Loved I Not Honor More by Bingblot

Rating: PG
Genres: Angst, Drama
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 10/02/2006
Last Updated: 10/02/2006
Status: Completed

"He's my best friend, my first friend. I can't- I won't- break his heart."
It was too late for them. One-shot.




1. Loved I Not Honor More
-------------------------

Disclaimer: HP and everything related to the HP-verse still belongs to JKR, however little she
may deserve it.

Author’s Note: This was inspired from watching “Tristan and Isolde” hence the drama of this.
Very angsty one-shot.

**Loved I Not Honor More**

“I’m leaving, Hermione.”

Harry’s words, spoken quietly but with an odd note of decision behind them, shattered the
comfortable silence they had sat in for the past few minutes as they relaxed after their
dinner.

Fred and George had taken Ron hostage a few hours ago claiming that they had an essential
experience which their ickle brother, Ronnie-kins, just had to go through for himself on one of his
last nights as a free man. Hermione had laughed and told Ron to go with barely a twinge of
apprehension. Fred and George might be pranksters—but she knew they wouldn’t have Ron do anything
too terrible—and she decided that, as far as that was concerned, ignorance was bliss.

Hermione put down her wine glass which she’d just been about to drink from and managed a smile,
trying to speak lightly even though there was a cold feeling taking possession of her heart. “Oh
but you can’t leave yet, Harry. You haven’t had dessert yet.”

At any other time he might have smiled. But at that moment, he didn’t. He didn’t look at her
either; he continued staring down at the table as if the whorls of the wood could provide some
answers to all his questions. He couldn’t look at her. He knew if he did he’d break and tell her
the truth—and he couldn’t do that.

He’d already told Ron yesterday that he was leaving, that he’d be leaving once the ceremony was
over. That had been difficult—but not nearly as difficult, as heart-wrenching as this would be.

“I meant, I’m leaving England—everything—for good.”

Hermione stared at him, her mouth parted in shock and disbelief. “When?” she finally managed to
get out, though her throat had closed up.

“Once the wedding is over.”

He still hadn’t looked at her, had been speaking as if by rote, words he’d memorized.

“Why?” she demanded, her voice rising slightly. “Why, Harry? Her voice cracked just a little as
she blinked back the tears that had risen to her eyes. “Why?” she asked, her voice a thread, barely
more than a whisper.

He flinched at the hurt he heard in her voice, keeping his eyes determinedly on the table. He
would not—he *could not*—look at her. Not as he told her the lie he’d come up with. “I have
to. I can’t stand being here when the memories of the last battle, of Voldemort, keep haunting me.
It- it all seems so *close* here; I can’t escape it—not with every bloody person I meet
congratulating me or thanking me or treating me like a hero all the time. I can’t do it, Hermione!
I- I have to go. I have to leave—*here*. I can’t stay—I’ve tried and I just can’t. I need to
get away, need to go somewhere that no one’s heard my name. You understand, don’t you,
Hermione?”

He made the fatal mistake of looking up at her, his eyes meeting hers for a fleeting instant
before he remembered himself and looked away.

But the damage was done.

She’d seen his eyes—and, as she’d somehow always been able to do, saw the lie in them. “You’re
lying, Harry,” she accused him quietly. “I know you are. What’s the real reason? Why, Harry, why do
you have to leave?” Her voice broke in spite of herself as she added, “How can you just leave me
and Ron?”

And the hurt in her voice—combined with the rebellion at the lie bubbling up inside him—was his
undoing. He looked at her—stared at her, for the first time in years not bothering to hide every
emotion he felt as he looked at her. And he knew when he did that he was lost—he was going to have
to tell her the truth. Just this once, this last time, before he left her forever, all lies between
them would be abolished and he’d tell her the truth—the truth that had been his torment and his
secret for years now. Just this once, he’d give himself the luxury of telling her the truth—even if
he regretted it the next second and even if he ruined their friendship. And for once, the thought
didn’t make him pause; he was too far gone to pause at that thought—and he’d be leaving in a matter
of days as it was.

