Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Notes and Memoirs

Harry held the red notebook in his hands, peering at piece of foled up parchment he had glued to the blank page at this very spot. It was a note Hermione had written to him all those years before. Every time he read her words, Harry marveled at how stupid he had been by sleeping with her on that night. Hermione should have been off limits to him, especially so soon after they had buried Ron. Yet he had done it. Rather, they had done it. Hermione freely admitted that she was just as much at fault for what they had done that night as he had been. He took solace in the fact that she felt just as stupid about it as he did.

Harry's thoughts turned to the present, wondering how his life would have turned out if they had not slept together that night. Would his life be the same now? Would Hermione still be the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, or would they just be friends as they had always been? The way Dumbledore had explained it, Harry's relationship Hermione was meant to be what it had become. He had fallen in love with her for the same reasons that he had fallen in love with Ginny, and considering that they already had a strong bond of friendship it was quite possible that this love went far deeper. Things would have been different had either Ron or Ginny or both not been killed at the Battle of Hogwarts, of course. Sadly, that was not how things had turned out, and the more Harry thought about it, he could not deny that Dumbledore's logical conclusion seemed to fit perfectly.

Harry read the contents of the parchment once more before setting the notebook on the desk.

Dear Harry,

By the time you read this, I will be gone. There are things that I need to think about for a little while, and I'm not sure if I will be able to do that if I stay with you. Please understand, Harry, that I don't blame you for what happened between us last night. I think we both know that it was a mistake, but it was a mistake that we both made. I must ask you to please not try to find me right now. I just need some time. I need to find my parents and figure things out. I promise we will talk about this soon. Please forgive me Harry. I hope you can understand.

Love,

Hermione

Harry had woken up the morning after sleeping with Hermione to find her gone and that note left on her pillow. He spent much of that day reading and re-reading the note over and over again. He did not, however, need it to make him regret sleeping with her. It was a mistake, just as her note said. He had known that almost from the moment he had woken up and remembered what they had done the night before.

As he read the note over and over again, the same series of thoughts and emotions ran through his head over and over again. At first, he could not help but feel angry at himself for being such a prized idiot. A small part of him was also angry at Hermione for running away and leaving this hanging between them, although his anger with her quickly subsided. He could not really blame her for leaving, because in the end, she was right. They both needed time away from each other to think about and try to understand what had happened.

Unfortunately, the answer to the question of what had possessed him to even kiss Hermione in the first place and why had he allowed things to go so far, was eluding him. It was true that they had grown increasingly closer to one another over the past few days, but this was nothing more than two friends supporting each other in a time of mutual need. He had never thought of Hermione in that way before. She had always been his friend and nothing more. As far as he knew, Hermione never seemed romantically interested in him either. She had always been more interested in Ron.

So, why had they done it? What reasons could there possibly have been for them to have do all of those oh so wonderful things last night. No matter how hard he tried not to let it happen, Harry's thoughts would travel across everything he and Hermione had done the previous night. It had all been so amazing and felt so wonderful. If he had not felt any desires for Hermione before, Harry hated to admit that he now seemed to be having those feelings now. It was almost impossible to get the thought of Hermione's naked body out of his head, and like any normal guy his age Harry wanted to do all of those things again, particularly that one little thing Hermione had done. Where had she learned how to do that? he wondered to himself. It wasn't something one would normally have expected from Hermione Granger. Not that he was really complaining.

The more Harry thought about each and every moment of pleasure, the more consuming those thoughts became, almost to the point where he could think of nothing else…almost. Inevitably, Harry's lustful thoughts would turn to Ginny. All of those things he had done with Hermione were things that he should have been doing with Ginny, and Hermione should have been doing them with Ron. Then, the guilt would set in.

Harry felt as though he had cheated on Ginny. Not only that, he had betrayed Ron too. What made Harry feel even more terrible was that he knew Hermione had to be feeling the same way he was. What was worse, sleeping with her had put their entire friendship in jeopardy. Could things between them be salvaged? Could they remain friends after this? Harry had serious doubts about any of this, and even if they could get past what had happened, from here on out, his relationship with Hermione would never be the same. No matter what her note said, he felt that all of this was his fault.

At this point, Harry would invariably read Hermione's note again, hoping to glean some kind of idea what she was thinking or feeling, and most of all, looking for some glimmer of hope that things between them could some how be okay. Each time he read the note, he could find nothing that could give him this hope. Then, the cycle of thoughts would begin again.

