The Love We Share

by latenightneophyte

Summary:

Amidst the turmoil of his parents' marriage, Harry leans on his best friends Ron and Hermione. They’ve never been anything but friends. The very best of friends – the ones who make things quiet when life is too hard, too loud, too much. Until Ron and Harry have a startling revelation about Hermione, which sets them all on an unanticipated path to redefine love, devotion, and loyalty.

(Updates every 1-2 weeks)

Chapter 1: The Yule Ball

** But Ron was staring at Hermione as though he was seeing her in a whole new light.

“Hermione, Neville’s right – you are a girl…”

“Oh, well spotted,” she said acidly.

“Well – you can come with one of us!”

“No, I can’t,” snapped Hermione.

“Oh, come on,” he said impatiently, “we need partners, we’re going to look really stupid if we haven’t got any, everyone else has…”

“I can’t come with you,” said Hermione, now blushing, because I’m already going with someone.”

“No, you’re not!” said Ron. “You just said that to get rid of Neville!”

“Oh did I?” said Hermione, and her eyes flashed dangerously. “Just because it’s taken you three years to notice, Ron, doesn’t mean no one else has spotted I’m a girl!”

Ron stared at her. Then he grinned again.

“Okay, okay, we know you’re a girl. “That do? Will you come now?”

“I’ve already told you!” said Hermione very angrily. “I’m going with someone else!”

And she stormed off toward the girls’ dormitories again. **

“That could have gone better,” Harry said as they both watched Hermione go. Harry wasn’t sure why it hadn’t occurred to him to ask her in the first place. But now that Ron had brought it up…

“Now Hermione’s mad at us and we still don’t have dates,” he said.

“Fred made it out like it’s just a matter of asking,” grumbled Ron. “What does this other bloke have that we don’t?”

“Tact and charm, probably,” said Harry. “We should ask Sirius for tips.”

Ron snorted. “The kinds of birds he picks up are nothing like Hermione.”

Harry looked at him. “I thought we were talking about getting a date in general? Not Hermione, who is definitely taken?”

“Well…” Ron trailed off sheepishly.

Harry and Ron didn’t talk much for the rest of the day, both lost to their own thoughts. Harry in particular was thinking about Hermione, and whether or not he thought she was pretty. At bedtime, he crawled into his four-poster bed, closed the curtains, and sat up against his pillows with his knees to his chest.

He’d noticed, as boys do, when her curves came in and she started to look more like a woman than a girl, but he hadn’t dwelled upon it. Not least because he was hung up on Cho Chang.

Well, they were different from each other, for certain. Cho looked much more put together than Hermione, though he wondered if it wasn’t just because she had straight, shiny hair, where Hermione’s was very wild and bushy. No, it wasn’t only that – outside of school robes, they dressed differently. Cho wore neat little skirt and cardigan sets, while Hermione was usually in jeans and oversized flannel shirts. She didn’t wear form-fitting clothing.

Wonder what she’d look like if she did? he thought. He couldn’t really envision it… but that led to wondering what she looked like without any clothes at all.

Harry went red all over. The only thing he had to compare were medical diagrams from his mother’s books and a stack of dirty magazines he’d found in Sirius’ house, and he could not imagine her posing like that. The very idea made him feel anxious and sweaty.

 But her face… he decided that yes, it was a very pretty face. She had dark brown eyes and low arched brows that made her always appear deep in thought. Her complexion was normally pale, but in the cold and during exercise she tended towards an attractive ruddiness.

Her lips curved naturally downward, but flicked up just slightly at the outer edges. She always looked to be just on the edge of a smirk. And her smile…

Harry parted the curtains of his bed to grab the photograph album he kept in the drawer of his nightstand. Over the summer, his mother had helped him arrange his photographs in it neatly. Most of the photos were of family and friends he didn’t see outside of Hogwarts, but there was a growing section at the back that he added pictures of his school friends to.

He flipped to it and looked at the most recent photo he’d put in – Hermione and Ron laughing together at something random. Her eyes were sparkling and her nose crinkled up in the way that meant her laughter was genuine. Harry stared at it for far too long.

Okay, she’s pretty. But… do I like her like that?

Before they’d become friends, she had been bossy and critical. For two years, she had no friends at all. Harry had more than once considered telling her off, to just calm down and maybe people wouldn’t be so mean and she wouldn’t always be crying in the bathroom. But he never had.

And on that fateful day, it had been Ron’s commentary that sent her there. A series of bizarre events followed, in which their former disgruntled Defence Against the Dark Arts Teacher let in a troll as a prank. Harry and Ron had only meant to go and warn Hermione, but when they found her, she was cornered by the troll and they’d had no choice but to rescue her.

It was a good thing we did, Harry thought, smiling. Not only had Remus (Professor Lupin, he reminded himself) filled the vacancy, but Hermione turned out to be a very loyal, helpful, and kind friend. Being friends with Harry and Ron had helped her relax a bit, and she was much nicer for it.

Hesitantly, Harry touched her picture. Her image smiled back, playfully tugging her hair out of the way. His heart skipped a beat and it felt like his bones had turned to jelly.

Yes. I like her like that.

 

“D’you think we should say sorry?” Ron whispered to Harry the next morning at breakfast. They had both been staring along the table at Hermione, who had declined sitting with them in favour of her dormitory mates, Parvati and Lavender.

“What do I have to say sorry for?” Harry said. “You were the one who implied she wasn’t a girl up until now.”

“Thanks for your support,” Ron said sardonically. They were both quiet, watching her.

“Who d’you think she’s going with?” Harry asked. “You know, to the Ball. Is she like, together with someone?”

“Dunno,” Ron said, but there was a hardness to his voice that Harry recognized. He was jealous.

Well, so am I, Harry realised.

“Come on, we better crack on,” Harry said, watching Hermione smile at something Parvati said. “Why don’t we ask Parvati and Lavender to go?”

“What, right now?” Ron started to stand.

“No, you git – not in front of Hermione! That’s just mean.”

“Right, right.”

 

That part, at least, went well. By dinner time, Harry and Ron had secured Yule Ball partners, though there was a lot of giggling and blushing from Parvati and Lavender that Harry hadn’t anticipated.

Their apology to Hermione, however, took some thinking. While she wasn’t outright hostile, she had been cool towards them all day.

They decided Harry should do the actual talking, since he possessed a marginally better sense of tact. Ron came up with the idea to nick a plate of biscuits from the kitchens to butter her up.

“Does she even like brandy snaps?” Harry asked. He certainly didn’t.

Ron shrugged. “Isn’t it the thought that counts?”

“Whether or not that’s true, I reckon it’s the best we’ve got. C’mon.”

It had been over an hour since dinner, and Hermione was studying by herself at a table in the Gryffindor common room. Harry and Ron shared a bracing look and a nod before approaching her.

“Hermione,” Harry began. She looked up suspiciously. “Erm, we’re sorry,” he went on as Ron nodded and put the plate of biscuits on the table.

She raised her brows in surprise. “Sorry for what?” she asked.

“For what we said,” Ron said, going rogue. Harry gave him a warning look. “You know, about not thinking you were dateable.”

Harry looked skyward, for inspiration or for forgiveness, he wasn’t sure.

Harry sensed danger as Hermione’s lips went very thin. “What Ron means to say,” Harry interjected quickly, “is that you’re very pretty and we’re stupid.”

Ron nudged the biscuits closer to her and tried to look contrite.

As if against her will, her lips twitched. “All right,” was all she said, and took a biscuit. She did like brandy snaps, then.

Internally, Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He nudged Ron in a hey-mate-we-did-it sort of way, and they scrambled to sit down on either side of her, scraping the chairs noisily against the floor in their haste.

“I hear you two managed to get dates,” she said wryly.

“Well, yeah,” Ron said. “We’d look like right prats if we went stag.” Harry grinned, remembering a private joke between him and his dad.

Which reminded him he was overdue to write home. While Hermione continued to do her Transfiguration homework and Ron tried to wheedle out of her who she was going to the Yule Ball with, Harry assembled parchment, quill, and ink to pen a note to his dad. It was short, as he didn’t have that much to write about with no Quidditch this year, and he'd already exhausted the topic of the Triwizard Tournament.

Hermione and Ron were getting tetchier and tetchier with each other. She adamantly did not want to tell Ron who her date was, and Ron was absolutely not backing down.

“Give it a rest, mate,” Harry said to Ron as he folded up his letter. “She doesn’t have to tell us.” He fished another bit of parchment out of his bag to send a separate letter to his mother.

“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione said pointedly. “You’d just take the mickey out of me, anyway.”

“Never,” he grinned, but they all knew he was lying.

When she stood and stretched, Harry was momentarily mesmerized by a tiny strip of skin that appeared between her trousers and her shirt. He glanced hastily away, embarrassed.

“Going to turn in,” she mumbled, oblivious to his discomfort. “G’night.”

Harry’s eyes tracked her movement all the way up the girls’ dormitory stairs until she rose out of sight. Belatedly, he realised Ron was watching him.

“What?” Harry asked, nonplussed.

“Nothing,” Ron said. Harry gave him a curious look before going back to his letter.

 

Dear Mum,

I’m doing fine. Classes are going well, except Potions, for the same reason as always. Remus Professor Lupin says hi to you and Dad.

Everyone is still raving about the First Task and trying to figure out what the Second will be. I still say Krum should’ve just Summoned his broom – it’s what I would have done. I wish we could still do Quidditch – the pitch looks kind of sad and empty without practice and matches.

Thanks for the turnovers – wish I could have helped with the apple picking. I miss it. Can you send some of those pumpkin biscuits Gran makes? I asked her, but she said she’s too old to make them anymore. If she gets weird about sending you the recipe, let me know and I’ll “work my magic,” as the Muggles say.

Please give Scout extra cuddles and say they’re from me. I wish you would let me take her to Hogwarts.

I have a weird question about girls. Say you have a friend, and you really like her and you want to ask her out, but you don’t want her to stop being your friend. What do you do? Should you just not ask her? And what if some other bloke likes her, too?

No, I’m not going to tell you who it is.

Love,

Harry

Harry folded the letter and stacked it on top of the letter to his father. He’d send them with Hedwig tomorrow. He thought on his parents for a moment, wondering what they were doing right now.

They often took longer assignments and shifts while Harry was at school: his father at the Auror Department in the Ministry of Magic, his mother at St. Mungo’s. She was a Healer and worked in the Potion and Plant Poisoning Ward.  They each said it was so they could save up more leave for when he came home, but Harry sometimes worried there was another reason. Something he wasn’t ready to put words to yet.

He missed his family, especially his mother. It wasn’t exactly something most people admitted to, but he knew he wasn’t alone. First and second years especially took it hard, and more than a few times Harry found himself offering chocolate frogs and sympathetic pats to teary-eyed boys. He would never admit it to Ron, but it was for this exact reason he hoped he’d be chosen as prefect next year – he liked mentoring younger students.

In the summer, he looked after some of the village kids when their parents went out, and had convinced his grandparents to put a Quidditch field on their extensive estate so all the magical children of Godric’s Hollow would have a place to play. He liked giving them flying tips and pretending to fall off his broom when they dive-bombed him.

He had long wished Hermione would fly with him and Ron when they came to visit in the summer, but she remained determinedly on the ground. He allowed himself a short fantasy of taking her around on his broom, promising to go slow. Maybe she’d sit in front, so he could put his arms around her…

Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. He wished Ron had never brought up Hermione in conjunction with the Yule Ball.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“Harry. Hey, Harry. Wake up.”

“’M awake,” Harry said drowsily.

“No, you’re not,” yawned Ron. “One of the midgets is asking for you.”

There were groans from behind the curtains of the other four posters. “Can’t they find a prefect?” grumbled Dean’s voice.

“Which one?” Harry sat up and scrubbed his cheeks.

“Dunno.”

“It’s a first year,” Neville said, who slept closest to the door. Harry groped for his dressing gown and slippers.

“It’s fine,” Harry said to Ron as he put on his glasses and saw a small silhouette in the doorway. “Go back to bed.”

This was a new thing for Harry this year. He had been kind enough to younger students that they’d started to seek him out at night. Usually on behalf of an inconsolable friend.

“Sorry,” said the first year once they stepped onto the landing. Harry recognized him as Dennis Creevy. “Stephen hasn’t stopped sniffling since dinner.”

“Lead the way,” Harry said, wrapping his dressing gown more tightly around himself.

The boy in question was indeed sniffling behind the curtains.

“You okay, mate?” Harry whispered.

There was no answer, but a small face peeked out. Harry lit his wand. In the dim light, he could see the boy’s face was puffy and tear streaked.

“C’mon,” Harry said. “Let’s get a snack.”

The boy slid out of bed slowly. As they left the dormitory, Harry put a bracing hand on his shoulder, the same way he remembered his father doing when he was younger.

“Stephen, is it?” he said. “I’m Harry.”

“I know,” Stephen said in a small voice.

They sat in silence for a while, munching their way through a packet of crisps.

“Everyone misses their family sometimes,” Harry said softly.

“It’s not that,” Stephen said, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “My dog died, and I wasn’t there.”

“That’s terrible,” Harry said, thinking of Scout, his white and black cat. She’d been around since before Harry was born. “I’m sorry.”

“I was okay during classes, but there was roast at dinner. I always used to share with Miggs when Mum wasn’t looking.”

“I have a cat back home,” Harry said. “I know I’d be devastated if anything happened to her.”

“Yeah, but would you snivel and carry on in front of everyone? Like a baby?”

“I think I would,” Harry said gently.

When Harry escorted Stephen back to bed after coaxing out the boy’s favourite stories and things about Miggs, he was no longer sniffling. “Thanks,” he said, so quiet Harry almost didn’t hear him.

“Anytime,” Harry said.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Dear Harry,

The apples were lovely this year – Grandad put a special charm on the orchard. And every single autumn your father and I have been married, I have asked Gran for her recipe! What makes you think you’ll succeed where I have not?  

Scout is too old, darling – we’ve been through this. And you have Hedwig; you’re not allowed another pet. I’m sure you can get your cat fix with someone else’s – doesn’t your friend Hermione have one?

About your girl-who-is-a-friend. That sounds like a tricky situation to be in. Do you know if she likes you back? That might determine what your next move is. My best advice, as you know, is to try and put yourself in the other person’s shoes. If you were the object of someone else’s affection, whether you actually liked them back or not, would you want them to approach you? And if so, how? You can have a friend or at least a sympathetic party try and suss it out of her, or you can just be brave and ask. Keep in mind, though, that it’s not fair to ask how she feels if you’re not willing to tell her how you feel. 

If someone else likes her, too, well, I’m sorry to say that’s part of the whole messiness of dating and romance. Sometimes, you just have to be brave, take a risk, and hope for the best.

I’m very happy for you, darling, even if it all feels strange and scary to you. Falling in love is one of life’s greatest joys, and I wish I was there to help you work it through. What we talked about still stands – if you want to stay over Christmas for the Yule Ball, we’ll miss you, but we’d understand.

Love always,

Mum

 

Harry pondered his mother’s advice over breakfast. It was sound, though part of him wished she’d just give him a script and bottle of Felix Felices.

Did Hermione like him? How much did she like this other bloke? Did she like Ron? He didn’t think so; they were much more argumentative with each other and more likely to stop speaking to each other over stupid things. Harry was often called upon to play the peacemaker.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry watched Hermione sprinkle brown sugar onto her porridge. She was humming to herself, though Harry wasn’t sure why she was so chipper. Maybe it had something to do with her mystery date.

He understood Ron’s desire to find out who Hermione was going to the Ball with, but even he knew better than to keep asking. If he knew, though, he’d be able to suss out if she had a type. And if he might fit that type or not.

“See you,” she said, once she’d finished and stood up. She had Arithmancy while he and Ron had a break. Harry glanced up at her fleetingly. She had missed a button on her school cardigan, and though nothing showed, the suggestion was enough for Harry to blush.

“’Bye,” Harry said, hoping he sounded normal.

As she left, he heard someone whisper, “Who’s Hermione going to the Ball with?” Harry whipped his head around. Ron was asking Lavender, the stupid git.

But Lavender wasn’t offended. She was just as eager to gossip. Parvati scooted closer. “She won’t tell us,” Lavender said lowly. “The only hint she gave us was that he’s older.”

Harry squinted suspiciously around at the Great Hall. It wasn’t likely to be a Gryffindor, or they would have sat by her. Was it someone in her Arithmancy or Ancient Runes classes? No, they only took classes with others in the same year…

It was going to drive Harry to distraction. He was only half-listening to the speculation between Ron, Lavender, and Parvati, and didn’t notice when the subject changed.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about the colour of my dress robes?”

“Hm?” Harry said absently. Parvati patiently repeated her question.

“Sure,” he said, a little confused, “but… why am I asking?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Because when you go with a girl, you’re supposed to give her a flower to wear that goes with her robes.”

“Oh,” said Harry. “Okay. What colour are your dress robes?”

“Pink,” Parvati said. “Like a shocking pink.”

“Sounds nice,” he said awkwardly. “Er, I don’t know if we’ll match – mine are green.”

“That’s perfect – green goes with just about anything.”

Harry nodded. He wasn’t sure what else to say. Luckily it was time to get to class, so he didn’t have to.

 

As the Ball drew nearer, Harry tried to think less about Hermione and focus more on the girl he’d asked to go with him. But it was difficult, as he relied heavily on Hermione to tell him how he was supposed to behave. She taught him the Orchideous Charm and coached him on what colours were supposed to go well with shocking pink.

He was too preoccupied with acting normal around Hermione to pay close attention to what Ron was doing, though he had done his best to rein him in once he started trying to surprise information out of Hermione.

“I know it’s annoying,” Harry told her in an aside during Charms, “but it would get him to lay off if you’d just say who it is.”

“Don’t you start,” Hermione said grumpily. “You’re supposed to be the reasonable one.”

“That’s new,” Harry said, ignoring the flutter in his stomach when her long hair brushed against him. “No one’s ever called me that before.”

“Well, in comparison to Ron, anyway.”

“That’s a low bar.”

“Yes, it’s in hell,” she said primly.

Harry laughed. He made the mistake of looking at her. He’d never noticed that her eyes had a little green around the pupils, or how long her lashes were. He spent so much time looking away from her so as not to give her any clue that he was falling for her.

“Harry?” she asked, touching his arm. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he said. He pretended to look in his bag for a quill to give his face time to cool.

 

The Yule Ball finally came, and Harry was a bundle of nerves. He had a tiny bouquet of lotus and jasmine that Parvati could tie to her wrist or pin to her robes resting in a little box on his bed.

He glanced at Ron as they got ready and resisted the urge to hiss in sympathy. His dress robes were outdated and unmistakably maroon. He’d tried to sever off the lace collar and cuffs with a charm, but inexpertly, and the edges were frayed.

“It’s fine,” Harry said as Ron tried to fold over the hems to hide the worst of the damage. “No one will notice.”

“I hate maroon,” Ron lamented.

Harry combed a couple drops of Sleekeazy’s tonic through his hair with shaking fingers. It was a gift from his grandfather, who had invented it many years ago and now ran a small commercial empire selling different formulas for different hair types. It was the only thing that could make his hair behave.

“Are you going to tell me what that is?” Ron said, jerking his chin at the box on Harry’s bed.

“Flowers for Parvati,” he mumbled. “Didn’t you get any for Lavender?”

“No,” Ron grunted. “Was I supposed to?”

“Erm, yeah.”

“Bugger!” he exclaimed. “Nobody tells me these things! I don’t even know what she likes.”

“Well, what colour are her dress robes?” Harry asked.

“Dunno.”

Harry prayed for patience. It wasn’t like he had learned any of this on his own, either. “Look, you can’t go wrong with white. Put a couple sprigs of lavender in it and it’ll be fine.”

“Lavender, that’s clever.”

“Sure,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. He didn’t have time to teach Ron the charm, so he did it for him. “C’mon, we’ve got to go.”

 

“Where’s Hermione?” Ron asked shortly as they waited for the Champions to enter the Great Hall.

“Shh,” Harry admonished him, looking furtively at Lavender. Harry thought the absolute least Ron could do was pretend he wanted to be there with the girl who’d said “yes” to being his date.

“Oh, there they are!” exclaimed Parvati as a queue of three couples entered the Hall. Cedric Diggory and Cho Chang, Fleur Delacour with Roger Davies, and Viktor Krum with…

“Hey,” said Lavender, craning her neck to see. She was a bit taller than Parvati. “Isn’t that… With Viktor Krum…”

“It’s Hermione,” said Harry in disbelief. She was wearing periwinkle blue robes of a sort of floaty material. Her hair was sleek and shiny, twisted into an elegant knot at the back of her head. And she was carrying herself differently, sort of taller and more confident – perhaps it was the absence of twenty or so books slung onto her back.

She looked incredible… clutching the arm of Triwizard Champion Viktor Krum.

And so it was out. The big secret. Hermione’s type… was prodigious international Quidditch stars. Harry had no hope.

I guess Ron doesn’t, either, he thought in consolation.

“Should we try and get a table with them?” Lavender and Parvati were whispering together, eyeing Viktor Krum with interest.

“Can’t,” grunted Ron. “Champions have their own table.”

They wound up at a table with Parvati’s twin sister, Padma, and her date from Beauxbatons. Harry felt underdressed next to the boy’s elegantly tailored velvet robes – his own bottle green ones were more or less like the school robes he wore every day. Shortly after, Neville and Ginny sat down, followed by one of Padma’s Ravenclaw friends and her date.

Ron sat with his arms crossed and kept mumbling under his breath, things like “traitor” and “stupid little beard.” Harry ignored him and listened politely to Parvati’s excited chatter about the Champions’ dates, what they were wearing, and the decorations in the Great Hall.

She had a point – the school had really gone all out to impress their international guests. The Great Hall was covered in magic frost that sparkled in the light of the braziers. Stretched across the indigo blue and silver of the Great Hall’s ceiling were hundreds of garlands of holly and ivy. The twelve Christmas trees were festooned in just about everything - everlasting icicles, fairies, and hooting golden owls.

Harry told Parvati about the garden gnome Fred and George had painted gold and stuffed on top of the Weasley Christmas tree one year, which made her laugh.

“And nobody noticed?”

“Well, I did, and I reckon Fred and George did, too,” he grinned.

He caught a glimpse of Hermione talking to Viktor Krum at the Champions’ table, their heads bent together. She was smiling in a soft sort of way, her eyes shining as she listened to whatever Krum was saying.

She really likes him, Harry thought, his heart sinking.

He turned his attention back to Parvati. She did look very pretty in gold bangles and robes of shocking pink. She wore his bouquet on her wrist, where Harry had tied it with a ribbon, feeling awkward but strangely pleased.

When dinner was over, the remains of Harry’s goulash disappeared and the gold plates were sparkling again. The lights in the Hall dimmed, and a soft, opening note sounded from a violin. Harry looked over briefly at the stage, where the Weird Sisters were poised to play.

“Ooooh, it’s starting!” squealed Lavender. She looked at Ron, hoping to share the excitement, but he was glaring over at Hermione and Krum as they stood up with the other Champions and filed onto the dance floor.

Harry nudged him when no one was looking. “Buck up,” he hissed. Ron only scowled deeper.

Harry knew why he was acting out. Ron was horribly jealous. There had been moments in their friendship where Harry had borne the brunt of it, for things he could not help. He was not about to refuse a Firebolt from his godfather, nor would he resign from the Quidditch team simply because his friend had neither of these things.

However, in this case, Harry was right there with him, even if he had the grace not to show it. He was glad for the excuse to look at Hermione. She was so incredibly beautiful, and it was his and Ron’s fault for failing to notice her before now, or she might be on one of their arms right now.

Hermione and Krum danced gracefully under a spotlight, her dress robes swishing prettily against him on each turn as the Weird Sisters played a slow, mournful tune.

She looks like she belongs with him, Harry thought sadly. But that was the last he could dwell on it, as the lights went up again and the band transitioned into a fast, upbeat tune. Parvati clutched his arm and he smiled at her, his stomach swooping with nerves, as she towed him onto the floor amidst a wave of fellow students.

It really wasn’t so bad, Harry thought. He wasn’t much of a dancer, but he could muddle through so long as he let Parvati lead. Thank Merlin for Gran and her dancing lessons, he thought. He’d never call them stupid again.

When Parvati called for a break, he offered to get drinks. She beamed at him before dropping gracefully into a chair next to Lavender.

Harry frowned at the scene before him. Ron and Lavender were sitting apart from each other, glaring in different directions with their arms and legs crossed. She didn’t perk up when Parvati leaned in to talk to her.

Shrugging, Harry went to the drinks table. I can’t make him grow up, he thought.

When Harry returned to Parvati with two cold butterbeers, Hermione plopped down next to Ron, her cheeks pink with exertion.

Harry found himself mirroring her smile as she said, “Viktor’s just gone to get drinks.”

“Oh, Viktor,” Ron said in a sarcastic sing-song voice.

“What’s with you?” she asked, looking at him in surprise.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said scathingly.

“Ron, what are you –”

“He’s the Champion from Durmstrang!” Ron spat. “He’s – he’s the enemy!”

Harry was so shocked by Ron’s vitriol that he was frozen in place. Other people were starting to stare.

“The enemy?” Hermione said incredulously. “It’s a tournament, not a war! And anyway, you’ve got a little figurine of him you keep by your bed! You’ve been scheming on how to get his autograph all year!”

“Well, now I can just ask you to get it for me, can’t I?”

“You can ask,” Hermione said coldly, “but I bloody well won’t!”

“Ron,” Harry said suddenly, looking uncomfortably around at all the heads turned towards them. “Let her alone, will you?”

He ignored Harry.

“I’ll bet he just wants you to help him with the next task.”

Hermione shrank back as if Ron had slapped her. “He hasn’t mentioned it at all. Not once in all the conversations we’ve had –”

“Been getting cozy in the library, have you?” Ron sneered. “What else does he want you for? English tutor?”

He had gone too far. Hermione took a shaky breath.

“Maybe, Ron, just maybe, he wants to be around me because he likes me. Unlike you, clearly.” She had meant to sound flippant, but Harry could see she was deeply wounded. She went to find Krum, her nose in the air.

“Aren’t you going to ask me to dance?” Lavender asked Ron shortly.

“No,” he said.

“Then you won’t mind if I find someone who will,” she said, standing up and stalking away towards a knot of nervous-looking boys hugging the wall.  

“Fine by me,” Ron grumbled.

Harry had had enough of his best mate at the moment. “Want to go for a walk?” he asked Parvati.

She smiled at him shyly and followed him outside to the rose gardens, where each bush contained either a glowing assembly of fairies or an amorous couple.

“Hot in there,” Harry said. He adjusted his collar to allow a cool breeze against his throat.

Parvati nodded.

“You look pretty,” he said as they walked. “I don’t know if I said before.”

“No,” she said, sliding her hand into his, “but thank you. You look very handsome.” Harry looked down at their joined hands in surprise.

Well, this is a date, isn’t it?

Parvati surprised him even further. “Thanks for asking me to go with you, Harry. I know you wanted to go with Cho instead.”

“Nah,” Harry said quickly. It was honest, at least. He hadn’t thought of Cho for what felt like ages. Not since…

“It’s crazy about Krum and Hermione, eh?” Parvati said, as if she could read his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “You really had no idea? She didn’t tell you at all?”

“No,” she said happily. “Believe me, we really tried to get it out of her! I’m shocked she didn’t tell you!”

Harry grinned. “It’s better that she didn’t.”

“I think Ron likes her,” Parvati said shrewdly, watching Harry’s reaction. “That’s why he got so upset.”

Harry said nothing, but secretly, he agreed.

He didn’t realise that Parvati had been leading him deeper and deeper into the maze of roses until it was too late to back out.

But when she kissed him, her lips soft and her hair smelling sweetly of plumeria and sandalwood, Harry realised he didn’t want to. He was happy where he was.

 

After that, Harry didn’t think about Hermione at all. He hadn’t expected it, but he liked Parvati. He especially liked kissing her, which she allowed him to do three more times before the night was through: once more in the rose bushes, once in a secluded alcove while they took a break from dancing, and once more as they went through the portrait hole into Gryffindor Tower.

 Which was where the night fully ended, as Harry and Parvati walked in on Ron and Hermione in the middle of a blazing row.

** Standing ten feet apart, they were bellowing at each other, each scarlet in the face.

“Well, if you don’t like it, you know what the solution is, don’t you?” yelled Hermione; her hair was coming down out of its elegant bun now, and her face was screwed up in anger.

“Oh yeah?” Ron yelled back. “What’s that?”

“Next time there’s a ball, ask me before someone else does, and not as a last resort!”

Ron mouthed soundlessly like a goldfish out of water as Hermione turned on her heel and stormed up the girls’ staircase to bed. **

“That’s – totally missed the point – proves nothing…”

Ron turned and saw Harry and Parvati there, standing frozen with their hands joined. He flushed in embarrassment and hurried off to bed.

Harry and Parvati shared a look. “I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I think Hermione gets the point better than he does.”

 

Things remained tense between Harry’s best friends, but he was too caught up in his new romance to bother much about it. He knew he still liked Hermione, but he reasoned with himself that it was possible to like two witches at once. And if Hermione didn’t return his feelings, at least there was someone who did.

As such, he didn’t notice the look on Hermione’s face every time Parvati led Harry away.

She took him to empty classrooms and long walks down by the lake. They went out for coffee and pudding in Hogsmeade, where there was a little hidden spot under a bridge graffitied with hearts and crude anatomical drawings and declarations of teenage love, where they flirted and kissed and sometimes touched.

Hermione admonished him for neglecting his studies, but it was hard to get worked up over marks. Most of his classes were a breeze – Harry was top of the class in Defence Against the Dark Arts. He moved faster than anyone else in mock duels and thought quickly on his feet.

He was second only to Hermione in Transfiguration and Charms, and would be in Potions if Snape was not the professor. The sallow-faced, greasy-haired teacher had become, if it was even possible, more horrible to Harry ever since Remus had become the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.

His father said it had to do with a schoolboy’s grudge over a silly prank. His mother said she and Snape had once been friends until he fell in with a bad crowd. She admitted in an aside that Harry’s father and three best friends were stupid berks to him back in the day.

Harry and Parvati were together for the rest of the school year, and it was lovely. He kissed her goodbye on the King’s Cross platform, but she slipped away before he could introduce her to his parents.

She spent the whole summer in India, and never once came to visit, nor replied to his letters.

Notes:

This story started as porn. But all the fucking got interrupted by a plot bunny, which made everything fluffier than expected. Removing Voldemort (the driving force of the books) changed the motivations, dynamics, and even personalities of the main characters, and it turned into more of a love story. It's so much fun to explore; I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it! Drop me a comment if the spirit moves you :)

Later chapters will be explicit, so if that's what you're here for, we'll get there eventually! Some of the dialogue is taken directly from the books, indicated by ** and italics.

Chapter 2: Trust Dad to Ruin Things

Harry spent the summer putting on a brave face, as if a broken heart was nothing of importance, while secretly wondering what he could have possibly done to earn Parvati’s silence.

His mother and father took long holidays to spend more time with him at their cottage in Godric’s Hollow. He played with his father on his grandparents’ Quidditch field, accepting his good-intentioned advice while privately thinking he had no idea what he was talking about. He played Chaser, not Seeker like Harry.

He went with his mother every other week to visit his Muggle grandparents in Surrey, and afterwards she would take him somewhere to have a bite of dessert where they could talk. They talked about almost everything.

Except whatever was happening between her and his father. He noticed the tired way they spoke to each other, perfectly civil, but devoid of joy. How they barely looked at each other, and how they bloomed in each other’s absences.

As such, he did not feel he could confide in her about Parvati.

Last summer, there was the Quidditch World Cup to bring himself, Hermione, and Ron together at the same time. This summer was much lonelier. Harry did not want to leave his mother for weeks at a time, and implored his friends to come visit him instead. But it did not line up in a way that they could be all together.

Ron visited first, and they spent a fun week playing Quidditch and splashing in the lake at the Potter estate, sneaking Muggle cigarettes and firewhisky at a fort in the woods that was mostly made of rubbish, rotting wood, and dirty magazines Ron had filched from his older brothers. Harry’s cat, Scout, followed them everywhere. She had always been a friendly little thing.

“Seen Hermione?” Harry asked Ron once, as they dried off on the old wood landing after a swim. It was getting toward evening – the daylight settling into the hue photographers called “golden hour.”

“Yeah,” Ron said, a soft look in his eyes Harry did not like to see. “I went and saw her at her folks’. Not for long – just a couple days. She’s going to France with them again.”

Harry knew. There was at least one girl who still thought he was worth writing to. He petted Scout as she rubbed her face against his hand.

“What did you do?”

Ron made a face, like he was trying to remember, or explain. “Went ‘round London a bit. Not like Diagon Alley, though we did that once. We went to the… the ooze? With all the sad animals?”

Harry laughed. “The zoo,” he corrected. Once, when he was ten, he’d been forced to go with his grandparents on his mother’s side and his horrible cousin, Dudley. They had thought it would be a wonderful idea to “get the boys together,” but since his mother and his aunt did not get along, he had gone alone.

Dudley, who was significantly bigger than Harry, had lured him into the dark reptile house and knocked seven bells out of him before his grandparents even noticed they’d gone missing. It was the last time he would ever see Dudley. His mother kissed his bruises and healed his scrapes with dittany, apologizing for trying to force a relationship that wasn’t meant to be.

Harry’s father was livid, an edge to his anger that frightened Harry. He did not understand that his father was not angry with him, but on his behalf.

“I told you,” his father had said coldly to his mother, which only made Harry feel worse, as though the tension between them was his fault.

It had not occurred to Harry to try and use magic against Dudley. No one had ever hurt him before, and he didn’t know what to do except cover his face and curl into a ball until it was over. In the face of his father’s anger, he felt ashamed that he had not defended himself.

Harry shook those thoughts away, listening to Ron’s commentary. He tried not to show his jealousy, especially when Ron described how they’d run out of money and had to share a strawberry and chocolate sundae at Florean Fortescue’s ice cream parlour in Diagon Alley.

“Is she still with Krum?” Harry asked sullenly.

At this, Ron’s face fell. “Yeah. He asked her to visit him in Bulgaria. I think she will. She had all these letters from him tucked into her books.”

“Were you snooping?” asked Harry.

“No!” Ron said, far too quickly.

“Uh huh,” Harry said. “What else did you find?”

Ron blushed scarlet and refused to tell Harry another word, opting to push Harry off the landing instead.

“Pervert,” Harry said when he surfaced, sputtering and laughing.

And then something very strange happened when Harry pushed his wet hair back from his eyes to look at his best friend. Ron was backlit by the descending sun, the aureate light turning his copper hair into a halo and gilding his bare arms and torso.

For a just a moment, Harry thought he was beautiful.

 

Harry missed Ron when he left. There was something about his best mate that was soothing – it was easy for Harry to laugh and forget that he was troubled about the furrow of his mother’s brow, the hard lines bracketing his father’s mouth.

His father and Sirius took him out one evening to a pub in Godric’s Hollow, where they gave Harry beer and assured the barmaid he was seventeen.

He loved his father, and Sirius, but separately. Together, they were too much. There was brash laughter and reminiscing about days long gone, and Harry thought his father was far too interested in Sirius’ ribald stories of one-night stands.

“Come on, son,” his father said, giving his shoulders a little shake. “Out with it; who’s the girl?”

“There isn’t one,” Harry said, taking a swallow of beer and trying not to grimace. He didn’t like it, but it was better his father saw him make an effort than have yet another argument about why he wasn’t interested in the same things.

“Come off it, Harry,” Sirius said, grinning. “Remus says you’re never outside the company of a certain raven-haired beauty.”

Harry did not want to get into it. He could not bear to confess how hurt he was, only to hear his father and Sirius say something stupid like, “Plenty of fish in the sea,” or something crasser.

So he lied. “Oh, her,” he said. “It was never anything but casual.”

Sirius and his father roared, pounding him on the back and saying irritating things like, “Atta boy!”

It was past midnight before his father was ready to leave. Harry wanted to shake him, tell him off for spending so much time away from Mum, not fixing whatever was broken. He wanted to scream until his throat was hoarse that his father’s glory days were over and never coming back, and chasing after them in pubs was only pushing him further away from his only son.

When they returned home, his mother was on the sofa in the family room, her brow furrowed and worried-looking even in sleep. Scout was curled up on top of her hip. She opened her topaz eyes, looking accusatory. His father stared at his mother’s face with an unreadable expression.

“You could say sorry,” Harry snapped in a whisper.

His father looked at him sharply. “What makes you think I’ve anything to apologize for?” he asked.

Harry said nothing. He wasn’t even sure why he’d said it.

His mother stirred and sighed. Scout jumped to the back of the sofa. “Oh, James,” she said as her eyes fluttered open and she smiled. She looked ten years younger in the dim light.

“No, Mum,” Harry said quietly. His father scoffed and left the room. Harry heard him ascend the stairs.

“Oh, of course – I’m sorry, Harry, darling,” she said, sounding embarrassed. “You’ve gotten so tall.”

