Chapter Text
Monday, Sept. 8
Harry was halfway through his third bowl of Frosties when the door to the kitchen banged open. He didn’t look up immediately; he was trying to ignore the way the sugar milk was congealing in the bottom of his cereal bowl and making him queasy, but when something bright slapped against the scarred oak table, he finally lifted his head.
A fluorescent yellow flyer lay between them, garish against the soft lamps in the kitchen.
He raised an eyebrow at Hermione, who was standing there, dripping water from her navy Mac onto the floor in a steady puddle. Her cheeks were pink from the September chill and a few damp curls clung stubbornly to her temples. She didn’t say anything, just tipped her chin at the flyer, daring him to react.
“Well?” she demanded after a beat.
Harry set his spoon down carefully, running his tongue over the film on his teeth. He’d always envied Dudley’s Frosties as a kid, but after three nights of eating them for dinner– Kreacher was off at Hogwarts for the month, helping in the kitchens– he was starting to realize he really hadn’t missed much. The cloying sweetness made him yearn for one of Kreacher’s salads Harry had always complained about.
He nudged the flyer closer, reading aloud in a flat voice. “ Ten Years Since Grunge Kicked Pop in the Arse: A Night of Apathy and Plaid. Friday, September Nineteenth. Warehouse 23, Southwark. ”
He blinked up at her. “Is this a real thing?”
“Yes.” She shrugged out of the Mac, sending it to the coat tree by the fire with a flick of her wand and dropped into the chair across from him, folded her arms, and met his gaze evenly. “Last week you asked me what I want to do for my birthday. This is it.”
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “You’re serious.”
“Completely.” She sounded almost defiant. “We never got to do this, Harry. All those nights my Muggle friends were sneaking off to grimy clubs in Camden to drink cheap lager and pretend they were tragic, misunderstood souls– do you know what we were doing? Hiding in a tent, or planning to die. I’d like to have at least one night where we get to be that sort of tragic, misunderstood soul just because we feel like it– not because we actually are.”
He considered this, glancing at the flyer again. The design was a mess of clashing fonts and badly photocopied pictures of Courtney Love and Eddie Vedder, and it was so aggressively 1993 it made him feel about a hundred years old.
Hermione pulled in a breath, softer now. “I want to get dressed up and dance until I stink of sweat and smoke. I want to be nobody important for once. Just a woman in Docs shaking my ass.”
He fought the smile tugging at his mouth. “That sounds…promising.”
She looked relieved– until he tapped the bottom corner of the flyer. “Fancy dress? ‘Period grunge?’ What the hell does that even mean?”
Hermione’s expression brightened with wicked delight. “For me, it means that iconic pink dress that Shirley Manson wore in the Only Happy When it Rains video. And my Doc Martens, of course. For you…” She gave him a long, assessing look that made him feel like she was about to deduct House points. “Your regular wardrobe. Tee shirt, flannel, jeans. You can wear your Auror boots if you insist on being authentically combat-y.”
“So, in other words…” He gestured down at himself. “I don’t have to do anything.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s…almost suspiciously painless.”
Her smile turned wistful. “It doesn’t have to be complicated, Harry. I just want to have fun.”
He studied her carefully. She looked tired, he realized, maybe more tired than he’d let himself see. There were faint shadows under her eyes, the mark of someone who worked too much, thought too much, carried too much.
“You’re sure this is how you want to mark your 24th year?” he asked.
Hermione reached across the table and brushed her fingers against his wrist, just for a moment. “Yes. Please. Next year, I’ll probably be guilted into some big celebration with everyone. My parents, the Weasleys, half the Ministry. But this year…this. Please.”
“All right,” he said. He leaned back, letting his hands fall to his lap. “I’ll get the invites sorted, then.”
Her hand snapped back as though he’d stung her. “No! Harry…”
He looked up, startled by her tone.
“Please. No invitations.” She pressed her palm flat to the flyer, her thumb tracing the ugly black border. “Next year, we can do the party. But this year, just us. No magic. No expectations. No one to see us if we look like idiots. I don’t want to be Hermione Granger, Order of Merlin, or you to be Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World. I don’t even want to be around anyone who might recognize us.”
“You want to go full-out Muggle with this.”
“Yes.” She gave him the most pathetic puppy dog eyes she could muster. “Pleeeeaaaase?”
He grinned. “Okay.”
She looked up at him then, a smile breaking through. “Besides…if it’s just you, then I don’t have to be embarrassed when I’m so drunk I can’t stand. I plan to be blitzed enough that I won’t remember your terrible dance moves.”
He huffed a laugh, ignoring the way his ears warmed. “Right. I’ll plan to be equally blitzed so I don’t remember you stepping on my toes.”
“It’s settled, then.” She pushed the flyer toward him, as if sealing a contract.
“Settled.”
He glanced down at the lurid yellow paper one more time. The date glared back at him…Friday, September 19.
