NEVER WRONG

The sounds of forks and knives and somewhat nice chat are barely registering. More than a dozen people gathering at the Weasley table for dinner should be enough to keep me focused on my surroundings. Instead, I find myself silent, barely eating the delicious dinner, and wanting nothing more than Apparate home, have a cup of tea and get into bed.

I'm not the only absent one, though. Right in front of me, George, or the half of him that survived the war, is eating in silence, his features hard to read. He's not talking much, but again he hasn't talked much since then. Five months have gone by, and still no one can reconcile this George-shaped shadow with George Weasley, from Gred and Forge Weasley, owners of Weasley Wizard's Wheezes.

Perhaps because he's not the same person they used to know anymore. His family and friends try to understand him, but I don't know if they truly do. He's not only sad, or destroyed, or desolated, or desperate. He's just… not entirely here anymore. He's a twin. A half of a whole. And without Fred, there's no George either, but what's left over. I do understand.

As if sensing my thoughts, he stops the spoon midair and looks up. He says nothing, only the ghost of an understanding curling of lips. But when our gazes meet I can hear him all the same. He says I'm right. He says he's glad he has his family around, safe. He says he'd like to be miles away from here.

His brother Percy is sitting at his right, engaged in deep conversation with Charlie, who surprising as it is, seems to be truly listening to him. Bill and Fleur have come tonight, too, in spite of Fleur's huge belly size.

My eyes catch a glimpse of Mr. Weasley, sitting at the head of the table next to his wife. I think I hear words like `Ministry' and `such good expectations', and I suddenly hope he's right and his real worth is being finally acknowledged. He deserves it.

Looking at his smile, his words come to my mind again.

A month or so after the final battle, Mr. Weasley and I walked through Muggle London in our way back from the New Ministry of Magic. We could have easily Apparated straight away, but as if by some unspoken agreement, we found ourselves walking instead.

We didn't talk much, though. We were both pensive. After a while, he spoke. He told me that the war would be over our heads and our lives for such a long, long time. That things would never be the same as they were before, but he was hopeful. In time, he said, we all would find happiness, one way or another.

I couldn't bring myself to say much, barely managed a nod. It was the most I could offer.

We kept on walking in a comforting silence, until we reached an Apparition point. Just before parting ways, he looked at me, and his right hand came to rest on my shoulder. And he told me the one thing that no one had told me until then -and I had been told a lot. He simply told me that he knew. He knew that I could look like him and talk like him -though there was a change in that, too- but he knew I wasn't Harry Potter anymore, the Harry they met seven years ago. And there was no need for pretending to be him anymore. What was truly important, he said, was to feel whole again, whoever we ended up being.

And then he Disapparated, leaving me there, staring into space.

As I watch him now, I understand that those were the most honest words he could have said. They're still trying to mend their lives after all the losses, especially Fred. And Tonks and Lupin. But, just as he said, they are trying, and they are hopeful. Because Fleur is getting bigger everyday, foolproof fact that she's bearing a Weasley. Because the new Ministry seems a dream that is finally coming true. Because Charlie is moving back to England. And because their youngest children are safe and most definitely happily in love.

Ginny's hand on my arm brings me out of my reverie. She says something about going somewhere tomorrow. I nod, but I don't add. She looks disappointed, but she smiles anyway, giving me a peck on the lips before turning back to her conversation with Fleur. Against all odds, Ginny's being decent to her lately. The war changed everything, indeed.

Everything.

Because she doesn't seem to realise that, like George, I wish I were somewhere else. Or maybe she does, but chooses to ignore it.

Five months is a lot of thinking time for someone who is now constantly over-thinking. I've been recalling many moments of my life, of the year, and I'm always amazed at how different I feel.

One of the things that particularly struck me when I first thought of it, was my reaction when I saw Ginny again at Hogwarts, after so many months of staring longingly at her little dot in the Map. I wondered whether she had been that beautiful before our time apart.

Not the same Harry Potter, indeed, Mr. Weasley. Because this Harry can't believe those were the first thoughts of that Harry after reuniting with the girl he so loved. After the battle, and for a while, when she had made it and I had made it and we were alive and everything was going to be ok, everything had seemed so clear to me. But now…

Now I don't know anything anymore. It's not that I don't love her, I do. Her hair still smells wonderful, and her presence is comforting, and she makes me honestly happy. The problem is that…well, that it's not enough anymore.

