Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

What it comes down to	By : melinda1293 Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 115219 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 7
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 44
- 45
- 46
Epilogue 1. The Aftermath of War

In the infinitesimal space between breaths, or the distance between heartbeats, there was suddenly complete silence in the rubble that was once the Great Hall, as if the assembled mass all waited to blink. The hundreds of spectators had all been struck momentarily dumb when The Dark Lord fell. But then, after the initial shock had worn off and everyone realized that it was suddenly all over, that the most feared dark wizard in a century lay dead at Harry’s feet, it was as if there was a collective intake of breath, exhaled in one tremendous, joyous shout that rang out, echoing in the cavernous room and down the empty corridors. Voldemort was finished in one curse, his own curse, which Harry had rebounded back on him with a simple—some had called his signature—disarming spell. And just like that, the battle had ended. The war was over.
Then the astounded crowd rushed Harry, she and Ron among them. Swept up and carried forward on a tide of jubilant emotions, they were all caught up in a cacophony of sound and emotion that swirled around them and grew more frenetic as they all struggled towards him. The suffocating wall of ecstatic survivors fought to get near Harry, jostling with each other to touch him, their savior. Pulling at his clothes, they pressed in on him as they cheered or cried while he stared, not in triumph, but stunned and a little frightened, around at them all. Then Hagrid was beside him, having pushed his way easily through the crowd with his sheer size. Harry looked up at him with those wide, exhausted, green eyes.
Fat tears were rolling down Hagrid’s face, and Harry’s welled up, too, as he reached his arms up to the half giant, still clutching both wands in his fist. Perhaps Harry was hoping for his own salvation then as Hagrid lifted him off his feet and out of reach of the grasping throng. Just as he’d lifted Harry as a crying infant from the rubble of his destroyed childhood home, and as an eleven-year-old boy from the oppression of his relatives, and as the fallen hero from the Forbidden Forest after his sacrifice, returning him once again to the world in which he truly belonged.
Holding Harry in his arms like a child with his feet dangling more than a foot off the floor, Harry’s first and oldest friend in the magical world crushed the much smaller wizard against his massive chest, hugging him and howling up at the ceiling with misery, or relief, or jubilation. Hermione couldn’t tell.
“Harry… oh, Harry,” Hagrid cried, holding Harry tightly to him in a bear hug and stroking the back of Harry’s head with his huge hand. “Ye’r a great… great man… like Dumbledore! Ye’r parents would be so proud!” Then he couldn’t speak anymore, dissolving into tears, his whole body shaking with his loud sobs while Harry clung to him, his face hidden in Hagrid’s great shaggy beard.
The mass of humanity seemed to have come to their senses then. Stepping back, all of them watched the embracing pair for a moment before they began to turn to each other in comfort or celebration, either hugging total strangers, or else pushing through the throng of bodies in search of their loved ones.
Still being buffeted by the crowd, she and Ron stared up at Hagrid, who quite possibly was strangling the life out of their poor, battle fatigued friend. Ron slipped his hand into hers, both of them crying, overwhelmed that their long journey was finally over, shocked and so thankful that they’d all survived it.
It was a miracle, actually. Certainly, there had been a moment when the Caterwauling Charm was blaring in Hogsmeade and the Death Eaters and Dementors were closing in while they huddled together under the Invisibility Cloak that she was sure signaled their end. Harry had been forced to cast his stag Patronus and then stared hard into her face, steeling himself for the task he’d promised her to perform when it seemed there was no way out. Then another miracle had occurred and Harry was spared that agony by Dumbledore’s brother when Abeforth rescued them by smuggling them into his bar and finally convincing their pursuers that Harry’s Patronus was his own. Once they knew they were safe, still under the cloak Harry staggered into her, his face and body sagging with relief, clinging to her as if all the air had left him suddenly and his muscles were too weak to support him. It was much like he looked now held in Hagrid’s arms.
“Hagrid,” Harry wheezed weakly, finally pulling back and wiping at his soot smudged face. “You… you’re breaking my ribs.”
Hagrid gave him a watery grin, the skin around his black eyes crinkling, and kissed Harry’s cheek before putting him down. “It’s blood miracle ye’r alive! But I’m so proud of yea. I always knew ye’r could beat ‘im, Harry,” Hagrid praised him, wiping at his own tear stained face. Then he cuffed Harry on the back of the head affectionately, sending Harry stumbling into her and Ron, before turning and picking up a startled Professor McGonagall with a triumphant roar and twirling her around while she shrieked like a little girl.
“I’m going to beat the hell out of you later for ditching us again without a word and going out there alone, you dumb bastard!” Ron shouted into Harry’s ear over the tumult.
Harry just nodded wearily, sliding his arm around Hermione’s waist and laying his head on Ron’s shoulder, unconcerned for the first time about touching them in public, or simply too tired to care in this moment of overwhelming relief. Their arms went around him then, holding him up.
That image of the three of them embracing had been captured by a spectator and was plastered on the front page of the special edition Daily Prophet that ran later that morning with the headline; 'Chosen One Triumphs! Dark Lord's Reign has Ended.' Oblivious in the moment, however, the three of them clung gratefully to each other for a long time as the revelry swirled around them, and the sun dawned over the rubble of Hogwarts on their first day of freedom.
Harry stayed on his feet as the three of them milled through the crowd, receiving the survivor’s gratitude, listening to their grief, hearing their tales, and then when he was almost too fatigued to stand up any longer, they left the Great Hall. They passed a knot of people gathered around Hagrid, listening to his firsthand account of what he’d witnessed in the forest.
“I watched ‘im kill Harry. He just stood there, unarmed, and took that curse… straight in the chest, an’ all...” Hermione heard Hagrid tell his eager listeners as they passed, pointing at the center of his own massive chest to demonstrate. She turned to look at Harry with concern and saw Ron’s face darken and mouth tighten into a frown, but Harry acted as if he hadn’t heard Hagrid’s revelation. Several people in the crowd looked around at the three of them in awe as they passed, but they paid them no mind.
As he led them slowly to the Headmaster’s office, Harry reluctantly told them his own tale, answering some questions while avoiding others when they’d pressed him for details. Then finally, after speaking with Dumbledore’s portrait and repairing the damage to his beloved wand, still under his own power, Harry walked through the rubble strewn corridors down to the infirmary.
Nearly all the beds were full. Madame Pomfrey was busily tending to her flood of patients with the aid of several volunteers, but she looked up wearily when Harry pushed open the door. Straightening up when she saw him, she hurried to the edge of the bed, her expression unreadable with the mixture of emotions crossing her haggard face.
“Oh, Harry!” she whispered, putting a trembling hand to her lips. “You beautiful… you wonderful man!” Tears welled in her eyes as Harry shuffled towards her while everyone in the infirmary stopped what they were doing, helpers and patients alike, and watched his slow progress up the aisle in reverent silence.
Harry didn’t reply, but walked straight into her arms, circling her waist tightly and burrowing his face into her neck.
“And here I was thinking I was going to go a whole year at Hogwarts without you darkening my doorway,” she told him with a watery chuckle, petting his head in tender affection.
“I’m sorry, Madame Pomfrey,” he mumbled into her neck.
“Poppy, dear,” she corrected him, sniffing back her emotions as she rubbed his back in small, soothing circles.
