Home. With Harry.

It's not something I do very often, going out like this. After all, Head Unspeakable Hermione Granger is far too responsible and straight-laced to go out and have a good time, right?

Wrong.

It's a rare occasion, I admit, but I take full advantage every time it happens. My job doesn't allow me much leeway in schedule flexibility, but I welcome the work with open arms. It's what I do.

Ron doesn't understand how I can only hit the pubs once every three months or so; it's one of the things that bothers me the most about our relationship. He's out nearly every evening after practice with the Cannons, drinking and cavorting about with his team mates. At first it bothered me a great deal and we'd often end up in a row over it, but I've learned that it's something Ron needs to do. He spent so many years as Sidekick Ron Weasley in the shadow of The Great Harry Potter (at least, that's the way he tells it) that he seems to think he needs to make up for lost time now that he's the star Keeper of the Chudley Cannons.

He tries to get me to join him quite often, but I'd rather use the time alone in our flat to finish off some of my work. I'd much prefer to do paperwork than suffer the company of a drunken Quidditch team.

That's another thing I don't like about our relationship. He gets mad when I don't want to come out with him, and then go out or my occasional night of indulgence. He gets even angrier at the fact that these nights are spent in Harry's company. It's almost as if he's jealous or has trust issues, but that's silly. It's just Harry.

Anyway, this is neither here nor there, and definitely something I shouldn't be worrying about right now. It's Friday night, Ron is at The Leaky Cauldron with his team mates, and I'm sitting in a booth at a Muggle pub called `The Witch's Teat' (rather odd name if you ask me, but the food is good and the drinks are superb) with Harry, working on my second daiquiri.

It's been nearly three months since I last saw him; he's now the top Auror in the Ministry and he's been off on a top secret mission for quite some time. We have a lot of catching up to do.

“So how's Ron?” he asks, sipping from his tankard. I'm the first person he's seen since he came back; it's my duty to inform him of what he's missed.

“Good,” I say, drawing runes in the frost of my glass with my nails. “He's out with the team tonight. They beat Puddlemere today.”

“Ahh, so you're not expecting him home until late? I'm glad the Cannons finally beat them; it's about time. Plus it means I get you all to myself for a bit longer.” He grins at me over his drink and my stomach does a flip. I'm not entirely sure if it's from him or the alcohol, but his smile just leads me to wonder why he isn't dating anyone. A grin like that is enough to make even Draco Malfoy fling his knickers at Harry.

Now there's a picture I didn't want in my head.

“So how was the mission?” I ask, deciding for the moment to ignore that little flip. This is Harry, just Harry. It must've been the rum.

“Our side won,” says Harry, leaning against the back of the booth.

“More Death Eaters?”

“Captured four.”

“Anyone I'd like to see in Azkaban?”

“Top secret info, Miss Granger.” There's that blasted grin again. And I haven't touched my drink in minutes.

“Need I remind you, Auror Potter, that I have the same level of clearance you do?” Oh how I missed our banter while he was gone.

He laughs; its infection and I can't help but join in. He stops suddenly, and fixes me with a serious look.

“Malfoy, Macnair, Mulciber and Dolohov.”

“Good work.”

Harry has made it his personal mission to track down every single Death Eater that escaped from the War unscathed. With Voldemort gone, they are scattered and without a leader: vulnerable targets.

“Was rather interesting, actually, the excuses they tried to use this time.”

“Oh?”

“Macnair and Mulciber claimed that Riddle threatened to castrate them if they didn't follow him.”

“Didn't know there was enough there to remove,” I commented, “though if there were it'd be quite the incentive.”

“Dolohov said Riddle poisoned him and since he was the only one with the antidote…”

“Not too bright, that one.” I almost wish Dolohov had been dead when Harry found him, but he'll suffer in Azkaban. My chest still aches from time to time thanks to that violet curse he once shot at me. “Malfoy's excuse this time?”

“Dolohov made him do it.”

“Tell me you're joking.”

“Nope, didn't even try to claim Imperius this time. Just pointed the finger at Dolohov and shut his gob after that.”

“It'll be good to see him in a cell.”

Harry nods, and we lapse into silence. Several minutes pass before Harry breaks it.

