Chapter Text
Moment 1: Harmony's Creek
Part A: The Luxury of Boring
(Lyrics from "I Would Walk (500 Miles)" by The Proclaimers, and "Hooked On A Feelin'" by Blue Swede, no copyright infringement intended)
Trunks loaded in the boot, and Hedwig resting in her cage between Harry and Hermione in the back seat. Richard at the helm and Ellen doing her best to go over all the plans they had this summer. The practical Estate wagon Richard refused to trade in despite Ellen's protests pulled out of King's Cross.
"Stubborn," Harry heard Ellen say after commenting openly about the car being good for a trade-in soon, where Richard had clearly refused.
"Reliable," he replied back, smiling as he tapped the steering wheel reverently.
Months of magic and mayhem gave way to stoplights, crosswalks, roundabouts and towering structures of industry that dotted London proper. The four of them made their way north back toward Hampstead, back to the quieter suburban streets to the multi-floor brick facade house.
Hermione's gaze lingered out the window—not like his, which kept snagging on the towering buildings and endless motion of a London that felt more alien now than Hogwarts ever had. Hers was distant. Lost in that liminal space between Home and Hogwarts, teetering on the brink of everything that had shattered her world.
Her hand rested on Hedwig's cage and Harry touched it just gently then, a brief but solid graze that brought her back to him, a soft, sheepish smile.
The rose bushes out front were new. Ellen had mentioned them at least three times in the twenty-ish minute ride. She was so proud, and fussed over them every weekend. Richard mentioned that they'd found an old, lopsided garden gnome Hermione had made during an arts and crafts class years ago—her face and ears reddened at its mention.
"You didn't—" She protested before she found it standing prominently in the mulch under the new rose bushes, ears and cheeks scarlet.
"Home sweet home," Richard said as he unlocked the front door and pushed it open.
"Castle Granger!" Harry half-cheered, thinking back to Richard's words at the beginning of last year's summer.
"Oh, we've moved on from that," Richard said as both girls rolled their eyes and went in first sharing a small laugh. "Ellen wasn't so approving, now it's Chateau Granger."
"A bit posh, but," Harry began, "considering the new rose bushes, that wonderful garden gnome... really ties the place together. Elevated" He was recalling some remodeling show they'd watched last year, one that both he and Richard had found an odd appreciation for. Harry was aiming for the aristocratic voice that the host had, best as he could remember and imitate.
Richard looked at him with a wry smile—he was more clever than even Hermione let on.
"Quite right," he commented, turning to regard some of the other houses along the row in contrast to his own. His voice adopting the same airy, aristocratic dryness from the show's host. "Chateau Granger is modest but colourful compared to the… riff-raff," elbowing at Harry who just started laughing as he finally crossed the threshold.
Harry's eyes adjusted from the afternoon sun outside to the shaded house halls and rooms. Richard closed the door behind him, Hermione had already gone upstairs, and Ellen was already busy in the kitchen at the back of the house.
"About an hour," Richard said in passing, which caught Harry's attention.
"What?"
"Supper, my good man!" Richard was mimicking the show's host again.
Harry just cracked a smile and laughed.
"Your room's in the same spot, no magical shifting corridors here—Ellen couldn't take it." He'd dropped the accent and just waved his arm toward the stairs.
Harry made his way up the stairs, not being able to help himself from smiling as he looked at the hung pictures of the Granger Family along the wall of the staircase. Hermione in her much younger years to just three years ago, the day she got her Hogwarts acceptance letter.
The landing at the top looked much the same, opening up to a great bay window with padded cushions and a small planter. Crookshanks trotted past, brushing against Harry's leg with a low purr before he made his way downstairs and out of sight.
He rounded the corner and saw Hermione's door open on his left, her quiet humming coming from within. He spied through the portal and saw her seeming to settle well—her trunk was open, books already being placed neatly and organised on her shelves. First by school year, and then each section by alpha-numeric title. Her normal was showing through, and it made Harry smile as he watched her almost dance as she moved, contented and safe in this place.
He moved down the hall without a word and jostled the handle of his door which sprung open easily and quietly. The walls were still a darker blue with wooden lower trim, a large sliding window with the screen removed so Hedwig could come in and out and the short dresser just under it where he'd prop her cage. He walked over and laid his trunk on the made bed, unclasping it and flinging the top open.
He was placing some books on the far desk when a short knock on his open door drew his attention. Hermione was there, a folded jumper—his jumper, the one she'd been wearing.
"Just wanted to return this," she said, walking over quietly and holding it out to him.
"Not sure why," he replied matter-of-factly with a smile.
"What?"
"It's yours." His eyes drifted to the door, neither of her parents present. He reached out and squeezed her hand under the jumper. "In case you feel a chill."
The weight of it lingered between them.
"Thank you," she meant it.
"Your dad said dinner's in about an hour," he added, making sure she knew.
"You're ridiculous, you know—"
"What?" He was genuinely confused now.
"Mum already told me while you and Dad were being ridiculous outside." Her cheeks were pink, though Harry couldn't fathom why.
"You can't tell me the rose bushes and that exquisite garden gnome don't elevate the house compared to your neighbours."
"Impossible," she smiled and turned to leave the room.
Harry watched after her as she left, one last glance over her shoulder and a smile as she disappeared back into her own room. Harry went back to pulling more school stuff out of his trunk, including his new Firebolt. He propped it up in the corner just to marvel at it. At some point this year he would fly it and it would be brilliant. More books, quills, ink, and loose parchment. The photo album of his parents Hagrid had given him in his first year.
Another knock drew him away from the moving picture of Lily and James on the cover.
"Hey," Richard stood at the door. "Have you looked in the closet yet?"
"No—" Harry started, looking over to the sliding doors of the closet. "Why?"
"Well, I found some old shirts of mine, some nice flannel button-ups."
He walked over, Harry joining him as he slid one panel to the side, showing a handful of hung shirts, not just flannel, but a nice solid blue with grey tie, vest and grey pleated pants as well. Assorted flannels of red, black, orange and blue with tartan-like colour patterns to them.
"Might be a bit big, but you're growing, I think they'll fit just fine."
Harry was at a loss. The Dursleys would give him hand-me-downs whether they fit or not—more often like tents on his small frame compared to Dudley's robust body. Last year the Grangers had bought him clothes that actually fit, and now…
He stared at the hanging shirts. Richard had done this before they'd even decided Harry was staying again. He'd found these, hung them up, just in case.
Clothes to grow into.
"Listen," Richard began, a hand reaching over and gripping Harry's shoulder. "If we're going to properly pick apart how disastrous our neighbours' gardens are, we've got to look good doing it."
