Chapter VIII

The Day After

Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter… I would be a ridiculously talented billionaire and the second richest woman in the entertainment industry. Since I am not a woman in the entertainment industry, let alone a billionaire, it should be apparent that I don't own any of the characters herein (I'll let you guys determine the ridiculously talented part, though, wink wink).

Author's Note: Once more unto the breach, dear readers, once more!

Soundtrack Note: Another Story, from the Order of the Phoenix soundtrack. It's particularly fitting since this chapter is something of a new beginning for Harry and Hermione.

"The times they are a-changin'."

-Bob Dylan

She felt awful.

It had been such a good morning, too. She'd woken from the most wonderful sleep she could ever remember having. She hadn't dreamed, which she counted as a blessing.

Of late, her dreams had all been of Ron.

She hated being reminded of him. She hated it when his name was spoken, or even nearly spoken but avoided at the last moment. She hated thinking of him.

She hated him.

And she only hated him all the more, because she knew that deep down, she couldn't hate him.

She loved him.

When had that happened?

Ron and her had always been… confusing. He had always treated her horribly, made her feel like less than nothing. He had been the boy to reduce her to tears in first year by calling her a know-it-all with no friends; the one who had been so mean to her about Crookshanks, before they'd learned that Scabbers was actually Peter Pettigrew; the one who had made her feel so bad about Victor Krum's interest in her, who'd had the gall to not notice her for four years and then be outraged when she'd dared fancy someone else!

He had been the one who'd broken her heart, snogging Lavender Brown all sixth year.

She hadn't been able to understand how someone so ghastly had managed to hurt her so much, managed to get his claws into her heart. She couldn't figure it out, couldn't fathom how she could have fallen in love with such a jerk.

But of course, Ron was only a jerk some of the time, wasn't he?

Because for all of the other things, for all of his faults and the dumb, thoughtless things that came out of his mouth, he was so much more.

He had been the one to sacrifice himself so that she and Harry might make it on ahead first year in McGonagall's chess puzzle. When she had been Petrified, he'd bravely confronted his greatest fear in the Forbidden Forest to solve the mystery of what had happened to her. It had been he who had vomited up slugs trying to defend her honor and curse Malfoy for calling her that horrible name third year. And when he'd nearly died, poisoned, it had been her name he'd called in his fitful sleep in the hospital ward.

And he had been so good for her, this year… always there to put an arm around her, to hold her hand, to give her a shoulder to cry on, always there to murmur soft reassurances into her hair, to be her rock…

Now her rock was gone, and she was alone.

No. Worse than alone. Trapped.

Trapped with Harry.

She'd gone to a Muggle supermarket that afternoon, unable to bear being so close to him all day again. They hardly ever spoke anymore, except to repeat again the exact same conversation they'd been having for weeks. Oh, there had been variations, new threads that came and went, but it really was always the same thing—Where had Dumbledore left the sword? Where do you think we should look next? No, he wouldn't have hid it there. No, I don't have any better ideas.

She was sick of it.

At the supermarket, hidden underneath Harry's Invisibility Cloak, she had stolen canned goods and tinned pears for them to eat that night. She'd left money behind, dropped it into the till as she'd left, but she hadn't bothered to add up how much the items she'd swiped cost. They didn't have very much Muggle money left, and she was bleakly certain that she didn't have enough to cover it all anyway.

So this was what she had been driven to. Stealing just to survive.

Just for Harry to survive.

Things between them were sour now. She could feel him staring daggers at her, when the sorrow and the loneliness became too much to bear and she couldn't hold the tears in anymore. Whatever friendship they had had—the friendship that only a year ago she would have sworn could never be blighted—felt like it had been damaged beyond repair by the tension caused by Ron's departure. Nights—hell, even the days, now—in the tent were filled with an overpowering soup of negative emotions: his fear that she too would leave him, that she stayed with him only out of a stubborn sense of duty; her broken-heartedness, her devastation at the loss of Ron and her confusion over her residual feelings for Harry.

It was worst when he wore the locket. She knew he was thinking about leaving her behind, about stupidly packing his things while she slept and setting out alone, to spare her what they both knew lay ahead, to keep himself from endangering her any longer…

She couldn't bear the thought of him abandoning her too.

It was all made so much harder by the fact that she still loved him.

If it was only Ron she had feelings for, then things would be simpler, she thought. Still painful, but simpler. The man she loved would have abandoned her, and she'd have been left behind with a friend, only a friend, albeit one who was too wrapped up in confronting his destiny and keeping everyone he loved safe to properly comfort her.

Instead, one love had left her and now she was forced to remain alone with and in close proximity to the other.

She'd always loved Harry. And each and every passing second she spent with him in the tent she was reminded, intensely reminded of exactly how much she loved him. How successful she had been in the past year, sweeping her feelings for him under the rug and concentrating on Ron! She'd made her choice, understood that Harry could never return those feelings, and dedicated herself to the one who might.

And he had left.