What Harry really wanted was someone he could talk to, but there really was no one. Dumbledore or Sirius would have been good choices. They were the closest thing to father figures that Harry had ever known. The idea of talking to Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon was laughable at best. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were also out of the question. He could not bring this sort of thing to them. The shame would be too much for Harry to bear. He thought of going to Hagrid with this. He would listen with a nonjudgmental ear, but Harry had serious doubts as to whether Hagrid could offer him any kind of meaningful advice. "Jus' give it time Harry," Hagrid would say, "an' you n' Hermione'll be alrigh'." This sort of thing was not what Harry was looking for. He wanted someone who would listen like Hagrid but who could also offer him some kind of real guidance. The funny thing was, if Harry had slept with any other girl, his first choice for someone to talk to would have been Hermione. She would have listened to him and then offered some very logical and rational advice, the kind that he needed to hear.

Night had fallen before he finally decided that this endless circle of internal debate was getting him no where. It only served to make Harry feel worse about what he had done. So, he gave up trying to figure everything out and went to bed, praying that he would feel better in the morning.

After an almost sleepless night, in which he was repeatedly woken up by the same dream, Harry started out the next day looking for something occupy his time and keep his mind from delving into the events of two nights before. The only thing he could come up with was Hermione's suggestion to redecorate the house. Altogether, it wasn't that bad of an idea really. The house desperately needed it. Plus, it was something that would presumably take several days, even weeks to finish, giving Harry the time he desperately wanted.

He found Hermione's list of decorating ideas left on the kitchen table where she had left it the night before. Almost as soon as he started reading it, Harry quickly began to realize that he was in over his head. His head began swirling as he tried to wade through the list. There must have been a hundred different ideas that Hermione had scribbled down. In his life, he had faced a dragon, killed a basilisk, fought off a horde of dementors, and defeated Lord Voldemort, but figuring out how he wanted to decorate his house was absolutely beyond Harry.

Finally, he decided that painting the walls of the house would do for now. He chose beige for the walls and white for the trim. He remembered seeing those colors on the covers of Aunt Petunia's old decorating magazines. They seemed warm and inviting, as well as a simple and easy choice which was ended up being not quite as simple a choice as he would have hoped. When he went to a nearby muggle paint store, he found out that there were at least two dozen different colors that were called beige, some of which looked almost indistinguishable from another, while others bore absolutely no resemblance to the color beige at all, and as for white, Harry could not even begin to fathom exactly how many different colors of white there were. It didn't stop at shades of beige and white either. There was also a whole range of different kinds of paints that he could use. Then, there was all the equipment: brushes, rollers, drop cloths, masking tape, and even a "how to guide" on painting. When he finally got everything back to Number Twelve (quite a feat in itself), Harry set himself to work.

He started painting in the entry way to the house. It was small and should have offered him a good place to start. Harry followed all of the instructions in his new little book on painting, put masking tape over everything, laid down the drop cloths, and after spending more than an hour just preparing the room to paint, he was ready to start.

What happened next was an utter disaster. Apart from the fact that the walls looked terrible, Harry had stepped in the paint tray twice coating the soles of his trainers in beige, and leaving numerous foot prints all over the drop cloth. Huge globs of paint also dotted the drop cloth. At one point, he slipped in one of these globs, landing Harry flat on his back and the open can of paint that he was holding spilled all over himself. When all was said and done, he reckoned that there was more paint on the floor and on his body than was on the walls.

As bad as it was, Harry pushed on, hoping that he would get better. His second attempt at painting the entry way did, in fact, go a little more smoothly. He didn't drop nearly as much paint, and most importantly, cover himself with an entire can of paint. With each successive room, Harry's painting technique continued to approve. After a week of steady work, he was getting good enough that he was finishing a room in one setting without having to do any touch ups. He even began to feel confident enough to try a few new things. Using Hermione's list, he went back to a few of the rooms he had already painted and did the job again, this time trying some of her suggestions for colors and finishes. His little "how-to" book also told him how to do the some of the different painting techniques she had put on her list.

He repainted the drawing room first, going with Hermione's choice of Prussian Blue and leaving the trim white. He was amazed at what a difference a little color made. All of his other beige painted rooms were quite bland by comparison, and there was no question that everything else would have to be repainted. Harry was not really bothered by this. It just meant that he had more to occupy his time and his mind.

He left the entry way as it was. Beige and white seemed like the proper choice for that area of the house, but Harry re-did everything else. For the most part, he went along with the suggestions Hermione had made on her little list. The kitchen was painted in a light yellow, a plumb color for the dining room, and a deep forest green covered the walls of the sitting room. Harry drew the line at a couple of places. He would not paint his downstairs bathroom in pink. Apart from this, he really did have to admit that Hermione had a pretty good eye for this sort of thing.

