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.
Author's Note: "I May Be A Tiny Chimney Sweep" is by Rave I believe, and appears in many other fanfics. Consider this my homage to a fine bit of legendary fandom songwriting. "If I Were The Marrying Kind" is a rugby song sung at post-game parties, or "the Third Half." If anyone wants to know the rest of the rainy day verse, drop me a line. ;-)
Huge thanks, as always, to everyone who's taken the time to review this fic thus far, to the HMS PP at FAP, and to everyone who's joined Granger's Library. This fic would simply not exist without you.
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Chapter Four: Freefalling
you are the reason
i've been waiting so long
somebody holds the key
well i'm near the end and i just ain't got the time
well i'm wasted and i can't find my way home
-- "Can't Find My Way Home," Blind Faith
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Ron Weasley's startled face was the first thing Hermione saw when she threw open the washroom door. She was immediately aware of her puffy, tear-swollen eyes; Ron stared, uncomprehending.
"Bloody hell, 'Mione, what's going on? Where have you been? What on earth's wrong with Harry?"
"Is he here?" Hermione was scanning the crowd desperately.
"He just bolted off that way. Would you mind telling me -- "
The packed club went deathly quiet. The music cut off abruptly; the crowd chatter was silenced as if someone had flipped a switch. The lights snuffed out as if a bitter wind had whipped through the room. Hermione's breath caught in her throat.
Hermione felt her eyes move to a spot on the dance floor, a spot where one shadow was still moving, footsteps echoing on the cold, slick wood. One glance at dark wild hair and a dark cloak told her it was Harry. She grabbed Ron's arm and felt his hand close around hers as she pulled him forward through the crowd. They seemed to be the only ones moving at all.
At the edge of the dance floor Hermione stopped short. She could see Harry clearly now in the dim light, his gaze fixed on someone seated at a table nearby. His eyes were a strange, hot green. She shivered. Every nerve in her body was screaming at her to get Harry, to pull him away so they could just go home and sit in the kitchen with Ron and drink hot mugs of tea liberally spiked with Ogden's and talk about how ridiculous the evening had been. But something was holding her back.
It was almost like a dream. One of those dreams where she wanted to run but couldn't. She could only stand and watch, frozen in the approaching headlights of a nightmare.
A sickly green light was coming from somewhere, washing the room in an unnatural pallor. It took Hermione a moment to realize that the light was somehow, impossibly, coming from Harry, illuminating the edges of his cloak, tracing the messy lines of his raven hair in weird lime.
It was still Harry. But it wasn't.
Some unknown force had subtly shifted the set of his shoulders, lit his eyes with searing heat, carved his face in planes of dark and light. It was foreign, yet... familiar. Hermione had felt it in the past, sensed some of it behind Harry's shrouded glance when he spoke of the Defeat, but then it had only flickered in his eyes. Now it was coursing through Harry like a river.
It was power. Power so intense that it was nearly palpable, power that was humming through the room like an electric charge, like lightning, leaving a metallic taste on Hermione's tongue. Power that was raw, yet refined, limitless, tugging on the corners of her mind and suggesting vast depths that reeled in Hermione's head like vertigo.
Hermione had seen powerful spells performed in the past. She'd seen Dumbledore angry, a sight which was enough to inspire trembling fear in even the most dedicated Death Eaters. This was something else entirely. Harry hadn't even cast a spell. He was just standing there, radiating energy like some sort of --
There was no word for it. Wizard didn't really cover it.
"Stay away from us."
Harry's voice was ice, hard and resonant. He held Risa Talbot in his hot, unwavering gaze; Risa's mouth was open, her eyes wide. She looked very different to Hermione. Very dull. Very plain.
The packed club was riveted to the spot, hanging on Harry's words. It seemed like no one was breathing.
Risa blinked and seemed to regain a bit of her usual self-possession. "Harry," she began, her voice quavering slightly under its coating of syrup. "What are you talking about, love?"
"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. I know all about your little games, Risa. And right now I don't find them particularly funny."
"I don't -- I mean, what -- "
"I want you to remember something."
Risa's coquettish facade was crumbling like a sand castle in high tide. She gulped.
"Hermione Granger is worth a thousand of you."
The color drained from Risa's rosy lips. She could no longer look Harry in the face.
"And because she is," he continued quietly, "she'll probably forgive you someday for whatever it was you said to her this evening."
The green glow edging Harry's cloak flared once; his hand moved compulsively to his pocket.
