my heart is yours, it's you that i hold on to
So, this has been finished for...months? But it's been languishing on my laptop and, for some reason, I never posted it.
Now I know why. Clearly, I was waiting for everything that went down last night. Hahaha.
Anyway. Enjoy.
[Potter, 'Stories From the City, Stories From the Sea']
It all starts on a Saturday night. Or Sunday morning, she supposes, as it is two in the morning. They’re on the night bus, watching the rain crawl down the windows, his feet propped up and her head resting on his shoulder.
‘Good night?’ she says, nudging him slightly with her elbow and closing her eyes. It has been a good night, she thinks, an incredibly good night; now she is tired and comfortable and wants nothing more than her bed.
He rests his cheek on her head and sighs. ‘Good to see Dean again.’
She smiles slightly, her eyes blinking open for a moment, then letting them close again. ‘Yeah. And Seamus.’
He only hums softly in reply and she can feel sleep creep up on her, her body growing lax against his.
She is almost fully asleep when she feels him shift slightly against her.
‘Hermione?’ he says, softly.
She means to say something, to at least open her eyes. She does. But, the rhythm of the tires on the road, the soft patter of the rain, the incredibly comfortable position she has, slumped against him...she simply lays there, saying nothing.
She can feel him raise his head when she doesn’t reply.
‘Hermione?‘ he says again, more breath than words. She still says nothing, he lowers his head again, resting his lips on the top of her head.
‘God, Hermione‘ he whispers, something like laughter making his voice break. ‘I should have fought for you.’
She doesn’t open her eyes, she doesn’t move at all.
She keeps her body still, her breath even and pretends she’s asleep.
*
The next time he says it, they’re all drunk.
It’s Ginny’s flat-warming party. It is the end of the night and the six of them are sitting, or laying, in various states of disrepair in the sitting room.
‘More wine, I think,’ Ron says.
There is a beat of silence before Neville’s sniggering breaks it. ‘Was that, like, a papal decree? Or were you just expecting it to appear?’
‘Oh, shut it,’ Ron says. ‘I was planning...where the hell...has anyone seen my bloody wand?’
Harry sighs, heaving himself off the chair he has become one with as the night has gone on. ‘Ron, do not even...we’ll have wine all down the hall. I’ll grab it.’
‘Thank you,’ Ginny says, catching Harry’s hand as he leaves the room.
He winks at her and continues down the hall, turning and saluting as he heads into the kitchen.
Hermione watches it all with a vague sense of unreality.
It’s been six months and most of the time, most of the time, she is absolutely certain that she dreamed the whole thing. His lips brushing her hair and the break in his voice and even the bus itself and the tires on the road. She fell asleep after ‘And Seamus‘ and that...that was all. Harry prodded her awake and they stumbled to her flat; she woke up in her bed, he was on her couch and then they went down the high street and got breakfast and gallons of tea.
Same as every Sunday after a night out.
But...but she still hears his voice. Those words. ‘I should have fought for you.’
Six months of knowing, knowing, that she dreamed the whole thing and six months of never being alone with him.
And, suddenly, she has to know.
Neville makes a vague noise of complaint as she sits up, dislodging him from his sprawl against her legs; other than that, no one says anything or even looks up as she leaves the room.
She makes her way down the hall, that same sense of unreality enveloping her. It lasts until she reaches the kitchen and sees him, grabbing a bottle of wine from the shelf.
His back is to her; there is a strip of skin showing between his jeans and t-shirt and his hair, as always, is growing straight up at the back. And it’s Harry, Harry, her best friend Harry and what the hell is she doing?
He turns around before she can escape, smiling at her and, seriously, what is she doing?
‘Last one,’ he says, holding the bottle of red towards her. ‘Think there’s a bit of Firewhisky left if that’s...Hermione?’
She keeps staring at him, her tongue huge, all the moisture vanishing from her mouth and relocating to her palms.
‘Hermione?’ he says again, putting the bottle down on the counter and stepping closer to her. ‘What’s...are you...Hermione?’
She shakes her head and closes her eyes briefly. ‘Nothing,’ she says, her voice scratchy. ‘It’s nothing.’
He doesn’t say anything, but steps closer to her, one of his hands reaching out to grab hers. She steps back, still shaking her head, both hands coming up to tuck her hair behind her ears. ‘Harry, seriously. It’s nothing, I don’t even know why-’
‘Hermione,’ he says, his voice deep, low in his throat. ‘Are you...do you-’
‘No,’ she interrupts, finally looking at him and oh. Oh. He knows, he knows exactly what she’s not saying, what she’s not even thinking about. ‘No, Harry, just. Forget it. I...it’s late. We’re pissed. I’m pissed and just. Nothing,‘ she says, laughter getting stuck in her throat. ‘It’s nothing. Firewhisky, you said?’
Harry looks at her for a long moment, then slowly reaches behind himself, eyes never leaving hers and grabs the bottle of Firewhisky.
She reaches out to take it, but he doesn’t let go immediately. She wants to turn, to walk away, but his eyes are holding hers and her feet are rooted to the floor. When she hears his voice, it’s not low or broken. It’s not a whisper.
It’s not something she’ll be able to pretend she hasn’t heard.
‘I meant it. I should have fought for you.’
*
She spends a sleepless night, staring at the ceiling, feeling her sadness, her melancholy, harden, feeling it form into a kind of rage. She spends the morning ignoring it, ignoring owls from Ron, burying herself in research.
But she’s ignored it for six months and look where that got her.
She slams out of the flat and has almost no recollection of the walk to Harry’s. He looks just as disheveled as she feels when he opens the door, wearing the same clothes from the night before, his eyes rimmed in red.
And just like that, the rage dissipates. The rage and melancholy just...vanish; she feels hollow and confused and and. And. Oh.
‘You look like your night was as good as mine.’
He smiles briefly, but it quickly melts off his face. ‘We need to talk.’
She nods, stepping past him, into the kitchen of Number 7. There are two mugs sitting on the table.
‘Is-’
Harry laughs, hollowly. ‘Just missed her. Unsurprisingly, she stormed out with a box of her things about ten minutes ago.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes. Oh,’ he says, walking past her, grabbing the two mugs and dropping them in the sink. ‘Tea? Water? Firewhisky? Tequila?’
She closes her eyes, her hands balling into fists. ‘I don’t know why you’re...Harry...’
She hears him sigh and when she looks over, his arms are braced against the counter, his head bowed. She’s staring at his back again, the curve of his neck and all she wants, all she wants in the world, is to go over to him and..and she doesn’t even know.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, turning around and rubbing the back of his head. ‘I’m...yeah. I just...it’s been a shit night, you know?’
She nods, backing up against the counter behind her.
They’re standing across from each other, that huge table in between them, but she still feels like there’s no air in the room.
‘Bit of a crap night for me, as well,’ she says, then bites her lip. ‘Why did you...what did you mean?’
He stares at her, a bit helplessly. ‘What did I mean whe-’
‘Harry!’ she interrupts, rolling her eyes. ‘I thought I was crazy for months, that I had dreamed the whole thing, but last night. You said you meant it. That...that you should have fought for me. What-’
‘I should have done,’ he says, plainly. Plaintively. He shrugs. ‘Back then...I should have. I should have fought for you.’
She thinks she should be collapsing, her knees giving out, but, she’s not. She can feel her spine grow straighter, air being drawn deeper into her lungs.
‘What does that mean, Harry? Fought for me? With whom?‘ she says, her voice growing thinner with each word. ‘And do I get a say in this?’
‘Hermione,’ he says, staring at her, his eyebrows pulled together. ‘Don’t-don’t stand there and...and. You know exactly what I mean. Do we really have to-’
‘Yes, Harry,’ she says, swallowing. ‘I don’t...I don’t know what you mean. Honestly. You just can’t...make pronouncements and then expect me to-’
‘I don’t expect you to do anything,’ he says, voice catching. ‘Honestly, I don’t. But, I couldn’t...I had to tell you.’
Her eyes fill with tears, but she presses her lips into a line and her hands ball into fists. ‘Harry, I still don’t. I’m not. You need to explain to me what you mean,’ she says, voice catching in her throat.
He looks at her for a moment, then seems to deflate. He sinks onto the bench in front of him, his elbows propped on the table. He bows his head, hands scrubbing over his face, under his glasses. He doesn’t say anything, though.
She sits down across from him and stares at the top of his head. She feels like glaciers have melted by the time he looks up and speaks.
