his shortcomings. As I review this story while posting, I also realize that I’ve really rushed the time frame. As a result, I think I’ve made Harry and Hermione, possibly, a little OOC. Perhaps I wrote this about the time I found out that they were going to film the (gag) epilogue for Deathly Hallows. Anyway, for all of that, I apologize. That said, let’s get on with it.

Chapter two

Harry Potter made his way along the crowded sidewalk, dodging on-coming pedestrians deftly. He moved quickly, purposefully. He was a man on a mission. Spotting his first objective, he sidestepped around a woman with a small child in tow, darting through the doorway of a florist shop. He emerged several minutes later with a dozen cream-colored roses, their edges tinged with the palest pink.

He continued on for several blocks, until reaching his second objective. He spent even less time in this shop, leaving with a brown paper bag which concealed a bottle of fine chardonnay. His possessions, accompanied by the triumphant smile he now wore, drew the attention of more than a few passers-by. If he were able to read minds, Harry might have been surprised at the speculations and assumptions of his observers, for Harry himself had failed to realize the significance of the picture he portrayed.

He continued down the street for several more blocks, reaching a point where the crowd of pedestrians had thinned out significantly. He turned a corner onto a side street, and then another into an alleyway used by delivery vans. A quick visual survey confirmed that he was unobserved, and with a faint “pop”, he disapparated, appearing seconds later inside his own flat.

He placed the roses in a vase and set the wine to chilling. Then he doffed his clothes and hopped into the shower, after which he would prepare dinner. He wanted tonight to be special. Someone should make her feel special – because she deserved it, because she was. Damn Ron, anyway.

After the defeat of Voldemort, Harry had lost all previous interest in becoming an Auror, having tired of chasing down dark wizards. Being of sound financial means, he had decided to put his fortune to good use. The war had taken its toll on Diagon Alley. Many of the shops had been damaged, destroyed or abandoned. For those owners who wished to re-open, Harry was aiding them in securing low-interest loans from Gringotts, using his own fortune as collateral. In the case of three properties whose owners had declined re-opening, Harry had purchased them outright. He’d secured the necessary contractors, arranging to have the needed repairs and remodeling done. He then planned to hire his own personnel and re-open the shops with personally selected managers.

As Harry let the warm water flow over him, he recalled the events of earlier in the day.

Flashback – 10am

After checking on his endeavors and finding everything running smoothly, Harry had given himself the afternoon off. He’d been putting in twelve to fifteen hour days for over a week, between meetings with Gringotts loan officers, contractors, wholesalers and designers. He hadn’t seen or heard from Ron in at least that long, and his last contact with Hermione had been a brief and uninformative note he’d received by owl four days ago. He’d had a suspicion that something was off between Ron and Hermione the last time he’d seen them, but neither would speak of it. Hermione, in particular, was being unusually tight-lipped. It was time to catch up with his friends.

Harry’s first order of business had been to owl Ron. He’d tried to contact him at his team’s quarters a day earlier, only to find out that Ron was off for a week. Harry had owled his flat, but hadn’t received a reply. The other two logical places Ron would be staying were the Burrow – or Hermione’s place.

Harry quickly re-read his hastily scribbled note to Ron. He secured it with Hero, his newly acquired owl – a birthday gift from Ron and Hermione. Ron had teasingly called the bird “Hero” until Harry could come up with a suitable name, but the name had stuck, the bird seemed to like it, and Harry had thought it a fitting tribute to Hedwig. Harry gave the owl instructions to find Ron, wherever he was, and wait for a reply. The thought that Ron might be staying at Hermione’s flat seemed to make his stomach queasy, as though someone had kicked him in the gut. He wasn’t sure he was ready to find out that their relationship had gone that far.

Harry busied himself in Diagon Alley while waiting for Hero’s return. He replenished some office supplies, including quills and parchment, paid a visit to Eeylop’s for treats for Hero, and ended with a stop at Gringotts to replenish his cash supply. He obtained both wizard and muggle currency, for his next order of business was to surprise Hermione at work and take her to lunch, and he had no idea where they’d end up going.

By 11:30, there was still no sign of Hero. If Harry were going to meet Hermione, he would have to go soon or he’d miss her break time. After dropping his purchases at his office, he made his way to The Leaky Cauldron, using its floo connection to get to the Ministry. He exited the floo into an all too familiar atrium. After checking in at the security desk, he quickly made his way to the stairwell access to Hermione’s floor in order to avoid the crowds at the lifts, while doing his best to ignore the whispers and stares of curious onlookers. He would never get used to his celebrity status.

He made his way two levels down, his smile growing ever wider as he neared his destination. He stepped through the stairwell doorway, turning left in the familiar corridor toward Hermione’s department. He was hailed by several employees, who he’d come to know him on a more personal level due to his visits to Hermione. He usually made an appearance at least once a week to have lunch with her.

“Hello, Harry!” The enthusiastic greeting came from a middle-aged woman with a broad, genuine smile, by the name of Eileen Castle. She was one of Hermione’s supervising instructors. The woman had taken a special interest in Hermione, finding her particularly brilliant and hardworking, and not unlike her own daughter, who now lived in the States. Hermione, in turn, admired the woman’s knowledge, skill and talent – but it was her easy, friendly manner which had endeared her to both Hermione and Harry.

“You haven’t been around lately,” the woman continued. “I’ve missed seeing your handsome face.”

“And I’ve missed your beautiful smile,” Harry replied with a grin, eyes twinkling merrily. “Business has kept me away, I’m afraid. But not today!”

“Well that’s just grand! I’m sure Hermione will be even happier to see you. I believe she’s at her desk, compiling research notes. Harry, you make sure she has a nice, relaxing break. She’s already done a full days work and it’s only noon.”

“I’ll do just that, Eileen. Anything for you.” He gave her a wink, then continued on toward the office cubicles, but was still able to hear a comment from Eileen.

“That Harry – what a charmer.”

‘If only someone else thought so,’ Harry mused.

If Harry’s smile had been broad before, it widened even further when he caught sight of a certain bushy-haired, brown-eyed witch, who just happened to be his best friend and, if truth be told, the person he now considered most important in his life. He stopped where he was, watching her. She was so engrossed in what she was doing that she hadn’t yet realized he was standing there. Harry knew the look of concentration she currently wore as well as he knew his own reflection. He’d seen it nearly every day since they were eleven years old. Her brow was slightly creased; her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Her chocolate eyes, even from where he stood, positively sparkled with energy as she applied herself to the task at hand. Her chestnut hair, which she’d had moderate success in taming over the years, was pulled back into a loose ponytail. She always wore it up or pulled back at work. Harry preferred it loose, hanging around her shoulders in thick, silky waves.

Harry continued to watch her; watched her small hand dip the quill it was holding into the inkwell, then return it to the parchment spread on her desk. He watched her hand glide across the paper, leaving behind purple-black characters, each gracefully, perfectly formed.

Hermione stopped writing, pursing her lips. She began tapping the tip of the quill rapidly on a blotter next to her parchment, a sure sign that she was pondering something intently. Harry couldn’t help the low chuckle that escaped his throat.

“Everything all right there, Miss Granger?”

For one split second she froze, not having been aware that he was there. Then, in one fluid – and remarkably rapid – motion, she dropped the quill, pushed back from her desk and leapt at Harry, who had himself halved the distance between them.

“Harry!” she cried, landing in his arms, her own wrapping tightly around his neck in classic Hermione fashion. “I’m so happy to see you.”

“Hello, Hermione. I’m happy to see you, too.”