“Well, at least it’s in a warehouse so if this interminable rain doesn’t let up, we should be relatively dry.” He pushed the Frosties and milk towards her.
“We’ll have you a very grungy birthday, yeah?”
She didn’t look up as the flakes fell into the bowl and she carefully tipped the milk over them, but her smile was wide enough that Harry was genuinely pleased with the plan.
Wednesday, Sept. 10
A week or so later, they sat in the study at Grimmauld, the fire losing a slow battle against the damp drizzle outside. Harry balanced the curry carton on one knee, shoveling in a mouthful without much enthusiasm. The lamb rogan josh was excellent– same as always from the little place around the corner– but he was too tired to appreciate it. Across from him, Hermione sat cross-legged on the other end of the sagging sofa, her own carton propped against her shin. She had kicked off her shoes and was absently massaging her ankle with her free hand.
“Merlin, I forgot how good this place is,” she said, wiping a drip of sauce off her lip.
“You forgot because you’ve been working like ten jobs,” he said around a mouthful of rice.
Hermione lifted an eyebrow. “Says the man who’s only had time to eat cereal for dinner every night this week.”
“Don’t remind me.” He set his carton down and sighed. “God, I miss Kreacher.”
“You sound terribly pathetic.” She smiled into her curry.
Harry pointed his fork at her. “Right. You wait until you’ve been driven to eat nothing but Frosties for three meals a day. You’d be crying about your house elf, too.”
“Mm.” She scraped up another bite, her expression thoughtful. “Maybe you should consider stopping to pick something up every once in a while. You know. Like an adult.”
“That sounds suspiciously like effort.”
Hermione rolled her eyes and leaned her head back against the sofa. “Well luckily I have the number of the curry place memorized…and am willing to pay extra for delivery, especially in the bloody rain.”
“Mmmph,” Harry responded.
They lapsed into silence again. It was the kind of quiet that never felt uncomfortable. The wireless was playing something tinny and orchestral- big band standards or some such thing Hermione loved. The fire sputtered and crackled and the constant sound of the rain dripping from the eaves plinked out of time with the music. The rest of Grimmauld Place was still— Kreacher off at Hogwarts, no owls tapping at the windows, no obligations looming.
After a while, Hermione spoke, her voice low and full of fatigue. “It’s nice, you know. Having a night with nothing in it.”
He glanced at her. “Yeah. Feels like we haven’t had one of these in ages.”
“Because we haven’t.”
He considered this, then nodded. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” She shifted to tuck one foot under her thigh, turning a little to face him better. “You’ve been busy. I’ve been busy. That’s life, isn’t it?”
He ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the bristle of stubble. “Still. I feel like I haven’t…checked in. With you. In a while.”
Hermione tilted her head. “Well, that can be what tonight is for.”
They were quiet again, and Harry poked idly at the last of his curry. Then, without quite meaning to, he said, “So. Am I going to get a lecture about bringing girls home?”
Her mouth twitched. “Is that why we haven’t hung out?”
“Nah.”
She tilted her head.“Do you want a lecture?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then probably not.” She smirked. “Unless you leave evidence in the loo again.”
He groaned. “Once. That happened once.”
“And it was horrifying.”
He dropped his head back against the sofa cushion. “God. I know what it looks like. All those…girls. It’s just…”
“Easier than caring?” she finished, almost carelessly.
He looked over at her, surprised.
Hermione’s face was sympathetic but not judgmental. “I understand, Harry. You don’t have to explain.”
“Still feels a bit…slutty,” he muttered.
She laughed softly, setting her curry aside. “Well, maybe it is a bit. But…Harry…you’re allowed. You and Ginny…that wasn’t exactly easy.”
He rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Yeah. I don’t even know if I’m sad about it being over. Mostly I just feel…relieved. Like there’s nothing left to fight about.”
“That’s probably healthier than pretending it was working.”
“Yeah.” He exhaled. “Thanks.”
Hermione shrugged, tracing a finger along the edge of her carton. “I still think she was a right cow about it, though.”
A laugh escaped but he managed to shoot her a wary look. “Hermione.”
“What?”
“You can’t call my ex a cow.”
“I can and I have.”
He tried to look stern, but it dissolved into a snort. “You’ll forgive her someday.”
“Maybe.” Her mouth twisted. “But it won’t be today.”
He picked at a loose thread in the blanket thrown over the arm of the sofa. “You two were friends for ages.”
“Were.” She spoke the word evenly, without heat. “But not for a while. And not now.”
Harry hesitated. “Because of Ron?”
Her brows drew together. “No. Because of her.”
Harry watched her for a moment. There was something unsaid there. “What do you mean?”
Hermione sighed, propping her chin on her hand. “She… Ginny didn’t take it well when Ron and I split. She decided I was a threat to her relationship with you.”
He frowned. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Yes, well.” She traced the seam of the cushion with her fingertip. “She thought differently. She started telling people I was…seeing someone I wasn’t.”