‘The night that Ron kissed Lavender...do you remember it?’
She nods, feeling her mouth twist. Of course she does; the stairwell and hot tears on her cheeks and Harry’s hand in hers.
‘I wasn’t talking about Ginny,’ he says. There is a flush creeping up his cheeks, but he doesn’t look away from her.
‘What?’ she says. ‘Then-’
‘You were so upset,’ he interrupts, mouth lifting on one side. ‘And...and it was clear to me that you weren’t ever going to look at me the way you looked at Ron. But...the way you felt when you saw Ron with Lavender? That’s the way I felt when I saw you...’
He trails off, staring at her. His eyes seem very large and very green and, suddenly, she wants to lunge across the table and stop him, clap her hand over his mouth and just. Just stop him. But she doesn’t; she’s paralyzed in her seat and his voice, when it comes, is light and matter-of-fact and something else she can’t ignore.
‘I was talking about you.’
The sudden roaring in her ears makes it hard to think. She knows she’s blinking at him stupidly, her mouth gaping open slightly, but she can’t...she can’t.
‘But...you...I thought - Ginny. And you kissed her!’ she says. She doesn’t know why she sounds accusing, but she can’t seem to stop herself. ‘And you were...together or as good as. You had to have...’
She sounds ridiculous; she feels ridiculous. She is ridiculous. What he just said, if he meant...this has nothing to do with Ginny, but. That’s the one thing she can focus on.
He’s looking at her like he can hear her thoughts. ‘Yes, I did kiss her,’ he says, wistfully. ‘It was lovely and sweet. And it kept on being lovely, but-’
He pauses, swallowing. He looks awkward and flushed and nervous and...relieved. His shoulders are relaxed and his hands aren’t white-knuckled anymore. His eyes are still red-rimmed, but he slowly smiles at her and this time, his grin is that sweet Harry grin that she hasn’t seen in years; the one that crinkles his eyes and shows all his teeth and makes him look a little bit daft.
‘I’m in love with you,’ he says. ‘I think I have been since we were sixteen.’
She gets up and walks out.
*
Three hours later, she is exhausted and windblown, ignoring the people streaming past her back and the boat gliding underneath her. She doesn’t know how she got here, why she’s leaning on this ballast, watching the river flow underneath. She knows she’s been walking since she left, stormed out of Grimmauld Place, trying to catch one of her thoughts as they raced away from her.
The only thing she knows is that she can’t go home. She cannot go home and she cannot go to her parents’. Ginny is out and so are Neville and Luna. She doesn’t know if she’s ever going to be able to even look at Ron again; one look at her and he will know something is wrong, something isn’t quite right and she won’t be able to stop herself from blurting it out and then. And then. Then, well, she has no idea what then.
She wishes she could go home; that she could go to her bed and lie down and pull the covers over her head until this all just went away. But the thought of her flat, her lovely, sunny, tiny flat, all white bookshelves crammed with books and bare kitchen...the walls would close in on her; she is sure of it.
And she got over being a coward when she was eleven years old, the Sorting Hat whispering in her ear. So there’s only one thing for it.
She draws herself up and slips back into the crowd heading north, wondering if she’ll know what to say by the time she gets there.
*
The kitchen looks the same when she gets back - the mugs are in the sink, the bench she was sitting on is pushed back. The only thing missing is Harry himself.
She mounts the stairs, taking deep breaths and listening attentively for any noise. She doesn’t hear anything, not even the soft drone of the wireless. She has a brief hope that he’s not here.
He realized what a nutter he was being and...and came to his senses. He’s at Ginny’s, on his knees asking for forgiveness and of course, of course she’ll forgive him. She’ll forgive him and the next time Hermione sees him, he’ll duck his head and start to stammer, but she’ll laugh and tell him they don’t need to talk about it and it’ll be fine.
It’ll be fine and it will eventually turn into something they laugh at, one of their many stories, one of their ‘d’you remember?’s and he’ll laugh, his head thrown back and she’ll laugh, hand covering her mouth, kicking his foot and it’ll be fine.
It’ll be fine, she repeats to herself as she comes to the first landing and sees firelight in the sitting room. Totally fine, she thinks, absolutely fine, but then she looks in and well.
Harry’s there, lying prone on the couch, staring at the ceiling.
So. Maybe he’s not at Ginny’s, begging forgiveness; surely, though, surely he’s come to his senses and now he can’t believe what he said. He’s probably torturing himself, prostrating himself and that’s fine too.
‘I haven’t changed my mind, you know,’ he says, still staring at the ceiling.
She sighs, then steps into the room. Her arms are wrapped around herself as she walks to the fireplace, not glancing at Harry as she passes.
She can feel his eyes on her, though.
She doesn’t stop until she reaches the opposite wall, leaning her forehead against the wall beside the fireplace. She closes her eyes and almost laughs when she realizes she still, still, has no idea what to say. What to ask. How to make this...okay.
He doesn’t say anything, however and she knows she is going to have to start this. Whatever this is.
‘I don’t understand,’ she says, finally, her voice so faint she can barely hear it. She clears her throat and tries again. ‘I don’t understand.’
Her voice isn’t much stronger but he must hear it. He sighs before saying, ‘I don’t know what you want me to tell you, Hermione.’
‘How about what the hell you could possibly be thinking?’ she says, still to the wall, but her anger returning abruptly. ‘You’re my best friend, Harry. Not...not-’
‘I’m also a man who’s in love with you.’
‘Stop saying that!’ she says, spinning around. ‘Just...stop it. That’s not-’
‘Me not saying it won’t make it not true,’ Harry says, opening his eyes but keeping them trained on the ceiling. He looks like he’s laid out for a nap; only the muscle clenching in his jaw giving away his tension. ‘I know you don’t want to hear this, but like I told you earlier - I’m not expecting you to do anything.’
She laughs, hands coming up to cover her face as she slumps back against the wall. ‘What...Harry. You cannot announce...that to me and then, in the next breath, tell me that it doesn’t matter.’
‘It matters,’ he says, sitting up. ‘Of course it matters. That’s not what I said. It matters a great deal, but I am not expecting anything from you.’
‘So...what? We just pretend like nothing happened? That you didn’t just break up with Ginny for me?’
She snaps her mouth shut as he raises an eyebrow at her. ‘I didn’t break up with her for you,’ he says, slowly. ‘I broke up with her because it wasn’t fair to be with her when I was in love with someone else.’
‘If you weren’t expecting me to do anything,’ she says, not even acknowledging what he’s said, ‘then why even tell me?’
He looks at her for a long moment, then drops his head, threading his hands together on the back of his neck. ‘I...I had to, Hermione,’ he says, softly. ‘It was like it was...it was strangling me, I swear it.’
She stares at him, his fingers still clenched together, the muscle in his jaw jumping. She couldn’t describe what she was feeling, even if someone held a wand to her chest. ‘So. It was ‘strangling’ you, so you decided to tell me and what? Make it my problem?’
His head snaps up at that, his eyes wide. ‘No, Hermione! How many times am I going to have to tell you that I’m not expecting you to do anything?’
‘That’s all fine and well, but you still made it my problem!’ she says, hand hitting her chest. ‘You just...forget Ron and Ginny and everyone else for a moment - did you even think about me, about how this would affect me? At all? You are my best friend, Harry. You have always been my best friend and you thought - what? It wouldn’t bloody matter if you told me you were in love with me?’
She stops, panting, her words still echoing around the room. And now that she’s finally acknowledged it, that she’s finally said it out loud, she can feel the impact of the words in her chest; it feels like her breastbone is cracking open. She’s gulping in huge lungfuls of air, but it still feels like she’s drowning. Because...because...
If he...if Harry, Harry is in love with her?
Oh.
She can feel her knees give out and she sinks, slowly, down the wall. He keeps opening his mouth, then closing it and she thinks, faintly, that it wouldn’t matter if he spoke anyway. She doubts she could hear anything over the thud of her heart, which is roaring in her ears and thrumming in her arms, her toes, her throat.
He seems to melt off of the sofa, moving cautiously towards her along the floor. When he reaches her, he tugs on the sleeve of her shirt until she leans toward him slightly. She resists for a moment, then folds into him. His arms go around her and she can feel his breath, warm, at her ear.
