The Draught of Living Death by Rinawen

Rating: PG
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 18/02/2005
Last Updated: 07/03/2005
Status: In Progress

The War is over, and everyone is at peace. That is, everyone except Hermione. (*Warning* May end
up NC-17 somewhere along the way, have not decided.)




1. Harry is a Friend of Mine
----------------------------

*Dislaimer:* I own nothing, am affiliated with nothing, and get no money for doing
this.

Author’s Note 1: And thank you Rini, for being insanely intelligent and willing to beta my
insane, comma-obsessive fics. You are simply brilliant!

Author’s Note 2: So I’ve finally decided to break my fic up into chapters! There are two reasons
for this: 1.) Because a reviewer suggested this, and 2.) It just makes sense with this fic.

Thanks for the warm Portkey welcome!

*~*~*~*~*

*The rain splattered on her face, wiping away the blood. She stood there, in front of him,
protecting him. He was so weak…he tried to push her away, but she refused. “No,” he said, “I won’t
let you do this.”*

*But she wasn’t as badly hurt as he was, and for the life of him he couldn’t push her
away.*

*“Stand aside, silly girl…” the cold, malicious voice said. “Although it would bring him great
pain to see you die before him, you could prove to be…quite valuable in the future, after I win
this war…” he said this last part with what one would call a licentious grin.*

*“I won’t let you do this,” Harry whispered in her ear.*

*“I don’t care what you say! Take me, please! Not Harry! Please, take me…kill me
instead…”*

*“Please, you know this has nothing to do with you,” Harry pleaded. “ I won’t let you do this;
you’ll die for nothing,” and with all the strength he could muster, he pushed her away.*

*“Finally,” the cold voice said, and cast his spell…*

Hermione woke up screaming. As if sitting outside her room, Harry suddenly appeared at her
bedside.

“Harry, it was so awful,” she began with a sob. “I saw it, I saw it all over again, just like
every night. I felt it again, the terror…oh my god Harry I thought you were going to die! I thought
you would die and I couldn’t stop it…”

“Shh…” Harry soothed her. He held her in his arms, rocking her gently. “Shh…its all right. Its
over, and I survived. I defeated him, shh…”

“No, Harry! You could’ve died! You could’ve died and then what would have become of me?”
Hermione continued cry into Harry’s chest. Some deep part of her knew this was silly, knew that
this was all past, but she refused to let go.

It had been two months since the end of her seventh year at Hogwarts, two months since the end
of the war. Of course everyone was relieved; the war had ended, Harry Potter had once again saved
the day, and most everyone moved on with the rest of their lives.

But not her. She wouldn’t let go, *couldn’t* let go. For the past seven years of her life,
her focus had been Harry’s safety. Her life had revolved around his welfare, and the main threat to
this was Voldemort. Now with Voldemort gone, everyone assumed that from now on Harry would be safe;
he was the most powerful wizard alive of course.

But that still didn’t comfort Hermione. No one else, save Ron, knew how close of a call it had
been. No one knew that however powerful Harry may be, he was still human, and he could’ve died that
night.

She hated thinking about the possibility; hated it when it replayed over and over and over in
her head. It plagued her dreams, turning them into nightmares; the fear was constantly with her
while she was awake. She could be making a pot of coffee, and then his voice, telling her to stand
aside, would make the hairs on the back of her neck tingle, and she would drop the pot and it would
shatter…

At work, she would feel the rain on her face, and lose all concentration…even to this day she
had yet to go out in the rain; she would stay in, and make Harry stay with her.

Despite the fact that she had seen Harry defeat Voldemort right before her eyes, even though she
*knew* the war was over, the protective instincts she’d been honing and nurturing for the past
seven years had yet to leave her. She remained in constant worry…every day that passed, she would
ask herself: Is Voldemort *really* gone? Is there not some way that he could be brought back,
with even greater power, and with a greater desire to seek vengeance against Harry?

“He cannot come back, Hermione,” Harry said reassuringly. Being an accomplished legilimens he
could sense, if not outright read, her thoughts.

“Why are you so sure? He’s come back so many times, he…”

“Hermione, you know that when he took my blood, he became mortal. In sixth year, we stopped him
from achieving immortality, and then two months ago I killed him…”

Hermione nodded; they’ve had this same conversation almost every night for the past two months.
At first, Ron was always there as well, but ever since his Quidditch schedule with the Cannons went
from slightly taxing to downright grueling, nothing, not even Hermione’s screaming, could wake him
up at night.

Upon hearing a slight snore emanate from Harry, who had suddenly ceased his comforting
ministrations, Hermione felt a pang of guilt; she’d been keeping him up every night.

“Harry…” she cooed quietly.

Harry awoke with a start. “What is it? Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Hermione assured. “If you want…you can go back to your room and sleep now. I’m
quite all right now.”

Harry grabbed a strand of her hair, and tucked it behind her ear. “Are you sure you’ll be able
to sleep now?” He asked, deep concern apparent in his tone.

“Yes of course. I’ll be fine. Simply smashing,” Hermione said, trying her best to smile.

Harry gave her a quick peck on the forehead. “If you say so,” he said. “Goodnight,
Hermione.”

“Goodnight Harry,” Hermione said, feigning a sleepy yawn.

When Harry closed the door behind him, Hermione just laid there in the dark, sleep being the
furthest thing from her mind.

*~*~*~*~*

The next morning Hermione, who sometime during the night had drifted off into a fitful sleep,
awoke to the smell of warm coffee.

Grumpily, she jumped out of bed, put on her fuzzy pink slippers, and skipped down the stairs
into the kitchen.

After Sirius died he left Grimmauld place to Harry in his will. After the war ended, and the
Order was dismantled, (at least, until such a time when it would again be needed) Harry decided he
wanted to move in.

Many thought him mad wanting to move into a house that Sirius hated and that represented so much
evil. But, for that same reason, Harry decided to move in. As a last service to Sirius, he wanted
to renovate the place, and make it the house he knew Sirius would have wanted.

Naturally, the house did need quite a bit of work. Though Mrs. Weasley did manage to clean the
place up quite a bit, the house still seemed like a tomb. Of course, Harry could never engage in
such a transformation alone, so he invited Hermione and Ron to move in with him. Of course, Ron was
delighted to finally leave his overpopulated home, and Hermione was pleased to have a place in
close proximity to her job.

Another perk was of course being able to watch over Harry whenever he was at home.

When she entered the kitchen Hermione was not at all surprised to find Ron there, sitting at the
table with a big mug of steaming coffee in front of him reading the Daily Prophet.

He looked well rested and happy; he was even whistling!

Hermione wanted to throttle him.

“Well then, you seem to have slept well,” Hermione said crossly.

Ron seemed like he hadn’t heard, or decided to ignore, her tone. “Why good morning
Hermione.”

Hermione simply huffed, and walked straight across to the coffee pot. As she was pouring herself
a cup, Harry walked in, looking like a child whose mother just made him wake up early for
school.

Hermione felt her stomach turn over in guilt. “Coffee, Harry?” she asked, handing over the mug
she had just poured herself.

“Don’t mind if I ahhh…” Harry stopped mid-sentence, trying to stifle a yawn.

Ron inspected both of them suspiciously. “Both of you seem awfully tired this morning.”

Hermione glared at him, while Harry insipidly drank from his coffee.

“Perhaps, if you had removed your head from out your arse, you would have realized that I had
another nightmare last night…” Hermione said grouchily.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Oh…you had a nightmare, did you? I’m sorry I didn’t set my alarm clock to
this little schedule you’ve got going on. Remind me tonight why don’t you? Seeing as how the world
revolves around you, and that my Quidditch career pales in comparison to your needs…”

“Oh shut it Ron! Don’t you understand how hard this is for me? I…”

“Children, please! Lets get along,” Harry said, trying to calm the escalating argument. “Ron, be
patient with Hermione. She’s tired; she hasn’t slept in two months. Hermione, please understand
Ron. He has to work hard at Quidditch everyday…”

“Oh yes, as if our jobs aren’t any more strenuous?” Hermione spat. “We’re Aurors, Harry! And
you, you’re there for me every night, while this good for nothing *git*…”

“Oh shove it, Hermione!” Ron began, “If you would just…”

“*Silencio*!” Harry exclaimed, his hand in the air between them. “Now, I promise to give
you both your voices back if you promise to be civil.”

Ron and Hermione nodded like first years being scolded by McGonagall.

“*Finite Incantatem*.”

Both their voices returned, but it was as if Harry had done nothing, for Ron continued in the
same patronizing voice he had been using before. “If you would just get some therapy, Hermione, you
would rid yourself of your nightmares, and let poor Harry have some peace in his life.”

Hermione looked like she was about to retort with some reason why therapy was completely absurd,
as she most usually did when Ron brought the subject up, but she then heard Harry stifle another
yawn. *What am I doing?* She thought to herself. *I’m destroying Harry…*

“You’re perfectly right, Ron,” Hermione said grudgingly.

Ron’s mouth fell open in astonishment; even Harry seemed quite astounded at this new
development.

“I’ll go find a suitable therapist today.”

*~*~*~*~*

Hermione stood outside the office of Dr. Parvati Patil.

At first, Hermione toyed with the idea of going to a Muggle therapist. She already had her cover
story planned out; she would tell the therapist that she had seen her best friend almost get killed
by a Columbian druglord, but at the pivotal moment, her friend managed to get the upper hand and
kill the druglord himself.

