The Necklace

Hermione stood at the kitchen sink, watching soap bubbles rise as the warm water covered the dirty dishes. It felt strange, being back in her parent's house. She hadn't stood in this kitchen for a year -- not since the day she had left. Not since the day her heart had shattered into a million painful shards that had dug into her with every breath she'd taken.

Shutting off the tap, she let the memory of that day come. Luckily, it wasn't as painful in recollection as it had been in reality.

She'd arrived that afternoon and had immediately cocooned herself in her mother's arms. It didn't matter that she was twenty years old; sometimes Mum's arms were the only place to be. As her mum had held her, Hermione had spilled out what had happened. How she had finally admitted her feelings to Harry.

How he'd said that her feelings for him weren't real and that given time they'd go away.

She'd cried even harder then. The picture of his bruised and scarred face, still healing from his final encounter with Voldemort, had been clear in her mind. The sound of his voice, so cold and emotionless as it threw her feelings back at her, was still ringing in her ears.

"And then, Mum," she had hiccupped, the wound still raw, "I walked back toward the house. I knew I couldn't stay any longer...I knew I couldn't face him. I just wanted to say goodbye to Mrs. Weasley and to thank her..."

As she'd recounted it to her mother in words, but the whole thing had suddenly played out in front of her, just as it had a few hours earlier.

Inches from the screen door, Hermione paused when she heard Ron's voice. Unable to help herself, she'd peered inside.

"Why so down, mate?" Ron asked as he passed by his best friend on his way to the refrigerator. When Harry remained mute, Ron stopped foraging and turned towards him.

"Bloody hell," he sighed quietly in case his mum was listening. "Why don't you just grab her by the shoulders and snog the breath right out of her lungs? I'm sick to death of you two dancing around this. Now I know how you must've felt during fifth year, watching Hermione and I do the same dance."

"She told me she was in love with me." His monotone voice had Ron rolling his eyes.

"There's a tragedy," Ron muttered under his breath, exasperation nearly dripping from his words.

"She's not, Ron. She only thinks she is. For years now, ever since the Tournament, we've all been waiting for the showdown...for the time when Voldemort and I would come face to face again. Waiting to see who would be the last one standing. And now he's dead. Now we know. What she's feeling is relief, Ron, not love."

"And of course, she's such a brainless git she doesn't know her own feelings, right?"

"Ron..."

"No, Harry. Not this time. You've been singing this song for so long I know the words by heart. First, she can't have feelings for you because she's just rebounding from our disastrous attempt at romance. Then, you won't allow yourself to have feelings for her because you think you're a dead man walking. And now..."

"That was all true," Harry stood so fast the chair fell over behind him. "And it still is. Do you know what this is?" Harry held his bangs up to show his scar. "It's a bloody target. Take a shot at The Boy Who Lived. I'm not going to..."

"Save the martyr routine for someone who hasn't heard it a thousand times, Harry."

"Dammit, Ron. You can't force me to feel what I don't feel, okay? I don't love her and I never will."

As she had finished the retelling to her mother, Hermione's tears had finally ebbed into the sniffles. But then the final blow had fallen...

"Hermione," her mother had said, trying to comfort. "He may have a point, you know ..."

Anger such as she'd never known flooded through her. How dare her mother insinuate that she didn't know her own mind...her own heart? Not trusting herself with words she'd probably come to regret, Hermione had simply stood back and Disapparated without another word.

Safe in the present, Hermione let the past drift away like feathers on the breeze. There was no point in dwelling over the memories now. In the past year, she'd managed to mend the rift with her mother. And now she was back in England...to mend the other rift she'd left behind.

She scrubbed and rinsed the dishes as her mind whirled over how to go about mending that rift. First off, she had to find them. Should she just go to Diagon Alley and ask the first witch or wizard if they knew where she could find Harry Potter or Ron Weasley? Apparate to the Burrow? Contact Professor McGonagall or Professor Dumbledore? Any of those ideas would work, she knew, but then the real problem arose. Once she found them, then what? How could she ever apologize enough?

