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Chapter Text

When Harry and Ginny’s relationship ended, it wasn’t with any amount of fanfare or drama. It wasn’t the result of a pitched argument or infidelity brought to light. In fact, it was a rather cordial thing, discussed at length and agreed upon on the night before Ginny was to leave for her training camp, to begin her quidditch career with the Holyhead Harpies.

“It’s just…not there anymore, is it?” Ginny pointed out as the pair sat on the Burrow’s back porch. The Weasley household was winding down for the night after a raucous celebration of Ginny’s new success, and Molly had all but insisted that the family (extended and otherwise) spend the night, as she was wont to do anytime someone stopped in.

The life of an empty-nester was so in polar opposite to what Molly Weasley was used to that she was not taking to it well.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Harry said. “After all the business with…the war and with Fred and… I thought I’d just be heaping something else on you.”

“Harry, that’s hardly fair to either of us,” Ginny chided him, though she didn’t seem overly upset with him, at least. “D’you know, I could have been putting myself out there this whole time, meeting blokes and all that?”

“Oh, um…” Harry felt his face heat up, which only intensified when he looked over and saw the playful smile on her face.

“I’m just taking the mickey, you prat,” she said. “I could’ve said something, too, after all. It just would have felt a bit… Well, I spent such a long time wishing and pining and…well, obsessing. And it was lovely, being with you.”

“But it never clicked, did it?” Harry asked.

“Exactly,” Ginny nodded. “There was never really that spark, I guess? I know it sounds trite – “

“It’s not trite, not at all,” Harry insisted. “We both… We owe it to ourselves to go for something that clicks, though, right?”

“Has anyone else been clicking lately?” Ginny asked, quirking an eyebrow at him. Harry only laughed, sipping at a cup of cocoa that steamed in the cool night air.

“I’m much too busy to get around to clicking, it seems,” he said. “Besides I’m…well, I’m so many things to so many people now.”

“The Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, et cetera,” Ginny said with a roll of her eyes. “Didn’t they try the Boy-Who-Conquered for a short while?”

“I saw to that being stopped,” Harry said flatly. “Makes me sound like I just took over Britain myself.”

“We could do for the iron rule of Harry Potter, it seems sometimes,” Ginny said, giggling when Harry gave her a little shove. “Oi, you’ll make me slosh my cocoa!”

They fell into a companionable silence, staring up at the stars. Out in the Devon countryside, far from city lights and high-rises, the sky came to life in a way that Harry rarely saw as of late, a sight that reminded him of Hogwarts. And as always, when he thought of those days, he felt the familiar ache settle into place. Graduating was supposed to be about changing circumstance, about moving on from the old to venture into the new, but his and so many others’ passages into adulthood had been permanently marred, sullied and even destroyed by Voldemort’s brief but tyrannical reign.

As such, when the rose-colored glasses settled into place, they did so thickly, painting the old with such perfection that Harry couldn’t help but long for the familiarity.

“So…are we alright?” Ginny asked after a protracted silence between them. The last dregs of cocoa had grown cold, chunks of chocolate settling and giving the few remaining sips an unpleasant texture. Harry spared Ginny another glance, admiring her in the moonlight. She wore a simple white sundress that gleamed in the night, and Harry couldn’t deny that she was beautiful. Many would probably call him mad for choosing to end things with her. But he didn’t want a trophy relationship, the kind of celebrity coupling Aunt Petunia had fawned over where both parties had simply settled for a pretty face and pleasant conversation at best.

There had to be more to it than that. Even if he was the very definition of a celebrity among wizards, there had to be.

“Yeah,” he finally told her. “We’re brilliant. Good luck out there, Ginny.”

“You too, Harry,” she said, leaning over and planting a warm kiss to his cheek. “Oh, scratchy. Someone needs a shave.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so very unkempt,” Harry chuckled as she stood. “Turning in?”

“I do have to get up dreadfully early to catch my portkey,” she said. “I’ve already stayed up too late.”

“You didn’t have to stay out on my account,” Harry insisted, and Ginny smirked at him.

“Harry,” she said, “just because our romance is in shambles doesn’t mean you’re not still one of my best friends. Believe it or not, I actually enjoy spending time with you.”

“Color me surprised,” Harry grinned, and she winked at him.

“You should get some sleep, too,” she said. “You could go on a trip with those bags under your eyes.”

“Is that a Molly-ism?” Harry asked, getting to his feet as well.

“She spent my whole life spouting them, they’ve well dug in by now,” Ginny said with a longsuffering sigh. Harry moved past her to hold the door open, and they made their quiet way through the kitchen. Despite himself, Harry found he was once again caught up in memories, of his first summer with the Weasleys, of chasing garden gnomes and flying brooms around the paddock, of riotous breakfasts full of the potential of a new day and cozy dinners promising a fully belly to sleep on.

And again, the familiar ache settled in, that longing for simpler times. Harry knew Hermione would scoff at such a notion, telling him that there had been nothing simple about his Hogwarts years and that they had been just as perilous as anything they’d encountered on the horcrux hunt.

He knew, also, that she would have been absolutely right to say so, but feelings and rationale were rare bedfellows.

Huh. He’d have to write that one down.

“You coming, or you taking in the sight of our kitchen?” Ginny asked, pulling him from his doldrums. Shaking himself, he made to follow, flashing a grin at her.

“It is a rather nice kitchen,” he said.

“Yeah, we might make the cover of Witch Weekly,” Ginny smirked.

“I could probably arrange that,” Harry told her. “Almost be worth throwing my name around to see the look on your mum’s face.”

“Harry Potter, you’d better have a camera ready to catch the look on her face if you do,” Ginny said. “I’ll want that one framed forever.”

ooo

The next day, after stuffing himself with a full English breakfast courtesy of Molly (and feeling full enough to last until supper), Harry flooed back to Grimmauld Place, which he had taken to inhabiting after the war. It had been too much hassle to attempt to buy a home, especially with the wizarding government desperately trying to get its affairs back in order after being briefly overthrown by a dark lord. Walking in with a change of residence form and all of the requisite paperwork would have felt rather gratuitous. Two years later—and many, many cleanings at the hands of several hired crews—he’d rather gotten settled in and was reluctant now to leave.

It was Sirius’s last gift to him, surly house-elf notwithstanding; he couldn’t bring himself to part with it.

Strolling through his sitting room, he saw Kreacher dusting one of the cabinets full knickknacks that had been deemed safe enough to hang onto. Harry found that Kreacher was much more keen to take care of the house when told that several of the Black family heirlooms were now his and needed to be kept in better conditions.

Sure, Harry could have also just turned the elf loose, but the poor thing would probably drop dead of shock if he did.

“Any letters, Kreacher?” Harry asked, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the stark silence of the house, especially after the bustle of the Burrow.

“Master’s Weezy friend sent him a letter,” Kreacher said, gesturing to the low table behind him. “Would Master care for tea?”

“Oh, just a cuppa, if you would,” Harry said. “I’ve just been to the Burrow.”

Kreacher nodded knowingly at that; even to a house-elf, Molly Weasley’s cooking was considered plenty to eat.

Seating himself in one of the many ornate couches in the sitting room, Harry plucked up the letter Ron had sent him, observing that the address had been scribbled rather hastily, the ink even blotting in a couple of places.

“Why don’t you start using pens, mate?” Harry muttered to himself as he tore open the missive and unfolded the paper within. More hasty scribbles greeted him, untidy even for Ron’s usual scrawl:

Harry,

Mind if we pop by today? I know we just saw you, but we wanted some Trio Time, you know?

Owl us back with Brigitta.

Ron

Concise, as always with Ron. Still, he was playing the “Trio Time” card? In the early days of the fallout of Voldemort’s reign, Trio Time had been the phrase Ron had coined for the mini-interventions that had had to be staged for one of their group (usually Harry) when things had gotten somewhat mentally bad. In fact, most Trio Time had been served in this very room, clustered together on this couch and speaking in hushed tones with little eye contact, putting to voice thoughts that they had desperately wanted to bury but needed to air out for the sake of coping, of moving on. Trio Time was special to them, had been the only way any of them had come out of things with at least some semblance of normalcy.

But, as the war had faded into memory, as new experiences had been piled on top and built up in the aftermath, Trio Time had become less common, played off as a joking excuse to hang out as life had become busier for all three of them. And when Hermione and Ron had begun to grow closer and explore their relationship, Trio Time became (to Harry) his way of staying in touch with them. Even now, the letter explicitly referred to them as ‘we’, as though they had melded together into a single being.

Well…Trio Time was still Trio Time, and Harry had no plans. He rarely ever had plans unless Minerva roped him into some guest teaching spot or Kingsley pulled rank and ordered him to go to a Ministry function.

He had no doubt the pair were working together to make sure the public didn’t think he’d died alone in his home. Or to ensure he didn’t actually die alone in his home.

Ron,

We’re overdue for Trio Time. Come over whenever you’d like. I’ll have Kreacher fix some tea.

Harry

Well, it would be nice to let them know about his breaking things off with Ginny. Despite the mutuality of it all, it still stung that he had yet another failed attempt at romance under his belt.

Affixing the short letter to Brigitta’s leg, Harry watched the greater sooty owl take off with a businesslike hoot. Brigitta had been a recent birthday gift from Hagrid, who had given Harry the owl with absolutely no denial brooked over the matter.

“Now I know yeh said yeh didn’ wan’ another one, mind, but yeh’ll take this one, yeh understand? I got yeh yer firs’ owl, it only hold’s fair yeh let me get yeh this one.”

Uneasy about replacing Hedwig, Harry had only conceded when Hagrid had voiced his desire to keep in touch with Harry more often. Unable to deny a near-sobbing half-giant, Harry had thanked Hagrid, promising his first correspondence sent with the bird would be to him.

And it had been, a simple letter about the horrible weather.

“Kreacher,” he called out, and Kreacher appeared with a sharp crack in the room. “Make that a full afternoon tea, if you please. Ron and Hermione are coming by.”

“Of course, Master Harry,” Kreacher said with a hobbling bow, which Harry waved off.

“Now, I’ve said none of the bowing,” he insisted. “If Hermione sees you doing that, it’ll be my head on the wall.”

“Such a thing would be the highest honor – “

“Tea, please, Kreacher,” Harry said with a roll of his eyes. “Or would you prefer I make it up myself?”

“No need to trouble yourself, Master,” Kreacher said hastily, disappearing with another crack and leaving Harry smirking after him. Harry often volunteered his services in the Black family kitchen, and for the most part, he could cook a decent fry-up, but his tea-making skills were legendary only for how abysmal they were.

Even Hermione insisted he leave it to Kreacher.

With that settled, Harry made for his bedroom. Ron was a notorious lollygagger getting out the door, so he no doubt had plenty of time for a shower and a change of clothes.

…

Music greeted him when he emerged from the shower, floating upstairs from the open door of his sitting room. The two had already arrived, then; Ron was unable to abide the still silence of Grimmauld Place and always started up Harry’s record player when he got in. It was one of the few muggle contraptions he’d ever taken the time to learn, which Harry found amusing simply because it was about thrice-outdated at this point.

Still, Harry enjoyed the sound of vinyl, the unsteady crack and pop, the richness of it. Hermione had jokingly called him a beatnik over it, but Harry simply insisted that it was difficult to lose track of a vinyl record, where a CD or cassette could disappear anywhere.

“It doesn't hurt me (Ye-yeah, yeah, yo)

Do you want to feel how it feels? (Ye-yeah, yeah, yo)

Do you want to know, know that it doesn't hurt me? (Ye-yeah, yeah, yo)

Do you want to hear about the deal that I'm making? (Ye-yeah, yeah, yo)”

“Kate Bush, excellent choice,” he could hear Hermione saying.

“Sounds like a dragon with a rock stuck in its throat, the music,” Ron pointed out, and Harry chuckled as he heard the sound of her swatting him on the arm. “Oi! It only does!”

“It’s electronic music,” Hermione said. “Synthesized.”

“Muggles use electricity to make music?” Ron asked.

“You would have done well to take Muggle Studies,” Hermione insisted.

“Could have taught your dad a thing or two,” Harry said, striding into the room to the sight of them clustered together on the couch. Kreacher had gone all out (most likely in an effort to send the message that Harry need not trouble himself making tea ever again), and not only was there a three-tiered tray of sandwiches and cakes, but he had also delivered a fancy bowl of macarons along with all of the accoutrements needed to prepare a cup of tea.

Ron, of course, had already gone through several macarons and was devouring a sandwich, though he sprang to his feet at the sight of Harry, throwing his arms out in a grand gesture.

“Harry!” he said. “Congratulate me, mate, I’m engaged!”

“…Oh…”

…

Engaged. It felt such a weird word to even attach to the pair of them. For as long as Harry had been friends with Ron and Hermione, there had always been...well, something going on between them. Equal parts vitriol and affection, Harry hadn't really known what to term it, and so he'd simply followed along with his classmates and assumed they'd fancied each other. After all, he had little metric to measure against. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's relationship was outwardly-focused, spewing hate and derision on others while bonding over a mutual disdain for absolutely everyone. Molly and Arthur Weasley's was a more matriarchal setup, with Arthur the doting husband enforcing Molly's iron rule over the Weasley roost.

