Chapter 7
Harry strolled through the Hogwarts corridors, his mind caught between surprise and suspicion. He had just realized that his father had actually listened to him. However, given his father's notorious penchant for doing whatever he pleased, suspicion gnawed at the edges of Harry's surprise. It was a trait that his Uncles Pads and Moony had made sure to highlight – his father's inability to be calm, particularly when it concerned his mother.
One defining characteristic of James Potter was his relentless pursuit of Hermione Granger during their school years. His uncles had hinted at his father's possessiveness and jealousy, especially when it came to matters involving Harry's mother. So, it struck him as rather odd when he observed his father's lack of reaction to the boys who dared to approach his best friend.
Harry couldn't deny that he didn't appreciate seeing those boys encroach upon Hermione's space. In his eyes, Hermione was an indomitable force – bright, brave, and possessing a colossal heart. She had a penchant for throwing hexes that could be downright formidable if she was angered. There was an undeniable golden quality about her, and Harry couldn't fathom how some guys failed to notice it.
As he made his way to the Hogwarts library, his steps purposeful, he spotted Hermione engaged in conversation with a Ravenclaw boy. She was leaning against a wall, arms crossed, with the boy standing too close for his comfort. "Harry," she greeted with joy upon seeing him, momentarily forgetting the presence of the boy. Harry, however, offered no response. Instead, he fixed the boy with a raised eyebrow and a steely gaze, causing the Ravenclaw to retreat awkwardly, leaving Hermione alone.
"Really, Haz?" she exclaimed, rolling her eyes. But Harry didn't say anything; he just grinned cheekily. "I don't know what's happening this term, but guys seem terrified just because they think you’re the Chosen One—"
"Oh, but I am the Chosen One." He interrupted with a playful self-satisfied smile. He then sauntered over to a nearby chair, nonchalantly propping his feet up on the table. “They know better than to mess with me… or you .”
"Feet, Haz. Put them down," Hermione chided, her tone gentle, but with a hint of amusement. He promptly obeyed, removing his feet from the table, looking like a child caught in the act. A fleeting thought crossed his mind – was this what his life might have been like if he had grown up with his parents in Potter Manor? 'Of course it would’ and a soft smile graced Harry's features.
"Hey, are you okay?"
The sound of Hermione's voice brought him back to the present, and he looked into her concerned chocolate eyes, mirrors of his own. Concern etched her features as she observed him.Her words were like a lifeline, and Harry instinctively took her hand, fingers intertwining as he absently traced comforting circles on her palm.
"How are you?" he asked, his voice soft, "I feel like we haven't talked in days."
A small, sad smile curved her lips as she reached out to brush away a strand of his unruly hair that fell onto his forehead. "I'm fine, don't worry about me."
"Have I ever told you how important you are to me? How much you mean to me?" He looked at her intensely, his voice earnest and vulnerable. "I know that many times it’s difficult for me to express what I feel, but I want you to know that you are one of the most important women in my life. You are the most selfless person I know. Ever since we met six years ago, you are always worrying about me. Always worrying about keeping me alive-"
"That's because you have zero regard for your own safety," she interjected, a watery laugh escaping her lips. "Someone has to worry about you. If there's anyone who has to get out of this war alive, it's you. You deserve to be happy. After everything you've been through, you deserve your happy ending."
"And who cares about you ?" Harry's desperation and hurt seeped into his words. "Who's making sure you this war? Because you deserve to be happy too. After everything you've done for me, you more than anyone deserve a happy ending."
Hermione quickly enveloped him in a tight hug as he buried his head in her chest, muffling his sobs. He couldn't bear the thought of losing her again. He had already experienced that pain once with her as his mother, and now, with a war looming, the fear of losing her again gripped him. She hadn't asked for any of this, and yet, there she was, always by his side. Come hell or high water.
Harry cried for the life they could’ve had as a family, he mourned his parent’s death, a grief that he himself had never been given the chance to fully feel. The wizarding world had cast him as the Boy Who Lived, a title earned through the sacrifice of his parents. It was a twisted and sick form of fame, leaving him burdened by the expectations and pity of others. An eleven-year-old orphan had been burdened with the fate of the wizarding world.
To Hermione, though, he was simply Harry or Haz, a name she affectionately used when they were alone. He hadn't confessed it to her, but he broke his glasses so she could fix them. She would roll her eyes and say, 'Again?' but she fixed them anyway. Harry mentally scolded himself for the times he had chosen Ron over her when all she wanted was for him to be safe.
"Don't cry," Hermione whispered, tears streaming down her face. "Or you'll make me cry.”
"I can't lose you," he sobbed against her shirt, "I can't lose you, not again. Please, Merlin. Anyone but you."
She gently cupped his face, pushing him away slightly to meet his gaze. Her eyes radiated affection and steely determination. "You're not going to lose me, okay? Wherever you go, I'll go with you. To the very end."
The cozy room was lit with a warm glow, the flickering fire casting dancing shadows on the walls. Laughter filled the air as Harry and Hermione found themselves entangled in a conversation that seemed to defy the gravity of their usual serious circumstances.
