Disclaimer: All characters belong to JK Rowling.
Content Warning: References to miscarriage/stillbirth, suicide, self-harm, and alcoholism.
Timelapse reveals a slight of hand,
it unties the rules of time and plan.
- Timelapse, Sleeping at Last
Chapter 21: Hermione Weasley
He sighed. "Get inside. You'll catch your death."
She charged past him. "I know you don't think I mean it. But I mean it this time! It's over!"
"What'd he do now?"
She paused in the sitting room, taking in the general slovenliness, but making no comment. She turned.
"It's—it's...ugh!"
Without a word, he moved to the bar cart along the far wall. He poured her a glass of single malt and placed it on the table for her.
She looked at it and sat down.
"What did he do?" Harry repeated, pouring himself a glass.
"We were at dinner," she sniffed once he'd sat down. Her nose was very red. "With some new investors for the shop. They asked what I did and I told them. One of them made some snide remark that the elves he enslaved were perfectly happy."
Harry nodded, sure the investor hadn't said it like that, but understanding her point.
"I, of course, couldn't let that go," she fumed. "Investor or not, it was bigotry and I called him out on it. They left early and Ron was so upset when we got home. He said—he said..."
Her eyes filled with tears and he swallowed. She was shivering hard in her wet clothes and, wordlessly, he got up and went to the washroom. He draped a fresh towel over her shoulders.
"Thanks," she said thickly, wiping at her face. She took a shaky sip of her drink.
"He said," she continued, "he said I didn't have to be so insufferable...that I was selfish, getting into all that when the dinner was so important, when the shop needed the money." A smooth ribbon of tears slid down her face. "He just wanted me to sit there. Be the supportive girlfriend. But tell me how I'm supposed to shut up about slavery, Harry! It's 2002 and there is slavery in this country. Does that not matter?"
"It matters," he sighed, taking her hand. It was like ice and he warmed it between his palms. "It matters."
She swallowed, another ribbon sliding down the curve of her cheek.
"So, it's over," she whispered. "It keeps happening. These fights over my work. If he can't see how important it is to me, then I guess...he doesn't really know me. He doesn't understand me. And I can't be with someone like that."
Harry blinked and felt his breath leave him. She was serious this time.
He was ashamed to admit it, but his first thought was for himself. Would they be able to spend time as a group anymore? Would they force him to choose sides? How could he possibly strike a balance between them? He needed them both in his life. He didn't know another way.
But, seeing her tear-streaked face, her downcast eyes...he couldn't think about that now. He rubbed her hand.
"Have you told him yet?"
She shook her head. "We argued for a while, but I stormed out before we'd really finished. Then, I came here." She looked around the flat. "I hope I'm not disturbing..."
He shook his head.
"Do you...do you think I'm doing the right thing?" she asked despairingly.
Harry dragged a hand through his long hair. "I don't know if I can answer that, Hermione."
She swallowed again.
"He's so infuriating," she mumbled, staring into her drink. "He'll be so clever and sweet one moment and, in the next, he'll say something like that."
Harry smiled grimly. "You two do know how to wind each other up."
"Maybe I don't want to be wound up. Maybe that's not right for the long-term."
He sighed, watching her face. "Are you hungry? I can fix you something."
She shook her head numbly. As Harry moved to the kitchen and returned with a package of crisps, she watched him strangely.
"What?" he asked.
"I thought you'd try to talk me out of it...what with you and Ginny. You wouldn't want me to do to Ron what Ginny did to you."
Harry chewed a crisp slowly. Maybe that was a fair point. Maybe that's what Ron would want him to say to her. But...he said what he felt was true.
"I think it's different. With her, it was sudden. You and Ron—no offense—always seem to have problems."
She laughed dryly. "I guess I'm pretty stupid."
"You're not stupid."
She nudged her glass with her finger.
"Can I stay here tonight? I'll sleep on the couch."
"Of course. Take the bed."
"No, no," she said, anxious. "I don't want to be a bother. Please?"
"All right," he chuckled, a gravelly rumble.
They were interrupted by a second knock on the door. Hermione spun in her chair.
"Shit," he muttered. "Hold on a second."
He got up and cracked open the door. Older Harry followed and saw his younger self speaking to a beautiful brunette woman with a pixie cut. She had a German accent.
"Really sorry...have a friend over...in a bad spot...how long are you here for?"
Older Harry looked back at Hermione, whose face had gone violently pink. She looked desperately about the room, as if searching for a place to hide.
After a few minutes, Harry returned. Hermione was exceedingly apologetic.
"Oh, Harry. I had no idea you were having company." She started to stand. "I'll go somewhere else."
"Sit down," he said firmly. "I'll get you another drink."
"Are you sure? I can understand if you don't want—"
"Don't worry about it." He sloshed a thimble of whisky into their twin glasses.
When he sat down again, she gave him a timid smile. "Is it serious? With this one?"
He laughed. "Hardly. She's here with a German delegation. Met her at the welcome reception last night."
"Oh," said Hermione, face growing pinker. "And you just meet women like that, do you? At receptions and things?"
He smiled fondly at her. He had thought her cute, then.
"Yeah. At receptions and things."
"Have you—have you been with a lot of women, Harry?"
It was so soft, Harry had to piece the fragments together like a decomposing parchment.
He laughed again, awkward. "I don't know if I keep count."
"So, a lot then."
His younger self blushed under her gaze.
"There's nothing wrong with that!" she said quickly, her face beet red now. "It's only I hear things..."
"What things?" He took a hasty sip.
"Well..." She cast about, looking for the right words. "There's all this speculation on who you'll date seriously next. Witch Weekly says you see dozens of women a week."
"Witch Weekly can fuck right off."
"So, not that many?"
He sighed. How could he explain his constant need for distraction? It didn't matter if it was women or work or drinking. He didn't want to be alone with himself.