He had simply operated under the belief that Ron and Hermione's cutting remarks and scathing verbal sparring matches were just another flavor of the same sentiment. That some couples simply expressed affection through bickering and days-long periods of stony silence.

But now, with Ron raiding the cocktail station in Number Twelve's sitting room to cobble together a celebratory round of drinks, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that something was...off... This didn't feel okay to him. Perhaps it was simply because the announcement had come on the heels of his own breakup, he mused, though that wasn’t fair to Ron and Hermione. They had no idea, after all.

“You alright, Harry?” As ever, Hermione could read him like a book (and she read books rather well, meaning she understood people with a scary level of nuance oftentimes), fixing chocolate-brown eyes on Harry from her seat next to him on the sofa. Her cheeks were pink with excitement, wrapped up and swept off in the post-engagement fervor. Still, she always seemed to have time to worry over Harry, even years after there had been anything to worry over.

She still questioned sometimes if he was harboring any grudge against her for breaking his wand, despite the matter having been well closed nearly two years ago.

“No, I mean...yeah, I'm brilliant,” Harry said, feeling a strange but familiar nagging in the back of his head. “I'm just...processing this, I suppose. Congratulations.”

“Oi, mate, you still got that cinnamon firewhiskey we had for Christmas?” Ron called over.

“Bottom shelf, behind the Butterbeer Dark,” Harry told him.

“It still feels a bit surreal, I suppose,” Hermione said, raising her left hand and peering at the engagement ring glimmering on her finger. Ron had at least spared no expense now that he was pulling down a considerable salary as an auror. The ring was a gaudy thing, and Harry pondered for a moment that it didn't seem to suit Hermione.

“Seems a bit ostentatious, I think,” he said before he could stop himself, and Hermione gave him a funny look.

“You don't like it?” she asked. Harry realized he'd just insulted his best friend's choice of engagement ring for his other best friend.

“I—that's not what I meant to say,” he said. “I just... Well, I would have gotten you something a bit more...a bit smaller?”

Hold on, what was he on about?

“If you were the one proposing to me?” Hermione asked softly. Harry felt an odd thud in his chest at her tone, at the confusion but curiosity in her gaze. There was that feeling again, one he associated with Grimmauld Place, strangely enough. “What would you have gotten?”

“Dunno, a...silver band, black diamond,” he said, thinking of a ring he'd found upstairs in one of the jewellery cabinets that he'd always thought she would have liked. He'd never been able to think of an occasion to give it to her, however. He met her eyes and saw a glimmer of a smile in them.

His chest gave another thud.

“That sounds beautiful,” she said, and for a split-second, Harry could almost hear the awe in her voice as she was presented with his ring, as he slid it onto her finger and heard a breathy “yes” pass her lips as she accepted him.

Hold on, what was he on about?

But then, Ron was there, passing them each a drink and calling for a toast. Harry was, of course, to be the best man (“And I expect a cracking good stag party, mate.”), to be front and center while Ron and Hermione swore themselves to each other. Harry was mostly silent throughout the discussion, nodding along and smiling when he felt it was appropriate even as his mind was quite elsewhere. Finally, he had recognized that feeling lurking in the back of his head. It was the same feeling he'd been subjected to when Ron had opened his Hogwarts letter shortly before their fifth year and realized he'd been made prefect. Instead of Harry. A missed opportunity he hadn't even known he'd been dwelling on.

Why wasn't it me?

…

“When you were here before

Couldn't look you in the eye”

He was being ridiculous. Utterly, totally, and completely ridiculous. This was merely an emotional reaction to the abrupt ending of his own Happily Ever After being immediately followed by the start of his best friends’. It was…him feeling the pair of them drifting away from him and to each other. After all, marriage meant more time spent in each other’s company, just the two of you. It meant a life together, cohabitating, sharing everything. For the longest time, he'd always imagined Ron and Hermione ending up engaged, married, maybe with a couple of children dashing about a lovely country home.

“You're just like an angel

Your skin makes me cry”

But now that the future was staring him in the face, it felt…wrong. Sure, it had always seemed inevitable, but was it really the best course?

Stop that! You’ve no place to decide the best course for the two of them!

No, he chided himself, he was just needlessly worried over losing them despite all evidence to the contrary. Ron and Hermione would never.

“You float like a feather

In a beautiful world”

But then what of that feeling of…of missed opportunity? When Ron had been awarded the prefect badge in their fifth year, Harry had, for the first time he could remember, been denied an honor he actually felt he’d earned at some point. It had been an ugly feeling, to be sure, one he wasn’t so proud of given Ron’s desire to shine in his own right against the beaming glow of his brothers’ achievements. But he had felt it, and to pretend otherwise would be lying to himself.

“I wish I was special

You're so very special”

And that selfsame feeling had reared its head again at the news that the pair had gotten engaged. Shock, bemusement…indignation. Why hadn’t it been him?

But Hermione wasn’t a prefect’s badge! She was a person, entitled to make her own decisions. After all, a proposal necessarily included a point where the proposee (was that word?) said yes or no. Hermione’s answer had obviously, definitively, been an affirmative.

And why did it matter!? Good for them! The only reason he had to continue to dwell on it was…

“But I’m a creep…”

No…

“I’m a weirdo…”

She’d always been there, unfailingly by his side. Even during the moments when Ron had abandoned him.

“What the hell am I doing here?”

He’d grown so completely used to her presence in his life, had he taken her for granted? Had he gotten so complacent that he’d never even noticed how deep the feelings ran?

“I don’t belong here…”

But that was—there was no way! Hermione was his best friend, the most solid rock ever to be in his life. At no point, ever, had her loyalty to his wellbeing faltered, even when that loyalty had put them at odds during his more stubborn teenage years.

You idiot, you’re only giving reasons why you should fancy her!

Well, a fat lot of good it would do him now, literal hours after their engagement announcement! They were apparently content to wait until the glow of Ginny’s new career faded so as not to steal her thunder, but they had wanted Harry to know as soon as possible.

How thoughtful of them.

But no, he was being ridiculous. That was the mantra in his head, and for an amusing moment, he could hear Lupin in his mind.

“Once more, very clearly…”

“Ridiculous,” he said to himself with a small chuckle. Standing, he felt himself stumble ever so slightly. Ron had insisted on a second round and gone a little heavy on the Ogden’s, and despite the fact that it was only noon, Harry felt that a nap would do him well.

Of course, he mused. He just needed to sleep on it, after all.

When he awoke, sober and perhaps in need of a Pepper-Up Potion, it would all make sense.

…

It made no sense. It somehow made less sense.

Upon awakening to an overcast sky and a dreary mist of rain pelting Grimmauld Place’s windows, Harry waved his wand to set the lamps aglow in his room. The fire had died down to orange embers, and the ornate clock near the door told him that it wasn’t yet two. Kreacher had thoughtfully left a Pepper-Up Potion on his bedside table, which Harry downed in one swig, sitting up and heaving a long sigh.

“Bugger,” he muttered to himself.

He fancied Hermione. Chuckling to himself at his own blistering stupidity, he nonetheless had to admit the truth. This wasn’t about losing a friend, it wasn’t about watching the pair of them drift away and to each other. It was him having been too much the fool to realize that he had feelings for her until it was effectively too late.

And, well…that was it, he told himself. There was nothing to be done about it. He could fret and whine and want Hermione all to himself, but that didn’t change anything.

“Bugger,” he repeated.

He fancied her. Hermione. How had it not been patently obvious before? Only now, thinking of the way she laughed at his ridiculous jokes, the proud sort of smile she got on her face when he actually got out of his own way and did something brilliant, even the appreciative looks given to him when he turned up to formal affairs dressed in tailored wear and actually cleaned up. At any point in the nine years he’d known her, he could have sprung this epiphany on himself, but as usual, it took a metaphorical slap in the face, a ring and an engagement announcement, for him to see it.

And, again, he reminded himself that there was nothing for it. She was engaged. That was that.

“…Bugger.”

Chapter Text

There was little time for Harry to recover from this latest emotional tumult; Ron had scarcely been able to make it three days after Ginny’s departure before unveiling the news to his family, which had left Molly Weasley on cloud nine. Things were looking up for the Weasley family, it seemed, and the Weasley matriarch had even taken the opportunity to bring Hermione around the Burrow as often as possible, intending to impart her knowledge in order to better prepare Hermione to “bring the next generation into the world”. Hermione was less than thrilled at these impromptu “lessons”, though it bore the unintended side-effect of occupying any time she could have been spending with Harry and Ron. Trio Time suffered, but Harry was honestly pleased over it.

He wanted some time alone to brood.

It was a complex twist of emotions, and Harry had never really done well with even the simplest of them. Growing up being routinely stuffed in a cupboard for displaying any sort of outburst of feeling left one a bit stunted as such. He longed, as he often did, for the counsel of Sirius, of Remus, of…anyone. But those musings sent him down a different sort of spiral.

Ironically, he realized that he was very much following in his godfather’s footsteps in the worst of ways, rattling around Grimmauld Place and wishing for the better days of his youth.

He wondered if Sirius had ever pined after Lily.

He then decided never to pursue that avenue of thought again.

It was on a sunny but brisk September morning a couple of weeks after the disastrous engagement announcement that this monotonous new routine of his was thrown a spanner, and he should have easily guessed the culprit the moment he heard the doorbell ring. His brain as sad and sluggish as it was, however, he had no time to prepare himself for the sight of Hermione Granger, whose beaming smile dropped at the sight of him.

“Harry?” she asked. “You look awful.”

“Lovely to see you too,” Harry said. He supposed he didn’t look his best; at Keacher’s insistence, he had at least kept up with a daily shower routine and fed himself often enough, though some of the minutiae of personal grooming had fallen by the wayside. He had to be sporting something of a beard by now, at the very least.

“I quite like this, though,” Hermione told him with a smile, reaching up to scratch at the scruff on his face and sending a white-hot jolt through him where her fingers brushed his skin. “You’ve the jaw for a good beard.”

“Oh, well…with that ringing endorsement, I suppose I’ll keep it,” he said. Bugger, was he blushing? It wasn’t like Hermione had never touched his face before. “So, um…what brings you by?”

“Do I need a reason to visit my best friend?” Hermione asked. “I feel like you’ve been playing the hermit lately, hiding away in here.”

“Well, you know us famous folk, we’re reclusive,” Harry said, and Hermione rolled her eyes, giving him a gentle smack in the arm.

“Harry James Potter, you can hide from everyone else, but you can’t hide from me,” she pouted.

As if I’d ever want to.

“As a matter of fact, though,” Hermione went on, bouncing on her feet in an anxious gesture that Harry found agonizingly cute, “well, I had been planning to go dress shopping today, just to get a feel for the style I want to be on the lookout for.”

“…This is not going where I think it is, is it?” Harry asked.

“Harry, please?” she begged him. “I don’t really… Well, Mum will be there, but she’s rubbish at being impartial, she’ll say I look good in everything. I’d ask Ginny, but she’s off training, and if I have to deal with Molly’s…Molly-ness for a moment longer, I’m going to actually physically explode. You’re my only hope, Harry.”

“Alright, Princess Leia,” Harry snorted, and Hermione grinned at him, stepping quite close and fixing those unbearably brown eyes on him in a wide and beseeching gaze.

“Pretty please?”

Oh, of all the no-good, dirty, rotten, low-handed –

“Fine.”

…

Harry had often been told (in a sort of half-joking way likely meant to spare his feelings) that he was a bit of masochist, gladly throwing himself into situations where he was sure to suffer if it meant the happiness of one of his friends, an innocent bystander, or even someone he had just met forty seconds ago. It at least suited him well in his career as an auror, he reasoned, though there was a running joke around the office that most of the commendations adoring his wall had been paid for in his own direct suffering.

In the past, he had scoffed at such claims, laughed along with Higgins and Willingham but not taken their words overly seriously. He was dedicated to his work, that was all. Any auror worth his salt sacrificed a bit of his wellbeing in the name of the job. Just look at Alastor Moody's sterling reputation!

Well...alright, that was probably not a point in his favor.

Today, though, he was willing to concede that he did in fact have some tendency to an almost masochistic level of self-sacrifice, or what Hermione had once eloquently called a “saving people thing”. Coincidentally enough, it was Hermione herself that was the cause of his musings.

Everything she did was adorable. Absolutely every smile, every little laugh, every happy noise she made at his side as dress after dress was brought out to them was pure torment. The worst part was that Harry knew nothing had changed. Hermione hadn’t suddenly adopted an entirely new set of mannerisms meant to entice him or attract his attention. All of it was just the Hermione experience-- things she had been doing for years—colored now by his recent realization of his feelings for her.

Again, he cursed himself for being so mind-numbingly slow on the uptake. Only when she had been placed soundly out of reach had he realized how much he wanted her solidly there for all time.

“What d'you think, Harry?”

