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It’s two years after Ron and Hermione’s disastrous relationship when it happens: the catalyst to the very foundation of his life splitting open.
Harry’s not into dramatics, of course.
The only tolerable thing about the Ministry ordained balls is that he has the opportunity to see all his old peers and friends in one place. This means a high proportion of the evening is spent moving from person to person, rehashing the same types of conversations, but Harry gets used to it after a time. He’s matured since the days immediately postwar, where he would sit at one table and ward off anyone who may dare approach with a thunderous expression. His friends call it ‘the-boy-who-killed-Voldemort-glare’, which he doesn’t love but it’s not the worst way he has been described.
He retires from a conversation with Arthur Weasley and Andromeda Tonks to grab a glass of water from the bar. Harry has also learned the dangers of leaning on alcohol at these gatherings - Hermione claims she’ll never forgive him for vomiting on her boss’ shoes, but he thinks she definitely enjoyed it a little - so he takes heed of past mistakes and rehydrates as much as possible.
There’s also the joy of a few minutes reprieve from the constant conversation and politicking, the latter he partakes in begrudgingly and under great duress.
The barman moves to grab some water and a butterbeer. Harry drums his fingers on the table as he waits, trying to look a little unappealing to anyone wanting to approach right now. He hears an uninhibited round of laughter, familiar and warm, sending a jolt of pleasure through him. Harry turns on instinct, spotting Hermione and Neville a few feet away, both doubled over. His curiosity burns, what on earth could make them laugh that hard? A treacherous part of him also wonders how Neville is the one making her laugh so uproariously.
“She looks great, doesn’t she?” He glances to his other side and sees Dean, observing the same sight as him. He absently nods thanks as his two drinks are placed in front of him. Harry is distracted by Dean’s words, and it takes him a moment to catch up.
“Hermione?” He looks back at his best friend, wearing a deep navy gown to the floor, backless. Her hair is caught up, but as always, many curls have escaped the clutches of her pins since the start of the night. It’s a usual image of her, one that he thinks he would imagine if asked to think of her.
Dean elbows him, “C’mon, don’t be a wanker, you were staring too. She’s a bit of a lash now - and at least these days we can admit it. Ron’s certainly passed the whole relationship,” He throws a hand in Ron’s direction, where he’s dancing closely with his girlfriend. It’s not the PDA that teenage Ron would partake in, but it’s still a little intimate for comfort.
“You’re talking about Hermione,” Harry finally says, and Dean fixes him a sceptical look. Something in Harry’s expression must satisfy him, because he sighs then and shakes his head.
“You’re a prat.”
He rolls his eyes, a bit zealously in Harry’s opinion, and goes back to his table. The conversation replays in Harry’s mind, but he doesn’t dare look up at any of his friends as he processes the information. Why is Dean treating him like an idiot?
Hermione’s like a sister - isn’t she? Don’t they all think that? Doesn’t he think that?
To be truthful, Harry has to confess that he doesn’t allow himself to think like that. All thoughts that have even the possibility of becoming impure about Hermione are immediately cordoned off in his mind. If it’s Occlumency, it’s the only element he’s ever been good at. He has always done that, their whole friendship, unwilling to even contemplate that there could be anything more than a passing observation of each others attractiveness or compatibility.
They’ve been wingman and woman for each other on occasion, for Merlins sake! No , Harry reassures himself. Dean is talking shite.
He looks back over at Hermione, where she and Neville are now joined by Neville and Rolf Scamander. They’re chatting easily, with the wide smiles and crinkled eyes that indicate none of them have to force it.
She’s not Ron’s girlfriend - Ron has no feelings for her. She’s still your best mates ex.
Also your best friend.
Harry’s eyes scan over her figure, letting himself think without pushing any feeling into the abyss. The dress has thin straps and his eyes trace her collar bone, up her neck to observe her face. Hermione happens to glance over at him at that moment, and she beams. Her whole face lights up, eyes wide and bright, smile wide and genuine. It sends a flood of warmth through him and Harry coughs on air, spluttering inelegantly.
He reaches over and gulps down his glass of water.
Shit.
