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Chapter Text

Tuesday

Hermione Greengrass was known for her intellect as well as her unparalleled ability to make a grown wizard tremble on the spot with just a raise of an eyebrow. The formidable witch was nothing if not self-assured. Her robes were always immaculate and her poised and graceful manner gave her an air of refinement. She could oftentimes be seen strutting around the Ministry, burgundy lips in a straight line and chin tilted upwards, whilst people scurried to let the young witch pass. 

The fact that Hermione was an auror was still a cause of hushed whispers between Britain’s most distinguished witches and wizards, the position one much too low for someone of her status.  She couldn’t have cared less if she tried, she’d given up caring what people thought of her career choice long ago. Although maybe, not fully. 

She would have been lying to herself if she didn’t recognise, at least to a certain degree, that the truth about her parentage was something that would sometimes play on her mind unbidden. The knowledge that some of the respect she’d gathered for herself was in part due to the name she carried gnawed at the edges of her mind.  The fact that that respect could very easily be taken away was one of her weaknesses. But Hermione knew that this fear of hers was solely on her, and her alone. It wasn’t like she’d been lied to by her parents, after all, her sister reminded her of her true origins too often for all of them to ever forget. 

She had never been ashamed of the blood that ran through her veins. Her parents were exactly that to her– her parents. With their faults and hang-ups, they had always treated her well enough, as much as their own emotional limitations had let them do so even when her younger sister, little miracle Astoria, had been born. The sisters had always received the same level of care and attention, much to Astoria’s chagrin.

So Hermione’s biggest concern had always remained on the backwards ways in which the wizarding world functioned. The way high society she knew so well could and would turn its back on her in the blink of an eye the moment they found she wasn’t a pureblood. She’d often have to remind herself that caring about where she stood in society didn’t make her any weaker. If anything, she had enough mind to guard her back whilst continuing to work towards making a name for herself. One outside of the Greengrass lineage.

Up in her London home, she finished packing her bag. The charm to expand the small dark green duffle with gold trimming made it so that she could carry as much as she pleased. She put on a lightening charm for good measure. She didn’t feel like carrying anything remotely heavy and she knew that she had probably packed far too much for the five days she’d be away. 

Once downstairs, she slipped on her outer robe, the fur-lined black garment contrasted against her pale skin. She disapparated with a turn of her heels only to appear with a soft crack at the meeting location. She was to meet Harry Potter so they could grab a portkey to take them to their next assignment in Ireland.

Hermione shuddered at the thought of Potter, his cocky lopsided smile showed in her memory much too clearly for her liking. He’d always been such a prat, she thought, especially during his Hogwarts days as captain of the Gryffindor’s quidditch team. It hadn’t helped one bit that half of Hogwarts population had been about ready to turn the halls into a bloody battle just so they could slip into Potter’s bed during their seventh year. 

Potter’s fame as a great lover had been one his incredibly brief, albeit awfully tumultuous, relationship with the Weasley girl had established for him. He’d always been tight-lipped regarding the matter but his clear popularity and cheeky smirks got on her nerves. Hermione was quick to scoff at any and all hints that perhaps what she needed was a good shag. There had been far more important things to do at school than shag a boy, even if that boy was the most fanciable out of the lot. 

She hadn’t been all that unaffected by Potter’s charms and that had infuriated her more than she could have ever let on. She would blush and her heart would beat faster every time Potter showed he could be a thoughtful wizard on top of being good-looking. She had always attributed this to her teenage hormones. She would explain away each and every single reaction to being in his close proximity with the information she had,  whether that was the obvious disruption of her hormonal cycle or muggle evolution theories.  She was a logical person, she valued reason and she was very much goal-oriented above anything else. She was, after all, a Slytherin. Her ambition drove most of what she did, regardless of what that ambition was aimed towards. 

Right now, her goal was to track the man who had decided smuggling century-old artefacts with muggle drugs was a good idea, the foot-long list of missing items enough to require her and Potter’s involvement. And that was the reason why she stood near an old train stop, off in the sleepy English countryside as the sun rose up higher in the sky in the crisp late August morning. Her boot-clad foot tapped against dark grey gravel as she waited for Potter to arrive. He was late . If they lost their portkey because of his tardiness she would strangle the man with her own bare hands, wand be damned. 

As if summoned by her ire-fueled thoughts, Potter came parading like he wasn’t ten minutes late. His hands were deep inside the pockets of his black trousers and his shirt was untucked with the top three buttons undone. Hermione scowled at his appearance. His raven hair was in a worse than usual disarray, his glasses slightly askew, and he was whistling as if he’d never had a single care in his entire life. The thought that he was probably coming from having spent the night partying or shagging some nameless witch crossed her mind. She felt her face get hot the way it did when she was close to snapping. Her lips thinned into a straight line.

“You’re late,” Hermione informed him, her tone clipped and short. 

Breathe in and breathe out, she reminded herself, it would do no good to have her partner killed before they even left the country. 

“I’m aware,” Potter replied. He shrugged one shoulder and bypassed her in favour of going towards where the portkey would be hidden per Gawain Robards instructions. 

Hermione groaned, this wasn’t going to be fun, but none of their partnering assignments had ever been. It was known to everyone at the Ministry, and beyond, that Hermione Greengrass and Harry Potter did not get along. Which was why they seldom worked together, and when they did, they usually only did so for a day. Whilst Potter emerged looking triumphant from a nearby bush after retrieving their portkey, Hermione wondered just how badly this trip of theirs was going to go. 

She really had no idea what was in store for them. 

***

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard me!”

It’d been only five hours of them sharing what muggles called a bed and breakfast room near the Irish coast. The wind made the wooden blinders outside their window rattle. But the tempest outside was nothing to the one within the four cerulean walls of their otherwise cosy room. They were both grateful they had magic running through their veins. The silencing charm they placed when their screaming began was the only thing preventing the poor elderly couple that was hosting them from running into the room.  

The morning hadn’t been all that bad if she ignored Potter’s tardiness and general cockiness. They had been warmly welcomed by the couple running the place. The man had soon excused himself to run some errands in town and his wife, Loretta, had shown them around . The bed and breakfast consisted of only a few bedrooms, all of them set in such a way that suggested they had been laid out with the purpose of hosting married couples only. The catholic influence Hermione had read about in muggle books was evident in the various crucifixes that adorned the painted walls and the religious imagery she couldn’t quite place. Her knowledge of muggle religions wasn’t as vast as she would have liked.

Neither she nor Potter had said anything as they had taken on the double bed that took most of the bedroom’s space. Its dark iron frame seemed to mock them as their host showed them the small antique-looking wardrobe and rustic wooden chair near the curtained window that looked into the well-kept garden.  All the while Loretta told them about how good it was to welcome a young couple into their home. Their host seemed to value the sacrament of marriage greatly, which made Hermione feel slightly guilty about their lying. She didn’t think there was any world or alternate universe in which she and Potter could be considered a happily married couple.

Potter kicked his boots off and the sound of the heavy leather hitting the wooden floor with a loud thud was a clear show of his piss-poor mood.

“I don’t bloody care Greengrass, you're not going to check all by yourself.” 

She huffed and, blowing a curl out of her face, focused on transfiguring the offending double bed into two singles. Potter frowned and pointed towards the beds.

“You’re doing that yourself, I don’t feel like having extra work.”

She was going to murder him.

“Thank god one of us isn’t a lazy arse then,” she retorted angrily. “And I can very well go check a pub, I’m an auror.”

She stressed the last word as she sent a stinging jinx to his leg. It was with great pleasure that she saw him wince. Served him right. 

“Of course you are, I wouldn’t be stuck with a stubborn cold-hearted witch if you weren’t,” Potter said simply. His eyes shot daggers her way. She shot some of her own back after the description of her he’d just given.

“And don’t fucking-”

“Language!”

“-jinx me if you don’t want payback,” Potter finished as if she’d never interrupted him.“You’re so fucking childish,” he murmured, almost to himself.

He turned and grabbed a set of decidedly muggle-looking clothes.

“I heard that.” She really, really, was tempted to kill the man as he carelessly tossed his duffel bag over a chair. 

“Sure did, princess,” he said with an eye roll and walked past her into the adjoined bathroom.

***

The moment she left the room, and then the building, to walk in the now calmer weather, Hermione should have known Potter would be angry. He had, after all, made it clear that they were to go watch the old bar together. But Hermione did not work well in teams, or with partners. She preferred to take matters into her own hands.  As she walked through the quiet streets she thought this was no different. She would go, ask for a pint, and watch as old fishermen talked low and loose whilst she listened. She undid the top button of her black blouse for good measure. She was well aware men responded best to the sight of some skin showing.  If any of them tried to get handsy she could always throw a hex. She really hoped it wouldn’t come to it.

The pub was an old and dingy little thing near the sea and far from the main road. The patron wasn’t as old as she had imagined him to be, but some of the fishermen were very much retired. A short silence had descended into the room the moment she’d stepped in, looking very much out of place in her knee-length skirt and heeled boots. She had grabbed a map of the area from a corner shop on her way to the pub and the feeling of paper in her hand armed her against possible questions. She was a mere tourist.  Her wand was safely tucked away in her arm holster and she made sure to use as much of her fake pleasant and friendly persona as she could when she ordered a drink.

The pint she was served was cold and bitter and not at all to her taste. She had always favoured mixed drinks over beer, but she sipped it nonetheless without grimacing. There was an old telly on with some sort of show Hermione couldn’t place but that, as far as she could tell, nobody seemed to be paying any mind. Different bottles lined one of the walls, the colours and shapes varying greatly from one another, some of them covered by a fine sheen of dust. The various rows reflected some of the warm light coming from the small windows and from the fixtures on the walls.

She sensed that the patrons were watching her as she played tourist and pretended to look at the map which now lay open on top of the weathered wooden table. The novelty of her was far more interesting than anything on the telly. Hermione counted down the minutes until Potter tracked her down as she took on the various names written on the map in front of her, some of which she wasn’t sure she could pronounce.  

Almost as if on cue, she felt eyes burning a hole through the back of her skull. Soon the chair beside her was roughly pulled away. A large body now occupied that previously vacant seat.

She continued looking at her map, pointedly ignoring her companion. She traced the roads with a manicured finger. Besides her, Potter made a show of clearing his throat and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.

“You didn't wait for me, love.”

Hermione sharply turned around. Her eyes hardened as she took on the grinning prat at her side. The steel quality to Potter’s green irises gave away his actual mood.

“Ah, young love,” said a man wistfully a few tables down from them, his white beard a mess that would have given Dumbledore a run for his money. Hermione wanted to snort at his remark. If there was something she and Potter weren’t, and would never be, it was in love.

Potter grabbed her hand and gave it a hard squeeze. She refused to wince . She chose to slightly narrow her eyes instead. He promptly patted her hand with a concerned face. The glint in his eyes let her know he was up to no good.

“Honey, have you lost your ring?”

He really was going to play their cover, the bastard.

“Oh,  I may have forgotten it in our room!” Hermione exclaimed with all the airiness she could muster considering she was a step away from Avadaing the now laughing wizard.

“What will you ever do without me?” Potter asked in a much too cheery voice as he took a gold band from his jeans pocket and slipped it on her ring finger. 

Brilliant, just bloody brilliant.

“What will I ever do, indeed,” she replied, her tone deathly saccharine. 

Potter stood up abruptly as if sensing he was playing with fire and was far too close to getting burnt. He made a beeline to grab a drink of his own but not without pecking the corner of her lips first. The almost kiss made Hermine’s skin tingle and her cheeks tint. A blush spread without her being able to do anything to stop it. She watched in horror as the old man with the long beard chuckled and Potter winked in her direction. She chose to focus on the cold from her glass lest she did something she regretted. 

They stayed at the pub for a while, sipping on pints and looking at the map. But in the end, they left with as little information as they’d come in with. Whilst the men were loose with their tongues they hadn’t seemed to have noticed any changes in their routines. They had seen no strange crates at the port and no notable strangers. At least not from all the gossiping she and Potter had had to endure during their stay. There was so much time one could spend pretending to drink a pint of beer, after all, and neither had fancied some of the questionable-looking chips being served.

 The owner told them they were welcome to stop by at any time during their stay as they waved their goodbyes. Potter enthusiastically accepted the offer while, beside him, she smiled politely. She told herself that the sooner they left, the sooner she could dart away from the feeling of Potter’s arm around her waist. His loose grip felt so unfamiliar yet so intimate. 

She left the old pub huffing and puffing, both upset over the lack of information and Potter’s attitude. Whilst their cover was of them being a married couple, especially when they visited muggle towns for the day, they hadn’t ever truly played the part to such an extent. She wasn’t sure what Potter had been thinking, behaving the way he had, but she was a step away from hexing his balls off.

“Are you seriously in such a pissy mood because I’m following our cover?” Potter asked at her side. His long legs made his stride far more casual than hers, which infuriated her further. 

“Don’t play games. You did that as payback,” she snarled.  She stopped to briefly look at him with a raised eyebrow, daring him to negate what she knew was the truth. 

Over them, the sky was an angry grey.  The clouds moved faster and the wind made her hair whip angrily into her face. When Potter simply shrugged, she huffed again and continued walking, focusing instead on putting her hair up in a knot. 

She wasn’t proud of her attitude, not by a long shot. But She’d always had a temper, one she’d done her best to control. It wasn’t becoming of a lady to behave in such a way. Her mother’s voice rang in her ears as she tried to go back to the controlled, simmering anger she was better known for. Potter truly had a gift of bringing out the worst in her. 

“When you’re done acting like a petulant child we could go down to the port, see if we can find any traces of magic.”

This time, Hermione didn’t take the bait. She told herself she was better than this, that she’d left home and ceased contact with most of her schoolmates for a reason. She nodded instead, biting down her tongue. She wasn’t giving Potter any more ammunition. 

His eyes narrowed and a calculating expression overtook his features as he measured whether she was going to snap at him. She gave him her best innocent expression, an eyebrow raised in question, daring him to be the one to keep the argument going. Having decided he was safe, he gave her a curt nod back. His hand grabbed hers as they walked their way to the port, cover back in place. 

She couldn’t wait to go back to England. 

***

The port was an underwhelming experience. The bad weather thatplagued the area for over a week meant there was little to no activity. This made the place look eerily abandoned with its lack of people and decaying structures. The port itself consisted of just a few small-looking fishing ships that rocked over the turbulent water. The town’s fleet was truly unimpressive considering it was  its main source of income. Some sheds stood further down in different states of disrepair, their exterior weathered by the salty air and frequent winds. A little office sat nearby, more than likely filled with records and other necessary things for the fishermen’s activities. Whatever those were she didn’t know. 

The sound of seagulls accompanied them as they walked around different piles of nets. Hermione thought they could perhaps go look into that one office once nighttime fell and they didn’t risk getting caught. They strolled through the area for about close to an hour, silently casting spells to trace and locate any residual magic. Each try kept coming back with absolutely nothing. Much to their dismay, they seemed to be the only two magical beings to have set foot in the harbour for at least a few days. 

By the time they made it back to their bed and breakfast, apparating near the garden where they thought nobody could see them, both Potter and she were in a terrible mood. They hadn’t eaten much that day, and they had been on their feet most of the afternoon since they’d chosen to walk the surrounding area to make themselves more familiar with the place. 

The weather appeared to want to match their emotional state. The wind picked up again. The sky quickly turned a dark shade of purplish blue that promised a storm by the evening. The idea of returning back to check on the office was soon discarded. Neither of them felt like getting soaked once it inevitably started chucking it down. This only served to sour their mood further.

They were asked to stay for dinner, and they were too tired and hungry to decline. Soon, they were seated along their hosts, playing the part of a recently married couple. They passed potatoes and meatloaf and spoke of the weather. Their performing of their facade was so impeccable that Hermione wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t have gone into acting instead. The thought of her pursuing a muggle career and the face her parents would have made at this made her chuckle into a forkful of her food. Three sets of eyes set on her and her face reddened. The scene made her feel like she was back home, a glaring glitch in an otherwise perfectly synchronised family. 

The feeling of self-doubt she always carried reared its ugly head. She pushed it back down, embarrassed. She complimented the jacket potato she was currently eating as a way to divert attention away from her weird reaction. Potter looked at her with an expression she couldn’t quite place, and wasn’t sure she wanted to. She was hyper-aware of his body sitting so close to her in the small dining room, his thick arm brushing against hers as he demolished his dinner in the way most young men did.

The lovely couple running the bed and breakfast was far more helpful than any of the fishermen had been. They mentioned in passing a fella who sometimes came to sell trinkets to the folk in town. Potter’s eyes subtly let her know his thoughts were running in the same direction as hers. This was the man they were looking for. They didn’t push for more information, the older couple already moving on to gush about how the weather was supposed to improve in the following days which was perfect for the wedding that’d be taking place by the weekend. The soon-to-be-married couple was supposed to arrive the following day. 

They wished their hosts goodnight and soon excused themselves. The mood shifted into the kind of charged energy that was bound to snap into another thunderous argument in the time it took her and Potter to make their way back to their bedroom. Silencing charms and a lock were put in place the moment they walked through the door. Neither of them spoke as they both proceeded to grab their toiletries. 

She had been so focused on trying to hide a set of underwear inside her pyjamas so she could take a shower that she didn’t notice Potter was now standing shirtless a mere foot away from her. Her throat became dry at the sight of him. His wide shoulders and strong torso were distracting as it were, but not nearly as distracting as the peek of ink she could spot starting at his ribcage and swirling into his back. She felt her cheeks starting to grow hot again, this time by something that had nothing to do with anger. She cursed herself for it.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

And just like that, Hermione was reminded of who it was that was standing shirtless. Her brows furrowed at his rude tone.

“I’m sorry if I’m not used to being around half-naked people all the time.”

Potter’s head shot up at that, his eyes narrowing and his tone hard when he spoke next.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She didn’t have time for this, quite literally. It was late and she just wanted to shower and call it a day.

“Your reputation precedes you,” was all she said.  Armed with her pyjamas and toiletries, she dashed into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. 

She really wasn’t expecting Potter to be pacing the room once she emerged from the steaming bathroom, silk blood-red pyjamas on and hair still slightly wet. She barely made two steps in, hands curled around her dirty garments when he had her cornered against the wall, his much larger frame towering over hers. He was still shirtless, a point she did her best to ignore, the expanse of pale skin and heat radiating off him making her breath come out quicker. 

She felt just how fast her heart was racing against her chest and heard its thumping drum in her ears, the sound deafening. She pressed her clothes and toiletries closer to her chest, using them as a shield.

“Let’s settle one thing, here and now,” Potter said. His voice was low and his tone left no room for arguments. “Whatever you’ve heard about me? Take it with a grain of salt, ice princess.”

“Don’t call me that,” she replied, both offended and fully aware of her own reputation.

She gathered herself and shoved him with an arm as hard as she could then, making him stumble backwards. The feel of his hard chest against her palm lingered as she moved away from him. 

“What? Can go around throwing shite without taking any?” Potter asked her with his hands open up in the air, more agitated than she’d ever seen him.

She thought it was such an odd thing for him to be this bothered by rumours about him being a bit of a womaniser. He really didn’t have that thick of skin if this got under it so easily. The thought he wouldn’t have lasted a day as a Slytherin crossed her mind.

“Other men would be glad to have your reputation, you know,” she stated simply, choosing to ignore his remark once again. 

She put her dirty clothes inside a clothed bag and her toiletries back in her duffle. Then, she went to her bed and took the covers off, closing her eyes and settling in for the night. She made her best to ignore the sulking six-foot man by the bathroom door to her right.

“Well, I’m not other men,” he said simply, dropping the subject. He went back to the other side of the room to grab his pyjamas from where they lay on top of his own bed. 

She listened as Potter made his way into the bathroom in a few strides, shutting the door forcibly behind him. It was only then that Hermione let herself open her eyes and stare at the yellowing ceiling whilst she tried to calm her breathing.

That night, she dreamt of shirtless wizards with back tattoos that neither backed down nor bowed to her.

Chapter Text

Wednesday

The following day, Potter hadn’t woken up in a much better mood. A dark cloud seemed to have hung itself over him as he scowled at his black coffee and buttered toast. His fork and knife stabbed his eggs and bacon as if they had personally offended him. Hermione gave a sympathetic smile to their host. The woman returned a knowing smile her way, presumably thinking of many a morning where her husband had been in a bad mood too. Hermione contemplated kicking the other auror under the table as she sipped her tea so he’d be a tad more polite but ultimately decided against it. She had to choose her battles and this was one that, considering the older woman’s expression, wasn’t worth picking.

She awoke long before Potter did and had used that time to go over her notes on the case, her bed littered with parchments as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She was aware she probably looked a fright,  and it was that thought that propelled her to look at the sleeping wizard in the other bed. She did more than look at Potter, she studied him as he slept the way one would a work of art. He looked younger, the frequently present furrow of his strong brows gone. He looked more like the Gryffindor boy she’d known than the infuriating yet charming auror she’d often quarrelled with. Because the truth was that Potter was a rather charming man. She let herself admit this truth in the secretive silence of the early morning.

Potter was well-liked whilst she was feared and respected. It wasn’t as if people didn’t fear him. She was aware that during their training days he had managed to gather quite a reputation for himself whilst duelling. Nobody had been keen on fighting against him. His quiet intensity and hold of his power made him an intimidating opponent. This was something that had made her respect him in a way she’d never dream of telling him. 

She watched him turn in his sleep as she went down memory lane, his brow was now furrowed as he dreamt. The soft light filtering into the room made the sharp angles in his face give him a statuesque quality that made Hermione’s breath catch in her throat. A strange gasping sound left her as warmth spread through her and this made her feel ashamed of her reaction. It was then that she realised she was doing more than her fair share of staring and leapt off her bed.

Potter showed up for breakfast by the time she was done eating her own toast with raspberry jam and melted butter. Her second cup of tea was filled up to the brim as their hostess, Loretta, wished the fine young lad a good morning. He pointedly ignored Hermione in favour of greeting their host instead. Hermione paid it no mind, and instead catalogued the fact he drank black bitter coffee in the morning. Her choice of milky sweet tea seemed to fit him better than his own choice of beverage.

Once breakfast was done, Potter insisted on helping clean the table, making the poor woman blush like a schoolgirl at such good manners for such a young lad . Shortly, he and Hermione returned to their room to grab an extra layer of clothing to protect them from the cool weather outside. She opted for a mustard knitted jumper and Potter went for a black half-zip jumper instead. The decidedly athletic muggle-looking attire made a little laugh bubble in Hermione’s chest. She tried and failed to suppress it, her hand going to cover her mouth.

“What?” he asked with a slight edge to his tone.

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head and wishing she could stop laughing.

“Off with it, Greengrass.” He rubbed at his eyes under his glasses, an expression she knew meant he was tired.

“You look…” She tried choosing her words carefully so as to avoid another confrontation. “Very muggle.”

Potter exhaled. A low curse she didn’t quite catch left his lips as he put his hands back in his cargo’s pockets. He walked out of the room, leaving her behind, but not before speaking.

“Guess I should take that as an insult coming from you then.”

Hermione didn’t bother correcting him, his pissy attitude now rubbing off on her the wrong way. Her burgundy lips twisted in disdain. 

“You can think whatever you want,” she replied simply, quickly following him down the corridor but maintaining a good distance. 

The day was bound to be hell on earth and it wasn’t even noon yet.

***

She was glad they had managed to leave rather early, the thought of crossing paths with the incoming muggle couple that was to get married in a few days was something she was dreading. Her experience with relationships was limited if not null. The fleeting exchanges and nights spent satisfying some carnal desires were not nearly enough to be considered anything serious. She thought back to all the dates she’d had through the years as she’d attended different parties, the various men always in it for personal gain as much as her taking them had been. For them, it was a matter of being seen with a Greengrass and all the doors that’d open at the mention of the name. For her, it had always been a matter of avoiding the question of why she hadn’t had an arranged marriage yet. 

She didn’t know what it was that made a relationship real, whatever it was that went between two people who chose to share a life. She wasn’t sure she was doing a good job at playing the wife. She wasn’t wife or even girlfriend material, she’d known that for years. Whenever this new couple arrived they’d be able to tell right away she was nothing if not a cold-hearted person, just like Potter had said.  She wasn’t sure as to why she had been giving her whole cover with Potter such thought, or why this trip was making her think about her own life, but the fact that it did bothered her immensely.

They strolled down the quaint town with her arm around his thicker one, and she couldn’t help but wish it had been Neville Longbottom and Padma Patil to have been sent to this assignment. It was always them that got the longer trips, she and Potter always took the shorter assignments for good reasons. A day was possibly the longest they had had to endure each other’s company up until this trip, and even then they had been at each other’s throats by the end. Had Neville and Padma been sent she could have been in London now, bent over her desk doing research and not wrapped around a man she was quite certain she’d murder soon. 

She felt herself being pulled roughly towards an antiques shop’s window, and her eyes narrowed at the auror at her side. Hermione scowled. Potter’s manners, or lack thereof,  were in serious need of improvement. She breathed in deeply and swallowed down the acidic remark she was tempted to throw his way.   

“Got your wand at hand?” Potter asked her in a low tone, bending down so she could hear him better, her shorter frame a disadvantage.

She nodded, smiling as if he’d just said some sweet silly thing to her. To her side, Potter pointed at an old tea set, the coats of arms in it familiar but not enough that she could place its origin. 

“Track that.” 

Hermione bit her tongue at his command but, letting her wand out of her arm holster, cast the spell nonetheless. She trusted Potter was covering for them and was rewarded by the objects softly glowing under the spell, the trace of magic in them evident. The bright glow told her the trace of magic was recent and she let herself feel hope at this piece of information.

Going into the shop was a no-brainer so they promptly did so. The bell attached to the door rang merrily as they made their way inside, Potter holding the door open for her. The old man who ran the place seemed to be in his seventies and he had a kind smile on his face as she and Potter went about asking about various items. Hermione almost choked the moment he mentioned jewellery, all the while looking at her in a way that made her skin prickle. 

“Ah, I think I may have to wait for that then,” commented Potter as she blushed particularly hard at one of his comments regarding getting a necklace so they could add their future kids’ birthstones to it.  

