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Hermione pulled a wooden chair out from the kitchen table.
“Sit.”
Harry sat with trepidation. Hermione was in a good mood tonight, but he wasn’t willing to go against her right now. Hermione grabbed a fluffy pink towel from the table behind him and flipped it open, snapping it behind him and settling it over his shoulders like a cape. She walked over to the oak veneer cupboard, took down a tall glass, and filled it from the tap. She set it on the table behind him, before standing with her arms crossed and looking at his head critically.
“Tell me why, again?” he asked her.
It had been a long day at the Ministry, sitting through droning lectures about legal precedent, public relations, and de-escalation techniques. He and Ron sat through them all dutifully, and they planned to take the Law Enforcement Exam next summer. Draco had sent him word that he’d been called in to consult at St Mungo’s: a witch had blown up her cauldron and now couldn’t remember her sister’s name. Neville, who had been staying with them since September when his gran died, was out with Hannah Abbott again. As soon as Ron had heard that Harry planned to spend his evening alone, he had dragged him home to Oxford. Hermione had even stopped by the nice Italian place in Gloucester Green on the way back from her ethics class and had walked in the door with several boxes of fragrant food. Harry felt this was the least he could do to pay her back for a delicious dinner.
Whatever ‘this’ turned out to be.
“Because I’m so bored! So bored. And I know you are too,” she said, giving him a threatening look. She took up a wide-tooth comb and dipped it in the glass of water. “If I have to hear any more background lore about Martin Miggs, I swear to all that’s holy I will drive a pencil through my ear.”
Despite spending all day studying with future aurors, Ron was back at the books again after dinner. Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was almost back to full swing, but it was still a lot for a recovering George to handle. So Ron had stayed on, continuing to help George in whatever aspect he needed that week, so that George was not overwhelmed. Ron had recently charged himself with budgeting and ordering a collection of comic books, convinced that they would fly off the shelves like a sure deal. Now he was stuck in the mire of budgeting and order forms. He’d tried to teach himself a few bookkeeping spells, but wasn’t good enough at it yet to get an accurate count, so he was doing it all by hand. Hermione had introduced him to pencils, with their wonderful erasers conveniently attached to each one, and Ron was immediately hooked. He was currently spread out over the living room floor, frowning at the papers spread around him.
“Surely you’re not serious. He’s doing maths, you should love that,” Harry said, a bit confused. He winced as she tried very hard to run the wet comb through his hair. She gave up quickly, switching it for her fingers as she tried to dig into his scalp. “Besides, you’re interested in some of it, I can tell.”
“I am serious,” she grumbled. “And don’t call me Shirley.”
Feeling contrary then, Harry thought. Hermione’s fingers were rough in his hair, and her fingernails scratched his scalp. She had a fierce look of concentration on her face, but it wasn’t the swotting face he was familiar with. Her lips were pursed to one side, and her eyes were squinted, one of them almost closed, and she looked like she did when they were trying to explain quidditch statistics to her. She reminded Harry of an angry pirate.
“Argh,” he said to her, and she smiled at him and fixed her face. Then she spun in place a bit, picking up the wet comb again and running it through his hair. This time, it pulled a bit less.
“Didn’t you learn all this in Hogwarts? Practice with the girls in the tower?” He was always willing to help Hermione, but he was feeling more than a bit silly. Weren’t there others who would give her better company? People who knew about beauty and hair? It couldn’t be possible that he was her best option for this.
“The Patil twins are opening a beauty salon in Wimbledon, did you hear? I’ve been wondering if I should make an appointment. But when do I ever have the opportunity to wear makeup?”
It seemed like a non-sequitur, or like she was simply proving Harry’s point. But he knew her better by now, and knew that lighthearted tone she got when she pretended not to care about something. It was the same cavalier way she talked about Luna’s work in conservation, or about Lavender Brown. Her face was shuttered completely. But she also wasn’t likely to give up an argument so quickly. Hermione was brave and confident, but Harry knew she was insecure about her looks. And if her dormmates were already experts and still hadn’t taught her anything….
