So, this goes against just about every one of my fic-writing preferences. I don't tend to dabble in angst as a backbone for a story, preferring to sprinkle it in for flavor. I also prefer alternate universe/want-of-a-nail stories as opposed to canon-compliant or post-canon stories.
Having said that, this got a fairly positive response on reddit, so who am I to deny a few rabid readers what works for them?
Chapter One: An Expected Engagement
When Harry and Ginny's relationship ended, it wasn't with any amount of fanfare or drama. It wasn't the result of a pitched argument or infidelity brought to light. In fact, it was a rather cordial thing, discussed at length and agreed upon on the night before Ginny was to leave for her training camp, to begin her quidditch career with the Holyhead Harpies.
"It's just…not there anymore, is it?" Ginny pointed out as the pair sat on the Burrow's back porch. The Weasley household was winding down for the night after a raucous celebration of Ginny's new success, and Molly had all but insisted that the family (extended and otherwise) spend the night, as she was wont to do anytime someone stopped in.
The life of an empty-nester was so in polar opposite to what Molly Weasley was used to that she was not taking to it well.
"I didn't know how to tell you," Harry said. "After all the business with…the war and with Fred and… I thought I'd just be heaping something else on you."
"Harry, that's hardly fair to either of us," Ginny chided him, though she didn't seem overly upset with him, at least. "D'you know, I could have been putting myself out there this whole time, meeting blokes and all that?"
"Oh, um…" Harry felt his face heat up, which only intensified when he looked over and saw the playful smile on her face.
"I'm just taking the mickey, you prat," she said. "I could've said something, too, after all. It just would have felt a bit… Well, I spent such a long time wishing and pining and…well, obsessing. And it was lovely, being with you."
"But it never clicked, did it?" Harry asked.
"Exactly," Ginny nodded. "There was never really that spark, I guess? I know it sounds trite – "
"It's not trite, not at all," Harry insisted. "We both… We owe it to ourselves to go for something that clicks, though, right?"
"Has anyone else been clicking lately?" Ginny asked, quirking an eyebrow at him. Harry only laughed, sipping at a cup of cocoa that steamed in the cool night air.
"I'm much too busy to get around to clicking, it seems," he said. "Besides I'm…well, I'm so many things to so many people now."
"The Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, et cetera," Ginny said with a roll of her eyes. "Didn't they try the Boy-Who-Conquered for a short while?"
"I saw to that being stopped," Harry said flatly. "Makes me sound like I just took over Britain myself."
"We could do for the iron rule of Harry Potter, it seems sometimes," Ginny said, giggling when Harry gave her a little shove. "Oi, you'll make me slosh my cocoa!"
They fell into a companionable silence, staring up at the stars. Out in the Devon countryside, far from city lights and high-rises, the sky came to life in a way that Harry rarely saw as of late, a sight that reminded him of Hogwarts. And as always, when he thought of those days, he felt the familiar ache settle into place. Graduating was supposed to be about changing circumstance, about moving on from the old to venture into the new, but his and so many others' passages into adulthood had been permanently marred, sullied and even destroyed by Voldemort's brief but tyrannical reign.
As such, when the rose-colored glasses settled into place, they did so thickly, painting the old with such perfection that Harry couldn't help but long for the familiarity.
"So…are we alright?" Ginny asked after a protracted silence between them. The last dregs of cocoa had grown cold, chunks of chocolate settling and giving the few remaining sips an unpleasant texture. Harry spared Ginny another glance, admiring her in the moonlight. She wore a simple white sundress that gleamed in the night, and Harry couldn't deny that she was beautiful. Many would probably call him mad for choosing to end things with her. But he didn't want a trophy relationship, the kind of celebrity coupling Aunt Petunia had fawned over where both parties had simply settled for a pretty face and pleasant conversation at best.
There had to be more to it than that. Even if he was the very definition of a celebrity among wizards, there had to be.
"Yeah," he finally told her. "We're brilliant. Good luck out there, Ginny."
"You too, Harry," she said, leaning over and planting a warm kiss to his cheek. "Oh, scratchy. Someone needs a shave."
"I'm sorry, I'm so very unkempt," Harry chuckled as she stood. "Turning in?"
"I do have to get up dreadfully early to catch my portkey," she said. "I've already stayed up too late."
"You didn't have to stay out on my account," Harry insisted, and Ginny smirked at him.
