Hermione

The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon, England

June 1999

Hermione swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat frozen for a moment, listening for movement. It was a still and moonless June night at The Burrow, not even a breeze rustling leaves in the pitch black garden. But Hermione was restless. It had only been three nights since she'd come here from Hogwarts, her seventh and final year, to join Ron and Harry. The boys hadn't gone back with her, as they'd accepted Kingsley Shacklebolt's offer to instate them as Aurors at the end of the war, NEWTs be damned, to help round up remaining Death Eaters. Hermione had stayed at The Burrow with them during school holidays, and now after graduation, it seemed the logical place to go. But for some inexplicable reason, The Burrow no longer felt like home.

Her bare feet were nearly silent as she crept down the stairs, but she cast muffliato anyway, to cover the creaking of the floorboards. Everyone in the house was sleeping now, even Molly Weasley, who often stayed up late these days knitting tiny socks and jumpers for her first grandchild, Bill and Fleur's baby, who would be arriving soon. Although the matriarch of the family didn't show any outward effects of the war, the death of her son, or her legendary battle with Bellatrix, Hermione could see the emotional scars it left in the way Molly threw her whole being into her remaining children - Harry and Hermione included. Every day at The Burrow was nonstop cooking, cleaning, hugs and affection. Not that Hermione didn't appreciate it, especially in light of losing her own parents to the irreversible obliviate she'd done to protect them during the war, but she had always been a little grateful to return to the quiet echos of the half-empty Hogwarts castle after the noisy and loving holidays at The Burrow.

No more Hogwarts now, Hermione thought sadly as she stepped out the back door into the silent garden. It was an accomplished, necessary kind of sadness, though. She was almost 20 years old, after all. It was time to leave behind the comforting walls of the castle, her home away from home, and join the adult wizarding world. Her feet crunched on the gravel of the garden path as Hermione wandered between the bushes and trees. The Burrow's garden was less like a lawn and more like a maze of various plants, garden beds, benches and long-abandoned makeshift quidditch pitches. Cozy as it all was, Hermione felt the draw to get her own place, a quiet refuge, like this garden was right now. Lately she'd been daydreaming of an elegant and modern flat in London. Close to the Ministry, Diagon Alley, and the nice muggle places, as well.

"Hermione?" A low whisper came from a nearby bench. She swiveled to face the shadowy voice, drawing her wand upwards with a quick, subconscious muscle memory. The shadow's spectacled eyes widened as they faced her wand-point, and she recognized the speaker, finally.

"Harry, ugh, sorry. You scared me!" She lowered her wand and pocketed it, joining her best friend on the bench. She placed a hand on Harry's arm in apology. "Can't sleep?"

Harry shook his head. "I didn't want to keep Ginny awake. She has tryouts with the Harpies tomorrow."

Hermione and Harry had an odd arrangement these days at The Burrow. To the Weasleys, it seemed that Hermione and Ginny shared her small bedroom on the top floor, and Harry and Ron shared a room on the floor below. Each night, however, the two friends crept in their pajamas to trade rooms, passing each other with a goodnight nod on the staircase. In a way, Hermione envied Harry and Ginny's relationship. They hadn't bothered with the long distance dating bit while Ginny finished her seventh year at Hogwarts with Hermione, but that seemed to have made holidays all the sweeter, with many quiet moments of tender understanding between the pair. Ginny had dated a bit here and there, and Harry had been swamped with Auror work, but they'd written to each other religiously, and Hermione was excited to now see the romance blossom again between two of her best friends.

She and Ron had, maybe regrettably, taken the opposite track. They'd 'dated' during the school year, mostly weekends in Hogsmeade spent with her studying and Ron restless, pacing the floor of the Three Broomsticks and drinking his weight in Butterbeer. Not being one for love letters or romantic gestures, Ron had only written to arrange their next date, or make plans for holidays, which Hermione reminded herself was exactly the sort of practicality she wanted in a relationship. Ron was her first love, and her best friend. They didn't need the sticky sweetness and heartfelt longing that other couples professed. They'd won a war together, for goodness sake. He knew her inside and out.

