Three
'Cause there's a monster living under my bed, whispering in my ear. --Santana
*
He was being shaken, and it hurt. Hurt a lot and Harry wanted it to stop, wanted to be left alone in the nice comfortable darkness where his head didn't ache and his nose didn't feel five times too large for his face. "Sod off," he mumbled, or tried to.
The shaking didn't stop; if anything, it intensified. And now someone was whispering. "Come on, Harry, we need to go!"
Go? He didn't want to go anywhere. His wand was still in his hand, cool and strong, so Harry lifted his arm -
"Oh, no you don't." His wand slid out from between his fingers.
Damn. Now he had to open his eyes.
Harry blinked a few times; okay, so Dean was the ruthless wand-stealing people-shaking bastard, and as Harry took in the surroundings he realised it was for good reason. Now Dean was kneeling over him, holding - was that a sock? Dear Merlin, please let it not be a sock - to his nose.
"Finally," Dean breathed. "You all right?"
"Yeah," Harry muttered, struggling to sit up. "What happened?"
"Bloke came out of the shop. I disarmed him, but he didn't seem to care - just kept coming. You dropped that snake when he threw you into the wall -"
"Shit."
"- he grabbed it, and Disapparated." Dean turned toward the building, frowning. "Question is, was he the shopkeeper? Or somebody else?"
Harry wiped his mouth on the back of his hand; he was tasting blood. "Pretty stupid of him, if he owns the shop. We could have his name in no time."
"I'll go check the place out." Dean hesitated. "Do the sensor spell for me? It'll be stronger if you do it."
Harry held out a hand for his wand. They didn't deal in false modesties, he and Dean; when it came down to doing the job and staying alive, there simply wasn't room for them.
He said the words and closed his eyes, following the magic, letting it pull him in. It was a sound-spell with a twist or two; his head buzzed with the rush of noise and data and still-sharp pain -
"There's one person in there," Harry said, opening his eyes. "One person, two mice, and a lot of bugs. And the person - his heart, his breathing is slow. I'd say he's been stunned."
"Okay. Be right back."
Harry watched Avery - it was easiest to think of their prisoner as Avery, whether he actually was or not - the alley, the rain, and the patch of red spreading on what was, in fact, his sock. Then Dean was back.
"There was a little old man in there - like you said, somebody'd stunned him, although he didn't know it. He thought he'd just fallen. Kept begging me not to tell his granddaughter about it, said she'd make him give up the shop, poor old thing."
Harry nodded. "Lot of Dark stuff for sale in there, could you tell?"
"Eh. I saw a couple of Morth-wyrthan orbs that aren't entirely legal, but he's no Borgin."
"So somebody's using these shops, these shopkeepers, to get want they want." Harry pulled himself to his feet. "Right. So now, we take this bloke in and get ourselves chewed out for losing that statue."
"I'll get chewed out. You're going to the hospital wing."
Harry started to shake his head, then stopped. Ouch. "No. All I really need is a staunching spell -"
"- already done one -"
"- another staunching spell, and something for pain. We'll report together."
Dean looked enticed by the thought of company, but not quite convinced. He just needed a little push. . . "Hermione can take care of the rest. She's patched up worse before. I'll go to her flat straight afterwards."
Dean hesitated. "All right."
After Dean's quick go at healing, Harry revived their bound prisoner. Then Dean pulled the man upright and pushed him against the wall. "It's called forced Apparition," Dean said. "We hold onto your arms. We already have your wand. You Apparate with us to Auror headquarters in London, or find yourself splinched into a hundred little tied-up pieces. Got it?"
A silent nod; Harry and Dean took their positions, and the group Disapparated.
*
Their prisoner was in a cell, awaiting interrogation. Harry and Dean were themselves done with being interrogated for the night - although actually, it hadn't been too bad. Moody had been pleased with their arrest, and recognised the man at once; it was Avery, he said, or possibly some other wizard got up to look like Avery. Only time, and the wearing off of possible charms and potions, would tell.
And, happily, Moody had been fairly calm about the loss of the carved snake. Harry suspected his battered face had something to do with that; he was sure Moody had a odd sort of respect for blood and disfigurement.
"You really should go to the hospital wing, Harry."
"Sorry. Hey, I held up my end of the deal. And Moody didn't make it an order, now did he?"
Dean snorted. "But you know what he's like - hell, just look at him. Probably never let a nurse near him." They walked the corridor in silence for a moment. "Look, I'm going to Hermione's with you. Can't risk you going home and doing numbing charms on yourself all night."
Bugger. Dean was right not to trust him to go on his own. A worried Hermione, that was nearly as bad as hospital, her concerned face asking what happened? and then saying seriously, Harry, perhaps a different job. . . . No, Harry didn't want to go to Hermione's, even though it was only five o'clock, even though she wouldn't be out for the evening yet, even though she could heal him in less than two minutes.
Dean grabbed his arm, and Harry jumped. "It's called forced Apparition, Potter."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Yes, I've heard of it." He sighed, resigned to facing an upset Hermione. "Okay. Let's go."