Harry’s stomach tightened a bit. “Who?”
“Sheldon Warrenson.”
“Your boss?”
Hermione nodded, calm as anything. “She put in an anonymous complaint to the ethics office.”
“Merlin.”
“Daphne Greengrass was the one who called me in.” She smiled faintly. “She told me privately it was Ginny who’d filed it.”
Harry’s mouth opened and closed. “Hermione…”
“It’s ok. It ended up being ok,” she said. And she sounded like she meant it. “It’s over. But it sure put a nail in the coffin of Ron and me. He didn’t believe me. And that made it a hell of a lot easier to walk away from all of it. The Weasleys, the mess. I didn’t need it anymore.”
He shook his head slowly. He’d had no idea. “Why didn’t you tell me about it?
Hermione fiddled with the edge of the carton again. “I didn’t want you to have to choose. It was bad enough that you were having to choose between me and Ron. Me and Ron and Ginny and the Weasleys? I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
Harry gaped at her. “If I’d known, there wouldn’t have been a choice.”
She looked over, puzzled.
He swallowed. “I mean– I would have chosen you. Every time. You know that, right?”
Her eyes softened. “Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” she repeated firmly. “But that’s why I didn’t tell you. You were in it with Ginny, and I wasn’t going to be the reason it all blew up.”
“It already blew up,” he muttered.
Hermione gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Well. Then I suppose it all worked out.”
They lapsed into silence, and she lifted her carton again, poking at the congealed curry.
“So,” he said eventually, wanting to move past the old hurts, “how’s Finn?”
She sighed, dropping her fork back into the box. “I ended it.”
“Oh.” He rubbed a hand over his face.
She grinned at him. “So much for a light-hearted change of subject.”
He grimaced. “I’m…sorry?”
“Don’t be.” She pulled her knees up, hugging them loosely. “It wasn’t anything.”
“When?”
“A couple weeks ago.”
He groaned. “Fuck. Have I paid any attention to you at all lately?”
Hermione laughed under her breath. “I didn’t exactly make an announcement.”
“You could have told me.”
“Again–it’s fine.” She looked at him with a tired little smile. “It just…wasn’t anything. He was nice enough, but he wasn’t…you know.”
“Wasn’t what?”
She shrugged again. “I ended things with Ron because I couldn’t do blah anymore. I want easy… like this…” She gestured between them. “...but I also want… sparks . I want to feel like I’m alive. And I want to be with someone who’s curious about things.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Ever longing for the poet/ artist, eh?”
“No.” She smiled, soft. “They don’t have to be poetic. They don’t even have to be good with words. I just…want them to care about knowing more about… something .”
He made a face. “I must be a very disappointing friend for you. I’m about as interesting as a volcanic rock.”
Hermione rolled her eyes and smacked his shin with her foot. “Of all the rocks, volcanic rock is quite fascinating, actually.”
He laughed, the sound warm in the quiet room.
She looked at him thoughtfully. “You’re interested in plenty of things, Harry. The garden. Fixing up this old place. Your work. Even…” She waved a hand vaguely at his broad chest and shoulders. “Getting very fit.”
He waggled his eyebrows and flexed his pecs and she let out a surprised giggle, covering her mouth.
“And,” she went on when she caught her breath, “I have never once had a boring conversation with you.”
He looked at her, feeling something unspool in his chest. Something old and familiar and quiet.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Me neither.”
Monday, Sept. 15
When Harry stepped through the front door, Grimmauld was fairly vibrating with music. He paused, keys in hand, as the low thrum of bass rattled faintly through the walls. It was loud enough to drown out the sound of the downpour he just narrowly avoided and he could hear the lyrics even in the hall:
I’m only happy when it rains…
A smile tugged at his mouth. An apt song for yet another day of this endless September rain.
He knew the voice– Garbage’s lead singer, Shirley Manson– and he knew exactly who was singing along at the top of her lungs. Hermione might pretend she couldn’t sing, but every now and then when she forgot to throw up a silencing charm in the shower, or she thought she was alone, she’d drop the Anglican choir girl act and let out that rough bluesy voice of hers. It was intoxicating.
He slipped off his boots and padded quietly down the corridor, following the scent of garlic and baking bread. When he reached the kitchen doorway, he stopped and stood just outside in the shadowed hallway.
The room was bright, every lamp switched on, the big windows steaming faintly in the autumn chill. Hermione stood at the hob with her back to him, utterly absorbed. She wore old jeans rolled up at the ankle and a soft grey jumper falling off one shoulder. A tea towel was tucked into the waistband like an apron.
And she was dancing while she sang.
Not just a sway or a tap of her foot, but a whole, unselfconscious performance.
She shifted her weight from foot to foot in time with the drums, hips rolling in a lazy little figure-eight. One hand stirred something in a saucepan– pale cream swirling with tomatoes– while the other reached for a wooden spoon she used as a microphone.
