Three Seasons to Closure

hummingbird

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 10/05/2007
Last Updated: 19/06/2007
Status: completed

Harry Potter and Hermione Granger draw closer than they’ve ever been as they both find themselves to be single and living in Muggle London, struggling with issues as they leave early adulthood and look to enter the next phase of their lives.

Chapters

1. The Street War Street Party

2. Happy Hermione

3. New Friends, New Butterbeer

4. The Boss’s Daughter’s Wedding

5. Repentance

6. Down on Main Street

7. Trouble with Tiffany

8. Decisions under the Stars

9. Just like Old Times

10. An Extraordinary Idea

11. A Break in the Routine

12. Listening to Instincts

13. Facing the Elephant

14. Getting to Know You

15. Silencing the Pain

16. A Visit with Loved Ones

1. The Street War Street Party

Chapter 1. The Street War Street Party

An enthusiastic crowd buzzed about Main Street in a quaint Muggle shopping district just outside of London. Street vendors were busily distributing their wares to happy customers. Fattening, greasy food and colorful souvenir items sold by the hundreds as Englanders and foreign tourists quelled in the excitement of a busy summer holiday season. On this particular sunny day in June, as had been the case for the past seven years now, the crowds were double their normal size and bursting with energy. It was a day on which spontaneous celebrating sprouted out of popular shopping districts and town centers all across Muggle Europe - it was the anniversary of the end of the “Street Wars”.

Muggles had never discovered what had caused the youth in their cities to become so riotous and violent during the dark days and nights of the Street Wars. They never suspected that an underground society was at war, causing this cycle of assassinations, mass killings, and general chaos. It had been a time of great suffering, and great loss, and it had all seemed to end abruptly eight years ago, like an out of control freight train suddenly hitting a brick wall, its raucous journey ceded with a violent jerk.

Slowly, at first, an awakening began to take over as no new identifiable incidences were found to occur. The anxiousness that had poisoned their existence began to fade and a general consensus took hold - “The Street Wars must have ended, something good must have happened somewhere…” It unfolded a little bit each day - one day at a time, and for one person at a time - but the Muggle population of Europe finally gained back their sense of peaceful platitude and began to breathe easy, full breaths once again.

After a few years, children were again to be found playing in back yards. Ventures such as buying ice cream from the stranger who drove the ice cream truck weren't viewed as incalculably dangerous anymore. Businesses were repaired and revived, and a nostalgic, almost giddy air took over the populace. People mourned their dead, embraced their loved ones, and paid homage to the brave and dedicated men and women of the police, fire, and military units who had heroically risked so much to help them come out of the Street Wars alive.

The first season of celebrations had happened without plan or forethought. Young Muggles, mostly tired of waiting for some official pronouncement that the wars were ended, took to the streets on the one-year anniversary of the last recorded incident that was thought to be related to the violent youth uprisings. It had been a gruesome and deadly bombing of a packed shopping mall, and a great many Londoners were killed on that day.

One year to the day of the horrifying incident, when a group of fifty or so Londoners showed up at the wrecked site where the gleaming mall had once stood, they gave speeches and made toasts, lit candles and shed tears. What began as a somber gathering gradually shifted to a celebration of life. News coverage of the event ignited a mood of partying that took off like wild fire throughout England, and eventually all of Europe as well. And so it was that the “Street War Street Parties” had begun as the Muggle world tried to gain some closure for a war they neither began nor ended, but took part in just the same. The Street Parties always began on June 10th, and extended for several days, ending in solemn Sunday services and memorials of various kinds.

As the Street Party on Main Street went on, a charming young couple wove this way and that through the crowds. Each had an ice cream cone in hand, and they were dressed rather warmly considering that it was a temperate and bright summer day.

“A picture for the lady? Please sir, wouldn't you like a portrait of your beautiful wife?” A gruff-voiced vendor hovered over the couple, shouting to the dark-haired man, and amplifying his voice with a microphone. “You can't let a beauty like that go undocumented, can you? Why don't you make her happy and let me paint a dazzling portrait of your little woman,” the man continued.

Harry Potter laughed at this, wrapping his arm around his companion. “Umm, no thank you. She…she's not my `little woman', as you say, but thanks for the offer.” They hurried away as the portrait artist continued his sales pitch, finally giving up and moving on to another couple.

“Honestly, you'd think a man and a woman could be together without being thought of as being together!” huffed the pretty young woman. “That was the third reference today to us as a married couple and I'm not wearing a ring of any kind!”

“Hermione, you're just chuffed about the `little woman' comment, admit it,” Harry said.

When he didn't receive a reply, Harry continued, smiling at his friend. “Better to be referred to as `little' than something else, right? Anyway, I'm done with my ice cream and now I'd like to see what other unhealthy concoctions those amazing Muggles have to offer us. Everything looks so tempting…” Harry licked his lips and rubbed his hands together, scanning the street, looking for a promising vendor cart.

“I haven't had so much food in ages! I couldn't eat another bite, really!” Hermione said, patting her stomach. Closing her eyes momentarily and taking in a large breath to savor the beautiful June day, she smiled and fell into step with her friend as they headed further up the street. She was feeling warm and happy as she watched Harry studying his choices. It felt so marvelous, Hermione thought, to be outside once again, smiling and sharing jokes with her favorite companion, Harry. Spring had been wet and cold this year, and the weather had seemed to mock her. She was in the throws of a romantic breakup, as was Harry, and for once it seemed like the two bad situations were working together to create something very good - the rebinding of an old friendship. Now it was June, it was once again sunny and warm, and the festive air around her was serving to drive away all memories of the last few dreary months.

It had been Harry's idea to come here today to see how the Muggles celebrated the end of the Voldemort era. As Hermione soaked in the atmosphere of the Street Party and deliberated on the general mood of its partakers, she was quite pleased to find that the Muggles did indeed seem to be celebrating something. What they were exactly celebrating was somewhat vague to her, however. To wizards and witches, the tenth of June was marked as the day Harry Potter finally brought down Lord Voldemort in a violent and costly struggle. Muggles, she supposed, were probably simply rejoicing a recognition of sorts that they seemed to have found at last happier, more peaceful times. It didn't quite seem to have the same potency.

A huge paper sign was strung overhead across Main Street that read, “STREET WARS STREET PARTY”. Hermione shook her head as she read it. It was a bit strange to have the deadly deeds of the most evil wizard of recent times referred to as if Voldemort had merely been some kind of street thug, and those deeds were no more than instances of his gang letting off a little steam. She shivered as dark and only shallowly buried memories were stirred, and cast around for something more pleasant to give her attentions to.

Harry, as it turned out, had found just the diversion, grabbing her hand and leading her briskly toward a red and green trolley that had a large plastic apple protruding from the roof. “Come on,” he said, eyes wide with anticipation, “we'll have to try the caramel apples. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

Hermione sighed, a sad smile gracing her features. “Harry, you were raised by Muggles. Hadn't those people let you experience anything?”

Harry just shrugged, and turned to the boy in the trolley to place his order.

“I'll have a go at these,” Harry said to the surly-looking teen-ager who was leaning out of a service window in the ornately colored cart.

“Nuts?” asked the boy.

“Huh?” Harry replied.

“Nuts - Do you want nuts on it?” The apple vendor exhaled loudly, tapping his fingers on the counter as if he had an important appointment and they were keeping him from it. Hermione laughed as Harry struggled with yet another difficult decision.

“Mmmm…Well, how do you like them?” Harry asked the boy.

“Nuts,” the boy replied.

“Okay then,” Harry said cheerfully. “Nuts it is.”

“One or two?” asked the boy, squinting his eyes at Hermione.

“Nuts?” Harry asked, his brow crinkled in confusion.

“No!” The teenager ran his hands through his hair, and took in a breath of air, as if summoning some patience, slowly articulating. “One or two caramel apples?” He dragged his eyes from Harry to Hermione and leered at Harry once again.

“Oh. Hermione? You'll take one as well, yes?” Harry raised his eyebrows and gave a tempting little half-smile.

Hermione laughed at her friend's playfulness. “Well…okay. Calories don't count if it's a celebration, right?” She addressed this question to the grouchy apple vendor, who made no indication that he had been paying any attention, so she continued. “I'll have one with two nuts please!”

“Um…” the teen began as he visibly braced himself for another round with this obviously clueless pair.

“Just kidding!” Hermione said, laughing and then dropping her smile as the boy thrust two caramel apples through the service window and handed Harry some change. The two friends turned up the street and smiled at each other as they struggled to eat the sticky and awkward treats.

“Too bad no one else thinks we're funny,” Harry said, turning his apple upside down in an attempt to keep the caramel from touching his nose again.

“We're not?” Hermione asked.

“No, Hermione. The only person who thinks I'm funny is you, and anyone who says you're funny is lying,” Harry said matter-of-factly, glancing sideways as he did so.

“You don't think I'm funny?” Hermione pouted, taking another bite of her apple and spinning it around to find another good spot to bite.

Harry looked over at his companion, and sighed. “No one thinks you're funny.”

“Benjamin thought I was funny. He said so. Said I was smart and funny and that's what he liked about me,” Hermione said, and laughed as she looked at Harry, who now had caramel stuck to his nose and upper lip.

“Don't laugh!” Harry touted. “This is impossible food! I've never worked so hard in my life - but it's also one of the best things I've ever tasted - tart and sweet all at once.” Harry wiped his nose and licked his lips, smiling again at his friend. “And Benjamin was just trying to get you to go out with him.”

“Well,” said Hermione, “it worked.”

Struggling with their sticky treats, Harry and Hermione continued their stroll about the Street Fair. They talked lightly about each other's weeks and shared a few stories, catching each other up on important events and happenings.

“There, all done!” Hermione said proudly after a bit. She tossed her stick toward a rubbish bin that they were passing, missing by nearly a foot. “You think I'm funny,” she said, nonchalantly.

“Do not. I just have fun when I'm with you. There is a difference.” Harry elbowed his friend playfully. “And you missed by a mile!” he teased. “How can you miss a rubbish bin that's only a foot and a half away?”

Harry shook his head and expertly aimed his own apple stick at the bin, hitting it dead center.

“We're moving, that's why,” Hermione replied. “I can't hit a moving target.”

Harry stopped in his tracks, cocking his head at his friend. “The bin wasn't moving, you were!” he said in slight exasperation.

“Ah, well then…Okay, add that to the List of Things I Stink at. `Rubbish tossing'.” Hermione bent down and picked up her fallen apple stick, carrying it over to the aluminum bin and dropping it in with force. “Hermione Granger can't shoot rubbish at a moving target!” she exclaimed loudly, catching the eye of passers by and a groan from Harry.

“You need more things on that list anyway. It's far too short for ordinary humans,” Harry said and smiled. “I think it's great to be humbled now and then. Good for the soul.” Hooking his arm through Hermione's elbow, Harry led her back into the street. The late afternoon sky was beginning to turn dusky and Hermione gave a shiver as she noticed that it was beginning to get a bit cooler. She tugged Harry's arm and motioned with her eyes that they ought to consider heading home.

“I stink at relationships,” she said simply as they walked up the street. “That's number one on the List.”

Harry smiled warmly and gave her arm a squeeze - a gesture that led Hermione to marvel melancholically at how truly blessed she was to have Harry for a friend. They had known each other for fifteen years now, and most of those years were cast under the dark and cold shadow of a terrible war. They could easily have drifted away from each other, letting their childhood relationship dissolve slowly like most early friendships do - especially those between a boy and a girl, or a man and a woman as they've now become. They could have deemed it inappropriate to keep in touch as each became involved in other, not platonic relationships. But they hadn't. It was never suggested, and as far as Hermione was concerned, it had never been an option.

Though they had gone great stretches of time without seeing each other due to various situations with the war, academic study, and work, the two friends always found ways to stay close. Now that they found themselves both in London and both unattached, they were spending as much time together as they had in grade school. It felt like coming home to Hermione to once again be Harry's closest companion. His friendship was one of her greatest treasures.

The other great part of having Harry back living close to her was that Hermione didn't find it difficult at all to be rid of her most recent long-standing romantic entanglement. “Why did I ever waste my time and energy on relationships?” she mused to herself. “It's not as if I miss it. I have my job and Harry, there's plenty to get on with in this life. Who needs to get married?” Hermione had even made up a song about her “epiphany” as she called it - her decision to give up on pursuing romantic relationships for good. As she strolled along in her long-time friend's arm, lost in her own thoughts, Hermione unconsciously began to sing quietly.

“It's the celibate life for me, for me…the celibate life for me.”

Harry turned toward Hermione with a scornful look. “You're not on about that again, are you?” he asked. Harry gently nudged Hermione as he said this, coaxing her across the street as they headed back to Hermione's flat.

“Oh, yes. An epiphany only happens once you are truly, deeply sure about something, so I take them very seriously,” Hermione replied. To enhance her point, Hermione set her jaw sternly, her eyes piercing Harry's mocking ones. “It's not as if it's any great loss to wizard kind anyway, I'm too uptight and high maintenance, I'm told. The way I see it, my celibacy is a win-win proposition.”

Harry grimaced. “You and you're ministry talk. Ugh, who makes up those awful sayings? Win-win…”

Harry's voice trailed off as he approached the entrance to a large brick building with an enormous and intricately carved wood door flocking the entrance. The pair retreated to Hermione's small, but neatly-kept flat, and settled onto her sofa to watch television as they wound down for the evening. In the past two months, Harry had made a habit out of spending an afternoon and an evening a week with Hermione, always staying for a bit during the night to watch a show or two in her company. They certainly hadn't been privy to a television during their Hogwarts years, but this new tradition reminded Hermione quite strongly of the countless evenings she had spent revising by the fire, amidst her closest friends in Gryffindor tower, just prior tucking in to bed each night.

“That was fun, today,” Harry said after the nightly news program began playing its ending theme music.

Hermione patted Harry's knee and looked up at him. “Yes, it was,” she replied softly.

“Are you being sentimental again?” Harry asked. He brought his hand on top of hers and rubbed lightly on her index finger. “You're acting all sad now.”

“I'm not sad,” Hermione said. “I promise. No sadness here.”

“Well, then,” Harry said, standing up and pulling his wand from his trouser pocket. “I should get going.” He tilted his head and donned a thoughtful expression. “You're ok, right? You're sure?”

“Yes, Harry,” Hermione said, chuckling. “Off you go now. I'll see you next week then?”

“Next week,” Harry said and he pointed his wand at his chest, Apparating to his own flat.

After Harry's form dissolved from sight, Hermione dropped into her sofa and wrapped her arms around herself in a self-congratulatory hug. She had enjoyed herself more today than she had done in ages. The epiphany was pure genius as far as she could tell. Sitting there on her beloved, fluffy beige sofa, happy and content, it was hard to argue that splitting up with Benjamin wasn't a good idea. And as for ridding herself of wizard relations of the romantic sort altogether? Well, who could deny that this would simplify things considerably?

“Accio wand.”

Catching her wand as it sped through the living room and flew into her hand, Hermione gave it a quick snap to cast the television off, and headed into her bathroom to get ready for bed. As she went about brushing her teeth, washing her face, and changing into her standard tank top and boxer shorts, Hermione's mind busied itself with its usual idle-time occupation: Lists. “`Relationships' is still first, with `Rubbish tossing' now second on the List of Things I Stink at…” her subconscious rattled. “No…`Rubbish tossing' definitely shouldn't be as high as number two…” Hermione absently fussed with her lists until she was finally tucked snuggly under her plush comforter. Hugging one pillow into her chest while her head sank into another, the tired witch finally gave in to the relentless drowsiness that had been hovering like a dense fog inside her head since Harry left.

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2. Happy Hermione

Chapter 2. Happy Hermione

Harry Potter stood over the counter in his kitchen, buttering his toast, sipping coffee from a grey stoneware mug, and reading the Daily Prophet - all with alternating attention. It was a cloudy and wet morning, but as he looked up to peer through his window, Harry could see several rays of sunshine cutting through the patches of clouds, promising what he hoped would be a rather nice day to spend outdoors. His heart lightened at the thought.

Never was Harry to be found at a loss of excuses to spend a Saturday or Sunday outside, and the prospect of an entire weekend of rain had dampened his spirits considerably during this past work week. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry had barely registered a moving advertisement on the lower right-hand corner of the Prophet page he'd just finished scanning. On it, two Quidditch teams zoomed in and out of view with their faces set in fierce determination and their eyes glaring at opposing team members. A caption kept appearing and then disappearing in flames that read:

“Puddlemere versus Chudley Preseason Grudge Match

- Saturday at noon -

Don't miss one of the fiercest rivalries in the UK”

Harry chuckled. The “rivalry” between the two teams was extremely lopsided, in Harry's opinion, as the Cuddly Cannons hadn't won a game against Puddlemere in a decade.

“Still,” he thought, “it would be fun to catch a game of Quidditch.”

As an idea struck him, Harry smiled and took another gulp of coffee. Setting the mug back down on the counter, he noticed that a triangle of bright sunlight was now beaming in through his kitchen window, as the clouds had shifted further apart. “All right, then,” Harry said. Determining that the idea was a rather good one, he marched over to his fireplace resolutely. Grabbing a handful of Floo powder from a dingy tin container set upon the mantle, Harry tossed it into the fire.

“Hermione…Hermione, are you home?” Harry shouted, sticking his head into the cool, dry flames.

“Where else would I be?” a sleepy voice replied. “It's seven in the morning.”

Hermione's words resonated from a room just outside of view from the fireplace, sounding scratchy and slightly irritated, but in a polite, playful way. “Harry, I'm just getting up. Why are you so … loud and … awake at this hour?”

“Sorry,” Harry murmured into the fire. “It's just that I've already had two cups of coffee and I don't think it's going to rain all day after all…” Harry sat uncomfortably on his knees, bent over the fireplace grate as he waited hopefully for his friend to come into view.

Hermione grabbed her mug of tea and tightened her dressing gown as she shuffled across the wood parquet floor to her fireplace opening. “I'm a sight,” she sighed, looking down at her fluffy grey slippers and running her hand through her messy hair. “It would be preferable at times like these to own a Muggle telephone,” she thought. “Who wants to be seen at all hours of the day?” But as she made herself comfortable on the sofa, Hermione couldn't help but smile warmly as she took in the boyish expression on Harry's face. “As if I could say no to whatever it is that he's going to ask…” she mused.

“So, what are you up to this morning?” Hermione prodded.

Harry's fire image flickered. “I was hoping that we could spend some time outdoors today,” he said. “You know, good weather and all…Perhaps we could go up to the Quidditch pitches and catch a came?”

Hermione fought back the urge to flinch, thinking that she'd rather not spend the entire day watching grown witches and wizards fly around on brooms. “Mmm…I don't know about Quidditch,” she said, “but how about doing something more active?” Hermione paused, and took a sip of her tea, tapping her index finger on the ceramic mug in thought.

“We could stroll down to the park near your flat and rent bikes to ride,” she continued, “…catch some lunch or maybe even dinner and a movie later on as well?”

Hermione paused again, and this time a flinch did take over her features as she realized that she had once again fallen into her “bossy” mode - an age-old habit of taking over even the smallest of plans before she even realized that she was doing it. It had become such a preoccupation of Hermione's to diminish her domineering reputation that she had even made it number three on her List of Things to Improve. Here at only the crack of dawn, she had already sidestepped the whole idea of Quidditch, and she had all but assumed that Harry had nothing better to do than to spend the entire day with her.

“Unless you'd really rather watch a game…” she added hastily, scratching the back of her neck with her free hand. “I'm easy.”

“You are not,” Harry replied, grinning. “But I like your idea better. It sounds… well, it sounds like it's straight out of a Muggle television show or something. How soon can you be ready?”

“Just give me an hour and I'll Apparate to your place,” Hermione said. “The park is just a few blocks from your building, we can walk from there. Is that alright with you?” she added for good measure.

“Sounds fantastic. I'll see you at eight then,” Harry said before popping out of view from the fireplace.

One hour later, Hermione Apparated directly into Harry's living room. Since she and Harry both lived in Muggle neighborhoods, they had to take special care not to be seen practicing magic outside the confines of their own, magically-protected flats. The buildings had no secluded Apparition point, and so the two friends agreed that the spot in front of each other's hearth would work best when visiting each other. Special charms had been set to confuse and befuddle any accidental Muggle visitors who may happen into the flat itself or peak into a window, but it was generally understood to be un-neighborly to subject them to any unnecessary charms or spells. In fact, Hermione made it a habit to use no magic at all until she was safely shut in her cozy little flat.

“Hermione!” Harry beamed as he walked out of his bedroom to find her standing in his living room, smoothing out her blouse from the Apparition. “You look fantastic. You're sure this is okay with you?”

Hermione smiled and glanced down at her outfit. “This is perfectly appropriate for a bike ride,” she sputtered back as she followed Harry down the hall and out of the apartment building. A familiar, warm and reverent feeling washed over Hermione while she basked again in the glow of her companionship with Harry. He was always full of compliments, and was truly just about the politest person she had ever met. Hermione stole a glance as Harry walked silently beside her toward the park, blissfully unaware that she was internally gushing his praises. “He really is every bit as sweet as the press makes him out to be,” she thought to herself. It had been Harry's “sweetness”, in fact, that had endeared him to her from the very start at age eleven, and it was refreshing to see that it remained a part of his character to this very day.

The clouds did indeed eventually disappear, and Harry and Hermione spent a wonderful morning in the large city park that sat only blocks from Harry's apartment building. They rented two slightly rusty bikes from a shack located at the park's entrance. At first, Harry wobbled a bit on his, which gave Hermione a much cherished period of one-upmanship. But, as was always the case with Harry, he soon found his bearings and was racing past her, grinning nastily.

The pair passed the hours most pleasantly, feeling the warm air breeze across their faces and taking in the scenery. Hermione commented on what the Muggles were up to as she and Harry rode past them, and Harry's eyes darted around from small animals just off the bike path, to ancient trees with giant limbs that extended over the path to cast large shadows, and to the gentle ripples of water on the surface of the park's picturesque lake. Both lost in the sights, sounds and smells of summer, the two hadn't talked much during their ride. Harry and Hermione had long ago lost the need to fill any lulls in conversation, so deep was their understanding of each other's moods.

“You really are an outdoor junky,” Hermione chided, breaking the silence as they returned their bikes to the rental shack. “You are an entirely different person out of doors. I can just see you in your office on a dreary Monday, sulking and pining away for a bit of a jog or something.”

Harry frowned. “I do!” he admitted, turning toward his perceptive friend and shaking his head at her astuteness. “I charmed my office to smell like a Quidditch pitch after the lawn has been mown, and I've found a really great spell that creates a warm breeze that circulates constantly. It's kind of moist, like an ocean breeze…” Harry trailed off and laughed at Hermione's expression; her perplexed look gave away the notion that she must not have realized the true extent to Harry's addiction.

“Like I said,” Hermione laughed, “outdoor junky.”

“Not all of us enjoy our work as much as you, Hermione,” Harry shot back.

Hermione's passion for all things related to her work or her studies always gave Harry plenty of fodder for teasing. She grimaced playfully, and picked up her pace as she and Harry exited the park.

“Outdoor junky,” Hermione teased as she caught up.

“Work junky,” Harry shot back.

After resting for a spell in Harry's flat, they decided to have lunch at an old hangout, The Leaky Cauldron. Once again, Hermione had been the one to coax her friend into going along with the idea. She felt guilty at her manipulations; after all, Harry was a powerful wizard and a professional Auror who was known and respected throughout the entire wizarding world. However, the idea of going to the Leaky had popped into her brain and she couldn't help but think that it would be the perfect place to spend the rest of such a lovely day. Hermione had been prone to nostalgia lately, missing her old friends and her youth. She knew that Harry was probably feeling this way too, having recently broken off a long relationship himself.

Sitting across from each other in a battered old tavern booth, Harry and Hermione ate sandwiches and drank mugs of Butterbeer Extra - a potent version of their favorite childhood beverage. Harry listened politely as Hermione chatted away about a project she was immersed in at her research department. She was Assistant to the Head of Research in the Department of Magical Maladies. Hermione and her colleagues worked in the Ministry of Magic building to find potential cures for some of the most painful and debilitating magical ailments. As she went on and on about a new lab procedure she was trying out, Harry marveled that Hermione's dedication and ability to focus had only increased over the years. Nothing, he thought, was beyond Hermione Granger's comprehension. She could literally do anything if she was so inclined.

Feeling tipsy from too many Extras, and with a very slight slur, Harry leaned in toward Hermione and teased, “I'm glad I let you bully me into coming here. I miss the feel of this place.” Harry looked around, studying the sloppy counter of the Leaky's enormous bar and smiling widely. Doing so, he caught the eye of a pretty blond bartender, who seemed to have misinterpreted his look and gave a wink and a seductive cock of her lovely head.

Hermione sighed. Harry was like a magnet to witches. “Bully you?” she asked, setting down her mug clumsily. She feigned indignation, and then sighed again. “Alright, I did do the bossy thing again, didn't I?” she asked. Frowning, Hermione picked up her mug once again and took a large gulp.

“Ten things, Harry! Ten things I need to improve upon, and I can't make headway on any one of them. I'm hopeless!” Hermione flopped her head down into her folded arms and gave an exasperated pout.

“And high maintenance,” Harry added quietly, clearly amused at Hermione's overly dramatic state - which was fueled, he assumed, by the Butterbeer Extra.

Hermione shot a grin across the table, lifting her head and saying, “And hippy too - don't forget number four on the list.” She patted her thighs and gave another mock sigh.

“Not true!” Harry said loyally, but Hermione cut him off.

Grabbing her mug and raising it in a boisterous toast, Hermione shouted, “To Hopeless, Hippy Hermione!”

Harry reluctantly clinked his mug with Hermione's, laughing at her brashness. “Hopeless Hermione!” he cheered, looking slightly guilty, but amused.

“To Hippy Hermione!” echoed a group from a nearby table in a loud roar. Harry and Hermione both jerked their heads around to see a boisterous group of young witches and wizards who were clinking their mugs clumsily as their table erupted in laughter.

Harry laughed heartily at the crowd, adding, “You forgot high maintenance!”

“To Hopeless, High-maintenance, Hippy Hermione!” Hermione shouted, clinking Harry's mug even louder this time, laughing.

“To Hopeless … High-nnnnnn.. Hippy Hermione!” the group cheered again, mugs crashing together in several loud clinks.

Hermione set her mug down on the dirty table and smirked excitedly. “THEY think we're funny,” she said, smiling widely.

“They're drunk,” Harry replied, setting his own mug down and offering his hand to Hermione. “Come on, you. Best be going. We've been here for hours.”

After settling the tab, Harry extended his arm to Hermione and Apparated them both to his flat. The pair giggled at their good fortune as each examined themselves to make sure they hadn't been splinched. Hermione made herself a comfortable spot on Harry's sturdy and plain, brown sofa, and fell directly asleep almost as soon as Harry had succeeded in lighting a warm fire. Harry smiled at his sleeping friend and reached into his pocket for his wand. Flicking it casually at the wizarding wireless, he relaxed on his end of the sofa and listened to the wizarding news, anxious to find the results of the Chudley Cannons pre-season grudge match that he'd been keen to attend.

As Hermione napped, Harry had spent the remainder of the afternoon listening to another preseason Quidditch game, with the volume set low on the Wizarding Wireless. He tidied up his flat a bit during commercials and player breaks, and had even managed a quick shower. Dressed now in a crisp, white shirt and jeans, Harry surveyed his bedroom and cast a few more Dusting charms, Vanished three crumpled and damp towels to the hamper, and shot a vapor of spicy mist out of his wand, which swirled throughout the rooms of his flat, leaving behind a slightly masculine fragrance.

When not involved with a witch, Harry led an uncomplicated life. In what he often referred to as his “full-out bachelor mode,” Harry mostly went to work, took part in several “twenty and up” Quidditch leagues when the season was appropriate, listened to his beloved Quidditch on the wizarding wireless, and watched Muggle sports on the television. Harry was a hopeless sports enthusiast, and being raised Muggle had provided him with plenty of additional sports to fuel his compulsion. Football and golf were his favorites of the Muggle sports and he had “pet” teams and players whose progress he followed religiously. The usual between-girlfriend outings, for Harry, consisted mainly of playing billiards and darts with some friends he'd met at a local Muggle pub or catching a drink or two with some mates from the Auror department.

Harry cringed inwardly as he walked quietly toward his sofa, slowly lowering himself to a seat on the part not covered by Hermione's sleeping form. He was feeling guilty again. He knew it wasn't right that he enjoyed his time to himself and his mates so much, and he knew that his ex-girlfriend would expect him still to be pining to away for the afternoons they had spent together as a couple. But, he thought, he really didn't miss those afternoons that much. Especially now that he and Hermione had become closer, Harry couldn't help but think that life had taken on a decidedly simpler hue lately. And to Harry, simpler always looked better.

As Harry relaxed and sank deeper into the sofa cushions, Hermione stirred, twisting her body into a prone position and yawning deeply. “Hi,” she muttered, wiping a mess of hair from her sweaty brow. “I feel…yucky. What time is it anyway?” she asked, looking up at Harry and rubbing her eyes.

“Time to get up if you still fancy dinner and a movie,” Harry said. He stood up and offered a hand to his drowsy friend.

“Okay, just give me a minute to catch my bearings and then ten…no, make it fifteen minutes to shower and change,” Hermione said as she stood and dragged herself through Harry's living room toward the bathroom. She splashed cold water from the gleaming faucet on her face and peered at the mirror, eyes squinting. “Better make that thirty,” she yelled out into the living room, grabbing her wand out of the pocket of her shorts and Apparating home.

The evening was lovely - still and warm. It was the kind of evening that made Hermione wish that it could always be summer. “Surely it's like this all the time somewhere in the world,” she mused romantically as she and Harry strolled along their newly favorite street in the Muggle shopping district. “Where are we going for dinner anyway?” she asked, glancing at Harry.

“Dinner?” Harry asked. “All we have time for now is popcorn, I'm afraid. Someone took too long getting ready.” Harry nudged Hermione gently on the elbow, offering a look of mock condemnation.

Hermione smiled broadly and curtsied, fanning out the sides of her flow-y skirt. “You don't approve of my outfit?” she asked, batting her eyelids in jest.

“I didn't say it wasn't worth it, did I?” Harry replied. “Jamaica,” he added as an afterthought.

“What?” Hermione asked, dropping the sides of her skirt and giving Harry a perplexed look.

“I worked on a case in Jamaica once and I think the weather was always perfect there,” Harry said simply. “You should go some time.”

The two walked on a bit and engaged themselves in a spirited conversation. They were playfully planning an imaginary trip for Hermione to Jamaica in order to “test the weather” and laughing at the inventive means Harry had come up with by which to get the Ministry to pay for the trip. It all sounded lovely to Hermione except for her new vow of celibacy. And, like she'd suddenly been doused in a cold shower, she sobered at the thought of going to a warm and exotic beach resort without anyone to share a fruity drink with. No handsome companion to notice how beautiful she looked in her gauzy sundress, no knee-weakening kisses on the veranda…

“Harry!” Hermione half-shouted suddenly, causing Harry to stop in his tracks and reach for his wand. “Oh, Harry, I can't go on vacations anymore.” She looked to her side, only to find Harry several steps back, his hand dropping back to its side, staring at her with a slightly annoyed look.

“I didn't think of that when I made The Vow,” she said, shrugging her shoulders and giving only a hint of a pout. “I'll have no one to share vacations with.”

Harry smiled grimly. He too felt a ping of loneliness as he conjured a picture in his head of a sunny vacation for one. It wasn't as if loneliness was a foreign concept to Harry, but he didn't want it for Hermione. Several sad little pictures formed in his head: a single beach towel spread across a flat spot of beach, a half-drunk Martini with only one olive speared through a plastic sword, Hermione in a sleeveless sundress and floppy hat getting pinched by a large crowd as she signals for a taxi. Harry shook his head at the idleness of his quirky friend's latest life-altering decision. Then, he reached a hand up and ruffled Hermione's hair a bit and then stepped in front of her, looking intently into her eyes. He grabbed both of her arms at the elbows and said, “Retract the celibacy thing, Hermione. Get out there and start dating again!”

Hermione laughed and grabbed Harry's elbows in turn. “I shall not!” she said, chuckling. “I shall uphold the epiphany! Sing it with me, Harry, sing with me and believe,” she added, returning to Harry's side and nudging him along up the pavement.

“It's a celibate life for me, for me, a celibate life for me.”

To Harry's slight horror, Hermione sang her celibacy song at normal volume. Scrunching his face and laughing again, Harry reluctantly joined in, but with an only barely audible voice. He stepped beside her as they resumed their walk toward the theater.

The two settled down into the crowded theater and watched the previews with amusement. It was cold in the theater, and Hermione felt herself shivering in her thin cotton top and short skirt. Sensing her discomfort, Harry leaned over and stealthily tapped Hermione's shoulder with his wand, sending a lovely warming sensation flowing through her body.

“Ahh…That's wonderful. Thank you Harry,” she sighed.

Harry laughed at this and stared at her incredulously. “Sometimes I think that you really do forget that you're a witch,” he whispered.

“You and I always do Muggle things together!” Hermione whispered back, looking around to make sure they couldn't be overheard. “I get caught up in the local culture, that's all,” she added, grabbing a handful of the popcorn that Harry held in his lap.

“Blending in with the locals, eh?” Harry teased, grabbing a single piece of popcorn, tossing it at Hermione's nose, and earning himself a slap on the wrist.

“Shh…the movie's about to start,” Hermione chastised. “For real now, I can tell.” Harry gave her a doubtful look. “No, it's true, I remember. See, you can tell that the commercial things are all ended when the theater starts to get quiet like this.” Hermione put her index finger to her lips and gestured for Harry to listen for the tell-tale silence that would precede the actual starting of a movie. As the opening music began, Hermione grabbed Harry's arm and whispered, “You see? Didn't I tell you?”

“Quiet, you'll upset the locals!” Harry berated, as indeed the crowded theater had gone dead-silent, except for himself and Hermione. Hermione gave a little chuckle and settled back into her seat, propping her feet up on the seatback in front of her and leaning her head on Harry's arm. They sat like this throughout the movie, sharing popcorn and occasionally tossing a piece at each other's faces.

“This is comfortable,” thought Hermione. “I have someone to snuggle with in Harry.” She congratulated herself once again on her strength of character, her stoic grace in accepting a life without romance, and allowed herself to become engrossed in the story that was heating up in front of her. The film had taken a turn for the tragic, and suddenly, as if she had been hit with a charm, Hermione found that her own emotions were being stirred up rather irrationally. As her demeanor became more and more unsettled, Hermione sifted through a series of melancholic thought streams, reminiscing a bit about her own experience with life and love, and death, and then returning her attentions to the storyline. She had quickly deduced by the subtle hints of sad music that the movie's lead female was going to die.

Inevitably, as the heroine eventually found herself lying withered and heartbroken, dying from a most unfortunate bout of a rare disease, little bubbles of pure sadness rose to the tip of Hermione's consciousness. She couldn't reason why she felt such complete disquiet so unexpectedly, and was only half aware that it had nothing whatsoever to do with the movie's plot.

As the movie progressed, Hermione's eyes watered a bit. Philippe, the heroic police detective folded himself over the heroine's spent body and screamed that he'd avenge her before whispering words of love into her hair, causing Hermione to sniffle sadly. Harry nudged Hermione's elbow and gave a soft smile. “You are such a softy,” he said as he reached over and took Hermione's right hand in his left one and brought it up to his mouth. Pressing warm, moist lips to her palm, Harry gave it a soft kiss and then lowered Hermione's hand into his lap, caressing it gently and watching her face cautiously.

At this sweet gesture, Hermione's little bubble of sadness burst, and tears came streaming, unwanted down her cheeks. “Sorry,” she whispered quietly in Harry's ear. “I'm a sap for sad movies.”

Harry chuckled softly and continued to pet her hand gently. “I like that about you,” he whispered back. “I'm sitting here wishing that she would just get on with the dying bit so that Philippe can go back to figuring out who set the virus loose.” He bit back a smile, adding, “They NEED him.”

Hermione smiled. “Good old Harry,” she mused. “A true gentleman if there ever was one, and all boy as well.” She sighed and allowed a few lingering tears to fall, breathed deeply, and willed her mind to regain control of her senses.

After the movie had let out, the two took advantage of the balmy evening and strolled back down Main Street, sipping coffee from one of the gourmet shops out of Styrofoam cups and chatting lightly. They talked about the actors, laughed at the futileness of Philippe's Muggle weapons, and scoffed at the love story that didn't seem to have anything to do with the rest of the plot.

Hermione stayed only for a bit with Harry in his flat before bidding him goodnight and returning to her own little flat. She had decided that she was still feeling a bit emotionally spent and wanted to summon herself a nice glass of wine and a hot bath before settling to bed. Fueled by coffee, Hermione buzzed around her flat and prepared herself a total, “girly” bath treatment. She had bewitched lavender-scented candles to float around the tub, cast a Cushioning charm on the ancient claw-foot tub, and had poured in a vial of pink everlasting bubbles that now rose several inches off of the water's surface.

“Every once in a while,” she thought as she leaned back in the tub and felt her muscles relaxing, “everyone just needs a good cry. And I can't remember having one in years.”

With that permission, and egged on by the combined effects of wine and coffee, Hermione allowed herself to cry a bit more, delving morosely into her most emotionally-filled memories. She reflected upon parting words from her three big past relationships briefly and then dwelled on how much she missed her parents now that she saw them only once or twice a year.

She drudged up memories of boarding school at Hogwarts and indulged in the intensity of her feelings of loss surrounding those times. Some school mates and many teachers had died in the war, and others had simply drifted out of her life as they moved on with their own. But Hermione's strongest feelings of loss were focused upon one wizard in particular. She and Harry had been part of a very close trio of adventurers. Ron Weasley, who she rarely ever saw anymore, had been her other closest friend, and had even been her boyfriend for a brief period of time. She couldn't find anything heart-wrenching about her romantic relationship with Ron, however, to dwell upon. It had been sweet and tender, and had ended just as slowly as it had begun. They simply grew up and had different desires for themselves. Hermione's sadness was not born out of missing the romantic relationship she had with Ron, but for the closeness and intimacy that had once defined their friendship. Ron was now married with two children and lived two hours outside of London. Hermione and Harry rarely saw Ron anymore.

“Oh, Ron,” Hermione sobbed, tipping her wine glass back into her mouth to empty it. “We miss you, me and Harry. We really do.” Having found a new source of melancholy, Hermione cried for a bit longer before toweling off and Vanishing the water and candles with several swishes of her wand.

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3. New Friends, New Butterbeer

Chapter 3. New Friends, New Butterbeer

Harry Apparated into his living room and made a beeline for the kitchen. Grabbing a Butterbeer Extra from the refrigerator, he willed himself to relax a bit. It was Friday evening and Harry was at once tense from a long and stressful week at work and excited by the prospect of a couple of days off. He was always in a mood to celebrate on a Friday night, eager to forget about his case if even just for a short time, and keen to begin the process of unwinding.

It had been months now, however, since Harry had anyone who he particularly wanted to go out with on a Friday night. His last relationship had ended shortly after Easter, and Harry had then realized that he didn't really have any close guy friends anymore. As he popped open a bottle of Extra, it dawned on Harry just how much he missed Ron, who could always have been counted on for a fun night out. Ron, of course, had obligations to his family these days and Harry had never really found a good male substitute for his oldest mate.

Despite the fact that he was relatively happy most of the time, Fridays tended to make Harry feel a bit out of place. The wizards in Harry's Auror unit got together once or twice a month, but they were all older than Harry, and had wives or girlfriends of their own to spend time with on cherished weekend nights. Watching bubbles rise to the surface of his Butterbeer bottle, and listening to the muted popping noise they made once they broke the surface, Harry thought idly about how out of practice he'd become with this whole living alone thing and wondered briefly about how Hermione handled it so well. He shrugged and took a gulp of Butterbeer, sitting down at his dark oak kitchen table.

Harry considered going to the Muggle bar again and shooting a bit of billiards, but discarded the idea almost immediately. It had been an abnormally stressful week at the Auror Department, and he didn't quite feel up to sharing superficial conversations with the blokes there and pretending not to be a wizard.

“Right,” he said aloud, “I wonder if Hermione would be up for a bit of an evening out.” Harry picked up his bottle and took a few more sips, mulling over the idea of asking his friend to join him for an unprecedented Friday outing. Would she feel harassed if he wanted her to spend not only Saturday together with him, but Friday night as well? “Toss it,” he said, taking another swig. “If she doesn't want to give up another night, she'll just say so, won't she?” He hastily stepped over to the fireplace, grabbed a fistful of Floo powder and tossed it in the fire.

“Hermione, are you home?”