A/n: So, thanks to my ancient computer, I had to end the last chapter before I intended to, or risk losing everything. Then life intervened, and I wasn’t able to go back and finish, so I ended up posting it as it was. Therefore, this chapter, which will be rather short, is actually the rest of the last one. It’s really all I’ll have time for today anyway. Sorry.

Thanks to all those who have left reviews. I appreciate both constructive criticism and encouragement. And once again, it all belongs to JKR.

Chapter three

(continue flashback)

“Hello, Hermione. I’m happy to see you, too”

As she continued to hold on to him, longer and harder than was customary even for the two best friends, Harry became suspicious. Something in her voice and demeanor left little doubt in his mind that something was wrong. For now, he was more that content to hold on to her, if that’s what she needed. He’d find out the underlying cause later, when she was ready.

Several moments later, she pulled away enough to look up at him. Her smile was genuine, but her eyes confirmed his suspicions. Something was troubling her, though she tried to hide it from him. He pretended not to notice, knowing she would tell him when the time was right. He did, however, give her an extra reassuring squeeze.

“To what do I owe this honor, Mr. Potter?” she asked, grinning.

Harry stepped back in mock offense.

“What? I have to have a reason to visit my best friend?”

“Well, when said ‘best friend’ hasn’t seen her best friend in nearly two weeks….”

“Okay, okay,” he cut her off, grinning. “About that – I’m really sorry….”

This time, she cut him off.

“It’s okay, Harry,” she chuckled. “I’m just teasing. I know you’ve been busy. I hear you’ve been up to your ears in contractors and paperwork.”

“I have – but how did you know?”

She moved closer to him, meeting his eyes with a rather smug look.

“I work for the Ministry, Harry,” she stated in a husky voice. “I have spies.”

“Spies. Have you been spying on me, Miss Granger?”

“Not personally, but I do have my sources. Someone has to keep an eye on you, Potter.”

“You’ve always done that, Hermione. You’re the reason I’ve survived.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Harry. You….”

He shushed her with a finger to her lips.

“As much as I’m enjoying this delightful banter, if we continue, your lunch break will be over and you’re going to be one very hungry witch.”

“And I don’t suppose it would have anything to do with your appetite?”

“I have the rest of the day off. I can eat anytime. My concern is solely for you. So – shall we?” He swept his arm out, indicating that they should leave.

“I’ll get my things,” Hermione smiled.

As Harry waited for Hermione to get her belongings, a message soared through the air, stopping in front of him. A disembodied voice addressed him.

“Mr. Potter, this owl was just delivered for you.”

Harry grabbed the paper from mid-air. The only thing written on the outside was his name, in very familiar handwriting. He grinned as he opened it, perusing it quickly.

Harry,

Sorry, mate. I know I should have contacted you, but I haven’t exactly been in the most sociable mood. I should have told you myself, but I’m sure Hermione’s told you everything by now. I’m at the Burrow now, got here last night.

Ron

Harry looked up from the note as Hermione rejoined him.

“What’s this mean?” he asked, handing her the note. Hermione scanned it, then heaved a sigh.

“Let’s go somewhere private, Harry. There are too many ears here.”

Harry nodded. He had a deeling that he was about to find out what was troubling her – and that it had something to do with Ron.

Chapter four

Harry and Hermione quickly decided on a small, nearby café, a particular favorite of theirs. After finding a table in a quiet corner, Harry discreetly cast a silencing charm around them to ensure their privacy. He waited until they’d placed their orders before bringing up the Ron issue.

“So,” he began, “what’s up with Ron? I tried to contact him through the club, but they told me he had a week off – which, by the way, he didn’t bother telling me about.”

Hermione could hear an undertone of both annoyance and disappointment in Harry’s voice.

“Harry,” she replied. “Ron wasn’t merely on vacation. It was a disciplinary action. I expect he’s been too embarrassed to tell you.”

“Disciplinary action?” Harry looked puzzled. This seemed a little extreme, even for Ron. “What did he do?”

“Apparently, he got into a fight with the team captain. Ron said that the bloke was goading him, that he just wouldn’t keep his mouth shut, but…well…Ron swung first.”

Harry scowled. “I know Ron can be a little hot-headed at times, but it’s not like him to use force – except defensively.” He saw Hermione drop her eyes, a sign that she was holding something back. He continued cautiously.

“So… did he say what it was that this bloke said that set him off?”

“Not really – just that the guy was making rude remarks that he had no business making. He was ‘talking trash’ as Ron put it.”

“About?” Hermione remained silent, her eyes downcast.

“Hermione,” Harry prodded gently.

“I don’t know for certain,” she answered. “Ron wouldn’t come right out and say. But I think it may have had something to do with…me – or more precisely, my parentage. It seems that a couple of Ron’s teammates are pureblood supremacists and…well….”

Harry clenched his fists.

“I can’t believe, after everything we’ve been through….” he hissed, eyes blazing.

Hermione placed a hand over his in a calming gesture.

“Harry, surely you didn’t expect prejudices to just disappear simply because Voldemort’s gone? I didn’t. And besides, I can’t help wondering if Ron was deliberately being provoked. A lot of his teammates weren’t happy when he got the position. Maybe they were trying to get him removed. It doesn’t take much to get him riled up these days. And you know how protective he gets,” she added softly.

In her eyes, Harry caught a glimpse of sadness – and something else. Before he could comment further on the matter, their waiter came with their orders. As they settled in with their meal, Harry picked up the conversation, though with a slight shift in focus.

“I haven’t been able to reach Ron at his flat, and his note said that he just arrived at the Burrow last night. Has he been staying with you?”

‘Nice, Potter,’ he silently chastised himself. ‘That was subtle.’

“Why would he be staying with me?” she said rather sharply.

Harry winced at the tension in her voice. He was certain he’d offended her, or at least overstepped his bounds. But he plowed ahead.

“Well … you have … sort of been seeing each other and….”

“I don’t know where he’s been,” she snapped. She exhaled, then continued softly. “Harry … Ron and I split up.”

“What! When? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Three days ago. I haven’t heard from him since. And I … I guess I haven’t felt like talking much, either. You know I don’t deal well with failure.” She flashed him a brief, wry smile. “I haven’t even told my mum and dad yet. And I suppose I made the same assumption Ron did – that he would have told you. Obviously, I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“I would have been here for you, Hermione. We are friends.”

“Ron’s your friend also, Harry. And how would it look if I ran straight to you? You know what people would say. And you know how jealous Ron gets. I don’t want to cause a problem between you two.”

“To hell with what other people would think. And Ron gets how it is with you and me. He wouldn’t mind.”

‘He minds much more that you think, Harry,’ she said to herself.

“Maybe,” she sighed. Once again, for just a moment, she let her guard down. For just a moment, Harry could see the emotions she continued to try to hide from him. It wasn’t only heartache and a sense of failure, but also guilt. And now he knew the cause. Harry reached across the table, covering her small hand with his.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. He left more than enough money on the table to cover their bill and a generous tip. He knew Hermione was a bit off when she didn’t protest. She always insisted on paying her way.

Taking her by the hand, he led her from the café, maneuvering her across the street and down the block to a small park. He placed his arm around her shoulders as they ambled leisurely along a paved walkway, neither saying a word. He held her snugly against his side, and she was grateful. She welcomed the comfort, the human contact, especially from him. Eventually, they found a vacant park bench and sat down.

Hermione heaved a sigh, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Harry mimicked her posture. She wanted to talk - he was sure of it. But she seemed unsure of how to start: another sign that she wasn’t herself.

