Lack of Colour - anoukmaree - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

She never imagined that she would find herself back here, in front of these ancient walls, the northern wind whipping her cloak around her thin frame like it wants to tear it into pieces. Yet here she is, Hermione Granger, more than twelve years after the battle, in a place where she promised herself never to return to. A place where too many memories will be clawing at her very soul.

She fights the urge to wrap her arms around herself and casts a warming charm on her clothes - a white blouse, a black pencil skirt and a short black cloak tied with a satin ribbon around her neck. Why did she think wearing heels was a good idea? She is no longer in London.

Technically, it’s still summer, two days before the students return for another school year, but Scotland doesn’t seem to care about such technicalities. She will have to dig her winter robes out sooner rather than later.

She straightens her back and lifts her chin up high. She walks through the grand doors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the clicking of her heels echoing against the walls. The castle looks like it did when she was eleven years old and full of ambition and hope. However, Hermione remembers. She remembers blood, she remembers corpses - people injured above recognition - she remembers crumbling walls and stone scorched with fire. She remembers parents mourning their children and children mourning their friends. She remembers the way she cried - wailed, barely human in her grief - for Harry but no matter how much she called his name he never came back. They never even found his body. How do you let somebody go when they simply disappear with no body to bury, with no final goodbye?

Her thoughts carry her all the way to the Headmistress’s office, the gargoyle guarding the entrance no longer sloped to the side but as fierce and proud as it was before. Hermione gives the password and rides the spiral staircase, her heart beating like a drum, which is silly because there is absolutely no reason to be nervous. She forces her mouth to form a smile and walks through the door.

“In vino veritas? Are you sure such a password is a good idea, Professor? The children might get bad ideas.”

“The children don’t need me to have bad ideas, their heads are full of them already.” McGonagall gets up from her desk and walks up to Hermione to give her a quick but fierce hug. She is a whole head taller than Hermione and the years haven’t changed her, not one bit, and just for a moment, Hermione feels like a child again. “And how many times do I have to tell you to call me Minerva? Especially now that we are going to be colleagues.”

“Maybe just one more.” Hermione’s smile is genuine this time.

McGonagall walks back to her desk, opens a drawer and gets a couple of scrolls out, precision and purpose in her every move. “I can’t say how relieved I am that you have accepted the position. Ever since Horace retired…” She puts the scrolls in the box which is resting by the side of her desk and is already overflowing with notebooks and crumpled papers, picks it up and gives it to Hermione, whose knees buckle under the weight. “Let’s just say that it’s a challenge to find a decent Potions Professor.”

“It wasn’t a difficult choice to make.” Although it was. “I couldn’t bear the thought of being stuck in the same job at the Ministry for yet another year.”

“They should have promoted you ages ago, such a bright young thing,” McGonagall says as she walks around Hermione and out of the office, and Hermione scrambles to follow.

“You are forgetting that I am muggle-born, Prof-“ McGonagall glances back to give her a stern look. “-Minerva. They only promote pure-bloods and half-bloods from time to time.” Hermione hates that she sounds so bitter but… She’s worked so hard all her life and for what?

“It’s their loss,” McGonagall says in her no-nonsense way. “And my gain.”

By the time they get to the Potions classroom, Hermione’s arms feel like they are about to fall off from the weight of the box and she drops it on the nearest desk with a thud and shakes out her hands.

“What’s all this anyway?”

“Horace’s lesson plans, a list of school rules, your schedule, and a few other bits and pieces,” the Headmistress explains while she digs in her pocket and then draws out a set of keys. “These only work for members of staff.” They clink as they fall into Hermione’s outstretched hand and she studies the labels - office, storage cupboard, classroom, desk, chambers - then looks back up at McGonagall.

“The entrance to your private chambers is there,” she points at the furthest corner of the classroom and Hermione spots a door she’s never noticed before. “It’s spelled to be visible only to those who know it’s there. Come.”

Her former Professor shows Hermione her rooms and another exit that leads straight into the office.

“I will leave you to settle in. I’ll expect to see you at dinner. You are too thin, we need to change that,” and, without giving Hermione a chance to protest, McGonagall walks away.

***

Hermione is poking at her white fish of some sort with a fork. She can’t imagine taking another bite. She hasn’t had much appetite recently, not just for food but for other things too - books, socialising, work, sex, life itself. She puts the fork down with more force than necessary and the sound of it clanking against the plate rings throughout the Great Hall.

“How can you bear to sit here and eat when you saw so many die in this room?” Hermione wasn’t going to say anything but her mouth opened and her lips started moving before she could stop herself.

“It was hard at first but it’s been years.”

“It doesn’t feel like years to me,” Hermione replies without looking up.

“You should have come back sooner.” McGonagall takes a sip from her goblet then picks up Hermione’s and forces it into her hand. “In vino veritas,” she smiles tightly.

“I don’t drink,” Hermione goes to put the wine back down but McGonagall touches her long wrinkled fingers to the bottom of her goblet and forces it closer to Hermione’s lips.

“Drink. It’s an order.” Hermione stares at McGonagall, annoyed, but she takes a sip - the wine is thick and smooth and it warms her throat on the way down. She clutches the goblet to her chest and looks around the Great Hall properly for the first time.

“You should have come back sooner,” McGonagall repeats. “Most returned to help repair the castle. They found the process… healing.” McGonagall states it like a fact, with no accusation in her voice. Hermione stares at the spot where she saw Harry for the very last time - tired, dirty, bloodied but standing strong and self-assured. Hermione watched the Killing Curse rebound off his body and strike Voldemort and just as the dark wizard’s body crumpled to the ground, Harry’s body disappeared out of existence. No spin and crack of apparition, no pull and twist of a portkey. He simply vanished.

“You are thinking about Harry,” McGonagall guesses.

Hermione’s body jolts at hearing Harry’s name as if from an electric shock. She hasn’t heard his name mentioned in a while. It was all over the papers at first, it was on people’s lips - shouted, whispered, sobbed, murmured - but after a while, even the most dedicated stopped looking and moved on with their lives. Ginny married Neville and is pregnant with their third - or is it fourth now? - child, Ron is happy enough working with George and f*cking anything with breasts, Luna is travelling the world looking for new magical species…

“It seems that everybody has moved on and I just - can’t.” Hermione sips more wine despite herself. It is good. “I see him everywhere around this castle. I see him when I close my eyes.”

“You loved him.”

“I wasn’t the only one.” She drinks more, and this time it’s more of a gulp than a sip.

“I don’t believe their love was quite the same.”

Hermione looks at a cheap plastic ring on her index finger, its centre a glittery purple - the only thing on her with a bit of colour.

“I suppose not,” Hermione agrees finishing her wine. The goblet refills itself.

***

Halfway to the dungeons, Hermione realises that she doesn’t want to go back to her chambers. She takes her ridiculous shoes off and launches them down the stairs. They hit the wall and clatter down the steps. She turns and sways on her feet, then steadies herself with her hand on the wall. Maybe McGonagall - Minerva, she reminds herself - is right and she needs to reacquaint herself with the castle. Maybe she needs to confront all the ghosts of Harry to finally be able to let him go.

She walks the halls, her steps silent, her head dizzy. She takes the pins out of her hair and drops them carelessly on the floor then untwists her tight bun. She digs her fingers into her thick hair and scratches her scalp, which feels tight and itchy. Her hair settles in a cloud around her face and she sighs in relief.

“Hullaballoo,” she gives the password to the Fat Lady - the list was on one of the scrolls McGonagall left with her - and quickly climbs through the portrait hole before she changes her mind. Harry is everywhere. He is in front of the fire, a silly grin on his face. He is by the boys’ staircase, shouting at Seamus because his dormmate is being an arse again. He is on the window seat kissing Ginny Weasley, and Hermione’s chest burns with jealousy. He is weaving around the chairs, broom in hand, late for quidditch practice. He is leaning over a piece of parchment, his tongue sticking out, scribbling furiously, as if personally offended by the fact that a thing like homework exists. Harry is everywhere and nowhere at all. Hermione sniffs, turns on her heel and dashes out of the room.

She wants to run away from Harry but he follows her into the school halls. He is on the stairs chatting to the twins, he is in the corridor exchanging insults with Malfoy, he is leaning on the wall waiting for a class to start, an easy smile on his face, he is stomping up the steps, annoyed that people are calling him a liar. Hermione runs past all the versions of him, her bare feet padding along, her lashes stuck together with tears, her breaths short. She runs until she spots the painting of dancing trolls and twists to look at a bare stretch of a wall. McGonagall said that the Room of Requirement never opened again, the fiendfyre must have destroyed all its magic, but… what if? Hermione is so tired and her feet are freezing cold and she needs to get away from all this grief. She paces in front of the room, wishing for a place where she will be able to feel lighter, a place that can help her feel like herself again. She wishes for something that will help her heal.

A door appears.

***

The room is pitch dark and it smells like fire but there is no smoke and the floor is just as cold inside as it was in the corridor. The magic of the room must be indeed broken. On the other hand, who knows, maybe this dark and lonely room is exactly what Hermione needs.

She flicks her wrist and her wand obediently slides from her sleeve and into her hand.

“Lumos,” she says softly and watches the light dance off the bare stone walls. It’s small, about the size of a regular living room, and uninspiringly empty. Hermione’s heart drops with disappointment. No fireplace, no pillars, no hidden things, only a pile of cushions on the floor in the corner, or is it a blanket?

She makes the light shine brighter, anxious all of a sudden, and looks back to make sure that the door is still open. Only then does she come closer to have a proper look. It takes three cautious steps to realise that it’s not a pile of cushions at all.

She gasps, and the sound echoes off the walls, and her blood rushes into her ears.

It must be a boggart. Why else would Harry’s body be lying here out of all places? He’s resting on his side, facing away from her, but he is wearing the same torn jeans and stained jumper that he did during the battle as if no time has passed at all, and she’d recognise his untidy mop of hair anywhere.

Hermione points her wand at the body and feels proud of the fact that her hand is not shaking.

“Riddikulus!”

Nothing happens. The body is still there, and Hermione mentally goes through the list of all the shapeshifting creatures that she knows of when Harry - who cannot possibly be Harry - groans and rolls onto his back. His eyelashes flutter and, despite her brain yelling at her to stay away, to leave, to shut the door and never come back, Hermione’s feet carry her closer and her knees painfully hit the floor when she gets to his side. She barely notices and shines the light on his face - his impossibly young face - and there is a cut under his right eye that she remembers and it looks like it happened hours ago instead of years.

His lashes lift and his hand flies to shield his eyes. Hermione makes the light softer and stares. She is sure now that this is just a dream. She must have passed out in the corridor somewhere in a drunken stupor.

Harry rubs his eyes with the back of his hand then blinks a few times before he looks right at her, his eyes just as green and full of life as she remembers.

“Hermione?” He asks, his voice all scratchy but unquestionably his, Harry’s. “Why did you take an ageing potion?” A strange sound forms in her throat and Harry raises his hand to touch her cheek. “Are you alright?”

Hermione shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut against the hot ache behind them.

“You can’t be real.” But even as she says it, his arms reach for her and he holds her close, and she listens to his heart as it beats frantically in his chest, just under where her ear is pressed.

This Harry can’t be real but she really, really wants him to be.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

So, apparently, he has just come back from the dead - or whatever - after twelve years of going missing, and he is still seventeen, and Hermione is thirty years old, and she is a Professor, and Harry is in her shower and there’s no soap or shampoo, no towels either. A hysterical laugh is fighting to escape his mouth and Harry swallows it down.

He shouldn’t be surprised really. His whole life has been a chain of impossible events. Harry wraps his arms around his torso, feeling vulnerable all of a sudden. He has no clean clothes, no wand, no place to go, possibly no money… what do goblins do when an account holder disappears for years and has no children? Oh god, and the dragon! They broke into Gringotts and stole their dragon! And what about his friends? Are they even his friends at all, considering they are all grown-ups now? And the people that they’ve lost. Tonks and Remus and Fred and Lavender and Snape - the wound in his neck and the blood gurgling out. Is some of the blood on Harry’s jumper - which is lying in a heap on the floor with the rest of his stuff - Snape’s blood? A shiver starts between Harry’s shoulder blades and travels down his spine. He twists the hot tap until the temperature is just short of scolding and lets the water run over his head and back. He doesn’t want to think about that right now. He doesn’t want to think.

The door clicks open and he jumps with a start. Hermione, her hand over her eyes, pokes her head through the gap.

“Hey!” Harry yelps and his hands automatically dart to cover himself, which is silly really because he’s facing the wall. “Do you mind?”

“Sorry,” Hermione’s voice is unusually high. “I’ve realised that I haven’t unpacked yet and that you’ll need these.” Harry watches over his shoulder as she levitates a bundle of towels, some soap and shampoo while peering through her fingers.

“Don’t look!”

“I’m not looking!” She protests, scandalised, and drops the lot on the closed toilet lid and shuts the door.

***

The truth is, Hermione did look. Harry has a very nice bum. And nice shoulders too. She groans and falls face-first on the bed. She is such a perv! She is a Professor. She is sure there is a rule somewhere stating that a member of staff is not allowed to have teenage boys in their shower, especially if they were to check out their bum.

“God,” she moans, mortified, and flops onto her back only to shoot back up again when the bathroom door falls open and Harry, a white fluffy towel wrapped around his waist, takes a step into the room. Hermione does her best not to stare.

“Err… I don’t suppose you’ve got anything clean for me to wear?” Harry rubs his hand across the back of his neck, looking all wet and cute and alive and so very young, Merlin!

Hermione blushes and swiftly turns away, hoping that Harry hasn’t noticed. She kneels in front of her trunk, which is resting by the wall, and digs through the contents.

“Actually - this is a bit awkward - I’ve got a few of your T-shirts left… I missed you and I wore them to sleep and - they were comfortable so I just kept on wearing them.” She twists back and throws a white T-shirt at him, which he snatches out of the air, a strange look on his face. Hermione returns to the trunk, looking for some bottoms that she can resize with a tailoring charm. “Is it too weird?” She asks self-consciously. Harry doesn’t answer and Hermione feels like she wants to hide in her trunk, burrow into the clothes, shut the lid and never come out. Only then Harry says, his voice full of emotion, “I’d hug you right now if I wasn’t mostly naked.”

Hermione gets off the floor, a pair of black joggers bunched up in her hand, and walks right up to Harry. Before she can think about it, she wraps her arms around his neck, rises onto her tiptoes and presses herself flush against his torso. He’s damp and his skin is so hot and he smells like her favourite shampoo - lemon and tea tree.

“I’m so glad to have you back,” she murmurs, although a part of her is still certain that this is all a dream. She kisses his collarbone before taking a step back. Harry’s face is pink but, for all she knows, it could be from the shower.

“I don’t think these will fit me,” he gestures at the trousers still clutched in her hand.

“It’s like you’re not even a wizard, Harry,” Hermione smiles, lays the joggers out on the bed and resizes them until they look about right, then levitates them to Harry. “Now they will.”

Clothes in hand, Harry hastily retreats back into the bathroom.

***

“I guess I’m going to take the sofa,” Harry points in the direction of the living room with his thumb and shifts from foot to foot.

“Don’t be silly! It’s not like we haven’t slept next to each other before.” She picks a small bundle of stuff off the bed and gets up. “I just need to-“ she glances at the bathroom door. “Make yourself comfortable,” she tells him and turns away but then adds just before she disappears behind the door. “The left side of the bed is mine.”

Harry stares at the closed door for a few seconds then blinks and gets under the covers.

Sure, they did sleep next to each other before. In Grimmauld Place when the three of them were too scared to leave the others’ presence for even a moment, and in the tent when Ron left them and they were freezing in the middle of nowhere.

Lying in bed and waiting for Hermione feels different this time. There is no excuse for such proximity - he could have gone to the Gryffindor tower or woken up Professor McGonagall. Besides, this Hermione is not quite the same girl he used to know. He wants to get to know her again though and ask all these questions, but they’ve decided not to talk about anything until tomorrow.

“I need to know that you won’t evaporate during the night,” she said as they were walking to her rooms and Harry laughed. Hermione didn’t laugh though, she didn’t even smile. And Harry would really like to make her smile. He wants to know that they’re okay, that if he doesn’t have anything or anybody else, he’s got her at least.

He grins and moves to the left side of the bed but the grin falters when he realises that Hermione must have somebody special in her life if she knows what side of the bed she prefers to sleep on. Or used to. This thought makes Harry feel weird but he can’t put his finger on exactly why.

***

When Hermione appears from the bathroom wearing a pair of shorts and another one of Harry’s old T-shirts - which used to be green by the looks of it but now is a faded grey and it’s impossible to tell what is written on its front anymore - Harry is lying on her side of the bed, a funny look on his face. His eyes linger on the t-shirt then move down her legs and his eyebrows draw down in the centre. She doesn’t like him looking at her like that, all concerned.

“What did I say about this side of the bed?” She asks sternly, hands on her hips.

Harry instantly stops frowning and smiles at her cheekily.

“You said that this side is much more comfortable and I should definitely try it out.”

Hermione fights a smile and storms up to where Harry is lying and - palms on his side - pushes him to the other side of the bed, or at least she tries. Harry is heavy, and the carpet under her feet is slippery, and the only thing she accomplishes is slipping and landing on her knees, which makes Harry laugh so much that the whole bed shakes. The ridiculousness of it all startles a laugh out of Hermione and she presses her hand to her lips - the sound feels alien and she realises that she hasn’t properly laughed in months. Or has it been years?

Harry scoots to the other side of the bed, still laughing, and Hermione quickly gets under the covers. She watches Harry - so happy in this moment as if they are not swimming in the sea of uncertainty without the slightest idea of what tomorrow will bring.

Harry’s laughter dies down but his eyes stay smiling, that is, until he glances at her face. The way he is looking at her - eyes, forehead, cheek, lips, nose, eyes again - is so intense that it feels like a physical touch. Her skin prickles and she wants to lift her hand and brush the feeling away.

It takes her by complete surprise when Harry asks, “Why are you so unhappy, Hermione?” His tone is as serious as his laughter was exuberant. The question steals all the air away from her lungs as if she’s just fallen from a height and landed on her back.

“I don’t know,” she answers eventually, her voice but a whisper, and flicks her wand to turn off the lights. In the darkness, she feels safe.

***

They are lying on their backs, the only source of light is a thin pale strip of moonlight from the gap in the curtains, and when Harry shifts, his hand bumps into Hermione’s. He doesn’t pull away and after a moment, Hermione weaves their fingers together. He wants to move even closer, wrap her in his arms even, only this Hermione isn’t exactly the girl he felt so much at ease with. He thinks of Hermione hugging him after the shower and kissing his bare skin. The old Hermione wouldn’t have done that. He shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t let go of her hand.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Harry asks. “Because if you do, this-“ he waves a hand between them, “-feels weird. I don’t want somebody to come and punch me awake in the morning.” He says it humorously but there is no smile in Hermione’s voice when she replies, “I don’t.”

“What about Ron?”

At that, Hermione gives a single bitter laugh. “Ron said I was impossible to love - I - I don’t want to talk about anything today.”

Harry squeezes her hand in reply and the room falls quiet.

He doesn’t quite recognise this Hermione. The one from his past would have asked him a million questions. She would have dug out some books straight away. She would have waved her arms passionately, coming up with theories. She would have smiled more. She wouldn’t have smelled like wine when she found him. She wouldn’t have kissed his collarbone. Something stirs in Harry, a feeling that he has no words for, but before he can figure it out, he drifts off to sleep.

***

Hermione wakes up several times that night. She wakes up and checks that Harry is still there. She squeezes his hand to make sure that he is real, and after his hand slips out of hers when he turns in his sleep, she lays her palm on his back instead. She is terrified that if she stops touching him, he will disappear. Having Harry back feels like getting some of her hope back too, and she desperately doesn’t want to lose that.

***

A loud knocking on the door leading to her chambers stirs Hermione awake, and she gets up with a quiet moan. Her head aches. She rubs her eyes and yawns while staggering around the bed. She knew she shouldn’t have drunk anything - remembering, she snaps her head back, but no, it wasn’t some drunken dream. Harry is still there, breathing deeply. The knocking intensifies and Hermione rushes through the living room, bangs her shin on the coffee table and hops the rest of the way, furiously rubbing her leg and swearing under her breath.

When she opens the door, McGonagall is there, two black shoes dangling from her fingers.

“I found these halfway down the stairs,” the woman says and although her tone is dry, her eyes are smiling and the corners of her mouth are quirked up humorously.

Hermione’s returning smile is apologetic. “I decided to go for a walk around the castle last night.” She takes the shoes from McGonagall and places them by the door. “These were uncomfortable.” Then she adds, “You won’t believe what I’ve found.”

“And you won’t believe what time it is. You have missed breakfast -“

A groan - a rather loud and distinctively male groan - from the bedroom interrupts McGonagall mid-sentence and her eyes go wide before narrowing into slits. She glares at Hermione over the top of her glasses, “I know I haven’t gone through school rules with you yet but even so, you should know that bringing a lover here is unacceptable!”

The stern woman pushes Hermione out of the way and marches towards the bedroom.

“No, Pro-, Minerva, wait! It’s not what you think!” Hermione scrambles after the Headmistress who doesn’t seem to care for her explanations. She takes one look at Harry, who is blinking at them owlishly, and turns on Hermione. “A Polyjuiced lover at that! If you want to reenact some school crush of yours-“

“Minerva, it-“

“- then please do it off the school grounds!”

McGonagall points her wand at Harry, who is beet-red now, and shoots a spell wordlessly. Harry flinches but nothing happens and McGonagall’s eyebrows rise. “Not Polyjuice? Doesn’t look like glamour either.”

Harry fishes his glasses from under the bed, hastily puts them on and gives McGonagall a wave.

“Hullo, Professor. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that you are not happy to see me.”

McGonagall’s eyebrows go even higher. She wordlessly casts a bunch of other spells but Harry doesn’t flinch this time. The Headmistress finally lowers her wand, takes a deep breath and adjusts her glasses.

“Explain,” she commands.

***

While Harry and Hermione were taking turns in the bathroom, McGonagall got a house elf to serve tea and sandwiches, and now Harry is happily sitting in an armchair, sipping his milky tea and munching on a ham and cheddar sandwich while Hermione is explaining to McGonagall what happened last night. He is studying her face as she speaks trying to understand why this Hermione seems so different. She doesn’t really have any lines on her face… her features are a bit sharper, her cheekbones more pronounced and her eyes - that’s the thing - her eyes used to be so expressive but now they look - they look like a room with the lights off - anything could be happening in the dark but no one would be able to see a thing.

Hermione is sitting with her back so straight that Harry wants to poke her in the ribs to… to make her smile, to annoy her, to help her relax, to see at least a glimpse of the Hermione he used to know. It’s definitely her though - he can see the scars on her forearm that form the word MUDBLOOD. The lines were an angry sort of red when he saw them last but now they are thin and pale, paler than her skin. Something glistens on her hand when Hermione moves, and Harry notices the ring she’s wearing for the very first time. Is that-

“Mr. Potter!” McGonagall’s sharp tone snaps him out of his thoughts. “Please cease daydreaming and pay attention. Now, could you explain how exactly you found yourself in the Room of Requirement?”

“If only I knew,” he says with an apologetic shrug and, at McGonagall’s steely look, tries to elaborate. “When Voldemort struck me with the Killing Curse, I did die - kind of - because I was in this weird white place that turned out to be King’s Cross - yes, yes, I know how it sounds - and Dumbledore was there. He said that it was my choice. That I could come back and live if I wanted to or I could move on. I felt like I had to go back because it was my job to finish Voldemort off but I didn’t really want to, I was just so tired.” A sad tiny noise escapes Hermione and he rushes to explain. “I didn’t want to die either, not exactly, I just wanted to rest. So that’s what I said. I said that I didn’t mind going back as long as I would have a chance to rest after Voldemort was dealt with. Then Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled in that infuriating way of his, and I was back in the forest, with Narcissa Malfoy leaning over me. And you should know the rest.”

“Do you realise how improbable all this sounds?”

Harry glances at Hermione not knowing whether he should mention the Deathly Hallows or not, and Hermione - as if she’s read his mind - gives a barely perceptible shake of her head.

“Yeah, well,” he tells McGonagall. “That’s all I’ve got.”

***

The second McGonagall leaves, muttering something about a meeting with Minister Shacklebolt and chaos, Hermione opens her mouth to ask if he truly thinks that - because he is the Master of Death - whatever magic was involved decided to let him rest by popping him out of existence for twelve years. Before she can utter a single sound though, Harry surprises her by falling onto the sofa right next to her and taking her hand. At first, she thinks he wants to see the ugly word that Bellatrix Lestrange carved into her skin but he traces his finger over the ring instead.

“I can’t believe you are still wearing it.”

“You remember?” She asks and Harry chuckles. She supposes it is a stupid question. It hasn’t been that long for him after all.

“Of course I remember! It was my very first bowl of Frosties!” Hermione elbows him in the ribs playfully.

“I couldn’t believe how excited you got looking at breakfast cereals-”

“Because the Dursleys never let me have anything like that. And you were being all strict and reasonable -“

“We were on the run, Harry. And we were short on cash-“ Despite her words, a little smile forms on her face. It’s still one of her best memories from that year.

“But you got it for me anyway.”

“I did.” They grin at each other and, for a moment, it feels like no time has passed. “You had that look on your face…” She lets her voice drift off and rests her head on Harry’s shoulder. Hermione inhales and lets her body relax against his. Harry still smells a little bit like her shampoo but there is something else too now, something boyish and so very familiar it hurts. And underneath it all, there is, inexplicably, just a hint of fire. It reminds her of how her clothes would smell after spending an evening by a campfire with her parents. Another memory that does nothing but hurt.

***

When it’s clear Hermione isn’t planning on moving anytime soon, he wraps an arm around her shoulders, lays a cheek on the top of her head and allows himself to remember. He remembers the box of Frosties and his childish joy, he remembers finding a prize inside - a cheap ring with a purple centre, he remembers Hermione looking at him like Mrs Weasley looked at her children when they were doing something that only a mother could find adorable.

He remembers saying, “Do you, Hermione Granger, take me, Harry Potter, to be your dearest and bestest friend for as long as we both shall live?” He was being so silly but she smiled one of the widest smiles he’d ever seen on her and, offering her hand, said, “I do.”

And just now when she smiled at him, for a brief second, her smile looked exactly the same. Sure, there are many aspects of her that he doesn’t recognise, but the girl who was determined to change the world is still there and Harry will do everything in his power to find her.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

“They never found the Elder Wand then?” Harry asks while applying laundry charms to his old clothes, which now look like they are wrestling for dominance in Hermione’s bath - the jeans seem to be winning.

“No. Everybody assumed that it had disappeared with you.” Hermione is sitting on the edge of the tub, legs crossed and nose scrunched as she watches Harry’s clothes tumble in a soggy mess.

“I thought I had it,” Harry says, remembering, his voice distant. “I had two wands… Malfoy’s and I just caught the Elder Wand.” His fingers involuntarily flex around the hawthorn wand he is holding. “And the Invisibility Cloak was tucked into my belt... The Marauder's map was in my back pocket.” Harry frowns. “So how come I’ve still got the map-“ he points his wand at the folded piece of faded parchment resting on the edge of the sink, and his pile of laundry jumps and lands back with a slurpy splat, “-and Malfoy’s wand but nothing else?”

“You’ve got all your clothes too,” Hermione points out. “Imagine if you came back completely naked.”

Harry is scrambling for something clever to retort with when a cat Patronus bursts through the bathroom door and starts to speak with McGonagall’s voice.

“Mr. Potter, the Minister would like to have a word with you. I expect you in my office in ten minutes.” Job done, the Patronus dissolves into a white mist. Harry looks at the wet clump of fabric in the tub, then at the T-shirt and joggers he’s still wearing.

“I am supposed to meet the Minister for Magic and I don’t even have any pants to wear.”

“I could always enlarge a pair of mine for you…” Harry stares daggers at her.

“Gee, thanks, Hermione, but I’m not into cross-dressing.” Hermione giggles.

***

A word with Shacklebolt turns into Harry being whisked through the floo and into the Ministry itself - a surprisingly muggle looking conference room with white walls and plastic chairs around a large white table.

“This room is used for meetings with the muggle government only so nobody should discover us here,” Kingsley explains in his deep voice that Harry has always found reassuring. Not this time though. “Before we discuss anything, I need to confirm your identity. With your permission, I will take a sample of your blood to be analysed.”

“Blood? Come on, Kingsley, there are other ways to check my identity.“ Harry knows what blood can do and he doesn’t want to part with a single drop of his if he has a choice.

“There are no other ways to check for traces of Voldemort’s residual magic. It is also the easiest way to check for any curses or any malevolent magics in your system.”

“And if I don’t give my consent?”

Kingsley looks at him kindly, although there is nothing kind in his words. “Then, I’m afraid, we will have to use force. You must understand, Harry - you appear out of nowhere - you could have been anywhere, anything could have been done to you. Is it wrong for me to be cautious? I just want to protect the people.”

“From me?” Harry asks and Kingsley just stares at him and Harry stares back. Something hot and angry forms in his chest and pulses and expands, his breath accelerates. Harry feels trapped. All his life, all his bloody life he’s been doing his best to fit in, to survive, to do what’s right, to help people, and still…

“I died for you,” Harry grits out.

“It’s just a bit of blood, Harry.” Harry’s shoulders slump, defeated. There is nothing he can say or do to influence the outcome.

“Fine.”

***

A bit of blood turns into a bit of blood and some detection spells and a bunch of questions and a meeting with a group of witches and wizards he doesn’t recognise and him being dressed in a set of robes that would better fit somebody like Lucius Malfoy and an interview with the Daily Prophet where his every answer is micromanaged by a PR team and a photo shoot where his hair is arranged into an artful mess, the silver line of his scar exposed. Harry is told to smile but not too much, and look friendly but serious and important at the same time.

When it’s all done and Harry is left alone with Shacklebolt again, he feels drained, fed up and hungry.

A frazzled young woman with mousy hair comes in, levitating a tray with tea and biscuits, a small leather pouch, and a large plastic bag with a brand Harry doesn’t recognise. Her hazel eyes meet Harry’s and she stumbles, but her levitation charm never falters. She reminds Harry of Tonks. Tonks, who should have stayed in the Room of Requirement, who had a newborn baby at home, who was never supposed to die. And Teddy. Harry promised to look after Teddy if anything happened to his parents but he disappeared instead, and the kid -

A jingle of keys and Kingsley’s booming voice distracts Harry from his thoughts.

“Have some tea, Harry, you look like you’re about to pass out of exhaustion.” He hands Harry a cup with a friendly smile.

“And whose fault is that?” Harry grumbles but accepts the cup nevertheless and reaches for a couple of chocolate biscuits. He stuffs one whole into his mouth and takes a sip of tea to soften it. Hermione would tell him off for eating like an ill-mannered child, and the thought makes him want to smile. He doesn’t in case Kingsley thinks it’s for him.

“I asked Cassandra-“ Harry looks at Shacklebolt questioningly and he clarifies, “my personal assistant, the girl that’s just left - I asked her to get some muggle clothes for you,” Harry glances at the plastic bag curiously, “and book you a room at the Leaky Cauldron for a couple of nights.” Kingsley throws him the keys and Harry catches them easily. “And here’s some gold in case you need anything else.” The Minister slides the leather pouch across the table and Harry stops it just before it falls off the edge. It’s more than Harry expected, really.

“I suppose my Gringotts account doesn’t exist anymore then?” Harry asks, already knowing the answer.

“I’m sorry, Harry. We did search for you but after two years of finding absolutely nothing we decided to close the investigation and declare you dead.” Harry studies the scratched surface of the table as Kingsley talks about how upset everybody was, how the people grieved, how they left flowers at the feet of his statue - oh yeah, he has a blooming statue now in the middle of the Ministry Entrance Hall and an Order of Merlin, First Class. But what good can they do when it’s been ten years since everybody gave up on him? Everybody but Hermione, a tiny voice whispers inside his head. He looks back up at Kingsley.

“I thought you’d want a few days to come to terms with it all but when you are ready… The Ministry will appreciate it if you provide us with your support. We could support you in return, open a new account in Gringotts for you, get you an apartment in one of the wizarding areas in London. Or would you prefer a house in the country? The Auror Training program is opening next Monday if you still want to be an Auror. Or you don’t have to do anything at all apart from giving a speech here and there and attending a few parties…” and Harry was just only beginning to like Kingsley again.

“You want me to be your mascot?” Harry asks and Kingsley laughs so loudly that the whole floor must be able to hear it.

“Something like that, yes. Just think about it. One last thing. We were never able to access Grimmauld Place. The house seems to have sealed itself. You might want to try going there... who knows, maybe it will open for you.”

***

Harry doesn’t go to Grimmauld. He doesn’t go to the Leaky Cauldron either or to Gringotts to see if he can salvage any of his funds. He changes in the visitor’s toilets into a pair of dark jeans and a dark green sweatshirt, mentally thanking Cassandra for guessing his size right and getting him socks and underwear among other things. He folds the robes he was given and leaves them next to the sink. He has no idea what he wants but it’s definitely not the picture that Kingsley has painted.

Harry looks in the mirror and ruffles his hair so that his fringe falls back into place, covering his scar. He looks like a regular boy. Like he should be at school doing his A-levels and hanging out with friends. Like he should have parents and a home.

The door to the toilets opens and a wizard steps in. Harry hastily grabs the plastic bag and, not looking up once, dashes out as fast as he can, ignoring the man shouting after him about a set of forgotten robes.

Once out of the ministry building, Harry apparates without thinking - without even checking if there is anybody around - and when his feet hit the ground, Harry’s eyes take in the sea of tall yellow grass, the expanse of impossibly blue sky, the swallows zooming above his head, the tall lopsided house, which looks like it’s about to fall but remains standing despite all logic… He is not the slightest bit surprised that his magic has taken him here - to the only home apart from Hogwarts that he’s known.

His feet carry him to the house before he can think about what he is doing - across the field and through the garden where the gnomes scatter away from him in every direction, down the path and past a pile of muddy wellies by the porch.

He knocks on the door, a smile on his face, expecting Mrs Weasley with her flaming red hair and rosy cheeks. She will engulf him in a hug and call him Harry, dear. She’ll tell him he looks a bit peaky and she’ll pile more food on his plate than he could possibly eat, and Harry will find out that no time has passed and it was all just a long bizarre dream.

The door flies open but it’s not Mrs Weasley. It’s… Ginny. Her face is rounder and her hair is shorter and there is a redheaded child hiding behind her long yellow skirt, and her stomach…

“You’re pregnant,” Harry says, his smile all but gone. The glass that Ginny was holding falls to the floor and smashes into tiny pieces, splashing water on Harry’s trainers and jeans.

Ginny points her wand at him - he should probably get used to people doing that - and asks, fire in her eyes, “What was the last thing you said to me?”

“I said…” He recalls seeing Ginny before going into the Forbidden Forest but he didn’t speak to her then. It was before, when he had to ask her and Tonks to leave the Room of Requirement. Harry ignores the overwhelming sense of guilt and focuses on his last hurried conversation with Ginny. “I said that we’d be back in a moment. I told you to keep safe.”

Her eyes blaze and she sends a stinging hex his way. It hits Harry’s shoulder and he jumps away.

“Hey! What’s-“

“Where the hell have you been?!” Ginny shouts and takes a step closer, glass crunching under her shoes. She rains punches on Harry’s chest but there is no force behind them. A child cries and somebody gasps but all Harry can see is Ginny’s huge brown eyes, her tears and her hair as wild as fire.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t - I’m sorry.” He holds her and repeats it until she stops struggling. Until her hard round belly is pressed to his side as she sobs into his shoulder, and he can feel the baby that she is carrying kick from inside Ginny’s body.

No, it’s not a dream at all.

***

Harry answers all the questions patiently - he explains about Hogwarts and Hermione and the Room and Kingsley and no, he has no idea what exactly happened and why and how. He meets Ginny’s children. Chris, who is eight, Ant, seven, and Joy, four. He learns that the one in Ginny’s belly is due any day now. He learns that she and Neville got married two years after the battle. Straight after he had been pronounced dead, Harry thinks bitterly. The children don’t look like they came from Neville at all. They are Weasleys through and through and Harry wonders if he and Ginny had had kids, would they have looked anything like him at all? Would any of them have had black hair or green eyes or fair skin without a single freckle? Is there any point in wondering?

His only consolation is that Mrs Weasley did give him a bone-crushing hug and she fed him hearty beef stew with dumplings and, although her hair is more grey than red now, she still looks like herself.

She fusses about and makes floo calls, and yells at the children for fighting and making a mess like she used to yell at Ron and the twins.

And, by some magic, just a couple of hours later, there’s Mr Weasley and then George - who looks much older than he should. There is no Fred by his side and it looks wrong. Then come Bill and Fleur - as stunning as ever - with their three children, then Percy and his wife, and there are so many kids running around now that Harry has lost count. And last, Ron stumbles out of the floo with his familiar goofy smile.

“Blimey, Harry, you’ve come out a winner again. Staying young while we are all growing old. Chicks will be all over you!” Ron gives him a one-armed hug and behaves like no time has passed at all, like none of this is a big deal but just one of the many odd things that have happened to Harry. Ron tells him about the shop and the latest jokes that they are selling, and about the girl he has just started dating, not seeming to care that Harry isn’t saying much in return. Instead, Harry is looking around at all the familiar faces that are not quite right, all the happy couples, and the children - live proof that the world has so easily moved on without him. When his eyes fall on Ginny’s rounded stomach yet again, something inside him twists and aches and it’s suddenly all too much.

Harry gets up so quickly that the chair he’s been sitting on falls backwards with a loud crack and all the faces - only the children pay him no mind - turn to him, smiles fading and eyes shining with concern.

“I’m sorry,” he says, backing away towards the door. “I’m sorry,” he repeats as he slips out. Anxious voices follow him out but Harry disapparates before anybody can stop him.

***

There are a few blissful minutes of peace after Harry wakes up in the morning. His room at the Leaky Cauldron is soaked in gentle reddish light, his bed is soft and warm, and the smells of coffee and toast are drifting from downstairs, making Harry’s mouth water. He sits up in bed and stretches, blankets pooling around his middle, and rubs the sleep off his eyes before putting the glasses on. The room looks friendlier in the morning than it did last night - there is a worn red rug on the wooden floor matching the curtains and the walls that looked dull and grey last night are actually a soothing beige.

Thinking about last night makes him cringe. Everybody was so welcoming and nice and there was no reason at all to feel overwhelmed. Okay, maybe there was but still, he shouldn’t have run away like that. He should go back and apologise, collect the bag that he has accidentally left behind in his haste…

Harry gets up and, bare feet padding on the floor, approaches the window. He throws the curtains open and squints at the cheerfully blue sky and the silhouettes of the Diagon Alley rooftops. Something flashes down below, attracting his attention, and he shields his eyes from the bright light. Harry stares.

People - witches and wizards - are gathered under the windows. They are holding up posters - HARRY WE LOVE YOU and WELCOME BACK and OUR SAVIOUR in a heart - they are throwing flowers in the air and they are all smiling and cheering, but Harry can hear none of it because of the silencing charms placed on the room. He sees another flash and finally notices a wizard with an ancient-looking chunky camera. He snaps out of his shock and, heart pounding, draws the curtains tightly shut.

***

He tried waiting to see if the crowd would disperse - it didn’t. He tried apparating straight out of his room - he couldn’t. No matter how much he wants to hide in his bed and never leave, he will have to face the people someday, might as well do it now. He wishes Hermione was here. She’d be able to perform a perfect disillusionment charm - something that Harry is pants at. He wishes he still had his Invisibility Cloak. He wishes his sweatshirt had a hood. He wishes he hadn’t disappeared. He wishes all the people who died were still alive.

Harry sighs and, not allowing himself to procrastinate any longer, cracks the door open, only somebody pushed on it from the other side and he stumbles back and hears an explosion of noise - cheering and gasps and incredulous shouts and his name repeated again and again. There are faces all around and hands reaching for him, touching him as if he is some sort of saint. He pushes through the crowd, through all the greedy arms and teeth exposed in wide smiles. He tries to smile back and he apologises as he elbows his way down the corridor and to the ground floor, his smile turning into a scowl, his eyebrows knitting together in the middle as the crowd becomes denser and louder and fingers grip and pull at his clothes.

Eventually, with a final push, he bursts through the doors and the breeze hits his face. Harry gulps for air, walking away from all the witches and wizards, and internally thanking the statute of secrecy - the only thing that stops everybody from openly following him. He ducks into the first shaded alley he spots and disapparates.

***

Harry doesn’t go to the Burrow this time but to the place that used to keep him, Ron and Hermione safe during the initial weeks of their run, and, before that, Sirius and Remus and Tonks and Moody and Dumbledore and Snape - all the people who are now dead.

He stands in front of the shut door of Twelve Grimmauld Place, his hand hovering just above the handle uncertainly. He isn’t sure what he is scared of. His memories? The door might not even open - just like it has refused to open for anybody else.

He grabs the handle and twists it with more confidence than he has, and the door opens easily as if the house has only been waiting for him all this time.

He takes a careful step in, then another, prepared to see the dust-like figure of Dumbledore but it never comes, the curse probably worn off after so many years. Harry tiptoes past the portrait of Walburga Black hidden behind a black curtain, heading for the stairs. The air smells damp, mouldy and strangely sour - like milk that has gone off - but Harry ignores all that and makes his way up. He still remembers every squeaky step and he easily avoids them as he travels from floor to floor, from room to room, looking for he doesn’t know what. All the beds are made, the threadbare carpets are clean and, even with a thin layer of dust settled on the furniture, the house is the tidiest Harry has ever seen it. It resembles a macabre museum, which somebody was taking care of until very recently.

“Kreacher!” Harry calls, suddenly panicky. There is no crack of apparition, no old elf grumbling to himself and spewing insults, there is nothing at all.

“Kreacher!” Harry shouts louder, sprinting down the stairs, two at a time, past the portrait of Mrs Black, who screeches, “Filth! Scum! Freaks!” as his feet thump down the entrance hall and into the basem*nt kitchen. Past the table and the chairs, which are covered in the same layer of dust as all the other surfaces, and to the little door just behind the pantry, which Harry knows to be Kreacher’s den.

It feels like his life right now is a series of doors that he has to open despite not knowing what lies behind. The door between the safety of Hermione’s rooms and the rest of the world; the door to the Burrow, which was supposed to make him feel like he still belonged but showed him how much he’s missed instead; the door of his room at the Leaky Cauldron, which let in the beast that the crowd was; the door to the place that used to be the Order’s Headquarters but now is void of any life. And now, the door to Kreacher’s den. Is it strange that this door is the hardest to open? Harry’s hand trembles as he reaches for the handle but the moment his fingers wrap around it, he swings it open like ripping off a plaster. A sickly, sweet smell of rotting flesh hits his nostrils and a buzzing fills his ears. Harry gags and stumbles back, covering his mouth and nose with the bottom of his sweatshirt. His eyes stay wide open, staring at the swarm of flies in the dim room, at two small feet - strangely bloated and purplish-red - visible in the doorway.

A desperate sound gets wrenched right out of Harry’s gut as he keeps on stumbling back until his back hits the kitchen counter and he slides to the floor, sobbing.

If only he was faster, smarter, better, then all these people would be alive. He adds names to the growing list in his head. Kreacher. Dobby. Hedwig.

“I’m sorry,” he chants, rocking from side to side, face hidden in his sweatshirt, thinking of everybody he couldn’t save. “I’m so, so sorry.”

***

“What now?” Hermione mutters at hearing somebody tap-tap-tapping on the door, irritated after what felt like the longest day of her adult life. Ever since this morning when the article in the Daily Prophet came out, the castle has been filled with everybody saying Harry’s name. And all the members of staff came to her with questions.

“How is Harry?”

“Where is Harry?”

“What is Harry going to do now?”

She faked it and she smiled and she answered the best she could when internally she wanted to scream because Harry left her again and she had no idea what he was going to do, especially when he looked so poised and handsome, staring at her from the front page of the Daily Prophet.

And the students! Muttering about him throughout the feast, whispering, gossiping as if they knew him, as if Harry belonged to them.

“Coming!” Hermione calls out as she passes the coffee table, angrily knocking the Daily Prophet off its side, satisfied when it lands face-first on the floor.

She opens the door and freezes in shock.

It’s Harry. But he looks nothing like he did on the pages of the paper. His hair is a mess unlike anything Hermione has seen before, his eyes are puffy and red like he’s spent hours crying, his sweatshirt is covered with wet stains and his voice breaks when he speaks, “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Without a single question, she opens her arms for him and he stumbles into the room, into her body, back into her life and right into her heart. She feels like a fool for letting him in so easily.

One day, if she is not careful, this boy will rip her heart right out.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

Harry jolts awake, his mouth wide open as if in a scream but no sound is coming out, and his heart is thumping so hard that he can hear it in his ears. He doesn’t remember his dream, not exactly anyway. Only colours - black, red and smoky grey - and fear. And fury, so much fury.

He turns his head to look at Hermione, and her face is right there, just an inch away from his. A strip of bright moonlight is crawling across her pillow - she must have shifted away from it in her sleep. Her breath puffs across his cheek, and Harry makes a game of trying to match his inhales and exhales to hers in an effort to make his rapidly beating heart calm down, to chase his anger away… He isn’t that surprised when it fails to work. His skin is too itchy and he is too hot. Harry uncovers his chest and sticks one leg out from under the duvet, and although the air of the dungeons is pleasantly cool, it’s not enough. Plunging into the Black Lake wouldn’t be enough right now - it feels like his blood itself is boiling.

A sudden urge to punch Kingsley makes him clench his right hand in a fist, his nails digging into the palm. Who does Shacklebolt think he is? Harry doesn’t care how long he was missing for. He is right here now, breathing, alive, blood pumping in his veins, his fury pulsing in his temples and burning his throat. He is certainly not dead and he will not let them take his life and his choice away from him. Not again.

He wants to punch Dumbledore too. For always being so annoyingly vague, for not teaching him enough, for not guiding him better, for hiding things from him…

Right now, he would punch Death itself in the face if he could. No, he’d wrap his hands around its throat and shake it by its bony neck until it gave him his father’s Cloak back, until it gave him back the missing years, until it explained what the bloody game it had decided to play.

He wants to yell at Ginny too - for not loving him more, for not wanting him enough, for not searching for him harder.

Why now? Why the Room of Requirment? Why Hermione?

Harry looks at her again - the strip of moonlight on her cheek, the stretched neck of his old T-shirt, her hair all over the pillow. Hermione said that she was seeing Harry all over the castle, that she was only looking for some piece. Harry was looking for some piece too, wasn’t he? He snorts quietly. There is nothing peaceful about this mess.

The moonlight reaches Hermione’s eyes and she shifts closer to Harry again. If she had never come to Hogwarts, would Harry still be stuck somewhere between this world and death? A spark of gratitude lights up in his heart and grows into love for his friend so fierce that, together with his fury, it fuels his desire to take his life back. His parents would have wanted that, Sirius and Remus too.

The best way to make sure that their deaths haven’t been for nothing is to live. Finish school, reconnect with his old friends and make new ones, find out what he is passionate about now that there are no dark lords to kill. Fall in love.

Harry glances at Hermione yet again, the light still too close to her eyes. He gets up and draws the curtains tightly shut.

***

Harry drifts in and out of sleep until the quality of the light behind the curtains changes, and when he peeks out, there is a pinkish glow on the horizon. Hoping he can trust the magic window - they are in the dungeons after all - he pulls his jeans back on. Mrs Weasley used to always get up with the sun so there’s a chance she still does. And if she doesn’t, Harry can always wait.

***

It turns out that he didn’t need to worry. When he arrives at the Burrow, the light is shining through the kitchen window and Harry can see Mrs Weasley moving around the room. He knocks and waits awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot, and when the door opens, he apologises profusely for running away the day before.

“Nonsense, dear,” she says. Her kind arms wrap around him and pull him over the threshold, they guide him through the living room and into the kitchen, they push him into a chair next to Mr Weasley, who is all dressed for work and is sipping from a cup of steaming tea.

“Oh, morning, Harry. Decided to pop by for breakfast?” Mr Weasley asks as Mrs Weasley adds two more sausages to the pan as if Harry popping by for breakfast is the most normal thing in the world.

And after breakfast, when Harry tells them that he wants to go back to Hogwarts and finish his seventh year, Mrs Weasley disappears and reappears a few minutes later with a stack of school shirts, trousers and robes.

“This is why I never throw anything away!” She declares, looking pleased with herself. “You and Ron are about the same size and he is only an inch or so taller than you…” Mrs Weasley beckons Harry to stand up, then shakes a pair of trousers out and holds them against his body. “Should fit just fine,” she smiles happily, refolds the trousers neatly and returns them to the stack. “And if anything feels uncomfortable, come back and I’ll fix it for you with a couple of tailoring charms.”

After everything is added to the plastic bag, the one which Harry has forgotten at the Burrow, Mrs Weasley takes his face in her hands and says, “If something doesn’t work out or if you feel lonely, just come back home.” She turns away and busies herself with the dishes, leaving Harry standing there, with his eyes hot and his chest all warm and fuzzy. Home. Maybe he isn’t as alone as he thought he was.

***

When Hermione wakes up, there is no gentle snoring, no whirl of unruly hair, and the sheets on Harry’s side are cold.

Harry’s side. How ridiculous.

She turns on her back and stares at the ceiling, massaging the stiffness out of the side of her neck.

She shouldn’t be surprised, really. Ethan, her last boyfriend, disappeared without saying a word. One day she came back home from work to find that his toothbrush was no longer in the bathroom, and his favourite mug was gone from the kitchen cupboard, which was a shame because Hermione would have loved smashing it into pieces. She hated that mug and she hates the fact that thinking about Ethan still pulls at the tangled knot of feelings inside her body. It’s been nearly two years, for goodness’ sake, and she didn’t even love him.

It’s not even about Ethan but the way he walked out of her life without a single word - as if Hermione didn’t matter, as if she was as small and insignificant as a speck of dust on his shoe. Liam, her boyfriend before Ethan, at least had the courtesy of sending her a text message.

But Harry is not her boyfriend and he will never sleep in her bed again. Even if Hermione wants him to. She should smack herself on the head for even allowing this though.

She flips to her left side with an irritated grunt but it gets stuck in her throat when her eyes land on a bit of paper on her bedside table. She raises on her elbow and reaches for the note, her heart accelerating in hope.

-

Gone to beg McGonagall to take me back in. See you at breakfast!

H.

PS Sorry for tearing this page out of your notebook.

-

Harry is going to enrol back into Hogwarts. And be her student. Hogwarts. Students. The first day of class.

Hermione hastily reaches for her watch and checks the time.

“sh*t!” She squeaks and dashes to the bathroom to get ready.

***

Harry didn’t need to beg. McGonagall didn’t even lift a brow at his request to be enrolled back into Hogwarts.

“I thought you might come back, Potter. I can ask Argus to find some secondhand robes for you.”

“There’s no need. Mrs Weasley kept Ron’s - unless the uniform has changed in recent years…”

“Good, that’s settled then. I’m afraid you will need to get your own books but, until you do, I’m sure your classmates will be more than happy to share theirs with you.”

And that was that.

So now, Harry is standing just to the side of the open doors of the Great Hall, attempting to dry his clammy palms on the robes that used to belong to his best mate. It’s so strange, knowing that there is no Ron or Hermione saving a seat for him at the Gryffindor table. That all the students will know who he is when Harry knows no one at all. After the Prophet article, they will probably expect him to behave like a privileged pompous prince. The thought makes him smile despite his nerves. Maybe he should walk all the way to the High Table and boldly take a seat among the staff. He snorts to himself, imagining all the faces. How everybody would stare… On the other hand, everybody is bound to stare anyway.

Harry adjusts the strap of his messenger bag - yet another thing that used to belong to Ron - and forces himself to take a step, and then another one, and another, ticking off one more set of doors he has to walk through on his mental list.

The Great Hall is exactly the same, only the faces have changed. The breathtaking ceiling, the large windows, the house banners. Harry takes it all in, allowing the familiarity to soothe him, then looks at the staff table, feeling relief at seeing Flitwick and Sprout and Hagrid and Hooch - he doesn’t even notice the muttering that is beginning to fill the Great Hall.

Hagrid is the first to spot him - his bushy beard is completely grey now but his mane of hair still has some brown in it. The half-giant waves exuberantly and accidentally knocks the hat off Professor Sprout’s head, which bounces off diminutive Professor Flitwick and disappears somewhere under the table. Harry laughs, his head thrown back, his feet moving faster, his anxiety forgotten. Hagrid gets up and, in his rush to get to Harry, topples a couple of - thankfully empty - chairs over. The moment he reaches Harry, Hagrid scoops him up as if he weighs nothing at all.

“Need to breathe,” Harry manages to get out, although the grin on his face indicates that he doesn’t mind being fiercely squeezed at all. Hagrid puts Harry down, gets a handkerchief the size of a tablecloth out of his pocket and dabs at his moist black eyes.

“You’re a bloody miracle,” Hagrid says, his voice raspy and full of emotion.

The following minutes are filled with happy greetings and handshaking and welcoming smiles until the Headmistress appears, a stack of parchment in hand, and reminds everybody that they are not at a party but in the middle of the Great Hall.

“We are all glad to see Mr Potter safe and sound, however, we should allow him to join his peers.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Harry gives McGonagall what he hopes is a charming smile, and the corners of her lips quirk up, but only just. The Headmistress takes Harry by the shoulders, turns him around, and gives him a slight push towards the Gryffindor table.

“Rude,” Harry mutters under his breath and starts to walk reluctantly to where he is supposed to be. It’s funny how he felt like he was flying across the hall when making his way to the staff table, yet now it feels like he is moving through water. All the faces are turned his way, their eyes curious, as he searches for a place to sit. A few students shuffle, making room for him. Harry is about to slide onto the bench next to a boy about his age when a shift of colour catches his eye - from vivid blue to red and then back again. It seems not all the faces are turned his way after all. A young boy with shoulder-length hair that is turning red at the tips is facing away from Harry and whisper-arguing with whoever is sitting next to him.

Harry walks past all the older students to where a mix of second and third years are sitting.

