Come Together

Come Together

Chapter Six: Get Back

remember when you were young
you shone like the sun
shine on you crazy diamond
now there's a look in your eyes
like black holes in the sky
shine on you crazy diamond
you were caught on the crossfire
of childhood and stardom
blown on the steel breeze

-- "Shine On You Crazy Diamond," Pink Floyd

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

What happened next was shattering, and astonishing, and inevitable, and yet it happened purely by accident.

Or at least, looking back, Hermione liked to think so.

It was a grey, drizzly morning in December, and six reams of parchment for an Experimental Biomorphancy class project were spread across Hermione's kitchen table, along with two novels, seven textbooks, a half-eaten crumpet, and a stack of folders in various sizes and colors. While Hermione ordinarily never would have stood for such a mess in her kitchen, Exam Week was an exception to the rule. She'd been up until four that morning, and then slept until seven-thirty before shooting out of bed in a panic and realizing she only had thirty-six hours left to study for her oral dissertation on Genome Transfiguration in Vampiric Bovines.

So it was not surprising that when a large screech owl arrived with the morning's Daily Prophet, Hermione hardly looked up from her parchment. Putting her quill between her teeth, she reached over and untied the paper from the owl's leg without looking, gesturing in the direction of the jar of owl treats on the counter. "Take something," she muttered, shoving the Prophet underneath her copy of Monstrous Mutations in Monsters and Mutants.

The owl flapped over to the counter and fluttered around for a moment, then beat his great wings once or twice before rising towards the ceiling with something clutched in his claws.

The owl was halfway out the window before Hermione noticed that instead of taking an owl treat, he'd picked up one of her books, mistakenly thinking that she was asking him to take a delivery back to the library. She looked up just in time to see that he was clutching her copy of Debunking Diviniation: Why Fate is Just a Fallacy and heading swiftly for the sky.

"Wait!" she cried, leaping to her feet and knocking her chair backwards onto Crookshanks in the process. Crookshanks gave a spectacular yowl and began rocketing around the kitchen, terrifying the owl, who promptly dropped the book and sped off into the gathering clouds in an attempt to get as far away as possible from the insane penthouse residents at Number 231.

Bending down to scoop up the startled cat, Hermione examined Crookshanks' bushy tail for signs of injury, then walked to the window to peer down at the rainy cobblestone street. Luckily, her book was in plain sight. Not-so-luckily, it was wedged in a grating one floor down, soaking up the rain on Harry's balcony. "Oh bloody hell," she muttered, pulling her wand from her dressing gown pocket. "Accio book!"

The book bucked, wiggled, and gave a final pitiful thrash, but it was no use. It remained firmly stuck between the iron bars of the grate.

Grumbling, Hermione set Crookshanks down again, pocketed her wand, hurried down the stairs to Harry's flat, and knocked once before opening the door.

What she saw drove all thoughts of books, cats, owls, papers, and exams completely from her mind.

Harry was perched on the deep window ledge in his sitting room, his shoulders slumped, staring out into the rain. Hedwig was on his shoulder, her snowy head leaning against his black one. Harry barely moved at the noise of the door opening. When he did turn around, Hermione's breath caught in her throat. The look in his eyes was unlike anything Hermione had ever seen there before.

It was a look of utter hopelessness, bleak sorrow, dark and green and desperate. It was as if nothing could ever be right again, as if the flame and spark that was Harry had withered and gone out in a cold wind. It was a look that made Hermione's legs go weak. She grasped the doorframe to steady herself.

"Harry," she whispered.

Hedwig gave him a gentle nudge, and he blinked. "Hi," he said quietly, his voice heavy with the same dead weight visible in his eyes. "What's up?"

Hermione forgot all pretense, forgot everything she'd been telling herself, forgot to Forget Harry. She crossed the room in a few hurried strides before realizing she'd also forgotten she was in her dressing gown.

Harry didn't seem to notice.

"Are you all right?" she said, somewhat breathlessly, coming to stand awkwardly before him, twisting the sash of her flannel gown in her hands.

"Fine," Harry said, his voice distant. His eyes met hers then, and Hermione felt again like she might sink right through the floor. "Well, not really, actually," he continued, in the same detached tone. He looked a bit surprised to be telling her this. "Not fine at all."

