For Love

Bingblot

Rating: PG
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 13/08/2003
Last Updated: 13/08/2003
Status: completed

In which a promise, a decision, and a choice are made, all for love. Harry must decide what's most important to him.

Chapters

1. untitled

1. untitled

Default Normal Default 2 0 2003-08-13T19:48:00Z 2003-08-13T19:48:00Z 5 3449 19662 163 39 24146 9.3821

Disclaimer: Nope, the HP universe still doesn’t belong to me. I’m just borrowing JK Rowling’s creation.

A/N: For Gil, Nicole, Erin, thephotoman and Anne U. *glomps*

Harry Potter was having a bad day.

It had actually started the night before when he’d had the brilliant bad judgment to decide to drink a full bottle of wine in an attempt to sleep peacefully. He’d woken up feeling as if there was a group of very large, very angry trolls in his head battering his skull with their clubs.

And then because of his own aching head, he’d decided against Apparating, since splinching himself did not rank high on his list of things he wanted to do and had driven instead, where he’d gotten stuck in a traffic jam caused by an accident on the motorway just outside London, which had made him late for work.

All in all, he had not been in the best of moods when he arrived at the Ministry and his office only to remember that Liza, the witch who usually handled the files of the Aurors, had the day off and had been forced to spend the entire morning pawing through what must have been thousands of files only to find what he was looking for beneath some other papers on his less than immaculate desk.

And now this. Could his day get any worse?

Just across the room from him was his former best friend, his ex-girlfriend. He winced at the term. His ex-girlfriend. It still seemed so wrong to think of Hermione as his ex; even after 5 months, 19 days, 17 hours and 26 minutes, he couldn’t get accustomed to it.

Hermione was sitting less than 10 yards away from him, deep in conversation with another man he didn’t know. He could tell from the way she was gesturing, the way she held herself, that she was completely comfortable with this man, that she cared about him. And even as he watched, the man reached over and took his Hermione’s hand on the table, squeezing it.

He stared, willing himself to be imagining this. He pinched himself, hard, and winced at the pain. No, he wasn’t dreaming then. This wasn’t his worst nightmare. It was real. It was truly happening. His Hermione had moved on and found someone else.

Harry was brought out of his daze of disbelief and pain when he heard a voice say in his ear, “Harry Potter, sir!”

He started and turned to stare at a waiter that had materialized next to him, bowing so low, Harry was automatically reminded of Dobby.

“Can I help you, sir? Would you like a table?”

He quickly shook his head, glanced at Hermione and the stranger again, before turning on his heel and walking out.

Harry stared unseeingly out the window, not seeing the afternoon sunlight streaming in, not seeing the buildings across the street, only seeing that moment that afternoon when his world had fallen apart.

He saw it happening again and again, the man reaching out across the table and squeezing Hermione’s hand and Hermione letting him.

Today hadn’t been the first time he’d seen Hermione since the break-up. He’d seen her twice when Ron and then Ginny had decided to trick them into meeting face to face to sort out their differences.

The first time he’d arrived at the restaurant, expecting to see only Ron, seen Hermione and stopped dead. After giving Ron a speaking glare during which Ron had winced and felt a brief surge of pity for any Death Eater who was on the receiving end of Harry’s fury, Harry had Disapparated without another glance.

The second time Ginny had invited him over to her flat to have dinner. He hadn’t seen Hermione until he got to the living room and he’d turned on his heel to walk out, since Ginny’s flat didn’t allow Apparating or Disapparating, only to have Ginny stop him with a well-placed Leg-locker Curse. He’d cast her a fulminating glare from the floor, mentally telling himself he’d been an idiot for ever teaching her that particular jinx in the DA, when Hermione had saved him the trouble by walking out herself, leaving him to stare at her retreating feet before the door closed behind her with what was definitely a slam.