"Harry," she said, "just because our romance is in shambles doesn't mean you're not still one of my best friends. Believe it or not, I actually enjoy spending time with you."
"Color me surprised," Harry grinned, and she winked at him.
"You should get some sleep, too," she said. "You could go on a trip with those bags under your eyes."
"Is that a Molly-ism?" Harry asked, getting to his feet as well.
"She spent my whole life spouting them, they've well dug in by now," Ginny said with a longsuffering sigh. Harry moved past her to hold the door open, and they made their quiet way through the kitchen. Despite himself, Harry found he was once again caught up in memories, of his first summer with the Weasleys, of chasing garden gnomes and flying brooms around the paddock, of riotous breakfasts full of the potential of a new day and cozy dinners promising a fully belly to sleep on.
And again, the familiar ache settled in, that longing for simpler times. Harry knew Hermione would scoff at such a notion, telling him that there had been nothing simple about his Hogwarts years and that they had been just as perilous as anything they'd encountered on the horcrux hunt.
He knew, also, that she would have been absolutely right to say so, but feelings and rationale were rare bedfellows.
Huh. He'd have to write that one down.
"You coming, or you taking in the sight of our kitchen?" Ginny asked, pulling him from his doldrums. Shaking himself, he made to follow, flashing a grin at her.
"It is a rather nice kitchen," he said.
"Yeah, we might make the cover of Witch Weekly," Ginny smirked.
"I could probably arrange that," Harry told her. "Almost be worth throwing my name around to see the look on your mum's face."
"Harry Potter, you'd better have a camera ready to catch the look on her face if you do," Ginny said. "I'll want that one framed forever."
ooo
The next day, after stuffing himself with a full English breakfast courtesy of Molly (and feeling full enough to last until supper), Harry flooed back to Grimmauld Place, which he had taken to inhabiting after the war. It had been too much hassle to attempt to buy a home, especially with the wizarding government desperately trying to get its affairs back in order after being briefly overthrown by a dark lord. Walking in with a change of residence form and all of the requisite paperwork would have felt rather gratuitous. Two years later—and many, many cleanings at the hands of several hired crews—he'd rather gotten settled in and was reluctant now to leave.
It was Sirius's last gift to him, surly house-elf notwithstanding; he couldn't bring himself to part with it.
Strolling through his sitting room, he saw Kreacher dusting one of the cabinets full knickknacks that had been deemed safe enough to hang onto. Harry found that Kreacher was much more keen to take care of the house when told that several of the Black family heirlooms were now his and needed to be kept in better conditions.
Sure, Harry could have also just turned the elf loose, but the poor thing would probably drop dead of shock if he did.
"Any letters, Kreacher?" Harry asked, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the stark silence of the house, especially after the bustle of the Burrow.
"Master's Weezy friend sent him a letter," Kreacher said, gesturing to the low table behind him. "Would Master care for tea?"
"Oh, just a cuppa, if you would," Harry said. "I've just been to the Burrow."
Kreacher nodded knowingly at that; even to a house-elf, Molly Weasley's cooking was considered plenty to eat.
Seating himself in one of the many ornate couches in the sitting room, Harry plucked up the letter Ron had sent him, observing that the address had been scribbled rather hastily, the ink even blotting in a couple of places.
"Why don't you start using pens, mate?" Harry muttered to himself as he tore open the missive and unfolded the paper within. More hasty scribbles greeted him, untidy even for Ron's usual scrawl:
Harry,
Mind if we pop by today? I know we just saw you, but we wanted some Trio Time, you know?
Owl us back with Brigitta.
Ron
Concise, as always with Ron. Still, he was playing the "Trio Time" card? In the early days of the fallout of Voldemort's reign, Trio Time had been the phrase Ron had coined for the mini-interventions that had had to be staged for one of their group (usually Harry) when things had gotten somewhat mentally bad. In fact, most Trio Time had been served in this very room, clustered together on this couch and speaking in hushed tones with little eye contact, putting to voice thoughts that they had desperately wanted to bury but needed to air out for the sake of coping, of moving on. Trio Time was special to them, had been the only way any of them had come out of things with at least some semblance of normalcy.
But, as the war had faded into memory, as new experiences had been piled on top and built up in the aftermath, Trio Time had become less common, played off as a joking excuse to hang out as life had become busier for all three of them. And when Hermione and Ron had begun to grow closer and explore their relationship, Trio Time became (to Harry) his way of staying in touch with them. Even now, the letter explicitly referred to them as 'we', as though they had melded together into a single being.