“Were you waiting up for us?” Harry asked her, feeling guilty. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and kicked at the carpet.

“Not at all,” she lied. “I was just reading and fell asleep.”

“Right,” he said. After an awkward pause, he said, “Well, g’night Mum. Love you.”

 

It was not always like that. Harry liked it much better when he and his father went flying. In the air, they understood each other better, and it was easy for Harry to see his father was proud of him in this, at least.

After a particularly good one-a-side Quidditch game, Harry’s father put his arm around his shoulders as they walked off the field, their brooms stored safely in the shed. Harry was now only an inch shorter than him. His father smelled of sweat, fresh air, and sunshine, and Harry remembered better days when he was small, when he hero-worshipped the man who taught him to first ride a broomstick and carried him on his shoulders through the woods. The man who used to kiss his mother easily and dance with her in the kitchen while the smell of apple pie wafted from the oven.

His father must have guessed what was on his mind. “You don’t have to worry about your mum and me,” he said bracingly. “We’ve got it in hand.”

Because he was his father, and Harry wanted to believe him, he nodded.

“Dad,” he began when his father’s arm slipped from his shoulders. “Were you and Mum friends before you got together?”

His father chuckled. “Sure we were. Once I grew up a bit and she saw there was a heart of gold under all the stupid parts.” He grew quiet, remembering.

He sighed. “She was really something, Harry.”

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. “She still is,” he choked out. “You see that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” his father said, but he looked uncomfortable. Uncertain, even. “Like I said, you don’t have to worry about us.”

Harry turned away, so his father would not see him wipe his eyes angrily.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“Love is stupid, Hermione,” Harry said when she finally came to stay with him. They were walking through a field of tall, dry grasses just outside of Godric’s Hollow. He swished the thick stalks of grass and weeds with a stick, parting particularly thick sections so Scout could scamper through.

“No, Parvati is,” she said. “And where are we going, exactly?”

“Nowhere,” Harry said. “I just don’t want to be inside.”

“Okay,” Hermione said uncertainly. It was a muggy afternoon, and when he glanced at her, he could see sweat blooming in the hollow of her throat and her temples. They were far from the clever cooling charms his mother spelled into the cottage walls.

“Sorry,” Harry said. “I’m not very good company today.”

“That’s not true,” she said softly. They walked in companiable silence, their legs pushing against the grass, going slowly on the uneven ground to avoid mole hills and turned ankles, and to allow the old cat to keep up.

“How was Bulgaria?” Harry asked, not really wanting to know, but hoping he could distract her from getting to the root of what was bothering him.

“Oh, it was nice,” Hermione said casually, “but I didn’t get to spend very much time with Viktor – he was at practice a lot.”

“I bet that was exciting to watch,” Harry said with relish.

Hermione shrugged. “After the second day, I got bored. It was very awkward being by myself in a country I don’t know and don’t speak the language. It was very nice to see him, but he’s not the best host.”

Harry did not tell her that he would have given all the bones in his right arm to spend several days doing nothing but watching a World Cup finalist team practice. But it cheered him slightly to note her visit had not been as romantic as he’d feared.

“D’you still fancy him?” Harry asked in what he hoped was a casual way.

“Ye-es,” she said, drawing out the word, though it sounded more like a question.

“You sound unsure,” Harry said.

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “I know what you’re doing, Harry.”

“What am I doing?” he said, stopping short to look at her.

She wobbled on a tussock of dead grass, and Harry caught her before she could fall.

“Oh, thanks,” she said as Harry said, “Sorry.” He let go quickly and they both blushed.

She smelled nice, like a magnolia in late spring. He wasn’t sure if it was a perfume she wore or her shampoo.

“Anyway,” she said, sounding out of breath as they continued walking, “You are trying to get me to spill my guts so you don’t have to spill yours.”

Harry smiled ruefully. He should have known better. Hermione did not let things go. “How do you know I’m not just waiting my turn?”

“Because I know you,” she said, briefly squeezing his hand.

Harry was glad she could not see the reaction her words and touch caused. He suppressed a shiver, caused by a pleasant tingle that ran up his arm from his palm where she had touched him.

 

They took a lot of walks – through the village, on the Potter estate, along the River Severn and through the same woods in which his father used to carry him. He also took her swimming at the lake, though he waited for her to suggest it, unwilling to appear too eager to see her in a swimming costume.

He ignored his father’s knowing look as they packed a bag of towels and picnic fare in the kitchen. On their way out, his father gripped his bicep to pull him back.

“Go ahead,” Harry mumbled to Hermione. “Be right there.”

He looked at his father, resisting the urge to glare. “You’re being careful, right, son?” his father grinned.

“Shut up, Dad,” he said coolly, jerking his arm out of his father’s grasp. Sometimes, he hated how similar they looked.

Harry caught up with Hermione, who was walking slowly along the path that connected the village to the Potter estate and dragging a long, teasel headed stalk for Scout to chase. He took the bag from her and shouldered it.

“Everything all right?” she asked.

“Spectacular,” he mumbled.

They walked together, saying nothing. Harry was lost to his own thoughts. Trust Dad to ruin things, Harry thought.

Hermione tentatively broke the silence. “You know you can talk to me, don’t you Harry?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, reluctant to take her up on it.

But something in her kind smile broke through his reticence. “I thought Parvati ignoring me was the worst thing to happen,” he said. “But since I’ve been home, there’s something going on between my folks, and I hate being in the house.”

The rest of it flooded out – now that the dam had broken, he couldn’t stop. How he wanted to tell his mother about Parvati, but felt he could not ask her for comfort in the face of her own heartbreak. How he knew his mother still loved his father, but his father was more interested in living a past life.

“I can’t believe him,” Harry said angrily. “He has everything – great job, money, even richer parents, wife and a kid, his best mates to run around with and he acts like it’s nothing.

“It’s easier when I’m at Hogwarts, because I can just write him letters about Quidditch, but harder because… because I miss Mum.” He could admit this to Hermione, because she would not judge him or think him childish. “I don’t want to be anything like him, and I hate it when she looks at me and I know she’s thinking how much I look like Dad. Like it hurts her to be reminded of it.”

They reached the lake, but Harry didn’t feel like swimming anymore. He dropped their bag, picked up Scout, and cuddled her. She rubbed her head under his chin and purred soothingly. “I’m sorry, Harry,” Hermione said softly. “That’s really hard.”

Harry huffed, effectively conveying that was an understatement. They both knew he didn’t need a detailed analysis or therapy session, just to vent. Her sympathy was enough.

His eyes widened as she started to unbutton her shirt, effectively distracting him. He looked away quickly. “Are we swimming or not?” she asked, sounding annoyed. “We walked all the way here!”

“Right,” Harry said. It would be impolite to mope on the landing while she swam. He gently put down Scout and pulled his shirt over his head, attempting nonchalance.

He caught only a glance of her in her modest one piece before she jumped in feet first, pinching her nose shut.

She shrieked as she hit the water. “Fuck, it’s cold!” she shouted as she surfaced.

Harry bent over double in laughter. It always tickled him when she cursed. She splashed him and he hissed, jumping backwards. “Come in, then,” she challenged. He grinned and dove in after her, also shouting at the first shock of cold.

They spent hours doing stupid shite like breath holding contests and races, formally rating each other’s dives and jumps off the landing, and talking to each other underwater and guessing what they said, laughing at the absurdity.

It was the happiest afternoon he’d had since Ron’s visit. Not least because when Hermione eventually tired, she sunbathed on a towel, her face covered by a floppy, ridiculous looking sun hat. Scout curled up at her hip, her eyes blinking slowly until she fell asleep.

Harry could watch Hermione as he pretended to look out at the lake, munching on an apple. She wore a thin white garment that was somehow more suggestive than her swimsuit, and it was more fashionable looking than her usual wear. He noticed she had taken extra care with her clothing this visit, and he wondered if it was a new thing in general or solely for his benefit.

The white dress sort of thing, whatever it was called, was rendered see-through where her wet suit touched it. There were patches over her breasts, hips, and belly. Harry sat upright with the leg nearest to her pulled casually to his chest, to conceal his noticeable excitement.

He was close enough to touch her with an outstretched hand, if he felt brave enough. If she would allow it.

Harry suppressed a sigh, deciding she would not.

 

When she left, Harry felt himself spiralling. His mother noticed, and in an effort to cheer him up, she announced she would teach him to drive on the old carriage roads of the Potter estate. Grandad thought it was a marvellous novelty and could not be convinced to stay away.

With his grandfather chuckling and lurching in the backseat every time Harry stalled the old Fourtrak, Harry couldn’t help but feel his spirits rise. He had begun to wonder more and more of late how this cheerful, clever old gentleman could have produced someone as unhappy as Harry’s father.

Which made Harry determined to redouble his efforts against sullenness.

He thought of his upcoming fifteenth birthday. As he got older, he was less and less enthusiastic about the family celebrations. He wanted to spend it with his friends, doing something without any adults present.

Last summer, Hermione had dragged Harry and Ron to the cinema. Harry knew a little of movies, but Ron had never seen one. Harry thought they could do something like that again – they could even be watched at home if you had one of those telly boxes, which Hermione did.

He might even drive them around the estate – perhaps let them take turns at the wheel when out of view of the manor. Or sneak out in the dead of night to smoke and drink whisky, which his father would pretend not to notice was missing, and Hermione would pretend to disapprove of before joining in.

But Hermione and Ron were not available. Ron was with his family in Romania to see his older brother Charlie, a trip generously financed by his oldest brother Bill, who worked for Gringotts and made piles of gold. Hermione was in France with her parents.

The only thing Harry was really looking forward to was the yearly tradition of making his cake with his mother.

The night before his birthday, Harry and his mother were covered in sticky icing and sugar stars, giggling like idiots over Harry’s attempts to draw snitches in melted chocolate without magic.

“Lily!” his father called from the front room. “Sirius’ll be by in a few minutes; will you two be done?”

Harry and his mother looked at each other. They had only finished one tier – there were still two to go. “No,” Harry answered shortly. “What does it matter?”

“Because you’re coming out with us!” his father said jocularly. “Hurry up, then.”

Harry bit back his temper. “Not tonight Dad, all right?” he said, trying to sound friendly. “Mum and I are having a night in.”

“She can finish up without you, can’t she?”

“James,” his mother said quietly as Harry’s father came into the kitchen. She sounded like she was half admonishing, half pleading.

“No, Dad,” Harry said. “I’ve got plans. If you wanted me to come out, you should have said so at least a week ago.”

“Oh, I see,” his father said sarcastically. “I have to pencil in appointments with my own son now, do I? Are you his secretary?” he asked his mother.

“Leave it, Dad,” Harry said grinding his teeth.

“It’s all right, darling,” Harry’s mother said. “I’ll put everything in the icebox and we can finish it tomorrow.”

“No, we can’t!” Harry shouted. He cringed as his mother flinched away. She wouldn’t look at him as she slowly started to pack things up.

Furious with himself for scaring her, Harry jerked his head at his father to follow him out the back door into the garden.

“Can’t you just let me enjoy things?” Harry hissed as the door shut behind them. “Why d’you have to make everything about you?”

 “I’m not allowed to take you out for your birthday? The whole family will be here tomorrow and we won’t get a chance to spend time together.”

“All right, Dad, you know what?” Harry began. He almost never spoke back to his father like this, but he was too angry to feel scared or anxious. “You want to spend time with me? Maybe think about what I want to do for a change. Maybe invite my mates when we go out sometimes, instead of just yours. And better yet, how about you ask instead of demand?”

“You sound like your mother,” his father said dismissively.

“GOOD!” Harry bellowed, startling his father. “D’you actually think it’s impressive how you treat her? Like it’ll make me look up to you? You’re a washed up old maggot and I hope you drown in your own whisky,” he said viciously with an ugly curl of his upper lip.

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that –”

“If you want me to respect you, James,” Harry shouted over him, “you’ll have to fucking earn it!”

If it was not for his mother, Harry would have run away. Left for good. Gotten on the Knight Bus and fled to London. If Remus wasn’t one of James’ mates, Harry might have tried to stay with him.

Hermione’s parents would probably try to return him home, though they’d let him stay for a bit to cool off. Ron’s parents would let him stay as long as he wanted, but the thought of being another mouth to feed and a drain on their already exhausted resources would not allow Harry to consider it seriously.

So Harry walked to his grandparents’ estate. He was always welcome there, and it was not a place where he had to ring the doorbell or knock, but he did anyway.

He was glad it was Grandad who opened the door. “Well, it’s the birthday boy!” he said jovially. “Want to get the festivities started early, do we?” At a closer look at Harry’s face, Grandad frowned in concern. “What’s up, grandson?”

“Can I stay for a bit?” Harry asked, his voice shaking. 

“You know you can,” his grandfather chuckled. “Anytime. Let’s call Gran, she’ll help get your bedroom ready.”

“Not just yet, Grandad,” Harry said. He wasn’t ready for Gran to fuss over him and ask questions.

“Ah,” he said. “Well, then, come along to the shop. I was just about to put my potions to bed.”

Harry followed his grandfather, keeping his head down to hide his face, unsure what would show there. He worried about his mum. Would James be cruel to her without Harry there?

James was not a violent man, despite his career choice. But he used pointed silences and passive aggressive jabs as weapons. Instead of fixing things, he let them rot. Instead of talking things through, he left.

Just like I did, Harry thought miserably.

 

He spent the rest of the summer with his grandparents, staying in the guest suite on the first floor. His father did not come to his birthday celebration. When his Hogwarts letter came, he felt the envelope, hoping to find a badge, but there was only his supply list.

Harry tried not to show his disappointment in front of Gran and Grandad. Perhaps Hermione had been right, and he’d been wrong to neglect his studies in favour of Parvati. Still, it was a blow, and when he was alone, he took it hard. He spent hours just petting and cuddling Scout, pretending to be writing letters or reading.

Every time he saw his mother, he tried to make some kind of apology, or a joke, anything to erase those worry lines on her face. He wanted to ask if James was still at the cottage, or if he had disappeared. But every time he tried, the words died in his throat.

Chapter 3: Split

Harry was relieved when September finally came. His father was there on the platform, and while nothing had been forgotten, or even forgiven, it meant something to Harry when he pulled him into a tight hug and clapped him on the back.

He had not seen Ron or Hermione since their visits. But the curious thing about best friends is that you might go days, months, years, perhaps even decades without seeing them, and you are still able to pick up right where you left off.

Hermione was already waiting with Ron, and squealed when she caught sight of Harry, throwing herself into his arms and kissing his cheek. She had never done that before, and he was utterly delighted at her enthusiasm.

Ron gave him a one-armed hug and a manly slug to the bicep. Harry noticed something glinting on both his and Hermione’s robes. “Prefects,” he said, doing his best to sound proud and impressed. “Well done.”

Hermione and Ron shared a look. “It was a surprise,” she said hesitantly. “We thought you’d get it, Harry.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Harry said neutrally. He glanced over at his parents, who were listening. “See you in a bit,” he said to his friends as he went to say goodbye.

“Never mind, son,” Harry’s father said cheerfully. “I wasn’t a prefect, either.”

“No,” Harry said, feeling a prickle of resentment at his tone, “but you were Head Boy.”

“Not everything is all it’s cracked up to be,” he said.

His mother looked at him sympathetically, but had no words of comfort to offer. She hugged him quickly as the train blew its warning whistle, and Harry hopped aboard after Ron and Hermione.

He saw his father place a tentative hand on his mother’s shoulder as the train pulled away from the station. Harry waved and called goodbye with the rest of the students until the train turned a corner and they were out of sight.

Maybe they’ll work on things while I’m gone, he hoped.

“Well, shall we get a compartment?” he asked Ron and Hermione.

They looked at each other.

“Erm, we’re supposed to go up front with the prefects,” Hermione said awkwardly.

Ron didn’t look at him – he seemed to be very interested in the freckles on the back of his left hand.

“Oh,” said Harry. “That’s right.”

“We won’t be there long,” said Hermione quickly. “We just get our instructions from Head Boy and Girl and maybe patrol the corridors. We’ll be back with you soon, so save us a space?”

“Sure,” said Harry.

Ron glanced up at Harry. “I mean – it’s totally annoying – I’d much rather sit with you, but…”

“I know,” said Harry, and grinned. “I’ll see you later, then.”

But as he watched them go, carting Crookshanks and their trunks towards the front end of the train, Harry felt a pang of loss. He had never ridden the Hogwarts Express without Ron.

Harry carried Hedwig down the opposite direction of the corridor alone. All the compartments he passed were full. Several girls looked up and watched him with what he thought might be interest. That was new.

When he passed the carriage that contained Parvati, she looked at him in mild alarm. He looked back at her, held her gaze for a second, then looked pointedly away, as if she had not hurt him, as if it all meant nothing to him.

He finally found a carriage with Neville, Ron’s younger sister Ginny, and a blond girl Harry had seen before but didn’t know her name. He murmured a hello and pretended to read a magazine that had been left on the seat.

Why hadn’t he been made a prefect? His marks were excellent, he didn’t get into very much trouble, and he had shown his worth as a mentor and example for younger students… He was the poster boy of what a prefect should be.

Wasn’t he?

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry’s melancholy enveloped him like a shroud. He felt sometimes that it was a tangible thing, and if he put his hand out, he would feel resistance. Like an elastic band. No matter how hard he pushed, it would always snap back into place.

He went through the motions. He participated in class, did his homework, went to bed at a reasonable hour, ate regularly, and spent time with his friends. He tutored younger Gryffindors in Transfiguration. He put on a smile when people were looking. He had Quidditch practices to focus on, and now Ron was on the team with him as Keeper.

Only Hermione noticed how he was suffering.

It was more than not being chosen as prefect, but Harry couldn’t put a name to it. He had wanted more than anything to get away from his father, his well-meaning but overly solicitous grandparents, the cottage that held onto things, as if sadness and neglect were charmed into the walls, but now that he was… he missed it.

Or perhaps he missed how things used to be. Before he started to notice the restrained way his parents spoke to each other, the way his mother’s eyes followed his father through the window when he left in the morning for work.

He wished he could go back to when that front window meant something different. When it meant watching eagerly for his father to come home, bouncing impatiently in the time it took for him to unlock the door. The jubilation of being swept up into his father’s strong arms and being told how much he’d missed his boy.

When his mother smiled easily, when she closed her eyes and made a little hum in the back of her throat when his father kissed her – back when they still put their arms around each other when they kissed. When Harry would cry, “Euuurgh!” at their affection, but be secure in the knowledge that they loved each other and that they loved their only son.

“It’s called depression, Harry,” Hermione said gently. She had words for everything – his brilliant, inquisitive, perceptive friend. “Muggles usually find a professional to talk to.”

“You can get paid for talking?” Ron asked, only half listening. “How much?”

Hermione glared at him. “You are an insensitive wart,” she said, pointing a finger at him.

It made Harry laugh, at least. And having a name for it… well, it actually helped. It was not Harry’s fault, but a result of a bad situation.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Dear Mum,

I am doing well – I hope you are, too. Hermione is already stressing about OWLs and driving Ron up the wall. I wouldn’t mind, but the color-coded notes are kind of distracting.

Classes are going well. Remus’ Professor Lupin’s are always the best. He says thank you for the invigoration draught. He would have told you himself, but the full moon is tomorrow and he won’t be in a state to write for the next couple of days.

We have the most AWFUL substitute this year when he’s out each month. Professor Umbridge. Some Ministry hag from the Department of Magical Education who thinks it’s her mission in life to bully children and “spread the gospel of bigotry,” as Hermione says. I got detention for telling her to stuff her hole and I’m not sorry.

I hope you are not working too hard. Please don’t take such long shifts as last year. I don’t need constant supervision all summer, you can still work normal hours when I come home.

Is Scout all right? I worry about her. Are you sure I can’t take her? Even Professor McGonagall would look the other way – she loves cats. Or I could pretend she’s Ron’s cat.

I’m sending you my Potions essay – can you write and tell Snape that lactobezoars are found in calf stomachs and are, in fact, so effective in small children that St. Mungo’s has contracts with dairy farms all over the country? I’m so sick of his nitpicking, especially when he’s outright wrong – you know he doesn’t do it with any other student.

Love,

Harry

He did not tell her that his father stopped writing to him.

An unexpected side effect of Harry’s inner turmoil was that it made him appear interesting to others. All of a sudden, Cho Chang and a third year called Romilda Vane were eager to talk to him. He was the object of many feminine gazes in the corridors. Even Ginny Weasley’s eyes followed him in the common room and at meal times.

It seemed every girl except the one he really wanted was suddenly interested.

“They want to fix you,” Hermione said bluntly, scraping her quill over her parchment to cross out a poorly worded sentence. “They think you’re this tortured soul who just needs a womanly touch to be set right. Add in that you’re already popular…”

“I am?” said Harry. Hermione’s ginger cat, Crookshanks, was curled up on his lap, and Harry tickled him under his chin.

She clicked her tongue at him. “Honestly, Harry, do you really think most people get their way as easily as you do?”

While Harry pondered this, Ron tried to look over Hermione’s shoulder at her parchment. She covered it with her hands, smearing the fresh ink, and scowled at him.

“Who are you writing to?” Ron asked.

“Viktor,” she said, her cheeks going pink. Harry’s attention telescoped on the conversation. He thought she’d been working on a particularly long essay. She was nearly to the end of a full roll of parchment.

“Has he asked you to call him ‘Vicky’ yet?” Ron asked peevishly.

“Ho ho,” Hermione said in a bored voice. “Maybe you should try dating; it might make you less interested in my love life.”

Harry laughed. While her attention was diverted by her letter, he watched her. She seemed to grow prettier every time he saw her.

He did not notice Ron watching him very closely.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

It felt like sacrilege, but in Harry’s defence, he was a fifteen-year-old boy. His shower thoughts about Hermione made him spend an unholy amount of time under the water.

It did make him feel better, if only temporarily.

“Glad someone’s happy,” commented Ron as Harry came back into the dormitory, feeling pleasantly buoyant and calm.

“It’s a nice day,” Harry said, dropping his wash bag on his bed and glancing out the window at a drizzly Sunday afternoon.

“Hmph.”

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.”

Harry shrugged. If Ron didn’t want to tell him, he wasn’t about to wheedle it out of him. He sat on his bed, wrapped in a dressing gown, to towel dry his hair.

Ron watched him sullenly. “What d’you think she sees in him?”

“Who?”

“Hermione. What does she see in Krum?”

Harry looked up at him incredulously. “What does Hermione see in an international Quidditch star?”

Ron huffed. “She doesn’t care that much about Quidditch, and he’s all the way in Bulgaria!”

“Maybe he writes good letters.”

“You don’t think he sends her expensive presents, or… money, do you?”

“If she was a witch who could be won over by that kind of thing, I’d have –” Harry stopped himself just in time. He concentrated very hard on picking up his comb.

He looked up when Ron’s silence and stillness went on for far too long.

“What?” Harry asked defensively.

“You fancy her,” Ron said, frowning in an accusatory sort of way.

“Well, so do you!” Harry retorted, not seeing the point in denying it. “Can’t blame a bloke for seeing the same things you do.”

“Yeah, but…”

Harry knew what he was thinking. What would it mean for their friendship if they were to pursue the same girl? It would be one thing if she wasn’t at all interested in either of them, and he and Ron could commiserate and find a way to move on, but Harry wasn’t sure he could stand it if Hermione preferred Ron.

And I reckon he feels the same, he thought, his heart sinking.

There was also the risk Harry might lose her as a friend if things went sideways. He really did like Hermione and seemed to be falling harder for her by the day, but more than anything else, he wanted to always be friends. He couldn’t imagine his life any other way.

That would be the last time they spoke of it that year. But they watched each other, and paid close attention whenever Hermione spoke to the other. Harry wasn’t comfortable with the idea of competing with Ron, so he never made a move.

He wondered, though, why Ron didn’t, either.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry decided he liked talking to Cho. They had Quidditch in common, both playing Seeker for their House Quidditch teams, and he liked hearing her stories about her siblings, having none himself. They both liked kids, and looking after younger students. Harry thought that was one of the things she especially fancied him for.

Because she did like him. She said it early on. Harry realised he fancied her back. It was not the same as what he felt for Hermione, but that was a part of him that he kept under lock and key. Only Ron knew.

Cho thought he was charming, which only encouraged him to flirt and find ways to make her blush. He tried out stupid lines on her and was amazed when they worked.

Just a fortnight before Christmas break, they were walking in the corridors, holding hands. Eager to try a new tactic he’d thought up during Herbology, Harry pulled Cho behind a tapestry, where he levitated a sprig of mistletoe over their heads and smiled at her pointedly.

She giggled and put her arms around him as he kissed her. It was a slow, sweet kiss, somehow far from the fumbling but enthusiastic ones he’d shared with Parvati. It awoke something in him that was neither puppy love nor deep affection, but somewhere in between.

And it was like that for a blissful two weeks, where they talked more than they kissed, but they still kissed a lot. When they passed each other in the corridors, at the end of hastily eaten meals in the Great Hall. While walking along snow-lined streets in Hogsmeade, in the glow of fairy lights and streetlamps festooned with holly and evergreen.

He vaguely noticed that Hermione was more reserved these days, and kept watch over her, despite his distraction. After all, there were many times Harry could not see Cho – she was in Ravenclaw and a year older than Harry was.

Ron, who had not tried dating per Hermione’s advice, was sadly oblivious. It was a character flaw, in Harry’s opinion.

Harry wasn’t sure what to do for Hermione. She never spoke about what was upsetting her, and he didn’t ask. But he patted her on the shoulder and gave her a bracing smile in the moments when she stared out at nothing, worrying her lip. She would smile back, and there was warmth in her eyes.

“Do you have any big Christmas plans?” Harry asked her while Ron cursed over a particularly nasty Potions essay and told off a group of third years for laughing too much.

“Skiing with my parents,” she said.

“What’s skiing?” he asked.

Hermione sighed and put her face in her hands. She always did this when she was about to explain some daft thing Muggles did. Ron stopped what he was doing to listen. “You strap long pieces of plastic and lightweight metal to your feet and ride them down a snowy hill.”

Harry and Ron burst out laughing. The third years Ron had just told off scowled. Hermione didn’t even try to explain the nuances anymore; she just laughed along, knowing it all sounded absurd no matter what.

“It sounds fun, anyway,” Harry chortled, wiping his eyes under his glasses. 

Hermione made a face. “Well, they certainly like it. I think they’re hoping if we go enough times, I will, too.”

“But you don’t.”

“But I don’t,” she agreed wryly.

Harry knew something of parents who had strong opinions on what their children should like.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The day before Christmas break began, all thoughts of Hermione were blown from Harry’s mind. Hedwig brought him a very short letter at breakfast. His heart leapt in his chest when he recognised the handwriting. It was from Dad!

Heart pounding, Harry flipped it open.

Dear Harry,

I’ve been put on a long assignment that will last for several weeks. I’m sorry, but I won’t be home for Christmas. It will be just Mum picking you up at the station.  

Love,

Dad

“Why bother writing?” Harry mumbled, crumpling the letter in his fist. He thought he understood – his mum had made James write it.

“If you’re not going to be there, the least you can do is tell him yourself! I’m done making excuses for you,” Harry imagined her saying.

His father, for all his faults, had always made time for Harry, even if they were misguided attempts to bond by doing things James liked. This absence for events important to Harry – his birthday and now Christmas, was new.

It’s my fault, he thought miserably. I should have just gone out with him and Sirius instead of mouthing off.

Harry was terribly preoccupied when Cho came to see him, unable to think about anything else. He kissed her, because he couldn’t explain what was wrong. It distracted her, which was good.

His distress must have been especially obvious, as even Ron watched him with concern. He shared a look with Hermione, like they had been talking about Harry for a while and were going back to a specific discussion point.

Harry did not know if it was a relief to board the Hogwarts Express or not.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry’s mother put on a valiant effort to be cheerful for him. They cut Christmas trees from the Potter estate with Gran and Grandad and hauled them into the manor to decorate them. They dragged theirs home on a sledge with Scout perched happily in the branches like a fluffy Christmas angel.

The sweet little cat was slowing down in her old age. She liked to be carried around now, rubbing her face under Harry’s chin and purring like a kitten. They were rarely apart, and he spoke stupid little platitudes to her that only a fellow cat lover could forgive.

“Mum,” Harry said. “I really want to take Scout back to Hogwarts.”

Harry’s mother huffed in a rare expression of impatience. “Darling, I don’t know how many times we have to go through this. She’s too old!”

“That’s why I want her,” Harry argued. “I never get to see her, and while I’m gone she might…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

His mother softened. “You know cats hate change, love. Let her stay where she’s happy, where it’s quiet and she can keep familiar company.”

It was a gentle reminder that his mother was alone. Harry nodded. He wouldn’t ask again.

At their cottage, they made snickerdoodles and gingerbread together, drank hot chocolate with peppermint syrup, and went to the little church in the village on Christmas Eve for the midnight carol service.

On Christmas Day, they went to the Potter manor, where Gran spoiled and fussed over Harry, taking every opportunity to stuff him with sweetmeats and slip galleons in his pockets.

Along with other gifts from the rest of the family and his friends was a present from his father under the tree. Everyone stopped to watch as Harry opened it. Out of the bright paper slid a silky, silvery something and a note:

Harry,

This cloak is very special to our family. I wish I could be there to give it to you, but Grandad can explain.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year,

Dad

His mother and his grandfather shared a look.

“A cloak?” Harry said flatly, picking it up. The material was strange – lighter than air, like smoke made solid. It felt cool and mysterious in his hand.

“Put it on,” said Grandad.

Harry stood and obliged. He looked down at himself, only to find he had disappeared!

“An Invisibility Cloak,” Grandad said. “A very, very powerful one. It’s been in the family for centuries.”

“I didn’t know invisibility cloaks could last that long,” Harry said, twisting to look at himself at different angles. It was the strangest thing – there was no hint of shadow or shimmer of movement – he may as well not have been there at all.

“They don’t – Professor Dumbledore thinks it was made by one of the Peverells,” his mother said.

“The Headmaster knows about the Cloak?” Harry asked in surprise. He had known the old Professor lived here in his youth, but not many spoke about it, and Harry wasn’t interested enough to ask. He didn’t know who the Peverells were, only that the little graveyard behind the village church had several graves marked with the name.

“Remind me to read you a story sometime.” His mother’s smile was sad.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Two days later, on a very ominous afternoon, Harry’s mother sat him down in the kitchen. It had always been a safe place for them. Harry picked up Scout and she curled up in his lap.

“Darling, there’s something… well, I wish your father was here so we could tell you together, but…”

Harry’s heart sank at the sadness in his mother’s eyes, the quiver in her voice. She took a deep, fortifying breath. “Your father and I –” She stopped. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she opened her mouth again, but no words came out.

Harry took her hand across the table. “Mum… it’s okay, he said soberly. “I know. You and Dad are divorcing.”

She inhaled sharply, and nodded once. Her mouth went very thin and Harry knew she was willing herself not to cry. He had seen it far too many times, after his father spoke sharply to her or did not come home when expected. “How did you know?” she asked shakily. “Did he write to you?”

“No,” Harry said gently. “I have eyes, Mum. It hasn’t been right between you two for ages.”

She laughed humourlessly. Harry’s heart broke for his mother as she clapped a hand over her mouth, but not soon enough to stifle the sob that broke from it. She squeezed her eyes shut so tightly he saw the edges of her lids turn white.

Harry quickly moved Scout and stood to come around the table. He bent low and took his mother in his arms as she struggled to get hold of herself. “Mum. You don’t have to pretend for me.”

He held her as she cried, great sobs that she had clearly been holding in for a long time. Perhaps years. He told her he loved her and that it was okay, that it would be okay, he was here and not going anywhere. He didn’t realise it, but they were the same words and soothing tone she’d used for him all his life, from when he fell ill, when he toppled off his toy broomstick, when his cousin beat him up, and when their grandmotherly neighbour Bathilda died.

“When did you grow up, Harry?” she sobbed.

He knew she didn’t want an answer. He had grown up a long time ago, simply because there was no other alternative.

 

Harry might have borne it all with a stiff upper lip. It was not like it was unexpected. Or, he reasoned, entirely unwelcome, if it gave his mother a chance for happiness.

Except for what happened next.

When he awoke the next morning, Scout was curled up at his hip, her face scrunched up in the endearing manner of sleeping cats. When she did not flick her ear at his good morning or stir when he got up, Harry gently touched her. “Scout?”

She was cold and stiff.

“Mum,” Harry said, bringing her little body into his mother’s room, where she was just sitting up. “Mum,” he said again, his voice breaking.

They buried poor little Scout under a magnolia tree in the back garden, where she had loved to chase and tumble with the petals when they fell.

It was the final straw for Harry. He shut himself in his room with a little toy mouse Scout had loved. He would not come out to eat, and he slept most of the day and night, waking only to realise how bleak things were and fall back asleep into anxiety-fuelled dreams. He timed his bathroom breaks so he would not have to look at his mother’s drawn, pale face and know that he was disappointing her.

He would not open his window for the owls that tapped at it, nor answer his mother or grandparents when they knocked on his door.

On the fourth day of this, Harry was sitting up in bed, turning Scout’s little toy in his hands. He heard the outer door open and his mother murmuring to someone. Probably his grandmother again.

There came a sharp and sudden pounding on his door, very unlike Gran’s gentle knock.

“I know you’re awake,” said Hermione’s voice. “Will you please come out? I want to talk to you.”

Harry leapt out of bed, tripping over the tangles of his sheets.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, throwing the door open. “Aren’t you supposed to be, er, skidding?”

In spite of his black mood, Harry had to appreciate how pretty she was. Her cheeks were pink with cold and there was snow in her hair. “Skiing,” she corrected him gently, “and I told you; it’s not my thing.”

Harry followed her out into the hall, hastily shutting the door on his rumpled bed. He was sadly aware he hadn’t showered or changed clothes in days as Hermione led him down the stairs, where there was another surprise in the sitting room.

Harry’s mother sat in her favourite armchair. On the table was her best tea service that she only brought out for her favourite guests. Ron was sitting on the sofa adjacent to her. They both looked up from steaming cups of tea as Harry and Hermione entered the room.

His mother smiled gently and took her leave, carrying her tea upstairs. Harry was still until he heard the door to her office close.

“What’s this, then?” asked Harry gruffly.

“Afternoon tea with your best friends,” Hermione said. “We came on the Knight Bus. Sit down.”

He wasn’t in the mood to be lectured, but he was also in no state to fight. He sat on the far end of the sofa, feeling defensive.

Ron hastily poured two more cups of tea as Hermione sat in the chair Harry’s mother had vacated. Ron’s fingers brushed Harry’s as he passed one to him.

“Look,” Harry grunted when he could no longer bear the silence. “I’ve got every right to be upset.”

“Nobody’s saying you don’t, mate,” Ron said quickly as Hermione said, “That’s not why we came.”

“Why did you come, then?”

“Because that’s what friends do,” Hermione said.

“You would do it for us, wouldn’t you?” said Ron.

Harry looked between them. “Yeah,” he finally said, his voice breaking. And just like it had been over the summer, under Hermione’s kind smile and Ron’s bracing look, Harry told them.

“It’s more than… Scout,” Harry began. “My parents are splitting. My dad doesn’t want to see me.”

Ashamed, Harry went on, looking into his tea as he felt his eyes prick. “And I’m sorry, Ron, but I don’t know why you were chosen for prefect over me. I didn’t think you wanted it, but I did.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Ron. Harry did not look up from his tea, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione aim a kick at Ron’s shin.

“Ow! Er, I mean, I’m glad you told me?” Harry did look up at that, and saw Ron look questioningly at Hermione as he rubbed his shin.

She nodded surreptitiously. Harry had to laugh.

“I don’t know why, either, mate,” Ron went on, “because you’re right. I didn’t want it or expect it. I wasn’t the one the littler kids went to at night.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked.

“Oh, I guess you wouldn’t know. Sometimes the first and second years in the boys’ dormitories get really homesick or scared at night, and Harry always gets up and sits with them, even if he’s exhausted from Quidditch.”

It was Hermione’s turn to say, “I didn’t know that.” Here eyes were shining with softness and something like… pride?

Harry shrugged. He liked the way she looked at him, as if he were someone worth admiring. His spirits lifted ever so slightly.

Ron cleared his throat. “I could resign,” he said.

“Why the fuck would you do that?” Harry said.

He shrugged. “I just thought… you know, if you want it more than me…”

“Ron…” said Hermione, and now she was giving him the same look.

Harry shook his head. “No, don’t do that.” It was a great mark of friendship and loyalty that Ron would willingly give up anything that set him apart from his brothers. “I should have done better to show I’m happy for you.”

And I should have spoken to him instead of bottling it up. It eased the hurt of being passed over.

“I’m sorry about your parents. And poor Scout,” said Hermione.

“She was a good kitty,” agreed Ron. “I liked how she always followed us around.”

“Even to the lake,” said Harry, wiping his eyes under his glasses. “All that splashing and she still wanted to be there.”

