Symbiosis

“Symbiosis” (1/?)

By MmeFleiss

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

AN: Thanks again to Jenn over at AFFBetaReaders for going over this for me. Any mistakes left are mine. Since this is a work in progress, earlier chapters might be edited as the story goes along for the sake of flow. If this or the fact that it will take a while for each subsequent part to come out bothers you, I suggest you wait until it’s finished. I really am quite slow. ^^;

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“[Hermione] is the most brilliant of the three and they need her. Harry needs her badly.” – JKR from a June 30, 2000 interview

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The first time his lips touched hers, they sat trapped between two Death Eater camps, damp limestone digging against their backs while they huddled at a well-hidden cave like defenseless animals. Harry wasn’t even quite sure whether he’d meant it merely as a way to gain her silence or as a release for his excess of nerves; just that one minute he was listening to her suddenly-too-loud breathing as a patrol wandered past the opening and the next his mouth was covering hers.

Despite his original platonic intent, the first contact of their lips was anything but. It didn’t take long before his hands tangled around her bushy curls, only the need for silence preventing him from moaning aloud as she left a damp trail of openmouthed kisses down his neck. She watched him with the same intensity he’d only seen before devoted to schoolwork. Her small hands under his black t-shirt rasped deliciously against the sparse hairs on his chest, committing every dip and curve to memory as if they would somehow prove to be the key to some complex Arithmancy equation. He couldn’t wait to test her.

By the time Hermione began to nibble lightly on his collarbone, all coherent thought were on a blissful respite and he pulled her closer until she was straddling his lap. The memory of her damp heat pressed against him still had the power to embarrass him at the most inopportune moments years later. Harry could only be thankful of the Ministry’s anal retentiveness in forcing Aurors in training to wear the pristine white combat robes despite the dizzying desert heat.

Before Harry knew it, he was trying to find reasons to kiss her again. The smallest reminder of how much his life was no longer his own sent him more than once to corner her into one of Grimmauld Place’s abandoned rooms; letting the magic of her pliant mouth against his replace his ever-present worry of living up to everyone’s expectations with the much preferable sort of thoughts a regular teenaged boy ought to worry about whilst snogging a pretty girl. Sometimes, when they were too tired or whenever their kisses would taper off, they would talk about things not related to the War. It amazed Harry just how little he really knew this person he’d long considered his best friend, and for the first time he learned all about the little things he never thought to ask before such as her favorite color (Pink, can you believe it?) or how her parents met (They bumped into each other at Trafalgar Square while mum was heading out of the National Gallery. She accidentally pushed dad into the fountain).

But apart from those moments of shared insanity, Harry and Hermione never acted any differently around each other. He still got on her nerves over his tendency to take his frustrations out on Ron and her, and he occasionally still had to resist the urge to shake her for nagging Ron and him for their less-than-mature behavior even when it sometimes felt as if it was one of the few things left keeping him sane.

So perhaps, not surprisingly, the last of their snogging sessions occurred just as abruptly as it began. He sought her out amidst the confusion during what turned out to be the week of the final battle. The Order unit they’d joined not long after separate efforts from the light side proved too ineffective was being sent out as reinforcements to help break the siege in Azkaban, so he found her easily enough shrinking her rations in the kitchen with a group of former DA members.

“All right, mate?” Ron inquired with a hearty pat on the back that Harry was sure rearranged a vital organ or two.

“I really wish I could go with all of you.”

“Can’t be helped when you’re still recovering from the last fight. That was a right nasty hex you got from Nott,” Susan Bones said with a shy smile before seeming to realize who she was so casually chatting with. She turned a bright red and continued packing without another glance at him.

“Nonetheless,” Hermione added, her voice oozing with the disapproval none of his other peers would dare direct at him, “it was hardly necessary to charm both his legs broken and then force him to eat a sweet that would turn him into a dancing frog.”

Ron let out something that suspiciously sounded like a snort before Hermione’s redirected glare transformed it into an odd-sounding cough. “Don’t listen to that spoilsport, Harry. We all thought it was bloody brilliant.”

“Ron!”

Harry winced in sympathy as Hermione started in on their redheaded best friend about cruel and unusual punishment. Having received the exact same lecture from both Hermione and Lupin the week before, Harry took pity on Ron and waited until she paused to take a breath before interrupting with, “I think I saw one of your brothers looking for you earlier.”

“Right! I, uh, promised Charlie that I’d… help him pack.”

