Come Together

Granger

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 4
Published: 18/11/2002
Last Updated: 09/02/2008
Status: completed

It's four years after the Trio has graduated from Hogwarts, and they're about to live together again for the first time. But something is different... will old friends remain just old friends, or will they become something more?

Chapters

1. Orthagon Alley

2. Just a Moment

3. Tumbling Dice

4. Freefalling

5. Just the Facts

6. Author's Note

7. Get Back

8. Absolute Beginners

9. One Sweet Dream

1. Orthagon Alley

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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter One: Orthagon Alley

one and one and one is three ~ The Beatles

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Hermione could never say exactly when things started to change.

Maybe it was the day she'd seen him in Orthagon Alley for the first time, his face glowing with happiness, a streak of dirt under one eye, his Quidditch robes stained with grass. She'd definitely felt something then: an odd feeling, like her heart was quivering and about to burst.

She'd missed him at University, but then, she'd missed Ron too. Yet every time she closed her eyes to think of Hogwarts, a pair of green eyes swam into her mind, unbidden. Green eyes, round glasses, black hair, a scar.

Maybe it began the summer after they graduated, after the Defeat, when Harry vanished for weeks at a time, not sending Owls, only to reappear at the Burrow looking thin and distracted. Ron would send Pig to her with short notes. "He's back." "Gone again."

She didn't sleep much that summer. A part of her seemed to be missing.

But maybe nothing had changed at all. Maybe it had always been this way, and she just hadn't noticed.

Maybe she hadn't wanted to notice.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

But something had definitely been different on that late September day she'd first seen Harry in Orthagon Alley. She'd gone to pick up Ron from King's Cross that afternoon; Harry couldn't make it, since it was the team's first practice after two weeks of away games. He'd promised to meet them at the house. Ron had stumbled off the train, his arms brimming with packages and luggage, looking even taller and thinner than usual, Pigwidgeon chirping excitedly in his cage. His face split into a grin when he saw Hermione, and he planted a brotherly kiss on her cheek as they juggled the packages and Pig's cage.

"Too much bloody luggage to Apparate," Ron said as they made their way through the crowded station. "Never knew I had this much junk."

"Oh, you can always Apparate in later -- it's worth walking the first time," Hermione said, leading the way towards the street. "The concealment spell on the street entrance is quite charming. Harry's been gone, but he should be back by the time we get home."

"Home." Ron sighed and shook his head. "That's a strange word for a place I haven't even seen yet."

Hermione smiled. Oddly enough, though she'd only been there a week, her new flat was already starting to feel like she'd lived there for ages. Just knowing that Harry and Ron were living in the building, even if they weren't there yet, seemed to make all the difference.

It had been over six months since Harry and Ron had seen each other, and at least three months since Hermione had seen Harry. It had been almost an entire mind-boggling year since the three of them had all been together. And now, their time apart was about to come to an end. With the news that Ron had accepted a new job in London as a Ministry Barrister, and that Hermione would be starting a new doctorate program at London's Hornswoggle University, Harry had wasted no time in finding the three of them a shared living space in the wizarding center of town. Tonight, they would be living under the same roof for the first time since they'd left Hogwarts almost four years ago.

Hermione and Ron had protested -- they knew Harry was always looking for an excuse to splurge a bit of his fortune on his friends. But Harry had insisted on buying a place. He had already been in London for two years, and knew the city better than either Ron or Hermione; and besides, he explained, he hated his current flat. Apparently his neighbors kept cats and his hallway always reeked of tunafish.

Hermione hadn't bought that excuse, however. She knew Harry better than that.

In any event, Hedwig had visited Ron and Hermione late that summer to deliver large yellow envelopes. Hermione had hardly been able to contain her excitement when she'd opened her envelope to reveal a bright wizard photograph of a narrow brick apartment house. It looked quite old and charming, squashed between other similar houses, with white trim, a slate roof, and delightful bay windows nestled in its upper stories. Hermione turned the photo over to read, "231 Orthagon Alley, London." The envelope also contained a large brass key and a note in Harry's awkward uphill scrawl.

Dear Hermione, Here it is! I really hope you both like the new place. It's in a great location, just around the corner from the Leaky Cauldron, and not too far from the Hornswoggle library. I hope you don't mind, I've picked a flat for you -- the one on the top floor. It just reminded me of you.

Hermione grinned to herself.

The key in the envelope is your key to the building and your flat. It's enchanted, so it will vanish the first time you use it, and you'll always have access to the building and to your own door. I've modified the spell so that you and Ron also have access to my flat as well. Makes things easier. Anyway, I can't wait to see you both. Miss you more than I can say. Love, Harry.

"Hermione? Isn't this the street?"

Hermione blinked. She'd almost walked right past their turnoff in her preoccupation, while Ron had been blithely chatting away. This wasn't like her at all.

"Sorry! Sorry. I was just a bit turned around."

Or thinking about something else, more like. Miss you more than I can say. Hermione flushed slightly and groped for a change of subject, realizing that she no longer knew what Ron had been talking about.

"I'd never heard of Orthagon Alley before I got Harry's Owl," she began quickly. "I'd heard of Origin Alley -- who hasn't, I mean, it's the posh place to live if you're a wizard in London. And I always assumed there were more concealed wizard neighborhoods in the city, but I hadn't heard of this one."

She'd lapsed into a recitation of facts because she was flustered. Still babbling after all these years.

"Percy mentioned it once," Ron said, seemingly oblivious to her nervous chatter. "I think it's very old. Not a lot of vacancies -- once people move in, they tend to stay. Probably because it's quite close to the good pubs." He winked.

Hermione rolled her eyes, then looked up and stopped suddenly.

"Wait -- I think this is it."

The Leaky Cauldron was Hermione's landmark to navigate to the Orthagon Alley entrance; she led Ron on a series of small twists and turns through narrow residential streets and eventually came to a halt in front of an unremarkable row of flats.

"See it?" she said quietly. "Unfocus your eyes a bit. It's an archway between those two buildings."

Ron squinted, then nodded, and with a quick glance in both directions, the two of them stepped forward through the arch. It led to a small manicured garden with high walls on all sides; a fountain on one wall with a spouting stone fish provided the only noise. Hermione set down a suitcase, took out her wand, and tapped the fish twice. A portion of the back wall suddenly sprang aside, revealing a narrow alleyway.

"Wicked," Ron murmured.

The two of them walked through the entrance and under an old painted street sign that read "Orthagon Alley" as the wall slid into place behind them. Ron's eyes were wide.

"Hermione, this is amazing. Look at this place!"

Hermione had to agree; she'd spent a blissful week settling in, and each day had seemed more unreal than the next. The street was paved with cobblestones and lined on each side with a row of trees, which were currently showing off their finest display of brilliant fall color. The houses were squished together in a decidedly cozy way, and a few of them had small shops on the bottom floor with striped awnings. "Walrymple's Market," read one sign. "Dugbog's Books," said another. The alley ended in a cul-de-sac, with a large grassy park in the center. The park was crisscrossed with paved paths that wound their way among shade trees and benches.

"That one," Hermione said, pointing.

Ron did a little dance in the street.

They rushed up the front steps of 231 Orthagon Alley, Hermione reaching for the doorknob. "I can let us in, I've already used my key -- "

But Ron was shifting packages in his hands so he could examine a large brass horn that was hanging on a scrolled hook next to the front door.

"Is this what I think it is?" he asked incredulously.

Truth be told, Hermione had spent at least twenty minutes gleefully examining the old butler's horn on the day she'd arrived at the flat, but she found herself impatient with Ron's distraction. Harry would be home by now, and --

"It's a butler's horn," she said quickly. "Common in very old wizard houses, fell out of fashion about a hundred years ago. You talk into it and people in the building can hear your voice from little brass horns near the doors inside."

Babbling again.

Ron chuckled. "There's nothing you don't know, is there, Hermione? Let's see if this antique still works." Holding the horn to his mouth, Ron cleared his throat and spoke into it loudly.

"Oi! Would this be the fine residence of the Boy Who Never Combs His Hair?"

A loud and unmistakable whoop echoed from the dusty depths of the horn. Ron whooped back. Hermione was overwhelmed with a rush of happiness as something deep within her broke down in a wave that felt like relief. Her eyes stung with tears.

A moment later, the door to the house flew open, and a scarlet-and-white-robed blur shot from the doorway. Ron's packages were forgotten. Suitcases, supper, and a squawking Pigwidgeon hit the ground as Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger tangled themselves into a fierce six-armed hug.

They pulled apart at a particularly loud squawk of protest from Pig, whose cage had landed sideways on the front stoop. Harry and Ron were laughing; Hermione, blushing, attempted to brush away the tears that were streaking her cheeks.

"Oh, Hermione, don't cry," Harry said, reaching out to wipe her cheek with his thumb. His bright eyes met hers briefly and Hermione felt a jolt in the pit of her stomach. Her heart was pounding in her ears and she felt heat rise through her face. Why did she feel so odd? It was just Harry. Even though she hadn't seen him in months.

Just Harry.

"Yeah, Hermione. You know we can't handle it when you cry," Ron said, beginning to gather his luggage.

"Right," Harry said, scooping up Pigwidgeon's cage. "It might make us start crying too, and then we'd have to drink ale and eat spicy sausage for two weeks to reassert ourselves as men."

"Don't forget the loud belching," said Ron.

Hermione was laughing now, her heart still beating fast. She watched Harry's broad shoulders as he bent and straightened to pick up another suitcase. He turned and leaned against the front door to hold it open for them.

An image of Harry from years ago suddenly swam into Hermione's mind. Harry, eleven years old, standing at Hogsmeade Station with Hedwig's cage, nothing but glasses and hair, skinny and small under his Hogwarts sweater. Hermione held the image in her mind next to Harry now, twenty-one, tall and solid and rougishly handsome, wearing his England Quidditch robes as if he'd been born in them, standing in the doorway of a house he owned.

Same messy hair, same glasses, same jagged scar. Same look in the depths of his brilliant green eyes.

This was still her Harry.

Why, then, was her cheek on fire with the tingling imprint of his touch?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Hermione's head felt oddly light as they climbed the stairs to Ron's flat on the second floor. Harry and Ron, here, now, after so long. The three of them had slipped into conversation with the ease of a favorite pair of old jeans, as if no time had passed at all since they'd last been together. Hermione felt as if the past year apart had been a vivid dream from which she'd just awoken, and that if she went upstairs to her own flat, her volumes of books from her old University would be gone.

Everything was the same, but something was different.

She couldn't stop looking at him.

She wanted to be next to him, to feel him lean into her, feel his hand on her shoulder, smell his familiar scent. Looking at him again was like drinking butterbeer on an icy day in Hogsmeade. It was like oxygen.

Had it always been like this?

"Want to come and look around upstairs, then, Ron? My flat's on the third floor, Hermione's up top."

They'd finished depositing Ron's luggage in his flat, but Ron was still standing in the sitting room, mouth agape.

Harry was leaning against the doorframe, clearly enjoying every minute of Ron's reaction. "You alright there, Weasley?"

"Shut up, you prat. Can't a fella have a look round his new flat for a few minutes?"

"It's been more than a few. And I need to shower and get out of these practice robes. Want to just meet at my place for supper?"

"Yeah, alright," said Ron. He blinked, then looked meaningfully at Harry. "Hey, Potter," he drawled, his face breaking into a sly grin. "Would those be... England Quidditch practice robes?"

Harry ran a hand through his hair, and when he looked up, Hermione saw that he was blushing.

"Why yes, I believe these are England robes."

Ron had adopted his best impression of Professor Snape and was pacing the room.

"Would you be wearing them, Potter... because... you actually play for England?"

Ron did a good Snape; Harry grinned and played along. "Well, yes, sir."

"You mean to tell me -- " Ron turned to him triumphantly, waggling a finger -- "You're the one and only first-string seeker for the finest Quidditch team in all the land?"

Harry was a shade of red to match his famous robes. "I, well -- it appears so."

Ron dropped the facade and pulled Harry into a rough hug. "Sorry, mate," Ron said, clapping him on the back. "Some days I still can't believe it. I've got to make you say it every so often, or it doesn't seem real."

Harry's meteoric Quidditch career did seem a bit surreal, even if no one was surprised when he began playing professionally. He'd wandered aimlessly after Hogwarts, after the Defeat, haunted and uneasy. But after a year's time, Harry settled in a shabby London flat, content for the moment to reflect and write letters. One day he'd quietly gone to Quidditch trials for the local team, Puddlemere United, and was immediately signed as Seeker.

It had been some time since he'd last played Quidditch, and he still looked shaky that season, as if he never slept. But he'd flown like no Seeker ever had, and led Puddlemere to an undefeated record and their first league victory in ten years. The morning after their final match, he'd gotten a call from Morris Whiggam, the coach of England's national team. With Harry aboard, last year had been England's best season in decades, and The Boy Who Lived, recently The Boy Who Defeated You-Know-Who, was now The Boy Who Saved The National Team. If it hadn't been for a painful loss to Ireland in the finals, they would have gone straight to the Cup.

Harry stepped back and caught Hermione's eye; his look was unreadable. Hermione felt an odd disconnect, then realized why. She usually knew what Harry was thinking.

"I hope you both don't mind," he said quietly. "Living with me, I mean. It's not exactly low-profile."

So that was it.

"Of course not, Harry," Hermione began.

"Come on, Harry, don't be silly," said Ron. "I'm used to it anyway. I almost went into it professionally, you know -- Ron Weasley, Sidekick to the Stars."

Harry was grinning again. "So you'll be okay with it, then."

"Oh get out," said Ron, smiling back.

Surprised at her own boldness, Hermione reached out and caught Harry's hand in her own. She squeezed it.

"Very okay," she said.

Harry's eyes met hers. He squeezed back.

"I mean it, though," said Ron. "Get out. You definitely need a shower, Potter."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The sanctity of her own flat was both welcoming and terrifying. Welcoming, because it was a chance to straighten her thoughts, which were clearly in need of organizational attention. Terrifying, because in every room of the flat, Hermione thought of Harry. It just reminded me of you, he'd said in his letter.

It was quite a compliment. The flat, on the top floor of the building, was nestled among the eaves of the roof like a contented cat, all funny angles and cozy corners. It was slightly smaller than Harry and Ron's flats, but it was filled with large south-facing bay windows and built-in bookshelves. Best of all, underneath the bay window across from the sitting room fireplace was a windowseat with giant pink-and-white striped cushions. Crookshanks was curled up on the seat in the fading golden light, and began to purr contentedly as Hermione entered the room.

Shutting herself into the bathroom, which had a lovely claw-footed bathtub -- it just reminded me of you -- Hermione splashed water on her face and attempted to smooth down any wild curls that had escaped into frizz. She'd pull herself together, go back downstairs, and everything would be normal. She was a very logical person, after all, and her feelings could be explained. She was just a bit overwhelmed and happy to see her best friends again. It was causing her to focus on Harry. That was all.

Ron was already in Harry's flat by the time Hermione came downstairs, pulling packages out of a lumpy shopping bag and rummaging in the kitchen cabinets. The flat was filled with the unmistakable aroma of Molly Weasley's famous fried chicken, which brought an instant smile to Hermione's face. Summer nights at the Burrow, eating cold drumsticks and drinking apple cider on the back porch, Harry on one side, Ron on the other. The faint sound of explosions somewhere in the distance -- Fred and George at work on some new bit of terror. And the muttering of garden gnomes as they made their way stealthily back into Mrs.Weasley's tomato patch.

"I hope your mum knows how much I've missed this chicken."

Ron looked up and grinned, handing Hermione an empty salad bowl and a damp head of lettuce as she approached the kitchen counter. "Oh, she knows all too well. She was hoping it would lure the two of you back to the Burrow for the holidays."

Hermione smiled. "It's a distinct possibility."

Ron was now piling the steaming chicken onto a plate; it was still hot, thanks to Mrs.Weasley's warming charm. He waggled his eyebrows at Hermione and licked his fingers, then reached for a piece that had fallen from the plate.

"Ron!"

Ron ignored her disapproving look. "Y'know, after all that's happened, I can't believe we're here. We're living together and having bloody Sunday dinner."

"It's Friday."

"You know what I mean, 'Mione."

Hermione felt her heart swell. "I do. Believe me, I've been thinking about it all day. I couldn't wait for you both to be here."

"I know. Just the three of us." Ron rolled a tomato across the counter and passed Hermione a knife. "I've been nervous about my job, and I hadn't even seen my own flat, but now... now it's like I'm home, or something." He held out his arms to Hermione, grinning. "C'mere."

Hermione moved into Ron's embrace, laughing as he made a big show of not touching her with his chicken-covered hands. Her head almost reached the center of his chest; he was now nearly a foot taller than she was. He smelled gingery, familiar, sweet. She didn't feel dizzy just having him near; she didn't feel like his touch would make her tremble. He just felt like Ron. Good, Hermione thought. I must be feeling better. I must have gotten over whatever was wrong with me earlier.

Ron gave her a long squeeze, then broke away, grabbing a dishtowl to wipe his fingers. "Check for salad dressing, will you? I'm a bit afraid to open Harry's fridge."

"Oh, so you want me to do it then? Thanks."

"You always had a stronger stomach in Potions."

Hermione sighed. "I'll do it. You finish setting out the bread."

There was nothing frightening immediately visible in Harry's refrigerator, but Hermione had to bite her lip to keep from laughing as she swung open the refrigerator door -- the contents were so undeniably Harry. Milk, a six-pack of Broomstick Bitter with two bottles gone, and a half-empty package of Irish-style bacon. Further investigation revealed three eggs, an ancient paper box that may have once contained Chinese takeout, a bottle of catsup, and two chocolate frogs.

"Out of luck," Hermione said, closing the fridge. "Unless you want catsup on your lettuce, that is."

"Let me guess. Milk, beer, and sausage?"

"Bacon today. And two chocolate frogs."

"Serious?"

"Don't you go eating them, Ron, it's half the food in there."

"I won't." Ron grabbed his coat from the back of one of Harry's kitchen chairs. "I'll just pop down to the store and get some dressing then. Back in a flash."

He did mean it. With a soft "pop," Ron vanished, leaving Hermione alone in the kitchen.

She found her eyes moving around the room, taking in Harry's flat properly for the first time. The kitchen was on the small side, but functional, with a tall counter partially separating it from the sitting room, and a table with four chairs in front of one large bay window. Hermione guessed that one of the reasons Harry had chosen this flat was its open layout -- high ceilings, big windows, and a large sitting room fireplace. Roomy, but comfortable. Hermione saw a row of frames arranged haphazardly across the fireplace mantle, and wandered closer to get a better look.

She almost teared up again. In almost every frame, beaming happily and waving, were images of herself and Ron, sometimes with Harry as well. There was a photo of Harry's parents, James Potter looking even more like Harry than ever before, and one of Hagrid, with his arm around Madame Maxime, now the new Mrs.Hagrid. One of Dumbledore, eyes twinkling as usual, and one of all the Weasleys together. One of a certain large black dog. And one -- Hermione lifted the frame to peer at it. One of herself, alone, possibly in the Gryffindor common room. She looked lost in thought, reading a large musty volume. Colin must have taken the photo without her knowing, trying to catch the bookworm in action. How embarassing. Why would Harry keep this old thing?

"Is that THE chicken?"

Harry's shout came from the bathroom, his voice echoing. He must still be in the shower. Hermione's pulse quickened. Stop it, Hermione, she thought. You've seen Harry Potter half-naked dozens of times. He's seen you in a bathing suit and wrapped in a towel. He has buttoned and zipped you up the back if you couldn't do it yourself. Just pull yourself together.

"If you mean Mrs.Weasley's chicken, then yes," Hermione called back, trying to steady her voice, which seemed shakier than usual.

"Thought so. Can smell it from here. Be right out!"

"Take your time, Ron's gone to the -- "

The bathroom door flew open, and Hermione's voice took a quick holiday in mid-sentence as Harry stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist. He was attempting to comb his wet hair into submission, and at first Hermione saw nothing but his scar, the jagged line that ran angrily down one side of his forehead and nearly into one dark eyebrow. And then, seemingly by accident, Hermione's eyes wandered hungrily to the rest of Harry, who suddenly did not look at all like the boy she'd seen half-naked before.

Harry had always seemed endearingly fragile to Hermione, his small, thin frame belying a deep strength that could only be seen on the Quidditch field, or when fighting some manifestation of evil. He was mostly ribs and bony knees, and always looked as if he needed an extra helping of supper, no matter how many extra helpings Mrs.Weasley heaped onto his plate.