Ron scooted closer and put an arm around Harry. Some of the tension left Harry’s shoulders. When Hermione sat on the arm of the sofa next to him and hugged him, he closed his eyes, feeling like he could take a full breath for the first time in ages.

 

His mum convinced Harry to spend New Year’s with his friends. Hermione suggested her house, but Harry wanted to go to the Burrow, the Weasleys’ home in Ottery St. Catchpole. He touched her arm to soften the disappointment. “Nothing against your parents or your house,” he said. “I just want to be someplace noisy where I can forget about everything and be distracted.”

“That’s actually wise,” she approved.

Harry shrugged. “It’s been known to happen.”

When Harry was all set to Floo in from his sitting room to the Burrow, his mother came to say goodbye. She was wearing a pretty, emerald green dress with gold embroidery. It made her green eyes and dark red hair stand out.

“You look nice, Mum,” he said. “Are you sure you’ll be okay without me?”

She smiled at him. “Darling, I haven’t seen my friends in ages. We’re hitting the town. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“All the same,” Harry said, hugging her, “I do.”

At that, her smile became sad. “I suppose I’ve leaned on you far too much these past years. It shouldn’t be that way between parents and their children – I’m supposed to worry about you.”

Harry squirmed uncomfortably. That was just how they were and there was no point getting worked up over it, or fretting about how things should be. He’d felt responsible for her for a long time, as if by taking care of her, he could make up for the way his father was.

Harry wanted to prove, no matter how much they looked alike, that he was not James.

 

New Year’s at the Burrow was exactly the distraction Harry needed. The three oldest Weasley brothers, Bill, Charlie, and Percy, were not there, but it was still a good-sized party. In addition to Harry, Ron, and Hermione, there were Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Fred and George with their friend Lee Jordan, and Ginny and Luna – the girl from the train at the beginning of the year. She was in Ginny’s year and from Ravenclaw.

The twins, who had been working on creating and selling novelty products for over a year, had a fantastic array of magical fireworks: sparklers and smoke grenades, Catherine wheels and fountains, roman candles and cakes, rockets and mines, and some truly stunning works that formed moving shapes of animals, flowers, and stars.

Mrs. Weasley always had an incredible spread of food at every gathering that left Harry wishing he had a second (or third, or fourth) stomach to sample it all. And that was how Harry, Hermione, and Ron found themselves, stuffed to the gills and groaning on a picnic blanket as glittering hippogriffs and thunderbirds gambolled over their heads.

Hermione was between them as they lay on their backs under the waning gibbous moon, gazing at the sky full of light and noise. Despite her thick coat, she shivered, and Harry and Ron made casually innocent movements, as if to merely settle themselves more comfortably, that just so happened to draw them closer to her.

Soon the countdown to midnight would begin. Between the bangs and whistles and pops of the fireworks, Harry heard tinny music coming from Mr. Weasley’s old wireless.

Ginny and Luna plopped down onto their blanket. Ginny shoved her brother’s feet out of the way (“Gerroff, Ginny!”) and rolled the excess blanket around herself.

“Are we kissing at midnight?” Luna asked serenely. She was one of those people who had no compunctions saying awkward things or making prolonged eye contact.

Harry and Ron’s eyes locked over Hermione’s head. “No,” they said at once.

“Hm, too bad,” Luna said. “Kissing on holidays repels nargles.” Luna was also one of those people who were completely daft. Harry thought he heard a stifled giggle from Ginny’s roll of blanket.

“What are nargles?” Ron asked.

“Never mind that,” Hermione said sharply. “Listen!”

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, the twins, and Lee Jordan were counting down from thirty in unison with a jovial voice on the wireless.

When the count got down to ten, a strong impulse made him look at Ron again. He was already looking back, the bright moon reflected in his blue eyes. A feeling Harry did not understand passed through him.

In unspoken agreement, they moved closer to Hermione, who seemed oblivious to what was happening as she happily counted down with the others.

When the count reached one, there was a great, thundering BOOM! that Harry felt in his chest. An enormous gold and green dragon spread its wings against the sky, made of hundreds of glittering sparks.

Over cheers and calls of “Happy New Year,” as the rest of the gathering was distracted by the pyrotechnics, Ron and Harry kissed Hermione between them, upon her cheeks. She startled and sat up.

Nobody else seemed to notice anything had happened. Luna and Ginny were singing Auld Lang Syne, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were kissing with flutes of sparkling champagne in hand, the twins and Lee Jordan were setting off more fireworks.

Hermione looked down at them, her eyes wide and glassy. Harry’s lips tingled with pleasant warmth.

“Happy New Year, Hermione,” Ron said.

“Goodness,” she said weakly, touching where their lips had been.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry considered writing to his father, to tell him that he knew he and his mum were divorcing. Now that he had some time to sit and reflect, he had moved from sadness to anger. In Harry’s mind, there was no way his mother could have any fault in the matter – all his ire and blame were directed towards James.

As such, he found himself more reserved and aloof in Defence Against the Dark Arts classes. Anyone who was his father’s friend must take James’ side in the matter, and Harry had nothing to say to them.

Sirius had reached out through a letter that infuriated Harry. His godfather insinuated that Harry should bridge the gap between himself and James. As if it was Harry’s fault they were not speaking. The very end had been nothing more than a guilt trip – “Your father loves and misses you very much. At the end of the day, you only ever have one dad.” 

Harry felt fathers were more trouble than they were worth.

When Harry got detention for yet again mouthing off to Dolores Umbridge about her anti-werewolf views, just days after returning to Hogwarts, he had to serve it with Professor Lupin. Hermione watched with shrewd eyes as Harry left the common room on a Sunday night to complete it.

Harry headed down to the shore of the Great Lake, bundled in just about every cloak, muffler, and hat he owned, where the professor was waiting for him. He looked drawn and pale in the moonlight, and thinner, as he often did immediately after a full moon.

“Harry,” he said warmly. “We’re going grindylow fishing tonight – I need a few for my third years to study.”

It wasn’t a complicated set up. He had a self-baiting, self-casting fishing pole that he set to work at the edge of the water, which was frozen in spots, next to a bait bucket of common frogs.

Harry watched the first cast as it flew elegantly over the still water, breaking through the thin rime with a crunch and a splash. He wondered why he was even needed if it was that easy.

Professor Lupin taught Harry a simple warming charm that could be used on anything that would hold heat, whether that was a blanket or a forgotten cup of tea. Harry practiced on his innermost cloak.

As he was enveloped in a soothing heat and Lupin poured hot soup out of a thermos for the both of them, Harry realised he’d been effectively buttered up. “I thought we might catch up,” Professor Lupin said as they sat on a flat rock.

“Right,” Harry said, blowing on his mug of chicken and vegetable soup. But he didn’t know what to say.

“Your mother told me about the divorce. I’m sorry – it must be very difficult.”

Harry nodded once. It was sort of an understatement.

When Harry said nothing, Lupin went on. “And I imagine you think that because I’m your father’s friend, it’s a matter of choosing sides.”

Harry still said nothing. Lupin looked at him, gauging his expression. “I want you to know… Lily is my friend just as much James.”

“So if there’s a side, you’re taking hers? Is that what you mean?”

“I mean if you want to talk about it, it stays between us. I don’t have to tell either of them anything.”

Harry was quiet for some time, looking out at the lake, at the non-twitching pole. It suddenly occurred to him that grindylows hibernated in the winter, sleeping in the thickest lakeweed, packed tightly together for warmth. They only roused if disturbed.

It was actually sort of touching, realising the lengths Remus went to just to allow Harry the space to open up. His father would have either tried to force things out of him, taken him out to the pub in a misguided attempt to cheer him up, or ignored Harry’s feelings entirely.

“I don’t get him,” Harry finally said.  “He has all the things in life most people want, and he’s still not happy. He doesn’t write except to say he won’t be around. Even if things are bad between him and Mum, why is he taking it out on me?”

Remus seemed to think carefully before answering. “You deserve better,” was all he said.

“It’s his fault,” Harry said angrily, “the divorce. I’m not stupid, I see that he stays out late and Mum waits up for him. I’ll bet… I’ll bet he’s been seeing someone else.”

There it was. The thing Harry had suspected but had never put words to. Had never wanted to put words to. He looked at Remus, who looked utterly shocked.

“Just tell it to me straight. Is he stepping out on Mum?”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t have ever believed it of him,” Remus said. “There was… an incident a long time ago, but I’m not sure if I should be the one to tell you.”

Harry glared at him. “If you’re going to start it, have the decency to finish,” he said sharply. “Or why are we even out here?”

Remus sighed. “All right. Do you remember our – er, friend Peter Pettigrew?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “You all had some kind of falling out.” He wasn’t at all fussed – there had always been something weird about their watery-eyed friend. It had been no surprise to him that “Wormtail” could turn into a literal rat.

“Yes, well, we were all fast friends, as you know. James and Sirius became Animagi to keep me company during my transformations and helped Peter through it as well – he was never as clever as them and couldn’t have managed on his own. Anyway, about halfway through your first year at Hogwarts, Peter told James Lily was having an affair.”

At the look on Harry’s face, Remus hastily amended, “It was a lie, of course. A nasty one. But the worst part was, James believed it. It caused a horrible stir.”

“Why would he believe it?” Harry asked.

Remus cleared his throat. “It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

He looked away from Harry. “Peter said it was me she was having the affair with.”

“Okay,” said Harry with a very hard stare. “But why would he believe it?”

“Because maybe half a year before, I lost a job when my employer found out I was a werewolf. I could no longer afford the Wolfsbane potion, so Lily made it for me. I would come to St. Mungo’s on her breaks every day for a week each month, and we’d have lunch or coffee together. It was only ever friendship. If James had been there, he would have known that, but he was taking longer and longer assignments. Peter told him Lily was coming to my house at night, while he was gone.”

“He’s a stupid fuck,” Harry said savagely.

“Peter or James?” Remus asked with a chuckle.

“Well, both, but mostly my dad. She was over the moon for him, she would never – never do anything like that.”

“I don’t know what he was thinking,” Remus agreed. “But if you’re asking me if I think he had a retaliatory affair, I just can’t see it of him. Likely he just went to the pub more often, or sometimes he’d turn into a stag and run through the woods to clear his head.”

Harry could definitely believe it of his dad. If he could refuse to even write to his own son, stop coming on birthdays and Christmas, who was to say he wouldn’t hurt his wife that way?

“It’s not something you have to shoulder, Harry,” Remus said gently. “Let them work it out. I have hope James will come around, though I won’t deny he’s being a bit of an idiot right now.”

“I wish Dad was more like you,” Harry mumbled.

Remus put an arm around Harry’s shoulders and gave him a friendly shake, but said nothing. They watched the waning moon over the lake and listened to the silence of the winter night.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The next Hogsmeade weekend fell close to Valentine’s Day, and Harry and Cho had plans to meet there. He was doing a last second check on his appearance in the shiny patina of a lampstand, so he wasn’t paying attention when Hermione entered the room.

“Aren’t you coming, Hermione?” said Ron. Harry looked around. Hermione was in her pyjamas, a dressing gown wrapped tightly overtop. Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun.

“No, I think I’ll stay. You go on.”

Harry and Ron looked at each other, then back at Hermione.

“We broke up,” she said flatly. “Viktor and me. I – I’m just going to have a night in with my feelings.”

“Oh,” Harry said, unsure what the appropriate response should be.

“Don’t worry about me,” Hermione said gruffly. “I’ll see you later.”

Ron looked at Harry. Harry glared at Ron. “I’ll just… you know what? It would be very irresponsible to shirk my prefect duties for frivolity. It’s better I stay here.”

“How… mature of you,” said Harry disapprovingly.

He was very distracted his whole date with Cho. They were in a steamy little coffee shop bedecked in violently red and pink hearts, with lacy little doilies everywhere. Harry thought his grandmother on his mother’s side would have approved.

Cho noticed. “Is there somewhere else you’d rather be?” she said coolly.

“What?” Harry said. “No, of course not.”

It was a lie. Not because of Cho – the golden cherubs flying around and heart shaped confetti were revolting and reminded him of an anonymous singing Valentine he’d once received that compared his eyes to a fresh pickled toad and rhymed his name with “marry.” He hoped he’d never find out who sent it – he would have to hex them on principle.

“Because you keep staring out the window when I’m trying to talk to you,” Cho said, raising her brows at him over the rim of her coffee cup.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, rubbing grit out of his eyes. “Just didn’t sleep well.” He couldn’t even see out the window with all the condensation – he was just staring into space, thinking about Ron comforting Hermione.

Things went downhill from there, not least because Harry stupidly admitted he was worried about Hermione when Cho continued to needle him about his feelings.

“Then maybe you should just go back and check on her,” Cho said viciously.

Harry was nonplussed. He wouldn’t be upset with her if she was concerned about a friend. Or at least, he didn’t think he would. “Cho, what are you –”

“You think she’s prettier than me, don’t you?”

“What are you on about? She’s my friend!”

“And I bet now that she’s single, you’ll be chasing after her.”

“No, I – what is your problem?” People were starting to stare.

“I’ll see you around, Harry,” she said dramatically, standing and storming out of the shop, leaving Harry with the bill and a lot of questions.

 

Harry had lost all interest in Hogsmeade. He couldn’t find Cho, despite calling out for her like an idiot and peering in shop windows. He went back to the castle with absolutely no idea what he’d done wrong. Hermione was eager to tell him while Ron toasted marshmallows in the common room fire.

“You shouldn’t have mentioned me at all,” she said patiently, “or at least told her you think I’m an ugly hag.”

“But you’re not!” Harry almost shouted. “Anyway, it’s no secret you’re my best friend. Why can’t I mention you?”

“Harry, it was the way you said it. You were on a date, for Valentine’s Day, no less, and you admitted you were thinking about me instead of Cho.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up in his frustration. “I thought you’re supposed to be able to tell the truth in a relationship. I thought things were good.”

“People always wonder when a boy and girl are best friends. She might have felt threatened by our friendship all along,” Hermione said wisely.

He huffed. “Then she should have just said something instead of letting it fester.”

“People get stupid in matters of love.” She looked very introspective for a moment, before adding, “For what it’s worth, Harry, I appreciate your concern for me.”

Harry shrugged. “You’re my best friend. You’ll always be my best friend.”

Hermione beamed at him. “I know. Same.”

Ron came over, licking his sticky fingers. “There’s some left, d’you want any?” he asked, indicating the half empty bag of marshmallows.

“No, thanks,” Hermione said, while Harry said, “Later.”

“Is this what you’ve been doing the whole time I was gone?” Harry asked.

“Pretty much,” Ron said far too innocently.

“No, he’s been very nice to me,” Hermione insisted, spots of colour appearing high on her cheeks. “Though I’m not sure listing all of Viktor’s faults was helpful.”

“You’re better off,” Harry said immediately. “Who broke it off, anyway?”

“I did,” Hermione said. “It was just too much to ask for a long-distance relationship. And I realised I didn’t want the attention of being his girlfriend. He must have mentioned me by name, because I’ve gotten some very nasty post from random women.”

“Aw,” Harry said. “Do you want us to screen your letters?”

She shook her head. “That’s very kind, but I’m sure they’ll dry up once it’s clear we’re not together anymore.”

“Or get worse because his fans’ll hate you for breaking his heart,” Ron said helpfully.

“Thanks, Ron,” Hermione said.

With Hermione’s help, Harry apologized to Cho. And while he couldn’t bring himself to say Hermione was an ugly hag, he did lie and say he wasn’t at all attracted to her. Cho forgave him and things were even better than before – there was quite a bit of snogging and she allowed him to touch her in places Parvati had not.

Once again, Hermione had to admonish him for neglecting his studies.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry went home for Easter break. Cho promised to visit him in Godric’s Hollow, but Harry didn’t have high hopes after what happened with Parvati.

He was pleasantly surprised when she followed through. His Invisibility Cloak proved very useful for sneaking around with her. Though, he wondered if it was really necessary – his mother was very practical and generally trusted Harry to make good decisions for himself. But mainly, she was terribly distracted and likely wouldn’t have noticed even blatant displays of affection.

And they were very, very blatant under that Cloak.

“Any risk of little Harrys or Chos these days?” Hermione asked him at dinner the third evening after they all returned from break, snapping the Daily Prophet and acting as if she was just asking him about the weather.

Harry went red and choked on his peas. Ron pounded him on the back and frowned at her. “What’s gotten into you, Hermione?”

She shrugged. “It’s a fair question. You’re a hot topic in the girls’ loo right now.”

“What for?” Ron asked as Harry gulped water.

“Cho’s friend; what’s her name, Marianne?”

“M-Marietta,” Harry said.

“Whatever. She’s been telling some very interesting stories. I thought I’d ask you if what she says is true.”

“Spit it out,” said Ron. “What’s she saying?”

Harry found his spoon very interesting all of a sudden.

Hermione put the Prophet down. “That Harry and Cho have done the deed. Gone all the way. Been through it.”

Harry put his face in his hands. Ron gasped theatrically. “It’s true?!” When Harry didn’t answer, he shook his shoulder. “Well? Tell us – what was it like?”

“Not now,” Harry finally managed as Hermione hissed, “Ron!”

“Don’t ‘Ron’ me; you just asked him the same bloody question!”

“I asked whether he had; I didn’t ask for details!”

“Well, why not? That’s the best part!”

Harry was no longer hungry and in no mood to listen to Ron and Hermione bicker about his sex life. He stood and left the Great Hall, suddenly eager to get a good night’s sleep. Several heads turned as he went past. Harry kept his eyes firmly on the floor.

In his dormitory, he changed immediately into his pyjamas and pulled the curtains of his four-poster tightly shut. He endured over twenty minutes of spiralling in solitude before Harry heard anyone come in.

“Oh, come on, mate,” Ron’s voice said from the vicinity of the doorway. “It’s not like it’s a big deal. Everyone does it at some point, don’t they?”

“Does everyone’s name get tossed around the loo like mine is?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Ron said. The curtains rippled and his voice was just on the other side now. “Can I come in?”

The request made Harry feel strange. But he opened the curtains just a crack, and Ron climbed in and sat cross-legged on the foot of Harry’s bed. “If you’re going to ask me what it was like again, I’m going to kick you,” Harry warned.

Ron made a face, but didn’t ask. “Hermione’s on the warpath,” he said.

“What, against me?” Harry said incredulously.

“No, just in general. I think she didn’t really believe it was true, or if it was, she didn’t think you’d be so cut up about it. Now she’s crusading for the truth, on whether Mary-what’s-her-face was acting on Cho’s behalf or not.”

Harry hadn’t really thought that far. What was he going to do if his girlfriend was gossiping about him? “Er… what are they saying?”

“I dunno,” Ron said darkly. “Hermione wouldn’t tell me.”

They sat in silence, Harry playing with a curtain tassel, Ron picking a loose thread on his robe.

“Was it – it wasn’t bad, was it?” Ron finally asked. He made a blocking motion, eyeing Harry’s feet.

Harry cleared his throat. He knew Ron would find ways to keep asking if he didn’t say something. “No, it was… it was brilliant,” he said, looking anywhere but at Ron. “Kind of weird, but… nice.”

Ron snorted. “Nice?”

“Well, what do you expect me to say?” Harry asked, annoyed.

“I dunno,” said Ron quickly.

Harry levelled a look at him. “I reckon Hermione’s right. You should try dating to get your mind off everyone else’s love lives.”

 

Just under a week later, Marietta Edgecomb went to the hospital wing with a horrible case of acne that looked suspiciously like letters stamped across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Peeves the Poltergeist was expelled from the ward for shrieking, “Goodnight, Gobshite!” at her while she was trying to sleep.

Hermione got a fortnight’s worth of detention she primly refused to discuss.

Harry had a very uncomfortable conversation with Cho, but it did clear the air. Marietta had read Cho’s diary when she refused to kiss and tell, and decided to recite the spicier descriptions in the girls’ loo. Harry had no idea why someone who claimed to be a friend would do that to her.

“Jealousy,” said Hermione when he brought it up in the common room that evening. “Marietta has a thing for you.”

“Why?” asked Ron as Harry said, “What?”

Hermione rolled her eyes at them. “At least Cho wrote nice things about you, Harry.”

“Is no one going to actually tell me what she wrote?”

“No,” said Hermione.

Harry made a face at her. “I hope it was worth all your detentions,” he said grumpily.

She smiled coolly at him. “It was, thank you.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry felt reasonably confident about the upcoming OWL examinations so long as he ignored Hermione’s constant, whispered recitations of Goblin rebellions and Ancient Rune translations. He thought she looked cute with her hair at twice its usual bushiness (“It’s the stress – don’t look at me!”) and found her irritability endearing.

 “Ron, can you please stop that while I’m trying to memorize this star chart?”

“Oh, apologies; I did not realise my smile was so loud,” he shot back.

Harry smirked at Ron, but quietly. He was sorely tempted to tickle Hermione with the feather end of his quill just to hear her laugh. For some reason, he always felt a mad desire to tease her when she was cross.

His regular, post-lunar detention from Umbridge in May was not served with Remus, but Professor Snape, which was almost enough for him to swear off taunting Umbridge.

Almost.

He went to Snape’s office in the dungeons, where jars of pickled slimy things glistened wetly in the dim light, packed into tidy rows upon shelves all over the walls.

“Potter,” Snape said, a nasty smirk twisting his features. Harry nodded curtly and looked around surreptitiously for a clue as to his task.

** Ominously, there were many cobwebbed boxes piled on a table where Harry was clearly supposed to sit; they had an aura of tedious, hard, and pointless work about them.

“Mr. Filch has been looking for someone to clear out these old files,” said Snape softly. “They are records of other Hogwarts wrongdoers and their punishments. Where the ink has grown faint, or the cards have suffered damage from mice, we would like you to copy out the crimes and punishments afresh and, making sure they are in alphabetical order, replace them in the boxes. You will not use magic.”

“Right, Professor,” said Harry, with as much contempt as he could put into the last three syllables.

“I thought you would start,” said Snape, a malicious smile on his lips, “with boxes one thousand and twelve to one thousand and fifty-six. You will find some familiar names in there, which should add interest to the task. Here, you see…”

He pulled out a card from one of the topmost boxes with a flourish and read, “ ‘James Potter and Sirius Black. Apprehended using an illegal hex upon Bertram Aubrey. Aubrey’s head twice normal size. Double detention.’ ” Snape sneered. **

“It must be nice having such role models. Well, good luck to you.”

It was a mark of how little Snape knew of Harry to think this task would rattle him. He was under no illusions as to the kind of troublemakers Sirius and his father had been – two spoiled boys from wealthy families, bored from a lack of academic challenge.

He did not anticipate the disappointment he felt when Remus Lupin was involved in petty misdeeds, particularly the instances of bullying. Perhaps Snape did know how to get under his skin. He must have noticed the increased amount of times Harry took tea with Remus since January.

The thought was unsettling.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Mr. Potter,

I wanted to express my approval of your work with younger students. The three Gryffindor students you have tutored in Transfiguration have improved considerably under your instruction.

Should you wish to expand your tutelage to other Houses, Hogwarts offers modest compensation for sixth- and seventh-year tutors. I encourage you to consider it carefully – we can discuss it at your upcoming career consultation.

Sincerely,

Professor M. McGonagall

All fifth-year students were required to meet with their Heads of Houses before OWLs to discuss prospective careers in order to decide which subjects to improve and which to drop. Harry hadn’t thought much about life after Hogwarts. He had a vague idea his grandfather might want him to run the Sleekeazy company someday, but the thought wasn’t very appealing. He’d considered trying out for professional Quidditch, which he thought (quite against his will) might make his father finally notice him.

Once, he might have thought he wanted to be an Auror. He knew Remus would encourage him, but Harry was determined not to do anything that might make him resemble his father any more than he already did.

He got the impression Professor McGonagall was rather put out by his lack of ambition. But when she brought up her letter, and how she noticed the way younger students responded to his tutoring and general kindness, a lightbulb flicked on, and they finished out the session discussing all the careers that required working with children. He accepted the student tutoring position, since he was already doing it for free.

Harry almost asked her why she hadn’t chosen him as prefect if she had noticed all that, but decided not to, since she had recently given him a bollocking for all the detentions he received that year.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The rest of the year passed without incident. Harry gained more experience with Cho under his invisibility cloak, Ravenclaw won the House Cup, but Gryffindor won the Quidditch cup after crushing Ravenclaw in the final.

Harry felt the need to apologize for that one, as he’d gotten the Snitch right out from under Cho’s outstretched hand – he was simply faster and more agile, but for some reason, it just made Cho that much more amorous. He wasn’t complaining; certainly not.

OWL examinations also passed smoothly. Harry was confident, Ron was ambivalent, and Hermione, Harry hated to say, was insufferable. She liked to analyse each question on every exam, even for the subjects Harry and Ron did not take.

“Hermione, can you not do that while I’m eating?” Ron asked her irritably. “I just want to ignore it all until we get our results this summer.”

“We should plan to spend that week together,” Harry said quickly as Hermione puffed up to answer tartly. “We’ll get them at the same time.”

“Celebrate with some firewhisky?” Ron suggested brightly. “Oh, lighten up, Hermione,” he said at her disapproving look.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she lied, her nose in the air. “Harry, is there room for all of us at your place? I want to go to the lake again.”

“Oh, yeah, I meant to tell you. Grandad fixed up one of the little guest cottages on his estate and said I could use it when you lot come by.”

Ron and Hermione shared a furtive look. Harry narrowed his eyes at them, but said nothing.

“Are you – do you think Cho would come?” Hermione asked tentatively.

“Maybe,” Harry said. He didn’t necessarily want her there at the same time as Ron and Hermione. It was best to keep his romantic life separate from his best friends.

As the three hugged goodbye on the King’s Cross platform, Ron and Harry again sandwiched Hermione between them and kissed her cheeks. She blushed, but returned the gesture one at a time.

Harry left feeling ready to face whatever challenges awaited him at home.

Chapter 4: The Lakeside Cottage

Harry’s parents’ divorce was finalised when he returned home. His father had been living somewhere else for quite some time, but Harry did not know or care where. James saw him once at the train station, but it was strained and neither of them had anything to say to each other.

His mother had cut her long hair into a fashionable bob that made her look young and vibrant and did not once look at James. James had grown a patchy beard that did not do him any favours, his clothes were wrinkled, and he kept throwing sideways glances at Harry’s mum.

To Harry’s surprise, after only a fortnight at home, his mother suggested he spend the summer with his grandparents on their estate. “Your Gran has been begging me to let you go,” she explained. “I think… your father not being around has affected her more than she lets on. And they’re getting so old now…”

Harry looked at her, his heart sinking. “And it will be good for us,” she went on. “I’ve asked too much of you while things have been so rocky between your father and me. I have to find my own feet, you know. And you’re almost sixteen now – you should be free to stretch your wings.”

“It’s because I remind you of Dad, isn’t it?” he said moodily. “You want me gone.”

She gasped. “Of course not – how could you think that?”

“I’m already gone nine months of the year, then you and Dad split, and now you tell me to be somewhere else for the remaining three? What else am I supposed to think? Dad doesn’t want me, either,” he said, trying not to whinge.

“Oh, Harry, I’m sorry,” his mother said. “No, of course I don’t mean – just forget I said anything. You’re right – we absolutely should stick together.”

But now Harry was unsure that he wanted to. He was deeply hurt that his mother, whom he’d always been closest to, would try to send him away. If that’s what she wanted, who was Harry to try and force her not to? He stewed about it for another week and complained in his letters to his friends and Cho until Hermione wrote him a stern letter telling him to either talk it out with his mother or shut up.

He opted for shut up and went to live with his grandparents. For the first two nights, he stayed in the manor in the same room as last summer, but soon became restless under his grandmother’s coddling. It seemed every hour she had to inquire about his comfort or offer to do something for him.

Grandad, the absolute legend, was even more annoyed by it than Harry. He moved Harry’s things to the lakeside guest cottage that he had lovingly restored over the past year with a cheerful, “Don’t forget to write!”

Gran was not amused.

The cottage was on a low hill by the lake, which afforded a lovely view from the back and upstairs windows, where there were two small bedrooms and a full bathroom. On the ground floor was a cozy sitting room with a fireplace, kitchen, dining area, and a lovely covered back porch that was perfect for sneaking the occasional cigarette and looking at the lake. It was made of pale stone and a slate roof, with swathes of wisteria growing along the façade and porch roof.

It was very beautiful and cozy. The only problem was that it was lonely. He was there by himself most days unless he sought someone else out. Sometimes it was his mother for dinner, sometimes his grandfather in his potions shop or his grandmother in her greenhouses, where the plants that provided the ingredients for Sleekeazy’s hair tonics grew in abundance. He had Hedwig for company, but she was out chasing mice most of the time, and Harry craved human companionship.

He missed his girlfriend. Cho’s parents had caught wind at the last minute of Harry’s living situation and cancelled her early July visit. He wondered if they read her diary, too, and if that was the case, why Cho did not apply any security charms.

So it was a surprise when Mercury, his grandparents’ barn owl, delivered a letter from Grandad that a young lady visitor was on the path to his cottage and to make sure he was decent.

Harry dropped the letter and scrambled to tidy and check that his shorts were clean, grumbling at the no-using-magic-away-from-Hogwarts rules. He whirled around at the sharp, assertive knock, dropping an armful of empty butterbeer bottles and cursing as they rolled everywhere.

“Hi,” Hermione said brightly when he opened the door. Harry exclaimed in delight and lifted her up in a hug. Her sweet-smelling hair fell around his face as she laughed and pecked his cheek.

“What are you doing here?” he grinned as he put her back on her feet, noticing a large, brown traveling bag next to her.

“Surprise! Ron and I are staying for two whole weeks, so we can celebrate your birthday together! Ron is coming tomorrow. And then we’ll both come back for the last two weeks of summer and go to the train station together!” She said all this very fast.

“Don’t I have anything to say about it?” he asked, unable to stop smiling.

“No,” she beamed. “Now give me a tour.”

 

Harry gave her the main bedroom with the intention of sharing the smaller room with two twin beds with Ron. He felt very manly and gallant, though the gesture was mildly spoiled by the unmade bed and dirty socks littering the floor. He shooed Hermione away while he dealt with it and told her that’s what she got for surprising a bloke.

The afternoon was overcast and not quite hot enough to justify swimming, but there were other ways to entertain themselves. Granddad had put up a second landing close to the cottage and salvaged an old canoe that Harry’s father and Sirius had sunk in their youth. Harry was delighted when Hermione stepped into the front without hesitation, manoeuvring her paddle with an experienced air.

“I was a Girl Guide, you know,” she said when he remarked on her skills.

“That explains the swottiness.”

His cheek earned him a face full of cold lake water.

They spent a fantastic afternoon paddling around the lake, spinning in circles, doing figure eights, collecting water lilies and pulling up slimy handfuls of frog eggs and lake weed for his grandfather’s potions.

“Is this really what goes into Sleekeazy?” Hermione asked, grimacing at the smelly puddle at the bottom of the boat.

“Among other things,” Harry said, grunting with the effort of pushing the canoe off a submerged log. “You know what goes into most potions; why are you feeling squeamish now?”

“Oh, no reason,” she said. She pushed against the log with her paddle and between their efforts, the canoe slipped free.

Harry grimaced. “Did Grandad try to convert you?”

“Not exactly – he just said Sleekeazy has a line for – er – pretty curls like mine and it gave me something to think about.”

“He’s very charming, the old goat,” Harry said, unable to keep the fondness from his voice.

Hermione laughed. “I imagine that’s where you get it from,” she said, giving him a fond smile of her own that made Harry’s heart flutter.

 

Sure enough, that evening after family dinner at the manor, Harry noticed his grandfather’s gaze following Hermione around the room as she chatted with Harry’s mother. He recognized the salesman’s gleam in the old man’s eye as he assessed her long, bushy hair.

Taking his grandfather firmly by the elbow before he could launch into a pitch, Harry simply said, “No, Grandad.” It wouldn’t be the first time his Grandfather had gone overboard trying to solicit sales from his guests.

It wasn’t that the product was bad. In fact, it was incredibly effective and the reason the Potters were so wealthy. No, it was the way his grandfather would lure hapless individuals to sit in front of a vanity he kept in the parlour for exactly this reason and line up every Sleekeazy formulation he had, extolling the virtues of each one and coming up with a custom hair care regimen on the spot.

“But – but I –” his grandfather sputtered, looking as if he’d been deprived of the greatest treat of his life.

“Leave it,” Harry insisted.

Ignoring Grandad’s pout, Harry brought a cup of tea to Hermione.

“Oh, thanks,” she said brightly, noticing he’d added exactly the amount of milk she liked.

“What are you two talking about?” Harry asked.

“Hermione wants to know if Healing is a career she should consider.”

Harry remembered his career consultation with Professor McGonagall, and wondered how Hermione’s had gone. He imagined she had about fifty different career ideas for her future. And why not? She was probably among the most brilliant students Hogwarts had seen in the last few decades. It was no surprise to him that Healing was on her list.

“I’ll never be able to decide,” Hermione sighed. “Just about everything is interesting to me.”

“The joys of youth,” Gran said as she offered around a plate of pumpkin biscuits.

“Too old to make these anymore, eh Gran?” Harry said, taking one with a sardonic lift of his eyebrow.

“Cheeky boy,” she scolded, pinching his cheek affectionately. His mother smiled tightly.

“Anyway, Hermione,” his mother went on, turning back to their conversation, “as I was saying, my work takes a bit of creative thinking. Sometimes a potion doesn’t work in a particular case, and you have to think of ways to adapt it on the fly. And you really have to know your ingredients and interactions when a patient doesn’t know or can’t say what they’ve been poisoned by.”

Hermione considered this carefully. “Thank you, Mrs.… erm…” There was a sticky moment where Harry realised he hadn’t told her his mother had changed her surname back to Evans.

“Just ‘Lily’ will do,” she said with her warm smile. Hermione smiled back.

Oh, I see. She’s going for the “cool mum” angle, thought Harry with amusement.

He considered his mother’s interactions with his friends. She had been polite and friendly with Cho, but Harry knew she was reserving judgement on Harry’s girlfriend. There was clear and reciprocal warmth between his mother and Hermione, which unlocked a strange feeling in Harry. Sort of like pride mixed with longing.

Later that evening, after Grandad had cajoled and teased them all into playing a Muggle card game he’d become fond of, Harry felt his mother’s eyes on his back as he left the manor and walked the long path to the cottage with Hermione. He remembered last summer, when his father had gripped his arm and asked if he was “being careful” with Hermione, which had angered Harry.

Harry knew how, even if it wasn’t relevant to the situation. He and his mother talked about almost everything, even embarrassing things. Her job as a Healer and matter-of-fact manner made her an excellent resource on the practical side of sex and everything leading up to it, though they no longer discussed romantic feelings very much in light of the divorce. Harry thought he was being sensitive, but maybe she didn’t want that. Maybe she just wanted to be his mum.

His initial hurt and resentment at her suggestion he stay on the estate for the summer had softened considerably. In the evenings they had dinner together, he saw how happy she was, something he had not seen in years. The difference was startling.

She looks free, he had thought.

A deep and buried part of Harry wished she could find this same happiness with his father, and things could go back to the way they were, but that would require his father pulling his head out of his arse. Harry did not see that happening.

The path through the woods was dark, the only natural light from a crescent moon that filtered through the leafy canopy. Harry hung an old lantern in the crook of a tall walking stick, the bobbing light giving the impression of a hinkypunk from afar. Hermione trained a torch on the ground.

Harry was trying not to think about being completely alone with Hermione in a secluded cottage for a full night. He wondered if the thought made her uncomfortable.

She seems perfectly at ease right now, he thought, glancing over at her. She was humming a cheerful little tune that Harry didn’t recognize and swinging her free arm.

“Old Guiding song,” she said when he asked her about it. “It’s a round. Here, I’ll teach it to you.”

Harry found it very hard to say no to Hermione when she was this happy and sweet, so he gamely went along as she taught him line by line, until they could sing it perfectly together in a round, though in different octaves.

“You should hear it around a campfire with ten to twenty girls singing,” she said happily.

“I don’t know where we’re going to get all the girls, but I bet Grandad would let us make a fire ring.”

“What a brilliant idea, Harry!” She squeezed his hand in a friendly sort of way. “Ron can toast all the marshmallows he wants!”

Harry was thinking of the best place to put one when they turned a bend and the cottage came into view. A pale green lamp over the front door cast an ethereal spotlight over the entrance, as if the cottage were inviting them inside for a clandestine meeting. As he opened the door for Hermione, he felt a shift in the atmosphere. The dark, silent interior underlined the fact that they were fully alone. You have a girlfriend, he told himself as he lit the lamps and followed Hermione up the stairs.

Harry took his turn last in the only bathroom. When he came out, Hermione’s door was open and she was sitting up in the large bed, reading from the light of a little Tiffany-style lamp that depicted an otter at the edge of a river. The cottage was full of similar woodland and riparian motifs – landscape paintings on the walls, animal figurines tucked amidst the books on the shelves, and the curtains and textiles evoked the textures and shades of nature.