“Surely, you don’t think I’m gullible enough to fall for such an obvious lie,” Hermione said as they watched their lanky best friend lope off towards the dining room.

“How else was I supposed to steal you away?”

She rolled her eyes but made no comment as she followed him in search for a place with some privacy, a nearly impossible task when it felt like the majority of those fighting for the light side were crammed inside number twelve. They didn’t touch or even look at each other as they strolled down the manor’s numerous hallways, stopping only occasionally to peer behind unlocked silent doorways without any luck.

In fact, it wasn’t until they reached the last door leading to the unused attic that they found a room that didn’t contain at least one person skulking about. Having been a space basically ignored by its occupants, Harry was unsurprised to find no available candle to light the place; instead, they relied on what moonlight penetrated the dusty windows to make their way past the threadbare furniture and the precarious towers of sealed boxes towards one of the panes overlooking the front yard.

Despite being the brightest part of the room, the majority of her features continued to be enshrouded in shadows, with only her watchful amber eyes standing out in clear relief. Harry’s lips quirked upwards as he brushed back one of the ever-escaping bushy tendrils from Hermione’s messy bun before cupping her face between his hands and tilting it up to meet his. “Be careful, all right?”

“Always,” she murmured before wrapping her arms around his waist and pulling him close.

“I’ll be very annoyed if you break that promise,” Harry told her before he bent down and kissed her, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips before she yielded to his unspoken demand. Hermione’s mouth was hot and tasted of the treacle pudding Mrs. Weasley had baked for dessert. Her tongue glibly danced around his, making him frustrated and more than little determined to best her at her own game.

Harry was just about to come in for the kill when she grabbed his bum and pressed his erection to the maddening softness of her stomach, causing him to break the lip lock with a startled gasp since he’d never expected such a move from Hermione who until that moment neither outright rejected nor encouraged his advances.

“You cheater,” he mumbled before raising her right hand up to his face, his thumb rubbing concentric circles around her knuckles while his mouth grazed the sensitive pulse point beneath her palm. Hermione inhaled sharply, but otherwise continued to watch him with narrowed eyes; however, after a minute or so with Harry showing no inclination to do anything more, the stiff set of her shoulders began to loosen as she began to melt under his touch.

Within the space of a heartbeat, Harry had her lifted up onto the windowsill so that the damp apex of her thighs was pressed directly onto his cock. “I guess it takes one to know one,” Hermione said before she wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him even closer despite the layers of clothes that still separated them from exploring completely new territory.

Harry growled and held both of her hands above her head to keep them from testing his already strained control even further, his expression almost feral as he leaned back down to capture her lips once more. “Don’t close your eyes,” he demanded sometime later when he noticed hers beginning to slide shut. “I want you to remember that it’s me who can make you feel like this.”

“N-Not during the fighting, I hope,” she somehow managed to joke in between gasps. The ensuing chuckle was quickly cut short as Harry moved his head down to leave an openmouthed kiss on the hard nub protruding from her left breast, never breaking eye contact as his swirling tongue left an unmistakable damp patch on her thin cotton shirt.

By the time some semblance of sanity returned, her top was lost somewhere in the murky recesses behind him and his trousers were half unbuttoned. Hermione’s bright eyes remained focused on his, though half-closed with desire.

Harry backed away despite instinct dictating that he answer her unvoiced invitation. His hands shook as he forcefully detached himself from her haunting stare, wanting and yet dreading the look of understanding that they’d always been able to convey to each other without speaking.

There was nothing like that intrusion of reality to make Harry feel like the biggest wanker to walk the earth. This was Hermione, the one person who always let him seize whatever he needed from her and never asked for anything but his friendship in return. She deserved better than clandestine kisses in the dark; a meeting of lips that had nothing to do with engaged feelings and everything to do with forgetting. He knew that, but still he continued to pursue the momentary salvation of her kiss.

Harry let out a quiet snort of self-disgust as he fumbled around for the last, stubborn button on his shirt. It was a good thing that Voldemort long ago stopped using Legilimency on him. What a boost in morale it would be to find one’s foe to be beyond pathetic. “Let me walk you to your room.”

Hermione nodded with averted eyes before summoning her ruined shirt and getting dressed. Within a few seconds, she was no less mussed than if they’d really spent the last twenty minutes just talking, a fact which annoyed him for some reason. He led her back to the room she shared with Hannah Abbott without another word; the last moment alone between the two not-quite-lovers before all hell broke loose.

