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Harry set the cardboard cup from the Muggle shop on Hermione’s desk, at a careful distance from the papers, books, and laptop computer. “Here’s your coffee. White, no sugar.”
Most days she’d be too sunk into her work for more than a muttered half-conscious “Thanks”—it might take the rest of her mind as much as fifteen minutes to notice there was coffee, after which she’d slurp it down like Ron with a Butterbeer on a hot summer day—but this time she paused, sipped, and smiled. “It’s perfect, Harry. Thank you.”
He stopped in his tracks for an instant, first surprised at the break from her usual pattern, and then at the way her face lit up in a beam of sunlight from the window. “You’re welcome.”
She smirked at him. “Good boy.”
“Oh. Err, thanks.”
They’d resolved to eat dinner together whenever possible, as if they were a family. Because we’re the best of friends, and that is like family, isn’t it? More like family than anything else I’ve ever had, anyhow. For a moment images flooded his mind… not from his childhood at Number Four Privet Drive, thank God and Merlin, but wistful memories of the Burrow.
Molly Weasley had made a point of reminding both of them that they were always welcome in her home, and never mind the slow-motion disaster that had been Hermione’s relationship with Ron and their thermonuclear detonation of a breakup. Still, they’d not visited in a long time, since well before Hermione’s research had brought her here to National University of Ireland, Galway.
It had made sense for Harry to come along, just as a friend. Even before she brought it up, he’d realised he was in desperate need of something to do with himself that wasn’t rattling around Grimmauld Place with only Kreacher for company. Thank Merlin things worked out like this. I was getting to the point that I briefly contemplated taking Penny Clearwater up on that offer to become chief of security for her safari business, even though I knew full well it was scarcely two steps shy of going for a mercenary.
He’d taken long-term leave from the Auror Department a few months earlier, not long after his last major investigation and the resulting trial that sent Draco Malfoy to Azkaban for life. In the end, it hadn’t been Pureblood supremacist activity, but human trafficking. Finding his family vaults depleted by fines, to say nothing of how his mother had reclaimed every Knut of her dowry, with interest, after her divorce from his imprisoned father, Malfoy had got together with a couple of former Snatchers—it seemed even Gregory Goyle had limits—and gone into business selling kidnapped Muggle boys and girls, some not even pubescent, out the back of an anonymous run-down warehouse in Knockturn Alley.
Even with a successful conclusion, the case had worn him to the bone, and Kingsley Shacklebolt had gently suggested he should step away from the job and allow himself time to decompress. I never told him how close I came to putting a Blasting Curse through Malfoy before he could surrender and claiming self-defence, but I think he already knew.
To be honest, I only joined the Department because fighting was the only life I’d ever known that wasn’t being the Dursleys’ general dogsbody and occasional punchbag. But an Auror’s job is keeping the peace, not hunting and killing dark wizards, and I’m too quick on the draw even to make a good Hit Wizard, at least in peacetime.
They’d elected to rent a small house in the Muggle city rather than finding a place in Trá an tSalainn, the local Magical quarter. To Wizarding Ireland, Galway was a backwater—instead of the hidden neighbourhoods and scattered houses and farmsteads of their English counterparts, most of the population lived in Unplottable territories like the Corca Dhorcha peninsula, the islands of Uí Bhreasail and An Rocal, or the cities of Teamhair na Ríthe and Eamhain Mhacha—and the community concealed between a chipper and an Indian takeaway in Salt Hill was more village than town.
A Language Lozenge apiece had them well able to communicate—Hermione needed fluency in Irish for her research in any case—and the local wizards and witches were more than welcoming, but they’d both agreed there would be something exhausting about living in a place where everyone knew everyone else’s business, no matter how friendly they might be about it. We had our fill of that at Hogwarts, didn’t we?
As far as the Muggle world was concerned, Harry was taking a break to do an arts degree after skipping university to work in an unspecified but presumably lucrative technological field, and Hermione was a post-doctorate researcher in folklore and history with a grant to write a book. They didn’t go out of their way to explain their relationship, but when asked would say they were close friends who’d gone to school together, and since they’d wound up in the same city there was no good reason for them not to share a place.
Hermione had come home hours early from her sole date with a fellow postdoc, saying only that she’d not needed magic to put him in his place. As for Harry, he’d gone out for a drink with a German woman who was on his course, only for her to tell him she’d spotted his scars—the one on his forehead had faded into near invisibility, but he’d acquired a fair few others over the years, and never saw the point in trying to hide them—and figured out his secret past as an international soldier of fortune. What was worse, she seemed terribly excited at the thought of sleeping with a professional killer. Not to mention how she asked if Hermione and I were siblings, because she’d always wanted to try a threesome with a brother and sister.
