AN ~ As promised the conclusion inside a week! I've surprised myself with my productivity. Three chapters in seven days. (Don't get used to it.) This chapter is un-beta'd so feel free to point out any obvious mistakes.

'Only Love Can Hurt Like This'

by Witherwings

19th September, 1998

With nothing but escape on her mind, Hermione was already striding purposefully down the cobbled street before the crush of apparition had fully dissipated.

Even after hours, the sudden crack of her arrival drew not even a disinterested glance from any of the windows that lined the deserted thoroughfare – the most populous magical street in England, the residents of Diagon Alley were so well accustomed to the sounds of wizards coming and going that they paid them no more heed than a muggle would the sound of a car driving past their front door.

That suited Hermione just fine. Though the warped and distorted glass of the many darkened shop fronts she passed meant it was impossible to make out her own features staring back at her, she felt certain that she must look like a total mess.

He kissed me! she thought as her feet carried her blindly down the narrow lane. Harry actually kissed me!

And you kissed him back, countered a second voice from within.

Her echoing footfalls immediately fell silent. The previously unacknowledged desire for her best friend had scared her with its intensity and it had taken every ounce of her considerable self control to walk away before it could go further – and it would have gone further, of that she was certain.

She started to walk again.

So why did you run?

Because Ron deserves a chance to explain himself. Because I'm not the kind of girl who sleeps with her boyfriend's best friend. Because I was scared by just how right it felt.

As if hoping to push away the giant question mark that now hung over her feelings towards Harry, Hermione wiped an errant tear away with the heel of her hand. She was in no doubt that she loved him – had done for longer than she could remember – but theirs, she had always believed, was a platonic love; could she even picture herself in a romantic relationship with him? Could friends ever become lovers without losing that special something that made them such good friends in the first place? And what if they ever broke up? Hermione did not think she could live without him in her life. Surely it was better to share a lifetime of friendship than a few short months of passion.

Frustrated by the unanswerable questions endlessly circling her mind, Hermione swiped at several fresh tracks coursing down her cheeks and pushed the topic to the back of her mind; she did not have the luxury of time to psychoanalyse herself right now. She had to find Ron. She owed him that much at least.

The narrow wedge of sky visible between the impossibly crooked buildings was fast bruising toward night. All save for one patch that shone with the light of a thousand lanterns – Gringotts. Her destination.

Ron, unlike many of his classmate who had either chosen to join the Auror corps or else return to school to finish their education, had elected to enjoy what he had often described as a gap year; an opportunity to escape from the rigours of fighting or studying or, well, anything for a while.

Although completely at odds with her own desire to return to normality – or as close as it was possible to achieve given their collective notoriety – Hermione could not begrudge him a well deserved break. At least at first. Long after she and Harry had tired of life in the spotlight, Ron was still gladly accepting invitations to all manner of celebrations to mark the end of the war. One such party, she recalled reading in the Prophet, was scheduled for tonight and marked the grand reopening of the magical bank now that its renovations were complete. She hoped for Ron's sake that he had not chosen a room full of cloying strangers, each one clamouring for a look at the famous Ron Weasley, over her.

She suppressed a shiver as she climbed the imposing white steps, the memory of her last withdrawal still fresh in her mind. A goblin rather than a wizard guard with a Probity Probe awaited her at the top but any concerns she still harboured that she might be turned away (or worse arrested for her part in the only successful break-in in Gringotts history) were quickly allayed the moment the scarlet-suited goblin caught sight of her and dipped into the lowest bow she had ever seen. More grateful to be free of Voldemort's control than angry at the damaged caused by their escape on a rampaging dragon, she supposed. It was also an action that appeared to serve as an order for the bronze doors to swing open unaided, the cool, autumnal air promptly full of the sounds and smells of a party.

It took her but a moment for her eye to settle on a familiar head of ginger hair. Ron! He did forget!

Hermione braced herself for the all too familiar sensation of her heart breaking in two but found that it never came. She knew she should be reeling, a seething mass of anger, hurt and misery, but try as she might, all she could muster was a faint sense of disappointment toward him.

It hadn't always been this way. Over the last few years she had shed more tears over Ronald Billius Weasley than anyone or anything else.

Only love can hurt like this. The words of wisdom, spoken to her by her own mother on one of the many occasions that something Ron had said or done left her crying alone in her bedroom chose that moment to push to the surface of Hermione's thoughts.

So what does feeling apathetic mean?

She had barely a moment to consider the question when the answer suddenly appeared in her mind: I don't love him, she realised.

Maybe at one time she had. Then again maybe it had never been anything more than a schoolgirl crush. Either way, Hermione knew with utter certainty that they had no future together as a couple. Although he could be sweet, even thoughtful sometimes, there was no denying that they had little in common aside from Harry; if it wasn't today or even tomorrow their relationship was doomed to failure – had been from the very beginning. We have to break up.

