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Chapter 49: Worth The Wait

Very little was said as Harry and Hermione walked back towards the warm glow of Hogwarts. Forgoing the Invisibility Cloak in the cover of darkness, they made their way largely by memory, not once stumbling over the uneven turf despite a serious deficiency of attention. Both of their minds were rather employed on other tasks, gathering and prioritizing thoughts and emotions that they knew would be relevant in the coming hours.

Their hands remained entwined all the while.

Hermione, for one, was a bit dazed, and frankly rather confused as to why she was so dazed. Hadn't this been what she had been working towards? Helping Harry finally move past his guilt?

So why was she so astonished that it had worked?

She snuck intermittent glances at Harry as they walked, considering this very thought.

Perhaps after having existed for so long in one state of mind, her body was taking a very understandable intermission to adjust to these new circumstances. After all, so much of the last decade (and then some) had been spent inoculating herself to what had then been an unchangeable law. Just as the world was round and gravity held her feet to the grass, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger simply could not be.

And yet, here they were.

Suddenly she felt it reasonable that a ship could sail straight off the edge of an ocean, or perhaps float straight off its surface.

The unchangeable had changed, and the unattainable was suddenly, literally, in her very grasp.

Sweet Merlin.

Hermione took a rather deep breath that she hoped would be both calming and go unnoticed by Harry through the howling of the wind.

The manner in which he squeezed her hand suggested otherwise.

She glanced in his direction to meet the green eyes already aimed towards her, and the smile he gave her was equal parts reassuring and nervous. It was a smile she would have more likely associated with a Harry twenty years his junior, and the effect did indeed take years from his face.

The fact that any part of his expression conveyed nervousness did nothing to alleviate Hermione's own butterfly-filled organs. Rather, her nerves increased ten-fold, the butterflies wreaking havoc on her senses until her very limbs were quivering with anticipation.

Anticipation?

Get ahold of yourself, Granger, she thought, blushing. You're getting ahead of yourself.

She snuck another look towards her dark-haired companion as they finally drew near the entrance to Hogwarts.

The moonlight cast part of his face in shadow, and the other part was cast in sharp relief, as if expressly for Hermione's viewing pleasure. Her eyes wandered indiscriminately: to Harry's dark locks, which were in a rather great state of disarray from the wind (or a greater state than usual), to the thin scar traced across his cheekbone, to the refined line of his stubble-darkened jaw, to the laugh lines at the corners of his emerald eyes (ill used in the last months), and finally to the emerald irises themselves. They were shaded with intensity, distracted.

By…her?

How was it possible to feel so warm in such cold weather? Her abdomen positively burned, and she could hardly wait to escape the confines of her outer-things.

Yes, just her outer-things.

Still blushing quite prominently, Hermione dropped Harry's hand and brushed past him with a sigh of frustration as he opened the door to the entrance hall. Not a single word had escaped her lips and yet she already felt utterly embarrassed.

Merlin, this was going to a long night.

Harry grasped her hand again as he led her up the staircase.

A long night of talking. Only talking.

Hermione inwardly groaned, hoping she would actually manage to take control of her thoughts before she was required to make actual human speech.

Harry glanced back at her, a questioning look on his face.

"You okay?"

"Mmm hmm," Hermione said—really all she trusted herself to say.

Harry cocked his head at her curiously, a half-smile on his lips.

And not looking adorable would be really helpful now, thanks.

In short order, they reached their destination, and Harry rapped the door with a knuckle of his free hand.

"Come on in," called a voice from within.

Obediently, Harry pushed the door open, pulling Hermione along with him.

Neville Longbottom sat within the room at a desk thoroughly covered with greenery of every sort and size. He stood up as they entered, and the leaves of each plant quivered in synchronism as he nudged the desk.

"Sorry if we kept you up, we overshot our time estimate a bit," Harry said.

"No worries," Neville said, grinning at them from behind a full and somewhat ill-groomed beard that Hermione thought suited him quite well. "I was finishing up a few lesson plans, and I told Hannah I'd be up late anyway. Did you get what you came for?"

Hermione wondered if it was just her imagination that made her think Neville's eyes flitted to her and Harry's intertwined hands.

"We did," Harry said.

"Yes," Hermione said. "Quite."

"Well, fireplace is all yours, then."

Neville gestured towards the aforementioned grate, on top of which sat a small jar.

"Thanks, Neville," Harry said, removing the lid to the jar. "We really appreciate it."

"I'm just glad I could help," Neville said, running a hand over his beard. "It's not too often I feel I can."

"Rubbish," Hermione said. "You've always been a help."

Harry withdrew a pinch of green powder from the jar, and only then released Hermione's hand.

"I'll meet you back at yours," he said.

Hermione felt her stomach tense at his words, and inwardly berated herself for her irrational (and frankly unimaginative) behavior. Before she knew it she would be reduced to some hackneyed paperback-romance heroine, swooning as she was positively overcome with "feminine sensibility"—whatever that meant.

"Yes," Hermione said, stubbornly eschewing embellishment.

Harry paid her little mind as he gave one last wave of farewell to Neville.

"Thanks again," he said. "I owe you one. Not to mention Hannah for patching up the kids—must say she's a better fit for a Healer than a landlady."

"Bollocks," Neville said good-naturedly, then blanched. "About owing me one, not Hannah."

Harry chuckled as he tossed the powder into the fireplace. Then, with a loud swoosh of emerald flames and the shout of Hermione's address, he was gone.

Neville turned towards Hermione casually as the fire dyed back down.

"Well," he said.

"Well what?" Hermione replied, further congratulating herself on her articulate speech.

A level of defensiveness must have been apparent in her tone, as Neville shoved one hand deep in his pocket while looking anywhere other than her bristled form.

"Nothing," he mumbled, scratching at his beard with his other hand as he cast his eyes about.

Hermione wondered if she was one of the few who could cause Neville Longbottom to resemble something more like a nervous first-year than the assured and accomplished professor he had become. It made her feel a bit guilty, but also rather happily sentimental.

She crossed the few steps between them and threw her arms around him.

He was thrown somewhat off balance, but returned her hug with bear-like intensity.

"I know Harry's already said it, but thank you, Neville. Truly," she said, her chin on his shoulder.

Neville gave her an extra squeeze and pushed her back enough to place his hands on her shoulders.

"Don't mention it. Really."

He grinned, and then, grasping her shoulders more firmly, spun her around to face the fire.

"Now go on," he said, frog-marching her towards the flames. "It sounds as though you have quite an evening ahead of you."

Hermione dug her heels rather forcefully into the rug beneath her feet.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're the smartest person I know," Neville said, still pushing her rather determinedly towards the flames. Without context, an innocent passerby might think they were witnessing the beginning of a rather horrifying assault. "I think you know what I mean."

"Which is precisely why I'm asking—telling—you to clarify," Hermione said through gritted teeth. "I would hate for there to be some sort of misunderstanding."

Neville finally stopped shoving on Hermione's shoulders, almost causing her to fall flat on her bum with the force of her backwards momentum.

"Look, you and I both know what I mean to say, and it would save us both a good bit of embarrassment to just leave it as is," Neville said.

Hermione felt the aforementioned emotion was already available in spades, so there was really quite little to lose in continuing the current line of conversation.

She crossed her arms as she stared Neville down, making this intent quite clear.

He groaned as he cast his eyes upward.

"Why'd I have to open my big mouth?"

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Hermione said, reaching forward to place a hand on Neville's arm. "Maybe I'd just rather hear you say it. Maybe…maybe I would even like your opinion."

"Opinion?" Neville said. "Why would you want to hear that?"

"I think you're a rather good choice for a first opinion, honestly," Hermione said. "You've known us as long as anyone else has. You did grow up with us, after all. And it's possible you're the least biased person I could ask."

"Possibly," Neville said, rather non-committedly.

"So?"

"So…you guys are giving it a go?"

Hermione gave a firm nod, more for her own benefit than Neville's.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, I think so."

"Then what else is there for me to say?" Neville said, grinning. "I'm happy for you. Both of you."

