Bearings
Disclaimer/Author's Notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. The flashbacks and interludes are key to this story because I'm going for a more complete picture than just Harry and Hermione. Sorry if you don't like them, but as the summary indicates, this isn't only about Mr. Potter and Ms. Granger. Anyways, I'm glad that some of you noticed the oddly forced quality of their initial reunion. The fireworks, both good and bad, are dancing closer and closer to the flame…
And I still hold your hand in mine,
In mine when I'm asleep.
And I will bear my soul in time
When I'm kneeling at your feet.
James Blunt
Goodbye, My Lover
Chapter 4: Reunion, Part II
Harry lay awake long after the lights had been doused, after Hermione's breathing had evened out, and after true silence-the kind only experienced between two and four in the morning-had descended across the campus. The LED of his alarm cast a faint blue light across one corner of his room, but otherwise everything was shrouded in darkness. If he turned his head to the side, he would barely be able to make out Hermione's form across the room.
He was staring at the ceiling, however; it faded in and out of focus, just at the edge of his night vision. One moment, he could clearly make out the patterns there, and the next it was nothing more than a murky grayness. His arms lay placidly at his side, and his breathing had settled to a near-sleep rhythm, but the welcome tendrils hadn't even made an appearance in his consciousness.
The last eight hours had been such a drastic change of pace that he found himself floundering, as if at the edge of some giant pool that kept growing larger and larger, as the shore grew smaller and smaller. Hermione's appearance was not unwelcome, but it complicated things. On top of everything else that was going on in his life at this moment, he now had guilt to deal with, guilt that he hadn't even realized he'd had until an hour before.
Hermione had blown off his blunder over the letter she'd sent, but even he wasn't thick enough to not sense some bitterness from her. She had every right to be bitter, he supposed, but he couldn't deal with this right now. He maintained that…but in the end it didn't really matter, because that guilt had come flooding through him anyway. It had led to an examination of the last four years of his life that left him discomfited and ashamed, but there was a defensive streak there too.
Had he not said before he left Britain all those years ago that he didn't know what would happen, that he didn't know how often he would be back? Had he not told everyone that he was doing this so he could add some direction to his life, one that had been molded by Voldemort, but was now free to choose its own path?
He had, and he remembered it clearly, but he also realized the significance of his childhood friends, and what they meant to him. He'd told himself that he was so busy with this new life and these new friends, so far removed from Britain and the problems of the magical society there, that it would be fine to put all of those issues on the back-burner for a little while. The problem was that a little while had turned into a long while, and he had done more than simply putting aside those thoughts. He had forgotten them.
He'd previously had no experience with the phenomenon of `recall', but the one earlier in the evening had been proof enough that some memories were shrouded, unknowingly. He couldn't believe he'd forgotten something as simple as that night in that small house, but he had. And now he couldn't believe that he'd simply forgotten to write back to Hermione, after all they'd been through. But he had.
A distant rumble of thunder rolled faintly through the silence. The patterns on the ceiling faded into view once again. Everything that he and Hermione had been through faded back into his brain, and he had to clench his teeth against the sudden and overwhelming urge to violently sigh, or perhaps gasp.
He wouldn't be here today without Hermione. If the troll had killed Hermione in the bathroom during their first year-something that Harry couldn't even contemplate, walking into that bathroom and seeing Hermione crushed and bloodied on the floor-he was sure he'd be dead. He could actually enumerate the times she had literally saved his life, sometimes from himself but most often from external threats, and the thing that struck discord within him was that he couldn't count nearly as many reciprocations. Sure, he'd physically saved her life a few times, perhaps twice or thrice, but they didn't add up.
The ceiling drifted out of focus, and Harry closed his eyes against the odd floating sensation. Thunder rumbled again, this time slightly louder, and a soft sighing sound reached Harry's ears. The trees were rustling in the new breeze.
