A/N: Ok, I know you guys are all upset about me setting it up so that Harry and Hermione are taking their time. But think about it: look how long Harry and Cho took, Harry and Ginny, Ron and Hermione. Do you REALLY AND TRULY think Harry and Hermione would accept it—the real Harry and Hermione?
Anyway, here's the next chapter … pretty speedy, eh?
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling, the most wonderful woman alive, owns the characters. The plot comes out of my own mind.
Hermione paces around her room in circles, hands on her stomach and tears on her cheeks.
There is a wall that divides them. Just feet away, Harry is lying. Is he sleeping, or is he awake, too? Is it time for her to tear down that wall and force him to accept their bond?
She sits down on a chair, closing her eyes. She wishes she could fall asleep, rid herself of these memories that keep flashing before her eyes, the voices in her ears.
Harry – you're a great wizard, you know.
The troll.
Are you going to report me?
Harry conjuring the Polyjuice Potion.
I know it is, Harry, so will you please stop biting my head off?
The portrait of Sirius's mother.
Expecto Patronum! Hermione, help me! Expecto Patronum!
The chessboard.
Well, I was lucky once, wasn't I? I might get lucky again.
Fighting in the Ministry of Magic
Hermione – I need you to help me.
Meeting Sirius in Hogsmeade
Hermione, we know Millicent Bulstrode's ugly, no one's going to know it's you.
The Time-Turner.
But you'll notice I decided to engrave the date on bits of metal rather than on our members' skin.
The final battle.
The words he had said to her, as the three of them had waited for Voldermort and his cronies to arrive. Ron had been spacing out, staring out at the horizon from the rubble of the house.
"It's not dying that I'm afraid of," he had said as the wind began to pick up and the clouds spread across the sky, "but rather the idea of not taking him with me." He had hesitated, studying the back of Ron's head and then looking into Hermione's eyes. "And I'm scared of leaving you."
"You're not going to leave us,
Harry."
"But if I do—you know I love you both, don't you?
I never really said it, but I do. Honest."
She had squeezed his
hand tightly. "I love you, too, Harry," she had said softly.
It's amazing to her how those three simple words can take on such a completely different meaning. Hermione shakes her head.
One last memory comes to mind.
And it might have been a good idea to mention how ugly you think I am, too.
But I don't think you're ugly.
He may have felt that way so many years ago, but how did he feel about her now? Does he think she's … beautiful?
Hermione gets up again. She walks into her closet, turning on the light. She pulls a green Muggle sweater from one of the hangers. A sweater she had stolen from Harry a few years ago. She smells it. It smells more like her and less like him. She wants to give it back to him and tell him to wear it for a few months and then steal it again.
She pulls it over her head. The sweater is well worn, soft against her skin. True, it's a bit too warm for the beginning of May, but it doesn't really matter.
She sits back down on the chair.
She kissed Harry.
She feels goose bumps rise on her arms.
She kissed Harry.
And she pulled away.
"Idiot," she whispers to herself. It was stupid of her to tell him that she did it because her mind was on her father. It had been on her father, but more on what he had said to her.
I saw me, walking you down the aisle. I lifted the veil and I kissed your cheeks, and I watched you turn towards your future husband, and I knew it was the right thing to do. I knew, without any doubt, that Ha—that he was the one you were meant to be with.
And just before she had kissed Harry, she had gotten a very clear image of her father, kissing her cheek, and she had watched herself turn towards him, wearing a white dress and carrying a bouquet of Calla Lilies.
And then she had kissed him, and she had forgotten about thinking. All she could think about was the warmth of his lips, the gentle way he held her head, the—
"Stop it," she says aloud. What good is it? She's just putting herself through more pain. Why, why did she pull away?
She knows the answer. It's because she was scared of what would come next. What if Harry didn't mean anything by it? What if he was kissing her back out of pity?
She was scared.
Scared of the future.
Scared of being hurt.
Scared of the truth.
She touches her stomach again.
Who would've thought something that didn't even weight eight pounds could have such an impact?
----------------------
Harry splashes water on his face, breathing heavily. He didn't sleep last night. He studies the bags under his eyes. He looks bloody terrible. And he knows she didn't sleep last night either. He could hear her moving around in the room, walking in circles. He even heard her talking to herself. She can blame it on her thoughts about the baby, or the size of her belly, or the pelvic pressure from the baby's engagement, but he knows it's more than that. He has to believe that, at some point last night, she was thinking about him. Wasn't she? Wasn't she?
He pads down the hallway. He can see her feet by the doorway, and he hesitates. Her face is pressed to the door, her heart beating so fast. She can barely breathe, but he doesn't know that. She steps away after a few moments, and he keeps walking towards the kitchen. He studies the sink. Last night, he kissed Hermione. Well, technically she had kissed him. And it felt just as good as it had the other times. This isn't a hoax. He hasn't gone mental. There was something there. He glances at the wall. And there. He remembers lifting her up and pressing her against it as she wrapped her legs around him. He can see the couch. And there. He looks back towards his room. The bed. I think I'm in love with you, Hermione Granger. And there.
