Okay

A/N: As is the case with nearly everything I write, I started this about three months ago, got bored, and left it to rot in the dark recesses of my writing folder. Dun dun dun, and whatnot, right. Point being that it started out as my contribution to Witherwings.net's March one-shot challenge, “Everything But the Kitchen Sink”. And now it's June and I've brought it out of hiding, cut it in half, changed the tenses, and unintentionally gotten rid of almost all recognizable bits of the original requirements, rendering it rather unchallenge-y after all. Funny how that works.

Disclaimer: Uhm. This involves a vibrating bed. Does that scream, “JKR!” to you?

…

Okay, no, what I was trying to get at was that it is very unlikely that she would write something of this sort. Unless, of course, lectures on the platonic nature of certain situations were given beforehand. *eyeroll*

IT'S NOT MINE, I KNOW, I'LL SHUT UP.

*

It smells like rain.

This isn't the sort of after-rain smell that's fresh and clean and new. This is what comes before, faint, but almost oppressive in its mustiness, as though all the filth and grime that will soon be washed away has reconvened for old times' sake.

She finds herself holding her breath and lets it out slowly, closing her eyes for a moment.

“Nothing,” she hears him mutter, and when she looks at him, he's pulling a fistful of grass up and out of the soil. He lets go, allowing the wind to catch the blades and draw them through the air a ways. “Absolutely nothing.”

“If it's not here, it's not here,” Ron says, shrugging.

“We looked, Harry,” she says, placing a hand on his arm.

He glances at her before turning away again. “I know, but…I had this feeling. Like coming here was our one safe bet. I was so sure we'd get answers, or clues at least, and…” He trails off, rises from the spot where he's been kneeling and swipes at wet grass stains on the knees of his trousers. “Never mind. We may as well go. I'm starving, anyway.”

“Me too, mate,” Ron agrees, digging in his pockets and coming up with a battered package of Bertie Bott's. He extends it to her but she shakes her head, taking a last glance at the gravestones she's standing over before following the others down the hill and toward the gate of the small cemetery. It's growing dark, the sun just barely shining above the treetops and gray clouds rolling in as they wander down a nearly-deserted street to the village and pinpricks of light that lie beyond.

*

They eat that night at a muggle inn that smells vaguely of burnt rubbish, a matter which everyone involved studiously ignores as they hurry through supper. Ron's just polishing off his third basket of chips when Harry leaves the table to approach the graying man behind the bar. She watches, wondering how he can be so calm when he's just visited his parents' graves for the first time, when their only lead has been taken out of the picture. How she can feel so out of sorts while he seems to be unaffected, if a little put out.

He comes back awhile later with a key and shrugs. “It's all there is, right?”

Neither of them argues.

*

“I'm knackered,” Ron announces as they walk through the door, flopping down on the sorry excuse for a bed. The box springs creak dangerously.

“We'll sleep on the floor,” Harry mutters, taking in the stains on the green carpet. “You can take the bed.”

“You should have the bed, Harry,” she says. Ron's feet are hanging over the end of the mattress. “You need the rest.”

“I'm fine, Hermione. And I'm a big boy,” he answers, removing his glasses and rubbing at his eyes in a gesture that clearly implies the opposite. “If I say I want you to have the bed, I want you to have the bed, all righ -”

“Bloody hell!” Ron bolts upright. “I didn't - I don't - it's shaking.”

“It's a vibrating bed,” she explains, taking the two steps necessary to cross the room.

“Vibrat - what?” he asks, horrified.

“Vibrating, Ron.” She rolls her eyes. “It means it moves.”

“I know what it means, thank you,” he snaps, flushing. “I want to know why the hell it does it.”

She doesn't bother correcting his language and glances at Harry who, she's surprised to find, is suppressing the slightest of grins. “I'm not answering that,” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “You go ahead.”

He raises an eyebrow. “See that box? In the corner? You're supposed to put money in it; I don't know why it went off by itself like that...”

Ron approaches it warily. “How d'you expect to fit a galleon in there?”

“You don't. Muggle coins.”

“Right.” He nods knowledgeably. “And, er, why?”

“Muggles - they…you know,” Harry gestures a bit and looks at her helplessly.

“Ah,” Ron's ears turn pink. “I see. Well.” He grabs for a threadbare blanket and cushion. “I'll just be sleeping in the tub, then.”

“Don't know if that'll be much better,” Harry calls after him. The thin door slams. He turns to where she stands by the window and smiles faintly. “So.”

“So.”

“I suppose we should get some sleep.”

She nods. “It's late.”

“Go ahead and take the bed,” he says, “I reckon it's not so different from the floor, anyhow.”

“You paid for the room, Harry.”

“Not like it cost me much.”

“You should sleep.”

“I will. Down here.”

“There're bugs on the floor.”

“There're bugs in the bed.”

She hesitates, folding her arms across her chest and shuddering. “This is positively revolting.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I know. But it's also not as conspicuous as the Leaky Cauldron.” He surveys the room, moving to the tiny wardrobe and opening each cupboard briefly.

“What're you looking for?” she asks, stepping out of her shoes and pulling her cardigan in more tightly.

“Blanket.” He says, shrugging. “Looks like Ron's taken the last one. And I might be a pessimist, but I've got the sneaking suspicion they don't offer room service, here.”

He shuts the last drawer suddenly and backs away. “Best leave that one alone, there's something living in it.”

“Harry.” She says.

“Hmm?”

“Take the bed.”

“Hermione, I'm not. Taking. The bloody. Bed. All right? You're the girl, it's yours.” His voice is tired and annoyed, and she wishes he'd stop being polite already and take what he obviously needs more than she and Ron put together.

“Well share it with me, then, if you're going to be so stubborn.”

He looks away uncomfortably. “I can't -”

“And why not?” she asks.