Pour your misery down…
Her voice was low, tuneful, just slightly husky from hours of talking. She spun on her toes, bare feet whispering against the tiles, and turned back to the counter to chop garlic in quick, efficient motions. Her hair, half-knot and half-mess, swung around her face and caught the light.
Harry watched, transfixed, as she scraped the garlic into the pan, flicked the burner up, and began to shimmy her shoulders. She dipped her head, smiling to herself as if the music were a private joke, and then lifted her free hand over her head, wrist flicking in time with the beat.
She spun again, loose and graceful, and reached for an onion. She gave it a chop and then ripped the peel off, dancing in place, knees bending, hips rolling. She tossed the skin in the bin without looking, then brought the onion to her nose, breathing it in with a little hum of pleasure before chopping it quickly..
I only listen to the sad, sad songs…
She flicked the onions into the pan. The wooden spoon came back up as her microphone, and she sang along in a bright, defiant voice, her hair falling forward around her cheeks. She pushed it back with the back of her wrist, never stopping the movement of her hips.
Harry felt something low in his stomach go hot. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her like this. Free. Unobserved. Beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with cleverness or competence or war heroics.
Just…alive.
Hermione stirred the sizzling mess in the pan and laughed, low and breathless, and turned back to the counter to fumble with a tin of tomatoes. She popped it open, dumped it into the pot, and wiped her fingers on her jeans without caring about the red smudges. Then she set the spoon down and pressed both hands to her sides, sliding them slowly up over her ribs, her head tipping back as she sang.
He watched, utterly still, as she arched her back in a little stretch, lifted the hem of her jumper enough to bare an inch of skin, then dropped it again. She reached for a bottle of cream, and poured it in with a flourish.
Still moving, always moving– shoulders rocking, head bobbing, a little skip in her step as she reached for the pan of boiling water, tossed in a handful of salt, and poured pasta into it.
Harry found he had moved forward and he leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, watching her in something close to awe.
She turned back to the counter, reached for a bottle of vodka, and– still humming– took a long swallow straight from the neck. Her throat moved as she swallowed, her eyes fluttering closed in pleasure.
Pour your misery down on me…
He didn’t think he’d ever seen anything sexier in his life.
Hermione tilted the bottle over the sauce, poured with a practiced hand, then spun on her heel…
…and saw him.
Her eyes went wide as galleons.
She screamed, a high, startled yelp, and the vodka bottle slipped from her fingers. It hit the floor and shattered, clear liquid splashing across the tiles.
“Fuck!” she gasped, stumbling back so hard she nearly sat down on the oven door.
Harry jolted out of his trance. “Shit! Hermione– sorry– sorry– ”
He ducked forward, hands raised. “Don’t move– just– Merlin– I didn’t mean to– ”
She pressed a hand to her chest, face flaming. “You– you– fuck, you scared me!”
“I know– fuck– I’m so sorry– ” He pulled his wand to Vanish the glass before she could step on it. “You’re not hurt?”
“No,” she said in a strangled voice. “Just– mortified.”
He looked up at her, and something about her expression– horrified, bashful, still a little fierce– made him grin helplessly. “You…”
“Don’t,” she warned, voice wobbly.
“I’m just saying…”
“Don’t you dare.”
He reached out, curled his fingers around her wrist, and tugged gently until she looked at him.
“It was…” He swallowed, not bothering to hide the grin. “That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Hermione let out a groan and buried her face in both hands. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“I’m serious,” he insisted, his thumb brushing her pulse. “You– cooking, singing, dancing around like that… Merlin, Hermione– you have no idea.”
She peeked at him through her fingers, mortified. “Don’t take the mickey out of me right now.”
“I’m not.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I’m going to have to bring my wand Friday to hex every bloke who tries to touch you.”
Her laugh broke out, incredulous and bright, and she dropped her hands at last. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” He gave her wrist a squeeze. “But I’m right.”
She shook her head, exhaling hard. “You’re insufferable.”
“You love it.”
“Unfortunately,” she muttered, though she was smiling.
He looked around the kitchen. “What were you doing, anyway?”
Hermione sighed, rubbing her palms on her thighs. “I decided I was tired of Frosties and takeaway, too. I wanted real food. I had to owl Kreacher for the recipe. He was thrilled to lecture me about every step…but…”
“It smells brilliant,” he said honestly.
Her eyes flicked to his, shy but pleased. “It should be ready in ten minutes.”
“Perfect.” He gave her a little nudge with his elbow. “I’ll make the salad.”
“You? Elective vegetables?”
“I’m capable,” he protested, and she laughed again.
The tension dissolved, leaving them in the warm kitchen, the music still playing, and the vodka drying on the floor.
He woke up with a start, heart pounding so hard he thought it might crack his ribs. For a moment, he had no idea where he was– just darkness and damp sheets and the echo of a voice he couldn’t quite place.