A whisper of a breeze blew through the garden, and Hermione thought of her boyfriend, sleeping soundly in their warm, quilt-covered bed upstairs. His tall frame always looked comical in his childhood bed, stretching from his pillow all the way down to the footboard, leaving just enough room beside him for Hermione to snuggle in, squashed against his lanky body. Usually, it felt like heaven, wrapped tight in his strong arms, but tonight it had felt a bit suffocating as her mind tumbled with post-graduation plans, career paths, interviews, and London flats.

"Harry, if she gets the position on the Harpies, do you think you'll move? To be closer to Wales?"

Her friend was quiet for a moment, running a hand anxiously through his thick black hair.

"We've been avoiding the subject, to be honest. She was so focused on NEWTs, and then tryouts straight away, and every time I try to bring up the future, she waves me off. I actually - I wanted to ask you…"

Hermione tried to meet his eye, though it was hard in the pitch black. Somewhere in the distance, a cat meowed plaintively.

"I know Ginny was dating here and there at Hogwarts. But was there anyone… really special for her? She's been a little… different. Since you all came back, I mean."

Hermione considered her friend and long-time roommate sleeping upstairs. Ginny Weasley, quidditch star and model Gryffindor, with her tiny frame concealing a huge inner strength and fire that her close friends and loved ones admired greatly. She had delicate but defined features that flattered her small oval face, dominated by her wide, golden brown eyes. The boys at Hogwarts may have been a little intimidated by her, especially after the war, when Ginny was lauded as not just a beauty, but a hero and a leader in bringing down Voldemort. Plus, she was Harry Potter's girl, and who wanted to piss off an Auror? A few courageous boys had made advances, usually cheered on by stomachs full of butterbeer at the pub, and Ginny had enjoyed her share of tipsy kisses and short-lived trysts in the Room of Requirement. But Hermione couldn't think of any boys who stood out, anyone she'd talked about in a loving way. It had always been Harry, in all the years they'd been friends. The only person to ever make Ginny speechless, the only one who could match her independence and determination, who could make her blush and inspire her at the same time.

"No, not that I know of. I'm sure she's just nervous about tryouts. Starting a career and all that." Hermione laid her head gently sideways on his shoulder. "Like all of us."

Harry put an arm around her. It was a comforting, friendly gesture, and she wondered if this was what it was like to have a brother. For all the familial chaos of The Burrow, Hermione was never especially close with the older Weasley boys. Or maybe Ron had warned them all off from putting their hands on her. But her boyfriend knew better than to get his knickers in a twist about Harry. It had been a sore spot for a while, but Hermione had told him in no uncertain terms that if she was going to be his girlfriend, Ron had to quit with the barbed and jealous comments about her friendship with Harry.

"When is your ministry interview?" Harry asked, rubbing a thumb against her shoulder.

"Tuesday," Hermione sighed wistfully. She was relatively sure she'd get the job with Magical Law Enforcement, after all, her reputation preceded her. But being Hermione, she couldn't help but prepare - reading tome after tome of policies, reports, meeting notes. Ron had scolded her for keeping her nose in books instead of celebrating her freedom from school.

"I'm sure you'll get it," Harry murmured. "And if not, I'll always hire you as a Auror. You'd be brilliant."

There was a quiet moment. Hermione knew both boys had been disappointed that she didn't join them as an Auror after the war, keeping their trio intact. But fighting dark wizards wasn't her dream, it was theirs. Or at least, it was Harry's.

"I - Hermione, I -" her friend stammered a little, and she knew he was struggling to bring something up. With the supernatural sense that only old, old friends have together, she knew what it was about.

"What's wrong with Ron?" She asked, and felt Harry's body jolt slightly beside her as she hit the subject head on.

"Well, nothing big. He's just… he hasn't been coming to work that much. You know our work has been slowing down, now that most of the Death Eaters are in Azkaban. It's a lot of paperwork at the moment, and some boring surveillance stuff… it seems like he's lost his motivation. I didn't want to worry you when you were doing NEWTs or anything, and I was going to try and wait til after your interview, but since you're here, I thought..."

