This fic is turning into a total challenge, the only things I can write to my satisfaction are first person POVs and term papers - I keep lapsing into 'I' dialogue or trying to construct a thesis. I'm going to see it through though, if only to myself distracted from final exams. You're all free to stop reading at anytime, you shouldn't have to reap the effects of my procrastination and ineptitude when it comes to the third person POV narration.
--jamie
effectivelyabsent@yahoo.com
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Looking in the mirror for what had to be the twentieth time in as many minutes, Harry sighed exasperatedly.
Bloody hell, it's only Hermione and I can't possibly look that much different than I did at the end of seventh year, it's not as if she's going to swoon into my arms if I can get my hair to behave. And all this journalism isn't doing much for me in the way of hulking muscles.
With one last baleful look at the mirror, Harry hollered out to Ron, "Oi! Are you ready? She said to be there at 6:30!"
"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Ron bellowed back as he meandered out of the bathroom, scrubbing his wet hair with a towel.
"Ron! You've only just showered! Hurry up and dress, I'm not going to be late on account of your lack of speed when it comes to personal hygiene."
"Now listen, Harry, it's not *my* fault you haven't seen her in years, a few more minutes isn't going to kill you."
'That's what you think,' Harry thought, but shut up anyway. It was remarkable how quickly and easily the two had fallen back onto old patterns.
If only he and Hermione could do the same was his next thought, which he rushed to amend. He didn't want what they used to have. He wanted something new, something better, and for god's sake, something healthy, not frantic groping in the broom closet in a rush to drown out the screams of Voldemort's final attack. Not that he was adverse to groping in a broom closet, he'd just prefer it to be out of love and not a repression tactic.
He was startled out of his musings by the sound of a *pop!* Not ten feet in front of him stood a very startled looking young woman dressed in muggle clothing.
"Um. . .hello?" Harry ventured.
"Er, hi, is the Ron's new fla- You're Harry Potter!"
"Yes, that's me, and you are. . .?"
"Oh, excuse my manners! Apparating into your flat like I owned the place! I'm Emma, Ron's gir-"
"Emma! Glad to see you found the place all right!" A now-dressed Ron said as he swooped in to give Emma a kiss on the cheek.
"Harry, this is Emma, Emma - Harry. I owled Hermione and checked to see if Emma could join us this evening as I'd already had plans with her and she'd said it was absolutely fine, 'the more the merrier,' to be exact. If you ask me, she's nervous to be around you again."
"Nonsense. Why should I make Hermione nervous?"
"You didn't see her when your owls stopped, she really thought she'd done something to cross you. Thought you were resentful of the end of your relationship, thought you couldn't stand to be around her anymore."
'Oh, Hermione,' Harry thought, 'if only you knew how much I DID want to be around you. And only you.'
"Well that's just silly. I'll have to make sure to right it tonight."
"Yeah, Harry, 'right it,'" Ron drawled with a wink, prompting an elbow jab from Emma and a blush from Harry.
Saving Harry further embarrassment, Emma inquired "You're a writer for the Prophet right?" To which Harry nodded, "I really enjoyed your article on muggle/wizard relations in children under eleven."
"Thank you, erm, very much." Harry still awkwardly received compliments that didn't have to do with his quidditch skills or the defeat of Voldemort, and, come to think of it, even those were accepted haltingly with a glance at the floor.
"Shall we be off? Wouldn't want to keep Hermione, or rather, Harry waiting."
'Is it just me or has Ron become incredibly annoying in the last ten minutes?' Harry considered as they stepped to the fireplace to enter the floo network.
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Upon arrival at Hermione's flat, Harry was feeling dizzy and hot, owing, no doubt, to the prospect of spending an evening with Hermione again, but he chalked it up to the floo powder.
"Honestly, Hermione! You couldn't have gotten special permission to allow apparating into your flat?"
"Ron, I told you, this is a muggle neighborhood, a muggle neighborhood which I happen to love. Do you know the trouble I had to go through to even get it hooked up to the floo network? You could've apparated to the back of the pub on the corner and walked here."
Ron blushed and quietly said, "Emma said that if I were to get inside a pub, she'd never get me to leave," to which Emma nodded emphatically.
Harry cleared his throat and spoke to Hermione for the first time in years save for this afternoon. "I really like your flat, Herm, it's very you," gesturing to the stacks of books and the couch reminiscent of the Gryffindor common room.
A buzzer went off and Hermione bustled back to the kitchen, not more than two minutes later soft cursing was heard and the smell of burning permeated the room.
"Well, dinner's a lost cause."
"You never were much of a cook."
"Shut it, Ron. Anyway, if Emma's all right with it," she nodded to the girl, "perhaps we should just go down to the pub for dinner."
The hair on the back of Harry's neck stood up, alcohol in the presence of Hermione made him shudder with the possibilities, but he agreed anyway.