Well…Trio Time was still Trio Time, and Harry had no plans. He rarely ever had plans unless Minerva roped him into some guest teaching spot or Kingsley pulled rank and ordered him to go to a Ministry function.
He had no doubt the pair were working together to make sure the public didn't think he'd died alone in his home. Or to ensure he didn't actually die alone in his home.
Ron,
We're overdue for Trio Time. Come over whenever you'd like. I'll have Kreacher fix some tea.
Harry
Well, it would be nice to let them know about his breaking things off with Ginny. Despite the mutuality of it all, it still stung that he had yet another failed attempt at romance under his belt.
Affixing the short letter to Brigitta's leg, Harry watched the greater sooty owl take off with a businesslike hoot. Brigitta had been a recent birthday gift from Hagrid, who had given Harry the owl with absolutely no denial brooked over the matter.
"Now I know yeh said yeh didn' wan' another one, mind, but yeh'll take this one, yeh understand? I got yeh yer firs' owl, it only hold's fair yeh let me get yeh this one."
Uneasy about replacing Hedwig, Harry had only conceded when Hagrid had voiced his desire to keep in touch with Harry more often. Unable to deny a near-sobbing half-giant, Harry had thanked Hagrid, promising his first correspondence sent with the bird would be to him.
And it had been, a simple letter about the horrible weather.
"Kreacher," he called out, and Kreacher appeared with a sharp crack in the room. "Make that a full afternoon tea, if you please. Ron and Hermione are coming by."
"Of course, Master Harry," Kreacher said with a hobbling bow, which Harry waved off.
"Now, I've said none of the bowing," he insisted. "If Hermione sees you doing that, it'll be my head on the wall."
"Such a thing would be the highest honor – "
"Tea, please, Kreacher," Harry said with a roll of his eyes. "Or would you prefer I make it up myself?"
"No need to trouble yourself, Master," Kreacher said hastily, disappearing with another crack and leaving Harry smirking after him. Harry often volunteered his services in the Black family kitchen, and for the most part, he could cook a decent fry-up, but his tea-making skills were legendary only for how abysmal they were.
Even Hermione insisted he leave it to Kreacher.
With that settled, Harry made for his bedroom. Ron was a notorious lollygagger getting out the door, so he no doubt had plenty of time for a shower and a change of clothes.
…
Music greeted him when he emerged from the shower, floating upstairs from the open door of his sitting room. The two had already arrived, then; Ron was unable to abide the still silence of Grimmauld Place and always started up Harry's record player when he got in. It was one of the few muggle contraptions he'd ever taken the time to learn, which Harry found amusing simply because it was about thrice-outdated at this point.
Still, Harry enjoyed the sound of vinyl, the unsteady crack and pop, the richness of it. Hermione had jokingly called him a beatnik over it, but Harry simply insisted that it was difficult to lose track of a vinyl record, where a CD or cassette could disappear anywhere.
"It doesn't hurt me (Ye-yeah, yeah, yo)
Do you want to feel how it feels? (Ye-yeah, yeah, yo)
Do you want to know, know that it doesn't hurt me? (Ye-yeah, yeah, yo)
Do you want to hear about the deal that I'm making? (Ye-yeah, yeah, yo)"
"Kate Bush, excellent choice," he could hear Hermione saying.
"Sounds like a dragon with a rock stuck in its throat, the music," Ron pointed out, and Harry chuckled as he heard the sound of her swatting him on the arm. "Oi! It only does!"
"It's electronic music," Hermione said. "Synthesized."
"Muggles use electricity to make music?" Ron asked.
"You would have done well to take Muggle Studies," Hermione insisted.
"Could have taught your dad a thing or two," Harry said, striding into the room to the sight of them clustered together on the couch. Kreacher had gone all out (most likely in an effort to send the message that Harry need not trouble himself making tea ever again), and not only was there a three-tiered tray of sandwiches and cakes, but he had also delivered a fancy bowl of macarons along with all of the accoutrements needed to prepare a cup of tea.
Ron, of course, had already gone through several macarons and was devouring a sandwich, though he sprang to his feet at the sight of Harry, throwing his arms out in a grand gesture.
"Harry!" he said. "Congratulate me, mate, I'm engaged!"
