Come Together
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
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Chapter Two: Just a Moment
home - is where i want to be
but i guess i'm already there
i come home - she lifted up her wings
i guess that this must be the place
i can't tell one from another
did i find you, or you find me?
there was a time before we were born
if someone asks, this is where i'll be
-- "This Must Be The Place," Talking Heads
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The morning light in Hermione's kitchen was as buttery as toast, and the kettle was merrily boiling as a large brown barn owl dropped lightly onto the table with the Daily Prophet. The owl waited patiently as Hermione fished out a small treat from a jar on the kitchen counter, and nipped her affectionately on the finger before taking flight again. Tea, milk, sugar. Hermione settled at the table with a steaming mug, Crookshanks twining happily around her feet. It was a perfect morning.
Hermione was utterly distracted.
Anyone would be distracted, she thought, if they'd been up half the night trying not to think about their best friend half-naked and wrapped in a towel.
Once she realized she couldn't stop thinking about Harry, she had panicked. Why was she thinking about Harry? What did it mean? Why couldn't she stop? Then she'd realized that this line of thought was still causing her to think only of Harry. Thinking about Harry made her think about thinking about Harry.
She was overanalyzing. It had always been a specialty of hers.
Sod it. Her fixation could be easily explained; there was really nothing to worry about. She was living with Harry after years apart. She'd been worried about him ever since the Defeat. She'd been worried about him for years even before the Defeat. In fact, she had probably spent a good deal of her waking hours worrying about Harry ever since she was eleven years old. Her focus on Harry was just an old habit taking a slightly odd turn. What she needed was a bit of time to unwind in this new living arrangement, a bit of time to focus on herself for a change. That was all.
Hermione took a deep breath and sipped her tea, unrolling the Daily Prophet. She'd have a leisurely breakfast, take a shower, wander over to the library or the bookshop, maybe do a bit of reading for Monday's lecture. She would absolutely not think about towels. Or Harry.
Crystal-Gazers Predict World Cup Win for England, the headline read. Potter's Skill Should Tip the Scales.
With playoffs set to begin in a few weeks' time, Diviners all across the wizarding world are picking England to triumph in this year's World Cup. Sibyll Trelawney, Professor of Divination at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has told the Daily Prophet that she envisions a victory for the team. "It is unavoidable that their Seeker should meet with an accident," said Trelawney. "But it looks as if Mr.Potter may avoid death until after the final match, which gives England a strong positive aspect in the lunar charts."
A soft knock echoed through the kitchen. "Hermione?"
Harry.
Merlin's beard.
"Just a minute," Hermione called, her voice cracking slightly as she fumbled for her wand, which was somewhere in the deep pockets of her flannel dressing gown. With an unsteady flick of her wrist the flat door swung open, and Harry was there, smiling shyly.
"This a bad time?"
"No, not at all." Hermione suddenly needed something to do with her hands; she stood and bustled around the kitchen, fumbling with the kettle. "I was just making tea. Can I make you some?"
"Sure, thanks." Harry pulled out a chair at the table and sat down, gazing around the flat. His hair was rumpled with sleep, and he was wearing track pants and an old T-shirt that read, "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes: One Big Joke of a Shop." Hermione felt herself smiling. It was just Harry. How long had she known him now? Ten years?
"The place looks amazing, Hermione. Really does." Harry was gazing appreciatively at her book-lined shelves and the squashy armchairs she'd found for the sitting room.
"Oh, thank you! I just love it -- It's the most perfect flat in the world. You really should have had the top floor."
Harry gave her a guilty sideways grin. "Never. How could I? I walked up here and saw that windowseat, and I had this immediate thought of you sitting in it with a book, with the fire going and all. Bought the place on the spot."
The kettle began to whistle again; Hermione turned to pour Harry's tea, thankful to be able to hide the blush that was creeping over her cheeks. "I'm so glad you did."
Harry accepted the hot mug and sipped it cautiously. "Me too." He looked up at Hermione and slid her chair out with one foot. "Sit down and drink your own tea, why don't you?"
"I will." Milk goes in the refrigerator. Sugar goes back in the cupboard.