Harry was talking softly but quickly, letting the words tumble out with a guilty tone, sorry to have to 'tattle' on his best friend in this way. But it wasn't news to Hermione. Her boyfriend was easily readable, his handsome face expressive and open, and it had never been hard for her to deduce what he was thinking. Right now, he was in a strange place in between contentment and boredom. After the war, Ron and Harry had needed the comfort of The Burrow, the support of the Weasley family, as they ventured out as adults with their new Auror positions. They'd stayed there with the understanding that it was temporary, and that once Hermione and Ginny finished at Hogwarts, they'd all reevaluate. But in the past few days following graduation, any time Hermione brought up moving, jobs, or adulthood, Ron had heaved a great sigh and rolled his big blue eyes at her. He only seemed happy when they were drinking and relaxing together, or kissing.

"He does seem a little… bored." Hermione had tried not to take it personally. She couldn't wait to start her adult life, her career, get their own place, and Ron was really raining on her parade. She wondered, if not for her, if he'd happily live at The Burrow forever, crammed unto his childhood bed, sporadically attending the job he wasn't even passionate about.

"It's not you," Harry said quickly, "I think it's just a little post-war letdown. No more action."

Hermione lifted her head and smiled up at him. "It's a strange point in our lives, that's for sure. Somehow the least exciting and the most exciting at the same time."

Another quiet moment. Hermione felt her eyes growing heavier in the cool stillness of the dark garden, soothed by Harry's rhythmic breathing, her racing thoughts calmed.

"You've basically been an adult since we were eleven, Hermione," her friend's deep voice continued quietly, his shoulder vibrating beneath her ear. "I hope Ron can keep up. You deserve someone who can share your goals. He just… I'm worried."

"I know, Harry. I am, too." She wanted to soothe her friend, reassure him that everything would be fine, but the words weren't coming to her. It was true, she and Ron were polar opposites in many ways. Their shared childhood experiences bound them together, but the future, being adults… it tore them apart.

She returned to her room then, slipping silently into the narrow bed where Ron was sprawled, snoring softly. His face was relaxed, lips slightly parted, bright red hair splayed on the pillow like a glowing halo. Hermione ran a hand gingerly over his bare pale shoulder, up to his jaw and his cheek, covered in coppery stubble. Pressing her forehead to his, she laid a gentle kiss on his lower lip. They'd have to address things in the morning, but for now, she wanted to savor the precious, private silence of their shared bed.

Ron woke halfway, not cracking his eyes open but recognizing her lips and scent. He wrapped a long arm around her waist and pulled her close, interlocking his legs with hers.

"Where'd you go?" he murmured sleepily, nuzzling his face into her neck.

"I couldn't sleep, I went to the garden." Hermione suppressed the urge to talk more, to confront him about what Harry had said. She was sure that Ron already knew what was on her mind, as it was the same subject that had been preoccupying her for months. Their future.

Ron just hummed happily against her, his hands roaming over her body. She turned over in his arms, torn between not being in the mood for physical affection and wanting to enjoy a blissful moment together before the fight she knew was to come. Pressing her body into his, she tried to focus on the pleasant feeling of his warm hands on her skin. It had been awkward at first, when they started dating after the war. They'd been friends for seven years, and to suddenly start kissing and exploring each other's bodies had been both exhilarating and terribly embarrassing. In fact, Hermione had almost called it quits in September, the night before she left on the train to Hogwarts, when Ron had pushed her limits in bed.

Even now, laying with her hips nestled in the curve of his, her breasts cupped in his hands, her neck being covered in sleepy kisses, there was a tiny twinge of awkwardness in the pit of her stomach. That nagging reminder that the boy behind her, the boy growing hard against her, was her childhood best friend. But she loved him, she told herself. That contented, satisfied feeling she got when they were together, that was love. It was meant to be, everyone said.