When he didn't say anything, she asked quietly, "Have you spoken to Ginny recently?"
He inadvertently winced. "No. A little at Christmas, but not really."
"I'm sorry. We don't have to talk about it."
"It's all right."
She nodded again, but she could think of nothing to say.
Seeing her discomfort, Harry asked about her work. It was a busy time for N.S.P.E.W. After two years of letter-writing campaigns, staking out members' offices, and publishing editorials in the Quibbler (and the Prophet, when they were accepted), two progressive Wizengamot members had agreed to sponsor legislation to outlaw the future sale of house-elves and eliminate the practice altogether over ten years. It was a compromise, but success had never been closer.
Twenty minutes later, as she finished detailing the complex coalition-building and vote-trading that would need to occur for the House-Elf Reform Act to pass, she had soaked through the towel and her teeth were chattering.
He got up again and removed a shirt and sweatpants from his dresser.
She took it gratefully and went to the washroom. When she emerged, she had brushed her wet hair so that it fell in loose ringlets down her back. His Auror Training Centre shirt enveloped her like a parachute, the hem almost reaching her knees. She had tied the sweatpants tightly around her waist and rolled up the legs to keep from tripping.
After hanging her wet clothes on the kitchen chairs, she padded over to him on the couch. He was on his fourth drink now, she noticed, but she said nothing.
He offered to put on a film and she agreed. It was only nine thirty. She went to make popcorn while Harry set up the Muggle television that had come with the flat. In the kitchen, Hermione looked at the recycling bin, the firewhisky bottles piled high like some absurd iceberg. She worried her lip but, after a moment, she opened the cabinets and set about toasting the kernels in a saucepan.
He let her pick the film. The VHS tapes were mostly Ginny's anyway. She hadn't taken them with her.
"My mum likes this one," she said, holding up Sleepless in Seattle. "I've never seen it."
Five minutes in, Harry realized it was a romantic comedy. He looked askance at Hermione, wondering if this was the best choice for someone breaking up with her boyfriend of three and a half years.
He tried to keep the banter light.
"I've never seen a houseboat look that nice."
"Is it weird she's suddenly in love with a man she's only heard on the radio?"
"I like this Becky character. Can we get more of her?"
Around the time Annie flew back to Baltimore, though, he realized he was the only one eating the popcorn. He turned and found Hermione crying silently.
"Hey, hey, hey," he said softly. He brought his arm around her and pulled her to him. "It's all right, love. It's all right."
She nodded, head buried in his chest, but she continued to cry. He wasn't sure how he knew it, but somehow he knew she didn't want to talk. She wanted to cry. So, he let the movie play and he stroked her hair as a wet spot grew on his shirt.
When the credits rolled, Hermione seemed to pull herself up with great effort.
"I'm sorry," she said thickly, playing with the end of his shirt. "I don't know why I'm like this."
He lifted her dried curls off her shoulder and tilted her head towards him.
"Don't apologize," he said softly. "I'll get you some sheets."
She nodded dimly.
Harry made up the couch for her, all the while insisting she should take the bed.
She refused, a smile returning to her eyes. They talked for a good while longer but, at half past one, they said goodnight. Harry closed his bedroom door to give her some privacy.
He turned out the light.
3 February 2002
He was back in the forest. His mum, his dad, Sirius, Lupin—they had all left him. Yaxley and Dolohov had never appeared and Harry didn't know the way. If he couldn't find Voldemort in time, more people would die. It would be his fault. His fault. Again.
He stumbled forward, his feet catching in the gnarled roots and brambles. Could he not even do this right? Fulfilling the one last duty Dumbledore had left him?
He heard a sound and Harry felt a rush a relief. Friend or foe, at least it was something.
Harry Potter, said a high, sibilant voice. It's too late. They're all gone.
There was flash of green light and someone was screaming.
"Harry! Harry!"
He jolted awake, breathing hard. Someone's hands were on his shoulders.
"It's okay," said Hermione. "You're all right. You're safe."
He jerked his head blindly in the darkness.
"Here." She thrust something into his hands. His glasses.
There was shuffling and the bedside lamp turned on. The room came into focus. Hermione was kneeling beside him on the bed, her face as white as the sheets.
"You were having a nightmare."
He rubbed his temple. "I'm sorry," he rasped. He cleared his throat. "Didn't mean to scare you."
"It's all right," she said, still watching him anxiously. "Do you want some water?"
He nodded vaguely. She padded to the kitchen and he heard the taps switch on. He looked out the window. It was still snowing heavily. It was one of the biggest storms to hit London in years.
She returned and handed him a glass. He took it gratefully and gulped it down. Placing it on the nightstand, he fell back on the pillows.
Hesitant, Hermione lay down beside him.
"Do you get a lot of them?" she whispered.
"Sometimes."
After the Battle of Hogwarts, he was blessedly free of nightmares for several months. Then, he started having them occasionally. They seemed to be increasing now.
"What are they about? If you can tell me."
He closed his eyes. His heart was still pounding against his ribcage like a trapped bird.
"Mostly that he's back."
He felt Hermione shift next to him.
"But he's not. You would know."
"I know," he murmured.
They were silent for a long time, listening to the snow. His heart slowed.
"I have dreams too."
Harry opened his eyes. She was curled up next to him, legs drawn towards her stomach as if protecting an old wound. Her eyes were closed.
"What about?" he whispered.
"Lots of things, really," she said softly. "Sometimes, the battle...seeing you in Hagrid's arms. Thinking it was the end of everything. Sometimes..." She paused. "Sometimes Bellatrix is there..."
He reached over and felt for her hand. He entwined her fingers with his.
"I have an older dream," she said even more softly. "Since I was a child."
He shifted onto his side.
"What about?" he murmured.
He saw her swallow and her eyes tighten.
"I've never told anyone," she whispered.
"You don't have to tell me," he said quickly. His thumb rubbed her palm.