He clears his throat, making the blue-haired boy turn and look up at him. The boy’s eyes go wide but only for a second.

“May I sit here?” Harry asks, gesturing at the free spot next to him.

“You are Harry Potter,” the boy says, looking Harry up and down as if trying to read him.

“And you are Teddy Lupin,” Harry responds. Who else could it be, changing his hair colour like that, exactly like Tonks used to do? Besides, now that the boy is facing him, Harry can see a mix of Teddy’s parents in his features. It makes his heart clench and Harry hopes that it doesn’t show on his face.

“What gave it away?” Teddy asks, changing his nose until it resembles a pig snout. Harry chuckles and sits down, dumping his bag on the floor. Teddy doesn’t seem to mind.

“You’ve got your mother’s nose,” Harry replies with a smile, which makes Teddy’s eyes gleam, but the expression gets replaced with a wince when the kid on Teddy’s other side elbows him on the ribs. Teddy leans back, revealing a boy with tan skin, protruding ears and wide brown eyes.

“This dork is Ezra,” Teddy introduces, rolling his eyes. “He used to be my friend until about ten minutes ago, when he saw the all-mighty Harry Potter and started drooling into his porridge like a fangirl.”

Ezra doesn’t seem to care as he stretches his arm out enthusiastically and blurts out, “It’s an honour to meet you, Harry Potter, sir.” Harry fights a snort as he shakes Ezra’s hand.

“You remind me of somebody I used to know,” Harry says.

“Really? Who?” Ezra asks enthusiastically, finally letting go of Harry’s hand. He is wondering if Ezra will get offended if Harry compares him to a house-elf when he gets saved from answering by a pleasant feminine voice.

“Timetables, everyone!”

Harry turns his head to be faced with a pair of long shapely legs barely hidden by a pleated skirt. Are students even allowed to have skirts this short?

He drags his eyes up her body, feeling like such a boy that it’s embarrassing. The girl has got long golden hair and greenish-blue eyes that remind him of the sea - not the murky greyish sea that he’s seen in real life but the one from Bounty adverts that he’s caught glances of on the Dursleys’ telly. The girl’s face isn’t pretty - the eyes are too far apart and her mouth is too wide - but it’s certainly interesting, and Harry tilts his head to the side, staring.

“Do you like what you see, Harry?” She asks, mouth quirked in a half-smile, while holding out two pieces of parchment.

“I’m simply wondering what McGonagall thinks about the length of your skirt,” Harry replies truthfully, accepting his schedule and a book list.

“Nothing good,” a younger boy who, judging by his looks, has to be the girl’s brother replies. He finishes distributing schedules among younger years and comes closer. “Last year, Nova lost Gryffindor a bit over a hundred points just because she was determined to show off her legs everywhere she goes.”

“They are awfully nice legs. Don’t you agree, Harry?” Nova winks at him and Harry’s eyes, without his permission, dart to the said legs and then up again. Thankfully, the girl doesn’t seem to expect an answer. “Anyway, I came to introduce myself. I’m Nova Paislee, Head Girl. This is my brother, Nash.” The younger boy holds his hand out and Harry shakes it dutifully. “He used to be fun but then they made him a Prefect-“ At that, Nash points his wand at Nova’s skirt and the fabric expands until the skirt is so long that it pools around Nova’s feet. To Harry’s surprise, the girl doesn’t get annoyed but laughs merrily. “Fine, you can still be a smidge amusing from time to time.” She looks back at Harry.

“If you need any help, just ask me or Nash. Headmistress McGonagall mentioned that you haven’t had a chance to get any books yet. I don’t mind sharing with you. I’ll save you a seat next to me in class. I’d better go and distribute the rest of these,” she waves the schedules still clasped in her hand and, after fixing her skirt, walks back to the other end of the table.

“Well, good luck,” Nash deadpans before following her, and Harry has no idea if he means the first day of school or his sister.

“It seems you’ve found yourself a girlfriend,” Teddy teases, morphing his hair until it looks like a golden mane.

Harry scowls and throws a grape at him. First day back, and Harry is already being teased by a twelve-year-old.

***

It’s the oddest of feelings, Hermione thinks, standing here, at the head of the class full of seventh years, the majority of whom are taller and wider than her. Can’t they have given her eleven-year-olds for her first lesson? On the other hand, Harry is here, smiling up at her encouragingly, and she focuses on his smile while she introduces herself and lists the potions which they are going to be brewing this term.

“We are going to start with revision. Who would like to list the properties of a Wound Cleaning Potion?” The arm of the girl sitting next to Harry flies up, reminding Hermione of herself.

“Miss…” Hermione gestures at the girl with her hand. “I’m sorry, it will take me some time to remember all the names.”

“Paislee, Nova Paislee, Professor,” Hermione frowns but quickly forces her face to relax. The girl’s behaviour was discussed at the staff meeting, yet here she is, perfectly polite and giving the most detailed answer.

“Thank you, Miss Paislee, five points to Gryffindor.” The girl beams, then touches Harry’s arm and whispers something to him, and Harry smiles at her, albeit uncomfortably. Hermione’s frown returns.

She takes time to revise the ingredients and the brewing process before moving to the practical part of the lesson, and when everybody has finished setting up their cauldrons, Hermione promises herself not to pay Harry any special attention.

Only she doesn’t seem to have much control over herself because here she is, walking between the desks, stopping right by Harry’s side and laying a hand on his shoulder.

“Make sure you don’t blow anything up,” she says in a soft teasing voice. Harry opens his mouth to say something but Nova Paislee steps closer and chirps happily, “Don’t worry, Professor, I’ll keep a good eye on him.”

And even though Hermione nods and says, “Make sure that you do,” she doesn’t like how close the girl is standing to Harry, and she doesn’t like what she’s heard about her. And, she tells herself, it has nothing to do with jealousy. Nothing at all.

***

Hermione is standing with her back to the door, rubbing her temples, willing the headache to go away. Her head is annoying like that - every time Hermione does something new and stressful, her body punishes her with little jabs of pain. It’s only ten minutes until her next class but maybe she can dart to her rooms and inhale another cup of coffee.

“You did brilliantly.” Hermione twists around at hearing the familiar voice, thoughts of coffee forgotten.

“I thought everybody had left.” She watches Harry rummage in his bag as he walks up closer.

“Is it - Ron’s?” Her voice catches in her throat and she has to clear it.

“Yeah,” Harry replies easily, getting an apple and a paper bag out. “The school uniform is his, too. I’ve been to see Mr and Mrs Weasley this morning.” He holds out the apple and the bag to her. “You’ve missed breakfast. Mrs Weasley gave me a couple of cookies to take with. She said she always has them around for the kids.”

“Are you one of the kids now?” Hermione takes the things from Harry, hesitating only a bit.

“So it seems,” Harry is grinning, walking backwards to the door, and she grins back. Hermione has forgotten how contagious his smile can be. There is a lightness to his step too, an easiness that wasn’t there before. “I’ve got to run. Herbology next. Remember to eat,” he says and disappears behind the door.

Hermione puts the apple on her desk and takes a cookie out of the paper bag, inhaling its sweet buttery smell. She closes her eyes tightly and takes a bite.

It tastes like her childhood. It tastes like loss. It tastes like the summer after the war, like her first kisses with Ron, like long days at the Burrow filled with grief. It tastes like hope. It tastes like comfort, like care. Mrs Weasley’s care and Harry’s.

It tastes like love.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

To Harry’s dissatisfaction, Neville looks nothing like his old awkward self - his chubby cheeks have been replaced with a chiselled jaw and his large front teeth look absolutely normal on his annoyingly handsome face. Harry managed to be perfectly polite, friendly even, when greeting his old mate and Herbology Professor, and he didn’t snap at him even once - even though he wanted to. Harry would’ve much preferred Professor Sprout but, unfortunately, she only teaches younger years now.

“I didn’t know you swing that way,” Nova says softly, her eyes gleaming, a pot with a baby Devil’s Snare wriggling its tendrils in front of her. Harry wards the plant with the spell that they’ve just been taught, deliberately ignoring what Nova’s just said. However, she doesn’t stop there. “I don’t blame you though. He’s pretty hot.” Harry hopes that the look he is giving her is enough to convey how ridiculous she’s being, but still, Nova keeps chirping on. “You don’t stand a chance though. He’s devoted to his wife. I’m not the only one who’s tried.”

Harry glares at her. “The said wife used to be my girlfriend.”

“Oh. Awkward.” Nova stretches the word in a singsong way and edges closer. “You know the best way to get over your ex?” Harry keeps on glaring, not feeling like playing Nova’s games.

“I don’t know, Nova. Focusing on your schoolwork?” He demonstratively places a large empty pot between them and starts filling it with compost while still maintaining the spell on the plant.

“No, silly,” she shifts even closer. “f*ck someone new,” she whispers right into his ear, her lips brushing his skin, and a shiver - not the pleasant kind either - travels down the side of his neck, making him cringe away, and the charm he’s been maintaining falters. The devil’s snare, suddenly free, reaches its tendrils out and entangles them with Nova’s long hair.

“Ow! Get it off me!” She shrieks and Harry points his wand to send a beam of light at the plant, but Neville gets there first, making the Devil’s Snare withdraw its tendrils and shrink away.

“How many times do I have to tell you to put your hair up in this class, Paislee?” Neville says with the sternness that Harry had no idea the man possessed.

“Sorry Professor, I don’t have a hair band,” Nava sends Neville a wide smile but his face doesn’t soften. Without turning, Neville points his want behind his back. A drawer opens and out of it a hair band zooms, landing neatly in Neville’s hand. He holds it out to Nova. She picks it up with two fingers, her mouth twisted in disgust.

“Eww, it’s still got somebody’s hair on it. What if I get head lice?”

“It can’t be any worse than what you had last year,” a girl sneers from behind and a few students snicker. To Harry’s surprise, Neville ignores the comment although it was loud enough for the whole class to hear.

“Either use it,” Neville says icily, “or get out of my class.”

Nova, her smile just as wide, turns to Harry and asks, “What do you think, Harry? Wanna ditch the rest of the class?” Harry is tempted. Not because he likes Nova but because he wants to annoy Neville, especially now that he seems to be behaving like Professor Snape.

But still, he tells her, “No, I’m good here.”

Nova shrugs nonchalantly. “Suit yourself.” She hoists her bag over her shoulder, shakes her hair out and sashays out of the greenhouse.

“Slag,” a boy coughs and a bunch of students laugh openly.

“What are you staring at? Back to work!” Neville claps his hands, urging everybody to attend to their plants.

Harry adds more compost to his pot and mixes in some plant feed. On the one hand, he is relieved that Nova is gone. She’s a bit… intense. On the other though, he feels a bit bad for her even if her reputation is well deserved. Still, something doesn’t feel right, and Harry is curious to find out what exactly it is.

***

Nova doesn’t show up for Charms, and Harry sits with the boys from his year. There are only three, and even though they are loud and occasionally obnoxious, they don’t seem too bad. Ellis and Atlas are twins, only they are not identical and, if nobody told him, Harry wouldn’t even suspect that they are brothers - the only feature that they share is their curly brown hair. Even their skin tone is different, with Ellis’s being a few shades lighter.

Harry finds out that the third boy, Dario, a burly teen who looks like he belongs in a gangster film, is a quidditch captain but, unfortunately, there are no spots on the team this year.

“We can still go for a fly,” Dario whispers while they are practising the Colour-Changing Charm.

“Yeah, I’d like to see what the youngest Quidditch player in a century can do,” Atlas adds eagerly.

“That will be brilliant,” Harry agrees. He likes it that none of them have made a fuss about who he is. They don’t want to see Harry Potter on a broom but the youngest Quidditch player in a century, which Harry is more than happy to show them.

***

Hermione is walking down the hall, desperate for a breath of fresh air after her first day as a Professor. She is sure she will get used to teaching, but right now she feels exhausted and ready for the weekend. Thank God it’s Thursday.

She’s a few feet away from the open doors when a group of laughing boys stumble into the castle, three of them with brooms in hand, and the last one is -

“I’ll catch up in a minute, guys,” Harry says, his happy, laughing eyes focused on Hermione, which makes her feel silly, unreasonable things that a grown woman is not supposed to feel looking at a teenage boy. The said boy looks around, smirks, grabs her by her wrist and pulls her behind a tapestry.

“Harry!” The word sounds like a hissed protest but her body moves willingly.

“Hey,” he smiles when they are pressed close together in the semi-darkness. He smells like sweat and fresh air, and his body is radiating heat like a furnace. She is pulled to him as if by an invisible force. She feels his presence as fiercely as she felt the lack of him when he was gone, and despite her better judgement, she wraps her arms around his middle and rests her head on his shoulder. He was sobbing in her arms only yesterday, it’s only fair that she takes some comfort from him too. And Harry doesn’t go stiff, he doesn’t hesitate but simply puts his arms around her like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You’ve been flying,” she says. Harry has always looked the happiest after soaring through the sky.

“Yeah,” he confirms dreamily. “I don’t think I believed I was properly alive - or awake anyway - until now.” Neither have I, Hermione thinks, It’s like I was asleep before too. However, she refuses to let the words spill out.

“I didn’t expect to see you so happy,” she murmurs instead, and at that, Harry does go stiff. His fingers flex against her shoulders and he pulls back, giving her space to look up.

“Is it wrong of me to try and-“

He looks guilty, tortured, and Hermione rushes to explain, “No, no, that’s not what I-“ But Harry doesn’t seem to be listening.

“I think about them all the time. Have you seen Teddy? He looks so much like Remus and Tonks. And the corridor over there,” Harry jerks his chin to the side, “I swear earlier today I saw Lavender’s body mauled by Greyback - and when I was flying, I thought I saw a scorched bit of ground and centaurs’ arrows sticking out of it, but then I blinked and there was nothing there but grass.”

Hermione wants to slap herself for saying anything at all because the joyful glint is gone from Harry’s eyes and is replaced by a dull empty look.

Hands bunched into the fabric of his school jumper, she wants to tell him that he deserves all the happiness in the world, more so than anybody else, but she doesn’t think Harry will believe her.

Instead, she says, “I see them too. That’s why I’ve been avoiding the castle until recently - it feels haunted.”

Harry holds her tighter and it feels so good that she allows herself to close her eyes and rest her forehead on his chest.

“I try and focus on the present, on the things, the people I have around me instead of everything I’ve lost. On what I can build, you know, on the life I can have.” He chuckles but there is nothing happy in the sound. “I almost managed to trick myself today that everything was fine. Normal.”

“And then I had to appear and ruin it all,” she mutters against his jumper, angry with herself.

“Yeah, a bit,” his voice is teasing though, and she smiles despite herself.

Hurried steps and a giggle make Hermione snap her eyes open and remember where she is and who she is.

“Are you aware, Mr Potter, that you are hiding behind a tapestry with a Professor?” Did it sound like flirting? She is not flirting - she only wants to make him feel better.

“Now that’s something I haven’t done before,” he smiles mischievously. “We should probably go before the Headmistress catches us.”

“Probably,” Hermione agrees. Harry lets go of her and, reluctantly, she takes a step back. With a final smile, she slips out of their hiding spot and hurries outside before she does something silly. Like hug him again, or tell him that she feels the happiest when he is around, or, Merlin forbid, kiss him.

The air is cool and it should be enough to clear her mind, soothe her flaming cheeks and calm the fluttering in her stomach. It should be enough but it’s not. It’s not enough at all.

***

“Oh, look, they’ve added another bed!” Ellis points at the only four-poster that is neatly made and uncluttered.

“Of course they’ve added another bed.” Atlas rolls his eyes. “Where did you expect Harry to sleep? On the floor?”

Harry ignores the banter that follows and looks around. The seventh-year boys’ dorm is pretty much the same as he used to occupy. There are four beds instead of five and the window is in a different place but that’s about it. He throws his bag on the bed, thinking how neat it is that he is right by the door - it should make sneaking out much easier. Harry opens his bag and begins to get his stuff out, unshrinking it as he goes. He wishes for the Invisibility Cloak. And for somebody to sneak out with. He looks to his right, where Ron’s bed used to be. Where Dario is sitting now, elbows braced on his knees, watching Harry unpack.

“You don’t have a lot of stuff,” Dario observes, his grey eyes taking in Harry’s three sets of school uniform, a small bundle of muggle clothes and a stack of pants and socks.

“I don’t really need much,” Harry shrugs, trying to look unbothered. “I just need to get my books and writing supplies. And I need a Potions Kit…” Harry gets the leather pouch Kingsley gave him out of the bag and looks inside. “Might even have enough for a pair of shoes,” he finishes absentmindedly.

“What do you mean, enough? Aren’t you, like, rich?” Atlas asks from where he is perching on the windowsill. Harry snorts.

“Maybe in my past life.” The boys are still looking at him, so he explains about his day at the Ministry and the things that Kingsley has said.

“They can’t do this to you!” Dario sounds enraged and the other boys nod empathetically. Ellis gets up off his bed and starts pacing the room.

“Our father works for the Owl,” he says and stops to look at Harry.

“The Owl? What’s that?”

“Oh, sorry. It’s a weekly paper. An alternative to the Prophet of sorts.”

“It launched a few years ago,” Atlas adds. “I’ve got a copy. Give me a sec.”

While he is busy rummaging through his trunk, Ellis says, “You should give an interview.”

“You must give an interview,” Atlas corrects and throws the paper on Harry’s bed. He picks it up curiously. In the top left corner, there’s a picture of a snowy owl wearing glasses that look suspiciously like Harry’s. It flaps its wings and ruffles its feathers, reminding him of Hedwig. Harry blinks and looks at the boys, who are all watching him expectantly.

“I just might.”

***

Ron’s loud snoring always used to annoy him - and everybody else in their dorm too. Harry is missing it now though, like one misses something that they know they can’t have back. He wonders where the rest of them are now. Dean and Seamus. Katie, Alicia and Angelina. Kids from other houses and other years that are not kids at all anymore.

He should try and talk to Neville more, catch up and ask about the others. It’s not like he’s going to stay mad at him for marrying Ginny forever. Professor Longbottom. Who would’ve thought? He seems like a good bloke apart from the incident with Nova.

Suddenly worried, Harry sits up and carefully, trying not to disturb the sleeping boys, gets the Marauder’s Map out of the bedside table drawer.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” Harry whispers with the tip of his wand pressed to the parchment like he’s done so many times before, but he won’t allow the memories to flood him, not right now.

The parchment rustles as he unfolds the map and studies it, the tip of his wand glowing gently. He hasn’t seen Nova all day, not since she walked out of the greenhouse. She didn’t look upset but she must have been. No one likes being made fun of. And why did Neville talk to her so harshly when he was friendly and even lenient with everybody else?

The map, previously filled with all the familiar people, is now overflowing with names that Harry doesn’t recognise, and it feels like forever until he finds Nova. He sighs, relieved, when he sees her right here, in the Gryffindor tower, safe in her bed.

He lies back down, letting his eyes follow the lines on the map - empty classrooms and deserted corridors - until he finds Hermione Granger in her bed in the dungeons and feels a smile tugging at his lips. There’s something different about her, about the way she is with him, the way her eyes light up… Ginny used to look at him like that. Like he was the most important person in the world. Or has Hermione always looked at him like that too but he was too preoccupied with other stuff to notice?

He watches Hermione’s dot on the parchment, grateful that she is here in the castle, and even though she is not the same girl he used to know, Harry feels just as close to her as he used to - maybe even more so.

“Mischief managed,” he whispers, his lips barely moving, and puts the map away. For a moment, he feels tempted to sneak out of the dorm and all the way to the dungeons - into Hermione’s bed. But that would be foolish and inappropriate, even if all he wants to do is sleep. And maybe hold her - it felt so good to hold her earlier today, and before that too. It doesn’t mean anything though. Harry just wants some comfort and familiarity, that’s all. And there is nothing more to think about.

Harry does think though, tossing in his bed that should be comfortable, in the silence that shouldn’t be so loud.

He thinks about the weeks after Ron left, and how it felt like he and Hermione were the only people in the world, lost in the woods. How their friendship grew and strengthened during that time, becoming so solid that even years of Harry being gone didn’t manage to put a dent in it. He thinks about Ron and Hermione, and how both are reluctant to speak about the other. About Mr and Mrs Weasley and all the love they still have for him. He thinks about Ginny and the life he could have had. And when his thoughts take him to the people who were lost in the war, he squeezes his eyes tightly shut and presses the heels of his palms into them hard enough that it makes stars dance under his eyelids. He won’t think about that.

He forces his mind to focus on the boys in his dorm, on the interview that he may or may not give, on the shopping that he needs to do, on Nova and how strange her behaviour seems. Having gone the full circle, his thoughts settle on Hermione again. And only then, with the image of her sleeping, moonlight on her face, Harry finally finds some rest.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

There is no way Hermione can be in trouble already, surely. She’s taught only one day of classes and there have been no incidents, so it’s a complete mystery why Minerva wants to see her first thing in the morning.

She catches a stray strand of hair, twists it around her finger and tucks it back into her bun as she rides the staircase to the Headmistress’s office.

“Morning, Hermione,” Minerva greets her with a tight smile. “Oh, don’t look so nervous!”

“It’s hard not to be nervous when you’re summoned into the Headmistress’s office,” Hermione jokes or at least she tries to.

“It helps to remember that you are not a student anymore. Tea?” Minerva offers as Hermione lowers herself into a chair, and pours not seeming to care for a reply. Maybe in her mind, only a fool would refuse tea this early in the morning.

“As you well know, the walls of Hogwarts have ears. Ambrose,” Minerva gestures at the portrait of a bespectacled man with a long ginger beard, “brought me curious rumours of you and Mr Potter snogging behind a tapestry.” Hermione chokes on the sip of tea that she’s just taken and her coughing fit seems to last an embarrassingly long amount of time. Before she can start to explain, the Headmistress lifts her hand and continues. “While I know no such thing could have happened, I want to ask you to avoid being familiar with Harry in front of other students.” Minerva studies her over the rim of her glasses, and all Hermione can do is nod, feeling like one of those ridiculous dogs that people put in their cars. “And I never again want to catch him in your personal quarters. Am I being clear?”

“Yes, of course,” Hermione promises with conviction, however, she childishly crosses her fingers, her hand hidden under the table - just in case.

***

Something soft bounces off Harry’s head, and he reluctantly pries his eyes open only to close them again against the bright light.

Somebody whoops as Harry reaches for his glasses, but they are not on the bedside table, and Harry groans remembering that he fell asleep wearing them.

“Do you know how many socks it took to wake you up?” One of the boys asks.

“Socks?” He rasps but laughter is his only answer.

Harry finally finds his glasses wedged between the pillow and the headboard, and the room comes into focus.

There are at least a dozen balls of fabric scattered around the room, which explains the feeling of something hitting his head.

“Socks.” He deadpans to everybody’s amusem*nt. “Please tell me they are at least clean.”

“Sure,” Dario says.

“Most of them anyway,” Ellis chortles and Atlas throws a sock at him.

“We did try calling your name first. Breakfast started ten minutes ago,” Dario explains.

“You’d better hurry. Mr Lucas doesn’t tolerate tardiness.”

“We’ll save you a seat.”

***

“Starting the term with dementors is cruel you say, but I think…”

Hermione didn’t say that. She’s barely said anything at all since the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor sat next to her at breakfast. The man, whom everybody calls by his surname because his first name is incredibly long and impossible to pronounce, seems to love the sound of his own voice. Hermione tunes him out, scoops a spoonful of peanut butter and nibbles on it, looking around the hall. Just then, Harry bursts through the doors, face flushed, hair a mess and the tie dangling around his neck. How many times has she seen him like this? Hermione’s smile stretches so wide that her cheeks hurt and no matter how much she tries, she can’t make it any smaller.

“I know, right? It’s pretty amazing!” Lucas gushes and Hermione barely manages to contain a laugh. How ridiculous of this man to think that her joy is his doing.

Harry’s eyes travel along the staff table until they meet hers. He grins and waves at her before going to sit at the Gryffindor table, and if Hermione could smile any wider, she would.

There is still this little irrational fear that makes her chest go tight - what if Harry disappears, what if it’s all been a dream - but then she sees him, solid, real, smiling, and the tightness gets replaced with something soft and warm - something so good that Hermione wishes she never had to take her eyes off him.

***

The guys have saved him a seat just as promised and Harry does want to join them but he notices Nova among a bunch of fifth years, and his legs carry him there instead.

Hermione would laugh and call it his people saving thing, and Harry smiles to himself thinking about it.

“Morning,” he greets, sitting down next to Nova and reaching for toast and a pot of strawberry jam before he looks at her. “I just wanted to check that you are alright.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” She is watching him curiously, her eyes wide.

“Maybe because a few people weren’t exactly nice to you yesterday and you spent the rest of the day hiding?”

She smiles and pats him on the cheek. “You sweet thing, you were worried about me.” Harry bats her hand away but doesn’t relent. “I was actually.”

Something flickers behind Nova’s eyes and she turns away with a laugh.

“I went to have a nap. Don’t you just love a nice long nap in the afternoon?” She flashes a grin his way. Her brother, Nash, is studying her from the other side of the table as if he wants to say something but when Harry catches his eye Nash looks away.

“Yeah, I remember having quite a few of those in my fourth year when the whole school was against me,” Harry tells her. Nova tilts her head to the side, and he can’t help but think how stunning her eyes are, only then they narrow as she speaks, and her expression turns ugly.

“The year of the Triwizard Tournament? When you were everybody’s hero, faced Voldemort, returned unscathed and won the Cup on top of it? You want me to believe that you had it hard?”

“Yeah, whatever.” Harry throws his half-eaten toast back on the plate, angry with himself for caring. He wants to tell Nova that he can see exactly why nobody likes her but he grits his teeth against the words, gets up and goes to join the boys. He should not have bothered.

***

Professor Lucas is the oddest man Harry has ever seen. He is so tall and skinny that it looks like they took a regular man and stretched him until he was so long he looked comical. His hair is the lightest shade of blonde possible and his eyebrows and eyelashes are so pale that it seems he has none, which adds to his peculiar look. And to top it all off, he moves around the room, waving his arms and talking with exuberance that shouldn’t be allowed so early in the morning.

It takes a while for Harry to get used to the Professor’s mannerisms, but when he does he realises that the man is actually a decent teacher - certainly better than the majority of those that Harry has had. As the lecture goes on, Harry relaxes into listening to Lucas and taking notes that he doesn’t really need to take - he’s encountered dementors enough times to be able to teach the lesson himself.

“Mr Potter, I believe you are among the people who have met those creatures personally?” It’s like Professor Lucas has read his mind, and as much as Harry hates being in the spotlight, he doesn’t mind it too much this time. He puts the quill down and looks up.

“I’ve had the pleasure, yeah,” he tries to look unperturbed, eyes on the Professor, ignoring all the other faces turned his way.

“How did they make you feel?” Lucas asks, his eyes lit with excitement, strangely reminding Harry of Hagrid’s enthusiasm around all the dangerous creatures.

“Umm… cold was always the first thing I noticed and then… hopelessness… I saw flashes of - my worst memories,” Harry hates the way he stumbles over his words and wishes people weren’t paying so much attention. To his relief, Lucas launches into another passionate talk about dementors and how hard it is to produce a Patronus, which is fuelled by positive emotions, when those monsters work to suck all the happiness out of you. However, Harry’s relief doesn’t last long.

“Mr Potter, I’d like you to demonstrate the Patronus Charm for the class if you don’t mind.” Harry should’ve known. He does mind a bit and he supposes he can say no, but everyone is looking at him anyway, and it’s always good to earn his house some points.

“Sure,” he shrugs. “Should I just?..” Harry gestures at the space between the desks and Lucas nods eagerly.

Harry picks his wand up. He wants to close his eyes to centre himself but he doesn’t feel safe to do so in a class full of people that he doesn’t really know. He stares blindly into the floor instead, collecting little bits of joy. Moments with his friends and the people he considers family - some of them tinted with sadness - Quidditch and the freedom of flying, seeing his parents with the help of the Resurrection Stone, the Weasleys and the way they welcomed him back, Ron’s easy smile and his eyes crinkling when he was speaking to Harry, and Hermione - the image of her face the clearest of them all. Not the way she is in class - poised and controlled, her hair always in a tight bun, her clothes impeccable - but the way she is in private with her hair wild, her face clear of makeup charms, wearing a stretched T-shirt and an old plastic ring on her finger. It’s at her image that a Patronus bursts out of him - mist turning into a four-legged shape. His heart glows with warmth, eager to see a familiar form which will always connect him to his dad. Only the legs look too thin, skeletal, and when the shape solidifies, there is a collective gasp.

“A thestral! Well I never!” Lucas exclaims in excitement which Harry doesn’t share. He watches the semi-transparent beast sway on its long spindly legs, and something inside Harry tightens and tears, leaving a hollow feeling behind.

No dementors to fight, no messages to send, the Patronus dissolves into mist, but Harry can’t stop staring at the spot where it’s just been.

“It used to be a stag,” he says softly, only it’s quiet enough that everybody hears.

Lucas gives him points and launches into a lecture about various reasons for a Patronus to change form. Harry isn’t listening though and he doesn’t even shift when the class is dismissed. A hand touches his shoulder.

“Hey, you alright?” Dario asks.

“Yeah,” Harry says, his voice rough. He throws his things into the bag and rushes out of the room and away from all the students. He walks as if in a daze, knowing that he needs to be away, away…

When he finds himself at the Potions classroom, he isn’t even that surprised. There’s a cluster of young kids who look at him with open mouths as Harry slips into the classroom without even knocking and shuts the door behind himself.

“Harry?” Hermione lifts her face from a parchment she’s been studying. “You don’t have Potions today.”

“No. I…” There’s a familiar frown on Hermione’s face and worry in her warm brown eyes as she puts the parchment away and gets up from her desk.

“Can I hide in your rooms for a while?” Harry asks - pleads. Hermione bites her lip and her gaze darts uncertainly around the room, but then she reaches her hand out and says, “Come.”

Harry takes it.

***

Hermione is distracted during her next class. She is walking between the desks and looking at little fingers chopping, slicing, mashing, but her mind is not really there. It’s with Harry, who is in her room - just after Minerva has forbidden her from allowing him there. But the way he looked at her… so… lost.

Hermione only notices that one potion is about to explode because the cauldron begins to tremble, making a sharp rattling noise. She swears under her breath and vanishes the whole thing, tearing her mind away from Harry and forcing herself to properly look around the class. One potion is maroon instead of the pale pink that it’s supposed to be, another one looks like lumpy mud and, Merlin, what is Mary Sloan even doing?

She dashes around the class, correcting the mistakes and preventing any disasters from happening. Whatever has transpired, Harry will have to wait.

***

Harry has lit the fire, and the room smells pleasantly like wood and smoke when Hermione steps in. She didn’t know what exactly she expected to find, but it wasn’t him sitting on the floor by the hearth, his back against the coffee table and his feet bare - his scruffy trainers with socks tucked inside are resting neatly by the front door.

Harry tears a small strip of paper out of the Daily Prophet, scrunches it into a tiny ball and flicks it into the fire. For a moment, Hermione is convinced that the Prophet has written something disparaging about him but no, she’s looked through the paper this morning and would have noticed something like this.

She lowers herself next to Harry when he doesn’t look up and her skirt rides up and pulls uncomfortably at her hips. She ignores it and follows Harry’s example, tearing a strip of paper from what she can see now is Kingsley’s photo. The Minister looks a bit panicked when she makes him lose an arm.

“Taking your shoes and socks off is one of the best feelings in the world,” Harry says and Hermione gives a surprised laugh.

“Did you ask me for refuge because you wanted to take off your socks?”

“Something like that,” he smiles but it’s broken, melancholy.

“Something happened,” she states. She doesn’t ask him in case Harry doesn’t want to say. And he doesn’t say. He picks his wand up from where it’s been lying on the floor instead and produces a Patronus so bright that Hermione has to shield her eyes. When she is finally able to look, she inhales sharply and understands. It’s stunning and terrible and absolutely heartbreaking.

She entwines her fingers with his as Harry’s thestral fades away, and looks at his profile. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and he licks his lips before he finally speaks.

“I’ve tried so many times now. I’ve been trying to focus on my parents, on my dad, trying - needing - to bring Prongs back. But it’s always this.” He says the last bit bitterly, like spitting poison. “It feels like I keep on losing and losing and that soon I will have absolutely nothing left.”

A breath catches in Hermione’s throat and something pangs painfully in her solar plexus. What she says next is more for her sake than for Harry’s, but she lets the words spill anyway.

“You have me.” It sounds harsher than she meant it, accusatory even, but it makes Harry turn and face her, and something clears behind his eyes.

“I have you,” he agrees then spends a while looking at her, and it’s so intense that Hermione forgets to breathe until Harry turns back to the fire.

“Do you think it’s because I’ve died? Because I supposedly understand death now?”

She stares into the flames, thinking. “I - maybe partially but I don’t think that’s it. They say that people who have a thestral as their Patronus feel deeply and have great empathy for others. That they see more than most.”

She looks back at Harry and puts a hand on his chest right over his steadily beating heart. “You’ve got the most magnificent heart I’ve ever seen, Harry. Your Patronus is not a punishment. It’s… well, I think it’s quite stunning actually.”

He covers her hand with his - his palm feels large and hot and safe and, with them sitting so close, with both their hands touching, Hermione feels longing so strong it’s like a physical pull.

“You have me too,” Harry says and squeezes her hand before letting go. He glances down and his eyes go momentarily wide before he swiftly turns away and - Is she imagining it or is there a blush creeping up his face?

Hermione looks down - at their hands that are still linked - and that’s when she realises what Harry must have seen - the edge of her skirt and the accidentally exposed lacy line of her stockings. She jumps up and yanks her skirt down.

“It’s time for lunch,” her voice is too thin and she clears her throat. “Are you coming?”

“I’ll stay here and brood for a bit longer if you don’t mind.” Harry smiles ruefully and Hermione nods. “Tell Hagrid I’m sorry I’ve missed his class, will you? Tell him - what happened.”

Hermione nods again and slips out of the room, leaving Harry Potter sitting in her living room - on the floor, relaxed and bare-footed and looking like he is at home - despite the Headmistress’s orders. Who would have thought? Hermione Granger, a rule breaker.

***

After Hermione leaves, Harry conjures a Patronus again, trying to see what Hermione has seen. Not a punishment but a gift. Something beautiful. Stunning, she said. A magnificent heart. When it dissolves, he conjures it again. And again. And he doesn’t spare a single thought for the fact that Hermione wears stockings with a lace trim. He does not.

***

Hermione brings him a turkey sandwich stuffed with crunchy salad leaves and a slice of apple pie.

“Sneaking it past Minerva was the trickiest part but I think I’ve managed,” she says breathlessly. “Thank Merlin for the Shrinking and Stasis charms.”

Hermione tells him that everybody knows about his Patronus now, but Harry thought they would so it’s not much of a surprise.

When he’s finished with the sandwich, Harry makes Hermione share his pie.

“It’s delicious! You must have some,” he insists, and it is, but it’s mostly because Hermione looks so thin, more so than she used to be anyway. They share a fork and this simple act feels strangely intimate, although he is pretty sure they’ve done it before. He blames the bloody stockings.

“You dress differently from what you used to,” Harry blurts out, handing the fork back to Hermione.

“I’ve grown up,” she shrugs then adds. “This is how most women at the Ministry would dress so I just copied them. I wanted to fit in.” She scoops some pie into her mouth - a bit too much - and hands the fork back. She stares through the window although there’s nothing to see from this angle, only the endless grey sky. Harry finishes the last bit of pie and lays the fork down. He should go. He doesn’t want to but he should.

“Are you going to your next class?” Hermione asks and a corner of Harry’s mouth twitches at how their thoughts seem to be aligned.

“I‘ve got the last double period on Fridays free.”

“So do I actually - do you - um, Minerva doesn’t want you in my private rooms-“

“It’s fine, I’ll go.” Harry gets up and shakes the stiffness out of his legs. He rubs the back of his neck - feeling out of place all of a sudden - and goes to put his socks and shoes back on.

“Harry,” Hermione calls and he looks at her, shaking a sock out. “She never said that you couldn’t be in my office. I’ve got some marking to do-“

“Only your second day as a Professor and you’ve got marking?” Harry asks with mock horror.

“A mix of fourth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins were annoying me so I gave them a test.” Harry chuckles at the smug expression on her face.

“Are they as unbearable as we used to be?” He asks, fumbling with the shoelaces. He hates shoelaces.

“Worse. But anyway, do you want to stay in the office with me? I’m not going to be much fun but -“

“Yeah, I’d love that.”

***

The next day, Harry sits down for breakfast with Teddy again even though the boy looks at him as if Harry is mental.

“I don’t get it,” Teddy says. “Why do you want to sit here when you’ve got people your own age?”

“Maybe I’m just not very mature,” Harry grins at him. “Besides, Ezra seems pleased.” Ezra beams, Teddy shakes his head with a smile but Harry ignores it all and begins to load his plate with everything his hands can reach. He missed dinner the day before and he is positively ravenous.

“Your girlfriend,” Teddy coughs into a fist just as a light hand falls on Harry’s shoulder. His whole body goes stiff.

Harry swallows his mouthful of food and, feeling apprehensive, turns to look up.

“Hey, Harry,” Nova smiles as if yesterday morning never happened and perches on the bench, her back to the table and her elbows resting on its top. “I just wanted to make sure you are alright. You missed lunch and dinner.” Harry squints at her, irritation buzzing under his skin.

“Oh yes, I simply decided to have a nap. Don’t you just love a long nap in the afternoon, Nova?” He knows he sounds bitter but, well, he is.

Something changes about Nova’s face, and her smile - which just a moment ago was all sunshine and white teeth - turns into something gentle and soft, and Harry is hit with the feeling that he is seeing Nova for the very first time. The real her, anyway.

“I am so sorry about yesterday. I didn’t mean to attack you like that. I - can you give me another chance? I’ll be good, promise.”

“I don’t think it’s such a good idea, Nova.” He knows he doesn’t sound all that certain - he’s always forgiven people way too easily - and Nova must sense that because she doesn’t give up.

“Come on, Harry, pretty please. I thought that, as you missed yesterday and I the day before, we could exchange our class notes, maybe study together?” She never asked him anything before but simply inserted herself in his space and this, right now, feels different.

“Fine.” He runs his hand through his hair, mentally telling himself that this is a terrible idea. But still, he suggests, “Common room, elevenish?”

“Great! See you then!” She gets up, waves, and her smile is all confidence and teeth again.

This whole encounter makes Harry wonder who Nova Paislee actually is. Is she really a promiscuous girl who doesn’t give a damn? Is she somebody who wears a mask to hide how much she is hurt by all the comments that others throw at her? Or is she somebody in between?

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

The common room is mostly empty, and Harry absentmindedly goes to sit on the overstuffed sofa which he, Ron and Hermione used to favour. It’s where they talked about Snape and Malfoy and Voldemort in hushed voices, where Harry sat soaking his hand in dittany after his sessions with Umbridge, where he and Ron worried about not having a date for the Yule ball, where Harry told them about his first kiss, where they planned DA lessons… Suddenly, sitting here with Nova doesn’t seem like such a good idea, and Harry heads for one of the tables by the window instead - he’ll feel more secure with a table between them anyway.

Not having any books to study from - he should really make a trip to Diagon soon - he stares out of the window. He spots Hagrid attending to the pumpkins that are growing just outside his hut, an unfamiliar dog - a white fluffy thing - playing by his feet, clearly getting in the way. Hagrid nearly trips and shakes his fist at it, and Harry smiles, deciding to go and visit his friend soon.

He jumps in his seat when Nova falls into the chair to his left, throwing her bag on the table.

“So you know how I said that we should exchange notes?” She asks, stretching her legs out.

“Yes,” Harry replies, already feeling suspicious. Nova doesn’t seem too bothered though.

“I don’t have any notes. But it’s all in here.” She smiles, tapping her temple with a finger, and to Harry’s astonishment, she tells him everything about the Care of Magical Creatures class which he has missed, including a detailed description of Hagrid’s besotted face when he waxed poetic about two Dugbogs - hungry little darlings - that have been stealing mandrakes from the greenhouses. She also tells him about Atlas getting on his hands and knees, pretending to be one, and attacking the girls’ ankles. She does it all without any inappropriate comments or invading Harry’s personal space even once - she even makes him chuckle a couple of times. And then she quietly studies his Charms notes, occasionally writing something down, while Harry reads about Dugbogs from her copy of Fantastic Beasts And Where To Find Them. Nova only interrupts him when she can’t make his scribbles out, and Harry doesn’t blame her - his handwriting is something that even he struggles to read at times. Studying with Nova is unexpectedly easy, peaceful even, and impulsively, Harry asks, “Why can’t you be like this all the time?”

Nova’s head snaps up, irritation flickering in her eyes. The tip of her quill is still pressed to the parchment, creating a blot.

“Like what? Docile and boring?”

Harry shuts the book with a clap, annoyed now too. “No, Nova. Friendly, respectful, witty, real-“

“What makes you think this is real?” She snaps. “I promised to behave, didn’t I?”

Harry rubs his eyes tiredly, nearly dislodging his glasses, and when he looks back at Nova, she’s got her arms folded and her legs crossed, wearing the most stubborn expression Harry has ever seen, the one in the mirror included.

“I just don’t get you at all,” he finally says, gathering his notes and putting them in the bag.

“What happened in your fourth year?” Nova asks out of nowhere, her body still tense but her face is no longer hostile. Harry could just walk away and never speak to her again, only his intuition is telling him that there is more to Nova than everybody seems to think. It’s his intuition that made him follow Malfoy in his sixth year. On the other hand, his intuition also convinced him that he and Hermione needed to go to the Godric’s Hollow - and look how that turned out.

Harry sighs, feeling somewhat apprehensive, but - reluctantly - he tells Nova about the Cup and everybody’s reaction, about his best mate turning away from him, about the badges and the bullying. When she doesn’t interrupt him, he tells her about his anger, which constantly sizzled under his skin, and how wretchedly lonely he felt.

As he speaks, Nova’s body untangles from its tight knot, and she rests her chin on her hand, listening, watching him, as if trying to decide if he’s telling the truth or making the whole story up.

“Sometimes things change you.” Nova whispers it as if it’s a secret. “Sometimes they change you so much that it’s impossible to go back to the person you used to be even if you’d like to.”

It’s not what he expected Nova to say but she is right, sometimes you can’t go back. Before he can come up with a reply, she throws her things in her bag and gets up.

“I’ll see you around,” she smiles, turns on her heel and darts out of the common room, leaving Harry even more confused about her than he was before.

***

Time is a funny thing. While the first few days seemed to last forever, the following week flies by in a blink. Other students are nothing like the crowd at the Leaky Cauldron that Harry shudders to remember. Sure, they watch him with curious eyes and gossip in quiet voices, and girls flirt with him much more than he is used to, but overall it’s not that different from his sixth year. Only it is. There is no threat of war hanging over their heads like an axe, there is no uncertainty and no fear, no desperation in anybody’s eyes. And even though some of the students have been touched by the war and lost family members, there is a lightness to everybody that Harry doesn’t know how to deal with. He should feel happy, relieved, liberated even - and he does in a way - but he is exhausted too. He’s never learned how to be carefree, he’s never had the chance, and although he goes flying one more time with the boys, and messes around during classes, and flirts back with the girls, and moans about the amount of homework the teachers are piling on them, it still feels like there’s a chasm between him and the rest of his peers.

So, he pops by Hagrid’s hut a few times for a catch-up and meets his new dog, an apparently brainless but adorable Samoyed. He hangs behind after class to have a quick chat with Flitwick, he visits Madam Pomfrey at the Hospital Wing, has a civil conversation with Neville and even manages to make McGonagall - who still teaches NEWT-level Transfiguration - smile. And every time he passes Hermione, he brushes the back of his hand against hers. It’s their secret language, saying I’m here, I see you, I am still your best friend.

And strangely, all these moments spent with the people from his past - who are years older than him - feel more real than hours spent with people his age.

***

“I’ve been thinking about what you’ve said,” Harry tells Nova in a low voice while they are leaning over their cauldron in class, with her stirring and Harry adding African Sea Salt a little sprinkle at a time.

“Oh? Do tell.” Harry has become so used to her mocking intonations that he no longer reacts to them.

“If things changed once, they can change again. You don’t have to stay the same.” The potion changes colour, and Harry puts the jar with the salt down. “And yeah, you can’t go back to the person you used to be, but that person is still a part of you.” He taps his chest with the tips of his fingers, wanting her to understand what he means - he’s never been that good with words.

Nova looks up at him and smirks.

“Are you playing at being my therapist?” And even though she turns it into a joke and bumps him with her shoulder playfully, somehow he knows that he’s said the right thing.

“I don’t know. Am I doing a good job?” The potion changes colour again and Nova stops stirring.

“Hm… with a bit more training…” She lets her voice trail off and reaches for the next ingredient while Harry picks up the stirring rod.

Nova isn’t so bad after all, he thinks, when you get to know her.

***

It takes Hermione about a week to realise that she actually loves teaching and, more than that, she seems to be brilliant at it. Reminded by Harry that she is no longer at the Ministry, she has buried the despised heels in the depths of her trunk and replaced them with a pair of comfortable flats, which make walking feel like flying. She spends most of her days on her feet, flitting between students, offering little tips, correcting their technique and challenging them to figure out what exactly has gone wrong if their potion doesn’t turn out right. She gets addicted to seeing triumph on the kids’ faces when they brew a perfect potion or answer a tricky question, and she has no idea why she didn’t say yes to Minerva sooner. Of course, some kids - usually older ones - test her patience, and one boy in particular - pureblood, of course - behaves like a prejudiced brat and drives her up the wall… It’s nothing compared to some of her former colleagues at the Ministry though, and Hermione begins to wake up looking forward to the day ahead.

And Harry… She tries not to think about Harry too much, although it’s close to impossible considering how often she hears his name spoken in the corridors and halls. It’s like there’s a Harry fever in the castle and it is catching. They don’t even need to say his name for Hermione to know that they are talking about him.

“Have you seen him fly?”

“Merlin, his shoulders…”

“The girls have gone mad. What has Potter got that we don’t? Two co*cks?”

“I’m so asking him out to Hogsmeade. He smiled at me the other day. It’s a good sign, right?”

Hermione can’t help but roll her eyes at some of the comments. If she doesn’t learn to control her facial expressions, people will begin to think she’s developed a nervous tick.

She remembers their sixth year when what felt like half the school developed crushes on Harry - he came back after their summer break taller and broader all of a sudden, not a hint of childish roundness about his face. Rumours about him being the Chosen One helped too.

Hermione had fallen for him way before that. She fell for him when he was a skinny and awkward fourteen-year-old. She fell for him despite his sullenness and angry outbursts because underneath it all she saw so much more. That year, they spent more time together than they’d ever done before - walking, sitting in silence, studying and talking about everything and nothing at all. She fell when he already had his crush on Cho - and Hermione was nothing like Cho. She wasn’t pretty or sporty or girly, and Harry never even glanced at her in the way that he would look at Cho - as if she was magic. But Hermione never expected Harry to like her anyway. She dated Victor, and that was fun, and when Ginny happened, it didn’t even hurt all that much. She learned to be happy loving Harry without expecting anything but friendship in return. She learned to cherish that little light inside her heart that would never be allowed to become a blazing flame.

Only now, with Harry back from the dead, it feels like she is falling for him all over again, and the feeling is deeper this time, stronger, and it burns. But that’s okay, she’s been through this before. All she needs to do is wait and be his friend. She will learn not to be overwhelmed by the intensity of it. She has to.

***

On Friday, Harry slips into her office just like Hermione expected him to.

“Am I breaking the rules?” He asks conspiratorially.

“Hm… I’d say you are only teetering on the edge,” she replies, a familiar smile - the one that only appears in Harry’s presence - is already lighting up her face.

“Damn,” Harry replies and drops his bag in the middle of the room. “I should try harder.”

“Oh?” She raises an eyebrow and looks at him challengingly, her arms folded. She knows that she shouldn’t be encouraging him like this. She knows but she does it anyway.

Harry smirks, stalks towards her and hops on the desk right next to where she is sitting.

“What about now?” He asks, his tone challenging, and if she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was flirting with her.

“Now it looks like you’re begging for detention.” He throws his head back and laughs, and she leans back in her chair to be able to see him better. She wants to get up and stand between his legs, wrap her arms around his neck, but she tells this needy voice inside her head to shut up before it comes up with even more nonsense.

She drags her eyes away from his face and looks at his hands instead. And gasps.

“What have you done with your hands?!” She takes one of them in hers and studies the inflated scratches that cover his fingers and palms.

“It’s nothing, really,” he laughs it off and goes to pull his hand away. She doesn’t let him.

“Harry,” is all Hermione says but she is confident he knows this tone of voice. He knows that she won’t relent until he tells her.

“We were building these traps for a couple of Dugbogs that keep on raiding the greenhouses - they seem to love baby mandrakes. I don’t have any dragonhide gloves so I got a few splinters from the wood.” At her expectant look, Harry explains further. “I got the splinters out, but we also had to cover the wood with this juice to attract the Dugbogs… I really didn’t expect it to affect my skin this badly…”

“Honestly, Harry,” Hermione sighs and summons an antiseptic balm and a healing salve from the storage cupboard. “You look like a grown man but then you go and do something this daft…” She keeps on muttering, working on his hands, meticulously disinfecting every tiny scratch and applying healing salve until there is not a hint of redness left.

“There,” she says, putting the lids back on the jars. When she looks back up at him, his gaze is tender, loving, and her knees would buckle if she wasn’t already sitting. Harry reaches a hand out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He cups her cheek and strokes it with his thumb, and it takes everything she has not to turn her face into his palm and kiss it.

“Thank you,” he says softly, dropping his hand. Hermione stands up and goes to put the jars back in place. She could have used her wand but she needs the distance to catch her breath, to restart her brain, to get the shreds of her control back. What she felt when she was fifteen was nothing. The way her heart ached when they were alone in the tent was nothing.

Merlin help her.

***

It’s mid-week and every table at the library is taken - the hum of voices persists no matter how many times Madam Pince snaps at the students to be quiet, so even she gives up in the end and disappears into her office.

Harry should be studying - and he has been until he spotted Nova with a group of first years, patiently explaining who knows what to them, her eyes bright and her smile gentle. They are all staring at her as if Nova is an angel sent their way to rescue them from the Professors’ wrath.

“Why did they make Nova Head Girl?” Harry asks Dario, who is sitting on his left and swearing at the Transfiguration text.

“Because she gives good head!” It’s Ellis who replies and guffaws so loudly that Madam Pince sticks her head out and shakes a finger at him.

“Dunno,” Dario replies in a low voice. “She’s one of the smartest in our year and she gets on with the youngsters. That’s probably why.”

“Just use every protection spell you know if you decide to shag her,” Ellis cuts in again and his brother snigg*rs. Dario, the most mature one of the three, tells Ellis to cut it but even he smirks. Harry would like to ask more but he doesn’t want them to think that he has any desire to shag Nova - shagging couldn’t have been further from his mind at this point. So Harry just rolls his eyes and returns to his Charms homework. He really needs to get his own books.

***

At first, Harry didn’t notice anything. After one week, he thought that he was simply being lucky. It’s been two now and he has to admit - his magic flows. When previously spells could take him days and even weeks to master - he cringes to remember Accio - now one lesson is all it takes. He feels high on it at first - on his successes and on the pride with which the Professors look at him. And that’s not all - he hasn’t had a single headache since Hermione found him, and his mind has never felt clearer.

“It makes me so damn angry,” he tells Hermione the following Friday, pacing her office. “All my childhood, all the nightmares, the fame that I never wanted, all the things that Voldemort has robbed me of. And now I find out that my brain and my magic weren’t working properly because of him too.”

Hermione is leaning on the desk, watching him with sorrowful eyes and allowing him to spill everything that has been on his mind all week, and the fact that she is letting him do that, that she is still here worrying about him, looking after him - the tenderness with which she healed his hands last week - it’s all so precious that, suddenly, his rage dissolves into nothing. It’s like a bucket full of icy water has been chucked over his head, making him realise what truly matters.

He covers the distance between himself and Hermione in two long strides, puts his hands on her shoulders and tells her with all the sincerity that he’s got, “But without Voldemort, we might have never become friends. And I think having you as a friend is the best thing in my life.”

Hermione takes a sharp intake of breath, which makes Harry’s gaze flick to her mouth, and for a moment Harry wants to touch his lips to hers. There is nothing romantic about it - no fluttering in his stomach, no burning yearning, and Harry doesn’t understand what it means. He lays a kiss on the top of her head instead before dropping his hands and taking half a step back.

“Having you as a friend is the best thing in my life too,” Hermione says, and Harry thinks he can see a shade of sadness in her eyes, but then she smiles and there’s not a trace of it left.

***

After Harry goes, Hermione lets her face crumble. She wants to irrationally accuse him of all the things that he is not guilty of. If I’m the best thing in your life, how could you leave me? If I’m the best thing in your life, why didn’t you fall for me like I fell for you? If I’m the best thing in your life, why do you let Nova Paislee stand so close to you during every Potions class? If I’m the best thing in your life, why are you still seventeen when I’m turning thirty-one in less than two days?

She wants to throw these questions in his face - force her pain on him. Only he doesn’t deserve it. None of this is his fault at all.

Hermione sniffs, wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands and makes a promise to herself: no matter how much it hurts, she will never let it get in the way of their friendship or in the way of Harry’s happiness.

She vows to do everything in her control to make sure that Harry never finds out how she truly feels.

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

“Good morning, Professor. You wanted to see me?” Harry asks, stepping into the Headmistress’s office on Saturday morning and, like every time he’s been here, his eyes dart to Dumbledore’s portrait, but the frame is empty once again.

“Yes, Mr Potter, take a seat.” McGonagall watches him over the rim of her glasses as Harry moves across the room but her stare doesn’t have quite the same effect on him as it used to.

“You and Hermione are as close as ever.”

It’s not even a question but Harry feels compelled to reply. “Sure. I think I would’ve cracked if not for her.”

“And I think you are stronger than you believe but I didn’t call you here to discuss your mental state. I would like to ask you for a favour.” There is a glint in McGonagall’s eyes that Harry has learned to recognise as amusem*nt, and he leans forward, curious.

