Sorry about the spam, but I guess I wasn't kidding. I wrote this for [livejournal.com profile] falulatonks last year. Now I'm finally posting it. Written from the one word prompt for delusional as a response the the ABC "drabble" meme. I think I still owe a couple you fics for that. hehe. My bad.

Fandom: Harry Potter
Title: And The Longings We Felt Each Other Feel
Pairing: Harry/Hermione


He loves her and not in any brotherly way. He was deluding himself to ever think otherwise.

She did not bore him, did not abandon him, and he never wanted to do anything without her around. Not find horcruxes. Not take his children to the park. Not drink pumpkin juice or firewhisky on the weekends. The fact that she's his best friend's wife is fitting in context with the insanity that has been his life. He thinks maybe after spending his first seventeen years avoiding death, his quiet adulthood is too boring and his subconscious is coming up with some kind of strange counterbalance for the tedium of his daily life. Except that isn't it at all; he's been pushing away these impulses for far too long for it to be that (His memory is full of nearly deliberate brushes of hands and knees and feet under tables and the particular way it felt when he held her too long and breathed her in too deep one afternoon in which she was wearing white and he was wearing dress robes).

He (more than) occasionally tries not to stop when he brushes past her as they both squeeze through a doorway in her and Ron's home. He tries not to wonder what their kids might have looked like. But he does, and the image of greened eyed geniuses with wildly untameable hair makes him hate himself and his choices until guilt makes him think of his actual children and wish he still loved their mother.

He tries not to corner her in the room that functions as her library. It's over crowded with books, smells like she does, and there's barely room for both of them (She and Ron had argued over which room would be the library for days; she gave up and agreed to move everything into an almost closet at the end of the main hallway in their house). He had deluded himself into thinking that he could go in there and not do something (He'd just wanted to say hello). He ends up pushing her against a shelf and pretending like she doesn't kiss him back, because that makes it easier when she says We can't. He wants to ask why, and doesn't. He just glares at her, his hands still wrapped around her arms and her back still pressed against the shelf. We're married, Harry.

He doesn't know when his life become a bad muggle soap opera. Maybe it always was, and this is just one more chapter in a series of more and more improbable events. Maybe tomorrow he'll find out Ginny spends most of her afternoons shagging Neville in some Hogwarts broom closet fifteen minutes before he has to teach a class. He (selfishly and delusionally) thinks that would almost make his life easier.

Harry steps away from Hermione and replies Happily. He's twistedly impressed with the way it didn't sound bitter or ironic against his ears.

He leaves and she (he assumes) returns to what she was working on. In spite of that assumption in his mind's eye he has the picture of her sliding to the floor after his departure, biting her lip and shaking at the thought of what they almost let happen.

But that's not what happened. He's sure. She doesn't want him; he doesn't need her.

It's easier to live in delusions, and smile like a big happy family, and hold his wife's hand and not wish it was ink stained and unmanicured.

It is. He's sure of it.
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