She feels numb, stunned, but she seems to be crying, hot tears staining her cheeks and running along her jaw. Her hands are clenching his shirt, restless. He doesn’t say anything for long moments and when he does speak, it is not what she’s expecting.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, drawing her more fully against him, their limbs, awkward on the floor, somehow slotting together. She closes her eyes tightly, her mouth open on his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’
She sniffs, but says nothing, folding her arms more tightly around him. She doesn’t know how long they sit there, wrapped around each other, the sound of their breathing and the fire crackling the only thing in the room.
She doesn’t want to pull away; she wants to sit there forever, breathing in time to his heart beat, but she knows she can’t.
But she still...she still doesn’t know what to do.
‘Harry, I’m not...I don’t-’
‘I know,’ he says, then presses a kiss to her ear. He sits back, slowly, one hand wrapping around her wrist. His glasses are crooked and she wants to reach out, to straighten them and brush his fringe back from his forehead.
‘You’re right,’ he says, blinking rapidly. ‘I just felt like it was crushing me to death and I didn’t think about...it was...’
He trails off and she can hear all the words that seem to be jammed in his throat. It was thoughtless and selfish and he is so so sorry. He just keeps looking at her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, again, his voice thin.
She slowly stands up, her knees feeling like they’re creaking after being crouched on the floor for so long. She nods, but doesn’t say what she thinking, doesn’t tell him that she’s not.
She’s not sorry.
And that? Scares her to death.
*
So.
Well.
That happened.
*
‘I think,’ she says, into the silence. ‘I think that I...’
She can’t finish the sentence.
*
‘We’re going to have to redo every conversation we’ve ever had.’
‘I don’t think that’s necessarily true,’ he says, absently, not looking away from the onion he’s dicing. There is a pot on the hob and all manner of veg scattered on the counter and he already looks in his element.
It is an utterly familiar scene, one that has happened at least once a week since they all got to London, despite loud and continued protest from Kreacher. Which is probably why he doesn’t react at first.
She sees him realize it a few seconds later, after she is already installed in her chair. He turns towards her, his mouth open, knife still clenched in his hand. When he sees her, he stills abruptly, his mouth snapping closed.
She knows he can’t actually read her mind, but she has never been more grateful for their ability to read one another. Because she still doesn’t know what the hell she’s feeling, what the hell she’s doing, but she knows she has to do something.
He looks at her for a few more seconds before one corner of his mouth quirks up and he turns back to the onion. ‘I don’t think we have time to redo every conversation we’ve ever had.’
She smiles briefly. ‘Well, maybe not all. But...but you, ah, you said you were talking about me that night on the staircase.’
He stills for a moment, then clears his throat. ‘Yeah, I...uh, I was.’
‘But...you were talking about Ginny. I know you were, Harry; I had just asked you about her.’
‘Exactly,’ he says, setting his knife down and turning to face her. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and leans a hip against the counter. ‘You...for some reason, you had gotten it into your head that I had a crush on Ginny-’
‘You were certainly bloody acting like it,’ she mutters.
He ignores her, rather pointedly. ‘-and after I saw you looking at Ron, after you started crying, I just...I don’t know. I didn’t even know, Hermione; I just knew I wanted to kill him for hurting you and it, well, it felt like someone had kicked my chest in. So. I dunno. Just seemed easier to let you believe whatever you wanted to believe about Ginny and I.’
‘That makes absolutely no sense.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘I really don’t know what you want from me,’ he says, throwing his hands up. ‘I was sixteen. One minute you’re accusing me of wanting bloody Ginny and the next, I wanted to kill my best friend because he was hurting you. What was I supposed to do? ‘Sorry, Hermione, but, ah - actually, it’s you I want. I think? Maybe? But I just figured that out ten seconds ago?’ Never mind the fact that you clearly were looking Ron at like that. So.’
He shrugs, trailing off lamely.
She stares at him.
‘But you...you were looking at her. That night you got to the Burrow? You two were as good as fact from then on.’
‘Hermione, the only person who thought that was you. I don’t know why...you know. Just. Doesn’t matter anyway. I was an idiot and I should have said something then. Years ago.’
She doesn’t say anything for a moment. ‘Exactly. It’s been years. Years and you-’
‘I’m a terrible person,’ he says, shrugging and turning back to the cutting board. He sounds flippant but his shoulders are pulled up and the line of his neck is tense.
She can’t help but roll her eyes. ‘Obviously,’ she says, unable to keep the teasing from her voice. He doesn’t say anything, but his shoulders drop.
She sighs.
‘What are you making?’
*
‘I think...I think...’ she says. ‘I think I’m...’
She still can’t finish the sentence.
*
She’s never been a good actress. But she’s always been up early and in bed late and if she starts skipping nights at Ron’s place or leaving earlier, owling him from the office and...well, it’s nothing that hasn’t happened before.
Her work, her career, has always been important to her. He knows that and if she stops touching him altogether, well. That’s nothing that hasn’t happened before either.
He catches her before she leaves one morning. She’s setting her teacup in the sink and her bag is already across her chest. He pops through the Floo, still looking half-asleep. He kisses her distractedly on the temple, while groping for the kettle.
‘This’ll be over soon and I’ll get to see you again, yeah?’
She nods and smiles and doesn’t say anything.
She steps around him and hears him sigh. ‘I’m going to drink a cuppa before I scarper, okay?’ he says, already focused on his tea. She says nothing, just watching him yawn hugely and scratch his chest under his t-shirt. Her nose and eyes start to burn as she stares, she swallows when he glances at her. ‘Okay?’
She nods and smiles and feels like the worst kind of person.
*
‘You want to know the really fucked up thing?’
She has to smile at his reaction; she’s usually not one for swearing, but...well, if any situation calls for it, she thinks this one definitely does. After his initial shock, he simply raises his eyebrows and he looks at her, silently.
‘You’re the one I want to talk to about this.’
His mouth turns down slightly at the corners. ‘What do you mean?’
She laughs softly, stabbing what’s left of her jacket potato with her fork. ‘Just what I said. You’re the person I want to talk to about this, but it’s about you. It’s just...strange, is all.’
‘Strange,’ he repeats, no inflection in his voice.
She looks up and rolls her eyes. ‘Yes. Strange.’
He says nothing, taking a sip of his pint. ‘All right. Do you want to give it a go?’
‘Seriously?’
He shrugs and leans back, crossing his arms across his chest. ‘Sure.’
His face is totally blank, but she sees the corners of his lips twitching ever so slightly and, suddenly, she’s laughing, giggling, watching the dimple in his cheek get deeper. Dropping her fork on the plate, she covers her face with her hands as she laughs, feeling a bit hysterical, trying to imagine such a conversation.
When she finally looks up, he’s grinning broadly, still leaned back, but with one arm draped across the chair beside him. She snorts and picks up her pint.
‘Maybe not.’
He nods.
‘Yeah. Maybe not.’
*
She’s in her kitchen when it hits her.
A pot is on the hob and she’s heating up some of soup from her freezer. She looks around her bare kitchen and when she opens up the refrigerator, she feels like crying.
It is full, crammed; various containers labeled with his chicken scratch. He showed up several weeks ago; he barged in and started pulling tupperware and foil-wrapped packages out of a bag. A seemingly bottomless bag, she thought at the time, thinking of a beaded bag that is still in her closet, as she stared at him from the doorway.
‘Instructions,‘ he said, holding up a piece of parchment and affixing it to the door of the refrigerator with his wand. He paused and tilted his head at her. ‘You do know how to turn the hob on, right?’
She stuck her tongue out and turned away, going back to her chair with a grin, leaving him to it.
She has one pot, one pan. A few mismatched plates and bowls. Some scattered cutlery and one wooden spoon. She spends virtually no time in here, only ever heating up things or binning take-away boxes. There is no table, no chairs; nothing like the kitchen at Number 7 now, the first room renovated, the fire crackling merrily and her big, squashy chair tucked in the corner. This space is small and utilitarian, the fireplace dominating one wall that gets the most use; it is not welcoming and not lived in.
She wanders out to her sitting room, stares at the couch. Sees Ron shifting, complaining, legs hanging off, seeming to twist and go for miles. Sees Harry laid out across it, both in the shop and most Sunday mornings; stretched full across it and smiling at her. Her reading chair and lamp above it. Shelves and shelves of books, Quidditch magazines strewn across the end table.
Her lovely, sunny bedroom is next; it is absolutely the reason she rented this flat. Double bed, the one from her room in her parents’ house. Enough space for something larger, something to fit a six-plus frame, but empty space instead. One wardrobe and a chair, one of Ron’s jumpers, the neck and ends of the sleeves stretched, thrown over it.
