Respice Fineum

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Respice Finem

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"All my life I have sacrificed everything- comfort, self-interest,

happiness- to my destiny."

"The Mind of Napoleon"

Napoleon

I can't quite describe what it's like to wake up in Harry's arms.

I wish that it were like those sappy old wives tales that describe the perfect feeling running from the base of their temples to the tips of their wizened toes. The emotion of contentment becomes palpable in the air and the happiness becomes the rich blood that flows in your veins until it touches the tip of your heart, and suddenly makes you complete. Or I wish that I could watch his face, sitting nestled in the soft pillow mountains of his bed, and feel my heart skip a beat as a single, black tress falls across his sleeping eyes.

It's nothing like that.

For me, it's the sharp acid of regret building in my throat, the bitter feeling of tears welling in my eyes. It's that emptiness inside the chambers of my heart screaming to be filled with something to rid them of their horrible ache. Repentance covers the air like dust, dust collected over the years by little white lies and ignorance of feelings I still try to harbor without others noticing.

But Destiny calls for sacrifices from everybody who She calls upon. And who am I to mess with Destiny?

It all started when Dumbledore called us to his office back in sixth year. It was a rainy sort of day, occasional streaks of lightning shredding the black sky. I had been in Advanced Arithmancy; Harry and Ron had been in Divinations. We were called over by our teachers during the middle of class. I will never forget the look of Professor Vector's face; her normally soft black eyes were streaked with worry. She told me, quite seriously, that I was to leave my bag in her room and hurry over to Dumbledore's office. Naturally, I went to ask why, but no answer but a single sniffle was my reply.

Moments later, I caught up with Ron and Harry in the hallways. A faint blush crossed my face when I took my place in line next to Ron, who patted my shoulder gently with his grossly oversized hand, telling me not to worry. Ron had changed so much since we were eleven; the lanky redhead had once done nothing for anybody else had learned that selflessness had far better rewards than egocentricity.

Yes, yes, I know that it's more than obvious that I was completely gone on him. Who wasn't at the school? A good amount of the female population (and a slightly smaller percentage of the male one) had a blush cross their face when he came into the room. At one point, I will attest to it, that Ron Weasley had surpassed Harry in the popularity category, which was no easy feat. An easy half of the girls at our school fantasized about him daily and half of those multiple times.

But Harry, in my mind, could never hold a candle to Ron. Even as we entered the corridor leading to Dumbledore's office, Harry attempted to cover up his worry with non-comical jokes and sadly humorous predictions as to why we were all being called to his office. Ron, on the other hand, took the time to slip his hand in my own, the first time he had ever done such a thing.

Moments after we called out the password (corn-cob pipe!), and entered the Headmaster's large working quarter, Dumbledore himself entered the large foyer, a pool of red cloth from the back of his robes trailing him. Very quietly, he pointed to three identical wooden chairs, hinting to us to sit down. Harry, ever the gallant hero, pulled my chair back, and beckoned for me to be seated. Ron followed in suit, and Harry took his chair last.

I shall never be able to forget the look that was engraved on Dumbledore's aged face as his blue eyes flickered between Harry, Ron and I. It was so many emotions swimming in the same pool at once. Fear, rage, surprise... all mixed to create an indecipherable look. Then a single word was uttered by our Headmaster. "Voldemort". And suddenly, all three of us began to understand the seriousness of the situation.

Professor Dumbledore proceeded to fill us in on the current situation; Voldemort was moving cross-continent towards central Europe, obviously working with some of the smaller-country wizards and witches. He said this with panic in his eyes, pupils flashing every time his mouth moved.

Then he dropped the bombshell; The Minister had told him to keep it very quiet, like he had back when Ron, Harry and I were in fourth and fifth year. However, this time the Minister refused to acknowledge that there was even a sliver of a chance that these allegations held truth.

Dumbledore finished, looking me directly in the eyes. Not breaking contact, he quietly dismissed Harry and Ron from the room, requesting my continued presence. I rearranged my skirt, nodding as I stood up and stepped over to his desk.

"I failed to tell Harry and Ron the second part of my news," Dumbledore had said, taking a seat in a purple-cushioned chair behind his kingwood desk. His lips formed a tight smile, and I could feel my stomach muscles contact in worry.

"Would you like me to call them back?" I replied, stepping backward on my heels.

"No, Miss Granger. This information can only be heard by your ears." Dumbledore raised his wand, uttering five unfamiliar Latin words under his breath. A large scroll of parchment appeared in front of him, and unfurled gently, as if it was afraid of breaking.

"Professor Dumbledore... what is..."

His withered hand raised up. "Miss Granger, I have much to tell you, and not as much time as I need in which to do it. I beg that you can keep quiet for the moments that I am given."