I was right about one thing that day at the tent: No, I wasn't grateful to Ginny.

Gratefulness. Oh Merlin, how I laughed that night, alone in my room, when I first saw face-to-face that gratefulness I had felt towards my best friend. And how tears mingled with my laugh after the realisation.

My eyes wander before I can take control of them. As always, they find her. They always do, no matter where we are or what we're doing.

And right now, she's smiling, sitting across the table, at my left. She and Ron are talking as they eat dinner, and she's laughing at something he's said.

I take a bite of my dinner, which is getting cold, just to have something to do. But I've not been fast enough. She noticed.

She always does. Sometimes I wonder if she hasn't already guessed. She has caught me staring at her more than once. And she must have noticed by now that I spend less time with them. We used to be a trio, but now we're more like a duo with interchangeable parts. Yes, I want them to be happy, but sometimes…well, it all becomes too much.

I've become disgustingly good at pretending nothing's changed, though.

I can sense her eyes on me, so I look up. After the many weeks we spent together on the run, we have developed a scary sixth sense wherever the other is concerned.

Hermione is looking at me now, pretty thoughtful herself. It's ok, my eyes tell her. No, it's not, her frown answers.

I give her a smile. I don't want to ruin her dinner, because she'll worry, and we're celebrating New Year's, after all. And she seems to be having a nice evening with Ron attentive to her every move. My best friend, my almost-brother, has changed a lot, indeed. Loving Hermione makes him good, no doubts on that.

Suddenly, I don't feel like eating. Or like celebrating. I'm feeling very tired, the desire of going to bed now overwhelming. I'm about to announce that I'm going upstairs, when I take in Mr. Weasley's form. He's looking at me, straight in the eye. For a moment I falter; he knows, I think, but then it's not possible that he knows what I've been thinking. But when he smiles that smile at me, I know he knows. No need to pretend, he said. Aim to be whole, whoever you are now, he's saying all over again.

I finally stand on my feet, announce that I'm not feeling very well, and bid everyone Happy New Year. Ginny stands immediately after, worried, telling everyone that she's leaving, too, then. As politely as I can, I refuse, promising her that it's nothing, that I only want to sleep.

“But it's New Year's, Harry,” she tries, her soft hand on my upper arm.

“I know, Gin, I'm sorry. I'm really tired, that's all.”

She looks at me, and for a fraction of a second, I think I see hurt. And acknowledgment. Perhaps she knows now, too. Perhaps she knows that my life, our life, is not nearly as fulfilling as it should be, and that this…this emptiness, has nothing to do with deaths and dark lords anymore. She is bright, Ginevra Weasley. Perhaps she has known all along, but like me, she just chose to look elsewhere.

And so here I am, in my bed in Ron's room. It's been a while since I reconciled with the idea that darkness soothes me in some strange way.

Some nights, like tonight, I just lie down and think of our days in the tent. Of the nights watching the black sky, sometimes starred, sometimes not, above me. Hermione checking up on me, bringing me a glorious cup of steaming tea. Hermione lost in some book. Hermione checking the little beaded bag. Hermione crying over my broken wand. Hermione sitting with me in the armchair by the fire.

Hermione.

Just thinking about her while at the Burrow makes me feel ten different levels of guilt. This wasn't supposed to turn into this. Things were supposed to be all right.

I should have known better. Had it happened right now, I would have known in a second. I would have realised that gratefulness could never explain what that feeling was. I guess it was all part of the journey, and while old Harry's conscious thoughts were of Ginny's hair, Ginny's beauty, Ginny's kiss, his unconscious ones were thinking of books and bear hugs.

Tonight was a good night, after all. Because I made up my mind, and my chest feels finally lighter.

As I turn over for the ninth time, I kind of feel sorry for Mrs. Weasley. I know she's been secretly planning her only daughter's wedding since she heard of us being together. She loves me like one of her own. I really hope Mr. Weasley helps me on that one. I'm in for a hell of a situation.

Lost in thought, I nearly miss the soft knock in the door. I sit up all of a sudden. I recognise that knocking.

“Harry?” she says, whispering. “Are you awake? It's me. It's Hermione.”

As if I wouldn't know.

I invite her to come in, and after a second, the dark wooden door opens and closes noiselessly, and she is here.