Then he blinked, took in the familiar cracks in the plaster overhead, the soft creak of the old pipes, the sound of the rain still tapping gently against the windows. His bedroom at Grimmauld.
He swallowed, tried to shift, but the sheets were plastered to his skin with sweat. He’d had a nightmare. Of course.
Or…
He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe, counting in and out until his heart rate stopped trying to leap through his throat.
Tried to remember.
It came back in fragments– heat, a low sound, the sharp tang of longing.
And then all at once, the image snapped into focus:
Hermione, her body pressed over his, skin flushed, her head thrown back as she moved against him. Her hips rolling the same way they had in the kitchen, only this time the motion was slower, more deliberate, more devastating.
Her voice, low and throaty, filled with heat and something that sounded almost like desperation as she called out his name.
He squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a breath that shook.
It had been a while since he’d had a Hermione Sex-Dream.
They’d happened fairly regularly for most of their friendship, though he’d never once told her that. For a stretch of time in fifth year, she was the only girl who showed up in his dreams. Then there had been Cho, and later Ginny.
Strangely, when they were on the run– freezing, starving, trying not to die– he hadn’t dreamt of anyone like that. Maybe his mind hadn’t had the luxury.
But after the battle, in the months when she was in Australia trying to find her parents and fix their memories, she’d haunted his nights. Every night. Every single dream.
He’d gone through a few weeks of not being able to look Ginny in the face in the morning because the guilt was so heavy it felt like it was pressing the air out of his lungs.
The mind healer he’d started seeing back then had told him, very gently, that he probably attached a lot of safety to Hermione. That after so long surviving together, it made sense his brain would reach for her. That maybe he was just going through withdrawal from being with her every day.
It had helped a little.
Then Ron had moved into Grimmauld and Hermione had started spending most evenings there, too. He saw her all the time. He still dreamt of her– holding her hand, or hugging her, or sitting side-by-side– but the erotic dreams eased, eventually returning to the occasional appearance once every few months, when he was especially tired or lonely or in need of something he couldn’t name.
The mind healer had said that dreams like that were probably about longing for intimacy– connection, more than anything explicitly sexual.
Of course, he hadn’t confessed to the mind healer that the dreams were always about Hermione. He’d just nodded, feeling vaguely ill.
He’d told himself back then that he wasn’t ready to pick apart what might be going on. And besides– he’d been with Ginny. He was supposed to be committed, supposed to be moving forward.
It wouldn’t have done any good to dig any deeper into what he and Hermione were to each other.
Now, he lay there staring up at the ceiling, trying to slow the racing of his thoughts.
When Ron moved out a year and a half ago, Hermione had stayed.
It hadn’t even been a question, really. When she moved in with Ron, Harry and Ron had helped her pack her things out of the little flat in Diagon. When Ron moved out, it never occurred to him to ask to pack up her two trunks and boxes of books and go find someplace else. It just felt right for her to be there.
He and Ginny were on one of their many breaks at the time. No one was around to object or to imply anything about propriety or appearances. And after all, the Weasleys, especially Ron and Ginny, were fond of insisting that he and Hermione were like brother and sister to each other.
Of course they didn’t know about the frequency– and vividness– of dreams like the one he had just had that had always made him feel more than a little creepy about that comparison.
But after her breakup with Ron and his breakup with Ginny, just one of many– Hermione had stayed.
And he was glad. Relieved even.
Harry had mentioned that to his mind healer, once– half a joke, half a confession. “At least I got Hermione in the divorce.”
She’d lifted an eyebrow and said, “We should come back to that next session.”
They never did. He went on assignment in the Balkans for a month and by the time he came home, he and Ginny were back together, the subject safely buried under the fresh rubble of their on-again-off-again cycle.
Now, he thought about what Hermione had told him the other night about Ginny. About how threatened she’d always been.
He was glad…profoundly glad...that he’d never told Ginny about the dreams.
She’d have torn Hermione’s hair out by the roots.
He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face.
Now that he thought about it, it made sense that Ginny had felt threatened. His feelings for Hermione had been the constant backdrop to so much of their relationship that he’d stopped noticing it was unusual.
All week, ever since Hermione told him about the “anonymous” complaint Ginny had made, he’d been replaying all the little things Ginny used to say– about Hermione, about him.
How easily he’d absorbed it.
How carefully she’d shaped it.
You love her like a sister, Harry. That’s all.
She’s so fussy. Dowdy. Not your type.
It struck him how precise she’d been. How she’d never left room for him to disagree.
And for the first time, he let himself push back against that narrative.
Because the truth was, he’d never thought Hermione was dowdy.
He’d always known– if he was honest– that she was beautiful. Just…in a different way. Not bright and vibrant and obvious like Ginny. But quieter. More self-contained. The kind of beauty that didn’t ask for attention but held it anyway. Golden.
Hermione was something…classy, almost. Elegant without trying. She didn’t need makeup or tiny skirts or smoky eyeliner to be stunning.
It struck him that he hadn’t actually seen her made up in years.
