Reclaiming Hermione

Hermione Granger sat propped up on her bed, pillows behind her and open books and notes scattered out in all directions. She was flipping the pages of Genetics: Analysis of Genes and Genomes, reading for the millionth time about chromosomal abnormalities and meiotic mutations, brow furrowed and mind focused. Her first exam of the semester was in less than twelve hours, and, naturally, she was consumed with studying.

When her roommate Deirdre stumbled into the room, arms full of carryout from the dining hall, Hermione didn't even look up. “Glad to see you're breaking for food,” Deirdre said. “I brought you some French fries, anyway.” Deirdre slid her armful of Styrofoam containers onto her desk and headed for the little fridge in the corner of the dorm room they shared.

“Thanks, Deirdre,” Hermione said, pen poised above the notebook now in her hand. She looked up and took a breath. “Mind handing me a Frap while you're in there?”

“This is going to kill you one day,” Deirdre said as she handed over a Frappuccino, Hermione's American drink of choice. Hermione had taken a serious liking to coffee since moving to the states. Deirdre pulled out a Bud Light for herself and took off the cap by way of the corner of her dresser.

Hermione took the bottle Deirdre was holding out and laughed genuinely. “Me? Look at you! Honestly, I don't know how you've made it through this many semesters. You drink like a fish.”

Deirdre took a long swig and said, “No, Hermione, I'm talking about the studying.”

Hermione looked out the window for a pinch, then turned back to her books. “Well, this is me. Don't know how to live any other way.”

Deirdre grabbed her laptop from her desk and moved it onto her bed, along with the Styrofoam boxes. “Suit yourself, hon. If you ever decide to see the light, I'll be here with a cold beer for you.” She pushed one of the boxes toward Hermione and said, “Here. And don't say no, they're doused in vinegar just the way you like them.”

Hermione smiled at her friend and grudgingly took the box. “Okay, but this is it with French fries until after spring break.”

“I hear you on that one,” Deirdre said. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Hermione echoed, holding up her drink.

The friends sat in silence as they ate, Hermione nibbling only half-heartedly and spending more time consuming information than food. When Deirdre had finished eating she swallowed the last of her beer, belched, and got up from her bed. “I'm hitting up the shower,” she said, grabbing her towel. “Maybe when I get back you can try to be normal for a few minutes and we can watch some TV?”

Hermione nodded without looking up. “Okay,” she said. “At any rate, I owe you for the French fries.”

Once Deirdre had left the room, latching the door closed behind her, Hermione closed her book. She'd been studying for the better part of three hours without stopping. It was getting late, really…she looked out the window and rubbed her eyes.

It was night, but it wasn't dark. The city was never dark, and she could never see the stars. She thought back to those late nights studying in Gryffindor tower and how the darkness enveloped the grounds like a heavy cloak. How on cloudy nights there was nothing but pure blackness outside her window.

The longing and nostalgia were tangible, and Hermione felt a twinge in her stomach. She'd left the Burrow two weeks after the war ended, once she'd paid her last respects to Fred and tried her best to explain her desertion to those who were left. Leaving her friends, her world, was the hardest decision of her life, but it was something she'd had to do. After years of holding everyone together - all those months of braving a strong face for Harry's sake, weeks of traveling the cold English countryside on a foolishly dangerous mission, and never-ending nights holding onto a tortured and devastated Ron -

She just couldn't do it any longer. She had always thought herself a strong and willful person, but with the weight of the war off her shoulders she broke down. She couldn't be that steady rock anymore. What she wanted more than anything was to find out what she was like outside of the pressures of war, outside the confines of struggling to save the world. Just a person shaped by the frivolity and trivial pursuits of life.

Hermione pushed her thoughts away and the papers and textbooks to one side of the bed. She closed the curtains to stop herself from thinking of the last time she'd looked out the window and seen stars. Brushing back a stray strand of hair from her forehead, she sighed heavily, crossed the room and locked the door, and walked the four steps to her dresser. In the bottom of the bottom drawer she rummaged between her heaviest wool jumpers, now put away in preparation for the arrival of spring, and clasped her hand around a cotton drawstring bag.

The bag concealed her wand, ten and three quarter inches, vine, dragon heartstring. She hadn't removed it from its spot inside her oldest red jumper for nearly two years.

Explaining herself to Ginny had been the easiest part. She and Ginny had never been terribly close, so Ginny didn't try to stop her leaving. She'd insisted that the reason was her parents - after all, they were still blissfully unaware in Australia. She'd never attempted to remove a memory charm before, but she was sure it would require time. Maybe months, maybe years. And so she wouldn't likely be back very soon.

She trusted Ginny to deliver the message; she had disapparated from the edge of the field beside the Burrow just as the sun had been creeping up the horizon.

Ron had taken it the hardest, as she expected. Not only was he broken after Fred's death but now also betrayed by his girlfriend. Owl after owl arrived. At first she had read them all faithfully, weeping over his letters and cursing herself for leaving. But Ron was relentless. Every letter blamed, cursed, and pleaded for her return. At first Hermione agreed that she should be punished and hurt for the pain she'd caused. But every day, as her parents became more and more the people she knew and loved, and she became more and more lighthearted and forgiving, she stopped feeling that sympathy. Regardless of how selfish it may have been to deny Ron a proper goodbye, Hermione knew that reconnecting with her parents was something she simply had to do. Something she needed to do alone. And something that a soul mate would recognize and respect.

In all those months, Hermione had received just one owl from Harry: Hope everything is alright and everyone is safe. Good luck. Here if you need help, just owl. Harry.

Harry's letter had lifted her spirits. She yearned to write him back, to confirm that life was moving on. To reassure him that she was content and would be in touch when the right time came. But it would be impossible to owl Harry without Ron finding out, and Hermione was not about to give Ron the satisfaction of a reply.

Hermione spent Christmas with her parents that year, celebrating the joys and life and family. It was a quiet affair, just the three of them, and she'd reveled in the laughter and comforts of being home. When she laid down to sleep on Christmas night, having played no games of exploding snap nor receiving a hand-knitted jumper, she wondered whether she'd dreamed the past seven years of her life. It had been weeks since she'd used any magic - she'd been so caught up in enjoying life. And she wondered if she could face going back to the world she'd deserted.

When she woke up the next morning, she put away her wand. Her mother had given her a bottle of perfume wrapped in a drawstring pouch; she replaced the perfume bottle with her wand and drew the string tight. Then she carefully situated the bag inside her oldest red jumper and put it in a box under her bed.

Her fingers were now separated from her wand by mere threads. A part of her lusted to feel its weight in her hand, and a part of her was scared to do it. A part of her couldn't stand to ignore her past for another second, but her voice of reason restrained her: she'd built a new life, at least for now, and magic wasn't a part of it.

The doorknob to Hermione's room jingled as someone tried to turn it open and then a voice from the hall called out, “Hey, open up. I'm out here in my towel.”

Hermione pulled her hand out of the jumper as if her wand had turned red-hot, smacking her hand against the dresser as she withdrew it. She quickly closed the drawer, shaking her hand in pain and grimacing, and jumped across the room to unlock the door.

“Geeze, I was only gone a minute,” Deirdre complained. “You afraid someone's going to break in?”

“No,” Hermione replied, sinking back into the cleared spot on her bed, “just trying to keep some privacy while I finished studying. That's all.”

Deirdre made a disinterested sound in her throat and yanked pajamas out of her closet. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, you got some mail,” she said, plugging in her hair dryer. “It's in my book bag. You can rummage in there.”

“Really?” Hermione said, surprised. She didn't often get post at all, let alone the Muggle way. She reached off the end of her bed and slid Deirdre's book bag closer. The letter was just on top. Postmarked from Britain. Return address in Leeds.

“Yeah,” Deirdre went on as she pulled plaid flannel pants over her legs. “I thought your parents lived in Australia?”

“They do,” Hermione said hastily. Then she added, “But they've got relatives in Britain.”