"Harry?" It was a plea and a question all at once. When Harry looked up again, Hermione was shocked to see his eyes filled with tears. In all the years she'd known him, she had never seen him cry.

Before she could breathe again she'd rushed forward and his arms were around her, and his black messy hair was splayed on her shoulder as Hedwig took off in a rush of silent white wings and landed on the mantle.

When they finally broke apart Hermione couldn't remember if she'd said anything, or how long they'd been there, Harry's arms wrapped around her as if she would fly apart if he didn't hold her together. And when he relaxed his hold, it almost felt as if that was true.

"Thanks," he said, his voice weak. "I'm sorry. I'm all right." He stood, a bit stiffly, and sank onto the couch, running a hand through his hair.

"You're not all right," Hermione said, sitting down cautiously on the other end of the couch. "Harry, what is it?"

"I was thinking about quitting Quidditch," Harry said tonelessly.

"You what?"

"I was thinking about it," Harry continued, unable to meet her gaze, "because I can't figure out what I've done to drive away my two best friends, and so I thought that might be it."

Hermione couldn't speak. His words stung like a slap across the face. The sinking feeling she'd felt earlier was now threatening to pull her straight through the floor.

"All the girls coming around," he continued, as if he was thinking aloud rather than speaking to her. "Those stupid girls. And the press, and all the attention. I thought maybe it was too much for you. Maybe you didn't want to spend your time being scrutinized and hounded just because you happened to live with me, the sodding Boy Who Lived, and now the bloody Seeker for a Cup team."

Hermione had found her voice. "Harry, that's not true -- "

"I know," Harry said, and when his eyes met hers they were expressionless, vacant. "I know. I said I was thinking about quitting, but I realized it's not that at all. It's something else. The real reason I haven't seen you both in months."

Hermione couldn't swallow past the lump that had lodged in her throat. Never, in all her hours of musing about Harry and the Rational Way to Do Things, had she considered that he might notice that she was missing from his life, that he might even be hurt because of it. And of all the bad timing… why Ron was gone as well, she had no idea…

"It was that night." Harry's voice was strained, broken. "That night in the club. I know what you both saw." He took a halting breath. "I wouldn't want to be around me either. I'd be afraid."

This was the last thing Hermione had expected him to say; her jaw fell open. "Afraid? Harry, why would we be afraid -- "

"Because you should be," Harry whispered. "Four years and I've never been brave enough to tell you. Some hero, right? I've been too bloody afraid of it myself."

Hermione's mind was blank, her thoughts tangled in shock and confusion. "Honestly, Harry, I haven't the faintest idea what you're going on about -- "

"It's all right, Hermione. You don't have to pretend anymore. I know you figured it out sometime after that night," Harry said evenly, standing up to pace in front of the window. "It can't have been easy, living in the same house with me after that. You put on a good show, though -- and I've always known that you're very brave -- "

"Harry Potter." Hermione's voice was rising. Was this some sort of joke? "Would you mind telling me what in Merlin's name you're talking about?"

"Fine, then, you want me to say it? Is that what would make you happy? Confirm your little theory for you?" Harry's voice was bitter. He ignored Hedwig's agitated flutters as the owl gave a distressed hoot from her perch on the mantlepiece. Hermione, completely unprepared for this flash of anger, felt tears sting the corners of her eyes as Harry rounded on her and that strange green wind seemed to rush through the room and lift the edges of her dressing gown.

"I'm Voldemort."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Hermione Granger was the type of person who liked to pride herself on knowing the proper response to certain situations. She had a rather extensive mental catalogue of appropriate things to say, when to say them, and to whom. But that neat catalogue of responses did not include instructions on what to say when your best friend tells you he's the Dark Lord, and looks up at you with his soul burning in his eyes.

And in that moment Hermione abandoned her catalogue, threw procedure into the flames. There was no ten-step solution, there was no logic. There was only Harry and his burning eyes and the certainty that what he was saying wasn't right, it couldn't be right, and she was the only one who could make him believe it.

But this was like a bad dream, one of those dreams tinged strange and green with wind, and Hermione found her voice frozen in her throat, stilled in the maddening silence as her heart beat crazily against her ribs.