Ginny had released him from the jinx and then proceeded to tell him plainly what she thought of his behavior. “Harry, I’ve known you for ten years now, you’re like another brother to me, and you saved my life and I’m thankful for that.” She had paused before continuing more briskly. “That said, Harry, I think you’re being a complete and total idiot, the world’s biggest prat, too pigheaded to acknowledge what’s right in front of your nose, and you’re breaking your heart and Hermione’s heart in the process.”

He’d said nothing in response, just gave her a look which she ignored as she continued. “Harry, I know you love Hermione. You can’t deny it. You’ve always loved her.”

He’d opened his mouth to say something, what he didn’t know since he knew he couldn’t deny that he loved Hermione and always had. He couldn’t deny his love anymore than he could deny his own identity. Finally he just retorted, “You wouldn’t understand.”

She rolled her eyes and gave him an exasperated look. “Try me.”

Their gazes had clashed for a while before he’d closed his eyes and sighed, suddenly feeling intensely weary of this. He had the same argument with himself nearly every day. “Look, Ginny, I appreciate your trying to help but this is really between Hermione and me. Stay out of it. I know you mean well but you can’t help. Trust me, the problem is beyond your ability to solve.”

Now, nearly three months afterwards, Harry snorted at his own words. The problem was definitely beyond Ginny’s ability to solve, considering the problem was just who he was and what that meant for him and anyone he loved.

He had made a promise to himself, to Sirius, that he would never again allow anyone else to be hurt because of his own foolishness. He looked down at his left hand, where he’d cut himself, a small curved scar to remind him, as if he could ever forget. He had made a vow that no matter what, he would do whatever he had to do to ensure that no one was hurt because of him.

And then it had happened.

He supposed it was ironic that what had just been supposed to be a routine stake-out of some wizards with known Dark tendencies had been the start of what would be the most painful months of his entire life, the hardest decision he’d ever had to make.

There had been two of them talking softly to themselves and he had listened for a while before understanding what they were talking about and then he’d had to use every ounce of self control he’d ever learned to keep from killing the two wizards on the spot. Thankfully they’d said enough to give him sufficient reason to toss them into a high security cell that very evening to await trial but he had not been able to feel relieved.

He was angry, no, absolutely furious, at himself for not realizing, at them for daring to plan such a thing and talk about it so coolly as if their plot, if it had been successful, wouldn’t have absolutely devastated him, leaving him completely hollow, a shell of a man, no help to anyone let alone the Wizarding world, if he survived at all. He was furious at the Fates or whoever it was that had decided his destiny.

He was angry but he was also absolutely terrified.

He couldn’t forget, would never forget, how he’d felt when he realized that he was listening to a coldblooded and admittedly cunning plan to kidnap none other than Hermione Granger, his Hermione, for the purpose of using her to get to him.

It had been a series of coincidences, luck and chance that had led to his being at this site listening to this conversation and he shuddered, feeling his heart nearly stop just at the thought of how close the plan had been to actually succeeding.

And he’d realized, fully, that his love for Hermione, his relationship with her, made Hermione as much of a target as he himself was. He had fought the decision, argued with himself for days, telling himself Hermione would be safe, that she was protected (which was true, the risk hadn’t been completely unforeseen by either of them), that he would die to protect her. And then he had realized that no matter the protection, there was always going to be the danger, the risk, the random occurrences of life that could effectively stymie any protection plan, short of having Hermione go into hiding for the rest of her life, which was hardly a plausible or a realistic solution.

Even after so many years, when he closed his eyes, he could still see Sirius as he fell through the veil in the Ministry, hear his own voice screaming Sirius’s name, could still remember the helplessness, the emptiness of missing him. Hardly a day went by that he didn’t think of his godfather, feeling again and again the guilt that it had been his fault. And Sirius had only been his friend and godfather for 2 years.

Hermione had been his best friend for ten years now. It wasn’t just that he loved her, which he did, that he was in love with her, which he was. It was that she had always been with him from the first moment he was introduced to his world, the Wizarding world. Hermione was everything to him, friend, girlfriend, lover, soulmate. If something happened to her because of her association with him, he knew he’d never be able to forgive himself or live with himself. It would kill him.