Deirdre nodded and turned the hair dryer on. Hermione turned her back to her roommate and tore open the envelope with as much dignity as she could muster. She couldn't deny that her hands were shaking - it had been more than a year since she'd heard from Ron or Harry, or actually anyone for that matter.

She recognized the scrawled handwriting at once, and her heart jumped a beat.

Dear Hermione,

Hope all is well at university. I don't mean this post to be bothersome - don't write if you don't want to. Truth is that life is pretty dull back in Britain, and I was hoping to catch up, if you want to. Your mum and dad responded to my last owl and gave me this address. I suppose sending an owl to a Muggle dormitory might put you in a predicament.

-Harry.

Hermione read the message over until the whining of Deirdre's hairdryer died. Deirdre unplugged it and then sat on her bed, scooting nearer to Hermione and craning her neck toward the letter. “Good news?”

Hermione couldn't help but smile as she folded the letter over and pulled it toward her chest. “Yes,” she said. “Just a - cousin.”

“How come she's never written you before?”

“He.” Hermione shrugged. “We haven't talked in a few years. We used to go to school together, though. He wants to reconnect.”

“Hmm,” Deirdre said. “That's cool.” She dug through the covers of her bed and pulled out the remote control to the tellie. “You have a TV preference?”

Hermione shook her head. “No,” she said. “I was just about to relocate to the common room anyway. I just need another few minutes to go over these notes.”

Deirdre smiled but shook her head. “If you say so,” she said.

In less than two minutes Hermione was sitting cross-legged on a couch in the living room of their dormitory suite, a pen poised above a piece of loose leaf and her mind racing. When she set up the pen and paper she had intended to sketch out some final notes on genomes - but her mind refused to regurgitate those concepts, and her hands refused to draw out any other words than “Dear Harry.” So she sat with a blank page addressed to Harry and an ocean of thoughts drowning her.

Hermione painstakingly crafted the first correspondence she would share with her best friend in months. After so much time apart, she doubted whether he could believe her words were genuine. She might be able to resist magic, even when reminded of how it once defined her life. But she couldn't resist Harry. Not anymore.

Dear Harry,

University has been treating me well. I am studying to become a doctor. You know well that I enjoy my studies - this situation suits me.

I haven't done magic in two years. I am telling you this because you are my dearest friend, and I know you won't judge me for abandoning what I am supposed to be. I needed to know myself outside of the definitions of war, and that is why I left. That is why I haven't done magic. I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye. That was unforgivable, even if my reasons for leaving were just.

I would very much like to see you, although I won't pretend that I am not afraid of confronting Ron. I have a week of holiday during the middle of March; perhaps we can arrange something. Muggle post is much preferred. My roommate and all of wizarding kind appreciate your forethought in that matter.

Her hand wobbled over the page at the closing, unsure. On it's own accord it penned, Love, Hermione.

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Author's Note: Okay, so if you've made it here I assume you read the first chapter and probably liked it. Yay! for you and me both. This is my first story on Portkey, so I'm a newbie. I've got a few more chapters coming, but up ahead I've hit a dead end. So, if you've got any ideas of what should happen next, I'd appreciate your thoughts! (P.S. thanks to JKR for her brilliant creation - just putting it out there that I don't claim to own her ideas, just borrowing some as a vessel to contribute a few of my own.)

“Any questions on the lecture?” asked Dr. Zern. Seeing none, she continued, “Alright then, see you all Monday.”

At once the lecture hall bustled with activity as students shoved notebooks into bags and snapped laptops shut. Hermione took her time packing up; this was her last class of the week, and she wasn't in a hurry.

She'd been preoccupied all week, ever since she'd sent her letter off to Harry's address in Leeds. She hoped it would arrive alright. After all, his letter hadn't detailed where he was living these days or confirmed the return address was valid. Hermione didn't have the slightest inkling why Harry would take up residence in Leeds, of all places.

As Hermione left the lecture hall, her mind traveling over the English landscape in trying to imagine Harry's new abode, she faltered in her step. She had been gazing towards (but not really through) a window - was that an owl she'd seen? Not in the middle of the day, surely. Anyway, Harry had specifically noted that he was using Muggle post on purpose. She was just anxious, was all. She shook her head to clear it of that over-active imagination.

As she hurried up the sidewalk back to her dormitory, Hermione hugged her scarf more closely around her neck. The wind was blowing at her face, and tiny snowflakes swirled. She was truly looking forward to creeping upstairs and snuggling under a comforter with a steeping cup of coffee. Deirdre was already gone for the weekend, and Hermione was anticipating some quality time alone with nobody but herself.

It wasn't that she didn't have friends - Hermione was well liked among her colleagues and teachers. She was secretary for the Pre-Medical Society and even worked as an assistant in her department, filing papers and making copies part-time. She met with study groups twice a week and often accompanied her group mates for dinner and drinks after their meetings.

But Hermione hadn't gotten close to any of her friends. She didn't make weekend plans or meet friends at the Student Union for lunch. She spent most of her free time studying, sitting on benches in hallways between classes. She'd found it difficult to relate to anyone, what with spending the majority of her life fighting a wizarding war. Sure, she was friendly with Deirdre and her other suite mates, but they would never understand her as a person since she could never tell them about her past. She held herself back from telling too much about herself, just to be sure she wouldn't let her secret slip.

As Hermione walked up the hill towards home, the wind subsided and she could hear bits of the whispered conversation behind her. Two girls with their faces close together were saying something like, “no, I thought venomous tentaculas had seventy-two chromosomes…”

Hermione couldn't help but smile to herself nostalgically. She wasn't alarmed, or even surprised - she'd heard words familiar to her past life floating around the University, although always in hushed tones. It would have been easy to ally herself with other witches. She knew the two girls behind her, both who were in her genetics lecture, must have been educated at a wizarding school just as she had been. But Hermione preferred to ignore them, preferred to pretend she didn't know. That was easier than remembering the life and the people she'd so thoughtlessly left behind. Ignoring it was easier than admitting to herself that she might never go back. Even if she had the courage, or more accurately the nerve, there would be no place to go and no one to go back to.

But Harry - Harry had written. He hadn't seemed cross or despondent, just normal. He'd wanted to write, asked her to write. Maybe - just maybe - there was hope. Maybe all wasn't lost.

Back at the dormitory, Hermione trudged up the stairs to her third-floor bedroom and lumbered through the door, dropping her bag at the foot of her bed. As she was slipping off her shoes she noticed that Deirdre had left her bed unmade; Hermione knew she couldn't relax with that kind of disorder, so she tugged up the sheets and covers and fluffed the pillows a bit. When she straightened up to admire her reclaimed order, something tapped on the glass of her window.

Hermione gasped and jumped a mere inch, whirling around to face the window. It couldn't be - an owl? And the same one she'd seen from the lecture hall? She took a step closer to the window; it was still there, blinking serenely at her as it sat perched on the outside sill. Hermione kneeled on her bed, reached her hand out to touch the cold glass -

As she reached toward the window but didn't open it, the owl again pecked its beak against the glass. Awestruck, Hermione hastily undid the lock on the window and began to wrench it open. But before she could heave the glass up even an inch, the owl flew away.

Hermione's heart fell. She didn't move a muscle, just remained kneeling awkwardly across her bed, despondent and crushed. She must have imagined it. She had been obsessing lately, and it really wasn't logical at all to expect an owl to show up outside her window…

But then it returned. The owl perched on the sill just as before and pecked at the glass. Hermione's hand was still gripping the pane so she pushed all her weight into the stuck window and forced it open. This time the owl didn't move. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief; her heart was beating fast and hard. She directed her hands and eyes to the owl's leg to detach it's charge - but there was nothing there. The owl wasn't carrying anything. No letter, no package…

Before the confusion could consumer her, the owl spread its wings and flew off again. But this time, since Hermione's head was hanging out through the open window, she was able to see that the owl had only flown a few feet and perched in a nearby tree. The owl looked back at Hermione and cooed, then flew off again and perched this time on the tallest tree in the small grove behind the dormitory. Hermione frowned with her eyes and felt anxious butterflies in her stomach. What was going on?

