Senses
Touch:
He ducks his head slightly to miss the edge of the low-hanging, striped awning as he passes under it. The metal of the door handle, smoothed by years of customers passing in and out, is cool under his fingertips. He leans into the door gradually, using first his hand, then his arm and shoulder, and enters the small shop. A tiny bouquet of Charmed blue bells tinkles delicately to announce his presence.
There is a redolent aroma in the air, and the entire atmosphere of the shop seems tinged greenly. Vines loop and arch around the walls and the beams of the ceiling in festoons. Plants adorn every conceivable surface. Upon racks of cut flowers, Harry can see the blue tint of a Chilling Charm. There are shelves and shelves of herbs, powdered, dried, and fresh, everything meticulously arranged and labeled. He drums his fingers against the polished surface of the tall counter where transactions are made, and waits on the proprietor.
"Harry!" There is welcome in the voice, and Harry turns to greet his old school chum.
"Hi, Neville!" The handshake is warm, and involves some shoulder clapping as well. "I'd like to place an order."
"Of course, Harry, of course! It's good to see you again. It's been awhile, hasn't it?" Neville's voice is lively, as he unrolls the charmed cellophane wrapping and withdraws a few small vials of Nature's Essence Livelong Potion in preparation. "Flowers or herbs?"
"Oh…er, flowers." Harry has been absently running his fingers along a knife scar in the worn wood. He tries to force himself to focus. "Sorry."
"I think you had the arrangement of tiger lilies last time, eh?" Neville prides himself on never forgetting a customer's order. "You said they were the color of - sweet Merlin, Harry, I'm sorry." He looks stricken.
"They're still the color of her hair, Neville, whether we're married or not." The barb is gentle. Harry's friends have been treading gingerly around him, and, while he appreciates the reasoning behind it, he wishes they would understand that it is not necessary.
"So, what are we sending?" Neville asks briskly, deftly walking the line between businessman and old school mate. He already has parchment and quill ready; the pen's shaft is a feathery fern frond.
"Erm… something simple, I think… clean lines. Like… tulips maybe, or…" Harry looks down at the counter. His hands are shaking, and he jams them into his pockets, fingering his loose sickles and jingling them lightly. The coolness of the coins is quickly leeched away by his sweaty palms. "There were some white flowers that she liked - they were in her wedd - maybe that wouldn't be a good idea." He is inwardly cursing himself as six kinds of a fool. He is being ridiculous, silly… like a child finally working up the nerve to pass a note to his crush. This is Hermione, he wants to scream to himself, she is bigger, more important than this nonsense. But he still worries, that what is acceptable behavior from Harry might not pass muster coming from someone in - in his new role.
"She does like the stargazers," Neville remarks quietly, watching his friend with some amusement, and not a little compassion. Harry looks back at him, startled.
"What?"
"Stargazer… lilies. The white lilies in Hermione's wedding bouquet. Yeah, I'm not sure I'd send those."
"I guess you've read the Prophet, then." Harry's gaze has become more guarded. Neville slants a look at him, tapping the nib of the quill against the edge of the parchment.
"Reading it and believing what it says are not the same thing, Harry." Harry supposes that Neville is right, and sighs. The Wizarding media has gotten him seeing betrayal over every ale tankard, in every owl, every friendly eye. "Unnamed sources" from places he frequents or who claim to know him well have made him more than a bit wand-shy.
Ron's departure from Harry's flat last month had set off a Weasley firestorm, as Harry had known it would. Even though Weasleys at their most irate are not generally in the habit of airing their dirty laundry out in the Wizarding media, the pressure of the inevitable Harry Potter-induced microscope had been enough to keep them rather more circumspect than usual. Besides, there had been plenty of Weasleys, Weasleys-in-law, and Weasley cousins to whom frustrations could be vented. And yet, gradually, whispers had begun to get around, rumors of what could have caused the breakup of two marriages, mere months apart; old stories of Hermione's historic friendship with Harry had been dredged up again. The Prophet had even reprinted that old article of Skeeter's, involving Viktor Krum and the Tri-Wizard Tournament.