But now --

To say Harry had filled out considerably wouldn't have accurately described the change; he'd left behind "painfully thin" and "skinny" and settled comfortably into "athletic" and "slender." It had been apparent under his robes, but Hermione drank in the evidence for the first time, her eyes travelling over his broad shoulders, the smooth muscles of his chest, the strength visible under his pale, cool skin. She felt warmth build somewhere inside and spread quickly up to her cheeks, which instantly blazed with color.

She felt Harry's eyes on her, and looked up to see that he'd gone just as red as she had.

Bloody hell, she'd embarrassed him by blushing. What was the matter with her?

Harry coughed and set down his comb, glancing around the flat. "Er, where's Ron?"

"I'm sorry," she said, not knowing why she was apologizing, not able to meet his gaze. Her cheeks still felt hot. "He went to the store to get something."

As if on cue, a soft "pop" told Hermione that Ron was back. She turned to see him shrugging off his coat in the kitchen, and felt herself go limp with relief.

"Got the dressing. You didn't have much of a selection, Harry -- but good Lord, what has that team been feeding you? Because I think I need some of it."

Ron was staring at Harry now, which filled Hermione with even more relief. See, Harry's really changed, she thought. I couldn't help reacting. She stole another glance at Harry and took a deep breath.

She still wanted to reach out and touch every inch of him.

Not good.

Harry chuckled. "Too much butterbeer, most likely."

Ron grinned. "I don't think so. Looks like a steady diet of exercise, and a whole bloody lot of it."

"I hope that's it. I've put on more than a stone since I moved to London."

"Well you certainly don't fly any slower for it," Ron said. "You're even faster now, and you know it."

Harry smiled wryly. "Easier to dive when gravity's got a better hold on you, maybe."

"Oh, hush," Hermione said, suddenly feeling the need to shift the topic far away from Harry's physique, the image of which was now seared in her mind like a photograph. "Let's not talk about putting on weight since school, I've been terrible."

Ron laughed. "Oh come off it, Hermione."

She expected to hear Harry's easy laugh in response, and found herself looking up at him when it never came. He was staring at her solemnly, his green eyes fixed on hers. Her heart stopped.

"I think you look wonderful," Harry said.

The room fell silent. Harry's gaze didn't waver; for a long moment, Hermione looked back at him, forgetting to breathe, her cheeks tingling with color again.

Harry blinked suddenly and ran a hand through his hair. "What am I doing? Standing around in a towel when there's Weasley chicken getting cold in the kitchen, that's what. Sorry, be right back." He vanished into the bedroom, leaving Hermione staring at the place where he'd just been standing.

Ron cleared his throat. "Hermione? Want to dress the salad?"

She'd been thinking more of undressing Harry, but nearly jumped when she realized it. Good Lord. "Oh! Yes. Sorry."

"You okay?"

"F-fine." Hermione was making a mental note to send herself to bed with a hot cup of tea as soon as they were done with supper. "Bit spaced out. Long day."

Ron nodded, setting out silverware. "Are your classes very hard? I can't believe you're going for a second degree."

"Hard, yes, but very interesting. I have some wonderful professors so far."

Ron smiled and gave her a poke as she set the salad bowl on the table. "You do like those professor types, eh?"

Hermione poked him back. "It's not like that, and you know it. David's been the only one."

"So far."

"Ron!"

"Just saying..."

"Oh, how about you, then? Please, do enlighten me with regard to your fabulous love life."

Ron grinned. "It's been dismal, thanks. The only kicks I get these days involve torturing you about your taste in men."

Harry emerged from the bedroom, ruffling his messy hair, clothed now in a navy jumper and old jeans. "What's this, then? Are we talking about Ron's love life?" He pulled up a chair at the table as the three of them sat down; Ron pretended to toss a piece of chicken at him.

"Nothing to talk about," Ron said, putting the drumstick on his own plate and helping himself to salad. "I think Ginny's got a new love interest, though. You'll never believe it. She'll kill me if I tell you."

Harry and Hermione stared at Ron expectantly.

Ron looked innocent.

"So are we supposed to not kill you after you say something like that?" Hermione began, as Harry chuckled.

"Okay, you twisted my arm." Ron lowered his voice in a conspiratorial whisper. "It's... Colin Creevey."

"Really?" Hermione and Harry chorused together. The three of them broke into laughter.

And for a little while, they were the Trio, sharing supper, exclaiming about Ginny's unlikely romance, washing dishes, as Hermione tried to forget about what had been causing her heart to pound that afternoon, tried to relax and focus on the smiling faces at the table, her two oldest and dearest friends. Just friends.

It was only back in her own flat, after a hot cup of tea and a long bath, as she lay awake in bed and saw only Harry, that Hermione knew nothing would ever be the same.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

2. Just a Moment

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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

3. Tumbling Dice

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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Three: Tumbling Dice

yeah, we all need someone we can dream on
and if you want it, baby, well you can dream on me

- -"Let it Bleed," The Rolling Stones

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Origin Alley flat was sparkling with fairy lights, and the latest pop album by Duncan Filbigger was playing on the wireless, drifting over the chatter of the crowd. House elves dressed smartly in clean, starched pillowcases were replenishing a long table with silver trays full of mushroom puffs and shrimp sandwiches. The guests seemed to have stepped from the pages of Witch Weekly; they were tall, slender, wearing slinky skirts or the latest in dress robes, black and violet and emerald green.

It was the perfect night to be a young witch or wizard out on the town in London, and this was the perfect party on this perfect night. Hermione sipped her drink, an ethereal concoction of Samotha, Fogblatt's, and lime, and gazed at the spangled city lights visible through the large windows of the flat.

She couldn't wait to get home.

She couldn't believe she'd agreed to come here in the first place. Somehow, she'd been caught up in the moment, intoxicated by a blissful afternoon in Harry's company. Ron had come upstairs for dinner, and they'd all laughed endlessly over soup and fresh meat pies, as if they were back in the Great Hall glancing over their shoulders at the Slytherin table. Ron was quite smitten with the gaggle of girls who had come by that afternoon, and he'd gotten down on his knees begging Harry and Hermione to go with him to Risa's party. It had been such a comical and heartrending performance that Hermione had found herself agreeing on the spot, forgetting all thoughts of the atrocious girls themselves. And now, she was in the flat of all flats, at the party of all parties, feeling as out of place as a giant squid on a Quidditch pitch.

Harry had disappeared hours ago, which was bitterly unsurprising. Risa Talbot had snagged him firmly on one arm as soon as he'd walked through the door, and Hermione's stomach had dropped straight through her shoes as she watched Risa lead him away. She still hadn't quite recovered from the sight. Thankfully, no one at the party seemed to notice her, and she'd been able to retreat to a quiet corner and attempt to convince herself that it was really perfectly okay that Harry was gadding about with a snotty, pea-brained princess.

It wasn't working.

Hermione finally spotted Ron's tall, red head in the crowd, somewhere between the hors d'ouevres table and the dance floor. He was chatting animatedly with two lovely blonde witches, looking as if he'd just been given a pile of chocolate frogs for Christmas. Hermione sighed. She loved Ron too much to pull him away from what was clearly the best time he'd had in a decade.

"What're you drinking?"

A low voice at Hermione's shoulder made her jump and almost spill her drink. She turned quickly, knowing who it was before she saw green eyes and glasses. Her heart thumped once before lodging firmly in her throat.

"Oh, it's you," she breathed, realizing she sounded hopelessly grateful. Harry grinned and inclined his head towards a shadowy corner; Hermione followed, her head suddenly light. "This is a Foglifter. Samotha and Fogblatt's."

"Can I have a try, then?"

"Of course." Hermione offered him the glass; he took a sip, smiled, and nodded.

"Thanks. That's quite good, isn't it?"

Hermione nodded. "I love lime."

"Me too." Harry motioned towards the long table. "Tried any of the, er, mushroom whatsis?"

"Not yet."

"I've had too many. I think one of the house elves fancies me. Every time I look down, someone with big ears is offering me pastries."

Hermione giggled; Harry's face split into a wide smile, and he peered at her. "You doing all right, then?"

As usual, in Harry's presence, Hermione's thoughts spilled out before she could stop them. "I'm okay," she found herself saying. "Not great. I feel a bit out of place."

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Same."

Hermione blinked. "You? You're, you know, The Boy -- "

" -- who Saved the World from Quidditch, or something, I know," Harry said, nudging her with an elbow. "And you're my famous best friend who helped me do it. You're quite high-profile too, you know." He raised an eyebrow teasingly.

Hermione smiled. "I don't feel high-profile. Or look it, either." She gestured at the crowd, then at her own clothing: jeans, a black v-neck sweater, black Mary Janes.

"You look great, Hermione. It's not like I'm the picture of fashion." Harry chuckled and looked down at himself. He was in typical-Harry garb: jeans, a green jumper, and well-worn Doc Martens, his hair standing up defiantly in several directions. Hermione had the sudden urge to run her hands through it, and immediately turned a bright shade of pink at the thought.

"You look great too," she mumbled.

Harry's cheeks flushed to match Hermione's. "Thanks," he said quietly.

Hermione's pulse quickened.

"There you are!"

And then Risa Talbot was at Harry's side as if she'd Apparated there, stunning in a blue satin slipdress, her glossy hair swept back on one side with a jewelled comb. Hermione's insides felt like ice.

Harry blinked, startled. "Risa. Sorry, I, er, didn't see where you went."

Hermione began to breathe again. She knew Harry, and she could tell from the look on his face that Risa might have been the reason he'd escaped into a dark corner.

Which was good. Better than good, in fact. Hermione hid a smile.

"It is crowded in here, isn't it?" Risa said, ignoring Hermione. "Why don't we go out on the balcony, and you can fetch me another drink on the way?"

Hermione felt a bit sick from this remark; she took a quick sip of her drink, attempting not to choke. When she looked up, she saw that Harry was trying to catch her eye with what was clearly his Play-Along-With-Me glance. She knew it well; it had saved them both from detention several times in Potions. Her heart skipped. She looked back at him and gave a slight nod.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Risa," Harry said, slipping an arm protectively around Hermione's waist. "I've been looking for Hermione. We've got plans to go to Exploding Snap. It's her first night out in London, and I promised I'd take her there after we stopped in at your place."

Hermione was sure her pounding heart could be heard over the blaring music. She leaned slightly into Harry and tried to pretend this wasn't news to her, that it was perfectly normal for Harry to be holding her close while trying to escape from a gorgeous girl who clearly wanted to shag him.

"A bit of dancing sounds like a wonderful idea," said Risa, her almond eyes glittering in the fairy lights.

Harry smiled. "It should be fun. Thanks ever so much for inviting us. Sorry we can't stay."

Hermione was suddenly enjoying herself immensely.

"That's quite all right. I was thinking of slipping out of here myself, but it is my party, after all," Risa said breezily.

"Right then. Lovely party, as usual. I'm sure I'll see you soon."

Harry waved and began to steer Hermione away, but before they could turn to go, Risa took his arm again.

"Say," she said, as if the idea had just occurred to her. "Would you mind terribly if I came with you? The rum punch will be gone in twenty minutes, and then this place will be as dull as a library."

Hermione felt Harry's arm tense around her waist. "Er -- "

"Fabulous," beamed Risa. "I won't be a moment. Let me get Ron for you."

Hermione and Harry stood, awkwardly frozen, watching Risa bob through the crowd towards Ron. It seemed like an age before either of them spoke.

"Exploding Snap?" Hermione managed, her tongue numb.

Harry dropped his arm from Hermione's waist. She missed it instantly.

"I am so sorry," he said, shaking his head. "She is so bloody persistent. Exploding Snap is a dance club. It's the only thing that popped into my head -- all the boys on the team are always going on about it. We don't have to go, really. I can say you're not feeling well -- "

"No, that's really okay. I don't mind." Another awkward pause. "Risa doesn't really... seem like a friend of yours," she said, regretting the words as soon as she heard them.

But Harry didn't seem surprised. "She's not," he said quietly. "Well, not exactly. Risa's mother is some sort of Muggle royalty, a baroness or something. Her uncle owns Quality Quidditch Supplies. She's got a thing for Quidditch players -- always hanging round the shop. I met her when I moved to London." He shifted uneasily. "I still seem to be on her permanent invitation list. She does throw a good party though. I thought it would be a bit of harmless fun."

"It is quite the party, it's true. And Ron is having such a good time."

"Yeah," Harry grinned wryly. "I mostly came to watch Ron. Knew he would love it. Unfortunately I haven't gotten to see him much."

He grew quiet, as Risa was making her way back towards them through the crowd, Ron and the two blonde girls by her side.

"Are we going dancing then?" Ron said brightly, offering an arm to each of the blonde girls. Hermione watched as Risa edged towards Harry; he wrapped an arm around Hermione's waist again. Hermione tried to act nonchalant while her heart performed somersaults.

"We are," said Harry, giving Ron the Play-Along look he'd used earlier. "Exploding Snap, remember?"

Ron knew that look too. "Oh, right," he said, cottoning on. "Forgot what time it was. By the way, Harry, Hermione, meet Bridget and Bianca."

They shook hands all around until a small house elf wearing a pink pillowcase edged shyly up to Harry holding a pile of cloaks.

"Harry Potter would like his cloak, sir?"

"Oh, yes please," Harry said, nudging Hermione. This must be the smitten elf. The house elf blushed furiously and fumbled with the heavy cloaks; when Harry bent down to help her out, the elf could hardly meet Harry's eyes. "Oh, thank you, sir. Harry Potter is really too kind," she mumbled, giving cloaks to Bridget and Bianca, pink to the tips of her bat-like ears.

Hermione knew how the house elf felt.

Harry bent again to retrieve Hermione's cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders before putting on his own. "Right," he said, giving the house elf a smile that sent her scurrying backwards and bowing low. "Shall we?"

And so Hermione found herself escorted into the cold, clear London night on Harry's arm, warm to the tips of her toes with the feeling of her hand wrapped in his, wondering how her best friend could cause her head to spin just by walking beside her.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The entrance to Exploding Snap turned out to be inside an old Wizard pub called the Stone Wolf, near the Leaky Cauldron in Diagon Alley. A giant statue of a stone wolf stood in a side room near the back of the crowded pub, and if his nose was rubbed, a wall sprang aside to reveal a dark, smoky hallway thick with heat and music. Risa strode into the hallway as if she'd been there a ten times already that evening, but Ron seemed suitably impressed.

"Gryffindor tie around the doorknob, right?" he whispered to Harry and Hermione, grinning wickedly as he ducked into the hall. Earlier that evening, the three of them had decided that a school tie knotted around a doorknob would serve as a signal for privacy, and it seemed as if Ron was hoping to have an excuse to use it. Harry rolled his eyes and gave Hermione a sideways grin as Ron disappeared from view. "Well, at least we're out of that stuffy party," he said quietly, taking her cloak and motioning her forward.

"Right," Hermione said, her head feeling like it was made of champagne bubbles. "Definitely a good plan."

The club was packed, lit with tiny red and yellow flames trapped in glass globes, with a large dance floor surrounded by tables and an old wooden bar at one end of the vast room. Hermione could recognize some people who had been at Risa's party earlier in the evening, but the crowd was more casually dressed than Risa's partygoers, and most of them were dancing uproariously to an unidentifiable rock song that pounded through the floorboards.

Harry deposited their cloaks at one of the few empty tables, then glanced uncomfortably at the dance floor. "I'll get drinks. Back in a moment."

Ron was grinning as Bridget and Bianca urged him towards the feverish crowd. "All right, I'm coming. Come on, 'Mione!"

Joining Ron on the dance floor would mean leaving Harry alone with Risa, who had just seated herself at the table and was now beckoning to several of her friends across the room. "No thanks. I'm just going to watch a bit first."

"Suit yourself." Ron draped an arm around Bianca. "But I'm coming back for you if I don't see you out here in ten minutes." He waggled a finger at her.

"Fine, fine." Hermione settled into a chair and watched Ron edge onto the dance floor, head and shoulders above most of the crowd. Someone sank into the chair next to her; it was one of the girls from Risa's party, a leggy redhead wearing a short black dress and not much else. Risa's girlfriends were appearing as if from nowhere, swarming the table like a cluster of vapid butterflies. Wonderful. "Bugger this," Hermione muttered to herself.

"Pardon?" The redhead turned and blinked inquiringly at Hermione.

"Er... nice place, this," Hermione amended lamely.

"Oh, it's average." The redhead looked down her nose at Hermione, seeming to notice her for the first time. Hermione was reminded instantly of Pansy Parkinson. "We heard this was where everyone would be tonight," the girl said. "We're quite good friends with Harry Potter, he's expecting us here, you know." She gestured at the girls who were now crowding around the table.

"Really," Hermione said genially, trying to maintain a smile. It was painful.

"I don't suppose you've met him," the redhead continued. "I haven't seen you hanging about before."

"Oh, I've met him," Hermione began.

"Well isn't that a surprise! I'm Ashley, by the way." Ashley gave her a conspiratorial smile and slid her chair closer to Hermione's. "So, did you meet him at Risa's? Do you know anyone else who plays for England?"

"I've known Harry for quite a while, actually," Hermione said, but Ashley began to shake her head.

"Haven't we all," she smiled, rolling her eyes. "Everyone's got a story."

A familiar voice interrupted them; the sound of it made Hermione's ears go pink.

"Here you go, Hermione," Harry said, setting a pint of bitter on the table in front of her. He had his wand in one hand, and a heavy tray of full pints was levitating near one of his shoulders. With a flick of his wrist, the remaining pints settled themselves unsteadily onto the table. "Sorry. I've just brought enough for six."

"Thanks." Hermione sipped her ale and watched Ashley's eyes go wide as Harry lifted a chair from another table, slid it close to Hermione's, and sat down, looking uneasy at the sight of their now-crowded table.

"Sorry about this," Harry muttered in a whisper only Hermione could hear. "One drink and we'll get out of here." She nodded in assent. Harry looked thoroughly hassled; his hair was standing up as if he'd raked his fingers through it repeatedly. His scar stood out in sharp relief, a dark line across his pale forehead in the hazy light of the club, so obvious it nearly made Hermione cringe. She was seized by an urge to reach out and smooth a dark strand of Harry's hair over the angry mark, the jagged line that advertised his fame like a flashing billboard. Harry reached for his own pint glass and took a large swig.

When Hermione looked up she saw that Ashley was staring at her as if Hermione was something putrid she'd found on the bottom of her tall strappy heels. "Harry," Ashley cooed. "Great to see you again."

"Oh, hi," Harry said, sipping his drink again. There was an awkward pause. "Er, sorry, you do look familiar, but I've forgotten your name."

"Ashley. I'm sure you meet so many people." Ashley's smile remained brilliantly frozen beneath her pert nose.

"Right." Harry was beginning to look as if he was being pursued by a Blast-Ended Skrewt. "Where's Ron?" he said quietly.

As if on cue, the crowd parted, and a breathless and flushed Ron Weasley was back at the table, unbuttoning the top few buttons of his dress shirt and beaming at everyone.

"Hullo, everyone. This my pint?" He picked up a glass at Harry's nod and raised it, looking around at Risa's entourage. "Cheers, then!"

"Ron," Harry began, but Ron was past noticing; his eyes were too busy taking in the cluster of girls at their table. Ron set down his glass again, and with a broad grin, offered his hand to Hermione.

"Up with you,'Mione!" he said jovially. "Or I'll lift you out of that seat myself. I need a dance with my best friend."

Hermione couldn't refuse. She held out her hand, and Ron pulled her to her feet; she knew that Ron meant well, that he probably thought he was doing Harry a favor by leaving him alone with the gaggle of girls. Her stomach dropped when she saw Risa get to her feet and approach Harry's chair.

"That's right, this is a dance club," Risa said, all innocence and long lashes. "Harry, may I have the honor?"

Harry went pink; he was never one to refuse an invitation. Hermione was sure he was inwardly cursing his Gryffindor chivalry at this very moment. "Er, of course," he said, getting to his feet.

"It's hot as blazes out there, Harry. Best leave your jumper," Ron said, his arm around Hermione. Harry nodded ruefully and lifted his jumper over his head. Now, in a white t-shirt and jeans, with his hair even more unruly than usual, he looked like little-boy-Harry again, painfully awkward on the arm of Parvati Patil.