She sinks down on the chair, picking up Ron’s sweater and clenching it in her fists. Her eyes close as she bows her head. She feels empty, hollowed out and just done.
Sitting there in the half-light of her flat, she finally, for the first time, lets herself think it, finish the thought that’s been haunting her for weeks. She finally, for the first time since she was fifteen-years old, lets herself think it. She lets herself think it and then she takes a deep breath, opening her eyes.
The sweater. A few magazines. The toothbrush and shampoo from the bathroom. The Chudley Cannons schedule on her refrigerator. A few Weird Sisters records. Everything fits in one regular box, no enchantments required.
She stares at it for a few seconds, biting her lip before rolling her eyes at herself. She picks up the box resolutely and grabs her bag as she stalks out the door, slamming it behind her.
No one ever has ever accused her of indecision.
*
It’s over astonishingly quickly.
Ron takes one look at her, the box in her arms, and a flush starts creeping up his neck. He stands in his door for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, then gestures her in.
She could give him a dissertation, with bullet points and footnotes, source each problem back to the root. She could, but. But Ron’s been her friend for longer than they’ve been together and he doesn’t need it. He doesn’t want it.
And, anyway, she thinks - that, all of that, is beside the point - there’s only one thing that is going to matter to him. It’s still hanging in the air when she leaves ten minutes later.
‘Harry.’
No one ever accused her of being a good person either.
*
She knows she should probably wait.
She should owl Helen and meet her for a drink, or sit in her dark flat, crying silently, bottle of wine open at her elbow. She should go through everything once more, methodically, looking in cupboards and under the furniture. She should ‘take some time for herself.’
These are all the correct, proper things. The things one should do when they’ve broken up with their boyfriend. The things that Witch Weekly says are indispensable.
But it would be an exercise in futility, she thinks. She hesitates for only a moment, hovering in the door of the Leaky Cauldron, staring at the people rushing past her, before she ducks her head and turns right. Soho is to her left and Number 7 is only a twenty-five minute walk.
Kreacher appears when she opens the door.
She smiles at him when he narrows his eyes suspiciously.
‘Har-’
‘It’s fine,’ she says, laying her bag down beside her chair. ‘I’ll just wait?’ Her voice rises at the end, but they both know it’s not a question.
Kreacher gives her one last look, eyes still narrow, and then nods once, disappearing with a crack. She’s pouring water into a mug for tea before everything that has happened in the last hour and a half hits her. Wandering around her flat and Ron’s expression, his lips thinning, the thronging crowds on her walk here and the feeling of fitness, of rightness that she has, that she has always had, simply walking through the door.
She thinks she should be...something. Having a panic attack or crumpling to the floor, but she’s not. Her hands are steady as she stirs her tea, watching it turn milky, and when she deposits her spoon in the sink. Her breathing is even and her mind isn’t buzzing as she turns around and surveys the kitchen, which is probably her favorite place in the world. The huge table and benches, holdovers from before. Her chair and the small table next to it; the bookshelves behind, crammed with novels and cookbooks, one of Ron’s chess sets and the wireless. The pots and pans hung above the island and the knives on a strip on the wall. The huge fireplace, different size jars along the mantel. The paned, floor-to-ceiling windows at the back, the french doors leading to the garden.
She lets herself smile as she looks around, that sense of rightness welling up again, warming her.
That sense of rightness that she can finally put a name to now.
*
‘I think I’m in love with you.’
She has the words out before he’s even cleared the door. The tea is sat by her elbow, not drunk and room temperature. She’s been watching the door since she sat down, legs tucked underneath her.
There’s no reason to pretend she’s doing anything but waiting for him, that she’s here for any other reason.
She has to smile at his expression; the hand unwinding his scarf hovering in midair as he gapes at her slightly. She can’t help a soft laugh from bubbling up. ‘I am, Harry.’
She thought she’d feel high, feel giddy, but she doesn’t. She feels peaceful and...right.
‘It’s been right in front of me for so long,’ she says, still smiling at him. ‘I just couldn’t see. I never-’
‘-let myself see it,’ he finishes for her. He’s smiling at her now, calmly taking off his scarf, his coat, scrubbing his hand through his hair. His wild, sticky-uppy hair that grows straight up at the back.
She feels her smile widen.
‘What?’ he says, slowly walking towards her.
‘Nothing,’ she says, standing up and reaching for him. She catches the bottom of his shirt with her fingers, uses it to pull him towards her. ‘You’re just very cute.’
He ducks his head, huffs out a laugh.
‘You are,’ she says, fingers moving to his belt loops.
He looks up, only inches away. ‘Thanks.’
She hums in the back of her throat, swaying towards him slightly. His hands reach up, cup her face and she feels goosebumps break out on her neck, shivering down her back. He looks at her for a moment before leaning in, brushing his nose across hers.
‘Harry,’ she says, just loud enough for him to hear it.
‘What?’
She can see the edge of his grin.
‘Would you please-’ she whispers, then pauses. Stops.
She leans in and kisses him.
*
Hours later, they’re back in the kitchen.
She’s sitting on the counter, bare legs dangling, watching as he moves around, assembling sandwiches. Her gaze keeps snagging on different parts of him - the hair curling around his ear, the sweat still clinging to the small of his back, the hair on his shins, his oddly vulnerable feet, the veins running along his wrist, his lip tugged between his teeth. At all the things she’s never let herself look at properly before.
She smiles as he turns to look at her and feels like the worst sort of sap, feels like she’ll never stop smiling whenever he looks at her.
‘What?’ she says, seeing his grin widen.
He shakes his head, briefly. ‘Nothing. Just...’
She raises her eyebrow. ‘Just,’ she prompts, poking him the side with her toe when he doesn’t answer.
He sighs and turns back to her, running a hand up her thigh as he comes to stand between her legs. ‘Just...I never let myself think about this, but it’s exactly what I always wanted.’
She can feel her smile start to wobble, to melt slightly. She leans in to kiss him again, winding her arms around her neck.
It’s nothing she ever thought about either, but her lips on his, his hands running up and down her back, drawing her forward, closer to him - it all feels like what they should have always been doing.
He pulls back, kissing her eyelids and the tip of her nose as she runs her hands over his shoulders and down his arms.
‘I was thinking about it and I don’t think you’re exactly right.’
‘Okay...I’m going to need a little more information, Hermione.’
‘What you said. Before. When you said you should have-’
‘-fought for you,’ he says, nodding. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well,’ she says, licking her lips. ‘Not that I don’t love the sentiment, but - you should always fight for you, Harry.’
His eyebrows draw together as he studies her face, hands clenching on her waist, fingers tangling in the material of the shirt, the one he was wearing earlier, that she’d thrown on.
‘I mean, you had to do what we all needed for such a long time that...’ she pauses, takes a deep breath, her eyes filling with tears. ‘You always did what everyone else needed you to do. You should...you deserve to have things that you want, not just...’
She trails off, tilting her head down and closing her eyes. ‘Just promise me that you’ll think about yourself first. Sometimes, at least.’
The only thing she can hear is their quiet breathing for a moment, then she feels his lips on her forehead. He kisses her gently, then rests his lips there, simply breathing for a moment.
‘I could say the same thing to you, Hermione,’ he says, whispers. His hands reach down to uncurl them from where they’re clenched on the countertop, slotting their fingers together.
She says nothing, doesn’t raise her eyes.
‘I’m serious,’ he says, nudging her cheek with his nose. ‘You always do what has to be done, regardless of what you want. So...you should promise me too.’
She raises her head, looking at him. At her best friend Harry, with his hairy shins and pale, pale skin and scar that’s fading but still visible on his forehead. Thinks about everything he’s saying, thinks that he’s right. That they’ve both done what everyone else needed or wanted for so long now. Thinks that it’s finally time for them to be selfish.
‘I promise,’ she says, leaning forward to kiss him. ‘I promise that you are going to be what I wish for, what I want, every morning when I wake up and every night when I go to sleep. And most of the moments in between. I promise.’
He smiles at her; that brilliant Harry grin that she’s missed so much. ‘I promise,’ he says, swooping in to kiss her, ‘that you are going to be what I wish for, what I want, every morning when I wake up and every night when I go to sleep. And most of the moments in between. I promise.’
‘Now that that’s settled,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘Do you want this sandwich or not?’
She smiles and hops down from the counter, kissing his shoulder as she does so.