But then, how would she explain the irrational fear that this Druglord, who is presumably
mortal, would all of a sudden come back to life and go after said friend?

No, she decided that the best course of action would be to visit a magical therapist. However,
she knew that whomever she came across would immediately recognize her.

When looking up prominent therapists, Hermione had come across Parvati’s name. Of course,
Hermione was amazed that someone so short out of Hogwarts could already be practicing licensed
therapy, but then she remembered the death toll. Apparently, the war had the one positive effect of
leaving the job market much more open to the newly graduated students.

However insensitive that may sound.

Hermione herself, and even Harry had benefited from this. Two months short of Hogwarts, and they
were already senior level Aurors. Of course, the Ministry would have been foolish not to accept
them with the repertoire they had already built up, but still, would this have happened if there
hadn’t been a war?

Naturally, Hermione debated whether she wanted to be treated by Parvati, not because of her age
or experience, (she’d probably had a lot of people needing therapy so soon after the war) but
because she *knew* Hermione. They’d been in the same house, and dorm together for the past
seven years, and she was afraid she’d be biased in her treatment.

Then there was that little thing with Harry. Parvati and Harry had dated during their sixth
year, albeit briefly. However, Parvati remained bitter awhile after the breakup, and blamed it all
on Hermione. Of course Hermione assured Parvati that she was talking pure rubbish, and seeing that
Harry and Hermione didn’t make a move towards each other, Parvati forgave Hermione and all was
well.

Then of course, there was that *other* thing. But no, of course no, that wasn’t at all
relevant…

In the end, it was precisely for this history that Hermione chose Parvati. She wouldn’t be like
any other witch or wizard, asking curious questions, because Parvati was there all along.

And if anyone understood the complex nature of Harry and Hermione’s friendship, it was Parvati,
for she witnessed its growth first hand.

Resolving to get it over worth, Hermione charged into the room. Parvati’s office, small, though
comfortable, was decorated quite in the same manner as a Muggle therapist’s office would be: dark
leather chairs, mahogany furniture, and generic plants.

Parvati had her back to the door, and without even turning around, she firmly announced, “If you
have no appointment, please leave, make one, and I will aid you at the proper time.”

“I’m sorry to barge in like this, Parvati,” Hermione said quietly.

Parvati turned around, a wide smile on her face. “Hermione Granger!” she exclaimed happily.
Then, her joyful smile at seeing an old friend was quickly replaced with surprise. “What on earth
are you doing here?”

Hermione slumped onto the nearest chair, her eyes tearing up. “I can’t sleep Parvati. I see it,
I see it all the time…”

Alarm etched all over her face, Parvati knelt on the floor next to Hermione, her big beautiful
black eyes also welling up with tears.

The War was a particular dark subject with her, for she and Padma had also lost their parents in
it. Though many clients came to her, traumatized by the loss of a loved one, no other patient’s
agony had so moved her like Hermione’s, which was quite natural as Hermione was the only patient to
have had first hand experience fighting You-Know-Who himself.

“Tell me,” Parvati pleaded. Hermione nodded, and began to describe it all.

*“Take Ron to safety!” Harry bellowed at Hermione, who was presently making her way toward
him.*

*They were in front of the Riddle House; the storm that clashed above them in the clouds
reflected the storm they were currently weathering on the ground.*

*“No!” Hermione yelled. “I can’t leave you! Ron will be ok, he’s only been knocked
unconscious…”*

*“I demand you to leave, Hermione!” Harry roared. “You cannot be here!”*

*“Yes, silly girl,” Voldemort’s cold voice snarled. “Take your stupid friend and go! The fight
is between me, and this boy…”*

*Hermione ignored both of them, and continued to limp toward Harry.*

*“Fine, have it your way. Crucio!” Voldemort yelled, his wand pointed at Harry. Harry
screamed; he was too weak, unable to fight off the curse.*

*“Stop it!” Hermione screamed. “Just stop it! Expelliarmus!” Hermione yelled, pointing her
wand at Voldemort.*

*Voldemort’s wand flew out of his hand, and he looked up at her in surprise. “The foolish
mudblood has spunk.”*

*Taking advantage of Voldemort’s momentary incapacity, Hermione lunged at Harry, and helped
him up. Upon seeing Voldemort’s wand back in his hand, Hermione placed herself before Harry in a
protective stance.*

*The rain splattered on her face, wiping away the blood, evidence of a past duel with
Bellatrix Lestrange. She stood there, in front of him, protecting him. He was so weak…too weak…he
tried to push her away, but she refused. “No,” he said, “I won’t let you do this.”*

*But she wasn’t as badly hurt as he was, and for the life of him he couldn’t push her
away.*

*“Stand aside, silly girl…” the cold, malicious voice said. “Although it would bring him great
pain to see you die before him, you could prove to be…quite valuable in the future, after I win
this war…” he said this last part with what one would call a licentious grin.*

*“I won’t let you do this,” Harry whispered in her ear.*

*Ignoring Harry, Hermione addressed Voldemort. “I don’t care what you say! Take me, please!
Not Harry! Please, take me…kill me instead…”*

*“Please, you know this has nothing to do with you,” Harry pleaded. “I won’t let you do this;
you’ll die for nothing,” and with all the strength he could muster, he pushed her away.*

*“Finally,” the cold voice said, and cast his spell…*

Hermione stopped, unable to continue because her sobs had become uncontrollable. Parvati
herself, the licensed therapist in the room, had already gone through a whole pack of Tempo
tissues.

“Parvati…I can’t anymore, I just can’t!” Hermione managed to say between sobs. “I see it all the
time, day in, and day out. I see it while I’m awake! I dream it while I’m asleep! I can’t sleep!
Every night I wake up *screaming*, and Harry rushes to my side like the great big heroic git
he is. I can’t even let him sleep anymore, and I know this is taking its toll on him. Sometimes, I
see him passed out at work…please, what can I do? Tell me what to do! I’ll do anything, short of
getting myself addicted to The Draught of Living Death.”

Parvati wiped her eyes with tissue, and nodded. In an effort to compose herself, she got up,
walked behind her desk, and sat down. However, you could see that she wasn’t too steady on her
feet.

In an instant, Parvati seemed to lose whatever empathy she had with her patient, and put on that
cool, aloof, therapist look. “Hermione, in your dreams, do you ever get past that last point?” she
asked.

Hermione furrowed her brows in confusion. “Past what point?”

“Well,” Parvati began, picking up her notepad and quill. “When you related the story to me, you
ended it where Harry pushes you away, and is about to get hit by You-Know-Who’s spell.”

Hermione nodded, but then slowly began to shake her head. “No, I don’t.”

“Hmmm.” Parvati mumbled something, as she, like the clichéd therapist, scribbled her notes.

“Everyday I sit around and wonder whether the threat of Voldemort is truly gone.” Hermione said,
her eyes going large and glassy. “I wonder whether Harry is really truly free of this burden.
Sometimes, I wish that I could just sit with Harry in front of me all the time, so that I could be
sure that he isn’t in some mortal danger. It doesn’t help that Harry has chosen the line of work
that he has, and although I don’t necessarily work in the same division as he does, I followed him
into it in order to…watch over him.”

Parvati nodded, still scribbling some notes on her paper.

“I never go out in the rain; never. When it rains, I ask Harry to stay with me. I’m sure that
this must irritate the hell out of him, but he never complains…”

“Well, it seems like you have him quite covered,” Parvati said, not unkindly.

Hermione looked up, obviously confused.

“Well, you live with Harry, in order to protect him. You work with Harry, also in order to
protect him. You keep him with you when it rains, because it reminds you of the rain during The
Last Battle…”

“Yes, I know,” Hermione interrupted.

“Tell me, Hermione, do you sleep with him?”

At that question Hermione jumped out of her chair as if it had electrocuted her. “WHAT? Sleep
with him? Are you mad? No, I don’t sleep with him, Harry is only my friend, we’ve never, I mean, we
haven’t…”

“Very well,” Parvati said, scribbling some more notes. “Perhaps its about high time you
did.”

“WHAT?” Hermione exclaimed again. “Why, of all the insane things I’ve heard in my life…”

“Oh Hermione, don’t get your feathers ruffled,” Parvati said, trying to keep a stern demeanor.
“Nobody is telling you to have *sex* with Harry. I just simply suggested that perhaps you two
should sleep together.”

Hermione nodded, though she had a confused expression on her face.

“It makes perfect sense, Hermione. You see, you seem to be quite ok when Harry is around. You
aren’t plagued with these…dreams or visions when you’re with him, are you?”

Hermione shook her head. No, when Harry was around, she was indeed quite all right.

“So, if you want to get a decent night’s sleep, I highly recommend that you try sleeping with
Harry in the same room, perhaps even sleeping in the same bed, side by side. Maybe then you’d get
this feeling that you’re doing everything in your power to protect him, your dreams would
stop.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, sudden understanding dawning.

“I’m not recommending this as a permanent thing,” Parvati said, with an air that said that
although she wasn’t *medically* recommending it as permanent, in her opinion it *should*
be permanent, though for completely different reasons. “I think that in the time being, you’d both
benefit from getting a good’s nights sleep. In the interim, you should keep coming back to me, so
that we can perhaps *really* get this psychosis fixed.”

Hermione nodded, a sudden dread of going home and *actually suggesting* this experiment to
Harry - or worse - *Ron*, overpowering her.