End (1/?)

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“Symbiosis” (2/?)

By MmeFleiss

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

AN: Sorry for the delay, but I got distracted by a PWP and a number of drabbles while I was supposed to be working on this. Yes, my attention span really is that awful. <.< Special thanks to Jenn who beta'd this in between bouts of morning sickness.

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If anyone had asked Harry during the weeks following the final battle what kind of future he saw before him, it would’ve been easily apparent how much he’d anticipated the normal life just waiting for him to pick back up after the War. From what he could gather from the disjointed remains of the fevered dreams he had at the time, this desire usually manifested itself with a vision of a cottage in a remote village somewhere, complete with a white picket fence and fields of wildflowers as far as the eye could see. The only proof of its owners’ existence was a dilapidated postbox nearly overrun by thick brambles, the faded H. Potter as unremarkable as the man who bore its name.

More often than not, Ron and Hermione would be there visiting so that their children could play with their cousins. Despite the various adventures the youngsters became involved with, they always remained perfect in a way only dream children were allowed to be: their white cotton shirts unblemished and their silk ribbons remaining tied into flawless bows. Nobody ever cried in those dreams; only childish giggles blending with the lower tones of their parents’ laughter in the drowsy June air.

However, reality turned out to not be so accommodating. If it had been, he wouldn’t be living in the middle of the Sahara now with only the ever-changing roster of trainees and his fellow instructors to keep him company.

Sometimes, Harry still had trouble believing he’d been gone for so long. The six years away had wrought so many changes, not the least of which was the unmistakably adult features that stared back at him in the mirror every day. Long gone were the knobby knees and the famous scar that had so defined the Boy Who Lived, replaced by a healthy-looking man filled out from his years of Auror training and an uninterrupted succession of decent meals. The scar had thankfully disappeared along with Voldemort during the final battle, a fact which left the current Harry Potter so ordinary looking as to be mistaken for any other wizard.

In fact, outside of the other trainers and the handful of rookies he’d gotten to know well in both Hogwarts and during the War, no one else had been able to make a connection to his actual identity. It was funny how a few superficial alterations in one’s appearance coupled with the expectation that Auror training and then the teaching of it was somehow beneath the man who defeated Voldemort could change things. Harry, who had been yoked to people’s preconceived perceptions of him for as long as he could remember, still had to occasionally pinch his arm in disbelief for getting the chance to be treated just like any other bloke.

But of course, human nature being the perverse thing that it is, Harry often found himself beset with homesickness despite the endless possibilities his newfound freedom presented him with. It was usually at its worst on days when he couldn’t rely on exhaustion to lull him to sleep. His activities would range from something as active as him having a drink with some of his co-workers to something mindless like him staring at the moonlight filtering through the gossamer curtains whilst he lay in bed: but he always found himself paralyzed by an almost painful longing over things as stupid as the memory of treacle pudding against his tongue or the ever-present sound of raindrops spattering on the windowpane.

However, Harry had been away playing hero for so long that he feared he was simply setting himself up for a big disappointment. It seemed as if every owl he’d received over the years were always mentioning a new feature or two in the name of progress. Just last year, Mr. Weasley sent him a two-feet-long parchment over the magical world’s recent adaptation of eklectricity. Harry was truly happy to hear how much the rebuilding was helping so many move on from the War, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he could continue to call home a place he hardly recognized.

“Saba’a AlKair, lieutenant,” a young voice belonging to a boy no older than twelve called out from somewhere in his general vicinity, breaking his melancholy reverie.

“Good morning, Muhammad,” Harry greeted in turn as he stopped and turned to catch a glimpse of the diminutive imp, paying no heed to the grumblings of the turbaned men behind him. He soon found his friend by a fruit stand no more than five feet to his left. No doubt the mischievous boy had managed to charm yet another vendor, judging by how the old crone didn’t even pause in her haggling with the tourist in the starched khakis while Muhammad filched one of the browning bananas in front of her and swallowed it in two bites.

Shaking his head, Harry made his way towards the sun-bronzed youth and wordlessly bought him a fresher bunch before heading onto one of the less crowded alleys specializing in incense. He dispatched the approaching vendors hawking their wares with practiced ease, only pausing to modify his stride so that the shorter boy could keep up. “When’s the last time you ate anything?”