“No, you’re much too busy for that, and it’s not important. Besides, you don’t really need it, do you?”
“Aww, Harry!” she fluttered teasingly, and pulled his face into her stomach in a quick hug. He laughed a bit, but he meant it. Neither she, nor Ginny, nor Luna wore makeup regularly, to his knowledge. Until he met Fleur, who treated beauty like a hobby, he had just assumed that some girls simply didn’t need the help of glamours. He was willing to stand by that opinion, especially if it helped Hermione realise that she truly didn’t need to worry about those things.
“Can’t you get anyone else to be your guinea pig?” Harry asked, hoping he didn’t sound as whinging as he felt. He still wasn’t ready to give it up completely, and he railed against his fate.
“Who, like Fleur?” Hermione’s face twisted in incredulity.
“I dunno,” he said, feeling a bit caught. “She’s got two little babies now, she might appreciate the attention. Or what about Percy’s wife?”
She still looked sceptical. She dipped the comb in the water again, dribbling water all over the floor, and combing it through his hair mercilessly. Occasionally, Hermione needed a little push to be social with people besides Ron and Harry, and they tried their best to be supportive of her. They both felt she could benefit from some female friendship, if only to spare themselves the frequent conversations about their feelings.
“Oh, Harry. They know too much,” she told him, like it was obvious. Like he was a child, and she was explaining why teachers don’t live in the schools overnight. Droplets were starting to run down his neck, but she continued to brush water through his thick hair. She shook her head in faux disappointment. “Sure, Ginny’s a stupid jock like you -”
“Hey!”
“- but she’s stuck in some dorm in Holyhead as we speak. Her hair is also nothing like ours. No, this is the only way. I refuse to be judged while I feel so stupid.”
“I’m honoured,” Harry grumbled, though truly meaning it. Hermione was a very private person, and she hated showing vulnerability with a passion. She certainly wouldn’t show her faults to just anyone. He knew the value of Hermione’s trust by now, and he would never take it for granted again.
Harry’s hair was dripping wet, and Hermione was making slow, thoughtful passes with the comb. “And before you suggest it, I’m not currently speaking to Luna. She insulted my crafts room.”
“She did not! She said it looked like a place where fairies would live. It was a compliment!” He wasn’t sure why he was defending Luna, except that he didn’t really understand the awkwardness between them. Luna had asked to see the spare bedroom that Hermione had just finished decorating. It had a twin bed, a large desk, and a bookshelf loaded with plastic bins full of ribbons and papers and glue. It wasn’t very pretty, but it was functional, and much more than the store room it used to be. Hermione had worked on it for weeks before being satisfied. She had given her a chance, but Luna had not seen the spare room from Hermione’s triumphant perspective.
Hermione tossed the comb onto the table behind him. “No, she said it looked infested,” she enunciated each syllable, “with doxies. Not the same, Harry.”
She grabbed the edge of the bleach-stained towel on his neck as he laughed, tugging it quickly so it sailed through the air, before throwing it onto Harry’s head.
“Well, I’m sure she’d let you play with her hair if you asked. Ow!”
Hermione’s response to his thoughtful suggestion was to scrub at his head vigorously, upending his glasses. Hint taken, he thought bitterly, and moved his thoughts away from Luna. She whipped the towel off his head and dropped it blindly to her left, where very nearly landed on Crookshanks, who didn’t even flinch. The old cat had wandered in at some point to watch the proceedings, flopping bonelessly onto his side and casting a critical eye over the scene from his place on the beige linoleum.
Hermione’s hands are coming at him again, and he braces himself again as she claws at his scalp. She’s started combing something into his hair with her fingers, and the fragrance was so strong that it wrinkled his nose. He coughed a few times, making Hermione step away to wait for him, and she sighed exasperatedly.
“Roses,” she told him. “My favourite. I add a bit to the Sleekeazys pomade because I can’t stand the natural curry smell. Just relax and enjoy the pampering, Harry.”