"I, on the other hand... "
Harry pulled his wand out, his long fingers grasping it reflexively. The glow sharpened, intensified. Risa Talbot's face looked pale and waxen, like an old china doll. Hermione felt herself tense as if she was about to fall from a cliff.
And then Harry's jaw clenched; his eyes clouded like shattered glass. His fingers shook imperceptibly. When he spoke again, his voice was oddly strained, almost a whisper.
"Just leave us alone."
There was a bright green flare, and a soft pop.
Harry was gone.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Hermione wasn't sure how she'd gotten home. She'd found herself on the front steps of 231 Orthagon Alley on Ron's arm, wrapped snugly in one half of his cloak against the cold London night.
"Come on, let's get you warmed up," Ron urged, opening the front door and steering her into his flat. He rubbed her shoulders briskly and draped the rest of his cloak over her before pulling out his wand to light a fire in the empty grate.
She was numb, somehow. Cold to the bone. She didn't know why.
In a few minutes a piping mug of tea was in her hands and she was bundled up on one end of the mushroom-colored couch, Ron peering at her with concern.
"'Mione? You okay?"
"I think so."
"Right, don't move." Ron was at the door. "I'm going upstairs to see if Harry's there. Be right back."
The door of the flat slid shut as Ron's feet pounded on the stairs above. The tea was helping; Hermione felt some of the warmth returning to her fingers. In a few moments Ron was back.
"I guess he is home. Light's on, but he's got a tie wrapped round the doorknob for privacy. I didn't knock."
Ron settled next to her with his own steaming mug. He stared into it uncomfortably.
"I don't understand. When you left for the washroom, everything was fine. Then you're off missing for the better part of an hour and Harry starts to worry. We couldn't think what happened. We know you, you'd have said if you were going home, right? Next thing I know, Harry busts open the washroom door and comes out five minutes later looking like absolute hell on a horsebasket."
"Hell on a what?" Ron was hopeless with Muggle expressions; he collected them much like his father collected plugs.
"You saw him. And then things got weird."
The concerned, awkward look in Ron's eyes warmed the last numb part of Hermione's brain, and words began to tumble out. She told Ron about everything that had happened in the washroom, leaving out the minor detail that she was so in love with Harry that Risa's backhanded insults felt like a punch in the kidneys.
In love with Harry. Great Merlin's Ghost. She didn't dare think about it.
When she finished, Ron's jaw was hanging open. "Those bloody bitches," he murmured. "It's not like you, to let that kind of thing upset you, is it?"
Ron never failed to shock Hermione in tiny ways. For all the blatant clues he missed, he could sometimes grasp nuances that weren't exactly obvious.
"No, it's not. I was just -- taken by surprise, I guess. Caught off guard."
Ron tipped Hermione's chin up with his thumb.
"You know you're beautiful, right?"
At this a fresh wave of tears stung Hermione's eyes.
"Oh, 'Mione. I'm sorry," Ron said, pulling her close to plant a kiss on the top of her dishevelled curls. "I can see why Harry got so mad if he saw you in the washroom like that." He pulled away, shaking his head. "But I don't think I could get as mad as Harry did. I've never seen anything like that."
"I know." Hermione was dabbing furiously at the corners of her eyes. "I hope he's all right. I -- I don't know what that was."
Ron was nodding. "I saw it myself, and I can't explain it. I'll tell you one thing, though. I thought for a minute he was going to level the club or something."
"I know. Well, I don't know. I don't know what I thought."
Ron's brow furrowed. "So you've never heard of that kind of... thing, then? In any of your books? Did he cast a spell? It almost looked like he was giving off some kind of glow."
"I've never heard of it, no." Worry for Harry was beginning to push all other thoughts from Hermione's mind. She struggled to her feet, shrugging off Ron's cloak, which was wrapped on top of her own. "I think we should check on him."
"Right." Ron got to his feet, looking uneasy. "Or -- "
"What is it?"
"Maybe you should just go. I don't want to barge in on him."
"But Ron -- "
"You're better at this sort of thing." Ron gave her a pleading look.
An unwritten rule had emerged between the Trio over the years, and it was this rule that Ron had just invoked. In delicate situations, Hermione went to Harry first, alone. Hermione also went to Ron, though Harry had been known to do so while she and Ron were dating. And Harry went to Hermione.