Harry tries to bury that night. He attempts a million ways of justifying it. He was drunk, he was lonely, he missed her presence, he was influenced by Dean. It doesn’t hold up to any scrutiny though and he reverts to the good old, tried and tested, reliable method: avoidance. Harry resolves to build his wall back up around ‘impure’ thoughts of his best friend.
It goes well until he has to see her. They have lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays, a game night with friends on Fridays, Sunday dinner at the Burrow, occasionally a Saturday lunch with her parents or Teddy. Harry can honestly say he never noticed how much they touched before. He doesn’t think it's sudden, because no one seems to be reacting and Hermione initiates a lot, but it never struck him before.
Harry struggles to think of one other person in his life whose hugs soothe a hidden, hurt part of him. Sometimes he doesn’t even realise he’s been holding a bag of anxiety, doubts and fears until she hugs him and they slip away. It’s not like Molly’s hug - a mother, tight and firm, wanting to shield him from the world. Or even Luna - like a sister, but what would he know at this point - where she pats his back and he can only feel her shoulders against him.
That’s another thing Harry has a bone of contention with. Their hugs, who bloody hugs like that? Has she always pressed the length of her body against his and sunk into the embrace? He’s caught himself inhaling a couple of times lately, too, and he knows that part has to be new.
He can’t name the smells, only that it’s entirely too pleasant. Only knows that he wants to wrap himself in it. He supposes it’s like your own home, who can name the scents of their own place - you only know you like it when you arrive there.
Something alarms and calms him at this thought, and the two sensations war inside him. Harry wonders if he was just a tightly spun knot of lies before, that all it took to unravel was a tug on a single string from Dean’s words. He’s a mess of emotions and confusion and doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
Harry tries one Friday with Ron, before their other friends arrive. He takes a large gulp of firewhiskey, as if that can prepare him, and turns to his friend. Unfortunately, any quantity of the drink causes him to gasp and cough inelegantly, so he does this into the crook of his elbow and sighs. “Sorry. Forgot about firewhiskey.”
“What are you drinking that for anyway? It tastes like piss and you hate it,”
“Do I hate it? Wow, thanks for that enlightening bulletin about myself.”
Ron finally tears his eyes away from their fireplace, where they’re watching for the green flames carrying their friends, “What’s your problem?”
“Nothing,” He snaps, then reaches under his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose, “Sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong. I – I’ve been feeling a bit weird lately.”
“Weird?” Ron’s full attention is on Harry now, eyes questioning. He sits back on the couch, legs sprawled out and a beer resting on his thigh. His other hand drums a beat on the arm of the sofa.
Harry licks his lips, tries to quell the internal debate of what to say.
“Yeah. Since – since the ball.. I’ve been. I don’t know, confused?” Courage leaves him in an abrupt rush, and he waves Ron off, “Forget about it. How’s things with Samantha?”
Ron looks tempted to pick back up their previous conversation, silent for a moment too long, before he exhales and smiles, “Good, yeah. She should be here soon.”
“And, erm, you don’t think it’s weird with Hermione? I can’t tell with you two anymore,” He adds on the last comment as a fix-it solution to his unusual question, and throws in a forced laugh to accompany it.
“Definitely not. Best thing we ever did was split up. Honestly, can’t believe we wasted two bleeding years on arguing.”
Harry presses his lips together and raises his brows in a gesture he hopes conveys ‘well, yeah’ before taking a very small sip of his drink.
Green flames burst forth then, causing both Harry and Ron to stand and greet their arrival. Hermione says hello with a beaming smile.
His palms feel hot and sweaty and he rubs them quickly on his jeans to avoid any unpleasantness but he still feels it and prays to any deity that Hermione doesn't notice as she gives him a hug.
The night continues as normal from there - with the minor glaring issue of Harry’s inner turmoil. He does his best to keep distance while maintaining their normal chat and banter. There was a time when he would have been quite good at putting distance between him and his friends, but it’s harder now, he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings. Nonetheless, Harry thinks he does a good job and it’s an enjoyable night overall.