The question, repeated ad nauseum for the past few hours, had each time preceded yet another figurative punch in Harry's gut, and as he looked up to the sight of Hermione adorned in yet another white dress, the feeling struck him once more. He wasn't getting used to it, the blow was the same as the first in every single instance. Hermione, the vision of bridal perfection striding toward him wearing yet another dress, seemed oblivious to the effect she was having on him even as he once again let himself get caught up imagining that she was in fact walking down the aisle toward him, bouquet clutched in her hands and smiling only for him.

Why, oh why, had she dragged him along for this!?

“Oh, love, that looks beautiful!” Helen Granger gushed, as she had every single time. It seemed that she was so enamored of the wedding itself, that her daughter was actually engaged to be wed, that all sense of objectivity had gone out the window. Any wedding dress, in her opinion, was perfect for Hermione.

“Mum, you've said that every single time,” Hermione said with a wry smile. She did a little spin, letting the dress flair up ever so slightly around her. “I do rather like this style, though.”

It did suit her, Harry thought. The past few dresses had been intricate affairs, covered in pearls and sewn with complex patterns that felt overly busy to him. None of them had felt like Hermione's wedding dress, to him. But this one...

“I like it,” he found himself reluctantly admitting. “It suits you.”

Hermione smiled at him, her face flush with excitement.

“You think so as well?” she asked. Turning, she found her reflection in one of the many mirrors of the boutique's dressing room, studying herself carefully.

“It's not as busy as the last few,” Harry went on, standing and making his way over to her. “You don't seem like the type for a busy dress.”

Standing next to her, Harry couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from her reflection. She was beautiful, he realized. Her expression was one of such fervent excitement, the same she'd worn when telling him she'd gotten her Committee for the Ethical Treatment of Magical Beings off the ground. He loved that excited look, loved sharing in her latest bit of good news.

He loved...her.

“You've that look on your face again,” Hermione accused him with a gentle smile. “What are you thinking, Harry?”

“Oh, just fretting about work,” Harry told her. Hermione snorted at him, an unladylike sound compounded by her present attire.

“Harry James Potter, you never fret about work,” she insisted. “You could take a nap in the Ministry atrium and Kingsley would just make sure you had enough pillows.”

Harry chuckled at that, grinning down at her and watching her stick her tongue out at him.

“I think this is a fine dress,” he finally said. “It's the sort of dress I'd want to see you walking down the aisle in if I was waiting for you.”

“You really like it?” she asked softly, and Harry ached to just hold her in that moment, to tell her she could pick the most garish, poofy monstrosity of chiffon and lace and he would still gladly marry her in it.

But he'd lost that chance before he'd even realized he'd had it, realized he'd wanted it.

“I do,” he said, feeling a sentimental fool for wishing he was saying the same thing under different circumstances.

“Harry...” Hermione glanced up from his face in the mirror to look him directly in the eyes. There was that searching expression she got, when she knew he was hiding something but hadn't yet sussed out exactly what. Harry turned away, but her hand came up to gently press against his cheek, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“Yes?” he asked with what he hoped was a blithe smile, desperately attempting to undercut what he felt was a dramatically building moment. He didn't need drama, not with Hermione, not now.

“Tell me what's wrong,” she said. “You all but disappeared the past couple weeks. Did something happen with Ginny?”

Ginny? Harry hadn't even really spared Ginny much of a thought since things had ended between them. She’d written him one letter, and he’d cobbled together a response to send off with Brigitta, but that had been the beginning and end of their recent correspondence.

“No, Ginny and I... We aren't together anymore,” he said. “Haven't been for weeks.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione pouted. “Why didn't you say anything?”

“I was going to, but...” Harry shrugged, but Hermione displayed her usual knack for reading his mind without even the need for legilimency.

“We announced our engagement instead,” she said. “Is that what's been bothering you?”

“...Yeah,” Harry said, figuring it best to let her believe that rather than know the truth of the situation. The last thing Hermione needed right now was to know he was...pining after her.

“Harry,” her voice was the slightest bit stern, though she also seemed amused at his continued efforts to deflect her concerns. “It's something else, I can tell. What aren't you telling me?”

That I'm in love with you? That I'm actually really conflicted over these new feelings because they didn't surface until after finding out you were engaged and out of reach? That I feel like scum for pining after my best mate's fiancée?

Harry of course said none of these things, reaching up to gently pull her hand away from his face. It was warm, slightly dry under his touch as he lowered it down, and he could feel the massive stone of her engagement ring, mocking him with its presence.

“I think that dress is the one,” he said. “You might not even have to try on any others.”

Hermione was silent for a moment, staring down at their linked hands and chewing nervously on her lip. Harry stopped himself at least four times in that moment from doing something rather foolish, be it blurting out his feelings, pulling her into his arms, or simply kissing her.

“You used to tell me everything,” she said quietly.

“Hermione...there are some things I'd rather you didn't know,” he said. “That you don't need to know, not now. Focus on your wedding.”

“What do you mean 'not now'?” she asked, and Harry cursed himself for giving so much away. He said nothing now, worried at what else he might blab to her, but Hermione seemed to read plenty from his silence. Lifting her left hand, she stared at Ron's gaudy ring, at the absolute skating rink of a stone attached to it, before peering back up at him.

“Do you...” she trailed off, her eyes shining now, and Harry wished more than anything that she would just stop talking, stop thinking for a moment. “Would you prefer this was a silver band? With a black diamond?”

She'd remembered, after all these weeks and the flurry of wedding preparation activity. Harry was almost flattered, before the reality of her question sank in.

“It's not,” he said. “That's what matters.”

“Harry - “

“Hermione, please!” Harry said. “I can't do this. I can't have this conversation with you. I already feel like scum, let's not twist the knife while we're at it.”

“But...but, Harry - “

Unable to listen further, Harry whirled away and simply left, passing by a bewildered Helen, who looked up from some brochure to regard the scene with confusion.

“What's happened?” Harry heard her ask as the door shut behind him.

Bugger, he needed a drink.

…

He loved muggle London. He loved all of the people, crowds the likes of which one never saw in the wizarding world. He loved the way he could disappear amidst them, something impossible in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade. To these masses—salarymen and shoppers and schoolkids and street-hawkers—he was just one face in a thousand, some young punk in need of a shave. No one looked twice, no one stared at his scar or made the exact same comments about his resemblance to his father (except for his eyes, of course), the most he got was the occasional “sorry, lad” when someone bumped into him.

Even now, with his nineteenth birthday nearly two months behind him, it still felt strange to walk so freely. Every moment of his life for as long as he could remember had been spent under someone’s supervision, it felt like. The Dursleys and their beady eyes on the lookout for any manner of mischief or rule-breaking, Dumbledore and the Order’s carefully-crafted circle of protection, even Voldemort in his own right had been a watchful eye ensuring a lack of total independence.

But now, well…no one had any idea where he was, none of these people even knew who he was.

He was alone.

A sign called out to him, ‘The Banded Barrel’. That sounded promising. Inside a heavy wooden door, Harry saw a simple enough pub, the sort that had been built about two-hundred years ago and not really changed much since then. At least everything seemed clean enough, unlike the Leaky Cauldron and its ever-present layer of dust and grime.

“C’mon in, grab a seat,” a voice called from behind a high wooden bar near the door. The place was small but with a high ceiling that kept it from feeling cramped. Harry made his way to a booth near a window, sitting and staring unseeingly at a menu that awaited him.

She knew. She knew how he felt. It had taken her half a conversation to wring it out of him! So much for the brooding boy who never even dropped so much as a hint that Dolores Umbridge was spending their detentions torturing him. Who ran a secret education ring under the noses of the entire Hogwarts staff.

But then, Hermione had been privy to all of that as well.

He really did tell her everything. Because she always knew what to do. Because he’d be lost without her.

Because he loved her.

“Drink, mate?” Harry looked up into the face of a young man not much older than him, with a pad and pencil at the ready.

“Guinness,” he said, poking at the menu before him. “And the roast beef sandwich.”

“Comin’ up,” the bloke nodded, whisking away the menu and making his way to the back.

Left alone, Harry continued to do what he did best lately: yelled at himself.

Why did these feelings need to come to light now? He’d been happy in his ignorance for so long, why had it all suddenly decided to rattle into place now? Or, with the benefit of hindsight, why couldn’t he have realized things sooner? He’d wasted so much time mooning over Cho Chang and Ginny, and meanwhile Hermione had been right next to him! He was sure she would have given him a chance, likely would have seized control of the whole thing and decided their first date, the time, even picked out an outfit and insisted he not be nervous. He would have probably messed it all up from start to finish, and she’d still insist she had a lovely time, because that was simply how she was. Stern, authoritarian, and downright medieval in her methods from time to time, Hermione Granger always had time to care about Harry Potter.

And you, you blithering fool, never took the hint.

Would she have reciprocated? Harry liked to think so. There had always been the occasional moment between them where even his addled teenage mind had been able to pick up on some tension. Third year, during their jaunt back in time. Fourth year when it was just Harry and Hermione at his side against the unbelieving masses who though he’d put himself down for the Tournament. Even in his fifth year, when he thought Voldemort was possessing him and pushed everyone away, Hermione had simply refused, pushed back and insisted on being heard.

“You’d best have a good reason for dragging me into this dingy hole in the wall,” an annoyed voice spoke as someone slid into the booth opposite him.

No. How in the world? Well, ridiculous question, really.

Hermione always found a way.

“Footstep Charm,” Hermione said with a knowing smile, able as ever to read his thoughts. “You almost had me, though. I had to change out of the dress and make a few excuses, and by the time I picked up your trail it had faded a bit, but luckily you tend to move slow when you’re brooding – “

“Hermione, what are you doing here?” Harry asked, even as a small part of him drank in her presence in front of him. Every second spent in her company was equal parts bliss and hateful regret. He wanted to take comfort in that warm smile, to know once again that everything would be fine because she obviously always had a plan for how to handle whatever mess he’d gotten himself into.

But she was the mess this time. How exactly she hoped to fix it was beyond him.

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione asked with a raised eyebrow. “You fly off the handle and storm out when you were supposed to be helping me try on dresses?”

“Of course,” Harry said dryly. “How rude of me to abandon you after you emotionally blackmailed me – “

“Emotional blackmail?” Hermione scoffed with a grin. “Is that what I did?”

“Those eyes and that damnable look you give are impossible, Granger!” Harry said, his face heating up as Hermione smirked at him.

“Well, I hardly knew how…potent they would be at the time, did I?” she said, her own cheeks flushing ever so slightly. The barman returned with Harry’s pint, setting it down on a paper coaster in front of him.

“Sandwich in a moment,” he said, turning to Hermione. “Drink, ma’am?”

“Tea?” Hermione asked. “Earl Gray.”

“To eat?”

“Oh, no thank you,” Hermione said.

“Get her some chips,” Harry sighed. “She always steals food.”

“I do not,” Hermione scoffed as the barman wandered off with a chuckle.

“I have never finished a full plate of food whenever we go out together because you always just get a salad and then start picking at my plate,” Harry insisted.

“Well, Ron always gets so territorial about his,” Hermione admitted, giggling a bit. “I even used to do that when we’d take lunch at the Three Broomsticks, didn’t I? Lavender and Parvati asked once if you and I were dating.”

Harry was glad he hadn’t taken a drink yet, or he would have spat it all over.

“That so?” he asked in what he thought was a rather calm voice.

“I said we weren’t, that I didn’t even think you saw me in that way,” Hermione said.

He said nothing at that, and a moment later, the barman appeared with Harry’s sandwich and Hermione’s tea and chips, placing them on the table and then tactfully leaving them to their moment.

“Harry, what happened?” Hermione asked quietly. “Everything was alright until…well, Ron told you we were engaged.”

“I’d rather not talk about this, Hermione,” Harry said. “It would just…”

“Just what?” Hermione asked, popping a chip in her mouth. “Make things awkward between us? I think that ship’s sailed. Might as well wade into it now.”

As always, she had a perfectly-constructed rebuttal pulled seemingly from nowhere. Likely, she’d rehearsed all manner of permutations of this very conversation in her head while tracking him down, perfectly guessed everything he’d say.

It was maddening sometimes. And he loved her for it.

“You have feelings for me?” she prompted him.

“…Yeah,” Harry sighed, taking a swig of his drink.

“When did this happen?” she asked. Her voice lacked any tone of accusation, any trace of self-serving curiosity. This was Hermione, as usual doing her best to help him out of a sticky spot.

“The day you told me you and Ron were…engaged,” Harry said with a shrug. He reached for his sandwich and took a meager bite while Hermione sipped at her tea. Peering at him over the rim of the cup, she bore only a thoughtful expression.

“And that was the moment you realized that you…fancied me?” she asked. Harry sighed, slumping in his seat.

“We are not having this conversation – “

“Yes we are,” Hermione said firmly. “I won’t have this driving a wedge between us, Harry James Potter. All of the other mess we’ve been through, I won’t have this falling apart now.”

