Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do, however, own a notebook, and a pencil, which is all I really need.
Mussed, raven hair crowns the young man of nineteen, concealing the scar he is so renowned for; the scar he would like nothing more than to be able to rub away, and in turn, catapult him into an entirely different life-
Into the life of a young child, the child he himself should have been, who has not yet experienced pain, and grief. Someone who does not yet know the meaning of sorrow, and regret. And who most certainly has never had to muddle through something quite like this.
However, this is not to say that he isn't happy, because he is. Really and truly is, as he has stated to her a multitude of times, just to make sure she doesn't forget. And yet, happiness is relative; especially so when the level of such that one is to assert determines the very life of another.
And even more so when that life of another is the unborn child of Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived.
Regardless of how many times she has found him here before, it has never once occurred to Harry to perhaps relocate his hiding to a new space; preferably where the one person he is hiding from cannot find him within a matter of minutes, and a solitary well-placed apparition.
Friends come in all shapes and sizes; a true statement, in Harry's opinion. Not the chubby sort of shape, he doesn't mean, because there is absolutely no doubt in his mind that Hermione Granger is a thin, well-proportioned witch.
What he does mean, nevertheless, is that of all the people he could have chosen that first year to be the best of chums with, of all the people he could have chosen to love and be in love with, know-it-all Granger would not have been at the top of his list.
All her life, Hermione has known things. "Book-smart," her father had called her, while she sat on his lap as a little girl. She relies on this intelligence, gripping it as if it is a vine and she is hanging off the edge of a cliff above shark-infested water, without a wand in her hand.
Constantly having an answer suits Hermione, because her greatest fear, beyond failing a course, is embarrassment; of being asked a question that she has not read the answer to in a book, or that she cannot respond to with a recitation of statistics from a study in still another book. And yet, even having read all of these novels, and having answered all of these questions, her mouth simply does not know how to form the words needed to compose this particular statement:
"I'm sorry, Harry."
Three words, preceding two more, that changed his life forever. The first three, he'd heard before. The following two, could not have surprised him more:
"I'm pregnant."
So, my first HP fanfic.. I have no idea where this is going, or whether it's going anywhere at all. Yes, I realize this is short. Really short. But it's all I could think of.
Review, please.