Harry leaned against the doorframe. He wanted to find some excuse to linger – she looked so pretty with her long hair in a loose plait and her cheeks pink from washing. She looked up and smiled at him. Her dark eyes were shining in the lamplight. “I can shut the door if the light bothers you,” she said.

“No, it’s fine. Just came to say goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Harry left his door open a crack, though he wasn’t sure why. He lay flat on his back on the bed closest to the window and watched the faint glimmer of light reflected from the lake on the ceiling. The window was open, and he gradually fell asleep listening to the night symphony of crickets, frogs, owls, and the rustle of pages from Hermione’s room.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Ron thought knocking was for losers.

Or so Harry irritably thought when Ron waltzed right in the front door the next morning, shouting greetings as Harry was trying to impress Hermione with his magic-less cooking skills.

But it was very hard to stay annoyed when his best mate was so happy to see him. Ron wrapped him in a crushing hug that left Harry feeling curiously buoyant and gave Hermione a one-armed squeeze and a peck on the cheek before plopping down at the tiny dining table, demanding to be fed as well.

Harry passed out plates of eggs and bacon that were slightly overcooked. But neither Ron nor Hermione complained, and they didn’t leave any leftovers.

The day was sunny and promised to be hot later, though the morning carried a chill. Ron was perfectly game for hard labour when Harry proposed making a fire pit. “Please tell me you have marshmallows,” was all Ron said.

Hermione the Girl Guide bossed them around as they used spades to scrape a shallow depression in a flat patch of ground near the back porch. There was a large pile of flat stones left over from Grandad’s renovation of the cottage, and they stacked them around the depression to make a ring that was higher on one side to block the wind.

And when they were done, it had grown hot enough to go for a swim. Harry and Ron raced down the slope to the new landing, shoving and whooping as Hermione watched from the top. Emboldened by each other, they stripped to their pants and dove in, shouting at the cold before they noticed Hermione had not joined them.

“What are you waiting for?” Harry bellowed.

“I need to change!” she called back.

“Aw, come on!” Ron shouted, grinning. “Nobody’s around but us!”

“All right for you,” she said, and they could see her blush all the way from the water. “Be right back!”

“Bugger,” said Ron in disappointment, making Harry laugh.

“Race you to the lilies and back,” said Harry, immediately giving himself a head start.

When Hermione reappeared, she was wearing the same little white dress thing as last summer. Without thinking, Harry smacked Ron on the shoulder and pointed with his chin at Hermione. He heard Ron suck in a breath as they both treaded water, transfixed by her legs.

“You can stop staring,” Hermione said as she reached the landing. She blushed again.

“No chance,” said Ron. “Harry, look away – you have a girlfriend.”

Harry scowled at him. He thought of mentioning that Cho was not here, but did not think Hermione would like that kind of joke. He twisted so his back was to her as she kicked off her sandals.

“I mean, it, Ron,” she scolded. “You’re making it weird.”

Ron grumbled and turned. Harry chuckled. They did not turn back around until they heard the splash of her jump.

“Shit shit shit!” she squealed, surfacing. “Why is it so cold?!”

“It’s a lake,” Harry said once he and Ron stopped laughing.

And like last summer, they did stupid shite like chucking acorns and chasing after them, picking lilies and throwing lake weed at each other. Harry liked the diving contest best, where Hermione would gracefully pull herself onto the landing and he could see that she had a new suit that subtly emphasized her curves and made her look like a pin-up model.

Ron, he noticed, had filled out a bit since last summer and he did not fully understand the sudden swoop of heat in his belly when Ron flexed obnoxiously to make Hermione laugh.

When they finally tired of playing, they all sat on the landing to enjoy the scenery. On the opposite side of the lake, too far to swim to, Harry could see the old landing that they used last summer. He remembered Scout with a pang.

“How is Crookshanks?” Harry asked Hermione. He was between her and Ron, all three of them sitting closer than necessary on the wide landing.

She smiled. “Good, thank you. I didn’t really want to leave him behind.”

“You can bring him here, you know,” Harry said. He missed the ginger monster. He was nowhere near as pretty as Scout, with his squashed-in face and bandy legs, but he was very affectionate and liked to sit on Harry’s lap.

“I’ll have to next time, anyway – remember we’re all going to the station from here?”

“Right,” Harry said, his heart lifting at the thought.

“I want a dog,” said Ron. “A big one that would swim around with us and catch a ball.”

“I like dogs,” said Hermione.

“Me, too,” said Harry.

“Before you ask, no, Crookshanks would not catch a ball or go swimming,” Hermione added with a smile.

They all chuckled at the idea. In the manner of best friends, they told escalating cat and dog jokes that turned the amusement into full-bodied laughter that had them leaning against each other for support. The sound wrapped around Harry’s heart and curled up there like a contented housecat.

He wished he could stay this way forever.

 

That night, they took their fire ring on its maiden voyage, borrowing split logs meant for the fireplace and gathering small branches, twigs, and pine needles for kindling and tinder. After a few failed starts in which Harry and Ron smirked at Hermione, the blaze went up in earnest and they cheered and congratulated each other, shaking hands with a playfully pompous air. “Good show, good show, capital stuff, absolutely splendid,” they said in posh accents, and bowed grandiosely.

Hermione disappeared into the cottage for a bit and returned with a tray of food. “Marshmallows!” exclaimed Ron joyously as he spotted a plastic bag full of the pillowy treats. He pulled at the strange, stretchy material. “How do you even open this stuff, Hermione?”

While Hermione patiently demonstrated ripping the bag open, Harry borrowed her penknife to whittle the ends of three long sticks into points. Ron brought three Adirondack chairs from the porch while he waited for his stick.

Harry skewered a fat sausage and held it over the flames. Ron squeezed five marshmallows onto his stick. Hermione expertly lanced an English muffin and sat next to Harry on the same chair. Harry focused very hard on keeping his hands and his breathing steady. He could do nothing about his galloping heart.

Ron was very happy with his marshmallows until he looked up at Hermione squashed next to Harry, who smirked playfully at him. Ron narrowed his eyes the way Harry was used to seeing over a chessboard.

Hermione seemed blissfully unaware of the friendly rivalry under her nose. She was probably just chilly – once the sun went down, the lake took all the heat of the day with it. She was still wearing her swimsuit under her white dress.

“Are you cold?” Harry asked her, eyeing the gooseflesh on her outstretched arm.

“A little,” she admitted.

Ron leapt up, abandoning his marshmallows, to grab his jacket and place it gently around Hermione’s shoulders. His elbow to Harry’s face in the process was entirely coincidental, Harry was sure.

She hummed her thanks and gave Ron a bright smile. Pointedly, Ron said, “There’s a chair just for you – I brought it down.”

Harry was about to scowl until Hermione said, “Thank you very much, but I’m comfortable here.”

At the sad and confused look at Ron’s face, Harry’s confidence that things were merely friendly wavered. “You can have my chair,” Harry said to Hermione as he stood. “I want more food.”

When Ron vacated the space with a quick, “Thanks, mate,” Harry realised he’d been played.

Like that, is it? Harry thought.

But the curious thing was that Hermione didn’t seem to care one way or the other which of them she sat with. She must only be cold.

Unless she fancies us both, came an unbidden thought. But no… that would be silly…

Wouldn’t it?

 

Those two weeks were incredible. Away from academic pressure and classmate drama, lost in their own little bubble, Hermione, Ron, and Harry’s friendship bloomed into something bright and tangible. Arguments were short lasted and easily smoothed over. They found new things to respect about each other – Hermione’s outdoor skills, Ron’s strength and can-do attitude towards physical work, Harry’s bourgeoning culinary prowess.

They spent most days on the lake or around the fire, but sometimes they would get a burst of conscientiousness (or Harry got tired of cooking) and help in the orchards or gardens, though their lack of magic usually meant they were more in the way than actually helpful. But Gran was always happy to see them in the greenhouses, and Grandad always had tasks for them in the workshop.

As the time for Ron and Hermione to reunite with their own families drew nearer, all three of them became a little quieter, a little more introspective. They did not want to part, not even for a couple of weeks.

The night before Harry’s birthday, they left the manor and traversed the path to the lakeside cottage under the full moon. It was a beautiful night, the moon casting argent shafts of light through the branches that arched overhead. There was a light breeze that made a musical whisper upon the leaves of the oaks, birches, and hawthorns.

Harry noticed Hermione casually take Ron’s hand. It made him feel… well, not lonely, exactly, or even jealous – she had been generous with her affection for both of them these two weeks.

No, what he felt was… curiosity. Harry wondered how Ron’s hand might feel clasped in his own… their fingers entwined…

Suddenly, Harry’s skin erupted all over in gooseflesh. Hermione must have felt it too, because she stopped short and tugged at Ron’s hand. Harry reached up and put the very tips of his fingers to Ron’s lips, urging him to stay silent.

“Look,” he whispered in Ron’s ear. He removed his fingers, feeling very warm and tingly as Ron shivered and turned his head in the direction Harry indicated.

In a meadow under the light of the full moon, a herd of strange creatures danced in intricate formations. They had very large and luminous eyes, long necks, skinny legs, and short, silvery fur.

Mooncalves, Harry thought in wonder. It was very rare to see one, and even rarer to see them dance.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione watched in perfect silence and awe. There was a feeling of rightness that they should witness this together. It was an auspicious omen that any seer would have a field day with, especially because they were three. It was a powerful number – even Muggles understood its significance and incorporated it into their religions.

Almost unconsciously, Harry found himself counting the mooncalves. There appeared to be twelve. He felt that was also significant, though he had never studied Arithmancy like Hermione.

The mooncalves’ broad hooves flattened the grass and bracken, making mystic patterns that mere humans could never know the full significance of. This was the ancient magic of beasts: infinite, powerful, and inexplicable.

As they watched, Ron’s hand found Harry’s. His palm was warm and slightly calloused. Harry felt his cheeks and neck grow warm, but he didn’t take his eyes off the mooncalves or pull away.

All too soon, the dance was over. The mooncalves disappeared into the woods as silently as they had appeared. Ron let go of Harry’s hand, and Harry immediately missed the feeling. It had been the same when Hermione held his hand last summer… A pleasant, electric tingle that ran from the point of contact all the way up his arm. Harry flexed his hand.

He was distracted by Hermione, who had pulled her rucksack off her shoulder and was rummaging in it energetically. “Oh, where is it – I know I put it in here – aha! Gotcha!”

Something gleamed in her hand, and she held it aloft in excitement.

“Hermione, why do you carry a trowel in your rucksack?” Harry asked.

“Girl Guide,” she reminded Harry. “Always prepared.”

“What’s a Girl Guide?” Ron asked. The only reason Harry knew was because he had Muggle grandparents. He started to explain, but Hermione shushed him.

“No time! Quick, help me collect the dung!”

“You’re joking,” said Harry, but Ron had already grabbed the trowel and was dashing alongside Hermione.

“There’s a bag in my rucksack!” Hermione called to Harry.

Mumbling in disbelief, Harry followed, digging in her rucksack as he walked.

“Don’t look like that, Harry,” Hermione snapped, sparing him only a glance. “Don’t you pay attention in Herbology? Mooncalf dung, if collected before the sun rises, makes an incredibly potent fertilizer.”

“I know that,” Harry said irritably, “but –”

“You’ll be your Gran and Grandad’s hero, mate,” Ron said. “Say, d’you think you can get those spades and wheelbarrow from the cottage? There’s loads here!”

Harry sighed and dropped Hermione’s rucksack at the edge of the meadow. “Yeah, all right.”

It would not occur to him until much later how unwise it was for three wandless teenagers to separate on a full moon. A fact his Gran drilled into him when they met her coming out of the manor just before sunrise. All three of them were sweaty, smelly, and absolutely filthy as they struggled to push a wheelbarrow full of animal shit over the gravel paths.

“What in Merlin’s name are you doing? You weren’t out all night? Harry, you know better than to stay out on a full moon!”

“I know, Gran, but –”

“How could you be so foolish? What if there had been a werewolf –” (she whispered the word) “– in the woods?”

“Well, there wasn’t, the only one who might have been was Remus, and he –”

“You listen to me, young man. If you have to be out on a full moon, you stick to the path, you stay together, and you take your wands!”

“We’re not allowed to use magic –”

“You are if your life depends on it. Do none of you have a brain?” Gran turned her glare onto Ron and Hermione, who shrank back and looked at the ground.

They were all silent. Hermione looked like she might cry. Harry doubted anyone had ever questioned her intelligence before. He drew himself up and faced his grandmother. “Gran,” he said firmly. “It was my idea. It was a mistake and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open. “Harry –” she began, but Ron took her hand and squeezed it. When she looked at him, Ron shook his head just slightly. Let him take the blame, he was saying. He’s doing it for us.

“No, it certainly won’t! If I have to lock you up once a month, so help me, I will do it! And I’m telling all your mothers about this!”

“Okay,” Ron blurted, “but when you owl her, can you make sure she gets a package of this? She always struggles with her tomatoes.”

Gran was silent, her lips white and nostrils flared. Harry had no idea where Ron found the courage. “And what, exactly, is this?” she finally snapped.

“Mooncalf dung,” said Ron innocently. “We thought you could use it. For your plants.”

“For my – oh, good heavens,” Gran said in resignation, pulling up her spectacles from where they hung on a bejewelled chain. Harry could tell her fear and anger were softening in light of their thoughtfulness.

“Well…” she said slowly, “if you help me spread it on the sopophorus sprouts… and promise never to do it again… we can forget about owling your mothers.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione all began talking at once: gratitude for her understanding, apologies for their stupidity, and fervent promises they would never, ever do something so dangerous and foolish ever again.

“Guide’s honour,” Hermione finished, raising three fingers on her right hand. Gran looked at her curiously, as if unsure what to make of her, but didn’t comment.

When Gran’s back was turned, Harry whispered to Ron, “Nice one.”

Ron’s answering smile – sort of slow and conspiratorial, made Harry’s stomach flip over.

 

Hours later, Harry and Ron stripped completely and washed off in the lake while Hermione showered in the cottage. Harry looked determinedly away until they were both waist deep in the cold water, hoping Ron didn’t notice his furtiveness. Nudity had never been an issue between them, and Harry didn’t understand why it made him feel so awkward all of a sudden.

They didn’t speak, both exhausted from being out all night and the prolonged physical exertion of gathering, transporting, and distributing fertilizer. Harry focused on scrubbing the filth from under his fingernails before washing his hair.

Ron hauled himself up on the landing to wash his feet. Harry, after a moment of consideration, followed. He could hear the shower running faintly through the open windows upstairs. Dimly he registered that they were all three naked at the same time.

It was a very intriguing thought that would cause very obvious problems for Harry if he thought about it too long.

“Happy birthday,” Ron said.

Harry had completely forgotten. “Thanks, mate,” he said. He was finished washing now, and, confident Hermione was occupied, he sat for a moment, enjoying the curious pleasure of being both bone-tired and freshly scrubbed.

“I’m knackered,” Ron said. “I could drop right now.”

Harry chuckled. “Might want to get dressed first.”

“Nah, nobody cares,” Ron said, but Harry knew he didn’t mean it. “Would it offend you if I had a kip before the evening’s festivities?”

“Not at all,” Harry said. “I’ll join you.”

He noticed Ron glance at him, as if he thought Harry meant something different. Harry was too tired to clarify, knowing he’d just stick his foot in it if he tried. He vaguely wondered what it’d be like to share a bed, not just a room.

Just as he realised Ron was still looking, but no longer at his face, he also realised the shower had stopped a while ago. He turned his head ever so slightly. Ron caught the movement and mirrored him.

They both saw the flutter of the upstairs curtain out of the corners of their eyes.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry felt a little guilty that this was the first year he could remember when he and his mother did not make his birthday cake together. But she did not seem upset, or if she was, she was very good at hiding it.

Gran was true to her word and did not mention the mooncalf incident. All was forgiven the second the sopophorus sprouts shot up two inches from the freshly laid manure.

Among his presents were a pair of non-slip Quidditch gloves from Ron, a book of useful bushcraft spells from Hermione, and a mokeskin wallet that would only open for its owner from his mother.

There was also a wrapped present from his father, with no note or card. Harry looked at the tag before very deliberately pushing it aside. Hermione gently shook her head at Ron when he opened his mouth to say something.

As Harry, Ron, and Hermione were leaving, Grandad eyed Hermione’s hair again.

“Are you certain I can’t –”

Harry shushed him. “No, Grandad. I’ll give her some samples or something.”

“Excellent thinking, grandson,” Grandad said, rubbing his hands together. “Any pitch will be twice as effective coming from you.”

Harry refrained from rolling his eyes.

“Here you go,” Grandad said as he quickly popped an assortment of tiny vials into a velvet pouch with the Sleekeasy logo stamped on the outside. “Offer to give her a demonstration – she’ll never go back to regular shampoo!”

Harry had a sudden vision of himself combing potion through Hermione’s wet curls as they showered together. Unexpectedly, the fantasy curved to include Ron, fully naked and observing with a smirk. Harry turned to hide his flaming face.

What the fuck was that? he wondered.

 

In his bed that night, Harry stared up at the ceiling at the familiar, comforting ripples of water-reflected moonlight. The sound of Ron’s peaceful breathing, combined with the susurrus of pages turning in Hermione’s room, made him feel both contented and conflicted.

He now had to accept that he had feelings for Hermione and Ron. It was not a position he would have ever thought himself in. But it was the honest-to-Merlin truth. It explained all these strange moments with Ron – those feelings he didn’t really let himself examine.

It was attraction. And it was such poor timing that he realised this the night before they were leaving, until the latter half of August. He would miss them horribly.

Harry sighed. No, it was good timing. He had a girlfriend, even if he wasn’t allowed to see her. He did care about Cho and was looking forward to seeing her at the beginning of the school year. Her last letter was very sweet – he enjoyed reading about her flying with her siblings and giving them tips.

Harry hadn’t spent very much time with the children of Godric’s Hollow this year, and vowed he would over the next couple of weeks. Maybe reconnect with his mother. He had completely forgiven her.

It would be good to reset. To get out of his own head, maybe revisit these feelings about Ron and Hermione when they weren’t so fresh and intense.

Chapter 5: The Last Drops

In the interim between Hermione and Ron’s next visit, Harry went back to the cottage in Godric’s Hollow to live with his mother. He was surprised and pleased to see her in excellent spirits, laughing easily at the smallest things. The worry lines were gone, and she looked so young and carefree.

Harry hugged her tightly, hoping to convey that there were no hard feelings.

“Missed you, Mum,” he said cheerily when they broke apart. “Sorry I stayed away for so long. And I’m sorry we didn’t do my cake this year.”

“Oh, Harry, don’t apologize. I have missed you, but I can see the good being with your friends has done you,” his mother said, brushing his hair back from his forehead like she used to when he was small. “There’s colour in your face, and I’m so glad to see you smile.”

“Same, Mum,” he said. “I didn’t mean to get upset before.”

“No, darling – I understand. We’ve been a team for so long, just you and me, and I should have realised it would hurt you to suggest what I did.”

“It turned out fine,” he said, smiling. “But we’re still a team, right?”

She patted his cheek, mirroring his smile. “Always.”

 

Things gradually adapted to a new normal. Harry’s mother worked normal hours at St. Mungo’s. When she came home the first night, Harry was just setting dinner on the kitchen table as the fire in the sitting room turned green.

“Harry?” she said, following her nose into the kitchen. “Did you cook, darling?”

“I did,” Harry said, trying not to sound too pleased with himself. “It’s not much. Just spaghetti with meat sauce. And a salad.”

“Goodness,” she said. “You’re a wonder!” Her proud smile made Harry’s burned finger completely worth it.

“How was your day, Mum?” he asked as they sat down.

“Thankfully very boring,” she said. “Last week we had a rash of poisonings. There was a big benefit dinner for a newer charity, but someone spiked the champagne with an infusion of belladonna and alihotsy – very nasty combination. The Auror department had to get involved.”

“Why would someone do that?”

She motioned for him to wait while she finished chewing. “Mm – so good,” she said. “Well, not all cultures and religions are accepting of magic, I’m sorry to say. This charity helps Muggleborn children escape persecution from their families, communities, government – whatever. It places them in care and pays for their magical education.”

“And someone thought it was a good idea to poison people doing good work?”

She levelled a look at him. “I’m afraid you’re a bit privileged, darling. An unfortunate amount of our kind think Muggleborns like me are… lesser beings.”

“I know that,” Harry mumbled. There was a seedy underside to his world that made Aurors like his father necessary. Harry and Ron had once served a week’s worth of detention in their third year for hexing a boy named Draco Malfoy for calling Hermione a horrible slur: Mudblood. For whatever reason, the same hex had occurred to Harry and Ron. Casting it at the same time caused Malfoy’s stomach and bowels to become impacted with a bolus of slugs. It was severe enough to surpass even the skill of Madam Pomfrey, and he had gone to St. Mungo’s.

Harry would do it all over again if he had the chance. No remorse, no regrets, he though fiercely, remembering Hermione’s stricken face. They were newly friends, and she had been afraid, deep down, that they might have shared Malfoy’s views, however slightly. Harry was proud to prove her wrong.

He brought his attention back to the present.

“So the Aurors came in… did you have to… work with Dad?”

Her mouth was very tight. “Yes, but it was all very professional. If nothing else, he is a very good Auror.”

Harry said nothing. It seemed to be the only good thing about him. But he didn’t want to talk or think about James.

“I can do this every night,” Harry said as they were finishing. “You know, make dinner, if you want.”

“You’re so grown up,” she said. “I won’t deny it’s absolutely brilliant coming home to food already made. I was thinking all through the last half hour of my shift what to make and came up with nothing. This was perfect!”

“So is that a ‘yes?’ ”

She smiled at him. “If you like. At least until you go back to the lakeside cottage.”

“I cook there, too,” he said.

“Oh, do you?” she said, sounding pleased. And as they did the washing up, Harry told her all about his lovely two weeks with Ron and Hermione. Despite seeing her for dinner once or twice during that time, Harry didn’t have the opportunity to really talk to her the way they used to. She laughed in all the right places, and it seemed she never stopped smiling.

There were some things he left out. He did not tell her about the mooncalves, nor did he tell her about his new feelings for his best friends. He was not ready, and he wasn’t sure she would understand.

He needed to figure things out for himself first.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

One night, Harry fell asleep with his door partly ajar and awoke just before midnight to three voices in the kitchen. They were not raised – just a murmur, but what surprised Harry was that two were men, and he recognized them.

He opened his door noiselessly and crept down the hall and into the sitting room, lying down on the sofa to listen without being seen.

“We’re so sorry, Lily,” Sirius was saying.

Remus cleared his throat and said gruffly. “I never… I can’t believe him. I never thought he could hurt your family like that.”

“Whatever we can do for you, you just ask,” Sirius said.

“Are you standing by him?” Remus asked him in a hard voice.

“Somebody has to kick some sense into him,” Sirius replied coolly. “You think he’d listen to anyone else?”

“No,” Harry’s mother said, “he wouldn’t.” As if she couldn’t help herself, she asked quietly, “Did he tell you who she was?”

There was a pause in which Harry stopped breathing and imagined Sirius and Remus looking at each other. “Yeah,” Remus mumbled.

There it was. The truth. His father really did have an affair.

Harry wasn’t sure how he felt. Angry, certainly, but also a profound and crushing sadness at the realisation that the man that Harry still loved deep down had betrayed his family so thoroughly.

“Did he tell you?” Sirius asked.

“No, but I found out anyway,” she said, her voice breaking. “I kept quiet, hoping that maybe we could work it through for Harry’s sake, but… that boy is so uncannily observant; he’s known for a long time that things aren’t right.”

Sirius mumbled his agreement as Remus said, “He suspected. He told me in January, right as term resumed.”

Harry’s mother sniffled. “Poor darling. It must have crushed him just to think it. I wish James would at least try for Harry’s sake. Harry’s been so brave and he won’t show it, but it hurts him deeply that James became so cold and distant.”

“He’s a stupid fuck,” Remus said vehemently, and Harry couldn’t stop the snort of laughter that erupted from him.

All three adults went silent at the noise.

Bollocks, Harry thought. I’m rumbled.

“Harry, darling, are you listening?” his mother called.

Harry sat up and met the stares of Sirius, Remus, and his mum. Both men had one of his mother’s hands in their grasp, and there were crumpled tissues on the table. “Yeah,” he grunted.

His mother motioned him to come in as Sirius pulled out the remaining chair.

“So that’s it, then,” Harry said quietly after a long silence. Remus’ and Sirius’ eyes were both sad and kind. “Dad’s having an affair.”

“Had,” Sirius corrected gently. “He said he broke it off years ago.”

“Do you believe him?” Harry asked. Remus’ mouth turned into a hard line.

“I do,” Sirius said without hesitation. “It’s the only decent thing he’s done in the matter.”

Harry huffed. “And it’s all because he thought Mum was stepping out. With you,” he said, looking directly at Remus, who shrank back just slightly.

His mother gasped softly. She opened her mouth to reply, but Remus spoke before she could. “I told him. I wasn’t about to lie.”

“I’m glad,” Harry said defiantly, in case anyone thought Remus had overstepped. “I don’t need to be protected.”

His mother’s smile was sad. “No, you don’t. Not anymore. You’re growing into such a good man, Harry.”

“Better than James,” Remus and Sirius said in unison. Sirius’ voice had hint of wry humour to it, but Remus’ face was hard and angry.

The silence that followed felt heavy. To his horror, Harry felt moisture welling in his eyes as the full realization hit him, that all hope for his parents’ reconciliation was well and truly gone. His father was not coming back. There was no way to turn his face where Sirius or Remus would not see it. He looked up, willing the tears not to spill over.

His mother took his hands across the table and Harry realised there was no point in holding back. He let them fall. His mother cried, too, as if it was impolite not to. Sirius and Remus looked away with anguished faces, clearing their throats and sniffing.

When Harry could speak without choking, he said, “Why would Wormtail do that? How could someone do that to their best friends?” He thought of Ron and Hermione and could barely breathe at the very idea of betraying them, of playing them against each other. “Was he… was he in love with you, or something?” he asked his mother.

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so, but… well…”

“But what?”

Harry’s mum looked away, and Remus looked strangely sheepish. Sirius answered for her. “He wasn’t, but Severus was.”

“Severus? As in Snape?” Harry asked in shock. “I thought you were just friends. What does he have to do with anything?”

“We were just friends,” his mother said. “We had a horrible falling out after he started going around with a bad crowd, some of whom your father put in Azkaban for crimes against Muggles.”

“Oh,” Harry said, understanding the seriousness of the matter. “But that still doesn’t explain what he had to do with anything,” he said, looking between his mother, godfather, and mentor.

“He must have gotten to Peter,” Sirius said, “or that’s what we think. Peter was always attracted to stronger personalities and susceptible to manipulation. Snape never stopped wanting Lily, and it’s possible he noticed James and Lily growing apart and used that to his advantage to get Peter to try and break them up without getting his own hands dirty.”

Harry felt a burning rage rise inside him. It made his hands shake.

“I’m quitting Potions,” Harry told his mother through gritted teeth.

“No!” she said, forcefully enough that Harry stared at her. “Do not do that. He has no bearing on our lives. None!”

“How am I supposed to look in his fucking face and accept marks from him after all this?” Harry said. His mother wrinkled her nose at his use of language, but did not comment.

“That’s exactly why you should stay,” Sirius said, gripping his shoulder. “Because every time he looks at you, looking like James but with your mother’s eyes staring back at him, it will always remind him she preferred another man.”

“Gross,” said Harry, making them all laugh. In the following quiet, Harry’s smile slipped from his face. “I don’t look that much like him, do I?”

He saw Sirius wince out of the corner of his eye, but Harry’s gaze was for his mother. He looked at her with a pleading expression. Tell me I don’t remind you of him. Tell me it doesn’t hurt to look at me.

“You look like yourself,” she said with conviction, understanding his thoughts. “Like a handsome, kind, intelligent young man. And that’s all anyone who truly knows and loves you will see.”

Her words soothed Harry. He felt it was something Hermione and Ron would have said to him. Harry gave her a genuine smile and squeezed her hands. “Thanks, Mum. Love you.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Cho’s parents relented enough to allow her to visit for a day. Harry waited nervously in the sitting room for her, checking his hair in the mirror over the mantle every so often and smoothing his clothes.

Finally, the flames flared emerald green and his girlfriend stepped through, looking very pretty with her long hair plaited down her back. “Hi,” she said shyly.

Harry closed the gap and kissed her. “Hi,” he said. “Fancy seeing you here.”

She giggled and they kissed some more to work through the initial awkwardness of not seeing each other in a while. His mother was at work, and Harry had the distinct impression Cho may have fudged certain details to her folks about parental supervision for this visit.

In the manner of teenagers with access to a bed and no adults around, they didn’t do much talking. Or eating.

But even they couldn’t do that all day. They sat up in Harry’s bed, which they had made up neatly to hide all evidence of extracurricular activities, appropriately dressed and eating grapes and strawberries while they talked.

Harry wanted to know where she flew her broom in the summer. She said normally in a clearing in the woods with Muggle repelling charms, but this summer she and her siblings had been invited to a real pitch. Cho’s mum was newly friends with the manager of the Tutshill Tornados.

“Brilliant!” said Harry.

“I know! And when I told Marietta, she –”

“Marietta?” Harry interjected. “Surely not the same Marietta who…”

“Well,” Cho said, blushing, “yes, but we’ve made up. It was, you know, a bit of a misunderstanding.”

“A bit of a misunderstanding,” Harry repeated slowly. “She read your diary, Cho. Out loud, to other people. With the intent to humiliate you. And me.”

“I know, but it was a mistake. She – she was under a lot of pressure, you know – her mum was terribly upset at a detention she got, and… I know, it wasn’t a nice way to deal with it, but we worked it through.”

“Did she ever say ‘sorry?’ ” Harry asked sharply.

“Well… no, but I think she is.”

Harry stared at her incredulously. She folded her arms across her chest defensively. “Cho… she’s not a good friend. You know she’s only going to do it again now that she’s gotten away with it once.”

“You don’t know that,” Cho said petulantly. “You don’t know if she’s changed. And you don’t get to tell me who to be friends with, Harry!”

Harry rand a hand through his hair in frustration. “I’m not trying to! Merlin, I just don’t want my name bandied around the loo again because you’re too trusting.”

“I’m not the one who’s still friends with a nasty bint who’ll hex ‘Gobshite’ onto someone’s face over some stupid words read in a bathroom!”

Harry went very still. “I know you’re not talking about Hermione,” he said coldly. “Because that would definitely be going too far.”

“Oh, would it?” There were angry tears in her eyes. “What is it about her? Are you seeing her, too? When she was here, was it just like this?”

Harry saw red. “Out,” he said, deathly quiet.

I am not my father!

“Oh, fine!” she said, the tears spilling over as she grabbed up her things. “I see it. You’ve always fancied her. Well, good – now you can have her!”

Harry fumed as she hurried through to the sitting room. As she groped inside the little bowl on the mantle for Floo powder, she shot over her shoulder, “And you should grow up!”

“Oh yeah? Well, I hope you grow some self-respect!”

She scoffed and threw the Floo powder into the fire with all the drama she could muster and whirled away into the green flames.

When she’d gone, Harry put his head in his hands. What a stupid mess! He couldn’t fathom how Cho could have possibly forgiven Marietta and gone on to insult Hermione. He ignored the fact that Hermione had hexed someone. It was totally reversible, he reasoned to himself, even if it did take Madam Pomfrey a while to figure it out. And it wasn’t like I haven’t done exactly the same thing.

When his mother came home that night, she found Harry in the kitchen, consoling himself with a box of takeout pizza and a bottle of butterbeer. She looked around curiously. “Darling, where’s your girlfriend? I thought you said she’d be here for dinner?”

“We broke up,” Harry said flatly. “We fought.”

He told his mother the abridged version of what Marietta had done after Easter, and the fight that had just happened this afternoon.

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t realise you’d already… well, there’s nothing wrong with that; you’re just a little younger than I expected, that’s all.”

“I’m sixteen,” he said defensively, as if sixteen was the same as adulthood.

She ignored that. “You were safe, weren’t you?” she asked.

It didn’t feel the same as when his father asked him that last summer. There was genuine concern in his mother’s eyes. “Yes, Mum,” he said. “I’m just crap at girls.”

She burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, darling, it’s not really funny,” she said. “It was just your face when you said it.”

“Well, whatever,” he said, cracking a smile. “Good riddance, anyway.”

Harry’s mum patted his shoulders and kissed the top of his head before snagging a slice. “Haven’t had pizza in ages,” she said. “We should do takeout more often.”

When they’d finished and his mum Vanished the empty box with her wand, she turned to him. “It might hit you later, darling. Even if it was for the best… it still hurts. You grieve what used to be and what might have been.”

He knew she was only partly talking about his breakup. “It’s alright, Mum,” he said gently. “We weren’t together all that long.”

She took a shaky breath. “I don’t want you to think you can’t talk to me, all right?”

“I know,” Harry said quickly. But it would take quite some time before he could bring up matters of love and heartbreak to her without wincing.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

One Saturday afternoon, Grandad came to the cottage to pick Harry’s mum’s brain about adding unconventional ingredients to potions. Harry appreciated very much that his grandparents’ love for his mother had not wavered in light of the divorce.

During a lull in their discussion, Harry had a question.

“Grandad, how does one wash an Invisibility Cloak?” he asked, shaking the silvery cloak out and appraising the material.

“You never need to,” Grandad chuckled. “It’s spelled against dirt and sweat and everything else that might happen to it. Even blood.”

“But what about memories?” Harry whispered irritably to himself when Grandad turned back to his mother. He couldn’t be sure, but Harry thought his mum might have heard him. She looked like she was trying not to laugh.

He figured he should feel gutted about Cho, but their parting had left him with enough righteous anger to protect himself from despondency.

Harry went to his room. As he folded up his Cloak to return it to the chest in the corner of his room, an owl tapped at the window. He opened it, and Sirius’ overly energetic elf owl Magnus zoomed into the room.

“Come on,” Harry said in exasperation as the tiny owl twittered and rocketed around the room, carrying a letter twice his size. He always did this.

Harry waited for an opening and leapt, using his Seeker’s skill to catch Magnus. “Gotcha!”

The owl’s little feet poked out through Harry’s fingers as he gently detached the letter from his leg. “Despite it all, you’re really cute,” Harry told Magnus as he let him go. The owl hooted and hopped about, incredibly proud of himself.

Harry opened the envelope.

Dear Harry,

I’ve been thinking, and I didn’t get the chance to apologize to you the other night. I’m sorry for my last letter. I didn’t have all the facts. As you may have guessed, your father’s affair indiscretion actions didn’t come to light until recently. I should never have insinuated any distance between you and James was your fault.

I hope you can forgive me.

Sincerely,

Sirius

Harry took a deep breath and let it out. The apology calmed something inside Harry. It took guts to admit you were wrong, and his estimation of Sirius rose.

Wish Dad could do the same, Harry thought angrily.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Just a few days before Hermione and Ron would return, Harry was babysitting for one of his Muggle neighbours. He was in the middle of a game of hide-and-seek with a four-year-old girl who didn’t quite understand the concept of hiding quietly – she giggled and chuckled the whole time Harry pretended not to know where she was – when her parents came home early.

“Restaurant was closed for renovation,” the mother said as her daughter squealed and came out of hiding to run to her.

“Should have called ahead,” the father said sheepishly. “We’ll pay you for the full night, and you can have a nice evening at home.”

Harry pocketed the Muggle notes as the little girl hugged his leg. “Bye, Emily!” Harry said, patting her head fondly.

Harry smiled as he left. He would not be surprised if he saw Emily on a future Hogwarts roster. Locks could not hold that girl for love or money. He wondered if it was only Professors who were allowed to give Hogwarts acceptance letters to Muggleborn children, or if they made efforts to find wizards or witches the child’s family already knew.

The sun was low in the sky as he walked the streets between his neighbours’ house and his own. He was looking forward to a helping of strawberry crumble before turning in, and he went around the back of the cottage to the kitchen door, squeezing through the tight space between the Fourtrak and the stucco wall. There was a light on in the kitchen, and he could see his mother through the glass.

Except – she wasn’t alone.

Harry stopped. She was standing forehead-to-forehead with Remus. His arms were around her waist, and her fingers were gently splayed along his jaw. As Harry watched, frozen, Remus closed the gap and kissed her. Her eyes fluttered closed as she returned it.

Even in his shock, Harry could recognize that it was a very tender, sweet, and practiced kiss. As if they had done this before. He backed away. They had not seen him.

Well, of course not – now I understand what “having eyes only for each other” means.

As Harry slowly went back around the side of the cottage, he was not sure how he felt. His mother had been very happy as of late… and he wondered now if she had wanted him to stay with his grandparents for this very reason.

Harry questioned the whole story now… had his mother and Remus had an affair or not? If not back then, had it happened since then? Or was this new? He thought hard… and decided that it was relatively new, at least since his mother had told him about the divorce after Christmas. Unless it was a resumption of something that had happened years ago.