Harry wasn’t good at this sort of thing. He was the ‘keep it all inside’ type. But he was determined to support her; in whatever way she needed, just as she’d always done for him. Now if he could just figure out how to start.

“So,” he began hesitantly. “You think it’s for good then – the split?”

She nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” she said, barely above a whisper. Harry waited, watching her out of the corner of his eye, but she said nothing more.

‘God, I really suck at this,’ Harry thought to himself.

“Hermione, I….”

He was cut off when she suddenly turned to him, pure anguish evident in her eyes.

“Harry, what if Ron and I … what if this ruins everything … the three of us? I couldn’t….” She was close to tears.

“Hermione, it’ll be okay. We’ll be okay. We’ll work it out, just like we always have.”

Harry wrapped his arms around her. She slid hers around his torso, letting him pull her close, tucking her head into the side of his chest. He began gently rubbing his hand up and down her arm.

“Hey – at least there’s no one trying to kill us anymore,” Harry deadpanned.

“That was so not funny, Harry,” she insisted, though she couldn’t help a slight smile.

Within a short time, an elderly couple strolled by them, arm in arm. They both smiled at the pair on the bench, then at each other.

“How sweet,” the woman crooned. As they moved past the young pair, the gentleman turned around.

“There’s a good lad,” he stated, patting Harry’s shoulder, then moving on with his wife.

Seconds later, Harry began to feel movement from Hermione. At first he thought she was trembling, then realized she was giggling, which set him to doing the same. Once she was sure the elderly couple was out of hearing range, she looked up at Harry. That was all it took. Laughter burst forth from both of them, no longer able to be contained. They laughed freely for several minutes, a perfect catharsis, before finally regaining control.

“I really should get back to work,” Hermione stated, still grinning.

“I guess you’re right,” Harry sighed dramatically. “It wouldn’t do to have Eileen angry with me.”

“Oh no, we couldn’t have that,” Hermione retorted, rolling her eyes. Harry simply laughed, standing and pulling her to her feet. She gazed up at him, all traces of angst gone from her beguiling brown eyes – at least for now.

“Thank you, Harry.”

“But I haven’t really done anything,” he insisted in a gentle tone.

“You’ve done exactly the right things,” she answered, enveloping him in one of her trademark hugs.

Present

Harry shook his head. He had no idea how long he’d been standing under the shower spray, lost in thought – the last of which had left him grinning madly – but the water was significantly cooler. He did know that he couldn’t shake the image of Hermione in the park: of her smile, of those eyes as she gazed up at him – and he didn’t want to. Nor could he forget what he’d felt at that moment and what he’d wanted to do. He’d desperately wanted to kiss her. He’d wanted to kiss his best friend – who’d just broken up with his other best friend. What kind of a prat was he?

“Aaggh!” he groaned, turning off the water and stepping out of the shower. He needed to forget about it, forget about his feelings, especially for tonight. Tonight was about Hermione, about her feelings.

“You’re screwed, Potter,” he thought aloud. “And you still have dinner to make.”

Resume flashback

They walked together, back to the Ministry, stopping outside the public entrance. He usually left her here. Accompanying her inside simply drew more attention; more whispers and pointing fingers.

“So, do you have any plans for tonight?” Harry asked her.

“Just a nice, quiet evening at home,” she replied.

“Not even a chat with your mum and dad?”

Hermione shook her head. “I was just there this past weekend – before … everything. Anyway, they’re in Brussels at a conference. They’re staying on through the weekend to enjoy the city.”

“I see,” Harry acknowledged. “Sure you wouldn’t like some company?”

“You’re very sweet, Harry, and I know you’re worried about me, but I’m fine – really. I’m a big girl. I’ll owl you tomorrow. We can make plans for the weekend.”

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to be okay with that,” Harry sulked, dropping his head and feigning a pout. Hermione chuckled.

“Thank you, Harry. For lunch and the company.” She rose up, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Anytime, Hermione.” He waited for her to enter the Ministry before walking away, still not comfortable with the idea of her spending yet another evening alone.

Harry decided to walk for a while, rather than apparate directly back to Diagon Alley. He was enjoying the fresh air, plus he needed some time just to think. His personal life was in a state of upheaval, and showing no signs of calming down anytime soon. In fact, it looked as though it could get worse before it got better.

First, there’d been Ginny. He’d realized soon after the war had ended that he had no desire to resume his relationship with her. During the war, she’d been all he could think about. But something had changed; he’d changed. They’d tried, but something didn’t fit right anymore, so he’d broken things off. An air of tension was still evident whenever he was at the Burrow, so he tended to avoid it

Then there was Hermione. He didn’t know when or how he’d fallen for his female best friend. He assumed it had been a long, subtle process, and that he’d been too stupid, blind or preoccupied to notice. When he’d finally realized – well – that bit of his subconscious had exploded to the forefront like a supernova. But it had come too late. She was with Ron. So he’d become quite the actor, burying that part of himself, and deftly playing the role of devoted best friend. Oddly enough, there were times when he had the feeling that Ron suspected that there was something more. He almost seemed to watch the two of them warily.

Ron. Harry wasn’t sure exactly where he stood right now on his feelings toward his best mate. He was frequently annoyed and frustrated with Ron’s behavior. He was angry with him for the pain he’d caused Hermione; yet he’d also defended her, at a potentially high personal cost. Harry wanted their friendship to remain intact, but he supposed that what happened next between he and Ron would be determined by Ron.

Harry was startled out of his musings by the screeching of automobile tires and the furious trumpeting of the horn of the same vehicle. Angry shouts and gestures were exchanged between the occupants of that and a second vehicle.

Harry laughed nervously, realizing how fortunate he was that he hadn’t been the cause of a similar incident. He’d just crossed several intersections without being consciously aware that he had. He found that fact a bit unnerving, deciding he’d do well to keep his mind focused on what he was doing.

As he waited to cross yet another intersection, he glanced down at a muggle newspaper box. His eyes wandered the page, taking in the headlines, then coming to rest on the date – September 19^th.

Harry groaned, slapping his hand to his forehead.

“I’m such an idiot,” he moaned aloud, causing several nearby pedestrians to eye him curiously. One middle-aged gentleman chuckled knowingly.

The traffic signals changed, and Harry started across the street with the aforementioned group of pedestrians. As he groaned and mumbled to himself, several were beginning to wonder if he were seriously disturbed. The middle-aged man, however, turned sympathetic eyes to Harry.

“Something to do with a girl, I’d wager,” he observed, grinning. Harry nodded.

“A girl who may very well hate me right now.” The man laughed, continuing on his way. Harry continued berating himself aloud.

“She must be thinking … God only knows what she must be thinking! She’s either going to be super angry or terribly hurt. How could I be so stupid? And what….”

It was at that very moment that Harry came up with his plan – one that he would later consider to be a stroke of genius – and began to put it into action.

“A ‘nice, quiet evening at home’ … alone on your birthday? I think not, Miss Granger!”

A/n: First of all – thanks again to everyone leaving reviews. They are greatly appreciated. Secondly – sorry about the formatting issues in the last chapter. My original doc. wasn’t like that. I’ve heard that text misalignments can happen, but I’ve never had it happen before. And thirdly – I may have taken just a little bit of liberty with the workings of the Floo system in this chapter.

Once again, I own nothing. Now – on to dinner.

Chapter five

Hermione sat up abruptly, wand in hand before she was fully awake. She’d not intended to doze off, but her eyes had grown continually heavier until she’d finally given in.

Now, however, she was fully alert, scanning the room for whatever had thrown her senses into overdrive. A single second later she’d identified the source; a pale green glow from her fireplace indicated that someone was waiting for clearance to floo in. Another second gave her the identity of her visitor – Harry Potter.

