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When the war is won, you welcome Harry back with the weight of another boy’s arm around your shoulder. It is all as it was supposed to be, but it doesn’t feel quite right, and the taste of ash and soot and blood and death are heavy on your tongue.
You move away from the other boy and you open your arms, because it’s Harry, it has always been Harry, and he has always needed you even when he doesn’t admit it.
The other boy, Ron, is your best friend, yes, but it’s different, and you feel it’s different. The kiss happened and now it’s over, and when Ron takes a step back you think he understands why it’s different, too.
You had told Harry: “I’ll go with you,” and you would have, if he’d let you. You would have stood between him and death, a thousand times. You still would, a thousand more. The other boy, he hadn’t offered.
“It’s over,” you whisper, and your arms wrap tighter around Harry. There’s so much to do, to rebuild, to cry over. But, for now, there is a reprieve, a silence. You let it wash over you both, and the other boy is, once again, left out. Ron just pats Harry’s arm and walks towards his broken family and he is held together by them, he has so many freckled hands to hold him. And Harry has you.
“It’s over,” you repeat, and maybe if you say it often enough, loud enough, it will be true. He sighs and you let it wash over you, the relief.
“Will you come with me? I need to do something,” Harry says, and the answer is yes, always, anywhere. He pulls the invisibility cloak out and covers you both.
He takes your hand and leads you through the Great Hall, down the corridors and outside towards the lake, and you move as one, invisible, strong.
Beside the lake, he holds out the Elder Wand and hands it to you. “I need you to destroy it.”
You take it, uncertain. “Why me?”
“I only trust you.” He says it, and he means it, and there’s an intensity in his eyes you think you’ve never seen before. “I don’t trust myself around it.”
You nod, your throat dry, your heart pounding. He’s holding two other wands in his pockets, his own broken one, and Malfoy’s. “Shouldn’t we fix yours first?”
He smiles at you, that smile that makes him look twelve again, and you suck in your breath at the sheer innocence of it. “Kind of want to buy a new wand, to be quite honest.” He pulls the broken wand from his back pocket and shrugs. “This one has been a great deal of trouble.”
You laugh and he laughs and everything feels just a little lighter. The air still tastes of blood and soot, but there’s a crisp breeze and you think, “He trusts me.”
You break the wand, snap it in two over your knee. You think about chucking it out to the lake, but think of the merpeople and the Giant Squid and who knows what else Hagrid has got going on in the deep and you think better of it. You lay the broken bits of the wand on the ground and cast a quick-fire charm towards it.
The wand burns like so much kindle.
You drop to your knees beside it and you watch it burn. “I thought you were dead,” you say, because you did: for a moment there, your heart vacated your chest and left a dark, gaping emptiness and you thought you’d never be whole again.
But he is here, kneeling beside you and holding you close, and he whispers, “It’s over.” And maybe if he says it enough, you’ll believe it, and it will become true.
The ashes die out an hour later. He is still holding you tight.
When you finally stand to leave, he holds your hand and doesn’t let go.
“What now?” you ask. There is a feast in the Great Hall, and there will be memorials and burials and songs. There will be press and there will be remembrance. But you want none of it. Neither does he.
“I… I just want a sandwich. And then maybe, sleep,” he confesses. “What do you want?” he asks you, bright green eyes beneath bloodstains and crooked glasses.
You press your hand against his, tighten your hold, and you laugh again, because of course. He’s the Savior of the Wizarding World and he wants a sandwich and a nap. “The same,” you lie, because the truth is that you just don’t want to let go of his hand.
He pulls you along to the kitchens, the cloak still around you, the cold air of dark magic still hanging in the air. The house elves mill around you both and bring you sandwiches and juice and tea and so much treacle tart you think your teeth will fall out. You think of your parents, oblivious to your plight, unaware of your existence. You think that now you are both orphans of war, and maybe that’s why.
Maybe.
In the end, he can hardly lift the fork to finish the tart, the cup is so heavy in your hand it takes forever to finish your tea. You haven’t let go of each other’s hand, and eating is slower because of it.
“I’m knackered,” he whispers, and his chin falls to your shoulder.
You pull him up from the chair and thank the elves, who watch with interest as you surround yourselves with the cloak. You are so close to him, you can feel his breath, warm on your shoulder. The food starts to take hold and you feel comforted and alive.
Alive. You walk together, alive.
You make it as far as the common room before he stops abruptly. “Shouldn’t you go see Ron?” he asks, and his eyes are that of a misbehaved puppy and you can hardly breathe.
And you think about it, about Ron, and the freckled arms that hold him, and you think about the kiss, a spur-of-the-moment fumbling that was but isn’t, not anymore. You had been foolish, thinking there’d be time for letting-down-gently and for understanding. Now he’s just the other boy.
And Harry is here, solid, breathing, holding your hand, alive alive alive so alive.
“No,” you say. Harry keeps holding your hand, but he lets you drag him along. You choose the boys’ staircase, because you are in no mood to deal with the school’s charms and hexes. This wing is undamaged, untouched. So is Harry’s bed. You let the cloak drop to your feet and now you’re standing there, beside him, feet transparent, floating like ghosts.
“Hermione,” he starts, but you don’t let him. You sit on his bed, and you make him sit beside you. You take off his glasses, and then you kiss his eyelids, and his nose, and his cheek and his mouth. It’s warm and it’s everything, and he’s alive alive alive. He kisses you back, and it feels like a million pieces of yourself are knitting themselves back together. Because you survived, you both survived, and you may get your wish to grow old together and his mouth is open and inviting and his tongue is battling yours for superiority and you won’t let him win, not this time, and you sigh and move away because it’s all happening and you need to breathe.
“Harry,” you say, and he nods and he laughs and he’s still got bloodstains all over and so do you, you notice now, your hands still dirtier than they should be, bunching up his coat and leaving even more stains. The air still smells of soot, but you don’t taste the blood in your mouth anymore. You taste him.
“It’s over,” he says, and he finally believes it, and he drops back on the bed and pulls you down with him, and you spell the drapes closed. In this darkness, this perfect moment, you think: The Savior of the Wizarding World got his sandwich, and now he’ll get his nap.
His arms hold you around your waist, and you know how things will go: in the morning there will be explanations (Look, Ginny) and apologies (Sorry, Ron), and press (What do you have to say, Harry?) and judging (Why her?) and rebuilding, and figuring out what this all means. But for now, he closes his green eyes and presses his nose against your neck. And his breath is warm and inviting and alive, and it lulls you into sleep. As you drift off in his arms, you think back to the question that he asked, the question that you answered with a lie, because the only answer is “You, Harry Potter. I want you.”