Ron's hands had journeyed their way down from her breasts to between her legs, rubbing insistently. He must be fully awake now, Hermione chuckled to herself, grasping his wrist to slow down his frantic pace. What he lacked in grace, her lover made up for in passion and enthusiasm, always needing to be reined in and refined with a guiding hand. She resisted the urge to stop him altogether, as she'd decided that letting him have his way tonight, within reason, would help her case tomorrow when she had to confront him about his plans for the future. Manipulative, maybe. But physical touch was his language, and she wanted to show him that her concerns were loving, not hateful.

He was pulling at her pajamas now, undressing her clumsily in their squashed-together position. With fingers crossed that he would remember her boundaries in his sleepy state, she kicked off the clothing and pressed herself against him with a small groan. Ron had freed himself from his own pajamas, now skin against skin as he scattered soft kisses against her shoulder and back. A hand was between her legs again, slowly prying them apart so that he could fit himself in between from behind.

"Ron," she murmured into the dark. It was a gentle warning.

"I know," he moaned, burying his face in her dark curls. "I won't." He sandwiched his cock between her thighs, grinding into her.

Their compromise. Over their year of dating, Hermione had slowly grown comfortable with making out, touching, being naked, even bringing him to orgasm. But the last frontier, losing her virginity, had been the point she would not concede. She blamed the muggle tradition of not having sex until marriage - it was pretty outdated now, only associated with religious families, but Ron didn't know that. In the wizarding world, there had never really been a stigma against pre-marital sex. There were charms against pregnancy and diseases that were easy enough to cast, as long as you were of age and could do magic outside Hogwarts. Hermione hadn't bothered learning them yet, as she knew that she was Ron's only partner, and he was hers.

Her lover's grinding was growing more frantic behind her, a trembling hand rubbing misshapen circles between her legs, his chest heaving and sweaty against her back. She felt guilty for restraining their physicality like this, knowing he would love nothing more than to slip inside of her and move in unison, joined together. But she just couldn't bring herself to allow it, for reasons that she couldn't quite put her finger on. 'Just not ready' didn't seem like a good enough excuse after a year of dating.

"Do you want me to… use my wand?" Ron grunted into her ear between gasping breaths. Their usual routine, lately, when things got hot and heavy. He clamped himself between her thighs and held a vibrating wand to her clit, bringing them both to completion without penetration. But tonight, she didn't feel like she could let go and orgasm even with the buzzing wand, so she shook her head no.

"I… love you… Hermione." He was moaning now, and Hermione wished she'd cast a muffliato on the room, but her wand was out of reach, and she wasn't going to stop him now.

"I love you, too, Ron." Her voice was soft, breathy. Encouraging him, she hoped. She clenched her thighs together, remembering with a smile that first, fumbling time that they'd discovered this method of almost-sex. Ron had rubbed against her, hoping she'd eventually give in, and got off unexpectedly. It was the one time she was thankful for thick thighs that could vise-grip his cock securely against her, providing, she hoped, the warmth and softness and pressure he craved.

He pressed feverishly into her, and she knew the end was soon. Despite her conflicting feelings about intimacy - and Ron himself, at the moment - she always felt a glowing sense of accomplishment when he came. For a moment, she wondered distractedly if she liked it so much because she loved him, or because it meant sex was over. But then again, it wasn't like she never enjoyed herself.

With a final thrust and groan, Ron pulsed with panting breaths, spilling his hot, sticky liquid between her legs. He fell back, a satisfied smile on his lips that mirrored her own. Within minutes, he was asleep again, leaving Hermione to fish her wand out of the covers and cast a scourgify on the mess he'd made. Kissing his freckled shoulder as his breathing turned from deep pants to soft snores, she whispered soundless secrets against his skin.

"I don't know what the morning brings for us, Ron Weasley. I just don't know."