Hermione's heart jumped and she nearly fell off of the hard-backed chair that she'd been perched on while reading at the kitchen table. “Just a second,” she yelled, shaking her head to steady her nerves. “Harry! It's Friday, I wasn't expecting to hear from you!” Hermione beamed at the fireplace, happy for the pleasant distraction from her revising.

“Well…I wanted to see if you were up to going out for a bit,” Harry said. His fire image stared awkwardly at Hermione's sofa, waiting for her to come into view.

Shutting the book she'd been buried in moments ago, Hermione walked over to the fireplace opening and squatted in front of Harry's wobbly orange face. “That sounds positively…exciting,” Hermione said, smiling at her friend. “Imagine me, going out on a Friday evening.” She glanced quickly at the pile of schoolbooks on her kitchen table and shook her head. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, I hadn't gotten that far…” Harry began, but was interrupted by Hermione.

“I had fun at the Leaky last time we went,” she interjected excitedly. “Want to find out what it's like on a Friday night?”

“Sounds fun, just like old times,” Harry replied, grinning.

“Yeah,” Hermione replied. “I only wish…” she said, stopping herself.

“…Ron could come along,” Harry finished for her, remembering too when the three friends used to knock down pitchers of Butterbeer and ale just after the war had ended. “Yeah, I've been missing the dolt too. It'd be much nicer for me if he hadn't gone and gotten himself a life.” Harry smiled, adding, “But, I suspect it's up to us to carry on without, right?”

“Right,” Hermione returned, smiling back.

“See you in ten?” Harry asked.

Hermione looked down at her attire - A dingy t-shirt and jean shorts. She couldn't remember whether she had even bothered to comb her hair all day. “Not on your life!” she said. “I'm not going out on a Friday night looking like a hag! I'll need the works tonight. Give me an hour, okay?”

Laughing lightly, Hermione smiled at the impatient look Harry involuntarily gave just before he nodded and extinguished the Floo connection. She felt bad making Harry wait when he was so clearly in a mood to get out of his flat, but Hermione knew full well that any other witches they would come across this evening would be dressed to the nines and eying each other in judgmental fashion. “Witches,” Hermione groaned to herself, “are our own worst critics.”

After making herself presentable, Hermione Apparated to Harry's flat, where she found him sitting on the sofa and staring at the fireplace.

“One hour flat,” he said, laughing at Hermione's presumptiveness at Apparating without Flooing first. “Lucky I wasn't standing on that very spot, aren't you?” he chided, “We could have been Splinched into one very strange-looking, four-legged creature!”

Hermione flinched, embarrassed. “Oh, sorry Harry!” she said. “I guess I'm getting too comfortable since we've been spending so much time together and all.”

“Not at all,” Harry said, standing up and offering Hermione his hand. “I was just teasing. And I like that you're less formal with me now.” Drawing his wand from his back pocket and hooking his arm in Hermione's elbow, Harry Apparated them both to an alley just outside of the Leaky Cauldron.

The bar exhibited a very different atmosphere on this night than it had on their Saturday afternoon lunchtime visit. Harry noticed that there was now a patio area opened up, which gave him a rush of excitement that they might be able to sit outside. It was a clear, breezy evening and the black pavement glittered prettily under the bright moonlight and roaring torches, still wet from an afternoon shower.

“Oh, this is a lovely spot!” Hermione gushed as she spotted a table on the patio that had just been cleared. She and Harry took seats at opposite sides of the table and began to look at their menus.

“Hey, it's Hippy Hermione!” a loud male voice shouted from the table next to Harry's and Hermione's.

“And her Fetching Friend!” added an even louder female voice.

Harry and Hermione twisted their heads to spy a table full of young people, making a great deal of noise and raising their mugs in a toast. Everyone at the table was smiling, and staring directly at the pair of newcomers.

“Oh, it's you guys!” Hermione shot out.

Harry leaned across the table and spoke directly into Hermione's ear. “I'd defend your honor, but seeing as how it was actually you who christened yourself `Hippy'…”

“Awww,” a petite witch from the group sang out, pointing at Harry, “Fetching Friend is trying to get a little action!”

“Hippy action!” one of the young wizards yelled, jumping up and pumping his hips in a semi-vulgar display. He stumbled a bit as he sat back down and raised his glass, preparing for another toast.

“To Fetching --”

“Stop!” Harry yelled, holding up his hand and laughing at the little dance he'd just been witness to. “Please stop calling me that. My name is Harry, and this is ...”

“Hunky Harry!” another girl called and the table broke out in laughter again, clinking their mugs haphazardly. Embarrassing Harry and Hermione seemed to be quite good entertainment for the spirited group. They had clearly been at the tavern for a good long while already.

“I give up,” Harry laughed. “I do hope I can trust you to keep an eye on old Hippy here while I fetch us some drinks?”

“Hell yeah!” yelled one of the wizards. He gave Hermione an approving look, winking as he did so.

“Umm…Harry?” Hermione said, fiddling with the hem of her blouse. “Hurry, okay?” She smiled uneasily, but relaxed as she studied the group more closely. They reminded her at once of what she, Harry and Ron might have been like years ago if it weren't for the war - full of mirth and nonsense. She began inquiring as to where each of the group was from. After a few minutes, Harry returned from the bar with his wand held up over his head, expertly floating an entire pitcher of Butterbeer Extra and two mugs, which were clinking loudly against each other. He wove his way through the packed bar toward their table, only to find it empty.

“Harry, join us!”

Harry spun around and saw that Hermione was now crammed into the young party's seating arrangement, and patting a chair which had been stuffed in the small space next to her at the end of the table.

“This is Alice,” Hermione said, pointing to the petite blond witch on her left, “Meg,” Hermione indicated a pretty and slightly plump girl next to Alice, “Brian,” she waved at the wizard who had been flirting with her earlier, “Bob and Francis!” she finished, holding both hands out and smiling at a tall, dark-haired wizard and the pretty brunette who was presently sitting on his lap. “They're a couple,” Hermione added, needlessly. Bob gave his girlfriend a squeeze and Francis beamed up at him. “They all went to Hogwarts as well,” Hermione continued, “but they were about five years behind us and none in Gryffindor.”

“Nice to meet you,” Harry said. “I guess you already think you know our names.” Harry laughed and swished his wand, setting the mugs down and motioning the pitcher to begin filling all of the empty mugs on the table. The young crowd seemed quite impressed with Harry's ability to control his Levitation charms, and equally pleased with the offer of more drink.

“To new friends!” Meg shouted, raising her newly filled mug.

“New friends and new pitchers of Butterbeer!” Brian corrected.

“New friends, new butterbeer!” the five young partiers said in unison, clinking sloppily.

Harry and Hermione joined in the toast, catching each other's eye as they shared a smile.

“New friends, new Butterbeer!”

As the group settled in to inquire more about Harry and Hermione, Alice was becoming noticeably amused at Harry's extreme reluctance to give out any details about his job. Although none of the young people made mention of it, they had clearly recognized Harry as “The Harry Potter.” Harry was known to the wizarding community in a kind of third-party way. Everyone knew what he'd done, where he'd come from and what he looked like. But the more personal aspects of his life - where he lived and what he did with himself - were always a mystery since he'd never once given an interview or shown up at a public event.

“So, you aren't with the ministry, but you kind of find dark wizards…” Alice said, smiling slyly. “Are you an Auror then?”

Harry took a drink and attempted to change the subject. “The bartender said there's a pretty decent band tonight --”

“You are!” Alice cut in, screeching excitedly. “Hunky's an Auror! I just know it!” She clapped her hands together and beamed at Harry. “Ooh, it's so….Double-O-Seven!”

“Oh!” said Hermione. “You must be Muggle-born then?”

“Yes,” replied Alice. “I came to Hogwarts as a complete novice, just like our handsome friend over there.” She gave Harry a quick wink. “And you'll never guess who the first famous wizard I learned about was.”

Hermione leaned in toward Harry and gave his arm a pinch. “I am SO going to enjoy myself tonight,” Hermione said, speaking in Harry's ear. Watching Harry being goaded about his appearance all evening gave Hermione an immense amount of pleasure. Having been around him since they were school children, Hermione knew full well that her Harry absolutely hated being complimented on anything other than his Quidditch skills. She smiled broadly as she looked over at her friend, who was trying to feign interest in his mug of Butterbeer while his face was flushing furiously. Being called “Hippy” was a small price to pay indeed for being able to revel in Harry's adorable embarrassment.

“Having fun, Miss?” Harry shot at her, trying to engage Hermione with a devilish glare.

“Oh, I just know you too well, that's all,” Hermione retorted. Taking a large gulp of her Butterbeer and slapping the mug roughly back down on the table, Hermione gave Harry one more knowing smile before returning to her previous conversation with Alice and Meg.

As the evening wore on, Harry found that he had been laughing so hard, and for so long with this lively group, that his cheeks were sore and his throat was beginning to become hoarse. The central tables in the main tavern were pushed to the side at ten o'clock and a small dance floor was quickly formed - complete with Fairy lights and soft puffs of many-colored smoke hovering along just above the floor. Not long after the tables had been cleared, a three-piece rock band sauntered up to a small stage set at the back of the floor. The players deftly tuned their instruments, and then started right in with a fast-paced tune.

Bob and Francis were the first Leaky patrons to take up the dance floor. They gave the impression that they would clearly spend the remainder of the night there as they moved slowly, wrapped around each other and sneaking occasional kisses, oblivious to the surrounding crowds. Harry watched the couple for a while and then turned to make a remark to Hermione. He laughed when he saw her lounging back in her pub chair with her head tipped to the side. She was swaying slightly to the band's tune, a small smile playing on her lips. She seemed to be feeling her Butterbeer.

“You like this song, do you?” Harry asked. “Care to dance then?”

Hermione slowly turned her head to face Harry, looking up at him and blinking, but not answering. It seemed to Harry as if Hermione's brain was still trying to process what he had said. “Come on then,” Harry said, making the decision for Hermione. He pulled her out of her chair and steered her over to the dance floor, making a mental note to himself not to allow his friend to accept anything else alcoholic to drink. They danced for a few songs, facing each other and holding hands as they had years ago when they were new Hogwarts graduates. After a bit, Hermione leaned in toward Harry and stretched her neck upward in order to make her voice heard over the loud music.

“I'm having fun on a Friday night!” she said, smiling sloppily.

“What, I can't hear you?” Harry said, bending low and putting his ear directly in front of Hermione's face.

“I said,” she yelled, “I'm having fun on a Friday night!”

Harry shook his head and looked down at his tipsy friend, smiling.

“Can't hear you! Listen, if you're going to want to talk, we should go to the back of the tavern or something. Feeling chatty, are we?” he asked.

Hermione smiled up at Harry and continued to sway to the music, apparently not having heard a word he had just said. “Yep, I don't need Benjamin. You know, I haven't shed one tear over mine and Benjamin's breakup. Not one. Did you know that? I have more fun with my Harry Friend, anyway. Fun on a Friday night,” she said, dreamily.

“Um…don't say `Harry friend',” Harry laughed. “It makes me sound like Hagrid or something.”

“Awe, Hagrid!” Hermione sighed. “I miss that big lump.” Hermione stopped dancing as she said this and just stood in place, swinging Harry's hands back and forth to the music.

“Okay, we've got to get you sober,” Harry said, all of a sudden worried. He made a move to escort Hermione off the dance floor but she held her ground firmly, refusing to budge and smiling sweetly at him. “Okay, we'll stay,” he said, laughing again. “Just don't call me your `Harry friend' again.”

“Okay, Hunky,” Hermione said coyly, cocking her head to the side.

“That did it!” Harry shouted as he made a severe face and gave Hermione a twirl, ending in an exaggerated dip. The dip earned them several hoots and claps from two of the dancing couples surrounding them. “I'll show you fun on a Friday night,” he quipped. Harry laughed again as he and Hermione lumbered through their dance, feeling that soreness return to his cheeks. As the band changed songs and began a slow waltz-y ballad which was sung by the raspy lead singer, Harry looked down at Hermione, bending low again, to suggest that they leave. He was thinking that slow songs between friends were never a good idea. Hermione, however, lunged forward and planted herself clumsily in Harry's arms. She enfolded him in a tight squeeze and buried her face in his chest.

“Okay, slow dancing with a friend, it is. This won't feel awkward at all in the morning,” Harry thought with a heavy note of sarcasm. He gently pried Hermione's arms from around his waist and placed her hands on his shoulders, turning her in a small circle as they swayed lightly.

“Coffee for you,” Harry said, speaking into her ear once again.

“'kay,” Hermione answered, lazily.

They danced through the slow ballad and the one that followed. Hermione had stopped trying to talk, instead laying her head on Harry's shoulder, making little sighing sounds every once in a while. The new song was about a young wizard who had fallen off his broom, and Harry found himself lost in thought as he listened to it. He was thinking that the wizard falling off his broom was probably a metaphor for losing one's way in life, more or less. If Hermione were sober, he would have asked her opinion on the matter.

It occurred to Harry, as he enjoyed the feeling of his friend's gentle weight laying limply on his shoulder, that ever since the very moment he pierced a sword into the body of his mortal enemy, he seemed to have been caught slightly off the beaten path and unable to figure out his way back. His life, Harry thought, had held such singular purpose early on. Early childhood left him with a sense of nothing to live for, and adolescence had taught him that not only could he die at any second, but that he would be fully capable of killing as well. But through it all, whether it was surviving to live another day at the Dursley's or at the hands of Lord Voldemort, Harry had never lacked direction until he watched the last wisps of Voldemort's soul whirl into the air and out of site.

Dancing with his closest friend, Harry wondered whether Hermione would think that his being lost was the reason he couldn't seem to hold onto a girlfriend for longer than seven or eight months. He knew that he should cling onto one of the witches he dated, get married and start the family that he desperately yearned for. But inevitably, his girlfriend would start wanting more than he seemed capable of giving and the relationship would quickly begin to topple.

“Do you see us growing old together?” they would ask.

“Why don't you open up?” was a familiar theme.

“You don't ever say, `I love you,'” his last girlfriend had said.

Even though Harry knew full well that he had indeed said it - several times, in fact - it somehow hadn't come off as genuine. Perhaps it was a question of timing, or intensity. Perhaps she was just being particular.

“Why can't you tell me about your past?”

This was the one that usually spelled the end for any of Harry's romantic relationships.

“Why?” he thought to himself, sarcastically. “Oh, I don't know, maybe because my childhood is like a Dickens novel and horror film all rolled up into one.” Harry looked down at his groggy friend and gave her a squeeze. “Hermione understands. There are some things that just shouldn't have to be said.”

“I'll take that coffee now,” Hermione said, breaking Harry out of his reverie. The band had changed songs again and the two were now dancing slowly, still locked in a tight embrace even though the song was very upbeat.

“Coffee it is,” Harry said, letting Hermione go except to grab her hand to lead her toward the bar to order a sobering drink. They stayed for another hour at the Leaky Cauldron and Hermione's alcohol-induced fog lifted. She yawned as sleepiness began to creep in its place. Right on cue, Harry noticed his friend's tired state and suggested that they bid their party friends goodbye and Apparate back to his flat.

Following their custom for Saturday outings, the two watched television and chatted. Hermione talked a bit more about the trouble she'd been having with using newts as test subjects for an experimental method she was developing - one that could be used for tracing spells based on personal magic signatures.

“It'd be great if it works,” Harry said, conversationally. “We could use a way to prove that someone has cast a spell other than by examining the wand… too many ways around that one. Not to mention that we have to find the wand… So many of the Death Eaters burned theirs up.”

Hermione lit up at the suggestion that the Aurors would actually be able to use her method, if it were ever proven to work. She had come up with the idea in order to discriminate between maladies that were caused by the victim's own use of magic and those that were caused by spells cast by others in order to help the healer diagnose more quickly. It hadn't occurred to her that the method might have implications in the world of crime and punishment as well.

Harry listened patiently as Hermione rattled on about the difficulties of using newts and Ministry laws preventing the employment of more useful subjects. Half-watching the television, half-listening to his brilliant friend, Harry fought to keep his eyelids open as they threatened to fall closed on him.

“I almost forgot to mention,” Harry said, sitting up and turning toward Hermione, “I have to go to this thing…this Muggle Law Enforcement Convention.” He scratched the back of his neck and winced apologetically. “I'll be leaving on Thursday and won't be back until the following Wednesday, so we won't be able to spend Saturday together.”

“Oh,” Hermione said quietly. “Yeah, we have had a bit a standing engagement on Saturdays, haven't we?”

“I didn't want you to wait around, wondering whether I'd be Flooing,” Harry said, smiling, “when you could be off doing something exciting.” He gave a huge yawn and leaned in against the arm of his sofa. “It's kind of like we're dating, you know?”

“What?” Hermione asked. Her eyebrows narrowed and she looked suddenly perplexed.

“Well, we eat, see movies…dance. It's kind of like dating,” Harry answered her simply.

Hermione stared at her friend. “We also spend evenings watching television together. And we don't fuss about what to wear or --”

“I never do that anyway,” Harry interrupted.

“And we don't have to think about impressing each other,” Hermione added, drawing her legs up to lie down on the sofa.

“More like being married, then,” Harry said.

“Married!” Hermione sat up and looked at Harry as if he was a bizarre museum exhibit. “Are you feeing quite well?” she asked, concerned.

“The television thing,” Harry said in the same calm voice. “Plus not trying to impress and all that. Doing things together as the normal state of things…not having to make plans. It's like being married.”

“Married, honestly!” Hermione exclaimed, laying back down again and laughing.

“Except without the adult-rated bits,” Harry added.

Hermione laughed again. “Yes. We're just like an old married couple with a comfortable routine. I suppose that's the natural evolution for a long-standing friendship among opposing sexes,” Hermione said, sounding rather clinical.

“Just without the adult-rated bits,” Harry reminded her, yawning again.

Hermione was touched by Harry's comments. She hadn't realized until just that moment that she had spent every Saturday since last April with Harry. A tiny feeling of disappointment surfaced as she looked over at her dear friend, thinking that she wouldn't be seeing him for two weeks now. As she watched her friend, Hermione smiled. Harry had fallen asleep - his head was leaning on the sofa arm and his glasses were twisted against it. She drew out her wand and pointed it at Harry's bedroom.

“Accio blanket of some kind.”

A brightly colored Chudley Cannons blanket flew toward her and Hermione caught it mid-air, spreading it over herself and Harry. She reached over, gently removed Harry's glasses and set them down on the side table, kissing his forehead. Feeling tired from a very long day, she directed her wand at the television to turn it off, snuggling down on her side of Harry's sofa and falling asleep.

The following day, Hermione dedicated herself to catch up on her studies. She had made a life-long habit of finding interesting courses to take up at the London University of Magic, and had recently signed up yet again. Sitting in her kitchen, Hermione had just opened up her new textbook for a course on Spell Transport Phenomena. She heard a series of taps on the window over her sink and looked up to see Hedwig peering in at her.

“Hi, girl!” Hermione said, opening the sash to let the owl in. “What have you got? Something for me?”

Hermione disengaged a scroll from Hedwig's claw and went to retrieve an owl treat from a blue ceramic vase that was kept on top of her refrigerator. “Here you go,” she said, giving the biscuit to an appreciative Hedwig. Hermione sat back down at her table and read the note from Harry. As she read, a broad smile swept across her face.

“Hermione,

I forgot to mention this last night. The head of the Auror Department has a daughter who is getting married a week from next Saturday. It won't be fun, but I feel obliged to go. I don't feel quite up to getting a date, and was rather hoping that you would go with me. So, will you?

Love, Harry.”

“Yes, Harry Friend. Of course I'll go with you,” Hermione said aloud, writing a quick response on the back of the parchment and rolling it up. Hedwig snatched the scroll and gave a hoot before darting out the window and sailing into the sky. Hermione watched the owl. “It's a date,” she muttered vacantly, and then shook her head and picked up her textbook to resume her reading.

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4. The Boss’s Daughter’s Wedding

Chapter 4. The Boss's Daughter's Wedding

A soft rain was pelting the window in Hermione's kitchen as she stood over her sink. She was staring blankly out of the window as she distractedly directed her wand at newly cleaned dishes, sending them flying one by one to the various cupboards to which they belonged.

CRASH

Hermione jolted out of her trance and turned toward the source of the noise. She let out a grunt of frustration upon discovering that her favorite mug had been sent crashing into the hard tile floor. “Right, forgot to open the cupboard door first…my Mother would have a few choice words about the futility of using magic for every little household chore,” Hermione thought, chastising herself and slightly amused. After taking a moment to bring her full faculties back into the present, Hermione smoothed her hair back, rubbed her eyes, and set about the business of sweeping up the stoneware chards. It was the day of Harry's boss's daughter's wedding, and Hermione found herself to be quite preoccupied. It had been two weeks since she'd last seen Harry, and she was very much looking forward to spending time with him.

Only she wasn't.

Seeing Harry tonight, Hermione worried, was bound to make her feel worse about not seeing him on future Saturdays. Ever since she had received the note from Harry mentioning that he was supposed to find a date for this wedding, and wouldn't she like to come instead…Ever since then, Hermione had been struggling to deal with some very troubling realizations that her busy-body brain had drudged up.

One: Harry will likely date again. Maybe not this week in particular, but someday soon her good-looking and absurdly chivalrous best friend was bound to desire to ask a witch out. And, no witch ever turned Harry down. Not since his very first grade school crush had Harry ever had to deal with unrequited attraction of any sort. And even then, Hermione recalled, the witch had seemed to find Harry desirable, she just had a lot of other things to deal with at the time. And so, Hermione had come to the disturbing conclusion that Harry will someday ask a witch out, and that this witch will say yes.

Two: When Harry dates again, he would not be spending his Saturdays with his dear old Hogwarts buddy anymore. Maybe some Saturdays, Hermione supposed, but definitely not all Saturdays. Staying up late and watching television in his flat was definitely not something that they should be doing if Harry had a girlfriend. Not many witches would allow that kind of coziness with a boyfriend's other female acquaintances. So, it was inevitable that Hermione would have to find some other way to spend her Saturdays.

Three: The only reason that she, Hermione, wasn't suffering from any repercussions from the Celibacy Vow was because Harry had been providing her with such good company. She had her courses and her work to keep her occupied and interested, but the weekends tended to drone on when she wasn't involved with anyone. Hermione had never had any close friends beyond Harry and Ron.

As she mulled over her recent revelations, Hermione felt a painful pull at her chest. She was already missing Harry's companionship intensely. Still, she mused, the Vow was working, wasn't it? Reflecting on this question, Hermione observed that it must be working, because she had never felt happier than she had these past few months. But then again, she also observed, this happiness would all burst into flames the moment Harry decided to snag himself a girlfriend. Hermione's chest gave another lurch as the implications of these observations began forming in her mind.

Deciding not to pursue this particular train of thought any further, Hermione allowed herself a deep sigh and stooped down to examine the broken pieces of her once-treasured mug. She remembered purchasing it when she entered University just after the war. She and that mug had spent many a late night pouring over textbooks and working out complicated Arithmancy proofs. “Oh, bother,” Hermione scolded herself. “It's just a stupid mug.”

Standing up and depositing the bits in the trash bin, Hermione decided that she'd better finish her cleaning duties so that she would have plenty of time left for revising and getting ready for her evening out with Harry. She dusted off her shorts and set about cleaning the counter tops. Several stern incantations and swishes of her wand had the surfaces gleaming back at her and she was soon happily absorbed in her coursework and feeling good about the progress she was beginning to make.

As the day wore on, however, Hermione found to her disgrace that her rambling mind kept wandering back to the issue of her love life. The List of Things to Improve had been edited twice, adding “Make Eye Contact” and “Find Girlfriends” and discarding “Take Better Notes” and “Learn the proper technique for Stewing Magical Herbs at home.” At some point during her musings, Hermione had created the beginnings of an important decision. She examined it, refined and modified it, and then examined it some more until it now stood before her in final form. It was waiting for Hermione to commit to it.

Decision: Break the Celibacy Vow.

Once the decision presented itself, Hermione gave up on any further revising. She retreated to her bedroom and lay stretched out on her soft bed, chewing on a plateful of carrot sticks. An ugly mood was taking over her as she talked out loud, chastising the predicament she now found herself immersed in.

“Right. It's been...what…seven weeks since you broke up with Benjamin? Scratch that. It's been seven weeks since Benjamin dumped you,” she whined as she grabbed her wand and summoned a bottle of Butterbeer Light from the kitchen, catching it irritably. “…must be some kind of non-dating record or something,” she muttered to herself. “A younger witch can go months, even a year or so between dates, but someone in their mid-twenties…I'm supposed to have it worked out by now, dating.”

Hermione finished her drink in silence and polished off the remaining bits of carrots. As much as she tried, Hermione could not push the light ache out of her chest. Studying and cleaning had only served to dull the sensation temporarily, and Hermione was finding that the repetitive actions of chewing and swallowing in the silence of her bedroom were causing her mind to probe about, looking for the source of her unhappiness and wallowing in it. Having thoroughly convinced herself that she was in the throws of some kind of breakdown, she unwittingly began to devise a secret plan to make the wedding thing with Harry count as a date…of sorts.

“Just once,” Hermione bartered. “Then we can go back to what we were doing…outings or whatever. Then I'm not so pathetic, and maybe I won't miss Harry so much. Maybe having a date will give me incentive to go and find someone.” She rose from her bed and withdrew her wand. With the secret plan in mind, Hermione Apparated to wizarding London and purchased a fairly sexy, black party dress and a nice new robe to go with it…and a pair of strappy shoes…and a bracelet.

Four hours later, Harry paced back and forth in his living room, fussing with his tie and cummerbund. A crack sounded just a few feet from where Harry stood. He whirled around to see that Hermione had just arrived.

“Five o'clock on the…”

Harry stopped mid-sentence. Hermione appeared before him in a slinky black dress, her hair twisted up into a loose bun. She was looking up nervously at him with her robes and cloak folded neatly over her arm. “You look -- wow!” Harry beamed. He smiled appreciatively and walked over to his friend, taking her hand and spinning her around to catch the full effect of her outfit. “You did this for me?” he asked boyishly.

Hermione smiled big and wide. “Yes, Harry. I couldn't have those good old boys at the Auror's office thinking you'd be seen with a hag.”

“Well,” Harry said, “I don't usually care what those idiots think, but I'll definitely be proud to have you on my arm this evening. You look beautiful.” Harry's heart gave a tiny jolt when he noticed the blush creeping up his friend's exposed neck. Hemione was not comfortable with accepting compliments, and he wished terribly that she would learn to love her looks the way he did.

“You look beautiful,” he repeated while taking Hermione's arm to prepare for traveling. Together, they Apparated to an alley and walked several blocks to a beautiful stone church where the wedding was taking place.

The ceremony was long. Harry twisted and turned in his seat, uncomfortable in his dress clothes and wizard's cloak. It was July, and Harry was lamenting the wizarding world's archaic sense of fashion, pulling at this collar. Next to him, he could see that Hermione was hot as well. She wiped a bead of sweat off her brow and fanned herself with a delicately embossed wedding program. Laughing silently, Harry shook his head. He drew out his wand and gently tapped Hermione's head with the tip, wordlessly casting a Cooling charm.

“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione whispered, reaching a hand over to squeeze his in an appreciative gesture.

Harry tapped his own head and relaxed into the ceremony. He found, now that he wasn't preoccupied with the feeling that he was being set on fire, that he rather enjoyed watching the pomp and circumstance of it all. The bridesmaids were stunning and the bride looked the picture of elegance in a long, form-fitting gown. She kept smiling, looking as if she couldn't stop smiling if she had wanted to, in fact. She looked, to Harry, like a beautiful promise. “Lucky wizard,” he thought to himself.

Hermione teared up as the bride walked down the hydrangea-lined aisle and - just as he had in the theater - Harry drew up her hand and placed a soft kiss on her palm. He held Hermione's hand in his lap for the rest of the ceremony, caressing it tenderly.

The guests proceeded to a grand hall for the reception, which was quite a to-do given that practically all of the Ministry's Auror department staff were there as guests. Many safety precautions had been put in place, and Hermione felt positively harassed by the time they were directed to their seats. Dinner and a few fruity drinks, however, soon served to lighten her mood, and she was relieved to find that the four couples sharing a table with her and Harry were quite interesting. The bride and groom stopped by their table to exchange pleasantries, and were soon followed by Harry's boss. Hermione flushed deeply as the head of the Auror Department gave a whistle, complimenting Harry on his “excellent taste in witches.”

To cover her embarrassment, and feeling a bit restless, Hermione convinced a reluctant Harry to join her on the dance floor. The pair shuffled to an abandoned spot near the stage where a jazz band played soulful music, which provided a mood of sultry sophistication. Dancing comfortably with their hands in each other's, Hermione looked up at Harry and smiled. “I'm having fun,” she said. “I always have fun with you, Harry.”

Harry just smiled, leading Hermione into another turn.

“Tiffany stopped by last night,” he blurted.

Hermione stopped in her tracks, trying to process what Harry had just said. “Tiffany,” she began, “the one who broke up with you last spring? Just after Easter?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Yes, that one,” Harry replied. “She wants to give it another go.” He looked over Hermione's shoulder, appearing a bit embarrassed to be discussing his love life out loud. “…was a bit chuffed, actually, that I couldn't take her out tonight…you know?”

Hermione stared at Harry, forcing him to look at her eyes. Why was he just dumping this all on her like this? Why now? She had been enjoying herself so much tonight.

“Sorry,” said Harry, sheepishly, seeming to have read her thoughts.

“Oh, no. It's just that…well, I wouldn't want to be the reason...” Hermione struggled to sound interested, but not altogether affected by Harry's news. “I'm happy for you, Harry. I just feel funny that my coming here tonight has put any kind of kink in your plans.”

Harry didn't respond, but gave his dance partner a little hug, swirling her in a slow circle. They danced in silence for a few more songs and then reclaimed their seats at the table. Hermione sipped on her drink, staring at the couples on the dance floor.

“Something wrong?” Harry asked with a worried expression on his face.

“Nope. Everything's fine, Hunky,” Hermione said airily, smiling.

Harry smiled back and the two relaxed into a friendly conversation. They stayed at their table for the remainder of the evening and bid their goodbyes at half past eleven. Harry summoned their cloaks from the coatroom and, as usual, Apparated them both to his flat. They situated themselves on Harry's sofa and began to watch their favorite Saturday night television program.

“…for probably the last time,” Hermione thought, sadly. She was starting to feel right sorry for herself and, in an uncharacteristically presumptuous move, drew her wand to summon a bottle of red wine and two glasses from Harry's cupboard. The bottle and glasses nearly smashed into Harry's glass-top sofa table, but Harry adeptly stopped them with a quick flick of his wand, laughing. Hermione allowed herself only a brief moment to marvel at her friend's lightening quick draw and superior form with spells before returning to her internal sulking.

“Thirsty, are you?” Harry asked, pointing his wand at the wine bottle and setting the cork flying off to the kitchen with a soft “pop.”

“Don't you be all cute, charming, lovable Harry with me!” scolded Hermione, but only inside her head. She gave a slight smile and accepted a glass of wine from Harry, taking a large sip.

“Of course, wine goes straight to my hips,” she said automatically, and then resumed her internal berating of the unfairness of the situation with her, Harry, Tiffany, and the Celibacy Vow.

“That's it,” Harry said sternly. “Hermione Granger, we're not going to have another conversation about your lovely hips,” he gestured at Hermione's form, “your stupid lists, or any of your other self-deprecating bull. You were the loveliest witch there tonight!”

He set his wine glass down on the sofa table and looked directly into Hermione's eyes. Hermione, for her part, was searching her brain, trying to recall what exactly it was that she had just said.

“I want you to say something nice about yourself.” Harry crossed his arms and leaned back into the sofa cushions. Then, he uncrossed them, grabbed his wine glass and took a sip. “Go on,” he ordered.

“Umm, you first. I don't like talking about my…assets, if you will,” Hermione said, carefully. “It's much easier to complain, really.”

Harry looked skeptical.

“Go on,” she urged, “just tell me something that you've been complimented on over the years. If it's something you have heard more than a few times, and especially if it's been said by more than one witch or wizard, I expect it's bound to be true.”

Hermione gave Harry a challenging look.

“All right,” Harry said, cringing. He had just as hard of a time speaking highly of himself as Hermione, and he knew it. Harry took several more sips of wine before taking a deep breath. “OK, same time then.”

Hermione nodded.

Harry began the countdown, looking quite put out, but determined. “Three, two, one…”

“Soft lips.”

“Nice legs.”

They spoke in unison, and then fell back on the sofa, laughing uncomfortably. After a few moments, each sat up and grabbed their own wine glass, drinking in even intervals and returning their attention to the late-night talk show. Hermione struggled within herself. Harry seemed to be acting normally. She had no real reason to feel so put out. Yet, as the wine made its way through her continence, her fuzzy brain was reminded of the idea that had popped into her head many hours earlier.

The one date idea.

She could almost count this evening as a date if it weren't for the discussion of Tiffany and the fact that she and Harry were now back together. But, Hermione reasoned, if she could secure a tiny little kiss…And, hadn't Harry all but opened the door with his “soft lips” comment?

“Tiffany was the one who said the `soft lips' thing --” Harry began.

“I think your teeth are sexy,” Hermione spat out. She wanted to interject something, anything, before the conversation had officially returned to Tiffany.

“What?” Harry gasped.

“You have sexy teeth. Kind of crowded on the bottom, but straight on top. Perfect bite. Good color. My parents are dentists, you'll recall. I often found their patients' teeth to look too perfect after treatment with orthodontics - like dentures or something. Yours though, they're naturally straight. Imperfect and sexy.” Hermione was in a full-fledged ramble now and she was struggling to stop herself. But, she noticed, she had managed to bring the conversation away from talking about certain other witches. Perhaps into a very bizarre place of its own, but away from Tiffany, nonetheless.

“Teeth aren't sexy,” was Harry's simple reply.

Hermione refilled their glasses and attempted to act casual, preparing herself to deliver the next blow. “Yeah they are,” she persisted. “When you draw your tongue across the top ones like you do sometimes. That's sexy,” she managed. “Harry, can I kiss you?”

“What?” Harry was mid-sip and nearly snorted through his nose.

“Sorry,” Hermione winced. “That was weird, wasn't it?” She averted her eyes and began playing with a fold in the silky fabric of her dress, breathing unevenly.

“Yeah, a bit!” Harry said. He grimaced slightly and then shook his head, took a deep breath, and exhaled loudly as he sank back into the sofa. After a few silent moments, Harry sat back up and took another sip of wine.

Hermione had never felt more outlandish in her life. She had reached some new kind of low, hitting on her best friend. And why? She knew it didn't have as much to do with wanting to be on an official date as not wanting to think about Harry and Tiffany on one. This thought made her feel slightly nauseous.

“I'm sorry, Harry,” she said, finally. “I really am. I promise not to be weird anymore. I've just…it's just…”

“The Celibacy Vow,” Harry finished for her. He tilted his head to the side and peered at her with a look of genuine concern. “Hermione, it's time for you to get back out there. I think you realize now that you're far too young to be an old maid, and far too gorgeous to be a nun.” Harry held his wine glass up in toasting fashion and set his jaw, looking rather serious.

“To the end of the stupid Celibacy Vow.”

Hermione half-heartedly clinked her glass with Harry's, frowning. “Oh, Harry. That's the truly sad part,” she began. “I did end the vow.” Harry looked surprised and opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione cut him off with a wave. “This morning. Well, I guess the idea probably originated two weeks ago, if I'm being honest. You mentioned that you needed a date for this wedding and I realized for the first time how much your company means to me. You'll have a girlfriend again or something and I won't have these wonderful weekends. We've been so close lately…So close, and that's the only reason that I haven't been feeling that awful loneliness that always comes when someone's…alone.”

Harry put a hand on Hermione's leg, smiling sweetly at her. “We can still have our Saturdays,” he said. “We'll still be close.”

Hermione smiled back and sighed, taking her own deep breath. She exhaled through her teeth and leaned over the side of the sofa, resting her head on her arm and peering out the window. “It's not voluntary,” she said.

“What isn't?” Harry asked.

“The celibacy thing, it's not voluntary,” Hermione sighed. “Harry, nobody is asking me out. I haven't been turning wizards down right and left, happy with some stupid decision that I'd made. They just haven't been coming around anymore to ask.”

“There'll be someone,” Harry said. He looked concernedly at Hermione's turned head, hating to see his friend sad. From the time they were eleven years old, Harry had known that he would walk through fire and Troll bogeys to keep Hermione from looking like she did just now. “What is wrong with wizards anyway?” he thought. “Can't they see what a remarkable witch Hermione Granger is?” Harry felt anger percolate inside of him as he recalled the chastising comments that fellow school mates would sometimes make toward his closest female pal when they thought he couldn't hear them. It had always occurred to Harry that the boys were probably more intimidated than put off by Hermione.

Hermione's back was still turned to Harry and he stared at her slender form. Her tiny waist was twisted into a sad little slump and her shapely legs peered teasingly out of her short dress. Now that she was an adult, Harry found Hermione more attractive than ever, and he just couldn't understand why more wizards didn't see this in her above all the scary intellect. It must have been these thoughts that made Harry lean over and place a tender kiss on Hermione's temple. As he did so, Harry drew his wand and swished it at the fireplace, casting a warm glow that filled the living room. Another flick and the television set gave a quiet snap as it was turned off. The soft, rippling and crackling of the fire filled the newly silenced room.

Hermione turned her head toward Harry and stared at him, a quizzical look beginning to form on her face. Harry reached across her and grabbed the sofa arm for balance as he moved to kiss her again, his left hand leaning gently on Hermione's thigh. It was a gentle kiss. Harry enveloped Hermione's bottom lip lightly and then kissed the surface of her slightly parted mouth for a few moments. Out of habit, Hermione opened her mouth, and they enjoyed a short but very nice kiss, warmed by the fire Harry had conjured, the activity they were presently engaged in, and the wine they had just consumed.

They parted and both sat back, hands in laps and staring at the fire. After a few long seconds, Harry looked down at Hermione's folded hands and said, “Now you can count this evening as an official date.” He gave an almost undetectable smile and looked over at his friend's face. She looked sweetly pensive, Harry thought. “I lit the fire so that you can say you were kissed by the fire under the moonlight,” Harry added as he gestured shyly toward the window where a beautiful crescent moon lit the evening sky. “That'll give the next bloke you fancy something to think about.”

Hermione laughed. “Fire and moonlight, wine and dancing,” she said loftily. She stood up and summoned her robes and cloak, offering her right hand for Harry to shake. “Well then, thank you kind sir for a lovely date.”

“Oh, you're quite welcome,” Harry said, standing up and pulling Hermione into a loose hug. “I had a great time. Just don't tell Tiffany - she'll break my broomstick if she finds out I've been on a date the day after she and I just got back together.” He gave a nervous chuckle.

“Well, that's what you get for dating a stripper!” Hermione said, wrapping her robes around herself and smiling at Harry. “They're a jealous lot.”

“She's not a stripper!” Harry retorted, smiling despite his efforts to appear offended.

“Well, she's got a stripper's name. Same thing, really.”

Hermione Apparated before Harry could continue to defend his witch's honor. Back in her flat, she chuckled out loud and glided into her bedroom to get ready for bed. Hermione was exhausted and embarrassed, and a tiny bit excited. The little kiss she and Harry shared may have been born of a strange and, well, bad idea, but it had resurrected something inside of her. She did indeed miss the sort of attention a wizard could give her after all. Even if she didn't get asked out for a while, Hermione now had a nice memory to mull over to help her through the loneliness that she would undoubtedly feel once Harry began to spend more and more time with the stripper. She laughed again at her little nickname for the witch who stole Harry away, adding out loud, “I am too funny.”

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5. Repentance

Chapter 5. Repentance

The following morning was light and breezy. Harry Potter sat on a bench in the courtyard behind his apartment building watching his pet owl, Hedwig, fly in a large figure eight pattern over his head. He loved to watch Hedwig play. As the bird aged, however, she seemed to be losing her instinct for steering clear of Muggles, and Harry had a time of it trying to convince her to sleep during the day and save her flying for the nighttime. “You crazy bird, you!” Harry chided playfully as Hedwig looped out of her eight pattern and landed on her owner's shoulder. She gave a muted coo, and then jerked suddenly, ruffling her feathers and pointing her beak angrily toward the North.

“What's the ruckus, girl?” Harry asked. “Oh, I see. We've got company,” he said as he calmed Hedwig by petting her smooth feathers in gentle, long strokes.

A brown, tawny owl flew into sight and dropped a roll of parchment from at least twenty feet above Harry's head. The intruder was clearly not keen to get any closer to Harry's protector, not even bothering to collect a payment. Harry laughed and shook Hedwig off his shoulder, bending over to retrieve his letter from the patchy lawn beneath him. Not daring to open a roll of parchment received from an owl in broad daylight, he stuffed the letter into a pocket of his cargo shorts and stood up to go inside. As he reached the back doorway to his apartment building, Harry whistled for Hedwig to come in as well, and she obediently returned to her perch on Harry's third floor balcony.