“I think…I took you for granted,” Harry said after a moment, looking up and meeting her eyes. “I never had to think about you not being there because you always were. Even when it felt like there was something there with you and Ron, I knew on some level that I was your priority. Not consciously, I’m not…proud of that, but there it was. So when we started going off and doing our own things, when I realized that there were…were parts of my life that I would have to spend without you… And I’d have to see you spend those moments with someone else…”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighed, nibbling on her lip as she stared across the table at him. She broke eye contact for the first time since he’d started rambling at her, her gaze darting down to the ring on her finger.

“I’m…sorry about all this,” Harry sighed. Under the table, Hermione gave him a gentle kick.

“Don’t you apologize, it’s not as though you had any control over it,” she insisted, her shoulders hunching a bit as a lock of hair fell into her face. “I suppose it’s…flattering, in a way.”

Unable to resist (and probably under the influence of half a glass of Guinness on an empty stomach by now), Harry reached across the table, watching Hermione’s eyes go wide as his finger brushed the offending bit of hair away from her face. Her own hand came up to finish the job and tuck it behind her ear, her cheeks blooming very slightly pink as she did.

“Um…then…” she seemed to visibly collect herself, only to do so again as her eyes darted away from his. “Then the only thing left is to see if we can’t do something about this.”

“Do what?” Harry asked, nearly knocking over his glass in his haste to pull his hands back once he realized what he’d just gone and done. Sure, just mess about with your best friend’s hair, that’s not really weird, Harry! “I can’t just make it go away. I don’t even know if I want to.”

“You don’t want to?” Hermione asked him.

“It’s…hard to describe,” Harry said with a shake of his head. “Probably mad.”

“Well, these sorts of feelings have been described as mad by a lot of people,” Hermione told him with a small smile. “Could you…try to describe it? Please?”

“It’s…like the first time I went flying,” Harry said. “The first time I felt my feet lift off the ground, that I went up into the air and felt that sense of…of excitement, of freedom. I knew, as soon as I took off, I’d never be able to just not do it again. This…hurts, so much. But I never knew it was possible to feel this way about someone, the way I feel about…you. I don’t think I’d want to forget that.”

“Harry…” Hermione trailed off, eyes shining over a watery smile.

“Just…don’t worry about me, alright?” Harry told her. “You’ve done nothing wrong. And I’ve no intention of messing things up between you and Ron. In case you forgot, he’s my other best friend.”

Hermione giggled a bit at that, nodding.

“I’m supposed to be making you feel better, not getting you to reassure me,” she said.

“You’ve spent our whole friendship pulling me from some funk or another,” Harry said with a shake of his head. “And now I’m here telling you I fancy you when you’re engaged.”

“Well…I did chase you down and sort of force the confession,” Hermione reminded him.

“That’s true, it is your own fault,” Harry said, and Hermione threw a chip at him, giggling as he managed to catch it in his mouth.

“Still the best seeker in decades, eh?” she said.

“I thought about going pro, you know,” Harry told her. “Nearly every team sent me an offer. Ginny even told me once that the Holyhead Harpies’ PR manager told them to seriously consider making me the first male team member.”

“I don’t doubt that a bit,” Hermione told him. “Why did you decide not to?”

“Well…because every team sent me an offer,” Harry shrugged. “Would I be getting in based off skill or because I’m…me? Would the other teams even want to try? Or would some blood-purist with a grudge sneak his wand on the pitch and try to chuck me?”

“That’s terrible, though,” Hermione said, snagging up half his sandwich and taking a bite. “The war ruined what could have been an exciting career opportunity.”

“Well, it also gave me a chance to think about what quidditch really is, as well,” Harry said. “And thinking back, it was always an escape. No matter what madness there was at school, I could go out to the pitch, hop a broom, and play a game. Most of the time.”

“Things got a bit rocky the last couple years,” Hermione said. “But if quidditch is an escape, that seems all the more reason to make a career out of it, doesn’t it? To get away from it all?”

“You can’t escape forever, though,” Harry said. “You do, that’s just running away.”

Hermione favored him with a fond smile that caused another of those thuds in his chest. She was seriously bad for his heart.

“Plus, it’s a frightful waste of your talents,” she said. “You should consider teaching. Professor McGonagall is still looking for a fulltime Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. She’d probably make you head of Gryffindor, as well.”

“Well…” Harry trailed off with a shrug.

“What?” Hermione asked, peering curiously at him. “Harry, what is it?”

“It’s nothing,” Harry told her, stuffing another bite of sandwich in his mouth.

“Harry, tell meee,” she all but whined, pouting playfully at him. “Please?”

“That is hardly fair,” he said, pointing a stern finger at her.

“Won’t you tell me?” she asked him, now with an impish smile on her face.

“If you must know…I have occasionally thought about…lesson plans,” he confessed. “Things I’d teach the firsties, tell the older years, caution them against becoming an auror just to go about taking revenge on dark wizards.”

“That’s hardly so embarrassing,” Hermione told him. “Especially since you have taught students before. You had job experience before you’d even left Hogwarts.”

“It’d be nice to go back,” he finally admitted. “I’ve…missed Hogwarts. Sometimes…sometimes so bad it aches.”

“Why not go there and teach, then?” Hermione asked. “Surely you’ve been offered the job.”

“McGonagall’s dropped hints here and there,” Harry said. “But… It would be so different. The Hogwarts I miss isn’t around anymore.”

“You don’t just miss Hogwarts, you want things as simple as they were back then,” Hermione surmised, and Harry nodded, chuckling inwardly at how she was so easily able to understand him, better even than he understood himself sometimes. “You know, Harry, things weren’t so simple as you’re remembering.”

At his chuckle, she looked a bit confused, and Harry stole one of the chips from her plate, laughing even harder at her playfully affronted expression.

“You stole from my plate?” she asked.

“Revenge is best served with a bit too much salt, after all,” Harry said. “I was only laughing because you said exactly what I knew you’d say. About things being not so simple at all back then.”

“We don’t long for the past, we long for the predictability,” Hermione said. “Staring forward into the scary and new is…well, scary.”

“You’re right,” Harry said. “As ever.”

“It’s about time you cottoned on,” Hermione smirked. “It only took nine years.”

“Oh, I’ve known the whole time,” Harry said airily, finishing his half of his sandwich. “It just so happens I have a bit of a stubborn streak.”

“A bit?” Hermione spat. “Just a bit, do you, Harry Potter?”

“A very small bit of one,” Harry said, and Hermione threw another chip at him, which he again caught in his mouth.

“You are insufferable,” she huffed.

In short order, Harry settled his check, and Hermione insisted on escorting him home.

“I’ve only had one drink, Hermione.”

“Then you shouldn’t be sick when I apparate you back home, should you?”

Sighing but deciding the discomfort of side-along apparation wasn’t worth navigating all the way to the Leaky Cauldron or braving Knight Bus, Harry allowed her to slide a hand into his (which he did not blush over like a schoolboy), and only a few disquieting seconds later, they were standing in his sitting room, whereupon he collapsed onto the couch.

“I hate apparating,” he sighed.

“You say that every time I take you anywhere,” Hermione told him. “But look how much time you’ve saved.”

“My love of introversion is always at odds with my hatred of instantaneous travel,” Harry agreed, parroting back the very same thing she had once told him.

“Exactly,” Hermione said. “Now, I’ve agreed to go over some dress decisions I’ve made with Ron, so I need to…to go, alright?”

She trailed off, and Harry knew he’d let his emotions show on his face at the reminder of their situation. With all the perfectly normal talk of life and catching up they’d done, it had slipped his mind for a blissful half hour or so. But as much of her time as he could steal, that’s what it would always be. Stealing her away from Ron, who got to have a life with her, who would get to marry her.

“Harry?”

“Sorry, um…yeah, it’s alright,” he said. “Go ahead, don’t let me keep you.”

“…Harry, I – “

“Just go, Hermione,” he said, trying for a smile but sure it looked somewhere closer to a grimace. “We’ll…see each other soon, yeah?”

“Of course,” Hermione said, her eyes shining as she smiled at him. “Really soon.”

Slumping into his sofa, he watched her leave, doing his level best not to look pathetic, lonely, or despondent so as not to make her feel bad as she went.

He very likely did not succeed.

…

Perhaps when Hermione had promised to see him “really soon”, she hadn’t meant only two hours later, yet later that afternoon, with the sun disappearing behind the distant London skyline, a sharp and vigorous knocking came at his door.

“Kreacher, look after this while I get the door?” Harry called out, and Kreacher cracked into the kitchen, surveying the griddle where Harry had been cooking up a melt. “And not a word about my technique.”

“Not a word, Master Harry,” Kreacher said. “Not a word about adequate flipping at all.”

“Everyone’s a critic,” Harry muttered on the way out of the kitchen. Really, if he was the one eating it, who cared about levels of browning or cheese meltage? He endured enough of that sort of chatter from –

“Hermione?”

The front door had opened, Hermione pocketing her wand and looking equal parts furious and despondent.

“Harry,” she said. “I just… I’m sorry to barge in, I know you’re… Well, I know it’s weird right now, but Ron’s being… Ugh, you don’t need to hear this!”

Without even pausing her stride, she rounded and seemed to be on her way back to the door before Harry rushed forward, taking her by the wrist.

“Hermione Granger, you cannot just leave me with that,” he said. “What’s happened? What did Ron do?”

“He… Harry, he laughed at the dresses!” Hermione said in a shrill voice. “He thought they looked silly! He expected me to come to him with a bunch of wedding robes, like witches wear! I asked him, Harry, I’d…I had asked him what sort of dress he wanted me to pick out, and he said ‘I dunno, whatever you think suits you,’ like he didn’t even care! It’s like he didn’t even think that muggle styles were worth considering!”

Harry led her toward the downstairs lounge, letting her rant while he steered her to a loveseat. Without a word, Kreacher popped in with tea for the both of them. Scooping a small spoonful of sugar and some cream into Hermione’s (just the way she liked it, he remembered), he slid the cup toward her before fixing his own with significantly more of both.

“You’ll rot your teeth out,” she said in a throaty voice without even looking, and he snickered at her.

“Was there quite a row?” Harry asked.

“I wouldn’t say it was a row,” she said. “I just asked him why he expects me to do all the planning and not plan a muggle wedding. I don’t want a wizarding wedding ceremony. For almost ten years, I’ve had to do things the wizard way, to appeal to these…these backwards fools and their traditions. This is my wedding. I told him he could wear a wizard dress robe, but there would have to be compromises, too. I don’t want a wedding that my entire family can’t attend because of the Statute of Secrecy.”

 “That makes sense to me,” Harry said.

“It’s just been so maddening with him!” Hermione went on, having built up steam now. “He doesn’t want to help with any of the planning, but he wants full veto rights on all of the decisions. I suggested periwinkle blue and ivory as the wedding colors, and he says ‘Nah…’ with that little wave of his hand, so of course, I ask him what he’d like, and what does he say?”

“’I dunno, whatever you think suits you.’?” Harry guessed, and Hermione snickered.

“Right in one,” she said. “It’s—Ron, that’s what I think suits us both! A nice light blue would go with his hair and not clash horribly.”

“Maybe it reminds him too much of your Yule Ball robes, and that reminds him of you dancing about with Viktor,” Harry suggested jokingly, but Hermione’s eyes went wide with furious realization.

“That… I bet that’s it!” she said despairingly. “That childish…child!”

“Well, at least there wasn’t a row?” Harry shrugged, and Hermione let a scoff.

“Oh, no, he just called his mum over,” she said in lofty tones.

“Nooo,” Harry groaned.

“And Molly, oh you know how she is,” Hermione rambled on. Harry only nodded, because he knew exactly how Molly Weasley was. Molly Weasley was overbearing and loved coddling her boys.

They had most likely named it mollycoddling after her.

“She shows up in her little traveling cloak and her hat and with this smile on her face, and she promptly tries to explain to me that ‘Dear, wizard weddings aren’t like muggle weddings,’ as though I hadn’t just attended her eldest son’s wizarding wedding a couple of years ago.”

“As if you probably didn’t read up on them when you were twelve anyway,” Harry muttered, and Hermione snickered at him.

“Thirteen, but close enough,” she said before sighing. “It was just so patronizing, Harry. I’ve known this woman for nearly half my life, and she treats me like I’m some aborigine squatting in the mud and she’s enlightening me.”

“There has always been this sort of…disdain?’ Harry glanced at her.

“Disdain is good,” she said.

“For muggles,” he said. “Even from the muggle sympathizers, it seems more like muggles are still in the stone age to them.”

“I’ve noticed that, too,” Hermione sighed.

“How’d it go with Molly?” Harry asked, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

“I went to go use the loo and apparated here,” she said.

“Oh, that’s going to go over well with Ron,” Harry said wryly. “He’ll probably think we’ve been here snogging or something.”

“Maybe we should,” Hermione suggested, and Harry’s hand twitched on its way to his teacup, knocking it over and sending tea everywhere. “Oh! Oh, no, Harry, I’m sorry! I wasn’t thinking, and you’re…”

“Evanesco,” Harry sighed out with a twitch of his wand, and the tea was gone. “Scourgify.”

