A/N: Oh no, more grovelling at my reviewers' feet. This is getting to be a habit. I'm finally on semester hols from uni and although work continues to slaughter me with hours I've managed to knock up a chapter for you. Please excuse everything, your wonderful patience is as always appreciated. Missed you all lots. In Harry's world, the wedding is getting closer (as is the release date for book 6 teehee!) Without further ado… xx S

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A week meandered by at a strange, almost unearthly pace, at least for Harry. While they'd agreed not to tell anyone about the baby, it seemed impossible to that people couldn't just know when they looked at Ginny, when they looked at him. He always had a dopey smile at the ready. He fell so often into oblivious happy-family daydreams that Fred asked him, quite seriously, if he'd thought about having his ears checked. He hugged his secret to himself, while at the same time fighting the near-unstoppable urge to tell everybody (including the man who came to fix the stove mid-week).

Ginny was not quite so consistently affable. She was, despite her decision, prone to panic attacks about being a mother. She never once suggested that she had changed her mind about keeping the baby, but he knew she was still dealing with the notion when he found her in the middle of the night, sitting on the toilet seat with her head between her knees.

"Gin?"

"What?" She was quickly upright, her hair flicking back from her face. Her eyes were rather wild and he shut the bathroom door carefully behind him.

"I woke up and you weren't there."

"Scared, Potter?" It was a feeble attempt at lightening the mood and he wasn't buying it.

"No. You?"

She licked her lips, closed her eyes, leaned back against the cistern. He waited for her to speak.

"Yes," she breathed finally.

He moved quickly to her. She shifted, he shifted; they were sat side by side, his arm around her shoulder, her head in the crook of his neck. They stayed like that for some time. When he held her, when he talked softly and logically, she was calmed. This same scene was repeated several times over the week, in different locations, at different times. Harry wasn't fazed. They had each other and she needn't be afraid. He was going to convince her of that if it took all summer – if it took nine months.

Sex was gentler between them, more profound, because they understood now what it could do. When she felt his hands on her she was sensitive as a live wire, all sparks and trembles. It reminded him of the first few times they slept together, when she had never been touched like that before and was so innocently desperate for him. It blew his mind, the memories, her reactions, her body – this last, especially, seemed to have taken on a new mystery. He imagined that he could see a slight swell in her stomach, though it remained as flat and quidditch-strong as ever.

One afternoon, while searching, at Hermione's request, through Mrs Weasley's kitchen bookshelf for a recipe, he came across a well-thumbed pregnancy book. The front cover had long since fallen off but the inscription read 'For my darling, from Mother'. Presumably Mrs Weasley's mum had passed it on to her daughter. Flipping through the pages he came to the diagram of a six-week-old child in its mother's womb. It was barely formed, barely moving. Recognisable were a little head and a little fish-like body. He thought, This is in Ginny now, and stared at the picture until Hermione called impatiently from the lounge. He slammed the book shut and put it away. Mrs Weasley could give it to Ginny later. It was already too much for him.

All of it was between wedding preparations. The guest tables and chairs arrived exactly on time – but all, inexplicably, had one leg ever so slightly shorter than the others. Ron landed the task of individually fixing them and then assembling them in a magically enlarged back room (once Charlie's bedroom). Fred and George refused to go to suit fittings, much to Ginny's dismay. They were holed up in their rooms and would not be moved for anything. Harry only saw them duck out for meals and the loo, and occasional visits to London via Floo. Angelina had gone back to their flat without complaint, so Harry assumed she approved of whatever was going on upstairs. This was some comfort. He didn't have much time for Fred and George anyway. There were too many other details to handle.

Seven days before the wedding, late Saturday afternoon, Harry was wandering the Burrow. Ginny had gone to the dressmakers to plead for help and left him with a list of jobs. He'd got through most of them and was looking for a hand, but nobody seemed to be around. He wondered if they'd disappeared on purpose. A summer shower spattered the fields outside.

He ventured out to the gazebo, jacket pulled over his head to protect from the rain, and peered cautiously through one glazed window. He could see a figure, and there didn't appear to be any 'suspicious' sounds emanating from within, but he knocked anyway.

"Hello?" came the sharp reply.

"Hermione? Is that you?"

"Don't come in!"

"Is Ron there?"