“Poppy… I’m sorry, but I think I’ve made a mess of myself again,” he continued in a soft, strained voice. “If you could please… I need you to take care of me just one more time… if it’s not too much trouble.”
Bursting into tears then, the healer clutched Harry tightly to her. Tears slid from Hermione’s eyes, too, as Madame Pomfrey led their exhausted friend over to a vacant bed near her office and helped him sit down.
Ron and Hermione crowded around him, concern on their faces at the news that he was injured as the healer, returning to her professional manner, pulled off his jacket and pushed him back onto the bed before removing his trainers. Harry must have been wounded pretty badly to force him into the admission and to willingly seek out the healer’s aid. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve suffered in silence until the truth was pulled from him. Even then, he would fight any attempt to drag him to the infirmary to be looked over.
“I’m going to be all right,” he assured them through half lidded eyes.
“Of course you will,” Madame Pomfrey agreed briskly, but there was worry on her face as she began hurriedly unbuttoning his shirt while Hermione pulled the privacy curtain to block out the stares from the other patients and volunteer helpers.
Harry smiled weakly before grabbing the healer’s wrist. “I’ll be good this time. I swear. I’ll do whatever you say, but none of Snape’s awful potion, okay? And no pain potion either, please.”
“I know,” she agreed with a sad smile. “You can handle your own pain. Now let me see what those wretched people have done to you, my dear.”
“Thank you, Madame… Poppy,” he said in relief, releasing her wrist and letting his hand fall limply to the bed. “And before you ask, it was worth it this time, too,” he added. Then his eyes drooped closed. “’M just so tired.”
While celebrations went on throughout the countryside, the three of them spent the first couple days of that remarkable freedom in a most unremarkable way, but certainly not in an unfamiliar way.
Harry had a fist sized, bone deep bruise to the center of his chest from Voldemort’s second killing curse which had torn into him, burning the flesh, cracking a few of his ribs again and collapsing one of his smoke singed lungs. The injury came as a surprise to them, but not Harry’s ability to battle through it for so long. It would leave another scar, one final reminder of his terrible struggle to defeat Voldemort.
Treated for minor cuts, smoke inhalation, burns, and bruises themselves, Hermione and Ron sat in a curtained off corner of the infirmary having Harry cared for exclusively by Madame Pomfrey, while they took turns sleeping in a chair beside him and comforting each other over their shared grief.
Suffering from exhaustion, Harry slept for two solid days without even being sedated by a potion as the two of them fended off well-wishers, the press, the Ministry, friends, family and curious onlookers eager to get a glimpse of him, all while under the constantly watchful eye of the Auror stationed at Harry’s bedside. Then, when he finally awoke, and before they’d hardly had an opportunity to even ask if he was all right, they were whisked off to the Ministry to be questioned, despite Madame Pomfrey’s outraged protests.
Still clad in his pajamas, his chest still wrapped tightly in bandages under his nightshirt to protect his healing ribs and his hair a wild mess, Harry was only allowed enough time to quickly assure the healer that he’d be fine while stuffing his feet into his trainers and pulling on his jacket before they were hurried out of the infirmary.
The Ministry had tried to get statements from Ron and her while Harry slept, but they had both flat refused to leave his side, or answer any of their questions before he woke. Possibly under normal circumstances, the Ministry would not have allowed them to ignore a direct summons, but Kingsley was the acting Minister of Magic, and therefore, much more lenient with them than, perhaps, Scrimgeour or Fudge might have been. Yet even with the prospect of a much friendlier Minister, there was still a great deal of reluctance on all their parts to be separated and interviewed, but none more so than Ron. Waving his wand around threateningly, he’d done quite a bit of shouting in the faces of the Aurors who were attempting to pull Harry away from him, insisting they show him their forearms and prove they weren’t Death Eaters while he clutched Harry to him protectively. He became so belligerent, that Hermione worried he might be arrested for obstruction, or for the threatening of Ministry officials.
He wouldn’t listen to Hermione or Harry when they’d both pleaded for him to be reasonable. In the end, the Aurors had been forced to call Ron’s father into the Ministry from his grieving wife’s side before things finally settled down. Well, not at first. At first, they got one more angry ginger added to the mix.
Mr. Weasley had come wheeling around the corner into the corridor where the two Aurors were still struggling to separate Harry and Ron. “What’s the meaning of this?” he bellowed in outrage, pulling his own wand. “Release my son!”
Hermione had never seen him so angry. Wisely, the Auror holding Ron immediately let go of him and backed away at the dangerous look in Mr. Weasley’s eyes. Ron took the opportunity to clutch Harry to him more firmly, so that Harry was wincing in pain from the strangle hold around his chest.
“Our orders were to bring these three to the Ministry, Arthur,” the one pulling on Harry’s arm explained.
“They’re trying to separate us! Trying to take Harry away!” Ron shouted hysterically, his eyes wild with panic as he looked pleadingly to his father for help.
Mr. Weasley looked Harry over, taking in his appearance from his sleep mussed hair, his flushed complexion, and his night clothes in complete disarray from the man-handling he’d been subjected to, before he turned back to the Aurors, his jaw clenching in fury and his face turning a brighter red.
“Let me get this straight,” he muttered darkly through clenched teeth. “You dragged Harry out of his sick bed for this?” He looked positively dangerous, and his voice was a low, menacing hiss that Hermione had never heard in it before. “Do you even know who this boy is? What he's done for us?” he asked indignantly.
“Yeah, that’s right… I’m Harry Fucking Potter… The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One and all that tosh,” Harry announced with a weak chuckle, which made Hermione snort and everyone else turn to look at him quizzically for a moment.
Mr. Weasley was probably worried for his sanity in that moment, but Hermione knew it was said for Ron’s benefit. Harry was hoping, perhaps, to dial down Ron’s hysteria by realizing the absurdity of the scene he was creating, but it didn’t seem to work as Ron only growled threateningly in response.
“Yes… yes, sir, I know who he is, but our orders were to bring them as soon as he woke up,” explained the smaller of the two Aurors.
“I see. So keen were you to follow orders that you didn’t even allow him the dignity of being properly dressed first before publically hauling him to the Ministry for questioning, no doubt in full view of the press? Did Kingsley order this, Williamson?”
The Auror, Williamson apparently, who’d released Ron, nodded his head, though he had the good grace to look ashamed of himself, at least.
“Well, I’ll certainly be having a word with him,” Arthur spat before turning back to Harry. “Are you all right, Harry?”
“I’d be fine, Mr. Weasley, if these two and Ron would stop playing tug-of-war with me,” Harry replied wearily, panting slightly from exertion and pain.
“Right,” Arthur said with a nod of his head. “Ron, let him go.”
“No. They’re not taking him!”
“Let him go now, son. You’re hurting him.”
Whining like a frightened child, Ron shook his head, still refusing to comply, but he did relax his death grip around Harry’s chest slightly.
“They only want to ask you three some questions. I’m sure it won’t take long, and they won’t be taking him anywhere else besides back to the Infirmary when it’s over,” Mr. Weasley tried to assure him.
Still, Ron refused, and it wasn’t until everyone agreed that Mr. Weasley would be allowed to accompany Harry into his interrogation, that Ron finally relented and went quietly. Then they’d been locked in separate rooms for hours and hours of endless questioning, for which their interrogators got precious few answers, before they were, at last, allowed to see each other and go home.