He loved Stanford and all that he had accomplished here, his friends and the baseball team, the new perspective he had gained, but he hated himself for distancing himself so completely from his past. It had been unintentional, that he was sure of, but it was inexcusable. The simple memory that had resurfaced had shown him just how key Hermione and the rest really were, for even such mundane things as staying warm when magic wasn't an option.
As he lay in his bed, his mind drifted back to that cold night, and he could almost feel Hermione's slim arm draped over his side; her soft chest pressed into his back, rising and falling slightly in time with the thump of her heart; her hair as it whispered against the back of his neck, propelled by her tiny puffs of breath; the leg that had curled between his at some point, with the feline curve of her calf pressed against his lower leg.
With his eyes closed, it was easy to see the scene again, and he knew how long he had lain there, unable to fall asleep…almost like now, really. Except, this time Hermione was not in his bed (or he wasn't in hers?), and he didn't know this Hermione nearly as well as that one. The feel of her body would be different than he remembered, wouldn't it? Everything changed, he supposed.
The nostalgia was crushing, and he had to open his eyes. His heart ached for that simpler time, even though on the surface it probably appeared to be much more confusing than now. He knew better, though. The six of them had formed a bond that year, trekking across the UK after Voldemort's horcruxes on weekends, which was as easy as it was profound. He longed for the time before pretense, when they could share a room and not worry about offending anyone, or share a bed and not worry about any repercussions.
Harry was feeling the repercussions now, though, and he listened as a shhhh-ing sound grew into existence, followed by a closer and louder rumble of thunder. That could only be rain, the very same rain that John had promised earlier in the day, and it was soon streaming against the window steadily. Quickly, almost too quickly, the storm grew in intensity: the thunder rolled louder and clearer than before and the flashes of lightning were more distinct now. All at once, the blue light of his clock cut off, and then he was in total darkness. The power had failed.
And in a strange way, the complete lack of light brought up his other sense, hearing, and the rain hitting his window dominated the room. The thunder and lightning were already passing, it seemed, but the rain had not lessened. Just as he was getting lost in that sound, perhaps finally succumbing to the sleep that had so long evaded him, noises to his right aroused his failing consciousness.
He turned his head slightly and although he knew he couldn't really see it, he saw Hermione moving, turning over possibly. Again, it was just on the edge of his vision, and the sound was clearer than anything.
"What's that?" came her voice, disembodied, from the darkness. It was thick with sleep.
"Power died," Harry replied. His voice was low and raspy, almost a dry whisper.
There was more movement, again perceived more through his ears than his eyes, and somehow he knew that Hermione was facing him, peering at him through the gloom, as he was she. The rain, relentless in its noise, gusted against the window.
Hermione sighed. His ears told him she was rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands, but he couldn't know that. Not in this absolute darkness. She might have then brought her hands away from her face and turned more toward him, curling under the blanket a bit.
"Why did you never write back, Harry?" her voice sailed out of the dark again, and Harry could do nothing to dodge the ship as it docked in the harbor of his brain. Hadn't he just been thinking about that very same question? And now she wanted to know? Perhaps it would be best if he somehow tried to articulate the reason to her…
The reason? What reason? He hadn't gotten that far. He'd been stuck on the guilt and the shame, and hadn't ever found a good reason for why he'd done it. And that wasn't the type of answer that one gave Hermione Granger. She needed something a little more substantial, and he had a sinking feeling that he wouldn't be able to give her what she wanted.
"I don't know," his mouth said; his brain screamed in frustration at his ineloquence, but there was nothing it could do. He was Harry Potter, not Winston bleeding Churchill. Harry had no eloquence, at least not when it came to matters of the heart.
That sigh came again, though it had changed in tone. It was a little sharper on the front end, and lasted longer on the back end. He thought it could have meant frustration, but for once his hearing failed him. He didn't know what she was thinking.
"How come you haven't been back in so long?" came another question. Hermione's voice was a little clearer this time, but that might have been because the last vestiges of sleep had cleared from her mind.