Then something caught Hermione's eye and made her heart jump. Gold sparks. One small twinkle, then several together, then just a few, were shooting out from the trees. A new burst rose up, then another. The owl remained stationary, still staring back at Hermione.

Someone must be in the grove, signaling to her.

For the first time since she'd opened the window, Hermione realized she was freezing. The wind was bringing snowflakes in, and her hands were red and hurting from the cold. She slammed the window shut and pressed her nose to the glass, staring back at the owl. Still staring at her. And more gold sparks.

Hermione crossed her arms and tried to examine the situation the only way she knew how: logically. This was clearly magic, and someone was clearly trying to contact her. What she couldn't place was who and why. Her parents would call, and anyway they wouldn't be trying to contact her through magic. Ron, and most likely the rest of his family, thought her a deserting home wrecker. Harry had made it clear he wasn't posting via owl. And regardless of who, what was hiding down there in the trees?

On any other day, Hermione would have ignored this odd sequence of events and made excuses: the owl had eaten something funny; maybe he was sick; someone was roasting marshmallows over a campfire in the grove. She'd spent the better part of two years being purposely ignorant towards signs of the wizarding world, and she was practiced at being unphased.

But today was different. This she couldn't ignore.

Hermione slipped on her shoes and snaked into her coat. Halfway to the door, though, she stopped and turned around. She couldn't ignore that she was out of her mind, pursuing something that might turn out to be nothing, just because she was curious. But that logical part of her brain told her also to be scared. Could she be sure this wasn't a trap? It wouldn't be the first time a dark wizard would attempt to victimize someone through innocent emotion.

Without giving herself time to change her mind, Hermione wrenched open the bottom drawer of her dresser and closed her hand around the bag encasing her wand. Her stomach lifted with anxiety as she closed her fingers around it, but that uneasy feeling was quickly displaced with one of certainty and righteousness as her hand remembered its every divot and scratch. She carefully slid the wand, still in the bag, up into the sleeve of her coat, and raced from the room without locking the door.

Outside the winter air bit her nose and neck. She'd neglected to put on her scarf, but adrenaline prevented her from feeling the effects of the weather on her bare skin. Night was quickly descending over the landscape, but she could still make out the owl perched on the tallest tree, every few seconds backlit by a few wayward sparks.

Hermione's breathing was getting heavier despite the fact that she was purposefully walking slow. She didn't want to draw attention to herself or to the unordinary circumstances in the grove. She tracked up toward the dining hall, just as if going up for dinner, but then veered to the right and onto the path toward the stadium parking garage. The sparks were emanating from the trees behind the garage, but once she got to the edge of the wood the trees were too tall to allow her to see them.

Once in the thicket, Hermione was unsure which way to wander. And it was darker in the trees, seeing as how the sun was almost set. She took a few steps, squinting at the ground, and realized that the undergrowth to her left had been trampled to form a path. From the looks of it, the path was used often - most likely a deer trail. Without anything else to go on, Hermione walked along the little trail, following it deeper into the grove.

Darkness continued to descend, and Hermione plundered on. When she started feeling apprehensive, she just reminded herself that she had spent plenty of time in creepy forests, and at least this one wasn't home to any dangerous centaurs or giants. Or at least she thought not.

But then she heard something move. It was slightly behind her and off about a hundred yards, but she had definitely heard leaves crunching and weight shifting. She whirled around, her face burning. Her hand instinctively went to her wand, and she fumbled to relieve her wand from its imprisonment in the bag. Silently, she drew her wand and held it ready -

And then she heard nothing. Nothing but a soft breeze rustling dry branches and the far-off buzzing of cars on the highway. The adrenaline started to subside, and a feeling of harsh frustration set in. There was nothing in the trees. She didn't even know where she going. Hermione felt her face flush again, but this time it was from embarrassment. She was such an idiot.

She turned and started back toward her dormitory, stumbling in the dark. In her temper she tripped over a root and stubbed her toe hard. Why was she walking around in the dark when she had a wand in her hand? She was definitely - despairingly - alone. Automatically she said, “Lumos,” and the tip of her wand lit up.

“Hermione?”

Hermione stopped walking. She stopped breathing.

“Is that you, Hermione?”

“Harry?” Hermione yelled out. She skipped several steps, trying to run toward the sound of his voice without tripping. That had definitely been his voice - it had been months and months since she'd heard it, but she would never forget it. “Where are you?”

“Here,” Harry said. “Over here, behind the fence.” Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw the same golden sparks shoot from a wand, and a reflection on Harry's glasses was barely visible through the space between them.

“I see you,” she said. “Light your wand, would you?”

With Harry's wand light as a guide, Hermione made her way to where he was standing. When she was a few feet away, she could make out the tall black metal fence that was separating them. She was close enough now that she didn't have to yell so she whispered hoarsely, “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“Good to see you too, Hermione,” Harry replied.

Hermione shivered and pulled the collar of her coat up higher. “Oh, Harry. Sorry, it's just - oh, blimey Harry, it's so good to see you!” A mile-wide smile spread across her face, and she was sure Harry could hear the excitement bursting out of her through her trembling voice. “Merlin, I can't believe you're here! I would hug you right now, but…”

“Yeah, the fence,” Harry interjected. “Kind of a problem. I was starting to think you weren't going to come out here.”

“How did you end up here anyway?” Hermione asked in a tone more curious than chastising. She was certainly irritated at his idea of an arrival, but she was too elated to even feign anger. “Is this your idea of a surprise?”

“This isn't exactly how I planned it,” Harry said. “I just wanted to apparate somewhere where I wouldn't be seen, and I ended up on the wrong side of this damn fence - I walked around for a quarter of an hour but I never found a way inside.”

Hermione laughed. “You couldn't find a way in?” she chided. “You're a wizard!”

“Yeah, well I didn't think it was the best idea to use blatant magic to destroy university property,” he said. “And it's not very climable. I tried that, too.”

Hermione just shook her head and pointed her wand at the fence. “Defodio,” she said, and the bars of the fence instantly bent to create a passage big enough for Harry to fit through.

“Okay then,” Harry said, stepping through. “Thanks.”

And all at once Hermione was squeezing Harry between her arms. “I can't believe you're here, Harry. Blimey, Harry, I've missed you. You don't even know how much.”

Harry tried to respond but couldn't catch a breath. Hermione let go of him slowly, then she turned her head away a smidgen so she could wipe her eyes without Harry seeing.

“Well this is good timing on my part, then, huh?” he said.

Hermione laughed. It was so - so unbelievably wonderful - to have her best friend back. “I suppose so. I just can't believe you're actually here.”

“It's true,” he said. “It's the real me, and I'm really quite bloody freezing so do you think we can go inside somewhere?”

“Oh, of course,” Hermione said, trying to sound more composed. “If I can find my way out of this bloody forest, we'll just be on our way.” Tossing the last of her Muggle façade to the wind she turned back to the fence and said, “Episkey,” and the fence repaired.

“Impressive,” Harry said, falling in step beside Hermione. “I thought you didn't do magic anymore?”

Hermione beamed inside. It seemed as if even years of magical abstinence hadn't been enough to rob her memory or deteriorate her talent. “I didn't,” she said, “until right now. But we'd better put our wands away. We're getting close to the edge of the trees.”

Harry and Hermione both whispered, “Nox,” and their wand lights extinguished. Hermione delicately slid her wand into her coat pocket.

“There,” Hermione said, “I can see the lights from campus now. We're pretty close.”

For a minute the pair walked in affectionate silence. When they emerged from the trees, Harry said, “This isn't the least bit suspicious, is it? Two people going for a walk in the woods in the freezing cold at night?”

Hermione shrugged. “Couples come in here to snog all the time,” she said. “That and smoke pot. Nobody will notice.”

“You speak from experience?”

“No!” Hermione slapped him playfully in the arm. “Of course not.”

Harry laughed. “Just teasing, geeze,” he said. “You're a good girl.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Hermione retorted lightly. “Think I'd never sneak off to snog someone in the woods?”