After letting the dirty water drain away, Hermione dried her hands and reached up to finger the clasp on her necklace. It wasn't much, a thin strand of spun gold with an hourglass charm hanging from it -- a tongue in cheek birthday gift from Ron and Harry at the beginning of seventh year. She remembered Harry telling her she might need another time turner if she was going to get the highest NEWTs in the school's history...

Her heart stuttered when her fingers found only bare skin.

In a second, both hands were at her throat, searching for the little bit of gold. Frantically, she began shaking her clothing, hoping to hear the unmistakable clink of metal on tile. But the room remained silent. Dread rising in her stomach, she stripped to her underwear in the middle of the kitchen, praying it had become snagged inside her clothes.

But the inside of her clothes was as bare as her neck. A small tear rolled down her cheek as panic began to well up inside her. Closing her eyes, she tried to remember the last time she'd seen it. Three hours ago, she thought, after her bath. That meant it had to be in the house somewhere.

Spurred on by this small stroke of luck, Hermione began to meticulously search the entire townhouse. An hour later, meticulous gave way to frenzied. Frenzied soon gave way to chaotic. By the time she stopped to assess her progress, there wasn't an inch of floor space visible. Every drawer, cupboard and bookshelf had been emptied into a large pile in the middle of her bedroom. Hermione slumped on to a pile of jumpers and began to cry in deep, silent sobs.

The day she'd left England, she'd ripped the chain from her neck and cocked her arm back to fling it into the Channel. But something had stopped her - two somethings. The memory of emerald green eyes grinning at her from behind rounded glasses. So rather than leaving it to the depths of the sea, she'd placed in her pocket. For later, she thought, when she could think of Harry without feeling like she'd been turned inside out.

It had taken months for that healing to occur -- months of aimless wandering through Europe, trying to find her identity. One that had nothing to do with Harry Potter, or with being part of the Trio that brought down the Dark Lord, or with being a witch at all. Unfortunately, all that her healing and introspection had wrought her was a deep embarrassment over her behavior.

Hermione blew her bangs from her eyes and scanned the room for a drawer she might have left unexplored. Instead of a drawer, her eyes lit on her dressing table and the wand lying there. The inner debate began immediately.

It's only one summoning charm away, Hermione.

I can't. I'm at my parent's. The moment I cast it, the Ministry will know magic was used in a Muggle house. Besides, I haven't used magic in nearly a year.

Perfect. What better way to tell the wizarding world that you're back? And you still remember it all, you know you do.

I can't. I'm not ready...

Planning on hanging around here until someone stumbles across you, Hermione? If you weren't ready to face them all, why did you come back to England?

"Why indeed," Hermione said aloud. Mind set, she crossed to the vanity, picked up the wand and performed her first spell in twelve months. "Accio necklace."

Hermione was so out of practice she forgot to put her hand out and the bit of gold struck her square in the face.

*^*^*^*^*^

Ron Weasley sat at his desk, idly doodling on a spare bit of parchment. The clock on his wall remained steadfast on "No, It's Not Time To Leave Yet". Normally he liked his job, but fresh from his honeymoon and knowing his new wife was waiting for him at home...

"You're not going to believe this!" Harry Potter slammed into his office with all the subtlety of a cyclone.

"Wha?" Ron choked, the half formed fantasy of what he and Selina would be doing shortly fleeing at the look on his best friend's face.

"This." Harry panted, still out of breath from running through miles of corridors to reach Ron's office. It was a fairly routine notice of magic use in a Muggle residence. But the residence listed... Now that he'd settled a bit, he realized he could have just Apparated here. But when it had landed on his desk, his first inclination had been to run.

It still was.

Harry waited as Ron read the notice, watched as his eyes grew round at the address listed.

"Hermione?" he sputtered.

"It's got to be," Harry sighed. The adrenaline surge cut off abruptly, making his legs feel like gelatin. He dropped into the chair opposite Ron's desk.

"You mean to tell me she's been under our noses for a year?"

"Looks that way, or she was away and is now back. Regardless, magic was used in the Muggle residence of Helen and Phillip Granger. And that can only mean that Hermione is there or was a quarter of an hour ago."

The moment was pregnant with possibilities. Blue and green eyes met and held, the telepathy of long friendships making words unnecessary.

"What are you going to do?" Ron asked finally.