“Yesterday, I think,” the young boy managed to utter in between mouthfuls, wiping the sticky juice from his fingers to his stained shirt that had probably at one point been white. “Definitely on that day when those tourists stopped by the village. I found half a hamburger from the city when I went through their garbage. It was delicious; I do not know why they threw it away.”

Harry glared at the shimmering horizon, his forehead creased in effort as he tried not to overreact. He learned long ago that such tactics only led to wounded pride followed by a couple of days of avoidance. “You could have come to me,” he said in a voice free of inflection. “You know we always have some food to spare at the training camp.”

“Am I so pathetic?” Muhammad asked instead, smiling just a little too brightly as he gave a little hop, leaving a small cloud of sand in his wake.

“You know that’s not what I…”

“I wake up every day and think about how lucky I am,” the younger boy continued, giving a passing beggar the rest of his food to make his point. “I don’t need your pity.”

Harry saw the familiar, firm set of his jaw and sighed. He’d been hoping to ease in his news during a more upbeat moment. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Then when you get back and see me still healthy, I will have proven to you that…”

“For good, Muhammad. I got my transfer orders last night.”

The younger boy bowed his head, bony shoulders shaking while Harry stopped and pretended to take interest at a stall selling hand-carved lanterns.

The grand speech that had seemed so perfect the night before stuck painfully in his throat. He wished he had a Time-Turner so he could redo this conversation again; make it so that it wouldn’t be impossible for Muhammad to agree to come back to England with him without relinquishing his dignity.

“I-I’ll make sure to come visit.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll step back into your life and forget me just like everyone else.”

Seeing Muhammad try to act blasé about the whole situation--even as he continued to keep his amber eyes averted and hidden from view with his too-long dark fringe--was like seeing his fifteen-year-old self through a Pensieve, filled with the knowledge that in the end he had nobody else to rely on but himself.

Except in Harry’s case he had Hermione, Ron, and the rest of the Weasleys to reassure him that he wasn’t alone. Muhammad only had experience reinforcing his fears to refer to. It was high time he was proven otherwise.

“Well then I guess it’s a good thing I’m not everyone else,” Harry said as he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and forced the corners of his lips to quirk upwards.

End (2/?)
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AN: Any guesses where this is going? ^^

“Symbiosis” (3/?)

By MmeFleiss

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

AN: I'm going on vacation for two months starting in October, so I'm not sure if I'll be able to upload the next part after it gets written and before I move back to the States. Sorry. <.< Thanks to Jenn for the beta, as always.

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“I can’t believe that you haven’t started cleaning yet!” Harry heard Hermione shriek as he materialized directly outside Ron’s front door, stumbling a bit as his feet encountered solid ground and in the process dropping the old pair of spectacles he’d used as a Portkey. He pressed his forehead against the cool wooden surface and attempted to will his roiling stomach still. The Ministry’s method of choice for international travel was never fun, but the experience became exponentially worse whenever it involved moving between continents.

He was still regretting the rather large lunch he’d eaten at the going away party his co-workers had given him when Hermione continued her lecture unabated from somewhere inside Ron’s flat. “You knew he was coming to stay with you. The least you could’ve done was utter a quick Scourgify or two.”

“Oh don’t be so uptight. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. Besides, he’s been living over in Africa, hasn’t he?”

A charged silence followed Ron’s statement. Harry couldn’t help but chuckle under his breath as his mind’s eye conjured the familiar look Hermione had directed at Ron over the years whenever she felt he was being particularly thick, eyes narrowed and teeth grinding audibly. “Despite popular opinion,” she eventually said, tone noticeably arctic, “civilization does exist outside of England. They’re not all still living in houses made out of mud and sticks, you know.”

“That’s not what I…”

“Actually,” Harry decided to interrupt from his position behind the door before things got out of hand, “I spent about a month each year living in one of those. It’s part of survival training.”

“Aha! So I was right!” Ron crowed.

“If you were actually capable of listening, you would have realized that what Harry actually said was…” The door suddenly slammed open, giving the off-balanced Harry a momentary close-up of Hermione’s smiling face before she lunged after him. “Harry!” she exclaimed, wrapping her arms so tightly around his waist that for a moment he couldn’t see anything past the citrus-scented mass of bushy curls pressed against his face. “Why didn’t you knock?”

“I was about to. I was just taking a moment to recover.”

“Oh, then I’m probably not helping any, am I?” She said as she backed away, eyes wide and two identical splotches of pink staining her pale cheeks.