"…Oh…"
…
Engaged. It felt such a weird word to even attach to the pair of them. For as long as Harry had been friends with Ron and Hermione, there had always been...well, something going on between them. Equal parts vitriol and affection, Harry hadn't really known what to term it, and so he'd simply followed along with his classmates and assumed they'd fancied each other. After all, he had little metric to measure against. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's relationship was outwardly-focused, spewing hate and derision on others while bonding over a mutual disdain for absolutely everyone. Molly and Arthur Weasley's was a more matriarchal setup, with Arthur the doting husband enforcing Molly's iron rule over the Weasley roost.
He had simply operated under the belief that Ron and Hermione's cutting remarks and scathing verbal sparring matches were just another flavor of the same sentiment. That some couples simply expressed affection through bickering and days-long periods of stony silence.
But now, with Ron raiding the cocktail station in Number Twelve's sitting room to cobble together a celebratory round of drinks, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that something was...off... This didn't feel okay to him. Perhaps it was simply because the announcement had come on the heels of his own breakup, he mused, though that wasn't fair to Ron and Hermione. They had no idea, after all.
"You alright, Harry?" As ever, Hermione could read him like a book (and she read books rather well, meaning she understood people with a scary level of nuance oftentimes), fixing chocolate-brown eyes on Harry from her seat next to him on the sofa. Her cheeks were pink with excitement, wrapped up and swept off in the post-engagement fervor. Still, she always seemed to have time to worry over Harry, even years after there had been anything to worry over.
She still questioned sometimes if he was harboring any grudge against her for breaking his wand, despite the matter having been well closed nearly two years ago.
"No, I mean...yeah, I'm brilliant," Harry said, feeling a strange but familiar nagging in the back of his head. "I'm just...processing this, I suppose. Congratulations."
"Oi, mate, you still got that cinnamon firewhiskey we had for Christmas?" Ron called over.
"Bottom shelf, behind the Butterbeer Dark," Harry told him.
"It still feels a bit surreal, I suppose," Hermione said, raising her left hand and peering at the engagement ring glimmering on her finger. Ron had at least spared no expense now that he was pulling down a considerable salary as an auror. The ring was a gaudy thing, and Harry pondered for a moment that it didn't seem to suit Hermione.
"Seems a bit ostentatious, I think," he said before he could stop himself, and Hermione gave him a funny look.
"You don't like it?" she asked. Harry realized he'd just insulted his best friend's choice of engagement ring for his other best friend.
"I—that's not what I meant to say," he said. "I just... Well, I would have gotten you something a bit more...a bit smaller?"
Hold on, what was he on about?
"If you were the one proposing to me?" Hermione asked softly. Harry felt an odd thud in his chest at her tone, at the confusion but curiosity in her gaze. There was that feeling again, one he associated with Grimmauld Place, strangely enough. "What would you have gotten?"
"Dunno, a...silver band, black diamond," he said, thinking of a ring he'd found upstairs in one of the jewellery cabinets that he'd always thought she would have liked. He'd never been able to think of an occasion to give it to her, however. He met her eyes and saw a glimmer of a smile in them.
His chest gave another thud.
"That sounds beautiful," she said, and for a split-second, Harry could almost hear the awe in her voice as she was presented with his ring, as he slid it onto her finger and heard a breathy "yes" pass her lips as she accepted him.
Hold on, what was he on about?
But then, Ron was there, passing them each a drink and calling for a toast. Harry was, of course, to be the best man ("And I expect a cracking good stag party, mate."), to be front and center while Ron and Hermione swore themselves to each other. Harry was mostly silent throughout the discussion, nodding along and smiling when he felt it was appropriate even as his mind was quite elsewhere. Finally, he had recognized that feeling lurking in the back of his head. It was the same feeling he'd been subjected to when Ron had opened his Hogwarts letter shortly before their fifth year and realized he'd been made prefect. Instead of Harry. A missed opportunity he hadn't even known he'd been dwelling on.
Why wasn't it me?
…
"When you were here before
Couldn't look you in the eye"
He was being ridiculous. Utterly, totally, and completely ridiculous. This was merely an emotional reaction to the abrupt ending of his own Happily Ever After being immediately followed by the start of his best friends'. It was…him feeling the pair of them drifting away from him and to each other. After all, marriage meant more time spent in each other's company, just the two of you. It meant a life together, cohabitating, sharing everything. For the longest time, he'd always imagined Ron and Hermione ending up engaged, married, maybe with a couple of children dashing about a lovely country home.
