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Harry, of course, is aging gracefully.
This is not the point. Hermione promptly ignores him the moment he walks through her office door, busying herself with packing up the rest of her day: papers in her bag, her daughter’s requests from a trip to London proper, a note from her divorce lawyer congratulating her on a solid alimony agreement. She is tired, annoyed, and the tension in her shoulders is starting to creep into the back of her neck.
“Heard your bodyguards are banned from an hour on your schedule,” he greets, finally. He leans against her desk, watching her. “Your perfectly capable bodyguards, I might add.”
She rolls her eyes. “Who tattled?”
“Porter. Then Lyons,” Harry says. “Caved almost immediately – was even waiting in my office, stammering through all of his apologies.”
She snorts. Of course, she thinks, it was Lyons. Forever engaging in hero worship, much to her dismay. He is a solid guard for most events, but when it comes to the very basic needs and spaces, he is ready and willing to divulge and dismantle anything left of Hermione’s privacy as Minister of Magic. It doesn’t help that Harry is the Head of the Auror Department either; given his need to involve himself in her security, she is never surprised that all her guards are ready to give up anything he asks of them.
“What did he tell you today?” She asks, annoyed. “I buttered my muffin? I went to London to get Rose an early birthday present? I haven’t been dating that doctor for months, so it’s certainly not that.”
Harry laughs. “No, not that.” He watches her as she murmurs a locking spell and starts peeling off her suit for her gym clothes. Her robes disappear into a closet immediately. “No one liked the good doctor anyway,” he says.
She narrows her eyes. “You didn’t like him.”
“True.” He leans against her desk, rolling his sleeves. She swallows and ignores the pattern of stars tattooed over his forearm, an homage to Sirius. “But neither did you,” he says. “You were bored in a week.”
Hermione flips him the finger. She reaches for her gym sneakers, sitting on the long couch by her desk. While her predecessors opted for dark, dreary colors and pieces, Hermione immediately channeled the Minister’s office into something warmer. I refuse to work in a space that feels like a funeral home, she had said. The walls are white, the linens alternate between neutrals and cream. Her desk is a gift from Harry and Ron, commissioned by someone that they refuse to tell her about. We get to have some secrets, Ron would say.
Peeling her hair back into a bun, she sighs. “All right then,” she says. “What can I do for the Head of the Auror Department? It’s certainly not your budget.”
“Nope,” he says. His mouth quirks. “We’re still right on the line.”
“Your solve rate is also a solid ninety-five percent,” she counters, stretching her arms back. Her bones crack and she rolls her neck back, trying to ease some of her tension. “Your department growth is healthy. You haven’t pissed anyone off on the Wizengamot who, by the way, in their incredibly archaic way of thinking, has been quite agreeable when it comes to what you produce as well.”
“Malfoy mentioned the last time I saw them that they’re all dying out anyway. Something about finally keeping up with the times in their face of their own mortality.”
Hermione snorts again. “He’s certainly come along way too, since Astoria opened the curtains at Malfoy Manor.” Harry laughs and she shrugs. “You know I’m right.”
“You’re always right, Hermione.”
She eyes him curiously. She knows, in the end, this will be about her mysterious missing hour, or whatever her Auror guard is calling it these days. Family hour is for when the kids come home to see her. That is a known variable. There is even an hour devoted to leaving her alone for when she goes to Hogwarts, off to see the Headmistress for their monthly lunches as a reminder that she has, in fact, not lost her mind. She knows that for the most part, Harry lets her have her space. But lately, lately that hasn’t been the case.
She wonders when it started. He and Ginny split first. It was part the time away from each other, part Harry’s growing pains as Department Head and the dark spaces that he would go to. While she and Ron were dangerously explosive, Harry completely retreated, as if to reset himself, without a word to anyone. Ron never forgave him for it, but she, she understood almost immediately and without him asking her to.
“All right then,” she sighs. “What do you want to know?”
“Where do you go?”
“The gym, these last couple of weeks,” she answers, almost heavy with resignation. She cannot lie to him. “I’m taking self-defense classes and boxing classes. They’re great stress relievers.”
Harry’s eyes narrow. “Is there something I should know?”
“No,” she says dryly. “Outside of me wanting to hit half the politicians I meet? No.”