Harry hadn't answered...he couldn't because he didn't know the answer. When Ron's clock had finally ticked over to "Get Out Of Here", Harry waved him off with a forced smile. There wasn't anything Ron could do anyway. He had to figure out what to do on his own - and he didn't have a clue.

Harry spent the remainder of the evening torn between studying the brief missive from the Ministry and looking at the one picture he had of Hermione. Back and forth his eyes traveled until his head was aching. She'd left him. She was back.

She didn't leave you, you great prat. You kicked her right the hell out of your life. It's your own bloody fault, you know...

"All right, all right. I know I was stupid," Harry yelled at his conscience. "She offers me my dreams and I throw them back at her. Then I see her face, her beautiful, sad face peering in at me at the Burrow and I shout to the rooftop that I didn't love her and never would."

His yelled diatribe was cathartic, even though no one heard it save the walls. He'd spent the better part of the last year denying everything he'd just said aloud. Denying it to Ron, to the rest of the Weasleys, to the two witches he'd attempted to date. Mostly, though, he'd denied it to himself.

In his own defense, Harry knew he hadn't been in his right mind that afternoon. It was the first day he'd felt able to get out of bed. The aches, both physical and mental, of the aftermath of his final encounter with Voldemort were still fresh. All he'd wanted was a quiet walk with his friends on the first day of his future.

But then Ron had nipped back to the house to reply to Selina's owl. And he and Hermione had been all alone. Her brown eyes had still carried a red tinge from her vigil at his bedside. Her usually cream colored skin had the ghostly pallor of the sickroom. It hadn't mattered a damn to him. She was just as beautiful as ever.

She'd stopped walking near an ancient oak, pausing only to run her fingers over the three sets of carved initials they'd placed there when they were still children. Her eyes had flickered up to his, dipping down only once to focus on his lips. His pulse had reacted as if she'd actually touched him there. But the spell had been broken when she'd told him she loved him. Panic had run rampant through Harry's entire body as the weight of her words bound him.

Suddenly, it was like he'd become two separate men - one that wanted to kiss her and one that wanted to let her go. He supposed it was the Gryffindor in him that had made him chose the latter.

"Hermione," he'd said, taking her hand and trying for a supportive demeanor. "You really don't, you know. It's just the relief, the release, of the nightmare that's haunted us for eight years. I know you're fond of me, as I am of you, but I ...I don't think its love."

Harry would have gladly sliced off his own arm rather than cause Hermione pain. But in this case, he'd made an exception. He knew he loved her, knew he had done for at least the last two years. He also knew that she needed a chance to live her life without feeling the need to always be on guard. The only way she'd do that was if she lived away from him. Denying his own feelings, he'd said what he had to. He'd done what he had to.

At the time, he'd felt selfless and noble. A year later, he felt like the world's biggest prat.

*^*^*^*^

Hermione spent the rest of her evening on edge. She'd used magic in her parent's house. Surely that meant someone from the Ministry would be arriving on her doorstep any moment now. As the moments passed without so much as an owl at her window, she started to relax.

Nearly three hours after the charm was cast, Hermione decided to stop fighting sleep and head off to bed. She steadfastly refused to acknowledge that she was waiting for someone to arrive. Telling herself it was relief rather than wretchedness, she picked up her empty tea cup, took it into the kitchen and rinsed it. Idly, she wondered if using a bit more magic to clean the dishes in the dishwasher would hurt. Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she switched on the machine and headed towards the main hallway.

Her foot was on the staircase's first step when a timid knock sounded behind her. Puzzled, she turned around to see the vague outline of a man on the other side of the door. In that instance, two separate fears swam through her system, making her knees feel like marshmallow. Alone in the house, the thought of a strange man at her door scared her...the thought that it might be someone she knew scared her even more.

It happened in slow motion. It felt like her whole world had been put on frame advance as she took hold of the door knob, as she tightened her grip, as she twisted it, as she pulled, as it swung, as her eyes met Harry's for the first time in over a year.

I will not cry,

she repeated as the silence stretched between them, I will not cry. The mantra strengthened her and held her voice steady.

"Hello, Harry."