"You are?"

"Why shouldn't I be?" Neville said. "Obviously things aren't ideal—"

"In any respect of the word," Hermione interjected.

"—but how often is it? If all of us waited for everything to be perfect, then I'd say we'd all be a pretty lonely lot at the end of the day."

Hermione pursed her lips thoughtfully before flashing Neville a smile.

"Thanks," she said.

She gave Neville little opportunity to reply as she whirled back to the flames, suddenly very intent on making her less-than-ideal situation as ideal as she could manage.

A final glimpse of Neville with his hands shoved deep into his robe pockets vanished in a flurry of emerald flames, and before she could process anything else she was being ejected into her own living room.

She stumbled out of the fireplace into the familiar warmth of her home, and was immediately steadied by a pair of arms that presented their own familiar warmth. A warmth that she hoped would soon become even more familiar.

"Everything alright?" Harry asked.

"Of course," Hermione said, her cheeks rather warm from the direction of her thoughts. She was glad she could easily pass it off as a result of the flames she had just emerged from. "Perfectly fine."

"You had me worried for a few seconds there," Harry admitted. "I knew Neville was there, but I still…"

He trailed away then, seeming to come to the realization that his arms had lingered around Hermione far longer than necessary. Clearing his throat, he removed them in a very exaggerated and awkward fashion and let them fall loosely to his sides.

Hermione, feeding into his awkwardness, brought a hand to rub along her left arm, which also hung loosely by her side. She felt colder now that he had stepped away, but her cheeks maintained their traitorous flush.

They stood like that for a few moments more, staring at each other rather dumbly, and Hermione was tempted to run her tongue along her front teeth to determine if she had in fact reverted to a self-conscious fourteen-year-old.

She bit back the snicker that this thought elicited, and Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Something funny?" he said, a small smile forming on his face as well.

Hermione covered her eyes with her hands for a moment as the laugh she had been suppressing escaped her lips.

"Us," she laughed, spreading her fingers to peek at Harry through the window of slits they created. "Us being utterly ridiculous."

"I'm not so sure I find that funny so much as embarrassing," Harry said, scratching at the nape of his neck.

"It's absolutely embarrassing," Hermione agreed, finally dropping her hands and moving away from the fireplace.

Brushing past Harry, she sat at one end of her sofa. Harry followed her example and sat at the sofa's opposite end.

"Like that," Hermione said, waving a hand accusingly at Harry as she shrugged out of her coat and other winter things.

"Like what?" Harry said, bewildered.

"That," Hermione said again. "You've gone and sat at the end of the couch."

"What's the problem with that?" Harry said. "You just did."

"Literally any other seat in this room would be less awkward," she reasoned.

"And I think you're reading too much into this."

Hermione balled up the scarf that she had just removed and threw it in Harry's direction, which he caught deftly.

"And I think you're sitting as far away as possible without being in a different room."

Harry sighed as he in turn threw the scarf to one of the less-awkward seating options (an armchair), over which his own coat was already draped.

"I'm really considering that option," Harry grunted. "Perhaps we should just owl each other from opposite ends of the house."

"Whatever you're comfortable with," Hermione said, a small smile playing across her lips.

"Comfortable's nowhere near the right word, but I'll stay here for now, I think."

"Just let me know if I need to shout if you're having trouble hearing me from over there," Hermione said, teasingly cupping her hands by her mouth to amplify her speech.

Harry gave a groan and sank back into the cushions, pressing his hands over his eyes as the groan dissolved into laughter. "Why do I even like you?"

Hermione also leaned back into the couch, allowing her arm to rest along the back of the cushions. She buried a hand into her hair, propping her head, and observed her dark-haired friend with a smile on her face. The candor of their speech sent warmth blossoming through her limbs and created a headiness that was more intoxicating than any drink.

"So you do like me," she said.

"I think I used to," Harry replied, his voice muffled as his face was still buried within his palms. "Until just now."

"Too much teasing?"

"No," Harry admitted, giving his face one final press of his palms and letting them fall away. "Just the right amount."

He stayed reclined, his head resting on the back of the couch, and glanced towards Hermione. His brow was slightly furrowed as he looked at her, perhaps a bit bemused, and Hermione returned his calculating stare with an arched eyebrow.

"Were you expecting this?" he asked.

"How do you mean?" Hermione returned. "If you mean this conversation, which to be fair hasn't really started in earnest, then yes. If you mean tonight specifically…no, not really."

"Me either," Harry said. His eyes turned towards the fire, which he gazed into with an appropriate amount of solemn introspection. "It just all seems…surreal."

Hermione picked at the threads of an afghan that was draped along the back of the sofa. "Ginny?"

Harry nodded. "That certainly lends to it."

Hermione's fingers continued to fiddle with the blanket as she waited for Harry to continue. Her impatience eventually got the better of her.

"Did she help you?" she ventured. "Figure things out, I mean. Well, obviously something she said helped, otherwise…"

She trailed off, and Harry turned his head towards her again.

"Otherwise I wouldn't be here?" he guessed.

Spots of color rose in her cheeks, and the blanket once more took on a very interesting quality.

"Well, yes," she said.

"I'm here."

He said it very simply, and what little uncertainty Hermione had clung to fell away.

"So what now?" she asked.

Harry gave a tired laugh, and Hermione was once more drawn to the hollowness of his cheeks, the heaviness of his lids.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said fervently. "We…we really don't need to talk about this now if you'd rather not. You look as if you would fall over if you were standing."

Harry perked up slightly at that, and shook his head.

"No," he said. "I want to talk now. Just as you clearly do."

He said this last bit jokingly, but Hermione was less convinced.

"Are you sure?" she said. "I feel guilty for making you have this conversation right now. I almost feel as though I'm coercing a madman into signing a contract."

A bark of laughter escaped Harry from deep within his chest.

Hermione smiled as well, but persisted.

"Are you sure you're in your right mind?" she said, only half-joking.

Harry finally sat up, and angled himself to face Hermione more fully. He raised one hand, scout-style.

"I solemnly swear that I am in my right mind, and am fully aware and invested in this conversation," he pledged. "Satisfied?"

"Excellent," she said formally. "I'd hate for litigation to come into this."

"Same here," Harry agreed. "But I'll have you know that I'm quite close to a member of the Wizengamot."

"Not as close as you'd think," Hermione replied, her mouth twitching. "Some might say awkwardly far, even."

Harry snorted, and Hermione allowed herself a small smile. However, their joviality was short-lived as they were brought back to the question at hand.

"So what now…" Harry repeated, rather quietly.

A truly simple question that held so many convoluted and difficult answers. Both were well aware of all the implications. They truly went without saying, and so Hermione didn't say them.

Instead, she sat up straighter, just as Harry had, and fixed him with a very serious stare, one she hoped conveyed all the gravity she felt the moment necessitated.

"There…there can't be any back and forth with this," she said. "It wouldn't be fair. To anyone."

"No," Harry agreed.

"I know I've been rather forward about what I want," she continued, businesslike. "But you need to be just as certain. Really and truly certain. We can't put ourselves and our children and everyone else through this if we're not sure."

She felt rather silly articulating such a thing. Surely the fact that this conversation was taking place at all meant their feelings had withstood the test of time. But nothing about this would be easy, and double- and triple-checking your answers for safety's sake could never be a bad choice. Especially when the final choice had such…well, finality to it. The level of commitment they were undertaking had to be nothing less than extraordinary.

Strangely, committing to her first marriage had felt like nothing compared to this. Then, the stakes had not been nearly as high. She had been young and confused and desperately attempting to ignore her love for her best friend—her married best friend—but the only one who stood to be hurt by her decision was herself, and of course Ron. But she liked to believe it would have been a shallow type of her hurt, one that she and Ron would have been able to move past with relative ease. If anything, her divorce lent itself to this theory. Although she hated that her children had been affected by her separation from Ron, the ramifications had been otherwise limited. There were adjustments to be made, mildly awkward moments to endure, but otherwise it had simply come down to "it's too bad that things didn't work out."