"All right, I'll play along," said Harry mockingly, when Hermione did not respond. "Let's pretend you don't know any of this, just so you can hear everything from me, since you seem so determined to make me relive it." He turned to lean against the mantle; when he finally spoke again, it was with great effort, as if every word was heavy with water, with the rain that streaked the windows outside.

"When I defeated him, I was alone… with him. You remember."

Harry had never spoken about this; Ron and Hermione had never asked. It had seemed like enough just to have Harry back at the time, just to have him safe and not ask any questions, to pretend as if nothing was different. And now those years of respectful silence stretched out painfully in Hermione's mind. They had not been doing Harry a favor with their polite patience, as they had imagined.

They had been hiding from him.

Four years. Four years, and she hadn't asked about the Defeat, because she'd been too afraid, because it had been the easy thing to do, because something had compelled her to keep her distance. Now she felt sick, almost physically ill from the realization of how long they'd let Harry keep his silence.

"Our wands. They shared a core. They couldn't work against each other… and he had just killed…" Harry's voice wavered, and the next words came out in a rush. "He had just killed Professor Dumbledore."

Tears slipped down Hermione's cheeks. Harry didn't look at her; he sat down again on the couch, staring aimlessly out the window.

"I knew… I knew there was only one way to kill him. I knew he could never truly die." Harry's voice was measured, emotionless, as if he was describing a trip to the laundromat. "I cast the Killing Curse on him. It didn't kill him… it couldn't… but I somehow knew, I knew what would happen if I did. I can't explain it."

Hermione didn't know which was more terrifying; the words that were tumbling from Harry, or the quiet that screamed in her ears when he fell silent.

"When I cast Avada Kedavra…" Harry said tonelessly, "when I cast it, Voldemort's body died. His wand snapped in half. Everyone saw that, afterwards. And I knew -- I knew he could never come back again. I let everyone believe that he was gone."

"But he is, isn't he?" Hermione spoke thickly through tears.

"No." Harry put his head between his knees.

"Harry."

"His power," Harry said, his voice a strained whisper. "All of it. Everything. It went into me."

It couldn't be true. Every bit of Hermione was fighting against it, refusing to believe. Harry -- her Harry -- she knew him, she would have known if something wasn't right, if this had happened -- she was in love with him, for Merlin's sake --

In love with him. She really was.

And just as surely as she knew that, as much as she knew it deep in the intuitive wells of her heart, she knew that he was speaking the truth. Now it seemed as if she'd always known what had happened at the Defeat. It all made sense -- everything that hadn't been right, exactly, when it was over. The months he'd gone away, the things she could never say to him, the way the three of them had been scattered to the wind before finding each other again in the aftermath.

And the green wind. The dreams.

Harry 's head was still in his hands, and his voice was muffled. "I don't know why I'm telling you this," he said. "You must have figured it out by now. After that night. You saw what happened." His voice caught in his throat. "I almost -- I couldn't fight it. His power -- it was too much -- "

"Harry -- " Hermione had found her voice. "Harry, how could I possibly have thought -- I mean -- " She twisted the sash of her robe helplessly. "I mean, even if you are… V-Voldemort… you've never seemed -- you've never -- " She was flailing now, unable to find the words. "You play Quidditch," she finished lamely.

But Harry seemed to understand what she was saying. "I know," he said quietly. "For a while, after it happened, I didn't want to see anyone. I was afraid of what might happen, of what I might do to the people I love. I kept having odd feelings, seeing strange images… feeling these surges, like this great power was inside me… I can't explain it. And I -- " He looked up, guilt creasing his forehead. " I saw how people were reacting, thinking he was dead… that he was finally gone… and I couldn't do it. I couldn't let them down, I couldn't tell them that his power was still here, waiting, trying to do something -- "

"But it hasn't."

"No. No, not yet." Harry's shoulders were hunched with tension. "I found out that as long as I keep my mind busy -- by doing sports, or something, anything -- I can get by, I can pretend it's not there. Quidditch has been the only thing that's made me feel almost normal again." He glanced up at her. "Well, that and…" His voice trailed off. "But you've deduced this, I'm sure. Some of it, anyway. What else could have happened, that night in the club? That was dark magic, Hermione."

