Disclaimer: Don't own them. Trust me, you'd know it if I did! (Mutters Litigatum Nullenvoidicus spell, just in case.)
Spoilers: None. This story was completed before the release of Deathly Hallows. As I am unwilling to rewrite the story in order to make it canon-compliant, it must be considered AU. **shrugs** I prefer my universe anyway.
Summary: Harry makes an accidental discovery that throws his world - and his hormones - into a tailspin.
A/N: This fluffy little plot bunny hopped into my creative consciousness after I beta'd an SS/HG Exchange fic for a friend who used a charming affectation with our favorite heroine. That charming affectation got me thinking, and this is the result. Thanks, luv!!
Thanks: To Bambu, who's held my hand lo these many years and without whom I probably wouldn't have continued to write. She's the vocabulary constabulary, the grammar guru and the plot hole police all rolled into one. But more than that, she's my very dear friend. Love and hugs!
For Harmony_Bites, who shamelessly whinged.
^O-O^ ^O-O^ ^O-O^
Saturday, March 1
Harry Potter was feeling no pain.
Comfortably slouched in the corner of the Victorian sofa, trainers kicked off and feet propped up on the glass-topped coffee table, he nursed a firewhiskey and grinned as he watched his friends and putative family raucously celebrate the occasion of Ron Weasley's twenty-fifth birthday.
When the twins, Fred and George, had approached him regarding a party to celebrate their baby brother hitting the quarter-century mark, Harry had been all too willing to aid in pulling off the surprise. They'd volunteered the use of their newly acquired, overly large and ridiculously expensive house in London's Belgravia neighborhood and had asked Harry to not only make sure that the birthday boy arrived safely at his own party but also to provide a guest list including absolutely everyone Ron knew. Harry had felt a bit guilty at the lengthy list he'd presented to them, but they'd brushed his apologies aside and added more names, including distant relatives, people only rumored to be relatives, and as many former Gryffindors as they could locate. They'd even invited Nearly Headless Nick, who'd declared the festivities more sporting than the Headless Hunt.
The house itself was large: eight bedrooms, three reception rooms, a kitchen, a library and six bathrooms, all spread over six stories. Harry couldn't even begin to imagine what Fred and George paid for it … at least several million Muggle pounds, in his estimation. Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes had prospered post-war, far better than anyone had ever dreamed, with four shops throughout Britain and one slated to open in France in the fall. Because of their meteoric success, the debonair duo were also the talk of the society pages, and Harry had no doubt that news of the outrageous party would be front page fodder in the morning edition of the Daily Prophet.
Of course, while the twins may have grown up, the jury was still out on whether they'd actually matured. The well-appointed reception room with its traditional furnishings was dotted with performers and magical gadgetry which leant the room a carnival atmosphere. In one corner were actors in period costumes performing skits that told the tale of wizarding history. One wall was lined with games of chance designed to test both skill and luck. Strolling musicians serenaded party guests while a fountain, from which flowed a beverage of dubious nature, sat in the courtyard just beyond the French doors.
Harry viewed it all with a bit of the same wonder with which he'd viewed Diagon Alley the first time he'd experienced it.
He was just contemplating whether to try his hand at a game of Hex the Gnome when he suddenly felt the cushions shift as Seamus Finnegan flopped down beside him, bumping his elbow and sloshing his drink out over the rim of his glass and into his lap.
"Sorry 'bout that, 'Arry!" The now-burly Irishman tossed him an apologetic grin as he settled in, balancing his own mug of ale precariously on his knee. "Great party, eh?"
Harry nodded as he wiggled his fingers, vanishing the wet spot from his jeans. "Ron seems to be enjoying himself."
Both men turned their attention to the guest of honor, who was perched on a stool in the center of the room, chugging a glass of something green and suspiciously smoking to a chorus of handclapping and the chant of "Ron! Ron! Ron!"
Off to the side, Harry saw his other best friend, Hermione Granger, standing with Ron's oldest brother, Bill, watching the proceedings. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she was frowning disapprovingly until Bill leaned down and whispered something in her ear which caused her to roll her eyes, elbow him in the ribs and smile before walking away. Harry chuckled to himself. Hermione had never been much for wild parties.
"Aye. Don't imagine 'e'll remember 'ow good a time 'e's 'ad, though, not if those brothers o' 'is keep plying 'im with that nasty concoction of theirs."
"No, I don't imagine he will." Harry had wisely passed on trying the twins' latest venture into brewing, having been on the receiving end of their trial inventions one too many times.
His grin widened as Hermione made her way toward him through the crowd and perched on the arm of the sofa. She held his gaze for a moment before shaking her head. "You're completely pissed, aren't you?"
"Language, Miss Granger," Harry scolded with a smirk.
"Be glad that's all I've said."
"For your information, I am not drunk. I'm just not sober."
Ron's loud laughter made Hermione cringe. "Ron is beyond drunk, however. It'll be fun getting him home." Her nose wrinkled in distaste.
"That's right - it's your turn, isn't it?" Harry cooed. "Don't look so put out. If I recall, it was your brilliant idea to trade off drunken Ron duties."
"It seemed fair at the time. You were always getting stuck with him."
"Reconsidering?"
"Would it do me any good?" she asked with a quirk of an eyebrow.
"Not hardly."
"In that case, then no … at least I have my wand."
Seamus chuckled. "'Ermione Granger and 'er wand - poor Ronnie doesna stand a chance!"
"Hey! I can be compassionate!" Hermione glared at her former housemate.