No sense of betrayal, no horrified in-laws, no uncomfortable exchanges on whether Uncle Harry should still be referred to as such…

Hermione temporarily squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to escape her thoughts.

"So are you?" she said when she forced her eyelids apart.

Harry's features swam back into her view, beautiful and bewildered.

"Am I what?" he asked.

Hermione wasn't sure if he was teasing her, but she was tempted to throw a pillow across the vast expanse of the couch and whack him in the side of his beautiful head.

She sighed as she gave him a final, intense look.

"Certain. Do you want this?"

Very abruptly, Harry stood from the couch. Hermione watched in interest as he stepped nearer to her, and finally stood over her, towering. He only stood there for a moment, but as Hermione raised her eyes upward, she was thoroughly struck by the darkness of his silhouette, framed and flickering by the red glow from the fireplace. He filled her vision, his features deep and indistinct, his profile tall and overwhelming.

But again, this was only for a moment. Very soon he knelt down, reversing their positions to that he was now looking up at her, and the fire's light could better illuminate his face.

"I want this," he said.

The earnestness that was held within these three words was only outdone by the intensity of his eyes, which bore into hers as he reached forward to grasp her hands.

Hermione felt that her skin was practically vibrating as her roiling emotions threatened to burst forth, held too long behind a dam that was on the point of collapse.

With a tremendous force of will, she managed to keep her hands steady and she gripped his in return, her eyes challenging as she bent nearer to him.

"Show me."

The command came out more softly than she had intended, really barely more than a whisper—certainly not the bold declaration she had imagined in her head.

Nevertheless, Harry obediently extended his hand. He tucked several of her long brown tresses behind her ear, slowly, before his fingers drifted to frame her cheek. Despite her previous impatience, Hermione did not mind the unhurried pace—for her own benefit as well as Harry's if his slightly shaking hands were any indication. It allowed her a few moments to quiet her frenetic thoughts and simply enjoy the feel of his touch, something she had always found to have a comforting effect and which she had missed greatly in the last months.

Hermione closed her eyes, and felt rather than saw Harry lean closer. He was so close now that the tips of their noses brushed, and she could no longer differentiate between her own unsteady breathing and his.

The timidity of their interaction was curious to Hermione. She could very easily imagine that this was soon to be their first kiss, rather than following a history that included the lust-filled evening of so long ago, as well as the subsequent months of secretive, breathless kisses as Hermione's stomach had grown large.

Nevertheless, Harry was hesitant, conditioned for years to scold and restrain himself at the slightest urge to kiss her, and Hermione suspected she would burst at any moment for all the nervous energy coursing through her.

"You know," Hermione said, her eyes still shut, "this would have been easier had you just sat next to me to begin with."

A sharp laugh escaped Harry, and his head fell forward to briefly rest against Hermione's.

Smiling, her eyes opened just long enough to see an equally broad grin on Harry's face.

"Oh, shut up," he said, and pressed his lips to hers.

Hermione thought it was the sweetest kiss she'd ever experienced, and completely unlike what she had imagined. Because yes, she had imagined it—an honestly embarrassing number of times. And in those fanciful musings, she had imagined it as something needy, urgent; two people starving for each other, finally slaking their hunger and drowning in each other.

But this was something entirely different. Yes, they had craved each other, but this was not drowning; there was need, but it was as one needed breath after being submerged underwater—a sigh of pure relief as you became reacquainted with the air.

And relief is exactly what consumed Hermione when she recognized these feelings. For they had not journeyed through the years to ease a simple hunger—they had done it to find breath, to come back to each other.

But, as Hermione would have anticipated, the sweetness of their kiss did not linger. Before long, Harry was once more on the couch, and Hermione rather suddenly found herself straddling him as they continued to explore each other.

As their kisses became more insistent, Hermione noted that this was in fact much closer to her original fantasy, and she was more than happy to oblige her previous imaginings. She wound her fingers into his black hair, now sporting considerably more gray than the last time she had allowed herself this pleasure, and felt his fingers press forcefully into the small of her back. Their bodies melded together effortlessly, remembering more completely than memory permitted.

Harry only parted their lips as he moved to her neck. Her mouth finally free, she could not help the soft moan that escaped her.

But just as quickly as this sound escaped her, another sound bit through the air, tense and strangled and altogether indefinable.

Her eyes snapped open, allowing her to see over the back of the couch and past the crown of Harry's dark hair, into which her fingers were still heavily entwined.

Ron Weasley's blue eyes met Hermione's, unflinching.

His face, rather than being characteristically reddened in anger, was paler than Hermione felt she had ever seen it. The hurt and complete hatred he conveyed in those brief moments of eye contact stunned her, immobilizing her more thoroughly than if he had reached across the room and shaken her.

Their stares were fettered to each other's as though gripped by some masochistic entrancement, unable to look away as second after endless second ticked by, each more painful than the last.

Tick.

I hate you, his eyes said.

Tock.

I hate you.

Tick.

I hate you.

Tock.

I hate you.

And still she clung to Harry, frozen, as he kissed her neck.

Ron looked as though he would be physically ill at any moment, and Hermione fleetingly succumbed to the notion that she really was something truly sickening.

Hermione's hands tightened into Harry's hair, soft black spikes protruding between her shaking fingers.

"Harry," she said breathlessly.

The name fell heavily from her mouth, snapping the horrible stillness like a rubber band. Rather belatedly, she recognized this as a foolish move—a warning to the man in her embrace rather than a cry of explanation to the man who had once been her husband.

The sudden end to the silence effectively shattered Ron's enraged paralysis, and like a wounded, crazed animal he fled, staggering until he reached the door. Wrenching it open, he lunged into the night and disappeared with an ear-piercing crack.

Hermione was unsure if Harry had managed to pull away from her in time to see the blur of red hair before Ron vanished.

However, when Harry's head fell back into the crook of Hermione's neck, the single word that escaped him, breathed heavily onto her skin, let her know that he indeed had.

"Shit."

oooooooooooooooooooooooo

No amount of fantasizing could have prepared Harry for the way Hermione's lips felt against his. Nor was his memory infallible enough to provide an accurate remembrance from the short era when he would kiss her more freely. It was vaguely familiar, yet entirely new.

As he kissed Hermione, sensation after sensation, inside and out, battered him mercilessly. The texture of her mouth, the taste of her lips, the scent of her hair as it brushed his face…it threatened to consume him, and he submitted with little hesitation.

His life was overwhelming in so many ways—so many terrible, shitty ways—but this overwhelmed him in the best possible way. She overwhelmed him.

And Merlin did he love it.

He gripped at her hips desperately, pulling her in, eager to bask in her light after so long in the dark.

His fingers dug into her skin as her hands drifted into his hair, and he kissed the base of her ear, down her neck.

Hermione moaned softly, and the sound sent a shiver down his spine.

Then, quite suddenly, he felt the grip in his hair tighten, almost painfully so.

Given the situation, he would not have found this unusual. Perhaps he'd even find it encouraging, just as he would the breathy gasp of his name accompanying this action.

But the fear in her gasp and the urgency of her grip were anything but usual.

Harry's lips were briefly frozen to Hermione's now frantic pulse point, his own heartbeat crescendoing to match hers.

When he finally jerked his head from Hermione and in the direction of her unmoving gaze, he merely saw a glimpse of red hair and heard the crack of Apparition a moment later. The door had been opened with such force that it bounced against the wall and slammed of its own accord, equally indignant.

As little information as this was, it was all he needed to assess the sincere shithole they had landed themselves in.

Deflated and alone once more, Harry let his head fall back into Hermione's neck.

"Shit," he said, unhelpfully.

Hermione's hand still resided in his hair, although her fingers had taken on a stroking motion rather than their previous clenching. It felt good, but Harry suspected it was more for her own comfort than his.

"We have to go after him," she said. Her voice was strained and tearful.

Harry lifted his head, and Hermione, as she was still straddling his lap, leaned back to accompany his movement. As he had expected, tears were shining in her eyes and had already begun to trail down her cheeks.

"Hey," he murmured, cupping her face to wipe them away. "It's okay."