"We've not - there isn't - " He stammers a bit, unsure as to what the truth actually is. Neville's expression is neutral, but his eyes glint sympathetically. He twirls the end of the fern frond between his fingers. Harry runs his hands through his hair in frustration. "Merlin's Beard, Nev. I haven't done this in more than twenty years. And with her, of all people. We must be mad to think anyone will ever accept… " He trails off, and his eyes grow distant. "Maybe I can't handle this. I can't even send her flowers without utterly second-guessing myself."
Neville is watching him carefully. He plays with the corner of the still unmarked parchment, dog-earing it. It makes a raspy scrape against the ball of his thumb.
"Surely you've sent her flowers before," he suggests mildly. Harry shoots him a suspicious look, realizing full well that Neville remembers exactly what he has or has not sent Hermione.
"Of course I have," he says, after a beat. "When she had Rose and Hugo, when she finished her internship, when she turned thirty... But that was different, that - "
"Why?" Neville demands, cutting him off. "Why is it different? This is Hermione, Harry. You've known each other for years."
"But my feelings for her are different now. Our situations are different. Maybe her expectations are different. We weren't happy with - we weren't happy before. What if - what if we can't be happy now? What if we ruin…" everything? The word is evident in his melancholy sigh.
"I think you matter too much to each other for either of you to let that happen," Neville muses.
"Ginny mattered to me," Harry points out, sounding more defensive than he'd like. Neville cocks his head, taps his fingertips against his mouth in contemplation.
"I didn't say otherwise, Harry. But you and Hermione are… different. Your friendship - well, I've never seen anything like it. And I think you both realize it's worth too much to let anything happen to it. Whether the romance works out or not."
"That's just it, Neville," he says, and now he leans across the counter on his elbows, his dark hair tumbling over his brow in his fervor. "Deep down, I think it will work out fine - better than fine, actually. I found myself seriously contemplating marriage the other day - marriage! I've not even been divorced six months. It all feels so right and so amazing that I wonder how I could have missed it the first time round, and it scares me half to death! It shouldn't click this way; there must be something I'm missing! Maybe it's the baggage we both have - Merlin knows the children are none too happy, and then there's the press…"
Neville is chuckling, as he moves toward a towering shelf of cut flowers, and he gently runs his hands over several, carefully inspecting them for imperfections. Harry is miffed.
"What are you laughing at?"
"You, Harry!" Neville says candidly. "Standing in here Petrified because your relationship is so good that you must be overlooking something horrific?! As for the children… they love both of you; most likely they'll come around in time - and the press? Well, I've never known you to give a rat's arse what they think. Have the two of you even been out together yet?"
"No - it's supposed to be this afternoon," Harry gestures toward the shelves, and Neville finishes his sentence.
"Hence the flowers… I see." Neville moves around the end of a shelf, and passes momentarily out of Harry's view, but he returns quickly, holding three small sunflowers. Without asking Harry if the flowers are to his satisfaction, he moves back behind the worktable, and begins wrapping them, Summoning coordinating ribbon from a nearby shallow drawer, and bundling them securely.
"Sunflowers?" Harry is dubious. "Those seem a little… perky… for Hermione."
"Trust me, Harry." Neville's chuckle is confident. "It's not the flowers themselves; it's what they mean."
"And what do they mean?" Harry digs in his pocket for the correct amount of Galleons, and Neville waves him off. Harry ignores him, and lays the coins on the counter anyway. It is a dance they have performed many times over the years.
Neville's mouth twists up in a friendly smirk, but his eyes are gentle. He hands the bouquet to Harry, and for a moment, the crinkle of the cellophane is the only sound in the shop.