“I *have* to, Hermione,” he rasped out, pushing himself away from the table and standing
up. “I *have* to. I can’t stay, Hermione! I can’t stay; I can’t stay and watch you married to
Ron!” His voice rose on the last words only to break at Ron’s name as he turned away from her, his
entire frame trembling with the force of the emotion he was keeping inside. “I can’t stay and watch
you,” he continued more quietly—in a tone as heartbreaking as a wail would have been. “I- it’s been
bad enough watching you date, seeing you snog him occasionally. I-I can’t stay and see you
*married* to him—not when I- not when I’ll spend every minute of every day wishing
that—wishing that you were mine instead.” His voice fell with every word until at the end, they
were spoken so quietly anyone else might have missed them.

She heard every word, heard every word as if they’d been shouted. Heard and felt every word. And
she was suddenly filled with the most intense, poignant regret she’d ever felt. Oh God, oh God, oh
*God…* This couldn’t be happening; this couldn’t be happening—not to her, not right now… Harry
could not have just confessed what she’d dreamed of hearing him say for years now—not now, not mere
days before her wedding to Ron… This *couldn’t* be happening… Oh *God…*

And the question tore itself from her throat with all the pent-up hurt she’d kept in for years.
“But *why* didn’t you *tell* me you cared?”

He turned, finally, to look at her—defeat in every line of his body and in his face. “Because by
the time I knew it, you were going out with Ron.”

She was crying for real now—crying the tears she’d never before allowed herself to cry for
herself at thinking he didn’t love her all these years, crying for him, crying for *them*.

And he gave in and crossed the room to her, hauling her into his arms, holding her against him
tightly, tighter and closer than he’d ever held her, his arms clutching her as if he could possibly
absorb her into his body, as if he never wanted to let her go.

She cried onto his shoulder as she clutched him back, the confession she’d never admitted to
anyone before spilling from her lips between sobs as she clung to him. “Oh, Harry… I- I’ve
*always* loved you—always though I knew it only at the end of 5th year. And I- I
thought you’d never care for me that way, never think of me that way—you fancied Ginny and I could
tell she still fancied you. So I started going out with Ron because he- he did think of me that way
and I *do* care about him and- and I thought we could be happy—and I could forget you… And-
and, oh Harry, when? When did you know?”

His arms tightened around her even more if possible as he closed his eyes, resting his cheek
against hers, breathing in the scent of her; she smelled of her shampoo and her lotion, the one
that smelled of flowers which he’d made a point of finding out months ago was the scent of
lavender, lavender and the faintest smell of books—that she always had, no matter what, as if the
spirit of all the books she’d read lingered about her. He loved that about her—that somehow she
always smelled vaguely of old books… “Towards the end of 7th year, I think. But then I
was too preoccupied, too worried about Voldemort, to think about it—I knew for sure after the
battle was over. I knew it then—but it was too late. You and Ron were together—and I knew—I knew he
loved you.” He brushed his lips against her hair, even as his brows drew together in a frown at his
words. “I thought you were happy, told myself you were happy and better off with Ron anyway. Ron
wouldn’t—wouldn’t drag you into dangerous situations like I did. And I- I knew I couldn’t hurt Ron.
I *wouldn’t*. It was too late and I knew it.” His fingers tightened, curved into her skin
almost painfully as he continued on, a world of regret and determination in his tone. “I- I
couldn’t do that to Ron. I *wouldn’t.* I- I thought you loved Ron and I was glad of it, even,
because it meant you were happy. You both were happy—and that was all I wanted…” he trailed
off.

Her sobs had quieted down although she didn’t move from her position in his arms—even as she
knew that she should and this was wrong and it was too late. It was too late—it was more than two
years too late. If he had only told her years ago… But not now, not when she was engaged to marry
Ron in less than five days—and not when she knew that Ron loved her and she did love Ron too, in a
way. Not in the same way that she loved Harry and had always loved Harry—but she did love Ron too.
And she couldn’t break his heart. It was too late for her and Harry.

