Happily Ever After, and Then...

I totally feel like Michael Jordan right now. Bad knees and all.


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i should have known better than to breathe you in the first time / i held you there for just a second but the mistake was mine / now i can't take my hands off you / i can't keep my hands off of you / i thought i'd only hold you once more / then i thought i'd let you go / i thought once would be enough / but i guess that wasn't / so now i need you / every day i need you more and more.

--the juliana theory, "infatuation"

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We've all resigned ourselves to reality at one point or another in our lives, myself more than anyone else I know. It's a disappointing realization, one that we initially don't want to recognize as being the One Simple Truth About Life. Yes, it's nice to imagine that the events of your existence could ever attain that fairy-tale glow. Sure, you'd love to think that you could rest your head on your pillow every night with the knowledge that everything'll turn out okay in the morning. Being able to believe that you, too, will live happily ever after with your dashing knight in white satin, just as Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella and Snow White and all those who came before you did. It's every little girl's (and little boy's, and grown woman's, and grown man's) dream, living the storybook existence.

However, since my own disheartening revelation, I've discovered something -- nothing ends with "happily ever after." The story just ends after the brightest point, tails off into the obilvion of reality. They don't tell you about how Sleeping Beauty ran away from home once she realized her marriage to Prince Phillip was only a means of unifying their parents' kingdoms. Cinderella's still resigned to a life of cleaning -- manor wives never rest, no matter if they're royalty or not. And you know that new act in Vegas you read about last week? The one with the dancing midgets and their haggard, embittered manager with an aversion to apples? Believe you me, that's Snow White. She went back to the Dwarves after discovering that she really wasn't the fairest one of all.

I, above anything, value my pragmatic roots. I may be a witch, but I still understand that spells and enchantments are just an extention of superficiality into the supernatural. Magic isn't extraordinary, not in the way Muggles percieve it; we don't frolic our days away, enchanting butterflies to flutter around our heads and spontaneously burst into song. We still have jobs. We still have bills that need to be paid. Our youth still struggle with schoolwork. The houses still need to be cleaned. We still deal with crappy soap operas populated with morons who couldn't act their way out of Neville's perpetually unlocked Hogwarts trunk. We get sick. Our hearts still break. The only difference is, magic complicates it a bit more. But we're still firmly set in the real world.

Reality can make even magic mundane, which is why I've come to understand why it's so easy to believe in fairytales. It's enticing, bewitching, even. The prospect of living with a light heart and a mind full of song is tempting... dangerously so. Those of us with a clear head and a cup of perception think it better to avoid the allure of the impossible and dwell in the realm of the possible, no matter how dissatisfying that possibility might be.

The allure of the fairytale can drive you mad.

It almost made me insane myself, back in my days as a young, naive Hogwarts student of sixteen. That was the last time I believed in true love, in a fantasy life, in a happily-ever-after ending.

Funny. It should hurt more to think about the biggest upset of my life than it does... in fact, it always has. Reminiscing about the day I caught my red-headed knight in shining armor snogging with my roommate has always been like driving iron spikes through my hands and feet...

These memories have always served as the stigmata of my brain.

Now, however, my metaphorical hands remain unblemished; a simple dull ache takes the place of the iron spikes, like a bruise turning to the disgusting yellow-green color that arrives after the departure of true, deep blue. The urge to scream until my throat bleeds is gone, replaced with a feeling of hoarseness.

I'm healing.

Five years too late.

"Parvati, you're never going to believe what Snape did to Nev—"

The words died in my throat as I realized that Parvati probably wasn't going to give a damn what Snape did to Neville that day in Potions, because it seemed that she was a bit preoccupied with examining the tonsils of one Ron Weasley with her tongue.

They both looked up -- Parvati sheepishly, Ron with an expression of undiluted horror. "Hermione—"

"Don't—'Hermione'-- me," I spat, the fragment exploding from my mouth like lava from a volcano. "What the bloody fuck is going on here?"

Ron coughed. "Er... well, you see, 'Mione... we've been meaning to tell you for weeks, but—"

"WEEKS!" I screamed. "WEEKS?"

"Yes," said Parvati quietly, buttoning up her shirt. "The opportunity never presented itself, though, and, well, it just seemed inappropriate..."

I gritted my teeth. "I see, Parvati, how the perfect window never could have come up for you to effectively ruin my life with this revelation. Thanks loads for your consideration."

"Hermione," said Ron sharply, "don't make this any more difficult than it is already—"

I cut him off. "Yes, Ron, because it's entirely my fault that you're most likely shagging another girl, and have been for months, while you're dating me. So desperately sorry for complicating the situation."

And with that, I turned on my heel and left the room -- and Ronald 'Spawn of the Devil" Weasley -- behind.

