A/N: Same as the one posted on tumblr. Username: laisvega

My friend Indie made a much better job than me on this. I do encourage you go to check her version. Username: Indieblue

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, or the song.

Harmony (Gnash — I hate you, I love you)

It's raining outside, pouring really. The sound of big raindrops splashing against the cold stones of the streets can be heard from inside a house hidden from plain sight. The mystery of an absent number—subject of urban legends amongst Muggles—not truly necessary anymore, but kept out for protection. The inhabitants of the missing house not quite fully recovered from traumas forced on them during adolescence.

A girl sits in the kitchen, the door at her back, looking out the dusty window. The lamp above a long dark-wooden table flickering and rocking out of its own volition. Windows are closed, doors are shut, but there is still a lingering air current howling, causing the light to hover over a large mane of golden, riotous curls, and shun it in the darkness at the same time.

She breaths in deeply, placing a tumbler of amber liquid on the table—some of it splashing on her hand, confirming she'd been sitting there for a long time. Her lip quivers, she bites and holds it just there. Her free hand clutching the long, chocolate-coloured dress that fits her body to perfection, with white knuckles.

Thinking back on her hasty retreat, she reckoned it was not the most glamorous, or expected coming from her—being the best friend of the groom and most likely the bride as well. Everything had gone as planned, every trifling little detail had come out as expected. Guests were delighted with the simple but elegant decoration, enchanted with delicious appetisers and succulent meal. Even the weather had appeared so pleased that the sun shone brightly above in the clear blue sky; moon and stars dancing like the couple just below them hours later.

All was well.

Except her.

Feeling used
But I'm
Still missing you
And I can't
See the end of this
Just wanna feel your kiss
Against my lips
And now all this time
Is passing by
But I still can't seem to tell you why
It hurts me every time I see you
Realize how much I need you

She was his friend first. Had been his friend from his somewhat innocent pre-teen years, through his darkest times, all the way along the exhausting recuperation. She'd never left him. Never abandoned him.

He had jumped on a troll for her. Held her hand when she'd been petrified. Shielded her from a repentant werewolf. Tried to carry her out of a freezing lake when she wasn't his to save. And she tried her damnedest to protect him as well. Earning his hatred over the most trivial of things like a broomstick. Risking her own life in Silencing a mental wizard, earning a permanent scar across her chest. Worrying sick at his despondent attitude. Learning to read him like the palm of her hand.

Choosing him above all else. Always.

The order of her priorities had caused a shift in her relationship with their best friend. In that decadent tent, hidden in the dark woods, terrified that any minute could be their last. When the both needed her most. She had chosen him over her boyfriend. Because she promised.

After endless nights of wallowing in self-pity, all he had wanted was to cheer her up and she easily complied because it was innocent. It had started as an innocent flimsy dance, one that caused tears and a choked sob, disguised as a laugh, to escape her. One that had her hugging him tightly, wrapping her severely underfed arms around his neck, never wanting to let go. The lyrics to the song on the wireless hitting close to heart.

The well-known feeling of trickling down her throat—the one that was usually followed by a tickling nose, and burning eyes when she swallowed—with her chin fitting perfectly on his shoulder, had confirmed what she dreaded most.

He felt like home.

After all the side glances, crushing hugs—the endless worry and unwavering loyalty, she knew.

She was lost. In him.

And the nights she watched him from her bed, cold in their shared tent, fumbling with the worn out piece of parchment that showed Hogwarts, killed her a little every time. She felt it, physically, a hard pang in her chest and a hollowness that was not only due to the Horcrux around her neck, but also for the evident place she had in his life.

I hate you, I love you,
I hate that I love you
Don't want to but I can't put nobody else above you
I hate you, I love you,
I hate that I want you
You want her, you need her
And I'll never be her

It's pitch-black outside, but far away some blue is starting to creep through. He sits on a chair across the kitchen door, his eyes alternating between the window, the tumbler of amber liquid in his hand, and the entrance to his seclusion.

There is no lamp turned on this time. The moonlight creeping through the—now clean—window enough to outline what he wants to see. There is no howling wind either, only an eerie calm that should truly be enough, but isn't—it isn't because that is not what he wants. It's not what he wants.

His green-eyes stop on the chair at the end of the table. And it's as if he can see her in the darkness. See that bushy hair where his hands had gotten lost in on a moment of despair, feel that mane that was so soft—even if it didn't look like it—against his cheek. It made him chortle back then, and it makes him let out something of a hollow snort this time. His blurry gaze drops to the hand holding the glass, focuses on the sparkling golden ring around his finger. His grip tightens.