"Of course, you can," soothed Harry, "when someone actually deserves your sympathy. I don't think Ron qualifies." All three flinched as Ron chugged another glass of smoking brew. "Speaking of sympathy, what happened to your … uh … date?"
Hermione sighed and scanned the room, craning her neck as she searched for the young wizard from Borage and Goshawk Publishers who'd finagled an invitation to accompany her. "I have no idea. He said he was going to get something to eat, but that was over half an hour ago. Maybe he found someone to talk to."
"Maybe he realized he was out of his element and went home."
"Harry!" She reached over and smacked him lightly on the back of the head.
"Ow!" Harry rubbed the spot she'd hit. "Sorry, Hermione, but could you possibly have picked anyone more wrong for you?" He tried to actually sound apologetic, but knew he failed miserably.
"That's what you always say. I've become immune to your criticism."
"I always say it because it's always true." Harry looked into his glass. "You're crap at picking men," he muttered as he lifted it to his lips and took a drink.
"Says the man whose longest relationship with a female is with his owl."
Seamus guffawed and Harry glared daggers at him before turning back to Hermione. "Can I help it if women want to date Harry Potter and not just Harry?"
"Poor baby. Being Witch Weekly's Most Eligible Bachelor for the fourth year running must be a horrible burden," she teased.
Harry scowled darkly. "You aren't going to let me forget that, are you?"
"Are you mad? I told you years ago that you were fanciable … you could have any witch you want."
"Maybe I don't want just any witch. And we weren't talking about me. We were talking about you … you and Paul."
"I know I'm going to regret asking this, but just what is wrong with Paul?"
"He's boring, for starters."
"He's not boring," she huffed. "He's extremely well-educated."
"'E's a bit awkward, too." Seamus added. "Doesna seem too sure of hisself."
"He has lousy table manners," a different voice added. Hermione and Harry both jumped as George stuck his head between theirs from behind the sofa. "I didn't think anyone could decimate a meal like our dear birthday boy until I saw your young paramour tucking in." George gave an exaggerated shudder.
"And he spits when he talks," added Fred, appearing on Hermione's other side. "Got my new jacket, he did." He pointed to a dubious looking spot on the lapel of the lime green suit coat he wore.
"Has anyone mentioned he's boring?" asked George.
Harry raised his hand. "Already covered that one."
"Good man!" George clapped him on the shoulder.
Hermione rolled her eyes and rose from her perch on the sofa. "All right … enough. I get the point. For your information, I was planning on letting him down gently when the evening was over anyway."
Fred's expression hardened, and he grabbed her shoulders, turning her from behind until she faced toward the door. "I don't think that will be necessary, luv."
Harry's eyes followed where Fred was directing, and his fist clenched when he saw the unfortunate subject of their conversation with his lips fastened to the neck of a tall blonde in a barely-there dress. A moment later, the two walked arm-in-arm out the door.
Hermione sank back down on the arm of the sofa. "Oh, well. He was a bit boring at that, wasn't he?"
While Harry was glad the git had showed his true colors early, before Hermione had invested herself emotionally in the potential relationship, he couldn't ignore the disappointment in her voice. Handing his glass to Seamus, he slipped one arm under her knees and the other around her back and pulled her onto his lap. She didn't say a word, but instead snuggled down into his embrace, tucking her head under his chin and sighing.
"I'm sorry," Harry whispered as he rubbed soothing circles on her back.
The twins each gave her shoulder a supportive squeeze and kissed her cheek before they moved off to play hosts. She remained silent for a few moments, then held her hand out toward Seamus in a mute plea for Harry's glass. She downed half the contents before she handed it back and sat up.
"It's all right, Harry. Truth is, I'm not terribly disappointed. I only brought him because he was very persistent and I didn't want to hurt his feelings." She took the hand that rested in her lap and began to play with his fingers. "I think it was more the idea of him, you know, instead of Paul himself."
"He's an idiot."
"No more than me." She laced her fingers with his and gave his hand a squeeze before releasing him and pushing upright off his lap. With a quirky smile, she said, "I think I'm gonna go talk to Luna for a while. I'll see you later."
Harry watched her cross the room as Seamus observed, "She's one 'ell of a lass."
"That she is … that she is." Harry glanced down when Seamus bumped his arm, offering him his glass back. "She drank half my drink, too, the wench." Shaking his head - and immediately regretting it when his own vision doubled - Harry looked back at Seamus and asked, "So, who do you think will take the Quidditch Cup this year?"
Seamus smirked, instantly warming to the subject. "Oh, Puddlemere's a shoe-in if Wood can 'old 'is team together. O' course, since Ron's taken over North's job, the Cannons could possibly give 'em a run for their money."
Harry took a sip of his firewhiskey. "Ron's been grumbling for weeks about the mess North left behind when he quit."
"Well 'e should! That man was one o' the worst managers I've ever seen. I've no idea why th' powers that be didna scuttle 'is arse years ago, but if anyone can pick up th' pieces and make a competitive team out o' them, it's Weasley."
Harry smiled. Ron had taken a coveted position with his beloved Cannons on the coaching staff, and within a week had threatened to resign over the belligerence and inefficiency that was Manager North. After North's own resignation, when the team owners had asked Ron what he would do differently, Ron had outlined a major revision plan and strategic changes which convinced the owners that it was in their best interest to give him complete control of the team, making him the youngest manager in Quidditch history.
