Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am not peddling this story for cash.

A/N: Follows canon. Kind of. Angsty. It is set right before the epilogue of DH. I think, perhaps, this is my explanation for why Harry and Hermione don't speak in the epilogue. I wrote this is one sitting so please forgive its lack of polish. Oh, and sorry about those typos and grammar mistakes! As of now the story is complete – I'm not sure if it needs a sequel. But if anyone is interested let me know and I'll give it a shot.

By Necessity

Harry Potter is supposed to be happy. After an inauspicious beginning he has lived to attain all those things that happy men must covet. He is blessed with a beautiful wife, one most of his friends claim was the 'catch' of Hogwarts, and he has three happy, healthy children. Plus one godson, for good measure. He is independently wealthy, has his health, a job he loves, and a home made warm by love and laughter. And Voldemort, his nemesis and the man responsible for the suffering of thousands, has been dead and gone for more than eighteen years. All things considered, Harry's life is about as perfect as it ever had a chance of being.

So, yes, according to almost everyone, Harry Potter is definitely supposed to be happy. And, truthfully, most days he is. He knows as well as anyone that good things don't always come to those who deserve them and that he's probably already gotten more than his fair share. So, while reflecting, he often thinks he must be the luckiest and happiest man alive. There is nothing else in this life that he could possibly want. Surely nothing he should want.

At least, that is what he thinks until he has to see Hermione Granger. Or hear her voice. Or read about her accomplishments at the Ministry.

Hermione Granger.

She doesn't go by that anymore. It's not her name, not legally. But, in his head and in his heart, that is what Harry will always call her. Who she has always been and likely will always be. Immediately after her marriage to Ron he tried to think of her as a Weasley. He called her by that new and foreign name a few times, playfully, but it felt wrong in his mouth. One night, when he couldn't sleep, he recited it over and over again to the ceiling with the vague hope he would use her correct last name the next time he happened to use it.

But he never did get the hang of it and eventually he stopped trying to get it right. It never did occur to him to wonder why he found it so difficult, so wrong. If he thought about that at all he chalked it up to force of habit and left it at that. It wasn't until the day Hermione told him she was pregnant that he got his first inkling of a clue, when the announcement she was having Ron's child hit him with the intensity and pain of the Cruciatus Curse.

They had been standing in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place when Hermione had shyly dropped the bomb that obliterated Harry's bubble of contentment. Ginny, pregnant herself, had squealed at Harry's side and jumped forward to capture Ron and Hermione in an excited hug. Ron had laughed and hugged Ginny back with enthusiasm, mentioning something about cousins growing up together. Hermione had smiled too, her laughing eyes meeting Harry's over Ginny's shoulder.

She was waiting for him to say something, she knew. To react with the same spontaneous goodwill. But it had been beyond him. He remembers standing immobile, blinking like a simpleton, as the people he was closest to in all the world celebrated with a joy he could not feel. Instead he felt like he had been kicked in the stomach and left gasping for breath.

Hermione and Ron were having a baby. His mind babbled it over and over. Hermione was having Ron's baby. They were starting a family together.

Harry doesn't know why it hit him so hard, what about the moment stripped away his emotional blindness and left him blinking against the glare of sudden sight. Insight. But it was one of the most horrifying moments of his life. He felt like something had been torn from him, a vital part of himself lost.

But that wasn't right. Or fair. He was married to Ginny, happily married. Hermione and Ron were his best friends, and they were husband and wife. Something about the situation was making him overreact. He was being ridiculous, he had no claim on Hermione. He did not want one. That was the lie he told himself with his wife and two best friends staring at him, their faces pictures of bemusement and curiosity.

He remembers collecting himself with difficulty and finally congratulating the parents-to-be around the lump that had formed in his throat. Ron hugged him and Harry had returned the embrace whole-heartedly. But somehow, when the time came, he only managed to give Hermione a quick pat on the shoulder. He is still not sure if she thought it odd. It's never occurred to him to ask.