“Are you happy, Hermione?”

“Of course I am, what kind of question is that?”

“You're lying.”

“Fine, if you think I'm not happy, then you must have some reasoning behind it. Care to explain?”

He takes a deep breath and looks me straight in the eye. “You're not happy with Ron.”

“Interesting theory Harry, but you're going to have to elaborate further on that if you're to prove that I'm lying.”

“You're like night and day, the two of you. He's happy spending nearly every night getting pissed with the team; you're happy curled on the sofa with a cup of tea and a bit of `light reading'.”

“True, but that's hardly enough reason for me to be entirely unhappy.”

He sits quietly for a few moments, and I let him gather his thoughts without interruption.

“I don't think you love him.”

I'm almost tempted to laugh, but Harry looks so sad that I just can't. “Of course I love Ron, Harry, don't be silly.”

“No you don't. Not anymore.”

I sit back and let his words wash over me. Not anymore. Could he be right? Is this why his smile is making my stomach do flips and I no longer get angry when Ron stays out all hours of the night? “Okay, hypothetically of course, let's say you're right. I'm not in love with Ron anymore. Now what?”

“I think you've let him hold you back.”

Now I have to laugh. “Harry, I'm the Head Unspeakable. If that's Ron holding me back, I'm afraid to see what I can do without him.”

“You could be Minister for Magic,” he says quietly, “but you know Ron wouldn't like that. Even as Keeper for the Cannons he'd feel like you were overshadowing him, and he's enjoying his time in the spotlight. You're not fulfilling your own potential to keep him happy.”

“Go on.” My mind is reeling at these new revelations. Why doesn't anyone point these things out to me until I'm apparently already arse-deep in the situation?

“You don't read anymore. Well, of course you do, for work, but I can't remember the last time you raved about a particularly fantastic book you picked up at Flourish and Blotts. And when was the last time you talked to Padma, or Ginny? Well, Ginny obviously the last time you were at a Weasley family dinner. But I mean as friends? Going out for lunch and talking?”

“I read,” I say stubbornly, while desperately trying to recall the last time I picked up a book that wasn't for work.

“And your friends?”

“I spoke to Padma just last week.”

“Inter-departmental memos don't count.”

I found myself at a loss for words.

“You know I'm right,” he says gently, reaching across the table and placing a warm hand on my own. I shiver involuntarily.

“I don't know if I want you to be right,” I whisper.

He sits silently, staring into my eyes like he can read everything I'm feeling in them; perhaps he can.

My mind is reeling; I'm suddenly beginning to realize that I've been holding myself back. For Ron. Harry's right. When the last election came around nearly everyone I knew was lobbying for me to run, and yet I didn't. I claimed my work in the Department of Mysteries was exactly what I wanted in life but I know that somewhere deep down I was unconvinced.

I don't talk to my friends anymore. Of course that would require me having many friends in the first place, but I used to talk to Padma and Ginny on a regular basis. We'd go out for lunch or grab a cup of coffee together; we'd Floo-call each other when we couldn't get together.

I can't remember the last time I really spoke to Padma. And I only see Ginny whenever we're at the Burrow.

I can't even recall the last time I bought a book purely for the pleasure of reading it.

The waitress is coming by; I see her out of the corner of my eye and flag her down. “Tequila shots,” I say in a shaky voice, “Doubles, please. One for each of us, as well as limes and salt.”

She nods and heads back towards the bar. Harry gives me a puzzled look.

“Oh sod off, Potter,” I say bitterly, draining the last of my daiquiri. “Blast you and your insight.”

He looks confused, but the waitress returns with our shots and sets them down. I grab the salt shaker, lick the back of my hand and sprinkle salt on it, and then lick it off. Harry follows suit, and we carefully clink our shot glasses together before downing them. I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to ignore the burning, and grope wildly for the lime. Finding it I pop it in my mouth and suck hard at the citrus fruit, relaxing as it seems to neutralize the feeling of tequila washing down my throat.

“Any particular reason why we just did that?” Harry asks, his glass clattering to the tabletop.

I signal the waitress again, and demand a whole row of shots for the two of us. Harry watches in silence as she brings over a bottle of tequila and a bowl of limes.