“You know me, Professor. I’m always happy to help where I can.”

“I think you might even enjoy the task I am about to give you. I hope you remember that it’s Hermione’s birthday tomorrow,” Harry nods, “which, for some silly reason, your friend is adamant she will not celebrate. However, there are several people who do not agree with her decision.”

“Let me get this straight,” Harry says a while later, after McGonagall has finished explaining her request. “You want me to leave the common room after curfew, kidnap a professor and sneak out of the castle without any students noticing.”

“Precisely, Mr Potter.” And this time, McGonagall smiles. She must sense his uncertainty though because she asks, “Is there a problem?”

“Er… it’s just that I got the impression that you are not exactly supportive of our friendship.” McGonagall adjusts her glasses and looks at him with piercing eyes.

“It’s not your friendship I have a problem with but how the others, students especially, might see it, even knowing your history. Your situation is unique and- Just don’t cross any lines, Harry. You wouldn’t want to get her in trouble.”

Harry shakes his head first and then nods. He has a feeling that some lines have already been crossed but there is no way he is going to tell the Headmistress that.

***

It’s impossible to slip out of the dorm unnoticed so close to curfew so Harry doesn’t even try. He makes a show of changing into fresh clothes and taming his hair - or at least attempting to - so that when he leaves, everybody thinks that he’s going on a secret date. The boys cheer him on and wish him good luck.

“We’ll expect to hear the details in the morning!” Atlas shouts at his retreating back but Harry only gives them a dismissive wave before he jogs down the stairs, crosses the common room and climbs out of the portrait hole.

He misses his Cloak - he’s never really appreciated how easy sneaking around was until now. Even with the Marauder’s Map, Harry has to hide in a tiny broom cupboard to avoid Mrs Norris, who by some miracle is still alive and just as observant. He also has to take a detour not to be caught by a Hufflepuff Prefect, and another one because a staircase has decided to move as he was making his way down.

“Rude,” Harry mutters at it, checking with the map again.

When he gets to the dungeons, it’s already 9:30, which means that they are late, and when he knocks on the door, Hermione opens it looking like she is ready for bed.

“Harry? Is something wrong?” There is panic in Hermione’s voice, and her eyes dart all over his body as if checking for injuries.

“Does there have to be something wrong for me to want to see you?” He asks, and Hermione relaxes instantly at hearing the humour in his voice.

“Well…” she leans against the door jamb. “It’s you we are talking about… and it’s after curfew.” She mimics his tone and her smile is a reflection of his own.

“I want to spend your birthday with you,” Harry explains, making Hermione frown.

“My birthday is tomorrow.” The way she is looking at him reminds Harry of the way Hagrid looks at his new dog - as if he’s adorable but not very bright. Harry demonstratively checks his watch.

“Your birthday is in two hours and twenty-six minutes exactly.”

“Harry, that’s sweet but you know that you can’t be here.”

“Oh, I know,” he gives her a winning smile. “That’s why we are going out.”

Hermione huffs an incredulous laugh. “I can’t go out. I was going to have an early night. I’ve brushed my teeth-“

“Well, if you’ve brushed your teeth…” Harry pretends that he is about to give up and leave but then he darts towards her, grabs her around the waist and throws her over his shoulder. Hermione squeals and hits him on the back, repeating his name through her laughter. Her reaction fills Harry with incredible lightness - something which he only feels when flying.

“I will have to make you if you don’t come willingly,” Harry says as seriously as he can manage, carrying her towards the exit from the classroom.

“I’m not even - dressed properly. Put - me - down.” She slaps him on the back with every word but her body is weak with laughter, and Harry can barely feel it. He does put her down though - her cheeks flushed, her hair wild, and she is clearly fighting a smile.

“Are you going to change then?” He asks sternly but a tiny smile still breaks through.

“Fine!” She huffs, attempting to sound irritated, playing Harry’s game. “Wait here,” she commands, pointing a finger at him. Harry lifts his hands in surrender and perches on one of the desks.

After Hermione disappears behind the door, he takes his gift for her out of his pocket and turns it in his hands, checking if it’s still intact. He should’ve wrapped it. The present isn’t much - it’s nothing, really - although the hair clip itself was a pain in the arse to make. He’s never seen one up close before, although he remembers Hermione leaving them all over the tent - on the kitchen counter, on the arm of the sofa, on her pillow and clipped to the tent’s flaps...

It’s only a few minutes later that the door opens and Hermione steps out, wearing a grey knitted dress and a robe draped over her shoulders. Harry hides the present behind his back and pushes himself off the desk.

“I’ve got something for you.” He steps up to her, revealing the clip cradled in his palm, feeling unusually self-conscious. It’s decorated with a cluster of wild roses, their petals pink and tender, fragile-looking, although Harry’s charm work made sure that they are anything but.

“I transfigured the clip from a broken zip slider,” he explains. “And conjured the flowers… I…” He lets his voice trail off and clamps his mouth shut. He doesn’t need to explain himself or feel awkward - it’s Hermione for Merlin’s sake.

She brushes the petals with her fingertips, her lips parted. “It’s perfect,” she says softly and encouraged, Harry raises his hand to put the clip in her hair. He fumbles a bit and they laugh, and Harry offers her his arm and calls her my Lady. They laugh some more, and Hermione lets him lead her out of the classroom, up the steps, across the Entrance Hall and through the doors. While the way from the common room to the dungeons felt like an obstacle course, their journey out of the castle is a peaceful stroll. The night is clear and the air is unusually warm for Scotland. Hermione tilts her face up and looks at the stars, and Harry pulls her a bit closer, ready to catch her if she trips.

It’s strange, walking to Hogsmeade like this - with just Hermione and no Ron. It feels unsettling, like the balance is not quite right, like something is changing between Hermione and him but he isn’t sure what it is exactly. The same feeling clung to him in the tent but then Ron came back, and everything shifted back into place.

“I miss Ron,” he says and Hermione stumbles. He catches her, and when they resume their pace she isn’t looking at the sky anymore - her eyes are fixed on the ground. “Do you think we could be friends again, all three of us?”

“I don’t know… I don’t think it would be the same even if we tried.” Her gaze is still trained on the ground, and Harry knows that she doesn’t want to talk about it but he needs to understand what happened that made their friendship fall apart like that.

“You’ve never told me what happened between you two…” He prompts, hoping that she will open up to him this time.

“I…” She takes a deep breath in, looks straight ahead and tries again. “We tried making it work - we were both such a mess, all the funerals we attended… Fred, you… We needed each other. I don’t think I would’ve survived that first summer after the war without him.” She grows quiet and Harry forces himself to wait even though he wants to bombard her with questions. “I guess we just drifted apart after that. I started my internship at the Ministry…”

“The Department of Magical Law Enforcement, right? You’ve said -“

“I wanted to change the world,” she gives a hollow laugh. “I wanted to make sure that the war and your death, all the deaths, weren’t for nothing… Ron said I worked too hard - he was probably right. We started to fight a lot-“

“You mean more than usual?” Hermione’s laughter is tinted with humour this time, and a spark of hope for their friendship lights up inside Harry.

“So much more. You would’ve found being around us unbearable. You’re lucky you were dead.” Harry snorts at that and Hermione looks at him, a wan smile on her lips. “We didn’t work, Harry, that’s all.” If that was all, Harry thinks, she and Ron would at least be on speaking terms right now.

They step through the gates and Harry can see the lights of the village glowing in the distance. He should let it go before he annoys Hermione with his prodding, but the thought that she isn’t telling him something is buzzing irritatingly in his head and won’t go away.

“It doesn’t explain why you stopped being friends. You don’t even talk anymore-”

“God, Harry,” she stops, pulling her arm out of his, and glares at him. “You’ve always been our glue. It’s not my fault things have fallen apart!”

“This is not fair, Hermione,” he tells her, his voice saturated with hurt. Her shoulders sag and she steps up to him again and touches his arm.

“I’m sorry I’ve made it sound like it’s your fault. It’s not.” All the fire is gone from her as quickly as it has ignited.

“And I’m sorry for probing.”

They smile at each other somewhat guiltily but they link arms and start walking again although the mood is nothing like it was before, and the silence is anything but comfortable.

“He cheated on me,” Hermione says unexpectedly, and although she doesn’t raise her voice, it sounds like a shout. It’s Harry who stops this time, a flurry of angry words on the tip of his tongue ready to spill. Hermione doesn’t stop there though. “I hate that it fills me with shame when Ron is the one who is supposed to feel ashamed. Not me!” She looks away, her face flushed and her bottom lip jutted out angrily.

“Do you want me to punch him in the face the next time I see him?” Harry asks. He doesn’t mean it as a joke but it makes Hermione snort anyway.

“Oh, no need.” She turns back to him and smiles wryly. “I’ve done that already.”

“I might do it anyway. He deserves it.” Hermione gives another dry laugh and pulls on his arm. “Come on or we’ll never get anywhere.”

***

Hogsmeade High Street is illuminated by the light from the shop windows, and Harry is surprised at how many places are open this late in the evening. The village is brimming with bustling witches and wizards, some of them with kids, taking a stroll, others with shopping bags in hand; a group of young lads stagger down the street, laughing raucously, clearly drunk - everybody seems too busy to pay Harry any mind, and the tension that has been building the closer they came to the village slowly dissipates. Watching all these people makes Harry wonder where he would be right now if he had been allowed to live his life normally - as normally as was possible for him anyway. Would he be out with his mates? Would he be home with Ginny and their kids? Would they be with Mr and Mrs Weasley having a family dinner? Would Hermione be there?

“The Tree Broomsticks. Isn’t that where we are meeting the others?” She pulls him across the road, interrupting his thoughts, and it takes Harry a moment to register what she’s just said.

“Wait, how do you know?” He asks but Hermione only smirks.

***

The moment Harry said they were going out, she became suspicious. When they walked into Hogsmeade, she knew for certain that it wouldn’t be just them. And by the time they approach the Inn, she has nearly managed to come to terms with the idea. A part of her wants to turn back and hide in her bedroom or maybe even apparate all the way back to London to the familiar safety of her flat. If not for Harry, she would do just that.

A group of elderly witches spill out of the pub, all of them giggling, and Harry holds the door open, waiting.

“Thank you, dear,” the last of the group says. She looks up at Harry and her mouth instantly forms a surprised O, and predictably, her eyes dart to the pale zigzag of Harry’s scar. Hermione feels annoyed but he just holds his index finger to his lips and winks, making the elderly witch giggle into her scarf like a young girl. She winks back and hurries after her friends.

“Charming older witches, are we?” Hermione teases Harry, who looks somewhat dazed. She lets go of his arm to walk through the door.

“I honestly didn’t expect it to work,” he replies but then bumps into her back, making her stumble forward. She hasn’t even realised that she’s stopped, her eyes focused on a merry group in the corner. She stands there, watching her colleagues, and it feels like bony fingers are clenching around her throat. Pomona is nodding at Neville, who is explaining something enthusiastically, waving his arms, Filius and Septima are whispering to each other, their heads almost touching, and Aurora is playing with her half-empty glass, balancing it on its edge and smiling gently to herself while Minerva is laughing into Hagrid’s shoulder. Hermione feels like there is no place for her at all.

“It looks like they’ve started without us,” Harry says into her ear, and the cruel fingers unclench, making breathing a little bit easier. “Judging by the amount of empty glasses on the table.” Hermione nods and makes herself take a step closer, then another one, and when they approach the table and the small crowd cheers and raises their glasses, she knows that it can’t be for her - it must be for Harry.

“Well, look who’s decided to show up!” Neville greets them with a warm smile.

“You deserve another Order of Merlin, Harry, for convincing Hermione to come,” Hagrid beams, his moustache covered in beer foam.

“Am I really that bad?” Hermione asks although she knows that she is.

“Yes!” Everybody exclaims all at once and then laughs, and McGonagall gets up to give her a hug, and then makes Hagrid scoot to the corner to make room for her and Harry.

It’s strange at first. She feels odd, out of place, like a person who’s been invited only out of pity. But more drinks arrive, and she takes little sips of Firecracker Cider, which coats her tongue in warm spices and heats her throat on the way down, while Harry holds her hand under the table. Conversation flows - first just around her but then she inserts a word here, a phrase there, she laughs - and all of a sudden she finds herself leaning over the table, debating something with Aurora, who used to be one of her favourite teachers when Hermione was a student. She really likes Aurora, she realises. She also realises that she doesn’t feel like an outsider anymore, and her mind isn’t as hazy as it often is these days. She feels alive and awake and young. She feels like somebody who other people might actually enjoy being around. Like somebody who has a whole life ahead of her, and Hermione wants to learn - relearn - how to live it instead of skirting along the edge.

She squeezes Harry’s hand under the table and he squeezes hers back. It seems celebrating her birthday wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

***

Hermione’s head drops onto Harry’s shoulder and she yawns, her eyes falling closed.

“Somebody has had enough,” Flitwick slurs and hiccups.

“Is it you?” Sprout waves her hand in his direction and knocks a glass over, which sends her laughing. Harry looks around the table and decides that he is the only sober one among this crowd, having stopped after just one pint.

“Come on,” Harry starts getting up, pulling Hermione with, and she grunts unhappily. “Let’s get you back.” She blinks at him sleepily, nods and stumbles, her fingers digging into Harry’s arm.

“Dizzy,” she mumbles. “I didn’t even have that much. Less than you.” She says the last bit accusingly, like a petulant child, and Harry chuckles.

“You are also much smaller than me.” Hermione grumbles something unintelligible in reply.

He leads her outside after they make their goodbyes, and fresh air feels like a caress on his flushed face. Hermione sighs contentedly by Harry’s side. It’s such a contrast - their hot bodies touching, the cool wind breathing into their faces, wrapping around their fingers, playing with Harry’s Gryffindor scarf…

“I’m glad I came,” Hermione says, already sounding more sober. “Thank you for making me.” She pecks him on the cheek, quickly, childishly, and then yawns again, hiding her face in his arm.

“Anytime.”

***

It’s long past midnight when they get back to the castle, and Harry doesn’t even think to check the map. He feels too sleepy, too content with Hermione’s arm still linked with his, and maybe just a little bit tipsy - he has to focus extra hard not to tumble down the smooth steps which lead into the dungeons. So when he hears a suppressed laugh, a muffled grunt and the shuffling of feet, it’s already too late.

“We could run,” he leans to whisper into her ear.

“I’m a professor,” Hermione replies softly, eyes glinting.

“You’re no fun,” he quips back just as two shapes stumble around the corner, and although the light from the nearby torch isn’t bright enough to illuminate their faces, Teddy’s blue hair is hard to mistake for anybody else’s.

“sh*t,” Ezra squeaks.

“Harry?” Teddy gapes.

“Professor Granger!” Ezra says in the same high, panicky voice, and Harry does his best not to burst out laughing. He exchanges a glance with Hermione and turns to the boys.

“You haven’t seen anything,” he tells Teddy seriously. “We haven’t seen anything either.”

Harry pulls Hermione down the remaining steps and around the two second-years, who are still standing frozen in place.

“Bloody hell,” Ezra exhales behind them, reminding Harry of Ron. Hermione is silently shaking by his side and Harry isn’t much better. It’s probably not even that funny but the moment they tumble into the Potions classroom, laughter erupts out of them, unrestrained.

“God, Harry, I was supposed to give them detention.” She spins around once, her hands in her hair and a disbelieving grin on her face. “They must have stolen something from my potions cupboard. Stop laughing!” She pushes him with both palms but she is laughing too. Harry wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her in for a hug. He doesn’t know why he does it - he doesn’t know why he feels like he needs this contact more these days than he did ever before - all he knows is that it feels good and right - like holding Hermione is the most natural thing in the world.

Their laughter slowly dies down and their breathing goes slow, steady. Harry needs to go to his dorm but he doesn’t want to. He never really wants to go. Hermione yawns against his chest, which makes him do the same.

“Stay with me until I fall asleep?” she says, and Harry refuses to admit that he hoped that she would. “It’s my birthday wish.”

“What about McGonagall?” He asks, trying to be the voice of reason.

“I think Minerva couldn’t remember her own name right now.” Harry snorts and then tries to remember why else staying with Hermione is a bad idea. The boys think that he’s on a date anyway. With how long Harry has been gone, they’ll likely assume that it’s going incredibly well. Teddy and Ezra won’t blab to anybody… There is something about crossing lines but hasn’t going out to a pub with his professors done it already?

“Alright,” he says in the end - because agreeing is much easier than saying no.

***

When she steps out of the bathroom, Harry is lying on top of the covers on his back, his hands behind his head and eyes closed. Hermione puts her wand and the hair clip, which Harry has given her, next to the candle burning on her bedside table and slips under the duvet, settling on her side. Her heart beats fast and hopeful as she contemplates the question that she wants to ask.

“Have you used the spell that Flitwick taught us in our sixth year to conjure the flowers?” She whispers, thinking that if Harry is asleep, she won’t ask again. His eyes flutter open.

“Yeah… I thought it would make it a bit more special.” He gives her a cheeky half-smile. “Besides, it’s the only flower-conjuring spell I know.”

Hermione’s heart - that silly, eager thing - beats even faster. She remembers the lesson well. The majority of the girls oohed and aahed at how romantic it was while Flitwick was explaining how in the past witches and wizards spoke the language of flowers. He instructed the students to focus on a feeling, and the spell, if done right, was supposed to translate it into a shape. The girls giggled and blushed and chattered about love and attraction, and lush peonies, red roses and tender tulips sprung from their wands. The boys laughed and mocked them, and bantered among themselves - petunias, gladioli and sunflowers spilling onto their desks, and although their flowers spoke of anger, victory and strength, they still deemed them too girly.

Hermione thought of knowledge, of her passion for learning, conjuring fragrant blue irises, so fresh as if they’d just been picked.

“Magic will never stop amazing me,” Harry told her that day. His clothes smelled strongly of lavender, which he had conjured, even hours after the lesson. Ron spent most of the evening sulking in the dorm, convinced that Harry had a crush on his girlfriend, until Hermione got a book on Floriography out of the library and showed Ron that lavender symbolised peace.

“Why?”Harry asks, pulling her away from her thoughts. “Have I accidentally conjured a flower meaning something horrible?” He looks at her worriedly, and she rushes to reassure him.

“No, not at all. You’ve conjured something really, really good.” She turns to blow the candle out, not wanting him to notice the blush on her face.

“What does it mean?” Harry asks just like she expected he would.

“What were you thinking about?”

“You,” he replies simply, unashamed, and Hermione wonders if he’ll feel the same after she tells him.

“It means… immortal love that can’t be destroyed by either time or death.” She wishes she hasn’t put the candle out now despite how hot her face feels - she wants to see Harry and know what he is thinking but he stays frustratingly quiet.

She feels the mattress shift as he turns to face her. He touches her shoulder and trails his fingers down her arm until he reaches her hand and weaves their fingers together.

“It’s appropriate really,” there is humour in his voice and something else that she can’t decipher. “I died and I still love you.” She hates her hopeful heart, which is about to beat out of her chest even though, in her mind, she knows that Harry doesn’t mean it like that. Even if the flower implies that he might.

“Mm… I love you too, despite how impossible you are at times.” She tries to sound just as casual, as if it’s this simple, as if loving him is not an equal mixture of pleasure and pain.

They lay surrounded by silence after that - it stretches so long that Hermione is convinced Harry has fallen asleep. She can’t sleep though, she can’t even make herself close her eyes - she’s awake with the giddiness from earlier, with all the laughter and with hope. It takes her by surprise when Harry speaks, not a single drop of drowsiness in his voice.

“I know it’s not the same but - I was really pissed with Ginny at first - after my initial shock passed that is. I wanted to go and yell at her, shake her, accuse her of - I don’t even know what. I felt betrayed, I felt - like she’d cheated on me. And no matter how much I tell myself how unreasonable it is, it hurts. Especially when I pass that tree we used to sit under or that empty classroom on the third floor where we used to - And I keep on thinking. Was she already with Neville when we were on the run? When I was missing her and longing for her, were they already…” He goes quiet for a while, and his fingers twitch in hers. “What I want to say is, I understand. About Ron.”

Her throat feels tight with an emotion she can’t name. She moves closer and snuggles into him - although it’s awkward with Harry on top of the covers and her under them. Still, he lets go of her hand and puts his arm around her while she rests her palm on his chest over his beating heart. She tells herself that it’s the last time she is going to allow this - Harry in her room. It’s unquestionably the last time, and only because it’s her birthday. After that, she won’t let it happen ever, ever again.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

When Hermione stumbles out of her room the next day, her shoe slips off and she leans on the nearest desk to put it back on. A movement catches her eye and she looks up, alarmed, but it turns out there is nothing to be alarmed about.

“Oh,” she exhales softly, a lopsided smile forming on her face.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY PROFESSOR GRANGER! is written in white chalk on the blackboard, a group of stick figures dancing around her name.

She remembers Teddy and Ezra’s stunned faces - she thought that they’d come here to steal potion ingredients but it wasn’t that at all! Years at the Ministry and she has never felt as rewarded as she does right now - because two kids risked breaking the rules to wish their professor a happy birthday.

What she felt at the Tree Broomsticks last night and later with Harry - What were you thinking about? You. - That feeling ignites inside her anew, spreading warmth to her every cell. For the first time in years, Hermione believes that she is wanted. She believes that she belongs.

***

When Hermione arrives at breakfast, none of the yesterday’s crowd are here. She avoids Lucas’s eager smile and takes a seat next to Septima, who leans closer and asks, “So… did you leave before or after the singing started?” Hermione gives a surprised laugh.

“Was there supposed to be singing?”

“Oh, there’s always singing,” Septima nods sagely.

“Well, I must make sure to stay longer next time then,” Hermione says and she means it too. She reaches for the coffee pot, not sure if she wants to eat anything. Just as she begins to pour it, a bowl of porridge appears right in front of her, making her jump and spill the coffee.

“Shoot,” she says automatically but forgets all about the stain spreading on the crisp white tablecloth. She is too busy studying her porridge, which is topped up with blueberries forming a smiling face, and whipped cream in place of hair.

“You seem to have a secret admirer,” Septima suggests humorously, tilting her head to the side. “There’s a note too.”

Hermione quickly finishes pouring the coffee - without spilling anything this time - and picks up the note, which was tucked under her plate.

Be a good girl and eat your birthday porridge.

She knows this handwriting - and who else could it be anyway? She looks at the Gryffindor table and searches among the students until she finds Harry, still wearing his clothes from yesterday and looking somewhat uncomfortable, his face pink, as one of his friends says something and grins.

She picks a spoon up and, feeling like a little kid, thinks about which blueberry eye she should eat first, left or right. Right, she decides and scoops some cream on the way. The berry is plump and sweet, the cream is rich, and Hermione can even taste a hint of nutmeg - her stomach gurgles, demanding more and - did she think she wouldn’t be able to eat at all? All of a sudden, she is hungry, ravenous even. Another feeling she hasn’t experienced in a long time.

***

The day after Hermione’s birthday, Harry calls Kingsley, sitting cross-legged in front of the fire in McGonagall’s office.

“You’re a git,” is the first thing Harry tells the Minister for Magic when his head appears in the flames. Kingsley laughs, that familiar booming laugh of his, which reminds Harry all over again of the days before. Harry doesn’t feel like laughing - or even smiling - so he waits for Kingsley to stop, thinking how laughter makes some people look younger - like Hermione. When Hermione laughs, she looks like she did when she was seventeen. Kingsley seems even older right now, the lines on his face so deep they almost look like cracks.

“Way to greet the Minister,” Kingsley says as if he still thinks that this is all some sort of a joke.

“You’ve forgotten that you’re not just the Minister,” Harry says, angrily pulling his Hogwarts tie off - a constricting, useless thing. “Do you remember Grimmauld Place? When Sirius was still alive?” Something changes in Kingsley’s expression, every trace of amusem*nt gone. “Do you remember Molly Weasley’s cooking? Sitting around the table like a f*cking family.”

“Harry-“

“What about the summer after Sirius fell through the veil? Do you remember the night I couldn’t sleep and you were there? We talked about the war, the terror of it, about loss and you - you made me believe that we could win. The world will be a different place, you said.”

“You think it’s easy-“ Kingsley raises his voice but Harry carries on speaking with force.

“I was fighting for the world that you made me believe in. I believed in you, but then I came back - still dazed, disoriented, confused - and you used it! I couldn’t even think straight, and you jumped at the opportunity to manipulate me like I’m just a tool!”

Harry’s heart is thumping in his chest. He had no idea what exactly he wanted to say before he started speaking, he hadn’t planned the exact words, yet everything he’s said feels right. He thinks that Kingsley will start shouting at him - now that Harry has fallen silent - but he doesn’t, and Harry adds one last thing.

“You used to be an ally, a friend, a human being. I don’t even recognise you anymore.”

Kingsley’s face changes again - like a mask that cracks - and he sighs heavily.

“You’ve been a symbol for such a long time, Harry, that I forgot you are a person. For that, I am sorry.” Harry appreciates the way Kingsley says it, earnestly, not a trace of defensiveness in his tone. It makes it easier for Harry to forgive him. All the pent-up frustration and anger leave him, allowing them to talk. Tentatively at first and then with more ease, and slowly Harry begins to understand that war is not enough to change the world, that even the Minister for Magic can feel helpless, and that the government is still ruled by a collection of prejudiced purebloods and there is little that can be done about that.

“Children are our only hope, Harry. There is a chance that each following generation will suck a little bit less.” Kingsley laughs without any humour, and Harry thinks that he is too young to have so many lines on his face.

***

The day after that, a letter from Gringotts arrives for Harry, and he knows what it is the moment a little golden key falls out of the envelope. It looks different from his old one although the number of the vault is the same.

Welcome back to Gringotts, Mr Potter, the letter reads. Harry doesn’t know what to make of the number printed in bold. He never cared to find out how much exactly was in his vault or if there was anything else apart from the gold but, anyway, it looks like a lot. And 12 Grimmauld Place is officially his. An image of Kreacher - rotting, dead - pops into his head but he forcefully moves it aside like he’s been doing all these weeks.

It’s not the letter from Gringotts that makes Harry’s face light up though, it’s the one that comes with it.

Let’s meet sometime soon, Kingsley writes. Just as friends. No political bullsh*t.

Harry folds all the pieces of parchment neatly and puts them in his bag together with the key. It feels like collecting little pieces of his past life, and the more he has, the more firm the ground under his feet gets.

“What are you smiling about?” Nova asks, dropping onto the bench next to him. She only does it when Harry chooses to sit with Teddy, and others have even started to leave the spot on the other side of him open.

“Oh, nothing much. Just getting my life back together.” Harry doesn’t know exactly when he became comfortable with Nova. He certainly prefers her company to that of the seventh year boys. She is fun and refreshingly blunt and she is good at keeping his mind off the things that he doesn’t want to think about. He wouldn’t call her his friend just yet but she makes for a very good study partner. In every class apart from Herbology.

***

“I don’t know how you stand her,” Neville tells him one day when Harry lingers after the lesson. He still feels a bit strange around the man but the wind is howling outside the greenhouse and the rain is pelting down - like bullets hitting glass - and Harry is in no rush to get back to the castle.

“She’s not that bad,” Harry shrugs and is about to change the topic when Neville speaks again, shifting from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable.

“Listen, I know it’s not my business but…” Neville picks the shears up only to put them down in the same spot. “You are being careful, right?”

“Huh?” Harry stares at him uncomprehendingly. Neville clears his throat again, meeting Harry’s gaze.

“Protection spells, you know…. Having sex is obviously against the school rules but we’re not stupid.” Neville is looking at him expectantly while Harry’s brain is busy processing what he’s just been told, and the moment it clicks, heat rises to Harry’s face.

“First of all,” Harry corrects, ignoring his flaming cheeks, “Nova and I are not together.” Neville looks oddly relieved. “And you are right, it’s not your business. Has there been a teenage pregnancy crisis in recent years or what? You’re not the first person to mention protection spells.”

“Haven’t you heard?” Neville’s eyebrows rise, crinkling his forehead. “Nova got a number of boys infected with Phyllis Wayne Disease last year.” Harry recalls their third year lessons with Madam Pomfrey, something about impotency, infertility and shrivelling bits of your anatomy. He grimaces.

“Come on, Nev,” Harry’s arms feel useless hanging by his sides. He picks his bag up from where it’s been lying by his feet and grips the strap with both hands. “You can’t believe everything they say.”

“Just trust me on this one.” There is a stubborn twist to Neville’s mouth, and Harry glances outside, thinking that he prefers the rain to this awkward conversation after all.

***

Harry promises himself not to spare a single thought for this new bit of information. It has nothing to do with him and it doesn’t change anything. Unfortunately, this promise does damn all when he bumps into Nova on his way to the common room, and looking at her, it’s the only thing he can think about.

“Have you gone for a swim in the lake?” Nova smirks and reaches her hand out to move his wet fringe away from his eyes. Harry takes a step back and it’s different from before - it’s not out of annoyance or dislike like it was in the beginning. It’s out of irrational fear. What if it’s true? What if Nova has been spreading STDs around school? And although Harry knows that you can’t catch anything through touch, he still doesn’t want her fingers anywhere near him. He watches her hand drop, and when he meets her eyes again, they are narrowed suspiciously into slits.

“Who’s told you?” Nova asks, her tone biting.

“Told me what?” Harry tries to sound like he has no idea what she is talking about but the question sounds fake even to his own ears.

“You’re looking at me like they do. Like I’m contiguous.” Her voice is venom, and Harry knows exactly the look she means. It’s the way most older students look at her, the way so many people looked at him in his second year after they discovered he could speak Parseltongue. Harry knows he isn’t being fair and he should apologise - he wants to apologise - but Nova steps closer and raises her hand to touch his face again, and Harry takes a step back without thinking.

“I knew it,” she spits and barges past him, her shoes clicking angrily on the stone floor. Harry swears under his breath and calls her name, but Nova is already racing down the steps. He doesn’t follow.

***

Harry spends the rest of the day feeling rotten, guilt gnawing at the edges of his mind even when he tries to busy himself with other things. And when it’s past curfew but he still hasn’t seen even a glimpse of Nova, his guilt gets so loud that he can’t think of anything else. He checks the Marauder’s Map, hiding in the boys’ toilets, and when he finally finds her, Harry exhales sharply - Nova is, out of all places, in that classroom on the third floor that he mentioned to Hermione, where he and Ginny used to snog. The one he has passed so many times but refused to peek inside, having no desire to stir the memories. He will have to, this time.

***

When he finds her, she is sitting on the sofa, crosslegged and barefoot, her hair piled on top of her head like a nest made of straw. There is a single ball of light floating above her head - it’s enough to illuminate the book she is reading but not much else. Nova hasn’t noticed him yet, his steps made soft by years of sneaking.

“Hey,” Harry says, and Nova jumps and looks up, her eyes wide and worried. “It’s me,” he adds unnecessarily. The light above her head flickers but doesn’t go out. Nova looks down and says nothing at all.

Harry sits on the sofa next to her, close enough that her knee is touching his thigh, and takes her hand in his. She doesn’t hold his back but neither does she take her hand away.

“I’m sorry. I was a proper pillock.” Harry doesn’t know what else to say, hoping that his willingly touching her is enough. When he thinks back to how he cringed away from her, he feels so stupid. They’ve touched plenty of times before - fingers brushing when passing things, her pinching his cheek annoyingly that one time as if he was a baby, their arms bumping when working on a potion in class. He remembers Nova hugging a homesick first-year girl, high-fiving a boy who finally got a spell right after hours of work, touching her brother on the arm to attract his attention… And still, there is this irrational thought in the back of his mind - like a prickle of a needle - that he shouldn’t touch her just in case. He ignores it and squeezes her fingers a bit tighter, they twitch in his hand.

“I’m clean, you know.” Nova’s voice is dull, empty. “Madam Pomfrey treated me. But others still avoid me like I’m a leper.”

“I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I’d just only found out… it’s a lame excuse, I know.”

“You were with Professor Longbottom, weren’t you? He told you.” It sounds more like a statement than a question.

“He thought we were together. I don’t think he approves.” She barks a laugh and glances at him for the first time since he came into the room. “He used to be my favourite teacher.”

“What happened?”

“I became known as the school slu*t, and the way he treated me visibly changed. So one day I stayed after class and kissed him.” Harry stares at her, and if it were anybody else, he’d be sure he’s misheard.

“Where is the logic in that?”

“People were afraid to touch me. So I touched them just to annoy them. Professor Longbottom got really annoyed.” Nava’s grin is wicked. “He called me a slu*t and dragged me to the Headmistress’s office.”

“Well,” Harry tries to sound composed. “Calling you a slu*t was out of line but you can’t blame him for taking you to McGonagall... He’s a Professor and married…”

“Being married means nothing to some people.”

They sit in silence for a bit, then something occurs to Harry.

“How on Earth are you Head Girl after all of this?” Nova snorts.

“Professor McGonagall thought that it would help me channel my energy better and make others respect me more.”

“Did it help?”

She shrugs. “Maybe a little.”

Something else crosses Harry’s mind then.

“Did you touch me so much in the beginning to annoy me?”

“Not exactly,” she turns to look at him, a hint of a smile on her lips. “Well, you did look annoyed but not in the same way as the rest of them. It was refreshing.” Harry shakes his head.

“I don’t think I understand you at all,” he tells her.

“It’s okay. Most of the time, I don’t understand myself either.” Nova’s fingers flex around his and Harry’s guilt finally recedes.

“I’m not very good with touch,” he tells her, a confession for a confession. “I can count all the people I’m comfortable with on the fingers of one hand.” Ron - although now he is not so sure - Mrs Weasley, Hagrid, Hermione - especially Hermione. Ginny used to be on this list too, but not anymore.

“Are you suffering now?” She asks, holding their clasped hands up.

“Yeah,” he laughs. “A bit.”

She laughs too - it’s sad, her laugh - and places his hand on his lap before letting go. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Do you want to know a fun fact?” Harry asks.

“Sure.”

“This sofa,” he bounces on it a little for emphasis. “I transfigured it out of some chairs when I was a student. Before everything.”

“No way!” Nova prods the cushion she is sitting on as if she’s seeing it for the very first time. “How many years has it been? The magic should’ve faded.”

“I don’t know, thirteen?” His magic must have been strong, even then.

“Why did you need a sofa in an old dusty classroom anyway?” Nova asks, one eyebrow raised. Harry looks around properly for the first time. There’s not enough light to see much but Harry thinks the room looks about the same - desks and chairs stacked against the walls, an old cupboard, a coat stand…

“It was my and Ginny’s hideaway.”

“Ginny is your ex?”

“Yeah.”

“The one who is married to Professor Longbottom?”

“Yup.”

“You-“ Nova starts laughing.

“What?” Harry smiles at her, bemused.

“Please tell me you shagged Professor Longbottom’s wife on this sofa.” He chuckles once and shakes his head.

“Sorry to disappoint.” Nova looks up, still giggling and rubbing the moisture from her eyes.

“Wait.” She grins that wicked grin again, and Harry doesn’t like it at all. “Are you a virgin?”

Harry’s first impulse is to lie or maybe say nothing at all. The way his dorm mates talk, he thinks he is the only virgin among all the seventh years. Nova is watching him though, and Harry has never been a good liar. In the end, there is no need to say anything - Nova must be able to see his discomfort all over his face.

“Oh my God,” her shoulders begin to shake again. “The legendary - Harry Potter - is - a virgin.” She bends in half and starts laughing even harder. Harry watches her quaking back and doesn’t know if he is more annoyed or amused. But it’s normally like that, with Nova, and Harry realises that he doesn’t really mind anymore.

***

Harry is rubbish at sleeping. When before his nights were plagued with visions from Voldemort, now it’s the nightmares. His friends dying, Voldemort coming back to life, looking in the mirror and seeing his face; Kreacher, the dead reaching their hands from behind the veil and blaming him, Dumbledore telling him he’s failed… After waking up his dorm mates for the very first time, Harry puts a silencing charm up every night - because his screaming and ragged breaths shouldn’t be affecting anybody else’s sleep.

However, It’s not a nightmare that jolts him awake this time, although the dream makes him feel just as disoriented, his nerves alight with something close to panic.

That night, he dreams about kissing Hermione in front of a class full of people. He lies in bed after, trying to calm down his racing hard and refusing to acknowledge his erection. It’s because of Nova, he tells himself, It has to be - the talks of sex and kissing professors. It can’t have anything to do with Hermione at all.

That night, it takes an eternity for Harry to fall back to sleep.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

I can’t do this anymore, Hermione thinks when she crosses Harry’s gaze yet again, although she doesn’t exactly know what she means by this. Harry has been looking at her. And while there is nothing unusual about the fact itself, the way he does it is different from before. He is watching her right now as if he is trying to figure out a problem, and the intensity of it sends heat to the pit of her stomach. They are in the middle of class for goodness’ sake, and why does his gaze occasionally flicker to her lips?

“Harry, your potion,” she says, her voice deeper than normal, and the way she’s said his name… Her using his given name is not the issue - she’s slipped so many times that nobody pays her any mind anymore; even Harry has addressed her as Hermione more than once in class. The issue is that his name has rolled off her lips like a caress. She must be losing her mind.

And Harry - he is looking at his bubbling cauldron as if he doesn’t know what to do with it, and Hermione can see a blush creeping up his neck. She wonders how far down his blush starts and she can’t be thinking that.

Nova leans in and whispers urgently into Harry’s ear, and he finally snaps out of his stupor and adds the next ingredient.

He is nearly always with Nova these days, and seeing them together makes jealousy simmer under the surface of her perfectly polite exterior. Nova is stunning, she is everything Hermione is not, and yet Harry never watches Nova the way he watches her.

No, Hermione can’t do this anymore, not without going insane.

***

Dreams are just that, dreams, Harry tells himself, and there doesn’t have to be any deep meaning behind the pictures that your brain chooses to show you during the night. Nothing has changed, nothing much anyway. They exchange glances, they smile at each other, they meet and they talk. Only sometimes the dream flashes before his eyes and it makes him uncomfortable, hot, like he’s done something he wasn’t supposed to. And that’s the thing. If the dream meant nothing at all, he would’ve forgotten about it by now - it’s been over a week. But the image of reaching a hand to tangle it in her hair, of pulling her closer, of their lips touching is still as vivid as it was that night. And he can’t help but look at Hermione’s lips sometimes - he’s never noticed how plump they are. And it’s not right, looking at her like that. Harry didn’t lie to Ron when he told him that Hermione was like a sister to him. He never, not even once, thought about her like that. So Harry watches her and tries to understand what the hell is going on.

He’s always known that Hermione is pretty. Like: this is my friend, Hermione, she is brilliant, determined, occasionally scary and extremely pretty, and I don’t want to kiss her at all. It wasn’t even an option, kissing Hermione. And now it suddenly is. It’s disconcerting. And distracting. And his potion’s colour and texture are slightly off - just as he was beginning to believe that he is not as abysmal at this subject as he used to think. He makes a face as he pours a sample into a bottle.

“I’ve got a baby cousin,” Nova tells him. “Her sick looks exactly like this.”

“Wow, thanks. How encouraging.” Harry corks the bottle and vanishes the leftovers. The first potion he has brewed on his own and it’s a complete mess. He looks at Nova’s. Hers is creamy and smooth like custard. He makes a face again.

“I do try,” Nova says, grinning, and goes to deposit her sample on Hermione’s desk, a skip to her step. Harry follows with much less enthusiasm.

“Sorry about that,” he tells Hermione without really looking at her. He isn’t sure if he is apologising for his dreadful work, for being distracted or for his inappropriate thoughts. He glances at her and grins sheepishly before turning away. He needs to sort his head out. The last thing he wants is to make Hermione uncomfortable.

***

Harry goes to Hagrid’s after the lessons are finished for the day. Inside the hut, which hasn’t changed much, with the fire blazing, the kettle whistling on the stove and the smell of the half-giant’s baking that hasn’t improved at all, Harry can pretend that he is eleven again. He’s got used to Hagrid’s grey hair and made friends with the new dog, and although his official name is Fang II, he will only respond to Birdbrain - something which Harry finds hilarious.

“Who’s a clever puppy,” Harry coos to the dog when he brings the ball that Harry has just thrown for him back. It’s soggy with drool and Harry chucks it to the furthest corner of the room again and wipes the hand on his trousers - they will definitely be going in the wash tonight.

“He never does that for me,” Hagrid grumbles, getting a tray of his signature rock cakes out of the oven.

Harry feels strangely safe here, dunking a cake in his tea until it becomes soft enough to take a bite, playing with the dog and enjoying the easy flow of their conversation.

All of a sudden, Birdbrain starts barking, forgetting about the ball that bounces off the wall and out of sight.

“Oh, shut up you,” Hagrid gets up to grab the dog by the collar just as there’s a knock on the door. Birdbrain tries to pull out of Hagrid’s firm hold, panting.

“It’s just me,” Neville’s voice comes from outside. Hagrid lets Birdbrain go with a relieved sigh and swings the door open. The dog races at Neville and puts his front paws on his chest, eager to receive scratches all around his head. Harry finally realises why Hagrid calls him Birdbrain - the dog isn’t a very good judge of character.

“Oh, hey Harry,” Neville greets when he notices him.

“Hi Nev,” Harry smiles and hopes it doesn’t look like a grimace. Ever since their awkward conversation after class and his talk with Nova, Harry hasn’t felt like spending time with the man. “I was just going.” Harry gets up and wraps his scarf around his neck, eager to get away.

“Great! We can walk back together.” Neville turns to Hagrid and passes him a paper parcel. “I’m just dropping this off.”

Resigned, Harry puts his hat on and - after thanking Hagrid for the tea and scratching Birdbrain’s head - steps out into the cold air.

“Don’t you have a winter robe?” Neville asks, falling into step next to Harry.

“Haven’t had a chance to get one.” It’s not exactly true but Harry doesn’t want to explain that he hasn’t shopped yet because he’s anxious about being mobbed again.

“You should go this weekend. It’s nearly November.”

Harry grunts noncommittally in reply, which gets followed by awkward silence. Neville coughs.

“I’m sorry if I made you feel strange that time. I only wanted to warn you in case-“

“Nova told me that she kissed you. She just wanted to unsettle you, you know, because you’d been treating her like scum.” Harry didn’t mean to say anything but his mouth does it sometimes, impulsively revealing whatever’s been on his mind.

“Is that what she told you?” Harry keeps on walking without replying. “Did she tell you that she also put her hand on my crotch? Or that she had a crush on me, which put me in an extremely uncomfortable position?”

“No, she didn’t tell me that,” Harry replies this time and Neville sighs.

“That girl has a serious issue with boundaries. Keep that in mind.”

***

In the end, it’s not his need for a winter robe or seventh year books that finally makes Harry take a trip to Diagon Alley. He is so fed up with his conflicting feelings about Hermione and with all the drama surrounding Nova that he wants a break from it all. He wants to see Ron. Things have always been simple with Ron - apart from the times when he was being a total prick - but Harry has forgiven him for those a while ago and he craves this simplicity.

However, arriving at Diagon at eleven on Saturday morning wasn’t his best idea. He wraps his Gryffindor scarf around his neck, covering half of his face with it too, and pulls a hat down over his scar. He walks down the street, eyes down and hands squeezed into the pockets of his jeans, but people still notice. He glances from side to side when the whispering starts. It’s not as bad as the previous time but their eyes look greedy and their fingers are pointing. He recalls what Kingsley's said - You’ve been a symbol for such a long time - maybe these people have forgotten that he is a person too. Harry takes his hands out of his pockets - it wasn’t comfortable anyway - and lifts his chin up. A woman with a toddler in her arms points at Harry and says, “Look, Stephen, it’s Harry Potter!” The toddler has a lollipop in his mouth and doesn’t seem to care at all. Harry thinks the kid got his priorities right.

A few approach to shake his hand.

“Fought in both wars, I did,” an old man tells him with pride, and Harry smiles at him, not knowing what else to do. Say well done and give him a pat on the back? What do all these people want?

“Thank you, Mr Potter,” they say.

“It wasn’t just me,” Harry tells them with force. “We did it together.” He doesn’t think they hear.

“There you are!” A strong arm pulls him out of the crowd and leads him to the metal stairs crawling up the side of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. Their feet clunk on the steps while the crowd mutters disappointedly behind Harry’s back.

“I might be everybody else’s Saviour but you are mine, Ron,” Harry jokes and Ron turns to flash a grin at him - slightly crooked teeth and freckles all over his face, sky-blue eyes. They reach the top of the stairs and Ron opens the door - a showy purple and yellow thing - and when Harry shuts it behind them, the noise from the street is gone.

They hug briefly and pat each other on the back. “I was worried you’d never write, mate,” Ron tells him. “That we freaked you out too much.”

“Not a chance.” Harry chuckles and takes a step into the room only to immediately step on something fleshy that produces a pathetic squeaky noise. Harry jumps back with a shout and Ron guffaws.

Harry looks down. “A rubber chicken?”

“Believe me, you don’t want to know.” Ron’s grin is easy and his eyes shine with a happy twinkle. It’s hard to believe that this Ron is the same man who cheated on Hermione and told her that she was impossible to love but Harry doesn’t want to address that, not yet.

Harry looks at the tilted ceiling, at the floor littered with inexplicable things of every shape and colour - “Experiments,” Ron explains - at the sofa with a print of tiny winged dogs, and a collection of mismatched chairs around a chunky wooden table.

“I love your window,” it takes the whole wall and Harry approaches it cautiously, peering at the dispersing crowd below.

“It’s charmed.” Ron stands next to him and knocks on the glass with his knuckles. “Nobody will see you.”

“Neat.”

Harry unwraps his scarf and pulls his hat off, throwing them on one of the chairs, while Ron gets a couple of butterbeers.

“Adult version,” Ron grins. “They didn’t have stuff like this when we were growing up.”

Ron falls onto the sofa and pops the caps with his wand, and Harry flops next to him, stretching his legs out and accepting a bottle.

“Tastes the same to me,” Harry comments after taking a swig.

“Wait for it.” Ron winks. They drink in silence for a bit but there is nothing heavy about it, and when they start talking again, it’s effortless, easy - exactly what Harry needed. Harry receives little updates about the rest of the family, gets shown a few of the latest joke products and learns that Ron has a new girlfriend yet again.

“The legs, Harry. The legs!” Harry snorts at the enraptured look on Ron’s face and thinks that he knows what Ron has meant about the bear. It feels like bubbles are floating all around his head.

In turn, Harry tells Ron about how strange it is, being a student again, and how much he misses Quidditch.

“We play every other Sunday,” Ron enthuses. “Just for fun. You must come! Katie and Angelina, George and a few other blokes you don’t know. It will be a blast!” Harry adds a broom to his growing shopping list and promises that he will. When he explains about Kingsley, Ron smacks himself on the thigh and hoots with laughter. “I can’t believe you called him a git.” Harry laughs too. It’s so easy, being with Ron. He is all red hair and sunshine and laughter - not a care in the world.

“What about Grimmauld place? It’s yours, right?” Ron asks this and all the bubbles floating around Harry’s head pop at once.

Harry tells him about Kreacher then, and that he can’t bring himself to go back.

“Right,” Ron says, getting up with a grunt and holding his hand out. Harry places his empty bottle on the floor next to Ron’s and allows his grinning friend to pull him up.

“Where are we-“ but Harry doesn’t have a chance to finish his question because the world around him starts spinning, and his body gets squeezed from every side. All too suddenly, his feet hit something hard and his knees would’ve buckled if Ron wasn’t holding him up. Harry lifts his eyes to be faced with the door of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.

“Let’s go bury that grumpy elf.” There is still a bit of a smile on Ron’s face - as if his mouth is so used to smiling that it can’t do much else - but when he sees Harry’s expression, his eyes go serious. “It’s only going to get harder with time,” Ron says.

It takes a while but Harry does push the door open.

***

The smell is faint but it’s still there, and Ron and Harry cast bubblehead charms. They wrap Kreacher in a tablecloth Harry finds in one of the cupboards, trying not to look much, and carry him into the garden. Kreacher is light. Harry could’ve done it on his own, physically anyway, but he doesn’t think he would without Ron, not for a long time.

They find a couple of shovels in the garden shed, and even though it’s nothing like losing Dobby, digging a grave with magic still feels wrong. So they dig and they sweat and they get blisters on their hands, and Harry’s head is blissfully empty for a while. And when they gently lower Kreacher down - still wrapped in the tablecloth - and throw the earth on top, it feels, inexplicably, like letting go.

“I wish Luna were here,” Harry says, his voice raspy from not talking for a while. “She’d know what to say.”

“Rest in peace, Kreacher, cantankerous yet fearless elf, faithful guardian of this house.” Ron chants in a dreamy voice, exactly like Luna would have done, and an odd giggle escapes Harry.

“Your treacle tart was heavenly,” Harry adds and casts a spell to make grass grow over the mound. He thought he would cry. He thought this would be much harder.

He hugs Ron, resting his head on his friend’s shoulder. He smells like sweat and dirt. He feels Ron’s arm across his back.

“Thanks,” he says and steps away.

“That’s what friends are for. Fancy a takeaway? I’m starting.” Harry laughs. This is why he loves Ron.

***

They get Chinese and apparate straight to the roof of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. Back at the apartment, they eat at the table out of paper boxes with plastic forks, and Ron explains how muggle food was the only thing that would cheer George up in the beginning. He could spend days in his room without showering or talking to anybody. “But he’d always crawl out of his lair for something greasy like pizza or fish and chips or Chinese.” Ron talks with his mouth full and waves his fork around. Some things never change.

“How is he now?”

“He’s great. Happy. He and Angelina have a house in Kent.”

Harry nods and fills his mouth with spicy noodles that make his lips and tongue tingle.

“How’s Hermione?” Ron asks quietly. His mouth isn’t full this time and his fork is sticking out of a piece of chicken. He won’t meet Harry’s eyes.

“She didn’t look so happy when I first saw her. She is better now. Teaching suits her.”

“Oh, good.”

“I really wanted to punch you, you know.” Ron looks up and laughs.

“Whatever for?”

“What do you think? She told me what you’d done.”

Ron winces, then says with a wan smile, “You can punch me if you want, I kinda deserve it.” Harry watches him, Ron, his best mate, who’s left and come back, who’s helped him walk through the door of Number Twelve and see that there are no demons, who’s made him laugh so many times. How could he have done something so stupid?

“Why?” Harry asks.

Ron puffs a long breath out. “Because I was a moron and Hermione… She’s always been brilliant and so determined and ambitious - and she wanted me to be those things too. And I - I don’t think I’m cut out for serious relationships. But saying it’s not you it’s me is stupid, innit? So I brought this girl here… I wanted Hermione to catch me and break up with me because I didn’t know how to break up with her.”

“Ron…” Harry starts but then just stares at him, not knowing what to say.

“I know, I know, I was an insensitive oaf.”

“You hurt her,” there is reproach in Harry’s voice and Ron looks down again, guilty.

“I did write her a letter after, to apologise. She never replied.”

“What did you say?”

Ron laughs awkwardly. “I don’t really remember. I was sh*t-faced when I wrote it.”

Harry picks his wand off the table and sends a stinging hex at Ron, who clutches his shoulder with a yelp.

“You’re a piece of work.” Harry shakes his head, baffled by Ron’s actions, but he places his wand back on the table.

“Yeah,” Ron agrees. “I know.”

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

Hermione is clearing out the potions cupboard when there is a knock on the door. She winces getting up from her knees - she should’ve used a cushion - and wipes her dusty hands on her top. She entertains the idea of pretending that she isn’t here in case it’s Lucas. The man has been seeking her out - possibly because she is the only person who’s been politely listening to his ramblings - but she doesn’t have any patience for him at the moment.

She tells herself not to be childish and, besides, If it is Lucas, he will walk straight in to try her quarters next.

Hermione opens the door just a crack, ready to tell whoever it is that she is busy, but then she sees Harry - grinning, bright-eyed and so damn attractive - and takes a step back, letting him in without a second thought.

“Hey,” he says. He is looking at her in that way again - her hair, her chest and the side of her neck. “You’re all dusty.” He reaches his hand and plucks something from her hair. “Accessorising?” he asks with a half-smile and dangles a cobweb in front of her face. Of course, he’s studying her like that because she is a mess, and all the previous times she caught him looking, Harry must have had his reasons then too. Annoyed with herself, she snatches the cobweb from his hand and turns away, rolling it into a ball. It sticks to her fingers and she wipes them on her joggers.

“Doing the inventory,” she explains, walking deeper into the classroom. “Or more like cleaning out the storage cupboard. I don’t think anybody has ever done it.” She points at the blasted thing angrily and turns to face Harry again. His head is tilted to the side, his eyes fixed on the pile of rubbish that she has dug out from the bottom shelf.

“How about I’ll help you in exchange for your healing salve?” He looks at her and smirks. “I’m in need of a nurse.”

“You must be mistaking me for Poppy.” She takes his hands though, which he is holding out to her, and examines his palms, raw and blistered.

“Not a chance,” Harry says softly, leaning closer. “Madam Pomfrey is great but you are much more pretty.”

Hermione lets go of his hands like they are on fire. “Wait here,” she instructs and escapes through the door to her quarters. She tells her silly heart to calm down and wills the desire coiling in her belly to go away. It’s Harry, and Harry can’t be flirting with her.

When she comes back, the jar of salve in hand, Harry is sitting on her desk just like the previous time she healed his hands. She lowers herself into her chair and unscrews the lid, enveloped in a sense of deja vu.

“What silly thing have you done this time?” She asks, applying the salve, careful not to hurt him.

“I buried Kreacher.” It surprises her, how lightly he says it. As if the image of finding the dead elf hasn’t been haunting him all this time. “Ron helped.”

“I’m glad he was there for you.” It’s a shame he wasn’t there for me, she thinks bitterly.

“He asked about you.” Her heart clenches sadly. She hates it that after all these years, it still has the power to hurt and infuriate her. Why is there no salve for one’s soul?

“Hermione?” Harry’s tone is worried, and she realises that she is sitting motionless, staring at his palm. “I think he is truly sorry. And he sounds like he still cares about you.”

“If he cared about me, he wouldn’t have done what he did. Especially when I needed him with me in Australia.”