Harry shakes his head, ridding himself of the uncomfortable memory. It is not something he likes to dwell on, the moment his vision cleared and he realized – far too late – that he wanted to be the man married to Hermione. It reminds him just how completely he has betrayed Ginny, Ron, and Hermione.. Not because he has ever acted on his feelings, or even thought of acting on them. But because, more than a decade later, he still wants Hermione's children to be his children, her future to be his future, the rest of their lives entwined and inseparable.

"Not in this life," he murmurs quietly.

"Did you say something, Harry?" Mrs. Weasley stops beside his chair and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Sorry?" Harry's head snaps up. He has been too lost in his dreaming, he did not hear a word she said.

"I just wanted to know if you needed anything, dear." Mrs. Weasley smiles kindly, her plump cheeks rising until they nearly eclipse her eyes.

"No, no. But thanks," he adds, not wanting to sound ungrateful.

"You've been so quiet, sitting here all by yourself. Are you sure everything is all right?"

"I've just been reliving my defeat." The last thing Harry wants is Mrs. Weasley fussing over him all night. Family gatherings at the Weasley home tend to be torturous affairs as it is. Determinedly he summons all the enthusiasm he can harness and hopes it is enough to ease her mind. "Ron gets better at wizard's chess every time I play him. I really need to practice more often."

Mrs. Weasley smiles with amused sympathy. "Oh, you poor dear."

She glances behind her and Harry follows her gaze to where Ron and George are playing a hotly contested, rather vicious game. Ginny is there, too, alternately shouting encouragement and insults to whichever brother she chooses. When Ron curses roundly she laughs and then tells him to stop corrupting her children. Percy, at Ginny's side, seconds her request for the sake of his own offspring, who are also in the room. Ron makes another crude remark and this time it is Hermione who rebukes him. She is seated beside him and her attention has been alternating between the game and the book in her lap. In response to Ron's obvious agitation she stands up to rub the back of his neck. Obviously a bit irritated with his wife, Ron resists her ministrations for a moment before closing his eyes and leaning into her hand.

Harry grits his teeth and looks away. Something is wrong with him tonight, most of the time he is better at this.

The remainder of the sprawling Weasley family, and less than half a dozen Potters, are scattered about the rest of the house, enjoying themselves as they please. In a glance Harry can see countless smiling faces and feel the palpable enjoyment experienced in the company of one's own people. A close-knit, happy family gathered to celebrate the thirty-fifth birthday of a well-loved family member. It is a scene straight out of his childhood dreams and if he wasn't a fool it would fill him with joy.

"It is a Weasley game," Mrs. Weasley says, thankfully interrupting his thoughts. "Arthur used to play with the children for hours."

Abruptly Harry gets to his feet. "I'm going to get some air."

Mrs. Weasley turns to him, clearly startled, but doesn't appear to find his sudden outburst strange. "Of course, dear." She takes his hand and pats it in an encouraging fashion. "With a full house like this it does get a little stuffy."

More than a little in Harry thinks but does not say. He smiles with a carelessness he doesn't feel and squeezes Mrs. Weasley's hand in thanks before heading toward the back door. He does not make eye contact with anyone as he leaves and no one notices his exit, or at least they don't comment on it. That suits Harry just fine.

The moment he slips outside a pleasant breeze cools his skin and lifts the hair from his forehead. It's a welcome relief and Harry slips his glasses from his face to wipe at the sheen of sweat across his brow. He hates being like this around the family, so on edge. On days like this he sometimes wishes he'd never heard met Hermione Granger, that she'd never gotten locked in that bathroom on Halloween and they'd never become friends. Such thoughts are usually followed by a healthy dose of shame and the grudging admission that he wouldn't remove Hermione's role in his life for anything.

With a sigh Harry puts his glasses back on and moves at a leisurely pace to the far end of the Mrs. Weasleys' expansive garden. He thinks he sees a garden gnome scuttle beneath the shadows of a hedge but it's too dark for him to be sure. He briefly contemplates investigating further; maybe a good de-gnoming will do him some good. But the impulse passes quickly.