*
And Hermione was upset. She didn't let them in at first, but joined Harry and Dean in the corridor, closing the door behind them. She stared at Harry for a long moment, then turned to Dean.
"Going to explain?" she asked, jerking her head towards Harry.
"Can't."
"What I thought."
Hermione held Dean's eyes, and Harry got the feeling they were still talking, silently treading a conversational path they'd been down many times before. Harry frowned. If they were going to talk about him, it should at least be out loud where he could get a word in edgewise.
"Well," Hermione said, shrugging slightly, "come on, then. But you two better take off those robes before you come in. I've got company."
Harry spoke for the first time. "You don't mean -"
Hermione nodded. "Yes. Everyone met here to decide about dinner before we go to the play."
"Right, well," Harry said. "I'll see you -"
"If you Disapparate, I will follow you and hex you into next week."
Harry couldn't help backing up a step at her tone. No question, he believed her.
"I'm ready," Dean said casually, as if he'd been so busy altering his own appearance he hadn't taken in Harry and Hermione's little standoff. Harry didn't believe that for a minute.
"Fine," Harry sighed. He removed his robes more slowly than Dean, discovering a twinge in his left shoulder that he hadn't even noticed before. When his shrunken robes were stored away in his a pocket, he said, "Okay."
Hermione latched onto Harry's arm as the door swung open. Her flat was a masterpiece in Disillusionment Charms: there were no quills, no spellbooks, and all the wizard photographs were perfectly still. Harry exchanged hellos with Ron, Sarah, and Seamus with his face averted as Hermione pulled him off to her bedroom.
The door closed behind them with a click. Harry tried a joke. "Why Miss Granger, whatever will people think?"
"That I'm some sort of scarlet woman, I expect," Hermione said. They both grinned at the reminder of Ron's old-fashioned quirks of vocabulary. "And it's always your fault, isn't it?" she added, pulling out her wand. "Now get on the bed, and hold still."
Harry burst out laughing - whether she'd meant to channel a dominatrix or not, she'd done a fabulous job - then put a hand to his face. "Ow."
"Sit," Hermione said, then removed his glasses and cupped his chin in her hand. "Now close your eyes."
Harry did as he'd been told. His skin tingled, hot and cold and hot again, as Hermione murmured charms to close his cuts and heal his bruises.
"You're lucky you didn't break this, you know," she said finally, running a finger over his back-to-normal nose.
"I know," Harry said, or at least thought, before her finger moved on to tracing the curve of his lip and his brain threatened to blank out altogether.
They'd spent eight years touching, whether it be passing quills or sharing books or huddling under the invisibility cloak. Hermione had even given him his very first hug - at least, the first one that counted, the first he could remember, once upon a time.
But this was different. This was intimate, this was deliberate and Harry wondered if some kind of time-magic was making her touch him like this, over and over again, it couldn't possibly be on purpose -
"Better?" she whispered.
"Yea -" he cleared his throat. "Yeah."
"Oi!"
Spell broken, Harry opened his eyes and Hermione jerked away. There was an insistent pounding on the door; Hermione wrenched it open.
"Are we eating tonight or what?" Ron asked, leaning against the doorframe. "Harry, mate, you don't look at all well. You're all -"
"Yes, Ron, we're eating," Hermione cut in. She turned to Harry. "Do you want to come?"
"Erm, no. Bit knackered, really." True enough, but not the whole story; he had no desire to spend another evening on edge, waiting for Sarah to realise who he was. And now there was this strange Hermione-thing. . . no, he was just fine where he was. "Is Dean going?"
"He's going to dinner with us. We don't have an extra ticket for the play, though." Ron paused. "I think he's rather disappointed."
"I bet he is," Harry said. Dean and Seamus were going to have so much fun with this. . . Harry felt sorry for Ron. He snuck a glance at Hermione. Well, almost.
They left him then, Hermione insisting that he sleep in her bed, Ron promising to bring home something tasty from the restaurant. Harry kicked off his shoes, tucked his wand under his pillow, and removed his glasses. He was tired. . . .
Unfortunately, his dreams gave him no rest.
*
"Harry!"
He was curled around himself, shaking and sweaty; Hermione's hand was on his shoulder and although he couldn't see her face, he could imagine her expression.
"Sorry," Harry mumbled, still not looking at her. "Sorry." He straightened out slowly, rubbing his forehead more out of long habit than any need, and began fumbling around for his glasses.
"Harry, stop." Hermione grabbed his arm and pulled on him gently until he was flat on his back, looking up at her. "Please, tell me about it."
"It was nothing," he said, blinking up at her blurry face. "Nothing new, anyway."
An almost-truth. It had been Voldemort, it had been green light and ear-splitting screams and blinding pain, it had been the oldest of dreams; but it had also been words he'd just heard that day, ominous words said with a hiss.
"I should go, I'm in your bed." He sat up, and resumed his fumbling. Where the bloody hell -?
"You're not going anywhere," Hermione said, sounding very pleased with herself. "I've got your glasses and your wand."
Harry reached under the pillow and realised at once that she was telling the truth. He opened his mouth to say something cutting, something that would make her leave him be - perhaps that he was nineteen, and didn't need a mother, and could take care of himself, thank you very much. . . .