Once they’d left the Ministry and Harry was properly released by Madame Pomfrey, they spent the next few days helping to bury the dead.
Voldemort’s death and their victory over his followers had not brought on the happily ever after of the fairytales to which she’d clung. It did not restore people’s lives to what they once were, or return their loved ones who’d died defending Hogwarts. It did not heal their hearts. The consequences of war were things that Hermione could not have learned without experiencing it. It was, perhaps, the only lessons she wished she’d never been taught.
She’d read about wars and listened to scholarly lectures about them in History of Magic classes. She’d memorized famous battles, heroic warriors, and significant dates, but she’d never truly understood the devastating aftermath. Foolish and naïve, she’d believed that everything would soon be normal again, and everyone would be happy once it was finally over. Focusing only on finding the Horcruxes and defeating Voldemort during this long year of endless battling, Hermione never considered that their fight might still go on even after he was gone.
No book could have prepared her for the painful realities of war, none could have given her the knowledge of its true devastation on the people’s lives it had left behind. There was no glory in burying your friends, your children, your brothers and sisters, spouses or lovers. No rejoicing for those lives it had tragically cut short, only sadness and heartache to be endured forever.
Like so many things Hermione had come to know: the electric feel of a lover’s hand against her bare skin, or the terror from the hot breath of a foe on her face. The true ache that accompanied the rush of euphoria with the words ‘I love you’ coming from the lips of her long awaited beloved, or the welling of tears that came unexpectedly and the stab in the heart that took her breath away at the sight of her best friend’s face when she thought him gone forever. These things couldn’t be expressed in mere words on a page.
The funerals of Lupin and Tonks were especially hard for Harry. For Ron, of course, it was Fred’s. But for Hermione, strangely, it was Lavender Brown and Colin Creevey that hurt the most. Hermione had cried for each of them until she thought there were no tears left inside her to shed. Yet all of them, Hogwarts staff or student, members of the Ministry, or the Order of the Phoenix, or Hogsmeade resident, magical creature and wizard alike were laid to rest with a hero’s honor, mourned and celebrated by the entire wizarding community for their contribution. Still, it left Hermione hollow. But in no one was the devastation more apparent than in Harry, who’d been damaged the most and who’s suffering and loss was most acute.
Each person’s death had created another deep scar, leaving more marks on Harry’s ravaged mind and body, while she and Ron did their best to comfort him and each other. Taking shelter in the warmth of their arms and mouths and bodies, Harry grieved for all of them, yet he bore it stoically because he seemed unable to let it out. He could not, or would not allow himself the relief of shedding tears, perhaps afraid that if he let the first drop fall, he wouldn’t be able to stem the flow and would drown in his own sorrow. Instead, he’d gone numb from the agony of so much loss, for which he blamed himself. He was internalizing the pain and guilt, letting it consume him until Hermione feared that there would be nothing left but a empty shell.
Full of worry for him, Hermione quickly decided that what Harry needed was to get away from everything for a while before having to give testimony at the trials for the surviving accused Death Eaters. So they went in search of her parents, with whom she’d been desperate to reunite. Hermione hadn’t seen them for almost a year, having sent them away and charming them to forget her for their own protection. After witnessing the grief on so many people’s faces from the loss of their own family members, she needed to find her mother and father and bring them back into her life again.
They located them easily enough, living in Darwin on the northern coast of Australia, a city her family had visited and fallen in love with when she was a small child. It was a warm Sunday afternoon when the three of them knocked on her parent’s door. It was heart wrenching watching her parents staring at her with no recollection in their eyes while her own welled immediately with hot tears. At the first moment of seeing their familiar faces, her arms had ached to reach out to them, starving for their embrace.
The reunion didn’t go smoothly, however. At first, they were confused when she removed the memory charm. Then they grew angry, shocked at the upheaval she had created in their lives. Unable to comprehend the gravity of the danger they’d been in and at her involvement in the war, they listened, completely dumbfounded while she tried to explain her actions and motives. Finally, their anger gave way to relief that she was safe. That their only child, whom they had just now remembered, was returned to them, filling the hollowness within them that they’d told her they’d both felt, but couldn’t explain. Next came apologies, and then forgiveness.
It was the dry season in the Northern Territory of Australia, which meant that the days were all warm and sunny for Harry’s first ever holiday abroad. Her parents led them on a tour of the city so heavily influenced by their Asian neighbors, and then to Katherine’s Gorge as they got reacquainted with each other, maybe for the first time with Hermione finally coming clean about her life in the wizarding world. She’d been less than forthcoming about the goings on of her life during her time at Hogwarts, and they deserved the truth from their daughter.
Well, she hadn’t revealed everything about all that had happened during their year apart. While Ron watched over Harry at night in a hotel room, Hermione slept on the couch at her parents to avoid any awkward questions. She was nearly nineteen, but still, there were only so many shocks to the system she thought her parents could handle in such a short space of time, and she intended for the living arrangements and her relationship with Ron and Harry to remain private, for now. During the days, she helped her parents with the daunting task of reestablishing contact with the friends and family they’d abruptly left behind, assisting with the planning and packing for their return to their previous life. Then, after tearful goodbyes, she, Ron, and Harry departed, to return to the chaos they’d left behind.
When they arrived back in England, however, Harry had requested that they make a quick visit to Privet Drive to ensure that his relatives had come through their own year of hiding in good order. She and Ron hated the idea, of course. Their brief sojourn appeared to have done him some good, and she feared that a visit, however brief, with his relatives might undo that. Naturally, they tried to talk him out of it, but when had that ever worked?
Harry’s uncle had opened the door when Harry knocked, and before he could say anything more than, “Hello, Uncle Vernon,” the enormous man had clocked Harry right in the mouth and slammed the door in his face.
Throwing out an arm to hold Ron back, Harry pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to stem the flow from his bleeding lip before saying, “Well, that went about as well as I’d expected. Suppose their all right then.”
They were both still trying to drag Ron away when the door opened again. Harry’s cousin Dudley stood there with Harry’s aunt, Petunia, peering at them warily from behind her son's massive form.
“Harry?” Dudley called to him uncertainly.
Harry turned around, but wisely, did not release Ron. “Hey, Dudley, Aunt Petunia,” he greeted them with a nod. “I just came to check that you three were all right, and that the extended stay with… you know… my kind didn’t damage you all too much, but I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry I bothered you. Tell Uncle Vernon I won’t be returning.” Then he turned again, still clutching on to Ron’s arm firmly.
“Your husband is a fat prick!” Ron shouted at Petunia.
“Shut up, Ron,” Harry said wearily. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine!” Ron argued angrily. “Do those bastards even know what you did for them?”
“Yeah, they do,” Harry answered, his own anger suddenly flaring. “I disrupted their lives for sixteen years by being dumped unannounced and unwanted on their doorstep as an infant. And just when they thought they were finally rid of me, I’m back, making a scene on their front stoop again for all the neighbors to see. Let’s go!”
“Harry, wait,” Dudley called again. “Do you want to… um… maybe go for a walk or something and talk?”
Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise for a moment. Then he nodded. “Uh… sure... okay. Once around the block then for old times’ sake?” he asked before leveling Ron with a stare that threatened violence if he uttered a single word against the idea.