‘Yes.’
H/H - You're the only story that I never told.
Now I know why. Clearly, I was waiting for everything that went down last night. Hahaha.
Anyway. Enjoy.
[Potter, 'Stories From the City, Stories From the Sea']
It all starts on a Saturday night. Or Sunday morning, she supposes, as it is two in the morning. They’re on the night bus, watching the rain crawl down the windows, his feet propped up and her head resting on his shoulder.
‘Good night?’ she says, nudging him slightly with her elbow and closing her eyes. It has been a good night, she thinks, an incredibly good night; now she is tired and comfortable and wants nothing more than her bed.
He rests his cheek on her head and sighs. ‘Good to see Dean again.’
She smiles slightly, her eyes blinking open for a moment, then letting them close again. ‘Yeah. And Seamus.’
He only hums softly in reply and she can feel sleep creep up on her, her body growing lax against his.
She is almost fully asleep when she feels him shift slightly against her.
‘Hermione?’ he says, softly.
She means to say something, to at least open her eyes. She does. But, the rhythm of the tires on the road, the soft patter of the rain, the incredibly comfortable position she has, slumped against him...she simply lays there, saying nothing.
She can feel him raise his head when she doesn’t reply.
‘Hermione?‘ he says again, more breath than words. She still says nothing, he lowers his head again, resting his lips on the top of her head.
‘God, Hermione‘ he whispers, something like laughter making his voice break. ‘I should have fought for you.’
She doesn’t open her eyes, she doesn’t move at all.
She keeps her body still, her breath even and pretends she’s asleep.
*
The next time he says it, they’re all drunk.
It’s Ginny’s flat-warming party. It is the end of the night and the six of them are sitting, or laying, in various states of disrepair in the sitting room.
‘More wine, I think,’ Ron says.
There is a beat of silence before Neville’s sniggering breaks it. ‘Was that, like, a papal decree? Or were you just expecting it to appear?’
‘Oh, shut it,’ Ron says. ‘I was planning...where the hell...has anyone seen my bloody wand?’
Harry sighs, heaving himself off the chair he has become one with as the night has gone on. ‘Ron, do not even...we’ll have wine all down the hall. I’ll grab it.’
‘Thank you,’ Ginny says, catching Harry’s hand as he leaves the room.
He winks at her and continues down the hall, turning and saluting as he heads into the kitchen.
Hermione watches it all with a vague sense of unreality.
It’s been six months and most of the time, most of the time, she is absolutely certain that she dreamed the whole thing. His lips brushing her hair and the break in his voice and even the bus itself and the tires on the road. She fell asleep after ‘And Seamus‘ and that...that was all. Harry prodded her awake and they stumbled to her flat; she woke up in her bed, he was on her couch and then they went down the high street and got breakfast and gallons of tea.
Same as every Sunday after a night out.
But...but she still hears his voice. Those words. ‘I should have fought for you.’
Six months of knowing, knowing, that she dreamed the whole thing and six months of never being alone with him.
And, suddenly, she has to know.
Neville makes a vague noise of complaint as she sits up, dislodging him from his sprawl against her legs; other than that, no one says anything or even looks up as she leaves the room.
She makes her way down the hall, that same sense of unreality enveloping her. It lasts until she reaches the kitchen and sees him, grabbing a bottle of wine from the shelf.
His back is to her; there is a strip of skin showing between his jeans and t-shirt and his hair, as always, is growing straight up at the back. And it’s Harry, Harry, her best friend Harry and what the hell is she doing?
He turns around before she can escape, smiling at her and, seriously, what is she doing?
‘Last one,’ he says, holding the bottle of red towards her. ‘Think there’s a bit of Firewhisky left if that’s...Hermione?’
She keeps staring at him, her tongue huge, all the moisture vanishing from her mouth and relocating to her palms.
‘Hermione?’ he says again, putting the bottle down on the counter and stepping closer to her. ‘What’s...are you...Hermione?’
She shakes her head and closes her eyes briefly. ‘Nothing,’ she says, her voice scratchy. ‘It’s nothing.’
He doesn’t say anything, but steps closer to her, one of his hands reaching out to grab hers. She steps back, still shaking her head, both hands coming up to tuck her hair behind her ears. ‘Harry, seriously. It’s nothing, I don’t even know why-’
‘Hermione,’ he says, his voice deep, low in his throat. ‘Are you...do you-’
‘No,’ she interrupts, finally looking at him and oh. Oh. He knows, he knows exactly what she’s not saying, what she’s not even thinking about. ‘No, Harry, just. Forget it. I...it’s late. We’re pissed. I’m pissed and just. Nothing,‘ she says, laughter getting stuck in her throat. ‘It’s nothing. Firewhisky, you said?’
Harry looks at her for a long moment, then slowly reaches behind himself, eyes never leaving hers and grabs the bottle of Firewhisky.
She reaches out to take it, but he doesn’t let go immediately. She wants to turn, to walk away, but his eyes are holding hers and her feet are rooted to the floor. When she hears his voice, it’s not low or broken. It’s not a whisper.
It’s not something she’ll be able to pretend she hasn’t heard.
‘I meant it. I should have fought for you.’
*
She spends a sleepless night, staring at the ceiling, feeling her sadness, her melancholy, harden, feeling it form into a kind of rage. She spends the morning ignoring it, ignoring owls from Ron, burying herself in research.
But she’s ignored it for six months and look where that got her.
She slams out of the flat and has almost no recollection of the walk to Harry’s. He looks just as disheveled as she feels when he opens the door, wearing the same clothes from the night before, his eyes rimmed in red.
And just like that, the rage dissipates. The rage and melancholy just...vanish; she feels hollow and confused and and. And. Oh.
‘You look like your night was as good as mine.’
He smiles briefly, but it quickly melts off his face. ‘We need to talk.’
She nods, stepping past him, into the kitchen of Number 7. There are two mugs sitting on the table.
‘Is-’
Harry laughs, hollowly. ‘Just missed her. Unsurprisingly, she stormed out with a box of her things about ten minutes ago.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes. Oh,’ he says, walking past her, grabbing the two mugs and dropping them in the sink. ‘Tea? Water? Firewhisky? Tequila?’
She closes her eyes, her hands balling into fists. ‘I don’t know why you’re...Harry...’
She hears him sigh and when she looks over, his arms are braced against the counter, his head bowed. She’s staring at his back again, the curve of his neck and all she wants, all she wants in the world, is to go over to him and..and she doesn’t even know.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, turning around and rubbing the back of his head. ‘I’m...yeah. I just...it’s been a shit night, you know?’
She nods, backing up against the counter behind her.
They’re standing across from each other, that huge table in between them, but she still feels like there’s no air in the room.
‘Bit of a crap night for me, as well,’ she says, then bites her lip. ‘Why did you...what did you mean?’
He stares at her, a bit helplessly. ‘What did I mean whe-’
‘Harry!’ she interrupts, rolling her eyes. ‘I thought I was crazy for months, that I had dreamed the whole thing, but last night. You said you meant it. That...that you should have fought for me. What-’
‘I should have done,’ he says, plainly. Plaintively. He shrugs. ‘Back then...I should have. I should have fought for you.’
She thinks she should be collapsing, her knees giving out, but, she’s not. She can feel her spine grow straighter, air being drawn deeper into her lungs.
‘What does that mean, Harry? Fought for me? With whom?‘ she says, her voice growing thinner with each word. ‘And do I get a say in this?’
‘Hermione,’ he says, staring at her, his eyebrows pulled together. ‘Don’t-don’t stand there and...and. You know exactly what I mean. Do we really have to-’
‘Yes, Harry,’ she says, swallowing. ‘I don’t...I don’t know what you mean. Honestly. You just can’t...make pronouncements and then expect me to-’
‘I don’t expect you to do anything,’ he says, voice catching. ‘Honestly, I don’t. But, I couldn’t...I had to tell you.’
Her eyes fill with tears, but she presses her lips into a line and her hands ball into fists. ‘Harry, I still don’t. I’m not. You need to explain to me what you mean,’ she says, voice catching in her throat.
He looks at her for a moment, then seems to deflate. He sinks onto the bench in front of him, his elbows propped on the table. He bows his head, hands scrubbing over his face, under his glasses. He doesn’t say anything, though.
She sits down across from him and stares at the top of his head. She feels like glaciers have melted by the time he looks up and speaks.
‘The night that Ron kissed Lavender...do you remember it?’