A picture flashed into his mind: the two of them, several hours before, in this room. Hmm. There was a teeny possibility that being taken care of wasn't always a bad thing.
"Well," Harry said, flopping onto his back in mock defeat, "I reckon I'm stuck, then."
Hermione laughed, relief in her voice, and stretched out beside him, propping up on her elbow.
"Harry . . . does your scar hurt? You were holding it. . . ."
"No," he said reassuringly, "I was dreaming that it hurt, if that makes sense."
"Yes, it does." She paused. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Let's talk about something else," he said, rolling onto his side and mirroring her posture. "Tell me about your night. How did Ron do? Did he blow his cover?"
"Not quite," Hermione answered, beginning a play-by-play account of the evening that ended with Harry falling into a contented, and dreamless, sleep.
*
Lying on her side, Hermione watched him in the dim light. She had left one candle burning so that she could see Harry properly, so that she would know immediately if the nightmares came back.
She inched her hand along the pillow, slow, stealthy, stopping as soon as she felt a bit of his black hair brushing against her fingers.
She loved him.
Hermione couldn't say when that had begun, what moment it had started; but she did remember, very clearly, the instant she'd realised. It was seventh year and one of those tricks of fate - of Voldemort - had left her alone, and safe, with both her boys in danger. And during those agonizing hours it had hit her, full-on, in a tidal wave kind of way - so hard and so strong she was amazed she hadn't seen it before.
She would grieve if Ron didn't return. She would cry, and she would mourn. But if Harry didn't come back. . . if Harry was gone, she would never be able mourn, because she would never accept the loss.
She loved him, and she couldn't tell him.
Hermione was a lot of things. Clever, kind, a walking encyclopaedia - and practical. She didn't think in metaphor and would never have thought of the perfect one on her own. Ginny had done that, after the younger girl and Harry had had a month or two of holding hands and sharing kisses and nothing else.
"He's a caterpillar, Hermione," Ginny had said, sitting with her legs crossed on Hermione's Hogwarts bed, the curtains pulled around them for privacy. "He's completely wrapped himself up in a cocoon. He doesn't want to feel. He's all. . .walls."
And Hermione had nodded and patted Ginny's hand and made sympathetic noises. And, practically, explained why she thought Harry needed his walls, after all he had lost, and all he still stood to lose. And felt terribly sorry for Ginny while agreeing completely that it was useless to carry on a relationship with someone in a cocoon.
She had no idea, then, that time would see their positions reverse.
And now, Hermione thought, he's still in there. Although I think he's getting closer to breaking out every day. . . . But I'm not going to rush him, I'm not going to try until he's ready. Because when I try, I plan to succeed.
Hermione looked at Harry for another long moment; he seemed completely at peace. She carefully moved her free arm, the one not distracted by the feel of soft black hair, until it was hovering over his side. She closed her eyes and steadied her breathing, doing her best imitation of sleep. And with the same boldness that had overtaken her earlier that night she lowered her arm, gently, gently, until she was holding Harry against her, warm and solid and real.
Nothing wrong with a little nudge. . . .
*
Harry blinked his eyes against the sunlight streaming in the room. His body responded before his mind did to the fact that there was an arm around him and a distinctly feminine presence in the bed beside him. As his mind caught up, he realised that it was Hermione's arm wrapped around him, and Hermione who was snuggled up against his back. Hermione, one of his best friends. And for some reason, he had an urge to roll over and put his arms around her, an urge he couldn't quite explain. . . .
But the more his brain woke up, the more he knew that was a bad idea, a very bad idea. Last night's strange little slip aside, he and Hermione were friends. We-might-as-well-be-siblings sort of friends. And they couldn't, shouldn't, be any more than that. He was in no way what she needed, or deserved, or probably even wanted in the first place.
Harry suddenly felt the need to get out of her bed before he found himself doing something he shouldn't. He sat up and began squinting, trying to figure out what Hermione had done with his glasses.
"Mmph?"
"Go back to sleep," he said softly.
"Where are you going?"
Out of this room before I make a decidedly un-friend-like move? No, bad answer. He peered at her alarm clock. "It's nearly ten o'clock. I have to go in soon, we've a suspect to question." That was true, actually. And hopefully he could get back to his flat before Ron woke up and discovered his absence. He wasn't in the mood for any winks or nudges.
"Oh." Hermione sat up, smoothing out a few wrinkles in the dress she was still wearing from the previous evening. Was she disappointed?
"You want to have dinner tonight?" he blurted. Crap. That wasn't what he'd meant to say.
"I'd like that." Her face was still a blur, but Harry thought she might be smiling.
"Well. . .I'll ring you after work, then. Can I have my wand and glasses back now?"
"Of course. Now close your eyes," she said. "My secret hiding places are my secret."
Harry complied, his mind full of secrets of his own.
*
A/N: Morth-wyrtha is an Old English word meaning worshipper of the dead. Many thanks to Calliope and Cynthia Black for beta, and to everyone who was kind enough to review.