She didn’t have time to dwell on his words as he pointed toward the tea set. “How about that then, I know how much you used to enjoy afternoon tea with your late grandma.”

Hermione made her way to the set,  doing her best to play the part of an emotional young lady and leaving her desire to strangle her partner aside. 

“This is quite lovely indeed,” she said softly. “You’re right, it reminds me of the set nana had.”

“Oh, you’re lucky!” the old man said excitedly, coming to the front of the shop sensing he was about to make a sale. “We got this earlier today.”

“Really?!” exclaimed Hermione, her hand coming up to clutch at her jumper. “Oh my, lucky indeed. Where do you find these?”

“Oh, there’s this fella that gets us all sorts of wonderful things ‘bout twice a month.” The man laughed a little. “Thought he wasn’t gonna make it this time, weather’s not been awful good in a  while.”

Hermione smiled politely. She thought of ways in which their smuggler could have made it to the small coastal town. The fact he hadn’t arrived by ship meant he was using either a magical form of transportation or had taken one of the muggle buses she’d read about on her map. 

“Any chance we may get to meet him?” Asked Potter, wrapping his arms around her and setting his chin on top of the crown of her head.  “We’re taking the set, by the way.”

Hermione counted her lucky stars they had enough muggle money to splurge. The tea set probably had some exorbitant price and that was something she didn’t want to have to think about. Trying to decide where to put her hands was enough for her brain, which had gone haywire the moment Potter had embraced her. She settled for clutching at his hands, her smaller ones on top of his.

“Tell you what, if you can come for this by four, you may get to thank him yourselves then.”

“Brilliant!” Hermione exclaimed. She gave Potter’s hands a little pat as she pulled away from him, needing as much distance from his warm body as possible. 

They ended up making a down payment, and she had to hide a wince when she heard the price of the tea set. They promised to be back by four and left the shop holding hands, leaving a happy owner behind. 

The sun made an appearance by noon and pedestrians were making their way around the streets. Some were doing it at a slow pace that screamed they were natives to the tiny town, and others, like she and Potter, still vibrating with the nervous energy of a bigger city.  They tried paying attention to their surroundings as they walked. They took special notice of the people who, like them, clearly didn’t live in town all year long or seemed to be just visiting.  

Lunch was a rather quick affair at a small restaurant closer to the coastal side of the town. Potter stated there was no point going back to the bed and breakfast, which was closer to the countryside, when they had to be back in town by four. He’d discarded his half zip long ago, the dark material tied around his shoulders as he sipped a muggle beer. Hermione wondered how it was that such a powerful wizard could look so awfully casual. Her face scrunched up in distaste as she thought of her own appearance. She wasn’t sure she looked casual. The white blouse with fine gold embroidery around the sleeves that she wore with the jumper around her hips and her bold lips were things she had started to feel self-conscious about.

“Food not up to your standards?” Potter asked, mistaking the reason for her expression.

“No, it’s quite decent actually.” She munched on a piece of her chicken salad as if to prove a point.

“You say that like it’s surprising.”

Hermione dropped her fork then, setting it over her plate, her appetite gone. “Why do you always have to be such a dick?”

Potter choked on his chips, his face going red as he coughed. She watched impassively as he composed himself and took another swig of his beer.

“Bloody hell, Greengrass. I didn’t know you knew how to curse.” 

She gave him an unamused look, arms folded over her chest and eyebrow raised. Just because she chose to be the lady she’d been raised to be didn’t mean she was daft. She knew how to curse, it would have been impossible not to after seven years of living with people whose favourite pastime was tearing others to pieces.

Potter raised his hands in a silent apology, beer still clutched in one hand.

“Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse like that.”

“Well, I do it when necessary.” She gave him one last look that meant unlike others and went back to her plate. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Good to know I merit cursing,” he commented, playing with the label of his bottle. “As for your question, I dunno. Your attitude brings it out of me, I guess.”

Hermione watched him, trying to gauge if he was trying to get a rise of her, but found his expression honest. The fact she actually brought out a side of him he wasn’t famous for made her stomach churn in an unpleasant way. 

Back at Hogwarts, she had oftentimes been the reason others lost their temper. She’d been too opinionated, too bullheaded, too uncontrollable. Back at home, she’d been the reason for Astoria’s meltdowns. Her sister's red-screaming face as she swore and reminded her of who she truly was had always been because of something she had said or done. The fact Potter had just brought up a similar argument was making her think perhaps there really was something wrong with her.

She and Potter walked silently around town after lunch, the precarious peace more of an effort on both sides than a natural development. She disliked how out of sorts he made her feel, the version of her she was around him one she couldn’t recognise. She found herself acting in a way that both unnerved her and scared her, and he brought up far too many questions inside herself for her to feel remotely comfortable. 

There was an easy way to how Potter operated, how he moved around the world and interacted with it. He had an ease to himself Hermione wasn’t sure she could ever possess, no matter how hard she tried. He had this carefree air to him, this natural self-confidence since she could remember and it was obvious how innate it was for him. This made her irrationally angry at the man beside her, his knowledge of his own goodness something that made her want to hex him so he may feel half the discomfort she did. The Slytherin in her rejoiced at the image of Potter recoiling, but a part of her, albeit small, frowned at what her imagination had come up with. 

The cool morning weather had been traitorous in its prospect of the day ahead. By the time four had rolled around, her skin was prickling with what promised to be the beginning of a sunburn. Besides her, Potter’s skin didn’t seem to be doing much better, his face was flushed and his eyes were squinted against the sun. It seemed impossible to have such a warm sunny day after the previous night's storm. The part of her that had desperately wanted to believe in divination back at Hogwarts tried to see it as a premonition of what was to come.

Potter pushed the door to the shop open and entered first, the ringing of the bell announcing their arrival.  She followed right after him, closing the door behind her, when they heard a loud crash coming from the other side of the shop. She took her wand from her holster and watched as Potter took his. He dashed to the back of the shop where a small archway with a blue and purple beaded curtain led to a smaller room. 

“Fuck!” 

She heard him curse and the moment she set foot in the backroom she understood why. Lying in a heap on the floor was the man with whom they’d spoken that morning. He had a profusely bleeding gash on his head and a dazed expression on his face. Her blood ran cold at the sight and her stomach plummeted to her feet.

She kneeled down on shaky legs next to the old man as Potter ran out of the back door, trying to chase the man that had just now escaped. The evidence he’d beaten them to the shop was much too obvious in the state of the poor man at her feet. 

Hermione tended to his head wound first, closing the gash which was thankfully superficial, and cleaning the blood off his weathered skin.  She then focused on his mental state second, her wand moving more by memory than by conscious thought. She gulped at what she found, the poor job at obliviating the man had left his mind in utter chaos. She stared at his unfocused eyes, light sea green irises fixed on a spot over her right ear.

“He’s gone,” Potter said, coming back in. 

“He tried obliviating him,” she said dispassionately. She tried and failed to hide the way her hands were shaking as she took in the poor muggle who, from what she could tell, could barely remember his own name.  

Potter sighed, the sound tired. She felt his hands on her, taking her by her upper arms and helping her get back to her feet as he replaced her position in front of the man. She hugged herself, digits digging into her biceps, and silently watched as Potter’s lips moved and his wand flickered. His face was fully focused and his brow was furrowed as he tried his best to put the man’s mind back to what it was, the attempt valiant but futile. Whilst they both had enough knowledge from their training days neither was capable of fully fixing the damage that had been done. She wasn’t sure it could be reversed and this pained her greatly.

“He should remember a bit more now, but won’t ever be functional again,” Potter said, standing back up. His face gave nothing away as he put his wand back in its holster. “We need to alert someone, we can’t leave him here alone.” 

They spent the rest of the afternoon dealing with the aftermath of the man’s attack, giving their account to the muggle police locals called the gardaí of how they’d found him on the floor after going back for the tea set. The various muggles who’d seen them that day were able to testify the young couple had only had the misfortune of finding old Richard O’Ryan. It was the man from the shop next over that told the gardaí how he’d seen a man with a cloak come in before she and Potter had. It was an appearance he’d noted a few times already in the previous months. Whispers spread like wildfire through the small crowd then, everyone now seemingly aware of the British fella who was selling things to O’Ryan. 

They were let go an hour later with some of the muggles thanking them profusely for caring about poor old Richard. Hermione didn’t have the heart to lie to them so she settled for giving them a shaky nod instead. The image of the man’s confused eyes was something she was having trouble shaking off. She couldn’t help thinking how things would have been different had they got there sooner. Or if they had gone in more quietly. There were several scenarios where the elderly man didn’t end up in such a state and the weight of this knowledge was something she was acutely aware of. 

***

Back at the bed and breakfast, they did their best not to let the events of the afternoon show much more than what was necessary. Loretta gave them a kind look as she took on their faces, probably having heard of the news by now. If there was one thing small towns were known for, it was how quickly news travelled. 

Hermione had offered to help the woman set the table for dinner after they’d been invited once again. Potter had made conversation about some muggle sport with Loretta’s husband. His understanding of the muggle world was something that still managed to confound her. She vaguely recalled that his mother was a muggle-born, but she wasn’t sure just how much contact he had with that side of his family. She knew the Potters were also part of Britain’s most renowned families after all. 

She heard voices coming from the dining room but focused on grabbing the stack of plates she was being offered in the kitchen, the light mint green set pristine yet evidently old and well-loved. Their hostess was carrying some dark opaque glasses that seemed older than she was and both women made their way back into the next room.

A couple not much older than she and Potter was standing by the wooden table, their looks decisively muggle. Hermione watched as the ginger-haired woman came their way, grabbing the glasses out of Loretta’s hand, her cheeks flushed and olive eyes bright.

“My niece, Arabella.” Loretta introduced her with a smile.

“Jean,” Hermione said, giving the name she used as cover as she returned the smile, starting to set the plates on the table.

“Nice to meet you!” Arabella said, setting the glasses as her aunt went back to the kitchen for more. “It’s nice to see another young married couple.”

Hermione just smiled, watching as Potter seemed to take on their conversation with real interest from the other side of the room.

Soon they were all seated at the table,  beef pie and honey-glazed carrots and mash being passed around. Hermione sipped her water and watched as the men drank their beers, chatting about a muggle sport that had something to do with passing and kicking a ball.

“Where did you two meet?” Arabella asked her suddenly, the young woman seemed to be far more extroverted than Hermione had given her credit for.

“Jean and I met at school,” Potter answered easily, turning to look at them.

“Oh, that’s so sweet!”

Hermione felt her foot being kicked under the table. Potter gave her a look that clearly stated she should play along. She felt too tired to put on a front, the thought of faking happiness daunting.

“I knew James was the one, I guess,” she said, playing with the ring in her hand, unable to look at any of them.

Dinner passed far more smoothly after that, most of the conversation surrounding the upcoming wedding and inquiring about theirs. Potter saved them by saying how they only had a very small ceremony with their family and close friends. Arabella’s soon-to-be husband gave them a look that spoke about how in favour he was of that idea. By the end of their meal, Hermione helped take the plates away and both she and Potter were invited to the young couple’s wedding. Their protests fell into silent ears as the friendly bunch would take no for an answer. 

As they both headed to their room shortly after, neither could keep the facade any longer. Their faces fell the moment they reached the corridor, their mood as sombre as the room around them. For the first time since they’d arrived, they didn’t quarrel. Instead, silence followed them as they got ready for bed. Moonlight blanketed them when the lights went off and, as they turned opposite ways, the day’s events still played in their minds.

Chapter Text

Thursday

Hermione woke up to the sound of rustling in the room and in an instant all her senses were tuned into every movement, every sound and shift. She let her eyes stay closed for a little longer, remembering where she’d stashed her wand before going to bed. Under her pillow, she thought, her wand was under her pillow. She moved her arm slowly, lest the intruder escaped or attacked her if they noticed she was awake. But by the time her hand was wrapped firmly around the handle of her wand, the door to their room was being softly opened and her chance to defend herself was gone. 

She watched as a broad back moved into the hallway, the light grey material of the t-shirt familiar. She got up, calmer now, and grabbed at one of her jumpers that lay neatly folded inside her duffle bag. She didn’t bother putting on some socks and instead slipped her bare feet into the leather boots she’d been using to walk around the city. She followed along the sleepy-looking house, taking in the way shadows played along the walls and the wooden floor creaked under her feet. She strained her ears trying to find where he’d gone to, her wand now tucked in her pyjama bottoms and hidden away from sight.

She stood by the window near the door that led outside to the backside garden and watched Potter’s profile illuminated by the moonlight. His head was thrown back as he blew smoke out into the humid Irish air. She braced herself against the cold as she made her way outside, footsteps soft against the gravel.

He turned around abruptly, his wand now held in front of him.

“Fuck’s sake.” 

“Language” she reprimanded him tiredly with no true heat behind her words. “Put that down, I don’t feel like having to obliviate our hosts.”

Potter shook his head incredulously at her choice of words but put his wand back inside his own pyjama bottoms. The dark piece of clothing hung dangerously low on his trim hips.

“I didn’t know you smoke,” she said casually, more curious about what he was doing outside than of his actual habits.

“Lavender cig, hardly smoking,” Potter argued. 

She rolled her eyes, not wishing to push it further but recognising the calming scent for what it was. Herbals were a common thing amongst many wizards.

“Didn’t think I’d made enough noise to wake you.”

Hermione noticed he didn’t apologise for waking her up. He hadn’t really made all that much noise, but she’d been sleeping lightly. Sleep hadn’t come at her easily after the previous afternoon’s events. This had been the first time someone innocent had got hurt during one of her assignments and she’d taken it harder than she had expected. She’d logically known it would happen one day but the reality of how it actually felt proved logic to be useless. 

Potter’s careless attitude towards everything and anything involving her bothered her though. She felt tiredness diluting what little willpower she had to stop their arguments from getting the best of her.

“Yeah well, you did. Not that you seem all that sorry.” Beside her, he scoffed, smoke blowing out in a little hazy cloud. “What’s got you up, anyway?”

Potter shrugged and took another drag from his cigarette. Under the pale moonlight, he looked as tired as she felt. The skin under his eyes was a soft plum that contrasted against the vivid green of his irises. She hugged herself as the night breeze made her shiver. He turned to her then and looked at her face. He seemed to understand this wasn’t a moment for fighting, the weight of the afternoon’s events was something they both carried.

“It never gets easier,” he said, turning to look back at the green expanse in front of them. “I thought one day it would, but it hasn’t.” 

She nodded and hoped he’d see her in his periphery.

“Can’t help but think maybe if we’d gotten there earlier or if I’d been quicker…”

“I know,” she said sincerely. The same kind of thoughts had been plaguing her.

Potter hummed and took another drag. He held it as he looked at the clear sky above them and then released it slowly through his nose. 

There was something calming, she thought, about watching him smoke. Even if his eyes looked troubled, the green barely visible in the moonglow. Even if his face seemed to have taken on a stone-hard quality, pale skin taut over blunt angles. There was an air of serenity to him that she couldn’t help but want to inhale in the same way he was inhaling the calming blend. Let it fill her lungs and travel to every fibre of her that was still vibrating with accumulated tension. 

“Back at school,” he said suddenly, still not looking at her. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as someone who’d want to be an auror.”

“It’s not like you knew me much,” she argued.

“No, I guess not.”

Hermione pondered how much to reveal, trying to take on the olive branch he seemed to be giving her by making small talk. Whilst his attempt was rather poor, it was appreciated.

“I’d thought you’d play Quidditch,” she admitted honestly.

Besides her, Potter gave a little laugh, smoke swirling in front of his face.

“Nah, that’s my dad.” He turned to look at her then, albeit briefly. “Most everyone thought I would though.”

“Why didn’t you?” She asked, emboldened, and curious.

Potter shrugged a broad shoulder. The dismissiveness of the gesture contrasted with the bitterness of his tone.

“Enough drama as it was with dad being the Quidditch star.” 

She hummed her agreement and played with the sleeve of her jumper.

“Being a Greengrass is enough drama as it is,” she said carefully, weighing her words the way one would the ingredients for a potion. “I wanted something different, something that would be truly mine.”

It was as close to the truth as she could give him and she watched as he mulled her words over.

“Fair enough,” Potter conceded, chucking the remaining bit of cigarette to the ground. He looked up from where he’d stubbed it with his boot, his face more relaxed than it’d been moments ago.“Let’s go back inside, you’re freezing.”

Hermione didn’t reply. Instead, she turned around and made her way inside, wondering why all of their interactions couldn't be like the one they’d just had.

***

By morning the skies were a clear vivid blue, the sun shone brightly and birds chirped outside. She lay in bed for a while, letting the warmth of the morning sun filtrating from the open curtains on the window kiss her skin. In the bed next to hers, Potter groaned, slowly coming to. He turned on his back with an arm thrown over his forehead as he took a deep breath.  He held it for a few seconds and shifted into his side, blinking up at her blearily and promptly reaching for his glasses. His hair was in utter chaos and his eyes were still puffy from sleep. It was an oddly cute sight, and she didn’t quite know what to make of it.

“Morning,” he said. His voice was rough with sleep and it made her feel a certain warmth that had nothing to do with the sunlight coming through the open curtains of the room’s only window.

Potter sat up and ran a hand through his locks, the motion doing nothing to fix the inky strands that were standing every which way.

She clutched at her blankets, holding them close.

“Morning,” she replied softly as she watched him stand up. His form now obscured some of the light she’d been basking in.

Hermione wasn’t sure she’d ever woken up alongside someone else, at least not anyone that wasn’t her school roommates. The sudden realisation that this was the first time she was sharing waking up with someone from the opposite sex was troubling. Potter rummaged through his duffel with his back to her and she took the opportunity to promptly get up. She needed her confusing thoughts to leave her mind and there was no better way to have them do so than to keep busy. 

They got ready in a strange quiet that had them both briefly glancing at each other every couple of minutes, the lack of banter and bickering something far too new and breakable. She feared this kind of truce they’d reached during the night would soon come crashing down around them. The feeling was too good to be true, and it made her anxious. 

By the time they reached the dining room, she had managed to work herself up to the point she had to remind herself this was Potter she was working with. They argued, and they got down each other’s throats, it was what they did. She wasn’t sure why she’d started wishing this wasn’t the case, but she knew she didn’t have time to examine it. So she focused on setting her face into the placid smile she’d learnt to wear around Loretta as the woman wished them a good morning and asked them if they wanted some tea or coffee with their food. She had also catalogued Potter’s preference for coffee which made Hermione smile without having to force herself to do it.

She helped the other woman bring the plates and cups, the usual toast, jam, butter, eggs, and bacon combination. She silently placed the hot mug of black coffee in front of a pensive-looking Potter who looked up briefly at her. He gave her the shortest of hums in acknowledgement and then went back to staring into nothing in particular with his hands now cradling the dark red mug. 

They didn't speak all through breakfast, both seeming to be lost in their own heads. Loretta wisely picked up on the fact they weren’t feeling particularly cheery that morning and went back to the kitchen instead, probably making some extra breakfast food for her niece and partner. They remained silent, even when Arabella barged into the dining room, full of energy, and started talking about her plans for the day with all of the excitement of someone who was getting married to the love of her life in a couple of days. Hermione simply smiled and nodded at the other woman, interjecting a few ahs and ohs when necessary so as not to seem rude. 

Somewhere along the way she’d taken to playing with the ring on her hand. The feel of the metal band on her skin grounded her. It was a comforting presence on her finger.  She hadn’t been aware she was doing it now though but, in front of her,  Arabella had taken notice.  Her eyes settled on the simple gold band.

“I do that too,” she said with a small content smile whilst she delicately traced her engagement ring with her fingertip. “Makes me think my Jamie’s always with me.” 

Hermione stopped playing with her ring then. A self-conscious blush took over her cheeks at the other woman’s remark. Arabella and Loretta, who had rejoined them earlier, seemed to mistake it for shyness and were now looking at her with fondness. She smiled politely, unable to form a proper reply, and Potter cleared his throat. He excused himself and promptly left the room before any of them had time to react. His breakfast was left half eaten and the mug he’d been holding was precariously close to the table’s edge. 

Hermione lowered the half-filled tea cup back on the table, her own breakfast now looked unappealing.

“Thanks for breakfast,” she said to Loretta who looked worriedly in the direction Potter had disappeared to. She smiled at the older woman reassuringly. “He’s still in a bit of a shock about yesterday. He’ll be fine.”

Their hostess had seemed to take her word for it, sending Hermione a small understanding smile and going back to talking about the wedding with her niece.

An hour later she and Potter were walking down the town’s main road, their pace slow and their senses on high alert. It was too hot to wear a jumper today but needing to conceal her wand had meant she was wearing a long-sleeved blouse. The material perfectly hid the arm holster where her wand was tucked. Besides her, Potter wore a dark grey t-shirt that contrasted with the flush in his cheeks and the green in his eyes. She averted her eyes away from him and back to the road. The dormant thoughts she’d worked hard to bury after her school days were trying to rear their ugly heads.

They hadn’t spoken as Hermione had gone back to their room, him simply asking her if she was ready to leave. He’d been in a strange mood since the morning and she had to admit she was in one herself. She was oscillating between feeling guilt over what had happened to poor O’Ryan the previous day and struggling to reconcile the conflicting emotions Potter brought within her. She wasn’t all that thick, she knew she was attracted to the man beside her, always had been, but there was a fundamental barrier that prevented her from fully accepting the fact.

The peace they had seemed to have as they’d woken up was slowly evaporating. She could tell by the way he was working his jaw as time passed and they didn’t see any signs of the smuggler, no leads or traces of magic that could lead them to him. Potter’s magic seemed to run through his skin, humming in the electric and magnetic way in which air did when a  storm was brewing. She imagined hers wasn’t any better, not with the way the day was going.

She felt Potter grab her hand, his bigger one squeezing hers painfully. She looked up with a frown, ready to snap at him when she saw how he was looking at her, silently telling her not to bring attention to them. He brought her closer and caressed her cheekbone briefly with his thumb, fingers sprayed over her jaw and neck. The gesture was one that could have been easily mistaken as romantic, had he not moved her head slightly to the side, his eyes slowly moving to a point somewhere to her right.

 In front of them, down the road that led to the beach, was what seemed to be a homeless man. Hermione paid closer attention to him as they walked down the pavement, his dirty clothes and trembling hands spoke of bad habits and poor decisions. She watched as the man started walking down the smaller road,  leaving the main part of town and heading towards the road that led to the beach, all the while rambling to himself indistinguishably. 

Soon they were walking down a narrow road on the outskirts of town and in front of them, the man had sat half obscured outside what looked to be an abandoned shop, his hands shakily taking what looked to be a little bag from his trousers pockets. 

“Hey man,” Potter said once they were close enough.

 The man was now scrambling to get up with a half-crazed look on his dirt-smudged face, looking dubiously at them.  Hermione wondered if Potter had finally lost his mind. She had half a mind to take her wand out as she watched the way the other man’s hand had crept closer to his jacket.

“Got a knife,” the homeless man threatened, taking an old and rusty-looking pocket knife from his jacket and pointing it at them with a trembling hand.

“Easy mate, you gonna get us in trouble,” Potter said with a nervous laugh, looking around them. “Just wanna know how to get some of that.” He nodded towards the little bag, seemingly uninterested in the fact they were being threatened by a muggle holding a pocket knife whilst neither of them had their wands out.

 “My wife and I are here for a short but good time if you catch my drift.”

He stressed the word good as he pulled her closer, his hand low on her hip and creeping lower to rest on her backside, a roguish smirk on his face. She laughed nervously, wondering if perhaps she should do the other man a favour and kill Potter herself.

“Get the guards on me and I’ll kill ya, alright?” Warned the other man, sniffling loudly, his focus now solely on the young auror as he stashed the bag back into his pocket.

She watched incredulously as Potter lifted his other hand up in a surrendering gesture.  His right hand was still on her backside, his thumb rubbing circles in a way that made her think that maybe he wasn’t as calm as he seemed. 

“Told you he was gonna be a waste of time,” she said with a petulant tone, pretending to be bored already and putting her arm around the auror’s waist, obscuring the view of his casting arm in case he’d need to use his wand.

Potter took some bills from his pocket, slowly extending his left arm towards the man.

“We’ll get some, you'll get some more. Come on mate,” he said with a hint of a whine, depositing the money in the man’s outstretched dirty hand.  

They watched him drop the knife,  now discarded on the grimy floor as he counted the handful of bills with a gleeful expression on his face.

After letting out an incredulous laugh, the man stashed the bills inside his jacket pocket and, looking at them in a much friendlier way, told them the name they’d been wanting to know for days. Mundungus Fletcher. They could find him out of town, near the cliffs up in the abandoned Golden State.

So she and Potter left the man after thanking him for what was going to be a great way to end their stay, making their way in the direction he’d just pointed them towards. The old Golden State slowly became more visible as they got closer to the upper field, farther away from town and closer to the rocky cliffs that looked towards the clashing sea many feet below them.

Golden State once may have been an ostentatious house, but now it had become a place full of graffiti and odd-looking drawings on the walls and with used couches that had questionable stains surrounding what seemed to be an extinguished bonfire of sorts. The building’s roofs had fallen in some places and many of the doors and windows were missing, making the place look desolate. 

They approached silently, both with their wands out as they took in their surroundings, having the advantage of being two against one but not wanting to risk Mundungus getting away again. The name was one they knew well. Fletcher’s fame as a hard-to-catch and detain criminal preceded him. He’d once been an auror himself. Hermione thought this was possibly the reason why he’d got away with his various run-ins.

She felt Potter’s arm collide against her chest, making her stumble against the wall as red light passed where she’d just been, a shadow quickly leaving the room they had just entered. 

She regained her senses quickly, following after Potter who was casting spell after spell,  the sound of magic hitting walls and footsteps on the ground loud in her ears. She cast a leg locker, making the man in front of them stumble as he ran into the open field, his left leg bleeding from either one of the spells they had cast or rubble falling off on him. 

They were now closer to the end of the field, the wind harsher as they approached the cliffs, lights of various colours erupting around them as they fought. The overgrown grass was making it difficult for them to run and Hermione watched as Potter’s steps faltered as they ran towards Mundungus who seemed to be caught between trying to calculate whether or not to disapparate.