That wretched thirty or forty minutes had brought home to him that what he already had with Hermione was better than anything he could hope for with some new girlfriend, magical or Muggle. The two of them, together, no pressure, just living. Reading quietly on the couch in the evenings, working at their respective scholarly endeavours during the day, chatting over breakfast and dinner.
No racist bigots out for blood, no schoolteachers trying to kill them, no saving the world. No Ron getting them into fights. It was the most idyllic existence he could ever have imagined. If Hermione wanted to, I could spend the rest of my life just like this.
And really, it’s just as well we’re simply the best of friends. I’m not even sure I remember how to kiss, much less how to make love.
A year or so after their reunion on the night after the Battle of Hogwarts, he and Ginny had peacefully and mutually agreed that although they had fun together and the physical aspect of their relationship was enjoyable, they were better off as friends. He’d had a pleasant little fling with Parvati Patil during his first leave after Auror training, and later a quietly sweet one-week affair with Susan Bones at a resort in Croatia, on the excuse that Hermione and Ron had invited him on holiday, Neville and Hannah had invited her, and neither of them wanted to be a third wheel.
But after that, once his best friends moved in together and got busy with their careers, he threw himself into his work. Sure, he’d had a couple of one-night stands, and a deeply dysfunctional two-month relationship with a witch who worked in the Department of Magical Cooperation, but sometime in his second or third year of leading an Auror team he’d told himself he was too busy to bother.
To tell the truth, he’d become caught up in the thrill of the hunt and the song that adrenaline sang in his veins when he took sword and wand in hand and made the bastards pay, not only for their latest wrongdoings, but for all they’d done in Voldemort’s service, the crimes swept under the rug in the general amnesty the Wizengamot had insisted on passing once Umbridge and the Dark Lord’s chief lieutenants were dealt with. Draco Malfoy might have dropped his wand and lived to see trial, but every so often a former Death Eater or Snatcher had tried to fight it out and gave him the excuse he’d been hoping for ever since he was a little boy sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs and getting battered by Dudley and his friends.
“Pass the potatoes, please?”
He looked up, realising he’d been wool-gathering. “Oh. Here you are.”
“Good boy, Harry.” Her eyes were sparkling, her lips quirked in a funny way that made his stomach do a little flip-flop, but obviously it was only because she was his dearest friend and it made him happy that she felt comfortable enough to be a bit silly. She was always so serious when we were kids, as if she was afraid to allow herself to be playful, even with her best friends.
That was when it hit him that he should play along. So, at breakfast the next morning, when she handed him a cup of tea with precisely his ideal amount of milk, directly after he’d put their breakfast on the table, he caught her eye and said “Good girl.”
She went still, and for a moment he thought he’d made a mistake, but then she smiled and it was as if the sun had come out from a shroud of dark clouds.
Merlin, she’s almost glowing. I’ll definitely have to do that again.
Over the next week or so he found a few more opportunities, and was rewarded every time with the same bright smile, sometimes accompanied by a funny little shiver.
One quiet afternoon he was sat at his desk when she came in. “So, I’ve finally escaped from the library,” she said, stepping into the living room where they’d set up their desks so they could sit back to back. “Reading anything interesting?”
Harry groaned. “Bloody Foucault. I swear I should just take a lozenge for French and see if he makes any more sense in the original.”
Hermione made a face. “Not in the slightest, I’m afraid.”
“I think that might be a bit of a relief, actually. But anyhow, how are you?”
“Other than my eyes being about to fall out from reading manuscripts in tiny handwriting? Just fine, thanks. And here, I brought in the post. Two takeaway menus, a notice from the council with regards to parking—good job neither of us has a car—and a postcard from Luna and Ginny.”
“Oh? Surprised they didn’t owl it.”
“Apparently Arthur has been on them to try the Muggle post for ages, and we’re their experimental subjects. Here, have a look.” She handed him a four by six inch card with the words “Greetings from Kefalonia!” printed above a photograph of Harry’s friendly former girlfriend and her partner on the beach, with only strategically-placed locks of their loose red and blonde hair to conceal their charms. Luna waved and blew a kiss, whilst Ginny blushed and hid behind her.
“Merlin, how did that make it through the post? I know Muggles wouldn’t see them moving, but still, I’d have thought some lad would nick it for a pin-up if some old biddy didn’t bin it first.”