Just then he notices the other one had risen to feel his cheek, right where her hair had touched him. It goes up to his messy jet-black hair, to the back of his neck where she had played with the short strands of his hair. He swallows thickly and purses his lips.

"It's not right." she had said that first time. Her voice hadn't sounded fully convinced, but he knew they couldn't possibly be certain of anything by that point.

"We'll put charms, anything—everything. One that can keep us from leaving the tent," he'd said. "Please. I can't deal—can't handle. Please, Hermione. Just this once."

He takes a sip of the same liquid he had begged her to pull out of her bag and shakes his head. He had grown tired of listening to her quiet sobs every night that he was willing to do anything for her. To spare her the heartbreak of losing their best friend—her boyfriend.

It was just when in drunken slumber he had kissed her that he realised how everything was wrong. How mistaken he had been of it all. How soft her bitten lips felt against his. And how tempting her offer of just staying in the woods, growing old together, sounded after that.

"Harry. . ." she had whispered when his cold fingers trailed underneath her jumper and felt her flushed skin for the first time in his life.

He snaps back, feeling dripping liquid on his trousers and something warm on his palm. A wandless spell fixes the broken glass, another the cut, and another vanishes the spilled Firewhiskey and blood. But there are none for the turmoil he knows is growing inside; for the doubt that has been growing and attaching itself to his heart.

"Harry. . ." he hears an echo, and he's no longer in the right state of mind to discern it from reality or fantasy—or memory. Because the walls of this house—his house—had heard much more than what their other friends had. And the sound of her voice saying his name, in pure ecstasy, had impregnated in these walls.

I miss you when I can't sleep
Or right after coffee
Or right when I can't eat
I miss you in my front seat
Still got sand in my sweaters
From nights we don't remember
Do you miss me like I miss you?
Fucked around and got attached to you
Friends can break your heart too,
And I'm always tired but never of you

"Hermione? Hermione!" He shouted, blatant panic in his voice, "Hermione, where are you?!"

The war had just ended. Not more than an hour had gone by, with them helping around, when Headmistress McGonagall demanded the three of them, Harry, Ron, and Hermione, leave to get some well-deserved rest. They'd looked at each other and the silent agreement of Grimmauld Place was made.

Harry had picked out Sirius's old bedroom, shutting the door without looking back at his friends. Ron and Hermione stood outside for a few minutes before walking to separate rooms. Both looking at the closed door and at each other several times.

With a deep breath, Ron had cleared his throat and mumbled, "Night, 'Mione."

"Goodnight, Ron." She smiled back.

The bright witch could've sworn she had just shut her eyes when Harry's panicked hollers woke her up. She grabbed her wand, tucked beneath her pillow, and ran to her friend.

In the hall she was met with more Weasleys, several other fellow Gryffindors, Order members, and Luna. All of them staring at the closed door of Sirius's childhood bedroom, wands at the ready. She pushed her way past them and opened the door.

A door opened somewhere in the darkness Harry found himself surrounded in. His green eyes were desperate to adjust to it, while his hands palmed everything at its reach searching for his glasses and his wand.

Two flickers of light turned on at the same time, pointing at each other.

"Harry, it's us. It's fine—it's over. It's over," she said and sat on his bed, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We're all here. You should try to sl—"

"No! No. I can't—I can't," he said frantically. Placing his hands on her thighs, her waist, up to her shoulders and the back of her neck. He pulled her closer to the point their foreheads were touching. He took a deep breath, allowing the smell of coconuts and vanilla to swallow him whole. "They torture you—I can hear you. I can't reach you, I—I can't get to you—"

Her hands slid down to his waist. Clutching the loose shirt for dear life. She swallowed hard and muttered, "Harry, I'm okay—"

"I can't get to you. I couldn't save you—I'm sorry. I'm sorry." he said, his voice thick with emotions.

"Harry. Listen to me. It's not real. I am across the hall. I am not going anywhere, the war is over. Voldemort is dead. Bellatrix is dead." she said. Trying to push the images of the mental witch out of her mind.

"—I need you here to know it's not real. Stay." he begged, and she complied.

She stood up from the bed and he caught her hand, "I am going to tell the others that there's nothing to worry about. I will be back, I promise." Her footsteps echoed loudly against the wooden floor as she took few steps to the door.