After reading the morning's Prophet and settling down to a second cup of coffee, Harry removed the scroll from his pocket and unrolled the parchment, chuckling at its contents. The letter was from Hermione.

“Dear Harry,

I'm sending a note via owl post as I didn't want to chance using the Floo network, in case someone was with you. I had to borrow the owl from the ministry, I hope he made it okay. Anyway Harry, I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night. You have always been a wonderful friend, and I'm afraid that I used you a bit. I feel dreadful. Please be advised that I am going to church at 9:00 a.m. at Saint Mary's a block from my flat this morning where I shall hopefully get officially cleansed. You can join me if you'd like to witness my repentance.

Love, Hermione”

Harry flicked his wand at the wall, still smiling to himself. Brilliant while letters appeared in ornate script that read “Twenty and two past the hour of seven” glowing harshly and then immediately fading away. “Church it is, then,” he said, pocketing his wand and heading toward the bathroom to get ready for the service.

A half-hour later, Hermione sat serenely on a crowded pew of Saint Mary's Catholic Church. She was staring distractedly at multi-colored rays that streamed in through the many stained glass windows. Although she had not been raised Catholic, Hermione had found Saint Mary's on her very first walk around her new neighborhood after moving in three years earlier, and fell in love with it. Something about the century-old building and the friendly parishioners had charmed her, and she had been a weekly visitor ever since - though not usually rising to the occasion of such an early service. It felt good to have someplace to be on a Sunday, and Hermione felt that being among the other church goers somehow brought her closer to her muggle roots, as it brought back memories of attending masses with her parents as a young child.

The early hour, though, made everything unfamiliar, Hermione thought. She would normally just be getting into the shower at nine o'clock but guilt and restlessness had robbed the troubled witch of her Sunday morning lie in on this day, and she had decided to get an early start on a cleaner life. Sending Harry a quick note of apology had been her first act of reconciliation, and her conscious was already feeling much less burdened.

A tap on her shoulder jolted Hermione out of her trance. Swinging her head around, she let out a gasp as she spotted Harry sitting behind her, ruffling through a psalm book and smiling. Hermione gave a little wave and opened her mouth to ask what Harry was doing in her church, but was stopped by a surge of organ music, which signaled the start of the service. As the ceremony carried on, Hermione stole a few glances at her friend, and made an attempt to inquire whether something was wrong with a questioning tilt of her head, eyebrows raised and mouth slightly open. Harry had only smiled and waved in response, returning to his psalm book and smirking.

Hermione couldn't help but feel rather uncomfortable that Harry had accepted the invitation she had offered in jest. Had he felt obliged somehow to take her up on any suggestion now, somehow afraid to hurt her feelings now that she'd basically laid them out in despicable fashion in his living room? As the recessional music sounded, she found Harry waiting for her at the end of her pew, clearly expecting to walk her out.

“Harry, I can't believe you came!” Hermione said, collecting Harry's psalm book and stacking it on top of her own as they walked down the aisle toward the exit.

“You invited me. I wanted to see you get beaten with rosaries or something,” Harry replied. “I have to say, you look remarkably unpunished.”

“I was joking!” Hermione said, laughing. “I didn't mean to presume that you should attend church with me - especially after spending all of Saturday together!”

“Oh,” Harry replied simply. “I didn't get the joke.”

“Oh, probably because it wasn't all that funny,” Hermione said, feeling a bit embarrassed. Squinting into the bright sunbeam as they entered the church's lobby, she smiled and plunked the psalm books into giant oak shelves. Harry fit his arm into Hermione's elbow and the two walked side-by-side through the doors. “I shouldn't attempt humor before nine o'clock,” Hermione said.

“If at all,” Harry retorted. He smiled warmly as Hermione slapped his elbow. Though it was sunny outside and there were only a few cottony clouds, a light rain had begun to fall. Hermione looked around to see if there was an out of the way spot from which to Apparate.

“No, no, young lady,” Harry scolded. “I know what you're thinking. No laziness on your day of repentance.” He tightened his grip on her arm and marched briskly down the stone steps. “Come on, it's only a bit of a drizzle.”

Hermione nodded her reluctant agreement and the pair hurried down the street toward her flat. They didn't talk during the trip to Hermione's, but stopped twice to wipe rain from their eyes, laughing. Once they reached the apartment building, Hermione invited Harry in for a late breakfast, suggesting that they could watch the football game together or listen to Quidditch on the wireless. She had only asked out of politeness, but was surprised for the second time that day when Harry cast drying spells on them both, made himself comfortable on her sofa, and said that he couldn't think of a better way to spend a rainy day.

“If he thinks spending a second day in a row with another witch - especially one that so recently hit on him - would endear himself to Tiffany…” Hermione thought, but she quickly decided against mentioning the inappropriateness of the situation to Harry. Instead, she quietly slipped into the kitchen and made breakfast, which she and Harry ate in her living room. The two old friends ate in silence, except for the constant hum of a Quidditch pre-game analysis that Harry had found on the wireless. Hermione savored the feeling of coziness that enveloped her. She had become accustomed to living alone in her London flat, but had never particularly embraced the idea of solitary meals. Eating by oneself, she thought, seemed so terribly lonely now when thinking back on all the luscious and laughter-filled feasts she'd shared at Hogwarts or The Burrow, or her own family's home years ago.

Not the least interested in Quidditch and still feeling quite pensive, Hermione's mind eventually made its way back to the subject of Harry and Tiffany. She again considered warning Harry that spending time in her company could be problematic to a fledgling romance, but couldn't quite bring herself to the task. He looked so cozy on her sofa, stuffed full of eggs and toast and reading the Daily Prophet happily. Hermione also had no desire to discuss Tiffany, relationships, or anything else that might conjure up memories of her despicable behavior of the previous night. So she resolved for a second time to keep her opinions to herself, and settled down to her reading.

The morning passed lazily as the two friends lounged in Hermione's living room. Though the weather had started out quite nice in the morning, a steady rain had persisted, making the afternoon dark and gray. With no sunlight, the flat appeared dreary as it was lit only by fire and several very bright candles that hung on sconces on each wall. Except for having a few kitchen appliances and the television, Hermione, like Harry and most magical people who lived among Muggles, lived mostly in wizard fashion while inside the confines of her magically protected home. Despite her Muggle upbringing, using magic had just become more comfortable to Hermione than flipping switches and such.

As they wiled away the damp Sunday morning, Harry made periodic attempts to engage Hermione in discussions regarding football statistics, looking up occasionally from the Prophet which he had been reading with vigor.

“Uh huh,” she would reply until at last Harry smiled and shook his head.

“Sorry,” he said, “I forget sometimes that not everyone thinks the sports page is that interesting.”

“Perfectly alright,” Hermione returned, looking up from the textbook that she herself had been fully engaged in. “Just watch yourself or I'll begin quoting `Genealogy of Magical Plant Species' to you.”

She flipped a page and took a deep breath, preparing to recite from the text.

“No! Please!” Harry pleaded. “I swear I won't do it again. Just please don't read that appalling textbook to me.” He peered over his newspaper to see that Hermione was already half lost to her reading again. “When are you going to finish school anyway? The rest of us were done ages ago,” he said, offering a smile. “You're a slow one, you are.”

“Oh, ha ha,” Hermione chortled, contracting her face in a look that signaled she was not in the least amused. “There's always an interesting course at the University. Every time I pick up a new course schedule, I find a new subject that interests me and I just have to sign up for it. I'm a bit addicted, I suppose,” she said, crinkling her nose in distaste.

“No surprise there,” Harry said. “It's another one of those things that makes you you.”

“Awe…that's nice,” Hermione replied, giving a smile and then returning to her reading.

Hermione wondered briefly how long Harry would stay, but she eventually relaxed, taking Harry's lead. He seemed content to just spend time with her, and as she hadn't planned on going out anyway, she settled in to finishing her reading and watching Harry. He seemed so grown up now, so much the bachelor.

Some hours later, Hermione reflected how nice it was that Harry's presence hadn't distracted her at all from her studying. She couldn't stop herself, however, from noticing that her Harry friend was one huge sports fan. She marveled at how he adeptly watched a football match on the television while listening to a Quidditch match on the wireless. Commentators and text banners also kept him apprised of other ongoing matches all the while. Hermione was simply aghast that her friend was able to take in so much information simultaneously. “And he thinks I'm addicted,” she mused.

After the Quidditch match ended, Harry waved his wand, silencing the television and wireless connections. The Muggle football match that he'd been watching had long ago been decided - against Harry's team - and his sports addiction seemed to have been satisfied for the afternoon.

“Mind if I use the kitchen for a bit?” Harry asked as he stretched and folded the Prophet neatly, placing it on Hermione's side table.

“Why? Are you hungry? I could get us something to eat,” Hermione responded, setting her book aside and stretching.

“Yes, to the hungry part. No, to you getting it. I'm perfectly able to fix us a proper meal,” Harry insisted.

“Okay,” Hermione said, smiling at Harry and looking doubtful.

Harry fumbled his way through his friend's cupboards as he prepared sandwiches and tea, showing off his kitchen skills which, as Hermione had observed, were entirely Muggle. Harry had never bothered to learn so much as a slicing charm. He set the table, not worrying himself over matching the dishes or silverware, and called on Hermione to join him.

For a while, the two friends ate again in relative silence. Harry found himself to be lost in thought, despite the fact that he wasn't alone, as he munched on his grilled cheese and tomato sandwich. He was reliving the very interesting visit from his former girlfriend on the previous Friday night. Tiffany had shown up out of nowhere, knocking on Harry's door and delivering quite a shock. They hugged, she cried, and then she told him how much she had missed him.

Harry had been involved with a handful of pretty witches since graduating from school. Each relationship had lasted a bit longer than half a year and each had ended pretty much in the same manner. This was the first time he had ever been presented with the option of getting back together, and Harry wasn't exactly sure whether he thought the chances of having anything turn out better the second time around were good. But, loneliness and a desire to succeed in this troublesome aspect of his life had led him to welcome Tiffany into his apartment and back into his arms.

They hadn't talked much. Instead, they kissed passionately and ended up panting and clawing at each other - both full of raw need and hunger - making their way into Harry's bedroom not long after Tiffany had arrived. Absence, it seemed, had led to some interesting feelings for each of them, fueling their desire. Somewhere in the evening, before leaving Harry's flat, Tiffany had managed to ask a few questions and Harry had done his best to give the answers that he expected she wanted to hear.

Now in Hermione's kitchen, Harry sat staring at the yellow and blue floral wallpaper and shiny white cupboards, finishing the last bits of his sandwich. He had rather hoped that he could ask Hermione's advice on how to become more of the wizard that Tiffany wanted - deserved - but he was having trouble deciding just how to begin such a conversation. It was Hermione who started it after all, as she seemed to have picked up on Harry's reflective mood.

“Everything alright, Harry?” she asked. Hermione was standing over her sink, waving her wand around to clean up after lunch. “It would put a rather nice cap on my redemption day if I could help out the very friend I offended.” She gave Harry an encouraging smile and then looked away, giving him a moment of privacy in case he wanted to decline her offer. Instead, however, Harry looked up rather eagerly, folded his hands in front of him and looked at Hermione as if she was a teacher standing at the foot of a classroom. Hermione let out a tiny snicker at the image Harry was conveying, and then forced her face back into an expression of light concern.

“Hermione,” Harry began, “I need help. I need to figure out something. Something personal…but…important.”

Walking over to the table, Hermione studied her friend attentively. She drew her wand and waved it at a tea kettle on the stove, quietly ordering it to boil. They sat in silence as Hermione went about the paces of making tea, and soon they sat with cups in hand and thoughtful looks on their faces as Hermione waited patiently for Harry to elaborate.

“This is hard,” he stated. Hermione didn't reply but sat still for another moment, looking at her mug of steaming tea.

“She wants...Tiffany, that is…She wants to make it work. She said we were great together and that perhaps she should have given me more time.” Harry paused, looking out the window over Hermione's sink and then shrugged his shoulders as if to give up on any further attempts at this unpleasant conversation.

“Harry,” Hermione said, putting a hand over his on the table, “you really want to make this work with Tiffany too, don't you?”

Harry nodded in agreement, meeting her eyes then looking at their hands.

“Maybe you should tell me why she broke up with you in the first place,” Hermione said in a gentle voice.

Frowning, Harry took a moment to form his response. “Same reason everyone else did,” he said, defeated. “If it were something different, then I'd feel hopeful that I could fix myself and make it last.” He took a breath and let out a sigh. “But, it's always that same thing.”

“The sports thing?” Hermione asked, sipping her tea.

“Sports thing? Oh…no,” Harry said, smiling and shaking his head. “Bet that can get a bit annoying though, huh?” he continued. “No, it's just that eventually whomever I'm with gets frustrated with me because I don't talk. About myself. I don't…share. They feel left out. I used to shrug it off as neediness on their part, but - as you pointed out - if they all say the same thing, it's bound to be true.”

“I said that about compliments,” Hermione said, giving a nervous smile. “Although, I supposed it holds true for insults as well,” she added.

“They weren't trying to insult me, it's just that it hurts them,” Harry said quietly. “Tiffany says that she can see us getting married.” Hermione swallowed a huge gulp of tea and looked down at the table. “Someday,” Harry continued, “but not if she doesn't know the circumstances of my past.”

“What does she want to know?” Hermione asked. Setting down her mug, she gave Harry's fingers a little squeeze and looked up at him thoughtfully.

“About my family. What the Muggles were like who raised me. About my scar. About Voldemort. The works.”

Harry took a sip of tea and willed himself to keep talking, drawing a measure of comfort from the hot liquid as it made a warm trail down his throat. “It's such a simple thing, really,” he continued. “I don't mean to be secretive, I just…I just can't bring myself to talk about any of it with them. I've got some kind of mental block. Something's wrong with me and I'm going to die alone.” Harry said this quickly, closing his eyes and taking another deep breath. He felt deeply embarrassed for saying so much. He had only meant to ask Hermione to help him to be more “open” in general terms. But once he started talking, Harry discovered, the weight of the consequences of his “problem” propelled him to empty the entire load, right there on her kitchen table. Harry looked up at Hermione, squinting his eyes and bracing himself for her diagnosis.

Hermione studied Harry, filling up with the long-held tenderness she felt for her friend. His brow was furrowed and he sat there looking to Hermione like a lost child. She spoke slowly and carefully, holding Harry's eyes in an effort to drive her words straight into him.

“Harry, nothing's wrong with you. Nothing, really. You're a little bit broken, that's all, after all that you've been through.”

The harshness of her own words tugged at Hermione's heart and she suddenly felt her voice catch in her throat. Out of nowhere, tears had found their way to the corners of her eyes and she tried unsuccessfully to fight them off. Hermione continued to hold Harry's gaze, letting her words sink in a bit before continuing.

“A bit broken…that sounds like something's wrong to me,” Harry said, attempting a half-smile before dropping his eyelids closed.

“No, it's nothing we can't fix, you and me. Harry,” Hermione choked, “I can help you.”

For a moment, Harry's heart lifted. He felt like grabbing his dearest friend and swinging her around the room. Did she really have a cure for his male insensitivity? Then, just as suddenly as hope had filled him, it vaporized as an errant thought presented itself. Harry recalled a Mediwitch advising him once to use Veritaserum in order to unburden his mind and knew that it was common practice for mild mental illness. Surely, Hermione was aware of this and was about to suggest it. What else could help? Harry shuddered. There was no way he going to drink that stuff and relive every awful detail of his tragic youth.

His despair was coming back in full force now as Harry convinced himself, once again, that he was destined for a lonely life. “Old Voldemort will be tap-dancing in his grave,” he thought, sulking heavily under his closed eyelids. A breeze flew in through the open window, rumpling the eyelet curtains and tickling Harry's face. When he opened his eyes, Harry noticed that Hermione was still staring at him and a little tear was now dripping off of her cheek.

“Harry,” she said, “you don't tell them - Tiffany and these other witches of yours - because they don't deserve to hear it. They have no right to ask.”

Harry looked ready to pounce on her in defense of his ex-girlfriends, but Hermione continued bravely.

“You were a baby, Harry, and they made you stay with those awful Muggles, away from anyone who could care for you properly. The whole wizarding community stood by while you suffered. You were a child when you fought their enemy. They put the weight of our world on your seventeen-year-old shoulders, Harry.” Hermione's voice was shaking and tears were now falling freely onto her blouse.

“You don't talk to them because they wanted you to be the one to kill him. They rooted for you, but nobody stepped in. You'll never, ever admit it, Harry, but deep down - way deep down in the remotest part of your soul - you resent them.”

Harry was still staring at their hands. His eyes glistened but no tears fell. He was breathing irregularly, quite affected by Hermione's speech. Shocked, really. The two friends sat in the bright kitchen - Hermione stroking Harry's hand softly, Harry trying to control his emotions and Hermione still thinking.

“That's why we can talk about it, all of it, you and me and Ron,” Hermione said after a few moments of silence. “It's because we were there, we helped you. We saw you raise that heavy pewter sword that Gryffindor himself had once used, and stab that foul bastard in the heart. We felt your pain and we would gladly - gladly - have taken your place.”

Hermione paused and wiped her eyes, calmer now. “Who would have ever thought that the wizard willing to die, the wizard who pushed aside his own fear and hatred, the only wizard who risked his own soul to kill an enemy to all wizards…that this wizard would ever be asked to explain himself.” She looked out the window, her sad look now replaced with one of fierceness. “It's unimaginable, really.”

Harry looked up after a bit and stared at his friend, studying her profile. With a slight hitching in his throat, he managed to whisper, “Thank you,” and he looked out the window too.

“Don't mention it,” Hermione whispered back, a few more teardrops escaping as she said it.

They drank their tea and exchanged a bit of small talk, giving each other some time to bring their emotions to rest before carrying on with their day. Harry gave Hermione a firm embrace and thanked her again “for, you know…everything” and Apparated home with a little trickle of hope mixed in with his other feelings. He smiled when he arrived at his flat, marveling once again at how amazing Hermione's sense of perception was. To Harry, she was a witch of unparalleled wisdom, and he'd go to his grave in complete awe of her.

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6. Down on Main Street

Chapter 6. Down on Main Street

As July ended and the suffering heat of August began, Harry and Hermione strolled down Main Street on a blistering Saturday afternoon. Despite Hermione's fears to the contrary, the two had still been spending every Saturday together. Harry joined Hermione for Sunday church services regularly now as well, convincing her to meet for the early one so they could get back to his flat for “the game” - as he always called whatever football or Quidditch match interested him on that particular day. Hermione had complained, but was never really able to turn Harry down. She so enjoyed his company, she thought to herself, that he could ask her to climb a volcano to help collect hot lava samples and she'd happily comply. It was beginning to feel like a sickness to Hermione.

Harry was still “with” his former ex-girlfriend, Tiffany, although Hermione couldn't quite figure out what “with” meant. Tiffany would appear at Harry's flat several times during the week, and they usually went out on one of the weekend nights, but it seemed strange that a couple who'd dated for so long before didn't seem keen to spend every waking moment together. Whatever it was, Hermione had determined that the relationship with Tiffany agreed with Harry; he was as happy and as carefree as ever. Harry even confided that he had made some progress with the “opening up” issue. It was after church services on the Sunday just past. Harry mentioned casually that he had told Tiffany about the day he got his letters from Hogwarts - addressed to the “cupboard under the stairs” and then to a bedroom, and then to a rock in the sea - and how his uncle had tried in vain to keep Harry from receiving them.

“That's great, Harry,” Hermione had encouraged. “And, did it make her feel better - that you'd shared such an important moment with her?”

“I guess,” was Harry's short reply, and that ended that part of their conversation.

Walking down Main Street on this hot day, the pair was unusually quiet. Neither was in a particularly talkative mood and they were both enjoying the silent spectacle of watching the Muggles interact with one another in this busy tourist section of town. As the sun peaked and drove temperatures even higher, they ducked into a restaurant to escape the heat. Luigi's was a family-run Italian place that stood next to the movie theater, and Hermione had mentioned that she'd always wanted to give it a try.

As they entered the restaurant, Harry eyed the theater with an eager expression and convinced Hermione to stay for a movie after dinner. She agreed, biting her tongue as familiar, Tiffany-related concerns rose to the surface of her thoughts, but she didn't get a chance to mention them as Harry had sprinted immediately over to the theater to check for show times.

“Thanks!” he shouted when he was back in sight and running toward the Romanesque door of Luigi's. “I've wanted to go back to the theater all summer. I'd never been before you and I saw that movie together.”

Hermione laughed at her friend's boyish enthusiasm and her heart gave a tiny twinge as a surge of pity washed through her. Harry was not a simple man, she knew, but she wondered at times whether he was even remotely aware of all the things he had been deprived of in his youth. She smiled again as Harry jogged back into the restaurant's lobby just as a pretty blond hostess approached.

“Can I get you a seat?” the hostess asked, handing Harry two menus and smiling broadly at the pair. “I have a lovely, romantic table for two if you'll just follow me, please.”

Hermione bristled at the all-too-common assumption that she and Harry were involved, but she'd gotten past the point of calling people on it anymore. Instead, she smiled at the hostess and took her seat politely, telling herself that it was rather a compliment that people automatically assumed her to be Harry's love interest, instead of just a friend or a sister. In some weird way, it was a comfort to know that she and her most cherished friend looked good together.

After placing their food orders and sharing a carafe of fruity table wine, Hermione sat quietly, rubbing the stem of her wine glass and chewing on the inside of her bottom lip.

“Okay, I give,” said Harry. “Something's wrong, I can tell.”

“No. Nothing's wrong. I'm just tired today, that's all.” Hermione smiled and played with the wine glass stem a bit more.

“You're not tired,” Harry noted as he smiled back. “You don't really want to go to that movie, is that it?” Harry watched Hermione pull an innocent face and shook his head, laughing. “Why didn't you just say so? We'll Apparate home from that alleyway right after eating.” He pulled his napkin free of its intricate folds and placed it his lap. “Please don't feel obligated to spend your whole evening with me or anything like that,” he added quietly.

“No, I want to go. A movie sounds…nice,” Hermione insisted as the waiter arrived and distributed salads. She fiddled with her salad, carving it intricately into bite-sized chunks and sipping happily on her wine before finally giving in to her apprehension. A little sigh escaped Hermione's mouth, earning another appraising look from Harry.

“Okay, okay!” Hermione relented. “No, Harry, it isn't that I don't want to go to a movie with you - you know that!” She paused and sorted her thoughts before continuing. This could be taken the wrong way if she wasn't careful. “Harry,” she began, leaning in toward her dinner partner and speaking quietly, “I'm worried that the stripper will have a cow if she found out that we are out together on a Saturday, at an Italian restaurant, making plans to go to a darkened movie theater.” Hermione winced at the way this sounded, even to her own ears.

She took in a deep breath and elaborated, “I know that you really, really want to settle down with a nice witch someday. Maybe with Tiffany. And, Harry, I know that you would love to have little witches and wizards of your own to teach how to ride their first little broomsticks and ruffle their messy black hair.” Hermione was teasing, but she couldn't help smiling at the image of toddler Harry's playing with their floppy-haired dad just the same.

“Harry, it's not my place, and it's against my own best interests, really…but I'm worried that we,” she paused, “that we are getting the way of you and your strip…um…girlfriend.”

Harry leaned in and grabbed Hermione's hand, surprising her, but he held tightly. He took a breath and chuckled. “Yeah,” he said, “that's come up. Tiffany's not your biggest fan these days.”

Hermione's eyes widened and she gasped.

“She may come around,” Harry said and he laughed again. Hermione silently wondered whether Harry had been drinking before they met that afternoon. He was taking this subject a bit lightly from her perspective.

“It's just that…” Harry continued, speaking casually, “I don't want to give up my time with you. Just like you said before, I'm happy now that we're closer. I don't want to give it up.”

Harry settled in to his salad and Hermione closed her mouth, shook her head slightly and turned to her own food. They ate the rest of their meal, engaging in much loftier conversations: Hermione's near-date with a fellow student - six years her junior, the Chudley Cannons' new acquisition, and various stories about their much-missed friend, Ron. Hermione filled Harry in on the big drama at her research laboratory in which her boss, Dr. Hughes, was caught in an embarrassing situation with the mail witch. They laughed at each other's stories and finished off a second carafe of wine before deciding it was time to pay up and walk over to the theater.

As they took the short walk down the strip of quaint connected buildings of the shopping district, Harry shook his head and began laughing again. “Harry, I'm worried that the stripper will have a cow!” he said in a high voice, laughing harder once he spotted Hermione's expression.

“Harry! Don't you mock me. I was concerned for the girl!” Hermione said, smiling and then laughing. Out of the blue, she hummed the melody to “It's a Celebate Life for Me” and Harry joined in. They hooked hands and exchanged Muggle money for tickets, humming and laughing and once again ignoring the whispering Muggles in line with them.

The film wasn't at all to Hermione's taste. She cringed and hid her eyes during each of the many violent scenes. Harry, by contrast, rather enjoyed himself. He loved watching other people engage in dangerous stunts, and he laughed at his fellow Griffindor, who was currently digging her nails into his bicep - her face buried in his shoulder. She too seemed to be feeling more than a little foggy from all the wine they had consumed. Harry knew that she was having trouble following the complex story, and it was probably driving her mad.

“Honestly, Hermione!” Harry chided, speaking into her ear so as not to bother the other moviegoers. “You fought Voldemort! How can this bother you?”

“That was real,” Hermione's replied.

She laughed and shook her head, and turned to speak into Harry's ear. “I know it doesn't make sense, but somehow knowing that this is fake … that it doesn't actually have to happen …it makes it worse to me.”

“Your mind works in wondrous ways,” Harry whispered back, shivering suddenly. Hermione's whisperings had sent chills up the back of his neck. Although he knew that it was unintentional, the fact that a witch was blowing warm breath in Harry's ear was causing some not-so-platonic feelings all of a sudden.

“Yeah, I've heard that before,” Hermione continued, speaking softly about an inch from Harry's ear now, oblivious to her friend's heightened sensibility. “Only people usually don't say `wondrous.'”

Harry didn't hear her. He was lost in guilty pleasure. The testosterone-filled movie, his mind swimming from the effects of alcohol, hot breath in his ear, and (for some reason) the fact that Hermione still had her nails pinching deeply into his arm muscles were all at once vying for his attention.

“Huh?” he asked, leaning closer and speaking into Hermione's ear again, his eyes falling closed.

Hermione repeated her last sentence and froze at the predicament she now found herself in. Harry had leaned in, as if to speak again. But, he didn't speak. Nope, Hermione was now wrestling with her senses as her closest friend was now nibbling on her earlobe, mumbling something about how lovely she smelled.

“Has he lost his mind?” she thought. A hand brushed against her cheek and Hermione felt her hair being smoothed back off her face, presumably to get it out of the way of Harry's ministrations.

“Right. I should stop…stop this.” Hermione opened her mouth to speak but, not entirely sober herself, she wasn't exactly sure how to proceed.

Harry bent his head down and took Hermione's mouth.

“He's lost his mind! Completely lost it!” Hermione thought, desperately fishing about inside her head for control. She needed her brain to tell her muscles to pull back, push away, anything. But instead, she gave up thinking entirely about her poor, lost friend and enjoyed the kiss she was receiving. Harry was stroking her cheek lightly while his tongue worked its magic on Hermione's newly risen libido. It felt warm and wet and wonderful to be kissed and caressed like this again. He was a strange one - her Harry friend, Hermione thought, but he was a good kisser. Hermione looked up at the screen when the kiss ended and Harry looked up too, just in time to see that the film stars had become engaged in some steamy behavior. Very steamy.

“Oh!” Hermione laughed. “Too weird!” She looked at Harry and he looked back, leaning in toward her again.

And so Harry and Hermione spent the duration of the movie snogging under a wine-induced haze. They stopped for a while when someone from several seats behind them uttered a small “Tuh!” but resumed again after what they thought must have been an appropriate amount of time.

In all the years the two of them had been friends, Harry and Hermione had never done this. They had been great childhood mates - kid friends. They had been close yet somewhat estranged friends for long periods as they'd entered the stage of new adulthood: when Hermione was away at University, when Harry went to Auror training, or when one of them was heavily involved in a relationship. Recently, they had become great friends again - even closer than when in school because it was now just the two of them.

Here in the dark but crowded movie theater, it seemed that they were inventing a new kind of friendship for themselves: friends who drink too much and snog. Neither was too bothered by the new development at the moment, although each rather felt that they should be. As the movie ended and credits were rolling, the couple continued to kiss until Harry felt someone brush his knee when they shuffled past him. Harry stood up and took Hermione's hand, helping her up. They left the theater and walked up the street a bit more, neither feeling a particular need to chat.

Hermione awoke the next morning to a brightly lit room. The sun was streaming in cruelly from the two windows at either side of her bed, and the light was making her head feel like it was going to explode.

“Right. Where's my wand?” she muttered, rolling over on her stomach and slapping her hand on the side table until she felt the woody handle. She tapped her head and relaxed, allowing the Healing charm to take affect. Healing charms never quite alleviated all pain, but they took enough of the edge off for one to get on with the day.

In no hurry to begin studying yet, Hermione decided to take a bath. She lay soaking in the tub and allowed her body to relax, trying to put off her review of last night's activities for as long as possible. A funny feeling kept creeping into her mind that she would soon be filled with anxiety about something or other, and she wasn't keen to remember its source. It took only a minute. Lying in her tub feeling warm from the bath, Hermione slowly began to recall a sense of warmth derived from a different source entirely. She closed her eyes and saw an image float to the forefront that instantly brought on that anxiety she'd been worried about.

“Oh, yes,” she said, as a very close-up picture of her handsome friend bobbed into view, “I remember now.”

The image zoomed in on Harry's red, swollen lips parting slightly, his tongue gliding quickly across his sexy teeth.

“Right. Okay,” Hermione said, feeling her face flush and shaking her head to clear her thoughts.

Hermione had to warm the bath water twice, using her wand. She didn't want to get out of the tub until she had figured out what to do about…the thing. Just how does one go about their day after having been thoroughly snogged by their best friend of fifteen years?

In near-panic, she decided to review the evening's activities again in her mind to see if there was anything else to be worried about.

“There was wine. Lots of wine,” she recalled. “That takes the edge off of it a bit.”

Hermione swirled her hand in the warm bath water, willing her nerves to calm down.

“I would even go so far as to say we were drunk. We had been talking about the stripper….I sang the stupid celibacy song…must have put ideas into our heads.”

Hermione sank down deeper into the tub, basking in the comfort of letting her reasoning abilities take over her emotions. She could feel a sense of relief already as her mind continued to probe hazy memories, sifting through the facts and pushing aside her feelings.

“…naked actors didn't help,” she thought. “We're both young…I'm reasonably good looking and Harry's…well, Harry's sexy as Hell if one were being honest with oneself…”

Finally Hermione had convinced herself that, given the circumstances, it'd be more astonishing if she and Harry hadn't spent the duration of the movie kissing. She drained the tub and got dressed, ready to leave her cocoon of a bath and venture out into the kitchen for some toast and tea.

Once Hermione had eaten her toast, read the Daily Prophet, and edited her weekend planner, she found herself going over her night with Harry again. Sipping on luke-warm tea, she forced herself to smile. There was, after all, some humor to be found in this predicament, wasn't there? Well, she thought after further consideration, maybe not if things were taken from Harry's perspective. He was, she reminded herself, involved a serious relationship.

Somehow, considering things from Harry's point of view gave Hermione an unexpected jolt of relief standing out among all of the currents of remorse and regret. She imagined that Harry must feel awful for cheating on Tiffany. But, the realization that their little movie snog session was so out of synch with the rest of Harry's life washed over Hermione like a cool wave on a hot day. It meant that the kissing was nothing more than a byproduct of alcohol. It was as simple as that.

“That's just what a witch and a wizard do when they've gulped down a vat of wine,” she thought happily.

Everything thusly simplified in Hermione's less troubled mind, she allowed herself to remember some of the more pleasant aspects of their unholy evening. A deep flush crept across her face as she basked in more imagery - Harry's dark eyelashes fluttering over closed eyes, Harry's tongue darting out to lick his lips, Harry's neck. Had she kissed his neck?

She could remember his skillful hands; they were moving softly along her jawbone, pressing on her back, running along the hem of her skirt as they kissed. She heard faint echoes of a few gently muttered phrases - “You have such beautiful legs,” and “Mmm, I can taste wine,” and “Shh, just relax.” Heat was radiating through Hermione as she realized just how intimate the two had gotten - two platonic friends in a public place!

“My, though, that boy can kiss,” Hermione sighed aloud, smiling into her flowery teacup. “I'd wager he could get a witch to do just about anything…” Sitting up suddenly, Hermione shook her head and attempted to remove the grin from her face by switching her focus to her studying requirements for the weekend. Fortunately, she had a full load of revising and would have plenty of work to keep her mind occupied on more wholesome subjects.

Hermione's morning analysis had so thoroughly calmed her emotions that she only barely felt the briefest of twinges when Harry appeared over the Floo network in the early afternoon. A not-so-confident voice sounded from her living room fireplace.

“Hermione?” it squeaked.

Smiling, Hermione took up a seat on her sofa, calmly facing her fire-y friend. She did her best to ease his trepidation with a nonchalant attitude and warm smiles as he mumbled his way through an apology. She wanted to let Harry know that even if he was in the dog house with the stripper, she and he were going to be just fine. Theirs was a friendship that could survive trauma, adventure, separation, and even the dullness of sharing everyday activities with each other. It could certainly survive a little lust, she was sure of it.

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7. Trouble with Tiffany

Chapter 7. Trouble with Tiffany

Harry couldn't believe his luck. Nothing horrible so far had resulted from his adulterous affair with his best friend. He had expected Hermione to ask him to stop coming by, tell him off, or just…something. But, instead, she had seemed oddly unaffected by their tryst.

The thought of his own words, “adulterous affair” and “tryst”, brought an unbidden chuckle to Harry's throat. “Maybe I am over-dramatizing a bit,” he thought, smiling to himself as he tightened his grip on his beloved Firebolt riding broom, sending it into a corkscrew dive at blazing speed. “Still, there's no arguing with the fact that I practically mauled my only female friend.” Not three feet from the floor of the Auror's Training Arena, Harry yanked back on his broom handle and sent himself upward to get set for another Kamikaze-style dive.

Never one to let himself off easy, Harry had been punishing himself for a week following the movie incident with an unrelenting training regiment. It was Friday night and Harry had already finished working out in the combat facility where he practiced throwing spells at what looked like giant beanbag chairs (but were really advanced training dummies) for two hours after he'd finished his work assignments for the day. Assault spells were very physical, and Harry had worked up quite a sweat, only to jog two miles to get to the flying arena for a round of punishment-by-flying, putting his Firebolt through one dangerous maneuver after another. He wanted his muscles to ache. He wanted blood to pound in his ears. He needed to pay in some way for his failings.

Finally, Harry eased his broom down to the floor of the arena and levitated it back to a secure storage shed, dragging his tired body into the shower room.

“Hey, Potter!”

Tom, a tall Auror from Harry's department approached as Harry was pulling his T-shirt over his head, grinning from ear to ear.

“My wife's visiting her family this weekend…took the kids with her.” Tom cocked his head and gave Harry a hopeful smile. “Want to shoot some of those Muggle darts or something?”

Harry considered the offer carefully. He had been planning on going to the dart bar, but hadn't allowed himself company since the thing. Grinning as Tom wagged his eyebrows, egging him on, Harry gave a quick nod. “Sure,” he said. What could be the harm in having an ale or two? After all, Harry thought, it wasn't as if he was going to get drunk and accost Tom, was it?

Harry felt a slight pull at his conscience as he thought of Tiffany, however. His girlfriend usually spent a few evenings during the week at Harry's flat, but his training schedule and Tiffany's bout with the flu had conveniently made seeing one another impossible this week. She would have expected, of course, to go out tonight, but Harry hadn't yet been able to face his girlfriend. He still needed to find a way to tell her about his mistake with Hermione and still felt that he'd make a right mess of things if he tried to speak to her tonight.

“Tomorrow I'll face Tiffany. Tonight, maybe I'll think up something amazing to say,” he thought without even a hint of a hope that it might happen.

At the Muggle pub near Harry's flat, the two Aurors made quick work out of beating five pairs of challengers at the dartboard.

“Wouldn't it shock the Hell out of these blokes if they knew they were playing dark wizard catchers?” Tom asked, laughing and splashing his mug of ale down sloppily on the dark pub table.

“Tom!” Harry whispered sharply, his eyes wide with shock at his friend's indiscretion. “Are you mad? We'll lose our Auror's licences!”

“Relax, Harry,” Tom said, eying Harry with concern. “I was only joking. I'm just not used to being around Muggles, this is new for me,” Tom said, shrugging. “You're a bit jumpy tonight, aren't you then?”

Feeling foolish for reprimanding a senior workmate, Harry willed himself to relax a bit as Tom refilled their mugs from a pitcher. “Sorry. I guess I am a bit over-the-top lately,” Harry replied, laughing.

“Ah, the life of a single wizard,” Tom sang. “Full of interesting conquests with gorgeous witches. It'd make anyone on edge. Don't worry, mate,” he said, looking off in the distance as if suddenly lost in fond memories of his own past adventures.

Harry laughed. “That bad, eh? Married life?”

“No,” said Tom. “Not that bad. Actually, my wife's a saint.” Tom rubbed the smooth glass of his mug, playing with the drops of moisture that had condensed onto the surface of it. “And the kids are the cutest things…you've no idea how attached I am to those little runts.” He turned his attention back toward Harry and smiled wistfully. “I just sometimes miss the thrill of the chase, is all.”

“Thrill of the chase,” Harry repeated blandly.

He had never found it particularly thrilling to go after a witch's attentions, not that he'd had to spend a whole lot of effort at it. Harry knew that his celebrity had afforded him quite an advantage in securing dates when he wanted them. He had never felt necessarily confident, but over the years, Harry learned how to recognize a witch who'd be willing to accompany him here or there. There wasn't anything exciting about that, he thought.

Harry didn't really thrive, either, on getting to know lots of different witches. He preferred to keep his circle of friends small, and tended to be either completely alone, or involved in a serious relationship. “No,” Harry thought, “thrilling chases are definitely not part of my life experiences.”

“So,” said Tom, giving Harry a friendly poke on the shoulder, “'fess up. How are things with that lovely girlfriend of yours?”

“Okay,” Harry answered. He didn't much like talking about Tiffany and himself, and hoped that the subject would pass quickly.

“Come on now, give me more than that!” Tom persisted. “How long have you been dating, anyway?”

Harry furrowed his brow and calculated. “About seven or so months in total,” he said, frowning slightly. “There was a breakup in there somewhere.” Seeing that Tom still looked unsatisfied, Harry quickly added, “Our very first date was right here in this pub - last Halloween.”

“Halloween, eh?” Tom chuckled. “There's a night for romance if I've ever heard of one.”

Tom went back to his mug of ale, leaving Harry to wonder whether Tiffany too had thought it a strange evening for him to have asked her out.

“Well,” Harry offered thoughtfully, “I don't much care for being alone on Halloween…and I saw Tiffany in the park and asked her out.”

Harry shrugged and cast about for a new line of conversation. He remembered the day well, in fact, and it surrounded a subject to which he would never be willing to give air. He had sequestered himself off from his friends and coworkers, as he did every year at the same time, and spent the day strolling through streets and parks of Muggle London, waiting for it to end. He couldn't bear to be among wizards on the day of his parents' death. It brought about a painful pull in his chest even now, thinking back on last Halloween, or looking ahead toward another one.

The irony of meeting a witch in a Muggle park on the very day that Harry was trying to avoid reminders of magic had intrigued him, and he felt compelled to ask her out. Tiffany was with a group of children, and he spied her using an ever-so-faint Aguamenti spell to put out a little fire that one of the children had started in a pile of leaves. Harry had walked over to the witch and struck up a conversation, using his position as an Auror to break the ice, and asking her to join him for drinks before they parted.

“And…” Tom said, attempting to bring Harry back into their conversation.

“Did you see that the Cannons traded Jones?” Harry replied, sitting back in his chair and rubbing his hand through his hair in order to shake himself of any further thoughts of Halloween and Tiffany.

“Nice try,” Tom goaded. “What's this `Tiffany'?” he asked. “I thought her name was Harriet or something like that. The pretty girl you brought to that wedding - brown hair, long legs, horrible dancer…She's been by the department before too.”

“Brown hair?” Harry asked, shaking his head. “No, Tiffany is a blond.” Then he remembered who he had brought to the boss's daughter's wedding as a buried memory came to surface of Hermione asking him to kiss her on the sofa. A shiver ran down Harry's spine. No, that memory would just have to find a deeper spot to hide. He didn't need anything more to feel guilty about right at the moment.