More than anything else, he needed to know she was safe. Hermione had been the only constant presence in his life for the past ten years; through all the dangers, all the deaths, Hermione had been with him, supporting him, helping him, believing in him. He needed her, had always needed her. He needed to know that Hermione was safe, alive and well, to be able to function, whether he saw her or not. He needed her. It was as simple as that.

It had been this that had finally brought him to his decision. A decision that had taken more than a week of arguing with himself to reach, a decision that had broken his heart and, what was infinitely worse and more painful to him, broken hers as well.

Harry sat back, closed his eyes and remembered that last day.

Hermione opened the door to her flat with one hand, her other hand using her wand to levitate two bags full of food inside.

It was dim inside, as the lights hadn’t been turned on and Hermione flipped on the light switch, starting a little when she saw a head of familiar unruly black hair over the back of the sofa.

“Oh, good, Harry, you’re here. I brought take-away from that Chinese place down the street, I hope you’re hungry. What’s the matter, why haven’t you turned on the lights before now? Harry?” Her voice as she said his name was questioning, curious, as he hadn’t made any sign that he’d heard her, hadn’t turned his head or gotten up to help her with her bags, hadn’t greeted her with his usual kiss.

She frowned slightly but shrugged it off, knowing Harry had occasional bouts when he was silent, after a particularly difficult day at work or something. With a flick of her wand, she sent the take-away boxes to land neatly on the coffee table in front of Harry, joining him on the couch.

“Hermione, we have to talk.” His voice was stiff, as if he’d been planning out his words and was reciting them from memory, which was in fact the case.

She kept her voice purposely light. “About what?”

He closed his eyes for a second and squared his shoulders unconsciously. “This. Us. Hermione, I can’t do this anymore.”

She gasped and flinched. “What? Harry, why? I don’t—I don’t think I understand.” She fought to keep her voice steady as she met his eyes as they turned to look at her directly for the first time.

“I mean that I don’t think I really love you, Hermione.” Liar! A voice shrieked inside his head, even as his mind was oddly detached, noting the pain in Hermione’s eyes almost dispassionately. He was grateful for the welcome numbness; otherwise he knew he would never be able to go through with this. Every fiber of his being was rebelling against the outright lie he’d just told Hermione even as he told himself that it was necessary, right even, the only thing he could do.

Hermione didn’t say anything, just looked at him and Harry steeled himself to continue. “You’re too bossy, you always think you know what’s best for everyone. Even today, turning on the lights, getting Chinese takeaway, because you felt like it. You assume that I’ll be fine with whatever you decide.” He heard his voice as if from far away as they said these horrible, awful lies that were wounding her. He felt as if he were outside his own body, watching as someone else said these hateful things, blowing everything out of proportion and turning actions that meant nothing on their head to attack her with.

At least his baseless lies got a reaction that he almost welcomed in his rather masochistic detached state of mind. Her carriage got stiff, her eyes flashed even through the tears. “That’s not true! And you’ve certainly never complained about it before! How many times have I saved your skin, because I knew more than you did? And if I do, I do it because I care about you; I always have—” her voice broke and she angrily swiped at a tear, before continuing heatedly, glaring at him. “That has got to be the most unjust, ungrateful thing you’ve ever said to me, Harry James Potter! How could you—how you could—”

He cut her off before she could continue. “That’s just it, Hermione. I don’t think we’re that well suited to be anything more than just friends. I’m sorry. Goodbye, Hermione.”

Harry winced at the memory, feeling the familiar flood of self-loathing at the memory of the horrible lies he’d told Hermione, in his own desperation to keep her safe, to convince her to end things.

It had taken every bit of courage he’d ever possessed to go through with his plan, to say things he would have rather cut his own tongue out than said even in his worst nightmares, things he’d never even thought, let alone thought of saying.