Ron was now tugging Hermione towards the crowd; Harry and Risa followed, and soon the four of them were crushed against a sea of writhing bodies as they made their way onto the packed dance floor. Ron gave a whoop and spun Hermione around to clear a bit of room. Hermione couldn't help smiling; it was primarily due to her own efforts that Ron had gone from despising the dance floor to loving it unreservedly. She had stubbornly forced Ron to dance at every Hogwarts ball and gala until he'd finally begun to enjoy himself, and even Harry had joined in eventually. Watching Ron and Harry dance never failed to make Hermione feel a surge of love for them both: Ron, with absolutely no rhythm, making up for his lack of coordination with infectious enthusiasm; Harry, naturally athletic, able to keep a beat but far too shy to show off.

She gave a yelp of surprise as Ron pulled her close, dipping her backwards; Harry caught her eye and smiled. He was clearly attempting to keep Risa at arm's length and failing, as Risa'a arms kept slipping up around his neck and twining around his waist.

Ron's dancing was too distracting, however, and Hermione soon found it impossible to watch anyone else as Ron imitated the other dancers, wrapping his arms around her and urging their hips together. Soon they were grinding against each other, giggling like a couple of second-years. When the song was over she relaxed into Ron's arms; he was about to twirl her into another dance when she felt a soft tap on her shoulder.

"Excuse me." It was Harry, who was holding Risa at arm's length. "Mind if I snag a dance with Hermione, Ron?"

"Of course not, mate," Ron said, squeezing Hermione's hand as they broke apart, and offering a trademark broad smile to Risa. "Fine idea. I take it this lovely lady will be free?"

"I suppose so," Risa demurred, letting go of Harry's hand with great reluctance. And with that, Ron pulled Risa into his enthusiastic grasp as Harry put a hand around Hermione's waist.

"Thanks again. You've saved me twice now," Harry whispered, his gentle grasp sending tremors through the tips of Hermione's fingers. The music began again, slower, rhythmic, and a whoop erupted from the crowd: The Rolling Stones, "Tumbling Dice." Harry took Hermione's hand, Hermione suddenly conscious of the bodies churning around them, the groping arms and sliding hands and --

"Oh, come on, you two! This isn't the Great Hall." Ron, twirling Risa with one hand, had stopped in mid-twirl to give Harry and Hermione a disapproving look. Without warning, he leaned over and pushed them close together, like he'd held Hermione. He put Harry's arms tightly around Hermione's hips, moved Hermione's hands to Harry's waist, then nodded in satisfaction, dancing all the while. "That's more like it."

Harry had flushed scarlet. "Er, thanks."

Hermione's heart was now beating so fast she was sure Harry could feel it right through the fabric of his thin t-shirt. She didn't dare look at him; she was almost faint with the feeling of his arms around her, the soft scent of his shirt. He smelled faintly smoky, like ale and candles, like Harry -- and then Hermione realized what the Harry smell really was. He smelled like the scent of a spell in the air: the faintly charged crackle of Incendio, the afterglow of a Cheering Charm, the imperceptible whiff of Lumos. Harry smelled like magic.

He was nearly a head taller than she was, and her eyes were drawn upwards to meet his, deep green, shining softly, framed by dark rakish eyebrows and familiar round glasses. She knew the lines of his features almost better than she knew her own, and yet she found herself trying to memorize them, his lopsided smile, the strength in the set of his chin, the fine pale scar at his left cheekbone that Hermione knew to be a souvenir of the Defeat. Warmth was spreading through her from somewhere near her abdomen, making her palms feel damp. Hermione noted absently that she'd had no trouble dancing so closely with Ron, that it was absurd, and funny, and brotherly, but now --

Harry laughed shyly; his breath was warm and sweet. "Well then," he mumbled.

They began to move awkwardly, bumping against each other, their proximity almost painful, so distracting that Hermione could barely move. They'd never been this physically close before. And then gradually she began to notice how they fit together, how he was guiding her with imperceptible movements, how she somehow knew what he was about to do. This was Harry, after all. She took a deep breath and looked up again, smiling.

Harry's face split into an awkward grin. And then they began to dance.

Hermione had been out dancing plenty of times. She'd even had a few romantic interludes on the dance floor. And she'd certainly danced with Harry more times than she could count. But apparently that hadn't really been dancing. None of it had. Now she felt like her head was spinning and her body was on fire, burning where Harry's hands held her as they swayed and rocked and moved together, somehow moving closer and closer until there seemed to be no space at all between them, because they didn't need space, because it felt too good, and nothing in the world had ever felt like this. Harry moved so easily, his body warm and strong and light, the gentle curves of her body somehow perfect under his hands, and it was impossible to tell where his body ended and hers began -- you can be my partner in crime -- you've got to roll me --

Hermione was vaguely aware of the crowd around them, pushing in close, then giving them room, as if they were all breathing together. The music slowed into a new song, lapsing into a sinuous lick of guitar, and they slipped even closer together. Hermione realized she'd wrapped her arms around Harry's neck as if it were the most natural thing in the world, his hands were sliding gently over her waist, his touch sweet and tentative -- I've walked for miles, my feet are hurting, all I want is for you to make love to me -- she couldn't believe they were this close, she couldn't believe this was her life, this was Hermione Granger, forgetting herself so completely in someone else. She couldn't believe it was Harry.

The lights went up and the music was over with a painful shock. Hermione couldn't seem to move. She felt Harry's chest rise and fall next to hers, could feel both their hearts pounding, his arms still tightly around her, hers still twined around his neck. This hadn't just happened. She was not about to look into her best friend's eyes with his lips so close to hers, while they were wrapped together like Devil's Snare. She hadn't just danced like that with her friend Harry.

But his eyes were waiting, and she felt his hands move uncertainly, and she had to look up.

Harry's gaze was unreadable, soft and questioning, startled, intense. His face was flushed, his glasses slightly askew.

"Well done!"

Hermione jumped as if she'd been burned with a hot poker, her hands flying from Harry's neck to tremble at her sides. Ron was grinning at them, one arm around Bianca. Risa must have left at some point, and Hermione hadn't even noticed. Great Merlin's Ghost.

"I've got to hand it to you both, those were some wicked moves. Didn't know you had it in you," Ron said, chuckling. "Closet dance club fiends, the both of you."

Oblivous, wonderful Ron. He thought they'd just been dancing.

Well, they had just been dancing. Suddenly Hermione wasn't at all sure what had happened. Because nothing had really happened. Had it?

Harry's arms were still around her waist, as if he'd forgotten they were there. A pit of fear lodged in Hermione's stomach. What if he'd forgotten because it didn't mean anything to him?

"I've, er, got to go to the washroom," Hermione blurted, backing away and stumbling over Harry's foot.

"Hey, all right," Ron called. "We'll be at the table, I guess?"

Hermione felt the crowd envelop her as she fought her way towards the tables, her hands shaking, still warm with Harry's touch. She wanted to disappear.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The water running over Hermione's face and hands was shockingly cold, but not nearly cold enough to clear her mind. Having a muddled mind was not something Hermione enjoyed; it was certainly not something she had extensive experience dealing with. She was distinctly accustomed to knowing the answer.

Harry's face blazed in her thoughts, the opaque look in his eyes a shrouded question. Had he felt the same things she had, or had he been confused by her reaction after what he thought was a dance between friends?

He'd certainly danced with dozens of women. Lord knows what he'd been doing since he moved to London; he'd casually mentioned a few flings, but Harry had never been one to divulge the intimate details of his romantic life, even to Hermione. It could be that he was experienced with that type of dancing, that he was just humoring Ron. It could be that he was trying to show her a good time because he was using her to get away from Risa.

He had even thanked her for that. Not that she minded. But it didn't help to clarify things one bit.

She looked warily at her reflection in the mirror, blurry at first as she rubbed the water from her eyes. Long brown curls, tamed with a dab of Sleakeasy's, but still spilling around her face in overly energetic waves, making her features look small and almost elven. Brown eyes, slightly red-rimmed, a bit on the large side, with lashes that made her appear too young to be in a place like Exploding Snap in the first place. Dark, arched eyebrows, nothing like the fine pencilled lines on the faces of Risa's partygoers. Lips that had lost their thin coating of Lickworthy's Berry Gloss hours ago. A wide smile. Not too bad, really.

Maybe the dance had been real.

She'd never felt that comfortable in her own skin before. She took a tentative step back, surveying her small frame. She'd never been a great fan of her own body, though Ron had always been sweetly enthusiastic about it while they were dating. A bit shorter than average, delicate, but slightly curvy; certainly curvier than Risa and most of her friends. Her chest was nothing to write home about, but her waist was small, and her legs were slender. Her hips were probably a bit more rounded than they needed to be, but tonight --

Tonight she'd felt wonderful.

Something about Harry's touch had melted her self-consciousness, made her thrill in the feel of her own body, made her distinctly aware that she was far more than just a mind. She'd always been Hermione, the smart one, the brain, her physical self completely forgotten. Harry was the athlete, after all, quick and agile, stronger every year she'd known him. And Ron was so tall, with dogged determination that had earned him a spot on the Quidditch team from their fifth year onward. Hermione had always been a spectator.

Until tonight.

The door of the women's washroom clicked open; Hermione immediately dove towards the sink, splashing more water on her face. She stood again, groping for a towel, and opened her eyes to see Risa and Ashley's long, lanky forms reflected in the mirror.

"Hermione!" exclaimed Risa, with a thinly veiled smirk of delight. "I was wondering where you'd gone."

"Hello again," said Ashley, smiling prettily.

"Just washing my face," Hermione said brightly, scrubbing faster with the towel.

Risa took a tube of lipstick from her purse as a silver hairbrush rose from her open handbag and began smoothing her glossy hair of its own accord. Hermione was on her way to the door when a look from Risa made her stop short.

"Would you like to borrow anything? You're still a bit -- wet."

Hermione blinked.

Risa rubbed her lips together and offered the tube to Hermione. "Take this. Or maybe a hairbrush?"

"No, no thank you -- "

"I saw you, you know," Risa said offhandedly, taking a pink powder puff from her purse and leaning forward to examine herself in the mirror. "Dancing with Harry. Wasn't that sweet!"

"Mm," nodded Ashley, applying her own lipstick. "He's so nice to dance with you that way."

Hermione's mouth went dry.

"I know. Such a good friend," Risa added. "It did look like you were enjoying yourself. Too bad you're just not his type, eh? But I'm sure you know that already, being his friend and all."

Hermione's brain screeched to a halt. "What?"

Risa put a sisterly arm around Hermione, tilting her towards their reflection. "Take it from an ex," she said, winking sweetly. "Harry likes women who are just a bit more... how to say it... put together."

"Right," Ashley said, leaning in to place a hand on Hermione's curls. "Maybe tame this a bit?"

"Oh yes," Risa said. "I've got the name of a lovely hair-witch if you'd like."

Hermione blinked.

"And a bit of powder here, wouldn't you say, Reese?" Ashley tapped Hermione's nose with a fingernail.

"Definitely. And I'd try cutting back on supper, so you'll lose a bit of this." Risa patted Hermione's midsection. "Then we can find a dress that might fit you nicely."

"I'm not sure she's tall enough for him, though." Ashley closed her purse and peered at her own reflection.

"Well, one can't help that," Risa smiled. "But we can help you, dear, if you like." She beamed at Hermione in the mirror.

Hermione felt as if all the blood was draining from her head. She shifted away from Risa's grasp. "I don't want -- "

"Of course you do," Risa said. "I saw how you were looking at him. It's quite obvious; no need to be shy about it. I'm just offering my experience -- I've seen him date quite a few girls."

Words failed Hermione. The tiny part of her that wasn't completely frozen wanted to hex Risa Talbot into a thousand glittering pieces. Unfortunately her wand seemed to be controlled by the frozen part of her brain.

"We should get back to dancing, Reese." Ashley was smiling broadly.

"Well, do let me know, won't you?" Risa gave Hermione's shoulder a friendly squeeze. "Always happy to help."

The washroom door swung closed. In the mirror, Hermione's face was pale and blotchy. Her nose was red. Underneath her tousled hair, she looked very small.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In the hours to come, Hermione knew she would think of a thousand wonderful, scorching things to say to Risa Talbot when she replayed that scene in the washroom in her mind's eye. She knew she would think of even better things to say tomorrow. She knew with bitter certainty that she would be thinking of things to say to Risa Talbot in the Exploding Snap washroom for the rest of her life.

It was not a comforting thought. Hermione slumped against the cold floor of the toilet stall. At the very least she should Apparate out of here -- but she'd had two drinks that evening, and though she couldn't feel their effects, she knew better than to try Apparating without the confidence of total sobriety.

Why had she let those girls get to her? She'd been tormented by Pansy Parkinson and her gang of Slytherin cronies for seven years at Hogwarts. They'd certainly muttered worse things under their breath in the hallways, and she'd always turned her nose up. She'd slapped Draco Malfoy. She'd wrestled Millicent Bulstrode. She'd stood up to Rita Skeeter. She'd helped defeat the Dark Lord nearly seven times, for Merlin's sake. She had Harry and Ron as her best friends, and that thought alone was enough to keep her head high. But now, somehow, Risa's words had eroded that facade. She'd hit Hermione in a spot that hurt too much to think about, in a place that made her question everything.

"Hermione?"

A fist was pounding on the washroom door, rattling the handle. Hermione had recovered the use of her wand shortly after Risa's departure, and in commemoration of this event she'd cast a rather powerful locking charm on the washroom door. She knew it probably wasn't the most mature course of action in a crowded club, but it was a marginally satisfying way to let off steam after what had happened. Her locks were good enough to be virtually unbreakable by all but the most powerful magic.

A flash, and a puff of dust, and the door flew open.

Of course, she also happened to be friends with one of the only wizards alive who could break her spell.

The door to her toilet stall popped open with another flash and Harry was there, standing over her with his wand out and looking grave enough to distract Hermione completely. He was wearing his cloak again, and it loomed out behind him like a black banner.

"What are you doing in here?" he managed, his voice strained.

Hermione suddenly felt eleven years old.

"I was upset," she whispered.

"It's been over an hour. We've been looking for you everywhere. You have no idea -- "

For a moment Hermione thought Harry was going to turn and stalk out of the room in anger. It was something Ron might have done. But instead, his eyes clouded. He pocketed his wand.

"Was it -- " He swallowed. "Did I -- "

"No," Hermione said, then realized she couldn't stop the tears that were slipping down her cheeks. "No, you didn't do anything wrong. It wasn't you."

Harry's shoulders slumped with relief. He sank to the ground, but seemed wary of coming closer.

"You haven't locked yourself in a toilet since first year," he said quietly. "What happened?"

A thousand words of explanation readied themselves in Hermione's mind. I'm in here because I feel something for you that I've never felt before for anyone else. I'm in here because of the way we were dancing. I'm in here because I don't know how you feel, because I think my heart would break if I did know. I'm in here because I know I'll never be anyone you want as more than a friend.

She told all the truth she could.

"Risa and Ashley came in while I was freshening up. They... said some things about the way I look."

"They did what?" Harry's eyes flashed. He slid next to her, peering into her face.

"I'm being stupid again," she said, her breath hitching in her throat. "Really stupid. I don't know why I let them bother me."

Harry's arms were around her now, and in their warmth Hermione could no longer hold back. She dissolved into sobs, her tears soaking into Harry's cloak as he rubbed her back gently.

"I know you," he said, as her sobs began to quiet. "You don't get upset over nothing. I want to know what they said."

Hermione tried to straighten up. "I can't. It's embarrassing."

"Hermione." Harry's voice was steel.

"Well, they might have suggested that I improve some things. Obvious things, really."

"Obvious how?"

"My hair." Hermione couldn't stop the words now. "My figure. The way I dress."

"WHAT?"

Harry's anger was astounding. As upset as Hermione was, it seemed like nothing compared to the look on Harry's face. He shot to his feet.

"You?" he said, his voice cracking slightly. "You're perfect, you're -- "

Hermione's eyes went wide. "Harry -- "

Before she could even stand, Harry was out the door, wand in hand, his cloak flaring behind him like a curtain.

Hermione struggled to her feet in disbelief.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

4. Freefalling

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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

5. Just the Facts

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: We have now reached the angst portion of our journey. Please keep your hands and arms inside the cart at all times.
This is a short chapter, breaking the trend of the increasingly long tomes that were getting harder and harder to finish. The good news is, I hope to have the next installment up very soon. Look for a conclusion by mid-April.

Chapter Five: Just the Facts

if you ever feel neglected
if you think that all is lost
i'll be counting up my demons, yeah
hoping everything's not lost

- Coldplay, "Everything's Not Lost"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

His head was pounding, and every beat of his heart sent a fresh ache through his temples, and the light that was threatening to spill from the cracks around the curtains was burning the backs of his eyelids like fire. When he did open his eyes a fresh throb shot through his head and the room was simply not dark enough and he thought fuzzily that whoever invented morning really ought to be smacked around a bit.

He saw fuzzily as well. He couldn't recall why until his hand groped his bedside table out of habit and he remembered his glasses.

Then he remembered something else.

And he peered blearily at the glass of water by his bed, and remembered how it got there, and as he closed his eyes again and jammed a pillow over his pounding head he couldn't stop smiling.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Hermione's kitchen was awash in golden morning light, as usual, and Crookshanks was purring and butting his orange head up against her shins, and the kettle was whistling merrily, and this morning Hermione's heart was whistling right along with it.

She'd prided herself over the years on her powers of deduction. Ron was good at strategy, and Harry was as brave as they came, but Hermione knew that she had no match when it came to piecing together bits of information. And this morning she'd come to a rather astounding conclusion, one that had hit her over the head with the force of a Whomping Willow and left her giddy and glowing and most un-Granger-like.

It was a distinct possibility that Harry had feelings for her.

Maybe.

Hermione stirred her tea and gazed out the sun-drenched window and smiled hugely at no one in particular. She was currently replaying a series of scenes in her mind, images set in her memory like burning question marks, tiny interactions that had flitted through her head ever since she'd arrived at Orthagon Alley. The brush of his thumb on her cheek, the lingering gaze he'd given her… I think you look wonderful… the afternoon they'd spent in this very kitchen, laughing and making soup. There had been something there, she'd felt it, she just hadn't been able to believe it. Or she hadn't let herself believe it.

And the dance -- you're perfect --

And then last night.

Could it be that she'd been blind to his feelings because she'd been so terrified of her own?

What she wouldn't give for a Pensieve - but they were so expensive, and terribly hard to come by --

Bustling about the kitchen, cleaning up the last traces of toast and jam and tea, Hermione felt more like herself than she had in ages. Her rationality had finally prevailed, and her reasoning had pointed her towards a conclusion that was making her heart turn small flips every five minutes. What's more, it was a logical conclusion, and definitely not the impulsive wibblings of an irrational witch who had just been kissed.

Well, she had in fact just been kissed. But she was certain that it had not interfered with her judgement in this particular area. She felt sure that she could stand in front of a panel of Hornswoggle professors and prove that Harry had feelings for her, and then go on to illustrate her proof with charts, diagrams, and an annotated timeline.

Of course, she had no idea what to do with this information, but that didn't seem important at the moment. She'd promised to make Harry a batch of Dionysian Potion this morning -- Lord knew he'd be needing it -- and after that --

Hermione didn't have a plan. Just seeing Harry would be enough.

She pulled on jeans and her favorite jumper and stopped to check her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was bushy as usual, but somehow its exuberance seemed to match her mood. She'd set out the ingredients for the potion the night before, in her dazed state, and as she checked them over methodically and piled them into her small portable cauldron -- pewter, size one -- she thought of green eyes and ale and suddenly she couldn't get down the stairs fast enough.

Harry's apartment was much as she'd left it the night before; his bedroom door was closed, and his muddy Quidditch robes were pooled on the floor next to the couch. Heart beating fast, Hermione arranged her ingredients on the kitchen counter and whispered a quick Incendio to light the stove underneath her cauldron. In a few moments the kitchen was filled with the sharp smell of citrus peel and cloves and Sobrietus mint, and Hermione busied herself with shredding tiny pieces of celeriac and adding them to the mixture judiciously as the potion turned from red to green to a rather appealing golden color. All too soon she was standing in front of Harry's closed bedroom door with a mug of steaming liquid and cursing herself for being so bloody quick at brewing potions.

She took a breath, then knocked gently, sliding the door open a crack. Her heart was now pounding in her ears and she almost felt like singing and fainting at the same time. "Harry?"

Silence, then the shift and creak of a mattress. "Mmm?"

Harry's voice was warm and deep and hoarse, thick with sleep. Hermione tried to steady her breathing. "It's me. I've brought you some Dionysian potion."