‘I told you I was fine, Harry,’ she thought to herself, smiling warmly at his tenacity.

“Come on through, Harry,” she called out, wand still in hand.

A moment later, her fireplace radiated a bright green, and Harry stepped out easily, only slightly sooty for his efforts.

“Scourgify,” Hermione uttered, flicking her wand, removing all traces of Harry’s ‘trip’. Harry noted the wand in her hand, and the fact that she’d already had it out when he arrived.

“Very good, Hermione; ‘constant vigilance’. Good to know you listened to Moody.”

“I happen to be the one who always listened, if you remember correctly.”

“Very true,” Harry grinned. “But it puts my mind at ease knowing you still practice what he preached. Sorry if I startled you, by the way.”

“It’s all right. I’d just dozed off. What are you doing here, Harry? And by the way, don’t you look….”

“Charming?” he interjected. “That’s what Eileen thinks of me.”

Hermione ignored his smug grin, even as she eyed the rest of him appreciatively. He was dressed quite sharply, wearing a gray dress shirt and black slacks – which, Hermione noted, were quite a nice fit.

“What do you want, Harry?” she asked with mock annoyance, though she couldn’t help thinking that he looked incredibly sexy.

She quickly averted her gaze, feeling her cheeks flush at the notion that she’d just been thinking of Harry as sexy. She sincerely hoped that Harry hadn’t noticed her ogling him, and that he hadn’t seen her blush. In fact, he had, but he didn’t let on. He realized that it had embarrassed her, and that if he wanted this evening to go the way he’d planned, calling her on it would be counterproductive. He couldn’t, however, stop the slight swelling of his chest.

“What I want, Miss Granger, is for you to come with me.” As he spoke, he took several strides toward her, taking her hands and pulling her up from the sofa.

“Harry, I told you I’m not….”

“I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer,” he stated, cutting off her protest. “You are coming with me.”

But, Harry, I….”

“Hermioneeee,” he whined, giving her a look remarkably like that of a lost puppy.

“Oh, all right!” She relented with mock irritation. “But don’t whine, Harry. It makes you seem like a spoiled child.”

“It worked though, didn’t it.” He grinned triumphantly. Hermione stuck her tongue out at him.

“Now who’s acting like a child?’ he challenged.

“Do you want me to come with you, or not?” she huffed, hands on her hips.

“Okay, okay. Truce!” he chuckled. He stepped close to her, staring intently into her eyes, which Hermione found suddenly and inexplicably unnerving. “Yes, Miss Granger, I would like the pleasure of your company. Now, if at all possible.”

“O…okay. But I can’t go like this when y…you look so….”

“Dashing?”

“… and I look so….”

“Gorgeous, as usual.”

“Harry!”

“Okay, okay. I’ll wait while you change.”

“But I don’t even know what to wear. Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“All right, then. Ummm – you know that black dress that you wore to the Ministry Victory thingy?”

She nodded.

“Wear that one.”

“Okay, Harry, whatever you say,” she sighed. “Why that one, if I might ask?”

“Because I like it,” he grinned. ‘Or more precisely,’ he thought, ‘I like you in it.’

“Give me ten minutes,” Hermione called over her shoulder, already moving toward her bedroom.

She was back in less than that, wearing the requested dress, hair pulled up and clipped in a loose twist, and carrying a pair of black heels in her hand. She quickly slipped them on. Harry couldn’t help but notice the way the dress hugged her figure, the heels accentuating her slender, shapely legs.

“Stunning!” was the only coherent word he could spit out. Hermione blushed under his approving gaze.

“Thanks, Harry,” she replied shyly. She took a deep breath, then stepped directly in front of him.

“Now Potter, what’s this all about?”

“You’re about to find out, Granger.” He pulled her close to him. She drew in a breath as she felt his hands slide to her waist.

“Hang on tight.” And with a slight twist, they disapperated.

When they reappeared, Hermione recognized instantly that they were in Harry’s flat. It took her several seconds longer, however, to realize why – and to recognize the significance for her.

Her eyes scanned her surroundings: from a candle-lit table set for two, to the bottle of wine chilling on the sideboard, to a vase of the most beautiful roses she’d ever seen, complete with a card with her name on it. With tear-filled eyes, she turned back to Harry, who still held on to her, finding herself unable to speak.

“Happy Birthday, Hermione,” he stated softly.

“Harry….” Was all she managed to gasp.

“You can’t be alone on your birthday.”

Those same tears spilled down her cheeks, but it was her brilliant that had Harry mesmerized. Hermione threw her arms around him, hugging him so tightly that he was finding it difficult to breathe. She released him all too quickly, for he would have gladly passed out from lack of oxygen just to continue feeling her pressed against him.

“No one has ever done anything like this for me before,” she breathed, hands resting lightly on Harry’s chest.

“Well, they should have. I … should have … a long time ago,” he stated earnestly, his own hands gently clutching her slender shoulders, his eyes locked on hers.

Hermione suddenly dropped her eyes to escape his intense gaze. Sensing her discomfort, Harry stepped back from her.

“Dinner will be ready soon,” he said, a forced lilt to his voice. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

“That would be great,” she answered, smiling. ‘Maybe it will help calm my nerves,’ she thought, trying to comprehend why she was suddenly so edgy around Harry.

While Harry worked at removing the cork from the wine bottle, Hermione meandered around the room. She glanced at the elegantly set table, then moved to the roses.

“Harry, these are beautiful! Thank you!”

“I’m glad you like them,” he acknowledged. “Funny thing – they’re not what I went in for. I know you don’t usually go for roses, but – I don’t know – something about them made me think of you. They just seemed right.”

“They’re perfect, Harry, they truly are,” she declared, her genuine delight evident in her voice and smile. She lifted the card, reading the handwritten note.

Hermione,

No one should be alone for their birthday. Tonight is for you. You deserve so much more.

Love, Harry

Hermione felt an overwhelming flood of emotion. She turned abruptly, biting back the protest that was forming on her lips. Harry was there, mere inches separating them. There was something in his eyes that drove whatever she’d been about to say completely out of her head. She felt as though her insides were turning to liquid, and the only coherent thought she could muster was, ‘Oh my God!’

“I have your wine,” he murmured, slipping the glass in to her hand without breaking eye contact.

“Th… thank you,” she managed to sputter, unable to tear her eyes from Harry’s. She watched the corners of his mouth turn up in the slightest of smiles, and for the second time in less than an hour, Hermione found herself applying the term “sexy” to her best friend.

Startled and overwhelmed by what she was experiencing, Hermione took a step backwards. At the same moment, a timer buzzed, saving her from the awkwardness she was feeling.

“That would be dinner,” Harry stated, turning and heading to the kitchen.

Hermione closed her eyes, taking a deep breath in an attempt to clear her head. She felt confused and threatened, as if some external force was attempting to overpower her. Hermione Granger had to regain control, be in charge of her own psyche. She felt a compelling need to dispel the intensity of the last few minutes.

“Whatever we’re having smells wonderful,” she called. “You’ve certainly been full of surprises tonight.”

“And the night is young,” Harry retorted with a chuckle, relief washing over him. She sounded as though she’d recovered. He’d been kicking himself soundly for letting his emotions show so openly. He’d obviously taken her by surprise and propelled her out of her comfort zone. He’d sworn before the evening began that he wouldn’t let that happen, that he’d keep his feelings in check. He’d been doing it for months now. Why, tonight, was he finding it so bloody hard?