Upon returning she found he had already made room for her on his bed. Which went against the specific explanation she had given to her boyfriend and his girlfriend—there was no conjuring a sofa and wait till he fell back asleep, it wasn't just a short mishap of the Dreamless Sleep and Calming Draught slipped in his tea.

He hugged her from behind. His arms wrapped firmly around her slim waist, as if he didn't want to let her go—for Morgana's sake, her heart, slamming in her chest, didn't want him to let her go.

If I pulled a you on you, you wouldn't like that shit
I put this reel out, but you wouldn't bite that shit
I type a text but then I never mind that shit
I got these feelings but you never mind that shit
Oh oh, keep it on the low
You're still in love with me but your friends don't know
If you wanted me you would just say so
And if I were you, I would never let me go

"We should stop this," she said, her voice shaking just a smidgen with reluctance. "Harry, stop. Stop." She pushed him away for the third time. Her eyes tightly shut trying to keep the tears at bay, for she couldn't understand what had happened between them. Where the line of friendship had ended, when was it crossed, or who erased it.

Why.

Because her heart, her soul ached when he was away from her. She wanted to believe that it was the same way for him. Gods, how she wanted to. But being the smart girl that she knew herself to be was a curse as much as it was a blessing. Because she knew he came only when he needed her.

When his nails were bitten raw. When his jaw trembled out of control. When his eyes were bloodshot over sleepless nights. When his breathing was ragged, signal that he went to her running—or when his desperate hollers through the Floo made her rush back to Grimmauld Place.

When his breath reeked of alcohol that he could light a flame just by blowing.

And it killed her a little every time that she woke up and watched him sleep peacefully next to her, to have Ginny knock on the door to take him back home with the usual set of apologies. It killed her because each time she tried to refuse, to deny him. But she couldn't because she loved him.

Simple as that.

"Harry, this is not right." she tried again.

"Piss off, Hermione," he slurred, "We've been going for years. Why stop. 'S good." His hand rose again to the back of her neck, caressed her and cupped her jaw. His bright green eyes focused on her—and she'd been a little bit worried of him trying Legilimency on her, but she knew he was horrid at it—it didn't make the dread of exposure become stifling, though. Automatically setting her self-taught Occlumency wards.

Her breathing was hard, her throat too tight that she scurried away from him to catch a breath.

"No, Harry," she said. Dreading the sudden clarity that she saw in him, "It's enough. I can't—I can't anymore," breathing through the shuddering tears that were threatening she stood up and walked to the door, "Go."

The jet-black haired wizard stared at her dumbfounded, "What?" he asked, pure innocence in his voice.

"I said 'go'. Go! Out!" she shouted, gripping the doorknob, "I want you out! I cannot do this anymore. I cannot look at your girlfriend—my friend—in the face and smile as if I'm not shagging her boyfriend behind her back. I cannot have you here, pissed out of your traumatised mind at least once a week, stay overnight, shag like the bloody world is at an end and then get you all set with a ruddy bow for your girlfriend to come over and fetch you."

Her lip trembled and she bit it, triggering some sort of reflex in him that had him jumping from the bed and hugging her tightly. Tight enough that made her wish all the pieces that were falling apart within her to stick back together.

"I—I cannot have you leaving—can't watch that anymore. I'm done, Harry. So, please—please, leave." she whispered looking at the cream-coloured ceiling, trying to keep the tears at bay.

His mouth opened and closed without words falling out. Lost inside his mind he slowly grabbed his Auror robes, eyes lifting every few seconds to look at her. Only to have her looking away defiantly. His mind calculating worlds but unable to focus on the current situation. He approached her again, and the same way he'd been doing for the past two years, he leaned in to kiss her.

Only this time she cringed away from him.

I don't mean no harm
I just miss you on my arm
Wedding bells were just alarms
Caution tape around my heart
You ever wonder what we could have been?
You said you wouldn't and you fucking did
Lie to me, lie with me, get your fucking fix
Now all my drinks and all my feelings are all fucking mixed
Always missing people that I shouldn't be missing
Sometimes you gotta burn some bridges just to create some distance
I know that I control my thoughts and I should stop reminiscing
But I learned from my dad that it's good to have feelings

Her leaving was like he'd been soaked in Murtlap Essence then brutally cut off. Exposing him to so much pain. As if something had been ripped out of his heart, right in front of him and he couldn't do anything to stop it.

The first time he went back to her flat, after trying to Floo-call her for three days straight, at different times during the day, he knocked incessantly. Then he shouted. Then he broke down the door.

