Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them.
A/N: This is something I've been playing with in my (ha ha) spare time. I have four more chapters completed, but wasn't sure whether this was anything anyone would want to read here. I think the basic premise becomes clear as you read along… it is Post Voldemort's defeat and begins Ron/Hermione, although she already has serious doubts and there will never be anything of an intimate nature between them… because I'm writing it, and it squicks me. It would become firmly Harry/Hermione as soon as they catch a clue, but I love Ron and Harry's friendship, so fear not on that front. Trust me. My best estimate is 15 - 20 chapters. So, anyway, if you find this at all compelling I will post it here - please let me know with a quick review, even if it's just a post it or kill it. Unless your name is Hmmm - then I don't want to know. Thanks! ~ Lynney
Fixing Harry
Chapter 1 - Elspeth Hawktalon
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For some, working in the Ministry of Magic was the be-all and end-all; the pinnacle of their careers. For others, it was just a decent paying job with better than average benefits.
For me, it was a big mistake.
It had never been a particularly good fit, but I really needed a job and a friend of a friend knew the wizard who was hiring; enough, at least, to get me in the door. I'm a certified Spell Damage Reversal specialist, but more than just a bit of my previous work experience is in Dark Arts effects. More than would usually get you hired by the Ministry, anyway. The official line on Dark Arts here is only Voldemort works in them. Codswallop. Fudgeswallop, actually, but for all he's had to step down nothing's really changed during the Scrimgeour administration. I played it down as much as I could at the time, but there's only so much you can do when it's a big hunk of your curriculum vitae. I'm pretty sure mine was the lowest starting pay rate of anyone in the department, ever, and I'm sure it probably still is. And I've been here ten years now.
The dregs of the department work load always seemed to trickle down my way; all the cases no one else wanted to deal with. Lots of spell damaged Aurors. Lots of plain old scared-shitless Aurors, too - which made them the healthy ones from my perspective. I've had to do my fair share of case work for the Wizengamot over the years, mostly determining whether or not someone was acting under Imperius, and whether or not it was You-Know-Who's doing if it was. They were still catching up on everything he'd gotten up to the first time around when word came out of Hogwarts that he was back three years ago. Bureaucracy at it's finest, there. I've made way more than my fair share of trips to Azkaban to certify a Dementor's Kiss was… effective, since then. Never really miss though, those Dementors. All in a day's work to them.
The thing of it was I'd had my daughter to raise, and no one but myself to rely on then. Working for the Ministry had seemed safe after the chaos of losing my husband, a responsible choice to make. Emily was eleven this year and she just yesterday got her Hogwart's letter. She was over the moon, couldn't wait for the first of September and the trip to King's Cross. Oh she'll miss me, my brilliant little witch, but she was ready and so was I. With her safely at Hogwarts and her tuition the one thing actually covered by her father's inheritance, I was finally ready to move on to a better job.
And I didn't mean the Janus Thickey ward for permanent spell damage at St. Mungo's, either.
I was primed for a change in career; I'd had enough of bureaucracy and the cowardice and callousness it fostered. Scrimgeour had proved little better as Minister than Fudge in that regard. He was certainly more realistic and unquestionably more forceful, that was certain, but whether or not that was enough - or even a good thing - in this post-Voldemort world remained to be seen. It was hard to see what the long term effects of the Boy Who Lived Again's victory would yet be, but short term the prospects were giddy. There was a collective social sigh of relief being heard throughout Wizarding Britain and all kinds of signs of economic rebirth.
One sign of it was the opening of a new bookshop in Diagon Alley, with an aim not to challenge Flourish and Blots stronghold on the purveyance of Hogwarts texts and rare spell books but to introduce more Witches and Wizards to great Muggle literature and contemporary Muggle novels in an attempt to improve understanding and acceptance of their take on the world we share. I'm half muggle myself, not that that counts for much. Still, our new savior had been raised by Muggles, and it obviously hadn't hurt him any now, had it? Perhaps interest in Harry Potter would start to soften some of the Muggle prejudice. It had been a small minority that had actually followed Voldemort, but quite a few more harbored dangerous feelings of superiority about the Muggles that so outnumber us.
So it was a risky prospect, but the prospector was another friend of mine and I'd accepted his offer of a job there with a certain amount of childlike glee.
I had my resignation parchment all written out. The ink was barely dry when I rolled it up and headed for my Director's office. There was a spring in my step as I wended my way down the hall, I tell you. I hardly recognized myself.
