'Merry Christmas, Hermione,' he breathed, tears running down his face.

Hermione looked at him, looked at his face, twisted in agony as he looked down at his mother and father's graves. She wanted to comfort him, but the feeling about Harry – the thing that had nagged her, the thing for fear of which had irrationally made her keep her distance from him all these weeks, stopped her.

She took a deep breath, doing her best to suppress that feeling as she nuzzled her head into Harry's neck. 'Merry Christmas, Harry.'

A small smile came over Harry's face, and at that moment, Hermione realised what that feeling was.

And she knew that she was doomed.

Christmas Eve at the Burrow was an intimate sort of affair – as intimate as an event at the Burrow could be, Hermione supposed. She did not even want to go, but the alternative was to spend the night alone in her flat. It was not as if she had anywhere else to go. Her parents had all but shunned her after learning what she had done to them during the war…and she knew that they were right to do so. What parents would want a daughter like her, after all?

And Harry would be –

Her heart twisted, and the hair brush in her hand dropped to the floor. She looked without seeing into the mirror. Her face bore a blank, emotionless expression, a death mask. She was good at that look now. She had more than enough opportunities to practise it, after all…

I can handle it, she told herself firmly. I've been holding myself together for years…I can live through it.

There could always be someone else waiting around the corner, couldn't there be?

She wanted to laugh derisively. Those were empty words, words that others told her, words that she told herself, to give herself false hope.

Who was she kidding? Not herself – that was obvious.

Hermione bent down and picked up the hair brush again. Like a robot, she tried her best to tame her hair, then walked back into her room and mechanically changed into something more befitting of the festivities. She looked at the garish Christmas jumper and wanted to tear it to shreds. The garment was yet another cruel joke, a veiled dagger at her heart, reminding her of the joy that was for others to have… Not for her…

It had been six years since that night in Godric's Hollow, the night that she realised that she had somehow, somewhere, fallen in love with Harry. So far in love, that she could not climb back out of the hole.

Maybe they could have had something.

Maybe?

No?

No.

Harry never showed any interest in her beyond friendship in the thirteen years that they had known each other. How absurdly presumptuous was she to think that just because she did, that he would reciprocate in kind?

And besides, she was too late. Ginny got there first, and she could not turn back the clock. Even if she could, would she want to?

No.

Ginny made Harry happy, so who was she to think that she had the right to claim him for herself? Harry had made his choice, and it was her duty to be happy that he was happy.

Whatever it cost.

Maybe she could have had something with Ron after the war. Maybe her life could have taken a different course. But she knew that it would never have been. Whatever she was now in Hogwarts: A History, she was, still, to the entire world, the same bushy-haired, buck-toothed, plain, ugly bookworm that she always was.

Except to Harry, maybe, but perhaps that, too, was a little too much to hope for…

Six years. Six years, and all she had to come home to was a frigid, empty, impersonal flat.

It got cold at night, even under her sheets. It was a fact of nature, obviously, that the temperature dropped when the sun went down.

Hermione snorted. Who was she kidding with that?

She glanced down at her watch. It was a simple but elegant timepiece that Harry had gotten her for her eighteenth birthday. She kept it close. It reminded her of him, and that warmed her, but it also reminded that he would never be hers, and that chilled her down to the soul.

It was eight. She took one last look in the mirror, swallowed hard, and turned to disapparate.

Hermione could not remember anything that happened during dinner. The festive air had no effect on her. The only thing she could feel was dread for what she knew was going to happen.

Deathly dread.

Hermione's heart was racing in her chest. She had gone to the washroom so many times already tonight, for her outwards mask of happiness seemed more on the verge of collapse than ever.

She could do this. It would only be a few hours more.

They all gathered in the lounge after the meal, nursing cups of eggnog. Hermione had been told that the drink was warm, but it seemed as cold as ice to her.

The clock struck midnight.

Harry rose from his seat.

Ron sat up a little straighter.

Arthur had a knowing look on his face.

George was hiding a smirk.

Molly was trying not to grin.

Ginny looked at her boyfriend, a curious expression on her face.

Harry reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, felt-covered box.

Ginny's puzzlement turned into a beaming smile.

Hermione wanted to look away, but her eyes were glued to Harry. It was like watching a car wreck. No matter how much her heart ached, she could not look away.

Harry got down on one knee.

Just hold it together.

He opened the box.

You can do it.

It was a diamond ring that she had helped him pick out.

It'll all be okay.

It was the one that she had liked the most.

You're used to it by now.

Harry cleared his throat. 'Ginny…'

Hermione felt her mask on the verge of crumbling. She felt tears jerk at the edges of her eyes. She fought them back. She had no right to cry now.

Or maybe she did? But it would be far too hard to disguise them as tears of happiness…

She had missed Harry's speech, but she knew what he had said. He had practised to her, after all. She had helped him refine it, telling him what she would, hypothetically, like to hear.

Hypothetically.

Of course. Hypothetically.

'Ginny, will you make me complete and marry me?'