The next day was a blur, with the whole Burrow in an excited uproar for Ginny's quidditch tryout. The youngest Weasley and only girl had always been in the spotlight within her family, prized and babied even when they had no money with which to spoil her. This made it all the more exciting when she'd been asked to try out for a professional quiddich team, her lifelong favorite. She had insisted that no one but her boyfriend come to watch the tryouts, because she knew that if one Weasley came, they'd all come, and embarrass her with their cheering. Hermione understood completely, although she wished she could be there to support her friend. And to support Harry, she thought, imagining him alone in the stands, wondering what his life would be like when his girlfriend became a professional athlete.

So far, Hermione hadn't found a good chance to speak with Ron. He'd awoken, naked, with a sly and gratified smile that she just couldn't bring herself to wipe off his face. Once Ginny's tryout was over, she told herself, then they'd know Harry and Ginny's future, and she could confront Ron about theirs. But it didn't exactly go to plan, because Harry returned to The Burrow alone, his bright green eyes flashing with anger as he slipped up the stairs, waving off the Weasley's questioning looks.

"She's coming later. If I tell you she's celebrating with the team, I suppose that gives away the result, but I don't know what else I'm supposed to say."

The crowd of redheads at the bottom of the stairs whooped and hugged, too elated for Ginny to worry about Harry's mood. But Hermione was never one to be waved off, and followed him up the stairs silently.

"Harry," she said gently, watching her friend slump onto Ginny's bed. "What happened?"

He shook his head, and Hermione wondered if the glowing in his green eyes was actually tears, rather than anger.

"I'm happy for her," he sighed, flopping back heavily to lay on the bed. "I need to get over myself."

"She wants to move to Wales?" Hermione guessed. The Holyhead Harpies were the best women's quidditch team in Britain, and she knew it was a dream come true for Ginny. But their practice grounds were remote, on an island in Northern Wales, and not connected to the Floo network. Today, Ginny and Harry had to fly for hours to get there from The Burrow, and even though she could apparate if needed now that she knew the place, Hermione knew that Ginny would want to live nearby. Being exhausted after a match and trying to apparate halfway across Britain was just asking to get splinched.

"Yes, and no." Harry sighed again, and Hermione scooted toward him on the bed, petting his hair in what she hoped was a soothing manner. She'd never been very good at soothing.

"She doesn't want to live together yet," her friend continued, a puzzled glare causing his eyebrows to buckle into each other. "Even though we already live together, basically. She said some of the other girls have a house on the island, and she wants to live there. At least for the first season. For… camaraderie. Supposedly."

"And you're not allowed to live with her there, I assume?"

"No. I told her I can't live at The Burrow forever, and she agreed. Told me I should look at flats in London, and we can see each other on weekends. But her matches will be on weekends, so… it's like she's making it impossible for us to be together on purpose, forcing my hand into breaking up. Not that we were ever official in the first place, she wouldn't allow that either."

He threw his hands up in frustration.

"What can I do, Hermione? I love her, but I want a girlfriend who I can be with. I've waited all year for her to finish school, thinking we could be together. I've been saving up money… I even looked at rings."

He moaned. Hermione cringed, knowing that a ring was probably the last thing on Ginny's mind. They'd grown close, especially in the last year, and she knew that her friend's whole focus was on her possible quidditch career and having fun being a seventeen year old. Not buying houses or Ministry jobs or, least of all, marriage. During heart-to-heart conversations in their dormitory, Ginny had told her that while she truly loved Harry, she was scared that he wanted to get too serious too soon, and that his position as the youngest Auror ever had forced him to grow up before he should have. Hermione hadn't voiced her opinion that vanquishing a dark Lord had forced them all to grow up before they should have. She envied Ginny's ability to set their traumatic past aside and savor her remaining teenage years.

"Just give her time, Harry," she said gently. "Remember, she's not even eighteen until August. You'll have decades together, if you give her the space she needs now and don't drive her away."

Even as she spoke, her words felt hypocritical. She was giving Ginny the consideration that she couldn't find within her for Ron, her own boyfriend. He was less than two years older, but Hermione had such different expectations for them. Or maybe it was because her happiness and future was only tied to the elder sibling.