Harry couldn’t help but grin at the sight of her deceptively meek expression. Though rare, it had misled more than one potential boyfriend over the years into believing he’d be dating a harmless kitten, only to discover a lion. “Don’t worry about it. I really am feeling much better.”

His smile only got wider as he looked past Hermione’s shoulder and found Ron, as usual, frantically trying to accomplish his task at the last minute. He was barely visible through the stacks of used dishware being banished into the kitchen whilst dirty clothing scattered throughout the room sluggishly joined the line of soiled linen marching towards the bathroom hamper. It didn’t take long before the lanky redhead noticed the extra attention afforded him, and the whirlwind of activity paused as he looked up with an answering grin. “Welcome home, mate.”

“It’s good to be back.”

For the past six years, Harry always had this irrational fear at the beginning of every holiday and weekend they’d spent together that Ron and Hermione would just naturally come to prefer the best friend they’d each spent the most time with and unintentionally leave him behind.

His concerns proved to be just as unfounded as usual, however, for they’d barely gathered around the dining room table to gorge themselves on the numerous boxes of Indian takeaway scattered about when the redhead--in typical fashion--bulldozed past whatever awkwardness remained with the latest installment of the improbable-but-true adventures of Ronald Bilius Weasley, aged twenty-four.

“So there I was, right?” he was saying in between vicious stabs at the uncooperative hunk of chicken on his plate. “Walking around in the countryside without my wand, practically starkers, and with my skin a bright orange thanks to my new partner’s botched spell--when this lorry almost ran over me. But instead of trying to help, the driver just stared at me for a bit as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. So then I raised my right hand and told him, ‘I come in peace’ to keep him calm, y’know? Before I knew it, it was all over those Muggle newspapers that I was some kind of alien and the Ministry was giving me a citation for improper use of magic.”

Harry choked on the bottle of beer he’d been imbibing, his eyes watering whilst Hermione—who sat directly on his left—patted him on the back and rolled her eyes. “Why is it that you’re always getting yourself in these ridiculous situations?”

“Hey! Like it’s my fault that they paired me up with such an incompetent… witch.”

“You were going to say something else, weren’t you?”

Sensing that he’d managed to put his foot in his mouth again somehow, Ron caught Harry’s gaze in a silent plea for help. Unlike the panicked redhead, however, the shorter man had taken note of Hermione’s relaxed posture and concluded that she was merely taking the piss. He stuffed a spoonful of vindaloo into his mouth and shrugged with a complete lack of apology.

Ron stuck out his tongue in response before turning his full attention back to Hermione. “Now I realize that you don’t like that Word That Must Not Be Said, but you must admit that some people deserve the name.”

“It’s careless remarks like that which perpetuate the continuing misogynistic attitudes…”

Harry tuned out the rest of the mock argument, smiling fondly as he watched the familiar sight of their heads bent close together like two bulls preparing to take charge. It didn’t take long before Ron’s argument withered under Hermione’s logic, and the redhead retaliated for it by reaching across the table amidst a clatter of silverware and tickling her sides.

“Y-You arse,” she gasped in between giggles, her hands attempting but failing to reach his torso.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Ron demanded with a smirk as his wiggling fingers sped up.

“H-Harry!” she pleaded breathlessly. But the third member of the group merely continued eating his plate of naan and chicken vindaloo as if nothing at all out of the ordinary was happening. “S-Some hero you’re t-turning out to be!”

“I do believe you were just insulted, mate.”

“Then I guess I should teach her a lesson as well,” Harry replied, his emerald eyes twinkling as his hands joined Ron’s.

For a while, the only sounds emanating from the tiny flat were of furniture getting knocked over mingling with Hermione’s shrieks and male laughter. They allowed themselves to be carefree in a way they weren’t allowed to be in childhood; and even when their horseplay wound down, they could do nothing but grin at each other idiotically whilst they lay panting on the puce sofa.

Only a sound resembling an incoming train hurtling towards them broke the companionable silence. Harry sat up with wand drawn out of habit.

“Sorry,” Ron muttered, his freckles nearly invisible as his face turned a bright red before he headed back towards the dining room. “Guess I should go finish eating dinner.”