When Luna hugs him goodbye though, she pauses in front of him and says, “From all the staring, I’d say you have come to some conclusion - or you’re approaching it - and I think it’s wonderful. Grab some of that courage you lions are so fond of.”
He gapes at her, cheeks flushing as his brain has a meltdown in the face of responding to her comments.
She taps his cheek, “I’ll take this as confirmation. See you next week, Harry.”
Luna skips off to the floo then, the bounce in her step not impeded by losing eight straight games of exploding snap. (they had opted for a very lowkey game night this time) He curses her and how observant she is - Harry had forgotten her keen eye for any subtle changes within the group. At least Luna is trustworthy.
It’s a novelty, he thinks. That’s all the passing fancy is - and he can at least admit that, he finds his best friend a bit attractive. Not a big deal, there’s plenty of women he knows that are attractive but he doesn’t date. He has always known about Hermione’s attractiveness.
The first month passes painfully like this, Harry noticing how her hair softly tumbles or jumps out with intent, as if in sync with her moods. He begins to see the flecks of gold, green and yellow in the inner circles of her eyes, in the rare moments he feels brave enough to help her get something out of her eye or talk closely. The worst of times are when she takes off her cloak and his eyes, against his better judgment, always trail from head to toe, lingering over the arch in her back that he wants to run his hands over, pressing her into him, feeling every inch of her figure. Her collar bones that he can’t help but linger on, images of his tongue running over along the line, up to her neck, his hand curling into the softness on her hair to tug and –
His daydreams have to be aggressively halted now. Harry walks away feeling dirty and with the strangest feeling of guilt and betrayal. Part of him feels like he’s lying now when he speaks to her, always tucking an intense blooming of warmth away, out of his eyes, expression, body language in fear of her seeing it.
Despite all this, it’s after a month that it becomes almost unbearable to be in her presence without blurting out some pathetic and sycophantic lines. Harry argues with himself endlessly about it - she’s his best friend, they’ve always been able to be honest with each other; don’t ruin that.
On one sunny Saturday, he takes Teddy to the park with Hermione. He had intended on going alone, but when he saw her last night, with her shoulders slumped and red eyes from a long week at work, the first words on his lips were an invitation.
Teddy speaks incessantly, which is wonderful for Harry who is sweating bullets just trying not to stare at Hermione in her light blue sundress.
“Harry, do you think we could?” a little hand jerks on his hand, and Harry looks down at the mischievous eyes of his godson. “Can we get some ice-cream after the playground?”
“Yeah, Harry, can we?” Hermione teases, her grin wide.
To distract himself, Harry grabs Teddy up into his arms in a single swoop, tickling his sides, “But you hate ice-cream, Teddy, don’t you remember?”
He giggles madly, the sound so joyous and uninhibited that Harry squeezes him into a hug after, “Hey, let me down! I love ice-cream and me and Hermione are gonna’ get loads without you.”
Teddy reaches out to Hermione, who helps him out of Harrys hands and onto the ground again. She holds his hand and swings it between them, “We sure are! We probably should let Harry have some, too, don’t you think? He was very nice to bring us here and – don’t forget, he has the picnic!”
“Oh, yeah,” Teddy says, eyes narrowed in thought. Quick as a flash, his face lightens again and he gives Harry a toothy smile, “You can still be friends with us, Harry. But you have to share the picnic!” His train of thought shoots off, and he begins to talk to the dinosaur toys he holds in his spare hand.
Harry leans closer to Hermione, “I didn’t realise our friendship was almost over there, thank god for Teddy.”
She laughs into her hand, the one not tightly gripping his godson, “I would be remiss to ignore any advice from your godson. He learns from the best, you know,”
They stop at a picnic table, and Harry isn’t sure but her expression seems tender, soft, as if her words are an earnest compliment and not slagging him off. He can’t remain on that thought long, because Teddy thrusts his hand out from Hermione’s and taps her leg, “You’re it!”
She gives an overly dramatic gasp and partakes in a generously slowed down version of tag. Harry watches for a minute as he unpacks the sandwiches he brought. He’s relieved his friends don’t mind occasionally hanging out with Teddy, it makes fitting everyone into his life a lot easier. Ron is so fond of pretending to wrestle with him that as soon as Teddy sees him now, he launches himself at full force. There’s no hint of fear or self-preservation when it comes to wrestling Ron, apparently.