“Merlin, Hermione, I’m so stupid. I can’t believe I never asked!” Hermione looks up at him and sees the guilt in his eyes. “I’m so sorry!” He holds her hands in his. His hands are so much bigger, all of him is larger than her. More than anything else right now, she wants to be cocooned in his arms, she wants to burrow into his chest, wants to feel small and held and protected.

“It’s fine-“

“It’s not fine.” He pulls at her hands and she stands up, between his knees and so close, with his eyes trained on hers. “Have you managed to restore their memories?”

“I haven’t tried.” She turns her face away and closes her eyes. She can’t look at him.

“You didn’t go?” She can hear the shock in his voice.

“Oh, I went. I found their house. I was waiting on the opposite side of the road, trying to find courage. And then their door opened and my mum stepped out. With a baby in a blue sling. She kept on kissing his head. And my dad looked so happy. Proud. And I just couldn’t. They didn’t need me.” She tells all this to his left shoulder, and then she gets exactly what she craves. Harry enfolds her in his arms, and she fits there so well, with her palms on his chest and her head tucked under his chin.

“You are so silly, Hermione,” Harry tells her, his voice quiet but full of conviction. “They don’t remember you. It doesn’t mean they don’t need you.” Her eyes feel hot.

“You were gone. And then I lost Ron too. My parents created a happy life without me. All the men that I dated broke up with me. Nobody needs me.” She sounds pathetic, needy and broken, but she is so tired of pretending to be strong. Harry shifts and removes one of his arms from around her. She must have made him feel uncomfortable. Is he going to push her away?

“Look at me,” he says, placing a finger under her chin and nudging her head upwards. She can’t see his face properly, her eyes brimming with tears. Crybaby. Stupid weak useless cry- “I will always need you.” She blinks and her tears spill, and she hides her face in the dip just under his collarbone. She feels the press of Harry’s lips to the top of her head, desperately needing his words to be true.

***

It’s not about the way Hermione looks, Harry realises. It’s not about her full lips or soft skin, it’s not about the flowers she wears in her hair now - not only the clip he gave her but others too, mimosas and baby’s breath, cornflowers and many others he has no names for. It’s not about how a strand of her hair always escapes to curl down the side of her neck - he wants to follow its path with his fingertips and mouth. It’s not about the lemony scent of her shampoo. It’s not about her eyes - warm, loving, the colour of amber - and it’s not about how well she fits into his arms, as if his sole purpose in this world is to hold her.

It’s about her vulnerability, about how openly Hermione shows him her weakness. It’s about the comfort that she finds in his arms. It’s about Hermione taking her mask off, removing her fake smile to let Harry see just her. It’s about her trust.

She never used to show him this side of her - maybe only in the tent after Ron left, but even that was nothing like what it is now. She always seemed so strong and independent as if she could take on the whole world and solve any problem all on her own. And it’s not that he doesn’t want her to be strong - he does. The problem is that Harry always felt that he needed her so much more than she needed him, that there wasn’t much at all that he could give. Now, however… now, she seems to need him just as much as he needs her.

When he thinks back to the girl she used to be, he doesn’t want her. He wants this Hermione. He wants her laughing and strong and weak and crying and screaming and tired and lost. He wants her, and the moment he admits it to himself, he knows there is no going back.

***

Harry’s face is all over the papers come Monday: walking down Diagon Alley, shopping, laughing with Ron… POTTER SPOTTED. What kind of a title is that? As if Harry is some rare beast and not a human being. He wants to rip the papers out of his schoolmates’ hands and shout that he is just a regular bloke, that he is right here, and whatever they are saying in the Prophet, they are just meaningless words. He doesn’t do any of these things. He walks down the length of the Gryffindor table, his teeth clenched, until he reaches the other seventh years.

“That was a cool thing to say,” Ellis turns the paper he’s been reading to Harry, a bespectacled owl beating its wings next to the title: WE DID IT TOGETHER. There’s a picture of him shaking hands with an old man, and when he scans the article, it’s not about him, not really. It’s about the people and what seeing him meant for them, and their experiences of the war.

“I like it that they are focusing on the people,” Harry says, giving the paper back. “Although I wish that when they saw me they didn’t immediately think of the war.”

Dario looks up from his Transfiguration homework, which he forgot to do at the weekend, and brushing breadcrumbs off his parchment, says, “They don’t think war. They think victory.”

Harry hums in reply, not exactly agreeing but not disagreeing either. The thing is, when Harry thinks of the war, he remembers days of uncertainty, Ron’s wireless and endless lists of the missing and the dead, he remembers all the weight of responsibility and his helplessness. He remembers terror and blood and pain and desperation and cruelty and death. He doesn’t remember victory. Voldemort’s body falling feels like a hazy dream and not something that actually happened. Did people cheer? Did they laugh and cry, clenching their loved ones in their arms? Did they celebrate? Could they celebrate when so much had been lost?

An idea forms in his head.

“Hey, Ellis, Atlas, remember you said that I should give an interview to the Owl? Who do I get in touch with?”

***

“Look at that!” Nova falls into the seat next to him a few minutes before the class starts and lays the Prophet out on the desk. “Now I know which books you own, what style of robes you ordered, that you purchased a racing broom, and that mint is your favourite ice cream flavour.”

“The fact that I happened to get mint ice cream from Fortescue’s on that particular day doesn’t mean it’s my favourite,” he tells her. “Why are you even reading this rubbish?”

“Because I want to mess with you, obviously,” she grins. “I also know your measurements… the length of your arm, the width of your chest… it’s a shame they didn’t measure your-“

Harry flicks his wand and sets the paper on fire. Nova jumps out of her seat with a yelp.

“Five points from Gryffindor, Mr Potter. No setting fire in class unless your professor has instructed you to do so.” McGonagall strides past him and Harry hastily vanishes the ashes.

“Was worth it,” Harry mutters under his breath as Nova lowers herself back onto the chair with a mock pout.

It’s strange again, with Nova. Just as Harry was beginning to think that he was getting to know and understand her, Neville added his bit to the story, making Harry feel confused all over again. He doesn’t think Nova was lying that time when they were sitting on the sofa which used to belong to Ginny and him. But, clearly, she hasn’t told him the whole truth either. She’s been acting differently with him though, from the moment he confessed that he doesn’t like being touched. She doesn’t invade his personal space as much, which shows that she’s heard him and that she cares. When he pointed it out to her, she said that there were plenty of other ways to mess with him, and today’s paper seems to be one of them.

“Do you want to go to Hogsmeade together this weekend?” Nova whispers while McGonagall is writing something on the board. “Just as friends,” she quickly adds when Harry glances at her.

“Sorry,” he whispers back. “I already promised to go with Dario, Ellis and Atlas.”

“Oh. That’s alright.” She busies herself with copying whatever’s written on the blackboard, and it’s clearly not alright. “Is it because you don’t want others to think we are together?”

Harry stifles a laugh.

“Nova, half the school think that already.” Nova’s lips twitch.

And yeah, maybe she is keeping something from him, but Neville’s story can’t be complete either, and Nova is lonely no matter how much she is trying to hide it. And Harry doesn’t want her to feel lonely because he knows exactly what it’s like.

“We can meet later in the afternoon if you want, around three?” He offers and Nova’s face lights up, and McGonagall takes five more points from Gryffindor but, just like before, it is worth it.

***

Hermione is looking at the stack of neatly folded T-shirts on her bed - Harry’s T-shirts, all five of them - feeling like she is about to say goodbye to a part of herself. She touches the top one tenderly.

“Thank you,” she tells the T-shirts while her brain yells that it’s just a pile of fabric and she is mental, talking to it with such affection. But it’s not just a pile of fabric. It’s been her lifeline. It was her lifeline. Every time she felt defeated, abandoned, alone, she’d wrap herself in what Harry’s friendship felt like and remind herself that it was real, that at some point in her life, she was loved.

What she told Harry about using them for sleep wasn’t exactly true. She slept in them sometimes, sure, but she also cried in his t-shirts, wiping her face on the sleeves, she ate instant noodles and watched films in them, she wore them under her knitted jumpers in winter - the cold seemed to make her loneliness worse - especially in the last two years when her life consisted of uninspiring work and her empty flat.

Now, however, her life isn’t empty anymore. She has teaching and her students, her colleagues and Harry - real Harry and not just a ghost of him. Harry who’s said that he will always need her, and she believes him. Harry who brings her sandwiches when she misses meals. She even gained some of the weight back and had to use tailoring charms on some of her clothes to make them comfortable again.

She can’t justify clinging on to the T-shirts anymore. She has to let them go together with the idea that someday Harry might want her as more than just a friend. He won’t.

She puts the T-shirts in a bag.

***

It’s Friday and Harry feels restless - as if there is a Snitch trapped inside his body, as if he is anticipating something but what, he couldn’t say. He is standing in front of the door leading to Hermione’s office, hesitant because although he has stepped through this door so many times, he doesn’t feel like quite the same boy - man - as before. How was he not aware of his attraction to her? It is blindingly obvious now. It makes his heart thump in his chest, excited for the things that couldn’t happen. She is his professor and a grown woman. She is Hermione, and that’s all that matters, his heart whispers, but McGonagall’s voice inside his head is stern and clear, reminding him not to cross any lines. He is sure now that this is exactly the line she was talking about. And he begs himself not to cross it, standing in front of this wretched door, Professor Hermione Granger spelt out on a nameplate mere inches from his face.

He pushes his way in, and his eyes zero in on Hermione straight away, and his lips form a smile all on their own. She is wearing dark pink flowers in her hair and Harry wonders if there is a meaning behind them, a secret message - for him?

“What are these flowers called?” He asks, dropping his bag on the closest chair, and walks up to where she is sitting.

“Camellias.”

There is a chair on the other side of her desk, and Harry drags it around to sit next to her like he normally does, and if it’s closer than usual - close enough that their legs touch - it must be just an accident.

“What do they mean?” He asks, leaning forward.

“I don’t remember what exactly they are supposed to symbolise,” she says evasively and glances away.

“What were you thinking about?”

She looks at him then, and she is so close and his eyes fly to her lips before he can stop himself. It’s only the briefest of glances, but she notices it - she must - because she glances at his lips too, and they tingle. Harry licks the feeling away. God, he wants to kiss her. He doesn’t remember wanting to kiss anybody this badly, not even Ginny. Forget the rules and the lines, he has never cared much about those anyway. He goes to lean forward but Hermione looks away and leans back - away from him - reaching for something.

“I thought it was time to give you these back,” she says, handing him a white plastic bag. He takes it from her, his heart thrashing like a wild thing, and looks inside to find his old faded T-shirts. It feels like a rejection. “You need them more than I do,” she adds.

“I liked them better on you.” His tone is joking but he won’t look at her, can’t, suddenly ashamed to have thought that she wanted him too. Until she says, “I don’t need them because I’ve got the real thing now.”

“The real thing?”

“I’ve got you.”

I’ve been dreaming about you, he wants to tell her. But he thinks about how irritated she looked when he pulled the cobweb out of her hair, how she turned away and ran out of the room when he called her pretty, how she leaned back just as he was going to kiss her, how she gave him his T-shirts back - he doesn’t say it. He gets up and goes to stuff the T-shirts into his book bag. This is my friend, Hermione, he tells himself, and I don’t want to kiss her at all. And when he returns to his chair, he pretends that he believes it.

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

Hermione drops her head on the desk with a thump as soon as Harry leaves. She curses her traitorous body and her crumbling self-control. She has nearly kissed him. Harry is her closest friend and she has nearly kissed him and ruined it all. For the briefest of moments, when his eyes settled on her lips, it seemed that he wanted it too. He doesn’t though, she knows he doesn’t. They have spent enough time alone - in this office, her classroom, her bed - and although he has touched her plenty, none of it has been sexual. His touches communicate love, playfulness, care, and comfort but never desire. Never. She was a fool to have let herself entertain the thought of kissing him for even a second.

Her body, however, doesn’t care for her reasoning. Her body knows exactly what it wants. She is touch-starved, pleasure-hungry. She craves the touch of his wide calloused hands - under the thin fabric of her shirt, grazing the undersides of her breasts, travelling down the length of her back. She craves the press of his lips - on her neck, on the soft flesh of her breasts, under her bellybutton and between her thighs. She craves the hardness of his body - the weight of him, pinning her down, engulfing her, making her feel all the things that she thought she forgot how to feel.

She opens her legs and trails her fingers from her knee and up her thigh, forgetting her promise not to touch herself thinking of Harry. Past the lacy trim of her stockings, lightly scraping the skin of her thigh with her nails, edging closer to the part of her that has been driving Hermione out of her mind for days.

A knock on the door makes her snatch her hand away and sit up straight. Shame floods her when she remembers that she is in her office during her office hours and she has been thinking entirely inappropriate thoughts about her student while sitting at her work desk.

“God,” she exhales, mortified. “Get a grip, Granger.”

She pulls her skirt down and opens the door with her wand - it wasn’t even locked - to show a third year girl with pigtails and a hesitant smile.

“Hello, Professor Granger. I’ve got a question about our homework…”

Right, Hermione thinks. Professor Granger. This is what she needs to be. Not a horny wet mess. Jesus.

***

Everything is great, at first. They arrive at Hogsmeade and walk up and down the High Street, and even though people notice Harry, to his relief, nobody approaches. Harry points out the changes that have occurred in the last twelve years to his friends, of which there are not that many.

Zonko’s has a section selling Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. A building that used to look abandoned houses a beauty potions shop that girls seem to adore, judging by the queue outside. Tomes and Scrolls has added a whole extra floor, something that Hermione is surely thrilled about, and there is a new coffee house, the one where he and Nova are supposed to meet later - A brew that makes you stay awake for twenty-four hours, proclaim the words printed on the window, Discounts for N.E.W.T. students.

Harry gets carried away and buys enough sweets to last him a month, Dario complains extensively about the absence of a Quidditch supplies shop - something that he apparently does every time they are here - Atlas wants to go to the bookshop to Harry’s surprise, but then he realises that it is because it has a rather pretty - and busty - shop assistant. And Ellis keeps on grumbling about how hungry he is because he overslept and missed breakfast, and nobody cared enough to wake him up.

So, they head to the Three Broomsticks for an early lunch and get joined by four Gryffindor girls, and Harry feels set up. It would be fine if Eleanor, a petite seventh year, wasn’t walking so close to him. The thing is, Harry has noticed her before and he does find her attractive - it seems petite girls with brown eyes are his thing. However, he’s heard Eleanor call Nova a slag and seen her give Nova plenty of dirty looks, and Harry doesn’t want to feel even remotely attracted to a person like that. So he moves to walk between Ellis and Atlas and refuses to let Eleanor ruin his mood.

When they arrive at the pub, the eight of them squeeze in around the sole available table, which is only big enough to comfortably sit four. Eleanor is by his side again, and if they were any closer, she would be sitting on his lap. A prickle of tension settles between his shoulder blades, making his posture stiff and the set of his jaw hard.

They order a huge plate of chips loaded with cheese, and butterbeers. The guys take the mickey out of him when Harry chooses what they call the kids’ version. He shrugs and laughs it off, but the truth is that he doesn’t feel entirely comfortable in their company. He doesn’t know the girls all that well and he is worried that he might say something rude to Eleanor if he consumes any alcohol.

It’s not that bad, really, better than Harry has expected anyway, and he lets his body relax bit by bit. They eat and they laugh and Harry talks Quidditch with Dario, and even Eleanor seems nice, until she asks - low enough that only Harry can hear - “You are not really dating that whor*, are you, Harry?”

Harry’s whole body goes rigid and his grip on the glass is so tight the tips of his fingers turn white.

“I don’t know any whor*s. Do you?”

“Oh, come on,” Eleanor scoffs, and the friendly chatter around the table comes to a stop. If she were a guy, Harry would punch her, or at least hex her, but she is not. He remembers how Romilda called Ginny a whor* once, and Ginny was so calm while he was seething by her side. “It takes one to know one,” she said, tossed her head and walked off, her chin held high. Somehow, Harry doesn’t think he should say that to Eleanor.

“I think it’s great when girls know how to enjoy their bodies. There is nothing shameful about liking sex.” It’s not satisfying and it’s not what he truly wants to say - he wants to attack her, embarrass her, make her feel small - but still, Eleanor looks uncertain all of a sudden, like she has no idea how to respond.

Harry unclenches his fingers from the glass of his mostly finished Butterbeer and gets up. “I’ll see you later.” He tells everybody else. “I promised to meet Nova after lunch.”

“What did you say?” He hears Olivia, Dario’s girlfriend, hiss at Eleanor as Harry swerves between the tables. Eleanor’s reply gets swallowed by the noise of the pub but it’s not like Harry cares about what she has to say.

***

As he hurries along the street, looking down and kicking rocks, his thoughts scuttle inside his head like angry little ants. Harry hates people sometimes. Why can’t they leave Nova alone? Why do they always have to judge instead of trying to understand? Why do they sneer at you the moment you stop meeting their stupid standards?

With every frustrated thought and every exasperated question, Harry kicks a rock. And the more rocks he kicks, the more fresh air he inhales, the slower his steps become. He thinks about Ginny. She dated a bunch of boys while they were at Hogwarts, and apart from that one time, he never heard anybody shame her for it. They wouldn’t dare. She was refreshingly shameless, Ginny, so free and comfortable in her skin. Harry remembers exploring her body with his hands, his lips, his tongue, and the confidence with which she guided him, telling him exactly what she liked… An image of Hermione - naked, with her legs open and her head thrown back, pleasuring herself - obliterates all his other thoughts. His steps falter, and he shakes his head - as if it will help - with his luck, this image will follow him into his dreams.

Harry looks around to realise that he is nearly at the coffee house. It’s still early but he might as well wait for Nova there. Nova, who behaves as if she wants everybody to think the worst of her and pretends that it doesn’t hurt her at all. He will never make sense of her.

The coffee house door is large and heavy, and Harry pushes it with his shoulder, hearing the ring of a bell as he steps in. This place doesn’t seem to be much different from a muggle coffee shop, or Harry thinks so until a cup floats right past his head, knocking his glasses off. Harry catches them, deposits them back on his face and checks for other flying objects before he dares to take another step. That’s when he spots a pair of long legs in brown boots resting on a coffee table, with the rest of the person hidden behind a large potted plant. Harry approaches and peeks around the leaves to see Nova, leaning back in an armchair, a book in hand.

“Stephen King?” He asks, tilting his head to the side to see the cover better. Nova looks up and a bright smile lights up her face.

“Have you read?” She dog-ears the page and tucks the book in between the arm of the chair and her thigh. Harry follows the length of her legs with his eyes before their gazes cross. Nova’s grin is mischievous. Harry ignores it and sinks into an armchair across from her.

“No. I know about him only because my aunt disapproved when her book club suggested they read one of his books. Come to think about it, can I borrow it after you’ve finished? Anything my aunt disapproves of must be a good thing.”

Nova laughs. “She sounds charming. What else does she disapprove of?”

“Me, mostly,” Harry grins lopsidedly and picks up the menu from the coffee table, hoping Nova doesn’t ask any more questions. “Is coffee here any good?”

“You can try mine if you want,” she puts her feet back on the floor and slides her cup across the table. It’s half full and the liquid inside looks dark and thick. Harry picks it up and takes a sniff.

“It’s not the one that’s supposed to keep you awake for a whole day, is it?” He asks suspiciously.

“And what if it is? Scared, Potter?” She teases, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees.

“Me? I haven’t been scared a day in my life!”

He takes a sip, expecting something horribly bitter. And it is bitter, a bit, but also velvety smooth and with a hint of burned caramel but no sweetness at all. He should bring Hermione here, he thinks, before he remembers that it’s better if he and Hermione are not seen in public together.

“Good, right?” Nova stretches her arm out for her cup but Harry moves it out of her reach and takes another sip.

“Nuh-uh, it’s mine now.”

He messes with her for a bit but gives it back eventually, and when Nova relaxes against the back of the chair again, she says, “My parents disapprove of me too.”

She finishes her coffee, and Harry doesn’t ask any questions, just like she didn’t ask him any earlier. During moments like these, he really likes Nova.

***

“Do you want to see a cave?” Harry offers impulsively. They have just walked past the Shrieking Shack and Harry has spotted the stile he, Ron and Hermione used to climb over the fence to get to Sirius’s hideout.

“If you want a snog, Harry, all you need to do is ask,” she smirks and bumps him with her shoulder.

Harry sighs exaggeratedly, takes Nava by the hand and pulls her towards the stile. “It’s where my godfather used to hide.” He explains about Sirius a bit as they climb up the path, and Nova follows him without complaint. Harry doesn’t know where the sudden urge to see the cave has come from. After all, he has passed the stile a bunch of times but he has never wanted to follow the path, not since Sirius fell through the veil. It’s not like there would be anything to find.

The cave smells like dirt and damp leaves and is deeper than he remembers.

“Cool.” Nova’s tone is full of wonder and her eyes light up excitedly. Small rocks crunch under her feet as she moves deeper, trailing one hand down the stone wall and holding her lit wand in the other. Harry turns away and looks out on the fields and the village rooftops, thinking about the many hours Sirius has spent studying the view, and how cold, bored and lonely he must have felt.

“Harry! Come here!” Nova yells, her voice resonating through the cave, and when Harry turns he realises that Nova is so far in that he can barely see her light. He cautiously steps over larger rocks, his hand on the rough and cold surface of the cave wall just in case he happens to stumble. The air is even colder here and Harry shivers, feeling goosebumps crawl up his arms.

Nova’s hair seems more white than gold in the light of her Lumos. She is sitting on a large flat rock that looks a bit out of place - as if somebody brought it here on purpose - and studying the wall.

“What have you found?” Harry’s voice echoes eerily and he makes a mental note to talk in whispers.

Nova makes an impatient noise and waves him over without looking. Harry ducks not to hit his head on the ceiling and slides onto the rock next to her.

“What-“ he starts again but then he sees what has got her so fascinated. A strange sound that is not exactly a gasp forms in his throat, and he leans forward to trace the shapes on the wall with his fingertips. They are smooth and warmer than the rest of the wall, as if still clinging on to traces of Sirius’s magic.

“Your godfather was a proper caveman.” Nova’s voice is an impressed whisper, and Harry laughs quietly, sadly.

“So it seems.”

Covering the wall, there are multiple drawings of a large dog with sharp teeth: chasing Death Eaters in comical masks, reading a newspaper, running away from a butcher with sausages between its teeth, gnawing on a leg of a large dead rat, bouncing around a stag and a wolf… Harry holds his palm against his breastbone as if trying to stop the feeling that is beginning to form underneath. It’s not exactly grief but more of a regret. A wish that has never come true.

“I had no idea he could draw,” Harry tells Nova softly. “I never had the time - we never had the time to get to know each other properly. I had this dream that Sirius would be acquitted and I’d go and live with him. But then he was gone and I - I thought it was my fault for such a long time.”

“It was war,” she says like she understands what it was like.

“War,” Harry agrees. The word lies heavy on his tongue, and it’s a relief when Nova speaks again.

“I used to have a friend. Akemi. We met on the train and she became my favourite person in the world. I thought we’d always stay friends no matter what.” Nova sends her light to float above their heads, then puts the wand away. “She moved back to Japan when we were fifteen. We couldn’t write because it’s hard for owls to travel that far, and international floo calls are impossible to arrange if your parents don’t give a damn. I cried so much. I thought we’d - don’t laugh - I thought we’d get married on the same day, and that our kids would be best friends, and that we’d do crazy things together when we grew old like, I don’t know, spell our hair rainbow colours and throw dung bombs at passing strangers and cackle.”

Harry smiles at the image. “I can easily imagine you doing just that. Terrorising the neighbourhood.” Nova snorts.

“I really miss her,” she says after a few moments pass. “I know it’s not the same as losing somebody but in the beginning, it sure felt like she just died.”

“I don’t think it’s that much different.” He takes Nova’s hand and holds it between his palms. “There are many ways in which you can lose people.”

She hums and rests her head on his shoulder, and this is the most comfortable Harry has ever felt with her, in a chilly cave smelling of damp, looking at the caveman-like drawings of his dead godfather.

Nova turns her head and touches her lips to his jaw lightly - it feels like an invitation, a question. Harry doesn’t know if he wants this but he hasn’t been with anybody for such a long time and maybe Nova can stop him from thinking about Hermione - although he knows that she won’t.

He turns to face her and her lips are right there, and her mouth is hot, and there is nothing gentle about it. The kiss is the opposite of the tentative touch of her lips to his jaw, as if they’ve gone from standing still to running at full speed within a second. And it should be good because Nova knows exactly how to kiss, and she is pressing her body into his, and he hasn’t held a woman in this way since Ginny, and he is painfully hard - but it’s all wrong because Nova tastes like coffee, and all he can think about is that Hermione likes coffee, and if kissing her would taste the same.

Harry pulls away, breathing hard, hands firm on her sides, not allowing Nova to come closer.

“Wait,” he says, and she stills, her arms around his neck, her hands in his hair. Nova’s lips are puffy and red and her eyes look wild, thrilling, beautiful, but he doesn’t want her. Everything would be so much easier if he did.

She must see something in his eyes because her fingers slip out of his hair and her arms drop. She wraps them around herself when Harry shifts away but then she visibly relaxes, sits straight and flashes her teeth in a smile, and it’s fake - Harry recognises it now.

“You don’t kiss like a virgin. It’s a shame you are not in the mood.”

“I’m not entirely innocent,” he smiles halfheartedly and then adds, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“Do I look hurt?” Her grin is so wide it looks painful.

“Yes, you do.” She scoffs and it’s sharp and cruel, although her eyes look wet. “All I wanted was to add Harry Potter to my collection. You think I care about you? I don’t.”

“Merlin, you are infuriating!” He cradles her face in his hands and Nova stills, like a deer that’s just realised that it’s being watched. “I am in love with somebody else.” Nova blinks but doesn’t move in any other way. “You are attractive - I love your eyes - and fun and caring and so damn smart-“

“Then why don’t you want me if I’m so amazing?”

“Because I’m a nincompoop.” A laugh bursts out of Nova and Harry shifts to sling one arm over her shoulders and pull her into his side.

“A nincompoop?”

“Most definitely.”

She giggles wetly before she asks, “Are you still in love with Ginny?”

“No, not Ginny.”

“Then who?”

“I don’t want to say just yet.”

“Worried you’ll jinx it?”

“Something like that.”

Harry thinks about Hermione. The way she calls his name sometimes, sending a shiver down his spine; the time she asked him to stay with her until she fell asleep when it was her birthday; the way she melts against him every time Harry holds her, the way she looks at him as if she is ravenous for something only he can give.

“I’m not in love with you by the way,” Nova says, snapping him out of his thoughts. “I just wanted to feel close to somebody.”

“I wanted to feel close to somebody too.”

“But this is good too.” She shifts closer to him and rests her hand on his knee but there is nothing sexual about it this time.

“Tell you what.” Harry smiles at the idea that’s just popped into his head. “We can be friends, and we can spell our hair rainbow colours and throw dung bombs at strangers when we grow old.”

Nova cackles.

***

“Do you know what camellias symbolise?” Harry asks as they walk down the path leading back into the village.

Nova gives him a long look and, for a moment, Harry is afraid that she knows something, but then she faces straight ahead and replies, “Love, eternal devotion, longing for someone you can’t have.”

The path narrows and Nova speeds up, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts. The flowers could be for anyone, Harry tells himself. For one of Hermione’s ex-boyfriends, for Ron, for anybody else entirely. But it’s the ring that he gave her that Hermione never takes off and it’s his T-shirts she’s been wearing so much that all the colour has faded.

He catches up with Nova and touches her on the shoulder, and she stops.

“I need to head back to the castle,” he tells her, his tone urgent.

He waits for her nod and then he runs.

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

Harry runs up the steps to the castle, taking them two at a time, overwhelmed by the sense of urgency, convinced that if he doesn’t get to Hermione right this second, he won’t be able to take in his next breath. His head is strangely empty. There is no worry or anxiety about what is going to happen next. Harry only needs to find her, see her, and then he will know what to do - nothing else matters. Find her, see her, touch her. The words become a pulse in his mind. Find her, see her, touch her and everything will be alright.

Harry reaches the potions classroom without meeting anybody, and it feels like a sign. He doesn’t knock, he barely slows down as he crosses the dim room, pulled towards the door leading to Hermione’s chambers. He raps on it with his knuckles - three precise taps - and waits, his chest rising and falling rapidly. There is no movement behind the door, no sound, and Harry knocks again, louder this time. Nothing. Frustrated, he gets the Marauder’s Map out of the pocket of his robe, activates it and unfolds the parchment with jerky, impatient movements. He studies the map under the light of his Lumos. Hermione isn’t in her rooms or in her office, nor is she in the teachers’ lounge or with McGonagall. Harry finds Sinistra next, knowing that she and Hermione have become closer in the weeks following her birthday, but Hermione isn’t with her either. He searches for Lucas, jealousy twisting and scratching like a live beast inside his body. Harry has noticed the way the man has been looking at Hermione - if he had a tail, he’d wag it every time Hermione came near - but, to Harry’s relief, Hermione is nowhere near him. However, she is nowhere in the castle either, and Harry hasn’t seen her in Hogsmeade. He rests his forehead on the cool surface of the door and closes his eyes, only now realising how frantically his heart is beating. Ever so slowly, his breathing calms down, adrenaline seeping out of his body, leaving him hollow and cold, and when Harry strengthens up and starts folding the map he realises that his hands are trembling. He swears under his breath. He feels like somebody has just snatched the Snitch from under his nose, like he’s been about to win the race only to trip and fall mere inches away from the finish line. All of a sudden, he feels like a fool. Why did he expect Hermione to be here on her day off? Because she’s always been here, a voice inside his head suggests helpfully.

“Well, she isn’t here now,” he mutters to himself and slowly turns to make his way back, moving sluggishly between the desks. Only when he reaches the door and rests his hand on the handle, he realises that he doesn’t want to leave - he can’t leave. Leaving would mean giving up.

He feels trapped between these two doors: one locked and the other one leading where he doesn’t want to go.

He heads for Hermione’s desk, takes his heavy cloak off and throws it over the back of the chair, then falls into it with a growl of frustration.

“Nox,” he mumbles and submerges the room into semidarkness. He looks through the window at the first stars twinkling in the violet sky. Hermione will have to come back soon. He casts warming charms on his clothes, lights up the candles he finds on the desk and slides a bit lower in the chair, resting his head on its back. He will wait. Even if it takes all night, he will wait.

***

Hermione locks the door of her London flat - it’s the first time she’s been here since the end of September - relieved that all of her spider plants and a lonely orchid that hasn’t bloomed in years are still alive. She jingles the keys jogging down the stairs, pleased with how her day has gone so far. She spent all of her morning and some of the afternoon getting lost between the bookshelves in Waterstones, and it felt so damn good. Sometime in the last couple of months, she’s started to regain her passion for reading. How did she manage to live so long without her books? Maybe it’s because she wasn’t really living.

“You’re reading again,” Harry said with a smile a few weeks ago when he saw a heap of library books on her desk. Even he had noticed. But she is in London not only to shop, water her plants and get her fix of muggle television. She is here to get away from her thoughts about Harry.

“No more Harry,” she tells herself quietly but sternly as she exits her building. It’s darker than she’s expected but it’s not quite nighttime. The air smells like rain and strangely like spices, and there is something intangible in the atmosphere - like a promise or maybe like hope. Hermione pulls the coat tighter around herself in an attempt to protect herself from the chill. She doesn’t know why she won’t simply zip it up or apparate back to the warmth of the castle - the Halloween feast will be starting soon. Instead. She holds the coat tight with one hand, a canvas bag full of books slung over her shoulder. She is enjoying the weight, the swing of it, the way it hits her hip with every step. She makes random turns, whimsically choosing the streets she only likes the names of until she hears music and begins to follow its call instead. It leads her to a small pub with misted windows, carved pumpkins glowing from its sill. She can see a band playing from a tiny stage in the corner, and she stops, mesmerised by the singer’s soulful voice. The music and the noise of the crowd - laughing, shouting out drink orders, talking - become louder as the pub door opens. She keeps her eyes on the band. Why do all songs have to be about love?

“Hermione?” The voice startles her, and she turns too quickly. Sharp pain jabs at the side of her neck, and she winces. “Not as happy to see me as I am to see you it seems.” The man laughs and steps closer. His breath smells of beer. She frowns.

“I don’t see why you would be happy to see me considering you were the one who left, Ethan. Without saying a single word.” Ethan laughs again as if it’s all just a joke and lights up a cigarette. He takes a puff and, turning his head to the side, blows the smoke out.

“Maybe I wanted to see if you’d get in touch. If you’d miss me. Did you?” He takes another puff. Hermione desperately wants to rip the cigarette out of his fingers and put it out on his hand. It’s good she’s learned some self-restrained since her Hogwarts years.

“Goodbye, Ethan,” she deadpans and walks around him, eager to find the nearest deserted street and make her escape.

“Wait!” Ethan hooks a finger through the strap of her bag, and it slips off her shoulder, spilling half of the books onto the ground. Hermione makes a noise very similar to that of an angry cat.

“sh*te! Sorry!” Ethan kneels and starts picking her books up, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Hermione gives an exasperated sigh and lowers herself next to him, opening her bag.

“If it were a romantic comedy, we’d be hooking up.” Ethan grins lopsidedly. She used to find his grin charming. All is does now is annoy her even more.

“If it were a romantic comedy, I wouldn’t be so pissed.” Hermione stands up and slings her bag over her shoulder.

“Does it mean you don’t want to join me for a drink?” Ethan asks, raising too. Instead of a reply, Hermione zips her coat right up and hitches the bag higher on her shoulder.

She decides that walking away without saying a word is extremely satisfying.

***

The moment she is back at the Hogwarts gates, Hermione casts multiple freshening charms on her clothes and her hair, removing all the traces of Ethan’s presence. Why on earth did she cry when he left? She should have left him first. She should have never started dating him in the first place.

“That’s it,” she mutters into the cold night air. “No more men.” She’ll buy a cat, maybe two. She’ll have her pets, her books, her students, her colleagues and friends. She doesn’t need a man in her life to complete her. And Harry… He can go and marry Nova and have ridiculously pretty children with blond hair and green eyes. She won’t care.

The doors to the Great Hall are still closed, which means the feast hasn’t started yet. She passes a few students as she goes. “Hello, Professor Granger,” they say and smile, although some of them cast dubious looks at her long and puffy coat, as if wearing something this muggle is offensive to their eyes. She doesn’t care. She bought it today because it’s warm and blue and it feels like wearing a cloud. And it has nothing to do with the fact that Harry said that blue is his favourite colour on her.

She pushes the door to her classroom open with her back, and when she turns, her breath catches in her throat and she freezes in place. She’s spent all day running from her thoughts of Harry, yet here he is, in her chair, eyes closed, with candlelight playing across his face. Not wanting to wake him up, she shuts the door gently and lowers her bag to the floor. Her steps are soft as she approaches ever so stealthily and drinks in the lines of his face - his dark eyelashes, the angle of his jaw, his straight nose - don’t look at his lips don’t look at his lips don’t look at his lips - but she does look, greedily, taking in their softness, how full they are, how tempting. Harry’s eyes are still closed and his breathing is even, and maybe she could - only briefly - he wouldn’t know. Just one tiny kiss and then she’ll have her cats and her books and she will let Harry go. She will.

Hermione leans forward, feeling the heat radiating off him, his breath tickling her face. This is wrong, she thinks, yet she brushes her mouth against his all the same, and Harry’s eyes fly open. She gasps and jerks away, ready to bolt, but Harry is faster. His hand is in her hair, making a fist, holding her firmly in place. He’s caught her, and now he knows. How disgusted is he going to be?

“Stop running away,” Harry tells her, and has his voice always been so deep? He pulls her closer, and Hermione doesn’t understand what he wants from her at first. Why isn’t he shouting at her? Why isn’t he pushing her away instead? Until he whispers against her lips, “I want it too.” She must look ridiculous with her eyes so wide and her mouth open in surprise, but then he touches his lips to hers and it is electrifying. And this time it feels right, so bloody right, because Harry said he wants it too. And if there is a little voice inside her head demanding why, what, how, and why now and not before when they were both young, she doesn’t listen - all these questions can wait - and she pours all the longing she’s been pushing aside for years into the kiss - finally, finally it has somewhere to go. It’s so easy, kissing Harry, much easier than resisting. Her mouth opens effortlessly for him, and the slow slide of his tongue is so sweet that she trembles. Harry grips her hip, and its grounding, the way his fingers dig into her skin. He pulls at her until she is on his lap, and when he arches up against her an utterly depraved sound escapes from between her lips. Her hands reflexively go to the back of his neck, clutching, crushing him even closer, but her coat is in the way, and Harry must think the same because his hands are already at the zip, pulling it down, opening her coat, then slipping around her waist. However, because of that damned coat, she remembers the stares of her pureblood students, she remembers where she is and who she is, and who Harry is, and although every fibre in her body is screaming with anguish, she tears her mouth away from Harry’s even though it might be the hardest thing she’s ever done in her entire life. She turns her face away, her breaths fast and shallow. She needs to tell him that they can’t do this, not now, not here, but Harry’s lips move to her jaw, to her neck, and it feels so perfect that there is no way she is going to deny herself this.

“We need rules.” Harry finds a spot on her neck that makes her feel boneless just as she speaks, and the words come out in a garbled moan. His breath is scolding as he chuckles against her skin.

“I’ve never been good at following rules, Hermione.” His hand is in her hair again. He wraps it around his fist and tugs, making her expose more of her neck. She whimpers as he drags his teeth across her skin and bites playfully. She grabs at the fabric of his shirt knowing that she should push him away but she only ends up pulling him closer.

“You are my student,” she tells him although she sounds far from convincing. Harry hooks his thumb in the neckline of her knitted dress and pulls, baring her shoulder, and follows the line of her collarbone with his mouth.

“I’m much more than that.” He looks up at her then, his pupils blown so wide there is only a tiny sliver of green left.

And how can she argue with that?

***

Harry knows that Hermione will give him everything if he pushes. He feels it in the way her body surrenders to his touch, he hears it in the sounds that she makes, he tastes it on her tongue… He wants to touch her until she loses the capacity to think, he craves every inch of her skin because now that he’s had a taste of her, stopping is close to impossible. He doesn’t want to be that kind of man though - the one who pushes, demands and takes. So he moves her dress back in place and rests his hands on her waist, willing them not to wander. And even though Harry knows he should ask her to sit somewhere else if they are to have a serious conversation, the weight of her on his lap feels too good.

“What rules?” he asks and Hermione blinks like she is just waking up from a dream. Her eyes drunkenly meander all over his face, then to her hands resting on his chest, then lower, and Harry wonders if she can see the outline of his co*ck through his jeans or if it’s too dark. He wants her to see, he wants to slide even lower on the chair so that she is positioned just right and -

“Is this real?” Hermione asks, biting her lip.

“Do I need to pinch you?”

“I think you should.” Harry moves one of his traitorous hands to her backside and pinches, and Hermione gives a little yelp and laughs his name, and it’s so normal, it’s them, they are still best friends even if Hermione is straddling him and he desperately wants to grind his aching co*ck into her body.

“It feels pretty real, to me,” he says with a grin. Hermione wraps her fingers around his wrist and makes him move his hand back to her waist, then trails her palm up his arm and braces it on his shoulder. For a moment, he thinks that she is going to lean down and kiss him again - please let her kiss him again - but she clears her throat instead and says, “Right, rules… Um… I think all the clothes should stay on.”

Harry smirks and moves his hands to her thighs and slides them up her legs, making her dress ride up even more. She is not wearing stockings today but thick tights, which is probably for the best. “You can do plenty of things with your clothes still on, Hermione,” he tells her, a spark of mischief in his eyes, but he stills at seeing the serious look on her face.

“I can’t lose this job, Harry. I can’t- I’ve just started getting my life back together and-“

She sounds apologetic, and Harry hates it that she feels like she needs to plead her case with him. How selfish does she think he is? He touches his fingers to her lips and tucks her hair behind her ear.

“Then we don’t change anything. We meet on Fridays like we normally do. We talk, we laugh, we snog each other senseless like a couple of teenagers-“

“You are a teenager.” Guilt flashes across her face when she says that, and she shifts on his lap as if suddenly uncomfortable.

“I don’t feel like a teenager. And whatever you are thinking right now, stop thinking it.” He taps her in the middle of her forehead with one finger, then cups her cheek. “Listen, nothing will change apart from a bit of kissing, yeah? We’ll have all the time in the world after I graduate - it’s only a few months.” Even though they will feel like an eternity. “We just need to remember to ward the door.”

“sh*t!” Hermione squeaks and scrambles off his lap. “The door!” She looks at the clock on the wall. “The feast!” Then she looks at him, panicked. “Harry.” Her voice is strained.

Harry gets up and walks up to her slowly, confidently - although it feels like his legs are about to yield under the weight of his body. One of them has to keep it together, and it clearly won’t be Hermione.

He slides her coat off her shoulders and, holding it in one hand, straightens her dress.

“You go first. It’s only ten past, nobody will even notice you are late.” He strokes her cheek with his thumb and she turns to lay a kiss right in the middle of his palm. “Go,” he says and wraps his hand around the tingly spot her lips have left.

“What about you?”

“I’ll be there soon. It only makes sense that Harry Potter is fashionably late.” She chuckles and with one final glance at him, turns on her heel and rushes out of the door, and Harry wonders if she feels exactly like he does. Like it’s taking everything he’s got not to launch himself at her, all the rules be damned. Because now that he knows what kissing Hermione Granger is like, he never, ever wants to stop.

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

Harry can’t sleep. He feels too alive, his every nerve singing with excitement, his skin still tingling where Hermione has touched it. Something imperceptible has changed inside of him, like another puzzle piece falling into place, and with it, all of a sudden, he has a future. It’s not like he didn’t have one before, but he didn’t think about it either, taking life one day at a time. Now, however, it has dawned on him that he won’t be a student forever and he has to build a life for himself outside of this castle. Because he is alive, and Voldemort is dead, and nobody is out to kill him, and he is in love… He is in love. Even though he used the exact same words with Nova the other day - I am in love with somebody else - it didn’t feel quite the same. Right now, the thought hits him like a bludger in the chest, and he exhales sharply, even though it shouldn’t come as such a surprise. Harry is in love with his best friend, his professor, an older woman, and it should be strange, shouldn’t it? All Harry can do, however, is smile like a loon and think of the reckless - and wonderful - things he would do if he still had his Invisibility Cloak.

***

Hermione can’t sleep. She hates her brain sometimes, the way it has to analyse everything and pick things apart. She wants to go back in time and crawl back onto Harry’s lap, she wants to sit at the staff table in the Great Hall and feel the heat of his eyes on her - because these moments had happened before her mind decided to focus on one single phrase, four insignificant words, and although she should know better, she can’t help but doubt. I want it too. That’s what Harry said. I want it too. And she doesn’t know what “it” means. Hermione tells herself not to be silly. He touched her face so tenderly, and he looked at her with so much love, and he said that they’d have all the time in the world after Hogwarts. But the time for what? What if all he wants is just sex? What if it wasn’t love she saw but only lust? What if she is just another rule to break during his rebellious student career?

“Shut up,” she hisses through her teeth and digs her fingers into her temples so hard it hurts. Her brain doesn’t listen. It throws images at her instead. Opening the door to find Ron entangled with another girl. Her mum kissing her new baby’s head. The words of Liam’s text message: this is not what I was looking for… sorry. Ethan turning away from her and switching off the light straight after coming inside her, making her feel like just a convenient hole.

Ethan is an idiot.

Yes, but he’s left too.

Shutupshutupshutup Harry isn’t Ethan or Liam or Ron or anybody else.

She takes a deep breath and holds it, together with the thought that it is Harry, and she trusts Harry more than anybody in this world, and when she exhales, her mind is made up. She is terrified, and she has no guarantees, but she is going all in. No matter if their relationship lasts only a week or a month or a year or her whole life. No more holding back.

***

A couple of days later, Nova pulls Harry behind a statue of a wizard holding a scroll and, hands on her hips, demands, “What in the world were you thinking when you told Eleanor that you like girls who enjoy sex?”

He furrows his brow, trying to remember if this is what he’s said. It doesn’t sound right.

“I’m sure I phrased it differently,” Harry tells her, making a face, annoyed at how easily things get twisted.

“Well, however you phrased it, this is what everybody is saying. And if the rumours about us were just that before, now everybody is convinced we are shagging like pigmy puffs.” Nova’s tone is stern yet there is a glint in her eyes that Harry has learned to recognise as mischief. The guilt that was beginning to gnaw at him gets immediately replaced with suspicion.

“What have you done?” Nova throws her arms in the air with an irritated noise in the back of her throat.

“Am I really this easy to read?”

“Nova…”

“You shouldn’t be shocked to know that many, many girls are curious about what you look like naked, and how good you are with your… wand.” She wiggles her eyebrows, surprising a laugh out of Harry.

“What did you say?”

“Oh, you know, everything they wanted to hear.”

“Which is…”

“That you’re an amazing lay…” She leans against the wall, her eyes huge and innocent. “That you’ve got a massive co*ck and a tattoo of a Hungarian Horntail on your left buttock.” Harry doesn’t know whether he wants to tell her off or erupt in laughter.

“You are horrible,” he ends up saying with a chuckle.

“I am fun and you like me,” she replies with a beaming smile.

“I tolerate you,” Harry corrects. “Come on, we’ll be late to class.” He takes her by the wrist and pulls her from behind the statue. A group of fourth years glance at them as they pass, and the corridor gets filled with their whispers and giggles. Harry groans. “Note to self: never allow Nova Paislee to pull me behind any statues.”

She laughs and then pouts comically, asking, “But who will feed the school rumour mill if not me?”

***

The rumour mill seems to feed itself. Harry finds out that not only has he a tattoo of a Hungarian Horntail, but another one of a basilisk coiling around his torso, and multiple body piercings - he cringes to know where exactly they imagine they are. After his initial amusem*nt wears off, it dawns on him that Hermione will have heard the rumours too. She should know better than to believe them - but what if she does? Not the rubbish about his tattoos and such but that there is something between him and Nova. He tears a strip of parchment from his Transfiguration notes, cringing at the noise that it makes in an otherwise silent classroom, and scribbles: The rumours are not true. He underlines ‘not true’ twice for good measure, and tucks the note away in the pocket of his robe for now, hoping that his Disillusionment Charm is not as crap as it used to be.

***

Hermione exits her classroom with a sigh, a lanky fifth year Gryffindor trailing behind, muttering apologies.

“I really don’t know how I managed to mix up fire seeds and fireflies.”

“You misread the label, Devin. It happens,” Hermione says patiently for the umpteenth time. Maybe Professor Snape had the right idea, and being unapproachable is the way to be.

“But fireflies have wings!” Devin exclaims, and it’s so absurd that Hermione has to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing.

“Would it make you feel better if I gave you detention?” She asks, not meaning it at all even though Devin’s potion did create a bit of a mess and disrupted the lesson.

To her horror, Devin’s face lights up like a birthday cake. Just then, something brushes her hand and she startles. She feels a press of hot fingers as a ball of parchment gets pushed into her palm, but when she looks over her shoulder, all she can see is the air ripple for a second.

“Devin,” she interrupts whatever the boy has been saying. “Just pay more attention next time. I’ve forgotten something. I’ll see you in class.” Devin begins to say something else but Hermione turns away and walks off, her fingers already working to unscrunch the note.

The rumours are not true.

The relief she feels at seeing Harry’s chicken scrawl is astonishing - she didn’t think she was even that worried. The rumours about him and Nova have been circulating the school for weeks. So what if they reached a new peak in the last couple of days?

Hermione reaches the spot where she saw the air ripple, and here it is again - like looking through the heat of a fire. She looks to check if the corridor is empty and stretches her arm out until her fingers brush the rough fabric of Harry’s Hogwarts uniform. She moves it up his arm, to his shoulder, his neck. She feels the pulse of his heart under her palm, the scratch of his stubble under her fingers. Harry’s hands settle on her waist, and when he speaks, she can hear a smile in his voice.

“How many of your students have a crush on you, Professor Granger?”

“There is only one student I care about, Mr Potter.” She raises the note still held in her left hand. “Although I am I bit disappointed. No tattoos? No piercings?”

She hears him chuckle quietly.

“I’m afraid not.”

She drops the note on the floor and trails her hand down his torso, past his navel, stopping just below the line of his belt. “What about other things?” His heartbeat is frantic under the palm of her right hand, and his voice is low and rough when he speaks.

“That, you will have to wait and see for yourself.”

Voices come drifting down the hall, and Hermione jumps back. Her face feels hot and Harry’s low laughter doesn’t help. If she keeps on forgetting where she is every time Harry is near, they will definitely be caught. With a scowl in his general direction, she turns to make her way out of the dungeons, cursing her lack of control.

***

Harry’s sleek and shiny Sunsweeper gets delivered by two owls on the same day during lunch, and he couldn’t be more grateful for the timing. A new broom is possibly the only thing that can drag his mind away from Hermione. It’s ridiculous, really, how much he is looking forward to Friday, especially after their earlier encounter in the corridor. And even now, carefully untying the strings and pulling the parchment off while the students around him ooh and aah, he can’t resist glancing at the high table to share a grin with Hermione. He imagines everybody’s faces if he came up to her right now, asking if she fancied a ride.

“What’s so funny?” Dario asks, and Harry realises he must have made a noise.

“Oh, nothing. Just imagining how fast this broom can fly.”

“She is a beauty,” Dario eyes the now unwrapped broomstick greedily, and his hand seems to reach for the handle all on its own. Harry swats it away.

“She is my beauty,” he teases and grabs the handle, feeling the wood vibrate with magic and wondering if he can get away with skipping the next class.

“Can I at least have a go?” A few others - mostly the members of the Quidditch team - echo his request.

“Sure, but not today. I promised somebody else.” And that somebody else is looking at Harry curiously from the opposite end of the table, and when Harry gets up and approaches, Sunsweeper in hand, Teddy’s eyes grow wide as if he didn’t expect Harry to keep his promise.

“Wanna go for a fly after next class, Ted?” Harry asks loud enough that people around them can hear. Let them all turn green with envy.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Can I come too?” Ezra asks.

“Sure” Harry agrees easily then holds the broom out to Teddy. “Want to hold it?”

“Re-“

“If you say really again, I will smack you on the head with it.” Teddy smiles sheepishly and wraps his fingers around the handle.

“Whoa,” he whispers as Harry lets go. “It’s all buzzy. School brooms don’t do that.”

“School brooms are ancient,” Ezra comments and reaches for the broom as well, looking at Harry questioningly. He nods and then watches the two boys reverently examine his Sunsweeper, their eyes glinting with joy.

Harry should have been there, for Teddy’s first steps, his first birthday, his first broom ride. Harry has missed so much, but he is here now. And maybe Teddy doesn’t see him as his godfather - he might never see him as his godfather - but it’s alright. He can at least try and be his friend. That’s enough.

***

When Harry arrives at the Quidditch pitch, he is alone, which is not surprising, considering he has raced all the way here. Sunsweeper hums in his grip impatiently, and Harry swings his leg over and pushes off the ground with practised ease. The speed is heart-stopping, and his eyes water from the wind hitting his face, but nothing could make him slow down right now, not even the end of the world. Harry whoops as he races through the air, making turns that even he would have previously deemed impossible, and he only comes down because he spots a blue-haired boy gaping at the sky.

“I wish I could live in the air,” Harry tells Teddy breathlessly, hopping off the broom. He can’t stop smiling, and he thinks that flying feels a lot like being in love. “No Ezra?”

“He’ll come later,” Teddy replies quickly, then adds dreamily. “I wish I could fly like you.” Harry co*cks his head to the side, studying the boy as he touches the broom cautiously, as if it’s a horse that might suddenly bolt.

“Haven’t you had flying lessons last year?”

“Yeah, but- I passed but I wasn’t very good. Nan- It’s just me and her, and she’s always been like don’t go here, don’t climb there.” Teddy wrinkles his nose, his eyes on the broom. “I didn’t want to be scared, but I was. And I couldn’t even fly in a straight line at first or land without falling. Wolves are not supposed to go on brooms, they laughed.” Teddy’s face is pink as he shifts from foot to foot uncomfortably, and Harry realises why Ezra isn’t here. Because Teddy is worried that he’ll make a fool of himself.

“Tell you what, give me until the end of this school year, and you will fly just like me.”

A single incredulous laugh bursts out of Teddy. “You are doomed to fail.” And even though he says it, there is a tiny hopeful smile on his face.

“I like a challenge. Alright, hop on before it gets dark. We’ll go together at first.”

Harry makes Teddy sit in front of him, and they loop gently around the pitch until Teddy is comfortable enough to take control, and by the time Ezra arrives - about an hour later - Teddy is flying slow but steady circles all by himself, with Harry watching from the ground, wand in hand just in case. And when Teddy lands and doesn’t even stumble, his grin is contagious. Harry wants to bottle this memory up. It might not be Teddy’s first flight but it feels like his most successful one, and Harry couldn’t be more proud.

***

“I’ve realised what’s missing,” Harry says looking around Hermione’s office on Friday. He doesn’t want to sit in the chair that other students take when they come to talk to Hermione, even though he’s done it times before. He doesn’t want to look, to feel, like her student - he’s even changed out of his school uniform and into his favourite pair of jeans and a jumper.

“What’s that?” Hermione asks from behind the desk, one eyebrow raised.

Harry points his wand at a green armchair, which is tucked away in the corner next to a bookshelf, and transfigures it into a small sofa.

“This,” he replies and flicks his wand again to change the colour to a deep red. “Much better, don’t you think?”

He turns to face her when she doesn’t make a sound, and there is a small frown on her face that he doesn’t like the look of.

“It’s just a sofa, Hermione. Don’t you trust me?”

“Oh, it’s not you I don’t trust. It’s me.” She gets up though, and when she stops next to him, she is still too far away. They are both facing the sofa as if it’s a work of art in a museum and not a simple piece of furniture. This is ridiculous.

“Did you change your mind?” Harry asks, his throat dry all of a sudden.

“What?” Hermione looks at him as if he’s gone insane. “No. Of course not.”