“Why is it a secret then?” He moves to her, sitting on top of her coffee table. Their knees touch and he leans forward, lacing her sneakers without asking. “You know whatever you need, you’ll have it and if it’s about privacy –”
She smiles gently, shaking her head. “It’s not about that.”
She is up for reelection next year, she wants to say. She does not want to do this anymore. In fact, she thinks, she doesn’t think she ever wanted to do this to begin with.
Her children are older. Happier, healthier. As much as she and Ron tried to shield them from their own problems, the fact that Rose and Hugo have made it a point to be different people is something extraordinary and humbling. Since the divorce, she has spent a lot of time looking at herself – she hasn’t stopped running, fixing, changing. Like Ron and Harry, she immediately transferred herself into a role that made sense post-war without looking at what she wanted for herself. Change, sure, is endearing but only to a point.
“I’m trying to figure myself out,” she murmurs. She reaches forward, tapping her fingers against Harry’s glasses, a wordless reparo mending a crack in the frame. “An hour a day,” she says. “This time it’s self-defense classes, boxing, and generally running at the gym – all without the attachments of the work week, bodyguards, and children. Without being the war hero and being reminded that I have a responsibility to the people that elected me, not to myself. It’s my time and a time I’d rather not have Lyons and Porter involved.”
Harry searches her expression. “Fair enough,” he agrees, almost begrudgingly. You got to leave, she almost says too. But that’s spiteful. He sighs a little. “I understand,” he murmurs.
“It’s okay if you don’t.” She ruffles his hair, watching a few gray strands catch in her watchband. “I’m not mad if you don’t.”
He laughs. The sound is husky. “I’ll tell Lyons to keep it together then.”
Hermione lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “See that you do,” she says, amused.
Rose crashes the last half of her lunch with Headmistress McGonagall, only to shove a vial of something in her hand with a wide grin.
“Try it,” she says, delighted, “and then tell me finally when you and Uncle Harry start dating. I’ve got a lot riding on the family wager.”
There is too much to unpack in all of that and Hermione watches, wide-eyed, as her daughter bounds off around the corner. Minerva simply laughs, linking their arms together as she escorts her to the entrance of the school.
“It’s for your hair,” the older woman says. “She was really excited to give it to you. Apparently, she’s concocted a potion that responds to the user’s favorite scents. She’s on a mission to prove that she can come up with the best birthday gift for a friend.”
Hermione laughs. “Sounds about right.” She carefully places the vial into her pocket. “I’m not going to even touch the dating part.”
“And why not? Harry Potter, from what I hear, remains quite the catch.”
“Something he knows too,” she says dryly.
Minerva snorts. “I bet.” She nudges Hermione. “However, I do think there’s quite a bit on your mind. More than usual, I might add.”
“Sure.” Hermione shrugs. In the distance, she spots Lyons and Porter waiting for her. Lyons is a nervous man, straightening, then re-straightening his robes. A bunch of third years pass them, laughing, and Porter seems to sigh rather loudly. “I think,” she says carefully. “I’m just ready to be done with a lot of things.”
“What would you do?”
Hermione’s mouth curls. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Maybe go back to school. Take a few classes, see where I end up. There’s a lot traveling I’ve wanted to do, but had to put off.” She laughs, amused. “Maybe date Harry.”
“So it’s serious?”
“Oh god, no.” Hermione waves her hand, embarrassed at the joke. Her shoulders tense immediately. “Not that it’s not a bad thing, dating Harry. I mean – I haven’t thought about that in years. He got married and it was sort of off the table, you know.”
“But? Dear girl, you shouldn’t keep an old woman in suspense.”
It’s funny, she thinks. Everyone is on edge, waiting for something to happen. The last time Rose was home she said something to the effect of, “Well he’s single and you’re single and it would be a little like you’ve found your way back to each other!” and that nearly, very nearly, sent Hermione down a lot of memories that she had thought she let go of. You can’t age out of love, but you can channel it differently. She just thinks she’s never not been in love with Harry. It’s always been a matter of timing.
“But nothing,” she says slowly. “There’s always been a lot that’s gone unsaid between the two of us and we’ve been okay with it. I think… as long as we were in each other’s lives, it was okay. No matter what the capacity.”