This was because it was acknowledged that Ron's greatest talent did not lie in dealing with delicate situations. He was much better at knocking on the door thirty minutes later with a bag of pastries from the kitchens and asking, "All right in there?"
Hermione looked at Ron, his eyes uneasy and anxious, and nodded. "I'm coming to get you if he seems all right."
"You're the best." Ron was in the kitchen now, rummaging through the cabinets and pulling out a bottle of Ogden's.
"Better save some of that, just in case."
Ron nodded, popping the cork as Hermione shut the door and walked quickly up the stairs to Harry's flat. Right. Best go fast before she lost her nerve, before she was no longer Brave Hermione Granger, before she turned back into the feeble girl who had a habit of hiding in the loo.
Harry's door was shut, but warm light was spilling into the hallway from a thin crack underneath the door. An old Gryffindor tie was knotted firmly around the doorknob, its scarlet and gold stripes darkened with age. The sight of it brought a lump to Hermione's throat. She thought of little Harry, ink-black hair, round cheeks, and guileless green eyes, scrambling out the portrait hole, knotting his tie and shoving it hastily down the v-neck of his jumper while she scolded him like a mother hen. "Hurry UP, Harry! We're late for Transfiguration!"
That Harry seemed so far away.
This was crazy. She shouldn't be afraid of talking to Harry. Her best friend Harry. Hermione straightened and tossed her hair back, then rapped firmly on the door.
"Who is it?"
Harry's voice, deep and unmistakable, was muffled through the solid door. Hermione felt weak with relief; her answer came in a babbled rush. "It's me. I don't mean to bother you. I just wanted to check -- "
Footsteps inside, then the click of the door opening. It slid halfway open before Harry's eyes met Hermione's and her stomach twisted into knots.
For a moment she saw deep longing, terrible sadness, and then his eyes blurred into an unreadable fog, dull like tumbled sea glass.
"Hi," he said, his voice rough and toneless.
"Are you okay?" Hermione's voice sounded offensively chipper in her ears.
"I will be. I mean, yeah. I'm okay." His eyes were still clouded, expressionless.
They stood for a moment, but Harry didn't open the door. "All right," Hermione said uneasily. "Ron and I were just --"
"You don't have to worry. I just need some sleep. It's been a long night."
The party. Harry, sipping her drink, grinning and wrapping his arm around her. Harry, pressed so close to her on the dance floor that her head spun and her mind threatened to take a permanent trip to another galaxy. That had been tonight.
Hermione nodded. Her voice came out in an uncertain squeak. "Okay."
A flash of warmth shot through the flat bottle-green of Harry's eyes. He reached out and traced the side of her face with cupped fingers.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
And then Hermione was in the hall alone, staring at a worn scarlet and gold knot on a shiny brass doorknob.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
There was no aftermath.
The next morning Harry was at Hermione's door at breakfast, asking to borrow milk, dashing off to practice with his usual radiant Harry grin, leaving her utterly confused. That night Ron picked up Chinese food for supper and all three of them ate downstairs in his flat. Ron gave Harry a few searching looks over egg rolls and steamed rice, and that was it.
No Howlers arrived. Hermione had expected seven-inch headlines on the front page of the Daily Prophet: Potter Shocks Crowd by Declaring Muggle-Born Friend Superior to Posh Socialite. Harry Potter Finally Cracks: England's Seeker Threatens Shaggable Young Lady in Trendy Club. But the Prophet was strangely devoid of juicy tidbits; in fact, there was no mention at all of Harry that day until the seventh page, under the usual Quidditch rankings.
Thus was born The Night That Never Existed.
Harry left the next day for a three week stint of playoff games in Europe and Australia. Ron settled comfortably into his job, staying out late on Thursdays and weekends with a crowd of Ministry co-workers. Hermione threw herself mindlessly into her studies, roaming the Great Library at Hornswoggle with a mixture of apathy and unease. At any other time she would have been thrilled by its cavernous collection of musty tomes, and it was disconcerting that such a vast library should now seem so empty of life. But at least books were comfortable, calm, and familiar. She was somehow earning top marks, just like always, even though every scratch of her quill brought her back to another library and another time entirely. I'm going to the Restricted Section tonight to get a book for Hermione. Don't wait up.
Harry sent them Owls after every game, complete with local Wizarding newspaper clips with moving pictures of the matches. Italy is smashing. Miss you both tons. Can't wait to get home. Tomorrow we leave for Greece. Love, Harry. P.S. Caught the Snitch.