“You'll find it much quicker to pour it yourself than having me bring them to you, trust me.”

“Brilliant,” I say in agreement, smiling at her as she walks away. “Smart woman,” I comment to Harry.

“You're going to get drunk, Hermione.”

“Isn't that the point of a night at the pub?” I ask belligerently, pouring us another pair of shots.

He shakes his head and takes another shot with me. “I certainly hope you weren't planning on Apparating home,” he sighs.

I pour two more shots, and push them towards the centre of the table so I can stare at the amber liquid for a few moments. “Cab,” I say.

“You're not drinking your shot.”

I feel a bit too dizzy to pick up the glass; two tequila shots in less than three minutes apparently go rather quickly to my head. “Yes, well…”

Harry shuffles over in the booth, and wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

He smells better than any human being should be allowed to, and his scent is so unique, so Harry that it makes my knees weak. Thank goodness I'm sitting or I'd be face down on the floor.

Why am I suddenly noticing Harry so much? Is it the tequila? The rum? Possibly both? He's close, so close, and it would be all too easy to just turn my head and…

Stop it, Hermione!

He's your best friend!

Well, so was—is Ron, and I'm dating him.

Why am I dating him again?

“Oh blast it!” I lick salt off of my hand, down the shot, and bite viciously into another lime.

“I'm sorry,” says Harry, not meeting my eyes. “Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. Now you're upset. You're drinking tequila for Merlin's sake.”

“You did the right thing, Harry,” I slur. I avoid looking at him, and relax into his embrace. Probably not a good idea, but I'm beginning to feel tipsy and suddenly don't care.

“No, I didn't.” He takes his third shot, and looks at me.

I just about crumble at the intensity of his fiery emerald gaze.

“You're my best friend, and so is Ron. And I know you, Hermione. You're rethinking and analyzing and trying to decide what to do now that you've realized—or admitted to yourself—what's become of you. You'll break up with Ron, he'll blame me, and I'll—“

He stops talking suddenly, and I can't help but wonder why.

“You'll what, Harry? Be caught in the middle?”

“Yes, that's exactly what I meant to say.” His cheeks flush.

“You're lying.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not!”

“Stop being petulant, Harry, and get on with it already.”

He pours himself another shot, and I stare in amazement at how much tequila is already missing from the bottle. I watch as he shakes salt onto the back of his hand and dips his head to lick it off. His tongue darts out and takes a long lick of the salt against his skin, and I squirm in my seat. Must. Not. Think. Dirty. Thoughts. This is Harry, just Harry of all people. I should not be thinking about his tongue like that.

Oh Merlin, now it's all I can think about.

He's shaking his head and I can't understand why. It's the first time in a long time that I've been unable to tell what he's thinking, and I don't like it.

Note to self: never do tequila shots with Harry again.

“Hermione…” he says sadly, refusing to look at me.

I sway a bit in my seat, but manage to turn and face him. “Mmm?”

“Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you're happy with Ron, that you're still the same woman you were before you started dating him. Tell me you're—“

“I can't, Harry.” Despite the drunken haze I'm currently in, all the things he's saying are clear. He's right. I'm not who I used to be. I've buried myself in work to avoid my boyfriend and going out to pubs with him, and yet go out to pubs with Harry instead. I don't read anymore, I don't see my friends anymore… Ron gets too jealous and paranoid. “You're right, and it took you telling me all of this for me to realize it. I'm not happy with Ron. I love him, he's still one of my best friends, but I'm not happy being in a relationship with him. I'm not Hermione Granger anymore; I'm some shadow of her former self. I'm…”

I trail off, surprised at my drunken eloquence.

Harry stares at me, not saying anything. I can't find words, either. He wordlessly pours more shots, and we go through the LSLSL (lick, salt, lick, shot, lime) pattern a couple times before he decides we've had more than enough and leads me from the pub after throwing a wad of pound notes on the table.

“Cab?” I mumble, stumbling to my left and directly into him.

“Nuh-uh,” he replies, helping me stand. “We need to walk this off.”

We spend the next five minutes in silence, in the general direction of our flats. Soon Harry's hand slips comfortably into mine, and we lean closer together.

“So what are you going to do?” he asks.

