The Day Before We Went to War
"To Lily and James," Hermione said solemnly, raising the shot glass in salute.
Harry looked at her with watery eyes and smiled gratefully before all three drained their glasses of Fire Whiskey.
Ron refilled them and looked around at his best friends, "To Sirius," he intoned, and another round was gone. It was enough to make them all tipsy, and Hermione felt the great weight of grief in her chest as Harry picked up the bottle next and turned to look somberly at her. She didn't want to hear it, didn't want to remember. His eyes fixed on hers and she found herself on the verge of tears.
"To Cedric," he intoned solemnly, full of remembrance, and Hermione swallowed hard, willing herself not to release the sob lodged in her throat.
"To Cedric," she echoed, her voice quiet and thick. She knocked the shot back quickly and was refilling her glass before the boys had even finished theirs.
They went on like that for hours, until the smuggled bottle of Fire Whiskey was empty and they had toasted the dead, and even the living; everyone from Dumbledore to Mrs. Norris once Ron got really silly.
Now, it was one in the morning and Hermione had unofficially laid claim to the bed at some point in the night. She stared blearily up at the spinning ceiling while Harry did the same on the floor beside her. Harry's voice cut across Ron's deafening snores.
"You still miss him."
It was a question in disguise of a statement, searching for confirmation without asking for it.
"Only when I think about it," came her quiet, slightly slurred reply.
"Did you love him?" He asked curiously. Always curious, never invasive, she thought with a small smile.
"Yes."
"Do you still love him?"
There was a deep, sad sigh; a beat of silence.
"Yes. I think part of me always will."
She started at the sudden feeling of Harry's hand in hers but squeezed it gratefully. The hot tears she had been holding back all night streamed down her temples and into her hair and she released a shaky breath.
"M'sorry, 'Mione," Harry whispered remorsefully.
Hermione heaved a wet, incredulous laugh, swiping furiously at her eyes with her free hand.
"Don't be ridiculous," she huffed out with a sniffle. "It wasn't your fault, Harry, and I never blamed you. Not for a minute. So just—don't. Don't do this."
They had never really talked about it. After their fourth year, any real communication between them effectively ended and was replaced with near-constant bickering between them and admonishments from her.
"Hard not to," Harry eventually croaked. His voice carried a level of exhaustion and resignation far exceeding his years and Hermione's eyes filled with tears again, this time for the man who had witnessed death too young and too often.
He couldn't change what he felt, however irrational, any more than she could. She tugged at their interlocked hands, sliding over to make room on the bed for him while simultaneously dragging him off the unforgiving floor.
He slid onto the bed clumsily, obviously still feeling the effects of the Fire Whiskey, and settled on his back with a small groan as the room began to spin anew. Hermione rolled into his side heavily, vision swimming slightly from all her movement, and nestled her head into the crook of his shoulder, throwing an arm over his middle as she hugged him tightly. She felt him heave a large sigh and shift beneath her. Her heart gave a painful lurch and she tensed, dreading, but ready for his rebuff. Harry's receptiveness to any show of affection was unpredictable these days, to the point that she simply stopped trying, though it hurt more than she liked to admit.
Instead of withdrawing as Hermione had feared, however, his arms enveloped her entirely and pulled her further onto his body. Her grip on him tightened further, a few stray tears of relief and happiness escaping her unbidden. She cursed herself silently. Evidently drinking made her emotional.
Harry leaned a cheek atop her head, turning just enough to nuzzle her hair with his nose. Apparently, it had a similar effect on Harry. It had been a long time since he'd been this open and relaxed around her, all the easy smiles and hugs of their childhood diluted and lost among all the subsequent tragedies they'd endured.
"Hermione," Harry suddenly started, voice now slurred with whiskey and sleep.
Hermione hummed sleepily.
"Promise you won't leave, too," he asked almost plaintively.
Hermione's brow furrowed, and she shifted in his arms to peer up at him. He met her concerned gaze steadily, imploringly. Her hand found its way to his face, thumb rubbing soothingly along his jaw as she considered him fondly and his eyes slipped closed at the sensation.
Slowly, she leaned up and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek with a whispered, "Promise."
With that, Harry pulled her back into their secure embrace, tucking her head into his chest. They finally allowed the effects of the Fire Whiskey to claim them and drifted off into a deep sleep.
When Ron awoke the next morning, confused, mouth feeling of cotton, and head pounding, his sore eyes took in the scene on the bed with a measure of surprise before curling back up into his makeshift bed of blankets with a groan of pain.
"'Bout bloody time."