Generally speaking, the paint job began to go pretty well. A few rough spots popped up here and there. Harry could not quite get the hang of something called a faux finish, and then there was the problem of disposing of those items stuck to the walls by permanent sticking charms. Namely, the portrait of Sirius's mother, the Black family tree, and the severed house elf heads. Mrs. Black's portrait was becoming a particular problem. She had taken to shrieking out her anti-mudblood curses every couple of hours instead of waiting for loud noises to set her off. It was starting to annoy Harry. It got to the point where he was ready to remove the walls altogether, just to get rid of them. Fortunately, it never had to come to that. Kreacher turned out to be the answer to this problem. It seemed that no one had bothered to even consider that a house elf's magic might be strong enough to overcome a permanent sticking charm. Either that or no one thought Kreacher would ever do it.

Harry had recalled his house elf a few days after Hermione's departure, mostly because his supply of Mrs. Weasley's meat pies was running low. About the only thing he was really capable of cooking was pot noodles, and the thought of living off of those was not entirely pleasant. Plus, he also was beginning to feel a little lonely. He wanted some company, even if it was only Kreacher.

Kreacher had been rather indifferent to his master's desire to paint the Black family's ancestral home, but when it came to getting rid of his former mistress's portrait, the house else was less than enthusiastic. Harry solved this little problem by offering to let Kreacher take the attic for his own room and to keep the portrait, family tree, and any other remaining Black family artifacts. After that, Kreacher's zest for Harry's decorating project grew by leaps and bounds. He turned out to be quite a help. Apart from cooking some excellent meals, he helped Harry set up each room for painting and clean up when it was done.

Harry worked steadily for two weeks, painting late into each and every night until he was so exhausted that sleep came easily. So easily, in fact, that he fell asleep before his mind had any chance to drift onto things he wasn't ready to think about. For the most part, the painting did what he had hoped it would do. It kept his mind occupied with other things. Of course, there were fleeting moments when his thoughts turned to Hermione, and Ron, and Ginny. He hoped that Hermione was okay, that somehow Ron and Ginny would forgive him for what he had done, and would then push these thoughts back out of his mind and returned his concentration to painting. By the end of the second week, however, he found his mind wandering more and more over to those three most important people.

It was around this time that Harry began to feel something he had never felt before. He had the strange urge to write about his life. It was difficult for Harry to understand why he suddenly had this compulsion. He generally associated writing with school work and was, therefore, supposed to be unpleasant, and yet, he felt as though there was something inside of him that he had to get out. Harry put the idea in the back of his head for a few days, hoping that it would go away. Instead, the idea of writing grew until finally, he gave in and set down his paint brush and put quill to parchment.

There was no real organization to his writing at first. With no idea where to start, Harry chose to begin with his parents' deaths. From there his memoir began to take a more structured form, arranged into chapters based on different subjects that were a part of his life. There was a chapter on his life with the Dursley's, a chapter about when he learned that he was actually a famous wizard, but most importantly, separate chapters on those people who had meant the most to him in his life, namely Ron, Ginny, and Hermione. He even included a chapter on Lord Voldemort. Like it or not, Voldemort had been a very significant part of his life, one that Harry could not ignore.

Harry found parts of his memoir rather easy to write, while others, particularly those about Ron and Ginny, were far more difficult. There were so many things that he wanted to say about them and what they had both meant to him that Harry had difficulty trying to figure out what really needed to be said about them and how much both of them had meant to him. The chapter he wrote about Hermione also proved to be rather difficult. Without really knowing what was going to happen between them, it was hard to figure out exactly how to end the chapter, so he decided not to. It did not seem right to close the chapter on Hermione Granger when the future of their relationship remained uncertain.

One unanticipated side effect of writing his life story was that putting his thoughts and feelings about his life, friends, and loved ones onto paper somehow made Harry begin to feel better. Putting down his life story onto paper made him take a more objective look at his life, as though he were some invisible observer to the events that had brought him to this moment in time. It made Harry feel as though someone else was finally getting to know the whole truth, in its entirety. There was nothing he held back, no hiding of the things that he did not want other people to know. Even though this memoir was not for anyone else's eyes, it was liberating, to finally let it all out. It gave him hope that everything was somehow going to be better.

Okay. I'm finally done with this chapter. Sorry it's been so long in coming, but with Christmas, New Year's, and everything in between, it's been quite a task on this one. I had a lot of problems with this one. I must have written at least ten times before I got something that was palatable, and to be frank, I'm still not fully satisfied with it. But I think it's time to move on to the next chapter. So, I'm leaving it as is. I suppose every writer has a few parts of their stories that they don't like. Until next time.