I shrug. “You just turned my life upside down not more than an hour ago, Harry. Give me some time to think.”

He looks deeply apologetic and opens his mouth, but I silence him with a finger on his lips.

“Stop it. No blaming yourself. It was something I needed to hear, I just don't like admitting to failure.”

“You haven't failed anything,” he says quietly.

“I've failed at my relationship with Ron, and being true to myself.”

He goes silent and we continue our walk in the chilly night air. It is several minutes later when he finally speaks up.

“You're accepting this rather quickly.”

I sigh and drop my shoulders a touch. He's right once again. “I suppose I knew it all along,” I say heavily, “and just didn't want to admit it. You know me, Harry. I hate failure.”

“Maybe it isn't you who's failed, Hermione.”

I look at him questioningly. “And what do you mean by that?”

“Maybe Ron's failed you.”

We stop walking and turn to face each other. “Harry, what are you saying?”

He inhales deeply and turns his face to the right, masking it in the shadow of a streetlamp. “He tries to get you to adapt to the things he likes to do, but do you remember the last time he stayed in and watched a good film on the telly with you? The last time you went to a bookshop together?”

I frantically search my mind and fail (once again) to come up with an answer, so I remain silent.

“I thought so,” he says in a low tone. He turns and we continue our walk.

“So what does this mean?”

“For what? Or who?”

“For Ron and I, for you and I, for us.”

“For you and Ron, I suppose it means you need to sit down and talk about things. For you and me… Hermione…” He goes silent once more. I can tell something is wrong.

“Oh sod it,” I mutter, and point my wand at him. “Sobrietus.”

A warm yellow light washes over him from head to toe momentarily, and he looks up at me with wide blinking eyes. “What'd you go do that for?”

I shook my head and gestured at his wand. “Now do me.”

“What?!”

“The spell, Harry.”

“Oh. Sobrietus.”

I am bathed in golden light and then find my head suddenly clear and that the world is no longer spinning. “Much better. This is far too serious a conversation for us both to be pissed out of our minds.”

He nods sombrely, and grasps my hand in his once again.

“H—Harry, what are you doing?”

“We're going back to my place,” he says, and then I feel like I am being squeezed inwards from all angles for a few short seconds until we are standing in the kitchen of his flat.

“You could've warned me, you know.”

“Yes, well, you hate to be Side-Alonged and you're in a right state for Apparating.”

“I'm sober now, Harry.”

“I didn't mean physically.”

I glare at him, and stalk out to the sofa, landing heavily amongst the cushions. I can hear him immediately rushing over behind me, to join me.

“Hermione, what is it?”

“Rather than answer my question about what's wrong with you, you decide to Side-Along me to your flat and then accuse me of mental instability?”

“I didn't mean it like that!”

“Then tell me what's wrong with you!”

“I want to kiss you!” he shouts.

Well.

I certainly wasn't expecting that.

“You what?”

“I—I want to kiss you,” he repeats shakily, as his eyes suddenly find the woven pattern in his living room rug incredibly fascinating.

“You've never been the type to think about or discuss things before acting rash, Harry. Why now?”

He raises his head and looks me in the eye. His gaze is so piercing that it almost hurts.

“You need to go talk to Ron,” he sighs, standing.

“Why? What does Ron have to do with this now?”

“Hermione, go talk to Ron. Tell him how you feel. Sort things out with him first and then just come over when you're done, alright?”

I look at him funny, shrugging, and stand to head for the fireplace.

“We are discussing this when I get back, Harry.”

“Anything you want,” I hear him say as I call out `The Leaky Cauldron' and step into the jade flames.

It's not hard to spot Ron in the Wizarding pub. He is surrounded by athletic men in lurid orange and black Quidditch jerseys, and several Chudley fans are clamouring to buy him a drink. Several young Quidditch groupies are vying for his attention, and I strangely do not feel any jealousy.

I cross the room and suddenly the team looks up at me, and then begins trying to put themselves between the girls and Ron.

“It's too late, boys,” I say with a smile, and go straight to Ron. “Come on, Ronniekins. Let's go home; it's time for a little chat.”

He looks confused and is clearly smashed beyond comprehension, but has enough wits about him to turn and wave at the girls and his team mates. He then turns to me with a wide drunken smile and asks “Where are we going, Herms?” in a rather pronounced slur.