She nods, feeling her mouth twist. Of course she does; the stairwell and hot tears on her cheeks and Harry’s hand in hers.
‘I wasn’t talking about Ginny,’ he says. There is a flush creeping up his cheeks, but he doesn’t look away from her.
‘What?’ she says. ‘Then-’
‘You were so upset,’ he interrupts, mouth lifting on one side. ‘And...and it was clear to me that you weren’t ever going to look at me the way you looked at Ron. But...the way you felt when you saw Ron with Lavender? That’s the way I felt when I saw you...’
He trails off, staring at her. His eyes seem very large and very green and, suddenly, she wants to lunge across the table and stop him, clap her hand over his mouth and just. Just stop him. But she doesn’t; she’s paralyzed in her seat and his voice, when it comes, is light and matter-of-fact and something else she can’t ignore.
‘I was talking about you.’
The sudden roaring in her ears makes it hard to think. She knows she’s blinking at him stupidly, her mouth gaping open slightly, but she can’t...she can’t.
‘But...you...I thought - Ginny. And you kissed her!’ she says. She doesn’t know why she sounds accusing, but she can’t seem to stop herself. ‘And you were...together or as good as. You had to have...’
She sounds ridiculous; she feels ridiculous. She is ridiculous. What he just said, if he meant...this has nothing to do with Ginny, but. That’s the one thing she can focus on.
He’s looking at her like he can hear her thoughts. ‘Yes, I did kiss her,’ he says, wistfully. ‘It was lovely and sweet. And it kept on being lovely, but-’
He pauses, swallowing. He looks awkward and flushed and nervous and...relieved. His shoulders are relaxed and his hands aren’t white-knuckled anymore. His eyes are still red-rimmed, but he slowly smiles at her and this time, his grin is that sweet Harry grin that she hasn’t seen in years; the one that crinkles his eyes and shows all his teeth and makes him look a little bit daft.
‘I’m in love with you,’ he says. ‘I think I have been since we were sixteen.’
She gets up and walks out.
*
Three hours later, she is exhausted and windblown, ignoring the people streaming past her back and the boat gliding underneath her. She doesn’t know how she got here, why she’s leaning on this ballast, watching the river flow underneath. She knows she’s been walking since she left, stormed out of Grimmauld Place, trying to catch one of her thoughts as they raced away from her.
The only thing she knows is that she can’t go home. She cannot go home and she cannot go to her parents’. Ginny is out and so are Neville and Luna. She doesn’t know if she’s ever going to be able to even look at Ron again; one look at her and he will know something is wrong, something isn’t quite right and she won’t be able to stop herself from blurting it out and then. And then. Then, well, she has no idea what then.
She wishes she could go home; that she could go to her bed and lie down and pull the covers over her head until this all just went away. But the thought of her flat, her lovely, sunny, tiny flat, all white bookshelves crammed with books and bare kitchen...the walls would close in on her; she is sure of it.
And she got over being a coward when she was eleven years old, the Sorting Hat whispering in her ear. So there’s only one thing for it.
She draws herself up and slips back into the crowd heading north, wondering if she’ll know what to say by the time she gets there.
*
The kitchen looks the same when she gets back - the mugs are in the sink, the bench she was sitting on is pushed back. The only thing missing is Harry himself.
She mounts the stairs, taking deep breaths and listening attentively for any noise. She doesn’t hear anything, not even the soft drone of the wireless. She has a brief hope that he’s not here.
He realized what a nutter he was being and...and came to his senses. He’s at Ginny’s, on his knees asking for forgiveness and of course, of course she’ll forgive him. She’ll forgive him and the next time Hermione sees him, he’ll duck his head and start to stammer, but she’ll laugh and tell him they don’t need to talk about it and it’ll be fine.
It’ll be fine and it will eventually turn into something they laugh at, one of their many stories, one of their ‘d’you remember?’s and he’ll laugh, his head thrown back and she’ll laugh, hand covering her mouth, kicking his foot and it’ll be fine.
It’ll be fine, she repeats to herself as she comes to the first landing and sees firelight in the sitting room. Totally fine, she thinks, absolutely fine, but then she looks in and well.
Harry’s there, lying prone on the couch, staring at the ceiling.
So. Maybe he’s not at Ginny’s, begging forgiveness; surely, though, surely he’s come to his senses and now he can’t believe what he said. He’s probably torturing himself, prostrating himself and that’s fine too.
‘I haven’t changed my mind, you know,’ he says, still staring at the ceiling.
She sighs, then steps into the room. Her arms are wrapped around herself as she walks to the fireplace, not glancing at Harry as she passes.
She can feel his eyes on her, though.
She doesn’t stop until she reaches the opposite wall, leaning her forehead against the wall beside the fireplace. She closes her eyes and almost laughs when she realizes she still, still, has no idea what to say. What to ask. How to make this...okay.
He doesn’t say anything, however and she knows she is going to have to start this. Whatever this is.
‘I don’t understand,’ she says, finally, her voice so faint she can barely hear it. She clears her throat and tries again. ‘I don’t understand.’
Her voice isn’t much stronger but he must hear it. He sighs before saying, ‘I don’t know what you want me to tell you, Hermione.’
‘How about what the hell you could possibly be thinking?’ she says, still to the wall, but her anger returning abruptly. ‘You’re my best friend, Harry. Not...not-’
‘I’m also a man who’s in love with you.’
‘Stop saying that!’ she says, spinning around. ‘Just...stop it. That’s not-’
‘Me not saying it won’t make it not true,’ Harry says, opening his eyes but keeping them trained on the ceiling. He looks like he’s laid out for a nap; only the muscle clenching in his jaw giving away his tension. ‘I know you don’t want to hear this, but like I told you earlier - I’m not expecting you to do anything.’
She laughs, hands coming up to cover her face as she slumps back against the wall. ‘What...Harry. You cannot announce...that to me and then, in the next breath, tell me that it doesn’t matter.’
‘It matters,’ he says, sitting up. ‘Of course it matters. That’s not what I said. It matters a great deal, but I am not expecting anything from you.’
‘So...what? We just pretend like nothing happened? That you didn’t just break up with Ginny for me?’
She snaps her mouth shut as he raises an eyebrow at her. ‘I didn’t break up with her for you,’ he says, slowly. ‘I broke up with her because it wasn’t fair to be with her when I was in love with someone else.’
‘If you weren’t expecting me to do anything,’ she says, not even acknowledging what he’s said, ‘then why even tell me?’
He looks at her for a long moment, then drops his head, threading his hands together on the back of his neck. ‘I...I had to, Hermione,’ he says, softly. ‘It was like it was...it was strangling me, I swear it.’
She stares at him, his fingers still clenched together, the muscle in his jaw jumping. She couldn’t describe what she was feeling, even if someone held a wand to her chest. ‘So. It was ‘strangling’ you, so you decided to tell me and what? Make it my problem?’
His head snaps up at that, his eyes wide. ‘No, Hermione! How many times am I going to have to tell you that I’m not expecting you to do anything?’
‘That’s all fine and well, but you still made it my problem!’ she says, hand hitting her chest. ‘You just...forget Ron and Ginny and everyone else for a moment - did you even think about me, about how this would affect me? At all? You are my best friend, Harry. You have always been my best friend and you thought - what? It wouldn’t bloody matter if you told me you were in love with me?’
She stops, panting, her words still echoing around the room. And now that she’s finally acknowledged it, that she’s finally said it out loud, she can feel the impact of the words in her chest; it feels like her breastbone is cracking open. She’s gulping in huge lungfuls of air, but it still feels like she’s drowning. Because...because...
If he...if Harry, Harry is in love with her?
Oh.
She can feel her knees give out and she sinks, slowly, down the wall. He keeps opening his mouth, then closing it and she thinks, faintly, that it wouldn’t matter if he spoke anyway. She doubts she could hear anything over the thud of her heart, which is roaring in her ears and thrumming in her arms, her toes, her throat.
He seems to melt off of the sofa, moving cautiously towards her along the floor. When he reaches her, he tugs on the sleeve of her shirt until she leans toward him slightly. She resists for a moment, then folds into him. His arms go around her and she can feel his breath, warm, at her ear.