The Headmistress stops them when they reach her bodyguards, eyeing her curiously. They hug and she pats Hermione gently on the back, the very same she used to do when she was a student and they would have their moments.
“It sounds like,” the older woman says into her ear, “I need to up my wager.”
Harry crashes her gym time.
She should have known the moment she told him that he’d appear, just after class, because it was the kind of thing that Harry does. Her body is still sore though and she’s sitting in the middle of the mat, her teacher long gone with promises to work her harder the following week. This is the good kind of sore, she tells herself, even though she goes through periods where she reminds herself that she may be older and wise but she is still getting older.
“You look good,” he greets, ignoring her annoyed expression. He moves to her on the mat, even as she lies back. She stares up at him. “I didn’t think you’d be –”
“Good?” She quips.
“Stop,” he says. “I knew you like running, but you never really showed any other interest in any other physical activities.”
“That’s not true.” The mat is sticking to her back and skin. She’s wearing leggings and a sports’ bra, her t-shirt somewhere off to the side. “I enjoy hiking. I’m rather good at tennis. I was just not interested in Quidditch and none of you ever asked. Ron almost lost his damn mind when I wore a tennis skirt for the first time.”
“You were a modern marvel to us all,” he says dryly.
She half-expects him to ask her to spar, but he doesn’t. Instead, she is acutely aware of his eyes travel her body. She’s proud, of course. She’s also never been shy about herself either. Her mother used to say it was because the women in her family just aged better.
“Why are you here, Auror Potter?”
Her voice drops and she can’t help it. She watches him under lashes, studying him as he moves closer to her feet. He’s wearing that half-smile he does, the lazy one and the one that she can never read.
“Just trying to figure a few things out, Minister,” he answers. He licks his lips. “Debating whether or not I want to expose all my cards. I’m certainly not known for my delicate nature.”
He’s hiding something from her. It dawns on her slowly, thoughtfully, but it still hits her. She watches his shoulders tense a little and his hands immediately dig into his pockets. She knows his tells though: his mouth shifts into a small frown, he can never meet her gaze, and he carries himself just as he had all those years ago, just before he gave up whatever secret he and Ron were trying to keep from her.
“That’s true.” She bites her lip. “Is there anything I can do?”
“I don’t think so,” he says.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I think so.” His eyes are suddenly greener than she remembers and the intensity of his gaze is not lost on her either. His mouth opens. Then it closes. “It’s nothing bad,” he says.
I don’t believe you, she wants to say. Instead, she moves quickly: her leg extends and swipes his feet from underneath him, pushing him to fall on his back. He laughs, startled, and then she is over him, straddling his hips and pinning his hands above his head. Their fingers are laced together and her expression remains bright, amused, and maybe a little curious. He can easily overpower her, or try to, but he doesn’t, his thumbs sliding against the back of her hands.
“Hopefully not,” she says.
Hermione can’t help herself and brushes her mouth against his jaw. Nothing has ever been linear about them.
The door to his office is wide open.
There is a meeting happening. Harry barks a few orders, dismantling updates on cases and the delegating the rest. She leans in the doorway, amused that no one has seen her yet. Porter and Lyons are on some kind of coffee break; she’s bound to give one of them a heart attack in the next hour or so. They’ll be happy, she thinks, when she announces next month that she’s not going to run for reelection.
She still focuses on Harry though, studying him as he leans against his desk, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets. It’s not that he has been around more; he’s always been around, even when he wasn’t. She thinks he’s remained such a constant in her life that she’s allowed herself to not think about him as anything but. The feelings have always been there; they’re just rising to the surface again. She knows because she can easily pick out the graying hair around his temple again or know that the tattoo on his shoulder is new, at least week’s old, and that Hugo told her first. She knows that their families are suddenly rooting for the two of them, even though nothing has happened; it’s curious, really, how everyone else seems to be ahead of the game.
“Minister!”
She blinks, and a young Auror in the back of Harry’s office finally spots her. She jumps to stand and Harry meets her gaze almost immediately.
“Hello,” she greets lazily. All the Aurors stand in kind, bowing their heads respectfully. “Go on – I’m just here to see Auror Potter.”
“We were just wrapping up,” Harry says. He moves to her spot at the door, towering over her. His mouth twitches. “I want to see reports on my desk by the end of today,” he adds.