Harry stops at the gardens edge and gazes down at the slumbering flowers. He doesn't have any particular appreciation for them but they are quiet and serene and do not ask how he is feeling.

Behind him a dozen Weasley voices can be heard coming through the house's open windows. Mostly laughter, some good-natured insults, and a Mrs. Weasley screech conspire to fill the dark's silence. Harry winces in sympathy for Mrs. Weasley's target, grateful he usually manages to escape her wrath.

Harry presses a toe into the dirt at his feet. They are such a good family, he thinks. So loving. Devoted. He knows how lucky he is to be a part of it. How lucky he is that they took him on, all but adopted him as one of their own. Without them he would never have known what a family could be. There certainly wasn't anything resembling that with the Dursleys. Meeting the Weasleys on the platform, befriending Ron, changed the course of his life. It was the best thing that ever happened to him.

Almost.

Harry shoves his hands into his pockets and turns to look at the house. It is probably a good time for him to head back in but, for a reason he has no need to examine and less desire to admit, he doesn't want to. The night air feels too good on his skin, he tells himself. The only thing waiting for him inside the house is a sauna.

Just then the back door opens and a head pops out. Harry squints through the darkness and feels his stomach clench. It is Hermione. Inside his pockets, Harry's hands clench into fists.

The door opens further, squeaky on its hinges, and Hermione's body becomes visible as a dark silhouette. She steps outside, letting the door close softly behind her. Her head moves back and forth and she is clearly looking for something, or someone. Perhaps a toy one of her children left outside. Or maybe Rose decided it would be more fun to hide from her parents and hide in the dark.

Harry stays where he is, content to watch her, sure that she will find what she is looking for and disappear into the house before long. He sees no reason to alert her to his presence. There is no moon and he is far enough away that she will not see him through the darkness. Not if she doesn't know exactly where he is. And since he knows she is not looking for him, and probably wouldn't say anything to him if she see him, he does not feel guilty about his silence. Their friendship is not as close as it used to be, it hasn't been for years. Because it can't be, not anymore.

The reason, of course, is based on necessity. Because he has so little faith in his ability to resist, hide, and deny. The fight against his feelings is like being sucked down by a whirlpool. The force of her, the raw power she has over him, is too strong. And with each battle he has to wage against her his will falters, his resistance weakens. As it is, he only just manages to keep his head above water. This struggle has gone on too long. Giving in, getting swept away, would be seem like a relief, and so easy. But it would be the end, too. Of everything.

As he watches, Hermione bends over and picks something up from the ground. Though it is difficult to tell for certain, by the shape of it Harry thinks it is a child's broom. Hugo was darting around on one earlier today. The family must be packing up to leave. It must be late if Ron has agreed to go home, he usually one of the last to leave any sort of function. Harry starts to look at his watch but freezes. He doesn't want to move and risk drawing any attention to himself.

Harry waits patiently in the silence but Hermione doesn't move to go back into the house. The broom is clutched in both of her hands and she is staring down at it. Harry thinks it must be damaged and she is examining the new nick along its shiny surface. Maybe he will lend Hugo the servicing kit Hermione gave him back in third year.

Nearly a minute passes and Hermione still does not move. Harry no longer thinks she is looking at her son's broom.

She is too still, too rigid. Like she is listening for some sound in the night. Or waiting.

Harry's heart thumps inside his chest. Suddenly the air feels stifling, like someone lit a fire at his back. Harry grits his teeth and fights the urge to fidget, to call out to her through the darkness. Does she know he is here? In his mind he wills her to walk away and leave him with what small scrap of peace he still has.

As if he spoken aloud, Hermione raises her head and looks in his direction. Harry stiffens and his breath catches in his throat. He does not think she knows where he holds himself still anyway. He is standing within the shadows of an oak tree that lines the garden some twenty yards away from the nearest source of light. He has to be invisible.

Not that she is looking for him, he reminds himself angrily. She has no reason to. No will to. It is both torture and betrayal to hope in some dark part of himself that she is. To hope that somehow she can sense his presence the same way he can hers, resonating somewhere inside him without need of sight or sound.