And every time—Every. Single. Time.—Harry looked at her with those dark, piercing green eyes, she was lost. Hopelessly, utterly lost.

Harry had never hurt her the way Ron had. The only times she'd ever been hurt, truly wounded, by him, had been in those moments she'd almost lost him. When he'd fallen off his broomstick third year. When he'd nearly died facing Voldemort's return at the end of the Triwizard Tournament. When he'd spent their last year at Hogwarts snogging Ginny.

What kind of a terrible person was she, that that last one had hurt her the worst of all? Even after she'd made the decision that it would be Ron, not Harry?

And so even though she hated feeling like a thief, stealing groceries from Muggles under cover of invisibility, it was infinitely preferable to staying cooped up in the tent all day with him. She needed space, needed some fresh air, time away from him and the locket and all the confusion. All the fondness she felt for him. All of the pain that thoughts of him brought her. All the fierce, irrepressible need she felt to see him happy and safe, to protect him, to see things through to the end.

All the desire she felt for him, she admitted to herself, shamefully.

He'd always been quite fanciable. She'd told him as much, the year before, though she'd chickened out and only made vague statements about how she was sure the female population of the school was sniffing around after him. He was quite good looking, with those brilliant green eyes and that messy spread of thick, black hair… fit, too, surprisingly muscled given how lean he was, his frame made absolutely irresistible by all that balancing on and hanging dangerously off a broomstick… who would have thought Quidditch would have made him so sexy? Certainly she never had, before she'd been cooped up with him for so long in this tent, unable and entirely unwilling to avoid catching glimpses of him shirtless while changing…

But while all that certainly enhanced her attraction to him, she had loved him long before he'd gotten her so… Aroused? Was that the word she was looking for? Turned on? Hot and bothered?

That last one had been particularly uncomfortable of late, given the newfound closeness of their sleeping arrangements and her inability to… relieve whatever stress her proximity to him might have placed upon her.

But her heart had belonged to him, utterly and completely, ever since that night he had insisted she turn back before he strode through the flames to do battle with Lord Voldemort at the tender young age of eleven. And the love she had felt for him had only grown, each and every year since.

And as much as she tried to plead ignorance with herself, tried to insist that that was all behind her now, and that since she'd developed feelings for Ron that Harry was nothing more than a brother to her…

She was much, much too bright to fall for any of it. For the first time, she wished she was a little dumber, so that she might be able to believe her own self-delusions. Not stupid, mind you, just not so intelligent…

Like Ginny, maybe.

She felt ashamed of herself for thinking that. She had nothing against Ginny, was quite fond of the girl, honestly, it was just that she could see Harry when he thought she wasn't watching him, staring down at the Marauder's Map, at Ginny's name, with such quiet force that it instantly made her burn inside, to see him that ardent for another woman.

What she wouldn't give to have him stare at her like that, that gaze of haunting, unreadable intensity…

When at last she returned, the sun was beginning to dip and he greeted her curtly at the entrance to the tent before silently ignoring her for the rest of the evening. It hurt. What had she done? What was it that made him treat her so terribly? This was Harry, not Ron! Harry never shut her out like this, never willingly made another living person feel miserable (except Malfoy or Snape, she redacted), never acted this way unless he was feeling guilty about something.

He was being stupid again, then. Why did he always have to be so fucking noble? It was always the same thing, she thought, over and over and over again, the entire time she had known him. He'd remember all of a sudden, out of the blue, about how dangerous it was for him to get close to others, about how much just knowing them made them all targets. Abruptly he'd put up his walls, shut them all out, and no one would be able to get through to him for days. It was one of the many things she loved about him—how concerned he was for everyone's safety, how much he was willing to sacrifice, to deprive himself of human contact and love just to protect them—but it was without a doubt the thing about him that infuriated her the most. Each time, she would prove to him that he could rely on her, that she could take care of herself, that she could help him, that she would always be there for him; and for a time all would be well, and she almost believed that she could convince him to love her in the way in which she loved him…

And then something else would trigger his defenses, some other idiot thing convincing him that he was better off alone, without anyone else around to drag down with him, and she would have to start all over again, establish all over again that she was never, ever going to leave him, that she would never, ever let him keep her away like that…

It was maddening, but she knew in her heart that she would endure it forever, put up with it as many times as she had to, because it was simply impossible for her not to. She would never give up on him. She would never stop loving him. Never stop being there for him.

Later, while she pretended to read for the ten thousandth time the copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard bequeathed to her by Dumbledore, she found her gaze consistently drawn up to Harry, who lay scowling on his bunk, staring down at the Map again.

She felt awful.

It didn't matter, she realized, that she had always been there for him. Didn't matter that she always would be there for him.

He didn't want her to be.

She was in love with a man she could never have. Not even because of the way he felt for Ginny, but because of the way he didn't feel for Hermione Granger. Even Ginny he had broken up with, to keep her safe. What chance then did she have with him then?