"Hermione'll know," he says.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Harry places his hand on the small of Hermione's back without really thinking about it, as they move through the stifling rear passageway of a greasy nondescript pub. She doesn't look at him, as she sidesteps a precariously stacked cluster of milk crates, and he begins tapping a pattern on the well-worn bricks with his wand. However, he feels the barely restrained shudder that moves through her at his touch, even though he has touched her that way countless times, and he is reminded of his conversation with Neville earlier. They truly have moved somewhere new and provocatively different.
The bricks slither around of their own accord to form an arched opening, and they step into a bustling sunlit alley lined with shops. Vendors with wheeled, umbrella-shaded carts hawk their wares, as witches and wizards flit hither and yon with purpose. At the far end, there is a large statue of an imposing looking wizard with a horned helmet, long braids, and an impressive beard.
"Harry, this is lovely!" Hermione is enraptured.
"I figured it'd be better than Diagon Alley… further removed from things…" he murmurs, and they both look pensive for a moment. Presently, Harry adds, in a more jovial manner, "I still can't believe you've never been here before."
"I always meant to come," Hermione shrugs. "You know how it is. Time just gets away from you." She eyes him sideways, a slight smile playing on her lips, almost as if she is having trouble believing that she is here…with him. She has been doing it since he gave her the flowers, and Harry takes a moment to mentally curse Neville for not telling him what the sunflowers meant.
"Snickelway Gate is definitely something to experience." Harry squints up at the cloudless sky, where the spires of York Minster are black against the sun. "Dennis Creevey's just opened up a new restaurant here; I hear it's marvelous. And it has the premiere - "
" - bookshop in all of Northern England. Perfect for any magical bibliophile.'" Hermione finishes for him saucily, and Harry lets out a hearty laugh.
"Of course, you've read up on it." He takes her hand, interlinking their fingers without looking at her, in an affectedly casual way. He gestures with their joined hands. "It's about two blocks up that way. Shall we?"
So far, they have attracted no odd looks from any other patrons. Harry feels himself relaxing, even as his stomach flips and soars every time he feels her fingers lightly move upon his hand. He marvels at the incongruity of their situation, where they are experiencing the thrill of "first", but also have the comfort that comes with long association. Harry watches her profile, and cannot believe how lucky he is - thinks that all of the hardship and heartache and awkwardness and tension and scrutiny are worth it, if the end result means he gets to be with her. He opens his mouth to speak, but is afraid that he might say something foolish like I love you, so he bites his tongue, casting about for something more innocuous to say.
"James made an O on his first Potions exam," he blurts, and then has to squelch a flinch. He had not wanted to talk about the children. He loves them dearly, both his own and his niece and nephew, but they point the way to ex-spouses and angry, hurt in-laws, and he desperately wants today to be happy.
Hermione pauses to skim the fingers of her free hand through a sheaf of griffin feathers hanging outside an apothecary. A few downy particles drift downwards, sparkling in the sun. Her enthusiasm is sincere.
"Harry, that's wonderful! Rose says he's quite the good student - best in his year."
"He's definitely better than I was. I was always rubbish at school - or, at least, I would have been without you."
"I don't know, Harry. You seemed to do decently enough; you'd have probably been stellar if you'd applied yourself. And I always thought you'd have done well in Potions, if it hadn't been for Snape."
"Mum had a deft hand at Potions," Harry says, with a nod to her too-generous opinion of him. "So you might be right, but I guess we'll never know."
We'll never know…the words are poignant, almost tantalizing, but he will not allow himself to tread that road. He knows they cannot change what has gone before; they can only play with the hand they've been dealt and accept the consequences of the way they arranged their cards.
"There it is," Harry says, gesturing again with their joined hands. He feels Hermione's thumb tracing a pattern across the back of his hand, and the simple caress causes him to inhale sharply through his teeth. He toys with the idea of snogging her right then and there, but refrains, thinking that, even though they're away from their usual stomping grounds, there's always a chance someone with a camera could be watching.