But somehow she couldn’t bring herself to say it—not now—not yet—not when she’d only just found
out that Harry did love her after all…

She didn’t say it—but he did.

His voice was raw with the emotion of it but he said it. “I’ll leave, Hermione. I- it’s too
late—for us. I- I can’t—Ron—he’d be—*devastated*… And I- I can’t—I won’t do that to him. Ron’s
my best friend—he was my *first* friend. I- I can’t—I *won’t*—break his heart…” He added,
very softly, after a moment, “I’ll break my own first.”

Slowly, as if he needed to force every muscle in his body individually to do so, he let go of
her, stepping back and letting his hands fall to his sides.

They stared at each other for a minute, reading the same emotions, the same hurt and the same
determination, in each other’s eyes—and almost at the same moment, too, they stepped forward,
closing the distance between them again.

Hermione lifted her face as his arms closed around her, his lips coming down on hers as he
kissed her hard.

And they both knew that this would be it. They would only have just this one kiss—one kiss the
memory of which would have to last a lifetime.

Anything more would be an unforgivable betrayal of the man, the friend, they both loved. And
even though this one kiss was a betrayal too—they both decided, and knew it, that they would give
themselves just this one kiss—and no more… One kiss for their love—and the rest of their lives for
friendship.

Just one kiss—but they made it count.

His lips crushed hers, devoured hers. He kissed her as if he were a starving man and she was
manna from the gods; he kissed her as if he were drowning, dying, and kissing her would save his
life; he kissed her as if he’d been waiting for this moment his entire life (and, perhaps, he
really had been.)

Kissed her in the sort of kiss she couldn’t have ended if the fires of hell had been burning her
feet.

And she kissed him back. Her mouth opened to his, her tongue dueled with his. She kissed him as
she’d never kissed anyone—never would kiss anyone again, she somehow knew, with a passion that came
from her very soul. She kissed him as if this were the last moment of her life—and in some way, she
felt it *was*.

How long this lasted neither of them ever knew, as the kiss gentled gradually, became tender
rather than desperate, loving rather than passionate—from their hearts and souls rather than from
their bodies…

And then it was over.

Their one kiss—the first kiss, the last kiss, the only kiss they would ever share…

They separated as quickly as they’d come together.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

He said the words he’d never said before and would never say again. “I love you, Hermione.”

“I love you, Harry.”

He closed his eyes briefly, sucking in his breath, on hearing her words—as if committing them to
memory.

He opened his eyes again, his eyes meeting hers. He opened his mouth to say, *Goodbye*, but
closed it again, suddenly unable to say that final word.

No, he’d let the last words he said to her be the ones he’d never allowed himself to say
before.

“I love you,” he said again.

And then he was gone.

~*~*~

He managed to avoid seeing either her or Ron alone in the next few days of wedding hustle and
bustle.

He stood up with Ron as Ron’s best man and smiled whenever necessary. Smiled as if he were
heart-whole and nothing had ever made him happier than seeing his two best friends be married.
Smiled while he wondered if this was what it felt like to lose your soul.

She was a beautiful bride—and she smiled too. Smiled through the tears she couldn’t quite keep
out of her eyes which everyone forgave as bridal nerves; smiled as she silently apologized to Ron
and promised she’d try to make him happy and never, ever let him suspect that her heart belonged to
someone else.

He left—as he’d said he would—once the ceremony and the beginning of the reception were over.
Left quietly and alone—with nothing but a last smile at Ron’s beaming face and what couldn’t quite
manage to be a smile for Hermione.

But later—when Hermione was alone—she found a very small piece of parchment which he had somehow
managed to tuck into the pair of comfortable shoes she’d brought to change into. There were only
two short lines written on it, lines which she read, and then smiled through tears as she carefully
put the note away.

*Be happy, Hermione.*

*I love you—always.*

*~*~*

*I could not love thee, dear, so much,*

*Loved I not honor more.*

*-Richard Lovelace*

*~The End~*

*A/N 2: *runs and hides**



