Chapter Fourteen.

The last week of October passed quietly and without resolve. Hermione went back and forth between Godric's Hollow and Hogwarts. She often came home late, having sat in the library for hours after classes, trying in vain to find anything that could give her hope regarding her imminent fate. All that she had found so far was what Harry had already told her: that which a person saw would happen, no matter who knew or who didn't. Hermione withdrew into herself as a result, and though Harry tried hard to have her open up when they finally had time together, she was mostly too tired and too discouraged to talk to him. Often, she'd take her tea straight upstairs, and Harry wouldn't see her until the following evening. He understood that, in a way, she was protecting herself, but he regretted it nonetheless.

Harry, meanwhile, did much of everything. He went back to the Auror Office and completed his training, having been set to officially join starting November 1st. He left early in the mornings, returned late in the night, and, as he was always waking earlier than he needed to, he was utterly exhausted. Because, in spite of Hermione having made it clear that she didn't want to be chaperoned, Harry couldn't possibly allow her to walk from and to Hogwarts by herself. The unprotected distance was minimal, of course, but it'd offer someone enough time to get to her. So, instead of rising at seven, he rose at six, showered, dressed, had breakfast, and apparated near Hogwarts at seven thirty. There, he waited for Hermione, who'd arrive at seven forty to seven forty-five, and patiently watched her reach the school, having to hurry afterwards to make it to the Ministry in time. In the evenings he went to Hogwarts straight from the Office and waited, sometimes for hours, for Hermione to appear. After she'd gone, Harry would apparate, too. Sometimes he'd meet her in the street and say that he'd been walking, sometimes he waited outside for another ten minutes and lied that it'd been bizarrely busy at the Office, and sometimes, though he dared do this only rarely, he apparated as soon as Hermione appeared on the Hogwarts hills, which usually gave Harry two to three minutes to get home, hide his Cloak, and set a scene meant to convince Hermione that he had been home. Harry knew if she'd find out, she'd flay him alive, so he made sure she didn't.

Her safety consumed him. Even during his hours at the Office, as Harry was reading up on this escaped wizard or that, or joining in on meetings that discussed unexplained spikes of magic in the atmosphere, he was trying to figure out his plan of action. He was now starting to realise that he was coming to his limit. Only yesterday, he'd stepped into the shower with his shirt still on, and he'd almost gone to the Office wearing one of Hermione's coats.

Harry knew he needed help. He had been trying to figure out whether he could have Merel follow Hermione, and was seriously considering telling Professor McGonagall about the vision, though he was quite sure that Hermione wouldn't like that, either.

He pondered the thought that night, as he stood by his parents' grave, and wished more than anything that they were there to help him. Harry was sure they'd know what to do.

Harry, exhausted with everything he was feeling, crouched down to wipe the thick pack of snow from their names. Then he wiped clean the dates. March 27, January 30… and October 31, just like today.

'17 years', Harry whispered to himself, as if that would make it more real. He stared at their names, and then at the ground before his feet. Most of his life, he had done without his parents, and most of his life he'd dealt with their absence relatively well, but lately he had been missing them more and more. There was so much to tell them. So much his parents would be proud of. So much questions that Harry wanted to ask.

He'd often daydreamed about telling his father about becoming an Auror, and about introducing his mother to Hermione and the Weasleys. Harry felt that his mother would love them… but he'd never know for sure.

Harry reached out, slowly, and traced his mother's name. The stone was damp and cold. He breathed deep. His breath froze and drifted away on the wind.

'Harry?'

Harry looked over his shoulder and saw Hermione, standing a few feet away. He rose from the ground.

'Hey.'

She smiled weakly at him and walked over. 'I thought you might be here.'

'You remembered.'

Hermione nodded, knelt down, took out her wand, and whispered. At the base of his parents' gravestone appeared two small, stone bowls. In them burned two warm and bright flames, strongly in spite of the cold.

Harry would have smiled, but he couldn't possibly make it convincing. He decided against trying.