“Hermione is my friend. Tiffany and I were broke up at the time, so Hermione agreed to come with me to the wedding thing. We've been friends since we were eleven.”

“Too bad,” said Tom, simply. “She's cute in an elegant sort of way. Smart too. Just the kind of witch I could see you with. Did you say they traded Jones?” he asked as if suddenly comprehending Harry's news.

Harry jumped on the chance to talk about something more interesting than his love life and his weird relationship with his best friend, and the two Aurors spent the rest of the evening forming their own trade deals to help the Cannons field a better defense. They stayed at the pub until two in the morning, enjoying a few more victories at the dartboard and sticking mostly to talking about sports and reliving their favorite Auror adventures in careful whispers.

Harry felt good for the first time in almost a week as he readied himself for bed that night. Not that he was happy with himself: guilt and regret still sat in his belly like he'd swallowed a lead weight. But, for some reason he felt brave and strong enough now to face Tiffany. After all, Hermione had been very understanding, and so it could be possible that Tiffany would be as well. Perhaps she'd get mad and yell and they could spend the evening making up again like the night she came back to him. That had been one of Harry's favorite nights with Tiffany - all passion and lust, desperate to get to know one another all over again. But, just as the fond memories threatened to rouse Harry's libido, he shook his head and laughed.

“Right,” he said aloud. “She's going to jump all over you because you spent an evening snogging a witch she despises….Git!” Laughing to himself and giving a huge yawn, Harry stripped down to his boxers and slid into bed.

It was with a variety of emotions that Harry appeared in Hermione's living room the next morning. She had made him promise that he'd stop by and help her do some shopping down at Diagon Alley in London. Not fooled for a second, Harry knew this was just a ploy to restore some normalcy to their friendship; She was forcing him to take her out to prove to them both that fifteen years of friendship would not dissolve over something as unoriginal as a Saturday night snogfest.

Harry appreciated the sentiment, and even embraced the idea. His stomach, however, was definitely not on board. It felt as if he'd swallowed eels. His palms were damp with sweat and his brain kept coming up with frightening situations that they might find themselves in. What if he tripped and landed on her? What if he complimented her dress and she thought he was making a pass? What if Hermione changed her mind and decided to tell him that they really shouldn't see each other any more? Just as Harry's mind began searching for a decent excuse to go back to his own flat and hide, Hermione bubbled into her living room.

“Harry!” she beamed. “I thought I heard your pop!” Hermione continued to rattle on about their shopping plans in an overly animated tone, all smiles and happiness. She was trying with all the subtleness of a gorilla to get Harry to relax into his former self.

“Well,” she said after her itinerary had been explained sufficiently, “let's get going. As you've heard, I've loads to do today. You're so great to have offered to help.”

“You made me,” Harry replied. He was finding Hermione's behavior so humorous that he began to forget his nervousness.

“We can catch a quick bite at the Leaky,” Hermione continued, leading Harry to the fireplace and grabbing a handful of Floo powder.

The pair spent the morning going from store to store, stocking up on various potions and ingredients that Hermione swore she needed for her new research project. After what seemed to Harry like days, his friend finally crossed off the last of the items on her shopping list and declared with a sigh that they were done.

Harry held up the two small sacks he'd been carrying and laughed. “Good thing I came along. How ever would you have carried it all?” Although they had purchased dozens of vials, each was so small that there really hadn't been much of a shopping load.

“Why, without my huge, bulging muscles --”

Hermione interrupted her friend with a hand wave, smirking despite her annoyance at being caught in a game. “Okay, okay,” she laughed. “Maybe I just wanted your company.”

Harry looked down at his feet. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.” He gave as confident of a smile as he could manage, stepping alongside Hermione to lead her to their favorite tavern. Once they arrived, the familiarity of the Leaky Cauldron seemed to ease Harry's tension quite a bit. He ordered a sandwich and a Coke, not wanting to take any chances with anything stronger, which caused Hermione to lift her eyebrow and offer him a sardonic smile.

They kept their conversation light as they ate their way through lunch. Fortunately, Hermione's married boss was still carrying on with the mail witch, as was discovered by a rather unfortunate orderly who had gone to the supply cupboard at a very inopportune time. Hermione was able to stretch that story out for half of an hour, lasting all the way through the meal.

Neither friend mentioned the incident, and Hermione was deeply grateful for this. She did not inquire after Tiffany, as she would normally have done, but apart from this small transgression she felt that the morning and afternoon had been quite a success. To Hermione's relief, the pair did not run into their party friends, but she and Harry did spend a little while retelling stories from the evening when they had all met, laughing and teasing and starting to feel more at ease with each other.

Before she knew it, Hermione was back at her flat, sighing deeply as she plopped down on her sofa. She hoped that she had made some headway. Harry looked at first as if he was being tortured just to be in her presence and although she tried to swallow it with grace, willing her heart not to feel hurt by Harry's obvious desire to escape her company, Hermione couldn't help but long for the Harry of old. The Harry she knew before they got drunk and before he forgot that she was just a platonic friend. She already missed him terribly. But, she thought, today had been a good leap forward. By the afternoon's end, Harry was laughing and joking, and Hermione allowed herself to really believe that things were going to work out now.

“I hope so,” she muttered softly into the empty room.

For his part, Harry was only halfway out of the fire. He had worked himself into quite a predicament with his newly-reestablished relationship with his girlfriend. Tiffany had not been the least bit happy when Harry had sent Hedwig along with a note explaining his plans for that Friday night - plans that had not included her. She sent back a note suggesting that they try for Saturday afternoon instead.

When Harry opened the parchment, he cringed and his gut wrenched as he realized his error. He had promised Hermione to help with shopping and didn't know how long she would expect him to stay with her. Harry didn't think that, under the circumstances, Hermione would appreciate being told that he had to leave early for a date, so he instead wrote another note to Tiffany explaining that he would be unavailable Saturday until later in the evening.

The note that Hedwig next dropped into Harry's lap simply said, “Fine.” Harry knew that this “fine” definitely meant anything but “fine”. He may not yet have told his girlfriend about his ghastly behavior on the weekend prior, but ignoring her for this entire weekend was going to cost him nonetheless.

Taking a deep breath, Harry reached into his Floo tin to grab a fistful of powder. Chucking the grey substance forcefully toward the burning logs, he muttered, “Tiffany's flat.” As he drummed up his Gryffindor courage, he set himself to face the music and mend his love life once again.

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8. Decisions under the Stars

Chapter 8. Decisions under the Stars

Noisy birds filled the stale August air with endless chatter as dog-walkers, joggers, and bike riders buzzed about the busy little park near Harry's flat. Everyone was drenched with sweat, suffering through a nasty warm front that had brought about record high temperatures to the London area.

Harry and Hermione pedaled along in conspicuous comfort, despite their brisk pace. It had been two weeks since their shopping trip to Diagon Alley - three weeks since their ill-famed movie outing - and the pair had settled back into comfortable companionship almost as if nothing had happened at all. They had kept up their Saturday bike rides and Sunday church services, much to Hermione's relief. It was likely this repetition acting as a catalyst that moved the two friends past their odd feelings and allowed them to glide back into a state of normality.

“I feel so guilty!” Hermione bemoaned. “I promised myself that I wouldn't use Cooling charms in Muggle places, it just doesn't seem fair,” she whispered cautiously, pedaling hard to keep up with her fit friend.

“The whole world is a Muggle place,” said Harry in a low voice, rolling his eyes. “When you think of it, there are very few areas on Earth cordoned off for us magical folk. I personally, don't feel the slightest twinge of guilt.” He smiled and eased up his pace, noticing that Hermione was dragging a bit behind.

“It's five hundred degrees outside and there's not a bead of sweat on either of us!” Hermione said through her teeth in order to avoid being overheard. “We must look awfully suspicious.”

“Yeah, well, no one seems to have picked up on it, have they?” Harry replied, unworried.

He held out his arm and gestured toward the crowds surrounding them. Indeed, the park-goers all appeared to be deeply involved in their own little worlds, each consisting of the people and pets within a three foot diameter circle surrounding them, happily oblivious to the magic that was being shamelessly performed in their presence.

Hermione gave a reluctant grin. “No, well they don't really notice much, I suppose.” The two pedaled to a stop as they reached their final destination at the bike return booth.

“Good morning, Sam!” Harry shouted toward the booth attendant as they returned the rusty bikes to their rack.

“'Morning sir. 'Morning Miss,” replied the young attendant, his eyes appraising Hermione as he gave her a small wink. “You're looking very fine today,” he added.

Hermione smiled back and said, “Thank you.” She walked a few paces toward the park entrance and turned to Harry.

“Don't notice much. Right!”

“He wasn't noticing your lack of sweat,” Harry chuckled. “He was much more interested in your physique, if you ask me.” Harry poked Hermione playfully on the arm. “And, I must agree, you look incredible in those shorts.”

An involuntary gasp shot out of Hermione's mouth as she felt a bit of heat rise to her face. There's Harry again with his compliments. She had to admit though, that there was an improvement in her figure with all the exercise that she and Harry had been enjoying all summer. It had even gotten to the point that she had removed “fix thigh problem” off of her List of Things to Improve for the first time since she had turned eighteen. Hermione hoped desperately that the long winter wouldn't cause her to gain weight back in that particular trouble spot. As accomplished as she was in all other aspects of her life and despite her own beliefs, Hermione secretly cherished moments when she was admired for traits of a more physical nature.

“Hermione,” Harry addressed his friend suddenly, “would you like to come somewhere with me tonight?” He looked up at the cluster of noisy birds and added in a serious tone, “I have some things I wanted to ask your advice on.”

Trying to give an encouraging smile, Hermione looked over at her friend. “Oh, Harry, of course I will. Is there anything I can help with now?” she asked.

“No,” Harry said, looking back up the street as they had nearly reached his apartment building. “No, it can wait.”

He opened the door and took Hermione's arm, leading her into his flat where she could Apparate back to her place.

“Can I come by your place around seven? We'll have to Apparate.”

“Seven it is,” Hermione said, studying Harry's face for signs of what the trouble was. Giving one last thoughtful smile, she pointed her wand at her chest and Apparated home.

She spent her afternoon scuttling about her flat doing household chores as her restless mind wandered aimlessly from one set of issues to another. She had been trying in vain to revise, but found that she just kept reading the same paragraph of text over and over again without comprehension. Hermione was at once considering a recent date proposal, hypothesizing the subject of Harry's mysterious “issue”, and reorganizing the self-deprecating lists that she fussed over from time to time.

“Okay,” she told herself. “Let's take these one at a time, then. I need to clear my mind for Harry tonight and I need to get at least one chapter of this blasted book read!”

She tackled the date offer first, dishing herself a cup of yogurt and summoning a bowl of cut up strawberries from the refrigerator. Hermione had met a wizard at the university where she spent most of her weekday evenings attending classes. His name was Theodore, and he was short and a somewhat stocky, but rather cute. Hermione particularly liked his thick black hair, which he wore a bit on the long side. Theodore had approached her last week as she was studying in the snack court, admitting that he'd noticed her there many times and asking for a date.

“Yes, well I'm kind of a permanent fixture here, I hear they're thinking of naming a corner of the library after me,” Hermione had joked, noticing that Theodore hadn't laughed at this. They exchanged a bit of small talk and when Theodore repeated his offer for a date, Hermione heard herself politely ask if it would be okay for her to think on it for a few days.

Dumping strawberries into her yogurt, Hermione stirred and spooned the mixture automatically into her mouth.

“Where do I get the nerve!” she berated. “A cute, nice, polite wizard - one who is actually my age - asks me out and I plead for time to think it over! It's a wonder he didn't tell me to go fly a broom!”

Hermione was appalled at her own behavior, but it had all happened very quickly and the words had just sort of spilled out of her. Instinctively, Hermione knew that her subconscious was probably trying to tell her something.

“So, you need to think more. About what?” she mused, licking her spoon and dipping it back into the bowl of yogurt. “What should keep you from enjoying a few drinks with a cute, dark-haired wizard who fancies you?”

Hermione dropped her spoon, splashing pink blobs of yogurt all over the white tiled table.

“Right,” she thought, cringing. “You'd rather spend your time with another dark-haired wizard. How poignant.”

She shook her head and drew her wand, sending the dish flying into the sink and Vanishing the spill. “Best put that subject away for now,” she thought, and switched her attentions to less complicated matters.

The afternoon passed at a wretched pace, but Hermione was finally able to get in a bit of good, hard reading and then took some time to freshen up. She showered and changed, selecting a blue skirt and a tailored white blouse and keeping her makeup and perfume light. Harry hadn't mentioned where they were going, and so she was at a bit of a loss as to how she should dress. Smiling at herself in the mirror, Hermione felt satisfied that she looked fine, and that her cleverly selected outfit would work for most outings.

“Just as long as Harry didn't plan on doing anything physical…” she thought, adding “like sports or something…” rather unnecessarily.

It was ten minutes past seven, and Hermione sat on her sofa waiting for Harry. He wasn't very late yet, but she was getting fidgety, worrying about her friend and his mysterious problem. She was passing the time by sifting through her lists again. In a sudden stroke of brilliance, Hermione had decided that it was redundant to keep at once a List of Things I Stink at and a List of Things to Improve, and had resolved to combine the two. She had also decided to simplify her life by keeping the new list to ten items - no more, no less. “Who needs more than ten things at a time to fuss over anyway?” she asked herself.

As she waited for her tardy friend, Hermione set about resorting and relabeling her lists. A soft pop jarred her out of the internal musings as Harry Apparated right in front of the sofa, just missing the table by inches.

“Harry, Hello!” Hermione said, studying his face. Her mind was already busy trying to spy any new clues as to the evening's purpose.

“Hi,” he said and smiled, not looking nearly as concerned as Hermione had imagined he would. “You look great.”

“Thanks.” Hermione motioned for Harry to have a seat. She still didn't know where they were going, but thought that it would be polite to offer a drink.

“Drink?” she asked.

“Okay,” Harry said and he bent down to take up a seat on the sofa, pressing his hands into his thighs and looking about the flat carelessly. Hermione summoned two Butterbeer Extras and popped the caps off with a wand flick.

“Oh!” gasped Harry, eyeing the bottles. “Drink, right.”

Hermione smiled. “Harry, it's O-K,” she enunciated with a small chuckle. “We can have alcohol, you know. I promise it'll be all right.”

“Yeah. Guess I'm just a bit…paranoid.” Harry forced a nervous laugh and took a swig.

They chatted a bit about each other's day and Hermione inquired whether Harry had eaten dinner yet.

“Dinner? Right!” he said. “No, I was rather hoping you'd like to catch a quick bite. Then we can go to the place. To talk a bit.” His voice trailed off as he spoke.

“Leaky?” Hermione injected. She smiled as she made the suggestion, sitting down beside Harry on the sofa.

“Why are you smiling?” Harry asked.

“Oh, it's just…well…” Hermione stuttered. “Okay, I had been trying really hard for months now to be less bossy. I decided today that it just wasn't going to work, so I crossed it off my list.” She folded her arms and gave a wide smile and an apologetic shrug.

“Sorry,” she added.

“You're not bossy,” Harry said, grinning. He nudged Hermione's elbow and then looked earnestly at his friend. “I love that you know what you want and where you'd like to go. I think it's…I think it's great that there is one clever witch in this world who doesn't need to consult with everyone she knows about every small detail of her life.”

Hermione sipped her drink, feeling all of a sudden embarrassed for having turned the conversation onto herself.

“I have absolutely no preference as to where I'd like to eat tonight, and so I'm very glad that you do,” Harry continued. “Makes things simple.”

“Thanks, Harry,” Hermione said quietly, wondering why Harry was being so…formal…with her, and why she felt warm in the face.

“No problem, boss,” Harry replied, receiving a slap on the shoulder for his cheek.

The pair Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron and strode right back to the patio. After turning around in place to scan for an open seat, Hermione tapped Harry's arm, pointing to a table near the back. Five happy young people were laughing at something and making enough noise to fill the pub.

“Hello, party people!” Hermione called out, greeting the group with a huge grin. “Having fun tonight, I see?”

“Hippy! Hunky!” shouted the chunky witch, standing up and motioning for the two to join their table. “Come join us! We're celebrating tonight!”

“Well, okay. We're only here for dinner though,” Harry replied. He was feeling very nervous, still desperate to avoid drinking in Hermione's presence. The party group, while fun, definitely liked to encourage people to overindulge.

“Hunky, hunky, hunky…” the witched named Meg addressed Harry, putting her arm around him, “now is not the time to turn old on us. We've got something important to celebrate tonight.” She swaggered a bit as she delivered the speech. “We're losing two of our own.”

“And at such a young age…” the wizard Brian added in mock sympathy.

“Okay, I give!” Hermione said. She grabbed a chair and smiled at the group. “What are you on about?”

It was Bob and Francis, the couple, who answered. Draping their arms around each other's shoulders, they replied together, “We're getting married!”

“Ooh!” Hermione squealed.

Harry looked about the pub as Hermione settled into an animated conversation about the news, spying a vacant chair and summoning it. He managed to land the thing directly behind his knees, coercing himself in a perfect sitting position. After a while, Harry joined in the conversation and bought Bob and Francis congratulatory shots of fire whiskey. He relented to drinking a few Butterbeer Extras, once he noticed how much fun Hermione seemed to be having - he didn't want to spoil her evening by being overly serious.

Harry and Hermione ate their dinner and stayed with their party friends for a few very enjoyable hours, laughing at the young group's jokes and filled with the contagious exuberance radiating from the newly engaged Bob and Francis. Sipping slowly from his mug, Harry watched from across the stained and battered table as Hermione engaged in a friendly debate with Alice - the subject of which appeared to be traditional versus modern wedding ceremonies.

Harry found himself to be quite surprised that his friend, whom he thought he knew quite well indeed, was in reality quite well-versed on the matter of weddings and held some fairly strong opinions regarding them as well.

“Of course she does,” he scolded himself. “She is a witch, after all, not a wizard.”

Harry's eyes took an involuntary dip to where his best friend was now crossing one leg elegantly over the other, her hand smoothing out her summery skirt as she continued to speak to Alice.

“Wizards don't have legs like that, do they?” Harry's mind continued.

“See something you like?” Brian asked, winking at Harry.

Harry rolled his eyes and refused to respond to Brian's impertinence, returning to his Butterbeer instead. He had been caught staring at his best friend's legs. What was going on with him anyway?

“So what?” he thought. “She does look nice today, and I've always had a preference for those bouncy skirts that come to just above the knees.” Harry took a few more deep swigs, turning his gaze to Bob and Francis, who were still hooked around each other's shoulders and smiling shamelessly. Tiffany wore skirts like that often; it was one of the things that Harry found most attractive about her.

“Tiffany,” he sighed inwardly. Harry didn't imagine that his girlfriend would be pleased to see how he'd chosen to spend his afternoon. Harry wondered whether he'd ever stop disappointing her. He finished off his mug of Butterbeer, too lost in thought to remember his desire for sobriety as he poured another mug and joined Brian in conversation.

An hour later, Harry and Hermione emerged from the Leaky Tavern and spilled out onto the street. They had both had a great time, Hermione proving to be quite a help with Francis's early wedding plans as she'd been in quite a few of her cousins' bridal parties and had experienced the gamut of themes and styles. Harry had performed his usual dance - sidestepping questions about his Auror experiences while trying not to come off as cold or aloof. He had enjoyed himself, though, and was feeling rather happy as they sauntered down the street. Harry was thinking about whether he should suggest they Apparate home now or -

“Harry?” Hermione said, interrupting Harry's thoughts. “Weren't we going somewhere?”

“Somewhere?” Harry asked, turning to his friend with a puzzled look on his face.

“Yeah. To talk,” Hermione said. “You had something you wanted to talk over with me.” She turned to look closely at her friend, trying to decide if he was perhaps a bit tipsy.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Harry yelled, slapping his head rather sharply with his palm. “Yeah. I'm supposed to have figured something out. By tomorrow.” He grabbed Hermione's hands and twisted her around to peer directly into her eyes, making Hermione freeze in her step.

“Can you help me?” he asked, looking a bit like a puppy dog begging for a bowl of water.

Hermione was about to reply “That depends on what…” but the slightly desperate tone in Harry's voice made her reconsider. “Of course, Harry,” she said, gently. “Of course I'll help you.” She squeezed Harry's hands and gave him a little tug. “Whatever it is, we'll figure it out.”

Harry sighed and pointed his wand at his chest, grasping Hermione's hand tightly, and the two friends Apparated onto a breezy perch. Hermione could see what looked to be slate tiles beneath their feet. When her vision cleared, she realized that they were facing a beautiful view of London from about eighty feet up.

“Harry!” Hermione screamed, grabbing him about the waist. “We're on a roof!”

“Shh…It's ok. It's a shallow pitch,” Harry cood. “We're on top of the Ministry of Magic Headquarters.” He motioned toward the roof and gave a mischievous grin.

“Right,” Hermione said, not letting up on her hold. “Harry friend? Why are we on the roof of the Ministry of Magic?”

“Because I like to come here to think sometimes,” Harry laughed.

He pried himself free of Hermione's arms and sat down, pulling her with him. “Ron and I drank a whole bottle of fire whiskey up here one night. We thought it was a kick to have a drink and toast to the idiocy of the ministry right over their heads, so to speak.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, waiting patiently for Harry to explain further. When he continued to stare out over London looking like a school boy who was cutting class, she prodded, “Are we here to make fun of the ministry?”

Harry laughed. “No.”

“Someone else then?”

“No,” Harry replied. “We're here,” he gave a deep sigh, stretched his arms in front of his chest and then brought them up over his head and finally behind him, leaning back on his elbows, “because of Tiffany.”

“I thought this was something to do with her,” Hermione said. She mimicked Harry's position and they sat side by side gazing skyward for a few moments. “The night is absolutely gorgeous. The sky is the most beautiful shade of blue.”

“Mmm,” said Harry. “The city looks amazing from here, yeah?” He looked over at his friend, who had a smile beginning to spread over her face, despite her earlier trepidation.

“Yeah.”

They sat in silence for several minutes. Neither was drunk by any means, but they had each consumed enough Butterbeer to feel rather lazy. Harry decided he'd better just get on with his question, or they end up spending the entire night up on that roof.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” Hermione answered, eyes still staring at the turquoise sky.

“Okay. Here goes…” Harry said. “Okay…”

“Spit it out,” Hermione said abruptly, losing patience rather suddenly, “or I'll send an owl to your office tomorrow addressed to `Hunky Potter'!” Hermione's patience was beginning to wear thin. She hated suspense and was desperate to find out how serious Harry's problem really was.

“You wouldn't dare!” Harry said, laughing.

“Oh, wouldn't I?” Hermione broke into a smile. “Now come on. How bad can it be?”

“Bad,” Harry said, without a note of humor. “I told Tiffany about…you know.” He glanced sheepishly at Hermione, who nodded. “She was already chuffed about a number of other things. She said I needed some time to think things through.” Harry took in a deep breath. “She stopped coming by, so I could have that time. To think.”

“Oh.” Hermione turned her gaze to Harry. “Oh, Harry, I'm sorry. Did she break up with you again?”

“No,” Harry said. “No, she just…well she's coming over tomorrow night.”

“That's good,” Hermione said, hopefully.

“No. She's coming over tomorrow night to hear my decision. I was supposed to have been thinking about `us' and `our relationship' since our fight.”

“And have you come to any conclusions?” Hermione asked.

“What? No! That's what we're doing now. I need you to help me,” Harry gasped. Wincing, he reached out his hand to tug at a loose roof slate. The piece of slate broke off at the slight pressure and Harry absently tossed it with his left hand, and then snapped it out of the air with his right. The troubled wizard continued to play with the tile in silence, rubbing it idly between his thumb and forefinger, looking out over the city while Hermione stared at him. She willed her eyebrows to relax so she didn't appear to be judging, although her mind was itching to let Harry know exactly what she thought of his indifference.

“She wants to know where she stands with you?” Hermione asked. Harry nodded.

“She wants to know if you're serious, if you'll want to marry her someday?” she continued, receiving another shy nod.

“She wants to know if you'll spend more time with her…instead of me?”

Harry didn't respond immediately to this last question, but looked into Hermione's eyes, wincing again as if broaching these subjects was causing him physical pain.

“Kind of,” he choked out at last.

Hermione laid down on her back, staring at the clouds and allowing the cold, hard rooftop to clear her mind. Harry's arm brushed hers as he followed her lead, lying on his back, a solemn look overtaking his handsome face. A kaleidoscope of images and thoughts floated through Hermione's mind as she wrestled with the brevity of Harry's problem.

“Didn't you think about this over a nice cup of tea?” she asked, breaking the silence.

Harry laughed. “No,” he said.

“Mull it over in a hot bath?” she asked.

“No,” Harry replied, laughing again and shaking his head.

“Harry, why not?” Hermione was exasperated. Why hadn't Harry put in an effort? Didn't he understand what was at stake?

“Because, Hermione…I'm a guy,” Harry responded, giving a slight glare. “Bath.” He laughed again.

“Right, then,” Hermione sighed. “So let's start with how you feel about Tiffany…”

Hermione began a slow and grueling process by which she pried details of Harry's relationship from his unsettled mind. It felt like what she imagined pulling feathers off a chicken must feel like, if said chicken were still alive and able to grimace and stutter and act put out. She discovered that Harry was physically attracted to Tiffany. That was good. He loved that she was a school teacher. Okay, so there was an element of healthy respect there, that was sweet. Tiffany adored children. Harry had mentioned that a few times during the interrogation. That was…interesting.

Finding out how Tiffany felt about Harry - from Harry's point of view - proved to be difficult to say the least. Hermione managed to unearth that the school teacher often told Harry she loved him, and her actions seemed to support the notion. It had transpired that Tiffany had broken down into tears when she visited Harry's flat on the evening after Harry and Hermione's trip to Diagon Alley, probably quite broken-hearted to learn that the two friends had kissed.

Hermione's heart lurched at the thought that she herself had caused so much strife in the other witch's life. It made her feel selfish, and more than a bit tarnished. She felt sorrowful for Harry, who had expressed to her such a profound desire to make a go of this relationship not long ago in her kitchen. She also knew that Harry had put himself in this situation of his own choosing.

Somewhere about an hour into their conversation, Hermione had drawn the undeniable conclusion that Harry just wasn't as invested in this romance as was Tiffany. Overcome with a rush of sadness for the witch, Hermione tried to imagine how it would feel to love someone as special as Harry Potter, only to have him return the gesture with lukewarm intensity. Still lying down, Hermione turned her head toward her friend.

She spoke carefully, “Harry…”

Harry, who had been studying the stars in silent reverie, slowly turned his own head. He had the look of a prisoner about to receive his verdict. Hermione laughed involuntarily at his somber expression.

“I see,” Harry pouted. “My love life giving you a good laugh, is it?”

“No, it's not that…” she began. “It's just that you look like you're off to the gallows or something.”

She chuckled again, but Harry showed no signs of being amused.

“Right,” Hermione said, clearing her throat and forcing a more appropriate look of concern on her features. “Harry, I have a question to ask…I need you to consider it very carefully before answering. Can you do that?” She sounded like she was speaking to a four-year-old.

“I'll try my best, Ma'am,” Harry replied, in a thickly sarcastic tone.

Hermione moved even closer, peering directly into Harry's eyes so she could gauge his reaction as he considered the question she was about to pose.

“If Tiffany couldn't bear children…if she was barren, or didn't want to. Harry, would you still want to marry her…some day?”

The question was asked in a measured, tender voice, but it seared into Harry's consciousness as if Hermione had spellotaped it to a hot poker and impaled him with it.

“How could she?” he thought, incredulous. “What's that supposed to even mean?”

Bits and pieces of sentences were flying in and out of Harry's mind like broomsticks on a Quidditch pitch. He was beginning to feel dizzy, fraught with indignation, and Harry breathed heavily as he engaged in an internal struggle. He wrestled with the blasted question. First, he chastised Hermione inside his head for asking such a ludicrous thing in the first place. Then, he searched his brain for the strongest way to answer “Yes! Of course I would! How can you ask that?” In the end, Harry felt a pang of loss as he realized that there just might be a very good reason for his clever friend to be questioning this aspect of his character. How much of what he felt for Tiffany had to do with the fact that she loved children? Harry wanted a family. He wanted so badly to fill a deep void that had been within him all his life.

“But, Hermione…” Harry's eyes looked sad as he finally addressed his confidante, his chest rising and falling visibly as his body struggled for more oxygen to calm his emotions. “How do I know if I like any witch just because she'd make a great Mum someday? Just about anyone, to me, would be great in comparison to Petunia Dursley.” He scrunched his nose at the offending reference to his monstrous Aunt.

Hermione didn't reply. She grabbed his hand and caressed his thumb, holding his gaze and looking very much like her own heart was breaking at Harry's predicament.

“Well,” Harry continued, “I suppose if I think on it, I enjoy hanging out with you in your flat more than going on dates with Tiffany.”

Harry said this matter-of-factly, but the affect on Hermione was that of mild shock.

“Oh, Harry!” she gasped, adding quietly, “You'd rather be with your friends?”

“Well,” said Harry, “I enjoy the adult-rated bits more.”

“Sex!” Hermione choked, sounding even more displeased with this latest confession. “That's not a real great reason to love someone. You know that, don't you?”

Harry felt as low as he had ever felt. Hermione was painting him out to be some kind of gigolo, holding on to his girlfriend mostly out of need for carnal pleasures. He didn't think of himself as that kind of a bloke. Harry had always thought he was a bit of a gentleman. How had he come to this?

“Harry,” Hermione spoke in a whisper, looking back up at the still sky. “I think you should break up with the stripper.” She didn't smile at her little reference, but kept her gaze on the heavens, blinking. “It's not right to string her along.”

Harry turned his head upward as well. He didn't respond, wondering to himself why he didn't feel more miserable. “Probably a sign,” he thought.

“Come here, you,” Harry said softly and he scooted an arm under Hermione's shoulder. He pulled her into his chest and placed a kiss on top of her head. “Have you ever slept under the stars?” he asked. Stretching his body, Harry reached into his back pocket to retrieve his wand. He transfigured a pile of molding leaves into a chenille blanket and levitated it over their entwined shapes, dropping it softly over them.

Hermione felt cozy and warm lying cuddled her friend's arms. Something about the broadness of Harry's chest and the heat it provided made her feel safe, cherished, and infinitely more special than any other witch who didn't have his permission to rest her head there. She had hated to break his heart, and she wondered if she should have been so bold in her statements. But, Hermione was positive that Harry didn't love the stripper. It was an inarguable fact that people in love would rather spend an evening together than watching television at a friend's house. How had Harry missed this gigantic detail?

As she closed her eyes and gave Harry a squeeze, Hermione tried to remember if she had ever felt closer to him. Had she known him this well when he was a skinny school boy coming to her for help evading dark plots and avoiding capture from Death Eaters and Voldemort himself? Did their tryst have something to do with this new level of familiarity? Lying on his chest, Hermione could feel Harry's even breaths and listened to the loud, periodic drumming of his heartbeat. She smiled as she felt herself drifting off to sleep. Harry's mind may always be a complete riddle to her, but his heart…that was something that she understood better than her own.

Harry watched his pretty friend as her eyes fluttered closed. He pulled her into a hug and lay awake for a few more hours, pondering his situation and reflecting on his life before finally giving in to slumber himself.

“Thanks again,” he whispered into Hermione's messy hair as he closed his eyes to the night.

The bright light of the morning sun woke Hermione the next morning. She pried her eyes open and felt a wonderful breeze caressing her face. To her surprise, she found that she was no longer lying on top of Harry's chest, but was snuggled up close to his side, with a heavenly soft down pillow beneath her head. “Harry can transfigure a diamond from a speck of dust,” she marveled, guessing at how the pillow had come to be. She had been leaning on Harry, hugging his firm arm and felt him stirring.

“'Morning,” she said, closing her hand around her mouth. Morning breath was never something Hermione wanted to impose on anyone.

Harry rose a hand to his own mouth, smiling. “'Morning,” he muttered, drawing his wand and flicking it toward Hermione.

“Mmph!”

Startled, Hermione jerked her head backwards as her mouth filled with minty foam.

“It's just a modified Scourgify charm,” Harry said. “Don't be frightened.” Harry laughed and repeated the charm on his own mouth.

Hermione shook her head, spitting out the foam. “My tongue feels like it's been scrubbed with a wire brush! I'll take my toothbrush any day, thank you!” she said, slightly irritably, but with affection.

“Sorry,” Harry apologized. “It's something us Aurors do sometimes on stake-outs.”

Harry donned his glasses, which had been tucked neatly in a crack between two roof tiles near his head, and flicked his wand at the foggy sky, squinting at the fuzzy scripted time reading he'd conjured against the thick, moist darkness. He stood up and offered Hermione a hand.

“Come, we've only got about seven minutes before the 9:00 mass,” he said.

“Oh, Harry. No, no! I've got to go home,” Hermione whined. “I need a toothbrush, a shower, tea, a nice plate of sausages...I'm afraid I can't make the early one today.”

“Please?” Harry asked. “I love the early service, gets us out before the games come on.”

Hermione's expression softened a bit, but she didn't reply.

“Hey,” Harry continued, “want to come to my flat after mass? I could make us lunch. You could bring your books and study?”

Hermione frowned. “Aren't you in a good mood for somebody who's just about to end a long relationship?” she asked.

“Well,” Harry began, “I stayed up for a while after you passed out,” he paused to watch Hermione deepen her frown at his choice of words, “and I thought things over. I came to the conclusion that you were right. It's not going to work with Tiffany.”

“And you just want to hang out all day?” Hermione asked. “Don't you have to meet her tonight?” Her frown was now replaced with a look of someone who was deeply perplexed.

“I just want to have fun and relax a bit,” Harry said as he transfigured the blanket and pillows back into leaves, swishing them up in an impressive swirl. Brown, gold and orange leaves whirled around high over his and Hermione's heads and then drifted lazily down onto the city below them.

“She's going to kill me tonight. You know that?” Harry said, wincing. “I just want to enjoy the day before I face my deserved, but untimely death.”

“Mmm, serves you right,” Hermione teased. “What'll it be? Toss your Firebolt out the window and watch you leap after it to your mortal peril?”

Harry jumped back, holding a hand over his heart. “No! Not the Firebolt!” he gasped.

“Force you to listen to Celestena Warbecks until you turn your own wand on yourself to end the suffering?” Hermione squatted down and gazed once again at the city, chuckling at her own wit. “No, I've got it! She'll sell your secrets to the Daily Prophet and wait for you to die of embarrassment!”

“You're a foul, cruel little witch!” Harry said, giving a piercing glare. “Don't think I hadn't secretly feared it - the Prophet thing! You're not the least bit funny,” Harry finished, stepping closer and readying his wand.

“Am too,” Hermione said childishly. She grabbed Harry's arm to be Apparated home.

Except, she landed in an alleyway.

“Harry? Harry!” she shouted.

Harry laughed and grabbed his very annoyed friend by the hand, pulling her out onto the street. “I told you we didn't have much time before the nine o'clock service!” he mused.

Hermione straightened her skirt and prepared herself to suffer through a holy service while dressed in yesterday's clothes - bar clothes, more or less - and accompanied by a wizard who was similarly rumpled. Why, she wondered, was she so very capable of saying `no' to anyone on the planet except Harry? She sighed and looked at the centuries old church ahead of them. She wished terribly that the idea of spending the day with Harry, just studying in his flat while he obsessed over his sports, didn't make her feel so…happy. It occurred to Hermione that maybe she was beginning to develop an obsession of her own, but she pushed that thought promptly to the back of her head. Better leave that for another day.

-->

9. Just like Old Times

Chapter 9. Just like Old Times

As the weeks passed, the two friends continued to spend a lot of time together. They began to take it for granted that they would not only go out on Saturdays and Sunday services, but Sunday afternoon as well had become a regular affair. Harry and Hermione fell into a pattern whereby they spent nearly all of their weekend meals in each other's company. Friday nights, however, were still spent apart.

Harry was finding his breakup with Tiffany to be most distressing. She'd showed up at his flat a few times to sob on his shoulder, begging him to say that he was wrong. During these visits, he had tried to treat Tiffany with gentleness and respect, but Harry couldn't help but find his former girlfriend's loss of control torturous to endure. On the last visit, Harry had carefully repeated that he couldn't lie to her - no matter how much he wanted to, and Tiffany had stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

On the next day, Harry received a howler to his office, earning him a week's worth of jeers from his fellow Aurors. The red envelope was delivered with perfect timing - just as Harry was about to begin his weekly review of the case he'd been working on, and was witnessed by no less than twelve of his colleagues, and two supervisors. The day following the howler, Tiffany sent an owl with a long letter of apology, and that was the last Harry had heard from her.

Although he no longer had to endure the tears and yelling, Harry did not soon think he'd overcome the guilt that hovered in his chest, tightening like a vice whenever he ran across something that reminded him of the failed relationship. The sight of a feminine personal item left in his bathroom or a glimpse of a blond-haired witch would suffice to send Harry a fresh jolt of suffocating guilt. He had caused pain, quite a lot of it, to a really great witch. This kind of wrong-doing, Harry found, would not be overcome by exercise. In fact, the only times during the week that Harry ever felt good were when he was with Hermione.

Harry began to look forward to his and Hermione's get-togethers more and more as the days passed, and it was with a tremendous amount of reserve that he held back from suggesting that they meet on Fridays as well… or for that matter, during the week. He did not want to smother his friend with his own need. It had also occurred to Harry that Hermione needed the chance to find her own relationship. And so, he played darts at the Muggle bar around the corner from his flat every Friday night, with a heart full of guilt and a longing to be sitting on his best friend's sofa.

On a Friday evening, several weeks after suggesting to Harry that he end things with Tiffany, Hermione paced in her bedroom. She had decided to take the dark-haired Theodore up on his offer for a date ten days ago, and they had since gotten together three times for a night out at the University's pub. Tonight, they were going out to dinner.

As she primped, Hermione tried to get excited.

“He's nice,” she reminded herself. “He's smart. He likes birds.” Hermione struggled to find something more exciting to tell herself about Theodore. “He isn't ugly.” She winced.

“Oh, that's awful. Hermione Granger, get over yourself or you're going to die a very old, very lonely witch!” she berated as she bent over to slide a black pump over her foot, finishing off her “date” outfit.

A knock came on Hermione's door precisely at eight o'clock.

“He's punctual,” she thought, appending her mental List of Positive Things to Say about Theodore.

They Apparated to a wizarding village about a hundred miles south of London, which seemed unnecessary to Hermione as London hosted some of the best restaurants in all of the United Kingdom. When they finally arrived at the swanky French establishment, La Petit Mason, Theodore took Hermione's arm and walked her to the entrance.

“I think you're going to love this place,” Theodore gushed as the two were ushered to the back of the restaurant and seated at a lovely banquette that was lavishly upholstered. Hermione took in the restaurant's décor and smiled uncomfortably. If the quality of La Petit Mason's heavily gilded doors and crystal light fixtures were any indication of the establishment's prices, she thought, this was going to be an uncomfortable date indeed. Surely Theodore wouldn't have presumed to take her to a fancy restaurant just yet, would he?

“It's lovely,” she returned, placing a hand oh-so-delicately on top of Theodore in a determined effort to appear genuinely pleased, and not frightened out of her gourd.

As the evening unfolded, Hermione was trying so hard to find Theodore interesting that she found herself to be coming off as slightly condescending.

“I visited France last summer on Holiday,” Theodore offered at one point during the main course.

“Oh, did you?” Hermione practically rose from her chair as she responded. “How wonderful! What was it like?”

Theodore pursed his lips, “It was nice. Haven't you said that you'd been to France many times?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” Hermione said, fiddling with her fork and feeling quite silly. “Um…what part of France do you say you visited?”

The conversation continued in this semi-excruciating manner all the way through dessert. It was a great relief to Hermione when Theodore finally suggested that they get back, and offered her an arm to begin the grueling process of journeying home. He valiantly took Hermione through the myriad of Apparition points and landed her at long last in an alley near her apartment building, from which point they walked to her flat in silence. Theodore smiled as they entered the lobby and walked to the door of her flat, but he wore an expression that suggested a fair bit of disappointment.

Hermione was furious with herself. She had been an appalling date. Theodore had obviously gone to a lot of trouble to plan something special, and in return he got to spend the evening with someone who acted more the part of his babysitter than his romantic interest. She was a spoiled witch and a louse of a date. Spoiled, because she spent two days out of each week in the company of one of the most interesting and fun - not to mention handsome - wizards in all of England. How could anyone else seem worth her time?

“I had a great time, Hermione,” Theodore said, looking straight into her Hermione's eyes and reaching to grab her hands. “Thank you,” he continued, as he leaned over and attempted to kiss her.

“Ummm,” Hermione muttered, turning her head and landing Theodore's kiss on her cheek. “I did too,” she lied. “Thank you. Thank you very much.” She watched with remorse as her date bid her goodbye and marched awkwardly down the hall, disappearing from view.