“Sorry,” Hermione said contritely. “I sort of, um…”

“Forgot that I fancy you now?” Harry finished for her, and she stuck her tongue out at him.

“In my defense, I’ve only just found out maybe three hours ago,” she said. “It’s still rather fresh.”

“Well…what’s the plan?” Harry asked. “Because right now, it sounds like Ron just wants you to keep bringing ideas to him until he points to one that he likes, and then you just move forward with that.”

“He wants me to play the part of hired wedding planner for my own wedding,” Hermione agreed. “Well, that won’t be happening, Ronald Bilius Weasley.”

“You tell him,” Harry said, and Hermione grinned over at him. Their eyes met, and the beaming expression faded to an almost perplexed little smile.

“How would you want your wedding to be?” she asked. “Where would you have the ceremony and all that?”

“…Dunno, I…” Harry trailed off, stopping himself from telling her he’d just go with whatever she wanted. Instead, he made himself imagine, painful as it was, how he would marry her. “Probably…on a hilltop. Somewhere outside, with a tree. Not many people, just family and a few close friends. You would—she would be wearing a white dress and a flowered wreath in your hair. Teddy could be the ring-bearer.”

“And the reception?” Hermione asked.

“Oh, a big dinner party,” Harry said. “Outdoors, still, like a garden party. Music and food, but not too much ceremony about it, you know? Let everyone just mingle and do their own thing.”

“But there has to be some silly games, hasn’t there?” Hermione asked. “Wedding bingo and the guessing games, right?”

“Yeah, just lighthearted fun stuff like that,” Harry said. “And if you don’t feel like joining in, great, just stuff your face instead.”

“That sounds perfectly lovely,” Hermione said with a smile at him. “I’d go to that wedding.”

Harry caught himself about to say something rather rash and very stupid, shutting his mouth and reaching for his teacup…before remembering he’d spilt it everywhere.

“What were you just about to say?” Hermione asked softly.

Bugger.

“Hermione – “

“It’s okay, Harry, you can say it,” she said.

“No, it’s—I don’t want to say it,” he shot back. “If I say it, I…start thinking about it, and…”

He looked over to see her staring back with a watery smile.

“I’m sorry I just keep barging in and tormenting you,” she said. “You’re my best friend, and I rather like talking to you, though.”

“It’s a complicated situation,” Harry agreed.

They lapsed into silence, Harry thinking about Ron and how much of a cad he was being, how lucky he was and seemed unable to understand. He thought of all the times Ron had…well, let him down. The two’s friendship was legendary, of course, but in that moment, all Harry could seem to remember was the time Ron had abandoned him in fourth year, had ditched the both of them during the horcrux hunt.

Stop it. You’re only dwelling on this because you fancy his fiancée.

Ron wasn’t fourteen anymore. People grew, they changed. And despite tensions running high during the horcrux hunt (aided and abetted by a hostile horcrux they’d been foolishly wearing round their necks), Ron had immediately regretted his decision and even saved Harry’s life in the frozen pond.

A shifting of weight next to him roused him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Hermione standing and giving a little stretch.

“Leaving so soon?” he asked before he could stop himself. Hermione turned and smiled warmly down at him.

“I…I just need to go home and think about…well, about a lot of things,” she said. “It’s been a really, really emotional day for me.”

“I suppose it has,” Harry said with a grin. “Sor – “

“If you apologize to me one more time, Harry Potter,” Hermione cut him off, aiming her wand at him with a menacing pout.

“Well now I just want to apologize for apologizing,” he grinned.

“You impossible prat,” she sighed. “I’ll see you.”

“See you,” Harry said, wondering how many times he’d have to watch her walk away from him, walk to the life she was setting up without him.

When once again it was just him and Grimmauld Place (and Kreacher puttering around the kitchen), Harry sighed, begging his eyes to stop burning.

“Once more, very clearly.”

“Ridiculous.”

Chapter Text

It was a week before Harry even saw Ron or Hermione again, which was actually quite fine by him; some time away from the situation gave him a chance to clear his head. With a fresh perspective and a new outlook, he promised himself that the recent discussion with Hermione over his feelings for her would also be the last one. There was no sense to bringing it up over and over again. They had aired everything out, talked it over, and maybe dipped a little too far into speculation and “what-if?”, but continuing to do so would only make things worse.

With nothing else for it, he dove into his work with a new gusto. Even two years after Voldemort’s final defeat, plenty of his sympathizers were still at large and continuing his work in small but meaningful ways. And, even without the lingering agenda of a megalomaniacal psychopath, there were just plain a lot of bad people in the world.

In a way, it was a disheartening line of work. With everything he’d done to topple Voldemort, all the people he’d lost along the way, the sacrifices made…every day of the week, he came in here and saw that there were dozens more who would do the same. Muggles were victimized, muggle-borns were marginalized, and purebloods like the Malfoys paid their way out of any lasting repercussions.

Lucius was even showing his face around the Ministry again, though it seemed that Kingsley had issued a standing order that he be as quickly escorted from the building as possible, lest Harry do something unpleasant.

“The gall of him, is all I’m saying,” Higgins grumbled into his soda over lunch. The Malfoy patriarch had just been swiftly shown the door (and received one or two threats against his person on the way, to boot), and it was the talk of the Auror Department, most of whom were discussing wishes to simply arrest him the next time he showed his face. “Why he’s not rotting in a cell is a mystery to me.”

“Simple, he’s rich,” Willingham spat. “Long as he’s got money to throw around, a rebuilding Ministry is going to take it from him and give him the stern finger wag.”

“’Don’t you go joining any more dark crusades, now’,” Harry said in an impression of a chiding schoolmarm, and the other two chuckled.

“Barking, though, ain’t it, Potter?” Higgins asked him. Thickset and blond, he had reminded Harry of Dudley at first, though the resemblance ended there. He was one of the friendliest blokes Harry had ever met, and had taken Harry under his wing immediately.

“Barking,” Harry agreed. “Seems like everyone’s already forgotten everything he did.”

“I guess two years and a few thousand galleons is all you need for the average citizen to forget a war crime or two,” Willingham snorted. Willingham was Higgins’s opposite in nearly every way, reedy and with skin the color of chocolate. He wore thick glasses that magnified his already wide eyes, reminding Harry a bit of Luna Lovegood.

The pair had been instrumental in keeping Harry from being overwhelmed in his first few weeks in the auror office, and even now, he still took lunch with them every once in a while. The three of them had clustered around Harry’s desk today, enjoying a stack of corned beef sandwiches Kreacher had packed for Harry.

 “So, how you been, Potter?” Higgins asked. “Been awful quiet lately.”

“Aren’t I always?” Harry asked, and Higgins shrugged.

“Yeah, fair,” he said.

“Heard your pals are gettin’ hitched,” Willingham said. “Ron and, er, what’s-her-name down the DMLE? Garber?”

“Granger,” Harry said flatly. “Hermione Granger.”

“Yeah, those two,” Willingham said. “I wonder how that’s going.”

Before Harry could say anything to change the subject, the door to the three’s shared office burst open, and Ron was standing there, looking aghast. Wide eyes stared forward unseeingly, and Harry had enough time to dread that something horrible had happened to Ginny or something before his friend spoke in a croaking voice.

“Harry. She called it off.”

“She—wait, what?” Harry sprang to his feet, crossing the room to his friend. “Who called what off?”

“Hermione,” Ron said in a voice devoid of emotion. “She…she called off the wedding. She doesn’t wanna marry me anymore.”

A ringing silence followed this pronouncement, broken only by a small clearing of the throat from Willingham.

“Right, uh…” he spoke up in a small voice from the nearby desk, and with a shuffle, he and Higgins had gotten to their feet, moving past the pair by the door.

“You need the room,” Higgins said. “We’ll, uh…leave you to it.”

When the pair had left, Ron collapsed into Higgins’s vacated seat, his expression that same wide-eyed mask like he’d just watched his dog get hit by a car and was still mentally catching up. Harry reached into a drawer in his desk, withdrawing two Butterbeer Darks and passing one to Ron.

“Alright, tell me all of it.”

…

Apparently, she had been distant all week, often pensive and seemingly having given up all pretense of planning for the wedding. The pair had never reconciled the dress debacle, and things had only escalated from there, Hermione coming to him with all manner of idea or plan and Ron shooting it down.

Of course, he phrased it a bit more ambivalently in regards to himself.

“She just kept showing up with some mad plan and calling it a muggle wedding tradition. I thought we’d be having something a bit like Bill’s wedding, you know? But she just kept coming up with something new.”

Things had only gotten worse when discussion had turned to post-wedding.

“When she was over at Mum’s, they’d talk about all the different spells she’d be using to keep the house, do the laundry and all that. And she asked me the other day why I act so helpless when I’ve had Mum to teach me all that stuff. I told her, ‘Mum never taught me any of that. She was showing you because your mum would have only shown you the muggle way.’”

Evidently, he had never really planned to help with any of the housework.

“So, what exactly did she tell you?” Harry asked, sipping at his drink. “Is everything on hold, or…?”

“She gave the ring back,” Ron sighed with a shake of his head. “She said…something about how I need to find my ideal girl, not try to turn her into it.”

“Sounds like she just thinks you two aren’t really suited,” Harry said.

“But I love her, Harry,” Ron said. “I thought we’d be together.”

“Did you think about what you being together would actually be like?” Harry asked. “You know, instead of just slotting Hermione into that part of your plan?”

“What d’you mean?” Ron asked, and Harry sighed.

“Well, you probably had this picture of what you wanted marriage and all that to be like,” Harry said. “Probably something like your mum and dad, yeah? You work, she cooks and cleans, nothing wrong with that, long as you have a girl that likes that sort of a life.”

“Nothing at all,” Ron agreed.

“But that doesn’t exactly seem like Hermione,” Harry said. “If you wanted to be with her, you had to have understood that those plans would need to change, right?”

“Well…” Ron trailed off with a helpless sort of shrug.

“Ron…can you really picture Hermione ‘I Tried to Free All the House-Elves’ Granger becoming a housewife?” Harry asked. “I’m sure she’s happy to chip in and team up on the chores, but that girl is going to be Minister for Magic, and you know it. She needs someone willing to step up and help her with those ambitions once in a while.”

“I guess so,” Ron sighed. “I just… I thought that’s what you do with a girl you love, you marry her and…”

“Happily ever after?” Harry suggested, and Ron shrugged, his ears reddening. “Doesn’t always work out like that in the real world, mate. Look at Ginny and me. We realized there was something that just wasn’t there. Maybe it wasn’t there for you and Hermione, either.”

“But I love her,” Ron repeated, as though that simple fact alone was all the rebuttal in the world.

“Sometimes you love someone, and…that’s it,” Harry said. “You’re looking for two different things, and you just can’t reconcile that.”

“When did you get so smart about love and stuff?” Ron asked him with a wan smile.

“Well, I’m really bad at it, so I’ve learned just about everything you shouldn’t do,” Harry told him. “Process of elimination, innit?”

Ron snickered, chugging the last of his drink and sighing as he climbed to his feet.

“Alright, I reckon I should go tell Mum, ‘fore she tries to schedule another meet-up with her,” he said.

“You gonna be alright?” Harry asked, and Ron grinned at him, though there was something rather forced in the expression.

“Yeah, mate,” he said. “Just need time to get my head around it all, I think. Tell Robards I’m out the rest of the day, yeah?”

Harry rolled his eyes but nodded; Ron was fond of taking full advantage of the trio’s status, bowing out early and dodging paperwork whenever possible. Of course, he was just as fond of complaining when he was passed over for advancement opportunities, apparently under the impression that he had already paid his dues.

Getting him to reflect on the correlation was a lost cause.

The rest of the day passed in a blur, Harry alternating between staring unseeingly at his latest case file and out the enchanted window hanging on his wall. The sky was, as ever in his office, a pristine blue dotted with fluffy clouds, though he apparently had carte blanche to send a memo down and request a change in the forecast from the Magical Maintenance Department. He briefly considered doing so and asking for a thoughtful bout of rainfall, but he abhorred using his status to obtain the various perks that were all but foisted on him. Already, he felt like a pretender even to sit in this seat without having passed the rigorous onboarding process other junior aurors went through. Gawain Robards had fatly refused to put him or Ron through it when they’d applied, however, citing their toppling of Voldemort’s regime resumé enough.

Only after much prodding from Hermione had Harry reluctantly agreed.

Hermione…

What was she doing right now, he wondered? No doubt she was at her desk, tearing through another stack of paperwork in order to distract herself from the drama.

Hermione had taken a different route within the DMLE, choosing to tackle the political corruption within the Ministry. A daunting prospect for anyone, for a muggle-born, it should have been unthinkable. But two years later (and relying on the steadfast backing of Minister Shacklebolt himself), the shakeup continued. Outdated and unfair laws were being repealed, hefty bribes were being turned away, and several high-ranking officials had been discreetly let go from their positions. Notably, Hermione had received more than a few criticisms disguising veiled threats, though a visit from Harry Potter in the doorway of one’s office had a way of sapping the wind from one’s sails.