“I hope I didn't wake you,” she apologizes as she follows my motioning for her to sit on the bed. “I should be back soon,” she explains, looking somewhat guilty. “I told them it would be only a minute. Ginny didn't like it too much, I think. But well, they know how I am,” she finishes, smiling ruefully.

I smile along with her. I know, too.

It was, I say to myself as I look at her, amazed. What I felt that day, it was exactly what Ron feels every time he looks at her. Pride. Admiration Tenderness. Gratefulness…

Love.

She starts to play with her hands.

“What happens, Harry.” It's not a question.

“I'm going to break up with Ginny,” I blurt out. It's better this way. No point in talking in circles; she'll find out in the end.

She looks at me, eyes wide open. I mentally grin; she wasn't expecting it. I can surprise Hermione Granger.

She's at a loss for words, looking at me, and at the window, and then at me again.

“I don't know what to say, Harry. I'm sorry --”

“Don't be,” I say, and I suddenly notice she is not asking for the whys. Maybe it wasn't such a surprise after all. “It's just…remember what Mr. Weasley told me that day, in Muggle London?” She nods. “Well, he was right all along. Pretending to be Old Harry isn't working. Perhaps Ginny was the perfect girl for that Harry. But he isn't here anymore. So…” I end up lamely.

She looks at me, and nods. “So.”

God, how I wish it were different, and she had fallen for me as I fell for her during those months, even if I didn't know at the time. But she didn't, and I like to think that I don't really want my best mate heartbroken. I'm happy for Ron. I'm happy that he's happy, that she is happy. That has to be enough.

“Don't worry, Hermione,” I say in a dismissing tone, because suddenly I need her out of here. “I'll be ok.”

We're both startled by the sound of the fireworks from St. Ottery Catchpole's New Year's celebrations. I look at Ron's watch on the table. It's nearly midnight.

“You should go back, Hermione.” I hate the weakness in my voice, and how my hand reaches out for her soft cheek, pinching it lightly, in what I pray looks like a friendly-love gesture. “It's midnight. Go to Ron.”

The fireworks start drawing the countdown in the sky. Thirty seconds and we'll all be facing a new year, full of hope and dreams and—

“Harry,” she says, her voice a whisper, and when I finally look at her, I know she knows. Perhaps I haven't been as subtle as I thought. Perhaps I didn't want to be. Her beautiful eyes are wide open, her brows knotted, her mouth open. Smart witch, my Hermione.

I hear footsteps coming upstairs. I don't want her to welcome the New Year upset, and all because of me. I want her happy.

“We can't choose who we are, Hermione,” I say, attempting to lighten the mood, taking her hands in mine. “Or who we love, can we?” I look into her eyes. I want her to believe me. “You both are safe, and happy. And that's enough.”

I look at the sky. Barely ten seconds away from midnight, the door of the room opens again, and two smiling redheads appear.

“We couldn't welcome the New Year apart, could we?”

As the clock ticks midnight, Ginny's warm lips press in to mine, the same way Ron's do to Hermione's.

“Happy New Year, Harry,” Ginny whispers in my ear after a few seconds, and I feel like the bastard I'm going to become when morning comes. She deserves better.

“Happy New Year, mate,” and all of a sudden I have a smiling Ron hugging me like the best mate I don't deserve to have. As I return the gesture, I look at Hermione, who is staring, but quiet. “Things will be better this year. I mean, bloody hell!” And I find myself laughing along, for his same reasons, and some others of my own. Bloody hell, indeed.

It takes me a while to make Ginny understand that I don't really want company, no matter what day it is. I just need silence and darkness and dreamless sleep.

She finally accepts, although reluctantly, and kisses me again before she heads back downstairs. Ron follows, leaving Hermione to close the door. She looks back at me one last time before leaving.

“Harry,” I hear her say as I find a comfortable position. I hear an apology hidden in the way she speaks my name. Only she would apologize for being happy. But she says nothing else, and I suddenly feel about seconds away from falling asleep.

“Hmm?” I manage, eyes still closed.

Warm lips descend on my forehead. On my scar. On my soul.

For a moment I think that she will never know how much comfort her simple gesture provides. But then her lips linger there longer than one would expect.

Maybe she knows, after all.

“Goodnight, Harry,” she finally says.

I smile. A New Year's just started. It's going to be ok.

“Goodnight, Hermione.”

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