"Oh, come in." He sounded dazed, pleasantly surprised. "I'm awake. I think."

The Seeker for England's recently victorious National Quidditch team was tangled in a mess of sheets, pillows piled near his head, and he squinted up at her as she slid the door open. His hair was in fantastic disarray, and his eyes were bottle-green and red-rimmed. "Hi," he croaked, wincing as light flooded the room from the open door.

Hermione felt color creeping into her cheeks. "I thought you might, er, want some of this."

Harry's face split into a sheepish smile. "You have no idea," he said, struggling to sit up with a groan. He fumbled for his glasses, his eyes locked on Hermione's: guileless, slightly unfocused, first-year-Harry eyes. He took the steaming mug of potion, and as his hand brushed her fingers Hermione felt something akin to an electric shock at his touch. She nearly shuddered with the force of it.

Harry quickly drained the mug, pressing the hot ceramic to his forehead with a sigh, long fingers wrapped around it as if they were gripping a lifeline. He looked up, breathing deeply. "You're my savior, you know that?"

"Oh honestly, Harry." Hermione perched on the edge of the bed. "You'd have made it yourself if I hadn't done it."

"I doubt I could have found my way to the kitchen this morning without a map," Harry said, his eyes imperceptibly clearer, the rasp in his voice fading. "And you know that potions aren't my forte. Visions of Snape wouldn't have been good for my stomach, anyway."

Hermione laughed, and when she looked back at Harry she saw that he was studying her, his mouth quirked in a peculiar half-smile. "I… er… I hope I didn't do anything too embarrassing last night," he ventured.

Nothing I wouldn't like to do again, Hermione thought, then went pale with the fear that she'd spoken it aloud. She groped for a coherent thought, something casual, something Hermione Granger might be likely to say to her best friend instead of leaning forward to kiss him until she couldn't breathe. "You mean, apart from the naked dancing on the balcony?" she said breezily.

Harry smiled, not missing a beat. "Right, and my recitation of Gilderoy Lockhart's collected works for the patrons of the Leaky Cauldron."

"Oh, apart from that? Let me think." They were both grinning now, ridiculous ear-splitting smiles. "You do recall your lap dance for Millicent Bulstrode?"

"Vaguely. Was I dressed as Neville's grandmother?"

Harry arched an eyebrow at her, and it was all over. Five minutes later Hermione was dabbing at the corners of her eyes, her sides aching, while Harry clutched his stomach helplessly. "Can't laugh," he panted finally. "Too sore from yesterday."

"You were amazing," Hermione said, visions of the red-robed Harry-blur swimming into her mind.

Harry was studying her again. "And how would you know?" he teased.

"I watched this time!"

"Did you?" Harry's eyes were clear fresh green, and she felt that sensation again, the feeling that if she could just lean forward she would fall into him, know what he was thinking, and he was wearing that lopsided Harry grin and maybe he knew what she was thinking too --

"You're going to the World Cup," she murmured, trying to keep a loose hold on reality.

"I am." A brilliant smile was spreading across Harry's face, and he swung his legs over the side of the bed to sit next to her. Damn Snitch boxers. Hermione felt her cheeks tingle with heat, but she was still hopelessly lost in his eyes, and as he moved closer she felt her heartbeat quicken. This is it, this is really happening --

"Hermione, I -- "

A harsh blaring noise made them both jump. It took a moment before Hermione realized it was coming from the living room: the butler's horn. She could make out a voice now, calling through the old brass pipes. "'Allo?"

Harry was scrambling to his feet, an oddly flustered look on his face. "Er -- I should get dressed -- "

"I'll get it." Hermione's voice sounded breathless in her own ears. Dazed, desperately missing the warmth that was Harry beside her, she flew into the living room to call into the horn above the doorway. "Be right down!"

"Oh -- thank you." The voice sounded young, strangely accented. Maybe it's a reporter, Hermione thought, jogging lightly down the stairs, feeling as if she might float away entirely. Harry is going to the World Cup, after all. Maybe -- oh God, maybe someone heard him singing last night -- Rita Skeeter would give her left arm --

When she opened the door Hermione stared, unable to make sense of anything for a moment before realization struck her like a summoned pillow in the Charms classroom.

The girl on the front steps made Risa Talbot look like Argus Filch. She was more fairy-like than real, her young face dominated by wide, ice-blue eyes and a rosy, cupid's-bow mouth. A long sheet of pale, flaxen hair framed her smooth features like a curtain and hung nearly to her waist. She was part Veela, certainly, and very familiar at that -- but this wasn't Fleur Delacour, though she did look extraordinarily like her. This girl was even more beautiful than Fleur, if such a thing was possible.

"Good morning," said the girl, her rosy lips parting in a polite and ethereal smile. "You are…. 'Ermione?"

"Yes," Hermione managed, blinking.

"Gabrielle Delacour. I think we met once, long ago. The Triwizard Tournament… at the lake, at 'Ogwarts…"

"Of course." Hermione goggled at her. Gabrielle Delacour. How had she not recognized her? So beautiful now -- she'd been so young, then -- six or seven at the most -- "How nice to see you again."

"Yes it is," said Gabrielle. "So sorry to disturb you, you must have been up late."

"Oh it's no bother, I was up early." Gabrielle's beauty was so distracting that Hermione found it was a strain to keep up a casual conversation.

"Oh good," Gabrielle said. It was almost as if she sparkled, or gave off some elven kind of light -- "'Arry told me to come see him this morning," she continued, a faint flush rising in her cheeks. "We met last night at a party."

Hermione's spun-sugar mood crashed into pieces with the force of a full-grown mountain troll hitting the tile floor of a lavatory.

"Oh," she said. Gabrielle's lilting words echoed emptily in her head like the tolling of a great cracked bell. ''Arry told me to come see him… told me to come see him... Hermione felt the smile freeze on her face as ice crept through her insides and threatened to stop her breath. "Well, then. Come in, he's upstairs."

And as they walked quietly into the hallway of 231 Orthagon Alley, Hermione felt her life unravel.

All the data Hermione had pieced together, that nebulous patchwork quilt of glances and touches, bits and pieces of conversations -- all of that was falling apart into tangled threads as she climbed the stairs with Gabrielle Delacour. Gabrielle, who presented the simplest and clearest answer of all: Harry had been drunk last night, and he didn't remember a thing he'd said or done with Hermione. Clearly he'd found Gabrielle at a party and something had happened between them… or the promise of something. Harry had been half-asleep and probably didn't even know his own name by the time he got home, by the time Hermione had washed his hair and he'd been in bed mumbling incoherence and reaching up and unknowingly giving her a taste of the sweetest thing she'd ever known.

It was a simple case of cold, hard facts.

Hermione Granger, of all people, should be able to see that.

Harry opened the door of his flat before they'd even knocked. He was holding something in his hand, and though Hermione had been steeling herself to accept the cold, hard facts, it was something else entirely to be confronted with visual proof. Startled tears stung at the corners of her eyes, and she found that she could no longer look at Harry, at the seemingly innocuous object crumpled in his palm. How had she been so stupid?

"Hi, Gabrielle, come in," Harry said, in a strained tone of voice. He was trying to catch Hermione's eye, but Hermione willed herself to look away, to stop falling towards Harry because there would only be hurt and the sickening feeling that she had been wrong, more wrong than she'd ever been before, the brilliant Hermione Granger had been wrong.

She heard rather than saw Harry say a See You Later and his door slid shut, and only then could Hermione look, just once, to see his striped Gryffindor tie knotted around the worn brass doorknob.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Forget the bastard."

Ron Weasley was lying on his mushroom-colored couch, a mug of Hermione's Dionysian Potion clutched in his hand, tossing leftover Canary Creams at Pigwidgeon. Scarlet and white rosettes, scarves, and banners were littered across the floor like confetti; a few bottles of champagne were still lined up on the kitchen counter, some half-open. One rosette was still managing to squeak out "Wood!… Hatfield!… Mason!… Spencer!… Jones!… Jackson!… POTTER!" every twenty minutes or so.

Ron had come upstairs a few hours ago to beg Hermione for a mug of her hangover cure, and, upon seeing her face, had unceremoniously dragged her down to his apartment. "If you don't tell me what's wrong, I'll put you in the Leg-Locker curse until you do, and I will not release you to use the toilet," he'd said, glaring at her as best he could while trying not to look ill. After several other equally absurd threats, she'd finally relented, and now she was slumped in a chair in Ron's flat, a box of Nester's No-Blow Nose Napkins at her side, eyes swollen and bleary. Her head was beginning to ache and she was sinking into a numbness beyond tears, a strange empty uncertainty.

"Ron!"

"I'm telling you, forget him," Ron said vehemently, hitting Pigwidgeon a bit too accurately with a pastry and cringing at the owl's squawk of protest. "He's not worth it, Hermione."

"Ron, I've never felt this way about anyone." Her voice cracked with emotion. "How can I just forget -- "

"'Mione, listen to me. You've done this before. I can't watch you do it a second time." His eyes met hers. "I don't want you to see him again, however hard that might be."

Hermione felt a sob building in her chest. Rare words from Ron, untinged with sarcasm, no joke or wink in his smile. He was right, Hermione thought. For once, Ron is the rational one. Listen to Ron. She reached for another Nose Napkin; it fluttered in front of her face and gave her nose a motherly squeeze before dabbing at her eyes.

Truth be told, Hermione had omitted one detail while explaining the situation to Ron.

She'd never actually mentioned Harry's name.

She'd poured out as much of the story as she could without giving away Harry's identity - no use pretending she wasn't upset, since that was about as believable as one of Professor Trelawney's predictions. She'd met someone, she explained. He was… well-known, in certain circles. A bit famous, in fact. For the past few months she'd begun to think that they had something special, something she'd never felt before. He'd looked at her in a way she couldn't describe, in a way that made her feel like they could almost talk without speaking. Then there had been an incident… and here she fudged the details. He had kissed her… but it might not have been a romantic kiss. She'd gone to see him this morning, and it looked like he was seeing another girl.

No need to say that his name was Harry Potter, and that he happened to be in the flat directly upstairs with said girl, and that just the night before she'd been undressing him and running her hands through his hair and kissing him, or maybe he was kissing her, but there had been kissing and he may or may not have been conscious at the time. She was simply presenting the facts, while leaving out the bits of information that might cause Ron to have heart failure right in his own sitting room.

"I don't understand," Ron said, sitting up and setting down his empty mug as Hermione's Nose Napkin flew gracefully into the wastebin of its own accord. "Hermione, you're a brilliant girl. Smartest person I've ever known. No, wait -- don't say anything." Hermione had begun to protest. "You're one of the nicest people on earth, and you're lovely to look at. Any sane bloke would give his right arm to be with you. And yet you chase after these pompous, self-involved gits who don't give you the time of day because they're famous or important or something." He sighed, raking a hand through his bright hair. "I wish you would tell me who this prat is. Is he another one of your professors from school? This is exactly what happened with David."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. "Well, like I said, I don't know for sure if he's seeing that other girl -- "

"Don't stick around to find out this time." Ron stood quickly. "Look, I'm going to get Harry. He's much better at talking about this sort of thing than I am -- and you'd better not tell him who this bloke is, because he may really go curse him this time -- "

"No -- wait!" Hermione was on her feet in desperation. "You can't get Harry -- "

Ron raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. "What are you talking about?"

"He's -- I mean -- " Hermione stammered, beginning to recover from a state of sheer panic. "He got back really late last night, Ron," she said, falling into her usual bossy tone. "He played in the World Cup Semifinals yesterday. I mean, really."

Ron was still eyeing her skeptically. "And if I know Harry, he'd wade through a cage of full-grown Blast-Ended Skrewts to see you if he knew you were upset about something."

"Well," Hermione huffed, fumbling for another excuse. Then she had it; not an excuse, but the truth. Her insides felt like ice again. "There's a school tie on his door," she finished, sitting back down. "I think he's… busy."

"Oh, is that it," Ron said blankly, still looking at her in mild confusion. He seemed satisfied by this explanation, however, and sat back down on the sofa. "POTTER!!" squeaked the discarded World Cup rosette, from somewhere near the kitchen. Hermione nearly fell out of her chair.

"You all right?" Ron was staring at her again with a befuddled look.

"Just a little… out of sorts," she managed lamely. It was highly likely that she would end up in St.Mungo's after this incident.

"Poor 'Mione. Come here." Ron held out his arms, and Hermione sat down heavily on the couch next to him and fell weakly into Ron's embrace. "I know just what you need," Ron said, giving her a squeeze. "You need to have some fun. Get out of the flat for a bit." He sat back on the couch. "I'm calling my sister."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Forget the bastard."

Ginny Weasley was sitting in a shiny pink booth at Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlor, sipping a frothy pink soda through a pale green straw which perfectly matched the green barrette in her glossy red hair. It was a Sparkling Soda, and with each sip, multicolored sparks bubbled from the tall glass and drifted into the air around Ginny, floating around her neatly cut bob and landing on her nose, making her look even more freckly than usual.

As usual, Ginny was dressed in a way that made Hermione feel as if she might as well be wearing her bathrobe in comparison. Today it was a pale green cardigan sweater and a matching wool plaid skirt, stockings, and shiny green shoes, with short pale pink wool winter robes trimmed with matching green fur. Some days, Hermione could hardly believe that the shy, quiet little girl who used to tag along after Ron and Harry had become the outgoing, dynamic woman who was Ginny Weasley, Bestselling Author and Advice Columnist. After the runaway success of her first novel, Riddle in the Dark: My Secret Life With You-Know-Who, Ginny had been immediately offered a job at the Daily Prophet after graduating from Hogwarts. She was currently writing a syndicated advice column that appeared in the Prophet and in Witch Weekly, "Ask Ginny: Love and Romance for the Modern Witch."

Knowing Ginny's stellar qualifications for dishing out romantic counsel still didn't make it any less surprising to hear the once soft-spoken redhead voice her opinion on Hermione's current situation.

"Ginny!"

"What?" Ginny took another sip of soda, wrinkling her nose at another flurry of sparks. "I'm just telling you what you need to hear, Hermione. Sometimes it's hard to accept unless someone tells you straight out."

"I know." Hermione prodded at her unfinished banana split. "It's just -- that's exactly what your brother said."

"Did he?" Ginny raised her eyebrows, her freckled face splitting into a wide smile. "My brother, Ron Weasley, gave you the same advice? Maybe I should go into another line of work."

"Oh, don't be silly." Hermione was smiling now, though she still felt shaken, disconnected. "You're both probably right. I just… thought I had everything figured out, you know." She looked down at her melting ice cream, the chocolate leaking into the pumpkin ripple. "I hate being wrong."

"You're not wrong very often," Ginny said matter-of-factly. "Hermione, I don't know this bloke, but I do know what happened to you before, and it sounds like history repeating itself. I remember what you said about David… how you felt about him. You thought he was the real thing. And it turned out he was shagging half the girls in your study session or something."

Hermione nodded. "I know."

"See… I did the same thing," Ginny said, stirring her soda and taking another sip. "I understand completely. I spent most of my time at school following boys around who didn't know I existed, because I was too insecure to pay attention to anyone who actually appreciated me. And I ended up even more insecure, because I just set myself up for disappointment again and again." She blushed slightly and tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. "Well, and sometimes I ended up killing roosters and things."

"That was different!"

"Not really." Ginny twirled her straw. "Tom was just using me because he could, because of my feelings for him. He didn't care if I lived or died."

"Well of course not, Ginny, he was You-Know-Who."

"But still," Ginny protested. "All right, that was a bad example. Harry Potter." At the mention of Harry's name Hermione felt her cheeks burn, but Ginny didn't seem to notice. "I followed Harry around for the better part of six years, and you know he's a lovely guy, and he was always nice to me. A good friend, even. But I wasted all my time pining over him, just like every other girl who had a crush on the famous Boy Who Lived, and I never noticed any of the other boys who were taking a real interest in me." She smiled. "Like Colin."

Colin Creevey was now a photographer for the Daily Prophet, and it seemed that Ginny had finally noticed the eager, enthusiastic year-mate who had stopped tailing Harry Potter years ago and started admiring her instead. Hermione smiled back. She wished Ginny would stop making so much damn sense.

Ginny placed a hand on Hermione's. "Take some time for yourself," she said earnestly. "Enjoy school. Go to the bookstore, or the library. Do whatever it is you like to do best. Forget this prat… like I forgot Harry. Whoever this man is… he's your Harry Potter."

Hermione's mouth went dry. Your Harry Potter. Forget your Harry Potter.

If only Ginny knew.

Forget Harry.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The days were shorter and colder, and the cobblestones of Orthagon Alley were most often black and slicked with rain. Tiny spangled lights hung in the windows of Warburton's Market and Dugbog's Books, and a Christmas tree three times the size of Hagrid was going up in the center of the small park at the end of the street. Delicious smells wafted from Penfold's, the neighborhood bakery: pumpkin pasties, flaming plum puddings, light-as-air fairy cakes dusted with powdered sugar. Smoke curled from the chimneys of the old Alley houses, huddled around the Christmas tree as if warming their hands by a fire.

Yet at this time of year, surrounded by the warmth and light of the approaching holiday season, 231 Orthagon Alley felt as cold and strange as the Potions classroom on a bleak winter day.

Hermione had forgotten Harry Potter.

In his absence was a gaping hole, something that gnawed and ached and never entirely went away. Since that day she'd walked up the stairs with Gabrielle Delacour, she'd made a resolution. A rational, logical resolution. She'd speak to Harry when she had to; she'd visit him enough to maintain their friendship at a respectful distance. She'd be perfectly nice in every way. But she would never let herself fall into his eyes again, never let him get close enough to engulf her senses and fill her head and lungs and heart.

So she'd gone to class, falling into books instead, offering to help in the library, filling her schedule with extra courses until she was on the verge of needing a Time-Turner. Her professors were awed. She'd received an Owl informing her that she'd been chosen to receive top honors at the end-of-term banquet. Yet when she tore open the letter, it felt like she'd been sentenced to Azkaban.

Hermione wasn't the only one who was markedly absent from the cozy brick house. Though she was away from her flat as much as physically possible, it seemed Ron was gone even more than she was. Sometime soon after the World Cup semifinal, he'd disappeared in a blur of work and pub visits and excuses to miss Sunday dinner. Maybe he'd noticed the uncomfortable distance between his two best friends, but it was unlikely, as Hermione guessed that he probably wouldn't have noticed if she invited two hundred house elves to move into the building and start their own sock factory. If someone hadn't been collecting his Daily Prophets and feeding Pigwidgeon, Hermione would have almost suspected Ron of keeping two other flats just for fun.

Harry was home, most likely, but doing what, Hermione didn't know. He had a few practices and team meetings a week, but those were dwindling as the weather grew colder. His lights were usually on.

Late at night, curled in her windowseat, watching rain fall on the cobblestones below, Hermione wondered how they could all live so close together, and feel so far apart.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He stared out the window, watching her disappear into the rain, as he did almost every day. The rain slid from her black cloak... she'd taught him that charm, once… Impervio... and slid down his windowpane, blurring his view as she vanished down the narrow street.

He'd been so close. So close, and yet she'd slipped away, slipped like a drop of water from her cloak, like the rain on his window.

He'd lost her, just as he'd feared. She'd seen too much. He could tell Ron felt the same; Ron had seen it too. He didn't blame either of them.

He could only sit at the window and watch her vanish, day after day.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

6. Author's Note

Dear Readers of Come Together, I'm really sorry that the next update has taken so long. Unless you read my Yahoo! Group or my LJ, you probably don't know that in late April I had a baby, so writing fanfic is very difficult for me at the moment. (I don't usually have two hands to type when I sit down at the PC.) I do have a significant portion of the next chapter written, but please be patient. It may be a few weeks yet before my daughter sleeps enough to let me write again. Thanks for reading! Cheers, Ali

7. Get Back

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 and Assorted Feeble Excuses: I wrote this chapter while I was totally distracted by the imminence of having a baby, and then totally distracted by the reality of having a baby. I kept thinking I should wait to post it until I had a chance to edit it while I was feeling more rational, but now that I've been doing the baby thing for a while I realize I will never be in my right mind again. ;) This chapter was originally going to include a few more events, but I figured at over 5,000 words I should probably just post this. Hope you enjoy, and sorry that my brain is on permanent holiday. Thanks to everyone who has stuck around waiting for me to update!

Chapter Six: Get Back

remember when you were young
you shone like the sun
shine on you crazy diamond
now there's a look in your eyes
like black holes in the sky
shine on you crazy diamond
you were caught on the crossfire
of childhood and stardom
blown on the steel breeze

-- "Shine On You Crazy Diamond," Pink Floyd

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

What happened next was shattering, and astonishing, and inevitable, and yet it happened purely by accident.