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The pub was full of muggles and the cigarette/beer/sweat/hormone smell Harry had come to identify with all pubs hung heavily.
"We'll just get a table there in the back, the food's not the best, but I'm sure the company will make up for it," Hermione said, eyeing Harry nervously.
Harry grinned and followed the three back toward the seating area. 'Honestly! I feel like such a child! I'm 20 bloody years old and Hermione was, IS,' he corrected himself, 'one of my best friends, there's no need to treat the situation so delicately! Snap out of it, Potter!'
Sliding into the booth next to Hermione, Harry exhaled loudly and braced himself for the ensuing conversations.
Hermione, true to form, wasted no time getting to the heart of the matter.
"So tell me, Harry, what have you been up to lately? I mean, we haven't really talked in what, two whole years?" Hermione had tried, but failed to keep the edge out of her voice.
"Do we really have to talk about this? I'm more interested in what YOU'VE been doing with yourself."
Hermione muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "It's your own fault you don't know," when Ron piped up "Yeah, Harry, I didn't get much of a chance to hear about you last night, I'm anxious to hear what my wayward best friend has been up to as well." Ron looked at Hermione and thumbed at Harry "This one was all business last night, wanted to know what I thought of the new team, our chances for the playoffs, he's an honest-to-god reporter now."
Just then a plump looking waitress ambled over to the table to take orders, and Harry silently thanked her for the reprieve from the inquisition. He wouldn't be sure later, but was pretty sure the entire table ordered fish and chips, with a pitcher of lager.
"What are you playing at, Harry? You looked like you'd just been given a stay of execution when that waitress walked up, surely what you've doing can't be that bad."
"Ron, if Harry's uncomfortable perhaps we should talk about something else," Emma joined the conversation, receiving an appreciative look from Harry and glares from Ron and Hermione.
Resigned to his fate, Harry opened his mouth to confess, but decided at the last minute to dodge what they were really asking, which was why he'd avoided them, "Well. . . erm, I've just been writing for the paper, they let me stay on after my internship and I'm now head of the Sports department, but they allow me to correspond on whatever stories I see fit, like when Sirius was freed. I have brunch with him and Professor Lupin every Sunday. My editor is a rather imposing looking wizard with more giant in him than Hagrid, hence the reason I was so anxious to get my story in last night. He's a real stickler about putting the paper to bed on time."
"'Putting the paper to bed on time,' listen to you! I never thought I'd see the day when Harry Potter would be concerned about putting anything to bed on time, let alone speaking newspaper lingo."
Harry visibly relaxed, Ron seemed content with his explanation, he could feel Hermione holding herself stiff next to him, so he gave her a look to convey that they would talk later. 'Preferably when I'm drunk off my arse and can actually be completely honest with her,' Harry thought guiltily.
And with that a pitcher of lager was placed in the center of the table and Harry rushed to fill his glass.
Eager to shift the conversation away from himself, he asked Hermione how school was, a topic that unfailingly got her going.
"Well, I'm taking six classes this term, I'm going for a second degree in advanced transfiguration with an eye toward muggle studies as well. I'm hoping to get a job in the Ministry's research department when all's said and done. . ."
Harry watched as Ron's eyes glazed over and he could see his hand shifting under the table to rest on Emma's thigh. Harry took a minute to observe him, he looked well, professional quidditch obviously agreed with him, his arms and chest had filled out in a way that Harry, even at 20, couldn't possibly imagine for his own lanky stature. He looked relaxed with Emma and if the evening thus far was any indication, she kept him in his place, which, Harry decided, was exactly what Ron needed. He turned his attention back to Hermione, ". . . and the professor actually told me that it was the best paper he'd read on recidivism amongst former death eaters to date! Can you believe that? The best ever!"
Harry smiled at her, proud and happy for her at the same time, the selfish prat in him had harbored dark thoughts of Hermione's broken heart and inability to fair well following his virtual disappearance. He was glad that part was wrong. Hermione deserved happiness, he only hoped that with the past in the past, they could achieve it together.
Dinner was served and Harry, so entranced with actually sitting next to the flesh and blood Hermione, and not some imaginary one (with whom he'd had several conversations with over the past years) couldn't even taste the food he was chewing.
Emma regaled the table with tales of Ron's 'initiation' when he was moved up to first string, and Ron blushed in all the appropriate places and in turn spoke of the time Emma had first met the Weasley's and was unaware of the stupidity it took to actually eat anything offered by Fred and George.
This was nice, Harry thought. He actually felt, for the first time in a long time, that he belonged somewhere. His self-imposed exile and depression had ended and he actually felt like the adult his age proclaimed him to be. He only needed to have that "talk" with Hermione and all would be as it should.
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effectivelyabsent@yahoo.com