I stare at the pick in my hand and dread the idea of the physical labour to come.

"Why won't magic work again?"

Hermione crosses her arms and harrumphs. "Because the mining and smelting part has to be done by hand—your hand, specifically. Brodwin was exceedingly clear on that much. The mirror will know who crafted it and how much attention and emotion is put into that effort, the same as a wand does its maker. And using magic during this stage would only imbue the metal with your negative energies, which would nullify this entire process." Firmly, she shook her head. "No, Harry, the only magic you can use in this process is the spell you intend to cast on the mirror in the end to give it a new purpose."

I give a long-suffering sigh before hefting the thing over my shoulder and preparing for my first swing at the location where the silver ore is supposedly located, according to Hermione's tracking spell. "This sucks."

She grins at me. "Think of it this way: with the workout your muscles are going to get, you're definitely going to have a rather pleasing shape when all of this is through."

I glance over my shoulder and toss her a teasing smirk. "And would that impress you?"

Having turned the tables on her, her cheeks pink and she turns away, primly clearing her throat. "A fit physique is an indicator of good health, so of course I'd be happy for you."

"Happy, huh? Well, I suppose that's a good place to start."

I heft the pick and take the swing… and feel the connecting jolt all the way down my spine.

Merlin, this had better be worth it!

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The task of repairing the mirror has taken months in between my work schedule, and required me to learn a whole new set of skills. It's also worked out every muscle in my body to the point of pain. Who knew that mining, pulverizing, and preparing metal for smelting was such gruelling work? Who knew that shaping glass would require so much physical back and forth labour? And the heat of both processes is enough to sear the skin from one's bones in seconds, so absolute concentration is always required.

Still, I'm almost finished, and that accomplishment feels like a good shot of Firewhisky—the really expensive stuff that's been aged in the cask—on a cold night. It settles in my gut, warm and soothing.

Today, I'm in the garden at Grimmauld Place, putting a final coat of paint on the back of the mirror. Once it dries, I'll be able to take it to the Mirror of Erised's empty frame in the Department of Mysteries and reset it. Then it'll just be a matter of trying out the spell I've got in mind and praying it works.

Hermione has been with me through it all, at my side practically every day after work and on weekends. She's unable to help except with advice and cheerleading, as it must be me who fixes what I broke, as she's reminded me many a time, but still it's nice to have her support... and to have her so near me on a regular basis. She's usually so busy, running around trying to save the rest of the world (still) that I miss having her attention focussed on me.

She'd say I was spoiled. I'd say I was in love and desperate for any scrap she'd throw my way. Not out loud, mind you, but that's what I'd be thinking.

She's here now, settled down under the shade tree in the middle of the yard, reclining on a picnic blanket, her head supported by some sort of buckwheat pillow thing she's picked up over the internet, and is predictably reading. Her jean shorts are really short, giving me a generous view of those scrumptious, golden legs of hers, and she's flung her sandals off and I can see her toe nails are painted purple. She's packed us a lunch in an old-fashioned basket, and is waiting for me to finish.

"Can I ask you something... er, personal?" I ask, hoping she won't shoot me down.

"Depends," she glibly answers with a sly smirk that sets my heart to thumping. She doesn't put her book down, of course.

I lick my lips to erase the dryness of them from the hot sun, and glance over at her, trying not to fixate on the fact that her floral tee dips low in the front, giving me a perfect cleavage shot. "Upon what?"

She glances over the top of her book at me. "Whether your personal question has to do with Ron or something else."

Ah, she's figured me out again. I go for broke. "Say it was about you and Ron, would you dodge it?"

Her mouth does this cute, little twisty thing and then her teeth appear to worry her bottom lip as she considers her answer, and I am dangerously close at that point to dropping the paintbrush and crawling over to her to give her something else to nibble on. We're still only friends, though, despite the obvious sexual tension that's been growing over the past few months. If I attempted something so foolish, especially given my current run of bad luck, I'd probably get slapped, then shouted at, and then slapped again. At best. At worst, I'd lose my other best friend.

It's best not to tempt fate… right?

"No, I wouldn't," she finally decides with a sigh.

I nod, reminding myself to be careful with her trust. It's just... I have to know this. I have to know if there's a snowball's chance that something could grow here, or if I need to extinguish the torch I've been carrying around for her for years.

"Good, because it is about you and Ron," I state, slathering another coat of paint on the mirror, then brushing it even, despite my slightly shaky hand. The excess drips onto the tarp below. "So, uh, say, for example, he'd decided today he wanted you back." I glance over at her again and swallow my nervousness, and decide that if I'm in for a Knut, I'm in for a Galleon, too. "Would you take him up on the offer? Would you… try again with him?"