"I've never seen a bookshop this big." Hermione is taking in the enormous and sprawling store, taking up an entire end of a side street up ahead. Her eyes are sparkling, and Harry can practically see her calculating how many books she can shrink and fit inside her bag. He is thinking how much he utterly adores her, when she looks back at him. What is apparently evident in his eyes causes her lips to curve upward in a trembling smile, and the air is alive with an electric feeling that Harry cannot believe the other shoppers don't notice.
"The - our - that is, we have reservations at Dennis' place in an hour." Harry has difficulty collecting himself enough to speak. "So don't make me have to Summon you out of there!" His eyes twinkle, and hers soften. She reaches up to trace his hairline, brushing aside the relcalcitrant fringe that just will not stay in place. Her finger tips leave trails of fire in their wake.
They amble through the front entrance of the shop, barely aware of their surroundings.
"Where will you be?" she asks, in a voice rather more throaty than normal.
"Oh, wandering in here somewhere," he says lackadaisically. She releases his hand with apparent reluctance, and flits away into the rabbit warren of shelves.
His hand feels clammy and cooler away from the smooth warmth of her skin, and he feels strangely bereft, already missing her presence. His progress through the store is aimless, just another anonymous shopper, skimming the books of Quidditch stats, the new releases, and the periodicals section. A splash of bright yellow on a sale sign catches his attention, and makes him think of Hermione's sunflowers.
Trust me, Harry, he hears Neville's voice saying. He suddenly lifts his head with purpose, scanning the placards for the Herbology section. It takes him a moment to find the sign, as he is standing almost directly beneath it, but in short order, finds himself flipping through a glossy book, brimming with full-color photographs, on flowers and their meanings.
Sunflowers… the heading jumps out at him. There is a picture of a field of sunflowers captioned Kansas, USA, innumerable blossoms bobbing and nodding their heads in a gentle wind. He reads more: "Helianthus annuus; inflorescent, annual, phototropic. Native to the Americas." He scans the paragraphs discussing their magical properties, their growing season, and their connotations of cheeriness and sunny disposition to get to the information for which he'd been searching. "The very appearance of the sunflower calls to mind the life-giving Sun, even as it also watches the star in worship, and so the flower has long been associated with the sentiment of adoration and longevity."
Adoration… hadn't he just used this very word to describe how he felt about Hermione? Neville had said she would know what they meant. Had she known?
"I knew," comes a husky whisper, right in his ear. He feels chill bumps rise on that side of his neck. He jumps and whirls, shutting the book with a one-handed snap. The bewildered look on his face causes her to chuckle. "You were talking to yourself, Mr. Potter."
"I didn't - I didn't know," he breathes, stammering, gesturing with the book by way of explanation. "But he - he was right, Neville was right. You know, I - I can't say I'm sorry for how long it took us to get here, because that would mean regretting the kids, but - but I can tell you how glad I am that we're here now. Because I do, you know?"
"You do what?"
Harry takes her shrunken parcel of books and put it in his jacket pocket. They have been walking toward the front of the store, but they stop before reaching the openness of the front entryway, which resembles a miniature atrium.
He scoops her toward him, rather abruptly, with one hand about her slender waist. He feels her handbag bump against his leg, as she collides with him in enticing places.
"I adore you," he answers her question simply, and is entranced by the way the heat creeps up into her cheeks. A distant part of his mind is aware that they are still standing inside a somewhat crowded bookshop, but no one has paid them any mind at all today, and he is beyond caring, even if they had. His fingers light gently against the point of her chin and tilt her face upward towards him.
Like a sunflower, he thinks, only half-coherently, and then realizes that he has it backwards. Only it would be me, not her. It would be me, watching her, worshipping her, following her path… His poetic flight of fancy is evidently taking him too long, because Hermione wends one hand around the nape of his neck, her fingers half in his collar, half in his hair, and yanks him down to her.
He makes a muffled grunt of surprise that is quickly lost in the collision of lips. Distantly, he can hear the bustle and murmur of others, but it is as if he and Hermione are the only two people in the world. He thinks that he could stand here for the rest of his life, feeling her mouth dance beneath his.
