5 a.m.

5 a.m.

"Do you love Harry?"

It was one of those questions. The ones with no right answer. And Hermione, being Hermione, had never been fond of those questions. In her world, every question had one answer to it, if you knew where to look. Or they should, at least, if one wanted to maintain any sort of order in one's life.

Did she love Harry? What could she say to that? Yes, of course I love Harry. Harry is one of my best friends. Why shouldn't I love Harry? The fact that I think about him constantly when he's not around, worry over his well-being near 24/7, and allow my thoughts to center around him so much that I can barely force myself to conduct research for my job, which is very enjoyable, thank you, isn't significant at all. The way my stomach twists itself in knots every time he so much as stands next to me and my breathing becomes irregular when he touches me doesn't mean anything. Is that what you want to hear, Ronald Weasely?

Yes, of course I love Harry.

Or, no. I don't love Harry . Becaue I love you.

I love your red hair, your blue eyes, your golden eyelashes and freckles and broad grin. I love the way you laugh, the way you're fiercely loyal, and the way you wrap your arms around me. I love the way you smile at me sheepishly when you apologize for doing something stupid, for trying to protect me when I didn't need it, for coaxing me away from my books to spend time with you.

I love you, Ron. You and your flaming red hair and matching temper.

Hermione smiled bitterly.

There was no right answer.

She pulled her legs up onto the sofa and wrapped her arms around her knees. She peered at Ron. He was still sitting in the armchair, his eyes fixed determinedly on her as he awaited her answer to his question.

Do you love Harry?

Ron had proposed to her almost two months ago. The diamond ring he'd offered her, accompanied with his vow of love, had set her heart racing. With fear. She hadn't known what to say, what to do, and had let her urge to flee propel her straight into Harry's arms--only figuratively, of course; Hermione would never be disloyal deliberately. She'd spilled all her doubts to him and he'd smiled. Smiled and reassured her that she and Ron were meant to be together. There was nothing to worry about.

He had seemed to take it for gratned that, eventually, she would come to her senses and say yes.

After all, how could Hermione turn down Ron? They'd been together romantically for five years and best friends for four years more.

Hermione closed her eyes and pictured Harry's face in her mind. He was why she'd refused Ron initially, though she hadn't known until an angst-torn, deep soul-searching month later. She'd finally come to the conclusion that she hadn't been ready to commit herself to Ron but when she'd told her boyfriend as much, his hurt expression had galavanized her into agreeing to move in with him in reparation. She had been confused at the time--was still confused, actually, and quite unsettled about the whole thing. Hermione Granger was never confused. She wasn't allowed to be. She always knew. She was the bookworm, the know-it-all, the walking encyclopedia who'd earned Gryffindor house more than its fair share of points. She was expected to know.

But she didn't.

Idly, Hermione wondered how Ron had cottoned on to her vague mass of muddled emotions, in which Harry played a starring role. She'd been careful not to let anything slip, wanting to be fair to both of them by first knowing herself what exactly she felt.

"Mione--"

"I'm thinking," she interrupted. Silence fell again and Hermione let her eyes wander over Harry's sparsely furnished flat. Though he had ample means to redecorate, he'd never found the time or the energy. Hermione had offered before, but he'd turned her down with an affectionate smile, knowing that she was more than busy with her job, and promised he could look after himself. Hermione thought that statement was largely in question and the bloke deserved a good talking to about the one frozen pizza and half-empty carton of milk residing in his refridgerator. Honestly. Boys were just hopeless. Ron was almost as bad, but at least he had a mother and several siblings to turn to. Who did Harry have?

Me, thought Hermione.

Oh drat.

It appeared that logic, for once, had failed her. For all practical purposes, she ought to marry Ron. She loved him dearly after all and was quite fond of his family and rather enjoyed their lively banter (arguments--what arguments?) and especially his kisses. He'd perfected his technique with her and she was quite pleased with it... Hermione squinted into the pale gray light of the approaching dawn filtering through a nearby window. Yes, Ron seemed quite the appropriate choice.

She loved Ron and he loved her and they were very well-suited in many ways (he even brushed his teeth twice daily with a vigor her parents had taught her to applaud), but there were some things Hermione just couldn't argue with. Her heart, for instance. And it was being particularly headstrong in a way that could not be felled by infallible logic.

Hermione reluctantly looked at the boy, the man, who'd earned himself a place deep in her heart over the past nine years. She grimaced.

"Hermione?" Ron's voice had a slight edge to it.

She dug into the pocket of her robes, which were draped neatly over the back of the sofa alongside Ron's. Damn heart, she thought fiercely, hating herself for her choices, for her inability to change them, and for the person she would hurt in the process. She was risking so much--and she didn't even know if Harry felt remotely the same way.

But she had to give everything a fair chance.

Hermione pulled her hand out from her robes, a Galleon tucked tightly in her fist. She glanced at Ron. He stared back. "Call it." And she flipped the coin into the air.

It flipped. Landed. Spun. Fell.

Ron and Hermione looked at the golden coin lying on the stretch of carpet between them.

Heads.

"You didn't call it."

Hermione met Ron's eyes. There was a resignation in them.

"You love Harry," he said simply.

The door to the flat clicked open.

"I love Harry." Acceptance of the illogical, unpractical truth.

Harry stood in the doorway and lookd at them both.

"Good morning," he said softly.

"It's 5 a.m., Harry," said Ron, not looking at him.

Hermione quietly slipped the Galleon back into her robes. It had never been a question of chance.

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