Harry was struck dumb. His mind raced as his eyes traveled over her, drinking her in like fine wine. His ears were near to burning just at the sound of her voice. All at once the urge to grab her by the hair and kiss her until they collapsed from oxygen deprivation threatened to overtake him. He tried to shift his libido into a lower gear but it wasn't working.

He wanted to hold her, to kiss her, to apologize to her, to tell her how sorry he was for what he'd done...but all that came out was a pathetic, "Hello, Hermione."

A long and pregnant silence enclosed them in its snare. Moments dragged on making the next words much harder to say.

"What are you doing here?" she asked quietly, eyes flitting away from his to study the ground.

"I'm...er...we got a report," Harry stuttered, feeling more like an idiot with each passing second. Why wasn't his brain cooperating? Maybe it's because of the rapid blood loss, whispered a voice like Ron's. Harry shifted slightly to ease the ache that had just registered.

"Yes, well. I lost something and used a summoning charm to find it." Harry saw her hands close the front of her dressing gown closer around her neck. The action did nothing to cool his blood. Where was this sudden desire coming from, anyway? From a year of near pornographic dreams, Potter. This is what happens when your co-star is suddenly standing in front of you.

"I see." He felt like a bloody idiot. "I won't bother you any further then." He turned rapidly before he embarrassed himself. He'd made in down the front walk before her voice halted him.

"Ha...Harry?" she said, her voice whisper soft.

He stopped walking away, but refused to turn around. He'd borne many horrible things in his twenty one years; the look on Hermione's face if she discovered the state of his trousers wasn't one he relished experiencing. "What?"

"Don't..."

"Don't what?" He still refused to face her.

"Don't leave."

Harry stayed where he was, back to her, arms hanging like wet noodles at his sides. He'd mucked up so many things where she was concerned. Fear of mucking it up further held him paralyzed. Then a soft sound broke through and he turned around without thinking about the consequences. She was standing right behind him, a tell tale wetness on her cheeks.

"Are you crying?" he said softly, fingers itching to wipe away the evidence.

"Harry, I'm....I'm..."

"You're what, Hermione?" He was whispering now. Somehow, the distance between them had lessened and he was directly in front of her. The scent of her was intoxicating and he started to lean closer. It took him forever to travel an inch. He was giving her every opportunity to back away or to stop him. She did neither.

"I'm sorry," she sputtered. The next thing he knew, her arms were around him like a vise. Her lips were on his. And she was kissing him like contact with his mouth was the only thing tethering her to the earth. Not that he was complaining.

Seconds flew and months melted away as their lips caressed, as their tongues dueled, and as arms entwined. Both of them pulled back on a sigh and two sets of eyes searched, asked and answered.

It wasn't an onslaught. As their lips touched, it began as softly as the first snow. This time it was a steady flutter of kisses across lips, traversing jaw lines, nibbling on ears and sliding down necks. Hermione felt Harry's mouth on the pulse point of her throat and knew he felt it speed up.

And then he did something so un-Harry like, Hermione giggled.

"Harry Potter, put me down."

"Nope." He grinned, and then shut her mouth with another endless barrage of kisses as he carried her towards the front door.

It was the wrong time, Harry realized, to figure out that carrying a woman across a threshold was only easily done in the cinema. He had a go at it anyway. By the time they were standing in the foyer, they were doubled over with laughter.

Then they straightened, and their eyes met, and the next thing Hermione knew, she was pressed into the wall with a very tall, very aroused wizard kissing the breath from her body. Going on instinct alone, Hermione raised her hands and ran them through the unruly mop of raven hair that had haunted her dreams. It was just as soft as she'd thought it would be.

Harry, palms against the wall as he trapped Hermione there, moved his hands slowly to cover her shoulders. In doing so, he inadvertently pulled at the dressing gown enough to bare the column of her neck completely. He had just moved to resume kissing her there when a glint of gold caught his eye.

Hermione moaned a bit in protest as he released her, but when she felt his finger caress the charm, all thoughts of kissing seemed to fade into the distance like ghosts.

"Harry," Hermione said, half question half sigh.

"You still wear this?"

"Yes."

Harry was torn. His blood was still pumping like mad, but at the same time, his brain was searching for answers. Answers he needed before he could give in to the desire.

"I think..." he began.

"...we need to talk," she finished.

