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Chapter Text

Harry’s eyes burned from too many hours under Ministry lamps. Forty-eight hours of chasing a suspect from Knockturn Alley to the outskirts of Cardiff, ending in a paperwork storm that had him questioning why he ever thought becoming an Auror was a good idea.

He was halfway through signing the last of the reports when a folded bit of parchment slid onto his desk.

From Hermione.

Are you safe? Teddy’s asleep. The fire’s still on. Come home once you can. -H

No signature, no flourish. Just her handwriting, looping and sure. The sort of note that didn’t need an answer, but still made him picture her in the sitting room at Grimmauld, book balanced in one hand, the wireless low, firelight flickering against her hair.

Before he could think too hard about it, another scrap of parchment landed beside the first — this one carried the faint scent of Ginny’s perfume.

Come over. I’ve been thinking about you. Wear that blue shirt I like.

The tail of the “k” in “like” curled in a way he knew was deliberate. It was playful, teasing — and he could almost hear the low promise in her voice.

He sat back in his chair, thumb brushing over Hermione’s calm, careful script before folding it neatly and slipping it into his pocket. Ginny’s note he left on the desk just long enough to grab his coat.

Harry didn’t even bother with the lift when he reached Ginny’s building — he took the stairs two at a time.

Her door swung open before he could knock. She was barefoot, hair damp and tumbling over her shoulders, one of his old shirts skimming her thighs.

“You’re late,” she murmured, though the curve of her smirk betrayed her.

“Missed you,” he said, and it came out lower, rougher than he meant. He stepped inside, and she caught his tie in her fingers, reeling him in before he could say anything else.

The flat smelled faintly of broom polish and the clean bite of rain drifting in from the open windows.

Her Harpies kit was draped over a chair to dry, green and gold catching in the lamplight.

Harry let himself drink her in — flushed cheeks, damp hair clinging to her collarbone, the glint in her eyes that had always made him feel like the only one in the room.

They moved toward the bedroom with unsteady urgency, her hands pushing at his coat until it slid to the floor. Her mouth was warm and insistent on his, tasting faintly of wine.

His fingers found the small of her back, tracing the familiar line of her spine through the soft cotton of his shirt. She sighed into his kiss, that sound that had always undone him.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, lips brushing her jaw, “how much I’ve missed this.”

She laughed, breathless. “Show me, then.”

And he did.

His hands roamed over her like he was mapping old territory, relearning every inch — the curve of her hip, the dip at the base of her neck, the way her breath hitched when his thumb swept across her ribs.

The exhaustion, the long hours, the grind of Ministry corridors all fell away until there was only her, warm and vivid beneath him.

She hooked her legs around his, nails curling into his back as her body arched to meet his. The rhythm between them found its own pace — urgent, unsteady, almost desperate.

His forehead pressed to hers, her breath mingling with his, and for a heartbeat it felt like nothing had ever been wrong between them.

And then—

“Ooohhhhh gods…— Kieran—”

Harry froze.

The name cut through him like a curse. He pulled back just enough to see her face, searching for some sign he’d misheard. “What did you just say?”

Ginny’s eyes flew open, colour flooding her cheeks. “I— It was nothing—”

“You said Kieran,” Harry murmured, almost tasting the disbelief. His throat felt tight.

“Kieran McCaffrey… your Seeker. You introduced us at that party last month.”

The memory flickered — Kieran’s easy grin, the way Ginny had leaned in to tell Harry some joke about him — and now it made his stomach twist.

“It was a slip,” she said quickly, sitting up. “We’ve been training together all week, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

But something inside Harry had already shifted.

The heat was gone, replaced by a cold, hollow ache. He’d rearranged everything — his work, his life — to be here tonight, to match her schedule, to be part of her world.

And here, in the one place that was supposed to be theirs, she’d brought someone else into it.

He pushed away from her like her touch burned, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to her. One hand raked through his hair, the other clenched hard against his knee.

“Harry, wait—” Ginny shifted closer, reaching for him. “It didn’t mean anything. You’re… you’re the one I—”

He stood, cutting her off without looking back and started putting on his clothes.

“Please,” she tried again, her voice breaking a little.

“You know what Quidditch is like — we’re with our teammates all the time, it gets in your head—”

Harry turned just enough to look at her — not angry, not shouting, just disbelieving, like he couldn’t quite reconcile the woman in front of him with the one he’d been racing to see all night.

Then he walked out without a word.

“Harry—wait!” Ginny scrambled from the bed, catching the doorframe as he was already halfway down the hall. “Please, just let me explain—”

He didn’t slow. The echo of his footsteps carried through the corridor until the sound was gone, swallowed by the night.

By the time he stepped into the cool air outside, the scent of tea and parchment from an entirely different home was already in his head.

Hermione’s note was still in his pocket, and for the first time all evening, it felt like a lifeline.

Chapter Text

The cold kept him sharp, kept him from replaying the last five minutes on a loop.

By the time he reached Grimmauld Place, the streets were near silent, save for the faint hiss of wind through the alley.

He pushed the door open quietly, more out of instinct than necessity.

The sitting room glowed warm in the dim lamplight, fire still alive in the grate.

And there she was.

Hermione was standing near the hearth, one of his old shirts hanging loose over her pyjama bottoms, sleeves rolled to her elbows.

Teddy was in her arms, flushed and drowsy against her shoulder, his small hands clutching the fabric at her collar. She swayed gently as she murmured something into his hair.

She glanced up at the creak of the floorboard, her eyes soft but alert. “You’re back,” she said quietly, so as not to wake Teddy. “He’s got a bit of a fever.

Woke up an hour ago and wouldn’t settle unless I held him.”

Harry stepped closer, the heat from the fire meeting the chill still clinging to his coat. He brushed a hand over Teddy’s hair, feeling the slight heat of his forehead. “Poor bloke,” he murmured.

He took her in quietly — the shirt that was definitely one of his, sleeves pushed up in that absent way she always did when she was busy.

A few strands of hair had slipped free, brushing her cheek as she shifted Teddy higher on her hip.

The whole scene was wrapped in a kind of calm — the steady crackle of the fire, the rhythm of her swaying — the sort of quiet that made it easy to breathe again.

“Go sit,” she said, adjusting Teddy so she could move toward the sofa. “I’ll bring it over.”

Harry didn’t argue. He sat, watching as she settled Teddy between them, the boy’s head tipping toward Harry’s lap without a thought.

Hermione handed him the tea, her fingers brushing his — a small thing, but it lit a warmth in him that no amount of firelight could match.

Teddy shifted in his sleep, mumbling something against Harry’s leg.

Hermione smoothed a hand over the boy’s hair, then reached for her own mug on the table.

“You look tired,” she said after a moment, not unkindly.

He gave a small huff of a laugh. “Forty-eight hours of Auror work will do that to you.”

Her eyes lingered on him, weighing something. “It’s not just that, though, is it?”

Harry kept his gaze on the fire, sipping his tea. “Just a long week,” he said finally, which wasn’t a lie — just not the whole of it.

Hermione didn’t push. She never did, not straight away.

Instead, she shifted Teddy so his head rested more comfortably between them, her shoulder brushing his.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. If anything, it was steadying.

Harry let himself lean back, the warmth from the fire and her quiet presence working into the cold places he hadn’t realised he’d brought home with him.

Chapter Text

The house was still when Harry finally made it to his room. He’d taken his time — a slow shower, peeking in on Teddy once more, the boy curled up against Hermione in her bed, flushed from fever.

She’d shifted in her sleep at his quiet step, tucking Teddy closer, the blanket rising to cover his small shoulders.

But the silence didn’t bring rest.

He sat on the edge of the bed for a while, elbows on his knees, staring at the worn rug under his boots. The cold from outside had faded, but the hollow ache in his chest hadn’t.

The scene replayed in his mind, unrelenting — Ginny’s sultry voice, breathless against his ear, the wrong name spilling out between gasps, tangled with heat and want.

He tried to convince himself it was nothing, a slip, like she claimed. But he knew what it was like to have someone else’s name slip past your lips, uninvited, when the moment stripped you bare.

And he’d thought she was the one.

Not just a chapter, not just a bright flash in the middle of the war’s grey, but the rest of the story. The one he’d survive for.

He’d built quiet plans around her without even realising — adjusted shifts, made himself present at matches, learned the Harpies’ schedule as if it were his own.

The small box was in the back of the wardrobe, wrapped in an old scarf so he wouldn’t see it when he reached for a jumper.

Tonight, he pulled it out.

The velvet was worn at the edges, the lid reluctant as if it knew it shouldn’t open.

Inside, the ring caught the lamplight — platinum band, a large brilliant-cut diamond surrounded by a spray of smaller stones, the kind of sparkle that could turn every head in a room.

He’d chosen it thinking it would be everything she’d ever wanted.

His chest constricted. He closed the box and shoved it back into the scarf, then pushed it deeper into the wardrobe until it hit the back wall.

Only then did he really see the room.

Her cardigan over the back of the chair.

The stack of Quidditch magazines she’d left on the dresser.

A spare broom propped in the corner.

Her shampoo on the bedside table because she always showered here after training.

It smelled like her, felt like her. Too much of her.

Harry stood, wand already in his hand before he realised it, and murmured Repello Inimicum.

The wards shivered, shifting, no longer recognising Ginny Weasley as welcome here.

Not out of anger, but out of self-preservation. Hermione didn’t need to know.

The thought of sleeping in this bed — in their bed — made his skin crawl. He grabbed his pillow and left.

Teddy’s room was small, warm, cluttered with toys and books and the faint smell of cocoa from bedtime.

The camp bed they kept for visitors was shoved against the wall, but Harry didn’t touch it. Instead, he sat in the armchair, legs stretched out, staring at the doorway.

He could hear Teddy’s faint, fever-thick breathing from down the hall, and somewhere in between, Hermione’s murmured voice — soft, steady, the way she always soothed him.

Still, Ginny’s absence hung heavy in the air.

And through it, uninvited but unshakable, the earlier image of Hermione drifted in — Teddy’s warm weight against his leg that evening, her hand brushing his as she passed the tea, the quiet way she’d smiled at him when Teddy called them Mum and Dad without hesitation.

It wasn’t something he could name yet. But it stayed, quiet and stubborn, a tether keeping him from drifting too far into the dark.

Chapter Text

The smell of coffee woke him before the light did.

Harry shifted in the armchair, his neck protesting, his back a solid knot from the night.

Teddy’s soft breathing drifted from Hermione’s room, and Harry knew she’d probably been up half the night cooling his fever with damp cloths.

“You’re going to fuse yourself to that chair if you keep sleeping there,” Hermione said from the doorway, her voice warm but carrying that Ministerial you should know better edge she was honing these days.

“Cheaper than buying a bed,” Harry mumbled, running a hand over his face.

She crossed her arms. “You’ve got a bed.”

“Do I?” he asked, mouth twitching. “Pretty sure it’s been occupied by Quidditch kit and broom polish for months now.”

Her eyebrow arched, but she didn’t press.

Instead, she set a steaming mug on the table beside him. “Drink. You look like you’ve been chased across Wales again.”

“Not this time.” He accepted the mug, fingers brushing hers — brief, familiar, enough to anchor him more than he’d admit. “Thanks for staying with him last night.”

“He’s ours, Harry,” she said simply, before heading back toward the kitchen.

The knock came just as he was taking his first sip. Sharp, rapid.

Hermione turned, frowning. “Who on earth—?”

Harry froze. “Don’t answer that.”

“What—”

“Please, Hermione.” His voice was low, urgent. He set the mug down and moved out of sight of the hallway. “Just… tell them I’m not here.”

Perplexed, she opened the door just enough to see the shock of red hair, the broom slung over a shoulder.

Ginny’s bright smile faltered when the wards didn’t yield.

“Hermione. Morning. Is Harry in?”

“No,” Hermione said evenly, leaning on the frame as though this were the most ordinary conversation in the world. “He’s at work.”

Ginny’s brow furrowed. “This early?”

“He’s an Auror,” Hermione said smoothly. “They keep odd hours. You know that.”

For a moment, Ginny looked as though she might press, but the wards shimmered faintly, reminding her she was no longer welcome to simply walk in.

She shifted her broom. “Right. Well… tell him I came by.”

“Of course.” Hermione closed the door before the silence could grow too awkward, her back against the wood.

She looked over at Harry, still half-hidden in the shadow of the sitting room doorway.

“The wards didn’t let her through,” she said slowly, watching him.

He shrugged, avoiding her eyes. “Must be glitching. I’ll check them later.”

Hermione didn’t call him on it. She simply nodded once, the faintest trace of something unspoken in her gaze, and went back to the kitchen.

Harry exhaled, long and quiet, before sinking back into the armchair. The coffee was cooling, but the knot in his chest wasn’t going anywhere.

Chapter Text

Hermione was fastening her cloak when Harry came into the hallway, Teddy balanced sleepily on his hip, wrapped in a knitted blanket.

“I’ve sent for leave,” he said, voice casual, though the shadows under his eyes told her it wasn’t just for Teddy’s sake. “I’ll keep him home today.”

Hermione studied him for a moment. “You didn’t have to do that. I could—”

“You’ve got a full day ahead,” he cut in gently. “And he’s been clingy. Might as well let him stick to me for once.”

Teddy yawned and tucked his face against Harry’s neck, murmuring, “Bye, Mum.”

Hermione’s mouth softened into a smile. She leaned forward, brushing a kiss over Teddy’s hair, her fingers brushing Harry’s in the hand-off. “Owl me if his fever spikes.”

“I will.”

When the door shut behind her, the quiet of the house felt different — less like rest, more like something waiting to be done.

Harry set Teddy on the sofa with a blanket and a cup of water, then went to his room.

Ginny’s things were everywhere once you noticed — her bright cardigans, Quidditch boots scuffed from training, hair ties looped around the bedpost, a half-read book on the windowsill.