It’s part of the innocence of children that Harry finds so disarming and endearing. Teddy implicitly trusts him, and the adults around, without a second thought. He rambles about his life to every second person he sees. He has no problem throwing his body into the air at Ron, so completely having a subconscious understanding that someone around him will protect him.
When he sees this in Teddy, the utter dependence, unconditional love and trust, Harry doesn’t know how they did it. How did they look at him when he was that age, and choose neglect, spite and hatred?
“Hey, hey! You’re cheating!” Teddy is screaming with laughter, attracting some smiles and eyerolls from people at other tables. Hermione has caught him, and tickles him mercilessly on the grass, two of them rolling back and forth with the force of their giggles.
Even after over ten years of friendship, Harry has so rarely seen Hermione this free-spirited. He imagines some people in the Ministry, or even their friends, observing this scene in utter shock. Harry almost feels sorry for everyone who doesn’t get to know her beyond recited facts from books and condescending scepticism.
She’s kind and loyal, fierce and smart, beautiful - Hermione finally sags against the grass, her and Teddy breathless. He leans his head on her shoulder and Hermione brushes his hair, then stands and picks him up. Teddy keeps his head resting there, in Hermione’s arms and Harry..
Swoosh, the sensation flooding out of his chest, a movement so light and warm and all at once it unfolds until he can feel it in his throat, a bolt of emotion welling.
She sits down with Teddy beside her, looking up at Harry with a frown, “Are you okay, Harry?”
Harry realises he’s standing with his mouth open, staring, and moves quickly to sit on the opposite bench of the table. His face feels hot and his head is swimming, but there’s a lovely light unfurling in his chest that makes him want to laugh and cry and shout. He doesn’t.
He tries to shake it off, and smiles at Teddy, “You hungry?”
The day continues on, they have their picnic, go to the playground and, of course, get some ice-cream. Harry puts himself into autopilot, his old, familiar friend when faced with situations he is incapable of handling emotionally. He knows it worries Hermione, can see her chewed lip and pinched brows at random moments, but that isn’t something he can resolve currently.
Teddy continues to babble on, blissfully unaware.
Harry realises he has to start to put some distance between them. He contemplates going on a date, desperate for a distraction or someone to divert his attention. Ron’s only suggestions are Katie Bell and Ginny though so Harry goes back to the drawing board.
Work is both easier and more difficult to handle. He can’t avoid Hermione, but his professional persona is more detached as a default. At their lunches, he tries to include other people as much as possible. If she’s noticed, she hasn’t mentioned. Harry has to believe Hermione would speak up if she noticed something amiss.
The pressure of this disruption to his life starts to have effects though. His mind is scattered in work, thoughts preoccupied; his dreams are distressing and hurtful nightmares or entirely too happy; nights with his friends and dinners are the burrow are plagued with the all consuming thought of what is wrong with you. Harry has to resolve it one way or another, but he has always been royally, supremely, objectively and subjectively shite with women.
When Ron tells the story of Harry calling a woman ‘fairly nice’ in an attempt to chat her up, he unfortunately never has to exaggerate.
Harry wants to ignore the odd look Hermione gives him when he stumbles through his words to the simple question: Is there chocolate around my mouth from lunch?
When she asks him to pass the potatoes at Sunday dinner, her hand brushes against his, and he almost drops the entire plate onto her lap.
Or there’s the horrifying moment when his glasses fall from his face to the ground and Hermione, in an old habit, repairs and places them back on his nose. He can hear George’s grin when he asks why Harry’s face is so red.
There’s only one solution for it: move abroad, cut ties to everyone, start a new life. The only hiccup to that plan is Teddy - and his ultimate desire to keep the friends and family in his life. The other plan that is almost too outrageous to even ponder for a moment - being honest with Hermione.
He’s sure he could name nearly a million reasons to say nothing. The first few of the list are easy: the golden rule of friendship, never date a best friends ex; don’t date your own best friend; don’t ruin a relationship that’s pivotal to your life.