So far, he had only had to become unpleasant once, and it had left a lasting impression on future dissenters.

When it was nearly time for him to leave, Harry stood from his desk, stretching with a groan and feeling something in his back pop in a pleasant way. He wasn’t suited for this desk work; his attention span simply wasn’t able for it.

“Long day?” Hermione’s voice startled him, and he jolted. Spinning, he saw her standing in his office doorway, smiling at him. “Hey.”

“Oh…hi there,” Harry said, unsure of how to proceed. He hadn’t really given much thought to the rather distracting fact that Hermione was now single. It felt like the wrong course to do something as grandiose as cross the room and snog her or immediately drop to his knee and propose.

It was tempting, though it also felt rather in poor taste.

“Ron’s been here, then?” Hermione asked him. “You’ve…heard?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “You alright?”

“I’m the one that did the dumping, I should be sound,” Hermione mumbled, though she didn’t seem to believe her words.

“D’you…wanna grab dinner or something?” Harry asked. “Talk it out?”

“Not as a date or anything?” Hermione asked him, and Harry shook his head.

“You need a friend, not me circling like a vulture,” he said. Hermione smiled and reached out to wrap her hand around his.

“I’d like dinner.”

…

“It was mostly his complete unwillingness to compromise or even listen to me,” Hermione sighed. The two had taken up the same booth as before, in the small pub Harry had wandered to following their ill-fated dress-shopping trip. “Every decision I came to him with, he would just act really scornful, like I was clinging to some old pointless superstition or something. And then we started talking about his expectations of married life.”

“He mentioned that,” Harry said. “I told him he was trying to slot you into his future plans and not actually build a future with you.”

“Well…yes,” Hermione said, looking a little too surprised. “That’s very insightful, Harry.”

“I’m good for that sometimes,” Harry grinned. Hermione had the good grace to look abashed.

“Sorry,” she said with a small laugh. “I forget that some boys are capable of emotional growth.”

“Is that where you’ve been all week?” Harry asked. “Trying to come to a decision or something?”

“Essentially,” Hermione said with a feeble smile. “And…well, I felt like I reacted quite poorly to hearing that you…have feelings for me. I said some things I likely shouldn’t have, and I most likely just made you feel worse. I wanted to give us both some space to sort of…cool off.”

“I was thinking the same thing, actually,” Harry said. “Rather robbed me of a chance to tell you to get lost and set some boundaries.”

“Sorry about that,” Hermione giggled, and Harry smirked at her.

“As if I’d ever be able to tell you to get lost,” he said. Hermione’s cheeks pinked a bit at that, and she popped a chip into her mouth.

“If I had to leave you for your own safety, I like to think I’d have the strength to,” she said.

“Well, thankfully, my own safety usually involves keeping you around to save my skin,” Harry told her. Hermione snickered at that, tossing a chip for him to catch in his mouth.

“I can’t even argue that point,” she said. “It’s true.”

Later, the pair were leaving the pub, and Hermione reached out to take his hand again, squeezing it between hers. Rather than apparate them right away, she seemed content to walk along the bustling streets of a London evening. She had that look on her face that meant that she was mulling something over, likely attempting to work through a good think before voicing what was on her mind.

Soon, it seemed, she had finally organized her thoughts.

“Harry,” she said, peering down at their entwined hands. “There’s…something I’d like to sort of…have out there. In the interest of full disclosure.”

“…Alright,” Harry said with a small laugh. “What is it?”

“I had…rather a bit of a crush on you during school,” she confessed.

That brought him to a halt, and Hermione felt his hand pull at hers as he stopped, looking back with a rueful smile.

“I know,” she said. “On top of everything else, that too.”

“You – “

“It was rather an innocent thing,” Hermione admitted with a smile. “Ron told me it was your idea to come and save me from the troll, and ever since then, there was this sort of admiration I had for you. You were this…brave, sometimes foolish boy who always seemed to have time to play the hero.”

“’Sometimes foolish’?” Harry asked, and she stuck her tongue out, tugging him along.

“Only sometimes,” she said. “And it wasn’t this distracting obsession or anything. It was more…admiration. I eventually realized you seemed to prefer sporty girls. Cho, Ginny… I suppose I wasn’t your type, or…so I thought.”

“I just needed to get my priorities straight,” Harry said, feeling heat in his face at the idea that Hermione had actually liked him. Again, he cursed Harry of five or so years ago. All of that time spent fretting over asking Cho to the Yule Ball, he could have asked Hermione and kicked off a romance for the ages.

“You had your priorities fairly well-sorted, I think,” Hermione said with a small smile. “You were focused on staying alive on a year-to-year basis.”

“Yeah, fair enough,” Harry chuckled.

“Anyway, when you told me about your feelings for me—or, I suppose when I dragged it out of you—it brought all of that back,” she said. “And then all that got compounded by the fact that…well, we’ve grown rather close, haven’t we? More than ever, really.”

“You’re the only person that’s been there for me every single step of the way, Hermione,” Harry said to her. “I’m closer to you than anyone else by miles.”

Hermione nodded, squeezing his hand.

“So…do you still…?” Harry trailed off, glancing over at her. “I mean, did you…?”

“Did I get over my silly childhood crush?” Hermione asked, smiling up at him. “Yes. But…did I end up developing something more…serious, instead? Something I had to really contend with in order to be objective about this business with Ron?”

Harry waited silently, sure he wasn’t even breathing as he listened.

“Yes,” Hermione whispered.

“You – “

“Yes, Harry,” she said, more fervently, her voice throaty with emotion. “But we mustn’t—I’ve just broken off an engagement.”

“Right, right,” Harry said, his heart absolutely hammering in his chest. Oh, at the same time he felt elation unlike he’d ever contended with before, he felt horrible for Ron. Hermione had said she’d been objective, or attempted to, but it still rang a little close to him having stolen her away.

Hermione liked him. She shared his feelings.

“Wow,” he breathed, and Hermione giggled.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Wow.”

They walked in silence, though Hermione did shift their hands to twine her fingers through his, her thumb rubbing softly at the back of his hand.

“I just… I wanted you to know,” she went on. “I’m not ready to dive into anything yet, but I couldn’t bear the thought of you going on thinking I didn’t feel the same. It’s been horrible, trying to keep this separate from the business with Ron, but even if you hadn’t developed these feelings or if you’d managed to keep them under wraps, I’m sure things would have fallen apart between us eventually.”

“It did sort of all come crashing down at once, didn’t it?” Harry pointed out, and Hermione hummed in amusement.

“Doesn’t it always?” she asked.

Soon, the night grew chilly as the last of the day’s warmth left the air, and Hermione heaved a little sigh.

“I suppose I ought to get you home,” she said.

“Oh, goody,” Harry muttered. “I do love this part of our outings.”

Hermione snickered at him, squeezing his hand and peering up at him with a warm smile.

“You’ll be fine, you big baby,” she said. “Ready?”

So wrapped up was Harry in the feel of his hand in hers, the warm chocolate of her eyes and her playfully teasing tone, that he didn’t even notice the actual apparation happen, and before he knew it, he was standing again in his sitting room. The sudden change from the cold and dry of London to the cozy warmth of Grimmauld Place shocked him for a long second, fogging his glasses up. As he quickly snatched them from his face and wiped them on his shirt, he heard a quiet giggle from Hermione.

“A bit foggy in here, is it?” she asked him, and Harry grinned.

“Only because you’ve gotten me all hot and bothered,” he said. He was rewarded with a squeak from Hermione, who smacked him gently on the chest.

“Hush, you,” she said, though she sounded amused. Harry fixed his glasses back on his face to see her smiling wistfully up at him. “I’ll miss you.”

“Would you maybe like to come over tomorrow?” he asked. “I’ve no plans, we could just make some popcorn, watch a movie.”

Hermione’s smile widened, and she stepped in, dropping her head to his chest.

“That sounds perfectly lovely,” she said. “I need to go tell Mum and Dad about what’s happened today, though. And there are a few appointments I need to cancel. Cake testings and whatnot.”

“And then you could come over and watch a movie,” Harry said sagely, feeling her quake against him with laughter.

“Which movie?” she asked.

“Hm… Robin Hood,” he said. “The animated one where they’re all animals.”

He felt her look up at him, and he met her curious gaze to see her smiling warmly at him.

“You remembered that’s my favorite,” she said in pleased tones.

“All those old classic animated ones, right?” he asked her. “I have the lot of them all stacked up in my TV room.”

“Imagine Walburga Black’s reaction to knowing there’s a telly and a VCR in her ancient pureblood home,” Hermione said wryly.

“Oh I don’t have to imagine it,” Harry said. “I didn’t get her tapestry removed until after I had some electrical wiring put in, and boy did she make her feelings on the matter known.”

Hermione giggled at that, and Harry reveled in the sound, in her closeness and the warmth of her presence so near him. Unbidden, his hands came up and slid over her shoulders, down her arms to encircle her in an embrace. He simply couldn’t reconcile Hermione—the most powerful woman he could think of—with how very small and perfect she felt in his arms as he held her.

“Mm,” she noised happily in his arms, hers wrapping up and around his back to hold him tightly. “Harry, I need to gooo.”

“So go,” Harry said into her hair, and a hot puff of breath ghosted over his neck as she laughed.

“You know, I think I might be getting some mixed signals from you,” she whispered, sending chills up his spine.

“Says the one who taught me how to send them,” Harry said.

“Hush, you,” she told him again.

“Alright, fine,” Harry said, slowly dropping his arms. Hermione brushed her nose over his jaw, pressing her lips to his cheek.

“I’m trying to be good about this and not jump right into things with you the same day I break up with Ron,” she said.

“I know,” Harry said with a sigh. “It’s a complicated situation.”

“There’s going to be an uproar eventually,” she grumbled. “I just know it.”

“Let’s not worry about that,” Harry said. “Let’s just…get some rest, yeah? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she said softly, taking a small step back. Harry already felt the chill of her absence despite the warmth of the room. “We’re going to be disgustingly clingy once we get around to being together, I just know it.”

“Oh, beyond any doubt,” Harry chuckled. “Don’t keep me waiting for that day too long, now.”

“You think you’re the only one who can’t wait?” Hermione said, winking at him. “See you soon.”

“Not soon enough,” Harry said, and she snickered.

“Truly disgusting,” she said.

And then she was gone with the quietest pop, leaving Harry to collapse onto his sofa. He felt utterly liberated, like the heaviest of weights had been taken from his shoulders. Hermione felt the same way, seemed to share the magnetic pull they had toward each other. And she and Ron were through, over, irreconcilably unable to move forward. Harry felt a pang of guilt despite Hermione’s claim that their mutual attraction hadn’t had anything to do with the dissolution of the engagement. Even with that fact aside, there was still the immutable truth that he was moving in on his best friend’s ex.

He was pretty sure that was against some code.

But Hermione wasn’t just Ron’s ex. Hermione was…well, Hermione. Harry’s best friend, the most solid rock in his life. The fact that he had been too foolish to see her true worth earlier was likely the only reason they weren’t together already, and there was that jolt again, that excitable thud of his heart.

Because they would be.

Of course she needed time to collect herself, time to be single and avert any of the classic rebound behavior. But even if she was only coming over to watch a movie tomorrow, at least she would be with him. At least she would be there, not agonizingly out of reach and engaged to someone else.

To even share simply a couch and bowl of popcorn would be all Harry needed, if he was doing so with Hermione Granger.

Chapter Text

The uproar came sooner than either of the pair could have predicted.

Only the very next day, as Harry took a midmorning cup of tea while watching the Saturday cartoon block he’d always missed out on as a child, his fireplace flared to life with glimmering emerald flames, and a voice he hadn’t heard in some time echoed forth.

“Harry, are you there?” Ginny asked. “Mind if I come over?”

“Hey, Ginny,” Harry said. “Uh, sure, pop on in.”

By the time Ginny’s spinning form had resolved itself in his hearth, Harry had called for a second cup and poured her some tea. Stepping from his fireplace, Ginny spared the telly a glance and a small smile as she sat next to Harry.

“You love those cartoons,” she said with a smirk at him.

“I never got to watch them growing up,” Harry admitted. “Dudley would always chase me from the room.”

“Someday I’d like to meet Dudley,” Ginny said with a dangerous edge to her voice, and Harry grinned at her.

“You and the rest of your family,” he said. “I think Hermione has first go at him, though, and there won’t be anything left after.”

“Speaking of Hermione,” Ginny said, taking up her teacup and sipping at it, “have you heard the latest? The engagement is off.”

“Yeah, Ron told me yesterday,” Harry said.

“What happened there, I wonder?” Ginny asked. “Those two have been all over each other since school.”

“At each other’s throats, more like,” Harry chuckled, and Ginny grinned. “I think it was fine enough for a tumultuous teenage romance, but they just didn’t fit together anymore.”

“Look at you, the love guru,” Ginny giggled. “Anyway, I thought you should know, Mum has this grand scheme brewing to try to get them back together.”