As a Quidditch journalist for the Daily Prophet, Seamus had personally reported all of it to an enthralled wizarding world, eager for any and all tidbits pertaining to their war heroes, dutifully embellishing it with his own Gryffindor-style spin for maximum circulation.
"I 'ave tickets to the next Wasps match, but I'll be off coverin' th' sign-ups. You want 'em? They're press box, so you won't be in th' general admission stands."
"Sure!" Since defeating the Dark Lord on the eve of his eighteenth birthday, Harry had done his best to keep a low profile, emerging into the public eye only when absolutely necessary. His friends had respected and supported his out-of-the-limelight inclinations and made every effort to help him maintain his privacy.
"I'll 'ave the editor's secretary owl 'em to you. It should be a good match. Ellerton is finally off th' injury list, so it'll be interestin' to see if 'is Seeker skills 'ave suffered while 'e's been layin' about. And Brocklehurst 'as … "
Harry had been watching Ron fall off the stool amidst wild cheering while listening to Seamus. But as Seamus' voice trailed off mid-sentence and no further conversation seemed to be forthcoming, Harry focused his attention back on the man beside him. Seamus' glassy-from-alcohol eyes were wide and his jaw hung slack as he stared, mesmerized, across the room. Harry tried to follow his line of vision, but all he saw was Hermione, standing with her back facing them while talking to a surprisingly normally dressed Luna Lovegood.
Harry glanced back at Seamus again, whose jaw was working but no sound was coming out. Puzzled, Harry looked again, trying to figure out what had stunned Seamus speechless. Still seeing nothing but the two women engaged in conversation, he became alarmed - maybe Seamus was having some sort of seizure. He reached over and gave the other man's shoulder a rough shake. "Seamus? Seamus!"
"By all that's 'oly, 'Arry! Did you see it?"
"What are you on about? Are you all right?"
Seamus continued to stare. "I never woulda believed it if I 'adna seen it with me own eyes."
"Seen what?" Harry was getting exasperated.
"Look … there it is agin." Seamus pointed, wonder evident in his whispered command.
Harry's gaze snapped to where Seamus was pointing, only to see Hermione with her foot propped up on a chair, retying her shoe. He was about to make a snide remark about Seamus leering at Hermione's backside and putting his eyes back in their sockets before Hermione did it for him when he saw … it.
What Seamus had been pointing at … the thing that had the usually talkative Irishman completely gobsmacked.
Harry's mouth went dry.
For there, just peeking out between the hem of her shirt, which had ridden up when she bent over, and the waistband of her low-riding jeans, which pulled tight across the curves of her bum and drew the waist lower to reveal a bare expanse of back, was the colorful tip of what appeared to be a ...
Was that … was that … a tattoo?!
Hermione had a tattoo!
Eyes riveted to Hermione's lower back, Harry found himself instantly sober … and straight-away confused as something akin to sexual awareness skittered along his spine. As she stood upright and tugged her shirt back into place, Harry did a mental double check to make sure that this was indeed Hermione.
Uncooperative hair spelled into a neat chignon … check.
Sapphire ring from her parents on her right hand … check.
Lighthearted tinkle of laughter that Harry didn't get to hear nearly enough of … check.
He was startled from his mental inventory when Seamus finally spoke. "A blessin' from 'eaven, that was, 'Arry, me friend. Who'da thought our saintly Miss Granger would be sportin' such a glorious work o' body art?" His voice held a reverential awe that hinted at his having just had a profound spiritual experience. Harry wasn't amused, however, and he was just about to tell Seamus that he didn't care for the Irishman's tone when Seamus turned to him and asked accusingly, "'Ow is it that you never shared that tidbit o' information with the rest o' your dorm mates?"
Harry paused. He hadn't told them because he hadn't known, but he wasn't about to admit that.
"Do you seriously think I'd share my best friend's secrets with the likes of you, Finnegan?"
Seamus sighed heavily and glanced back in Hermione's direction. "Aye, I suppose you three wouldna, at that. Ah, well. Dunna worry, mate. Your … her secret's safe wi' me." He then looked morosely into his empty mug. "Ah, time for a refill." He slapped Harry on the knee and stood, swaying slightly as he looked back down. "Can I bring you 'nother?"
Harry shook his head. "No, thanks. I'm fine."
With a nod, Seamus stumbled off to the bar, leaving Harry to stew in his own thoughts.
But Harry had lied … he wasn't fine.
Hermione had a tattoo.
Questions rose unbidden. When had she gotten it? Whatever possessed her to do it? Had she been drunk? Had it been a dare? Did she have more than one? And why hadn't she told him? Harry forced himself to remain seated and not charge across the room to confront her. In truth, he was more than shocked - he was hurt that Hermione, his best friend and the one person who knew him better than he even knew himself, would do something like that without telling him.
He was also inexplicably and frighteningly aroused.
The tightening of his trousers at the recollection of the oranges, yellows and reds that just hovered at the top of her denims had him grabbing a pillow to cover his lap as he dropped his feet to the floor and slammed his glass onto the table. Cursing, he ran his hand back through his hair as he attempted to conjure unpleasant images to counteract the ache of desire.
He was obviously drunker than he thought.
Yes … the alcohol. That had to be it.
But even though he'd managed to momentarily justify the arousal he felt, he couldn't shake the hurt at being left out. Since the summer after their sixth year when they'd gone off on their own to hunt for the Horcruxes and eventually defeat Voldemort, he and Ron and Hermione had grown closer than they'd ever imagined possible. Living together while 'on the run' and learning to survive together had forged a bond which many envied and few ever attained. The need to depend on each other and trust each other completely had broken down all barriers between them, and there wasn't anything about him that Ron and Hermione didn't know. Even to this day, years later, there were no secrets between them.