He stepped from one of the elevators just as I passed them, obviously coming from a meeting somewhere else in the building as he was burdened by a great number of rolled parchments and several books, one with a page marked with his quill, but no cloak or hat. Elementary, my dear Watson. Oops! There goes the Muggle reader in me again. This felt good.
A fluttering cloud of memos hovered about his head, each anxious to be the first he looked at when he regained his office. At least this meant I wouldn't have to deal with Dora, the department secretary, to get in to see him. There was a witch in quite the worst sense of the word.
"Ah, Miss Hawktalon. Excellent. I was just going to have Dora send for you. Have you a moment?"
Lots of them, as a matter of fact! I quit! And for the three thousand, six hundred and fiftieth time, it's Mrs. Hawktalon. Almerick might be dead these last ten years, but I was still married to him!
"Of course, Sir. May I… take any of that for you?"
And light them with a simple Incendio?
"Excellent!" he said again, and shed half his load into my arms. I followed him past the glowering Dora's desk and into his office, swatting flying memos like midges on a summer evening. Pesky things. Another aspect of Ministry life I wouldn't miss.
He deposited his load upon his enormous, already overburdened desk and motioned for me to follow suit. I did, retaining the solitary scroll that was my resignation letter and settling myself in one of the less than comfortable chairs positioned on the far side. Clement Bagnold was not fond of interruptions and discouraged them in every way possible.
"I have a new case file for you. Miss Hawktalon," he said. He moved across the room, searching for something in the pocket of his cloak on the coat stand. His fingers produced another pair of glasses with a relieved sigh. The flying memos zoomed a little bit closer, perhaps sensing his preparation to sit down at the desk. He opened the door that I knew led to his personal loo - no mixing with the common wizards in the hall for Clement Bagnold, Director of both Magical Misfortune and Spell Damage Reversal - and stepped inside as if he meant to use it. The memos swarmed rudely after him; he ducked, spun, and slammed the door on them. There was a faint bumbling noise from inside as they fruitlessly swarmed the door.
"Actually, Sir, about that…."
"Unusual case," he interrupted me smoothly, almost as if I had not spoken. I'm quite sure that in the important caverns of his mind I had not. "Most unusual. Bit of an honor, actually, to get it. The Minister himself thought you were the perfect choice under the circumstances."
The Minister? The Minister didn't know me any better than a toadstool flattened by his boots. Probably less, actually - at least he might potentially realize he'd stepped on the toadstool. If he slipped, or something. Oh, and it's all pointless anyway, because… I quit!
"Really, Sir, I…"
"This looks as if it has the potential to take up a good chunk of your available time. I offered to clear your schedule, actually, but the Minister said the Wizard in question wouldn't like to think he was being treated specially in any way and there was no rush at all. Thorough is the thing on this one, Hawktalon, he wants proof positive no matter how long it takes."
The Wizard in question? Why was Scrimgeour taking such a personal interest in a Spell Damage investigation? And since when did he care what anyone's preferences were? I'd seen him run steamroller over plenty of others from afar, both as Head of the Auror Division and now Minister. Wild Erumpents couldn't do less damage than Rufus Scrimgeour if you got between him and his quarry. Of course, none of this matters, because I quit!
"The thing is, Sir, I…"
"Still, I'd like you to start with it right away. Even if we're to be given time with this one, I'd like it to be very obvious we're taking it quite seriously, being proactive and responsible. It does have the potential to be… quite explosive, actually, if it goes wrong."
Explosive? Okay, now I really quit. Give notice. Desert the troops. Run away screaming.
"Actually, Sir, I…"
"This is a time of great rejoicing in the Wizarding world, Miss Hawktalon, but peace is a fragile thing. We are far from the strategizing of the politicians here, but even we can understand the potential disaster to the renewals in Wizarding society we are all experiencing if Harry Potter proved to have been irreversibly damaged by the Dark Lord. He is a symbol of strength and hope to us all, but he is also extremely powerful. Too powerful to risk ignoring the obvious signs. He has agreed - albeit apparently quite reluctantly - to cooperate fully. So there is everything to be gained by getting right to the bottom of it as quickly and quietly as possible."