When she turned around again she saw that Harry was studying her with intense green eyes. "Are you doing all right, Hermione? We haven't really gotten to talk in ages."
Oh, I'm smashing, Harry. I was just up half the night thinking about your smile and your laugh and the way I feel when you're here, and how you look wrapped in a --
"Towel?" Hermione asked breezily.
Harry's eyes went wide behind his round glasses. Hermione felt her tongue flounder in her mouth as if she'd eaten a Weasley toffee.
"Toast, I mean," she amended quickly. "Would you, ah, like some -- "
Harry blinked, then grinned. "No, I'm okay. Going to go running in a bit. You didn't answer my question." He pointed to her chair again.
"I'm fine," Hermione managed, sinking back into her seat. "Really fine. Very happy to be here. Just, you know, adjusting. To the new flat, and to seeing you both again."
"I know how that can be."
I'm not sure you do, Hermione thought. "Yes, it's wonderful, just a bit overwhelming at first."
"Overwhelming is definitely the word." Harry averted his gaze to sip his tea, then glanced up at her again, an odd look on his face. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but... how did you leave things with David?"
"It was fairly awful. I think you got most of the details in my last Owl, but the final few weeks at Oxford were very awkward. I had to see him in class every day. He had to grade my exams and all."
"What did he give you?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. "An A minus."
"The shameless git!"
Hermione laughed. "It was fine. I didn't mind. Not after what happened."
"You mean, not after he strung you along for months, until you found out he was doing the same with two other students?"
"Well -- "
Harry's eyes darkened. Hermione shivered; it was as if a cloud had briefly passed over the sun.
"I'll tell you one thing, he's lucky I was touring with the team and couldn't come to see you when you wrote me with that news," he said, his voice hardening. "I'd have cursed him back to the Stone Age, the bastard. I almost skipped a game to do it, but our reserve Seeker was sick."
"Harry!"
"Well really." Harry was looking at her sheepishly now, as if she was about to chide him for hexing Draco Malfoy and getting detention. "What are friends for?"
Hermione couldn't hide her smile. "Thanks. I appreciate it."
Harry smiled back, visibly relaxing.
"How about you?" Hermione was eager to change the subject, as talk of The Great Mistake Named David was beginning to make her uneasy. "How have you been?"
Harry laughed and rubbed the back of his neck absently. "Me? The same. I run, I go to practice, I grab a sandwich, I go to the gym, I sleep. Oh, and there are team meetings twice a week, and sometimes I go for a pint with the boys afterwards. My life in a nutshell."
"Doesn't sound bad, really."
"It's not. I like it. A lot of time moving around, even more time on a broom."
Hermione grinned. "Aren't you terribly excited? Flying for England, I mean. With World Cup finals coming up again."
"I am. A bit nervous of course." Harry looked up at her. "It'll be loads better now that you're here."
"We went to all the matches last year too," Hermione began.
"And you'll be in the top box again this year, if I have anything to do with it," Harry said, grinning. "No, that's not what I mean. I mean -- everything will be better. With you around. In general."
Hermione swallowed. Harry's eyes met hers; an odd flicker seemed to pass through their green depths.
"You and Ron," he said quickly. "It'll be -- nice not to be alone anymore."
Muddled thoughts were zinging through Hermione's head with the speed of a hundred Snitches. Silence fell as they sipped their tea.
"I thought..." Hermione began, then realized she had spoken aloud without meaning to.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing." She sipped her tea again quickly.
Harry gave her a look that sent the words spilling out before she could stop them.
"I thought you wanted to be alone. Before," she finished weakly.
Silence again. Crookshanks twined around Harry's legs, purring softly.
"I did," Harry said quietly. "Not anymore."
Hermione felt her eyes drawn inexorably to Harry's.
"Oh." She wrenched her gaze away to stare into her teacup. "I'm -- I'm sorry to pry. You know me, can't stop talking -- "
"Don't be silly." Harry's face broke into his usual sideways grin. He reached across the table and squeezed Hermione's hand. "You're not prying. Really."
"Okay." Her hand felt so wonderful in Harry's that she almost shut her eyes in bliss.