'Yes!' Ginny shrieked. 'Yes! Of course I will!'

Hermione watched as Harry stood up and slid the ring onto Ginny's finger. Without a second's delay, Harry lifted Ginny's chin and captured her lips in a loving kiss.

Loving.

Tears were coming again, and Hermione had to shut her eyes tightly to stop them. Unbidden, the scene began to replay in her mind, as if torturing her.

But she was not simply watching the scene again in her mind's eye. She was now standing where Ginny was, Harry kneeling down in front of her, giving her the ring that she had adored when they had visited the shop together, saying the words that had made her heart melt when they had rehearsed together.

What woman would say no?

And then he stood up…he reached out to her…his touch was gentle, his hand warm…he leaned in and kissed her…

It was a pain, more acute, more drawn-out, more sinister than even Bellatrix Lestrange's Cruciatus Curse.

Eventually, the cheering died down, and the newly engaged couple made their way around the room, receiving everyone's congratulations.

And the dreaded moment came. Harry and Ginny stopped in front of Hermione, both wearing brilliant smiles on their red faces.

'Congratulations,' Hermione forced out, barely keeping her voice level. 'I'm so happy for you. Both of you.'

'Thank you, Hermione,' Harry replied. He bent down and kissed her on the forehead.

The skin burned where his lips touched her. It was just a consolation prize, perhaps, but she would be stupid not to cherish the little that she could get.

'Hermione, can I ask you something?' Ginny chirped, beaming at her.

'Sure.'

'Will you be my bridesmaid?' she asked. 'I couldn't think of anyone else who would be – '

'Of course I will,' Hermione interrupted, trying her best to smile.

Ginny seemed to buy it. 'I would be so honoured.'

It never felt colder under her covers than it did that night, and she had to admit to herself that it was not just a function of the weather.

Hermione stood upon the altar opposite Harry. It felt like a scene right out of her fantasies.

Except that she was wearing a simple blue dress, not a wedding gown.

Except that there was a spot between them reserved for the bride.

A soft tune played, and Ginny came walking up the aisle on Arthur's arm. She was wearing an elegant white dress, her hair done elaborately but tastefully, and through the veil, Hermione could see that she was wearing a wide smile of anticipation.

She looked stunning.

And now, there would be no chance in the world that that could be her. For starters, she had no father who would walk her down the aisle.

Ginny shot her a small grin, one that Hermione tried her best to reciprocate, before turning to Harry. The wizard officiating the wedding said some words that Hermione tuned out as she tried to focus anywhere except at Harry's eyes. It was not like she needed to try, anyway. Those emerald irises saw nothing except their owner's wife-to-be.

'And so, I declare Ginevra Weasley and Harry Potter bonded for life!'

Against her better judgement, Hermione glanced at Harry. Their eyes met, and his lips upturned slightly. Suddenly, she was transported back to a night nearly seven years ago. She had looked at Harry then as another pair were bound for life. It was subconscious, perhaps – she might even call it Freudian – but if she had known what it meant then…

She beat that thought into submission. Nothing would have changed. Harry loved Ginny, and never once her.

'You may now kiss the bride.'

And Hermione, at last, felt the Sellotape holding her heart together snap, and it fell apart so unspectacularly that no one but her could have noticed.

One year had passed since the wedding, and Hermione had acclimatised. The pain was still there. It would always be there. It was chronic, undying, and perhaps it would follow her to the grave.

For no matter how much she tried, she could not move on. No matter how much she tried, she could not find someone else. No matter how much she tried, she could not fall out of love with Harry.

She was a horrible human being, she knew, lusting after a taken man. But she had no power to change herself anymore. So resigned to reality she was that she simply did not care. She would be a detestable person anyway, with or without this sin.

Ginny was eight months pregnant and expecting any day now. Hermione tried to do whatever she could to help her and Harry. It made her feel just a little bit like she was the mother to hers and Harry's child. It was that little grain of sand to fill the enormous hole in her chest that had once been her heart.

But fill it, it could not. Sometimes at night, she imagined that the baby was, in fact, growing in her.

What an absurd fantasy.

It was a Sunday night when Hermione received a call from Harry. Ginny was in labour.

She rushed to St Mungo's, but the staff kept her from the delivery room. It was their policy, of course, and Hermione forced herself to swallow yet another reminder of what she was and what she was not…

It was nearly midnight when Ginny gave birth. Hermione was the first in the delivery room, where she was met by a tired but excited-looking Harry.

'How is she?' Hermione asked, feeling fatigued, and not physically.

'She's well,' Harry replied, smiling. 'The healers said that she needs rest. Something about her magic being exhausted. None of us are allowed to visit her right now.'

Hermione nodded. 'I understand. And the baby?'

Harry beamed. 'Come, I'll show you.'

Hermione followed Harry as he walked briskly down the corridors. He made a left turn into one of the rooms, and she saw a group of healers huddled around a tiny cot.

'It's a boy,' Harry whispered. 'We named him James Sirius. And that reminds me…Hermione, would you be so honoured as to be his godmother?'