“Then what’s wrong?” He takes her hand. Hermione looks at him, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth, and Harry feels like it’s been years since he kissed her last.

“Do you know how long I’ve been in love with you?” Harry’s heart thumps faster when she says ‘in love’. He shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak. “Since I was fifteen.” Her tone is challenging, as if she expects him to be mad at her. He isn’t mad though. He is surprised, shocked even that she’s waited so long, hid it so well. And a part of him, a jealous possessive part, is happy that even though she’s been with other men, her heart has been his all along. He leans down and kisses her then, tenderly, delicately, the way he would kiss her if she were fifteen. He rests a hand on her waist and pulls her into him, but still, it feels like she is too far.

“I’m sorry you had to wait for so long,” he whispers against her lips.

“You don’t understand.” Her fingers grip the fabric of his jumper. “Because I’ve been waiting for so long, I want everything now. Everything. And if we sit on this sofa, I will most definitely ravish you.”

Harry laughs. “I wouldn’t mind being ravished.”

“But I would mind being fired.”

And it will always come back to that, won’t it, no matter how much Harry would like to forget about it. That he is a student and she is his professor, and that nobody can find out about them. And although there is very little chance that McGonagall will come knocking on Hermione’s door, it is still there.

“You said that you trust me, right?” Harry asks and Hermione gives a slight nod. “Then I will have to take full responsibility for our clothes staying on,” he declares seriously and Hermione snorts. He scoops her off her feet, and she giggles, and Harry drops her on the sofa - her laughter dies with a gasp - and hovers above her, with his hands on either side of her head and his knee between her thighs. It wasn’t his intention, to land like that, yet here they are, so close again, yet still not close enough. He lowers his face to hers but before he kisses her again he decides that there is one thing that she needs to know. “I wasn’t in love with you when I was fifteen but I am in love with you now.” Hermione eyes go wide - they are so warm, her eyes, so open - and then her hand flies to the nape of his neck and she pulls him in until their lips touch.

Hermione’s hands find their way under Harry’s jumper, and Harry pops a couple of her shirt buttons open, but that’s okay. All their clothes stay on after all, and the lines that they have drawn remain uncrossed.

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

When Harry steps into the Hog’s Head on Saturday morning - how in the world did they convince Aberforth to open the pub this early? - he expects somebody like Rita Skeeter or those prim reporters he had the displeasure of talking to at the Ministry, not that he remembers the whole thing very well. He certainly doesn’t expect a familiar face that breaks into an infectious smile. His dreadlocks are gone, and he’s clearly older, but there is no mistaking the man for anybody else.

“Lee,” Harry says with an incredulous laugh, shaking Lee Jordan’s hand.

“The one and only. You have no idea how privileged you are to meet the ingenious brain behind the Owl!”

“You are the owner?”

“Who else did you expect? Xenophilius Lovegood?” Harry laughs. Not because it is funny but because of how much at ease he feels. An unmistakable click and flash of a camera wipe his smile right off though, and only now Harry notices a small blonde man standing in the corner, leaning on a table. For a brief moment, he thinks it’s Colin, only it can’t be Colin because he is dead - Harry has seen his body - limp, pale and empty - being carried in from the grounds.

“Dennis?” Harry asks, approaching, and he doesn’t like how raspy his voice sounds.

“Hi, Harry.” Dennis holds his hand out, and Harry shakes it, but he is not able to take his eyes off Dennis’s face, thinking if Colin would look similar if he had been allowed to grow up.

“I didn’t know you liked photography too,” Harry makes himself say after coughing into the crook of his arm, and Dennis smiles wanly.

“I didn’t. But I had Colin’s camera, and taking photos with it felt like the best way to remember him. And then I realised that I wasn’t half bad.”

“He is fantastic!” Lee interjects, a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Butterbeer, anyone?” And Harry sighs, relieved. He knows that they will end up talking about the war - this is the reason he is here after all - but some liquid courage before they start will surely help.

***

They sit around a grimy old table, conversation flowing easily, and even with an occasional flash of the camera and a glass ball not much bigger than a marble spinning above them and recording it all, it doesn’t feel at all like an interview. He’s never been friends with either Lee or Dennis, them being in different years, but it feels like they could be friends now. It still baffles Harry, how being around people his age - excluding Nova, strangely enough - is often a chore. He would have thought that after more than two months he’d remember what’s it like to be a student - that he’d learn to be young and stupid and carefree. And maybe he is stupid, but he surely doesn’t feel young or carefree. He still doesn’t fit in. Yet now, talking about the war, their world crumbling, and the first days of peace after the battle, Harry feels like he belongs.

He tells them about the interview they printed in the Daily Prophet on the first day of term, about how manipulated Harry felt. “No, man, I didn’t think it sounded like you,” Lee tells him, and it’s such a relief to know that there are people who know Harry, who remember him, who can say ‘no, it doesn’t sound like you.’

“You know,” Harry tells them when they are on their second round of drinks, “I really thought that it would be different, that more things would change. Did you know that Hermione is the first muggle-born professor at Hogwarts in decades? That I’ve heard students call her a mudblood? That I still hear this ugly word as often as when we were at school? What was the point of all the fighting then? Voldemort is dead but we didn’t win.” Harry has never said it out loud like that, and he scrunches his nose, wanting to cringe away from this truth.

He asks a lot of questions too, venting more than expecting them to be answered. “Is this truly the world they want to be living in? Is it how they want their children to grow up? Magic runs in my blood, in your blood, in Hermione’s blood, Teddy’s… sometimes kids howl at him because his dad was a werewolf, and it makes me so mad. We are all the same, we breathe, we bleed, we eat, we sh*t… Yeah, maybe don’t print that.” They laugh. Somehow, throughout it all, they laugh a lot. “I don’t get it, you know. When I was little, my aunt - she’s terrified of spiders, insects, even butterflies - she’d kill anything that got into the house with that look on her face, half disgust and half terror. I’ve seen purebloods look at muggle-borns exactly like that. What are they so afraid of?” Harry says other things, a lot of which he is confident the paper isn’t going to print, and when Harry finally leaves four hours later - how has it been this long? - he is a strange mix of inebriated, drained and relieved. Determined, too.

He apparates straight to Grimmauld Place and walks through the door with no hesitation. He throws all the windows and the back door open, stirring up the dust, and letting out the pain, fear and despair, which have been residing here for years. He lets in other, simpler things: fresh air, rays of sunlight, bird song, the voices of passers-by, the smell of somebody’s cooking. He lets out death and brings in life.

He goes to Wickes and buys cans of paint, some brushes, rollers and scrapers, and a bottle of something toxic that swears to be capable of stripping any form of glue. All these things can be done with spells but redecorating the house the muggle way seems right. Sirius would have approved.

He apparates back with the trolley and nearly drops everything down the steps. The passing muggles turn their heads, having heard the rattle, but their eyes slide past him, not seeing a thing.

He pours the foul-smelling glue remover behind the portrait of Walburga Black because who knows, maybe a muggle product will work when nothing magical has.

Mrs Black swears and screams, and she does it even louder when Harry starts stripping the wallpaper in the entrance hall. With how damp the house is, it comes off easily in satisfyingly long strips. The paper rustles under Harry’s feet when he moves around, the glue stinks, his arms ache, Mrs Black’s curses grow quieter but are still as vicious, his T-shirt clings to his body with sweat… Harry doesn’t stop. He peels the wallpaper off like old skin, exposing more and more of the greyish walls underneath - the bare bones - and it’s cleansing, it’s -

An ear-piercing shriek and a dull thump make Harry twist, and he throws back his head and laughs. It’s full-throated and free and loud, even louder than the woman’s screeching voice. Harry doesn’t know if it’s the gooey muggle stuff that he poured all around the frame or if Sirius’s mother couldn’t stand to look at her house being destroyed for a moment longer, but Walburga Black’s portrait is finally on the floor, cushioned by the old wallpaper. Harry can’t stop laughing, and he covers his mouth with the back of his hand, only then realising that his face is wet. He doesn’t know if it’s his sweat or tears or both. All he knows is that he feels. He feels so much.

***

Harry apparates to Ron’s flat on Sunday morning, his Sunsweeper firmly held in his hand, ready for today’s game. He bangs on the door, and it feels like forever until a sleepy Ron with bare feet and wearing crumpled pyjamas unlocks it.

“You are early,” he yawns but steps aside, letting Harry in.

“Only fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes of precious sleep!” Ron whines. Harry follows him into the kitchen where Ron fumbles, putting the kettle on the stove.

“You’ll never believe what I’ve done!” Harry says, bouncing on his toes.

“What?” Ron scratches his stomach and squints in the bright light.

“You remember the portrait of Walburga Black?”

Ron barks a laugh. “I wish I could forget.”

“I got it off the wall.”

“No sh*t!”

“Guess what I did with it?”

The kettle whistles and Ron gets two mugs and a pack of tea bags from the cupboard.

“Set it on fire?” He suggests absentmindedly, busy with the tea.

“No.”

“Threw it in the river?”

“Nope.”

“Cut it into strips to use as toilet paper?”

“Ew… that’s just gross.” Harry sticks his tongue out in disgust.

“What then?” Ron asks with a grin, handing Harry his tea.

“I posted her to the Malfoys.”

It takes a couple of seconds, but then Ron starts to laugh, and the tea sloshes in his mug as his shoulders shake.

“Well, the Malfoys are a part of the Black family.”

They joke and laugh some more, fantasising about Walburga Black screaming into the Malfoys’ faces, and maybe it’s childish and petty, but they nearly got killed in that house - Hermione got tortured and she is still wearing the scars. A bit of revenge is justified, in Harry’s mind, no matter how petty it is.

***

After the game - after pats on the back and laughter and cheers and ‘it’s good to have you back’ - Harry, Ron, George and Angelina apparate to the Burrow for a Sunday roast. It’s different, this time.

This time, when Ginny wraps her arms around him and kisses him on the cheek, it doesn’t tear him into pieces. Harry holds her nine-week-old baby, a tiny, drooly thing wrapped in a pink blanket, and he realises that he’s forgiven her, or more like, that there is nothing to forgive. She loved him, she lost him and she moved on. He loved her, he lost her, and he moved on. And even if he could change anything, he wouldn’t, not now.

This time, when they all sit around the table, Harry doesn’t feel like running away. He knows that one doesn’t need to be a redhead, or to be married to one for that matter, to be part of this family.

This time, he helps Mrs Weasley clean the table and put the clean dishes away. It’s comforting to realise that nothing has changed, and he still remembers where everything goes.

“You should bring Hermione with you next time,” Mrs Weasley tells him, passing him a stack of bowls. “I miss that girl.“

Harry puts the bowls away and hugs her impulsively, and Mrs Weasley chuckles.

“What was that for?”

Harry doesn’t think he can explain so he shrugs. “I just felt like it.” Because now, he is allowed to hug her if he feels like it, it’s that simple.

Mrs Weasley pats him on the cheek and moves to sort the cutlery.

No, you don’t need to be a redhead to be part of this family.

***

Hermione is standing in front of a purple and yellow door, her fist raised, ready to knock. Any second now, just one small move… She drops her hand with a growl of frustration, then raises it again. She isn’t doing it for herself. She is doing it for Harry. She bangs on the door so loudly that a flock of pigeons rise from the rooftop, and there is something hopeful about the tender sound with which they beat their wings. Hermione is about to knock again when the door creaks open, revealing Ron in stripy pyjamas and with pillow marks on his face. He is rubbing his eyes. Looking at him doesn’t make Hermione’s heart ache. It doesn’t.

“What’s up with you people waking me up so bloody - early.“ Ron stumbles over the words the moment he realises who he is talking to.

Not trusting her voice, Hermione silently pushes her way in and pulls her gloves off. The smell of this place, of Ron, hits her like a strong blast of wind and she nearly takes a step back. Her eyes sweep over the flat - it hasn’t changed much since the last time she was here: the furniture is the same and only the mess is different. Her eyes land on the sofa, on which she found Ron entangled with that girl. She turns away quickly only to be faced with Ron himself. He is watching her and his lips are twitching, and she can’t tell if it’s because he is fighting a smile or trying to keep whatever he wants to say in.

“It’s good to see you. You look well,” Ron breaks the silence. Hermione swallows down the urge to yell at him. If she could speak calmly with Ethan, she can do the same with Ron.

“I’m organising a surprise birthday gathering for Harry.” Her voice sounds cold, like she is talking to a complete stranger.

“Isn’t it a bit early to worry about that?” Ron scratches his head, and it’s such a familiar gesture which she used to love that she wants to throw something at him.

“Honestly, Ron, think.” Her words are like the stings of a wasp, as if she wants to give Ron everything he has accused her of in his letter. “He time travelled, didn’t he? He will technically turn eighteen in two weeks.”

“Oh, right.” Ron’s arms are hanging by his sides and he is looking at her expectantly, openly, his eyes as blue as the sky.

“I know that he will be happy to have you there.” She moves her gloves from one hand to the other. “And I needed to see you beforehand to make sure I don’t bite your head off at the actual party.” Ron snorts and Hermione wonders if her gloves will reach him if she throws them hard enough.

“I’ll be there. Just tell me when and where.”

Hermione nods. “I’ll owl you. I need to go. I’ve got class in half an hour.”

She starts walking towards the door when Ron blurts out, “Why didn’t you get in touch before? I missed you. I tried, didn’t I? I apologised?” Something snaps inside Hermione, and she changes direction and launches herself at Ron.

“You - call - this - an apology!” She smacks him with her gloves with every word, and Ron raises his arms in a half-hearted attempt to protect his head. She stops, her chest heaving, and recites, her tone derisive. “I’m sorry, Hermione, but you’re kinda impossible to love.” She stomps her foot like an angry child. “You made it sound like it was my fault.”

She folds her arms and glares at him, expecting him to deny it, to make excuses, to accuse her of something else. Instead, his shoulders slump and he looks so sad. What right does he have to look like that?

“I was wrong.” He rubs his face with his hands and looks at her again. “I got drunk after you left. Like, properly drunk. I felt so guilty. I wasn’t thinking straight. I am so, so sorry. I never wanted to ruin our friendship.”

“Well, you did.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you get in touch again?” Hermione asks, and Ron scratches his head again, looking awkward.

“I was afraid that you wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me.”

Hermione sighs. She wants to tell him that it’s a stupid reason but she also understands, a little bit.

“I kept your letter. I’d reread it every time I felt like sending you an owl.” Ron winces as if her words have caused him physical pain. Good.

“Do you think you will be able to forgive me, someday?”

“Maybe, someday,” she replies. Her voice is not exactly warm, but there is something there now, an emotion she can’t name. She would like to forgive him - it would make everything so much easier if she could - but she doesn’t know if she can.

Ron opens the door for her when she is ready to leave. She brushes past him but then stops to look at his face.

“It was good to see you too,” she says because, in a way, it was. Ron smiles at her words, and she smiles too, before she adds, “Hitting you was extremely satisfying.”

He laughs. “I’m glad I could be of service.”

Her smile grows a smidge wider, and when she makes her way down the steps, it’s with a lighter heart.

***

“What do you think it means to forgive?” She asks Harry when they are snuggled on the sofa in her office, the door securely warded. He holds her hand in his and starts tracing the lines of her palm with his finger, thinking.

“I don’t know… maybe it’s like acceptance. You know the person and you know what they did, you know that they hurt you… you even know that they might hurt you again. But you choose to accept this person anyway, with their flaws. Because having them in your life is better than not having them at all.”

“Who are you thinking about?” she asks curiously. She wants to see Harry’s face but she feels too comfortable, snuggled into his side, his fingers drawing patterns on her palm, on her wrist, dipping under the cuff of her cardigan. She wishes she knew how to purr.

“Ron,” Harry replies. “You?”

“Ron.” She wonders if he can hear a smirk in her voice.

Harry huffs a laugh, then lifts her wrist to his mouth and brushes his lips against the skin there. It’s distracting.

“What have you decided?” She doesn’t comprehend Harry’s question - he has rolled up her sleeve, and his breath is so hot, and his mouth feels so good… how is it possible for such a simple touch to be so damn erotic? It is just her arm, for goodness’ sake.

“Hermione?”

“Hm?”

“Are you going to forgive him?” He nips at her skin playfully, and she swears he is doing it on purpose to turn her brain into useless goo.

“I’m trying to.”

“Good,” he says and tugs on her arm, and she swings her leg over Harry’s lap, straddling him. She shifts closer, eager to feel him, even if it’s through several layers of clothing. Harry’s fingers dig into her sides, strong and restraining.

“If you move any closer, I can’t promise I will be able to control myself.” She loves how low and rough Harry’s voice gets when he is turned on. She wants to know how he will sound when she rubs herself on him, when she holds his co*ck in her hand, when she sucks him into her mouth, when he sinks into her to the hilt.

“Maybe I don’t want you to control yourself,” she sounds wanton, unthinking, and she leans in, hungry for his mouth, always so hungry.

“Do you mean that?” Harry asks when they break apart, panting, foreheads pressed together. Hermione looks into his eyes. They are blazing with fire, and it would be so easy, so easy… She groans and shifts back. She rests her head in the crook of his neck and feels his hand run up her back, slow and soothing.

“It’s going to be an impossibly long year,” she whines, and Harry chuckles lowly.

“It’s kind of fun though… resisting the temptation.”

“Is it now?” She kisses his neck, breathes him in, and feels his body go tense under hers. She knows that she is playing with fire but, the problem is, she really wants to burn.

Chapter 16

Chapter Text

Harry goes to classes and does his homework without procrastinating just to get it out of the way. He teaches Teddy how to fly and helps him with a few tricky spells, writes a letter to Andromeda - he should have done it much sooner but he’s never been good at it, writing letters - and goes to Grimmauld Place every chance he gets. And he tries not to watch Hermione. He fails more often than not and ends up stealing glances at her at meal times or while stirring his potion between adding ingredients. They still touch hands every time they pass each other like they’ve been doing from the very beginning. Now though, this touch - such a brief brush of skin against skin - burns and spreads heat all over his body. It’s embarrassing, really, the way he reacts to her, and how much more he craves. The time they spend together on Fridays feels like a tiny gasp of air after holding his breath all week. It’s maddening.

Hermione is good at not watching Harry - these days, their gazes barely ever cross - but she gravitates closer to him instead as if she can’t resist the pull - does she even try? In her classroom, Hermione stands closer to Harry than should be acceptable - close enough for his fingers to brush against her thigh, close enough for him to be able to smell her shampoo, close enough that he has to adjust himself discreetly, grateful for the school robes. It’s surprising he is able to focus at all.

Harry starts running early in the mornings because this energy, it’s just too much, it has to go somewhere. The first time he does it, he wakes up with sore muscles the next day, but he gets up, puts on a pair of joggers, a sweatshirt and his ancient trainers and goes outside just as the sun is about to rise. His breath makes clouds in the air, his feet hit the ground with a satisfying rhythm, his muscles ache - running that morning is like pressing on a fresh bruise with a finger - but Harry is not a stranger to pain. Besides, this particular brand of pain is gratifyingly good.

“A busy night again?” Nova asks with a knowing smirk when Harry comes in late for breakfast yet again, and of course she would assume something like that. He rolls his eyes at her.

“I’ve started running,” he tells her, piling his plate with everything his hands can reach. Harry expects Nova to accuse him of being mental - magical folk aren’t big on exercise unless it’s Quidditch - but she surprises him by asking if she could join him.

So, the next morning Nova comes down with her hair tied back, no makeup charms, wearing a band T-shirt - a wizarding one Harry doesn’t recognise - black leggings and a pair of hiking boots. She looks strangely bare like this, as if she peeled off her mask last night and forgot to put it back on when she got up.

“You might get cold,” Harry says.

“Not if I run fast enough.”

She does run fast, and her boots never slip on the frost-covered ground. “I went hiking nearly every day in summer,” she explains between breaths, and Harry remembers how effortlessly she climbed the path to Sirius’s cave. “It’s wild where I live. Beautiful.”

“Did you go alone?”

“Mostly.” She speeds up, and it feels like there is another secret hiding behind this little bit of truth.

They talk as they run along the lake, watching the sky change colours. Sometimes, it stays dull and grey, but often it’s orange and pink and lilac and blue and everything is so alive that it creates tiny happy explosions in Harry’s mind. Who would’ve thought that looking at the sky could do that?

Nova lends him her Stephen King book after she has finished even though Harry only meant it as a joke when he asked her if he could borrow it. He isn’t much of a reader but he tries - he even likes it at first. Until he reaches a scene where a young mother hits her wailing baby. “Shut up, shut up,” she screams. Harry shuts the book with a loud clap and throws it on the table in front of him.

“Not a fan of horror?” Nova asks him.

“I’ve had enough of it in my real life.” He also has secrets hidden behind little truths, it seems.

But then, when they go for a run the morning after, he tells her, “My relatives-“ Hermione called it abuse, once, and she didn’t even know a tenth of what was going on in that house, but Harry doesn’t like this word. “They’d hit me sometimes. Locked me up mostly. Starved me a bit.” He can sense her eyes on him but his stay firmly trained on the ground ahead. The sky remains uninspiringly dull that morning.

“It happens,” Nova says after a moment of quiet, and Harry exhales. There is no horror in her words, no pity. It happens. You’re not a freak. It happens.

And a couple of days later, as they pass the spot where Harry said ‘they’d hit me sometimes’, Nova starts speaking.

“My mum’s sister visits every summer - with her husband. He likes to hike. He’d often take me with - I was the only one who wanted to go.” They pass a gnarly oak and a giant rock resembling a troll’s head. “I let him f*ck me the summer after my fifth year.” Harry nearly trips but finds his footing again, and when he glances at Nova, he doesn’t see a single emotion he can read. Being married means nothing to some people, he remembers her say.

“Did you want him to?” He asks, anxiety burning his throat.

“I wanted somebody else. But he was the only one there, so… it hurt like hell.” She laughs as if it’s funny. And something else that she’s said pops into his head. You know the best way to get over your ex? f*ck someone new.

“It’s not funny,” he tells her, a frown on his face. Their pace is slower now, more of an easy jog.

“I don’t know,” she laughs again. “A pathetic lonely girl has sex with her uncle-in-law in an attempt to get over a crush on her professor.” Harry doesn’t need to ask who the said professor is. “You see, they are right. I’m scum.”

“Nova-“ but she sprints off, without letting him finish. He doesn’t know what the right thing to say here is anyway. You are not scum? It’s not your fault? He doesn’t think it will be good enough.

In the end, when he catches up with Nova, he settles for, “I don’t see you like that.” Because It’s the only truth Nova won’t be able to argue with.

“You might be the only one.”

***

It becomes routine, making confessions at dawn as they jog around the lake. Their secrets come out as clouds with their breaths, and they watch them dissolve into nothing. Harry tells Nova about using Crucio for the first time when he was fifteen, he tells her how it didn’t work. He tells her about the time it did work too, with Amycus Carrow.

“Do you regret it?” She asks.

“No.” And this is the real secret, not that he has cast an unforgivable successfully but that he doesn’t regret it at all.

“I’ve never cast Avada Kedavra but I think I could. If I had to.” He tells her what it felt like to have Voldemort inside his head for years. “Sometimes it feels like he is still there.”

“He is definitely gone though, isn’t he?” Harry doesn’t know why it takes him a while to answer.

“Yeah. He’s gone.”

He tells her about Sectumsempra and how there is so much more blood in the human body than you might think. He tells her about kneeling in it, and how warm it felt soaking into the fabric of his trousers.

“This one, I regret,” he says.

Nova’s secrets are more disturbing though. Or maybe Harry only thinks that because they are so different from his.

“I came back home after - I remember holding my baby cousin in my arms - I tickled her belly and she laughed that silly drooly laugh of hers - I felt so rotten. I was holding her while still bleeding from losing my virginity to her dad. This is what I regret the most.”

She tells him about Neville, too, over the following week, in little bites. “I love Herbology although I mess about a lot, now.” He learns that she loves plants and nature and everything alive. “Professor Longbottom would lend me books,” she says. And, “We grew closer after Akemi left.” And, “He held me a couple of times when I cried.” And, “I helped him in the greenhouses a lot. I’d stand close, and our arms would brush and - sometimes we’d sit and talk about books and stuff and our knees would touch and he never moved away. He never moved away, Harry, and I thought- I was stupid, really. A stupid girl with a stupid girl crush.” She calls herself stupid a lot, and she says ‘scum’ and ‘slu*t’ and ‘slag’ and ‘whor*’, and Harry finally realises why she lets everybody treat her the way they do: because she believes all these things about herself.

“I tried kissing him. Before everything else happened,” she says.

Her cheeks are always bright pink from running in the cold, but when she says this, her whole face turns red, and this is the first time Harry has seen her blush. “He looked horrified - and I realised that everything - this attraction - was just in my head.” He’s devoted to his wife, she said during their very first Herbology lesson. I’m not the only one who’s tried.

Harry catches Nova by the arm and holds her by the shoulders, making her look right at him.

“He is a grown man. He should have known. He shouldn’t have got so close to you.” Nova shakes her head. Her ponytail swings from side to side, and her chest is heaving.

“You know why I f*cked all these boys? I wanted him to be jealous, or angry, or - to feel something, anything, for me. And when I kissed him the second time, when I grabbed his co*ck-“ And she didn’t tell him this bit before, did she? But she is doing it now. “I was so angry, I wanted to rip it off, I wanted to sink my teeth into him, to hurt him - because - because all the choices that I made were because of him and yet he dared to look at me with such revulsion.” He can hear tears in Nova’s voice but her eyes stay strangely dry. “At least I got a strong emotion out of him.” Her laugh and this whole story leave a bitter taste in Harry’s mouth, like drinking tea which has been brewing for too long.

Harry feels something sharp and angry twisting in his gut. He ignores it and walks Nova back to the castle, and they make jokes like they normally do after each morsel of painful truth. He takes a shower - spends too long in there - gets dressed and, instead of turning for the Great Hall, heads out of the castle, meaning to skip the first lesson and go to Grimmauld Place and tear the house elf heads off the wall or blow up some furniture. Only he catches a glimpse of the greenhouses, and he makes a sharp turn for the one where they normally have classes before he can properly think about what he is doing - Neville is probably still at breakfast, and the door is surely locked. It isn’t though, and Neville is inside, watering a shrub with flowers that seem to emit a gentle glow. Something crunches under Harry’s feet as he crosses the distance separating him and the person he used to consider a friend, and when Neville looks up, eyes wide with surprise, Harry’s arm is already drawn back. Neville might be older than him, but Harry is broader, and living with Dudley has taught him how to throw a good punch. When his fist connects with Neville’s nose, Harry feels it crunch, and Neville falls against a table, clutching his nose, blood already dribbling from between his fingers. The watering can clatters to the floor, spilling, making a puddle grow on the floor.

“What the f*ck did you do that for?” Neville’s voice comes out wet and nasal as he rights himself clumsily, and the pain Harry sees in his eyes shouldn’t be this satisfying.

“Take a guess,” Harry says, ice in his voice.

Neville swears under his breath, opening and closing the drawers noisily until he finds a rag and presses it to his nose.

“What tale did that girl spin this time?” Harry’s blood boils with rage, and it’s not just for Nova. It’s for all the times when he was telling the truth and nobody listened. It’s for the times when he was left alone with no support and no answers, dumped at the Dursleys and forgotten about. Harry takes a step closer, and Neville goes to step back but his legs hit a chair, making its legs scrape against the floor.

“So you never spent time with her privately, you never sat close enough for your arms and legs to be touching, you never hugged her when she was upset-“

“What are you accusing me of? I never touched her. Not like-”

“You knew she had a crush on you and you led her on-“

“I was trying to be her friend.” Harry moves closer still, and Neville's mouth twists unhappily.

“Then why did you stop being her friend last year when she really needed one?”

“You weren’t here. You haven’t seen how much she changed, how vile and provocative she became! Morgana’s tit*, Harry, she is just a bratty girl.” Harry grabs him by his shirt, wishing there was a wall he could slam him against.

“A teenage girl whose behaviour changes dramatically, and instead of trying to find out what’s going on, everybody points and sneers. Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that she was begging for somebody to finally notice?” And this shuts Neville right up. He is opening and closing his mouth like a fish, the bloody rag still pressed to his face. Harry unclenches his fist.

“You should apologise. And stop treating her like she is dirty. You are a professor for f*ck’s sake, act like one.”

He leaves just as a group of fourth year Hufflepuffs trickle in.

“Professor!” Somebody gasps.

The rumours are going to be interesting tonight.

***

“Did you really break his nose?” Nova whispers at lunch. “I had Ancient Runes with the Hufflepuffs, and they said some very interesting things.”

“Oh?”

Nova elbows him painfully in the ribs, and he winces but laughs at the same time.

“Did you or did you not?”

“You know, I never imagined that punching somebody could put me in such a good mood.”

It seems to put Nova in a good mood too, and the next morning when they are out again, she says. “I’m glad you did it but it was mostly my fault. I shouldn’t have fallen for a professor.”

“It happens,” Harry says, using Nova’s words from nearly two weeks ago. To his surprise, she snorts.

“You’d know.” He doesn’t like the sound of what she is saying, and when he glances at her, her mouth is quirked in a familiar way. She knows. But she can’t know everything. So, for the first time since they met, Harry lies to her.

“It doesn’t mean anything.” His heart is racing and it has nothing to do with them running uphill.

“If it didn’t mean anything, you wouldn’t have stopped kissing me.” And sh*t, he forgot about that. He wants to ask Nova not to tell anybody but that will incriminate him even more. He ends up saying nothing at all, and neither does Nova.

His heart doesn’t stop pounding for a very long time.

Chapter 17

Chapter Text

It’s the last Friday in November, and Hermione can still feel Harry’s fingers on her hips and his lips between her breasts when there is a knock on her door. She checks that her blouse is buttoned all the way up - it is - and she tucks her hair behind her ears. Harry always takes the pins out and lets it fall heavily on her shoulders, he -

The knock comes again, sharp, impatient, and Hermione points her wand at the door, urging it to open.

It’s Nova. Hermione swears mentally.

“She knows about us,” Harry told her less than two hours ago, making her chest tight with worry. “Or suspects at least.” And now, here she is, crossing Hermione’s office with a stubborn tilt to her head, with an expression Hermione has worn so many times herself: I know I am right and there is nothing you can do to convince me otherwise. Hermione’s back is a straight tense line as Nova takes a seat across from her and folds her arms.

“Miss Paislee,” Hermione greets, forcing a smile, and Nova jerks her head, irritated, like a horse that wants to shake the reins off.

“There is something between you and Harry,” she says, glaring, looking nothing like the girl Hermione sees in class.

“We’ve been friends for a long time.” Hermione tries to sound calm, as if she has no idea of what she is being accused of. Her palms feel clammy and she fights the urge to wipe them on her skirt.

“If you hurt Harry, if you use him, lead him on or manipulate him in any way, I am going to make sure the whole wizarding world knows about it, and ruin your career.” And this is not what Hermione has expected her to say. This isn’t about right or wrong, inappropriate or not. For Nova, it’s about Harry and his wellbeing, and nothing else.

“You care about him,” Hermione says, leaning forward, forcing the tension out of her body.

“He is the only one who sees me. Of course I care.” The stubborn tilt to her chin is still there, but there is something else too now, curiosity, maybe - an openness that wasn’t there before. And Hermione makes a choice, right then. Not because she trusts Nova - she doesn’t know her enough - or because Harry trusts her, even though he does. She does it because a part of her - a dark insecure thing with needle-sharp teeth - is jealous. That part of her wants everybody, Nova included, to know that Harry belongs to her.

“I love Harry more than anybody else in my life. Hurting him is the last thing I want now that I have him back.” The truth is easy, so much easier than pretending and building castles of lies. Nova unfolds her arms, and her expression morphs into something lost, as if Hermione admitting to her feelings is the last thing she expected.

Nova nods shakily and goes to get up. Impulsively, Hermione calls her name, not Miss Paislee but her first name.

“Would you like to go out with us this Sunday?” she asks although it’s a horrible idea. Inappropriate. Harry is one thing but befriending other students? Maybe being a professor isn’t for her after all. “It will be me, Harry and a few other friends we used to go to school with. Harry will be the only one your age but-”

“Will Professor Longbottom be there?”

“No.” Hermione frowns. Harry never explained why he’d punched Neville. She figured that it had something to do with Ginny but maybe it wasn’t about Ginny at all.

A cautious smile dawns on Nova’s face. “Then yes, I would very much like that.”

***

“I’m coming with,” Nova declares brightly, leaping up from her chair just as Harry comes down the boys’ staircase.

“Why didn’t you say something during breakfast then?” He squints at her suspiciously because he knows that look. I-know-something-you-don’t sort of look.

“I’ve just decided.”

“You don’t like Quidditch.” They watched Gryffindor play Slytherin earlier this month, and she didn’t look up even once from her Anne Rice book while Harry, on the other hand, was raging, frustrated that their seeker couldn’t see the Snitch that was right there.

“Maybe I want to ride your broom,” she says suggestively, thankfully looking at the Sunsweeper held in Harry’s hand.

“You can ride my broom any time,” he deadpans but then shrugs and says, “Fine. Just don’t tell me you’re bored while we’re there.”

***

They apparate straight to the field somewhere in Cornwall where they played before. The wind whips Nova’s hair across her face, and she gathers it into a messy bun on top of her head and looks around. They are a bit early but, strangely, so is Ron and Harry introduces them reluctantly. He doesn’t like the way Ron is looking at Nova - from her head to her toes and back up again, a silly grin on his face. And surely, Nova notices. And while she has no problem flirting with boys, Harry has noticed that the attention of men makes her want to bolt. So, when Nova holds her hand out for Harry’s broom after she chirps a polite hello, clearly looking for an escape, he gives it to her without a shred of hesitation and watches her shoot into the air like a firework.

“Wow,” Ron says dreamily, eyes following Nova across the sky.

“Is it the legs?” Harry asks, his tone flat. He feels protective of Nova, and, really, it’s not surprising at all, considering that she’s been doing a rubbish job of protecting herself.

“No. It’s the way she flies.” Ron answers, and Harry chuckles despite himself. The last time he saw his friend look this dopey was when he got dosed with a love potion. Still, Harry says, “Don’t even think about it.”

Ron lifts his hands up defensively and laughs. “I’m not. Promise.” Harry doesn’t believe him.

They watch Nova for a bit. She isn’t good per se - her moves are jerky and there is this one time when Harry thinks she will crash to the ground - but she is reckless, like she has no fear, so much so that Harry wonders if she wants to have an accident. So, he keeps his wand firmly grasped in his hand just in case he needs to cast a cushioning charm.

When the others arrive, Angelina quickly apparates back home and comes back with an extra broom.

“Here,” she says, holding it out to Nova. “You’ll be bored to death if you stay down here.”

“I won’t be any good if I play.” Nova takes the broom though - it looks like it’s seen better days - and her smile is genuine, which makes Harry wonder when the last time she felt included like that was.

“You can play Keeper then. We all suck at that.”

“Oi!” Ron protests, scandalised, and everyone laughs. Nova too.

They play. Nova misses the first four Quaffles, her face twisted with annoyance.

“Don’t worry. It’s not you. It’s the broom!” One of the younger lads in their group, Finley something, reassures her. She catches the fifth though and everybody cheers. Nova throws her head back and laughs like it’s the most amazing thing in the world, catching the Quaffle, and Harry decides that he will bring Nova with next time. If she wants to come.

The snow starts falling in the afternoon - enormous, fluffy flakes, the sort that kids catch with their mouths, faces tilted to the sky. It may be breathtakingly beautiful but the snow nips at Harry’s exposed skin as he zooms through the air, like little daggers made of ice. He’s about to suggest they go home but George beats him to it, “I’m done!” He shouts, heading to the ground. “It’s brass monkeys out here!” Naturally, everybody follows.

“Are you coming to the Burrow for lunch?” Ron asks. Snowflakes are clinging to his eyelashes and his cheeks and ears are pink with cold. He reminds Harry of Christmas.

“I was actually going to head to Grimmauld.”

“Aw, come on, Mum’s made a treacle tart just for you.”

“Now that’s low,” Harry points an accusing finger at him. “Guilting me into coming.”

Ron ignores him and turns to Nova, “You should totally come too.”

So, they do, Grimmauld can wait. Harry side-alongs Nova to the Burrow, and there is even more snow here - it crunches under their shoes and settles on their heads and shoulders. They stomp their feet and brush the flakes off their cloaks before they go inside.

Mrs Weasley is standing by the door with her wand at the ready. She dries their clothes, muttering about catching colds and puddles of water on the floor. Then, completely ignoring Ron and him, Mrs Weasley whisks Nova away, chattering about meeting the others and hot chocolate and how Nova is way too skinny.

“This one isn’t an orphan!” Ron shouts after them, then whispers to Harry. “She’s not, is she?”

“She isn’t,” Harry chuckles then nearly stumbles over the shoes as he jumps out of the way of Nova’s cloak, which has just floated past to hang itself on a hook. Ron catches him and claps him on the shoulder, eyes lit with mirth, “Either way, mate, I think you’ve just been replaced.”

Harry only laughs. He laughs a lot that day. There is a lightness in him - like he is finally letting go of the past and just living. Besides, it’s refreshing not to be the centre of attention once in a while. It’s only Ginny, Bill and the kids today but still, Nova gets bombarded with questions, and of course, Mrs Weasley asks if she and Harry are together.

Harry shakes his head while Nova presses her palm to her chest and dramatically declares, “Harry has broken my heart.” And even though it’s painfully obvious that she isn’t being serious, Mrs Weasley still sends him a glare.

Everybody falls in love with Nova, that day. The kids - Ginny’s lot and Bill and Fleur’s too - flock to her like she is the most mesmerising thing they’ve ever seen. She makes animal-shaped bubbles with her wand: bunnies and unicorns and chicks and dragons and bears. They don’t pop when they hit the ground but run around, making the children squeal with glee. Harry watches her in awe: he had no idea that magic could be this kind. Later, Nova uses a charm to paint their faces. A butterfly for Dominique, a dinosaur for Ant (“Are you sure you don’t want a dragon? Okaay.”)

Harry takes his mug of hot chocolate and slips away, needing a break from all the noise. He wraps his scarf around his neck, puts his boots on without zipping them up and steps outside. He looks at the sky, at the clouds heavy with snow - he opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out, feeling a bit silly. Is it strange he’s never done it before? Or maybe he has but he doesn’t remember. The front door opens and shuts just as a snowflake lands in the middle of his tongue, and he hastily closes his mouth and looks back, feeling silly, but it’s only Ginny.

“Hey,” he says. She is wrapped in an old scratchy blanket, a hat with a pompom clearly knitted by her mum on top of her head, red hair spilling over her shoulders. She is still beautiful, Ginny, but so very tired. Every time Harry sees her, she looks utterly exhausted.

She comes to stand next to him, steals a sip of his hot chocolate, returns the mug, then leans against him, and it’s all so familiar that an ache that Harry thought was completely healed comes back to life. It’s this what-if sort of feeling. What if I had been here all along? Would you be mine now? It’s not that he wants it, now, not exactly, but Ginny will always be a part of him, he reckons. Harry puts his arm around her shoulders - it is cold - thinking that it’s impossible to stop loving somebody, not if you have truly loved them at some point in your life. The feeling evolves but it never goes away.

“I don’t mind if you marry that one,” Ginny waves her hand at the house then quickly hides it under the blanket again.

“I am not in love with her,” and the way Harry says it - he knows that Ginny will know straight away what he means.

“But you are in love.”

“Yeah.” He chuckles awkwardly and takes a sip of hot chocolate. She doesn’t ask who she is, and Harry wonders if Ginny can sense that Harry doesn’t want to say.

“I’d always thought you’d be my first. My only.” Harry glances at her: Ginny has her eyes closed, her face smooth, relaxed.

“I thought so too.”

“Why didn’t we? We’ve done everything else.” Shouldn’t it feel weird, them talking like that?

“Well, the number of times Ron barged in on us... It’s probably his fault.” Ginny’s laugh is melancholic.

“Ron was such a prat.”

“Was?”

They laugh again, and their gazes cross. Ginny frowns, and her mouth becomes a tight line.

“Is it strange for you to see me like this? All… old.”

“You don’t look old,” he pushes her playfully but then steadies her straight away. “Just older.” He looks at the sky again, the fields, the trees, the light dusting of snow on their branches. “I guess it was a bit strange, at first. When I thought about you, I pictured your face from before, and every time I looked at you, I was a bit surprised. But now, I just see you like you are. So no, it’s not strange. It’s just you, Gin.”

“I don’t recognise myself sometimes. Like, I look in the mirror, at my kids, at my life, and think, who even is this person? Even my nipples don’t look the same!”

An incredulous laugh bursts out of Harry. “Gin, you are not just your nipples.”

She makes a sound somewhere between a giggle and a hiccup. “I don’t know. Rose feeds so much that I feel that I’m nothing but my nipples right now.” She apologises then because, surely, Harry doesn’t want to hear her moan about her life. But the thing is, Harry does want to know everything she is willing to share. She is not just his ex-girlfriend. She is family and Harry tells her just that and then brings up something that’s been on his mind for a while.

“I wondered… Remember how you’d swear that you’d never be like your mum? One child, two max, and only after I turn thirty, you’d say. You wanted to play professionally-“

“I actually did, did you know?”

Harry looks at her, amazed. He should have asked sooner. “I had no idea! Which team?”

“Holyhead Harpies. I told myself that you’d want me to, that Fred would want me to...”

They talk about that for a while, and Ginny ends up sharing her blanket with him when his hot chocolate runs out and he starts to shiver. Harry tells her about renovating Grimmauld Place, about seeing Lee and Dennis, about how clueless he is about what he wants to do after he graduates. And only when there is nothing else left to talk about, he finally asks, “When did you and Neville get together?”

He expects Ginny to tease him about being jealous - she doesn’t. He can feel her eyes on him but Harry is looking straight ahead. He doesn’t think he can stand seeing her face if she says that it was during the war.

“A year after the battle. There was this memorial service at Hogwarts. It was horrible. But Neville and I talked, he said he’d always had a crush on me, asked me out. It was sweet.”

“You must have fallen hard, considering you got married just a year later.” He hates it that he sounds so bitter. He’s got no right.

However, Ginny’s tone is just as bitter when she says, “I got pregnant. Had a miscarriage shortly after the wedding. Neville said it was because I kept on training, and maybe it was. Either way, I was relieved.” Harry finally looks at her, her eyes hard and her mouth tight.

“I don’t like Neville very much.”

Ginny makes that noise again, the one between a hiccup and a giggle. “Jealous?”

“No… well, maybe a little.” He grins at her. He wants her to know that everything is alright, that he isn’t judging her for anything. His grin gets wiped right off when she speaks.

“None of our children were planned. I love them, obviously, but I didn’t choose them.”

“Then how?”

“Well, you see. When a boy likes a girl and a girl likes a boy-“ He elbows her lightly, and she squirms away from him, letting the cold air under the blanket they are still sharing. “I’m a Weasley. I seem to be immune to contraception charms and potions - it’s alright though. They are great kids. Neville is great. My life is-“

“-great?”

“Exactly!”

They laugh because what else is there to do? And that’s how Ron and Nova find them, under one blanket, heads pressed together, laughing at how messed up everything is.

“Step away from my sister! She is a married woman. Merlin help me!” Ron says with mock sternness and a grin so wide it could melt the snow. “And anyway, how can I kidnap you if you’re clinging on to her like that.”

Harry looks at him, then at Nova, confused. “I don’t think I’ve signed up for being kidnapped today.”

“It was arranged by a third party.” All of a sudden, Ginny shoves him away with a cackle, stealing the blanket and all the heat, and Ron grabs him under the arm, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

“Do you trust me?” Ron asks.

“Do I have to answer that?” But Ron is already turning on the heel, and Nova dashes to grab his other arm, and, with a crack, the three of them get swept away.

***

“This is the second time you’ve apparated me without my convent,” Harry complains as he gets dragged - not that he is resisting - by Ron out of the alley, across the street and down the steps into a basem*nt. This is ridiculous. he is still holding his empty mug (he banishes it quickly back to the Burrow), his boots are unzipped and he stumbles - past a bar and down even more steps and into a dim room with people sitting around tables and a screen taking half the wall, showing a Pepsi advert. A bunch of arms rise into the air and wave, and the shouts of “Harry!” “Ron!” “Here!” float across the room. Harry sees Seamus and Dean and Luna (“Oh, Hello, Harry, you look exactly the same. Who is your friend?”) and Alicia, and Fred and Angelina too, and then Hermione stands up and everything else disappears. She is wearing a dress that hugs her body just right and shimmers in the light of the screen, and when she twists to squeeze between the chairs, he notices that it reveals the smooth skin of her back. And, f*ck.

“Happy eighteenth birthday,” she says and kisses him on the cheek and explains something about May and July and counting the days, but he can barely hear.

“You can’t wear this dress and expect me to behave.” His voice is low so that only she can hear.

“Then don’t,” Hermione smirks, and this is not playing fair. He drags his knuckles up the lengths of her spine before he can think about what he is doing, but nobody seems to be paying them any mind, either mesmerised by the screen or studying the menu.

“Look, they’ve got something called Oooh Ginger! And it’s got tequila in it!” George leans over several people to shove what seems to be a co*cktail menu right in front of Ron’s face. “We must try it!”

“Come, I’ve saved you a seat,” Hermione pulls him by the hand, and Harry forces himself to drag his eyes away from her and focus on the others. He catches up with Alicia and Seamus and Dean, whom he hasn’t seen since before, checks if Nova is okay, asks Luna about her travels. He is still holding Hermione’s hand under the table like a secret he desperately wants to share. What would it be like if he lifted their clasped hands up and said, “Hey, everyone, Hermione and I are together.” And then they could stop pretending. Then, he’d finally be allowed to touch her.

The Columbia Pictures logo comes up and all the faces turn to the screen. Harry keeps himself distracted at first. There are at least twenty flavours of popcorn to choose from and the co*cktail names are hilarious - Fuzzy Navel, Corpse Revival, Dirty puss*… He gets a Salty Dog and chilly popcorn, and watches aliens and men in black suits on the screen. People around them are talking softly and making silly jokes and snorting and laughing. Luna is braiding Nova’s hair, Ron is stuffing his face with popcorn. Harry’s popcorn burns his lips and tongue, and he wonders: if he trailed open-mouthed kisses down Hermione’s back, would she feel a tingle on her skin? He watches the screen. He watches the speed with which Luna’s fingers work, creating dozens of long thin braids. He watches Seamus order another co*cktail. He watches a couple in the corner whisper to each other, lips on skin. Harry lets go of Hermione’s hand, trails his fingers up her forearm, past the crook of her elbow, and places his palm on Hermione’s bare back, splaying his fingers wide open, needing to touch as much of her as he can. She stills, her drink just short of her lips. She takes a sip and gently puts the glass down, then shifts a bit closer. Harry lets his hand travel up, following the bumps of her spine, the lines of her shoulder blades , then down again, fingertips brushing the edge of the fabric of her dress, dipping under it, waiting for Hermione to tell him to stop.

A few people laugh at something happening in the film - Harry isn’t even trying to keep up - and he leans in to murmur, “Your skin is so damn soft, makes me want to sink my teeth into you.” Hermione chuckles, low and sultry. It’s torture. He moves his hand away, picks up his drink, takes a sip. The rim of his glass is covered with salt, and Harry licks it off his lips. He puts the drink down and rests his hand on Hermione’s knee. They are hidden by the table and the dimness of the room, and nobody’s looking anyway. He wants to know if she is wearing stockings today. She hasn’t recently - it’s been too cold - but with this dress…he touches the bones of her knee, the flesh of her inner thigh covered by nylon. Harry wants to feel her skin and Hermione, as if she knows exactly what he craves, opens her legs. She opens her legs - sitting at this table, surrounded by people, by friends, waiters coming and going - it’s like she wants everybody to find out, just like Harry. She shivers when Harry’s fingers meander higher. He feels lace under his fingertips and then only skin - soft, tender, hot - and Hermione still doesn’t stop him. He grazes the silky fabric of her knickers with his fingers, and she makes a noise - a tiny oh - which goes straight to his co*ck. He looks around the table, but everybody is too caught up in the film.

He catches Hermione’s eye, sees the fire there, and he forgets all reason, all should-s and shouldn’t-s.

You can’t wear this dress and expect me to behave.

Then don’t.

Looking at her, Harry silently co*cks his head towards the exit before he gets up.

“Loo,” he explains when a couple of his friends look up.

“Oh, I need to go too,” Hermione says, and it’s that easy. No questions, no suspicious looks - even Nova is determinedly looking away.

***

“I’ve decided what I want for my birthday,” Harry says in that low rough voice that makes heat pool deep in her belly. They are crammed into a dark storage room, and Harry slides his fingers into her hair, tugging her head back against the door which she is pressed against, the wood icy on the heated skin of her back.

“What is that?”

He kisses her, open-mouthed and filthy - her lips, her jaw, her neck - and she knows that she will give him anything right now. Anything.

She follows the push and pull of his hands, allowing him to spin her around, and rests her forehead and her palms on the door. Harry kicks her feet apart, and the noise that she makes is so helpless it’s embarrassing. He yanks her dress up, snakes his hands around her - one resting around her throat and another one low on her belly - and presses into her from behind. And feeling him like this, so hard for her and so in control, makes her body feel like it’s not her own. She had no idea she could even feel like this.

“I’m going to make you come.” His words are a growl as he slides his hand from her belly lower, lower, until his palm is cupping her possessively. “Yes?”

She mumbles something incoherent but it must be enough because his fingers dip past the elastic of her pants and -

“God, you are so wet.” Harry rubs perfect tiny circles around her cl*t, he presses into her back, he dips his fingers inside and the angle is just right, and she moans, slumping against Harry, her legs suddenly useless.

“Just there?” She can hear a grin in his voice. Is he mocking her? Does she care? Her legs shake.

“I need you to f*ck me.” Is it even her voice? She doesn’t remember ever, ever sounding like that. Harry bites the back of her neck, just past playful. “Not now.”

She wants to argue, to demand, yes, now, right here, in the dark, like a dirty little secret. But his fingers work faster, harder, and Hermione presses her open mouth into the back of her hand, and shatters into a million tiny pieces.

It takes her a while to remember how to form words but when she does, Hermione wets her dry lips and asks, breathless, desperate, as if she hasn’t just had the most mind-blowing org*sm of her life, “When?” Harry’s answering chuckle rumbles through her body. “When I graduate, I was told. I’m not the one who’s set the rules.” He strokes her hip, leaving a wet trail, and pulls her dress back down. He is enjoying this. But if Hermione is the one who has written the rules, she can change them, too.

“I think I know what I’m asking for Christmas,” she says, smirking.

Harry only laughs.

Chapter 18

Chapter Text

Harry is marching across Hogwarts grounds, having just retrieved his broom and cloak from the Burrow, and the more he thinks about tonight, the more frustrated he gets.

They hung by the bar after the film had finished, and Hermione chatted to everybody else happily, even Ron, but she didn’t say a single word to Harry - she wasn’t even able to meet his eye. And then when Nova said that she was tired and ready to go, Hermione escaped with her.

Harry hates it, not knowing what’s going on. Was she embarrassed? Was she mad at him for getting carried away? Was she worried that everybody would know if she dared to spare him a glance? Or what? She didn’t only not stop him. Hermione encouraged him. She got up and followed him, and she responded to him beautifully. And then: nothing. What was he supposed to think?

It’s still early - only just past curfew - and the castle is glowing from within. On any other night, Harry would’ve thought how magical it looked, especially with the waning moon peering through the clouds, but he doesn’t notice any of that. He storms up the steps and across the entrance hall, and too distracted to focus properly, does a rubbish job of disillusioning himself. Luckily though, he doesn’t bump into anybody on his way to the dungeons, and he cancels the charm the moment he steps into Hermione’s classroom. He bangs on the door leading to her quarters with a fist, and it feels like it takes an eternity until he hears the click of the lock. His agitation grows now that he is standing still: it’s like a tennis ball bounding all around his body, trapped, looking for a way out.

When Hermione finally opens the door, she is wearing soft-looking flannel pyjamas and her hair is wet, and she is so different from the woman in that shiny dress, so different from Professor Granger - she looks like the girl from the tent, from a different life, pale and worried, but determined, too. She looks like his friend, and she throws her arms around him like she did so many times before: before the first task of the Triwizard tournament, after their crazy adventures or when reunited after a miserable summer break. Her grip is like steel, and with one arm around her, Harry walks them into her living room, drops his broom unceremoniously on the floor - Ron would be horrified if he saw - and slams the door shut with his foot.

Harry came here prepared to shout, to demand answers, but now that she is right here, warm from the shower and smelling like her lemon and tea tree shampoo, the ball of anxiety that has been bouncing all around his body finally slows. Only when Hermione speaks, it turns into lead and drops heavy and cold into the pit of his stomach.

“It’s not working, is it?” Hermione says softly. Her body is pressed into his, her arms around his neck like a vice, and she is saying that they are not working? It doesn’t make any sense. Harry’s every muscle goes hard with tension and he doesn’t know if he wants to push her away or crush her against himself. Hermione must sense it because she tilts her face up, a deep line between her eyebrows, and when their eyes meet, she gasps. “Oh God, no. Not like that!” Her hand flies to her lips as if she wants to trap the words that have already come out. “I didn’t think.”

“Now that’s a first,” Harry tries to joke but it comes out flat. “What did you mean?” And then, finally, the rest of the words spill out of him like an avalanche. “Merlin, Hermione, you couldn’t even look at me after. What am I supposed to think? I know I promised to control myself but do you think I’m some - machine? You can’t tease me and expect me not to react - and then avoid me like the plague!”

Harry has dropped his arms from around her and he runs a hand through his hair in frustration. Hermione won’t let go though, as if she is determined not to let his anger push her away.

“If you stop yelling at me, I’ll explain.” Her saying that makes him want to yell even more. He looks up at the ceiling - there is a pinkish stain he hasn’t noticed before just above the coffee table - inhales, exhales, and then meets her eye again.

“Fine,” he agrees. “No yelling.”

She lets go of his neck and takes his hand, but instead of leading him to the sofa like he’s expected, she takes him to the fluffy rug in front of the fireplace, lowers herself down, legs crossed, and tugs on his hand. Harry takes his robe off, throws it on the nearest armchair, and settles next to Hermione with his back to the coffee table and legs stretched out. She shuffles closer to his feet and starts to unzip one of his boots.