“According to Luna, it’s charmed so only the two of us can see them at all. To everybody else, it’s a picture of Mount Fuji, and don’t ask me why she chose a place six thousand miles away from where they’re holidaying. Ginny says she intercepted the card on the way to the postbox and fixed it so their hair would stay in place enough to cover their, ah, naughty bits.”
Harry chuckled. “Well, I hope they’re having a good time.”
Hermione giggled and ruffled his hair. “Hmm, are you disappointed that Ginny censored it?”
“Honestly? No. I mean, they’re both very pretty, but I’ve, ah, seen Ginny, and in any case that ship sailed a long time ago. As for Luna, she’s a good friend, and I’m glad they’re happy together.”
“Mm, yes.” For a moment he thought he heard a trace of a sigh.
“So, are you disappointed?” He waggled his eyebrows.
She blushed and pretended to punch him in the shoulder. “No, silly! Although they are both very nice to look at, from an aesthetic perspective.”
“Yeah. And, ah—” he cut himself off before he said anything foolish, like “so are you.”
She shook herself. “Goodness, I nearly forgot! I stopped on my way home and got us coffee and éclairs.”
“Thanks, Hermione, you’re the best.” Harry laid The Archaeology of Knowledge down on his desk. “And here, how about we sit down properly, on the sofa?”
“Sounds lovely. I left everything in the kitchen, so if you’ll just give me a moment…”
Harry stood. “Why don’t I get it? I’m sure you’d like to get off your feet.”
“Oh, it’s fine, Harry. You’re always bringing me coffee, so it seems the least I can do. Sit down, relax, let yourself forget about discursive formations, the enunciative function, and all the rest of that tommy rot.”
“Well, if you’re sure.”
She patted him on the shoulder. Moments later, she was back with two paper cups and a pair of éclairs. “How’s this?”
“Perfect! Thanks a million.” He sipped his coffee—dark roast with sugar and just a drop of milk—and nibbled his éclair. She sat beside him, glowing in the light of the afternoon sun streaming through the window. If I were a painter, I’d ask to do a portrait of her, just like this.
For a moment he imagined her posing for him, making her jeans and jumper and plain white blouse look more elegant than the finest gown anyone ever saw, even the one that had taken his breath away back in their Fourth Year. She'd perch on a stool, one heel resting on a rung and her other leg dangling comfortably. He’d dash off a few quick sketches, just getting a feel for the pose, until she told him, laughing, that if she was going to sit any longer she wanted to get comfortable. And then she’d pull off her jumper, unbutton her blouse, neatly drape it over the nearest convenient chair, do the same with her jeans, and her bra, and her knickers. When she was completely nude, wearing nothing but the tie holding back her glorious cascade of chestnut curls and the medal of Saint Brigid that Harry—with advice from Ginny and Luna—had given her one Christmas, she’d give him that adorable little smirk of hers and sit down again…
No, Harry. That’s not how you think about Hermione. She’s your best friend, and considering your record for romantic success, or lack thereof—considering hers as well, for Merlin’s sake—you’ve no business even fantasising about it.
He shifted about, trying not to wonder what she really looked like without her clothes. But he couldn’t resist another glance at her… and her eyes caught his. Was she squirming in her seat?
Probably not, or at least not for the same reason, but in any case they shared a funny little awkward smile.
“So,” she said, “other than Monsieur Foucault and the hermaneutics of incomprehensibility, what are else you up to on your course right now?”
He told her about the debate over Bronze Age halberds, whether they were symbols of power or lethal weapons, and the phases of construction at Carrowmore megalithic cemetery. She told him about the complex interactions between wizards and Muggles at every level of society throughout Early Modern Europe—a subject both their Hogwarts textbooks and Professor Binns’ lectures had completely ignored, due to a nineteenth century Pureblood Whig perspective that regarded the Statute of Secrecy as an inevitable consequence of Wizarding progress and development—and the persistence of small-scale magic—simple potions and minor spells even a Muggle could cast, given sufficient focus and the proper setting—in recent mundane folklore.
It was the best antidote for hours of struggle with Michel Foucault’s obscurantist prose that he could have asked for, and he hoped it was an antidote for the stresses of Hermione’s own day as well.
“Goodness, Harry,” she said at last, “it’s nearly five o’clock. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time. Here, I’ll deal with the empty cups, and you can get back to your reading.”
“Oh, it’s just fine, Hermione. Thank you.”
“Still…”
He patted her on the shoulder. “You gave me exactly what I needed this afternoon. Good girl.”