Looking back, I don't know how I made it down to the Common Room in the state I was in. Blasted a few first-years out of my way, I reckon. I was about ready to burn down the whole damned castle, and had Harry not interceded and calmed me down, I might well have.

"That—finking—rat—bastard—"

Cool tears trickled down my hot cheeks, hissing the whole way.

"Yes, Hermione. Ron is a finking rat bastard with no sense of integrity who deserves to be hung from his toes and fed to brown recluse spiders until he dies," said Harry soothingly, rubbing my back. "And as soon as you get yourself cleaned up and back together, you have my full permission to do so."

I sniffled, pulling myself closer. "You've got to help me," I muttered. He had left his robes open that morning, and I felt my tears soaking his grey sweater, heard my voice muffled against his shoulder.

"Of course," he replied pacifyingly, one hand running through my disheveled hair. "I'll help you catch the big, bad meanie."

"Okay." I was too far gone to care that he was treating me like I was about two years old. "Whatever you say."

"No, Hermione. Whatever you say."

I knew deep down, even then, that Harry was only saying this to calm me down. I might have been a hysterically weeping teenage girl with enough rage to blanket Scotland, but boys do have their loyalties -- and the one that existed between Harry and Ron at the time was one of the strongest I'd ever seen. Later, I'd figured he'd known all along... but I was so desperate for a friend, one single confidant, that I most likely wouldn't have cared if he'd orchestrated the whole damned thing. I was coping with the realization that my near-perfect love story had collapsed in on itself, like a Yugo in a collision with a tractor-trailer.

That's when I began to understand that life wasn't meant to be ideal. Life was meant to be a dull, faint pain that kept you conscious of the fact that a storybook existence was entirely unattainable, and made you concentrate on the tedium of everyday commutes and phone calls.

I resolved, from that moment on, never to allow myself to fall into the fairytale trap again.

Which is why I'm trembling with fear at this very moment.

I'm trying my damndest to convince myself that this... this was all an accident, a blip on the radar caused by electrical malfunction. It's totally implausible, the entire situation. It goes against everything I'd ever deemed logical, everything I'd ever thought possible.

It wasn't supposed to turn out this way. I was supposed to go on living my life, wrapped up with my books and spells and grad theses and the monotony of it all. I was supposed to stay in reality, stay cognizant of the fact that dreams never do come true, and that believing any other way would bring nothing but sharp, stabbing hurt.

I wasn't supposed to be anything more than content with what I had.

I wasn't supposed to be this happy, this euphoric, about anything.

And above all, I wasn't supposed to wake up one morning and find that not only was I sharing a spacious hotel bed with my best friend, I was sharing a spacious hotel bed with my best friend after engaging in what Harlequin romance writers call "the throes of passion."

I shift from the decidedly comfortable spoon position we've arrived in and turn to look at his face. He looks so peaceful, so at ease, in his sleep. His arms are still twined around my waist and show no signs of letting me go anytime soon, so I resign myself to lying here with this perfect specimen and contemplate just how awful this situation truly is.

Only, I don't feel awful.

My brain is going wild right now; every bit of logic in my mind is telling me to get the hell out of here, to put some clothes on, for God's sake, to leave and never look back. This is too perfect. This is everything I've ever wanted.

It's a fairytale, and I've got to get out.

But I can't. This just feels so good, so right.

I sigh, allowing myself to drift away from my embattled brain, and stare up into Harry's face. So odd to see him without his glasses... I never gave it a thought. I suppose I believed that he slept with them on or something, that they were a permanent fixture, just like that scar on his forehead...

In the absence of the logical portion of my brain, I don't realize that I'm tracing that very scar as I form the thought. His grip on me tightens, and I realize that I don't ever want to leave.

I wonder if he knows what happened last night.

"May I have this dance?"

I looked up from my goblet of sparking cider; the speaker didn't surprise me one bit. "I don't know, Harry," I said teasingly, "are you going to step on my feet and muck up my new shoes?"

"Most likely," Harry replied cheerfully, pushing his glasses up his nose. "God only hopes that you'll be more understanding of it than most of the women in this room."

I stood, straightening my dress. "Oh, so am I the last resort?" I asked with mock sincerity. However, all thoughts of playfulness and jest fled from my mind when he took my hand and kissed it gently.

"Never, Hermione, would you be my last resort," he said softly, leading me to the center of the parquet floor. "Never."

Speechless, I allowed myself to fall into his arms, wrapped up in the wistful tones of the piano. "Do you know what this song is?" I asked quietly, desperate to strike up a conversation. Any conversation.

"No idea," he answered, as I looked up. I could feel his breath against my cheek.

As the song played on and I grew blissfully unaware of anything beyond the movements of my feet and Harry's cologne, I wondered just what the hell I was getting myself into. Bloody hell, Hermione, he's your best friend, you can't possibly be...

Be what?

Falling in love?