Whoa. Was he saying what I thought he was? That the Minister of Magic had called for a Spell Damage Investigation on Harry Potter? And he'd actually agreed to let them do it? There had to be way more than met the naked eye going on there. Nothing about Potter's relations with the Ministry either before or after Albus Dumbledore's death almost three years ago now had ever suggested the slightest love lost between them. He'd steadfastly refused their "help" and apparently gone on to take down Voldemort on his own, if you read between the Daily Prophet's lines. Or read the Quibbler, somewhat more embarrassing to admit a subscription to but definitely more informative and surprisingly more factual than the Prophet.
"Sir, are you saying…"
"I have his official Ministry file right here, but I have to tell you outright that it contains none of the specifics of the final battle or what led up to it. While the Minister claimed that would be restricted information and not be cleared for general consumption for some time, strictly off the record I believe whatever they have to be scanty at best. They will most likely be looking long and hard at anything that comes to light in your investigation. Because of this, I think it most unlikely Mr. Potter will be all that forthcoming with you. This will in turn, of course, seriously hamper our efforts to make an accurate assessment."
His eyes raised from the parchment he was reviewing and met mine steadily across the desk. "This situation will require considerable tact; to do your job thoroughly you will have to convince Mr. Potter to reveal the necessary details from which a determination about whether or not he bears significant Spell Damage from his altercation with You Know Who can be made. Your case notes and observations will be closely monitored by both myself and the Minister's Office, and for your safety there will be an Auror present at all times."
Harry Potter. They wanted me to run a Spell Damage investigation on Harry Potter. An apparently only semi-willing Harry Potter.
Did I really want to risk pissing off Harry Potter?
No way. But did I really want to meet the Boy Who Lived and see what made him tick?
Oh yeah. Fascinating stuff there, the kind that made me interested in Spell Damage Reversal to begin with. I mean, his scar alone was one of the most talked about spell damage icons of all time. And who wouldn't want to at least try and help Potter after all he'd done for us? Ridding us of Voldemort and his ugly, divisive blood prejudice. Making the Wizarding world - and Hogwarts - safe for children again. Stopping the mindless violence, and the slow drawing of good minds toward bad ideas. He was still only seventeen years old; and yet he'd seen and done so much. You'd have to be a complete and brainless idiot not to want to work this case.
Okay. I un-quit. For awhile. For this one case. As long as it took. The book store would just have to wait.
I subtly shoved the parchment bearing my letter of resignation up the sleeve of my robes.
"I'll get started right away. Has anything been scheduled, or shall I contact Mr. Potter?"
If Clement noticed any shift in my demeanor he gave no sign. "It is all arranged. A schedule of meeting times over the next several weeks has been drawn up by the Ministry. There is a copy in the Investigation folder and one was given to Mr. Potter as well. You will be meeting in the small conference room on the ninth floor. It has already been reserved for your use on those occasions."
"Does there really have to be an Auror present? I mean, if it's only for my safety, can I make a professional decision after assessing the, erm, subject and situation, to have them on the ready in the hall instead? I expect this is going to be difficult enough without an Auror looming."
My boss sat back in his own comfortable leather chair and observed me sitting gingerly on edge across his desk. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin and glared at me thoughtfully.
"Miss Hawktalon, let me ask you a question. How accurate do you believe the source of most Wizard news reporting to be these days?"
"On a scale of one to ten, ten being most accurate, I would guess we are somewhere near a negative two at the moment, Sir. But there's always a great deal of misinformation during times of great upheaval."
"Quite. So if the Daily Prophet, a rag barely worthy of lining the cages of the Owls who deliver it, reports that the Boy Who Lived is having difficulties controlling his magic, it would most likely be either a significant fabrication or conversely under-reported, would it not?"
"Yes, Sir."
My vote? Serious fabrication. They hadn't had anything nice to say about Potter since he was about fourteen and that horrible Rita Skeeter discovered him.
"Alas in this case, it would be under-reported, and I rather guess even the case folder holds only a small fraction of what might be truly going on with Mr. Potter. He has been experiencing significant lapses in control of his magic, with some rather damaging results. No one has been killed. Yet. But suffice it to say that the Auror stays at least until you can present me with an alternative plan spelling out quantitative safety measures. In point of fact, the Minister intimated to me that if they are not under control soon Potter may be taken into protective custody, so do not underestimate the severity of the situation. Am I understood?"
My past proceeded me here; clearly he felt like he had to spell it out in simple block letters. He was probably right, too. But protective custody? Harry Potter? Something just didn't smell right there.
"Yes, Sir. Completely Sir."
