Work Text:
The hazy, undefined fantasies she normally thinks about – the ones that take place late at night in the common room, in the Quidditch stands, in the orchard behind the Burrow – are now replaced with Slughorn’s party. Warm, lamplit, convivial. Inviting him hadn’t went the way she anticipated, but his voice had gone all low and serious when she said she wanted to ask him and he’s adopted a particularly sweet disposition in the days since. Like maybe he has his own hopes for how the night will turn out.
What she hopes for is this: they’ll have some drinks; meet some very important and interesting guests; then retire to one of the overstuffed sofas Slughorn will surely pepper his office with. They’ll get closer, closer, until – nearly whispering it in his ear – she suggests they head back to the common room, taking his hand in hers to lead the way. The corridors will be dark and empty. By Christmastime, they’ll be decorated with mistletoe as well. If all goes to plan, they won’t be needing it.
It doesn’t go to plan. In fact, it completely derails beyond anything she could have predicted. So she doesn’t let herself think about it again (not intentionally, at least) until several months later. Harry and Ginny are together and she’s so pleased for them. The increased time she spends alone with Ron is just a bonus.
Harry’s happier too – lighter – and it makes the days they spend without him a little sunnier than before. They fret over him less, their bickering is lively instead of exasperated, Ron makes her laugh even more. She starts to allow the fuzzy edges of her daydreams to define themselves again. Her favourite takes place at the beech tree by the lake; sun glittering on the water, the scent of grass crushed under their feet. At this point it feels like nothing less than an inevitability.
This certainty dissolves completely when Dumbledore dies and there’s no longer any opportunities for a languid afternoon, no free time between classes. There's no classes at all, they've been cancelled. The easy blissfulness of the past few weeks feels foolish, complacent in hindsight.
Bill and Fleur’s wedding is an oasis, one last chance to fill up on joy. She laughs as he spins her around on the dance floor, her chest flutters when he pulls her close. When the music slows, they sway in place. One hand in hers, one at the small of her back. Her cheek resting on his chest.
She tries not to wince when the band picks up again. Her feet are so sore; she can’t bear to pull away from him just yet. He seems to notice, in that way he has been lately, and offers to fetch some drinks while she finds a seat. They’re still holding hands as they part, right up until the last second. His eyes are still locked on hers as his fingertips fall down to his side. She watches his retreating back and her stomach swoops with the sureness of a kiss that never comes.
Her tea is cold, and what’s the use of casting a charm to warm it when it cools down again so quickly? She gulps it down and stares at Harry as he does the same, like she’s daring him to complain about it. Ron would, if he was here. She would snap at him, they’d have a few goes at each other, and move on.
She’s probably never going to see him again. She certainly isn’t going to get her hopes up again if she ever does. It was stupid of her to entertain the possibilities as often as she did. She’s ruthless, cruel; his patience ran out. It never would have worked, anyway.
Harry checks his watch and gets up, holding his hand out to her. She lifts the chain from around her neck to give him the locket, and carries their empty cups to the sink.
She’s reading by the light of the low sconces set in the walls of Shell Cottage’s spiral stone staircase. She’d fetched the book to lend to Bill, and in a mild panic, decided to skim for any potentially useful information before it left her hands.
She looks up at the creaking sound of the door at the foot of the steps. Ron appears around the bend, two glasses of wine in hand. It kept flowing even though Lupin left long ago. He doesn’t coax her to join everyone downstairs, just takes a seat next to her. She murmurs her thanks for the wine and accepts the glass. The steps may be narrow and steep, but they’re wide – there’s plenty of room for two people to sit next to each other without touching. He closes the space between them and, in a now-familiar move, snakes his arm around her waist so his hand rests just above her hip. Over her camisole, underneath her jumper.
They haven’t felt so buoyed in months; the news of baby Teddy’s birth collectively lifted the mood of the house. Hermione says it’s lovely they named him after Tonk’s father. Ron asks if she was named after anyone (a character in a play her parents loved). She asks where his name comes from (no one: Molly and Arthur figured his siblings had to share enough as it was and deserved names of their own). She can’t remember the last time she was alone with him like this, falling into easy and comfortable conversation.
