It was very nearly bedtime before Harry, Hermione, and Ron returned to the Gryffindor common room from their latest attempt at practicing wandless magic. It had been as unproductive a lesson as those that came before it, but Harry had hardly been focusing on the quill. Not with Hermione right beside him.

The common room was already empty when they straggled in, all the other students in their dorms if not already in their beds as well. The lights had been lowered but a fire burned steady and warm in the hearth for any wayward Gryffindors. Crookshanks was curled on the rug in front of the flames, half-asleep and purring under his breath. It seemed the chill of the night had been enough to dissuade the cat from a midnight walk-about of the grounds when there was a warm fire to be had.

Ron yawned. "Well… another evening wasted."

Hermione looked sharply at Ron. "You're not thinking of going to bed; you have homework that needs to be done. I'll bet you haven't even started on your assignment for McGonagall."

Ron scowled, which was telling as to the state of his Transfiguration homework. "Oh, later, I'm knackered. You coming with, Harry?"

And have Hermione's wrath turned on him? He had more sense than that. "No, I'll try and get some work done before turning in." He questioned how much sleep he'd manage if he went up to bed, anyway.

"Suit yourself. I'd rather do with a good sleep, personally. Good night." With that, Ron trudged up the stairs and left Harry and Hermione alone in the common room. A day ago that would not have been discomfiting, but tonight Harry felt tense.

Hermione turned away from Ron's exit with a roll of her eyes. "I know he's thinking he'll copy off me in the morning, but I won't do it this time," her expression changed, as though the irritant which was Ron's procrastination was put out of mind. "Come on, Harry. Let's get started. We may even be able to finish in only an hour if we work hard at it."

Harry nodded mutely and followed Hermione toward the fire. She dropped her bag to the floor and lowered herself to the rug beside Crookshanks. The cat opened his eyes fractionally at the new company. Hermione petted her familiar a moment while Harry sat down on the couch a short distance away.

He was staring at her, he knew he was. He couldn't seem to help it. He'd thought far too long on what had happened in Divination. The more he thought, the deeper he seemed to fall into a sinking well. And he feared, he knew, he wouldn't escape it without facing the demons in the dark waters. The same ones he'd eluded numerous times in the past. They would find him tonight.

Hermione pulled her book from her bag and opened it on her lap. She took out next parchment and quill, ink bottle and wand for scourgify spells in place of muggle correction liquid. She laid them out before her, just so, then turned to her text. She was so focused, so single-minded and intent, that she was mindless to the fact that Harry had yet to move to mimic her studious actions.

Rather, he was watching her.

Harry had watched her do the same thing a thousand times. It was Hermione, through and through. The crinkle of concentration upon her brow, the slight pinching of her lips, the flick of her eyes as they raced over written words. It was how Harry was accustomed to seeing her, on a mission, with a purpose, set to a task.

But he'd also seen her smile, gentle and untroubled, with a babe in her arms.

Harry's heart was fluttering in his chest, and he feared to think why.

The vision. It had plagued him all day. What did it mean? He'd thought on it long and hard. Trelawney's meaning had been clear, if the old witch could be taken at her word. And this time, he found himself inexplicably drawn to believe that she had known an elusive truth. He was compelled to believe in the thing he'd seen in the crystal ball. According to Trelawney, if he'd seen Hermione in his vision, she was in his future. That really wasn't too surprising. They were best friends; he'd expect her to be there. He'd be worried if she wasn't.

But the baby… why was there a baby?

Harry didn't own up to his own screaming suspicions until lunch hour, and by then it had been enough to kill his appetite. It was terrifyingly simple, so obvious that Harry had been too scared to acknowledge it glaring him in the face. If Hermione was there, in his future, and if she had a baby with her, then it would suggest, were it possible that perhaps he…

'That it was mine,' Harry had concluded with gut-clenching shock. The black-haired infant on Hermione's shoulder had been his. That enormity of that revelation tore at him through Defense Against the Dark Arts and rendered him deaf to Moody's words.