Don't be silly. It's one song, one dance...

Of course it's not silly, and of course it's just one song and one dance. It's not silly because you've been falling in love for the last ten years of your life, and you're just conscious of it now.

I am not conscious of anything.

Exactly.

"Hermione?"

I looked up, and in that instant, I was lost. I was lost forever, in those green eyes that say everything and nothing at the same time. I was lost in him, in memories and the present and whatever the future might hold. I was lost in fantasy, ready to kiss reality goodbye.

And by the looks of it, he was thinking the same thing. His eyes had gone wider than saucers, unblinking; he looked stunned, and almost as if he wass going to be sick. It took me a while to realize that was probably exactly what I looked like to him.

I was the first to speak. "Harry?"

"Yeah?" he asked hoarsely. I could see his upper lip trembling.

And however I was going to reply to his query, neither of us will never know; at that moment, his lips descended upon mine, and whatever I might have had to say was lost in the shuffle.

What a spectacle we must have made, right in the center of the dance floor, pawing at each other like rabbits in heat, kissing as if we fully intended on fusing ourselves together right then and there, muttering and murmuring senselessly for all to see.

I don't know whose idea it was to leave; all I recall was racing from the ballroom, his hand entwined in mine. We skipped the elevator, choosing instead to run up the three flights of stairs to his hotel room. The idea of separating from him and going into my adjacent room, no matter how brief, didn't occur to me at all. He was fumbling with the keycard and I was up against the door, his lips on my neck and my hand under the back of his dress shirt, and the door flew open.

I fell to the floor, taking him with me; I don't know how long we stayed there, kissing and whispering thoughtlessly. By the time we did eventually make it to the bed, I'd succeeded in getting his shirt off (not an easy task, as I recall) and my dress had long since been discarded...

"Hermione?"

Oh, bollocks. He's awake. I can feel my face flushing. I don't reply immediately.

"Hermione?" he asks again, rubbing his eyes and reaching for his glasses. I reach over to my side of the bed and grab them for him, handing the black frames to him soundlessly.

He puts them on. "Ah, much better," he says, grinning. He's at his best when he smiles; it makes my heart melt.

It pains me to think that my expression is what wipes that grin from his face. "Harry... did what I think just happened actually happen?"

He blinks, loosening his grip on my waist. I take the opportunity to sit up, covering myself with the sheet. "Well," he begins, "I was under the impression that something wonderful had just occurred between us." His voice sours as he continues. "However, I'm going to venture a guess that you percieve it to be exactly the opposite."

I sigh, leaning my head against the wall. "Harry, I don't know how to describe it. It's awful and wonderful and scary and implausible and stupid and great and fantastic and everything I can think of. At the same time."

He props himself on one elbow, looking straight at me. "Explain."

So I tell him everything. About the fairytales, about how it's all unrealistic, about how it's probably a dream that I'll be waking up from sooner or later.

When I'm finished, he turns over and crosses his arms. "So you mean to tell me that you can't be with me, and that this entire situation is horrible, because it's exactly what you've wanted?"

"Yeah."

I can tell by the look on his face that he's still confused. I open my mouth to explain further, but he cuts me off.

"No, Hermione, I can tell well enough for myself. You think it was a mistake. You think it was a horrible idea. Fine. Think that way." He gestures to the pile of clothing heaped on the floor. "Leave, if you want. Run away from this, whatever you think it is, but just remember one thing.

"I love you, Hermione Granger, fairytale or not. And I have, for a long time. Enough to know that if I ever did anything that even remotely harmed you in any way, I'd have to drown myself in the Thames, because I couldn't live with myself if I did. You are my heart. You are my soul, and I don't know what I'd do without you." Tears are falling from his eyes by now.

"But it's your choice. I don't want to hurt you by keeping you any longer than I have to. If you think it was all a grand fuckup, you can walk out that door and out of my life, and I won't say a word against it. So go. Walk away."

It takes me a moment to realize that I, too, am crying.

And I come to a conclusion, as I throw my arms around him, sobbing. He stiffens, as if surprised.

"Gods, Harry, you expect me to leave after hearing that? What do you take me for, some heartless, cold bitch who has no idea what love is?

Because I do. Well, now, I do. Well, sort of. It's not entirely clear... but whatever it is, I'm in it. With you. And I don't care if it's a fantasy or not, because... well, because. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you." I pause to look up. "And I'm not leaving."

"Ever?" He's smiling now.

"Ever," I confirm as he gently wipes the tears from my cheeks with the back of his hand. "I'm here to stay."

The smile grows wider. "Well... as long as you're here to stay... and we have this lovely bed all to ourselves..."

I grin right back.

And as he kisses me senseless, I'm aware of only one thing.

Fairytales do exist, and so do happily-ever-after endings.

But only for those who realize that "happily ever after" is just the beginning.