"Prim and proper," Harry commented, trying to add to the levity though his voice broke, choking back some tears.
"A cut above," Richard added, his hand clapping on Harry's shoulder.
"True gentlemen," Harry replied, smiling, the rhythm clicking again between them.
"Paragons of taste."
"Dapper fellows," Harry was running out of terms.
"Beau monde," both men spun on their heels and saw Ellen standing in the door with a knowing smile.
"Ah, mademoiselle—" Richard walked over with long, exaggerated strides and an odd pinched look to his face, furthering the bit. He took her hand in his and started kissing it with quick, peckish and absurdly loud smooches. "Mwah, mwah, mwah," working his way up her arm as she laughed aloud.
Ellen brought her hand up, swatting him away like a fly.
"Dinner is ready, table needs setting," she added, still chuckling with a slight blush to her cheeks. She turned to leave, making her way down the hall and back downstairs.
"Sacré bleu, ma belle dame!" Richard called, continuing the ridiculous walk and French accent as he gave chase, smooching into the air which drew an embarrassed holler from Hermione in her room as he passed. Richard paused and looked into her room then shouted, "Ma princesse! Mon trésor!"
"Daaad!" Hermione yelled again, playful but embarrassed.
Richard returned to going down the hall now that he'd properly embarrassed his daughter.
"Mon amour! Ma chérie!" was the last thing Harry heard as Richard rounded the corner and disappeared completely. He was beside himself with laughter. He put a hand on the open door and started to close it before noticing Hermione at hers, watching him.
"Don't you dare," she cut him off, seeing his face light up, closing her door behind her as she made her way hastily downstairs before Harry got any ideas.
He followed after her, family dinner waiting—the first of many.
The days that followed settled into a rhythm that neither Harry nor Hermione could've known they needed until they were there, in them.
Every morning, whether Richard and Ellen were rushing off to their dental practice or enjoying a rare day off, there sat the colour-coded homework schedule Hermione seemed to have created overnight. Afternoons meant either continuing their studies or adventures through the town of Hampstead, and evenings brought family dinners and documentaries on the television—recorded on cassette, of course. The first was of Dental Practices from Ancient Egypt.
Mondays were Transfiguration, going through older lessons like transforming a pocket watch into a rat and back again, or the brass bell into a songbird. And practising newer ones where able—even without casting. One such morning had Hermione showing him how to change flowers on a bouquet her father had bought Ellen as a random gift. The lilacs and hyacinths transformed into primrose and foxglove at the wave of her wand, then back when she reversed it.
"Wouldn't we get in trouble," Harry started on that first Monday morning, watching as Hermione brazenly transfigured a teacup into a small rabbit.
"The Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery specifically states that magic is not to be used by underage wizards when in the presence of Muggles. However, it further stipulates that if Muggles present already KNOW of magic and the magical world, like my parents, it is acceptable as long as the spells cast don't raise alarms."
Hermione had the reply, like reading it straight off the legal document housed within the Ministry's walls.
"So," Harry started to reason.
"Practising homework is perfectly acceptable," she nodded as she flipped through her book. "I wouldn't go casting a Patronus though, that would get flagged more than likely. As impressive as N.E.W.T level magic is in general, it being cast in the presence of fourteen-year-olds and Muggles would raise many questions and concerns."
"Right," Harry nodded. He knew a little about the decree she was referencing, and how it could only tell general locations where spells were cast in the proximity of underage wizards, not exactly who.
Tuesdays were for Potions, certainly not Harry's favourite subject but Hermione would constantly remind him that he needed to keep up on it depending on what he wanted to do after Hogwarts. They couldn't brew potions within the Grangers' house, too many uncontrolled variables that could lead to Muggles discovering something they shouldn't, but they certainly could read and recite brewing instructions and ingredients lists. Dreadfully dull, as far as Harry was concerned, but doing it with Hermione made it a bit easier and less tedious.
Wednesdays were his favourite, Defence Against The Dark Arts. This is where, despite herself, Harry excelled over Hermione. Like he'd done in their second year during the Duelling Club, Harry helped her work on how she held her wand, her stance. It all came more naturally to him, and while she knew all the spells, their incantations and associated wand work, she lacked the grace of flow—the 'dance' as Harry put it—you had to work in to be effective.
Thursday morning came too quickly, and it was the day for Charms. Hermione would have her payback for Wednesday. More academic than kinaesthetic practice, her near clinical knowledge and recall capabilities outshone Harry with ease. Before that, Harry had picked his way downstairs a little earlier than usual, finding Richard by the front door, a briefcase in hand and grabbing an umbrella against the rain steadily falling outside.
"Mr. Granger," Harry said as he reached the landing.
Richard looked up, smiling. "Morning, Harry."
"Morning, sir," he replied back, his usual courteous and respectful nature shining through. "I was hoping to ask you something."
He may have had a bit more of a serious tone than intended as Richard stopped and regarded him then, setting his briefcase down.
"Course, Harry—what's on your mind?"
"Actually, I was hoping you could help me learn French…"
"French?" Richard asked, his smile returning as he leaned and picked up his briefcase.
"Yeah, it was funny, and beautiful to hear—thought it would be nice to be more part of it, you know…"
The words lingered there, Harry was looking for greater connection to them, and making the conscious choice to learn something entirely new to do so.
"It is surprisingly easy," Richard started. Though Harry knew Richard was as bookish and smart as Hermione—if not more so—it may not come so easily for himself. "I have some old texts from Uni—I can dig them out when I get home tonight. Primers, phrase books, nothing special, but it'll get you there I think."
"Also," Harry added as Richard turned toward the door. "Could we keep it just between us?"
"Notre petit secret," Richard replied, smiling as he opened the door. He looked back one last time to see the confusion on Harry's face and gave a light chuckle. "Our little secret," he clarified, reaching back to tap Harry on the shoulder. "First lesson is free."
Richard disappeared through the screen door and out to work, closing the door behind him as he went. Harry simply nodded, smiling.
Ellen left not long after and before he knew it Hermione was downstairs, books in hand.
"Herbology for you," she said, passing him the text identical to his own for fourth year students. "Arithmancy for me." She cracked open a larger, more robust text just before the halfway mark.
A quiet couple of hours passed, both of them scratching away notes and their required essays. Harry looked up as the table was caught in the glow of late morning sun. At some point the rainclouds had scattered and given way to the summer sun. He looked back to Hermione and felt a tightness in his chest he couldn't place, eyes tracing over the glow of her hair in the golden rays now stretching through the kitchen window.