He'd put the Map away, then, and sighed heavily. He looked so alone. So weary.

She wanted to be there for him. A part of her, deep inside, screamed at her to go to him, to wrap her arms around him and kiss him deeply and beg him to let her in, let her share some of the burden, show him he didn't have to go through it all by himself.

But that was a selfish thought, she realized. Yes, she wanted to help him. But she could be there for him in other ways. Snogging him was not the way to go about it at all, not what he was looking for. That was what she wanted, she had to remind herself. She had to put him first.

She watched him, as he lay there on his back, rolled over, rubbing his eyes. Her eyes shot downward at the text of the book, blushing furiously, as he looked over at her, catching her staring at him. She did not dare look up again for a long while, but when she did…

He was still looking at her.

She buried her head behind the book, terribly embarrassed. Oh, please, Merlin, don't let him say anything…

"Hermione?" He spoke her name softly, questioningly, and she couldn't bear to look at him, couldn't have him seeing her like this.

"Are you alright?" he asked her quietly.

She didn't trust herself to speak, then. Her bottom lip began to tremble, and she looked up over the book but not at him, at the floor, so that he wouldn't see her watering eyes, and she nodded, giving hollow, voiceless reassurance to his inquiry… she knew how he hated it when she cried…

Abruptly the sobs began to escape her, and she hated herself for it, for adding to his grief, for distracting him from the task at hand…

For loving him, when he could never love her.

No… for being in love with him, when he could never be in love with her.

Abruptly, she felt his presence, looming over her, and before she could fathom it he was beside her, arms wrapped around her protectively, consolingly.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, and she enveloped herself in the feel of it, the warmth of his embrace, and let her tears flush down her face.

She'd forgotten what this was like, to have someone be there for her. She hadn't experienced it since Ron had left.

No, that wasn't quite right. She'd never experienced this with Ron. Because this was Harry. And it was so much more that what it had been with Ron.

The realization only made her sob harder.

He shushed her gently, cradling her in his arms, and every second of it only made her love him more for it. She felt ashamed, embarrassed for breaking down in front of him like this, but she couldn't stop it, didn't want to stop it, not with him holding her like this…

If he couldn't love her, at least she would always have this moment. His compassion and his friendship, his concern for her… she would take what she could get, knowing she would cherish it forever.

Finally, she sat their, his arm around her shoulders, gasping for breath, all cried out. She looked up at him, the regret and disgrace she felt etched on her face for sure, she thought.

"I'm so sorry, Har—"

He kissed her.

She reeled, too paralyzed to react. He was kissing her. Kissing her.

Harry Potter, the love of her life, was kissing her, Hermione Granger.

She fought the urge to swoon and began to kiss him back, desperate to memorize every facet of this moment, the feel of his lips, the press of his hands on her sides, the sweetness of his breath, before it was yanked away from her…

Abruptly, he pulled away.

"I'm sorry," he croaked. She opened her mouth, eager to tell him that she wasn't sorry at all, but he cut her off. "I shouldn't ha—I'm sorry, Hermione. I—I can't."

He stood up and stormed out of the tent, and this time there was no one there for her when the tears began again.

Even in the moment of her greatest despair, she couldn't prevent herself from analyzing what had happened. He didn't love her. He would never love her. He had seen a friend, miserable and inconsolable, and had done his best to comfort her. And in a moment of weakness…

They'd spent weeks together, no one but the two of them, in cramped conditions despite the magically enlarged confines of the tent. He was a teenage boy, and she a teenage girl, and on top of all the other drama and shit they had to deal with, there were the hormones as well. He was missing Ginny, that was obvious to see, and in a moment of weakness, his arms around her, her body pressed up against his, he had kissed her…

He had kissed her, and immediately regretted it, she thought. Why else pull away, why else tell her he was sorry, that he couldn't do it, why else leave the warmth of the tent for the brutal cold of the cold winter night except to get away from her?

She thought then of what things would be like when he returned, how awkward it would be, tonight's mistake just one more nail in the coffin of their friendship. She flopped down on her bunk and buried her head beneath her pillow with a groan.

But as dreadful as she felt, as tired and drained and hungry as her body was (she never had gotten around to making their dinner, and she certainly wasn't up to it now), she couldn't help revel in the fact that she had kissed Harry. Even though she knew their friendship was disintegrating, that things would never be the same between them again, that in all likelihood she would end up losing both of her best friends, the only best friends she had ever really had…

She had kissed him. Or, even better, been kissed by him. Yes, even better, while somehow managing to be simultaneously much, much worse, given his reaction after the fact.

Surely she wasn't that bad at snogging, right?

But that was the least of her worries. She knew now that even though she still loved Ron, still cared for him, she would never, ever stop loving Harry Potter. She would adore him always, and though she could never have him, she could never be with anyone else now, either. She would never get over him, never stop craving him, never be free of her desire and her confusion and her addiction.

She was hopelessly, irreversibly addicted to him now.

Like a moth to a flame.