No one has been killed. Yet. Well, when you had power like Potter was rumored to have, things were exponential. Your average Witch or Wizard just might implode your coffee mug if they became severely stressed or uncomfortable during an intense investigation. Potter could probably take out the whole Ministry or something. I was more on the average side of the magical scale myself. So an Auror it was; but I'd have to think of something better once I saw which way the wind blew. No one felt too much like talking with a licensed to hex Ministry Auror hovering over them. Including me.
"I'll get right on it, then," I said, rising from my chair.
"Excellent. Excellent. I'll be looking for your written assessment of the file and a case plan projection on my desk tomorrow. Plan to meet with me Thursday afternoon after your first session with Potter."
I nodded my assent and headed for the door. I'd almost made it before he remembered.
"Miss Hawktalon? It appeared you were already on your way here when I exited the elevators. Was there something you wished to discuss with me?"
I smiled. "Not just at the moment, Sir. Perhaps another time."
Like as soon as I'd figured out what was bothering the Boy Who Lived. Because then? I quit!
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Harry was at that moment making Ron and himself some breakfast. They'd slept in; well, to be honest, Ron was still sleeping in. Who knew defeating Voldemort would leave you so bloody tired all the time?
Considering the fact that he'd never honestly expected to live through it, Harry was pretty okay with the tired part, really. Some of the other side effects were a good bit more painful and annoying, but still, they were all pretty insignificant when you tried to look at the big picture.
Of course, Harry was trying to do anything but looking at the big picture right about now. The back of his eyelids seemed so much safer, and with the connection of the scar broken and Voldemort dead and gone at last not all his dreams were bad. Some of them were even - dare he say it? - kind of enjoyable.
He was alive. Voldemort wasn't. Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives… Harry had at first reckoned that meant he'd get to live if Voldemort and the horcruxes that had given him his artificial immortality were gone. Now he wasn't so sure about the wording, though. Live? Yeah, he was technically alive, and don't get him wrong, he was damn grateful for it. Live an actual life like anyone else? Well, that was turning out to be another story altogether.
Harry poured himself a cup of coffee and floated it and his plate over to the small table they'd set by the window. It had had four chairs with it, but the fourth was already pushed back against the wall, only to be retrieved if the twins came up from downstairs. Even though Hermione had returned to live with her parents for the summer, the unbreakable bonds of the trio were still evident in the placement of three chairs around the kitchen table in the flat where only two lived.
Despite the inexplicable short-circuiting of his magical proficiency since the confrontation, floating things was still safer than walking them at the moment. Harry still looked and felt like he'd gone nine rounds with the world's most evil wizard. According to St. Mungo's all would be well in time, but even magical healing had its limits.
Of course, he still looked a lot better than he'd left Voldemort.
Harry took a sip of coffee and stared out the window, watching a small bird enjoying a bath in a puddle left over from last night's thunderstorm. It hopped and dipped through the water, small splashes and ripples marking its progress. Satisfied at last with its dousing it shook, spraying droplets all about, preened each wing and took to the air, renewed.
Harry's heart ached to join it.
He wondered now how he'd had the prescience not to give in to the impulse to incinerate what was left of Tom Riddle, the way he'd so wanted to. It had been such an awful battle, so endless and terrifying and exhausting and painful that the impulse to thoroughly and utterly destroy his enemy; to make forever sure there could be no hope of resurrection, was almost overwhelming. But he hadn't; he'd heard Hermione crying and turned to her instead and he was growing increasingly, privately sure that one action might have saved his life. Voldemort's remains had been examined extensively by a Ministry trying desperately to unlock the secret of his power, and Harry had more than just a suspicion that if he had incinerated Voldemort the one they'd be picking apart right now would be him.
Scrimgeour hadn't forgiven Harry his refusal to throw his lot with the Ministry. Shortly after he'd regained consciousness an official Ministry delegation had visited his bedside at St. Mungo's, officially to inform him of the Ministry's delight in his disposal of the Dark Lord and its willingness to suspend a full investigation of his involvement in return for his full cooperation. Aching and strung out on pain potions Harry's reply had been to knock themselves out and investigate away. Scrimgeour's response was personally delivered and none-too-subtle. Power on the scale of Voldemort's would never be tolerated or left unregulated by the Ministry again. Surely Harry could understand that. He would be cooperating.
