Waking up to Forever
The church bells rang with haunting clarity, their melodic chime echoing like a requiem in Hermione's ears.
It was a beautiful day, the kind poets would write sonnets about—bright, sunny skies, the air ripe with the scent of roses and lavender.
The mirror in the bridal suite of the Burrow showed no lies. Hermione Granger stood before it, methodically pinning up her hair into an elegant chignon, each movement precise and controlled. Just like everything else about this day had to be. The pale lavender of her bridesmaid dress complemented her skin tone perfectly – trust Ginny to have an impeccable eye for detail.
Don't think about him. Don't think about him. Don't think about him.
But how could she not? The memories crashed over her like waves, each one threatening to drown her carefully maintained composure.
---
Forest of Dean, Winter 1997
The fire crackled between them , its light flickering in the shadows, casting brief moments of warmth against the cold that crept around the edges of the enchanted tent. They had set up camp hours ago, but neither of them had spoken much since, as if the weight of everything they were carrying—the hunt, the fear, the loss—had suddenly become too much to put into words.
Hermione sat cross-legged, her back pressed against a tree, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring into the flames as they danced and flickered, desperately trying to hold onto something familiar.
Harry was across from her, his worn boots planted firmly on the ground, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared into the fire with the same intensity, as if he could make sense of the world if he only stared hard enough. His face was drawn, tired, and the weight of everything that had happened in the last year seemed to settle in the lines around his eyes, the way his jaw clenched every now and then as if trying to keep some part of himself from breaking apart.
"I wish we could stay here," Hermione heard herself say, the words spilling out before she could stop them. They were a dream she hadn’t allowed herself to have before, a fantasy too fragile to hold onto, but now, in the midst of the war, in the midst of this unbearable heaviness, they slipped out. "I wish we could stay here, Harry. Grow old here... together."
Her heart stuttered in her chest at the words, and for a moment, she felt foolish for even saying them. Was this really the time to wish for something so impossible, so out of reach? The world was crumbling around them, and here she was, imagining a life that would never happen.
But Harry didn’t laugh, didn’t brush her off like she thought he might. Instead, he stayed still, and the silence stretched between them, heavy with everything unsaid. He didn’t look at her immediately, but when he did, his eyes were softer than she had expected, and for a second, it was as though the rest of the world had vanished—just the two of them in this tiny bubble of calm.
His voice was low, rough, like he was grappling with something inside of him, trying to push it down. “I wish that too, Hermione.”
The words felt like they came from deep inside him, like they were trapped and had been waiting to be said. The realization that they both wanted the same thing, that they both longed for peace and quiet, away from the constant threat, made her chest ache.
“I could build us a little house,” She added softly, almost like a joke to cover the tremble in her voice, but even as she said it, she could feel the truth of it. “Nothing fancy. Just somewhere we could be... safe.”
A half-smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. His eyes were still so filled with so much pain, so much history. "I could build a garden," he replied after a long pause, his tone lighter but still touched with the weight of what they were really talking about. "And we could plant trees. Lots of trees."
It felt so natural, so real, the way they fell into that imaginary world, painting pictures with words—simple things, things that should have been possible. A home. A life. A future.
But she knew. They both knew. It wasn’t possible. Not now. Not with everything that hung in the balance.
The fire crackled again, the smoke curling up into the night sky, but she couldn’t stop the overwhelming sense of yearning that flooded her, the ache in her chest that told her this would always be what she wanted—the simple life, the peace, the quiet, the love that didn’t have to fight for survival.
For a moment, they were just two people, sitting together in the dark, imagining a future that would never come. And even though it hurt, even though
knew they had to face the reality of the war and everything they were about to sacrifice, she couldn’t help but wish for it anyway.
"I wish we had more time," She whispered, almost to herself, watching the flames.
"Me too," Harry replied softly, his voice thick with the same longing.
And for that one fleeting moment, in the stillness of the forest, she allowed myself to believe in the dream—for just a heartbeat, she allowed herself to picture it:no future, no war, no Dark Lord, just Harry and her, growing old, side by side.
But reality came rushing back, cold and sharp, as quickly as the wind stirred through the trees, and she knew that the dream would remain nothing more than a fragile thread in her mind. She would carry it with her, as she always did, as something that could have been, had circumstances been different.
But for now, all she had was this. The two of them. In the quiet of the forest. Together. And that, for all its impossibility, was enough.
---
The Present
"Hermione?" Luna's dreamy voice pulled her back to reality. "The flowers need arranging in the ceremony space. Are you alright? Your wrackspurts seem particularly active today."
