A/N: Back again rather soon aren't I? Well, this time it isn't a mystery or action/adventure (which I really need to get back to but chapter eight of Knights of Walpurgis is a bit difficult to set up) but a romantic drama. I hope you'll appreciate this one, as much as my last stuff.
Quick important note: Ron is NOT dead, and will be waking up later in story. You will see this as you read on, but I just wanted to be clear.
Two, the reason this is called Untitled is twofold: One, I really didn't have a title, and two, some things in life can't be titled. I'd like to think that this is one of them.
Disclaimer: This is all JK Rowling's stuff, I'm glad she's letting me play with it. If I was nuts I would claim it as my own, but believe me, my imagination is not as grand as hers.
*~***~*
Flat-mates
Harry was not there when Hermione finally got to her flat that evening, heavily laden with grocery bags, her purse and her books. She hadn't expected him to be, he was an Auror and Aurors had things to do. They could be called away at any given moment, were expected to be available when needed, and the more dedicated among them probably rarely left the Ministry at all. Goodness knows how Mrs Weasley had managed to change his mind on that one.
But for some reason, a part of her had hoped that he would have been. Though a few Shrinking and a Lightening Charm had taken care of the worst of her baggage, it would have been nice to have the extra hands. It would have been nice to at least have the company.
Not that there was anything wrong with Crookshanks, of course, but she meant of the human variety.
Sighing softly, she balanced her bags on one hip and fished through her purse and pocket for her keys, trying to push away those thoughts. She would not have them. She was an independent twenty-two year old with a career, the love of her friends and family, and what was surely a great life ahead of her.
But it was to no avail. The moment she opened the door and stepped into the dark and empty flat they came rushing back.
She and Harry may have been sharing this flat for the past two years, with her having rented it for a year before that, but she still felt alone. Blame it on his Auror schedule, on her teaching position at Hogwarts, or the alien existence of life without a familiar gangly red-headed bloke, but she always felt alone. And she hated it.
Shutting and locking the door behind her, she switched on the lights, deposited her purse and keys on a nearby table and then continued on to the kitchen to set down the rest. Crookshanks was nowhere to be found, but the signs of Harry's presence greeted her before she was at the counter.
He was not, as a rule, a messy person, the Dursleys could be thanked (but won't) for that. But tonight he had left a half-drunk butterbeer, the remnants of a take-out dinner and two Chocolate Frogs, one of which had a missing leg and both with the charm gone out of them, on the table. His chair was pushed back against the cupboards behind them, the kitchen window was still open and there was a hastily written note spelled to the refrigerator door.
"Disturbance in Dufftown. Sorry about the mess, Harry."
As usual he had left in a hurry.
She sighed again, removed and discarded the note, and then cleared up the mess. Butterbeer and take-out meal to the bin, bitten Chocolate Frog to the fridge and the other to her mouth, chair back in place, and then to the groceries. In the absence of the extra pair of hands she had to be grateful for magic, it took no more than a few flicks of her wand and a Banishing Charm for it to be done. And when it was, she took out the extra take-out dinner Harry had left for her, as usual, and went off to her room to change.
She had been visiting with her parents in High Wycombe and shopping in Diagon Alley that day, and predictably it had been a tiring and dirtying affair. She had spent so much time walking-for her mother just had to take her to London for that cocktail dress she would never wear, and then she had to help the both of them with lunch and after that had to get that new book on Transfiguration that might help her Sixth Years-that her feet hurt and she was in need of a relaxing hot bath. In parts of Diagon Alley the streets were horrendously grimy, she had very nearly tripped in the midst of London, and though she had cleaned it, she was sure she still felt the greasiness of the sauce she had spilled onto her pants while testing the gravy for the roast duck. She couldn't get out of her clothes and into the tub fast enough.
Crookshanks was in the bedroom when she entered, lying curled up and fast asleep on her bed. She wondered how he had not caught the scent of Harry's dinner, but decided it was a good thing. At the last appointment the vet had said that he was slightly overweight.
Being lazy was no better, but at least he wasn't stuffing his little round frame further.
Opting for a shower, she had a long, hot one that felt like it was peeling the skin from her flesh, changed to a pair of jeans, a camisole and a t-shirt, and went back out to the kitchen. There, she heated the take-out dinner, poured a tall glass of pumpkin juice from the fridge, and then took her books to the dining table to sort them out.
The Transfiguration text hadn't been her only purchase, on account of an unexpected and yet still long overdue run-in with Ginny-who was in training to become a Healer-in the Alley, and the release of a tell-all on the inner workings of the Ministry of Magic under Cornelius Fudge. The former had dragged her all around the Alley looking for her new books, and along the way she could not resist picking up a few for herself. The latter had simply caught her eye in the window of Flourish and Blotts, and particularly for its title: "How Did We Let This Man In?" over a photograph of the ex-Minister attempting to escape reporters after announcing his resignation years before.