“Because.”

“Oh, honestly. We've known each other for seven years. I've seen you asleep, before. I've helped dress you when you've been in the Hospital Wing. Don't be such a prat.”

“Fine.” He says, yanking his trainers from his feet and pulling his jumper over his head. “We'll share it. And you can be the one to try and talk some sense into Ron tomorrow morning when he comes out and has a coronary.”

“I plan to,” she says, poking the mattress with a finger before slipping under the patched comforter. It smells like stale smoke.

He sighs, defeated, and sits, fully-clothed, on the other side of the bed, placing his glasses on the rickety nightstand and turning out the lamp. He lies on his back, tucking a musty pillow under his head. The bed is rather smaller than it looked, she notices, seeing the inches that separate them, but Harry makes good use of the space, scooting as close to the edge as possible.

“How long are we staying here?” she whispers, huddling further down into the sheets.

“Dunno,” he murmurs, staring out the window. It's finally begun to rain, and drops are running in rivers down the glass. “I'm not quite sure where to go, next.”

“We can -” she stops. He glances at her over his shoulder. “We can go to Hogwarts. You can see if Dumbledore's portrait will tell you anything. I can see if anything's left of the library.”

“Hogwarts is closed.” He says flatly, turning his gaze back to the storm.

“I know, Harry, but we need to try something. We've been to Godric's Hollow, we've been to Grimmauld Place. We've got the locket. And now we've hit a wall.”

“I'm well aware.”

“Well, why - I don't - what's the matter, then?”

He closes his eyes, brow creasing. “I don't think I want to go back.”

She props herself up on an elbow and studies him for a moment. His face looks bare - younger, perhaps - without his glasses, and at the same time, oddly aged. There are bags beneath his eyes that weren't as noticeable when he had them on. His skin is paler. He looks exhausted. “Why not?” she prompts, resisting the urge to brush his hair away from the scar that is more prominent than ever on his forehead. Maybe he's not as indifferent as he pretends to be.

He opens his eyes a bit. They're bloodshot - he hasn't been sleeping. She's known it, has woken up countless times in recent nights and heard him pacing or seen a fire flickering in the grate down the hallway, but somehow, she's never seen it quite as clearly as she does now.

“It'll be different,” he says, shrugging and causing the bed to sway unsteadily. “It's still the same castle. They're still the same corridors. But Dumbledore, Hagrid…they're not there. There won't be breakfast in the Great Hall. There won't be Quidditch. It'll be us, and an empty common room, if the Fat Lady's even at her portrait, and a load of books and dust. It'll be Hogwarts…but it won't. I'd rather remember it the way it used to be.”

“Nothing's what it used to be,” she says, reaching out to touch his shoulder. He doesn't move. “It's changed. We've changed. And I don't want to see it like that, like an empty shell with the life gone out of it. I don't want it, either, Harry. But we can't stay here, forever. Voldemort comes back to muggles in the end, doesn't he? And we can't go back to Headquarters; not now that Dumbledore's gone and the Fidelius Charm's inactive. We've got to move, we've got to get somewhere, we've got to at least try.”

“I know,” he shifts the tiniest bit closer. “I know. We'll leave tomorrow.”

There's a moment of silence.

“It'll be all right, you know,” she says into it. “It'll end, and you'll beat him, and it'll be all right.”

He rolls onto his side, giving her a wry smile. “I'm supposed to be the one telling you that, I think.”

“Sometimes I don't know if you even believe it,” she breathes.

“Sometimes I don't know if I believe it, either,” he murmurs, blinking to focus on her.

“I do,” she says firmly.

“I know you do,” he nods slightly, “and that's what makes it all okay.” He gives her a look, not a smile exactly, but a little softer, a little more like him, the way he used to be, sadness lurking just beneath the surface, not as hidden as he'd like. He opens his mouth a bit, as if to say something, and then pauses, thinking better of it. “G'night.”

“Night,” she whispers as he moves further away and onto his back, shutting his eyes.

Ron snores once, loudly, from the loo. A cricket chirps. The sink drips in monotone, the cupboard shaking slightly with whatever's inside. Harry's breathing evens out beside her; surprising, as he rarely falls asleep so quickly when he falls asleep at all. Still, there's something off, the hitch at the smallest sound, the lightness of it. He's prepared, on guard, even at his most vulnerable.

Moonlight slants in through the window, highlighting his features, and she finds herself staring at his jaw line, wondering when it became so strong, when he went off and grew up. He's still her Harry, that's still his dreadfully messy hair, those piercing green eyes are still his; if she looks hard enough, she can find traces of the eleven-year-old boy she met on the Hogwarts Express all those years ago. But he's different now, subtly, completely. He's a man.

Odd, as she has a hard time seeing herself as a woman.

His arm slides from its place on his chest, hand landing palm-up on the mattress between them, and she has the sudden urge to touch him, just for a moment, just to prove to herself that he's really here, that this is really him.

Some part of her knows that it's him, of course, knows that it's absurd to think otherwise when she can feel the bed shifting with his weight as he moves, when she can see him, and yet…

Her hand reaches out, almost of its own volition, fingers just barely skimming a scar on his palm. His eyelids flutter but remain closed and he turns on his side to face her, unconsciously sliding forward on the pillow until their foreheads are nearly touching.

His knee bumps hers lightly, separated by blankets, and stays there. She can feel his breath coming out in light puffs on her cheek, knows that if she moves just slightly, she can press her own lips against his.

And then he sighs, stilling, his breathing changing almost imperceptibly, but enough, just enough, and she hears it.

Slowing. Deepening. Becoming normal for what seems like the first time in ages.

She touches her fingertips to his and closes her eyes. It will be all right. He's safe for now, they're together, and she believes in him.

And that's what makes it all okay.

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