"How can you say that?" she said. "It's not been half an hour and we've already managed to hurt someone."

"I admit that it's not the most ideal situation," Harry agreed, eliciting a half-hearted laugh from Hermione.

"That's what Neville said."

"And he's right," Harry said, brushing at her cheek once more as another tear escaped. "But let's be realistic. Did you ever expect Ron to take this well?"

Hermione's face, still clasped between his hands, managed a soft shake as her eyes turned downward.

"It's sooner than expected," Harry continued. "Much sooner. But maybe it'll be better this way. Get it over with."

Hermione finally pulled back, and Harry let his arms fall to her hips.

"Or it's a sign that we're still both complete idiots who can't take a hint from the universe," she said. Her tone was light, but her eyes spoke of a greater concern.

Harry shook his head. "Or that the universe is as sick of waiting for this to happen as we are."

This must have been exactly the right thing to say, as Hermione cupped his scratchy cheeks in turn and pressed a sweet, lingering kiss to his lips.

It lasted only a short moment, but it was enough to steel their resolve.

Hermione stood up, and Harry, taking her proffered hand with a sigh, stood as well.

"Where d'you think he went?"

oooooooooooooooooooooooo

The better part of the next hour was spent searching for Ron.

After checking his apartment, they dodged the bewildered questions of Molly Weasley at the Burrow. From there, they searched many of his other regular haunts: Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, his office at the Ministry, the Leaky Cauldron, the Hog's Head, and had finally ended up at the Three Broomsticks.

As they entered the busy pub, glowing with fiery warmth and laughter, they felt sure that Ron would not have chosen such a boisterous location to nurse his humiliation.

"He's not here," Harry said, giving a meager glance about the pub. Eyes were already beginning to turn in their direction. Although the novelty of "the Chosen One" had waned significantly in the past years, he still had enough celebrity status to be of interest to most people he came across.

Hermione glanced around as well, also seemingly unconvinced. She briefly stood on tiptoe to peer about.

"No," she agreed, and allowed Harry to lead her back into the windy street of Hogsmeade.

They stood there for a moment, paralyzed by indecision, when suddenly Madame Rosmerta burst from the pub. Although well into her fifties, her age had managed to make her more dignified than matronly. The pub's door fell shut behind her, effectively muffling the raucous chatter.

"Harry Potter," she said.

"Rosmerta," he replied. "Sorry to not stay in for a drink, we were just—"

"Looking for your third, I'd wager."

Hermione looked surprised as her eyes darted to the windows of the pub, peering back inside to examine the patrons once more.

"He's not in there," she said, calling Hermione's attention back to herself. "Not anymore, at any rate. He came in there like a wild thing, took one look around the place, and took off again."

"Did he say where he was going?" Hermione asked anxiously.

"Not a word," Rosmerta said. "Can say he looked in dire need of a drink, though."

Harry and Hermione exchanged quick, guilty glances, before Harry turned back to the barmaid.

"Thanks," he said, swallowing. "I think I might know where he went."

A muffled shout suddenly erupted from the pub.

"ROSMERTA! Another round!"

"Put a cap on it, you impatient lout!" Rosmerta hollered back over her shoulder. "I'm comin'!"

She cast a vexed but apologetic look upon Harry and Hermione.

"That's my cue, then," she said. "Come have a pint when you feel inclined."

Without waiting for a reply, she turned on heel and marched back into her pub.

Hermione frowned as she stared after Rosmerta, and then, seeming to remember herself, turned back to Harry.

"Where do you think he is?"

Harry wordlessly grasped her hand and a moment later they appeared in a dark alleyway. The streets of London bustled at the alley's entrance.

"I think he might be at a pub near here," Harry said, pulling Hermione along rather than releasing her hand. "A Muggle place I've taken him to a few times."

"What makes you think he's there?" Hermione said.

"I…I don't imagine Ron would be too keen on being recognized just now."

As they reached the alley's entrance, he turned his head down the street in both directions before pressing into the handful of pedestrians meandering along. He glanced towards Hermione, whose expression had turned pained as her thoughts no doubt turned to Ron's prospective range of emotions.

Anger. Confusion. Humiliation.

"No," she said quietly, "I imagine not."

They walked along in silence for a moment longer before Harry caught a glimpse of an iron sign bearing the silhouette of a rearing black stallion.

"There," he said.

The tinkling of a bell chimed softly as they entered. The tavern was dark due to a combination of dim lighting, deeply stained wood, and worn leather, but a large fireplace cast a glow throughout the room that lent a sense of hominess to the otherwise dreary décor. While not as exuberant as the Three Broomsticks, the room was filled with pleasant chatter, and the clank of glasses from the rustic-looking bar, complete with mirror and jewel-toned bottles, couldn't help but feel cheery.

It took barely a moment for Harry to look towards his preferred table by the wall of the pub and see a lone head of fiery red hair.

"There," he said again.

Hermione, who had been too busy taking in the room, turned her gaze in the direction of Harry's jerky nod.

She clenched his hand tightly—a gesture that Harry returned in kind—and then released it. Harry inherently knew this was the vastly preferred option over striding up to Ron with their hands intertwined, but he still regretted the absence of her warmth in his suddenly cold hand.

He followed behind Hermione as meekly as he could manage as she wound about the wooden tables to her ex-husband, eventually coming to an erratic halt in front of Ron. He showed no inclination that he would look anywhere other than the dark amber of his tankard.

They stood quietly for a few moments longer, clearly hoping Ron would look up. When he didn't, Harry saw the rise and fall of Hermione's shoulders as she took a deep breath.

"Ron?"

Her voice was soft and cautious, as though she was frightened of startling Ron into further agitation.

However, he did not appear startled in the least, perhaps already inundated with enough alcohol to dull that particular reaction.

"Took you long enough," he said. His voice was not really slurred, but he did not sound articulate either; it was as though his tongue had suddenly become too heavy for speech.

Hermione, appearing unsure, made no movement.

"Can…may we sit down?" she said.

Ron finally looked up, his head swaying ever so slightly as he took in the pair of them.

He simply stared, and Hermione wilted under that stare.

Nervously, Harry gave her a soft nudge, prompting her to finally take a seat in one of the spare chairs across from Ron. Harry took the other.

Ron looked at them a bit longer, blue eyes darting back and forth between them as the silence stretched along, growing tenser with each passing second.

Harry, for his part, felt that it was wisest to keep his mouth shut, and Hermione seemed to have a similar idea.

She licked her lips anxiously, and the action seemed to finally draw Ron's attention. His eyes lingered for the briefest moment on her mouth, and Harry guessed that he was suddenly immersed in thoughts of what those lips had been occupied with an hour previously. Ron's own lip twitched in response, as though desirous of a curl that would put a Malfoy to shame.

"I came by to pick up Hugo," he said, his eyes sharpening on Hermione. "You know, our son."

Hermione visibly bristled. "I'm well aware. I left him at Luna's earlier. I forgot to owl you."

"Not surprising," Ron said through gritted teeth. "You were obviously… preoccupied."

Ron finally turned his glare to Harry, who kept his face in what he hoped was a neutral expression rather than allowing his gradually building anger to bubble to the surface.

The hand Ron had clasped around his drink tightened, and the other clenched into a fist. The tendons of his pale arm stood in sharp, quivering relief to the dark wooden table.

An index finger jutted out from his balled hand, spasmodically pointing at Harry. His eyes, however, were back on Hermione.

"Just a crush, huh?"

He spat the words out as though they were something bitter.

"You looked me in the eyes when I found that…that bloody letter and said there was nothing between you." Ron's face contorted into a sickly imitation of a grin as he shook his head. "Merlin, I was an idiot. Am an idiot. Goes to show you'll believe anything if you want to enough."

Harry spared his first real glance towards Hermione, confusion muddling his thoughts. Hermione was clearly upset, but preeminent in her expression was an aura of embarrassment.

Ron caught this look and seized upon it with cruel deftness.