Hermione forced a smile. "Just wedding day jitters on behalf of the bride, I suppose."
The lie tasted bitter on her tongue. She'd gotten good at those over the years. Every time Harry looked at her with concerned green eyes, asking if she was truly happy with Ron. Every time Ginny hugged her and called her 'sister.' Every time she told herself that this was how things were meant to be.
The preparations passed in a blur of activity.
Ginny was radiant in her white dress, red hair gleaming like fire in the autumn sunlight.
Hermione blinked, snapping back to the present as the congregation began to rise. Ginny was walking down the aisle, radiant in her white gown. The delicate lace sleeves and flowing train accentuated her beauty, but Hermione found herself unable to look directly at her.
Instead, her eyes drifted back to Harry.
Her Harry. No—Ginny’s Harry now.
His dark suit fit him perfectly, tailored to accentuate the strength of his shoulders, the way he carried the weight of the world even now, even after Voldemort’s fall. His face, though calm, held the echoes of battle scars, the faintest trace of sadness in his green eyes—a sadness Hermione had always understood.
His face lit up as Ginny approached, a genuine smile spreading across his features.
It broke Hermione.
She felt Ron’s hand on hers, squeezing gently, and she turned to him. His blue eyes were kind, concerned. “You sure you’re alright, Hermione? You look… pale.”
“Just tired,” she lied, offering another weak smile.Ron kept sneaking glances at Hermione, his blue eyes full of devotion that made guilt coil in her stomach like a serpent.
Ron stayed by her side, his presence grounding but bittersweet. He had always been there for her, hadn’t he? But not in the way she had needed—not in the way Harry had been.
Ron shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “I know it hurts,” he said after a long silence.
Hermione turned to him, startled. “What?”
“Harry,” he said simply. “I see the way you look at him.”
Her breath hitched. “Ron, I—”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupted, his tone gentle. “I just… I want you to be happy, Hermione. Even if it’s not with me.”
Tears pricked at her eyes, and she looked away. “It doesn’t matter,” she said bitterly. “He’s with Ginny. He’s happy.”
Ron didn’t respond, but his silence spoke volumes.
"You're the most brilliant witch of our age,"Harry's voice echoed in her memory. "We wouldn't have survived without you, Hermione."
She remembered the way he'd looked at her then, in that tent, as if she held all the answers. As if she was something precious and rare. Now he looked at Ginny that way, and it was right, it was proper, it was exactly as it should be.
But still...
---
The Wedding Ceremony
The marquee was awash in golden light, filtering through cream-colored fabric to cast a dream-like glow over the assembled guests. Hermione stood at her designated spot, feeling as though she were watching everything through a gossamer veil of unreality. The bouquet trembled almost imperceptibly in her grasp – white roses and lavender, Ginny's choices, of course. Always perfect, always right.
She could feel Luna's presence beside her, a gentle, knowing presence. Earlier, the blonde had caught her in a moment of weakness, staring unseeing at the flower arrangements.
"The wrackspurts are particularly drawn to hearts carrying unspoken words," Luna had said, her silver eyes holding none of their usual dreaminess. "They feed on the things we wish we'd said, you know. Until they grow so heavy we can barely move beneath their weight."
Hermione had frozen, wondering if she was that transparent. But Luna had simply squeezed her hand and added, "Sometimes the kindest thing we can do for ourselves is to set those words free, even if only in whispers to the wind."
Now, as the ceremony reached its crescendo, those words felt like living things trapped in her chest, beating against her ribcage with desperate wings.
That could have been us.
The thought came unbidden, and Hermione clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms. It was irrational, foolish even. Harry had never been hers. Not really.
But there had been moments, hadn’t there? Small, fleeting moments where the line between friendship and something more had blurred.
The officiant's voice seemed to echo across an endless chasm:
"If anyone knows of any reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace..."
Time stretched like honey, thick and golden and suffocating. Hermione's pulse thundered in her ears, each heartbeat a war drum. She could feel the silk of her dress against her skin, suddenly too tight, too constraining. A bead of sweat traced down her spine. The scent of flowers was overwhelming, cloying, filling her lungs until she could barely breathe.
Her eyes met Harry's across the space between them. For a fraction of a second, something flickered in those green depths – uncertainty? Regret? Her own reflection? But then he blinked, and it was gone.
The silence stretched, pregnant with possibilities. Hermione's fingers clenched around the bouquet stems, and she felt a thorn bite into her palm. The sharp pain anchored her to reality, kept the words locked behind her teeth:
Because I've loved you since I was twelve years old, when I was unsure of everything except how much I believed in you.