“What?” Harry asked, perhaps a little more sharply than intended. Ginny rolled her eyes, her opinion on Molly’s meddling obvious.

“Of course, she also seems to think there’s hope for us,” Ginny said, her voice a little too casual to be entirely genuine. “She was the one who said I should come by and let you know the news, even though you surely already knew.”

“She does have her opinions on who her children should pair up with,” Harry said. “Or do you remember how she and Fleur got on at first?”

“I’m still not sold on Bill and Phlegm,” Ginny muttered, and Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes. She was silent for a moment before peering over at him. “You know…I was a bit surprised at how much I missed you while I was away.”

“Oh?” Harry noised, and Ginny shifted, her hand coming up to gently brush over his.

“D’you think maybe…we just didn’t try hard enough?” she asked him. “We had a real connection, didn’t we?”

“Ginny,” Harry said as he gently pulled his hand away, “people can connect without it being romantic. You’re a wonderful friend, you’re…brilliant. But we both agreed there was something that wasn’t there anymore, didn’t we?”

“But maybe it would have been, if we’d given it time,” Ginny said, and Harry could tell she was trying not to sound petulant as she spoke.

“I don’t…think that it’s the best idea for us to try to rekindle anything,” Harry said. “I’ve been sort of…seeing someone else.”

“Wait—you moved on already?” Ginny asked, her eyes going wide. “Harry Potter, the master of pining?”

“Oi, I resent that,” Harry said with a chuckle.

“Who with?” Ginny pressed, ignoring his remark. “It must be someone we know. You’re not in the habit of meeting new people.”

“Maybe I have,” Harry said, though he felt his face warm a bit.

“C’mon, who is it?” Ginny all but whined. “I’m not going to pester her or anything, I just think I should know if she’s a good fit or not. Parvati?”

“What?” Harry blurted. “No, not—Ginny, I haven’t spoken to Parvati in over a year.”

“Hm, Luna?”

“Luna Lovegood?” Harry asked. “You think my one and only girl is Luna Lovegood?”

“She’s a catch, you know,” Ginny pointed out, her expression now thoughtful. “Sounds like this is pretty serious, though. ‘One and only girl’? Is this someone you’ve known for a while, then? And just hopped into it?”

“Well – “

“No,” Ginny cut him off, now looking at him with wide-eyed realization. “Wait… No, you don’t want anyone to know because it’d cause a stir, wouldn’t it? That’s the big secret.”

“Ginny – “

“It’s Hermione,” Ginny said. “You and Hermione!?”

She was good; maybe she should have been an auror.

“Look, Ginny, it just sort of…happened,” Harry sighed, figuring it best to simply admit to the truth. “I realized I had feelings for her, and – “

“And you stole her from Ron?” Ginny finished for him.

“I didn’t steal her,” Harry objected. “They were having issues already, and – “

“And you decided to help them see that they’re better off apart from each other?” Ginny asked him accusingly, springing to her feet. “What is wrong with you, Harry!?”

“It’s not like I had some malicious agenda!” Harry defended himself. “I never once even mentioned the possibility of ending things to her. She got there all by herself after Ron decided to be insufferable while she was trying to plan the wedding.”

“Well, she kept trying to drag all of those weird muggle traditions into it!” Ginny shouted.

“Because she’s a muggle-born!” Harry bellowed back. “Those ‘weird traditions’ mean something to her! Or are you going to tell me that muggles are somehow lesser than wizards, because I knew a bloke and his friends who felt the same way.”

“…Don’t you dare lump us in with them,” Ginny said in a dangerously low voice. “How dare you, Harry Potter? After what they’ve put us through, after what they did!”

Harry felt instantly terrible for what he’d said, his anger deflating as Ginny’s eyes shone at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t…”

“Tell you what,” Ginny suggested briskly. “You two go off and be happy together, because our family is better off without you!”

Harry watched as she stalked back to his fireplace, nearly upending his bowl of Floo powder as she grabbed a handful and threw it in the flames. In a flash of green and a shouted “The Burrow!”, she was gone, leaving a ringing silence in her wake.

Well, that could have certainly gone better.

…

“Not the most tactful way of making a point,” Hermione sighed. “You really compared them to Voldemort and his Death Eaters?”

“It was rather a heat of the moment thing,” Harry said. “I felt terrible for it.”

“You’ve always had a way of letting your temper decide your words for you,” Hermione chided him. “It’s admirable at times, but mostly a bit troublesome.”

“I apologized right away, at least,” Harry shrugged. Hermione sat leaning against him on the sofa in his TV room, her legs pulled up beneath her and her slim but wonderfully solid weight against him. She wore a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt of his, her mane of hair tamed back into a thick braid at the base of her neck.

She looked cozy, comfy, and beautiful, Harry thought.

“Well, best let everyone have a chance to move on, I suppose,” Hermione sighed. “This all happened much more quickly than I’d hoped. I thought we’d get a chance for everyone to cope with the breakup, but…”

“Now it definitely looks like I just stole you,” Harry said, and Hermione huffed irritably.

“As if I’d let myself be stolen,” she said. “It certainly at least looks like we’ve been…well, going behind Ron’s back.”

“D’you think he’d actually believe that?” Harry asked.

“I…really hope not,” Hermione said, her voice a bit bleak, “but he’s not had the best judgment in the past.”

Harry heaved a small sigh at that; the Weasleys had been the only real family he’d known growing up, had taken him in when even his own flesh and blood only seemed willing to tolerate his existence most days. To think that he would have to distance himself from them, that Ginny was probably already spinning a story of deceit and infidelity, was not pleasant at all.

“Hey,” Hermione’s voice breathed softly in his ear, her lips gently pressing against it. “It won’t be like this forever. We’ll patch things up with them, I’m sure of it.”

Harry turned to her with a rueful smile on his face.

“You know, you’re making it very difficult to take things slowly, doing things like that,” he said, and Hermione giggled, flashing him an impish smile.

“Down, boy,” she said.

They got a movie going shortly after that, and Kreacher popped in with a bowl of popcorn for them (“Thank you, Kreacher,” Hermione said politely.), which they shared while watching an animated fox topple the iron rule of Prince John and the Sherriff of Nottingham. Despite having seen the movie innumerable times, Hermione seemed quite invested in the proceedings, nestling into Harry and staring transfixed at the screen. Harry, for his part, simply enjoyed the closeness, the scent of Hermione’s shampoo and the slow rise and fall of her breathing against him. Occasionally, she would quake with a small giggle at some silly antic happening on screen, and Harry warred with the urge to hold her tightly. He soon lost, wrapping his arms around her and squeezing.

“Oh,” she noised softly, wiggling happily at his grip. “Hello.”

“Hey,” Harry said.

“Enjoying the movie?” she asked him.

“To be honest, I’m not paying terribly much attention to it,” he said, and she stuck her tongue out.

“Well, you should,” she huffed in a mock-pretentious tone. “This is cinematic gold.”

“My apologies,” Harry said gravely. “I suppose I just don’t have the artistic mind to appreciate it.”

She snickered at that, twisting in his arms to rest her head against his chest. With hear ear pressed against him, she hummed happily and shut her eyes.

“I can hear your heart,” she said softly.

“You should hear what you do to it sometimes,” Harry chuckled, and she smirked at him.

“Will I be sending you to a cardiologist before long?”

“Maybe,” Harry said. “I just can’t handle it, how pretty you are.”

Her face went rather pink, and a pleased smile spread on her face as she nuzzled into him.

“Stop iiit,” she whined. “How am I to take it slow when you’re being so relentlessly sweet?”

“I’m sorry I’m so irresistible,” Harry said flatly. Hermione snickered against him, beginning to shake with laughter that ended in a snort. “Boy, that one got you good, did it?”

“That tone and those words were just too much,” she said through her laughter. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say something like that.”

“D’you remember in sixth year when you called me ‘fanciable’?” Harry asked her, and Hermione pouted a smile up at him.

“Yes,” she said ruefully. “You’d just started growing a bit of a beard, just a small bit of scruff, and it looked so dashing.”

“Oh, really?” Harry asked with a pleased smile. “Why didn’t you call me that instead?”

“Because I was trying to at least be a little subtle about my lingering crush,” Hermione huffed. She reached up and ran her fingers through the respectable bit of facial hair Harry had been cultivating. “Mmm, this is lovely, though. I rather like you with a beard.”

“You think so?” Harry asked her, and Hermione nodded.

“I’ve always wanted to see what you’d look like with one,” she said. “Quite manly.”

“Maybe I’ll grow it out proper shaggy like Hagrid’s beard,” Harry said.

“I’d have to part all that hair just to kiss you,” Hermione said. She seemed to realize what she’d just said, and her eyes went wide as Harry felt yet another of those thuds in his chest. “I mean…”

“Luckily you…don’t have to worry about that just yet,” Harry said, grinning at her. Hermione bit her lip and nuzzled into his chest again before moving to brush her nose against his jaw and plant a row of kisses along it. When her lips were next to his ear, she whispered.

“I’m begging you to stop being so bloody sweet to me, I can’t handle it.”

They whiled away the rest of the day in that manner, Hermione occasionally flicking her wand at the stack of tapes near the VCR to switch out the next one. In addition to Robin Hood, the pair watched 101 Dalmatians, A Goofy Movie (one of Harry’s favorites), Toy Story, and they rounded off the marathon with The Aristocats. At one point, Hermione nodded off against him, snoring softly and letting the occasional sleepy hum into his neck.

It was truly maddening.

It was the best afternoon he’d had in living memory.

Before he knew it, he himself was waking up to a dimly-lit room, only the blue glow of the television screen and the dying fire in the corner left to illuminate the pair of them. He looked down to see Hermione’s eyes glinting in the semidarkness, and she smiled up at him once she felt him stir.

“You look so peaceful when you’re sleeping,” she spoke softly.

“Likewise,” Harry said, and she let a quiet laugh.

“Mmm, I’m rather hungry,” she said.

“Me too,” Harry said. “There’s a Chinese place not far that’ll deliver.”

“I could eat Chinese,” Hermione said, checking her watch. “Oh, goodness, we were asleep for a while. It’s nearly seven.”

“My, what a scandal,” Harry said with a grin, and Hermione stuck her tongue out at him.

“I honestly should probably get going,” she admitted with obvious reluctance. “I do have a report to do yet today.”

“You mean you haven’t done your homework yet?” Harry asked in mock shock. Hermione giggled quietly, giving him a gentle smack as she climbed to her feet and stretched.

“Well, someone invited me over for a movie date and then let me fall asleep,” she said. “And unfortunately, weekly reports can’t exactly be done in advance.”

“You’d have the year’s paperwork handled and ready to give in to Tremaine as needed if you could,” Harry said. Already, he felt her absence, the lack of her warmth and weight against him. He warred with himself for a moment, desperate to reach out and pull her right back into the couch.

“She’s actually given me a small amount of grief about the, um…extent of my documentation,” Hermione said with a chagrined look. “Apparently, an extra few paragraphs doesn’t earn extra credit like it did in school.”

Harry stood with a sigh, chuckling as Hermione stuck her lip out in an exaggerated pout.

“You’re laughing at me,” she groused.

“Laughing with you,” Harry insisted.

“I’m not laughing,” she said with a small giggle. Harry could only smile, reaching out and pulling her into a hug. A pleased hum escaped Hermione as she nestled into his arms, sighing against him.

“You make it entirely too difficult to leave,” she grumbled.

“Good,” Harry said. “Hopefully someday you won’t.”

“How does this already feel like the most natural thing in the world?” Hermione wondered aloud, and Harry shrugged.

“It’s just a continuation of what we already had, I suppose,” he said. “The next step was obviously we fall for each other.”

“Hm, so simple,” Hermione said. “But it makes sense.”

“It’s how I am,” Harry said. “Simple but sensible.”

Hermione snorted, extricating herself from his grasp.

“I really have to go,” she said. “I’d rather not explain to Tremaine that I don’t have the paperwork done because I was too busy snuggling you.”

“I’d accept that excuse,” Harry insisted. “C’mon, you’re snuggling the guy who vanquished Voldemort. Who wouldn’t let that one slide?”

“So you won’t use your fame to become the next Minister for Magic, but you’ll use it for a snuggle pass?” Hermione asked.

“Obviously,” Harry said. She laughed at that, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Alright, I’m going, you madman,” she said. “For real this time.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Harry said. “Finally, a reason to look forward to work.”

“You’d best keep things professional, Auror Potter,” Hermione chided him, and he winked at her.

“You once told me I look quite handsome in my robes, remember?” he asked. Tapping him gently on the nose, she extricated herself from his arms.

“Goodnight, Harry,” she said.

“Sleep tight,” he said. She wiggled her fingers in one last wave before disappearing with that signature little pop. She disapparated so effortlessly, with so little fuss. Even when Harry managed it, he was told the sound was calamitous.

Crack!

Speaking of calamitous apparation noises…

Harry stood with his wand out, for he had just heard the sound of someone appearing in his sitting room. Hermione had been gone only twenty minutes or so, though there was still the possibility that she had come back missing him.