“Alohamora!”

The door to Hermione's flat flew open and she slammed it shut behind her, not even bothering to check if any Muggles had witnessed her flagrant wand flourishing.

“Damn you, Harry!” she shouted to no one. “Who's going to measure up, huh? Who?”

Hermione paced violently around her flat, venting her frustrations.

“Who on Earth is going to seem interesting when your childhood was practically a Shakespearian tragedy? You still fight dark wizards with all your secrecy and fancy spell work. Answer me this, Harry - you with the dark eyelashes and sexy teeth!” She was shouting now, her face pink with anger. “Who am I going to want to spend time with when I practically fall over the chance to watch toast dry with Harry Bloody Potter!”

The frazzled witch blustered about her flat, changing her clothes and washing her face. She flung herself down on her sofa and swatted her wand in the direction of the television. Flicking through the channels, she finally felt herself begin to relax. “Calm down, Hermione,” she scolded aloud. “It was just a bad date. Not every witch and wizard are meant to be together.”

She gave her wand another quick, downward thrust to turn the television off, disgusted with the poor selection of shows. Hermione rested her head on the deep cushion.

“And stop blaming poor Harry for everything,” she added.

The next morning, Harry's face appeared in Hermione's fireplace at ten past seven. He was just about to call on her when he saw a sleeping form on the sofa.

“Have a rough night?”

Hermione jumped. Being woken up by a raspy voice issued from a face-shaped flame was scary to say the least. It took a few moments for Hermione to gain her bearings.

“Who's there? Wha'? Sofa. Right. Oh, Harry. Okay, everything's fine.”

Harry laughed. It was always a treat to catch Hermione Granger without her full faculties. Watching her putter about trying to figure out where she was and who or what was talking to her was…priceless.

“Yes. Everything's okay,” Harry said. “So, want to join me for a Quidditch game? We'll have to use a Portkey, and walk a bit due to the volume of fans but --”

Hermione cut him off. “Quidditch?” She was just about to suggest something else for them to do, but Harry was prepared.

“Ron will be there,” he said.

Bolting into sitting position, Hermione practically squeaked at Harry in the fireplace. “Ron! Oh Harry, I haven't seen Ron since Christmas! Are Sally and the kids coming as well?”

“Yes, all of them. I'd like to stop off at Diagon Alley to get some gifts for the little ones, if that's all right?” Harry said, waiting for a reply, his smirking image flickering in the fire.

“Oh, Harry, yes! Yes, I'd love to go. Come right over, I'll get ready as fast as I can. You can make us some breakfast while you wait.” Hermione dashed out of the room, neither bothering to say “Goodbye” to Harry nor worrying that it might be rude to ask him to fix them a meal.

When Harry and Hermione arrived at Diagon Alley, they found that it was mostly empty on this chilly September morning. They spent an hour fiddling with toys and spell books in Miss Monica's Toy Cupboard - a brightly-colored store that was full to bursting with books, toys, and talking advertisements. It felt to Hermione that it was rather a shock to the senses to walk into such an establishment just after having woken up. After browsing for a bit more, she suggested that since Ron had two toddlers, one of each sex, she should pick out the girl toy and Harry should select something for the boy.

“It's not like we know what we're doing!” Harry said. “Neither of us had any toys like this when we were their age.” Harry was holding a stuffed dragon and petting it. He yelped and jumped back when the toy dragon blew fire at him.

“Not that I had toys of any kind,” he muttered softly.

Harry stated this simply, probably not realizing that he'd spoken at all. But Hermione's heart stopped instantly. She felt her face grow cold as Harry's off-handed comment penetrated her faculties. It had never occurred to Hermione that a child - any child, much less a child that she would later come to know - could be so neglected. No toys at all? Her eyes misted and her throat tightened.

Among all the colors and sounds in Miss Monica's little shop, Hermione sank deep into her own world, hearing nothing and seeing only what was forming inside her head. In her mind, a small dark-haired boy sat on a vacant floor with a tear-stained face. The boy was watching a large, fat boy with blond hair play with trucks and balls, his side of the room representing a veritable toy store while the dark-haired boy sat alone.

“No. They couldn't have. They wouldn't have!” she heard herself say.

Hermione tried to reach out to the little boy Harry inside her head to tell him that it would be okay. “In a few years, you'll have all the money you need. Just hang in there,” she wanted to tell him. Hot tears fell down her face as Hermione suddenly recalled another detail that Harry had recently let slip.

“Harry,” Hermione choked, turning her head to face a very frightened looking Harry, “why did Hogwarts address your acceptance letter to `The Cupboard under the Stairs?'”

She held her breath and tried to act as if this was just a casual question, wiping her eyes and picking up a banshee doll, pretending to examine it.

Harry's face froze. With one tiny question, Hermione saw her dragon-battling Auror of a friend turn into a wispy ghost. The look on Harry's face let her know that he was not going to discuss this subject under any circumstances. Briefly, Hermione wondered if he was deciding whether or not to use a memory charm on her. She sniffed and summoned up her Gryffindor courage as she continued in as nonchalant of a manner as she could manage.

“A few weeks ago, when you were still with Tiffany, you mentioned it…in a third party sort of way.”

“Oh,” Harry said, swallowing. The toy dragon bit him and he pulled his thumb away, looking at the toy. “Nothing, really. It's just where the Dursley's kept their mail.”

Harry took a deep breath and added, “I'm all done now, I think. This wizard-eating dragon is just the thing for Ron's pride and joy, no?” He had a hopeful look now, clearly considering the subject of his Hogwarts letters settled. “The fire doesn't hurt, it actually feels cold.”

Hermione, for some reason unknown to herself, couldn't let the subject drop. She knew it was reckless to be so inconsiderate of the fact that Harry obviously didn't want to discuss it. It was calculably stupid to risk putting a rift in their friendship, but she couldn't help herself. She had to find out.

“No, Harry. People don't keep their mail in cupboards.”

She sat down on the floor, leaning against a shelf full of colorful costumes.

Harry stood above his friend, breathing hard. “Just drop it, Hermione. There's nothing there.” He spoke through clenched teeth and his voice was angry now.

“No,” Hermione continued, tears falling down her cheeks, “people don't put mail in cupboards. And I know how that correspondence spell works, Harry. It finds the intended receiver wherever they are.”

She looked up at Harry. He was livid but she didn't care. Her heart was breaking.

“Those monsters! Those evil trolls! They locked a little boy up in a cupboard!”

Hermione started to sob uncontrollably, her shoulders were shaking and her voice came cracked. Hermione and Harry and Ron, their bond was as strong as welded steel. She adored them and they admired her. How had she and Ron let Harry down like this? How could they not have known?

“Oh, Harry,” she cried, “I'm so sorry. All these years…Why didn't I ever ask this before? Your childhood at the Dursleys…I feel so selfish…”

Burying her face in her hands, Hermione gave in to a full-out breakdown. She let herself cry until she felt Harry stoop down next to her and place a heavy arm around her shoulder.

“Shh…Come on now,” he was saying. “Look, do you see me crying?”

Hermione looked up at his vague expression. But seeing his handsome face only reminded her of the cute little boy she'd been picturing in her head, and she sobbed again. She was lost. Harry hadn't come up with a second denial, and the fact the skinny little Harry Potter had considered a cupboard to be his room in that dreadful household sat with her like poison. His little self had clearly taken note that someone, somewhere had discovered the Dursley's nasty secret, or he wouldn't have remembered where the letters were addressed to at all. Hermione felt a rush of despair. What else had he endured? What else had little Harry been deprived of while she had been lavished with books and entertainment and hugs and kisses? Hermione couldn't stop crying, oblivious to the stress that she was causing her friend to endure.

“That's it. We're getting you out of here,” Harry said forcefully, and he Apparated them both to Hermione's flat. He gingerly walked the sobbing witch over to her sofa and laid her down, combing her hair with his fingertips to unstick it from her soppy face and neck. Hermione gave a sniff and looked up at Harry.

“Be back in a bit,” he said, and he disappeared into her kitchen.

“OK,” Hermione told herself. “Stop. Look at Harry. You're making him feel dreadful.”

She took a deep breath. Being back in her own home, Hermione was beginning to come to her senses and realized that she was giving Harry a good deal of unneeded drama. She closed her eyes, sitting up, and summoned a box of tissues from the bathroom. Blinking back tears and blotting her nose, Hermione drew a bit of comfort from the clinking sounds of a teapot and porcelain mugs slapping against each other which was coming from the kitchen area.

“Get it together. Just get it together,” she pleaded with herself. “You're not helping him now. He's a grown wizard. You're only embarrassing him, and now he's off making you tea.”

Even as she thought this, Hermione realized that if she knew Harry - and she did - she also knew that he would be feeling more shameful than anything as he busied himself in his best friend's kitchen. This last thought had the unfortunate effect of reinvigorating Hermione's sorrow, and she began to sob again. What it was that had gotten into her, Hermione did not know. She only knew what she felt at the time - regret, sadness, anger, injustice, and a strong desire to fix something.

“I've put the tea on. Muggle style, I…I don't know the spells,” Harry said, sitting beside Hermione on the sofa. “Shh…it'll only be a little while now.” Harry grabbed a handful of tissues and began to dab at Hermione's face. “You're a right mess. You won't be chatted up by any Quidditch players looking like this.” He gave a tiny smile and set the tissue box down on the sofa table.

Harry was uncomfortable. Exceedingly uncomfortable. He had no idea what had happened to Hermione, and he wished terribly that he would have come up with a better reason for the stupid cupboard address. His closest friend was crying harder than he'd ever seen her cry, and he hated himself for being the cause. And now he needed to pull her out of this fit, which made Harry feel vastly inadequate.

Situations that called for comforting used to expose the worst of Harry's faults. He was sterile and stiff. Many of his early arguments with girlfriends, in fact, revolved around his being “unfeeling”. Slowly, though, he had learned that if he copied certain things that he'd seen the girlfriend do to comfort others, she would seem appeased. Over time, in fact, putting an arm around someone or patting their back became more or less second nature. Harry had purged himself of the last remnants of his upbringing. He felt as normal as any wizard.

Why then, he thought, was Hermione trying to paint him as some kind of invalid? He felt a small amount of anger beginning to creep back in as he watched his friend struggle to regain her composure. Harry crinkled his forehead and stared at Hermione. She had lifted her head and was sort of petting his hair now. It felt odd. She lifted her other hand and cradled his face, saying, “Sorry. I'm so sorry. I should've helped.”

Harry stared at her.

“Poor little thing…” Hermione continued, sitting up and turning toward Harry, cupping his face again with her hands.

A wet face suddenly lunged forward and planted a kiss on Harry's right cheek. Then left cheek. Forehead. Chin. Harry fought to keep from saying something hurtful and his friend now placed her hot, wet lips directly on his, planting a firm kiss there and holding it for several seconds before giving over to sobs again.

“I'm sorry,” she muttered.

Hermione was still holding Harry's face with both hands, and he didn't think he would be able to escape easily. Her emotions were off the scale, and Harry didn't want to do anything to upset her further. Keeping careful eye contact, he removed his head from his friend's grasp cautiously and rifled through his brain for clues as to what was going on.

“This,” thought Harry, “is precisely why I don't tell anyone about the Dursley years.” He had lived through it, hadn't he? And, he considered, he hadn't turned out too badly by most standards. He had a decent job, hadn't blown his inheritance or anything stupid, and then there's the small matter of him having vaporized Voldemort, wasn't there? Unveiling details of his earliest years to the few people in this world that he loved would only serve to cause those people pain. And Harry never wanted to give Vernon and Petunia Dursley that kind of power over anyone he cared about, not ever. He had protected himself…in his own way, and now he could protect his friends too by keeping the more unsettling anecdotes buried deeply and forgotten about.

He was touched, though, by the depth of emotion that Hermione seemed to be feeling on his behalf. For all its bizarreness, this was not an altogether unenjoyable turn of events. When she leaned over again and started smoothing Harry's hair down, he decided that it was time to take action. “Right,” he said. “You've gone completely over the edge if you think you can make my hair stay flat!” Was she insane?

Harry marched into the kitchen and returned with a steaming mug of tea. “Drink this. Relax a bit, and freshen up. It'll make you feel better. Okay?” he pleaded, pushing the mug into Hermione's hands and lifting it to her mouth.

She accepted the cup and drank, and Harry took the opportunity to study her, smiling.

“You know,” he said, “it wasn't that bad.”

Hermione looked up at him, her tear-soaked eyes looked almost eerie as they reflected the light in the room.

“It was a large cupboard, big enough for a cot and plenty of space to spare. I didn't fret about it…it was normal to me,” Harry added. He ruffled his friend's hair and smiled again. “You know, it all ended shortly after I started at Hogwarts, anyway.”

Harry was looking directly into Hermione's eyes now, willing his words to drill into her skull and replace whatever misconceptions she'd conjured up in there. “Everything was better - I was happy once I went to Hogwarts,” he said. “My childhood, as I remember it, began the day I got that letter.”

Hermione smiled back and grabbed more tissues. She dabbed her eyes and wiped her nose in a very unglamorous fashion. “Sorry,” she said in a small voice. “Must be some kind of maternal instinct coming out of me…”

Harry gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “Well, I may not remember my Mum, but I'm fairly certain she never gave me a kiss like that!”

“Harry!” Hermione shrieked, smacking his arm hard. Her face was drawn in a look of astonishment, embarrassment and disgust, all rolled into one. “Don't say things like that!”

“Sorry,” Harry apologized. “You okay here for a bit while I go back and get the toys?” Hermione nodded. “Good. Just pull yourself together, I'll be right back.” She nodded again. “Mum.”

“Harry!” Hermione shouted to an empty room as Harry had already Apparated back to Diagon Alley.

A much more cheerful Hermione sat between her two oldest and most cherished friends in a bleacher high above the ruckus of a Chudley Cannons match. Ron and his wife, Sally, sat to Hermione's left, and Harry sat to her right. Two darling little children, Jonathon and Sarah, kept themselves entertained by climbing up and down in their seats and eating a huge assortment of finger food.

It was difficult to hold a proper conversation, Hermione was finding. She and Sally exchanged small talk by bending forward and talking over Ron. Poor Sally never seemed to be able to complete a single sentence, as one or the other of her children kept tapping her on the elbow or yelling “Mummy!”. Ron and Harry were bending forward in similar fashion to talk over Hermione, adding to the chaos. Then, of course, there was the matter of a very loud Quidditch game being played out below them.

Yet, Hermione had to conclude that she was having a great time. She missed Ron terribly. They were a very different sort of friends, she and Ron. “Definitely platonic, there,” she thought as she gave him a small smile. Ron winked, and then turned back to Harry.

“Platonic.” The word echoed inside Hermione's head again as she thought about the “liberties” that she and Harry were prone to take lately. Although she felt that she should probably feel strange about their new level of closeness, she somehow couldn't bring herself to do it. Whatever she and Harry had created for themselves, it fit her like a favorite pair of pajamas. A huge roar erupted in the stands, having something or other to do with the match, but Hermione barely heard it. “I've never been happier,” she thought, struck with the preposterousness of this notion. But, wasn't it true?

As the game proceeded, Hermione fell back from conversation a few more times to reminisce, sneaking glances at the laughing and smiling Ron, who was obsessing over flying moves and bludger fouls with Harry. The three friends, though thick as thieves during their school years, had been gently dissected into “Hermione and Harry” and “Ron and Harry” over time. This was probably due to the fact that Ron and Hermione had once been a couple, and because Ron was now a married wizard. Married people just didn't keep friends of the opposite sex.

Hermione tried not to think of how she would feel when Harry eventually married. There was no doubt in her mind that it would reshape their friendship into the same kind of distant, though loving, relationship that she now shared with Ron. She knew it was terribly selfish of her, but couldn't help but hope it wouldn't be too soon.

The six went to dinner at a nearby pub and then went about the sad business of parting ways. Hermione hugged everyone, and each of the children politely recited, “Thank you for the lovely toys!”

Hermione laughed and hugged Sally again. “They're lovely children, Sally! And I know this is all your doing.”

“Too right!” Sally replied.

Ron gave a false hurt look and hit Harry on the back. “So long, mate! Try not to get yourself killed or anything,” he chided. Then, he turned to Hermione and pulled her into another hug. “And you, get your nose out of those books. You're head is going to explode someday very soon. I can tell.” The children laughed as Ron made a very impressive exploding noise for their benefit. Taking advantage of the noisiness, Ron leaned forward and whispered in Hermione's ear, “You and Harry?”

Hermione kept her head still, but gave Ron a look of distaste. “Ron, we're still just friends,” she whispered back. “You're letting your imagination get the best of you. Now just take care of yourself and…” Hermione was feeling a sudden pull at her heart again as she prepared for another long separation from her much-loved friend. Why did things all have to change for them? It had been an emotional day, and Hermione seemed to be feeling everything with heightened intensity.

“Just take care,” she choked.

Harry was still laughing at the children, who were mimicking Ron's exploding noises, grabbing their heads and pretending that their brains too were going to blow up. He glanced sideways and saw that Hermione's eyes were tearing up. Not wanting her to suffer another breakdown, Harry quickly bid Sally goodbye and grabbed Hermione's arm to take the long walk back to a deserted junkyard, from which they were to take the Portkey back to Hermione's flat.

“Care for another cup of tea?” Harry asked when they arrived. “I'm beat!”

“Sure, I'll get it,” Hermione said as she headed into the kitchen.

“Nope,” Harry said forcefully, jogging to beat his friend to the threshold and blocking her path. “I'm still in the mood to fuss over you. Now, just sit down and be quiet for a second while I find everything again.”

Hermione smiled. “I'm not made of glass, Harry. I promise.” Harry filled the teapot and lit the stove, throwing a look of skepticism toward Hermione.

She smiled at his doubtfulness. “No,” she said. “No more tears, I'm cried out anyway.” Hermione leaned her elbows on the table, folded her hands together and dropped her chin into them. “It's normal, you know…to be upset when someone you love, someone special to you, is hurting.”

Harry grabbed two teacups from the cupboard and set them on the counter. It never mattered who said it or in what context, the “L” word always filled him with just a little bit of anxiety. “I'm not hurting,” he said without emotion. “It was ages ago. Honestly!”

“I know,” Hermione sighed. “I was crying for Little Harry. For the you that you once were,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Insane,” Harry replied, measuring tea leaves into a strainer and shaking his head. “You're insane.”

The evening passed without any more tears, just as Hermione had promised. The two friends watched their television programs until the early hours of the morning, chatting a bit on occasion. They went through their standard retellings of childhood adventures with Ron. They laughed as they recalled little things that Jonathan and Sarah had said and done. They talked about how their lives had changed through the years, and assured each other that they themselves hadn't changed a bit.

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10. An Extraordinary Idea

Chapter 10. An Extraordinary Idea

Hermione tossed a satchel onto the large metal desk in her office and flopped down into her chair. It was early on a Tuesday morning and she was eager to plow her way through ten rolls of parchment worth of analytical data that her two interns had eagerly collected on the previous day. To Hermione Granger, reducing data was always a bit more like eating a delicious meal than working. Planning the work, purchasing equipment and ingredients, carrying out the painfully methodical experiments were all just the meat and potatoes of her job. The gravy - that would always be found in little rolls of parchment like the ones she had neatly stacked before her.

For three years now, Hermione had been working with her colleagues to try and find new techniques to help with some of the more difficult patient cases at the Ministry of Magic's research hospital. On the third floor of this institute, which was located nearby in Ireland, there were a dozen rooms occupied by wizards and witches and even a Muggle, who presented such strange symptoms that they were never able to be diagnosed. Without diagnosis, the healers and mediwitches could only ease pain and suffering as best as they could; there would be no hope of curing these unfortunates. Dr. Hughes, Hermione's mentor, had made it his life's work to come up with new and better ways to diagnose magical maladies, and this summer he and Hermione had successfully obtained funding from the Ministry of Magic to carry out a series of newt studies, designed to assess the feasibility of an idea that they had formed together - one that held a great deal of promise.

“Are you licking your lips?”

Hermione started. She had heard a mocking male voice that sounded like it came from her large, ornate office fireplace - which was almost never used.

“Ha…Harry?” she asked, feeling a bit bewildered. It couldn't be Harry, could it? To Hermione's knowledge, only ministry research staff had access to the building's Floo network, and since they all worked on the same floor of the same building, no one ever used the thing. Also, it just wasn't dignified to be seen kneeling on the floor of your office with your backside sticking up in the air, head full of soot.

“Yes,” Harry replied through the Floo connection, “it's me. Did I interrupt? It looked a bit like you were getting ready to eat your letters.”

“These aren't letters,” Hermione said, scowling playfully, “and how did you get on the Floo network in here?”

Harry grinned. “Some secrets, us Aurors like to keep to ourselves. Let's just say that I discovered a little bit about breaking into Floo networks over the years. Anyway, I can get back to you later. I see that you are still eyeing those letters.”

“No, please, come on over - I expect that you are able to Floo in as well?” Hermione asked, smiling at Harry's boyish exuberance. He looked adorable to her, dressed in his warn and sturdy Auror robes and sneaking about ministry Floo networks to pay her a visit. Harry gave a quick nod, and within seconds unfolded out of the fire and walked over to Hermione's desk, taking in his new surroundings. He brushed a small cloud of grey soot from his robes and picked up one of the rolls of parchment.

“Harry, put that down!” Hermione scolded. “These are not letters, they contain data!” She gestured for Harry to have a seat across from her desk and fiddled with the remaining scrolls, piling them neatly into a pyramid in front of herself. “And, if you must know,” she continued, “these are the exact data that I had been anticipating all summer. It's from the new project Dr. Hughes and I were awarded funding for.” She smiled. “Remember, I told you about it?”

“Oh, right,” said Harry, taking a seat and rolling the scroll of data between his fingers, examining it. “So… what is it, exactly?”

“It's a collection of individual magical signatures, taken from newts,” Hermione replied, gushing slightly. She couldn't help but feel boastful - those scrolls of data represented something very new and exciting in her field. There wasn't another set like them in the world.

“And… what are they for?” Harry asked, smiling.

He was teasing, Hermione knew, baiting her into going on about her work so that he could make fun of her exuberance. She thought about just telling Harry that the signature data were really nothing, and releasing him from the obligatory “work” discussion, but she just couldn't force her mouth to form the words. The scrolls had only been in her possession for an hour, and she'd had no one to discuss them with yet. Dr. Hughes was away at a conference and the rest of her colleagues hadn't arrived for work yet. She looked up at Harry apologetically. Here, she thought, sat a captive audience for her, even if he did look quite formidable in his black robes marred with burns and tears.

“We have patients, over at the institute,” she explained, “with unique, undiagnosable illnesses. It's generally thought that they may be victims of more than one curse - maybe many curses. If a witch or wizard, for example, was involved in a battle, and was hit with five or six curses within a very short time, those curses can interfere with each other, and can cause an unimaginable number of previously unseen maladies.” Hermione paused and gave Harry an affectionate grimace. “We see this with Aurors sometimes, I'm afraid.”

“Mmm,” Harry said, nodding politely and rubbing his thumb thoughtfully over the tight little bundle of parchment he was still holding.

“We've been working…” Hermione began but then paused briefly, looking like she was restraining herself from licking her lips again, “on examining curious patterns that we've found within the victim's own magical signature - imprints, if you will. These imprints are remnants of recent curses. We've determined by examining old patient data that these imprints can be evident in an individual's magical signature for up to three or four years after the spell has been used. After then the imprints seem to fade and become too weak for us to decipher cleanly.”

“And you can find evidence of each spell?” Harry asked.

“Sort of, we can't necessarily identify the spell, but we can identify the spell caster - and whether there are more than one. That's the goal, anyway,” Hermione replied. “We're not there yet. So far, we only know that each spell seems to leave behind a unique imprint of the witch or wizard who cast the spell, and that the imprints tend to stick around for three or four years. The strength of the imprint can tell us approximately when the victim was cursed.”

Harry shivered. “So we all carry around a bit of anyone who's cast a spell on us?” he asked.

“In a matter of speaking, yes,” Hermione answered. “But, you see? Eventually we'll be able to quickly tell whether a patient has been hit by several curses simultaneously by determining whether more than one person had cast spells upon them in a particular time period. We may even be able to track down the spell casters and examine their wands. This may give real hope for patients with difficult symptoms that we've so far been unable to diagnose - and therefore unable to treat. Once we've worked out how to recognize the individual imprints, of course, which is rather a lot of work…”

Hermione sat back in her desk chair and considered her friend. Harry's usual span of attention for these types of conversations was quite short, especially when it involved either Hermione's studies or her work. Though she was still quite keen to talk about these newt studies to someone outside the department, she wondered how long Harry would let her go on about the spell signature project. But, she noticed, his eyes were still more or less focused on hers, and though he was still fiddling with her scroll, he didn't appear to doing it consciously. “Why Harry,” she thought, “you've become quite the little professional, haven't you?”

“So, these letters are loaded with magical imprints of common spells?” Harry asked.

Hermione smiled. “Quite the professional, indeed,” she thought, before continuing with her long-winded explanation. “Data,” Hermione corrected. “These are the results of our first magical creature tests. It took some doing, but we found volunteers - well, mostly ourselves and some colleagues - to curse newts with various, well-known fighting spells. My interns have just finished up three weeks worth of potions work to withdraw the magical signature from each of one-hundred newts, and I need to study the signatures now to see if I can decode them and find which spell casters hit them - to see if our imprints present themselves in any identifiable and repeatable way.”

Hermione's face took on a look of academic interest now. “All I have now will be a sort of collection of colors, shapes, smells, tastes and sizes. It's all rather complicated,” Hermione added needlessly, “but it's how we normally study any attributes of a person's magical signature. There's a potion that needs to be made, and a hair from the victim is added along with a few incantations… Anyway, after several weeks, a spark is emitted and we collect it in the form of these parchments.”

Harry was squinting at Hermione. She knew that she was never very good at explaining these things. Taking a large breath, she plunged forward, curious now why she wasn't being teased. As she spoke, a part of Hermione's brain set about the business of coming up with theories for why Harry might be interested in the diagnosis of complex maladies. It was now imminently clear to her that Harry wasn't just trying to be polite. He'd never been this courteous before when it came to her academic or research pursuits. Was someone he knew presenting strange symptoms of unknown origin? Or was he concerned about the ability to use newts as alternatives to human studies? Finally, Hermione remembered vaguely that Harry had expressed an interest months ago in her research, pointing out possible applications in cases that he had worked.

“The sparks are recorded as data,” she continued, now eyeing Harry suspiciously, “and I need to find patterns in the data. It's easier to do when I know which spells have been cast, so there's still a lot more research to do before we'll be able to help the poor undiagnosed patients. Eventually, it'll all get mapped out. We hope.”

There was a gentle knock on the office door and Hermione broke from her recitation. “Come in,” she said, standing up to receive her visitor properly. Harry stood as well, and soon found himself engaged in a very strong and vigorous handshake with a slightly aged witch he'd never met before.

“Um… hello,” he said, greeting the witch with an uncertain smile.

“Pearl,” Hermione interjected, “this is Harry Potter. Harry, this is Pearl Devers. She works in Dr. Hughes's department as well.”

Pearl continued to shake Harry's hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Potter. Pleased indeed,” she quipped, excitedly.

Harry caught Hermione's eye and tried to plead silently for a little help with dislodging Pearl's hand from his own. He received a smirk from his friend, who seemed to be enjoying her colleague's show of enthusiasm over meeting Harry Potter. Harry's eyes sharpened to a glare and he turned to Pearl, grabbing her wrist lightly with his free hand and coaxing her fingers to release their grip.

“I'm very pleased to meet you as well,” said Harry. Looking at Pearl, with her white research robes on and her prim hairdo, he was reminded that he'd come in to his friend's office, unannounced. This was a place where serious thinking happened, Harry realized, and he suddenly felt very uncomfortable to be taking up any more of Hermione's time. “I'll just be going, then,” he said, addressing Hermione, “and leave you and Pearl to your work.”

“Nonsense,” chastised Pearl. “I was only coming by to see if Hermione wanted to get a cup of tea down at the cafeteria.” She smiled at Harry. “Imagine my surprise to find such a handsome young man in her office.”

Hermione's eyebrows shot up, and Pearl seemed suddenly embarrassed - as if remembering that it wasn't exactly proper etiquette to comment on a witch's or wizard's looks in a place of work. She straightened her robes and took a step back toward the door. “Perhaps tomorrow, then?” she asked Hermione.

“Actually,” Hermione said, chewing on her bottom lip, “I'll come and get you sometime later this morning. I've had the most amazing luck with those newt studies and I'm dying to tell you about our newest developments.” Harry watched the two witches as they exchanged a few more pleasantries. It was a delight to see his friend in her natural element, salivating over data and gossiping with her work mates about test results and newts. He chuckled, involuntarily.

After Pearl left, Harry turned to Hermione. “Thanks for the help there,” he said, offering an impressive sneer.

“My pleasure,” Hermione returned, biting back a smile. “But I have to tell you, Harry, that I haven't seen Pearl get flustered ever - over anything!” She walked back to her desk and plopped down. “That was a rare treat, that was.”

Harry frowned; this conversation was not headed toward a place where he felt comfortable.

“And she's not the only older witch around here who thinks the eminent Harry Potter is a dish,” Hermione continued. “Our receptionist, Annie…she has a little picture of you in her top desk drawer.”

“Okay, okay,” Harry pleaded, his temperament taking a turn for the worse, “you've had your fun little Miss Research Associate. Now if you'll wipe that grin off your face, I have a few questions for you.” He sat back down in his chair and gave his mischievous friend what he hoped was a very serious look. Ideas were forming in his head - ones that had been seeded weeks or maybe even months ago, and he couldn't believe that he'd forgotten about them.

With his face now bearing a look of genuine interest, his eyes squinting again, Harry set the roll of parchment he'd been holding in the center of the desktop. “Hermione,” he said, “looking at these data letters… you can tell which person it was who threw a curse at the victim?” He was staring at the parchment roll now, and speaking in a low voice.

Hermione picked up a long, tattered quill that had been lying on her desk and sucked on the end of it, thinking. “Yes, but again, it's easier because I know the spells that were cast and there are correlations between --” she began.

But Harry interrupted her. “So it's easier…quicker…if you already know the spell you are looking for?” he asked.

“But that's the point, Harry,” Hermione answered, a bit condescendingly, “We don't know the spell, and the spell caster isn't the problem, we need to design a treatment --”

She was interrupted again by a very excited Harry. “But when you do know the spell,” he repeated, “you can do it? You can tell me who did the curse?”

“Yes, of course,” Hermione answered, scrutinizing Harry again. While she herself was prone to launching off on long-winded explanations of her work or an interesting article she'd come across, it was rare to catch Harry in the act of being an Auror. She smiled. He seemed so grown up to her, so inquisitive and focused. A twenty-six year old wizard all of a sudden sat before her in a very foreboding uniform and sporting a look of intensity on his face. This was not the kind of heroic intensity Harry had when he was younger, but a kind of steady intensity that befitted a driven and responsible, serious young Auror. Hermione found this look very becoming. It was even a bit sexy, if she thought about it.

“If you had access to the caster, then you could identify the curse as theirs?” Harry asked, recapturing Hermione's attention.

“I think it's possible,” she replied. “That's what I need to prove by examining this data. I'll know in a week or so whether the signatures are sufficiently repeatable.”

Harry smiled and looked up at his friend.

“What?” asked Hermione, wondering what could be less humorous than the painstaking research she had just described.

“Hermione!” Harry said. He was very animated now. Hermione could feel his excitement building as he worked the cogs of his brain, trying to forge a relationship between the sterile medical world in which she labored and the gritty, adrenaline-filled world of Dark wizard catchers. “If I told you that a curse was used to blow up a shopping mall, and I know who did it… we've got them in custody for that embezzlement scam I've been working on all year… but it'll only be for a short time.” He was rambling now, speaking in parsed sentence as if he couldn't get the information out quickly enough. “We're in the final stages of preparing our case for court, and we think we've got a solid conviction, only embezzlement in the wizarding world doesn't exactly put someone in Azkaban for life.”

Harry looked at Hermione, his eyes drilling into hers.

“I know who blew up that mall in London and killed all those people at the end of the war, but haven't any proof,” he said. “They destroyed their wands long before we caught them…” Harry paused, still holding Hermione's eyes with his own. She wondered briefly whether he was trying to detect her thoughts, but laid the notion aside immediately. This was just Harry, the interrogator, looking for help, seeking closure. Hermione felt her heart drop.

“Harry,” she said carefully, “that was over eight years ago…”

“But if you knew the spell and the caster, could that help you to decipher even a weak trace? What if we got the prisoners to recreate the spell for you, would that help?”

“Possibly,” Hermione replied. She bit her bottom lip and stared at the ceiling for a moment, tapping her quill on the desktop. “It's a matter of arithmancy and statistics….”

“Then it's possible?” Harry asked.

“It may be possible,” she relented. “But Harry, the traces are found in a person's magical signature… you're talking about a building.” Hermione's head tilted a bit; she was hoping that Harry hadn't put too much stock in her research as of yet. Disappointing Harry on this subject - the war and his capture of the worst perpetrators - was just unthinkable.

“They were people,” Harry said somberly.

Hermione straightened her head and blinked. Her face looked as if she'd just swallowed acid. “They blew up Muggle-borns,” Harry continued. “Some were young, so they wouldn't have had any other spells cast on them at all. I thought that might help with the traces… Death Eaters eventually destroyed the building in an altercation with the Order, but it all started with a massive group of Voldemort's followers, having fun with destructo spells… blowing up innocent people.”

Hermione nearly fainted. She and Ron and Harry, they had been off fighting Voldemort alone when the shopping mall incident had occurred in London. “They blew up children… and all those Muggles, just to draw The Order away from….” she stammered.

“Us. It was a decoy,” Harry said. “It was meant to draw as many of our side into London as they could while Voldemort alone took over the school. He told me, that night, that he wanted the world to know that he alone broke the last safe haven for Dumbledore's followers. He was going to set up a new headquarters of sorts right there at Hogwarts.” Harry dropped his eyes, speaking calmly and without emotion. “He said that hundreds of Muggles were about to die. I couldn't imagine where or why, and I wish beyond anything that I could have pulled that information from his mind.”

Harry looked up. “You have to believe me.”

Hermione sat back in her office chair and stared at the fireplace. How much had her perception of the world changed since before Harry's face had appeared in the flames just moments ago? “Muggles,” she thought, “being used to lure all of the people who he loved away so that Harry would be alone when Voldemort attacked Hogwarts.” It seemed absurd, she thought, but she'd actually forgotten how horrible things had become during the war.

“Harry,” Hermione said softly, “you've never told us what Voldemort said. Never.”

She knew why Harry hadn't wanted to retell the events of Voldemort's destruction, and had never pressed him. She hadn't even ever been curious, now that she thought about it.

It felt strange to hear the words spoken, and she knew that Harry wouldn't want to magnify their importance somehow by contributing them to the legend. “Let Voldemort die without a final word,” she thought. In Hermione's cramped office, the two old friends sat staring at one another. Hermione stayed as still as she could manage and waited calmly for Harry to finish.

“He also felt, I think, that his Death Eaters kept bumbling my murder,” Harry said. “He wanted the prophesy taken care of once and for all. I think that as long as I was alive, Voldemort's invincibility would always be questioned. People still thought there must have been something about me that trumped his powers or something, and he told me it had to end - on that night. So, for that one night, Voldemort chose to isolate himself from all his followers.”

Hermione sat still, breathing heavily. “In the end…” Harry was saying, “Hermione, in the end, that was what helped us. I couldn't have fought Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and you and Ron would have been killed. But, you see? These Muggle-borns didn't know anything about all of that. And hundreds of Muggles as well died in that mall. The idea that their deaths helped to save us, it's hard to live with sometimes.”

A wry smile grew on Hermione's lips. “Yeah. We can figure out who cast those spells,” she said in an almost-whisper. She sounded confident, but felt nervous. Isolating the casters' signatures would be much harder than Harry was making it sound. But she would try. She would do anything for Harry.

Harry smiled and rocked back in his chair. “You're brilliant, you know that?” he said.

“Oh, I'm not so smart,” Hermione replied, feeling embarrassed that she may have misrepresented her part in the whole research effort. “Dr. Hughes is leading this project. I only came up with the idea - and it was for a different purpose altogether, remember?”

She flicked her gaze back toward the fireplace. “It hadn't occurred to me that I could help all of those Muggles out there who still think the war hadn't really ended. It just stopped one day for them, without any type of gratification. Just… ended.”

Harry threw a puzzled look at his friend. “Hermione, you didn't know that our team was tracking down the wizards and witches responsible,” he said, mockingly. “How on Earth do you propose that you should have thought to go researching spell traces for that purpose?” He smiled. “You are barmy sometimes. Ron had that right.”

“Well,” Hermione replied, flustered, “I just feel like we've been wasting time.”

She picked up a quill and began scribbling notes on a yellow sheet of parchment, organizing her thoughts and writing down the beginnings of a new test plan for her interns to carry out. She was on her third sheet of parchment when she heard a shuffling near the fireplace and looked up in time to see that Harry was preparing to leave. This brought a rush of heat up the back of her neck as Hermione realized that for a second there, she'd forgotten she had company. “Amazing,” she thought. “Your social skills are simply amazing, Hermione.” She scrunched her eyebrows as a question popped into her mind - one that seemed to have been formed in a different century.

“Harry?” she asked.

“Hmm?” Harry replied, standing on the grey stone of the hearth and dipping his hand in a tiny tin withdrawn from his pocket.

“Why did you Floo?”

“Oh,” Harry gasped. “Thanks, I would have forgotten.” He laughed. “I wanted to know if you'd have dinner with me tonight. I was feeling a bit restless.”

“I have classes tonight…” Hermione replied.

“Until when?”

“Until seven,” said Hermione, staring at the pile of parchments that still lay unopened on her desk. She desperately wanted to start studying them, and knew she'd be sorely tempted to stay up late after class deciphering the data.

“Maybe another time, then?” Harry asked.

He didn't look too disappointed, Hermione thought. “Okay, then,” she replied, surprising herself enormously. Since they'd been reunited in the spring, Hermione couldn't recall ever turning down an offer from Harry. But she was compelled beyond comprehension to pull Harry out of the shadows of his guilt - even if it would take research breakthroughs of an extraordinary magnitude. She felt such love for him at the moment.

“Harry,” Hermione added, “I'll set up some experiments this week… to see if we can recognize an individual magical signature from an older spell.” Harry smiled wide, nodding. “It'll happen, Harry. I know it will.”

When he returned to his office at Auror Headquarters, Harry drew his wand and aimed it deftly at a massive filing cabinet that stood ominously against the wall adjacent to his desk. He issued several charms to release privacy spells which were set to guard the contents of files that were encased in the huge, metal drawers. For years now, Harry had been leading a crusade of sorts, seeking information from old friends and contacts he'd kept from the war years and working to persuade his bosses and colleagues to pursue even the tiniest of leads. Alongside each regular assignment Harry went on, whether tracking down missing Death Eaters or investigating violent, magical crimes, an ear and an eye were always probing about for anything else that might help him in his quest to solve the London Mall bombing case.

It had been an intensely personal journey, the years of exhaustive work that had finally led to the big arrest. The case was highly visible within the Auror department, and the targets of the investigation, now in custody, were dubbed the “London Seven”. There were few doubts among Aurors that these witches and wizards were guilty of far greater crimes than those they were being tried for, and the cunningness that Harry's group had used to bring about their current charges was almost folklore now within the department's halls.

Harry had hoped that the upcoming trial would bring about a sense of peace within himself, wishing quietly that some of the age-old cobwebs woven from thick strands of guilt and shame would clear away and leave him renewed in spirit, if even just a bit. Every year when the wizarding world celebrated June 10th and lauded him as their hero, Harry would spend his day among Muggles: a penance to make sure he never forgot who died so that he could save his own kind. This year, when he and Hermione attended the Street War Street Party on Main Street, Harry had actually been uplifted to see the Muggles celebrating. There at the Street Party, Harry could see that most Muggles, at least, had found a way to move on, and he'd vowed silently to try and find a way to move on as well. He needed to release himself somehow from the shadows of that giant mall that was brought down only so that Voldemort could have his day of reckoning.

Thoughts of Hermione on that day back in June, shooting a stick from her caramel apple at a rubbish bin and missing abysmally, brought a smile to Harry's face. He reached into one of the file drawers and selected a few dark grey folders, setting them down on his office desk, resolved to get back to work. “That barmy witch just might be on to something…” he reflected, filled with fondness for his best friend. Sitting comfortably in his desk chair, Harry closed his eyes and breathed in the sweet smell of fresh-mown grass that he'd charmed his office to carry.