“Here,” Parvati said, handing her a sheet of paper. “This is a prescription signed by me, for
the setup, you know, in case someone in your house needs proof.” She gave Hermione a knowing look,
and Hermione took the paper.

*~*~*~*~*

Later that day, Hermione decided to cook a nice dinner to keep her mind off her visions, and the
impending doom that lay before her, when she had to tell Harry, and *Ron*, about Parvati’s
“prescription.”

She made a Cajun Gumbo, a recipe she received off her aunt Mary who married an American
journalist, and currently resides in Louisiana.

When the boys got home, they downed it hungrily, but Hermione barely touched it. As Hermione
served them each a second helping, she decided to break the news.

“So, I went to see a therapist today,” Hermione said, dreading what she had to say next.

“Thas gooood,” Ron said, his mouth full of food. “Wha ‘appened?”

“She told me that I should sleep with Harry.”

At this, Ron spit out his food and looked at Hermione as if she had just sprouted seven
heads.

Harry jumped out of his seat. “WHAT?”

“Harry, Ron…wait, calm down! She didn’t mean it like that.” She forced Harry to sit back down,
and began pacing around the table.

“She meant that I should sleep with Harry, you know, *sleep* sleep,” she babbled, “because
apparently I don’t get these insane visions and dreams when he’s around, so if either of us wants
to get a good night’s sleep, we should sleep together.”

Harry ran his hands through his hair; Ron sniggered. “Sleep is what you’d be getting, eh?”

Both Harry and Hermione glared at him. “Ron, how dare you…” Hermione began, but was quickly cut
off by Harry.

“Its ok Hermione , I’ll - *ahem*- sleep with you.”

There was a long moment of silence in which the three of them looked at each other. Ron looked
like he wanted to attack someone with his silverware; Harry was trying really hard not to look at
Ron’s silverware, and Hermione was silently thinking of spells to heal wounds *caused* by
silverware.

At last, this tense moment was ended when Crookshanks jumped into Harry’s lap and began rubbing
his head against Harry’s abdomen. Hermione smiled, and called him over to her. “That’s his way of
thanking you,” Hermione told Harry, as she rubbed Crookshanks’ belly. “He seems quite pleased I’ll
actually sleep tonight.”

Ron snickered. Hermione ignored it, and Harry followed suit, deciding that ignoring was indeed
the best policy.

“Who was the therapist you went to, anyways?” Ron asked, a look of resignation on his face.

“Parvati Patil,” Hermione said amicably.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Figures.”



2. Midnight Show
----------------

*Disclaimer:* Still the same one from the first chapter.

A/N: Normally I’d have something really insightful to say…but today I don’t. Except for perhaps
a thanks to Rini for trying to help me find that random word…though we still have yet to come up
with it. *sighs*

Oh yeah, and go buy The Killers’ album Hot Fuss because it’s the best thing that has ever
happened to the planet. (This is only if you listen to rock or some denomination of this genre. But
then again, perhaps the rest of you would like it too. Personally, I do not limit myself to one
musical genre because then I’d miss out on a lot but hey, whatever tickles your pickle.)

*giggles* I said pickle.

Thanks to the reviewers. Hope you like this chapter!

*****

“So…ahem…where do you wanna do this, exactly?” Harry asked, as he stood in Hermione’s doorway
watching her look for pajamas. Harry asked this question with an air of an innocent, country priest
initiating a liaison with an equally pure vestal virgin.

Hermione rummaged through her drawers, pretending to look for a pair of suitable pajamas. How
exactly where they going to do this? Would they sleep in her room?

Hermione stopped, and looked around her room. It was big, *too* *big*, with large
windows, and a great big four-poster bed. The fireplace stood right across, and there was a large
sitting area off to the side. Beyond that was the bathroom, which was roughly the size of her
parent’s living room.

There were still boxes full of stuff strewn about everywhere; the place looked a right mess!
Even though she knew Harry’s room would be no better, Hermione decided she wanted to go upstairs
instead.

“I think we should sleep in your room,” Hermione said assuredly. “I can start there, a place I
know where you feel safe, and where I can save you if need be, and then perhaps I can graduate to
sleeping downstairs.”

Harry nodded; the plan sounded good.

“Of course, you’d probably have to sleep down here a few nights too, before I can get used to
leaving you alone.” Hermione blushed as she said this.

“Hermione, it’s quite all right…I understand.”

There was an awkward silence lifted only when Harry cleared his throat and told Hermione he was
going upstairs to get ready for bed.

“I’ll be up in a minute,” Hermione assured, and nearly collapsed on the floor as soon as Harry
left.

Goodness! Why did this have to be happening? The whole thing felt so…*strange*. But why
should it feel strange? Harry was her best friend, sleeping with him, as in *sleep* sleeping,
should be no big deal. Perhaps Hermione was worried that she would be invading Harry’s privacy?

But then Hermione began to wonder if the situation had been reversed; would she feel like Harry
was invading her privacy?

Of course not! If it were Harry, Hermione would do whatever it took to make him better. And she
was sure Harry felt the same way.

As Hermione made her way upstairs to Harry’s room, Hermione reflected on how chivalrous Harry
was being about the whole ordeal. He never whined; he never complained that she was hampering his
lifestyle with her twisted little phobia. He was being simply divine.

“First door on the left…” Hermione whispered to herself when she reached his room. Harry opted
for Sirius' former room, as the master bedroom had yet to be unlocked.

Sirius’ old room, a study, a random bathroom, and the master bedroom were the only rooms on the
third floor, aside from a small closet-like room that had a staircase leading up to the attic.

Hermione knocked on the door ever so quietly. Harry seemed to have been waiting on the other
side for her to enter, for the door opened swiftly after the second knock.

“What took you so long? My bed feels so cold and lonely without you----” Harry trailed off with
a cheeky grin, which earned him a well-deserved smack from Hermione.

“Sod it, why don’t you? If Ron passes by and hears this talk, he’d think we were…really…you
know?” Hermione emphasized her point by making a funny gesture.

“Yeah…yeah. Right,” Harry said with a grin.

Hermione smiled. What she thought would have been an awkward encounter was turning out to run
quite smoothly. One look at the bed, however, and all humorous thoughts left her.

From the look on Harry’s face, the same could be said about him.

“So err…do you wanna sleep on the left, or the right?” Harry asked distractedly, looking
everywhere else in the room but at her.

Hermione took a second to answer. Harry’s room was bigger than hers and quite neat actually,
which sort of irked Hermione since hers was in such a mess. She bit back her ire and attributed
this to the fact that Harry didn’t have as many possessions as she did.

His bed stood in the center of the room, against the wall on her left, with two oak tables on
either side. A large, floor to ceiling window stood directly across his bed, and the sitting room
area, with the fireplace, was right next to it, and then came his bathroom, which was perhaps twice
the size of Hermione’s.

Hermione debated her sleeping position. If she slept on the right side, then she could protect
Harry from any threat that might just spring on him if this threat happened to use the door.
However, if said threat instead decided to use the window, Hermione’s best bet was to sleep on the
left.

In the end, she decided to sleep on the right. The very idea that a threat would crash through
the window was quite ludicrous; Grimmauld Place was unplottable.

“I’ll take right…” Hermione said.

Harry nodded, a most curious expression on his face. She had indeed taken a long time to decide,
not that he was complaining; he loved sleeping on the left side of the bed.

Without much ado, Harry skipped off to his side of the bed and lay down. Hermione, however,
remained standing. After a few moments spent with Harry tossing and turning in bed while Hermione
stood watch over him like a Hungarian Horntail stands watch over its egg, Harry suddenly sat
up.

“Hermione, do you think I’m smelly?”

Whatever trance Hermione was under seemed to break at this silly question. “What?” she asked
confused.

“I said, Do. You. Think. I’m. Smelly.” Harry tried really hard to hide his grin.

“Of course not! You do have a certain scent to you, but it is a generally pleasant one…”

Harry grinned. “So why on earth are you still standing? Get into bed and *sleep,* Hermione.
*Sleep*. Please *sleep*. I won’t be able to sleep, unless I know you’re sleeping. If I
had wanted armed guards to be standing over me as I slept, I would have asked Moody long ago…”

Reluctantly, Hermione lay down, positioning herself as far away from Harry as possible. She knew
this was completely childish, but something about the whole situation felt…*funny*.

Harry either didn’t find the situation odd at all, or was simply too tired to dwell on it.

“Goodnight Hermione,” Harry said, twisting around trying to find a comfortable position.

“Goodnight Harry.”

Hermione extinguished the lights, and with that, she fell asleep.

*~*~*~*~*

The next morning, Hermione woke up to find her feet snuggled between Harry’s using them as
warmers, and Harry’s arm stretched out across her belly.

She felt simply *marvelous*.

Not only had she had the first perfect night’s sleep in the past two months, but her feet were
actually warm. What a delightful change!

Even though she knew both she and Harry had work, she was loathe to get up, and her desire to
wake up Harry was even less. He looked so peaceful, snoring away like a cat with a cold…

Abruptly, the snoring stopped and Harry opened an eye. “Are you staring at me while I sleep?” he
asked.

Hermione smiled, “Why? Are you worried I might fall in love with the angelic way you look while
you slumber?”

Harry grinned sleepily. “Nope. I just can’t sleep when people stare at me, not that I’m
accustomed to such a thing. Unless you count Hedwig, or that one time Crookshanks snuck up here and
stared at me for an hour, before he took mercy on me and licked me awake before I was late to
work…”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Just as well, since we have to be at work in half an hour.”