“Ooo,” she teases. “That sounds like –”
He covers her mouth, cutting her off. She laughs against his palm, her eyes dancing. The group around them stares at them, mystified.
“Go,” Harry orders, and the team of Aurors scamper to leave. Hermione is still pressed against the frame of the door, grinning against Harry’s hand. He eyes her, flushed a little. “I’d ask what you are doing here, but I suspect it has to do with me crashing your schedule every now and then and how I just might deserve it.”
His hand drops and she laughs again. “That,” she teases, “and I just wanted to see if the rumors were true about how scary you are. Or I think, this week, it’s your iron fist or something rather.”
“Ugh.” His nose wrinkles. “Whatever.”
“Don’t worry. They’re still scared of you.”
Harry shakes his head, his shoulders slumping. She knows what kind of week he’s had: there have been several severe cases, another string of murders that have to do with Death Eater residue, and general, bureaucratic nonsense that no one really likes to deal with. She’s sympathetic and even reaches forward, brushing her fingers against his face.
“I came to see if you had lunch,” she murmurs.
“No,” he says. He leans into her hand. “After the files we just reviewed, I don’t have much of an appetite. Do you need to eat?”
She shrugs. “I could always eat. I just got tired of listening to my assistant, so I ran away.”
“Lyons is going to cry, you know.” Harry laughs and she smiles, pleased at the sound. “You’re the only one that I know that can get to him. You’d be surprise to see him in play on the field.”
“I’d probably just make him cry then too,” she says.
She watches as Harry’s shoulders start to drop into something more relaxed. She moves her hands to his arms, running them lightly over his shirt. His breathing evens and she realizes that he’s watching her just as much as she is watching him.
“Thanks for stopping by,” he murmurs, and he means it too, his mouth thinning into something serious. His fingers catch her jaw, running lightly over her cheek and then the crown of his forehead. “Today was a bit rough.”
“I read some of the reports,” she answers in kind. They weren’t her motivation to see him; she just has these urges, knowing that he’s close, to go and center herself in his space. “And then I just remembered something – did you know that there’s a family bet about us? Headmistress McGonagall is involved too. I suspect that was Hugo’s doing.”
Harry snorts. “More like Teddy and James.” He shakes his head. “Gin said to me the other night that the pool is ridiculous. Wouldn’t tell me how long it’s been going on.”
She blinks. “Huh.”
“Huh?”
Hermione shrugs. “I don’t know.” He’s leaning over her now, stepping into her space. “It seems a little odd that we’re just hearing about this now – how long have you known?”
“A couple months. Teddy spilled something about it when we met for coffee, talking about his prospects. It didn’t really hit me though.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you find it odd that people are convinced that we’re quite the match and we haven’t really even broached the subject with each other?”
“We don’t talk about a lot of things,” she points out, shrugging. “You dated that one girl, the one that had the tattoo parlor and I didn’t know until she came around for family dinner night and Ron had to hold Molly back from saying some terrible things.”
He smirks. “Forgot about that.”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “I was also the last to know about your tattoos because you have some weird perception of me being a nun.”
“I don’t think of you as a nun,” Harry says. His voice drops and his expression changes to something unreadable. “Far from it,” he adds.
“I doubt it.”
She is pushing. It takes her a half second to understand that she is, another full second to watch his reaction almost explode on his face. His eyes are dark. His mouth dips into something that resembles a smirk. She feels the butterflies in her stomach start to charge through.
Is this dangerous? Probably. She has long since divorced her private life and her public from each other. What being Minister of Magic has taught her is certainly invaluable, but what she has gaged from her personal relationships even more so. She almost tells him then. The words are there: I don’t plan on doing this much longer and of course, what could this mean for us. But then again, she has never been that kind of woman.
“Can I convince you otherwise?”
His voice is softer. She is suddenly, acutely aware of how close he is and how, just around them, the hustle and bustle of the Auror Department continues to go on. Not that she cares, she tells herself. Not that she’s ever cared. There is no regret when it comes to Harry.
Her mouth curls slowly. “Do your worst,” she says.
Ginny is waiting in her office, some days later.
She is dressed for a press conference. She sits in one of the chairs facing her desk, nursing a water from her assistant.