"I don't know," he said again, aware that he sounded unflatteringly like a broken record. And maybe because he was expecting it, or perhaps he had some Seerish qualities, he knew the sigh was coming again before he heard it. He also knew that it would be sharper and longer, and sure enough, it was.
"What do you know?" she asked. It changed pitch in the middle in an odd way, and he could only assume she had sat up. He squinted into the gloom, but he could merely see a blob of indistinctness.
"That I'm a right git," he replied, with sincerity. His brain was nodding in approval, but he knew that it was only a start. There would have to be a lot more to come.
"What?" The voice that came to him had changed timbre, and he knew that she was sitting on the edge of her bed, facing him. Harry still didn't move from his back.
"You heard me."
"I did, but I didn't understand you."
"I'm a git, Hermione. S'why I didn't write back," he said. The rain had faded to a drone, though it was as strong as ever. There was something weird about holding a conversation with a disembodied voice, but it was wisp of a thought, lost as soon as it had come.
"That's not really an explanation, you know."
"It's all I know how to say," he replied.
"Harry, if there's something you want to tell me, please do," she said, and there was an interesting new quality to her voice. It was…fearful? No, that wasn't it. More like…waiting.
"I can't tell you anything more than I'm sorry."
Silence fell between the pair, but it was very brief. More rustling noises, and Harry knew that Hermione had stood.
"Sorry doesn't cut it, Harry," she said, and that quality he had heard was gone. It had been replaced by a harder, harsher edge; something that he didn't like hearing from Hermione.
He bit back a growl of frustration. It was hard enough to sort through his thoughts, and now he had Hermione interrogating him. It was like staring into the barrel of a loaded gun with a faulty trigger, praying to god you or it didn't set the mechanism off.
"What do you want me to say?"
"How about answering my questions?" She was standing now. "Why did you stop coming back to Britain? How could you just forget my letter? Shall I go on?"
Harry sat up and ran a hand through his hair. Movement in his periphery caught his eye, and he turned his head. Hermione slowly materialized out of the darkness-she was slowly crossing the room, almost warily. She was wearing a pair of boxers and small tank top. He thought something was glinting around her midriff, but there was no light for anything to reflect.
Her edges slowly sharpened, and soon her face was clear enough for Harry to see the frown there. Her hair hung loosely around her face, swinging lightly with every movement. Her eyes appeared black in the gloom.
"You just show up like this…and you expect me to have all the answers?" She didn't answer immediately, and instead came up next to his bed. She was looking down at him.
"Are they really that hard to come by?"
"Hermione, I left Britain because I didn't have the answers people wanted. I left because I didn't have the answers I wanted!"
She put her hands on her hips, and that thing glinted again. Harry squinted, and was mildly surprised to see that Hermione had her navel pierced. Another wall came tumbling down in his head…
"I didn't need any answers from you Harry. Not then." She paused, and then sat down on the edge of his bed. She was turned away from him slightly, so that he could only see the side of her face. Harry was having a hard time focusing on it, with all that lovely skin exposed.
He swallowed hard. What was wrong with him? This was Hermione, not some object to lust after. He didn't know where (her chest pressed against his back) all of these foreign thoughts (her arm over his side) were coming from.
"But I do now," she said. All the harshness had gone out of her voice. Now it was very quiet.
Harry said nothing for at least a minute. He simply watched her face, watched her stare at something that only she could see. She then turned slightly, so her back was to him, and leaned against his side.
"Isn't this all kind of surreal to you?" he asked her. "To show up like this, after so long…and now you're rooming with me, like nothing's changed."
"What has changed?"
"We have, Hermione. We both have. We used to see each other every day, for seven years. We had a constancy then that's hard to duplicate, even if we wanted to… You've been building your career for the last four years, and I'm sure you've forged a lot of new relationships in the Ministry. You also have Ron and the others very close.
"I, well I've been exposed to a lot of new things, some of which seem so fundamental now that I wonder how I ever lived without them. And I don't mean the Muggle comforts, I'm talking about the normal, everyday life that I have here that is impossible for me back in Britain."