And now he was here, in the quiet of the common room with Hermione, and he couldn't pretend anymore. He couldn't run.

Hermione was reading and Harry watched, his thoughts running it seemed a mile a minute.

He'd faced the facts of his vision, such as they had presented themselves. Hermione was in his future, and… and they had a baby. All that he'd seen, he could not deny that he'd seen it. So there it was, plain and simple.

But beyond that he was flummoxed. A baby… that didn't happen between friends. How did best friends end in babies? Married people had babies, husbands and wives made mothers and fathers…

Harry suddenly stopped breathing. For a second, time seemed to go completely still. Husbands and wives. It couldn't be, but… could the baby, Hermione… could it mean he would marry her? It was almost too mind-boggling to comprehend. Marry Hermione? Hermione his wife?

Sitting a few feet away, she turned the page of her book and mindlessly tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

Harry stared while his thoughts exploded into overdrive.

But people who got married loved each other. Like his parents had loved each other, like Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia loved each other though they could spare none for him. It was part of being married, and Harry didn't love Hermione.

'Do I?' he thought.

He studied her in the firelight as she read her textbook, completely in her element. Even amid the furious concentration it brought a peace to her because she was where she felt most comfortable. The fire painted dancing orange highlights over her face and left the rest to flicker in shifting shadow. Her hair was touched with russet amber as it fell over her shoulder and down her back.

'She's pretty,' Harry had to confess. But he'd known that for a long time, despite what others might say. And what was on the outside was only half of her loveliness. Where she truly shined was in her heart. So kind and brave and steadfast. And her mind. So quick and sharp and discerning. That was just as much a part of how pretty she was as the curls of her hair or the shape of her mouth or the shade of her eyes. That atop her physical looks more than made her pretty.

'No,' Harry amended, 'she's not pretty. She's beautiful.'

Hermione made a face, a quirky scrunch of her nose, and scratched the bridge of her nose with one finger. Then she brushed away the errant hair that had tickled her.

'So she's beautiful, my beautiful best friend,' Harry thought, 'but that doesn't mean I love her.' But what did? He preferred her company to anyone's, even Ron's, that much was true. He honestly treasured her sense of humor, because Hermione didn't let down her guard often to let show that witty side of her. He felt honored, and lucky, that she trusted him enough to share that side of herself with him. He felt more comfortable around her than he did around anyone else. He could be himself, the good and the bad and the very dark and ugly, and it was okay. He was safe and accepted when he was with her. He could be Harry with her and not be worried she'd shun him for what that truly meant. He never regretted time spent with her. Even hours spent not talking, when he was just studying with her, were not wasted. He trusted her before all others. He'd trust her with his life if it came down to it.

But that was true for a lot of friends. So where did the possibility of love come in?

'And what does it look like?' Harry thought at long delay. He could see none of Vernon and Petunia in himself and Hermione, which he'd generally categorize as a good thing. He and Hermione weren't really anything like Molly and Arthur Weasley, either. He had only pictures of his parents, and that wasn't a lot to go on. Maybe he wasn't able to love. Maybe his parents dying, being raised by the Dursleys… maybe he was broken. And if he was, then Hermione shouldn't be with him. She deserved love from an unbroken man, someone who could love. Who knew how, because he didn't.

But still… he could not shake the idea, outlandish as it was. The idea of maybe loving Hermione. He knew he cared a great deal for her, maybe even loved her as a friend. He might believe he was capable of that.

Hermione sighed, an exhale through her nose, the only concession to being tired she'd permit while she still had homework to do. It was simple and meaningless, but Harry's chest tightened all the same.

There were those things he couldn't place, moments and feelings that would not rest. When he touched her, there was a squirming in his stomach, a speeding of his heart, a tightness in his lungs… that didn't happen with Ron. Her skin was soft; he liked touching it. He liked even more that she let him. And when she touched him back, when she'd curl her arm around his or tangle her fingers with his… for a second Harry couldn't breathe, couldn't really think straight. His whole body stirred when she was with him, like he was more alive than he ever thought he could be. She made life before her touch gray and drab. There were those embarrassing 'physiological responses' he had to her if they were too close, if he glanced upon skin that she usually covered with clothing… that was not fit for friends, but Hermione had explained that. He was a teenage boy, and his body did things. But did that explain the dreams? And did it explain why it felt so good, even when it ached? Did it explain why even the thought was quickening in his blood, wakening in the pit of his stomach and inching perilously lower?