“I like this one,” she says pleasantly, standing when Hermione comes into her office. They hug, Ginny pressing a kiss to her jaw. “You can tease this one.”
Hermione snorts. “Depends on the day.”
“Heard a rumor anyway.”
Hermione raises an eyebrow, moving to sit at her desk. She pulls at her robes, draping them over her chair. She sits with a sigh, stretching her arms.
“What did I do today,” she answers, trying to catalogue through her brain. The Prophet only mentioned what was in play in banking reform, she thinks. There was a mini-story on one of Harry’s cases. Something about her potential opponent, considering people just assume she’s going to go ahead and run.
“Nothing,” Ginny laughs. She rearranges the papers on her desk. “Just trying to see what I can get out of you.”
“Didn’t think there was anything to get out of me?”
“You’re worse than Harry,” Ginny says. It’s rather odd, but where she and Ron explode, Harry and Ginny kept their divorce and separation quiet, revealing nothing but amicable terms. The kids weren’t even surprised, maybe just said. It feels like forever ago, she thinks.
But Ginny’s face changes and she straightens in her chair, looking over Hermione seriously. She feels like she’s been suddenly put on the spot, eyeing Ginny suspiciously as the other woman looks over her. She frowns. Then she sighs. Then she smiles with the shake of her head. She must have missed something, she thinks.
“Are you seeing anyone?” Ginny asks, and almost immediately, Hermione groans. “No,” Ginny protests. “I’m serious. Is there anyone in your life right now? Rosie says no, but she also says that she wouldn’t tell any of us because you barely have enough privacy as it is.”
“No,” Hermione says. “I’m not,” she says carefully too. “Just trying to figure a few things out.”
“Can I help?”
Hermione shakes her head. She tries to be kind. “No, I’m all right.”
They descend quickly into an awkward silence, almost as if it had been waiting for the two of them all along. Hermione has always been good at reading people. She holds it to her lack of social awareness in her early years; it was always a struggle making friends, Muggle or Wizards alike, and because of that, she forced herself to learn certain cues. She didn’t always get it right, but there was too much of people she learned to understand.
Ginny is also no better. Her face is an open expression. She picks worry and concern, so much so that Hermione grown uncomfortable her seat.
“So. Harry.”
“Oh god.” Hermione feels her face flush and she pushes her hands forward to cover it. “Not this,” she mumbles.
“Listen I’ve rehearsed this all morning. I think should finally get to say this –”
“Please don’t.”
“Hermione,” Ginny ignores her. “Not that I think you need my permission to, nor does Harry, but like, I hope the two of you are not waiting around for me and my approval.”
She’s sure that expression her face is beyond incredulous at this point, her mouth almost agape. There are about a thousand things she could say and a thousand more, starting with the obvious: this is none of your damn business. She thinks that’s why she and Ron never had a chance; there were too many people involved, wanting to involved, and ultimately, ready to plan every facet of their lives together. She will always be eternally grateful for her children, but there’s a part of her that will never forgive the people around her for pushing them together in a corner and letting them continue to be unhealthy for each other.
“I heard about the family bet,” Hermione chooses instead. Her voice is low and dry. Ginny laughs and she shakes her head. “Not to fear, nothing has happened yet.” We’ve always moved at our own pace, she doesn’t say.
“You know that’s not why I’m here,” Ginny protests. Then she winks. “But also noted and good to know. I’ll pass that around.”
The other woman leans over her knees, seemingly invested in trying to choose the right thing to say. Hermione watches it all play out on her face, choosing instead to sit quietly and observe. It goes unsaid: what is between her and Harry has always been between her and Harry. People have always shammed her, pushing a narrative that has both confused and saddened Hermione. I never had a chance, she used to tell her mother who, if anything, was the only one who really knew where Hermione’s heart stayed set on lying.
“I know what you’re trying to say.” Hermione leans into her desk, resting her elbows on top a few of her papers. Her schedule stares at her too. Behind her, the daylight starts to lift into the room. She sighs, itching for an escape. “And I appreciate it,” she says diplomatically. “But don’t you think Harry and I should talk to each other first before inviting anyone else in?” Somewhere next, there’s a warning. “Not that there will ever be room, of course.”