He stood there for a long moment, then pulled out an empty trunk.

He didn’t stop to read, smell, or linger.

The jumper she’d left draped over the chair went in first.

Then the boots, the magazines, the brush with red strands still caught in it.

Everything.

When the room was stripped bare of her presence, his eyes landed on the bed.

Too many memories. Too many ghosts.

Harry drew his wand and, with a murmured Evanesco, the bedframe and mattress vanished in a shimmer of magic.

The sudden emptiness felt cleaner — quieter.

That afternoon, with Teddy asleep in Hermione’s room, he slipped out to a discreet furniture shop in Muggle London and ordered a new bed — solid oak, plain lines, no frills.

Something that looked like it belonged to him.

He had it delivered within the hour, set up in the centre of the room with fresh bedding still in its packaging.

By the time Teddy stirred, the room looked entirely different — lighter, less claustrophobic.

Later, under the pretext of another errand, he Apparated to Diagon Alley and walked into Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

The shop was its usual chaos — shelves rattling with self-shuffling decks, something exploding in the back.

George looked up from the counter, one brow arched. “You’re early for your prank supplies.”

Harry set the shrunken trunk on the counter. “For you. Keep it safe. Don’t ask.”

George opened his mouth, but Harry was already backing toward the door. “Really, George. Don’t.”

And then he was gone, leaving George staring after him, the trunk sitting between them like something that hummed with untold weight.

Chapter Text

The lift doors opened with a chime and Ginny Weasley strode out, her Harpies cloak swinging behind her like she owned the corridor.

Several Ministry workers stopped mid-step, murmuring greetings she barely acknowledged.

Hermione had just stepped out of her office with a stack of parchment when Ginny closed the distance in three sharp strides.

“You told me Harry was at work this morning.” No greeting. No smile.

Just that — clipped and accusing.

Hermione’s tone was mild, almost distracted. “He’s looking after Teddy.”

Ginny tilted her head, a thin smile pulling at her mouth. “Strange. That’s not what you told me this morning.”

The silence between them stretched — Hermione’s stillness against Ginny’s restless energy.

In the echoing hallway, the distance between them felt much smaller than it was.

“Or maybe,” Luna Lovegood said suddenly, stepping into the space between them as though she’d been waiting there all along, “you’re asking the wrong person the wrong questions. That never leads anywhere useful — a bit like looking for snorkacks in a broom cupboard.”

Ginny blinked, startled out of her stare. “Hello, Luna.”

Luna smiled faintly, head tilting just so. “You look like a Fwooper about to sing. That usually ends badly.”

A muscle in Ginny’s jaw ticked. “I just… want to know what’s going on.”

“I’m sure you do,” Luna said serenely, offering no further explanation as she handed Hermione a small slip of parchment.

“These are the approval notes for the Crumple-Horned Snorkack research.

Oh, and Harry’s good with children. If Teddy’s unwell, he’ll have thought of everything.

You needn’t worry.”

It was said so simply — without edge or accusation — that Ginny faltered for half a beat before schooling her features.

Hermione accepted the parchment, keeping her gaze steady. “Thank you, Luna.”

Ginny adjusted her cloak, muttered something under her breath, and turned on her heel, heading for the lifts.

Once Ginny had stepped into the lift, Luna adjusted the quill behind her ear. “She’s not looking for answers you can give her.”

Hermione’s gaze lingered on the closing lift doors. “No,” she said, almost to herself. “She isn’t.”

Chapter Text

She balanced the takeaway bag from the little restaurant tucked away in Diagon Alley the one she and Harry had discovered two winters ago when Teddy had refused to eat anything that wasn’t exactly like Molly’s. She’d ordered extra — warm roast chicken, fresh bread, and treacle tart.

Teddy’s favourite, Harry’s favourite — and maybe something for herself if they left her any.

The house was quiet, save for the faint pop and hiss from the kitchen stove.

Hermione toed off her shoes, the weight of her day beginning to ease, and made her way up the stairs to drop her bag in her room before finding the boys.

That’s when she saw it.

Harry’s bedroom door stood ajar.

The bed was new — larger, with a heavy, dark wood frame.

The bedding was crisp, plain, his.

Not a trace of Ginny’s bright scarves on the headboard, no spare broom propped in the corner, no stack of Harpies magazines fanned on the nightstand.

The air felt… cleared.

Stripped back to the essentials, like the man himself had reclaimed the space.

Her gaze flicked to the dresser.

Picture frames. All of them familiar — just not the way she remembered.

Gone were the Quidditch team photos, the couple’s shots from match days. In their place were only images of Harry with Teddy… and of the three of them together.

One frame held the photo of Teddy perched on Harry’s shoulders at the seaside, Hermione beside them, laughing at the camera like she’d forgotten it was there.

Another was of Teddy asleep between them on the sofa, small hands clutching both their jumpers.

The last was of Teddy in Harry’s arms, holding a paper crown crooked on his head while Hermione clapped in the background.

No Ginny. No one else. Just them.

“Cor, you redecoratin’ now, mate?”

Ron’s voice made her turn. He was halfway up the stairs, one hand full of biscuits from who-knows-where, the other stuffed in his pocket.

After the war, he and Hermione had given dating a go, but two months in they’d both decided they were better off as friends — less bickering, more steady ground.

Harry appeared at the landing from the other side, sleeves rolled up and hair in disarray from what looked like a day of shifting furniture.

Teddy trailed after him in pyjamas, flushed but bright-eyed, clutching a stuffed dragon.

“Not redecorating,” Harry said, resting a hand on Teddy’s head. “Just… making space.”

“Ginny came to see me,” Ron replied around a mouthful. “Looked like she was about to hex the wallpaper off my flat. Thought I’d come over before she decided to rope Mum in.

You know what she’s like when she gets that look in her eye.”

Hermione raised a brow. “And what exactly did she tell you?”

“That you’ve been keepin’ him here under lock and key like some precious Chudley Cannons trading card.” He grinned, unbothered. “I told her you’ve got better taste in Quidditch teams.”

Teddy giggled. “Uncle Ron, you always talk about Quidditch.”

“Best sport in the world, kid,” Ron said, ruffling his hair before looking back at Harry. “Anyway, I told her you were probably where you always are — fixing someone else’s mess or looking after Teddy. Didn’t seem to help her mood.”

Harry snorted. “Shocking.”

“True,” Ron said cheerfully, clapping him on the shoulder. “But you’re my mate, and I’m not about to take sides. Merlin knows I’ve been in enough rows between you lot to last a lifetime.”

Hermione lifted the takeaway bag. “If you’re staying, you’re eating. No arguments.”

Ron eyed it hopefully. “Does that mean you got the treacle tart?”

Before she could answer, Teddy’s face lit up. “Treacle tart!” He darted for the stairs, dragging Harry with him.

Chapter Text

They settled around the old kitchen table, the one Molly had insisted they keep from Grimmauld’s first round of “de-glooming” because it “had character.” The food was still warm, the smell filling the whole room.

Before anyone touched a fork, Harry disappeared into the kitchen cupboard and returned with a small phial of pale green potion. He crouched beside Teddy’s chair, shaking it gently.

“Come on, Ted. This’ll help with the fever,” he said, voice softer than Hermione had heard him use all day.

Teddy made a face. “It’s yucky.”

“I know.” Harry’s mouth twitched. “But you’re braver than a yucky potion, aren’t you?”

Teddy considered this gravely, then nodded and downed it in one gulp, grimacing hard. Harry ruffled his hair and handed him a glass of pumpkin juice. “Good lad.”

Hermione, setting down the takeaway, glanced at Harry with quiet concern. “Has it come down at all?”

“A bit,” Harry replied, sliding into his chair. “He was warm when he woke from his nap, but not as bad as this morning.”

Teddy perked up. “Mum says I’ll have to stay home from school on Monday.”

“She’s right,” Harry said, meeting Hermione’s eye for a moment longer than necessary.

Ron tore into a bread roll, watching the exchange with a grin. “Merlin’s beard — you two sound like seasoned parents. Give it a few more years and you’ll be arguing over bedtime routines.”

Hermione passed the roast potatoes toward Harry without looking at Ron, spooning some onto Harry’s plate before he could protest. “He needs to keep his strength up.”

“Efficiency,” Harry said mildly.

“Bossiness,” Ron countered, winking at Teddy. “Your mum’s the boss, isn’t she?”

Teddy grinned through a mouthful of bread. “She’s both our boss.”

Dinner moved the way it always seemed to when the four of them were together — easy, overlapping chatter, a few laughs loud enough to echo off the kitchen walls.

Teddy dropped his fork twice, Ron spilled gravy on his sleeve, and Harry spent most of the meal splitting his attention between coaxing Teddy to eat more than just bread and catching Hermione’s eye in those quiet, unguarded seconds.

By the time the treacle tart came out, Teddy was half-asleep in his chair, dragon tucked under his chin. Harry scooped him up without a word, settling him against his shoulder like it was second nature.

Ron leaned back, watching them. “Never thought I’d see the day Harry Potter turned into the ‘dad who can carry a kid and a pudding plate at the same time.’”

Harry glanced down at Teddy, then at Hermione.

Hermione’s eyes lifted briefly to meet his, her expression unreadable save for the faintest flicker — there and gone before he could name it.

Ron drained the last of his tea and stood, stretching. “Right, I’ll leave you to it.

George’ll think I’ve been skiving all day.” He clapped Harry on the shoulder, then bent to ruffle Teddy’s hair. “Feel better soon, mate.”

Teddy mumbled something sleepy in response, eyes already drifting shut against Harry’s shoulder.

When the front door clicked shut behind Ron, the house felt quieter — not heavy, just… settled.

Harry carried Teddy upstairs, tucking him in beneath the soft green blanket Hermione had knitted last winter.

A cool cloth on his forehead, a whispered “sleep well,” and he was gone again, padding back down the stairs.

Hermione was already in the kitchen, stacking plates at the sink. “You didn’t have to do that,” Harry said, moving to take the tea things from her hands.

“I wanted to,” she replied simply, not looking at him.

They worked side by side, their movements easy, practiced — passing plates, drying mugs, brushing fingers now and then without comment.

The low hum of the wireless filled the spaces between them.

Hermione, kept her eyes on the task at hand, her voice light when she asked, “You taking tomorrow off as well?”

“Yeah. Figure Teddy’ll want someone around.”

She nodded, setting the last plate in the rack. “Good. He’ll be glad.”

They didn’t linger, but neither of them was in a rush to leave the kitchen either.

Chapter Text

Teddy was still restless, shifting under the blankets, small whimpers catching now and again in his sleep. 

Harry had carried him in from his own room, muttering something about keeping a closer eye on him tonight. 

Now the boy lay in Harry’s bed, cheeks flushed, his little hands twitching against the sheets as if chasing something in a dream.

Harry sat at the edge, one hand cupped lightly around Teddy’s knee, as if the touch alone might anchor him.

Hermione came in quietly, carrying a basin of fresh water and a folded flannel. “Fever’s climbing again,” she murmured, setting them down on the side table.

Harry took the cloth, dipping it and wringing it out with steady hands before placing it gently on Teddy’s forehead. 

Teddy stirred, eyelids fluttering, but relaxed again under the cool touch.

Hermione’s eyes swept over the stripped-back room, noting the absence of anything that wasn’t Harry or Teddy’s. 

She didn’t comment, just hovered at the foot of the bed. “You should lie down for a bit. I’ll sit with him.”

Harry shook his head. “I’m fine.”

Without another word, Hermione rounded the bed and settled on the other side, close enough to reach Teddy if he stirred. 

She drew her legs up, resting her back against the headboard. 

He hesitated for a moment before toed off his boots and stretched out on top of the covers, careful not to jostle Teddy. 

They lay on either side of the boy, both watching the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Teddy rolled toward Harry in his sleep, one small hand curling into Harry’s jumper. 

Hermione leaned across, adjusting the blanket around both of them. Her fingers brushed his arm — just a whisper of contact — and for a second, neither of them moved.

Harry eased back into the pillows, his gaze fixed on the boy between them. “Stay,” he murmured, barely above a breath.

Hermione didn’t answer. She just settled deeper into the mattress, close enough for the edge of her sleeve to graze his.

The fire in the grate hissed and cracked, shadows flickering over the walls. 

Somewhere in the house, a pipe groaned as the heating charm ticked over. 

By the time midnight came, Teddy was sleeping soundly, Harry’s arm resting protectively across him — and Hermione’s presence a quiet, steady weight at his side, as if the room had always been meant for the three of them.

Chapter Text

Harry woke to the soft glow of winter light pushing through the curtains. The bed was warm — warmer than he expected.

It took him a moment to realise why.

Teddy was sprawled between them, small body radiating heat, his hair sticking in every direction.

One of Harry’s hands was curled protectively over Teddy’s middle.

The other… he realised with a jolt… was holding Hermione’s.

Her fingers were relaxed in his, palm warm, grip faint but present.

She was still asleep, turned slightly toward Teddy, her hair in disarray from the pillow.

The quiet wrapped around them, and for a moment Harry didn’t dare breathe.

Teddy gave a soft whimper in his sleep, and Hermione stirred.

She kissed the boy’s forehead gently before easing her hand from Harry’s and sitting up. “I’ll get breakfast started,” she murmured, voice low so as not to wake him fully.

In the kitchen, she moved with quiet efficiency — toast browning, eggs sizzling, tea steeping — before setting the plates on the table.

Beside Teddy’s, she left a cheerful little note reminding him to keep warm and drink plenty of water.

By Harry’s, a quieter line in her familiar looping hand: Take it slow when you can — you’re doing brilliantly. —H x

Before leaving, she peeked back into the room, brushing a soft kiss over Teddy’s warm forehead and giving Harry’s hair a fond, tousling sweep with her fingers.

He murmured something she didn’t quite catch, eyes still heavy with sleep, and she smiled despite herself.