Professor Dumbledore turned the parchment around, revealing hard, black ink lines. The scrawl was reminiscent of Greek, so I could understand the basic words, but for the most part, I was at a loss for what to think. I caught Dumbledore's eye, and his worried smile crossed his lips once again.

"This is the key to defeating Voldemort, Hermione. This is the key to protecting the wizarding world for the rest of time. I've had it here at Hogwarts for the last four years, Miss Granger, and now it's time that you know about it."

"Why didn't you tell me about it before, Professor Dumbledore? Why wait until now, when Voldemort is closest to being at full power?" My mind had spun with questions.

The aged man sighed, and pushed back into his chair. "Because, Miss Granger, I was hoping that my premonitions about you and your friends were incorrect, and that I would never have to tell you about it."

I had glanced backwardly at the Professor. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Miss Granger, I'm old. I have seen it a thousand times; the way a young girl looks at a young man and something begins to stir in both their hearts." He has sighed again. "Unfortunately, your heart has stirred for the wrong man, Miss Granger."

"How do you know about...?" I began.

Dumbledore held his hand up again. "It does not matter, Hermione. What does matter is this text. This text," he prompted, pointing at a slur of symbols. "Tells us that your affections cannot be placed on Mr. Weasley. It tells us," he had whispered, almost painfully. "That they are supposed to placed on Mr. Potter."

"What does a scroll know?" I had spat back, looking incredulously at the piece of parchment. "And why in Merlin's name do I have to pay any attention to it?"

"Miss Granger, this scroll was written many eons ago. It predicts, to the hour, the events since the birth of Tom Marvolo Riddle. It's not something that can be taken as lightly as you and I both wish it could."

"Why did you wait so long to tell me?" I had managed to mumble.

"I thought that you might, over time, begin to love Harry, maybe the way he adores you." I looked up at him in questioning. "He has loved you far longer than you could ever realize, Miss Granger. His affections run much deeper than I could ever know. Even deeper than his father's for his mother."

"But Professor... I don't... I don't love Harry. I mean, not like that. How can you ask me to throw everything down the drain, all these feelings I've had for so long? How can you ask me to give up my life for this?" I pointed to the parchment, tears now streaming from my eyes.

A sigh escaped Dumbledore's lips. "Destiny does not always give us these answers, Miss Granger. Rarely does She make any sense. But Destiny is Destiny, and one must make sacrifices for Her sake."

He continued. "Miss Granger, I can barely understand this myself. But this single parchment begs you to love Harry, and stand by him. For without you by his side, his mind is susceptible to corruption from the Darkness Voldemort has already implanted in him. If you cannot love Harry like he loves you, be ready to sacrifice far more lives than you own."

And with a click of his fingers, Professor Dumbledore disappeared from the room.

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Things changed after that; I remember going back to my room that night, eyes glued to the floor, unconvinced that anything of this magnitude could ever happen to me. To me! I could understand any other girl, somebody special, somebody like Cho Chang or Fleur Delacour. But not to me, Hermione Granger. I had strived under being normal for so long; normalcy just seemed right to me.

But Destiny chose me for something bigger, and Dumbledore's words cut deep. "Destiny is Destiny, and one must make sacrifices for Her sake." And I, for one, was not going to let Destiny down.

Dumbledore was right about Harry; he was always right about everything. I finally began to notice the gestures that Ron had always so obtusely done; the way Harry blushed when his hand hit mine, and the way he got all flustered when we were teased about being 'together'.

Harry took his time about telling me, though. It was well into 7th year before he let on. Of course, his big confessional was under Seamus's insistence (nasty Irish temper, you know), and I'm not entirely sure that he was one hundred percent there. But it was cute the way Harry told me; the raven-haired boy managed to scrounge up the entire Gryffindor tower to sing for me (yes, even Ginny Weasley came to join in that night's festivities). It was adorable really; Harry got down on one knee and serenaded me in Italian, and then told me that he loved me, wanted me, and needed me.

Destiny was sitting with me that night, whispering things in my ear as my heart hesitated to give in. But Destiny is quite insistent, and for the first time in my life, I let Harry James Potter get under my skin.

Harry kissed me that night, when we finally ventured out of the watchful eyes of Ginny and Ron. His hands traveled down to my waist, and I wound my fingers in his mangled black locks. I'm not embarrassed to say that he's wonderful at it; probably inherited it from his father, who was more than notorious for being a womanizer during his Hogwarts years. Harry's lips always taste like currants and brandy-wine, simply intoxicating to the drinker. But I felt emptiness behind that kiss, like a part of him was missing. But deep inside, I knew it was all me. Harry loved me; he said so. I was the one who was missing.