This time Harry shrugged. “I meant the part on smoking pot. I've got sources that say you like a good snog in the woods.”

“Harry! I mean, I don't know why we need to talk about that,” she said.

“Sorry,” he said, “I just thought…I thought you were probably over him by now. Sorry, really, I didn't - ”

“No,” Hermione cut in, “it's okay. It's not that.”

“Okay,” was all Harry said back.

“Forget it,” Hermione said. “Anyway, we're coming up on my dormitory. Should we go up?”

“Actually, Hermione…I'd like to take you to dinner. I'm famished, anyway,” Harry said.

“Oh,” Hermione said, her face flushing again.

“I mean, only if you want to…er, just as friends.”

“Oh, yeah, of course. Okay, Harry. I mean, I'm quite peckish myself,” she said.

“Great,” he said. “Um - how about you choose the place and lead the way? As I'm clearly not accustomed to this place.”

“As you've just proven,” she said. “Not a problem, although I don't know what kind of food you like. It's not like Britain here.”

“Ha, yeah, I supposed we've never quite eaten a meal together outside of Hogwarts and holidays at the Burrow,” he said. His voice trailed off with the last few words as if they'd escaped him despite an attempt to keep them in.

But Hermione wasn't phased. “Well, you do like pasta, don't you? Everyone likes pasta.”

“Yeah, sure,” Harry said.

“Okay, it's a bit of a walk, but you'll like this place,” she said.

Leaving the dormitory behind, the pair set off for a trek across campus. Hermione simply glowed from head to foot. She could barely contain herself - she hadn't realized how unhappy she had been without Harry and without magic until she'd gotten them both back. And now that both had serendipitously returned to her, she was never going to let them slip away again.

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Three quarters of an hour later, Harry and Hermione were slurping up noodles and sharing lighthearted reminiscings about the mischief they'd made back in school. Hermione, feeling decidedly reckless towards magic all of a sudden, had quietly cast a Muffiato spell around their table when they'd sat down.

It was incredible how the two friends had so easily struck up a conversation during their walk to the restaurant. It was as if no time had gone by, as if they'd been writing and visiting the whole time they'd been apart. Aside from the fact that neither knew any details of the other's new life - but eventually the conversation turned to that topic, too.

“Now don't take this wrong,” Hermione said, “but why exactly are you here, Harry?”

Harry took a sip of his drink. “Honestly…just a whim.”

“What do you mean? A whim?”

Harry shrugged. “Well, it's Friday…I got your letter yesterday, and it seemed like you were - might want to see me. So I thought I'd stop by and catch up.”

Hermione frowned with her eyes. “Stop by? Harry, no offense, but we haven't spoken or even written in more than two years…”

“I know, and I was just missing you, lately. A lot.”

Hermione looked down at her plate. “Yeah,” she said. There was so much feeling inside her she felt like she was suffocating. She wanted to tell Harry that not writing had been a mistake, that living without him had never felt right, that she couldn't stand another day without her best friend. But all she said was, “I've missed you, too, Harry.”

She looked up at him - he was smiling, a little embarrassed-looking. But then he said, “Lucky you weren't busy, huh?” Harry chuckled. She could tell it was forced as he tried to change the tone of their conversation.

“Yeah,” Hermione said, following suit. She tried to sound less serious. “I'm not usually busy, though. I spend most of my time studying.”

“I should have known,” he said. “So you're liking University life?”

Hermione nodded. “Learning is something I'm good at,” she said. “You know that. Of course, this is nothing like Hogwarts…I mean, besides for the obvious reasons…I haven't really connected with anyone here. But the instruction is first-rate.”

“You want to be a doctor, then?”

“I don't know. I guess.” Hermione looked out the window.

“Well why else study your bloody arse off for years and years? Right?”

“Yeah,” she said, not really agreeing. “I don't know if I want to be a doctor, really. Well, most people at university don't know what they want to do. It all gets a bit confusing just about now.”

Harry finished off the last few bites of his dinner. Over chewing he said, “But you want to go back to being a Muggle?”

“Oh, I don't know. Don't ask me…” Hermione sighed. “That's not what I meant to say. I mean, of course you can ask me. I just don't know how to answer.”

“It's okay,” Harry said. “I know how you feel.” He crossed his utensils on his plate and slid it to the edge of the table. “Why'd you decide to come to University, though? And why in the states?”

Hermione distractedly played with her straw paper. “I don't know. I wanted to try being someone different for a while, I guess.”

“You don't seem different to me,” Harry said.

“Yeah…I thought that by moving away and starting over I would find out who I was supposed to be. Find out that without the war and without - well, without taking care of you and Ron…I thought I might be somebody different.”

“Well, I can appreciate wanting to get away,” he said. “Everyone thought that things would go back to normal after the war. I don't know how we were supposed to go on living like nothing happened after - after all that happened.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said. “That's exactly how I felt. I didn't want to get caught up in pushing myself into that mold of how I thought I should act, how other people thought I would be. I never had a normal relationship with you or Ron or even myself - we were all always defined by the war…”

After a pause Harry said, “I'm not mad at you, Hermione.” He must have noticed the glisten that was starting to appear in her eyes. “And Ron was just a git.”

“Thanks,” she said. She didn't speak for a moment but then said, “I feel the worst about Ron.”

“Don't,” Harry said. “I won't lie to you, he was torn up when you left. But he's forgiven you.”

“Well that's good to hear,” Hermione said sarcastically. She sniffled loudly.

“No, Hermione, don't take it that way. I did preface by saying he was a git, remember.”

She shrugged. “Me and Ron could have been something,” she said. “In a different time, if Fred hadn't died…”

Harry reached his hand across the table and touched hers. “No use, Hermione. Don't do that to yourself.”

“You're right,” she said. “But all that time…It just seems like it was such a waste.”

“Knowing you hasn't been a waste to me,” Harry said.

Hermione was quiet when she spoke. “I didn't mean that all those years of you and me and Ron were wasted. That's not what I meant. Your friendship means more to me than you can know… …even though we haven't, well…I'm really glad you stopped by.”

Just then the waitress came by to clear their empty plates, and the sincerity of the moment passed. Harry was the first to speak. “Well, I'm officially on holiday for the next week. So if you'd like to do some more catching up, I think I'll stay in the states.”

“Most certainly,” Hermione said. “I'd love for you to stay with me.”

“Oh,” Harry said, “I didn't mean to invite myself. Really, I'm planning on staying in a hotel, if you'd just point me in the right direction.”

“Definitely not,” Hermione replied. “I've been awful enough to you to last the rest of our lives. Anyway, my roommate is away for the weekend so there's room enough until Monday at least.”

“I don't guess you'll let me say no,” Harry said.

Hermione shook her head, grinning. “No.”

“Alright, that's decided then,” he said.

As the two walked back across campus to Hermione's dormitory, she took the opportunity to point out some parts of the campus to Harry: where her classes were held, where she liked to sit for lunch when the weather was warm, the sorority house that was entirely witches.

“And you don't have any friends that are witches?” Harry asked.

“I don't know, some of them might be,” she said. “But nobody knows I'm one.”

Harry nodded curtly. “Suppose buddying up with them would have been counter-intuitive?”

“Yeah,” she said. No more words came. It was getting late, and she was getting tired…and it was getting harder to keep her mind from wandering into that familiar trove of guilt.

They walked along the sidewalk, side by side, Hermione taking two steps to each one of Harry's. A dusting of snow was starting to settle across the campus. The flakes fell silently; the only sounds were of their footsteps and the quiet chatter of a couple a few yards ahead, walking slowly and holding hands. Hermione felt a pang in her chest. She yearned for that same connection, that closeness, that contact with someone else.

“You haven't said much about what you've been up to, Harry,” Hermione said.

“Just because it's not that exciting,” Harry said.

“I'd like to hear about it, at any rate. You're living in Leeds, then?”

“Not exactly - well, on the outskirts, yes, but I've got a Muggle post box in Leeds. I'm actually sharing a flat with Neville.”

