Suppose by Viopathartic

Rating: G
Genres: Romance, Humor
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 24/07/2008
Last Updated: 19/09/2014
Status: Completed

One-Shot: Harry supposes to Hermione. EXCERPT: Hermione smiled softly and delicately brushed her
hand against his cheek. Harry turned his head so that his lips would touch her palm and then
sighed, at ease with her presence around him. He could have been asleep, for his soft breathing and
closed eyes could have been indicators. But no, Harry was merely reveling in being with the one he
loved, the one he cherished every moment with.




1. Supposement
--------------

**Suppose**

*Viopathartic*

Summary: Harry supposes to Hermione.

**A/N: I’M FINALLY SIXTEEN AS OF JULY 4!**

Alright, settling down now.

: )

I have a very dear friend who loves to use the word *suppose*. *I suppose this, I suppose
that,* she uses it in almost every conversation we have together. I don't hate it; it's
just another thing I love about her.

Suddenly, I began to hear (no, I am not schizophrenic) voices in my head—lines, really, with the
word *suppose* in it. So I guess you can say that I started out small with one situation and
expanded it to make a one-shot.

*Suppose* takes place in *some* universe. I find that it's just too complicated to
place it after this book or before that book, so I decided to create my own. This involves the
Horcruxes, but not Ginny. Harry, Hermione, and only one or two character(s) will be featured in
this. Harry and Hermione are most definitely together. You can say that it's just how I write
my stories. Less characters= less complications, and that's good, *oui*?

Hopefully you'll enjoy this one-shot.

Harry Potter was the only person to suppose.

Although it may be true that other people of his age—of all ages—wondered, believed, or wished,
Harry was eighteen-year-old wizard to suppose.

There was always a chance that his thought would be completely wrong, his belief be proven
false, and his wish to never come true. 'Supposing', or making a 'supposement', was
his way of touching the line with his toes but not crossing it.

When he supposed, he would put out a thought in a way that would ask for comments but not actual
agreement. Harry forgot the moment that it all started. One day he wondered, the next he
*supposed*. It did sound much better than the dull, repetitive, "I think" or "I
believe".

Harry had never voiced his "supposements" but rather kept them to himself. Some were
humorous, some serious, and others that may or may not be understood—he didn't know...

...until one late night in the living room of Grimmauld Place.

"Hey, Hermione?" he asked, glancing up to see his friend sitting with her knees
against her chest, thoroughly immersed in a book. Her eyes were furrowed as if she was trying to
determine something of importance.

"Hmm?"

Harry pushed himself up and dragged himself across the couch. He put a hand on her knees and
pressed them down so that her feet would touch the ground, and her lap would be unoccupied.
"Can I ask you to do something?" He then settled rested his head on her lap and situated
himself into a comfortable resting place.

"Sure," she replied noncommittally, seemingly unaware of Harry's movement.

"Well, suppose that after all this, *another* insipid, affection lacking dilweed wakes
up one morning and says, 'hey, I kind of want to kill some people,' therefore calling for
my assistance. What do you think will happen then?" Harry tipped his head back, and despite
the sarcasm in his tone, he was genuinely curious as to how his girlfriend would answer.

"Hmm," Hermione hummed, "I suppose you can let the Aurors take care of it. After
all, it is their job." She flipped to the next page of her recent book *Blindness,* which
probably had to do something with—Harry astutely guessed—blindness, and once again, her attention
was lost.

Harry clucked his tongue, dissatisfied with the lack of thought in her reply. He soon let the
rejection of his 'supposement' pass and promptly shut his eyes. A hand began to play with
the locks of his hair, a feeling that he reveled in. Hermione probably wasn't aware of it, but
caressing Harry Potter's hair was a great—*er—*bad habit of hers. When she was thoroughly
occupied with an assignment or a book (like in the current situation), her hand would stray and
find itself buried in a mass of black hair.

Harry opened his eyes, determination set on his face."Okay," he said, gesturing with
his hands, "how about this…suppose we find out that Voldemort has actually split his souls
into twelve Horcruxes."

"And where, Harry, could they possibly be? After all, you're saying that we defeated
six but still have six more to go," she asked skeptically.

Her answers, Harry realized, were impeccably timed. They usually came after five seconds, but he
wondered whether they were given with much zest.

*Flip.*

He decided that her question needed a reasonable, thoughtful response. "I dunno. In his
pockets, in his wallet..."

"Shush, Harry," Hermione admonished, lifting her hand that was buried in his unruly
hair to lightly smack the top of his head.

He caught her hand, but Hermione playfully pulled it away. Harry knew that she wasn't mad at
him.

"Hermione?" He sang her name so that it sounded like
*Her-myyyyyyyy-oh-neeeeeeeeeee.*

*Cough.*

"Let me get to page 98 at least or else I will defenestrate you."

"Defenestrate? Is that another word for 'castrate'? They both end in
'trate' so...okay, nevermind," Harry said once he saw a, quite frankly, *nasty*
glare from Hermione. He sighed, kicked his feet so that they stretched across the couch, and
interlocked his fingers so that they'd rest on his abdomen. For awhile, he was content to just
watch himself twiddle his thumbs.

