Maybe that's what I should be mourning: my moving on. On to a much less grand, but no less important, chapter in my life. The one without Harry…
(Three years ago, "The Accident")
Harry was hurt.
Those were the only words I could wrap my mind around while Ron prattled on in the seat next to me. He was hurt. Harry. My Harry. I remember holding his lifeless hand in the MM hospital as the healers explained the curse he'd been hit with. Some old crony of Voldemort's, so strung out on dark magic he couldn't remember his own name. Ironically, that's pretty much the way he'd left Harryspell-boy had used a memory curse.
I didn't believe them until Harry opened his eyes two days later. That's when I started crying. 'My look' was gone.
Happily enough for the Wizarding World, his memories ended up fairly-well intact. Up until the last year that is. The last eleven months were gone. Nine months before he proposed. Six months before we started sharing the same room. Two months before we'd even begun to date. Ha. "Date." We didn't date. Not really. Our relationship went from being 'Harry and Hermione' to being 'Harry and Hermione with Snogging.' Great snogging. Lots of touching and kisses that lasted for days. Our first time was nearly an accident, and gods, what an accident.
We were sitting on the couch in the apartment. Our apartment. We'd lived together since Hogwarts. Together, but in separate rooms. So we were sitting on the couch, talking about who knows what, when Harry, in his ever-existent bad luck, split his drink on the end table. I reached over him with a napkin, innocently enough, trying to keep the wine from getting on the carpet, when I lost my balance and fell into his lap. It was a harmless fall really. One that could've been laughed off and swept under that ever-growing rug of repression. Then, of course, I twisted around and found myself gazing into a sea of green.
That's when I realized our bodies were flush against each other. His nose was brushing against mine, and our legs were hopelessly tangled. He gathered me tightly to him, cradling me in his arms and staring at my mouth. But, still, he swore I made the first move. Liar. He leaned in first. Clever witch I was, I merely took the hint, gripping his collar and pulling him to me.
We basically snogged each other senseless, somehow managing to roll off the couch and end up face-to-face on the floor. I was straddling him and he was gripping my hips as I lifted my shirt and fell back against him, our tongues dueling, his hands on my thighs, my hand reaching between us to the latch of his trousers and…
Anyway, it was an accident. An accident, not a mistake. Sure, I'd been wanting to do something like that for months. Especially those times he came down to the breakfast table, shirtless and spiky haired. I remember spending the next several weeks punishing him for being such a lickable little tease. Several of our meals actually ended with us on that damn table. My back hated me for a long time, but the other parts were more than satisfied.
Then, of course, came the curse. He was still Harry. In fact, to other people, there was no apparent difference. He went back to work, bought season tickets to his favorite Quidditch teams, and even came down to breakfast with spiky hair. However, our plates ended up in the sink instead of on the floor. Because I'd decided not to tell him.
It's not that I didn't want to, I've always wanted to. I still do. Just so he'd know that at one point I loved him. Loved him more than I thought possible. But it's not that simple. The healers said he wouldn't get his memory back, and I didn't want him to feel, I don't know, obligated. I guess I just didn't want to force it. I tried dropping hints. Even went into seduction mode during that second month. Needless to say, it didn't work. He just thought I was sick, or drunk, or I don't know what.
It was when he started dating that I moved out.