"No, I just – I just want to be – alone."

The alone came out on a sob. Well, damned if he was going to leave her in tears. He pushed the door open and strode purposefully in. Hermione was sitting on one of the benches, hugging her knees. Her speckled owl, Athena, was perched on the arm of a chair nearby.

"Hermione?" Harry said again, feeling suddenly uncertain. She looked up at him with tears streaming down her cheeks, her hair down to her chest and a wild mess. She was wearing shorts, Ron's singlet and a cardigan. He stopped in his tracks. She looked so defenceless suddenly, so vulnerable. She had looked something like this when Ron was injured in the last battle, and for some reason this was the first thing out of his mouth.

"Is Ron alright?"

She pressed her lips together and then her face crumpled. "Oh Harry!" she wailed.

"Sorry, sorry," he murmured and hurried forward to her. He sat next to her on the bench and she leant against him, sobbing.

"Shh, Hermione, you're OK. You're OK."

"Oh Harry, we've had a row!"

"You and Ron?"

At his name, she burst into fresh sobs. "It – was – t-terrible."

He titled his head to see her down-turned face. "That bad?"

She didn't reply. He stroked her hair, feeling rather nervous. Harry and Ron bickered all the time. It would have to be bad to have raised this reaction.

Athena hooted regally. Harry eyed the owl but she gave nothing away.

"Did you get some mail, Hermione?" he asked.

"Yes. From –"

"Richard," he suggested dryly.

"How did you know?"

"We saw him in London. Didn't Ron tell you? And I sort of accidentally invited him to the wedding. Ron was mailing him an invite, so I figured you'd get the RSVP … eventually …" He trailed off beneath Hermione's withering stare. "What?"

"Of course Ron didn't tell me. Of course he didn't send him an invitation. You really think he'd voluntarily ask Richard to come within a hundred metres of me?"

Harry shook his head. He'd been so distracted by Malfoy's reappearance, and then the baby issue, that he'd completely forgotten to follow up on the Richard invite.

"So what's happened?" Harry asked, confused. She pulled away from him a little, calming herself, and pushed her hair out of her eyes.

"He mailed an RSVP anyway, and addressed it to me. Said he supposed his invitation had been lost in transit. He's going to stay the night before, if it's alright by us."

Harry winced. Sleepover with Richard? He could imagine Ron's reaction – although surely Hermione's was out of proportion to the news?

"What else?" Harry asked eventually. She shot him a brief, guilty look and he frowned heavily. "What else Hermione?"

"He sent me another letter."

"What did the letter say?"

"The letter …" She swallowed and blinked out tears. "Harry, it's not true."

"Where is it?"

She pulled two pieces of crumpled parchment from her shorts pocket and he took them from her. The first was a cordial self-invite (as cordial as a self-invite can be); the second was written in a less formal script, and began 'Dearest Hermione'.

"Can I read it?"

Hermione nodded helplessly. Richard's letter ran:

Dearest Hermione,

You haven't replied to any of my letters. I hope I will receive something this time. All I can assume is that Ronald has you under lock and key, as always.

I know you feel for me what I feel for you. I can't hide it anymore and neither should you. That's why I said what I did at the end of term exams. The way you looked at me and touched me – I knew immediately you reciprocated. If your knight in red hair hadn't come along (remember? We didn't know what to say to him!), who knows where we might be now?

If you are denying what we have in order to spare Ron Weasley, you'd best think again. I can give you so much more. You are worthy of so much more. I honestly think we were made for each other, and I know you think so too, in your heart of hearts. In short, I will be at this wedding come hell or high water, and I hope that I'll leave it with you.

Your Richard.

"Jesus, Hermione," Harry breathed, still staring at the page. "What – what is he talking about?"

"Harry, I swear it's not true!" she said desperately, holding his arm so tight that he felt her fingernails digging into his skin. "I swear, Harry!"

"What does he mean by what he said at end of term? By …" He searched for the passage. "By 'the way you looked at me and touched me'?"

She released him and covered her face with her hands. "Merlin. We came out of the exams, I asked how he thought he'd done, he wanted to talk about his answers. I said alright. He pulled me into a side corridor and then told me that he was in love with me. I mean – out of the blue like that! I didn't know what to say. I think I just stared. He was practically on his knees and I pulled him back up again. He was – he had me cornered. I thought he was going to try something on me, but then Ron came and got me out of there. I made up some excuse and Ron believed me."

