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Chapter title is credited to the late songwriter Eden Ahbez, from his song Nature Boy:
While we spoke of many things
Fools and kings
This he said to me:
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn
Is just to love and be loved in return."
Chapter 2: The Greatest Thing You'll Ever Learn
The days passed slowly for Harry, and he spent most of them in the back garden doing yard work. It had briefly crossed his mind to tell Aunt Petunia that her begonias were beyond saving, but truth be told he was grateful for the distraction. Since his meeting with Remus his head had been filled with questions, and a letter he had received a few days later had only added more.
14 July 1997
Dear Mr. Potter;
As we are quite sure you are aware you officially come of age in seventeen days time, 31 July 1997. Under normal circumstances a witch or wizard would not receive a letter such as this until the death of their parents, however we can all agree that your circumstances are far from normal. Therefore your presence is requested at the Gringott's Bank Diagon Alley branch at the most convenient date on or following 31 July 1997. We are aware that you are attending the reading of the will of A. Dumbledore (1881 - 1997) on 1 August. This meeting has been scheduled immediately following that event.
Sincerely
Vasa
Director of Hereditary Affairs
Gringott's International
Diagon Alley Branch
Why the Director of Hereditary Affairs wanted to speak with him was an ever-present question in Harry's mind, but he had no time to think right now; the hedges weren't going to trim themselves. Well they could, but making them do so would get him in very serious trouble, and trouble was something he tried to avoid as much as possible. As he trudged back into the house some time later, after completing the task, he faintly heard the doorbell ring. As was expected of him he went to answer it, however Dudley had beaten him to it. Dudley's impressive girth prevented Harry from actually seeing the caller for himself, but he assumed it was a girl judging by the way his cousin was leaning against the door jam.
"Please be looking for me." Harry rolled his eyes. Dudley's favourite way to hit on girls was to play the unfortunate loser who never got any attention from the opposite sex. It seemed to come naturally to him.
The voice that answered the large boy's clumsy come-ons nearly stopped Harry's heart. "Actually, I'm looking for Harry Potter." Hermione! Harry moved to rescue Dudley, knowing first hand that Hermione Granger's wrath was not something he would wish even on his worst enemy, but fate conspired against the youngest Dursley on this blistering July day.
"What do you want him for? I can do so much more for you." Dudley had grown angry now. He always got like that when something didn't go his way. Although, truthfully, how even his remarkable idiocy could imagine that such an attractive young woman would ever be seeking him out was more of a mystery.
"Oh, I don't doubt you can." Hermione's voice was dripping with a mock sweetness that would have made Umbridge proud. Harry could only imagine, with a cocktail of feelings that ranged from vindictiveness to masculine sympathy, the smug look on Dudley's piggish face transforming into a look of extreme pain as a swish and thud were heard and the bulky boy retreated upstairs, desperately trying to comfort his crushed testicles under his massive stomach, revealing the smiling Hermione Granger.
Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Harry was struck with his best friend's characteristic preparedness. Even when defending herself from the incompetently amorous attentions of Harry's cousin, she handled the situation with a level-headed grace that was, in its own peculiar way, beautiful.
It was far from the only such thing. Despite his own self-imposed ban on pursuing a deeper relationship with his very best friend, a promise formed on behalf of love-struck Ron, Harry knew in the depths of his being that he could never do any better. Hermione Jane Granger was an angel in faded blouse and jeans; undeniably intelligent, but also gentle and kind, with a wickedly sharp and subtle sense of humour that often went unappreciated even by those close to her. She was as direct a contrast to Ron Weasley as could be imagined. Honestly speaking, she was much more comparable to himself.
It was that last thought that made Harry immediately stop those thoughts. It wasn't fair to her, or to Ron, to put their friendship on the line just because he couldn't keep his hormones under control.
For his part, Harry noticed that he wasn't the only one with raging hormones; a momentary glazed look had appeared in Hermione's chocolaty brown eyes, which passed as soon as it had come. He remembered he had removed his shirt during his chore, and was slightly disappointed that she had been looking at him only with physical attraction on her mind. And, if people like Romilda Vane were any example, there was a lot to be attracted to; no longer that scrawny garden cane of an eleven year old he once was, years of hard manual labour had endowed Harry with an upper body that would, according to the always irreverent Weasley twins, soak a girl's knickers from a mile away.
"So how did you get here?" Harry asked, finally breaking the awkward silence and tearing Hermione's eyes away from the faint lines of his abdominal muscles.
She started at his voice, obviously having spaced out. "Oh…I uh, drove" Was her stammered reply. She gestured out the open door to a blue Vauxhall Astra parked in the driveway.