His worst nightmares… His entire life had been a living nightmare since that night he’d walked out of Hermione’s flat. He felt dead inside, living by rote, missing her so much it felt as if he’d lost a limb, more than one.

But she was safe. And that was what mattered.

The belief did nothing to ease his own sense of guilt, his misery, the increasingly hard time he was having to even go to work when all the time, he couldn’t help but think that if it hadn’t been for his work, he would never have had to go through this.

Maybe it had been necessary but that was damnably poor consolation for the knowledge that he’d just thrown away happiness with both hands.

It was her birthday today.

Some birthday, alone in her flat, having refused any entreaties to be taken out to dinner, although Ron, Ginny, her own parents, and David too, had offered. She didn’t feel like celebrating. What did it matter that she was a year older now? She fought the growing feeling of numbness inside her. She would be fine. Her life was perfectly full and busy, even if she was alone. She had her work. Her family. Her friends. She still loved her work, had been working longer and longer hours these past few months, frequently bringing work home with her as she ate her solitary dinners. Her parents had been unwaveringly sympathetic and supportive. Ron, Ginny, and the other Weasleys, Neville, Luna, everyone had been kind to her, avoiding any mention of Harry.

Harry. She wondered, as she always did, how he was, whether he was happier without her, whether he thought of her. Harry had been the most important person in her life since the day she met him and Ron on the Hogwarts Express more than ten years ago. These past months had been the longest since she’d met him that they hadn’t talked and oh, but she missed him so much.

She missed his smile, missed the sound of his laugh. Missed the way he had of making her calm down by just a touch of his hand on her arm. Missed his sense of humor, how he could always make her laugh. Missed how he understood her, that connection they’d always had, even as kids, how they could communicate without words. She missed Harry…

Hermione curled up on her couch, trying to ignore the ache in her heart that thinking about Harry always brought.

There was a knock on her door. Frowning, she went to open her door, wondering who it could be.

And then wondered for the first time in her life if she had completely gone mental and was hallucinating.

Harry. It was Harry. The same hair that looked like he’d tried to comb it with a broom, green eyes behind those round glasses…

And then he spoke and she knew that it really was him and she hadn’t just imagined it because she’d been missing him so much. “Hello, Hermione.”

She found her voice, stepping back from the door allowing him to enter. “Harry,” she said, her voice not quite steady. “It’s- it’s good to see you.”

Harry fell onto the couch, looking drained. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes for a moment, while she studied him in silence. She could see that he hadn’t been sleeping much and wondered if it was only work or something else that had been keeping him up.

Finally he opened his eyes and looked at her. “Who is he?” he asked, without preamble.

Hermione blinked and stared at him, utterly nonplussed and completely confused by this abrupt question. “Who is who?”

Harry let out a shaky sigh. “I saw you with him on Monday at lunchtime in the Avalon. Who is he? You looked-” he broke off and grimaced as if in pain at the very thought of it, before continuing, “close. You- you let him hold your hand. Do you love him?”

Understanding dawned upon Hermione, understanding mixed with a thrill of hope. Harry was upset and he was jealous. He hadn’t said anything about it; his tone could have been the curiosity of any friend, but she knew it. Knew it as she had always somehow known what he was thinking and feeling since they’d first met each other.

“Oh Harry, no. It’s not like that between David and me. He’s my cousin. You’ve heard me talk about him; I know you have. We basically grew up together, when I wasn’t at Hogwarts and he’s just about the closest thing to a brother I’ve ever known.”

Harry sagged back on the couch, feeling such a surge of relief as he’d only felt once before, in the Department of Mysteries their 5th year when Neville had told him that Hermione was still alive. “Thank God” was all he could manage to say, almost automatically. All the hurt that he’d been feeling seemed to gush away, leaving him with nothing. Nothing except the certainty that had been growing in his mind ever since that awful night, that he might just have made the biggest mistake of his life.

There was a brief silence in which each looked at the other and understood just what the past few months had been like before Harry looked away, closing his eyes.