“Stop right there, Fletcher!” She yelled, wand held high and pointed at the other wizard as Potter caught up with her.

“You’re not taking me to bloody Azkaban!” He walked backwards, getting closer to the roaring sea and further away from them.

She watched as he seemed to focus, seemingly trying to disapparate, and a split second later Potter had yelled stupefy, the spell narrowingly missing Fletcher as he jumped to the side, knees bent and teeth barred.

It seemed to happen all at once. 

The words avada kedabra left Fletcher’s lips in a last desperate attempt, his wand aimed at the tall dark-haired wizard who was standing next to her.

Beside her, Potter jumped, casting a binding spell as he did so. 

Adrenaline and years of training overtaking her actions, the surge of magic powering her protego spell came out of her in full force.

Green collided against the shield that separated her and Potter from Fletcher, the latter’s eyes widening as he was first hit by a flashing white light followed by encompassing green. 

Hermione watched, equally paralysed as the man in front of her, as Fletcher’s eyes went from terrified to vacant. His body fell backwards, the force of the spells finally pushing him over the edge from life to death, the crashing waves below them soon to welcome him into their depths. 

***

Hermione wasn’t sure of how she’d made it back to the bed and breakfast, the journey back was hazy and she was grateful Potter had insisted maybe they should walk instead of apparating. She was sure that if she had tried to apparate she would have splinched herself and she hadn’t brought enough dittany to treat a missing limb.

It hadn’t been as if she’d been entirely certain of what she had expected would happen, what kind of resolution she’d hoped for regarding their assignment, but a dead man was something that had been unexpected. Something she had been wholly unprepared for. No matter how much training they had undergone, how many assignments they’d had, the first time someone died at your hand was something all aurors knew was a turning point.

Before leaving England they had sat in Gawaine Robards office, with parchments in front of them and at least a foot in between their bodies. They’d been told the chance of finding the smuggler was slim but if there were two people who could come back with answers, it was them. They’d been prepared not to get their hopes up, ready to come back home empty-handed. And yet, they had found Fletcher, they had fought, and now, he was dead. They were coming back with the answers the department was expecting from them, but also with more questions and surely also an investigation into what had happened.

The way Fletcher’s eyes had lost all signs of life was so vivid in her mind that Hermione shivered, hugging herself as if that would bring her some comfort. Besides her, Potter was as quiet as she’d ever seen him. His green eyes were as troubled as the sea had been below them as they had gone to look for any signs of Fletcher’s body. 

The faint sound of chatter coming from inside the house coupled with the blazing sun above them seemed almost out of place, the recent events too dark in comparison. They walked in silently, watching as their hosts paid them no mind, too engrossed in their conversation that the soft steps of the two aurors didn’t register. 

Hermione wasn’t clear on how they were supposed to proceed now. They had been given a muggle mobile phone in case of emergencies, the small muggle town meant owls would have been a far too rare sight. Back in England, Seamus Finnegan had been given a similar device and was supposed to be their point of contact. She thought this surely had to classify as an emergency. The dead man who they should have brought back to England was somewhere in the midst of the Irish Sea. 

She felt the beginning of a headache forming, tension making her temples throb. She rubbed at them tiredly and watched as Potter closed the door to their room behind them. He cast a silencing charm for good measure once the door had clicked in place, not bothering with locking it magically since their hosts had never tried coming inside, announced or otherwise. The thought was relieving, considering she’d transfigured their beds.

She kicked her shoes off as Potter went to the window, looking outside with a faraway expression. He hadn’t said a single thing since he’d suggested they walk and his quietness wasn’t helping her nerves. He had been far too quiet all day, and she found that she needed the man she knew, the maddening wizard who made her want to throttle him. She needed the dynamic she had gotten used to, a sense of normalcy between the craziness that had been the past few days.

Letting her back fall against the wall with her arms crossed in front of her, she watched as Potter opened his duffel bag, eyes focused inside. He rummaged for a bit before finding what he was looking for and setting it atop his clothes. Taking a few steps back, he let the old wooden wardrobe behind him support his weight. His eyes never left the bag, his jaw working as he mulled something over.

Hermione eyed the other wizard with trepidation.

“Wouldn’t it be best to call? I think we should call.”

She watched the silver device peeking from Potter’s open duffel bag with the same wariness she would watch one of her mother’s poor attempts at cooking. 

“I don’t think we’ll have enough signal for that,” Potter said, eyes now up on the ceiling and tone devoid of any emotion.

She racked her brain for that piece of information, trying to remember what made messaging and calling different when it came to muggle mobile devices but came up empty.

Potter exhaled, pushing away from the wardrobe and slowly making his way to the chair by the window.

“Guess I’m the one messaging Seamus, then,” he said, grabbing the ministry-issued mobile from inside his black duffel bag.

“I can do it.”

She left her place near the bathroom door and made her way around her bed into what she considered to be Potter’s side of the room.

“Do purebloods even know how to use a mobile phone?” he asked with a raised eyebrow and a glint in his eyes.

She tried, in vain, to snatch the phone out of his hands. The bed between them and his much larger frame and height made it impossible.  The phone was now held way over his head. She huffed, annoyed at his childish display.

“I take the same briefing on muggle technology every year as you do, Potter.”

He gave her a rare brief roguish smile as he shook his head,  momentarily confusing her as he chose not to comment on the fact she’d all but forgotten about the way mobile phones’ signals worked. This confounded her, and it took her a second too long to register that he’d been trying to keep a sense of normalcy, for both their sakes. She felt a wave of gratitude wash over her. The image of Mundungus’ unseeing eyes as he fell down into the tempestuous ocean was something that was still fresh in her mind. 

“Send him your love for all I care, if that makes you happy.”

She got no reply though, Potter’s face now back to the intense pensive look she’d come to associate with him as he thought things over.  The unguarded nature in which he would display his emotions was something she’d once loathed. She’d thought him too exuberant, too Gryffindor in his nature. 

She watched as his fingers typed away in the small device, the sizing of the tiny keys making his otherwise precise movements seem clumsy. 

“Hitting the keys okay there?”  She asked with genuine curiosity, watching as his look of concentration slowly morphed into one of frustration. 

“Yeah, they just make these things far too bloody small,” Potter complained, now walking closer to the window where he held the mobile out against it.

A moment later the phone was unceremoniously tossed into his bed.

“Done, should get a reply soon if we’re lucky.” 

She didn’t think she’d been any more helpful than she was at the moment. The thought popped into her head uninvited. Uselessness was something she wasn’t accustomed to feeling. She’d been having a lot of those, feelings that she wasn’t used to having, far too many for her to feel comfortable even in her own skin.  She felt out of sorts as if she’d fallen down a veil into an alternate reality. One where she questioned the world around her and herself, one where she wasn’t in full control of her own actions and emotions. 

Hermione Greengrass wasn’t this susceptible, this caring, this amenable or agreeable. She didn’t care about what Potter thought. She didn’t care if a criminal died. She didn’t care if an old man lost the use of his mind. She didn’t care, she’d spent years practising how not to.  She did not care.

She told herself this, over and over. 

She repeated this in her head as she grabbed her toiletries and her clothes, and then hurriedly made her way to shower in the middle of the day. And as Potter looked at her in that strangely penetrating way of his, almost as if he could see past her walls, she did not care.

She repeated these words to herself as she showered, tears falling down her cheeks and mixing with the scalding water whilst silent sobs shook her body.  

She told herself she did not care, over and over, as she scrubbed herself clean until her skin was red and angry.  As her fists collided against the old yellow tiles of the foggy bathroom and she willed herself to stop the onslaught of emotions from pouring out of her, pushing them down with all her might.  The years of practice at hiding her anguish aided her in her quest.

She did not care. She repeated the words, as she swiped a hand through the mirror, looking at her bloodshot eyes and wary expression. The reflection was one she’d seen one too many times as a student and as a young child, the carefully built persona she’d built crumbling.

She did not care.

She hoped, for her sake, that she’d start believing those words again soon.

Chapter Text

Friday

It took Finnigan a whole day to reply. By then both she and Potter had managed to drive themselves, and the other, insane. Dinner was a very tense affair where they barely looked at each other. Even as they maintained the carefully polite and engaging way in which they approached conversations with their hosts and the new couple, they came off as snappy on more than one occasion. 

Hermione saw how Loretta had discreetly looked at her husband, eyes full of meaning as if to say, leave them alone . The look was then been given to her niece who didn’t seem to get the encrypted message as she went on and on about her wedding, asking them for the billionth time if they would be there. Potter took a large gulp of his beer then and Hermione was willing to bet he’d been wishing he had something stronger to drink.

They ignored each other as they got ready for bed and then again as the dim light of the early morning sun shone into the room, little flecks of dust dancing in front of her eyes. The previous day, where they’d wished each other good morning, seemed to have been a whole lifetime away. The space separating the two beds and aurors was so vast that it defied logic. Silence seemed to stretch between them, further driving them apart.

During breakfast, their hostess served them some tea and coffee and excused herself. She had a civil ceremony to attend and a whole wedding to help set, after all, she told them as she laughed nervously before exiting the dining room.  Hermione felt bad for the poor woman, the one-eighty she and Potter had done in the span of a mere day was probably disconcerting. But she hoped the other woman believed it to be a marital argument. It was something that was far more banal, and yet so far removed from anything Hermione thought she could ever get to experience. She wasn’t sure if she found the idea amusing or depressing.

Parchment upon parchment was scribbled upon, Potter’s messy scrawl and her tidy handwriting filling them with the ink she’d had the presence of mind to pack. The activity was one they did in turns, with Potter opening the window to smoke as she’d let the ink stain her hands as much as this case had. They were going to be questioned, possibly under Veritaserum, but they were both too neurotic over their work not to document what had happened. It didn’t matter that Fletcher had been a long-sought criminal, death was something that needed to be accounted for in the eyes of the Ministry. 

After Finnigan’s short reply to their text, they left the room and went to the garden, doing their best to try to maintain a call with the Irish-born as the signal in the Irish countryside was rather poor. The whole exchange ended up being a loss of both their times though.  They were instructed to keep their cover and depart in 2 days, as scheduled. The Ministry deemed the effort to set up another portkey unnecessary. It was a waste of resources the department wasn’t willing to even consider. So they had to stay in Ireland, for another two days, playing a married couple and attending a muggle wedding.

Potter cursed after they were done talking, shoving the mobile phone down his trousers' back pocket and kicking at the floor before looking up into the sky with a deep intake of breath. He then announced he was taking a walk, alone. He said this with a raised eyebrow and an ugly twist to his mouth. His tone went back to the clipped angsty one he’d had earlier in the trip and Hermione unconsciously took a step back as if she’d been slapped.

“It’s not like I care, Potter.” She lied. “I wasn’t planning on joining you.”

She tried to embed the words with as much disdain as she could and then before he could reply, she turned around. She felt angry and hurt, the latter a feeling so sharp and confusing she was tempted to slam the door behind her as she marched her way inside the old yellow house.

***

The rest of the day was rather uneventful and Hermione was thankful for it. She took time to cool off after Potter left for his walk. She went into town herself, trying to find a dress for the wedding since she didn’t think fully transfiguring casual clothes into a gown would go well enough.  Whilst she was extremely good at transfiguration, and altered her robes on quite a regular basis, formal form-fitting clothing was a whole different matter. There was a reason why seamstresses existed.

She ended up running into Loretta outside a small bakery. The older woman was armed with a giant brown paper bag in one hand and smaller light blue bags in the other. She laughed when Hermione told her what she was doing in town and kindly told her that they weren’t expected to be dressed all that formally that evening. It was a small ceremony for family and close friends that the young couple had left behind when they’d moved to Dublin. This reassured Hermione to a certain degree, and she was now convinced one of her sundresses would do.

 Still, she wanted to go around looking at different shops to take her mind off things. The thought of going back to the room she shared with Potter was one she found wholly unpleasant.  She let the feel of fabric on her fingertips, the smell of old books at a bookshop, and the taste of a warm croissant in her mouth distract her.

It was only later after she bought some gelato as lunch and her nose started to burn, that she passed old Richard’s shop. The memories came to her so vividly that she left a silent gasp, the sticky cone she was holding falling from her hand. She quickly backed away from the closed shop and turned around,  making her way back to the bed and breakfast. Her thoughts were muddled and her steps quick, the tightening in her chest intensified with each breath she used to shove it all down into the box of things she didn’t dare examine.

Potter was already back by the time she entered the house but by the reddish tint of his skin and the slight sheen to it, he hadn't been at the house for long. He sat with a glass of what looked like lemonade, hearing their host talk about how really it was only a matter of showering and wearing clean clothes and why do women need so much time to get ready, a small smile on the young auror’s lips as he took in the old man’s grumpiness.  

His smile fell slightly at the sight of her. Hermione said a quick hello, mostly for their host’s sake, before she dashed to their room. She wasn’t going to let Potter get to her more than he had already. It was with this thought that she grabbed a sundress from her bag, changing the material so it wasn’t as casual and changing the length and neckline since she felt confident she wouldn’t muck that up. She was going to enjoy the wedding, she’d make sure of it.

***

Hermione wasn’t sure what she expected to see once she came out of the bathroom after getting ready for the wedding. Yet Potter wearing a black shirt that fitted him perfectly, top two buttons undone, material straining against his broad shoulders as he moved… that hadn't been it. He looked maddeningly dashing.  The sight of him buttoning his cuffs was one that made her stop in her tracks, his nimble fingers something she wished she could feel against her skin.

She’d seen him in muggle athletic attire, casual jumpers, and also in their school and auror uniforms. But the black shirt was, somehow, an entirely different beast. She thought she had it bad back at Hogwarts, where she’d blamed her hormones and natural teenage upheaval for the dirty thoughts that had crossed her mind. But she didn’t have an excuse for the feelings she had now.  She had no excuse as to why her hands itched to touch him,  why despite their ever-present animosity, she wanted him and she wanted him so badly she felt feverish with need. 

The small thrill that had run through her as she’d felt his eyes roam the expanse of her body left the moment they met hers, his impassive ones giving nothing away.  The utter emptiness behind Potter’s eyes was much too close to that in those she was trying to forget. So she did what she did best, she squashed whatever feelings rose inside of her and grabbed her wand, stashing it in her leg holster whilst she ignored the man standing a metre away. She left the room without looking back to see whether he was following her.

The venue where the wedding was to take place was within walking distance from the bed and breakfast, and the instructions their hosts had given them on how to get there had been clear. Hermione was grateful the walk had been short, the small heels she wore more fitting to paved streets than the gravel-filled road they’d had to take. The afternoon’s breeze was cooling by the minute, twilight soon approaching and with it a golden glow that made the venue look magical. 

There were wooden boards over the grass forming a huge platform. The rustic material contrasted with a few soft rugs that had been carefully placed under each table. Chairs were covered in off-white linen that matched the ones on the tables. Vases with various local wildflowers decorated each of them, the variety of colours and arrangements effortlessly beautiful. All around them, lights had been woven around the poles that held together the massive tent covering the area, whilst jars with candles were placed next to the vases. A dancing space was left in the middle as a gleaming ball hung over it. 

Hermione thought the place looked utterly beautiful, and as her eyes scanned the small crowd, she felt grateful Loretta had let her know it was a relaxed type of marriage celebration. She had never attended such an informal event. The balls she’d been made to go to were always full of magical Britain’s upper-class society. They were boring and formal affairs where one was supposed to mingle in order to gain favours. This was nothing like that and she found she didn’t know how to approach the situation. 

Besides her, Potter did seem to know how to react, his extroverted and carefree personality making an appearance yet again. He kept his arm around her waist as their hosts introduced them to various friends and family members whilst they waited for the newly married couple to arrive. He spoke easily and charmingly with everyone they’d been introduced to whilst she remained quiet, a careful smile on her face and growing discomfort in her chest.

Once the newlyweds arrived, greeted amongst cheers and laughter, Hermione let herself feel a momentary pang of jealousy at the display of affection around her. She watched as Arabella was hugged, love clear in the way her family and friends looked at her, and most importantly, in the way her husband did. His eyes never left her, the awe and affection so clearly displayed that it made Hermione grab for the nearest glass of wine. The ugly feelings she was trying so hard to calm churned in her gut. She hoped the alcohol blanketing them in warmth would quiet them down.

They were seated at a table with another young couple with their small child and an elderly couple they later learnt were Loretta’s cousin and husband.  Chatter had quickly gone up in volume as plates were served and people interacted in between bites of food and copious amounts of drinking. She pushed her food around for the most part, not feeling the slightest bit of hunger. Her stomach was tight, firmly gripped by the hand of longing. Her eyes were fixed on the mother and daughter in front of her. The little girl couldn’t be older than four, her curls tied in little golden plaits that bounced as she animatedly talked to her mother. 

Hermione watched as the other woman carefully helped the child with her meal, listening intently to what the little girl had to say, her attention undivided.  She cleaned the kid's face with a napkin in between bites of her own food, lovingly dabbing at her chubby cheeks. The adoring way in which she watched her daughter took Hermione’s breath away, she wasn’t sure either of her parents had ever looked at her like that. Whilst her mother had never been neglectful, both she and her sister had often been looked after by their house elf. Most of her interaction with her parents had been around a table large enough to seat fifteen people or out with company. Astoria and she had always remained silent and only answered when talked to, sitting primely with their hands on their laps. 

So it was with great surprise that she watched as the little girl soon grew tired of sitting still and made her way to Potter, asking him if she could please try on his glasses. He took them off wordlessly, a huge smile on his face as he held them far enough the girl could look through them but not enough to hurt her eyes. A small friendship seemed to have formed after it, the child sitting over his knee as he finished his meal while the girl’s mother apologised profusely. He just waved the apologies away. It was no bother, he said. 

Hermione then focused on trying to engage in the conversation happening around her after that, mostly by listening. She didn’t have a lot to interject when the talk revolved around the town and its people, but she showed interest, which was something she had yet to do. And she was actually quite taken with the older gentleman’s tale of how he’d been once kicked by a goat in heat when music started playing. The slow sound lulled people’s eyes into the dance floor where the newlyweds were holding each other, eyes locked on one another. 

Arabella and her husband swirled and twirled, making their way around the dance floor like they’d done it a billion times. The elegant way in which they moved remained even as they both danced with other people, ever-present smiles on both their faces. The couples at their table rose and joined the dancing, Hermione quickly stated that she was fine the moment she was asked to join them. She was not in the mood to keep pretending she was actually enjoying herself. Whatever illusion she had of having a good time at the wedding very quickly evaporated.

She sipped on more wine as all around them people danced and plates were taken away and bottles replaced. Beside her, Potter was watching the dance floor with a content smile. He’d rolled his sleeves up at some point and his thick forearms rested over the table, his head bobbing slightly to the tune of the song that was now playing. He laughed when he spotted the child that had been previously at their table throw herself at her father from her mother’s arms.

“You were really good with that kid.”  The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

He turned to her then, a real smile on his face and a lightness to his expression that she’d never witnessed.

“My goddaughter–” Hermione’s eyes widened at the revelation, her drink getting stuck down her throat and making her cough. “Yes, Greengrass. Don't look at me like that. I have a goddaughter.”

Hermione couldn’t believe how flustered she was, the thought of Potter holding a small child in his arms as he did things like taking her to get some ice cream was almost too much for her inebriated brain.

“I didn’t…” she gave up explaining, choosing to take another long sip of her drink instead. Her words were almost tangling as she tried pushing them past her lips. “I just didn’t know you had a goddaughter, that’s all.”

And now that’s the only thing I’ll be able to think about, she wanted to add.

“My godfather and his partner decided I was a good enough example for their child,” Potter replied with a shrug, his eyes taking on a soft glimmer she wasn’t used to seeing in them. It wasn’t playful, it was more like a certain fondness or some type of love Hermione wasn’t sure she herself knew or had ever witnessed.

“What I meant to say before is my goddaughter has made it impossible not to like kids. I don’t know that I’m all that great with them, though.”

Hermione didn't argue just how erroneous that statement was and instead swirled the contents of her glass before downing it and serving herself another one. The truth was there was a big part of her that envied Potter and the easy way in which he seemed to go about life, with his family, with his friends, and with everyone he encountered. 

As she watched people dance, downing more alcohol, she wondered what his time with his goddaughter was like. Did Potter laugh and let the child have too much sugar? Was he a lenient godfather? Did he go back from being out and about to a full and warm house?  Did his mother look at him with adoration? These thoughts made her dizzier than the sparkling liquid going down her throat.

“You look pensive,” Potter remarked cautiously, looking at her in an odd way. It was the first time Hermione couldn’t detect a hint of animosity or cautiousness stemming from either his tone or eyes.

She shrugged, the slip of her dress falling down her shoulder as she did so. She raised her glass to her lips, choosing to keep on drinking rather than talk. There was an uncomfortable feeling that had been forming in her chest, one she knew all too well and had worked hard to suppress. She willed the bubbles to fill the space where that feeling was taking place, for the heat of the alcohol to warm the coldness she had felt to take hold.

People had always alluded to her icy nature. Her controlled reactions and calculated words coupled with her intelligence had made her unreachable. Even whilst at Hogwarts, she hadn’t truly had friends, her clique was more one out of convenience and shared social circles. She had been mostly fine with it and she had continued to carry her life in a way that made sure her focus was on making a name for herself, one that was secure and away from her family’s influence. The very true possibility of her true parentage becoming public knowledge was a threat to much of what she’d known to be her world.

She felt herself loosen up as yet another bottle was replaced and she sipped on a new drink. She’d been ignoring the world around her, too lost in her own thoughts and the alcohol in her system, when Potter came back from god knows where. He’d whispered to her he was going to get back in a second but she hadn’t been truly listening, her mood far too morose as she watched people dance and laugh. She felt a large hand try to take her drink away and she gripped it tighter.

“Hey!” she exclaimed indignantly, clutching her glass close to her chest, protecting it from the sudden invasion.  She looked up at Potter’s resigned face, a glass of water in his hand.

He sat beside her, pushing the water-filled glass her way and she eyed it warily, distaste clear in her eyes.

“Last one.” He nodded toward where she was holding her drink and she couldn’t help but roll her eyes. 

A very unladylike snort and a bitter laugh escaped her.

“You're not my father. Hell, not even my father is,” she said the last part in a low tone, chasing the words down with a gulp of her drink.

“What do you mean?” Potter looked at her confused, his thick brows furrowed as he took her in.

The longing to belong, to be looked at the way Arabella and the little girl had been, to feel part of the world, swiftly pushed past her walls. Hermione leaned in conspiratorially, beckoning Potter with a finger. A siren drawing him far from the shore. He played along, his larger frame now angled towards her.

“My parents? They’re not my real parents,” she stressed the word real or tried to as much as her mouth would cooperate. She hiccuped pitifully, a burning sensation now present in her eyes. “I’m only a Greengrass because they found me in an alley.”

She was crying, Hermione Greengrass was crying at a muggle wedding, in the middle of bloody nowhere, and she was drunk. She cried harder, sniffing in between sobs. She felt more than saw Potter embrace her, his body solid and warm as he switched between awkwardly patting her back and rubbing it.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry,” he soothed her, his voice soft. This made her cry harder, his care was something she wasn’t accustomed to.

“Is she okay?” a female voice asked, concern evident in her tone.

Hermione hid her face in Potter’s chest, his shirt soaked with her tears. “Yeah, just had a tad too much to drink.”

She tuned out the conversation then, not wishing to hear how they spoke about her, the chair and floor underneath her starting to sway. She clutched at Potter’s shirt harder, willing his presence to be steady enough so she’d stay upright.

“Come on, let's get back.” He pulled her to her feet, Hermione swaying as the sudden change made her head spin. 

“Are we apparating, here?” she asked, confused, taking in all the muggles around them.

Potter laughed, his chest rumbling as he did so. He put an arm around her, steadying her as he started walking and waving at someone Hermione had trouble recognising. It was only when they were out of earshot distance that he answered.

“Unless you want to lose a limb, we’re walking.” 

***

To Potter’s true credit, he did try to have her walk the few blocks from the party back to their bed and breakfast, but she was far too drunk. She kept stumbling over nothing and gripping at his arm, a few times completely missing it and having him catch her. He ultimately got tired of their slow pace, choosing to make her hop into his back instead. She erupted into a fit of giggles, the sound one she hadn’t made since she was a small child.

“Merlin, you’re really wasted,” he commented, gripping her thighs as he pushed her further up his back. His rough hands were warm against her legs. 

She nuzzled her face into where his shoulder met his neck, focusing on the feel of his shirt. He smelt good, a scent that reminded her of the forbidden forest, fresh and woodsy. 

“Are you sniffing me?” Potter asked, an incredulous laugh escaping him as she tried to hit his shoulder, failing miserably.

They made it back to the old yellow house far much sooner than they would have if she’d had to walk. The sky was clear and the stars bright, cricket sounds filling the air as they crossed the front garden into the main hall. Potter cleaned his shoes on the mat with her still on his back and gently tapped at her legs. She hoped back, stumbling as she hit the ground, his arms steadying her.

She made her way to their bedroom slowly, her arm stretched as her hand slowly drifted against the walls, fingertips brushing against the wallpaper. Her other hand clutched her heels, the shoes dangling precariously as she went into the dark room, the only light illuminating the small space coming from the open window.  

Hermione let the shoes drop to the ground, not caring for once about how or where they’d landed. Her fingers went to her hair, her wavy curls falling around her face the moment she pulled on the clip holding the bun together.

She turned the moment she heard someone come into the room, the door softly closing behind Potter.

“Come on, have another one of these,” he said, depositing another glass of water into her hands.

“You’re very bossy,” she replied simply, bringing the glass to her lips.

Potter gave her a little grin, shaking his head at her. 

“If I knew you’d be this amenable,  I’d have suggested you drink earlier into the trip.”

She scoffed, choking on the sip of water she’d just taken.

“Guess two people had to die for this to happen.”

“Greengrass, only one person’s died.” 

She shook her head, carelessly waving Potter’s comment away as if it were a pesky fly. She let the half drank glass into the bedside table, stumbling as she did so.