His eyes scanned her face more, seeing darker circles than he'd noticed before. She looked tired, and that tightness he felt turned to a pang of worry.
"Hey," he started, reaching over and grazing her idle hand to get her attention.
She jumped slightly, looking over to him. She'd been lost in a particularly challenging equation, or maybe dozing off when she caught the worry in his eyes.
"How're you doing?" he asked.
The question caught her off guard, their normal feeling more weighted now than she particularly wanted it to be.
"Fine," she said dismissively, a sharp intake of air before looking back to her text.
"Hermione," he insisted, his hand now resting and gently squeezing on hers drawing her back to him.
She really looked at him then, he wasn't meaning to darken anything, but his concern was present, he knew what she'd been through, at least parts of what she'd seen. He carried his own darkened eyes from lack of sleep.
"A little less sleep than I would like," she admitted, turning her hand in his and squeezing back.
"Anything I can do to help?"
"You're doing it now," she smiled, continuing to hold his hand as she went back to her book.
Harry watched her a few moments longer, the tightness still mingling with worry but holding on to her words as he looked back to the entry on Dittany leaves he'd been mulling over. At some point in the next hour their hands drifted apart and Harry's stomach gave a growl of hunger.
"Mm, no morning nosh," he began, admitting he'd not eaten breakfast. Neither of them had eaten—a fact Hermione's stomach seemed eager to confirm.
"We could make lunch?" she offered, walking over to the fridge and popping it open.
Harry turned and watched her go, despite her tiredness, she still had that bounce in her step which drew his eyes to her hips. Her hips naturally swaying… Harry shook his head vigorously, warmth in his cheeks and ears burning.
He noticed then a few folded notes in a clip on the front of the door Hermione had opened.
"What's this?" he said, pointing to it as he walked over, eyes focused away from Hermione.
"Mm?" she questioned, pushing the door partially closed as she looked up. "Oh, mum sometimes leaves money to get lunch or dinner if they're going to run late."
"We could order in?"
"Or go to pick it up," she added. "Sun's out, walk would be good."
"Pizza," Harry said then, his mind set on something he'd not had in a while now, and his last experience was mostly left overs from whatever Dudley refused to eat because it didn't have enough pepperoni or toppings, not caring for just plain cheese.
"Pizza then, there's a nice small place a few blocks away, could phone in the order and go pick it up."
Lunch decided, this was a good Thursday.
The next morning Harry came downstairs and saw a stack of texts on the kitchen table with his name on them. The books Richard had mentioned, his books from university to learn French. Harry hastily took them to his room, just closing his door as Hermione came out of her own room.
"Morning," she smiled, a light wave.
"Morning," he replied as he followed her downstairs.
Friday carried on like any other day except that Ellen didn't go into the office, and the three of them enjoyed leftover pizza for lunch from the day before. No particular subject for study, just catching up on anything else they wanted. The afternoon rolled lazily by, Ellen having convinced them it was a good time to finish the Ancient Egyptian dental documentary they'd started earlier in the week.
As dreadfully dull as it was, Harry and Hermione took up spots on the floor, laying down on their stomachs and propped up by their elbows. She tucked in a little closer to his, a solid connection at their shoulders. Maybe a half-hour in Harry felt her droop next to him and looked, she'd found a throw pillow from the couch and was slipping into an afternoon nap, leaning more heavily into him as she did so. He didn't move, wouldn't move, she needed the rest.
He wasn't the only one who noticed—Ellen watched silently from the couch, a soft look on her face.
Sunday morning came round with a little more noise than the week offered. Richard and Ellen had the wireless chirping away in the kitchen, more of that old crooner music Harry had come to treat as theirs. They danced and sang along in the kitchen while breakfast worked away on the stove.
"Harry!" Richard said, happy to see him.
"Harry, dear," Ellen added as Richard twirled her around, eliciting a mirthful laugh from both.
Hermione entered then, her eyes less dark, more attentive, but her cheeks going pink at the sight of her parents dancing in the kitchen.
"Mon cœur!" Richard slipped right back into that French, twirling Ellen away from him as he went back into that exaggerated walk toward Hermione, shoulders bobbing to the beat as he took her hand in his and started dancing with her to playful protest.
My heart. Harry watched, smile widening as his eyes focused on Hermione with the translation bouncing around in his head.
"Harry," Ellen's gentle hand on his shoulder pulled him out of it, his ears once again a burning red. "Richard and I were talking. Another shopping trip, we think."
Harry thought back to last year's trip to the high street where they bought him some clothes, toiletries, the essentials. He considered it briefly.
"But I'll pay my own way," he then added, which drew a questioning look from Ellen. No judgement, just curiosity. "I have money, it's just in wizard gold."
"Well you can't use that in a normal shop in London, Harry."
"I can exchange it at Gringotts. Not sure about the rate, but I've enough left from my parents I should be fine. I insist."
Ellen regarded him silently, a warm smile finding her face.
"Deal. After breakfast we'll load up and head to Diagon Alley, then—" She turned back to Hermione and Richard, still swaying despite Hermione's growing protests. "Shopping!"
Richard cheered, "Clothes! Yay!"
"Muuummm," Hermione protested, looking to her mother for help who could only laugh as she pulled the eggs from the stovetop and bacon from the oven. Richard finally let her go from the dance as he moved to help his wife.
Harry was laughing as he placed settings for each of the four of them, Richard's antics once again bringing such a light-hearted nature to it all that it left Harry's heart singing. He sat next to Hermione, her mother on her other side and Richard to Harry's right.
Breakfast went by quick and easy, little words as the easy music continued to play. Afterward everyone retreated to their rooms to change and met back by the front door. They went out, around to the drive and piled into the Estate before setting off back toward bustling London proper—to The Leaky Cauldron and Gringotts beyond.
Harry walked up to the diminutive goblin behind the raised counter and produced his vault key while the Grangers stood back. Richard and Ellen had never had reason to enter Gringotts before, nor had they met a goblin. Knowing about the magical world was one thing, but every time they saw it—ancient Egyptian bow-saws paled in comparison.
"Harry Potter looking to make an exchange," he said, entirely unsure if that was the proper way to go about it.
"Exchange?" The goblin behind stood up in his chair to look over the counter at Harry.
"Wizarding coin in my vault for Muggle currency."
"To the carts, come back with your desired exchange." The goblin nodded, a long gnarled finger jutting over his shoulder toward that familiar entrance to the cart-lines that stretched miles under the bank.