“Of course,” Ginny echoes.
This, they don’t tell you, is how you learn to adult.
At her flat, letters from Hugo and Rose wait.
It’s late and they wait on the floor, as soon as she unlocks the door, sliding to follow her into the kitchen as she turns the lights on. She’s exhausted. Two press conferences later, her decision to not pursue reelection is gratifyingly proved – to herself, of course, because she thinks at this point, she’s already paid her dues. She smiles at her kids’ letters though and turns to her refrigerator, grabbing a bottle of water.
“You beat me.”
Hermione jumps, launching the bottle without thinking. It hits the wall besides Harry’s head, dropping and rolling on the ground. Her heart is pounding and she clutches her chest, glaring at him as soon as she turns the light on.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” she curses. “Did you really break the wards to just scare me in my damn kitchen? For fun, I hope.”
“Where’s your wand?” He ignores her. “And your detail.”
“Outside, you dick.” She immediately storms towards her water, stopping to hit him in the arm. “And I know wandless magic too, prat.”
“When has that ever stopped anyone? But also, the cursing is new?”
Hermione’s eyes narrow. She can feel her heart still ready to jump out her chest, kicking the seat next to Harry free and dropping into it. She gasps for a breath, dramatically enough to cause him to laugh and roll his eyes.
“Okay,” he holds his hands up. “I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” Her glare is heavy. She rubs her eyes. “You are such an ass. Just because the wards welcome you, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t give me a head’s up. You also have this thing called a phone. You could have called.”
He ignores her. “I saw the press conference.”
Her mouth opens and closes. She knows what comes next. Her hand remains curled around her shirt, fisted close to her heart. Her shoulders sag.
“Of course,” she says. “I imagine the Prophet is going to have quite a bit to say tomorrow.”
“You avoided the question about reelection. Gracefully, I promise. But you still avoided it.”
She shrugs. “The election is a year away,” she says. “Any decision I would have to make doesn’t have to happen for a couple of months.”
“But you have made a decision,” he counters.
Hermione knows she cannot lie to him. In fact, thinking about it, she’s surprised it’s taken him this long to ask. Maybe he was giving her time, she reasons. But she also know that this isn’t a small decision. She tries to think about her body language at the press conference too; she still carries herself with some kind of poise, shoulders tall and set back, but she wonders if she’s also unable to hide it any longer.
“I have,” she says finally. “I decided awhile ago. The kids are the only ones that know.”
He nods. “I figured.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me why?”
He searches her gaze. An insane amount of emotions hit his face. She almost misses them; he quickly moves from sadness to understanding and she does not know what to make of it. She watches, then, as he reaches over and grabs her hand, lacing their fingers together.
“Will you tell me?” He asks, then, finally. He lets it all out with an exhale, nearly slumping in his chair as she studies him.
“There isn’t much to say,” she answers, slowly. “I think, ultimately, I had made the decision long before I committed to it. Part of it is that my ambition and need to prove myself always seem to overshadow everything else – my health, the things that I’ve always held to be important, and just… well, my general distaste for being in the public eye. I think years of being called names, of the assumptions really fed into my desire to change things and then, of course, being Minister.”
“You’ve done an incredible job,” he says. She doesn’t know if he’s saying it to reassure her or for the truth. Objectively, she knows she has or, at least, has done the best she can with all the weight she carries. She is not the first Muggleborn Minister nor will she be the last, but people strove to remind her in all sorts of awful, crass ways. She knows she’s strong, stronger even than people give her credit for, but she’s forgotten how to allow herself to be human.
She could tell him to – tell him why she’s really taking that hour of her schedule, how she’s revisiting therapy again, or how she’s committed to making sure her children are allowed to be whatever it is that they want. She thinks that’s where she and Ron agree in parenting, making sure that their kids are not who they were.
“I’ve forgotten me,” she says. She smiles wistfully. “I think the divorce was a big part of reminding me about that – but also I’ve ran away from myself for maybe longer than I’d like to admit to.”
Harry’s fingers travel from her hand to her wrist, turning her arm to reveal some of her old scars. She can no longer see the mudblood, but it will always be there. She can count the lines. Piece together dots. Still read the outline of that particular memory as if it were simply a part of her. It will always be.