He wondered, not for the first time since he got there, that he might have gotten the wrong place—the wrong floor. For the navy-coloured mat that was perfectly placed to match the sky-blue walls of her entrance hall was gone. As well as the vase, and the sofa, and the bookshelf. And everything else.

His breath came out short, frantic while his green eyes looked around the empty place. Not a single thing was left behind. He called her, repeatedly. With tears in his eyes and his voice hoarse, slamming doors of each room.

Ginny had found him not long after, crouched down against one of the walls. She pulled him up, shoved some Calming Draught down his throat and walked him back to Grimmauld Place. She explained that Hermione was not taken away, there was nothing to fear. She'd just gone to look for her parents, and that she'd be back.

But Harry knew, he knew that it was just another lie, slipping out of her mouth easily, after years of practice. He missed her, dearly. Constantly, painfully, endlessly. Trying to adjust to life without her for the first time since he was ten—and didn't even know of the Wizarding World.

The initial full three months without her were terrible. He'd found himself walking to her cubicle at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, at least twice a day, knocking once and barging right in with a: 'Y'know, Hermione—' only to find a plump wizard instead of her.

The young witch had become so ingrained in him that he felt lost. Even with Ginny firmly by his side, coaxing him into life, he felt dissociated. He focused on his job, taking on that self-destructive nature that she berated constantly, choosing the most dangerous missions. Rounding up stray Death Eaters, dealing with zealot groups that caused riots in honour of Voldemort, anything that could make him feel again.

One night, around the beginning of his second trimester without Hermione—not that he was counting, Ginny had yelped in pain when he'd gripped her hip too hard as he pounded into her. He'd been too focused on his ecstasy, feeling the rush of magic through his veins, so close to what he felt with the curly-haired witch that he forgot who he was with.

The fiery redhead slapped him and told him to get a grip on his life or just get the fuck away from her, because she was close to done with him—'and Hermione can shove it with asking me to take care of you.'

Then Ron approached him, around months five to six, took him out for a pint and a heartfelt chat. His best mate told him that he also missed her, that even if they weren't together anymore she was still his friend. And maybe it was good that she left, since they all needed some change of air.

"You broke up?" he'd asked, utterly baffled.

"Yeah, close to two, or maybe three, years already. You never—?" said Ron calmly, a soft chuckle escaped him.

"I never realised."

Whatever small recovery he thought he'd made by that point, with his promotion and Ginny moving in to Grimmauld Place for good, came spiralling down. He wrote to her, because Ron had said he owled and she answered.

But she didn't answer him. He scribbled on parchment beseeching words, laxing on Ministry reports for hasty messages to his best friend. Telling her that he needed her. That she'd been gone too long already. That she was always on his mind and he couldn't focus on anything else.

That he'd leave Ginny if that was what she wanted.

And however brutal her absence was, it was also somewhat refreshing. Like taking a deep breath after being underwater for too long. Because after a whole year without her, he woke up one morning with flaming red hair on his face and just smiled.

"Enough." he said.

So he wrote to her one last time, apologising profusely over being such a massive arse and told her of his day.

When love and trust are gone
I guess this is moving on
Everyone I do right does me wrong
So every lonely night I sing this song

If he hadn't backtracked he would've missed it. Because the flashing of riotous, honey-coloured curls was as fast as a flight on broomstick.

He knew she'd seen him, for there wasn't any other possible explanation as to why she sprinted in the opposite direction. Pouncing on strangers, apologising and taking the casual look over her shoulder.

The trip to Belgium was something he had not been quite looking forward to, but had been forced to go as Ginny's escort to a Harpies game. His reluctance was mostly due to the constant gushing of her teammates, the redhead encouraging because he always got flustered.

There was also the small dread of ever running into her. Never mind that the last time Ginny mentioned her she'd been somewhere around Cambodia. He knew she'd been travelling around, that she never stayed in a place for long, because she wanted to learn about everything. And he was mostly terrified of what he'd do if he ever saw her. How he would react at the sight of those chocolate-coloured eyes, looking back at him. He wondered if at some point he would ever stop missing her. Loving her in all the wrong ways.

So when he chased after the missing part of his life, he focused solely on his pounding heart and not in the desperate hollers calling after him. It was only when Ginny finally caught up to him, pulling on his arm to an abrupt halt that he snapped out of the trance he'd found himself in.

With the stormy sky letting out a thunderous sound and rain falling on them, soaking everyone to the core in seconds, he looked back at Ginny, his green eyes focused on bright-brown he uttered, "Hermione."