He hadn't expected to say so much, but it had just flowed. Hermione didn't move for quite a while, though he could feel her breathing against his side. When she finally did, it was to turn so her legs and her head were aligned with Harry's.
"Move over," she said, and he thought he might have been able to hear a smile in her voice. He tried to look at her face, but the angle wasn't right. Whatever reaction he had been expecting from her, this wasn't it. But he moved over anyway, and then she was sitting next to him, her body leaning against his, shoulder to shoulder.
"You overestimate me, you know," she told him. "I really don't have many friends back home…kind of reminds me of the old days," she said, and laughed derisively. If there had been a smile on her face, it was gone now.
"But-"
"And," she intoned, cutting him off; "Our old friends have their own lives now as well. We hardly see each other anymore. The only time that really happens is at the Burrow at one of Molly's dinners, and it's rare that all of us are there at once."
Harry shrugged, though his shoulders didn't go very far, because Hermione's was pressed against his.
"What do you want me to say? I don't have the solutions, Hermione. We live in a new world, one that we are shaping, with everyone else our age. None of the decisions are going to be easy."
"So it was a decision to stop coming home or writing? Or responding?" She laid her head on Harry's shoulder as she spoke. "You decided to forget about us? About me?"
"No, ok? No. I didn't forget about any of you. I just…it was easy to get caught up in things over here."
"You could've gotten caught up in things back home," she mumbled.
"Yeah, the bloody PR machine that is the Boy-Who-Lived," Harry responded.
Hermione lifted her head and turned it to look at Harry. He turned as well and looked in her eyes. He could just barely see the darker speckles amidst the lighter irises.
"What's so ruddy bad about the Boy-Who-Lived?" she asked
"That's not me, Hermione-"
"It may not be all you, Harry," she said. Their faces had inched closer together. "But it is at least a part of you. You killed Voldemort. You freed millions of people from his terror. You can't deny that."
"I'm not denying that, alright! It's just not who I want to be. The fucking prophecy made me what I was. I never wanted to kill anyone! I never wanted to have the lives of the five of you in my hands!" Harry started to turn his face away, but Hermione reached up and held it, forcing him to look at her. He almost knocked her hands away, but held back.
"But that was something you did, and you did it admirably. To deny a part of you is to never be completely whole, someone much wiser than I once said. Why are you running from it, Harry?" Her voice had grown very soft at the end.
"I'm not running from anything, Hermione," he said, more as a sigh than anything else. Her eyes, her pert nose, her pouty lips, and the conversation they were having…they were all vying for attention in his overworked and overtired brain.
"Yes you are," she whispered. "You're running from what you've been unable to accept. And I've been chasing you."
"Huh?" he asked, but all thought ceased as she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his.
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May 5th, 2002
The first thing Harry was aware of was unusual warmth against his side; accompanied by a weight he couldn't ever remember being there. Sleep left him slowly, and he stretched languorously as full consciousness greeted him. A soft form pressed against his side.
His eyes shot open, and for one confused second, he was seeing two things at once. The translocation was disconcerting, because he was back in the cold shack and in his dorm room. The only constant between the two was Hermione sleeping next to him.
Then, he was in California, all of him, and he blinked back the dull gray light coming through the blinds. He could still hear the rain, and one look at his clock told him that the power had been restored at some point, and that he still had several hours until he had to be ready for his game.
He glanced down, and saw the aftermath of the night before; Hermione was sprawled out across one side of the bed on her stomach, one leg over Harrys', her face turned to the side so he could the see the peace her sleep brought her. Her tank top had ridden up a bit, giving him a fairly long view of her bare back, and her boxers had scrunched up. The curve of her rear was just visible, and her legs stretched to infinity toward the end of the bed…
He rubbed his eyes, trying to figure out exactly how he had gone from arguing with Hermione to kissing her. Except, he hadn't kissed her-she had kissed him. Her lips had moved through the darkness and greeted his before he could react, and then she had pressed him back toward the bed. Everything that followed was a bit of a blur, but he knew that it had been mostly limited to kissing. Mostly.