"I'll be back shortly," Harry turned and called out to the Grangers who simply nodded, waiting, Hermione now actively talking about one of the great Goblin rebellions she'd learned from Professor Binns.
The trip was quick, far more than he remembered from his first visit years ago, and he returned promptly with fifty galleons lining his pocket.
"Fifty Galleons," he announced, placing the pouch full of gold coins on the counter.
"An exchange rate of five British pounds to the Galleon, that's two hundred and fifty pounds." The goblin replied almost robotically.
The bag of coins faded and was replaced by a stack of varying bills, notes and even hard coin currencies matching that of the Muggle world. He hastily pocketed it and thanked the goblin before turning back.
"All set!"
Harry found it more challenging to wrangle the Grangers back out of Diagon Alley, everyone, even Hermione, being easily distracted by displays in windows. Finally, exiting back onto the side-street into Muggle London, they piled into the car and set off.
The department store was familiar now—Harry had been here with the Grangers last summer when they'd kitted him out with clothes that actually fit for the first time. This trip was about adding to it. He'd grown over the year, shot up a few inches, and the things that fit in August were getting snug by June.
"Right then," Ellen announced, steering them toward the men's section. "You've got the nicer shirts Richard gave you, but you need everyday things. Basics. Layers."
She moved through the racks with practised efficiency, holding things up against Harry while he tried to look like he had opinions about fabric. Hermione wandered nearby, pretending to examine a display of ties but glancing over every time Ellen held up something new.
Harry gravitated toward the simpler things. Plain tees in white, grey, black. Nothing that stood out. Nothing that drew attention.
"What about this?" Richard appeared holding a cardigan—charcoal grey, simple buttons, soft wool.
Harry took it, turned it over. Shrugged it on over his t-shirt. The sleeves fell just past his wrists, comfortable without being baggy. He looked in the mirror.
It was a different look than he usually went for. Quieter. More put-together. He kind of liked it.
"Smart," Richard said, nodding. "Classic."
"Try the navy," Ellen added, already pulling another from the rack.
They found a third in deep green. Ellen held it up against him, tilting her head.
"That one brings out your eyes," she said matter-of-factly.
Harry's face went warm. He very deliberately did not look at Hermione.
By the time they finished, he had a solid haul: six plain tees—two white, two grey, two black. Three cardigans—charcoal, navy, deep green. A pair of jeans. Two pairs of khakis.
He counted out the notes at the till himself, the cashier processing everything while the Grangers waited. His money. His choices.
"Toiletries," Ellen said as they gathered the bags. "Then we're done."
The chemist was quick. Shampoo, soap, deodorant—the basics he was running low on. Harry moved through the aisles until he reached the cologne display and paused.
He scanned the bottles, looking for that green and gold label from last summer.
"Need help finding something?" The shop assistant appeared beside him.
"Penhaligon's," Harry said. "Ashford & Spruce, I think it was called."
"Lovely choice." She plucked a bottle from the shelf and handed it over. "Birch, pine, like a campfire in fresh rain. Very classic."
Harry uncapped it and the scent hit him immediately—deep and woodsy, like a camping trip, the woodlands on a clear morning. Hermione seemed to like it, and that made him like it even more.
"That's the one."
He added it to the basket and paid without quite meeting anyone's eyes.
Outside, bags distributed among the four of them, Hermione fell into step beside him as they walked back to the car.
She didn't mention the cologne. But she was walking a little closer than before.
Friday morning came without the usual stack of textbooks waiting on the kitchen table.
"No homework today," Hermione announced when Harry came downstairs.
Harry wasn't about to argue.
Richard and Ellen had left for the practice an hour earlier, the house quiet except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. They made a simple breakfast—toast, eggs, tea—and ate without hurry, the morning stretching lazy and golden through the kitchen windows.
"Walk?" Hermione suggested as she rinsed her plate.
"Where to?"
"Nowhere particular. Just... out."
That sounded perfect.
They set off through Hampstead with no destination in mind, wandering streets that had become familiar over the past two weeks—past the library, past the café where the owner now knew their order, past the park with the oak tree where they'd spent a few afternoons reading.
Then Hermione turned down a street Harry didn't recognise.
"This way," she said, though there was something uncertain in her voice.
"Do you actually know where we're going?"
"Generally." She paused at a corner, looking both directions. "Well. Roughly."
"Hermione Granger, admitting she doesn't know something?"
"I know plenty. I just don't know... this specific street." She pointed left. "But that looks interesting."
It did. The road narrowed into something older, cobblestones instead of pavement, lined with small shops that looked like they'd been there since before the war. A greengrocer with crates of fruit on the pavement. A tailor's with a faded awning. A bakery with a queue out the door.
And wedged between the bakery and an accountant's office, a shopfront so narrow Harry almost missed it.
The sign above the door was weathered nearly to illegibility: Hartley & Sons, Booksellers, Est. 1923.
The window display was chaos—books stacked at precarious angles, old maps tacked to the glass, a stuffed owl perched on a tower of leather-bound volumes that looked ready to topple at any moment.
Hermione stopped dead.
"Oh," she breathed, the word barely a whisper.
She was through the door before Harry could blink.
Inside was somehow more chaotic than the window had promised. Shelves crammed floor to ceiling, books stacked horizontally on top of vertical rows, narrow aisles that turned and branched like something alive. The smell hit Harry immediately—old paper, dust, and something sweeter underneath. Vanilla, maybe. Or just age.
Hermione had already vanished into the stacks.
Harry wandered after her, in no particular hurry. The shop felt bigger on the inside than it had any right to be, aisles leading him deeper, the door disappearing from view almost immediately. Dust motes floated in the shafts of light that filtered through the grimy front window.
He found her near the back, head tilted, fingers trailing along the spines.
"This is incredible," she murmured without turning. "Some of these editions are ancient. There's a first printing of Persuasion just sitting here. Do you know how rare that is?"
"Expensive?"
"Priceless." She turned to him then, eyes bright, all the tiredness that had clung to her these past weeks completely gone. "Harry, this place is a miracle. How has no one found it?"
He didn't answer. He was watching her—the way she glowed among the books, the way her whole body relaxed in this space, the way she seemed more herself here than anywhere else.
Something tightened in his chest. That same feeling from the kitchen table. From the documentary. From every moment lately when he looked at her and couldn't quite breathe right.
He looked away before she could catch him staring.
"I'm going to browse a bit," he said, gesturing vaguely toward the back of the shop.
"Mm," she replied, already absorbed in a shelf of Victorian novels.
Harry drifted through the aisles, not really looking at anything, just letting his feet carry him. Poetry. History. Philosophy. A whole section on birds that seemed oddly specific.