"We're a fucking disaster; if Ron saw us, he'd laugh at us," Harry chuckled, envisioning the humorous reaction of their red-haired friend.
"He'd probably cry too," Hermione joined in the laughter, her eyes glistening with both tears and amusement. "My God, aren't these conversations supposed to happen when drunk?"
"I have some firewhiskey if you want," Harry teased, a mischievous glint in his brown eyes as he watched his friend gasp in surprise.
"Harry James Potter," she scolded playfully, "you know that's not allowed. Who gave it to you?" Harry began to open his mouth to answer, but Hermione swiftly halted him with a raised hand. "You know what? You better not tell me, otherwise I'll be forced to give you detention, and God knows, you don't need more. At this rate, you'll surpass your father in detentions."
Harry responded with a shrug, a smug, unashamed smirk adorning his features. "I have to keep up the family legacy somehow."
"Let's just hope that, unlike your father, you don't leave your wand on the couch when you face Voldemort," Hermione quipped, her laughter bubbling at the offended expression on Harry's face.
"Hermione Jean Granger, a little respect. My father was the Head of the Auror Department," Harry retorted, crossing his arms and snorting, feigning offense while secretly reveling in the banter with his friend.
"And yet he left his wand on the sofa. Besides, if I remember correctly, mister," Hermione crossed her arms, her eyes sparkling with mischief, "you've almost left your wand lying around a few times too. I suppose the apple doesn't fall far from the tree." The library echoed with their laughter, a brief respite from the weight of their responsibilities, shared between two friends who had faced too much. A soldier and his shield. But, if you looked close enough, a mother and her son.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Hermione muttered under her breath, her eyes narrowing as she stepped into the dimly lit classroom. McGonagall, burdened with other responsibilities, had entrusted her with the task of supervising detentions. Reluctantly, she agreed, realizing she had nothing better to occupy her evening. As she settled into the chair behind the teacher's table, her eyes scanned the room, taking in the scene before her—James Potter sat slouched with a cocky smile on his face.
"Why am I not surprised that it's you in detention?" she sighed, her tone a mix of disappointment and irritation. He responded with a mischievous grin, his casual demeanor failing to amuse her.
"Have you been keeping a close watch on me, Angel?" he quipped, attempting to lighten the mood.Hermione, however, was having none of it. The room fell silent, the awkward tension between them palpable. Potter's smile quickly faded as he sensed her displeasure.
"Save the charm for someone who cares, Potter. I have better things to do than babysit misbehaving students like you during their detentions. What rule did you decide to break this time?"
He hesitated for a moment, his mischievous demeanor faltering under the weight of the girl’s stern scrutiny. The air hung with an uneasy tension as he contemplated how to respond. "Maybe I hexed the Slytherins a bit," he finally admitted with a sly grin, "turned them into snakes. Just for fun, you know."
"You turned the Slytherins into snakes?" she exclaimed, her voice a mixture of disbelief and reproach. "You could have seriously injured someone! What possessed you to do such a reckless thing?"
"I was bored." James, seemingly unfazed by Hermione's reprimand, shrugged.
“You were bored?” Her voice echoed her surprise and annoyance, her eyes narrowing at the audacity of his response. “And you thought hexing Slytherins would pull you out of boredom? Are you hearing yourself?”
This mess wasn't part of his plan – well, not his plan, but Sirius' idea. Sirius wanted James to accumulate as many detentions as humanly possible. The ultimate goal? To create a diversion, with Remus distracting the Gryffindor Head Boy and Head Girl. Sirius himself would divert the attention of McGonagall, leaving no alternative but to assign the task of overseeing detentions to Hermione.
Technically, he wasn't the one approaching her; she had come to him, unaware that everything was set up beforehand. He knew he had screwed up big time with Hermione, and he wanted—no, he corrected himself. He needed to talk and sort things out with her. He wasn't leaving that class without fixing the problem he caused.
“I’m leaving," she uttered with a heavy sigh. Pushing herself up from the worn chair, she moved with purpose towards the exit. The soft echo of her footsteps reverberated in the tense silence of the room. James, engrossed in whatever had captured his attention, looked up abruptly, his eyes widening with surprise.
"HERMIONE, WAIT!"
Determination etched on her face, the young woman quickened her pace, frustration evident in every step she took. James muttered under his breath, a plea or a confession, "Forgive me, Merlin, for what I'm going to do," before hurrying after her.
In a swift and deliberate motion, he wrapped his arms around her, and the world blurred around them as they disapparated to his room on the other side of the castle. The transition was disorienting, but there was no time to dwell on it.
"James, open this door," Hermione hissed, her fiery gaze locked onto him.
"You're not leaving this room until we talk," James retorted, his patience wearing thin like a fraying thread holding onto its last fibers.
"What do you want to talk about? There's nothing to talk about,"
"US, HERMIONE. I WANT US TO TALK ABOUT US," he shouted, the words crashing through the room like thunder, his frustration breaking through the composed exterior he usually wore.
Hermione stared at him in surprise, her expressive eyes transforming from astonishment to fury. "THERE IS NO US, OKAY? NOW LET ME GET OUT OF HERE." Her attempt to escape was met with a sudden force as James swiftly pinned her against the cold stone wall.