What had he done? Why had he let it continue like that? This was Hermione here. This was the girl he'd known since he was eleven, before she'd exhibited any of the womanly qualities that so interested his gaze now. But, then again, he hadn't initiated it, so what was the problem?
The problem was that he didn't know how or why he had let it continue, and if he was honest with himself, he felt like a creep for letting it. He had let something as simple as responding to her letter slip, and here he was kissing her.
Why did she kiss him, though? Did she come all this way, halfway across the world, to do that? He did enjoy the feel of her lips and her tongue, and her body pressed against his, and since this was Hermione, and not some random bint, they at least had years of history together. How had that history led to this, though? This giant leap from the last time he'd seen her, when she had actually seemed rather distant.
Hermione stirred, and his thought process trailed off as he watched her come up from slumber. She stretched slowly, and the maddening boxers rode up even more, but he told himself that it was just the female form he was interested in. Then there was this mewling sound, somewhat like a sigh, which drew his eyes back to her face. She turned toward him and opened her eyes slowly. Her face remained unreadable.
"What time is it?"
"Almost nine," he replied. He found it hard to make eye contact with her.
She wriggled a bit, and then reached to remove the bunched up material from between her legs. It smoothed out, recovering her curves.
"So," she said.
"So," Harry echoed.
Hermione raised herself up on her elbows. She looked straight ahead for a moment. She then rolled off the bed into a standing position, and the tank top returned to its proper length.
"What time is your game?"
"One."
"Shall we get some breakfast?"
Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Hermione, what happened-"
"Harry," she interrupted. "Let's get some breakfast."
"But-"
"Just let it go for now," she said, and waved her hand, creating a screen that stretched across the room. "I'm going to get changed and then we can go eat." Harry sat there for a moment, eyebrows raised, more confused than ever. He decided to let it go…for now…and got changed. After they were both decent, they made their way silently to the dining hall. Several people greeted Harry and his new friend with curious looks, but none of them said anything.
After Harry had gotten Hermione into the dining center and some food, he led her over to a table near the back. He watched her pick at her food for a few minutes, and then he'd had enough. They were going to talk about this, here and now.
"Hermione-"
"Harry, are you glad to see me?" she asked over him.
"What? Sure, of course I am." She raised her eyes to meet his.
"Are you?"
"Yeah, Hermione…you're just confusing me, alright? We're bloody arguing then you off and kiss me? I'm not exactly a sodding genius, but I know that something is off here."
"You kissed me back," she pointed out, though to Harry it sounded a lot like what a petulant child would say.
"Yeah, I did, and that's one of the reasons I'm confused."
"Did you like it?"
Harry let his fork clatter down on the tray. "What kind of question is that? How old are you, fifteen? I think you could tell I liked it." She had a weird smile on her face, as if she knew the answer to some mysterious riddle that Harry didn't (which was very likely), and that it somehow had to do with the meaning of life.
It was out of place, and Harry thought that all of the past sixteen hours were out of place. He couldn't fathom what was going on.
"Hermione, why did you really come over here?"
"Because I was trapped, Harry."
"Trapped?"
She nodded. "Trapped, smothered, confined…what have you. I guess I stopped living, and was just existing."
Great, now she was going to get philosophical on him. Harry sighed, picked up his fork again, and took a bite of the omelet in front of him.
"Ok…" Harry intoned.
"Harry, don't you get it?" she asked him, gesticulating wildly. Harry made a helpless gesture.
"I haven't done anything since you've left, you know. I work fifty sometimes sixty hours a week, I have no social life, haven't had a date since Hogwarts really…"
She looked down at what she was doing to the food on her plate. When she looked back up, Harry noticed that her eyes were shimmering.
"That's why I came out here, Harry. To see you. To help you remember there are people and places that still need you, whether you care to admit it or not. To spend some time with you. To kiss you…" She looked down again. Harry dropped his fork for the second time and reached across the table, enveloping Hermione's smaller hands in his.