“What are you doing?” She pulls it off and then the sock too.

“Somebody once told me that it’s one of the best feelings in the world, taking one’s shoes and socks off.”

Harry’s lips twitch into the smallest of smiles despite his mood.

“Besides,” she moves to his other boot. “You are less likely to run away with no shoes on.”

“Am I going to want to run away?”

Hermione shakes her head, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth. She stays right there, her back to the fire, and suddenly it feels like she is too far away. Harry nudges her with his foot.

“That’s what I’m scared of. That you’ll run away.” Hermione explains and Harry opens his mouth to protest but she speaks before he can. “I know that you won’t - that you believe that you won’t - but I’ve got this annoying voice in my head,” Hermione digs her fingers into her forehead and squeezes her eyes shut, “which says that everybody leaves. That I’m too much or that I’m not enough.” She drops her hands into her lap and when she looks up, there is something hard and determined behind her eyes. “I’m good at not listening to it, most of the time. But today… it scares me, how much I want you. How much I need you. I thought if we took things slow, if we kept a bit of a distance, if I put boundaries in place…. I thought I could protect myself and stay in control.” Harry wants to say that she doesn’t need to protect herself from him - that it hurts that Hermione even thinks she needs to - but she stops him with a lift of her hand. “But it’s not working, you see. The more I try to keep my feelings under control, the more out of control I feel.” And then she crawls right onto his lap, holds his face in her hands and says, “No more rules.”

***

Hermione doesn’t know what she has expected exactly. A smile, maybe. A kiss. A spark of joy in his eyes. A touch. But the only thing she gets is an icy stare, “Am I allowed to speak, now?”

She smiles uncertainly, nods, and moves her palms to his chest where his heart is beating steadily - a reassuring thump-thump-thump. Harry doesn’t touch her though, and goosebumps rise on her arms as if her body knows that whatever Harry is about to say will feel like being dipped into cold water.

“Does it even matter what I think?” Hermione opens her mouth to speak but Harry holds his hand up to stop her this time, and it stings. Hermione bites on her cheek to keep all the words in and makes herself listen. “You asked me to follow your rules. You decided that I shouldn’t stay to talk to you after lessons anymore, that I couldn’t chat with you in the corridors, that I was not allowed to bring you food anymore if you skipped a meal, that I couldn’t pop by in the evenings, that we couldn’t go out together, that we couldn’t get too carried away, too intimate.” Harry’s jaw looks tense and his eyes are hard, and he won’t look at her - instead, his eyes are trained on the fire. “Which would be fair enough if you followed your own rules or if they made any sense to begin with. You ask me not to take your clothes off but then you sit on my lap and look at me like - like you want to rip mine off - and you press into me and - You ask me to be your friend and your boyfriend and your family but you want to cram all of that into an hour and a half that we have once a week. You ask me not to take you out and then you organise a whole damn party. You-“ He looks right at her then, and she hasn’t seen this anger directed at her since the war. “You beg me to f*ck you - you come on my fingers - and then you don’t even look at me, making me worry that I’ve somehow misunderstood-“ Hermione’s face feels impossibly hot and she focuses on her hands still resting on Harry’s chest. “You run away - and I’m still not sure I understand why - and now you say no more rules.” The words are saturated with derision, and Hermione looks up again. She understands why he is upset about other things - all these mixed signals - but why on earth would he be upset about the rules? “What about me, Hermione? Were you ever going to ask me what I thought? What I wanted? If I needed any boundaries in place? You are worried that people will see our relationship as inappropriate but you are the one who is treating me like a child.” She opens her mouth but, possibly for the first time in her life, Hermione is speechless. She wants to tell him that she doesn’t see him as a child - God, no - and that she cares about what he thinks. But then she never asked, did she? It’s not that she doesn’t care about what Harry has to say but... She’s been making choices for both of them because she knows what’s best, that’s all.

Just like you knew what was best for your parents.

“Oh,” she breathes. She feels like she was just hit by a bullet and all she wants is to fold in half and bleed, and maybe Harry feels that because he rests his hands on her hips and squeezes gently. But she doesn’t deserve his sympathy, his understanding - and she doesn’t deserve to fall apart either. She can’t play a victim when she’s created this mess. She forces herself to meet his eye and it’s not hard or accusing. It’s loving because Harry is like that. He’s said what he needed to say and now he is ready to forgive. Love, Hermione realises, can hurt so much more than anger when you feel like you don’t deserve it.

“What do you want?” she asks.

Harry smiles lopsidedly. “I want to take you out on a date. I want to show you what I’ve done with Grimmauld Place. I want to see your flat. I want to have the time to talk about what you’ve been reading and which students annoy you the most and what you and Sinistra giggle about. I want to sleep in your bed and see you naked and know what it feels like to be inside you.” She blushes again and it’s not fair, the way he is able to talk like this without a hint of embarrassment, and she is the one who needs to avert her eyes like a virgin. He tips her chin up, forcing her to look at him. “But more than anything else, I want to be able to talk and to be honest. And to make all the decisions together. I want you to see me as your equal.”

Hermione wants to protest that she does but it would be a lie, wouldn’t it? She’s always believed that she knows better than her professors, and her parents, and her boyfriends, and her friends. How can one feel so worthless and so superior all at the same time?

“I will try,” Hermione says because Harry wants honesty, and this is honest. “I will try,” she repeats, and Harry kisses her. It’s slow and sweet and something about it hurts. It hurts so good.

***

Harry’s interview in The Owl comes out on Monday morning. He and Hermione have spent half the night talking and now Harry is so shattered that he struggles to read the words. He looks up at the staff table and finds Hermione leaning over the paper with her chin resting on the back of her hand, her food forgotten. Harry looks back to the front page of his copy.

“You look so muggle, Potter,” somebody says passing behind his back - a Slytherin, most likely - but it’s not like they are wrong. Actually, Harry quite likes this photo. He looks like himself: muggle clothes, three days’ stubble, a wistful smile and his hair standing up at odd angles as if he’s just rolled out of bed.

The Great Hall is filled with the rustling of pages and hushed voices that morning, and Harry thinks that whatever he has said couldn’t be this interesting.

He reads the interview and takes little sips of his tea, relieved to see that none of his words have been warped or twisted. It’s all there: his war - their war, his hopes, his disappointment, his brutal honesty and his swearing. They don’t mention Teddy, thank Merlin, but they talk about bullying of muggle-borns and those with creature blood. “I don’t care what runs in your veins as long as you are a decent person”, is quoted under one of his photos on page four. He isn’t smiling in that one.

They mention what Harry has said about Kingsley too, making them sound like friends. “He’s a good bloke but he is only one person, you know. People rely on the government to make changes but all change starts here.” Another photo of Harry pointing at the centre of his chest, looking right at the camera. “Kingsley said that children are our only hope but for that to happen, we need to be the ones who teach them.”

And then there is his question addressed directly to the pureblood society: what are you so afraid of?

Harry thinks that would be it but then he turns the page and Hermione’s face is there, her sleeves rolled up and her scars spelling MUDBLOOD exposed. She did mention that Lee had contacted her and she answered a few questions but this is more, and it’s so f*cking brave that Harry wants to walk right up to her, cradle her face in his hands and tell her exactly how brilliant she is, and kiss her and let everybody know. He reads instead, about her war before and her war after, about being bullied at the Ministry, being bullied in the streets, being bullied by her students. “It’s not their fault. They don’t know that they can behave differently. They grow up with the beliefs of their ancestors etched into their minds. It must be extremely hard to become your own person when your family wants to cram you into this box…” it’s astonishing, this level of understanding, this kindness, after everything Hermione has been through.

There are so many other stories too, so much pain, so much desperation and frustration and fear. But there is something else, too. In every story shared, there is hope.

Harry feels a hand on his shoulder, and he twists in his seat to see Professor McGonagall smiling - smiling! - at him. “I am proud of you, Harry,” she says, and damn, his eyes sting. Somehow, he manages to thank her without falling apart, and then he sees Hermione right there, and she is looking at him, and Harry stands up and his legs take him right up to her, and, suddenly, they are holding each other in the middle of the Great Hall. Harry whispers to her how brave she’s been and kisses the top of her head and nobody, nobody, says anything.

***

They are all late to their first class that day, professors included, and later, when they sit on Hermione’s sofa, her feet in Harry’s lap and her legs curled against his chest, she tells him, “One first-year asked if it hurt.” She pulls at the sleeve of her jumper, under which her scar is hidden. “And I don’t know, maybe I was supposed to lie - they are only children, after all. But I said that yes, it hurt quite a bit. And this girl ran across the room and hugged me. I don’t know how I managed to stop myself from bursting into tears.”

“Nobody would judge you if you did.” Harry strokes up and down Hermione’s leg absentmindedly. “It’s been an odd day.” Kids asking questions about life and war and blood. “Teddy wanted to know if I’ve ever been bullied.”

“What did you say?” Hermione fingers draw patterns on his arm and shoulder, and Harry closes his eyes, letting himself enjoy the touch for a moment.

“I told him about Dudley.” He rests his head on the back of the sofa when she combs her fingers through his hair. “He wasn’t so bad that last summer. I think… I kinda want to get in touch with him, find out how he is doing.”

Hermione doesn’t say anything for a while, and Harry relaxes into her touch and lets his mind drift. He listens to the fire crackle and Hermione’s steady breathing, feels the worn fabric of the sofa under his cheek… He is on his way to sleep when she says, “It was me. I pushed all the people away.” Her voice sounds like it’s part of his dream partially because her words don’t make much sense. His eyelids are heavy and Hermione is a blur, and Harry realises that his glasses have slid off his nose. He moves them back in place and returns his hand to Hermione’s knee. “What do you mean?”

“I could’ve forgiven Ron years ago. I could’ve accepted Mrs Weasley’s invitation for dinner - she’s sent plenty during the years. Minerva offered me a Muggle Studies job six years ago. I could’ve attended one of the many school reunions. I could’ve restored my parents’ memories…” She says it all calmly, wistfully, all the time playing with Harry’s hair. He catches her hand and entwines their fingers.

“You are doing it now though,” he says. “You are letting people back in.”

Hermione speaks as if she hasn’t heard. “I don’t know how you do it. How can you even think of getting in touch with the person who used to make your life a nightmare? What if you find Dudley and he slams the door right in your face?”

“Then he does. At least I would know that I’ve tried.” He brings their joined hands to his lips and kisses the back of her hand before asking, “Do you want to go see your parents?”

Her eyes dart between his as if she wants to find an answer - or maybe some courage - there. “I don’t know,” she says, biting her lip. But Harry thinks that she does know, and that she does want to even if she is too scared to admit it to herself.

***

Kingsley invites him to some ridiculously posh muggle restaurant where minuscule portions are served on gigantic plates, and everybody squints at Harry disapprovingly because he’s had the nerve to show up here wearing jeans.

“I’m glad Minerva let you go,” Kingsley says standing up to shake Harry’s hand.

“I didn’t ask,” Harry shrugs, taking a seat, and Kingsley laughs loudly enough that a few people stare - Harry notices how unnaturally white Kingsley’s teeth are.

They order food and drinks, and exchange pleasantries until Kingsley brings up The Owl’s last issue and asks with a laugh that feels a bit forced, “Do you plan to start a riot?”

“Not exactly,” Harry laughs too, twirling his spaghetti around his fork. “I just want… I don’t know, to shake everybody up a bit.”

“You’ve certainly shaken me up. Have you heard the rumours? It seems you are devising a plot to usurp me and become the next Minister for Magic.”

Harry’s grin is all mischief - Nova would be proud if she saw - when he says, “That’s not such a bad idea. I’ve been contemplating what I’d like to do after Hogwarts.”

To his surprise, Kingsley plays along. “Well, people listen to you more than they do to me. You might be able to knock some sense into their heads.”

This whole conversation feels surreal. Kingsley asks him about his plans and ideas as if Harry is his equal, and it’s funny, isn’t it? That the Minister - the person with all this power and control - sees Harry as a man worth listening to while Hermione, who is still so lost at times and full of remorse and guilt, is only just learning to do so.

Harry asks what the Ministry has already tried and it turns out that it’s not much at all. “Don’t look at me like that, Harry. It’s impossible to pass any new bill favouring muggle-borns when the majority of the seats on the Wizengamot belong to prejudiced purebloods. So, fresh ideas are always welcome. Let me know if I can assist you in any way.” Harry is absolutely sure that Kingsley says it only because he wants to be privy to Harry’s plans and not out of the goodness of his heart, but Harry thanks him anyway because you never know, he might need Kingsley’s support someday. And then something else pops into his mind.

“Actually, can you help me get a muggle passport?”

“Sure, won’t take a week. Can my photographer take a photo of us?” Kingsley gestures at the window, and Harry notices a man with a camera around his neck, leaning on a lamppost and looking like your average tourist.

“Sure,” Harry agrees. He has a feeling that the man would have taken a photo even without his consent, and it irks Harry that Kingsley is still trying to use him.

The thing is, Kingsley is not a bad man. But he is a politician, and Harry decides that he doesn’t like politicians at all. And that day, Harry swears to himself that he will never, ever become one.

Chapter 19

Chapter Text

Hermione has forgotten how marvellous it feels to wake up enveloped in the arms of a naked - well, a mostly naked - man. The dungeons are freezing at this time of year, and even her window, despite being magical, is covered in frost. Harry is like a furnace though, and his palm under her pyjama top is so hot Hermione thinks that it should leave a mark: a hand-shaped brand on her stomach. Should it worry her that she wouldn’t mind it at all? She’d welcome it, something of Harry’s that she could carry with her wherever she went, concealed from everybody’s opinions and greedy eyes.

Hermione stretches and the chilly air of the bedroom shocks her body fully awake. She turns in Harry’s arms and, with a contented sigh, snuggles back into his side. She fills her lungs with the scent of him and entwines her bare legs with his. Harry murmurs, his voice gravelly with sleep, “It’s still dark.”

“It’s winter. It’s nearly always dark.” Harry murmurs something else before his breathing deepens again, and Hermione makes herself shut her eyes too. She tries to be still and let him sleep, but he is so close and he smells so good and his body is so solid and warm and tempting… Despite how much time they’ve been spending together recently, Harry won’t touch her, and he doesn’t let Hermione touch him either. Not in the way that she craves anyway. But now, he is right here, in only his boxers, and she lets her hand wander down his chest and past his ribs; she feels the muscles of his stomach quiver as she moves her hand lower, daringly close to the place which Harry refuses to let her explore.

He catches her wrist just as her fingers graze the waistband of his pants, and she mewls, disgruntled.

“You are a very naughty girl, Miss Granger.” Harry’s voice is low and seductive, and Hermione feels the heat between her legs as he nuzzles her temple. “I should punish you.” And the thought of being punished shouldn’t be so damn appealing.

“I’m the professor here, Mr Potter,” she reminds him stubbornly as she attempts to tug her wrist free. “I am the one who does the punishing.”

“True…” Harry moves so fast that she only realises what’s going on when both of her wrists are pinned to the bed above her head, and Harry is hovering above her, and although it’s too dark for Hermione to see properly, she is confident Harry is sporting a self-satisfied smirk. “But I’m the one with all the power.” His words are a teasing purr, and he tightens his hold on her momentarily, demonstrating what he means. A sound - something impatient and annoyed - escapes her, and she arches her body, seeking contact but Harry only laughs - how dare he - kisses her on the cheek and rolls out of bed. By the time she finds her wand to cast Lumos, he has already pulled his trousers on. And now she is not only annoyed but strangely vulnerable, too.

“Why don’t you want me to touch you?” she asks, hating sounding so small and unsure.

Harry is instantly back on the bed, his hand on the back of her neck and his face is so close to hers that she feels his breath when he speaks.

“Oh, I want to. And when I am back in my dorm, I’m going straight for the showers to wank thinking about my professor like a thirteen-year-old boy.“ Her breath catches in her throat when she pictures him in a shower stall, naked and wet and hard and-

“Harry,” she whines.

“But that’s the problem, you see. Sometimes you look at me and you see just me. And at other times you see a student, a boy. Do you even know how guilty you look after we kiss, sometimes? You will probably feel guilty the moment I leave.” Hermione was hoping that Harry didn’t know, couldn’t see… but Harry sees everything, doesn’t he?

“It’s hard not to when you walk around in Hogwarts uniform and sit in my classroom with other boys and girls.”

“I get it. But I don’t want this,” he waves his hand between them, “to be something you feel guilty about.”

She sighs and rests her head on his shoulder.

“And,” Harry adds and she hears a smile in his voice, “I love seeing you all needy and frustrated.” She swats his chest playfully and smiles against his skin. She lays a kiss on his collarbone - exactly the same spot her lips impulsively touched the night she found him in the Room of Requirement. She thinks about how broken Harry seemed in the beginning, how guilty and unsure about what to do. She remembers him after his first meeting with Kingsley, she remembers his bleeding heart after seeing the Weasleys, his tears for Kreacher and all the others whom they’ve lost. She remembers him showing her his new Patronus, grief in his eyes. And she remembers him before, during the war: angry, frustrated but always going forward - without a single thought of giving up. And look at Harry now. So confident and strong and brave and so in control… So why does she still see a boy?

“You are right,” she tells Harry as he pulls his T-shirt on. He glances at her, a question in his eyes, but she only shakes her head and smiles. She needs to sort her head out. Harry deserves more than being her dirty little secret. He deserves the world.

***

Hermione has trained herself not to look at Harry in public in case somebody caught her and saw in her eyes all the love and longing that she felt. The idea of them finding out makes her stomach twist uncomfortably and turns her face hot with shame. She despises this feeling.

Loving Harry has always been her secret: a precious yet painful part of her heart. However, now that she has him, her pain has turned into this guilt, this shame… She resents herself for feeling like that. Harry deserves somebody to love him without holding back. Somebody who will scream about their love from the highest of heights. Somebody who will honour and cherish this love and wear it with pride.

So, Hermione makes herself watch Harry. She watches him in the Great Hall and she notices things. She notices that even though all the students wear the same uniform, Harry stands out. She can’t put her finger on what it is exactly - he sits with everybody else and he talks and he eats and he laughs and he drops things sometimes - but there is this air about him, this something that makes people pay attention and listen.

The first time their gazes cross, he looks surprised, and Hermione wonders how many times Harry has glanced at her only to see that she was determinedly looking away. He grins at her though, and it’s lopsided and open and beyond perfect, and Hermione fights the urge to look away, to hide, to keep the secret. She does her best to smile at Harry like she would if they were alone. She lets her love show in her eyes, her heart hammering with fear at being so open, and the sky doesn’t fall, and nobody points fingers at her, and nobody says a word, just like two weeks ago when they were standing in the middle of the Great Hall, hugging.

She watches Harry with Teddy, the way they rib each other, the easiness they share, and the way Harry makes Ezra feel included too, and feels something very close to awe at witnessing this relationship bloom.

She watches as more and more owls swoop down, bringing him letters. Harry opens some of them straight away, others he performs detection spells on, reminding Hermione of all the hate mail she received in her fourth year, especially the envelope filled with bubotuber pus that she was silly enough to open.

“Oh, you know,” he says when she asks him later. “A few purebloods announcing their displeasure, a fair share of marriage proposals…” She is convinced he is joking at first until he shows her a stack of at least a dozen letters, most of which come from wealthy middle-aged women. “Merlin, you face.” Hermione hasn’t seen him laugh this hard since - possibly ever.

And it’s not that she didn’t know that Harry was desirable, but now that she is looking, she realises exactly how desirable he is. She watches as girls come up to him, and talk to him, and why does he have to be so friendly with everybody? Clearly enthralled, the girls follow him with their eyes, and Hermione knows that Harry could’ve chosen any of them. He could’ve chosen Nova, who is always there, unapologetically by his side. But Harry has chosen her, and Hermione wishes she could take Nova’s place. She wishes she could stop torturing herself with the thoughts of what everybody will think when they eventually find out.

But the thing is, Hermione also catches glimpses of Harry interacting with other professors with easiness that other students don’t possess. Harry often comes to exchange a couple of words with Hagrid at breakfast, leaning over the table, and Minerva doesn’t even try to discourage them anymore. But he also talks to Fillius and even Pomona, and it’s astounding to see how people seem to bloom under his attention. Sometimes it seems that absolutely everybody loves Harry Potter, and Hermione has been the only one covering this feeling up with shame. So, slowly, she peels layers of it off herself, and she lets her love grow. She lets it show - bigger each time. And when she smiles at him these days, when they stop to talk in the corridors, when she touches his arm when he’s done good work in her classroom, she feels shaky but also relieved. And the more she does it, the easier it becomes.

***

Just a couple of days before the students are to go back home for their winter break, Hermione is having tea with Minerva and discussing her Christmas plans - or more like, begging her employer to let her have Christmas Day off - when a Gryffindor Prefect marches three dishevelled boys into the Headmistress’s office, Teddy being one of them and the other two…

“Does anybody care to explain how Mr Blackburn and Mr Barta acquired a pair of wolf ears and a tail each?” Minerva asks, studying the boys over the rim of her glasses. Mr Blackburn’s ear twitches as the boy throws a murderous glance at Teddy, and it’s not hard to guess what has happened.

“It was me, Professor,” Teddy says, chin up and eyes unapologetic. “They were howling at me again and I hexed them.”

“By hexing them I presume you mean you performed complex human transfiguration that students don’t normally learn until their last year at Hogwarts?”

“Err… I didn’t know it was supposed to be complex.” Teddy looks comically baffled. “The way Harry explained it-“ He stops speaking abruptly, covering his mouth with a hand for good measure. A giggle bursts out of Hermione before she can catch herself, and she quickly schools her features into an acceptably serious expression, although Minerva seems to be also fighting a smile.

“From teaching a group of adolescent insurgents how to perform a Patronus Charm to helping a second year student master a spell which N.E.W.T.-level students struggle with. Why am I even surprised?” Minerva says fondly and while she gives and takes some points and assigns detention, Hermione thinks about how even the headmistress’s heart isn’t immune. She recalls the day the Owl with Harry’s interview came out and the way Minerva told him she was proud in front of the whole school. She thinks of how the headmistress has been bending rules for him, allowing Harry to come and go as long as he keeps up with his work. It hits her then how right Harry was when he accused her of treating him like a child. She has been so concerned with hiding her feelings and not looking at him that she’s missed how much Harry has matured. Harry is different from the other students. Harry does stand out. And it seems that everybody could see it but her.

What does Harry think of her now? She was there for him while they were only friends but the moment they became a couple - the moment Hermione got what she wanted - she put all these walls up. Misery makes people selfish, she realises. Her life was joyless for such a long time that when she finally got some happiness back, she became so protective of it - her reputation, her career and her heart - that she risked ruining it all. But didn’t her experience show her that nothing matters without love? Without Harry. How many more mistakes is she going to make until she learns?

“I’m not sure why he is even here,” Minerva muses, pulling Hermione away from her gloomy thoughts, and when she looks around the office, she realises that they are alone once more.

“Who?”

“Harry, who else?” Minerva takes a sip of her tea, purses her lips at how cold it is and performs a heating charm, filling the space between them with the smell of mint. “He doesn’t need his classes or his N.E.W.T.s. He’s done some good work on his house from what I’ve heard. He has friends and good connections… Do not get me wrong, I am glad he is completing his education, but it doesn’t seem like him.”

“He’s never been the studious type,” a smile tugs on Hermione’s lips when she remembers the trouble he got into, his fights with Snape, his naps during History Of Magic and the way he said her name when she nagged him about homework too much. “I think he is here for Teddy. And for Nova.” And for me. All of a sudden, Hermione is overwhelmed with the urge to tell Minerva that she is in love with Harry Potter. Even if she has to leave Hogwarts, she wants her to know, and the words are lying on her tongue, impatient to come out, to let the world know.

“I-“ she starts but then she remembers Harry’s words.

Does it even matter what I think?

She takes a sip of her minty tea and washes the words away. It’s not only her decision to make, whether to tell Minerva - or anybody else - or not. Because they are together, a team, and she promises herself to never forget that. But didn’t she break all the promises she’d made? She promised she wouldn’t ever return to Hogwarts, She promised she would treat Harry as she does any other student. She promised not to let Harry into her rooms. She promised not to touch herself thinking of him. She promised that her feelings wouldn’t get in the way of Harry’s happiness. She promised and promised, and failed, again and again. However, this time she has to keep it.

“I would like to invite Harry to join us at the Three Broomsticks this weekend,” she says instead.

“It’s the staff Christmas party,” the look Minerva gives her is the one she uses to intimidate her students but Hermione only shrugs.

“He is friends with half the staff.”

“That, he is,” Minerva agrees. “So, naturally, I have already invited him.” The way she says it startles a laugh out of Hermione.

“You know,” she suggests lightly, “you can’t keep on teaching Transfiguration forever… You might as well give Harry the job.”

“Are you calling me old, Hermione?”

“I wouldn’t dare!”

They laugh, and Hermione allows herself to entertain the thought that people finding out won’t be such a bad thing after all.

***

Later that day, Hermione and her - not just colleagues anymore but not quite friends - are relaxing on piles of cushions on the floor, conjured by Sybill, so, naturally, they are all garishly colourful, decorated with tassels and smell faintly like incense, but Hermione doesn’t even mind. It’s their muggle night, introduced by Gianna, an inventive Muggle Studies professor a couple of years older than Hermione, who managed to make a TV and a DVD player work on magic alone. Hermione is lying on her stomach, swinging her legs in the air and watching Friends: Phoebe is currently performing her infamous Smelly Cat song. Aurora giggles girlishly, and a smile spills over Hermione’s face - not because it’s funny but because it’s nice, sharing something so muggle with a group of witches in one of the most magical places in the world. Septima hands her a bowl of Haribos but Hermione passes it on to Bathsheda without even looking. Tooth rotting rubbish, her dad would say, and it’s unnerving how real his voice sounds in her head even though she hasn’t heard him speak in years. Aurora giggles again and Hermione looks back at the screen when a Patronus - Harry’s Patronus - bursts through the wall and the TV, making the image flicker.

Panic claws at Hermione’s throat, and she jumps to her feet, ready to act, because something must be wrong if he-

“Hermione,” it speaks with Harry’s excited voice. “Do you remember that door at Grimmauld we couldn’t open? I just did. You must see what I’ve found. Come!” She hears his words and the tone of his voice, but the grip of panic is slow to let go. She puts a hand on her chest as Harry’s thestral dissolves into mist and makes herself breathe in and out with exaggerated slowness.

“I’m going to kill him,” she mutters under her breath.

“You can’t go! The muggle night is sacred!”

“I don’t know, Gianna,” Septima cuts in, smirking. “Between you lot and a hot man, I’d choose the hot man.”

Aurora howls with laughter and throws a cushion at her. Septima catches it, her grin wide. “Like you wouldn’t do the same!”

“So, Hermione?” Gianna asks, and five pairs of eyes fix on her expectantly.

“I’m going,” she says.

“Traitor!” Gianna accuses with a smile.

“I knew this would happen,” Sybill sing-songs.

“Of course you did,” Septima hides her eye-roll.

And Hermione… she only stares in puzzlement because this is completely different from what she expected. Why isn’t anybody concerned that her student has just sent her a personal message? That she is going to his house at night? She asks just that.

“Isn’t anybody worried that I’m going to meet a student in the middle of the night?” And why are they looking at her as if she has lost her mind?

“Isn’t it Harry’s Patronus?” Aurora asks.

“Yes, but-“

“The Harry you went to school with?” Septima clarifies.

“Yes-“

“Your best friend Harry?” Gianna asks.

“Yeah,” Hermione smiles uncertainly but Sybill shocks it off her face when she speaks.

“They are to become more than friends,” she chants in that spooky way of hers, and Septima rolls her eyes again and Aurora oohs, and, right then, something inside Hermione lets go.

There will be people who judge her and there will be people who accept her, but the only thing that matters is what Hermione knows. She didn’t fall for a student; she fell for her best friend. And to her, it makes all the difference.

Chapter 20

Chapter Text

When Harry hears a knock on the door, he races down the stairs, stirring up dust and making enough noise for a herd of elephants. He throws the door open to get blasted with a gust of wind accompanied by a rather angry Hermione.

“Harry - James - Potter!” She punctuates every word with a sharp poke in his chest, causing the grin that he’s been wearing to diminish somewhat. The door slams shut with the wind as if it also wants to announce its displeasure. “You scared me to death! I thought that something happened. I thought you were being attacked!” At first, Harry has no idea what she is talking about, her arms in the air and her voice echoing off the bare walls, but then she mentions his Patronus, and things click into place.

“Sorry,” he says although his face doesn’t match his words. He can’t stop smiling because Hermione is here. She came. Besides, there is something adorable about Hermione when she gets this annoyed, but she would kill him if Harry told her that.

“Why are you smiling like that?” She asks, hands on her hips, but Harry can tell that by now her anger is only an act.

“You are here,” he answers sincerely and reaches for her. It’s almost a reflex now, resting his hands on the curve of her waist and pulling her close every time she is near, and it’s getting harder and harder to resist when they are at school. She comes to him, slides her arms around his neck and rests her head against his chest. Holding Hermione feels like home.

“You smell like Trelawney’s classroom.” His face is in her hair, and it tickles a bit but, for some strange reason, he likes it. That’s when Hermione tells him about his Patronus interrupting their muggle night (it has never even occurred to Harry that technology working on magic could be a thing). His thestral burst right through the telly apparently, and for a moment Harry thinks that this is why Hermione got angry, really: not because she was worried but because Harry contacted her when she was among other professors. But then she says, “I think Septima has a crush on you,” which shocks a laugh out of him. “And I’ve decided that it doesn’t matter what anybody thinks. About you and me.” Which is the last thing he expected her to say. Harry tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and cups her cheek.

“Not even McGonagall?”

“I nearly told her I was in love with you today - I didn’t,” she explains quickly. “But only because I wasn’t sure if you would want me to.” The look in her eyes is sincere and oddly shy as she turns her face and kisses his palm. He wants to believe her. No. He does believe her but, with how she has been, Harry isn’t sure that her acceptance of their relationship will last for more than a day.

“I don’t want you to get fired because of me.”

Hermione only shrugs. She lifts her hand and traces the line of his nose, and rests her fingertips against his lips, then replaces them with her lips.

“It’s just a job. I can find another one. There are more important things.” Hermione takes a step back and weaves her fingers with his. “Now, are you going to keep me in the hall forever or will you finally show me that discovery of yours?”

Harry laughs quietly and asks what she’s done to the real Hermione Granger, but he does lead her upstairs, squeezing her hand gently and hoping that her resolve will last.

***

The house is unrecognisable - the parts of it she can see anyway. It’s so white, so light, that she wouldn’t know where she was if she hadn’t stepped through a very familiar door just now. It smells faintly like paint and there are still little shreds of wallpaper on the floor, which stick to her shoes, and Hermione touches the wall with the tip of a single finger to see if the paint is dry (it is) as they make their way up the stairs.

“I can’t believe how much you’ve done,” she says, noting the missing house elf heads.

“Ron helped a bit. And Nova too.” Hermione feels a familiar stab of jealousy that comes with the mention of Nova’s name.

“She’s not supposed to be leaving the school.” Hermione hates how much she sounds like her eleven-year-old self.

“Neither am I.” She bites down on the words that want to burst out, but then she forgets all about them anyway because they stop at the end of the corridor that is still grim and smells like damp, and the floor all around them is covered in splinters of wood.

She looks at something that used to be a door hanging off its hinges and can’t help but laugh. “That’s not how you open a door, Harry.”

He chuckles and rubs the back of his neck somewhat sheepishly. “Well… We‘ve tried. Even Bill came over to have a look. And I got a smidge impatient…”

“So you blasted it,” she states, peeking inside, only it’s too dark to see.

“Yup.” Harry pops the p and lights the tip of his wand. “The lights don’t work in there,” he explains, sending the gently glowing ball inside the room, and it stops to hover just below the ceiling like their personal moon.

She takes a step in and the bits of wood crunch under her feet. The smell of old paper tickles her nose, making her sniff. The room is lined with tall shelves full of books. A sturdy desk and a chair rest by the window. Hermione notices sheets of parchment scattered on the surface, a pot of ink and a quill. Everything looks like it belongs in a museum - a house that used to belong to a famous author, maybe - and although the magical world already lives in the past, Hermione still feels like she has just travelled back in time.

“Another library?” She asks, stepping closer to one of the shelves. She lights her wand and trails her finger along the spines, and for a moment she doesn’t understand what she sees - she must be reading the names wrong. She leans in closer, takes a book out, and leafs through the pages, stirring up the dust.

“But they are all muggle. How - who - this is the first edition of A Christmas Carol!” Harry chuckles from behind her, and he is much closer than she thought. He slips his arms around her and rests his chin on the top of her head, and when he speaks, Hermione can feel the rumble of his voice against her back.

“All this used to belong to Orion Black - I found a few letters addressed to him in the desk drawers. I have a theory.”

“Hm?” Hermione is carefully turning the brittle pages, looking at the illustrations and feeling like she is somewhere hidden and sacred, far away from the real world, and who would have thought that Grimmauld Place could make her feel like that?

“I think this was Orion Black’s secret, and after his death, when Walburga discovered it, she couldn’t bring herself to throw it all away despite her hate for muggles. Just like she couldn’t throw Sirius’s things away after she disowned him. So, she permanently locked the door to make sure that nobody would ever find out.”

“You make it sound like one of the tales of Beedle the Bard.”

Harry just hums, looking over her shoulder, then says, “Is this story any good? I’ve never read it. Or any of the others.”

Hermione closes the book gently, turns in his arms and stares. “You’ve never read Dickens?”

“No.” Harry grimaces.

“What about other classics? Children’s stories? Lewis Carroll, Astrid Lindgren, C. S. Lewis-“

“Hermione, did I ever give you the impression that the Dursleys would read stories to me? Or even take me to the library?” And that shuts her right up. Reading has been such a huge part of her life that she can’t imagine anybody simply not reading. She was a lonely child but at least she had her books. Was Harry allowed to have anything at all?

Her emotions must be written all over her face because he says, “It was a long time ago.”

She remembers how Harry used to shut down every time she asked him about his family when they were both kids, so she asks him if she can borrow the book instead.

“You don’t even need to ask. They are all yours if you want them.”

“Just like Beauty and the Beast.” Unsurprisingly, it used to be her favourite film growing up, and Hermione is suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to go back in time and sit on her mother’s lap, safely cradled in her arms and her love.

“I’ve never seen it,” he says apologetically, and all of this breaks Hermione’s heart just a little bit.

“Then,” she says with all the cheerfulness she can master, “we must remedy that as soon as we can!”

“You are going to make me watch cartoons?” He asks with a low chuckle.

“And read stories to you.” And love you like nobody else loved you before.

He holds her tight, in this place that smells like ancient pages and dust, with the book she is holding tucked between their bodies, and Hermione realises that she doesn’t want to go back to Hogwarts at all. She wants to stay here, safe from the real world, in this dark and mysterious castle of the Beast.

“What are you giggling about?” Harry asks, his voice warm and happy.

“Just a silly thought.”

“Tell me,” he smiles into her hair. Hermione feels his hot lips and the cold tip of his nose.

“I wouldn’t mind being your prisoner and staying trapped in here forever.” Her face feels so warm she wonders if Harry can sense the heat radiating off it.

He chuckles again. “Are you saying that you want to move in with me?” Hermione looks up at him, at the merriment in his eyes, at the shadows playing across his face, making him look like a fairytale prince. She doesn’t answer his question but rises on her toes and kisses him instead, and the sweetness of it makes her feel like a young girl with a head full of dreams. It makes her feel like anything, absolutely anything, is possible.

***

Nova is dragging her trunk down the girls’ staircase, and it thumps loudly on every step. The students in their common room stare and snicker.

“Have you forgotten how to use magic, Paislee?” Eleanor shouts across the hall. Nova gives her a two finger salute without sparing a glance, and the thumping becomes even louder. Finally, she drops the trunk on the floor, but it bursts open, spilling clothes and parchment and books, and Nova kicks it hard with an angry shriek.

“For a slu*t, your knickers are so boring.” It’s Eleanor again, she dangles a pair of simple cotton pants off the tip of her wand, and Harry has had enough. He knows exactly why Nova is so furious that she is not even bothering to hide it. She is about to launch herself at Eleanor but Harry is faster.

He jerks his wand upward and watches as Eleanor gets hoisted up into the air as if hooked by her ankle, helplessly waving her arms, but then she must remember she is wearing a skirt because she shrieks and clings to the fabric, attempting to keep it in place, but it’s too late. Everyone has seen.

“Wow, Eleanor,” Nova sneers, “for such a prude, you sure wear slu*tty underwear.”

All of a sudden, Harry realises how wrong this is, even if Eleanor deserves it. It feels too much like Sectumsempra - one of Prince’s spells, one of Snape’s spells. It feels too much like the memory he saw in the Potions Professor’s pensive. Who wants to see me take off Snivelly’s pants? His dad’s voice echoes inside Harry’s head. It feels too much like the Death Eaters during the Quidditch World Cup, dangling a defenceless muggle family in the air. The young girl and her mother, struggling to cover themselves up as they were being spun in the air.

Harry lets Eleanor crumble to the floor, managing to cast a cushioning charm just before she hits the hard surface. The girl scrambles to her feet, her lips quiver and, without even looking at anyone, she runs out of the common room. A couple of girls run after her, a few people glare, someone cheers and claps… There is laughter and snigg*rs and muttering and shuffling of feet, and Harry feels frozen among all of that.

“That was a bit much,” Dario tells him. “Eleanor can be a bully but still.” He walks past and out of the common room too, and Harry feels relieved that he isn’t taking the train today.

All of a sudden, Nova throws her arms around him, and whispers, “Thank you,” and Harry doesn’t think anybody has ever thanked him with such fierceness. She lets go just as quickly and starts throwing her things back in the trunk. And yeah, maybe he didn’t do the right thing, but what would the right thing be? Get a Prefect to sort it out? Call a teacher? Nash was right there and he didn’t do anything. He is both a Prefect and Nova’s brother but even he only watched just like everybody else. And teachers never do sh*t. When has taking points and giving detention ever solved a thing? Harry stood up for his friend. And if a few people resent him for it, so be it.

He kneels next to Nova and helps her pick up the quills, which got scattered all across the floor.

“They won’t let you stay at Hogwarts for the holidays then?” He asks in a low voice. Nova told Harry that she hasn’t seen him since that summer. “And I never want to see him ever again,” she explained as she was writing a letter to her parents a week ago, letting them know that she didn’t want to come home this year, blaming it on the upcoming exams. She wrote another one a couple of days ago, begging them to understand. It seems she hasn’t had any luck.

“Mum wrote that-“ Nova slams the trunk lid shut, “-if I don’t come, I might as well not bother coming back at all.” She sits on the trunk to lock it then looks right at Harry, and there is so much hurt behind her eyes that he wishes he could do something - anything at all - to fix this. “She wrote that I’ve been different and distant and out of control recently, and that if I don’t come home for Christmas, she will know that I don’t care about them.” Nova kicks the trunk with the back of her boot then crumbles forward with a half-groan half-moan, folding in half. Harry gets up off the floor, and when he lowers himself to sit next to her, Nova’s luggage creaks under his weight. He rests his hand on her back and starts rubbing soothing circles.

“Have you thought about telling them?” The common room is mostly empty now, with students rushing off to catch the train, but Harry leans in to whisper just in case. Nova barks a bitter laugh.

“And destroy the family? And be shamed for what I’ve done?”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

She sits up and looks at him, and it’s sharp and frosty. “I let him, Harry.” The words come out as a hiss.

“You were a child.”

“I was old enough.”

“Were you?”

Harry will never stop marvelling at how expressive her eyes are when she lets them be. He can see it all: her confusion, her pain, how torn she feels and, even with him on her side, so very alone.

She jumps up and nudges him with her knee. “Get up. I’ve got a train to catch.” He does, and she hastily shrinks her trunk and starts making her way to the portrait hole, her steps determined.

“Nova!” He calls, and she looks over her shoulder. “If anything happens, I’m here for you. You know that, right?”

“I know,” she nods.

The portrait swings shut behind her, and a feeling that something horrible is about to happen settles in Harry’s bones, but he manages to convince himself that it doesn’t mean anything. That he is just worried about Nova. That’s all.

Chapter 21

Chapter Text

They are stumbling and giggling down a dimly lit dungeon corridor after the staff Christmas party at stupid o’clock in the morning, and Harry thinks that Hermione has never looked more beautiful. It’s not the make-up charms that she’s used for the occasion or the stunning dress, which hugs her curves just right - it’s the light in her eyes, the happiness that shines from her every pore, it’s how relaxed she’s been all evening, sitting by his side, and not even once Harry noticed a shadow of uncertainty in her eyes.

He presses her to the wall just by the torch - the need to kiss her, to have his hands on her, is overwhelming - and Hermione’s giggle gets caught in her throat. She looks up at him with those eyes - warm, loving, sincere and overflowing with passion - and Harry loses his capacity to think. He finds her mouth with his and she opens for him eagerly, without a moment’s hesitation. He tastes the wine she’s had on her lips, feels the heat from the torch on his skin, her arms around his neck, her hands in his hair, the way her body seems to melt against his… He is drunk on this feeling, on the way she responds to him and whimpers his name and surrenders so completely-

“Ahem!”

Harry jumps away from Hermione as if burned and looks around frantically to see only the length of the corridor and its shadows. Hermione’s eyes are wide with panic as she does the same, but, just like him, she finds nothing and frowns, confused.

Harry is about to make a joke when too familiar a voice echoes from above their heads.

“Haven’t I always told you, Harry, that love is the most powerful force?”

“Professor,” Harry whispers on an exhale, finally noticing Dumbledore peering at them from behind a large bowl of fruit, his eyes just as merry and alive as they used to be.

Harry sees the movement from the corner of his eye and feels Hermione’s hand - cold and clammy - slip into his. He’s wanted to speak to Dumbledore’s portrait from the day of his return, wanted to ask all these questions and throw accusations at the former headmaster, but now, when Harry is finally faced with the man, all he can think about is that Hermione is here, holding his hand right after they were caught snogging against the wall like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She is not trying to defend herself or pretend that nothing untoward has happened, and it makes him want to go straight back to kissing her.

“And isn’t it convenient, Albus, that Harry has enough love for all of us that he was ready to die to protect us all?” Harry is jarred by Hermione’s words, her cold tone and the lack of respect in her voice. He glances at the portrait but he can’t stand how kind Dumbledore’s eyes look - kind people don’t make children fight their wars - so he studies Hermione’s profile instead.

“The greatest gift of all,” the headmaster muses, and Harry watches how Hermione’s mouth - her lips still swollen from kissing - turns into a thin unhappy line. Harry glances back at the painting in time to see Dumbledore pick a grape and pop it into his mouth only to make a face.

“Alas, it tastes like paint,” he comments, and that’s when Harry realises that this is not the Headmaster. It’s not even his shadow.

He squeezes Hermione’s fingers in his. “Dumbledore is not here,” Harry tells her, his breath dancing across her cheek. “It is just canvas and paint with a sprinkle of magic.”

And when they walk away, hand in hand, it feels like another thing Harry has just let go of.

***

The week leading up to Christmas is: the crackling of the fire and his head on Hermione’s lap as she reads A Christmas Carol, running her fingers through Harry’s hair. Walks with Birdbrain in Hagrid’s absence and throwing snowballs, which this daft furry thing chases like he would a rubber ball. Hermione’s squeals of laughter at the dog‘s surprise when the snow disintegrates between his teeth, their footprints in the snow and cold lips and hot tongues pressed together behind Hagrid’s hut. Too much hot chocolate, shopping for presents in Edinburgh, walking the streets holding hands, hats pulled low and scarves covering most of their faces against the nipping frost, Harry carrying her bags and feeling like just Harry, just like any other bloke in love.

They find a DVD of Beauty and the Beast at a charity shop, and the moment they come back to Hogwarts, Hermione drags him - not that Harry is resisting - to the classroom that houses a chunky TV set and a scattering of cushions on the floor. Harry transfigures them into a springy mattress every colour of the rainbow, while Hermione puts the film on, and they watch it, sitting with their backs against the wall, gobbling up muggle-made mince pies they picked up in the city. Harry licks his sweet and sticky fingers and chuckles at the mess of crumbs they have made while Hermione’s eyes are glued to the screen. That’s when Harry notices that there is something melancholy about the set of her shoulders and the tilt of her head as she watches the villagers storm the Beast’s castle. He drapes his arm around her, pulling her into his side even more, and Hermione sighs shakily but says nothing at all. It’s only when the credits start to run lazily up the screen that she speaks softly into his neck, “Mum and Dad used to watch films every Friday night with me. I miss them so much.” She lifts her face up and her eyes are glassy. “I want to spend Christmas with them. I want to go on holidays with them. I want to argue with them. I want them to meet my boyfriend.” Hermione smiles even as a single tear escapes and travels down her cheek, and Harry catches it with his thumb.

“How do you think they would react? To us?” He asks and she scoffs gently.

“Not well, at first.” Harry snorts but then she adds, “They would fall in love with you though, given time.” Her fingers run over his Adam’s apple, and he swallows reflexively as she gazes at him with so much tenderness that something flutters in his chest, an emotion so full that there isn’t a word good enough to describe it. “I used to feel so fed up with having to be a grown-up all the time. All this weight of responsibility. I just wanted to feel like somebody’s daughter again…”

“What about now?” Harry prompts when her silence stretches too long.

“When I’m with you, I feel like being a grown-up is not so bad.” Hermione curls her fingers around his shoulder for support as she slides into his lap, and Harry rests his hands on her thighs. “I feel safe. Protected. With you.” That fluttering feeling again. He moves his hands to her hips, then to the curve of her waist… “I miss them but it no longer feels like a gaping wound.” He urges her closer, kisses the corner of her mouth and a tiny mole on her right cheek. “I feel like I can talk about them without suffocating.” Hermione rests her head on his shoulder, and they stay like that for a while, basking in their closeness.

“I have a Christmas present for you.” The words slip out all by themselves in a murmur. It’s not Christmas - not even Christmas Eve - but this moment feels right, and Harry doesn’t want to wait.

“It’s a bit early for presents.” He can hear a smile in her voice though, and when she lifts her head to look at him, her eyes are wide and curious.

“What can I say? Patience has never been my virtue.” Hermione smirks knowingly and Harry leans to the side, reaching for his bag, where her present has been tucked away between the Marauder’s Map and a few letters since the day that he got it. He finds the festive red envelope with ease and holds it out to her - he doesn’t let go though when Hermione takes it.

“Just remember that I’m not making you do anything, okay? This is your choice.” Hermione looks at him oddly, a furrow in her brow, and hesitates for a moment when Harry’s fingers unclench. But soon enough, the room gets filled with the rustling of paper, and Harry’s heart beats anxiously behind his ribs.

Hermione gets two thick pieces of paper out of the envelope and stares. She stares for such a long time that Harry’s palms begin to sweat and the silence rings unpleasantly in his ears.

“We don’t have to see them. We can just go on a holiday. Or not go at all. Or we can move the dates from Easter to summer or later - and I know we could’ve gone by portkey but-“ Hermione launches herself at him and shuts him up with a kiss. She smiles against his lips and the fist of anxiety finally unclenches, letting Harry breathe.

“I want to go,” she says. Another kiss, another smile. “I don’t know what I will want to do when we are in Sydney but I want to go. With you.”

Hermione rests her forehead against his, breathing deeply, her eyes closed, and then she kisses him again, but it’s different from before. This time, it’s greedy and desperate - even more so than in that storage room weeks ago - it feels like she is suffocating and Harry is air. She is irresistible, and he follows the lines of her body with his hands, drags her flush against him, digs his fingers into her hips and the way Hermione responds - the way she leans into his touch, the way her breathing accelerates, the way she sighs - is intoxicating.

Her hands slide over his shoulders and down his sides, and then between them, right where their bodies touch.

“Let me,” she whispers, shuffling down his body, fire in her eyes and her hand resting on the buckle of his belt. For a moment, Harry can’t understand why she is even asking, his brain fogged with lust. Then he remembers catching her wrists and dragging her hands away because he didn’t want to see even a shadow of guilt in her eyes after. But he hasn’t seen that look in days, weeks, really. And maybe he should ask if she is certain, make her swear she isn’t going to regret anything, but the way she is looking at him right now robs him of all resolve, her need written so clearly across her face for Harry to read and her parted lips so pink, wet and inviting…

So, in the end, he doesn’t just let her. He helps her unbuckle his belt because her fingers tremble a bit - he doesn’t know if it’s from the nerves or impatience. He doesn’t ask. He watches as she pulls his zip down, slides her hand inside his trousers and finds the opening in his boxers. She feels the hardness of him, exhales sharply, and coaxes him free. Hermione pauses then, her lips just a breath away from his co*ck, and Harry can’t think - he can barely remember how to breathe. He slides his hand to the back of Hermione’s head and rests it there, fighting the urge to pull her in, needing her lips around him as if his sanity depends on it.

Hermione glances up at him, a look of mischief in her eyes, and an image of Ginny, unbidden, dances in the forefront of his mind, the same mischievous glint in her eyes, her school shirt unbuttoned with nothing underneath, her hand on his co*ck.

“You are bigger than Dean,” she blurted out that very first time, and it was such a mixed feeling: jealousy and smugness and annoyance at her for bringing Dean up at all, and Harry wonders if Hermione is comparing him to her past lovers too. But then she finally opens her mouth and takes him in, and not even a trace of Ginny is left in his thoughts. There is only Hermione, straddling his legs, her skirt bunched around her waist, one hand on his thigh - she moans around him, and Harry only just notices that her other hand is between her legs, inside her clothes, moving frantically. And then she gazes up - he’s never seen her eyes this dark - and takes his co*ck all the way in.

Harry swears, and Hermione withdraws and grins the dirtiest of grins, and does it again, and it doesn’t take long until an org*sm gets ripped right out of him with such force that his body curls forward.

“Merlin,” he laughs as he sags against the wall, his chest heaving. “I think I’ve just died.”

“And I think I win this round.” Strangely, the look on Hermione’s face reminds him of the way her younger self used to light up in class when getting an answer to a tricky question just right.

"Hm, do you?” Harry raises his eyebrow at her and pushes off the wall. Hermione’s hair is a mess, her face is flushed, and her skirt is still bunched around her waist - and there is no way Harry is leaving it at that.

When he kisses Hermione, he can taste himself on her lips, and he feels something wild and primal stirring up inside.

“Mine,” he nearly growls and bites her neck playfully, then shifts them so that he is the one lying on top. His fingers are already working on the buttons of her blouse only to freeze when he hears a click of the lock.

They don’t even have a chance to scramble off the mattress because when Harry turns towards the noise, Gianna Amato, the Muggle Studies professor, is already there, her eyes huge and her mouth open in shock. She stares, Harry stares, and Hermione makes a tiny noise in the back of her throat, which is still too loud in the quiet of the room.

All of a sudden, the O of Professor Amato’s mouth stretches into an incredulous smile. “I knew it!” She exclaims, barks a single laugh and, with a final glance over her shoulder, disappears back into the corridor. Harry is pretty sure he hears her mutter something about Bathsheda owing her ten galleons, and Harry hides his face in Hermione’s shoulder, his whole body shaking with laughter.

“sh*t,” Hermione squeaks. “It’s not funny!” She slaps him on the back but it makes the whole situation even more ridiculous, and he snorts loudly. Hermione huffs against his cheek, but then her body begins to shake with suppressed laughter too, and when Harry gets his breath back, he kisses her clumsily, not able to stop grinning.

“I feel like a teenager who’s just been caught by her teacher,” she says, rubbing the moisture off her eyes with the backs of her hands.

“Me too.”

“You are a teenager,” she accuses, and they start laughing all over again for no particular reason. All Harry knows is that they are both here, in each other’s arms, delirious with happiness, and that nobody can take it away from them. Not anymore.

***

Apart from Harry, there are only seven other students who have chosen to stay in the castle over the holidays and all of four professors, which means that the Great Hall is virtually empty at eight o’clock in the morning. There are a couple of girls at the Ravenclaw table discussing something animatedly, and Minerva by Hermione’s side, reading the Daily Prophet, her lips pursed so thin they’ve gone white. Hermione is about to ask what is making the headmistress so displeased when Harry strolls through the doors, his steps wide and determined. He winks at Hermione - and how can something so silly make joy bubble in her chest? - and instead of stopping at the Gryffindor table, he walks right past it and straight to where they are sitting.

“I’ve got an idea!” Harry declares, making his way past a row of empty teachers’ chairs, not even remotely intimidated by the way Minerva is watching him over the rim of her glasses. He lowers himself into the seat on Minerva’s other side as if he belongs at the staff table and, to Hermione’s mind, this confidence is breathtakingly hot. She is so busy watching the way his mouth moves, his eyes glow and his arms fly as he explains something with enthusiasm that it takes Hermione a while to understand what exactly it is he is talking about. She only truly gets it when Minerva chooses to summarise Harry’s words as he pours himself a cup of tea.

“So what you are saying is that you would like to organise a muggle activities themed common room for all the houses?”

“Basically, yes. Hermione can help.” Harry grins at her conspiratorially but when he brings his focus back to Minerva, his tone is all business. “I had a chat with Professor Amato,” Harry says, and it baffles her how Harry managed to have a whole conversation about school matters with Gianna when Hermione can’t even look her in the eye without blushing. “She said that you tried making Muggle Studies compulsory for pureblood children but the board of governors weren’t so keen. But what if we tried to make it fun? We could organise a movie night to begin with...” Harry is saying something else but he also keeps on glancing at Hermione with a spark in his eyes, and all she can think about is the mattress in front of the TV and their wandering hands, and the way Harry fell apart under her touch.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Harry, and if it were only up to me, I wouldn’t even hesitate. However, I must speak to the heads of houses and the board first.” Hermione would’ve expected Harry to look a bit deflated, but he simply nods, buttering his toast, and promises Minerva that he can help with the convincing.