"I promise you," Harry said, giving her hand a final squeeze and kicking his chair back, "If you're talking too much, Hermione, I'll tell you. Haven't I always?"
Harry's voice suddenly drifted into Hermione's head, the Harry from years ago, next to her in the library. Shut UP already, Hermione. Harry's voice before it had broken into a new, deep register. Will you be quiet for once. We haven't read Hogwarts, A History, and we weren't planning on it, with you around.
Hermione shook her head, laughing. Being with Harry could sometimes make her feel eleven again. "Yes, you have."
Harry set his mug in the kitchen sink, then bent over the table and placed a quick kiss on top of Hermione's head.
Eleven going on twenty-one, suddenly.
"I need to get going. Oh -- almost forgot. The reason I came up here in the first place."
"It wasn't for my scintillating company?" Hermione's scalp was tingling.
"Well, that was most of it." Harry grinned rougishly. "But I wanted to tell you about the house security spell. Ron's already told me to set things up so that you can come into his place without a key, and I can too. That's how my flat is as well. We understand if you don't want to do the same -- "
"Of course I do."
"Okay." Harry's cheeks flushed. "We'll come up with some kind of system if we need privacy, of course, but this seems easiest. Won't have to keep answering the door for each other."
Hermione nodded. "And no one else will be able to come in unless we let them. The only Apparating spot is the front steps outside, right?"
"Right. Anyway, I've got to be off for my run. We're playing Luxembourg next Saturday, and I can't be carrying around any extra Weasley chicken." He patted his stomach.
"You are carrying nothing extra, Harry Potter." I should know, Hermione thought. I may be an expert on the subject after last night.
Harry laughed. "Dinner tonight? Ron said he'd get groceries. I'll fix the security spell later."
"Okay."
"See you, then!"
"See you, Harry."
The door closed, and the flat suddenly seemed desperately empty.
Hermione stood in the kitchen for a moment, drinking in the last lingering traces of Harry. She saw his eyes on her again, felt his hand squeeze hers, felt him brush his lips on the top of her head.
Maybe --
Hermione shuffled to the bathroom and flipped on the light to stare at herself in the mirror. A bleary reflection gazed back at her, wrapped in a lumpy plaid dressing gown. Sometime during the night, her hair had exploded into a mad scientist's worst nightmare. Dark circles the size of gobstones hung underneath her eyes.
"Might want to have a shower, dear," the mirror said.
Never, Hermione thought, turning on the bathwater. He'd never, in a million years.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Hullo? Anyone there?"
Hermione jumped. From her perch in the windowseat she could see that her empty fireplace had sprung to life; a very red head was sitting in the middle of the flames.
"Morning Ron!" Hermione set down an impossibly thick volume entitled The Other Plague: Lycanthropy in Medieval Europe and flopped into an armchair in front of the fireplace. She'd been attempting to study to occupy her otherwise muddled mind, but her book was proving to be tremendously dull. It was also serving to remind her of the time Professor Lupin had transformed in their third year, and she and Harry had rescued Sirius... how she'd clung to him as they sat on Buckbeak...
"Hey ho, 'Mione moe," Ron said as she sat down. Hermione rolled her eyes. "Mione moe" was Ron's nickname for her -- the only one she would tolerate, anyway. If he lapsed into Eeny Meany, or Meany Mione, she was given full license to call him Ickle Ronniekins. Or Weaselpie. "Busy?"
"No, not really. Just catching up on a bit of reading."
"How unusual. Fancy a bit of shopping?"
"Shopping? What for?"
Ron grinned. "In case you didn't notice yesterday, I'm missing quite a bit of furniture."
Hermione laughed. "I thought your mum might be sending your things along later."
"No, that's all I have I'm afraid -- bed and a desk. My last rental was furnished."
"Where are you heading, then?"
"Thought I'd go to Mugwumps. Got a bit of extra cash from the new job."
Mugwumps was the staggeringly huge wizard department store at the far end of Diagon Alley. The store motto, "If you can't find it at Mugwumps, it doesn't exist in any dimension," was probably not far from the truth.
"Ooh, I'd love to. I still need to pick up a few things for the kitchen. Floo or Apparate?"