“I’m not leaving,” she says quietly. “You’re not going to lose me.”
He sighs. “I know.” He leans in, brushing his mouth over her forearm. “I just feel like I’ve failed you in a way. And I don’t know how to not feel that.”
She brushes his hair from his face, studying him. “How did you know?”
“I had a feeling.”
“Did you?”
He smiles, mirroring her wistful smile from earlier. “I do notice you,” he says and it almost reads as a confession. “It might not seem like it, but I do.”
Hermione laughs a little, really laughs. It comes out soft, growing as he blushes and she can’t help but reach out again, leaning into the table to kiss his forehead. This is the part that she’s missed about being around Harry; they’ve always gotten into trouble with how they act around each other, speaking in a language of touch and unsaid promises. Sometimes they’re aware, sometimes they’re not, and it’s carried into adulthood as it always has, just fewer moments because of what they both do.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” she murmurs. “Right away.”
He shakes his head. “I’m going to lie and say I’m not disappointed. I feel really guilty.” He smiles a little. “I’m worse than the doctor. Or wait, that guy that was friends with Malfoy that you dated. The Curse Breaker.”
Hermione laughs, out loud. She claps a hand over her mouth, surprised at how fast and hard it escapes. He’s grinning and she shakes her head.
“Theo,” she answers. “And he didn’t like you either. So there’s that.”
She thinks that this is the first time, in a really long time, that it’s been the two of them without some sort of secondary reason to see each other. She misses Harry. Misses him in a way that she really hasn’t thought of before or even acknowledged. They have always toed the line; forever family, not quite friends but not quite lovers either. She knows that he knows that she loves him and hopes that he knows that she knows it’s mutual. But whatever it is between the two of them, nameless or other, has always waited for one of them to give in – loving Harry, really loving Harry, has always been infinitely different than anything she’s ever done and she thinks in order to tell him that, to get near to telling him that, she has to start with herself.
“I just want to be Hermione, Harry,” she says. “I’ve got to start somewhere, I suppose.”
It isn’t until later, much later, that she thinks about how he holds her hand – not friendly enough to be platonic, but entirely too intimate to be anything but what they are.
It’s always been a little scary, she thinks.
Don’t ask how they wake up with each other –
This is later, much later, after a successful tour of Wizarding Paris, her third, mind you, in a year and a break in Harry’s serial case. She reads the briefing upon her return to the office, goes to find him and is told that he’s out in the field, immediately worried and coupled with heavy anxiety. She is privy to the grim details, has even listen to him as he groused through ideas, hypotheticals, and everything else in between. I don’t get to have a sounding board, he sometimes admits.
But she finds him in her flat later that night, dragging her to bed and wrapping his arms around her waist. He buries his mouth against her throat and they haven’t been this close to each other, she thinks, since the war and when they were fighting for body heat.
When they wake, her legs are tangled in his.
“All right?” She asks softly, smoothing his hair back. His skin is flushed. She finally smells a little alcohol, leftover residuals from the night before – she can only assume.
“Can I quit too?” His mouth grazes her throat. She laughs, wrinkling her nose. “You first,” he says. “And then me.”
“Shower first,” she replies. “Then we can talk about it.”
“Shower with me and then we can.”
Harry is a flirt. She knows this. They all know this. But she also knows how serious Harry is, knows how his face sharpens into something that he only shows every once in awhile, interest and desire. She doesn’t think he’s ever looked at her this way – that she’s seen, if anything. She wishes she could challenge and declare disbelief, but he is serious, so serious, and it unnerves her just a little bit.
Something’s changed, she thinks. She watches him, trying not to give anything away – does he know, should he know that she knows? A million questions roll through her brain and she’s almost overwhelmed at possibilities.
“Go shower,” she says gently, pushing at his chest. He groans and rolls onto his back, rubbing his eyes before getting up and disappearing into her bathroom. She listens to the water turn on and then sighs, staying in bed for just a little longer.
She has a late day, she reminds herself. A short one too. There are meetings. She is supposed to meet Ron too, at some point, to talk about funneling their separate funds into accounts for their children. There will be legal counsel, of course. They haven’t come that far yet.