A few subtle things did change. Risa Talbot was notably absent from the doorstep of 231. There were still small groups of girls that hung about from time to time, but no one Hermione recognized from That Night. And Ron took extra care to compliment Hermione on her appearance for a week or so, until Hermione finally managed to make him understand that she was perfectly all right, thank you very much, and that he was driving her absolutely batty. At which point Ron grinned wickedly and began teasing her about her wild hair, and all was normal again.
Except that some nights, Hermione's dreams were infused with the scent of magic, and the feeling of twining arms and legs, and the glow of a rougish smile.
And other nights, they were tinged in a sick, unearthly green, filled with darkness and wind and a strange sadness.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The winter sky was a bright chalky blue, littered with cotton-candy clouds, and the air was so clear that it was almost possible to see the London skyline beyond the magically concealed bleachers of Puddlemere Stadium.
Muggles all over greater London had been forgetting pressing appointments all day in the vicintity of the stadium, but it looked as if the Ministry was going to have to do a bit of clean-up regardless. The excitement level had reached such a fever pitch that wizards outside the stadium were carrying on in the streets with horns and balloons and very small yet colorful explosions.
It seemed that Arthur Weasley could have cared less. He was seated next to Hermione, beaming and waving a pennant and carrying on almost as much as Ron, who was nearly hoarse with hollering even though the game hadn't yet started. They were seated in the top box with the rest of the Weasleys, with the exception of Ginny, who was with the rest of the Daily Prophet staff in the press area. For the past week Ron had been almost out of his mind with delight, ever since Harry's package had arrived. The package had contained a pile of official Team England scarves for Hermione and all the Weasleys, and a ream of shiny, gold-embossed tickets. It had happened. England was playing Australia in the World Cup semifinal playoff game, with home field advantage at Puddlemere. The winner would go on to play Ireland at the Quidditch World Cup next summer.
Hermione's night had been a blur of scattered nightmares and wide-eyed hours in front of the fire; she felt bleary and breathless with nerves as she watched Ludo Bagman take his seat in the top box. She hadn't seen Harry in three weeks, not since he'd taken her arm on that cold London street and slid his hands over her waist on the dance floor and something had happened, something had gone wrong, and she'd said nothing, and he'd gone. And now she would finally see him, in front of this crowd of thousands, and he'd be a tiny speck on the field, a blur on a broomstick, and she would have to shield her eyes and watch the Harry speck through shaking fingers because he terrified her senseless when he flew.
But then the team mascots paraded onto the field and Ron grabbed her arm and started bouncing up and down, and she couldn't help it. Nerves gave way to a thrill of excitement as the stadium shook with cheers and red and white banners and rosettes and scarves. The England mascots were nothing short of spectacular: an enormous golden lion, stalking onto the pitch and shaking a mane of shining bronze curls, and a stunning unicorn easily as big as one of Madam Maxime's mounts, pawing the ground and rearing up at the crowd. Australia's herd of multicolored kangaroos was assembling on the other side of the field, tossing fireworks from their pouches amidst the drowning cheers.
And then Ludo Bagman's voice, amplified over the crowd: "I'd like to welcome all of you to the World Cup Semifinal Match between defending England, and visiting team Australia… the winner of this match will advance to the Quidditch World Cup this summer. And now, I give you… Australia!"
The yellow-and-green-robed Australian team darted into the sky one by one and wheeled high above the pitch as Bagman's voice rattled off names, and then reached a jubilant crescendo that couldn't be disguised. "And now, without further ado, I give you… England!"
Streaks of red and white shot onto the field as the stadium thundered with noise. "Wood!… Hatfield!… Mason!… Spencer!… Jones!… Jackson!… aaaand… POTTER!!"
At the sound of Harry's name the crowd exploded. Hermione felt a rush as heady as if she'd taken off on a broomstick herself. A tiny speck with raven hair flashed into view from the other side of the pitch and Ron was nearly on top of his chair with excitement. The speck looped around in unmistakable Harry style - amazing how easy it was to spot Harry from miles away just by the way he flew - and zipped towards their end of the stadium. In a matter of seconds Harry was level with the top box, pulling his broom into a swift midair stop and beaming like crazy at all of them.
"Hullo, you lot," he said breathlessly.
Molly Weasley was overcome, dabbing her eyes with a large red and white banner. "Hello, Harry dear! We're so proud -- "
"Cracking good seats, Harry!" Percy was on his feet next to Penelope, hoisting Percy Jr. up so he could wave at Uncle Harry.