"I was thinking of walking, actually," Ron said. "It's so close and all. Lovely day."
"Okay. Be right down then."
"Wicked." With a sharp crackle, Ron's head vanished and the fireplace went dark. Hermione wrapped a warm navy cloak around her shoulders and headed down the two flights of stairs to Ron's flat. When she opened the door she saw that the sitting room was as bare as it had been the day before, empty except for a folding chair and a wooden desk. An enormous red and white flag splashed with roses, rampant lions, and rearing unicorns covered one entire wall.
"Hullo, sweetheart." Ron was pulling on a maroon jumper and an old black cloak.
"No orange?" Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Now this is something different. I like your new decorating scheme."
"Well, the old posters were getting a bit tired," Ron said, coloring. "Some of the Chudley Chasers had stopped scoring. Had to give them a rest. Plus, the England flag covers all the teams, doesn't it?"
"I suppose." Hermione hid a smile. Ron stepped in front of her and swept open the door of his flat, bowing. "Shall we, m'lady?"
"Oh, stop it, you goof."
As they crunched through the recently fallen autumn leaves on the uneven cobblestones of Orthagon Alley, Hermione felt herself begin to relax. Ron always had that effect on her.
At one time she'd mistaken it for attraction; there had been a time, around fifth year, when she'd found herself drawn to Ron more and more. They'd shared a number of fumbling, awkward kisses soon afterwards, feeling as if it was some kind of foregone conclusion that they should be together. Half the student body had always assumed Ron was her boyfriend -- the half that didn't believe Harry was, anyway. Those kisses, the shy dances at winter formals, the wintertime walks to Hogsmeade -- they'd all been sweet, and comfortable, and ultimately, as they'd both realized by graduation, too sweet and comfortable. They loved each other dearly, but as siblings, as two people who had grown up together and shared everything. They'd shared Harry, an experience that no one else could know.
One of the most comforting things about Ron, Hermione thought, catching his eye as they tapped the bricks behind the Leaky Cauldron, was that despite their closeness, he actually didn't know her innermost thoughts. She was never unnerved, as she was with Harry, to hear him put into words exactly what she was feeling; she never felt as if his gaze could read her mind. Ron could cheer her out of the blackest of moods, and his mere presence was often enough to calm her, but he was also endearingly oblivious.
"How does Harry seem to you?" Hermione asked as they paused to deliberate over a small mushroom-colored sofa in Mugwumps. Stretchable Sofa, the tag read. Will accomodate sleepers from goblin to giant.
"Fine, really," Ron replied. "Better, I guess. Much better than he has been."
"I think so too."
"Yeah, Quidditch really seems to be agreeing with him. Can't say that I'm surprised."
"He does seem happy." She paused, inspecting a sofa cushion. "Hasn't mentioned any girls, has he?"
Ron shook his head, chuckling. "Nope. I expect he'd tell you first, anyway. Hasn't he always?"
Hermione flushed. "I don't know about that."
"He's probably just got the usual crowd of gorgeous Potter fangirls hanging about, lucky git. Hard not to be happy with that kind of life."
Hermione felt a lump form in her throat. "Right."
"Here, what do you think? I like this one." Ron had flopped onto the mushroom sofa; it was now long enough for him to lie down and stretch out his legs.
"Perfect." Hermione smiled; her face felt frozen.
"C'mon then. Let's order it."
One couch, a kitchen table, and two chairs later, Ron and Hermione made their way back through Diagon Alley, pausing to wave at Florean Fortescue through the window of his ice cream parlor, Hermione dragging a reluctant Ron away from the display at Quality Quidditch Supplies. Ron's new furniture would be delivered via Floo later that afternoon. They left Diagon Alley and stopped at Walrymple's Market on their way back to the house, Hermione's stomach still twisted in a small, uneasy knot. On the way out of Walrymple's, Hermione stopped and peered down the street, startled. A group of people appeared to be gathering near the front doorstep of number 231.
"What do you suppose -- " she began.
"Dunno," Ron said, starting forward. "I hope nothing's happened."