Hermione stood and took Harry's cold hand into the warmth of her gloved ones. They remained there for a while, huddled close together against the cold, watching Hermione's flames melt away the snow that covered James and Lily Potter's gravestone.

Harry barely felt the cold, even after ten minutes had passed, but eventually he felt Hermione's body starting to shiver. He looked at her and spotted perfect snowflakes clinging to her hair and eyelashes. Her lips looked pale.

'You don't have to wait for me', Harry whispered at her.

She looked up at him, doubtful. 'I can stay a little longer, if you'd like.'

Harry shook his head. 'I'm alright.'

Still hesitant, but not wanting to intrude, and grateful to go get warm, Hermione let go of his hand and started off. Harry found himself, even now, listening for oddities in the air. Nothing happened. Harry crouched again by the ground and studied his parents' names. They were now glowing by the light of Hermione's flames.

'She was always good at those', Harry muttered, wiping a snowflake from his nose. 'You'd like her.'

There wasn't a response, of course. There was only the silence that came with the cold of winter. No birds chirped, no owls hooted, no wind blew, and if people's footprints hadn't been cemented in the snow, Harry might have been able to believe that everyone but him had vanished. It felt like that sometimes.

Harry sat there a while longer, until finally he, too, was starting to feel the cold. He rose from his position slowly and took one last look. The feeling that he'd had before coming hadn't gone. In fact, he felt even worse. It didn't feel right that his parents were there, in the cold ground, like so many of his friends and family, and he was still standing upright. He often wondered what it'd be like to be dead. Not that he would kill himself, but he suspected it'd be more peaceful than living. Harry could do with some peace.

Finally, he muttered a goodbye to his parents and returned home.

When he entered the house, feeling cold and rather downhearted, Hermione came from the kitchen and handed him a steaming cup of tea. Harry thanked her and went to sit down on the couch, staring into the fireplace as the flames licked at each other furiously. Hermione followed and sat down on the rug nearer the fire. Merel, who had been proudly perched on the desk lamp, settled on the chair behind her, nipping curiously at the tassels of the pillow and hooting in surprise when one of them escaped her.

She didn't say anything, but Hermione kept a careful watch of Harry. She hadn't seen him smile all week, and he barely talked. He looked bad, too. Exhausted, and pale, and hunched as if he was carrying a dead weight. Now, he sat blankly staring at the fire, barely blinking.

Hermione thought desperately of things to say that would cheer him up, but she couldn't think of anything that didn't sound horribly pretentious, and so she stayed quiet.

After a few moments of deafening silence, Harry was the one to speak. He asked: 'Hermione… can I ask you something?'

'Of course', Hermione said, feeling relieved.

'Does it ever go away, do you think?'

Hermione blinked.

'Overall', Harry started, carefully. 'I'm happy. But when I'm there… at their grave, all I want is to be with them.'

Slowly, Hermione lowered her tea from her lips, and she stared at Harry silently. 'Harry', she whispered, after a few more moments of silence. 'They're your parents. It's completely normal-'

'It's not just that', Harry whispered, still not looking at her. 'So many people have died. For me. Because of me. Why- Why am I still alive? Who gets to decide that I live, and not them?' Though more pain, there was some anger in his voice, stemming from the thought that was left unspoken.

'Harry, you know.'

Harry scoffed and bit the insides of his cheeks, feeling his throat constrict with the threat of tears. 'The prophecy', he muttered. 'The chosen one. I know.'

Hermione opened her mouth, and closed it, and put down her tea, moving towards Harry so that she sat at his knees. She reached out, but there wasn't a response. It was as if Harry hadn't even noticed her.

'Sometimes', Harry said, and his voice broke. 'I just feel guilt, and you… I don't- I don't know-'. His breath trembled, his tea spilled, and Hermione quickly took it from him and took his hands, still cold, into hers.

'Harry', she whispered. Harry pressed his eyes tightly shut. 'Hey-'

Still, Harry kept his eyes shut, feeling desperately awful, and hating himself for acting so miserable.