Ron clenched his fists, glaring right back, but kept quiet.
Smiling, Dudley stepped off the porch as his mother gave a soft whine of protest. He didn’t even look back at her, but strode up to Harry instead. He glanced at both Ron and Hermione with interest before looking his cousin up and down critically.
“You’re voice is all strange and you’re scrawnier than usual, too,” he announced. “Are you ill?”
Harry shook his head.
“They’re not feeding you enough, then,” Dudley pronounced decisively. “I figured all this time away from Mum and Dad would have fattened you up a bit. You usually come back from that school looking better than this.”
“Yeah, well,” Harry replied with a shrug. “It’s been a really tough year.” He glanced at Hermione then in a silent request, and she nodded reluctantly.
“We’ll just wait here, then,” she said, giving Ron her own threatening glare when he’d opened his mouth to opine on the merits of this arrangement.
Harry nodded gratefully before inclining his head at his cousin, and they both turned and headed up the street together.
“You’ve got that thing of yours, right? In case we meet any more of those whatsits like last time?”
“Yup.”
“That’s good.”
“Never thought I’d hear you say that, Dud.”
Dudley shrugged and walked on.
“So, I see your not sporting another pig’s tail,” Harry remarked, glancing over Dudley’s considerable backside. “I guess things could have gone worse then?”
“I don’t have one, but I thought they might give Dad one, once,” Dudley replied with a snort before turning serious again. “Those people that was with us said you got rid of that bloke who killed your parents.”
“Yeah, I did.” Harry replied.
“That’s good then.”
Then they were too far out of earshot for Hermione to catch anymore of their conversation.
She and Ron were left to mill about the driveway of Number Four for about fifteen minutes while Harry’s aunt and uncle watched them cautiously from behind the curtains of their front window as if afraid they might vandalize their property or try and steal their car, before Harry and his cousin came strolling back up from the opposite direction. As soon as the pair came into view, the front door was immediately whipped open again and both of the Dursley’s spilled onto the front stoop nervously to watch the two boys approach. Ron growled at Mr. Dursley, but did not launch himself at the man, for which Hermione was immeasurably thankful because she certainly wouldn’t have been able to stop him without being forced to use her wand, in the middle of a Muggle neighborhood, no less.
Harry stopped at the end of the drive, well out of his uncle's reach, and Dudley turned back around to face him.
“Thanks for coming, Harry,” Dudley said warmly. “I’m glad you’re all right.”
“Thanks. I’m glad you are, too.”
“Take care of yourself then.”
Harry shook his cousin’s proffered hand. “I will, Big D… I will.”
Dudley raised his eyebrow at the nickname, searching his cousin's face suspiciously for a moment. Then his expression softened and his shoulders relaxed, apparently deciding that Harry wasn't mocking him.
“If I get me one of them birds, can I write to you sometime?” Dudley asked then in a rush, his cheeks flushing slightly as his father hissed warningly from the porch.
“Uh… sure,” Harry agreed, looking surprised. “I’d like that.”
“Yeah? Okay then.”
“Just speak to the barman at the Leaky Caldron next time you’re in London. His name is Tom. He’ll know how to reach me. It’s on Charing Cross Road, but it’s kind of hard to find. I think your mum might have been there before, though.”
Petunia’s eyes widened, and she pressed a hand to her mouth looking horrified, but she did not deny Harry’s statement.
“Just wait for me there. It shouldn’t take long for Tom to find me. Then we’ll go to Diagon Alley, and I’ll help you pick one out.”
“Di-a-gon?”
“Yeah. You’ll need help getting through the barrier. Oh, and here,” he added, rummaging around in his pocket. Pulling out a Galleon, Harry handed it to his cousin, who turned the fat gold coin over in his hands, examining it with great interest. “Ask for a butterbeer while you wait. You’ll like it.”
“Are you gonna come through that green fire?” Dudley asked curiously as his mother squeaked faintly from behind them.
“Probably,” Harry agreed with an amused little smirk.
“Okay. Well, g’bye then, Harry.”
“Good bye, Dudley.”
Harry nodded one final time to his aunt and uncle before they set off again on foot to Mrs. Figg’s house, Harry’s old squib neighbor and an Order member. Then they used her fireplace to floo back to Hogwarts.
Once back at the school, with their brief reprieve over, they returned to the chaos they’d temporarily left behind, and threw themselves into the rebuilding of the demolished castle and grounds. The three of them continued to hide out at Grimmauld Place in the evenings while Harry still fought to come to grips with the loss of Remus and Tonks and Fred and so very many others, struggling to find his footing in this new post-Voldemort world, and his place in it.
Harry was still so fragile, so damaged from all that had happened to him over the previous year, maybe from all his years. Their time away into the muggle world had helped, but he was still completely heartbroken, totally devastated and blaming himself for the loss of so many. There were many days where he would simply lie down and not be able to get back up again, curling up with his grief and guilt.
It was witnessing him floundering under the weight of that burden, drowning in the enormity of it that had helped her decide. Many nights she felt like she was still quietly, helplessly watching him from the water’s edge. Evenings steeped in that stillness and soaking in that terrible silence had brought her to her decision.
She’d never lost her desire to hold Ron and Harry protectively to her chest, to wall them all in together and away from the intrusive world. But they could no longer hide at Number Twelve, not now that Voldemort was defeated. There was no reason to remain hidden. Harry was right that they couldn’t just stay there forever and play house, but he wasn’t ready for the full demands of the world either, of the responsibilities they wanted to lay at his feet. Burdened by the expectations they all had of him to emerge as a leader, with the Daily Prophet calling for him to unite them, to rebuild their society, Harry shrank further into himself instead. Their total lack of consideration for him was more than Hermione could take. She had to protect Harry from the vultures that wanted to pick over his carcass. Many of them were well-intentioned, but they were vultures none the less, and she would not permit it.
Needing protection now from the people he’d protected, Harry needed time to heal his body and his mind. He’d done what he must, fulfilled the prophecy, and now he needed to rest, to recover, and not be held in the spotlight any longer. He needed to be ensconced somewhere safe, if not at Grimmauld Place, then at the Burrow, or at Hogwarts where he could get away from the relentless pursuit of those that admired and worshipped him, as well as from those who hated and blamed him.
Harry was still receiving dozens of owls a week. Some full of praise or propositions, some asking for even more of him, and some in scarlet envelopes screaming that he’d not done nearly enough to protect them or their loved ones. All of them, good or bad, made Hermione angry. She seethed with rage at their ill treatment of him, as an object, not caring that he was human, too, that he was still just barely eighteen. They had no thought for what he’d already suffered, for what he’d endured for them. Each of them only wanted more; more from a man who’d already given so much, had given them everything he had, willingly sacrificed himself for their safety. So both Ron and Harry agreed to a final year at Hogwarts after her heavy handed persuasion.
So many Muggle-borns, like herself, had been forced into hiding, forced out of Hogwarts that many students were returning to repeat their lost year. All of the first years denied their heritages because of their blood status were starting their magical education a year behind.