Harry nodded, noting with dry amusement the valiant effort his best friend was making to not look at his exposed chest. "I'll go get my trunk." He suggested, and bounded up the stairs to his room. He wondered in the back of his mind if Hermione was watching the back of his body the same way she had stared at the front. He decided he didn't mind if she was.
"Do you need any help?" He heard Hermione call after him.
He pulled on a new t-shirt before answering. "No, I'll be alright." He had had his trunk packed for a week now. Ever since Remus' visit he had been going over his room with a fine toothed comb, looking for anything he could find pertaining to the magical world. Despite himself, he couldn't help but spare one last glance at the room that would never again shelter him from his horrible family. There were a lot of memories within the four humble walls, few of them memories he particularly wanted to relive, but it had been a crude haven nonetheless, and he was almost sad to leave it behind. Almost. He managed to get it closed and onto the stairs just in time to see Aunt Petunia come from somewhere in the house to see what all the commotion was about.
Shock was evident on her bony face as she took in the 'freak,' who had always been pushed around in school, with a girl, and a rather attractive one at that. "And who are you then?" she asked Hermione abruptly, betraying her confusion in her sharp tone.
The young witch seemed flustered by the pointedness of the question, so Harry took over. "Aunt Petunia, this is my good friend Hermione Granger." He introduced, doing his utmost to maintain civility. However it seemed that Aunt Petunia's new goal for the day was to throw manners out the window, which she proceeded to do with gusto.
"Oh yes, the little whore who always follows you off that godforsaken platform."
Hermione gasped in shock at the pure revulsion that had flown from Petunia's mouth along with the words, but Harry did not hear it, nor would it matter if he had. Every fibre of his being tingled with cold rage, and it was directed entirely and without exception at the pitiful excuse for a woman who had dared to insult someone Harry Potter cared about. His wand was in his hand in the blink of an eye, though he had made no motion to retrieve it, and he vaulted the banister to pin his extremely uncomfortable Aunt between the wall and a foot long stick of holly. "I want you to listen very carefully to what I am about to tell you, because it is your first and only warning. In two weeks I am well within my rights to come back here and do many unpleasant things to you and your family, so I would advise you to be more polite to my friends in the future." He stowed his wand and walked over to his trunk, which had fallen down the stairs and burst open. "After all, you wouldn't want me back would you?" He tossed over his shoulder at the quivering bone structure that comprised his Aunt. Never once did his eyes take in the shards of ceramic littering the floor, the last remnants of a number of decorative plates that had, until moments ago, adorned the wall.
Hermione was flabbergasted, and could only repeat incoherent syllables for a short time. While she struggled to find her voice, Harry busied himself with repacking his trunk, which had conveniently decided to launch clothing everywhere. Finally Hermione regained control of her vocal cords, "Thank you Harry. No one has ever stood up for me like that before, except my parents. Not even Ron…" she let out a yip of surprise and clammed up.
Meanwhile her unfinished sentence had caused Harry to perk up. It was the first apparent sign she had even given him, or anyone for that matter, that suggested she wasn't interested in Ron the way everyone thought she was. Not that Harry begrudged him their mutual best friend, Ron always seemed to get the short end of the stick and he would never find a better woman, but at the same time Harry knew he was obligated to ensure that his other friend was as happy as she could be. If that happened to be with Ron, then he couldn't say anything about it. But if not…
There was a short pause during which Hermione seemed determined to look anywhere but at him. It was apparent that she was far too flustered by her slip of the tongue to carry on a conversation, so Harry decided to get the whole train wreck moving. "Well, shall we?" he nodded towards the still-open door and the vehicle beyond.
Hermione looked partially grateful for the escape, and partially annoyed that she hadn't thought of it herself. "Oh yes, of course." She led him out of the house to her well-aged car and opened the boot to receive his trunk. Some time later Harry would look back on that day and figure that in a perfect world he would have loaded his trunk, they would have driven to London and that would have been the end of it. Moments after this revelation, Harry would come to the conclusion that it was fortunate he did not live in a perfect world.
As it was, fate decided that the top of the boot would come down on Harry's head as he struggled to load his immensely heavy trunk. That incident, while painful enough in itself, caused him to drop the combined weight of all his worldly possessions onto one foot. "SON OF A…" blinding pain caused Harry to hop around cradling his injured foot and cursing a blue streak at the top of his lungs, several of the expletives strong enough to bring a flush even to the notoriously foul-mouthed Seamus Finnegan. Inevitably he lost his balance and came down, hard. It was all he could do to shake off the pain and pick himself up, only to be startled by the face of Hermione Granger mere inches from his own. It would seem that she had come over to help him up after his fall, but his brain was in no condition for logic at the moment. All he could think about was how her eyes shone with concern, how her skin glistened (or was that his imagination), how soft and warm her lips felt pressed against his own.