Then he turned a corner and stopped.
The shelf was labelled Classic Fiction, the spines a mix of faded cloth and worn leather. His eyes moved across them without much thought—Dickens, Austen, Brontë—until they landed on something that made him reach out.
The Complete Sherlock Holmes.
The binding was beautiful. Rich burgundy leather, gilt edges on the pages, the title embossed in gold that had dulled with age but still caught the light. He pulled it out carefully, feeling the weight of it in his hands.
He opened it and the pages were thick, creamy, the text crisp despite the book's obvious age. Every story, every novel, all of it bound together in something that would last.
Sherlock Holmes. They'd read some of these together last summer—out on the cabin porch, her voice carrying the stories while he listened, the lake stretching out beyond the railing.
He checked the price on the inside cover. Forty pounds. A decent chunk of what he had left, but not even close to everything.
He looked back toward where he'd left Hermione. He could just hear her murmuring to herself, lost in the stacks.
He tucked the book under his arm and made his way to the front counter.
The old man behind the register looked up from a ledger, peering at Harry over half-moon spectacles. His face was creased with age, kind eyes set deep above a crooked nose.
"Found something, have you?"
"Yes, sir." Harry set the book on the counter. "Could you wrap it? It's a gift."
The old man's face creased deeper, a knowing smile spreading. "Of course, young man. Of course."
He wrapped it in brown paper and twine, old-fashioned and careful. Harry paid—the forty pounds feeling significant in a way the clothes hadn't—and tucked the package inside his jacket, flat against his side where it wouldn't show.
"She must be quite special," the old man said as Harry turned to leave.
Harry paused, face warming. "She is."
He found Hermione still in the literature section, now holding three paperbacks and looking like she was trying to talk herself out of a fourth.
"Ready?" he asked, adjusting his jacket casually.
"Fine. But we're coming back."
"Deal."
They made their way to the front, Hermione paying for her paperbacks while Harry hung back, very aware of the weight against his ribs.
Outside, the afternoon had turned warm, the sun high and bright. They started back the way they'd come, Hermione already talking about one of the books she'd found—a collection of letters between two Victorian poets she'd never heard of.
Harry let her voice wash over him, not really listening to the words, just enjoying the sound of her happiness.
The package pressed against his chest, hidden and waiting.
The following weekend arrived with Ellen making an announcement over Saturday breakfast.
"Long weekend," she said, setting down her tea. "No patients on the books until Tuesday. Richard and I were thinking—beach day tomorrow?"
Harry looked up from his toast. He'd been to the lake at the cabin last summer, but never to a proper seaside beach. The Dursleys had taken Dudley to the coast once or twice, but Harry had always been left with Mrs. Figg and her cats.
"The weather's meant to be gorgeous," Richard added, already spreading marmalade with more enthusiasm than the task required. "Thought we'd make a day of it. Pack a lunch, leave early, get a good spot."
Hermione was smiling in that soft way she did when her parents surprised her with something thoughtful. "Which beach?"
"Broadstairs," Ellen said. "Not too far, lovely sand, and there's that little chip shop you liked when you were younger."
"I haven't been since I was ten," Hermione said, something wistful in her voice.
"Then it's well overdue." Ellen turned to Harry. "You've got your swim trunks from last summer?"
Harry thought back to the cabin trip, the lake, Hermione reading Sherlock Holmes on the porch. "Yeah, they're in my dresser."
"Brilliant. Early start tomorrow—I want to beat the traffic."
Sunday morning came bright and warm, the kind of summer day that felt like a promise. Harry had found his swim trunks from last year—they still fit fine. He pulled on a t-shirt and one of his new cardigans, packed a small bag with a towel, and made his way downstairs.
Hermione was already in the kitchen, helping Ellen pack a cooler with sandwiches and drinks. She was wearing a light sundress over what Harry assumed was her swimsuit, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked up when he entered and smiled.
"Ready for your first proper beach day?"
"The lake last summer wasn't proper enough?"
"Lakes don't have waves, Harry. Or sand. Or chips."
"Fair point."
The drive to Broadstairs took just over an hour, Richard navigating the Estate through winding roads while the wireless played softly. Harry watched the landscape shift—London's grey giving way to rolling green, hedgerows and farmland, and finally glimpses of blue on the horizon that made something lift in his chest.
They'd been chatting easily for most of the drive—Ellen pointing out landmarks, Hermione explaining the history of the coast, Richard interjecting with increasingly dubious "facts" that made everyone groan—when the car slowed to a stop at a red light.
The song on the wireless faded out, and a new one began. That unmistakable guitar riff, instantly recognisable.
Richard's face lit up.
"Oh no," Hermione murmured from beside Harry.
"Oh yes," Richard countered, turning up the volume.
The vocals kicked in and Richard was already singing along, loud and enthusiastic, something about waking up. The drums joined, the song building—
The chorus hit, and Richard belted it out with abandon. The light turned green and his voice cracked on the high notes in the best possible way. One hand leaving the wheel to gesture dramatically.
When I wake up, well I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who wakes up next to you
Hermione had her face in her hands. Ellen was laughing, making no effort to stop any of it. Harry was grinning, caught up in the energy despite himself.
But I would walk five-hundred miles
And I would walk five-hundred more
Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles
To fall down at your door
Then the rhythmic part came around—that infectious chant that demanded participation.
"Da-da-duh-da!" Richard shouted.
"Da-da-duh-da!" Harry joined in without thinking.
Richard beamed at him in the rearview mirror like he'd just been handed a gift. They carried on together, Harry matching Richard's enthusiasm, both of them bobbing in their seats while Hermione's blush deepened and her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.
The song built toward another verse and Richard threw himself into it completely—something about being the man who wakes up next to you, growing old with you. Ridiculous. Over the top. Completely earnest despite the absurdity.
Then the lyric shifted, and Harry caught the words clearly.
I'm gonna be the man who comes back home with you
I'm gonna be the man who's coming home to you
He glanced at Hermione without meaning to.
She was looking at him.
Their eyes met for just a moment—something flickering there, something neither of them could name—and then they both looked away fast, faces burning. Harry stared very hard at the passing hedgerows. Hermione suddenly found her fingernails fascinating.
Richard kept singing, utterly oblivious, carrying the final chorus with the passion of a man performing at Wembley.
The song faded out. The DJ said something about the weather. Ellen turned the volume down.
"Classic," Richard declared, thoroughly pleased with himself.
"Mortifying," Hermione corrected, but she was smiling.
Harry risked a glance at her. She risked one back.