“Can’t remember who he is, same thing as dying,” she said seriously, the old man’s dazed expression back in her mind. His eyes and Mundungus mixed and merged, both vacant, and lost. 

In front of her, Potter sighed and undid his shirt’s buttons, revealing the muscles and dusting of chest hair she’d previously got a  glimpse of.  She watched him kick his shoes off, glasses askew on his face.

“It’s not your fault,” he said, without looking at her.

She hummed noncommittally, letting herself fall into the bed, arms behind her as she leaned backwards to watch him discard his black dress shirt in favour of his sleeping t-shirt. Her ogling of him was something she knew she wouldn’t have dared do whilst sober.

“I’ve heard that before, it’s never meant much.”

She got a peek of his back tattoo as Potter let his shirt fall on the chair beside him. He quickly pulled the t-shirt over his head and his glasses back on, black ink once again covered.

“Why's that?”

She shrugged a shoulder, almost falling backwards as she did so. 

Potter came closer, sitting at the edge of her bed with another t-shirt of his in his hands.

“Is it because of what you said, about your parents?”

“Yes…no,” she gulped.

“Okay,” he said simply and passed her the t-shirt, her face scrunching up in confusion. “Unless you want to sleep in that dress, I’d suggest you slip that on.”

Hermione tried sitting up and putting the white t-shirt on, swaying slightly as she did so, her head stuck. She felt the bed move and the t-shirt being pulled away. She looked up at Potter who was now standing in front of her, blocking what little light came from the window behind him. 

“Lift up,” he said, rolling the cotton in his hands. 

She did as told, lifting her arms up in the air, too tired to argue. Her head had started to pound and the thought of how much she’d kill for a sobering potion crossed her mind. Once the material was over her head he stepped back, letting her slip the straps of her dress off and then properly put on the t-shirt, her hand going to her thigh holster to remove her wand.

She watched as Potter quickly turned around, clearing his throat, but not before she caught his eyes fixed on the creamy expanse of her upper leg. She left her wand next to the glass of water then shimmed the dress down her legs and let it pool at the foot of the bed. She fell back into the mattress, too drowsy to pull at the covers.

“Thank you,” she said sleepily, her voice soft and her eyes starting to drop. 

She felt some type of fabric being draped over her, her eyes fully closing and her breathing starting to even out.

“Anytime, Greengrass. Anytime.”

Chapter Text

Saturday

There was an incessant pounding in her head and her mouth felt dry. She tried opening her eyes and quickly closed them as the light hitting her face made the throbbing in her head turn into painful jabs. She groaned, fully aware now that what she was experiencing was a hangover from hell.

She burrowed deeper into the quilt that lay half thrown off her body, the rustic material the only thing covering her bare legs. The t-shirt she was wearing had ridden up during the night and she was grateful her modesty had been somehow maintained. She pressed her face deeper into her pillow, probably smearing it with leftover lipstick and kohl, her choice of tints one she now regretted deeply. The beauty charm she’d applied the night before had long ago lost its effects and she told herself she’d clean her pillowcase lest poor Loretta had to deal with her mess.

Gathering whatever courage she could within her, she dared peek again, blinking blearily.  She squinted briefly against the light, trying to adjust her eyes to the much too bright morning sun. The bed beside hers was empty and already made, the soft blue of its covers taut against the mattress. She swallowed down her shame, the memories of the previous night now hitting her fully. She’d been at her lowest, a version of herself she reserved for rare occasions when she was alone in her home with only a bottle of chardonnay for company. Nobody had ever seen her in such a state, her composure something she’d always prided herself in. Blinking back tears, she forced herself to get out of bed, clutching the woven threads in between her fingers as she stood up.

Potter had been so attentive, so tender and caring as she told him the one secret she’d sworne she’d take to her grave. He’d gone as far as helping her dress, saving her from dying trapped in his large t-shirt. She felt the fabric over her body with trembling hands, so soft and still smelling of him. Whatever soap he used was a smell she could now recognise a mile away. Memories of their walk back came to her as she cleaned the makeup from where it’d smeared on the pillow. She saw herself on his back, her nose pressed close to his neck as he carried her with ease. His fingers spread over her thighs as his body shook with laughter. She shook herself out of her reverie, placing the pillow back down. The memories and the feelings they brought were all too much.

She sniffed pitifully and made her bed in haste, the need to get clean, to rinse the previous night off her imperative. She didn’t look at herself in the mirror this time, avoiding her own reflection at all costs. She didn’t think she could face Harry but, mostly, she didn’t think she could face herself. The pieces she’d discarded throughout the days were now barely held back by sheer force. They threatened to buckle under the weight of a truth she didn’t dare acknowledge. 

This weakness of hers, it wouldn’t do. She needed to put distance, to still the rampant emotions that whirled within her. She needed her cold temperance, her logic. Removing whatever ounce of power Potter thought he had over her was mandatory if she wanted to survive going back to Britain without him spilling what she’d so carelessly told him whilst drunk. They couldn’t be friends, they never had been. They were far too different. He was so sure of himself, too sure, even, and he had nothing to lose. Never had. But she, on the other hand, had her whole world balanced precariously on just a few thin words.

Much more refreshed, she left the bathroom wrapped in a soft white towel and proceeded to get dressed as fast as she could. She slipped on a blue skirt with a white floral pattern and put on a simple white blouse on top. The lace underwear she put on and the tight bun in which she fixed her hair were things that made her feel more like herself. 

She was depositing Potter’s folded t-shirt over his bed when the door opened behind her, the man in question slipping into the room and looking at her nervously. She turned back, ready to put on a fight, even whilst everything in her screamed not to.

Schooling her features, she squared her shoulders and held his gaze.

“Thank you for last night.” The prim and detached tone of her voice as she uttered the words helped propel her further. “I don’t remember much, but I reckon you helped me change.”

She gestured to his bed with a dismissive gesture. The weight of her lies felt heavy on her tongue, but his confused expression weighed on her the hardest.

“You don’t remember anything?” He didn’t sound convinced, eyes watching her every move as she hugged herself.

“Bits and pieces.” 

His green irises lowered to her neck, to the way she swallowed with difficulty and then flickered back to her own brown eyes, making her squirm and avert her gaze as she hugged herself tighter.

“You’re such a fucking liar.” His tone was bitter, tired.

“You can think whatever you want.”

“Would it kill you to be forthcoming for once?” His arms came to his sides, exasperation clear in the way his palms opened up to the sky.

“I am.”

“The fuck you are.”

A bitter laugh.

 She watched him take his glasses off and press his palms against his eyes, exhaling loudly.

“You don’t know me,” she protested in a much quieter tone than she would have liked, the meek way in which her voice had come out making her skin crawl. 

She lifted her chin up, feigning a sort of defiance that Potter seemed to be able to have no problem looking past.

“Nobody does, you've made sure of that.”

She recoiled at that, the truth of his statement hitting her harder than if he’d slapped her. 

“Yesterday was a mistake, I was drunk–”

“Yeah, you were smashed. I bloody know that.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, his frustration over her behaviour evident in the set of his jaw and his rapid breathing.

“Then surely you must know I would have never–”

“What? Taken the time to show me everything I think I know about you is a fucking act? Spoken to me like I’m an actual human and not just some arsehole you can’t stand? ”

“Don’t put words in my mouth!”

It was only then she realised their voices had been slowly rising in tone, she found her wand and quickly cast a silencing charm.

“Why do you hate me so fucking much?” He got closer, a stride and a single bed in between them, “am I truly that much beneath you that you can’t even bother getting to know me?”

She scoffed.

“Why do you hate me?”  She fired back, chest heaving. 

“It’s hard not to when it seems to be your life’s mission!” His eyes were pleading as his face reddened.  

Her eyes prickled with unshed tears.

“You’re such a bloody dick.”

There was no heat in her words, her voice wobbly.  She looked down and cursed, ready to turn around and leave the godforsaken room.

“I don’t want to hate you,” he said suddenly, his hand grabbing hers quickly.

She felt him squeeze once and dared look up.

“I don’t–” he swallowed audibly and cleared his throat.“-hate you, I mean. I don’t.”

His eyes were so earnest she felt like she was trapped, held in his captive gaze as his fingers traced the soft skin of her wrist. His touch was soft yet purposeful, and she exhaled a shaky breath. Whatever semblance of control she thought she had evaporated at the feel of his touch. Her eyes flickered to his mouth, soft pink inviting her in.

In one swift motion, he was helping her kneel on the bed, his hands coming up to hold her neck, thumbs grazing her jaw as his lips came down over hers. Her exhale was all the invitation he needed to explore her mouth, the sounds forming at the back of his throat as he kissed her fully were ones she’d store to memory. 

“You taste like coffee,” she said as she came back up for air.

He hummed into her neck, trailing open-mouth kisses along her skin. She gripped his shoulder, a moan escaping from her lips as he found the spot down her ear that made her shudder. Her square nails dug at the broad expanse of his back, wishing it was skin she was feeling and not cotton.

She pulled at it frantically, more demand than instruction and she watched him as he quickly discarded it, his glasses almost falling off his face. He repositioned them as she tried to swallow down an uncharacteristic giggle and took her hands getting her off the bed.

“I kind of need them to see, and Merlin do I want to see you come.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at his cheekiness and took the chance of him transfiguring the beds back into one double to fully look at the tattoo on his back.

A black dragon that spanned most of his back moved slightly, the work a clearly magical one. The dragon’s tail swirled into his waist, the glimpse she’d got to see previously now making more sense.

She trailed her fingers over it, watching it move, fascinated by the detail of the piece. She placed a kiss beside it, meeting warm skin. She let her lips trail Potter’s shoulder blade and watched as the muscle contracted under her ministrations.

Soon his lips had captured hers once again. She explored his torso, touching everywhere she could,  his skin hot under her hands. He urged her to take her blouse off, the garment falling to the floor as he then laid her down on the bed.

She let herself take in the sight of him, all strong muscles covered in little freckles, a dark trail of hair disappearing into his trousers.  His piercing eyes traced her body with no shame, drinking in the sight of her, the soft dip of her waist, the swell of her breasts. The want that blew his pupils wide made her skin erupt in goosebumps. She wasn’t sure she’d ever been looked at with such intensity before, and his clear need for her made a warm burning pleasure coil in her lower stomach.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he said, his voice rough as he captured her lips once again in a kiss that was far more demanding than the previous ones.

She dropped her hands from his neck, down his back, and then circled them until she met the front of his trousers. Her thin fingers pulled at the fabric until both button and fly were undone. The need to feel him was a heat that would not cease.

He quickly got off her, kicking the trousers down his legs and coming back only to hook his fingers on her skirt, pulling the thin fabric down her legs in one go. 

She watched him as he palmed himself over his tented boxers and she let her hand fall from her breast, down her stomach, to dip in between her legs. A breathy moan escaped her as she felt her own heat and that seemed to break him off his trance. His hand replaced hers and his mouth marked her skin as if what was happening between them wouldn’t alter her forever.

She came with a cry around his fingers, curls having long fallen from the bun she’d forced them into, skin flushed, knickers gone and bra cups lowered.  

In a daze, she took in the sight of him, no piece of clothing left, hard and ready.

“Okay?” He asked her, eyes searching hers as he positioned himself, waiting for her permission, for her consent.

She nodded, bringing him back lower so she could kiss his neck, her lips near his ear.

“I’m on the potion.”

A kiss, his groan as he slid in and waited for her to adjust to him, making her shudder. A beat, her lips now on his jaw.

“You can move.”

His thrusts were slow but deep, his hands taking hers and holding them above her head, interlacing their fingers. The sound of their bodies joining and breaths mingling filling the room, the squeak of the bed marking the rhythm of their coupling. She arched her back as a  particularly hard thrust hit the spot that always helped push her to the edge.

“Please,” she begged, so close and yet so far.

He hooked her leg over his hip, his thrusts increasing in speed and intensity. His skilled fingers met the bundle of nerves on her sex and this coupled with the new angle had her quickly reaching yet another high.

She climaxed with her head thrown back, eyes closed and hands grabbing the bedding in fistfuls. His groan as he spilled himself inside her was what she slowly came down to, his body slowly lowering over hers.

He kissed her slowly, lingering for a second before letting himself fall down beside her.

***

A knock on the door brought her and Potter out of their post-coital bliss, the timid sound of their host calling for them made them dress in a hurry.  She wasn’t sure she’d ever dressed so fast before. She yanked at her clothes without much preamble and shoved her feet on a pair of flats, all the way avoiding Potter’s eyes. She knew her hair was wild and her cheeks were still flushed and she could still feel him on her. But the sight of the double bed and what they’d just done had her feeling flustered.  She felt the walls of the room close on her and her voice wavered as she performed a refreshing charm. 

She exited the room before Potter could, avoiding looking at his face like the coward she was. Instead she chose to meet the older woman down the hall. Loretta had been worried over her and needed to know she was okay after the previous night. Hermione felt mortified at hearing this and seeing the genuine concern in the older woman’s eyes. Making a spectacle out of herself was something foreign to her. Then again, sleeping with someone she’d been lusting after for years yet despite being unable to stand him  was as well. She apologised profusely, even if Loretta was having none of it, and let herself be guided into the dining room for a hearty breakfast.

She was drinking some tea after having managed to swallow down the bite of toast she’d taken when Potter joined them, eyes inscrutable as he sat in front of her at the table. She felt herself blush again at the intense way in which he was watching her, his gaze never leaving her even as he spoke with their host. She wanted to point out how rude this was, to ask him to please stop staring, but she focused on the piece of toast on her plate and the warm feeling of the cup in her hands. Guilt churned in her gut, the way in which she was behaving one she knew wasn’t fair to him. She didn’t know how to deal with what had just happened, her thoughts going a mile a minute but none of them making sense.

There was one thing she did know though. She didn't think she could ever look at him the same way, ever forget how being with him had felt, how wanted he’d made her feel. And this terrified her in the same way the truth about her past did.

She managed to avoid him the rest of Saturday up until their portkey had gone off and they had found themselves once again standing in the middle of rural England.  He looked so wounded she had had to look away. She couldn’t stand the way he looked at her, the way he made her feel like she was as terrible as everyone thought. The way she’d encouraged everyone to see her, the callous cold witch who only cared about herself. 

She stumbled back, letting her hand fall from the scarf they both held. Her throat felt tight at the sight of him standing in the middle of nowhere, hurt clearly displayed over his features as twilight fell around them. The golden lights of sunset made the green in his eyes shine in a way that made her think of Irish fields. She hugged herself, willing herself to give him something, anything, before parting.

“Goodbye, Harry.”

The slight widening of his eyes was the last thing she saw before she apparated away.

Chapter Text

Sunday/Monday

Saturday night went over in a bit of a haze for Hermione. She came back to her house in central London and the place felt dark and cold after so many days spent in a lively and extremely homey house where she’d had people who’d looked after her.  She hung her cloak by the door and didn’t bother to check her kitchen before she went upstairs to her room. She unpacked piece by piece at a leisurely pace, using her wand to store her clothes and shoes away. As always she meticulously put the toiletries back in place by hand. She realised she hadn’t worn makeup that day only when caught sight of her reflection in her bathroom mirror. She darted her eyes away at what she saw, the raw vulnerability in her expression one she loathed.

Sleep evaded her much she did her emotions. She spent the night tossing and turning, guilt and shame spreading like a disease. She sat up in bed, hugging her knees to her chest as morning dawned around her and with it the memories of the previous day. The phantom touch of lips and hands, the feelings that had bubbled in her chest, it made her eyes close as her guilt intensified. But it didn’t matter how hard she closed her eyes for the images lived inside her, forever engraved on the stone that was her heart.

She left her house quickly, choosing to wander around Diagon Alley instead of wallowing. She purchased clothes she didn’t need and books she’d hide in. More than once, she thought she’d seen a set of green eyes and a dishevelled bit of dark hair, but it had never been him. She’d been both disappointed and angry at herself for her reaction. It hadn’t been as if she’d known what to say if it was him anyway.

She came home to an owl standing outside her window, the white snowy feathers ones she recognised. She swallowed nervously as she let the bird in through her wards. She took the letter she was carrying with her and gave the bird a treat from the bag she had for when her parents sent her mail.  Harry’s messy scrawl stated they needed to talk, no ifs nor buts.  She quickly responded in her much neater penmanship after taking a piece of parchment and writing her own short message. They would, but not today. She would see him at work. She gave the note to the owl and watched as she flew away, Sunday’s afternoon slowly giving way to sunset.

Later that evening,  she had a light dinner of blue cheese and crackers. Her anxiety was much too high to stomach a proper meal. She took a scalding shower and put on her fluffiest robe. Not wishing to suffer through another sleepless night, she chose to take a calming draught. The awful taste of the potion was a minor inconvenience she was more than willing to put up with. She fell asleep with a book in her hand and a heavy feeling of dread in her gut.

***

She made it to work with fifteen minutes to spare, her favouring to arrive early rather than later something she was famous for. The atrium was full of half-asleep employees, some of who looked as if they’d just jumped out of bed. Memos flew over her head as she made her way to the lift, ready to head to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She greeted the other two people in the lift with a small nod, pleasantries something she wasn’t all that particularly good at. 

The sight of her desk brought with it a sense of familiarity that helped ground her, the uncertainty of the past week leaving her as she sat and looked through the various files that’d been deposited in her tray whilst she’d been away. She was pleased to find some of the older cases had now fully closed, the Wizengamont’s verdicts making her smile briefly as the room around her filled with the rest of the junior and senior aurors. 

She felt more than saw when Harry came in, her spatial awareness of him was something that was starting to put her on edge. She wasn’t sure if it’d been their close proximity, or if it was simply him, but she could pick his magical signature as he drew closer. He cleared his throat, standing by her desk in his uniform, a mug in his hand.

“Potter,” she greeted him cooly.

She watched his face harden,  soft green darkening as it met impassive brown.

“Greengrass,” he took a shrunken folder out of his robe’s pocket. “I have our report, in case you’d forgotten.”

She bit her tongue.

“Great,” she said instead, her retort stuck in her throat.

“Grand,” he replied, tone dripping in sarcasm, his mocking of her attitude evident.

Harry turned around and made a few steps in the direction of his own desk three rows down.

“Hope you can be arsed to show up for the meeting since you didn’t even bother with these,” he yelled over his shoulder as he waved the folder in the air, a few pieces of parchment threatening to fall.

There were snickers around them, their infamous little rows always both a  source of amusement and fear for their colleagues. 

“Wouldn’t let you take the credit since I did most of our work,” she replied evenly. She didn’t bother looking away from the parchment in her hands as she did, not truly reading the words in it but unable to face the consequences of her acts.

It was bound to be a long day.

Gawain Robards arrived two hours later, hands clapping as he called both she and Potter to his private office. The little division that separated him from the rest of the aurors one earned through years of hard work and dedication. She fixed her robes and build her case in her mind, ready for whatever reprimand he may give them. 

Since Harry was closer to the office he’d got there first and the issued mobile and report were already on Gawain’s dark wooden desk. She swallowed down the sigh that threatened to escape, she’d completely forgotten about the mobile.

She watched as Gawain fixed himself a cuppa, gesturing to his little set in a way she knew meant if they wanted any.

“No, thank you,” she declined politely. She rubbed at her ring finger, the self-soothing motion one she was trying to stop, the lack of ring both foreign and relieving.

“I’m good. Thank you, sir,” Harry said politely, the picture of ease as he stood by her side.

Gawain sighed contentedly as he sat with his tea, taking a healthy sip before grabbing the report and reading through it, his silence driving her mad with worry. She stood still, shoulders back and hands clasped behind her back.

“You two can sit, there are ten pages to read here,” Gawain said without looking up. He read through their notes carefully, one long finger tracing the lines as he made his way through the various ink-filled pages.

Harry leaned against one of the chairs, casually crossing his ankles as she sat stiffly in the other, knees together and hands now over her lap.

Five minutes later the head auror was shaking his head. He had an incredulous look on his face and a faraway expression soon took over his features. 

“He could’ve been so good if he’d tried,” was all he said as a form of explanation, more so a commentary to himself than one to the two very confused aurors in front of him.

“Sir?” Harry seemed to be as lost as she was.

“Mundungus and I trained together, bright bloke,” Gawain said, sipping his tea. His mind still not fully present, lost within the memories that had come to him unbidden. “Liked the activities we were supposed to persecute a tad too much.”

Harry nodded solemnly and she remained silent, not wanting to dwell more on the man’s life but also unable to provide her boss with any sort of comfort.

“This mustn't have been easy for you both,” Gawain said unexpectedly, one large hand tapping over the report lightly. “And I’m glad to see you’ve managed not to kill each other.”

She grimaced at that remark.

“There were far more important things, sir,” she said diplomatically.

“Of course.” 

There was a twinkle in the older wizard’s eyes. He stood up and arranged the report, parchments back into the brown folder, and took the mobile which he deposited inside a drawer. 

“I expect you both to head for individual interviewing this afternoon, a memo should get to your desks indicating the hour. You may go.”

She stood up and Harry was already with a hand over the handle when Gawain spoke again.

“You two are amongst  the best aurors we’ve had in a while, I hope we can keep counting on you both to work together.”

Harry opened the door, looking over her head at Gawain, making her feel invisible.

“Thank you, sir.”

He was out before she could even thank the head auror.

*** 

The rest of the day was a nightmare. The files and folders for the new case she’d been assigned had started coming and she had a profound distaste of veritaserum-filled interviews. The fact she’d slept with her partner whilst on their assignment was one that made this particular interrogation even harder. The fear she may be asked what she’d been doing the rest of the time they’d been in Ireland had her stomach tied in knots. She wasn’t being questioned until three with Harry’s turn being half an hour before hers, and that made the rest of her morning one miserable blur. 

Harry had been snappier than usual and whilst she knew she deserved it, her ignoring of him what was fueling his hurt, she couldn’t help the pang she felt in her chest as his usual jabs stabbed her in a different way. She felt as if she’d betrayed him in a way, the thought ridiculous but painful nonetheless. She worried she’d broken something that hadn’t even had time to begin, that whatever space separated them now was of the unbridgeable sort. But her own fear had her gripping at what she knew to be safe with firm hands, even if that safety came with the price being her own pain.

She knew she was being particularly awful towards their mates when they started clearing her path as she left for her interview, a sign she’d learnt to recognise after a few years working in the department. She told herself this was good, her being left alone, being feared and unapproachable. 

Half an hour later, she repeated this to herself as she left the office where she’d been asked a million questions after swallowing down the content of a vial, grateful that none of them had been about her free time. 

Instead of thinking about her personal life, once she was back at her desk she poured all of her energy into her work, getting and reading as many related files as she could and scribbling down the beginnings of a plan. Her solo assignment consumed her to the point that when she looked up for the second time that day it was already past the end of their shift, her working longer hours something that surprised no one. They knew better than to interrupt her.

She noticed that besides Robards’ office, which remained closed but with a distinct tall shadow pacing inside, only her and Harry’s desks remained occupied. He was gathering his things as she took hers and she wondered if perhaps she should make a run for it, leave before he caught up with her. She was closer to the lift after all and it was with this thought that she made a beeline for it.

She was entering the lift, ready to sigh with relief when a tall wizard dashed inside, the doors closing right behind him. 

Harry seemed to be mulling something over, his jaw working in a way she’d learnt to recognise meant he was about to choose his words carefully. She shifted her eyes so she’d stare at the closed doors in front of them but found it impossible not to look at him as he cleared his throat, shifting his feet.

“Let me guess.” His eyes had a fiery look to them, a burning fury born out of days of being evaded. “You thought that you could, what? Sleep with me because of this reputation that you think I have?”

She didn’t try to correct him, defend herself, even clarify what it was that was happening inside her head. Inside her chest. She’d let his tirade continue for she felt wholly deserving of his accusations.

“Answer me, for fucks sake!” 

He looked so desperate for an answer, his tone more pleading than angry, that she found her voice. She cleared her throat before speaking, willing her voice to be steady.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.” At his incredulous look, she continued. “For us to sleep together.”

“So you’re just going to pretend it never happened?” He sounded as incredulous as he looked and she steeled herself against it.

“It would be better if we could be civil, but yes.”

He laughed a bitter laugh, throwing his head back and running his hand through his hair. He seemed to be asking Merlin himself for some sort of grace lest he kill her right there and then. 

“Ah… so this is about you then.”

A statement, one she didn’t want to rebuke or affirm. It was about her. It was never about him. But she’d swallow her tongue before she gave him that. 

The certainty that he was right seemed to have given Harry the kind of drive he needed to push her buttons, to push for more, to have her walls crumble under his undivided focus.

He took two steps to stand directly in front of her, making it hard for her to breathe easily or think clearly. Her thoughts were muddled with the woodsy scent of him,  his piercing eyes pinning her to the ground.

“You and me, we’re past civil.” His hand came up to put one of the curls that had escaped her bun around her ear.

She tried moving, but her body would not cooperate, his proximity intoxicating.

“Tell me you don’t feel this,” he said closer to her face now, slightly bent so his face hovered over hers. “Come on, tell me you don’t want to kiss me now.”

She looked at his mouth, memories of how it felt against hers, pressed against her skin, its softness and warmth.

“I don’t.” 

His face lowered, a humorous laugh escaping him as he repeated the words he’d said to her more than once by now. This time, they had no heat behind them, just a level of amusement and incredulity. 

“You’re such a fucking liar.”

The feel of his hands around her waist, inching upwards as he spoke, was what did her in. Her resolve to put that fateful Saturday morning behind them collapsed under his touch. She grabbed his neck, pulled him down towards her fully, and her mouth found his with ease. She kissed him as if she was parched, drinking in the feel of him.

Her back hit the lift’s wall, one of his hands at her jaw and the other making its way inside her blouse, caressing the soft skin of her waist and her back. She moaned shamelessly into the kiss, inviting him in further as his body slotted against hers. Their bodies came together as if guided by a compass, each of them the north to the other. 

She was drunk on the feel of him, in the taste of him. It was a taste of the divine. The feel of his hands on her body and his mouth on hers was everything, the only thing she could focus on. She didn’t want this moment to end. She didn’t want to ever go without his all-consuming want and the heights it brought. The need for more urged her to tug at his hair, needing him impossibly closer.