Suddenly Harry's wayward mind caught up to his hormonal body, which had unconsciously begun tongue wrestling with Hermione. He pulled away quickly, feeling quite warm and breathing heavily. His friend seemed to be experiencing a similar reaction. They both came to their senses at approximately the same time and spent an agonising moment gazing at one another before Harry mumbled an apology and set about getting his trunk and Hedwig's cage, which he had forgotten inside and Hermione had brought out, into her car. Without a word he climbed into the passenger's seat, next to the current focus of his pains, and they drove off for the M4 motorway, London and ultimately Grimmauld Place in Brixton.
True to her calm, dignified manner, and perhaps a greater-than-normal ability to sense Harry's misgivings, not a word about the kiss passed between them for the fifty minute duration of the journey. Instead Hermione nattered on about this, that, and the other, including but not limited to the unfortunately brief time she spent with her parents, the exploits of the Weasley family, and her research with Bill. She was about three-quarters of the way through a detailed technical explanation of the nature of the blood wards surrounding 4 Privet Drive, and their connection and interaction with him and his magic, before she realized that Harry had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.
Taking full advantage of this pause in the formerly endless chatter (None of which Harry minded, instead rather enjoying the distraction), occurring somewhere in the vicinity of Cromwell Road, he directed the conversation towards a much more sombre topic, and one which he had been shielded from in his exile at the Dursley's: the actions of Voldemort and his agents.
Unfortunately, there was little Hermione could convey in that regard. Being at the Burrow alone lowered her chances of absorbing any Order intelligence, and researching wards with Bill reduced her exposure to none, so the only information that had been readily available to her was in the pages of the Daily Prophet. It seemed, from their standpoint at least, that the Death Eaters were laying low in the magical community. The attack on Hogwarts had been a disaster, resulting in few captures but many positive identifications, and the total lack of activity within Wizarding Britain reflected their new-found cautiousness. Muggle England, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. The Prophet had devoted only one article to those activities, and it had been worded in such a way that sounded very much like the newspaper wholeheartedly condoned the brutal slaughter of the thirty-eight male and forty-one female muggles, all of which were clearly committed by Death Eaters.
That did not sit well with Harry. "I wonder if Voldemort's taken over the Prophet." He ruminated out loud. It hardly seemed unlikely. In fact, it seemed like a very likely thing for him to do.
Hermione was inclined to agree. "I was thinking that too. The Prophet was always a rag, but it was still a Ministry-controlled rag." That led to a terrible thought: "Harry, what if Voldemort has taken over the Ministry?"
It was a frightening concept, but Harry didn't find it likely. The Ministry was filled, day-in and day-out, with an inconceivable number of witched and wizards. For anyone, even Voldemort and his cronies, to fight through the entire staff AND the entire MLE division and Auror corps seemed impossible. Although if anyone could do it…
Fortunately, or not, the discussion was cut short by their arrival at the dreary and menacing 12 Grimmauld Place. Extricating himself and his belongings from the car, making sure not to forget Hedwig again, Harry stood awkwardly on the sidewalk and bid his farewells to his best friend.
"See you in two weeks." Harry watched her car as it sped away, not even drawing breath until it turned a corner and he could watch no more. He followed suit and, with the air of a man not long for this earth, walked into the last place in the Wizarding world he wanted to be.
The first thing he noticed was the décor. Gone was the peeling yellowed wallpaper, replaced with handsome mahogany wainscoting and warm blue paint. On his way to the kitchen, always the center of activity, he discovered a black spot: the tattered hangings that concealed the painting of Walburga Black were still quite prominent, but the vast increase in lighting served to make them less imposing.
The kitchen however was very similar to its original state. Admittedly it had been cleaned up, and painted a nice pale blue, but it was all extremely familiar. Except, that is, for the figure sitting at the table.
The imposing man was immediately recognizable for Mad-Eye Moody, with his legs (both real and wooden) perched on the table, snoring gently. He was so convincing that Harry thought for a moment that he was really asleep, but one glance at his heavily scarred face abolished that theory. While the normal eye was closed, the eerily familiar blue one had stopped spinning to fix directly on Harry. "What advice did I give you when we first met?" the man grumbled sleepily at him.