Neither of them said anything. But the warmth in Harry's chest had nothing to do with the summer sun.
The beach was already dotted with families when they arrived, but Richard found a spot not too far from the water, close enough to hear the waves but far enough to avoid the worst of the crowds. Ellen immediately set about establishing their territory—blankets laid out, umbrella erected, cooler positioned in the shade.
"Right then," Richard said, pulling off his shirt to reveal a deeply dad-like physique. "Who's for a swim?"
"Give us a minute to settle," Ellen said, swatting his arm. "Go on, test the water. Tell us if it's freezing."
Richard jogged toward the waves with exaggerated enthusiasm, yelping dramatically when the water hit his ankles.
"Refreshing!" he called back, which Harry had learned was parent-speak for absolutely freezing.
Hermione laughed, shaking her head. Then she reached down and pulled her sundress over her head.
Harry's brain stopped working.
Her swimsuit was emerald green—a one-piece, modest by any standard, but it didn't matter. She was Hermione, and she was standing there in the sunlight, and there were curves he'd never noticed and freckles scattered across her shoulders and her skin was smooth and he couldn't remember how to breathe.
She turned to drop the dress on her bag and Harry looked away so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. He stared very hard at the horizon, at Richard still splashing in the shallows, at literally anything that wasn't Hermione.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Fine," he managed, his voice coming out roughly an octave too high. "Just—bright. The sun. Very bright."
He pulled his cardigan and t-shirt off, suddenly very aware of himself. He wasn't the small, frail boy she'd met on the train three years ago. Quidditch had filled him out some—broader in the shoulders now, arms more defined than they'd been. But he was still pale, still skinny compared to most boys his age, and there were scars. The faint marks on his shoulder from the basilisk fang. Various Quidditch injuries mapped across his torso.
"Harry."
He turned. Hermione was staring at him—not at his face, at his chest. At the scars.
"These are all from school?" Her voice was quiet, something fragile in it.
"Most of them. It's not—"
"This one." Her finger hovered over a mark on his ribs, not quite touching, and his skin erupted in goosebumps that had nothing to do with the breeze. "Quidditch?"
"Yeah, Second Year when I fell off my broom catching the snitch. They don't even hurt anymore."
She looked up at him then, her eyes bright with something he couldn't name. They were standing very close. When had they gotten so close?
"Race you to the water," she said suddenly, and took off running before he could respond.
Harry stood frozen for half a second, then his competitive instinct kicked in and he sprinted after her. She was fast, but his legs were longer now, and he caught up just as they hit the shallows. The cold was a shock—Richard had been lying, it was absolutely freezing—but Hermione was laughing, splashing ahead, and Harry couldn't feel anything but the warmth spreading through his chest.
"It's freezing!" she gasped, waist-deep now, her arms wrapped around herself.
"You're the one who ran in!"
She danced sideways to avoid an incoming wave, laughing at his expression. Without thinking, Harry reached out and grabbed her waist, lifting her clear of the water and spinning her around. She shrieked—half protest, half delight—her hands gripping his shoulders as the world blurred around them.
"Harry! Put me down!"
He set her down, both of them laughing, but she was off-balance when her feet hit the sand. Another wave caught her hip at just the wrong moment and she toppled sideways with a yelp.
Harry moved without thinking. His hand finding hers outstretched toward him as she fell below the water, he pulled. She surfaced gasping, clutching his shoulders, and suddenly they were chest to chest in the shallows, her hands gripping him tight, his arms moved to be wrapped around her waist.
The laughter died in her throat. Her eyes met his.
Harry was acutely aware of everywhere they were touching. The warmth of her despite the cold water. The way her fingers had curled into his shoulders. The freckles across her nose he'd never noticed before. The way her breath came quick and shallow.
"Thanks," she breathed.
"Yeah," he managed.
They didn't move.
"You two alright?" Richard's voice carried across the water, cheerful and oblivious.
They sprang apart like they'd been burned.
"Fine!" they both shouted, too quickly, too loud.
Richard waved and went back to swimming lazy circles, utterly unaware that he'd just interrupted something Harry couldn't begin to define.
The rest of the day was both better and worse.
Better because they fell back into their normal rhythm—splashing each other, attempting to build a sandcastle that kept collapsing, hunting for interesting shells along the shoreline. Richard taught Harry how to skip stones, which he was terrible at. Ellen read a novel under the umbrella and periodically demanded they reapply sun cream.
Worse because Harry couldn't stop noticing things.
The way water dripped from Hermione's hair when she emerged from the sea. The curve of her waist. The way she kept pushing wet strands out of her face. The freckles multiplying across her shoulders as the sun worked on her skin.
He caught her looking at him too. When he stretched to throw a stone. When he emerged from the water, shaking droplets from his hair. Her eyes would trace over him quickly, then dart away.
They didn't talk about it.
Late in the afternoon, while Richard and Ellen were packing up the remains of lunch, Harry and Hermione sat at the edge of the water, letting the waves wash over their feet. The sun was lower now, the light gone golden, and the beach had emptied out around them.
"You're staring again," she said quietly, not looking at him.
"Sorry."
"It's okay." She was very interested in a shell she'd found. "You look... different too. Taller. Broader. Just... different."
His heart was doing something strange in his chest. "Good different or bad different?"
She looked at him then, really looked, and for a moment something passed between them—something new and strange and terrifying.
"Good different," she said softly. "Definitely good."
"Hermione! Harry! Time to go!" Ellen's voice cut across the beach.
The moment broke. They gathered their things in silence, but Harry caught her looking at him twice on the walk back to the car, and he was definitely looking at her, and everything felt different now.
Changed.
He didn't know what to do with that. But sitting beside her in the backseat, both of them sun-tired and sandy, her head drooping toward his shoulder as the drive wore on, he thought maybe he didn't need to know yet.
Maybe it was enough to just feel it.
The drive home was quieter at first, everyone pleasantly exhausted from sun and sea and sand. Harry's skin felt tight from the day's exposure, his hair stiff with salt. Beside him, Hermione was half-dozing, her head listing toward his shoulder.
Then a new song came on the wireless. That unmistakable rhythmic chant "Ooga-Chaka".
Richard's hands started tapping on the steering wheel.
"Not again," Hermione mumbled, not even opening her eyes.
But Richard was already committed, joining in with the building intro, voice rising toward the inevitable.
Then the vocals kicked in and Richard turned toward Ellen, one hand on the wheel, voice dropping into something almost sincere beneath the silliness.