It was only when the voice announcing the floor they’d reach echoed in between the sounds of fast breathing and moans that she begrudgingly pulled back. Her lips were thoroughly kissed, wild curls framing her face, and her eyes were glazed over by lust. She thought that she surely was quite the sight, but definitely not as much as him, hair wildly pointing at all angles with his glasses askew and deep red tinting his luscious lips.

She stifled a little laugh as she walked in front of him after he motioned for her to leave the lift first. Harry was busy cleaning his lips and closing his robe to hide the most prominent evidence their snogging had left him with. The way she affected him, the power it brought her, had a thrill run through her.

She felt his pinky brush hers as they walked side by side and her lips pulled up.

“My place?” He asked her, risking a  furtive glance down at her.

For once, she let her feelings guide her, pushing away whatever anxious thought her mind may bring ashore.  She nodded, teeth coming to bite down her lower lip as she took a shaky breath.

Harry gave her a roguish grin, green eyes alight and full of promises. He gestured with his head towards the floo system where he made sure they were alone before grabbing her hand, pulling her towards him and stating his address.

***

It was inevitable, for them to make it to his flat in between heated kisses and tangled limbs, their clothes littering his living room floor as he guided them to his bedroom. Teeth pulled at lips and hands tugged at fabric, at hair. Hands trailed down soft skin and fingers searched, looking for something to anchor them to earth, as their bodies collided. They came together, joined as one, lips hovering but not quite touching as Harry drove into her with vigour, little whines escaping his lips as her body jolted with the force of his thrusts. 

She thought she’d never felt as whole as she did when she was with him, her body pliant under his touch, her heat embracing him as he gave her as much as he took. She’d never had someone look at her the way he did, a mixture of fear and unaltered want that threatened to set her on fire. She wondered if she’d gone mad with her willingly helping him commit arson, light her and her life aflame. The heat of the fire, the lick of flames, spread through her as her mouth opened in a silent scream, bliss washing all over her.

Warmth enveloped her later in the form of a solid body wrapping around hers, Harry’s sated smile as he kissed her before laying by her side another one of those memories she was storing for safe keep. 

He played with her fingers, catching his breath as moonlight illuminated his bedroom and she took in the decidedly masculine decor around her. The dark cherry wood of the furniture and navy blue linen contrasted against the pale grey painted walls. She shivered slightly as minutes passed. He pulled the cover over them, gathering her in his arms as he settled down and let her head rest on his chest. She found this was easier, the lack of eye contact something she preferred as she found herself once again in bed with him.

“I don’t think I can be open about this,” she said suddenly and she felt him stiffen, a low hum coming out of him.

“As in us seeing other people open or…”

She let out an incredulous laugh.

“No! Unless you want to?” She suddenly felt unsure. It’d been something she found ridiculous, but she wasn’t sure where they stood.

“I don’t,” he said simply, his hand trailing her back, his slightly calloused fingertips running softly over her spine.

“I meant, as in us being open about the fact we’re sleeping together.”

“Ah,” one sound and fingers that stilled.

She fought the urge to raise her head and look at him.

His fingers resumed their trailing, now adding little circles as his voice filled her ears again. “I can respect that.” 

She waited for a ‘but’ to follow and he didn’t disappoint. 

“But I need you to know I won’t tell people about what you told me at the wedding if that's what you’re afraid of.”

Her breath caught at the simple and direct way in which he approached the subject, how easily he’d been reading her, making her want to grab her clothes and run. But she focused on his honesty instead, on his warm hand on her back and his rising chest under her cheek. She listened to his steady heartbeat, so powerful under her ear, and let herself close her eyes for a second.

She hummed her appreciation and let him hold her, his head resting on top of hers as her thumb rubbed the dusting of hair on his chest.

She took a leap, ready to give him an offering. A token of her gratitude. The need to share the part of her that’d always been hidden in the shadows was much too strong under the safe haven of his warmth.

“They found me in France,” she didn’t need to clarify who, “a crying baby next to two dead muggles in an alleyway.”

Harry held her tighter, his breath leaving him in a shaky exhale. He didn’t interrupt her, letting her continue at her own pace.

“They hadn’t been able to have children and my mother just–” she swallowed down, her throat suddenly tight. “She said she knew it was meant to be that way.”

She closed her eyes briefly, pushing some traitorous tears back before speaking again, ripping the lid off pandora’s box.

“They came back with me, all paperwork was done and secrecy vows were taken, and just like that I was a Greengrass.”

He kissed the top of her head in such a tender gesture that she had to force herself not to cry, the burning in her eyes increasing tenfold.

“Do you know what their names were?”

“Charlotte and Richard Granger,” she said in a soft voice. The names she hadn’t uttered in years rang loud in her ears.

Each time she thought of them, of the way she fought to keep their memory away from her, to erase them from her life, a wave of guilt would wash over her. Its force was so mighty she thought she might drown in it.

“At least you’ve kept your initials,” Harry joked lightly, giving her a little squeeze. 

She laughed a shaky laugh that was more powered by gratefulness than by the joke being funny. There was so much she wanted to say to this man, a man she now realised maybe she didn’t truly know. But as she raised her head from his chest, propped on her arm to look at him, she found that words eluded her. So she showed him her gratitude instead.

She kissed his lips and his chest and she pulled at his raven strands as he let her ride him, the moon high in the sky and his hands low on her body. And this time, when she left in the middle of the night, she made sure to leave a note behind. The inked words were a promise that tried to strengthen the bridge that connected the two oceans that were their lives.

Chapter Text

September

There was a time when, if someone would have told Hermione that she would be carrying on an affair with Harry Potter, she would have outwardly laughed, a full-on disbelieving mocking laugh. She would have scoffed as well, forcefully shoving whatever attraction she had for the man in question back into the innermost depths of her mind. She would have also suggested the person saying such a ludicrous thing see a mind healer. And yet, an affair was precisely what she was carrying with Harry.

It wasn’t as easy as she would have imagined. Trying to keep pretences at work could sometimes be harder than she had anticipated. It was things like the hard set of Harry’s jaw as he focused on parchments in front of him that were awfully distracting. So were his fingers as they ran through those raven locks she’d run her own fingers through so many times. She could lose herself in the way he could command the room the moment he spoke. His updates on how his latest assignment was going were captivating to her now, but not so much because of their contents. Whatever was happening in Scotland was something she couldn’t remember for the life of her. But the depth of his voice, the intensity of his eyes, and his resolute tone… these were things she couldn’t forget.

There had been one fateful occasion where he’d dismissed a ridiculous interruption made by Finnigan in a way that had made heat spread through her. Her cheeks reddened as she pinpointed that it was the same sort of tone he’d use if he was feeling particularly bossy during any of the nights they'd spent together. She’d had to excuse herself and leave the room lest her red cheeks give her away. She’d sat over a loo, after placing a cooling charm, trying not to think of those nights when he bossed her around and she let him. And those nights where they shared each other’s bodies had been rather frequent, whatever fire had been ignited within them not abating any time soon.

They’d meet by the time it was dark out, hours or days of pent-up need culminating in an explosion of clashing mouths and missing clothes. The accidental bursts of magic they experienced as patience had run thin and buttons had become obstacles made it so garments vanished in thin air. She’d gone home with a shirt of his on more than one occasion, praising Merlin himself she chose skirts over trousers, lest she had to wear a pair of his. 

As the weather got colder and the nights got longer, their stints of passion remained, their coupling as feverish as ever. And with them, so did the soft-spoken truths they would only dare say in the middle of the night, as darkness blanketed them both from the outside world.

It was one of those nights, as Harry had cut some pieces of cheese and heated some soup, that they’d broached the topic of his particular swearing habit. He’d been distracted and his finger had made contact with the saucepan, a low stream of muggle curses coming from his mouth as he grabbed his wand to perform a cooling spell on the burnt flesh of his finger. 

She had been wearing one of his shirts, perched against the counter, a glass of wine in one hand. She’d swirled the clear liquid, contemplating whether she should open her mouth.

“You swear like a muggle,” she’d remarked in the end, taking a sip of her drink.

He’d moved the soup away from the stove, the tell-tale sign of him thinking something over obvious to her now by the way he worked his jaw.

Silence had stretched as he’d motioned for her to sit at the table, bringing the soup and then the plate with cheese and crackers. She’d served them both some soup whilst he grabbed his glass and brought a bottle of red over, the motion so domestic she wondered if perhaps she should’ve rethought drinking at eleven in the evening on an empty stomach. 

She’d blown softly on her spoonful of soup, patiently waiting for him to say anything.

“My parents fought a lot when I was a child.” 

His eyes had been on his glass of red wine, his piercing gaze making it a miracle the glass hadn’t shattered. His long fingers had played with the glass stem before he’d brought it to his lips, taking a generous sip as she continued to eat her soup.

“Dad had some uhm–” he’d seemed to be thinking of the correct word to use, his brows furrowing slightly. “Intense fans.”

“Was that while he played in Europe or for the national team?” she’d inquired, grabbing her own glass.

“Both.”

He seemed to be lost in memories, his eyes darkening in a way that suggested he, too, had some ghosts that lurked at the corners of his mind.

“They argued a lot back then,” he’d poured himself another glass, “my mother was never the quiet type, I could hear her swearing from my room.”

Her hand had stopped midway then, soup forgotten and chest tight at the image he was painting for her, a small bespectacled Harry hearing his parents argue filling her mind.

“I picked up the cursing from her,” he’d finally said, downing his glass. 

She’d cleared her throat, the pieces of the puzzle that was Harry Potter slowly coming together.

“Were your dad’s fans female?” she’d asked cautiously.

Harry met her gaze with a look that said more than words ever could. he felt her throat tighten at the sight, the meaningful look he’d just given her undoing some of her reservations and opening the dam that kept her guilt at bay. It flooded through her until she had to swallow down the stream of apologies he surely didn’t need to hear now.

It made so much sense, why accusations regarding his dating habits bothered him to the extent they did. Why even whilst they’d attended Hogwarts, he’d been reluctant to date after the Weasley fiasco. He was far too polite and gentlemanly to affirm or deny claims, she’d been able to see that now. 

So instead of apologising, she’d hummed, eyes fixed on his expressive face and cautious gaze.

“I guess I get it now.”

He didn’t ask her to elaborate and she didn’t try. A mutual understanding settled between them.

They’d spent the rest of their dinner in silence then, with him lost in his memories and she lost in the realisation that she truly and most definitely didn’t know the man that she’d thought she’d known for a big part of her life. The notion that her idea of him was erroneous had been one that sat on her as heavily as his gloomy mood.

***

It was only by later September that she’d finally relented and let Harry inside her house, the two-story building a place that not even her own family visited with frequency. It was a cool Friday evening and they picked a caesar salad for her and some chips and a burger for him, her desire to cook nonexistent and his rumbling stomach insistent as they walked from the small muggle-owned restaurant to her home.

He opened the brown paper bag and began plucking chips, contentedly munching on the greasy pieces as he took in the neighbourhood around him. It was a nice area, with rows upon rows of identical-looking houses and black little fences.  The well-kept shrubs and potted plants were the only bits of colour in a myriad of white and black.

She lowered her wards and quietly whispered her address to him, the layers of protection her parents had insisted on making her feel somewhat self-conscious, the level of unfounded paranoia on her family’s side was one she couldn’t justify.  She let the words sink as she pulled away from him. Her home came into view and she slowly took the few steps towards the matte black door at the end of the short stairs.

They transfigured their jackets back into their issued auror robes the moment they went inside and hung them by the door as lights came to life at a flick of her wand. The only sound around them was that of their boots over the polished wooden floor as they made their way to the kitchen.

She watched him take on her house with great interest, green eyes iridescent and seemingly looking for something as she grabbed some plates from the deep green cupboard.

Harry gave her a self-conscious smile and his hand came to rub at the back of his neck, a small laugh at being caught escaping his lips.

“Sorry, I keep waiting for a house-elf to appear,” he said as a way of explanation.

She raised her eyebrows at him, setting a pair of glasses on the table.

“Because I’m a Greengrass?”

She watched him roll his eyes, huffing in exasperation, and she let out a laugh.

“Relax, I’m messing with you.” She gave him a cunning smile as she said so, not at all apologetic. “Besides, that’s my parents.”

Harry shook his head, a small disbelieving smile on his lips and his hands in his pockets.

“Elves can be handy,” he commented as he approached the table and took the food out of the bag. What remained of his chips was dropped unceremoniously over his plate. 

“I think I prefer my privacy over their handiness,” she said simply, casually setting a beer in front of him. Not as if she’d got it specifically for him because she didn’t like it. Not as if she’d been expecting his brilliant smile that did things to her insides.  Not at all.

She took a bite of her chicken as a thought crossed her mind.

“Do you have an elf at your parents?”

Harry almost choked on his burger as he let a full belly laugh, eyes full of mirth as she looked at him, confused.

“My mum would jinx us all if we ever did,” he said once he’d recuperated, taking a swig from his beer.  

She hummed, not knowing enough about his mother to make any sort of remark.

“Besides, with Sirius as a godfather and my dad being… well, my dad, there’s no such thing as privacy.”

They had tested the need for privacy a couple of hours later, back up in her room. And when she woke up the following day, still naked under her silk sheets, she was glad she had the privacy of her own home to deal with the strange feeling that had bloomed in her chest upon waking up alone.

***

October

 A trip to Scotland came up abruptly in the first week of October. There was a lead in Harry’s case that he had to follow. It was the first time since their trip back in August that they wouldn’t see each other in a week, and Hermione decided she definitely wasn’t missing the wizard she often shared a bed with. She was an independent witch, one who had looked after herself for most of her life. She could go back to how her life had been prior to Harry.

She noticed, however, the way a certain type of warmth had begun spreading through her chest at the mere sight of him, the way he’d been softening her hard edges, and she decided that maybe this trip of his was just what she needed to combat the imminent defrosting of her carefully crafted icy nature. There was too much at risk, too much to be lost if she let her guard down, and that’s precisely what she’d been doing. He’d infiltrated her defences, snuck in and taken up residency as burning coal, igniting an emotion from deep within her that she couldn’t and wouldn’t name.

She was unsuccessful in her pursuit to contain the further spreading of whatever maddening and terrifying feeling she was experiencing. The sight of Harry back from Edinburgh made her stop in her tracks.  The imperceptible smile he gave her as he left Gawain’s office was what sustained her for the rest of their work day. The need to touch his skin, to kiss his lips, feel him under her fingertips, it was something that consumed her. 

Hours seemed to drag by, the words in front of her eyes blurring as her mind struggled to focus on them. She gave up in the end, choosing to leave the moment the day was over instead of waiting for him. She sullenly flooed out of the Ministry and made her way to the apparition point that would take her a step closer to continue her brooding at her house. She discarded her robe and kicked her shoes off the moment she was home, telling herself some more brooding was in order, maybe even a long bath. She didn’t get much sulking done, though, as a knock came from the front door. Hope blossomed inside of her at the sound.

Harry barely got to take a step in as she launched herself at him and attacked his mouth, her greeting one made in actions rather than words. He responded with as much eagerness, hands not staying in one place for long, his touch and kisses desperate.

They didn’t make it to her room, the sofa in the poorly illuminated living room was where they fell for their first round, chests heaving and cheeks flushed as they became one. 

They did manage to make it to her room for round two, moonlight cascading over their bodies as she sank to her knees whilst she brought him to his. The profanities falling from his lips were sweetened by the whispering of her name. He looked at her in awe once she was done, fiercely kissing her and throwing her body on the bed where he proceeded to worship every inch of her skin.

“That was intense,” Harry said as they laid side by side, arms thrown back behind his head and eyes focused on a point in the ceiling.

She hummed her agreement, contentedly snuggling against her pillow. “I like intense,” she admitted softly.

He turned to her then, eyebrows raised and eyes alight, his head now popped over the palm of his hand.“Yeah?”

She nodded and bit her lip.  “That’s why Draco and I slept together.”

His eyes opened wide, and an incredulous laugh made his body shake. She wondered if maybe saying another wizard’s name in bed was also frowned upon after you’d already had sex.

“We only slept together once,” she clarified as if that would change anything.

“Would’ve never pegged you as someone who’d shag Malfoy,” he said as he seemed to mull something over. “Isn’t he married to your sister?”

“Yeah.” 

She stilled at his silence and furrowed brows and chose her next words carefully. 

“But this was way before their arranged marriage.” Then, she added almost as an afterthought, “She hates me, amongst other things, for having slept with her husband first.”

She watched the way wheels seemed to be turning inside his head and found she didn’t want him to think her sleeping with Draco had been because she’d harboured feelings for the man. Before she could give it more thought, she found herself speaking once again.

“There are certain proclivities we both wanted to explore. He would never get to do that with Astoria.”

Hermione's arrangement with Draco had been exactly what the word stated, an arrangement. They had gone about it in the perfunctory manner in which two business people would go about analysing a market, taking inventory of the pros and cons. They had parted ways once the night was done, with no ill feelings or delusions regarding what their shared encounter was. They had never spoken about it again, a silent agreement that what had transpired was to stay in the past, deeply buried amongst all their other secrets.

She watched as Harry processed her words, the differences between them more evident the more they talked. She was grateful for the soft blanket of darkness that enveloped them, the dim light somehow making their stark differences less jarring. She wasn’t sure she would have felt safe sharing such things with him in broad daylight,  his perfectly adjusted and wholesome presence was one she wouldn't have dared imagine before that fateful trip back in August.

She pondered just how wrong she’d been, how she’d so easily thought the worst of him. She had raised a figurative finger towards him and judged him under a certain morality. One built from years spent within hypocritical high society standards, all whilst failing to recognise she had fallen prey to it herself.

As she closed her eyes, ready to let shame take over, she heard him hum.

“It makes sense,” Harry said finally, his tone devoid of all judgement.

“You think?’” she asked, eyes still closed and voice small.

She felt his large hand gently squeeze her upper arm, willing her to look at him. She met his clear irises which looked forest green as the street’s light illuminated his profile from behind.

“Yeah,” he seemed to choose his next words with the same considerate manner in which he’d been approaching all of their late-night talks. “It seems to me you didn’t have much room to be yourselves. It’s good you had someone with whom to explore certain aspects of life.”

Hermione involuntarily closed her eyes again, letting his words wash over her and her muscles relax as he pulled her towards his chest, her arms reflexively going around his middle as he embraced her.

There was a level of vulnerability that came with sharing both her inner world and the most intimate parts of her life that was both new and terrifying. She wasn’t sure anyone had ever seen her, not past her ice-cold exterior. To have Harry Potter, of all people, regard her fully. To have him see who she was clear as day, even as she futilely tried to hide by opening up whilst the lights were out. It was the kind of out-of-body experience that had Hermione feeling utterly naked in a way that wasn’t sexual at all. 

In a way, she thought, as she’d discarded layers upon layers of secrecy, it had been a bit like discarding clothes. With each tale and memory, an item would come off, and more of her was bared to him. And as she stood, slowly revealing herself to him, he’d take her in, savouring what had now been exposed to him. 

The whole experience was far more intimate than sex.

She listened to his heart, sure and steady under her ear, a sound she’d missed whilst he’d been gone. A sound she wasn’t sure she could live without. And she wondered what it was that she was doing, what it was that they were doing, and how long it would take for it all to come crashing down.

Chapter Text

October

Autumn had always been one of Hermione’s favourite seasons with spring being a close second. She often retreated to read her books, drink her tea, and take the turning weather as an excuse not to partake in some of the social events which she was expected to be a part of. She preferred her nights to be filled with a warm cider, a titillating novel and a thick blanket as she curled in a cushy armchair.

She’d never been a fan of events, much less so of galas, so when the memo reminding them of the upcoming Samhain Gala at the end of the month arrived, she audibly groaned. She loathed the event with every fibre of her being and if there was an event she loathed even more then that would probably be the yearly Yule Ball which most of their international guests always attended. 

Small talk wasn’t one of her fortes and neither was dancing. Avoiding cursing old men whose hands wandered a tad too much was also not one of her strong suits, as the previous year had so easily demonstrated. She didn’t want a repeat of it, but she also didn’t want to attend with a date. She never had, not in the 5 years she’d been at the Ministry. She always showed up alone and left alone, the glasses of bubbly drinks and finger food all company she needed for the night.

This time though, she briefly wondered what attending the gala with a certain green-eyed wizard would be like. She indulged in the fantasy of arriving with Harry, his arm around her waist and his eyes on her. She let herself imagine what this formal occasion could be like for them, the memories of the wedding they’d attended in August seeming to be from a lifetime ago. She pictured what he would look like, if he’d opt for formal robes or, like many wizards, would favour a waistcoat and jacket instead. She wondered if he, too, was a bad dancer or if he could actually keep a rhythm, and whether he enjoyed it or not. There was so much she still didn’t know about Harry and she found she craved this knowledge deeply.

She couldn’t let herself fall down the path of the what-ifs, though. The need to push her fantasies far away from her mind was one that she had to constantly remind herself of.  It was imperative she rooted herself to reality, even if it felt like she and Harry were destined to crash course.

She squared her shoulders and swallowed down the bilious taste in her mouth. She would attend the Gala alone, just like she did every year. She’d watch Harry from afar as she drowned her need in gold. The oceans between them were ones they couldn’t cross. She’d avert her eyes, the way she always did when he caught her looking, and would instead focus on making sure she was polite enough so that Gawain wouldn’t need to have a word with her. She’d be her own little island, far out in the middle of deep dark  waters.  But perhaps, if she was lucky, she’d get to spend the night with Harry this time around. The tides might rise and meet across land thanks to the crescent moon. And that had to be enough for her, for them. 

She stared without really looking at the various parchments spread over her desk, taunting her with illegal dealings she had yet to resolve and couldn’t help but look up to the other side of the room. It was a siren’s call guiding her voyage.  The rows of desks and bent-over aurors were whole continents between her and the man that made warmth spread through her chest. The feeling of lack, of wonder, of shame, they all battled within her. She worried her lower lip, blood-red stained as she preferred, the perfect colour to hide the open flesh from minutes upon minutes of biting the soft tissue with her teeth. 

Harry must have felt her staring for he looked up, green eyes flashing with an emotion she couldn’t identify, the bluish tint from the closed room’s lights reflecting on his glasses as he gave her the tiniest of smiles.  She ducked her head, flushed and unable to hide the small smile that was now adorning her features. The brief eye contact and the acknowledgement of each other were much too brief, much too sweet. A taste of forbidden fruit she longed to consume.

She wasn’t sure the nights they shared would be enough, but she knew she’d try for them to be. She’d squeeze every last drop, every minute, every second they shared with zest. Propelled by this thing here, between them. This terrifying yet wonderful thing that she couldn’t and wouldn’t give up.

***

She was wrapped in a towel when he showed up that night, a quick hello on his lips and raven hair matching the sky above him. He sighed into her greeting kiss the moment they were inside, his mouth tasting of whisky and his hands cold. She laughed and shrieked away.

“Get those freezing hands off me!”   

Harry bit his lip, a retort at the ready that he wisely didn’t share. A breath passed, the short moment a clear contrast to the past, the light banter feather soft to their previous shrapnel tirades. He made a show of taking his wand out, movements slow and deliberate, while a small smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. A warming charm was then on his lips and his hands were now up, the warm pink flesh his yielding to her. She let her towel drop to the floor in a heap, a white flag of surrender.  They made peace as their mouths collided and their bodies took over, a battle of wills and a treaty of soft moans. Profanities and names were all words that were exchanged with Merlin as their witness.

It was only later, when both of them were sated and tired, that she could hear his brain working. The gears were well-oiled from solving cases and from putting pieces together. She knew she was a puzzle he couldn’t figure out but that he desperately wanted to. The little mismatched pieces she so begrudgingly gave him weren’t enough to fill the gaping holes, whatever possibility of getting a clear picture of who she was something he was having to work hard for. 

She could almost see him, bent over the scattered pieces he’d collected, with his jaw set and his nimble fingers trying to put the puzzle that was Hermione Greengrass together.

His hands tightened as she kissed his flesh and decided to put him out of his misery. She raised her head from his pectoral, fingers playing with the coarse hair on his chest and a cheeky smile on her lips.

“You’re dying to ask me something. What is it?”

He shook his head, chest rising and falling as he let a little laugh of his own escape his lips, eyes crinkling at the sides. 

“You don’t miss much, do you?”

It seemed like a loaded question, his tone was light but his eyes were cautious, whatever lightness her questioning had provoked was not enough to hide his inner turmoil. She shrugged, avoiding his question and waited for him to answer hers.

“The gala is coming up…”

“Ah,” she said, suddenly anxious, the bed now feeling far too small.

She sat up, not bothering to hide her chest from him. He did the same, the small space between them stretching, a river of wariness eroding whatever common ground they’d managed to bridge. 

Harry’s eyes flickered from her own, then to her hands on her lap where her thumbs were playing with each other, and back up to her tense shoulders.

“Your sister is attending with Draco, right?”

She nodded,  eyes pleading, her want and her fear polar opposites.

“Will you be okay?”  

The question was genuine, his tone soft and caring, and yet, she knew that that wasn't what he wanted to ask. That somewhere between him bringing the topic up and watching her reaction, he pivoted into a whole other route, one safer. She swallowed bitter resignation and sour desolation, the breath filling her burning lungs suffocating.

“I will be.” She grabbed his hand, thumb rubbing his knuckles as if the touch of her skin on his would bring them back together. “Thank you for asking.”

He swallowed, whatever words he’d intended to say were left to die. He squeezed her hand briefly, his much larger hand engulfing hers.

“Always.”

It felt like a promise, one she craved but couldn’t take, one she needed to erase from his lips. She kissed him, softly at first and harder when he groaned into her mouth, the sound of his growing pleasure what she needed to scrape his one-word oath from where it’d lodged itself inside her heart.

***

She sighed into her glass, letting the cool rim dance against her lips as she nursed a drink. The sweet and effervescent liquid was the one thing sustaining her as inane chatter surrounded her, all guests mingling and putting on a farce for the sake of their careers. Aspirations drowning whatever ounce of truthfulness, of genuineness, that they could ever dare show. It was looking into a mirror.