It was quite the little speech. Harry was momentarily lost for words, but eventually found some.

"Then why did you tell me there wasn't anything else? At the beginning of summer, why did you say he was only an acquaintance?"

"Because I didn't want Ron to know! I didn't want him to worry about me, or hurt Richard! And if I told you, you would tell him."

"Not necess–"

"You would, you know that."

Harry quickly read over the passage again. "Hermione, this sounds like more than just – a stupid crush or what. This sounds like he really loves you. Are you being completely honest?"

"I've told you everything!" she exclaimed, sounding anguished.

"I don't mean with me. I mean with yourself. How you feel about this Richard character."

"Of course," she said defensively. "What do you think I am? I mean … I suppose I was a little flattered, that somebody like him –"

"Somebody like what?"

"Oh, you know. Handsome, so clever …"

"He's a git, Hermione!"
She sighed and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. "Yes, I know," she said quietly. "And I love Ron like – like nothing else, Harry. I swear nothing has happened with Richard, I swear I never gave him the slightest idea that I was interested. I'm not interested. It's just that – I've never known anybody but Ron. And it was just so strange to think that somebody else – oh Harry – he's just – just so persistent –"

"Persistence doesn't make him a good guy," Harry said fiercely. He put a hand on either side of her face and forced her to meet his eye. He wanted to shake her into her senses. She was so much smarter than this. Why was it that guys like Richard with their hair and their eyes could turn even the cleverest girls into emotional wrecks?

"Ron would die for you," said Harry.

"I'd die for him," Hermione retorted, raising her chin.

"Yes, I know," said Harry. "But you can't keep him in the dark like this. And you can't let Richard go on thinking what he does."

"He'll come no matter what I say."

"So it seems. But when he does, you have to tell him that you don't want him. That is –" It was such a wrench to say it, but he managed. "That is, if you really don't want him."

"I don't. On my life I don't, Harry."

"Then finish it."

"Alright." She nodded earnestly.

"And tell Ron."

"But …" Her eyes filled up yet again, and this time she brushed the tears away in frustration. "That's why Ron and I fought. He read both letters before I could. He didn't even shout at me. He just – the way he looked at me – I could hardly bear it. Then he walked out and hasn't come back."

Harry didn't go looking for Ron. He knew his best friend would eventually make his way home. He wasn't a man to run away from things. Deny them maybe, but once out in the open, he wasn't going to turn his back. He'd be back in his own good time. Instead, Harry coaxed Hermione inside (she wanted to stay in the gazebo in case Ron returned there), made her a cup of tea and installed her in Ron's room with a book. She flipped the pages idly, not reading, and Harry found that more disturbing than anything else. Eventually he left her and headed downstairs to wait for Ginny.

She came out of the living room fireplace at half past six in the evening, coughing and ash-streaked.

"What a terrible trip," she said through splutters. "Oh, Harry, there you are."

"Here I am. Come and sit down."

She perched on the arm of his chair and twisted her fingers absently in his hair. "It rained all day and the Floos were so busy. I got stuck halfway between grates somewhere near Sloane Square. It was utterly miserable."

"My poor baby." She bit her lip the way he loved and he pressed a hand to her belly. "My poor baby," he said again, softly.

She took his hand between hers, enlacing their fingers. "How was your day?"

"Uneventful. The flowers are coming at ten o'clock on the day."

"Marvellous."

"Ron and Hermione had a row."

"What's new?"

"Over Richard."

She slid down from the chair arm to his lap. "What happened?"

He told her the story.

"I thought something like this might happen," she said thoughtfully, when he finished.

"Something like what?"

"Boys and Hermione."

"What do you mean?"

"She and Ron have been together for so long. It was bound to come up sooner or later, another guy testing the waters."

"Well, apparently he found them warm."

"Rubbish. You know Hermione would never."
He sighed. "Yeah I know. I'm just worried about her. This Richard – he's a tricky one. I think he's fooled her into thinking he's a nice guy and I don't want her to make a bad decision."

"Hermione doesn't make bad decisions," Ginny said calmly. That was true; or at least, she hadn't yet. "And she said she didn't want him, right?"