Hermione sipped her wine, smiling in delight as she recognized it as her favorite. She glanced at the bottle for confirmation. My God, he was getting everything right! At that moment, Harry stepped next to her, grinning playfully.

“M’lady,” he quipped, offering her his arm. He escorted her to table, pulling out her chair and seating her in true chivalrous fashion.

“Be right back,” he winked. Moments later he returned bearing a tray from which drifted the most mouth-watering scents. Hermione was delighted to discover that dinner consisted of her favorite seafood pasta, along with steamed vegetables and fresh parmesan breadsticks.

Their dinner conversation consisted of light-hearted reminiscing. All topics were confined to their school days – before the dark times, before the war. That subject remained, for the time being, off limits; an unspoken agreement among the trio. It was still too fresh, the losses too recent, the pain too raw.

When they’d finished eating, Harry cleared away the remains. He made quick work of the cleanup using spellwork, not wishing to waste any of Hermione’s evening doing dishes by hand.

Deciding they were too full at the moment for dessert, they opted to have it later, though Harry refused to tell Hermione what “it” was. For the moment, each opted for a glass of wine, settling in side by side on Harry’s sofa. Harry toed his shoes off, propping his feet on the coffee table in front of them. Hermione soon followed suit.

Harry found himself admiring her slender legs; the long expanse of smooth, soft skin that he wanted so badly to touch.

Hermione dropped her head against the back of the sofa, closing her eyes.

“Mmm, this is nice, Harry,” she murmured, causing him to shift his attention.

He took in her features, smiling appreciatively at the beauty she’d become: her long, full eyelashes, the curve of her brow, the slight up-turn of her nose, with its faint smattering of freckles. His eyes traced the slope of her cheek to her delicate chin. Her flawless complexion was creamy, her lips a soft pink.

Harry smiled, suddenly realizing what had drawn him to the roses, exactly why they’d made him think of her. He continued to stare at her, aware that at any moment she might open her eyes and catch him, yet unable to turn away.

“Ron’s a fool,” he uttered, unaware that he’d spoken aloud. Hermione opened her eyes, raising her head.

“Why?”

“What?”

“You said ‘Ron’s a fool’. Why?” Hermione queried.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to say it out loud. But he is. He’s an idiot for breaking things off with you.”

Hermione frowned.

“He didn’t break it off, Harry – we both did. It was mutual.” She dropped her eyes and her voice. “If anything, I was the one who pushed it.”

Harry took her hand in his, squeezing it lightly.

“Are you really okay?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “I am. It’s a relief, actually – in a way.” She flashed him a quick, sad smile. “That sounds awful, doesn’t it.”

“I understand,” he assured her. This time her smile was one of gratitude.

“So what went wrong?” he asked. “Besides Ron turning into a complete arse.”

“Harry, will you stop putting it all on Ron!
I’m at fault too, you know.”

“Okay, okay,” he grinned. “But he’s still an arse. So what did go wrong?”

“Huh,” Hermione grunted. “What didn’t? Honestly? If I’m really truthful with myself, it was probably wrong from the start.”

“Then why?” Harry began. “I mean, I knew Ron fancied you as far back as fourth year. And later, well – it seemed as though you fancied him. Though you two did seem to fight all the time,” he added, grinning. Hermione grew thoughtful for a moment.

“Ron was there … and he fancied me. For once I didn’t feel … overlooked.”

Harry experienced a pang of remorse.

“Are you saying you … settled?”

“No! Not really. He really could be sweet and funny and … and, I don’t know. Maybe he was what I needed at the time. It seemed easy when we started. But now, looking back, I’m not sure it was ever right.” Hermione sighed, dropping her head to her hands. “I think we’re just two very different people. We have very different expectations – for our lives and from a partner. I’m just glad it’s over.” She gasped, realizing what she had just said.

“Oh, Harry! Please don’t think ill of me. I really did love him in a way … just not the right way. Oh God, when I say it now it all sounds so wrong.”

“Hermione, I’d never think ill of you. So it was wrong. Better that you realized it early on, before it turned into a disaster. I’ve had a couple of wrongs too, you know. It seems to me we’re no different than anyone else. I mean, technically, aren’t all relationships wrong, until you find the one that’s right?”

“I suppose. It all sounds perfectly logical when you say it like that. I just … I’ve been feeling so guilty, especially when I think about the fact that I might be the reason Ron got suspended. I feel like such a horrible person.”

“Hermione, even if that is the reason Ron got into the fight, it’s nothing different than any of us would have done – have done – for anyone. That doesn’t mean you should stay together if you’re not happy.”

“I guess not. You’re right; I know you’re right.” She paused reflectively.

“Do you know what the last thing was that Ron said to me before he left? He said that my heart had never truly belonged to him – that I’d always held it for someone else.”

Harry looked away, not wanting to ask the question, yet unable to stop himself.

“Who? I mean … was he speaking in generalities or what>”

“I asked him that. His answer was that I had to figure it out, and until I did I would never be happy.” Now it was Harry who turned thoughtful, his musings broken by Hermione’s next comment.

“I guess we’ve trounced Molly Weasley’s plans for one, big, happy family, haven’t we,” she observed, flashing a wry smile.

“Yeah, I suppose we have. I think she’s still pissed at me for not getting back together with Ginny. In fact, I think she’s more upset than Ginny.”

Hermione was well aware of Harry’s reasons for not rekindling his relationship with the youngest Weasley. He’d confided in her on several occasions. His list of reasons for not getting back together with her continued to grow, while his ‘reasons to’ list remained at – two.

“ ‘She’s pretty’ and ‘a good snog’ ?” Hermione had questioned, eyebrows raised.

“See what I mean,” Harry had stated. “Not exactly the best foundation for a relationship, is it?”

In reality, Harry had simply discovered that he was a changed person; he no longer felt the attraction for Ginny that he once had.

“We tried, Ginny and I. We tried to get back what we had – but it’s gone. There’s a part of me I can’t share with her. I think she wants her hero, ‘The Chosen One’, and I want to – I need to – put it all behind me.”

Hermione placed a comforting hand on Harry’s arm, hearing the sadness and disappointment in his voice. She knew that one of Harry’s insecurities was that he’d never find someone who loved him for himself – not for his fame, image, or wealth.

He turned, meeting her eyes, placing his own hand over hers. Slowly but surely, a smile found its way to his lips.

“What a piece of work the two of us are, eh?”

Hermione gave him a warm smile in return. It was taking everything within Harry’s power to fight the urge to kiss her.

“What do you say, Birthday Girl, ready for that dessert?”

He was answered with a quick nod and another dazzling smile. Harry stood, uncharacteristically pulling her up and into a hug in one seamless move. He held her tightly, as though afraid she would disappear. Sensing his need for comfort, Hermione tightened her hold on him, all the while thinking how good, how natural it felt to be in Harry’s arms – and that thought slightly unnerved her.

“What would I do without you, Hermione?’ Harry breathed.

“You’d be totally lost,” she quipped.

“That I would,” he chuckled, releasing her reluctantly. He headed to the kitchen to obtain her mysterious dessert. She stayed as he’d left her, as if frozen.

“So would I,” she thought aloud, a myriad of conflicting thoughts and emotions coursing through her head.

A/n: Sorry it’s taken so long to get this up. I had family visiting for over a week, so very little spare time. Then, while putting it on my computer, I decided to rewrite parts of this chapter. I realized that there were things I knew in my head that needed clarifying in the text. Just this chapter and the epilogue left.

Chapter six

Hermione was still standing, motionless, completely lost in thought, when Harry returned carrying a tray laden with two ceramic dishes. She honestly couldn’t have said whether he’d been gone two minutes or two hours. He placed the tray on the coffee table, grinning at her.