Because in that tent, when you took my hand and we danced, I finally understood what it meant to feel whole.
Because some nights I still wake up reaching for you, reliving memories of those months when you were all I had.
Because I loved you first. Because in that tent, in those endless dark days, something grew between us that we never named. Because sometimes when you look at me, I still see that boy who danced with me when we were both broken and alone.
The moment passed. But she said nothing. Did nothing. Watched as Harry and Ginny exchanged their vows, their love pure and uncomplicated and real.
The officiant continued. Ginny's voice rang out, clear and confident, speaking her vows. Harry's response was steady, unwavering. Perfect.
Hermione watched as if from a great distance as they sealed their vows with a kiss. The crowd erupted in cheers and applause. Rose petals rained down, catching in Harry's perpetually messy hair. One landed on his shoulder, and without thinking, Hermione reached out to brush it away – an echo of a thousand similar gestures over the years.
Their eyes met again, and this time, something indefinable passed between them. Harry's hand caught hers for just a moment, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a gesture so brief she might have imagined it. But she felt the phantom warmth of that touch long after he'd turned away.
The reception was a whirl of faces and congratulations. Ron's hand was warm and steady at her waist as they danced, but her eyes kept finding Harry across the room. He was laughing at something Ginny had whispered in his ear, his happiness radiating out like sunlight.
---
Later That Night
Hermione slipped away from the celebration, finding refuge in the Burrow's overgrown garden. The fairy lights twinkled overhead like earthbound stars, and the sound of music and laughter drifted out from the marquee.
"Spare a dance for your best friend?"
Her heart stuttered as Harry appeared beside her, his bow tie slightly loosened, hair still hopelessly messy despite Ginny's best efforts to tame it for the ceremony.
"What about your bride?" The words came out more strained than she intended.
"She's teaching Luna some kind of traditional Weasley wedding dance. I'm hiding before I get drafted into it." His grin was infectious, and despite everything, she found herself smiling back.
The fairy lights overhead seemed to pulse in time with Hermione's heartbeat as Harry led her in a slow dance. Each point of contact between them felt electric – his hand at her waist, their fingers intertwined, the whisper of his breath against her hair.
"Do you remember," he murmured, his voice rough with something she didn't dare name, "that night in the tent? When we danced?"
She closed her eyes, unable to look at him. "Harry, don't."
"You were humming that song for days afterward." His thumb traced small circles on her palm, a gesture so intimate it made her breath catch. "I used to listen for it, whenever things got too dark. It meant you hadn't given up hope yet."
"Hope is a dangerous thing," she whispered, the words barely audible over the distant music.
He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, and the intensity in his eyes made her heart stutter. "Is that why you're not happy?"
The question hung between them, heavy with unspoken truths. Hermione opened her mouth to give her usual answer, the safe one, but found she couldn't lie. Not here, not now, not to him.
"I'm trying to be," she admitted, her voice catching. "Isn't that what we're all doing? Trying to build the future everyone expects of us?"
His hand tightened on her waist. "And what about the future you want?"
"What do you mean ?" Hermione whispered, avoiding his eyes .
She realised she had been crying .
"Wake up ,Hermione !"
"Hermione? Hermione, wake up!"
Her eyes snapped open. She was in her bed at Shell Cottage, her face wet with tears. Bill and Fleur's spare room came into focus slowly, the sound of waves crashing against the shore outside a constant reminder of where – and when – she was.
Harry stood in the doorway, concern etched on his features. "You were crying in your sleep."
"I..." She sat up, her mind still caught between dream and reality. "What day is it?"
"April 2nd, 1998....Are you okay ? What me to grab Fleur ?" He asked with an are-you-out-of-your-mind look .
His expression is hard to read—guilt, worry, bewilderment,relief, maybe even a little hope. But there’s a softness there too, an unspoken promise that things might somehow, one day, be okay again. He reached out slowly, like she might break, and his fingers gently brushed against hers. She wanted to pull away, to hide, but she couldn't. Instead, she allowed him hold her hand, needing this connection more than she cared to admit.
“Dont worry, Hermione.You’re safe .I will make sure of it ” he whispered.
Harry... Her Harry is here. And that means something.
"Harry ..I am fine .Really .Just a little disoriented" She said .
"We're meeting with Griphook about the bank in an hour, remember?"
The war wasn't over. Harry wasn't married. Nothing was set in stone yet.