The sound of several flashbulbs popping jolts them forcefully from their mutual reverie.
"Bloody hell," Harry mutters, raking one hand through his tousled hair and trying to regulate his breathing, as he turns. The unwelcome intrusions have exploded the light of the real world right in their faces again, bringing the fresh reality of kids and exes and in-laws back to the forefront. There is a throng of reporters clustered near a display table at the front window across the lobby from them, and most are staring avidly. The sudden flurry of action has caught the attention of many of the customers as well. Harry can see the frenzied blurs of Quick-Quotes Quills in motion, and he swears again, leaning against a bookshelf with one hand. He can feel the metal bracket pinching into his palm.
"How did they find out we were here?" Hermione wonders, self-consciously raising the back of her hand to her smeared lipstick. She tilts her head back to look over her shoulder at Harry, who has suddenly gone pale.
"Oh no…." he says. The exclamation of dread is barely audible.
"What - ?" She begins, but stops as she sees what he has seen. Through a gap in the flock of reporters, she glimpses a poster affixed by Sticking Charm to the front of the table, a familiar figure waving and smiling in living color.
"How can my luck possibly be that bad?"
And then, there she is: in the flesh, striding toward them, her face composed, but her eyes reflecting some of the fire of her hair. A smile wreathes her face, but it is an untrustworthy smile, an insincere smile, a publicity smile. Harry recognizes it immediately, even as he moves slightly in front of Hermione.
"I really can't believe you would sink to this level, Harry," his ex-wife says. "And that you would go along with this…" She rakes Hermione with a glance of thinly veiled contempt.
"Ginny, I have no idea what you're talking about."
"I'm on my book tour. I'm signing copies of my book today here at Magnum Opus. And I'm sure you had no idea, and that it is a complete coincidence that you are here today… with her." She flings her arm toward the table as she speaks the phrase "my book", and Harry hears more flashbulbs. He imagines the latest headlines, Author's Ex-Husband Crashes Book Tour to Snog Sister-in-Law.
He catches a better look at the poster, as well as the stacks of glossy hard-covers on the table. The cover is white, with embossed gold lettering and a fabulous photograph of Ginny gracing it. The poster proclaims the title in larger letters of the same font, and Harry sees it fully for the first time.
Why, oh why had they not noticed this when they entered the store?
Book-Cover Ginny is shaking her head, as she shrugs her shoulders, empty palms up, and looks chagrined. Losing the Snitch: From Courtship to Dissolution with Harry Potter.
"That's the name of your book!?" The flabbergasted question bursts out of him, louder than he intends. "Your agent said it was a memoir about the war!"
Ginny lifts one elegant hand and smoothes the shoulders of her robes.
"The war's in there."
"I can't believe you would attack me in print! Do our children mean nothing to you? It's bad enough that everything I do is automatic front page fodder, without your adding fuel to the fire!"
Ginny blinks placidly at him, cocking her head to one side.
"I'm not the one who left them, Harry. I'm not the one who threw our marriage vows aside like yesterday's rubbish. And I assure you, sweetheart - " the word drips with venom - "I've told no lies in my book."
Harry is still standing partially in front of Hermione, hoping to shield her from the photographers and deflect any of Ginny's ire, but he has not let go of her. Ginny's gaze goes down to their clasped hands, and something unidentifiable flickers in her gaze.
"I assure you I had no idea you were going to be here today, because we could have definitely arranged to be somewhere else," he tells her smoothly. Ginny inhales a shuddering breath, and brackets her forehead with one hand, shaking it slightly.
"This is really embarrassing," she says. But Harry's compassion can only stretch so far.
"Save it, Gin," he snorts. "You're loving this, and don't try to pretend you aren't."
"I'm loving it?" She is incredulous. "Yes, it's been such a joy to be dumped by your husband, who's claiming he's never been happy with you, and then to have him immediately take up with your sister-in-law… I'm nearly giddy."