Harry grumbled and hid himself under the blankets.

“Up, Potter,” Hermione commanded, enjoying the chance to boss him around. She heard something
like a whiny “No!” from beneath the sheets, but simply ignored it.

“Harry Potter, if you don’t get up this instant, I promise you I will conjure up a bucket of
cold water…”

And with that, Harry leapt out of bed and ran straight to the bathroom. Hermione sighed in
satisfaction. It was indeed a very good thing she had slept with Harry and had not let her
silliness get the best of her. Honestly.

*~*~*~*~*

That same morning at breakfast, Ron observed Harry and Hermione from behind his newspaper.

“Judging from the wonderful expressions on your faces this morning, I take it the night went
well.” Ron said this with his face stuck behind the paper, so one couldn’t really judge whether he
really meant this in a friendship-y sort of way, or whether he was just trying to subtly express
his particular dislike for the current situation with another fabulous double entendre.

Hermione beamed. “Indeed, the night was simply…*satisfying*.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, and Ron snapped the paper shut; he had bloodshot eyes, complete with
bags.

“Satisfying?” Ron choked out, clearly trying to restrain himself.

Hermione laughed. “Honestly Ron! If you’re going to be making snide remarks every morning, I
might as well have fun with them.”

Ron blushed red with anger, and for an insane moment Harry was reminded of his Uncle Vernon.

“Honestly! If you…”

“Oh shove it Ron!” Hermione snapped. “This has nothing to do with what you’re thinking! The only
thing happening here is that I have this peculiar need to protect Harry -a fairly natural trauma
after everything that we’ve been through I daresay- and that my licensed therapist has deemed it
proper that sleeping with Harry in order to make sure of his security is a bloody good way in
taking a step towards a full cure!”

By this point, Hermione was yelling and looking so angry Harry was afraid she’d throw her coffee
all over Ron.

“We aren’t upstairs going at it like rabbits, Ron! He is trying to be a helpful, supportive
friend! Even if we were going at it, it wouldn’t be any of your business! What happened between you
and I happened ages ago, and it did not end on my account! But I’m over it! I suggest you get over
it too!”

With a final angry glance at Ron, Hermione apparated out of there. Harry and Ron just sat there
in stunned silence.

“Well…hmm…I’d better be off to work then,” Harry said, trying to pretend like nothing
happened.

“Yes…of course,” Ron nodded. But before Harry left, Ron stopped him. “Harry…”

Harry looked down at Ron, who was still sitting at the table. “I’m sorry Harry, you know,
for…”

Harry shook his head. “It isn’t me you should be apologizing too.”

With a sympathetic, pointed glance at Ron, Harry apparated out.

*~*~*~*~*

“Grr I could just kill him!” Hermione yelled as she stumbled into Parvati’s office, completely
interrupting Parvati’s lunch break.

“Hermione, hun, you really need to start making appointments before you burst in like this…”
Parvati said, closing the lid of her Chinese take out.

“I’m really sorry,” Hermione blushed. “It’s just that, Ron has gone and…”

“I see,” Parvati said, conjuring up a quill and notepad. “I expected this would happen.”

“He has no right!” Hermione yelled. “No right whatsoever! Why is it that every time I even
*look* at a member of the opposite sex, he goes into some sort of ranting lunacy! It is enough
to make me want to use an Unforgivable Curse on him…”

And with that pronouncement Hermione sobered up immediately. *Never* again did she
*ever* want to see *anyone* go under an Unforgivable Curse, let alone cast one on another
person or creature herself.

“I see that you’ve managed to sleep well,” Parvati said, trying to dispel the gloom that seemed
to suddenly descend on her patient.

“What? Oh yes…” Hermione said, her expression looking far off and forlorn. Suddenly, as if being
snapped into place by some invisible puppeteer, Hermione came back to the present. “How can you
tell, you know, that I’ve slept well?”

“Well, it is obvious,” Parvati said, continuing a steady stream of scribbling. “You don’t have
bags under your eyes, and your energy is up a hundred times over yesterday. You seem to have
regained that firecracker spirit, although it seems you’re spending too much of it being angry at
Ron.”

Hermione tried hard not to gag, knowing full well that this behavior was reminiscent of her
sixteen-year-old self. “I can’t help it, Parvati. It’s just that I get so upset! Why does he
continue to do this, after everything…”

Parvati began to squirm in her seat, becoming a bit more uncomfortable after every word Hermione
muttered. “Listen, Hermione,” she began. “You sort of burst in here without an appointment, and I
sort of have a client that that needs to be seen shortly. Do you think you could make an
appointment and come see me another day?”

“Of course Parvati,” Hermione said as she hastily got up. “Thank you for listening though.
You’ve been wonderful.”

“No problem Hermione,” Parvati said. “Take care.”

As she prepared to disapparate, Hermione’s attention was suddenly riveted to a spot on Parvati’s
desk. “That quill…”

Parvati looked up to see Hermione’s eyes glued to the ostrich feather quill sitting in a quill
holder on her desk.

“That’s an ostrich feather quill…” Hermione said, squinting a little as if trying to look for a
defect.

“Yes, it is. A…friend gave it to me.”

“Oh,” Hermione said absently.

“Hermione, I really need to catch up on some paperwork,” Parvati said, without meeting
Hermione’s eye.

“Oh, sorry! Goodbye, Parvati!” Hermione exclaimed before apparating out.

Once she was gone, Parvati sunk down heavily onto her brown leather chair; she *had* to
floo Ron.

As if on cue, Ron’s head appeared in Parvati’s fireplace.

“Has she gone to see you already?” Ron asked sternly.

“She just left.”

Ron sighed. “Parvati, be careful…”

“I know!” she yelled, eyes flashing. “Don’t make me feel like this is all my fault, you…”

“Yes, I know,” Ron said sadly. “It’s just that, she’d never forgive me. I mean, she has, but to
bring this all up again, especially right now with her situation…she’s so delicate, and…”

“I know,” Parvati said, some of the old anger washing away. “I’m her therapist Ron, I’ll make
her better.”

“I trust you,” Ron said, those certain feelings coming over him as he watched her sit there,
looking nervous, yet determined.

“Ron,” Parvati began, looking at him coldly through her big black eyes. “Don’t floo here again.
She might be here, and then figure it out, and the small progress we’ve made will have been for
nothing…”

“Ok,” Ron said, and disappeared.

A long while afterwards, Parvati just sat there, staring at the empty spot where Ron’s head had
been. At last she sighed, and opened up her Chinese take-out.

*~*~*~*~*

Hermione sat in Harry’s bed, curled up with her knees against her chest, trying really hard not
to hyperventilate.

He was late. It was almost midnight, and he was late. He hadn’t owled her, as he usually did
when he knew he would be late, and because of this she was now sitting there listening to Brian
Setzer’s version of “Hollywood Nocturne,” thinking up really creative circumstances where Harry
might find himself in mortal peril.

Hermione decided that with an imagination like hers, perhaps she should really look into a
career in writing.

Of course, her career as an Auror was indeed fulfilling. She was the master in her division,
having had experience in strategizing and analyzing intelligence in the past. She had tried a hand
at working as a field Auror, which she was also amazing at, at least when she was alone. She found
that when having to work in a group with Harry, she couldn’t really keep her mind on task, seeing
as she spent the entire time hovering over Harry making sure he didn’t get killed.

Naturally, everyone started getting irritated after a while, Harry included, so she found it the
best course of action to change divsions. The Ministry was delighted; thanks to her in depth
investigation skills, the Aurors had been able to capture two of the most notorious Death Eaters:
Crabbe and Goyle.

In an effort to keep Harrygeddon, apocalyptic-style thoughts out of her head, she decided to
muse on the strangeness of the relationship between her and Ron.

As expected, Hermione and Ron had indeed dated. Their relationship lasted about four months,
(and there was actually a running pool on how long it would last) and took place during their sixth
year at Hogwarts, around the same time Harry and Parvati had had their little tryst.

But as is the case with most sixteen year olds in “serious” relationships, the subject of sex
came up. With Harry and Parvati the whole thing was quite easy, they were both mere puppets of
their hormones, and gave in to them as most young people do. But in the case of Ron and Hermione,
it was different.

If it had been left up to Ron, their relationship would have also taken the drastic, physical
turn Harry and Parvati’s relationship had taken. But unfortunately for Ron, it was most definitely
not left up to him…

It was clear from a start that Hermione wore the pants in *that* relationship.

Because of this, poor Ron never got any, at least from Hermione. Until one fine day he did
indeed get propositioned from a girl, and being the hormonal, inconsiderate, selfish git he was, he
took advantage of it. Why the hell not? He was in his right as a male to get some! Even Harry, who
by this time had already ended his relationship with Parvati, had gotten laid. Why shouldn’t
he?

Of course Ron never really thought of this as cheating on his leading lady; he never had any
intention of telling her at all and figured that these little clandestine meetings would end once
Hermione had come to her senses and decided that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her.

But Ron forgot one simple fact, one that should never be overlooked: Hermione isn’t stupid!

She saw the signs, almost at once, and confronted Ron about it. Of course, he denied the whole
thing, which only infuriated Hermione even more.

And so Hermione, being the smart, young, vibrant thing she was, dumped Ron and fell straight
into the arms of one Zacharias Smith.

Over the past two years, Hermione has gotten many a question regarding the torrid love affair
she and Zach had going for each other, and even now she really can’t explain how the whole thing
came about, or even the purpose it served.