She ran the comb through his hair again, spreading the flowery gel through his hair and all the way to the ends. She was slowly becoming more confident as they moved off the topic of her perceived social failings. She also seemed to feel like she knew what she was doing with the Sleekeazys now, and perhaps growing too confident, she caught his ear several times with the blunted teeth of the comb.
“Ow. Ow! ‘Mione, Jesus, ow.” He rubbed at his ear before bringing his fingers down to check for blood. “‘Relax and enjoy’? This is about as relaxing as one of Aunt Petunia’s haircuts. Ouch.”
Hermione’s hands had stilled on his head before abruptly leaving. He looked up to see her clutching the comb to her chest, looking genuinely concerned that she had crossed some line. When they made eye contact, she relaxed considerably, and she quickly adopted an exaggerated look of offence before dropping that too and smiling warmly at him. She considered something, rolling her lips together and pulling at the teeth of the comb with her thumb as she summoned the courage to speak. When she did, it was a perfect imitation of airy and unperturbed.
“I remember rubbing dirt into my curls in the schoolyard, before my mother arrived to walk me home.” Hermione spoke in an undertone, though there was no one else around to hear it besides him and the cat. It seemed like another non-sequitur, but Harry trusted her enough to wait. She put her hands on his temples to move his head where she wanted it, and she absently rubbed her thumb over his scar like he’s seen her do a million times with drying ink. The small frown she wore told him that it didn’t smudge off. “She’d examine my head each time, like she could figure out how it got there. Like I was excreting London Clay Formation. She’d always wash my hair when we got home, before she left for the clinic again. I’d get her for a whole hour, those days.” Hermione sounds wistful, and he feels a bit sad for her as he lets her tilt his head absently this way and that.
“She figured it out eventually,” she continued. “One of the teachers saw me pouring sand on my head one afternoon and reported it to a counsellor. They made my parents come to school over it. Good while it lasted.”
Hermione’s eyes were slitted in concentration now as she stood back, hands on her hips and calculating her next move. She was not open to questions.
She’d changed out of her ‘Oxford fit’ before they’d sat down for dinner, coming back downstairs in black yoga pants and a green-blue t-shirt with grey letters: ‘St John’s Wood Primary School.’ A giant clip was straining to hold her riotous curls behind her head and failing spectacularly, with a good deal of it coming loose and falling into her face and around her neck. Harry could see the silvery scar on her forearm as she stood still, and it seemed to be fading a bit with the cream she’d bought. She’d refused to cover up, saying, “Secrets breed shame, Harry. And I will not be ashamed, at least not of that.” No one would ever convince him that Hermione Jane Granger didn’t belong in Gryffindor.
She reached behind him again, producing a terrifying gadget from the table that looked a bit like giant kitchen tongs.
“Oh, stop. It’s just an iron,” she said, clacking it a few times and pulling him back into reach by his shirt collar. She grabs a chunk of hair from the top of his head and attacks it, moving around him and trying it at different angles, and frowning hard until she apparently gives it up, literally putting her hands in the air.
“Ugh. Here,” she says, putting the iron on the table and spinning again in place. She stops, spins the other way, hands out and eyes searching every surface. Letting out a frustrated breath, she conjures a hand mirror and gives it to Harry. “Hold this up for me. I’ve got to figure this out on myself first.”
“What? I thought this was about me, and my pampering. Don’t be so vain, ‘Mione,” he teased, knowing she was anything but.
Harry ducked quickly, but Hermione’s swat still got him, catching his wet hair and flipping it over to one side. He laughed, watching as she nearly crossed her eyes and worked on a chunk of ringlets in front of her face. After a few complicated passes with the iron, and Harry holding the mirror absolutely still, her long brown tress began to obey her. Zigzagging waves were left behind, ending several inches below the rest of her hair, and she tucked it behind her ear. Smiling proudly, she divested him of the mirror and readied herself to try again on Harry’s wild hair. She clacked her iron excitedly.