She smiled, just as she had before. A heartbeat later her entire body went tense, her thighs squeezed together, her back arched. Their eyes locked, and he didn't know if she was about to kiss him or if he was about to kiss her… until she turned red and stared at the carpet. “Oh. Err, thanks. Sorry, Harry, I think I need a… nevermind.” She all but ran up the stairs to the bathroom, and he heard her turn on the shower.
Harry got up and binned the empty cups and the folded paper bag they’d used for a plate. He stood in the kitchen, gazing out the window at the slightly overgrown back garden… and then he picked up a piece of paper and a pen.
H-
Off to the shops.
Back soon, with dinner.
-H
He stepped outside, locked the door, ducked behind the house, and Apparated. Within minutes, he was in the Corrib Shopping Centre, browsing the aisles of Marks and Spencer.
Hmm… caviar? No, there’s no need to be ridiculous. It’s not as if you committed some sort of relationship crime… that is, it’s not as if you’re in a relationship in the first place. Just something nice, something simple but special, with ingredients you know she likes… and there we are.
He selected venison medallions, a jar of lingonberries, fresh gnocchi, cremini mushrooms, Cashel Blue cheese, Anjou pears, arugula, and a little chocolate gâteau, just big enough for two. A stop in the off-licence yielded a bottle of Australian shiraz.
When he got back, Hermione was still in the bath. He suppressed a sigh of relief that she’d not left the house, put on an apron, rolled up his sleeves, and started laying out his ingredients.
Eventually, he heard the bathroom door open and her slipping into her room. Not long after, she came in the kitchen, wearing faded comfortable jeans and a Weird Sisters t-shirt she’d had since their so-called Eighth Year at school.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” he said.
“Oh. Thank you, Harry, it smells wonderful. Can I, err, help?”
He shook his head. “Please, sit down and make yourself comfortable.”
She smiled at him, and it was all he could do not to tell her she was a good girl.
A few minutes later, he set down two plates. “Seared venison medallions in a lingonberry sauce with mushroom gnocchi, and a warm pear salad with Cashel Blue and toasted walnuts.”
“My goodness, Harry, this is incredible. I, I just…”
“Oh, Merlin! I’m sorry if you’re, ah, feeling sick or something.”
“No, not at all! It’s just… what brought this on?”
He wasn’t sure what to say. I was afraid you were angry and wanted a peace offering? I thought I should apologise for embarrassing you with the joke you started? I finally realised you’re not just the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in the abstract, but that I… Don’t even think about that, Harry. “I, well, I… that is, I was, err… concerned.”
She blushed. “Oh. About this afternoon? I’m sorry, I was only being, ah, silly. Nothing to worry about. Not your fault. Sorry.”
“No need for apologies! I’m only sorry if I, ah, made you uncomfortable.”
She patted his hand. “You didn’t, Harry. It’s fine.”
He wasn’t sure what to say, so he smiled at her. After a moment, he realised they were holding hands. “So, would you like a glass of wine?”
“Yes, please.”
He poured for both of them. Hermione took a bite of venison and closed her eyes in bliss. “Merlin, this is amazing. Really, I don’t know why you’re not a professional chef.”
He chuckled. “I’ve thought about it, but from what I’ve seen there’s a lot of yelling in commercial kitchens. Too much like… well, you know.”
“My God, I never even thought of that! Sorry, Harry.”
He patted her hand. “It’s fine, Hermione. I know what you meant. Thank you."
"Thank you." She turned her attention to the gnocchi, and Harry ate a bite of his salad. Hmm, glad I decided to roast these rather than poaching them.
When Hermione had sopped up the final lingering traces of lingonberry sauce with her last gnocchi, she put down her fork and took a meditative sip of wine. “You know, this was the best meal I’ve had in… to be honest, I don’t know how long.”
“Same here, actually. I’m glad you liked it.”
“Oh, Harry…” she stared into space for a moment. “Well, you cooked, so I’ll handle the washing up. Seems the least I can do.”
“Thanks. Would you like pudding? I got your favourite chocolate gâteau.”
“I’d love some, in a little while.” She drew her wand. Soon, the clean dishes were neatly laid out in the drying rack and the pots and pans were in the cabinet. “Seems like cheating, since you always cook without magic… other than that little je ne sais quoi of yours, of course. Hope you don’t mind?” She winked.
He patted her shoulder. “It’s just fine. Good girl.” Too late, he realised what he’d said. “Sorry, I know I’ve been going on with the joke too long and it’s starting to embarrass you.”
She moved closer, rather than away. “Oh, Harry, please don’t apologise. It’s just… have you any idea what that does to me?”
