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Chapter Text

Her therapist –

yes, she gets a therapist, one who operates in the Muggle World because Hermione Granger is nothing but a sensible girl-woman, who believes in privacy over the cruelty that she has had no choice but to experience since she was eleven and with two male friends.

But her therapist prompts the exercise first.

“If you could change one thing about yourself,” she says, over a coffee that’s no gone cold, “what would it be and why?”

“Just like that?” Hermione frowns. Admittedly, it isn’t difficult to lie and say things like she’s a war veteran and her service to the Queen was off the books because who is really going to believe a tale about a homicidal sociopath coming back from the dead to kill his archnemesis, who was a baby the first time. She reaches for her own coffee, black no cream. She takes a sip and swallows, her nose wrinkling. “No,” she answers, “follow-up – just the why?”

“Just like that,” her therapist repeats.

There’s a number of things she would change. She would change the year on the run. She would have trusted her instincts. She would have never dated Ron, taken the kiss but insisted on things like boundaries and needing to be better friends before trusting a relationship. She would have let Neville Longbottom kiss her at the Victory Ball because he was fit, he thought she was fit, and there were no strings attached. She wouldn’t have gone to see her parents or face that fact that them not knowing her and unable to know her again was easier than being rejected up front, a cruel thought even today.

“I think I’d like to be braver,” she says lightly. The cuff of her sleeve starts to drag up her forearm. Most of her scars remain hidden, at least cosmetically, but her body is still there, still alive, and the scars just as such. The fabric of her blouse reminds her of Bellatrix Lestrange’s crisp, taunt knifework. Hermione would have killed her too.

“How so?”

Hermione shrugs. “I think, well, in the long run – I’d like to be more vocal about my needs upfront. Does that count?”

“It could,” her therapist reasons. “Do you want it to?”

Her eyes narrow. “Are you doing that on purpose?”

“Of course.” The other woman laughs. Hermione watches as she dumps another packet of sugar into her coffee. She tries not to make a face. “I think,” her therapist continues, “that unpacking your suspicion about everything I do might be best for another session. But I’d like to focus on your need to be braver. Or, well, the reason why you think you need to be braver.”

“I don’t know,” she answers immediately. She pushes her coffee forward, over it. “I think I find myself at a crossroad. I don’t particularly care about my government job, but I feel the need to work. I suppose it’s all about this constant need to prove myself, you know? Like I earned my seat at the table but I also can continue to be there.”

“Does it fulfill you?”

Hermione shrugs. A Ministry job doesn’t. She’s bored. The copious amounts of paperwork hit a level of mundanity that she thought would satisfy her post-War need to slow down. She doesn’t want to chase down leftovers like Harry and Ron do as Aurors, even though she’s been reminded several times that she could very well switch over to the department or spend some time in the legal faction. She’s not stupid either; the rumors of her potential step-in, should Kingsley decide to not seek another term, whenever that is, are rampant. She has no idea how the rumor started and finds it incredibly distasteful at best.

“Hermione?”

“I don’t think so,” she says slowly. “I think, frankly, I’m terribly bored.”

“What would you do?” The softness in the other woman’s face makes her uneasy. If only you knew, she’d like to say. The familiar anxiety begins to knot in her stomach. “I don’t mean to press,” her therapist continuous, “but it does seem directly linked to what you’ve been trying to say with wanting to be braver.”

Hermione’s mouth twitches.

“Maybe, I’ll start by quitting my job.”

-

Her resignation letter is handed to her department head by eleven that morning.

It’s all pomp and circumstances. She does charm it so that when Director Prickle decides to pick the envelope up, it opens and dictates her note to her. Prickle has never liked Hermione, but they share a begrudging respect for each other. She supposes it’s because she could read Hermione’s lackluster hunger for her position, but Prickle is known to be intensely objective, almost to the point of self-isolating and Hermione just doesn’t want to take a step into that direction for a Ministry job.

She still finds her way to the Auror department, waves to a few people that she knows, ignores all the whispering, and plants herself in front of Harry Potter’s desk. He isn’t in. Not yet, at least. His late day is another indication of where his headspace is in a post-broken engagement world. Where she and Ron acknowledged their different spaces, Harry and Ginny were swept into a bizarre, front-facing, tabloid adoring account of their relationship. No one close to them is surprised by the breakup. They both wanted different things. Ginny has always said that she did not want to be her mother and family, although important to her, was something she’d like to have in several years, just not now. Ron told her he wasn’t going to pick a side, but they both know that Weasleys have loyalty to their family first and others, particularly outsiders, later and Ginny, by nature, demanded that even wordlessly.

“Hermione?”

Harry’s voice is thick and sleepy. She drops her head back, glancing behind her at his figure at the door. These days, he’s growing some sort of beard. She thinks she likes it.

“Hiya,” she says. Her mouth twitches. “Wanted to see if you were hungry?”

“I just got in.” He pulls out his pocket watch. It’s a Remus keepsake for Teddy, but is one of the odds and ends that he seems unable to let go of. “Had an early meeting. You all right?”

“Brilliant,” she says. She watches as he comes to his desk, leaning in the space in front of her. His legs brush against hers. She studies him curiously. “Do you know?”

He frowns. “Know what?”

“Can you take an early day?”

“Know what, Hermione,” he repeats, searching her gaze. His frown deepens. He does not ask what did you do but it starts to color in the air between them. “I’m a terrible mind reader, remember?”

She snorts. “All good.” She leans onto her knees. “I quit my job though. Wanted to see if you’d keep me company for the day. Or half day, I suppose. I could go home and take a nap. Or finally go and adopt a kneazle. I’ve been saying that one forever.”

His mouth drops open. “Wait. What?”

“I quit my job,” she says. “I don’t really have much of a plan. Thankfully, I’m fairly obsessive when it comes to budgeting so I’ve got, well, I’d say a year, maybe two, if I didn’t want to do anything. I suppose my boredom would be my worst enemy, but I think that’s next week’s problem. Right now though, I’m hungry and wanted some company.”

“You quit your job,” Harry says slowly, his eyes wide. “And Prickle was okay with it?”

“I’m sure she will be. She’s not particularly fond of me and if anything, she might respect me coming out and saying that it’s not something I want to do so… I’m not going to do it. Besides, I don’t need her position to not work here. I’d rather do it cordially.”

“You really quit your job.”

“Looks like it,” she says dryly.

He stares at her. His expression is unreadable. She’s rusty, she thinks. Then again, outside of their post-War commitments, they really haven’t spent a lot of time with each other. It’s all about combating schedules, his own personal commitments, and of course, admittedly, she knows she’s pulled away a little bit. There’s a lot of noise in her head and frankly, between Ron and Harry and their own sagas, it becomes a lot.

“Give me a minute,” he says, sighing. He moves away from the desk, disappearing outside his office. She can hear him bark a few orders, listening to the scramble of those wizards and witches that form his small team. There are talks of him leading the department soon and she knows that he’s taking it seriously, maybe too seriously.

When he returns, Harry steps in front of her again. He offers his hand.

“Let’s have an early lunch then,” he says.

Hermione feels herself beam.

-

Midway into lunch, Hermione decides on two things:

The first, the most obvious, is that she’s missed him and missed him in a way that feelings funny and confusing. Of course, there is a lot to unpack between the two of them. They’ve never talked about their time alone in the woods or the nearly devasting moments that they had together in Godric’s Hollow, time that she’s only starting to learn to forgive herself for. When the War ended, it was decided that it ended for them too, despite struggling to find their footing in any corners of the Wizarding World.

The second, she thinks, is a little more complicated. Harry, the one that sits in front of her, is wound so tightly that she thinks he might snap. They’ve decided to share tea and a pastry which, she’d like to bring up, is not lunch but finds herself digging her heels in because he’s not present in this moment and she’s a little worried.

“Do you not like chocolate?”

Harry blinks. “What?”

Hermione pushes the plate forward. The chocolate croissant is already starting to flatten after the barista warmed it. She picked chocolate because Harry likes chocolate and because it goes well with the peppermint tea that she decided on.

“Chocolate,” she repeats. She forces herself to break of a piece, taking a bite. Her nose wrinkles a little. The chocolate has nearly solidified again. “Do you not like it?”

“Well,” he says dryly, “watching you eat it has really sold me on it, you know?”

“You didn’t have to come.”

“You asked me to.”

Her eyes narrow and she lifts her tea up. “Cheers to me feeling like a bother.”

Harry’s shoulders drop. “Sorry,” he says. He rubs his face. “It’s been a week,” he admits. “And then the Prophet went in on Gin’s new relationship.”

“Well,” she says slowly. “It was going to happen.”

He snorts. “Thanks, Hermione.”

“Do you still love her,” she nearly blurts, or at least, it feels that way. The words are like an old friend. Here she goes, taking care of everyone else but herself.

“No,” he says easily, surprising her. “I don’t. I mean, not in the way I was supposed to – it’s complicated, I guess. I think we both had needs that were not for each other, if that makes sense, and it’s just a reminder that I’ve got a lot to work out.”

That’s life, she doesn’t say. She feels herself soften though. “I wish I could say something other than I’m sorry,” she murmurs. Her mouth tilts a little. “But my therapist told me that I need to work on not apologize for other people’s losses.”

Harry chuckles. “Good on you, I guess.” He leans in, his thumb running over her lip. Her eyes widen briefly. She watches as chocolate transfers from her mouth to his thumb and then Harry takes his thumb into his mouth, sucking the chocolate off. “It’s a bit mediocre,” he says.

She swallows. “You picked this place.”

“You can pick the next one,” he teases.

She rolls her eyes. Her face feels warm. She wraps her hand around her tea to distract herself. It feels as if his thumb has imprinted itself onto her lip.

“Maybe a real meal then?”

He searches her gaze. “Sure,” he says. “For the next one.”

“Are you sure you can do a next one,” she says, teasing too. She doesn’t mean to, of course. Part of her feels a little selfish, maybe bratty, in calling him out. She’ll never directly say you came here with me because sometimes, there are things where it’s Harry and she falters like she’s forever trapped at sixteen. “I could pop in at Hogwarts, see if Minerva or even Neville is free. I think I owe him some sort of lunch anyway.”

His chair scuffs forward. He leans over, taking her hand by the wrist. It doesn’t startle her, but it surprises her as his fingers tap along her pulse point. She licks her lips and his eyes wander to her mouth, following her gesture curiously.

“Nah,” he says carefully. “I don’t share well with others anyway.”

-

What happens next is something that she’ll bring up in therapy. Of course, Harry has to be sensible when presenting the idea. All she wanted do was make a simple curry. I have to cook whatever is in my refrigerator, she had said.

Still, he hovers next to her. He’s hesitant, of course. “I have a proposal for you,” he says. “Granted, we’ll work around your self-imposed sabbatical if you agree to it.”

“Thanks,” she says dryly. “You made that sound both insulting and admiring.”

“It’s true.” He reaches over, still her hand. She’s been chopping carrots for what feels like the better part of their arrival at her flat. Curry seemed like a solid idea anyhow. Harry takes the knife and places it in the sink. “Hear me out though.” He swallows. “Please?”

Hermione studies him. There’s an edge to how he stands. Again, she marvels at how tightly winded he is, as if anything could make him snap and unravel at that very moment. She wonders if she’s just missed it, if they really haven’t spent that much time together. It’s different now, of course, given that they aren’t in close quarters. She just hates that she feels a little out of practice around him.

“Okay,” she murmurs.

“Sex,” he says quickly, maybe unapologetically. “Let’s have it.”

Hermione chokes. “What?”

“You and me.” He leans over her, framing her face with his hands. She immediately flushes. She’s wide-eyed, of course. Her brain feels like it’s short-circuiting. “I probably could have asked you in a better way,” he says too. “But I – I don’t know. I think you and I would be really great together, if you wanted to.”

“Sex,” she says. Repeats, even. Her tongue glides over her lip. His eyes follow. She feels herself ready to preen. Her face feels a little flushed. “I –” They’re adults. When you’re younger, with two male best friends, of course, you cannot help but think of them in that way, fantasizing about what it would be like. There’s a glimmer of youthful intimacy too, of hoping that sex and intimacy can lead into a space where you could be fulfilled with feelings. “You want to sleep with me?”

“Yes,” he says easily. “Very much.”

“And you just decided –”

“It’s always been there,” he tells her. “Behind everything. For instance, in the tent, you and I – of course, I thought about it, about you, about your legs and your mouth. I was growing into it, you know? And I could get into the song and dance about you being one of my best mates, about not wanting to ruin anything, but frankly, speaking frankly, I feel like you’d understand my needs, I suppose, or at least, meet me halfway in trying to understand them.”

Hermione decides that quitting her terrible Ministry job is paling in comparison to several bombs he’s decided to lob at her. She stares at him. There’s no reason to not believe or not take him seriously. It’s the very crux of their relationship. Where Ron fulfills that need to be fun, the spirit of boys-will-be-boys, and everything in between, Hermione understands that her role is always that something serious, that the nature of him and her is intimate and full of secrets. She’s still surprised and flustered that he’s asking her this.

“Is this because you’re having a hard time,” she says quietly.

“Yes.” His thumbs travel over the arches of her cheeks. She forces herself to swallow. “I know I’m being bloody selfish in asking too. But I’m –” He taps the side of his head. “It’s a mess in here and I wish I could ask you in a way that made sense.”

“Well,” she says, her mouth twitching. “I’ll have a lot of free time it seems.”

Harry barks a laugh. “True.”

“So how do we do this then?” She surprises herself by asking. It’s not an outright yes, but she’s still consenting to the idea. She watches his eyes darken and a tuft of air escape his mouth in some sort of sigh. It feels like he’s holding more in. “You and me,” she adds.

“Do you have any hard lines?”

She shrugs. “I’m not really sure,” she says. His thumb moves to her lip. Without thinking, she leans in and bites it lightly. Harry lets his thumb linger though, watching. So she bites it again. “I mean,” she says, “we could find out, I suppose, but if I’m honest, I have really explored that yet. Or been with anyone who has met me in that way.”

Hermione doesn’t know what she expects him to say, but she does watch his face transform and his posture relax. He steps into her, his arm sliding around her waist, as if to test the waters by starting with something so inexplicably simple. She’d argue that his fingers against her mouth does something to her, that now she’s thinks about her mouth on his mouth, the sudden option of her mouth against the column of his throat, which, secretly, she’s always found to be pretty and delicious. She can’t say these things yet.

“First rule then,” he says, voice low. It does something to her. Her stomach knots and her face flushes almost immediately. “When it’s like this, it’s only ever me and you.”

There’s too much to unpack when he says that, when he says it like that too, his voice full of promises that she can barely wrap her head around. She knows she has control though, that her version of stop and go, whatever it needs to be, is something that he’d respect and that the fact that she can understand that at start means more than anything else. But still, she’s marveling at how he looks at her, how he surrounds her, and how quickly she’s really willing to see how this is going to go.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

-

The transition to the bedroom is not immediate.

There is no direct announcement of things like safe words. There will be. Maybe. It still feels a lot like they’re unconsciously testing each other. She puts away the cut vegetables that she started on, while Harry busies himself with putting away unused pots and pans. It isn’t until she takes his hand and leads him to her bedroom that she realizes that they’re going to do this and she’s okay with doing this with him.

“I want you to sit,” he says. “First,” he adds. “On the edge of the bed.”

Harry stays standing at the frame of her door. His head tilts to the side. He doesn’t hide how he’s watching her. Hungrily, of course. Curiously too.

Hermione nods. “Sure,” she says easily, releasing his hand.

Normally, coming from the Ministry, she’d make a quick work of her skirt and blouse and shower, wanting to wash the day away. She’s been too distracted by Harry to really feel her usual distaste for her work clothes and when she sits, she’s acutely aware of how her skirt starts to drag up her thighs.

“You know,” he tells her, “you’re really pretty.”

Hermione flushes immediately. Her eyes widen slightly. She bites her lip and her fingers dig into her comforter. Her heart is even racing.

“Am I?” She’s breathless and kind of hates it.

“Yeah,” he says easily. His hands are in his pockets. He takes a step forward, then another. “I know you probably don’t believe me,” he says, nearly calling her out. Her teeth bite at her lip. “But I think you’re pretty enough to eat.”

Hermione nearly unravels right there.

Harry is fast though. His hands move away from his pockets. He sinks to his knees in front her. His hands drop on her legs and he pushes her thighs open, her skirt rising further up her legs. She’s wearing a garter to hold up her stockings, stockings that have some sort lace top. He leans in and immediately bites at her thigh.

“Harry,” she manages, ready to reach for him.

He gently bats her hands away. “No,” he tells her. “Hands on the bed, Hermione. You said you wanted me to have lunch with you, so I’m going to have lunch.”

She might just lose it.

Her arousal is no joke. It’s cruel and immediate. She can feel herself clench, even as he bites at her thigh again. His hands feel large over her legs, larger than she realized – she’s always liked his hands, of course. There’s something to be said about the contrast, the coarseness of his skin against hers. She makes a soft sound.

“Good girl,” he tells her too, and she might want to die on the spot. “You listen so well already. It doesn’t surprise me though.”

The snap of her garter brings her to the surface. She watches, her eyes wild, as he peels of her stockings, one by one. His hands are warm or her bedroom is cold. She can’t decide. It might not matter anyway. His hands still slide up her legs, then around the waistband of her panties as he goes and bunches her skirt around her waist.

“I bet you have the prettiest cunt,” he says. “Is this how you dress it up?”

Her panties are lace. When he swallows, seeing them, she knows he likes them too.

“Harry,” she breathes. “Please.”

“Such a pretty girl. Good with her manners too,” he says lazily. He peels her panties off next, pocketing them. “A pretty girl with a pretty cunt. What a delicious lunch indeed.”

Later, she might not be able to look at him. Later, she’ll try and convince herself that this is a terrible idea because people do crazy things after quitting their job. This goes beyond showing up for your best friend too – but her best friend has not only discovered her praise kink but immediately capitalized on it.

“Do you want me to touch you?” he asks, leaning in. His mouth grazes her belly, just a small glimpse of skin. Her mind is reeling. “I’d love to be able to eat.”

“Harry,” she says again, and god, she thinks, he’s barely even touched her. She tries one more time to rationalize this: she’s quit her job and is riding that high. It’s been awhile. She’s not starved for touch, but apparently, here and now, she is.

“Be a good girl and use your words, Hermione.”

Yes, she thinks. Yep. Of course. She’s going to die.

“Please,” she manages shakily. “Please, please touch me,” she says, nearly begging.

He laughs huskily and the sound nearly takes her out too.

“That’s a girl,” he says.

He doesn’t dive right in. Instead, it feels like he’s peeling her apart – his mouth brushes a kiss against her thigh and then he uses his fingers, his long and deft fingers to spread her cunt for himself. She drops back a little or rather, stumbles onto holding herself up by her elbows, watching, fascinated and aroused, as his mouth slides over her cunt. When his tongue rolls against her clit, she whimpers loudly and her hand immediately twists into his hair. She’s gone, after his fingers slide inside of her, pushing in as his teeth even tease her nub.

“Oh god,” she moans. “Harry.”

Let it be said that she can no longer accuse him of not being attentive. He takes every reaction he pulls from her, only to push her into another – her hips arch, she’s panting, her skin is warm and she can feel her nipples begin to peak against her bra. He’s watching her too, only briefly drawing back. His mouth and face coated with her arousal as his fingers decide on the rhythm that he wants. She learns something else about him in that moment. He likes to watch her.

He likes to watch her so much that when he dives back in, feasting on her cunt, when her orgasm hits and she cries out, that he stays between her legs, his tongue running dipping inside her too as she collapses into the bed, shuddering. She barely has it together as he comes over her, leaning in and kissing her too.

This is their first kiss – his mouth slick with her arousal, his hand pulling her into him, a mess of tangled clothes and shaky limbs. She cannot begin to understand why it hit her that hard, but something in her has come to the surface. Harry kisses her selfishly though, stealing every sigh and leftover moan that remains. She feels her body fit into him, his hand traveling back down to her waist and returning her skirt to back over her thighs.

When he pulls back though, he searches her gaze. His expression remains unreadable. He’s relaxed though and she watches as the remainder of his tension seems to disappear as he shifts over her once more, stealing a smaller kiss.

“Dinner later,” he says. His mouth grazes her forehead. “I should be getting back.”

Hermione is sleepy. She doesn’t have the energy to fight him. “Sure,” she says. “I’d like that.”

Neither of them talks about how he takes her underwear with him, of course. She won’t realize until later, in the kitchen as she’s pulling out her curry ingredients because now she’s ravenous. This isn’t what her therapist meant by being a little braver. It might be funny to bring up, of course. Then again, have Muggle therapist? Just generalize things. At least, this is what she’s going to tell herself.

It doesn’t matter anyway. For the first time, in a long time, the smile on her face feels relaxed.

Chapter Text

Harry Potter has a problem.

The first, honestly, isn’t a real problem. Working late comes with the territory, they say. Career Aurors are married to the job, not real relationships. You have to make sure that you separate yourself from your famous personality – that last one, he thinks, is really the worst and frankly, pisses him off the most. The career Auror that says that to him is one of Kingsley’s old squad mate, allegedly just as much as a contender for the department head position as he is.

No, all of that is really just noise. Noise that follows him in his day-to-day, hunched over his desk with case files or down having lunch among the “oh my god, that’s Harry Potter!” which is equal parts embarrassing and uncomfortable. He’s not naïve, unfortunately moving on with the understanding that he’s always going to be some sort of spectacle. It’s really what broke him first, then him and Ron, and then, of course, him and Ginny. He thinks this is where his obsession with control stemmed from, the inability to dictate the direction of his life.

Then there’s Hermione’s legs.

“Hiya,” the best friend in question greets him. He’s at the desk and she’s behind him. Peering over his chair. “I’ve come to feed you,” she says. A pretty blush warms her face.

He arches an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, and steps around his chair. She leans against his desk. Since their moment in her flat, he’s been unable to catch a break to see her again. A case blew up. The demand for his presence outweighed any sort of five minutes he wanted. Including more time between her legs. “You look like you haven’t seen yourself in a mirror for days,” she says lightly.

Harry barks a laugh. “Is it the beard? Or my sad attempts at one?”

Or not-so sad, really. It’s been a fixture for the headlines. His post-breakup headlines. The truth of the matter is that he and Ginny were long gone. She wasn’t devasted and similarly, he followed in kind. The world moves faster, after all, and it was already too hard to keep up. What hurt more is the Weasley family picking sides. Of course, he’d never hold it against Ron for picking his sister but a small part of him, selfishly at least, wished that the people who called him family acted accordingly.

“I think it’s growing on me,” Hermione murmurs.

“You’ve noticed?”

She snorts. It feels like a stupid question.

“I mean,” he reasons. “I haven’t fully decided to keep it.” Every time he looks into the mirror, he watches the shadows under his eyes get larger. Somewhere, some late night, he decided a beard might be a nice change. It’s not thick enough to be a full beard, operating somewhere between stubble and more than just stubble. “Allegedly, it’s popular.”

“Harry,” Hermione drawls, sighs too as if he’s missed the picture. “You could shave your head and speak in riddles for the rest of your life and people would still love you. It doesn’t matter what you decided to do as long as you’re happy.”

“That feels like a forced vote of confidence.”

“Darling,” she says, teases even – it’s the sudden change in her voice where it shifts from something like to something, well, different. His body immediately tense. He licks his lips. He tries to assuage the shift in tone. His body likes how soft her voice feels, even from over him. “No one,” she says, “can force me to do anything, especially now that I’m gainfully unemployed.”

Harry laughs and it feels like the first he’s laughed, genuinely, in awhile. Hermione grins ruefully and stretches out her hand to offer it to him.

“I suppose I’ll continue to capitalize on your ordeal.”

Hermione is in his space, just as he stands and stumbles a little into hers. His desk is too close to the bloody wall, he decides. It doesn’t take away that he’s invading her space, that he catches that slight sound that comes out of her mouth, and can’t help but lick her lips. He wants to lick them for her, he thinks. Then nearly kicks himself. Lunch, he thinks. Lunch.

Hermione’s mouth twitches nonetheless. “I didn’t say I was buying,” she says.

-

Maybe it’s the denim.

Harry wouldn’t consider himself an ass man – in roundabout way, it’s painfully archaic to think of himself as any sort of man. His closest friend is progressive to a fault and if he were to vocalize, in public, just how much he appreciates the way her jeans round her ass and then lead on into her legs, her legs that he’s been obsessing over since he pocketed her panties after unapologetically eating her out. Will they talk about it? The eating part, he thinks in amusement – probably, maybe. You never know with Hermione. If she’s not panicking, he’s not panicking.