Hermione stopped in her tracks, her jaw falling open. 'Me?' she sputtered. 'I…I…of course. Yeah, I will.'

If at all possible, Harry's smile widened. He wrapped his arms around her in a gentle embrace. 'Thank you, Hermione.' He pulled back. 'Now come, you should meet him.'

The healers parted, and Hermione walked up to the crib, filled with a self-loathing sense of curiosity. A baby was lying there, lying silently as lights from the healers' diagnostic charms hovered above.

'He's beautiful, isn't he?' Harry asked gently.

Hermione leaned in and looked at James Sirius more closely. There were small tufts of black hair on his scalp. No doubt, they would grow as wild as his father's one day. The thought brought a small smile to Hermione's face.

And then she saw his eyes.

Brown eyes.

They were Ginny's shade of brown, but brown nonetheless…

Hermione felt instantly like she was about to collapse. Another picture formed in her mind's eye. Her and Harry's son…the same black hair, the eyes just a shade darker of brown than Ginny's…

He could have been our son.

But he was not, and he will never be. No little boy will ever be.

Hermione nodded, not trusting her voice but opening her mouth anyway. 'He's beautiful.'

Epilogue – 2015

Hermione was thirty-five this year, but the years may as well be just numbers. They all felt the same to her – constant numb pain punctuated by sharp spikes of pure agony. Try as she might, her soul simply could not move on.

Harry was sitting on the sofa of her otherwise empty flat, a bottle of Guinness in his hands. It would have been a perfect picture of family…but Harry was only here for an after-work visit. He was no more hers than he ever was.

'I'll be right back,' Harry said, getting up from the sofa. 'I just need to use the loo.'

'You know where it is,' Hermione replied with a small smile. She was getting a little better at the act now, seventeen years on.

Hermione stared out at the opposite wall. Harry was a devoted family man now to his wife and three kids, and no more the vulnerable boy that had shown through in the graveyard all those years ago. James, Al, and Lily were all lovely, of course, but that did not do anything to assuage the torture that was the knowledge that they would never be hers…

She was broken from her trance by the sound of Harry's voice.

'Hermione?'

'Yes?' she answered emptily.

'I found this on the floor,' he said, walking over. Hermione saw an inscrutable look on his face and a piece of paper in his hands. 'Right outside your door. What is this?'

Hermione blinked and looked more closely at what he was holding.

Her heart stopped.

'No…no…Harry…you…I…I'm…'

Harry laid his hand gently on hers. 'Hermione,' he said caringly – she would have loved that tone if it had been any other situation but this. 'Don't freak out. Just…what is this?'

Hermione could not bring herself to meet Harry's eyes. 'I…Harry, please don't – '

She felt Harry tilt her chin up, forcing their gazes to meet. 'Hermione,' he breathed, his eyes so entrancingly close to hers, but so achingly far away. 'When was this from?'

'It says on the top, doesn't it?' Hermione said, her voice breaking. She looked down at the innocent-looking paper now lying on the tea table. '26 December 1997.'

26/12/1997

We got food from a supermarket and had a halfway decent meal for once. Otherwise, it was just the usual watches. There was a rustling in the forest in the morning, but that was when we were about to leave and whatever it was did not follow us here, so I did not think much of it.

I know the feeling now. I love Harry. I must. It's so much more than what I had felt for Ron…so much more. And I like the feeling, but I hate myself for liking it.

He's sitting in a corner of the tent now, by himself. I know I should approach him…tell him how I feel…but there's no way he feels the same. He loves Ginny. I'm just his friend. Maybe his only friend now. And I can be happy with that.

He doesn't need me to add something more to all he's already going through anyway. He needs my support, not my lust. If we get out of all this alive…maybe then, but I won't hope too much.

'You weren't supposed to see that,' Hermione croaked, halfway between anger and shock.

'It was on the floor,' Harry replied apologetically. 'I…I picked it up…and I thought I would give it to you, but…'

There was a long silence. 'But what?' Hermione asked finally, her voice far more feeble than she had imagined it could be.

Harry sighed and turned to look at the floor. There was another pregnant pause.

'But did you not think that…maybe…maybe I could have felt the same?'

Hermione was frozen in shock. 'What?'

'In the tent,' Harry said, looking her in the eyes and entrancing her. 'After Godric's Hollow. Didn't you think that…maybe…I could have loved you too?'

'You…you love – '

'Loved,' Harry corrected, sadly yet firmly. 'It's my fault, too, Hermione. I thought you loved Ron…I tried to keep the feelings from taking root, but…I couldn't. I loved you, Hermione.'

'B-But…Ginny – '

Harry swallowed. 'We got back together after the war and it worked. Eventually…those feelings that I had for you…they went away, Hermione. I…I'm so sorry…truly… If I had known…'

Hermione could only stare slack-jawed into Harry's eyes, at the knowledge that she could have had it all. That they could have had it all. But because of her – her cowardice, her self-pity – they would never.

And Hermione felt herself shatter, completely and utterly.