In which a key is found, a truth unlocked, and everything threatens to fall apart.

Age thirty-nine, The Bluebell Coffeehouse, Godric's Hollow.

Hermione sipped her latte. It had some sort of fancy name, cinnamon something. The aroma alone made her mouth water. Coffee had always been like that—the smell of it indefinably enticing, until you tasted it. This was actually quite delicious, though. She took another sip. The mug, cupped between both hands on the table in front of her, was hot to the touch. She'd developed quite a taste for hot, steaming sweet drinks.

"The house just felt so empty," Harry was saying. "I couldn't handle it. I need to have you and Ron over for dinner more often."

A smile played about Hermione's lips. "We come over three times a week."

Harry dragged his hand back through his hair, a habit she'd grown accustomed to. "Well, it's empty. I dunno, I'm not used to it. I miss Lily. I mean, I miss all of them," he said hurriedly as Hermione grinned at him, "but you know, for the past two years it's been just her at home during the year. She's my little girl! What am I supposed to do without her?" he asked, looking lost.

Hermione smiled more softly. "I know."

He groaned and put his face in his hands. "Next thing you know, she'll be fighting trolls and playing Quidditch and ignoring the school rules and putting on makeup..."

Hermione laughed. She had no doubt as to which of those things he dreaded the most.

Harry let his hands fall to the table, his glasses slightly askew. He looked at her. "How do I stop it?"

"You don't," she said. "Any more than I can stop Hugo from trying to make his name in the fashion of Fred and George, or the Marauders." She lifted the mug, staring down into it, considering. "I'm not too pleased to be alone, either."

"How d'you mean?" Harry glanced around the little coffee shop, his gaze sweeping easily over the woman in the florid pink dress and hat adorned with a vulture. A chiming bell rang somewhere in the back as a young Muggle couple came in and went up to the counter. Hermione looked up at the little blue flowers in the hanging basket above their table by the window. She really quite liked this place.

"When your note came, I was just...sitting on the landing outside their rooms," she said. She glanced at him. "You know Ron got called in."

"Yeah, that's part of why I owled you."

She smiled faintly. "I was just sitting there, not doing anything. I can't remember the last time I had that little energy, you know? I cleaned all day yesterday and today, there's nothing left to do, no spills to mop up, I don't...it breaks my heart," she said, and felt her eyes sting. "Makes me wonder how my parents did it. Let me go. How do any parents send their children off to boarding school?"

"At least we still have each other," Harry said, grinning lopsidedly. Hermione's heart skipped a beat and she swallowed. He shrugged, gestured with one hand. "The four of us, I mean."

Of course. She nodded. "Yes, that is good."

"How's Ron? Other than at work. How's he taking it?"

"He's used to it already," she sighed. "He grew up with it, though. All of his siblings went off to Hogwarts when they were young; it's a part of his upbringing. I suppose it's just something you accept early on. And Ginny?"

Harry shrugged and grimaced a little. "The same. She mentioned last night that it'll be nice not to have them 'running around underfoot', making messes and being noisy like they were all summer." He rubbed his forehead. "She sees it as a break. I dunno...maybe we're wrong, maybe we should look at it like a vacation, but I don't feel wrong. Do you?"

Hermione shook her head. On impulse, she reached out and squeezed his hand across the table. He looked at her, and she half-smiled. "No."

Harry sat back in his chair, sighing heavily, and stared blankly at their joined hands as he frowned slightly, his thoughts obviously far away. His thumb brushed her palm and she had to close her eyes. Even still. Even now. After everything, after she'd tried to push him out, even though she had a family that they shared and loved. It wasn't fair. Her brother-in-law. And even still.

"Hermione, have you ever wondered...if they weren't...pushed on us, what would have happened?"

Somewhere inside of her, a light shone on a key.

Harry carefully did not look at her eyes. "I mean...I just wanted to say, you and I, we're...we seem to be more similar, I guess, than I've...hell, I'm botching this," he muttered, and shifted in his seat. He did not let go of her hand. "I just think, you know, maybe...if Ron wasn't in the picture, or Ginny, I would...you and I, I think, would've made a good—quite a good thing, I think."

There was a lump the size of a boulder in her throat. The key turned.

"Am I making sense? I sound like an idiot. Do I sound like an idiot?"

She swallowed, or tried to, her eyes wide and stinging, her heart overfull. She couldn't form words. She shook her head, slowly.

Harry finally, hesitantly, met her eyes. "I just...think we could have been something, too, if we hadn't been with...them. We think the same. Have you ever noticed that? It's been bothering me—not bothering me, I've just noticed it over the years, you know? We're...we're good. I'm just trying to say I appreciate having you around when Ginny's...being Ginny." He swallowed. "I'm just...happy you're my friend. Hermione."