He thought about her lips– full and that deep rose pink, the way they curved over perfectly straight teeth and her wide, ready smile. He thought about the flush on her cheeks when he’d caught her dancing earlier, the startled delight that had softened into something shy.
God, she’d been pretty.
Her eyelashes were dark and long, and her eyes– he’d always thought of them as brown, but they weren’t, really. They were dark gold. Rich and clear and bright when she laughed. Sparkling when she was amused. Sparking when she was furious.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at her properly.
He hadn’t, he realized, ever really paid attention to her body. Not consciously. Not in a sexual way, anyway.
Though, Merlin knew, his subconscious was apparently determined to catalogue it.
That little dance in the kitchen– the way her hips had moved, fluid and confident– was the first time he could remember seeing her – noticing her– move like that. Noticing how she could move like a woman who knew exactly what her body could do.
It made something low in his gut twist.
Had she always been…like that? A little sexy, a little fierce, a little beyond him?
Had he just never bothered to apply any sort of mindful awareness to it?
He closed his eyes, willing the memory of her to fade enough that he could sleep.
But the image of her head tipped back, lips parted, hips swaying in the kitchen– and the way she’d looked in his dream, pressed against him– only burned brighter.
Hermione in the kitchen, her body rolling in that slow, unhurried rhythm, hips swaying as she tipped her head back to sing. Her flushed cheeks, her hair tumbling loose around her face, her lips wet and pink where she’d licked them clean of tomato sauce.
And in his dream– her weight over him, her thighs straddling his hips, the perfect heat and pressure where she rocked down against him. Her voice low and breathless, saying his name like it was something she couldn’t hold back.
His cock was now hard, straining against the thin cotton of his pyjama trousers, and he knew there was no way he’d be able to sleep if he didn’t do something about it.
He squeezed his eyes shut, heart thumping unevenly, and let his hand slip under the waistband.
He wrapped his fingers around himself and hissed out a shaky breath, the touch almost unbearably sharp with how worked up he already was.
He tried, halfheartedly, to think of someone else– some faceless woman from the clubs he’d been frequenting. Some past shag. Ginny even. But they flickered and dissolved almost immediately, replaced by the image of Hermione in that slanting kitchen light.
The little gasp she’d made when she’d seen him standing in the doorway.
The way she’d moved her hands up her own sides, palms gliding over the curve of her waist.
The way she’d looked in the dream, flushed and open and perfect, her voice breaking as she came.
He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound as he stroked himself, slow at first, then faster when he felt his hips starting to lift from the mattress.
Merlin, he shouldn’t be thinking about her like this, shouldn’t be imagining her hands on him, her mouth, her body curling over his…but he couldn’t stop.
He imagined her saying his name again, that low rough voice that undid him every time she got too tired to modulate her tone. He imagined her hair in his fists, imagined the way she might feel if he pulled her down to kiss him, if he slid inside her while she was still warm and wet and moving just like that.
His breath came faster, uneven.
Fuck.
He pressed his thumb to the head of his cock and let himself think about the way she’d looked when she blushed for him.
That was all it took.
He came with a groan he barely managed to muffle against his bicep, spilling over his hand and the edge of the sheets, his whole body jerking with it.
For a moment, everything went blessedly blank.
He lay there, panting, the sweat cooling on his skin and the last tremor of pleasure fading into something hollow.
Guilt settled in almost immediately, sour and heavy in his chest.
Merlin’s sake, Harry.
He grabbed his wand and vanished the mess then rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
But the truth was– he felt better. Not proud or particularly noble, but less tangled up.
He could breathe again.
He closed his eyes, and when sleep finally crept up to claim him, it came without dreams.
Thursday, Sept 18
The Leaky Cauldron was already loud by the time they swept in, all clinking glasses and raucous voices rising over the wireless. The wall above their regular booths and tables were strung with a crooked banner that read Happy Birthday, Hermione! in swooping purple script. Someone had spelled the candles to bob gently in midair.
Hermione stopped in the doorway, shaking the water off her umbrella, her mouth quirking. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Harry.”
He grinned, took her umbrella, and gave her a little push towards Padma who turned from the bar, raising her glass. “No protests, Granger. You consented to tonight.”
Hermione sighed, though she couldn’t quite hide her smile. “I did.”
Harry followed her in, shrugging out of his coat, and felt the strange warmth of familiarity settle in his chest. It always felt like this, every Thursday when they all tried to gather– like something solid he could rest against.
Parvati and Seamus were squabbling good-naturedly over a packet of crisps. Theo was perched on the edge of the hearth, long legs folded under him, looking amused as he watched Ron gesture through the story he was telling. Dean leaned against the mantel, snorting into his pint every time Ron mimed the Welsh Green’s wingspan.
Draco sat near the end of the table, a glass of whisky in his hand, his eyes flicking to the door every few seconds, as if he were expecting something.
Or someone.