“You look ridiculous,” Harry told her, knowing full well his own hair was a wet and tangled mess on top of his head. Hermione picked up the comb and blew a doubtful raspberry at him. She started bunching Harry’s hair into sections.
“Your hair is so thick, Harry. Where’d you get it?”
“I dunno. Came with it, I suppose. You’d know better than me, actually.”
Hermione had shared with him her plans to research the Potter family ancestry. She had promised to make a project of it with him, but with schooling and making time for themselves and for loved ones, there was no spare time anymore.
“Hmm. I suppose it’s past time that I should do some research on your family tree, isn’t it?” she mused.
Harry was definitely eager to know, but he felt no rush anymore. He was about to join the auror team, as a beat officer at first, but he would likely be very busy. Oxford had approved Hermione’s request to study sociology in addition to her philosophy undergrad and law prep, and she could be easily overwhelmed these days. He wouldn’t be the one to ask more of her.
“We’ll wait until we’re less busy, if that ever happens,” he told her.
“I’m never too busy for you, Harry,” she said warmly, putting the comb down and picking up the iron again. She promptly ruined the moment by pulling at his hair and nearly burning his scalp. Steam rose gently. “Oh, but I do know something.”
She stepped back a bit to look at him. “The Sleekeazys, that was your grandfather!”
“Fleamont Potter? I don’t know anything about him besides his name.”
“Your dad’s dad, Fleamont, invented it. It’s the origin story of the potion,” she explained, going back to pulling his hair. “Fleamont was looking for a pomade to tame his wild hair, so he could comb it to the side and twirl it like they did back then, you know?” She doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “He was married to an Indian woman named Euphemia, whose parents emigrated here directly from Mumbai, and she was apparently an amazing cook. They were eating her famous vindaloo one evening when he was inspired to use turmeric in his hair potion. And the rest is history.”
“So you’re putting curry in my hair?” he said after a moment, missing her point on purpose.
Hermione’s laugh was a babbling brook, happy and carefree. It was one of Harry’s favourite sounds, as rare as it had been for so long. It was right up there with Ron’s indignant shriek when his brothers teased him, and Draco’s soft baby voice he used with the stray cats around their cottage.
Harry sat still, allowing Hermione to manipulate his hair, flipping it this way and that while she worked. Her sapphire ring, tucked safely behind her white gold wedding band, glinted weakly in the yellow kitchen light, and it caught his eye whenever her hand moved near his face. It was a small rectangular stone, vibrant and deep blue, with two tiny diamonds on each side. Harry knew it well, as Ron had dragged him to the antique store in London to buy it with him two years ago. Harry wasn’t sure why Ron thought he could help him shop for jewelry, but he had loyally assured him that Hermione would love it. He was right, of course, it suited her perfectly. She had been so flattered by the effort Ron had put into finding it that she’d refused to ever take it off.
“It’s so long, though! Look,” Hermione burst out, pulling his hair straight down from his forehead. Her fingers pinched the end, reaching down to the tip of his nose. She let her fingers go and it sprang back up, despite being mostly straightened. “I guess it’s usually curly. You’ve got bigger curls than me, though, so maybe I just didn’t notice your hair getting this long.”
Hermione looked upset with herself for a moment before she suddenly smiled, having apparently spotted something. She huffed a laugh to herself before swooping more of Harry’s hair into his eyes, pulling the hair on his crown up to stand in a riotous tangle.
“I chime in with a ‘haven’t you people ever heard of,” she starts singing exaggeratedly, “closing the goddamn door?’ No, it’s much better to face these kinds of things,” Hermione stands sideways to him and poses, using the comb as her microphone, “with a sense of poise and rationality!”
She went to the corner of her kitchen, dancing a bit as she walked, leaving Harry to laugh nervously without understanding the reference. She wasn’t a good singer, but Harry loved to hear it, because she had only started having these joyful outbursts recently. She reached behind a decorative wooden duck on the counter and produced a square green bottle of Italian olive oil, a gift from Draco’s time away in med school. She looked at Harry mischievously as she poured a bit into her palm. Then she started advancing on him again, rubbing her hands together to spread the oil over her palms and fingers.