She felt weak.

Harry pushed himself back from the table, stood and stretched. "Do you want to walk for a bit?"

She nodded.

He came around and offered her his hand, which she, tremblingly, took. He pulled her to her feet. He was standing very close to her, and her breath quickened involuntarily. She was afraid to look up at him, afraid of what he might see in her eyes; afraid, and breathing very shallowly. Harry didn't let go of her hand, again. "You haven't said anything. Am I a right idiot? I just wanted to...I dunno," he said, sounding worried.

She turned her face up to his and met his anxious gaze. "I'm very glad you're my friend too, Harry," she said, and the words shook as she spoke them. Her legs felt like they might give out. Blood was rushing everywhere all through her, livening her veins. She swallowed. Her throat stuck. His eyes were so green.

She felt something brush her cheek—the backs of his fingers. She was lost in his gaze. Merlin preserve her. This was not good. Oh, god. Ron hadn't looked at her like that since...ever. Oh god oh god oh god oh god. Why wasn't she pulling away? A voice was screaming in her mind, her ears were roaring, her stomach was doing somersaults, and her hands were coming up to touch his face, oh god!

And then he was kissing her, in the middle of a little coffeehouse in Godric's Hollow, blocks from where he lived with her husband's sister and her niece and her nephews, and he was so warm, and his mouth was so tender and his kiss was so careful it felt as though he was afraid to break her, as though she were a fragile piece of glass. And oh, she loved him. Oh, god, this was not, not good. It was good. It was so good. His mouth moved over hers, slowly; his hand came up to touch her cheek, moved forward to brush the side of her neck and slipped into her hair, sending shivers all down her spine. Her skin tingled. She was standing, kissing Harry Potter, someone not her husband, not the father of her two children, not him, not him. Oh god.

He pulled her closer. His arm tightened around her waist. And then he stopped, broke away, let her go, stumbled back a step. Green eyes wide. Breathing—panting. He swallowed—so did she. Opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Swallowed again, looking away, around at the walls, anywhere but at him. This—she couldn't believe how clichéd all this was. She felt ridiculous. And like her blood was on fire.

"H-hell," she stammered. "Ass. Damn it."

Harry burst out laughing.

A startled moment later, Hermione did too. Nervous laughter. She dragged both hands back through her hair, tangling her fingers in it, clutching at the roots. "Wow," she said, swallowed again. "Oh...oh god."

"I am so sorry," Harry gulped. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry."

"Hell, Harry."

"I know!" he exclaimed. "I'm sorry!"

"What...was that?"

"I just—you were—I just—shit," he finished lamely. He spread his hands, half-shrugged.

"You just shit?"

"What—no," he said, and laughed, again. He dragged his hands through his hair. She was still clutching her own. He scrunched his eyes shut. "No. God. Hermione, I'm sorry, that was stupid, I don't even, I don't know where that came from, I've just been—Ginny and I have been—fighting, a lot, lately."

Hermione slowly lowered her arms, letting go of her hair. She stared at him. "What?"

He looked anywhere but at her, his turn to. "We've been fighting. I don't know. I'm sorry. You and I, we've always been, I mean you're always the one I go to when she and I are...and lately, you know, it's been...and with the kids gone, it's like, why are we even..."

"Harry," Hermione was shaking her head, "Harry, no, don't talk like that—"

"It's true, I've been thinking it, I'm serious."

"No—"

"Yes. We're growing apart. We've been married seventeen years. Did you know that's one of the most common times for marriages to fall apart?"

He was spewing statistics at her? "Fall apart? Harry, oh my god, are you and Ginny splitting up? Are you getting divorced? What's—are you serious?"

"I am serious." He was looking at her now.

Oh, god. "And this—THIS was your way of, of telling me?" she asked, her voice rising.

Harry glanced around them nervously. Other people in the coffeehouse were starting to look at them. "Here, let's walk and talk," he said, and came around beside her, taking her elbow to guide her out the door. Dazed, she let him. Out on the sidewalk under the clear blue sky in the sunshine—where had the sunshine come from? It had been grey and overcast and windy all day—she found herself at a total loss for words. At the end of the block she stopped where she stood and turned to him.

"Harry, tell me this isn't just something you decided to do today, suddenly. Are we going to pretend you didn't just kiss me in there?"

He rubbed his face with one hand. "I, er..."

"Because hey, I get that you're on the rocks with your wife. I've been on the rocks with Ron since we were eleven years old. But Harry, what—what are you doing? Hey," she said, and tugged on his sleeve, making him look down at her. She looked up at him. Said again, more quietly, "What are you doing?"