"KILL THEM, HARRY! KILL! KILL!" chorused the twins.
Harry laughed, his face breaking into what Ron called his Shit-Eating Grin, and he gave Ron a thumbs-up.
"Go get 'em!" Ron rasped hoarsely, his voice completely gone.
Harry turned his broom sharply, glancing down at the pitch. The referee was walking out onto the field, carrying a large wooden chest. Harry's game-day scarlet and white robes whipped in the breeze, the colors far more brilliant than his practice robes, and Hermione could see the white block letters across his back: "POTTER." He shifted again to face them, the wind tossing his hair across his forehead, and suddenly he was Harry Potter, lightning scar and glasses and worn leather Quidditch gloves, Seeker for England, Saver of the Free World Seven Times Over, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat.
But Harry Potter's eyes were searching the top box, and when they met hers, his face broke into a brilliant smile. His eyes held hers, glinting, and Hermione realized she could read them, could fall right into their clear green depths and know what it was to be Harry at that moment. She knew he was telling her about the perfect day and how it felt to be on that broom and never to worry while he was flying, and she felt like they were dancing again, like the space between them had vanished. His eyes drew her close somehow, and her heart began its familiar pounding as the blood rushed to her cheeks and she felt herself suspended in his stare as if she were in his arms.
And then the whistle blew and with a wave and a flash of scarlet he was gone, and Hermione's heart was soaring with him as if they were on the broom together.
It was a breathtaking match. Australia's Beaters were easily twice the size of anyone on the England team, and could deliver blows that sent bludgers rocketing across the field like cannonballs. England's Chasers were nearly flawless, weaving and diving and executing pass combinations that were almost too fast to see. Australia's Seeker was much bigger than Harry and marked him closely, hoping to throw Harry off-balance each time their shoulders collided.
Harry, unsurprisingly, gave as good as he got. Though smaller, he was easily as strong as the opposing Seeker, and clearly faster than anyone else on the field. He managed to be everywhere at once, not only circling for the Snitch, but playing a crafty defense, confusing the opposing Beaters, blocking passes, and confounding the Australian Chasers by darting into their precise formations.
Hermione watched the match with her eyes wide and her heart in her throat. She was somehow unafraid this time, and all she could feel was the wind whipping her face, and how it must feel to fly as fast as Harry, fast enough that no one could catch you, alone with only wind behind you, and she felt like a part of herself was flying that day too.
And when Harry finally spun into a dive, a dive so fast she feared for a moment he might blink out of existence, racing the other Seeker shoulder to shoulder and then pulling up and spinning, actually spinning over the other Seeker to change direction mid-plummet and looping again and shooting straight up into the bright winter sky with the Snitch grasped firmly in his hand, it was as if Hermione could feel it in her own hand and she could see nothing else but golden wings and taste the tears running down her cheeks.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Oi! Is anyone at home?"
Hermione's eyes flew open with a jolt. She was overly warm, and something with sharp corners was jabbing hard into her ribs. It took her a moment to realize she'd fallen asleep in front of the fire, a copy of Harbinger's Magical Maladies still open in her lap. She hadn't been able to sleep yet again, so she'd made a halfhearted attempt to study. That had given way, however, to a few long hours of daydreaming about broomsticks and wind and Quidditch robes and very green -
"Hullo in there?"
The voice, muffled and strange, was coming from the old butler's horn by the door; Hermione didn't recognize it. She scrambled to her feet, nearly tripped over her bathrobe, and stood on her tiptoes to call into the horn. "Hello?"
Strange scufflings and voices could be heard through the horn. It sounded vaguely like someone was singing.
"Er, yeah, this is Mason," came the voice, rough and distorted. "Will Mason. And Jonesy. We're with Harry."
The match came flooding back to her and Hermione forgot to breathe. Harry was going to the World Cup. She'd gone with everyone to the post-game party that afternoon, but after a few hours of watching Harry be mobbed by every Quidditch-crazed witch and wizard in London, she'd come home in an attempt to recover from her sleepless night the day before. Mason and Jonesy… Will Mason and Martin Jones were the Beaters for England; she'd met them quite a few times.
"You're with Harry? Is everything all right?"
"We're fine," came Mason's voice. "Sorry to wake you at this hour. Could you let us up?"