She was quiet for a long time and Harry thought she'd decided against telling him. But then, she spoke.
"When I was seven...my mum had a stillbirth. I was the only one with her."
He didn't know what to say. He watched the plane of her face, a small groove digging between the delicate brows.
"They had a lot of trouble conceiving me," she whispered. "After I was born, they gave up on another. But then, it just happened six years later. We were all so happy. We did up the spare bedroom as a nursery. I helped pick out the pram and the baby clothes.
"She was in her seventh month when it happened. Dad was at work. I remember I was getting my school bag. She was getting the car keys. When I came down the stairs, she had slumped against the wall and her face was pale. Then, suddenly, came all this blood."
Harry gipped her hand.
"She told me to get in the sitting room. I heard her crawl into the kitchen and call 999. Then, she called Dad. I tried to come help her, but she wouldn't let me. She kept shouting at me to stay away. So, I curled up behind an armchair and cried and cried.
"It seemed to take forever, but the paramedics came. Then, my dad with my grandmum. My dad got in the ambulance and grandmum drove me to hospital. I still had my school bag. I'm not sure why I did. In the waiting room, she made me fill in my coloring books. Like it was a very important assignment."
She paused. The crease between her brows smoothed.
"When you lose a baby that late, you get to name it. It gets a birth certificate, did you know that? You get to plan a funeral. They named him Liam, after my dad's dad. It was the name I liked for him." She released a slow breath. "Sometimes I still dream I'm behind the armchair. I shouldn't have cried like that. She didn't need to worry about me too. I wish...I wish I had been braver."
She stopped then and her eyes fluttered open.
"Oh, Hermione," he breathed, not realizing he'd been holding his breath.
He pulled her to his chest, her arms pinned between them. He kissed the top of her head.
"I'm so sorry."
It was the only thing he could think to say. She had lost her brother. All this time, he'd never known that. He thought of the media, their friends who often said he and Hermione were like brother and sister. He even said that once. But he was not her brother.
"It's all right," she said, voice muffled. "It was a long time ago."
He stroked her back gently. He knew that didn't matter. How many times had he dreamed of a blinding green light he didn't understand, of Cedric lying lifeless in a graveyard, of Sirius falling through a veil, of Dumbledore disappearing over the ramparts of a lightning-struck tower, of Dobby's tiny body curled upon the grass, of Fred and Lupin and Tonks laid out in the Great Hall? Time didn't matter.
"I—I don't think my mum was okay for a long time afterwards," she whispered. "Looking back on it, I think it was depression. She didn't think it was fair that she got to live while he didn't. I didn't know what to say to her. I was just a kid." For the first time, her voice broke.
He kissed her curls again. They were silent for a long while, the tension slowly draining from her as he rubbed her back.
"Can I tell you something?" he whispered some time later.
He felt her nod.
"I don't think I told you and Ron everything that happened in the forest."
She shifted. "What do you mean?"
"I told you about going into the clearing and Voldemort casting the Killing Curse. How I woke up and was still alive."
She nodded again.
"But there was a part in the middle. I haven't told anyone."
"What?" And she tilted her head up to look at him.
"I'm still not sure what it was, to be honest. But I remember every part of it, like it's a film I can replay in my head."
She waited, staying exceptionally still.
"I woke up in a bright place full of mist. The mist was solid though, it was strange. But it was bright and clean and safe. I didn't need my glasses and my scar was gone. Dumbledore was there and we talked. I'm not sure for how long. He mentioned you, actually."
"He did?" she breathed.
Harry smiled. "Yeah. When he was explaining why he hadn't told me about the Hallows outright, why he wanted me to focus on the Horcruxes. He said he was counting on you to slow me up. Otherwise, my hot head might dominate my good heart."
Older Harry watch a flush grow on Hermione's cheeks.
"We talked about a lot of things, but then he said something—a very Dumbledore thing to say—he said, 'do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love.'" He tightened his hold on her. "And I think he was right, Hermione. I'm not sure if what I saw was the place people go when they die or are near death. But it was a warm and bright place. It was peaceful. I didn't want to leave."
She lifted her brown eyes, something bright and limitless to them. Ill-equipped as he was to ease her pain and guilt, he felt this was one thing he could give her. That after death, perhaps there was not nothingness. Perhaps her brother knew that too.
"I'm so glad you did leave," she murmured after a while. "The moment I knew you were alive, it...it was the happiest I've ever felt."
It was odd. Something happened to Harry, then. Her words seemed to fill him with the same balm as phoenix song and a small, but solid, warmth settled in his chest. In the same moment, he found himself thinking of the hopelessness, the despondency of the last four months—the ceiling beams and the knife—and he felt himself recoil from it like it was the shriveled thing under the bench at King's Cross. She had wanted him alive. She had wanted him here...
He released a slow breath and heard himself say words he hadn't thought himself capable of for some time:
"I'm glad I left too."
She nuzzled against his chest and the warmth bloomed outwards, like the sun.
They fell quiet again, him absently touching her curls while she traced patterns on his back, ancient runic markings of unknown power. He could feel her soft breath through his shirt, in time with his own breathing, like they shared the same lungs. He was unsure how much time passed but, at some point, Hermione shifted.
"We better get to sleep."
"You can stay here if you want."
He wasn't sure why he said it. He only knew he didn't want her to go.
She went still. "Okay."
Harry raised his hand and the lamp switched off. He was trying that more often, now. He could do simple magic without a wand.
He brought her closer to his chest. And—within seconds, it seemed—he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
The memories smeared across his vision and reformed. It was several hours later. His bedroom was filled with white light, the kind of indirect brightness that only comes after a snow. It was peaceful. He could hear robins calling to one another through the window. There was no traffic. London was rubbish at snow and the streets hadn't been ploughed yet.
He turned back to the bed.
Oh, fuck.
He had forgotten this had happened until this exact moment. Perhaps he'd been quite successful in blocking it out all these years.