While Harry tries to hide his culminating crisis, he also has to contend with a Ron who is becoming increasingly interested in Harry’s dating life. After his suggestions of Katie Bell and Ginny, he comes back a couple weeks later with some more bright ideas. Ron leans against the counter in their apartment, a piece of parchment in front of him.
He pushes Harry into the chair at the kitchen table, holding a finger up, “Hang on.”
After brewing them both a cup of tea, Ron settles back against the counter. He checks his list again, twice, and Harry is tempted to make a Santa joke that will sail right over his head. It’s not the same when there’s no one around to get it.
“Right,” he says, with the air of an exasperated man, “We’re going to get you a date, you’re bloody miserable lately. Since Katie Bell and my sister were such rubbish options–”
“Christ, Ron, you know Ginny and I were shit after the war.”
“Yeah, yeah, moanybags, both of you. So first I’ve written Luna, but when I think about it, makes no sense at all since, you know..”
Harry raises one eyebrow, dryly finishes his sentence, “She already has a boyfriend. This is a great start, Ron, really good.”
“Piss off,” Ron responds swiftly, eyes still on the parchment, “Fay Dunbar - she’s an auror, too, so plenty to talk about. Lisa Turpin, I bumped into her in the Leaky Cauldron a few weeks back, she’s bang on.”
Harry listens without comment, letting Ron drone on about any single witches he knows. He sips at his tea, finding it a mild balm to the annoyance of this conversation. Ron is doing his best to help out, in the only way he knows (badly), and Harry should appreciate that he is trying at all.
“Oi, are you listening? This took me a full hour, you know!”
“Were you not in work today? Thought you had that Howards case report –”
“What are you, my boss?” Ron asks defensively, holding the list against his chest now. He stretches his neck, shakes off any irritation, and repositions his parchment. “You’re not my boss yet!”
“Go on, then, I’m all ears.”
“Right, so after that I only had three left. Cho Chang, Hermione and Alicia Spinnet, but I’m not sure if she’s – fucking hell, Harry, are you okay?”
Harry is choking on his tea, spraying liquid all over himself and the table. Tea soaks his senses, leaves him gasping for breath, eyes streaming from tears and hands soaked. Ron hits his back, asks if he can help, but Harry is too busy trying to breathe again. He places his hand on the table, leans on it to stand and clean the mess but his hand slips on the liquid and that’s how he finds himself on the floor. Head in hands, contemplating how he was once a top-class seeker.
Ron whistles, “Shite, someone on that list certainly messed you up.”
“Shut up, Ron.”
He wants to sound irate and serious, but it comes out more of a desperate plea that surprises even him. Harry pauses, he and Ron observing each other. Ron’s suspicious, that much he can tell, but Harry isn’t in the mood for their squabbling or dodging questions. He hauls himself up with a loud sigh of exhaustion and goes to his room.
For a few days, he manages to avoid Ron. it isn’t exactly good for his mental health, avoiding two of the most important people in his life. And all over some stupid passing fancy that Harry is getting bent out of shape over. Harry is starting to think he’s an absolute nutter.
Not to mention how cowardly and lowly it is of him to let personal issues affect his friendships like this. Harry has never been much of a coward, it’s a new and unwelcome sensation.
One Thursday evening, while listening to the wireless, Ron stands in front of him, blocking his view of the living room. Harry holds his hands out in question. He’s been sitting here since he got him from work forty minutes ago, eager to listen to the day's recap on midweek Quidditch matches. Under any other circumstance, Ron would be sitting next to him with unprompted but eager and insightful commentary.
In this circumstance, however - whatever that may be - Ron is looking rather impatient and testy, more so at Harry’s gesture. He glances at the wireless and back to Harry, “Come on, I’m sick of this miserable git business.”