At some point she faintly registers the sound of glass breaking in the kitchen below, followed by a round of jeers. She leans into his arm, twirling her now-empty wine glass and passing it between her hands. Neither of them have said anything for several moments.
She breaks the silence to tell him she’s glad he’s here. She hopes he understands she doesn’t only mean here, right now, next to her on the staircase.
He doesn’t answer, so she chances a sidelong glance at him. His eyes are already on her, set and dark and shining in the torchlight.
She does something she’s always been curious about, surely spurred by the wine she’s drunk. She slides the fingers of her free hand into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, brushing the stubble on his jaw with her thumb. He lets out a breath and closes his eyes, turns his body towards hers, moves his hand up higher on her back. His fingertips catch the hem of her undershirt and pull it up a little, she can feel them hot on her skin…
This is the closest they’ve ever been. He only has to bend his head down. She only needs to tilt her own back. She takes one last shaky breath and commits this to memory, the few remaining moments before they finally tip over the edge together…
Glass shatters when it hits stone. They’ve sprung apart, suddenly, at the sound of footsteps and humming. Someone’s stray foot kicked one of the torches and extinguished it, plunging the bend of the staircase into darkness. She feels like she’s fallen off a cliff into freezing water.
Luna greets them, slightly surprised but incurious in the blue light from the tip of her wand. It’s late, she says, everyone’s heading to bed. She takes the steps two at a time, brushing past them in the newly created space that’s opened up.
They mutter some spells to repair the wine glasses and relight the torches, then clumsily say goodnight at the bottom of the staircase. There’s the sounds of chairs scraping and cupboard doors closing coming from the dining room around the corner. He takes the book from her, promises to pass it on to Bill, and wraps her in a hug. She can feel his heart beating fast and warm under his flannel shirt; his lips dropping to the top of her head.
When she tells him his plan is "so bizarre it just might work", he looks pleased, a little taken aback, and she could almost kiss him right there. In a moment his hand is in hers, leading the way to the second-floor girl’s lavatory. They start running, nearly laughing with the absurdity of the whole thing.
When he manages to open the entrance to the chamber, she almost pushes herself up on her tiptoes to lean over the sink and kiss him, but thinks it might break his concentration. She lands on top of him when she reaches the bottom of the pipe they just slid down together, breath catching, faces so close… they come to their senses and take off to find the rotting basilisk.
She sets Hufflepuff’s cup down on the wet stone and they both stare at it for a moment until he hands her a fang, entrusting her with its destruction. The bit of soul trapped inside it must know the end is coming – it starts shaking, and there’s a dull roar that crescendos as she brings the fang over her head and strikes down with all of her strength. She can feel it die. Her ears start ringing.
He’s staring at her and she knows it’s adoration. Reverence. This has to be what being loved is. She feels so powerful in the wake of what she’s just done she can’t believe she'd ever had any doubt. She’s more compelled than ever to end this tonight so she's free to devote as much time as she needs to show him she feels exactly the same.
A smile spreads across his face and they’re laughing again from the shock of it, delirious. They can’t seem to stop as they gather up as many fangs as they can carry and fly out of the Chamber.
When they find Harry again she’s bursting to tell him how incredible Ron was, that the cup is destroyed, that they’re gloriously closer to their goal because of what they’d just done together.
He’s telling Harry they need to warn the elves in the kitchen, that this isn’t their war, that there’s no need to die for this and something twists in her. In seconds, it takes over her rational mind and tells her it’s pointless to keep waiting. What has waiting ever done for her? There’s a very likely chance there won’t be a later to wait for, that it’s now or never.
She runs at him, happy to temporarily forget that there’s a battle raging around them or that Harry’s right there, and kisses him.
No careful planning. No elaborate fantasy. It’s nothing like how she thought it would happen. It’s everything like she thought it would happen.
He falters for a second, seemingly stunned, then responds with intensity and sureness. His strong arms lift her into the air; she cups his face in her hands. It was the worst possible time to do this. His breathing is heavy and she can feel his smile against her lips. It was the most perfect time to do this.
She can hear Harry’s voice like it’s off in the distance, it sounds like it’s a million miles away.
“Is this the moment?”