They were both still asleep and they'd kicked off the blankets. He was still holding Hermione to his chest, but her back was to him now. One arm was under her head and the other had hitched up her shirt and was wrapped possessively around her stomach. Their bent legs fit perfectly together, but hers were bare. Sometime in the night she must've kicked off the sweatpants. His room had a tendency to get overly warm.
This all meant that Hermione's arse was firmly lodged against Harry's crotch with only their underwear between them. Even at a distance, Harry could tell how hard his younger self was.
He prayed he woke first.
As it happened, Hermione woke first.
She opened her eyes blearily. It seemed to take her a moment to orient herself. Remembering, she smiled faintly and stretched. Then, she stopped. Her brows drew together and she went perfectly still.
As her face grew pinker and pinker, older Harry wanted to sink further and further into the floor.
She glanced down at herself, taking in his hand up her shirt and her bare legs. Her flushed face was coming to resemble the robins' breasts outside.
But it was odd. She didn't move away. She stayed completely still. And, some minutes later, he awoke. She closed her eyes.
And he saw his younger self conduct the same inventory of mortification. But he didn't move away either. He seemed to be trying to control himself and, then, he did several things at once. He removed his hand from her waist, bent low to scoop up the blankets, and flipped onto his back.
Shaken by his movement, Hermione used this as her cue to wake up. She stretched languidly and turned over. Beneath the covers, her feet went on a desperate rescue mission. They combed a wide area, calling out in the darkness for the sweatpants.
"Hey," he said softly. His face was very red.
"Good morning."
"Looks like it snowed a lot."
She nodded, her concentration focused on hooking her toe around the waistband of the found pants. Surreptitiously, she hauled them up and pulled them over her legs.
"How about I make us some tea?" she offered.
"That'd be grand, thanks."
She stumbled from the bed and hurried to the kitchen. Harry's pale hands covered his burning face.
"Oh my god," he whispered.
He stayed in the shower longer than usual, bending low under the pathetic water pressure, something not even magic can fix. When he emerged, he found that Hermione had not only made tea, she had cleaned his flat.
The beer cans and bottles were gone, as were the empty carry-out containers and pizza boxes. She'd stacked his books in one corner and his fitness equipment in another. It made the flat seem larger, brighter.
"Christ," he said, running a towel through his hair. "You didn't have to clean, Hermione."
She shrugged. She was reading the Sunday Prophet at the kitchen counter, a steaming cup of tea at her elbow. She still wore his shirt and sweatpants and her curls caught in the bright sun.
Another long-buried memory occurred to Harry, then: he had liked the way she looked in his clothes...
"Need the washroom?" he asked.
"I'm all right."
Taking his tea, he opened the refrigerator. He was embarrassingly low on provisions, but he had bread and butter. He toasted a stack with his wand and brought it to the table. She followed, passed him the sport section, and they chewed their toast in companionable silence.
He wanted to ask her what she'd do now. Would she go home and break things off with Ron? Would she want to come back here? But he was afraid to ask. As if raising the questions would cause her to leave. And...he didn't want that. Not yet.
She was skimming the weather report.
"Today would be a perfect day for sledging."
"Oh yeah?" he said, spreading butter on his third piece of toast. "I've never been."
Hermione lowered the paper and looked at him.
"You've never been?"
"No," he said thickly, mouth full of toast.
She stared at him and he watched that look come over her eyes. That "I'll never forgive them" look.
"Well, then I know what we're doing today."
"What?"
"Let's go to Greenwich Park," she said eagerly. "My dad used to take me there. It's got one really great hill."
"Sledging? Now?"
"Sure," she said brightly. "Have you got work or something?"
He thought of his usual Sunday routine—going to the AD, being shooed away by his captain who'd tell him he wasn't on duty, going to the ATC, working out and dueling for several hours, coming home with carry-out, and drinking until he passed out.
"No," he said. "Not today."
"Then let's go!"
He smiled, her excitement catching like sparks on dry kindling.
While Hermione hadn't brought much with her to Harry's flat, she'd at least brought her snow boots. She put on her dried jeans and jumper and Harry lent her his warmest coat, a hat, and gloves. She looked a bit like a newly freed elf who hadn't quite mastered proportions yet. Still, she looked very cute.
They decided to walk rather than apparate. It was nice to see the city so different—quiet under an untouched glaze of snow. When they reached Greenwich Park around noon, it was full of Muggle families. They stood behind a wall and Hermione conjured a sledge, the big blue plastic kind, a loop of twine at the front.
As Hermione positioned their sledge along the ridge of Charles II's Giant Steps, Harry looked over the hill.
"How does this work exactly?"
"You're bigger, so you take the back. I'll steer."
"What happens when we get to the bottom?"
She smiled patiently. "We come back up and do it again."
"Oh. Right."
Hermione sat on the sledge and scooted forward. Harry sat down behind her. He saw his younger self's face color, and not from the cold. Their positions were not so different from bed that morning.
"Now what—?"
But he was cut off. She'd tilted the sledge over the hill and suddenly they were flying incredibly fast. He grabbed her waist and found himself laughing, laughing like he hadn't laughed in months, the same exhilaration coursing through him as when he rode a broomstick.
Hermione was laughing too as she expertly steered them around children and couples climbing the hill and unfortunately-placed bushes. The ground finally leveled out and they slowed to a stop.
Harry was winded and amazed.
"That was incredible," he said, resting his chin on her shoulder.
"I told you," she said, smug.
They stood and rushed up the hill again. After several goes, Harry thought he was ready to steer. Hermione still sat in front, but he reached over her and took the twine in hand.
"Remember, it'll the go the opposite way of the side you pull."
"I got it. I got it."
Harry didn't really get it. As they tipped over the ledge, he directed them to an empty expanse along the hill. But he pulled too hard on the right side and suddenly they were careening into the queue of people walking up the hill. He yanked hard in the other direction and they were thrown from the sledge, rolling down the hill in a flurry of powder.