"Of course," Hermione stuttered. "Be right down." What time was it, anyway? Head swimming, she stumbled into the bedroom, pulled on her clothes, and flew out the door and down the stairs. Why on Earth couldn't Harry let himself into his own flat? He hadn't been hurt in the match -- what if an Australian fan had tried to get revenge? What if Harry had done something like he'd done that night at the club --
She threw open the front door.
Harry was standing between the two Beaters -- well, standing was really too strong a word. Leaning might have been more accurate; he was attempting to remain vertical with varying degrees of success. It was a good thing Mason and Jones were as huge as they were, because it looked as if each one was doing their fair share of keeping Harry upright. All three of them were still in their game robes, which were in a fair state of disarray. Mason had a huge slash of mud down one side where he'd been clipped by a Bludger. Harry, dwarfed by his teammates, definitely looked the worst for wear; his robes were streaked with mud and grass stains, most likely from a tumble onto the field after diving for the Snitch, and clumps of his hair appeared to be plastered together and sticking up in all directions.
What's more, he was singing. Loudly.
"If I were the marrying kind, but thank the Lord I'm not, sir! The Quidditch player that I would marry would be a Quidditch -- "
Hermione goggled.
She'd seen Harry drunk before, plenty of times. She'd shared butterbeer with him in the common room, the real, alcoholic stuff that he and Ron smuggled from Hogsmeade, and stayed up until all hours watching Ron do Snape imitations. Harry and Ron had dragged her into the Three Broomsticks dozens of times, mostly during their seventh year when they thought she was studying too hard for N.E.W.T. exams. One summer they'd raided the Burrow's stash of elderberry wine with Fred and George, and ended up playing a very wobbly game of Quidditch in the back field at four in the morning. But it was always Ron who ended up on top of a table, attempting to sing all twelve lesser-known verses of "I May Be A Tiny Chimney Sweep" while Harry tried to rein him in. Harry, even drunk, was always somehow in charge, could still cast any number of charms after finishing a pint, though he'd be pink and laughing and not getting the words exactly right. Tonight, however --
Mason and Jones both looked up when Hermione opened the door.
"Evenin', Hermione," Mason said, with a shy smile.
"Hope we didn't wake you," added Jones politely.
"Oh no," said Hermione, feeling like some sort of stuffy schoolmistress. "It's fine, really."
Harry was oblivious to this exchange; he looked up at Mason and gave him a strong nudge. "Would be a Quidditch -- "
Mason chuckled and rolled his eyes. "Beater, sir!"
Harry plunged onward. "Why, sir?"
Mason flushed, clearly embarrassed to be singing in front of Hermione, but launched into a verse as he and Jones began walking Harry up the front steps.
"'Cause I'd swipe balls, and you'd swipe balls -- " at this Harry and Jones joined in - "we'd all swipe balls together, we'd be all right in the middle of the night -- "
Hermione was sure her jaw was hanging open, but she was too shocked to do anything about it. She had a fleeting thought that possibly their neighbors wouldn't appreciate three members of the Quidditch National Team serenading her with bawdy songs on the front porch at two in the morning, but the thought passed as they reached the top steps and Harry suddenly blinked at Hermione.
"Oh," he slurred softly, and his eyes were unfocused and sweet. "Hi, Hermione."
Hermione felt her knees melt. She held the door open as the two burly Beaters struggled through the front door with Harry and into the stairwell.
"Very sorry about this," said Mason, and Hermione noticed he was slurring a bit as well, though not so badly as Harry. "We were havin' a bit of a bash, you know, and one thing led to another…"
Jones chuckled. "Let's just say it's easy to forget that Harry here isn't as big as some of the other blokes on the team."
"It's easy for Harry to forget, you mean," said Mason, giving Harry an easygoing nudge. "He tried to keep up with Jonesy here, but I think Jonesy weighs twice as much."
"He doesn't," Harry protested. "I've put on weight this year."
"Sure y'have, Potter," grinned Mason, looking down at Harry from his considerable height. "You're almost our size now."
"Don't speak too soon," grunted Jones, heaving one of Harry's arms around his shoulders. "We've got to get him up the stairs, mate."
"I can levitate him," said Hermione, fumbling for her wand, which she quickly discovered was still in her robe. "Bugger -- I've left my wand in my flat -- "
"Nah, don't worry about it," said Mason, lifting Harry's other arm easily. "It's good for us, isn't it, Jonesy?"
"Suppose so. Considering we'll need to train for the Cup now," Jones grinned.
"Damn right," said Harry resolutely, beaming and swaying slightly.