As if he read her mind, Harry looked up at her through narrowed eyes. "And Ron?" he asked teasingly, "Are you going to give him time? He's going to be dismissed altogether if he keeps on like this, Hermione, it will be out of my hands."

Now it was Hermione's turn to sigh.

"It's different. Ginny just got a job, a job she's passionate about and has been wanting forever. She has a plan, even if it doesn't mesh with yours perfectly. Ron just… doesn't seem to care what happens. He's fine with living here, at his parents' house, and sharing his tiny bed forever. When I suggest moving out, he acts like I asked him to murder his mother."

Right on cue, she heard creaking footsteps outside the bedroom door, and Ron threw the door open, beaming.

"My sister is a PRO quidditch player! Can you believe that, Harry? Ginny's gonna be FAMOUS!"

Harry laughed darkly. "You're famous, mate."

Ron laughed and laid on the bed next to Hermione, grasping her hand.

"S'pose so," he said with a dreamy sort of grin, "I always forget."

Hermione clamped her lips together, refraining from chiding Ron. He would do well not to forget that, she thought, and not just for the self-confidence that being a war hero could lend him. He could use those connections, that admiration within the wizarding world, to find a job he loves.

"Ron," Harry said tentatively, still staring up at the ceiling, "You could try out, if you wanted?"

The redhead on her right chuckled heartily again. "What, for the Holyhead Harpies? Afraid I've got body parts that aren't allowed on that team, mate!"

"Not for the Harpies," Hermione snapped, then softened her tone as she felt Ron's muscles tense beside her. "For another team. You're quite good."

Ron glanced over at the others with a confused sideways look. "I was alright at Hogwarts. Passable… but the crowds made me barmy, I could never play pro. You know that."

A tense minute passed in which Ron seemed to process the implication of their suggestion.

"Is this about the job thing?" he asked suspiciously, dropping Hermione's hand from his. "I know everyone thinks I'm just an Auror because Harry is, but I'm actually fine doing it, I like it, so don't get any -"

"Ron, you're going to be sacked," Harry interrupted. "It's not a sure thing, but… Kingsley asked me to speak with you. See if you want to salvage it. You haven't come to the Ministry in days. Haven't filed any reports in weeks."

A beat of strained silence. "Well then, tell him not to sack me, huh?" Ron's voice was sharp-edged.

"So you'll work?" Hermione asked gently. She tried to interlance her fingers with his, but felt him bristle. Ron rose from the bed and paced the small bedroom.

"I do work. You all look down on me all the time and I'm sick of it. Hermione, you just graduated. I've been working for a YEAR! I'm happy with my home. I'm happy with my position. I don't need any big time promotions, or some posh London flat. We're nineteen, for Merlin's sake. All I need is a little spending money, nights out at the pub with my mates, a beautiful girlfriend to come home to… I don't know why the two of you can't be happy with that."

When Harry and Hermione didn't respond to his rant, Ron continued. "Maybe Kingsley should sack me. Maybe I deserve some time off. You lot realize we went straight from a bloody WAR to these jobs, right? We didn't get the summer holiday before school started, like you, Hermione. Maybe this should be my summer holiday, then!"

"Adults don't get a summer holiday, Ron," Hermione spat, sitting upright and looking her boyfriend up and down. "You chose to go be an Auror instead of coming with me to finish seventh year. You said there was no way you could go back to being a child at school. Which kind of stung, you know that? And now I want to get our own place, interview for jobs, want you to GO to your job, period, and it's too much to ask?"

Her voice rung bright and sharp, maybe too harshly. She was used to bickering with Ron, it was nothing new. All three of them could predict what would unfold next - Ron would storm off in anger, everyone would take some time to calm down, Harry would go talk sense into Ron, and he would reluctantly apologize. But Hermione was growing tired of that routine, truth be told. Harry shouldn't have to play counselor. They weren't moody children anymore.

"If you want to move so badly, why are you staying here?" Ron asked her coldly, arms crossed over his chest. "You could go stay at Grimmauld Place, be close to your precious Ministry interview. It's not like we're SHAGGING or anything, at least not properly!"