Or at least, looking back, Hermione liked to think so.

It was a grey, drizzly morning in December, and six reams of parchment for an Experimental Biomorphancy class project were spread across Hermione's kitchen table, along with two novels, seven textbooks, a half-eaten crumpet, and a stack of folders in various sizes and colors. While Hermione ordinarily never would have stood for such a mess in her kitchen, Exam Week was an exception to the rule. She'd been up until four that morning, and then slept until seven-thirty before shooting out of bed in a panic and realizing she only had thirty-six hours left to study for her oral dissertation on Genome Transfiguration in Vampiric Bovines.

So it was not surprising that when a large screech owl arrived with the morning's Daily Prophet, Hermione hardly looked up from her parchment. Putting her quill between her teeth, she reached over and untied the paper from the owl's leg without looking, gesturing in the direction of the jar of owl treats on the counter. "Take something," she muttered, shoving the Prophet underneath her copy of Monstrous Mutations in Monsters and Mutants.

The owl flapped over to the counter and fluttered around for a moment, then beat his great wings once or twice before rising towards the ceiling with something clutched in his claws.

The owl was halfway out the window before Hermione noticed that instead of taking an owl treat, he'd picked up one of her books, mistakenly thinking that she was asking him to take a delivery back to the library. She looked up just in time to see that he was clutching her copy of Debunking Diviniation: Why Fate is Just a Fallacy and heading swiftly for the sky.

"Wait!" she cried, leaping to her feet and knocking her chair backwards onto Crookshanks in the process. Crookshanks gave a spectacular yowl and began rocketing around the kitchen, terrifying the owl, who promptly dropped the book and sped off into the gathering clouds in an attempt to get as far away as possible from the insane penthouse residents at Number 231.

Bending down to scoop up the startled cat, Hermione examined Crookshanks' bushy tail for signs of injury, then walked to the window to peer down at the rainy cobblestone street. Luckily, her book was in plain sight. Not-so-luckily, it was wedged in a grating one floor down, soaking up the rain on Harry's balcony. "Oh bloody hell," she muttered, pulling her wand from her dressing gown pocket. "Accio book!"

The book bucked, wiggled, and gave a final pitiful thrash, but it was no use. It remained firmly stuck between the iron bars of the grate.

Grumbling, Hermione set Crookshanks down again, pocketed her wand, hurried down the stairs to Harry's flat, and knocked once before opening the door.

What she saw drove all thoughts of books, cats, owls, papers, and exams completely from her mind.

Harry was perched on the deep window ledge in his sitting room, his shoulders slumped, staring out into the rain. Hedwig was on his shoulder, her snowy head leaning against his black one. Harry barely moved at the noise of the door opening. When he did turn around, Hermione's breath caught in her throat. The look in his eyes was unlike anything Hermione had ever seen there before.

It was a look of utter hopelessness, bleak sorrow, dark and green and desperate. It was as if nothing could ever be right again, as if the flame and spark that was Harry had withered and gone out in a cold wind. It was a look that made Hermione's legs go weak. She grasped the doorframe to steady herself.

"Harry," she whispered.

Hedwig gave him a gentle nudge, and he blinked. "Hi," he said quietly, his voice heavy with the same dead weight visible in his eyes. "What's up?"

Hermione forgot all pretense, forgot everything she'd been telling herself, forgot to Forget Harry. She crossed the room in a few hurried strides before realizing she'd also forgotten she was in her dressing gown.

Harry didn't seem to notice.

"Are you all right?" she said, somewhat breathlessly, coming to stand awkwardly before him, twisting the sash of her flannel gown in her hands.

"Fine," Harry said, his voice distant. His eyes met hers then, and Hermione felt again like she might sink right through the floor. "Well, not really, actually," he continued, in the same detached tone. He looked a bit surprised to be telling her this. "Not fine at all."

"Harry?" It was a plea and a question all at once. When Harry looked up again, Hermione was shocked to see his eyes filled with tears. In all the years she'd known him, she had never seen him cry.

Before she could breathe again she'd rushed forward and his arms were around her, and his black messy hair was splayed on her shoulder as Hedwig took off in a rush of silent white wings and landed on the mantle.

When they finally broke apart Hermione couldn't remember if she'd said anything, or how long they'd been there, Harry's arms wrapped around her as if she would fly apart if he didn't hold her together. And when he relaxed his hold, it almost felt as if that was true.

"Thanks," he said, his voice weak. "I'm sorry. I'm all right." He stood, a bit stiffly, and sank onto the couch, running a hand through his hair.

"You're not all right," Hermione said, sitting down cautiously on the other end of the couch. "Harry, what is it?"

"I was thinking about quitting Quidditch," Harry said tonelessly.

"You what?"

"I was thinking about it," Harry continued, unable to meet her gaze, "because I can't figure out what I've done to drive away my two best friends, and so I thought that might be it."

Hermione couldn't speak. His words stung like a slap across the face. The sinking feeling she'd felt earlier was now threatening to pull her straight through the floor.

"All the girls coming around," he continued, as if he was thinking aloud rather than speaking to her. "Those stupid girls. And the press, and all the attention. I thought maybe it was too much for you. Maybe you didn't want to spend your time being scrutinized and hounded just because you happened to live with me, the sodding Boy Who Lived, and now the bloody Seeker for a Cup team."

Hermione had found her voice. "Harry, that's not true -- "

"I know," Harry said, and when his eyes met hers they were expressionless, vacant. "I know. I said I was thinking about quitting, but I realized it's not that at all. It's something else. The real reason I haven't seen you both in months."

Hermione couldn't swallow past the lump that had lodged in her throat. Never, in all her hours of musing about Harry and the Rational Way to Do Things, had she considered that he might notice that she was missing from his life, that he might even be hurt because of it. And of all the bad timing… why Ron was gone as well, she had no idea…

"It was that night." Harry's voice was strained, broken. "That night in the club. I know what you both saw." He took a halting breath. "I wouldn't want to be around me either. I'd be afraid."

This was the last thing Hermione had expected him to say; her jaw fell open. "Afraid? Harry, why would we be afraid -- "

"Because you should be," Harry whispered. "Four years and I've never been brave enough to tell you. Some hero, right? I've been too bloody afraid of it myself."

Hermione's mind was blank, her thoughts tangled in shock and confusion. "Honestly, Harry, I haven't the faintest idea what you're going on about -- "

"It's all right, Hermione. You don't have to pretend anymore. I know you figured it out sometime after that night," Harry said evenly, standing up to pace in front of the window. "It can't have been easy, living in the same house with me after that. You put on a good show, though -- and I've always known that you're very brave -- "

"Harry Potter." Hermione's voice was rising. Was this some sort of joke? "Would you mind telling me what in Merlin's name you're talking about?"

"Fine, then, you want me to say it? Is that what would make you happy? Confirm your little theory for you?" Harry's voice was bitter. He ignored Hedwig's agitated flutters as the owl gave a distressed hoot from her perch on the mantlepiece. Hermione, completely unprepared for this flash of anger, felt tears sting the corners of her eyes as Harry rounded on her and that strange green wind seemed to rush through the room and lift the edges of her dressing gown.

"I'm Voldemort."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Hermione Granger was the type of person who liked to pride herself on knowing the proper response to certain situations. She had a rather extensive mental catalogue of appropriate things to say, when to say them, and to whom. But that neat catalogue of responses did not include instructions on what to say when your best friend tells you he's the Dark Lord, and looks up at you with his soul burning in his eyes.

And in that moment Hermione abandoned her catalogue, threw procedure into the flames. There was no ten-step solution, there was no logic. There was only Harry and his burning eyes and the certainty that what he was saying wasn't right, it couldn't be right, and she was the only one who could make him believe it.

But this was like a bad dream, one of those dreams tinged strange and green with wind, and Hermione found her voice frozen in her throat, stilled in the maddening silence as her heart beat crazily against her ribs.

"All right, I'll play along," said Harry mockingly, when Hermione did not respond. "Let's pretend you don't know any of this, just so you can hear everything from me, since you seem so determined to make me relive it." He turned to lean against the mantle; when he finally spoke again, it was with great effort, as if every word was heavy with water, with the rain that streaked the windows outside.

"When I defeated him, I was alone… with him. You remember."

Harry had never spoken about this; Ron and Hermione had never asked. It had seemed like enough just to have Harry back at the time, just to have him safe and not ask any questions, to pretend as if nothing was different. And now those years of respectful silence stretched out painfully in Hermione's mind. They had not been doing Harry a favor with their polite patience, as they had imagined.

They had been hiding from him.

Four years. Four years, and she hadn't asked about the Defeat, because she'd been too afraid, because it had been the easy thing to do, because something had compelled her to keep her distance. Now she felt sick, almost physically ill from the realization of how long they'd let Harry keep his silence.

"Our wands. They shared a core. They couldn't work against each other… and he had just killed…" Harry's voice wavered, and the next words came out in a rush. "He had just killed Professor Dumbledore."

Tears slipped down Hermione's cheeks. Harry didn't look at her; he sat down again on the couch, staring aimlessly out the window.

"I knew… I knew there was only one way to kill him. I knew he could never truly die." Harry's voice was measured, emotionless, as if he was describing a trip to the laundromat. "I cast the Killing Curse on him. It didn't kill him… it couldn't… but I somehow knew, I knew what would happen if I did. I can't explain it."

Hermione didn't know which was more terrifying; the words that were tumbling from Harry, or the quiet that screamed in her ears when he fell silent.

"When I cast Avada Kedavra…" Harry said tonelessly, "when I cast it, Voldemort's body died. His wand snapped in half. Everyone saw that, afterwards. And I knew -- I knew he could never come back again. I let everyone believe that he was gone."

"But he is, isn't he?" Hermione spoke thickly through tears.

"No." Harry put his head between his knees.

"Harry."

"His power," Harry said, his voice a strained whisper. "All of it. Everything. It went into me."

It couldn't be true. Every bit of Hermione was fighting against it, refusing to believe. Harry -- her Harry -- she knew him, she would have known if something wasn't right, if this had happened -- she was in love with him, for Merlin's sake --

In love with him. She really was.

And just as surely as she knew that, as much as she knew it deep in the intuitive wells of her heart, she knew that he was speaking the truth. Now it seemed as if she'd always known what had happened at the Defeat. It all made sense -- everything that hadn't been right, exactly, when it was over. The months he'd gone away, the things she could never say to him, the way the three of them had been scattered to the wind before finding each other again in the aftermath.

And the green wind. The dreams.

Harry 's head was still in his hands, and his voice was muffled. "I don't know why I'm telling you this," he said. "You must have figured it out by now. After that night. You saw what happened." His voice caught in his throat. "I almost -- I couldn't fight it. His power -- it was too much -- "

"Harry -- " Hermione had found her voice. "Harry, how could I possibly have thought -- I mean -- " She twisted the sash of her robe helplessly. "I mean, even if you are… V-Voldemort… you've never seemed -- you've never -- " She was flailing now, unable to find the words. "You play Quidditch," she finished lamely.

But Harry seemed to understand what she was saying. "I know," he said quietly. "For a while, after it happened, I didn't want to see anyone. I was afraid of what might happen, of what I might do to the people I love. I kept having odd feelings, seeing strange images… feeling these surges, like this great power was inside me… I can't explain it. And I -- " He looked up, guilt creasing his forehead. " I saw how people were reacting, thinking he was dead… that he was finally gone… and I couldn't do it. I couldn't let them down, I couldn't tell them that his power was still here, waiting, trying to do something -- "

"But it hasn't."

"No. No, not yet." Harry's shoulders were hunched with tension. "I found out that as long as I keep my mind busy -- by doing sports, or something, anything -- I can get by, I can pretend it's not there. Quidditch has been the only thing that's made me feel almost normal again." He glanced up at her. "Well, that and…" His voice trailed off. "But you've deduced this, I'm sure. Some of it, anyway. What else could have happened, that night in the club? That was dark magic, Hermione."

Hermione found she could say nothing. She felt that her jaw might be half-open, but she wasn't quite sure.

"You don't have to say anything," Harry said, staring out at the rain. "I know you figured it out, or at least part of it. I know that's why you and Ron haven't been coming around. I'd have done the same if I were you."

This sentence was spoken with the finality of a death knell, with a sound in his voice like heavy doors slamming. It brought Hermione back to her senses. That's it, she thought. He's shutting us out. He's gone forever, and I never knew, and it's all my fault --

"No," Hermione said. "No, Harry."

"Then why?" Harry had shot to his feet again, pacing. "Why have my two best friends been acting like they've been replaced by bloody cardboard cutouts?" He glared at her. "I'm not sure I want to know, actually, since you certainly won't stick around now I've told you about this -- "

"HARRY!" Hermione could hardly see through her own tears. "I'm sorry, I really am, I can't explain it, I can't explain -- it's not -- " The words it has nothing to do with you caught in her throat and lodged there. "It's not because I'm afraid of you," she amended. She couldn't tell him right now, couldn't dump her feelings on his lap in the middle of all this -- "And I don't know why Ron's been gone. I couldn't tell you. I haven't seen him in ages. Harry, believe me, it's not like you think."

"It's not, is it?" Harry was staring out the window. "But you can't have forgotten that night."

"I haven't forgotten it, no. I've even -- " It was difficult to keep speaking. "I've even dreamed about it," she finished. Her breath hitched in her throat. "And Harry, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I haven't been there for you. This is all my fault."

Hermione was dimly aware that the room had grown dark, that Harry was glowing once more, the edges of his form outlined in weird green light, his eyes lit from within like candles.

"Are you sure?" he asked, and his voice was high and cold and distant. "Are you sure you're not afraid?"

Hermione realized that she was trembling. She forced herself to look up and meet Harry's gaze, terrified of what she might see there.

And Hermione saw in those eyes someone who was just as scared as she was. She saw, amidst the darkness and the rush of green wind, Harry. Her Harry.

"I could never be afraid of you," she said quietly.

He found her then, gathered her into his arms and cradled her as she cried, as he'd done so many times before, except this time he might have been crying too. "I'm sorry," someone said, and it might have been Hermione, but maybe it was Harry; it was impossible to tell, because all Hermione could see or think about was Harry's arms around her and how she was never going to shut him out of her life again.

They broke apart and Harry's hand was smoothing her hair roughly and she looked up at him, and he was staring at her in wonderment.

"I just told you I'm the most powerful Dark Wizard in existence," he said, "and you… apologized to me."

Hermione managed a weak laugh through her tears. "You shouldn't have had to keep something like that to yourself for so long," she said shakily. "We can get through this. Whatever's happened to you, you're still Harry."

"You're sure." This was almost a question.

"Of course I'm sure. Harry -- you may have absorbed Voldemort's power, but you've always been stronger than he has. You're still you. I can tell." A strange calm had engulfed Hermione; this time, she wasn't hiding behind logic, and she wasn't using it as a way to bury her feelings. She was using it to explain them. "I've always thought you were meant to go up against Voldemort your whole life, and you were meant to do it because you're the only one who could. Harry, you're the only one who has ever been strong enough. If his power couldn't be destroyed, it had to be contained… and maybe the only way to contain it is within you." She swallowed. "Maybe this was meant to happen."

Harry was quiet as he absorbed this information, his green eyes round.

"I thought you didn't believe in fate," he said finally.

"I don't," she said. "I believe in you."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Time, after that, meant something different. It was as if they had started over again, new students on the train, chasing after toads and eating Every Flavor Beans, with the weight of years no longer upon them. They huddled in Harry's apartment, cocooned in front of his Muggle television set (he'd always wanted his own), watching horrible American sitcoms and ordering Chinese food via Floo network. Hermione's books found their way down to Harry's, and his kitchen table was quickly buried under piles of parchment and quills. Sometimes Hermione went upstairs to see Crookshanks, and they cooked dinner in her sunny kitchen, and Harry's jumpers and shoes found their way under Hermione's sofa.

Which, he discovered, was a fairly comfortable sofa. Sometimes, after Hermione went to bed, he didn't quite feel like going back downstairs.

He went to see Ron. "You've got to tell him," she said, in that tone of hers that made it impossible to believe she was ever wrong. And after everything she'd said to him, he almost believed she never was.

Ron had been silent while Harry told him, in stops and starts, and between shaky sips of butterbeer, what had happened on the night of the Defeat. He simply stared at Harry, his expression an unreadable wash of fear and awe and panic.

"Bloody hell," he had said when Harry finally finished, and Harry looked up at him and cursed himself a thousand times over for ever being afraid to tell Ron anything. "What did Hermione say?"

"She thinks I'm still me. She thinks…" Harry stared at his butterbeer, swirled it in the bottle, thought of her confidence, her unwavering belief in him, and found it hard to speak. "She thinks it was meant to happen."

Ron nodded, leaned forward in his seat, fixed Harry with an uncharacteristically serious gaze. "I reckon she's right," he said quietly. "But that's Hermione for you."

"Yeah. Yeah, it is."

They'd talked for hours, then. As if they hadn't spoken in years, which, Harry thought later, they really hadn't.

"I've got something to tell you as well," Ron had said, in some early hour after midnight, empty bottles of butterbeer lined up on the coffee table in front of them.

"The reason you've been -- "

"Gone. Yeah."

"What is it, mate?"

"Look, promise you won't… get worked up."

Harry managed a chuckle. "I'd throw myself out the window before cursing you, you git."

"That's not what I meant!"

"Sorry." Another chuckle. "Harry, I couldn't tell you -- I couldn't tell either of you -- " Ron sat up, his face peaked and uncertain beneath a road map of freckles. "There's… this girl." His voice was strained. "You can't tell anyone."

"Why on earth not?"

"Harry, I don't know, I just -- "

"Ron." The words were out before Harry could stop them. "I've… there's someone… I should tell you something also."

"Well then." Ron unfolded his lanky form from the sofa with a pained grin. "I'll get the Ogden's."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"You've got to tell them, Ron. They'll be okay with it. Really."

"I know… I know. I'll do it. Over the holiday." A long pause; Ron took a sip of whiskey. "Harry, are you sure you don't want to tell her?"

"Very. I don't want to ruin anything."

"Right then. You have my word, mate." He sighed. "I just wish you'd change your mind."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was Christmas Eve, and the Burrow was a boiling mishmash of bubbling pots and baked puddings, warm bodies and twinkling lights, and for once, everything was just about perfect.

All the Weasleys were crammed into the nooks and corners of the house, red hair and freckles in every hallway and bedroom and armchair. Ron and Harry were camped upstairs in Ron's bedroom with Fred and George; Bill and his fiancee Julia were down the hall from Charlie; and Percy, Penelope, and little Perce were in Percy's old room, while Hermione and Ginny were together as usual in Ginny's room. Years ago, Hermione had stopped feeling pangs of guilt for feeling more at home with the Weasleys than her own parents, who always preferred to vacation together on a sunny island beach for the holidays, happy to let Hermione celebrate at the Burrow.

This year felt much more like home, however, than any of her previous Christmases at the Burrow. Hermione wasn't sure if it was because she, Harry, and Ron were now living together in their own home, of sorts; whether it was that the sheer number of smiling Weasleys seemed to increase by the year; or whether a sort of fog had lifted between herself and Harry and Ron. She suspected it was the latter.

She couldn't put a finger on exactly what was different. Watching Harry from across the sitting room, as Ron beat the pants off of him in chess for the second time in an hour, his smile seemed easier, his laugh warmer and deeper. She suspected that the weight of bearing a dark secret had taken its toll on him in a thousand intangible ways. The last time she'd seen him like this -- the only times she'd ever seen him like this, really -- he'd been on a broom, the one thing that seemed to free him from the mantle of being Harry.

There was another time she'd seen him like this. It didn't seem significant, really, but -- that day in her kitchen. They'd made soup.

A moment between friends, Hermione thought quickly. He's my best friend, after all. And as difficult as it might be -- as much as it would hurt to watch him date other women, even fall in love -- she would do it, and she would be there for him. And he would be there for her.

Though she had to admit it was hard to stop looking at him sometimes. Currently he was wearing one of his many Weasley sweaters, dark green wool with a mottled "H" on the front, soft and worn, snug across his broad shoulders. His hair was a classic Harry mop, one shiny black lock sticking straight up in triumph right above his jagged scar, the rest of it at odds with itself, askew and happy and wild. From time to time little Percy would run by -- the child was in perpetual motion -- and fling his arms around Harry's neck with sheer abandon, and Harry would flush and grin and toss him to Ron or Charlie, or turn him upside-down while the three-year-old squealed with laughter.