Harry considered just how ill-advised it was to get with your ex-husband’s friend and your son’s teacher. Was she doing it to get back at James? Or did she really care for Remus? Could Remus make his mother happy? Did Harry approve?

Only if it’s new, he thought. He would not be able to look his mother in the face if she had truly had the affair she’d been accused of. He’d have to emancipate himself and stay forever at the lakeside cottage.

He rattled the front doorknob loudly, jingling his keys as he pretended to search for the right one. He made sure to bang the door as he entered, and as it juddered back from hitting the wall, he thought he heard a crack! from the kitchen.

When he called out to his mother, calm-as-you-please-as-if-he-had-not-seen-her-snogging-his-Defence-Against-the-Dark-Arts-Professor-in-their-kitchen, she was standing in the doorway, completely alone, smoothing her hair and smiling far too brightly at Harry.

“Parents came back early,” he grunted. “Hope I won’t disturb your evening.”

“Not at all,” she said with exaggerated cheer. “I’m always happy to see you.”

She was very bad at lying.

Harry didn’t want to get into it. He wanted to pack for the end of summer and not think about all the things his mother and Remus might get up to while he was gone.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Ron arrived first, two days earlier than expected. When Harry caught sight of him through the front window of his cottage, his heart fluttered in his chest, and he let out a shout before opening the door.

They engaged in the manliest of hugs, pounding each other on the back and clapping each other’s shoulders. Harry wondered fleetingly if they would ever get to a point where cheek kisses would be acceptable.

Caught off guard, Harry wasn’t sure what to do for the next couple of days. Ron, however, had a brilliant idea.

“Does Sirius still run his own distillery?” Ron asked.

“Sure. Why?”

“Because we are going to propose a transaction. Bring money – I’m skint.”

Sirius was the type of godfather who did not question mischief or illegal activity. For Ron’s benefit, he gave them a tour of Black Dog Distillery and handed over several bottles of Padfoot’s Wildfire Whisky and Black’s Best Brandy, waving away Harry’s gold. “Don’t tell your Mum,” he said with a wink. “Now go away; I’ve got paying customers to serve.”

“Cheers,” Harry and Ron grinned.

 

Harry’s mother innocently suggested they go to the lakeside cottage early to spruce it up for Hermione. Harry squinted at her suspiciously, but grudgingly admitted she had a point.

Harry cleaned the kitchen and bathroom while Ron knocked seven bells out of every rug in the place and scrubbed the floors. The morning Hermione was to arrive, Gran allowed Harry and Ron to cut armfuls of her prized hothouse flowers to put in mismatched vases and jars all over the cottage. Even Ron had to admit living with a woman had a certain aesthetic charm.

As they waited for her on the back porch, looking out over the lake, the electricity of their anticipation was thick in the air, like an impending thunderstorm.

Ron’s head whipped around at the distant crunch of feet on gravel. He and Harry leapt up and jostled against each other like excited dogs to get to the front of the cottage. When they caught sight of her, Harry and Ron went completely still, staring in awe at the change to her appearance.

Her normally bushy hair was now a glorious riot of glossy, well-defined curls that spilled over her shoulders and back. It was long enough to just cover her breasts over her floral sundress, and she wore it like a fucking crown.

“Oh my god,” Harry whimpered, before he could stop himself.

Ron could not speak at all. His cornflower blue eyes were wide in his flushed face, his lips parted in shock.

As she drew nearer, they snapped out of it. Harry was faster than Ron and got to her first, picking her up in a hug as she squealed. They kissed each other’s cheeks as he put her down, and Ron enveloped them both in a warm hug with his long arms.

“You’d think it’s been years since you’ve seen me or something,” Hermione laughed.

“Feels like it,” said Ron happily as they all let go. He kissed her cheek. “You look really good.”

“Stunning,” Harry said. He loved watching her blush and decided he was going to compliment her more often. And all their hard work was justified when she exclaimed in delight at the state of the cottage, putting her nose into a large spray of heliotrope and roses.

“Where’s Crookshanks?” asked Harry as he eyed the empty traveling basket.

“Exploring, I expect. He’ll be along.”

 “Oh,” Harry said, slightly disappointed. He had missed having a cat around and was looking forward to seeing him. Hermione smiled and patted him on the cheek, which mollified him.

And so, the second leg of their summer together began. Wanting to take advantage of every last second of freedom, they were rarely away from the cottage. Harry did not tell them exactly what Cho said, but they were very sympathetic over his breakup, though he noticed an unreadable but almost identical look on Ron’s and Hermione’s faces over the news.

He could not bring himself to tell them of his father’s affair. That was far too new, too shameful. He twisted his pain into a small knot and hid it deep inside, telling himself he would confide in them someday.

Early on, Ron and Harry hauled the canoe up to the cottage and flipped it upside down on top of a sort of framework Hermione engineered out of forked sticks stuck into the ground at intervals. The three of them painted it a cheerful Gryffindor red, and while it dried, Hermione and Harry bickered over whether to paint gold stripes or a lion on it.

It was starting to get heated until Ron reasoned that if they added anything, it would be that much longer before they could take it back on the water. That settled things – no decoration.

That evening around the campfire, Ron passed a cigarette to Harry and offered another one to Hermione. She scowled in disgust. “Absolutely not. Do you have any idea what those do to your teeth?” Both her parents were dentists.

“Suit yourself,” Ron said, smirking as Harry lit a match for him. Harry watched Ron’s cheeks hollow as he drew on the cigarette and was glad it was dark enough to hide the flush creeping up his neck.

“What the fuck?” coughed Harry in surprise when he took his first drag. The flavour was strangely sweet, like cream soda, and filled his mouth and lungs with a pleasant sensation that felt like effervescence.

Ron chuckled. “Courtesy of Fred and George,” he said, exhaling smoke that sparkled and glowed faintly. The light reflected off Ron’s skin in interesting ways. Harry was momentarily mesmerized.

Hermione was as well, but not in an impressed way. “You’re both disgusting,” she said, her lip curling.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it,” said Harry in a terrible American accent, leaning his head back and taking another drag. He’d never go back to Muggle cigarettes after this.

“Well, enjoy yourselves,” she said waspishly, and stomped into the cottage with her arms crossed. Harry and Ron looked at each other. Ron shrugged and skewered a marshmallow. Harry was silent. He hadn’t meant to upset her.

“Don’t worry about it, mate,” Ron said, noticing the way Harry perched on the edge of his chair, undecided if he should stub out his cigarette and follow her or stay with Ron. “She doesn’t have to like the same things.”

“Still,” Harry mumbled.

They talked for a while. Ron wanted to know if anything was new. Harry thought about mentioning his mother and Remus, but decided against it. He wasn’t supposed to know, so he would pretend he didn’t until one or both of them decided to come clean. Or he got sick of pretence. Whichever came first.

Instead, he told Ron what Cho had said about Hermione. As he’d hoped, Ron was filled with righteous indignation. “If she wasn’t a girl, I’d have hexed her myself,” Ron said furiously.

“What are you two talking about?” Hermione called from the door.

“Nothing,” they said.

“Are you coming back?” Harry asked.

“No,” came her sullen answer.

“Aw, come on, Hermione,” Ron wheedled. “We’ve finished.” Harry grinned and indicated there was space for her on his chair.

She sniffed primly. “Oh, all right.”

Harry and Ron cheered, making her smile in spite of herself. “Honestly; calm down,” she said quellingly, coming to sit with Harry. Her curls brushed against him as he suppressed a shiver.

They all looked around as they heard a soft meow. Ron bent and picked up what looked like a ginger mop and set it on his knees. “Crookshanks!” Harry exclaimed gleefully as the cat made biscuits on Ron’s thighs, making him wince. He could hear the cat purring even over the crackling and snapping of the flames.

“I told you he’d be along,” said Hermione, looking at her cat fondly. Harry tentatively put an arm around her waist. She did not pull away. Ron pretended not to notice as he scratched Crookshanks behind the ears.

“Nice night,” Harry said. Hermione hummed in agreement. There was a light breeze, and stars were beginning to dot the sky. As they listened to the crickets, frogs, curlews, and owls, a nightingale joined the chorus.

“Oh, how pretty,” Hermione sighed.

“Yeah,” Harry and Ron said. But they were looking at Hermione.

 

Harry and Ron slept late the next day. They were awakened by Hermione shrieking, “Oh my GOD!” and bolting into their room.

“Get up, get up – they’re here!” she squealed as Harry sat upright. The window groaned in protest as she pushed it up as high as it would go. He could not find himself too annoyed, as her pyjamas consisted of a shirt with thin straps and shorts that showed off her rounded arse.

“Who’s here?” Ron asked sluggishly, also sitting up.

“Owls! Three of them! From Hogwarts,” she hissed.

“Oh,” Harry said, understanding, and he also leapt up, scrambling for his glasses. Hermione stepped back from the window as three tawny owls flew through it and landed on Harry’s bed. They lifted their right legs in unison, displaying the letters attached there. One for Harry, one for Ron, one for Hermione.

“I can’t detach it; my hands are shaking,” she whispered.

Ron got up and took his and Hermione’s. The owls ruffled their feathers in a dignified way and flew back out through the open window. Now there was only the rustle of parchment as they each opened their OWL exam results.

“Well?” Harry asked Hermione, who was flushed pink.

“Nine Outstandings and one Exceeds Expectations,” she breathed. “You?”

“Seven Outstandings, one Exceeds Expectations, and one Acceptable,” said Harry.

“What about you, Ron?” Hermione asked.

“All my dreams of Minister for Magic – dashed,” said Ron solemnly. “Only one Outstanding. Meanwhile, you lot could fill a bowl of CheeriOwls.”

Hermione whipped his results out of his hand. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic – you don’t have a single fail grade!” she said. “You’ve got six Exceeds Expectations and two Acceptables!”

“Better than Fred and George, anyway,” said Ron. “Better than Charlie, even.” He brightened visibly.

Harry noticed Hermione, who did not seem as pleased as anyone else might be with that many Outstanding grades. “Hermione?”

“You can’t possibly be disappointed?” said Ron, reaching for her results.

“No, not exactly,” she said, making only a halfhearted effort to keep the parchment away from Ron. He tickled her ribs and she let go, wheezing.

“Not fair,” she said, clutching her side. Harry filed the knowledge of her ticklish spot away for future consideration. Ron ignored her as he perused her grades. “Her only Exceeds Expectations was Defence Against the Dark Arts. Come on, Hermione. It’s not like we’re ever going to have to use it.”

She scowled at Ron. “No, you probably won’t. You’re a pureblood.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ron said, bristling.

Harry remembered the poisoning at the benefit for the Muggleborn charity his mother had told him about, and her comment about being considered a lesser being. He understood.

“Hermione,” he said gently as she crossed her arms protectively over herself and looked at the floor. “Has someone been… Did something happen to you?”

Ron hadn’t quite picked up on the undercurrent of the conversation and looked bemusedly between Harry and Hermione.

“Forget it,” mumbled Hermione, leaving the room.

“Hermione,” Harry pleaded, but she had already gone into her room and shut the door.

“What is going on?” Ron asked.

“She’s Muggleborn,” Harry said, and told him about his conversation with his mother, and reminded him of when Draco Malfoy had called her “Mudblood.”

“Oh,” Ron said, his face falling. “I forgot.”

“Lucky you,” Harry said lightly.

“We really should look out for her more,” Ron said.

“Yeah,” Harry mumbled. “I’m going to try to talk to her.”

“Right. You’re better at that kind of thing. I’ll… I’ll make breakfast.”

Harry gave a snort of laughter. “I don’t know if that will make her feel better or worse.”

“Shut up,” Ron said, grinning. “I’m not totally useless. I just like watching you– I mean, I like your cooking.” He cleared his throat and walked out the door, but not before Harry saw him blush.

Harry was very interested to know what Ron had been out to say, but he couldn’t think about it right then or it would distract him. He listened at Hermione’s door for a moment. He could hear nothing inside. “Hermione?” he called. “Can I come in?”

“All right,” came her reply. She sounded like she had a bit of a head cold.

Harry’s heart sank when he opened the door and saw her face. She was sitting up on top of the covers, stroking Crookshanks in the same desultory way Harry used to pet Scout when he was feeling miserable. Hermione had been crying.

He sat at her feet. Crookshanks meowed at him and blinked slowly in the way cats do for people they trust. “This isn’t about exam results, is it?” Harry said. She shook her head but wouldn’t elaborate. She looked out her window at the lake.

“Talk to me, Hermione,” he pleaded gently. “Did something happen?”

She took a shaky breath. “It’s just… I don’t know how to describe it. Nobody says anything when you or Ron are around, not since the slug incident, but… I see the way people look at my parents when we go to Diagon Alley. Or the way people are surprised when they learn I’m Muggleborn – like they can’t believe I’m not stupid. Those letters I got when Viktor and I were still dating, from his fans – bringing my blood into it… And every time the Daily Prophet reports on crimes against Muggles or Muggleborns, I feel…” She trailed off, gesturing feebly.

“Why did you never say anything?” Harry asked, his heart breaking for her.

“Why didn’t you notice?” Hermione said, suddenly angry. “Seems like you always have a girlfriend to distract you from your friends.”

Harry blinked at her. He didn’t know she felt that way. “Hermione…” he said, not knowing what else to say. She looked away again.

“I don’t have one now,” Harry finally said.

“I just want to be alone, Harry,” she said tightly.

“All right,” he said shortly. “Come find me when you don’t.” He wanted to tell her she was being unfair. If she hated him having a girlfriend… what did that even mean? Was she jealous? He wished she would just come out and say what was up instead of expecting him to read her mind.

He found Ron in the kitchen cutting fruit, a pot of oat porridge starting to bubble on the hob. “How do I know when it’s done?” he asked Harry.

“When it’s thick enough,” he said irritably, giving it a stir.

“Went that well, did it?” Ron snorted.

“Fantastic,” said Harry. “She’s the sweetest girl in the world and not at all complicated.” He huffed and told Ron what she’d said.

“Whoever is giving her trouble better hope we don’t learn their name,” Ron said darkly.

Harry knew that for Hermione, they were not broken down into single, isolated incidents. It was… an ideology. He didn’t really know how to explain it to Ron, neither of them ever having experienced it themselves. The thought that someone could hate not just who you are, but what you are.

“I’m afraid you’re a bit privileged, darling,” his mother had said. Perhaps that was why Hermione shut them out. It hurt, he realised. That was why he was so annoyed with her. He was the type of person that reacted to difficult feelings with anger.

Ron and Harry ate breakfast in silence. It felt wrong, sitting around the table without Hermione. Harry wondered if she had started crying again. “I hate when she’s upset,” Harry said when they’d finished and he couldn’t stand it anymore. “Especially when it’s my fault.”

“I don’t think it is your fault,” said Ron. “She’s just… having her feelings? Isn’t that what she said when she broke it off with Krum?”

When he heard footsteps in the upstairs hall, Harry skidded in his socks to reach the bottom of the stairs and looked up to see Hermione coming down. At the look on his face, she visibly softened. “Oh, Harry. You’re adorable. I’m sorry.”

“For whatever I said wrong, I’m sorry,” he said, feeling warm and fuzzy at her words. “And I’m sorry for having a girlfriend. I won’t do it again.”

She laughed and hugged him around the middle. He put his arms around her and breathed in her magnolia scent. “I didn’t mean you shouldn’t have girlfriends,” she said against his shoulder. “I just don’t want you to forget about me.”

“I couldn’t,” he said. “But I’m stupid, and you’ll have to tell me when things aren’t right.”

“Deal,” she said, and he could feel her lips curve into a smile.

“We really should celebrate,” he told her. “Like we said.”

“With firewhisky, if I remember,” she said, letting go.

“You don’t have to,” he said quickly as Ron came over to them.

“Yes, she does,” said Ron as he hugged her in turn. He was tall enough to rest his chin on the top of her head. “It’ll do her good to be naughty before she has to be Hermione the Prefect again.”

“Naughty,” Harry whispered at her and grinned. She stuck her tongue out at him, but smiled in spite of herself. Harry had to admit she looked very cute snuggled into Ron, her pretty curls spilling over his strong, freckled arms, and wished Ron would hug him like that.

They didn’t break out Padfoot’s Wildfire Whisky until that evening around the fire. Ron and Harry watched Hermione with interest as she hesitantly raised her glass to her lips. She grimaced and coughed at her first swallow, a fist at her chest. “Ugh,” she said. “Why does anyone like this?”

“Give it a moment,” Ron said, clinking glasses with Harry. Ron watched Harry’s throat as he swallowed, then took a slug for himself.

“But don’t overdo it,” Harry cautioned, “or you’ll find yourself dancing in only your socks and singing the national anthem.” Firewhisky was a libation that induced courage.

“I’m not wearing socks,” Hermione pointed out. “And you know this from experience, do you?” She held her glass by the rim and dangled it elegantly over the arm of her chair, where it caught the firelight and glowed.

Harry grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Ron took another swallow. “I would,” he said. “You never did give any of the – er, finer details on Cho.”

“Ron!” Hermione hissed. “They’ve only just broken up!”

“No, that’s okay,” said Harry honestly. It felt like a very long time ago now. “What do you want to know?”

Hermione and Ron went very quiet and looked at each other. Obviously, they hadn’t expected him to be game. Harry took another sip of his whisky and felt his courage mounting.

“What’s it like?” Ron mumbled. “Other than nice and weird.”

“Weird?” Hermione said, bemused.

“I mean, it is, if you think about it. Putting those parts together,” Harry shrugged.

“Did it hurt her?” Hermione asked. “Do you know? I’ve heard it can hurt. You know, for girls, their first time.” She looked anxious.

Harry frowned and thought back. “If it did, she didn’t say anything. We – er, we went pretty slow. She was very… erm, slippery down there.”

“What?” said Ron. His eyes were very wide.

“Oh, grow up,” Hermione admonished him sternly. “That’s what makes it work. And it’s how you know you’ve done a good job.”

Ron was quiet, considering it. Harry noticed him cross his legs and clear his throat.

“I kind of knew that,” Harry mumbled. “This might sound weird, but my mum and I talk about everything. She’s a Healer, so…”

Hermione smiled. “That’s actually nice. My mum… she just handed me a book and wouldn’t look at me. Dad was nowhere around.”

For some reason, the thought of Hermione having to learn through a book was very funny to Harry, and he laughed out loud. “Sorry,” he said at her sharp look. “It’s not really funny, but… it’s so you, innit? Books.”

She grinned. “I know.”

Ron said, “Nobody tells me anything. I don’t ask, mind, nobody really wants to think about their parents…”

A vision of Harry’s mum and Remus flickered across his mind, but Harry squashed it down. Hermione laughed. “You have six siblings, Ron. How do you think you all got here?”

“A really confused stork,” he said easily. “He kept dropping us on the lawn even after Mum told him off.” For some reason, Hermione found this especially funny and immediately burst into giggles, which set Harry off, and then they were all laughing hysterically.

“By then it was just spite,” Ron grinned, when they finally calmed down, wiping his eyes.

Hermione took another sip of her whisky, scrunching up her face in anticipation of the burning sensation. Harry watched her throat work in amusement. “You can say you’ve tried it now; you don’t have to keep drinking it if you don’t like it.”

“It could grow on me,” Hermione said. “If we’re going to continue this conversation, a little liquid courage isn’t the worst idea.”

Ron chuckled in a throaty, gravelly way that made Harry cross his legs. “Be still my heart. Hermione Granger likes drinking. We’ll have you smoking next – mark my words.”

“Oh, shut it,” she giggled. She turned to Harry, putting her hand in her fist. “Come on, Harry. I want to know how many times?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Harry said, scandalized. “Mostly because I lost count.”

“Ha, haaa!” Ron cheered, punching the air with his fist. Harry smirked. It didn’t feel like gossip. He was sharing an experience with his best friend and his best mate. It wouldn’t go any farther than this fire ring.

What happens at the cottage stays at the cottage, he thought happily.

Hermione took another swallow and this time, she barely reacted. “Did you use condoms or something else?”

“What are those?” Ron asked. His eyes went wide as Harry explained, complete with hand gestures. “You… really? Do you… do you even feel anything if you have it all covered like that?”

“No, not at all. It takes all the fun out of it,” Harry said, giving Ron the most sarcastic look he could muster.

“I always thought of them as a way to have fun responsibly,” Hermione said thoughtfully.

“Precisely,” said Harry in his best Professor McGonagall impression. “Points to Gryffindor.”

Hermione and Ron nearly fell out of their chairs laughing. “Oh, can you imagine?” Hermione giggled. “If she did a class on sex education?”

“Better than Snape,” Ron said, and Harry snorted into his glass.

“So,” Ron went on, “you use them every time?”

“Yeah, and always a new one – that’s very important, you can’t reuse them.”

“It’s best if you use them and the potion,” Hermione said.

“What potion?” asked Ron.

“Oh, Ron,” said Hermione, “You sweet, sweet boy.” She explained the daily potion women took to prevent pregnancy. “But it doesn’t stop any… erm, diseases. Which… I guess it’s not as big of a deal in this world, because those kinds of things are curable with magic or potions…”

“Diseases?” said Ron with anxiety. Hermione and Harry shared a look.

It was a very educational night for Ron.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

When their school supply lists came, there was only a week left of vacation. Gran had magnanimously allowed storage space to all their school trunks and brooms and things in an unused bedroom in the manor, and while Hermione and Ron were mostly packed except for clothing and the things they would get from Diagon Alley, Harry procrastinated. It was much more fun squeezing out the last drops of summer in the lake, around the fire, and in the woods.

“How economical,” Harry commented when all three of their Hogwarts letters were delivered at once by the same owl.

“They must know we’re a package deal,” said Ron importantly.

Harry liked the sound of that. So did Hermione, if the pretty blush on her cheeks was any indication.

Harry’s letter was a bit thicker than usual. He pulled out a badge and a sheet of instructions he had not been expecting – he had been made Quidditch captain!

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione cried happily. “Quidditch captain puts you on the same level as prefects – you can use our special bathroom and everything!”

“What, at the same time?” Harry blurted without thinking.

“Er, no,” said Hermione, her face flaming. “The door’s enchanted to only allow one sex at a time.”

“Though, s’far as I know, no one’s tried the window yet,” Ron said, smirking and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively while Harry immediately thought through the logistics of the idea. Brooms? Climbing ropes? Grappling hooks?

“Oh, stop it,” Hermione said. “You’re so crass!”

“She likes it, though,” Ron said in aside to Harry. Harry chortled. It was so easy to fluster Hermione.

From hers and Ron’s description, the prefect’s bath was as large as a small swimming pool and had multiple taps for perfumes, bath oils, and bubbles. He imagined Hermione, clad only in foam and that magnificent hair of hers. Harry would be a liar if he himself wasn’t flustered by the idea of sharing a bath with Hermione.

Adding fuel to his fire, Ron was now an active player in Harry’s fantasies. He did not know why the idea captivated him so, but he had a very strong desire to watch Ron and Hermione engage in all kinds of erotic acts. Or have Ron watch him and Hermione. Or have Hermione watch him and Ron. Now that he understood more about himself, he was always at the edge of excitement, no matter who touched whom.

“So,” Hermione said, changing the subject. “Diagon Alley. I’ve already written to our families and arranged things so we can go together. Our families will meet us there.” In a very businesslike way, she passed out three schedules written in her neat script. Ron shared a look with Harry.

It was overcast when they went. Hermione’s schedule was almost immediately thrown out, to her annoyance and everyone else’s relief. At one point, she went off with her mother to look at clothes while Harry, Ron, and Ginny went to Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Mr. Weasley lured the remaining adults away for a drink at the Leaky Cauldron, clapping Mr. Granger on the back fondly. Harry smiled. The two men were kindred spirits from different worlds – Mr. Weasley was fascinated by Muggles, and Mr. Granger was fascinated by magic. With the stupid no-underage-magic-outside-Hogwarts rules, Hermione was unable to show her parents what she was capable of.

Harry tried to imagine his own father having a drink with them. He just couldn’t see it. The thought made him even more upset that his father seemed to no longer want to be a part of his life.

But he didn’t want to dwell on that. As he, Ron, and Ginny idly browsed the shop, looking at brooms and gear, Harry learned that Ginny intended to try out for Chaser. He considered her when her back was turned. If she was any good, she’d be a great addition to the team. She was even-tempered and funny when she wanted to be. If nothing else, she’d be great for morale.

He considered his role as captain as he picked up a book on Quidditch fouls. Angelina Johnson had been captain the year before. Harry would have to assemble almost an entirely new team. Two Chasers (Angelina and Alicia Spinnet) and both Beaters (Fred and George Weasley) had all graduated. He, Ron, and Chaser Katie Bell were the only ones left of the original team from Harry’s first year.

When they all met up again at Flourish and Blotts, Hermione was bad-tempered and empty-handed. Harry wondered what that was about. She cheered up quickly though, surrounded by books.

Harry’s mother looked at the stack of books in his arms that the shop assistant had given him. Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage was on top. She picked it up and leafed through it as they waited in line to pay.

“Darling, if you like, you can have my old book. This is the same edition from when I was in school. And all my notes are in there – maybe they’ll help you.” She smiled warmly at him. Despite her history with the Potions professor, she wanted Harry to do well.

“All right,” Harry agreed, even though he was not looking forward to the subject, knowing what Snape had done to his parents’ marriage. His mother used her wand to put the new book back on the shelf.

It had actually been very difficult for Harry to decide which subjects to drop. After his career consultation with Professor McGonagall, he didn’t want to rule out anything that might give him an edge on a potential teaching position. In the end, he dropped Divination (his only Acceptable grade) and Care of Magical Creatures (he liked keeping his limbs). Astronomy and History of Magic were not taught at NEWT level, so his opened schedule would hopefully allow him time for Quidditch and his new tutoring job.

His mother took charge at the apothecary, scrutinizing the potion ingredient kits and shaking her head at some of the prices. “No, absolutely not,” she said, looking at the moondew. “How do you sleep at night selling this mulch?” she muttered when the shopkeeper turned his back. “Gran grows much better than this,” she said. “Give her your list and she’ll get everything for you.”

“You seem very confident in Gran’s generosity,” Harry said wryly.

“Pfft. She would set herself on fire if you said you were chilly,” she retorted.

When all their shopping was finished, Harry, Ron, and Hermione said goodbye to their families until September 1 and went through the Leaky Cauldron’s fireplace back to the lakeside cottage.

“Do you ever think it’s weird that they just… let us do whatever we want?” Ron asked as they brushed soot off each other in the sitting room.

“I don’t know about you, but my parents are just glad I have friends,” said Hermione. “They don’t protest much when I say I’m going off with you.”

“Really?” said Harry. “They don’t worry about sending their pretty daughter off to stay with two devastatingly handsome blokes all alone in a secluded little house?”

“Oh, really,” she sputtered at his raised eyebrows.

 

The day before September 1, it rained – a good and proper deluge that lasted all day. Harry, Ron, and Hermione watched it blur the surface of the lake from the porch, turning it a steel grey. Harry inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent of petrichor and wet earth. There was something about rain that enhanced the smells of everything. Contained within the porch was a heady, intoxicating mix of Hermione’s magnolia and Ron’s woodsy fragrances. To Harry, it was the very essence of summer.

He was glad of the excuse to stay cozy indoors with his best mate and his best friend (and his best friend’s cat). The small size of the cottage put them in close physical proximity. When they tired of watching the rain, he and Ron played chess in the tiny sitting room while Hermione read, her legs draped comfortably over Harry as they shared the small sofa.

Harry was not at his best – he was incredibly distracted by the fact that Hermione was wearing a skirt. It was long and perfectly appropriate, but Harry very much liked skirts on girls – it gave easy access to what was between those lovely legs. Ron won the game, despite Harry’s every effort to draw it out by thinking overlong about each move. It wasn’t even close.

“Rematch?” Harry asked, his voice sounding slightly strangled.

Ron looked pointedly at Hermione, then at Harry. “Only if we switch spots.” Harry scowled at him and reluctantly slid out from under Hermione.

“You know there’s such a thing as turning the board around,” Hermione said irritably as Ron jostled her to scoot into Harry’s place.

“Comfier here,” he said guilelessly, patting her knees. She huffed and went back to her book. When Harry beat Ron soundly, Hermione put down her book and they played card games.

And when Ron and Harry inevitably started discussing Quidditch strategies for the year, Hermione disappeared back into her book. They had only flown together twice the whole summer, so reluctant were Ron and Harry leave Hermione out. There would be enough to keep them apart when they were at school.

Harry thought Ron had the best of it. He would have Quidditch practice with Harry and prefect duties with Hermione, but Harry and Hermione didn’t have anything that was just the two of them.

Maybe we’ll find something, he thought. She was brilliant enough to take a tutoring job, but she had confessed to Harry she didn’t have the patience for it. He thought it was a shame – the one thing he did miss about Cho was their shared like of kids and mentoring.

Crookshanks wandered by and Harry scooped him up. Hermione looked up sharply as her cat protested with a loud meow. “Oh, stop that; you’re just fine,” Harry told him, cradling him to his chest. Crookshanks gave him a filthy look, but was soon mollified by Harry’s compliments and stupid crooning.

Harry ignored Ron’s look of disgust. He liked Crookshanks, and the pain of losing Scout had taught him to not take moments like this for granted. He was rewarded by Crookshanks’ rumbling purr and Hermione’s fond smile.

They spent the rest of the day indoors, talking and soaking up the last of their uninterrupted, uncomplicated time with each other. “You’ll both come back next year?” Harry asked.

“Definitely,” said Ron as Hermione said, “Of course!” They all agreed it had been the best summer ever, including the year they’d gone to the Quidditch World Cup together.

It was still raining after dinner, so they did not get one last fire. But they did share the final quarter of the last bottle of firewhisky, clinking glasses and toasting to summer, to the lake, to campfires and marshmallows.

Hermione kissed each of them on the cheek goodnight in the upstairs hall. Ron made a strange movement, almost as if he was going to kiss Harry’s cheek but changed his mind before he could. Harry flicked his gaze to Hermione, as if to ask her if she had seen what he had seen, but she had already gone into her room.

Not much later, Harry fell asleep with the window cracked, listening to the rain on the lake and the gleeful croaking of the frogs.

He dreamed of strong, freckled arms and shining brown eyes.

Chapter 6: The Slug Club

September 1 was overcast, but at least the rain had stopped. Harry’s mother came early in the morning, driving the old Fourtrak right up to the cottage. Harry looked from the car to the untidy pile of brooms, trunks, and pet carriers, and wondered how it was all going to fit. Hermione, however, was undaunted. Citing her camping trip experiences, she cheerfully set Ron and Harry to work.

“It’s just like Tetris,” she said. Harry looked at his mother, thinking it was a Muggle phrase, but she just shrugged at him. She stood back and watched with her arms crossed and an amused look on her face.

What followed was fifteen minutes of Hermione getting frustrated with Ron and Harry as they misunderstood her instructions, sweating and biting back swear words as they lifted and turned, lugged and swung, dropped and tied, until everything was where she intended. Two trunks and Harry and Ron’s brooms were strapped into the rooftop luggage rack. The third was in the boot, Hedwig in her cage was strapped safely into the front seat, and Crookshanks would sit on Hermione’s lap in his traveling basket.

“Could have used a wand,” Harry directed grumpily at his mother. She scrunched her nose at him in a playful smile.

As she passed Crookshanks between the front seats to Hermione, the ginger cat hissed and growled through the wickerwork. “Spicy kitty,” she said, smiling, while a mortified Hermione admonished her cat for his bad manners.

Harry’s mum turned the key in the ignition and the car rumbled to life. Hermione, Harry, and Ron were quiet as they turned to look one last time at the cottage and lake that had made the best summer of their lives possible.

They watched it grow smaller through the back window as the Fourtrak bounced along the poorly maintained roads, splashing through puddles and sliding through patches of slippery mud. Then they turned a bend, and it was out of sight. Summer was over.

Harry’s mother was in good spirits, humming quietly along to a Muggle song on the radio and patting the steering wheel in time to the music. He noticed she’d painted her nails a dark red. “You seem chipper,” he observed, wondering quite against his will if she’d seen Remus recently.

“It’s a nice day,” she said.

Nobody spoke much until they got to the main road. Harry’s mum cleared her throat and shared some interesting news. “You didn’t hear this from me, but you have a new Potions teacher this year.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at each other with wide eyes before they all began talking at once, asking all sorts of why, how, and when questions and exulting jubilantly over Snape’s departure.

“Sev – I mean, Professor Snape, decided very last minute that he did not want to return to Hogwarts. No, I don’t know why,” his mother said, but there was a tenseness to her shoulders that told Harry she was not telling the full truth.

Interesting, he thought.

“Who’s the new Professor?” asked Hermione with rapt attention.

“An eccentric by the name of Horace Slughorn.”

“Oh, I know him!” Hermione said. Harry glanced at her in confusion. “He writes for Monthly Mixture sometimes.” She was referring to a potions periodical that Harry’s mother subscribed to. Sometimes he would browse it idly, but never paid attention to the contributors’ names.

“Yes, he’s very good friends with the editor,” Harry’s mum said. “Up until a week ago, he was in retirement. Professor Dumbledore brought me out to see him to convince him to return – he was my Potions professor.”

“Why you?” asked Harry.

She shrugged artlessly. “I was one of his favourites. He tends to… er, collect people. He was very interested in you, Harry – kept bringing up the whole ‘youngest Seeker in a century’ thing. I think that might have been what convinced him to come back.”

“Mum! I feel used,” Harry said in scandalised tones. Ron and Hermione laughed.

“Who’s Head of Slytherin House now that Snape’s gone?” asked Ron.

“I imagine Sluggy will be. He was when I was a student, anyway.”

“Sluggy?” exclaimed Harry as Ron asked, “Is he prejudiced in their favour?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “He only plays favourites if he thinks you are or will be somebody.”

“What did you mean about him collecting people?” Hermione asked.

Harry’s mother didn’t answer right away – she had to brake rather quickly as a slow-moving car merged right in front of her. “Sunday driver,” she muttered as she shifted gears and changed lanes to go around them.

“Sorry, what I mean is that he’s ambitious, but not in the way that makes him seek powerful positions. No, he likes to surround himself with people he can flatter himself that he influences and get privileges or stuff for free. He handpicks students who have connections to famous, influential, or powerful people, or show a particular aptitude for something. Oh, I know how it sounds, but he’s really not a bad sort,” she said fondly. “You’ll learn a lot from him.”

Harry decided he would reserve judgement for later.

 

As Ron and Hermione pushed their trunk-laden trolleys into King’s Cross station, Harry stayed back with his mother. “Dad’s not coming, is he?”

Her mouth went very small and white. “Probably not. I’m sorry,” she said, softening at the look on his face. Harry shook his head and rearranged his expression into what he hoped was a look of nonchalance, as if it didn’t matter to him one way or another.

But it did matter. There was still a little boy inside Harry, waiting by that front window for his father to come home, to swing him up and say how much he missed his boy. He had been able to ignore it when he was with Ron and Hermione, but now…

As he went through the secret barrier to Platform 9¾, he found a surprise waiting for him. A dark-haired man, dressed in an expensive suit and flamboyant waistcoat.

“Sirius!” said Harry in surprise as his godfather pulled him into a hug and clapped him on the back. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I was in the area; I like to check in with my distributors every so often. Business, you know.” Harry knew he was lying. He had come for Harry, who was, for the moment, fatherless. He felt a warm surge of gratitude.

“Heard you had some excellent exam results,” Sirius was saying, looking very impressed, “and are gainfully employed.”

“That’s right,” Harry grinned. “McGonagall has me tutoring Transfiguration students.” His mother smoothed his hair. She had to reach far up, so tall was Harry now. He was even an inch taller than Sirius.

They had some time before the train would leave. Sirius helped Harry load his trunk and stow it in a compartment before he looked around for Ron and Hermione.

Hermione was wrapped up in her mother’s arms. They seemed to not want to let go. Harry felt a twinge of guilt – Hermione was, like him, an only child, and this summer she had been away from her parents for what added up to a whole month.

Ron was with his parents, Ginny, Fred and George, and someone who Harry thought was his favourite uncle Gideon, but Harry had too much trouble telling between him and his twin brother Fabian to know for sure. Fred and George were looking pointedly at Harry. He walked over with a quick, “Be right back,” to his mother and Sirius.

What they wanted was to be introduced to Sirius. Their mail-order joke and novelty product business was booming, and they were looking for investors so they could get a brick-and-mortar establishment in either Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley.

“Sure,” said Harry. “Can’t promise anything, but I reckon he’ll be more receptive if you give him some of those fizzy cigarettes. Speaking of,” Harry said, lowering his voice.

“Say no more,” said George, and clandestinely exchanged silver for a pack of lemon-lime flavour.

Fred added, “When you run out, we have our ways of getting past Filch’s screening, so just make an order. Ron’s got our latest catalogue.”

“Cheers,” Harry grinned, and waved Sirius and his mother over.

As Sirius chatted with the Weasley twins, Harry’s mum rummaged in her handbag. “I almost forgot – my old potions book,” she said, pulling out a rather battered copy of Advanced Potion-Making.