"Oh, she hasn't shown it to you?" he said. "It's really a lovely piece of writing. Inspired, even. Thought she must've come traipsing to you with it the moment my sister was cold in the ground."

Hermione's Muffliato incantation was synchronized to Harry's instantaneous lunge across the table. He seized Ron by the collar of his shirt, overturning his tankard in the process, and what little drink was left seeped over the polished wood as Harry brought Ron's face within inches of his own.

The sheer rage that radiated from both men was palpable—Harry's barely contained and Ron's defiant. The entirety of Harry's body practically twitched with the effort of maintaining control, and the maroon cotton of Ron's shirt quivered in his clenched fist.

"It was never like that," Harry said, his voice dangerously low and shaking almost as much as his hand. "You know it was never like that."

Ron stared back insolently, neither willing to assuage or further provoke Harry's anger.

As furious as he was, Harry almost didn't register the hand placed on his shoulder.

"He knows, Harry," came Hermione's soft voice, which he could hardly hear for the blood pounding in his ears. "He just wants to hurt you—hurt us."

It was not much, but it was enough to dull the razor-sharp edges of his temper. His fingers were slow to unravel themselves from Ron's shirt as he sank unsteadily back into his chair. Ron, however, seemed unperturbed, as if he had not just come close to being pummeled by his best friend.

"That's right, sit down," Ron goaded. "Darling Hermione asked you to."

"RON!" Hermione snapped, her fingers tightening on Harry's shoulder. "Enough."

Very suddenly, Ron's palm came forward and slammed loudly onto the table. Hermione flinched as though the hand had been directed towards her, and Harry, already tensed, coiled further still.

"Enough?" he said with a derisive snort. "You don't have the bloody right to tell me that. Neither of you do."

Removing her hand from Harry's shoulder, Hermione extended it towards Ron's, which was still flat on the table.

"If you would just let us explain—"

Ron jerked his hand away from her with a look of repulsion on his face, and Hermione withdrew hers slightly as well, hurt.

"Ron—"

"Don't!" he spat. "Don't you get it? I don't want to hear your bloody excuses! There's nothing to explain!"

Harry was truly fed up now.

"You're right," he said, exuding a cold calmness. "There is nothing we need to explain."

Hermione and Ron both cast bewildered looks in Harry's direction.

"Look, we get that you're angry at us," Harry continued. "And I really am sorry for the way you found out about this. But whether you're ready to deal with it or not, this—" He turned his gaze to Hermione, and with stark deliberateness placed his hand atop hers where it lay abandoned on the table. "—us—is happening."

Despite the situation, it felt good to say aloud.

From the emotional look in Hermione's eyes, it was also good to hear.

Rather hesitantly, Hermione tore that gaze from Harry and directed it towards Ron. To Hermione's credit, her eyes remained just as tender.

"But you're also our friend," she said. "And we'd really like for you to be okay with it."

Ron blinked heavily at their connected hands.

"And what if I'm not okay with it?"

Hermione shared a troubled glance with Harry, and hesitantly pulled her hand back into her lap.

"Then…then we'll have to hope you'll come around."

A bark of mirthless laughter escaped Ron.

"You would hope that, wouldn't you?" he said. "That you'd just have to wait for me to 'come around.' You're an expert at it, right?"

Hermione furrowed her brow. "At what, exactly?"

"At waiting for people to come around!" Ron said, clearly irritated that Hermione wasn't following along. He then flashed a mean smile as he crooked a thumb in Harry's direction. "You were waiting our entire marriage for him, after all."

Hermione's face blanched as she fervently shook her head.

"That's—that's not fair!" she said. "Our marriage…our problems had nothing to do with Harry!"

"Wow, you don't even sound like you believe you," Ron said, perversely delighted. He had a meanness to his expression that was reminiscent of the hunt during seventh year, when the Horcrux had sat around his neck. "Just admit it! You never even gave our marriage a chance because you were too hung up on your…schoolgirl crush on him!"

Hermione was crying now, and Harry could see that Ron had cast her back into a very vulnerable place. A grown, successful woman may have sat down at the table, but an apprehensive girl peered out now, embarrassment and shame foremost in her eyes.

"Hermione—" Harry began, concerned.

"NO!" Ron bellowed. "SHUT UP. This is between us—so for once in your life, just keep out of it. You may not think you owe me anything, but damn it you owe me that much!"

And Harry, despite himself, listened. This did not stop him from returning his hand to Hermione's under the table. She accepted it, but it seemed to give her no comfort.

"You—you weren't happy, Ron," Hermione said haltingly. "I wasn't happy—"

"Bullshit," Ron said. "As long as Harry's been in the picture, you wouldn't let yourself be happy!"

Hermione grip grew vice-like as she clenched her eyes shut, clearly pained by where her thoughts were carrying her. She looked as though Ron had physically punched her, knocking the wind from her chest.

It was a long moment before her eyes opened, slowly. She looked at Harry, and Harry returned her look with little concern for Ron's reaction. Her brow was furrowed as she searched his face, and he submitted to her gaze, knowing that her thoughts were far away.

She stroked the pad of her thumb along his knuckles, strumming, and eventually paused over the thin golden band on his left ring finger. It spun around his finger as she rubbed it like a talisman, her eyes still on Harry.

"Maybe…maybe you're right."

Now Ron was the one who looked as though he had been punched in the gut.

"Maybe my feelings for Harry did hurt our marriage," she said, looking back at Ron. "But I honestly don't think we would ever have even become friends if it weren't for him."

"So Harry's the reason we got together and the reason we broke up," Ron said nastily. He picked up his long-forgotten empty tankard and held it aloft, reminiscent of Harry in the Hog's Head not so long ago. "Cheers, mate."

"That's not the point!" Hermione shouted. "The point—"

Her voice broke mid-sentence and she cast her tear-filled eyes up to the dark wooden ceiling, indistinguishable from the floor.

"The point—" she continued, "is that he may have played a big part in us having a relationship, but he wasn't the reason it failed—the romantic aspect of it, at least. So yes…maybe there was some part of me that was hung up on Harry. But he's not the reason I…nagged you constantly. Or the reason we could never agree on how to raise our children. He's not the reason we have almost no common interests, or why we insist on attacking the most vulnerable parts of each other when we fight…"

Ron had thoroughly paled, although the tips of his ears were bright red.

"Yeah," he said, swallowing heavily. "Sounds like a pretty shitty marriage."

It was spoken heatedly, but it was a superficial kind of anger covering a much deeper-rooted tangle of dejection and self-doubt. Ron glared helplessly into his empty tankard, looking as though he regretted its lack of alcohol for the first time since Harry and Hermione had sat down.

He sat it aside once more and looked out across the crowded bar.

"Sounds like a pretty shitty friendship, too," he mumbled.

Hermione looked stricken that that was his takeaway, but Harry had to admit she had backed him into a rather dark corner of their relationship.

"That's not true," she said emphatically. "You make me laugh—you always have. Not to mention you make me realize when I'm being too serious. And you're so incredibly charming, and such a good dad. And…"

Hermione hesitated, and Ron finally looked at her. There was look of somber understanding passing between them in that moment, and Harry suddenly felt that he was intruding on something very personal and raw.

Once more, Hermione extended her hand across to Ron's, and this time he did not pull it away.

"And I think we stayed together for as long as we did because neither of us wanted to hurt each other," she said, voice full of pent-up emotion as she smiled. "I'd say that sounds like a pretty good friendship."

Ron's jaw quivered as he tightened it, and Hermione, seeing that he was not about to speak, pressed on.

"We were both just going through the motions by the end of it…and we both deserved better than that, Ron. More than just…enduring. I love you, I truly do, but not…not in that way. Not in the way either of us need."

Ron gazed at his and Hermione's joined hands for a long moment, seeming to process the sight as well as everything she had just said, and for a moment Harry thought she had gotten through to him.

Then he looked up, not at Hermione, but at Harry.

When he pulled away his hand, it was not in the same knee-jerk fashion as before, but slow and disturbingly composed.

Hermione looked in confusion from Ron to where his gaze still resided on Harry, and then once more back to Ron, dread collapsing into her features.