I'M HOOKED ON A FEELIN'
I'm high on believing
That you're in love with me
Richard's right arm stretched out toward Ellen, his fingers waggling in the air.
Ellen swatted his arm, but she was smiling, laughter forming.
The song built, Richard getting more animated, more ridiculous. Harry found himself grinning despite his exhaustion, watching the performance unfold.
Lips as sweet as candy...
"Richard!" Ellen laughed, pushing him back toward his side of the car.
Girl you got me thirstin' for another cup of wine...
"DAD!" Hermione's protest came from beside Harry, her mortification now fully awake even if the rest of her wasn't.
Richard ignored them both completely, launching into the chorus at full volume. His voice cracked just right. He looked right at Ellen as he stretched out the final note with theatrical passion, declaring himself completely hooked and high on believing.
Ellen dissolved into laughter, shaking her head, her cheeks flushed pink.
Harry glanced at Hermione. She had her hands over her face, but he could see her smiling through her fingers.
"They're always like this," she muttered.
"I know," Harry said, and found he didn't mind at all.
The song faded out. Richard looked enormously pleased with himself. Ellen reached over and squeezed his hand on the gearshift, a small private moment that Harry almost felt he shouldn't have seen.
Hermione's head found his shoulder again, heavier this time, her breathing already slowing.
Harry watched the countryside roll past, the warmth of her against his side, and thought about what it might be like to love someone like that. Openly. Unashamedly. After years and years.
He thought it would be nice.
The letter from Ron had arrived five days earlier, delivered by a very enthusiastic tiny owl who'd knocked over Hermione's ink pot and sent Crookshanks into a hissing fit.
Harry —
Dad got tickets to the Quidditch World Cup!! Ireland vs Bulgaria, August 1st — can you believe it? Mum says you and Hermione can come stay at the Burrow starting the 29th and we'll all go together. Write back quick so Dad knows the tickets are sorted.
— Ron
P.S. — It's going to be BRILLIANT.
Harry had borrowed parchment from Hermione and written back that same afternoon.
Ron —
Are you joking? Of course we'll be there. Both of us. Hermione's already muttering about "researching the teams" which means she'll know more about Irish Chaser formations than anyone by the time we arrive.
The 29th works perfectly. We'll figure out how to get to the Burrow — Floo, probably, if your mum can open the connection.
This is going to be brilliant.
— Harry
P.S. — Tell your dad thanks. Really.
The days since had taken on a bittersweet quality. The summer at the Grangers' had been everything he hadn't known he needed—the quiet rhythm, the healing, Hermione beside him through all of it. But the World Cup was the World Cup, and Ron was his best mate, and there was a whole wizarding world waiting beyond Hampstead's quiet streets.
Two days before Harry was due at the Burrow, Richard asked for his help in the garage.
"Oil change," he said, tossing Harry an old rag. "Been putting it off for weeks. Ellen's been on my case."
Harry followed him out, grateful for something to do with his hands. The days since the beach had been strange—everything felt heightened somehow, like the air between him and Hermione had developed a charge. They hadn't talked about it. They'd barely looked at each other without one of them looking away too fast.
The garage was warm, afternoon sun slanting through the half-open door. Richard had already pulled the Estate in and jacked it up, tools laid out on a workbench with the kind of organised chaos that reminded Harry of Mr. Weasley's shed.
"Right then," Richard said, grabbing a socket wrench. "Under we go."
They slid beneath the car together, Richard positioning the drain pan while Harry held the torch steady. Richard found the plug, loosened it with a few practised turns, and the old oil began its slow spiral downward—dark and thick, smelling faintly of metal and heat.
"That'll take a few minutes," Richard said. "Come on."
They slid back out and stood, both of them reaching for rags to wipe the worst of the grime from their hands. Richard worked at a stubborn spot on his palm, his expression thoughtful.
"Ellen and I have noticed something," he said, not looking up. "These past few weeks."
Harry's stomach tightened. "Sir?"
"It's about Hermione." Richard's voice softer now.
Harry didn't trust himself to speak. He focused on cleaning between his fingers, the rag already grey with oil.
"She came home different this year," Richard continued. "I don't know everything that happened at that school of yours. She doesn't tell us much—protecting us, I think, from the worst of it. But I can see it. The circles under her eyes. The way she drifts sometimes, like she's somewhere else entirely."
Harry swallowed hard. He knew exactly what Richard meant. He'd seen it too.
"But here's the thing, Harry." Richard set down his rag, leaning back against the workbench. "When you're here—when you're in the room, when she can see you—she comes back. She laughs. She relaxes. She's Hermione again. Thank you for that."
Harry finally looked up. Richard's face was full of gratitude.
"I don't know what you two went through together," Richard said quietly. "And I'm not asking you to tell me. But whatever it was, you came out the other side of it together. And that means something to her. You mean something to her."
"She means something to me too," Harry said, the words coming out rough. "I don't—I'm not sure exactly what, or how to—"
"I know." Richard smiled, just slightly. "You're fourteen. You're not supposed to have it figured out."
He crossed his arms, regarding Harry with something that felt like respect.
"I'm not asking you to define it, Harry. I'm not asking you to make promises or declarations. You're both too young for that, and frankly, you've got enough on your plates without adding that kind of pressure."
Harry nodded, not sure where this was going.
"What I am asking," Richard said, his voice gentle but serious, "is that you be careful. With her. With yourself." He paused. "She feels things deeply, my daughter. More deeply than she lets on. And I think you do too."
Harry thought about the dementors. About Hermione's screams echoing in his head. About the way she'd held onto him on the train, like he was the only solid thing in the world.
"I'd never hurt her," he said. "Not on purpose. Not ever."
"I believe you." Richard's smile widened just a fraction. "And for what it's worth, I don't think she'd ever hurt you either. You two..." He shook his head, something wondering in his expression. "You take care of each other. It's remarkable to watch, actually. Two kids who've been through things no one your age should have to face, and you just... hold each other up."
Harry didn't know what to say. His throat felt tight.
Richard leaned down, checking the drain pan beneath the car.
"Looks about done," he said. "Grab the new filter?"
Harry picked it up from the workbench, but instead of handing it over, he lowered himself down and slid back under the car alongside Richard.
Richard glanced at him, then smiled. "Alright then. See where the old one is? Just there—twist it off, counterclockwise."
Harry found it, worked it loose with some effort, oil dripping onto his forearm.
"Good. Now the new one—bit of oil on the gasket first, keeps it from sticking. Then hand-tight, no more."
Harry did as instructed, Richard guiding him through it, their shoulders nearly touching in the cramped space beneath the chassis.