From somewhere inside Rose calls out for Hermione. Hermione jumps and the spell that had fallen over Harry is broken. Hermione glances over her shoulder as Rose opens the door and waves for her to come inside. Harry can't make out everything she says but he thinks Hugo has eaten some of his uncle's special toffee. Whatever happened, Rose is nearly hoarse with laughter. Hermione's head turns to one side and Harry knows she is rolling her eyes. She slings the broom over her shoulder and marches back toward the house, ushering Rose inside. As she reaches the door she stops and throws one more look into the darkness, in his direction. Then she is gone.

Harry releases the breath he has been holding. He is surprised to discover he is shaking.

Inside the house the raucous is at full throttle. Harry can't hear exactly what is being said but he knows someone is being read the riot act. The party will break up soon.

Needing more time to himself, Harry moves deeper into the night. After a few blind steps he drops to the ground and braces his back against another of the Weasleys' convenient oak trees. For a long time he stares at nothing.

He knows his feelings will not go away completely. He admits that. Has admitted it for years, really. Once, early on, he thought he could ignore them away. If he avoided her, if he blunted their friendship for a time, his emotions would level out and the sudden need he felt for her would go away. Of course things did not work that way. Perversely, staying away from her only only made him want her more, long for her more than he already did.

When he first started putting distance between them, Hermione did her best to close it. She owled him, stopped by for impromptu visits, even called him on the phone. They both had them installed in their homes to deal with their Muggle relatives. Her determined efforts to keep their friendship together had made him embarrassingly happy. He'd burned with equal parts desire and shame at the pleasure of it. He still does.

But despite Hermione's best attempts to salvage their friendship, he persevered and eventually wore her down. He never said or did anything to hurt her, not directly. The separation was for the good of everyone but he could never go that far. He just stopped showing such a keen interest, kept their conversations brief or did not speak to her at all, and stopped doing the little things that keep friendships strong. It is not something he is proud of and when he reflects on it late at night he knows he could not do it again. Despite knowing it was for the best, he will always regret it.

Only once, seven years ago, did Hermione broach the subject directly. Staring at him with a mix of bafflement and frustration, she asked if he was avoiding her on purpose or if they were truly growing apart. He remembers how her question, the uncertainty in her voice, nearly gutted him. He never showed it. Instead he blithely assured her there was nothing wrong with their friendship. But she heard the truth in his flippant tone, as he had known she would. Her understanding had been reflected in the tears that sparked in her eyes as she turned away from him.

After that day Hermione stopped fighting for him. Since the she accepts what bare overtures of friendship he makes but never asks for, or offers, more. He tries to feel relief as their friendship fades into a mere acquaintance and possibly less. There are some, including members of the Weasley family, who say their friendship was created by necessity and never meant to last. Harry doesn't know if Hermione agrees with that assessment or not. He hopes not. Though she has no reason to believe it isn't far from the truth.

Sometimes he wonders if she hates him, because he appears to have let her go so easily. They don't speak much anymore, limiting their conversations to greetings, goodbyes, and superficial inquiries about the other's children. Outside of the moment when she came out in the yard, which he cannot count, he has not been alone with her in more than seven years.

Harry runs a hand through his hair. He does not think she hates him. He cannot believe that. Not after everything.

Harry turns to look at the house and the loving family in its walls.

He does not know how it happened but somehow Hermione Granger is the love of his life. Some days this truth is easier to deal with than others. But easy or hard, he can never say a word. Because it would destroy their happy, fairytale lives and devastate the Weasleys. Because he doesn't want to know that she doesn't return his feelings. Or, worst of all, that she does.

Feeling fragile, Harry climbs to his feet. When he re-enters the house, he promises, he will act only as he should. He will love his wife as much as she deserves, be the friend Ron has always trusted, and convince everyone in the room he is the happiest man in the world. And he will hope, as he always does, that sometime in the next seventy years he will be able to want Hermione just a little bit less.