Hermione let go of his hands, then, and gently took hold of his face. 'Look at me, Harry.'

Finally, Harry looked at her. The look in his eyes shattered a bit of Hermione's heart. She swallowed hard.

'I don't know the reason', she admitted. 'Maybe there isn't one. It's not –' She paused and sighed. 'It's not fair that it had to be you.'

Harry drew a sharp breath and felt something wet roll across his cheek. He wiped at it furiously.

'It's not fair', Hermione repeated, more forcibly. 'But it had to be someone. And Harry, I don't know anyone that could have borne it better. You are the strongest person I know.'

Harry looked up, and Hermione's eyes stared back with full conviction.

Hermione opened her mouth, hesitated, and lowered her hands from Harry's face to his knees, feeling suddenly awful. 'I'm sorry I was gone', she whispered. 'It was horribly, horribly selfish of me. You needed someone.'

'Hermione-'

'Stop, Harry. Let me apologise. Please.'

Harry shut up, and Hermione bit her bottom lip tentatively.

'Harry… It took a lot for me… for me to try, with you. You know how horrible I felt, about myself, about… about us, about what I said during the Battle. I felt…'

'Guilt', Harry knew.

'Heavily', Hermione whispered. 'All that I wanted, I felt like I didn't deserve. I felt like I was taking something that didn't belong to me. I felt like it was unfair… like I, that I was unfair. I didn't want to-' Her voice broke off, and she reached for Harry's hand, holding it between the both of hers.

'But I've come to understand something.' She breathed deeply and nodded, as if to reassure herself. 'We don't get to choose when it comes to these things. People die that shouldn't. People live that shouldn't… We love at random. There isn't always justice. But perhaps - perhaps that is exactly what makes life fair, after all. It doesn't have any favourites. It doesn't make distinctions. It doesn't care who you are or where you came from… or who you love.'

Harry looked at her lips. They trembled slightly, almost imperceptibly.

'If it's time, it's time. For me. For you. For anyone.'

Harry felt something swell in his chest. Frustration, yes, even despair, but there was also the indescribable urge to kiss her.

For once, he decided to listen.

He slid off the couch and onto the floor, sitting so close to her that their noses almost touched. Hermione held her breath, and Harry very carefully, as if to ask permission, reached out for her cheek, stroking it slowly with the back of his fingers. Hermione remained completely still, and Harry's hand moved into her hair, letting it run through his fingers before his hand found a final resting place in the curve of Hermione's neck. One of them, though neither could have said for certain who it was, moved closer, and one pair of lips brushed against the other, hovering hesitantly. Harry looked into Hermione's eyes, knowing that if he kissed her now, every last bit of his resolve would wilt. He'd be hers, fully and undeniably, bound despite what would come. So he waited, just a moment longer, committing to memory what life was like before love's honesty, considering the weight of either option. To love and grieve, to love and wither. Then, lightly, still asking for her silent permission, Harry pressed his lips onto hers.

At once he felt more tethered to the earth than he had in months, and when he kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her, and Hermione kept kissing him back, it felt like coming up for fresh air. She tasted like the honey in her tea, and Harry relished. He pulled her closer, into the curve of his body, kissing her now with a sweep of intensity that left them both clutching. Her fingers found his jaw and the nook of his collarbone, Harry found the curve of her lower back. They knew their bodies even without looking, and both considered in that same moment that they would never tire of holding it.

When Harry finally released her, solely for want of air, there was steadfastness in his eyes, burning hot like the flames in the fireplace. Hermione, on the other hand, was breathless.

She stared at him, blinked once, and said: 'I can't believe it.'

Harry felt immediately worried and frowned. 'What?' Too much? Do I smell? Oh no…

Hermione looked positively stunned. 'I can't believe it took us so long.'

Relief washed over Harry and he couldn't help but laugh. Hermione laughed too and kissed him, again and again, chasing away the thoughts of threat in Harry's head with the taste of honey.

Further in the room, Merel clicked her beak, and Harry agreed. At last.