But they barely make it out of the small café.

“We’re closer to Grimmauld,” he tells her, his eyes still studying her bum. He misses her amused smile. She grabs the bag of sandwiches from her, swinging it into her hand. “We could eat there,” he says. “Kreacher is plotting my murder, given that I barely give him anything to do.”

“I thought we’d go to the park,” she says. She looks up. “It’s a nice day out.”

She’s not wrong, of course. Once out of the deep abyss known as his office, he was greeted by sunshine and fresh air. It took a minute breathe, another minute longer to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight as he vanished his robes and left himself in jeans and an old jersey from his Hogwarts days.

“I haven’t been home in awhile,” he points out.

“All the more reason to sit outside,” she says. She grabs his hand, lacing their fingers together. He lets her lead them in amusement, watching as she takes them down an unfamiliar side street and into a small park. There’s too much greenery for his eyes to adjust, but spring is clearly on the way as they pass a mess of gardeners and even a club of some sort, addressing the floral placement in front of them. “When you get promoted,” she says, “you should make sure that you ask for some sort of window. I think they’re trying to make you mad.”

“I’ll put it at the top of my list,” he says.

When they sit, she sets their sandwiches out on the paper bag. She unwraps her first carefully and he mimics her gesture, peeling back the tinfoil before taking a small bite. The small bite feels like a bad habit, so he leans in again and takes a bigger bite, trying to chew as thoughtfully as possible. You don’t really enjoy things anymore, Ginny had said.

“How’s week one going?” He asks, trying not think about it.

“Two,” she corrects. A funny expression crosses her face. It feels equal parts sad and disappointed. His face burns a little. “It’s okay,” she offers, as if reading his mind. “You’ve got a lot going on.” She laughs a little too. “And I, thankfully, don’t.”

“Does it feel strange?”

Hermione shrugs. “A little,” she admits easily. For that, he tries to shove his jealousy down. “Minerva has sent me two tea invitations. I fear if I ignore the third, she might kidnap me and force me to be on staff as retribution.”

Harry laughs. “She loves you.”

“I know.” Hermione takes a bite out of her sandwich, leaning into the bench. “She offers me a Hogwarts staff position at least once a year. If I wanted it, I would have taken it ages ago. But going back for an eighth-year sort of dissuaded any idealized version of what that would look like, you know? Too many memories and I’m struggling to keep up with all the healing, I suppose.”

Between them, when it is just the two of them, she’s always been objectively honest. He admires her too much for that, the ability to simultaneously where her heart on her sleeve but also be unapologetically shy about her needs is fascinating to watch. Here, she has these small ticks too – she sits straighter, her shoulders roll in, and she holds her sandwich tightly, but not too tightly, just in a motion that means that she very much aware of what she’s putting in front of him to hear.

“I think it’s important to do what you want,” he says softly. “You’ve certainly earned the right, Hermione. And if it’s taking your time to do so, then that’s okay too.”

She smiles and it’s so unsettlingly warm that it catches a switch in his head and all he wants to do is lean over, take her space, and kiss her all the same. His head is spinning a little. He doesn’t understand how quickly he can go from one headspace to another and maybe, maybe that’s part of the problem, maybe it’s all these needs and wants that he hasn’t had any sort of place for and Hermione somehow seems to inspire the need in him.

“My head’s still a mess,” he mutters, flushing when he realizes that it’s out loud.

“Maybe you should quit your job too,” she says lightly.

He grins a little, scoffing. “That would be quite the controversy. I can already see the headlines now – lovelorn Harry Potter unable to continue catching the bad guys.”

“Ah,” she says dryly. “You’re selling yourself short – I think it would probably be more along the lines of lovelorn Harry Potter falls to professional pressure and sets out of the Head Auror race.”

He snorts. “The Daily Prophet should hire you.”

“There’s an idea,” she says. “Although, I’d rather just buy it and torment Rita Skeeter for the rest of my life. I wonder if this is how Malfoy feels, gainfully unemployed but wondering what to do with his money. I suppose I can understand the confusion.”

Harry laughs. “Could ask him for pointers.”

“I’d have to want to stand in the same room as him,” she says, and that, there, sort of sends him into a headspace. He’d never let her go alone, of course. If she were serious about whatever next steps she’d like to take. In fact, it’s not unreasonable for her to go and buy the Prophet. He’s got the money too. They could invest. Perhaps, it would read as a conflict of interest though. He, unfortunately, is that serious about the Head Auror job.

Harry finishes off his sandwich instead. He watches as she does too. They share a small bag of chips, a bit on the staler side since it’s mostly been forgotten. Admittedly, it feels good to be outside. He watches the gardens make a mess of dirt and flower beds with feigned interest, mostly to let his head go blank.

Instead, he thinks what’s next and turns his head slightly to catch a look of Hermione. It seems slightly odd or even serendipitous as he watches the afternoon sun catch her face, right over her skin, and cast a warm glow upon her. Her hair is piled on top her head in some sort of knot, a few strands of curls framing her face. His fingers itch to push them back. In fact, not just push them but catch her jaw and turn her to face him. He’s still hungry, he thinks. There’s no work to distract him either. It’s always going to be waiting for him.

“I got a new bed,” he says, rather clumsily even. It’s mostly because he’s thinking of her panties, the ones he took home and shoved into his nightstand drawer.

Hermione laughs warmly. “Oh?”

“You could come see it,” he says too, watching as a smile completely transforms her face. He’s more than just a bit jealous that she’s more relaxed than he’s seen her in ages. But, he thinks, there’s also this other need to unravel, to push her and watch her come undone.

“Why? You want to do it again?”

Her voice is light. He smiles dangerously.

“Only if you ask me just as prettily as you did before,” he says.

-

Two things can be true at the same time.

What they’re doing, whatever they’re embarking on, is messy, teetering too close to the line of their relationship, something that he keeps as sacred. But he’s never wanted anyone quite like the way he wants Hermione, the way that he feels like a man starved when she peels her t-shirt over her head and he can finally palm her breasts.

“God,” he hisses, watching as her nipples peak in the cool air. “You’re really that fucking pretty, Hermione.”

Immediately, she flushes. He’s already latched onto just how much she likes praise, let alone his praise. It feeds something dangerous inside of him too, something that feels like it’s been unfulfilled all these years, so much so that he’s been ready to snap all along.

“I’ll have you tonight,” he decides, out loud. He’s a real mess, if she keeps looking at him like that too. “What do you think?”

“Yes,” she breathes, and his head dips forward, taking one of her nipples between his teeth. He bites gently, sucking as her fingers come into his hair and tangle. His cock is straining in his pants. Take your time, he tells himself. Let’s take care of her.

It doesn’t surprise him that Hermione is this responsive. He commits every reaction to memory too. How she makes this soft, small breathy sound when his mouth recircles her nipple, his tongue flicking at the numb. His hand has already made its way between her legs, his fingers traveling over the soft tufts of curls before dipping into her cunt.

“Wanna come on my cock then,” he asks, or begs – it feels like he begs. His voice carries a strain. He’s supposed to be indulgent. Instead, he’s laser focus, committed to her needs, to the desire to fill her needs, to take and give back. It feels like a purpose he can commit to.

“Please,” she breathes again too, her eyes wild. He can feel her tighten around his fingers. He remains steadfast though, twisting his wrist to sink his fingers further inside of her. She moans and he feels the win, leaning into her to steal a light kiss as he finds his rhythm inside of her, in and out.

It feels new and vicious, of course. Hermione doesn’t hide from him. Her words fall into some sort of babble. Please and you promise? and it’s almost too much for him. It’s as if he’s gone and opened Pandora’s Box. But she’s underneath him, withering, and he commits it to memory as if he’ll never see her this way again.

“You’re the prettiest,” he tells her softly. His voice trembles and he slowly, oh so slowly, pulls his fingers from her cunt.

She’s panting and flushed. She watches him with a hooded gaze. All he sees is glowing skin, flushing – he did that, he thinks. He’s pushed her to this. It’s more than just that. Her nipples gleam, wet where his mouth was once, and he remembers the trail his hand took to her belly, over and then into her cunt.

“All I want to do is eat you,” he says lazily.

Her mouth shifts, the corners turning into some sort of smile. It’s for him too. “Next time,” she promises, and he can’t help but laugh.

His fingers make quick work of his jeans, slick with her arousal. He shoves them down his hips, then his boxers to follow, his fingers wrapping around his cock. He lets out a low moan, driven by her eyes on him as he fists himself, jerking his hand along his shift. The head of his cock is already swollen, already ready to be buried inside of her.

“I’m on both,” she murmurs, “before you ask –”

His lips twitch. “I expect nothing less, pretty girl.” Although his brain goes to other places, to how deep he could go, to how full he could make her look. You’re a selfish bastard, he tells himself. He lets out a shaky sigh. His arousal is making him mad.

His self-control is razor-thin.

This time, he forces himself to go slow, painfully slow. He wants to see her as his cock nudges her entrance. Her teeth bite into her lip and she lets out a whimper, her hands curling into his sheets as she spreads to her legs out to greet him.

His world is on an axis and it all falls apart, right as he pushes inside her and all he can hear her babble is oh god oh god oh god. Her cunt stretches around him. She’s warm and wet and feels just too good. Her hips flex to accommodate him and he growls a little, grabbing her by the hips and shifting so that he’s seated and she takes him deeply, resting in his lap.

The blood is rushing into his ears, his head, as she shifts her hips and starts to ride him. Her arms wrap around his neck. Her eyes squeeze shut. Her hair is damp with sweat. He wants her to open her eyes, but this leaves her on full display for him, so that he can memorize the way her chest heaves with every pant, the way her hips feel under his hands, and the way the pressure in his core starts to build.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he murmurs into her ear, his voice shaky. She whimpers. He slides a hand into her hair to keep her close. “My pretty girl,” he coaxes. “The prettiest, all tight and wide and just for me.”

“Harry.”

And when she unravels, right over him, in front of him, she’s a sight that he doesn’t want to let go of. Her lips are swollen. She squeezes his cock when her orgasm hits, her back arching hard as she drops her head into his shoulders. She’s gasping for air and he follows soon after, her walls spasming around him as he feels himself explode.

They’re both breathless and he’s, of course, rightfully fucked.

-

There is a fundraising ball and he forgets.

Not only does he forget, he forgets that it’s being held at Hogwarts, that he’s known it’s been coming, that this one of those circumstantial invites that he cannot ignore because he’s both in the running for Head Auror and he’s still the unfortunate, reluctant War Hero. The two, these days, are not mutually exclusive.

The problem is that Hermione no longer works for the Ministry and that she’s not as easily accessible when he’s panicking, looking for a last-minute date to these events that he hates so much. He’s already been to a series of these without a date, enduring the whispers and uncanny assumptions given his not-so-newly minted single status. He’s also sleeping with his best friend, but that’s so far from problem status in his head. Right now.

He also knows that she’s going to be there anyhow.

Neville asked me to stand-in with him, she had told him awhile ago. It probably coincides with Minerva’s yearly invitation to work on staff, but the idea that Neville beat him to the punch almost certainly pisses him off. And outside of being around Hermione, his mood swings are become sort of famous around the department too.

It gets worse when he sees her.

The Hogwarts ballroom is decorated in some sort of nautical theme, a wide berth of candles and stars are scattered over his head to commit to a moonlight sea theme. He finds her immediately in the crowd, a hard swallow as he tries to shift from the form-fitting gown that shifts between blue and green to Neville’s hand against the small of her back. He thinks he might want to break Neville’s fingers. That might not be okay.

“Mr. Potter.”

He jumps slightly. The Headmistress is behind him, her hand gently catching his elbow. Her expression is both warm and amused.

“A bad time?” She asks, almost immediately calling him out. With a smile, no less.

“No.” He clears his throat.

McGonagall nods towards Hermione. “She told me no as soon as she arrived, I’ll have you know.” She laughs warmly. “Not that I’m surprised, of course, but I do hold out hope that she’ll change her mind someday soon. The Ministry is a terrible place for a bright mind.”

“She still hasn’t made any sort of decision,” he murmurs.

A few members of Hogwarts’ board pass by them. He makes a point to shake their hands, all the while keeping an eye on Hermione and Neville. Currently, they move conversation to Hannah Abbott who, for her part, grabs Hermione with a large, startling hug. Harry feels his stomach twist a little.

“I assumed,” McGonagall says, amused. She tucks a hand into the crook of his elbow. “I hear she’s about to be courted by private investors and a few foreign entities.”

Harry’s eyes narrow. “You think she’d go for it?”

“Honestly?” His former professor sighs. The advantage she has is that she had seen a year of Hermione after the War, immediately so. While he and Ron were off, focusing on legacies and trying to wrap up the Death Eater loose ends, or whatever the Prophet has dubbed them these days, Hermione was here, in Hogwarts, unraveling a lot of what her post-War landscape looked like. He’s just never asked, shamefully enough. “I don’t know,” McGonagall admits gently. She squeezes his elbow. “I had the pleasure of bringing her in, you know.”

“You mean, you went to get her?”

“Yes.” She smiles wistfully. “Her parents were so relieved. Not in bad way, per say, but as parents who finally had an answer to the strange things and aliments that kept happening to their daughter. From what I was told, she was brilliant and lonely child, more so because they had no idea how to engage her.” She pauses, sighing a little. “And when I saw her, a young Miss Granger, all I saw was a little girl with wide eyes and a too hopeful of a smile.”

It's a lot to lay on him. His stomach is in knots even before he realizes that the Headmistress has walked them over to the small cluster of Hermione, Neville, and Hannah Abbott, all deep in warm conversation.

“Harry!”

Hannah greets him first. “Tell Hermione,” she orders, kissing his cheek, “that she’d make a brilliant healer. The program is only a year or so long and –”

“Sounds dreadful,” Hermione says dryly, leaning in and kissing his cheek. His arm immediately wraps around her waist as he feels himself exhale. He offers a hand to Neville, who takes it, wearing his amusement clearly on his face. “I didn’t think you’d come,” Hermione says too.

Neville offers Hermione a champagne glass. “I figured you’d be busy given the raids taking place on the countryside, is it?”

“According to the Prophet,” Harry says. His mouth twists with some amusement, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He looks down at Hermione. “You look beautiful,” he says, out loud, and her eyes widen. She flushes immediately.

“It looks like my date is being kidnapped, Headmistress.”

Neville grins a little. Hannah looks on with interest. It’s McGonagall, however, who looks completely unsurprised at the exchange. Harry’s mouth twists.

“Borrowing her, really,” he plays along. Hermione snorts indignantly. “If I steal her for a dance, mate, and have her back in a few, it’ll give me a break from the questions.”

“You could ask me if I want to dance,” Hermione cuts in. Not sharply. There’s a mix of amusement and annoyance written into her face. He’ll apologize, he tells himself, when it’s just him and her and they’re away from prying eyes. “It’s the least you could do,” she says pointedly, almost daring him.

His face is warm. He’ll play, he decides.

“May I have this honor,” he says, not asks, and all the same, Hermione lets out a low laugh. She searches his gaze and behind her, even around them, everyone seems to fade into background noise, forgotten. It’s selfish, but he feels the relief.

“You may,” she murmurs. His eyes immediately are drawn to her mouth. Behind them, the orchestra sweeps into some sort of waltz. There’s a flurry of fabric waiting for them. And Rita Skeeter, he’s sure, is probably lurking about. Hermione squeezes his hand and he finds himself, for the first time in a really long time, uncaring of what people think.

This is a problem.

Chapter Text

Hermione makes a mistake. It just sort of happens.

“I slept with my best friend,” she says, well, blurts to her therapist. She isn’t panicking. She’s more of a-matter-of-fact. “It was amazing,” she adds quickly. Her face is hot. She’s ready to be defensive. It was. “Which, well, is sort of weird to process? I think I should be more worried about quitting my job.”

“You quit your job,” her therapist says slowly. Her name is Susie. She lives in a quaint brownstone on the other side of the park. At least, she tells her so. Hermione tries not think of her therapist as Susie. It personalizes her judgment.

“I did,” Hermione confirms. You have to keep up, she almost says. As far as Susie knows, she has just left a cushy job in finance. Hermione thought it was an appropriate metaphor, given the state of the Ministry and her role in Magical Creatures. “There was a lot of things that were wrong and I think it was a long time coming.

“A long time coming?”

Hermione narrows her eyes. “I’m talking about my job now, Susie,” she says and her therapist blanches. Hermione crosses her legs. “I was bored,” she says. “I find that I don’t do entirely well taking orders from other people.”

“You need to be in control.” Her therapist’s eyes light up. Like they’ve found today’s talking point. Hermione tilts her head to the side. Her face starts to cool. She’s definitely annoyed. Susie leans over her knees. “And was that what led you –”

“No, Susie.” Hermione can’t stop herself. “That’s not what led me to quit. I don’t need to have a title to be in control,” she says too, and sort of hates how ominous it sounds. She bites her lip a little, trying to regain her footing. It feels a lot like a lie. “I think I have spent a lot of time trying to partake in a system that does nothing to change and spends more time placating an idealized view of itself. That’s what pisses me off, Susie.” She stretches her hand out, holding up her fingers. “I’m tired,” she says, “desperately so, in a way where sometimes I wonder if all the sacrifices that I made were really worth it and so, like any good person would do, I cut out the most toxic piece to see if I can inspire other endeavors.”

“Like sleeping with your best friend,” her therapist says dryly. Her eyes are sharp now. There, Hermione thinks, she is. The other woman clicks her pen twice. “You wanted change your personal landscape then.”

Hermione is quiet. She shifts to sit back in her seat. She thinks of Harry. They’re supposed to have dinner together tonight. Maybe she’ll cook.

“Yeah,” she says slowly. “I suppose I do.”

-

“My therapist hates you.”

Harry chokes on his wine. She hides a smile in her wine glass.

“Hates me?” he asks. “What did I do?”

“Or,” she says, “well, she thinks I’m making a mess of things by sleeping with you.” They are standing in Harry’s kitchen. He’s making pasta for them. She leans back into the counter. “Don’t worry, I told her she was totally wrong.”

“I would hope so,” he says dryly.

She watches him start to dice an onion. Her eyes wander over his fingers, working the knife. He’s fast, deft, and it’s hard not to stare. In fact, she’s finding that she’s more acutely aware of things that he does. How he uses his hands. The way his trousers leave nothing to the imagination.

He’s fit, of course. The best and worst part about Harry is that he knows that he’s fit too. He catches her watching him from time-to-time, sending a amused smile her way. She’s convinced it’s because he enjoys watching her blush.

“We should talk about it though.”

She surprises herself by bringing it up. She’s not trying to end anything. In fact, in the last couple of weeks, she’s been the most relaxed she’s ever been. Of course, she relates that a lot to quitting her job. But this is different, they’re different, and she’s not really sure how to articulate what he’s done for her.

“Sleeping together?” Harry pauses over the cutting board. His eyes are dark. He flashes her a lazy smile and she flushes. “We can talk about it,” he says.

“Glad I have your permission.” The words stumble from her mouth. He gives her this look, one she can’t quite place. “I’m not trying to be a brat,” she says.

He licks his lips. “You can be,” he says quietly. Oh, she thinks. Her eyes are a little wide and she holds onto her wine glass a little too tightly. Harry tries again. “But –”

“Didn’t we say we were going to eat tonight,” she murmurs, and he moves away from the onion to stand right in front of her. There’s a dishtowel right over his shoulder. He stands over her, studying her curiously. “Harry,” she warns. “Food,” she says firmly.

He reaches for a strand of her hair and she watches as he wraps it around a finger. She finds herself swallowing. Her breathing starts to change. She can’t think when he’s this close to her. Her lips part. Sometimes she doesn’t even want to.

“What else did she say?”

“Who?” She asks breathlessly.

“Your therapist,” he says. He leans in, his mouth grazing her jaw. “Tell me what she said.”

Her mind goes blank. There’s no time to really adjust to anything. His mouth goes from her jaw to her throat and she lets out a low moan, her fingers looping into his jeans. His teeth skim her pulse point and she shudders too.

“Hermione,” he says.

“She said that I like to be in control,” she manages, her eyes squeezing shut. “That it’s no surprised that I am attracted to someone who could be in control for me – that way I can refocus and assess what’s going on in my professional life.” She doesn’t know how she gets any of that out, half a confession and the rest a string of words that happen to make sense. She feels Harry smile against her throat, trembling as he plucks her wine glass from her hand. “She asked me if that’s what you were for me, someone who could take care of me.”

“Is that what you want?” Harry shifts back, his fingers curling under her chin. He leans in again, his mouth grazing hers. “You want me to take care of you?”

She comes face-to-face with her vulnerability this way, in the kitchen, pressed against the counter as he asked her. She envies how easy it comes to him. Her mind is spinning. Maybe she’s thinking too hard about this.

The truth of the matter is that Harry Potter has always gotten her in some way, shape, or form. They’ve never needed to be together to have this kind of intimacy, let alone the years of friendship under the pressures of what was happening outside Hogwarts’ walls and the Wizarding World. Harry is and will always be her oldest friend and she thinks that certain things cannot be undone. She hopes.

This, however, is new territory. When she looks at him, when he looks at her this way, she can feel herself unraveling. Whatever has happened between the two of them as already peeled back a layer of herself that feels clumsy and unfamiliar, far too new to pinpoint any semblance of answer. She should be worried. Normally, she’d even push herself into a frenzy of obsessions. But here, now, watching him watch her, she isn’t. It’s terrifying.

“Do you want to take care of me,” she counters, quietly, even. His thumb slides over her lip. She kisses the underside, then his palm.

Harry’s expression is heated. Her heart is racing.

“I think you know that I do,” he says.

-

They manage dinner. Or she manages dinner. Barely.

“This is delicious,” she says, or tries to say, because his expression has not changed from their conversation in the kitchen. He’s a natural, of course. It doesn’t surprise her. The flavors are fresh. He’s admitted to being a local to the weekend’s Farmer’s Market when he has a chance, which drives Kreacher insane because he really just enjoys doing things himself.

“I’m glad.” Harry takes a sip of his wine, studying her. “I like to see you eat.”

Her face warms. “Thank you?”

“You enjoy it and I like watching you enjoy things,” he says easily. His hand swishes his glass. Harry and Ron had a crash course in etiquette with the insane amounts of post-War dinners they’ve had to attend. Thankfully, her parents had seen to her classes in the summer – mostly in hopes of introducing her to neighboring families. It’s tradition, her mother would say. She largely suspects it had more to do with reminding her that her family was in the Muggle World.

“I do,” she says shyly. She tucks some hair behind her ear. “It’s nice to have someone cook for you, I suppose. I enjoy doing it, but I’m not used to someone else doing it for me.”

“I’ll make a note.”

“You don’t have to –”

“Hermione,” he says quietly. His voice remains even. “I like cooking for you.”

She’s blushing. It makes her feel a little desperate. She’s not sure why she’s suddenly reacting this way. Is it because they were discussing her needs? What about his needs? He wants to take care of her, but does it mean.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, trying to meet his gaze.

“Anything for the prettiest girl I know,” he says.

When he says that, when he says that in that way, her arousal snaps. Her nerves are shot. She feels like a livewire. Her thighs clench. Her fingers curl around the stem of her wine glass, if anything to have something to hold onto.

“I like when you call me that,” she says softly. She can’t look at him. She squirms a little, trying to find a place in the room to stare at it.

“Call you what?”

“Pretty.”

It feels indulgent to say. She bites a little at her lip, but he reaches forward, his thumb brushing over her lip too. He forces her jaw to relax, but her teeth catch the pad of his thumb and she takes it into her mouth. She sucks gently. He makes no move to take it away, turning his entire body towards her. His thumb is wet and he drags it over her lip, smearing it lightly against her lips and chin.

She clenches her thighs again. Her mind is spinning.

“Talk to me,” Harry murmurs. “What are you thinking?”

She laughs breathlessly. “Right now?”

“Right now,” he says.

Hermione swallows. “I like that you seem to know what I need,” she says, admits. She bites at her lip again. “I like that you pick up quickly, that it doesn’t need to be perfect – but you’re there, waiting and listening. It makes me feel…”

“What?” He asks.

She cannot read his expression completely. She’s catching on though. There’s a promise or the allure of some kind of promise, the way he seems to be committed to unraveling her. She knows how he gets. He fixates. The line is blurring too quickly for her to really understand just how he’s taking her on.

“It seems silly,” she says. She looks away. Her hands rub against her thighs. She’s aroused and confused and her head is swimming in a mix of earnest self-doubts and the need to understand where this is going. “But I feel safe,” she says. “Wanted. I feel like I could tell you things and you wouldn’t… you wouldn’t judge me.”