“Oh, that's wonderful. I always liked Neville. He's doing well, then? Neville?”

“Yeah, great,” Harry said. “He's running the greenhouse in East Keswick…moved right up to managing the whole lot after only a few weeks. The owner says he's a natural green thumb.”

“And you?” Hermione asked. “Any reason you're hiding what you're up to these days? Didn't even mention it in your letter.”

“No reason…nothing to hide. I haven't been doing anything.”

“Nothing? I find that hard to believe.”

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets. “I tried out being an Auror…I mean I applied for the training, and I started on with that. I was surprised they let me in, seeing as I hadn't even finished school. Just wasn't for me, though.”

“But I thought you wanted to be an Auror?”

“I did, I guess.”

Hermione's tone was dismayed but sympathetic. “Then why did you give up?”

“Dunno…it just didn't feel right. Half the old Aurors are gone - Moody, Tonks…”

Hermione didn't press. She knew how deeply their deaths had cut into Harry's soul. She'd had barely known them yet silently cried herself to sleep every night for months after the war. Hermione guessed that Harry had likely had enough of battling the Dark Arts for the rest of his life. She knew she had.

“Anyway,” Harry continued, “the Brits are all bonkers over me, still. Can't barely go anyplace without being asked about it.”

Hermione bit her lip and nodded in understanding. Poor Harry…it must be hard trying to heal from your past when it's plastered on every newspaper and spilling from the lips of every passer-by. “Well nobody in the states will likely recognize you,” she said, trying to be comforting. “Nobody recognized me - not that I was as famous as you, but I did share a small bit of your uncomfortable limelight.”

“Yeah?” Harry said. “Well then maybe this is where I belong.”

“You want to move away?” Hermione asked, taken aback. “But what about Ginny? And Ron? And Neville, and everyone, really?”

“What about them? They'll get on without me.”

“Harry, take my advice, abandoning your best friends isn't the best idea,” Hermione said.

Harry shrugged his shoulders again. “Ron's gone anyway - he was drafted to the Chudley Cannons last summer and been off training since. And the flat belongs to Neville, his Gran bought it for him, so it's not like he'll be shorted on rent.”

“But Ginny? Certainly she'll be crushed,” Hermione replied.

“We haven't been together for over a year.”

“What?” Hermione yelped. The word came out with a sound of relief that she hadn't intended.

“We never got on well. Once we stopped snogging constantly and started talking to each other, it was pretty clear. Lots of bickering.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, “I'm sorry. I didn't know.”

“Don't be sorry,” Harry said. “That was just a mess. That was never meant to be.”

Hermione paused. She noticed the bitter edge to his words. “I wager Ron wasn't too happy about it, you two breaking up.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Ron was in a state about a lot of things right after the war. He is one of my best mates, but he's a right git a lot of the time.”

Hermione could just imagine how horrible Ron had likely been to Harry, even if the breakup had been a mutual decision. It was true that Ron did have the emotional range of a teaspoon, as Hermione had once articulated, but even so it was undeniable that protecting his baby sister was something Ron did with tenacity. “You two not on speaking terms, then?”

“No, we're fine. Everything between me and the Weasleys got better when…when Ron started dating Luna.”

Hermione gasped inwardly. “Oh…Ron is - dating - Luna.”

Harry nodded but didn't offer any more.

Soon enough they were both standing outside of Hermione's dormitory, the warm light from inside inviting them in. “Well, here we are, this is my dormitory.” Hermione stepped under the overhang by the door and brushed the snow off the arms of her jacket.

Harry followed suit. “Am I allowed to come up?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, opening her wallet and trying to finesse her ID card from the jumble of American bills inside. “This isn't Hogwarts. This stairs won't disappear under your feet.”

Hermione tried to speak lightly, but her mind was overflowing with conflict. How could Ron be in a relationship with Luna? After Hermione, he'd chosen Luna? Hermione had always like Luna well enough, but in all fairness she was no comparison to Hermione in either sense or character. That Ron - what a toad! Whining every time something didn't go his way…first Hermione's leaving, then Ginny and Harry's breakup.

Harry and Ginny, to begin with…just destined to be botched. Everyone could see those two were a terrible match. Of course, Ginny had wit, and she was bold, especially for a girl…and, Hermione couldn't deny, absolutely gorgeous. She must have been twenty pounds lighter and three inches taller than Hermione, with silky hair that cooperated with a person.

But Harry was a special exception to the male sex. Surely he appreciated physical beauty, and even wit and audacity - but Harry needed a partner who was, well, just as broody and profound and deep as he was. He and Ginny had never connected, at least not in any way other than by the mouth. Hermione had watched Harry lust over Cho, and then Ginny, but she knew he was never fulfilled by either of them. The look on his face after a Quidditch victory…on his one and only Christmas with his godfather…those expressions had never been duplicated when Harry was with Ginny.

“Do you need some help?” Harry asked.

Hermione looked up, embarrassedly realizing that her hand was thrust into her wallet as she stood still and watched it not move. “Oh, sorry,” she said, “I was just remembering that - something. Never mind. Here it is.” She swiped her card through the reader on the door; it unlocked so they could walk in.

Harry blinked his eyes as they adjusted to the brighter interior and looked around the lobby. “Seems nice enough,” he said. “How do you like living here?”

Hermione lead him to the stairs and replied, “It's fine. I'd prefer my own bedroom, though. Deirdre - my roommate - she's really not awful, but she's always ragging on me for studying too much.”

Harry laughed. “Good. Someone had to take the place of me and Ron.”

Hermione cringed inwardly at the name. “I suppose.”

Harry didn't notice that she spoke coldly rather than with a feint of exasperation at his joke. “Well I can't wait to meet her then. Perhaps she'll show me a good time this weekend while your nose is buried in a book.”

“I told you already, she's away for the weekend,” Hermione said, nonplussed. They'd arrived on her floor - she unlocked the door which led into their living room and walked in ahead of Harry. She was glad that none of her other suitemates were in.

“Come on, Hermione, I'm just trying to irk you,” Harry said, stepping over the spilt contents of someone's school bag.

Hermione put her hand on the bedroom door knob but didn't turn it. She braced herself against the wall instead. “I know,” she said, squinching her eyes. She wasn't going to let herself cry. “I'm just - Ron - is a total - prat.”

Her willpower was no match for the burning in her eyes, and hot tears streaked down her face. She wouldn't sob, she told herself. Ron wasn't worth all of this…

But before she knew it she was in a heap on the floor, and Harry was hugging her wet face to his shoulder. He hugged her gently, unsure of how close was too close…but Hermione hugged him back with everything inside her. The torment of the war, the disappointment at her failed relationship with Ron, the stress of her separation from Harry and her life in Britain…

Harry just sat there on the floor beside her, arms wrapped about her shoulders, rubbing her back in the most comforting way. When her breaths became slower and less erratic, she pulled herself away and tried to look at him. Everything was blurry through her eyes, but she could tell he was - well, scared. “Thanks,” she said. “If you haven't been able to tell, I'm quite the bloody mess. So if you didn't want to stay with me, I'd understand.”

“Blimey, Hermione, you think I'd leave you right now?”

“I don't know,” she said. “Not really. But this isn't fair, you're on vacation. You're not here to put me back together.”

“How do you know what I'm here for?” he asked quietly.

Hermione just sniffled and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her coat.

Harry put his hands on Hermione's shoulders and tipped her chin up so that their eyes met. “Listen, Hermione. A lot of shit has happened to us. It's not wrong for you to cry about it.”

Hermione half-nodded. She tried to stop grimacing; she knew her face must have been a sight.

“The reason I came here was because I missed you,” Harry said. “I don't ever want to miss you like that again.”

Harry's soft gaze and the passion in his words made Hermione's stomach flip. And then, very gently, he separated himself from her and stood up. With a small swish of his wand and an “alohamora,” he unlocked her bedroom door and swung it open. “Come on,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “The rest of my night is devoted to you.”