They were joined by Dean Thomas, their fellow Gryffindor, and unexpectedly, by Draco Malfoy in their delayed seventh year of studies. Others, like Neville, and Seamus, Ginny, and Luna had completed enough of their previous year to pass their exams — which were held a month late — choosing to go on to the next year, or graduate, which meant a bit of jumbling and mixtures of ages and classmates and a fair amount of chaos. Luna and Ginny were, therefore, now seventh-years alongside herself, Ron, and Harry, while Neville and Seamus left Hogwarts to start their adult lives.
McGonagall had offered Hermione Head Girl, but she declined as well as all other Prefect duties without a single pang of longing. She had much more important things to do now, and she’d told the Headmistress so, as well as talking her out of asking either Harry or Ron to be Head Boy. So McGonagall had named Ginny to the post of Head Girl instead, and Hermione was nothing but thrilled with her choice. Along with Neville and Luna, Ginny had been a leader at Hogwarts the previous year, heading up the resistance against Snape and the other Death Eater professors with Dumbledore’s Army during their absence. Justin Finch-Fletchley, a muggle-born in their year and a founding member of Dumbledore’s Army, was selected as Head Boy.
Justin was also returning to Hogwarts after having been persecuted and imprisoned by Dolores Umbridge’s Muggle-Born Registration Commission, arriving back at Hogwarts perhaps with less naivety and easy trust as he’d had before, but still as the same friendly, slightly pompous, talkative boy she remembered, though slightly more morose now that his friends, Hannah and Ernie, had graduated.
Reporters for The Prophet, as well as several Hogwarts staff members and much of the student body, expressed dismay that Harry wasn’t named Head Boy. Even Justin had come up to Harry at dinner the next evening, apologizing, embarrassed to have been selected, but Harry would have none of it. He’d congratulated Justin heartily, told him he was relieved, actually, that McGonagall hadn’t asked him. Then he shook Justin’s hand in front of all the watching students and staff in the Great Hall. Clapping him on the shoulder, Harry told Justin as loudly as his voice would permit, that he thought he would make an excellent Head Boy, a good choice for leadership of this post Voldemort Hogwarts which was still healing the relationships between those of different houses and blood status’ along with the rest of the Wizarding world.
Justin had looked startled and extremely embarrassed by Harry’s impromptu congratulatory speech, but pleased as he walked away, back straight and shoulders squared in a dignified manner for his audience of silent students. Many of whom were first years and likely idolized the Chosen One for his fame and heroic deeds, but had never glimpsed him in the flesh or heard him speak.
Harry had always been a man of extraordinary courage, but he’d become a man of very few words. So when he did choose to speak, people stopped to listen, which was unfortunately the last thing the limelight-phobic Harry wanted. Yet it was that reticent trait that lent itself to the air of awe and mystery that surrounded him and added fuel for the whispered rumors that followed in his wake. Embarrassed himself at all the eyes on him, Harry glanced up at the head table apologetically for the disruption, and McGonagall gave him an approving nod of her head.
“A blood traitor and a muggle-born as head girl and boy,” he muttered to her and Ron as he sat back down, red in the face. “Dumbledore would’ve been proud.”
Hermione snorted into her pudding.
“Still, I thought surely she would have selected you two,” he added, staring at her pointedly.
“Well, I for one am glad she didn’t,” Ron said around a mouthful of treacle tart. “Who needs that kind of headache.”
Hermione’s silence was her reply, but Harry didn’t need a confession from her to know the truth. His narrowed stare was his acknowledgement that he at least suspected that she might have had a hand in McGonagall’s decision.
Mrs. Weasley could hardly contain her pride at her daughter’s appointment, simply beaming every time she saw the badge pinned on the robes of her youngest child. But that wasn’t all; McGonagall had also named Ginny as the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team once the teams finally began tryouts, which had been delayed as the pitch had to first be re-built.
Harry declined to rejoin the team, using the loss of his Firebolt as an excuse, and saying his arm just wasn’t strong enough for him to compete. But Hermione believed he simply couldn’t stand the idea of having so many people watching him. His heart just wasn’t in it anymore. He’d rather be a spectator now instead of the spectacle. Of course, that meant that Ron sat out as Keeper as well.
“The Weasley’s are still well represented,” Ron had said with a shrug.
Occasionally, however, Ron could talk Harry into a friendly game at the Burrow on their weekend visits when everyone’s good days coincided. They may not have been playing for the house team any longer, but they’d never lost their love of the sport.
When Ron and George, Ginny and Harry would take to the sky, sometimes joined by Bill or Charlie and once in a while, Angelina Johnson or Lee Jordan if they were visiting, the world, and its problems seemed to cease going on around them. That’s what it felt like, at least, to Hermione. It was as if the sun and the clouds, and all the birds in the sky stopped to marvel at the sight.
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and occasionally Fleur or Hermione’s parents when they visited, would bring out a blanket and sit with Hermione and Percy under a tree, sipping tea or pumpkin juice as the others soared above them. On those rare occasions, Harry flew as well as he ever had, as if flying were the most natural thing in the world to him, as easy as breathing. Sometimes afterwards, when they would land beside her, kicking up dirt, their hair windswept and their faces pink, she thought that was exactly what he was doing. Breathing again; living. Taking in healing breaths of freedom, he exhaled the sorrow inside him, inside all of them a little at a time. Those days, even if it allowed them to forget their troubles only for a few hours, were a reminder of what life could be again, and would be again. Today, however, wasn’t one of those days.
Hermione watched Harry as she slowly stirred her potion counter clockwise. Hers wasn’t the faint blue watery consistency the book said it should be at this stage because she was so distracted by the distress she could clearly see from her frequent glances to Harry’s profile. There were lines around his eyes and mouth with the firm set of his jaw. His pulse was pounding visibly in his neck. His complexion was pale and damp with cold sweat as his hands trembled and his Adam’s apple bobbed with the constant swallowing of his fears.
Looking away from him, she found Ron at the desk directly behind Harry and across from her. His forehead was creased, his mouth turned down in fierce concentration as he attempted to salvage his potion. The subject was never Ron’s strong suit, but he attacked the subject this year with stubborn determination, intent on making a passable grade on his N.E.W.T’s to qualify for Auror training with Harry. So completely wrapped up in his work, he was not paying attention to anything going on around him. Ginny was, though.
Sitting at the table next to Harry, she glanced at him frequently with worried eyes, her hand hesitating to reach out to him, possibly to place it on his shoulder to calm him, but she reached for her wand instead. Prodding at the fire under her cauldron to adjust the temperature, she bit her lip in confused indecision. It wasn’t a look Ginny wore often, except with Harry, who threw her constant mixed signals, which ranged from merely cordial to warm and friendly, then almost ignoring her completely or avoiding her at other times, particularly when the moon was full. Yet he always watched her, too, with those eyes full of undisguised longing. Hermione saw it. Ginny did too, and it only added to her uncertainty.
Today, Ginny’s confusion was over Harry’s reaction to the potion they were brewing. She couldn’t understand why it was upsetting Harry so, but Hermione thought she knew. She also knew that she couldn’t help him with this. She wasn’t the person he needed right now, no matter how much she wished she were. In fact, she was likely the last person Harry wanted to see.
Hermione knew exactly what memories the potion stirred in him, why he’d reacted so strongly at the sight of it. The bluish smoke spiraling up from the cauldron on Slughorn's desk when they entered the room made Harry stop dead at the door, the color draining from his face. It was only a Pepper-up potion, but she knew it reminded him of another. It looked like the potion Bellatrix had forced him to drink, but it was also the potion Hermione had given to him after Dobby’s murder, and memories of that day would be equally painful for him to relive.