“We haven’t talked about your hard lines,” he says.

Hermione swallows. “I don’t want to be tied up or blindfolded,” she says quickly. It’s a struggle to admit to. “It’s suffocating. It’s a reminder of a lot of things I’m trying to work through.”

“With your Muggle therapist?”

“It’s easier,” she argues immediately, flushing in embarrassment, “to tell the truth in half-lies. Talking to a healer, especially when I really don’t want to sit through backhanded comments about my Muggleborn heritage coupled with the fact that most people are ready to forget and pass judgment, rather than acknowledge that there were terrible things done in the War.”

She steels herself for some kind of fight. She has a small flashback to the time that she and Ron were dating, the arguments that ultimately would lead to their inability to repair a relationship to even carry on some sort of friendship. She should have to explain how she needs to protect herself. It makes her feel exposed.

Harry shifts and stands, moving in front of her. It startles her when he kneels in front of her chair. He watches her carefully.

“I’m not trying to fight.”

She frowns. His fingers graze her forehead. He pushes at a few of her worry lines.

“I’m not,” he repeats.

Hermione licks her lips. “I’m working on it,” she murmurs. It could mean too many things.

“You’re taking care of me too,” he says, as if to open himself up too. “You make me feel like I – well, I’m needed. I’m needed and wanted in a way that I can’t find anywhere else. Sure, I can be brilliant at my job. Sure, I can circle the room at a dinner or a fundraiser. Sure, I can talk about the work we’ve put in to rebuild the Wizarding community here. But I –” He smiles wistfully. “Having you like this, right now, is a gift. Knowing that I can take you to the place that you need to go to is a gift.”

She’s quiet.

There’s so much to unpack. He’s not outright saying anything, but saying so much at the same time. She supposes that they could get graphic about it. Does he need to be the one that’s constantly bring her over that edge? Even thinking about it is dizzying.

She licks her lips.

“Earlier,” she says slowly. “You said I could be a brat. If I wanted to.”

Harry’s expression changes immediately into something hungry. She squirms a little. Her panties are wet. He remains on his knees in front of her.

“Sure,” he says. The color of his voice feels different. It’s husky, almost languid. She feels like she’s starving, perched and waiting to hear it again. “But I reserve the right to deal with it properly. You understand, of course.”

“Of course,” she says.

He grabs her hands, bringing one up to his mouth and kissing her palm. He’s gentle, of course. But her mind is reeling with the implications. Would he spank her? Would she enjoy it? It’s all so new to her. She’s out of her element, of course, but the implications hold a lot of weight. The idea that it’s just this easy to meet his needs while satisfying her own is mind-blowing.

“Of course,” he echoes. “It’s why you’re my very best girl.”

Hermione lets out a small moan, her legs squeezing together. By now, her panties are soaked. Her cheeks hurt a little from the heat. She cannot hide behind the wine.

“But tonight,” he says, gently even, “we’re just going to have a meal. I have dessert from the bakery that you like. After, you can stay or go home. I might have to leave early – caseload this week is a little heavy-handed.”

Hermione’s eyes widen. The irrational part of her brain allows her to nod, to show her understanding of the directive. The other side of her brain stares and judges, throwing a muffled argument about how they really should talk about these things and what this is turning into. Because it wasn’t just one time.

“Do you understand, Hermione?”

“Yes,” she says breathlessly. She tries to swallow. “I understand.”

“Good girl,” he tells her, and it almost sends her, her eyes widening as he leans into her and even steals a kiss. His mouth is heavy, but thoughtful. His tongue rolls into her mouth, pressing into her own. He tastes sweet and rich. It’s inexplicable, of course.

The very nature of her arousal is something that she can’t quite wrap her head around. Sex is something that she loves, sex with Harry is something that she really loves. It’s more than just the idea of it, it’s the fact that he makes her feel everything. She can only allude it to the sensation of feeling full.

This Harry is also different. It opens to a part of her that, ultimately, when she’s ready to think about it, she can go and say that it’s hers. The time limit is unimportant. It’s the idea that he immediately rose and opened himself to her without thinking, that yet again, the layers upon layers of their relationship however complicated, still remains the same after all these years.

“Oh,” he says. He grins wickedly. “But if you go home, leave your panties.”

-

(Hermione does not stay the night.

He has an early day, he reminds her. He’s neither disappointed or relieve that she leaves. There is no way she can sit and pretend to watch a movie or she might go and finish the entire bottle of wine that they were sharing. But she listens. She listens. He watches her peel off her jeans and then her panties, her heart pounding as he takes them from her. The crotch is damp. She knows it. Now, he knows it too. He lets her leave with a kiss to her forehead.

At home, in bed, she rides her hand and thinks of him filling her up.

She has a problem, she thinks.)

-

“You know, you were my very first friend.”

Neville buys her lunch. They meet once a month in London. He enjoys the botanical gardens. He claims it’s a source of inspiration, given the Hogwarts board greenlighting his ambitious plan to expand the Greenhouse. It’s usually a good distraction, a reminder to not take things as seriously as she does. Neville calls it her learning curve.

“Sorry?”

He laughs a little, offering his arm. The day is saturated with flowers as it is.

“You’re distracted,” he says. “And I should take offense, given that you’re my friend and that this is our standing outing.”

Her mouth curls. “Sorry,” she says. She rubs her eyes. “I’m here, I swear.”

The Chelsea Physic Garden is a place she used to come with her mother, an avid gardener. Part of her healing process has been coming to spaces that have these memories, acknowledging but rewriting the context and the space they hold for her. Neville is a perfect companion for these moments, given the time the spent together on rebuilding projects and the fact his interest makes these space warmer.

“What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” Her expression remains measured. He searches her gaze, even as she takes his arm. They pass a swath of rose bushes, hybrids a small sign reads. The scent hits her the face to the point that she has to turn away. Roses are a heavy reminder. She wonders if Neville would head to one of the greenhouses instead.

“You’re distracted,” he notes. “Are you having unemployment regret?”

Hermione laughs a little. “No,” she says easily. “I’m a little bored,” she admits. “I’ve read quite a bit. I’ve increased the mileage on my runs.”

“I didn’t know you were a runner.”

She shrugs. “It’s helpful.” The truth of the matter is that when she can’t sleep, running is the quickest way to tire her out. Everyone always rides the assumption that despite a lack of interest in Quidditch, she wasn’t active. It’s quite the opposite. She loved swimming. She was an avid hiker with her parents. Running, according to her therapist, is more of a trauma response. Another controlled variable. She ignores her advice, mostly. On a good day, she does enjoy it. “I ran this morning,” she adds.

Mostly because she was thinking of Harry.

She’s never wanted anyone this way. She’s struggling a little.

“How so?”

Hermione blinks. “I don’t understand.”

“Running,” he says gently. “How is it helpful?”

Neville’s expression is incredibly kind and open. It’s admirable, considering what he went through. In the spirit of growth, she thinks Neville is the best one out of all of them. He’s never lost perspective.

“In the beginning,” she says, “it helped a lot with the nightmares. We were always moving, running, and I suppose it’s why I don’t think I can stay in one place or tie myself down. I don’t know I’m not really making sense.”

His mouth twitches. “Is that why you continue to say no to Minerva?”

Hermione laughs, out loud. “Neville Longbottom,” she teases. Her mouth curls. “Are you using our outing as a way to do the Headmistress’ bidding.”

“Never,” he says, grinning widely. “I’m mostly curious.”

She smiles wistfully.

McGonagall’s running bid to get her to join the faculty is a bit of a joke, but also a warm reminder that she does have a place, should she need it. The problem is not finding a place. Her offers are consistent. Her director even offered her, begrudgingly, a recommendation should she want to transfer to another department.

The truth stands more as a testament of her sudden inability to decide what she wants to do. A part of her is jaded, unamused by the desire to parade Harry, Ron, and herself around as the subsequent Golden Trio, harbors of this new era of peace. What the war brought her is a lack of trust in authority, a lack of trust in people’s genuine desire to help, and just a cruel acknowledgment of how some people remain unwilling to change their biases. She’s not heartbroken. She’s tired.

“I think I’m starting to allow myself to be selfish,” she admits, out loud. “I’m having a hard time still – I can’t just shun the fact that I’ve lived between both world and that it’s a struggle still, even as an adult.”

Neville frowns. “Is someone giving you trouble?”

“No more than usual,” she says, shrugging. “I guess I’m just trying to believe that I’ve earned the time and the right to want to put myself first.”

“So then Harry –”

Hermione’s eyes are huge. Neville laughs delighted, grinning at her inability to hide her reaction. Her face is hot enough that she has to turn away, the blush trying to climb not just into her face but her neck and throat. So then Harry. That’s a loaded comment. Or almost a comment. She’s given enough of herself away.

“What about Harry?”

Neville’s smile returns. He laughs a little. “Is there a Harry?”

“Oh god,” she mumbles, covering her face. His laughter is warm. They haven’t even talked about that part, she almost says indignantly. She’s barely unpacked their conversation from the other night. “I don’t even –”

“There’s definitely a Harry,” he singsongs.

“No,” she says quickly. “Harry is Harry and I’m me.”

“That’s not an answer, Hermione.”

She smacks Neville’s arm.

She can’t say anything. Her mind is reeling. Her face is still hot. She’s half-smiling, more embarrassed because if she’s honest, she does not want to share any of this. It would be nice to have something for herself.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Neville cuts in. They still in front of a bench. He sits first, stretching his legs out. “I’m happy if you’re happy, you know? I think that there’s a lot of people who go and say the same thing.”

It’s complicated, of course, reading in between the lines that Neville offers. She’s always been mildly suspicious of what people assume. She knows what they say about her. Not only was she a Muggleborn, she grew up with two male best friends. She is always the walking paradox and maybe, maybe that’s why seeing things was hard for her. Including, of course, what Harry apparently sees in her.

There’s that too, of course.

“You’re smiling.”

She blinks. “What?”

“You’re smiling,” Neville says again.

Her mouth curls, despite her every intention not to. Her eyes narrow. Neville laughs delightedly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she mutters, flushed all over again.

Maybe she’ll head to Grimmauld Place again, she thinks. Kreacher will probably reluctantly let her in. He’s coming around. Or plotting her death. Either way, she thinks. She wants to see Harry. It feels far too new.

Neville smirks, nudging her. “Just tell him though, for me, to lay off the dirty looks,” he says.

Chapter Text

Rumors are fickle.

In fact, they drive half of his interactions these days. They run rampant, hand-in-hand with his non-existent promotion. You’re a shoe-in, most people say. They pass a lot of credit to the Minister for paying attention and even more to the hero narrative that still follows him after the War. You’ve saved us, Harry Potter. Some people mean well. Others weaponize the phrase. He still feels like a kid and scrambles to separate them.

The rumor that Ron stepped away from the Hit Wizard squad isn’t real for him until his weekly check-in with Kingsley. He’s been buried in a case, unable to pull away to go home. Kreacher is probably plotting his death. He sticks to his office. Over uses his spare change of clothes. Listens to the gossip despite his attempts not. Ron’s name pops up towards the end of the week, increasing in suspended disbelief. So disappointing, most people seem to say. He was doing so well, Harry never hears. Admittedly, there were talks earlier that week. The Fred thing was employed as a cold way of talking about family grief, something that unsettles Harry in a way that he’s tried to ignore. He’s sure it makes him a terrible selfish person, but he can only hold space for so many things.

“He quit because he couldn’t stomach the violence,” Kingsley’s secretary relays, staring right at Harry as if he is supposed to know who he’s talking about. “I suppose this is a time where we’ll start to see where we should invest in talent. Or reinvest, rather. He isn’t the only talent that has fallen.” He goes as far as to slap Harry in the shoulder, grinning.

“I think,” Harry says dangerously, “you’re entirely too comfortable with me.”

Kingsley is watching him carefully, as if trying to gage the rest of his reaction. This is a test. Or it isn’t. The line of succession is still the same no matter what he does. Harry is just waiting for his lack of consequences to catch up.

“Who are we discussing,” Harry half-asks, grasping to mean it. The tea in front of him is cold. He should have agreed to see Hermione today. His skin is crawling, itching. He feels like he’s ready to climb outside of himself.

“Oh,” the secretary straightens. The conversation is over, after. “Ron Weasley,” he says. The secretary has the presence of mind to look rather sheepish. “I would have assumed that you’ve heard the news. It was everywhere by the day’s start.”

And so for awhile, Harry stews. He barely listens to things that contain the department budget or proposed directions for his caseload. Feelings are complicated. It’s even more complicated given that he and Ron went into training together, capitalizing on this archaic idea of brotherhood and friends for life as if years later, Ron did not go and proclaim his loyalty to his sister first. Of course, Harry doesn’t resent him. The idea of family first feels a little odd to him. Mostly, it’s about opportunities.

He feels selfish, maybe put out that Ron is stepping back, that he took whatever Ginny’s ultimatum was and didn’t talk to him, didn’t let him know that he was out. Then again, he thinks, he hasn’t made any effort either. The truth of the matter isn’t simple, instead it’s a reminder that many of his class that went head first into the Auror training, that were shelled out into the Department of Mysteries or other areas of the MLE, are also falling like flies. It’s a commentary on just how many holes in all of this there really are.

Harry still finds himself in front of Ron’s office. His hands are tense. His bones feel like they ache. He isn’t sure if it’s how tightly he holds his wand.

“Hey.”

Ron stares at him, gently lying a few files into a box. “Mate.” His shirt is wrinkled. He looks tired, but content. “You’re here,” he says, as if there is nothing else to say.

Harry leans into the frame of the door. “You too?”

Ron’s mouth opens. Then it closes. He lets out a little laugh. It’s rueful, at best, and Harry is confused as he starts shaking his head.

“I hope you didn’t come at Hermione with that kind of energy,” Ron says dryly. There’s a long scar shaped across his jaw. Harry read the report. It was another thing they haven’t talked about. He shoves his jealousy down. Have they talked? “Unless it really got that bad,” Ron muses. “When we were together, I could already see how the job was getting to her.” It feels a little cruel when he says it too. “But,” he tells him, “I’m sure it was a long time coming.”

Harry frowns. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It wasn’t my place.” Ron shrugs. His mouth twists. “Hermione and I weren’t on good terms by then. You know that.”

Did he? It was easier to ignore Ron and Hermione than to acknowledge them. He feels guilty. Hermione is equally unclear about the nature of their relationship. He’s just long decided that it wasn’t his business and remain relieved that they didn’t make it his. But now, staring at Ron, he’s edged by palpable jealousy.

He swallows. “You’re done, then?”

“You know that this isn’t for me,” Ron says, leaning against his desk. His expression is serious and thoughtful. “I think at some point, I grew up and didn’t notice. The world’s lost quite a bit of color and these days, especially now, I feel like I’ve been left behind again. This time, I’m just not that desperate to catch up.”

Harry stares. There is too much to unpack behind his words. There’s an admission of grief that he doesn’t expect. His mouth thins.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can think of to say. It feels redundant. Ron even laughs, shaking his head. “I am though,” Harry murmurs. “I wish I was a little more eloquent at these things. I just – I wish I had gone and done things differently.”

Ron’s mouth curls. He turns, reaching for his box of things.

“Don’t we all,” he says.

-

Harry ends up at Hermione’s flat.

It’s the principle of the matter, of course. Or at least, it’s part of the legion of excuses he gives himself. He wants to see her. He has never not wanted to see Hermione. More than that, he thinks, he feels like he’s going to explode.

When he comes through the fireplace, she is sitting on her couch. She’s tucked into a blanket, a book in her lap. It never matters what she’s reading. If she loves it, she’ll be done in a few hours and onwards to the next one. She’s wearing glasses and god, he thinks, god he’s never seen those before. She looks up. He frowns.

“You wear glasses.” It’s not a question.

She bites her lip, studying him. Harry feels like a livewire. “Not all the time,” she says quietly. “It’s a recent purchase.”

He’s going to snap, he thinks. They should talk about Ron.

Hermione is quiet. When she looks at him, he feels like he’s being peeled apart, layer by layer. He steels himself for some kind of comment. Maybe he wants the fight. Instead, she closes her book, carefully, reverently, and shuffles it atop her coffee table. Her blanket is next. She drapes it over the side of the couch, just as carefully.

When she stands, he’s barely holding it together.

“What do you need from me,” she says. She isn’t asking. His eyes are immediately glued to her mouth, the swell of her lips. Would she, he wonders. Then stops himself. He needs structure. He needs to have things in fixed places.

He needs her on her knees, in his lap, and filled to the brim with him. He wants to feel her stretch around his cock, wants to watch as her mouth, all swollen from his, makes those soft, sudden gasps because he knows that she gets off on this just as much as he does. He wants to see her unravel with him. He needs her too.

“You didn’t tell me about the glasses,” he says, fixated.

He finally moves, unhooking the clasp at his throat. He throws his robes on a chair. He starts on the sleeves of his shirt. He rolls the cuff and her eyes immediately dart to his forearms. The best part about Hermione is that she doesn’t hide how she sees him, that the hunger that is suddenly, desperately written into her face matches his hand-in-hand. She’s read the room.

“I didn’t think it was important,” she says. Her tone is light. His mouth twitches. You said I could be a brat. If I wanted to. Her shoulders straighten. “They’re just glasses, Harry,” she says too. There’s an edge to her tone. It’s almost a dare. “I just need them to read.”

He licks his lips. He moves to sit, his legs stretching out. “And here I thought,” he drawls, “that I’d be greeted today by my sweet girl.”

Hermione immediately flushes. Her pupils dilate. She gnaws at her lip. Her hands rest at her side. She watches him curiously. Her fingers twitch a little. She wants to touch him, but she won’t. He knows she won’t until he asks.

“You’ve been busy,” she accuses lightly. She stumbles into a pout that feels a little too real. She taps the side of her frames. “I’m getting used to them too.”

Thank you, he almost says. The tension in his body starts to ease. He turns his head to the side. She knows almost immediately what he needs. It should be terrifying how easily they move in tandem, instead he’s relieved. He doesn’t have to explain himself. She doesn’t have to ask.

“Fair. And I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have let you know.” He pats the space on his lap. “Come here,” he says softly.

She obeys. She moves slowly, thoughtfully. She finds a space between his legs, peering down at him with a mix of nerves and anticipation. Her magic is thrumming too. He can feel it. The air between is shifting into something else.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

She nods. When she bites her lip, he leans up and slides his thumb over her lip. He gently wedges her lip free, catching a sigh and a little salvia. He runs his thumb over her mouth, smoothing it over and smearing the saliva over her skin. Her skin glistens and then slowly, he pushes his thumb into her mouth.

When her lips pucker and wrap around his thumb, he can feel himself harden. She sucks gently, but eagerly. Her gaze is hooded. She remains wearing her glasses. He likes them, he decides. He likes how they soften her face. He likes how clear her eyes are. When he pulls his thumb from her mouth, it pops and she makes a soft sound.

“Are you sorry too, pretty girl?”

Hermione nods. “I am,” she breathes.

He weighs his next options. He wants her in his lap, but he wants to see her. Wants to see her face as he touches her. His hands tremble a little. Rules, he thinks. They need rules and structure. He needs this just as much as she does.

“Do you remember what I said,” he tells her, reaching to take her glasses from her face. He folds them carefully, putting them on the coffee table. “About being a brat?”

She swallows. “That you reserve the right to deal with it properly.”

“Good girl,” he says, and immediately, she preens, eyes alight with amusement and arousal. Her hands are trembling, ready for action, but he doesn’t direct her yet. “The next part is really important, Hermione, so listen carefully – at no point, ever, do I want you to be uncomfortable or pushed into a place where you feel like I’ve pushed you too far. We’re going to start small, okay. Test the waters. We’ll keep to colors – red, for stop, and green for good.”

“Okay,” she murmurs. Her voice trembles a little. He watches her tongue dart out and lick her lips. He wonders how wet she is. “I understand,” she adds. “Thank you.”

His cock is now straining painfully against his jeans. His head is starting to spin. When he shifts and the fabric of his shirt stretches into his skin, his body tightens. It’s sensory overload, at best. Control, he tells himself. He needs to get himself under control.

He holds up a hand. “Five,” he tells her. “I’m going to spank you five times. Normally, I’d ask you to count but tonight I want you to use your words. Remember. Red to stop. Green for good. And clothes off.”

Hermione swallows.

Her skin is flushed and he watches as she peels off her t-shirt, pulling over her head. She drops it to the floor, moving to make work of her legs. He remains quiet, giving her the space. He indulges in taking her in. Her figure is full. There’s weight to her breasts, something that he’s been obsessing over when he’s alone. He hasn’t seen her for the full week, but at home, alone, he wraps a hand around his dick and comes to the memory of how they filled his palms. And those pretty pink nipples – he’s salivating, he thinks.

When she’s undressed, she comes into his lap and stretches herself over him. Her ass is pert, arched into the air and her hands push into the cushion on the other side of his thighs. Her hair is up in a messy bun and immediately, he reaches for it, freeing her hair immediately. He palms the slope of her back too, dragging his hand to her ass.

“Color,” he says.

“Green,” she replies shakily. His fingers drag lightly against the split of her ass, brushing briefly against her slit. She’s wet. The tips of his fingers are sticky.

“Good girl,” he manages, and brings his hand down.

His palm connects to her skin. He’s firm, not hard, and she lets out a startled cry. The cushion trembles underneath them. He brings his hand back down to her ass, putting pressure on the flushed area. He lets his fingers smooth over her.

“Color?” he asks.

“Green,” she breathes.

He spanks her again. And then again. He spaces out how the time between when he raises his hand to when he connects to her skin, watching the rise and fall of her chest. How she squirms over her. Maybe in anticipation.

He is hypervigilant in memorizing her voice too, the different intonations. He picks apart just how breathy her voice gets, just as he smooths his hand over the flushed skin. His hand fits directly across her ass, molding to it. More than just that, he slowly introduces his fingers to her cunt. He just grazes it, watching as she shudders a little. He wants to be inside of her. But he’s patient. Almost desperately so.

“Last one,” he says. His voice shifts a little. “You’ve been so good, love,” he tells her. He peppers her with sweet names. Because she likes them. And she’ll never admit to it directly. There’s a sense of satisfaction watching her reaction, the pure pleasure in her eyes, the inability to hide her pleasure with a slight shift of her mouth. “Thank you for being such a good listener.” He catches her gaze, licking his lips at her swollen mouth. Her teeth skip over her lip and it’s almost his undoing. “Color?” he asks, his voice low.

There’s the slightest intake of her breath. “Green,” she says.

His hand comes down.

No sooner than it started, he can barely contain himself in turning her into his lap. His fingers thread into her hair and he brings her mouth into his, kissing her. It’s sloppy and desperate – he’s finally gone and snapped – and he drags his hands to his own jeans, struggling to open them and get them loose.

“You’re such a good girl,” he tells her, shifting so that he can take her closer. “You listen so well, did you know that?”

“Harry,” she gasps, and it no longer matters that she’s the one wrapping a hand around him, guiding herself over his dick. It completely consumed him, the sensation of how she stretches around him, just how hot and slick she is. He’s hunched into her, his hands tight around her hips as he leans forward. His teeth sag one of her nipples, twisting it between his teeth and then sucking gently as she cries out.

There’s an ache in his belly and he can’t deep enough into her, his hips rutting as they find some sort of clumsy pace. His breathing is jagged. He’s twenty steps into oblivion, the lewd squelching of her cunt swallowing him is filthy and maddening. She’s babbling and the noises that come out of him are heavy and desperate. He’s going to go mad, he thinks again, his new mantra, absolutely mad. She’s just so warm and tight and all his, his in a way that he doesn’t have to share.

He doesn’t have to share.

When she comes, she comes first – he steals, grasps at the time to watch her, only lasting a few seconds before he follows, jerking his hips up into her as she squeezes him dry. The room smells sweet and heady. Her chest is peppered from his mouth. There’s a glimpse of his teeth bruising against her breast. He’s throbbing when she sinks into him, her head dropping into his shoulder. She’s breathing heavily as he moves a hand through her hair.

“You did so good,” he murmurs.

“Yeah?” Her voice is shaky. She makes no move to leave his lap.

He hums. “Yeah.” His fingers curl around the back of her neck lightly, stroking the few, sweaty curls that are against the back of her neck. “The prettiest girl,” he says.

Harry finally breathes.

-

“I don’t know why it bothered me so much,” he admits, finally.

They’ve gone and ordered takeout. Hermione fixes a plate for him, stealing a few chips. She’s wearing his button-down as if she’s been doing it for years. And maybe she has, he thinks. A few of his old jerseys did migrate into her closet.