“Hermione?” he queried, seeing her vacant expression. Her eyes snapped to meet his. “Are you all right?”

“Sorry,” she breathed, “Just thinking.”

“Well, see what you think of this,” he grinned, indicating the tray on the table. Hermione glanced down. It took her only a moment to surmise what the ceramic ware held.

“Is that crème brulee?” she squealed. “But….” She stopped, giving Harry a puzzled look. He shrugged.

“I remembered a time when you were telling me about being on holiday with your mum and dad, when you were a little girl. You mentioned having tried crème brulee, and how much you’d liked it. You said that you’d always wanted to try it again sometime to see if it was as good as you’d remembered, but you hadn’t had the opportunity.”

She nodded. “I remember.”

“Well … Happy Sometime, Hermione!” he grinned. She simply stared at him in awe.

“I can’t believe you remembered that,” she finally stated. Harry shrugged.

“Come on then, Birthday Girl – tuck in.”

Hermione sat down on the sofa, picking up one of the dishes and a spoon. Harry anxiously watched her facial expression as she sampled the creamy confection. He experienced a brief, sinking feeling when her brow crinkled.

“Harry,” she began seriously, but couldn’t maintain the ruse. Seeing the expression on Harry’s face, she broke into giggles.

“It’s amazing, Harry,” she gushed.

Harry let out the breath he’d been holding.

“That was cruel, Granger,” he insisted. Grinning madly, he joined her on the sofa, quickly snatching up his own dish and sampling the dessert.

“Mm, not bad,” he observed.

“It really is wonderful, Harry,” Hermione proclaimed. “Just like you,” she added, leaning toward him and kissing his cheek. Her simple gesture of thanks sent a wave of heat coursing through Harry, threatening to melt his resolve. He couldn’t let that happen, not yet.

So he began to talk – about anything and everything – and she immediately joined in. They finished the crème brulee, setting their empty dishes on the tray, and continued talking. He asked about her parents and her research. She asked about his new business ventures. They talked about Hagrid, Hogwarts, and the latest antics of their familiars. Eventually, the conversation came around to the Weasleys, and inevitably, to Ron and Ginny.

“It did seem to happen rather quickly,” Hermione observed in response to a comment Harry had just made regarding Ginny. “I mean, she’d even come to me several times for advice on how to get you to notice her, because you never seemed to; and then suddenly it was as if someone lit a fire under you.”

“When I think about it now, it does seem rather odd,” Harry mused. “It really did seem like – all of the sudden – she was all I could think about. I mean, I know that all I wanted at the time was an escape; something that made me feel normal – and Ginny did that – quite well. But at the same time, I think … I don’t know. It felt weird – almost as if….”

“What, Harry?” He was gazing into space, pondering something.

“No – she would never.”

“Harry?” Her tone conveyed concern as well as inquiry.

“Well, it’s just … it didn’t feel real; almost like being under the effects of a spell … or something.”

“Harry. You’re not thinking that Ginny used a love potion on you.”

“No. Of course not. She wouldn’t have. Would she?”

“No,” Hermione insisted. “No. Of course she wouldn’t.” She paused for a moment, considering. “You don’t really think….”

“No,” Harry stated, shaking his head. But his eyes were filled with uncertainty. “Would she?”

Hermione didn’t offer a reply as she contemplated the idea. Her brow furrowed as her teeth caught her lower lip, causing Harry to smile fondly.

“That was about the same time Fred and George started carrying them in their shop. But surely they would have known….”

“You would think so,” Harry stated.

“And Professor Slughorn did brew that batch for class – but how would Ginny get it?” Harry didn’t respond, but was now frowning.

Hermione continued. “Well … obviously, if she did use something, she must have stopped. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been able to break up with her after … when you did.” Harry knew exactly what she had avoided saying.

“Right,” he agreed quickly. “The obsession would have been too strong. And I did figure out that Ginny’s not the girl for me, so … no harm done, right?” Hermione nodded.

“Right. At least there weren’t any real consequences. You didn’t end up married; she didn’t end up pregnant or anything.”

“Bloody hell, Hermione! Where did that come from? We never even had….” He stopped, noting the rather apologetic yet satisfied look on her face.

“Hermione Granger, that was just a sneaky way of finding out whether or not Ginny and I had sex.” Inwardly, Harry was as amused as he was surprised.

“Oh, don’t act so smug, Harry,” she smirked. “You were trying to find out the very same thing this morning with your ‘has he been staying with you’ question.”

Harry shrugged sheepishly, turning so that she couldn’t see his own guilty grin. They remained silent for several minutes, an obvious tension between them.

“Well,” Hermione finally ventured, “Aren’t you going to ask me?”

“Ask you what?”

“About Ron and me – whether or not we….”

“Hermione, I wouldn’t….”

“We didn’t,” she quickly stated, cutting him off. “He wanted to, but I … well….” She dropped her eyes, self-consciously picking at the hem of her dress.

“I’ll bet that went over really well with Ron,” Harry noted.

“It was a considerable point of contention.” Beside her, she felt Harry tense.

“Hermione, did he … he didn’t try to….”

“No!” she insisted quickly. “If he had, I’d have kicked his arse to the Burrow and turned him over to Molly.” Harry chuckled appreciatively.

“God, I can’t believe I’m sitting here discussing my sex life – or lack there of – with you,” Hermione declared, her cheeks coloring. Harry slipped his arm around her shoulders.

“We’ve pretty much always been able to talk about anything,” Harry observed. “We may choose not to - and we definitely don’t always agree,” he stressed with a grin. “But if a subject comes up, we can.”

“That’s true,” Hermione concurred, dropping her head to rest against his shoulder.

“I never could with Ginny,” he stated softly. He’d begun inadvertently trailing his fingertips ever so lightly up and down her arm. Several minutes passed in a comfortable silence. It was Hermione who finally broke it.

“Harry. Thank you – for everything, all of this, tonight. It’s the nicest birthday I’ve ever had.”

“I’m glad,” Harry acknowledged. “I wanted it to be special for you. And … I want you to know how sorry I am.”

“For what?”

“For before – all those years at school.”

“I’m not following you, Harry,” Hermione admitted.

Harry sighed. “I hope I can explain without sounding like a total idiot.”

Hermione gave him a gentle, encouraging smile.

“You may not believe this, but – all those years at school, well – I remember a lot of things you said to me. You’d probably be surprised at how much. It’s because of you that I wasn’t killed or at least in serious trouble more times than I can count – beyond all the trouble I did manage. I know it probably never seemed as though I was paying any attention, but I was.”

“Well … sometimes it did seem that way,” she stated softly. “Though I can hardly blame you. I was rather insufferable at times.”

Harry smiled. “Hermione, please. This is my apology here. Anyway, the thing is – at the time I was more worried about Ron taking the piss out of me for listening to you, or about my own need to be right, than I was about how you might have been feeling. Some best friend I was. You’ll never know how sorry I am for that.” He shifted, turning so that he was facing her, taking her hand in his.

“God, Hermione, how often did we take you for granted … or ignore you or make you feel unappreciated? How many times did we ever remember your birthday?”

“It doesn’t matter, Harry,” she declared softly, dropping her eyes, knowing there was a certain painful truth in those memories, but not wanting Harry to see it. He gently lifted her chin, forcing her eyes back to his.

“We … I … must have hurt you so many times; yet you stayed with me, kept forgiving me. You’re a far better person than I am, Hermione Granger. I didn’t deserve your friendship, your loyalty, your … anything. But I won’t let that happen again. I don’t want you to feel overlooked ever again.”