Hermione found she could say nothing. She felt that her jaw might be half-open, but she wasn't quite sure.

"You don't have to say anything," Harry said, staring out at the rain. "I know you figured it out, or at least part of it. I know that's why you and Ron haven't been coming around. I'd have done the same if I were you."

This sentence was spoken with the finality of a death knell, with a sound in his voice like heavy doors slamming. It brought Hermione back to her senses. That's it, she thought. He's shutting us out. He's gone forever, and I never knew, and it's all my fault --

"No," Hermione said. "No, Harry."

"Then why?" Harry had shot to his feet again, pacing. "Why have my two best friends been acting like they've been replaced by bloody cardboard cutouts?" He glared at her. "I'm not sure I want to know, actually, since you certainly won't stick around now I've told you about this -- "

"HARRY!" Hermione could hardly see through her own tears. "I'm sorry, I really am, I can't explain it, I can't explain -- it's not -- " The words it has nothing to do with you caught in her throat and lodged there. "It's not because I'm afraid of you," she amended. She couldn't tell him right now, couldn't dump her feelings on his lap in the middle of all this -- "And I don't know why Ron's been gone. I couldn't tell you. I haven't seen him in ages. Harry, believe me, it's not like you think."

"It's not, is it?" Harry was staring out the window. "But you can't have forgotten that night."

"I haven't forgotten it, no. I've even -- " It was difficult to keep speaking. "I've even dreamed about it," she finished. Her breath hitched in her throat. "And Harry, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I haven't been there for you. This is all my fault."

Hermione was dimly aware that the room had grown dark, that Harry was glowing once more, the edges of his form outlined in weird green light, his eyes lit from within like candles.

"Are you sure?" he asked, and his voice was high and cold and distant. "Are you sure you're not afraid?"

Hermione realized that she was trembling. She forced herself to look up and meet Harry's gaze, terrified of what she might see there.

And Hermione saw in those eyes someone who was just as scared as she was. She saw, amidst the darkness and the rush of green wind, Harry. Her Harry.

"I could never be afraid of you," she said quietly.

He found her then, gathered her into his arms and cradled her as she cried, as he'd done so many times before, except this time he might have been crying too. "I'm sorry," someone said, and it might have been Hermione, but maybe it was Harry; it was impossible to tell, because all Hermione could see or think about was Harry's arms around her and how she was never going to shut him out of her life again.

They broke apart and Harry's hand was smoothing her hair roughly and she looked up at him, and he was staring at her in wonderment.

"I just told you I'm the most powerful Dark Wizard in existence," he said, "and you… apologized to me."

Hermione managed a weak laugh through her tears. "You shouldn't have had to keep something like that to yourself for so long," she said shakily. "We can get through this. Whatever's happened to you, you're still Harry."

"You're sure." This was almost a question.

"Of course I'm sure. Harry -- you may have absorbed Voldemort's power, but you've always been stronger than he has. You're still you. I can tell." A strange calm had engulfed Hermione; this time, she wasn't hiding behind logic, and she wasn't using it as a way to bury her feelings. She was using it to explain them. "I've always thought you were meant to go up against Voldemort your whole life, and you were meant to do it because you're the only one who could. Harry, you're the only one who has ever been strong enough. If his power couldn't be destroyed, it had to be contained… and maybe the only way to contain it is within you." She swallowed. "Maybe this was meant to happen."

Harry was quiet as he absorbed this information, his green eyes round.

"I thought you didn't believe in fate," he said finally.

"I don't," she said. "I believe in you."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Time, after that, meant something different. It was as if they had started over again, new students on the train, chasing after toads and eating Every Flavor Beans, with the weight of years no longer upon them. They huddled in Harry's apartment, cocooned in front of his Muggle television set (he'd always wanted his own), watching horrible American sitcoms and ordering Chinese food via Floo network. Hermione's books found their way down to Harry's, and his kitchen table was quickly buried under piles of parchment and quills. Sometimes Hermione went upstairs to see Crookshanks, and they cooked dinner in her sunny kitchen, and Harry's jumpers and shoes found their way under Hermione's sofa.

Which, he discovered, was a fairly comfortable sofa. Sometimes, after Hermione went to bed, he didn't quite feel like going back downstairs.

