CHAPTER FOURTEEN: I'M MOVING ON
Dumbledore motioned for Remus to join him outside, leaving Harry and Hermione inside the room, stewing in their own thoughts.
This is torture, Harry thought. I shouldn't be here. What the hell is she doing here? He was shocked to see his former wife after so long.
Hermione was suffering, too. The silence was killing her.
"Why don't we go upstairs and see what we could find?" she suggested quietly.
"No, Hermione, let's not." Harry got to his feet and started to pace. "We need to talk."
Still sexy as ever, Hermione realized as he stood before her. His dark hair was falling into his troubled eyes, his lean body was stiff, and his shoulders were hunched as he tried desperately not to look at her.
"About…" Hermione pressed.
"What the hell happened to you? One day, you were here with me, kissing, laughing, playing with our kids, making love. And the next there's someone at my door telling me my wife is dead! I believe it, mourn you, thinking I'd lost you forever, only to come here seven years later to see you in the kitchen, talking to everyone, as if you had been doing it every day of your life, which was supposed to have ended suddenly a long time ago. Where the hell did you go? Why did you leave me?" He stopped pacing long enough to send her a look, full of years of hurt. Her heart broke.
"Harry, I didn't want to leave. I wanted to be here with you, kissing, laughing, playing with our kids, making love. Really, I did. But I didn't get a choice. I was told that I was Ol' Voldy's next murder attempt, that he was coming after me to get at you. I tried to stay. I tried to say I wanted to face him. I loved you and the kids, and I wanted to stay. I was going to die, Harry! I did it to save myself so I could be around for you in the long run. I left, I waited in Texas for the all clear signal, saying I could come home. But it never came. Years went by, and I heard no word from anybody. It took me forever before I realized I wasn't going back. I went on with my life. I got myself a career I liked, I got married, I divorced, and I got married again. I'm perfectly happy being Brad's wife, and I love my career. I love performing, and I love my life there. Harry, I'm sorry, but I couldn't just sit there, waiting for a ship that would never come in. What did you expect me to do?"
Harry stopped and looked at her. You really don't love me anymore, do you? You have totally forgotten about me, he thought bitterly.
"What did you say your husband's name was?" Harry asked, suddenly understanding why a certain American pop star had always given him butterflies.
"Brad. Brad…"
"Mason." Harry supplied.
"How did you know that?"
"We get American entertainment news over here. I saw Sandy Willows married Brad Mason on TV years ago. I always looked at her and got goose bumps for unknown reasons. Now I know why. It was my own wife I was looking at, married to another man." A look of extreme pain came through his eyes.
"Hermione, did you ever even think about us? What you and I had? Did you ever see me when you were in bed with another man? Did you ever think of me?"
"Yes. I thought of you, a lot of the time feeling incredibly guilty. I saw you when I was with another man. I thought of you a lot. And I missed you. I wanted to know how you were doing, how Charlie and CeCe were doing. I was doing that when Dumbledore came to get me tonight. I missed you Harry. It took me a long time before I could kiss and make love without feeling guilty."
Harry walked over to the window, put his hand high up on the trimming, and stood there looking out. He was sad, Hermione could tell. It was in his body language. It hit her that Hermione had never really stopped loving him, she had simply forgotten that fact. He was in a suit, his white shirt untucked, his jacket open and ruffled, his tie loosened. The same instincts she had had when she was a teenager came over her again. She wanted to cross the room to him, slip her arms around his still impossibly sexy body, and relieve him of the cares he harbored. But that action was reserved for the pleasure of his wife, something she no longer was.
"You know," Harry said in a low voice, "I never did stop loving you. Never. I could have the most gorgeous woman in the world next to me in bed, and quite often I thought I did, and we'd be having one hell of a night, until I'd be reminded of you, then her kisses and her fingers meant nothing to me. They weren't affectionate and caring. There was no love in her kisses. Nothing. She, no matter who she might have been, wasn't you, and therefore wasn't good enough. She was just some faceless person to me. You are," he turned back to Hermione, "the only, one and only, woman I have ever loved. I see now that love seems to have been wasted."
He crossed the room to her, felt her soften as he put his hands on her shoulders. He crushed his mouth to hers, letting all of his anger, fear, resentment, and hurt pour into the kiss. For what he thought would be the last time ever, he put his arms around her, deepening the kiss, trying to make sure that the risk he was taking by kissing her was well worth it. He kissed her until she was weak and breathless in his arms. He let her go, still savoring her taste, and said, "I hope to hell that keeps you up at night."
He turned his back to her, walked to the door, pulled it open, and called for his kids. She let him leave, didn't bother trying to stop him. He did not yet know how true his parting words would become.