A bitter laugh filled her ears at the thought, the sound coming from somewhere deep inside her, a place twisted and ugly, hidden behind pretty charms and fancy clothing. A place where her own truthfulness lay. The gown she wore was one of the finer silks, the tight drape of fabric on her chest showcasing her modest cleavage. The rotten space that hid behind pale soft skin and rounded flesh was deceptive in its beauty. The golden leaves adorning her trim waist were a coronation of the tragedy that was her life. And much like the people around her, she had no one to blame but herself.

Blood-red, she thought. The colour of her dress and her lips. She was always ready for battle, a warning in her attire and in the glimmer of her dark kohl-lined eyes. The hard set of her lips was a steel edge, ready to bring people down with a sharp well-delivered line. 

And yet, she was utterly defenceless to the sight of Harry walking towards her, black shirt and black waistcoat, ready to mourn for her dignity as a breathy exhale escaped her and the coolness of the flute in her hands did nothing to calm the heat rising heat within her.

She was hyper-aware of all the eyes in the room, of the many faces that could so easily glance their way and see the flush of her cheeks, the slight tremble of her fingers and the way in which he stood close to her, closer than it would’ve seemed appropriate for two people who worked together and didn’t get along particularly well. 

Light from the many floating candles adorning the spacious room reflected on his glasses as he gave her a once over, a genuine smile he couldn’t fight against breaking free and illuminating his features in a way no light ever could. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him, so spectacularly beautiful, so wonderfully kind, and so open in his want for her.

“You look stunning,” he said sincerely, his gaze was earnest and his hands found purchase inside his trousers pockets. 

She hid her pleased little smile behind her glass and took a quick sip, trying and failing to stomp down her reaction to his praise. 

“You look rather dashing yourself,” she replied softly, eyes scanning her surroundings as she said so. 

He took notice of her anxious behaviour, a dark look passing over his eyes as he grabbed a flute from a floating tray that passed them. Half of it was gone as he downed it in a couple of gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbling with the motion. A deep breath escaped him as he took another once over of her and motioned with his head towards the crowd.

“Guess I should go then, make sure I keep my reputation and all that.”

She felt the jab for what it was, the implications that were hidden behind his words ones she knew were true, but she didn’t think she could acknowledge on this particular night. So she swallowed them down with difficulty and held his inscrutable gaze.

“I guess you should.”

She regretted the words the moment they were out of her lips. The way his face hardened at her words tore at her heartstrings, undoing the precarious knots that kept it together. She needed his features to soften, for his smile to shine and his tender gaze to return. She watched him turn around, ready to leave her standing alone as she deserved. Alone like she needed but didn’t want to be, the two sides of her once again collided in a match where she would never be a winner. 

She grabbed his hand impulsively, dropping it the moment he turned back towards her as if it’d burned her, not missing the hurt look on his face as she did so. She willed herself to look at his eyes and his eyes alone, the need to frantically look to see if anyone had noticed the out-of-character move was one she fought against. He deserved so much more than she was giving him, than she could give him, and it hadn’t been apparent to her up until right this minute just how unfair she was being with him. As they stood together in a crowd of faceless people and she felt lonelier than she ever had, drowning in her knowledge of everything that couldn't be.

“Will I see you tonight?”

He sighed again, a heavy tired sigh she felt deep within her bones.

“You know you will,” he said with a sad smile and the resignation of a man letting himself be anchored down and drowned.

 It made her eyes prickle as tears gathered at their corners. So she simply nodded, far too choked up to say anything else, to prolong the moment without drawing further attention. She watched him leave, taking his kind eyes and his warmth with him, the coldness she knew so well spreading within her and embracing her in a frigid hug.

Harry’s form got lost in the crowd, between gowns and robes and people that didn’t matter to her.  The moment another floating tray passed her, Hermione took a second glass, depositing her empty one on it and dabbing at her eyes with a shaky hand.

“You’re sleeping with him.”

She jumped slightly, cursing herself as some of her drink spilt over her hand. She’d been too distracted, her usually guarded stance had been thrown to the wind. She accepted the offered handkerchief, the gesture both attentive and old-fashioned much like the man in front of her. 

“I’ve never been able to hide much from you.” 

Besides her, Draco laughed. His blonde hair was slicked back, buttery golden locks falling behind his ears, his immaculate presence one she was familiar with. She accepted the familiarity of seeing her oldest friend with the desperation of a woman dying in a foreign land. This language between them was one she knew how to speak, years of sharing a common room and family dinners had provided her with as much.

“My wife would have a field day if she knew,” Draco commented coolly. His hands were deep in his pockets and his eyebrows high on his forehead. A small smirk played on his lips, mischief alight in his eyes. He’d always been a walking juxtaposition.

“She can’t know,” Hermione said seriously. He simply raised an eyebrow in question and she lowered her tone, her voice taking on the sharp quality she wielded so well. “I’m serious, Draco. Nobody can find out.”

He sobered up at her tone and the evident anxiety cursing through her. He stared at her, trying to decipher something as his grey eyes scanned her face with all the precision of someone who dealt with politicians for a living. He seemed to have found what he was looking for, understanding washing over him, a resignation of sorts passing over his features. Hermione wondered what it was that he saw, why she was watching disappointment in yet another man’s eyes. 

Draco’s shoulders slumped, whatever he’d seen on his friend something he knew by years and experience he had no chance of changing.

“Alright, but I hope you know what you're doing.”

“I do too,” she admitted with a small waver in her voice. 

She gave him back his handkerchief which he cleaned promptly with a swirl of his wand and pocketed slowly.  He sighed heavily as his eyes settled somewhere to the left.

“I guess I should get back to your sister, she’s rather terrifying for an almost Squib.” He visibly shuddered, more so to make her laugh than out of fear, and she let out a small laugh at his ridiculous display and the way in which he’d described Astoria.

“Don’t let my mother hear you say that.” 

Draco gave her a teasing smile, body already angled towards his left and a dangerous twinkle in his eyes.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare. Although the only thing scarier than your sister and mother is you.”

She shook her head as Draco went back to where Astoria stood, an unpleasant scowl on her pale face as she took on the sight of her sister and husband interacting. Hermione knew her sister disliked her and did so openly, but she’d been hoping with time it would pass. That being with someone like Draco, who gave her his undivided attention, would calm her sister’s jealousy. She hoped it would crush the bitter anger towards all that she was: her blood status,  her power, and her hold on her parent’s pride.

The moment another tray passed her, she grabbed a canapé and popped it in her mouth. She didn’t wish to have a repeat of the last time she’d drunk on an empty stomach though. So she slowly made her way closer to the tall windows that overlooked the London sky. She stood there for a while, taking in the twinkling stars and unusually clear October night, and occasionally sipping from her half-full glass. 

“It’s a great view, although I must admit, not as good as the one I have now.”

She gave Theodore Nott a placid smile, fingers itching to grab her wand from her leg holster and curse him silly. He had always been a prat and she hadn’t had the misfortune of running into him in over a year, his political career had taken him on international affairs representing the Ministry abroad and she’d been grateful for it. If there had been another galaxy, she would’ve liked for him to be sent as well.

“You’re too kind.”  

He wasn’t, but she didn’t think he could take what she actually thought of him. 

“And you’re still as stunning as I remembered,” Theo said in what she was sure he thought was a smooth tone. His eyes scanned her body with open appreciation and she shuddered, stomach coiling unpleasantly.

She thought back to the other man who’d called her stunning and she wished she was still standing with him. The way she’d felt when he’d looked at her and said those words was so vastly different from what she was feeling now. Theo was looking at her in a way that made her skin crawl, his lecherous eyes making her wish she could gauge them out so he never again dared undress a woman with his wanton gaze. 

He got closer, taking her silence as an open invitation.  He inched his hand towards her, ready to place it over the curve of her hips.

“Touch me and you’re a dead man, Theo,” she said seriously, gripping her glass tighter.

“Come on, don’t be like that,” he teased, his hand now on her waist and a sardonic smile on his face.

She grabbed his hand and tried shrugging it off from her waist, both wanting to murder the man in front of her and fearing making a scene. She’d already gone through that shameful experience the previous year and she didn’t want Gawain on her case again. 

The smell of firewhisky reached her nose as Theo chuckled and got closer. She was ready to grab her wand, consequences be damned, when a voice she knew well made him turn around.

“Nott, I don’t think I had the pleasure of greeting you tonight.”

Harry’s eyes were murderous as he stared Theo down, the tone of his voice was pleasant but the hard set of his jaw and squared shoulders spoke volumes. 

“Potter,” Theo acquiesced in a way that made it sound like he’d just spit the word out. His hand was still on her waist and she took the chance to break free from his grasp, moving away from him and closer to where Harry stood.

Harry turned to her and she cowered under his piercing eyes, the burning fire in them darker than anything she’d ever seen.

“Gawain was asking for you,” he said simply in a detached tone she knew meant nothing good.

She nodded and let him lead the way, leaving a fuming Theodore behind. His ire seemed to match Harry’s as he took strides towards where Gawain was standing with an older man she recognised from some of their earlier training. Neither their boss nor the man who introduced himself as Albert Runcorn seemed to notice the sombre look on Harry’s face as they talked about their most recent cases and what an asset they both were to the DMLE. She could tell Harry’s mind was elsewhere, his usually jovial attitude and relaxed posture replaced with the barely contained restless energy she’d witnessed during their stay in Ireland. 

It was only once pleasantries were exchanged and Gawain was beaming at the two aurors that she felt she could excuse herself. It had been a night from hell and she felt like she was suffocating, the crimson fabric of her dress coiling around her like a python. She had barely made it to the hall, resting her head against the cool wall, when she felt a big warm hand on hers. 

She looked up to find Harry staring at her in a way she couldn’t place, the look behind his eyes one she had never seen on him, or on anymore she knew.

“Let’s get out of here.”

He tugged her forward, down the candle-lit corridor and away from the gala. Away from all pretences, from hands that she didn’t want on her body, and a role she wasn’t keen on playing anymore.

***

Harry had always been an intense lover, his passion at the time of bringing them both pleasure was one he had never truly shied away from. And yet, he’d always been gentle, his calloused hands soft over her skin, his touch more of a caress even if it’d always been precise.

There was no softness, no gentleness in the way he was touching her now. His eyes were ablaze as he took in the sight of her, devouring every inch of exposed skin with a predatory gaze that made her shiver. He’d been intense, yes, a quiet current of control that dared ignite her up in flames. But he’d never been as unabashedly open about his desire as he was now.

She thought she could see something else in his eyes as well, something far less pleasurable. It was something darker, something she’d got a glimpse of back at the gala.  But before she could form any other coherent thought, open her mouth to ask him if he was alright, she found herself being flipped over. Her stomach lay on the bed as his hands trailed from her hips down her legs, the heat of his mouth soon fanning over the exposed skin of her bare thighs. She felt his lips first, trailing open-mouthed kisses and then she felt the sharp sting of his teeth, the not-so-gentle nipping over the flesh of her inner thighs.

She was panting, hands fisting the sheets as his mouth inched higher, hands rough as he shoved her legs further apart. She thrashed as his mouth made contact with the sheer fabric over the apex of her thighs, his mouth purposeful and insistent.  His fingers soon pushed the material aside, digits playing her with practised ease. The sounds he was drawing out from her as he worked her closer to the edge were ones that would have made her blush hadn’t she been so far gone.

Before she could tip over, just as she was so close her legs had started shaking, he pulled back. She whined at the loss, ready to ask what he was thinking, turning her head to give him an unamused look. He slapped her arse then, the shock of his palm against her round cheek going straight to her core. She blushed then, at the wanton moan that escaped her lips, and his face seemed to harden at the sound. His jaw was set, eyes darkening further as he undid the buckle of his belt, quickly making work of his trousers.

She tried turning around but was soon stopped, a hand gripped her hip tightly and another was pushed between her shoulder blades, flattening her chest against the mattress. Her dress was hunched up to her waist, golden leaves washed in crimson. Her breath was now coming in rapid short gusts of air, she was turned on beyond belief as Harry pulled her underwear down in a motion so quick she gasped when she felt him at her entrance.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice rough and lower than she’d ever heard it.

She nodded her assent, incapable of forming words. 

Something between a moan and a scream left her lips as he thrust into her quicker than he’d ever done and she felt him deep within her. The stretch was slightly uncomfortable despite how wet she was and she was grateful he gave her a second to adjust before he withdrew and pushed back in.  

He drove into her like a man on a mission, his thrusts not so fast as they were hard, his hips coming against her backside with bruising force. She held tightly into the sheets, trying to stop her body from moving forward on the bed, little whines escaping her lips as he thrust into her at a punishing pace.

His hand came to her hair, twisting it and pulling at it tightly but not enough to hurt. It forced her torso to arch as he lifted her head slightly, angling it up to the heavens and his empyrean will. His body lowered onto her and she felt his lips on the side of her exposed neck. He sucked over her pulse point and this coupled with the force of his short thrusts made the tight coiled band of her pleasure ready to snap.

“Harry,” she whined, desperate for more, for anything.

He simply hummed, lowering his pace slightly and her lips parted as a stream of pleads escaped her.

“Please,” she repeated like a mantra. She was wound so tight she thought she’d shatter into a million pieces when she finally came.

His left hand tightened on her hair, teeth biting onto her neck as his other hand came to rub circles over the bundle of nerves on top of where they were joined.

She came undone, vision going white as searing pleasure spread through every fibre of her.

“Fuck,” he said roughly, hips pistoning as his thrusts became faster and her body went limp on the bed.

He came with a grunt shortly after, buried deep within her, a hand still on her hair and the other holding her hip so tightly she knew she’d see his touch come morning.

She turned around once he’d pulled out of her, pulling the skirt of a dress down and spotting her shoes and holsters near the bed, her underwear nowhere to be found. She watched him sit on the bed, his head in his hands.

“What’s wrong?” She hated how unsure, how small, her voice sounded. 

Harry sighed, the tired sound one she wished he’d stop doing. She felt guilt churn at her insides, his pain, whatever it was about, seemed to be her fault. She wondered if it was Theo making a move on her, or her clear avoidance of him during the gala, but whatever it was that was bothering him, it wasn’t something he was willing to share with her that easily. 

She sat up next to him, shoulders almost touching, her eyes focused on the moon shining far on the horizon, its light casting an ominous glow on the otherwise serene room.

“What would you say we are to each other?” he asked her suddenly.

She turned to look at him, her brows furrowing at his question. “Why would you ask that?”

“You wanted to know what was bothering me,” he said, eyes watching her intently as she took a shuddering breath.

“I’m not sure I know,” she answered truthfully. If there was a label that could possibly encompass the complexity of their situation, she truly didn’t know it. 

It was Harry’s turn to look at the window, avoiding her questioning eyes as he worked his jaw.“I have feelings for you, Hermione.”

The declaration struck her like lightning, the piercing and burning truth slashing her chest open.

“You do?” she asked daftly, both dumbfounded and overwhelmed.

Harry chuckled darkly, a bitter laugh that made her heart clench painfully. “It’s pretty fucking obvious.”

“Who is it obvious to?” 

She felt like her world had now turned on its head. His feelings for her were something she had only ever glimpsed. She had never dared to ever hope or fear that she would discover their true depth. 

He got up, putting his clothes on silently as she felt the immensity of the moment wash over her. The understanding that this, here, this fragile and wonderful thing, was crashing down all around her, fully set in. But she didn’t know how to make it better, she didn’t have a plan, or the words, or whatever it was that he needed from her. 

She felt paralysed, sorrow and confusion overpowering any other emotion. She sat still as he stood in front of her, fully dressed and ready to leave, a parting shadow in the middle of the night. His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb softly touching her cheekbone. His eyes were full of an emotion she couldn’t name but that made her want to kneel and beg him not to leave, not like this. But Hermione Greengrass didn’t beg, didn’t do relationships, didn’t let any man or anyone have power over her. 

So she watched him walk away from her and, possibly, from her life. The shadows of her room and the coldness in her heart clutching her in a desolate embrace.

Chapter Text

November

November came with shorter and colder days, the skies overcast more often than not and the workload picking up as longer nights seemed to propel a few shady undertakings. The ice-cold rain that had become a permanent fixture as Hermione went on the field had her drenched from head to toe since she’d been walking down a muggle neighbourhood when the skies decided to open. Her teeth chattered by the time she’d tucked herself out of sight, and yet, she thought this coldness was nothing to the one that had attached itself to her during the last couple of weeks. 

After that fateful night when Harry had asked her what they were and had laid his heart out to her, he’d been avoiding her. Which hadn’t been so hard to do in the first place, not with the way she’d insisted they pretend nothing had ever happened between them at work. Not when she was incapable of writing to him, her pride and self-preservation making it an impossible task. Not when his London flat was vacant one weekend when she’d casually walked by, her heart shattering under the weight of her disappointment.

She lay awake at night, guilt eating away at her and making her question if her stance was worth it at all. If her fears, so potent and valid, were actually keeping her from happiness instead of preserving the only stability she’d ever known. She tried wrapping her head around Harry’s feelings for her, however deep they might run, and found she was unable to fathom why he would even have them in the first place. She wasn’t particularly likeable and she’d been perfectly fine with it up until he’d come past her walls.

 The thought that he would probably realise his life was better without her, surrounded by his family and friends and another woman to share a bed with, managed to send her into a downward spiral. She’d cried then, curled into a tight ball under silk sheets, feeling both worthless and terrified. How reminiscent the scene was to many of her childhood nights wasn’t lost on her. This only made her cry harder.

She’d been particularly ruthless following that night’s vulnerability in an attempt to hide just how broken she felt. She amped up her ice queen fame within the DMLE as she’d brought one of her suspects in for questioning and had the man wetting his trousers. Harry’s disappointed eyes were the sole reason her floating target burst into a million pieces as her offensive spell hit it during training that day. There were many things she could take but his judgement coupled with him avoiding her wasn’t one of them. 

By mid-November, she’d had enough of her tears and of Harry making it his life’s mission to not cross paths with her. She’d had enough of feeling like she’d carved her own tomb, her solitary life one she could no longer stand. She watched the letters on her desk with trepidation.  Her mother’s loopy handwriting a sight that made her stomach turn. She didn’t feel like going to the Manor, to be the poised perfect daughter. That wasn’t the person she was. Maybe she’d never been. 

She put on a slight glamour spell, very much needed after the many sleepless nights and terrible eating habits that had filled the past fortnight. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she noticed the usual fire behind her eyes was gone. A wounded look she couldn’t quite shake haunted her. She’d been avoiding staying at her house, it was filled with memories of Harry she couldn’t and wouldn’t deal with. She thought the fact they’d talked in her room was probably the reason she never managed to catch any sleep in there. His confession lay over every inch, the ghost of the scent of him and the sharpness of his pain spooning her in the middle of the night with a choking embrace.

The sound of laughter and chatter greeted her when she apparated outside of the Leaky Cauldron and she promptly made her way to Diagon Alley. She’d overheard Harry talking to Finnigan about his trip to get broom equipment with one of his friends from school, the ginger bloke Hermione remembered as one of the younger Weasleys. At the time, trying to run into Harry had seemed like a good idea. Sure enough, a head full of fiery red stood tall over most shoppers at Quality Quidditch Supplies, the lanky wizard easy to spot even from outside the shop. She observed the red hair with curiosity, trying to gauge whether he was alone or if Harry was near, her short stature making her pursuit not all that easy.

She’d stood on her tiptoes when a voice she knew as well as her own amde her jump and clutch at her chest, trying to contain her racing heart.

“You’re a shite auror.”

Harry stood behind her, his face sombre and brows slightly furrowed. He didn’t seem happy to see her and she felt her heart constrict painfully at the thought.

“I’m not here on auror business.” Her voice shook as she lowered her hand and raised her eyes.

He snorted at her reply, his lips quirking up slightly. She took that as a good sign and let the words she’d been dying to utter escape her lips.

“I need to talk to you, somewhere private.” She looked around as she said so, noticing the small crowd around them and wishing for some privacy.

Harry exhaled slowly, eyes darkening. His hand came up to pinch his nose and he took his glasses off, rubbing at his face and then putting them back on.

“Right,” he said simply. 

She stood, motionless, watching him work his jaw the way he usually did when he was thinking something over. Her fingers twiddled with each other inside the long sleeves of her fur-lined robe. 

“My flat, tonight.”

She nodded, over-eager and relieved but couldn’t get a word out before Harry sent a curt nod her way and walked the short distance that led him inside the shop, leaving her behind once again.

***

The evening couldn’t come fast enough for her. Anxiety bubbled inside her chest even as she tried to fill the hours of the longest Saturday she’d ever had. She replied to her mother, letting her know she’d visit during a weekend before mid-December. She took a long bath and let her body soak in warm rose petal-filled water as she stared up into the cerulean ceiling of her bathroom. She let herself sink, the outside world disappearing as warmth surrounded her. She thought this feeling here, warm and far from the world, was exactly how she felt when she was in Harry’s arms. 

As she dried her hair with careful swirls of her wand, dressed only in a thick robe, she wondered why that feeling of warmth wasn't enough. Why it was that she had this imperious need to be part of a world that asked so much of her and gave so little in return. Why it was that she’d always felt like an outsider, even as she sat at dinner with her family. She longed for a home, for a sense of belonging she’d never got to know. And she wished she could be different, for herself, and for Harry. But she found that, as much as she’d been trying to delude herself, she was unable to conceive a life where she wasn’t the person she’d always pretended to be.  

She felt like she’d always be stuck playing the role of the perfect daughter. The classy witch who belonged among purebloods. The confident woman, the argumentative teen, the gifted child. The lonely girl who cried herself to sleep most nights, desperate for love, desolate in the middle of the night. The untouchable girl who walked with her chin held high and her words dripped in acid during the day.

Her mood was morose as she dressed. Her conflicting emotions would make the talk with Harry much harder than if she could give him the words he probably wanted to hear. She knew she was being selfish, unable to let him go but also to give him anything other than what they had. The temptation to offer him placating words and promises was as tempting as the thought of getting lost in the feel of him. Going against it felt almost as if she were going against her very own nature. But Harry, she’d found, was a good man. He didn’t deserve for her to play games with him, she played enough of those with others. 

She’d be honest, she decided, as she applied some burgundy tint to her lips. She’d open up and she’d see if her sincerity was enough for him or if her tumultuous feelings were too much yet also too little. 

Harry greeted her with a quiet hey once she’d knocked on his flat’s door.  He let her in without much preamble, closing the door softly once she was inside. His seriousness and reserved attitude made her bite her lower lip as she second-guessed herself. He was being perfectly gentlemanly. No accusations were thrown the moment she stepped in. He offered her a drink that she gladly accepted and he took her coat from her after he set some water to boil. He was the sort of man her mother would have approved of. And she hated it. 

She missed their banter, his cheeky attitude and his laughs even when they were at her expense. She missed his soft brilliant smiles, and his plush lips and calloused hands on her. She didn’t want proper, cautious, and cold. His coldness spoke of her own and made her bones rattle. Whatever hope had blossomed inside her shrivelled.

She took the mug he offered her and cradled it as if it were a lifeline, the heat seeping into her hands and grounding her as he watched her impassively. They sat at opposite ends of the room, her on the sofa and him on the armchair by the window. The space between them seemed to extend for miles, the only sound that of the magic clock near the kitchen. She heard it ticking, time running out as she tried and failed to find the courage that came so easily to him but that was foreign to her. She knew of pretences, not of bravery. She watched his face, the warm light from overhead making his glasses shimmer slightly. 

“You said you wanted to talk.” He took a sip of his tea, leg crossed at the ankle over his knee.

She took a sip of hers, buying some time.

“I don’t know how to do it-” she started.

He quirked an eyebrow up. “I’m pretty sure you just proved yourself wrong,” he interrupted her, taking another sip of his tea.

She shook her head at his remark, grateful for the sliver of normalcy he was giving her.

“I don’t know how to do relationships, or even if I can.” She stared into her mug, the soft brown easier to look at than his face or the various pictures of him and his friends and family around them. 

He stayed silent and she traced the edge of her mug with her finger, noticing it was more suitable for coffee than tea and thinking back to his usual breakfast back in Ireland.

“I can’t do dating.  Or being in public with you in any way that’s not… that’s beyond friendly. Not now. Gods, maybe not ever. I truly do hope that’s not the case though. I really do.” She swallowed down the lump in her throat as she said this, hating the way she was rambling. “But what I really meant to say is that I’m trying.”

She looked up then, her face open and vulnerable. Her voice was soft but firmer now.

“I’m trying, Harry,” she vowed. “ I’m trying to think this through and work through my own mess. I really am and gods I hope that’s enough, at least for now.”

He stared at her and she held his gaze, teetering on the verge between hope and despair. His words could break her but so did his silence, his hold on her something she loved and hated with equal measures. Her eyes watered as the silence stretched and his eyes remained impassive. She was waiting for him to do something, anything, the anticipation making her breath shallow. After leaving his mug on the coffee table, Harry stood and made his way to her, slowly and deliberately. He took her mug as well and gently deposited it on the coffee table. Then he took her hands and made her stand in front of him as he stared her down with the intensity of a thousand suns.

She closed her eyes as his forehead came pressing down on hers,  his hands squeezing hers gently.

“I guess for now, I can try too.”

She squeezed his hands back, his words a salve to her soul. She didn’t want to think of what would happen tomorrow, or a week from then. Their promises were much too fickle with the way they stood in each other’s lives. The stolen moments they shared were rare and precious, and as it’d been proven to her, easy to disappear into thin air.

His kiss came as no surprise but as a welcomed gift. His lips were insistent in the way his words weren’t and she tried to show him her willingness as she let him explore her mouth. She let his hands rediscover her body, his touch was sure and precise. He made her see stars with his fingers and touch heaven as his body joined hers in a steady rhythm. He kissed her deeply as he came, a mixture of a whine and a moan escaping him, joining her in the blissful experience of reaching the highest of heights. She thought she’d wanted to steal all of his sounds of pleasure, catch them with her mouth on his as she watched him shatter over her. 