Her glasses are in her hair. “I get it,” she says. He looks at her, surprised. “Things are different,” she clarifies. “Part of being human is being nostalgic.”

He studies her. “Do you miss him?”

“No.” Her answer is frank. She doesn’t hesitate and there’s no force behind it. He doesn’t know why it’s so startling to him. “But,” she reasons. “It’s okay if you do.”

He stares at her.

“What?” Her lips curl. She tilts her head to the side. “It’s true,” she insists.

“I know, but –”

“It’s okay to miss him,” she says gently. “He was your first friend. The Weasley family was really good to you when other people weren’t. You can hold space for Ron as a pillar in your life. No one should hold it against you.”

“But what about you,” he murmurs.

Hermione sighs. Her expression changes into something thoughtful. There’s an edge of sadness to her that he doesn’t like.

“There’s nothing to say,” she replies, after awhile. “I can recognize Ron as a pivotal point in my life. We were young and stupid and I needed a distraction – he did too. The world was really loud back then and what happened to us, what happened to you, wasn’t something that we even thought to stop and examine, you know?”

“I think so?” He reaches forward, tucking her hair behind her ear. She’s shifted to sitting on her counter and he moves between her legs, watching as she pokes her fork into a salad. “I mean,” he admits. “I knew he liked you. I knew that he should have been better about –”

“Harry.” Hermione shakes her head. “It’s okay.”

“Is it?”

Hermione puts her bowl down. “Ron and I want different things,” she says. “The longer we were together, the more it was shoved into our faces. We were cruel to each other. I can say that now, I suppose, but I also take accountability. When he got defensive, I got defensive. When he got mean, I got mean. We never had any sort of dimension to our relationship. Maybe we could have. Maybe I could have fought harder. Maybe he could have too. But I knew I couldn’t force someone to want me – especially when I didn’t want him either.”

He envies her, he thinks immediately. There’s no hesitation to what she says. She’s even-keeled and thoughtful. There might be a splattering of reluctance, but he thinks it has more to do with what he’s trying to talk about.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

She leans in, brushing her lips against his forehead. “There’s nothing to apologize for,” she tells him. “I’m also learning how to come to terms with things. I think for me that short time with Ron was what it needed to be. Sometimes someone needs to hold a mirror to your face so you can look into your own immaturity – no matter how painful it is.”

“And how’s that going?”

Hermione smirks. “Obviously, I’m in therapy.”

Harry laughs. It’s genuine. He feels it, wildly enough, deep in his throat and then his belly. It pools with warmth and somehow, some way, he can’t remember the last time he’s really laughed this way.

“And the glasses?”

He can’t help but ask. Hermione’s face burns red. He chuckles softly, tucking some of her hair behind her ear. He watches her curiously.

“I guess I read too much in the dark,” she mumbles. His mouth curls. She leans into his hand. “I suspect,” she says, sobering a little, “that it might have to do with the curses that Bellatrix Lestrange lobbed at me at some point.”

“Hermione –”

“I’m okay,” she murmurs, her fingers curling around his wrist. Her answer is immediate, maybe unfounded. He feels his heart begin to race. “Have you talked to anyone,” he questions, nearly rabid. “What have healers said?”

“Both my parents wore glasses.” Her response is just as immediate. He knows she doesn’t mean to, but the way parents dip from her mouth is cold and even calculating. It’s a scar she still hasn’t let him see. “My mum more for reading, my dad eighty percent of the day. It’s not a surprise that it’s gone and hit me now that I’m older.”

It’s startling how different his response to Hermione is, how it’s always been. His guilt runs deep. She has never recalled what happened to her parents in front of him nor has she discussed the specifics of the memory charm. From what he’s heard, given the bits and pieces that have been fed to him through a secondary party, only a few people have been able to perform this specific memory charm correctly – what they don’t say, however, is that performing the charm correctly means its irreversible.

But what gets him is how matter-of-fact she still is, weaving in mum and dad as if they were ultimately discussing the weather. He sees it though, how it unfolds in her body’s response to talking about them. Her breathing changes. It’s uneven but frank. Her expression is distant and thoughtful. Her mouth is the giveaway, however, as she tries to straighten herself but it goes and trembles instead.

“I’m sorry,” he still says, genuinely and without hesitation.

Hermione looks away. His fingers graze her jaw.

“I know,” is all she says.

-

The article drops at the end of the week.

Slow news day! jokes the crowd in the Ministry elevator. Usually, he’s privy to Quidditch scores and a magical creature that escaped into the public gardens. He’s not really listening, rather thinks about a coming day off and maybe a day trip he can send himself and Hermione. Anticipation makes him feel a little shy.

But when he leaves the elevators, it’s Kingsley’s secretary in his face, the Prophet front page following as the print is thrusted into view. He sees Hermione leaving the corner store first, talking to him over her shoulder. They had made a late-night ice cream run, something so stupid and innocent – considering what they were doing together moments before.

It’s still the headline that gives him pause –

Chapter Text

Harry joins her lunch with Neville. A part of her holds onto to the fact that he immediately sits too close, that Neville is far too amused, and it’s the arm around the back of her chair that decides to sort of solidifies that she is definitely in too deep.

“Well,” Neville starts. He pokes at his burger. “Didn't realize we’d have company, Hermione?”

Her eyes narrow.

“War-hero Harry Potter,” he continuous, and there’s a slight, fleeting sharpness to the way he shares a look with Harry. She wiggles in her seat.

“First,” she says immediately, “I might seriously consider buying the Prophet on the criminality of that headline alone. Was it cost-effective to omit heroes from the headline?”

Harry snorts.

“That would be quite the purchase,” Neville says dryly.

She shrugs. “I’m sure it’s doable.” She counts on her fingers. “Given declining sales, Rita Skeeter’s embattled status, and general reliability, I’m surprised no one has really considered making some sort of offer.”

“Sounds like you’re serious.” Harry studies her curiously.

“I’m bored,” she replies. It’s thematically appropriate, she thinks. “I know,” she says, “that I have options, that I’m fortunate to have said options too, but now that everything’s slowed down, that I’ve started to unpack a lot of my stuff, I’m not really sure what kind of place I see myself in here.”

“You could head to the MLE.” Neville smirks. Hermione laughs a little. Harry’s fingers graze the small of her back and she has to bite the inside of her mouth to hide a blush. Neville’s expression remains amused. “Is that a conflict of interest?” He asks Harry.

“Fuck off,” the other man says.

Hermione gently hits his stomach. “Be nice,” she chides.

Harry arches a brow. She blushes, biting her lip.

“It really doesn’t bother you,” he still asks, returning the conversation back to the article. It’s not really an article, just a photo of them leaving the corner store. She wanted ice cream. He wanted to follow. Harry swallows. “The article?”

Hermione sighs.

Does it bother her? Sure. Maybe. Part of her is annoyed that her life is a continuous spectacle for peers, old classmates, and the rest of the Wizarding World. That be said, her formative years were shaped by people’s unsolicited opinions of her. The monikers, which she hates, from Hogwarts’ Golden Girl to the Brightest Witch of Her Age did nothing to help her but did, in fact, isolate her, save a few good friends. To be close to Harry and, subsequently Ron for that matter, involved enduring looks from others her age and the adults. The scrutiny of her blood status also impacted these looks, so to ask her if it bothers her? Sure. But she’s too used to it too.

“It’s complicated,” she murmurs. She squirms a little. Both Neville and Harry are watching her. “I think that a part of me, yes, is bothered by the constant need to sensationalize something like an ice cream run. On the surface, it’s about seeing me and you together, reenforcing the frenzied obsession of me always being the other in your life. Then if the story picks up, it becomes about what I was wearing, how I was carrying myself, have I gained weight or not, are my cheek shallow, and no wonder no good Pureblood family will take me. Hermione Granger is too loud, too unapologetic, and honestly, a mother-in-law’s worst nightmare.” She exhales, shrugging. “But I’m no longer the thirteen or fourteen-year-old girl being thrusted into the limelight because my best friend has a dick.”

Neville chokes. “Hermione.”

She feigns innocence, holding Harry’s gaze. His eyes darken, his mouth twisting as if he knows she’s going to push.

“What? I bet it’s delicious,” she says.

They’ll finish lunch, of course.

-

Later, Harry guides her to rest against his chest in her tub.

Speaking of indulgent purchases, the pristine, marbled Victorian bath tub was it for Hermione. She had seen it in a random, antique store in Paris, just outside the bounds of Wizarding Paris. The white body and gold fixtures are nearly fairytale like and thankfully, the owner of the store was a Muggleborn and able to help her pack and transport the tub to her flat in the city. Harry is still due back at the office in a few hours and peppers kisses against her shoulder. She sighs sleepily, linking their fingers together over an edge.

“Are you worried?”

She surprises herself by asking. He hasn’t really volunteered any other response to the article, outside of asking her if she’s all right. She knows he is under immense pressure, given the promise of a promotion dangling over his head. She isn’t sure how to read it either. She’s naturally suspicious of the Ministry, as an institution, and despite Kingsley being the face of power, it’s the people around him that gives her pause.

“About the article?” He nuzzles her neck. “A little,” he admits.

“It isn’t the first about us,” she says gently.

“I know.” His fingers thread through her hair and he starts to push at her scalp, rubbing lightly. Her shoulders start to droop. He’s doing it on purpose, she thinks with amusement. “I just – it’s different now, I suppose. You’re different. I’m different. I know I’m not making any sense, but I just hate that they go at you a little harder than –”

“Every other woman you’ve dated?”

He laughs lightly. “Yeah. I suppose.”

She hums a little.

“I’m okay.” She feels like it needs to be said. She can say it and not mean it, but this part she means. It’s not the article that goes bump in the night, it’s standing memories of a period of their lives that remain dark and scarred. “I promise to tell you if I’m not okay. An article written by someone that isn’t even Rita Skeeter, but someone who is grasping at straws just – it takes a lot more than this to get to me.”

His mouth slides over her shoulder. She can feel his body relax. It doesn’t surprise her that he’s worried, what surprises her is that he feels this worried. That as soon as he releases some tension, she reads him a little better.

“You can’t protect me from everything,” she says quietly.

He is just as quiet. “I can try.”

She sighs a little. Thank you, I guess, she won’t say. She’s Hermione Granger. She doesn’t wait for the boys to catch up. But Harry, Harry is different. To factor in whatever this new dynamic is between them is just as complicated as everything else – she likes control, she feeds on control, but it is just too easy to give it over to him, to trust him enough to keep her wrapped away from the rest of the world to just take a break.

“You know what I like?”

The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. Harry’s body shifts. He still humors her though. “What do you like?” he plays.

His cock is wedged into the crook of her ass. She wiggles. Just a little. Testing the proverbial waters. His breath catches with a little laugh.

“Hermione,” Harry warns.

“I’m being good,” she teases, and means it, up until the water shifts and his hand is stretching over her stomach. Logistics are important, she thinks. She just has to shift a little this and a little more that way. She knows she can stretch herself out and take him, already imagining how she’ll have to move her body to take his cock inside of her. The distraction is salivating in anticipation.

There’s a crack of amusement. “Uh-huh,” he says.

She rubs herself against him, watching the water sway as she shifts. He inhales sharply. Her mouth twists a little.

“You take such good care of me,” she murmurs. Sensations are everything. The head of his dick feels a little wider as it shifts, angles right against her slit. If she takes him in, she thinks, will she feel him – “Oh,” she breathes, as he slips right in, one step ahead. “Harry,” she whines. “I wanted to –”

He laughs low, his mouth sliding along her neck. He keeps her facing away from him, his hands rising and cupping her breasts. His thumbs graze her nipples. She whimpers a little and clenches. She’s incredibly sensitive.

But two things happen, right then – the first, if anything, is just a reaction, her mouth opening with another wine as she raises her hips to simply adjust, instead edging him inside of her. Her ears are ringing. He grunts softly. She’s quivering, swears she can hear the squelching sound every time she moves.

“Let’s not talk for a moment.” His breath is hot and wet. She shudders a little. “I just wanna enjoy the feel of you,” he slurs too.

Hermione is inclined to agree.

-

“What qualifies as an impulse buy?”

Susie the therapist chokes. “Weren’t we just talking about your CV?” She leans back, pinching her nose. Hermione finds it a little funny. Her therapist is over her. “I can’t keep up,” she mutters. Her face straightens immediately. “An impulse buy is exactly what it says. An impulsive purchase.”

Hermione stretches her legs out. The therapist’s office is small and quaint. She’s close to all sorts of tourist traps, a plus for Hermione’s desire to remain unnoticed. Not that she expects Draco Malfoy to suddenly appear in the park that she runs or Susan Bones to turn up for tea at one of her favorite coffee shops.

“Sure,” Hermione still says dryly, “an impulse buy is impulsive. You could have said a strong, unrelenting desire to own a particular object.”

Susie snorts. “Hermione.”

She shrugs. “I want to buy a newspaper,” she says. “Or maybe I don’t. It’s quite the conflict of interest, given my –” She stops herself, pursing her lips together. She could outright say her relationship status, given Susie’s inability to connect the dots. “My unemployment status,” she finally says. “But I have newspaper money.”

“You have newspaper money,” Susie repeats. “Is that code for something?”

“No,” Hermione says. “Newspaper money is newspaper money.” She counts off her fingers. “I’ve invested my inheritance properly and saved aggressively.” She uses inheritance lightly, squirming at the thought of her parents’ money. More like, she’s saved and invested her war prize money, for lack of a better way of putting it. Harry and Ron have family money, but her Ministry reward was more of gesture, not of good will, but as if to say we embrace all wizards and witches, see! and that, there, is another reason why she should buy the Prophet. “I need a project,” she says.

“You could knit.”

Hermione shakes her head. “My patience is shot, these days.”

“Paint?” Susie sighs. “You could take a course and meet people too. It might be nice.”

“My stick figures are terrible,” she says, amused.

“We can find you a hobby, Hermione. You need one.”

“I suppose I do,” she says, considering her post-War account. She’s an ambitious saver, perhaps out of necessity more than need – that part, to Susie, is true. The turn isn’t ambition. She does not know what to do with it, for the most part, with a lack of desire for property or even establishing her name. She leans back into her chair. “It’s not about having newspaper money anyway,” she says. “Maybe I won’t buy a newspaper.”

Susie studies her.

Then, slowly, she points her pencil at her. “You think you can do anything,” she says, maybe accuses. Hermione doesn’t like her tone. “While I think quitting might have empowered you, which I think is incredibly important given how you came to me. But. But. I do think that you’re colored by a bit of arrogance, Hermione. It can be healthy for the most part, but in times like these, it might not be your best lead.”

In times like these. Instead of becoming reactive, Hermione immediately creates a list. She could react poorly. She could tell Susie the therapist that she could probably get some of her money back, given the insane amount of money she probably spent on school and programs. It wouldn’t be the nicest reaction. When someone is terrible, she is still unable to curb the need to rise to the occasion. She tells herself the following: Susie isn’t the bad guy, her therapist is trying to help her, this discussion is important.

“I disagree,” she says slowly, pausing her list. “I don’t think I can do everything. I can read a book and memorize well. It could lead to teaching, but my heart isn’t really in it. I’m obsessive, anxious, and in constant survival mode because I spent the better part of my teenage years waiting for the other shoe to drop. I quit because I was coming to an office with very little light, watching people around me pretend to champion for causes that their heart wasn’t. Granted, there are a few that were heavily invested for personal reasons. But still. All this to say I took myself out of there because I can’t continue to avoid who I am as a person anymore.”

Her therapist stares at her. She bites at her lip. Her pen twirls between her fingers, flipping into the space against her thumb. She scribbles a few notes.

“Then,” Susie says, “what can you do?”

-

The Daily Prophet is still in Diagon Alley.

The main office is housed right in view of the main entrance, the name slanted and waving at incoming visitors. She studies it curiously, noting that o in Prophet is completely shot and drooping into the roof.

It’s a bit startling. The last time she was in Diagon Alley, she doesn’t remember seeing the Prophet’s sign. Maybe there was some sort of glamour. Maybe she’s going about this all wrong. She’s assuming that she can step in.

“You’re really going to do it,” Neville says, from behind her. He appears harried. His classes have wrapped up for the day. “Aren’t you,” he presses, coming to her side.

“I don’t know,” she replies honestly. “Logistically, I would be purchasing a Ministry propaganda outlet with a staff that can’t even write to save their lives. It would be quite the project.”

“But your mind healer said give it a go?” Neville sighs. He does not know the full story. “She really said that this was a good idea?”

Hermione smirks. “Not exactly,” she says. She looks up at Neville. “She told me take up knitting. Maybe do something related to my hobbies. Like open a bookstore. Well, that last part is me. I don’t think I could do a bookstore. Either I’d have to hire someone to run it for me and sit and read all day or my issues with having control would send me into the red.”

Neville groans. “And Harry? Does he know?”

“Haven’t told him yet,” she says easily. “He’ll probably be upset, but unsurprised. I usually don’t say things that I’m not going to do. He knows that I have newspaper money too.”

“And pray tell – newspaper money?”

She does not want to get into the logistics of that portion of her life. Between the three of them, Hermione took the strange amounts of rewards seriously. She did not trust the Ministry or the subsequent Wizengamot, given their patriarchal and archaic tendencies. The most she’s gotten out of a post-War Wizarding UK is that out of sight, out of mind is just as an appropriate view as the first time. Hence, the aggressive saving and investing. As an aside, she does have a reasonable inheritance from her parents too. She doesn’t touch that portion, but it’s there.

“Enough money to buy the Prophet,” she says dryly. “I wonder if Rita Skeeter is in today. Maybe I should have written in first. Don’t want her to pop a blood vessel and then accuse me of trying to murder her.” She laughs a little. “But she’d never do that.”

Neville’s eyes narrow. “Hermione.”

“Minerva is going to find this hilarious, however.”

Neville snorts. “She’ll ask what took you so long, honestly.”

She laughs.

Hermione makes her way to the entrance. The door is graying. It seems to be on its proverbial last leg, the wood peeling and exposing nails, bits of iron. There’s a glass panel for a window, but it’s fake save for a small part that looks like someone has gone and thrown a rock into it. The piece de resistance is the door knob, a large, brass lion that stares at them as they come closer. Its eyes are beady, wild. Hermione is curious enough to reach for its mane, gently dragging her fingers against it. The knob doesn’t move. Instead, the door sighs.

“Huh.” Hermione frowns. “Curious.”

Neville shrugs. “Perhaps, it aligns with staff only?”

Hermione decides to reach for the knob anyway, turning the head of the lion slowly. The door groans at first, the frame shuddering hard enough to cause her to stumble into Neville. He steads her, but they’re both too distracted by the door as it shifts and falls backwards. It hits the floor. Then it disappears.

“Security measures!”

A tall willowy man comes towards them, face flushed. His jumper is rolled to his elbows. Barnabas Cuffe, she guesses immediately.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “The building’s going through a growth spurt, or rather, we’re going through a spurt and it’s not a good one. Rita’s placed one of her well-meaning hexes again, given that an intern got to write the blurb on Harry Potter and Hermione Granger.”

“Yikes,” she says dryly. “What a shame.”

Neville is at her elbow. He opens his mouth, but she nudges him. They watch Cuffe start to pace the room. He walks to the door, then walks away, only to return to the door and tap it with his toe. The door groans, then barks.

“A sentient door?”

Hermione’s mouth twitches. “This place is a project.” She looks up at Neville. “And of course, I am gracefully unemployed and in need of a project.”

“It’s still a sentient door, Hermione,” Neville says dryly. “I have so many questions. Rita Skeeter. Hexes. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Do what?” Cuffe is staring at her, wide-eyed. His mouth opens. Then it closes. “You’re Hermione Granger,” he says slowly. “Here. In the Prophet.”

“Yes,” she says. “It’s certainly not what I imagined, given how mercilessly cruel you were to me a child. I expected less windows. And black walls. Maybe a few human sacrifices.”

Neville chokes.

Everything happens in slow motion. Cuffe lets out a wail, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. She remembers him from Slughorn’s Christmas party. Only sort of. He was drunk, for sure. His face was flushed. It’s similar to now, except there was punch and Slughorn and a bunch of terrible kids. The door shudders in turn, flailing on the floor as the scene starts to turn into something out of a fever dream.

Then Cuffe’s mouth snaps shut.

“Miss Granger –”

“Hi,” she says. Behind Cuffe, a few more employees start to gather. It begins to widen the space. The walls shift and extend, reveal a series of doors. Phones are ringing. There are reporters, one from the Editorial team and another from Obituaries. She recognizes the reporter from Obituaries, unfortunately, given the unrelenting amounts of funerals and memorial services she’s attended.

Cuffe sighs. “You can’t sue us.”

“I’m not,” she says. Her lips curl. She recognizes Padma Patil in the distance. They share a wave. Padma is a photographer, if she remembers correctly. “I’m actually here to make a serious inquiry on how to purchase the paper, if only to rectify the terribly boring headline you wrote about me the other day.”

Neville shakes his head. “I thought ‘was it them all along’ was catchy.”

“No, you didn’t,” she pushes back.

“Okay, I didn’t. But to be fair, it’s because I know the two of you –” Neville’s eyes are immediately wide, his mouth closing tightly. Everything goes hush around them. “And neither of you are boring,” he says awkwardly. “I’ll stop.”

“You want to buy the paper?”

Rita Skeeter comes out of nowhere, her eyes wild and pulsing. Her pen follows behind her, posed to start writing immediately. Hermione hides a smile. So much for the hexing, she thinks.

The world has not been kind to Rita over the years. While people are inherently predictable about wanting to grasp gossip instead of consistent stories about the ups and downs of rebuilding families, homes, and businesses, Rita has struggled to find her place. Her writing is arbitrary at best, habitually attached to exposing secrets but not necessarily weaving them into an actual story. Of course, Hermione thinks, the Prophet hasn’t had any sort of journalistic integrity that she can remember.

“I do,” she says finally. Neville sighs next to her. “I think you need a real space and people with the desire to report real stories.”

Skeeter is indignant. “I report real stories.”

“Sure.” Hermione spots a desk, reaching for a pen in a cup. It leaves her fingers, spinning around her head. It flies to Neville. There’s some sort of giggle, something akin to a fairy laugh. The pen drops into his coat pocket and Neville’s face is flushed. “I can’t take you anywhere,” she says dryly.

Neville rubs the back of his head. “You can take me everywhere,” he teases. “And you know it.”

Hermione rolls her eyes.

Rita Skeeter is staring at her.

“I want to buy it,” Hermione repeats. “I think that we need to changes the landscape of this place, break your Ministry ties, and move forward.” She looks directly at Rita Skeeter. “I honestly would have preferred if you had written that headline,” she says dryly. “It would have been mediocre at best, but I’m sure it would have been catchy.”

Skeeter flushes, her eyes wide. Her jaw drops. Then it closes. She throws her hands up, stomping away to an office in the back. The door slams. Cuffe stares at her strangely, then turns around to face Hermione.

“It’s a serious inquiry?”

Yes. No. This is as impulsive as it comes. A small part of her, the part that she’s largely forgotten, is excited to take apart the place, to recommit to knowledge and interest and discovery in a way that she cannot remember what it’s like to enjoy. She’s hesitant too. The pushback from this is much larger than a Ministry job too. There is bureaucracy everywhere. She is going to head first into red tape and heavy speeches about tradition and values.

But maybe it’s also time that she really makes noise. Prickle had been curiously unsurprised by her resignation. Some people, she had said, are too big for these walls. A comment like that made Hermione regret turning down a stint with Charlie Weasley in Romania. The idea of traveling gives her an itch, but champion for magical creatures did not. Granted, she’ll never regret, despite being painfully embarrassing, the few causes she did take up. From House Elves to Werewolves, the very idea that a magical place could not make space for creatures but space for abundant cruelty was mystify to her. Of course, she was naïve at best. Still impulsive even then too. But those things were personal to her.

Buying the Prophet? Maybe not.

Hermione does like a challenge though.

Neville studies her. He shakes his head, as if reading her thoughts. She sighs and shrugs back. Cuffe hasn’t moved from his place in front of her. She has nothing to prove, she tells herself, and everything to prove at the same time.

“Yes,” she says firmly. “It’s a serious inquiry.”

Cuffe takes a step back, winding his hand into open air. “Then follow me,” he says.

Chapter Text

He should know better by now.

The rule of thumb has always been if Hermione say she’s going to do something, nine out of ten times she’s going to do it. Most people call it impulsive and of course, there’s a definitive argument as such but Hermione, the Hermione that he knows will never put anything out into the universe unless she’s serious.

“Potter.”