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Feeble rays of sun streaked in through the window and danced across Hermione's eyelids, rousing her mind from sleep. She rolled away from the window and pulled up the covers to her chin. Her body felt rested, but her mind was drained. As consciousness returned to her, she realized that her eyes were puffy and she'd been sleeping on a mat of crumpled tissues. Recollections of the night before played in her mind…crying and, well, more crying.

The only thing that had made it bearable was Harry - stroking her hair, kissing her forehead, listening to her with conviction. For the first time in years she'd genuinely believed the words “everything will be okay.”

She pushed herself to a sitting position and looked over at Deirdre's bed. Harry was still asleep, black hair disheveled as usual and the blankets in a tangled mess, hanging off the bed and touching the floor. A warm endearment filled her as she watched him sleep. Being in his arms, hearing the beating of his heart with her ear pressed against his chest, his hands on her -

She had studying to do, but in the spirit of holiday Hermione crawled back into bed instead of reaching for a textbook. She curled up inside the comfort of her little room and savored the newfound feeling of freedom and forgiveness that had come to her in the night. With her eyes closed and her mind empty, she drifted off into a peaceful dream.

Hermione was in the kitchen at the Burrow, chopping carrots alongside Ginny. They were giggling and carrying on, although Hermione wasn't sure what they were talking about. As she finished with her pile of carrots, Mrs. Weasley handed Hermione a bowl of fruit salad to take into the garden for dinner. Hermione headed outside - Harry was there, with Ron and George and Fred - and set the bowl on the table. But as she turned to walk inside, Harry grabbed her hand. Suddenly the boys were gone, and it was just she and Harry in the back field behind the house. It was dusk, and the long grasses were dotted with glowworms. They were sitting side by side, watching the sky, when Harry shifted himself to face Hermione, sunk his hands into her hair, and kissed her. Then he was straddling her, and her shirt was being unbuttoned -

She woke up for the second time with a start. Her heart was racing, and she was throbbing between her legs. The sensation of Harry's weight across her lap was seared into her. It wasn't often than Hermione felt desire; it was something she had barely felt with Ron, even when they tried to be intimate. But it wasn't a feeling she disliked.

And it wasn't the first dream she'd had about Harry that ended this way.

Hermione couldn't remember when she realized she loved Harry, but she couldn't deny the hot pangs of jealousy that flooded over her when he'd recalled his first kiss with Cho. She had always imagined they would share that moment of passion and discovery with each other. Once Harry was preoccupied with other girls, it only felt natural to drift towards Ron for comfort…and before she knew it, she was in too far with Ron to back out. Hermione hadn't intended for that relationship to turn romantic, but without a close friend of the same sex to confide in she'd settled for Ron instead. Looking back, she couldn't blame him for interpreting those late-night confidences as something more than friendship.

By the time Harry and Cho were finished for good, Ron had claimed Hermione for himself. They were never a quite a serious item, but she knew they were too close. Any inkling that she had feelings for Harry would have split the trio into a feuding lot of enemies. Since Harry and Ron were the only real friends Hermione had ever had, she'd sworn off daydreaming about Harry and the relationship they would never share.

Hermione was a determined and strong-willed person, but even so she couldn't stop her unconscious mind from expressing its most deep-seated desire. In fact she had awoken to a heated fantasy the morning she'd left the Burrow…Harry's face only inches from hers, glistening with sweat and lust, as his body moved in a hard rhythm against hers - but she woke before the climax. She always did. This was the prison of lust and unrequited love, she assumed, to feel the tension but never the release. Never the tender affection that followed.

But everything was different now. There was no one to hurt, no reason to feel guilty. Hermione couldn't ignore the flame that consumed her, and now she didn't have to.

Quietly she rolled onto her side so that Harry was in full plain view…his chest bare and wearing nothing but knickers. For once Hermione was grateful for the disorganized covers which, laying on the floor, allowed her a perfect view of his body. She closed her eyes and squeezed her legs together, feeling the hot wetness spread and coat the inside of her thighs. Slowly she wriggled her pajama shorts to her ankles and spread her legs apart. Using both hands, she held herself open and rubbed soft circles over her clitoris. Her body screamed for penetration, but she didn't give in. Lifting her camisole up, she exposed one breast and ran a thumb over her pointed nipple. Hermione looked over at Harry, imagining her hands squeezing and caressing him -

And with a small surge, everything was over. She adjusted her camisole and put her shorts back on. She always finished feeling aggravated...it was just stupid of her to think it would be better this time, just because Harry was in the room. If anything, that had made it worse. Made shagging him for real seem even more of a mockery.

Hermione looked over at her alarm clock. It was barely eight, but she was too cross now to go back to sleep. She got out of her bed and remade it noiselessly, resolved to get her mind off how Harry would feel against her naked skin. In five minutes she was dressed and walking through the crisp morning to the gym. She'd left a note: Back soon, please don't leave because my suitemates don't know you're here. Help yourself to anything in my fridge. Perhaps not the most endearing good morning, but it was the best she could come up with feeling so angsty.

A good run would do it, she thought to herself. Hermione headed for the track; it was empty, and not surprisingly as it was Saturday morning. She walked the first few laps, trying hard to keep her mind empty. One, two, she counted with her breaths, one, two. When her legs felt warm she picked up a jog and steadied her breathing in time with her steps.

Hermione wasn't an athletic person. She never had been, and she didn't intend to ever be. But she liked to exercise, at least when nobody else was watching. Running was a change of pace from studying, and a good run always cleared her head and calmed her nerves. Her studies had taught her that exercise released endorphins, but Hermione attributed the feeling to having given her brain a rest. When she ran, she didn't think. She thought about how much her sides burned, and about the sweat dripping off her nose, and about whether or not she could make ten laps. But she didn't think about class, or worry about her parents, or brood over Ron. It was the only time she didn't try to think about life. And somehow, she always came out of the experience feeling enlightened.

Hermione pulled up at twelve laps. She'd run just over a mile, but she felt rejuvenated. Walking briskly, she let her mind wander back to the present. Immediately she felt excited instead of anxious. She didn't think about Ron, or feel guilty - she thought about how much fun she was going to have with Harry. And she realized that he'd come to visit her because secretly he was in love with her, too.

The last thought wasn't entirely a conscious one. And neither was Hermione's plan to secure Harry's feelings for her. But thoughts needn't be acknowledged to be real, and Hermione's thoughts were forming a plan in the back of her mind.

***

Author's Note: Sorry to disappoint…but we've reached the end of where my imagination has gone so far. I've got another chapter in the works, but it needs a little prodding. So if you've got ideas or suggestions, please send them in. I'd appreciate it! Reviews are certainly most welcome

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Author's Note: First of all, thanks so much for all the great reviews. I really appreciate the thoughtful insights and ideas, and everyone - even with criticisms - has been so nice. (I was actually afraid to read the reviews, but they made me feel good! So thanks for that.)

Just to give you some insight, I'm an incredibly busy person, and I write for fun in the spare time I don't have. (Which, unfortunately, will probably mean it will take forever for me to finish this.) Of course I want my story to be amazing, intriguing, consistent, believable…yadda yadda. But honestly, I don't have the desire or the willpower to make it all those things. The more important thing to me is quantity, not quality. I admit that as a reader this would piss me off, so I apologize if you're in that same boat. But I just wanted to give you all a note on my “writing philosophy” so to speak so you know where I'm coming from. Just a head's up, for what it's worth.

So - I've added some more to the pot here. I hope you enjoy it!

****

When Hermione returned to her dormitory at a quarter before nine, Harry was still asleep. She breathed a small sigh of relief; she'd rather he not see her all sweaty in her workout clothes first thing this morning. Last night had been a wreck, and today was all about convincing Harry that Hermione was the beautiful, intelligent witch he had returned to.

A hot shower was first on the agenda. Even though Harry was asleep, she stepped behind the closet door to change out of her sweats and into her bathrobe. She felt sexy in that skimpy piece of silk, even as wayward strands of her crimpy hair struck dried against her forehead. Before she left her bedroom, she made quick work of grabbing her makeup bag and - and her wand. She sealed that last item nervously into her cosmetics satchel before stepping across the common room and into the bathroom.