He turned them around on the sofa, her body snuggled against his and listening to the beat of his heart. Her eyes closed at the sound, involuntarily clutching him closer to her. She hoped this was something she didn’t have to live without, not again, not now that she knew what it felt like not to have him in her life. She’d make a deal with Merlin if she could if it meant they’d be together without tearing the other apart. But she also knew deals wouldn’t be enough, and neither would words. However much she liked to fool herself thinking her promises would be enough, and that his would be too, she knew she could lose this in the beat of a heart.

***

The following weeks were reminiscent of September, with their intense sex and late-night talks. Harry learnt Astoria had been conceived almost miraculously, the chances of her parents having a child due to magic incompatibility had been pretty small. He also learnt that whilst Astoria was close to being a squib she was rather resourceful in her ways of hurting others and having things work out in her favour. Hermione had changed conversation rather quickly then, memories of her sister making her feel insignificant, pushing to prove she deserved her place in the world whilst Hermione would always have to pretend were much too painful. 

He also learnt what Hogwarts had been like for her, the underground Slytherin parties, the petty comments and backstabbing that went around, and how much she’d thought he was full of it. She’d got herself a rather steamy snogging session and an orgasm as proof of just how full of it he was, his cocky grin now engrained in her retina.

She learnt Harry was still in touch with his muggle cousin, with whom he’d grown up playing in the summers down in Surrey. She also learnt that said cousin talked to Harry behind his parents’ backs, the two muggles were not all that fond of magic and therefore, of the Potters. She heard about his days back in Hogwarts, how whilst he’d been popular he’d loathed some of the attention. She heard him complain about the whole seventh-year debacle and how girls trying to get their way with him had made him hide in a broom cupboard on more than one occasion. She learnt he hated people getting close to him because his father was a famous seeker and didn’t trust others as easily as it seemed. 

She also learnt that Harry saw his godparents rather frequently, Remus and Sirius taking Harry’s goddaughter to meet him at his parents on a monthly basis for Sunday roast. 

He gave her a brilliant smile then, eyes alight behind his glasses.

“You should come.”

She raised her eyebrows, disbelief colouring her features.

“To your house?” 

“Where else?” Harry asked with a small guffaw.

She snorted in an unladylike manner that would have made her blush months ago.

“And what will you tell your mother?” She crossed her arms. “Hey mum, here’s my colleague-”

“My friend.” He said cautiously.

“Friend.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I doubt you want me to tell her you’re the woman I’m shagging.”

She hugged herself tighter, her stomach in knots.

“Classy,” was all she managed to bite out.

He pulled at her hands, undoing the hug she had on herself and bringing her closer until he grabbed her hips. He brought her over his lap, his hands firmly planted over her hip bones and backside. His thumbs stroked her skin in soothing circles.

“Please come.”

She looked at his emerald eyes framed by thick lashes, so beautiful and honest. She brought her hands to his chest, feeling his warm skin and the coarse hair under her fingertips.

“As your friend,” she repeated his earlier words, her throat dry.

He smiled at her as if Christmas had arrived a month early, his crooked grin melting away the sudden coldness that had spread through her. His right hand moved from her hip to her face, where he cupped her cheek fondly before kissing her slowly and fully. And she let herself get lost in the feel of him.

She continued getting lost in the wonder that was having Harry back in her life, back in her bed, back over her body and in her body. She relished in the warmth of him and the stolen furtive touches at the Ministry. The brushing of fingers as they passed each other in the halls, as they shared parchments and file cases. The kisses he’d steal from her as they hid in unused interrogation rooms. His mouth and teeth on her neck that forced her to get even better at glamour spells. She savoured the small knowing smiles she couldn’t help but break into, the fluttering feeling in her chest and the safety of Harry’s arms around her. 

She counted and studied his beauty marks as one would constellations, tracing them with soft fingers as the moonlight shone over his cream skin. She got acquainted with the dragon on his back, the many scales and curving tale that dipped into his waist.  She traced the sharp angles of his face, committing it to memory. She brushed the blueish tint under his eyes after a particularly hard day and watched as his long lashes fluttered, his eyes closing at the feel of her touch. 

And soon, she was walking by his side in the middle of the road just outside Godric’s Hollow. She was bundled up in the thickest robe she owned with a  warming charm in place. Her feet were clad in thick leather boots that seemed more ready for combat than for a Sunday roast at the Potter’s. The gelid early December wind wiped wisps of hair into her face, the bonnet on her head not much of a contestant for her unruly hair and irate weather.  

She followed Harry into what was bigger than a regular home but quite smaller than the Greengrass Manor. She reckoned the Potter’s home was more of an estate, with its stone walls and high windows. The well-kept green expanse of the property extended in front of her and her boots hit light gravel, winter flowers the only pops of colour on an otherwise dreadful day. Winter was fast approaching and she longed for the feeling of a lit fire near her hands.  They were tucked deep into the pockets of her robe and felt frozen despite the gloves she had on. She thought it was quite ironic how much she’d always suffered in the cold, considering her reputation.

The heavy wooden door opened before either she or Harry had a chance to knock and a woman with pin-straight ginger hair and eyes just like Harry’s stood watching them with a warm smile on her face. 

“Come in, come in, it’s freezing outside!” 

She watched Harry greet the woman with a kiss on the cheek and then blush profusely as she kissed both his cheeks, chastising him for looking dreadfully tired.  

“Mum, I’m fine,” he complained with a chuckle as he untangled himself from his mother. “Just been busy, that’s all.”

He sent her a look that meant she was the reason he’d been busy and she felt her cheeks redden. She didn't have time to overthink his comment or his mother’s possible reaction to it as the door closed behind her and soon it was Hermione’s turn for a greeting.

“You must be Hermione. Harry has spoken loads about you.” Harry’s mother kissed her cheek before gesturing for her to take off her outer robe.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely as she gave her her robe for her to hang. “I hope all good things?” Fear hid behind the light tone of her voice, her stomach in knots at what the wizard in front of her could’ve told his mother.

“All great things.” 

A booming voice interrupted them as a tall wizard with curly hair and kind eyes reached them in the foyer. 

“Lily, let your son come say hi to his favourite godfather.” He hugged Harry, giving him a pat on the back. 

“Don’t let Remus hear you say that,” Harry replied with a laugh before releasing the man who was now looking at her with open curiosity. “Hermione, this is Sirius, my godfather.”

Sirius hit the back of Harry’s head lightly.

“Favourite godfather,” Harry amended quickly with an eye-roll. “This is Hermione, a friend from work and school.”

She didn’t let her incredulity at his words show on her face, the bald-faced lie was quite an impressive feat for someone as open as Harry. Instead, she extended her hand, ready to shake Sirius’.

“Pleasure to meet you,” she said sincerely as Sirius placed his hand on hers.

The older wizard pulled her forward, hugging her in much the same way as he’d done Harry moments ago. She stiffened in his arms, not one used to physical displays of affection and was grateful when the shocking albeit brief hug was over.

“All friends of Harry’s are always welcomed.” Sirius put his hands back into his green trousers, a pensive look on his face. “Except for Fred, that one still owes me a pint.” 

“Dear god…” Harry muttered as he watched his godfather walk down the hall he’d come from, Lily laughing as she followed behind.

She smiled, amused and disconcerted all at once.

“He seems nice,” she commented lightly.

Harry snorted, amusement clear in his eyes.

“He can be a lot.” He tugged at her hand. “Let's go greet the rest so you can see just how bad it can get.”

The moment they stepped into the kitchen, she realised she wasn’t truly prepared to meet Harry’s family. 

A tall man with hair as dark as Harry’s was leaning against the table with one hand, drink in the other, and laughing at something another man with much lighter hair was saying. The fair-haired man, Hermione presumed, was Harry’s other godfather. Talking to Lily was a girl who couldn’t be older than five and had hair similar to Draco’s blond that bounced around her face in beautiful ringlets. Her cheeks were red and her eyes alight as she animatedly spoke with the sort of wild gestures most kids used when excited. She squealed the moment she spotted Harry, taking on a mad run towards him. 

“Harry!” The little girl yelled as she threw herself with blind confidence into the young man’s arms.

He caught her effortlessly, hugging the small girl tight to his chest, her little feet dangling in the air.

“Cory, you’ve grown so much!” Harry pulled back, smiling brightly at the little girl, who had a face-splitting smile. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

For the first time, Cory seemed to take on Hermione's presence. The small girl suddenly became shy. 

“Cory, this is my friend, Hermione,” Harry spoke softly. “Hermione, this is my goddaughter, Miss Cordelia.”

She didn’t have much experience with kids and shaking a child’s hand seemed like a terrible idea, so she settled for giving the girl a small wave instead.

“Hi Cory, it’s nice to meet you.”

Cordelia simply hid her face in Harry’s neck.  Hermione’s chest constricted. She knew she wasn’t the friendliest or warmest of people, but she’d hoped the girl who so clearly meant the world to Harry would take a liking to her. She got a glimpse of Harry’s face. He was not remotely disappointed. Instead, he was chuckling softly and whispering to the girl still hiding in his arms.  He shot a wink her way, the situation was far more amusing to him than it was to her.

Lily took the chance to whisk her away, introducing her to Harry’s father and godfather. She had an easier time greeting the two men than she had either Sirius or Cordelia, both men shaking her hand politely and asking the general get-to-know questions. The weather, their work, and Hogwarts. She learnt all three men and Lily had been Gryffindors and she felt slightly out, their jokes about them never befriending a Slytherin ending abruptly at Lily’s remark that she’d been good friends with Severus. 

Hermione did a double take at that, the confident yet cheerful woman in front of her a much brighter presence than their Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher had ever been. She guessed, from James’ face, that there was more to the story than they were letting on and she mentally catalogued it as something to ask Harry about later.

Soon the roast was served and she was sitting in front of Harry who had Cory on his side. She didn’t really mind. She’d been sat next to Remus, who seemed far quieter than his husband Sirius. She focused on listening more than speaking, choosing her answers to their questions as carefully as she could. No, she did not believe in pure-blood supremacy, something she answered as a scandalised Lily asked her to please forgive her husband, who was laughing at the joke that had clearly gone way over her head. Yes, she did live in London and no, she didn’t go back home often. She answered as truthfully as she could, the questions of her friendship with Harry much harder to navigate. 

He’d been more focused on the small child who was constantly asking for his attention than on the ongoing conversation. She found she felt more vulnerable without his interjecting for her when it came to lying to his family. So she pushed her peas and mash around, her appetite gone. Her mood further soured as the day progressed and they moved to the conservatory. She took on the family in front of her, so reminiscent of the one she’d witnessed back in Ireland. So different from her own.

 The many physical displays of affection between Harry’s family was something that she had trouble relating to and it made her heart feel colder than the dreadful weather outside. They joked with an ease she didn’t think she could ever possess, light banter something they all excelled at. 

What was more painful of it all though, was how much she wished she could fit in. How much she wished she’d had similar experiences, happy carefree memories. Soft touches and a worried mother, a loving godparent, someone who waited eagerly for her to show up at home. Instead, she had a mother who more frequently than not asked about whether she’d be promoted or had met a good man. A father who was seldom home and cared about the same things as her mother when he was, and a sister who’d rather she be dead than have to share a room with her. 

“You okay?” Harry asked her softly, worry clear on his face. 

“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?” She lied.

She smiled for good measure, desperate to put him at ease but also for a way out. She wasn’t sure she could stand to be another minute at the Potters. She felt herself tainting their wonderful home with her baggage. She was suffocating under the weight of her self-loathing and of the remaining pieces of her world coming crushing down on her. 

She wasn’t sure who she’d been kidding, thinking she could simply show up as Harry’s friend. She had been fooling herself when she thought she was the sort of person his family would like to meet. She wasn’t one of them, she wasn’t easy going or affectionate. She’d been moulded through lessons, etiquette and sharp remarks. She hadn’t been handled with care, or lovingly guided through life. She’d been thrown to the wolves with her name as her armour and her origin as her Achilles heel.

The coffee tasted as bitter as she felt. She watched Cory laugh as Harry played with her. As Sirius stole a kiss from his husband, she thought about how the scenes around her burnt more than the black liquid in her mouth. She longed for her sugary tea and her empty house, where she didn’t feel inadequate. Where she didn’t have to pretend.

It was then she realised she truly didn’t belong anywhere. Not at the manor, where she played the part her parents expected of her. Not at the Ministry where she was the untouchable auror. And definitely not with Harry, where as much as she tried she couldn’t be the type of woman who’d blend seamlessly in. For the first time in her whole life, she wondered who Hermione Greengrass truly was.  And if, perhaps, she would’ve had an easier life being Hermione Granger.

Chapter Text

December

A week had passed since she’d been at the Potter’s home and Hermione lay awake, with her back over green silk sheets and her covers up to her chest. Sleep evaded her for the second night in a row. She was staring at her bedroom’s ceiling, the moonlit plaster was the canvas where her memories were painted as she recalled once again the conversation she’d had with Harry’s mother. 

She had been helping Lily put some leftover food away for Harry in the Potter’s kitchen when the realisation that Lily needing help had all been a way for them to be away from the rest hit her. She should’ve known a mother would be able to see past her son’s lies. But she’d been woefully underprepared for the easy way in which Lily Potter had delivered her lines like one would a curse to the heart. 

“It always amazes me the kind of man Harry’s grown to be,” Lily had said as she swished her wand, cleaning pots and transferring sausages and mash over to some colourful muggle containers. “I was worried he’d be like those three.”

She’d gestured with her head back to the conservatory. She had a fond smile illuminating her face that contrasted with the way she was referring to the three men that sat talking and laughing a few feet away.

“They’re lovely men, but they were wild in their youth.” She’d clicked her tongue and Hermione had watched her warily.

“Harry’s brilliant,” she’d said simply, putting a lid over the burgundy container she’d just cooled.

“And kind-” Lily had laughed suddenly. “I’m sure you don’t need me gushing over how bloody wonderful my son is.”

Her green eyes had crinkled at the corners and her adoration for her son had been evident on her face. 

“Oh no, it’s more than fine,” Hermione had been quick to reassure the older woman. 

She grabbed a bowl of peas and transferred some into a green container.

“We didn’t have an easy time, James and I,” Lily said cautiously. “I was a feisty opinionated muggle-born and he was a Quidditch star with a much too large fanbase he inadvertently put first.”

Lily had seemed to be choosing her words as delicately as she did.

“So when you don’t choose each other, it doesn’t matter how much patience or even how much love there is. Sometimes love isn’t enough.” She’d put the last of the food away and tucked the wand into the back pocket of her trousers. “Harry’s taken his patience from me, thankfully. But I can tell he cares for you more than he’s letting on.”

Hermione had swallowed what felt like lead in her throat. Her hands had started to shake slightly as she put the bowl with peas back down on the table, a familiar sort of coldness spreading through her. Lily had come closer then, taking her shaking icy hands into her steady warm ones

“We’re not-” Hermione had shaken her head weakly. “We’re not together, not… that way.”

She hadn’t thought she could explain her relationship, whatever sort it was, to the woman looking carefully and kindly at her. 

“I don’t need to know what you are now, dear. But I do like to think I know what he wants you both to be.” She’d given her hands a gentle squeeze. “He’s a patient man, but I was a patient woman too. Until I wasn’t.”

She'd felt her eyes glisten at the implications, the words coming out of the gentle and caring woman in front of her much too hard to hear.

“I hope you and my son figure this out, for both your sakes.” 

She’d pulled away then, rubbing Hermione’s arms slightly before parting completely. 

Moments later Harry had found her staring into nothingness, her demeanour had changed in the minutes they’d been in different rooms and that much had been obvious to him. He seemed to know that something had transpired between his mother and her, his questioning gaze had held his mother’s as she’d come into the room. 

They had left shortly after and Hermione had been grateful for it. She let herself be hugged tightly by Lily and didn’t bother saying goodbye to the small child who’d never taken a liking to her but couldn’t let go of her godfather. She lied and promised Sirius and James that she’d be back. She knew it was highly unlikely and she would possibly never see them play Quidditch when the weather was warmer. Remus had given her a small sad smile that spoke volumes of how much both he and Lily had truly seen. The quieter pair had seen way past the charade and far too close to the truth.

She and Harry had said their goodbyes and she’d chosen to apparate to her home alone, claiming she wasn’t feeling all that well. Harry’s troubled eyes were the last thing she saw before she disapparated away with a resounding crack. She felt like it was Ireland all over again, with him standing waiting for something she couldn’t give to him and her running away. With her emotions a stormy sea, its waves clashing painfully against the walls of her ribcage.

She’d barely seen him the past week. She had to carry an investigation near Glasgow since Finnigan had taken sick, and Harry had been assigned to help train the new Aurors who’d transferred from the DMLE patrols after their second year. She’d taken the time away from Harry to focus on her muddled thoughts and feelings. Which was to say she’d been replaying the conversation with Lily Potter over and over.

She knew Harry’s mother was right, she and Harry needed to find an even ground. One that wasn’t having sex and hiding in either of their rooms. But she felt paralysed by fear. Whilst she knew he cared for her, she wasn’t sure what that meant. And most importantly, she didn't know what it was that she felt for him. She’d never let herself get close to anyone. The only person she’d been close to had been Draco and it hadn’t been in any sort of romantic capacity. He’d understood what having your family pressure you to be and act a certain way was like and he’d helped her navigate Hogwarts. He’d been instrumental in the making of Hermione Greengrass, the ice-cold pureblood princess. The facade, the lie. 

What she felt for Harry, though, was much different. There was no common ground between them. At least, not before they’d started whatever it was that they had going on now. There were years of jealousy and born dislike out of it. There were misunderstandings and preconceptions. Silly bickering and harsh words thrown too carelessly. But now, there was also a certain tenderness and longing she hadn’t thought herself capable of. And also a need to be wanted back, to be held and cherished, that chilled her bones. Her fragility terrified her as much of the possible fallout did. She was both scared of his rejection and his acceptance. She was much too damaged, too bitter, too jaded. But she wanted him and that drove her mad. She wondered if she was going insane. She didn’t know up from down anymore. 

So when they inevitably saw each other again, she was prepared for the way something inside her shifted. The puzzle piece that slotted back into place each time they’d been away only to be reunited.  There was an inevitable pull, two magnets that couldn’t fight their attraction. Polar opposites coming to merge. Her heart made a somersault inside her chest, her pulse quickening and her blood rushing.  It was a jolt back to life, making her fingers itch to touch him and the strings in her heart pull his way. 

Harry sat a few desks down, near Gawain’s office, with his black shirt sleeves rolled up and his hair perfectly dishevelled. The black strands stood in various directions, catching the overhead light in a mesmerising way that made it look as if it was an art piece from the gods themselves. His hair looked like a soft and inviting mess much like it always was after she’d run her hands through it. During their workday, she longed to touch it, to touch him. She cursed their workmates for always being around whenever she’d managed to get anywhere near him.  And she cursed Harry for the way he would avert his eyes when he’d see her pull away from him as someone passed them.  

So when they stumbled into her home that night between frenzied kisses and then made their way to her room, she let herself trace his soft treses as he fucked her into the mattress. She touched his skin and his face, his thick forearms and the inked dragon on his back.  She touched him all over the way she’d been dreaming of, tracing and memorising each inch of skin.

She tasted the bitterness of their coupling, so reminiscent of the night of the Halloween Gala. She dug her nails deep into his back as tears streamed down her face, shimmering over her heated cheeks under the blue glow of the moon. She felt him grasp her hips with bruising force as if he could bring her closer, keep her from drifting away from him. He clung to her long after he’d gone soft inside her, his digits imprinted into her skin. They didn’t speak that night, reunited yet aching. He embraced her as she cried silently. Spooning her from behind, one large hand sprayed over her stomach and his lips on her temple. She didn’t offer him an explanation and he didn’t ask for any. 

He left in the early morning long before she’d woken up. She busied herself on Saturday by doing house chores she never got around to doing during the weekday. She didn’t want to think about the previous night and her going back home the following weekend was something that was putting her on edge. She didn’t like going to the manor, the distance that had grown between her and her parents over the years was far too painful. It always made her feel bone-deep loneliness, being in their presence, knowing she’d been so wanted and yet, somehow, had become so unimportant. She’d always leave her parents' home wondering why it was they’d stopped caring about anything that wasn’t her work or love life. Why it was that she hadn’t been able to earn their love despite working so hard to be the perfect daughter they’d wanted her to be. She’d always open a bottle of Chardonnay once she was back in London, pondering what it was that made her so defective. 

The pre-winter Gala event her mother ran every year was coming up, the auction was one all women from the most prominent magic families attended. So she’d been focused on choosing clothes she’d donate for it as her way of participating when her wards alerted her she had a visitor. It was well past 9 in the evening and she wasn’t expecting anyone so she approached her door carefully and peeked through the peephole. She was both surprised and apprehensive to see Harry standing at her door, his cheeks red from the cold and his face grim.

She let him in, the cold air of December coming into the room alongside him felt like an omen. She shivered as she softly closed the door behind her, the soft yet thin knitted jumper she had on wasn’t enough protection against the chilling wind.  She walked them to the kitchen, her wool sock-clad feet paddling softly as she asked him if he wanted a drink. 

“I’m not staying long.” 

She watched him swallow and she nodded, hugging herself. She didn’t make her way to him, choosing to remain in the kitchen with him still closer to the dining and living room area. The similarities between her going to his flat and him coming unannounced were making the soft thin hairs of her arms stand. Something primal in her told her this was dangerous territory, that her safety wasn’t ensured. But she was rooted to her place, paralysed in her fear. She recalled her training. There were three types of responses to dangerous situations. Flight, fight and freeze. She knew which one her body had chosen today.

The air around them thickened as both remained silent. She wondered if he could hear her heart thudding against her breastbone. She thought he should, for it was pounding so hard her chest ached. A preemptive sort of pain she was trying desperately not to think about.

Finally, he cleared his throat, his voice hoarse.

“I can’t .”

Two words and trembling fingers as they ran through raven locks. She watched him, scared and confused, unsure of what he meant.

“What do you mean?”

“I can't do this. I can be your friend or your boyfriend, but not this-” He gestured between them. “ this in-between… whatever it is that I am to you now. I can’t do it anymore.”

She stood stock-still, shock preventing her from saying anything as all the air was sucked out of her lungs. 

“I want what my parents have and Merlin knows it wasn’t easy for them to get to where they are but-” He took his glasses off and pressed his hands against his eyes which were misty with unshed tears. “They always tried, always, even when my dad was abroad.”

“I’m trying”,  she said weakly.

Harry pulled his hands away from his eyes and repositioned his glasses, not bothering to contain his emotions any longer. 

“You can’t honestly tell me that,” he said dejectedly. “You’re not really trying in the way that I know you can.”

She flushed at that, red and angry, an accusatory finger now up in the air as her voice rose.

“You can’t possibly know that! You’re not in my head.” Her finger and hand shook as she lowered them, her body trembling with adrenaline. “Did you take me to your parents so you could tell me this?”

She couldn’t keep the hurt from her voice, even as her words were laced with accusation, and he looked stricken.

“Of course not!  Why would you think that?”

She didn’t cower under his wounded expression even as every fibre of her being screamed at her to run up the stairs. Away from him and what this conversation would mean to them. 

“It seems convenient.” She held her chin high as everything inside her crumbled.

“It’s not.” He sighed, lips trembling as his hands dropped in defeat. “I know you’re trying and I said I would too, but it’s not enough when it’s just behind closed doors. And I-”

“You’re done trying?”

He shook his head sadly.

“I didn’t say that.” He ran his hands through his hair, the raven locks sticking in every direction.  “I just…  Merlin, Hermione.”

He took a deep breath and his chest expanded just like the pain inside her own chest was.  She watched him fill with both courage and despair.

“I love you, okay? I’m in love with you.”

She took a step back without meaning to, backing away from him and his declaration. 

“You can’t…” she spluttered, unable to form a coherent sentence under the onslaught of emotions cursing through her. Her hands felt cold and her heart beat erratically against her sternum.

“But I do.” He didn’t take a step forward but his words felt closer than ever, sticking to her skin and filling every crevice of her as he repeated them. “I’m in love with you, and darling, you’re breaking my heart.”

She whimpered, choking down on a sob, and brought her hand to her mouth. The endearment term falling from his lips felt like an axe on her neck.

“I know I am,” she murmured with fingers still partially covering her lips, and her fingertips were soaked in a truth that she felt deep within her bones.

He was crying openly now. She broke down too, tears streaming down her face as she hugged herself. The only comfort she could find that didn’t mean running into an embrace she’d have to say goodbye to. She wished she could switch their places, so she wouldn’t be the bad guy in this story. So it was him that was breaking her heart and not the other way around. So it was his heart that was spared. Then again, she wondered if perhaps what she was feeling was her own heart breaking. The growing crevice in her chest was the most painful thing she’d felt in her whole life. 

This moment felt final, the breach between them one no bridge could cross. The path between heaven and hell and all that lay in between was much too arduous, too long, and too complex.

She looked at his face under the dim light, beautiful and open. And so very obviously desolate. His eyes were impossibly sad as he dried his tears forcefully with rough hands she knew so well. He loved her. This wonderful man loved her and she didn’t deserve any of it. Even an ounce would be too much, a gift far too precious for her. A gift she didn’t deserve and had done nothing to earn. She still felt obliged to act her part in the play that was her paper-made life. And in the meantime, she kept pushing him away only to pull him back. Desperately craving him, needing him. 

She didn’t deserve his love. Or him. Not when she held his heart in her hands and those same hands kept toying with it so carelessly. 

He was right, as he often tended to be. She was trying, but she was only doing so when it was safe. When it was just the two of them lying in bed in the middle of the night. With darkness as her ally and Merlin as her only witness. And Harry deserved someone who’d try in front of the whole wizarding world for everyone to see. He deserved as much and more. He deserved better.

“You deserve better.” 

It was but a whisper, the words tumbling out of her dry lips, but he heard it nonetheless. His eyes softened and filled with understanding, seeing past all her walls in the way only he did. 

“Let me decide what I deserve.”