When they reached the bottom, Hermione crashed on top of him. He grabbed her shoulders.
"Are you all right?" he said, anxious.
She was writhing with laughter. "You're such an idiot!" she said between breaths. "Lucky we didn't kill someone..."
He was laughing too. "It wasn't bad for a first try!"
"It was very bad for a first try!" she said, wiping at her eyes with her overly-large mittens.
Harry growled. He picked up a wad of snow and shoved it in her face.
"Hey!" she cried, indignant.
She picked up a larger wad, but Harry lurched out of the way and flipped them over. He pinned her into the snow, hands holding down her wrists, knees straddling her hips.
"Let me go!" she laughed, kicking wildly.
"No."
She made another feeble attempt, arms straining against his hold, but then fell still.
"This what they teach you at the AD, is it?"
"Maybe," he said softly.
They stared at each other. The snow touched her curls like powdered sugar, her face wet and brilliantly pink. And, in the exact same moment, it seemed, their eyes hesitated over one another's lips.
But, that moment passed. He got off of her.
"Let's do it again," he said.
She smiled weakly, sitting up. "Let me catch my breath first."
On the walk home, they got falafel. Unwrapping their steaming pitas, they crunched through the snow and talked of a lot of things—Ministry gossip, the high-profile extradition case of twelve Death Eaters found in Belarus, the news that Neville and Hannah had gotten together. Ten minutes from Whitechapel, however, Hermione grew quiet.
Harry knew there was no putting it off.
"What're you going to do now?" he asked, kicking a large chunk of ice.
She picked at her falafel. "I'll go talk to him."
He nodded. Her next words were a whisper. He barely heard them over a passing car.
"It hurts, Harry. I do love him."
He nodded again.
"Maybe it's not surprising it's turned out this way," she murmured. "Sometimes, I think...the more people get to know me, the less they like me. I'm so hard to be around. Maybe it was too much to expect that he'd...understand me, would just love me the way I am. Maybe there's something wrong with me."
"Don't say that," he said with quiet fierceness. "You're wonderful. If Ron doesn't see that...someone will."
"Thanks," she sighed. It didn't sound like she believed him.
After a moment, she glanced at him. "I'm sorry if this makes things difficult for you."
He shook his head. "Don't worry about that."
"You know I'd never force you to choose sides, right?"
"I know."
She still looked worried and he felt a strange need to reassure her.
"Whatever happens, you and I are friends. That'll never change."
Hermione's eyes grew bright, then, and she stared down at her wrapper.
"Thank you," she murmured. She looped her arm through his.
Harry hesitated, looking at her overly-large mitten in the crook of his arm.
"And afterwards...if you need a place to stay, you can come stay with me."
She smiled faintly. "I'm not sure Ron would like that. That'd be you taking sides."
He shrugged. "If you need to, come stay with me."
"All right."
They reached his street. As they drew close to the building, they could see Ron sitting on the fire escape outside Harry's door. His face was pale and there were blotchy, purple patches under his eyes.
He came down the steps to meet them.
"Harry," he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
"Hey."
"Hermione, can we go talk?"
She nodded. Slowly, she removed her arm from his.
Harry watched them go until they had disappeared around the corner. Then, he took the stairs. At the time, Harry hadn't understood the strange sense of loss he felt in that moment. He'd chalk it up to her words to him the night before, the clean flat, the sledging. That's why he didn't want her to go.
But it meant something different to older Harry now. He almost didn't need to see what the Pensieve had to show him next. This was the closest they ever got to being something more. Until the forest.
For Ron and Hermione did not break up that day. By Valentine's, all was well.
Ginny and Noah dated seriously, but it ended by November. At a party on New Year's, Harry and Ginny would talk. They would end the night with a chaste kiss. By spring, they were together again.
For the first time in his life, Harry wondered what would've happened if Hermione had broken up with Ron that day. Would she have come back to his flat? Would they've spent their nights watching films? Would he sleep on the couch until she insisted they were being ridiculous and they could share the bed? Would that have changed things for them?
But that hadn't happened. It hadn't been the right time for them. For whatever reason—because he was still hung up on Ginny, because she doubted anyone could love her—they hadn't taken the time to really see what was in front of them, like a jeweler studies a rough-cut stone from every angle, looking for its possibilities, its imperfections.
The moment had passed.
24 December 2003
The silver-blue wisps whirled for some time and Harry half-thought the Penseive was done. But then, the strands of memory reformed into the kitchen at the Burrow. It was still early. Harry was alone, doing the washing up in preparation for the feast that afternoon.
He heard footsteps on the stairs. A moment later, Ginny's waiflike arms encircled his waist.
"Good morning," he chuckled as she pressed her small face into his broad back.
"Harry," she whispered, "can we talk?"
He turned off the taps, immediately concerned. "What's wrong?"
She leaned against the counter, twisting her fingers in front of her. Her alabaster skin looked as beautiful and flawless as a statue. She couldn't meet his eyes.
"Please don't freak out, okay?"
"Okay," said Harry, very close to freaking out.
"I think...I think I might be pregnant."
He stared. "Are you—are you sure?"
"I think so. I just did the testing charm."
He felt his breath leave him. And then—like a dam bursting open—he was crying. Looking back on it, he had no idea where it came from. It was as though something had been dislodged deep inside him, releasing a flood.
She looked at him, startled. "Are you all right?"
All he could do was embrace her. He buried his face in her hair and shook silently.
"I take it you're happy, then?" she said weakly, stroking his back.
He kissed her hard with shaking lips.
"I'm so happy." Then, realizing his opinion wasn't the only one that mattered, he asked, "Are you happy?"
She smiled. "Well, it's basically the end of my Quidditch career, but I knew that was coming."
They laughed and held each other for a long time.
"Ginny," he murmured, "I want to marry you."