Like the gym, her suite was deserted. Two other double rooms shared the living room, bathroom, and kitchen with she and Deirdre, but no signs of life stirred. Just as well, Hermione thought. She tingled with anticipation of the plan at hand and appreciated that there would be no prying eyes or ears at the door as she worked her magic.

Hermione turned the shower almost to scalding. She liked the water almost painfully hot so that it filled the room with a hazy, hot steam. Before climbing in, she double checked the lock on the door and then pulled out her wand. With a quick swish, the water from the shower tumbled out the color of lilacs and bubbled when it hit the floor. The fresh scent of citrus and sunflowers filled the room. Perhaps it was reckless, but Hermione just couldn't help herself. She'd barely explored the use of magic for pleasure before she'd denounced it, and after her recent relapse she didn't want to hold back.

She stepped under the water and felt her muscles instantly relaxing under the heat. She showered without hurrying, for once intending to come out looking fabulous instead of simply clean. Even after she turned off the water, Hermione concentrated on taming every piece of herself to exude the confidence she was feeling. On a normal day, her bathroom routine was barely five minutes: brushing hair and teeth and slapping on a bit of mascara. (She had taken on wearing some makeup, if only to make her feel more like she fit in.) But Hermione expected to be seen today by more than the pages of a book.

Remembering back to the afternoon of the Yule Ball during fifth year wasn't easy, as the memories of preparing for the dance had been mostly replaced and marred in the years that followed. But that was the last time Hermione could recall any instruction in taming hair, so she attempted to stir those memories anyway. It had taken oodles of hair potion to straighten and plait her hair, and that timely endeavor was out of the question. The only other option that came to mind was a spell she'd never tried but ready in one of Ginny's magazines once…

“Laxus,” Hermione said quietly, pointing her wand at her hair. When the frizzy mass gradually relaxed into smooth locks, she breathed a sigh of relief.

As Hermione emptied the contents of her makeup bag onto the counter, contemplating whether eyeliner was a good choice for daywear under current circumstances, someone knocked at the door. Her heart stopped.

“Yes?”

“Is that you in there, Hermione?” It was Harry.

Hermione's heart resumed, but beat fast. She certainly hadn't wanted one of her suitemates discovering her, but she hadn't wanted Harry knowing what she was up to, either. “Yeah, I just, um - finished having a shower,” she replied, her voice faltering.

“Any chance I can have a go in the bathroom?”

“Sure, just a minute,” she said. Hermione quickly gathered her cosmetics and undid the scent charms on the room. Then she concealed her wand back into the bag with the makeup. She brushed back her newly coiffed hair and pulled it into a messy ponytail before opening the door.

“Thanks,” Harry said, rushing past her. “Feel like a racehorse,” he mumbled before slamming the door in a rush.

Hermione headed back to her bedroom where she quickly put some color to her cheeks and drew the mascara brush over the eyelashes. That would do for now. She really didn't want to look like she'd been fussing over her appearance: that wasn't Hermione. But with more thought than usual, she chose a tight-chested camisole and a form-fitting green cardigan. Harry might have been able to deny she was a girl when they were at Hogwarts, seeing as how those gray jumpers never did much for a girl's curves. But Harry was a man now, and Hermione had grown up in more ways than one. There'd be no denying that in this outfit.

When Harry reappeared in the bedroom a minute later, Hermione was making up Deirdre's bed. And she was having quite a time of it, as Harry had managed to throw every scrap of blanket and sheet onto the floor.

“Don't you do that, Hermione,” he said. “I completely intended to clean up after myself.”

“No bother,” she replied, straightening up the last pillow. “Finished. See?” She turned around to face him and noticed his eyes widen.

But Harry quickly tried to avert his eyes. Too late, though - it was obvious what he'd been looking at. “You're awfully dressed up,” he said, stiffing a fakely-casual laugh.

Hermione just shrugged and smiled. “This isn't Hogwarts, you know. In the real world people have real wardrobes.”

“If you say so,” Harry answered.

“Anyway, I thought we could go to the dining hall for breakfast, if you're hungry.”

“Famished,” Harry said, crossing the room to retrieve his jeans from a crumpled pile on the floor. “Just need to get dressed and I'm ready.”

Five minutes later the pair was walking side by side to the dining hall. The morning had turned warmer, and the previous night's sharp wind had disappeared. A few lone birds flitted through the sky, tweeting against the sun.

“Did you sleep alright?” Hermione asked. “I know the bed isn't so comfortable.”

Harry shook his head. “No, just fine,” he said. “Although you're right. The sound of crinkling plastic every time you flip sides isn't all that relaxing.”

Hermione laughed. “We were spoiled all those years on wizard mattresses at Hogwarts.”

“Oh, for sure…but how about you, did you sleep well?”

“Yeah,” Hermione said, “well enough.” She turned her face away a bit, trying to hide her blushing cheeks.

There was a pause before Harry continued, “Good. I was a bit worried…never seen you so upset.”

“I was just holding in a lot, I guess.” She looked up at him and touched his arm lightly. “Thank you, Harry. I really needed that.”

Harry shrugged it off, nonchalant, but Hermione caught the shudder that rippled across his face when her hand touched his arm. “That's what friends are for, right?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Friends.” The word sounded so flat, so - disgusting.

“Well…you know,” Harry said.

Harry may have had more in mind to share, but at that moment they arrived at the dining hall. Hermione ushered Harry inside and directed him to grab a tray and some utensils before explaining the breakfast options and where to get them. In a few minutes' time they had paid for breakfast and rounded up on Hermione's favorite table in the dining room. Hermione sat down by the window, expecting Harry to sit opposite her. Instead he sat in the chair beside her. Hermione, surprised and all the sudden feeling cramped, scooted her chair a few inches away.

“This food is safe to eat, then?” he asked, stabbing a piece of sausage onto his fork and inspecting it closely.

“Certainly,” she said. “Well, to be honest, it's not the best but it won't kill you.”

“That, at the very least, is comforting.” Harry began shoveling in large forkfuls, working intently on cleaning the plate.

Hermione picked at her melon, trying to talk herself into eating, but her stomach feeling too sour. She was confused by her inconsistent emotions, an uncomfortable blend of determined willpower, foolhardiness, and apprehension. The run and the shower had cleared her mind and sent her into the day a strong-willed woman, but the closeness of Harry and his obliviousness were distracting. Her plan to recapture his attention seemed stupid and frivolous and even self-obsessed. Harry missed his friend. He'd said it himself.

As they sat in silence, Hermione felt herself spiraling into the familiar dungeon of guilt and self-doubt, recalling last night's embarrassing escapades in all their terrible glory. What a wreck. For a moment Hermione realized that letting herself continue down this dark path of through was a bad idea. But why stop?

By the time Harry had inhaled the last of his reconstituted powdered eggs, Hermione had barely tasted her breakfast. Harry looked into her bowl as he pushed away his own plate. “Not hungry?”

Hermione shrugged. “I'm just feeling a little off today. Fine, though.”

Harry leaned in toward her, casually propping his head chin on his hand. “I don't believe you.”

Hermione laughed sarcastically. Immediately she regretted the tone. It wasn't like her to be sullen and despondent, and acting that way wasn't going to make Harry any more attracted to her. “Well that's your prerogative, I suppose.”

Harry gave her a quizzical look. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Hermione sighed and shrugged her shoulders, looking down at her hands in her lap. “Nothing. I don't know.”

Harry scooted his chair closer and put his hand on top of hers. “Are you still feeling bad about all that stuff from last night?”

Hermione turned away, resting her eyes on the windowpane without focusing on anything. “Yeah,” she said. That wasn't untrue, really.

“Well - do you want to talk about it?” Harry asked.

Hermione pulled her hand away. This time her tone was simply meek. “I'm just a wreck, is all. It's not your responsibility to fix me. And you can't, really.”

“But I want to help you, Hermoine. I'm here for you.”