She lingered just long enough to watch Teddy’s chest rise and fall in the steady rhythm of sleep, Harry’s arm instinctively tightening around him. That was all she needed to see before she slipped out.

For all the chaos and noise of their lives, moments like this — quiet, steady, theirs — felt like a secret she didn’t want the world to touch.

At her desk, Hermione tried to bury herself in parchment and precedent, but the morning clung to her. She kept seeing Teddy’s smile when Harry had coaxed him to eat, hearing the low rumble of Harry’s voice reading aloud.

By half past twelve, she’d given up on concentrating.

On her way home, she ducked into their favourite shop and picked up Teddy’s favourite biscuits — and Harry’s favourite treacle tart.

She doted on them both, and she knew it, but she didn’t care.

Halfway down Diagon Alley, a silver lynx darted into her path, its voice clear in her head: Hermione, you’ve left the Bletchley file on your desk.

She sighed, pivoted on her heel, and headed for the Ministry.

The lifts were slow this time of day, and she stepped out onto her floor already thinking about tea and Teddy’s smile when he saw the biscuits.

Which was why the sight of Ginny leaning casually against her desk caught her entirely off guard.

“Hello, Hermione.”

Hermione returned the smile. “Ginny. What brings you here?”

“Looking for Harry,” Ginny said easily, though her eyes were sharp.

“He’s at home with Teddy,” Hermione answered, her voice even but pleasant.

Ginny’s brow lifted. “Funny. The wards didn’t let me in.”

Before Hermione could respond, Luna drifted in, a rolled-up Quibbler under her arm. “Wards can be very choosy,” she said as though they’d been discussing the weather. “They only let in people who make the walls feel at ease.”

Neville followed, balancing a crate of potted fluxweed. “Afternoon,” he said cheerfully, offering Hermione a quick grin before trailing after Luna toward the lifts.

Ginny lingered a breath longer, lips tilting in a half-smile. “Well. Tell Harry I was asking after him.”

“Of course,” Hermione replied warmly. “I’ll tell him you stopped by.”

Only when Ginny disappeared did Hermione realise she was gripping the paper bag tighter.

She collected the file, but Luna’s words clung to her like the damp air outside: people who make the walls feel at ease.

By the time she stepped back into Grimmauld Place, the fire was glowing low in the sitting room and Teddy’s soft cough echoed from upstairs.

Harry appeared in the doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows, holding a half-empty potion vial.

“Fever’s down,” he said, his voice low, a hint of relief softening his features.

Hermione handed over the biscuits and treacle tart. “For when he’s feeling better. And you — because I know you haven’t eaten anything decent all day.”

Before he could reply, the front door creaked open and Ron’s voice called out, “Oi, anyone home?”

He wandered into the kitchen like he’d always belonged there, eyes sweeping over the scene.

“Ginny came round to mine, again” he said, grabbing an apple from the counter.

“Said you’ve been avoiding her, mate. Figured I’d come check if you were buried under paperwork or a Bludger injury.”

Harry gave a dry snort. “Neither.”

Ron glanced at the paper bag on the table and grinned. “Biscuits and treacle tart? Blimey, you’re a lucky sod. All I ever get from Hermione are lists of things I’m doing wrong.”

Teddy’s footsteps padded softly into the kitchen then, his pyjamas rumpled, clutching his stuffed wolf. “Mum,” he mumbled to Hermione, climbing into her lap without hesitation.

Ron looked between them, brows raised but saying nothing. “Right. Well. I’ll leave you to it, then. Message Ginny when you can.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving behind the warm scent of apples and the quiet hum of the fire.

Chapter Text

Outside, Grimmauld Place was sunk in winter stillness, the snow-dimmed streetlamps casting pale light through the curtains. 

Inside, the only sounds were the occasional pop from the fire and Teddy’s small, sleepy breaths. The kind of quiet Harry hadn’t realised he’d been craving.

Teddy was still running hot, the warmth seeping into Harry’s palm in a way that kept his stomach knotted, even though the potions were working. 

He’d brought the boy into his own bed without thinking — just instinct, the kind that came from wanting him close enough to hear every breath.

Hermione had brought in a fresh pot of tea and a pile of blankets, claiming the armchair by the window with a book in hand. 

She wasn’t really reading, though; her eyes kept flicking to Teddy, then to Harry, as if checking that both were still there.

For a while, Harry just listened — to the fire, to Teddy, to the soft rustle of Hermione’s absently turning pages. 

It was easier to keep the words locked away, to let the peace of the moment cover them over. But the weight in his chest refused to lift.

At some point, she moved from the chair to the far side of the mattress, her book now resting on the coverlet, spine open but forgotten. 

Not close enough to brush against Harry, but near enough that Teddy could reach for either of them in his sleep.

Harry stared at the ceiling for a long while before his voice finally broke the quiet.

“She said someone else’s name,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the boy between them. “When we were… intimate. Kieran McCaffrey. Seeker for the Harpies.”

Hermione’s gaze lifted over Teddy’s head, but she didn’t interrupt.

“I’d met him,” Harry went on, his voice low. “Last Harpies celebration we went to. She said it was nothing. Just… ‘It was nothing,’” he echoed, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “I was going to propose this month. At her big game. Thought it’d mean something to her, the timing.”

He gave a short, humourless breath. “I’d already bought the bloody ring. Big diamond. Catches the light in a hundred ways. The sort of thing she’d like showing off.”

His eyes didn’t leave the far wall.

“It’s in my wardrobe. Closed the box, shoved it back into the scarf I’d wrapped it in. Haven’t looked since. Just kept thinking… Merlin, I nearly promised forever to someone who might’ve already been in someone else’s bed.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “So I packed up her things. Hauled them to George in a trunk, told him not to ask. Changed the wards the same night.”

Hermione’s book slid quietly to the floor as she reached across Teddy, her fingers closing around his under the blankets. 

Firm. 

Certain.

“You don’t have to carry this alone,”

she said softly, her thumb brushing over his knuckles.

“I know it hurts — and I’m not going to tell you it shouldn’t. But you are still you, Harry. Still the man who’s worth being loved the right way. You don’t have to be enough for everyone… only for the ones who truly see you. And I see you. I’ve got you. Sleep, you can let go for a while, you can fall apart if you need to, and I’ll still be here in the morning. And if you forget, I’ll remind you — as many times as you need.”

Something in him loosened then. His grip on her hand tightened, just enough to let her know he’d heard.

Chapter Text

Hermione had no trouble keeping her face neutral at work — years of Ministry politics had honed that skill to near-perfection — but the weekend had been another matter entirely. 

She’d been quieter than usual, even with Teddy underfoot and Harry doing his best to keep the boy entertained.

Luna had noticed first. She always did.

“You’re thinking so loudly you might frighten the mooncalves,” she’d said when she and Neville had joined Hermione in the Ministry Atrium that morning.

Neville, in on Hogwarts business, had grinned in greeting and handed her a parchment from Professor Sprout. “You’re not going to tell us what’s got you looking like you’re about to dismantle a curse in your head, are you?”

“Work,” Hermione had replied smoothly, taking the parchment. “And a bit of… unfinished business.”

Luna tilted her head, as if peering through Hermione rather than at her. “Unfinished business is just an ending that hasn’t been written yet. You’ll know the right words when it’s time.”

Hermione had smiled faintly, murmured something polite, and moved on. But the words had stuck.

Because the part of her that had sat through hours of Defence Against the Dark Arts theory… the part of her that had rewired wards in the middle of a war… the part of her that knew precisely how to inflict a hex subtle enough to leave no trace…

Hermione didn’t hex in anger. Anger made you sloppy.

No — her hexes were crafted like her essays: researched, refined, unassailable.

It wasn’t just the name.

It was what it meant.

People didn’t say another’s name in a moment like that unless they were somewhere else entirely. 

Unless the truth had slipped past whatever careful facade they’d been holding.

And to do it then — in the middle of something so close, so unguarded — was more than thoughtless. 

It was a violation of trust. Disrespect dressed up as carelessness, sharp enough to cut.

If she hexed Ginny now, it would be satisfying — momentarily. 

But Hermione wanted more than that. 

She wanted it to land. 

She wanted it to echo in Ginny’s mind the way Harry’s pain had echoed in hers all weekend.

Ginny Weasley was fortunate.

Fortunate that Hermione still believed in restraint.

Chapter Text

The kitchen at Grimmauld Place was warm with the smell of toast and strawberry jam, Teddy’s chatter bouncing between the table and the fire.

He was perched on his knees on a chair, happily stirring far too much sugar into his porridge while telling Harry about the dream he’d had — something involving a Niffler, a gold coin, and their garden gnome.

Harry smiled faintly, his elbow on the table, hand around a mug that had gone lukewarm.

He’d been listening — or at least, trying to — but the lack of sleep had left everything hazy.

Hermione breezed in from the hallway, parchment tucked under one arm, her other hand busy tying her hair back.

She dropped the rolled parchment beside Harry’s plate, eyes flicking briefly to Teddy before settling on Harry.

“I was at the post desk just now,” she said, unrolling the parchment. “Fixtures list for the Harpies — they’re playing the Wasps on Saturday the twenty-fifth. Big match.”

Harry’s brow creased, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Right. And?”

Her gaze held his for a beat longer than was comfortable. “Harry… wasn’t that the date?”

It took him a moment — just long enough for Teddy to spill a bit of porridge on the table and start mopping it up with a napkin.

And then it hit. The date. The pitch. The half-time sky-writing.

Merlin.

He set his spoon down slowly, the clink of metal on china sounding far louder than it should. “Bloody hell.”

Hermione’s voice softened. “I thought it might still be on the books.”

Harry exhaled hard, rubbing at his face. “They’ll have the sky-writing queued, won’t they? Weeks in advance. I’ll call and cancel.”

She didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

Teddy looked between them, completely oblivious, and asked, “Can we go to the match?”

Harry forced a smile for him. “Not this time, mate.”

Hermione reached over, resting a light hand on Harry’s forearm. She didn’t say I’m sorry, because she knew that would only make it worse.

Chapter Text

Grimmauld Place was quiet except for the soft hum of the wireless in the kitchen, tuned low to the Muggle station Hermione favoured on her days off. She and Harry had agreed — without much discussion — to skip Ginny’s big game.

Teddy was upstairs, back to his usual happy self, chattering about dragons as Hermione read from one of his storybooks, her voice carrying in gentle waves through the old house.

She was probably tucking him in now, smoothing his hair the way she always did, patient even when he wriggled under the covers.

A tap-tap-tap, followed by the impatient flutter of wings, pulled Harry’s attention from the kettle. A tawny owl waited on the sill.

The Evening Prophet clutched in its talons, the moment he unlatched the casement, it dropped the paper onto the counter and wheeled away into the night, leaving the sharp scent of fresh ink curling into the warm kitchen air.

Harry flipped the paper open absently as he walked back to the stove… and stopped dead.

“ THE SEEKER WHO DIDN’T CHASE — POTTER’S VANISHING ACT ”
By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent for The Evening Prophet

Deprived of love since the tragic demise of his parents, Harry Potter once again finds his romantic life under public scrutiny.

It was meant to be the romantic crescendo of the Quidditch season — the Holyhead Harpies, halfway through a nail-biting match against the Wimbourne Wasps, the crowd electric with anticipation.

And then, in a glittering burst of golden smoke above the pitch, the question that could make headlines for decades:

“GINNY WEASLEY — WILL YOU MARRY ME? — HARRY”

The stands erupted. Cameras flashed. Ginny Weasley — star Chaser, darling of the Harpies, and long-time sweetheart of Harry Potter — froze mid-air.

One might have expected the man himself to stride onto the pitch, ring in hand, sweeping Miss Weasley off her broom in a picture-perfect moment.

Instead… nothing.

No Harry.

No explanation.

Just the lingering sparkle of the sky-writing fading over a very confused crowd.

A Harpies insider (who asked not to be named but smelled faintly of broom polish) confirmed the proposal was arranged weeks in advance. “He booked the sky-writing through the League’s sponsor himself. Paid in full. This wasn’t a fan prank.”

For those of us keeping score — and I always do — this is not the first time Potter’s romantic entanglements have raised eyebrows.

Readers may recall my exclusive coverage in 1994, when Viktor Krum — the so-called Bulgarian Bonbon — arrived at Hogwarts and promptly asked Miss Hermione Granger to the Yule Ball.

Potter attended with Miss Parvati Patil, but all eyes were on Krum and Granger, whose fondness for each other was rather plain to see. (I have quotes, dear readers, and I was there, front row centre.)

Since then, the Boy Who Lived has been linked — both officially and through whispered corridors — to Weasley, Granger, and a fleeting romance with Miss Cho Chang.

A boy like no other, perhaps… but one whose heart seems perpetually undecided.

As for yesterday’s spectacle?

Miss Weasley, ever the professional, finished the match with a Harpies victory. But her post-game comments — “No comment” — were as clipped as her broom turns.

Harry Potter’s whereabouts remain unknown tonight. Perhaps he is waiting for the perfect moment. Or perhaps… that moment has already passed.

Harry’s fingers tightened on the edge of the paper until the Prophet’s glossy front page bowed under his grip.

His stomach churned — not with shock, not exactly, but with the heavy drop of inevitability.

Footsteps creaked softly on the stairs. Hermione’s voice, warm from reading aloud, drifted into the kitchen before she did.

“Teddy’s down. I think the dragons won, but only just.”

She stepped into the doorway, still tucking a loose curl behind her ear, the faintest smile on her lips — until her gaze fell on the paper in his hands.

“Harry? What is it?” she asked, though she was already moving to his side.

Her eyes flicked over the headline, the column inches, the photograph of a stunned Ginny frozen mid-air over the Harpies’ pitch.

She didn’t snatch the Prophet away or demand an explanation.

She simply steadied the paper in his grip, her fingers brushing his briefly, and read over his arm.