Two men strolled into the living room that time—one with red hair and the other with slightly
graying threads. They both smiled at the sight before them.

"Well, this is a cute scene," Lupin remarked as he walked up to the two. Ron followed
reluctantly.

"Better run fast, Professor. This 'cute' scene, as you say it, will quickly
manifest into a hormonal, lust-driven snogging fest," Ron said, a hand pushing against
Lupin's back to tell him to hurry up the stairs.

"Uh-oh,' Lupin said and with a laugh, he sprinted towards the stairs as fast as his age
could last him. Ron smirked and in a stage whisper, he said, "Remember, Harry, abstinence
is—" and suddenly, no more was heard from him. Ron cast Hermione a vicious look before
bounding towards the stairs in search for his wand. Hopefully he knew the countercharm to
*Silencio*.

Hermione cleared her throat in a not-so-discreet way that fordone her facade of innocence. Her
wand, which Harry knew was not present before, lay guilelessly next to his legs.

"Nonverbal magic is improving, I see," Harry airily commented.

"Yes. How about yours?"

A pillow suddenly materialized into the air, and as if controlling its own movement, it set
itself between Hermione's head and the back of the couch. "Ah, thank you, Harry."

"Only for you," answered the wizard.

Hermione smiled softly and delicately brushed her hand against his cheek. Harry turned his head
so that his lips would touch her palm and then sighed, at ease with her presence around him. He
could have been asleep, for his soft breathing and closed eyes could have been indicators. But no,
Harry was merely reveling in being with the one he loved, the one he cherished every moment
with.

"Love?"

Hermione felt Harry's head lift up from her lap, and this time, she barely managed to quell
her annoyance. He was sweet most of the time, but *honestly*, she needed quality time with her
books. '"*Mm*-hmm?"

His next "supposement" came out as a whisper, and there was no need to discern the
tone of his statement, for the smallness, the vulnerability, was loud enough on its own.

"Suppose, love, that I die."

The grip on her book faltered until finally, Hermione closed it with a snap, tucking in her
chin. Blazing brown eyes found an unguarded set of green. Once seeing her friend shameful looking
face, her eyes softened to a lesser degree, her voice taking on a cognizant, almost reverent tone.
"Harry, why are you asking this? Do you *honestly* expect me to answer that?"

He was quick to mollify her. "*Suppose—"*

But Hermione didn't want to suppose; she *refused* to the even think of it! Harry was,
after all, her best friend who she had known since they were eleven. To have the thought that he
*might* die and unceremoniously leave the world—leave *her—*was something that Hermione
defiantly eschewed.

Hermione sighed angrily and shifted so that she sat on her legs and faced a troubled Harry,
"Alright, *suppose* that I answer the question. If you, Harry Potter, died, I would jump
with joy and rapture because *ding-dong the wizard is dead.* All the while, I would burn all
of the books in the world and subject elves to slavery."

Harry blinked, narrowed his eyes, and said, "Your 'supposement' is a
complete—"

"Farce? Yes, it is, love. Do you know why? Because it will never happen…just like how your
death will never happen!"

Seeing her friend about to open his mouth, Hermione pushed through.

"I've known you for so long. I've been by your side and taught you everything as
well as you taught me. You're a part of me, Harry. If you go down, then I will willingly do so
too. I *know* that you are paying the debt that you are forced to pay, but soon enough,
everything—all this fighting and terror—is going to disappear. And you, Harry…I know that you will
not die that easily. Look at how far you have *lived* to. Eighteen and going on nineteen. You
have studied and worked your butt off to get this far. Nothing should or will stand in the way. So
by God, I *know* that you will not die."

Harry, hearing Hermione talk with such passion when it came to him, grabbed the back of her head
and pushed against it with a hand so that their lips would meet. She had made an 'mmph'
sound when she felt Harry's lips upon her; his kisses always came on as surprises.
Nevertheless, she leaned into the kiss and delicately wrapped her arms around his neck. The room
was quiet as the young couple communicated in their shared language, letting their hearts speak
instead.

Hermione stopped to take a breath, cheeks flushed, and finished simply with, "Besides, I
won't let you die."

She gazed fiercely into Harry's eyes, daring him to argue with her. But, he said nothing—he
was gazing at her with pure adoration—and for that, Hermione was satisfied. She picked up her book
and immediately set her eyes upon the text so that she could signal that the conversation was
done.

"Well," Harry asked, he being the irked one this time, "what do you suppose I
*will* do?"

*Flip.*

"You will marry me and spoil me and my children—excuse me—*our* children with stacks
and stacks of books," his beautiful and intelligent Hermione simply replied.

It was then that Harry brought his head back down to rest on her lap, a corner of his mouth
creeping upward. Hermione's hand in his hair resumed with its fluffing and caressing, and her
attention was diverted back to her book, letting her fall into the familiar hypnosis of words.

*Black-haired/brown-haired bookworms. Late nights with story time. Daily errands to the
bookstores.*

*Hermione.*

Content and lackadaisical, Harry mumbled as a reply to his girlfriend's command:

"I suppose."