"So you don't love me that way," he said, as though clarifying the finer points of a lecture. "Maybe never did. But you love him that way."

Harry rather wished Ron would stop looking in his direction, as it only seemed to further stoke his anger.

"I did love you, Ron—do love you," Hermione said helplessly. She also seemed uncomfortable with the manner in which he kept glaring at Harry. "But why does it have to matter that it's him? You've moved on to Luna—"

"Exactly," Ron said. His fingers drummed rhythmically on the table, as if providing a tempo for his thoughts. "Moved on. I dunno, maybe our relationship was too screwed up to work from the start—a mistake, even. But it was real. At least for me. And it hurt, and I had to move on from you, Hermione."

The words spilled out in a flood, one that was dammed off as quickly as it started. Ron's fingers stilled just as abruptly, and he bowed his head, seeming to recede into himself.

"But you…" he continued, his voice slower and his eyes clenched shut as he pressed his knuckles, hard, into his forehead, "you never moved on. Because on your end there was nothing to move on from. I was nothing to move on from. I was just…someone you could have when you couldn't have Harry. And I wasn't even good enough for that, apparently."

The silence that followed was one of the worst Harry had ever experienced. Hermione sat, frozen and wide-eyed, as Ron removed his hands from his face and sank back into his chair. His half-lidded eyes stared at Hermione, not expectantly, but rather as if this was exactly what he had expected.

Hermione swallowed harshly.

"That's not—"

"No," Ron said. "I don't want to talk anymore. There's nothing else to say."

He pushed himself up from the table, heavily.

"You choose him. You've always chosen him."

Harry's stomach was in knots as Ron stepped unsteadily towards the bar. He stood quickly, and Hermione followed suit, looking as if she too might be sick at any moment.

"Ron," Harry said, taking two large strides to catch up to him, "we can't just leave it—"

Harry was thoroughly unprepared for how quickly Ron whirled back towards him.

Ron's fist landed squarely against his cheekbone, and Harry staggered backwards, colliding forcefully against Hermione, who managed to steady him before he fell completely to the floor.

"Harry!" she cried. "Are you alright?"

The bar, previously unaware of their audibly-hidden argument, fell momentarily silent.

"Fine," Harry muttered, wincing as Hermione ducked under his arm to help balance him. A prominent crack marring a lens of his glasses skewed his vision as he met Ron's eyes. Ron stared back coldly, massaging the knuckles of his fist.

"Get out," he said.

All Harry could do was nod, and Ron turned back to the bar.

As his arm was still around Hermione's neck, he allowed her to direct him to the door of the pub, which had erupted into even higher levels of energy after being fuelled by their spectacle.

Before they stepped into the street, Hermione cast one last sad look at Ron's back, still hunched at the bar.

Harry tightened his grip on her shoulder, and Hermione redirected her eyes to him.

"Come on," he murmured. "Let's get out of here."

"Okay," Hermione whispered back, and together they stepped into the street, the door creaking slowly shut behind them.

oooooooooooooooooooooooo

"I am so sorry," Hermione said.

Harry sank heavily onto the couch they had abandoned hours earlier. The nearby clock ticked along, dryly pronouncing the early hour. The fireplace had died down into glowing embers, and Hermione clicked on a lamp, casting the room into warm light that at once felt welcome and intrusive.

"For what?" Harry said, his head flopping back into the cushions.

Hermione didn't answer immediately as she briefly stirred in the kitchen, returning a moment later with a frozen bag of peas.

Harry cracked an eye open, peering at her from behind his broken glasses.

"How very Muggle of you," he said.

"Mmm," Hermione hummed in agreement as she sat down next to him, wrapping the bag in a hand towel. "But first…"

She gingerly removed his broken glasses, careful to avoid his injured eye, and tapped them with her wand.

"Reparo."

When the glass had mended itself, she set them aside.

"Thanks," Harry said. "Never remember that one."

Hermione shook her head, smiling. "I swear I won't fix them one of these days and you'll just have to wander around blind as a bat."

"I'd manage," Harry said. "You're just a bit blurry."

"You forget that I've worn your glasses before," Hermione replied. "There's no way you'd manage. Now stay still."

Harry did as he was told, wincing as the frozen bag of vegetables made contact with his split cheek.

"And to answer your earlier question," Hermione said as Harry let his eyes shut once more, "this is what I'm sorry for."

"Why? You didn't tell him to punch me, did you?"

"No, but I'm the one he was really mad at," Hermione sighed.

"On the contrary," Harry said, "I'd say he was right pissed at both of us."

"Yes," Hermione said, "but mostly me. It didn't help that I froze up like that at the end. I just…I didn't know what to say."

She trailed off into silence.

Harry, suddenly feeling self-conscious for examining the inside of his eyelids, opened his eyes again to meet Hermione's warm and concerned gaze.

"Sorry I didn't contribute much," Harry offered.

He flinched as she adjusted the frozen bag on his cheek.

"I would've said more but I thought he might punch me," he added dryly.

Hermione laughed, but it tapered quickly.

"There wasn't much for you to say, honestly," she admitted. "It…devolved into something Ron and I should have discussed a while ago."

A look of discomfort crossed Harry's face that seemed unrelated to his swollen cheek, and he angled himself into a more upright position as Hermione pulled away the makeshift icepack.

"Speaking of…" he said, somewhat awkwardly.

Hermione looked at him expectantly, and Harry in turn looked rather apologetic.

"I didn't want to bring it up again because it seemed to upset you," he continued. "And you don't have to if you don't want to—I mean you might not even have it anymore…"

Dawning realization spread across Hermione's face.

"Oh," she said. "You mean the letter."

"Uh, yeah, that," Harry said. "It seemed to be a real sore point for Ron."

Hermione sighed. "It would be. He…well, he sort of found it the night we decided to divorce."

Harry furrowed his brow. "You say that like it's a coincidence."

"It's not," Hermione said, fiddling with the icepack before eventually setting it aside. "I mean, it wasn't the reason, obviously, but it was a…contributing factor."

They sat in embarrassed silence for a moment, which Hermione broke with another sigh.

"You really want to read it, don't you?"

Harry practically collapsed back into the couch.

"Merlin, yes," he admitted. He sat up again quickly. "But only if you don't mind. If you'd rather I didn't…"

He trailed off with a shrug.

"I…" Hermione began, looking at him thoughtfully. "I don't mind."

"Really?" Harry said, surprised.

"No," Hermione said, standing up. A slight blush colored her cheeks. "It was written to you in the first place."

She vanished, and once more the sound of rustling came about, this time from her study.

Harry was startled when a thick textbook was plunked into his lap.

"What…?" he said, squinting at the title. "Did you write the thing in Ancient Runes? I'm not sure I want to read it that badly."

Hermione rolled her eyes as she handed him his glasses. "No, you dolt, just open it."

Harry, confused, slipped his glasses back onto his face and cracked the book open. It fell easily to a spot near the middle, where a well-worn sheet of parchment was wedged into the pages.

Hermione, still blushing, shifted her weight. "I'm…I'm going to go make some tea."

She exited the room quickly as a bewildered but amused Harry pulled the single sheet of paper from the book.

Unfolding the deep creases of the parchment, he bent his head to read.

Dear Harry…

oooooooooooooooooooooooo

Hermione sighed as she rather uncourageously stood, arms crossed, and watched as her kettle boiled.

Raising a hand to her warm cheek, she wondered at what sort of internal-Time Turner had suddenly transported her back into the body of the sixteen-year-old girl who had written that letter. Or, more appropriately, back into the body of the sixteen-year-old girl who had read it aloud to him in the hospital wing.

"Pathetic," she mumbled to herself.

She drummed her fingers impatiently on the counter, feeling restless despite the late (or early) hour. Surely he was done reading it by now, it wasn't exactly a novel—

"Hermione?"

She spun around as if she had been caught doing something inappropriate, planting her hands once more on the counter's edge that was now behind her.

"Harry!" she said, and blushed at how surprised she sounded. Well, blushed more. Clearing her throat, she nodded at the parchment held loosely in his hand, trying to appear nonchalant.