By the time she reached the last line, her voice was cool — measured.

She exhaled once, slow. “Right,” she said, calm but resolute. “We’re not letting Rita have the last word.”

Harry still had the paper clenched in his hand. “Hermione—”

“This isn’t about denying anything or feeding her gossip,” she said, looking him squarely in the eye.

“It’s about balance. Letting people see what actually matters. And I know exactly who to speak to.”

He didn’t have to guess. “Luna.”

“Luna,” she confirmed, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “She’ll run something in The Quibbler — warm, honest, and impossible for Rita to twist without sounding petty.”

Harry rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “You think that’ll make a difference?”

“I think,” she said, “that it’s the difference between letting Rita frame the story… and taking it back. And Luna’s never been above sprinkling in a few Wrackspurts for good measure.”

Despite himself, he huffed a laugh.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s do it. But… make sure it’s gentle, yeah? I don’t want Teddy seeing anything ugly.”

Hermione’s gaze softened. “I wouldn’t let her print anything you wouldn’t be proud of.” She plucked the paper from his hands, folded it neatly, and set it aside. “Now — tea?”

Chapter Text

That evening, when she brought the paper home, Harry was at the kitchen table helping Teddy draw a dragon that looked suspiciously like Hagrid’s old Norbert.

Hermione slid the issue across to him without a word.

Harry read it once, twice, the words clawing deeper each time.

The Quibbler

THE BOY WHO LIVED — AND THE THINGS WE IMAGINE
By Luna Lovegood, Staff Writer for The Quibbler

Some people make a living writing about other people’s lives. That’s perfectly fine — the world needs storytellers.

But there is a difference between telling a story and building a nest out of shiny, misplaced objects.

Last night, a certain gossip column has been flapping about a Quidditch match, a missing man, and a very public display of words in the sky.

As with all good tales, some of it is true.

Much of it is not.

Here is what’s true: Harry Potter did not attend the Holyhead Harpies’ match against the Wimbourne Wasps.

He was not in hiding, nor was he abducted by Crumple-Horned Snorkacks.

He was at home, as people sometimes are, with his godson and a close friend, doing something scandalously ordinary — making tea, reading stories, and existing without spectacle.

Here is what’s also true: Harry Potter is not “on and off” with anyone. Life is not a light switch, and people are not lamps.

What Harry does have is a small circle of people who have stood beside him in war and in peace.

The rest is speculation — and speculation, when repeated enough, can start to look a lot like fact to those who don’t know the difference.

Here is what’s not true: that someone else can decide where Harry’s heart belongs. Hearts are not property to be claimed in print, no matter how many adjectives you stack around them.

If you want to know where Harry’s heart is, the only person to ask is Harry. And knowing him, he will answer when and if he chooses.

In the meantime, perhaps it’s worth remembering that not every story is ours to tell. Some are meant to be lived quietly, without headlines or golden smoke over Quidditch pitches.

And sometimes, the truest thing you can do for someone is let them live it.

(Also, for those concerned, there were no Wrackspurts reported at the Harpies match, but we will continue to monitor.)

 

When he finally set the paper down, Hermione was already pulling out the chair opposite him.

Her eyes met his, steady. “Let Rita have her spectacle. We’ve got what matters — the truth. And I’ve got you, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes lingered on her a moment longer than he meant to, something unspoken caught between them.

She didn’t look away, just reached for her tea as though she hadn’t just tethered him back to solid ground with a single sentence.

In Greenhouse Three at Hogwarts, Neville Longbottom finished reading the piece on his tea break, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. He folded it neatly, slipped it into his satchel, and made a mental note to owl Harry later. Not to talk about Ginny — but to ask how the garden at Grimmauld was faring.

Andromeda Tonks sent her owl before breakfast was done. Good piece. Sensible. The boy doesn’t need more noise. She didn’t mention Rita’s article at all, and Harry appreciated it more than she could know.

Chapter Text

Harry shut the front door on the February chill, stamping the cold from his boots as he unwound his scarf. 

From the kitchen came the smell of something savoury, warm and steady, and the sound of Hermione humming under her breath.

She looked up as he stepped in, wearing one of his jumpers — sleeves pushed up, the hem brushing her thighs — and her smile broke across her face like it had been waiting for him.

“There you are — I was starting to think they’d chained you to your desk.”

“They nearly did,” he said, hanging up his scarf and crossing to her. “Nice jumper.”

She glanced down at herself. “It was cold. And yours are warmer.”

“They’re also mine, you know.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes, and I’ll return this one… eventually, maybe...”

On the table behind her sat Teddy’s abandoned colouring books, wax crayon still uncapped. 

Harry nodded toward them. “He give up mid-dragon?”

“No,” she said with a smile. “He finished the dragon, built a fort, then collapsed in it. Out cold before I’d finished the last page of his story.”

He took the plate she slid to him, their fingers brushing. “You realise you’ve ruined him for everyone else, right? No one reads like you.”

She smirked, ladling sauce over her own dinner. “Flattery will not get you seconds.”

“It was worth a try,” he said, settling opposite her. “Merlin, today dragged. Felt like every department wanted a meeting, and all of them wanted me in it.”

“Maybe they just missed your face.”

“Please don’t start rumours like that.”

Hermione’s grin tilted wider. “Fine. I’ll tell them you’re just grumpy when you’re hungry.”

“That’s fair,” he said with mock seriousness. “Speaking of grumpy… there’s that Valentine’s reception next week.”

“I know.”

They both paused, then said at the same time:

“I was going to ask you—”
“Do you want to go—”

The words collided, and they both broke into laughter.

“Better than turning up alone — and we can fend off the gossip-mongers together,” Hermione said.

“Exactly. And maybe you can keep me from hexing the Undersecretary for Transport.”

“Only if you promise not to vanish before the dancing starts.”

“I’ll make no promises,” he said, though the smile that tugged at his mouth gave him away.

Chapter Text

The Ministry Atrium glittered under floating lanterns and charmed roses that hovered in mid-air, shedding petals in slow spirals before vanishing.

The annual Valentine’s reception had always been an exercise in spectacle, but tonight felt dialled up to eleven.

Harry had told himself this was just another obligation to get through.

The sort of event they were both too polite to duck out of, even though neither of them wanted to be there.

Hermione stepped out of the green-flamed fireplace beside Harry, and for a moment the hum of conversation around them seemed to dip.

Her gown — deep charcoal silk with a soft sheen — skimmed the floor in clean, elegant lines. A high, structured neckline flowed seamlessly into a fitted bodice, the fabric draping into a full skirt that moved when she did.

Draped over her shoulders was a floor-length cape, the same silk falling in a fluid sweep down her back, fastening at the collarbone with a silver clasp shaped like an unfurling rose.

Her hair was pulled into a low, smooth chignon, a few deliberate strands softening the edges. No glittering excess, just understated precision — and it made her impossible to ignore.

Harry had taken the rare step of letting someone else (Hermione suspected Luna had a hand in it) fuss over his appearance.

His black dress robes were tailored to fit perfectly across his shoulders, the subtle silver detailing at the lapels catching the lantern light.

His boots were polished, his tie sat just right, and the beard he’d been half-growing since January was trimmed to a neat line along his jaw — framing the kind of smile that, despite himself, he only seemed to wear when she was there to see it.

“Not bad, Potter,” Hermione murmured, eyes sweeping over him in frank approval as they stepped into the main hall.

He let his gaze travel, unhurried, from the clasp at her collarbone to the sweep of her skirt. “Right back at you, Granger. You clean up better than well.”

Her mouth curved. “Better than well? You’re setting a dangerous precedent.”

His answer came slower this time, his eyes still on her. “Fine… you’re stunning.” The word sat between them for a beat, unflinching. “There — happy?”

Her lips quirked. “Please. If anyone looks like they’ve just stepped out of a Witch Weekly spread, it’s you — most eligible bachelor and all.”

Harry gave a quiet snort, but she only adjusted the drape of her cape and glanced toward the crowd.
“If Rita Skeeter’s here, she’s going to have plenty to write about. We’re already causing a stir.”

And they were — a glance around proved it.

A witch in crimson satin whispered behind her hand to a friend, both of them flicking their eyes toward Harry and Hermione before looking hastily away.

A photographer near the stage adjusted his camera, clearly angling for a shot.

Two wizards in Ministry pins gave the kind of appraising nods that meant this would be tomorrow’s corridor gossip.

Harry glanced “Let them talk,” he said easily. “It’s Valentine’s. Everyone needs a good love story.”

“Mmmm,” she said, lips twitching. “Pity we’re not giving them one.”

“Who says we’re not?” he shot back without missing a beat, and she shook her head, steering them toward the main hall before he could elaborate.

They were only a few minutes in before the whispers started. Not cruel, but pointed — the sort of gossipy hum that seemed to follow Harry anywhere.

“…always thought they were—”
“—oh, back at Hogwarts, everyone knew—”
“—what about the Weasley girl?”

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and Hermione, sensing it, slid her arm lightly through his — not for show, but to anchor him.

But the first time Hermione’s hand brushed his sleeve — guiding him toward the champagne table with a quiet, “Brace yourself, here comes Robards” — he felt the faintest pull in his chest.

It happened again when she leaned in to point out an Undersecretary across the room, her hair brushing his shoulder, her voice low and warm against the din.

It wasn’t just what she said; it was the unthinking ease of her nearness, the way she fit into his space without even realising it.

They’d navigated the course of the evening side by side, passing plates, sharing wry asides under their breath, and exchanging the occasional look when someone at the table said something especially absurd.

The first dance happened without planning.

A string quartet struck up something slow and deceptively easy, and one of the Undersecretaries’ wives all but herded them onto the floor with a laugh about “how good they’ll look together.”

Harry didn’t argue — partly because Hermione didn’t, and partly because the way the candlelight caught in her hair when she moved made his usual reluctance dissolve.

They fell into step without awkwardness, her hand light in his, her other resting just above his shoulder.

“You’re smiling,” she said, eyes glinting as they turned.

“Am I?”

“Yes. And not at the expense of anyone here.”

He huffed a laugh. “Guess I’ve got a wonderful dancing partner.”

For the space of the song, the rest of the reception faded — the whispers, the clink of glasses, even the odd flash of a photographer’s bulb.

It was just the two of them, moving in quiet sync.

During the second glass of champagne that neither of them really wanted, Harry caught himself leaning in too close to hear her better, their shoulders brushing as she told him some half-absurd story Luna had just shared about Thestrals being fond of sugar quills.

He realised he wasn’t clock-watching, wasn’t wishing for the night to end.

They danced twice — maybe three times, Harry wasn’t sure — the music weaving them into easy steps, her hand light on his arm, her eyes bright in the candlelight.

He caught himself grinning like an idiot more than once.

Later, after a round of polite conversation with the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, someone near the piano asked if Hermione played.

Harry expected her to politely decline — but instead, she nodded.

“I haven’t played this in a while,” she said, slipping off her cape and settling at the keys. The room quieted almost at once.

Harry took a spot near the back, watching as her fingers hovered for a moment — and then the first notes spilled out.

He knew she plays the piano — had overheard her running through scales with Teddy at home — gentle, patient, nothing flashy.

But this… this was different.

Her fingers moved with a quiet certainty, and the opening chords unfurled like a held breath being released. The melody was warm and aching all at once, like it carried someone’s heart in its hands.

The room stilled, conversations fading until only the music remained.

Bigger. Richer. And the look on her face — calm, sure, lost in something entirely her own — made it impossible for him to look anywhere else.

When the last note faded, the applause was warm and genuine. She turned to find him already there.

“That was…” He trailed off, the right word escaping him. “What was it?”

Her smile was small, almost shy.

“Widmung, Opus 25 Number 1 — by a German composer named Robert Schumann. It means ‘dedication’. He wrote it as a wedding gift for his wife, Clara — turned his love into music.”

She said it with that spark in her eyes, the one she got when sharing a piece of history she loved.

Harry barely heard the explanation. He was still watching her — the way the candlelight caught the copper in her hair, the way her brow furrowed in places and smoothed in others.

Around him, people exchanged glances that seemed to say What else can’t she do?

“What does it mean?” he asked finally, voice low.

“‘You are my soul, my heart, my bliss, my pain,’” she translated softly. “‘You are my world.’”

Harry stayed silent for a beat longer. “You were wonderful,” he said at last — and meant it in far more ways than one.

Around them, a low murmur of admiration lingered.

They were looking at her like they were seeing something rare — and for a moment he felt a private pride, as if he’d known all along.

They didn’t stay much longer. Coats retrieved, polite goodbyes made, they stepped out into the crisp February night.

Their breath clouded in the lamplight as they fell into step together, the bustle of the atrium fading behind them.

“Well,” Hermione said, tucking her arm through his as they walked, “for something we didn’t want to attend, it wasn’t entirely dreadful.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “I’ll give you that.”

She glanced up at him. “Better than you expected?”

“Better than I expected,” he admitted, and softer, “Better than good.”

Her smile deepened, but she didn’t press.

He nearly said more — nearly told her how much he’d liked seeing her that way.

That after all these years, he knew Hermione Granger — every habit, every way her mind worked.

But tonight… tonight had made him realise there were parts of her he hadn’t seen before.

Beautiful parts. And the idea that there might be more — many more — felt like the best kind of discovery.

Widmung still played in his head... Those sweeping, tender notes had felt like a secret he’d stumbled across, meant only for those lucky enough to hear it.

Hermione had filled every note with a quiet, breathtaking certainty, as if the music had always been waiting for her hands.

Harry knew he’d never hear it the same way again.

From now on, Widmung belonged to her in his mind — the soundtrack of that look she’d worn while playing, the light on her hair, the way the room had gone still around her.

He almost told her so.

Almost admitted how she’d caught him off guard in the best way, how hearing her play had felt like watching a door open to a room he hadn’t known existed.