"Right. I guess. Just this guy."

"What about him?"

"He's just – you know, really good-looking and intelligent and all those things girls like so much. So smarmy. What if he – I don't know, turns her head?"

"She's probably just confused. She's been with Ron for so long she must have thought occasionally about what it would be like with another man. When a guy actually suggested it, I suppose it threw her into shock or panic or whatever. You know nothing will come of it though. She loves my brother so much there'd never be room for anyone else."

"I just don't know what Ron'd do without her," Harrry said soberly.

She began to chew on her thumbnail, and he batted her hand away. She kissed him quick.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," she sighed. "I've had the most Merlin-cursed day. I might just have to wear my bleeding quidditch robes to the wedding, because the right dress is gone forever."

He rubbed her back sympathetically. "They couldn't help?"

"Unless I want to spend more galleons that we could possibly afford, no."

"I'll pay to …"

"No Harry, we'll need all our money when … for other things … later."

"Oh, right."

She groaned. "I suppose it doesn't matter. I just wanted to look beautiful for you and all our friends."

"You always look beautiful."

"Sod off." He tickled her; she wriggled and laughed.

A polite cough in the vicinity interrupted them. They stopped mid-tickle. Mrs Weasley was in the doorway and she had her old wedding dress in hand.

"Mum?" Ginny said uncertainly.

"Don't say anything just yet, dear," Molly Weasley said. She lifted up the dress so that it fell to its full length in front of her and Ginny's mouth dropped open. The dress, seen like this, was gorgeous and full-skirted. Some of the petticoat layers had been removed so that it looked rounded rather than puffy. There was delicate old lace at the bodice. Mrs Weasley had done something with the neckline, lowered it, and removed the puffed sleeves. It now had no sleeves at all and its rich cream colour seemed almost to glow.

Ginny stood slowly, hand still over her mouth.

"I made some adjustments," said Mrs Weasley, fiddling with the folds of the skirt. "I know how you hated those sleeves, so they were first to go. I just gave it a tidy-up really, and it ought to be your size. You've been having so much trouble I thought – do you like it?"

Ginny was still wordless. She stepped closer to the dress, her eyes moving all over it. Harry watched from his armchair with a stunned smile.

Mrs Weasley was slightly unnerved by their silence. She rattled on about the adjustments she'd made, about how well the bridesmaid dresses from the dress-shop would match, and mostly how all Ginny had to do was say she didn't like it and Mrs Weasley wouldn't bring it up again.

Finally, Ginny touched the dress and spoke.

"Thank you," she said.

Mrs Weasley's eyes widened and Ginny threw her arms about her. "I love it, Mum," she whispered. "May I go try it on?"

"Of course!"

Ginny practically ran from the room, throwing a little smile behind her for Harry.

"Are you alright, Mrs Weasely?" Harry asked.

"I'm fine," she said, dabbing at her eyes.

"Do you want a cup of tea?"

"No, dear." She squared her shoulders. "Well. That's that then."

She swept out of the room and upstairs after her daughter.

Harry grinned and sunk down in his armchair, but the pleasant warmth he felt from this resolution about the dress did not last long.

Minutes later, the kitchen door creaked open and in trudged Ron, soaking wet, broom still in hand. Harry stood abruptly.

"Mate!"

Ron started. "Harry!"

"What are you doing?"

"Er – I went for a fly."

"Yeah, I can see that."

Ron hung his head and rubbed the back of his neck. "Do you know – where Hermione is?"

"In your room," Harry said carefully. "She's been waiting for you to come back."

"Has she?" he said. Harry couldn't pick quite what was in his voice. It was something like resignation and he didn't like that at all.

"She's been in tears all day," Harry went on. "She really wants to talk to you."

"I suppose I'd better get up there, then," Ron said quietly. It was like he thought – Harry didn't know what. The worst? He remembered Ron's words after they met Richard on the street in London. I just can't handle the thought of her leaving me.

He found some words once his friend was halfway up the stairs.

"She's not going anywhere, mate."

Ron paused ever so slightly and glanced at him.

"I hope not," he said fervently.

He took the next few stairs at a jog and was gone.

Harry crossed his fingers for them and thought of Ginny's simple confidence in Ron and Hermione's furious love. She was right, he thought. They'd sort it out. They had to.