She vaguely remembered going out with him to piss Ron off, knowing full well that Ron thought
the boy a git. The strategy of course worked, and she even went as far shagging Zach in an even
further effort to anger him.

Now this whole Zach diddy lasted for about three months, which made her sixth year at Hogwarts a
most eventful year. Adding to that, all of this happened alongside uncovering a plot that when
successful would make Voldemort immortal. Wonder how many other kids could deal with all that?

Seeing this sordid history of Gryffindor love lives, it was no wonder Ron and Hermione still had
that quasi-anal passive-aggressive thing: it was merely a device that Ron used to mask his regret
at screwing Hermione over, and that Hermione used to mask the anger that she still had deep within
her.

The fact that Hermione had chosen this predicament to keep from dark Harry thoughts stemmed from
the dinner Ron had decided to cook. She supposed Ron had made spaghetti and meatballs as a typical
I-shall-not-apologize-using-words-because-I’m-male type thing in an effort to make up for this
morning’s row.

The spaghetti was more or less good, as was the company. Hermione found the way Ron kept opening
and closing his mouth between bites, straining with himself to apologize, highly amusing.

Of course he didn’t, and at the end of it all he rather sulkily stomped up to his room.

It was in the middle of this reverie that Harry suddenly apparated right next to her.

“Hi,” he said, smiling at her toothily.

“Hi…goodness! What happened?” Hermione asked, jumping up in alarm.

Indeed, Harry looked as if he had just escaped some trying situation within an inch of his life,
which was most likely true. He had a big burn mark on his left cheek, and parts of his cloak were
singed off…not to mention the highly disheveled state of his hair, which in retrospect wasn’t that
big a deal since it was always highly disheveled.

Harry let himself fall back onto his bed. “We got Avery,” he said.

Hermione sighed, and sat back down next to him. They sat there in silence, until Hermione
stretched over him and inspected his burn mark.

“Why on earth did you not get this fixed?” she asked him.

Harry, who had previously had his eyes closed, opened them wide and sat up. “I knew I had to
come home to you.”

Hermione’s eyes went wide, and Harry rushed to explain himself. “Well, you know, you always have
kittens when I’m not with you, so I figured…I had to be home as fast I could before you went off
and did something stupid.”

Hermione smiled, completely amused by the sudden role-reversal. Wasn’t she the one that usually
worried about Harry doing something stupid?

“Hungry?” she asked him.

In response, Harry’s stomach made some weird growling noise at being ignored for so long.
Hermione chuckled and went downstairs to grab Harry a plate of leftover spaghetti. On her way back
up, she stopped off her study to retrieve the, “All Purpose Pomade” she had handy for Harry’s burn
mark.

“Food!” Harry exclaimed happily when Hermione appeared with the spaghetti.

“Beware, Ron made it.” Hermione said.

But Harry didn’t seem to care, for he greedily began slurping the spaghetti away, while Hermione
went off in search of Harry’s pajamas.

“Harry, where is the other half of your Pajama bottoms?” Hemione asked, as she picked up the
bottoms off the floor in front of the fireplace.

“No…idea,” Harry managed to say between bites.

Hermione rolled her eyes and threw Harry’s bottoms at her. “Get ready for bed,” she
commanded.

Harry hastily finished his spaghetti, grabbed his pants, and ran into the bathroom.

Hermione entertained herself by turning off the music, banishing the empty spaghetti bowl,
conjuring a fire in the fireplace, and sitting down to try and unscrew the seemingly unscrewable
lid off the pomade jar.

In the middle of her struggle, Harry emerged from the bathroom with clean teeth, a freshly
scrubbed face, (at least, around that burn…) and shirtless.

“Need some help with that?” he asked, obviously amused at all the effort Hermione was putting
into opening the little jar.

When she looked up, Hermione found herself unable to utter a sound, and handed Harry the jar
while trying really hard no to look up at him.

He was shirtless!

Harry, not being completely daft, noticed the way she kept her eyes away from his general
direction.

“Hermione…you don’t mind do you? I mean, I can go get some other shirt its really no big
deal…”

“NO! I mean…no, its fine…really…” Hermione took the now open jar of pomade from Harry, and stood
up.

“Sit,” she squeaked out, suddenly regretting the fire in the fireplace. What on earth had
possessed her to start a fire? It was already so god damn hot in the room!

These thoughts pervaded her mind as she dipped her hand into the jar, lathered some of the
pomade over her hand, and every so gently caressed Harry’s burn.

She was so close to him that their right knees touched. At first this was no big deal...after
all, they were only knees. But Hermione’s hands had the rather unprecedented affect of making Harry
relax, and without thinking he placed his hand on the thigh Hermione had unconsciously settled
between Harry’s knees…

*Why on earth had Hermione started a fire?*

Hermione felt a distinct warmth throughout her body, and noticed Harry’s heavy breathing. She
was about to back away, suddenly frightened for no apparent reason, when she noticed a big, ghastly
bruise covering his left shoulder blade.

“Harry, what is that?” She asked placing a hand on it, and trying very hard to ignore the big
lump that was forming in her stomach. This was Harry! Why was she frightened of Harry? She was
being ridiculous!

“It’s nothing,” he said through raspy breath, trying to sound brave and manly.

“Nonsene,” Hermione whispered, and dipped her hand into the wonderful, all purpose pomade. She
placed a delicate hand on Harry’s shoulder blade, and began massaging.

By that time, the lump Hermione had in her stomach had grown. It was a malignant lump, and had
spread throughout her entire body, making every limb feel heavy, and slow. Each time she rubbed
Harry’s shoulder, she felt like she needed to use the strength of her entire body to move her hand.
The ordeal was so taxing that after a while she was completely on top of him, straddling him with
her legs, smothering him with her breasts…

It was like a fight! Against *herself*, against *him*! She could NOT be afraid of him!
Nothing about him should frighten her! And she had to STOP being afraid *for* him! But that
bruise…that bruise on his shoulder…at that moment it took on the significance of everything she was
afraid would happen to him! She *had* to get it off of him…it was *her* job and hers
only…

By the time she was done Hermione was shaking all over, and Harry’s breathing was growing
shallower by the minute.

As if waking up from a trance, Hermione abruptly jumped away from him, both terrified of him and
terrified of herself.

What exactly had just happened there?

Minutes passed, the clock ticked…complete silence. Hermione just stood there, sizing Harry up
the way she would an enemy. All Harry could do was sit there, completely stunned by…he did not know
what exactly. He ran a hand across his shoulder, touching the spot where the bruise had once
been.

After a while, Harry could not take it anymore. He cleared his throat, making Hermione jump back
a step further.

“So…I take it everything feels better now?” Hermione stammered. Whereas before she couldn’t take
her eyes off Harry – now - she could barely look at him.

“Yes…” Harry said, a dazed look on his face. He still had a hand to his shoulder, and couldn’t
think clearly for a lack of blood in his head.

Further silence, where the warmth of the fire transferred itself to the air, and became heavy,
oppressive. Adding this to the lack of blood in his head, Harry felt the insisting throb of a
headache knocking on his temple.

“Perhaps we should…go to bed?” He asked casually, trying to act as if nothing was the matter,
when *everything* was the matter.

“WHAT?” Hermione shrieked, looking alarmed, though feeling a sudden exhilaration at the prospect
of going to bed with Harry. Ok, where did *that* come from?

“*Sleep* Hermione. You know, what we did last night…” Harry said tentatively. The
*friend* part of him was worrying about Hermione’s welfare and wanted her to get a good
night’s sleep, though the *man* part of him…well…he didn’t bloody care if Hermione slept or
not.

“Right…right…” Hermione said, inching her way toward the other side of the bed…as far away from
Harry as possible…

Though every inch of her body wanted her to get as *near* to Harry as possible.

“Hmmm…do you, you know, are you sure about…” Harry asked, motioning toward his torso, looking
again like a modest country priest - an attractive half naked country priest.

“It's…it's ok, like I said. I mean, it is sort of warm in here, don’t you think?”

“Yes. Warm. Stifling…” Harry agreed, nodding along.

“Right. Right…so, umm…Sleep.”

“Yes! Sleep!” Harry said, happily jumping into bed and disappearing under the covers.

Hermione hesitated, an expression on her face reminiscent of Psyche, although one couldn’t be
sure whether it was Psyche’s expression at Delphi, where she learned that for the rest of her life
she would sleep with a monster, or when she realized the monster was in fact Eros…

After a moment, Hermione realized how ridiculous she was being, and delicately climbed into bed.
She needed sleep.

Although she knew that tonight, even though she’d be safe from dreams of Voldemort, no sleep
would come her way…



3. Smile Like You Mean It
-------------------------

*Disclaimer:* If you think I’m making money off of this, or if I have to do anything with
anyone in this fic, then you’re seriously off your rocker. Get back on it.

Author’s Note: This shall be the last chapter to this fic for the next eleven million years….I’m
serious. Ok, maybe not entirely, but sort of. Maybe I can cut it down to seven million. Depends on
where life takes me…

Thanks to Rini for being just…the most awesome beta that the gods Apollo and Athena have ever
given me! When we’re both in the Underworld, look me up. Perhaps we can share a Strawberry
Margarita while we reminisce about the good Auror times with that transvestite of a prophet
Teiresias.

Hope you enjoy this chapter!