"Well?" she said, squeaking the word out like a prepubescent boy.

She cleared her throat again and wondered if it was possible for one's face to spontaneously combust.

"Well?" she tried again, achieving something close to normalcy.

Harry, however, did not seem to notice her peculiar behavior. He had raised the letter back to reading height, and Hermione had the urge to Apparate across the room and smack it out of his hands.

Her foot tapped feverishly on the ground, as though all her nervous energy was trying to exit from that single appendage.

The kettle whistled, and Hermione's foot stamped down.

"WELL?" she said a third time, loudly.

Harry's head jerked up from the letter at her outburst.

"Sorry," he said. "It was just…"

He trailed off awkwardly, and Hermione turned to the stove.

"You think it's mental," she pronounced, busying herself with removing the kettle from the heat.

Harry laughed. "No! It's just…when did you write this?"

"When I was sixteen—fifth year," Hermione answered, opening the cupboard and making a show of choosing a pair of teacups.

"Wow."

Hermione spun back to him, red-faced and clutching her chosen teacups.

"I had a lot of feelings," she said defensively.

"Clearly," Harry said. He paused. "You could've told me, you know."

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"I rather stand by my decision not to tell you," she said, pointing one of the teacups accusingly at Harry. "As I believe we've established before, you gave absolutely no indication you'd ever had even a stray thought towards seeing me in that light."

"But maybe if—" Harry said weakly, holding the letter aloft.

"ZERO indications," Hermione repeated firmly.

Although there was certainly a part of her that had wondered about that potentiality—what might have happened if she had told Harry long ago when she had first realized her feelings—she refused to linger on those thoughts. Not only were the 'what-ifs' a source of pain, but she truly did believe nothing would have come of it at the time. At best, it merely would have made for an incredibly awkward handful of months during a time when Harry needed her only as a friend and partner. It was even possible that such a revelation would have incited Harry to cement himself on the side of that thin line that was the barrier between friendship and something more.

No, Hermione was, if not exactly glad she hadn't told him, certainly content with her decision at the time. Harry could not have been forced to feel the same—that had to come about organically, as it had for her.

Harry crossed the room and also leaned against the counter, just out of arms length. Laying the letter down, he gingerly smoothed the fragile parchment, looking distracted.

"Because I was an idiot," he said.

"You weren't an idiot," Hermione said. "Not about that, at least."

Harry rolled his eyes as the corner of his mouth quirked upward.

"You felt the way you felt," Hermione said, shrugging sympathetically as she finally set down the teacups she had not realized she was still holding. "You shouldn't feel bad about that. It just…took you a bit longer to get to where I was."

Harry nodded reluctantly, but his nod morphed into a shake as his gaze fell once more to the letter, his hands braced on either side of it.

Hermione tilted her head as she took in his posture. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Harry said, sounding irritated. "I'm just frustrated."

"Are you really that upset because I didn't tell you?" Hermione said.

Harry twisted his head in her direction, his neck cracking audibly. "No," he said quickly. "Not at all. I'm frustrated at myself."

"I told you, you can't blame yourself for what you did or didn't feel when you were fifteen—"

Harry waved a hand. "It's not that."

He paused, then tapped the parchment three times with his index finger. "I'm frustrated at myself because your letter scares the hell out of me."

"A love letter written by a teenage girl scares you?"

Hermione couldn't help the giggle that escaped her.

"Maybe if I'd written it on pink paper?" she said lightly. "Or better yet, dotted the i's with little hearts? Lavender used to do that, maybe she was on to something. She certainly had more dates than I did…"

"Don't laugh!" Harry said defensively, although he smiled as well. "Damn right it scares me!"

It took multiple breaths for her to sober her amusement.

"Okay," she said, trying to be serious. "Why does it scare you?"

Harry crossed his arms as he angled his body towards her.

"Maybe I don't want to tell you now," he said. "Ever think of that?"

"Come on, tell me!" Hermione said, extending a hand to his arm. "I promise I'll be serious. I really want to know."

Harry was quiet for a moment, and then pressed his own hand over hers, gripping it lightly. He swallowed as he met her eyes, and then turned his gaze quickly away as he dropped her hand.

"It's just…you felt so strongly," he finally said, his voice quiet. "Even then. And I love you—Merlin help me I do—but I just worry that you've built up this…this idea of me for so long, and now that we're here…"

He shrugged, his eyes bright as he looked at her helplessly. "I'm just scared that I'll disappoint you." He gestured towards the letter. "Both of you."

Hermione shivered at the warmth that blossomed in her chest, thriving and vibrant, at his words. She wondered when (or if) that feeling would stop. She supposed that was what Harry was worried about too.

Reaching a hand forward, she grasped the corner of her letter and tugged it towards herself.

The words, prim and neat as her handwriting had always dictated, sat starkly against the faded parchment. Staring at the inked lines, she almost expected them to vibrate, brimming with the intensity that had spawned their existence. She might have written it yesterday for how well the sentences stuck in her memory, how well they still resonated in her mind.

So much had changed since she had written it—she had changed so much. But in certain ways she had not changed at all. In key ways, she was still rather close to the peculiar teenager she had been, book-obsessed and practical; the one who loved a challenge, and who had set up an organization for the freedom of house-elves; the one who would do anything to help her friends, and had spent many cold and hungry months in a shabby tent proving it so; and, of course, the one who had inconveniently developed a thorough and very persistent crush on her best friend.

That same girl made her presence very known tonight, and whatever differences they now had between them, Hermione knew there were in fervent agreement on at least one topic—they both knew very much what they wanted. Then and now.

Hermione pushed away the letter and covered the small distance that separated her and Harry. Grabbing a fistful of his shirt in each hand, she looked into his eyes very intently.

He blinked, his green eyes slightly wide as they met hers. As close as she was, she could feel the quickening of his breath as her hands shifted with the movement of his chest, could see the darkening of his eyes as his pupils dilated, and she felt her own pulse quicken in response.

No, Hermione thought, she had not changed so much.

"So you're scared I'll be disappointed?" she said, thumbing the soft fabric of his shirt.

He nodded wordlessly.

Hermione shook her head, a smile on her lips.

"Not likely," she said, and kissed him.

Harry returned the kiss fervently, with none of the hesitancy of their earlier kiss by the fire, and perhaps even a bit of possessiveness. His mouth pressed against hers, hard and insistent, as his hands found her waist.

Hermione numbly registered the fact that her back had bumped against the counter, but she was considerably more focused on how tightly Harry had pressed her hips to his.

She could feel how much he wanted her, just as much as she wanted him. While his hands glided along the gentle curves of her sides, hers danced along the firm planes of his back; the edges of his shoulder blades rolled beneath her fingers as he gripped at her waist.

Her hips ground against Harry's, and he let out a lengthy groan, his own hips pressing forward.

And very suddenly he broke apart from her, breathing heavily.

Hermione barely managed to keep her feet as she gripped the counter behind her for support. She was also breathing heavily.

"Sorry," Harry panted. "I'm sorry."

Hermione swallowed, rather wanting to sink to the tiles below her to cool her fiery flesh. "It's fine," she said, not quite knowing what she was accepting an apology for.

"I—tonight's not good, right?" he panted. "With…everything else?"

He looked as though a single word would send him back to her in an instant, but she could, albeit reluctantly, understand his hesitance. Ron, Ginny, Dolohov, the Hallows…they coated the moment like a thick layer of dust.

Despite the burning in her lower abdomen and swirling cacophony of her thoughts, she had the presence of mind to be touched that Harry didn't want this moment marred by…well, anything. And Hermione realized that she didn't either.

"You're right," she managed to say.

Harry looked both very relieved and very disappointed, if it was possible.

"So…tea?" he gritted out.

Hermione blinked, and glanced at the kettle that lay forgotten on stove.

"I think we should just go to bed," Hermione said. She paused. "Erm, go to sleep."

The clock struck the hour as though to support her.

Tong. Tong. Tong.