But the words hovered and fell away before they could escape.

Instead, he let her hand rest warm and certain in the crook of his arm and let the thought sit warm and certain in his chest as they walked on.

She gave his arm a gentle squeeze, as if to say she already knew.

Chapter Text

It started small.

Not an official memo, not even a folded scrap from the Auror Office.

Don’t forget to take clarity breaks. – H

Just Hermione’s neat handwriting on the corner of torn parchment.

A few days later, there was another one — slipped into the lid of his lunch tin. She’d packed it because, apparently, he couldn’t be trusted to eat anything that didn’t come from a tea trolley.

Yes, you like treacle tart.
No, you can’t live on it.
– H

A margin note, slipped between the pages of a case file: This looks promising. You’re cleverer than you think. – H

A square of Honeydukes’ best, hidden in his desk drawer with no explanation beyond a tiny doodle of a lightning bolt in the corner.

Nothing grand. Nothing that announced itself. But they kept turning up — like she’d thought of him in the middle of her day and left proof.

Even his Pepperup potions weren’t spared: Pepper up! – H

Once, she’d even drawn a very unimpressed cauldron in the corner with the words: Eat something green! – H

At first, he only spotted them by accident — tucked into a pocket he hadn’t worn in weeks, folded between the pages of a report, slipped into the paper bag with his sandwich.

But soon enough, he caught himself looking for them.

Checking the inside of his robes before putting them on. Lifting the lid of his lunch just to see if a scrap of Hermione’s handwriting was waiting there.

It was ridiculous, really — the Boy Who Lived, scanning his belongings like a schoolboy hoping for a sweet in his satchel. But every time, the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

And then it wasn’t just the notes.

He’d hear her laugh somewhere in the Ministry — quick, warm, impossible to mistake — and feel his head turn before he’d even thought about it.

Sometimes he’d catch sight of someone with her height or a mess of brown curls at the far end of a corridor and, for a beat, be sure it was her.

The jumpers came next. The ones she borrowed and somehow returned warmer, softer, carrying the faintest trace of Hermione’s scent and the clean smell of their laundry soap.

He told himself it was nothing — that he was imagining how, on the worst days, pulling one over his head felt like taking a breath after holding it too long.

Once, after a particularly rough day, he reached for the first jumper in the stack without looking.

The moment it went over his head, the faint, familiar trace of her surrounded him — not sharp or overpowering, but there, like she’d just left the room. He didn’t take it off all evening.

Telly nights were the same kind of quiet magic. Hermione wedged between them on the sofa, the popcorn bowl balanced on her knees like a peace offering.

Teddy leaned into one side, Harry into the other, both of them helping themselves to handfuls while she made the occasional disapproving noise about their aim.

Once, his shoulder brushed hers and he meant to shift away — but didn’t.

The contact was warm, steady, and for a reason he didn’t bother trying to name, he found himself leaning in just enough to keep it. She didn’t move, either.

It was nothing, he told himself — except that the warmth lingered, the kind you felt long after the contact had gone.

She’d feed them, too, if she thought they weren’t paying attention — shoving a piece into Harry’s mouth mid-scene or holding one just out of Teddy’s reach until he pulled a face.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t fireworks. It was… good. Solid. The sort of thing he might have once called boring, but now…

Hermione laughed at something on the screen, bright and warm, and Teddy promptly tried to copy the sound.

Harry grinned into the dark of the sitting room, thinking — not for the first time — that he could get used to this.

Chapter Text

The hall at Teddy’s primary was strung with bunting in every colour imaginable, little paper owls and broomsticks dangling from the beams.

Long tables along the walls groaned under the weight of plates and jugs brought in by parents, and the smell of treacle tart and pumpkin pasties hung in the air.

Children in school robes darted between the rows of chairs, their voices bubbling with excitement for “Bring Your Parents Day.”

Harry and Hermione had arrived early enough to find seats near the front. Teddy had spotted them instantly, his hair flashing bright turquoise in a way that could only be for their benefit.

Harry felt Hermione’s hand slip into his as their godson crossed the room. Her fingers stayed there, warm and certain, like she had no intention of letting go.

She reached up with her free hand and smoothed down the front of Harry’s tie with the same care she might use brushing a crumb from Teddy’s cheek.

No fuss, no comment — just the quiet kind of attention that made something in him settle.

They’d known Teddy was looking forward to this for weeks, but nothing quite prepared Harry for seeing him stand on the little stage at the front of the hall.

His feet didn’t reach the edge, and he clutched a bit of parchment in one small fist, but his voice, when it came, was clear.

“I’m sad my mum and dad aren’t here,” he began, and the hall went quiet in a way that made Harry’s throat tighten. “I miss them lots. But I am super lucky! I’ve got two parents in the stars, and my mum and dad here.”

He grinned then, that lopsided smile that always reminded Harry of Remus. “Lots of people call them the Boy Who Lived and the Golden Girl — but that’s silly. To me, they’re just Mum and Dad."

A ripple of soft laughter went through the audience, but Teddy carried on as if he hadn’t noticed.

"They read with me and play games and let me help in the kitchen. And even if they’re busy, if I need them, they come. No questions. Just come. We make pancakes on Sundays, Mum teaches me how to play the piano, and they read me stories even when they’re tired, and they always listen. They tell me a lot of I love you and that I’m clever and kind, and they mean it."

Several parents exchanged glances; the teacher’s smile softened. “That’s wonderful, Teddy. Do you want to tell us a bit more?”

“Mum is rubbish at flying a broom — but she try anyway… sorry, Mum! But, Dad’s brilliant! Really!! Sometimes we all ride just one broom, and Mum gets scared, but Dad keeps us all safe.”

That earned a ripple of laughter from the parents and a grin from Teddy, who clearly enjoyed the attention.

Hermione rolling her eyes fondly while Harry tried not to look smug.

“They’re the best,” he concluded with a finality that made Harry’s chest ache. “That’s it.”

A few people in the audience gave quiet, appreciative noises; one woman dabbed at her eyes.

Hermione’s grip on Harry’s hand tightened, and he felt the slight tremor in her fingers.

He glanced sideways in time to see her watching Teddy like the rest of the room had disappeared — the same way she watched over him on days when he didn’t realise he needed it.

The applause filled the hall. Hermione was the first to her feet, her arm around Teddy before he’d even hopped down from the stage.

Harry leaned in from the other side, and together they kissed his cheeks, his hair flashing between colours as though he couldn’t decide what mood he was in.

The teacher, a kindly witch in plum-coloured robes, found them before they could even sit back down. “You should both be very proud,” she said, smiling warmly. “He’s bright, well-rounded, and one of the kindest children in the class. You don’t get that by chance.”

Hermione, still holding Harry’s hand, smiled back — though Harry noticed the faint sheen in her eyes. She bent to straighten the collar of Teddy’s robes, then did the same to Harry’s without thinking, like both her boys needed setting to rights before they could face the world again.

When she looked up and caught the tell-tale glisten in Harry’s eyes, she turned her palm to cup his cheek, and he leaned into the touch with his eyes closed for a moment — a quiet thank you.

Teddy noticed, grinning like he’d just caught them passing notes.

As they made their way toward the door, Teddy swung their joined hands and said, in perfect seriousness, “Next year I’m going to tell them you’re good at catching dragons too.”

Hermione laughed, Harry choked back his own, and neither corrected him.



He didn’t expect to see her that afternoon.

The departmental coordination meeting was already dragging, the sort where his quill started making its own entertainment in the margins, when the doors opened and Hermione walked in.

Ministry robes, hair half-tamed, parchment in hand — completely in her element.

She slid into the discussion like she’d been there from the start, dismantling one wizard’s convoluted point with a calm, precise tone that left no room for argument. Harry realised he’d stopped writing and was just… watching her.

When the meeting broke, they fell into step on the way out, picking up tea and pasties from the cart on the corner.

She made a perfectly dry remark about one of the pompous gits from the meeting, and he laughed so hard he nearly dropped his cup.

Later, Grimmauld Place was quiet. He came downstairs for water and found her in the library, curled in one of the big armchairs with a book balanced in her lap.

The lamplight caught in her hair, which had long since slipped free from its pins, and she’d kicked off her shoes, bare feet tucked under her.

The jumper she wore was his — one she’d borrowed and never given back — the sleeves pushed up to her elbows.

They spoke in low voices about nothing much, the kind of conversation that didn’t need to go anywhere.

When she stood to head for bed, she passed close enough that her hand brushed his arm, and the faintest trace of her scent — warm and familiar — lingered after she’d gone.

Harry stood there a long moment, glass in hand, thinking about her laugh in the corridor earlier, the look she’d given him in the meeting, the folded scraps of parchment he kept finding in his pockets.

It was nothing.

Just Hermione.

Only it didn’t feel like just anymore.

Chapter Text

Harry pushed the door open with his shoulder, shaking the drizzle from his coat.

The faint smell of tea and old books hanging in the air — but it wasn’t the smell that made him stop halfway into the hallway.

Music.

Not the scratchy hum of the wireless or Teddy’s latest attempt at a tune with a toy whistle, but proper, rolling notes that seemed to fill every corner of the house.

It was soft and lilting, but there was something in it — something that caught behind his ribs.

He followed it into the sitting room. Hermione was at the piano, hair loose around her face, head bent slightly as her fingers moved like she’d been born knowing where each key lived.

Teddy was sprawled on the rug beside her, chin in his hands, watching like it was the most important thing he’d ever seen.

Hermione didn’t look up, didn’t notice Harry in the doorway.

The lamplight caught in the curve of her cheek, the faint line of concentration between her brows, the way her fingers moved like they knew exactly where they belonged.

Every so often, she’d close her eyes, swaying just slightly with the rhythm, and Harry found himself rooted to the spot, unwilling to break whatever spell she’d woven into the room.

The last notes faded, settling into the quiet like they belonged there. Hermione lifted her hands from the keys and finally turned, spotting him. Her face softened instantly. “You’re home.”

“Yeah,” he said, and his voice came out rougher than he’d meant. “What was that?”

Her smile warmed, just a touch shy. “‘River Flows in You,’ by Yiruma — he’s a South Korean pianist and composer. It’s fairly recent. People say it represents love — not just the start, but the way it lasts… how it shifts and still holds. Romantic, but quietly so.”

Something in his chest gave a small, traitorous twist. She wasn’t talking about them — Merlin, she couldn’t be — yet the words landed in a place he didn’t want to look at too closely. He thought he might know that kind of love. Or… he could, if he let himself.

“It’s… beautiful,” he said honestly, then, before he could stop himself, “You’re beautiful.”

Her smile softened; the warmer one she didn’t use at work.

“I found the sheet music in a Muggle shop. Thought it might be nice to learn something new. Yiruma wrote it for someone he loved — and I suppose that’s what I like most about it. Music can say what we can’t always bring ourselves to. It slips past all the guardrails.”

Her fingers were still resting lightly on the keys, as though the music hadn’t quite finished with her yet. Harry’s eyes caught there, tracing the curve of her knuckles, before he made himself look away.

Teddy rolled over, grinning up at him. “Dad, Mum is awesome, right?” He scrambled up and threw his arms around her waist.

“She is,” Harry said without hesitation, the words slipping out before he could think better of them. “The best.”

Hermione laughed, ruffling Teddy’s hair and pressing a kiss to the top of his head, and Harry could see, as plain as day, the way Teddy shone under her care.

He’d always known Hermione was good with him — patient, steady — but watching her like this, framed by music and light, was something else entirely.

Harry stepped further into the room, hands buried in his pockets because he wasn’t entirely sure what they’d do otherwise.

Every part of him wanted to tell her she’d just played the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard — that he’d never forget the way she looked at the piano tonight — but instead, he lowered himself onto the rug beside Teddy, leaning back against the sofa like it might steady him.

“Can you teach me?” Teddy asked, looking up at her with such earnestness Harry felt it like a tug in his own chest.

“If you promise to practise,” she said, ruffling his hair.

She began the piece again, fingers curving over the keys, expression soft but focused, making something intricate sound as natural as breathing.

Harry watched them — her bending to Teddy’s level with that easy warmth, the piano still humming faintly from her touch — and all he could think was how much he wanted to cross the room and kiss her.

Properly.

Thoroughly.

The kind of kiss that would tell her exactly what she’d just done to him.

Instead, he stayed put, smiling faintly while his heart thudded hard against his ribs.

Just like with Widmung, he thought — some pieces didn’t just fill a room. They stayed with you, long after the last note faded.

It was ridiculous, but the thought came all the same: if he wasn’t careful, he was going to fall.

And worse — he had the sinking, exhilarating feeling that he might let himself.

Chapter Text

It happened on a Thursday.

Thursdays were usually safe — slow enough that nobody was running on adrenaline, busy enough that there wasn’t time to dwell on anything particularly stupid.

Harry had just dropped a stack of signed reports onto Hermione’s desk in the Department for Magical Law Enforcement.

She glanced up, her quill pausing mid-scratch, and asked, “Will you have time to review the evidence log before the end of the day?”

“Yes, Love,”  he said.

He didn’t even realise it had left his mouth until it was out there, hanging in the air between them like a Howler mid-scream.

She blinked. He blinked. She blinked again. His stomach dropped.

Oh, brilliant. Fantastic. Out of all the possible words, Potter, you went for that.

Might as well have dropped to one knee while you were at it.

He could feel it — the subtle shift in the room. The scratching of quills stilled. The low murmur of conversation died.

Somewhere to his left, a cup clinked against the desk and didn’t move again.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an intern staring like they’d just witnessed a marriage proposal.

Harry became vividly aware of twenty pairs of eyes, all pretending not to look directly at him while still absolutely looking directly at him.

His ears went hot.

Hermione’s brows had lifted just slightly, her expression perfectly composed — except for the faintest flush high on her cheeks.

They both gave a laugh that was just a touch too loud, just a fraction too quick.