Hermione reached for her parchment and used one side of her book as a desk as she began to write.

She smelled good. He'd always noticed that. Like maple leaves and peaches, soft and comforting as a summer afternoon. And he'd come to really like the way her hair tickled his face when she tucked up against his shoulder. Actually, he really liked when she tucked against his shoulder, tickling hair aside. He always thought of how he'd like to keep her there just a little longer. Sometimes he thought it would be nice to wrap his arms around her and draw her closer, hold her to him until she melted against him, hopelessly tangled and entwined. And when that impulse snared him, for a just a moment, he'd remember, like an illegal indulgence, the way she tasted. And sometimes, sometimes, he'd want to taste her lips again.

And it hit Harry, like an obliviate curse in reverse, 'maybe that's love'.

Harry was floored.

Could it be so simple?

He sat and watched Hermione and let the unvoiced question consume him. If all that he felt around her was really love, then what did it mean? For him and for them. The vision, Hermione, the baby, married, his wife… could he love her like that? Could he take her to be with him, at his side, central in his world, for the rest of his life? Could he love her like a husband would? Like his father had loved his mother?

Merlin, but he thought he could.

Hermione looked up just then, craned her neck to work out the kinks, and then her eyes fell on him. She stopped. "Harry? You okay? You look a bit peaky."

'I think I love you,' he thought in immense wonder, astounded by the realization. What he said was, "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

Harry's mouth felt unaccountably dry. "Have you ever… have you ever wondered if you'd get married someday?"

Hermione blinked. He'd surprised her. He couldn't blame her for not expecting that question. For all the things they'd talked about, somehow husbands, wives, and children had never come up. Maybe they'd unconsciously avoided them, cognizant of the landmines those topics were.

When Hermione collected herself the surprise left her face and something else took its place… something… avoidant.

She looked down and for a moment worried the edge of her page. It seemed with reluctance that she answered after a silence, "No."

"Really?" Somehow, he was sure she had. She was from a normal, adjusted family, and she was so worthy of a love that strong. Why shouldn't she ever think about it?

Hermione shifted uncomfortably and for a second looked away. Her expression was taut, strained… on the verge of wounded. 'What, why?' Harry wondered in dismay.

"Mione?" he asked softly.

Hermione flinched then closed her book. It was that touchy a subject, it would seem. "Well, I suppose technically that's not entirely true. I've thought of it, yes… I guess what I mean is that I know I'll never get married."

Harry frowned, confused. "Why not?"

Hermione ducked her head and Harry could feel her hurting. What was wrong? Had he hurt her? A curse upon him if he had. His heart racing, he slid off the couch to sit on the rug across from her. She noticed him move, pretended she didn't for a time, then she glanced up at him. In her eyes, in those eyes he liked so much… pain.

"I'm not stupid, Harry." When she saw the querulous look on his face she sighed wearily. "I'm bossy, and stubborn, a stuffy know-it-all bookworm. And I know I'm not much to look at. Who'd want to marry that?" Hermione glanced away from his face, as though ashamed. She tried to dismiss it with a half-shrug. "I accepted a long time ago that no one would have me."

"I'd have you," Harry replied before he could think, before he could stop himself. His heart slammed upward, lodged firmly in his throat, and his stomach was doing flips.

Hermione's eyes shot back to him and locked on his, wide and shocked. She stared at him, agape. Harry was sure he'd lose consciousness for how fast his heart was racing. His hands were shaky. Part of him wanted to jump up and run. But he stayed, and he looked at her. He didn't know what to do.

Slowly, Hermione's expression went from shocked to baffled, then wary, then… could it really be hopeful? She took a deep breath, she seemed as nervous as he, then she licked her lips. Harry's eyes were drawn to the momentary glimpse of her peeking tongue. His blood hummed louder in his ears.