God, life could be cruel. The situations it put people in, the fears it constantly forced them to face were just so unfair sometimes. Hermione couldn’t shelter him from his own memories, yet she ached to comfort him. Harry would refuse Ron and especially Ginny right now, though, too. Forcing him to face any of them would only make it worse. Hermione was sure of it.
Glancing to the other side of the room, she caught Draco’s eye and sighed. He was watching Harry, too, as he frequently did. Apparently, no one had their minds on their potions today, all of them focused instead on Harry, except for Ron, which was a rarity. Draco was her only option, Hermione realized, though she wished that weren’t true. She didn’t like it, but she had formed something of an alliance with Draco when it came to Harry.
Shortly after term began, Harry had begun a violent, secret, he thought, relationship with Draco. Relationship was too strong a word, but Hermione didn’t have another to describe what she saw going on between them. Obsession, maybe, was the right term, at least at first, though it had started to cool now.
It began, she believed, as simply an outlet for Harry’s anger. She didn’t approve of it, but she didn’t try to stop it either. She couldn’t judge him. Harry needed someone he could pour his hatred into, someone who could help him fight the demons inside him, and Draco appeared to be that willing recipient.
Hermione didn’t pretend to understand Draco’s motivation. She only needed to prevent it getting out of hand. More importantly, she had to prevent Ron from finding out. She was less worried about what Harry and Draco did to each other, than what Ron would do to Draco if he found out. Especially if he learned that it had turned sexual. Her own jealous possessiveness of Harry over all the simpering girls that attempted to catch his eye, or tried to waylay him if they found him on his own in the corridors was nothing compared to what Ron’s could be.
At one time, that kind of attention paid to Harry might have been amusing to Ron, or made him resentful of Harry’s fame. Now, however, it made him furious. Once, early in the term, he’d had to bodily remove a scantily dressed and humiliated Romilda Vane from their dormitory, whom he’d then tossed into the common room full of, thankfully, mostly older students when Harry had found her hiding in his bed late one evening.
“I can make you forget about her!” she’d shouted, angrily pointing at Ginny as she glared up at Harry, who was standing on the landing and staring down at her, probably to ensure that Ron didn’t inflict any permanent damage on the shameless trollop.
Not bloody likely, Hermione thought as Harry’s eyes went wide and he raised his eyebrows in stunned surprise. Not in a million years could she ever make him forget Ginny.
“I can make you forget her, too, Harry, if you’ll just give me the chance,” she added sullenly when Harry didn’t respond, waving her hand to indicate Hermione whose own eyebrows shot up in surprise while Ron growled a warning.
Harry looked for a moment like he’d been slapped. Then his face went suddenly blank, his eyes dangerously cold. The shock of finding her in his bed, and the embarrassment of the scene she was making in front of the whole house had been wiped clean from his face as he stared stonily down at her.
“The only thing I want to forget right now, is that this spectacle ever happened, but I’m sure it will live in infamy,” he replied in a low hoarse voice, straining to control his fury. “It’ll be sniggered about in the corridors and discussed ad-nauseum in the Great Hall for weeks. And then, once you’ve sold your story, which I have no doubt was your plan from the start, we’ll have your detailed account of how I turned you out, splashed across the front pages of Witch Weekly to endure for even longer. Enjoy the celebrity. I believe it might suit you better than me.”
He glanced once at Ginny who was sitting open mouthed next to the fire, and then at Hermione. “I’m so sorry,” he apologized to them both. Then he turned without another word, and walked back to his room while Hermione’s blood boiled with rage at the painfully public humiliation he’d just endured, that this heartless witch had just inflicted on him.
“Don’t you ever come near him again, you fame hungry tramp!” Ron threatened furiously, pointing a shaking finger in Romilda’s face. “You just stay away from him. Understand?”
“Oh, I see now. He doesn’t want to shag me because he likes boys. Is that it?” she asked snidely. “I guess I just don’t have the right bits to make him forget about you then, do I?”
Blind with fury, Hermione reached for her wand, but Ginny beat her to it. By the time someone finally had the sense to call Professor McGonagall, and she’d come rushing through the portrait hole, Romilda was covered in bogies and painful boils, howling with rage.
Romilda had gotten a week’s detention from the Headmistress over that little stunt and a much longer shunning from her Gryffindor housemates along with most of the other houses. Hermione retaliated in her own special way, ensuring that every time Romilda got within ten feet of Harry, she would break out in hives and be forced to spend the rest of the day in the hospital wing. Still, she got off lightly. Ron had been unable to unleash his own brand of fury on her because Dean was holding him back in a bear hug while Hermione and Dennis Creevy held Ginny back. By the look in his eyes that night, though, it would have been the type from which you don’t ever recover. That cold murderous look was certainly the last thing Avery ever saw before Ron killed him out on the Hogwarts grounds after Hagrid carried Harry's body out of the woods and the battle began anew. And that was exactly the kind of reaction she feared Draco would be in for if Ron ever found out about him and Harry. Which was why she would never tell him.
She knew exactly when it occurred, when the relationship between Draco and Harry had turned. She hadn’t told Harry that she was aware of what was happening between the two of them, choosing not to expose his secrets until it changed. Then she felt compelled to speak to him, worried that he was letting Draco sexually abuse and degrade him. Hermione couldn’t let that happen, or allow Harry to let that happen.
Since the war, Harry had floundered. He couldn’t keep his footing and constantly teetered on the edge of total collapse. Believing his life’s purpose had been achieved, he struggled now to find his way. It was Hermione’s job to keep him upright and clawing his way forward, but it was a balancing act. She constantly questioned herself, forever watching to see if the relationship he’d forged with Draco was pushing him back against the ropes, or allowing him to finally come off them. She changed her mind daily about whether or not to allow it to continue unchallenged.
Then she’d caught Harry sneaking out of the common room late one evening, just days after the Halloween feast, and she knew the time had come. Harry was stunned by her unexpected appearance, but quickly changed course, coming to sit with her on the couch instead of heading out the portrait hole. Curling up beside her, he lay down without a word, placing his head in her lap like an obedient dog. Knowing he was caught, he waited for the lecture.
“You mean everything to me, Harry. Please don’t just give yourself away. That’s all I’ll say about it,” she told him, brushing back the hair at his temples.
He closed his eyes at her words, but didn’t attempt to lie about it. He only nodded his head after a few silent minutes. Then he sighed and rolled onto his back to stare up at her. Reaching up, he stroked her cheek. “My head aches,” he whispered solemnly, “and I’m dizzy a lot.”
Tears sprang into Hermione’s eyes as he’d repeated the first words he’d written in the journal all those months ago to the healer while he was mute and still recovering. Though the symptoms he described were not due to dehydration or a concussion this time, they were still a true admission of how he was feeling. The opening line of his autobiography would undoubtedly read; My head aches, and I’m dizzy a lot, a succinct summation of his entire life.
“I know, darling. I know,” she answered brokenly.