Ernie MacMillan is not his favorite person. Granted, in a sea of former classmates and Ministry employees, he is also not going to go out of his way to find him either.

“MacMillan,” Harry greets. He frowns over his coffee. MacMillan is in the MLE. He’s a contender for Kingsley’s job and by contender, has done nothing but made it known that should he make the leap he was going to, in fact, do it. Harry could care less. They still butt heads occasionally.

Ernie smiles like a shark. A greasy one, Harry thinks.

“Have you heard the news?”

Harry narrows his eyes. “I literally have only been in the office for thirty minutes,” he says. His coffee is already cold. “Any news that I have has been purely circumstantial. I’ve heard that Kingsley fired his secretary for apparent leaks, I’ve heard that Director Prickle blew up a lab accidentally, and that the Hogwarts’ board is considering adding new programs. Nothing surprising,” he adds, “or necessary.”

The look on MacMillan’s face is gleeful. His eyes are bright. The tug of his mouth is almost frantic, as if he’s fighting himself on smiling and being smug.

“Granger’s bought the Prophet.”

He barely can contain himself. The words are sharp, unintentionally so, and stumble clumsily from his mouth. Harry, for his part, grips his coffee cup tightly.

“The Prophet?”

“The Prophet,” MacMillan says gleefully. “I thought you’d know, given your new found relationship. Well, not a surprise. We all knew that the two of you would circle around each other until something would break. Thought it would be one of the Weasleys, honestly.”

Harry has never wanted to hit someone this badly. His fist clenches. His eyes narrow. God forbid, MacMillan comes to talk to him and it’s not loaded with barbs or intention. He exhales. Talk yourself down, he thinks. This is all part of it, the part that he hates, the landscape of continuous suspicions and intentions. There is always talk about how good of a leader he could be, given his ability to connect to people. But more than often does it backfire, does he think too hard about it and fail. He could never sit as a politician or take Kingsley’s progression, knowing full well that his abilities are limited to wartime efforts and situational distress.

“The Prophet,” he repeats, his body already primed to walk away. “No,” he says slowly, “I haven’t heard. It’s unsurprising though. She’s always been interested in communications.” The last part is a stretch. MacMillan does not know that. He is, however, from a circle of men that are largely intimated by Hermione.

MacMillan frowns. “Oh.” His eyes narrow. “Is it a conflict of interest for you lot then?”

“A conflict of –”

It takes everything, everything in Harry not to reach across and grab MacMillan by the scruff of his neck. His temper is simmering, desperately ready to boil up and explode. It’s early, he keeps telling himself. It’s too early.

Instead, he calmly sits his cup on a desk. It doesn’t matter whose desk it belongs to. He’s over the cold coffee. His throat feels heavy. He feels a little resentful, but it’s stupid. Hermione doesn’t need to tell him things. The exception is, of course, that buying The Daily Prophet is sort of monumental. She doesn’t need his permission, but he’s hurt. Maybe disappointed.

You should have taken me seriously, Hermione replies, in his head.

“That’s assuming she’s actually going to write for the Prophet.” Harry’s voice is low, dangerous even. His fingers twitch. MacMillan’s eyes follow his hands warily. “And even if she did, the idea that she would ever compromise my integrity let alone her own is wildly inappropriate and reaching.”

Harry does not make threats. He doesn’t have to. The standing attachment from being the Boy Who Lived On is a threat enough, given that he died and decided to come back and that some version of that story lives on, rent free, in the majority of the Wizarding populations’ heads. He is notoriously even-keeled as an Auror, perhaps too fixated on what that looks like as a team leader rather than the severity of each case. Maybe it’s just how he’s lived in various states of viewing, seeing truly how horrifying people can be to each other.

But one thing he doesn’t take lightly are these comments, comments against people he loves – oh, he thinks, oh fuck. The tension is immediate. His ears are ringing. For a moment, he considers talking himself off the ledge. Dynamics change, of course. They are sleeping each other. One could call it a natural progression of their relationship. It’s their MO, of course, not talking about things out loud and instead, falling into a pattern together. The truth of the matter is that no matter what they do, he still craves Hermione in a way that is both necessary and earth-shatteringly normal. He could wax poetic about how they’ve always had some sort of emotional relationship, but the truth of the matter is that once the intimacy door was open, he just knew to dive in.

Harry picks up his cold coffee, his fingers gripping the cup too tightly. Okay, he thinks. She’s bought the Prophet. He passes MacMillan, checking his shoulder hard with his own.

“You should be so lucky that she even thinks of you,” he says.

-

Of course, Hermione is in his office later that day.

For someone who has made a relatively large, chaotic financial decision, she is remarkably calm, maybe even a little sheepish. He’s come off a series of meetings to find her in his visitor’s chair, armed with the sundress that he’s always loved, short and little blue flowers, and an accompanying cardigan that he’s been looking for years for. Her hair is plaited neatly into some sort of braid, or as neatly as it can be, a cluster of curls coming loose and framing her face. It’s the splattering of freckles across her nose that catching, where he stares too hard, hard enough for her to blush. She knows he thinks she’s pretty.

“Have you eaten yet?”

He chuckles. “Was that your lead-in?”

“No,” she says, shrugging. Her mouth twitches. “I thought of accosting you at your desk, but given my sudden fame, I thought it might be wise.” She counts her fingers. “Then I thought I’d owl you for dinner, but I’m really not good with anticipatory stress given my anxiety issues. Then I thought I’m hungry so naturally you, being as much as a workaholic I was, are probably hungry as well given the time of day.”

He softens. She’s rambling.

“Ernie MacMillan told me about your big purchase,” he says.

Hermione’s nose wrinkles. “Of course,” she says dryly. “I bet he couldn’t wait.”

“I should have known better,” he adds. She immediately softens. He knows he’s pouting. He wasn’t the first to know. “Did you just go and offer a check?”

“You know me better than that,” she snorts. “Nev came along,” she says too, and Harry’s jealousy begins to rear its head. He drops to sit at his desk, his hands fisting at his lap. “Besides,” she adds, unaware of his reaction, “I made a decision after a long discussion about sales and revenue, journalistic integrity, and of course, everyone’s favorite conspiracy theory that the Ministry has a huge stake in the paper, thus making it a propaganda outlet.”

“Which led you to buy it?” Harry blinks, his hands relaxing. “Isn’t the staff… a bit of mess?”

“A large mess,” she says cheerfully. “There’s the Skeeter of it all, of course. The Editor, Barnabas Cuffe, still looks like he’s drunk and caroling at Slughorn’s Christmas party. The building seems like it’s having an identity crisis too. That’s fun.” She shrugs. “I’m still a bit murky on who directly held ownership of the paper, but Cuffe made a few calls and we discussed prices. I signed, the former owner was satisfied, and so here we are.”

Harry lets out a startled laugh. “Here you are,” he echoes.

Hermione shifts, dropping her cardigan to her seat. When she stands, she makes her way around the desk and leans against it. Her hands curl around the ledge and her expression softens, warming as she studies him.

“You’re upset.”

“No.”

“Harry.” She leans in, poking his nose. “You’re upset,” she says gently.

He sighs a little. “Yes. No.” His hand rubs over his face. “I suppose it’s my fault that I didn’t take it seriously,” he mutters, and it feels painfully like a confession. It sits in his throat. He’s unsettled. This is complicated. This makes them complicated. Hermione searches his gaze, but he looks away. “I hate that I’m upset,” he mutters.

Hermione laughs a little. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” he half-lies. “And then you took Neville.”

“Neville is a good friend.” Hermione’s voice changes into something sharp, colored by disappointment. She doesn’t move from the edge of his desk. “You know that,” she warns. He can’t look at her. “Harry,” Hermione sighs. “Are you really that upset?”

“It’s not that I’m upset, Hermione.” Each word is punctuated by his denial. “I just… I don’t know. Is this what you really want?”

The question is two-fold. Her expression shifts into something unreadable. He watches her mouth open and then close. His jealousy is rearing his ugly head – and his jealousy is ugly, really ugly. It reminds him of he reacted to Ginny wanting to take a break, to go out and explore her options without consequences. They were supposed to be a team.

This feels different though. Hermione has always been on his team, always proclaimed herself to be no matter what on his side. This is ridiculous and selfish and instead of saying that out loud, he’s gone and told her, not asked, the worst possible thing – is this really what you want. His guilt is enormous and when he shifts to her, she shifts back.

“I’m trying to decide whether or not I should dignify a response to your terrible stupid and offensive question.” Her voice is even. She’s calm, maybe too calm. His warning bells are screeching by this point. Her hands squeeze the ledge, the whites of her knuckles flushing. “The very idea that you’re joining the ranks of old, stupid men who prefer the archaic notions of social norms is offensive, Harry James Potter, and that is the nicest thing I can say to you at the moment without losing my bloody mind.”

“Hermione,” he murmurs.

“No.” Her voice is sharp. It wobbles a little. “I –” She sighs. “It was cute, you being jealous of Neville. In fact, it made feel good. It seems stupid, thinking about it right now. But at the core of it, Harry, Neville was my first friend and that is something that I’ve never taken for granted. I’m sorry you’re upset that I bought the Prophet, but neither you nor Ron for that matter, asked for my permission or consulted me on joining the Aurors. The pair of you just assumed that I’d go jump in, head first.” She pushes herself to stand, staring down at him. “And honestly, maybe purchasing the Prophet isn’t the best idea. Maybe I’m about to get into a fight that I’m not really prepared for because the Wizarding World seems to refuse to move forward in the strangest of ways. But at the end of the day, it’s a change and a challenge and maybe I need to fail to see how I’m going to move forward.”

This is the Hermione Granger that people often miss, the one that is vulnerable but self-assured, the one that faces herself without even knowing – the one that he’s gone and taken for granted. His heart is racing. He knows that he should reach for her. He knows that he should apologize over and over again simply because it’s the right thing to do.

“I’m sorry,” he says weakly.

Her gaze is sharp, hot. “I know,” she says.

Then she’s gone.

-

The news of Hermione’s wildly surprising purchase starts to spread like wildfire. Multiple people stop him, sometimes in the middle of actual work, to ask him things like “Did you know?” and “What is she thinking?” because the Prophet’s decline isn’t a big secret. There is, of course, a Rita Skeeter article that follows, post-haste, as if her status as Hermione’s longest standing archnemesis somehow sets her apart from everyone else.

Normally, I am not one to join the ranks of our illustrious Editorial board. In tried-and-true fashion, this is a space where all of us should be able to convene and discuss an array of opinions including the recent change of authority.

As much as I’d like to dive into the Muggleborn War Hero, I do have to commend Miss Granger’s drive and aptitude for entering into new spaces. I recognize that I am not the first to be suspicious, Miss Granger’s attitude in these spaces is known to be vicious and unrelenting. I’ve had the pleasure of seeing her takedown wizards without batting an eye, but the Prophet is an institution and I am worried that as a witch unfamiliar with our foundational spaces, it might translate into what the next era of the Daily Prophet might look like.

“Ah.”

Neville greets him, upon arrival. It took him hours to send the owl. They’ve gone and agreed to meet for a pint at The Hog’s Head, given Neville’s schedule. He’s not brave enough to see Hermione, he thinks. But he does feel the itch – is she okay, should he burst into Skeeter’s office and demand that she retracts the article.

“You look like you’ve read it,” Neville says too.

“Most of it,” Harry admits. Aberforth Dumbledore barely greeted him too. They come to a comical sort of truce, these days. Neville slides into the booth. “It seemed as if she couldn’t pick a particular lane.”

Neville snorts. “That’s one way of putting it. It was very much testing the waters. Or egging Hermione’s patience.” There are two scotches suddenly in front of them. Harry studies Aberforth warily. He doesn’t look at him. “Anyways,” Neville says, reaching for his glass. “Heard you shot yourself in the foot. You’re lucky, mate, that I’m not chaperoning the halls today.”

Harry sighs. “I know.”

“She’s really upset.”

Harry looks up, wide-eyed.

“We’re friends, you know,” Neville continues. “But you and Ron have always been off the table. She’s extraordinarily protective of you two, even though she and Ron have been over for years and you two, well, you two are doing this weird thing.”

“Weird thing?”

“Strange,” Neville corrects. “Messy. Backwards. I dunno, mate. It seemed spot on in my head, as I was practicing my speech on my way over here. It could be that I’ve just been grading papers for far too long and all of them have been terrible.”

Harry laughs a little. “I understand.”

“Good.” Neville eyes him. His expression changes into something different, something dark and firm. His mouth purses together. “Let it be said that she will always pick you two morons, you in particular first. No matter what. But you’ve got to pull your head out of your arse and understand that one, she’s allowed to have other people in her life and she can share whatever she wants with whomever she wants.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I understand that.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Harry sighs. His heart is racing, stumbling into his throat. It feels tight and heavy. What’s wrong, he almost says, is that he’s slowly coming to terms that he’s loved Hermione Granger in many different ways, at many different times, and if he were to lose her, to really lose her, it might kill him. He is not Ron. It’s not going to be some sort of sting. For him, losing Hermione, the very idea of losing Hermione, is heavy and devastating and suffocating enough.

“She’s terrifying,” he says quietly. “She has this way under my skin that I don’t quite understand, but she’s in it, right there, pushing forward to help me breathe. It’s not just that, it’s the fact that everything is just brighter. Louder. I laugh with Hermione. We do bloody stupid things like make breakfast together or take walks and it single-handedly feels like the most important part of my day. Sure, I was with Ginny. But this feels like – Hermione has the power to tear me apart and put me back together. I think I might be in love with my best friend and that, right now, is so fucking scary, Neville. So fucking scary.”

There is the inherently sexual element of their relationship, although new. It seems to have fortified a lot of how he sees her. He’s vulnerable and she accepts him, trusts him enough to open herself to him and explore in tandem.

“You should tell her.”

Neville’s expression remains unchanged. The Other Boy Who Lived, ironically. Harry shakes his head. He’s admittedly jealous, but everyone, in the end, picks their poison.

“Tell her what,” he says. “That I’m in love with you when I can barely string the words together. That I reacted poorly? That her purchasing the Daily Prophet is insane, but I believe in her because she’s obsessive enough to turn the whole damn thing around.”

Neville snorts. “Well, yeah.”

Harry stares.

“Mate,” the other man says, “I don’t think I’ve heard you talk this much… ever.”

Harry snorts too. “Fair.” He looks between the two of them. The scotch is still full, the liquid glistening in the low light. “I’ve been holding quite a bit in.”

“I’d say.”

Neville grabs his glass, downing his scotch. He rolls his shoulders, sighing loudly. He mutters something akin to you owe me and then pushes Harry’s glass towards him. He smirks. Harry feels a little wary.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he says. “Not saying this will work, but what the hell. We’re going to get drunk and Hermione is going to kill me, probably plaster my body on the front page and Minnie’s gonna let her get away with it because we all know she’s the favorite. But we’re going to get drunk and then I’m going to drop you at her place.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “That’s your plan?”

Neville arches a brow. “Do you have one?”

“Good point.” Harry’s shoulders drop. “You’re right.”

“I know,” Neville says cheerfully, shifting in the booth. He grabs his glass and Harry’s glass, clinking them together before shoving his scotch in front of Harry. “Drink up, we’ve got to get you groveling somehow.”

This, Harry thinks, is probably a terrible idea. Probably one of the worst ones. He still grabs the glass and downs his drink, ignoring the quick, magical refill.

Hermione is going to kill him.

Twice.

-

A glass shatters.

The room light is dim. There is a blanket skewed on the couch, a stack of files neatly stacked on the coffee table, and a candle still lit. If she’s gone to bed, he thinks, that’s a fire hazard.

Neville giggles, face flushed and wide-eyed. “Oh, you’re in trouble.”

Harry is dizzy. He laughs a little. The vase is in pieces on the ground. He doesn’t remember where Hermione got it. Maybe he should have. It seems like something unimportant though. Well, he hopes. He really hopes.

“I hope not.” Harry taps his mouth. “She’s really pretty when she’s mad.”

“Pretty scary,” Neville sings.

The room is immediately illuminated, Hermione standing in the doorframe with her arms crossed and her expression a mix of irritation and amusement. She’s sleepy. Her hair is braided messily away from her face. It’s the cardigan that gets him, the same one that she wore in his office, skewed off of one shoulder and – that’s it, he realizes, because the next thing he sees is just legs. All legs.

Neville stumbles forward, but Harry reaches out to grab him. Neville falls. Harry falls after him, nearly stumbling into the couch. He’s going to break something else. Hermione is going to be even angrier. Stuff can be replaced, he tells himself.

Then he realizes that he hasn’t fallen at all.

They don’t hit the ground. Their feet are glued to it, in fact, and Hermione stares at them both, spinning her wand between her fingers. His eyes dart to her legs again. Long, smooth legs. He likes her legs. He should tell her too.

Hermione snaps her fingers. He looks up, startled. “A stickfast hex,” she says dryly. “Can’t have you two idiots rolling around in glass.”

“Hey!” Neville points at Harry. “He’s the idiot.”

Harry nods empathically. “I am,” he says. Then he glares at Neville. “You got me pissed though.”

“You’re mopey.” Neville claps a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. “No one likes a mopey bastard. Hermione, can I sleep it off –”

“No,” Harry snaps.

“On her couch, you bastard,” Neville snaps back.

They start to argue. Neville calls him a bastard at least three more times, a resounding effort to show who’s side he’s on – all part of the plan, mate, he had said at the pub. Harry thinks that Neville is a lightweight.

“He is,” Hermione says dryly. Harry’s eyes wide, flushed. Neville looks at them both betrayed. He pouts but Hermione rolls her eyes. “When he and Hannah broke up for the thirtieth time, he outdrank Draco Malfoy in some sort of posh place in Paris. Almost splinched himself. I think I found him in a tree in some sorted of haunted manor.”

“The locals told me,” Neville insists indignantly.

Hermione shrugs. “You’re still a lightweight.”

She ends up releasing them from her hex, tucking her wand into the cardigan. The glass follows just as easily, swept up and sent towards the trash. She pushes Neville into the couch, moving her things to the side. She summons a bucket, settling her friend with water and a sobering potion. Harry stays tucked to her side, quietly. His head is already starting to throb. He can remember what he’s eaten during the day.

Neville’s tucked in. Hermione’s amusement is clear and she adjusts the blanket, tucking it under his chin. She flicks his forehead.

“You’re an idiot,” she says gently. “Idiot number two.”

“Does that make me number one?” Harry asks.

Neville opens an eye, grinning sleepily. His smile is even wobbly. “Duh,” he says. “Even I know that.”

Hermione doesn’t say anything. Neville’s snore fills the room quickly. She links her arm through Harry’s arm. He tries not to stumble, leaning his weight into her shoulder. The room is spinning a little. He doesn’t feel like he’s going to throw up, but he’s sloppy. He smells a little like the pub too, a little too smokey and heady. Maybe she hates that, he thinks.

“All right,” Hermione says quietly. They move into her bedroom. Her hands flank her hips. “Before you give me a speech,” she says, “I want you to know that I’m tired and I am definitely still angry with you.”

“I understand,” he mumbles. His body is starting to sag.

“Whoa,” she says, catching him by the arms. His jacket feels heavier now. He tries to shrug it off, but ends up pushing them into bed.

They fall together. Hermione lets out a startled laugh. His mouth is buried against her neck. She even smells pretty, he thinks.

“Thank you,” she says, and he groans, realizing that he’s gone and said that out loud. “At least,” she says, “you’re an honest drunk.”

“You’re still upset with me,” he says, his mouth grazing her neck. Her fingers immediately move to his hair, stroking it lightly. “I deserve it.”

“You do,” she says.

He should apologize. Instead, he’s relegated to helping her as best he can in pulling his jacket off. He manages his boots too, kicking them off with the promise of letting her yell at him later. It makes her laugh and he realizes that he’s missed listening to her laugh.

The problem is that he could tell her here, tell her now, that he’s sorry and that he’s missed her and he’s jealous that she can go and do things, big or small, and do them unapologetically. He’s forgotten how to live life without thinking about what he has to lose. Instead of highlighting the consequences he’s avoided, he feels like he’s hurt people, hurt her, and added more consequences to his list.

“Go to sleep,” she says quietly, as if reading his mind. “We’ll have the morning,” she says too.

He feels her lips against his forehead. He’s tired enough to settle. He doesn't have an answer for her anyway.

Chapter Text

Harry snores. She’s forgotten that Harry snores.

Out of habit, she is still an early riser. Her therapist calls it a trauma response. Jokes on her though, she’s always been this obsessive.

Early mornings mean early morning quiet time, time that she’s learn to cherish and hold space for. It makes her miss her dad a lot. They’d have Sundays together. He’d let her mom sleep in. They’d go for a short run. He’d make coffee. She’d make toast. They wouldn’t talk or they would. He’d fixate on them getting matching trainers. It would make her laugh.

“Ugh,” she mumbles, pressing the heels of her palm into her eyes. The tears are there. They hurt, most days. Press into the lids of her eyes. Or in the back of her throat. She tries not to think of those days too much. But Harry snores and she misses her dad.

She’s also supposed to be angry with him.

Incensed, really. Stupid boys, men and their inability to use words to string together their feelings in a coherent way. She should be used to it by now. In fact, one given the lifetime she’s spent with Harry and subsequently, Ron, one would assume she’d manage expert levels of understanding them. The problem, however, is that her feelings are all over the place.

It’s easy to weave the bad decisions together. They’re good at talking about things. They move in tandem with each other. Serious, ominous conflicts are sort of their things. She’s always known that Harry is different for her, whether together or not, the drive to exist on a line that should even be a real line. Sex does not complicate things. She’s not embarrassed. In fact, she’s inexplicably content with how it’s just shifted into something that makes sense, that’s softened the two of them. For her, it’s quite simple – there is Harry Potter and everyone else.

But it’s the simple things, the marginal things that rise and feed conflict. Where to go from here? What does this mean? Is a future together something you could see? These are questions that roll around in her mouth, press into her tongue and the back of her teeth. These are things that she should be asking. The answer is terrifying.

“I can hear you thinking.”

Harry’s voice is still heavy with sleep. It scratches against the back of his throat. Her mouth twitches, but she keeps her hand over her eyes.

“I’m still incredibly angry with you,” she says.

The bed shifts. His mouth grazes her shoulder. “I know.”

“You were terrible,” she says too.

“Awful,” he agrees.

She wrinkles her nose a little. He smells like scotch. “You need a shower.”

“I do,” he agrees, his knuckles knocking her chin gently. She meets his gaze. His eyes are still half-lidded and lazy. She can’t help herself, her fingers brushing against his face. “I can’t believe you bought the Prophet,” he says. “And bloody Ernie Macmillan made sure to tell me.”

Hermione groans. “Of course,” she says dryly. “I bet he couldn’t wait.”

“He was salivating,” Harry mutters, and his arm shifts over her waist. He pulls her closer. She makes a little noise. Maybe, she’ll drag him on a run. He’ll have to sweat out his hangover as punishment. That would make her feel better. “And,” he says. “You took Neville.”

She’s quiet. It’s an odd place to be, knowing that she’s in a place where Harry is starting to recognize that she has other connections outside of him. She meant what she had said to him. Neville was her first friend and stayed her friend, despite the awkward and uncomfortable merits of growing up together. It’s Neville that has been consistent, even as her relationship with Ron blew up into her face and there was no recovery period.

“I took Neville because you’ve got an insane schedule,” she says. “I took Neville because I needed someone to be my friend. I took Neville because me purchasing the Prophet has implications for you, if you’re at my side, whether you want to move up in the department or better yet, worse, you want to run for Minister.”

“I don’t want to be Minister,” he murmurs.

Her lips curl. “I know.” She searches his gaze. “But the world runs on those assumptions,” she says too. “Those assumptions could make any sort of case you’re on incredibly difficult. Remember where there’s one Ernie Macmillan, five more spawn at the most inopportune times.”

He sighs. “You’re right.”

“I know that too,” she says cheerfully. She softens a little. She reaches forward, poking the lines that are starting to stretch over his forehead. She’s gentle, running her thumb over them to smooth the lines over. “I’m always going to pick you first,” she murmurs. Her stomach is in knots. She feels her throat start to tighten. “But sometimes I have to pick me first,” she says, “and make those mistakes. You have to trust me enough to make those mistakes.”

“I do,” he sighs, his head dropping against her shoulder. His breath is hot and sticky. She wrinkles her nose a little. "I guess –” She feels the pause. Her heart is racing a little. “Jealousy is weird, you know,” he mumbles. His body twists a little into her. “And I don’t really know the right thing to say. It’s different when it’s you.”