"Oh, you love the attention! You know that anything Hermione and I do is going to be immediately suspect, and the fact that our divorces happened so close together only means that everyone will think that things were going on during our marriages, even though they were not. You get to be the martyr, the wronged wife, the poor pitiful victim. You end up smelling like a rose, while all the shit sticks to me. You're eating this up with a cauldron ladle."
"Harry, how can you say - ?" There are tears beginning to sparkle in her eyes. The intermittent flashes are starting to give Harry a headache. "How can you blame any of this on me? You chose to have this fling - surely you knew there would be consequences…"
"Yes, I knew there would be consequences. I knew that people would be hurt, but that hurt would also happen if I continued living a lie. This is not a fling. It never was. I wouldn't risk the children's well-being over something I wasn't sure about." His conversation with Neville buoys him up, gives him confidence. He is committed now.
"You can't be serious!" Ginny's voice is a dramatic hiss of disbelief.
"I am completely serious," Harry echoes, and takes a deep breath. He feels Hermione squeeze his hand in reassurance. He lifts their hands just enough to recall Ginny's attention, "This is the way things are, Ginny. It would be easier for everyone involved, if you just accepted that. I'm - I'm … in love with Hermione. And I think," he flicks his eyes at her questioningly, and she nods. He can feel the side of her face move against the shoulder of his jacket. "I think she loves me too. So yes, this is serious. You should know me well enough to know that, at least."
"Sweet Merlin!" Ginny steps back from them without her usual grace. Her high heels click coolly on the tile floor. They still have an audience; though no one got noticeably close, Harry is still not certain what has or has not been heard. "Well…" Her chin is thrust forward, her shoulders stiff and her head high. The publicity smile is back in full wattage. "I hope the two of you will be very happy."
Only Harry would notice the subtle clog of tears in her voice.
"Thank you," Harry goes along with her charade. "Now, we'll just be going. We're late for our reservation, and we've already disrupted your afternoon enough."
He relinquishes Hermione's hand to wrap one arm around her shoulders, and plows his way through the crush of people who have congregated between them and the door. The cameras are flashing as if they've had Rapid-Fire Charms cast on them, and the shouted questions are mostly unintelligible. Harry ignores them, and Side-Alongs her to Dennis' restaurant, as soon as they're safely outside.
Hermione is smoothing her hair, as the maitre d leads them to a secluded booth in the very back of the restaurant. As they both sit, Harry leans his head against the cushioned back of the booth and sighs tiredly, closing his eyes. When he opens them, Hermione is watching him.
"I'm so sorry," they say in unison.
"You shouldn't have had to see that," he tells her.
"You wouldn't have even been there, if it hadn't been for me," she reminds him.
"I feel for the children. I thought Ginny and I had become old hands at keeping our rows out of the papers."
"It was bound to come out sooner or later. You - you don't regret it, do you?" She looks uncertain; her hands are folded tightly in her lap, but he reaches across the table with his palm up, until she nestles her delicate hand in his.
"Regret what?" His thumb is stroking up and down the length of her index finger.
"What you said back there…about - "
"About being in love with you? No regrets, Hermione. It's the God's honest truth. I'm in this for the long haul, if you'll have me."
Hermione's eyes are misting over, and she is having trouble speaking, but she nods enthusiastically. He supposes that, as proposals go, it's not terribly romantic or even very official, but they both understand what has not been said.
He lifts her hand, and touches the back of it to his lips.
Author's note: Okay, this is not the end. I was looking for one more chapter, wondering if there was a suitable expansion to my theme. I was thinking about ESP or something magical sense, but none of that seemed to fit. Then I found equilibrioception. Google it or look it up on Wikipedia. When I saw what it meant I squealed out loud. I think it makes a perfect final chapter, don't you??
I know activity on this site has been down, but I really hope everyone will review. I was a little discouraged with the small number of reviews on "Shadow Walker" especially compared with the hits. Those reviews really do encourage an author to keep plugging away, and are much appreciated!
lorien
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