Much to her chagrin, Hermione learned a few more verses to the Quidditch song on the way up the stairs. Quidditch goalpoasts, sir? They stood erect. Bludgers got beaten off. Thankfully they were in Harry's flat by the time Harry started in with "Spectator on a rainy day, sir!" because Hermione wasn't quite sure if she wanted to know that particular stanza.
"Right," said Mason as they deposited Harry heavily onto the sitting room couch. "Good thing you were here, Hermione. Do us a favor and make sure he gets into bed all right? Jonesy and I need to get back to the pub."
"Has he been -- er -- " Hermione couldn't believe she was having this conversation. "Sick?"
"Oh yeah," said Jones. "Twice already. Should be okay."
Harry, sprawled across the couch, waved at his teammates breezily. "M'fine," he said. "Don'worry."
Hermione shifted uncomfortably. "Is Ron still at the pub?"
"Oh aye," said Mason. "Don't worry about that one. He's been chatting in the corner with some bird all night." He leaned over and ruffled Harry's sticky hair affectionately. "You take care, right, mate? That was a bloody fine game you played."
Harry swatted at Mason's beefy arm and grinned. "You too, mate."
Jones gave Harry a mock salute. "See you at practice, Potter."
"Thanks for taking care of him," Hermione said, feeling herself flush.
"Ah, don't mention it. That's our job," grinned Mason.
And with that the two Beaters were out the door of Harry's flat, smiling and waving as Hermione closed it quietly behind them. Her heart was pounding again as she turned around and Harry gave her a wobbly smile.
"Hey," he said softly.
Hermione was fighting the urge to slip out of the flat and back upstairs, where she wouldn't be alone with Harry, where she might not say something accidentally and then one thing would lead to another and it would certainly end badly when everyone woke up in the morning in someone else's bed.
She wasn't thinking clearly. This wouldn't do.
Harry was curling up on the couch in his muddy robes, his hair arrayed frightfully in sticky spikes. Hermione took a breath. He clearly needed a bath; at the very least she needed to get him out of that filthy uniform. She had a degree in magical medicine -- certainly she could handle this. Out of the uniform and into bed. Maybe a quick wash in the sink -- she couldn't get him into the shower. Though she really did want to.
Right. That line of thinking wasn't helpful.
Hermione sat down on the couch next to Harry and shook him gently. "Harry? We've got to get your robes off before you fall asleep."
"Mmmurf," Harry said.
"Come on now." She shook him again.
"Erglhh." Harry rolled onto his side.
"Oh honestly. You're a mess, Harry."
When another shake produced no results, Hermione unlaced Harry's leather Quidditch boots and peeled off his socks, which made her grin in spite of herself -- they were some of Dobby's handcrafted creations, mismatched, a white one with roaring lions and a scarlet one with unicorns. She undid the lacing on his outer robes and managed to slip them off one arm, realizing that the sleeves had been completely soaked in ale.
"Lovely," she said, speaking as much to herself as to Harry, who was half-asleep and chuckling softly.
With a bit more maneuvering she managed to pull his robes off completely; the effort seemed to rouse him a bit, and he sat up halfway as she was piling the beer-scented garment next to the couch and putting his wand on an end table.
"Thanks," he murmured. "Here."
Harry began lifting his team jumper over his head, but it caught on his glasses and he began to laugh and became completely unable to pull it off any further. Hermione, now laughing herself, reached out and eased it over his head, and as she untangled it his hand closed over hers by mistake and everything smelled of ale and cut grass and Harry, and she looked up and his eyes were barely a foot from hers, blinking wide and green without glasses, and Hermione was suddenly painfully aware that Harry was missing a shirt and she couldn't look down because she might lose control completely.
"We should do this more of'n," Harry said, with a lopsided smile.
Hermione felt the tips of her ears burn pink. Best friend. He's your best friend. "Oh definitely," she scoffed. Harry put his glasses back on again, then blinked at her with eyes still unfocused. He was dangerously close, leaning back on the couch in only his uniform trousers, his broad shoulders resting against a cushion and still pale and cool and strong as she remembered them.
Hermione felt like she was in some sort of bizarre freefall, tumbling towards the inevitable force that was Harry. "Um, your hair," she stuttered. "There's something in it I think."
"Mm," Harry nodded. "Beer."
Trying to keep her eyes away from the unclad bits of Harry, Hermione reached out and touched his head gingerly. "Ergh. I think you're right."