Harry'd been a good bit less strung out during that visit and had remained carefully noncommittal throughout it. The tectonic plates of power had clearly been shifting then, both at the Ministry and throughout the Wizarding world. The only one left alive Harry trusted when it came to dealing with officials was Remus Lupin, and he was counseling Harry to lay low from his own bedside, to play along and keep his ears open while the powers-that-be realigned themselves. Which was why, two fairly public and damaging magical emissions later (one at an award ceremony Harry had been forced against his better judgment to attend and another at a funeral he'd wanted to attend even less) Harry had given in to Scrimgeour's prescribed Spell Damage interview in regard to the battle.
His mind wandered gingerly toward those memories, approaching them the way one might a snake; cautiously and with a big stick at the ready.
Nope. Still wasn't ready to look that close.
He was saved by two almost simultaneous sounds; the small pop of a nearby apparition and the appearance of Hedwig at the window. The pop made his still overwrought nerves jump violently, a fact he tried desperately to cover by physically moving to let Hedwig in. He turned with her on his arm to find Hermione quietly watching him.
"Good Morning?" she asked. Nobody ever wished him anything, stated anything anymore. It was all one bloody question after another. He chose an alternate meaning for her words.
"He's still sleeping. It's safe to wake him though, breakfast's ready. Have you eaten?"
She nodded; of course she had. This was Hermione, after all. "I'd love another cup of tea, though. I'll get it, you sit and finish yours. What's Hedwig brought you?"
Harry sat; she'd helped them move in to the flat and knew perfectly well where everything was. He undid the binding from Hedwig's proffered leg and removed the message she bore. She took the toast crust reward from his fingers with exquisite gentleness, large eyes examining him minutely. Even his owl worried about him.
The message, when he'd unrolled it, proved to be a summons to the Ministry the following morning for his first interview with the Spell Damage Reversal Specialist. Harry sighed and crumpled the parchment into a ball, lobbing it at the rubbish bin in the corner.
Big surprise. He missed.
Hermione scooped it up and dropped it in on her way to the table; the bin's contented burp following after her.
"Thanks. Just the time for my meeting tomorrow with the Ministry spell damage ghoul," he told her.
"I know you don't like the idea, Harry, but it really may not be a bad one at that. The sooner you get to the bottom of it the better; it's probably just a secondary effect of one of the spells from the battle. Once it's resolved Scrimgeour's got nothing on you and you'll be free."
Harry nodded, not quite meeting her eyes.
"You will be. I know you don't believe it now, Harry, I'm sure it hard with all of this hanging over you…" the wave of her hand took in his current physical state as well as the more amorphous issue of his loss of magical control, "but it will make all the difference. You can get on with healing and deciding what you want to do about a job and …"
Harry smiled to himself. Forthright Hermione, who could be so precise and specific about his career options and responsibilities to himself failed utterly when it came to the rest of the typical parameters of making oneself a life. She'd always been offhand and brusque about the whole concept of Harry seeing anyone, encouraging and disparaging at once. No one had ever been quite right or good enough. He reckoned she was caught between the rock of him not seeing anyone at the moment and the hard place of wanting to tie up the loose end of him so she could enjoy things with Ron in peace.
"Ginny will be coming up tomorrow to do her school shopping," she said, a deliberate non sequitor.
Harry pushed a hand through his fringe and let his chin come to rest on it, propping his elbow on the table as he reverted his gaze back out the window. The bandages that still covered his palms and ran up his wrists itched annoyingly today and he could feel his spine stiffening with it.
Whatever monster had raised its head to sniff the potent fragrance that was Ginny had died an unnoticed death within him sometime during the chaotic events of last year. He'd hardly seen her at all the whole time they had been tracking down the horcruxes; he'd been glad to think her safe at Hogwarts when he'd thought of her at all. She'd been there at Hogwarts for the final face off with Voldemort, but he'd never even seen her; it turned out they'd been in different parts of the castle. She'd been among the first group of his closest friends allowed in to see him at St. Mungo's and by about the third or fourth visit when the pain-killing potions had finally been reduced to less mind-fogging quantities he'd realized she thought that Voldemort's demise meant that the two of them were somehow back together. The thought had left him flat, unmoved and unwilling, really. She seemed so young and frivolous somehow in her post-battle giddiness, although he knew he was being unfair. All he'd really wanted was Ron and Hermione, the friends that had been with him through it all.