"You're just like an angel
Your skin makes me cry"
But now that the future was staring him in the face, it felt…wrong. Sure, it had always seemed inevitable, but was it really the best course?
Stop that! You've no place to decide the best course for the two of them!
No, he chided himself, he was just needlessly worried over losing them despite all evidence to the contrary. Ron and Hermione would never.
"You float like a feather
In a beautiful world"
But then what of that feeling of…of missed opportunity? When Ron had been awarded the prefect badge in their fifth year, Harry had, for the first time he could remember, been denied an honor he actually felt he'd earned at some point. It had been an ugly feeling, to be sure, one he wasn't so proud of given Ron's desire to shine in his own right against the beaming glow of his brothers' achievements. But he had felt it, and to pretend otherwise would be lying to himself.
"I wish I was special
You're so very special"
And that selfsame feeling had reared its head again at the news that the pair had gotten engaged. Shock, bemusement…indignation. Why hadn't it been him?
But Hermione wasn't a prefect's badge! She was a person, entitled to make her own decisions. After all, a proposal necessarily included a point where the proposee (was that word?) said yes or no. Hermione's answer had obviously, definitively, been an affirmative.
And why did it matter!? Good for them! The only reason he had to continue to dwell on it was…
"But I'm a creep…"
No…
"I'm a weirdo…"
She'd always been there, unfailingly by his side. Even during the moments when Ron had abandoned him.
"What the hell am I doing here?"
He'd grown so completely used to her presence in his life, had he taken her for granted? Had he gotten so complacent that he'd never even noticed how deep the feelings ran?
"I don't belong here…"
But that was—there was no way! Hermione was his best friend, the most solid rock ever to be in his life. At no point, ever, had her loyalty to his wellbeing faltered, even when that loyalty had put them at odds during his more stubborn teenage years.
You idiot, you're only giving reasons why you should fancy her!
Well, a fat lot of good it would do him now, literal hours after their engagement announcement! They were apparently content to wait until the glow of Ginny's new career faded so as not to steal her thunder, but they had wanted Harry to know as soon as possible.
How thoughtful of them.
But no, he was being ridiculous. That was the mantra in his head, and for an amusing moment, he could hear Lupin in his mind.
"Once more, very clearly…"
"Ridiculous," he said to himself with a small chuckle. Standing, he felt himself stumble ever so slightly. Ron had insisted on a second round and gone a little heavy on the Ogden's, and despite the fact that it was only noon, Harry felt that a nap would do him well.
Of course, he mused. He just needed to sleep on it, after all.
When he awoke, sober and perhaps in need of a Pepper-Up Potion, it would all make sense.
…
It made no sense. It somehow made less sense.
Upon awakening to an overcast sky and a dreary mist of rain pelting Grimmauld Place's windows, Harry waved his wand to set the lamps aglow in his room. The fire had died down to orange embers, and the ornate clock near the door told him that it wasn't yet two. Kreacher had thoughtfully left a Pepper-Up Potion on his bedside table, which Harry downed in one swig, sitting up and heaving a long sigh.
"Bugger," he muttered to himself.
He fancied Hermione. Chuckling to himself at his own blistering stupidity, he nonetheless had to admit the truth. This wasn't about losing a friend, it wasn't about watching the pair of them drift away and to each other. It was him having been too much the fool to realize that he had feelings for her until it was effectively too late.
And, well…that was it, he told himself. There was nothing to be done about it. He could fret and whine and want Hermione all to himself, but that didn't change anything.
"Bugger," he repeated.
He fancied her. Hermione. How had it not been patently obvious before? Only now, thinking of the way she laughed at his ridiculous jokes, the proud sort of smile she got on her face when he actually got out of his own way and did something brilliant, even the appreciative looks given to him when he turned up to formal affairs dressed in tailored wear and actually cleaned up. At any point in the nine years he'd known her, he could have sprung this epiphany on himself, but as usual, it took a metaphorical slap in the face, a ring and an engagement announcement, for him to see it.
And, again, he reminded himself that there was nothing for it. She was engaged. That was that.
"…Bugger."
I rather enjoy writing adult/bachelor Harry, and it's been fun adding quirks here and there.
As always, I welcome feedback and do indeed thrive on it.