A/N: Hmm… am I getting any better with my characterization? I know my style's kind of off (please forgive the endless sentences), but I'd like to think I'm getting closer to the real Harry and Hermione. Let me know.
Hermione is eighteen today. She has already leafed through Ron's present (a book on the history of house elves, which is his idea of a joke but includes some very disturbing and biased information) and Tonks has said 'happy birthday' ever one of the twenty times they have passed – or crashed into – each other in Grimmauld Place. Remus has given her a particularly lovely bookmark, and Hagrid has sent some rather awful birthday cake. Harry hasn't even mentioned the date.
She isn't sure if it saddens her more that he's forgotten or that she finds the trespass understandable.
When they started their hunt for the horcruxes, they hadn't carried any illusions that they would do nearly as well without Dumbledore. But they had thought (rightfully, she insists stubbornly) that between the three of them they'd be able to make some headway. They still had Harry, after all, and that was the most important thing.
But they don't really have Harry. He is removed from everything, sad in a vague way that disconnects him from everyone else. Hermione wants to blame Dumbledore's death, but she knows it was only the latest in a long line of losses. She thinks to blame his separations from Ginny, but the awkwardness Harry showed around her at Bill and Fluer's wedding had nothing to do with their break-up and everything to do with lack of a common affection. How quickly they drifted apart. Through each mind numbing day spent poring over texts on the dark arts and sifting through Tom Riddle's chilling past, through each misperceived remark, and through each conversation spent (unsuccessfully) trying to comfort Harry, Hermione manipulates her regrets from the past year until her guilt becomes a burning desire to do better now.
She ran out of patience for her fleeting attraction to Ron and the immaturity (and sometimes cruelty) that they brought out in each other months ago. Just as he had become ready for a relationship with her she'd realized that wasn't what she wanted after all. Still, he's happy as one can be in these times, serving as Harry's shadow and indulging in the occasional gentle-edged banter with Hermione. He seems to draw strength from his inexplicable bond with Luna, she notices. She is happy for them. But deep inside her is a gaping chasm that her boys used to occupy; her one boy, more specifically.
She isn't quite sure when she'd become so possessive of him. Was it during third year, when for once she was the one protecting him; fourth year, when she had been the only one to stand by him, to defend him as much as she possibly could, and had in turn seen more of him (even if she didn't always like the more on display) than he'd ever shown her before? Maybe it was in fifth year, when she'd realized that Ron wasn't the only person Harry held in higher regard than her. Regardless of the start, once she became aware of this possessiveness it had scared her so badly that in sixth year she ignored him altogether. He hadn't put up much of a fight. So with an ease that made her heart splinter she had stopped being his conscience and starting dogging him with sarcastic remarks and petty arguments at every turn. By the time Hermione had changed her stance the damage had been done.
The trio should feel stronger now than ever, what with this stranger understanding she and Ron have come to and the common goal they're working toward. Instead it seems that while Ron grows in leaps and bounds quietly where no one can see just how adult he's truly become, he is, for once, the one leaving them behind. Hermione is stuck in desperate forward motion, exhausted by her research but helpless to rip herself away from it. Harry simply stuck. And no matter how brave a face Ron and Hermione put on, no matter how many smiles Harry forces, they know that the only thing holding them together is the friendship they once shared and the hope of a "someday" that seems to be constantly retreating further into the future. It makes her cry sometimes, great gasping sobs, when the boys are asleep. Sometimes they are passed out from exhaustion and she doesn't even have to bother with casting a silencio on the room.
"Hello," Harry says quietly. She looks up with a start from the pile of books she's been ignoring and gives him a tired smile.
"Harry! I didn't realize anyone was still up," she whispers. His lips quirk and an almost-real smile.
"I was waiting for everyone else to go to bed," he explains. She notices him toying with the small bundle in his hands, and a wave of realization and relief comes over her. Without explanation Hermione finds herself on the verge of euphoria. "I'd never have forgotten your birthday," he says, and although the words aren't spoken in resentment guilt coils in her stomach.