Hermione jumped up to shush him, brows knitted together, but Ron was already gone with a crack of apparition. She could hear thuds and crashes from the room below them, Ron's bedroom. He'd apparated just a few feet away, for angry effect.

Ginny's bed creaked as Harry stood, putting a calming hand on Hermione's back.

"I know he said it out of anger, but it isn't the worst idea, actually. I'd stay at Grimmauld with you, if you want. Just… til you and Ron find a place. He'll come around."

She considered the prospect, nodding slowly in agreement. Grimmauld Place was a dour, unwelcoming house, but she'd grown accustomed to it in the last few years, and could certainly tolerate it for a week or two. It might prove a point to Ron that he couldn't yell and embarrass her, and then expect her to be waiting around for his apology.

It seemed telling that she didn't feel compelled to rush downstairs and try to make up. In fact, the feeling when she and Harry floo'ed to Grimmauld Place was… relief. The tension in her shoulders relaxed, and for the first time since she left Hogwarts, Hermione felt sure she'd get a good night's sleep.

That night, after sending Harry back to fetch her trunk from The Burrow, the two of them sat in front of a fire and sipped tea while they worked. The quiet house had a sad feeling, but somehow also a calm coziness of two friends united in their melancholy.

"Do you think we're meant to be?" Hermione asked, pausing with her finger in the middle of page 692 of the Ministry's report on garden gnomes.

"Er… you and Ron?" Harry asked, a puzzled look on his face. Hermione nodded.

"I feel like we built our relationship up to be more than it actually is. Being in the war together, being best friends, it was like this big… tension. And once it became reality, it was just…"

Her voice trailed off. Harry put his quill and parchment down on the side table, taking his time to consider her question.

"It's a lot of pressure on a relationship, being in the public eye like we are. Plus everyone from school seeing you two circling each other for years. It might keep a relationship going… longer than it naturally would."

His words cut her, but she knew it was true. She and Ron were so incredibly different. They may have never gotten together, if they hadn't both been friends with Harry and gotten wrapped up in the war. Everyone kept telling her that it was meant to be, that Ron was her true love - hell, they even said that to each other. And she did love him, without a doubt. It just wasn't the way that she should love the man she was dating, and more like she should love a best friend.

As practical and logic-minded as she was, there had always been the part of Hermione that she didn't share with the boys, the part that had devoured Jane Austen, Shakespearian tragedies, and, later, muggle romance novels. Maybe she'd thought of Ron as her 'great love,' the best friend turned lover who knew her better than anyone in the world. And that made it hard to let go, to admit the truth, that they weren't a perfect match. After all, who could be her great love if not Ron? She'd waited so bloody long for him to realize how she felt about him.

"I don't know how to live without him," she admitted, leaning her head back against the sofa.

"You'll be brilliant," Harry said delicately, "You're Hermione Granger. You'll have an illustrious career and change the wizarding world forever, with or without him. And if it's without him, I have no doubt that someday in the future, some brave bloke will come along with enough guts to fall in love with you. He'd be a lucky man."

Harry patted Hermione's leg in a way that made her suddenly miss her father more than anything. Neither of them spoke again that night, acknowledging the immense decisions brewing that would change both of their lives - Harry's two best friends splitting up would affect him almost as much as it affected them. Ginny sent an owl from Holyhead, apologizing for her harshness with Harry that morning. Nothing from Ron.

In fact, it was days before Hermione heard anything from him. Her interview at the Ministry went well, although her interviewer may have been a little taken aback when Hermione had recited all 73 clauses of the International Wizarding Code of Secrecy. He'd given her the job immediately. Harry threw her a little celebration that night at Grimmauld Place, fetching a nice dinner from Diagon Alley and a bottle of champagne from the muggle shop down the street. But it had been days since that dinner, tranquil, lonely days of work and study for the two friends.