Ron gave a triumphant guffaw, and Harry's eyes caught hers as Ron's bishop swung a heavy sword at Harry's unsuspecting queen, cleaving the stone figure in two. Harry grinned, one of those Harry smiles that made Hermione's chest hurt and her knees feel funny, and she tried not to blush too badly as she smiled back.

Harry pushed his chair back and stood, chuckling. "I think that'll do it for me. Who's next?" His eyes lit on Ginny, who had just come into the room with a steaming mug of cocoa, fashionable as ever in a red sweater with a fluffy white fur collar. He gestured at his chair. "Ginny?"

"Prepare to meet your doom, young Weasley," crowed Ron as Ginny slid into Harry's vacated seat, raised her eyebrows, and began picking up Harry's decapitated chess pieces.

"Hey. Fancy a Christmas cookie?" Harry had come to stand beside Hermione in the sitting room doorway, and he inclined his head towards the kitchen, where a tray of Molly Weasley's holiday baking was sitting conspicuously on the counter. "I won't tell anyone."

"All right then." As they walked into the kitchen she felt a tiny thrill as Harry's hand came to rest comfortably on the small of her back for a few fleeting seconds. Harry had never been the touchy-feely sort; Ron, on the other hand, had always been freer with hugs and brotherly kisses. But now Harry seemed to be relaxing, reaching out to bridge the space between them in dozens of little ways.

The Burrow kitchen was still cozy with the smell of supper; piles of dishes were stacked in the sink next to a pot of leftover oyster stew. Harry made a beeline for the cookie tray. "Candy cane or Christmas tree?"

Hermione pretended to give this question serious consideration. "Candy cane, please."

"Okay." Harry glanced at her shyly, lowering his voice. "Watch this," he said, opening his hands to show her that his wand was in his pocket. "Accio cookie," he whispered, and Hermione's candy cane flew purposefully into Harry's open palm. Hermione smiled. She knew that Harry was a far more powerful wizard than he would ever let on, even without the added powers of a certain Dark Lord, but he only seemed comfortable revealing the depths of his skill to her in private, in little displays like this. "Showoff," she said, rolling her eyes.

"It's not so hard. I can teach you to do it, I think." Harry hoisted himself up onto the kitchen counter and took a tree-shaped cookie twinkling with Sparkle Sprinkles. "I've always wondered whether these keep lighting up once you eat them."

"I don't think so. They're enchanted to stop sparkling once they're wet; it's a property of Fidoza root extract, which is what they're made with. At least that's what I've heard, but you'd best ask Fred and George, they ought to know, since they use it in some of their joke shop products -- "

She was interrupted by Harry's soft laughter. "Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"Just… don't ever change, all right?"

Hermione felt her ears go pink; she tried to hide her smile, but it was futile. "Are you teasing me?"

Harry bit into the cookie and grinned. "Just a little bit."

"Oh, hush."

Harry patted the counter beside him. "Have a seat?"

"Oh no, I don't think -- I mean, Molly probably won't like -- "

"She won't mind. Besides, we'll take care of the dishes." Harry was fishing for his wand now, in a shirt pocket under his sweater. With a quick gesture the pile of dishes in the sink was washing itself, and Harry patted the counter again.

For a moment it seemed to Hermione that there was something in the air, something more than the cinnamon smell of cookies and crackling fire, something that sparked like the sprinkles on Molly Weasley's Christmas baking. "Happier breaking rules, as always," she muttered, sliding up onto the counter and suddenly feeling almost dizzy with the closeness of Harry, his black hair falling against his round glasses, pale wrists emerging from the too-short sleeves of his worn Weasley sweater. He nudged her shoulder with his own as she settled next to him. "I wanted to thank you," he said quietly.

"What on earth for? I haven't given you your present yet." She was quite nervous about it this year; she'd decided against the usual standby of chocolate frogs and Quidditch literature, instead settling on a selection of Muggle music they'd listened to in her apartment one sunny afternoon.

"For… you know. For helping me through this." He slid a hand over hers on the counter between them. "It gets better every day. I mean…" A pause, the sound of dishes clinking in the sink. "I think I can do this. You're right." His eyes flicked to hers. "As always."

Hermione's heart was pounding so loudly that she could hardly hear her own thoughts. Harry's thumb was moving in a tentative circle on the back of her hand. It felt like fire and butterflies. Did he know what he was doing to her? Could he tell? "I, er… " Harry said, and did she remember how to speak English? because she wasn't sure anymore, she wasn't sure of anything at all --

"Oi, Harry! Ginny Weasley has been vanquished! Is Hermione in here -- "

Hermione sat up with a jolt as Ron burst into the kitchen. His eyes widened at the sight of them sitting on the counter, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat. He can't know how I feel, he can't have figured it out -- "Don't let Mum catch you up there," he said finally, grinning, then narrowed his eyes in an uncanny impersonation of Mrs.Weasley. "If I've told you once, Ronald, I've told you a thousand times, keep your bum off my clean counters!"

"We're washing the dishes. I thought she wouldn't mind," Harry said, sliding off of the counter and offering a hand to Hermione to do the same.

"Oh, nice one. I was just looking for 'Mione," Ron said, glancing at her with an oddly thoughtful look in his eyes. "Can I borrow her for a bit?"

Hermione had been expecting this; Harry had told her he'd been talking with Ron, that Ron had something to tell her. She hadn't been expecting it at this precise moment, however. Her mind had been… elsewhere. She wondered if Ron could tell that her knees were practically knocking together with nerves. Thankfully, he was Ron, and these small details tended to escape him at times.

"Honestly!" Hermione found her voice again. "I'm not a library book."

"News to me," Ron said. "Come sit outside for a minute, then?"

"All right, take her, see if I care," Harry said with a laugh, and disappeared into the sitting room as Ron draped a cloak around her shoulders and opened the back door.

They walked out onto the back porch, Hermione's insides tightly coiled as she watched their breath hover before them in puffs of steam. Her brain was trying rather unsuccessfully to switch gears.

"I've been talking to Harry," Ron said, staring off into the back field, where a group of garden gnomes was celebrating the holiday around a rosebush lit with tiny candles.

"He mentioned that," Hermione said, suddenly feeling the strangeness of the past four years, how odd it was to be talking with Ron this way about Harry. They'd always talked about Harry constantly, before; he was their constant project, their shared worry. Now it seemed like ages since they'd mentioned him to each other. "He told you… what happened to him."

"Yeah."

They gazed at the gnomes' holiday rosebush for a while until Ron's fist came slamming down onto the porch banister unexpectedly. "We should have known," he said vehemently. "We should have asked him -- we should have done something -- "

"I know," Hermione said, breathlessly thankful that this was what Ron wanted to talk about. This she could handle. "But he's going to be all right, Ron. If anyone's going to be all right, it's Harry. No one else could manage this for as long as he has, already… He's doing it. He's going to be fine, somehow. There's no one else like him."

That piercing look again; Ron seemed to be searching her eyes for something, perhaps reassurance, perhaps a confirmation that everything would be okay. Perhaps --

"I know," he said finally. "I just… I can't forgive myself."

"I know. Me either."

They were quiet again, listening to the laughter issuing from the sitting room, Fred and George's wicked chuckling, and then Harry's voice, deeper than the twins': "Oh, come off it, Fred."

Ron gave her a small sideways smile, then took a long breath. "There's something else we haven't talked about. I'm sorry for that too."

"It's all right. There are probably things I haven't told you also," Hermione said, trying to sound casual.

Ron nodded. "I guess we grew apart a bit, without realizing it," he said quietly. "I don't want it to happen again."

"Me either."

Ron squeezed her hand, then dropped his head and took a deep breath. "Okay. Here goes."

Hermione tried to keep her face passive, but her mind was whirling. Was Ron moving out? Maybe he'd met people through work -- or he'd been working on a secret Ministry project --

"I'm getting married."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

8. Absolute Beginners

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 and Assorted Feeble Excuses:This was originally intended to be the final chapter, but it's taken so long to write that I'm posting the unfinished portion before the story is concluded. I do have plans to finish the fic eventually, but it will probably take some time! Thanks to all my readers and members of Granger's Library for your patience and understanding.

Chapter Seven: Absolute Beginners

can't make it all alone
i built my dreams around you

-- "Fairytale of New York," The Pogues

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The garden gnomes scattered at the sound of Hermione's shriek, deserting their twinkling rosebush as if their tiny legs were on fire. A moment later the back door flew open and Arthur Weasley poked his red-and-white-nightcapped head outside. "That you, Ron? Everything all right?"

"Fine, Dad, fine," said Ron hastily, shooting Hermione a don't-say-anything look like the one he'd used in Potions when Professor Snape inquired if he was getting help on his assignments.

"Sorry, Mr.Weasley," Hermione said, regaining control of her voice and successfully overcoming the urge to shriek again. "I saw a -- garden gnome, I thought it was a… er… "

" -- Nogtail," finished Ron. "But it was just a gnome, nothing to worry about."

"A Nogtail?" Arthur Weasley was peering at the deserted rosebush with concern.

"Right, silly me, just a gnome," Hermione said hastily. "I should really get my eyes checked, you know, I'll probably be needing glasses one of these days, both my parents have them…" She was faintly aware that she was babbling, but her mind was too busy reeling to care. Ron? Married?

"Well then," Mr.Weasley was saying, "don't stay out here for too long, all right? It's getting chilly."

"Right Dad."

"Good night, Mr.Weasley."

The back door clicked shut behind them, and Ron waited a few moments before exhaling a long breath. "Sorry," Hermione said hurriedly, biting her lip. "I didn't mean -- "

"No, that's all right. I should have given you a bit more warning." He gave her a wry smile. "You should have seen Harry's reaction. It was worse."

"Worse?"

"Seen my sitting room ceiling lately?" Ron leaned back against the porch railing. "There's a bottle of butterbeer stuck in halfway, right above the couch, like it was splinched or something. No idea what spell Harry used to do it. Don't know if he knows either."

"Oh dear." Hermione hid a smile, then abruptly remembered what they had been talking about. "But Ron -- what do you mean? What's happened? How on earth could you be getting married?" She couldn't keep her voice from rising. "Why didn't you tell us? Who is she? Do your parents know?"

"I'm telling them in a few days, once everyone's cleared out. I didn't want to distract them during the holiday. And -- well, I didn't tell you, because -- " Ron stared at the ground, studying his shoelaces. "She's a bit young," he said finally. "And it's a bit sudden."

"Sudden? Well I should say -- " Hermione began, but stopped herself. This was clearly a difficult situation, or Ron would have told them everything from the start. She didn't want to make this any harder for him. "I'm sorry. Keep going."

"Okay." Ron took another deep breath and began talking very fast, still looking at his shoes. "I met… this girl. Through Harry, actually, I think he ran into her at one of his Quidditch parties, and we'd met once long ago but I think both of us were sort of asleep at the time -- anyway, one thing led to another, and well, we started seeing each other, and I couldn't really say anything, because I didn't want to get her in trouble. Because she is quite young and all."

"How… young is young?"

"Well, er -- she's… she's… sixteen."

"Sixteen -- "

"Yeah. Still in school. She had quite a time of it, sneaking out to see me on weekends off. I really didn't want her to, but she -- I mean -- " Ron flushed a deep pink. "We sort of fell in love. I didn't mean for it to happen."

"Ron!" Unable to restrain herself, Hermione grabbed his hand and squeezed it. "That's wonderful! Even if she is… sixteen."

Ron looked up and squeezed back. "Thanks," he said shyly. "But there's more."

"Okay." Hermione was beginning to feel slightly dizzy.

"We, er… well, you know." Ron coughed; in the dim light Hermione could still see that he had flushed scarlet. "We started getting quite… close. And after a while, she didn't feel very well… so she thought… She thought she might be pregnant."

These last words had come out in a rush; Hermione drew in her breath sharply. "She what?"

Ron's voice broke slightly. "She thought she was pregnant," he said. "Went to a mediwitch and everything, but they couldn't tell us right away. I was -- I mean, we were so worried. So I -- " He stared up at the stars, pinpricks in the cold air. "I thought I should do the right thing. I didn't want to mess up her life any worse than I had already. I went to Diagon Alley and I bought a ring… and I asked her to marry me."

"Oh, Ron." Hermione stepped forward to lean against the railing next to him; he drew her close, and she buried her face in his winter robes.

"It's all right," Ron said, and his voice sounded weary. Hermione had the sudden realization that while she'd been preoccupied with her own miseries for the past few months, Ron had been through something that might have been even worse. "She wasn't pregnant. We found out a few days after I proposed."

"So why are you… I mean, you're still… "

"Yeah, I know. We're still going to do it, I think." Ron heaved a sigh and shoved both hands into his pockets. "She was great about it, really amazing, you know? Told me she would understand if I didn't want to go through with it… tried to give back the ring and everything. But that made me realize… " He looked down at Hermione, his eyes shining dimly in the starlight. "I do love her," he said quietly. "And I do want to marry her someday. And she wants to marry me. So it might as well be now."

"Oh, Ron."

"You said that already." Ron managed a half-smile.

"I suppose I did. I -- well, I don't know what to say."

"Say I'm not crazy," Ron said quietly. "Say I'm not making the hugest mistake of my life."

"Well, I -- " Hermione's voice caught in her throat. "I wish I could say that. But I don't know, Ron, I really don't." She looked up at him. "I don't even know her," she said quietly.

"You do, actually," Ron said, going red again.

Hermione felt her jaw go slack with surprise. "You're joking?"

Ron traced a pattern on the porch with the toe of his shoe. "Do you remember, in our fourth year… Fleur Delacour's little sister? Gabrielle?"

Hermione felt an odd ringing in her ears. It felt as if all the blood had rushed out of her head and into her heart, which stalled violently in mid-thump. "Gabrielle Delacour?" she whispered, and the stars began to swim slightly as she put a hand on the porch railing for support.

"That's right, Gabrielle. Are you all right, Hermione?" Ron was peering down at her. "You look awfully pale."

"No, I -- I mean, yes, I just -- well, I think maybe -- " Her heart had started beating again, and it was now pounding out a rhythm that matched the rushing noise in her ears. "It's all a bit much," she said faintly. "I think I need to sit down."

"Yeah, good idea, let's sit," Ron was saying, and he took her arm and walked her over to a bench on the porch, where he sat down heavily beside her. "I take it you know Gabrielle?" he asked timidly, once they were both seated.

"Well, I -- I suppose I do." Hermione found that her brain had reconnected with her voice, and she grabbed Ron's arm, a bit harder than she'd intended. His eyes widened in surprise. "But I thought -- " she began, looking down at his arm and loosening her grip. "Sorry -- I mean -- "

"What is it?" Ron was now looking distinctly worried.

"I thought, you know, she and Harry…" At this Ron's eyes went even wider. "I thought they were together," she finished sheepishly.

"Gabrielle and Harry?" It was a good thing they were both sitting down now, because Hermione thought Ron might have taken a turn falling over backwards.

"Yes -- well -- " Hermione was now stricken with guilt. What if she'd just ruined Ron's engagement, blurting out this sort of news to him? His fiance and his best friend? "I could be wrong," she amended hastily, starting to panic at the look on Ron's face. "I mean, I just -- I never saw anything -- but the morning after the Quidditch semifinal -- I let Gabrielle in to visit Harry."

Ron was staring at her intently. "So?"

"Er, well... He let her into his flat, and closed the door and put out a school tie. You know, for privacy."

Ron let out a relieved exhale with such force that Hermione thought he might pass out. "'Mione," he said, beginning to smile again, "that's all you saw?"

"Well... yes." Hermione was beginning to feel slightly ridiculous. Was that really all she'd seen? And that had been enough to send her into an emotional tailspin? An emotional tailspin the equivalent of a rather large and devastating hurricane?

"'Mione." Ron shook his head. "I told Gabrielle to go visit Harry that day."

Ron was casually turning her world upside down and sideways with this explanation."You did?"

"Yeah." Ron blinked at her in the dim light. "It's why she came to talk to me in the first place. I ran into her at a party the night of the semifinal, and she remembered me right away. She said she'd been having nightmares for years about what happened underwater -- during the Second Task, I mean -- even though she hadn't been awake during the Task. Really odd, right? Anyway, she was really happy to talk to someone who'd also been there. We talked for most of the night, and I told her to go see Harry, since Harry actually brought her out of the lake and all. Thought it might make her feel better, help with the dreams, you know? So Harry was expecting her that morning, I told him she wanted to come talk to him privately. I didn't get around to telling you though, you went home early that night. I didn't think it was a big deal, anyway."

Hermione could only sit and absorb this information with an odd numbness. She had the urge to burst out laughing and crying at once. Laughter was currently winning. It was all so absurd. She'd been so absurd.

"That's all it was? She wanted to talk about the lake?"

"That's all it was, yeah. Made her feel much better." Ron was looking at Hermione quizically again. "Why did it matter that you thought she was with Harry? He's had a dozen girlfriends since he moved to London."

This struck frighteningly close to the core. Hermione felt herself turn pale; she floundered for a few long seconds. "Well, she's -- awfully young," she blurted at last.

Hermione could tell that Ron flushed pink even in the near-darkness. "Right," he said, scuffling the ground with his toe. "I suppose she is."

"Oh Ron." Hermione took his hand. "I didn't mean to make you feel bad about it. You're in love with each other, your ages won't matter in a few years." She attempted to settle into a new white lie, an almost-truth. "I kept meaning to ask Harry about it, but I never got around to it, with school and all. He'd have set me straight, I'm sure."

Ron nodded, staring out into the yard. They were both silent for a moment, Hermione's brain attempting to sort through a murky soup of emotions. When Ron finally squeezed her hand and let go, Hermione started -- she'd forgotten that he was holding it. "Just tell me one thing," he said, his voice gravelly and solemn.

"Of course."

"I'm not completely barmy, am I? I've never felt this way before. The tiniest thing can set me off. I haven't been myself at all -- I didn't even tell you two about it. I mean, that's really not like me, right? Really, really not like me. But I was so worried about what you'd say, and I didn't want anything to change with Gabrielle." He gave a hollow laugh. "I'm going to St. Mungo's, aren't I? You can break the news to me gently."

Hermione knew precisely how he felt. Absolutely precisely. Her heart twanged and she tried to laugh breezily. "Oh honestly, Ron. You're not going anywhere."

"I'm not? What on earth's wrong with me, then?"

"Nothing." Hermione looked up at the stars, winking back at her like tiny gold flecks of light, and thought of someone else, someone who caught tiny gold fluttering things and smiled quite a lot like the winking stars. "You're in love, is all."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Harry Potter was in an extraordinarily good mood. He was also, in typical Harry fashion, running late.

Hermione couldn't help grinning at him as he stepped out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, scrubbing his hands hastily through his wet hair. As distracting as it was to see him in a towel, it was also somewhat startling to see him without his glasses -- his face looked oddly naked, younger, lacking some of the sharpness and edge that bespectacled Harry usually possessed. "You're late," Hermione said chidingly, from her seat on the sofa in Harry's sitting room.

"Oh, sod off, I know," Harry laughed, pausing to squint at her. "What are you wearing?"

"You'll see. Go on, hurry up. I've been waiting to use the washroom."

"I'm hurrying." Harry disappeared into his bedroom. "What's wrong with your toilet upstairs? Not good enough for you?"

"Not really," Hermione opened Harry's washroom door to a cloud of steam. "I can't tell you to hurry up when I'm in that one."

"Very clever."

"I am." Hermione cleared away the steam with a wave of her wand, then studied her reflection in the mirror.

It was New Year's Eve, and though Harry had been invited to dozens of parties, the one he'd been most excited about -- and the one he'd insisted Ron and Hermione both attend -- was the one being thrown by Morris Whiggam, the coach of England's national Quidditch team. Every year Whiggam provided Portkeys to all his guests that whisked them away to a vast ballroom somewhere in Wizarding London, decorated far too extravagantly in some sort of theme. Last year, according to Harry, the room had been done up like a wizard circus, with the ceiling stretched into the pinnacles of a circus tent, and clowns, enchanters, and every imaginable animal and beast prowling around the party. This year's event was rumored to be even more spectacular, so naturally, Harry had insisted they both come with him.