Harry flipped open the front cover and saw his mother’s name written in the front – Lily Evans. He stared at it for a moment, not sure why it made his chest feel hollow. The rest of the book was covered in writing – she had crossed out many ingredients and substituted others. She had also made corrections or additions to most of the directions.

“Mum,” he said, turning it sideways to squint at a note in the margin that was written in minuscule print, “how am I supposed to read this?”

She smiled mischievously. “You’ll find my notes superior to the original. There’s a reason I’m one of the top Healers in my department. If you don’t believe me after your first three classes, I’ll owl you a new copy.”

“Were you a lonely child, Mum?” Harry teased. “Where did you find the time for all this?”

She laughed. “I’ll give you a clue – don’t ask me about the rest of my OWL results. Or my detention record.”

It was so nice to be able to laugh and take the mickey again. It had been so long since he had seen the playful side of his mother, he did not realise how much he had missed it.

The train whistle blew, signalling that it was time to board. His mother pulled him in for a quick hug. On impulse, Harry said, “I know about you and Remus.”

He kept his face neutral at her deer-in-the-headlights expression, but inside, he was crowing with glee.

“We’ll talk when I get home!” he called as he climbed up after Ron and Hermione. He saw Sirius look aside at his mother curiously as he waved. She was standing still in shock.

“What did you say to her?” Hermione asked him.

“Nothing,” Harry said, chuckling to himself as he balanced Hedwig and his potions book more securely. He imagined his mother racing to find an owl, any owl, to get a message to Remus before the train arrived at Hogwarts.

That’s what you get for not telling me, Harry thought. And you can fret about whether I approve or not.

 

Harry waited for Ron and Hermione to finish their prefect duties in a compartment that was occupied by Neville Longbottom and a snogging Ginny Weasley and Michael Corner, who was a Ravenclaw in Harry’s year. They had not noticed him at all, despite Harry banging the door open and being very noisy about stowing Hedwig.

Neville smiled tightly at Harry, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Harry tried to distract himself with Advanced Potion-Making, but the little sounds of shifting clothing and lips pressing against each other was very distracting. He wondered if he and Cho had been that obnoxious to everyone else.

Just as he was considering moving to another carriage, a blushing girl in third or fourth year stumbled into their carriage. “I’m supposed to g-give these to Harry P-Potter and Neville Longbottom,” she said, handing off two scrolls tied with velvet ribbons. She flushed even deeper as Harry accidentally brushed her hand as he took his from her.

Nonplussed, Harry opened it. Written in a fancy script that Harry could only describe as pretentious was an invitation to join Professor Slughorn in compartment C.

Curious to see for himself whether the new teacher was as eccentric as his mother made him out to be, Harry went with Neville down the corridor to compartment C, swaying with the movement of the train. Cho Chang darted into her compartment the second she saw Harry, and when he passed, he saw her through the window deeply engaged in conversation with a heavily made-up Marietta Edgecomb.

The other girls he passed appeared very, very interested, flashing appreciative glances and giggling as he passed. Romilda Vane was in the forefront, her bedroom eyes making Harry mildly uncomfortable. Even Parvati Patil, for whatever reason, was casting glances at him again.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Harry entered compartment C and was greeted by a portly, jovial man who resembled a walrus. He had a silver handlebar moustache, and his head was bald and shiny.

“Well, you can only be Mr. Potter,” he boomed in welcome. “You have your mother’s eyes. May I assume this is Mr. Longbottom?” He gestured grandly for them to sit in the only remaining seats – the rest were occupied by other students, some Harry recognised, some he did not. “Surely your mother has mentioned me – very nice to meet you at last – she speaks very highly of your Quidditch skills. And Mr. Longbottom, delighted as well, your grandmother is a friend of mine and your father helped me out of a spot of bother not too long ago…” Neville’s parents were both Aurors, and Harry knew them from the occasional Ministry Christmas party and anecdotes his father brought home from work.

As Harry sat down across from Neville, he looked around curiously as Slughorn began introductions.

**“Now, do you know everyone?” Slughorn asked Harry and Neville. “Blaise Zabini is your year, of course –”

Zabini did not make any sign of recognition or greeting, nor did Harry or Neville; Gryffindor and Slytherin students loathed each other on principle.

“This is Cormac McLaggen, perhaps you’ve come across each other – ? No?”

McLaggen, a large, wiry-haired youth, raised a hand, and Harry and Neville nodded back at him.

“ – and this is Marcus Belby, I don’t know whether – ?”

Belby, who was thin and nervous looking, gave a strained smile.

[…]

“Well, now, this is most pleasant,” said Slughorn cozily. “A chance to get to know you all a little better. Here, take a napkin. I’ve packed my own lunch; the trolley, as I remember it, is heavy on liquorice wands, and a poor old man’s digestive system isn’t quite up to such things… Pheasant, Belby?”

Belby started and accepted what looked like half a cold pheasant.

“I was just telling young Marcus here that I had the pleasure of teaching his Uncle Damocles,” Slughorn told Harry and Neville, now passing around a basket of rolls. “Outstanding wizard, and his Order of Merlin most well-deserved. Do you see much of your uncle, Marcus?”

Unfortunately, Belby had just taken a large mouthful of pheasant; in his haste to answer Slughorn he swallowed too fast, turned purple, and began to choke.

“Anapneo,” said Slughorn calmly, pointing his wand at Belby, whose airway seemed to clear at once.

“Not… not much of him, no,” gasped Belby, his eyes streaming.

“Well, of course, I daresay he’s busy, said Slughorn, looking questioningly at Belby. “I doubt he invented the Wolfsbane Potion without considerable hard work!” **

Harry looked with interest at Belby, wondering whether it was compassion, greed, or personal gain that inspired his uncle to invent the potion. It was a complicated brew with expensive ingredients, but it was also the only thing that worked to allow a werewolf to keep his or her human mind during their transformations.

Harry thought of Remus, and the pained way he spoke of his transformations before the potion was invented. Whatever his motivations, Harry decided he was grateful to Damocles Belby.

** “I suppose…” said Belby, who seemed afraid to take another bite of pheasant until he was sure Slughorn had finished with him. “Er… he and my dad don’t get on very well, you see, so I don’t really know much about…”

His voice trailed away as Slughorn gave him a cold smile and turned to McLaggen instead.

“Now, you, Cormac,” said Slughorn, “I happen to know you see a lot of your Uncle Tiberius, because he has a rather splendid picture of the two of you hunting nogtails in, I think, Norfolk?”

“Oh, yeah, that was fun, that was,” said McLaggen. “We went with Bertie Higgs and Rufus Scrimgeour – this was before he became Minister, obviously –”

“Ah, you know Bertie and Rufus, too?” beamed Slughorn, now offering around a small tray of pies; somehow, Belby was missed out. “Now, tell me…” **

It was as Harry’s mother had said – Slughorn singled out students he thought he had something to gain from. Zabini’s mother was something of a black widow – a famously beautiful witch who had a string of husbands that died under mysterious circumstances, leaving her obscene piles of gold and jewels.

Slughorn had saved Harry for last. “And of course, Harry Potter! I taught your mother, and now she’s among the best of the best at St. Mungo’s! And if rumour is correct, your father stands to become Head of the Auror Department within a few years!”

What? thought Harry in surprise. It was news to him. But then, it would be. He doesn’t talk to me anymore.

With difficulty, Harry brought his attention back to the conversation, where Slughorn was continuing to extoll his accomplishments. “And you were the youngest Seeker in a century when you joined the Gryffindor team in just your first year! Tell me, is it true you’ve had professional scouts knocking on your door?”

“No, sir,” Harry said. It was technically the truth. There had been only one, they had not come to the door, and his mother had gone ballistic when she found out they had approached him at Hogwarts after Gryffindor’s Quidditch cup win when he was only eleven.

“They’re not supposed to approach anyone until seventh year!” she had fumed.

His father had a more favourable view of the situation. “Easy, Lily; you’ve seen him play. You can’t blame them for foaming at the mouth – our son’s a true prodigy!” Harry’s heart had swelled with joy to hear his father speak of him so proudly.

“No?” said Slughorn, sounding a little disappointed. “Well, certainly they will be soon! Four Gryffindor Quidditch cup wins since you’ve been on the team. And captain this year!”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw McLaggen sit up straight, and eye Harry with interest. Harry knew a hopeful when he saw one. He looked like he could play Keeper, but that position was already taken by Ron.

** The afternoon wore on with more anecdotes of illustrious wizards Slughorn had taught, all of whom had been delighted to join what he called the “Slug Club” at Hogwarts. Harry could not wait to leave, but couldn’t see how to do so politely. Finally the train emerged from yet another long misty stretch into a red sunset, and Slughorn looked around, blinking in the twilight.

“Good gracious, it’s getting dark already! I didn’t notice that they’d lit the lamps! You’d better go and change your robes, all of you. McLaggen, you must drop by and borrow that book on nogtails. Harry, Blaise – any time you’re passing.” **

Harry figured Slughorn was reserving judgement on Neville, whose Gran was a formidable witch in her own right, and his parents were incredibly skilled in their field.

Definitely in the same league as Dad, Harry thought, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach that thoughts of his father caused.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The year promised to be a good one, though perhaps a little fuller than usual. September 2 fell on Monday, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione had all the same classes together, except Hermione was also taking Ancient Runes and Arithmancy.

After such a good summer, Harry approached the year in much better spirits. All was not perfect – thoughts of his home life weighed on him when he had too much time to think. He was angry with his father for his infidelity and mistreatment of his mother, but even more angry at himself for wishing his father would at least try to show up for his only son.

Harry was happy to see his mother happy, but he still worried about her. It was not something that he could just switch off after so many years of trying to make up for his father. Add Professor Lupin to the mix, and Harry felt even more confused.

But he couldn’t dwell on it too often. He was very busy. Even though his, Ron’s, and Hermione’s schedules had many open periods with seemingly nothing to do, it became clear they would need all that time just to keep up with the increased workload. Harry was undaunted – the coursework came easily for him, even nonverbal spells. He had Quidditch and his tutoring job. Hermione’s love affairs with planning and meddling came in very handy – she whipped up a study schedule for him before he could even finish asking for one.

At the end of the first week of term, Harry put up a notice on the common room message boards announcing Quidditch tryouts the following Saturday. On the advice of Katie Bell, their remaining Chaser, even the remaining members of the team would have to try out. Ron was not particularly happy, but reluctantly agreed with Katie’s wisdom.

A baffling amount of people applied – Harry didn’t know there were this many students in the whole of Gryffindor house. When Harry mentioned at breakfast the morning of trials that he wasn’t sure why the team was suddenly so popular, Hermione rolled her eyes at him.

“It’s not Quidditch – it’s you,” she said, pointing her knife at him.

“Me?” Harry said in surprise.

“Obviously. It’s both endearing and frustrating that you don’t know just how fanciable you are. Classes are easy for you, people look up to you, you’re stupidly talented at Quidditch, you’re tall, and you’re good-looking.”

“Oh?” said Harry, blushing but wanting her to go on. Ron narrowed his eyes.

“Nice try, Mr. Vanity,” Hermione smirked. “You won’t hear another word from me on the subject.”

“Aw, please?” he asked, grinning.

“No,” she said crossly.

When they made it to the pitch, Hermione wished them both luck. She kissed Ron on the cheek, and he put his arms around her before she could pull away. Harry wrinkled his nose at him but said nothing as Ron let Hermione go. She went off to sit in the stands, where an alarming number of people had already congregated. Even more were still trickling in.

“Good luck, Ron!” Harry heard a familiar voice call. It was Lavender Brown, and she was looking at Ron like a puppy.

Must have forgotten the Yule Ball, Harry thought with amusement. But he really couldn’t blame her for staring – Ron looked especially good in his Quidditch robes. His wavy, copper hair was already interestingly windswept.

Harry grabbed Ron’s elbow before he could walk away and tried to ignore the swoop in his stomach. “Seriously, mate – good luck,” Harry said, looking into Ron’s eyes. For a moment, something passed between them. But it was gone in a flash as they were interrupted by the nogtail hunting boy from the train.

** “We met on the train, in old Sluggy’s compartment,” he said confidently, stepping out of the crowd to shake Harry’s hand. “Cormac McLaggen, Keeper.”

“You didn’t try out last year, did you?” asked Harry, taking note of the breadth of McLaggen and thinking that he would probably block all three goal hoops without even moving.

“I was in the hospital wing when they held the trials,” said McLaggen, with something of a swagger. “Ate a pound of doxy eggs for a bet.”

“Right,” said Harry. “Well… if you wait over there…”

He pointed over to the edge of the pitch, close to where Hermione was sitting. He thought he saw a flicker of annoyance pass over McLaggen’s face and wondered whether McLaggen expected preferential treatment because they were both “old Sluggy’s” favourites. **

But he seemed to perk up when he saw where he was supposed to go. “That your friend?” he asked, staring at Hermione with an appraising look that made Harry bristle. True, she did look extra pretty with her curls blowing in the breeze and gleaming in the sun, but that did not mean knobs like McLaggen were free to leer at her.

He clapped Harry roughly on the shoulder and said, “Introduce me later? After I make Keeper.”

Like hell I will, Harry thought, grinding his teeth.

** Harry decided to start with a basic test, asking all applicants for the team to divide into groups of ten and fly once around the pitch. This was a good decision: The first ten was made up of first years and it could not have been plainer that they had hardly ever flown before. Only one boy managed to remain airborne for more than a few seconds, and he was so surprised he promptly crashed into one of the goal posts.

The second group was comprised of ten of the silliest girls Harry had ever encountered, who, when he blew his whistle, merely fell about giggling and clutching one another. Romilda Vane was amongst them. When he told them to leave the pitch, they did so quite cheerfully and went to sit in the stands to heckle everyone else.

The third group had a pileup halfway around the pitch. Most of the fourth group had come without broomsticks. The fifth group were Hufflepuffs.

“If there’s anyone else here who’s not from Gryffindor,” roared Harry, who was starting to get seriously annoyed, “leave now, please!”

There was a pause, then a couple of little Ravenclaws went sprinting off the pitch, snorting with laughter.

After two hours, many complaints, and several tantrums, one involving a crashed Comet Two Sixty and several broken teeth, Harry had found himself three Chasers: Katie Bell, returned to the team after an excellent trial; a new find called Demelza Robins, who was particularly good at dodging Bludgers; and Ginny Weasley, who had outflown all the competition and scored seventeen goals to boot. Pleased though he was with his choices, Harry had also shouted himself hoarse at the many complainers and was now enduring a similar battle with the rejected Beaters.

“That’s my final decision and if you don’t get out of the way for the Keepers I’ll hex you,” he bellowed. **

Added to the team were new Beaters Ritchie Coote and Jimmy Peakes. While no one could hold a candle to the Weasley twins, he was impressed by the aim of Coote and the ferocity of Peakes.

Last was the Keepers trial. Harry noticed that the crowd in the stands was bigger than ever. Does nobody have anything better to do on a Saturday? he thought grumpily. His first hurdle as captain was not going at all as he had expected. Was Hermione right? Was it really all because of him?

Maybe not, Harry amended as Ron flew up. There were more than a few feminine sighs of appreciation from the stands as he took position in front of the goals. If Harry had been merely a spectator, he might have done the same. But he was captain, and he had to focus.

Get a grip, Potter, he admonished himself.

To his delight, Ron saved five penalties in a row. Ron’s main flaw had always been performance anxiety – it had almost lost him the Keeper tryouts last year and it had affected their games more than once. But something had changed in Ron – he was filled with new confidence. And it looked really good on him.

Harry shook himself. None of the next five applicants managed to save more than two goals each. Cormac McLaggen, however, to Harry’s consternation, managed to save four out of five. Something very strange seemed to come over him on the last one – he shot off in completely the wrong direction, as if he was suddenly confused. He hit the ground with a furious expression as the crowd laughed and booed.

Harry had to tell him that, sadly, Ron had outperformed him and would continue on as Gryffindor Keeper. McLaggen took a step towards Harry, his face red and teeth gritted.

“Give me another go,” he said, a vein pulsing in his temple.

“No,” said Harry, undeterred. He was no longer the small, skinny boy who could be intimidated by larger boys like his cousin. “You had your chance.”

“His sister gave him an easy save.”

“Bollocks,” said Harry. “That was the one he almost missed. I’ve got a team to address, now, so you can jog on.”

Harry thought McLaggen might punch him, but McLaggen saw something out of the corner of his eye that made him stop short and merely stalk off with a thunderous expression.

The “something” was Hermione, running up to congratulate Ron and the rest of the new team. Her cheeks were attractively pink with cold as she hugged Harry and Ron in turn. “Well done!” she squealed. “I knew you could do it, Ron!” Over her shoulder, Harry saw Lavender walk off with Parvati, looking a bit sour.

Harry praised his new team and set the date of their first practice before heading back up to the castle for lunch with Ron and Hermione. His stomach growled – it felt like ages since breakfast.

** “I thought I was going to miss that fourth penalty,” Ron was saying happily. “Tricky shot from Demelza, did you see, had a bit of spin on it –”

“Yes, yes, you were magnificent,” said Hermione, looking amused.

“I was better than that McLaggen, anyway,” said Ron in a highly satisfied voice. “Did you see him lumbering off in the wrong direction on his fifth? Looked like he’d been Confunded…”

To Harry’s surprise, Hermione turned a very deep shade of pink at these words. Ron noticed nothing; he was too busy describing each of his other penalties in loving detail. **

Ron smirked as they went into the Great Hall – McLaggen seemed to be having difficulty with the doors. He bounced off the stone frame on the first try.

** Harry caught Hermione’s arm and held her back.

“What?” said Hermione defensively.

“If you ask me,” said Harry quietly, “McLaggen looks like he was Confunded this morning. And he was standing right in front of where you were sitting.”

Hermione blushed.

“Oh, all right then, I did it,” she whispered. “But you should have heard the way he was talking about Ron and Ginny! Anyway, he’s got a nasty temper, you saw how he reacted when he didn’t get in – you wouldn’t have wanted someone like that on the team.”

“No,” said Harry. “No, I suppose that’s true. But wasn’t that dishonest, Hermione? I mean, you’re a prefect, aren’t you?”

“Oh, be quiet,” she snapped, as he smirked. **

“You should be careful, though,” he said, stepping close and bending down to murmur conspiratorially in her ear. “I think he’s got a thing for you.” He grinned at her shocked and indignant expression as he followed Ron into the Great Hall.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Later that evening, Harry found Ron in their dormitory, sitting on his bed and frowning over a stack of catalogues and magazines. “What’s up?” asked Harry.

“Hermione’s birthday,” he said, gesturing feebly. “It’s her seventeenth and I’m out of my depth.” Harry sat next to him and leafed through the stack. There was the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes catalogue George had told Harry about; the September edition of Witch Weekly, folded over to the owl order page; a large leaflet from Flourish and Blotts; and a few Daily Prophet editions marked in green ink.

“I got her something from Flourish and Blotts ages ago,” Harry said. “That New Theory of Numerology she’s been harping about.”

“Well, that’s all right!” Ron exclaimed. “It’s exactly what she would want. What am I supposed to do, I ask you?”

Harry sighed. “See, the thing about presents is you’re supposed to pay attention when people talk so you know what they’re interested in.”

“D’you think she likes perfume? Don’t girls like that?”

“What did I just say about listening?”

“I dunno, I wasn’t really listening.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You don’t say.”

“What about flowers? Or chocolate?”

“Those sound like very… romantic gifts,” Harry said pointedly.

“So?” said Ron, turning red but sitting up straight in defiance. “Maybe it’s time to see which one of us she likes better!”

“Assuming she fancies either one of us,” Harry said, bristling. “And what happens if she likes me over you?”

Ron had no answer, but he looked like he wanted to hit or hex Harry. Harry stood up. He was a better dueller than Ron, but that wouldn’t matter if Ron decided to punch him.

At that moment, Dean, Seamus, and Neville walked in, chuckling over something. “Whoa,” said Neville, sensing danger. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” grumbled Harry and Ron.

Dean looked between them shrewdly. “Bet it’s something to do with a girl.”

“Oh, bugger off,” said Ron, confirming Dean’s suspicions.

“Thought so. In times like these, one has to follow the rules of the ‘Mate Mandate.’ ”

“Which is what, exactly?” said Harry stiffly.

“The mate who’s gone longest without any action gets to chat her up first.”

Ron raised his eyebrows at Harry. “No,” said Harry stubbornly.

“I think you’ve got to consider the strength of the friendship,” said Neville reasonably. “If you’re okay with losing a mate over her, then it’s every man for himself. Otherwise, you’ve got to come to some agreement.”

“And if it’s an impasse?” said Ron, squaring his jaw.

“Then you’re fucked,” said Seamus.

 

Harry took Neville’s words to heart. He was not okay with losing Ron. Nor was he okay with treating Hermione like a trophy. That more than anything made Harry decide what to do next.

“Look,” he said to Ron after a whole day of tense silences and stilted conversation, “let’s put whatever this is –” (he motioned vaguely between them) “– aside for Hermione’s sake.”

Ron looked like he was about to argue. But after a moment, his face fell. “You’re right,” he said. He looked away as he mumbled, “Anyway, I don’t have the money to get her anything nice.”

Harry thought quickly. He knew how little the Weasley family had, how Ron rarely had pocket money. It could be a very sore point between him and Harry, who was a bit spoiled in that regard, and Ron didn’t like handouts. He had his pride.

“Why don’t we make her something, then?” Harry suggested. When he tutored Transfiguration students, he sometimes coached them through a project that they could work on through a series of sessions and have something to keep at the end. Most recently, a fourth-year girl had Transfigured twigs into jewelled hair sticks, and a fifth-year boy made his own set of wizard chess pieces from clay figurines. Harry almost regretted teaching Colin Creevey, a Gryffindor a year behind him, to Conjure his own camera film and developing solution, as Harry was one of his favourite subjects to photograph.

“All right,” Ron said hesitantly. “What d’you have in mind?”

“Well, her parents are Muggles – they might not know about the watch tradition.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ron said, brightening. “Could we make her a wristwatch? How long would that take?”

“If we start now, it would be ready just in time for her birthday,” Harry said confidently.

Together, they made sketches and argued over motifs. Ron was excellent at designing, and with Harry’s superior spellwork, by September 18 they had Transfigured a battered old timepiece into a delicate silver watch with a midnight blue face and a band decorated in minuscule gold stars.

That same night, Harry pulled out his Invisibility Cloak and he and Ron made their way to the Astronomy tower under its cover. The night was clear and cold. The sky above was heavy with dazzling celestial bodies and lit by a waxing crescent moon.

Harry pulled off the Cloak and Ron gazed up at the sky. Harry looked at Ron and felt his heart quiver in his chest. His skin and hair were transformed into silver hues, his blue eyes glassy and reflecting the bright stars. He was so beautiful it hurt to look at him.

As the midnight bell chimed softly, Harry held out his left hand, and Ron held out his right. Harry’s stomach flipped over as they entwined fingers, palms up, and Harry draped Hermione’s watch across their joined hands. “Just like we practiced,” Harry whispered to Ron. “Concentrate.”

They thought of summer at the lake as they whispered an incantation, and the silver watch grew warm and glowed with an ethereal light. Harry felt warmth rise in his own chest and radiate outward through his whole body as his and Ron’s eyes met. There was no awkwardness – they simply stared, drinking each other in as the spell took hold.

I never realised just how handsome he is, Harry thought. How the point of his chin softened the square of his jaw, how the natural wave of his hair gave him an air of impishness. How his lips curved upward, the upper slightly thinner than the lower. Harry wondered what they would feel like against his own.

The shimmer from the watch grew dim, and the spell between Harry and Ron was broken as Ron smiled shyly and asked, “Did it work?”

Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak. They both looked down at their still joined hands, to the watch that would grace Hermione’s wrist. Where the face had been plain, now it was etched with the constellations of her seventeenth birthday.

The enchantment was two-fold – not only would the watch forever mirror tonight’s sky, it was now imbued with collective memory. Whenever she wore it, she would remember the lake and all the joy, comfort, and peace it brought.

Ron and Harry returned to Gryffindor Tower in silence, lost in pleasant reminiscence and the anticipation of presenting their labour of love to Hermione. Harry could hardly sleep, so anxious was he to see Hermione. From the mutterings and sounds of tossing and turning from behind Ron’s curtains, Harry reckoned he felt the same.

When Hermione sat between them at breakfast, Harry and Ron chorused, “Happy Birthday!” and kissed her cheeks between them.

“Oh, you two,” she said, smiling prettily as Harry presented the little box with a flourish. When she opened it, she was utterly delighted. “It’s lovely! Wherever did you find it?” she asked.

Ron and Harry grinned at each other. “We made it,” Ron said proudly.

Her eyes went very round. “You did?”

“Put it on,” Harry encouraged her.

“Oh,” she said shakily when she did, feeling the effects of the enchantment. “How… how did you do this?”

“It’s sort of like a Patronus charm – you focus on a happy memory and – oh, no, what’s wrong?”

As he spoke, Hermione’s eyes had welled up with tears. Before they could fall, she put her face in her hands. Harry and Ron looked at each other over her head in alarm.

“Hermione?” Ron asked, tentatively putting a hand on her shoulder. “Do you hate it? What have we done?”

“Nothing,” she said, her breath hitching. “This is only the most wonderful thing anyone has ever given to me.”

“Oh, good,” said Harry in relief as he and Ron hugged her between them. She kissed both their cheeks and Harry felt warm and light as air.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Professor McGonagall stopped allowing Harry to take his monthly, post-lunar detentions with Remus. She rightly suspected Professor Lupin was incredibly lax with Harry, and while she may not have agreed with Umbridge’s personal views, she did respect the temporary authority the toad-like witch held when passing out detentions. McGonagall made Harry take his detentions with other professors.

Harry was actually grateful – ever since the discovery he’d made about his mother and Remus, he had been dodging both his mother’s owls and Professor Lupin’s overtures. Part of him enjoyed the vindictive satisfaction he got from making them both fret, but the other part of him (that sounded suspiciously like Hermione) chided him that he was being rather childish about the whole thing.

After serving his first detention, Harry looked out the common room window at a chilly October afternoon. The Great Lake was growing thin patches of grey ice on its surface and every morning brought a thick frost upon all the vegetation. The sky was now overcast more often than clear, and everyone was finding more and more excuses to hole up in the castle.

He sat down on a sofa between Hermione and Ron, effectively cutting short whatever they were bickering about.

“Oi!” said Ron, “We were having a conversation!”

“And now you’re not,” said Harry, giving him a winning smile.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” said Hermione pointedly.

Harry shrugged. “Not this exact second.” At her raised eyebrows, he fished his work schedule out of his bag and saw he was supposed to tutor a fifth year named Brynn in the Transfiguration classroom that evening after dinner.

“Oh, you’ll miss Slughorn’s supper party,” Hermione said.

“He’s not the only one,” said Ron sullenly. “I wasn’t invited.”

“Don’t know why you’re fussed,” Harry told him. “It’s bad enough being holed up with him in Potions class. If I have to hear one more fucking story about some politician he sucked off –”

Ron laughed at Hermione’s shocked sputter. “Well, you know what I mean,” Harry grinned.

“Fine,” Hermione said, blushing, “he does tend to waffle on, but the last one wasn’t so bad – and they provide excellent networking opportunities!”

“Er, what’s networking?” asked Harry. “Something to do with fish?”

“Not that kind of net. I mean, it’s what Muggles say when you get the chance to develop connections with people who might further your professional or social life. Knowing the right people can really give you a leg up!”

“I’d rather get a leg over,” Ron muttered to Harry.

Hermione, unfortunately, heard him. She smacked him with her Transfiguration book. “Will you stop that?” she hissed. “I’m trying to be serious!”

“As am I!” said Ron indignantly as Hermione stalked away, her face flaming. “What’s wrong with being honest?” he asked Harry.

Harry smirked. “I think the suggestion turned her on, honestly.”

“What?” said Ron, looking gobsmacked. “Come off it; you can’t be serious… You really think so? How can you tell?”

Harry lowered his voice. “You can’t really, but the fact that she started squirming was a good indication.”

Ron matched his tone and looked around furtively. “Is it because of that thing you and Hermione said over the summer about girls getting, erm, slippery?”

Harry looked at him and snorted. “A better way to say it is ‘wet.’ ”

Ron nodded solemnly. “You’re so wise,” he said.

“Ron,” Harry said seriously, “you really need to gain a little practice.”

The intense way Ron looked at Harry made him hold his breath, but it lasted only a second. Ron looked away as he mumbled, “I don’t want to risk falling for anyone else.”

Harry briefly touched his knee. “Believe me,” he said, speaking from experience, “you won’t.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Brynn was a shy Hufflepuff Harry had never met before. She had dark brown, shoulder-length curls and intelligent blue eyes. Harry immediately understood why she had sought out tutoring. When she introduced herself, she had a noticeable stammer on certain consonants, and she was reluctant to speak more than was strictly necessary. When he asked what she wanted to improve upon, she wrote him a note in a lined notebook using a Muggle ball-point pen: “I can’t speak incantations well.”

He smiled at her, undaunted. “Don’t tell Professor McGonagall I told you this, okay?” She nodded shyly. “Magic is more about intention than incantation. Words and wand movements help when you’re still learning, but they’re not everything.”

Brynn nodded again, looking hopeful.

“They don’t really start teaching nonverbal spells until sixth year, but I think you’ll find everything easier if you can master them sooner. So, let’s work on learning them with a few simple charms and see what happens.”

Harry was of the firm opinion that any spell could be nonverbal. He had been casting them for years, unaware until recently that it was not a common thing, even for adult witches and wizards.

He was very pleased to see how quickly Brynn took to it. He imagined she had been stymied up until now by speech anxiety and teasing from her classmates.

“Perfect!” Harry grinned when Brynn executed a flawless nonverbal Hover Charm on her pen. It was only her third try. “I knew you could do it.” She blushed under his praise. Their time was up, so he set her a few exercises to practice between now and their next session.

Harry went back to the common room, feeling light-hearted. He found Ron idly playing with a Fanged Frisbee.

“Aren’t those banned?” Harry asked, watching the disc snarl and snag the drapes as it whirled around the room. A group of second years eyed it enviously.

“Yep,” Ron said unabashedly. “Hermione confiscated it.”

“I applaud your commitment to duty.” Harry dropped into an armchair and pulled out his Herbology notes. “She not back?”

“No,” Ron said. “D’you think McLaggen’s made a move on her yet?”

“Most definitely,” Harry said.

Ron scowled. “You don’t seem concerned.”

“There’s no threat. She doesn’t like him.”

“How do you know? Did she say that?”

“I pay attention,” Harry said. “She gets all tetchy whenever he’s around and pulls faces like something stinks.” He and Hermione had agreed not to tell Ron about the Confunding incident.

“But she still goes to the parties. Maybe she likes him when we’re not around.”

Harry laughed. “Look, mate, I know we’re the gold standard for blokes, but that’s ridiculous. Trust me; she thinks he’s minging no matter who is or isn’t there.”

“Well…” Ron grumbled. He gave the Frisbee another toss.

Harry gave Ron a pointed look. “I was serious about what I said before – you really should try it on with another girl. Get your mind off her.”

Ron scoffed. “Right, so you can swoop in when my back is turned. I noticed you’re staying single this year.”

Harry shrugged noncommittally. “It’s only October.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Potions class with Slughorn was very different than with Snape. Snape taught by putting instructions on the blackboard and sitting back to watch, only to torment any non-Slytherin students when they inevitably struggled. He assigned long, horrible essays and wrote scathing comments in red ink.

Slughorn, despite his constant name-dropping and self-importance, was a decent teacher. He valued inventiveness, so long as it paid out. He offered rewards for the best-made potions. Thanks to his mother’s book, Harry had already won an Invigoration Draught and a tiny bottle of Felix Felices (something she would never let him have).

Hermione did not approve. She scowled every time Harry opened the book. “All right. What is it?” Harry finally asked after class, tired of her snippy attitude and constant tutting every time he made a substitution.

She had been waiting for him to ask. “That’s cheating!” she hissed angrily. “Not a single one of those adaptations are yours!”

“Mm-hm,” said Harry, “and please explain to me how this is different than you proofreading Ron’s essays or letting us use your study notes for all those History of Magic exams?”

Hermione sputtered. “It is different!” she insisted.

“No, it isn’t, and you know it,” said Harry, giving her a very hard stare. “Besides, you wouldn’t accuse my mother of encouraging me to cheat, would you?”

She flushed pink. “Er – no,” she admitted grudgingly. But Harry could see she didn’t really agree – she simply knew Harry’s mum was off-limits. Behind her eyes, he could see the gears turning, coming up with new arguments to throw at him later.

“Drop it, Hermione,” Ron said, half-listening. He was staring over at Lavender Brown, who was finding more and more reasons to talk to him between classes and in the common room. “He’s learning from a bona-fide Healer. You’re just mad that he’s outperforming you for once.”

Hermione didn’t speak to either one of them for the rest of the morning, and for the next few weeks she continued to eye his potions book with a look of deep loathing.

But even she couldn’t hold a grudge forever. By the time Halloween came around, she started dropping hints for Harry to officially join the Slug Club. He always had a ready-made excuse to avoid the gatherings – studying, Quidditch practice, and tutoring. The real reason was that he didn’t care for the way Slughorn favoured himself and Hermione, but couldn’t even bother to get Ron’s name right.

A fact, Harry observed wryly, that didn’t seem too upsetting to Hermione. “They can be fun,” she said, “even if Slughorn’s a bit long-winded. We actually met Gwenog Jones, you know, from the Holyhead Harpies, and McLaggen isn’t so terrible when –”

“Do not finish that sentence,” said Harry darkly. “I’m surprised no one’s fainted with McLaggen and Slughorn blowing so much smoke.”

“Oh, don’t be like that – I’ll be there. And I’m not so bad, am I?” She smiled enticingly at him.

“Well, when you put it that way… I’ll think about it.” He had thought it was a shame there wasn’t anything for just the two of them, hadn’t he?

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

In November, Gryffindor won the first Quidditch match of the year against Hufflepuff. During the resulting common room celebration, Ron and Lavender were found in a corner, glued together by the lips.

Harry felt only a minor twinge of jealousy. It had been his suggestion, after all, and in all honesty, he did not see the relationship lasting. Hermione, however, did not have such an optimistic view.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her leave through the portrait hole.

He found her in an empty classroom, sitting on the teacher’s desk and practicing the Avis charm. Several twittering canaries zoomed around the ceiling, blissfully oblivious to their creator’s misery.

Harry sat down next to Hermione and put his arm around her. As she leaned into him, Harry breathed in her scent and felt a weight drop from his shoulders. Ever since school had started, she almost never allowed the same kind of affection they’d shown each other at the lakeside cottage. He missed it.

“D’you want to talk about it?” he asked her.

“No,” she said. Part of Harry was relieved – he did not know what he would do if she confessed all this was because she fancied Ron over Harry. He remembered how Hermione had been angry at Harry over the summer for having a girlfriend to distract him from her.

“Never mind,” Harry said bracingly. “When’s the next Slug Club thing?”

“Next week,” she said. “Does this mean you’ll go?”

“If you’ll be there, then yes.”

Hermione turned and hugged him around the chest. As he put his arms around her and she snuggled in, he felt her take a deep breath. When she let it out, she made a little hum at the back of her throat. Just like his mother used to make when Harry’s father kissed her.

Back when they were still in love.

 

Ron was too preoccupied with Lavender to notice that Harry and Hermione were having something of a flirtation in his absence. Harry vaguely wondered if the same thing might have happened between Ron and Hermione when he had been preoccupied with Parvati and Cho.

Harry missed Ron, but he was content to bide his time by spending it with Hermione. She allowed him to play with her hair sometimes while she studied and he procrastinated. He liked to hold up a single curl, let it go and watch it spring back into place. It gave him the same contented, sleepy feeling he got from petting cats.

When Ginny tried it once, Hermione nearly slapped her and pulled the whole shining mass over her opposite shoulder, scowling murderously.

The only thing about getting so close to Hermione was that it allowed her to observe him more keenly. At the Slug Club supper, she narrowed her eyes at him over dessert as he avoided Slughorn’s questions about his mother.

“Have you had a falling out or something?” she asked him on the way back to the common room. “Or, perhaps you’re feeling guilty about your newfound Potions prowess?”

Harry made a face at her. He decided on a whim to tell her about his mother and Remus. As he knew it would, it distracted her completely.

“Oh my god!” she squealed, doing an excited little dance on the spot. “So that’s why you’ve been so weird in Defence Against the Dark Arts classes!”

“I dunno what you mean by weird, but fine, yes.”

“Have you talked with him about it?”

“No!” Harry said, scandalised. “How the fuck would that even go? ‘Excuse me, Professor Lupin, but may I ask what your intentions are with my mother? Exactly what do you two get up to while I’m not around?’ Eurgh, no. My only consolation is that he’s here twenty-four seven.”