Friday night, Harry had just poured them each small glasses of firewhiskey when a frantic screech owl pummeled the kitchen window, making Hermione jump out of her seat. She fetched the letter from the little owl's leg, and read it silently, recognizing the scratchy, slanted handwriting at once.

Hermione,

Hope you're enjoying your grown up life with Harry. My family is pretty offended that you didn't even say goodbye to them before taking off for London. Don't bother coming back here. But you probably weren't going to, since you've always thought you were better than us. Sorry I told Harry we weren't really shagging. And sorry I couldn't be the bloody hero you wanted. - Ron

No congratulations on her new job, no final 'I love you.' But he had apologized a little, which even Harry admitted was more than they normally got without prompting. Somehow, this bitter, attention-seeking letter didn't upset Hermione, but instead provided a weird sort of closure, proving once and for all that she'd grown up beyond Ron's ability to cope. It was a sad surety, like a long-held suspicion being finally confirmed. A couple hours and a couple glasses of firewhiskey later, Hermione decided she needn't dignify that written tantrum with a response - he would surely figure out how she felt by her distinct lack of reply. She shooed away the screech owl who'd been hopping impatiently around the kitchen.

The next morning, sometime just before dawn, another letter arrived, this time scrawled even more carelessly. It must have been written late at night, she thought, after one of those longed-for 'pub hang outs.' With bleary eyes, she unfolded the parchment and read.

Mione - Im not even good enough for a reply? Whhy did you keep telling me I was your one true love if you didnt really belieeve it? Becuz love would not leave a bloke just fur getting sacked from his job. But I still do love you. Even. Thougg you wouldnt let me proper shag you. Mayybe I shold have known then… if i was it for u, we wood have dun it…

Then the ink seemed to turn into scribbles and gibberish, running off the page as if the quill had a mind of its own. No signature. Ron's pain and angst was glaring up at her from the awful letter, but so was his entitlement, his inability to take the blame, his rage. And possibly alcoholism, she thought dully, throwing the parchment to the floor and shooing the owl again. Poor thing, its wings must be tired, going back and forth from Devon to London all night.

Hermione turned over and tried to sleep again, but the pale summer sunlight was intruding through the velvet drapes and casting stripes of gold onto her bed and walls. All she could think about was her future - for so long, she'd imagined it with Ron. Their careers as intertwined as their schooling had been, little redheaded babies and holidays at The Burrow. Without him, what would it look like? As Harry had said, someday, a brave man will come along with the guts to love her. But if no one was brave enough to see past her reputation? She could see herself clinging to work as her life's love, empty and longing for romance on the inside. She'd attend her friends' weddings and weep for what could have been, if she hadn't been so harsh.

In the midst of her morose daydream, an owl's talon rapped on her window. The screech owl, back again? Maybe it was instructed to insist on a reply this time - owls could be rather persuasive, with their hooked beaks shoving the quill into your hand menacingly. But this owl was different, Hermione saw as she drew back the curtains again. A Ministry barn owl, tawny brown and powerful looking. Ah, it was just work business.

But as she read the wax-sealed scroll - twice over, to be sure she wasn't hallucinating - Hermione realized that this was far from business as usual.

The Ministry of Magic

hereby decrees

that in order to preserve our kind in the wake of devastating loss

all witches and wizards over the age of seventeen must be married and attempting to conceive a child by

September 1, 1999.

The Ministry of Magic recognizes that this may come as an unpleasant shock, however, if this action is not taken now, our Arithmancy experts have proven that our world could cease to exist within three generations. We must work together to rebuild our population. Please see page 4 of today's Daily Prophet for details about exceptions to the decree, proof of attempted conception, and other details.

Thank you for doing your part on our way to peaceful, strong recovery.

Kingsley Shacklebolt,

Minister of Magic

Hermione was out her bedroom door in a flash, thundering down the hall to Harry's room. He was already awake, sitting on the edge of his bed with a disbelieving expression that must have matched hers. Although it was not in her usual repertoire to curse, Hermione couldn't help but throw the scroll at her feet and spit the words.

"What. The. Fuck!"