Harry rolled his eyes and flopped back down on the couch, tilting his face towards the still-flushed Hermione whose hair appeared even bushier than normal after their brief chase around the flat. His fingers itched to tuck the errant locks back behind her ears, and he gave into the impulse: enthralled by the way the mahogany curls sprung back up after being pulled taunt by his roving fingers. It wasn’t until she sighed and her eyes fluttered shut that he realized that instead of the quick gesture he’d intended--it had become a constant, petting motion that left the witch beside him almost boneless in her repose.

“I guess it’s true what they say about owners coming to resemble their pets.”

“Just shut up and keep going, Harry.”

He chuckled and turned on his side, his hands never pausing in their rhythmic movement as he redistributed more of his weight on his other arm. “That saying includes their pets’ manners, too, I see.”

“Shh.”

They were still in the same position when Ron ambled back in a half-hour later, though Harry’s hands had slowed as the constant pounding of raindrops against the windows only exacerbated his drowsiness. He watched from the corner of his eye as the redhead moved to the opposite side of the sofa closer to the crackling fire, rubbing his hands together to ward off the growing October chill.

“I’m glad to see she finally managed to nod off,” the taller man whispered as he picked up the bright orange afghan and draped it over their best friend’s sleeping form. “She’s been running herself ragged trying to free those damned elves again.”

Harry merely grunted and shifted his weight again to diminish the pressure on his numb arm, not wanting to end up in the middle of yet another one of the two’s longstanding arguments.

“It’s because she wastes so much of her free time on them that she ends up with loser boyfriends like Terry.”

Harry raised an eyebrow and turned to fully face his new flat mate. “And what does that say about you? I believe she dated you as well.”

“I was the one exception, of course.”

“Oh, of course.” Harry ducked just in time to avoid the throw pillow aimed at his head, sending it to bump harmlessly against a sofa cushion.

Ron gave him the finger for thwarting his assault before sitting down on one of the mismatched chairs and placing his booted feet atop the milk crate doubling as his coffee table.

“What’s wrong with Terry, anyway? I don’t remember him being all that bad.”

Ron grimaced, his features scrunched up tight as if he’d swallowed a bagful of Acid Pops. “He wasn’t. But he’s been the Ministry’s golden boy for the past couple of years now. If his head gets any higher up his arse, he’d be Lockhart.”

“Ugh.”

“So don’t you think it’s your sworn duty, as co-best friend, to rescue our Hermione from such an undesirable partner?”

“My sworn duty? What about you?” Harry uttered in a high-pitched voice quite unlike his own. The witch beneath his fingers shifted at the increase in volume, leading both men to pause all movement as if Petrified; however, when she gave no indication of waking after a minute, the two felt safe once again to continue their conversation unhindered.

“It’s not like I’m asking you to do anything special here,” Ron murmured in between frequent glances at their sleeping companion. “Just do what you were going to do anyway.”

“What on earth is that supposed to mean? How will doing my job affect Hermione’s love life in the least?”

“Let’s face it,” the taller man replied with the same resigned air one might adopt when one finds oneself having the unenviable task of inciting something aside from apathy from a centaur. “Once you’re officially working at the Ministry itself, you’re bound to usurp Terry from his position in your department. I’m betting his inner git will come right out after a big disappointment like that.”

“But that’s under the assumption that I’d want to play a significant role in office politics, which I certainly do not.”

“You’re Harry Bloody Potter. How would you not be even if you wanted to?”

“I got myself assigned to the Petty Crimes Division, seeing as it’s been years since I actually did any sort of fieldwork. It’s not like I’ll be working on any high profile cases. Besides, last I heard, that section consisted of just one other person; aside from my future partner and superiors, my identity shouldn’t be an issue at all.”

“But you look…” Ron’s voice trailed off whilst he stared hard at Harry under the bright lights, as if trying to superimpose the current image with his seventeen-year-old self. The redhead--for the first time, apparently--took real notice of the slight but significant changes the past six had wrought, for he sighed and shook his head. “…just different enough for your scheme to possibly work. Are you really going to go through with it? Seems a bit of a waste.”

“If I can. Anyhow, it’s probably better this way. You do realize that Hermione will emasculate us both if she ever finds out we’re trying to interfere with her love life, don’t you?”

End (3/?)
*~*~*~*~*

Symbiosis” (4/?)

By MmeFleiss

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

AN: The draft to this was actually finished while I was still vacationing in Asia, but I was having issues with the final scene. After reading a book on male emotional behavior (Yes, I really am that paranoid about getting it wrong), I think I've fixed what felt off about it, but further comments and criticisms are welcomed. Thanks to Jenn for the beta.