*~*~*~*~*

As she rubbed her eyes open, Hermione resolved to commit murder sometime during the course of
the day. Yes…she was going to kill someone. Namely, one Dr. Parvati Patil.

The night had been sleepless, as prognosticated, and it was all Parvati’s fault! Where on earth
did she get the hair-brained idea that by sleeping with Harry she could actually *get* some
sleep? Sure, for a night, she *did* manage to find peace of mind regarding the whole *I’m
constantly afraid for Harry’s life!* dilemma, but honestly…putting a male and a female to sleep
in bed together when they weren’t involved at all, and *had no desire to be involved*, well,
that’s just wrong - isn’t it? Perhaps she should just let herself get addicted to the Draught of
Living Death…

Grr she just wanted to scream! Every time she finally managed to fall some-what asleep, her knee
would lightly brush Harry’s thigh, or her hand would land on his bare chest, and they would both
awake with a jerk.

Of course, neither acknowledged the fact that they were perfectly aware that the other was
awake. That is the way it always is when there is an undeniable sexual tension between two people
sleeping next to each other that have yet to come to terms with the thought of *actually
acting* on it.

When she looked over at Harry, mouth half-opened in a snore, the sheets way down past his waist,
she marveled at the acute confusion that was rumbling in her head. She was *never* confused.
She lay there, staring at him, thinking that perhaps by staring at him the confusion would clear
away and she’d have some sort of epiphany…perhaps somehow she would be enlightened with the reason
why she was suddenly so peculiarly attracted to her best friend…

“You’re staring at me again,” Harry said, eyes wide open. This time, however, the cheekiness was
gone from his voice.

Hermione was startled, not only by Harry, but also by the turn her thoughts had previously
taken.

“I - uh - we need to get up,” Hermione choked out as she hastily got out of bed. “Lots to do
today.”

Before Harry could reply she was gone from the room, wanting nothing more than to put as much
distance between herself and Harry as possible.

*~*~*~*~*

At breakfast, Ron observed his two best friends quizzically. “Did Hermione sleep by herself last
night?”

Hermione looked up from her bowl of porridge, while Harry suddenly found his own bowl of
porridge to be the most interesting thing in the world.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Hermione asked Ron with a nervous laugh. “You know I
can’t sleep alone, or I won’t get any sleep…”

“Well, judging from the bags under both your eyes, it seems to me like none of you got any
sleep, so I figured perhaps you’d slept in your own room, and did that whole nightmare thing
again…”

“No, no. I came home late last night,” Harry added, aiming towards an excuse.

“Yes, very late. Plus, you know, after not sleeping well for a long time, and then finally being
able to sleep, the body decides that it needs even more sleep to make up for the previous lack of
sleep, so it gets tired, “ Hermione stammered.

“So you’re saying that after you finally get some sleep, you get even more tired?” Ron asked
skeptically.

“Yes,” Harry and Hermione answered in unison.

“Oookay then. Well, I’m off to work,” Ron said as he got up.

“But it’s a Saturday!” Hermione said, as if this alone should settle the fact that he shouldn’t
be going to work. “We had all decided today we were going to work on the house.”

“Yes, but, Coach O’Connell has decided that we are such an abomination to the game of Quidditch,
we need to train weekends in order to entertain the smallest hope of beating the Wimbourne Wasps in
two weeks,” Ron said jovially.

“Actually, umm…I have to go to work too,” Harry added, carefully avoiding Hermione’s gaze. “We
caught Avery yesterday and I have to, you know, go and threaten his life for information.”

Hermione looked at the pair of them, and nodded. “Fine…go. But at this rate, this house will
*never* look like *sane* people live in it.”

Both boys took leave of Hermione silently, looking as if they’d been reprimanded by their mother
superior.

Despite the boys’ lack of enthusiasm, Hermione decided that today would be the day she began the
renovations, starting with the nefarious jungle that was her room. With a wave of her wand,
Hermione cleared the kitchen and went upstairs to her room.

Pausing at the doorway and ruefully surveying the mess, she felt like running and screaming for
her life. Yet she knew that something had to be done about it. At least focusing on this would help
take Harry off her mind…

Hermione sighed, not at all looking forward to the task before her, but resolved that for the
sake of her sanity and anal-retentive cleanliness, that she should get it done and by the love of
Merlin it will be done. She walked up to the brown boxes that scattered the floor of her room and
opened the lid.

The very first thing she took out was a Graduation picture. In it, she, Harry, and Ron were
standing around, their diplomas in their hand and laughing triumphantly. This was the last happy,
secure moment she could ever remember feeling, for it was that night that…

*“You know this has nothing to do with you,” Harry pleaded. “I won’t let you do this; you’ll
die for nothing,” and with all the strength he could muster, he pushed her away.*

*“Finally,” the cold voice said, and cast his spell…*

Hermione snapped out of the reverie, and threw the picture to the ground.

Instinctively, she ran upstairs to Harry’s room, shut the door behind her, climbed into bed
crawled under, the covers and hugged his pillow tightly.

She stayed there for what seemed like an eternity. After a while though, she began realizing how
ridiculous she was acting. *For goodness sake, Hermione Granger! You’re a grown woman! What on
earth are you doing hiding in bed when there are things that need to be done!*

Hastily, she jumped out of bed and looked around her. If she lacked the courage to start working
on her own room…

*~*~*~*~*

“Hermione!” Harry called from the bottom of the staircase. “Honey, I’m home.”

Harry grinned, half expecting her to furiously come traipsing down the stairs, enraged at
hearing a greeting reminiscent of a time when women were enslaved at home while the men went out to
make a living. He pleasantly remembered one night that he and Ron were helping Hermione move from
her parent’s house to Grimmauld Place. It was a week-long process - as can be imagined - and they
spent a few of those nights lazily watching movies and eating Mrs. Granger’s delicious dinners.

Ron was completely fascinated by the idea of a muggle “film.” He had never seen one, and found
it quite fascinating that people actually did such things: act out scripts, faking life for the
sake of entertainment. He was determined to watch every single film in the Granger collection and,
on such a night, Ron picked out the movie “Pleasantville.”

Throughout the film, Hermiome grumbled at the way women were treated as slaves back in the day,
completely annoying Ron who was paying really close attention to the film. Finally, Ron couldn’t
take it anymore and did what Ron usually does: he snapped at her.

“If you hate the damn topic of the film so much, why the bloody hell did you buy it in the first
place?”

Hermione stumbled over herself to form a reply, until Harry noticed a funny little thread that
tied a small portion of the Granger collection: *Pleasantville, The Cider House Rules, The Ice
Storm…*

“Hermione, do you have a thing for Tobey Maguire?” Harry asked with a grin.

Harry got his answer when he saw Hermione’s face blush. Ron looked confused.

“Who the bloody hell is Tobey Maguire?” Ron asked.

“The one that got sent back in time with his sister,” Harry answered him, as Hermione looked
completely mortified and incapable of replying.

“Oh, that bloke. How funny…he kinda looks like you, Harry. Big eyes and all that, except that
yours are green...”

Harry snapped out of his reverie. *He kinda looks like you…*

No, completely silly. He doesn’t look a thing like Tobey Maguire. And even if he did, that meant
nothing, not even in comparison to last night…

“Honey, I’m home,” he called out again, now even more - though inexplicably - determined to see
her raging down the stairs.

But alas - nothing.

Harry was slightly disappointed, though not at all surprised considering all the racket that was
coming from upstairs. Perhaps she hadn’t heard him?

Maybe she was redecorating her room as she had been meaning to do for ages?

He sure hoped she was. He was tired of hearing her complain about the endless greens, blacks,
and silvers that adorned this entire madhouse. Of course, Harry usually complained along with her,
but she was *the girl* in the house; she *actually knew* how to do things like this. He
had absolutely no bloody clue as to how he was going to go about fixing this place up. He had it in
mind to ask Mrs. Weasley for some help, as she had done fabulously with the cleaning, but Ron
begged him not to. According to him, she would take full charge of the expedition, and leave no
room for anyone else’s input.

Harry was suddenly struck with how funny it would be to see Ron’s face at seeing that his mum
had decorated his room all in lavender…

After searching the kitchen for food and finding no such thing in the vicinity, he eagerly ran
up to Hermione’s room to see how far she had gotten along. He remembered her saying that she wanted
her room to be done in different shades of blue…he was looking forward to seeing a room in the
house that actually looked livable.

You could imagine Harry’s astonishment when he got to Hermione’s room and found it looking
exactly as it had before. Harry frowned. *Then what on earth was all that racket-*

Before he could even finish his thought, he heard a great big boom coming from upstairs, along
with what he could now distinguish as loud music. Not only was it loud music - it was the
Beatles.

And where one could hear the Beatles, one would find Hermione.

Of course, logically speaking, it had to be Hermione. The only thing Ron knew about the Beatles
was that they were insects that could be very annoying when they wanted to be, particularly if they
were actually eavesdropping witches in disguise, and not really beetles at all.

Ever since Harry had known her, Hermione had loved the Beatles. Not the way she loved Tobey
Maguire…no…that was *nothing* compared to the Beatles. The Beatles adorned her girlhood
room…the Beatles were the epitome of humanity…

It was kind of cute, really, since she got all fan girlish when it came to them, and “fangirl”
was definitely not an adjective he would normally use when describing Hermione Granger.