But simply sitting at the table brought her feeling of loneliness rushing back. Harry should have been there with her laughing or making some snippy comment about the book (written by a personal assistant no less). Harry should have been having this dinner with her at the table made for four. Harry should have been out there quelling the disturbance in Dufftown with Ron.
And that thought set her staring blankly around the flat, trying not to think of a room in St Mungo's with the blinds seemingly forever drawn….
The flat she had chosen sat on the fourth floor of a Victorian townhouse in a Wizard district of London. It was within walking distance of Diagon Alley and had a beautiful view of the Muggle capital city off in the distance be it clear dark or cloudiest night. The open area that made up the living and dining room had new large screen windows, which replaced the original smaller Victorian ones, and tonight let in the faint moonlight that somehow penetrated the city glare to spread across the floor. Facing her was the open arched doorway that led to the bed and bathrooms, to her right was the kitchen, and to her left, in a small corner he had claimed and cordoned off by moving about the living room furniture, was the desk and chair that made up Harry's office. He very rarely brought his work home, but when he did he locked it all away in his desk.
Though he was not at all messy around the apartment, his room at times was another story and important material could very easily be lost. Hedwig was more grateful than he knew to have the "freedom" of a stand in the living area near his desk, as Crookshanks was to have the run of the house.
All around her too, were the things she had thought to bring with her when she first moved in. Her seemingly innumerable books, her photographs, various house-warming presents from the Weasleys and her parents, a special drawing from Dean of her, Harry and Ron done during the war-the only image of Ron they had dared to keep-all only things for the purpose of making it look and feel like a home.
It was a wonder how in the midst of it she still could feel completely and utterly alone.
When Harry moved in, adding another life to her world of solitude, she thought that he would change that. But instead he brought and kept his stuff in his room, was always off at work or if not that, was off at the pub or playing Quidditch with his colleagues, none of whom she ever met. Within days of his moving back into her life full time, she once again felt alone. And after all this time not much had changed either, there were still some unpacked boxes of his in the closet by the door.
But there was one thing he had left out. One thing that filled the room and emphasised her loneliness, that kept her up at nights when she most sought sleep, that lingered even to Hogwarts all year while she taught: his scent.
His sweat, salty and slick, intermingled with the willow of his broom, the electric "after-burn" of his magic and the barest traces of a cologne Ginny had given him one year for Christmas that he had liked so much that he kept buying even after they had broken up. Clearly, he didn't seem to understand how much it must have hurt her every time she caught the scent of it. But to Hermione it had come to be a part of him that helped more than it harmed.
Tonight it was barely there, and it was that alone that had told her of his absence when she first arrived, but now she found it again. And as she caught it, it enveloped her like an Arabian perfume so for a moment she was aware of nothing else… until the sound of Crookshanks' mewing loudly brought her out of it.
She took a long, slow exhale, looked out at the muted city passing by beyond the screen window, and then turned back to her dinner and her books.
*~*~*
Standing with his palms against the tiled wall of the shower stall while the hot water cascaded his naked form, Harry tried to wash away the last grime of the Dufftown disturbance. It were times like these that he most resented the Death Eaters who refused to give up, refused to believe that he had finally gotten rid of Voldemort.
The sun was up but he had only just got back in. He smelled as if had been frolicking with wild horses, there were bruises and scratches all over his skin and a new shirt had been irrevocably ruined. This was not the way he had planned to begin his vacation when he had requested it.
Of course, if he really wanted to be left alone he should have left Kingsley a "Do Not Disturb" memo in his request form.
Hermione was still asleep. As soon as he had come in, as he had often done since he first moved into the flat, he had gone to check on her. She lay on her side turned away from the door, dressed in a pair of pyjama shorts and a matching vest, her brown bushy hair in a loose ponytail and still clutching the book she had been reading the night before. For fear of waking her he had left it there, but he could not resist drawing the covers up over her. When his fingers grazed her thigh though, he started away as if burned and quickly left the room.
He hadn't meant to do that. He was sorry he had done that. But he would be lying if he didn't admit to the fact that he wished he didn't have to worry about touching her. That they were and could be more than just "best friends" and "flatmates" who saw each other only when it could be scheduled throughout the year…. That they could go back to how they once were, no matter how brief, before….
He shut his eyes and felt the water wash refreshingly over his face.
He could not think like that. He was twenty-one years old, an Auror on the fast track to promotion though he had only just left training, an honorary Weasley… and he was in love with his best friend.
There was no point denying it. He felt it every moment she walked into a room, every time he heard her voice, every time he allowed his mind to wander to her safely locked away in Hogwarts, blissfully unaware of the dangerous world around them anymore. Or at least he hoped she was.