*~*~*~*~*

As it turned out, Harry’s resolve to stay out of Hermione’s love life was tested the very next day. He had barely stepped out of the gilded lift when he ran into her current beau—strutting towards the emerging crowd in a snow-white robe covered with so many cords and medals that made it nearly impossible not to stare.

“You must be the new guy,” the taller man said towards him in a thunderous voice, attracting further attention towards them. “I’ve been assigned as your welcoming committee. I’m Terry Boot: but you may just call me Captain, if you wish.”

“Potter,” Harry bit out as Terry caught his hand in a crushing grip, resisting the childish urge to squeeze back. Somehow, he didn’t think Hermione would be too impressed with such a display of machismo between her significant other and her best friend.

“And I suppose you’ll be comparing who has a bigger wand next,” she would say while glaring at him over her copy of the Daily Prophet. “Why not just cut to the chase and admit that you’re both complete prats?”

Only his continuing moral superiority kept Harry from planting Terry a facer as the other man smirked and began to lead him past office mates paying more attention than he was comfortable receiving. He toyed with the idea of coming into work in the future using his Invisibility Cloak, but discarded it as an option with too many pitfalls considering his line of work.

“We already have a number of Potters in the department. Perhaps it would be better if we all just called you using your first…”

No.” Only the fear of a lecture from either Hermione—or worse—Mrs. Weasley, over his continuing rudeness made Harry add, “Lieutenant would also be fine.”

For a moment, Terry’s expression turned speculative as if trying to figure out the reason for the secrecy and why his companion deserved the special treatment afforded him. Harry held his breath as sky blue eyes lingered over his forehead, reminding him that the other man wasn’t the department’s golden boy for nothing. “Of course.”

Finding nothing to support his hypothesis, however, Terry ended the close scrutiny and sped up the pace. Relief at his close escape made Harry want to burst out into hysterical laughter even as he answered the latest challenge—his decision to take the higher ground long forgotten. The feeling soon abated, however, leaving both men smiling at each other in that way two people might whilst waiting to stab the other in the back. It said something about the level of self-preservation cultivated into Aurors the way everyone gave them a wide berth as they stalked towards the department head's office at the end of the hall.

"You two are late. Sit down before you waste any more of my time," Moody said right after the two men barged into his office. His glass eye spun crazily as if looking for interlopers from the infinitesimal weakness in the room's defense caused by his subordinate's entrance, only stopping when it landed on the dark haired man. "Going for a new look, Potter?"

Old habit made Harry want to brush his fringe against his forehead in an effort to conceal a scar that no longer existed. Only Moody's expectant gaze halted him from going through the motions, not wanting to give the old man the satisfaction. "I prefer to think of it as an investment on my continuing peace of mind, sir," he replied, eyes trained warily on the blond sitting next to him.

Fortunately, Terry was too involved with checking his reflection on the table's polished surface to notice the exchange--a fact which didn't escape their sharp-eyed superior's notice, either, judging by his loud snort of disgust.

The rather jarring sound snapped the good captain out of his close inspection, and he looked up with a smile worthy of a toothpaste advert before saying, "I do hope you'll go and get that checked, sir. There's a nasty dragon flu going 'round."

Moody just rolled his good eye.

Moody dismissed Terry right after the formalities were taken care of, leaving Harry alone with him. "What exactly do you think you're doing, boy?" the older man demanded as he took a swig of the contents of his hip flask.

"Exactly what I said earlier, sir."

"Well I think that's damned selfish of you. A great waste of potential."

Harry held deep suspicions on where this was going and suddenly wished he had the foresight to bring a drink of his own. Preferably something with a high enough alcohol content to let him pass this whole afternoon off as an unwanted side-effect. "I think I've already sacrificed more than my share for the cause."

Certainly much more than he ever expected. Naively, he thought that everything would fall into place once the issue with Voldemort was put to rights. But then no sooner had Harry Apparated away from that cursed island—his forehead still throbbing and his wand shattered beyond repair—when countless Ministry officials in their pristine, black robes swarmed around him like vultures preparing to feast on the remains.

There was a lot of hand shaking and back slapping and murmurs of, "My God, you've done it. You've saved us all. Do you think, maybe, you could..."

They seemed greatly unconcerned of the fact that Harry's limbs shook so badly that Ron and Hermione went to stand on either side of him at some point to prop him up. Nor did they seem to care that their chosen hero displayed all the lucidity of someone on the wrong end of an Obliviate.