Hermione’s eyes closed in response to Harry’s touch as he gently caressed her cheek, brushing away a single escaping tear. She was completely overwhelmed by his heartfelt confession, as well as by her own tumultuous emotions. She was taken aback by the sensations she was experiencing, by her body’s reaction to Harry’s touch.

To herself, she would admit there was some truth to Harry’s words; she’d been hurt by Harry and Ron on numerous occasions, been brushed aside. But she’d put it behind her, largely due to the fact that her two best friends had been teenage boys – not exactly the most sensitive of creatures – and that they’d all been under tremendous pressure. She treasured the relationship the three of them had developed.

Her thoughts turned once more to all of the things Harry had done for her tonight; the little things he knew about her that she never would have guessed, things he had to have picked up simply through casual observation, when Ron still hadn’t figured out that yellow roses were his mum’s favorite, not hers.

Harry seemed to know her so well; she supposed she’d always been aware of that. Why, tonight, did she find that to be so unsettling? Tonight had also brought forth a new - or perhaps, renewed – awareness on her part; something she’d considered once upon a time, but had long ago given up as a childish fantasy. Now, however, looking into Harry’s eyes, she had to know.

“Harry,” she breathed. “Tonight, all of this … what’s it really about?”

Now it was Harry’s turn to be taken aback, though he shouldn’t have been. She’d always been perceptive, especially where he was concerned. Now, the question was, was he ready to take the risk – to answer her truthfully?

No.

“It’s about you not being alone on your birthday,” was his reply to her.

‘Coward,’ was his silent self-reproach.

He stood, completely missing Hermione’s fleeting expression of confusion and disappointment. He pulled his wand; with a subtle flick, soft music began to play.

“Care to dance, Birthday Girl?” He held his hand out to her. She took it, forcing a smile, allowing him to pull her to her feet and into his arms. Still holding her hand in his, Harry slid his other around her waist, as hers found his shoulder. He could feel a slight tension in her touch, but as they moved in time to the music she began to relax. Minutes later, she raised her eyes to meet his with a curious smile.

“I have to confess, Harry – based on the whole Yule Ball thing – I’ve never thought of you as a dancer.”

He grinned back at her. “Well, you know … it has everything to do with my partner.” Before she could respond, he dipped her playfully. She squealed in surprise, which he responded to with a satisfied chuckle.

When he pulled her back up, he drew her in closer; their joined hands were now pressed between them, his hold on her waist now firmer. Hermione yielded, letting her body ease against his, resting her cheek against his chest as they continued to sway to the music’s tempo. Harry reveled in the way they fit together, moved together so easily, perfectly.

“So how come I don’t recall ever seeing you dance before?” Hermione murmured against his chest. “With the exception of the Ball, of course.”

“Here, in private, with you – this is okay. Actually, it’s way more than okay,” he grinned. “But the whole out in public, on display for everyone to see thing – that’s a bit of an issue.”

“Ron had a problem with that, too. He was so self-conscious; but believe it or not, he’s actually a good dancer,” she revealed. Harry caught a note of melancholy in her voice.

“Are you sorry you and he broke up?” he asked softly. He had to know what she was feeling, where she stood, even though her answer could potentially break him.

“I’m sorry things went the way they did,” she began. “But Ron and I … I just don’t think we’re meant to be anything more than what we were – that first love. I just hope we can still be friends.”

“Hmm, ‘meant to be’, eh,” Harry pondered. “Sounds remarkably similar to ‘fate’. This from the girl who dropped Divination,” he teased.”

“That was a bogus class, and you know it,” she grinned, swatting him playfully. “But I admit, over the years I have had to reconsider a number of things I believed.”

“Do my ears deceive me? Could it be – Hermione Granger – admitting to thinking outside the box?”

She laughed. “Let’s just say that I’m far more open to considering alternate possibilities than I used to be.”

“And does this enlightened philosophy extend to relationships as well?” Harry asked hopefully.

Ready.

“I don’t know – I guess so. Why?”

Set.

‘There’s your opening, Potter,’ he thought. ‘Now grow a pair and take it.’

Jump.

Harry took a deep breath.

“Hermione,” he began hesitantly. “Did you ever think about us – you and me? Did you ever wonder why we never gave it a go?”

“Umm, I guess – yeah, I suppose I have, once or twice. I mean, I expect it’s only natural to - right? But it always seemed like….” She hesitated, unsure of what to say. She averted her eyes nervously, suddenly aware that Harry had taken her hands in his.

“Like what?” he prompted.

“Well … we’re best friends. You’ve never … I mean, that’s how we see each other … right?”

“What if it’s not right? What if … we could be more?”

Hermione raised her eyes to meet his, seeing in them an intensity that made her heart race.

“What is it that you want, Harry?” she breathed, now aware of his thumbs stroking the backs of her hands.

“You.”

His right hand found its way to her neck, his thumb caressing her cheek. Hermione’s breath hitched; her eyes closed as she felt Harry drawing her to him, knowing full well what was about to happen. Her entire being flushed with warmth when his lips met hers. The pressure was light at first, cautious, increasing as Harry gained in confidence and need, became more demanding.

Hermione found herself responding, giving in to his demands, then making her own. Her hands found Harry’s chest, sliding up to his shoulders, finally making their way around his neck.

Her response to him only fueled his need; he needed to touch her, feel her, taste her. His tongue traced her lips, which instantly parted for him. His hands seemed to have a mind of their own as they began to explore her, gliding over the silky skin of her slender arms, the graceful curve of her neck, her back, shoulders – anywhere he could find.

He planted feather-light kisses along her jaw line; he nuzzled the hollow of her neck, eliciting a gasp when his tongue found a sensitive spot beneath her ear. Harry grinned at her reaction, finding it exhilarating. He felt as if he were soaring far above the earth. The joy he was feeling when kissing her, touching her, was beyond anything he’d ever imagined.

As his lips and tongue traced her collarbone, he felt her arch toward him, her breasts pressing against his chest. Harry felt his blood pooling southward; felt the tell-tale tightening of his trousers, and wondered if she was aware of the effect she was having on him.

An instant later, something changed. He felt her tense, pull back from him – as much on an emotional as physical level.

“Harry, what are we doing?” she asked breathily.

“I believe it’s called kissing,” he quipped, continuing to explore her neck and shoulders with his mouth.

“Not funny, Harry. I mean it!”

He pulled back enough to find her eyes.

“I’m doing something I’ve wanted to for quite some time,” he asserted, feeling suddenly dejected. The passion and desire he’d felt from her only moments earlier, had been replaced by sadness, doubt and guilt, now reflected in the chocolate pools gazing back at him.

“I can’t … I shouldn’t,” she stammered. “What about Ron? “It’s only been a few days.”

“Has it?” Harry challenged. “Or has it rally been weeks – or even longer?”

“But how will he feel if….”

“Don’t, Hermione. Don’t use Ron as an excuse. If you truly don’t feel this, if this doesn’t feel right to you, then I’ll have to accept that. But don’t back away because of Ron. I think you know in your heart this is right. Don’t turn away from what you and I might have because things weren’t right with Ron. He had his chance. Now I want mine.”

Harry held her gaze, desperately trying to convey what he was feeling. His hands cupped her face; one thumb lightly traced her lips.

“Hermione.” He whispered her name as if it were the most precious word ever spoken. “We can take things as slowly as you want. I won’t hurt you.”