She went still in his arms. "You're not just saying that because..." She couldn't finish.
He brought his hands to either side of her face.
"I'm saying it because I love you." He bent low to kiss her lips. "And I want us to be married when the baby's born."
A slow smile spread across her face. She reached up and touched his cheek, still sticky with tears.
"Okay," she said softly. "Let's tell Mum and Dad."
15 May 2004
The wedding of Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley was called the wedding of the millennium, despite the fact that it was only three years into the millennium.
Newspaper and Wireless reporters staked out the best positions on the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for weeks, setting up tents along the lake. The whole event would be broadcast on the Wireless and published in broadsheets across the globe. The guest list included some five thousand people—Harry's friends, Ginny's friends, the extended Weasley clan, Dudley and his wife, family friends, Hogwarts professors, the Minister of Magic and other Ministry officials, Prophet reporters (for Ginny had just announced she'd be joining their sport section), Aurors, foreign dignitaries, Quidditch stars, and wizarding celebrities.
There was some speculation as to why the wedding was happening in May instead of four weeks later when the Hogwarts term officially ended. But Ginny was hardly showing. It remained a closely guarded secret.
Harry remembered his wedding day only in brilliant bursts, like a fireworks display.
He remembered Mr. Weasley guiding Ginny down the aisle of the Great Hall.
He remembered her white dress and the gasps that went up from the crowd. It would be talked about for years. The crystal-encrusted gown with the twelve-foot train, the veil as smooth and fine as running water, shielding her kohl-lined eyes and reddened lips.
He remembered stumbling through his vows, the audience laughing good-naturedly.
He remembered Hagrid blowing his nose like a foghorn until Professor Slughorn gave him a sharp jab in the ribs.
He remembered taking Ginny's hand and leading her back down the aisle, Ron smiling widely and Hermione beaming, her eyes full of tears.
He remembered the students—who didn't have seats for the wedding—lined up along the grand staircase, whooping and hollering their congratulations.
He remembered the reception on the grounds, fairy lights strung up under the stars.
He remembered the toasts by her brothers, particularly George's recitation of Ginny's first-year poem to Harry. "His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad..." The guests were bent over with laughter and Harry had kissed her scarlet face.
He remembered their first dance and wanting to be alone with her...that maybe they could find an empty classroom like they used to.
The Pensieve took him through these moments, these fragmentary bursts, until the silvered wisps finally thickened and solidified, like adding flour to water.
He and Ginny were still on the dance floor. Lee Jordan—who not only emceed Quidditch matches, but their wedding reception—called for a round of applause.
"I'd now like to ask the bride's brothers to join us on the floor for a very special brother-sister dance," said Lee with his amplified voice. "She has a lot of them, Harry, so you might as well sit down."
Harry laughed good-naturedly and moved towards his chair. But then, a murmur went up from the crowd, followed by a series of "awws."
He turned. Hermione was holding out her hand.
"Shall we?" she smirked.
The guests applauded as Harry led Hermione to the floor. She wore a lavender gown and a white orchid in her pinned-up curls. They fell in step with the music.
"Brother-sister dance, huh?" Harry mumbled by her ear. He could feel thousands of eyes on them.
She smiled. "Ginny didn't want you to be alone."
He said nothing. He thought of what she'd told him over two years ago now. He wondered if she'd ever told Ron.
"Happy with how it all turned out?"
He grinned somewhat ruefully. "Surprisingly, yeah. I thought it was going to be too much—and maybe it is—but she's happy."
She grinned. Behind them, Bill had passed Ginny's hand to Charlie.
"I reckon you'll be doing this soon," said Harry quietly.
She gave him a level look. "Why? Has Ron said something?"
"No," he said quickly, "but it's coming, isn't it?"
She laughed. "I have no idea. We don't talk about it."
"What kind of wedding would you want then...if it happens?"
She paused, considering. "Something quiet. In a church. I think—this might seem silly—but I think my parents would like it if I had an old-fashioned Anglican wedding. They aren't really religious, but they like the sense of tradition."
"Would you change your name?"
She laughed again, a little startled. "I hadn't thought about it," she mused. "The Weasley name certainly carries a lot of weight but...I'm the last Granger. I like my common Muggle name."
He grinned, knowing she'd say that. Ginny was dancing with Percy now.
"How'd Maisie take the news that you're leaving?" he asked.
Hermione had decided to join the Ministry two weeks ago. The key piece of legislation N.S.P.E.W. had fought for—the House-Elf Reform Act—had finally passed, but with significant modifications. While the law banned the future sale of house-elves and allowed house-elves to provide testimony in mistreatment cases, existing house-elves would not be freed. They would live out their lives in bondage—which could be up to two hundred years for the youngest ones—unless their masters chose to free them. But, they would be the last cohort of enslaved British elves. Their children would be free.
Hermione hated the outcome, but she was resigned to the fact that the current Wizengamot could be pushed no further. The solution would have to come from the international community. Several member states of the International Confederation of Wizards—particularly Norway, Sweden, New Zealand, Canada, South Africa, and Chile—were pushing for the adoption of a House-Elves' Rights charter. If the charter was adopted, Britain would be forced to comply or risk expulsion from the ICW.
Hermione's well-executed N.S.P.E.W. campaign had also caught the attention of John Lakey, the Director of Magical Law Enforcement. He had lunch with Hermione last month and offered her a position as counselor. She had demurred. Then, he showed up at her flat with Minister Shacklebolt. She accepted.
"She took it pretty well," said Hermione, a line of worry between her brows. "I hate to leave her and the others. But I told them, every time a mistreatment case is filed, let me know. I've also got to find an in with the British ICW delegation. See if I can start socializing the charter with them now..."
"I know Delios on the delegation. Want me to introduce you?"
"That'd be fantastic!" she beamed.
Ginny was dancing with George now. Mrs. Weasley was crying silently into her handkerchief, knowing who had been skipped over.