“Hmm?”
“You calling me that. It, it makes me feel, err… really, ah, good.” Her eyes went wide. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I know… nevermind.” She had a look as if she wanted to flee again, but his hand was still on her shoulder, and he would have let her go if she’d tried to move away, but she didn’t.
Before either of them really knew what was happening, she was in his arms. “Ever since I was little, I’ve known… that is, I’ve felt that I had to be the best at everything I did. I’m sure you’ve noticed that, haven’t you?”
He nodded. “Yeah. But then again, you are the best at any number of things.”
She looked downwards. “Thanks, Harry. But, really, it’s why I didn’t continue studying ballet when I was nine, why I didn’t want to keep on with flying lessons, why I didn’t dare to join Professor Flitwick’s string ensemble, why I stopped writing poetry…
“Some of it was pure embarrassment at not meeting my own standards. But also, it was because, sometimes, when I was good at something, somebody would tell me I was good at it.
“Somebody I respected, that is. Somebody who made me feel safe, the way Daddy did when I was little, back before he and Mum bought their own surgery and got so busy, before I started primary school and found out there were things nobody could protect me from.
“And then, when we were in First Year, and you rescued me, just like in those silly Boy Who Lived books Lavender and Parvati insisted I should read… well, I started thinking about how lovely it would be if, if it were ancient times and you could, could claim me.”
“Claim you?”
She snuggled closer. “Yes, Harry. Just like in one of those bodice rippers where the exiled clan chief captures the granddaughter of the king who drove his family from their lands and holds her for ransom, but then he falls in love with her and doesn’t give her back.”
“Oh. I didn’t know you liked that sort of thing.”
“Really?” She raised her eyebrow. “Considering your investigative skills, I would have thought you’d figured out years ago, no matter how hard I tried to hide it.”
“Like I said, Hermione, you’re the best.”
She chuckled. “Thanks. But in any case, I have quite the collection of romance novels, both Muggle and magical. Back in Third Year I got myself a little box with an Extension Charm to keep them in, and sometimes I’ve even been known to Transfigure the covers into something serious so I could read them in public without, ah, blowing my cover.”
“Nice trick. I’m not surprised you’d think of it.”
“I learnt it from Professor McGonagall, actually, one morning in Second Year after she came into the Common Room where I was taking advantage of the privacy to do some light reading and caught me trying to hide my book. I suspect she realised I was fantasising about you, but she was kind enough to pretend she believed me when I said it was only a stress release and I wanted to keep it secret so the other girls wouldn’t tease me.”
“She was always good about stuff like that.”
Hermione nodded. “But in any case… I’ve been imagining it ever since we were ickle Firsties, Harry. You and I, just like in one of those stories, with me being yours. Not just your girlfriend, or your wife, but yours.”
“Oh.” He remembered fantasies he’d had back then, and dreams. He’d tried his best to suppress them, because surely Hermione would never forgive him if she knew. Am I dreaming now?
“So, you see, that’s why I, ah, bolted this afternoon. Because… because my knickers were soaked, and, and it was the only thing I could that wasn’t, that wasn’t”—her voice dropped almost to a whisper—“stripping off on the spot and showing you what you do to me.”
“Oh.”
Her face was red. “And I’m sure you don’t feel that way about me and I hope I’ve not wrecked everything but, but, I just couldn’t keep quiet any—”
He laid a finger on her lips. “Shh… good girl.”
She went still, and then she lit up like all the candles of a Hogwarts Christmas Feast put together. “Really?”
He looked down into her eyes. Not far—he’d stopped growing in Fourth or Fifth Year, at five feet six inches tall, and she was only five four—but it was funny to think back to that first embrace in the maze beneath the Third Floor corridor, and to remember looking up instead. “Books and cleverness, friendship and bravery, and… oh, Hermione!”
“Oh, Harry!”
He might have paused to make sure, but he was looking in her eyes and he knew this was what both of them wanted… more than that, what they needed. And their lips came together as if they’d somehow got magnetised, and they were kissing.
Somewhere, in a distant corner of his mind, a calm dispassionate observer noted that his lack of recent practice didn’t seem to be a problem, after all. Maybe kissing is like riding a broomstick, and once you’ve learnt you never forget.
Or was it simply that he and Hermione had been meant to kiss each other since before they were born, maybe even since the very beginning of the universe itself? Because he’d never kissed anyone else like this, with all his heart and soul and all of hers coming together.
And then they were catching their breath, staring into each other’s eyes. “Harry? Was that…”
He stroked her hair. “Good girl.”