The witch's flaming hair whipped and looked behind Harry, a surprised look on her face, and indeed, there she stood. Soaked in a flowery sundress, her massive mane of hair stuck to her face, and looking back at them from across the street.

"Hermione. . ." whispered Ginny, she waved fervently, "Hermione!"

Hermione smiled, almost genuinely, and waved back. Her brown eyes then moved millimetres, focused on him, and he knew that her breathing stopped—just like his.

His heart fluttered inside his chest, there were so many things that he felt he could say to her. But they weren't enough. He wanted to approach her, to hug her. But the second he made a move, a small step forward, she flinched.

So he grasped Ginny's hand instead, tightly, and smiled back at Hermione. He nodded and slowly turned back around.

He missed the way her smile dropped, as she watched the couple walk away. How her eyes turned vacant and shimmered.

She took a deep, shaky breath. Looked up to the grey sky, raindrops falling on her face, she shouted a rabid 'Fuck You!' to the universe. Making passers, running frantically away from the rain, look at her oddly.

Because she had seen them first, Harry and Ginny, laughing together. Looking disgustingly happy, at ease with each other. And it hurt. It hurt, since there still was the infinitesimal feeling in her heart that wished he'd broken up with the Weasley witch and actually fulfilled his endless threats of Apparating to wherever she may be.

That maybe for once, he'd choose her.

I hate you, I love you,
I hate that I love you
Don't want to but I can't put nobody else above you
I hate you, I love you,
I hate that I want you
You want her, you need her
And I'll never be her

"Oh, you came!" gushed Ginny, immediately jumping to hug her.

"Of course! I pulled all of this up. Why wouldn't I come?" said Hermione, hugging her red headed friend tightly.

"Being the posh whatever-you-are takes so much of your time lately, it's been success enough knowing you got my owls."

She never returned to Britain. Not once since her hasty, and possibly cowardly, exit.

Indeed her motive was to look for her parents. It just hadn't been the main reason. She flew, the Muggle way, to Australia, and cried herself to sleep that first night at the hotel. The second day she felt too miserable to get up and ordered chocolate and liquor. The third, ice cream and pizza. The fourth day, she watched the telly. The fifth day, she got up and showered.

At the end of her first month in Australia she finally had the courage to approach the Embassy and asked for the Wilkins. She didn't go to the provided address for another two weeks.

When she knocked on their door, half a year had gone by. She introduced herself as Hermione Granger, and became friends with the strangers Wendell and Monica Wilkins had become. She didn't tell them that she was the cause their alarm had gone off some months back at the break of dawn. That she had broken their lovely chandelier with accidental emotional magic.

That she had tried to reverse the memory charm they unknowingly had, only to fail dismally.

"Here," said Hermione, snapping back. "Turn around, let me tie the lace."

The young Weasley witch turned to look at herself in the mirror, a cocky smirk on her face. She missed the lone tear that had fallen off of her friend's face.

She had only endured a few more months pretending life as her parents's friend was fine. Because she was barely in her twenties, and she'd been forced to grow up too soon but fuck she wanted to be a child, coddled by her mother. Not curled down in the woman's bathroom on her own.

So she travelled, patching her lonely life with landscapes and paradise.

And it was . . . okay.

Until an owl found her in Russia.

'We're engaged! Hermione he actually popped the question—well, more like vomited it all out. But he said the words! He did! Oh, I wish you were here so that I could just crush you to bits with a hug. And I miss you, I need you. Please say you'll help me. Hermione. You must help me.'

She had laughed first, not long after, the tears came, and that laugh turned into a sob. Because he had moved on—if he ever truly cared for her, more than the psychological need he had due to trauma—everyone had moved on. But why couldn't she.

Being the loyal friend she was, of course she had agreed to help her friend. From the texture of invitation's envelopes, to the colour of chocolate wrappers. Ginny wanted everything to be perfect, because she never really had anything of hers in her life. She never had anything big just for her.

Hermione did it all from the distance. Flowers from Holland, chocolates from Switzerland, glass and decorative crystals from Venice.

All the best for her friends.

She took three deep breaths, her hands crushing the flowers in her hands—because certainly, the bonding ceremony required someone outside of blood to act as witness—and she walked the expanse green gardens of The Burrow, in her chocolate brown dress with the bride following not far behind.

Her eyes closed automatically when she got to the first row of chairs, she took another deep breath and forced herself to look. Her eyes opened and slowly followed the carpet-trail all the way to the end, where a Ministry official, Ron, and Harry stood.