Hermione watched Harry for a moment.
"You've been so busy with work and planning the wedding," she said softly, "I've barely had a chance to tell you. I'm so happy about the news. You're going be an incredible father."
A flush of heat washed over his skin. When he spoke, his voice was so low she had to lean in to hear him.
"I'm terrified, Hermione. What if I'm not...good? It's not like I had a good model growing up..."
He hadn't been able to tell Ginny. She was already upset about his long hours at work during her pregnancy. She'd hardly be sympathetic to the fear that he'd be a rubbish father.
Hermione seemed to consider his words carefully before she spoke.
"You know Mr. Weasley's kind-heartedness," she said slowly. "You know Sirius' adventurousness. Lupin's understanding. Dumbledore's wisdom. Snape's sense of sacrifice...It seems to me that's a lot more than most people have."
He looked at his feet.
"But you have something more important than all that."
When she didn't continue, he looked up and she held his gaze so he could not miss her meaning.
"You've got a good heart...and a great capacity for love. That's all that really matters."
He swallowed and hugged her then, not caring that the song wasn't over. While Ron and Ginny danced, Harry and Hermione revolved in a slow circle.
The memories swirled again. It was several hours later. The night was nearing its end. The older guests were dozing in their chairs, the younger ones thoroughly inebriated on the dance floor.
Harry and Ginny were still at the head table, speaking to an unending queue of well-wishers and taking bites of food when they could. While Harry was greeting the Deputy Chief of the Auror Department, however, a series of gasps went up from a knot of people several feet away. Harry could see Hermione in the middle of it. She was looking down at something or someone...
Harry found himself standing and striding towards the knot. The onlookers broke into applause.
"Really, Ron?" said Ginny, who'd come up behind Harry. She sounded both exasperated and amused. "At my wedding?"
Ron had just gotten up from one knee. Hermione was flushed scarlet and there was a thin silver band with a large diamond on her finger.
"Could have told me, mate!" laughed Harry, clapping him on the back.
"It wasn't planned," Ron said dryly as Ginny embraced him.
Harry looked at Hermione. She barely seemed to register the embraces and congratulations, as if she'd been stunned into silence. He came up to her and hugged her tightly.
"Congratulations," he said by her ear.
"Thanks," she smiled weakly. "Thanks."
18 June 2005
The marquee rose over the Burrow's back lawn like an enormous crane. Harry tugged at his collar. His dress robes were stifling in the summer heat.
He looked over the sun-drained fields towards the road that led to Ottery St. Catchpole. A small commotion seemed to be occurring at the security checkpoint and Harry looked at the group of security wizards curiously.
Then, he saw a small creature gesticulating fiercely at one of the wizards and Harry rushed forward.
"She's with us! She's with us!"
The security wizard turned, surprised to see Harry Potter jogging towards him.
"Oh, excuse me, sir. Caught this house-elf trying to gate-crash."
"She's a free elf and she's in the bridal party."
"In the—" He looked as though Harry had said a Blast-Ended Skrewt was in the bridal party.
"Maisie, let's go."
The elf trotted to Harry's side, casting a disdainful glance over her shoulder.
"I'm sorry about that," he grimaced. "We told them you were coming several times."
"It's all right," she chirped. "Happens all the time."
"Doesn't mean it should. C'mon, I'll take you to Hermione."
They walked towards the house, Maisie effusive on the splendor of the decorations, how fine the weather was. Harry complimented her clothes—a pale blue dress and a crown of daisies.
It was much cooler inside and Harry led her to Mrs. Weasley's room, where Hermione was getting ready.
"Er—ladies?" Harry said awkwardly after knocking. "Maisie's here."
Mrs. Granger swung open the door and smiled warmly at the pair of them.
"Hermione was just asking about you, Maisie! Come inside! You come in too, Harry. You look rather flushed. We've got lemonade."
"Is it all right to see her before...?"
"That's only for the groom, silly."
"Oh, right."
Harry stepped into the bedroom, feeling out of place—a male interloper in the realm of the feminine. The bed was overladen with dresses, make-up bags, and styling products. He could hear giggling from the bathroom where he knew Ginny, Luna, and Emilia Edelman—Hermione's closest colleague at the Ministry—were getting ready.
Hermione appeared a moment later. She was already dressed.
The word that immediately came to Harry's mind was: volume.
By this point in time, Mrs. Weasley had a good deal of experience being a mother-in-law and planning weddings. Over Christmas, when Hermione mentioned the difficulty of planning a wedding while starting a demanding new job, Mrs. Weasley had instantly offered her assistance. But as Molly took on more and more of the responsibilities, Hermione felt less and less able to voice her opinion. Thus, the wedding was at the Burrow rather than a church. It would be a traditional magical service rather than a Muggle Anglican one. And the dress...it had been in the Weasley family for generations. Aunt Muriel had worn it. It was updated in the late-60s for Mrs. Weasley. All the other Weasley brides—Fleur, Audrey, Angelina—had managed to escape it and, given the public nature of Ginny's wedding, this really was the last opportunity, Hermione dear. Surely you understand?
"Don't laugh."
"Am I laughing?" he grinned.
"I see it there. In your eyes."
"You're seeing things."
Mrs. Granger pushed a wonderfully cold glass of lemonade into his hand.
"I look like a sail boat."
"I was going to say ostrich."
She punched his shoulder.
"I'm kidding. You look beautiful."
Because she did. The dress was mammoth. The bulbous pouf sleeves melded into a tiny bodice before exploding in a riot of organza ruffles, like a garden of sea anemones. She'd used Sleekeazy's Hair Potion to force her curls into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck. From her earlobes hung two pearl earrings, a gift from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. She appeared to have retained control of her make-up. She wore mascara and a light dusting of blush on her cheeks. Her lips were deep rose. Despite the riotous gown, she was beautiful.