Harry shifted the folder in his hands like it might shield him from reality.

He tried to save himself... “Sorry — long day, brain’s on autopilot.”

She gave a quick, breathy laugh in return — the kind that was meant to break tension but somehow made it worse — and bent back over her parchment. “Right. Autopilot.”

The silence stretched…

He desperately wished he could slam his head against a wall until he forgets how to speak English entirely.

Or better yet find a willing colleague with a solid Obliviate and wipe the memory from every single person in the room — especially himself. And especially Hermione.

Then Luna’s voice floated in from the doorway, serene as ever.

“You know, Harry, sometimes words slip out because they’ve been living in your heart for a while. Like puffskeins — they’re very quiet until they’re not.”

Harry closed his eyes for half a second.

Of course, Luna would say something like that. And of course, she’d say it now.

“Anyway,” Luna went on, as if she hadn’t just dropped a conversational Niffler into the middle of the office, “has anyone seen my quill? I think it’s under your chair, Hermione.”

Harry was pretty sure he was going to die here. Right now. In the Department for Magical Law Enforcement. Cause of death: open mouth, insert foot.

Harry cleared his throat. “Right,” he mumbled, and made for the corridor like a man fleeing a crime scene, the heat still burning the tips of his ears all the way out of the Ministry.

He could still see her in his mind — the way she’d blinked at him, not in annoyance, but in surprise, like she’d heard something she hadn’t expected but didn’t mind hearing.

He told himself to forget it, to shake it off… and then promptly imagined finding the nearest wall and introducing his forehead to it until the memory fell out.

Fat chance.

Because the truth was, somewhere between ‘sorry, Hermione’ and ‘pass the sugar,’ he’d meant it.

And that was the real problem.

Chapter Text

Harry told himself he’d walk it off first, lose the edge in his chest that had been buzzing since that slip earlier — the yes, love, the silence, the quill hitting the floor.

He’d managed about four streets before the cold got into his bones and the image of her looking at him — not annoyed, not even teasing, but surprised — shoved everything else aside.

He needed to see her…

Coat half-off, catching the sound of music floating from the sitting room.

Hermione...

The notes were low, rippling through the house in a way that made the air feel warmer, heavier.

He followed without thinking, boots soundless on the old floorboards, pulse matching the rhythm.

She was there in the sitting room, her back half-turned to him.

The lamplight caught in her hair, turning stray curls to gold.

Her fingers moved over the keys like they belonged there, each note spilling out sure and unhurried.

She must have felt him before she saw him, because the music faltered.

Her hands stilled.

Her head lifted.

Their eyes met, and something inside him snapped clean through.

Hermione rose from the bench slowly, almost questioning — but he was already moving.

Two strides. That was all.

Two strides and she was right there, close enough to see the faint smudge of ink at the base of her thumb, close enough to catch the warmth radiating off her.

His hand found her waist, the other brushing up her arm, and then her back met the edge of the piano with a muted thud.

One of her hands landed on the keys for balance, sending a low, discordant chord into the air.

“Har—” she started, voice catching, his name soft and half-formed on her lips.

He caught it in the space between them, in the breath they shared — and then his mouth was on hers.

No hesitation.

No testing the waters.

Just a rush, fierce and certain, like she was the only thing keeping him upright.

Her lips were impossibly soft, yielding under his but answering with their own quiet urgency, like they’d been meant for this all along.

She tasted of their toothpaste — sharp mint smoothed with the faintest trace of sweetness — and it went straight to his head.

Her scent — warm skin, clean soap, the faintest trace of her shampoo — curled around him, flooding his senses until there was nothing else.

His thumb brushed the curve of her hip, memorising the feel of her, while her fingers fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, answering every inch he gave her with one of her own.

The kiss deepened — his mouth coaxing hers open, hers meeting him like she’d been waiting — and the low, desperate sound he felt more than heard tore right out of his chest.

Her other hand left the keys to slide up into his hair, nails skimming his scalp in a way that made him want to drag her closer still, if such a thing was even possible.

The piano pressed cool against her back, his body warm and solid against her front.

Every shift, every tilt of her head, every shiver in her breath was mapped instantly into him, impossible to forget.

When they finally broke apart, it wasn’t from want — it was from breath.

They stayed there, foreheads resting together, both of them unsteady in that charged, perfect silence.

The heel of her hand was pressed to the keys, a faint vibration humming between them like the music wasn’t quite done with them yet.

Her lips were flushed, eyes bright, voice low enough for only him to hear.

“Liebestraum,” she murmured.

“By Liszt. O lieb, so lang du lieben kannst. It means…”

she hesitated, the faintest curve at her mouth,

“…O love, as long as you can love.”

Harry swallowed hard, his pulse still pounding in his ears, his hands still on her like letting go wasn’t an option.

And Merlin help him — he thought he finally understood exactly what that meant.








---
A/N: Some parts of this fic is inspired by: "Do You Like Brahms?"
Seriously, go watch it!

Chapter Text

Harry had no idea how he got back to his room.

One second he was in the sitting room, kissing Hermione like the rest of the world had the decency to disappear, and the next he was staring at his own bed as though it might give him answers.

She— I— we— Merlin.

His brain wasn’t just short-circuiting — it had packed a small bag, written Good luck with that, and left the building entirely.

He could still taste her.

Not tea, not chocolate — their toothpaste.

Ridiculous that mint could be this distracting, but there it was, clinging to his teeth like a secret.

Every time he swallowed it came back, and every time it did, his stomach went sideways in a way that was frankly unhelpful.

Harry raked a hand through his hair, then immediately did it again because apparently once wasn’t enough to make him feel any less like an idiot.

Part of him wanted to hit his head on the wall until the echo drowned out the memory of how perfectly she’d fit in his hands — the curve of her waist, the silk of her hair under his fingers, the way her lips had been soft and certain all at once.

The other part wanted to grin like a lunatic and never stop.

Brilliant.

Absolutely brilliant.

He’d gone and kissed Hermione Granger — his best friend, his… whatever she was now — in a way that had absolutely no plausible deniability.

There was no oops, tripped and fell on your face excuse for this one.

No chance of pretending it had been an accident of physics or circumstance.

And worse — much worse — he wanted to do it again.

He flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, the faintest smile tugging despite himself.

He’d probably wrecked everything.

Or fixed something.

Or both.

Or neither.

He didn’t know.

He just knew that the moment she’d said his name — not even fully — something had snapped, and he’d crossed the room like he’d been waiting his whole life to close those last two strides.

And Merlin help him… if she looked at him like that again, he wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to stop next time either.

Chapter Text

Hermione had read somewhere — in one of those articles she’d pretended not to read — that the mind could only hold one truly coherent thought during a kiss.

Apparently, hers had been, Oh.

Followed, almost immediately, by Oh, this is… dangerous.

And then Harry’s hands had been at her waist, warm and steady, and all sensible thought had been happily shoved down a flight of stairs.

She was still leaning against the piano now, as if moving might break the spell entirely.

The cool wood at her back was nothing compared to the heat still radiating through her, and her lips — Merlin, her lips still tingled like she’d been leaning too close to the fire.

Harry had tasted faintly of mint — their toothpaste, she realised, the one she’d restocked just last week.

And now she was thinking about him brushing his teeth, which was ridiculous and unhelpful and not at all where her mind should be going.

She pressed her fingers to her mouth, half to hide the smile that kept trying to escape.

It wasn’t the sort of smile she wore for the Ministry, or for polite company, or even for the DA.

It was smaller.

Private.

The sort of smile that said you are in far more trouble than you realise.

Because it hadn’t been a maybe-kiss. It hadn’t been one of those clumsy, uncertain things that could be brushed off later as an accident.

No — this had been deliberate, decisive, the kind of kiss that rewrote the terms and conditions without asking for mutual consent first.

And the most alarming part? She’d wanted it.

Not in some abstract, well, he’s handsome, of course I’d want it way.

No — she’d wanted him.

She’d wanted the feel of his breath mingling with hers, the way he’d said nothing and everything with the press of his mouth against hers.

Merlin, though — he was a damn good kisser.

The thought startled her enough to make her let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.

Not that she had an extensive sample size — her only real point of comparison involved a surprise, adrenaline-fuelled moment in the Chamber of Secrets that, in hindsight, barely counted.

This… this was in an entirely different league.

She’d seen him in a hundred different moments — mid-battle, mid-laugh, mid-exasperation — but never like that.

Like he’d crossed the room on instinct alone. Like nothing in the world could have stopped him, least of all her.

And Merlin, the way he’d kissed her… she could still feel the gentle push against the piano, the faint vibration of the chord her hand had struck, the weight of him anchoring her in place and the dizzying sense that the only thing holding the rest of the world together in that moment was the fact that neither of them had let go.

She needed to think.

She needed to not think.

She needed… well, she wasn’t entirely sure what she needed, except possibly for him to walk back into the room and make a very reckless decision for the second time tonight.

Hermione closed her eyes, inhaled slowly, and told herself — quite sternly — that she would not be replaying this moment on a loop until she fell asleep.

She absolutely would be.

But she told herself otherwise.

Chapter Text

Harry was halfway out the door when he paused at Hermione’s room.

The curtains were still drawn, her hair a dark tangle against the pillow.

She didn’t stir when he stepped closer, didn’t open her eyes when he leaned down.

He pressed his lips lightly to her forehead — no more than a whisper of a touch — and stayed there a moment longer than necessary.

“See you at work,” he murmured, though she couldn’t hear him. Or maybe she could.

By the time he saw her at the Ministry, it was like nothing and everything had changed.

They moved through a briefing as if on the same script, words dovetailing neatly without pause.

“—so, if we cross-check—”

“—the witness statements against the spell residue report—”

“Exactly.”

Harry slid the parchment towards her just as she reached for it. Their fingers brushed — quick, unremarkable, except for the spark that shot straight up his arm.

By the third overlap, Padma was watching them over the rim of her teacup like she was witnessing a rare magical phenomenon.

Seamus muttered something about “bloody mental” and nearly dropped his quill when they both turned to glare at him at the same time.

When Luna drifted in halfway through, wearing a necklace of something that might have been seashells or possibly tiny cauldrons, she tilted her head and said,

“You two have the cadence of puffskeins when they’re courting.”

Neville, standing beside her with a stack of greenhouse requisition forms, frowned. “Is that… good?”

“Oh, yes,” Luna said serenely. “They hum to each other without realising.”

Hermione’s lips twitched.

Harry coughed into his hand.

The room, somehow, felt warmer.

---

The next morning, in the lift between floors, the space was crowded, but Harry’s hand found hers without hesitation — just a light link of fingers that neither of them let go of when the doors opened.

Someone behind them actually muttered, “Oh, for Merlin’s sake.”

In the corridor outside the lifts, they stopped mid-walk to exchange a parchment. It should’ve been a quick handover — fingers to parchment, done — but Hermione looked up, caught his eyes, and everything else faded to background noise.

Her thumb brushed his as she took it, and before he’d had the good sense to think, he leaned in.

The kiss was unhurried but full — soft, warm, and so close he could feel the faint catch of her breath against his cheek.

She tilted her head just enough for him to deepen it, and the sound of the parchment slipping from one of their hands to the floor didn’t even register until someone down the hall made a scandalised noise.

They stepped inside still linked, the brass grilles sliding shut, and Harry swore he could feel the entire Ministry lean in just a fraction.

Hermione, utterly unbothered, glanced up at him. “So, did you sign off on the draft?”

He smirked. “Only the parts I didn’t think you’d rewrite.”

“That’s all of it, then.”

“That’s all of it, then,” he echoed at the exact same time.

This made her laugh — not the polite kind, but the warm, shoulder-shaking one he’d heard in kitchens and gardens and now here, in a Ministry lift.

When they stepped out into the corridor, the lift emptied behind them but they kept walking at the same pace, still talking like they’d been mid-conversation for hours.

“I’m telling you, if they’d just owl the witnesses ahead of time—”

“—we wouldn’t waste three hours sitting in—”

“—that stuffy conference room.”

They stopped to pass each other a file, their fingers brushing again, and that same current from last night hit him right between the ribs. Hermione’s eyes caught his, like she’d felt it too.

A few desks away, Seamus had stopped pretending to shuffle papers, Padma was clearly taking mental notes for later, and Neville — bless him — just smiled faintly, like he’d been waiting for this for years.

And then Luna wandered past, looking between the two of them before saying, entirely serenely, “It’s nice when two people remember they’re each other’s favourite,” and continued on without another word.

Harry could feel the tips of his ears going pink, but Hermione just squeezed his hand once before letting go — only because she needed both hands to take the stack of files he was carrying.

They slowed at the point where their paths would part.

Harry leaned in — so quick it could have been missed if you blinked — and brushed the lightest kiss against her lips.

It wasn’t much, nothing dramatic, but the collective gasp from two nearby interns told him exactly how visible it had been.

Merlin help him, he thought, because if this was the new normal, he wasn’t sure how he was meant to get any actual work done.

And judging by the way the entire floor had gone quiet as they passed, he reckoned the gossip mill had just been fed a three-course meal.

Chapter Text

It had been a few days since the kiss, enough for the buzz of it to settle into something quieter, a hum that seemed to live between them now.

Hermione found him in the sitting room that night, sprawled in his armchair with a file balanced on his knee, glasses slipping down his nose, the lamplight catching in his hair.

He glanced up when she came in with tea, and the smile he gave her—unhurried, warm, aimed entirely at her—made her pause mid-step.

She’d seen Harry smile a thousand times over the years, but this was different. This one seemed to see her, and only her. She set his mug on the table, slid into the seat opposite, and tried not to stare.

But her mind betrayed her, slipping back through the years to a different quiet evening, the Gryffindor common room in 1996, the fire low, the castle asleep.

Harry had been there, hunched in one of the armchairs, still in his Quidditch robes, mud streaked across his cheek and exhaustion in every line of him.