Things are changing though, she thinks. She continues to listen to Harry in her bathroom. A door opens and shuts. She hears him curse, ends up laughing, and a muffled, delayed I’m fine! yells back in reply. It takes a little while longer when he finally reemerges, a towel wrapped around his hips as he moves to the bed. He drops right next to her, reaching forward and brushing her hair back.
“You do have to go to work at some point,” she says. Her lips curl and she reaches out, tracing his forearm. “As do I –”
“I want to talk though,” he cuts her off. His gaze is slightly unfocused. He probably left his glasses in the bathroom. “I feel like I’ve been holding onto things to the point that I’m ready to explode and that people are already ready to intervene.”
She snorts. “The family bet?”
“The family bet,” he says. He rubs his eyes. “Molly pulled me off to the side when I went to grab Lily before the school year and said something to the effect of ‘I hope you’re not doing it on my account’ and I didn’t know what to do with that.”
“Funny,” she says dryly. “I’ve yet to hear from her.”
“Gin thinks that she thinks you blame her for you and Ron.”
“That’s a little silly,” she nearly snaps, pausing to cover her anxiety. It unfurls, always, when her divorce is mentioned, followed by her former mother-in-law, and everything else in between. She groans, rubbing her eyes. “I’m not even going to entertain that.”
“That’s what I said.” Harry’s hand slides over her stomach, covered by the thin layer of her sheets. “To be fair, we’ve always been surrounded by some sort of speculation, despite what both of us might have been feeling at the time.” His expression changes to something almost mindful. He wets his lips. “I –” He hesitates, only slightly. “I never thought you’d ever think of me in that way, I suppose.”
She bites her lip. She watches him watch her. Her eyes are half-closed. She feels his fingers spread over her stomach and she covers them with her own, tracing small circles against the back of his hand.
“You’re asking me for all my secrets,” she murmurs, and he shifts, leaning over her. “I don’t know if I like that,” she says too. And she’s teasing, maybe.
“Can I touch you?” he asks, and it’s all sudden, heavy. The air thickens and she doesn’t want to give what’s happening a name. It’ll be real then and maybe, that’s where she’s struggling. She’s wearing nothing but silk shorts and a mismatched t-shirt. Nothing glamorous, she wants to say. Her hair is frayed into curls and her glasses, of course, are somewhere in the kitchen.
“Do you want to?” she counters, her voice lower than she means to. His eyes darken and he licks his lips. “Only if you want to,” she adds.
He laughs, then, leaning into kiss her. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I want to.”
It’s not the first time he’s kissed her, just the two of them. There are memories, old memories, indiscretions and otherwise, that she hasn’t touched in years, some she’s sure that he even shares. But this, here, is mor than just important, it is a next step and kissing him feels ridiculously close to coming home, as if she has been doing it all this time all along. Her mouth travels lightly against his and she threads her fingers through his hair to pull him closer. He drops into her slowly, his teeth nipping at her lip.
“I realize that we haven’t done this right,” he murmurs against her mouth, then slides over her. The sheet bunches between him and his towel is lost to the floor. “I think that I owe you some kind of grand confession, telling you that I love you.” Her ears are ringing and he palms her hip, dragging her closer. “Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?”
She laughs and leans in to press her lips into his throat, smirking when he moans. His skin is hot. Maybe from the shower. Maybe not. She is selfish too, touching him. Lets her fingers travel from his hair to the back of his neck. They spread against the plane of his shoulders and slide along his spine.
“Not interested.” It’s not practical, she doesn’t say. Instead, she links her leg around his hip and flips them, straddling him. Their hands link together and she presses herself into him. “See,” she says slowly, thoughtfully, “I think I’ve just loved you forever and have been happy to have you in anyway you would let me.”
“Hermione.”
She smiles a little. “Harry,” she says in kind.
The truth has always been simple. What she knows is this now: Harry slides a hand in between the two of them, guiding himself into her. She thinks about how much she likes the feel of his skin against hers, how hot he feels inside of her, pulsing as her hips jerk slightly. He finds her mouth again, kissing her as if he were trying to breathe into her, hot, sticky, and wet.
“I think there’s never been any right way to any of this,” she manages, her voice catching. He arches into her, kissing her again. “Just… hello. Again, you know?”
It’s between us, she doesn’t say. Harry smiles into her mouth.
There’s no need to answer. Their family won’t find out for months.