Harry gave his partner a nod but hung back a moment, watching everyone, feeling almost like an observer instead of a participant. He always felt that way in the first minutes– like he was testing the current before he stepped into it.
Hermione slipped past him and dropped into the seat beside Parvati, immediately swept up in conversation about some disastrous charity gala Pavarti had been roped into planning. She tucked her hair behind her ear, laughing low, her fingers resting at the base of her throat.
He felt something stir low in his belly.
Since Monday, it was as if some switch had flipped in his brain. He couldn’t stop seeing her– watching her– noticing her. The clean, elegant lines of her hands. The way she tipped her chin up when she was about to argue a point. The little crease between her brows when she was listening closely.
He hadn’t known how much of her he’d just taken for granted.
Harry sat down at the far end of the table, not too far from Draco, and let the noise swell around him, content for the moment to watch.
It was easy to be invisible here. Easy to sit back and let the others fill the space.
Ron was in his element, arms waving, voice carrying over the wireless. “—and then this bloody great lizard tried to sit on my partner’s broom, so I had to– ”
Seamus hooted. “Sure it wasn’t your broom the poor beast was after?”
Ron flipped him two fingers without missing a beat, and Parvati dissolved into laughter.
Theo caught Harry’s eye, tipping his glass in greeting. Harry raised his pint back, smiling faintly.
And still, his gaze kept returning to Hermione.
She was tucked between Parvati and Padma, knees folded under her, her boots dangling a few inches from the floor. When she laughed, her head tipped back, her hair sliding over her shoulder in a curly sweep. Her throat was pale in the candlelight, her mouth soft and open.
He’d seen her laugh a thousand times, but never, somehow, like this. Never with this kind of thoughtless, full-bodied joy.
And maybe that was the difference. Maybe he was just finally paying attention.
He tried to think about why it made his chest ache. Why he felt both warm and unsteady watching her, like he was standing too close to a fire he couldn’t quite step away from.
Ginny’s voice floated up in his memory… She’s not your type. She’s like your sister. She’s…fussy.
Except he’d never really believed that. Not really.
And now he was starting to suspect he’d let himself be convinced because it was easier. Easier than asking himself what he actually felt.
Hermione leaned forward to say something to Theo, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. Harry watched the graceful way her fingers moved, the unconscious elegance of it, and felt his throat go dry.
He was jealous of Theo Nott. Arguably the most demonstrably gay man he knew.
He took a sip of his pint, trying to ground himself.
Across the table, Draco caught his eye and smirked.
Harry looked away quickly, but not before Draco arched an eyebrow, a knowing little tilt of his head.
Merlin. He wasn’t subtle.
A burst of laughter drew his attention back down the table. Luna had arrived, her hair loose over her shoulders, a blue shawl sliding down her arms. She was surrounded by a field of glowing gold - a shield charm, Harry realized - likely Luna’s unconventional answer to traveling through a rainstorm. He saw her cancel it with a wave of her wand and watched Draco’s face as it went soft and open and slightly in awe, like he’d forgotten he was supposed to be guarded and aloof and unimpressed by the glitter left around her as the shield disappeared.
Draco stood to greet her, his voice low and warm as he kissed her cheek. Luna just smiled, serene as ever, and settled into the seat beside him.
Harry watched them, something easing in his chest. He was glad. Draco had spent weeks talking about Luna in the most circuitous, exasperated way possible. Harry suspected that there was more to multiple-times-a-day references to “that ridiculous Lovegood.” It was a relief to see Draco look– happy.
And, he thought with the faintest flicker of amusement, it meant he’d have plenty to harass Malfoy about tomorrow.
He let himself smile, but the moment he looked back down the table, Hermione caught his eye.
She had that little quirk to her eyebrow, the one she used when she knew he was thinking too hard.
Her lips curved, soft and questioning.
He looked away first.
“Potter.”
Draco’s voice, lightly drawled.
Harry glanced up, trying to look innocent. “Hm?”
“Did you hear a word I just said?”
“No,” he admitted, because lying would have been pointless.
Draco tilted his head, studying him with an expression that was far too perceptive. “Thought not.”
Luna glanced between them, smiling beatifically, “What little secrets are you two sharing?”
“Nothing,” Harry said quickly.
Draco’s smile was slow and feline. “Oh, plenty.”
Harry glared at him, but Draco just lifted his glass, the picture of insufferable satisfaction and smiled down into Luna’s adoring eyes.
Harry tried to rejoin the conversation, but he could feel the hum of awareness in his blood, every nerve sparking to life when he let his gaze stray back to her.
He hadn’t meant to spend the evening cataloguing every line and curve and gesture. But here he was, unable to look away.
And wondering…just when exactly it had changed.
When was it that he’d stopped seeing Hermione Granger as something safe and uncomplicated…
…and started seeing her as something he wanted.
Halfway through his second pint, Harry finally felt like he’d begun to exhale. The warmth of the pub pressed close around him– voices rising and falling, the clink of glasses.