He had done enough; he had hurt her more than enough.
Deciding that he had also punished his skin enough, he shut off the water and reached up to the nearby shelf for the soap. It took him more than a moment of searching to find it. Hermione had filled the shelf with hair and skin products he could not be sure she often used. Hermione was never really one of those girls.
Of course, the way he remembered it, she didn't need them.
He had to soap himself three times before he felt reasonably clean, and then stood a while in the steam-filled shower watching the dirty soap water drain away. Flowing through his hair and down the contours of his body in rivulets, the water pooled at his feet before circling the drain and disappearing into the plumbing. All this washing and he would never be clean.
He was not guilty for Voldemort, he would never be guilty for Voldemort… but he was for Ron. For losing Ron when there was still a way to save him, for failing Hermione after all she had done for him, for giving her up when there was almost nothing standing in their way anymore…. He would never be clean and he would never be able to repay her.
He was not worthy to love her.
Turning off the shower, he pulled his towel from the stall door, and stepped out to get dressed.
But at least he could get her breakfast.
*~*~*
No matter how much she loved her job, and Hermione was quite sure that she thoroughly enjoyed teaching, she loved waking up on an early summer morning with nothing to do stretching out for weeks ahead of her and the feel of Crookshanks' small round body at her feet, even more. She practically stretched and yawned as she awoke to do Ron proud, and lay back down again filled with laziness foreign to her. Well, at least that was until she heard Harry in the kitchen.
At once she sat up, knocking the book she had been reading in bed to the floor with a low "thud" and startling Crookshanks from his slumber. Annoyed, he angrily hissed at her for a moment, and then resettled into the covers again to go back to sleep.
Hermione barely paid him any mind. Throwing off the covers, she replaced the book on the nightstand, slipped her feet into her slippers and stumbled out of the room. The flat was quiet and cool, save for Harry's voice in the fire and the sound of the flames, and filled with the golden-white sunlight pouring in from the morning without. As she appeared in the doorway Harry looked up at her from his Floo conversation in the fireplace, at first confused, and then his features softened into a smile.
"Good morning, stranger."
He looked as if he had just stepped out of the shower. His skin was flushed as if he had had the same hot bath she had the night before. His messy black hair was still wet at the ends, and stuck up somewhat comically about his head while water occasionally ran down his neck and face. His usually vivid green eyes were bright and alert, and though she did not want to, she couldn't help but notice the way his shirt stuck to parts of wet skin.
She smiled back, "Good morning, everything quiet?"
He nodded, "I made you breakfast… or rather, Mrs Weasley made us breakfast and sent it through with a friend of ours… you remember Avril?"
She turned to the kitchen just as Bill and Fleur's three year old coppery red-haired, sea blue-eyed daughter peered round a counter, and smiled at her. Hermione stooped at once, and Avril came running into her arms. Always happy to see her, the child took care to secure herself on Hermione's hip before saying in-between a giggle, "Good morning! You want to eat?"
Hermione kissed her little forehead and replied, "Yes, I can't wait."
Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Harry staring at their exchange with a hint of a smile on his lips. She continued to Avril, "Why don't you go on ahead, and I'll come and eat with you?"
The little girl immediately wriggled out of her arms and ran off to the kitchen, giggling again. Hermione turned to Harry, "Mrs Weasley actually sent her only granddaughter over here with breakfast for us, alone? How did you arrange that?"
"No, I kidna-brought her when I stopped over at the house this morning. Dufftown is quiet again, and so we have the next nine hours to ourselves-well, partially-and then we have to meet Neville and the others in the pub," he replied.
"We're meeting Neville and 'the others' in the pub?" she asked.
"Yes, they haven't seen you all year, and frankly neither have I, we have to celebrate," he told her.
At this Hermione sighed, but unlike the night before, this was a sigh of exasperation. "Why do you never tell me about these things beforehand? I could have had plans you know?" she demanded, suddenly unreasonably irritated.
Harry smirked at her, "Since when?" and then realising his mistake back-pedalled and asked sincerely instead, "You don't, do you?"
"No," Hermione replied, curtly. "But I could have… Harry, I can't be available to go out with you and 'the others' every time you're free. I have things to-"
He cut her off before she could begin her rant, "I'm on vacation. I arranged it with Kingsley weeks ago so that we'd have time off together… so, for the next two months any time you're free, I'm free too."
That was… unexpected. For the past two years it had felt as if there was this gulf between them, a horrible invisible gulf between them, and now this? Shocked, for a time she could not properly respond and then realising that she had to say something, she replied lamely, "Oh."
Harry arched an eyebrow, and his expression changed from appeasing to slightly smug. That irritated her even more, and then Avril spared them the inevitable awkward discourse, running back into the room calling, "Don't you want to eat? Uncle, Gramma sent for you too."