Or so he had thought.
Loud laughter drew his attention back to the party and he watched as Hermione stepped to Ron's side, undoubtedly to convince him to go easy on the drink. As she put her arm around his waist, steadying him where he stood, another even more disturbing thought occurred to him.
What if he was the only one who didn't know?
Ron and Hermione had been close in one way that he and Hermione hadn't - after Voldemort's defeat, they'd attempted to have a romantic relationship. However, they'd discovered that, once the immediacy of defeating a Dark wizard had been eliminated, they didn't have too much in common and had regressed to bickering over every little thing. It hadn't taken them long to agree that they made better friends than lovers, yet there'd remained a certain level of intimacy between the two that Harry and Hermione didn't share.
What if Ron knew about the tattoo and he didn't?
The idea bothered Harry far more than he was willing to admit, and he wasn't in the mood to examine his feelings on the matter too closely. He was perfectly content to wallow in his fit of pique, feeding the hurt while watching his two best friends make their way across the room in his direction.
Maybe Ron had gone with her when she'd had it done!
He thumped the pillow with his fist, refusing to even contemplate the twisting in his guts at that notion.
"H-here he is! My bes-s-s-test mate, Harry, mate!"
Ron tripped over his own feet and fell out of Hermione's grasp, landing on the sofa and Harry's left hip simultaneously. "Look, Hermi-hic-Herminny, it's Harry! Ooooo … he looks broooooody again."
"Geroff me!"
Hermione reached down and grabbed Ron's arm, trying to help him sit up. "I'm sorry, Harry. I was just bringing him over to say goodbye."
"Whaddya mean, g'bye? The party's jus' startin'!" Ron's words were slurred, the sibilant consonants in his speech making him sound like Nagini. "Lookee what I got," he whispered conspiratorially, waving a glass of something under Harry's nose. "Te-hic-quila. And I got the worm. Been tryin' to talk to it." He shoved the glass in Harry's direction. "'Ere … you try."
"Ron …"
"Go on. Tell him I'm not gonna drink him."
Feeling more than little ridiculous, Harry took the glass from Ron, then muttered something quickly in Parseltongue at the worm. He looked up to find Ron grinning madly and Hermione staring at him wide-eyed, an unreadable expression on her flushed face. Before he could ask her what was wrong, Ron snatched the glass back from him and reached in to pet the unmoving worm.
"Thanks. I think you made 'im happy. Shall we try to find 'im a mate?"
It was Hermione's turn to grab the glass. "Oh, no. The party's over for you, birthday boy. You've had quite enough. Even your brothers agree. Time to go home and sleep it off."
"Tell her she's nutters, 'Arry!" Ron's head flopped onto Harry's thigh.
"You want some help? I know it's your turn and all, but he can be a real handful when he gets this bad." Harry looked up into Hermione's grateful brown eyes and the indignation he'd been harboring quickly dissipated.
"Like he isn't bad enough when he's sober! Thanks. I'd really appreciate it." She smiled at him, then rolled her eyes as Ron belched, green smoke drifting out between his parted lips.
"Right. Up we go, old man."
"Who's old?" Ron groused. "She's older than me."
"Perhaps, but I'm not stupid enough to call her old, am I?"
Ron just grunted, and Harry groaned as he lifted and Hermione pulled. They finally managed to get Ron on his feet, then Harry slipped his trainers back on and they each took an arm. The three carefully threaded their way through the drunken, dancing crowd, calling out their goodbyes and promises to get together again soon.
As they stepped out into the cold night air, Harry shivered. None of them had worn cloaks, each having lost outerwear at one of the twins' parties before. Harry could hear Hermione's teeth chattering, but instead of suggesting a Warming Charm, he did what he knew she would consider a chivalrous gesture. "Tell you what, Hermione. Why don't you just go on home and I'll take care of Jose Cuervo here."
"No, Harry. That hardly seems …"
"It's all right. You don't need to deal with this tonight. And I have my wand." He gave her a wink. "Besides, I'm not really comfortable doing a Tri-Side with him so drunk. As I said before, I'm not exactly sober myself."
"All the more reason for me …"
"Go on. I can handle it."
Hermione eyed him doubtfully over the top of Ron's bowed head. "Will you at least let me follow you to make sure you don't splinch yourself?"
"Thanks, Mum," Harry teased, "but I really don't think it'll be necessary."
Hermione glared at him, then slid the arm that she had around Ron's waist a little further until she could reach the wand sticking out of Harry's back pocket. "It's a wonder you don't snap this thing when you sit down."
Harry ignored the tingle he felt as Hermione's hand groped at his jeans. "Indestructibility Charms are beautiful things."
Hermione just sniffed as she poked the point of his wand into his ribs before sliding the wood between his body and Ron's so that he could grab it with his free hand. She then ducked out from underneath Ron's arm and turned their intoxicated friend so that she could wrap his arm around Harry's neck. "Are you sure you've got him?"
"Positive. Go home. Take a warm bath, curl up with Crooks, and get some sleep." Harry didn't wait for a reply. With a flick of his wrist and subtle twist of their bodies, he Apparated them to Ron's cottage beside the Burrow.