Ron had gone upstairs hours before, but Hermione had lingered, telling herself she needed the Charms textbook she’d left near the fire.

She’d sat beside him without a word, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, close enough to see the tight set of his jaw.

He’d muttered something then—half to himself—about never quite getting it right, about always finding a way to mess things up.

She’d turned to him, certain in a way she’d never been about anything, and told him he was the bravest person she knew.

He’d looked at her then, properly, his eyes tired but grateful, as though the words were a lifeline he hadn’t expected.

And that was when it had hit her—not loud, not dramatic, just a clean, sharp realisation that she loved him all this time.

Loved him in a way that had nothing to do with library tables or study schedules or even the war they were fighting.

And just as quickly, she’d tucked it away, because Ginny had been watching him even then, because she thinks she has feelings for Ron, and because Harry already had the weight of the world on his shoulders—he didn’t need her heart added to it.

She’d learned to live with it, to bury it under years of shared history, jokes, fights, triumphs.

And when the war ended, when the dust settled and Harry chose Ginny, she told herself she’d done the right thing, that keeping quiet had spared them both.

She had made peace with it.

Or she thought she had.

But now, sitting across from him in the warm quiet of Grimmauld Place, with his eyes holding hers like there was nowhere else he’d rather look, she felt the line she’d held for so long start to blur.

She sipped her tea, pretending she didn’t notice how his gaze lingered on her mouth, pretending she wasn’t remembering the feel of him pressed close, the taste of mint still fresh between them.

She reminded herself that she’d been here before—wanting, but not asking.

Protecting him, even from herself.

Across from her, Harry was reading again, unaware of the war she was waging in her own head.

He didn’t know that while it had taken him years to see her this way, she’d been in love with him since she was sixteen possibly even earlier.

And Hermione, who had always prided herself on being the sensible one, was starting to wonder if she could survive him realising it.

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t notice her watching him. He was too busy trying to focus on the report in front of him and failing spectacularly, because every few lines his eyes would flick back to her.

It was ridiculous, how she could just be sitting there with her tea, hair a little mussed from the day, and it would knock the breath right out of him.

He told himself it was a recent thing, this way she got to him—new enough to still feel dangerous.

But that wasn’t entirely true. If he was honest, he’d never really seen her clearly until after the war.

In 1998, when the dust had barely settled and he could finally breathe without expecting the next curse to fly his way, he’d convinced himself Ginny was the answer.

It made sense—she was brave, she understood the fight, she was part of the life he thought he was supposed to want.

He’d been so sure she was IT that he hadn’t looked anywhere else.

Not really.

And yet, even then, there had been moments.

Moments he’d filed away without thinking too hard, because examining them might have unravelled too much.

Hermione laughing with her head thrown back over something stupid Ron had said, and him noticing the way the sound hit somewhere low in his chest.

Hermione asleep on the sofa at Grimmauld after a long day, Teddy curled into her side, and him thinking—without meaning to—that this looked a lot like home.

And then there were the battles they’d fought together, long after the war was meant to be over: Ministry cases gone sideways, days when the press wouldn’t leave them alone, nights when one of them couldn’t sleep and the other stayed up too.

Those years blurred the lines.

He told himself they were just friends—his best friend, the person he trusted most in the world—but somewhere along the way the idea of her not being there stopped making sense.

The truth was, it had been building for years, quietly, like a slow tide he hadn’t noticed until it was already around his ankles. And then last week it hit him square in the face.

Yes, Love.

Two words in the middle of the Ministry, and she’d looked at him like she was seeing something she hadn’t expected.

He’d tried to brush it off, but it was still there now—the hum under his skin, the way her eyes had found his and held on.

The kiss had only made it worse—or better, depending on how honest he was feeling.

He could still feel the shape of her waist under his hand, the way she’d fit there like she’d always belonged, the softness of her lips and the quiet, certain way she’d kissed him back.

And now she was here, across from him in the soft lamplight, looking like she had no idea she’d turned his world on its head.

He dragged his gaze back to the file, tried to read the same sentence again, failed.

He’d thought he knew her before.

He’d thought he’d seen every side of Hermione Granger, fought beside her, lived beside her, trusted her with everything that mattered.

There was more to know. More to want. And he wanted all of it.

Merlin help him, if she ever found out how far gone he really was, he wasn’t sure either of them would survive it.

And just as he told himself to focus, she glanced up, catching his eyes like she’d been thinking the same impossible thing.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them looked away.

The air between them stretched, thin and fragile, until she dropped her gaze with a small, almost shy smile.

He looked back at his file, heart thudding like a traitor, both of them pretending to work while knowing they were each the other’s distraction.

Chapter Text

Hermione hadn’t meant to look up.

She’d been halfway through a policy draft, quill poised mid-sentence, when the awareness settled over her—Harry watching her again.

It wasn’t new; she’d caught him at it before, and each time it left her fighting the urge to ask what he was thinking.

But this time, when her eyes met his, it felt like being caught out in the open, both of them unguarded in the same breath.

She should have looked away.

Merlin knew she’d had years of practice in keeping her face smooth, her thoughts tucked neatly out of sight.

She’d had to, after all. When she’d finally realised it that somewhere between running for their lives and sharing stolen moments of quiet in that tent, she’d fallen for him, it had been like swallowing a secret she couldn’t tell anyone.

He’d been with Ginny. Broke up with Ginny. Gotten back with Ginny.

And she’d told herself it was fine, that she’d always known they were just friends, that what she felt was hers to manage.

And she had managed.

She’d watched him be happy, stood beside him through the years, and kept the parts of herself that wanted more locked up where they couldn’t interfere.

She’d become so good at it that sometimes she almost believed it wasn’t there anymore.

Until the slip at the Ministry—Yes, Love—and the way it had hung between them like a held breath.

Until the kiss, which she’d been trying not to replay every night since, and failing miserably.

She could still feel it if she let herself—his hands steady at her waist, his mouth warm and certain, the way he’d kissed her like she was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

It had undone her, not because she didn’t know he could be tender, but because she hadn’t known he could be like that with her.

And now here they were, the weight of all of it humming in the quiet space between them.

She held his gaze for one beat too long, just enough for her pulse to pick up, just enough to wonder if he’d noticed.

He must have, because something flickered in his eyes—something she’d thought she’d imagined before but wasn’t so sure she could dismiss now.

The temptation to say his name out loud, to break whatever this was, sat on the tip of her tongue.

Instead, she looked back down at her draft, forcing her quill into motion, as though the scratch of ink on parchment could drown out the thud of her heartbeat.

She could feel him still, even without looking—his presence settling over her like a familiar weight she’d been carrying for years.

Chapter Text

It was one of those rare days when the house was quiet. Teddy was off with Andromeda, and for once, there was nothing to rush for. They’d both picked up books that had been sitting on the side for weeks — the sort of afternoon you didn’t waste.

The fire in Grimmauld’s sitting room had burned low, casting the walls in a dull orange glow. The only sound was the occasional crack from the hearth and the rustle of a page turning.

Whatever Hermione was reading, Harry hadn’t a clue. He’d lost track of his own book ten minutes ago, somewhere between the pounding in his ears and the pull to just look at her.

He’d been sitting on it for weeks, letting the words wedge tighter and tighter in his chest. Thought he could wait. Thought he’d know when the right moment came. But she was right there — close enough for him to see her eyes flick over the lines, close enough to feel the steadiness of her — and holding it in felt like trying to breathe underwater.

He set his book down harder than he meant to.
“I love you.”

Her head lifted sharply. Before she could speak, he said it again, louder.
“I love you.”

She blinked, startled, but he didn’t stop.
“I love you.”

It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t planned. It was a truth that had been rattling the bars for too long, and now it was out, and it was hers.

Hermione’s book slid from her lap to the floor with a muffled thud. She turned toward him, searching his face as if she wanted to commit it to memory.

Then her hand came to his cheek, warm and certain.
“I love you. Always have.”

He moved before she could say anything else. The kiss caught them both mid-breath — deep, certain, nothing tentative about it. Her mouth was warm, soft, tasting faintly of the tea they’d shared earlier. She answered him without hesitation, a slow, steady pull that went straight through his chest.

Her fingers curled into his hair, nails grazing his scalp just enough to make him shiver. His hand slid to the small of her back, feeling the heat of her through the knit of her jumper, pulling her closer until there was no space left, the press of her body as sure as the press of her lips.

She shifted, tilting her head, and he followed without thinking, deepening the kiss until the rest of the room didn’t exist. The faint rasp of fabric as they moved, the soft hitch in her breathing — every sound lodged itself in him.

They broke just far enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together, both of them unsteady.
Harry kept his hand firm at her back, holding her like he’d been waiting his whole life to.
“I couldn’t breathe, keeping it in,” he said, voice rough. “Felt like it was burning a hole in me.”

He didn’t give the words a chance to fade. He kissed her again — slower now, but no less certain, mapping the shape of her mouth, savouring the faint mint of her toothpaste, the warm slide of her breath against his. Her hand slipped from his cheek to the back of his neck, fingertips pressing lightly into his skin, grounding him even as the rest of the world fell away.

When they finally parted, it was only because air had become necessary. He stayed there for a moment, eyes closed, then pulled her into him — arms wrapping tight around her, holding her as if the simple act of letting go might undo him.

She came into his chest without hesitation, her arms winding round his waist. Her cheek settled into the crook of his neck, and he could feel her breath warm against his skin. For a long moment, neither of them moved. The steady beat of her heart pressed into his ribs, matching his own until the two felt indistinguishable.

His hand slid up into her hair, fingers threading gently through it, and he let out a slow breath that loosened something deep inside him. The world could stay shut out a little longer.

Harry tightened his hold once more — not in desperation, but in quiet promise — before easing back just enough to meet her eyes.

“Come on,” he murmured.

She didn’t pull him far — just across the hall to his room. The lamps were low, casting a warm glow over the bed that had been neatly made that morning. She let go only long enough to pull back the covers, then glanced at him in silent question.

They were both already in socks, padding about the house in that easy, end-of-the-day way. He sat down on the edge of the mattress while she climbed in beside him, her hair brushing his shoulder as she settled on her side. The closeness was easy — familiar in the way it had been when they’d shared tents, spare beds, and nights on the run — but now it felt different, deliberate.

They lay facing each other, the quiet between them steady. He could feel the warmth of her through the small space that separated them, a quiet pull that made him want to close it.

When he leaned in, the kiss was slow, unhurried — nothing like the rush from downstairs. Her lips were soft against his, her breath warm on his cheek, and he let his hand rest lightly at her hip, careful, certain.

When they drew back, she stayed close, their foreheads touching. He closed his eyes, breathing her in, and felt the last of the day’s weight lift from his chest.

“Good night, love,” he murmured, leaning in to give her a soft, lingering kiss. “I love you.”

It wasn’t for effect, wasn’t meant to be answered — just the truth, spoken into the quiet between them.

Her fingers gave his a small, certain squeeze, and they drifted into sleep still facing one another, joined hands resting between them.

Chapter Text

The morning light crept through the curtains, gently rousing Harry from sleep. He blinked a few times, disoriented for a moment, before realising that Hermione was nestled against him, her body warm and soft in his arms.

She felt warmer than usual, a subtle change that made him pause. But Harry, still half-asleep, snuggled closer, content to simply breathe in the quiet peace of their shared space.

It wasn’t until he felt her stir slightly, shifting in his arms, that he realised she’d been awake for a while. Her breathing was slower now, but there was something faintly restless in the way she moved.

“Hermione?” he murmured, his voice soft and thick with affection as he gently lifted his head to look at her. He reached out instinctively, his hand brushing her hair aside before pressing his fingers gently to her forehead. Her skin was warm—too warm, a slight feverish heat that hadn’t been there last night. Harry frowned softly, his thumb brushing along the curve of her nape, the spot where her pulse fluttered beneath the surface. He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss there, letting the warmth of his lips linger just a moment too long. “You alright, love?”

She turned her head toward him, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “Mm-hmm, just... didn’t sleep too well,” she said, her voice soft, almost apologetic.

Harry’s hand brushed against her arm, his thumb gently stroking her skin as he leaned closer. “I know today’s important, but don’t overdo it, yeah? You need to take it easy when you can.”

She nodded, her eyes glinting with determination. “I’m fine, love,” she whispered, her fingers brushing lightly over his hand as her eyes met his.

She shifted, sitting up with a quiet sigh, her hand grazing his cheek for a brief moment before she reached for her robe. Her focus returned, calm and steady, as she prepared for the day ahead.

Harry smirked, his thumb brushing against her knuckles, the small gesture grounding them both in the present. “You’re brilliant, you know that?”

“Don’t start,” Hermione teased, her smile growing a little more genuine, though her eyes still carried that glimmer of anxiety.

She shifted again, sitting up on the edge of the bed, stretching before reaching for her robe. Her focus shifted, calm and resolute, as she began to prepare for the day ahead.

Harry nodded, still grinning, but his brow furrowed slightly as he watched her, his voice softening. “Right. Let’s get ready, then,” he said, his tone warm but edged with concern, a quiet affection beneath the worry.

---

The room was packed, the tension thick as Hermione stood at the front, her voice steady, clear, and commanding.

She was absolutely nailing it, wowing the room with her knowledge and expertise. Her usual confidence shone through, her focus unshakable.

But Harry couldn’t ignore the faint flush on her cheeks, the slight pallor that hadn’t been there before.

She was pushing through, no doubt, but there was something about the way her colour had gone off that made his chest tighten with worry.

She was exhausted, and he could tell it, even if no one else could.

As she finished, there was a round of applause. Hermione gave a small, modest smile, thanking everyone, but Harry could see the way her hands trembled slightly as she gathered her notes.

Her eyes were bright with determination, but they were also tired—exhausted, even.

The moment the presentation wrapped up, Harry slipped out of his seat, waiting for the crowd to disperse a little before heading toward her.