Bristling with anger, Harry tries to shake off the hand Ron places on his arm, “Miserable git business? Sorry my existence is such a bloody excursion for you, Ron,”
“I’m supposed to be the dramatic one, remember,” He says, not rising to the bait. Ron checks his watch and then, faster than Harry has ever seen him move, he grabs Harry and pulls him up to stand. Not breaking contact, they stumble back as Harry struggles to get out of his grasp. Ron doesn’t budge, arms enclosed around Harry. With a grunt, he pushes Harry back into the fireplace and throws down the floo powder, “Hermione Granger, the Ministry.”
His eyes widen, and he starts to shout ‘Ron’ at the top of his lungs but all too soon he’s hurtling towards his destination. Shock makes his body rigid, which causes the travel to be even more unpleasant than usual. Harry’s mind has gone blank. He truly has no idea what’s happening and it puts him on edge. He’s not mad about surprises - Ron knows that.
Harry stumbles out of the fireplace in Hermione’s office, covered in soot and his whole body cramping. She rushes to help him. (because of course she does.)
“Harry! What are you doing here? Are you okay?”
He steadies himself, Hermione holding her arm out for balance. He’s usually a pro at floo travel now, but the rather abrupt entry is new to him. A green glow lights up the room again and Ron steps out, cool and collected, before shooting a wide grin at his friends, “Boom! I masterminded both of you. Got you to stay late, Hermione. Got you to come with me, Harry.”
“Got me to come with you? That’s a very nice way of saying kidnapping.”
Ron spins his wand through his fingers, looking entirely too satisfied with himself, “ Can you be kidnapped as an adult? Kind of all in the name, isn’t it? Don’t look like a kid to me,”
Harry rolls his eyes, glad for the annoyance to counteract the warmth of Hermione’s hand on his arm, “Would you prefer abduction then?”
“Hang on, Ron - you told me you desperately needed help with this report tonight! I’ve spent a good forty minutes looking over it,” Hermione stamps her foot, a childish move that both he and Ron blink at then look at each other.
He can’t help the laughter that bubbles up, even though Hermione is looking extremely put out and raises her voice to add on, “Honestly, this is a flagrant waste of my time. You better have answers, Ron Weasley!”
“Alright, alright, get your wand out of my face. You two were starting to annoy me, you know? All the looks and rubbish conversations and avoiding and moping around like lovesick saps.”
Now, Harry is just as indignant as Hermione, “Now wait a minute - no one has been moping around like a lovesick sap except you. At the ball, I honestly was worried for the publics health and safety with the way you were going on–”
Harry rants alongside Hermione, who at the same time screeches, “Ron! That is a very serious accusation and you owe both of us an apology. How about ‘how are you’ next time, hmm? Rather than tricking me into doing your work and kidnapping Harry!”
“ Abducting, Hermione.”
She lets out a strangled scream and throws her arms in the air. In the next second, Hermione composes herself, lifting her chin and tapping her wand with her index finger, “I haven’t forgotten how to conjure the birds, you know.”
Ron is nonplussed.
“Alright, well, I’m going to head off. Time for you two to have a chat, yeah? I’ll be locking this door after me and heading home so do everyone a favour and have a proper chat.”
Neither of them respond. Harry stands frozen in place, wondering what his reaction would have been if he didn’t have feelings for Hermione. Maybe they would have laughed about Ron, made some jokes, and gone to get something to eat?
That sounds plausible. He doesn’t really remember how he used to act around her, everything has now blurred into one moment of time and Harry can’t recall the person who didn’t nearly fall over trying to spot her in any given room.
Still - better to go with a plan. He would have laughed about Ron before, so Harry figures that’s a good place to start. Hoping his face is more convincing than he feels, he turns around to Hermione who has returned to her desk, “He’s ridiculous, isn’t he?”
She nods, eager to speak, “I can’t believe he ever had the gall to call me mental.”
“I think setting up Luna and Rolf gave him a little too much confidence in his match making skills.” He regrets the words as soon as they’ve left his lips. It hits too close to home, to audibly acknowledge some kind of match between them.
Hermione hums in response and starts stacking the papers on her desk. He has no idea if this is a taske borne out of restlessness between them, or a sign she has work to do and he should leave. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, wondering if he’s supposed to make another joke or ask if she wants to get food.