"There," Richard said when it was seated. "Perfect."
They slid out together, Richard grabbing the fresh oil while Harry retrieved the drain plug and crawled back under to replace it. When he emerged, Richard was already pouring the new oil in, watching the level carefully.
"That's us," Richard said, capping the bottle. He lowered the bonnet with a satisfying thunk and wiped his hands one final time.
They stood there for a moment, the garage quiet except for the tick of cooling metal.
Richard clapped Harry on the shoulder.
"You're a good lad, Harry. Whatever happens—whatever you two figure out or don't figure out—I'm glad you're in her life."
He headed for the door, then paused, looking back.
"And Harry? For what it's worth—I'm glad you're in ours too."
He disappeared into the house, leaving Harry alone in the garage with grease on his hands and something warm and complicated blooming in his chest.
The evening before they left for the Burrow, Harry found himself standing outside Hermione's door with a wrapped package in his hands.
Brown paper. Twine. The way the old man at the bookshop had done it, careful and old-fashioned. Harry had kept it hidden in his trunk for weeks, waiting for the right moment. Now they were leaving tomorrow, and it was now or never.
He knocked on the doorframe. Her door was half-open, and she looked up from the small pile of clothes she was folding into her trunk.
"Harry." She smiled, but he could see the tiredness still there around her edges. Better than before—so much better—but not gone entirely. "Come in."
He stepped inside, suddenly awkward, the package feeling heavier than it should.
"What's that?" she asked, eyeing the brown paper.
"It's—I wanted to—" He stopped. Started again. "The summer. This summer. It's been..." He didn't have the words. Never had the words, not for the things that mattered most. "I wanted to say thank you. For all of it."
He held out the package.
She took it carefully, something uncertain in her expression. She sat down on the edge of her bed and worked at the twine, the paper falling away in pieces.
The leather binding caught the lamplight first. Rich burgundy, worn soft with age. Gilt edges on the pages, dulled but still catching gold. She turned it over in her hands and read the embossed title.
The Complete Sherlock Holmes.
She opened the cover. Ran her fingers over the thick, creamy pages. The crisp text. Every story. Every novel.
"Harry." Her voice came out strange. Tight. "This is—"
"I found it at that bookshop," he said quickly. "The one we stumbled into. You were in the back, and I saw it, and I thought—we read these together. Last summer. On the porch. You read them to me."
She looked up at him then, and her eyes were bright with something she was trying very hard to hold back.
"It's beautiful," she whispered.
"It's yours."
She clutched the book to her chest, pressing it there like something precious, and for a long moment neither of them spoke.
Then she shifted over on the bed, making space.
"Stay," she said quietly. "Just for a bit?"
Harry hesitated only a moment before crossing the room and settling beside her. The bed dipped under his weight, and without words—because words weren't their language, not really—they shifted into that position. The one from the hospital wing. The one from that late summer morning last year. Her body curling into his side, her head finding that nook between his shoulder and chest, her hands tucked up against herself. His arm came around her, holding her close.
She placed the book on his chest.
"Read to me?"
He picked it up carefully, adjusting so he could see the pages without disturbing her. Cleared his throat. Found the first story—A Study in Scarlet—and began.
His voice had changed over the year. Deeper now, settling into something more solid, the rough edges smoothing out even as the depth remained. He'd never noticed it much himself, but reading aloud—the Victorian phrasing, the precise language—it came out richer than he expected. Steadier.
Hermione noticed.
She closed her eyes, not from tiredness but from something else entirely. The vibration of his voice through his chest where her cheek rested. The way the words wrapped around her, warm and low. She'd read these stories to him last summer, her voice carrying them both through lazy afternoons on the cabin porch.
Now his voice carried her.
She let herself drift in it. The rhythm of the sentences. The rumble beneath her ear. The smell of him—that woodsy cologne, oak and maple and spruce. The weight of his arm around her, solid and sure.
She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this safe.
Harry kept reading, quieter now, feeling her breathing slow against his side. At some point—he wasn't sure when—her body went fully slack, the last tension draining out of her. He glanced down and saw her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted, her face peaceful in a way it hadn't been yet this summer.
He didn't stop reading. Not yet. Just dropped his voice lower, the words more murmur than speech, carrying her deeper into sleep.
When he finally trailed off, the room was quiet except for her slow, even breaths. The book lay open on his chest. His arm had gone slightly numb beneath her weight.
He didn't move.
The light from the hallway shifted, and Harry looked up to see Ellen standing in the doorway. She took in the scene—her daughter curled against Harry, both of them on the bed, the book between them—and something soft crossed her face.
She didn't say anything. Just reached in and turned off the bedside lamp, leaving only the glow from the hall.
"Goodnight, Harry," she whispered.
"Goodnight, Mrs. Granger."
She pulled the door halfway closed and disappeared.
Harry lay there in the half-dark, Hermione's warmth against his side, and thought about how strange it was—that this room, this house, this family that wasn't his—felt more like home than anywhere he'd ever been. He closed his eyes. He didn't mean to fall asleep. But the steady rhythm of her breathing and the warmth of her body and the quiet of the house wrapped around him, and somewhere between one thought and the next, he drifted off.
Hermione woke first. Grey morning light filtered through the curtains. She was warm—warmer than usual—and there was a weight across her back, and something solid beneath her cheek that rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. She opened her eyes.
Harry's face was inches from hers. His glasses were askew, pressed awkwardly against the pillow they were somehow sharing. His arm was still around her, his hand resting on the small of her back. The book had slipped from his chest and lay wedged between them.
She didn't move. Just watched him sleep, his face slack and unguarded in a way it never was when he was awake. The scar on his forehead, half-hidden by his fringe. The faint shadows under his eyes that matched her own.
He looked peaceful.
She carefully extracted herself, moving slowly so as not to wake him. He stirred, mumbled something unintelligible, and rolled slightly toward the warm spot she'd left behind. She stood there for a moment, looking down at him, the book clutched to her chest.
Then she turned to her desk. Her calendar hung on the wall above it—the Muggle one her mother insisted on, with pictures of English gardens for each month.
July 29th. Today. They were leaving for the Burrow this morning.
Her eyes traced forward. July 30th. July 31st.
July 31st. Harry's birthday.
She looked back at him, still sleeping in her bed, and something fierce and tender bloomed in her chest.
He'd given her this. This beautiful, thoughtful, perfect thing. And in two days, on his birthday, what would he get? What had he ever gotten?
She already knew the answer. Hand-me-downs and forgotten leftovers and being locked in a cupboard while Dudley opened present after present.
Not this year.