Their eyes locked in a tense exchange, James' dilated pupils reflecting the intensity of his emotions. His warm breath brushed against her ear as he whispered, sending a shiver down her spine. "You and I are going to talk, Hermione."
"What if I don't want to talk to you?" she murmured, her voice barely audible over the tumultuous emotions swirling around them. Lightheadedness enveloped her as the scent of James' expensive perfume surrounded her like a tantalizing embrace.
"Well, bad luck, Angel, because you're going to listen to me."
Hermione's jaw clenched as she glared at him. "There's nothing between us, James. You made that very clear."
"I screwed up, okay?" His words hung in the air, punctuated by a heavy sigh. Despite the weight of the admission, his grip on her remained steadfast, fingers wrapped tightly around her shirt. The room seemed to contract with tension, but his plea was earnest, a vulnerable admission cutting through the charged atmosphere. "But don't lie to yourself. Don't lie to me. There's something between us."
She scoffed, her eyes narrowing in disbelief. "You're fucking desilusional if you think there's something between us. Now, let me go before I hex you into oblivion." The threat carried a venomous edge, but he seemed undeterred, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
His face inched closer to hers, their breaths mingling in the confined space between them. "I'd like to see you try."
Hermione's frustration surged, and she reached for her wand. But, before she could utter a word, the unexpected happened. In a bold move, James seized her lips in a sudden, passionate kiss. The surprise of his unexpected gesture left her momentarily speechless, a paradoxical mix of shock and an unbidden fluttering in her chest.
When he finally pulled away, leaving an almost tangible tension in the air, she gasped, her eyes widening in disbelief. "What was that?" she stammered, a flush creeping up her cheeks.
"A preview," he whispered, his voice low and hoarse, brushing against her ear like a secret shared between them. "A preview of what’s waiting for you if you let me love you, Hermione. Because I do, I love you."
Her initial bewilderment transformed into defiance as she tried to push him away, but the strength in her arms did not waver. "You’re lying," she retorted.
He chuckled, the sound sending shivers down her spine. "Merlin above, you’re so fucking stubborn, woman. What do you need me to do for you to believe me? I have loved you since the day you walked through Grimmauld's library."
With a sudden, fiery determination, Hermione closed the distance between them and pressed her lips fiercely against his. Their kiss was a tumultuous mix of conflicting emotions – anger, desire, and a hint of surrender. In the heat of the moment, reason seemed to slip away, and the world around them blurred into a haze of raw passion.
Hermione's fingers fumbled with the buttons on James' shirt, a mixture of frustration and longing evident in her movements.
"I hate you," she breathed between kisses, the words punctuating each touch, each caress. Yet, her actions spoke a different language, one that betrayed the depth of her conflicted emotions.
"I love you," he replied, his voice a tender counterpoint to her anger. His hands traced the contours of her body, as if mapping the landscape of a forbidden territory. The room echoed with the symphony of their breaths, the subtle sounds of fabric giving way, and the intoxicating rhythm of their hearts beating in unison.
They stumbled backward, colliding with the edge of the bed. Clothes were hastily discarded, a chaotic symphony of buttons and fabric hitting the floor. They stumbled onto the bed, a chaotic collision of limbs and desires. The crisp sheets cradled them as they explored the uncharted territory of each other's bodies. James' hands moved with a gentle urgency, a silent plea for forgiveness and understanding.
Their entangled bodies found solace in each other, as if seeking refuge from the storm of emotions that had raged between them. Skin met skin, every touch unraveling layers of pent-up desire and unspoken confession, for a brief moment, the world outside ceased to exist.
In the quiet aftermath, their bodies lay intertwined, the air heavy with the residue of conflicting emotions. She traced patterns on his chest, the silence between them pregnant with unspoken words.
"I hate the way you make me feel," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
He sighed, his arms wrapped protectively around her, pulling her closer. "I know. But maybe, just maybe, there's something worth salvaging in all of this."
"I don't really hate you, I just... I felt really stupid that day. I'm sorry." Hermione lifted her head to look at him, her eyes searching his for understanding.
"I'm the one that should be sorry, I panicked. I'm sorry, Hermione," he said, cupping her cheek and pressing a gentle kiss against her forehead.
"Maybe we're both just a mess," she mused, a rueful smile playing on her lips.
"Maybe we are. But I like it.”
Their eyes locked, a shared understanding passing between them. In that moment, the walls that had stood between them seemed to crumble, revealing the raw, unfiltered truth beneath.
"I don't know where we go from here," Hermione confessed, vulnerability etched in her features.
James brushed a strand of hair away from her face, his gaze unwavering. "Maybe we start by figuring it out together," he suggested, a genuine smile playing on his lips. "Stay, please?" he pouted, making a puppy dog face. "Forever, I mean."
"I guess I can work with that," she sighed happily, a genuine smile gracing her lips as James wrapped his arms around her. The warmth of their embrace melted away the lingering traces of tension, replaced by a comforting sense of belonging.
"Forever sounds just about right."