He went to see Ron. "You've got to tell him," she said, in that tone of hers that made it impossible to believe she was ever wrong. And after everything she'd said to him, he almost believed she never was.

Ron had been silent while Harry told him, in stops and starts, and between shaky sips of butterbeer, what had happened on the night of the Defeat. He simply stared at Harry, his expression an unreadable wash of fear and awe and panic.

"Bloody hell," he had said when Harry finally finished, and Harry looked up at him and cursed himself a thousand times over for ever being afraid to tell Ron anything. "What did Hermione say?"

"She thinks I'm still me. She thinks…" Harry stared at his butterbeer, swirled it in the bottle, thought of her confidence, her unwavering belief in him, and found it hard to speak. "She thinks it was meant to happen."

Ron nodded, leaned forward in his seat, fixed Harry with an uncharacteristically serious gaze. "I reckon she's right," he said quietly. "But that's Hermione for you."

"Yeah. Yeah, it is."

They'd talked for hours, then. As if they hadn't spoken in years, which, Harry thought later, they really hadn't.

"I've got something to tell you as well," Ron had said, in some early hour after midnight, empty bottles of butterbeer lined up on the coffee table in front of them.

"The reason you've been -- "

"Gone. Yeah."

"What is it, mate?"

"Look, promise you won't… get worked up."

Harry managed a chuckle. "I'd throw myself out the window before cursing you, you git."

"That's not what I meant!"

"Sorry." Another chuckle. "Harry, I couldn't tell you -- I couldn't tell either of you -- " Ron sat up, his face peaked and uncertain beneath a road map of freckles. "There's… this girl." His voice was strained. "You can't tell anyone."

"Why on earth not?"

"Harry, I don't know, I just -- "

"Ron." The words were out before Harry could stop them. "I've… there's someone… I should tell you something also."

"Well then." Ron unfolded his lanky form from the sofa with a pained grin. "I'll get the Ogden's."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"You've got to tell them, Ron. They'll be okay with it. Really."

"I know… I know. I'll do it. Over the holiday." A long pause; Ron took a sip of whiskey. "Harry, are you sure you don't want to tell her?"

"Very. I don't want to ruin anything."

"Right then. You have my word, mate." He sighed. "I just wish you'd change your mind."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was Christmas Eve, and the Burrow was a boiling mishmash of bubbling pots and baked puddings, warm bodies and twinkling lights, and for once, everything was just about perfect.

All the Weasleys were crammed into the nooks and corners of the house, red hair and freckles in every hallway and bedroom and armchair. Ron and Harry were camped upstairs in Ron's bedroom with Fred and George; Bill and his fiancee Julia were down the hall from Charlie; and Percy, Penelope, and little Perce were in Percy's old room, while Hermione and Ginny were together as usual in Ginny's room. Years ago, Hermione had stopped feeling pangs of guilt for feeling more at home with the Weasleys than her own parents, who always preferred to vacation together on a sunny island beach for the holidays, happy to let Hermione celebrate at the Burrow.

This year felt much more like home, however, than any of her previous Christmases at the Burrow. Hermione wasn't sure if it was because she, Harry, and Ron were now living together in their own home, of sorts; whether it was that the sheer number of smiling Weasleys seemed to increase by the year; or whether a sort of fog had lifted between herself and Harry and Ron. She suspected it was the latter.

She couldn't put a finger on exactly what was different. Watching Harry from across the sitting room, as Ron beat the pants off of him in chess for the second time in an hour, his smile seemed easier, his laugh warmer and deeper. She suspected that the weight of bearing a dark secret had taken its toll on him in a thousand intangible ways. The last time she'd seen him like this -- the only times she'd ever seen him like this, really -- he'd been on a broom, the one thing that seemed to free him from the mantle of being Harry.

There was another time she'd seen him like this. It didn't seem significant, really, but -- that day in her kitchen. They'd made soup.

A moment between friends, Hermione thought quickly. He's my best friend, after all. And as difficult as it might be -- as much as it would hurt to watch him date other women, even fall in love -- she would do it, and she would be there for him. And he would be there for her.