The cottage had been a compromise. After the threesome's year of living dangerously, Molly had insisted Ron move home where she could keep a maternal eye on him. But while Ron chafed at the idea of giving up his freedom, he didn't have the heart to deny his mother her wish. The cottage had actually been Hermione's idea, and Arthur had sold it to a reluctant Molly with the provision that Ron would take his meals with them but would be allowed to come and go as he pleased. It was a compromise well-suited to all involved.
Harry and Ron landed awkwardly, and Harry barely had time to get his bearings and gain his footing when Ron mumbled, "'M gonna be sick."
Harry immediately released him and tried to step out of the way, but Ron clung to him, causing Harry to stumble and sending both of them to the ground. Harry winced as his knees met the pavement and he fell forward onto his hands as Ron rolled clear. Then the stillness of the night was shattered by the awful sound of Ron retching.
Cursing himself for being so damned noble and sending Hermione home, Harry haltingly crawled to Ron's side and held him up until the heaving subsided. A quick but thorough Scourgify cleaned up all the evidence of Ron's distress, and Harry decided that the most efficient way of getting his friend into the house and into bed was magical.
As he levitated the semi-comatose man in the door and up the stairs, Harry wondered again how much Ron knew about Hermione's secret. Part of the reason he'd volunteered to bring Ron home himself, aside from the fact that he now felt incredibly awkward in Hermione's presence, was that he'd been hoping to ask Ron outright if he knew about the tattoo, but given the extent of Ron's inebriation and the nonsense he was currently spouting, Harry decided it would be a wasted effort. He toyed with the idea of using a Sobering Charm on the redhead, but he was tired and still a bit drunk himself, and realized that he shouldn't push his magical luck. Besides, he truly didn't think a Sobering Charm would do much good.
"My broth-hic-thers are evil."
As Harry tucked Ron into bed, Ron caught his hand and brought it to his cheek. "You're a good fr-friend, "Arry."
"So are you, Ron. Now go to sleep."
"I-I love you, you know that, donchoo?"
"I know." Harry tried to pull his hand away.
Ron was having none of it. He held on tightly, rubbing his cheek across Harry's knuckles. "You're the most best-est friend a bloke could as' for."
"Kiss me, Weasley, and I'll hex you."
"'Arry! You cold-'earted tosser!" And with that, Ron shoved his hand away, rolled over and drifted off to sleep, snoring loudly.
Harry wiped his hand on his jeans and stared at the sleeping man. Guilt for suspecting him to be an accomplice in keeping Hermione's secret warred with hurt that the two people he trusted most in the world might not trust him.
You don't know that, Potter. You could be over-reacting.
Hermione's body was Hermione's business, after all, but that acknowledgment didn't lessen the shock of having found out this way. It also didn't lessen his fear, as thinking about Hermione's body meant he was thinking about Hermione's body, which was something he'd never, ever done before and something he wasn't sure he wanted to do, although his own body didn't seem to have a problem with it.
Sleep. He needed sleep. Then he'd figure out how to handle the situation; how to find out what Ron knew and when he had known it.
With a nod of determination, Harry mentally wished Ron pleasant dreams and Apparated home.
Tuesday, March 4
"Oy, thanks again, Harry … that was a seriously wicked party!" Ron expressed his appreciation around a mouthful of steak and kidney pie. When Harry had owled him, asking if he'd wanted to meet for lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, he knew Ron would jump at the chance to indulge in Tom's specialty. "I was still hung over yesterday - thought I'd been hexed! Funny thing, though … I don't remember how I got home."
"No hangover potion?" Harry asked sympathetically.
Ron shook his head. "No, used that up after the last party." That had been another of the twins' infamous parties celebrating the opening of their beachfront shop in Brighton. "And I didn't want to ask Hermione to brew me any." Ron visibly shuddered. "She'd have given me that look of hers and I'd have ended up wishing I had been hexed instead."
Harry smiled at his friend's pained expression. "She'd have done it for you, though. And the lecture would have been a small price to pay. You know she only does it because she cares."
Ron looked doubtful.
"Anyway, I'm glad you had a good time, although I'm really not the one to thank. All I did was get you there. Your brothers did all the rest."
"Well, they did a smashing job of it, that's for sure." Ron stuffed another bite in his mouth. "It's a shame Ginny couldn't have been there, though."
Harry shifted uncomfortably. While he and the youngest Weasley had remained amicable despite his lack of interest in resuming their romantic relationship once the war was over, Ginny had taken to avoiding get-togethers where she knew Harry would be present. Harry had gone so far as to insist that he was the one who should step back and not intrude, but the rest of the Weasleys would hear none of it, declaring that, as an honorary Weasley, he had as much right to attend family events as she did. Ginny had recently moved to Paris, taking an internship in one of the French fashion houses, and she'd written home that she even had a French boyfriend, but that still didn't help matters. Harry suspected Molly harbored a secret hope that Harry would one day come to his senses and go after her little girl, declaring his undying devotion.
In truth, Harry felt nothing but brotherly concern for Ginny.
Ron looked up from his plate at the extended silence. "Oh, for Merlin's sake, Harry. Quit feeling guilty. I'm sorry I mentioned it."
"I can't help it. It's not right. It shouldn't be her or me."
"No, it shouldn't. But she's the one who made that choice, not us. Someday she'll realize that she's being silly and she'll come home. Until then, " he shrugged, "she's the one who's missing out."
Harry found he couldn't argue with that logic, even though it pained him to admit it.
Ron's eyes dropped and he inclined his head towards Harry's plate as he raised his spoon again. "You're not eating. Something bothering you?"