He may have fallen short with the convictions that he wanted so badly - the London Seven was likely to get only years in prison, and Harry wanted them gone for life - but Harry did feel a tiny sense of accomplishment as of late. It was only days ago that he'd witnessed the complete unraveling of one of the world's most accomplished witches, as Hermione broke down over discovering some of the details of his own past. But today, Harry reflected… today he'd seen her revived. Hermione wasn't talking about celibacy anymore, and she wasn't crying on his shoulder, seeking to come to terms with something that could never make sense. She was in her element, and Harry felt that he'd contributed to this, just a little bit. And, he thought, if she could actually help him link the mall bombing to the London Seven...

Shaking his head, Harry forced his attention back to the file on his desk. Play time was over for the morning, and it was time to get back to the dull business of preparing for a criminal trial. Short sentence or not, this conviction was real, and he owed it to the Muggle population to give his best to put their villains away.

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11. A Break in the Routine

Chapter 11. A Break in the Routine

On the Saturday following Harry's impromptu visit to Hermione's workplace, he sat at his kitchen table, taking care of bills and other domestic concerns. It felt very odd indeed to be inside just after noontime. And alone. Hermione had sent an owl to Harry's office on Friday morning saying that she had been holed up in her office until midnight every night this week, and wanted to take a break by visiting her parents over the weekend for her birthday. Harry, who had never had any family to pay visits to, couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance at his friend's hastily planned trip. It would mean that he was left to himself all weekend, and the idea seemed all but unbearable for some reason. But, as he sat there, his annoyance at Hermione slowly evolved into disappointment with himself.

“It's that stupid spell signature work that I put her up to…” Harry thought. Why had he involved his friend in this affair? He had always prided himself on keeping the more gruesome aspects of the war from Ron and Hermione whenever he could. It filled him with a sense of shame, a feeling that he'd been weak or dishonorable, to have asked his closest friend to help him with his long-standing and quite unhealthy vendetta.

Standing up and reaching his arms up high to give his back a good stretch, Harry made a decision. He was going to ask Hermione to forget all about his trying to find out if spell signatures from the seven arrested Death Eaters were present in the London Mall victims. Harry had already visited many cemeteries - inarguably among the more eerily disturbing errands he'd ever had to perform - and extracted several hairs from the remains of the exploded victims, but he was beginning to doubt the sanity of this particular adventure. Muggle detectives had gone to great efforts to identify and bury any remains that could be found after the mall explosion. It was a tribute to the victims that Harry had found extremely touching at the time, and it had made it almost easy for Harry to locate the graves of the Muggle-borns who had fallen victim to the destructo curses.

But today, on this brisk Saturday in September, Harry couldn't bring himself to feel the same drive toward bringing about a resolution to the whole messy affair. He wanted Hermione back.

On the other side of England, Hermione sat uncomfortably on a Muggle bus, squished between two large men and trying desperately to get a glimpse of the station sign as the bus pulled to a stop. She was unaccustomed to using Muggle transportation nowadays, and was very nervous that she'd miss the stop where her parents waited for her arrival.

“Willow Street, next up,” the driver sang in a monotone voice. Hermione gave an apologetic look at her seatmates and gathered her bags, extracting herself from the crowded accommodations. “My stop is up. Please excuse me,” she said as she hurried down the aisle. As the bus door opened with a terrible rusty squeak, Hermione let out a squeal.

“Mum! Dad!” she shouted as a huge smile erupted on her face. “Oh, I've missed you!”

Hermione couldn't contain her excitement. She hadn't been home since Easter, and she had been suddenly overtaken with a fervent desire to see her parents. Her home. Every holiday, of course, she celebrated with her Mum and Dad and other relatives, but she relished the rare times they spent together alone, just the three of them.

The handsome, slightly aged couple approached their daughter, both laughing at her overenthusiastic greeting. “My goodness!” Hermione's mother said as she opened her arms for a hug. “You're a happy one today, aren't you?”

The three packed into the Grangers' car and took a short trip to the green and white clapboard bungalow that had been home to Hermione throughout her early childhood. Mr. Granger kept himself dutifully focused on his driving. He nodded politely every so often to show that he was still listening as his wife and daughter chatted endlessly. In the half hour that it took to arrive home, the two women had covered quite a bit of ground, catching Hermione up on the whereabouts of various family members and catching Mrs. Granger up on Hermione's latest academic and professional pursuits. Hermione was usually a right chatterbox whenever someone inquired after her work at the ministry, or her latest university course. But on this bright afternoon, she had done her best to placate her mother with only a series of comments like: “I'm not really allowed to say much, it's ministry business…” and “Oh, you know…it's the usual classroom stuff.” Today, Hermione was finding the subject of her career excruciatingly boring.

Hermione smiled as the car pulled into the neat driveway of the Granger home. Through her mother's stories, and by the sight of the neatly trimmed boxwood and vibrant fall annuals that lined the path to the front porch, she knew that life for the Grangers was just as it always was. It was steady, solid, and - apart from an occasional happy or sad event - predictable. As they walked up the driveway, Hermione turned in a circle and took in a nose full of the chilly air. A mild wind was bending the wispy branches of a freshly planted cherry tree, its leaves already yellow from the change in weather. “I love the fall,” Hermione sang.

Mrs. Granger laughed at her daughter. “Like it?” she asked, motioning to the landscaped entrance. “We've just had the nursery come and give us all new shrubs and trees. They planted annuals for color as well.”

“Yes. It's gorgeous,” Hermione replied.

“Figured it was a bit overdue,” Mr. Granger piped in, speaking for the first time since he'd first greeted Hermione at the bus station. “We put in all the old plants ourselves the year before you were born.”

“How interesting,” Hermione said, somewhat noncommittally. “A bit of `Out with the old, in with the new,' I expect?”

The three entered the old house and Mr. Granger quickly retired to the living room, while Hermione and her mum spent the rest of the afternoon preparing dinner and talking. After a while, Hermione got up to pay her old bedroom a visit, walking out into the hallway and absorbing the familiar sights. There were pictures of herself and her cousins at various ages on the wall, and a floral arrangement in the middle of the dining room table that must have been at least twenty years old. The much-used stair banister still had the same old scratches she'd accidentally added when she used to let her dolls “ski” down it using various contraptions that she'd constructed.

Hermione could see memories everywhere she set her eyes. “What is it with me lately?” she wondered. “I'm like a walking human greeting card or romance novel or something.” She sniffed the air again. A roast was in the oven and it was filling her with the feeling of happy anticipation - brought on, no doubt, by an association with all the roasts they'd enjoyed on special holidays throughout the years.

“It smells like Christmas!” she called out to her mum.

“No, not Christmas, dear,” Mrs. Granger hollered back. “Just my little girl's birthday, I'm afraid.” Hermione smiled. Her mum could always make her feel cherished and loved, just like a little child. She expected that one never grew too old to want to feel that way.

After dinner, it was the two women again, talking over dishes at the sink. Mr. Granger had come to help, but was shoed off by his wife, who obviously wanted as much time alone with her brilliant daughter as she could get. “How long will you be staying, dear?” Mrs. Granger asked.

“Just the night,” Hermione replied, scrubbing the roasting pan with a scouring pad. “Ooh… it gets so frustrating not using… you know what!” she teased, flashing a smile at her mother. Magic made housework so much more bearable, she thought.

“Never shy away from hard work, honey,” Mrs. Granger replied. “Just the night? I was hoping we could do a little shopping or something tomorrow.”

“I need to catch the bus in the morning, Mum,” Hermione said, looking rueful. “I've got to be somewhere at nine.”

“Nine!” Hermione's mother said, a bit taken back. “Well, I expect we'd better set an alarm then.”

Hermione smirked at her mum, chuckling.

“You don't need an alarm, do you?” Mrs. Granger asked.

“No, Mum. My wand wakes me up,” Hermione said. She always refrained from telling her parents too many details of how magic can be used. This was a left-over protectiveness from the war years. She hadn't wanted them to be mixed up with the horrors that were going on in her then-new wizarding world. Also, Hermione knew that the less the Grangers found out about what kind of trouble she was capable of getting into, the better.

Later that evening, they all settled down in the living room to join Mr. Granger in front of the television. Hermione's dad stared thoughtfully at his daughter for a few minutes, finally asking in a low voice, “Everything all right, honey?”

Hermione felt instantly ashamed. Her father was a man of very few words. The fact that he'd asked such a question would definitely mean that she had caused her parents to worry on her behalf. “Right,” she thought, “I drop by with only a few hours' notice. They probably think I've got an announcement of some kind, or something has happened…” She smiled at her father.

“No dad,” she said, “There isn't anything wrong. I'm just happy. I wanted to see you guys.”

Mrs. Granger sat forward in her chair and spoke to her husband. “So, it's a guy then.”

Hermione felt her face heat up, but her father simply nodded his agreement to his wife's assessment and returned his attentions to the television program.

“Mum!” Hermione sputtered. “No, I just… Can't I just visit my parents on my birthday?”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Granger said, winking. “Anytime.” She sat back in her chair, and waited a few moments before adding, “So, are you dating anyone?”

Hermione sighed. Were all mothers, even dentist mothers, cut from the same mold? “No. I'm not dating anyone right now.” Not wanting to leave the impression that she wasn't completely satisfied with her life, she went on, “But Harry and I go out all the time. We found this lovely group of people at one of our favorite wizard pubs. He has me exercising. We cook dinner for each other on weekends. And we go to church on Sundays. Nine o'clock mass.”

Mrs. Granger's eyebrows shot up and she looked to be suppressing a laugh. “I see,” she said.

Hermione's stomach gave a jolt. Why did she always go on when she was nervous? From what she'd just described, it was more like she was married, forget dating someone.

“And how is our handsome, young Harry?” Mrs. Granger asked, fondly.

“Oh, he's great, Mum. He's still with the Au… the wizard detectives. He isn't dating anyone either,” Hermione said.

“Oh. Right,” Mrs. Granger said, her lips finally winning out and breaking out into a wide smile. “Right. Harry not dating anyone either. Got it.”

“Oh, stuff it, Mum!” Hermione teased, tossing a pillow at her mother.

They sat together watching a stale comedy show - one of Mr. Granger's more embarrassing addictions was old variety shows heavily laden with dry humor. As a few hours passed, Hermione stretched into a huge yawn. She sat for a few moments watching her father doze happily on the large sofa. “Honestly, Mum, why doesn't he just go to bed?” she asked her mother. Mrs. Granger just shook her head as if to say, “Some things would just always be.”

“Mum?” Hermione said, still looking at her father. “How did you know that he was the one?”

“Well,” Mrs. Granger began, “it certainly wasn't his manners.” She sat up and studied Hermione. “I guess I just felt like I didn't ever want anyone else,” she said. “I knew he had faults, and I still loved him.” Mr. Granger turned a bit in his sleep, causing the women to laugh. “Believe it or not, he was quite romantic. I knew he loved me back, and that was what was important.”

“Mmm,” Hermione sighed. “No real train-stopper there,” she thought. “Don't want anyone else, he loves me.” She frowned, unintentionally.

“Disappointed?” Mrs. Granger asked.

“Oh, no, I just… Well, isn't it possible to feel that way and have it end? I mean, that could be any boyfriend you're talking about.” Hermione found a fold in the soft quilt that she'd been cuddling up in and fiddled with it absently. She was not sure what she had expected, but couldn't help but feel let down nonetheless.

“Well…” Hermione's mother said with a caring lilt in her voice, “he was the boyfriend I decided to make it work with.” She gave her daughter an encouraging smile. “It's not magic, Hermione.”

Hermione crinkled her face as Mrs. Granger continued to give her less-than-romantic take on finding one's true love.

“Sorry, it's just a saying, you know. It is quite a thing, though, for two people to look each other in the eye and decide that they are going to work hard and fight tough to stay together until their deaths. You end up getting mad, losing your way, and then falling in love all over again… as many times as it takes. It's romantic, in its own way, really it is.” Mrs. Granger got up and poked her husband gently on the shoulder, waking him and pointing toward the staircase.

“Right,” Mr. Granger said in a husky voice. “Goodnight, then.” He slumped up the stairs and plodded noisily into his bedroom.

“Come on, sweety,” Mrs. Granger coaxed, turning to face Hermione. “You've only got a few hours left before that bus in the morning. We may as well make the best of it.”

“What are you on about?” Hermione asked, peering at her mother and yawning again.

Mrs. Granger raised an eyebrow at her daughter. “I'm going to put on a pot of tea, and we're going to talk,” she said sternly. “Before too long, you'll be much too busy to spend the night over at your parents' house.” She smiled and walked into the kitchen, adding over her shoulder, “I just want to spend time with you while I can.”

Hermione smiled and stood up, wrapping the quilt tightly around her shoulders. “Okay, Mum,” she said as she shuffled into the kitchen and took a seat at the table.

The two sleepy Grangers spent the rest of the night huddled at the kitchen table, chatting thoughtfully about every subject imaginable. When the sun finally peaked in through the large bay window of the kitchen, Hermione retreated to the bathroom to freshen herself up. She took a quick shower, and did her best to tidy her long hair and splash on a bit of makeup and perfume.

Feeling tired and a bit restless at the same time, she gave herself a once-over before leaving the bathroom, staring critically into the mirror. “Not too bad,” she thought, “for a researcher, at any rate.” Hermione ran a finger along her cheekbone and tried to envision herself as a guy would see her. Harry had always said that she was pretty, and she kind of felt that way too sometimes, in the right light and with just a little bit of makeup. She had a feminine face, with a nicely formed nose and high cheekbones. Make-up, applied correctly, made her eyes look larger and she thought that, overall, she wasn't unattractive. She had never heard any complaints about her build, either, she mused as she cast a glance at her outfit. Hermione was no blond bombshell, but she was thin and had longish legs, about which Harry had complimented her on many occasions.

“Harry,” she thought as she shook her head to bring herself out of the self-gratifying daze she'd fallen into, “has clearly spoiled me rotten with the compliments lately.” Feeling slightly shameful and indulgent for thinking so highly of herself, Hermione left the bathroom and walked down the stairs to where her parents were waiting for her, looking a bit sad.

Hermione hugged her mother goodbye, while Mr. Granger loaded the car with his daughter's bags. “'Bye Mum, I'll see you at Christmas!” she said, walking down the front path toward her father's car.

“Goodbye dear,” Mrs. Granger yelled after her. “Come back again when you and Harry are ready to admit you're madly in love.”

A flush crept up the back of Hermione's neck. Her mother was a brilliant woman… a dentist, a mother, a wife. But, there were some things about the modern world with which she was hopelessly out of touch.

It seemed to take forever for the bus to return to the London station. When she got there, Hermione rented a Portkey from a discreet rental agency located in what looked to Muggles like an out-of-order loo. She transported herself directly to the alley near Saint Mary's and beamed when she saw Harry sitting on the church steps waiting for her with a neatly wrapped present on his lap. It felt like weeks since she'd last seen her best friend, and she fought an urge to run forward and smother him with a huge hug.

When the church service ended, the two friends bristled down the street to Hermione's apartment building, and stood by the fireplace for a few minutes to warm their hands once they'd entered the flat. Harry felt inexplicably insecure, standing there by the fire waiting to be invited to have a seat. He and Hermione had always shared their Sundays together - lately anyway. But, the fact that Hermione had been out of town on Friday and Saturday coupled with the fact that he'd shown up in her office during the week asking her to dinner… All of it, summed together, made him feel rather needy. Embarrassed, Harry attempted to turn matters around by taking his leave and returning to his apartment. “I can entertain myself,” he thought. “The Quidditch matches sound just as good coming from my wireless as here and maybe I'll catch up on some paperwork...”

“I'll just be going,” he said, turning to his friend and grabbing his wand. “You must have loads of work to do, after having been gone all weekend, and I've got to tidy up the flat a bit.”

Hermione frowned. “Can't you stay?” she asked. “I haven't even opened my present yet, and we didn't get to do anything together yesterday.” Hermione opened the door to her bedroom, pealed off her cardigan and tossed it on her bed. She returned to the living room and engaged Harry in a sweet smile that he found hard not to relent to, despite the damage to his ego.

“Please stay,” she pouted.

“How can I resist?” Harry replied, smiling and shedding his own sweater.

The two made themselves comfortable in the living room - Harry in “his” chair, and Hermione stretched out on the sofa with a book tucked under her arm. She was wrapped up in her gift from Harry - a wonderfully warm, yellow chenille blanket that had reminded him of the one he'd recently transfigured from a pile of leaves. It pleased Harry very much that she truly seemed to love the present.

“Comfy there?” he asked.

When no reply came from Hermione's direction, Harry realized that she had fallen asleep. “She works too hard,” he thought. Taking his friend's state of consciousness as a key to leave, he withdrew his wand from his pocket and pointed it at his chest.

“See you later,” he called out to the sleeping witch, and he Apparated home.

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12. Listening to Instincts

Chapter 12. Listening to Instincts

It was once again Friday, and Harry hovered anxiously on his broomstick, some hundred feet above the floor of the Auror's flying arena. Wizards and witches in shiny black robes whizzed about at breakneck speeds. They were just finishing up with their broom paces for the week, going through a floating obstacle course and shooting spells at trainers, who were wearing heavy, yellow protective gear. This was usually Harry's favorite part of the week - making air currents as he tested the limits of his broom skills and flourishing is wand about, shouting spells that he was never likely to get to use in real life. Today, however, flying and mock-fighting didn't seem to hold any magic for him; Harry just wanted to go home.

“That's it for today,” a reverberating voice sounded, as if reading Harry's mind. Red sparks erupted from the training coach's wand and the wizard's voice echoed loudly through the stadium. “On with the weekend with you, you're dismissed,” he shouted. Four-dozen flyers erupted in simultaneous expressions of relief and anticipation as they pulled up on their broom handles and moved into position to find a clean landing spot. Harry's friend, Tom, let out a whistle from behind and made a stop sign gesture to indicate that Harry should slow up.

“Harry!” Tom called out once he brought his broom up even with Harry's Firebolt. “Are you free tonight? I've got a couple of hours to myself, and some of the guys want to sneak out for a bit. Fancy an ale or two?”

Harry steadied his pitch and began a descent spiral. “Sorry, Tom,” he hollered over the rush of air created by the two brooms, “I can't tonight.”

Tom cocked an eye and grinned. “Got a hot date, eh?”

“No,” Harry answered, “no date.”

Giving a puzzled look, Tom shrugged his shoulders and landed his broom. Not much in the mood for chatting, Harry stored his Firebolt and headed for the locker rooms in silence, walking beside his friend and doing his best to look appropriately apologetic. The other male Aurors in the locker room chatted busily about weekend plans and exchanged sarcastic jibes, which were largely directed at the training staff's new “Rules of Safety and Conduct” which had been posted throughout the arena. Harry listened good-humoredly, and laughed heartily when one of the wizards decided to jump on top of a dressing bench, hand over heart, and recite the ten rules, twisting the words into Limerick form as he did so.

Harry wrapped a towel around his waist and headed into the now-vacated shower area for a good long soak. He felt ill at ease, and desperately wanted the anxiousness that sat in his stomach to go away. It was Friday, it had been a good week at work, and he should be looking forward to the weekend like all the other blokes. As Harry stepped into a stall and twisted the faucets to his liking, Tom poked his head around the corner.

“Have fun then. See you Monday!” Tom shouted.

“Okay. Monday,” Harry called back, numbly. He stepped forward and let the warm water massage his tired shoulders a bit. Slowly, Harry could feel the anxiety release its hold - but it was now replaced by the all-too-familiar, impetuous tick that he sported every Friday night.

“Now, then,” he thought, “what in Merlin's beard am I going to do with myself tonight?”

When Harry arrived at his flat, he spent a little time tidying up his bedroom, thinking about his various options. Flying had left him full of adrenaline, and he had already been quite wound up from a series of happy circumstances at work. Harry's department had just wrapped up their year-long investigation into the “London Seven”, and it was now clear that a conviction was imminent. It would only be a matter of days or perhaps a week or two now as the hearings and trial were concluded, dispensing with all required formalities.

There were five wizards and two witches on trial: all ex-Death Eaters who had seemed to have disappeared from the wizarding community just after Voldemort's death. Years ago, Harry had been given information from the old Order that tied this particular group to the London Mall bombing, but he had been unable to garner any verifiable evidence that linked them to the mass murder. Begrudgingly, Harry had eventually come to terms with the fact that he'd never be able to conciliate the Muggle world by serving up the worst of their killers - in modern times, anyway - and instead came up with a plan to arrest the clan on evidence of smaller crimes. The plan, it turned out, had worked with astonishing effectiveness. Through months and months of stake-outs and magical monitoring, the department at last found evidence that Dark magic was indeed still being used by the group. They had been living, it was discovered, among the Muggles: using Dark spells to terrify certain key officials - bank managers, police captains, and judges - and making a smart living out of receiving payments from the bank while avoiding any involvement from the Muggle law enforcement.

Issuing charges of extortion and use of Dark magic, Harry had led a unit of Aurors in the capture of the “London Seven” months ago, and this week Harry was finally able to sit in a ministry courtroom for their hearing. He had been working long hours for weeks, helping to prepare witnesses and going on interviews to get as much corroboration as he could find. As he sat in a beautifully carved bench in the Ministry's courtroom late in the week, Harry had tried to derive a greater sense of satisfaction. They were going to prison, he had reminded himself, and it would be much more difficult, if not impossible for any of the seven to ever return to the wizarding world once they got out.

He had been careful this week not to let his hopes get raised over his clever friend's research down at the Ministry's Department of Magical Maladies. Hermione had locked eyes with his own, there in her stuffy little office, and she had that look: that “I've got it covered, Harry, don't you worry about a thing” look that she sometimes got. In the courtroom, the Auror had periodically shaken all memories of his friend and her “look” from his head. It would not do to remain hopeful, he reasoned, and Harry really didn't want Hermione to be involved with the case.

Harry had even tried to talk to Hermione after Sunday service and convince her to forget all about performing research on spell caster identification. He didn't want her brought back into that old world of Dark wizards and killings, and he also didn't want her to feel as if she'd let him down if the research didn't pan out. But she had ignored him completely, saying that she was too tired from her trip to “talk about work,” as she'd put it. Harry smiled at the thought. It would be so Hermione for her to push all of her own plans - plans that would help sick wizards and that actually offered some promise of success - just to give him, Harry, a bit of hope. Would she ever stop trying to help him, comfort him…save him?

Harry cast a few more cleaning spells and turned around in his bedroom to admire his own handywork. “Looks good enough for a single wizard,” he thought. “Now what?” Still restless and excited about the case, Harry knew that he really did feel like celebrating tonight. Perhaps he should have taken Tom up on his offer. They could have reminisced about the arrest. It had been quite a night, indeed, when they had finally captured the seven suspects. The ex-Deatheaters had been caught by surprise, and Harry's group was lucky to receive only minor injuries during the raid, but there had been an amazing display of fancy spellwork on the part of Harry's team, and it spun into a rather good story when told right.

But, Harry realized, he didn't really feel like talking to Tom and the others. Nor did he feel much like shooting darts. Heading into his bedroom, he disrobed, deciding to change out of his work clothes. Since he didn't have any plans in particular, he found that he was rather at a loss to decide what to wear. He wrapped himself in a large, green towel and shuffled slowly into his kitchen, peaking into the refrigerator. “There's never anything to eat in here,” Harry complained out loud. “Looks like I'll be going out, after all.” He sat down at the table, and drummed his fingers on the wood.

It was painfully clear to Harry that he wanted to see Hermione. He knew that he wanted to go out. With Hermione. Apart from a small bit of lingering anxiousness, he was in a very good mood, reflective and excitable, and there was only one person in the whole of London with whom he wanted to share this good mood. But he was also beginning to sense a growing problem concerning his constant desire to spend every available free moment with his leggy friend.

And since when had he started thinking of Hermione in physical terms? For weeks now, whenever Hermione popped into his mind, she was wearing a short skirt, or her black dress from the wedding they'd attended together. He'd even had a particularly disturbing image pop into his mind during an intensely boring meeting the other day, involving Hermione in her old school uniform - one which embarrassed him deeply. Harry drummed his fingers harder, and let out a sigh. It was futile to ignore the fact that, once again, he had some thinking to do.

Staring at Hedwig, who was perched outside his kitchen window, Harry finally came to a decision. Relentlessness had won out over his reserve, and he now knew that he had to break the “No Friday” rule and see if Hermione was up for doing something. If she was…then, great. If not…well, then maybe he'd give the thinking thing a try. “…best send an owl,” Harry considered. Flooing at this time of day would be considered a bit presumptuous. For all he knew, Hermione could be out on a date.

“A date.”

Thoughts were more or less tumbling out of Harry's head haphazardly now, and he found himself obeying them without analysis, summoning a piece of parchment as he whistled for Hedwig. Harry motioned his wand in a complicated swirl which caused a feather to fly out from a utility drawer, dip itself in ink, and whiz across the kitchen to land in Harry's opened palm. Harry wrote “Hermione, want to go out? Love Harry” on the scroll, rolled it up, and flicked his wand toward the window to let Hedwig in. Attaching the note to the owl's eager claws, he patted his bird and smiled. “Have a nice flight, girl,” Harry said, watching her take off from the kitchen table and soar out of view, the window shutting unceremoniously behind her.

When Hedwig had disappeared from sight, the antsy wizard got up from his chair and paced back and forth in his kitchen, staring at the floor. The black and white tiles were making him dizzy as he completed a tenth round about the room. Questions kept licking the surface of Harry's consciousness and he was doing his best to ignore them. He sighed again. It was Friday, after all, and he had been in such great spirits today. It was very likely that Hermione would be busy, and Harry was dreading that he'd end up spending the evening alone in his flat…with these disturbing notions nagging at him. He was beginning to feel that he needed to write out a list - or something along those lines - and figure out why he felt like such a stranger in his own skin lately.

“I should ask Hermione,” Harry thought, laughing at the irony. Considering that his brilliant and lovely best friend was likely the central subject of his mind's troubles, he rather thought that begging her to help was out of the question. Harry paced a bit more. What was it that Hermione had said he should have done during Tiffany's two-week “stay of execution” (as he'd always referred to the period of time he'd been given to reflect on their relationship)? Harry looked at the ceiling while he searched his memory.

“Right, a bath and a cup of tea,” he recalled. “Absurd.”

Unfortunately for Harry, the excitement of the week had seemed to have awakened his philosophical side. As the evening wore on, he couldn't bring himself to overlook the gnawing sense of importance, dread and inevitability that hung over him. Harry was having feelings, and they weren't going to go away. An hour had passed now since he had written a note to the only person he wanted to spend the evening with, and Harry still found himself insufferably alone.

He was in his kitchen again, pouring tea into a delicate purple-flowered teacup that sat on a dainty saucer. The teacup was part of a set that Tiffany had purchased and left behind. It felt silly to be drinking from such a thing, but Harry had thought that perhaps it might help him sort out his feelings…get in touch with his “inner witch”, so to speak. To add to the humility, Harry had prepared a bath as well. He didn't own bath bubbles or any such products, but the tub in his bathroom was now filled - for the first time since Harry had moved into the flat - with scalding hot water. Steam was rising from the surface and saturating the small room, making it intolerably muggy.

Harry was still dressed in his green towel, which he had wrapped loosely around his waist, and he pulled his boxers off from underneath. He balanced the teacup in both hands and entered the bathroom, cringing. A cooling charm would definitely be needed, Harry thought, if he didn't want to suffer a heat stroke. Briefly wondering whether this would diminish the affect of the bath and tea, Harry let out a loud groan. He turned from the bathroom and resumed his pacing just inside the living room. After all of the preparations, he just couldn't see how boiling himself inside and out was going to bring about any wisdom.

- Pop -

The teacup rattled in its saucer and Harry started as he registered a distinctive noise not two feet from where he stood. Hermione had just Apparated into his living room and was, without warning, standing within an arm's length, sporting a huge smile.

“Am I interrupting something good?” she asked coyly, her grin widening as her eyes raked slowly over Harry's form. They took in his attire, focused only momentarily on the clattering porcelain, and finally landed on Harry's face - which now wore a desperate and scared kind of expression.

Harry didn't speak. He stepped back uncomfortably, feeling a bit shy.

“I'm sorry, Harry,” Hermione said, though she looked anything but sorry. She looked to be thoroughly enjoying the sight of the famous Harry Potter caught in such a compromising position.

“Are you running a bath?” she asked. Then, her head twisted and she cast her eyes about Harry's flat, adding quickly, “Do you have company?”

“What? No!” Harry marched sternly past Hermione to his sofa, setting the cup and saucer down roughly on the table. He started to drop down, defeated, into the cushions but, remembering his attire, thought better of it and stood back up, facing Hermione. “What are you doing here?” he asked, taking the opportunity to tighten the knot on his towel now that his hands were free.

“Well,” Hermione said, still not making any attempt to hide her mirth, “I thought it was a bit umm…formal…of you to send an owl rather than just Flooing.” She cast a glance at Harry's face. He didn't appear to appreciate what she was saying. “I thought I was being amusing,” she continued, “by just casually popping by to give you a reply.” Hermione chewed on the side of her cheek, her smile disappearing. “You know, ironic contrast?” she muttered uneasily.

“Oh, like a joke?” Harry asked, smiling.

“Right. I should realize by now that people just don't get my jokes,” Hermione said as she smiled back, timidly. “Anyway,” she continued, “umm…”

An awkward period of silence followed and Harry felt a strange urge to laugh - picturing involuntarily what this little scene in his flat must look like if anyone were there to observe it.

“Hermione?”

Hermione jumped as Harry attempted to interrupt her thoughts. She was flat out staring at him and he was beginning to feel more than a little bit self-conscious. They were close friends, and had been for well over a decade, but he suddenly felt rather exposed standing there in his bath towel with Hermione's eyes directed at his chest.

“What are you doing here?” Harry repeated.

“Oh, yes!” Hermione said, loudly. “Anyway, I just wanted to say that I'd love to go out.” She gave a proud smile.

Maybe it was an effort to regain his manliness, or perhaps his humility had made him feel rather…reckless, but Harry was immediately struck with an idea. An untamed thought that should probably have been ignored for some reason had just taken over his brain at this particular moment. And the untamed thought escaped, unedited though his mouth.

“Can we make it a date?” he blurted.

Harry felt his heart beating at an uncomfortable rate now. Had he actually said that aloud? He fought back the muscular impulses in his face, wanting to flinch, and struggled to present something more mannish: confidence would be good, but he'd settle for a simple “not insane” at this point.

Hermione looked thunderstruck. She was staring once again at his towel, and Harry felt another surge of embarrassment wash over him. “What have I done?” he asked himself, helplessly. But, for Harry Potter, the Dark-wizard fighter, strong emotions always drove him to rely upon instincts. It was not in Harry's nature to stop and think things over during times of duress or turmoil - that was Hermione's job. So he plodded on boldly, speaking with much more self-assurance than he was actually feeling.

“I don't want to go to that stupid Muggle bar anymore, and I don't want to be here alone on Fridays,” he said. “I want to spend Friday nights with you.”

A vague look overtook Hermione. For a moment, she gave no evidence that she'd been listening to Harry at all. Then finally, she looked up at him.

“A date?” she asked.

“Yes. A date,” Harry replied. “You know, when a witch and a wizard go someplace together?”

Hermione nodded.

“And enjoy each other's company?” Harry continued. “And get to know each other better?”

“Right,” Hermione said in a strange voice. She stood up straight and looked directly into Harry's eyes. Harry laughed lightly as he knew she was trying to determine whether he was drunk or had been cursed. “Seems in order,” she said, beneath her breath. Harry blinked. Hermione's gaze fell to the towel and then snapped quickly back to his face.

“Okay,” Hermione answered, and then she Apparated home.

Harry let out a giant breath and stared at the cup of tea sitting mockingly on the sofa table.

- Pop -

Once again, Harry's head snapped to the source of what he recognized as an Apparition as Hermione reappeared in his flat only a second after having left.

“What…what time?” she asked.

“Oh,” Harry said, giving a forced laugh, “How about in an hour. Seven o'clock. I'm starved, we can get dinner.” Harry hadn't thought about what they were actually going to do, and began to frantically piece together ideas. He sifted through names of restaurants that he'd been to and tried to imagine himself and Hermione sitting at one of the tables. Nothing seemed to appeal particularly to him, at the moment, as he really didn't care where they went. He'd already seen to his immediate needs: food and Hermione's company. “Perhaps I could suggest that we get some groceries and have dinner in the flat?” he thought briefly and then quickly discarded the idea. “Right,” he reminded himself, “this is a date.”

“Care to go to Luigi's?” asked Hermione. “I love that place.”

Harry smiled. Hermione to the rescue. “Luigi's will be fine. See you at seven?”

“See you at seven,” Hermione said, disappearing with another “pop”.

-->

13. Facing the Elephant

Chapter 13. Facing the Elephant

In Hermione's flat, there was a flurry of activity.

“Date! With Harry! With no warning, just out of the blue!”

The distressed witch had worked herself into a right panic, and flew across her bedroom in search of something to wear, yelling as she did so. “Where does he get off presuming…What's gotten into him?” she ranted. “That arrogant…parading around in nothing but a towel!” Hermione yanked open a dresser drawer and flinched at its contents. “Asking witches out dressed like…” Half of her brain was fully engaged in berating Harry, and the other half was frantically hunting for something sexy to wear.

“Not to mention the fact that, for all Harry knows, I'm still dating…”

Hermione strained to recall the name of the wizard she'd last been dating. How could she have forgotten? That towel, she conjectured, was wreaking havoc on her sense of reason. “Oh, right. Theodore,” she said, pausing to study a skirt that she had just pulled out of her wardrobe. She frowned and shook her head. “Maybe something a bit more…flirty,” she grumbled, “and not so maroon.”

Groaning and making faces, Hermione sifted through her collection of similarly styled skirts and blouses. Why hadn't she ever bought something more appropriate for a date with Harry? Hadn't she wanted to impress Benjamin or Theodore in the least? “This'll do,” she said after another few minutes and she yanked a black cotton dress from its hangar and tossed it onto the bed. It was a casual dress, Muggle style, but it had a very flattering fit to it. It looked like the sort of thing a witch would wear on a dinner date.

A shiver ran up Hermione's and she sank down onto her bed, staring at the black dress. “A dinner date with my best friend,” she mused, feeling the panic rising again. “How am I supposed to act?” She was still speaking out loud, addressing the air in her bedroom as if it would be whispering back advice. “What makes this `date' any different than any of the other times we went out?” Hermione decided that it'd be best to think this one over while she readied herself for the evening. Slipping out of her jeans and tee-shirt, she lifted the dress over her head and let it fall over her curves. “Looks alright,” she thought, examining her image in a mirror that leaned against her bedroom wall. “It'll have to do, I suppose, seeing as how this is the only body I've got.”

Locking herself in the tiny bathroom of her flat, Hermione spent a good deal of time selecting perfumed lotions, fussing with her hair, and brushing her teeth. She even considered trying Harry's Scourgify spell for an extra level of cleanliness, before thinking better of it. She'd learned long ago that first dates were not a good occasion for experimentation with magical spells. As she accessorized and applied make-up, Hermione reviewed the remarkable events of the past hour in her mind. Now that some time had passed, she was finding that the waves of anger and astonishment had pretty much subsided and she was left feeling rather foolish in their wake. Hadn't she just, after all, appeared right in the middle of a wizard's living room with no forward warning? What had she been thinking? “I hadn't been thinking,” she observed, in hindsight.

She struggled to reconstruct the exact conversation that had taken place with Harry, but Hermione was finding the memory to be quite elusive. She had found it extremely arduous, in fact, to focus on whatever it was that Harry was saying at the time - him standing before her, basically naked.

Hermione closed her eyes and pictured her fit friend as he looked when she'd Apparated in. Gone was the skinny boy Hermione remembered. No, Harry was quite grown up now, and was the picture of manliness in that forest green towel - save for the flowery cup, of course. Fortunately though, the visuals that this brought served to refresh her memories and bits and pieces of the exchange came meandering back to the flustered witch.

“Anyone would have been speechless,” Hermione reassured herself. “It's just a natural reaction.”

She had remembered him asking her to dinner - as a date - and she recalled how she wondered if she was hearing her scantily clad friend properly.

“…doesn't want to go to Muggle bar,” she'd echoed inside her head. “Friday nights with me…But, he did say this would be a date, right?”

It had been a lot to process and her mind, in its usual way, had been alight with incongruent thoughts and questions. Rules were being broken…identities were undergoing metamorphoses…Harry was not wearing any…His chest was lightly decorated with dark hair…strong shoulders.

“Were Aurors required to do weight training?” she'd wondered. “Of course,” she had deduced, “they must be. Heavy armor would weigh a lot. There would be nothing under that towel, undoubtedly,” she had also guessed. “Why would there be? After all, people don't take a bath in boxer shorts…”

Hermione winced as she succumbed to the realization that she'd embarrassed herself immeasurably, and had probably hurt Harry's feelings in the process: she'd stumbled through an acceptance of Harry's date inquiry without the slightest consideration of her friend. But, at the time, her mind had entered into a kind of time-delayed process by which each of Harry's words were being repeated, one by one, and she had sensed herself trying to put them back together in sentences to somehow double-check them. It had taken all of her concentration to regain her bearings. And at least, she observed, she had said “yes”, hadn't she? He seemed happy enough when she left. Resigning to do her best to act in a more dignified manner for the rest of the evening, Hermione made an internal promise to make amends to her friend for her previous odd behavior.

A half-hour later, Harry paced back and forth in his living room, flicking his gaze every few seconds to the bright, curvy letters scribed on his wall. “Thirty and nil past the hour of seven,” it read. As he paced, Harry was reviewing several scenarios in his head for how he was going to fix the mess he'd created by overstepping his boundaries. He'd really chuffed it up this time, he thought. Hermione's friendship was so much a part of Harry's life that he could barely breathe when he considered how he may have just damaged it. “Blasted instincts,” he admonished. As he considered writing a letter for Hedwig to deliver, Harry heard a noise that made his heart skip a beat - a distinctive crackling sound coming from his fireplace. Relieved and excited, Harry shot over to the grate and peered into the fire, an involuntary smile plastered on his face.

“Harry, it's me,” said Hermione over the Floo connection. “Is it all right if I come over now?”

Harry laughed. “Yes, it's fine. See, I'm dressed and everything.” Harry spread his arms out and tipped his head, showing off his tan trousers and white linen shirt.

Hermione Apparated to a spot in front of the fireplace. “Hello,” she said after a moment, not moving but standing at the hearth as if she was cemented to it.

“Hello,” said Harry. “You look beautiful. I always loved that dress.” He smiled and grabbed the witch's hands, pulling her into the room and offering a seat on the sofa. “You're late,” he stated sternly.

“Oh, I'm so sorry! I lost track of time!” Hermione let out a nervous breath and took a seat.

This didn't sound plausible to Harry, but he decided to let it go. Harry felt he could very well guess why Hermione was late, and why she looked so apprehensive. He deliberated, briefly, offering her a chance to reconsider, but just as his mouth opened to say, “Would you rather this just be a normal outing?” he shut it tight. No, the idea of a real date, it may have grabbed onto Harry as if his brain had suddenly been possessed, but he'd grown considerably fond of it by now. He just wouldn't be able to let Hermione off so easily, even if it was the gentlemanly thing to do.

Harry smiled again, grabbed Hermione's hands, and pulled her up to face him - disregarding the fact that he had just asked her to sit down. “Why don't we go ahead and leave now, I'm still starved and we should get some food in your stomach. You seem a bit…umm…well, strange,” Harry said.

Hermione nodded in agreement, gazing at Harry and giving the impression that she was in a kind of light trance.

“Just give me a second to give Hedwig a treat,” Harry added. He summoned a large brown biscuit that was in the shape of a rat and levitated it over to the delighted owl. “That's a good girl,” he cooed. “Now don't fall asleep as soon as I leave!” Turning to Hermione, Harry shrugged his shoulders and nodded toward his bird fondly. “She's got her nights and days messed up lately,” he said. “I'm trying to keep her up a bit later each night to get her back to normal.”

Hermione tipped her head, looking at Hedwig. “He likes birds,” she thought affectionately. They both said goodbye to Hedwig again and left straight away for their favorite Italian restaurant. The two old friends walked along the pavement on their way to Main Street, scrutinizing the Victorian houses as they passed them - the flowers, shrubbery…anything to keep their minds occupied.

“We finished the case,” Harry said after a while. “The one about the Muggle extortion. We're in the last phases of trial preparations now.”

Jumping at the chance to talk, Hermione quickly chimed in. “The one with those Death Eaters? The ones responsible for the mall incident?” she asked. Harry nodded. “Oh, Harry, that's great,” she said, looking at Harry as she walked. “You know, I've actually made progress on the spell identification project.”

Harry frowned. “Hermione, I meant it when I told you not to worry about all that,” he said. “You've been working too hard lately. And anyway, they'll get a number of years in prison from this extortion bit. I was being greedy.”