Weak smiles met their old and familiar habit of finishing each other's sentences. Hermione took Harry's hand and led him to the lounge room off the front parlor. She moved to switch on a lamp, but he stopped her by magicking a fire in the hearth.

They both sat in front of the fire, cross legged and facing each other. Their hands remained joined.

"Where have you been?"

"Would it sound too horrible to say I've been off finding myself?"

"Not if it's the truth."

Hermione sighed. She'd had this conversation with herself many times, but having it with Harry sitting in front of her, her lips still tingling from the touch of his...

"I've been in Europe. I found work when I needed money and even sometimes when I didn't. Apart from the summoning charm this afternoon, I haven't used magic since the day I left. I've learned a lot about myself, about my actions and about my mistakes. And I've learned that for my life to go on, I need to beg your forgiveness for my behavior at the Burrow."

She watched his face for any reaction, any nuance that would clue her in to what he was thinking. He didn't even blink. She felt tears once again rise into her throat. Before they could spill over her lashes, she felt his hands tighten in hers. It struck her as odd that she'd forgotten she was still holding his hands.

"That's just like the Hermione I knew when we were younger," Harry said seriously.

"What do you mean?"

"You'd always take responsibility, even when it wasn't all your fault."

"I don't understand, Harry. I was a selfish little girl, spilling her heart out to a man just recovering from something that would have killed most wizards. If I'd have just been a bit more patient, or realized that those feelings were one sided--"

Harry stopped her diatribe by plastering his lips to hers and pulling her onto his lap. The kiss had the dual effect of shutting her mind down, just as it stopped her from talking.

"That should dispose of any argument that your feelings were one sided."

Hermione's eyes flew wide open, but Harry's finger tracing the outline of her lips silenced her. "Before we go into that, can I say something?" he asked.

"Ummmm," she said, mind incapable of word formation. Was Harry saying what she thought he was saying?

"I have my own demons to slay regarding that afternoon. I saw you, Hermione." She looked utterly perplexed, so he continued. "I saw you standing outside of the kitchen at the Burrow. I was about to tell Ron that I wasn't going to let my feelings for you make you a target. But you were there, Hermione. And I took the opportunity to make you believe the lie I'd just told you in the arbor. I regretted it the moment I saw your face, but at the time I thought I was being noble."

"Oh, Harry," Hermione sighed, tears welling again, although of sadness or joy, she wasn't sure.

They sat for a few moments, taking in bits and pieces of the other's remarks. Hermione shifted off his lap. Their eyes remained joined, as did their hands.

And slowly, ever so slowly, they drifted towards each other like leaves following the same current down a river. Noses barely touching, they paused and reached up to cup the other's face.

"Hermione..."

And then his lips were on hers again. It wasn't an assault. It wasn't sudden. It was infinitely sweet. His lips were a petals caress on hers, sliding slowly back and forth, taking small nips at her mouth but never moving to deepen. Hermione felt her heart swell with each touch.

At the same moment, it seemed, the kiss shifted for each of them. Slow drugging kisses became fevered, needy...greedy. Hands fisted in hair, fingers fumbled at buttons, skin explored skin.

"Wait," Harry panted, trying to ignore where his hand had been a moment before...trying even harder to ignore where hers still was.

"Why?" she panted.

"Because," Harry took her hand, at great personal loss, and began to kiss her fingers one by one. "Because I just got you back, Hermione. I'm not going to risk losing you again by rushing. We've got the rest of our lives to savor this."

"The rest of our..." Hermione gasped, suddenly a bit afraid.

"That wasn't a marriage proposal, love. Just a figure of speech."

"Oh." She kept her eyes averted, afraid he'd see the mix of relief and disappointment.

"However," he slid a finger under her chin to raise her eyes to his, "I reserve the right to change my mind on that point, given time."

She smiled then. So did he. She turned around until they were back to front, Harry encircling her in the cocoon of his arms. When he raised a single finger to trace the outline of the chain, Hermione felt more content that she ever thought possible. She felt optimistic for her, their, future.

She felt her eyes drift shut in the first peaceful sleep in what seemed an eternity. She was safe, Harry was safe. And tomorrow, when the sun came up, it would be time for them to move on...together.