That phrase had become a sort of a secret code between them, a signal he used to convey to her that he was hurting and grief stricken, confused and in pain, or angry and afraid. He used it when he couldn’t articulate exactly what he was feeling, but needed to share it. It was his way of admitting that he needed help, his way of asking for it without having to actually say the words, and it was an expression of his willingness to receive that aid and unburden himself.
What usually followed were whispered conversations in the dark of night, the only place he felt brave enough and safe enough to give voice to the things that were troubling him. Hermione cherished those moments with him even though they were always painful and heart wrenching for her to hear. The fact that he trusted her to share his secrets, to be his confidant meant everything to her.
“Yes,” he said with a little half smile, “but not that bad.”
It was the second line he’d written in his journal, his next response during his exam to Madame Pomfrey’s query about the pain he was experiencing. He was saying the words to her now in reassurance, as a measure of his distress.
Hermione nodded as he wiped away a tear from her cheek with his thumb. Then he took in a deep breath, and began to speak.
For the first time, Harry told her the whole story about the night when he’d walked alone into the forest to meet Voldemort and his own end. He explained about finally understanding the riddle of the Snitch and opening it to find the Resurrection stone. He told her about seeing and speaking to his parents, and Sirius, and Remus. Then about afterwards when Voldemort had struck him down and he’d been visited by Dumbledore as he lay unconscious on the forest floor. He detailed the conversation he’d had with his mentor while that grotesque thing that was the bit of Voldemort’s soul struggled nearby.
“I think I was dead,” he whispered, “or as close to it as anyone can be. It was either me or that part of Tom’s soul festering inside me that would die. Dumbledore said it was my choice, Hermione.”
Harry confessed his strong desire to stay there with Dumbledore, to just let it be over for him, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t over. Harry couldn’t leave his job undone, or leave it for someone else to finish. He had to finish it. He told her it was the hardest decision he’d ever made to come back to them. It wasn’t fear of facing Tom, but fear of facing his own future. Harry knew how hard the struggle would be for him. He knew he’d be returning to so much pain, and he was so desperate for it to be over.
He’d once tried to explain to her the distance he now felt from everyone else, and the difficulty he was having trying to find a new sense of normalcy. He described it by likening himself to the woman returned by the Resurrection stone to the besotted brother in Bettle’s tale. He felt separate from everyone else as if by a veil, like a stranger alone in a foreign land, lost without familiar landmarks, unable to comprehend the language and confused by the customs.
Hermione had understood. The war had turned them into soldiers. No longer school children, they were now world-weary adults in young bodies who’d seen too much evil, loss, and destruction in their short lives for their still developing brains to absorb. They'd been traumatized by what they’d endured. There was no returning to innocence after that she was learning.
“I don’t even know if it was real.” He sat up then, staring at her. “I asked him, you know, if it was all happening in my head, and he just said in typical Dumbledore fashion; ‘of course it is, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.’ But I believe it was. I know you probably think that’s crazy, Hermione.”
Tears slipping from her eyes again, Hermione shook her head. She didn’t think that at all. She believed every word. After everything she’d seen, after everything they’d done together, and all the fables she’d been forced to accept as real, in the end, how could she not believe him?
“Even after all he and his followers did to you, you still had compassion for him, didn’t you? In the Great Hall, you asked him to try for some remorse. You tried to warn him about what you’d seen, about what he would become.”
“You told me once that the only way to repair your soul was to truly feel remorse for what you’d done. If you’d seen it, Hermione, you would have tried, too. I know it. It was a horrible fate, even for Tom. I had to try.”
She kissed him then, marveling at how he could be wounded so badly, both mentally and physically, and yet still have a soul that remained so pure, untainted by the corruption of those that had tried to destroy him, able to still find pity in his heart despite all that had been done to him. Harry pulled her into his embrace, and when they broke apart, he held her by the face, running his thumb across her lips.
“I know you can’t understand. I know you’re worried about me, and I’m sorry for that. But sometimes… sometimes I can’t hold it all inside me, Hermione. The fear, the rage, the grief, Draco helps me work some of it out. That’s all it is.”
“I just want you to be happy, darling. Whatever you decide to do, or who you decide to be with. I just want it to make you happy. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
They’d stayed that way all night, talking, kissing, and making love wrapped up in his cloak. But it wasn’t enough. She and Ron weren’t enough. They never had been. Harry needed something more than they were able to give him, and she had to come to terms with that. Damn it was hard, though. Loosening her grip on him finally was the hardest thing Hermione had ever done. She loved him so much, and he was already so damaged from all that had been done to him. She could hardly stand it if he was letting Draco damage him further.
If it were Ginny that Harry was turning to, she could live with that, would able to let go and be happy for him, even. She knew Harry still loved Ginny, but the most he seemed able to handle with her was a tentative friendship, for now at least. Hermione continued to encourage it, however, including Ginny as much as Harry would allow, even though she knew eventually he would leave her and Ron for Ginny some day, and it would devastate them to lose him.
Perhaps if he exercised his demons with Draco, purged himself of them, he would be able to embrace Ginny again, and allow himself the things for which he truly longed. God, she hoped so. He deserved it so much. And Draco’s time with Harry did seem to be helping him, for which she couldn’t help but be grateful. In whatever twisted way, the violence between them appeared to be healing Harry in a way that she and Ron couldn’t. He was getting stronger every day. It’s what held her tongue. It’s what made her keep his secrets.
Draco rolled his eyes at her insolently from across the dungeon classroom, but nodded his head once in acknowledgement. Hermione sighed heavily again, worried about the decision she’d just made. Her message sent; she nodded curtly back before returning to her potion, hoping she hadn’t just sent Draco to his death if it was the wrong choice.
The moment class ended, Harry jumped from his seat. Throwing his things into his bag with shaking hands, he darted past her and out of the room before she could even ask him if he was okay. Malfoy quickly followed, slinging his bag over his shoulder and catching her eyes again a moment in silent request before he was also out the door, leaving her to collect samples of both their potions to turn into Professor Slughorn and clean up their mess. Staring after them a moment, she wondered for the hundredth time if she was doing the right thing for Harry, before finally getting wearily to her feet.
Ron came up to her when she’d returned to her cauldron, sliding his hand in hers. “Where’s Harry?”
“He needed the loo,” she lied smoothly. Oblivious to Harry’s distress, distracted by his own potion, Ron hadn’t witnessed the exchange between her and Draco, and didn’t see him follow Harry from the room.
“Oh. I’ll go catch up to him, then.” He made to pull out of her grip, but she held on firmly.
“Let’s just give him a few minutes, Ron. He’ll be fine without an escort.”
Ron frowned at her, but didn’t argue when she linked her arm in his and rested her head on his shoulder as Ginny passed them. Their hands brushed, and Hermione grasped Ginny’s, giving it a quick reassuring squeeze before releasing it. Turning with a sad little half smile, Ginny unexpectedly planted a kiss on Ron’s cheek, much to his surprise.
“See you in Charms,” she called over her shoulder to them as she left the room. “I hope you have Flitwick’s essay done, Ron, or there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Actually, that reminds me. Come on. I need to run to the library before lunch,” Hermione invented, pulling a bewildered Ron towards the door, stalling to give Harry more time with Draco before Ron could start a full scale search of the castle for him.
“You can’t be serious,” Ron complained, yet he allowed Hermione to lead him out of the classroom.