As they neared the house, Ron's face suddenly broke into a wide smile. The group of people was comprised solely of young women, most of them staggeringly attractive. One of them, a tall, thin girl with long, glossy brown hair, was puzzling over the butler's horn and turned as they approached. She had very blue almond-shaped eyes and enormously long lashes.
"Afternoon, girls," Ron said, beaming, as they parted to let him walk up to the door. "Can I help you?"
"Hello," said the tall girl, her eyes travelling over Ron's lanky frame. "Do you live here?"
"I do," Ron said.
The girl's face suddenly broke into a stunning smile. She stepped towards Ron, offering her hand. "Marisa Talbot. I live in Origin Alley, not too far from here. Call me Risa."
Ron unceremoniously shoved a bag of groceries into Hermione's arms and grasped Risa's hand. "Ron Weasley. Ministry barrister."
Oh, save us all, Hermione thought. She shifted the bag of groceries and tried not to scowl.
"Ron Weasley!" Risa hadn't released Ron's hand. "Of course. Harry's best friend. And this must be -- " she glanced at Hermione -- "Hermorrine, right?"
"Her-my-oh-nee." Hermione's eyes narrowed.
"A pleasure," Risa said, though clearly it wasn't. She quickly shifted her attention back to Ron. "We were just looking for Harry. Is he home?"
The group of girls seemed to lean forward in anticipation of Ron's answer.
"Out at practice, I expect, if you haven't seen him," Ron said, leaning against the front door casually. "Is there anything I might be able to help you with?"
"Come to think of it, maybe so," purred Risa. "We're having a little party tonight, and we were hoping Harry might be able to make it. He had such a grand time at the last one." At this she gave a slow wink; Hermione felt distinctly ill.
Risa gave Ron another dazzling smile. "You're welcome to come too, of course." Her eyes flicked quickly to Hermione. "Both of you," she added, with a bit less enthusiasm.
Ron couldn't have smiled any wider. "Well, thanks for the invitation. I'm new to the neighborhood, haven't really met anyone yet."
Risa traced a polished fingernail down the length of Ron's nose. "Well, now you have," she murmured.
Hermione had seen enough. "Ron," she said in what she hoped was a treacly voice, "Could you be a dear and open the front door for me? I should put these groceries away before they get too warm."
Ron blinked, his cheeks red beneath his freckles. "Sure, 'Mione. Be up in a moment."
"Thanks." Hermione squeezed her way to the door. "Lovely meeting you all," she said through gritted teeth.
"Likewise," cooed Risa, who was still staring at Ron.
Hermione slammed the door of her flat. She slammed the refrigerator closed after the last of the groceries was inside. She slammed the door of her bedroom for good measure before collapsing onto her bed.
She couldn't do this. She couldn't live with Harry.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Hermione? You okay?"
Harry's voice came from the fireplace. Hermione couldn't move. She felt frozen, as if the churning thoughts in her head had jammed all transmission to the rest of her body.
How had this happened so fast? Yesterday she was picking up Ron at the train station, thinking a bit about Harry, of course, but no more than usual. Or, a bit more than usual, perhaps, but not an outrageous amount. She'd been thinking about Harry all summer, of course, but --
And then she'd seen Harry, and she'd just gone to pieces inside. Blown a fuse. It was as if some sort of time bomb had exploded in her brain and scattered thoughts of Harry into every corner. This was not at all normal for rational Hermione Granger. Her brain was ordinarily very tidy.
And now, a day later, she hadn't slept, and she was sitting on her bed wrapped in a sodding quilt, thinking about moving away from the best place she'd ever lived, because she couldn't stand the thought of those girls, those vacuous, superficial, know-nothing tramps, with Harry --
"Hermione, I'm coming up."
Before Hermione could react, footsteps were pounding on the stairs outside her flat, and the front door clicked open. "Hermione? You in here?"
"I -- yes, I'm here," she croaked, throwing aside her quilt, feeling numb. Why couldn't she have answered before? Now he was here, and she was in no state to talk --
Harry tapped on her bedroom door, then opened it a crack. "I heard doors slamming. Was there someone here?"
"No, just me," Hermione said weakly. "It's okay. You can come in."