Ron was bringing Gabrielle, which was an event unto itself. He'd broken the news to his family the day after Christmas, and all of the Weasleys had been remarkably understanding, though Molly had murmured "Oh, Merlin" for the better part of an hour afterwards. After that, however, the news that another of her sons was getting married finally seemed to sink in, and she was a whirlwind of happy activity, sending Owls to distant relatives and immediately recruiting the very ancient Errol to send an invitation to the Delacours for supper.

Hermione had enjoyed watching the buzz of excitement over Ron's news, but more importantly, she'd enjoyed watching Ron's great relief at his family's reaction. The engagement had been a welcome distraction; she could stand quietly in a corner with Harry and revel in the simple thrill of his presence while the rest of the Weasleys fussed over Ron.

Ron had asked Harry to be best man at the wedding, and what's more, he'd asked Hermione to be in the wedding as well -- as one of his "groomsmen," the rest of whom were a long parade of Weasley sons. "I need both of you on my side," Ron had said in simple explanation. The look on Harry's face at that moment was something Hermione wouldn't forget anytime soon. It was as if a tiny bit of the darkness he had carried with him for so long had lifted at Ron's words and gone forever.

So tonight, for the first time, the Trio would become the Trio-Plus-One, and everyone was slightly nervous, but it was a happy sort of nervous. Hermione fidgeted with a strap on her dress and wondered for the twelfth time that evening whether it had been wise to let Ginny talk her into such a purchase. "It's New Year's Eve," Ginny had said, as if that was reason enough to justify buying a large piece of furniture, two new broomsticks, and a summer home in Crete. So Hermione had splurged. The Dress was simple black silk, with two whisper-thin straps and tiny black beads sewn across the straight neckline. It was rather more form-fitting than anything Hermione usually wore -- it was cut on the bias, and came to just above her knees, flaring out very slightly at the bottom. And like any truly elegant piece of witch couture, a tiny pocket sewn into the back of the dress had room for her wand.

"You look stunning, dear," said Harry's mirror, jolting Hermione into the present. She flushed and tried to hide a smile as she began working on another hair-taming charm -- she would wear it mostly down tonight if she could get it to behave. "Thank you," she said modestly, gesturing with her wand as a long brown curl wound itself into a sparkling clip above her right ear.

A loud commotion in the sitting room nearly caused Hermione to singe off a carefully placed curl with her wand. She threw open the washroom door to reveal Ron pounding frantically on Harry's bedroom door with a tie in one hand, his red hair slicked back and nearly as shiny as the bathroom mirror. He whirled around at the sound of the door, a panic-stricken look on his face. "Hermione, thank Merlin you're here! I tried to find you upstairs but you weren't there, and I'm running late to pick up Gabrielle and I can't get this sodding tie done right and I think I sort of overdid the Sleakeasy's hair stuff, and I'm sweating spellbooks here because I've just gone up and down the stairs six ruddy times -- " He stopped short, finally seeming to see Hermione for the first time. "Bloody hell!"

"What? What is it?"

"You look wicked!"

Hermione smiled, crossing the room to take the tie from Ron's hand. Even in heels she needed to stand on tiptoe to help him with it; she looped it over his head and began to fiddle with the knot. "Calm down, I don't know why you're so hopeless at this when you're nervous." She looked up at him and arched an eyebrow. "Wicked good or wicked bad?"

"Wicked bloody excellent," Ron said, rolling down his sleeves and beginning to button the cuffs of his dress shirt.

"Honestly, Ron, don't do that while I'm trying to do this -- "

They both turned as Harry's bedroom door clicked open and Harry stepped out, straightening his own tie, striped in muted Gryffindor colors. He was wearing dark suit pants and a simple white dress shirt, which was setting off the crimson flush that was now blooming across his cheekbones as he looked at Hermione with eyes wide behind his round glasses. He looked so utterly startled that Hermione glanced down to see if one of her thin spaghetti straps had quit on the job and left her exposed in some mortifying fashion. But all was well, and she found that she was not nearly brave enough to meet Harry's gaze again. He must be shocked to see me in an actual dress, Hermione told herself, and busied herself with Ron's tie in an effort to stop blushing.

Ron had apparently caught Harry's look, because he grinned and stepped away from Hermione with a theatrical gesture as she finished knotting his tie. "Doesn't she look brilliant?" he said, holding her at arm's length and waggling his eyebrows at Harry.

"Spectacular," said Harry truthfully, stepping forward to take Hermione's hand from Ron. He bent to kiss it in jest, his still-wet hair tumbling into his eyes as they all laughed and Hermione blushed harder. Harry raised his eyes to meet hers and there was an odd gravity veiled in their twinkling mirth. "I've never seen anyone so beautiful."

Hermione had come perilously close to fainting four times in her life, and she was surprised to discover that the tally was now up to five. "Will you two stop," she said, her pulse uncomfortably quick. "We're going to miss the Portkey, Ron, if you've got to pick up Gabrielle."

Ron swore. "Merlin's beard, what the sod am I hanging around with you lot for? I'd better meet you there, Harry, I'm not sure we've got enough time -- "

"Go, go!" Harry said, shooing him towards the door. "You can make it just fine if you Apparate from the front steps."

"Right." Ron took an enormously deep breath and turned around, straightening his tie. "Do I look okay?"

"Smashing," Hermione said, smiling.

"Breathtaking," Harry grinned. "Lovely. I can't look at you, I'll faint."

"Sod off, Potter." Ron was chuckling as he jogged down the stairs.

Abruptly they were alone, and the silence in the apartment was deafening. Ron had left them to pick up his date -- his fiance -- and the Trio was now officially not quite the same. Hermione found herself wondering if Harry would resent being paired with her by default. His consolation prize. She felt a lump rise in her throat as she thought of Ron, and missed his reassuring presence with an ache that was nearly physical.

"Um, well then." Harry broke into the awkward quiet, picking up his heavy winter robes from the back of the couch and beginning to put them on. "Do you have everything? We'd best be off too."

"Wait, just a moment." Hermione felt scattered, and groped around for her wand (safely in the hidden pocket of her dress), the small evening bag she'd brought downstairs, and her wool robes. Harry had beaten her to her robes, however, and was holding them open for her before she could pick them up. "Thanks," she said quietly, her nerves buzzing.

"No problem." Harry offered her his arm. "Shall we?"

Everything was changing. The warmth of Harry's arm brought a swift change to Hermione's mood as she slipped her hand around his wrist, and she caught his eye and he gave her a small nervous sideways Harry-smile. Just Harry.

It would be all right. It would be different from now on, but they would be all right, all three of them. All four of them.

Just the two of them.

"We shall."

They descended the stairs, a pair of dark-robed figures picking their way across snowy cobblestones to the cul-de-sac at the end of the street. The windows of Orthagon Alley were glowing gold like champagne, and the noise of distant parties floated from faraway rooftops. In a moment the two figures were joined by two more; one of them groped on the ground for something that looked distinctly like a discarded Christmas cracker. For a moment the four of them huddled together, and then they winked out of existence, obscured by scattered snowflakes that hung on the wind like confetti.

to be continued...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

9. One Sweet Dream

Title: Come Together
Author: Granger
Rating: R
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.
Summary: It's four years after the Trio has graduated from Hogwarts, and they're about to live together again for the first time. But will old friends remain old friends... or will they become something more? AU, Post-OoTP.
Author's Note: It's done. Can you believe it?

Chapter Eight: One Sweet Dream

one sweet dream came true today - The Beatles

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When Hermione felt herself stop spinning, and the familiar Portkey-induced queasiness began to subside, she opened her eyes. And forgot to breathe.

They were standing outside in a forest clearing -- or at least, it seemed as if they were outside. On closer inspection, Hermione could detect the traces of a vaulted ceiling behind a spangled sky that was enchanted much like the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Silvery birch trees surrounded them on all sides, obscuring any entrance or exit, a mass of intertwined white branches fading into the darkness in every direction. Somewhere close by, a band was playing music, and the clinking noise of glass and conversation drifted over the trees. Someone shifted beside her, and Hermione realized she was still clutching Harry's arm tightly. She loosened her grip and looked up at him apologetically; he glanced down when he saw she had opened her eyes.

"Feeling all right?" he whispered. Harry knew how she felt about traveling by Portkey. It was similar to how she felt about traveling by Hippogryff.

"I think so." A noise somewhere near her feet made Hermione start, and she looked down to realize that Ron and Gabrielle had arrived at their destination in a somewhat more awkward fashion. They were sprawled unceremoniously on the ground, Ron apologizing as he attempted to untangle his lanky limbs from Gabrielle's white winter cloak. But Gabrielle was anything but angry; she was giggling uncontrollably and stopping every few seconds to plant a kiss on Ron's cheek, which was causing him to become even more flustered. She's with Ron, Hermione thought, feeling herself smile as she watched the two of them attempt to stand up again, and the full impact of what Ron had told her that cold December night finally struck home. She's really with Ron; they've been together the whole time. She was never with Harry at all.

Gabrielle was trying to compose herself and contain her giggles; she turned to Ron and began to dust him off as well. She was as tiny as Ron was tall, and Hermione guessed they were at least a foot apart in height, if not more.

"My fault, that," Ron said, looking down at Gabrielle and smoothing a hand protectively over the curtain of silver-blonde hair down her back. At the look in his eyes Hermione caught her breath. She'd never in her life seen Ron look that way at anyone before; he'd certainly never looked at her like that when they were dating at Hogwarts. She felt tears spring to the corners of her eyes. When Gabrielle looked back up at him, tilting her head slightly to meet his gaze, Hermione lost all reservations she'd ever had about the younger Delacour sister. The look in Gabrielle's eyes was one to match Ron's.

"Come on, we've got all night for that," Harry said jovially, and Ron and Gabrielle both jumped as if they hadn't realized they were being watched, Ron's ears a riotous shade of raspberry.

"So sorry, 'Arry," said Gabrielle, looking flushed and all too beautiful; but somehow, Hermione found her beauty altogether appealing at the moment. She realised with a pang of guilt that she had been assuming terrible untruths about Gabrielle for far too long.

Harry smiled. "I think the party's this way; this is just the Portkey entrance. We give our invitations to this bloke over here." He pointed to a spot at the edge of the silvery forest that Hermione somehow hadn't seen when they'd arrived. A house elf in a silver waistcoat was waiting by a gap in the trees that formed an arched tunnel. Candles had been placed at the archway's entrance, illuminating a path that wound its way into the forest.

"Brilliant," murmured Ron. "Is all this Whiggam's idea then?"

"Oh no," Harry said, leading the way towards the forest path. "There's a witch who manages the scheduling for the National Team, and she knows someone..."

"'Ermione?" Gabrielle had fallen into step beside Hermione, and was looking up at her with a slightly nervous smile. Hermione's insides, once so frigid at the thought of Gabrielle, were melting rapidly into a puddle of warmth. "I'm so glad we could go together to this party. Ron… talks about you all the time."

Hermione smiled, a genuine, worry-free smile. It felt wonderful. "I'm glad too. I'm really happy for you both."

Gabrielle brightened visibly at Hermione's smile. "I 'ope we can become friends," she continued timidly. "I know the three of you 'ave been close for so long... and I am much younger."

"I'd like that," Hermione said truthfully.

The trees on either side of the path had begun to thin, and the noise of nearby voices became abruptly louder as they turned a bend in the forest path and the celebration came plainly into view. Hermione and Gabrielle followed Harry and Ron out of the forest and into an enormous clearing crammed with formally dressed witches and wizards. Although they still appeared to be outdoors, the space was pleasantly warm; round tables with long purple tablecloths were grouped along the perimeter of the clearing. A band was playing some distance away, and space had been cleared for a dance floor above which thousands of gleaming fairy lights floated, suspended between the earth and sky.

Gabrielle let out a small gasp of amazement. “Ooh. Isn’t it marvelous?”

“Really beautiful,” Ron murmured. He had turned to watch Gabrielle’s reaction, and Hermione immediately saw that he was not referring to the room. She hid a smile.

Harry cleared his throat and gave Ron a deliberate nudge. “Just go dance already.”

Ron flushed and laughed, linking his arm in Gabrielle’s, who was looking star-struck and positively fairy-like in the soft lights. “Capital idea. Gabby, love, may I have this dance?”

Gabrielle could do no more than nod, and Ron needed no further urging. He steered her toward the dance floor, waving over his shoulder as he vanished into the well-dressed crowd.

They stood in silence for a moment, watching Ron, Hermione feeling the electric presence of Harry next to her and knowing without looking at him that he was thinking about Ron and Gabrielle.

“We’ve lost him, you know,” Harry said finally, his voice oddly light.

“Harry.”

They edged closer together, and he wrapped an arm around her absently, still watching Ron’s shock of red hair in the crowd. “We’ll never lose Ron,” she said matter-of-factly, but she was surprised to hear her voice break with emotion.

Harry’s grip tightened imperceptibly. “She’s so young.”

“I know.” This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation; Hermione suspected it wouldn’t be the last. “I’ve been watching them. She loves him, Harry, she really does. And he loves her back. I wouldn’t want anything else for him.”

“You’re right, of course,” Harry said, and the warmth was back in his voice; Hermione felt herself relax, wondering when it was that she had become so in tune with Harry that his emotions were inextricably linked with her own. “I just can’t help worrying. He’s Ron.”

Hermione let out a breath, feeling her heart beat hard as she became aware of Harry’s arm twined around her waist. In the distance, Ron came into view on the dance floor, twirling Gabrielle with reckless abandon. “That he is,” Hermione murmured.

Someone coughed behind them and they both jumped.

“Pardon me,” a familiar, treacly voice drawled. “I do hope I’m not interrupting anything. Harry, did you have an… announcement to make to your friends at Witch Weekly?”

They both whirled at the same time, Hermione acutely aware of the lingering warmth where Harry’s hand had been resting on her waist. It was Rita Skeeter, much the same as always, although her hair was now a falsely cheerful shade of butterscotch.

Harry, all too used to Rita, didn’t miss a beat, though he didn’t make much effort to hide his annoyance at the interruption. He sighed. “Did you have a happy Christmas then, Rita?”

“Peachy.” Rita turned her attention to Hermione, studying her with beetle-bright eyes. “You look unusually nice this evening.” Rita gave them an even more impatient stare. “Are you sure you two haven’t got something to tell me?”

“You should know us well enough by now, Rita,” Harry said. “Do I need to send out a press release when I escort my best friend to a New Year’s party?”

The words “best friend” echoed hollowly in Hermione’s thoughts as Rita smirked and whipped out her quill. “’Best Friends,’ eh? Is that what you’re calling it these days?”

Another voice interrupted them, this one deep and male. “Harry. There you are.” A short, stocky man with bristly salt-and-pepper eyebrows had appeared beside Rita; she looked chagrined at the interruption, but turned to the man with a saccharine smile. “Morris,” she cooed.

More witches and wizards were appearing next to the man who was most definitely Morris Whiggam, party host, and more notably, coach of England’s national Quidditch team.

“Hullo Coach,” Harry said, his smile more genuine this time. “I believe you know Herm—“

But Harry was cut off as one of Whiggam’s crew, a pointy-looking young wizard, put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Would you mind coming with us, Harry?” Whiggam said quickly, not seeing Hermione. “Most of the team’s here now, they want to take photos, and the Prime Minister’s waiting as well…”

“Er… yeah,” Harry began, but as soon as he could speak he was gone, led away towards the misty line of silver trees by Whiggam and his crew, Rita Skeeter trailing eagerly behind them.

The dance floor was ablaze with the glow of fairy lights, and the band’s silky-smooth rendition of “Witches in the Night” was drifting over the chatter of the crowd. House elves dressed smartly in silver waistcoats were circulating through the throngs of sumptuously attired witches and wizards, bearing trays of pumpkin fondue. The guests seemed to have stepped from the pages of Witch Weekly; and indeed, it seemed half the Witch Weekly staff had turned out to document each and every dress robe.

Once again, it was the perfect party on the perfect night. The party of all parties. And once again, just as in Origin Alley so many months ago, Hermione sipped her Foglifter and stood on the edge of the crowd, quite alone.

But this time, with so many of the trappings just the same, things were somehow different. She was still in love with Harry, but she had grown accustomed to the idea. It was a part of her, just like her wild hair and her curvy hips and her penchant for quoting Hogwarts, A History at inopportune times. And these things were all right, as well. She was never going to be any different, and she knew that Harry and Ron loved her the way she was. Maybe she was a fool to want anything more.

Hermione felt a lump rise in her throat, and swallowed it down with the last sweet-sour sip of her drink. It was New Year’s Eve, and she was foolish to focus on something she could never have when she should be thinking about all that she and Ron and Harry had been through in the past year. Learning to trust each other again, learning to live together and apart; learning that things can’t always be the same. Hermione smiled ruefully, setting her drink on the outstretched tray of the house-elf who had just materialized at her elbow. She always got somewhat maudlin on New Year’s Eve. She remembered one year at school when Ron made her promise, as a New Year’s Resolution, for God’s sake not to make one of her saccharine We’ve-Come-So-Far speeches over breakfast the next morning.

“Is something… amusing you?”

That voice. Hermione felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end; her jaw clenched reflexively. She hadn’t heard that voice for months now, but she recognized it immediately; silky, lilting, with just a hint of something gone sour. Hermione felt the last traces of cheer in her mood escape with the speed of a Niffler haring after a gold coin.

Surveying her from some feet away was Risa Talbot, the very same Risa Talbot whom Hermione had last seen in the Exploding Snap nightclub, Risa’s pert features awash in the green glow of Harry’s Dark spell.

Risa was flanked, as usual, by a group of offensively fashionable girls in offensively low-cut clothing. Risa herself was wearing a sensational concoction of lavender satin that left her slim shoulders bare; her glossy brown hair was swept into a bun studded with fresh purple flowers. Hermione noted dully that if she were able to see past her seething hatred, she might have admired Risa’s spectacular attire.

“Hermione Granger.” Risa had stepped closer, appraising her, not bothering to wait for Hermione’s response. “It’s been ages.” She turned to the girl closest to her, who Hermione recognized with a sinking pang as one of the girls who had been with Risa in the washroom that evening. “Ashley, you remember Hermione, I’m sure.”

But something odd was happening. Ashley was staring at Hermione with a quizzical, blank look, and soon six identical, blank stares were fixed on Hermione, as each of Risa’s crew turned to look at her. It was an expression Hermione had seen before, one she recognized immediately, though she could not imagine why all of these girls would be exhibiting Memory Charm symptoms at the same time.

“No, I don’t think we’ve met,” said Ashley, with a disconnected drawl to her voice. “I would have remembered hair like that.”

Hermione was thinking fast. Someone – Harry? – had done a powerful Memory Charm on these girls so they wouldn’t remember his Dark spell. It all made sense now. That was why no one had ever mentioned that evening again – why it hadn’t appeared in the papers. It seemed that Risa Talbot was the only one spared from the Charm – so that she would remember, Hermione guessed, and stay away from Harry. Hermione felt the slow warmth of relief creep through her as the pieces fell into place. She registered some amazement at the fact that it would have taken a very powerful wizard to cast such a spell, and she made a mental note to ask Harry exactly how he had managed it.

“You know, that night at Exploding Snap?” Risa cooed to Ashley, still beaming a pearly smile at Hermione. “The night our dear friend here did a funny little dance with Harry? It was such a riot.”

Hermione felt hot anger simmer within her.

“Oh, you always go on about that evening!” trilled Ashley, as the other girls nodded. To Hermione’s great surprise, Ashley leaned forward and took Hermione’s arm conspiratorially. “If you ask me, I think Risa had a bit too much to drink that night. None of us have the faintest idea what she’s talking about.”

All at once Hermione’s smoldering fury was replaced by another feeling, one entirely unfamiliar in all of her dealings with Risa Talbot. She stood in surprise as this new feeling overtook her. Then someone gave a helpless snort of laughter.

Hermione realized with a start that she was the one laughing. She felt her shoulders start to shake as she attempted to stifle the mirth that had somehow bubbled out of her unbidden. She flushed, bracing herself for the nasty barbs that were certainly to follow; laughing at Risa was likely high on the list of things that would not go over well with this crowd.

But it seemed her laughter was contagious. Risa’s girls, having no idea what was funny, yet trying to look as if they were all in on the joke, began to giggle in unison. Soon the group of them were nearly doubled over -- everyone except for Risa, who looked alternately furious and humiliated. Hermione was positively giddy.

“Isn’t she too much!” giggled Ashley, wiping her eyes and gesturing at Hermione. “Truly, dear, you must come out with us sometime. We would have such fun!”

“Truly, you should, Hermione!” said a much deeper voice at her shoulder, and Hermione nearly stumbled in surprise as Ron took her arm, seemingly from nowhere, and gave a half-bow of greeting to the still-giggling girls. “I know you’d have such a smashing time.”