“Really?” Hermione said. Her voice was genuine and sad. There was a pregnant pause; Hermione continued, “Why now? Why didn't you write for so long?”

“Why didn't you write?” he retorted.

“Harry, don't do this. We're too old for this.” Hermione pulled her hand out of his tentative grasp and looked at him, frustrated. “Look,” she said, trying to keep calm, “I'm just realizing that this is awfully strange, don't you agree, that you simply appeared on my doorstep and expect us to pick up where we left off.”

“How do you know what I expected?” Harry asked, his tone bothered. “And, honestly, is that the problem?”

Hermione took a deep breath. She'd been careful so far to keep this mild argument from building into a storm of bickering so she spoke quietly. “You're right,” she said, “I don't know what you expected. It's just…well, perhaps you didn't write because I requested that you didn't. I'll take the blame for that. But I don't understand why you decided to find me now. I mean, you still haven't even mentioned me what you've been doing for the past two years. Last night I painstakingly recounted every detail of our time apart - ”

Hermione sniffled and turned her head to she could wipe her eye out of Harry's direct line of site. Harry sighed heavily, the escaping air sounding of frustration. Then he piled all the dishes onto one tray and crossed the room to bus them. Hermione sat frozen in her chair, anxious at what his reaction to her outburst of complaint had meant. But when Harry returned to the table, he touched her shoulder tenderly and said, “Come on, Hermione. Let's take a walk…you're right. And I want to tell you.”

Harry held the door for her as she stepped out into the cool morning and buttoned up her coat. They walked quietly for a moment; Harry matched his steps to her slower pace. She thought she noticed him reach for her hand and then decide against it. But it could have been her imagination making movements out of shadows.

Harry's soft voice broke the silence. “I left the Burrow a few days after you did. I told the Weasleys I needed to visit Tonks's parents, something to do with Teddy…” His voice trailed; Hermione felt a twinge of guilt, knowing the unpleasant nostalgia of joy and immense pain that accompanied all their adolescent memories. “It was a lie, though. Unlike you, I didn't have a good reason. But I know how you felt, trapped and all wrapped up in their turmoil. Not the best way to deal with your own. So I…I just left, and floated around a bit.”

“Where did you go?” Hermione prompted. She sensed he was hitting a stopping point.

“Here and there. Places I felt no connection to whatsoever. That was the appeal. Mostly I stayed in hotels and brooded and drank.” He shifted a little, looking uncomfortable. “Ron found me after a few weeks. Just showed up out of the blue one day. A bit like I did here, I suppose.”

Hermione nodded, trying to conceal the feelings of jealousy and surprise from registering on her face. Ron had belittled and guilted her for leaving, sending a torrent of malicious letters, yet he'd scoured the country in search of rehabilitating Harry?

“I can guess what you're thinking,” Harry said. “At first I thought Ron came to find me because he was worried. I mean, I didn't tell anyone where I was going, and I hadn't written.”

“That's not why he came, then?”

“No, not really. Which is mostly why I've been referring to Ron as a git since I got here,” Harry said. His brow furrowed. “Ron showed up right after he'd been drafted by the Chudley Cannons.”

Hermione was surprised by this revelation. Although she hadn't thought much on the topic, she'd assumed Ron would never have made the bold move of trying out for professional quidditch without Harry's support and encouragement. Even so, this information didn't clarify Harry's explanation. “I'm not following you,” she said.

Harry nodded in understanding. “Thing was,” he said, “I realized right away that Ron was there because he wanted me for something. The team was heading to France for a spurt, to practice over the summer at some new facility there. Ron pitched the idea of me trailing off with him as a chance for some excitement or some rubbish. Told me to stop being a stroppy bastard and get on with my life.”

Hermione winced inwardly, feeling a twinge of sympathy for Harry. “Ron never had a way with words, you know,” she said quietly.

Harry simply hmphed, clearly digging up the indignity he'd felt in the moment. Remembering it was clearly frustrating.

“So what did you do?” Hermione asked. She was becoming insanely curious. It was much easier for her to put away her angst when the situation warranted her undivided compassion and empathy.

“I did what he said. Cut my losses and went with him.”

“Such a boy,” Hermione said, mostly to herself. “I never would have agreed to go with Ron if he'd just showed up and accosted me like that. Granted, your situation was different…but I'm sure Ron knew I'd never go with him but that you probably would.”

“Maybe,” Harry said.

This time Hermione let the quiet linger. She could tell Harry was thinking, not shut off and not finished recounting. She watched a squirrel jump out of a trashcan with a banana peel, patiently holding her tongue.

“Things in France were - well, they were exciting,” he said. “Parties like you wouldn't believe. Piss drunk every night, lots of girls.”

“Smashing,” Hermione said, playfully sarcastic. “I didn't know that was your cup of tea.”

“I won't say I didn't enjoy it. Got old after a few weeks, though. And - well, you know I have money. But I met someone who offered me a job, so I took it. And that's where I've been until yesterday.”

“What kind of job?”

“Well - okay, it's embarrassing really, a bid dodgy. Demitri - my boss - he's a wand maker, er, a non-traditional one. Making wands with non-standard magical cores. So my job was to, well, retrieve enchanted or powerful objects for him to try out.”

“What's dodgy about that?” Hermione asked, becoming engrossed in the story. “I think it's right clever. What kinds of things did he use?”

Harry looked away and lowered his voice. “Anything we could find, really. Powdered leprechaun organs, crystallized unicorn blood…goblin silver, smelted down. Not the kind of things you just find naturally lying around. Most of our time was spent traveling around.”

“Oh,” Hermione said. Her imagination was forming strange pictures in her mind, but she sensed that Harry wasn't in the mood to continue on this path of conversation. “So why leave Demetri? Isn't he counting on you? That seems a lonely job, searching around without company.”

“Demitri wasn't my partner. He stayed back, making the wands. It was always me and his sister. Ella.”

“Oh,” Hermione said again, but this time her tone was uncomfortably surprised than. Her mind's eye tried to incorporate this new piece of the story, but to little success. Hermione simply couldn't imagine Harry interacting with another woman - aside from herself - in these terms. Harry was so intelligent, witty, and profound; any woman as a business partner would hold him back and leave him frustrated. She wondered if their gallivants across the countryside reminded Harry of their time scouting horcruxes, wondered if he ever compared Ella to her.

Ella. The name sounded dainty, but the woman sounded nothing of the sort. What kind of woman travels the country with a basic stranger searching blinding for unconventional magical objects? Not exactly the most stable or ambitious of life choices. But she must have been exciting. Dark hair, sultry eyes…a thrill-seeker. Outgoing. Provocative. A thrill. How did Harry feel about her?

But perhaps more importantly, how did she make him feel?

When she pulled herself out of the self-doubting reverie, Hermione noticed that she and Harry were walking farther apart than they had been. She felt a formality growing in the distance between them. Suddenly the silence was uncomfortable. She had to speak. “Well that's nice,” was the only thing she could think of.

Harry shrugged it off and perked up a bit. It seemed that Hermione's reassurance, unassuring as it had sounded to her, had comforted him. “Ella and I had a fight. I'd been thinking about you a lot, and I told her I wanted to take a holiday. She didn't like that.”

Hermione nodded in understanding, but in reality this admittance had stirred up more questions that it answered.

After a brief pause, Harry continued, “And that's about it.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets, and Hermione noticed that he effortlessly closed the broadening gap between their steps. “So now I'm here, and I'm glad I came, and I want to make the most of our time together. I don't know when I'm going back, or even if, and I don't want to decide right now. So let's just do something fun, can we?”

“Certainly,” Hermione said, putting on a smile. She was obliged to spend the day care-free with Harry, and she was resolved to shake her attitude and continue with her plan. The important thing was that Harry had opened up, he'd shared something that was clearly disquieting to him. There would be time for more questions later, and she would be ready to return the favor he'd offered her last night when that time came. So she opened her heart and cleared her mind, trying hard to push the whispering voice of her insecurities into the back of her mind.

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