“You have been avoiding me lately. I think Ron came to the wrong conclusion from that? I’d like to know why though. I deserve at least that, Harry.”
“Avoiding you? Why - what makes you say that..” He trails off, only mildly embarrassed of asking such an inane question but he needs to buy himself time. Harry hears her sigh, and it’s mournful and hurt all rolled into one breath and he feels like the biggest arsehole of all time. Why would he be treating someone he likes a little too much, like a polite acquaintance he’s forced to chat with? Time to step up.
She’s been speaking the entire time, about how stupid his question is, listing the times he has bailed on their plans or invited someone else to join. Hermione’s eyes are alternating between the ceiling and a spot on her desk, and her cheeks are hot with anger or something else.
“Hermione,” he cuts in, “I’m sorry. You’re right, I was avoiding you.”
She breathes out, “Oh. I - I didn’t expect that. Thank you. Why? I’d like to let myself believe Ron as much as the next person, but he’s not the most reliable in that sense. Emotional range of a teaspoon, or maybe it’s a tablespoon now. “
Hermione looks up at him for the first time that night. Harry is rooted in spot, his mind replaying her words again and again. He must have picked it up wrong? It sounded like - but he would have known if she was interested. There have been no signs. Although, does Harry ever see signs… likely not, he can concede.
If she feels something, and he doesn’t say it right now, he thinks he’ll live in regret forever. He’s been given the opportunity and it seems too fortuitous to forsake it in the name of self-preservation. However, if she rejects him, and their friendship becomes an awkward, stilted echo of its former self, Harry will be lost.
All of these thoughts fight for dominance in Harry’s brain, fighting through the haze of confusion, attraction and fear to focus on the one bright spot that sits in front of him. She tilts her head as she studies him, waiting for his response, and she must see something because he sees the corner of her mouth twitch, in a whisper of the beginnings of a smile.
Overcome, Harry tries to formulate a response and instead blurts out, “I think I’m in love with you.”
Hermione blinks in surprise and leans back in her chair. The errant thought that she looks beautiful flies through his brain: cast in the flickering glow of the candle on her desk, hair wild and untamed, face in utter shock.
Her smile blooms then, she beams at him - beams - and her smile is the radiant kind that he has always noticed, lighting up every feature with a joyous, contagious flush, “Harry, that’s - that’s the best news I’ve ever heard.”
Against his better judgment, he grins, “Better than NEWT results day?”
“By an inch, it’s a close call.” She’s still sitting in her chair, staring at him bright-eyed, while he stands in spot, grinning like a fool. Maybe Ron was right after all.
He doesn’t think he’s ever experienced such a tidal wave of emotion and the realisation that she wants him too reverberates so strongly around his head that a ballooning sensation fills him and he needs to express it quickly. He crosses the distance to her and lifts Hermione out of her seat. She lets out a girlish squeal until he plants her on her desk.
Harry takes her face in his hands, “This is pretty great.”
Her laugh is quiet, as though any loud noises could shatter the sanctity of this moment they share. Harry has so many moments like that with Hermione; pivotal, moving, essential memories of them flash in his mind but this, in the present, is most important.
He leans forward and kisses her gently, savouring the moment. Harry had learned as a teenager to enjoy the moment because he expected to die. He doesn’t think he’s ever had a truly pleasant reason to feel like this until now. She grabs the front of his auror robes, clutches the fabric in her hands and brings them to her chest. Harry slides one hand around to her hair and the other traces the side of her face, down her neck and collarbone.
Imagination is nothing compared to the real thing. They lose themselves thoroughly in Hermione’s office, and eventually they do go get something to eat. Hand-in-hand, grinning wide enough to draw concerned looks, hearts full and eyes alight.
He spends the rest of their lives dodging jokes about what an idiot he was in the months prior. Ron takes credit for every milestone in their relationship, and makes a habit of joking about abducting them again whenever they have even a minor disagreement. Teddy is overjoyed by the news, though doesn’t seem to quite understand it, and continues on chattering as normal.
At the next Ministry ball, Harry gets to walk in with Hermione on his arm. It’s only then he has the thought that he might owe Dean a drink.