Ron told me that he loved me, too. It was one week before seventh year graduation. The roguish redhead and I had been sitting by the fire, listening to the crackling wood sing melodiously into the cold winter night. Our jokes had died out hours before, simmering down along with the white-hot flames.

And then Ron told me. He just crawled next to me, and looked straight into my eyes, and said "Hermione Granger, I'm in love with you." And he kissed me. Gods, I don't know if the word "kiss" properly describes it... the meeting of lips was so much more. It was this pent up frustration inside of me, the longing to be free of the Destiny I felt I was cursed with, the love I had harbored in my heart for so long. I melted into Ron's arms that night, shameless, for Harry was in the Hospital wing from Quidditch injuries.

But it was not going to last. Ron knew it, I knew it. So, for that one week, while Harry lay almost immobile in the cold hospital, Ron and I did all that we could together. We spent the evenings relaxing in the common room under suspicious looks from out other seventh year mates, and the warm summer nights in a dorm room that I had stumbled into with Viktor back in my fourth year. We made love each night in the chamber, under the watchful eyes of the shattered mirror in the corner, laughing and kissing away the tears of anguish that burned in our eyes.

I never told Ron about the meeting with Dumbledore in sixth year. Ron never asked; he knew as well as I did that Harry needed me, that I was the key to keeping him alive; he didn't need a prophecy to see that. But I could always tell that these facts hurt him. We spent those nights with one another with the knowledge that it would only last awhile, and that when Harry was fully recovered, we would go on in our separate paths, pretending like nothing was ever there, that nothing ever happened between us.

Thinking about it, those nights spent under Ron's watchful eyes and lanky body are some of my only comforting thoughts. The way his lips contoured to my own, the way his long fingers entwined with my own... the perfection I've never had since.

But there are consequences for every action. Ours was the child that began to grow in the pit of my stomach. I had already moved into Harry's flat by the time I realized it. I called Ron moments later, whispering in despair. Ron tried to soothe me; he told me that things would be fine, that it would all work out for the best. Then it hit me; Harry... what was I going to tell Harry?

I told Harry later that day that he was going to be a Daddy. I don't think I've ever seen a grown man cry like that. His arms wrapped around my waist, spinning me around until I dizzy. We made love carelessly on the couch, drunk with a happiness I did not know about.

I never let him know it was Ron's.

That was three months ago. Now I'm sitting with Harry at the edge of our verandah, drinking pink tea and eating tiny biscuits recommended by out physician.

Ours... it still doesn't sound right. And when I sit here, I feel so guilty about that. Harry's hand is holding mine gently, as if he's afraid I'll break. Harry's so soothing and comforting; when we make love he's always concerned about me, and never himself.

I sigh lightly, rubbing the hands that my body has grown so accustomed to. I know that this is what I'm destined to be, that this is all something far prearranged. But Destiny never takes into consideration the feelings that dwell in the heart of her pawns, nor does she make any exceptions for the heart that struggles.

"I love you, Hermione Granger," Harry whispers suddenly, kissing the side of my head as his arm wraps around my covered waist. "I always have. And I know that I'm more than lucky to have you here. And I never want that luck to go away."

Harry's hand pulls out a small, velvety blue box. I touch the top, my heart dropping when I recognize what is about to happen.

"Hermione Granger, I want to be with you forever. Please be my wife."

A shaky breath escapes my lips, and I can feel the bitter tears well in my chest. I catch a glimpse of his green orbs, and my mind suddenly falters; never before have I seen his eyes filled with such conviction. I want him to be lying so badly, so badly that is hurts; but those eyes don't leave any doubt in my mind.

It hit me like a stone shattering the silence on a still lake; Harry is serious about all this. He's in love with me; Harry James Potter is in love with me, Hermione Granger. Gods, that one doesn't flow off the tongue very well. It doesn't make any sense when you try to comprehend it; a good-looking (not to mention extremely famous) wizard falling in love with a know-it-all, bossy muggle-born witch. It's... it's...

"Destiny..."

I want to scream, I want to run, because it hurts so much when I look at him. Harry, who thinks he is, but isn't the father of the child that lies in my stomach, the unknowing fool who fell in love with a girl whose heart had already been stolen long, long ago. Harry, who, because of Destiny, will never know that.

Dumbledore's distant words flow gently through my ears and his hopeful eyes catch mine. "Destiny is Destiny, and one must make sacrifices for Her sake..."

"Yes," I whisper lightly, as I slip the perfectly contoured ring to my left hand ring finger. His lips seek out my own in a bittersweet kiss. And as I smile quietly, I know that Destiny is sitting somewhere, smiling.

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