“You know, there are things like Floo powder and places like Hogsmeade where two people could –” Harry clapped his hand over her mouth before she could finish her sentence.

“If you value your life, you will not say another word,” he told her darkly.

“Oh, don’t threaten me,” she said, pushing him away. “They’re adults. You can be mature about it, can’t you?”

“No,” he said mulishly, annoyed that she was reacting exactly as he’d expected.

She eventually stopped smirking. “In all honesty, Harry, how do you feel about it?”

Harry shrugged. “I dunno. He’s… well, he’s a decent bloke. It’s just… messy, innit? He’s my professor, and my dad’s mate.” He wasn’t quite ready to tell her about their past drama and his father’s affair.

“Messy; that’s a good word for it,” she agreed. “Does she seem happy, though?”

Harry sighed. “Yeah,” he gruffly admitted. “More so than I’ve seen her in years. My dad, he – I can’t remember the last time he made her happy.”

Hermione slipped her hand in his. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she said.

“Ah, well. Could be worse, I reckon,” he said flippantly, entwining their fingers. His heart fluttered as it always did when Hermione touched him.

Who are you to deny Mum feeling the same? Harry chided himself. You’ve been trying to make up for Dad for years, but it’s not something you can replace just by being a good son.

She’s allowed to fall in love.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry served his November detention with Professor McGonagall herself. He expected tedious work – copying lines or cleaning without magic, but she surprised him.

“You are to design my next two lesson plans for my fourth-year students. We’re discussing Animagi, something I believe you have some knowledge about.”

It was not well-known that his father could turn into a stag, but as an Animagus herself, Professor McGonagall would be familiar with the Ministry of Magic’s register. What she didn’t know was that James had not registered until he became an Auror, and had become an Animagus illegally at fifteen. Nor did she know that Sirius could turn into a large black dog and remained unregistered.

Harry was pleased with the task. He felt Professor McGonagall took his ambition to become a professor seriously, and in her own stern way was supporting him. She gave him a rare smile when he finished, which encouraged him to ask a question that had been bothering him for quite some time.

“Professor, I have to ask. Why did you choose Ron for prefect? Don’t get me wrong, he’s my best mate, but nobody expected him to get it. My grades are better than his and I thought you’d noticed I was tutoring other students.”

Professor McGonagall looked taken aback. “I was under the impression you didn’t want to be a prefect.”

Harry furrowed his brow. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but where did you get that idea?”

She considered him carefully. “Before choosing prefects, we consider the opinions of all the faculty. Your reviews from almost all your professors, particularly Professor Lupin, put you at the top.”

“Then why –”

“Do let me finish, Mr. Potter,” she snapped. “I expect Professor Lupin told your father about it, since your father wrote to me shortly after the meeting. He told me directly that you didn’t want to be a prefect, that it was more important to you to focus on Quidditch and your studies.”

Harry steadied himself against her desk, feeling lightheaded.

“I can see he misunderstood your feelings on the matter,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

How could he do that to me?

“He outright lied to you,” Harry said through gritted teeth. “And what’s worse, you believed him.”

Professor McGonagall took her hand off his shoulder and gave him an austere look. “I understand you were experiencing… difficulty at home. I had no reason not to believe him. He was my student and I appointed him Head Boy. While he had an unfortunate tendency to flout rules, he was always honest.

“Now, as for why I chose Mr. Weasley, I was confident he would rise to the occasion under yours and Miss Granger’s influences. His marks are good, and he shows moral fibre in standing up for others.”

Harry was only half listening, so enraged was he with his father’s meddling. How could Remus and his mother allow him to do that to him? Unless they didn’t know? But surely Professor McGonagall would have told him her reasoning, and he would have said something to James?

He remembered his father’s nonchalant attitude on the train platform at the beginning of his fifth year and saw red. You did this, you smug bastard. You cheat on Mum, you abandon me, and now I find out you’re still trying to make me into you? I wish you were dead.

“You may go, Potter,” Professor McGonagall said, rightfully guessing there was nothing she could say that could possibly calm him or make up for such an error.

As he reached the door, his hands clenched into fists so tight his fingernails would leave marks in his palms, she spoke again.

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

 

It was Ron who first came across Harry after McGonagall’s revelation. For once, he was not attached to Lavender, as they were in their dormitory. Harry had been bursting to rant about it and gladly took Ron up on his offer to listen.

“Merlin, that’s fucked up,” Ron said, appalled, once Harry had fully vented his spleen. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I do appreciate the privileges of prefect life, but now they feel ill-gotten.”

Harry winced. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean –”

Ron waved it away. “Don’t,” he said. “You wanted it for all the right reasons.”

Harry nodded rigidly. He sat up on his bed, on top of the covers, with his arms tightly folded and his legs drawn up.

Tentatively, Ron sat down on Harry’s bed. “What’ll help get your mind off it?”

“Dunno,” Harry said. It was already dark – too late for a vigorous Quidditch practice.

“Why don’t you go for a bath?” Ron suggested. “It’s usually empty this time of night.”

Harry had not yet taken advantage of his new status to use the prefects’ bathroom. His attraction to Ron was part of his reluctance. When he thought about it all, what it all meant, he found himself confused. Was he into boys in general or just Ron? What would happen if he got overly excited when other people were around? It was bad enough being a hot topic in the girls’ loo…

From what Harry understood from his mother and Hermione, the Muggle world was not quite as accepting of same sex romances. That didn’t mean wizards and witches couldn’t be nasty or immature about it, but Harry being attracted to boys, or to boys and girls, wasn’t quite the scandal it would be if he were raised by Muggles.

No, the scandal would come from getting a bar on in front of an audience. But if the bath was empty, as Ron said, he could go see for himself if the prefects’ bath was as luxurious as rumoured. Being on the same level as prefects also meant his curfew was much later than the average student.

And the long walk across the castle would be good for him. He could rage and fume and stomp the whole way there.

His anger, he realised as he offered the password (“ahoy”) and went inside, would take a long time to fully cool. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be distracted from it. He looked around the marble-tiled bathroom with interest. It was indeed empty of people. There was a large portrait of a siren, who was snoozing gently on a rock, and a stained-glass window depicting a lake that reminded Harry very much of the one he, Ron, and Hermione had spent so much time in over the summer.

Along one wall was a series of shower heads. The bath itself took up most of the centre of the room and filled suspiciously fast for its size. By the time Harry stripped down and rinsed himself with a preliminary shower, it was completely filled to the edge with thick, cedar-scented bubbles.

He stepped in and the foam went up to his neck. The hot water was soothing. Being angry often left Harry with sore muscles, likely from the way he clenched them so tightly. He amused himself with a brief fantasy of Hermione and Ron working together to give him a full-body massage.

Careful, he told himself as he felt the beginnings of an erection. You’re here to relax; not get all worked up.

But it was little use. The stained-glass lake only brought back all those wonderful summer memories – how Ron’s bare torso and arms looked gilded by the sunlight, the wet patches on Hermione’s white dress. Sitting naked with Ron on the landing and listening as Hermione showered inside the cottage. Watching the way Ron’s cheeks hollowed over a cigarette, the way Hermione’s throat worked as she swallowed firewhisky.

This was a terrible idea, he thought, now fully hard.

Even worse, the door clicked open. Harry sent a brief prayer of gratitude that the foam was still thick as he fought for control. Bubotubers, he thought desperately. Snargaluff pods. Gillyweed. Stinksap.

“Harry?”

It was Ron. As if Harry’s unsavoury thoughts had Summoned him. Harry was not sure if he was relieved or mortified.

“Yeah,” Harry grunted, hoping that was a normal sort of response for this situation. Was it weird that Ron had followed him? Why did being at school make everything so much more complicated?

“Sorry,” Ron said, averting his eyes as he closed the door behind him.

Harry turned his back and pretended he was very interested in his pruney fingers and palms as Ron stripped and rinsed himself. He mistimed turning back around and caught an eyeful as Ron entered the bath and felt himself sweating into the water.

“Erm,” Ron began. Harry noticed out of the corner of his eye that he was blushing.

“What?” Harry said, more sharply than he’d meant to. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this awkward.

Ron took a deep breath. “I know it’s weird, sorry. Hermione threatened to hex me if I didn’t follow.”

“Hermione?” Harry said, nonplussed. “What does she have to do with anything?”

“Well, I went down to the common room to say goodnight to Lav, and Hermione was there, you know, doing that thing with her face where if you don’t ask what’s wrong you can kiss your bollocks goodbye, and she said she saw you leave even though it was after curfew. So I said you were, erm, upset and were off to the bath, and she said it was stupid of me to let you go alone and I said it was fine, but then Lavender got on my case about it and so I came just to shut them up.”

“What is it about girls and bathrooms?” Harry asked.

Ron shrugged. “Dunno. But Hermione got attacked by a troll, so…”

Harry snorted. And then they were both laughing, the boyish sound echoing against the marble.

“Can you imagine if she hadn’t, though?” Harry mused. “Would we have ever become friends?”

“I hope so,” Ron said seriously. “Can’t imagine my life without either of you.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, his heart fluttering against his ribs.

They sat side by side in the soapy water, which kept its heat remarkably well, and stared at the stained-glass window. “Are you enjoying your new ‘experiences’ with Lavender?” asked Harry smugly.

Ron grinned in a half-embarrassed, half-pleased way. “It’s early days.”  

“Has she forgiven you for the Yule Ball, then?”

Ron splashed Harry, and Harry laughed as he wiped the foam from his face. “Don’t bring that up,” Ron said, chuckling in spite of himself. “I was a child then.”

The initial awkwardness was long gone, and Harry and Ron spent an hour just mucking about in the water, splashing and talking about everything from Quidditch strategies to Herbology exams. When they went back to Gryffindor Tower to go to bed, Harry lay awake, thinking.

Just as he had missed Hermione’s physical affection over the summer, he missed Ron’s easy camaraderie. He missed when it had been just the three of them – when it was uncomplicated and easy. He knew if they were back at the lake, he would have found the courage to confess what was at the heart of his conflict with his father – the affair.

Harry missed the man his father used to be. Or at least the man Harry thought he used to be. What could happen inside a person to make them change so drastically?

And how could he keep it from happening to himself?

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

It wouldn’t be long before Harry’s ill feelings came to a head. December roared in with an avalanche of snow and a brutal Quidditch match against Slytherin. Harry was fighting against both the Highland gales and snow glare during his frantic search for the Snitch. The score was tied.

He wished he had thought to spell his Quidditch goggles appropriately. The harsh wind made his ears ache, so much that he could swear they were playing tricks on him. He heard a familiar voice through all the cheering, but surely it couldn’t be –?

“Sirius?” Harry mumbled to himself, breaking his focus to squint at the section of the stands reserved for Hogsmeade residents and professional Quidditch scouts.

But it really was him! Jumping up and down like a maniac, cheering on Harry and Gryffindor in equal measure. Harry’s heart swelled until he saw the man at his godfather’s side.

James was grinning up at him, as if he had any right to be there. As if Harry could have possibly wanted him there. Everything seemed to slow around him as Harry stared at the man who so closely resembled him. The man who only cared about Harry so long as he resembled him in actions.

How fucking dare you? Harry thought, gritting his teeth.

“THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, HARRY?” bellowed Ginny Weasley from below.

Harry snapped his attention back to the match. Slytherin’s Seeker, Draco Malfoy, was gleefully speeding towards a glint of gold at the far end of the pitch. Harry tore after him, knowing he was not going to make it – it was too far, Malfoy’s broom was too fast…

And yet, he almost had it. Harry’s fingers scrabbled at Malfoy’s knuckles as he closed his thin fist around the Snitch. He barely heard Malfoy’s taunts through the blood thundering through his ears.

The list of his father’s sins had a new entry – making Harry lose to Slytherin. To this sneering idiot who had so easily thrown the word “mudblood” at his best friend, who found sadistic joy in taunting his best mate for having no money.

The humiliation of losing in front of the whole school was nothing in comparison to how he felt losing in front of his father. Why did Harry still want his approval, despite it all? Could he not just hate his father and wish him dead? No, he had to feel everything at once.

I wish you’d leave me alone – I wish you’d come around. I’m glad you divorced – I wish you’d stayed together. I don’t care what you think – I want you to be proud of me.

I hate you – I still love you.

 

It was a testament to Harry’s strength of character and commitment to his role as captain that he put his team first instead of bolting away or drawing his wand on his father.

That didn’t mean he remembered all that he said to them in the changing rooms, nor that it was particularly heartening.

“I saw,” Ron said lowly to him after everyone else had filed out. He put an arm around Harry and ruffled his hair. “Don’t take it to heart, mate – you’re still the best captain Hogwarts has ever had.”

Harry could not speak for the lump in his throat. He wished he could tell Ron just how much he meant to him. When they emerged from the changing room, Hermione was there. She said nothing, but hugged him tightly as Ron kept a hand on his shoulder.

As they walked back to the castle like that, a bundle of linked limbs and unspoken sympathy, Harry felt the distinct prickle on the back of his neck that meant he was being watched. At the entrance to the castle were Sirius and Remus, standing with solemn faces and their hands in their pockets.

“Go on,” Harry mumbled to Hermione and Ron. “It’s fine. Catch up with you later.”

Harry walked between Remus and Sirius as they led him to Remus’ office. Both men were slightly shorter than him. “All right,” Harry said as the door closed, acting braver than he felt. “What’s his excuse this time?”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Sirius. “We’re not here on his behalf.”

“No?” Harry said, raising his eyebrows at him. “It was just a happy coincidence that you and him were both in Hogsmeade on the most important match of the year?”

“Don’t blame Sirius,” Remus said quietly. “James was set on coming. Sirius thought he could keep him from doing something stupid.”

“I wouldn’t have noticed either of you if you hadn’t been carrying on like that,” Harry said, giving Sirius a pointed stare. 

“Couldn’t help myself,” Sirius mumbled, looking embarrassed. “It was like being a kid again, watching…”

The silence stretched on as Sirius fumbled to Conjure enough chairs around a tea table and Remus busied himself with a battered tea service Harry recognised as one that once belonged to his mother. He stared pointedly at it until Remus flushed.

Harry accepted a steaming cup with a sour expression. “Does he know?” Harry shot at Remus, indicating Sirius with a jerk of his head.

“Er, yes,” Remus mumbled. “Kind of a… known thing these days.”

“So you’ve made it official,” Harry said as Sirius looked deliberately away.

“Yes.”

“Hmph.”

“How did you find out, by the way?” Remus asked.

“Saw you,” Harry grunted. “Through the kitchen window.”

“Right,” he said weakly.

“Someone should have told me before then,” Harry said.

Remus put his head in his hands. “It was… still rather new at that point. Can… can we talk about it later?” He glanced sideways at Sirius, who was looking very innocent, drinking his tea with a beatific expression as if nothing awkward or outside of the ordinary was happening.

“Fine,” Harry said. He pointed an accusatory finger at him. “But you should know that it’s fucking weird.”

It startled a laugh out of Sirius, which set off Remus. Even Harry had to smile.

Harry thought they may as well get this over with. “Why did Dad come to the match?” Harry asked.

Remus and Sirius shared a look. “He’s not… doing very well,” Sirius said.

“Could have fooled me. Rumour has it he’s headed for Head Auror in the next couple of years.”

“Where did you hear that?” Remus asked.

“Slughorn,” mumbled Harry.

“He’s always thrown himself into his work when he’s out of sorts… It’s the way he copes. I’m not saying it’s right, or… healthy; it’s just how he’s always been,” Sirius said.

“He runs away and hides, you mean,” said Harry. “Or tries to muscle things into going his way. Did you know he wrote to McGonagall to stop her from making me prefect?”

“What?” exclaimed Sirius. Remus gaped silently at Harry.

“Like you didn’t know,” Harry shot at Remus.

“I – no, really, I –”

“He only knew about it because you told him, didn’t you?”

“Well, I did, but… I can’t believe he would do that.”

Harry laughed humourlessly. “Just like you couldn’t believe he’d cheat on Mum. Maybe you don’t know your friends very well.”

At that, Remus looked angry.

“That’s not helping,” Sirius said sternly. “We’ll take your judgement when we’ve earned it, Harry, but we had nothing to do with whatever James said to Minerva or what she decided to do afterwards.” 

“He lied to her! He told her I didn’t want it. He keeps trying to turn me into him. And for what? So we have something in common? I haven’t seen him since June.”

Harry wiped his eyes, angry at himself for always getting emotional on the subject of his father. “Sirius,” he said taking a deep breath and looking up at the ceiling. “Why doesn’t he want me? What have I done?”

“Nothing,” Sirius said intensely, clapping his hand on Harry’s shoulder. He squeezed in a bracing sort of way. “He’s acting like a coward.”

“I thought you were supposed to be kicking sense into him,” Harry said miserably.

Sirius sighed. “To be honest, we don’t see each other all that much. This was the first time in a while. Suppose he got sick of all the kicking. All I can say, Harry, is that he’s changed. He was a good man, once, and it’s hard to let go of that image – you always hope that people can find their way back. He adored your mum and was over the moon when you came along. Somewhere along the line… something broke in him.”

“That whole mess with Pettigrew.”

“Maybe,” Sirius said, but he and Remus looked uncertain.

There were no answers to be found. James had pulled far enough away from his best friends that even they felt he was a mystery. Sirius promised he’d keep trying, but Harry shrugged.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted from his father anymore.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Thankfully, the shocking loss to Slytherin was eclipsed by the announcement of the Slug Club’s Christmas party. It was an event that allowed members to invite guests.

Harry had good reason to assume he’d be going with Hermione. While Ron was off snogging Lavender (in the common room, in the Great Hall, between classes and under the many mistletoe clumps that started growing around the castle), Hermione pulled Harry off in opposite directions.

Which was conflicting. Harry loved all the hand holding and the flirty banter and the freedom to put his hands in her curls whenever he wanted, but it came at the expense of being without Ron. He saw him during classes, he saw him in the dormitory, he even saw him once more in the prefect’s bathroom, but he was disconnected. Always thinking about Lavender.

“I am sorry I was ever that obnoxious,” Harry said to Hermione as he stared at Ron and Lavender. He kind of wanted to offer a tip that tongues weren’t supposed to be that obvious, but didn’t want to admit how closely he was watching.

Hermione didn’t even look around. “Oh, don’t worry about that,” she said coolly. “I have a plan.”

Harry should have known better than to get complacent. Hermione was not a girl who let things go. He swivelled to look directly at her. “That sounds ominous. Are you going to clue me in?”

She smiled at him in a way that made his stomach swoop. “No. The less you know, the better.”

“Don’t be like that, Hermione,” he said. She ignored him.

Harry wasn’t having that. He plotted all through Defence Against the Dark Arts how to get her to tell him what kind of dastardly deed she had planned. Various medieval interrogation methods flitted through his brain – but that was a bad idea, as the thought of tying her up did things to him.

In the end, he banked on the reasonable assumption that she was a red-blooded witch, and not immune to the charm of young men she considered “fanciable.” If she wouldn’t tell him outright, she might change her tune under different conditions.

When no one was looking, he pulled her through a tapestry into a hidden passageway. “Harry, what are you –”

“Shh,” he said. “I just wanted to ask you something.”

“All – all right,” she said shakily. They were standing very close.

“What colour are your dress robes?” he asked.

“My – what? Why are you asking about my dress robes?”

“So I know what flowers to get you.”

“But… I mean…”

Harry stared at her. “Do you mean to tell me,” he began lowly, “that all this –” (He held up her hand and entwined their fingers) “– is just you playing around with me? You have no intention of going with me to the Christmas party?”

“Oh!” said Hermione. She blushed in the dim light. “I didn’t mean – of course I wasn’t trying to… I just thought…”

She looked utterly miserable as she said, “I’m already going with someone else.”

Unbelievable, Harry thought. “Who is it?”

Hermione scowled at his tone. “Not telling.”

“Not this again. Hermione, just tell me so I can hex him.”

“Oh, stop that,” she said. “I’m sure you won’t have any trouble finding a date.”

Harry was supremely annoyed. “I only just started coming to these things because you asked me to. Why would I want to go with anyone else?”

“I –” she began, looking completely taken aback. “I didn’t know you… I only wanted to…”

Harry suddenly understood. “You only wanted to get Ron’s attention. And when it didn’t work with me, you went and found someone else.”

“What?” she said. “Harry, I didn’t…”

But Harry was done. He had his pride. He wouldn’t beg, but he wasn’t about to let her have the last word, either. With as much disdain as he could put into his voice, he said, “I would have expected games like this from girls like Romilda Vane. Not you.”

As Harry exited through the tapestry, fuming, he didn’t notice Ron and Lavender further down the corridor. He turned the corner, not really caring where he was going.

When Hermione emerged from the tapestry not long after, looking distinctly shaken, Lavender nudged Ron and whispered in his ear.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The fact that Harry remained dateless for the Christmas party did not go unnoticed by the female population of Hogwarts. Still stung by Hermione’s duplicity, he considered choosing someone that would annoy her.

But she had already made it clear she didn’t consider his feelings at all, and the point was therefore moot. He had plenty of things to do to distract himself until the end of term – essays, homework, Quidditch, and tutoring. Harry decided he wasn’t going to go to the party at all, and avoided the common room whenever she was in it. When she spoke to him in class, he answered her politely.

If he hadn’t been so miserable himself, so determined not to look at her, he would have noticed it was really affecting her. As it was, Ginny had to enlighten him.

“Right,” she said crossly on the way to Quidditch practice, after Hermione refused to look at either Ron or Harry on their way out, “I’ve had it with all three of you.”

“What have I done?” asked Ron.

“I’m saving you for last,” she said darkly. “Jog on.”

Ron stuck his tongue out at her and lengthened his strides to catch up with Coote and Peakes. Not much rattled him these days.

Ginny frowned at him in a way that reminded him very much of Mrs. Weasley. “I am tired of coming across Hermione crying and knowing it’s your fault.”

“What?” sputtered Harry. “My fault? I’m not the one who’s…” Harry trailed off as her words sank in. “She’s been crying?”

“Yes,” she said. “And I don’t care whose fault you think it is. Say you’re sorry and make up.”

“Why do you care?” Harry asked rudely.

“I’m a caring person,” she said, affronted. “And I thought you were, too.” She gave him a filthy look and scampered away to presumably tell Ron off next. Harry wondered if her bad temper had anything to do with the rumour that Michael Corner had dumped her for Cho Chang.

He was mildly distracted the whole practice. More than once his attention wandered back into the castle, thinking of Hermione and wondering how anyone could think it was his fault when she had been the one who had decided to play games.

Still… he hated it when Hermione was upset. No matter how mistreated he felt, the idea that he’d upset her enough to make her cry was enough to make him pull his head out of his arse. He didn’t want to be like his father, hurting others simply because he couldn’t be adult enough to talk things out.

As he showered after practice, Harry resolved to pull Hermione aside at the nearest opportunity. Maybe his feelings for her hadn’t been as obvious as he’d thought. He couldn’t blame her for not knowing he wanted to go to the party with her if he’d never actually asked her.

Harry liked to schedule practices close to mealtimes – he was so often hungry these days, and being active only made it worse. As he tucked into a steak and kidney pie at dinner, Ron arrived with Lavender. Harry averted his eyes as Lavender started feeding Ron bits of meat off her own fork.

As a result, Harry didn’t notice Hermione until he heard her voice talking to Parvati, who had sat down next to Lavender. He listened to their conversation, waiting for his chance to catch Hermione’s eye. They were just chitchatting, and Harry had almost finished his second helping before they said anything that caught his attention.

“Are you going to the Slug Club Christmas party tomorrow night?” Hermione asked Parvati. She was talking a bit louder than necessary.

“I’d love to – it sounds like it’s going to be brilliant,” said Parvati, matching her volume, “but no one’s asked me.”

“That’s too bad,” Hermione said sympathetically.

“Are you going with anyone?” asked Parvati. Harry narrowed his eyes at the two witches.

This is a performance, he thought. But for whose benefit?

“Oh, yes, Cormac asked me not too long ago.”

Ron gagged on a bit of chicken. Harry gripped his knife very hard.

“Cormac McLaggen?” gasped Parvati theatrically. “Wow, you really like your Quidditch players! First Krum, now McLaggen…”

“I like really good Quidditch players,” Hermione said pointedly. Harry could have sworn her gaze flickered between him and Ron. “Well, see you…”

It took Harry a few seconds for her words to sink in. His fork and knife pinged against his plate as he scrambled to extricate himself from the bench. “Sorry!” he called over his shoulder as his foot caught on Neville, knocking him to the ground.

“Hermione!” he called after her. “Hermione, wait!”

He caught up to her in the Entrance Hall. She turned, looking haughty. “Oh, are you talking to me, now?” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “Excellent job, you got my attention; make sure you give yourself and Parvati House points for that lovely performance.”

She scowled at him. Harry smirked at her. “If you’re looking for really good Quidditch players, why a bellend like McLaggen? He didn’t even make the team. Why not the youngest Seeker in a century?”

She looked him up and down, as if trying to discern if he was making fun of her or not. “You didn’t ask me,” she finally said.

“I would have,” he said. “I just… didn’t know I had to.”

Their eyes met. Harry swallowed at the way she was looking at him. “Hermione, can we… can we just talk?”

“All right,” she said quietly. She led him the long way to Gryffindor Tower.

“Why’d you say yes to him?” Harry asked. “I didn’t think you liked him.”

“I don’t,” Hermione said.

“Are you playing some sort of game?” he asked.

She groaned in frustration. “Fine, yes. You had the right of it – I wanted to annoy Ron. Going with you wouldn’t annoy Ron the same way Cormac would, and I didn’t think you wanted to, anyway.”

Harry was quiet as they walked. “I thought it was obvious,” he finally said. He saw her blush. “I guess I’m not the only one who doesn’t know how fanciable they are.”

They traversed a whole corridor in silence before Harry spoke again. “Why are you so intent on making Ron jealous? D’you fancy him over me?”

She went bright red. “Not over you,” she said, looking away. “But I’m not at risk of losing you, am I?”

“Never,” said Harry seriously. “Is that what you think? Ron won’t be… our friend anymore?”

“Well, look at him,” she said, and Harry remembered last summer, how angry she had been at Harry for having a girlfriend to distract him from her while she was struggling. “He never talks to us; he doesn’t seem to care about…”

“He’s never been with anyone before,” Harry said knowledgeably. “Just be patient – he’ll get it out of his system and things will go back to how they were.”

“Until you get a girlfriend, anyway.”

“Or you get a boyfriend,” he said. “Can we just admit that we all get a little stupid when we think with our knobs?”

Hermione burst out laughing. “I don’t have one of those.”

“And you’re telling me you never think with what is between your legs? Come off it.”

“All right, all right,” she said, still giggling.

Harry was encouraged by the sound. He gently trapped her against the wall between his outstretched arms. “So… you’re really going to go with McLaggen? Ron won’t even be at the party to be annoyed by him.”

Hermione licked her lips nervously. “Well, you know, it was more about the idea of the thing… fretting the whole night…”

“You’re very wicked, you know,” he said, giving her a look.

She shivered lightly against the cold stone of the wall. “I’m starting to realise that.”

“You’re not the only one who can play games,” he said slowly.

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. Maybe I want to get your attention.”

“You have it,” she said quickly. “No need to do anything drastic.”

Harry smirked as he let her go. “We’ll see.”

 

*     *     *     *      *

 

Harry decided to do something unexpected. Instead of inviting the sort of girl that would annoy Hermione, Harry decided to ask Ron to the Slug Club Christmas party.

Ron snickered. “What, as your date?”

“If you like,” Harry said, with a sort of facetious grin that Ron could interpret however he wanted.

If Harry had expected resistance, he didn’t get any. “Yeah, all right,” Ron said eagerly. “Think there’ll be any pro Quidditch players this time?”

Ron had no dress robes, and Harry hadn’t brought any this year. But he was skilled at Transfiguration, and Ron was good at design. They went in jeans, flannel shirts, and trainers that had been modified into dark slacks, shirtsleeves, understated waistcoats, and Oxfords.

“You look so handsome, Won-Won,” Lavender sighed as she said goodbye to Ron at the portrait hole. “Oh, I wish I could go!”

“It’ll probably be really boring,” Ron said, giving her a quick peck. Harry nodded solemnly.

“ ‘Won-Won?’ ” Harry said incredulously once they’d gotten through the portrait hole.

Ron’s neck went an interesting shade of scarlet. “Don’t,” he said. “Just don’t.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry grinned.

Nauseating pet names aside, Lavender did have a point. Ron really did look good. There was something about the way he ran his long-fingered hands over his chest and stomach to smooth his waistcoat that had Harry swallowing nervously. His shoulders had become slightly broader in just these four months since the lake.

This was a mistake, Harry thought. I’m going to give myself away every time I look at him.

“Haven’t seen Hermione, have you?” asked Ron in an offhand sort of way that didn’t fool Harry.

“No,” said Harry as they approached Slughorn’s office. “But I imagine we will.”

Slughorn’s office was, for whatever reason, larger than the usual teacher’s study. The ceiling and walls were draped in emerald, ruby, and gold hangings so the interior resembled an immense, festive tent. When looking up at the bright and glittering central chandelier, which was lit by real fairies, Harry noticed there were sprigs of mistletoe peeking coquettishly between the ceiling drapes. There was music – a single witch was conducting a group of instruments that played seemingly of their own volition on a stage off to the side.

The crowd was mostly gathered into loose knots of similar demographics. Most students appeared too intimidated to really mingle with Slughorn’s guests. A blue haze of pipe smoke billowed upward from a group of old warlocks like an umbrella. What appeared to be a vampire lurked in a corner with a gloomily dressed wizard. A mixed cluster of witches and wizards bantered and laughed like old mates – Harry recognised several Ministry officials. Over the din, Harry heard Slughorn’s bloviations as he moved between groups, singling out the people he thought would most like to meet each other.

Harry nudged Ron and pointed out Hermione, looking bored and annoyed next to a self-satisfied McLaggen. Despite her expression, she looked especially lovely. Her curls were pinned up, exposing her delicate neck. She wore a dark, amethyst coloured dress that dipped interestingly in the front and complemented her skin where it turned pink, like rose quartz.

Harry looked down further, where her shapely calves peeked out from the pleated skirt. She was wearing pointed shoes that matched her dress, with what his mother called kitten heels.

I wonder if I could call her “Kitten” without her hexing me, Harry thought, amused and more than a little aroused at the idea.

“McLaggen looks like he’s having a good time,” Ron said neutrally.

“I would too if I had her on my arm,” Harry admitted. “Shall we liberate her?”

“Your confidence in my brawling skills is heartening,” Ron smirked. “But first things first.” He had spied the tables of food and drink. Dinner seemed like a long time ago.

Once they’d devoured a few plates each of flaky meat pastries and charcuterie, Ron casually turned his back to the crowd.

“Not a word,” Ron said with a mischievous grin as he looked around and discreetly pulled a small flask of firewhisky from his waistcoat pocket.

“Intrigue is my middle name,” said Harry eagerly, holding their glasses of fizzy lemonade as Ron generously spiked them.

“You ought to be expelled for that,” said a cross voice at Harry’s shoulder.

“Are you going to report us?” Harry grinned at Hermione.

She scrunched up her nose at him and passed her drink to Ron under Harry’s arm. “Only if you don’t share.”

“Anything for a lady,” Ron said saucily, and tipped a slug in.

“There is nothing strong enough to make me endure any more of ‘A Hundred Great Saves Made by Cormac McLaggen,’ ” she said scathingly.

“Ah, well, serves you right for coming with him,” said Harry.

“Won’t he miss you?” asked Ron, glancing around.

“I don’t give a hippogriff’s arse,” she said, taking a healthy swallow. The watch Harry and Ron had made for her sparkled delicately on her wrist. It cheered Harry to see it.

“We are much better company,” Harry said. “If he’s stupid enough to brag about himself instead of tell you how incredible you look, he’s got only himself to blame if we steal you away.”

“Rubbish,” she said, but she blushed at his compliment. “Oh, no, here he comes – you didn’t see me!” she admonished them as she disappeared between Blaise Zabini and a seventh-year Slytherin girl.

McLaggen came through, holding a slice of Bakewell tart in his meaty palm. “Seen Hermione?” he grunted.

“No, sorry,” said Harry and Ron in unison.

“Too bad,” McLaggen said with a gloating sort of air before continuing to muscle his way through the crowd.

“Eurgh,” said Harry, shuddering. “I hope he’s not intending to feed her any of that after he’s put his paws all over it.”

“Why did she even come with a rotter like that? I thought you said she didn’t like him. Why didn’t you ask her?” Ron said furiously to Harry.

“He got there before I did,” Harry said defensively. “Look, it’s kind of complicated. You missed a lot, you know, being so preoccupied with Lavender.”

Ron clicked his tongue. “Starting to realise that,” he mumbled.

Suddenly, Slughorn boomed a greeting from behind Harry, making him jump. “Harry, m’boy! Didn’t see you come in, cheeky fellow! I see you’ve brought your friend.”

“Glad the invitation included plus ones, sir,” Harry said, massaging his heart.

“Well, well, it is the holidays,” said Slughorn jovially. “My best Potions student,” he said to a familiar-looking woman at his elbow, and Harry hoped Hermione was too far away to overhear. “Incredibly intuitive. But that’s not even the most interesting thing about him, my dear – Harry here is the youngest Hogwarts Seeker in a century! Recruited, as I understand, after a bit of mischief involving a Remembrall in his first year. Dynamo on a broomstick; I daresay he could outperform even Victor Krum!”

The woman looked at him with interest. “Of course, of course,” said Slughorn with a twinkle in his eye, “introductions. Harry, this is Fiadh Moran, of the Kenmare Kestrels. Fiadh, Harry Potter.”

“I thought I recognised you,” said Harry, shaking her hand. “We were at the Quidditch World Cup two years ago. Incredible match.”

Harry introduced Ron and they exchanged pleasantries. “Potter, Potter,” Moran said, as if trying to place where she might have heard of him. “You wouldn’t be related to Fleamont Potter, would you?”

“My grandfather,” Harry said.

“Wonderful man – very charming. I did a promotional shoot for Sleekeazy a few years ago. Before the big chop,” she said conspiratorially, indicating her sleek, platinum blond pixie cut.

“What’s this now?” asked Slughorn, looking like a spider that had just caught a juicy fly in its web.

Harry tried not to grimace. “My grandfather developed Sleekeazy hair potions. He runs the company.”

Slughorn crowed with delighted laughter and began to tick off his fingers. “Quidditch prodigy, a rising potioneer and top student, not to mention all your parents’ accomplishments, and here I find you’re heir to the Sleekeazy fortune as well! What else are you hiding, Mr. Potter?”

There’s a good reason I keep shite like that quiet, Harry thought uncomfortably, aware of Ron’s jealous glower behind his back.

“Nothing, sir,” Harry said. It wouldn’t be much longer before he made the connection between Harry and Black Dog Distillery – he was surprised he hadn’t already. He was grateful when the talk turned back around to Quidditch and Ron could participate.

Harry knew what was going on here. Slughorn was the type of man who assumed everyone with talent or connections was looking to exploit them. It would never have crossed his mind that Harry was not interested in a profession that would bring fame or money – not once had he asked Harry what his ambitions were. Harry was much more interested in becoming a professor simply for the joy the work would bring.

Slughorn eventually towed Moran away and Ron and Harry were alone again. Hermione was visible across the room. McLaggen had found her once more and she looked even more annoyed than before.

The way she crossed her arms greatly enhanced her cleavage.

“Why does she have to look like that?” Ron said with a hint of a groan.

“You have a girlfriend,” Harry reminded him brightly, the implied “and I don’t!” hanging in the air between them.

“Oh, don’t get all excited,” Ron said to him in disgust. “She’s taken.”

“Ha,” said Harry. “That just proves you know nothing about women.”

“You slag,” said Ron without heat.

“I would infinitely prefer the Slag Club to the Slug Club,” said Harry, unable to resist grinning at Ron. To his surprise, Ron looked suddenly flustered. He raised his glass to hide the flush that rose up his neck.

They lost sight of Hermione and McClaggen again as a group of cackling witches did a Conga line through the centre of the room. As the evening wore on and the drinks continued to flow, the party started to blur around the edges.

The next time they saw her, perhaps twenty minutes later, she was alone and looking relieved.

“Where did McLaggen go?” Ron asked as they went up to her.

“He said he was feeling tired and he was going to go to bed early,” she said. Harry didn’t believe her for a second, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The night only got better after that. They found a somewhat secluded alcove where they could banter with each other and gossip about the other partygoers. Ron tipped his flask into their glasses at least once more.

“Don’t look around so much,” Ron admonished Hermione. “It draws attention. Makes people think we’re up to something.”

“Well, we are,” Harry said reasonably. “Wish we could get away with a cigarette. I haven’t had a single opportunity since August.”

“Don’t be disgusting,” Hermione said, scowling.

“Don’t be a swot,” Ron shot at her, but he was grinning.

“Stop that,” Harry said before she could retort. “It’s Christmas.”

“With all the trappings of the season,” Ron said, looking up at the ceiling.