She feels numb, stunned, but she seems to be crying, hot tears staining her cheeks and running along her jaw. Her hands are clenching his shirt, restless. He doesn’t say anything for long moments and when he does speak, it is not what she’s expecting.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, drawing her more fully against him, their limbs, awkward on the floor, somehow slotting together. She closes her eyes tightly, her mouth open on his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’
She sniffs, but says nothing, folding her arms more tightly around him. She doesn’t know how long they sit there, wrapped around each other, the sound of their breathing and the fire crackling the only thing in the room.
She doesn’t want to pull away; she wants to sit there forever, breathing in time to his heart beat, but she knows she can’t.
But she still...she still doesn’t know what to do.
‘Harry, I’m not...I don’t-’
‘I know,’ he says, then presses a kiss to her ear. He sits back, slowly, one hand wrapping around her wrist. His glasses are crooked and she wants to reach out, to straighten them and brush his fringe back from his forehead.
‘You’re right,’ he says, blinking rapidly. ‘I just felt like it was crushing me to death and I didn’t think about...it was...’
He trails off and she can hear all the words that seem to be jammed in his throat. It was thoughtless and selfish and he is so so sorry. He just keeps looking at her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, again, his voice thin.
She slowly stands up, her knees feeling like they’re creaking after being crouched on the floor for so long. She nods, but doesn’t say what she thinking, doesn’t tell him that she’s not.
She’s not sorry.
And that? Scares her to death.
*
So.
Well.
That happened.
*
‘I think,’ she says, into the silence. ‘I think that I...’
She can’t finish the sentence.
*
‘We’re going to have to redo every conversation we’ve ever had.’
‘I don’t think that’s necessarily true,’ he says, absently, not looking away from the onion he’s dicing. There is a pot on the hob and all manner of veg scattered on the counter and he already looks in his element.
It is an utterly familiar scene, one that has happened at least once a week since they all got to London, despite loud and continued protest from Kreacher. Which is probably why he doesn’t react at first.
She sees him realize it a few seconds later, after she is already installed in her chair. He turns towards her, his mouth open, knife still clenched in his hand. When he sees her, he stills abruptly, his mouth snapping closed.
She knows he can’t actually read her mind, but she has never been more grateful for their ability to read one another. Because she still doesn’t know what the hell she’s feeling, what the hell she’s doing, but she knows she has to do something.
He looks at her for a few more seconds before one corner of his mouth quirks up and he turns back to the onion. ‘I don’t think we have time to redo every conversation we’ve ever had.’
She smiles briefly. ‘Well, maybe not all. But...but you, ah, you said you were talking about me that night on the staircase.’
He stills for a moment, then clears his throat. ‘Yeah, I...uh, I was.’
‘But...you were talking about Ginny. I know you were, Harry; I had just asked you about her.’
‘Exactly,’ he says, setting his knife down and turning to face her. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and leans a hip against the counter. ‘You...for some reason, you had gotten it into your head that I had a crush on Ginny-’
‘You were certainly bloody acting like it,’ she mutters.
He ignores her, rather pointedly. ‘-and after I saw you looking at Ron, after you started crying, I just...I don’t know. I didn’t even know, Hermione; I just knew I wanted to kill him for hurting you and it, well, it felt like someone had kicked my chest in. So. I dunno. Just seemed easier to let you believe whatever you wanted to believe about Ginny and I.’
‘That makes absolutely no sense.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘I really don’t know what you want from me,’ he says, throwing his hands up. ‘I was sixteen. One minute you’re accusing me of wanting bloody Ginny and the next, I wanted to kill my best friend because he was hurting you. What was I supposed to do? ‘Sorry, Hermione, but, ah - actually, it’s you I want. I think? Maybe? But I just figured that out ten seconds ago?’ Never mind the fact that you clearly were looking Ron at like that. So.’
He shrugs, trailing off lamely.
She stares at him.
‘But you...you were looking at her. That night you got to the Burrow? You two were as good as fact from then on.’
‘Hermione, the only person who thought that was you. I don’t know why...you know. Just. Doesn’t matter anyway. I was an idiot and I should have said something then. Years ago.’
She doesn’t say anything for a moment. ‘Exactly. It’s been years. Years and you-’
‘I’m a terrible person,’ he says, shrugging and turning back to the cutting board. He sounds flippant but his shoulders are pulled up and the line of his neck is tense.
She can’t help but roll her eyes. ‘Obviously,’ she says, unable to keep the teasing from her voice. He doesn’t say anything, but his shoulders drop.
She sighs.
‘What are you making?’
*
‘I think...I think...’ she says. ‘I think I’m...’
She still can’t finish the sentence.
*
She’s never been a good actress. But she’s always been up early and in bed late and if she starts skipping nights at Ron’s place or leaving earlier, owling him from the office and...well, it’s nothing that hasn’t happened before.
Her work, her career, has always been important to her. He knows that and if she stops touching him altogether, well. That’s nothing that hasn’t happened before either.
He catches her before she leaves one morning. She’s setting her teacup in the sink and her bag is already across her chest. He pops through the Floo, still looking half-asleep. He kisses her distractedly on the temple, while groping for the kettle.
‘This’ll be over soon and I’ll get to see you again, yeah?’
She nods and smiles and doesn’t say anything.
She steps around him and hears him sigh. ‘I’m going to drink a cuppa before I scarper, okay?’ he says, already focused on his tea. She says nothing, just watching him yawn hugely and scratch his chest under his t-shirt. Her nose and eyes start to burn as she stares, she swallows when he glances at her. ‘Okay?’
She nods and smiles and feels like the worst kind of person.
*
‘You want to know the really fucked up thing?’
She has to smile at his reaction; she’s usually not one for swearing, but...well, if any situation calls for it, she thinks this one definitely does. After his initial shock, he simply raises his eyebrows and he looks at her, silently.
‘You’re the one I want to talk to about this.’
His mouth turns down slightly at the corners. ‘What do you mean?’
She laughs softly, stabbing what’s left of her jacket potato with her fork. ‘Just what I said. You’re the person I want to talk to about this, but it’s about you. It’s just...strange, is all.’
‘Strange,’ he repeats, no inflection in his voice.
She looks up and rolls her eyes. ‘Yes. Strange.’
He says nothing, taking a sip of his pint. ‘All right. Do you want to give it a go?’
‘Seriously?’
He shrugs and leans back, crossing his arms across his chest. ‘Sure.’
His face is totally blank, but she sees the corners of his lips twitching ever so slightly and, suddenly, she’s laughing, giggling, watching the dimple in his cheek get deeper. Dropping her fork on the plate, she covers her face with her hands as she laughs, feeling a bit hysterical, trying to imagine such a conversation.
When she finally looks up, he’s grinning broadly, still leaned back, but with one arm draped across the chair beside him. She snorts and picks up her pint.
‘Maybe not.’
He nods.
‘Yeah. Maybe not.’
*
She’s in her kitchen when it hits her.
A pot is on the hob and she’s heating up some of soup from her freezer. She looks around her bare kitchen and when she opens up the refrigerator, she feels like crying.
It is full, crammed; various containers labeled with his chicken scratch. He showed up several weeks ago; he barged in and started pulling tupperware and foil-wrapped packages out of a bag. A seemingly bottomless bag, she thought at the time, thinking of a beaded bag that is still in her closet, as she stared at him from the doorway.
‘Instructions,‘ he said, holding up a piece of parchment and affixing it to the door of the refrigerator with his wand. He paused and tilted his head at her. ‘You do know how to turn the hob on, right?’
She stuck her tongue out and turned away, going back to her chair with a grin, leaving him to it.
She has one pot, one pan. A few mismatched plates and bowls. Some scattered cutlery and one wooden spoon. She spends virtually no time in here, only ever heating up things or binning take-away boxes. There is no table, no chairs; nothing like the kitchen at Number 7 now, the first room renovated, the fire crackling merrily and her big, squashy chair tucked in the corner. This space is small and utilitarian, the fireplace dominating one wall that gets the most use; it is not welcoming and not lived in.
She wanders out to her sitting room, stares at the couch. Sees Ron shifting, complaining, legs hanging off, seeming to twist and go for miles. Sees Harry laid out across it, both in the shop and most Sunday mornings; stretched full across it and smiling at her. Her reading chair and lamp above it. Shelves and shelves of books, Quidditch magazines strewn across the end table.
Her lovely, sunny bedroom is next; it is absolutely the reason she rented this flat. Double bed, the one from her room in her parents’ house. Enough space for something larger, something to fit a six-plus frame, but empty space instead. One wardrobe and a chair, one of Ron’s jumpers, the neck and ends of the sleeves stretched, thrown over it.
