They kissed once, maybe twice after the war. It is the sort of thing neither of them talk about, or admit and apologize for; the first was a flat party, Neville's or Dean's or someone, somewhere in between. The second was a Ministry event and Harry held her hand in the back corner, furthest away from the crowds that neither of them cared for. She remembers that one the most, and the most still gives her a flush across her cheeks. His mouth was hot and sticky, and it may have just been the champagne. The truth is this: Both of them said, "It's you."
She is outside later than the rest of them, settled on an odd corner of the steps just outside Molly Weasley's kitchen. There is laughter inside. It's only faint.
"You should go back, Harry," Hermione says. Her mouth curls, but she doesn't turn; he may have been standing behind her for awhile, looking in and looking out, waiting for her to make some kind of acknowledgment. In this house, there is no real I would like to be alone.
"Ron's looking for you." He sighs and steps out. She listens to the pause and then turns in time, catching him as he sits next to her. "Really," he says with a half-smile. He drawls his knees up to his chest. "Said something about apologizing? I reckon Gin was behind that, but the two of you are fighting again?"
She shrugs. It's common knowledge that there's no such thing as a secret between any of them. It's the war, Harry used to say. There's no need, Molly says. It's asking for a right mess, Ron tells her all the time. But Hermione crave space, and it's stronger and stronger right now, tired and overdrawn.
"Yes," she says. "But it's all right. It's over."
"Is it?"
She looks at him in surprise. He smiles faintly.
"I mean," he continues, "I know Ron, as daft as he is with certain things, hates fighting with you -"
Hermione holds up her hand. "It's not Ron," she says.
Harry's brows furrow. She's wearing a dress and it's pulled over her knees, red and a reminder of the pending holiday. Or finishing, she thinks. Her eyes close and she waits for the smells, the pine and gingerbread, the sudden, sharp ache that she gets when she thinks of her mum and the kitchen.
"I'm pregnant," she says, and it falls, rather calmly, surprisingly so. Her eyes close and then open. It's been three years since the war. "It's -- I haven't told anyone yet."
Harry/Hermione - if it were a lazy winter 1/2
She is outside later than the rest of them, settled on an odd corner of the steps just outside Molly Weasley's kitchen. There is laughter inside. It's only faint.
"You should go back, Harry," Hermione says. Her mouth curls, but she doesn't turn; he may have been standing behind her for awhile, looking in and looking out, waiting for her to make some kind of acknowledgment. In this house, there is no real I would like to be alone.
"Ron's looking for you." He sighs and steps out. She listens to the pause and then turns in time, catching him as he sits next to her. "Really," he says with a half-smile. He drawls his knees up to his chest. "Said something about apologizing? I reckon Gin was behind that, but the two of you are fighting again?"
She shrugs. It's common knowledge that there's no such thing as a secret between any of them. It's the war, Harry used to say. There's no need, Molly says. It's asking for a right mess, Ron tells her all the time. But Hermione crave space, and it's stronger and stronger right now, tired and overdrawn.
"Yes," she says. "But it's all right. It's over."
"Is it?"
She looks at him in surprise. He smiles faintly.
"I mean," he continues, "I know Ron, as daft as he is with certain things, hates fighting with you -"
Hermione holds up her hand. "It's not Ron," she says.
Harry's brows furrow. She's wearing a dress and it's pulled over her knees, red and a reminder of the pending holiday. Or finishing, she thinks. Her eyes close and she waits for the smells, the pine and gingerbread, the sudden, sharp ache that she gets when she thinks of her mum and the kitchen.
"I'm pregnant," she says, and it falls, rather calmly, surprisingly so. Her eyes close and then open. It's been three years since the war. "It's -- I haven't told anyone yet."
"You've told me," Harry says quietly.
They stare at each other.