“But it works,” Hermione said simply.

“It does?” Harry replied. His eyes were fixed on his friend.

“Yes. I'll show you some of the results back in my flat, after dinner.” Hermione shut her eyes tight as she said this. For one careless moment, she'd forgotten that she was on a date, and now she'd just asked Harry over to her place!

They walked on for a few more blocks and finally arrived at their beloved Luigi's. Harry talked a bit more about the case: the arrest, how he'd gotten information from the Order concerning the group's prior Death eater activities, and how he and his unit had spent the better part of a year spying on and interviewing witnesses and convincing terrified Muggles to turn in evidence of the extortion. Hermione reveled in listening to Harry. He so very rarely spoke about his work that it felt like she was being given a special privilege as he gave his very colorful recollection of the past year's activities. It was like being treated to an expensive dessert and she relished every bit of it that she could get, not knowing when Harry would ever again be so generous and forthcoming.

When they arrived at Luigi's, they found it to be fairly well occupied with well-dressed diners, but the friendly hostess was able to find a seat for Harry and Hermione straight away.

“Your waiter will be with you shortly,” said the hostess as she offered menus to the pair. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

Harry blanched slightly at the request. “Water is fine for me,” he began, but Hermione interrupted him with a dismissive wave.

“We'll have a half-carafe of your house red, please,” Hermione told the hostess, giving Harry a chastising grin. “That'll be alright, won't it?” she asked.

Harry chuckled. “Yeah, that'll be good.”

When the hostess left, Harry leaned forward on the table. “Well I, for one, haven't the slightest clue how to act,” he confessed, laughing again and running a hand through his hair. “How about you?”

Hermione nodded affirmatively.

“I think that we should just get it out there in the open, where we can just laugh at it, rather than us both feeling stupid all evening,” Harry said.

Hermione's face lit up. “Harry, that's brilliant!” she gushed. “At work, there is a saying that `There's an elephant in the room' and everyone's ignoring it, pretending it's not there. It's like when everyone is trying to avoid mentioning an uncomfortable subject, no matter how big and obvious it is.”

Harry laughed. “You know I hate ministry talk,” he said, cringing a bit. As he said this, the waiter arrived with wine and took their orders.

“Excellent, excellent,” the waiter said as he collected menus. He smiled politely at the pair and gave a little nod. “I'll take your orders to the chef. Please enjoy each other while you wait,” he added in a thick Italian accent. The waiter turned his attentions to another table, and Hermione shot an amused look at Harry, who grinned back.

“I think he meant that we should enjoy each other's company,” Harry offered. “I don't think we're meant to eat each other, do you?”

Hermione smiled apprehensively and forced out a dry laugh. “No, I think not,” she returned.

Harry picked up a wine glass to toast, but Hermione grabbed his wrist lightly.

“If you say `Hippy', I swear…”

“No!” Harry half-shouted, frowning. “I'm deeply offended,” he teased. “What sort of wizard do you take me for? I'm on a date with a very attractive witch and you think I'm about to call her a rude nickname?”

Hermione dropped her hand and relaxed, embarrassed at her unmistakable display of frayed nerves. Letting out a giggle, she finally raised her own glass, looking at Harry and obediently waiting for him to finish his toast.

Harry smiled wide. “To the elephant in the room!” he said.

“To the elephant,” Hermione returned, grinning. She clinked her glass with Harry's and took a sip of the lovely red wine, allowing the fact that they both were finding their situation equally amusing to calm her. When Harry excused himself to use the loo, Hermione took the opportunity to sort through her thoughts and organize them. Within seconds, she had become so deeply committed to the analysis that she hadn't even noticed when the waiter came by to serve salads, and by the time Harry returned, Hermione's mind was positively abuzz with questions.

“So, how's this going to go?” she began. “I mean, what if we try this `dating' thing and it doesn't work out?”

“Then we'll go back to being great friends,” Harry said, simply.

“What if only one of us thinks it isn't working?” Hermione persisted.

“Then that person will have to say so, won't they?” Harry picked up his fork and began eating his salad.

“What will we tell Ron? My mother?”

Harry stared at her.

“Right, not so big of a deal,” Hermione muttered. “But, what if it all seems too weird? We've been friends, after all, for fifteen years.” Hermione was beginning to feel herself getting worked up again. A familiar, acid-like anxiety was threatening to take her over.

Harry pointed to Hermione's wine glass. “Perhaps you should take another sip. Your head is going to explode.” Harry mimicked Ron's exploding noise and laughed at his own joke.

“Harry, I'm serious!” Hermione whispered strictly, taking a long drink from her wine glass despite her own objection.

“So am I!” Harry said. “For goodness' sake. Just enjoy your meal and let's just see how things go, shall we?” Harry returned to his salad.

“But…you said we should talk about it,” Hermione muttered quietly. “The elephant thing.” She looked confused and slightly put off.

“I've changed my mind,” Harry chuckled. “Now, be a good little witch and eat your dinner, or there won't be any dessert for you.”

Hermione sat for a moment, perplexed, and then smiled. Harry was right of course. They'd taken the plunge, there was nothing left to do but see where the currents took them. Heaven knows they'd certainly passed the bounds of normal friendship on several occasions recently, and if she really thought about it, being on a dinner date with Harry really didn't feel so different. It felt rather…normal. It sure felt better than being on a dinner date with Theodore, at any rate. Picking up her fork, Hermione gave a final huff and began eating her salad, smirking at Harry as she did so.

Dinner proceeded comfortably from that point on. They kept the topics of conversation light and familiar as they made their way through the wonderful Italian dishes. Once they'd covered the traditional topics, catching each other up on the week's goings on, Hermione amused Harry with the latest office gossip from the ministry's research department.

“Remember Dr. Hughes, my boss? The one carrying on with the mail witch?” she asked, smirking naughtily.

“Yeah, how's that going?” Harry asked.

“Well, it turns out that he wasn't cheating on his wife after all! It was his wife all along - dressed in robes from the mail department,” Hermione said, leaning forward in her chair. She laughed merrily, putting down her wine glass so that Harry could fill it for her.

Harry immediately poured from the carafe. “Why would she do that?” he asked.

“It seems that they were trying to liven up the old marriage. After thirty years, things must have been getting a bit boring, I expect,” Hermione snorted.

“Mad,” Harry said.

“I think it's cute,” said Hermione, giving a pout. “Pretending to be someone else for a while, seeing each other in a slightly different context…it probably helps them to discover new things about each other. You know?”

“Hmm…” said Harry. “Maybe you're not such a prude after all.” This comment earned Harry a nasty snarl and a napkin tossed at his face.

The couple dawdled at the dinner table for as long as they could, but finally gave in to the inevitability of the end of their first date, and Harry counted out pound notes and left them on the table. They walked home arm in arm, chatting with much more ease than they had exhibited on the way to the restaurant.

As they strolled, Harry ran an internal dialog, trying to work out the logistics of the last part of their friendship-altering date. It wasn't as if Harry didn't have any experience in this area; he'd been on first dates before. The proper thing to do would be to accompany the witch in question to her door and pause just a bit before bidding goodbye. If the witch asked him inside, he should refuse, asking for another date instead. Now, since Hermione lived in a Muggle apartment that was not close at all to Harry's place, and as the restaurant was just a short walk from his own flat, he knew that they would have to Apparate from Harry's flat directly into Hermione's living room. Technically, he'd already be inside. “Well,” Harry rationalized, “I'll just wait for her to ask me to sit down, and then refuse, ask for a date, and Apparate home.” Harry had promised himself that he'd ask Hermione out again on the following Friday night - no sooner. He kept flip-flopping, however, on whether or not he should kiss her. It wouldn't be as if it was their first kiss, certainly, but he wasn't sure whether Hermione would want to be reminded of their past intimacies - strange as they were. Finally, Harry settled on playing that one by ear.

“Well, we're here,” Hermione said as they entered Harry's building.

“Yes,” Harry replied. “I thought I'd Apparate you home from my flat, if that's okay,” he added, tightening his grasp on Hermione's elbow and gently leading her toward the stairwell. The couple nervously chatted as they walked up the two flights of stairs to Harry's flat and through the threshold. As soon as they stepped inside Harry's living room, the Auror closed the door, withdrew his wand and popped the pair over to Hermione's.

Dizzy, Hermione spun around, a bit disoriented from the unexpected trip. “Do you…would you like something to drink?” she asked timidly as she balanced herself and smoothed her skirt.

“Elephant!” is what came instantly to Harry's mind as he muttered his response. “No. No, I think I should go. But, I would like to take you out again. Are you, umm, free next Friday?” Harry cringed inwardly. That had sounded extraordinarily silly…as if they'd only just met yesterday.

Hermione stared at Harry. She gave a small chuckle. “Get in here, you dolt!” she chided, pointing toward the middle of her living room. “Have a seat. I'll get us a couple of Extras.” Harry looked crestfallen as Hermione swept through her kitchen, gathering bottles of their favorite ale. He'd had this part all worked out before, and now didn't have a clue as to how to proceed.

“We've spent nearly every Saturday together since April,” Hermione was saying as she returned into the living room and set the drinks down on the sofa table. “And Sundays too, as of late. Do I only get to see you once a week now?”

Harry sighed and sank down into the sofa, grabbing a bottle and taking a swig. Hermione sat down next to him. “So,” Harry offered. “What do we do now?” He looked sideways at his companion and smiled. “You've foiled my great escape.” Harry laughed and tossed a pillow at Hermione's head. “Bossy witch!”

“Oof,” she let out, tossing the pillow back. She laughed again, watching the pillow miss by a foot as Harry ducked adeptly.

“Well…” Hermione said, studying Harry for a moment. She was making up her mind on how to respond and observed that her date was staring at her knee: her dress had ridden up a bit when she made her pathetic attempt at throwing the pillow. He looked very appealing just now - sitting there, noticing her like that. It filled her with an uncharacteristic confidence. “I don't know about you…” she said, leaning closer to Harry and placing her right hand on his knee, “but I'd like a bit of a goodnight kiss.” Hermione leaned in closer yet and captured Harry's mouth before he could possibly utter a refusal.

Harry kissed back warmly. He was filled with an overwhelming sense of relief. In her own, peculiar way, Hermione had given the pair exactly what they had needed in order to break through whatever barriers had been set in the past to keep them from truly seeing each other. She had been nervous, overly analytical, talkative, and even a little bit shy during their dinner date, which Harry thought was so completely endearing that he had forgotten to be unsure. And now, just when he had been about to retreat back into himself and leave his companion alone in her flat with no small amount of awkwardness hovering between them, Hermione was the one to provide a show of confidence.

“I love kissing you,” he breathed, without thinking, as he pulled back slightly and brushed his lips over Hermione's.

They scooted about and found a comfortable position on the sofa to carry on with a bit more “goodnight kissing”. Practical thoughts floated occasionally to the forefront of Hermione's mind, rising through a thick layer of emotion and lust. She wondered how the wireless had gotten turned on, and whether their Butterbeers were getting warm. Then, Harry started gently rubbing large circles on the soft skin on her leg and she forgot to worry about such things. A little while later, Hermione found herself thinking again. How was it possible that she and Harry had such good…chemistry? How could it be that they were so attracted to each other and yet had never gotten together in all those years? Again, the questions slid, unanswered, into the background as Harry nibbled on her ear, reviving one of her favorite memories from the past summer.

“Oh!” Hermione expelled when she by chance caught a glimpse of a package she had left on her mantle. “I forgot! I was going to show you some of my early results.”

Harry stared at her.

“My research!” she reminded him.

“We can do that later,” Harry whispered, his breath tickling her neck and causing the most wonderful sensations, “I'm busy now.”

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14. Getting to Know You

Chapter 14. Getting to Know You

A beautiful snowy owl tapped lightly on Hermione's kitchen window, forcing her to put an end to her delicious lie-in. She had been lounging in her bed well after the sun came up, reliving her date with Harry by lolling about from detail to detail. There had been the most wonderful Chicken Marsala; the air on Main Street had smelled like burning leaves, one of Hermione's favorite scents; and Harry, who proved to be quite the chatterbox during their first proper, sober snogging session, had whispered incredible little phrases between kisses. She smiled as she heard his voice again in her head.

“Why haven't we been doing this all along?” he'd whined. “We could have popped into the Room of Requirement between classes.” Hermione heard herself giggle in her memory.

“If Ron had told me you kiss like this…” he'd teased, which, Hermione recalled, had made her blush deeply. The very thought of Harry and Ron sharing any such details would be nothing less than mortifying to the lone female of the lot.

“This is what I want,” Harry had also whispered in the most amazingly masculine voice - low, soft and commanding. “I want you, Hermione Granger. All for myself.”

TAP - TAP - TAP

Hermione shook herself once again from her guilty reverie and looked back toward the window. “If I must,” she murmured, as she slid into a robe and a pair of slippers, approached the window and heaved it open. “Hi girl!” she called out in a raspy morning voice. “What have you got for me?”

Hedwig dutifully turned over the roll of parchment she'd been clutching, and Hermione tossed a treat at the owl, who tutted and flew away. “See you then,” the amused witch called out uselessly, shutting the window and rubbing her eyes. Hermione stared at the scroll for a moment and then tossed it on her table, deciding that her need for use of the bathroom usurped any immediate desire to find out what was in that letter.

Dawdling under the steady, warm pressure of water of her morning shower, Hermione found her thoughts to be once again drawn back to the previous evening. Snogging for hours in her living room had been…What had it been? “Good. It had definitely been good,” she thought. “Not weird at all.” Hermione struggled for a while for an adjective that meant “not weird” but failed, deciding to leave it at that. “Sweet - Gentle - Sensuous,” she added. “Sensuous?” Hermione groaned. It seemed that her uptight and predictable brain was devising yet another list - a List of Words Describing Harry's Intimacy. Leaning into the water stream, she scrubbed her face and tried to think of something else, feeling a bit shameful.

“Exuberant,” her mind appended involuntarily. Hermione shut her eyes in defeat; she was apparently unable to control her wandering mind this morning. The things Harry had said, the way he kissed - Hermione didn't know why, but she found that she'd been quite taken by surprise. She never really gave much thought to how Harry was with a witch…romantically. But now, as she reflected on the subject, she realized that it could have easily been predicted. This was vintage Harry. As with his public persona and his “best friend” self, intimate Harry was warm and considerate. It didn't seem possible, Hermione mused, but he was at once bold and adorably shy. He was satiating and generous, and a little bit…needy?

“No, not needy,” Hermione reflected. It was more that Harry really seemed to…appreciate the affection that he was receiving. When Hermione had experimented with a little puff of air on Harry's neck, he'd shivered slightly which left her with a strong desire to do it again and again. A light caress on his cheek caused him to close his eyes, looking as if he was trying not to react too strongly. Hermione knew why Harry would be particularly responsive to female attentions, his neglected youth and all that, but it still made her feel so…competent. And sexy. And desirable. It was addictive. Yes, it was just so like Harry to beef up Hermione's ego, all the while showing off own particular talents.

After finishing her indulgent shower and getting dressed, Hermione finally returned to her kitchen and unrolled the parchment that Hedwig had brought to read its contents. She smiled: It was Harry, as usual, asking what they'd be doing today. “I suppose I should have sent back a reply with Hedwig,” the witch considered as she set the parchment down on the table, “seeing as how I don't own an owl.” She tapped the scroll lightly with her index finger and smiled again naughtily, knowing very well what she'd like to do today…

“Well,” she said aloud, “I'll just have to Floo.” As a wicked thought crossed her mind, Hermione bit her lip. She went into her bedroom to retrieve her wand from the nightstand and pointed it at her chest, concentrating hard on a spot on Harry's living room carpet, just outside his bathroom. Not a second later, her attempt at a bit of morning humor fell flat, as Hermione collided with a heavy wooden door the moment she appeared in Harry's living room.

“What the…?” Harry let out, pulling away from the door he'd been opening to see Hermione sitting on the floor, rubbing her forehead.

“Harry. Hi!” Hermione said, laughing meekly. “Thought maybe you'd be getting ready…”

“And?” Harry asked wryly as he extended a hand to help Hermione to her feet.

“Well…I thought maybe you'd be in my favorite `outfit' or something…” she answered, feeling that this was all sounding much lamer in reality than it had inside her head a few moments ago.

“Kind of a joke…towel, remember?” she offered awkwardly.

“Well, as you can see, I'm perfectly decent,” Harry said. He gestured toward the mirror, in which was reflected a nicely dressed wizard and a very embarrassed-looking witch. Harry pulled Hermione into a hug, leaning his head affectionately on top of hers and placing a kiss there. “But,” he said, smirking and returning his gaze to the couple's reflection, “I'm extremely flattered by the effort.”

Hermione flushed. “So, you don't always saunter about your flat in nothing but a towel then?”

“Nope,” Harry retorted. “Only when I'm trying to poach myself in that insidious bathtub over there.” He pointed toward the unused tub and led Hermione out of the cramped bathroom and into the kitchen, which was dimly lit from the red-orange light of the morning sun. Coffee was already brewing in a Muggle appliance that had been one of Harry's very first purchases after gaining acceptance as an Auror apprentice and moving to London. Chuckling to himself at the image of Hermione sprawled out on his floor before him, Harry grabbed a pair of grey, stoneware mugs from the cupboard and set them on the counter.

“So, what are we doing today?” he asked.

“This is Saturday, Harry,” Hermione said. “Aren't we going for a jog or a bike ride or some such torture?”

“Yeah,” he replied, “that sounds good. I was trying to give you an out if you wanted it. I don't normally exercise with a girlfriend.” Harry poured coffee into the two mugs as he said this, absently fixing them with cream for himself, sugar for Hermione.

Hermione stared blankly at Harry.

“What?” Harry asked, shoving a mug toward his guest.

“You said `girlfriend',” Hermione answered, fixing her stare now on the mug.

“Oh,” Harry replied. Though he'd been in a chipper mood all morning, the unfortunate combination of a lack of sleep coupled with the intense feelings of anxiety he'd experienced on each day of the previous week - as he'd wrestled with his own discomfort and, finally, resolved to ask his friend out - was that brain went on the alert upon hearing Hermione's reaction to his unconscious ramblings. “You said `girlfriend.'” So, what of it? Was she still dating that dolt from the university? Harry felt his heartbeat quicken and he felt suddenly a bit embarrassed at his own presumptiveness. His mind leapt about at a quick pace while he tried to remember whether he ought to have picked up on any clues as to Hermione's wishes for their relationship. Had she ever indicated that she was ready for another boyfriend yet?

He, the dolt, must be more interesting to converse with about…arithmancy and such, Harry thought, but hadn't Hermione said that she wasn't really attracted? Harry frowned. He had never been one to go for these open relationships, whereupon each partner was free to date others. He didn't want to date anyone else, and he was positive, now that he'd crossed a threshold or two with her, that he didn't want Hermione to date anyone else either. Anger brewed within him as Harry pushed out a chair and took a seat, sipping on his coffee. Just what was Hermione getting at? Hadn't he practically poured his heart out to her last night on her sofa? He thought he'd made his intentions startlingly clear. He fought to remember whether she had actually returned any of his own foolish blather.

“Harry?” Hermione said as she stared at him, looking a bit concerned. “Harry, are you okay?” She leaned in toward the scowling wizard and tilted her head in a studious gesture. “Are you mad at me?”

Harry set down his mug and gave Hermione a determined glare. “Yes,” he said.

“Why?” Hermione asked softly, her face losing all traces of the humor and humility that it'd bore just a few minutes ago when the pair had been bantering about, playfully. In its place, was a look of bewilderment.

Getting up from his chair, Harry stalked across the kitchen, leaned over his sink, and peered sourly out of the window with his back facing Hermione, still brimming with the notion that he'd been used somehow. “Yes, I said `girlfriend',” he said. “Girlfriend. How can you not want that after…How can you be so casual? We've been friends since…always.” Harry examined the spindly branches of a nearby willow tree, which were rustling poetically in the autumn wind. The tree had lost all of its leaves already, he noted, and looked rather stark and unprotected as it bent and wavered against the assaulting currents.

Hermione sat as still as a bookend, staring at Harry across the black and white checkerboard floor that lay staunchly between them now. “When did I say that I didn't want to be your girlfriend?” she asked. She looked determinately at Harry as she posed this question, her voice no longer soft, but defiant and pungent.

“Just now,” Harry replied.

He turned to face the witch before him and flinched. Hermione was giving off the impression that she was about to levy a good curse or two. An intense blush took over Harry's complexion and he felt instantly foolish - like an overreacting, possessive git.

“Oh. I just thought…Sorry.”

“It's alright,” said Hermione, though still sounding as if she were rather put out. She twirled her coffee around a few times and then gave a reluctant smile, looking back up at Harry. “So. That's settled than. Jog or bike ride?” she asked abruptly.

Harry smiled, grateful that his old friend and recent obsession - his new girlfriend - was so adept at washing aside his own foolishness. That ability would come in real handy, Harry thought, as he heard echoes of witches he'd once known all using the same demurely affronted tone as they accused him of being daft, insecure, and generally hopeless. Perhaps this relationship had a hefty leg up on all those that had failed in his dating past.

“Oh, I think a jog would be nice,” he said, meeting Hermione's eyes gratefully. “I'll make breakfast first, and then we can get on with the day.”

“On with our first official day as boyfriend and girlfriend,” Hermione teased, as Harry got up to begin making their breakfast. “Doesn't seem any different, does it?” She swirled her coffee around once more, watching it circle up toward the rim. “I thought this would feel somehow…different.”

Harry poked his head into the refrigerator and withdrew a loaf of bread and a jar of pumpkin preserves. “Oh, I can make it feel different if you like,” he said, feeling much lighter now that he and Hermione had both admitted to being singularly attracted to one another.

“How so?” Hermione asked, smirking.

Harry set the bread and jam down heavily on the counter and took three deep strides toward Hermione. Extracting the coffee from her hands, he made an almost undetectable flick with his wand. Hermione gasped. Without having moved a muscle, she found herself to be splayed on the cold tabletop, supported by Harry's strong arm and overwhelmed by a passion-filled kiss.

“He used magic on me!” she thought, quite taken aback. “He wouldn't!”

But, after taking a second or two to become accustomed to the taste of how Harry preferred his coffee - without sweetener, Hermione forgot her indignation and became lost once again. Lost in the newfound comfort of an old friend, lost in the excitement of being romantic during the all-business morning hours that were normally set aside for bills and revising, lost in a new and overwhelming sense of closure.

Ten or so minutes later, Hermione tried to peel her body out from under Harry's. The two had attempted to settle into heir breakfast, but it had been hindered by another rather intense bout of heavy snogging. “There's toast in my hair!” she scolded, a bit dazed from the activities. As she squirmed around a bit, in an effort to obtain freedom, she felt a warm current tingle her scalp. “Oh…” she exhaled involuntarily, realizing that Harry had probably just used his wand once again to remove the offending bits of toast and butter.

“Quit complaining,” Harry ordered, pressing her back down onto the oak surface, administering another deep kiss and sliding his arm under Hermione's back so that he could lean more fully into her without causing pain.

“It's just…” Hermione began.

“Amazing,” Harry finished for her.

“No, that's not what I meant…” Hermione was flustered. Finding herself so completely controlled by someone else was causing her to instinctively rebel.

“It isn't amazing?” Harry asked in a soft, throaty voice, stroking Hermione's hair with his free hand and giving a small smile.

“No,” she whimpered, “that's not what I meant either…”

“Shh,” Harry whispered in her ear. “I know.” He let out another chuckle and resumed kissing his girlfriend with all enthusiasm of a randy teenager.

Hermione sighed through Harry's kiss, uttering feeble little sounds of would-be resistance. “It's just…” she panted weakly, closing her eyes and trying to focus her brain. Another warm sensation caused her eyes to spring back open, abruptly. Harry had done something to the table. It was now clear of any dishes and felt soft beneath her. She felt her hair being gently lifted by a light gush of air, and the kitchen was now filled with the earthy scents and brisk, melodic sounds of fall.

“Harry must have opened the windows,” she thought. “Outdoor junky.” Sensations, emotions, and feelings of powerlessness were beginning to overcome the distracted witch as she pried her mouth free from its persistent aggressor.

“Harry,” Hermione shouted into the cool autumn air that was now whipping through the flat. “Stop using magic! It's not…I don't know…proper.”

Harry laughed and flicked his wand again. Aluminum blinds fell closed over the kitchen window, slapping sharply against the sill, and the two were now fully engaged in a passionate kiss; bathed in darkness except for a glowing orb that floated about the room, which cast a beautiful sphere of blue light.

“Harry,” Hermione laughed, softening under the false moonlight and Harry's relentlessness. “I mean it! Stop using magic or I'll…”

“You'll what?” Harry quipped, kissing her neck. He sounded breathless and irritatingly overconfident.

Hermione reached into her pocket and with much effort withdrew her wand. She clumsily waved it and issued an incantation, her voice struggling for control.

“Put me back!” Harry yelled, incredulous.

“Not on your life!” Hermione retorted. Laughing, she pulled Harry back down on top of her, sinking slightly into the strangely soft oak table. She ran her hand through Harry's hair, over his shoulders, and across his back, smiling at her own prowess in the world of magic. “I told you this was my favorite outfit,” she taunted. She giggled lightly and gasped as Harry, clad now only in that green, fluffy towel, shivered, gave a low moan and tackled her again.

The morning passed too swiftly, in Hermione's estimation. Now, she'd been treated to a deeper and very enticing glimpse into what Harry would be like as a lover and she found herself over the moon with anticipation. “Confident! Playful! Naughty!” The adjectives fell into her head like happy little raindrops, building up Hermione's List of Words to Describe Harry's Intimacy. She found herself in an internal dialog, pondering over the wisdom of suspending the ten-thing-limit she'd long ago imposed on the lengths of all her lists. By morning's end, Hermione had reluctantly extended the list to twenty in length, as “Rugged! Dexterous!” and, she cringed, “Hot!” finished off the pile.

Hermione had been involved with a wizard or two before; she wasn't exactly a lily white dove as far as physical relationships went. But as she and Harry set about their day, jogging in the park and then making their way to the Leaky Cauldron for lunch, she couldn't help but feel like a giddy school girl who'd just received her first kiss - and from the handsome and popular Quidditch captain no less. “Oh Good Lord!” Hermione berated her addled mind. “Get a grip! It was just an intense morning, that's all.” She clicked her tongue and shook her head, ignoring Harry's quizzical gesture as they entered the pub. Too cold now for the patio, Harry and Hermione looked around the pub, seeking an empty table. The Leaky was packed full with noisy customers. To their relief, a whistle beckoned them to join a somewhat somber table where Brian, Meg and Alice sat, dividing a pitcher of Butterbeer between them.

“Hello there!” Hermione called out, grabbing Harry's hand and pulling him to join their friends.

“Hello,” said Harry. “Where's the happy couple?” he asked, gesturing to a pair of empty chairs opposite Brian and the two witches.

“Dunno,” Meg pouted. “We thought they were meeting us here.”

“We always meet here,” Alice added. “It's been our…thing. I can't believe they're not going to show.”

Harry smiled warmly, remembering how Ron had once slowly dropped out of his and Hermione's social scene as he began the grown-up life of a married man. “Oh, they've probably got some wedding things to attend to. I'm sure they'll show up eventually,” he reassured.

Hermione chewed her cheek. “I guess this is the beginning for them, isn't it?” she asked, sounding melancholic. “They're growing up, aren't they?”

“Hey!” Brian retorted. “What are you insinuating?”

“You know what I mean,” Hermione defended. “Bob and Francis - they'll be worried about important things now like where to build a home, and when to start a family, insurance, things like that.” She waved aside the goading that Brian, Meg, Alice and Harry simultaneously launched at her upon hearing the pronouncement of “insurance” as one of those important life things. “You laugh. Go on,” Hermione quipped. “But, Bob and Francis are moving out of the world of `what about me?' and are now entering the more altruistic phase. Life's purpose, for them, is now about someone else. Each other. Eventually, I expect, it'll be about their children.” She tossed her hair back defiantly, ignoring the smirks and sneers of her tablemates. “I think it's rather…profound,” she added, wistfully.

Harry smiled and threw an appreciative glance at his companion. He couldn't help but be amused when Hermione got herself all worked up about one or another of her life-altering epiphanies, and he could sense that her wheels were turning in that direction. She was happy, and he was delighted to believe that he, Harry Potter, may be the cause of it.

The intimacy of this nonverbal exchange didn't go unnoticed. “What's up with you two?” Brian asked in a loud, brash voice. “You're all…different now.”

“Umm,” Harry stammered. Neither he nor Hermione had mentioned the new state of their relationship to anyone, and he wasn't sure whether Hermione wanted to admit yet that they had become…a couple.

“Yeah. It's different now,” Hermione answered, smiling. “Harry and I are…” she drew a deep breath, “boyfriend and girlfriend now.” She laughed as she looked at their friends' joyful expressions. “That sounds weird, doesn't it?”

“Sounds like a bit of a demotion to me,” Harry said, thoughtfully. “We've been best friends…`boyfriend' just doesn't sound as important, does it? It's like I went from `best' to `boy.'”

“Are you complaining?” Hermione asked, smiling and leaning into Harry, pressing her cheek on his shoulder. “I could call you my `man toy' if you prefer,” she suggested, raising an eyebrow and drawing a look of shock and amusement from both Harry and Brian.

“It's all good,” Brian said, smiling at the pair. “You two are cute together.” He raised his glass and saluted. “To Hippy and Hunky in Love! Another set of friends lost at sea!”

“Hippy and Hunky!” Alice and Meg shouted, laughing and splashing their mugs together.

As Harry and Hermione hadn't yet secured any drinks for themselves, they just fidgeted uncomfortably and winced as several more rounds of rude toasts were made on their behalf.

“I'm beginning to sense why Bob and Francis didn't show,” Harry whispered to Hermione, who laughed and gave him a small kiss on his cheek.

“Yeah, me too, Hunky,” she giggled.

Harry made a trip to the bar and came back with another pitcher of Butterbeer. Lazily, he pointed his wand at the pitcher. Five streams of liquid rose out of it and siphoned into five mugs - distributed evenly and without a drop of waste. Brian's mouth fell open at this display of magic, which made Harry shrug uncomfortably. Harry tended to keep his use of advanced magic confined to Auror duties, but sometimes found himself accidentally throwing uncommon spells when he was relaxed and not thinking. A smile formed unwittingly on Harry's face as he recalled the magic he and Hermione had displayed in their little joust in his kitchen. He knew that he had been pushing her buttons, curious to see just how much manipulation his formidable friend would put up with from a wizard. And he had been surprised too that, for all her accomplishments and successes, Hermione Granger was quite easy to fluster.

“Oh, you're lost,” Brian goaded Harry, spying the dopy look on the Auror's face. “Lost in Hippy's Love.” Brian laughed heartily at his own joke and reached for his Butterbeer to make another toast.

“Oh no,” Harry scolded, casting his wand at Brian's mug and freezing it in place. “That'll be enough toasts at our expense out of you!”

“Chivalrous,” Meg cooed.

“Look,” Harry began, “It's no big deal. Hermione and I were the best of friends, and now,” he paused and gave a careful glance in Hermione's direction to make sure he hadn't offended her with his `no big deal' pronouncement, “well now we've found a way to make it even better.” He grabbed his mug and took a deep swig, willing his companions to find a new subject of conversation.

“Friends can sometimes become more-than-friends,” Hermione stated helpfully. “I'm sure it happens loads of times.” She too took a huge swig from her mug.

The three young people looked around uncomfortably at this.

“What gives?” Harry asked. “Don't tell me…you've dated?”

“Well,” Brian said, awkwardly, “a bit. I know just enough about these two,” he nudged Meg and Alice gently with his elbows, “to make them blush when the need comes along.”

Alice smiled over her mug. “I dated Brian briefly in fifth year. It was cute, but we each had our eyes on someone else by the end of it.” She frowned. “Pity, really.”

“I gave him his first kiss,” Meg piped in.

“Awe,” came a collective response from the table.

“How sweet,” Hermione teased.

“Yeah,” said Brian, “real sweet. She cornered me outside the Quidditch locker room. Scared the you-know-what out of my little thirteen-year-old self!”

“Awe…” Another series of coos greeted Brian, who smiled proudly while Meg blushed.

The group spent a few more hours reminiscing about their school days and eventually graduated to sharing views on Ministry politics. After bidding goodbye, Harry saw Hermione back to her flat where they ate dinner and finished the evening off watching the television in comfortable companionship. He marveled, as he sat next to Hermione on her sofa, at how completely normal this newfound relationship felt. For all their worries about changing their friendship, it seemed that after a full day of dating, the friends were exactly the same.

“Except for the adult-rated bits,” Harry reminded himself as he reached over to pull his girlfriend into a cuddle, hoping she was up for a bit more.

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15. Silencing the Pain

A/N This chapter picks up on ideas laid out mostly in chapter 10, before the two lead characters became rather distracted.

Chapter 15. Silencing the Pain

During the weeks following Harry and Hermione's pivotal date, they spent every minute that could be spared in each other's company. Hermione found herself chewing on the end of her quill during work hours or at her evening classes and thinking of Harry. She tried hard not to let her mind wander in that direction too often, but the freshness of her relationship with Harry made it so much more of an interesting subject to muse over than her medical research or Comprehensive Magical Genetics text. The frustrated witch eventually conceded to setting aside all of her research except that relating to her newest side project - the extrication of a spell caster's imprint from a victim's own magical signature. Since this particular bit of work would help Harry enormously in his stalwart struggle to make amends to any and all of the Muggle Street War's innocent victims, Hermione knew that she would have much less trouble achieving the level of concentration she was accustomed to.

As she sat in her kitchen, unraveling the first of a large pile of scrolls, Hermione smiled. “Yes,” she thought, “this will due; I can feel like I've actually accomplished something this week. And, I can feed this unrelenting obsession that I've acquired concerning a certain, sexy wizard.”

It was Wednesday night, and Hermione had just arrived back at her flat after attending a course lecture on uncertainty calculations in magical gene traces - which she'd only managed to half-listen to. This evening, however, promised to be free of distractions: Hermione had her Harry-related project to keep her occupied and Harry had sent Hedwig to the Ministry that afternoon with a note indicating that he had an evening training session to attend. Not that a distraction in the form of a handsome Auror getting home from a long, adventurous day of work wouldn't have been welcomed - the scroll's arrival had caused a terrible feeling of loss when Hermione had read it and she had ached for Harry's company almost immediately. She couldn't help but feel terribly alone and neglected without her boyfriend's company, even though the prospect of burying herself in the data contained in those rolls of parchment filled her with an abnormal amount of excitement.

“Hermione, you've been alone practically your whole life! Don't be pathetic,” she chastised as thoughts of Harry, dressed in his dark, battered uniform, threatened to nudge their way to the top of her mind's occupations. Setting down the parchment and rubbing her eyes, Hermione strolled across the kitchen to her refrigerator. Food usually served well to satiate a wandering mind. She opened the door and rummaged through the drawers, collecting enough of the makings to conjure up a decent salad, which she ate along with a large pot of rose tea as she began pouring over the long-anticipated data.

As the evening progressed, and with each new parchment unrolled, Hermione's mind became more and more sharply focused. All of the data were in excellent form, and the inquisitive nature within Hermione had immediately taken her over. She had worked tirelessly over the past several weeks to run experiments and collect data in a tedious and repetitive process until she had finally achieved the right set of circumstances, and the results of all of those laborious days were proving to be worth every stained lab coat and chewed up quill. It looked irrefutable now, to Hermione, that she had before her a clean set of imprints from the mall explosion victims and a proven set of steps to follow in order to analyze them.

The analysis part was a bit more art than witchcraft, and Hermione enjoyed the process immensely. Working with Dr. Hughes and another colleague who specializes in alchemy, she had devised a combination of potions and spells that worked much better than traditional methods for capturing the essence of a magical signature. It was an amazing spectacle, really, to watch. The spell victim (each of her newts, originally) was doused in a dark blue, opaque potion and then subjected to a string of seven very intricate charms. Within minutes, a purple cloud would begin to swirl around the newt's paws and then it would glide upward over the animal, vanishing in a puff after it cleared the head. As the cloud swirled, little sparks flew out and collected on awaiting sheets of parchment, capturing the essential characteristics of the newt's magical signature.

The improvement that Hermione and her fellow researchers had made was that the spell imprints collected in this manner were much cleaner and more crisply-defined than any they had previously seen. These spell imprints would be far easier to decipher, which please Dr. Hughes immensely as it would make the diagnosis of spell-induced maladies easier.

Hermione allowed her boss to think that she was working hard toward this goal, but in actuality, she had been hunting for a way to link the faint signatures - mere whispers of cast Destructo spells - that she'd collected from Harry's hair samples to the London Seven. She'd performed the spells on the strands of hair in her own office so that she wouldn't draw any undue attention to this aspect of her studies, and Harry had gotten permission to have the seven prisoners cast the incriminating spells on various worms and spiders. All that was left now for Hermione to do was to examine the data in the set of parchments that she had piled neatly on her table. In half of them were the shapes and smells and other enigmatic attributes of spells cast upon a handful of the poor Destructo victims, and in the other half were the Destructo spell signatures derived from the London Seven themselves, from the fated worms and spiders.

Hermione shook her head, as she always had to, in order to clear her mind of the horrors that these Muggle-borns must have endured. She looked out of the window and gave herself a moment to remember that the unfortunate witches and wizards were at peace now. The sun had already set, and the October sky was lit beautifully by the moon, which seemed to amplify this notion. Fall evenings, she thought, seemed to be the most restful stretches of time. Blues and greens mixed gently with the deep blue sky and highlighted the cold air, preparing, it seemed, for the winter that was to come. This seemed to reflect her mood appropriately, Hermione mused.

As she willed her thoughts away from the imagined faces of victims in the London Mall incident, Hermione thought of her boyfriend. Boyfriend - the word still sounded so strange, and yet she loved saying it over and over again inside her head. It struck her as strange that Harry hadn't mentioned the spell identification project at all in at least a week. In fact, though he did follow through with obtaining the spell samples from his detainees, Harry hadn't ever remembered to ask about the data Hermione had kept on her mantle and wanted to show him on the night of their first date. Hermione smiled as she poured a third cup of tea into a sturdy floral cup and stirred sugar into it. She didn't want to flatter herself, but it did seem as if Harry was just as preoccupied lately as she was. He was always smiling, laughing, or acting silly with her. It was probably pretty revolting, she thought, from the viewpoint of their friends and acquaintances, but it was hard not to pick up on the fact that the two were quickly becoming enamored with each other. It felt at once immensely pleasurable and painfully addictive, falling for Harry.

Once she settled back into her work, Hermione became positively enraptured in it, and she suffered no further interruptions by wayward thoughts of Harry. She worked throughout the evening, and by morning had moved her stack of scrolls, a bowl of crisps, and a large mug of coffee to her living room. She felt that familiar, jumpy alertness that came with too much caffeine and too little sleep. Her brain was alight with ideas and she had done her best to capture each and every newly born research proposal as they hatched in multitudes from the night's musings. The London Seven were as good as convicted, she thought wryly. She'd connected their magical signatures in no less than one-hundred ways to the spells cast on the mall victims, and Hermione knew that this was as close to conclusive proof as the wizarding community was ever likely to demand.

Having achieved success on the mall bombing so quickly during the night, and having consumed an entire pot of tea, Hermione had then let her mind dance about to examine what other uses her department could find for the Spell-Caster Identification Method - or SCIM, for short - as she'd begun to refer to it. The tired witch longed for bed, but had given up on the notion when she saw the sun coming up and realized that she was far too exhilarated to get any useful rest. She put on a pot of coffee instead and let herself wallow in the importance of the evolution she and her department had just achieved: the possibilities for sick witches and wizards, and for Aurors like Harry seeking justice, and yes, the very positive implications this would have for her own career at the Ministry. It was during nights like this that Hermione felt like she was being her truest persona: “Hermione, the brain”.

It didn't take a week before the significance of Hermione's and Dr. Hughes' research burst forth from the Department of Magical Maladies and leapt about from desk to desk at the Ministry of Magic with a vibrant energy of its own. Some top administrators had immediately seen the potential in smoothing out the jagged edges of their relationship with the Muggle world, and Hermione had been ordered to submit a full report to the Minister of Magic within days of informing Dr. Hughes of her recent findings. Under normal circumstance, Hermione may have bristled at the politicization of a medical finding, but she was too wrapped up in her own personal life, for once, to care a great deal. And, she rationalized, the results were true: there was no doubt in her mind that the London Seven had mutilated hundreds of people and she was more than happy to serve up the data that would lead to their eventual conviction.

Trial proceedings had taken place for the conviction of the group on the current charges of extortion, and each had received a five year sentence to Azkaban for those crimes. Harry assured Hermione that this would be more than sufficient to hold them while new charges were pressed on three hundred counts of murder and over twelve-hundred counts of misuse of magic, collectively.