Harry decided, given the wand point peeking out of a hole in Moody's cloak, to be honest and prompt. "Not to keep my wand in my back pocket." If his voice wavered slightly, it was out of apprehension. Alastor Moody was a notoriously unstable man.
Mad-Eye's other eye opened and joined its brother in looking directly at the boy. "And did you follow that advice lad?" Harry was spared having to respond (which was good, because he doubted Mad-Eye would have liked his answer) by the flaring of the fireplace and the emergence of Nymphadora Lupin neé Tonks, her hair shortening and rapidly changing from brown to bubble-gum pink. Moody rose from the table to greet her.
"Wotcher Harry!" she greeted him with her usual exuberance. He could only smile half-heartedly in return. "Wotcher Mad-Eye, thanks for watching the house."
The older man grunted. "Anytime. I have far too much time on my hands; co-running the Order of the Phoenix and all." His sarcasm, scathing in any other person, was in Mad-Eye an unusual affection. It was a well-known fact that there was a soft spot, however small, in the grizzled warrior's heart for his former pupil, even if it didn't seem like it from his demeanour. He reached into his cloak, for what Harry could only assume was a portkey, and vanished. Tonks quickly surveyed the kitchen and focused her attention on Harry.
"Well kiddo; it looks like Mad-Eye fried up some bacon, so help yourself if you're hungry." Harry looked over at the skillet. The contents, which were apparently strips of bacon, resembled little more than charcoal briquettes. Any hunger the drive had caused evaporated instantly, as well as a large measure of confidence in Moody's culinary skills. Tonks followed his eye line and nodded. "Or maybe we'll just get you settled." Harry happily indicated his consent to this alternative. Tonks silently levitated his heavy trunk, while the teenager carried Hedwig's cage up the stairs. He immediately noticed, with no small amount of relief, the absence of decapitated house-elves on the wall.
Eager to break the silence, which was still eerie in the ancient house, Harry brought up a subject that had been troubling him for some time. "So, Remus finally popped the question. I thought he was dead set against you."
Although he could not see his hostess' face, the slight darkening of her hair indicated that she was blushing quite profusely. "Yes, well. I just tied him to his bed and showed up one night wearing nothing but a bathrobe. It didn't take him long to see reason."
Harry had never before appreciated how fascinating the ceiling was. "Thank you very much Tonks, now my beloved teenage mind will be feeding me images of Remus, hogtied while you have your wicked way with him."
Tonks giggled. "You asked kiddo. Besides, I doubt your imagination could even come close to the things we…"
"THANK YOU!" Harry cut her off loudly.
Fortunately he was spared further mortification, as Tonks had stopped in front of the room he had shared with Ron on his last visit to Grimmauld Place. "Well, here we are." Tonks pushed the door open and floated Harry's trunk onto the spare bed. "Remus and I will be a floor up if you need anything, just follow the sound of the bed springs." She chuckled as Harry once more became absorbed with the cracks in the ceiling. "We'd have put you in the master bedroom, seeing as it is your house, but uh…" Tonks' hair wilted ever so slightly, like a week-old pink salad, and Harry quickly reassured her that his accommodations were perfect and that e didn't want to keep her from her usual routine on his account. Truthfully, he didn't want to think about Sirius any more than she did.
He let out a long sigh and flopped unceremoniously onto his bed. He just wanted to get his things unpacked, or as unpacked as they needed to be for the two weeks he'd be staying, and consider his earlier interaction with Hermione, but of course fate couldn't let that slide. "Well well, if it isn't Mr. Potter. Long time no see." A familiar snide voice called out from the far wall. Harry lifted his head and saw Phineas Nigellus glaring at him with clear contempt from his portrait.
An unwelcome development, though not an unexpected one. "And will I be sharing a room with you again?" Harry deadpanned at the sarcastic ex-Headmaster.
"It will appear so." Phineas called over his shoulder, being on his way to his other portrait, presumably to report to McGonagall.
Finally alone with his thoughts, Harry forced himself to relive the kiss he had shared with his best friend, analyzing and dissecting it from a hundred angles until he could build up a clear picture of what he was up against. As he progressed, a very disconcerting conclusion began to emerge. He cared for Hermione, definitely more than a friend should. It was clear just in the kiss. He vividly remembered his last kisses, few in number as they were. Kissing Cho was all about desperation; she had little affection for him, she was just still shaken up over losing Cedric and needed to get the emotions out. Kissing Ginny was all passion, and all of it one-sided; Ginny was a very forceful person by nature, and reflected this in no better way than intimately. If he was honest with himself, sometimes he couldn't remember why he had felt compelled to go out with her in the first place.