“I’m calling you emo, Harry,” she said in answer to his confusion. “You know, the stuff moody teens and goths listen to nowadays?” Still nothing, and she waved him away with an oily hand, coming closer still. “Nevermind.”
“Wait, ‘Mione, what are you doing with those greasy hands?!”
She ignored him completely and sank her oiled fingers into his new long waves. He grabbed at her arms and winced, expecting a slimy feel or a sensation that he’s about to be put in a fryer, but it’s none of that. The oil warmed on his scalp until it almost felt nice, and Hermione used her fingers to spread it over his whole head like a gentle massage. Disarmed, he let his arms fall back to his lap. For the first time tonight, he wasn’t regretting spending his evening in Oxford instead of his warm living room with Draco and a telly.
Hermione’s pushing all his hair back now, nearly petting him, and he looks up to see her smiling fondly. She picks up the comb again, leaning over him, and starts combing it all straight back. She stops him with a thumb under his chin and beholds him, giggling. He raised an eyebrow at her, knowing he was likely being made fun of again and not minding at all.
She adopted a supercilious expression, tipping her head back to look down her nose at Harry.
“‘Copying me now, Potter? Wait til my father hears about this!’” she drawled at him. She barely got to the end of it before she was doubled over in a loud cackle. Harry couldn’t help but join.
“‘You and your bloody chicken!’” he gasped out, and Hermione wheezed, stomping her feet. They loved Draco now, sure, but some people were just easier to tease.
“Oh, Harry, stop! I can’t!” she laughed, grabbing at his sleeve at the same time as she pushed his shoulder.
Laughing still, she reached over with the comb and flipped some of his hair to the side, ruining the effect so she could catch her breath. She had a huge grin stuck on her face as she combed his hair this way and that, adding swirls and walking around his chair. She made her way back to the front and she considered him, eyes bright.
Then she gave him a double finger guns and said, “‘eyyyyy!”
Finally, a pop reference he understands! He laughs merrily with her, having watched several seasons of Happy Days in Ron & Hermione’s living room over the summer.
“I should lend you my leather jacket,” she said, sounding wistful again and looking like she wished she really could.
Hermione’s parents had finally come to see her new house over the summer, and only 14 months after they’d moved in. She and Ron had been so proud of it. They’d kept half of the furnishings from the previous owner, an old widow, including an admirable wooden duck collection they were loathe to make homeless. The whole place was outdated and old, but it was also warm, safe, and hers. Harry knew how excited they were and how proud to show it off, so when the Grangers had made their distaste known, it broke Hermione’s heart. Harry had been with them for dinner that night, listening to her distant father fail to read the room by promising that he’d pay for anything his daughter needed to fix it. He and Ron both saw her flinch at the words, even if she hid it quickly. She’d responded beautifully, telling them that she’d change it herself as she goes, and she was kind but firm when she told them not to worry about it. They showered her with expensive gifts anyhow, things like DVDs and leather jackets, desperate to remain relevant to her new life in Oxford. “I might go midcentury modern, just to fuck with them,” she had told them through tears afterwards, having recently learned the psychological advantages of appropriate swearing.
“Oh, how did he do it? Like…” She’s combed most of his hair forward now, twisting it and pulling it into spirals on his head. “Like that, maybe?” she mumbled as she curled a lock of hair over his forehead around her finger. She let it go, and it held a soft curl. She was just touching it up, smiling in satisfaction, when a burst of laughter behind her made her jump and drop her comb. She spun to glare at Ron.
Ron was swinging the fridge door closed, popping the top off of a Boar’s Head Red, staring at Harry and losing his goddamn mind with laughter.
“‘Mione, what did you do to me?” Harry said, feeling amused despite reaching up nervously to check. She swatted his hands away and gave them both an indignant huff.