He was listening– mostly– to Ron insist the Cannons would have made the finals last season if not for a “string of completely unforeseeable injuries,” when hands slipped over his shoulders, covering his eyes.
His stomach tightened, an irrational rush of hope sparking through him.
But then the scent hit him– something floral and sweet, something that always turned cloying to him by the end of the night. His stomach sank.
He reached up and pried the hands gently away.
“Ginny.”
She let out a bright, too-careful laugh. “Surprise.”
He turned, and she was there– hair glossy, mouth pink, eyes fixed on him with that searching brightness. Before he could step back, she leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek.
He stood up abruptly, thwarting her effort, nearly knocking into Theo’s shoulder.
Ginny pulled back, her expression sharpening. “What was that for?”
“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice low.
She folded her arms. “I thought I’d come say happy birthday to Hermione. Is that a problem?”
Before he could answer, Blaise Zabini materialized behind her, hands shoved in his pockets, looking faintly apologetic.
Harry clapped Blaise’s hand automatically, trying to keep his voice even. “Blaise.”
“Potter.” Blaise’s voice was smooth as ever, but his eyes flicked between Harry and Ginny with careful calculation.
Harry looked at Ginny, still working too hard at smiling. “Can we talk for a moment?”
Ginny’s hand slid around Harry’s arm, wrapping around it in a practiced motion that would end with her pressing her body against his. He glanced down at it, then pulled his arm back, slow and deliberate.
Her smile faltered.
“Not that kind of talk,” he said quietly.
Her jaw tightened. “Fine.”
He nodded toward the far corner of the pub, away from the warm knot of their friends. She let him guide her there, though she walked with stiff, irritated steps.
They stopped near a dusty dartboard. Ginny turned to face him, pressing a hand lightly to his chest.
“Harry,” she said, her voice softening, practiced. “I’ve missed you.”
He swallowed, jaw tight. “Don’t.”
Her thumb brushed the edge of his collar. “I know we…ended things badly. But it doesn’t have to stay that way.”
“Ginny.”
“I’ve been thinking,” she went on, eyes searching his face. “About everything. About how we were. I know I made mistakes. But we were good, weren’t we?”
He looked at her in silence, trying to pull back the old memories– kisses on the Burrow porch, lazy Sunday mornings, her laugh bright and sure.
But all he could think of was Hermione’s voice in the kitchen, low and unguarded. The way she’d blushed when he’d caught her dancing.
He looked away.
Ginny stepped closer, tilting her head to catch his gaze. “We could be good again.”
“Why are you here?” he asked, voice rough.
Her mouth flattened into a line. “I told you. To see Hermione. To…see you.”
“And Blaise?”
“He was just with me.” She lifted her chin, her hand still resting against his sternum. “He knows I needed to talk to you.”
“About what?”
Her throat worked. “About us.”
“There is no us ,” he said, and hated how tired his voice sounded.
Her lashes fluttered, a practiced motion he’d seen her use in half a dozen arguments. “You don’t mean that.”
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, trying to find the right words. “Do you remember…after you and I got back together? Right after Ron and Hermione split up?”
Her gaze flickered. “Yeah.”
He searched her face. “And Hermione said she might need to move out of Grimmauld. She said she was going through a bunch of shit at work?”
Ginny didn’t answer. Her eyes turned hard, flat.
Harry felt something cold settle in his chest. “You manufactured that shit for her, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He looked at her then. The glossy hair. The perfect mouth. The practiced charm he’d once found irresistible.
And he felt…nothing.
He let out a slow breath, studying her the way he might study an uncooperative suspect. “Gin. We’ve known each other long enough to know when the other one is lying.”
Her mouth pressed into a line. For a second, he thought she might deny it again.
Then she looked away. “I’m sorry.”
He closed his eyes.
“I felt threatened,” she said, voice quiet. “I wanted it to work between us. I still do.”
He opened his eyes and searched her face. For a long time he was quiet. She stared at the button on his shirt.
Then: “Why did you always talk about her like that?”
Ginny’s brows pulled together. “Like what?”
“Like she was nothing special. Like she was high maintenance. Fussy. Not worth the time it takes to be with her.”
Her lips parted. For once, she didn’t seem to have a ready retort.
After a moment, she swallowed. “Because I was always afraid.”
“Of what?”
She met his eyes. “Of you waking up one day and realizing you’re in love with her.”
His chest went tight, a hot spark of anger flaring low in his gut. “I’m not in love with her,” he said sharply.
Ginny studied him, her expression almost pitying.
“Harry,” She tilted her head, her voice soft but unflinching. “We’ve known each other long enough to know when the other one’s lying.”
He opened his mouth, but his brain seemed to short-circuit, every thought dissolving under the awful, simple weight of his own words. He could only stare, stunned and silent.
She gave him a nod and moved past him, leaving him with his heart hammering and nothing left to say.