Harry reminds Hermione of her younger self: her first year at the Ministry, head full of fresh ideas, heart brimming with passion and faith. It was after she had lost her parents and Ron but before she lost herself. Back then, she still believed that she could change the wizarding world, however, it turned out that it’s impossible to make people believe what they don’t even want to consider. On the other hand, isn’t Harry living proof that there is nothing impossible?

“Now,” Minerva tells Harry with put-upon sternness, “stop stealing staff toast and go to your table.”

Harry doesn’t budge. He takes a bite of his toast, chews slowly, swallows and informs Minerva that staff bread tastes much better, and so does the tea, and the company is certainly more entertaining - which can’t be argued with, considering that the Gryffindor table is standing entirely empty.

“Oh, fine. But only this one time,” Minerva concedes, and Hermione can’t believe her eyes. Or her ears. Minerva is smiling. And she said fine. The strictest professor at Hogwarts - the woman who was so concerned about not crossing any lines only four months ago - allows Harry to top up her cup of tea and pats him on the arm. Harry throws Hermione a winning smile, and she hides her own behind a cup of coffee.

It seems that rules, no matter how strict, do not apply to Harry Potter.

Chapter 22

Chapter Text

The familiarity of the Burrow hurts like an old scar. The smell, the earthy colours, the worn furniture, and all these arms around her, all the familiar voices welcoming her back… Hermione has sworn to herself not to cry but it’s clear that it’s another promise she’s about to break. Her eyes feel so hot, and when Molly Weasley cradles her face in her calloused hands, the water just spills, and Hermione wouldn’t be able to control it even if she tried.

“I’ve been so stubborn. I should’ve come sooner.” She laughs wetly. “Years ago.”

“You are here now,” Mrs Weasley says warmly, giving Hermione a bone-breaking hug. Hermione wraps her arms around the plump woman, breathing in the scent of baking, lavender washing powder and her childhood. Hermione told Harry that she used to want to feel like somebody’s daughter, and now she realises that she could have had it all along. So bloody stupid, stubborn, self-pitying-

No.

She shuts the voice up and plays Mrs Weasley’s words in her head: You are here now.

It’s Christmas, and she is here. And whatever happens, she won’t make the same mistake twice.

She meets all the children, and honestly tries to remember their names, but there are just so many, most of them with hair like fire and freckles dotting their faces.

“I’ve just realised why Mrs Weasley calls everybody dear,” she tells Harry, watching plates levitate from the kitchen and onto the dining room table, which has been enlarged to take up the length of the room.

Harry doesn’t get it at first but he laughs loud and happy when she explains, and Hermione leans in and quickly pecks the dimple on his left cheek simply because she feels like it.

“What’s so funny?”

Hermione turns her head towards the voice to see Ginny with a baby in her arms, and although she has dark circles under her eyes, she is still so beautiful and shines as bright as the sun that, all of a sudden, Hermione feels dull and unimportant. She listens as Harry explains about the names, and Ginny snorts, then pushes the squirming baby into Hermione’s reluctant arms. “Well, this one is Rose.” Hermione watches Rose’s little face and her tuft of red hair, somewhat dazed, until the baby scrunches up her button nose and begins to protest. And when Hermione looks up, not sure what to do, she sees that Ginny has her arms around Harry’s neck and that she is standing way too close, and she only lets go when Rose makes a high-pitched noise.

“That’s all I get these days,” Ginny laughs although there is a hint of irritation behind the humour. “Five seconds.” She takes the baby back, calms her down, passes it to Harry and gives Hermione a quick hug. “Don’t you dare disappear for another ten years. I’ve missed my friend,” Ginny scolds her before letting go and reaching for whimpering Rose, and Hermione feels a sharp pang of guilt for that tiny pang of jealousy.

It’s all but forgotten when they sit at the table, and Harry rests his hand on her knee, hidden under the white tablecloth. Everything feels like a dream, but Harry’s hand is hot and soothing and real. Hermione leans into his side and away from Ron, who has unceremoniously inserted himself on her left as if they are still this trio of friends, which they are not. Ron makes truly horrible sounds as he eats, so she shifts even closer to Harry and soon enough she stops thinking about Ron at all.

That day she tastes. Juicy turkey with thick gravy and sage stuffing, Brussels sprouts that she adores and Harry can’t stand the look of, so he pushes his onto her plate when Mrs Weasley isn’t looking. Roast potatoes with golden, crispy skin, and sweet buttery parsnips. Christmas pudding with brandy butter and ginger wine in small crystal glasses that twinkle in the light. The wine tingles her tongue and warms her throat. It turns her body into something heavy and soft, and she rests her head on Harry’s shoulder and closes her eyes. She listens and feels - the heat of Harry’s body and the soft fabric of his jumper under her cheek. The children giggling under the table, plotting a mischief or two. Cutlery clinking, people talking, Christmas carols playing softly on the wireless, Fleur saying something to Victoire in French, making Hermione remember the skiing trips with her parents, and for the first time in forever, she allows herself to hope that it might happen again. Her parents and her brother - she doesn’t even know his name - and Harry.

Harry’s breath is warm on the top of her head when he speaks. “Are you awake? It’s time.”

Hermione’s head feels heavy as she lifts it off Harry’s shoulder and looks into his anxious yet excited eyes.

“Nervous?” She asks, glancing at Teddy, who is standing next to Andromeda in the doorway decorated with holly branches and fidgeting with the buttons on the cuffs of his shirt.

“Terribly,” Harry confirms but his smile is wide and happy, and there is no hesitation in his step when he makes his way to his soon-to-be godson.

For Hermione, this feels like the bravest thing Harry has ever done. He has reached out to Andromeda, he’s built this beautiful brotherly relationship with Teddy, and just before Christmas, he asked Teddy if he would like Harry to be his godfather, officially. He asked even though Harry knew that Teddy could have said no, that Andromeda could have been against it… He asked, and now he and Teddy are standing facing each other, framed by the festive colours of holly, with Andromeda between them, holding a bowl with a pearlescent baby pink potion. She speaks about family and choice and love, and Teddy blushes crimson under everybody’s scrutiny while Harry beams as if he is exactly where he wants to be. Hermione admires Harry for this: his ability to let people in, to love them, to give them second chances, making himself vulnerable in the process but always staying strong and open. Hermione thinks that she still has so much to learn.

She watches Harry dip his fingers into the potion, and the liquid glows where it clings to his skin. Harry raises his hand and touches Teddy’s forehead, his face tender and soft, and the potion shines even brighter before it gets absorbed into their skin, and then the room explodes with noise, everybody cheering and clapping, and there is so much joy in the room that Hermione feels soaked with it to the bone. Harry gives Teddy a one-armed hug and leans in to say something to the boy who is now his family.

“You are crying,” Harry tells her, sliding back into the seat next to her and gazing at her with concern. She touches her cheek, and he’s right, it’s wet, and she hasn’t even realised.

“I’m happy,” she laughs. “I’m the happiest I’ve been in years.” The only thing that could make her happier right now is kissing him full on the lips, and she whispers just that into his ear.

“We could hide under the table,” he tells her conspiratorially, his hand squeezing her knee.

“Hm,” she touches a finger to her lips and pretends to think. “It seems a bit crowded under there…” As if on cue, Ginny’s girl together with Percy’s youngest dive under the table, a small purple box in her hands.

“Hey!” George dives under the tablecloth. “You can’t use my own invention against me!” But it’s too late because there is a gentle pop and a hiss, and something tickles intensely at the soles of her feet. Hermione squeals and jumps up together with everybody else. Chairs fall as they scamper away from the purple mist spreading across the floor, Fleur climbs on a bench, giggling, while the kids hop in and out of the mist, and scoop it up in their hands and throw it like snowballs. It’s chaos, and it’s perfect.

It’s family.

***

They are all settled in the front room, occupying chairs, sofas and cushions scattered across the floor. There is rustling of wrapping paper and incessant chatter, and ‘Wow’-s and ‘Thank you’-s and ‘You didn’t have to’-s. “It’s the best Christmas ever!” Teddy exclaims, unwrapping what is clearly a broom while Andromeda glares daggers at Harry.

“We are going to have a word about this.”

“But Gran!” Teddy protests while Harry starts to explain about the extra safety charms and promises to always be there when Teddy flies, and Hermione watches Andromeda’s eyes slowly turn from stern to soft.

“What’s with you and Harry?” Ginny asks, lowering herself onto the floor next to Hermione. Her face burns, and she busies herself with pretending to examine the jumper Mrs Weasley has knitted for her - it’s white with a giant red heart on the front.

“Where’s Rose?” Hermione tries to change the topic, folding the jumper back up.

“I’ve put her to bed. And you haven’t answered my question.” Ginny nudges her with her shoulder and when Hermione chances a glance her way, she can see that Ginny is smirking as if she already knows. “Come on, spill.” Ginny taps on the side of her nose with her index finger. “I’ve got a good nose for such things.”

Hermione’s heart is about to beat out of her chest but, at the same time, she is flooded with relief. Ginny is smiling encouragingly, and maybe there is a hint of sadness in her expression, but there is not a trace of judgment. Besides, Hermione has been aching to tell somebody. So what if the first person Hermione talks to will be Harry’s ex-girlfriend? Ginny is not just that. She is her friend too.

“Is it that obvious?” Hermione allows herself a conspiratorial half-smile when she hears a dull thump-thump-thump that feels so out of place that everybody stills and looks around, not understanding where the noise is coming from. It’s only when Mrs Weasley gets up with a tired grunt and shuffles towards the door that Hermione realises that it was a knock.

“Oh goodness, come in, dear, come in, you’ll catch your death in such cold,” Mrs Weasley begins to fuss, and an icy splinter forms in Hermione’s heart. Nova steps in, tall and as stunning as ever in sky-blue silk robes, which make her look regal and unapproachable - like the Snow Queen - and the shard of ice inside Hermione grows. Harry jumps to his feet and crosses the room, and Nova’s face, shuttered before, twists into an expression Hermione has never seen on this girl before. Then all at once, Nova is in Harry’s arms, her face hidden in his shoulder as she sobs. Harry strokes her back and whispers something, then exchanges a couple of words with Mrs Weasley before guiding Nova upstairs, and it hurts. It shouldn’t because she trusts Harry completely, and she believes him when Harry says that he and Nova are just friends. And Nova is clearly upset, and Harry is a good friend, and Hermione is being stupid and selfish but - that niggling voice in the back of her mind is whispering that everybody leaves because she isn’t good enough, that she will never be good enough. She tells it to shut up but it doesn’t work this time.

“Who’s the hot chick?” Charlie asks and Fleur thumps him on the head with an unwrapped gift.

“She was crying, you, insensitive brute!”

“She’s another seventh year in Gryffindor,” Neville explains, looking strangely uncomfortable. “Harry’s friend.”

“They look very friendly indeed.” Charlie gets another thump on the head.

Ginny leans in and says something that Hermione doesn’t hear. She can’t stand listening to any of this. She excuses herself, grabs her coat and slips out into the cold.

***

She breathes, the night air so chilly it burns her skin. Hermione wants to go back the moment she steps outside but instead, she pulls her hood up and shoves her hands deep into her pockets, feeling childish and unreasonable. So, she closes her eyes, inhales, exhales and tries to talk herself into not feeding the ugly beast of jealousy, which seems to want to make a permanent home, coiled around her heart.

The front door opens and shuts with a bang, and Hermione twists, startled, to see Ginny wrapping a robe that is too big to belong to her around her shoulders.

“Merlin’s saggy balls, it’s freezing,” she swears, walking towards Hermione. “Mum’s making hot toddy. She says it cures colds and soothes broken hearts.” She stands in front of Hermione, half of her face illuminated by the light from the windows while the other is all shadow. “It’s obviously for Nova but you could use some too.”

Hermione laughs, an empty, hollow sound. “I don’t have a cold. Or a broken heart.”

The look in Ginny’s eyes makes her think of a bird of prey with sharp nails, going for a kill.

“There is obviously something wrong with you if you stayed away for so long, and the moment something goes wrong, you escape to nurse your imaginary wounds.” Hermione takes a step back, feeling as if she’s just been slapped. It hurts. It robs her of all air. She wants to scream that her wounds are not imaginary. How dare Ginny say something like that.

“I thought you were happy to see me.” Hermione puts so much venom into the words that she doesn’t recognise her own voice. “But clearly you were much happier when I and my imaginary wounds were far, far away.”

Ginny pushes her and Hermione stumbles, her eyes wide as Ginny hisses into her face. “You are unbelievable! Selfish, self-centred, spoiled-“ Hermione pushes her back with all the anger she didn’t even know that she’s been carrying, and Ginny stumbles on a rock and begins to fall. Hermione instinctively grabs her by the arm but, unfortunately, she loses her balance. They both tumble to the hard ground and while Hermione’s fall gets cushioned by her puffy coat, Ginny hasn’t been so lucky. Hermione watches in horror as Ginny sits up and touches her fingers to the back of her head, and when Ginny moves her hand towards a patch of light, there is blood.

Hermione swears, apologises and fumbles for her wand.

“I can’t believe you pushed me back!” Ginny says with a laugh.

“And I can’t believe you are finding this funny! You must have hit your head pretty hard.” Hermione moves behind Ginny and gasps. “There’s so much blood!” Her mouth feels dry and her voice comes out thin.

“Head wounds bleed a lot,” Ginny explains matter-of-factly, reaching to touch her head again, but Hermione swats her hand away and gets to work.

“Episkey,” she mutters then starts cleaning the blood off Ginny’s hair. “I didn’t mean to push you this hard.”

“I didn’t mean to shout at you when I came out. Or say all these things.”

“Why did you then?” Hermione asks, casting a couple of warming charms on the ground and sitting cross-legged in front of Ginny when she is done.

Ginny shrugs at first and looks towards the window. Hermione follows her gaze but all she can see from this angle through semi-sheer curtains is the ceiling and a couple of shelves.

“I meant it when I said that I missed you. You and Luna used to be my only friends. Luna is never here anymore. You and Ron were a disaster… I know I was at school but, still, I thought you’d write to me, that we’d moan about him being a brainless moron. But you never replied to the last letter that I sent. And you didn’t even come to my wedding.”

Hermione’s face contorts into a grimace as if she is in pain, and Ginny looks at her - she must see the guilt all over her features - but she doesn’t stop. “I lost Harry too. I lost Fred. I lost my whole future. I lost Luna to her travels. I lost you to… whatever,” she waves her hand vaguely in the air. “I lost Quidditch.”

Ginny stops talking abruptly, hugs her folded legs and rests her chin on her knees, gazing into the distance, and Hermione thinks that maybe they are all lonely. Her, Ginny, Nova… But Hermione has been so consumed by her own loneliness and pain that she couldn’t see anybody else’s.

“I managed to convince myself that nobody wanted me,” Hermione tries to explain. “That all of you were better off without me, happily living your lives.”

Ginny snorts loudly. “You see,” she smirks. “Imaginary wounds. I missed you like hell.” And when Ginny says it this time, it doesn’t hurt. It makes her smile.

“I missed you too,” she confesses. “All of you. Even your moron of a brother.” They laugh a bit. And they talk a bit more about nothing in particular until Ginny says seemingly out of nowhere, “Harry looks at you the way he used to look at me.”

Ginny’s tone isn’t accusing but Hermione still tries to defend herself. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, it just-“

“Hermione,” Ginny interrupts, rolls her eyes at her. “I’ve chosen my life. I mean, I love Harry like he is a part of me. But I’m married with four kids, you know.” Ginny smiles sadly and Hermione thinks that everything she thought about Ginny’s perfect life is not true, not entirely anyway. “What I want to say is that Harry doesn’t look at Nova like that, and that for somebody so smart you are extremely stupid.” They laugh again and talk some more, and Hermione asks questions about Ginny’s life and listens. And every time guilt starts gnawing at her heart, Hermione tells herself that feeling like that won’t fix anything. Being here will though.

Eventually, Ginny hops to her feet and holds a hand out to Hermione. “Come on, my bum is so numb it’s about to fall off.” After Ginny pulls her up, she adds, “Your warming charms suck by the way.” Hermione pushes her and Ginny pushes back, but it’s playful this time. This time, Hermione’s heart feels light.

***

Nova cries, and Harry lets her, sitting on a squeaky cot in Ron’s old room, the walls still orange with The Chudley Canons posters. He has never seen Nova fall apart so completely, and Harry wonders if this is the first time she’s allowed herself to cry like this - like a dam bursting.

She cries, and Harry doesn’t ask any questions, although his mind is running wild, imagining all the things that could’ve happened. He distracts himself by studying the posters and tries not to clench his fists or grit his teeth no matter how much he wants to storm out, find his way to Nova’s house and demand to know what the hell has happened tonight to turn her into this.

Her sobbing stops after a while, but her breaths are still shaky and she won’t lift her face off his shoulder. He waits. He strokes her hair. And only when her breathing evens out, he asks softly, “What’s happened?”

She does lift her head up this time, slowly, as if it weighs a ton, but she won’t look at him. She touches his shoulder with the tips of her fingers instead - her nails are painted blue like her robes - and says, “I’ve made you wet.”

“I don’t mind.”

“It’s probably not just my tears. Snot too.” Harry smiles at her tone despite the mood. If Nova can joke, maybe things are not so bad.

“I’ve had worse on me, believe me,” he responds with a quirk to his lips, remembering sticking his wand up the troll’s nose in his first year.

“Oh, do tell!” Nova finally crosses his gaze. Her eyes are puffy and red, but there is a familiar spark in them too, and Harry’s murderous indignation simmers down to intense concern for the girl who is so strong but so fragile all at the same time.

“You first,” he prompts, and Nova sighs unhappily, then shrugs.

“There is not much to tell,” she explains dully. “My uncle made an inappropriate comment while we were all having Christmas dinner. I might have lost my temper - you know how I’ve been - and said something about him liking to f*ck fifteen-year-old girls. Naturally, everybody was scandalised, and my mum dragged me away to a different room.” Nova takes a deep breath in, puffs her cheeks out, exhales. “I’ve learned that I wasn’t the first person my uncle cheated on my aunt with. Want to know how I figured it out?” She glances at him but carries on speaking without stopping. “He was diagnosed with Phyllis Wayne Disease, and guess what? My mum decided that he got it from me and not the other way around, can you believe it? She was called into Hogwarts last year when all that drama with me and other boys happened, and of course, she assumed that I gave it to my bastard of an uncle just like I gave it to those poor innocent boys, because, you know, clearly I’m some some sort of - demon seducing good men and spreading disease!” Nova is breathing hard, her eyes full of fury, and Harry feels like he is ready to go and knock some sense into people when there is a quiet knock on the door. They both freeze and exchange a worried glance, realising that Nova hasn’t been quiet, and they haven’t cast any silencing charms on the room.

Harry watches the worn wooden knob twist and the door slowly open. Hermione steps in, a tray with steaming mugs and leftover Christmas pudding in her hands. Her grip on the tray is so tight that her knuckles are white, and It takes one look at her face - a tiny crease between her eyebrows, her solemn eyes and her bottom lip trapped between her teeth - for Harry to know that she has heard everything.

Chapter 23

Chapter Text

Hermione shouldn’t have knocked. She should have left - it would have been so much easier if she had - but knocking felt like the only honest thing to do.

So now she is standing here, in Ron’s room, which hasn’t even changed all that much since she was here last. She can’t help but remember the days straight after the war: sneaking up the stairs, masterfully avoiding squeaky boards, to sleep in Ron’s bed because she couldn’t stand to be on her own at night.

It’s bizarre, seeing Harry here, in the same room where she used to mourn his death. Hermione blinks the memories away and brings her focus to the present. She notices a wet patch on Harry’s jumper, Nova's fingers wrapped around Harry’s wrist like a vice, her red eyes and the way her eyelashes are clumped together - and for the first time since she met Nova, Hermione doesn’t see her as a threat - as someone who could stand between Harry and her. She sees Nova as a young vulnerable girl, and the words she’s just heard echo in her mind:

My uncle

Liking to f*ck fifteen-year-old girls

Diagnosed with Phyllis Wayne Disease

My mum decided that he got it from me

Hermione watches Nova sit straight and jut her chin out. She watches her eyes go cold and guarded - the look Hermione has seen so many times in class. Nova uses it like a mask, like armour, to say: go on, try, hurt me, see if I care. But this time it’s not the other students Nova wants to protect herself from. It’s Hermione.

The silence stretches so long that it presses on Hermione like a physical weight. She wants to break it but she has no idea what to say, so she moves to place the tray she’s been holding on the desk, and the clatter that it makes is louder than thunder.

“Mrs Weasley thought that a bit of food and drink might make you feel better.” God, her voice sounds fake, and when she tries to smile the corners of her lips tremble with tension.

“It’s so awfully kind of you to bring it up for us, Hermione.” Nova’s voice is as sweet as syrup and just as fake as Hermione’s was. “I’m sure that checking up on your boyfriend alone in the room with me had nothing to do with it.”

“Nova,” Harry says warningly, eyes darting between them. He shifts to the edge of his seat as if getting ready to jump to his feet in case he needs to break up a fight.

“It’s fine,” Hermione says. “Nova is…. not wrong” Another bit of honesty, but now Harry is staring at her, and she can’t stand the look of confusion and hurt that she has just put on his face. However, now is not the time for this. This is not about Harry and her. This is about Nova. “I will explain later,” she promises earnestly and when Harry nods jerkily, she faces Nova again.

“I’ve heard what you said about your uncle and your mum. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop-“

“Sure you didn’t,” Nova spits.

“It’s an old house. I could hear your voices from the stairs,” she says calmly, but her composure seems to frustrate Nova even more.

“It’s good we weren’t f*cking this time then.” And while Nova throws her words like knives, they fail to cut. Hermione knows exactly what Nova is trying to do. She wants to make this about Hermione, but Hermione won’t let her, and the moment Nova realises that, her body seems to shrink back. She wraps her arms around her middle as if she is trying to hold herself together, and all Hermione can see is a broken girl.

“I understand that you don’t want to talk about it - I’m not asking you to. I only want you to know that I’ve heard and that I’m not going to tell anybody unless you want me to. And that I’m here if you need any support.”

Nova turns her face away and doesn’t respond. But it’s not like Hermione expected her to.

“We’ll talk later,” Harry says, and it falls like a rock in the heavy silence of the room. Hermione searches his face for something - reassurance mostly, some understanding - but it stays blank. She tears her eyes away when she doesn’t find what she needs and leaves the room. Her steps are soft and the click of the lock is gentle as she shuts the door, but the voice inside her head roars.

***

The moment Hermione leaves, Nova casts a silencing charm and explodes. She swears and she shouts, she calls Hermione names and waves her arms in exasperation and paces the room. “How dare she stick her nose into this,” she screams, “and then offer me f*cking support!” Harry is barely listening - he is just so damn tired all of a sudden. He slumps against the wall and rubs his face, digging his fingers into his eyes, wishing it were dark and quiet.

“And you!” When Harry peeks through his fingers, he sees Nova glaring at him, her cheeks vivid pink while the rest of her face is pale. “She was spying on you. You deserve better than this. You deserve somebody who will trust you. I’m going to destroy her! I’m going to-“

“Nova, that’s enough,” he says, and there is enough authority in his voice that she actually listens. He heaves himself up to his feet, walks around Nova and to the desk, and picks the mugs up. He holds one out to her. “Sit and drink.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she mutters but accepts the mug all the same. Nova lowers herself into the desk chair with a sigh and takes a sip, then another, and Harry waits for tension to slowly seep out of her body.

“This is rather good,” she says absentmindedly, like she is not really here.

Harry leans against the desk and presses the mug to his solar plexus, exactly where a cold hollow feeling has settled with Hermione’s words.

“Aren’t you upset with her?” Nova asks after a while.

Harry doesn’t want to talk about his feelings, but he doesn’t want Nova to think badly about Hermione either. On the other hand, Hermione isn’t the one whom Nova is truly angry with. He reckons it’s just easier to focus on her than on what’s happened at home.

He takes a sip of his drink, buying time - he tastes lemon and honey and cinnamon and something strong that sends liquid heat to that cold place in his chest. He studies the slice of lemon floating in his mug, thinking about Nova’s question.

“I understand her in a way.” He looks around the room. The wallpaper is peeling in the far right corner, the rug has got a bold patch that wasn’t there before, and the posters look kind of faded now that he thinks about it. “This is Ron’s room. I used to stay here for a couple of weeks nearly every summer. It has barely changed. The whole house hasn’t changed all that much.” There are new photos on the walls, toys scattered here and there, and the pile of wellies on the porch is twice its former size, but it’s still very much the Burrow he remembers. “Hermione would visit too. They used to have this thing with Ron.” Harry smiles despite himself, remembering their frequent bickering. “They got together after the war, Hermione and Ron.” Nova is watching him strangely, as if she doesn’t understand why he is telling her all this, but she doesn’t interrupt. “Ron cheated on her. Hermione walked in on him with another girl.” Harry doesn’t know if Hermione will be fine with him sharing all this but, just this second, he doesn’t care. Hermione might not be happy with him but he is not at all thrilled with her either. “The men she dated after didn’t sound all that great either. She’s been hurt many times. So, in a way, I get her.”

Nova nudges his foot with her shoe and Harry looks at her, catching a hint of a smile on her lips. “You know, you might be the only decent bloke in this world.” Harry gives a surprised chuckle and grins, relieved to change the topic.

“If you were to tell this to my very first girlfriend, she would argue vehemently.”

“Ginny?” There is a curious glint in Nova’s eyes, and it’s much better than tears or her fury, so Harry tells her about his awkward date with Cho, exaggerates it a bit, makes Nova laugh. It’s one of his favourite things, making the people he cares about laugh, especially when they are hurting.

“I would’ve never guessed that you used to be this awkward,” she giggles, so he tells her about the Yule Ball too, and Nova tells him about her first date when she was thirteen, and how the boy picked some flowers for her on the age of the Forbidden Forest, not realising that some of them were poisonous, so Nova and he finished their date at the hospital wing, hands covered in itchy blisters.

They share a few more stories and finish their drinks, and after a while, it’s easy to pretend that the last hour never happened.

***

Hermione is pretending to be asleep, tucked into an overstuffed armchair. Somebody came and covered her with a scratchy woollen blanket, and it’s itchy where it’s resting against her throat, but Hermione won’t move. She needs to think - she can’t not think about Nova and the little that Hermione now knows. She has all these questions zooming through her head: about consent and if Nova is safe to go back home and if she has anywhere else to go and if she’s got any other siblings apart from Nash and if they are safe there and if Hermione should confront her family, speak to her parents, if she should tell McGonagall because even if Nova gave her consent, she was still underage, which makes this statutory rape, which means that the man belongs in Azkaban. She thinks about Poppy’s medical records that could be used as proof. Would Nova want that? And it is this question that interrupts the flow of Hermione’s thoughts. Would Nova want that? To her horror, Hermione realises that she’s nearly made the same mistake she made so many times before. Not even an hour has passed since she promised Nova not to tell anybody, yet here she is, ready to break this promise, because she decided that telling somebody would be the right thing to do. However, this is not her decision to make. It’s Nova’s, and all Hermione can do - should do - is be on Nova’s side.

Hermione forces her thoughts away from Nova and focuses on the world around her instead. She listens as Neville makes his goodbyes and takes the three older children home while Ginny is staying here with sleeping Rose. She listens as both Teddy and Victoire argue that they are not tired, not even one bit - they’ve been whispering to each other for the last hour, hidden behind a large Christmas tree, and now they refuse to part.

“Let the children spend the night,” Mrs Weasley offers. “I don’t mind.”

She hears the creaking of steps, then Harry’s voice, low at first, and then louder. He says goodbye to Bill and Fleur and Andromeda and Alicia and George, and Hermione should really open her eyes, stop pretending, be polite. But she doesn’t move. It’s not about Nova anymore but Harry and what horrible things he must think about her. So Hermione stays where she is, feeling warm and safe, hidden behind her eyelids, believing like a child that if she can’t see anybody then surely they can’t see her either. She listens to the fire crackle and whoosh as more people go home. She listens as Mrs Weasley tells Harry that he and Nova should stay - as if they are a couple. Anger sizzles in the pit of her stomach. Are they blind? Can’t they see that Harry is with her? Ginny spotted it straight away, why didn’t they? Why isn’t Ron blowing up? Why isn’t Mrs Weasley telling her off for seducing Harry? Why isn’t Charlie making inappropriate jokes about them? Hermione hates herself for all these thoughts, especially after tonight, but she can’t stop them.

She hears the soft padding of feet approaching and feels the armchair shift under somebody’s weight as they sit on its arm.

“You can stop pretending to be asleep now,” Harry tells her. Why is his voice so gentle? She doesn’t deserve it.

“How did you know I was pretending?” She asks without opening her eyes but she finally scratches that spot on her throat in relief.

“You're frowning.” She feels the press of his finger between her eyebrows, smoothing out the wrinkle. She doesn’t understand.

She opens her eyes, sitting up, and Harry’s hand falls onto his lap.

“Aren’t you angry?” She asks, then quickly looks around the room but, thankfully, they are alone. She hears the voices of Mr and Mrs Weasley drifting in from the kitchen and somebody upstairs, walking from room to room.

“Not angry, no,” Harry responds quietly. “More sad than anything else.”

“Sad? Why?”

“Because I want to be with you.” His chest expands as he sighs. “But I want to be Nova’s friend too.”

“I’m not saying that you can’t.”

“No, but - Hermione, why did you come upstairs?”

“I…” she trails off, not knowing how to put what happened into words, then tries again. “I was sitting here, chatting to everybody else, but my thoughts kept on going to you. And it was fine at first.” She shifts, puts her hair behind her ears, and looks around the room, willing the right words to come to her. “And then… and then - it wasn’t even a conscious thought. It was like an image - I open the door, and you are there, kissing, taking each other’s clothes off…” Hermione cringes, feeling so ashamed of herself that she closes her eyes again. It’s easier, in the dark. “And I told myself, no, Harry wouldn’t do that. Again and again and again. And then there was Mrs Weasley with that tray and I just - I thought that if I saw you and Nova just talking, it would replace the image that keeps on haunting me, and that I could finally - I don’t know.” She opens her eyes and combs her fingers through her hair, exasperated.

“That you could finally what?”

“I don’t know,” she repeats.

“Trust me?”

Her eyes dart to Harry although she’s been scared to look at him all this time. She wishes she hadn’t, because the look in his eyes - his disappointment - hurts.

“I do trust you.” Harry gives her a look like yeah, right, and the anger in her belly reignites. “I do.” She repeats forcefully. “I trust you right now. That you want to be with me right now. But how can I know that you won’t change your mind?”

She pulls her knees up, rests her chin on the scratchy blanket, and wills herself not to cry when Harry says, “You can’t.” He gets up and kneels on the floor in front of her, and his face is right there, and she loves him so much - has there been a time when she didn’t love him? This love is such a big part of her heart that she doesn’t know if she will be able to go on if Harry leaves her. But if Harry is about to break up with her, he is doing it in a very strange way. He guides her legs back down so that he is kneeling right between her knees, and then he comes even closer and cups her cheek like he’s done so many times before. “We might both change our minds a million times. It’s like during the Horcrux hunt.”

Hermione can’t believe that Harry is comparing their relationship to that. Sure, it’s been rocky, but it hasn’t been that terrible, and Hermione wants to argue because Harry isn’t making any sense. “Sometimes, it will be hard,” he explains further. “And we will fight. And have moments like today. And we’ll feel jealous. And some people won’t approve of our relationship. And at times we might get miserable or scared. We might want to walk away, give up, take a break… But - it’s about choice, Hermione. It’s about choosing to stay, again and again.” He strokes her cheek, looking right into her, and, finally, she understands. “It’s about choosing to trust, every time.” He strokes her skin, and she leans into his touch, her eyes burning. She wants to be out of here, out of this room, out of the Burrow, to be alone with Harry, because this moment is too precious to share. “Can you do this for me?” Harry asks, and she nods shakily and blinks, causing her tears to spill, and she has no idea if they are happy or sad or relieved. And then she laughs, wiping her tears with the hem of her Weasley jumper, which she put on earlier, feeling cold despite the roaring fire.

“I think you are older than me,” Hermione says with a shaky smile. “Certainly wiser.”

Harry chuckles and Hermione leans forward, as if pulled in by the sound of his happiness. She rests her face against the side of his neck, where his skin is so soft and warm against hers. He wraps his arms around her and Hermione feels like she is home.

“I choose you,” she says. “Every time.”

“And I you,” he promises, kissing her temple.

Hermione looks up at the sound of steps coming down the stairs but, other than that, she doesn’t move away. And Harry doesn’t get up off the floor either, nor does he drop his arms. Their gazes cross, and there is something new there, between them - something steady, peaceful and calm - something that fills Hermione with confidence and warmth.

“Get a room!” They both turn their heads towards the doorway, where Ginny is standing, smirking at them, with Nova just behind her, wearing borrowed jeans which are too short and a Weasley jumper with an N on it. Mrs Weasley must have knitted it specially for her, and Hermione feels that little sharp pang of jealousy again - she didn’t receive her first jumper from Mrs Weasley until she was sixteen. It’s such a petty thought though that she dismisses it straight away. She doesn’t know that much about Nova, but Hermione knows enough to see that Nova needs to be loved and included just as much as she does, and there is enough space for them both. Besides, it’s like Harry said - it’s all about choice. She can’t make herself like Nova, not straight away, but she can choose to try because Nova is Harry’s friend, and Hermione cares about Harry. And it’s that simple.

***

However, when Harry disappears around the corner to have a chat with Ginny, Hermione wants him to come right back. She understands why they need to talk, and she doesn’t mind that Harry will reveal to Ginny much more about their relationship than Hermione has. What she minds is being left alone in the room with Nova. Although there is no oppressive silence this time - the space is filled with muffled voices from the kitchen, the clinking of dishes and the soft music from the wireless - it is still awkward, and Hermione blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “This shade of pink looks great on you.”

Nova takes a few steps closer, looking down at her jumper and pulling at the fabric, examining it, as if seeing it properly for the very first time.

“I guess. I prefer black.”

“Me too.” Hermione laughs uneasily, eyeing the giant heart on the front of her own jumper. “But I’m beginning to reconsider.”

Nova doesn’t smile. She co*cks her head to the side and flatly says, “You don’t deserve Harry.” And the anger that Hermione has been struggling to keep at bay flares up again. Can’t Nova see that she is trying? But, to her surprise, Nova adds with a one-shouldered shrug, “But neither do I.”

Nova turns away and starts to make her way towards the kitchen - away from their horrible awkwardness and towards friendlier voices.

“Harry believes that we do,” Hermione says to her retreating back, and Nova glances over her shoulder with a smirk, “Having Voldemort in his head must have addled his brain.” Hermione snorts a laugh, which makes Nova’s smirk turn into a smile that looks almost genuine.

“Lucky us.”

“Indeed.”

Nova walks out of the room then, leaving Hermione utterly confused. A person for whom she feels a mix of dislike, envy, pity and concern has just made her laugh out of the blue.

Hermione gets up and stretches the stiffness out of her body, thinking how this Christmas has been the oddest one yet. And that now all she wants is to be home.

Chapter 24

Chapter Text

“Come on, mate, it’ll be just like the old times,” Ron grins from where he is leaning against the counter, collecting mince pie crumbs from a plate with a finger.

Harry looks at Mrs Weasley, who is gazing between him and Hermione expectantly, in the hope that they will spend the night. He looks at Nova, who is sitting at the table and resting her head on her folded arms, half of her face hidden. She has been watching him with one eye. Will she feel abandoned if he goes? He thinks about Teddy upstairs, and Victoire, and how it would be a good idea to stay and make sure that they don’t get up to any mischief at night. That’s what a responsible godfather should do. But then he turns his head to Hermione, and it’s the look in her eyes that makes up his mind. While Mrs Weasley, Ron and Nova are watching him with expectation, Hermione’s face stays open and soft. Harry can read her so well now that he can almost hear her say, ‘It’s alright, Harry, I’m here, with you, whatever you choose.’ And after the day he’s had, he can choose to be selfish, right?

“I’m sorry mate,” he grins back at Ron, “but we both know how badly you snore after feasting all night.”

“Hey! I’m not that bad!” Ron protests.

“You actually are.” Hermione joins in and Ron stares at them, comically offended.

“Fine! Gang up on me! Some friends you are.” Ron wipes a pretend tear and goes back to his crumbs, but Harry can see he is hiding a smile.

“You can sleep in Percy’s old room,” Mrs Weasley suggests.

“Nobody wants to sleep in Percy’s old room,” Ginny comments dryly, walking in, and Ron snorts a laugh.

“Why’s that?” Nova asks when nobody else does.

“He used to wet his bed until he was, like, ten.”

“And we never changed his mattress,” Ron adds.

“And although mum’s cleaning and freshening charms are pretty good, just the thought of it…”

Mrs Weasley admonishes them for making fun of poor Percy but she is fighting a smile all the same.

“Are you going back to Hogwarts then? Or Grimmauld?” Ron asks and Harry really wishes he hadn’t. He glances at Hermione again - they could easily lie - but he hates lying, especially after everything he’s been accused of throughout the years. He absentmindedly scratches the scar on his hand - I must not tell lies - then folds his arms when he realises what he’s doing.

“Actually,” he says, “I was going to crash at Hermione’s.”

“Oh.” Ron looks genuinely upset this time, probably feeling like Harry is choosing Hermione over him. Or he might be suspecting something. And Harry wants to tell him the truth - he really does - just not today. It’s already been too much.

Mrs Weasley makes them promise they will return in the morning for a late breakfast. “There is just too much food left!”

Saying goodbye seems to take forever. They all hug, even Ron and Hermione, even though his ‘see ya’ is a smidge sullen. Only Nova doesn’t move from the table, and when Harry asks if she is going to be alright until tomorrow, she rolls her eyes.

“I’m a big girl, Potter.” She doesn’t look all that happy though but Harry is too tired to think about it. And when he and Hermione finally step outside into the dark fresh air, leaving a bag brimming with presents and their coats behind, Harry is filled with relief.

“Merlin,” he exhales, messing up his hair. “That was intense.”

Hermione lets out a small, somewhat nervous laugh, briefly resting her forehead on his shoulder.

“It truly was.” She slots her hand into his. It’s small and soft and - it’s such a cliché - but it does fit perfectly into his. “Let’s get away from here.”

Hermione turns and, with a quiet pop, they are gone.

***

“I hate the way this place smells when I don’t visit for a while,” Hermione explains apologetically after she flicks on the lights. She toes off her shoes and rushes to open the window, muttering something about condensation and black mould.

“It’s not that bad,” Harry says truthfully. Sure, the air is a bit stale but Harry wouldn’t have even noticed if she hadn’t said anything.

He takes time with his shoes - unties the shoelaces with deliberate slowness, drags the boots off his feet and lines them up by the door. He’s been fantasising about being alone with Hermione and away from Hogwarts - and the things that he wants to do to her - for weeks. But now, when he is finally here, he feels like a clueless boy about to touch a girl for the first time.

Harry slowly makes his way to the living room, where Hermione is flitting about, watering the plants from her wand. He takes in the pale blue walls, the open plan kitchen, a modern-looking sofa covered in mismatched cushions, the telly on a stand, and a tall bookcase whose shelves have sunk under the weight of multiple books. Hermione blabbers on about her plants and how guilty she feels for neglecting them, and about how cold it can get because they turn the communal boiler off at midnight. It’s only when she apologises for having no food or milk in the fridge - as if Harry will feel hungry any time soon after being fed by Molly Weasley - he realises that Hermione feels nervous too. But why would Hermione be nervous? She’d done this before - invited men into her home, let them touch her and touched them in turn. Did they kiss standing by the counter? Did they f*ck on the sofa, too impatient to make it into the bedroom? Did she get on her knees for them? Of course she did - she was too good at that-

“I can’t believe I forgot to wash this up!” She exclaims, placing a mug in the sink with the speed of somebody covering up a crime. This snaps Harry out of his spiralling thoughts, and he nearly laughs, realising what he is doing right now is not that different from what Hermione experienced just a few hours ago. Jealousy is not just a lack of trust. It’s fear - fear of not being good enough, of being let down, of losing what you love.

He watches as Hermione goes to turn away from the sink, but then she makes a face, turns back and begins washing up, and warmth swells in the place that earlier today felt cold and hollow.

“Hermione.” Her name comes out in a chuckle, and Hermione turns around from putting the mug and an odd spoon away. Their gazes cross and she smiles lopsidedly, shaking her head in an amused sort of way.

“Am I being silly again?” She asks, stepping forward.

“Not more silly than me,” he smiles self-deprecatingly, and Hermione looks at him, confused.

It takes only two strides and Harry is standing right in front of her, and his arms reach for her before he can think - they always do.

“I got myself mad thinking about your past lovers,” he explains because it feels important that she knows he gets this feeling too.

She gives a quiet laugh, shakes her head again, and looks at him with a spark in her eyes before she says, “God, Harry, they don’t even compare.” Harry nearly tells her that she doesn’t know that - that they haven’t done enough for her to know that - but instead, he does the thing that always stops him from thinking. He touches his lips to hers and when she opens her mouth for him with a sigh - so willing and soft - he deepens the kiss. He knows he is good at this, and he is good with his hands and his mouth - how hard can everything else be? So he loses himself in her taste and her smell and the feel of her body against his - but then he feels her palm on his chest, not caressing but pushing, and he tears his mouth away with a frustrated groan.

“I,” she breathes heavily, their foreheads still pressed together, “need a shower.”

He stares at her, bewildered. “A shower,” he echoes flatly. “Now?”

She nods and starts moving away, and maybe he got it wrong, maybe she doesn’t want him like that, not today - he shouldn’t have assumed that they would have sex just because they are finally alone. He lets his arms drop as Hermione takes a step back and turns to walk to the door he has only just noticed. Why is she running away from him? But then she glances back shyly, her hand resting on the wall, and says, “You can join me if you want. Just give me five minutes.” She disappears without waiting for a reply but leaves the door ajar - an invitation, as if her words weren’t clear enough - and Harry curses the butterflies fluttering their wings nervously in his stomach.

***

There is something magical about water: it has the power to wash bad feelings away. It’s not that Hermione is feeling particularly bad. Truth be told, she feels horny more than anything else, and excited, and a bit scared because what she feels for Harry is stronger than anything she’s felt before. But underneath it all, there is a jumble of feelings this messed up day has left, and she wants them gone. She yanks Mrs Weasley’s jumper off, followed by her dress, thick winter tights and lace underwear - maybe she should’ve let Harry see her wearing it first. Hermione discards the thought - there will be time - turns the taps, and twists her hair into a messy knot while she waits for the water to get warm. And when she steps under the spray of the water, here it is - the magic. It rinses off her worries and her shame, her guilt and discomfort. The heat soothes her heart, relaxes her muscles and quietens her busy mind. And maybe it’s silly, this illusion of starting fresh, because no water has the power to wash off somebody’s mistakes or make things truly right, but she just couldn’t carry on touching Harry with half of her mind here and the other half going through everything she wishes she would’ve done differently.

And the longer she stands here, surrounded by clouds of steam and the scent of her soap, the further the memories of today seem. And soon, the only thing she can think about is the door that she purposefully left ajar, and Harry.

But then a new worry hits her like a gust of icy wind. What if her body isn’t beautiful enough? She is nothing like Ginny used to be. Ginny was athletic and strong, and Hermione - she is still a bit too skinny but soft at the same time, and she is not that young. What if Harry looks at her and feels disappointed? What if Harry looks at her and changes his mind? What if Harry doesn’t come in at all?

She shivers and turns the hot water up.

***

Harry leans against the wall, letting the sound of running water wash over him, hyper-aware that Hermione is naked behind the door, and he realises that he has never seen a fully naked woman before. It’s always been rushed spontaneous moments in broom cupboards, empty classrooms and secluded alcoves. It’s been his hands under clothes, his mouth exploring almost blindly, hiding in the dark after curfew. And when he and Hermione were alone in her room at Hogwarts, it never felt right.

Until four months ago, the only naked body he used to think about was Ginny’s. He’d lie in the tent and make a picture out of the parts of her he’d seen. She said today, “I’ve always wanted to be your first.” It made him uncomfortable, the way she said it, as if she still thinks about him like that sometimes. “I used to want it too,” he replied, emphasising the words. “I know,” she said, accepting but sad - and why is Harry even thinking about her now when Hermione is right there, nude and waiting for him?

He pulls his jumper over his head, lets it fall on the floor, and starts on the buttons of his shirt. He doesn’t want to think about Ginny or - Merlin forbid - about Hermione’s past lovers and how experienced she is while he-

He catches the thought and shoves it right out of the way because it doesn’t matter. He thinks of Hermione’s eyes on him that day he stepped out of her shower, he thinks of making her come in that dark storage room, he thinks about her mouth stretched around his co*ck, he thinks about all the other moments that they’ve shared and how good they’ve been. He drops his jeans, his boxers and his socks on top of his jumper and shirt, and thinks how no woman has ever seen him fully naked either, and then imagines how Hermione would react if he told her that. And then, his stomach still full of butterflies, he steps into the bathroom.

Hermione’s body is just an outline behind the glass, but still, he feels frozen, not able to tear his eyes away from the swell of her breasts, the curve of her waist and her hips, and it’s only when his glasses - useless stupid thing - fog up that he moves to place them on the edge of the sink. Hermione notices him then and moves back from the spray of the shower, and although there is no glass between him and her, Harry still can’t see because of his ridiculous eyesight. A silly thought crosses his mind, and the intensity of the moment morphs into something easy and light.

“You’ve done it on purpose, haven’t you?” He asks teasingly, taking a step towards the blur that is Hermione. “You want me naked and helpless and half-blind.”

Hermione giggles.

“You poor thing,” she murmurs, stepping out of the shower, her arm outstretched. And then she is right there, her fingers entwined with his, and he yanks her closer, so that their bodies touch, and this feeling - skin on skin, his co*ck pressing into her lower belly, her breasts flat against his chest, their shared heat - he has no words to describe how glorious it is.

“Not so helpless, it seems,” Hermione laughs.

“Well, I can see you just fine from here.” He smirks and kisses the water off her lips. Hermione drags him under the shower then, and it’s perfect - sexy and funny and terribly sweet: hot water, Hermione, their bodies slippery with soap, their teasing, and touching, and kissing. It’s simple, when it’s just them, together, and sometimes Harry wishes that they could stay like that - in this blissful bubble - forever.

“I want to wash your hair,” Hermione suddenly says, breaking their kiss.

“Why? It’s clean.” Besides, right now, his hair is the last thing he cares about. If they don’t get to the bedroom anytime soon, he’ll just pin her to the wall and-

“I just want to,” she insists, a bottle of shampoo already in hand.

So he sighs loudly, but he lets her, and then her fingers start massaging his scalp so tenderly and he just - breaks - for no f*cking reason. He doesn’t burst into tears or anything - he’s done enough of that in the last few months - but his emotions are all over the place, and he can feel water spill from his eyes when he blinks. He doesn’t think Hermione notices because he drops his head on her shoulder, but she does ask if he is okay.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice rough. “I just don’t remember anybody doing it for me. Not like that.”

Obviously, Aunt Petunia washed his hair when he was too small to do it himself, but it was all sharp nails and water that was either too cold or too hot and soap stinging his eyes. And his parents, well, he was too young to remember that. But Harry isn’t even sure he feels emotional because of that - and Aunt Petunia is the last person he wants to be thinking about now. It’s just - being touched with so much tenderness after this whirlwind of a day - feeling looked after - it does strange things to his heart. And now he isn’t even aroused anymore - naked with this gorgeous woman and his co*ck is hanging limp and useless. He snorts at his thoughts, and when Hermione asks him about it, he just shakes his head. They wash the soap and the shampoo off their bodies silently, and Hermione turns the water off.

It’s only when they share a towel to dry themselves he explains, “It’s just that - I thought that when we finally got to be alone, away from all the prying eyes,” he gestures vaguely behind his back, although he’s not sure if that’s where Hogwarts is, “we wouldn’t be able to keep our hands off each other.” He finishes drying his hair and passes the towel back to Hermione, who hangs it on the drying rack. “And now I’m not even…” he lamely finishes his sentence by pointing at himself, and he feels heat rise to his cheeks because Hermione is studying him, and Harry fights the urge to squirm.

Hermione chuckles and looks up at him coyly, and something stirs low inside Harry’s belly at that look.

“I was imaging you f*cking me against the wall while I was waiting for you.” And, yeah, maybe it wouldn’t take much for Harry to get in the mood again. “But now, to be honest, I just want to go to bed.” Or maybe better not. He groans, reaching for her, and nearly growls into her neck, “Then stop saying f*ck.”

“I said it only once!” she exclaims.

“It’s more than enough.” He presses into her, making his point, but they both laugh, and, somehow, make it to bed, and they don’t have sex this time. They just get under the covers and cuddle, and it takes barely any time at all before Harry is asleep.

***

It’s still dark when he jolts awake, sweaty and with his heart pounding in his ears, but it’s nothing new, so he closes his eyes and waits until his breathing returns to normal. He doesn’t even think that it’s weird anymore, waking up like that several times a week. No nightmares, no thoughts, just this horrible sense of panic - like falling, knowing that you are about to smash into concrete. There is no reason for it, so Harry doesn’t think. He wiggles out from under Hermione’s arm on his chest and her leg entwined with his, and pads to the bathroom. He uses the loo, washes his hands and splashes cold water on his face and chest, and then, back in the bedroom, he stands in front of the window, peering through the gap in the curtains, waiting for the water on his skin to dry. The world outside is tinted orange from all the street lamps, and Harry thinks how different it is from Hogwarts - how he can’t see the horizon or a single star in the sky. He hears the whispering of sheets as Hermione gets up, her soft steps, and he is not surprised when she lays a hot palm just between his shoulder blades.

“A nightmare?” She asks, replacing her palm with her lips. She wraps her arms around him, and Harry feels the heat of her body against his cool skin. It’s familiar and grounding and it’s Hermione, here and now, and she is more real than his inexplicable panic - more real than anything in this world.

“I don’t know,” he says, turning in her arms. “I just wake up sometimes.”

He finds her lips with his - doesn’t let her ask anymore - and relishes her softness and her hunger, her smell and the taste of her skin. They stumble back to bed, and - it seems so sudden - he is on top of her, between her legs, Hermione’s fingers digging into his flesh, pulling him closer - and it just happens. One moment they are kissing frantically, and the next he is inside her, and it’s so bloody good and right, and Harry is sure he makes a noise he should be embarrassed about - and then he starts moving and it’s the best f*cking thing on Earth.

He goes slow at first, steady, fighting to stay in control, because if he lets go and allows his body to do what it wants to, this won’t last very long. But Hermione pulls at him, digs her heels into his thighs in a silent plea to go faster, and she whines his name when he does and-

“I’m not going to last long like this,” he voices his thoughts, breathless.

“I don’t care. Just-“ She murmurs something and wraps her legs around him tighter and arches her back, and he lets go, allowing himself to get completely lost in his pleasure, in hers, in this moment that seems to both last forever and take no time at all.

He comes before her - his forehead pressed into her shoulder, his back curved, his co*ck pulsing inside her - and Hermione seems to cling to him even more.

“Don’t go just yet,” she whispers urgently and sighs contentedly when he settles on his elbows and doesn’t move away, as if having him this close is all she craves in this world. Maybe it is.

Still, he says, feeling like he’s let her down, “I’m sorry you didn’t come.”

He feels her body shake a bit as she laughs silently. “It’s still the best sex I’ve ever had.”

He looks at her, dubious, although there’s still too little light to be able to read her expression.

“You’re just saying this because I’ve never done it before and you don’t want to hurt my feelings,” he tells her without thinking. His tone is teasing, but he does feel self-conscious - a bit - and it doesn’t help when her body goes stiff under his. They never talked about this - it would’ve been weird to talk about what Harry did or didn’t do with Ginny - and maybe Harry shouldn’t have said anything. But then he realises he does want Hermione to know that she is his first.

“You and Ginny never?..” Hermione asks so quietly it’s barely there.

“No.”

“Oh.”

He wants to tell her not to ruin this, not to make this weird, but he knows that saying it would make things even worse, so he goes to shift to the side - only now slipping out of her - but Hermione pulls him back, their chests pressed together, and then her mouth is on his, and she says, “Sorry,” between kisses and, “you just surprised me, that’s all.”

“It’s kind of hot, actually” she adds after a little while and proceeds to show him exactly how hot she thinks it is, and it takes no time at all for Harry to get hard again.

It’s Hermione who comes first this time - riding him, her moves fluid and hypnotic in the pale morning light - and Harry thinks she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

***

“I don’t want to go back to Hogwarts,” Harry says without really meaning it - or maybe he does, he isn’t sure anymore. “To pretending that I’m nothing but your student in class.” He makes a face, thinking about the uniform he has to wear and sleeping in the dorm with three other boys who might not even like him very much after he hexed Eleanor. He thinks about passing Hermione in the corridors without touching her how he wants to and not sharing meals with her.

“What did Ginny say about us?” Hermione asks - seemingly out of nowhere - from where she is splayed across his chest.

“Err…” he scratches his head in an attempt to make his brain function properly - all his blood must still be elsewhere. “That she wasn’t that surprised. That you and I have always been inappropriately close, whatever that means. And that if we want to hide it, we’re doing a rubbish job.” Harry strokes her hair and her back, and Hermione makes a happy sort of noise, which has more to do with his touch than his words.

“I don’t want to hide it,” she says. “Maybe we should, for a bit longer, but I don’t want to.”

“I don’t want to hide either.”

Hermione kisses his chest and, after settling in the crook of his arm, closes her eyes. Harry thinks she doses after some time - it must still be pretty early - but he carries on absentmindedly stroking her hair.

He knows that no matter how many perfect moments they’ve shared, their relationship is far from flawless. He knows that they will fight and make up and worry and have good days and bad days, but that’s okay. He knows Hermione and he gets her - her worries and her fears, her desires and her quirks. He loves her - feels loved by her - and with her, he feels more like himself than with anybody else. With her, he can just be. Despite their issues, things with Hermione are simple.

It’s everything else in this world that is hard.