"You know I could never forget you, right?"
She didn't look up, but spoke to her plate: "Then why did I never get a response?"
"Because as I said last night, I'm a git. There's no excuse." She finally looked up, and the shimmering had pooled into definite moisture, gathering on her lower eyelids. She was worrying her lower lip with her teeth, and Harry could barely keep his eyes off it. It hadn't been that long ago that he had been indulging in those lips…
"Harry, I…"
"What?"
She took a deep breath; Harry watched, mesmerized, as her chest strained against the blouse she was wearing. What was with him recently? He was acting like a teenager.
"I came here to tell you…to tell you…"
"To tell me what?"
"To tell you that-"
"Harry!" a familiar voice cut across the dining hall, and whatever Hermione had been about to say, it was lost. She pursed her lips and looked over at the interruption, discreetly wiping her eyes, Harry noticed, as she did so. Harry looked over there as well, and saw John and Tom heading their way. John gave them a winning a smile, and Tom looked curious. They both pulled up chairs and set their breakfasts down on the table. John was still grinning at the two of them when they were settled.
"So, ready to play on this gorgeous day?" he asked Harry. Harry merely nodded.
"Excuse me, but if you don't mind me asking, who is this lovely lady?" Tom asked, looking at both Harry and Hermione.
"Hermione Granger," she said, extending her hand to the short, stocky man.
"Tom Rockwell," he replied, shaking it. "Are you one of Harry's friends from-how do you say it? Across the pond?"
Hermione smiled at him. "Indeed I am. And you are…?"
"He's our catcher," Harry replied for him. Tom nodded.
"And you're really going to play in the rain?" Hermione asked them. Harry marveled at how quickly her attitude had changed, in the span of a few seconds. She was a very good actress, because Harry could tell that she was still bothered. That inner language they had shared, that had developed over their years at Hogwarts, had come back almost instantly, and he could see it in her pose and even in the tone of her voice. He wondered how many things she could tell about him just by the way he was sitting.
"Yeah, sure, why not?" John asked.
Hermione shrugged. "Dunno. Thought they usually postponed it during weather."
"Nah," Tom replied. "That's only for those pussies-err, excuse me-those wimps in the majors." Tom turned just slightly red. Harry and John laughed at him, and Hermione smiled at him.
"Sorry," Tom mumbled.
Harry laughed even harder. "What are you sorry for? I've heard far worse come out of her mouth, though she would never admit it."
"Harry! You have not!" she replied, and although Harry knew it was an act, it was a convincing one, and it drew Tom and John in. He stared at her for a second, and she just smiled demurely at him. She knew he knew.
"Like what, Potter?" John asked.
"I don't think you're mature enough for that type of language, John," Harry said. John looked affronted, and this time it was Tom's turn to laugh.
"Out with it, Potter," John said.
"Ok, but I'm telling you, she's going to deny it," Harry said, still looking at Hermione. She raised a brunette eyebrow, as if daring him to continue.
"We were out shopping just before the last Christmas I spent in Britain…so that would be eighteen months ago…and we were in the bookstore. For some reason, the proprietor was astounded and furious that Hermione here knew more about the place and about books in general than he did." Hermione's eyes widened a little, and Harry smiled at her. She knew what he was talking about. John and Tom were listening with small smirks on their face.
"So as we're leaving, the guy says under his breath, `Ruddy twats, all kinds this time of year…' Now, I don't know if he meant for us to hear it, but Hermione whipped around and stared the guy in the face and said, "Fuckin' poofter, why don't you go bugger yourself?'"
Harry could barely contain his laughter at the memory, but he noticed right away that Tom and John looked puzzled more than anything else. Hermione just looked liked a tomato, but there was still a small smile on her face.
"Poofter? What the hell is that?" Tom asked.
"It's a very derogatory term associated with homosexuals," Hermione answered, and most of the redness had gone out of her face.