Her dark eyes zero in on me, and I can feel the weight of that intelligent stare straight through to my heart. I'm suddenly, acutely aware that I'm naked from the waist up, covered in sweat and paint. My jeans are uncomfortably tight—have been since she first Floo'd in this morning and I caught sight of what she was wearing. My body is tense with coiled need and a desire for her that goes soul deep. I know she sees it all, despite her dis-advantageous position on the ground.

"You're asking if I'm still in love with him."

God, she's brilliant, seeing right through my question to the heart of it. I nod, my throat too tight to speak right then.

"I'll always love Ron," she says with a small smile, "but no, I wouldn't go back with him. I'm not in love with him anymore. That ended years ago." Her expression softens. "Are you still in love with Ginny? Would you go back to her if she asked you for a second chance?"

I shake my head. Ginny was my first lover, and I still adore her and we've kept our friendship to a degree, but her need to fly free and live wildly is totally out of sync of my need to live in peace and quiet, to settle down. She feels fettered, smothered by family, having grown up in a house overflowing with the concept, while I feel grounded by the very thought of it, never having had the support and love of those around me I can call my own.

She is a positive charge, flinging free of the world and melding with as many others as possible until she burns out, and I am more a neutron, seeking stability and the even measured march through time... much like Hermione.

"We're too different, and no, I don't love her like that anymore either."

"Oh."

She worries her bottom lip again, and the expression is sexy and almost daring. Now I do drop the paintbrush back into its bucket, and I place the bucket on the ground at my feet. I wipe the paint off onto my jeans, uncaring of the streaks of tan it leaves behind; my fingers fumbly and thick as I practically vibrate with growing lust.

As if attuned to my reaction, Hermione's eyes become hooded and her breathing slows. "You've changed over the last several years, Harry. You're so... different," she tells me in a soft, slightly anxious voice, her eyes roaming down my body and then back up.

Well, I have bulked up rather substantially as a result of all the physical labour from our project, but I think it's clear that's not entirely what she means. "Not so much, but I suppose a long run of bad luck will make you appreciate the good things in life. Like the people who have stuck around."

Like her.

When she and Ron broke things off, he'd clung to me at first, but when he realised I wasn't so keen on supporting him for his cheating ways and hurting Hermione as a result, he'd drifted towards others who were more sympathetic, like Seamus and Bill. When I'd taken up Robards' position as Head Auror and was desked, and Ron was reassigned as someone else's partner in the field, our friendship sort of went along the same split. We're still friendly towards each other, but not like we were. There's a gap that separates the men we are today from the boys we were back in our youth, and sometimes I miss Ron as he was, but I don't think we can ever get back what we had. I'm a bit resentful of him tossing Hermione aside as casually as he had, and he's resentful that I took her side in the split. There's really no crossing that gap.

And seriously, I think I got the better end of the deal, anyway. Hermione and I were both raised as Muggle-borns, despite our different magical lineages, and that commonality is something I've never shared with Ron or any of the Weasleys, who look on anything non-magical as a freakish oddity.

At Hogwarts and during the war, she was there for me every step of the way, even when I was behaving like a complete jerk, reminding me of my inner strengths and shoulders my weaknesses for me when I couldn't. She hadn't been the one to run off when the going had gotten tough.

Then, later, when Ginny and I had finally broken up, Hermione had texted me that she'd be right over. Five minutes later, she was at my door with a selection of action-adventure movies, a bag of popcorn, and a bottle of top-shelf tequila—no condemning looks, no uncomfortable questions, just a shoulder to cry on.

The fact is Hermione Granger is the closest thing I have to real family. She's saved me more times than I can count, and she's sacrificed so much on my behalf, and she's never once complained or had a personal agenda. Her loyalty to me is unswerving and absolute, and I am the luckiest man alive for it.

And maybe I'm a crap friend for thinking it, but I don't regret that she's not with Ron anymore, and I'm fucking ecstatic that she wouldn't give it another go with him if offered the chance. I just hope that means what I think it means…

She opens her mouth and without hesitation says the one thing guaranteed to push me over the edge, securing my heart as hers for all time: "I'll always be with you, Harry, no matter what happens. I won't leave you. Don't you know that by now?"

She won't leave me. Everyone else has, but not her. Not Hermione. She'll be with me to the end.

Something in me snaps, breaking open, and I move on instinct. I cross over to her then drop before her on hands and knees, supplicating myself at her feet. My hands tremble and my heart pounds as I look up the length of her body from my position. I know I'm a wreck—I'm sweating from the sun's merciless attention, I'm dirty and covered in paint, and I'm a man cursed—but I'm determined to give her everything I am if she wants it.

She sets her book aside and waits.

The blanket is cool against my hands. The shaded spot is quiet and private, with the walls between me and my neighbours on either side standing strong at ten feet... a perfect place for making love to her if she'll allow it.

"I'll never leave you, either," I promise her.

Her smile is relieved. "Good."

TO BE CONCLUDED...

Author's Notes:

One chapter left. Hope you're enjoying it. Please let me know, yeah?