"Leave," Hermione said when the glares proved to be of little effect, finally bringing attention to the other two-thirds of the trio who didn’t look the least bit fazed despite having spent the past two days helping the Order keep the Death Eaters from unfairly giving their master the advantage. The officials fortunately possessed enough sense to know when to quit, and so the large gathering shrunk one-by-one thanks to a flurry of conveniently remembered appointments.

Only after those that actually fought were left behind did the seemingly indestructible pillars of strength collapse onto a nearby set of chairs, with Harry soon following in their wake.

"Thank God," Ron murmured, his shaking fingers—until then concealed by Harry's own--covering his face and further smearing the dirt on his cheeks.

Hermione, as usual, was busier taking inventory of their injuries rather than worrying about her own: her forehead creased as her eyes roved over the alarming amount of injuries her best friends possessed. "Perhaps you two should find a healer and get checked out."

Ron merely rolled his eyes at the Mother Hen act, but Harry had enough presence of mind to smile wanly in her direction. "And how about you?"

"I'm fine," she replied, a statement belied by the fact that she winced and unconsciously clutched her ribs whenever she moved too quickly.

"Why don't you all just go together and save the healers the effort of having to hunt you down one-by-one," Neville said as he strode in, his wand hand already held immobile by a sling while he waited for the bones to regrow.

After performing a mock salute, the trio stood up together once again: to the eyes of the world a hero flanked by his two sidekicks. But Harry knew better than anybody that it had never been about him leading them into victory as much as Ron and Hermione supporting him every step of the way.

He despised himself for this weakness even as he continued to lean on them; however, the connection strengthened by the War and its aftermath proved too hard to sever. Once his fever broke and the healers announced him well enough to recuperate outside of St. Mungo’s, Harry ended up spending most of what days remained of that summer with his two best friends. Only the acceptance letter from the Ministry hidden at the bottom of his trunk allowed him to fully enjoy those moments without further self-recrimination.

The problem with such closeness was that it didn't leave much room for anyone else. So when Harry surprised everybody during Hermione’s birthday dinner at The Burrow by announcing his plans of entering the Auror program—an idea that both his best friends grudgingly conceded to be a strategic retreat from all the attention he continued to receive at home—Ginny saw it as the final straw.

Not that Harry had a clue about any of this at the time, of course. When he found himself trapped alone with her in one of the bedrooms after dinner, his whole attention remained riveted towards the door and the possible arrival of outraged brothers hexing him into a eunuch for having been caught in such a compromising location. “Do you really think this is...”

"Shut up, Harry."

His jaw dropped. This wasn’t quite how the congratulatory snogging session he’d been picturing in his head was supposed to go. In fact, far from the rapturous look he’d been expecting, the look in Ginny’s eye gave off the distinct impression that a loss of manhood was the least of his concerns.

"Why is it that I'm never good enough?" she murmured, her fists clenched so tightly that the bones stood out in stark relief.

"Er…” Harry answered, somehow feeling as if he’d just entered a battlefield without a wand. “What?”

"I've done everything I could to be the kind of girl you'd want. All those months practicing on the pitch just so you'd notice me as something other than Ron's forgettable baby sister.”

“Ginny…”

"All those hours learning beauty charms so that you would look at me the way I used to see you look at Cho.

"And all those times when I knew I should've bit my tongue but didn't just for the chance to hear you laugh….” She suddenly clutched the lapels of his shirt: her earlier expression replaced by moist eyes and trembling lips. "So why am I still second best?"

It was a question he’d spent many sleepless nights afterwards torturously replaying in his mind; each time with an answer more eloquent than the last. What remained the same in each retelling was how he would soften the blow by revealing to her how carefully he read each of her letters from Hogwarts, trying to picture himself standing beside her during those Quidditch games and classes—like they were just any other normal teenaged couple fumbling their way together from attraction into something more enduring.

But the truth of the matter was that circumstances made their relationship anything but normal. Harry was forced to grow up quickly in the front lines, whilst his insistence that Ginny stay in school forced her into an artificially suspended adolescence. In the end, it was the normality that he tried so hard to preserve that barricaded any chances for future happiness together.

With such inspiring words forming long after it really mattered, however, what actually happened that night was that he held her for the final time: his thoughts and feelings too muddled to say anything more than “I’m sorry,” over and over again.

Her grip on his shirt tightened.

End (4/?)

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