“It’s nothing, really! I just maybe made you look a bit like…” her voice grew quieter as the sentence grew on, so that by the end he couldn’t hear the name.
“What? Who?”
“You mean ‘Gilderoy Lockhart’s wig’!” Ron was howling, holding onto the formica counters and wiping at his face dramatically.
Hermione looked affronted, picking her comb up off the floor as she turned to Harry, looking for support. When he just shrugged, not denying the wig slander, her chin dropped even further in shock. Harry was laughing too, now, as she wrinkled her nose, no doubt remembering her very brief crush.
She turned to him, pointing her comb threateningly at his nose. “Stop laughing this instant,” she attempted. “Fame isn’t everything, Harry.”
“Even for a five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award?” he asked, giving his toothiest grin. It must be awful, because they’re both laughing again, and Hermione favoured them with a dainty snort.
“Mate, do I want to know how you know so much about Lockhart?”
“I spent hours helping him answer fan mail in detention,” Harry explained, raising his hands in defence. “It’s stuck in my brain now, one of those useless facts I can’t get rid of. Like how giraffes are thirty times more likely to be struck by lightning.”
Ron was laughing again, but Hermione looked at him sympathetically. Harry didn’t believe that for a second, though.
“What a horrible fact,” she told him, consolingly. “You poor man.”
“Is this because Harry’s gay now?” Ron asked her abruptly, and they turned to look at him. “Seems homophobic, ‘Mione. Not good.” He sent Harry a smile, and Harry knew he was not trying to offend him, but was trying to wind up Hermione. Harry grinned back, flipping his coif at him and leaning back to watch.
“He’s not ‘gay now,’ Ron. He’s bisexual,” Hermione snapped predictably, rolling her eyes. She advanced, pinning Ron with a glare and said sweetly, “You do know ‘bisexual,’ don’t you, Ronald?”
Apparently cornered, he simply smiled and nodded. Hermione gave him a satisfied nod and turned back to poke at Harry’s hair again. He was about to lean forward again into her reach when Ron decided not to give up his death wish.
“Give Harry a break, ‘Mione. You really couldn’t find anyone else? You had to kidnap Harry?” When she just shrugged a bit, pretending to be invested in what she was doing with Harry’s hair from a meter back, Ron continued. Just a little step further. “What about, I don’t know, Parkinson?”
Harry watched Hermione’s eyes bug out of her head as she spun around, fast enough that her socks skidded a bit on the linoleum. He leaned forward to catch her arm so she didn’t fall on her own cat, who flicked his tail and strutted away.
“Pansy Parkinson?” she parrotted, plosing her p’s. “With her perfect Japanese hair full of expensive Korean products? No, it’s much too pretty. I’d be afraid to ruin it.”
“Ta, ‘Mione,” Harry said, and Ron laughed again.
Harry was used to their bickering by now, and he knew this was nothing to worry about. When they were still doing this as a happy couple, he’d realised that this was more like a well-played match of tennis, and had even come to enjoy it as a noble sport. Harry actually doubted that Ron cared that he was stuck in Hermione’s oiled clutches. In fact, it was more likely that he’d known this would happen when he’d invited Harry home with him hours ago, and knew it was either him or Harry.
“C’mon,” Ron cajoled with a winning smile. “Harry’s our friend. We don’t torture our friends!”
“Needs must. Casualty of science, I’m afraid,” she said, not looking sorry at all. She crossed her arms and tapped her foot lightly, a nervous tell. “Besides, he has to. I’ve got too much dirt on him from Ginny for him to ever say no to me again. Study halls and protest marches forever, Harry!”
“You do?” Ron asked, at the same time as Harry exclaimed, “Like what!” They both looked at Harry.
“We dated for a few months when I was sixteen. What could she possibly have told you?”
By the counter, Ron looked relieved, but Harry wasn’t bluffing. Besides a lot of face-sucking, he and Ginny hadn’t gotten up to anything at all. There was no dirt to be had, and he hoped for Hermione’s sake that Ginny hadn’t lied to her.