It could mean a million things. Her heart doesn’t start racing. He’s still pressed into her, his mouth sliding over her neck. She feels his sigh. Feels her own ready to rise to the surface. It doesn’t. She’s patient. But sometimes, she thinks, she doesn’t want to be.

Harry shifts, rising a little to lean and kiss her.

Her hand covers his mouth. His eyes widen.

“You better brush your teeth first before you kiss me with that mouth of yours,” she says.

His eyes narrow. He bites at her palm and she squirms, twisting as he shifts over her. His hands grasp at her sides. She laughs, shrieks as he starts to tickle her.

It’s a small step forward.

-

The offices of the Daily Prophet are incredibly sad.

It’s the nicest thing she can come up with. Hermione sits in the middle of the editorial pit, spinning slowly on a chair. Padma Patil is watching her curiously. Rita Skeeter is avoiding her at all cost, given the sanctimonious editorial piece she had just published. She’s been informed that all articles are ready to go for the next few issues, something that gives her pause. She’s all about deadlines, but here, watching a mix of writers and photographers wander around the offices, she realizes that there is a lack of urgency. That, Hermione thinks, and the yellow walls don’t do anything for morale.

She’s also left behind all personnel files at her flat. She has a general idea of who works in this space. Cuffe is everything she expects him to be, Slughorn-coded and all. For the most part, he’s well-organized and able to relay as much information to her as possible. The purchase still seems incredibly odd to her, how easy it was for her to come in and sign a few pages, producing the gold for a check. The Goblins that took care of the transaction were completely detached, more committed to a speedy process than reveal who they were representing. That is a question for later, of course.

“So.” She turns to Padma, studying her. The chair squeaks. Padma tilts her head to the side, waiting. “What do you do again?”

“Photography,” her former classmate answers easily. “Need to see my portfolio?”

“Eventually.” Hermione waves a hand. “But the real question, honestly, is why are you here and what, if anything, are you excited about showing?”

Padma’s surprise is impossible to hide. It writes itself across her face with speed and urgency. She struggles to hide it, finally sitting across from Hermione on a similar rolling chair. She finally sighs, shrugging.

“I took the picture,” she says.

“The picture?”

“The picture,” she repeats. “Of you and Potter leaving the corner store. Superior ice cream flavor, by the way. But honestly, Skeeter was throwing one of her fits and we needed to fill the slot with something or Cuffe was going to go bananas.”

Hermione tables the discussion for another day. It’s a fascinating prospect putting faces to people who are attempting to unravel your personal life. She swings the chair from side-to-side slowly, crossing her legs.

“Good to know, I suppose. But,” Hermione points out, “you didn’t answer my question.”

“Your question?”

These yellow walls have to go, she thinks. The way the sun is starts to come in and expand against them makes the main area looks sort of sickly. There’s no character to this place. It’s feels ready to melt her brain.

“What makes you excited,” she answers, looking back to Padma. Her eyes are bright. She shrugs. “For example,” she says, “when I quit my job – I was excited to figure it out, to rest but to really see what would happen when I would give life a chance and not try to run it. Granted, it’s a bit terrifying. I do like a routine. But I’m trying.”

Padma sighs. She squirms a little. She looks a little lost, like many of them do from that class. Ron used to point it out all the time. Harry would make it a point to say hello, to most people, maybe out of need or guilt. She understands both.

“I want what I do to mean something,” she admits. Hermione feels herself perk up. “I want to show everything, you know? The good, the bad, how we’re simply recovering and how that’s okay too, to recover at your own pace.”

Hermione smiles genuinely. For what feels like the first time, in a long time.

“Good answer,” she says.

-

Finding Ernie Macmillan just outside of Harry’s office door is neither a surprise nor welcomed. Hermione feels her hackles immediately rise. She’s not worried. She’s annoyed. The too-smug smirk that fits across his mouth as he poises himself to knock on the door, the pep talk that seems to write itself into his expression, as if to say he’s doing the right thing – Ernie, Hermione thinks, hasn’t changed at all.

“Careful now,” she says in greeting. Ernie whirls around his eyes wide. Hermione made sure to stop at home before coming to the Ministry. The visitor’s pass is pinned to the cardigan that belongs to Harry. “Standing too close to that door means you want to get hit,” she says. Her mouth twitches. “Not a surprise, given your sunny personality.”

Ernie straightens immediately. “Granger.” His voice trembles. He’s grasping at cordial. “This is a surprise,” he says.

The best part of not working for the Ministry any longer? That she can accidentally hex him and make it look like an accident. There could be a ‘the worst part of not working for the Ministry any longer’ but Hermione cannot think of any sort of reason. Then she watches Ernie Macmillan check out her legs.

“Not as much as it is a surprise to see you at Harry’s door,” she says dryly. She considers her options. He does work for the MLE, she tells herself. “Heard you were trying to swoop in and give him some sound advice?”

“No advice,” Ernie says nervously. His eyes are glued to her legs. Underneath Harry’s favorite sundress. Harry thinks she doesn’t know that he likes her sundresses. Oh, she totally knows. And given his drunken escapades with Neville in her flat, she’d like to remind him too. “Just wanted to check in on Potter for a case –”

“A case?”

Auror Harry Potter is in a league of his own. She can say that factually, both as his – well, significant other, she supposes – and a woman with a healthy appetite and two eyes. His jeans are crisp, cinched into his hips where his button-down is tucked inside. His sleeves are rolled back and her eyes are immediately drawn to his forearms and of course, his hands. Hands that she loves, thank you very much, something fiercely.

It's not just his hands though. Harry, at work, has a specific presence. He’s hungry and intense. On a good day, when she was still in the office, she would watch as he would obsessively fixate on cases, peel them apart to solve and inspire the team around him. She knows why there are talks for him to be Kingsley’s successor. She knows he’d be brilliant. She also knows that he doesn’t want it either.

“Hey Hermione,” Harry greets. He moves to her easily. His arm slips around her waist. Her eyes widen briefly, but he leans in and kisses her forehead. “Stopping by?”

“Checking your hangover,” she says dryly.

He laughs a little. “Your potion did the trick.” His thumb grazes her lip. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

“No problem,” she says breathlessly. “I’m still supposed to be angry with you.”

Harry chuckles. “I know.” His eyes narrow when he meets Ernie’s gaze over her head. “Can it wait?” He asks. “I was thinking of lunch,” he says. His expression shifts a little. His eyes are full of mischief. “I’m a man-starved,” he adds.

Hermione blushes. “Idiot,” she mumbles, hitting his chest. His fingers curl around her hand and he keeps her hand there. He studies her. “I’m okay,” she says immediately. “I really just wanted to come and check on you.”

“You and Macmillan,” he says dryly.

The man-in-question clears his throat. “I should be going. We can talk later, Potter.” He turns, nearly stumbling his way around them. “I’m sure I’ll see you at the afternoon meetings.”

“It’s always good to see you,” Hermione calls.

Ernie grimaces. Good, she thinks. He offers an awkward wave. At least, she thinks, Malfoy committed to the bit and hated her outright. Ernie Macmillan wore sheep’s clothing because the other wolves were ready to eat him too. He was always testing the waters as a student and now, as an adult, he seems to favor the same sort of mindset.

She isn’t stupid either. She knows the kind of reaction she inspires in some people. She’s never cared. In fact, still doesn’t – a little fear is healthy, she reasons. She doesn’t take it lightly. Fighting a war, recovering from said war even years later, really pulls back the curtain on some people. She sighs a little.

“All right?” Harry’s knuckles rap against her chin. Her mouth curls a little. “I know he’s… well, I suppose the only way to put it is he’s Macmillan.”

She snorts. “How very political of you.”

“I mean,” Harry drawls, “I do want to hit him at some point in every interaction we share. I’m not really sure why he’s in this department when he’s in the MLE for contract litigation.”

“He sees you as a viable threat,” she says gently. Harry’s eyes darken. Hermione sighs. “It’s true, whether you like it or not. Ernie is someone that rides the norm and any sort of change or challenge either scares him or makes him reactionary. He’s in contract litigation because he doesn’t have the stomach for violence, would rather take on rules to suit the status quo than actually account and push for change.”

“You could run.”

Hermione scoffs. “Not interested.” Her mouth twitches. “I’d be a terrible Minister.”

“That’s a lie,” he says.

“I’m totally unlikeable,” she counters.

“Also not true,” he says easily. “I like you.”

Her eyes widen. It’s not that he says it, it’s the way he says it, the low curl over ‘you’ that nearly sends her into a spiral. His ‘I like you’ is layered, purposefully so. Her lips part with a sigh. She’s sort of helpless to him.

“Harry,” she murmurs. Her mouth curls. “I brought the Prophet.”

“That is actually true,” he says. He looks a little relieved and a little disappointed. She’s confused, at best. But finds herself relieved as well. They should talk too. Not here either. They need to be in an uninterrupted space.

He sighs. Harry leans in, cupping her face. He kisses her forehead.

“I have time for lunch,” he says.

“Lunch?” she asks.

“Lunch,” he repeats, lacing their fingers together. He tugs her towards his office. She laughs a little, breathlessly even. The smile on his mouth seems to ease the lines on his face a little more. “I’m definitely famished,” he reveals, winking. Her face is hot at that comment.

“Auror Potter!”

Another Auror comes running into their space. He’s breathless, wide-eyed, and Harry immediately transforms back into business-mode. He does not let go of her hand and does not offer an introduction to his subordinate either.

“We have a lead,” the younger Auror states. He leans into the wall, gripping the frame. “We should get going –”

Harry looks back at her. She softens.

“Go,” Hermione says gently. “I’ll head to my flat. I have some reading to do – come for dinner instead.”

He nods, leaning in. He kisses her briefly. It’s quick enough to be a passing thought, but holds more weight and intimacy than she’s used to showing anyone. Then again, maybe it’s been between them all along. Maybe they’re just ready to see.

Harry is gone before she can say anything else.

-

“So.”

Susie is wearing that irritating smile, the one that really seems to get underneath her skin, the one that gave them issues when they first started to see each other. Hermione is unapologetically combative, when angry, and everything that Susie had asked her, save anything that Hermione couldn’t translate from Magical to Muggle.

“Did you do it?”

Hermione narrows her eyes. “Do it?”

“The big impulsive purchase,” she recounts, even looking into her notes for confirmation. She flips each page with practiced precision. It’s annoying enough for Hermione to wince and want to hex her. But she can’t. She’s a Muggle therapist.

“Oh.” Hermione leans back in her seat. She thinks about dinner a little. She should cook. “Yeah,” she says distractedly. “I did. I bought a newspaper.”

Susie the therapist’s eyes go wide, in fact, they go comically wide. Her mouth drops open. Hermione bites back a scoff.

“A paper?”

“Well, not like the London Times.” She sighs a little. “More like a local spread.”

“Still a newspaper –”

“Regardless,” Hermione sweeps in. “It’s been interesting.” She taps the side of her head. “It’s a solid project. More like a puzzle, actually. There are the easy, administrative things that I can sort through. Where the money is going. The accountability.” Her mouth twists. “The personnel portion of this makes me a little wary. There are some contentious personalities.”

“Sounds like…” Susie frowns. “Well,” she restarts. “You sound different. When you first arrived here, upon discussion, you were less inclined to connect to your job. The detachment was heavy-handed, if you will.” She searches Hermione’s gaze. “Here, you… you sound excited. It’s really nice to see.”

Her mouth curls. “Are we being cordial to each other today, Susie?”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Susie says dryly. She studies Hermione. “And the other thing,” she says slowly. “You and –”

“Harry,” she supplies.

“Harry,” Susie repeats. “Let’s talk about him. Having sex with your best friend.”

It feels childish and unrelenting. She knows and understands that this is all part of what she signed up for, opening herself up to a stranger. She’s made it complicated too. She has to sit here, sometimes, recounting things in such a detached, basic way that it almost sounds unreal. She’s grateful that Susie hasn’t made a full diagnosis. Sure, the depression is real. The post-traumatic stress diagnosis is coming too. But it feels feverish, trying to describe her motivations on a purely objective level. Part of it feels like penance, if anything, given the route she took with her parents. Perhaps, that’s at the heart of it all.

“It’s wonderful,” she says quietly. “He’s thoughtful and warm.” Her mouth twitches. “He responds to my needs like –”

“Like?”

Hermione laughs, blushing. “I don’t really know how to put it.” Her fingers start to tap against the arms of her chair. “As you know,” she dribbles out, “I have a bit of a control problem.”

Susie snorts. “No, you don’t you say.”

“I think,” she says, ignoring her, “Harry would be the only person that I would ever consider handing myself over to in this way. It’s not proper dom-sub,” she finds herself saying too, rambling. Susie’s eyes grow comically large. “Well,” Hermione says. “I find the community incredibly nuanced and thoughtful and if I were fully invested, I might be interested or inclined to push a little further. It’s just the truth of the matter is that I want just Harry, only Harry, and it’s wildly confusing to sort of marry how I’ve always been with him with the way I want him now – finding out that it’s the same thing. That I might have been in love with my best friend all along, spanking or no spanking.”

Susie looks like she’s about to fall over. Or choke. She’s not really sure. In fact, Hermione thinks she should be warranted enough to expect Susie to be used to her shenanigans. She takes advantage of the fact that there is no filter requirement here.

“Well.” Susie swallows. “I’m happy for you,”

Hermione smiles.

-

This is not how she confesses.

Harry’s head is between her legs, his arm anchored behind her back as she remains pressed into her kitchen counter. Her dress is pushed up far above her waist, the straps dropping off her shoulders. Her breasts heave when she whimpers and moans, twisting as she clings to him with her hands buried in his hair.

“Harry,” she breathes. “Please.”

“Ah,” he chuckles into her cunt. The bridge of his nose is wedge against her clit and when he moves, she practically sobs. She is well on her way into her second orgasm. “I’ve just missed my girl,” he tells her. “The prettiest girl in the whole bloody world, you see.”

She’s got fistfuls of his hair, by this point, and her brain is blissfully blank. There is a bag full of groceries still waiting by the door. He’s already had her against the wall, frenzied from the day. She’s wet and achy and full of a mix of his cum and hers.

That damn sundress, he had cooed. It hadn’t matter then. Whatever day he had is driving him head first into some kind of release. His tongue is wedged inside of her by now, swirling around as if she’s some sort of candy pop. Her hips are jerking into his mouth. He continues to nuzzle her clit lazily, taking her there but not quite.

“This is the perfect meal,” he murmurs, and slides a finger inside of her, then another, and she swears, swears she’s going to die as he starts to twist his wrist. A little pleasure, a little pain. He leans in and scrapes his teeth against her clit again. “You’re delicious,” he says.

It doesn’t matter anyway because that second orgasm hits and hits hard, shattering her mind as her hips buck into his hand and she sobs out some sort of rambling of his name. The counter underneath her is wet and sticky. She’s flushed and her eyes are wet. The aftermath is pushing at all of her senses. She gasps a little as he pulls his fingers out, all sounds swallowed by his mouth as he kisses her deeply. She tastes herself, tastes him, and it makes her filthy with need. Her body needs a break though. They need a break.

His hand brushes her hair back too. He drags her onto the ledge of the counter, closer to him, and then guides her legs around his waist.

“What are your thoughts on pet names?”

Hermione lets out a shaky laugh. “Now?”

“Now,” he says, walking them to her bedroom. She’ll deal with the groceries later. “I know you’re partial to a few,” he teases her too.

Her face is hot. “Uh-huh,” she mumbles. Her head buries itself against the crook of his neck. “Should we workshop some?”

“We could,” Harry agrees. He helps her to bed by setting her down gently. He pulls the mess of her dress over her head and finishes undressing. “We could sleep on it too,” he says as well. “Discuss it in the morning.”

It’s a marvel how easy it is for her to find her spot on the bed, left side not right and how he adjusts to meet her in the center. He wraps an arm around her waist. He nuzzles her neck and she sighs, tired and sated and a little annoyed – she had a speech planned, she thinks. There are some things she’d like to say.

“What were you thinking?” She still asks. Mostly, since she’s curious.

“I mean, I’m not the biggest fan of baby,” he tells her. She does wrinkle her nose. He laughs sleepily. It does seem a bit charming, however, coming from his mouth. “Darling makes us seem a thousand-years-old or, well, when I say it, it makes me sound greasy.”

“I like pretty girl all the same,” she says shyly. Groans when he laughs a little. Her head buries into the crook of his neck, her eyes squeezing shut. She’s shy and a little embarrassed. “Why try and change a good thing,” she mumbles.

Harry smiles into her hair. “Okay.” Things start to quiet. Their breathing is beginning to calm, heartrates settle. His hand palms her hip and then climbs to her back, his fingers drifting over the line of her spine. “Then,” he says slowly. “What about my love?”

Hermione stills.

Chapter Text

“My love,” she repeats.

The world, then, stops moving for Harry.

There are very few moments in his life where he understands that things are changing, that knowing that he is in love with Hermione Granger and then hearing her say just two words makes everything impossibly large. It’s a few scraps of bread for a starving man. It’s understanding that she has just changed the way the world opens itself to him, shifted color and light into very real, very tangible things. It isn’t a I love you, but it’s the possibility that forever is there, right there, and he could very well take it for himself.

“Yeah,” he says breathlessly. He searches her gaze. “What do you think?”

“I think –” And here, he thinks, is where he learns something new about Hermione, about how suddenly her teeth worries right into her lip, about how she shy, almost desperately shy, her skin flushing into a soft pink. He wants to kisses it right off her. “I think,” she says quietly, “I would be just fine with you calling me that.”

So he kisses her.

-

Later, Harry decides he is going to take a day.

It’s been a long time coming, honestly. He sends a few owls. Reschedules a meeting with Kingsley who, for all intents and purposes, does ask if he’s sick with anything. But he very rarely takes a day to himself, despite preaching to his teams that there’s nowhere to go if you don’t take care of yourself first.

Of course, it’s complicated. He’s Harry Potter – this isn’t said with arrogance, of course. It’s just the acknowledgment that the expectation is always going to be different for him. The horrors of one case does not negate from the fact that are two more cases on his desk that are just as bad, if not worse. But he fought Voldemort. He should be numb to the idea that people can still do very terrible things to each other, that stay a little mad because they’re power-hungry and unwilling to share.

“Are you sure,” she half-asks, unable to hide her amusement and pleasure at him redelegating his work to a subordinate. “I know you’ve got a lot going on,” she says. “It’s okay that you have to go in and… well, fight the good fight or whatever it is that you do.”

Harry snorts and smacks her ass. “Careful,” he teases. “I didn’t ask for sass.”

Hermione laughs. “I know,” she says.

He’s definitely sure.

He’s sure enough that he drags her to Grimmauld Place with him, if only to make sure that Kreacher hasn’t sold the property off to some Pureblood family or some long-lost obscure Black relative, if only to have something to do. The house is in one piece, of course, and Hermione tasks herself with opening windows while he studies the state of his kitchen and first floor. He does stupid things like finally pick up the piles of neglected post in the hallway and putting away the mass collection of jackets that swarm his coat rack. Normally upkeep is a habitual obsession, but he’s been entirely too all over the place for that too.

The truth of the matter is that Grimmauld Place has never quite felt like home. It’s not as bad as labeling it a place to go, but it now stands as some sort of mausoleum, a place that has too many memories and not enough of them. It wasn’t the Durselys, of course, but it was a place that haunted Sirius, then Remus later, and in each corner, when he’s alone, he can even start to see a few of the ghosts.

To be fair, he decided to live here. Perhaps, if anything, because it was the closest to a home. There are a million projects that he’s started too. The kitchen cabinets are halfway new. He’s repaired some of the steps in the staircase. The door to Sirius’ old bedroom was coming off the hinges and that, there, took him forever to fix because all he could think about his Sirius’ wild grin and sparkling eyes, saying it adds character, you know all the while not discussing the years of his mother’s heavy hand. He’s even taken to slowly replacing some of the old, morbid and uncomfortable artwork that was favored by the late Mrs. Black. The dark landscape painting collection she had was deeply depressing and not what he needed to see after a murder investigation.

“What’s wrong?”

Hermione comes behind him, sliding an arm around his waist. Somehow, he’s made it to kitchen to overlook his view of the city. There’s a large window in front of the sink. He’s repaired twice, flanked it with plants that are alive and thriving, if only because Kreacher continues to water them faithfully. Grimmauld Place has a small garden in the back. Sirius once told him that it used to be a poison garden. For a family of Muggle haters, the view of the city is something that he’d never understand – it’s beautiful of course and at night, even after a particularly long day, he’ll come to the window in the kitchen to look out into a sea of sparkling lights, a reminder that he’s alive and well again. He should be grateful.

“That you’ve survived?” Hermione’s voice cuts in. He blinks, his face heating as he realizes that he must have said something out loud. He looks down at her sighing. She frowns. “Has someone told you that you need to be grateful?”

There’s a slight edge to her voice too. He chuckles a little. “No,” he murmurs. His lips press against her forehead. “No one,” he tells her. “I just get reflective when I’m here. Sometimes I think that I work too much to avoid coming here. When I was younger, I had all these intentions of fixing it up to be a place that I could stay in, that I create for myself and whatever version of a family that I settled with – but every time I come back, even after a late night at work, it just starts to feel less and less like a place I should be.”

She softens. “Then what feels like home to you?” His mouth opens and she elbows him. “And don’t say something cheesy like we’re ever you are because you can do better than that, you know.”

Harry lets out a startled, genuine laugh. He leans in, kissing her forehead. “It wouldn’t not be true though,” he says honestly.

“Harry –”

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll play,” he says too. “I do really like your flat. It feels like a home. On a purely objective level, you have a lot of light. Your home always smells good, whether it’s the nine million candles you use or the flowers that you like to buy at that little market. I like that when you’re stressed you like to cook because those ginger snaps, the ones you made that one time, are something that I still dream about because they’re perfect and they smell really good too.” He’s not ready to say things like it feels like it could be my home too because he’s overwhelmed and staring at every direction a decision could go with wide eyes.

“Noted,” she says dryly.

He smirks, turning her. He presses her into the sink, his hand wrapping around the end of her braid and tugging lightly. She narrows her eyes a little.

“Most of all,” he continues. “I like it because you’re there.” He laughs when she snorts, watching that pretty blush creep into her face. He keeps her hair in his hand and leans in, stealing a brief kiss. “It’s the best,” he says softly, “waking up with you.”

“Don’t let Kreacher hear you,” she murmurs. “Then he’ll really kill you.”

Harry laughs. “I’m sure he’ll follow me wherever I go.”

“True,” Hermione reasons. She reaches for him though, her hands brushing against his face. She sweeps some of his hair back. Her expression is serious, thoughtful. She seems to be steeling herself to say something, but then decides against it. “My wards always recognize you,” she says slowly. “You know that right?”

“I know,” he says.

She nods. “Do you want a key?”

His eyes widen. He isn’t sure if she means to or not. Ironically, they’re taking a lot of steps and keeping up with them has never been his forte. He’s still trying to wrap his head around the idea that my love is now entered into their vernacular. It still feels tattooed across his tongue, ready to live and lie in wait for her to hear again.

“Do you want to give me a key,” he asks quickly, stumbling. He wants a key. God, he thinks. Of course, he wants a key. There are so many things he could say to her. On his worst days, he could just come to her place, spoon the back of her because the nightmares are never as bad when he is with Hermione. They could do things like make dinners together. Or go on walks. Things that they already do together, but to do it in a shared space means so much more.

“I want to give you a key.”

She presses herself up onto her toes, into his chest, and steals a kiss. He’s startled, maybe breathless all over again. He tugs a little at her braid, nipping at her lips to bring her back to him. She laughs against his mouth.

“I want to give you a key,” she says. “Kreacher already hates me anyway.”

Her gaze is bright and warm. He feels so unbelievably full that it completely disarms him. It’s terrifying, honestly, to be here but to not feel like he’s a hundred percent. That’s a personal thing, he decides. That’s the part that nobody asks him about. Everyone assumes that his happy ending wrapped itself into its own bow, that surviving and living was really all he needed.

“I want to tell you things,” he blurts. His mouth trembles a little. “Not that I don’t already,” he adds. “It’s just like every time I’m there, I just – my head goes blank. There’s so much I could say, but I feel like I’m going to screw it up.”

“And I don’t?” she says, gently even. Her hands pat his chest. “I think you overestimate my ability to recover. Let me remind you of the chaos that I just self-appointed to my life as of late. I bought the Daily Prophet.”

He laughs a little. “True.” He studies her. “You’ve always been different to me,” he says slowly. “A pillar in every shape of the way. I know I’ve taken you for granted –” Her mouth puckers. She immediately extends herself to protest, but he brushes his fingers against her mouth. “It’s true,” he says quietly, “and you know it. It’s okay to let me know that.”