He'd been neither welcoming nor dismissive then; he'd no idea what to do about it now but he was pretty sure that despite her repeated raising of the Ginny question Hermione knew that there was little left there. He figured she just wanted him to be happy so she could move on with Ron without worrying about him; he wanted that for her too, but was unwilling to play Ginny along even for Hermione whom he loved more than… anything. Much as he'd like to give her the gift of his life resolved neatly and tied up in a happy-ever-after bow so she could get on with hers, he couldn't bring himself to do it like that.
"I've no idea how long this Spell Damage person will take. You and Ron and Ginny go on, and I'll meet you later if I can," he told her.
She nodded in agreement and sipped her tea. The angle of early July sunlight had grown stronger through the window as they sat and now made a halo of light around her, burnishing her hair to gold. He watched her fingers wrapped around her mug, the familiar way her eyelashes drooped when she sipped her tea as if she wanted to shut out everything for that moment other than its warm sweetness. The dentists' daughter denied herself teeth spoiling sugar in almost everything but her tea; Harry knew her weaknesses intimately. He could almost feel the comfort she drew from it inside himself.
Ron emerged, yawning hugely, from his bedroom.
"Thought I smelled breakfast!" he said happily, and headed through to the loo.
Harry floated Ron's plate over from the counter and thought again with fondness of the house elves of Hogwarts.
"I thought you weren't supposed to be doing magic," Hermione said. Her voice was neutral, un-accusing. He knew that she hadn't honestly imagined he wouldn't.
"They took my wand. They can't track the wandless. And it's just little stuff anyway; no one's likely to get decapitated by a misaimed plate of bacon or anything."
"Ridiculous, taking your wand," she said, suddenly frowning. "That still makes me just furious. It's completely illogical. All of the… problems you've had have been spontaneous, anyway. They haven't been misfires of cast spells; they've all been more like eruptions of magical energy, just sort of leaking out of you."
"Merlin knows I've got enough spots for it to leak out at the moment," he said ruefully. "And when has the Ministry of Magic ever been logical."
Ron came and sat down between them, looking from one to the other. "Let me guess. You," he nodded at Harry, "used magic to get breakfast on the table and you," he shifted his attention to Hermione, "are giving him the old Ministry approval lecture."
"Hardly a lecture," she bristled. "As a matter of fact we were talking about the idiocy of the Ministry confiscating Harry's wand."
"Not like he needs it, does he?" Ron replied, unconcerned, and dug in to his meal.
"That's hardly the point, is it? The Ministry has no business stepping in and taking someone's wand when they've just saved the world as we know it from the most evil Wizard in history. What about Harry's right to protect himself against the Death Eaters still at large?"
"I'm hardly afraid of Malfoy. And his Auntie Bellatrix looked worse than me last time I saw her," Harry interjected.
"He doesn't need a wand to take on those wank… erm, leftovers. And they do have Aurors watching over Harry all the time. We've almost got their schedule figured out now. We actually got Tonks to have lunch with us the other day when we were in Hogsmeade and she realized we were on to her."
"Whether or not he needs a wand is irrelevant. The laws are flawed. Anyone else would need one," Hermione pointed out.
"No one else would have just saved the world from the most evil Wizard in history, as you put it. Harry's different. And the bloody Ministry isn't stopping us from doing anything."
"They could, though," Harry said. "Hermione's got a point."
"You always side with her," Ron said, half annoyed.
"Someone has to. She's your girlfriend, and you never do," Harry shot back.
It should have been a joke; he meant it to be. Ron and Hermione had been arguing as long as he'd known them both. Hell, if Ron hadn't been taking the piss out of her to begin with, she wouldn't have been in that bathroom crying her eyes out when Quirrell released the troll into Hogwarts first year and they might never have gotten together. He'd always played the middle.
Clearly Ron took it as one, anyway.
"Can stand on her own opinions, that one. Only needs me to snog."
Hermione's mouth tightened into a straight, grim line; there'd be no snogging her anytime soon. And she didn't look like she'd taken Harry's comment quite the way he'd meant her to.
Harry cast about for something to say to defuse the building storm when there was suddenly a tremendous, tinkling crash as every window on the east side of the building abruptly blew out. The sound of glass raining down on the street below seemed to last forever.
Silence, when it came, was momentary at best. An appreciative: "Nice one, Harry!" and a round of applause rang out from the twins already in their shop below.
"Good thing we live in a Wizard building in a Wizard part of town is all I can say," Ron said. "Don't even think about trying the reparo, mate. We'll take care of it. Really."
"Bloody hell," said Harry.
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