Chapter 25

Chapter Text

It’s late morning when they return to the Burrow, and Hermione can hear a cacophony of voices coming from inside the house from several feet away. She wrinkles her nose, not really wanting to go in. It’s not because of the Weasleys or the noise, not exactly. It’s just that she feels so complete, content and relaxed, and she wants to hold on to this feeling a little while longer. And she doesn’t want to let go of Harry’s hand. His fingers tighten around hers and Hermione wonders if he feels the same. What did Harry say earlier this morning? I don’t want to hide either. What if they don’t have to?

“Is it odd that holding hands today feels different from yesterday?” He asks with a boyish smile when they stop by the door. “Like we are in a cartoon and there is this giant glowing sign pointing at us.”

Hermione giggles. Like a girl with a massive crush. “Are there love hearts dancing above our heads too?”

“Oh, most definitely,” Harry grins.

“So… if we walk into the house like this today,” she squeezes his hand and steps closer to him so that their sides touch, “everybody will figure it out.”

She regrets saying it right away because it shatters the lightness of their mood, and Harry’s mouth turns into a straight serious line. Does it mean that he doesn’t want them to know after all?

“We must tell Ron first.” She blinks at him, surprised, because this is not what she expected Harry to say and because Ron hasn’t even crossed her mind. “If you really want to do this that is,” he quickly adds.

“I want to do this,” she says, her heart in her throat - so different from the earlier mellowness she was basking in - and Harry is studying her face as if trying to understand if she truly means it.

“Yeah, alright,” he smiles, pecks her on the nose and tells her to wait here.

So, this is it. They are actually doing it. Not because somebody has guessed something but because they are choosing to. God, her armpits feel clammy - it’s only Ron - she doesn’t care about Ron. She doesn’t - she doesn’t want to. Because Ron will blow up no matter how they tell him. And he will say something nasty and spiteful - and he will hurt Harry - she won’t allow anything that Ron spits out to hurt her anymore.

The door opens and Ron appears - tousled hair, sleepy face, pyjamas and a lopsided smile - it pulls the memories of so many mornings right out of Hermione’s heart, and she wraps her arms around herself.

“What’s up?” Ron asks, looking at her, then over his shoulder at Harry, not suspecting a thing.

Harry walks around him, stands right next to her, weaves their fingers together again and lifts their clasped hands up.

“We wanted to tell you before the others,” Harry begins explaining, and Hermione can see the exact moment it clicks because Ron's eyes turn from their usual cheerful sky blue to hard ice. “Hermione and I are together.” Harry doesn’t waver, his voice doesn’t crack - isn’t his heart about to beat out of his chest just like hers? - and Hermione tries to mimic his confidence, this self-assured ease with which he always carries himself.

“I see,” Ron squeezes the words out through his teeth. “Congrats.”

He turns away, and relief starts flooding Hermione at the realisation that this is it, even as the slam of the door makes her jump. Hermione is about to face Harry when suddenly the door swings open again, and Ron - red-faced, shoulders tense and teeth bared - storms out again. He stops just inches away and yells, spit flying from his mouth.

“No, you know what? I don’t see! I don’t f*cking see at all!” And then he shoves Harry, and his hand slips out of hers as he stumbles back. “You said she was like a sister to you!” He goes to shove Harry again, and Hermione’s wand is in her hand, ready to hex the hell out of Ron if he touches Harry again, but Harry is faster than either of them. He points his wand and sprays Ron with water right into his face, making Ron take a step back, spluttering.

“I thought you needed to cool down,” Harry informs him calmly, a smirk on his face, and Hermione realises that she doesn’t need to worry. Moreover, she knows exactly what Harry is doing. She smirks too, slides her wand back up her sleeve and folds her arms, ready to enjoy the show.

***

It doesn’t take long for other Weasleys to start spilling outside.

“What’s the commotion?” George asks, standing next to Hermione, joined by Charlie and Ginny.

“Ron just found out that Harry and I are together,” Hermione explains, not taking her eyes away from the two duelling men.

“Oooh, I’ll get the sausages!” Ginny says and disappears back into the house.

Whatever Charlie was about to say gets drowned by a blast as the ground explodes just by Harry’s feet and the icy bits of dirt ricochet off his shield, hitting Ron in the face.

“Well, that backfired,” George comments, sitting on the porch, soon joined by Ginny with a plateful of sausages, with Percy, Bill, Angelina and Nova in tow.

Hermione watches with satisfaction as Harry conjures a flock of birds and sends them to peck on Ron’s head, reminding her of their sixth year. Ron waves his arms around, and a red light shoots out of his wand, hitting Harry in the leg, causing it to swell to twice its size.

“Did he mean to do that?” Angelina asks, sitting next to George, who passes her a sausage.

“I don’t - ooooh!” Ron falls over, tripped by Harry’s jinx, and lands right on the patch of Brussels sprouts. “Mum will kill him,” Percy winces.

“Shouldn’t we stop them?” Nova asks uncertainly as Harry uses the time to restore his leg back to normal, but then has to jump aside as Ron launches a garden gnome at him with enviable precision. The gnome snaps its teeth at him, but Harry only grins like a madman and, with a levitation spell, sends it back to Ron, who rolls away, vegetable leaves and stalks crunching under his weight. Harry still manages to land it on Ron’s back with a victorious “Ha!”, however, he visibly cringes the moment the gnome sinks its teeth into Ron’s arm.

Ron yelps pitifully just as a furious Mrs Weasley steps out of the house, points her wand into the sky and produces a bang so loud that Hermione’s hands fly to cover her ears.

“Enough!” She bellows and even the garden gnome listens.

“Aw, Mum, we were just beginning to enjoy the show!” Charlie complains.

“We haven’t even started betting yet,” George joins in, followed by Ginny’s, “And we’ve still got sausages.”

Mrs Weasley glares at them, then proceeds to tell off Bill - who is casually leaning on one of the posts - for not stopping this nonsense. “You are the oldest, for Merlin’s sake!” Then she shoos them all indoors so that she can deal with “the boys”. Hermione throws one last glance at Harry - his grin is gone, replaced by a guilty twist to his mouth - before Ginny pulls her in just as Mrs Weasley mutters, “Dragon’s fiery balls, these children will be the death of me.”

Despite everything, Hermione realises that she is smiling - it’s small and shy but it’s there. She touches her fingers to the corner of her mouth. They’ve done it. The Weasleys know now.

The Weasleys know.

Oh.

Hermione slowly turns around to face a mix of blue and brown eyes, watching her with matching grins.

Oh no.

“So you and Harry, huh?” George wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Hermione thinks about Harry. About confidently lifting their clasped hands and saying “We are together.” They are together, and there is nothing to be ashamed or worried about. So, she does what she thinks Harry would do. She cracks a smile, looks George in the eye and says, “Yup,” popping the p.

To her surprise, he replies, “About bloody time.”

***

Ron winces as he picks up a heap of broken leaves to carry it to the compost heap while Harry is looking for whatever can be salvaged. They haven’t said a word to each other yet but Ron hasn’t tried to shout at Harry again either, so at least there’s that. Still, Harry hates this silence, and if Ron is anything like he was during their school years, it will take him forever to come round.

“Your mum’s been gone for a suspiciously long time. How long does it take to find a healing salve?” Harry blurts out when Ron is back. Maybe he should’ve said something more meaningful instead but neither of them are big on grand apologies or talking about feelings to each other.

“She just wants me to suffer for as long as possible,” Ron answers, examining the hole in his sleeve left by the gnome’s teeth.

“I’m sorry about that… I didn’t actually mean for it to bite you.”

Ron shrugs like it’s not a big deal and gingerly lowers himself to the ground.

“You know what I don’t get?” Ron asks, picking a stray sprout off the ground and throwing it in a large bowl with too much force. “Why didn’t you tell me? I mean - I know I was a sh*te friend before - at times - but we’ve been playing Quidditch and you’ve been having lunch with us nearly every week and I’ve been helping you with that death trap of a house… it’s not like there hasn’t been an opportunity for you to go, like, Ron, mate, I think I fancy Hermione now.” And Harry realises that he got it completely wrong. Ron isn’t mad at them because Harry and Hermione are together but because Harry didn’t tell him.

“I guess I felt like it was my turn to be a sh*te friend,” Harry jokes half-heartedly, and Ron even smiles, but it’s broken, and Harry realises he would’ve preferred being shouted at. “I don’t know… I was so relieved when-“ Harry stops abruptly, searching for words, dissecting a smashed sprout with his fingers. “Hogwarts kinda sucks without you. The guys are alright but… I missed you.” So maybe they do talk about their feelings, now. Why is this so much easier with Hermione? “And when I felt like I had you back, I didn’t want to ruin it.”

Ron clears his throat just before their silence stretches too long and averts his eyes as he mutters, “I missed you too.”

***

Of course, they ask Hermione questions - how and when and what it is like, sneaking around Hogwarts with her student. There are no children today and, apart from Angelina, no spouses either - and Mr Weasley is hiding behind The Daily Prophet, pretending not to be here at all. So, gradually, their comments become more teasing, like, “It must be convenient, having your quarters in the dungeons,” and, “Have you done it on your desk yet? Snape must be turning in his grave!” She banters with them a little bit but ignores the more personal questions, not like it stops them from speculating. And Hermione couldn’t be more relieved when, finally, Mrs Weasley comes back with Ron and Harry right behind, with armfuls of freshly harvested Brussels and easy smiles, as if they weren’t just launching garden gnomes at each other. Well, one gnome. But still.

Everything feels a bit surreal after that. Harry swings his leg over the bench and slides close to her so that their sides are pressed together, and although they were sitting just like this yesterday, everybody knowing makes all the difference. Hermione didn’t realise how much this secret was pressing down on her - crushing her - until the weight of it has been lifted - like she was trapped in a cage while holding a key but not feeling brave enough to use it.

While Mrs Weasley puts the kettle on and brews fresh cups of tea, Charlie points his fork between Harry and Nova - and why is Nova even here like she is one of them? Nova feels so out of place that Hermione keeps on forgetting that she is still at the Burrow.

“I really thought that you two - sorry, Hermione - were a thing,” Charlie says.

“I’m a decoy,” Nova smiles sweetly while Harry only shrugs like this is nothing - like half the school thinking that Harry and Nova are together is nothing.

I don’t want to go back to Hogwarts… to pretending…

Hermione doesn’t want to go back to Hogwarts either. She doesn’t want to climb back into the cage. She doesn’t even want to think about it.

***

When Mrs Weasley finally joins the table, sitting heavily right across from them, the gentle ribbing that Harry’s been kind of enjoying stops.

“Now,” Mrs Weasley starts, stirring her tea, her spoon going clink-clink-clink, “while we are all very happy for you, the rest of the world might not take the news so well.”

Ginny snorts, pointing out that Ronald didn’t take it all that well either.

“Oh, piss off.” Ron goes to throw his napkin at Ginny but one look from Mrs Weasley is enough to stop him.

“As I was saying,” Mrs Weasley doesn’t say anything that they don’t already know, so Harry holds Hermione’s hand in both of his - over the table this time - and nods to show that he is listening. He is perfectly aware that some people will judge them, that the Prophet will portray it like some big horrible scandal: a teacher seducing a vulnerable student and all that rot. Whatever. It’s not like they are doing anything illegal. But if it makes Mrs Weasley feel better, explaining all that to them, Harry is willing to sit and listen. He doesn’t care what the world might think. He doesn’t - he doesn’t.

“Actually, well, all these issues will come up, of course,” Mr Weasley says, folding his newspaper with the utmost care, “but the biggest focus is likely to fall on-“ he clears his throat as if what he is about to say makes him uncomfortable, “on that you’re in a relationship with a muggle-born.”

Harry hears a little gasp by his side, and Hermione’s hand slips out of his.

“Of course! How didn’t I think about that?” She exclaims, her hands dancing in front of her, emphasising her words, as she starts thinking out loud. Something heavy - like a stone falling into water - drops inside Harry’s stomach. It’s all about the war still, isn’t it? The politics. He can already see it, two camps: one praising him for choosing a muggle-born witch and the other bashing him for choosing a mudblood. He feels a sudden overwhelming pressure of responsibility - like fixing this world is supposed to be his job and, so far, he’s been failing.

He hears Hermione and Mr Weasley discuss how this could be a good thing as if they are actually excited, but all Harry can feel is dread.

***

“The loo,” Harry mutters as he gets up and walks out so quickly it’s like he is running away.

“Looks like Harry was about to burst,” Charlie snorts.

“Or sh*t himself,” George adds, for which he gets a stinging hex from Mrs Weasley.

It interrupts the flow of their conversation, and when nobody brings up the topic again, Hermione exhales, relieved. She was pretty thrilled at first - it’s the way she gets when she learns something new or discovers a different angle - but the discussion was beginning to get too political, especially when Bill joined in, and it reminded Hermione too much of working at the Ministry and getting absolutely nowhere.

Hermione closes her eyes and takes a sip of her lukewarm tea, then feels the old bench groan with somebody’s weight. She opens her eyes, expecting to see Harry, but it’s Nova. Nova who is not supposed to even be here, Nova who thinks that Hermione doesn’t deserve Harry - and she is sitting in Harry’s spot now, so close, wearing borrowed pyjamas and her ridiculously pink jumper, smelling like Mrs Weasley’s laundry. Hermione has decided to try and be friendly with Nova but it’s so damn hard. She has to fight the urge to move away from the girl when she leans in.

“I’m sorry,” Nova whispers. “About what I said yesterday. I was wrong.” Hermione doesn’t need to ask what exactly Nova means.

You don’t deserve Harry.

“You were.” The irritation that has been simmering inside Hermione abates. “What changed your mind?”

“I…” Hermione watches Nova’s fingers as she plays with her long sleeves. “I talked to Ginny last night about you,” she continues in a stilted whisper, and Hermione’s irritation spikes again. She glares at Nova, but she doesn’t see the girl she is so used to - confident, sassy and with makeup charms in place. She sees skin that’s too pale and eyes that look raw and puffy, and when she gazes at Nova’s hands once again, she realises that her nails are bitten to the quick. “You don’t like me,” Nova continues, “maybe you’ll think even less of me now but - Harry is my only friend and - your relationship seems unbalanced when you look from the outside.” This is not a conversation Hermione wants to have here. Or at all. She glances around worriedly but no one seems to be paying them any mind. “So, I asked Ginny, and she told me about you and Harry - the way you were before, how much you sacrificed for him and how him being gone broke you.” The rest of what she says is a hurried whisper. “You must think that I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong but - I couldn’t protect myself - but I thought that maybe I could protect him.”

“Harry doesn’t need protecting from me.”

“And how was I supposed to know that?”

“I promised I wouldn’t hurt him, didn’t I?”

“Like people don’t break their promises all the time.” Nova makes a bitter sort of noise, causing Ron and Mrs Weasley to throw worried glances their way.

Thankfully, Nova’s voice is calm and quiet when she speaks again. “All I wanted to say was that I’m sorry. You don’t have to forgive me.” At that, she excuses herself, leaving Hermione with a knot in her stomach of feelings so mixed that she doesn’t even know how to begin to untangle it.

***

When Harry comes back, Hermione wants to ask if he is okay, but his smile seems as genuine as ever, and Ron leans over the table and starts saying ridiculously sentimental things about missing them, both of them, and that they should do something together “like before”. Hermione knows that it’s impossible to go back to what they used to be but, maybe, they can build something new. Something better, more sound.

They say that bones become stronger after they break. Maybe friendships can do that too.

***

The days leading up to the beginning of term pass in a blink. Nova goes back home, and the fact that she hasn’t come right back means that everything is well, at least this is what Harry tells himself. Hermione is busy with lesson plans, replenishing the supply cupboard and brewing a few potions for the hospital wing. Harry tries to help at first but he seems incapable of keeping his hands to himself. Now that he knows what it feels like - to be with Hermione in every possible way - he can’t be in the same room with her and not touch her. So, he apparates to London nearly every morning - there is no snow here and he can actually run. He misses Nova’s company though: her quiet breaths by his side and their little confessions. He is not that good at being alone.

One drizzly miserable morning he runs just behind another dedicated jogger and imagines what it would be like to catch up to him and say, “I have no idea what I’m doing.” Harry doesn’t do it though. He runs faster instead - so fast that there is no room for such useless thoughts.

He works on Grimmauld, still stubborn to do it the muggle way, although Hermione has given him this book full of DIY spells and refurbishing tricks, colourful post-it notes with her neat notes nearly on every page. It’s not like he doesn’t appreciate the gift or is opposed to magic - it’s just that - with magic, he could be done in a few days, and what will he do then? Nova is home, and Hermione seems much better - happier - which is great. McGonagall doesn’t have any news about that idea of his because “I’m not going to bother people unnecessarily during Christmas, Harry.” Which is fair enough but - every time Harry is left alone with absolutely nothing to distract him, he feels this burning worry in his chest that makes him want to do stupid things, like go to Kingsley and ask if it’s still okay to join the Aurors or see what else the Minister thinks Harry could do to help. And if before Christmas it was just an irritating worry he couldn’t make sense of, now Harry can put it into actual words.

He thought he would finally be able to live his life - he was even doing it, at first - but even after twelve years, even without the threat of Voldemort, he is still Harry Potter.

Kingsley said that people listen to him. Harry’s name still pops up in the papers at least once a week. McGonagall said she was proud of him after his interview came out. His parents told him they were proud of him as he was walking to his death. Mr Weasley and Bill think that his being in a relationship with Hermione will have a positive influence on how people view muggle-borns…

Everybody seems to expect him to change the world, but Harry doesn’t know if he can do that. He doesn’t know how. So he runs, and he works on Grimmauld Place, and he spends every evening and night with Hermione. He knows that he should talk to her about it - and he will - but he doesn’t want to think about the future. Not yet. After all, it’s only January.

There is still time.

Chapter 26

Chapter Text

Nova returns with her hair cut just below her chin and her face clear of makeup charms. Harry doesn’t recognise her until she is standing right in front of him, an amused smile on her lips. He peels himself off the wall he’s been leaning against and lifts his hand to touch a strand of her hair.

“This is quite a change,” he says in place of a greeting, dropping his hand straight away - they are in the Entrance Hall, and he doesn’t want to give the passing students the wrong idea.

“I’m starting a new life,” Nova answers, and there is something shy about her - Harry isn’t sure he’s met this version of Nova before - but then she loops her arm through his before he can give it any proper thought and pulls him towards the Great Hall. Nova must be serious about this new life thing, Harry realises, because instead of taking a seat with either Teddy or Nash she heads for the part of the table where Dario, his girlfriend Olivia, Ellis and Atlas are sitting.

“Are you finally ready to officially introduce us to your girlfriend, Harry?” Ellis elbows his arm.

Harry is about to argue for a gazillionth time that Nova isn’t his girlfriend, but she beats him to it.

“I am nobody’s girlfriend,” she declares. “Men are a waste of time.”

“Tell me about it,” Olivia smirks, giving Dario a side eye, and there are ooohs and chortles and Dario’s mock indignation. Nobody seems to mind that Nova has joined their group, and it makes Harry wonder if Nova has ever been truly shunned by everyone or if she’s chosen to exclude herself, having assumed that nobody would want her around thanks to people like Eleanor.

Speaking of Eleanor, Harry still doesn’t like her but he decides to apologise to her after a week of classes. He wasn’t going to, at first, but every time he looked at her, Harry felt this gnawing guilt - like an itch that you want to scratch but can’t reach the spot - and the more he thought about it, the worse it got. So, he approaches her in the common room one evening - she reminds him of Cho a little bit, the way she is always surrounded by giggling friends, only Harry doesn’t feel embarrassed or intimidated this time.

“Er… hi, Eleanor,” he says. The giggling stops and Harry gets glared at instead. “Could I have a word with you?”

They go to stand by the window - Harry feels the cold radiating off the glass, and when Eleanor folds her arms, he doesn’t know if it’s to protect herself from the chill or discomfort.

She furrows her brow when Harry says he is sorry as if she is struggling to understand what he is saying or why. “I shouldn’t have hexed or humiliated you in front of our whole house.” Eleanor blushes a little, looking up at him, and it’s a bit distracting, how pretty she is. This is something Harry didn’t expect. He thought that when you were deeply in love with somebody, you stopped noticing anybody else. But he still notices - eyes and legs and breasts (he is such a boy) - not like he would ever do anything about it though. “I still think that the way you bully people is horrible,” he quickly adds, glancing at the window but only seeing a reflection of the common room. Eleanor’s friends are watching. “I don’t even get why you’d antagonise Nova like that.”

Eleanor bites her lip and doesn’t say anything, so Harry tells her, “Anyway, that’s all I wanted to-“

“She is very likely cheating on you while you are here, protecting her honour.” Eleanor interrupts and Harry can’t roll his eyes high enough. How many times will he and Nova have to tell people that they are not together for everybody to believe it?

“I thought I was here apologising to you,” Harry snaps. He walks away without saying anything else, feeling extremely irritated, but at least there isn’t even a trace of guilt left.

***

Harry’s January is: snowball fights and evenings by the fire, heaps of homework and “what are you stressing about, it’s still five months until NEWTs”, laughter (his) and tears (Nova’s): she gets a letter from her aunt saying that she and her uncle are getting a divorce and that she doesn’t blame Nova. “She says that he’s been cheering left and right for years.” Nova’s family is so messed up that Harry thinks it would be safer for Nova to stay away from them, but Nova seems happy, and Harry keeps his mouth shut.

“She doesn’t hate me, Harry, and I can still see my cousin!” Nova laughs through her tears, relieved, and demands that they celebrate. So, they smuggle bottles of Firewhiskey, Butterbeer and Elf wine into Hogwarts and get so drunk with a bunch of sixth and seventh years in the common room that Harry falls asleep on the floor - mind, he is not the only one. Someone takes his photo - glasses askew, mouth open, an imprint of the rug on his cheek, his hair plastered flat on one side and sticking up on the other - prints a bunch of copies and sticks them to the walls all over the place. “Saver of the wizarding world,” the photos proclaim. Harry doesn’t mind. It makes him laugh, actually - it makes him feel almost normal. Like a regular teen doing stupid sh*t and getting pranked by his friends.

January is also telling people. Hermione tells “the girls” - not like her female colleagues didn’t know already, with Gianna walking in on Harry and Hermione last month, but still, it feels good to say it out loud. Harry talks to Teddy about it because… Well, mostly because Teddy won’t stop calling Nova his girlfriend, and it was beginning to get frustrating, but also because Teddy and him have become really close - like family - and Harry trusts him, so, yeah… It’s horribly awkward. Teddy blinks at him with his mouth opening and closing for a whole minute that lasts an eternity, and then he finally blurts out, “But she’s old!” Harry laughs so hard he has tears in his eyes, although it’s not even that funny.

They tell Hagrid, together. The half-giant smiles so wide his eyes go all squinty, then scoops them in a hug and feeds them homemade cake that they pretend to love.

They tell McGonagall, too. Well, they try to. He and Hermione ride the staircase to the Headmistress’s office one evening, holding hands and sharing nervous smiles. They walk up to the desk, standing deliberately close to each other, their hands still clasped and palms sweaty. Harry wonders if this is what standing in front of your parents feels like when you’re about to introduce the woman you want to marry. Wait, what?

“Minerva, we need to talk to you about something.” Hermione’s anxious voice snaps Harry out of his thoughts.

“Is there an issue with the revised curriculum?” McGonagall asks, pointedly not looking at their hands.

“…No, it’s-“

“Are any of the students giving you trouble?”

“No, nothing I can’t handle. But-“

“Then it sounds like nothing I need to know.” McGonagall looks at Hermione over the rim of her glasses, her expression severe. “Because I can’t act on something I am not aware of, understood?”

Hermione’s breath escapes in a relieved incredulous laugh, and her hand twitches in his. Harry squeezes it, wishing he could do more than that - wishing he could lift Hermione up and spin her and kiss her on the lips right here because McGonagall knows and she isn’t going to stop them or fire Hermione or decide that Harry has to be expelled. Hell, he’d kiss the Headmistress right now if he could get away with it.

“Have I said something funny, Hermione?”

“No, of course not,” but Hermione is smiling - beaming, really. “I simply inhaled a bit of dust.”

“Then you might want to go and get yourself a drink. I would offer you both tea but I am preoccupied at the moment.”

McGonagall dips the quill she’s been holding in a bottle of black ink and begins to write something in a thick volume that looks centuries old.

And that’s that.

“I can’t believe it!” Hermione says when they are back in her rooms, her tone so light. “I just can’t believe it!” Harry watches her face, the way she hides her smile in her hand as if she is afraid to let it shine too brightly.

“I can,” he says, stepping closer and catching her wrist, placing her hand on the back of his neck.

It’s different when they make love that day. They giggle and stumble, taking their clothes off. They mess about and joke, and they don’t stop when Harry is inside her - he didn’t even know that sex could be like this. He thought that it was always something intense and needy and full of emotion but he realises that it can be fun and playful and bizarrely friendly, too. And after, when they are lying across the bed, naked and breathing hard, the covers and pillows jumbled on the floor, he feels weightless and almost free.

Almost.

***

It’s late January when McGonagall asks him to stay after class, but just one look at her face is enough to tell Harry that the news isn’t good.

She tells him that most of the governors didn’t approve of his idea - they won’t even allow a teeny-tiny film night - because, McGonagall air quotes, “This is a school for magic. We don’t teach students how to waste their time like a useless muggle.”

Harry really wants to throw something, thankfully, he has enough sense these days to politely thank McGonagall and quietly walk out of the classroom.

***

“They are right! I’m a squib!” Julian, a skinny first year boy with a long fringe, thunks his head on Hermione’s desk and lets his wand roll out of his hand. Hermione catches it before it falls to the floor, and looks between the boy and his mouse, which is scampering frantically around its box, spooked by the noise.

“Julian,” Hermione signs, trying not to sound exasperated. “There are plenty of spells you can perform successfully.”

The boy turns his face towards her, but it doesn’t make much of a difference: all Hermione can see is brown hair, the tip of his nose and his downturned mouth.

“It took me longer than anybody else to get them right,” he whines. Hermione wants to put her hand on Julian’s head and ruffle his hair - this boy needs a hug more than anything else. He is a muggle-born who somehow got sorted into Slytherin, where he failed to make any friends despite being a great kid. He came to her after her interview in The Owl was published. “Does it get better?” he asked. It broke her heart a little bit.

Hermione is trying to come up with the right words when her door slams open and a frustrated Harry storms in, making both her and Julian jump.

Harry paces the room, running his fingers through his hair and having a rant about McGonagall, the governors and how blind they all are.

“It’s not about muggle entertainment. It’s about accepting that we all live in the same world, it’s about bridging the gap between pureblooded wizards and witches and muggle-borns - and the Houses, too. All this rivalry and bullying and - nothing bloody changes, does it?”

Hermione has been calling his name, but Harry only stops when she stands up, her voice just shy of a shout. He looks at her, his hair standing every which way, his eyes hard and fists clenched, and then, finally, he notices Julian, who is staring with his mouth slightly open. Harry breathes a quiet “oh” and runs his hand through his hair again, making it even messier, as his face grows pink.

“Err… sorry for barging in.”

“I should give you detention,” Hermione tells him in a tone light enough that even Julian should be able to tell that she doesn’t mean it.

She watches Harry chuckle and unclench his fists - his whole face changes, becoming softer, friendlier, as he steps up to the gaping boy, introducing himself and shaking his hand.

“What’s with the mouse?” He asks, and Julian explains, stuttering at first, and then with more confidence, “So, Professor McGonagall let me borrow the mouse to practice before our next class… Professor Granger has been trying to help me, but I’m just useless!”

Harry grabs a chair and moves it next to Julian’s. Hermione lowers herself back into her seat, propps her chin in her palm and watches Harry talk about his first year, and how it took him two whole months to make his mouse even remotely resemble a snuffbox. He embellishes the story enough to make Julian giggle, and Hermione’s heart turns into goo.

“Not everyone is as fast to learn as perfect Professor Granger here,” Hermione makes a silly face and Julian giggles again. “Forget about the snuffbox. How about making this mouse really, really fat instead?" Hermione watches them mess about, first making the mouse so round its legs won’t touch the ground, then thin and long like a furry snake, and then square like a box. Little by little, Julian turns the rodent into a snuffbox, and although it still has a tail, the boy is beaming - and Hermione… Hermione can’t tear her eyes away from Harry’s radiant face. She is so proud of this man - so in love with him - that it’s hard to contain.

When Julian leaves, she wards the door, sits on Harry’s lap, and covers his face with dozens of kisses - corners of his mouth and his dimples, the zigzag of his scar and the bridge of his nose - dislodging his glasses and making him laugh.

“I think I’ve just fallen more in love with you,” she tells him, resting her forehead on his.

“What? Why?”

“Because…” she pecks him on the lips. “You help people believe in themselves. It’s like you’ve got this light and it’s contagious.”

Harry gives his head a little shake and his eyes go dim all of a sudden.

“It’s just a Harry Potter thing,” he mutters.

“Harry,” she says sternly, taking his face into her hands. “It has nothing to do with you being Harry Potter and everything with you being you.”

He smiles a little but Hermione doesn’t think he believes her.

They talk about the governors a bit - about how resistant people are towards change.

“On the bright side, I can finally understand what it must have been like for you, working at the Ministry, surrounded by those-“ Hermione learns how creative Harry’s swearing can get when he is this upset.

“How am I supposed to change anything if they won’t even listen?” He asks, his hands gripping her waist.

“You could teach too,” Hermione suggests. “You can’t change everything at once but you can help people like Julian, like Teddy.”

Hermione traces the lines of his face with her finger and Harry closes his eyes. Hermione imagines them here, together… “Do you think couples are allowed to share their quarters?”

Harry catches her hand, brings it to his mouth, touches his lips to her fingers, and then starts playing with the ring from the cereal box which she never takes off.

“I don’t think I’d want to teach at Hogwarts,” he says cautiously, as if worried he will upset her. “I always said that it felt like home but… There’s something toxic about it. It’s like at the beginning of September, remember? You were searching for books on teaching at the library but only found a tome on the history of discipline at Hogwarts, which was more like a manual for torture… and then you went to the muggle shop, and there was this whole section...”

Hermione sags against Harry’s body as his words trail off. She thinks of all the books on teaching and children’s psychology and parenting (not that she needs those now) which she found in Waterstones when there was not a single book on the topic in Flourish and Blotts.

“You could work in a muggle school,” she suggests, but Harry leans back and gives her a dubious look.

“I don’t even have my GCSEs - and imagine what-“ A knock on the door cuts him off mid-sentence and they both sigh. It feels like they always get interrupted these days, and there is never enough time. There will be even less time when Harry graduates, the voice inside her head whispers nastily, but Hermione doesn’t listen. She is getting better and better at it: not listening.

She is confident that she and Harry will find a way. Now that they are together, something as petty as distance won’t be able to tear them apart.

***

The house Harry is standing in front of is nothing like those of Privet Drive: the plaster looks cracked in a few places, the front garden is overgrown, and there is a pushchair under a plastic cover just outside the front door. Come to think about it, Harry shouldn’t be that surprised. After all, Dudley has never been a neat freak like Aunt Petunia.

When he approaches the door, Harry hears a child crying from the inside, and he grimaces, immediately imagining a two-year-old Dudley and his endless tantrums. He thinks about leaving - it would be the easiest thing to do - yet something makes him raise his hand and press the bell. He snatches his hand away when the button zaps him with electricity, shakes it out and raps his knuckles on the door instead. When nothing happens apart from the prolonged crying, Harry bangs on it with a fist, strangely determined.

He hears heavy steps and watches the door open slowly. A blue eye appears in the crack. The eye goes momentarily wide, then the door gets thrown open, and two large pale arms pull him in.

“Thank f*ck!” Dudley exhales, dragging Harry through the front room, where the lights are flickering on and off. Harry staggers after him, taking in a scattering of toys on the floor and a large TV mounted above the fireplace, which seems to be flicking through channels all by itself.

“What the-“ he begins to ask but Dudley yanks him into the kitchen and manoeuvres him by the shoulders to stand in front of a wailing toddler, who is lying on the ground and kicking his legs.

“How do you deal with this?!” Dudley points at the boy desperately, and Harry suddenly understands. The bell zapping him, the flickering lights, the TV - it’s all caused by this small boy on the floor.

Harry laughs. He knows that he shouldn’t - Dudley looks like he is on the verge of a breakdown, the house is a mess, and there is an inconsolable magical child in the middle of the floor - but this is just so perfect.

“Congratulations,” Harry chuckles. “You have a wizard.”

“You think I don’t know?” Dudley shouts over the noise, his face just as purple as Uncle Vernon’s used to get. “How do you people handle this?”

Harry shrugs - not because he wants to be difficult but because he genuinely doesn’t know. “Have you tried giving him a hug?”

Dudley’s face crumbles as if he is about to cry - an expression that squeezes all humour right out of Harry.

“He doesn’t want me! He wants his mum! And she - she left, alright?”

Dudley turns away and rubs his face, and Harry does the only thing he can think of - in this house that suddenly feels saturated with misery: it’s in the pile of dishes in the sink, the crumbs on the tiles, the tea stains on the counter and the boy on the floor.

Harry slips his wand into his hand and gathers the brightest moments of happiness he can think of, each of them has Hermione’s beaming face.

“Expecto Patronum.” The spell is a whisper, but his Thestral glows just as fiercely as always, illuminating the room in a warm glow and magic, so much magic. Harry doesn’t know if it’s the light that the child can see or if he can sense the power radiating from the Patronus, but the crying abruptly stops as the boy lifts his face and watches with watery eyes. All too soon, the Patronus dissolves into mist, but another spell is already on Harry’s lips, Animal-shaped bubbles burst out of his wand, and Harry couldn’t be more grateful to Nova for teaching him this charm.

“What’s his name?” Harry asks, watching the toddler reaching his hands for a particularly fat bubble bunny.

“Grayson… What’s with-“ Dudley gestures at Harry, then back at himself, finger circling his face. “Don’t you,” Dudley swallows, then says the next word in a whisper, “wizards, age?”

“Oh, that… a time travel accident.” Dudley nods sagely as if he knows what Harry is talking about, and then he offers Harry tea like this is normal - and some five minutes later, they are sitting at the kitchen table, Grayson on Dudley’s lap, having a civilised conversation.

It’s mad.

“They said you went missing.”

“Yeah, I…” Harry tells him a little bit, and it helps that Dudley doesn’t ask any questions, clearly still not comfortable with the topic of magic.

There is a moment of silence as they both watch Grayson dunk a Digestive into Dudley’s milky tea. He looks rather adorable, Harry must admit, with his blue eyes and blond curls now that he is not crying or trying to short-circuit the house.

“Do your parents know?” Harry asks, wondering at his aunt and uncle’s reaction to having a magical grandchild.

“Do I look that stupid to you?” Harry supposes it was a stupid question. “He’s a great kid, but sometimes he gets like,” Dudley points to the spot on the floor where Grayson was crying and kicking less than an hour ago. ”And knowing how Mum and Dad treated you…” Dudley buries his face in his son’s curls and inhales. And it suddenly dawns on Harry: Dudley has a magical child and he loves him. And these two people in front of him are his family by blood. And Dudley doesn’t seem to hate Harry anymore. So, maybe, he is allowed to have this too, this connection… “We don’t see them a lot. Not since Grayson turned one and this started.”

“He is a strong wizard,” Harry smiles but Dudley’s answering laughter sounds a bit deranged.

“But I am not a wizard! How am I supposed to deal with this?”

This is happily chirping to himself and crumbling all the biscuits into dust.

“There must be nurseries for your people,” Dudley carries on quietly but just as desperately. “Or babysitters or some magic that can contain this or anything… No way in hell I’m gonna do what my parents did to you but I’m close to a breaking point here.” Harry keeps his focus on Grayson - he won’t let his mind wander to the memories of how exactly his relatives treated him.

No biscuits left, the boy slides off Dudley’s lap, wobbles to Harry and tries to look inside Harry’s sleeve, where his wand is hidden.

Harry helps Grayson climb onto his lap - he is heavier than Harry thought and so warm, and he smells like baby shampoo and milk. How could anybody think that beating and starving magic out of a child could even be an option?

Harry lets his wand slide into his hand, and Grayson’s chubby hand immediately grabs it.

“Lumos,” Harry says softly, and Grayson squeals.

He looks at Dudley, who is leaning back in his chair, watching his son with a mix of love and sadness, and Harry wonders how many muggle parents out there are struggling with children whose accidental magic is too strong, too explosive. Why didn’t the Ministry react to this outburst of magic? Why won’t they support muggle families? How many parents abandon their children just because they can’t handle this? Is this why Grayson’s mum left? Why aren’t there nurseries or schools for younger witches and wizards? Or maybe there are but Harry just doesn’t know?

“I’m not sure, Dudley, but I’ll ask around, okay?”

“And you’ll come back soon, right?” Dudley pleads.

“Soon,” Harry promises, a plan forming in his head, “as soon as I can.”

Chapter 27

Chapter Text

After casting numerous cleaning spells around the kitchen and charming Dudley’s dishes to wash themselves, Harry fills the room with delicate glowing butterflies of every possible colour. He watches as Grayson stretches his chubby arms up and giggles when he feels the tingle of magic on his fingertips, and Harry’s heart grows. It expands to let even more people - even more love - in. And maybe he is a fool for caring so much - because people leave and die and hurt and use and betray - but he knows now that his heart is strong enough and that this is worth the risk.

“Thanks.” Dudley’s voice sounds all scratchy as he gives Harry a brief awkward hug.

“No worries.”

There is nothing else to say, and Harry apparates straight out of the living room - Dudley’s loud gasp the last thing he hears - and directly to the Burrow.

***

It’s oddly quiet for a Sunday. Harry is used to barging in with Ron, Angelina and George after Quidditch, the house already full of voices and laughter and running feet, the smell of whatever Mrs Weasley is cooking and the clanking of dishes - and something else, something intangible that makes it home. Is it strange that a place where he never really lived feels like that?

Mr Weasley is the one who opens the door, and when Harry steps in, he sees Mrs Weasley lounging on the sofa in the front room, her legs outstretched. When she sees Harry though, she hastily closes the book she’s been reading and sits up, a gentle smile on her face. All of a sudden, Harry feels guilty for coming uninvited like that.

“Come in, come in, dear. You’re letting the cold air in.”

Harry does come in, apologising for disrupting the quiet of their day, but Mrs Weasley cuts him off with “Nonsense!” and a motherly hug.

Harry tries to refuse tea. “Really, Mrs Weasley, I’ve just only had two…” The whistling of the kettle swallows the rest of his sentence, and Harry resigns himself to the diet of tea and biscuits for the rest of the day.

“I saw my cousin today, and guess what?” Harry blurts out excitedly even before they sit down. He tells them about Grayson - his adorable curls, clumsy fingers and uncontrollable tantrums.

“Ginny was the worst,” Mrs Weasley recalls and Mr Weasley nods and smiles.

“Remember that time, Molly…”

They talk with pride about their children: how Ginny used to set things on fire, and how every time they tried to separate the twins to prevent their mischief one would always apparate to the other. This makes Harry’s heart break all over again for Fred. For George, who had to learn how to be by himself, in the end.

Harry learns that magical kids explode things, summon things, flood things, banish things and people (there was this one time when Aunt Muriel was banished by Ron to the other side of the country) - and do all sorts of crazy, impossible stuff - and it’s all either a mild inconvenience or a jolly good laugh, and not a source of utter despair.

“I don’t see a problem,” Mrs Weasley frowns. “It should all stabilise by the time he is five.”

And this, this, is the problem. Even the most helpful and loving pure-blood witches and wizards don’t understand - they don’t have a clue - what being a muggle means. What discovering magic feels like when you’ve been told all your life that it doesn’t exist.

Harry tries to explain. That Dudley is alone and has been off work for the last month, that he is not coping.

“Doesn’t he have parents? Why don’t they help?”

This is the first time Harry snaps at Mrs Weasley. He might’ve never told them about the Dursleys, but didn’t their own sons tear the bars off Harry’s window? Didn’t Mrs Weasley send him food? Wasn’t she the one to point out how much skinnier he was after every summer? Doesn’t she get what kind of people the Dursleys are?

“Are you f*cking blind? They despise us!” He regrets it straight away: his swearing and his tone, his childish disrespect. Mrs Weasley recoils, pressing herself into the back of her chair, her expression somewhere between scandalised and upset, while Mr Weasley leans in, ready to defend his wife.

“Sorry.” Harry repeats it several times, his palms raised in a placating gesture. It’s not the Weasleys’ fault that his childhood sucked, and that the wizarding world doesn’t seem to care about muggle-borns at all. “Seeing my cousin and his kid brought some memories back.”

After that, he doesn’t try to make them understand. He asks questions instead: about raising magical children and toys and places to go and schools.

Mr Weasley makes a scandalised sort of sound. “Our children? At primary school? Like I would allow them to brainwash our kids with their bigoted hogwash.” That’s how Harry learns that yes, they do have primary schools, where pure-blood and particularly wealthy half-bloods go, but “it’s a complete waste of time” and they cost “an arm and a leg and a good chunk of your liver”.

“What about childminders?”

“I was more than capable of looking after my own children, and so is Ginny, thank you very much.”

Harry’s never seen them this defensive, and he realises there is still so much about this world that he doesn’t know. He knows his spells, sure, and he’s seen a bunch of magical creatures, and been to Hogsmeade and the Quidditch World Cup, however, he still doesn’t know anything about how people live when they are born into this - what they expect and what’s expected from them, how they bring up their children, and what exactly they teach their kids before Hogwarts.

No matter how kind and understanding Mr and Mrs Weasley endeavour to be they are still pure-bloods, and it’s draining, trying to see this world through their eyes, and to make them see it through his.

***

“I just don’t know,” Harry complains to Hermione later, slumped on her sofa, “how to make the rest of them understand when even the Weasleys don’t get it.”

Hermione lowers herself onto the floor in front of Harry, hugs his legs and rests her cheek on his knee, wanting to comfort him but finding no words that will be good enough. There’s been something different about him recently: the way he snaps sometimes, the way his shoulders will go tense all of a sudden, the way he wakes up in the middle of the night… It reminds her of Harry during the war. But he’s done his bit now. He should be free, unburdened - Harry deserves it more than anybody else.

“This is not your responsibility anymore,” she tells him, willing him to understand. “You can stop fighting now.” His hand that’s been stroking her hair stills, and she looks up at him to catch something scared and haunted behind his eyes.

Harry drops his head back, and his fingers start moving again. Hermione feels like a cat curled around his legs. Why can’t they simply be and enjoy this? Why is there always something to fight?

“I had this dream the other night,” Harry tells the ceiling. “I was back in the forest, digging in the dirt, searching for the Resurrection Stone. I broke my nails and my fingers were bleeding - but I found it. And I saw Mum and Dad, Sirius, Remus… I waited for them to tell me that they loved me and were proud of me like that time - but - they were disappointed. They said I was wasting my life, not doing enough.”

She calls his name with all the compassion and love she has in her heart and wraps her arms around his legs even tighter. “You must know it’s not true.”

“I know… but I… This world is so messed up.” He leans forward and touches his forehead to hers. “I need to do something.”

“But do you want to?”

“Sometimes I think that I do. And sometimes I want to run and hide in the muggle world and never come back.” He says it so quietly, like a secret, like something that floods him with shame.

“I’d run away with you.”

A ghost of a smile appears on Harry’s face and he kisses her gently, innocently. “You’re the only one who’s never left me.”

“And I never will.” Her words are so solemn they feel like a vow, and when Harry kisses her again, there is nothing innocent about it at all.

***

It takes two frustratingly long weeks until Harry manages to arrange a meeting with Kingsley, and all this time irritation, bitterness, resentment, disappointment and a mix of other emotions he can’t even begin to name churn and bubble inside him like a volatile potion, ready to blow. He resents Kingsley’s choice of another posh restaurant - witches and wizards in elaborate robes with perfectly styled hair and perpetual sneers on their faces as if nothing is ever good enough for them. Harry resents himself too: for looking like one of them, for trying to make a good impression, in case he needs their approval one day.

A camera flashes when he shakes hands with Kingsley in greeting, but Harry barely notices, too used to it by now.

He casts a Muffliato the moment they place their orders, and things just spill. About primary schools for magical kids refusing to accept muggle-borns even if they are ready to pay and have a famous wizard relative - yes, he has even tried to use his name. About interactive toys being useless because they need to be activated with a wand and sometimes create such a mess that cleaning it without one is virtually impossible. About how nobody seems to care that muggle parents struggle and have nowhere to go to get maybe not help but at least some answers. About how these kids get abandoned and abused, and that if there was a better system in place, Voldemort might have never happened.

Harry is out of breath when he finishes speaking and he gulps down his water, ice clinking in the glass.

“Feeling better?” Kingsley asks with a chuckle and a glint in his eye, and Harry wants to be mad at him for not taking him seriously, but Kingsley did listen to his prolonged rant without interrupting, and Harry does feel better after dumping all of this on somebody who can potentially make a difference.

“Surprisingly, yes.” Harry allows himself a smile, and a camera flashes again.

“So what do you suggest? An educational reform?” Kingsley laughs but Harry knows that his laugh is mostly for show now: the Minister and the Saviour having a splendid time.

Harry leans forward, smiling conspiratorially, “Pure-bloods always complain how ignorant muggle-borns are, how they don’t know our customs and traditions, how lazy they are, spoiled by muggle entertainment… Don’t you think we should step in sooner? Educate them and their parents on what it means to be a witch or a wizard? Protect them from the vices of muggle life?”

Kingsley laughs again, quieter this time, swirls his wine in his glass, and takes a sip. “They won’t like us using their words against them.” Harry likes it that Kingsley says not you but us.

“But they won’t be able to argue, will they?”

“They might.” Kingsley shrugs and takes another sip. “But it’s worth a try.”

***

So, they try. And it’s ironic really because Harry is doing exactly what Kingsley wanted him to in the very beginning: he gives interviews and dresses in expensive robes, attends galas, parties and grand openings and acts as if he belongs, but it feels like he does it on his terms this time.

Some things feel like a waste of time: learning which fork to use, which words to say and how not to step on his partner’s feet when dancing. However, it helps Harry not to make a fool of himself when meeting people, and meeting people is exactly the point.

Harry is shocked to say that most of them are actually quite tolerable but there are still those who make his skin crawl and his anger sizzle under his polite exterior.

The thing is, nobody is openly hostile or explicitly judgemental but… They refer to muggles as “endearingly clueless” and say things like, “It’s our duty to guide those unfortunate children. Only imagine, growing up among muggles, soaking up all that nonsense…” And instead of snapping at these stuck-up bigots (who donate money to charities to preserve the life of something as ridiculous as a billywig), Harry smiles and tells them, “Exactly my point,” and then proceeds to twist their words so that they fit his agenda. He gets so good at this that he begins to believe that the Sorting Hat wanting to place him in Slytherin wasn’t so mad after all.

“Since when have you become so cunning, Potter?” A familiar voice drawls from behind.

“Since I started hanging out with you lot.”

Harry also sees Malfoy. A lot. Much more than he would like. The first time they met, the blonde very politely thanked Harry for his most generous gift. “Mother placed dear Aunt Walburga in one of the cells in the dungeons. You never know, we might end up hosting some unwelcome guests in the future.”

“Just make sure you place me in a different cell if I pay you a visit. I prefer to suffer in silence,” Harry replied, and to his shock, Malfoy laughed. Mind, it was an extremely posh laugh but a laugh all the same.

They’ve been civil to each other ever since, and even though Malfoy still spits his name as if he wants to tell Harry to f*ck off, he is not as intolerable as he used to be at school. Besides, Malfoy supports - or pretends to support - the Minister’s new better-education-for-muggle-born-children campaign, so even if Malfoy were a total git, Harry would still choose to be perfectly polite.

He despises it all a little bit although there are some perks too: like the most delicious food Harry has ever tried and the fact that Kingsley gives him a salary.

“So what’s my job title then?” Harry asks somewhat mockingly.

“Isn’t it obvious? It’s Harry Potter.” Kingsley chuckles and claps him on the back.

Harry doesn’t argue. The robes are expensive, and he also uses the extra money to help Dudley cover the cost of the childminder Harry found - she charges even more than the most prestigious muggle school ever would, but Dudley doesn’t need to know that.

Besides, Harry Potter does feel like a job, although he finds his personal ways to rebel. Harry refuses to style his hair or change his glasses. He chooses the simplest robes that he can get away with and he doesn’t bring a date. The thing is, he can’t bring Hermione because it wouldn’t help “advance their cause”, and he thought about bringing Nova because her father - although not a member of the sacred twenty-eight - is a respected wizard. But bringing Nova would have upset Hermione, and Harry would rather attend all these torturous events alone than do that. Apart from that one time when The Witch Weekly speculates that he doesn’t have a date because he is secretly gay, and Harry brings Ron on a whim, and they even waltz around the hall. The papers explode the very next day and Harry just can’t stop laughing, even though Kingsley makes him give an urgent interview for damage control.

“Yes, I’m seeing someone,” Harry confirms. “And it’s most definitely a woman. And yes, it’s serious, but apart from that, it’s none of your business.” And although it doesn’t stop them from barraging him with questions, at least Harry is used to it by now.

***

“I’ve heard you are seeing someone.” Hermione’s voice is low and sultry as she slips her arms around Harry’s neck the moment the door snicks shut behind him. He hums as she brushes her lips against his skin just above the collar of his robes.

“I am.”

“And it’s serious?” She slides her hands down his shoulders and starts working on the multiple buttons, and Harry studies her from behind half-lidded eyes. He loves her like this - predatory, playful and sexy as f*ck.

“Mmm,” he pulls her hips against his and leans closer to whisper, “Very - I’m very much in love and committed.”

“Oh?” Hermione asks, batting her eyelashes innocently. “So I shouldn’t be doing this?”

She palms him through his trousers, and Harry knows that she’s asked him a question but his brain has just turned into useless mush and all he can do is make some sort of an approving noise. Only Hermione very suddenly slips out of his reach.

“You’re right,” she says with a pout. “I should stop.”

Harry darts forward, catches her and pulls her back against his body. “No. You should most definitely carry on.” His hands find their way under her top, seeking the softness of her breasts.

“But what about that mysterious woman of yours?”

“It’s you, silly.”

Hermione playfully pushes him and Harry chuckles, stepping backwards and resting his back against the door.

“I should give you a reward then for stating your feelings so publicly.” Her words are a whisper against his lips as her hands return to his multiple buttons, and he tries to catch her mouth with his but she slips away again, all coy eyes and a mischievous smile.

And while Harry likes to take control most of the time, it’s different when he comes to her exhausted late in the evening. Sometimes Hermione plays with him and teases him like today, and other days she holds him close, helps him get out of his robes and takes him to the shower. Either way, she peels layers of Harry Potter off, leaving only Harry underneath, giving him exactly what he needs.

Besides, he can’t deny that Hermione’s rewards are absolutely brilliant.

***

Harry kisses her after, and it’s deep and hungry like he hasn’t just come on her tongue. Out of nowhere, an image of Ethan making a face flits through her mind. It’s been a while but she still remembers how he’d never kiss her after she had him in her mouth because it was “gross”. What if Harry also thinks it’s gross but he is too polite to say?

“Hey,” he says, pulling away. “You alright there?”

Why does Harry have to notice everything?

“Mmm…” his hand is massaging the back of her neck soothingly and she wishes that she could focus on the feeling, dissolve in it, but her brain won’t let her. “You don’t mind the taste, do you?” she asks, cringing a little.

“The taste?” You see, she tells her brain, Harry doesn’t even know what I’m talking about while you are torturing me.

“After I…” she looks down and then up again, feeling ridiculously uncomfortable.

“Oh.” Harry blushes - and he hardly ever blushes. “I can barely taste anything and… I kinda like it.”

“You like it?” She echoes because it’s the last thing she expected him to say.

He chuckles awkwardly. “Yeah, it’s a territorial thing I guess. And anyway,” he quickly adds, “you don’t seem to mind the taste very much either.”

“Not really,” she shrugs. “Reminds me a bit of chia pudding actually.”

Harry laughs his proper easy laugh this time, his blush subsiding. “Chia pudding? What the hell is chia pudding?”

“You’d know if your parents were dentists.”

***

Before Harry, Hermione always thought that relationships were supposed to be hard work. That arguments, silence, misunderstandings and hurt were all normal and expected, but it seems that it’s yet another thing she wasn’t exactly right about because even though she and Harry disagree and accidentally hurt each other sometimes, being with him is the opposite of hard - and Hermione couldn’t even dare to imagine that reaching this level of intimacy was possible. Previously, opening up to Harry felt like ripping a wound open and reaching inside to wrench out painful truths. Now though it feels like healing. Harry loves all the parts of her - those that glow and those that bite and burn - and the longer they are together, the smoother her edges become.

So she tries to do the same for Harry - to make him laugh, help him see that he is loved no matter what, to be his safe space and his home.

“Sometimes I want to hide you away from the world,” she tells him later when they are lying in bed in the dark. “Keep you in the dungeons forever.”

She feels a huff of breath on the top of her head.

“It shouldn’t sound appealing,” Harry says softly, a smile in his voice, “but it does. The world is an exhausting place.” And although his tone is humorous, Hermione can see how tired he is. She closes her eyes and listens to his heart beat steadily. She knows that Harry is strong and that there is this fire in him that keeps on pushing him forward - but fires need fuel to burn.

“I’m worried about you,” she says. It’s heavy and sincere, and Harry’s hand comes to run along her side soothingly.

“I’m okay.”

How can she make him understand?

“Remember me during our third year?” She finally asks. “I thought I was okay too. I refused to admit that I was overwhelmed with the amount of work.”

“You were only thirteen - fourteen.”

“And you’re only eighteen. You’re supposed to be partying and playing Quidditch and moaning about the upcoming exams…”

“Well, I do that too.”

Hermione sighs and lifts her face up to kiss his jaw. “I’m just worried that you will burn out. You’re just one man.”

Harry holds her closer, their legs entangled, skin against skin, and then says in a mock American accent, sounding a lot like Elvis, “How could I burn out, baby, when I’ve got you to light my fire?” Hermione laughs and swats at his chest and calls him unbearable.

“I’m being serious here and you,” she complains through her laughter.

“Hey! So am I!”

The thing about being with Harry, they both know how to talk and how to make each other laugh, and they also know when it’s time to let something go. So even though Hermione is still worried, she lets it go. At least for now.