“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving much advise, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a gentle and tender hand.” –Henri Nouwen
“Do you think that there actually is an Uncle George?” Hermione asked.
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Well this place is called Uncle George’s, but wouldn’t it be hilariously ironic if this Uncle George doesn’t actually exist?”
He snorted slightly. “Only you Hermione, only you.”
“Harry James Potter, are you insinuating that there’s something wrong with my logic?” she asked in a shocked tone as she pouted slightly in a desperate attempt to hide the smile that was tugging at her lips.
“Hey, you’re far more logical than Ron and I combined, there’s no question of that. It’s merely a matter of where said logic takes you at times…” he told her with a sheepish grin.
“So I’m inquisitive, what’s wrong with that?”
“Well you were called the brightest witch of our age for a reason.”
“Exactly,” she agreed as she took a sip from her wine, all the while smiling as she looked at him.
“We’re being honest, right?”
“I’d like to believe that we always have been.”
“So I can ask you anything I want then?”
“That would depend on what it is and just how revealing it is,” she responded, suspiciously eyeing him as he nervously run a hand through his hair.
“Do you remember when you were dating Ron?” he asked her.
“Well I was kind of there—you know, actually participating in the relationship, so I should hope so,” she teased him.
He chuckled softly. “Did you really never think that it could be more than what it was? I mean, wasn’t there ever even a time when you thought it could grow to be something more than just one of those relationships that you had to experience?” he asked her, his nerves getting the better of him more and more as he continued with the question, forcing him to avert his gaze from her and onto the appetizers that were sitting in front of them.
She sighed slightly, but that one small action was enough to assure him of the fact that she had been expecting that question to come up at one point or another. “I kind of hoped that it would be—I mean it would have make life a lot easier given that I wouldn’t have to ever explain this innate bond that I’ve always had with you two given that he was a part of it,” she admitted with a nervous laugh. “But as much as I would have liked to delude myself about it… I knew; it just didn’t feel right, really. It didn’t feel like it ever could be more, but I did love the time that we had… even if it was a bit turbulent.”
He raised his head, looking up at her with almost pleading eyes as he asked “do you think it’s the same for us?”
The surprise on her face was obvious, she had never been very good at hiding things—it was part of what he adored about her, he could always count on her honesty, her ability to call him an arse and a narcissistic pillock whenever everyone else was too scared to. She wasn’t fooled by the visage, veneer of the “boy who lived” persona. She saw him—warts, boils, and all, and yet she still stood by him.
“I… well I don’t really know to tell you the truth. I just—all I know is that it’s different than with Ron, it doesn’t feel totally hopeless, temporary, and I like that,” she admitted with a slight blush.
“I’m in it, Hermione, totally in it—for the long haul and all that other cliché shite.”
She laughed. “How I do adore your ability to be utterly romantic while cursing.”
“Well you always were a bit screwy,” he teased her with a wink as he placed his hand on top of hers, which was resting on the table.
She turned her hand under his so that she could intertwine her fingers with his. “It comes from spending so much time in the library all those years. Any chance you’d like to be the one to cure me of this bout of screwiness?” she asked him with a flirtatious grin.
“Wow,” he said.
She nodded slightly, a confused look on her face as she stared up at the ceiling. “Yeah.”
“That was… unexpected?”
She nodded, again. “My sentiments exactly.”
“You know… when I said I wanted to shag you I didn’t necessarily mean on the first official date, right?”
“So you didn’t want to shag me?” she asked him, turning on her side so she was facing him as she raised an interrogative eyebrow at him.
“No, trust me; I have no qualms about that. Just saying that you’re different from the rest, I didn’t expect this or plan on it—I was perfectly content waiting however long you’d have like.”
“Well then I guess you got lucky,” she told him with a wink.
He chuckled. “You did take note of the double entendre there, right?”
She grinned. “Why do you think I said it? You know, I have to ask, was this your way of getting rid of my screwiness?”
He let out a deep laugh. “No, I gave up on that cause long ago, finally realized that it was hopeless somewhere around fifth year.”
She swatted his arm. “You’re such an arse sometimes. Now go get that baklava and musaka that I never got to start at the restaurant. I suddenly find myself famished.”
“Well with someone as good as I am it’s hard not to be exerted from such activities,” he told her, wiggling his eyebrows playfully.
She laughed. “Go get me my food and then I’ll decide whether my hunger is because of you or the fact that I haven’t eaten since eight, when we left that restaurant after our appetizers, and it’s midnight now.”
“As you wish,” he told her before getting out of the bed and going for the food, totally starkers and very proud of the fact.
“And stop quoting ‘The Princess Bride’, you’re no Westley, he was far sexier if that ugly naked arse of yours is anything to go by!” she yelled after him, smiling brightly as she heard a loud groan come form the other room.
“Don’t worry love, I’ll soon prove you other wise—just you wait!”
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