The unfortunate consequence of the Ministry's interest in the mall murders for Harry, however, was that he was once again being hailed as a hero and flaunted publicly for his involvement, and he had to spend an excruciating week trying to avoid attracting attention in both the wizarding and Muggle worlds. The Auror Department leaked the story of the London Seven being definitively linked to the London Mall bombing to all major Muggle newspapers and the two prominent wizarding papers simultaneously, and the air practically crackled with excitement over the news. This time, Harry found that his anonymity in Muggle London had been compromised as well. The London Mall incident, after all, had been a defining event for many Muggles, who'd recognized it as the last act of what they'd perceived as random and violent youth uprisings, and they'd long hungered for resolution for the senseless murders.

On a Thursday afternoon, Harry was hiding in his office at Auror Headquarters, trying to avoid hearing of or speaking about a lengthy article that had been published in the morning papers. He shook his head as a familiar, scrawny little brown owl landed haphazardly on his desk. As he reached into his top desk drawer for a treat to give to Son of Errol (a name that Harry thought of as rather unfortunate), Harry removed the parchment roll from the bird's tiny claw.

The letter read:

“Harry,

Much to talk about. I'm coming to London this afternoon and you are going to buy me a drink.

Ron”

Harry smiled for the first time since he'd read the Daily Prophet over breakfast. Ron's plain wit and gently assuming manner always brightened a dull mood. Those qualities had endeared Ron to Harry from their very first meeting, and he suddenly realized, as he summoned a quill to draft a reply, that he missed his friend terribly.

Later that afternoon, the two friends met at the Leaky Tavern for lunch. Harry ordered two shots of fire whisky from the bartender and returned to the table where Ron sat drumming his fingers impatiently. Harry's nerves were frayed, more so than they had been in years. Anxiety and despondency had fermented within him as he'd spent the entire morning lamenting over the unwanted attention that the articles had been causing.

“It's not like you haven't been through this before,” Ron said, smirking at Harry over his menu. “This isn't anything compared to when Voldemort tucked it in.”

Harry looked up at Ron and tried to put on a brave face. “No, I supposed it isn't,” he replied. Ron had a point, Harry had to concede. Publicity and attention of this magnitude were not exactly foreign to Harry, and he knew that time would dampen the excitement. Within months, in fact, Harry guessed that life would quiet down to the normal buzz, and he wouldn't have to feel like a giant walking portraiture of himself - as he did when so much attention was focused on him. Today, however, Harry was still filled with rancid anxiety that increased with every handshake, wink, and knowing stare that he was subjected to. He felt helpless, boxed in, strangely lonely, and in need of an escape.

Only thoughts of Hermione, in fact, had kept him in London that morning - trudging through his work day in hopes that it would pass quickly so that he could be back in his girlfriend's arms. Thoughts of Hermione, Harry mused, were pretty much all he had lately. If he'd been struck with the idea, weeks ago, that asking his best friend out on a date would quell his own incessant need for her company, he had been sorely mistaken. Harry stared at the shotglass in front of him.

“Well, there is more than one way to escape,” he thought.

“Looks like you could really use that drink, mate,” Ron said, grinning slightly with amusement. “I knew you'd be out of sorts over the press articles.” Ron took a large gulp of fire whisky and set his glass on the table next to Harry's, gesturing toward his friend's drink. “Go on, you know you need it.”

“Yeah, I do. Thanks,” Harry said, grabbing his drink and knocking it back in three swallows.

“You know,” Ron mused as he shook his head at Harry's distraught demeanor. “I give it two or three weeks and the Muggles will forget your name. After all, to them you're just a scruffy-looking detective who cracked the case of the century.” He rubbed his chin and then added, thoughtfully, “Could take more time of course among the wizards, though - I'd give it three, four months, tops. Then things will be back to normal.”

“Right,” Harry replied, staring at his empty cup. He was amazed to discover that he already felt better. The whiskey had left his chest feeling a little warm and he welcomed the slight numbing sensation that followed. The strong liquid seemed to stretch and pull at the tight muscles in his chest and abdomen, relaxing them just enough to produce a slightly tranquil effect.

“I'll just get us another round, yeah?” Harry said, rising from his chair.

“All right,” Ron replied, finishing his drink and handing the glass to Harry.

After drinking a second round of potent fire whisky, the two friends fell into a comfortable conversation. Harry enquired about Sally and the kids and Ron related several of their most recent adventures with the young toddlers.

“I don't see why you get so worked up anyway,” Ron said after Harry came back to the table with a third round of whisky, abruptly returning to their original topic. “Why don't you just bask in glory for a change. Enjoy the attention.” He smiled at Harry, who pulled a disgusted face and took a sip.

“You're such a sulky git sometimes, Harry,” Ron added.

Harry glared at his friend. “I'm not sulky,” he said in a stern voice. “It's all crap, that's all. They don't even bother to check the full story. They hardly mention the rest of the Aurors and let's not forget the fact that it was Hermione who linked the gang to the mall, not me.” Harry took a breath, feeling a little dizzy from his drinks. He looked up at his oldest friend - who was now laughing loudly - and allowed his anger to dissipate. He didn't have to explain anything to Ron, he knew. Ron was just playing him.

“Okay,” said Ron as he leaned over the table and folded his hands together expectantly. “Now for the real reason I'm here.”

“The real reason?” Harry asked. “You didn't come to London to help me hide from reporters?”

“Nope,” Ron replied, holding his pose, not offering any further explanation.

“Umm, so do I have to guess?” Harry asked again. Apprehension was building within him as his mind quickly surmised what Ron was after.

“He knows,” Harry thought.

“I don't think you'll have to strain yourself too hard in order to figure it out,” Ron replied patiently. A smile was fighting to form on his mouth as he stared at Harry.

“Right,” Harry said. “I'll go and get another round, then.”

Harry left a laughing Ron at their table and strode somewhat clumsily back to the bar for another round of drinks. If he and Ron were about to have the talk, Harry certainly didn't want to be sober for it. Ron cheerfully put down a fourth glass of fire whisky as he peppered Harry with questions regarding his two best friends and their intentions toward each other. Although Harry had feared a resurgence of an age-old jealousy, he found that Ron didn't seem to be put out in the least by the news that his old girlfriend and best friend were now together.

“How did you find out, anyway?” Harry asked.

“Not the way I should have,” Ron answered, eyeing Harry shrewdly over his whisky glass. “Ginny has a friend who knows a bloke named Brian…” he continued.

“Right,” Harry interrupted. “Small world, eh?”

“It is if you're a wizard,” Ron replied, smiling. “You were going to tell me, weren't you?” he added. A slight slur was now muffling his speech and Harry laughed at his friend's lack of tolerance. His busy family life left Ron little time for going out with his mates, Harry guessed.

Setting his glass down, Harry smiled back. “Yeah,” he said. “I wasn't sure whether I wanted to tell you, but I definitely wanted you to know.” He laughed at his jumbled thoughts. “You know?”

“Sure,” Ron said. He clinked his glass with Harry's and raised it into the air. “It's weird, you two getting together after all this time. And, I secretly think that she'll never get over me, so there's that. But,” Ron said, leaning in toward Harry, “Sally has been saying for years that you two should get together. She thinks you're a good match.”

Harry smiled shyly. “She does?”

“Yeah, well if Hermione can't have me,” Ron said, smirking, “I'd want her to have the…” He paused and flicked his wand over the table, causing Harry's eyes to shoot wide open. A huge image of the front page from the morning's Daily Prophet floated high over their heads and revolved slowly about its axis.

SAVIOR AND HERO TO WIZARDS AND MUGGLES ALIKE

Ron laughed hard as he read the subtitle to a large moving picture of Harry decked in full Auror dress uniform. The Auror looked nervous and out of place in the wizard photograph, and his eyes kept their focus down and away from the viewer. Harry had to attempt three spells to vanish the picture and flushed with embarrassment as the bar's full patronage erupted in rowdy chatter. Many witches and wizards were now pointing conspicuously at him as recognition dawned on them.

“Git,” Harry spat, pocketing his wand as the image finally split into 100 pieces and floated upward and out of view.

“Sorry,” Ron said, his eyes tearing up with laughter. “I couldn't help myself. After all, you did steal my girl and all.”

“Right,” said Harry humorlessly. “I'll take a punch to the jaw next time if it's all the same to you.”

“I'll remember that,” said Ron as he straightened up and pursed his lips to suppress his laughter. Looking over Harry's shoulder, Ron added, “Hey, looks like Hermione's got competition already.”

Harry turned around to see who Ron was referring to. He let out a breath when he saw that he recognized the girl approaching their table. It was Alice, who looked completely unadorned without Meg and Brian at her sides.

“Harry,” she said as she reached the table. “I just wanted to…”

Harry gasped as he was pulled into a tight hug. Alice let out a sob and buried her face in his shoulder.

“Alice, are you okay?” Harry asked, pulling back gently from her grip.

“You sure have a way with witches, Harry,” Ron teased as Alice released Harry and stood back up next to their table.

“Ron,” Harry said, “this is Alice. She and her friends are regulars here at the Leaky. Hermione and I have spent many evenings drinking Extras with her lot.”

“And,” Ron continued, “do you make them all cry or is it just the females.”

Alice wiped her eyes with her hand and shook her head. “My parents are Muggles,” she stated simply. “My cousin, Richard, and his girlfriend…they died at the mall at the end of the war. I always suspected it was He…Voldemort, but I could never say anything to my family, not without being sure.”

She pressed her hand on top of Harry's and gave Ron a puzzled look. “You're Ron Weasley, aren't you?” she asked.

“Um, yeah,” Ron responded.

Alice giggled uncomfortably. “I always forget who you are,” she said, addressing Harry again. You and Hippy seem like such regular people. I keep forgetting that you two,” she turned to Ron, “and Ron…did, um, what you did.”

“Hippy?” Ron asked, looking at the two.

Alice ignored Ron's question. She dropped her gaze to her hand on top of Harry's. “And now, well, I can't tell you how much it helps for my family…to know how it happened, to be able to connect faces to the cause. It'll be a relief for them - they can free up that place in their minds that always worried over whether it can happen again, and why my cousin had to die.”

“He shouldn't have died. None of them should have died,” Harry said. He kept his eyes focused at a spot in the middle of the table. He didn't want Alice's thanks. Didn't she understand that he was just as responsible for her cousin dying in the first place as for delivering his killers to Azkaban or Muggle jail or wherever they were bound for?

“No,” Alice replied. “No, they shouldn't have. But, it's a particularly cruel thing to have a loved one murdered and to never know who did it…or why. There was no illness to be blamed, no accidental circumstances: just these faceless, evil people who we kept trying to picture.”

Alice gave Harry another hug and looked over his shoulder at Ron. “Closure is important, Harry, and you gave it to us. Closure is rare and precious and lucky to be obtained,” she said. Harry felt Alice's words impact him as she said them. “You went out and hunted it for us, Harry, and I'm so very grateful.”

The tearful witch released Harry once again and shook Ron's hand, her solemn demeanor dissipating as she glanced around the pub. “Well, I'm off,” she said, giving a tiny wave. “I just stopped in to see if anyone was here. Looks like I found someone, didn't I?” She gave Ron a wink and smiled broadly, adding, “See ya Hunky!”

Harry shut his eyes and felt his face burn again. He kept them closed as he listened to the steady stream of sarcasm Ron unleashed upon hearing the bar friends' little term of endearment. It felt more on days like today, to Harry, that he needed all the Gryffindor courage he could muster. Blasting through doors and throwing up shields to apprehend a criminal only required concentration and well-timed bursts of adrenaline. Opening himself up for the world to see, whether it was to be revered or made fun of, required strength of character that was not inborn in Harry.

The two friends stayed at the Leaky Tavern for many more hours, having a bite to eat and buying each other rounds of drinks. Hermione had sent an owl at dinnertime, reminding Harry that she had a class in the evening and wouldn't see him until late. Grabbing a napkin that was inscribed with the a Leaky advert, “If it doesn't leak, don't drink in it,” Ron scratched back a reply to let her know that Harry was in good hands, and that she would have to do without him for the evening. The two old friends then succeeded in getting quite drunk as the evening progressed and Harry had to insist that they walk to a coffee shop in order to sober up a bit before attempting to Apparate. They had gotten into one of those moods where everything appeared funny, and they laughed to the point of tears as they recalled familiar stories from their teenage years and poked more fun at Harry's recent reemergence into the world of celebrity.

“I feel alright,” Harry thought, surprised at the revelation, as he stood behind a dumpster behind the coffee shop in the spot that Ron had just Disapparated from. He was tired and more than a bit tipsy, and closed his eyes, willing his vision to remain still. Harry wanted to remember why he felt better. Was it just the alcohol or had it been the comforting words from Ron or Alice that had made his apprehension fade away? He had at one point relaxed so much that he even remembered smiling and waving at the strangers who pointed at him later in the night. Harry was more than slightly inebriated, to be sure, but it was a relief to do something with himself rather then just to wish he were back in his flat. He cringed while remembering that somewhere during the evening, Ron had dared him to flash a Gilderoy Lockhart grin at a group of whispering witches, who all looked to be about nineteen or twenty in age, and ask if they'd like him to autograph their cloaks. Wisely, Harry recalled, he'd turned down the dare.

This had been fun, thought Harry, but an evening of good-humored drinking with his very first friend hadn't quite erased that always-present desire to see his very second, and much better-looking, friend, and he smiled sloppily as he pointed his wand at his chest to Apparate. It surprised Harry slightly when he found Hermione's flat to be dark and seemingly lifeless when he arrived in her living room; the hours had passed quickly, and alcohol was impeding his sense of time and place.

“Hemione,” he called, “are you home yet?” When he heard no answer, Harry stumbled into the kitchen and called again. “Hemione?”

In her room, Hermione slowly pried her eyes open and tried to process the sounds she was hearing. It had sounded, at first, like someone was moving furniture around in her flat, but she knew this couldn't be the case at this hour. Grabbing her wand, she cocked an ear toward the door to her bedroom, which had been left wide open as she always left it.

“Hermione?”

Hermione suppressed a smile when her late-night visitor revealed himself by calling out lazily from her kitchen, as if this were the normal thing to do at three-thirty in the morning. She got out of bed and went straight to her bathroom to take care of a few things, laughing as she heard the continual banter coming from the room next door. When she finally emerged into the kitchen, she saw Harry sitting at her table, munching happily on a slice of bread and smiling up at her.

“I wondered when you'd come out,” he said, grinning. “I've come to visit.”

“Yes, you did,” Hermione answered, laughing again. “And at what time did you decide to pay me a visit?”

Harry reached into his pocket and withdrew his wand. He swung it forward and cast a spell against the kitchen wall. It read, “Fifty-four degrees upon the Fahrenheight scale and a fair night for a broom ride.” Harry furrowed his brow and brought his arm back again to give the temporal spell another attempt. Wisely, Hermione lunged toward her boyfriend and took his wand out of his hand.

“No, Harry,” she scolded haughtily, “you're an Auror, for goodness' sake. You know better than to cast spells when your…” Hermione set the pilfered wand down on her table and studied Harry for a few seconds, “three sheets to the wind, by the looks of it.”

Harry dropped his head onto the plate he'd set in front of himself and groaned. “Ron's fault, the git,” he grunted, tapping his head twice on the stoneware and lifting it again. “That wizard can't hold his whiskey, you know?”

Hermione nodded. “Right,” she said. “Now let's get you into the living room where you can lie down. I know you didn't apparate in this condition, right?” She narrowed her eyes admonishingly, suppressing a desire to launch into a tirade at the carelessness of her two oldest acquaintances. Biting hard on her lip to keep from saying anything, Hermione led Harry to her sofa and guided him safely to a seat.

Looking at him now, she lost all momentum to scold as she recalled what the last week had been like for the poor wizard. Harry hated newspapers, hated being reminded of the war, and hated being called a hero, and this week had been a tyranny of all three. What elation she had felt upon realizing that her precarious research had actually panned out was now gone, and Hermione felt slightly ashamed that she hadn't tried harder to keep the Department of Magical Maladies from exploiting Harry in the way that they had done.

“Hey,” Harry said, sitting on the sofa and smiling childishly. “Want to fool around some?”

“Right, you're in top form, aren't you?” Hermione teased, amused by Harry's all but predictable single-mindedness. “You're all talk tonight, you are.”

“Want to bet?” Harry asked, patting the cushion beside him and grinning childishly.

Hermione shook her head. “No bets just yet, I want to be sure I'm right before putting down sickles.” She went into the kitchen and filled two glasses with water, leaning on the sink to give herself a moment to wake up. “I did this to him,” she thought, “not Ron. It's my fault that the Muggles are all running day and night news programs about him, and my fault that he has nowhere to hide among his own.”

She rubbed her fingers into her temples and tried to tell herself that it would be okay: that this will pass, and Harry will find a way to forgive her for whatever pain he is currently in. In the long run, she knew, he'd find that solace that he'd been seeking. It just had to be so.

“Here we are,” Hermione sang cheerfully as she joined her drowsy boyfriend on the sofa and handed him a glass. “Just what the medi-witch ordered.” She watched Harry crinkle his nose at the offering and set it down on the sofa table.

“Harry,” she said in a serious tone. “I'm sorry about all of this. I'm sorry it got published.” She lifted his chin and stared at a pair of blood-shot eyes through smudged glasses. “You've been miserable these past few days, and it's all my fault.”

Harry jerked his chin out of his girlfriend's hand and gave a huge yawn. “Right,” he said. “All your fault.” He patted his knee and smiled up at her again, saying, “Now, come here and you can make it all better.”

Hermione laughed, despite her guilty mood. “I wish I could,” she said, sitting back into the cushions of the sofa and smiling wistfully.

“Look,” Harry said. “It's not your fault, okay?” He patted his knee again and raised an eyebrow hopefully. When Hermione didn't take the bait he sighed and continued. “I would have been a royal git in any event because it's getting late in October,” he said looking up. “It's near Halloween, and I just hate when it's sunny out but the air is real cold, and that blackish blue that is always in the sky…”

Grabbing Harry's hand, Hermione let out a breath as comprehension dawned on her. Harry's parents. She noticed that he had opened his mouth again but she shushed him and handed him back his glass of water. Harry never spoke about his feelings surrounding his parents' murder, and she didn't think it'd be fair to let him go on, given his altered state. The week had been stressful enough for him, and Hermione didn't want awkward confessions to add to the pile.

“Can we fool around now?” Harry asked, coughing on the water that he'd taken in.

Hermione laughed. “Perhaps,” she said, “if you're a good little wizard and drink the rest of that water before I get back. She returned to her kitchen and prepared a plate of biscuits, hoping to sober her boyfriend up a bit and thinking that they could watch some television together. When she entered the living room, she found Harry to be sprawled out on the sofa with his eyes closed and breathing quite deeply.

“All talk,” she teased as she removed the sleeping wizard's glasses and rearranged his form into a more comfortable position.

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16. A Visit with Loved Ones

Chapter 16. A Visit with Loved Ones

At noon on the day following Harry's raucous visit with Ron, he was delighted to receive a yellow office note with a message from Hermione. She had been busy with exams and work lately, and Harry had seen very little of her - or at least he hadn't seen her as much as he wanted to. He had struggled all morning, but couldn't quite remember any details of his visit to her flat on the previous night and so he still felt as if it had been days since they'd last shared a meal, a conversation or a heated snog. It seemed, to Harry, that their new relationship was being mired somehow lately, and he was becoming terribly distracted with thoughts of his amazing girlfriend with all the separation he'd been forced to endure as October closed in on another school term for her.

Ron's diversion had done a fair bit of good, though, Harry reflected. A few of Harry's mates had made mention of fresh newspaper articles that morning but, in his new, good mood, Harry heard himself calmly answering questions about how they'd guessed that it was the London Seven who had sadistically murdered all of those poor people in the mall incident. He had even forced a laugh and a shy smile when the young witch at the building's security desk teased him about one of the pictures she'd seen published just that morning, calling him “Mr. Handsome”, to Harry's extreme embarrassment.

But as the morning had turned into noontime, anxiety had begun to creep slowly back in, and it was currently threatening to erase all of the good work that he and Ron had achieved. In an effort to keep the tension from taking hold, Harry had found himself once again to be scoping about for something to dip into that would derail his thoughts for at least a few hours. He rubbed Hermione's note between his thumb and forefinger and opened it, hoping to find just the diversion he was looking for. It was, he discovered, an invitation from Hermione to meet her that evening for a “romantic picnic”. The words lifted Harry's spirits considerably; Hermione wasn't prone to anything overtly romantic, and it would be interesting to see what she had conjured up for them this evening.

Harry smiled slightly as his brain imagined a rather saucy scenario which featured Hermione Flooing over to his flat wearing nothing but her dark gray cloak and carrying an overstuffed picnic basket. It almost hurt, how much he missed her, Harry thought as he envisioned himself drawing the scantily clad witch into a lavish kiss. A small bit of Harry's consciousness, however, managed to catch the date which had been scribed neatly on the top, right-hand corner of the office note. Harry's smile wilted as the numbers registered.

“October the Thirty-first,” it read.

“Right, today's Halloween,” he thought, feeling his spirits drop back down and he wondered why he hadn't realized this earlier. The sight or sound of that date had always cut straight through Harry, exposing the worst of his anguished memories. “Why would Hermione want to go out on Halloween?” Harry pondered this as he scribbled back an acceptance on his own light brown office memo pad and withdrew his wand to perform the Sending spell.

In her flat, Hermione paced back and forth in front of her fireplace, her eyes closed and her mind in an uproar. She had been positively seized in the middle of the night with what she thought had been a good idea to help Harry deal with his issues surrounding Halloween and all that it meant for him. Now, minutes away from their agreed upon meeting time, Hermione was more than having second thoughts; she was quite sure that she'd made a terrible mistake.

Hermione had taken up the idea that she needed to prod Harry gently into paying a visit to his parents. It had always struck her as unhealthy that Harry had never visited the graves where Mr. and Mrs. Potter were kept, and she'd long ago discovered that the anniversary of their deaths, Halloween, had become all but unbearable for her friend. He hadn't ever said anything until last night, but she and Ron had noticed Harry withdrawing into himself each year as the rest of the wizarding world flocked to bars and house parties to celebrate their day - a day to mock muggles a bit for having once caught on to the existence of magical people and creatures, and then promptly discarding the notion, owing it to superstition. Ron and his wife usually held a party of their own, and Hermione couldn't remember whether Harry had ever attended one of them.

Now that they were together, Hermione felt it was her responsibility to take care of Harry in ways that she'd never done before. Now, Hermione reasoned, that they shared such an intimacy, she would have to do everything in her power to protect Harry's spirit from the hauntings that were inevitably present, given his remarkable past.

So, an absurdly simple idea had formed. Hermione had decided to assemble a scrapbook - filled with pictures and stories of Harry's life as well as trinkets and art effects that she'd stuffed away in her Hogwarts trunk from her days as Harry's helper and confidante. She wanted to take Harry to a graveyard just outside of Godrick's Hollow, where she had discovered many years ago that the Potters had been buried. She wanted to look through the scrapbook with Harry, in the presence of his parents' remains, in order to force a kind of reckoning within him. She desperately wanted Harry to come to terms with his own actions, and to see himself just once in the way everyone else in the wizarding world saw him.

Now that the moment of truth was tortuously close, however, Hermione felt a terrible rush of insecurity. Insecurity, she scolded herself, brought about by a lifetime of overconfidence. Hermione stopped pacing and faced the fire. She reached into her dingy little tin of Floo powder and grabbed a handful, clutching a heavy satchel that she'd packed for the evening's goings on.

“Is this a loving gesture?” she asked herself, “or am I just being a controlling know-it-all?”

Closing her eyes, Hermione threw the powder into the fire. Harry was waiting for her, and whether right or wrong, she felt an underlying current of justification pushing her along. Harry did have wounds left to be healed, anyone could see that. It would be worth a try, wouldn't it? Hermione stepped into the flames and smiled bravely when she unfolded herself from Harry's fire. He had a slightly anxious look about him, but hugged her warmly once she'd gained her bearings in the living room.

“What's this?” Harry asked, pointing at the lumpy satchel Hermione had slung over her shoulder.

Hermione sucked in a deep breath. “You'll find out,” she said, and she grabbed Harry's elbow and drew her wand to lead Harry to their destination. The pair Apparated to an alleyway that was no wider than a small car's width and almost completely smothered in darkness. Harry, grabbed by instinct, quickly spun around with his wand drawn and his ears trained on the night, listening for signs of mischief.

“It's all right,” Hermione reassured softly. “I meant to bring us here.”

“Here?” asked Harry. “In the middle of a damp…alleyway?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“You want to have a picnic here?”

“Well, no, not exactly,” Hermione answered, trying to sound assured. “The picnic was sort of a farce. I thought we should have some comfort food and a glass of wine, though, before going to the place where I really want to take you.” Hermione lit the tip of her wand as she explained this to Harry, laughing at herself for not realizing the absurdity of picnicking in a gray, musty alley, just blocks away from a graveyard on Halloween. She was mad.

Harry's face held an expression that mirrored Hermione's own thoughts - he looked to be questioning for her mental welfare as well - as a blue sphere of wand light highlighted his features.

“Umm…” he muttered, “shall I pour us some wine, then?”

“Why yes! That'd be lovely!” Hermione said as cheerfully as she could manage, laughing at Harry's pretense of dignity in their grimy surroundings. “And would you care for some crackers and cheese?”

“Mmm, yes. Crackers and cheese are perfect for an alley picnic on this fine Halloween night,” Harry chuckled. “Thank you.”

He lit his own wand and placed it next to Hermione's to provide more light as he opened the wine that had been thoughtfully packed and poured it into two wineglasses. The alley felt much better now, lit by the combined power of Harry's and Hermione's wands, and Harry smiled at the effect. He looked around, studying the masonry blocks that made up the building walls and at the chipped and damp, black pavement beneath them.

“You know,” he said, “if you ignore the fact that it's cold out and that we're completely surrounded by concrete, you have to admit it is kind of cozy in here.”

He handed a glass of wine to Hermione and grabbed one of his own, sinking down into a sitting position and leaning up against the cold wall of one of the buildings. Hermione mimicked Harry's position and clinked her glass with his.

“To our first Halloween together,” she said.

Nerves were beginning to tighten in Hermione's abdomen. She felt a tenuous pressure building within her. It was guilt for bringing Harry to this strange place mixed in with a fair amount of apprehension for where she intended to take him after their bizarrely planned picnic. Here he was, trying to make the best of her arrangements, smiling and making toasts as if he trusted her, and Hermione's confidence was crumbling apart. What had she been thinking? Had she really thought that she could heal Harry's heartaches - here in this place, armed with nothing but a silly scrapbook?

They ate and drank in silence, except for a few of the polite exchanges that would normally accompany a meal. When the cheese had gone, and she and Harry had each finished off their glass of wine, Hermione carried on with putting her picnic supplies tediously back in the satchel and stood up, staring at Harry. He was still wearing a cautiously humored expression and was looking up at her from his sitting position - patiently waiting in a blue-grey sphere of wand light for his girlfriend to enlighten him on the evening's festivities.

“I suppose you want to know where we're going from here?” she asked.

“I have been wondering,” Harry replied, standing up and pointing his wand at each entrance to the alley. “Are we going trick-or treating or something like that?” he asked.

Hermione closed her eyes and checked her conscious one last time. “If this is a mistake,” she silently pleaded, “stop me now.” Harry squinted his eyes and waited for a response.

“No, Harry,” she said. “We're not going trick-or-treating.” She shrugged the satchel off of her shoulder and pulled out the large, orange scrapbook, pointing her wand light at it. “Harry, I made this...scrapbook. I used pictures and newspaper clippings and letters and such from over the years. I want to take it to your parents. They are buried a few blocks from here. I want to show it to them.” She paused and turned her head away before continuing in a careful tone. “I feel like they should know what their son has done with his life.”

Harry froze. In the space of a few seconds he felt his fingers go numb and the skin on his cheeks was suddenly as damp and cold as the alley pavement. He stood motionless for what seemed like minutes trying to find another way to interpret what his girlfriend - one of his oldest and closest companions and someone he trusted with his life - had just said to him. She brought him to his parents? To their graves? Never in a thousand Halloween evenings would Harry have ever thought that he'd have to face something like this.

Wind swept through the narrow alley and ruffled the scrapbook's pages lightly, and Harry remained frozen in place, neither moving nor thinking. All senses had abandoned him except for his hearing. He heard the light moan of the wind slapping against the concrete walls and he heard his heart pounding in his chest, strong and hard against his ribcage. A small whimpering sound was coming from the witch who stood next to him and Harry vaguely registered the noise.

“Harry,” it said, “I'm so sorry. Please….please let's just go back.”

But Harry couldn't move his mouth to answer. He couldn't force his brain to think about conversations. His body felt like a brick, useless and heavy, and his mind was stuck in some purgatory, somewhere between this stupid alley and the childhood home he could never quite remember. He closed his eyes and saw the bright green flash of light. He heard the screams of his mother and the emotionless cackle of his once-strong enemy. He felt a strong compression in his chest as his mind echoed the anguish of a young man realizing that he hadn't been able to save his own family. How that must have felt, Harry was thinking, to know that you've lost that fight…to realize that your baby was going to be murdered as blackness closed in on yourself.

“Harry,” Hermione pleaded again, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him gently. “This was a bad idea. Beyond bad. The worst in a long line of really bad ideas. We're not going to go there. Not tonight. Don't worry, just come with me, okay? Harry, I'm going to Apparate us back to my flat. I'm so sorry.”

Harry felt his head swaying forward and back as he felt strong hands pulling on his shoulders and the voice he'd been hearing finally broke his trance. The green light faded gently away and the cold numbness he'd been feeling turned to heat as a rush of shame swept over his body. Opening his eyes, he saw that Hermione was grabbing his arm now, obviously preparing for a side-along Apparition.

“No,” Harry croaked, feeling himself break out of the strange entrapments that he'd succumbed to, trying to sound less pathetic then he knew he must look. “No,” he repeated. Hermione broke down into sobs at the sound of his voice and Harry wrapped her up in his arms, taking the scrapbook from her as he did so.

“Shh,” he said. “I'm sorry. You're probably right about going there tonight. You're always right, Hermione. It's obvious I have some…issues.”

He waited for the sobbing to subside and then pulled the satchel toward himself and stuffed the scrapbook carefully inside of it. Hermione sniffed quietly while Harry wrapped his arm inside her elbow.

“Where to?” he asked.

“Harry…” Hermione began to protest, but Harry stopped her by squeezing her elbow in his strong arm.

“Where to?” he asked again, pointing his wand toward one of the alley entrances.

“It's this way,” Hermione whispered, pointing her own wand toward the north-facing entrance. “It's…just a few blocks from here.”

Harry allowed himself to be led down the alleyway, which turned out to be in a suburban shopping center at the top of a residential street. The moon was not full, but was bright enough to allow him to make out a large, tree-lined area ahead that was outlined with an ornate, black wrought iron fence.

“This must be their cemetery,” Harry thought. “Mum's and Dad's cemetery.”

He closed his eyes once again as he felt his legs stop their paces and Hermione's arm slip out of his grip. “Pull it together,” he told himself. “You've been in deadly fights more times than you can count. This is your parents. You have to face them.”

Harry squeezed his eyes tight as he fought the coldness that once again threatened to seize him up. He wished that he could conjure a Patronus to rid him of this dread, but knew that his silver stag would be of no use to him here. The Patronus charms were more or less for imagined horrors, not for real ones. Again, Harry heard Hermione's shaky voice followed by sniffles. He was breaking her heart, he thought. Hermione Granger was brave enough to pull bold stunts, and smart enough to realize when they were needed. But, Harry reflected, as he stood there paralyzed by his own ancient daemons, she had a fragile ego. And right now he was shattering it.

Reaching out to pull Hermione toward him, Harry opened his eyes to the dim night and focused on the witch before him. He let the sight of her glistening eyes push away the ghosts of his dead parents. He stroked her cheek and felt her hot tears under his index finger. She was real, and right there, and if he didn't do anything stupid, she would be with him for the rest of his life. There was no reason to fear a graveyard anymore - no reason to fill up with anxiety on the last day of October every year. His parents were gone, and they died in the most horrific manner, but he didn't have to pretend it hadn't happened anymore.

“I love you. You know that, right?” he said softly.

Hermione sobbed again and Harry laughed. “Not quite the reaction I wanted to hear, but…” He leaned forward and kissed her, letting out a moan. His emotions were being amplified one-hundredfold and he felt suddenly as overcome with love for the witch he held in his arms as he had been with dread just moments before. The couple shared a long and intense kiss, standing in the middle of the pavement next to the alley that Hermione had Apparated them to. After a few minutes, Hermione grabbed Harry's hand, budged up her satchel once more, and led him down the street toward the iron-lined cemetery.

They searched the graveyard by wand light, separating to cover the vast grassy area. Hermione walked quickly in a stooped position, reading the carved names out loud as she passed each stone and she could hear Harry rustling about at the far end of the cemetery. He seemed to be taking the search as somewhat of an adventure now, she thought, though she had expected him to turn away when they entered the gates, based on his earlier reactions. Hermione had known that Harry's sorrows ran deep, when it came to his family and his childhood, but she certainly hadn't expected him to suffer a breakdown. Harry Potter had been through so much. She had seen him pull through every sort of situation imaginable, and he rarely ever let emotions get the better of him.

She kicked a large rock out of her way as she turned toward a new row of gravestones: still furious with herself even if it seemed that Harry had forgiven her. Would she ever learn not to overstep her bounds? Hermione sorted through her tired old List of Things to Improve and felt her mind drift back into the familiar debates as she sought to fit “Stop interfering in Harry's life” on it.

“Hermione!” Harry called from across the cemetery plot. “I think I've found it.”

Hermione shivered. Harry didn't sound excited, nor did he sound distraught. To her ears, he just sounded…resigned. She held her lit wand out in front of her and approached the large, rectangular stone that Harry had found.

Reading the names out loud, Hermione lowered her wand and dropped to sit Indian-style in front of the etched granite.

“I wonder who picked out the stone,” she said quietly, not sure why such a question had bothered to surface.

“Don't know,” Harry replied. He sat down next to Hermione and adjusted his glasses, staring at the names before him. Hermione set her satchel between herself and Harry and once again pulled out the scrapbook. She looked over at Harry, who gave her a nod and an embarrassed grin.

“I can't believe we're doing this,” he said.

“Shush,” Hermione answered, pretending to be annoyed. “Don't mock my idea of a hot date in front of the dead. It's bad luck.”

Harry chuckled.

“Mr. and Mrs. Potter,” Hermione began, “I'm Hermione Granger. I'm a friend of your son's. Well, I'm his latest conquest, to be honest…in a romantic sense, that is.”

Harry nudged her, and Hermione giggled. “People laugh at the strangest things sometimes,” she thought. How on Earth the two found humor in the situation she'd plunked them into, she could never hope to understand.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I thought it was time that you got to know what became of your little Harry.” Hermione's voice caught deep in her throat. The mental image of an infant Harry sobered her instantly, and she felt tears forming in her eyes once again. After a moment's pause, Hermione strengthened her resolve and began to tell Harry's story to the cold wind that had been whipping softly through the cemetery. She began with what she knew of Harry's childhood at the Dursley's, and ended with Harry's heroic slaying of his parents' killer. She cried steadily throughout the telling, and felt utterly spent as she described how she and Ron watched Harry drive Gryffindor's sword through Voldemort's crusty heart.

Harry listened quietly as Hermione flipped through the linen pages of her scrapbook. If he was breathing, she certainly couldn't hear it, but at least his eyes were open and he didn't look as if he was in the middle of some sort of fit. Sitting in silence now next to Harry, she felt her hair tickle her face and held it back with her hands. Astonishingly, on this dreary night, in the midst of all this drama that she had created, Hermione felt remarkably contented: a realization that made her practically vomit with guilt. She had broken Harry, she knew it. But, he sat next to her with the face of an angel - a baby, really - staring at a white headstone and moving his fingers across the deeply etched names, entranced.

Hermione's hair whipped around again in the wind and covered her face completely. She grabbed it to make a part in the curtain of wavy brown strands and peered at Harry, following his line of sight. With his index finger, he was tracing the “P” in the ornately carved “Potter” over and over again. She watched for a few moments, thinking that this was one of the most intimate gestures she had ever seen, and fresh tears began to spill from her eyes. Harry was too drained to hide his feelings at this point, and she could practically feel the turbid emotions stirring around within him.

As she watched Harry's index finger move from the “P” to the “O” and on to the other letters of the only thing that seemed left of his mum and dad, their famous name, it dawned on Hermione why she felt so inappropriately contented. “He said he loves me,” she remembered. How had that occurred? How had he said it? She couldn't even recall whether it had been whispered or shouted, but it was said, this she now knew with a certainty.

“Harry loves me,” Hermione repeated to herself. She felt numb. Stretching forward, she reached a hand out and joined her index finger with Harry's, tracing the name with him, and Harry looked over at her for the first time since they'd sat down at the grave site.

“Mr. and Mrs. Potter,” Hermione said, addressing the tomb stone, “I don't want you to worry about your son anymore.” She grabbed Harry's hand and, as he'd done for her on several occasions, she brought it up to her lips and kissed his palm warmly. “I'll look out for him, and keep him in line.” She smiled and gave Harry a quick wink. “I'll love him enough for both of you now.”

Harry lingered at the grave for a little while longer, not speaking to the stone nor to Hermione, but soaking in the sensations and feelings, trying to let in all the healing that wanted to take place within him. He rose up and gestured for Hermione to take his arm, Apparating them back to her flat where he led her directly into the bedroom. They were too tired to discuss it, but Harry knew it would be alright. He thanked her sincerely, hoping to relieve any guilt she might feel over bringing him to his parents' lying place, and told her again that he loved her. He kissed her, undressed her, and…eventually…decided to leave her alone to get some sleep.

“Mmm, that was fun,” Hermione sighed as Harry prepared himself to Apparate, snuggling into her pillow and closing her eyes. “I like the adult-rated bits.”

Harry laughed. “Me too. Now get some sleep, there'll be more trouble for you to conjure in the morning,” he said, and then he Summoned and extra blanket from Hermione's couch, using it as an extra layer to tuck his girlfriend in with before he Apparated home to his own flat.

He lay in his bed for hours, unable to fall asleep, and not really wanting to. For as long as Harry could remember, he had been pretending that the day didn't exist - that October thirtieth would just slip right into November first - just because he wasn't a strong enough wizard to bear the anniversary of his parents' death. His mum and dad, their sacrifice, their struggles and their heartache: he'd pushed them all out of his conscience. His own life and the demands on him, the ominous expectations and prophesies: these were all he had been able to handle.

And so, Harry concluded in his bedroom in the early hours of November first, he'd played the part of a coward for well over two decades. What kind of wizard…what kind of man fails to honor his parents' memory as he'd done? Harry had always carried a heady dose of shame around with him regarding his parents' sacrifice and tonight he realized, staring at their names, that this was why he hated the occasion of Halloween more than anything else. It brought on unpleasant memories, and reminded him of what he'd lost, what he'd been deprived of…sure. But more than all of that, it was shame that drove him to hide from the wizarding world each year. He felt shameful for not remembering his own mum and dad, for not speaking about them often enough, and for not honoring them as he should have.

Tonight, however, had brought extraordinary changes within Harry. He was in love with Hermione Granger, an intellectual and a fighter and a true friend all rolled into one deliciously beautiful - if even a bit quirky - witch. Harry trusted Hermione's judgment and she seemed to believe that he had not neglected, but had indeed honored Lilly and James Potter. As she pointed at old moving pictures and spun the story of his life, sitting there on the grass, Harry realized for the first time how it all sounded. It sounded…honorable. It sounded like something a mother and a father would be proud of. Harry had waited for the familiar wrench of shame to grip him, but it hadn't come. Not there among the graves, not with Hermione next to him speaking calmly about a brave young man, and the end of the foul dark wizard who had sent his parents to that very place just when their lives had held such promise.

A portion of his life, Harry thought, did begin the moment he had set foot in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry at age eleven. But the rest of it - the part of his life that was meant to be shared with others - was irrevocably set in motion on this cold Halloween night, beside his best friend of fifteen years and girlfriend of only a few weeks, and among the spirits of his parents and the ghosts of his past.

He didn't want to feel the grief anymore. Sitting there with his girlfriend, Harry wanted freedom to be what she needed him to be. And so he had allowed himself to feel relief, and to forgive himself for not having parents to love. He had let himself breathe in the cold October air and let the Halloween night fill him up, closing his eyes and pretending to feel the souls of his long-dead parents. Harry's eyes finally slid closed and he relaxed into sleep, wrenched from the emotional journey he'd been on but, even more strongly, satiated in an overwhelming sense of closure.

The End.

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