The odd thing was that this particular love of the Beatles was something that she not only
shared with her mum, but also something she had in common with Petunia Dursley…

Harry was quite curious as he made his way up to his room. What was she doing in there?
Suddenly, a weird sense of panic kicked in…*what if she was being attacked?*

Like a mad man, Harry sprinted all the way up to his room and charged inside, wand raised, ready
to kill anyone who might even be *trying* to hurt Hermione.

However, the only thing he found upon entering the room was a completely different world.

*Is this my room?* Harry thought to himself as he looked around. Everything was in its
correct place…the bed was where it had stood before, as was the rest of the furniture, but the
colors…

Harry wanted to die of happiness. Everything: all the Slytherin-ish trappings, the green
wallpaper with the velvet snake pattern, the silver curtains, the silver serpent shaped
candleholders…

All gone.

The curtains were a wonderful scarlet velvet, matching the new sitting area, which beforehand
had been in the style of Louis XVI and highly uncomfortable. Now, however, the sitting area was
very much reminiscent of the big comfy chairs in the Gryffindor common room.

As he gazed around the room in wonder, he was startled by the sudden appearance of Hermione,
wearing nothing but a shirt. His shirt. Only a *shirt*, and *no pants*, which meant
that…

“Merlin’s legs-er…teeth,” Harry stammered. “You gave me a fright.”

“Oh!” Hermione gasped, equally as startled by Harry. “I - I was in the bathroom I - I didn’t
think you’d be back so early.”

Harry, who was trying his hardest to keep his gaze *on her face* blinked. “Hermione,
it's eight o’clock at night.”

Hermione looked puzzled, looked around the room. “Time sure has gone by rather quickly…what do
you think of it?”

“Huh?” Harry said, still trying very hard not to look at her legs. *Vestal virgins had
legs?*

“What do you think of the room?” Hermione asked eagerly. A small part of her was afraid that he
wouldn’t like it. “It isn’t quite finished yet, but it is a big room. I was going for the
Gryffindor theme, because I remember you mentioning it when we talked about decorating before. I
personally like the wallpaper the most; I quite like the random streak of gold in between the
scarlet and white stripes, and thank goodness that hideous snake print is gone!”

Harry nodded along dumbly, trying his hardest to pay attention to everything she was saying but
finding that he was losing the battle. Which in itself was a first: he *never* loses
battles.

“And what about the bed? Don’t you like the bed? I opted for red silk sheets…aren’t they just
decadent? I didn’t necessarily pick it out just because I thought *you* would like them, I’m
actually looking forward to trying them out myself…Harry please tell me you like it. You can change
whatever you want, and I can just reverse everything if you hate all of it…”

Harry was keenly aware that the longer he stayed silent, the more she’d think that he hated
everything, but he found that he couldn’t really say anything at all at the moment. Why did she
have to mention his bed with the red silk sheets? The only things he could now form in his mind
were images of one of her delectable legs sticking out of his red silk sheets, waiting for him…

And the Beatles weren’t helping him any.

*It’s been a hard days night, and I’ve been working like a dog*

*It’s been a hard days night, I should be sleeping like a log*

*But when I get home to you, I find the things that you do, will make me feel all
right*

“I love it.” Harry finally managed to gulp out.

“Thank Merlin!” Hermione yelled and wrapped her arms around him. “I was beginning to get
worried! I was beginning to think that perhaps you detested everything…”

Harry noticed that the shirt rose a little up her thigh as she reached up to hug him, and he
made a chivalrous effort to shield himself from the sight by trying to close his eyes.

Alas, another battle lost.

“Harry, are you ok?” Hermione asked, suddenly concerned. “You look a bit flushed, and you feel
kind of warm…”

“Oh, no, I’m just shocked, you know? I never expected…but I love it! I really do…”

“I’m glad,” she said, beaming. “The bathroom is still the same, although I’m sure you’d like to
do that yourself…Harry, what is it? Do I have something on my face?”

Harry didn’t answer her. He couldn’t answer her. Where the hell was his brain when he needed
it?!

“Oh…are you angry because of the shirt?” Hermione asked, looking alarmed. “I know there is a bit
of paint on it…I’m sorry I ruined it! I can fix it, I promise! I found it thrown behind the
bathroom door, and you know how splotchy it can get when you cast paint charms, and well, I
couldn’t go down to my room to get some of my clothes because, well…Normally it would never have
gotten this messy, but I kept changing my mind about the specific shade of scarlet I wanted on the
wall above the fireplace, which was ridiculous of me since I covered the entire thing with the big
mirror. You’d be surprised how quickly things get delivered when you order them, nothing at all
like Muggle-mail order…”

Harry was shaking his head, though he still couldn’t articulate anything resembling a word. A
couple of squeaks perhaps but no, not words. A dull ache began to throb around the area where the
bruise had been yesterday and suddenly he felt his robes were too constricting.

“If you want,” Hermione continued, “I’ll take the shirt off right this moment and-”

“No!” Harry blurted out. “No, please, don’t take the shirt off right now-”

“I didn’t mean I was going to take it off right now in front of you,” Hermione said with a grin
on her face. “I meant if you want I’ll go change and wash it for you if that is what you
wished.”

Harry blushed, completely abashed by the absurdity of his thought. Of course she wasn’t going to
go starkers with him right in front of her! Why would she?

Indeed. Why would she?

“Hermione, what I meant was, uh ... that.... that it is ok. I don’t care if you messed up my
shirt; it’s only a sleeping shirt anyways. The beautiful room you created more than makes up for
it…”

Hermione beamed, though just as quickly frowned. “So…this is the nightshirt you couldn’t find
yesterday, is it?”

“Yes,” Harry said. Thinking about the night before returned him to his previous incoherent
status.

“I see…” Hermione replied, suddenly understanding the flush in Harry’s cheeks, and the reversal
of his vocabulary to that of a four-year-old. She *relished* in the irony of it all.

“So…since you don’t mind that I damaged your shirt with paint…I guess you wouldn’t mind if I
went down and made us dinner in it? You know, I wouldn’t want to stain any of my other clothes and
since this is already stained…”

Harry gulped. “Of course I wouldn’t mind, Hermione.”

“Good. Let’s go downstairs then; If you think you are going to just sit there while I slave away
making dinner, you are seriously mistaken. I’ll require your assistance, of course.”

Harry was about to wriggle his way out of it by declaring weariness, but before he knew it
Hermione grabbed his hand and practically dragged him down the stairs, all along maintaining a
suspiciously naughty swivel in her hips.

She would be the death of him, and she knew it. Let him get a taste of what she went though the
night before…

*~*~*~*~*

“You are out of your mind if you think that I’ll agree to this idiocy,” Hermione said hotly as
she set the plates on the table with a bang.

“Hermione, it's not what you’re thinking,” Harry stated calmly.

Harry had no bloody clue how this argument had begun. They had gone downstairs, Hermione
amicably chatting about decorating ideas, Harry still trying hard to keep his gaze eye level. He
finally managed to get enough control of his voice to join in on the one-sided conversation and
make a few suggestions pertaining to the current inhospitable state of the drawing room. From there
the conversation turned to the pitiable state of the kitchen and dining room, when Harry finally
got the courage to mention an idea he’d had for a while now.

Damn his Gryffindor courage!

“Its just that…we’re hardly ever home!” Harry continued, determined to make her see sense. “And
then we come home late and start dinner when we should just be able to get home, eat it, and sleep.
It does get a bit tiresome after a while, and Ron and I are getting *sick* of pasta.”

Looking completely stricken, Hermione threw the forks down on the table. “So you’ve discussed
this over with Ron, have you?”

“No! No, not really…Hermione, I’m mentioning this to you first because I didn’t want to get
Ron’s hopes up.”

Harry cringed at the look in Hermione’s eye. Perhaps he never should’ve mentioned this…

Especially since arguing with her was made all the more difficult when considering her current
state of dress.

“If you and Ron are so sick of eating pasta, then I suggest you learn to make something else, as
we eat pasta usually when it is yours and Ron’s turn to make dinner. *I* at least try to-”

“Yes, yes, and we appreciate it Hermione, really we do. And although we find Cajun cuisine to be
quite splendid, sometimes I sit around daydreaming about treacle tart, or those lovely Hogwarts
mashed potatoes, and…”

“Harry. We are NOT getting a House Elf. I’ll move out first!”

Harry paled, the very idea causing him major amounts of distress. But he composed himself
quickly enough to get angry at the threat. *How dare she!*

“You shall do no such thing,” he informed her sternly.

Hermione, who had been stirring their dinner rice, dropped what she was doing and turned to look
at him, an icy expression in her eyes. “What did you just say to me?”

The nerve of him! After everything she’d done for him, everything! She spent the past seven
years of her life being there for him, helping him, being the best friend she could be, worrying
about him to death every single second of her life to the point of *insanity*! And *this*
is the thanks she gets?

“I said you shall do no such thing.” Harry crossed his arms and looked at her, taking the bait.
How *dare* she think about leaving him. Does she think he could actually survive
*without* her?

His heart was beating about twenty million times faster than it normally would, but of course he
attributed this to his anger at the current turn the discussion had taken. He didn’t even think
about considering the other thing…

She walked toward him, menacingly, her wand in her hand. “Repeat it,” she commanded. So what if
he looked positively shaggable standing there, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, arms crossed,
looking as angry as he did during his battle with Lord Voldemort. So what if her palms were sweaty
and her breathing heavy? She was not about to let him boss her around! That was *her* job,
after all…

“You. Shall. Do. No. Such. Thing,” Harry finished gravely. Something about the way he held his
head reminded Hermione strangely of Draco Malfoy.