Though she had to admit it was hard to stop looking at him sometimes. Currently he was wearing one of his many Weasley sweaters, dark green wool with a mottled "H" on the front, soft and worn, snug across his broad shoulders. His hair was a classic Harry mop, one shiny black lock sticking straight up in triumph right above his jagged scar, the rest of it at odds with itself, askew and happy and wild. From time to time little Percy would run by -- the child was in perpetual motion -- and fling his arms around Harry's neck with sheer abandon, and Harry would flush and grin and toss him to Ron or Charlie, or turn him upside-down while the three-year-old squealed with laughter.

Ron gave a triumphant guffaw, and Harry's eyes caught hers as Ron's bishop swung a heavy sword at Harry's unsuspecting queen, cleaving the stone figure in two. Harry grinned, one of those Harry smiles that made Hermione's chest hurt and her knees feel funny, and she tried not to blush too badly as she smiled back.

Harry pushed his chair back and stood, chuckling. "I think that'll do it for me. Who's next?" His eyes lit on Ginny, who had just come into the room with a steaming mug of cocoa, fashionable as ever in a red sweater with a fluffy white fur collar. He gestured at his chair. "Ginny?"

"Prepare to meet your doom, young Weasley," crowed Ron as Ginny slid into Harry's vacated seat, raised her eyebrows, and began picking up Harry's decapitated chess pieces.

"Hey. Fancy a Christmas cookie?" Harry had come to stand beside Hermione in the sitting room doorway, and he inclined his head towards the kitchen, where a tray of Molly Weasley's holiday baking was sitting conspicuously on the counter. "I won't tell anyone."

"All right then." As they walked into the kitchen she felt a tiny thrill as Harry's hand came to rest comfortably on the small of her back for a few fleeting seconds. Harry had never been the touchy-feely sort; Ron, on the other hand, had always been freer with hugs and brotherly kisses. But now Harry seemed to be relaxing, reaching out to bridge the space between them in dozens of little ways.

The Burrow kitchen was still cozy with the smell of supper; piles of dishes were stacked in the sink next to a pot of leftover oyster stew. Harry made a beeline for the cookie tray. "Candy cane or Christmas tree?"

Hermione pretended to give this question serious consideration. "Candy cane, please."

"Okay." Harry glanced at her shyly, lowering his voice. "Watch this," he said, opening his hands to show her that his wand was in his pocket. "Accio cookie," he whispered, and Hermione's candy cane flew purposefully into Harry's open palm. Hermione smiled. She knew that Harry was a far more powerful wizard than he would ever let on, even without the added powers of a certain Dark Lord, but he only seemed comfortable revealing the depths of his skill to her in private, in little displays like this. "Showoff," she said, rolling her eyes.

"It's not so hard. I can teach you to do it, I think." Harry hoisted himself up onto the kitchen counter and took a tree-shaped cookie twinkling with Sparkle Sprinkles. "I've always wondered whether these keep lighting up once you eat them."

"I don't think so. They're enchanted to stop sparkling once they're wet; it's a property of Fidoza root extract, which is what they're made with. At least that's what I've heard, but you'd best ask Fred and George, they ought to know, since they use it in some of their joke shop products -- "

She was interrupted by Harry's soft laughter. "Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"Just… don't ever change, all right?"

Hermione felt her ears go pink; she tried to hide her smile, but it was futile. "Are you teasing me?"

Harry bit into the cookie and grinned. "Just a little bit."

"Oh, hush."

Harry patted the counter beside him. "Have a seat?"

"Oh no, I don't think -- I mean, Molly probably won't like -- "

"She won't mind. Besides, we'll take care of the dishes." Harry was fishing for his wand now, in a shirt pocket under his sweater. With a quick gesture the pile of dishes in the sink was washing itself, and Harry patted the counter again.

For a moment it seemed to Hermione that there was something in the air, something more than the cinnamon smell of cookies and crackling fire, something that sparked like the sprinkles on Molly Weasley's Christmas baking. "Happier breaking rules, as always," she muttered, sliding up onto the counter and suddenly feeling almost dizzy with the closeness of Harry, his black hair falling against his round glasses, pale wrists emerging from the too-short sleeves of his worn Weasley sweater. He nudged her shoulder with his own as she settled next to him. "I wanted to thank you," he said quietly.