Hermione felt a tear well in each eye as she leaned into Harry’s hand, bringing her own up to cover his. He swore he could see the shadow of guilt and doubt melting from her eyes, to be replaced by a glint of hope – and something more. As he leaned in to kiss her once more, she met him. This kiss was gentle, searching, two souls exploring a possibility. Harry’s arms enfolded her, pulling her firmly against him; hers wound once again around his neck.

When they parted, Harry drew back, searching her eyes. He was rewarded with her radiant smile. He pulled her into a bone-crushing hug, releasing her with a throaty chuckle. Hermione made no attempt to control the tears now spilling down her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around Harry’s torso, pressing her face into his chest as he began to gently rock her. He kissed her forehead, the end of her nose, then each cheek.

“Happy Birthday, Hermione.”

He maneuvered her to the sofa, settling in to the corner, pulling her against him. She wriggled around until she was snuggled comfortably into his side, her head resting on his chest. Harry held her right hand in his. His left arm was around her shoulders, his fingers lightly stroking her arm. She tipped her head so that she could see his face.

Harry,” she began hesitantly, “I want … I do need….”

“To take things slowly,” he finished for her. Her eyes conveyed mild surprise. “I understand. I do know you fairly well,” he teased, grinning.

“So I’ve learned.” She returned his smile, then let her head fall back to his chest.

“Just tell me what you want, Hermione,” he whispered. “I’ll do anything.”

“I just want the same thing you do, Harry – someone who’ll love me as I am. That’s all.”

“That’s easy. I already do.”

They remained as they were for quite some time, neither finding the need to speak, content to be in each other’s arms. Eventually, a yawn from Hermione broke the stillness.

“Getting sleepy?” Harry asked softly.

“Mmhm. I think it might have something to do with four glasses of wine.”

“Or it could just be that it’s getting late. I suppose I should take you home.”

She turned heavy-lidded eyes to his, slowly shaking her head.

“I’m good right here, for now,” she stated softly. “If it’s okay with you.”

Harry’s response was to squeeze her tightly. At that moment, he thought life was just about perfect.

Sometime later, Harry felt Hermione’s breathing slow, even out, and he realized she’d fallen asleep. He smiled warmly, having no desire to disturb her. The thought crossed his mind that if they remained this way all night, they would both probably be stiff and achy in the morning, but at the moment he couldn’t care less. Letting his head fall against the back of the sofa, he soon followed.

Neither of them awoke when, some thirty minutes later, a pale green glow emanated from Harry’s fireplace, and a familiar voice called out.

“Harry – are you there, Mate? Do you know where Hermione is?” Seconds later, Ron Weasley stepped from Harry’s floo connection, a single yellow rose clutched in his hand. “I went by her flat but she wasn’t … oh.”

He stopped, staring at the sight before him; the sleeping pair snuggled together quite intimately. A quick visual survey told him enough of the story. Ron flushed red, feeling his body tense. His initial reaction was a wave of anger, jealousy and inadequacy.

He took a deep breath; determined, for once, not to let his emotions get the better of him. He wanted to. He wanted to accuse them of cheating on him; but he knew they hadn’t. He wanted to hate Harry, resent him for once again besting him; but he couldn’t. Ron suspected that Harry had harbored feelings for Hermione for a long time, possibly as far back as the “she’s like a sister” incident. But if he did, he’d stepped aside; hadn’t acted on them. Harry’d never tried to undermine Ron and Hermione’s relationship. Ron knew he’d done that all by himself.

Ron wasn’t sure why everything was always so difficult between he and Hermione; he guessed they were just two very different people, with opposing expectations. He didn’t doubt Hermione; he knew she had been sincere about their relationship. It wasn’t until they’d ended things that he, for once, had recognized something she had not.

“I see you figured it out,” he stated softly, his eyes focused on the girl wrapped in his best mate’s arms. “Well done.”

This wasn’t over. It would take time for him to get over the hurt and anger he was feeling, and it wouldn’t be easy. But as terrible as he felt right now, he couldn’t imagine his life without the two of them. It would take time and effort to mend the relationship between the three of them, but he owed that much to them – and to himself. They needed each other; they always had.

He stood there, simply watching them, for several minutes. With a heavy sigh, he quietly slipped back into the floo, leaving behind on the coffee table, a single yellow rose.

A/n: So this is it. Thanks to all who have given this a chance and especially to anyone who has left a review. I’ve tried to respond to at least some of them, as I could. If you didn’t like this fic, I’d still appreciate a review to let me know why. Constructive criticism is how we all improve.

JKR owns it all, but it’s fun to be allowed to play with it.

Epilogue

Harry Potter truly, completely and without a doubt believed he was the luckiest man on the face of the Earth. True, he had battled a maniacal killer; one of the most powerful and feared dark wizards the magical world had ever seen. Not only had he survived, but also had completely destroyed the foul creature, ensuring that that particular evil would never arise again.

But that wasn’t the source of Harry’s elation. No, the true reason that Harry counted himself so fortunate was currently straddling his lap, engaging him in a heated battle of tongues. This woman – this incredible, brilliant, beautiful witch – had shown him more love and more passion than he’d ever have believed possible.

Here she was now, her knees on either side of his thighs, her hips pressing enticingly against his ever-hardening groin. The oh-so-sexy black dress she was wearing had ridden dangerously high on her thighs, his hands following its retreat along the smooth, silky expanse of skin.

Harry still found it hard to believe that she was here, three years to the day from that fateful, wonderful, glorious birthday night, and that she loved him – adored him, by her own words. He knew he worshipped her.

It had not all been smooth sailing; they both had their insecurities. Things had gotten particularly rough as their relationship was revealed to certain others. They’d managed to work things out with Ron. It had taken awhile, been a bumpy road, but they’d done it; and the rest had finally come around, too – for the most part. Time had a way of changing perspectives.

The specifics from that first birthday night were becoming a tradition, per Hermione’s request. They stayed in, just the two of them. Harry cooked dinner for her, surprising her each time with a new entrée. But everything else stayed the same; same wine, same crème brulee, same pink and cream roses. Those very same roses had now become her favorite – but only on her birthday, and only from Harry.

And of course, the same sexy black dress. That had been Harry’s contribution; his one request. Hermione had been quick to point out that she couldn’t wear the same dress forever, so his one stipulation had been that he be allowed to the select all replacements.

That very dress, that thin piece of black material, along with the unbelievably sexy witch wearing it, was about to be his undoing. Slowly, the amount of Hermione covered by that dress was decreasing – too slowly, agonizingly slowly. He gasped as her fingers, which had managed to find their way beneath his shirt, lightly pinched his nipple. He moaned as she moved her hips slightly, increasing the pressure on his expanding erection.

“Evil wench!” he growled, sliding his hands to her back, finding the zipper of that maddening dress. He drew it down, mesmerized as he watched it fall away from her, the straps sliding down her arms.

“Would you like me to stop?” she purred coyly.

“No! Yes. Not really … but if you don’t … we’ll never make it … to the rest of your birthday presents,” Harry managed to gasp, nearly breathless from her ministrations.

“Harry, you’ve done too much already,” she sighed. “Besides, I believe I recall telling you that the only present I ever needed from you, Mr. Potter, was for you to love me. Just love me.”

Harry smiled warmly, his eyes filled with passion and love as he pulled her to him, wrapping her in his arms.

“With pleasure, Mrs. Potter,” he breathed. “Forever, with pleasure.”

He managed to stand up, Hermione wrapping her legs around his waist as he did. He moved toward their bedroom, praying he would make it before she pushed him over the edge.

“I love you, Harry,” Hermione proclaimed softly.

“I love you, too, Hermione,” he declared. “Happy Birthday.”

- end -