“Hermione,” he said softly, stepping up behind her as she folded her papers. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, his voice low. “That was brilliant.”

She turned, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thanks, Harry. That was... quite a lot, wasn’t it?” she said, gathering her things, her voice soft but still steady.

Harry studied her for a moment, noticing the faint sheen of sweat on her brow and the way her lips were dry, as if the effort of holding herself upright was beginning to catch up with her.

He reached for her hand, his fingers curling around hers gently, before taking her papers from her. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your office.”

She nodded, squeezing his hand in return, a small gesture of reassurance. Their fingers intertwined, and they walked side by side, the quiet hum of the Ministry around them.

Hermione’s pace was steady but slower than usual, her weariness clear in the way she moved.

Harry didn’t need her to speak; he could feel it in the way she walked, the subtle shift in her energy.

When they reached her office, Hermione paused and turned to face him, her expression soft, yet weary.

Without a word, Harry pulled her gently into a hug, his arms enveloping her.

He could feel the heaviness in her body, the weight of exhaustion that she’d been carrying through the day.

Her head rested against his chest, and he pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair.

“You were incredible,” Harry murmured softly, his voice warm with admiration. He held her for a beat longer, just letting the moment linger. “But take it easy now, love. You’ve done more than enough today.”

Hermione squeezed him a little tighter. She just nodded against his chest, finding comfort in the embrace.

When she pulled back, her smile was small but genuine, her eyes soft. She reached up, her fingers lightly grazing his cheek, a tender touch. “Yes, love,” she murmured, her voice calm but still laced with that lingering exhaustion.

Harry brushed his thumb over her knuckles, a gentle reassurance. “Alright. Just... don’t push yourself, yeah?”

She smiled again, the warmth reaching her eyes.

Chapter Text

Harry had just made it back to the Auror office when the call came in. A bloody mess down in Knockturn Alley.

It had taken longer than expected, and now the pile of paperwork in front of him seemed like more trouble than it was worth.

He barely had time to hang up his coat when he noticed the note on his desk.

H,
I’ve gone home to rest. Teddy’s with Andi. Please be safe, and I’ll see you when you get in.
– H x

A soft smile tugged at his lips as he read her words, warmth spreading through him. With a flick of his wand, Prongs appeared, bounding over to him in a blur of light.

Harry quickly sent a reply to Hermione, letting her know he'd be home in an hour or two. He slipped the note into his pocket, the quiet comfort of her message settling over him.

Then, with a reluctant sigh, he turned to the mountain of paperwork waiting for him.

An hour later, Harry finally walked through the door to Grimmauld Place, the familiar, comforting silence greeting him. His mind was still a little tangled, but the weight of the day had lightened somewhat.

The first thing he noticed, as he stepped into the living room, was the soft glow of a lamp flickering by the window.

Hermione was curled up under a thick blanket on the couch, her face pale and a little drawn. She looked up as he entered, offering a tired but warm smile.

"Hey," Harry said softly, kneeling beside her and reaching out to gently touch her forehead.

The slight warmth confirmed what he already knew—she was still running a fever. "You should’ve let me know you were feeling this rough."

Hermione shrugged weakly, her voice a little hoarse. "I didn’t want to worry you."

Harry shook his head, brushing her hair back from her face. "You never need to worry about that, love. I’m here for you, always."

She smiled faintly at that, and Harry helped her sit up a little as he tucked the blanket around her more securely.

"Just rest, yeah?" he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. "I’ll sort some tea."

He moved to the kitchen, quickly preparing a cup of chamomile tea, followed by a dash of Pepperup Potion to help ease her fever.

The warm aroma filled the room, mixing with the soothing scent of the tea. When he returned, he held out the steaming cup, the soft fragrance drifting between them.

"Here you go," he said gently, helping her sit up a little more to take the cup from him. "This’ll help."

Hermione took the cup gratefully, her fingers brushing his as she accepted it. "Thanks, Harry."

He sat next to her, his hand finding its place on her back, rubbing slow, comforting circles. "I’m right here," he said quietly. "Just rest."

Hermione leaned into him, her eyes fluttering closed as she sank into the warmth of his care.

After a while, Hermione’s breathing deepened, and Harry watched her, the rise and fall of her chest soothing him.

Harry gently slipped his arms around her, lifting her effortlessly. Her head nestled against his chest, her warmth grounding him.

Without hesitation, he carried her to their bedroom, his steps slow and careful as he moved through the flat.

When he reached their bed, Harry laid her down gently, pulling the blankets around her as he settled beside her.

He watched her for a moment as she curled into the pillow, the exhaustion still evident in the way she relaxed into the sheets.

Harry shifted closer, his arm gently resting around her waist, pulling her against him. He kissed the top of her head softly, letting the silence settle between them.

Hermione’s fingers found his in the quiet darkness, her hand curling around his as she let out a contented sigh.

The night passed quietly, the only sounds being the soft hum of the house and the rhythm of their breathing.

Harry stayed by her side, checking her temperature now and then, pressing a cool cloth to her forehead when it felt too warm.

He adjusted the blankets around her, making sure she was comfortable enough, reluctant to leave her even for a moment.

Chapter Text

As the first light of morning crept through the window, Hermione stirred slowly, her eyelids fluttering open.

The room was still, the only sound the steady rhythm of Harry’s breath against hers.

For a moment, she didn’t move, just lying there, listening to the quiet hum of the morning, feeling the warmth of his arm wrapped securely around her.

His presence was familiar, grounding, and comforting in a way that made the rest of the world feel distant and irrelevant.

She turned her head slightly, her hand finding his, her fingers brushing softly against his skin.

Harry didn’t stir at first, his face peaceful in sleep. Harry’s eyes fluttered open a moment later, as if he could feel her gaze on him.

He blinked a few times, groggy from sleep, and then met her eyes.

There was something in his expression, a quiet intensity that made Hermione’s heart skip.

He didn’t need to ask how she was; he simply looked at her with such warmth, a depth of emotion that filled the space between them.

Without a word, Harry shifted slightly, his hand gently brushing against her cheek, his thumb gliding softly over her skin.

Hermione’s breath caught at the feeling, a shiver running through her body at the delicate touch.

Her pulse quickened, and she couldn’t help but lean into his hand, seeking the comfort it offered.

He moved even closer, his breath warm against her skin, his lips pressing softly to her forehead, lingering there for a moment before brushing down to her temple.

Hermione’s eyes closed, the softness of his kiss making her chest tighten with emotion.

She felt as if time had slowed—everything in that moment, in his touch, felt significant.

Harry’s lips then moved to her neck, his kisses soft but purposeful, as if each one held a promise.

His hand, still resting on her cheek, slid down her jaw to her neck, his fingers gently tracing the sensitive skin there.

Hermione gasped quietly, her body responding instinctively to the warmth of his touch.

She pulled back slightly, her voice barely a whisper,

“Harry, it’s my... I’ve never…”

He paused, his eyes locking with hers, filled with understanding and tenderness.

“Everything about this… it’s for you... for us, Hermione,”

Harry whispered, his thumb brushing over her cheek.

His voice was quiet, filled with warmth and certainty.

“I want you to feel safe with me. We’ll go at your pace. Always.”

Hermione's breath caught… She wanted this—wanted him—more than she’d ever thought possible.

Harry paused, his breath catching as he pulled back slightly, eyes searching hers for permission.

He gently cupped her face, his gaze soft but filled with a quiet intensity.

Hermione nodded.

Harry’s lips met hers again, this time softer, yet with a growing urgency.

His hand slid to her waist, pulling her closer.

He pulled away from her mouth, kissing along her jaw, then down the side of her neck.

Warm breath caressed her skin, the sensation igniting something deep inside him.

Soft kisses pressed to her collarbone, moving lower, towards her breasts… Breath steady and warm against her skin.

Hands glided down, fingertips brushing the soft skin of her waist, sending heat coursing through him.

He moved with a sure touch, trailing lower, fingers brushing the inside of her thigh, feeling the warmth of skin beneath his fingertips.

The tension between them tightened, pressure building with every caress.

His hands moved to her hips, fingers grazing her skin as he pulled her closer, their bodies aligning.

“I’m so sorry, love... this… it might hurt a bit,” Harry murmured, his voice thick with longing and emotion.

The heat between them grew as he shifted…  entering her slowly…

Hermione gasped.

“Let me know if you need me to stop,” Harry whispered, his voice filled with concern, eyes never leaving hers. “It’s okay, I promise.”

“No…” Hermione’s voice trembled, pulling him closer. “Don’t stop… it’s you... I want this with you.”

Eyes softening at her words, breath shallow, Harry leaned down, his lips pressing gently against hers.

The kiss deepened, slow at first, then with growing urgency.

Fingers traced the curve of her spine, each movement deliberate, sending a shiver through him.

His hand slid into her hair, the softness of the strands slipping through his fingers as he gently pulled it back, tangling in the thick locks, each thrust deliberate, deepening their connection.

Again... and again... and again...

Hermione sighed...

Harry gently cupped her face, his thumb brushing over her cheek as he tilted her head, deepening the kiss.

Pressure building between them, he could feel her body tightening, his own breath quickening.

“Let go, love,”

he whispered softly, his voice thick with emotion, low and full of care.

“I got you… I’m not going anywhere.”

Chapter Text

The soft glow of the morning sun stretched across the room, its light barely touching the edges of the thick curtains.

Harry and Hermione lay tangled together in the warm silence, their breathing steady and in sync.

Outside, the world moved on, but in their little corner of it, time felt like it had stopped altogether.

Hermione stirred first, her fingers brushing against Harry's skin, tracing the familiar lines of his hand as she slowly began to wake.

Her eyes fluttered open, soft and tired, and for a moment, she simply lay there, breathing in the comfort of his presence.

The quiet hum of the morning, so perfectly matched to the stillness between them, felt like a melody in itself.

She turned her head slightly, catching the hint of a smile on Harry’s lips, and without a word, she curled closer, feeling the warmth of his body seep into hers.

The day had begun, but the intimacy of the morning lingered, cocooning them in everything they’d shared, everything unspoken, but deeply understood.

The stillness was broken only by the soft, distant music from the wireless.

The delicate sound of Widmung echoed faintly through the room, filling the space with the same tenderness Hermione had always carried in her heart.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, the music drawing him back to the first time he’d heard her play it on the piano, fingers gently pressing each note with such care.

A heartfelt dedication of love and devotion—had always spoken to him of Hermione’s steadiness, her quiet depth.

It had been a constant in their lives—just like Hermione, unwavering and full of warmth.

It was in that moment, as the music swirled around him, that Harry realised it had always been her.

Not just to keep him alive, not just as his best friend, but to truly live alongside him.

She had always been the one.

The person who was meant to stand by him, not as a protector or a guardian, but as his equal.

His partner.

It was her love, her presence, that had kept him going all along, even when he hadn’t known it.

The music shifted, and River Flows in You began to fill the air.

The notes cascaded gently, a river of sound that seemed to flow endlessly, soft and steady, just like the quiet certainty of their love.

It was the kind of music that spoke of how love can grow between people—peaceful, comfortable, and loving, just as the bond between them had blossomed over the years.

The melody wrapped them in its embrace, and for a moment, they allowed themselves to simply be—no worries, no battles, no world beyond their little corner of it.

Then, Liebesträume filled the space, slow and longing.

Harry closed his eyes again, remembering how Hermione had played this the first time she had shared it with him.

It had been a piece that held a quiet ache, a reminder of the fragility of love, the way it could slip away if not cherished.

"O love, as long as you can love.”

The words fit them so perfectly, a reminder that even in moments of quiet intimacy, they were never truly immune to the passage of time, to loss or change.

Harry felt the weight of the present in that moment, urging him to cherish what they had, knowing life was fragile, love fleeting.

Hermione's presence beside him, her warmth, was the promise the music offered.

Each note seemed like a reflection of their connection, her touch on his skin just as tender as the music that filled the air.

The melody wrapped them in its embrace, and for a moment, Harry simply let himself be, surrendering to the peace of it all.

“I love you, Hermione,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his breath warm against her skin.

He snuggled closer, his arms tightening around her as if to pull her even further into him.

Hermione’s heart skipped, her eyes closing as she pressed closer, her fingers threading through his, holding him like she never wanted to let go.

“Ohhhh, Harry... I love you. Always have,” she whispered, her voice soft and sincere, full of the kind of love that had always been there, even before they had the words for it.

The weight of her words settled between them, soft but undeniable, and Harry felt his chest tighten with the sheer truth of it.

Her love was like a promise—a steady, unbreakable thread that tied them together in ways words could never fully express.

Harry shifted slightly, his hand finding hers again, grounding him in the space they shared.

He wanted to stay here with her forever, in this moment, where everything made sense and every silence was filled with meaning.

“Do you ever wonder,” he murmured softly, his voice barely a whisper, “what it would be like to never leave this room?”

Hermione’s eyes fluttered closed, and she smiled, her fingers tightening gently around his. “I don’t need to wonder, love. I’m already here, Harry. I’m right here.”

As the morning wore on, Harry’s thoughts shifted—quiet, but certain.

The peace and the love between them made it the perfect time to take a step forward.

He had been carrying the thought with him for a while now, and the moment felt right.

He would go to Gringotts. He’d retrieve his mum’s engagement ring from the vault and finally ask her.

He smiled softly, his fingers brushing over Hermione’s hand again, grounding him, as the idea settled within him.

He smiled again, his voice steady as he murmured, “We’ve built something real, Hermione. And I’m not letting go.”

She squeezed his hand in reply, her voice steady with a love that only strengthened his resolve. “You don’t have to, Harry. You never have to.”

And so, in the stillness of the room, with the sounds of the piano filling the space and the warmth of each other’s presence all around them, they let the world slip away.

For the first time in a long time, it was just them—no need for anything else. Only the quiet certainty of being home—together.

-FIN-