"Very beautiful!" squeaked Maisie in agreement.
She looked fondly at them. "So long as I fit through the door."
He stayed with them for some time, but knew he had to go upstairs to help Ron. He kissed her cheek before he left.
"Good luck."
She smiled faintly, as if words were hard for her now. She squeezed his hand.
The argent strands of memory drew together and erupted. They shot upwards and formed the silken canvas of a marquee and fell low, twisting themselves into blades of grass. A purple carpet flowed through a valley of delicate golden chairs. It was early evening and fireflies dotted the walkway to the Burrow, glowing like the embers of a dying fire. If you listened hard enough, you could hear the gnomes shuffling in the garden, annoyed by the footfalls of five hundred guests. An expectant hum rose from the audience, punctuated by occasional coughs and spurts of laughter.
Harry stood beside Ron. Ginny, in a flowing cornflower blue gown, caught his eye and he grinned. Ron stretched his neck nervously and Harry gripped his shoulder.
Then, a hush fell over the assembled. Music swelled from the band in the alcove.
Head lowered, Hermione appeared on her father's arm. A sigh went up from crowd as they walked down the aisle. In the fading glow of sunset, the dress was not too much. It was a cloud brought down for them to admire.
Ron's eyes were very bright. He looked at Hermione as if he found it impossible she existed.
As she drew closer, she lifted her head. Her eyes were for Ron.
The same tufty-haired wizard who had presided over Bill and Fleur's wedding stepped forward.
"Witches and wizards," he said in his slightly singsong voice, "and—it must be said—our house-elf friends..."
Good-natured laughter rose from the onlookers. At least a dozen elves were seated among them.
"We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of two faithful souls..."
Mrs. Weasley and Mrs. Granger were holding hands tightly in the front row. Mr. Granger was blinking furiously. Professor McGonagall's eyes were brighter than Harry had ever seen them.
"Do you, Ronald Bilius, take Hermione Jean...?"
The vows were said, the rings exchanged.
But, as the tufty-haired wizard waved his wand high over their heads, Hermione looked at Harry for the first time and she beamed, her eyes full of tears.
"...then I declare you bonded for life."
A shower of silver stars fell upon them.
The Pensieve juddered strangely, like a train on a platform.
And suddenly Harry was looking at a seventeen-year-old Hermione in the same marquee. She was wearing a lilac dress instead of a white one. She was beaming at him and her eyes were full of tears.
The Pensieve shuddered again and he was on a snowy hillside. She brushed the top of his head lightly with her hand. He closed his eyes at her touch.
Another jolt and he was in a tent. He removed the locket from her neck and they danced. He smiled for the first time in weeks.
He was in an empty classroom at Hogwarts. Yellow birds flew around Hermione's head.
He was in the Department of Mysteries. Hermione was limp in his arms. Neville was telling him she was alive and he was lightheaded with relief.
He was in another empty classroom. Hermione looked frightened, yet determined, as she said, "this isn't criticism, Harry...but don't you think you've got a bit of a saving-people-thing?" He was livid, but she was the only one to push back. The only one to stand up to his rage, forcing him to think clearly.
He was in Buckbeak's room and she was hammering hard on the door. There was snow in her hair and her cheeks were pink with cold.
He was in the musty upper room at the Hog's Head. Hermione spoke before a skeptical group of their fellow students. She struggled with her words—as she so rarely did now—but she said his name for the first time. And it was this, more than anything, that calmed Harry.
He was in King's Cross and she did something she had never done before. She kissed his cheek.
He was scrambling through the portrait hole of the Gryffindor tower. Hermione was waiting for him with toast. They walked to the lake. She accepted his story without question.
He was riding a hippogriff in the darkness, her hands tight around his waist.
He was in the Hospital Wing gazing into her petrified face. It hurt to look at her and he was sick with worry.
He was deep beneath Hogwarts. They'd solved the riddle of the potions and they would have to separate. She embraced him. She called him a great wizard and he said, "not as good as you." And she had laughed with a maturity beyond her years. "Me! Books! And cleverness! There are more important things..."
He was on a train. A girl with bushy hair entered his compartment, already wearing her school robes. He said his name and she said, "I know all about you, of course..."
Then, the silver wisps of memory vanished. There was nothing. Just blackness. And a voice called out to him.
"Harry, they're here...right here."
He stumbled towards her voice.
The graveyard—faint and silver-edged—took shape around him. She stood by a marble headstone. He read an inscription he didn't understand. A type of panic rose in him.
"It doesn't mean defeating death in the way the Death Eaters mean it, Harry..." Her voice was gentle. "It means...you know...living beyond death. Living after death."
And the tears came before he could stop them...and he had wished, in that moment, that he was sleeping under the snow with them.
But she took his hand and gripped it tightly. He returned the pressure. The moment he wished he'd brought something for them, she conjured a wreath of Christmas roses. He placed it on their grave.
Harry watched his younger self and Hermione wrap their arms around each other and walk back through the graveyard, towards the church, towards the distant kissing gate.
He knew the Pensieve was done. He could return to his study. But he stayed rooted to where he was. He stared at the wreath of roses, beautiful in the snow.
He could see it now. He understood.
The forest was not the beginning for them. It was a culmination. He had loved her for a very long time. Perhaps from this exact moment.
He loved her.
The truth of it hit him, whole and complete. It echoed through him like a deep and ancient bell. And he understood.
He loved her because he kept nothing from her. There was no part of him he did not want her to see. There was no fear, no flaw, no frailty he would withhold from her.
As Dumbledore had known, she was the balance that brought out his good heart. She challenged him. She made him better. Like quenched steel, she tempered and made him strong.
And she had saved him. In all the obvious ways, yes, but in other ways he could not fully know.
A deep and solid warmth seemed to grow in Harry's chest, like phoenix song. And the rightness, the wholeness returned.
He loved her.
He was only left to wonder how he could ever be worthy of her.