“You know I won’t,” she admitted, digging her nails into the flesh of her arms. “You said it yourself, I’m hurting you and we both know you don’t deserve it. That’s why you’re here.  That’s why you’ve said all you needed to.”

She hugged herself tighter as he threw his head back, inhaling shakily. When he looked back at her again his face had hardened. The resigned resolve one felt when making a painful choice had taken over where desolation had once been. She knew that look because she’d seen it on her face one too many times. And if she thought that perhaps her actions had been wrong, that she should reconsider her stance and beg her way out of losing him, seeing herself in him only proved to her just how right she was. How much better than her he deserved and the damage she’d made.

This time, when he left, he didn’t touch her cheek. He didn't say goodbye or spared her another glance.  He turned towards the dark hall and looked straight ahead. His jaw was squared and his eyes were glassy, his brow slightly furrowed as he focused on what was to come. Whatever that was now something from which she was excluded. Her place in his life would be nothing but a bitter memory he would probably never revisit. She couldn’t fault him for it. She wouldn’t revisit her own memories of her life if she had the choice.

So she let herself fall to the cold kitchen floor where she dissolved into sobs, the force of them wrecking over her body. She thought of Lily’s words, of all the signs she’d tried so hard not to see. All the things she’d shoved deep inside a box under lock and key in the furthermost parts of her mind. 

She sat against green cupboards and cried like she hadn’t since she was a child. With loud guttural sobs and gasping breaths, snot running down her face. She cried for herself and for him. She cried for the love she so desperately wished she deserved. She cried for the love she wasn’t sure she knew how to return. She cried for the future she’d lost or perhaps hadn’t ever had in the first place. She sobbed until her temples ached and her empty stomach heaved. Until her knees came to her chest just so she could try to hold herself together. Valiantly trying to put all of her pieces back together.

That night, she didn’t sleep. Instead, she floated in a sort of limbo that felt much like what muggles called purgatory.  Her eyes were wide open as she drifted like a moon without its orbit. She was unable to rest or to bring herself up to her room. Instead, she stared into obsidian nothingness, curled into a fetal position on her dining room rug, her eyes bloodshot and her chest hollow. Whatever had been left of the person she was had finally burnt to ashes. And with Harry gone, whomever she could be was all but lost, a carcass left in its place. 

She spent Sunday in her office, the one place Harry had never set foot in. The one room where she didn’t feel like she’d collapse under the weight of their time together. She curled on her plush armchair by the window with heartbreak as her only company. Outside, a blanket of snow coated the neighbourhood she’d got to know so well. She watched people come and go behind the fogged window glass, her heating cranked to the max. And still, she felt frozen to her core. One that was rotten beyond repair. 

She hated what she’d done to Harry and what she’d done to herself. She hated the person she’d become and couldn’t bring herself to recognise the person she’d been. She felt lost at sea, sailing in an endless night without knowing where her north was. The guiding star had now gone out in a burst as a supernova. Its light had both guided her and blinded her. She was now broken and aimless, leaving wreckage in her course. The tears came back in full force, dripping past her cheeks and down her throat.  And for the first time, she wished she could drown in her own misery

Chapter Text

December

Days and weeks passed and blurred in a pain-coated haze. She went to work, did her house chores and prepped food she barely touched. She put a blood-red tint on her lips and black kohl on her eyes. She kept her chin high and walked with as much confidence as she always had. But she didn’t feel confident. She didn’t feel whole. She didn’t feel like herself at all.

She cried herself to sleep every night, curled into a tight ball and yearning for the comfort of Harry’s body next to her. She felt a deep stabbing pain as she sat so close yet so far from him during the day, desks that could very well have been worlds between them. Back home, she watched as water drained down pipes, down into nothingness, mingling with her lavender soap, her tears, and her hope. She hugged her knees to her chest and let herself be washed of the shame she felt, the ever-growing, gnawing guilt that she’d destroyed both their lives.

Her footsteps over the mid-December snow reminded her that she was still alive, still present. That she was more than the ghost of the person she’d been. The burning pain on her rosy cheeks from the icy wind was a welcomed respite. She preferred to focus on the physicality of it rather than on the devastating feeling inside her chest she couldn’t quite shake.

She shivered as she went down a known unpaved road, a journey she’d done enough times in her life that she now could make it with her eyes closed. The manor looked as imposing as it always had, with its two stories and light grey stone walls. The trees were bare and the usually well-kept garden was a mixture of reds, browns, and greys. The wards fell as she drew near, her childhood home welcoming her back.  She steeled herself for the welcome she’d get once inside. 

She wasn’t entirely surprised not to have her mother at the door the moment she came in, but she couldn’t help but compare it to how different it’d been when she’d gone to the Potter’s. How quick Lily had been to rush to greet her child. There was no point in comparing them, she thought. This was her world, her reality, and she was unlikely to ever see Harry’s parents again. 

She moved through her childhood home with the same trepidation one would in a tri-wizard tournament maze. Her footsteps were deliberate and slow. A pause for a second too long as she passed one of the corridors that led to the cellar, the tilt of her head as she heard a noise from upstairs. The house was full of figurative and literal ghosts. Memories of the past assaulted her the furthest she went inside what should have felt like a safe space but resembled a pensive’s battleground.

She found her mother in the sitting room where a cracking fire roared at the back of the room. The periwinkle blue sofas were covered in neatly folded garments and the oak and crystal table at the centre of the room had a tea set at the ready. The soft light from the ceiling-high windows made her mother look like a vision from time past. She was the most elegant woman Hermione had ever seen, and she’d grown up wishing she could be half the woman her mother was. In a way, she still did.

Her heels clicked as she approached her mother whose gaze never left the soft purple velvet in her hands. She discarded her charmed robes on one of the armchairs, carefully draping them over the armrest.

“It’s good to see  you, darling.”

Hermione winced at the term. “Thank you. It feels good to be back,” she lied.  

Her mother looked up, pale green eyes focused on her face with all the intensity only Amelia Greengrass could muster.

“You look dreadful,” her mother chastised her.

She couldn’t hide the grimace at her mother’s remark. Once upon a time, she would’ve been able to, she thought. But trying to go back to the person she used to be had proven to be fruitless.

“Please have some tea and biscuits, you need them.”

 Her mother’s tone softened considerably and with a flourish of her wand, the plates were filled with biscuits in an assortment of flavours and her preferred chocolate-covered digestives. 

She drew closer as her mother returned to the satin undershirt she had been inspecting and served them both some steaming tea. She grabbed the saucer and prepared hers as she liked. She left her mother’s untouched but brought it to her side.

“Thank you, darling.”

She returned her mother's smile and sipped her tea as she observed the piles of various colours and fabrics she’d have to help check for the auction. She grabbed a custard-filled biscuit and munched on it. The buttery taste was still in her mouth when her mother spoke again. 

“How’s work been?  You’ve stayed in London for longer this time.”

There was an air of reproach in her tone and Hermione couldn’t blame her for it. 

“It’s been going well but cases seem to be piling on us so I’ve been busy.” She wondered how much to tell her mother, the insecure girl inside her always seeking her approval.

There had been a time when her mother’s praise and her father’s simple acknowledgement had meant the world to her. Back at Hogwarts, her parents’ letters had kept her afloat as the pressure to uphold the Greengrass surname and be liked had become too much. Now, she dreaded opening her mother’s post and was running on empty.

She picked on a yellow dress and began examining it, turning this and that way and making sure the fine gold embroidered details were intact.

“I’ve also made a friend,” she finally said, her voice breaking slightly at what was but a poor definition of what she and Harry had been.

Her mother lowered the maroon silk shirt she’d been looking at, an unreadable expression on her face.

“A male friend?” she asked her finally.

Hermione shrugged one shoulder in what could have been a poor imitation of Harry’s preferred evasion tactic.

“He’s another auror, we’re partnered up for assignments before and he’s nice.” She wasn't answering her mother’s question directly. At least not the implicit one. 

Amelia hummed and grabbed her cup of tea.

“And could this friend be more than just a friend?”

She turned to her mother at that. There was a reason she kept her mother at arm’s length. Amelia was perceptive and hiding her weaknesses from her had become increasingly harder as the years went by.  She felt tears prickle at her eyes but didn’t dare let them fall. She refused to cry so shortly after arriving and she knew she’d opened this door all by herself. But, as much as she hated to admit it, she needed her mother.

“I don’t think so.” Her voice wavered as her anguish built. “He’s… - I’m not-” she cleared her throat. “There’s my past, where I come from…  that could hurt our family if people found out. And I’m not the most pleasant person, I’m not someone who can be loved that easily, not with everything…”

She let the words hang. This wasn’t a topic she and her mother ever discussed. It was an open truth nobody dared touch or say out loud. Nobody but Astoria. It was a truth that only her sister dared throw around during screaming fits. A grenade to be used when needed. It wasn’t said with the curtains open in the middle of the day and tea served on the table. 

 “Yet your father and I do.”

She stood still as her mother grabbed another piece of fabric that could have been undergarments for all she knew. She couldn’t find an answer to her mother’s simple and honest reply. She focused on the delicate material she was holding rather than on her mother’s face. She knew shock was painted all over her own.

Seconds passed and her mother lowered the garment she had in her hands.

“Hermione, do you honestly think that we don’t love you?  that we care about your blood or what people have to say about it?”

Her tone wasn’t reproachful or harsh. The words were said in the even and composed way she’d learnt to associate with her mother’s cadence. Amelia’s unwavering calmness was something she’d often mistaken as detachment.

Hermione stayed silent, a lump stuck in her throat, rendering her speechless.

“We care about the person you are, Hermione. What you do, how you carry yourself and how you’ll continue doing so after your father and I are gone,” her mother said with conviction and Hermione let herself look at her, at her light green eyes and thin lips, so different from her.

Not trusting herself to speak she simply nodded, folding another piece of fabric herself and setting it on the maybe pile.

“Most importantly, I care about your well-being, about your happiness, the way any mother does. You are my daughter, as much as Astoria is. Never doubt that or how easy to love you are. Anyone would be lucky to have you, darling.”

She gave her mother a watery smile, knowing this was by far the most emotional conversation her mother and she had ever and would ever have. She took her words as the end of this particular conversation and continued looking at clothes as if her view of the world and life as she’d known it hadn’t been completely altered. The sentiment behind her mother’s statement was one irrefutable, and possibly the most sentimental thing Amelia had ever said to her. She let the words take place in her heart, warming a part of her she had shied away from, letting it freeze and shrivel, hardened by years of insecurity.

She’d thought her parents' constant watch of her behaviour growing up had been due to her blood status, waiting to see when that which tainted her was made visible. She’d thought their detachment and them asking her about her work, about her love life, was them checking to see if she was following in their steps whilst away from home. But she’d been mistaken. Her mother cared for her and she’d done her best in raising her child to be a person she could be proud of. Not so much because of her status, but because of her values.

Later, after receiving a brief hug from her mother that had slotted some of her broken pieces back into place, she walked the short distance to the apparating point and pondered what her mother had told her earlier. It was her behaviour that mattered, truly, and as she reflected on the past months and years she felt her stomach turn. She had let her own fears, the comments that had passed in a teenage-filled dungeon get to her. She’d put on a front, a person she wasn’t proud of nor particularly liked. And in the end, the people she cared about the most had never given much thought to what her blood status was, or how she’d come to be a Greengrass. 

She thought of her parents, even when she viewed them as detached and ambitious, they were always polite, always kind. She thought of Harry, the man she now recognised she’d started developing impossibly feelings for, falling for. She thought of the goodness of his heart, his patience, and his kindness. And she felt a pang, painful and sudden, in her chest. Guilt and fear mixed until she had to stifle the sudden cry that threatened to escape.  

She wondered what her parents would say if they knew the person she’d become, the person she’d been around others. The way she’d justified the two versions of her to herself as a necessity to earn her parents’ love, a love she already had, and keep herself safe from judgement. She knew that Harry knew both versions of her, and yet, she’d managed to hurt him by not discarding the version of her that had come to be her armour. Her very unnecessary and heavy armour had become more of a prison of her own making.

Harry had laid his heart out to her, his love for her a simple and unavoidable truth. And he hadn’t asked for anything in return, knowing not to push her. Knowing the one battle he couldn’t fight was that inside her heart and her mind. He’d just spoken honestly to her, his love and pain out in the air. And he’d simply walked away once he was done.

She thought back to how it’d felt to go on without him. To the many days and nights when loneliness had dug its fingers and sharp jaded nails into her, clawing at her and making her wish she could be able to be someone else. She imagined that tenfold, her whole life just one huge void devoid of all true happiness and warmth. She imagined what it’d be like to only have herself as company, the person she knew she could be buried deep within layers of icy contempt. The people who truly cared about her would all be pushed away out of cowardice. And she found the idea not only painful but ridiculous. There was no safety in anguish.

She could do it, she thought, she could let go of what she thought she needed to be and just let herself put her guard down. She could believe everything she’d achieved in life was because she’d been good at her job, good at school, and capable. She’d put in the effort, sweat, blood, and tears. She hadn’t been handled anything because of her parentage and she had to believe nothing of what she’d achieved would be taken away because of it. 

She could accept she was deserving of love, that she didn’t need to earn it by managing to achieve anything other than giving her true best, her true self.  She could accept her parents loved her in their own way.  And she could give herself to Harry, all of her. And not just in the middle of the night, but in broad daylight, surrounded by those she feared more than they’d ever feared her. And it was then that she realised that she trusted him. She trusted Harry to hold her if it all came crashing down, if the world thought her not deserving of someone like him or of the family that had welcomed her as theirs. She knew he’d be there for her.

Hermione smiled, truly and fully, a small little smile to herself, for the first time in days. She didn’t know if Harry would take her back, or if he’d listen to her a second time. But she had hope, a sliver of it that she would cling to. And what was more she had something she knew she’d been harbouring, something that was both exhilarating and petrifying. She had love. A deep and irrevocable love that would fuel every step she took from then on.  She was deeply and terrifyingly in love with Harry and even if he didn’t take her back she’d let him know. He deserved to know he was loved in return, and that he always would be.

***

The short distance from where she apparated up to her house felt both endless and finite. Every step that fell over soft snow brought her closer to a place inhabited by the faint whisper of her memories with Harry. She’d come to loathe her home, as the wee hours dawned and her tears dried. 

She didn’t let herself think much when she absentmindedly went to the first floor, up to her bathroom and in the direction of the tub. She swished her wand and watched as water poured from golden faucets and petals from floating jars scattered on top. She undressed leisurely, her clothes and undergarments falling with no rhyme or reason to the cool floor. She let herself sink slowly in the embrace of flowery warmth. She imagined her sorrow, her anxiety, and her fear, all falling off her skin just like her clothes had. Her eyes closed and she breathed in deeply so as to fill every atom of her lungs. 

Time passed, the way it always does, without any care or permission. Minutes upon minutes gone in the blink of an eye. Soon she had a comb in her hand and a mirror facing away from her, right the other way. She didn’t dare look at herself yet. The trip to the manor had left her both sure and shaken. Raw and exposed. Every experience from her trip to Ireland and onwards had transformed her. She was herself, but she was also very much anew. Like a snake that had shed its skin. She smiled at the comparison, the Slytherin reference one not lost on her. 

The morning came with the same pang in her chest but also with certainty taking up residence in her mind. She savoured her sweet tea as she stared into the early morning sky from her kitchen window, the hot mug in her hands a comforting presence. Her fingers tapped over it, restlessly drumming to the beat of her thumping heart. As sure as she was about talking to Harry, she wasn’t as certain of the words she’d use. 

She thought of his heartbroken expression, his pain so raw and palpable. None of the words she came up with seemed to suffice. There was so much left unsaid, so many hours lost to fear. Eloquence wasn’t her forte and she wished there was a spell that could translate what was in her heart into speech. The intensity of her feelings, the sureness, the need. Years of dancing around each other, two satellites with the same orbit but never meeting. 

The soft dusky blue sky met her as she made her way through the wet pavement, the snow from the day before not quite melted.  Her heart rate quickened as she apparated at her usual spot and then as she made her way into the atrium. The buzz of the Ministry’s early morning did nothing to calm her anxiety. Her palms were sweating and her usual strut was more of a stroll. She touched her lips when one of her co-workers did a double take, she’d forgotten to put on her usual blood-red tint. 

She shook all thoughts of what everyone could think of her. Barefaced and unsure. This wasn’t the version of Hermione Greengrass people were used to seeing. It’d been reserved only for one man, with his crazy hair and cheeky smile. A man she hoped she’d get to see as she made her way into the department. 

“Greengrass!”

She turned and met the eyes of her boss who beckoned her to follow him. She cursed internally but followed him nonetheless. 

They made a quick way through the various desks, some occupied and some empty. She noticed Harry’s was still vacant and her stomach did a somersault. 

She was about to close the door to the office when Gawain spoke.

“This will be quick,” he said as he shook a folder in his hand. “I need you working on this right away.”

She took the folder from him, noticing it was heavier than it looked.

“Yes, sir.” 

Gawain nodded and she turned to leave before pausing briefly and turning around.

“Will I be working with Harry again, sir?”

Gawain’s expression shifted. Amusement coloured his features before he could hide it from her.

“Not this time. Potter is working on a different case right now.” 

He stressed Harry’s surname and she blushed, realising her slip-up. 

“Have a good day, sir.”

She dashed away before Gawain could reply, with the folder tightly clutched against her chest and blood still heating her cheeks.

***

She didn’t see Harry that day, or the following ones. He was working on an assignment just like Gawain had said, out in the field in some Welsh town. Those days passed slowly, the few sunlit hours gone faster than the neverending nights. The time of the day she used to wait for had become what she loathed. Dusk brought with it a yearning she wished she didn’t feel. But she reckoned she’d rather long for Harry than not love him at all. 

So after supper, she did her best to focus her mind on the books about mind healing she’d acquired, bought under the pretence it would help her understand complex upbringings for her cases profiling. She bought herself a snakeskin-bound notebook and wrote down her thoughts, the motion of the quill on paper dancing to the turmoil of her mind. Her locked-away pain bleeding into the notebook’s pages, her wounds finally healing.

She willed herself to leave the house on Saturday morning. With Christmas fast approaching, Diagon Alley was a sea of people, some shopping for presents and others simply enjoying the unusually sunny morning. She spotted her reflection in one of the shop’s windows and she had to do a double take. Her hair was up in a bun that looked far from neat, her face was bare and she had on a crimson robe she never wore. She thought she could’ve passed as a Gryffindor in another life, maybe in one where she’d been Hermione Granger still. 

The usually uncomfortable feeling she got when she let herself think of her past or what could have been didn’t come this time. Instead, she let the thought go.  She kept on walking, moving on from the history books displayed in front of her and down the busy street. 

Children ran past her and a screaming mother with a crying baby apologised as she made a quick jump to the side letting her pass. She shook her head and laughed, grateful she didn’t have to deal with hyperactive children. She turned to keep on walking when the man a few feet away from her turned around. 

Time stood still. Flecks of light and dust suspended mid-air. The breath she’d just taken lodged in her lungs, muscles constricting as her heart leapt inside her chest. One beat to prepare itself just to run with wild abandon. She’d forgotten what the fluttering of hummingbird wings felt like inside her chest. All she could see was green, a never-ending field full of promises in his eyes. 

Sounds rushed in as air left her lungs and reality crashed its way in. She willed herself to take a step toward him on shaky legs. Her footsteps didn’t betray her flailing confidence. One after the other, they took her until she and Harry were standing at arm’s length. His questioning eyes and trepidation stood between them and she found what little courage she could muster to bridge the space between them.

“Can we talk?”

Harry looked around them, towards the sea of people that could see them.

“Here?” 

His eyes and furrowed brow betrayed what he didn’t say. 

“Here, we can have coffee if you want,” she suggested. 

She congratulated herself for how steady her voice was. How it didn’t waver even though her heart was about to implode into a million pieces.  

He studied her face, scanning for signs she meant it. She lowered her walls, letting him see through her, to her honesty, down to the core of her being. Recognition lit like a match, the person he’d see at dusk and the one he was seeing mid-morning were now the same. 

“Coffee sounds great.” He gestured for her to lead the way and she let herself smile, hope blooming inside her chest. “Although if I recall correctly, you prefer tea.”

Her smile blossomed at that, wide front teeth in full display.

“You remember well.” 

The coffee shop was packed, the mid-morning hustle at its peak. She didn’t let the few people she could see that had stopped having their breakfast to watch them stop her. She was done letting people’s opinions of her dictate the course of her life. She knew some of those faces, co-workers and family friends.  She also knew none of them truly cared about her. It was with this knowledge that she held her head high and, walking side by side with Harry, made her way towards one of the empty tables near the window. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes after discarding their robes over their chairs, waiting for the bubblegum-pink-haired waitress who’d sent a menu floating their way. She pretended to read the words on the sage green page and look at the steam coming from the tea mug pictured, knowing full well what her order was going to be. 

“Are you getting something to eat?”

She shook her head, raising her eyes to meet his. 

“You?”

Harry shook his head and tapped his fingers against his menu. He was examining her, fearful and cautious under his usual stoicism. 

“Good morning, can I take your order?”

She met Harry’s eyes, a silent question he seemed to understand since he made a go-ahead motion with his hand. 

“A mug of English breakfast, sugar and milk. And a black coffee, no sugar,” she said confidently, giving the menus back to the girl in front of her. Besides her, a bright feather took their order mid-air down into a piece of parchment. 

“Got it, be right back.”

Harry gave her a small smile, lips tugging against their will. 

She tucked behind her ear a lock of hair that had fallen from her haphazardly done knot.

“You look nice,” Harry complimented her.

She smiled self-consciously and opened her mouth, ready to disagree.

“You do,” he reiterated. His eyes were sincere and she wondered how it was he knew she was going to refute his statement.

She shook her head but let herself smile fully as she met his piercing gaze. She sobered up quickly as his eyes scanned around them and he leaned against his chair, putting some distance between them.

“I’d ask if this is really you or someone’s polyjuiced as yourself but not many know I prefer coffee over tea.”

She played with her fingers.“That hard to believe, huh?”

Harry sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.“Yeah, you could say that.” 

She swallowed down the lump that had formed in her throat and thanked Merlin when the waitress was back with their drinks. She took a sip of her tea, delaying the talk she was about to have and that she felt woefully unprepared for. 

“I can’t blame you,” she said finally. 

She watched people walk past them outside in the street, the many families and couples that paid them no mind.

“I spent so long looking outwards, focusing on what everybody else was doing or saying.” She inhaled, watching as a little girl tugged at her mother’s robe. “I spent so long trying to protect myself, to guard my back and my family’s, to try and get my parents to love me.”

She cleared her throat and turned towards Harry. 

“I never looked inwards,” she admitted. “It wasn’t until our trip that I realised how unhappy I was.”

The truth behind her words let tears spring to her eyes and she blinked rapidly, wishing for some composure.

“It’d never occurred to me that some of that unhappiness was my own doing,” she admitted. “The more we spent time together, the more I didn’t only want you but I also needed you. I never let myself need anyone, not since I was a child.”

She took another sip of her tea and was grateful Harry was letting her speak, fearful she’d never get the words out if she stopped. 

“When I was at your house, with your parents, it reminded me of all the reasons why there couldn’t be anything between us.” She watched Harry huff and spoke before he could say anything. “I thought, and maybe still do, that I wasn’t enough.”

“That’s rubbish,” he exclaimed and she smiled self-deprecatingly.

“ I felt like rubbish.” She exhaled slowly and cleared her throat. “I don’t know who I am anymore. I’ve changed.”

Harry reached through the table and grabbed her hand, squeezing it briefly.

“You seem like the same Hermione I fell in love with in the middle of the night,” he told her sincerely.

The tears she was trying to stop now fell and she did her best to stop them with one hand.

“You seem to know her better than I do,” she half-joked, half-admitted. 

He let go of her hand and gave her a napkin which she accepted with a quick thank you.

“I want to be with you,” she blurted out as she dried some more tears. “I really want to be with you. I know I’ve done a terrible job of explaining myself and I’ve given you no reason to believe me but I do.” She inhaled and her hands trembled as she met Harry’s eyes. “I’m in love with you.” 

His eyes widened and she cursed herself as she noticed the way he seemed surprised to hear her say those words.

“I don’t think it’s new, I think it was inevitable. Really, how couldn’t I love you? You’re the best person I’ve ever met. But I didn’t want to love you, not when I felt I could never deserve you. Merlin, I’m doing a terrible job here at trying to get you to give me another chance.” She laughed humourlessly. “I’m really mucking this up.”

“You love me?” he asked her incredulously.

She nodded, letting her hand fall palm up as an invitation over the white tablecloth.

“I do, and if you give me one more chance I can try to prove to you how much I mean it.”

Harry laughed and before she could take her hand back he clasped it in both of his. 

“You’re sitting with me, holding my hand and crying in a coffee shop at the busiest hour of bloody Diagon Alley before Christmas.” He shook his head and smiled at her fondly. “And you think you still have to prove it to me?”

The softness of his words only made her cry harder.

“After everything-”

“After everything, I still love you,” he said simply.

She put her other hand on top of his, not caring if her face was a mess of tears and grateful for the man sitting in front of her.

“I won’t break your heart this time. You have me, all of me, day and night.” She promised.

“I’ll hold you to it.”

He grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it briefly and then holding it the way one would something precious. 

She vowed to hold his heart the same way, to treasure it and keep it safe in her hands. She’d treasure this chance at being with him and the future they would have. The many moments in the middle of the night and also in the middle of the day. The mornings of waking up together, with sunshine falling over green irises. The Sunday roasts at the Potters with Harry’s parents and godparents. With Cory warming up to her. The trips to the manor and her parents getting along with Harry. The balls they’d attend as a couple and all the eyes that would never matter to her again.  Them going back to Ireland, a real ring on her finger and memories of a small intimate wedding. Her dress hanging in her wardrobe at the house they shared.  She’d treasure it all.

She saw their future clearly, as bright as that Saturday morning and Harry’s eyes. She leaned onto her tiptoes to softly kiss him outside the coffee shop with Harry’s hands on her cheeks and sunshine shining over their heads. She thought just how lucky she was, and how she couldn’t wait to see all she knew that life had in store for them.