“Harry.”

He shakes head. “I think we have to talk about the fact that you’ve seen me at my darkest,” he tells her, “and that you and I, for better or for worse, were really ready to accept what came our way in those woods and out of it. That tied us together in a way that no one else can understand, you know?” He swallows. “I could launch into a whole tirade about how that’s where my control issues stem from, from that dark place, where control and safety are so tightly intertwined that sometimes I don’t know the difference. To connect to you, without judgment or expectations – I just… I think we were going to get here eventually. I firmly believe that.” He looks down, softening for a moment. “You’re amazing, Hermione Granger,” he says quietly. “And I just think you should know that.”

“No, I’m not,” she says, argues and it’s almost funny. His body immediately coils to counter her, but Hermione laughs a little. “I’m selfish, Harry. I’m argumentative. I’m incredibly difficult when I do get my way. I hold grudges. I struggle to admit where I’m wrong and why.” And again, where only hours before he made a small attempt to try, to try and tell her how he feels, he watches her face transform right back into that look, the one where he does not know what he did to deserve that kind of softness from her. “But what I do know, what I have always known, what I will continue to know, is that I love you. It’s as simple as that.”

Oh, he thinks.

Oh.

He supposes that there are a million different ways that he could react to this. He could kiss her. He could lift her up and spin her around, laughing like a madman because of course, of course they would do this in bizarre, roundabout way. He could tell everyone – and he will, he will tell everyone that she loves him, that he is so incredibly lucky that this woman has loved him without question. It’s overwhelming and terrifying and the weight of relief feels next to impossible that he simply does not know what to do.

“You could say,” she says, smiling softly, “I love you too.”

“I could,” he agrees.

He’s breathless, leaning in. His mouth grazes hers. It’s a kiss, but not quite a kiss. The room feels like it’s spinning on its proverbial axis. He wants to devour. He can devour her. Because she’s gone and given this to him. He doesn’t understand why he deserves this.

“I could,” he says again, gently tugging at her braid. He pulls her hair back just keeping her mouth a thread away from his. His teeth skim her lip. “I could,” he tells her, “but it doesn’t feel like telling you that I love you, that it’s gone and hit me and all I can think about is how much time I’ve wasted – ”

She laughs a little, breathless too. “Or,” she says cutting in. “You could just say the words a million times.”

He kisses her then, of course, and he’ll give her what she wants, of course. He kisses her to swallow her, sweeping his tongue along her lip to make sure that he doesn’t leave anything undone. His tongue rolls into her mouth, along her teeth and over her tongue, swallowing any sort of taste he can get. This is messy. He tries not to let his desperation to take over, his fingers fumbling to undo her hair.

“I love you,” he says, as her curls spill everywhere.

It’s the straps of her dress next, her bra, her panties, his fingers working any scraps of fabric that are in his way. He kneels, of course, with reverence before her, his hands running against her legs. Right at the window. His only favorite spot in Grimmauld Place. It’s as if he’s just starting to learn all about her all over again. Except there’s a spot in the back of her knee that makes her sigh, it’s teeth along her thigh that steals a few sighs.

“That’s it, love,” he tells her, just before his fingers start to slide inside of her. She’s balancing on the counter as best as she can, her hands fumbling at the counter as she tries to keep herself up. “That’s my girl,” he says too. His fingers are wet, then soaked as no particular rhythm seems to take over. He’s going to have her come on him, on his face, just to be surrounded by her. “That’s my gorgeous, gorgeous girl.”

“Harry,” she moans.

“I love you,” he says easily, and pulls his fingers from her cunt, his thumb grazing her clit as he goes and pops them into his mouth. “The directions right now are simple,” he tells her. “I’m going to lie on the floor and I want you on my face. I want to swallow every drop of you. Because it’s mine, you know?”

Her pupils are wide and blown out. Her face is flushed and her clothes are somewhere to the side, forgotten again as he lies on the floor stretching himself out. He’s hard, of course. But control, you see, control and her need come first.

“On my face, pretty girl. And I want to hear you. The full sensory experience.” His mouth curls. “I’m a man starved, after all,” he says.

She’s shaky as she lowers herself, her knees coming onto either side. His thumb pushes into the hood of her clit as he uses his other fingers to spread her wide into his view. She’s pink, of course. Flushed. The same delicious blush that sort of fixates itself across her face when he teases her or when he can push her to that point.

He sucks her clit hard. She wails a little. His hands move to her thighs again, messy and slick. His hands hold her to him. She’s delicious, he keeps thinking. She’s his. He’s obsessed. It’s sort of maddening that this has jumpstarted them into something else. He runs his tongue along the seam of her pussy, swirling it lightly. His head continues to spin at her cries and when he flattens her tongue into her cervices, he sweeps it back around and inside of her once more.

“Oh god, Harry,” she begs, babbles really.

His tongue is deep in her. He can feel the juices gather around it, as if he’s bit into one of those candies, the ones that are always ready to burst. She’s sweet and sharp and as her hips start to spasm and rock, he knows that she’s close. He imagines her over him, her hands palming her breasts, her fingers fumbling at those really, really fucking pretty nipples of hers. He’s going to spend every waking moment just letting her know. He’s drunk on the fact that he can make her cum every which way and that she lets him.

Her orgasm hits this way.

His face is covered. His skin tacky as she arches back or forward, he’s not really sure which. It’s just that he’s covered in her and it’s an unbelievable feeling. He thinks she stumbles off of him first, immediately dropping to his side and peppering with him kisses.

“I love you,” he says again, and again, of course, his dick is straining against his jeans. He’s not worried. He’ll be inside of her. He able to feel her stretch around him. Maybe he’ll have her on top again, just see how pretty she is when she comes again, the flush of her skin, how her mouth opens and says his name. Maybe he’ll take her back to her place, stay inside of her until they both feel so full. Anticipation is a funny, wild thing.

“Can I touch you?” she asks breathlessly, and now her lips are wet and tacky with her own release. Her eyes still wide and dark. “Please?” she asks too.

Harry knows he’s done for, of course. Because whether she’s sweet and soft or hard and as sharp as knives, he’s going to give her everything she wants.

“Anything,” he says.

-

Let it be known that what happens next is so not his fault.

No, really. He’s not taking the fall for this one.

In fact, given the day off that he had, given the amounts of filthy things that he and Hermione did, the amounts of times that they probably scarred Kreacher as well, the amounts of times that he told her that he loved her, straight and simple, because of the smile that she could give back to him – something full, something he cannot give up seeing ever again. To be in love, to really be in love, does not change how complex or cruel the world is, but it does make it a little brighter, bearable, and warm. He’s a simple man, of course.

But the day goes south as soon as he sits arm to arm with Ernie Macmillan who, for whatever reasons, has decided that the hill he intends to die on is pissing Harry off to levels that he had no idea that he could reach. He’s spent hours discussing budgets that have nothing to do as to why most to the MLE is sitting in the Minister’s office. In fact, it’s become so asinine that Harry has made it a solo game of watching who in the room dissociates first.

“I think,” Macmillan drawls, suddenly staring right at him. His gaze passes to Kingsley. He even puckers and puffs his chest out like a bird. It’s as if he feels himself losing the room. “We should consider a review of Auror Potter’s body of work. Now, I know we speak –”

“Huh?” Harry doesn’t blurt out his reaction, but it leaves his mouth with a sharp sigh. Everyone turns to him quickly. He blinks, turning his head to Macmillan instead. “Honestly, mate, I think there’s a more appropriate way of having this conversation but beyond that, I’m really lost as to what you’re talking about.”

Macmillan smiles as he’s the shark in the water. “I’m only talking about your department’s funding.”

“And what about it?” Harry frowns. “Nothing you’ve said in this last twenty minutes of what should have only been a bloody hour meeting is relevant to anything my department does, let alone what yours does in kind. It’s not a pissing contest.” There are low chuckles around the room. “I unfortunately have the pleasure of leading teams into place that would honestly make you shit the bed.”

“And you would know how,” Macmillan swarms. His mouth curls into a wider, more patronizing smile as if he has caught, finally, Harry off-guard. “It seems that you’re far too busy with your cock up Hermione Granger’s cu –”

Time does not slow. Harry’s ears are ringing.

His fist connects with Macmillan’s face immediately before Kingsley can intervene. There moments, of course, where Harry knows he grab his wand to act appropriate and defensively. But the bumbling string of words that – and later, he’ll find out just how planned this was – Macmillan puts together is so foul that his fist is the most appropriate way to respond.

Harry breaks Ernie Macmillan’s nose.

It snaps loudly. Macmillan howls and falls. Kingsley looks at him with a mix of sympathy and amusement, only to hide his expression again as everyone but Harry gathers around Macmillan to help him up. The other man cries out, trying to lunge for Harry as Kingsley’s new secretary and one of Harry’s subordinates tries to hold him back. People step between them, as if that’ll do anything.

Blood is also everywhere. It coats Ernie’s face. Harry’s fist. His subordinate is staring at him with awe and pride. Everyone knows the kind of reputation Macmillan has. It doesn’t make it any better. Harry tries incredibly hard to keep himself in check. He treats every situation as a high-risk situation. It’s what makes him the best, of course. It doesn’t make any easier.

But for him, Hermione and by extension, Ron, are off-limits to people like Ernie Macmillan who, for all intents and purposes, like to proselytize his bare contributions to a war that he would have rather taken a sideline if it would have kept him safe. And did.

“She’s a war-hero, you moron.” He’s surprisingly calm. “You should watch how you talk about her. We all made it through because she kept us alive.” His magic flairs angrily. “You should put respect on her name, you understand.”

He steps forward. “Harry,” Kingsley warns. “Step back. Let go.”

Harry ignores the Minister.

“She can fight her own battles, of course,” he tells Macmillan. “In fact, I’m grateful that she wasn’t around to hear the slew of shit that just left your ugly mouth –” His fingers tighten into a fist again. It’s best to do this the old-fashioned way. “Because no one gives a fuck about your budgetary concerns or the fact that you’re intimidated by a woman. That seems personal, mate.”

“Auror Potter,” Kingsley warns again, for the final time. He steps forward too, gently grabbing Harry’s elbow. He looks tired. But he isn’t holding tightly. At all.

Harry smirks nonetheless. “And I would hit you again, just so you know. No regrets.”

It’ll be his first and only write-up. Not enough to warrant a suspension, but enough for Kingsley to put his back and offer a full week off.

The altercation will hit the Morning Prophet anyway.

Chapter Text

A picture is worth a thousand words. Or at least eighty percent of it, given the impressive use of the words oh fuck that she reads on a few people’s mouths in said picture.

“Isn’t that –” Rita Skeeter is wide-eyed over her shoulder.

“Yep,” Padma replies, eyeing Hermione warily. “It’s definitely the Ministry photo-op that I was supposed to cover, budgetary meetings to that –” she jerks a thumb to herself, then to Rita and Hermione, reciting the appropriate tagline, “we the Ministry are committed to the growth of you and I.”

“Was the food good at least,” Hermione says finally, shaking her head. She hands Padma the photo back, shaking her head. “Usually, it’s terrible. The sandwiches are often stale depending on who pisses off which Kitchen Elf.”

“Speaking from experience?” Rita bites. Hermione forgot that she was here, already, lurking to bite one, any of the stories her co-workers bring to Hermione. She poaches plenty of them, of course. It’s not surprising. But her writing is sloppier than ever.

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Anyways,” she turns to Padma. “Go ahead and publish. You can write the accompanying article if you like – check it over with Barnabas, but I’m sure he’ll be delighted that you’ve thrown your hat in the ring. It goes to the Evening edition though.” She checks her watch. “It’s too late to throw it into the morning.”

“Really?” Padma’s eyes are wide. “I just… are you sure?”

“No,” she says warmly. “But that’s life, I suppose. And you’re unbiased. That’s the most important thing of it all.”

Padma stares at her. Then nods. They share a look. Hermione watches her turn on her heel, heading straight to the Editor’s office. She’s going to be brilliant, of course. She’s not worried about the other stuff. People love their gossip. If Rita had her way, she’d be outed as some sort of unicorn hybrid today.

Speaking of which. she turns in her seat to face the older woman. Her face is pink. Hermione remains calm. This has been really good for her, she thinks. It’s tempered a lot of anxieties. She likes that she doesn’t know everything, that unraveling the Prophet is like a giant puzzle. Of course, results don’t happen overnight. There’s a lot be done, a lot of weeding of improper personnel and Ministry ties, for sure. But she likes getting her hands dirty.

“All right, you.” Hermione leans back in her seat. “Let’s hash this out. I’m in a giving mood, I suppose.”

“I should have written that article,” Rita seethes. “Me.”

“You,” Hermione counters, unphased, “need to understand how to use a semi-colon properly. And we’re at the tail end of spring. People start hexing anything that looks like a mosquito. You’re a liability, of course.”

Rita flushes angrily. Her face is pinched red. It bubbles into some sort of squeal-scowl hybrid. She stands her ground too, drawing herself up into her full height – but not by much, of course. As an adult, bullies always seem to be tired and smaller.

“I’m not saying you can’t be angry with me,” she murmurs. “That’s life, you know? You taught that as a girl.” Rita’s wide-eyed and Hermione shrugs. “It’s the truth,” she says too. “But the reality of it, it’s not your assignment. From I’ve been told, you’ve acquired plenty in particular from a lot of the junior staff.”

Rita snorts. “I’m that reporter. I’ve always been that reporter. You can’t come here and change things that have been set in stone.”

“And how’s that going?”

It’s a genuine question. One of the many, viable reasons she used to quit the Ministry was exactly that. There are too many people unwilling to look change in the face. It’s exhausting and disheartening, but it’s the reality that they face even years after the War’s end. The point is always that one cannot change people overnight, but you also cannot avoid change forever. Or history will repeat itself.

“At best,” Hermione says calmly, “your articles are mediocre. We can have a healthy discussion about your pullback then but that’s not applicable to now. You fabricated the majority of your stories; you preyed on people’s vulnerabilities to further your personal agenda and desire to be in the spotlight. I can speak to my personal experiences because they were very real and ultimately, really cruel. I’m not the only one, but I’m certainly the one in front of you, looking you in the eyes because that’s a consequence. And, going forward, should you want to reimagine your reputation, why would anyone want to trust you?” She folds her hands in her lap. “So, if anything, why should allow you to write that article?”

Rita stares at her. Hermione tilts her head to the side.

The fact will always be the same, regardless of who writes the article. Harry hit Ernie Macmillan in the Minister for Magic’s office. The photo that Padma took replied Harry’s fist connecting with Ernie’s face over and over and over again. Sure, there were a few onlookers with horrified expression but they were in the minority – most who attended looked relieved and amused, including Kingsley and his personal staff. People, in the end, always decide with their eyes.

“I want an interview.”

“Okay.”

Rita continues, not hearing her. “I want an interview between the two of you,” she says. “I want open, honest dialogue about who you are and the state of your relationship. I want a proper photograph and I want the first bid to whatever your next steps are.”

Hermione’s mouth twitches. “Okay,” she says easily.

“Wait –”

“Neither of us have anything to hide.” Hermione tucks her hair behind her ear. “About anything really,” she says dryly. “But you have to print as is, use a proper pen and take proper notes because, honestly, you’re a cheat and everyone knows that you’re a cheat.” Rita narrows her eyes, but Hermione laughs a little. “You can’t even pretend,” she says. “But I’ll do your interview, Rita Skeeter. It might even be fun.”

“And the article?” Rita still has the audacity to ask. She supposes she wouldn’t be Rita Skeeter otherwise. It’s an interesting look at a woman who, for what it’s worth, has made it her mission to dismantle and embarrass an entire group of people who did not engage with her. Or just because it sold papers.

Hermione plays the game a bit differently though.

She stands, smoothing her hands over her skirt. Her smile is sharp.

“You haven’t earned it,” she says.

-

The first person that Hermione goes to see is not Harry.

She will. The best thing you can do for someone, of course, who gets into a fistfight in your name is to give them space. She makes sure to pick up the necessities, of course. All the first aid she can think of. She highly doubts that Ernie got any sort of scrape in, but one can never be too prepared given enduring tendencies to bruise. Or cut himself. Or get stabbed when a former Death Eater gets desperate and tries to use a cursed dagger to take him out. There’s a stain on her kitchen table that has sort of become a part of the table’s personality.

The first person that Hermione goes to see is not Kingsley either. Her feelings on the former Auror are complicated, mostly because he never did anything dissuade the accusations that she was going for his job. Or the fact that he is all smiles to one’s face – a part of the job, you see – but ready to do everything in his power to take you out, should the moment call for it. She meant what she said to him once. If she could, she’d burn the Ministry to the ground.

Today, of course, might be that day. Ernie is the person she goes to see.

No one in MLE is surprised to see her. There are whispers. She’s still wearing her fit from her Prophet meetings, a sleeveless sheath dress, black and tight, with a pair of heels that she has to consider whether she wants to step on his throat or not. They’re expensive, you know. She should have taken a bet with Rita Skeeter how quickly the news would hit Kingsley’s desk and subsequently, Harry’s, but she would have to like Rita to offer the bet. Rita would take it. Her survival instincts are certainly better than Ernie Macmillan’s.

Ernie’s office sits against the back. There are two large windows that open his space into a beautiful view of the city and she wonders who he sold his soul to get sad view. She doesn’t know. She allows herself the pause. Why wasn’t she interested in MLE? Oh, she thinks. Right. A break from catching psychopaths. Instead, she’s coming face-to-face with them on the daily instead, doing terrible things in real time. She walks right in with that thought and shuts the door, taking a seat across from him as he continues to touch and slightly healed nose.

The bruising is bad. She heard from Neville, who found it the funniest, that Hannah refused to heal him properly because of his bad attitude, that it was embarrassing when Ernie got this way. When Ernie looks up from his desk, his eyes widen and his hand overs just over his nose anyway, covering it as if to protect himself. There’s blood on his collar still. His normally pressed robes are in disarray, looped over the chair.

“You’ve got something –” She points to her collar, mimicking his shirt. “Right there, is that blood? Blood’s a terrible stain.”

“Granger,” Ernie says. Or hisses. She certainly can’t tell. “Why are you here?”

“Oh. You know.” She crosses her legs. Her dress shifts and rises over her knee. On cue, Ernie’s eyes follow the fabric. “To see the damage in person. Whoever healed you, well, half-assed the job. Your nose is going to look sort of bulbus.”

“Hannah.” His voice is sharp. “She’s dating Longbottom now.”

“Ah yes. We had dinner a few weeks ago. I’ve forgotten how funny she is. We had a lovely time. Harry got to come in and have dessert. We’ve got plans next week – she’s a bit miffed that I decided against going into the healer program.”

“She was my friend first,” Ernie whines, and honestly, it shouldn’t be a surprise. His reply is sort of muffled as it is. It almost makes her laugh.

She considers her options.

“I did come here to call you a prick,” she muses. “Rightfully so, I might add. Given that you decided to bring my cunt into the conversation –” Her voice is all knives now. “Where, of course, the majority of the people at the table were men.” She sighs dramatically. “Then I thought to myself, you know, Hermione, how could you go and ruin Ernie’s life? But that’s neither healthy of me nor progressive. Therapy has done wonders for me.” She taps her mouth thoughtfully. “Anyways, want to know a secret, Ernie?”

He stares at her, wide-eyed. She finds it fascinating that most people assume that Malfoy is the villain in her stories. Sure, of course, there’s an element to that where it doesn’t absolve Malfoy in being terrible or participating in the Dark Lord’s scheme. But Hermione, Malfoy was always Malfoy, and someone like Ernie is inherently worse, all smiles to your face but exceedingly ready to stab you in the back should the moment call for it.

“Well?”

Ernie swallows. “Not really, Hermione.”

“That’s okay,” she says, clapping her hands together. “I was going to tell you anyway. In fact, I thought it might be best to go and say hello to Kingsley. We’re due for our monthly chat and, as you know, so many things in my life have changed.” Her lips curl. “But this isn’t about me or my coffee date with the Minister for Magic, this about you, Ernie, and your inability to read the room. Any room, if we’re honest.”

“I think you should go, Granger.”

Hermione’s smile only widens. She releases her wand at her hip, casting her magic towards the door to shut it. Not lock it, of course. Leaving it open and ready for anyone to walk in is far scarier than locking it.

“I think not,” she says easily. “I could honestly go on about how it really grinds my gears when stupid people do stupid things. I could even take that a step further and tell that I take threats, verbal or otherwise, to the people I love very, very seriously. Now, you might be saying to yourself. Well no, I didn’t threaten Harry Potter. So she hasn’t got me there. I would argue otherwise, considering the last couple of times in my innocent ventures to have lunch with Harry that you’ve been sniffing around his office like a rat. And of course, there are all the silly, little rumors about you running against Kingsley.”

Ernie swallows. Maybe, she thinks, she’s missed out on taking the MLE route. She’s thoroughly entertained, for sure. Ernie has all the signs of nerves though. There is sweat starting to gather around his face. His eyes are dating everywhere. Good.

“See,” Hermione says softly. “I do crazy things when I’m bored. Normal people go on and knit things like sweaters. On a good day, I might decide to be one of those people. Or I go and I buy the Daily Prophet because why not dismantle any sort of inkling of a propaganda-based relationship between the Ministry and where people source their news.”

“Granger, I –” He splutters, leaning into the desk. “Potter hit me.”

“Of course, he did.” Her lips curl. “I have the photo. It’s going to be front page material, you see. I’m just saying, former-classmate-to-former-classmate, that should you continue to pursue said career route, who’s to that I might get bored and decide, well, maybe I should run for Minister for Magic.”

Ernie’s mouth drops. She stands calmly. She even makes the time to smooth out the non-existent wrinkles on her dress. The woman that stands in the room, of course, is Hermione Granger, War Hero. She doesn’t like to come out often. It’s strain, she usually says. In part, it also contributed to her desire to quit the Ministry. But she’s also pretty petty.

She sends her wand to the door again, watching it slowly open and fold itself neatly against the wall. She smiles warmly at Ernie.

“Haven’t talked to Ron in ages,” she says. “But last I heard, it’s getting easier for him to be around canaries as of late. Too bad he doesn’t like you either – Nev says he’s giving great advice these days. A little duck and cover is a great life lesson.”

Ernie chokes.

Hermione makes sure she knocks on his desk before she goes. It’s one of her greatest role, of course. Being one of the boys.

-

Harry greets her at the door with wine.

He knows she knows. She always knows that he knows she knows. In fact, she’s surprised that he didn’t meet her at the Ministry. Then again, they really do feed off each other. At least, she thinks amused, he’s putting the key to good use.

“Up to no good?”

She laughs, outright. Her mouth brushes against his forehead as she cradles his face first. She presses a few kisses to his cheeks, then his nose, her lips curling when it wrinkles.

“A week suspension?”

He sighs, rolling his eyes. “It was worth it, honestly.” He snorts. “Kingsley called it more of a vacation. It’s like the worst kept secret in the MLE – how big of a prick Macmillan is. I only wish that I landed a second hit.” His arm slides around her waist. “But he’s a bloody coward and we were really there to get things done.”

“You know that there’s going to be a story,” she says quietly, studying his face. Beard? Still there. In fact, it might be one of her favorite things about him, she decides. She likes that it’s starting to curl a little in certain areas. Just as wild as his hair. “Padma got the shot. It hits the morning copy tomorrow.” She shakes her head. “She even apologized.”

He snorts. “How’d I look?”

“Honestly? It was a clean hit.”

“You would say that,” he tells her, and she laughs a little. He leans in and steals a kiss, his mouth soft against hers. His body sags a little. He’s tired, she thinks. “It doesn’t bother me,” he says. “I knew Padma was there. Stories have to get published, good or bad. It’s important. And I would hit him again, given the chance.”

“You never know,” she says dryly.

This week, of course, is her place. It makes the most sense for them. He’s said it before. She’s closest to the Ministry. He likes her neighborhood. There is a café they can share Sundays with on slow week. They run together in the park. He likes to make dinner. She makes them breakfast. It’s an odd thing, of course, watching as their lives start to seamlessly settle into place, overlapping in ways that should be scary but aren’t.

Their declarations to each other are clumsy too. They still duck comments about how fast they’re moving, but then again, it’s neither here nor there. Part of surviving, if anything, is learning that timelines are guides not sentences. They both are just deciding to live.

“What did you make?”

His arm slips around her waist. “Pasta,” he says. He smiles as they walk towards the kitchen. “I thought about making my sauce from scratch, but I’m pretty tired and my hand still feels a bit out of sorts. I had forgotten that Macmillan wasn’t the only asshole I punched this week.”