"I'm…" Hermione said, fanning absently at her face as the chimes faded to silence, "not really in the mood for tea anymore."

oooooooooooooooooooooooo

Hermione thudded her head against her pillow, attempting to find an indentation that would allow her to sleep.

She did not know how long it had been since she had left Harry on the couch in her living room—an hour? Two? Three? She refused to acknowledge the clock on her bedside table that would tell her so.

Tossing to one side, she bundled her comforter against her, binding it against her chest and between her thighs. She closed her eyes tightly, stubbornly.

The night's events circled in her mind on an endless loop.

Hogwarts, the forest, Neville's office, the Three Broomsticks, Ron and his harsh words…

Interspersed through it all was the warmth of Harry's hand in hers, the feeling of his lips against her neck, the pressure of his body against hers…

Groaning, Hermione grabbed a second pillow and pressed it hard over the top of her head.

Then she threw it aside and turned to her clock.

Forty-five minutes. It had been forty-five minutes.

"Pathetic," she grumbled out loud for the second time that night.

Throwing away her stifling comforter, she rolled from her bed and padded quietly to her bedroom door.

She stared at the handle stubbornly for all of thirty seconds before she grabbed it. The door glided open on silent hinges, and Hermione continued her trek as quietly as she could manage.

Harry had built up the fire before he had gone to bed, and the room was once more cast in a soft glow.

His breathing came in soft, deep breaths, convincing Hermione that she should just turn around and go back to her empty bed. She was just about to do so when a voice came from the couch.

"Are you just going to keep standing there or what?"

Harry grabbed his glasses and pressed them to his eyes, carefully avoiding his bruised cheek, and Hermione shifted uncomfortably.

"Couldn't sleep," she offered lamely.

"Me either," Harry admitted.

He lifted the edge of the afghan lying across him, and Hermione moved forward to slip into the gap he had created. Harry slipped an arm around her as both lay on their sides, facing the fire.

They lay like this for several minutes, quiet and thoughtful.

Harry's wedding band glinted in the firelight, the gold pulsating as vibrantly as the flames themselves.

Hermione extended her hand to his, palm to palm, and her fingers skimmed along the golden metal.

"Does it bother you?" came Harry's soft voice.

Hermione traced the circumference of the ring.

"No," she said. "Not at all."

She interlaced her fingers with his as she thought of her own left hand, where there had once been a ring. Now, not even a thin circlet of pale, untanned skin adorned her finger as it once had. The skin of her hand blended together seamlessly, erasing any evidence of the years she had been married.

"No," she said again.

"Are you sure?" Harry said. "Because I feel like it would bother me if you still had a ring from Ron."

"The circumstances were different. I ended my marriage. Yours just…ended."

Harry was quiet behind her.

"Or," Hermione continued lightly, "I could simply be more evolved than you."

Harry's chest vibrated as he chuckled. "That's probably it."

Suddenly, Hermione became bothered by the fact that she couldn't see Harry's face, and twisted away from the fire.

Harry's face was there to meet hers, and her heart swelled at the fact.

"Hullo," he said, quirking an eyebrow at her sudden movement.

"Hullo," Hermione returned. "I wanted to see your face," she added honestly.

"Still the same, unfortunately."

Hermione smiled, and Harry smiled back.

"Do you…do you think they'll all be like that?" she said more seriously as Harry brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Like Ron?"

"No," Harry said. "I don't. I can't think that. We always knew Ron would be a challenge—probably the worst of it." He paused. "Do you feel guilty about it?"

"Yes and no," Hermione murmured. "I…I'm not apologizing for moving on. He's done as much, and I'm happy for him. But he's also our best friend and Ginny's brother, and I hate how much this has to hurt him."

And here it was, at the crux of it—Hermione did not want to hurt Ron, or anyone else for that matter. Harry clearly felt the same. Both of them had seemingly been content for years to keep the peace, existing with quiet remorse rather than inflicting pain on others. So long, in fact, that Hermione was a bit unsure of how capable they were of returning to a state other than isolated hurt.

But, by Merlin, she was sure going to try.

"So it doesn't change anything?"

"No," Hermione said readily, meeting his eyes. "Does it for you?"

Harry suddenly reached upwards, over the arm of the couch, as Hermione looked on with a furrowed brow. As he pulled his arm back, Hermione saw that he was grasping his wand.

Hermione quirked an eyebrow at him as he had done to her, which he pointedly ignored as he reached over her side to point his wand across the room.

Twisting her neck, she realized he was pointing at their coats, which were still sitting in a jumbled pile on the armchair where they had left them.

Wordlessly, he gave the wand a quick wave, and the coats quivered briefly. Then something slinked out from among the folds of cloth and began floating slowly towards them. It shimmered brightly as it passed before the fire, and Hermione followed its path, entranced.

Harry plucked the necklace from midair before tossing his wand back on the table by the couch. As he settled himself more comfortably, he allowed the chain to dangle from his fingers, and the pendant swayed between his and Hermione's faces.

"No fear, right?"

The silver pendant danced in front of her eyes, glinting like burnished copper by the fire's glow, and Hermione reached a hand forward to clasp it in her fingers.

"Right," she said, brushing her fingers along the familiar inscription etched into the metal.

Harry's eyes also glimmered in the fire's light, and he moved to place the necklace about her neck. Hermione obligingly lifted the curtain of her hair, and Harry made quick work of fastening the necklace, his face enticingly close to hers, before placing the pendant delicately against her throat.

Then he kissed her, and Hermione brought a hand to rest against his cheek, sinking and sinking.

They broke apart, and Hermione rested her forehead against his, her eyes still closed.

"Is it terrible that I can't stop smiling?" she said.

"Really terrible," Harry said, his voice soft. Hermione opened her eyes, and saw the smile on Harry's own face. "But I won't tell if you won't."

Feeling amazingly light-hearted, Hermione nestled closer to him, pressing a cheek into his shirt. Splaying a hand against the dark gray cotton covering his chest, her fingers burrowed into the fabric, connecting with the firm skin beneath. Her hand moved like a pendulum as he breathed, and his heart beat reassuringly in her ear.

Harry's arms were tight around her as he pressed his lips to her hair.

"Worth the wait?" he said.

Hermione inhaled deeply, already feeling sleep threatening to take her.

"Entirely," she breathed.

And as they lay nestled in each other's arms, they both felt that for the first time in a long while, things maybe—just maybe—might turn out okay.

But neither had long to dwell on this, as sleep soon overtook them both.

oooooooooooooooooooooooo

Tong. Tong. Tong.

The ringing bells echoed through London, only vaguely registered by the few patrons still residing in the dimly lit tavern.

Ron Weasley sat slumped over the bar in exactly the spot where his once-friends had left him, his hair standing on end from the frequent scraping of his scalp. His eyes stared, unfocused, at the rocks glass sitting before him, half-filled with watered-down whiskey.

He should go home. He really should. Had he told Luna he would be by tonight? He couldn't remember. Couldn't think straight at all.

The image of Hermione kissing Harry was ingrained in his mind, and only became more potent as he pressed his hands to his eyes, desperate to escape it.

Hermione arching into his Harry's body, her fingers buried in his hair, the sound of moaning as Harry kissed her neck, all silhouetted by the redness of the fire as if mimicking his personal hell.

Who could look at you, who would ever look at you, beside Harry Potter?

Ron rubbed at his face harshly, gritting his teeth.

What have you ever done, compared with the Chosen One?

His hands shook as he moved to swig what remained of his whiskey.

What are you, compared with the Boy-Who-Lived?

A high-pitched whine echoed in his ears, and Ron squeezed his eyes shut.

Who wouldn't prefer him, what woman would take you, you are nothing, nothing, nothing to him.

"One more," Ron bit out.

As preoccupied as Ron was in acquiring more liquor with which to drown his sorrows, he didn't pay much mind to the man who came up and sat right beside him at the bar despite the excess of seats available in the practically empty tavern.

Then Ron saw the man reflected in the mirror behind the bar, and recognition sparked in his eyes.

A wand jabbed into his side.

"Imperio."