"Th' boys dumped it on me," Harry explained earnestly.
"Well, let's get some of it out before you go to sleep," Hermione said, standing up and wondering absently how she was going to get Harry into the bathroom and then into bed without the aid of magic. And how she would do it all without running her hands over his --
"I'll just go upstairs and get my wand. "
"Oh no," Harry protested stubbornly, grabbing her hand. "Stay."
"Er -- " Breathe. Just breathe. "Right. Um, let's get up then, shall we?"
To her surprise Harry actually nodded. He slung an arm around her and gave her an embarrassed smile as they stood and she staggered slightly under his weight.
"Sorry m'such a mess."
"It's okay," Hermione said breathlessly. I will not faint. I will not. Harry's body was warm against hers and even the weight of it was wonderful. Somehow -- and Hermione was never quite sure how -- they made it to the bathroom, Hermione steadying Harry as he leaned into the sink and she scrubbed water into his ink-black hair.
Oddly enough it didn't feel strange to be in the bathroom with Harry. It felt -- normal. Running her hands through his hair was the most natural thing in the world and also the most incredible. And the most frightening. Frightening because she had to remind herself that running her hands elsewhere probably wouldn't seem so normal to Harry.
"Thanks," he said, straightening up and swaying slightly. The cold water seemed to have restored a bit of his equilibrium.
"You, er, should get to bed," Hermione said, wishing fervently that she didn't always have to be so bloody practical.
"Yeah, okay. Gimme a sec in here."
"You all right?"
"Think so." Harry grinned at her and shut the door while she went back into the living room. I could leave, I could leave now, Hermione thought, it would be the rational thing to do, he can make it to bed, it's late, I'll just tell him I'm going back upstairs --
The bathroom door opened and Harry stepped out again, damp hair in tendrils across his forehead. Hermione had the fleeting thought that if she lived to be six hundred with the aid of a Philosopher's Stone she'd never be able to get used to the sight of Harry in nothing but worn Quidditch corduroys. Thank Merlin that he was drunk and probably wouldn't notice the blush that seemed to have taken up permanent residence on her cheeks.
"Let me get you some water," Hermione said quickly. "You get in bed, all right?"
"Okay." Harry was still giving her that lopsided smile. He ran a hand through his hair and stumbled into the bedroom while Hermione found a glass and filled it and tried not to think about Harry waiting for her.
"I'd make you a potion but my wand's upstairs," she called, heading for the bedroom. "I can make it for you tomorrow morning, though. You really should take it first thing -- "
Harry was sitting on the edge of his bed in his boxer shorts. Scarlet with gold snitches. She almost spilled the glass of water all over herself when she saw him. He smiled sheepishly at her.
"Well come on, into bed," she stuttered, handing him the glass a bit more forcefully than she meant to.
Harry took a swig and slid under his blankets. "Thanks, Hermione," he murmured, setting the glass precariously next to his bed. "Nox."
The lights went out. Trust Harry to be able to perform magic drunk out of his gourd without the aid of a wand.
"Harry, your glasses -- " Without thinking, Hermione leaned forward and slipped the familiar wire frames off his face.
Harry's hand closed around hers. She felt her knees give way with surprise and sat down on the bed with a startled thump.
"Hermione," he mumbled, eyes bleary and half-open -- even drunk and half-asleep, he never called her by anything other than her full name, so unlike Ron -- "Hermione, I... "
Hermione thought her hand might be trembling in his. "What is it?" she whispered.
"I love you, d'you know that?" His eyes were closed now.
Best friends, screamed Hermione's mind. He doesn't know what he's saying, he's not making sense. You can't let yourself think --
"I love you too, Harry -- "
"No," he murmured, shaking his head against the pillow. "S' not what I mean... I can't tell you... " He was fighting drowsiness as it swept over him. "I want to. I want to so badly... and I can't."
"What do you mean?"
But a soft snore told her that Harry was asleep.
Hermione took her shaking hand from his and set down his glasses. She could make out the outline of his inky hair against the pillow, his broad chest rising and falling.
And then Practical Hermione left the building.
Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to Harry's forehead. It was wonderful. A quick, soft kiss -- he'd never know --
Harry's breathing changed; his eyes fluttered open, and almost unconsciously he tilted his head and his lips met hers.
It was the single sweetest kiss in the world.
And then he mumbled and shifted, and his breathing was deep and regular again, and Hermione was freefalling through the night sky.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~