Hermione, in all her Head Girl haughtiness, raised her wand up to his chest. “And where do you
presume to tell me what to do?”

Harry, who by this time was ready to sit down with a shot of Firewhiskey, or Scotch - whichever,
it didn’t really matter - could no longer deny the little fact that kept dancing its way in front
of him: he was positively, undeniably attracted to his best friend. And no, he didn’t mean Ron; he
was attracted to Hermione.

Hermione.

And the only thing stopping him from throwing her on the table and doing unthinkable things to
her was the wand she had pointed to his chest.

“I said,” Hermione began, “Where do you presume to tell me what to do?” This time she was a
little less haughty, and a little more self-conscious. *He was doing this to her.* His
eyes…where were they looking? He was looking at her as if for the first time, and quite frankly she
was a little unnerved by it all…

Though not at all frightened.

Harry reached out, grabbed her wrist, and slid his finger up to her hand. “Let it go,” he
whispered in her ear.

Without a second thought, Hermione let the wand go. It dropped to the floor, though neither
Harry nor Hermione noticed it at all. They were much more preoccupied with the fact that the hand
that Hermione previously had wrapped around her wand, was now firmly placed on Harry’s chest…

Hermione gripped Harry’s shirt, and pulled him as close to her as she possible could. Having
achieved this, she went on her tiptoes, letting her face linger in front of Harry’s for a few
seconds, until finally moving her lips up to his ear.

“We are not getting a house elf,” she whispered softly. Every single part of her body was hot,
and as much as she wanted to give in to the overwhelming need to just move her lips a couple of
inches to Harry’s mouth, she wanted above all else to have the upper hand in this battle.

Harry’s eyes were heavily lidded, and his breathing ragged. He decided that at that moment, he
would’ve agreed to anything Hermione demanded. *Would you like all the gold in my Gringott’s
account? Yes Hermione, by all means, help yourself! Would you love to suck out my soul? Of course
you can! I have no need for this silly thing anyways. Oh…and what is that? You would like to chop
me up into little pieces just for fun? Wonderful. Name the time and place…*

“Children! Mummy’s home!” came a yell from out in the hall, announcing Ron. Just as Ron entered
the kitchen, Harry and Hermione jumped away from each other as if fleeing a fate worse than
death.

Which they were.

“Am I - did I miss something?” Ron asked, eyeing his best friends suspiciously. He could be
mistaken, but did he just see them standing really close to each other? As in, close enough to
*snog*? And *what* is Hermione *wearing*?

“Umm…well…Hermione and I had our First Domestic Squabble,” Harry said with a half-smile, clearly
trying to clear the awkward situation.

“Indeed,” Hermione said, who was busing herself with the now burned rice.

“Lovely. So you guys decided to have our First Domestic Squabble without me? Some friends you
are,” Ron said with a grin. They were arguing, ‘twas all. No need to get his knickers in a bunch.
“What was this Infamous Squabble about? Harry hogging the bathroom, Hermione?”

Hermione huffed. “His Highness deems it necessary to employ the services of a House Elf to
better serve his Royal Household,” she said frostily.

Ron looked as if he had just been promised the gold of ancient Egypt. “Are you serious mate? Our
own House Elf…”

Harry nodded gravely. “Yes Ron, *employ* being the operative word. Of course, I don’t
expect you and Hermione to bear the brunt of it as Hermione is against it and it’s my idea, but
yes, I plan to *employ* a House Elf. The reason why I began to think about this in the first
place was because Dobby himself requested to become a part of my household, seeing as he didn’t
really get along with the other Elves at Hogwarts due to their overbearing superiority complexes.
Of course I promised Dobby a full paycheck, weekends off, and 6 weeks a year vacation, all with
pay. Or at least, as much as he’ll allow me to pay him.”

Hermione stopped what she was doing, and turned around. “What? Are you serious? You never
mentioned…”

“Oh, and I promised him lots of clothes as well. Can’t have naked Elves running about now, can
we?" Harry tried his hardest not to look *too* triumphant at Hermione’s expression.

“Harry, if you had mentioned all this from the start, we wouldn’t have had that-”

“Well, if you had shut your mouth for one minute, maybe I would’ve.”

Ron looked from Harry to Hermione, and back again, waiting for them to have a Second Domestic
Squabble, one that he could be a part of. Alas, no such luck. Fighting with each other was not
something that was in their nature. Now he and Hermione…

“I - I’m sorry,” Hermione mumbled apologetically. “I-”

“It’s ok,” Harry said with a grin. “You don’t have to say anything else.”

Hermione smiled at him, and Harry smiled back. Ron decided to take advantage of this moment to
catch both his friends unawares, and ask the question that he had been dying to ask since the
second he walked into the kitchen.

“Hermione, why exactly are you dressed *like that*…”

*~*~*~*~*~*

Harry sat in his bed, perusing Hermione’s copy of “Chicken Soup for the Auror Soul” and enjoying
his new room. The silk sheets felt simply delicious, and the room was superbly decorated. He had to
admit, Hermione did have a talent for this as she did for everything, flying being the glaring
exception.

He sighed, placed the book on a bedside table, and dimmed the lights. He tried to get himself
comfortable and fall asleep, but he found he couldn’t. At first he was confused as to why;
normally, when he was not distracted, he fell asleep immediately, almost as if he had an “off”
button.

Upon hearing the shower running in his bathroom, the reason why he couldn’t fall asleep became
clear: *Hermione.*

Hermione was not there next to him.

How funny; he’d spent almost twenty years of his life sleeping alone, and after only a couple of
nights with Hermione, he couldn’t go back.

He tossed and turned for a while, wondering what on earth Hermione did in the shower that was
taking her so long. But then he began imaging *exactly* what she could be doing in the shower,
and it all went own hill from there…

He needed to go out for a run. Yes, a run at ten o’clock at night. It was cold outside and he’d
exert himself. Since his shower was occupied he couldn’t take a cold one, he’d have to go out for a
run. Unless he just sauntered over there, tapped Hermione on the shoulder, and asked her if he
could join…

Yikes! Now he was in an even greater need of cold air and exercise.

He stumbled around the room looking for a suitable pair of shoes but all he could do was find
objects that were completely foreign to him. First, he found copies of books and magazines with
titles such as “Decorating Charms” and “Renovation Transfiguration” all over the place. And of
course, there was that strange selection of research on her current project at work. And then there
was Crookshanks, sitting on the couch looking quite at home. Add to that a random selection of
Hermione’s clothes here and there: a pair of jeans, a shirt, and what was that funny looking
thing…

Never mind; he didn’t want to know.

She really was a messy girl, which you wouldn’t think when you saw her. Most people would be
inclined to think *him* quite sloppy, and the irony struck him as funny.

She who looked polished was in fact untidy; he who looked messy was in fact quite neat. They
were perfect opposites.

When Harry finally found his shoes, which were in a corner along with Hermione’s, Harry was also
overcome with amusement at the weird propensity girls had to mark their territory. Hermione was the
same way in Hogwarts as she was here; he remembered once opening his trunk to find a bag of
Crookshanks’ cat food among other things, and the way Ron would constantly complain about a new
book underneath his pillow once a week. Parvati, the brief period that he dated her, was exactly
the same way. Only the things she left behind for him to find were of a completely different
sort…

“Going somewhere?” Hermione asked daintily.

Harry was snapped out of his reverie by her sudden appearance. She was dressed in her normal,
conservative pajama top and bottom (though whether he was happy or sad about this, he couldn’t
tell) and her hair was dry, though she had that wonderful after shower glow.

*Please, kill me now.*

“Umm…I was thinking of going for a quick run,” Harry said absently. Why on earth was it so hard
to tie his bloody shoelaces?

“Don’t be stupid. It’s almost half past ten and tomorrow we have breakfast at the Weasley’s…”
Hermione chided delicately. That, and if he wasn’t with her, she could not fall asleep herself. Of
that she was sure of.

Harry groaned. Not that he didn’t love the Weasleys, but Sundays were usually the only days he
was able to sleep in.

“Come to bed,” she implored softly, grabbing him by the hand.

Harry melted. He felt like Lockhart had removed every single bone from his body. How was he
supposed to deny her anything?

Once in bed, Hermione snuggled close to Harry, making sure to plant her feet firmly between
his.

“Using me to keep warm, Granger?” Harry asked with a grin.

Hermione stuck her tongue out at him. “Well, you might as well make yourself useful.”

At first Harry was stiff: every single part of his body was screaming for Hermione, but his head
was firmly against it. In the end, he relaxed, and decided that he was a big boy; he could control
himself. Or at least he hoped.

“So…Dobby, eh?” Hermione asked after a moment of quiet.

“Yup.” Harry said, his eyes closed and ready to sleep. “I’ll go collect him sometime during the
week, when I have time.”

Hermione yawned in response, and rubbed her hand on his fully clothed chest, which both dismayed
and relieved her.

“Hermione?” Harry asked after a bit.

“Hmmm?”

“Thank you for the beautiful room.”

Hermione smiled. “Well, I did this for myself as much as for you. Hate Slytherin décor. Love
silk sheets.”

Harry grinned, and pinched her arm. She slapped his hand away.

“You better watch yourself, Potter,” she said, though the threat in her voice was overpowered by
the extreme fatigue.

“I’m trying…” Harry replied.

And so finally, they both fell asleep.

*~*~*~*~*