She wondered why she was allowing this to happen. In a moment she'd see those brilliant green eyes and it would all be over. He'd see right through her, and there would be nothing she couldn't tell him, if he asked. Her heart pounded faintly in her ears.
Harry slid into the room, barefoot, wearing a t-shirt and jeans. His hair was damp and sticking up in all directions, a black shock next to pale skin and dark eyebrows. He smelled a bit like soap and laundry, mingled with his usual comforting, electric Harry smell. His eyes met hers.
She was correct, as usual. There was nothing she could do now.
Harry's brows furrowed with concern; he sat down on the edge of her bed. "You all right?"
"Oh, it's nothing," Hermione said, forcing her face into what she hoped was a cheery smile. "Just got a bit worked up is all." Act casual. That's it.
"Worked up? What about?"
"You'll laugh."
"I won't."
"You will."
"Try me."
She plunged forward. Tell him something. Anything. Otherwise he'll guess. "Did you see those girls outside, by any chance?"
Harry's cheeks flushed slightly. "Er. I did."
"You know them?"
"I guess you could say that." He shifted uncomfortably and ran a hand through his messy hair.
Hermione felt her stomach twist tightly again.
"Well, it was really nothing. One of them was a bit rude. Not directly or anything." Hermione suddenly found it difficult to talk. "I was probably being oversensitive."
Harry sighed. "Didn't give you the time of day?"
Hermione nodded.
"They're like that," Harry said bitterly. "Some of them wouldn't even know how to recognize me unless I was wearing Quidditch robes. I wouldn't take it personally if I were you." He looked down, studying a corner of her quilt. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I tried to tell you it wouldn't be fun living with me. You really don't have to put up with it. It's not fair to you."
Hermione felt as if she'd just swallowed one of Hagrid's rock cakes; words tumbled out of her in a breathless torrent. "Oh, no, Harry, don't say that. Please don't. Living with you is going to be wonderful, it's the best thing that could have happened. I don't care about those girls. Really."
Harry's eyes met hers again; her heart skipped. "Are you sure?"
"Absolutely." His eyes were a mirror; she could see that he believed her. She felt silly with relief. "I just had a momentary -- well, I had, you know -- I had a moment."
"A moment?" The corners of his mouth twitched.
Hermione blushed. "You know how I am."
Harry was smiling now. "Ah yes," he said knowingly. "One of your... moments. I see."
"Sorry about the noise. I'll try to have quieter moments from now on." She was grinning sheepishly; he raised an eyebrow and they both began to laugh.
"Quite all right. Just had me worried. I'm used to living alone, you know."
"Right. Sorry."
"As long as you're okay." Harry stood and held out a hand. Hermione took it; he pulled her up from the bed, his eyes glinting. "And as long as you let me see what you and Ron brought home for dinner."
She felt giddy now. Harry didn't know. Somehow, he hadn't guessed.
Maybe she could stay after all.
"I'll let you do more than see what's there," she said, poking him. "You can start preparing it."
"I surrender," Harry said, heading for the kitchen. "Where do you keep the cutting board? And have you got a wizard's wireless around here?"
"Second drawer on the left, under the sink. And yes, right over there."
"First things first, then. Cooking music." Harry was rifling through her albums in the sitting room, an old box of Muggle cd's and wizard music spools. "Celestina Warbeck? Hermione!"
"She's got a lovely voice!"
"If you like that sort of treacly stuff. Or maybe if you're fourteen."
"Oh, hush!"
And suddenly it was impossible to consider living anywhere else, because somehow she'd always been here, in this sunny kitchen, chopping onions with Harry, both laughing as tears stung their eyes, the sound of an old Fleetwood Mac album drifting from the wireless. It was music from her childhood, from a time even before Harry, but as his eyes flicked to hers she couldn't imagine there had ever been a time without him.
And sometimes, as she chopped garlic, or carrots, she thought she could imagine his eyes on her, when she wasn't looking.
But she did have a very good imagination.
Hermione felt a bubble of happiness welling up inside her. It was almost enough to crush the flood of confusion that had been threatening to engulf her all day.
Almost.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~