Hermione gave Ron a critical look, similar to the one Crookshanks had given them earlier, before turning to Harry with a sinister grin.
“You really can’t think of anything? Nothing at all?” At his head shake, she took two measured steps towards him, the purple stone on her necklace swinging madly as she leaned abruptly forward. “How sure are you?”
Harry knew that Hermione could be formidable when she wanted, but there really was nothing. Unless it was something more innocent? Some embarrassing moment or boyhood fumble? There were plenty of those. He cast a nervous look at Ron, whose face fell, misunderstanding Harry’s sudden nervousness.
“But it’s you two,” Harry said, giving Hermione his best real smile. “Why should I be worried about that? Unless you’ve started having weekly lunches with Rita Skeeter? Who would you ever dare tell?”
Ron’s ears perked up at that, and he turned to face Hermione, eager to see if she could parry that blow. Hermione was notoriously ferocious about Harry’s privacy. She worked tirelessly to keep the media and fans out of his personal life. Not only was she protective of him physically since almost losing him in the war, but she took personal offence to the ‘journalists’ who dug into his childhood records or hid in his garden to ambush him with questions. Harry smiled at her again, confident that he’d won this one. Until….
“Him.”
Hermione had raised her arm, the comb pointed right at her dear husband’s heart like a death sentence. Ron paled, no doubt trying to shut out thoughts of his baby sister shagging his best friend. Harry groaned, not wanting Ron to hear about his embarrassing teenage inexperiences. Game set match. No one can win against the queen.
She picked up the pink towel from the floor victoriously and swatted at Ron with it until he trotted off back to his paperwork, still looking vaguely horrified. She dropped it onto the tiles again as she came back to Harry and put the comb back in his hair.
“Oh, don’t look so sour, Harry!” She patted the side of his shoulder, hard enough that he had to shift his foot to catch himself before falling. “We’ll make you look irresistible for Draco. And nothing at all like Lockhart.”
She was combing his hair more smoothly now, and it wasn’t pulling at all. The excessive combing had finally spread the goops and oils to Hermione’s satisfaction, it seemed. She used her fingers now to feel for missed spots and lift up his hair from the roots, walking around his chair again and smiling at her work.
“Ooh, Harry, this actually looks good,” she said, brushing it back just so with her hands and sounding a bit too surprised for his liking. He frowned at her, but she was looking at his hair still. She pointed to the conjured mirror on the table. “You might actually consider growing your hair longer.”
He looked into Hermione’s hand mirror, touching his hair at different places. It did seem a bit longer, coming down around his ears and falling every which way. It looked wavy and effortless (so, a lie), and it kind of resembled something Sirius would have done to his hair. It was nice, he supposed. It looked good. But what does he know? It’s just hair. He can’t even see it most of the time.
She was looking at him excitedly, though her face fell as he looked up at her and she saw his nonplussed expression.
“Harry,” she explained patiently, though her tone suggested she was telling him that chocolate milk didn’t come from brown cows. “You look like fucking Pierce Brosnan. It’s good.”
The fact that she’d cursed had Harry believing her, and he smiled at her. Swears were the spice of language, she’d said, and when used well, made everything more fun. She smiled back, running her fingers through his hair again and fussing with the styling.
Footsteps, the sounds of shoes on the cracking linoleum, and they both look up to see Ron back in the kitchen doorway with Draco now at his side, peeking in with his jacket over his arm and hands in his pockets.
“Look what the owl dragged in,” Ron announced boisterously.
Harry was standing before he realised it, walking towards Draco, who met him midway through the kitchen by the microwave. They stood close, Draco’s hand on his chest as they leaned towards each other slightly, taking the other in. Had it only been hours? It felt like days.