He moved to sit on the edge of her bed, his hand finding hers just like it had so many times in the Forest of Dean. "Want to talk about it?"
Hermione looked at him – really looked at him. Not the Harry from her dream, happily married and beyond her reach, but her Harry. The one who had danced with her in that tent, who had stayed when everyone else left, who looked at her now with those impossibly green eyes full of concern and something else she'd been too afraid to name.
She could feel the quiet pulse of her heart beneath her ribs. And yet, there was something new—something raw and fragile—and it was pulling her closer to him in a way that made her breath catch in her throat.
Her fingers trembled as they found their way to his, almost hesitantly, brushing against his skin. Harry looked at her, his brow furrowed with worry, but there was something else there—something softer. His lips parted, ready to speak, but Hermione silenced him before he could say a word.
"I..." Her voice was hoarse, still not fully hers. She swallowed hard. "Yeah ...."
His gaze softened, and he nodded, sensing the weight of her words. But before she could say more, the silence between them stretched and grew heavy, charged with something unspoken.
Without really thinking about it, Hermione leaned forward, closing the small gap between them.
Her lips brushed his, light at first—tentative, as if she wasn’t sure if it was real. But then, the warmth of his mouth, the familiar comfort of his touch, grounded her.
The kiss deepened, almost instinctively, as though they were both reaching for something neither of them had been brave enough to grasp before. She could feel his surprise, the way he stiffened, but then he melted into her, his hand brushing against her cheek as if to make sure she was really there.
It felt like the entire world had paused for a breath. Hermione pulled away first, the taste of him lingering on her lips as she looked at him—his eyes wide, still processing what had just happened.
"I... I’m sorry," she murmured, feeling the heat of embarrassment rush to her cheeks. "I didn’t mean to... It’s just... I wanted to. After everything..." She trailed off, unsure how to articulate the storm of emotions swirling inside her.
Harry seemed lost for words, his hand still gently holding hers, as though afraid to let go. She could see it—the vulnerability in his eyes, the confusion and wonder that mirrored her own. It was as if they'd both crossed a threshold they hadn’t known existed until now.
But before he could respond, Hermione pulled her hand back, her gaze drifting down, avoiding his eyes. "I... I want to talk. About everything. What happened. What comes next. And ..us" she added quickly, almost too eagerly.
It was just a dream.A nightmare.
But this—this was real.
---
Epilogue
Years later, Hermione would look back on that dream as a gift. A glimpse of what might have been if she'd kept her silence, if she'd buried her feelings under layers of propriety and expectation. Instead, that morning at Shell Cottage, she'd found the courage to speak her truth.
Their actual wedding, when it came, was nothing like the dream that had haunted her. The marquee was smaller, intimate, with enchanted butterflies floating among the fairy lights. Luna had woven dirigible plums into the flower arrangements, "to keep away the doubt-sprites," she'd said with a knowing smile.
When the officiant asked if anyone objected, Hermione's heart was steady, her smile true. The only words trying to escape were her vows, carefully written on parchment but memorized by heart:
"Because you've always seen me, not just the answers I knew or the help I could give. Because you taught me that being brave isn't about not being scared – it's about being terrified and doing what's right anyway. Because in that tent, when everyone else left, you stayed. You've always stayed."
Harry's eyes shone as he replied, his own vows mixing laughter and tears: "Because you're still the most brilliant witch of our age, and I'm still the luckiest man in any age to have you by my side. Because every time I was lost, your voice led me home. Because you are my home"
Later, as they danced under the stars, Hermione hummed that same old song from the tent. Harry pulled her closer, and she felt his smile against her hair.
"Do you remember," he murmured, his voice soft and filled with love "that night in the tent? When we danced?"
She closed her eyes, remembering the night "Yes,Harry ."
"You were humming that song for days afterward." His thumb traced small circles on her palm, a gesture so intimate it made her breath catch. "I used to listen for it, whenever things got too dark. It meant you hadn't given up hope yet."
"Hope is a beautiful thing," she whispered, the words barely audible over the distant music.
He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, and the intensity in his eyes made her heart stutter. "So are you happy ?"
This time, her answer was simple and true: "Perfectly."
And as his arms held her close, she finally realized that sometimes, waking up was the only way to make sense of a dream that had always been hers to begin with.
Sometimes the best dreams are the ones we wake up from, only to find reality is even better than what we imagined. And sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is open our eyes and speak our truth, even if our voice shakes, even if we're scared. Because on the other side of that fear might be everything we never dared to dream we could have.
All was well .No ,scratch that .
All was perfect .