She sinks down on the chair, picking up Ron’s sweater and clenching it in her fists. Her eyes close as she bows her head. She feels empty, hollowed out and just done.
Sitting there in the half-light of her flat, she finally, for the first time, lets herself think it, finish the thought that’s been haunting her for weeks. She finally, for the first time since she was fifteen-years old, lets herself think it. She lets herself think it and then she takes a deep breath, opening her eyes.
The sweater. A few magazines. The toothbrush and shampoo from the bathroom. The Chudley Cannons schedule on her refrigerator. A few Weird Sisters records. Everything fits in one regular box, no enchantments required.
She stares at it for a few seconds, biting her lip before rolling her eyes at herself. She picks up the box resolutely and grabs her bag as she stalks out the door, slamming it behind her.
No one ever has ever accused her of indecision.
*
It’s over astonishingly quickly.
Ron takes one look at her, the box in her arms, and a flush starts creeping up his neck. He stands in his door for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, then gestures her in.
She could give him a dissertation, with bullet points and footnotes, source each problem back to the root. She could, but. But Ron’s been her friend for longer than they’ve been together and he doesn’t need it. He doesn’t want it.
And, anyway, she thinks - that, all of that, is beside the point - there’s only one thing that is going to matter to him. It’s still hanging in the air when she leaves ten minutes later.
‘Harry.’
No one ever accused her of being a good person either.
*
She knows she should probably wait.
She should owl Helen and meet her for a drink, or sit in her dark flat, crying silently, bottle of wine open at her elbow. She should go through everything once more, methodically, looking in cupboards and under the furniture. She should ‘take some time for herself.’
These are all the correct, proper things. The things one should do when they’ve broken up with their boyfriend. The things that Witch Weekly says are indispensable.
But it would be an exercise in futility, she thinks. She hesitates for only a moment, hovering in the door of the Leaky Cauldron, staring at the people rushing past her, before she ducks her head and turns right. Soho is to her left and Number 7 is only a twenty-five minute walk.
Kreacher appears when she opens the door.
She smiles at him when he narrows his eyes suspiciously.
‘Har-’
‘It’s fine,’ she says, laying her bag down beside her chair. ‘I’ll just wait?’ Her voice rises at the end, but they both know it’s not a question.
Kreacher gives her one last look, eyes still narrow, and then nods once, disappearing with a crack. She’s pouring water into a mug for tea before everything that has happened in the last hour and a half hits her. Wandering around her flat and Ron’s expression, his lips thinning, the thronging crowds on her walk here and the feeling of fitness, of rightness that she has, that she has always had, simply walking through the door.
She thinks she should be...something. Having a panic attack or crumpling to the floor, but she’s not. Her hands are steady as she stirs her tea, watching it turn milky, and when she deposits her spoon in the sink. Her breathing is even and her mind isn’t buzzing as she turns around and surveys the kitchen, which is probably her favorite place in the world. The huge table and benches, holdovers from before. Her chair and the small table next to it; the bookshelves behind, crammed with novels and cookbooks, one of Ron’s chess sets and the wireless. The pots and pans hung above the island and the knives on a strip on the wall. The huge fireplace, different size jars along the mantel. The paned, floor-to-ceiling windows at the back, the french doors leading to the garden.
She lets herself smile as she looks around, that sense of rightness welling up again, warming her.
That sense of rightness that she can finally put a name to now.
*
‘I think I’m in love with you.’
She has the words out before he’s even cleared the door. The tea is sat by her elbow, not drunk and room temperature. She’s been watching the door since she sat down, legs tucked underneath her.
There’s no reason to pretend she’s doing anything but waiting for him, that she’s here for any other reason.
She has to smile at his expression; the hand unwinding his scarf hovering in midair as he gapes at her slightly. She can’t help a soft laugh from bubbling up. ‘I am, Harry.’
She thought she’d feel high, feel giddy, but she doesn’t. She feels peaceful and...right.
‘It’s been right in front of me for so long,’ she says, still smiling at him. ‘I just couldn’t see. I never-’
‘-let myself see it,’ he finishes for her. He’s smiling at her now, calmly taking off his scarf, his coat, scrubbing his hand through his hair. His wild, sticky-uppy hair that grows straight up at the back.
She feels her smile widen.
‘What?’ he says, slowly walking towards her.
‘Nothing,’ she says, standing up and reaching for him. She catches the bottom of his shirt with her fingers, uses it to pull him towards her. ‘You’re just very cute.’
He ducks his head, huffs out a laugh.
‘You are,’ she says, fingers moving to his belt loops.
He looks up, only inches away. ‘Thanks.’
She hums in the back of her throat, swaying towards him slightly. His hands reach up, cup her face and she feels goosebumps break out on her neck, shivering down her back. He looks at her for a moment before leaning in, brushing his nose across hers.
‘Harry,’ she says, just loud enough for him to hear it.
‘What?’
She can see the edge of his grin.
‘Would you please-’ she whispers, then pauses. Stops.
She leans in and kisses him.
*
Hours later, they’re back in the kitchen.
She’s sitting on the counter, bare legs dangling, watching as he moves around, assembling sandwiches. Her gaze keeps snagging on different parts of him - the hair curling around his ear, the sweat still clinging to the small of his back, the hair on his shins, his oddly vulnerable feet, the veins running along his wrist, his lip tugged between his teeth. At all the things she’s never let herself look at properly before.
She smiles as he turns to look at her and feels like the worst sort of sap, feels like she’ll never stop smiling whenever he looks at her.
‘What?’ she says, seeing his grin widen.
He shakes his head, briefly. ‘Nothing. Just...’
She raises her eyebrow. ‘Just,’ she prompts, poking him the side with her toe when he doesn’t answer.
He sighs and turns back to her, running a hand up her thigh as he comes to stand between her legs. ‘Just...I never let myself think about this, but it’s exactly what I always wanted.’
She can feel her smile start to wobble, to melt slightly. She leans in to kiss him again, winding her arms around her neck.
It’s nothing she ever thought about either, but her lips on his, his hands running up and down her back, drawing her forward, closer to him - it all feels like what they should have always been doing.
He pulls back, kissing her eyelids and the tip of her nose as she runs her hands over his shoulders and down his arms.
‘I was thinking about it and I don’t think you’re exactly right.’
‘Okay...I’m going to need a little more information, Hermione.’
‘What you said. Before. When you said you should have-’
‘-fought for you,’ he says, nodding. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well,’ she says, licking her lips. ‘Not that I don’t love the sentiment, but - you should always fight for you, Harry.’
His eyebrows draw together as he studies her face, hands clenching on her waist, fingers tangling in the material of the shirt, the one he was wearing earlier, that she’d thrown on.
‘I mean, you had to do what we all needed for such a long time that...’ she pauses, takes a deep breath, her eyes filling with tears. ‘You always did what everyone else needed you to do. You should...you deserve to have things that you want, not just...’
She trails off, tilting her head down and closing her eyes. ‘Just promise me that you’ll think about yourself first. Sometimes, at least.’
The only thing she can hear is their quiet breathing for a moment, then she feels his lips on her forehead. He kisses her gently, then rests his lips there, simply breathing for a moment.
‘I could say the same thing to you, Hermione,’ he says, whispers. His hands reach down to uncurl them from where they’re clenched on the countertop, slotting their fingers together.
She says nothing, doesn’t raise her eyes.
‘I’m serious,’ he says, nudging her cheek with his nose. ‘You always do what has to be done, regardless of what you want. So...you should promise me too.’
She raises her head, looking at him. At her best friend Harry, with his hairy shins and pale, pale skin and scar that’s fading but still visible on his forehead. Thinks about everything he’s saying, thinks that he’s right. That they’ve both done what everyone else needed or wanted for so long now. Thinks that it’s finally time for them to be selfish.
‘I promise,’ she says, leaning forward to kiss him. ‘I promise that you are going to be what I wish for, what I want, every morning when I wake up and every night when I go to sleep. And most of the moments in between. I promise.’
He smiles at her; that brilliant Harry grin that she’s missed so much. ‘I promise,’ he says, swooping in to kiss her, ‘that you are going to be what I wish for, what I want, every morning when I wake up and every night when I go to sleep. And most of the moments in between. I promise.’
‘Now that that’s settled,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘Do you want this sandwich or not?’
She smiles and hops down from the counter, kissing his shoulder as she does so.
‘Yes.’
H/H - You're the only story that I never told.