A/N: Ok, I know you guys probably want these chapters even longer than this one (I swear, I am paying attention to your comments! Keep 'em coming!), but it just … I was having difficulty deciding which section I wanted next, and this was it, and it just … well, just read it and let me know what you think. And I'm sorry it took me so long.
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling is a golden goddess.
It's hot.
No, it's boiling.
Hermione kicks back the sheets and fans her face. Why is she so hot? She doesn't even know why.
And she's starving.
She creeps out of her room quietly. The light in Harry's room is off. She sighs. She should apologise at some point. She snapped at him during dinner, and she doesn't even know why. All he was doing was telling her that she—how had he put it? That she looked beautiful. That her skin was positively glowing. And she had told him not to try and make her feel better, that she knew she was starting to look like a house, and he had kept insisting, quite stubbornly, actually, that she was beautiful. And she had told him he was lying, and he had stopped even trying to talk, and he had flicked his wand at his plate, sending it over to the sink, and they had watched it clean itself in complete silence. And he had stood up, given her one last look—it hadn't been angry, even, just frustrated—and he had locked himself in his room.
She walks into the kitchen, and pulls out crackers and cheese. Protein, Harry's voice says in her head. I'm getting my bloody protein, she responds irritably. This cheese has loads. Bugger off. She sighs and eats a cracker, watching the crumbs spill across the plate.
She hears noise coming from his room, and pads quickly down the hallway. Opening his door, she finds him lying on the bed, the blankets balled up in his fists, and he's moaning, "No, please no -"
"Harry?"
she whispers tentatively, walking forward. "Harry, are you all
right?"
He doesn't respond, but continues to toss and turn.
She reaches out and touches his hand gently, and he grabs her wrist
impulsively, his eyes widening. She lets out a little gasp and tries
to pull her hand away, but he grips her wrist tighter.
"Hermione?" he whispers, pulling her body closer to identify her face.
"What's wrong?" she asks even more quietly. Her face is so close to him she could kiss him. She could, but she won't. She can't really. But she wants to. God how she wants to. "What happened?"
He shakes his head, and she reaches out slowly, pushing some of the sweaty hair out of his face. "I had a nightmare," he says, breathing deeply. "It was about—about the baby." He pauses. "And you."
"What happened?" Hermione asks, sitting down. She feels slightly nervous, sitting here. The last time she was actually on this bed, she had been kissing him, hard and long and without any hesitation. Now, she's just having difficulty sitting so close to him and remembering to breathe.
"The baby was—it was beautiful. And I was holding it in my hands, and you were looking up at it, too. And then -" Harry swallows. "Voldermort just appeared, and he snatched the baby from me, and you were screaming, and I ran at him, and he – he killed the baby." Harry looks away. "And then he killed you."
Hermione shivers, putting her hand to her mouth, and Harry looks back at her. He looks scared, more scared than she's ever seen him. He never looked like this at Godric's Hollow. All that had been in his eyes then was hatred—hatred for the man—no, the thing—that took his mother and father away. Not once did she see in his eyes the fear that filled them now.
Hermione reaches for his hand, and slowly, carefully, puts it to her stomach. She breathes in, breathes out. And he breathes with her. And somewhere inside of her, their child is breathing.
Hermione doesn't say anything, and neither does Harry. They don't have to. They just understand.
After a few minutes, Hermione pulls away slightly. "I should probably get back to bed," she says. "If you need me—tell me, all right?" She starts to get up, but he grabs her hand again, looking up at her.
"Please," he says quietly. "Can you just stay here tonight? Please?"
Hermione looks at him slowly, distrustfully. But all there is in his eyes is fear. Fear of losing her.
She slides next to him in the bed. He lies back down on the complete opposite side, and takes her hand. And he just holds it tightly in his own, and she squeezes back, until his breathing steadies and she knows he's asleep.
She rolls over onto her side, still holding his hand, just looking at him. His brow is furrowed, like it always is when he's thinking. How can he possibly be thinking while he's sleeping? And what is he thinking about? Her?
She moves onto her back again. Her hand feels safe in his, and she doesn't want to let go. Ever.
She's in love with him.
What?
"No," she says quietly into the darkness that surrounds them.
There is no way. Maybe there's—something there, but it can't possibly be anything more than—well, they've known each other for so long, so it's probably just some sort of typical situation, where you start loving your best friend—and besides, just because she's lying here next to him, holding his hand—that shouldn't mean anything to her, right?
She's in love with him.
No. That's not possible. It can't be.
Can it?
No. There's no way.
I'm in love with him.
And all of the feelings she's been holding at bay overflow, and she starts to cry, very quietly. The tears stream backwards, across her temples, into her ears, her hair. She looks over at Harry, with his furrowed brow, and she wants to kiss him. And
she doesn't know why. She doesn't understand why she feels like this. Why she thinks about him so often. Why she doesn't feel like she can say anything right anymore. Why she feels her heart melt every time he spouts off facts about pregnancy. Why she doesn't want him to leave for work in the morning. Why she's so glad when he comes back. She doesn't understand why she cares so much now. Why she has all of the feelings she had for him before, but now she has more feelings, different feelings, tangled up with all of the emotions from before, and her heart just can't handle it. She's stuck between loving him the way she always has and loving him in this new way, and it's just too much, and she doesn't really know what she can do—or if there is anything she can do.