"So…kinda like `fag'?" Tom asked.
Harry shook his head. "Worse."
"Ah," Tom replied, and looked to Hermione. "Well? Is it true?"
"Ask me no questions and I will tell you no lies," Hermione answered, and then started laughing.
"That's a confirmation if I've ever heard one," Harry said, and locked eyes with Hermione again. Some of that hidden tension had faded, and Harry watched as more and more of it went out of her through the rest of the meal.
The rest of the morning passed quickly. Harry and Hermione finished up his project and then Harry got ready for the game. They avoided further talk of what had transpired, but Harry was sure that it would come up again, and probably soon. After Harry had donned his uniform ("Rather dashing," Hermione had commented) and collected his equipment, they set out for the athletic fields in the rain, which had increased again throughout the morning. Hermione had applied a very discreet Repelling charm to herself, but she was carrying an umbrella to keep up appearances. Harry was going to get wet no matter what, so he didn't bother with such comforts. Most of the team was at the field when Harry arrived, and the stands were already mostly full, so Harry and Hermione parted at the team entrance.
She went toward the public seating and he went into the locker rooms, and both happened to look back over their shoulders at the same time. Hermione smiled at him, and Harry returned it; she disappeared around the corner of the stadium.
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The weather hadn't exactly made playing easy, but the Stanford team pulled out a win, 5-4. Harry had two hits, both singles, and a few standard plays in the field, but all told, it wasn't a very exciting game. John had given up 3 early runs, but had then held them to only one more through the rest of the game.
Harry was painfully aware of Hermione's presence in the stands the entire time, and for some reason he felt more nervous than ever before because of it. He couldn't explain it, but he didn't want to let her down. He didn't, but it was odd, since he was usually so calm and collected when it came to the games.
Later, after the game and dinner, Harry and Hermione stopped off at his room for a few minutes.
"You wanna come out with us tonight, Hermione?"
She shook her head. "No thanks. I'm still quite jet-lagged."
"Ok…then you're just going to bed?"
"Yeah, I think so," she replied.
"Hermione…"
"Go have a good time, Harry," she said, waving him off. "You deserve it. Your team is excellent, and so are you."
"Alright, but that's not what I was talking about."
Hermione sighed, and then turned to face him fully. Harry had to admit, she did look tired. Her normally lively eyes were somewhat dimmed.
"Later. We can talk about it some other time."
"Ok," Harry acquiesced. "There's a spare key on my desk over there, in case you decide to go anywhere-"
"Harry, I can handle it. Go," she said, and laughed lightly at him. He shrugged, and turned away. As he exited the room, he stuck his head back in for just a second. He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped when he saw that Hermione had dropped her face into her hands, standing there in the middle of his room. He closed his mouth and left, silently closing the door behind him.
He went out with the team, bar-hopping across town, but his heart wasn't in it. He had a few beers, but by the time he arrived back on campus much later that night, he was completely sober and feeling a little melancholy. His world had been turned upside down during the past day, and it felt like it was still spinning.
He opened the door as quietly as he could, assuming correctly that Hermione was asleep, and the ambient light coming from the window told him a strange story: she was asleep in his bed. He stood in the doorway, blinking at the oddly serene sight, and then moved into the room. He had to let his eyes adjust further after he closed the door, and when they did, he went about changing into a pair of boxers and light t-shirt for sleeping.
He stood in the center of the room for a minute or maybe four, warring with himself over where he should sleep. One part of his brain was telling him to sleep in the other bed, but the other part, surprisingly not totally controlled by his animal instincts, told him to slip into bed with Hermione. Eventually, that side won out, because after all it was his bed.
He pulled back the corner of the blanket and slowly slid in; the warmth under there was amazing, and he quickly found himself succumbing to the long day. He took a deep breath, turned on side so his back was to Hermione, and closed his eyes. In a startling and overwhelming moment of déjà vu, a thin arm slipped over his side and rested across his chest. Sleep came quickly.