Hermione turned to her at once, and replied quickly, "Of course I do, let's leave Uncle Harry to his conversation."
At this Harry seemed to remember that he had been speaking through the fireplace and turned back apologising. Hermione tried not to listen. When she was not missing him, enveloped in his scent, she was exasperated and frustrated by him, by his unpredictability, and by his refusal to give up the fight against those who sought to kill him.
Wasn't it enough that they had taken Ron?
And then sometimes, just sometimes, he would do something that would erase his mistakes in a heartbeat, such as then.
He had made arrangements weeks before, before she had even left Hogwarts, before she had even begun to think about the impending end of the school year, to spend his vacation with her. For some reason she could not help but smile as she helped Avril with her pancake syrup. It was just so… Harry, to do something like that, after so long… after all that had happened….
She (or rather they) was on her third syrup and butter-soaked pancake when Harry at last joined them at the table. Sitting across from her, he took a moment to tease Avril before drawing over the pancake platter and the syrup bowl. And straight away Hermione was assaulted by his scent, where soap replaced sweat, and melded seamlessly with his cologne.
None the wiser, Harry asked, "So… how was your year?"
"Dull compared to yours," she replied.
"I like it that way. So tell me about teaching, and your students. Any you've developed a soft spot for, namely skinny, messy-haired, green-eyed boys with glasses and their red-headed friends?" he asked, reaching over to claim the butter dish from Avril.
Hermione pushed it over to him, "There's nothing really to tell. I love it, I mean, I love being able to show them something and watch them understand and apply it later. I know it sounds terribly cliché but I do. I love to see them, each and every one of them, every day. There's this one girl, Paisley-blonde hair, brown eyes and freckles-who is so smart but so lonely that sometimes I just call her to my office to talk. Maybe she'll have better luck in Second Year. I love setting up the lesson plans, and the tests, and-"
Harry had paused, listening while she spoke, and as she got to "tests", he exclaimed, "I knew it! I'm sure that that's the highlight of Hermione Granger's entire year, 'tests'! You probably have them written out before you've even begun the year."
She glared at him, "I do not! You can't set a test without knowing how much you've covered for the year. You can't test someone for something they haven't been taught!"
Just as irrationally as moments before she was irritated again, so what if he thought she was a swot?
"If you say so… but moving on, how are Professor McGonagall and Hagrid?" he asked now that he was satisfied that he had wound her up a bit.
Unfortunately, he had wound her up a bit and she snapped, "Why don't you go visit them and find out?"
"Haven't the time," he replied, and then immediately changed the topic again. "How are your parents?"
She let him, "They're fine, missing me, wished that I would move home with them again, but they're fine."
"I kept you away from them, didn't I?" he asked quietly, his mind wandering down that path again….
Hermione rolled her eyes to keep herself from joining him, "Oh don't be silly. The war kept me away from them, and if it hadn't they probably wouldn't be here to miss me. If I didn't help you… well…."
"Didn't do Ron much good did it?" asked Harry, without malice.
A strained silence fell over the table, where Avril became the only other source of life (Hedwig was asleep at Harry's desk, Crookshanks lost to the bedroom) and a noisy one. She began chattering almost as soon as they stopped speaking, recounting a story of the day before where she had apparently been attaching something that sounded suspiciously like "garden gnomes" to kites with Fred and George. She didn't seem to notice or care for the adults' discomfort, and that suited them just fine. She deserved to be innocent.
And then they were interrupted by the sound of a voice in the flames. Hermione had heard it so many times that she didn't need a second thought to identify its owner, it was Kingsley.
Coughing mildly, he called to Harry, "Harry, Harry are you there?"
Harry was up and out of the kitchen in an instant. Hermione could not suppress the feeling of being crushed. Breakfast was over, ruined, for no doubt there was another disturbance somewhere. She said nothing though, as she continued to help Avril and tried to shut out the conversation going on behind her.
It made its way to her though. A fire in Bristol, Death Eaters spied, the Dark Mark hovering over a few Wizard homes, he was on vacation but she knew that he would go anyway.
Before it was over she called to him in the living room, "You can go if you want to, I'll clean up here and return the little hostage."
There was a pause, and then Harry took a stab at protesting, "Really, `cause I wanted to spend some time catching up with you before-"
"Yes, I'm sure, it's okay, I know Kingsley there wouldn't call if it wasn't important," she replied.
"It is," he quickly confirmed, needlessly.
Faced with her "permission" and Kingsley's insistence, Harry could say nothing more than, "Okay… I'll get my robes… um… see you in a few."
As he disappeared to his bedroom, and the fireplace fell silent, Hermione could not help the intense feeling of solitude that descended upon her.
But this one was her fault, wasn't it?
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