Can she just tell herself to stop, before this gets too hard? Can she command herself to stop looking at him the way she does now? Can she make all of this go away?
Hermione studies his face, still sniffling slightly. A single tear slides down his cheek, and she wants to know why he's crying. She wants to fix his problems, wants to tell him that everything is Ok. She wants to tell him she loves him. She wants him kiss her forehead before she goes to bed. To buy her flowers and send her cute messages via Hedwig and … and she wants him to love her, too.
She must stop this. Before it goes to far. She has to close of that section of her mind, right away. Before anything else happens. Before she ruins everything she has had with this boy, over some stupid little crush. Because that's all this is, isn't it? A crush. He was drunk. It was a mistake. None of this was supposed to happen.
But now that she's here … how can she want it any other way?
When he wakes up, he feels something heavy on his chest. And when he opens his eyes, there is a tangle of curly hair near his face, and someone is breathing lightly onto his skin, and there is a hand in his.
And he knows who it belongs to.
He breathes in her scent. A combination of spices and flowers and … something else. Something he can't quite put his finger on. A smell he can't quite describe but has been a part of Hermione since before he could remember. Since the very beginning, this smell has been her trademark. And he can't explain it. But he wants to know what it is. How she can always smell so positively wonderful.
They're breathing at the same pace, and Harry sighs a little, looking out the window. It's still dark out. It's four in the morning. The darkness is beautiful. And the girl holding his hand is beautiful.
And the last time he told her that, she bit his head off.
But she is. He can't pretend he doesn't see it. He can't pretend that seeing her doesn't affect him in a way he never felt before. It's indescribable, wonderful, bizarre, ridiculous … amazing. Just by looking at her, he feels so many different emotions, and he never knew they could all be felt all at the same time. And it's crushing him, really. Because he knows when she looks at him, all she sees is Harry. Even with his baby inside of her, all she sees is her best friend. Even the way she handles this situation—living in the same apartment, eating dinner together—she treats it as if it's nothing to her. As if it's just nine months she has to get through and then she can go. And things can go back to normal.
But can they? Now that he feels all these things, can he really allow everything to go back to the way it was? What was it like before, anyway? He doesn't even remember how he and Hermione interacted when there was nothing. Was there always a chemistry that was there? Was it better when neither of them knew it existed? What if he's always had these feelings? Why did they all come out now?
Harry shakes his head and closes his eyes. He doesn't want to believe things will go back to normal. He wants to believe that this moment is real. That she loves him as much as he loves her.
The sun creeps into the room, reflecting off the photographs on Harry's dresser, slowly spreading across Harry's bed.
Hermione stirs, and so does Harry. And they open their eyes at the same time, to find themselves looking straight at each other.
They could pull away. They were just sleeping, right? Harry's arm around her waist, Hermione's hand on his chest, their free hands still clasped together—it just happened. They could break apart.
But they don't. If anything, Harry's grip tightens.
And they just lie there for a few seconds. Just a few more seconds of this fantasy before they sink back into reality. They're friends. That is all they can be.
Right?
"Hey," Harry says quietly, smiling
slightly.
Hermione smiles back. "Hey," she repeats, looking straight into his eyes. Those big green eyes. Can he read her mind? Can he feel how fast her heart is beating?
"I'm sorry if I worried you last night," says Harry slowly. "I didn't mean to. It was just a stupid dream -"
"It wasn't stupid," Hermione cuts him off. "Don't ever say that. It wasn't stupid."
They don't say anything for a while.
Harry's clock goes off, and they jump apart in surprise. The moment is gone. Whatever was there is gone. They are just Harry and Hermione—nothing more, nothing less.
Harry turns away from her to switch the clock off. He wishes he could just turn around, kiss her and tell her how much she means to him. He wishes she would tell him she feels the same way.
Hermione studies his back. She wants to believe there's something there.
But she knows there isn't. There can't be. He would never, ever look at her like that. And she can feel tears coming to her eyes, and she can't let him see. So she gets up off the bed slowly, walking out of the door.
Harry turns back, watching her go. Her hair trailing down her back. Her skin is glowing. She's beautiful. "Hermione?" he hears himself calling after her.
She stops in his doorway.
"Yes?"
He pauses. The words are at the tip of his tongue: I love you, Hermione. He could say it right now, make his declaration.
He could, but he won't.
"Thanks," he finally says.
Hermione looks over her shoulder. And she smiles. And her eyes are glistening slightly, and he doesn't know why. He doesn't know what he did, what happened.
"Harry?"
"Yes?"
She could tell him. Open her mouth and let it all come out. She could say it.
She could, but she won't.
"You're welcome."
And then she's gone.
When she reaches her room, she closes the door, pressing her forehead against it and sobbing silently.
It shouldn't hurt this much.
Why does he mean so much in so many different ways right now? Why can't it just stay the same, uncomplicated?
There is just one thin wall between them. Harry's lying on his bed still, his face buried in the spot her body was just moments ago. Her warmth is still there, her scent filling him. Consuming him. How much more can he take?
Hermione slides down to the floor, her face in her hands.
Can they make it through this? Will their friendship last something as big as this?
His child. Her child. Their child. Breathing in, breathing out.
He grips the sheets in his hands.
His child. Her child.
She puts her hand to her stomach.
Their child.
And they breathe in.
And they breathe out.