“Hi.” Harry brought his hand up to thumb the circles under his eyes. Likely reading too much, and thinking too hard. Harry knew that the student nurses had just rotated into new posts at the hospital, too, which always led to a week or two of frustration all around while people learned their new roles and tried to work around strangers with egos. Draco looked exhausted, but there was also an accomplished gleam in his eye. It seemed he’d solved the puzzle of the potioneer and her sister. Of course he had; he was the best mindhealer in Britain, and he wasn’t even finished with his education yet.
“Good work, I’m proud of you,” Harry told him earnestly, and watched as Draco’s expression went from confused to realisation, then to pride, before he blushed slightly and smiled. Harry held his arms just above the elbow and rubbed up and down his wrinkled sleeve gently. It still felt new, this thing with Draco, despite having been together for almost a year. They were even renting a cottage together in Keswick and had been sharing a bed for months now. But they were both in love for the first time, head over heels for each other, and they were determined to make the most of it. “Are you ready to go home? Get some sleep?”
Draco was staring at his hair, but he shook himself so he could answer Harry. He leaned into him, crossing his arms between them and pressing up against Harry’s chest until Harry put an arm around his shoulders.
“Home, then food, then bed,” he corrected into Harry’s shoulder. “You look like Stubby Boardman.”
“Of course, dear.”
He could hear Ron and Hermione talking to each other quietly behind him, but his attention was taken by Draco, who was inhaling deeply. Then again. No, he was sniffing him.
“Harry,” he started, and he pulled back, looking baffled. “Why do you smell like bruschetta?”
“Oh!” Hermione crossed quickly to the fridge and pulled out a takeaway container with a picture of the Tower of Pisa on the front. She presented it to Draco, looking very proud. “Lemon chicken fettuccine,” she said, bowing slightly.
“Granger, you’re a saint,” he said reverently, as he pulled away from Harry and took the box. He opened it to look inside, and sighed longingly. He looked like it was taking most of his willpower not to stick his face into the box like a pensieve. “So did you get briam and then bathe in it?”
“No, I trusted a crazy woman and she poured curry and olive oil on my head,” Harry told him regretfully. Ron let out a high-pitched giggle as Hermione pulled a wicked face and cackled. She brought her hands up in spindly claws and did an overacted stage creep back over to Ron, lifting her knees and tiptoeing oddly. She poked him in the stomach and made absurd death noises before miming his guts falling out and giving him a mournful look. Then she smiled and spun back around to look at Harry again.
“That’s me, then,” Harry said, putting on his coat, and he went to hug his friends goodbye. Ron gave him a good embrace, with a few manly pats on the back for good measure. As he hugged Hermione, he tipped her side to side a bit to make her laugh.
“Thank you,” he told her. For keeping him company, for making him laugh, for understanding him, protecting him, loving him…. Hermione smiled at him, knowing exactly what he meant, and he let her reach out to touch his hair again. Her fingers slid into his locks gently, then she waited for his eye contact when she suddenly shook her hand and completely mussed it up. Harry squawked a bit, ducking out of her reach much too late.
“It was looking too perfect,” she smiled, leaning into the counter by the sink, hip to hip with Ron. “You didn’t look at all like yourself. I missed you.”
“She’s got the right idea,” Draco agreed, as Harry turned and took the takeaway box from him. He tiredly waggled his eyebrows at Harry. “Let’s go home so I can mess it up.”
He’d noticed that Draco couldn’t keep his eyes off his hair for long, and he’d hoped that was a good thing. He had no idea what Draco’s opinion on Stubby Boardman was. He took a moment to imagine Draco’s long, slender hands in his hair instead of Hermione’s, scratching his scalp and pulling his hair in a very different way. It was an enticing image.
“Goodbye, funny valentine!” Hermione called after them as Harry opened the back door for Draco. He smiled at them both, and they waved back as he closed the kitchen door behind him. He met Draco at the bottom of the steps to the back garden, balancing the fettuccine in one hand and sliding the other arm around Draco’s waist. Draco put both arms around his neck and pressed close.
“Shall we?” Harry asked. Draco smiled into his neck, and they apparated home together.