There was the opening that Harry had been waiting for. He'd asked Ron to lunch specifically to find out if he knew anything about Hermione's tattoo, yet after almost an hour of small talk in the noisy tavern he hadn't found a way to broach the subject. Now Ron had practically opened the door, and Harry still found the questions sticking in his throat.
"Well …"
"C'mon, out with it."
"It's … it's Hermione."
"Hermione? What about her?"
"Well," Harry hesitated. "Have you … have you noticed anything different about her lately?"
The redhead seemed to consider the question carefully. "No. No, can't say as I have. Why?"
Harry drew in a deep breath. "What I mean is … well … have you noticed … has she done …"
"Spit it out, would ya?"
"Has she been acting herself lately?"
Ron snorted. "Of course she has. Gave me a right brilliant lecture on my manners or lack thereof just last week. Used big words and everything." Ron put his spoon down and frowned. "Still not sure what a Neanderthal is. Why do you ask? Is Hermione in some kind of trouble?"
"Oh, no, nothing like that. At least, I don't think so. She's … I mean …"
Ron leaned closer, frustration coloring his tone. "Harry! Tell me!"
Harry suddenly wished they weren't in so public a place. Mimicking Ron, he leaned closer over the table and whispered, "I saw something the other night at the party. Well, actually, Seamus saw it first, the sodding pervert …"
"Harry!"
Ron's strangled shout drew the attention of several of the other patrons who were now eyeing the pair speculatively and whispering amongst themselves. Shaking his head, Harry threw his napkin on the table along with way too many Galleons and pushed his chair back. "Let's get out of here."
"But I haven't finished eating!" Ron's protest went unheeded, however, as Harry, cloak in hand, was already halfway across the tavern and heading for the door. "Bugger!" Ron muttered, tossing his own napkin on the table and hurrying to catch up.
Once outside, Harry strode purposefully down the crowded street to a small memorial park set up to honor the war dead. The weather was unusually warm for early March, and many people had chosen to forego lunch indoors to walk in the bright sunshine, but the bench for which Harry made a beeline was in a relatively secluded corner of the park and there was no one around to overhear them.
The bench shuddered as Ron dropped down beside him, panting. "Bloody hell, a man can't even finish his lunch. This had better be good!"
Without a second thought, Harry blurted out, "Hermione has a tattoo!"
He mentally counted the seconds ticking by, getting to eight before Ron sputtered, "A … a tattoo?"
Harry's relief was almost palpable. He hadn't been the only one not let in on the secret. While it made him feel immensely better that Ron hadn't known, the knowledge disappointingly did nothing to quiet the unease he'd felt since making the discovery. "Yes, a tattoo. On her lower back. Seamus and I both saw it when she bent over."
Ron's sudden burst of laughter shocked Harry and he stared at the other man in disbelief. "I'm sorry, Harry," he said between chuckles, "but this is what you're so worked up about?"
"Doesn't it surprise you?" Harry flushed, beginning to feel a bit foolish for overreacting.
"Yes and no." Ron drew a calming breath, then ran his hand back through his long fringe. "I never really considered Hermione getting a tattoo, but that's the point, isn't it?"
"That's exactly the point!" Harry jumped up and began to pace in front of the bench, his cloak snapping around his ankles. "It's not like her at all!"
"Of course it's not. That's why she did it."
Harry stopped in his tracks and turned to face Ron. "What do you mean?"
Ron rolled his eyes. "Think about it. All her life, Hermione's been praised for being smart. 'Brightest witch of her age,' isn't that what people called her? Whenever anyone has a problem, who do they turn to? Hermione. Who was the one who did all the research when we needed it? Hermione. Who corrected our homework and got us through school in one piece? Hermione. Maybe she's tired of always being the brilliant one. Did it ever occur to you that, just once, she'd like to be thought of as more than a bookworm?"
Harry resumed his pacing. "We know there's more to her than that!"
"Of course, we do! But that's you and me. Not the rest of the world, and certainly not Hermione herself. And would you quit billowing … you look like Snape!" Ron sighed as Harry sat down again, an angry frown on his face. "When we were … together … she often talked about how sometimes she wanted to be a normal girl. How she envied girls like Ginny who spoke their mind and played Quidditch, but were still girls. I wish I'd paid more attention when she said things like that. I'm ashamed to admit I usually tuned her out, which probably made things worse. But if you want my opinion, I think she just got tired of doing what was expected of her."
Harry slouched against the back of the bench.
"We're both guilty of it, Harry," Ron continued. "On those rare occasions when Hermione didn't act like herself, when she did things we didn't expect her to do, how did we react? Did we ever tell her she was brilliant then, or did we stare at her like she'd sprouted another head or something?"
Harry had no answer for that. He could certainly understand Hermione's desire to prove to everyone that she was more than what she appeared to be. He'd gone through that same struggle himself many times, and continued to do so. The public perception of him as an infallible superhuman hero kept others from seeing the real Harry - the Harry who was often afraid or who made mistakes … or who was lonely.
Ron leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. "Hermione might appreciate being recognized for her intelligence, but that doesn't mean she always likes being defined by it."
"When did you get to be so smart?" Harry groused.
"I'm a late bloomer." Ron sighed again. "What bothers you more, Harry … the fact that she got the tattoo in the first place or the fact that she didn't tell us about it?"
Harry crossed his arms over his chest and glared defiantly. "You're not upset that she didn't tell you?"