He opens the refrigerator door, suddenly ravenous. He pulls out the marmalade, the bread, eggs, tomatoes …
"Good morning," a quiet voice says.
Harry slams the door to find Hermione standing behind it. He glares at her for a moment before turning away. He gets out the frying pan and cracks three eggs into the pan.
"Harry -"
"Good morning," he says abruptly. He refuses to look at her. He doesn't know why he's so angry with her. Maybe it's just that he's angry with himself. For not telling her sooner. For letting it come to this. Stupid, stupid, stupid. But he's frustrated with her, too, for not accepting it—for not admitting that she knows that they can't do this without each other. He can tell she's going to just play innocent, and that's pathetic, and it hurts him, because it means that maybe the kiss didn't affect her as much as he knows it has affected him. Or is it that she just doesn't care at all? Maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe she kissed him simply because she was under a lot of emotional stress and—no. He knows that isn't true. He has to believe that what he felt, from the way she kissed him, how tightly she clung to him, that there was something more than emotional baggage. He watches the eggs cook over the high heat. He's sure they'll burn soon, but it doesn't matter. He'll shove them down anyway, because he's hungry. He's hungry for food and Hermione—and, since he doubts that he'll ever get Hermione, because she's pushing away from him, he'll stick with the food, whether it's burnt or not. And all of these thoughts are flying through his head, and he knows they don't make any sense at all and he just doesn't care. He touches his wand to four slices of bread, and it turns into toast. He spreads the marmalade onto it, tossing it onto a plate. He can feel her eyes on him but he forces himself not to look at her.
Hermione finally sits down at the kitchen table, resting her face in her hands. She knows how angry Harry is with her. And he should be. She knows she deserves it. But does he have to make it so bloody difficult for her?
Hermione winces as pain shoots through her body. It's been getting steadily worse since yesterday night. Braxton Hicks contractions or whatever Harry called them.
She saw how tired he looked when he shut the refrigerator door. Does that mean he had spent the whole night pacing like she had? Waiting … waiting …
Stop it.
Hermione wills herself to stop thinking about all this. She just can't do it. It hurts too much, this waiting in agony. She can't allow herself to become vulnerable—not now.
The baby kicks gently.
Harry carries his plate over to the table, sitting at the opposite end. "Are you hungry?" he asks, his fork hesitating over the food.
He's asking his bloody eggs if they're hungry, because he's still refusing to look at Hermione.
"Not yet," she finally says, waiting for him to raise his head, just once.
But he doesn't. He digs into his food. And she just watches him. She wants to tell him everything. But how can she do that when he won't even talk to her?
Harry finishes his meal in a matter of minutes. He stands up and carries his plates to the sink.
"How—how did you sleep?" she finally asks, leaning back in her chair.
Harry puts his plates down. "Don't," he says quietly, keeping his back to her.
"Don't what?" Hermione winces again.
"Don't—don't pretend nothing happened last night. Don't act like everything is terrific and don't pretend this is the most awkward we've ever been together."
"Harry -"
"And don't tell me you're sorry about last night," Harry says, turning around. "Because I'm not, and I know if you were telling the truth, you'd admit that you don't regret it either."
"Harry, I wasn't really thinking, and -"
"So that's it then, is it? You can't just chalk this up as flawed judgement, Hermione!"
Hermione stands up. "What is there to do, Harry? I can't—we can't—it's just … we can't do this. You know that."
"What are you so afraid of, Hermione?"
Hermione clutches her stomach as a searing pain explodes through her body. "I'm not scared, Harry. There's nothing here for me to be scared of."
"If you weren't scared, you wouldn't have pulled away."
"What, so you think just one kiss will solve everything, do you? It's not that easy."
"And it doesn't have to be this complicated, either. You've always done this."
"I've always done what? Thought things through? I'm not like you, Harry. I can't just dive right in all the time. My cautious approach has saved your ass several times. I am pregnant, and you know what? I think it's Ok if I handle things your way."
"Why are you acting like this? I hate it!"
"I don't care if you don't like it, Harry! All right? In case you've forgotten, I'm bloody pregnant from just 'letting things happen'!"
Harry studies the tears on her face, the defiant glare, and he says it, without even thinking. "I love you."
Hermione takes a step back. "W-what?"
"I love you," he repeats.
"Oh, Harry -"
Hermione lets out a yelp.
"Hermione? What is it?"
She collapses into the chair.
"Hermione?"
"Harry,
I—I think -"
"Hermione, what's going on? Are you all right?"
"Harry, I think I'm going into labour."
A/N: I know you're all ready to kill me at this point. But—I just couldn't do this any other way. I'm sorry. Forgive me. And stay on the edges of your seats for just a little while longer!