"You… you would?" she asked in a small, quiet voice.

Harry tried to answer, he opened his mouth to speak, but the words were stuck somewhere in his chest. He couldn't get them out for the life of him. He tried again but it was no use. He could not speak.

Hermione, sitting so very near to him, watched him struggle. As he opened and closed his mouth, her eyes dropped to his lips.

And Harry lost all reason. He took a leap of faith, a Godric-worthy act of courage. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.

And she didn't pull away. She whimpered in surprise, but she didn't pull away. And she felt so wonderful against his mouth. Soft, and warm, and gentle. Hermione.

When his bravery flagged and he started to draw back she followed him, keeping her lips locked on his. She rose to her knees to stay with him as he moved. Her fingertips traced over his cheek and he shivered. As he sat back Hermione shuffled closer to him, danced her fingers around his throat to the nape of his neck. Somehow, at some point, his hands found their way to her waist. Time was outside their realm.

Tentatively, Harry parted his lips against her mouth. Uncertain but daring to hope, he touched his tongue to her lips. Her mouth opened and her tongue ventured forth to rake against his.

Then they broke apart. Harry was breathing heavily, his thoughts a dizzying whirlwind. Hermione was nearly straddling him, leaning on her knees into him. His hands were still holding on to her waist. Hermione's hands were wrapped behind his neck. She was looking deeply into his eyes. They were glittering in the firelight, radiant and mysterious. Harry was high on the taste of her, the feel of her, the play of her fingers at the back of his neck, sending goose bumps racing all over his body.

He looked up at her, bathed in her, sat drunk in her presence. He had to clear his throat twice before he could talk. "Did you… did you mean to do that?" he asked lamely.

Hermione smiled. He had his answer then. That smile, that Hermione smile… he knew it for a yes. He'd never soared so high without a broom.

Hermione cocked her head, so painfully sweet and adorable that he physically ached, and she said breathlessly, "I meant to do it… did you?"

Harry smiled in return. "Yeah… yeah, I did."

Hermione bent down, she kissed him first this time, and Harry knew then. His answer so long sought came to him on a kiss. He did love her. This was love. He loved Hermione Granger.

Their lips parted and Hermione slowly sat back. Harry's hand fell away from her hips when she went and her hands about his neck slipped away. The room was colder for the change. Hermione was pink in the face, her eyes unfathomably dark and bright. Harry wanted to reach out again, he wanted to feel her again, but he sensed he should wait. Hermione was thinking. She needed to do that. He'd spent the entire day doing it, after all.

After a time staring at her knees, brow knit in concerted thought, she looked up at him. "Harry, are we… does this mean we're… together now?"

The very notion made his skin tingle, every inch of it. "Yeah, I think so. If you want to be."

That brilliant smile flashed again. "Oh, Harry! I lo—I'd love to!" She leapt up to her feet and Harry followed suit, propelled by her momentum. She was buzzing with energy, Hermione in high gear. She was fit to burst with the desire to pace, he could tell, but she held still to look into his face.

"Merlin, I… I can't believe it. You're my boyfriend!" From the expression that passed over her face, one of staggered awe, it seemed just as monumental to her as it did to him. But he liked the sound of it.

He wanted to touch her again. "Does that mean I can get a hug?" he asked hopefully.

Hermione laughed and threw her arms around him. She squeezed so tight that Harry's ribs ached but he wouldn't dream of telling her to stop. He wrapped his arms around her nearly as tight, and he thought 'I never want this moment to end'. She felt so good in his arms, so right. How had he not understood before? How had he not seen what was right in front of him? It didn't matter now. He knew now, and she was in his arms.

After an eternity embracing but for far too short a time for Harry's liking, Hermione let go and stepped away. She was still flustered, but happily so. She tucked her hair behind her ears and cleared her throat much as he had earlier. "I… this… we ought to… I mean, I think we should probably turn in for the night."

Harry's eyebrows rose slightly.