"Hermione's a grown woman who's perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She's proven that more than once." Ron gazed at the nearest statue, a sculpture of Mad-Eye Moody with his wand pointed skyward. "How many times did we do something we knew she wouldn't approve of?"
"I … I don't know. A few."
"And why did we keep it a secret?" Ron answered his own question. "Because we knew she wouldn't approve and we didn't want to have to listen to her lecture. Well, perhaps this is the same thing. Maybe she knew that you'd react this way and she didn't want to have to listen to you listing all the reasons why she shouldn't do it."
Feeling unjustly chastised, Harry scowled. "I wouldn't have criticized."
"Are you sure about that? I can honestly say I'm not sure that I wouldn't have tried to talk her out of it, if for no other reason than because I thought it was silly for her to have to prove anything to anybody."
Harry knew Ron was right. He'd have done the same thing for exactly the same reason. Hermione didn't have anything to prove, at least not to him.
"I wonder if it's magical or Muggle," Ron pondered.
Harry's eyebrows shot up. "I have no idea. What's the difference?"
"Magical tattoos are drawn onto the skin with a quill and enchanted ink, and then spelled to give them certain magical properties. Charlie's dragon swishes her tail and breathes fire. It's wicked! But he said it took him a while to get used to the burn. Now he barely notices it." Ron scratched his chin thoughtfully, the scritch of the stubble telling Harry that he'd neglected to shave. "'Course, I don't know how Muggle tattoos are applied."
Harry did. "Needles and ink." He remembered the summer after his sixth year, when he'd spent a few weeks at the Dursleys before heading to the Burrow for Bill and Fleur's wedding, Dudley had decided to get a tattoo. He'd gone behind his parents' backs, against their express wishes, and had it done with a few of his mates in some seedy shop in Soho. He'd nearly passed out. Of course, to hear him tell it, he hadn't felt a thing, but Harry had overheard two of his gang chuckling over the big bully crying like a baby and begging for the torture to end soon.
Harry didn't seriously think Hermione would put herself through that. "I'm sure it's magical," he said, more to reassure himself than Ron, who'd grimaced at the description of the Muggle technique. "Hermione's all witch, after all."
"I wonder if she'll let us see it," Ron asked, a wicked gleam in his eye. "You'd have to do the asking, though."
"Why me?"
"Because she'd do it for you. She'd do practically anything for you. Me she'd just hex and then step over me where I fell on her way out the door."
Harry flushed and laughed at Ron's statement, not sure if he really had the stones to ask her to bare her back for him.
Quickly changing the subject before Ron decided on a time and place for Harry to do the asking, he said, "Oh, I almost forgot … Seamus gave me tickets to the Wasps match. Want to go with me? You can do some professional scouting at the same time."
"I knew Finnegan was good for something!" Ron offered to meet Harry at his place, then stretched and gave his stomach a rub. "I think I'll head home and see if Mum has any leftovers, seeing as how my lunch was so rudely interrupted."
Harry gave his friend's shoulder an affectionate shove, then watched as the redhead Apparated away. While he was relieved that he wasn't the only one not sharing in Hermione's secret, he was still unsettled, although he couldn't put his finger on exactly why. Everything Ron had said had made sense, yet every time he thought of Hermione's tattoo, a strange tightening settled in his chest. Deciding to head back to work, Harry dismissed his thoughts as nonsense, and pushed Hermione and her tattoo from his conscious mind.
Yet Ron's words - She'd do it for you. She'd do practically anything for you. - echoed in his head long into the afternoon.
Wednesday, March 5
In truth, Ron's words played over and over in Harry's head for the rest of the day and well into the night. He hadn't slept well, tossing and turning until finally he'd risen before the sun, grabbed his trusty Firebolt and taken to the skies. He'd ignored the pre-dawn chill in the air, focusing instead on flying as fast as he could, pushing himself higher and higher into the clouds and then freefalling back to earth. It had been dangerous and exhilarating, yet it had given his mind and his emotions the momentary respite needed to keep him on an even keel.
But the respite had indeed been brief. Now he sat in his office, parchments scattered across his desk, staring out the window. He was irritated with himself, for he had little ability to concentrate on anything except Hermione and her mysterious tattoo, even though he knew that there were pressing matters which needed his attention. Cursing himself for his weakness, he was seriously considering committing his memories of the party to a Pensieve when his thoughts were interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. Before he could respond, Remus Lupin pushed the door open and strode into the office, a huge grin on his face.
"He did it, Harry! Hagrid did it!"
Remus thrust a parchment into Harry's hands and dropped into the guest chair across from the desk. "He says the Bylaws for the Giant's Council have been finalized and they're ready to proceed with setting up the election process."
"That was quick," Harry noted as he studied the report.
"The timeline's been accelerated by almost three weeks. That means, barring any complications, we could have a working council in place by the end of the year."
Harry tossed the report on the desk. "As if there was any doubt."
"You were right. Hagrid's an excellent motivator, and the giants definitely seem to have accepted him as an advocate for their best interests. Just imagine the precedent this is going to set! Once the other magical races see that we're really serious about establishing legitimate liaisons, they'll be eager to join."
"It'll also make it easier to pass the Tolerance Mandates if they can show a willingness to work with the Ministry."