She looked for Harry in the halls in spite of herself all the way up to the library, and then again ten minutes later as they were heading for lunch. Scanning the Gryffindor table, her eyes were unable to rest until they found him finally entering the Great Hall a few minutes later. It was a habit she would never be able to break. He looked flustered, but not in distress as she watched him approach and sit down across from them.
“You all right?” Ron asked him, his eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed as he studied Harry.
“Yup,” Harry replied casually, plucking the roll off Ron’s plate and pulling it apart with his fingers.
“Where’ve you been?”
Harry glanced at the staff table briefly. Hermione tensed, worried that he would tell Ron he was in the library, which Ron would know was a lie. “Hagrid,” Harry answered and offered no more, popping a piece of the roll in his mouth and chewing as he calmly held Ron’s gaze.
Harry spent a lot of time with Hagrid. The three of them came round to his hut at least one evening a week to have tea with the half-giant and to visit Buckbeak. So stopping to have a quick chat with him, or to see the newest creature Hagrid was harboring, was the easiest lie for Harry to give, or at least the one Ron was most likely to believe.
After a moment’s scrutiny, Ron seemed satisfied everything was all right, scowling now as Harry swallowed his stolen food. Her body finally relaxed then, and she picked up her fork. Harry did the same with hands that were steady again, she noticed as she watched him spear a jacket potato from the nearest platter and drop it onto his plate.
Glancing up at him, she caught his eye and slowly smiled at him. He blinked owlishly once and nodded ever so slightly back before returning his eyes to his plate, his cheeks going pink.
God, he was beautiful.
They spent their evening working on their homework in the Gryffindor common room. Hermione worked on Arithmancy, while both Harry and Ron worked on an essay for Muggle Studies. Though Harry hardly needed it, having been raised by muggles, the course was now mandatory for everyone, pureblood, half-blood, or muggle-born, alike, and taught by a new, muggle-born, professor after Alecto Carrow’s imprisonment and Charity Burbage’s murder before that.
Everyone who’d taken the course taught by Alecto Carrow was required to repeat it. Hermione had already taken Muggle Studies in her third year under Professor Burbage and was, therefore, exempt. Though a pureblood, and not much good at understanding the muggle world, Hermione remembered Professor Burbage as a very kind, soft spoken witch, deeply concerned with, and striving towards, better wizard-muggle relations. It saddened Hermione greatly that she’d been murdered for those beliefs.
The three of them worked steadily, mostly in silence for more than an hour before Ron threw down his quill, leaned back in his chair, and declared that he’d had enough for one night. Then he pulled out his chess set.
They were both much better about keeping up with their schoolwork now, not letting it pile up for the weekend, so Hermione didn’t argue. Instead, she closed her books, got up, and sat on the couch near the fire to write a letter to her parents. Crookshanks jumped up beside her and curled up, purring contentedly as she scratched behind his ears while the boy’s played chess, occasionally watched by Ginny, Dean, and Dennis Creevy.
Under Ron’s careful tutelage, Harry’s eye for strategy had improved markedly, and their matches were becoming increasingly more competitive. It had become the evening norm in the common room for one or the other of them to have a game with any willing participant before calling it a night. They’d even held a friendly tournament one weekend against the other houses at Ginny’s suggestion, which was moderated by Professor Flitwick. The winner, earning her house twenty points and a gift certificate to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, turned out to be a third-year Hufflepuff, much to the young girl’s delighted surprise and Ron’s chagrin.
When their game had finally ended, Harry stood and stretched, grinning madly at the scowl on Ron’s face. “You owe me one for once,” he said triumphantly before punching Ron lightly on the shoulder.
No one else in the common room would have understood Harry’s meaning besides Ron and her. Ron gave a nonverbal reply in the form of a rude hand gesture, which caused Harry’s grin to widen.
While they’d still been planning their assault on the bank with Griphook and spending their nights at Number Twelve, Ron had proposed a game of chess one evening. When Harry seemed reluctant, Ron suggested that the loser would be required to perform fellatio on the winner, teasing Harry that it would perhaps make him a better player. Harry responded by stating that Ron already knew he would beat him, and if he wanted a blow job, he could just ask instead of pretending there was some kind of competition and humiliating Harry first with a defeat. Then he said something that made Hermione almost snort her evening tea.
“Besides, what makes you think that having your teeth raked over my shaft could be some kind of incentive for me to play better?”
“One time!” Ron argued, outraged.
“Twice,” Harry corrected him.
“Well, how the fuck do you keep from it?”
“Dunno. I suppose having the person forcing you to do it to them, threaten to pull all your teeth out one by one helps,” Harry supplied nonchalantly.
“God Damn it, Harry! You tell me that kind of shite just to see me in a jealous, murderous rage, don’t you, you prat?”
“No. I told you because you asked.”
“Well, just shrug or something next time, for Christ sakes! I don’t need any more reasons to hunt down that greasy bastard and kill him with my bare hands.”
Harry shrugged. Still, he agreed to the match and, of course, it wasn’t long before he found himself kneeling in front of a grinning Ron, his head in Ron’s lap as Hermione looked on. Watching them together was one of her favorite pastimes.
If Hermione hoped to have the pleasure of seeing Harry get his reward for beating Ron tonight, they would have to wait until they were at Grimmauld Place this weekend. At Hogwarts, they never displayed any type of behavior publicly that would indicate that they were more than close friends. Not between herself and Harry, and not between Harry and Ron.
It didn’t stop all the rumors, however, many of which were started by Romilda’s angry innuendo about Harry’s sexual preferences. People knew that she and Ron were a couple, but that didn’t silence the whispered speculation about the relationship between the three of them. There was constant discussion of what they’d done together during their year away from the Wizarding world, and of what they did on the weekends together now, for it was common knowledge that they had, and continued, to live together when away from school. Hermione ignored it, of course, as did Ron and Harry. She and Harry, in particular, were far too used to the gossip surrounding them to be much bothered by it anymore. There was a time, however, when that kind of talk would have sent Harry spiraling out of control.
Rolling her eyes at their continued win-reward agreement, and wondering if Ron would sneak into Harry’s bunk tonight to pay the debt since it was only Tuesday, she watched Harry as he headed up to bed until he’d disappeared around the corner.
After packing away his chess set, Ron came to sit beside her on the couch. Picking up Crookshanks, who growled his displeasure, Ron dropped him into Hermione’s lap before kissing her on the neck while she continued to stare after Harry.
Hermione still watched him, all the time, just as she’d started in the dungeon during those terrible days. Maybe she always had. She knew she always would.
He’d confided in her once that it was her voice he heard as the voice of his conscience, the voice of reason, and she took that responsibility seriously.
They weren’t Fluffy. Harry was right about that, and they grew less so every day as he grew stronger. But she was still his secret keeper, and his minder. She and Ron were there to protect him from others and from himself, to watch over him, to worry over him, to keep him from going off the edge. That’s what it came down to for her.
It was her job to keep him safe, centered, and moving forward, and she would do it gladly until the end of their lives. Until one day, in the far away future, they would both close their eyes and go peacefully to sleep and either he, or she, never woke up again, boarding the Express that would, instead, take them onward to be reunited with the others that had gone on before them.
Hermione slid her hand into Ron’s, and he squeezed her fingers.
“I love you,” she told him.

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What it comes down to