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May 6th, 2002
"Leadership," Harry started, "is not about power over someone else." He paused, sweeping his eyes over the assembled Management class, and glanced down at his speech. He had given his professor, Dr. Gerard, the other copy. "It's not about influence, either."
"Leadership is about truly believing in something, and getting others to believe that. Being a leader requires more than public speaking skills, or the ability to multitask-it requires a real belief in what you are trying to accomplish. Without that belief, it is very easy to become lost in the mundane tasks you're presented with, or the roadblocks along the way.
"Without that belief, the people and the things and the ideas you are supposedly leading can lose themselves, and when that has happened, it's very hard to regain the trust required to lead. It can be difficult, at times, but a true leader uses that belief to overcome the difficulties, to rally his people or works around the cause, and to set them off so they can accomplish the tasks before them."
He looked at his speech again, drawing a breath. The class was paying rapt attention, and he knew it was because he was Harry Potter, star shortstop…it's funny how things came full circle.
"Whether you are leading a corporation, a classroom, or an army, it is up to you to know the direction you want to go in, and ultimately the outcome that is collectively desired. As a leader, the belief that must be so sure within you is what drives the entire process, the ability to fail or succeed, to live or die…
"Look around this room. There may be people in here who are natural born speakers; they have charisma, poise, elocution, but they have no true belief. This is an extreme example, but Adolf Hitler had all of those things, including that true belief, and look at what he did. Osama bin Laden truly believes in his cause, which is considered to be extremist and terror-based in most of the rest of the world, but he has rabid followers that would die for him.
"Obviously, I hope that none of you will become leaders of that sort, so another good example is Bill Gates, the CEO of Microsoft. He truly believes in spreading easy-to-use, cheap, and uniform software across the globe, making it easier for everyone to communicate, and look at all he has done.
"I could go on and on, but I won't. I don't need to. Leading is more than a powerful voice and an imposing presence. It's belief in what you do. If you can find something you physically, mentally, and spiritually believe in, you will be formidable, no matter what the content is."
He looked to Dr. Gerard and nodded, and then returned to his seat. There was a smattering of applause, as was expected after every final presentation, and then the next person went forward to present.
Following that final, Harry had several more, and then a few days off before graduation. Harry continued to dance around Hermione, and she seemed content to do the same. Their kiss was not repeated in the days leading up to his graduation, but they continued to sleep in the same bed. Harry was drawing some kind of comfort from it, and he could tell that Hermione was as well.
One morning he woke up spooning her, and when she woke up and stretched, accidentally (he thought so, at least) rubbing her bum against his crotch, there was stirring there that Hermione had to have noticed. She didn't say anything, but she hadn't moved. They had lain there in silence for several minutes, before Harry couldn't take it anymore, and had gotten up to take a shower. It wasn't mentioned, and the days passed quickly.
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May 15th, 2002
The ceremony had come and gone, and Harry was officially a graduate of Stanford University, summa cum laude. As he sat in his seat, with the cheering of all his fellow grads around him, he realized that he hadn't figured anything out. He still didn't know where he was going, and he had to move out the next day. He sighed and stood, and plastered a smile to his face.
He turned in a full circle, stopping when he spotted Hermione toward the back of the large crowd. They made eye contact; she smiled at him and he nodded back. He began to fight his way through the celebrating students, pausing once or twice to exchange pleasantries with a classmate, and eventually got into the main isle. That reprieve lasted only a short time, though, because it was soon just as crowded. He didn't think he'd ever get to Hermione, who was waiting patiently, watching his progress, but he cleared the last of the people and started toward her.
Ten feet from her, a man stepped into his path, extending a hand. Harry looked into his smiling face. He was shorter than Harry and balding, but he was wearing what looked like an extremely expensive tailored suit. He was rather slim, Harry noted.
"Hello. Harry Potter?" the man asked. Harry hesitated for a moment, and then shook his hand, nodding.
"That's me."
"I thought so. Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Brian Cashman, and I represent the New York Yankees."
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