"Exactly!" Remus leaned back in the chair and sighed. "Oh, Harry … I never thought I'd live to see the day …"
Given his diplomatic success with the werewolves and his popularity with the influential members of the new Ministry, along with his war hero status, Remus Lupin had been the natural choice to head the newly created Department of Magical Integration, a by-product of the Wizarding world's new era of post-war cooperation. The only requirement he'd insisted on prior to accepting the post had been that he be allowed to hand pick his staff, and his first choice for a second-in-command had been Harry. He'd reasoned that, since the idea of being an Auror and fighting Dark wizards no longer appealed to the war-weary Harry and he had no desire to pursue another profession, the Department of Magical Integration would give him a purpose - something to get him out of the house and give him a cause for which to fight.
Harry had been aware of Remus' motivations in offering him the position, as Remus had been fairly open and upfront with him. And honestly, Harry found that he greatly enjoyed his work. Every day was a new challenge, and while he found it ironic that wizards were more willing to accept magical beings and creatures than they were Muggle-borns, he considered it a step in the right direction. Plus, he'd never forget the look on Hermione's face, the light in her eyes, and the huge, just-for-Harry smile when he'd told her that his employment involved a passion of hers.
She'd told him she was proud of him. Somehow, that had made it even more worthwhile.
And instead of chafing at the idea of being taken under Remus' wing, he'd appreciated the gesture for what it was - the desire of one solitary family member to care for another. Now, years later, Harry was grateful that he'd been given an opportunity to make a real difference in the world he'd come to call his own.
Harry eyed the older man speculatively. While grayer than he'd been while teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, regular doses of an improved Wolfsbane potion had eased the progressive damage the lycanthropy inflicted on his body. He'd put on some weight, too, and had a ruddy color to his face. Even the sparkle in his eye, never dimmed but for once in the whole time Harry had known him, seemed to have grown brighter.
Harry thought Tonks had something to do with that, however.
"I told you so," Harry chastised him with a lopsided grin.
"Don't gloat too much, you young whelp!" Remus crossed one leg over the other, his hand drifting down to idly play with the hem of his trousers. "Have you heard anything out of Firenze?"
Harry shook his head. "No, but then I didn't really expect to. He's not exactly the type to check in. He'll report when he thinks it's necessary and not before."
"I don't envy him his goal. He has a long road ahead of him. Centaurs are a notoriously stubborn breed - and even more prejudiced than humans, if that's possible." Remus dropped his leg back to the floor. "Has Hermione found anything in the legal codes yet?"
At the mention of Hermione's name, Harry scowled and turned to stare out the window again. "No, but she still has three centuries of records to search through."
Remus' voice softened. "Well, if there's anything to find, Hermione will find it." When Harry didn't respond, he asked, "Are you all right, Harry? I noticed you've been a bit preoccupied the last couple of days."
Harry turned back to his friend and waved his hand dismissively. "I'm fine. Nothing that time won't cure."
"Are you sure? I know we've all been putting in long hours lately, but you've haven't taken any time off for at least a year. I think you're long past due for a holiday."
Harry sighed exasperatedly. "I don't need a holiday, Remus. Besides, I have a lot to do to get ready for the meeting with Count Vladislav next week. You know how sly vampires can be, and if I'm not fully prepared …"
"Even so, Harry, I think you can afford at least one afternoon for yourself. It might be beneficial for clearing your head."
"I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine. Really."
"All right, all right." Remus raised his hands in defeat. "But at least keep it in mind."
"I will."
Remus' eyes remained on his young counterpart for a moment before he nodded and stood to leave. "I have a meeting with Arthur in half an hour, but I'm free later, if there's anything you want to talk about."
"Thanks," Harry mumbled distractedly as he heard the door close.
Hermione.
He wished he could stop thinking about her.
She'd do practically anything for you.
He was so tired, although he wasn't about to admit that to Remus. Every time he'd closed his eyes he'd heard Ron's words …
Anything for you …
He needed to concentrate, needed to focus. He had work to do.
Anything for you …
Maybe … if he rested for just a minute …
She'd do practically anything for you …
Involuntarily, Harry's eyes drifted closed and his head sagged, his chin touching his chest.
Anything for you …
"Can I see it?"
"Harry?" She stood before him wearing the same clothes she'd worn to Ron's party … the same top … the same low-riding jeans. Her head was tilted in a familiar inquisitive way, and her big brown eyes held his questioningly.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and stuffed his shaking hands into his trouser pockets. "Your … tattoo. Can I see your tattoo?"
She hesitated, then her brilliant smile sucked all the air out of his lungs. "I was wondering if you were ever going to ask. Of course you can, Harry." His heart began to pound hard enough to break his ribs as her hands slid down her stomach. One hand paused to unbutton the button of her jeans while the other lifted her shirt. "But only you. Anything for you."
The magical memo appeared with a loud chime, hovering right beside his head. His eyes flew open and his head snapped up as his chair tilted backwards, almost sending him to the floor. He grabbed onto the desk to steady himself, releasing the breath he'd been holding, then he glared murderously at the intrusive memo. As his breathing slowed, rational thought kicked in and, with growing horror, he realized what it was he'd been doing.
He'd been fantasizing about Hermione.
More than that - it had promised to be an undeniably erotic fantasy, as evidenced by the ache in his groin.
Oh, bugger!
Angry at the unassuming memo for having interrupted what he suspected would have been a brilliant fantasy, and frustrated with himself for even indulging in it to begin with, Harry snatched the memo out of the air and crumbled it without even reading it. He then grabbed his cloak and stormed out of his office, informing the department secretary in clipped tones that she should tell Remus he would be gone for the rest of the morning. He then hurried to the lift, glaring daggers at anyone who greeted him, and made his escape to the outside world and the relative freedom that it promised.