Filled with a new sense of purpose, Hermione strode over to where her boyfriend – ex-boyfriend? – stood with a group of older witches and wizards, none of whom she recognised. "I need to borrow the guest of honour," she told them and deftly took a hold of the crook of his elbow.

"H - Hermione?" he stammered. The way his tongue laboured over the syllables of her name told her that the fire whiskey in his hand was not the first of the night.

Without acknowledging either Ron's obvious surprise or the crowd's indignant whispers at being denied an audience with their star attraction, Hermione steered him away.

After a few paces, Ron re-found his voice. "What are you doing here?" he said. "I thought you hated these kind of things."

Well at least that's one thing you remember about me, she thought. Aloud she added, "We need to talk."

Her stoney reply caused Ron to sober immediately. His cheerful smile collapsed and even the drunken haze seemed to clear slightly from his blue yes. He set down his drink, put an arm around her shoulder – she did not resist – and guided her further away from the throng of well-wishers trying to catch a glimpse of two-thirds of the golden trio.

"What's wrong?" he asked the moment they were out of earshot.

"Us," she answered. "We're what's wrong. I came here to tell you that this, you and I" – she gestured back and forth between their chests – "is over." For a long moment Ron was so still that she wondered whether her words had even registered. So much so that she felt compelled to add, "I'm breaking up with you."

Ron scrubbed a hand over his face – an action so reminiscent of Harry that she would not have been surprised to see a lightning bolt scar on his forehead. "I heard you," he said at length. "I just don't understand why."

"And that's exactly why we can't be together."

The thrum of conversation had moved a little closer. "We just need a moment," Ron told them and guided Hermione yet further away from the throng.

No sooner were they out of earshot again, Ron turned to his beseeching eyes upon Hermione once more. "Talk to me," he said. "If there's something I've done, just tell me. Let me fix this. I need you, Hermione. I love you."

In spite of herself, Hermione felt a prickle of anger. She was relieved to find she could still feel anything other than numb. "If you don't know what you've done then I'm not going to tell you, Ronald!"

Always close to the surface and further loosened by drink, Ron's temper took hold. "Merlin, Hermione. I'm not a bloody mind reader. Stop being so evasive and tell me what I'm supposed to have done this time!"

"You forgot my birthday!"

Doing nothing to modulate her voice, the susurration of dozens of voices immediately fell silent and every pair of eyes twisted towards the quarrelling couple.

Several emotions played out across Ron's features, his inebriated state meaning each one seemed to mould his expression as if in slow motion. Finally, and to Hermione's eternal surprise, a little of his earlier joviality returned to his face. "Is that what all this is about?" he asked with a hint of a chuckle beneath his words. "I haven't forgotten. I've booked a table at Annada's for tomorrow. Only the best for my girl."

If anything his attempts at placating her made her even angrier. "Which would be lovely if my birthday were tomorrow and not today!" she snapped.

Ron's face fell. For a long moment he appeared to be considering whether or not to voice the question written all over his face – 'are you sure?' – before thinking the better of it.

"Gods! I'm so sorry, Hermione. I – I swear I thought it was tomorrow. I've just been so busy that I just kind of lost track of – "

"It's too late for apologies," Hermione cut in. "If I stay, I'm always going to be playing second fiddle to something. If it wasn't Lavender it was Quidditch, if it wasn't Quidditch it was Fleur Delacour; now it's these bloody parties filled with vacuous people who have nothing better to do than celebrate a victory they had nothing to do with." She was no longer making any effort to keep her voice down. "Where were they when we were fighting for our lives? Where were they when the people we cared about were being hunted down and killed?" She addressed the room with a snort of derision evident in her tone. "The great and the good of the wizarding world. Are these really the sort of people you'd rather spend your time with?" she demanded, returning her attention to Ron.

Ron opened his mouth to answer but she shouted him down. "And do you know what makes it worse? This time it's not just me you've hurt. This time you've hurt—"

The rest of her sentence went unspoken as a trap door opened in her chest and her heart fell into her stomach. Suddenly she understood. The tears in the kitchen, they had not been for Ron – somehow a part of her knew he would forget – they were for Harry. But, as always, Harry had come through for her. And how had she repaid him? By fleeing into the night.

I've hurt Harry. The realisation caused her physical pain, all the feelings she had been unable to summon for Ron – anger, despair, misery, this time all directed inwards – suddenly flooding through her veins when she thought of Harry.

I've been such a fool!

Ron was her past; Harry was her always. Without a backwards glance, she turned on her heel and tore back to the street, everyone of her thundering footfalls punctuated by the hope that Harry was still at her apartment.

A few moments later, and still at a flat sprint, Hermione reached the apparition point and launched herself into the crushing darkness reappearing a moment later at the top of the stairs of Tomes and Scrolls.

She took a moment to try and slow her racing heart and then, for reasons she did not fully understand, knocked at her own door. It was unlocked, the panelled door swinging open slightly to reveal the darkened interior.

Filled with hope and apprehension in equal measure, Hermione pushed the door fully ajar and took but a single step into the unknown. "Harry?"