"What on earth for? I haven't given you your present yet." She was quite nervous about it this year; she'd decided against the usual standby of chocolate frogs and Quidditch literature, instead settling on a selection of Muggle music they'd listened to in her apartment one sunny afternoon.

"For… you know. For helping me through this." He slid a hand over hers on the counter between them. "It gets better every day. I mean…" A pause, the sound of dishes clinking in the sink. "I think I can do this. You're right." His eyes flicked to hers. "As always."

Hermione's heart was pounding so loudly that she could hardly hear her own thoughts. Harry's thumb was moving in a tentative circle on the back of her hand. It felt like fire and butterflies. Did he know what he was doing to her? Could he tell? "I, er… " Harry said, and did she remember how to speak English? because she wasn't sure anymore, she wasn't sure of anything at all --

"Oi, Harry! Ginny Weasley has been vanquished! Is Hermione in here -- "

Hermione sat up with a jolt as Ron burst into the kitchen. His eyes widened at the sight of them sitting on the counter, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat. He can't know how I feel, he can't have figured it out -- "Don't let Mum catch you up there," he said finally, grinning, then narrowed his eyes in an uncanny impersonation of Mrs.Weasley. "If I've told you once, Ronald, I've told you a thousand times, keep your bum off my clean counters!"

"We're washing the dishes. I thought she wouldn't mind," Harry said, sliding off of the counter and offering a hand to Hermione to do the same.

"Oh, nice one. I was just looking for 'Mione," Ron said, glancing at her with an oddly thoughtful look in his eyes. "Can I borrow her for a bit?"

Hermione had been expecting this; Harry had told her he'd been talking with Ron, that Ron had something to tell her. She hadn't been expecting it at this precise moment, however. Her mind had been… elsewhere. She wondered if Ron could tell that her knees were practically knocking together with nerves. Thankfully, he was Ron, and these small details tended to escape him at times.

"Honestly!" Hermione found her voice again. "I'm not a library book."

"News to me," Ron said. "Come sit outside for a minute, then?"

"All right, take her, see if I care," Harry said with a laugh, and disappeared into the sitting room as Ron draped a cloak around her shoulders and opened the back door.

They walked out onto the back porch, Hermione's insides tightly coiled as she watched their breath hover before them in puffs of steam. Her brain was trying rather unsuccessfully to switch gears.

"I've been talking to Harry," Ron said, staring off into the back field, where a group of garden gnomes was celebrating the holiday around a rosebush lit with tiny candles.

"He mentioned that," Hermione said, suddenly feeling the strangeness of the past four years, how odd it was to be talking with Ron this way about Harry. They'd always talked about Harry constantly, before; he was their constant project, their shared worry. Now it seemed like ages since they'd mentioned him to each other. "He told you… what happened to him."

"Yeah."

They gazed at the gnomes' holiday rosebush for a while until Ron's fist came slamming down onto the porch banister unexpectedly. "We should have known," he said vehemently. "We should have asked him -- we should have done something -- "

"I know," Hermione said, breathlessly thankful that this was what Ron wanted to talk about. This she could handle. "But he's going to be all right, Ron. If anyone's going to be all right, it's Harry. No one else could manage this for as long as he has, already… He's doing it. He's going to be fine, somehow. There's no one else like him."

That piercing look again; Ron seemed to be searching her eyes for something, perhaps reassurance, perhaps a confirmation that everything would be okay. Perhaps --

"I know," he said finally. "I just… I can't forgive myself."

"I know. Me either."

They were quiet again, listening to the laughter issuing from the sitting room, Fred and George's wicked chuckling, and then Harry's voice, deeper than the twins': "Oh, come off it, Fred."

Ron gave her a small sideways smile, then took a long breath. "There's something else we haven't talked about. I'm sorry for that too."

"It's all right. There are probably things I haven't told you also," Hermione said, trying to sound casual.

Ron nodded. "I guess we grew apart a bit, without realizing it," he said quietly. "I don't want it to happen again."

"Me either."

Ron squeezed her hand, then dropped his head and took a deep breath. "Okay. Here goes."

Hermione tried to keep her face passive, but her mind was whirling. Was Ron moving out? Maybe he'd met people through work -- or he'd been working on a secret Ministry project --

"I'm getting married."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~