"Oh, Harry, I wouldn't have blamed you if you had. I just thought that – well--"
"It's okay," he interrupts, avoiding her eyes. "Anyway, I figured that this birthday probably means a mite more to you than last year's, since you're of age in the muggle world now." She is touched that he understands (but of course he would, she thinks). "I – I didn't really have a chance to get you anything special, but I was looking through some stuff at Godric's Hollow and I found this quill of my mum's. Remus said that my dad gave it to her when she was appointed head girl. I thought since you probably would have been head girl this year…" he slides a black velvet case across the table to her, opened to reveal a simple, elegant quill. It is obviously expensively magicked, but it bears telltale signs of years of use. The white of the feather is immaculate. The initials L.E. are engraved in gold near the end.
"It's perfect," she says, running her fingers along it reverently. It feels almost too valuable to use, but because it's from Harry she knows she will use it daily. When she looks up he is still ignoring her gaze, so she lets a few tears fall. "Thank you."
"Well, I'd better head up to bed," he says presently. "Ron says Shacklebot's got a few promising leads on Bellatrix and Snape that we should check out tomorrow." Almost instantly his muscles tense up, and she sees in those veiled eyes a weariness that is almost enough to break her. Ten seconds pass, then twenty. Five minutes drag by and he still sits staring at his hands. She impulsively covers them with one of her own and squeezes gently; he doesn't pull away, but neither does he respond. It is enough for her that he hasn't stiffened up like he usually does when she touches him these days.
"When did we get like this, Harry?" she asks him plaintively. He doesn't answer but finally looks at her and heaves an enormous, exhausted sigh.
"I don't know. Something happened after fifth year, or maybe during it. Instead of getting closer we started pulling away. And then you were the only person who didn't turn a blind eye when I did something wrong – I'm not sure I ever quite forgave you for that." Silent tears roll down her cheeks.
"Oh, I was awful to you last year, and I never apologized, not once, even after I said sorry to Ron loads of times-"
"It's okay," he says hurriedly, and even though it's not the truth, seeing a glimmer of her old Harry is enough to make her smile.
"My parents were upset I didn't come home for my birthday," she tells him, "but I'm glad I'm here today."
Neither of them says anything for a few minutes. There have been a million times where they've been cut off by a Weasley or an Order member of just a someone, but now that they're finally alone they still don't dare to tread on dangerous grounds. They have become used to being stuck in their relationship, Hermione thinks; ever bit of progress or deepening has come at the price of a long summer's absence or months of tension.
She is too happy that they aren't moving backwards anymore to be very upset by this.
"Harry?" she asks in a small voice.
"Yes?" he replies.
"Will you try to keep me in the loop? I mean, I know there's a lot you don't tell anyone and that I won't always be able to help, but I just – I want to help when I can. I can't do that if I'm ages behind." The shift between them is recognizable but unmarked.
"Do you remember when you first go here on Christmas three years ago?" A frown creases her brow and she nods. "You kept on knocking on my door, and when I finally let you in you had all this snow in your hair, and your cheeks were flushed… you were quite pretty." Somewhere alone the line their chairs have edged closer together, she sees, and now they're almost touching.
"I was so worried about you," she confides. The left corner of his mouth rises in a smirk.
"You couldn't tell; you were the picture of collected."
"That was rather the point," she whispers. In one fluid motion their fingers twine together. Hermione feels him tightening his grip, slowly at first but then more frantically, until he is holding on so tightly she couldn't rip away if she wanted to. She can feel the scars from the absence of this friendship in her life over the past two years fade until she's good as new. He tends to have that effect on her.
"You'll be the first to know when something changes," he tells her. Hermione doesn't enlighten him when she realizes that she's always been the one there when everything that matters changes. Even when it hurt. Even last year.
And she thinks the pressure of his hand in hers may be a very important everything.