A smile escaped her when Ron's face lit up, a broad lopsided smile on his older face. When her eyes shifted away from the ginger wizard, to Harry—the friend she had not properly seen for years—she noticed he was not looking at her. She watched as his chest filled up in expectation, just as all the guests around her stood up to look at the bride approaching from behind.

It felt like being slapped. But somehow she reckoned she deserved it on some level.

She quickened her delicate walk, the same way as her breathing. And as she stood beside her old best friend, two steps away, but close enough that she could smell him, she saw pure adoration in his eyes while he looked at the fierce redhead approaching. His head tilted to the side, his smiling green eyes glossy, and lifted a palm to cover his biting lip.

And it hurt. Fucking Morgana's tits, it hurt.

All alone I watch you watch her
Like she's the only girl you've ever seen
You don't care you never did
You don't give a damn about me
Yeah all alone I watch you watch her
She is the only thing you ever see
How is it you never notice
That you are slowly killing me

"Quit biting your lip, Harry Potter." he suddenly heard at his side.

He gasped in surprise, not actually expecting her to talk to him in such light note. So easily as if they hadn't been lying to every single person sitting and standing beneath the perfect blue sky. As if they hadn't spent years apart on forced break up.

His throat bobbed as he tried to pluck up the courage and look at her. Forcing his incessant, traitorous mind to a stop. His eyes flickered, torn between looking at the beautiful witch approaching, and the one that had ingrained herself in his heart.

But he turned to look at his old best friend, and his resolve broke. His eyes lost that amused infatuation held when he saw the smirk on Ginny's face, just when she stepped on the red carpet. Those green eyes turned pained, screaming rebellion and love at the petite witch with the—surprisingly tame—curls.

His mouth opened as if to say something, but stuttered, and only managed a soft, "Hey."

She didn't turn to look at him, which made him wonder if she'd even uttered those words. He looked at her, as if time had stopped, as if there was no one else with them in the vast lawn of The Burrow. He noticed her delicate skin was slightly darker than when she left him, with few freckles now. He doubted, though, if the glamour around her eyes was for makeup, or something else.

Maybe he was just trying to read something that wasn't there. Maybe.

Because just a moment later she was smiling broadly at the newly bonded couple. She said the vow, clearly, without a hint of pain and watched fondly how the gold and white strings tied together for eternity in golden rings around his and Ginny's finger.

But he did watch her. Closely. Prided himself on his acquired Auror techniques, that no one questioned. Not a single person at that party found odd how he looked around the room for Hermione, while he danced with his wife. Or the way his eyes zeroed-in on her as she talked with Charlie and sipped her champagne.

He wanted to approach her. The nagging in his chest told him that he had to, needed to. All those months of craving her came rushing back in a single moment—the moment their eyes caught each other's across the dancing couples. He tilted his head, inviting her to dance with him in that single motion. She smiled—much too genuinely that it bothered him—and shook her head.

The sky above had darkened, and he was not in his rightest state of mind after all that George, Ron and some other mates made him drink. And when looking for her in such stupor he stumbled upon Ginny, who was chatting avidly with Demelza Robbins.

"Ginny!" he said, much too cheerful, "Dance! Now!"

"Harry, you are pissed!" Laughed Ginny, "We're going to fall!"

He dragged her to the dance floor nonetheless, laughing out loud. Ridiculous music playing in the background, he twirled his wife around. Stumbling into others, giggling stupidly. Daring each other to tricky moves and kissing like teenagers.

The people around them clapping madly, encouraging the nonsense that came from the Potters, shouting the occasional, "Drink!" and shove whatever liquor around down their throats.

During a particular turn he found her, at last. His joyous eyes met her dark browns, standing beside the three-layered cake, her hand grabbed a piece of green-wrapped chocolate that was littered around in decoration.

He begged for the ability read her blank stare, understand what was hidden behind the smile she gave him. Swiftly, she turned around and walked away.

"Harry?" he heard behind him, a fit of giggles accompanied, "Where are you going? What happened?"

Lost, he shook his head and turned back to his wife, "Nothing. . . N—Nothing happened."

Once again, he missed the way her hand lifted and wiped a tear from her face.

I hate you, I love you,
I hate that I love you
Don't want to but I can't put nobody else above you
I hate you I love you
I hate that I want you
You want her, you need her
And I'll never be her

He hears someone climbing down the stairs, he breathes in deeply while the person's steps reverberate all around the overly large former Black home.

The kitchen door creaks open and he sees long, fire-red hair, as Ginny joins him.

"Harry, I'm pregnant." says Ginny.