The false enthusiasm in Ron’s voice nearly sent Hermione over the edge again, and she covered a fresh round of laughter with a cough and tried to steady her voice. “Oh, I would, but I’m terribly busy with my studies these days,” she managed, beaming apologetically. This was almost fun. “But do let me know if you’re planning another evening at Exploding Snap,” she added, daring to meet Risa’s furious stare. “I do love dancing.”

“Speaking of which,” Ron crowed, his face practically glowing at this exchange, “I wanted to ask you to join me on the dance floor, Hermione. Sorry to steal her away from you, ladies, but she’s very much in demand.” And with a broad grin and a jaunty wave, he took Hermione’s elbow and firmly steered her toward the dance floor. “I need to talk to you,” he murmured in her ear as she gave a falsely bright smile and an airy wave to the still-fuming Risa Talbot. “That was brilliant, by the way. What did you say to make all those girls laugh at Risa?”

“I have no idea,” Hermione said truthfully, allowing herself to be guided onto the dance floor as constellations of fairy lights swam overhead. “Where’s Gabrielle?”

“The witches’ lounge,” Ron said, placing an arm around Hermione’s waist. “She knows I need to tell you something.”

“What? Why – ” Hermione began to panic at the grave look on Ron’s face. “What’s wrong? Is this about Harry?”

“Well, yes,” said Ron. “But don’t look at me like that! Honestly, it’s as if you think the world is ending if Harry’s involved.”

“I have no idea why I’d think such a thing,” Hermione deadpanned.

“Oh.” Ron blushed faintly.

“What is it?”

“Right,” Ron said quickly, slowing to a stop. Hermione realized he’d been whirling her in increasingly dizzying circles to the music. “Here goes.” He took a deep breath and looked skyward. “Hermione, please don’t hate me. God, please don’t hate me.”

Another deep breath.

“I think – I think you might be in love with Harry.”

Hermione felt her knees turn to pudding. Her palms were cold and slick. The room was still spinning around her. “Ron -- ”

“Let me finish,” Ron said, with uncharacteristic gravity. “I wouldn’t say this unless I was sure. But I know you, Hermione, and I’ve been putting the pieces together for a while. Something hasn’t been right with you for ages, and now I think I know why.”

Hermione was too stunned to say anything. She hadn’t expected Ron to be aware of her feelings at all, preoccupied as he’d been with Gabrielle. What’s more, he was Ron. Ron, who always seemed to be thinking about sandwiches, or Quidditch, or butterbeer. Ron, who was reliably clueless in all matters of the heart. He had somehow puzzled out her secret, like some game of Wizard’s –-

Hermione blanched. Like a game of Wizard’s Chess.

Bugger Ron and his bloody brilliant knack for Wizard’s Chess, she thought uselessly.

Ron plunged onward, looking slightly panicked at Hermione’s expression. “I saw you and Harry dancing at Exploding Snap, and you wereamazing together, and I think that put the idea in my head at first… and then the day after the World Cup semifinals, you were so upset, and you told me it was because of some bloke… so I thought I’d been wrong. But maybe I wasn’t wrong,” he added, looking at her searchingly. “Maybe the bloke was Harry.”

Hermione‘s feet felt rooted to the dance floor.

“I think maybe you thought Harry had shacked up with Gabrielle that day,” Ron said. “But he hadn’t. Only it looked like he had, since she came to visit, and he hung up his tie for privacy. She’d just gone to visit him for a chat. I was the one who’d told her to talk with him in the first place.” Ron’s arms were still around her. “Because that was the day Gabrielle and I… so you see, he couldn’t have….” He trailed off, flushing. “And then tonight… tonight it all made sense. Tonight I remembered your reaction when I told you Gabrielle was withme that day.”

“My… reaction?” Hermione mumbled.

“Yeah.” Ron was flushed with a mix of emotion and nerves. “It was a little odd at the time, but I couldn’t put my finger on why. You were so shocked to find out what really happened. It seemed strange that you remembered that day at all, when Gabrielle came to visit… and then you were really quiet after I told you the truth.”

Hermione had found her voice again. “I was… quiet?”

Ron gave her a nervous half-grin. “When Hermione Granger is quiet, something’s not right.”

Hermione felt tears sting her eyes, but she couldn’t suppress a weak smile. “Sod off, Ron.”

“No, really, Hermione.” He looked down at her then, more brother than friend, and grasped her shoulders with warm hands. “Am I right? Please, please tell me. It’s insanely important.”

Hermione felt a hot tear slide down one cheek. She felt frozen, naked, entirely exposed. Her logic and reasoning had abandoned her, months of careful planning merely a delusion. She’d underestimated one crucial part of the equation: how well Ron knew her, and how much he cared.

She couldn’t lie any longer; she nodded a weak affirmative. “It’s insane, is what it is,” she said quietly.

Ron’s voice was hushed with disbelief. “I’m… right?”

Hermione nodded again. She couldn’t look at Ron; she felt him gather her close, and she buried her head in lightly starched dress robes that smelled faintly of Gabrielle’s perfume. Tears were streaming freely down her face now, but she no longer cared. Ron knew. He’d guessed brilliantly. It felt as if the final wall holding them apart all these months had just crashed down spectacularly, leaving only Hermione and Ron as they always had been, holding each other and thinking of Harry.

But Ron unexpectedly pushed her away, tilted her head up, and grasped her hands in his. “Hermione,” he said urgently. “Listen to me. You’ve got to tell him. Now. Tonight.”

Hermione shook her head, wiping tears away. “I can’t. It’s better this way, Ron, really – ”

For a moment it looked as if Ron was about to laugh and cry all at once. “No, Hermione, listen,” he said vehemently. “Harry told me something quite a while ago. He swore me to secrecy, but right now I’m going to break my promise, because I’ve got a damn good reason.”

Hermione felt as if her brain was stumbling along three steps behind Ron’s words. “Harry told you… what?”

“He loves you, Hermione.” Ron’s voice cracked with emotion. “Harry’s in love with you, too.”

Hermione could never remember what Ron said to her after that. She only vaguely remembered what she might have said to him in return. She only knew that her heart had begun to hammer so hard against her chest that she thought it would burst clear through her ribcage and up into the glittering fairy lights above.

She saw Harry, then.

He was on the other side of the dance floor, standing quite alone. He had abandoned his dress robes, his crisp white shirt now noticeably less crisp, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had been watching the two of them, his brow furrowed with concern. When he saw Hermione look in his direction, he took a tentative step toward her. All right? he mouthed, his eyes not leaving hers.

Hermione nodded slowly, and let go Ron’s hands, which she had been gripping tightly.

Ron had seen Harry as well. “Go on,” he whispered, his voice as shaky as Hermione’s nerves.

And then Hermione’s head cleared. She blinked back tears. This was Harry. Her friend Harry, and although they had changed immeasurably since that first day on the train, there would always be a glimmer of that boy in his eyes, the one swimming in his cousin’s castoff clothes, the one who had been tangled up in her heart and mind for as long as she could remember. She could tell him anything. She always had. Some things never changed.

He’d begun to walk towards her and they met somewhere in the middle of the dance floor, the band playing something honey-smooth and slow. Hermione’s heart was still hammering; the look in Harry’s eyes was worried, questioning.

“What’s going on?” he said quietly. He held out his hands and drew her toward him, but stopped abruptly when he saw her face. “You’ve been crying.”

Somehow she had the courage to look up at him and smile weakly. “I have. But it’s okay. I mean – I’m all right.”

Puzzled, Harry held her at arm’s length. “Are you sure – ”

“Yes,” Hermione said, finding her voice at last. “Harry, I… ”

The band stopped its song; her voice was drowned out by the polite applause of the crowd. “And now,” said the bandleader, “please join us as we begin our countdown to the New Year…”

They stepped apart to applaud, but now Hermione closed the space between them, taking Harry’s gentle, rough hands in her own. His eyes went wide behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “I have to tell you something,” she said, her heart continuing its wild racket in her chest. Despite what Ron had said, she was still terrified. No matter what happened now, regardless of Harry’s response, everything was about to change.

Maybe change was good.

“I’ve been feeling something for a long time, and I’ve been afraid to tell you,” she said. “It’s the reason I was so distant for a while. I’ve been scared of what might happen to us if I told you.”

Ten, chanted the crowd.

Harry’s eyes were locked onto hers, intense, searching, and she felt herself fall, like always, into their green depths. Everything will be all right, she told herself. “You can tell me anything,” he said quietly.

Nine.

Hermione could scarcely speak over the lump in her throat. “I want you to know, Harry, that whatever happens, I always want to be friends.”

Eight. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

They both smiled nervously. Her stomach was in wild knots. Now or never, she thought. You’re a bloody Gryffindor, Hermione. Act like one.Seven.

“I love you, Harry.”

“I love you, too –- ” Six.

“No,” Hermione said quickly. “I mean, I’m in love with you.”

Harry’s round glasses reflected a whirl of fairy lights as time skidded to a stop. Dawning realization crept into his eyes. He blinked. “You’re…what?”

Five.

“I’m in love with you,” Hermione said again, and it felt absolutely wonderful. She wanted to shout it from the stage, from the roof, from the top of the Houses of Parliament. Had she only known what it would feel like to finally say this -- “I’m in love with you, Harry. I don’t know when it started. I think maybe I’ve always felt this way, and I only just realised it last year.”

Four.

Harry could only stare. He looked as if he didn’t believe she was real. His eyes clouded. “But what about… what I am?” he managed, barely a whisper. “What’s… part of me now?”

Three.

“It doesn’t matter,” Hermione said, unable to stop herself from smiling. She felt as if she’d been freed from Azkaban. “I love you, Harry, and if you’re part Kneazle, or part serpent, or part Lord bloody Voldemort, I don’t really care. You don’t have to feel the same way about me. But you’re my best friend, and I thought you should finally know.”

Two.

Harry’s hands were still in hers, and now his eyes were glassy and wet. “Hermione,” he said huskily. “I… don’t know what to say. I…”

One.

He grinned.

“…I’m in love with you, too.”

It was the single best kiss in the history of magic.

Fireworks rocketed into the air from all directions, and Hermione couldn’t be sure if they were real or merely in her head because they were still there when she closed her eyes. He was kissing her, and she was kissing him, and they were twined together under the fairy lights in a desperately happy and sobbing knot, and she felt streamers and confetti brush her upturned face as Harry tangled his hands into her hair and kissed each glittering dot that had fallen on her cheeks, and then he picked her up with strong arms and spun her around, and they laughed helplessly, and his lips met hers again. The world dissolved into a din of blaring horns and hoarse shouts of Happy New Year and somewhere in the distance the band swung into Auld Lang Syne.

And then Harry dropped her abruptly. His eyes flew shut in pain, his hands clenched white-knuckled as the band’s song was drowned out by a howling wind and the fireworks and glittering streamers were blotted out by a whirl of sudden darkness. Harry had bent nearly double, his body glowing that eerie green of Hermione’s dreams, and Hermione felt a panic unlike any other she’d felt in her life. No, she thought desperately, not now, not Harry –-

The wind blew itself out like a candle, and the vast room and surrounding birch trees were plunged into darkness. The band blared to a halt. The glow that was Harry was gone.

The hall was silent.

“Lumos.”

Harry’s deep whisper came out of the dark, and a single globe of light flared from the tip of his wand. Hermione could see his face in light and shadow, and he grinned at her, the particular grin Ron always talked about, the one that meant Harry had just caught the Snitch. He glanced upwards and swept his wand into the air, and the hall was bathed in twinkling light again as a fresh wave of sparkling confetti rained down onto the hundreds of guests within. The crowd caught its collective breath, and then someone began to applaud. Soon the hall was thundering with cheers as the fireworks recommenced and the band began to play once more.

Hermione felt her knees go weak. Harry reached for her and held her close, shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s okay,” he whispered; she could tell his heart was pounding hard, could feel it clear through his shirt. His hands were trembling. “I don’t believe it. He’s gone.”

Harry’s words hit Hermione like a bludger. “Gone?” she echoed.

“Voldemort,” Harry said, and Hermione could tell it was true, because it was now apparent that he had been deftly concealing a burden that had been far worse than he’d ever let on. He was smiling unreservedly, no strings attached, no hidden darkness, no flicker of green light in the far corners of his gaze. He looked happier than she’d seen him in years.

He looked happier than she’d ever seen him, in fact.

“His power… whatever was left of him… it was like something drove it out,” Harry said, his brow furrowed. “Like a really strong spell. But I didn’t see anyone cast anything –-”

“Maybe he couldn’t stand the thought of you kissing me,” Hermione said teasingly, nearly faint with relief.

“Maybe not,” Harry said earnestly, his eyes locked with hers. “Maybe that’s exactly what happened.”

Then he covered her in kisses, and they cried a bit more, and mostly they laughed.

“You know,” Harry said after some time, brushing a long, curled streamer from Hermione’s rumpled hair, “if you’ve felt this way for ages, and I’ve felt this way for ages…” He trailed off, chuckling. “We must be the two densest people in the world.”

Hermione laughed. “Denser than Crabbe and Goyle, you think?”

“Possibly.”

“Harry Potter!”

A blinding flash made them both jump. Harry swore, pressing his palms to his eyes. “Harry…” cooed the voice again, and when the flashbulb spots finally cleared from Hermione’s vision, she saw Rita Skeeter’s butterscotch coif and plumed quill swim into focus. Rita was flanked by a huddle of photographers, and apparently they’d decided that Harry and Hermione had reached their privacy limit for the evening.

“What’s all this?” Rita purred, surveying the two of them. “If this is what best friends do, Potter, I need to find myself a new best friend.”

Harry exhaled in frustration, running a hand through his hair so that it stood up at odds with itself, revealing his jagged scar. “I’m sorry about this…” he muttered to Hermione.

“It doesn’t matter,” Hermione said quickly, squeezing his hand. “It’s just part of your job, you know.”

“My job?” He glanced over at her as the flashbulbs went off once more.

“You know, playing Seeker, saving the world in your spare time, that sort of thing,” she said, managing a frozen smile for the cameras. “You do put on a good show.”

Harry laughed then, wiping his eyes. “I haven’t been looking at it that way,” he said thoughtfully, putting an arm around Hermione’s shoulder and pulling her close. “Harry Potter, one-man band. Entertainer to millions. Rita,” he called, waving at the journalist, whose quill was still scribbling madly. “Rita, I’ve changed my mind. I would like to issue a press release this evening. Er, this morning!”

Rita’s eyebrows shot up behind her horn-rimmed spectacles, and she scurried six steps closer. “Harry, what on earth have you been drinking? You’ve never issued a press release in your life.”

“Never mind that,” he said, and with a swift flick of his wand, Rita’s quill and notebook had flown into his other hand. “Harry Potter –” she began, huffing in protest. “Is this some kind of trick? That quill is irreplaceable –”

“Hang on, Rita, I’m just borrowing it,” Harry said genially, pocketing his wand and beginning to write. “Harry Potter, Seeker for England, The Boy Who… fill in the blank here, Rita… Harry Potter is officially IN LOVE with his longtime friend and schoolmate, the absolutely brilliant and beautiful Hermione Granger, Fellow in Magical Medicine, and…” He turned to Hermione, who was gaping. “How do you abbreviate that last degree you earned?”

“Oh honestly, Harry, really…” Hermione had flushed scarlet.

“Never mind. Here, Rita,” he said, handing over the notebook. “I’m sure you can come up with something fabulous. Just put in the fact that we’re in love.”

“Very much in love,” Hermione added, beginning to enjoy the situation in spite of herself.

“Yes, yes. Very much in love,” Harry repeated, squeezing Hermione’s hand.

“What are your immediate plans, then?” Rita said, a smile creeping across her pink-lacquered lips.

“We plan to, um…” Harry was now at a loss for words, and the crowd of journalists had begun to chuckle.

“Shag each other senseless?” piped up one of the junior reporters helpfully.

The entire group roared with laughter. When Hermione finally found the courage to look back at Harry, she saw that he’d flushed pink. “Now hang on,” Harry said evenly, grinning and holding up a hand in protest. “The Daily Prophet is a family publication, remember. Ron’s mum reads this sort of thing. You can just say…”

“We plan on enjoying each other’s company,” Hermione supplied brightly. “In every way possible.”

The reporters roared again; Harry snaked a hand around Hermione’s waist. “We’d best be on our way, then,” he said. “I’d like to get to work that plan immediately.”

“Thanks, loves,” Rita said, shooing them away with a wave of her quill. She caught Hermione’s eye and gave her a warm, almost motherly look. “Congratulations, both of you. It’s about bloody time.”

“Oi! Harry! Hermione!”

The distant sound of Ron’s voice seemed to bring Hermione back to reality. As the reporters trailed off, chattering to themselves, she saw that the band was packing up, the dance floor had emptied, and the guests were drifting toward the edges of the hall, their dark, heavy dress robes receding into the silvery birch trees. How long had she and Harry –-

“Think you two will be returning home sometime this year?”

Ron was standing on the edge of the dance floor, Gabrielle on his arm, a fair distance away. Ron. Hermione couldn’t wait to talk to Ron. She felt like spending two days camped on his couch with a hot cup of tea, just so they could finally talk about everything that had happened in the past hour.

“Sorry, mate,” Harry called to Ron, leading Hermione from the dance floor. “I can’t seem to stop smiling,” he muttered to Hermione as she stifled a snort of laughter. “D’you think he’ll suspect something?”

“Ron?” she said, noting as they drew closer that Ron was grinning from ear to ear, and Gabrielle’s smile was just as wide. “Never. He’s as clueless as they come.”

“Isn’t he, though? Thank God for that,” said Harry, one eyebrow arched in mirth, and Hermione knew then that Harry had guessed what Ron had told her that evening. She’d have to fill Harry in on the details later; it had been a fairly masterful bit of deduction on Ron’s part.

Ron and Gabrielle were practically jumping up and down when the four of them reunited at the edge of the dance floor. Hermione took one look at Ron’s flushed, beaming face and let go of Harry to fling her arms around him. He caught her in a breathless hug. “I’m so bloody happy,” he said into her hair. “It feels like it should have always been this way.”

“I know,” Hermione said, smiling up at him. “It does.”

Harry put a hand on Ron’s shoulder. “I know what you said to Hermione,” he said sternly, straightening himself to his full height. “You know, mate, I swore you to secrecy. I said I’d curse you halfway to Little Whinging if you told her how I felt.”

Ron’s eyes grew wide. “You can’t be serious –-”

“I’m not serious at all,” Harry said, grinning.

And then the three of them were tangled in a six-armed embrace, and it was just like all those months ago when they’d first moved to Orthagon Alley, before parties and Quidditch and exams and engagements and suppers together and apart. The Trio at last. Some things would never change, and for that Hermione was immensely grateful; there were no two people she loved more in the world. There would always be the three of them, but now –-

Some things did change, and that was okay too.

In fact, it was fantastic.

“Gabrielle,” Hermione said, breaking apart to look at the wide-eyed young girl who was standing nervously a few steps away, not wanting to disturb their reunion. Hermione smiled at her and held out a hand.

“Care to join us?”

THE END.

Author's footnote:

Many thanks to all the endlessly patient readers who stuck around for four? (six?) years to read the final chapter of this story, which snowballed into something far beyond my original plans. I published the first chapter of Come Together in 2002, and thought it would be a short little piece of H/Hr fluff.. Little did I know that the story had plans of its own, and it is now the longest thing I've ever written (and completed!), college and graduate thesis projects included. Since starting CT, I've had two kids (!), who are wonderful, but who are also the primary reason I haven't been able to finish the fic until now. And with each successive HP canon book that was released, I felt like the HP world was leaving CT farther and farther behind. At long last, with the canon series complete, I was able to return to CT and view it as a true AU story, rather than something in line with canon, which is how it was originally planned.

When I started CT I spent lots of time on the FictionAlley boards, and many of the folks there were very inspirational, especially those of you aboard the HMS Pumpkin Pie. I haven't had time to visit in years, but you all were the reason I started this fic in the first place, so thanks, everyone. Thanks also to my LJ crew, who have listened to me gripe about finishing this fic for, literally, years!

Will there be a sequel? At this moment, no plans for one, so please don't ask. But I wouldn't rule out the idea in the future. (The very distant future...)

And most importantly, hope you liked it. Hope it was worth waiting for. I welcome reviews and criticism of all kinds, although I can't promise to reply promptly.

Thanks again.