“Home,” I say, gripping his hand tightly and Apparating us there. Side-Along Apparition while drunk is not a pleasant situation. Unfortunately for Ron, I don't much care at this moment. He may not have been toying with the girls, but he certainly wasn't fending them off.

I'm not jealous, just disappointed in him. I'm beginning to wonder if this is what he's been doing all along. And if I had just interrupted at an opportune moment before the fun really began.

“Ron,” I say, snapping my fingers in his face to get his attention.

He sways on his feet and stumbles into the wall.

I sigh, and point my wand at him. “Sobrietus.”

A few seconds pass and then he glares at me. “Oi! What was that for?”

“Oh, honestly, Ron… We need to talk, and I need you sober for that.”

“Sod sobriety, I was having fun! You never want to come out and you've told me time and time again to go have fun without you, and then you come along, pluck me from the pub, and use a Sobering Charm on me?”

Should've known Ron would not be impressed with the loss of his buzz.

I steer him towards the sofa and sit down next to him.

“Ron, have you noticed anything different with us since we started dating?”

He stares at me, his mouth opening and closing a few times with no sound coming out. It's rather humorous to watch.

“No?”

I sigh. Sometimes Ron really is hopeless.

“I think it's time we ended things.”

He sits silently for a few moments, mentally processing what I've just told him. “Why?”

“I'm not happy.”

“You're not?”

“No. We're two different people, Ron. You're Quidditch and friends and partying and drinking. I'm books and knowledge and staying at home. We're great as friends, but we don't fit together as a couple.”

He nods slowly as though he is trying to understand what I am telling him. “So you're saying…”

“It's over, Ron… I'm so sorry. I just can't keep doing this. I realized tonight that we aren't very compatible. I've known it all along, really, I just… didn't want to accept it, I suppose.”

“You hate being wrong, you mean.”

“Yes, thanks ever so much for that, Ron.”

We sit in silence, not looking at each other.

“I should've known,” he says eventually. “When we stopped bickering I should've known.”

I nod, and grasp his hand in comfort. “Still friends?”

He contemplates me quietly for a few moments, and then smiles. “Still friends.”

Easier than I thought. Hmm. I suppose Ron has been having similar feelings for quite some time. This was the right thing to do after all.

We stand and hug each other before I head to his fireplace and realize I'm in a dilemma. I can't just go straight to Harry's from here; it'll look as suspicious as it is. Instead I call out for one of the commuting Floos at the Ministry, and step into the flames.

I receive several odd looks from Ministry employees, and begin to think perhaps I look rather dishevelled from the drinking earlier with Harry. I turn back to the flames, call out Harry's flat, and step back into the fire. I'm sure I received quite a few inquisitive looks from my coworkers at heading to Harry's apartment late on a Saturday night, but at this point I don't care. I land in Harry's flat, and he is waiting on the sofa for me.

He looks rather nervous; almost refusing to look me in the eye at first, but he slowly stands and crosses the distance between us. I open my mouth to greet him but he gently places a finger to my lips.

“Ron?”

“Took it well,” I say past his hand on my mouth.

His arms wrap around my waist and I find myself incredibly close to Harry. My heart is racing and my stomach is flipping again; it was definitely not the liquor earlier.

Everything seems like it's moving in slow motion, and my eyes flutter shut as his face draws nearer. His lips touch mine and his tongue runs along my bottom lip. I sigh as my lips part and his tongue sweeps into my mouth; the tongue that I was fantasizing about earlier in the evening. Harry's arms tighten as he pulls me even closer, and suddenly I am aware of exactly how much I love him. He's not only my best friend, he's my Harry.

He pulls back after a few seconds, smiling at me with that lop-sided grin of his. “Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to do that?”

“Might as well make up for lost time, then,” I say, grasping the back of his head and pulling him in for another kiss.

I feel free, as though a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders, and I can rediscover who I am again. As Harry's tongue moves against mine, I feel secure in the knowledge that life can go back to normal once more. To the way it should be. Harry and I.

Suddenly, after years of existing in a fuzzy world of grey, I feel like I'm right where I should be. Home. With Harry.

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