Her eyes narrow. She almost lectures him. Stops herself. Instead, she pushes him to a seat at her kitchen table. She pulls a first aid mess from a pocket she’s fashioned to keep the majority of her things. The Undetectable Extension charm is a marketing dream, if she’s honest. But there are things, silly little things, that she would really keep as quirks.

“Hands,” she orders.

His eyes are bright. He smirks too.

“Manners,” he counters, only because he can. She flushes immediately. He still offers his hands though, turning them over so that she can see the damage done to his knuckles.

They’re bruised, at best. She inspects a few of the scrapes, all superficial. He’s done a solid job of keeping things clean. But now, it makes her want to hit and hex Ernie Macmillan. Instead of thinking about it, she reaches for salve to cover the injuries. She takes care to rub the cream into his skin, her thumb making slow, soft circles along the larger marks.

“I went to see him.”

Harry’s breath catches. “Who?”

“Ernie,” she says easily. She leans in, kissing his knuckles. It takes a minute for her to realize that he’s pulled her in. She steps between his legs. “We had such a lovely chat.”

“Hermione.”

Her lips curl. “I was good.”

“Hermione.”

“Harry,” she mimics.

He searches her gaze. “Do I have to hit him again?”

“Oh no,” she says. Her mouth brushes against his knuckles again. “I was impossibly good, if I do say so myself. Showed real character growth, I imagine.”

“So he didn’t try anything,” he says slowly. His eyes are still narrowed.

“No.”

“Bu you –”

“Told him that if he truly threw his hat in the ring for Minister that I might magically become bored one day and also throw my hat in the ring too. For fun. Because I can. And that if he were truly concerned about me, myself, and my cunt than I’d for sure make myself a problem. A rather large, loud problem for him.” She smirks. “For. Fun.”

When she shrugs, Harry starts to laugh. The sound is warm, full of amusement. His hands shift and move to her hips. He shifts her towards him and she laughs a little, watching as his hands splay over her hips and ass.

“In my honor, huh?”

“Mostly mine,” she teases. She leans in and kisses him lazily. “I even threw in a Ron-bird throwback for posterity. I don’t think Ernie is a fan of birds, you see.” She lets her teeth graze his lip as she feels his hands start to slowly, almost lazily, start to move up and down her hips and legs. “I think that truly was the villain origin story for me in his head and probably,” she says casually, “a few others.”

Harry lets out another loud laugh. “Did he say that?”

“No,” she says. “But the method is still the same – an acknowledgment of the places that my creativity can go as low as he can go. Honestly, lower. If we’re truly talking about Ernie and how low he sets the bar.”

“I told you that you’d make an excellent Minister,” he murmurs.

She shrugs.

It’s not the first time he’s brought it up or anyone has brought it up. She imagines it will continue to be a spot that most people will circle around. Maybe in another lifetime, she usually thinks. Her relationship continues to be complicated with the Wizarding World and, on the other side of it, the Muggle World as well. To step into that role, if anything, would mean to completely accept one side and not the other.

She is not that person. She doesn’t have any desire to be.

Unless, of course, it’s to make Ernie Macmillan miserable. Then it’s a maybe.

“I think newspaper owner seems to suit my tastes better,” she says. She’s a little shy. It’s still something she’s wrapping her head around. It’s a marriage of both her worlds, honestly, the ability to offer information to people in a capacity that allows them to form their opinions. But that part, she keeps close to her chest. Or for therapy.

“Yeah?”

Hermione kisses him lightly. “I can pop in and visit you the same,” she says. “I think that there’s some really purpose in the Prophet as well, a willingness to change and move on. I’m enjoying and I can genuinely say that.” She looks away for a moment. “It’s a weird place to be, I suppose.”

“Well,” he says. “I’m proud of you.”

Hermione can’t hide her surprise.

“I am,” he insists. “You may not feel like you’ve done a lot and, I don’t know, I just feel like I see you and I know you and I’d shove my fist in Macmillan’s face a thousand times more just because.” Hermione laughs, but Harry remains serious. “I’m always in your corner,” he murmurs. “I know that you know that I love you, that we’re working on those pieces together and, well – I’m always in your corner.”

That, there, makes the world stop faster than the simplicity of an I love you. Sure, a love confession holds, tethers itself really, a weight for the world like nothing else. To know that Harry loves her is always going to be that different. But then, here, to hear him say that he is in her corner and always – that takes her out, catches her off-guard, and makes her head begin to spin in wide, dizzying circles.

Maybe it’s because she’s always inclined and inserted herself a role where she is at his side. It’s always been sensible. It’s always been the right thing to do. Not at his side, holding his hand, but rather at his side in whatever capacity. You can know someone loves you enough to not just say the words, but to say them, mean them, and infuses them with the things that she’s always longed to hear. Not I need you, but I’m here too.

“You’re really one-of-kind, Harry Potter,” she says. She’s even breathless. “Truly,” she says too.

Harry laughs and kisses her again.

Chapter Text

“Did she tell you that she bought a newspaper?”

This is how Harry meets Susie, Muggle Therapist Extraordinaire. She’s a mousy woman. The question sort of catches him off-guard even. Next to him, Hermione chokes a little. He can understand why she decided to take her joint therapy session in the middle of a café.

The café is not the problem. In fact, Harry often catches himself looking around. There is a lot light. A variety of people, some working, some catching people they either remember or are around to just receive. He’s had half of Hermione’s chocolate muffin. The music is loud, carrying over conversations, but just enough that it can be set aside for some sort of ambience. When Hermione asked him if he wanted to come, he wasn’t sure what to expect.

“I thought we weren’t going to rat me out, Susie.” Hermione is nothing short of amused. “Aren’t you supposed to protect the integrity of what I tell you? Unless, of course, I’m some sort of axe murder or what have you.”

Harry snorts. “It’s too messy for you.”

“What? Axe murdering?” Hermione laughs a little. “I suppose so. But beggars can’t be choosers in the moment. I’m more of a whatever-is-available type of girl.”

“Resourceful,” Harry supplies, and Susie looks at the two of them as if they’re mad.

The truth of the matter is that he had no idea what to expect. Like everything else in their lives, Hermione just asks when she needs something. She doesn’t wait. She doesn’t plan. It’s always been she asks and should you say no, then she goes into her alternative supplies. But asking him to come to her therapy appointment is an offer of intimacy that he understands, a level of trust that he takes and cradles, knowing full well how important it must be for her to offer.

She’s all barbs, of course. It isn’t surprise. What’s surprising, however, are the layers underneath her voice, the way that she wears the barbs and where they don’t wear her. He has yet to understand why she’s here, here and with a Muggle therapist when, logically, wouldn’t the right thing to do would be to seek someone who had intention and knowledge of all the things that they have survived.

“Resourceful,” Hermione repeats. “That’s pretty apropos.”

“But the newspaper,” Susie cuts in.

“She told me. It’s the London Times. It’s a local print. She’s done a lot of good work.” He reaches for Hermione’s hand, squeezing her fingers. “It’s less gossip rag more – I don’t know. It feels like a complete package.”

“What was the paper again?” The therapist wears a slight frown. Hermione remains unbothered, squeezing Harry’s fingers back for the reassurance. “I keep meaning to ask,” Susie relays, “but what’s the name?”

They’re going to have to obliviate her, Harry thinks. Hermione shakes her head. He couldn’t do this, he thinks, try to write around things that were true and unable to communicate. Susie, for her part, seems to remain wary and reasonable.

“I thought we were going to talk about my doing something brave today,” Hermione says dryly, evading the question. She truly missed her calling as a politician. “You know. Bringing my significant other to therapy.”

“Significant other?” He quips.

“Boyfriend?” Hermione questions back. She wrinkles her nose. “We should workshop this.”

“I like boyfriend,” he says easily. “Life partner sounds too clinical.”

“Maybe it’s me?” Hermione taps her lip. “Boyfriend,” she says again, her tongue rolling against the ‘r’ sound. His eyes darken a little and licks his lips. “Boyfriend,” she says once more. “Okay, I suppose it might do.”

“Life partner is too clinical,” he tells her too. Her eyes widen a little and he leans into her space, forgetting about Susie for the moment. “When it’s time, I’d definitely prefer husband.”

“Husband,” she says breathlessly.

Harry chuckles.

The facts are simple. Every acknowledgment of their status feels as if he’s in some sort of dream, the kind that you really don’t think is accessible to you in any sort of way. Of course, he’s dated. There’s no shame in that. He was even engaged to Ginny at one point. But for him, Hermione feels so matter-of-fact, as if the acknowledgment of them being together is the most sensible thing in the world and finally, god fucking finally, they’re on the same page.

Harry brings their linked hands to his mouth, kissing her knuckles.

“I wasn’t aware that this was serious,” Susie murmurs, her eyes wide. Her cheeks are flushed too. Harry isn’t sure as to why.

“Oh,” Hermione laughs. “It’s serious. We’re just kind of enjoying it.” She looks to Harry. “Right? I feel like most people expect some sort of progress report.”

He snorts. “Yeah.” She’s not wrong, he thinks. People are usually salivating on whatever direction he decides to go. He’s mostly uncomfortable sharing things, given the nature of his job and reputation. It feels like he’s always facing learning life the hard way. At some point though, this thing between himself and Hermione decided to stop waiting for them. “I think the difference with us though,” he says, “is that a lot of the foundational stuff has always been there, weaving through our lives.”

“Foundational stuff?” Susie leans onto her knees. She studies Hermione.

“Trust,” Hermione answers. “Compassion. Empathy. Intimacy. You don’t need to have sex with someone to be intimate.” She shrugs. “Harry’s always been different for me, I suppose – we grew up together, went through some things together, and it’s kind of a funny story really, how we always end up moving against the grain.” She runs a hand through her hair. “I think that’s why people always assumed when we were younger – I think we just understood each other in a way that wasn’t for everyone.”

He laughs. “It gets us into trouble too,” he says.

“That people know,” Hermione says with a laugh. “We’ve never actually gotten caught.”

Harry smirks. “Unless, that’s something you want to explore.”

“Harry.” Hermione blush is so pretty – he can’t help himself. It’s fascinating, honestly, how sex has sort of been this catalyst to opening them up to each other. It’s certain heightened their perceived intimacy. He leans over to kiss, ignoring Susie’s wide eyes. “As long as it’s not some sort of club,” Hermione mutters. “Those walls are disgusting.”

“I don’t like to share,” Harry replies. “It wouldn’t work anyway.”

Susie the Muggle Therapist shakes her head, wide-eyed even. “It’s as if you two speak in some sort of code,” she manages. “It’s fascinating to see. I just –” She pauses, gathering herself. Harry recognizes all the signs of someone steeling themselves for some pushback. His eyes move to Hermione too and her expression hasn’t changed either, amused and sort of patient. “How does this have anything to do with you being brave, Hermione? I can put a million different answers together for that question, but I wonder where this is coming from.”

Harry decides then and there that, well, Susie’s okay. There’s no threat. Hermione seems mostly unphased by the questions. Part of it, is that he was unsure as to what he walking into. This is a piece of Hermione that she keeps close to her chest and rightfully so – there is something to be said about chasing these options as an adult, whether you’re ready or not.

“Hermione?”

Susie is pointed. The smile, then, that blooms over Hermione’s face is one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen. There’s no hesitation.

“Oh,” Hermione says. “Easy. The bravest thing I’ve ever done is let myself love him.”

-

As they near the end of the interview, Rita Skeeter stares at them.

Harry thinks this is the first time he’s been in her presence in years, although the verdict is out on that given her practice of journalistic integrity. She’s much smaller than he remembers. Her eyes are beadier. Or he’s projecting.

The interview as vapid as he expected. Hermione had only hinted at it being a filler piece, nothing extraordinary. All the questions were flat. An early peek at Rita’s notes allowed him to catch things like edit, boring and no one will read this part – how can I make this interesting? as if she were testing him. But the Prophet reporter seemed unaware that he was watching, mostly fixated on Hermione’s expression. It’s a fascinating thing to watch unfold, just how Hermione stands in certain people’s eyes. Rita is representative of a lot of others, but is much more forthcoming.

What it makes him realize, of course, is that the Ministry is too small for someone like Hermione. She might not even realize it. But Rita Skeeter does.

“So,” Rita says awkwardly. “You’ll be back to work.” She looks pointedly at Harry, as if reciting off of a script. Her eyes dart back to Hermione every once in awhile too. “How does that feel?”

“In a few days and fine, of course. What’s done is done,” he answers. His head tilts to the side. “Still holding out for a second fight?”

“She,” Rita mutters, “gave me a timeline.”

Hermione remains serene.

“A timeline?” Harry asks, and Rita shifts uncomfortably. Hermione had warned him that she had no idea who was going to come to the interview, what version of Rita they were going to receive. He’s still not quite sure what kind of exercise this is.

“I had to come prepared,” Rita spits. “I couldn’t come to the table and do this as organically –”

“You fabricate,” Hermione interjects calmly.

“Organically,” Rita still says, “as I normally do.” The mess of quills by her side are limp and used. She’s only touched a few.

The changes that have manifested underneath Hermione’s helm are fascinating to watch play out in real time. There’s a variety of opinions, some of the old guard writers favoring a Ministry-colored perspective. I’m never going to change them, Hermione told him. I’m not going to try either. But it balances the writing of others, of Padma Patil that has sort of emerged as one of her new voices. Pansy Parkinson, oddly enough, writes a fairly nuanced fashion column too. He’s seen Justin Finch-Fletchley’s name attached to a couple of articles. He supposes that Rita Skeeter fits somewhere in between.

“I told her that she could ask whatever she wanted,” Hermione says lightly. Rita sighs dramatically. Hermione rolls her eyes. “Imagine my disappointment that our time together was full of softball questions.”

“Well, I never –”

“No one cares how I take my pizza,” Harry says dryly.

“I do,” Hermione remarks. “The stuffed crust is a weird quirk that I’m still recovering from.”

Harry barks a laugh. “That’s the hill you’ll die on?”

“Infinitely,” she grins. “You can’t be perfect all the time.”

Rita’s face is a bright red. In fact, he thinks, younger Harry might have found this both bewildering and hilarious. She tormented people as a sport. That fact remains unchanged. But sitting here, watching her, waiting for these questions that are inherently boring – it’s almost disappointing.

“It’s curious,” Hermione says. Her voice remains even. He studies her. By now, more of her ticks and habits are surfacing. There are pieces of her that he can read easily, but there are other parts, the parts that feel like a challenge – which, of course, he enjoys. Everything is new to him. “That,” Hermione’s voice cuts through his thoughts again, “you have an opportunity and you haven’t decided to take advantage of it.” She points to the stack of acid green quills by Rita’s side finally. “It’s as if you don’t know who you are without the oddly constructed persona you wear.”

“I’ll have you know,” Rita splutters, “that I reported during the trials after the First War. I was awarded for my participation. People found me trustworthy on that alone.”

“I know,” Harry says. “I read the transcripts. They were quite good.”

Hermione nods. “They were. You were incredibly engaging then. Granted, it’s hard not to be swept away the environment. But no one can argue that you didn’t write well.” The sharpness in Hermione’s gaze is familiar. Harry holds in a laugh. It’s crazy, he thinks, to be a spectator when she gets this way. The difference is that he’s an adult and he has a very specific appreciation for her ruthlessness. “So,” Hermione finishes, “what happened?”

It's not a startling takedown. They’re in a room, just outside the Daily Prophet’s pit area. There are a swarm of reporters, ready and willing and hungry to take them down. He’s no fool. Hermione certainly isn’t either.

“What happened,” Rita repeats. She looks first to Harry, startled, then back at Hermione. “I don’t understand the question. What happened? What do you mean? Is this a trick?”

“What happened,” Hermione states again. “I mean, I suppose we could get into the nitty-gritty of it, about you decided you were on a mission to take on a bunch of teenagers during their formative years and throw some really painful, terrible things at them for personal gain. Because it sort of makes you irredeemable.”

Yikes, Harry thinks. Yikes. “I thought we were keeping this light?”

“I’m keeping it light,” Hermione says.

“My career, girl,” Rita snarls. “Is older than you?”

“Ah yes,” Hermione says dryly, “And so is your status as animagus – oh wait, oh no. I never did see that paperwork when I was in the DoMC.” She shakes her head. “It’s probably why I had to get glasses, you know. Always missing something.”

Harry laughs. Genuinely.

Hermione turns a smile in his direction. She softens a little. She reaches for his hand too, linking their fingers together. There’s something to be said about that too. They have always been physical with each other and now, together, it’s evolved into something different. He’s sure if it’s just the fact that their relationship has evolved. But he also feels himself changing too. Work is always going to be heavy. The rush, necessary. The last couple days, it’s just been different and knowing, actually knowing how she feels, has really transformed the way he starts taking on the world when he needs to.

“Do you want an apology?”

Rita’s face finally transforms into something serious, something uneasy and honest. At least, he thinks it feels honest. Or defeated. She could be defeated.

“Can you apologize,” he hears himself saying. “Because from what I’m hearing,” he tells the older woman, “is that you’re backed into a some sort of wall and you’re using it as a last resort because you see no way out.”

“It’s her fault,” she spits, jerking a hand towards Hermione. “She’s the one that came into this, after having no business, and is changing things.” Her eyes are wild. “You, girl, have no idea what it’s like to be out there this way.”

“Do I?” Hermione tilts her head to the side. “As far as I’m concerned, it feels more like me opening doors and just seeing what’s on the other side. You were just using what was available to you to feed your ego, all the while overshadowing people that a genuine interest in participating and putting real stories out there. I just happened to walk into you making a list of demands over an article that you had no business writing because you have become so attention starved.”

“I am not attention-starved. I played a part. The two of you should turn a mirror to yourselves. What have you done? I became a reporter to report the facts, the facts that you children have no idea exist because you are both selfish and dangerous and –”

Hermione’s hand grabs his arm. He’s halfway out of his chair.

His temper? Might not have changed.

“You should be careful,” he says quietly, “about the next words that come out of your mouth. Really, really careful. Because we talk about your journalistic integrity. And the part that you supposedly played in the War.” He keeps his arm in Hermione’s hand, his wand still within reach. “And this is something you can print about me, Ms. Skeeter – that I no longer have the patience for this kind of bullshit, for people inventing roles for themselves to make sure that their self-importance out shines the people that did the real work.”

In a perfect world, this conversation wouldn’t be happening. Rita Skeeter would continue on as she was. In a perfect world, everything would have been wrapped up neatly in a bow. Perhaps, he and Hermione would always end up here. Life is strange in every sense of the way. But what makes him angry, angry in a definite, sharp and faceted way, is staring down at someone who just doesn’t want to get it.

He has spent far too much time getting them, after all. Making space, when they don’t deserve space. In that brief, impossible moment, he remembers Sirius and even Severus, the shadows under their eyes as they faded into the background out of need and survival, unapologetic for their roles, but they still did the work. They still deserve to have their stories told. A Rita Skeeter doesn’t want to step into that role.

“You see,” Hermione pipes in, “we don’t have to like each other.” She remains at his side. She stands, but doesn’t touch him. She is close enough as a reassurance. “For you,” she says pointedly, “to do your job.”

Rita balks. Her eyes are wide and her gaze belongs to Hermione too. “This was a test,” she says.

“This was a test,” Hermione agrees. “And you failed splendidly.”

Harry exhales, shaking his head. He doesn’t understand why she gave Rita the space. Then again, Hermione already operates in chess moves. He supposes that’s why she and Ron clashed more than anything. They were never partners. He’s just always seen Hermione in that way.

Hermione’s fingers graze the back of his wrist. He breathes again.

“I’m not going to fire you,” Hermione says. “I could. It’s been offered to me so many different ways. In fact, I’d even venture to say that you’ve expected it of me ever since you got here.”

“So you gave me a fluff piece,” Rita murmurs.

It sort of dawns on Harry then. When she had said that she agreed to an interview with Rita Skeeter, he just assumed it was another maddening plan. Given that he had the time, under the guise of a suspension, he could do an interview for his required quota. He allots himself two or three a year, if only because it’s habitual.

But this wasn’t about him or her, about their relationship to which he’s sure, if Rita goes ahead with the article, it’ll be tagged by phrases like “we, the public, of course always knew!” and of course, a personal favorite, “perhaps, Miss Granger was always waiting in the wings!” as if Hermione were some sort of dark, nefarious figure. Now though, he’s not sure. Now, he sees Rita Skeeter in the same as Hermione has always seemed to see her – unhappy.

“I wouldn’t call it a fluff piece,” Harry murmurs, calming. He slides an arm around Hermione’s waist. He kisses the side of her head. “I think it’s just us being entirely too honest about each other. There’s no prolific love story, no timeline, no charted course. Just two people who were happy to love each other in whatever way they could. That might not be news to you. But that’s just fine for me.”

Rita drops to the chair. The quills by her side scatter. Neither of them moves to help. The gesture seems symbolic enough. At some point, Hermione’s hand slips it in. He brings it to his mouth and kisses the inside of her wrist.

“Oh,” he says too, taking a step back. “And I should be in the office on Monday – any sort of advance copies can go there. I like to keep work at work.”

He finally pulls Hermione by the hand to the door. They’re overdue for lunch.

-

A week later, unedited, the Prophet article sits on Hermione’s kitchen counter.

“We’re private,” Harry reads. “There are so very few things in our lives that we can keep to ourselves, given the nature of my job and subsequently hers, that whether we got together yesterday or weeks ago – we’d like to keep it to ourselves, Mr. Potter is quoted as saying. I suppose, dear readers, we can then understand the punch that was heard around the world.” He puts the article down, staring at Hermione, wide-eyed. “The punch that was heard around the world? Hermione.”

She laughs. “I thought it was catchy. She’s been workshopping it behind my back.”

Harry tosses the article across the counter. “This doesn’t bother you?”

“Nope,” she says cheerfully, moving to him. She wraps her arms around his neck. He still hasn’t seen the inside of Grimmauld Place in weeks. It’s just been habit to come to Hermione’s place, given that she’s hand over a key to him. He’s always had floo access, but there are some habits that are so hard to break too. “But,” Hermione says dryly, “it might bother Ernie.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Hermione.”

“What?” She’s wearing the prettiest smile, he thinks. The one that softens the edges of her mouth, the one where she looks at him and he knows she’s seeing him. This is his favorite version of Hermione, he thinks. She looks at him and he feels like that he hasn’t aged a thousand years, that life is starting to make room for him too. “I don’t need to hex him to cut off his balls, you know.”

Harry snorts.

“Susie,” she says, “as Susie does is trying to get me to do brave things again.”

“Uh-oh. Another newspaper?”

Hermione laughs. Her hand pats the back pocket of his jeans where he keeps the house key and his wallet. “No,” she says. “Not exactly.” She steals a kiss. Then, casually, smiling against his mouth say, “Want to move in with me?”
She says it so casually, as if it were the most natural thing in world. And maybe it is. Her eyes are bright too. He freezes. He doesn’t know what to do.

“Don’t you think we should talk about it?”

No, he answers himself. Not really. A laugh bubbles out of his mouth. She really just asked him this, he thinks too.

“Not really,” she laughs. She winks too. “It’s kind of our thing.”

“What about Kreacher?” His face is a little warm. Yes, of course, he thinks. I want to, he thinks too. “He already hates me,” he bumbles through.

“He can come, I suppose.” She laughs a little. “I doubt he’ll want to. I might drive him crazy. Can’t decide if he hates me or the sun more. Maybe a Hogwarts’ stipend might turn him around. I think he hates children more.”

“All right.” He laughs too. His heart is racing. He kind of fumbles through. Yes, of course. He wants to spend the rest of his nights with her without having to worry. On a bad day, to come here and know it's home - god, he thinks. Of course. His grin widens a little more. “Sure, you have better light anyway.”

Her eyes widen. “Really?” Her face lights up. "Really-really?"

“Yeah.” He kisses her softly, sweeping his hand into her hair. “Really,” he tells her too. He growls a little because her mouth is sweet, a little fruity, and he remembers the tart they shared at lunch. It means more lunches, of course. More dinners in bed. More days waking up together. “Your kitchen counter is better anyway,” he says.

He sweeps her into his arms, dragging her to sit over the countertop. She’s laughing, out right, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed. He’ll remember later that she’s wearing his shirt and stupid, inane things like the nameless necklace around her neck is something that he gave her years ago, on a whim and she’s kept it all along. Her hair is a little messy. Her feet are bare. There are dishes in the sink and a window is open, filling the kitchen with songs of the city, the birds, and a passing conversation. It might be one of his favorite ways to see her. His, just his, alive and honest and real. It doesn’t matter how they got here. This is the learning curve – what makes sense for them and how it comes first.