We're at The Burrow for Sunday dinner. The kitchen explodes with sounds of laughter and jokes, but there's something about the noise that prods at me, mocks me. You don't truly have this, it says. I take a swig of my butterbeer as I move through the rooms, dodging some flying contraption my brother had invented, for no other reason than annoying people. When I'm about to step into the living room, I freeze. I hear voices. Hermione's and Harry's.

Peeking around for just a second, I see Hermione sitting on the sofa, her hands playing with each other. Harry leans against the fireplace mantle, arms crossed, eyes only for her. The flames behind his legs are charmed with anti-fire spells, but still allows the heat to come through. I get the feeling that I shouldn't be here. That this conversation is only between the two of them. Quickly, before they could see me, I step back and hide behind the wall.

"I'm sorry for bothering you with all this. I bet you didn't expect me to say all of this."

"Hermione, I'm always here to listen, you know that. You've always done the same for me." I can hear him smiling.

"I know. Thank you, Harry. I don't want to cause any worry, though. Please. Maybe this is all work-related. Perhaps it's work, perhaps it's planning this wedding, perhaps . . . "

"Hermione, you don't need to explain it too much. It's fine. We get like this once in awhile, because of what we've been through."

"You went through it the worst and yet here you are, all well."

Only I can understand the heaviness of the pause that follows.

"Don't ever diminish what you've gone through. That never helps, for one."

"Reading self-help books, are you?"

I can imagine Harry's shrug. "Have you taken any sleeping potions?"

"Yes, and they work most of the time, but I might be getting immune to them. I woke up Ron the other day."

"Hermione, have you told Ron? He'd want to know."

"I don't want him to worry."

"It might make you feel better."

"Yes, but it's different. You know. He's . . . he's my fiancé."

Another pause.

"All the more reason to talk to him, Hermione. I'm sure he'll want to know. And it might make you feel better."

"Thank you, Harry, but I want to see if I could fight this before saying anything. Can you keep it a secret, Harry?"

He was the right person to go for secrets. But I wondered if he would keep it. If he didn't tell me, would I feel betrayed?

"I'm here for you, 'Mione."

"'Mione?" she asked, sounding to me amused. "You've never called me that before."

"You don't like it?"

"No, I like the sound of it." And she laughs, softly. "Should I call you something, then?" Her voice sounds closer; they're walking towards the archway.

Quickly, before I'm found out, I head back into the kitchen, to the backyard where Mum's set up dinner outside. When we're all called for dinner—courtesy of Mum's Patronus—Hermione and Harry emerge side by side, then split up to take seats at the table. But not before parting with one significant look. That look, a thousand words in one look. They had always done this, ever since we were eleven.

I think about their conversation. I wonder if they've had conversations like that before. I wonder if Harry's playing me like a fool.

As Hermione sits down, I let my arm wrap around her shoulder and seized by the familiar envy I'd felt toward Harry throughout my life, I make a point to plant a soft kiss to her temple, before kissing her on the lips, slowly and tenderly.

"Settle down, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley!" Charlie calls from his end of the table. Hermione leans away from me, but a small smile plays on her lips. Harry is next to him, preoccupied with buttering a roll. But his jaw is clenched; he's pissed off. Good. He wants to hide things from me, fine? "Some of us are trying to eat."

"I second that," adds Harry lowly.

I keep my tone light, but make sure he hears my message. "Sorry, mate, I know this must be sickening to see—your two mates snogging. But we're in love. We can't help it." Harry takes a slow measured sip of his pumpkin juice, though I see his hand shaking as his glass touch his lips.

"No, that's certainly not something that could be helped."

"I don't want to sound harsh but you are an awful person. You have left many of your stories incomplete and that too at very critical junctures. I hope you get yourself inline and finish the stories you started or announce that you won't continue. I started to feel that you like to keep people dangling, at cliffhangers; in that sense you are worse than Nolan."