Three Seasons to Closure by 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.




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.

-->



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 Chu**dl**e**y 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 w**ould be fun to catch a game of
Q**uidditch.*”

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 *D**usting*
charms, *V**anished* 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 *C**ushioning*
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**. A**nd 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.

-->



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.
“*W**itches*,” 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.

“*Y**ou 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, m**aybe
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.

-->



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 *C**ooling* 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.

“…*f**or 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 d**ate* 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*. “Ca**n'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.”

-->



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 wa**s 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 “*T**wenty 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.

-->



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
*H**ealing* 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.

-->



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 inciden**t,* 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.

-->



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
*V**anishing* 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 did**n't* *plan on doing anything physical…*” she
thought, adding “*l**ike 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. “*S**he 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 *S**courgify* 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.

-->



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 *d**o* 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 us**ed 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.

-->



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.

-->



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. “*…b**est 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 *S**courgify* 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.”

-->



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.
“*S**ensuous*?” 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.

-->



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
M**agical 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, “*t**his will due;* *I can feel like I've actually
accomp**lished something this week. And,* *I can feed this unrelenting obsession that
I've a**cquired 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,*

*M**uch 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 t**alk*, 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-fo**ur 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 an**d 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.

-->



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-f**irst*,” 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 *S**ending* 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, “*o**r 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 th**eir* *cemetery*,” Harry thought. “*Mum**'s*
*and Dad'**s cemete**ry*.”

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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