Given her sterling work ethic, that seemed unlikely, however. Not to mention, the sound was all wrong for her. It sounded more like –

“Where are you, you slimy sneak!?”

Oi. Ron was in fine form, it seemed.

“Ron, let’s just talk, alright?” Harry asked, stepping out into the corridor to see Ron storming toward him, wand out and pointed straight at his chest. Harry fought the instinct to return the gesture; the last thing he wanted to do was provoke Ron, especially when he had every right to be upset. “Ron, c’mon.”

“Don’t you give me that, mate,” Ron spat, his hand swaying as he held up his wand. He’d obviously had a bit to drink, his face blotchy and red with fury. Still, even as he stood there, tears shone in his eyes, and his hand dropped limply to his side. “Harry, how could you?”

“Listen,” Harry said. “Nothing happened while the two of you were together.”

“Oh, but you told me to move on and snatched her right up for yourself, didn’t you?” Ron said. “Just some friendly advice, yeah? No-no ulterior motives or-or-or agendas, right?”

“I really never intended for it to go this way, Ron,” Harry told him. “I couldn’t…stop myself from feeling the way I feel.”

“So you convinced her to dump me, told me to back off, and then you just dove right in!” Ron shouted, his hand coming back up.

“I didn’t convince her to do anything,” Harry said levelly. “I was just as surprised as you were.”

“Oh, but I bet it was the best news you heard all week, wasn’t it?” Ron spoke bitterly. “You didn’t waste any time, did you? She’s been here, hasn’t she? You two have a cozy date, curl up and snog while I’ve been miserable?”

“Ron, that’s not what’s going on at all,” Harry insisted, though he was a bit embarrassed at how close the assessment was to the truth.

“I can’t believe you’d do this!” Ron said, ignoring him. “It’s not enough that you’re rich and famous and have the world catering to everything you could want – “

“Don’t start up with that again!” Harry said, feeling his own temper flare up. “Ron, don’t you start.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Ron went on, and Harry had a moment to realize that he had to have had rather a bit to drink, loosening his tongue. “You’ve got it all, don’t you, and what do I have?”

“A family, Ron!” Harry shouted at him, surprised at his own volume. “A family that loves you, that you grew up with and played with and had fun with. You have memories, memories of home you can look back on and smile at. Siblings and parents that love you, Ron! I had a cupboard. For ten years, I had a cupboard and vitriol and beatings and starvation. Bars on my windows, Ron, remember that?”

Ron had fallen silent; Harry rarely talked about his circumstances growing up, didn’t like to bring it up and start the Harry Potter Pity Party. But something in Ron’s attitude and his words had broken through the dam.

“Do you know how quickly I’d throw all this,” Harry gestured around himself at the posh, opulent manor and all the gold that it implied, “chuck it in the garbage if I could have even one family member that doesn’t wish I’d never been born? A mum that loves me so much it’s annoying? A dad that provided for me and raised me to be a proper man? Brothers and a sister that are always, always there for me when it counts? Where were you just now, Ron? Out for a pint with George and Percy? Maybe your dad went along?”

“…Yeah,” Ron said in a mutter.

“Look…I’m sorry it happened like this,” Harry said, feeling a bit of a cad for making the argument about himself. “I tried to fight it, neither of us wanted to hurt you. But…don’t stand there and tell me I’ve got it all, mate. Don’t slap me in the face with that. Not when you have just about everything I could ever want.”

Ron heaved a sigh out his nose, shaking his head and turning away from Harry.

“Oi,” Harry said before he could attempt to disapparate. “Take my Floo. I won’t have you splinching yourself because you’ve gotten yourself soused.”

Pausing, Ron turned once more, rolling his eyes as he stalked back down the hallway. He passed Harry, bring the scent of gin with him, and headed into the sitting room. Harry remained where he was, listening for Ron’s shout of “The Burrow!” before sighing and collapsing against the wall. Sliding down to the cold wooden floor, Harry blinked back tears.

“Stop crying,” he demanded himself. “Stop it.”

He jolted when a familiar voice spoke.

“It’s alright to cry, Harry.”

He looked up, and there was Hermione, clad in her pajamas and a dressing gown. Her eyes were shining, and she gave him a watery smile as she crouched next to him. Without even thinking about it, he reached for her, and she nestled into his arms, bring warmth and that incomparable scent with her.

“…Did you cast a Ron-detection ward on my house?” he asked her, and her smile turned slightly bashful.

“Perhaps,” she said. “I just wanted to make sure neither of you did anything rash.”

“How long were you there?” he pressed. Hermione bit her lip. “Hermione…”

“For the whole thing,” she said. “I was going to step in in case it got violent, but I thought it best to just let you two have it out.”

Harry felt his face heat up; she’d seen the whole thing, including his small breakdown at Ron.

“Harry…”

“I’d rather not talk about it, Hermione,” Harry said. Hermione sighed against his neck, but she nodded.

“Someday, eventually, I really think you should,” she whispered. “I think it would be good for you.”

“Well, for now, I’m quite enjoying this,” Harry told her, and she shook gently with a laugh.

“You know, Harry,” she said after a moment. “You’ll always have me. I know I can’t…ever compare to a family or make up for the horrible things you’ve had to endure. But I’m here now. And nothing’s going to change that, you know?”

Harry gave her a squeeze, burying his face in her hair and holding her tightly enough that she squeaked in protest at his grip.

“I know,” he said quietly.

…

Much to Hermione’s consternation, Harry skived off work the next day, not really ready to risk seeing Ron’s face and also a bit jaded with the whole system in general after a few too many sightings of Lucius Malfoy playing his old socialite games. He wished he had the patience and the drive to try to change things Hermione’s way, to dig into the system and yank out the corruption by its roots. That simply wasn’t his forte, though; he was a man of action. Some days, though, it felt rather like digging a hole in sand or attempting to bail out a sinking ship with the smallest bucket. Whatever progress he was making seemed just as quickly to be undone or rendered moot.

Maybe he needed a change of career.

“Ron didn’t even show up, you know,” Hermione’s voice spoke, jolting Harry from his afternoon cup of tea. Hermione stood there with a bashful smile, looking unsure of herself. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion, I just sort of popped in – “

“You’re never an intrusion, Hermione,” Harry insisted, grinning at her. “Just don’t apparate into the loo.”

Snickering at him, Hermione took a seat. Harry glanced at the clock, seeing it was nearing one in the afternoon.

“Did you leave early?” he asked.

“Lunch break,” she said. “I thought I’d head to my very favorite place to eat.”

“Well, you are my favorite customer.” Harry gestured to the tea tray. “Help yourself. Kreacher did roast beef sandwiches, it’s really good.”

She sat, nestling into his side with a contented sigh and grabbing at a sandwich. Harry poured her a cup of tea, fixing it up with a bit of sugar and milk before pushing it toward her.

“Ron didn’t show?” he prompted her.

“Said he was feeling under the weather, according to Gawain,” Hermione said. “Probably hungover.”

“Do you…think things are done with us?” Harry asked. “You and I and him? And the Weasleys?”

“I think things are certainly going to be strained for a bit,” Hermione admitted, sipping at her cup of tea. “They’ve all gotten completely the wrong impression of things, and well…I wouldn’t blame Arthur or Molly or any of them for being upset on their son’s behalf. They’re only even more tightknit than ever after…Fred.”

Harry nodded, taking a bite of sandwich. Even two years later, the void left by Fred’s absence could still be felt, the haunting echo of his final words never truly leaving his ears.

“You actually are joking, Perce! I don’t think I’ve heard you joke since you were – “

“…You know, Harry,” Hermione said after a moment, “Minerva came through the other day, while she was visiting Kingsley. She told me they’re still looking for a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. And she may have oh-so-casually dropped your name in the conversation.”

“I think I’m a bit young to be a teacher,” Harry said with a small smile.

“You’re more knowledgeable on the subject than anyone I know of, Harry,” Hermione told him. “Or do you not remember the DA? All the cramming you did during the Triwizard Tournament? How about the time you toppled a dark lord?”

“Alright, all fairly good points,” Harry sighed, and Hermione grinned at him.

“The only thing I could think of complicating things would be how very many of the girls would become hopelessly infatuated with you,” she said. Harry felt his face heat up and gently shoved her, prompting a small giggle. “Oh but they would!”

“I’d have to not-so-subtly hint that my girlfriend is next in line to be Minister for Magic and could have you banished from the country,” Harry said. Hermione pinked a bit, and Harry realized what he’d just insinuated. “Um – “

“I wouldn’t banish them outright,” she said smoothly. “Perhaps a stern warning. Then banishment, if they don’t straighten out.”

“At least your reign will be strict but fair,” Harry nodded, and Hermione giggled, nuzzling into his neck.

“Maybe you should owl her, though,” she went on. “Minerva. Talk to her about the possibility of a job?”

“Are you so eager to get me out of there?” Harry asked her, feeling the slightest bit hurt at her persistence.

“Well, you are a bit distracting as of late,” Hermione said softly into his ear, sending chills up his spine. “But I’ve only noticed that you seem…down about work. I can see how it wears on you, having to watch the same cases come through all the time, watching that rat Malfoy scurrying around.”

“You noticed?” Harry asked.

“Harry, I notice everything about you,” she said matter-of-factly. “That’s always been true, even before.”

Well…she was only right.

“It’s been…a lot lately,” Harry finally admitted, to himself just as much as her.

“You never struck me as the type for a desk job,” Hermione told him with a shake of her head.

“There’s so much paperwork,” Harry sighed. “And in between all the forms, it’s just…go to this place, apprehend this bad person that’s victimizing muggles or something. Same thing, every single day.”

“It’s sad and monotonous,” Hermione said.

“It’s depressing, is what it is,” Harry sighed. “But…it’s what everyone expected me to do.”

“Perhaps it’s about time you stop doing what everyone expects and do what you want,” Hermione said. “You’ve spent your whole life living up to the expectations of others. What do you want to do, Harry?”

“…Be a teacher,” Harry said, feeling an immense weight lift off his shoulders as he said the words. “I want to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. I want to…go back to Hogwarts and shape the future instead of trying to change the present.”

Hermione was smiling proudly at him now, planting a small kiss on his temple.

“And,” Harry went on, “I want to be with you.”

“With me?” Hermione asked, her smile growing.

“Like you’ve always been,” Harry said. “But also…more than that. I want you to…”

“Go on,” Hermione prompted him, her finger tracing shapeless paths across the back of his hand now.

“I want you to marry me someday,” he said. The words were now tumbling out in a rush, all the feelings he’d been trying to keep at bay, everything that had been left unsaid in the name of pacing himself. “With the silver ring with the black diamond. I want…the wedding on the hilltop, and the silly games, and I want to take you on a honeymoon to wherever you want to go. You name it, we’re going there.”

“Italy?” Hermione asked.

“Done,” Harry insisted.

“What about children?” Hermione whispered, and Harry chuckled.

“Oh, I’d be rubbish at being a father, but…I think it would be exciting, too,” Harry said.

“You’d be a wonderful father, Harry,” Hermione said. “Would we live here?”

“Godric’s Hollow,” Harry decided. “We could fix up my parents’ old place, add on to it if we have to. A nice quiet village with countryside all around.”

“That sounds lovely,” Hermione hummed happily. “I could be quite happy with that.”

“Could you?” Harry asked her, and Hermione turned to him, her smile melting into a smoldering look as their eyes met.

And then their lips met.

Harry hadn’t meant to. From Hermione’s faintly surprised sound, she hadn’t either. Slow had been the plan, but now Hermione’s lips were pressing into his, warm and faintly spiced from the tea she’d been drinking. A shaking hand came up and curled into his shirt, a ragged breath emerging as they parted before she leaned back in.

The second kiss was just as perfect as the first.

“Oh…” Hermione eked out. “Oh my, that was…”

“Too soon?” Harry asked, and Hermione shook her head frantically.

“Oh, it was, but it wasn’t, and…oh, sod it.”

And then she was kissing him again, fervently, as though trying to make up for all the missed opportunities, all of the possibilities that had gone unexplored during the time they’d known each other. Kissing Hermione Granger felt exactly right, like something he should have been doing long before today, something he’d forgotten he’d been supposed to get around to. Everything about her—her scent, her taste, the delicate feel of her neck and jaw under his hands—it was new and exciting at the same time it was so perfectly familiar.

This was Hermione as Harry had never known her but absolutely should have.

They parted, and Hermione bit her lip, searching his face.

“How are we feeling?” she asked softly.

“Brilliant,” Harry said. “Excellent. Like I just chugged a pint of Felix Felicis.”

Hermione giggled, dropping against him and hugging him tightly.

“Oh, and you’re not going back to work,” Harry told her, reaching up to cling back to her.

“Am I not?” she asked him.

“Nope, you have to stay here and have another movie marathon with me,” Harry instructed her. “It’s important.”

“Hm…okay, but only if you agree to send an owl to Minerva and set up a job interview,” Hermione insisted.

“Oh, alright,” Harry said, though he had to admit to some excitement at the prospect. Was he cut out to be a teacher? A real one?

He supposed time would tell.