Symbiosis by MmeFleiss

Rating: R
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 02/08/2005
Last Updated: 06/01/2006
Status: In Progress

Symbiosis – n. A relationship of mutual benefit or dependence. Mentions of past R/Hr and
H/G.




1. untitled
-----------

“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. ^^;

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

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

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

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/?)

*~*~*~*~*



2. Chapter 2
------------

“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. 

*~*~*~*~*

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/?)
*~*~*~*~*

AN: Any guesses where this is going? ^^



3. Chapter 3
------------

“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.

*~*~*~*~*

“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/?)
*~*~*~*~*



4. Chapter 4
------------

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/?)

*~*~*~*~*