“I love you, you know,” he finally said flatly, his eyes still closed.

“I know, Harry.” Hermione’s voice was soft, pained. “I love you too. But then why, Harry, why did you end things? Why did you distance yourself, not see me, not answer my owls?”

He sighed. “Do you know where I was the night of March 23th?”

She blinked at the seeming non sequitur. “No. You were busy, you said, with something for work.”

“I was. I was at a routine stakeout for some known Death Eaters and heard enough to arrest them later. That was when I knew I’d have to end things.”

Hermione looked confused. “Harry, stop being so cryptic. You’re not making sense and I don’t understand.”

“They were planning to kidnap you, Hermione,” Harry stated bluntly, looking at her for the first time.

She flinched a little but remained calm and he continued. “They were going to use you to get to me, to make me cooperate.”

He sat up and looked fully at her. “What got to me was that they were right! Everything they said was right. I would have cooperated, done what they wanted, to make sure that you weren’t hurt. Hermione, they knew, they had calculated, that you were the most important person in my life and the one person whom I would do anything to save. Just like Voldemort knew, years ago, that I would immediately risk anything to save Sirius. And I couldn’t let that happen again, Hermione.”

Hermione moved to put her hand on his arm. “Oh, Harry…”

Harry interrupted her. “You, you of all people, know what I went through after Sirius died. It was my fault and you knew it, you warned me of it, remember?” He held his hand out, palm up, so she could see the small curve of the scar. “See that scar? See it? I made that myself, years ago. I promised myself, promised Sirius, that I’d never let anyone else be hurt or killed because of me and their connection with me.” His voice broke. “I promised him and I won’t break that promise, just like he never broke his promise to take care of me.”

He looked at her, his eyes seeming almost forest green, dark with remembered pain and determination. “I couldn’t let you be hurt, Hermione. I couldn’t. But then I saw you with him on Monday and I just didn’t know what to do. I had to come here tonight, had to find out and talk to you.”

Hermione listened in silence to Harry’s words, except for her one automatic gesture of comfort, listened and understood. She knew Harry, knew that Harry’s greatest weakness and his greatest strength had always been his need to protect those he loved, his propensity to blame himself always.

“Harry, listen to me,” she said seriously, her voice as clear and unfaltering as her gaze. “I understand how you feel and part of me loves you for feeling it, but you didn’t realize one very important thing. It’s not your choice to make, Harry, it’s mine. And I made my choice a long time ago. I chose you, Harry. I chose to stay with you no matter what the danger was, just as I chose not to let you go down after Quirrell alone in our first year, as I chose to go with you to the Ministry in our fifth year. Do you think I didn’t know that it was dangerous? I knew, but I chose you, anyway. You were more important to me than the risks. You still are.” Her voice softened at the last sentence as she put her hand on Harry’s resting on his knee.

Harry stared at Hermione’s hand over his for a moment, his mind pausing to note idly that her slim, yet strong, hand was several shades darker than his pale one, even as he heard Hermione’s voice in his head over and over again. I chose you, Harry. I chose to stay with you no matter what the danger was…

He turned, clutching her to his chest, closing his eyes as he pressed his cheek to her hair, breathing in the familiar clean scent of her shampoo. Hermione closed her eyes as she held him with all the strength of the love she felt.

The first time they kissed, they kissed as if it would be the last time, or as lovers who had been apart for years kissed. It wasn’t gentle or very tender; it was too full of passion, too full of the hurt they’d both felt the past few months, too full of all the pent-up feelings that both had suppressed for months. Such a kiss couldn’t be sustained for long, though, and it soon gentled, became tender. I’m sorry. I know, I’m sorry too. I love you.

And in each other’s arms, they began to heal.

They were together again, their love stronger than ever, in spite of themselves, in spite of the worries, in spite of the risks, and both were unafraid.

This was right.

The strongest steel must go through the hottest fire. –Charles Dickens