Hermione hissed and stepped back. “I’ve been avoiding those all evening,” she said, glaring up at the cheerful sprig of mistletoe that had been above them the whole time.

“That was when you were with McLaggen,” Ron said cheekily.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “And he’s not here. Just us. Your two favourite blokes.” He raised his glass to her.

“You think an awful lot of yourselves,” she said.

“Have you seen us?” grinned Harry. “We look especially dashing tonight.”

“Not that you’ve said anything,” said Ron innocently.

She laughed. “Yes, yes, you both look very handsome,” she admitted.

“So what’s a kiss between friends, Hermione?” Harry said as Ron wiggled his eyebrows at her.

“Oh, fine,” she said, presenting her cheek.

“No,” said Harry, emboldened by the firewhisky. “Not on the cheek. Properly.”

“He has a girlfriend,” Hermione said scathingly, indicating Ron with a jerk of her head.

“Just a peck. And mistletoe doesn’t count,” Ron said.

“Please?” Harry said, as sweetly as he could muster.

Hermione glared between the two of them. “Only if you kiss each other first,” she grumbled. “Properly.” She raised her eyebrows.

Harry flicked his gaze to Ron, ready to laugh it off like Hermione was being ridiculous, and if she didn’t want to, she should just say so, but Ron wasn’t looking at him. He was glancing around the corner of the alcove as if checking to see if anyone was looking. Before Harry could blink, Ron pulled a hanging out from the wall to shield them from view and grabbed Harry by the front of his shirt, between the two points of his collar. Ron pulled him forward roughly and placed a warm kiss on his lips.

Harry stumbled backwards as Ron laughed at his expression. His laugh was a low rumble, sort of gravelly and sexy and it made Harry feel completely naked.

He must have more firewhisky in him than I thought. Harry stared at him with wide eyes. How many times had he wished to kiss Ron, debated with himself and pined and worried about all the possible consequences, and here Ron had just gone ahead and done what he wanted, as cool as you please?

Hermione made a high-pitched noise at the back of her throat. When Harry was able to look away from Ron, he saw she was also flushed and… squirming?

“Fair’s fair,” Ron said to her, as if he had not just casually thrown a mortar into the campfire of their friendship.

“I – all right,” Hermione said weakly. She came forward and Ron put one arm around her waist as he bent low to kiss her on the mouth. Everything south of Harry’s waist clenched at the way their lips moved against each other.

“Now Harry,” Ron said bossily, as if she was being rude for keeping him waiting.

As if in a daze, she turned to Harry, lifting herself on her toes and placing her palms on his chest. Harry dipped his head as he put his arms around her. He closed his eyes as their lips met, knowing that even in his shock, he should savour this. It was slow and sweet – a perfect first kiss. The citrusy fragrance of her magnolia perfume mingled with Ron’s woodsy scent, and Harry was thrown back to summer by the lake.

“Merry Christmas,” Hermione said softly when they broke apart.

“Merry Christmas,” said Harry and Ron.

Harry did not know how he managed to act normal the rest of the night, or even for the rest of the month. He wished he could tuck those three kisses somewhere safe where he could revisit them always, like a photograph in his album. But he had to content himself with carrying them in his heart and thinking of them in quiet moments.

It felt like… a warm and endless glow. As if he would never be cold again.

Chapter 7: Love Poison

Notes:

Hello! As you may have heard, many public works on AO3 were data scraped to teach generative AI programs, and AO3 has recommended limiting fics to registered users. For now, I have decided to leave this public since there are guests enjoying this story, but I may change my mind in future. Any future works I may archive-lock. If you're a guest enjoying this story, I encourage you to make an account :)

All that aside, I am especially excited for this chapter and would love to know what you think!

Harry stepped off the Hogwarts Express into his mother’s waiting arms. “Sorry I gave you such a bad time about Remus. I don’t care, Mum – I’m just miffed you didn’t tell me before I found out.”

“You horrible little git,” she said, smacking him on the shoulder. “My peace of mind! My sanity! All ruined and for what? For you to tell me you were just taking the piss? Months of heartburn, Harry!”

“Good thing you are a Healer, surrounded daily by other Healers,” he grinned, dodging more blows. “Gerroff; let me say goodbye to Ron and Hermione.”

The three best friends stood in a loose circle, grinning sort of sheepishly at each other. They had not talked about it – Harry wondered if they ever would. It was sort of a little secret that made for a bit of awkwardness and uncertainty – they were not sure what to say to each other. “Well, er, see you later,” Harry said as Lavender came up to bid Ron a tearful goodbye. Hermione’s smile became rather fixed.

Harry was not sure what to do about the mild twinge of discomfort that occurred knowing Ron had kissed him and Hermione despite being with Lavender. Under the fairy lights and the influence of firewhisky, Ron saying it was just a peck and mistletoe doesn’t count seemed perfectly reasonable.  In the cold light of day, it niggled at Harry.

But his doubts were not quite enough to shake off the lingering elation of knowing what it felt like to kiss the two people he had been pining over for so long. Harry put one arm around his mum’s shoulders as he pulled the trolley with Hedwig, his Firebolt, and trunk with his other, a spring in his step.

“Can I drive?” he asked his mother as he loaded the back of the Fourtrak.

“No,” she said firmly.

“Aw, you’re not angry with me, are you, Mum?”

“Yes,” she said, turning the key in the ignition with unnecessary force. “It’s already weird trying to date in your late thirties, let alone after a divorce when you have children –”

“Child, you mean,” interrupted Harry cheekily. “Add in the fact that he’s your kid’s professor and your ex’s best mate… Oh, Mum,” he said, shaking his head the way his Muggle grandmother did whenever she was disappointed.

“Now, stop that!” she nearly shouted. “I know how it looks! I don’t need you to tell me any of that shite. Jesus Christ.”

Harry cracked up – he couldn’t help it. His mother’s Muggle swears would always be funny to him, partly because of the way her mother would say, “Lily!” in such a shocked way. She only used them when she was beyond goaded, something Harry had not done for years.

“Happy Christmas, Mum,” Harry said. Nothing was going to dampen his spirits.

 

“Mum,” said Harry while they waited at the second or third stop to turn left, “why is the engine squeaking?”

“What?” she said, cocking her head to listen. Sure enough, there was an intermittent squalling noise coming from the vents. “Oh, good heavens.”

Harry’s mum shifted into park and turned off the engine. A flurry of honking started up behind her. Undaunted, she got out of the car, hauled up the bonnet, and poked around at the engine compartment. Harry rolled down his window to ask what was the matter. In answer, she came around and gingerly handed something to him through the window. “Hold this,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

“Oh, Merlin!” said Harry, tenderly cupping a tiny white and black kitten in his hands. “How did you get in there?”

His mum slammed the bonnet closed and got back in the driver’s seat, giving a cheery wave to the angry line of drivers behind her.

“Probably crawled up looking for warmth while I was waiting for you,” she said, clicking her seatbelt.

“Won’t its mum miss it? What if there are others?”

“Darling, I’m sorry to say it’s London, and we’re unlikely to – oh, don’t look at me like that. Fine!”

While his mother navigated the way back to King’s Cross, grumbling about parallel parking and one-way streets, Harry cuddled the little kitten to his chest. It was already asleep. “Poor thing – you must be exhausted after such a fright.”  

Even after a surreptitious Felinus Revelio charm, Harry and his mother could not locate the kitten’s mum or any siblings. It was a mystery where it came from. “I’m not going all the way across the city, Harry. The universe wanted us to have a cat, so we have a cat.”

“I so appreciate you,” he said to his mum as they got back in the car. “You can shag as many werewolves as you want and I’ll never say another word.”

“You’re horrible,” she admonished. “Speaking to your mother like that – I’ll Scourgify your mouth if you ever say something like that again.”

Harry ignored her. “She looks so much like Scout,” he said.

“It could be a he,” his mother said.

“I don’t think so,” said Harry, unsure where the conviction came from. “Do you realise it’s been almost exactly a year?”

Harry’s mum smiled wistfully. They didn’t speak much until they merged onto the M4, though she did make many sidelong glances and put out her smallest finger to stroke the head of the little kitten.

“If you’re so sure it’s a girl, what shall we call her?” his mum asked.

“Guide,” Harry said, thinking of Hermione.

 

“Do not get attached,” said Harry’s mother as she deftly manoeuvred the Fourtrak into the space between cottages.

“You can’t possibly mean we’re not keeping her?” Harry asked, clutching Guide to his chest. She had woken up during the drive and was now plaintively mewing for more of the food they had stopped in Swindon to get.

“Oh, we are. That is to say, I am. And we’re not discussing it – she stays with me when you go back to Hogwarts.”

“But I named her!” Harry said indignantly.

“And it’s a lovely name.”

“Mum, come off it, you can’t do this to me.”

“Unless you plan to leave Hedwig –” (the owl made a raspy whistle at the sound of her name) “–you’re only allowed one pet.”

“This isn’t over,” Harry muttered into Guide’s fur, so low that his mother wouldn’t hear.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry didn’t have very much to do during his break. He had gotten used to being busy, and he felt pent up and bored during the long stretches between waking up and starting dinner.

He spent a ridiculous amount of time transfiguring fabric scraps and Muggle fizzy drink tabs and caps into an array of little collars and bandanas for Guide. Until his mother caught on, three days into the holiday.

“You are not supposed to use magic while you’re away from school!” his mother scolded. “What’s gotten into you?”

Harry had been very careful to only use magic when his mother was home. The Trace only told the Department of Improper Use of Magic that magic had been used near an underaged witch or wizard. It did not discriminate who did the magic.

“Are you going to report me?” he asked her. “They might send Dad.”

Her mouth went very, very small. “They do not send Aurors for underage magic and you know it, you little brat!” she said through gritted teeth.

He ignored the obvious, that he was far from little. “That reminds me, does he know about you and Remus?”

“What does that matter?” she said angrily, trying (and failing) to confiscate her adult-sized son’s wand. He held it high above her head.

“Nothing, really,” he said. He was expecting her nonverbal Expeliarmus and repelled it with a shield jinx. “It just might explain why you’re so on edge.”

“JUST GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING WAND!” she shouted at him.

“All right,” Harry said, laughing, and easily handed it over with a flourish. “You could have just asked.”

“Don’t mock me,” she said, scowling deeply.

“Aw, Mum. I love you,” he said, lifting her up in a hug and kissing the top of her head.

“You are going to be the death of me,” she said, stalking out of his room.

 

But taunting his mother had lost its fun. Harry busied himself taking pictures of Guide and sending them to Hermione and Ron and some of his other friends that wrote to him – Colin Creevey (who wrote back with photography tips), Ginny (who sent back hilarious photos of gnomes), and Brynn (who was, perhaps unsurprisingly, a prolific writer).

Harry played Quidditch with the magical children of the village and did a little childminding. He read Matilda out loud to Emily. Which turned out to be a horrible mistake when she confirmed all his suspicions and started making things fly.

“I am so sorry,” he said to his mother when he called her in for damage control once he’d gotten Emily down for a nap. “Why doesn’t Hogwarts or the Ministry intervene sooner?”

“They really should,” she said dryly, rescuing the family’s Pekinese from atop the refrigerator. “I’ll owl around; don’t worry about it. Goodness, she’s going to be powerful.” They looked up at the ceiling, where several books were flapping around like lazy, rectangular birds. “She’s only four, you said?”

It made Harry wonder what exactly Hermione had done to give Mr. and Mrs. Granger those streaks of grey hair.

Over dinner, Harry asked his mum the worst thing he’d ever done.

She gave him a look over the roast chicken and said, “most of it’s happened this week.”

Harry laughed. “I meant accidental magic.”

She thought for a moment. “It wasn’t so much the magic itself… it was the attitude that went with it. I think you were about the same age as Emily when you blew up your dad’s broomstick because he said you couldn’t fly it on your own. You said if you couldn’t fly, nobody could. I was pulling splinters out of the walls for years.”

“I had problems with him that early on, did I?”

She smiled wistfully. “Not really, no.”

“No, I suppose not.”

Harry’s mother reached across the table for his hand. “Is this why you’ve been taking so many years off my life?”

“No,” he said, chastened. “Just being sixteen.”

“Ah, good. There’s hope you’ll grow out of it, then.”

“Have I really been that bad?” he asked her quickly. “I don’t mean to. It’s only… it’s been a long time since I felt I could misbehave. I can stop.”

“Oh, Harry,” she said squeezing his hand. “No. A little boyishness won’t kill me.”

“I just don’t want you to think I’m like… Dad.”

She sat back and gave him an appraising sort of look. “Your father wasn’t always the way he is now,” she said wryly. “Once upon a time, I liked him very much.”

Harry looked away. He felt something touch his trouser leg and looked down to see Guide batting at the hem.

“Listen,” his mother said. “It’s still a compliment if someone says you’re like your father. They’re remembering him the way he was. It’s not an insult for someone to remark that you look like him.”

“I would never grow a stupid little beard like that,” Harry said without thinking.

His mother nearly fell off her chair laughing. She laughed so hard she cried. Harry couldn’t help but join her. “Well, it is,” Harry said, wiping his eyes under his glasses.

It was quite some time before they could regain their composure. They would calm down, Harry would think it was over, but then something would set her giggling and they’d have to start all over again.

Over the washing up, she said, “I don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk to me about him. I’m not frozen in time while you’re at school. Or, not anymore, I should say. I’ve been able to work through things. Move on.”

“I know,” he said. “Erm. Is… Is Remus going to come by at all? Just so I’m, you know, prepared.” He tried to sound nonchalant and mature.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Full moon’s on Christmas Eve this year.”

His mother scooped up Guide and they went to the sitting room as Harry said, “You brew the Wolfsbane potion every month, don’t you?”

She ducked her head, a slight blush on her cheeks. “Yes. I have done so for years, Harry.”

Harry had to ask. “And… has it been going on for years?”

“No,” she said firmly. “Do you have to ask?”

“I suppose not,” he said, ashamed of himself.

His mother leaned back into her favourite chair and blinked at him owlishly as she stroked Guide. “How long have you been worried about it?”

Harry thought about lying to her. But he didn’t see the point. “Since the day I caught you in the kitchen. Over the summer,” he clarified. “The night I came back early from Emily’s.”

She nodded and looked down at Guide, who was now turning in a circle on her lap. “I’m sorry you had to find out that way. You’re right. I should have told you.”

Harry shrugged. “Water under the bridge,” he said.

“Enough about me. Tell me about you. How many hearts have you broken this year?” she asked playfully.

“Loads,” he grinned.

It wasn’t exactly fair, but Harry still wanted to keep his feelings for Ron and Hermione close to the chest. Instead, they talked about everything else – the students he tutored, his classes, the Slug Club. His mother was deeply amused that he’d ended up joining and admitted she had a bet running with Sirius. Harry had won her a galleon.

“What happens when I quit? Does he get his money back?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t do that, would you? Sluggy’s connections can be so helpful – I got my job because he connected me with the chair of St. Mungo’s. They weren’t even hiring for my position and he still swung it for me.”

“All well and good, but he keeps pushing Quidditch players on me.”

“You don’t want go pro?”

“Dad wants me to go pro,” Harry said, giving her a look.

She looked taken aback. “Well, what do you want?”

“I want to be a teacher,” Harry said. “It doesn’t have to be at Hogwarts. I could do something like Mrs. Figg did. For kids like Emily.”

Arabella Figg was a retired schoolteacher. She had taught at Muggle primary schools and she provided Harry’s education before Hogwarts. Wizard children were generally homeschooled – the Statute of Secrecy was not a concept that young children had an easy time with, though it was not unheard of for a halfblood child to attend primary school.

Mrs. Figg was also a Squib. She taught Harry using a Muggle curriculum, but he could say as much as he wanted about spells and Quidditch, and it did not unduly alarm Mrs. Figg if he accidentally turned one of her cats blue.

His mother insisted it was the reason Harry did so well at Hogwarts. He had a good, solid, formal education, yet he knew all along what he was and that one day he would learn magic, too. He did not struggle with essays or any subjects that included maths.

“What are you looking at me like that for?” Harry asked his mother.

Her smile had gone all watery. “Oh, no reason,” she said. “I just don’t tell you enough how proud of you I am.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry did not see Ron or Hermione at all during the holidays – they only wrote letters and sent Christmas presents. Hermione was obsessed with Guide, demanding pictures and sending him little packets of treats and toys for her.

Guide was not much bigger than the toy mouse that had belonged to Scout. Harry’s heart swelled when he saw her trying to disembowel it with her wee little kitten claws. “You’re ferocious and terrible,” he told her. He looked around furtively before whispering, “And you are tiny enough to smuggle.”

Even though his friends were not there, Harry had a very good holiday. There was the usual Christmas tree cutting and decorating, and an elaborate gingerbread castle he and his mother got up early to make on a Sunday. They had spent the whole day before designing it, cutting out bits of paper and making long, numbered lists of directions. It took all day to bake, construct, and decorate, and by the end of it Harry and his mother were sticky with royal icing and giggling like idiots.

His mother continued his driving lessons in the Fourtrak, made even more interesting by the little skiff of snow on the ground and the icy patches all over the estate’s carriage roads. Grandad invited himself along again, raising up his hands and emitting little noises of delight through every skid like he was on one of those spinning Muggle fairground rides.

Harry stopped by the lakeside cottage for an afternoon, Guide tucked safely into his pocket. He lit a fire in the hearth and pulled off the sheet from an armchair so he could sit and play with her in his lap. He imagined what it might be like should Hermione and Ron come to stay during the winter.

I’d hang mistletoe from every inch of the ceiling, he thought. And we’d share the large bed. No more of this separate rooms nonsense.

He envisioned himself and Ron and Hermione in woolly hats and coats, sliding on the frozen lake and throwing snowballs, their cheeks pink with cold, snowflakes in Ron’s copper waves and Hermione’s brown curls. Curling up together in front of the fire with hot chocolate. Sharing cozy blankets and warming charms as they sat on the porch to watch the snow fall. Kissing each other whenever the mood struck them.

Undressing each other slowly by lamplight. Touching and being touched, learning each other’s cues and erogenous zones.

Harry shivered and sighed. It was not only summer that offered interesting possibilities.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

On Christmas Eve, Harry and his mother stayed out late to attend the midnight carol service at the village church. On their way home, his mother looked up at the full moon and sighed deeply.

Harry patted her shoulder but said nothing. He knew what that sound meant. He knew what pining felt like.

On Christmas morning, he was awoken by his mother’s happy cry. Blearily, Harry poked his head out of his bedroom to listen.

“Oh, Remus!” his mother was saying.

“I’m sorry to come like this,” Harry heard his professor reply in a tone he had never heard him use before. “I just had to see you.” He heard his mother make a little hum in the back of her throat, and knew Remus had kissed her.

Harry tried not to grumble as he went down the hall to the bathroom.

When he went to the kitchen, Remus was sitting at their kitchen table and his mother was positively radiant with joy. “Good morning, darling,” she beamed, handing Harry a cup of coffee. “Happy Christmas!”

She was still in her pyjamas and flushed pink. Harry grunted and took the coffee, nodding in a manly sort of way at Remus. “G’morning,” he said.

As Harry slowly perked up over his coffee, he noticed the change that had come over Remus. He had not seen him and his mother in the same room since that fateful summer evening. This room, in fact. As long as Harry had known him, Remus always looked pale and rundown once the moon released its monthly grip on him. Today, he looked tired, but triumphant. There was colour in his face and he sat up straight with his shoulders back. He did not touch Harry’s mother, but he watched her with shining eyes. As if he did not believe that someone like her could exist.

Oh, barf, Harry thought, but he didn’t really mean it. It was very hard to be upset with Remus or his mother for something as human as being in love.

“Are we still seeing Gran and Grandad today?” asked Harry.

“Oh, I’ve interrupted your plans, haven’t I?” said Remus. “I can go; I’m sorry.” He made to stand.

“Knock it off,” said Harry gruffly, waving him to sit back down. “I can distract Gran for a while if you need more, er, time.”

“No, that’s all right,” said Harry’s mother. “I don’t think they’ll mind. They’ve been asking after you for a while, Remus.”

But Harry did end up heading over to the Potter estate sooner than he expected. The pheromones exuded by his mother and Remus were too thick for comfort and Harry pretended he was just that eager for Gran’s Christmas cake.

They’re like teenagers, Harry thought, making a face, absolutely certain he’d heard a chair topple the second he closed the door behind him. As weird as it was to think, he hoped he still felt like that when he was their age.

 

It was very strange but also kind of nice to have Remus at the manor for Christmas. His grandparents were very welcoming people, and they had known and loved Remus for many years, even before Lily had joined the Potter family. If they felt any awkwardness accepting his relationship with Harry’s mum, they didn’t show it.

Harry and Remus were first out during Grandad’s favourite card game, and they went to grab a few bottles of wine from the cellar as Harry’s mother held her own against her former father- and mother-in-law.

“Harry, just a moment,” Remus said before they headed down the cellar stairs. “This isn’t exactly a Christmas present, but it’s something I’d like you to have. Sirius, too, and… well, anyway.”

Harry squinted at Remus as he presented Harry with a blank sheet of parchment. He sensed his father’s name in the offing.

“Thanks,” Harry said fervently, after turning it this way and that. Remus laughed and took out his wand.

He touched his wand to the parchment and said, “I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”

As Harry watched, thin ink lines began to spread like a spider’s web from the point Remus’ wand had touched. ** They joined each other, they crisscrossed, they fanned into every corner of the parchment; then words began to blossom across the top, great, curly green words, that proclaimed:

Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs

Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers

are proud to present

THE MARAUDER’S MAP

It was a map showing every detail of the Hogwarts castle and grounds. But the truly remarkable thing were the tiny ink dots moving around it, each labelled with a name in minuscule writing. Astounded, Harry bent over it. A labelled dot in the top left corner showed that Professor Dumbledore was pacing his study; the caretaker’s cat, Mrs. Norris, was prowling the second floor; and Peeves the Poltergeist was currently bouncing around the trophy room. And as Harry’s eyes travelled up and down the familiar corridors, he noticed something else. **

The map showed many passages he didn’t even know existed, many of which seemed to lead to Hogsmeade.

“Incredible,” Harry said, unable to look away. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, the map said. “Did you make this?”

“We did,” said Remus, a note of pride in his voice, “and I’m sure your mother will have some very strong words to say about it once she finds out.” It occurred to Harry that Remus, a very responsible Hogwarts professor, had just given Harry a very irresponsible treasure. He would have expected it from Sirius, but Remus?

Harry looked up at him and grinned. “I already said I was fine with you dating Mum; you don’t have to win me over. Do you know just how much I can get away with now?”

Remus laughed. “About as much as we got away with in our youth,” he said. “This was how your father, Peter, and Sirius got out of the castle to see me each month. The passage under the Whomping Willow leads directly to the Shrieking Shack.”

The Shrieking Shack was an old, boarded up house in Hogsmeade that the villagers believed was inhabited by violent spirits. Harry knew the truth – when Remus was a boy at Hogwarts, he used it to transform into his werewolf form once a month. Before the invention of the Wolfsbane potion, Remus’ transformations were violent. He lost his mind completely, and without human prey to attack, he bit and clawed himself, screaming and howling in pain and blind rage. Professor Dumbledore encouraged the ghostly rumours, and to this day the villagers would not go near the Shack.

“Won’t you need this?” Harry asked. “You know, if there was an emergency or something. Castle evacuation.”

Remus smiled. “I have long since memorised all the secret passages. All four of us, even Peter when he was still our friend, agreed that you should have it when you turned fifteen, since that was the age we were when we made it. And because things were… well, tumultuous with your father, I’m afraid it had to wait.”

Harry was quiet, watching the little dots move around the map. “Did he ask you to give it to me?”

“He had a hand in the matter,” was all Remus would say. He patted Harry on the shoulder. “To wipe it, tap it and say, ‘mischief managed.’ And promise me you’ll only use it for good.”

Harry crossed his fingers behind his back and promised.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry’s mother gave him his wand back the night before he was to return to Hogwarts. He bid her goodnight, shut his bedroom door, and got immediately to work on his latest caper.

When he arrived at King’s Cross station with his mother, Harry felt the little secret was burning a hole in his pocket. He contorted his body awkwardly during hugs to keep it out of the way of crushing bodies.

He knew he’d gotten away with it once the train began to slowly pull away from the station. It was incredibly cold on the platform and Harry, Ron, and Hermione waved at their families from the warmth of a compartment.

“If anyone asks, this is yours,” Harry said, casually handing Ron a little travelling basket he pulled from his magically expanded pocket.

“You didn’t!” Hermione squealed in delight, elbowing Harry aside to open Guide’s basket and scoop her out. Crookshanks hissed from inside his own basket, forgotten at Hermione’s feet. “How did you get your mother to agree?”

“I left her a note. It’ll be fine,” Harry said.

Hermione looked up at him in shock. “You mean she doesn’t know –”

“She does now,” said Ron, looking out the window, where Harry’s mum was jogging along the platform to keep up with the train. Hermione froze, Guide clasped to her chest in full view of Harry’s mother, who was shouting something.

“What?” mouthed Harry at her through the window, gesturing innocently at his ears. “I can’t hear you!”

“HARRY!” Hermione nearly shouted, looking indignant. “How could you?”

“Shh,” Harry said. “You’ll scare Ron’s kitten.”

“You’re – you – oh, how could you?” she repeated. “You have to send her back!”

“No!” said Harry, scandalised, reaching for Guide. Hermione twisted to keep the kitten out of his reach.

“Don’t fight,” Ron said as Harry glared at Hermione. “Hermione, it’s not like we can send her off with Hedwig from a moving train. And we’ve got to go up front with the other prefects,” he insisted.

“Thank you,” Harry mouthed at Ron as Hermione glared daggers at him. Ron gave him a winning smile and patted his bicep in a way that made Harry’s stomach wobble.

Reluctantly, Hermione handed over Guide, hissing, “This isn’t over!”

“She’s really not a bad sort,” Harry told the kitten as he sat down with her. She made tiny little biscuits on his belly and purred. Hedwig clicked her beak from her cage in the luggage rack.

As Harry settled in for a comfortable train ride, the compartment door opened. “Hi, Harry,” said Brynn. “Is that your k-k-k-k-kitten?”

“Meet Guide,” Harry said, smiling as she sat down next to him and stroked Guide’s little head.

They chatted amiably for a while. He noticed Brynn didn’t use her notebook quite as often, and her stammer was not quite as pronounced.

That changed when more students came to the carriage. It was common for students to move around between compartments when conversations got boring or too heated. Luna Lovegood drifted in first, looking as though she had done so on accident. Brynn went immediately quiet.

“Hello, Harry. Hello, Brynn. Oh, and hello feline companion.”

“All right, Luna?” said Harry. “Good holiday?” He did not come across Luna often, save at the Burrow sometimes. She and her father, Xenophilius, lived in Ottery St. Catchpole not too far from the Weasleys.

“Oh, yes,” she said dreamily, sitting down and admiring Guide’s little face. “The crumple-horned snorkack remains elusive, but Daddy and I continue to hold out hope our next excursion will be successful.”

Mr. Lovegood ran a bizarre tabloid called The Quibbler, which was full of articles on cryptids, conspiracy theories and wizard celebrities’ supposed secret identities. While it enjoyed its own sort of popularity, it was not of the calibre or prestige Slughorn sought, and therefore Luna had not been asked to join the Slug Club. Harry thought it was a shame – Luna’s particular brand of eccentricity was just the thing to shake things up at the stuffy suppers.

Soon Neville stumbled in. “All right, Harry?” he said. “Cute cat.”

“Hullo, Neville,” Harry said. “Have you met Luna and Brynn?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure,” Neville said, nodding at the girls. “Heard about the new batch of chocolate frog cards? I’ve got a few unopened ones.”

Harry looked up when he heard feminine giggles coming from the corridor. Romilda Vane and her posse were on the other side of the glass, nudging each other and whispering.

“Hi, Harry,” Romilda said boldly, coming through the open door. “Wanted to ask if you’d join us.” She changed her volume to a stage whisper, “You don’t have to sit with them.”

Brynn and Neville flushed. Luna looked unconcerned as she riffled through an edition of The Quibbler.

“They’re my friends,” Harry said coldly, rubbing Guide under her little chin.

“Oh,” she said, looking very surprised. “Right, then.”

Harry slid the door shut with a grumpy expression.

“People expect you to have cooler friends than us,” said Luna as Harry sat back down. “They call me Looney Lovegood, did you know? And Babbling Brynne.”

“I’m Neville Nobody, if anything,” Neville said.

“Oh, shut it,” said Harry. “She’s just a ladder-climbing tart. Who cares what she thinks.”

Luna burst out laughing. “Ladder-climbing – tart,” she wheezed. “Oh, that’s funny.”

Brynne scribbled something in her notebook, grinning. She held it up to reveal, “Social succubus,” which set them all laughing.

Which was how Ron and Hermione found them as they entered the carriage. Harry wondered why Lavender wasn’t latched to Ron’s hip. Hermione narrowed her eyes at Harry.

“If you scowl at me, you can’t hold the kitten,” Harry said proactively. She looked like she was about to argue until Guide stretched, splaying her little toes on Harry’s chest. She made the little “mrr?” that contented cats do upon greeting people they like, only her little kitten voice made it higher pitched and utterly irresistible.

Hermione’s tune changed instantly, and she dropped bonelessly on the other side of Harry, holding out her hands. Harry graciously handed Guide over. His heart fluttered to see the little kitten close its eyes to touch noses with Hermione. Hermione’s eyes also closed as she cuddled the purring kitten under her chin.

A crusty-sounding meow came from near Harry’s ankles. “Aw, hi pal,” Harry said, bending low to scoop up Crookshanks. He felt heavy and sturdy after Guide. “Always good to see you.” He held the fluffy ginger like a baby as he spoke seriously to him. “I know, everyone loses their mind over a kitten. But she won’t be small forever, and you’re the mature one of the lot. She’ll need to know how to cat, and you’re the best example of feline excellence there is. Think you can teach her to follow in your pawsteps?”

Crookshanks purred and rubbed his head under Harry’s chin, just like Scout used to do.

The rest of the journey passed cozily. Guide made her way into everyone’s laps (and hearts), and Hermione gleefully explained what a Girl Guide was to a group of mostly purebloods as they shared a carriage that took them from the train station to the main gates of the castle.

As Harry went into the Entrance Hall with the rest of the student body, Guide tucked safely into his pocket again, he was met by an unwelcome sensation. Someone or something had grabbed him roughly by the ear and was tugging him toward the side of the vast room, by the gem-filled hourglasses that tracked the House points for the school. A few students laughed at the sight as Harry hunched over awkwardly.

“I know I said a bit of boyishness wouldn’t kill me, but this takes the cake, Harry,” said his mother in a cold fury.

What followed was a fiercely whispered argument in which his mother outlined all the ways it was foolish for him to keep a kitten in his dormitory and Harry shot back an equal number of counterpoints.

Harry thought he was winning until his mother pulled out her trump card. She took a deep breath, looked up at the ceiling, and said, “Do you have any idea what it’s like coming home to an empty house every single day? With no end in sight?”

The look on her face and the emotion in her voice made Harry go still. Slowly he reached into his pocket and pulled out Guide. He placed her into his mother’s hands, which were dry and rough from all the antiseptic spells she placed on them throughout her daily healing work. She mewed and snuggled into his mother’s palms. Soon she began suckling comfortably on Harry’s mum’s smallest finger.

She’s just like a baby with her mum, Harry thought tenderly.

“It wasn’t just a bit of mischief,” Harry said, hanging his head. “She’s just like Scout.”

His mother reached up to put her hand on his cheek. He glanced at her, and she was smiling in the way she did whenever there was some hurt to soothe. “She has a long life ahead of her,” she reminded Harry.

“What if she forgets about me?” Harry asked, stroking between her shoulder blades with one finger.

“She won’t, darling. You’re unforgettable.”

 

“Don’t say a word,” Harry shot at Hermione when he sat down across from her at the Gryffindor table. She bit her lip.

“Potter – hey, Potter!” came an unwelcome voice from further along. Harry looked around and raised his eyebrows at a smirking McLaggen. “Was that your mum? She’s proper fit! Introduce me later?”

Before Harry could do anything, McLaggen keeled over backwards and hit the floor with a thud that rattled the gold plates and goblets. Several students gasped as his face began to swell and distort. Harry looked around just in time to see Ron stowing his wand with a calm expression.

Professor McGonagall came along swiftly. “Hospital wing, McLaggen,” she said briskly. “Which one of you was responsible?” She squinted suspiciously at Harry. His neck was flushed with anger.

I would have done far worse, he thought.

“Nobody,” said Ginny Weasley dispassionately. “His wand backfired.” It was a mark of how disliked McLaggen was that no one disputed her story.

“Ten points from Gryffindor, regardless,” said McGonagall, not fooled for a second.

Under the table, Harry brushed Ron’s hand with his knuckles in thanks. Ron’s gaze flickered and he nodded. All through the Welcome Back speech from the Headmaster, Harry was hyperaware of the warmth emanating from his left side, where Ron sat slightly closer to him than strictly necessary. Lavender was further down the table, sitting with Parvati and looking sulky. Had she and Ron broken up? Why hadn’t Ron said anything?

Did he or Hermione think at all about those three kisses under the mistletoe? Or had it been merely casual for them? A silly holiday tradition… Perhaps they regretted it. Harry’s heart sank at the thought.

The food appeared suddenly, effectively distracting Harry. He loaded his plate and looked across the table at Hermione. He was startled to notice she had been staring at him with an unmistakeably affectionate look on her face.

He smiled back as she mouthed, “Sorry.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Term resumed, and life went back to normal. Ron had broken up with Lavender. Something about “terminal incompatibility,” whatever that meant. When Ron said this to Harry and Hermione, Harry raised his eyebrows at her, as if to say, “I told you it wouldn’t last.”

But what did that mean now that they all three were single? Especially now that Harry had an Invisibility Cloak and an enchanted map to ensure they could gad about the castle undetected?

“Fred and George would have died and come back as poltergeists to get something like this,” Ron said when Harry showed him and Hermione the Map.

“You can’t come back as a poltergeist,” Hermione began. “Poltergeists aren’t human souls. They’re just spirits of uncontrollable chaos.”

“Have you met Fred and George? If anyone fits the definition of uncontrollable chaos, it’s them,” insisted Ron. Harry nodded in agreement.

“Well, anyway, I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t invent a map of their own,” said Hermione. “Do you know how many of their products I’ve had to confiscate? And how good they are? They’re full of incredibly advanced magic!” The last Harry had heard, Sirius had given the Weasley twins a sizeable donation and they were in the process of negotiating a rental contract in Diagon Alley.

“What do you do with the things you confiscate?” Harry asked curiously, remembering the Fanged Frisbee Ron had taken off her.

“Hand them over to the proper authorities.” She lowered her voice and quirked an eyebrow at him. “Unless I want to investigate the spellwork.”

“She could investigate my spellwork anytime,” Ron muttered to Harry when she left for class. Harry nodded and resisted the urge to fan himself – her tone had been undoubtedly suggestive.

There was a Slug Club supper the very first Thursday of term. Harry was so bored – the guest of honour was some Ministry official from the Department of Magical Cooperation. Hermione was listening politely, but Harry wanted to climb out of his own skin. He looked around, hoping to find anything that could catch his interest for just a second.

Hermione shifted next to him, and he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Her skirt had rucked up over her knee and she was surreptitiously trying to pull it back into place.

Well, that was certainly interesting. He liked it when Hermione wore skirts. He had a mad desire to wrap his hand around her thigh and walk his fingers up under that prim little tartan skirt.

Or get down on his knees under the table and put his face between her legs. He had never done that with anyone, but he was very open to expanding his horizons. How would she taste?

Don’t think about that now, he thought. It was far too exciting.

Harry noticed Hermione’s eyes glaze over as Slughorn launched into a long and boring reminiscence and wondered why the fuck they endured this kind of thing. Politeness? So they could spend time together? They couldn’t even talk to each other like this.

That’s it, he thought. I have had it.

Boldly, he leaned over and whispered directly into her ear, “You wanna get out of here?”

“Yes,” she whispered immediately, throwing down her napkin. She stood and wobbled a little, putting her hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Sorry,” she said as everyone turned to look. “Not feeling very well.”

“Hospital wing?” Harry asked, trying not to lay it on too thick.

“No, just to bed,” she said.

“I’ll walk you to the common room.”

There was the usual song and dance that accompanies these kinds of things – “Oh, so sorry to see you go, hope you feel better soon,” “Why thank you – please enjoy your evening,” and then the door shut behind them and they were free.

“Oh, thank God,” Hermione said, turning to hug him. He hooked his arm around her waist and briefly nuzzled her neck before he could stop himself. “Let’s get the hell away from here before anyone checks on us.”

She gripped his hand and they rushed down the corridor, giggling like loons and leaning on each other.

“Where should we go?” Harry asked, feeling reckless.

“Let’s get something from the kitchens – we missed dessert. Do you have your Map on you?”

 

That’s how they found themselves in a secret stairwell that neither of them knew existed, having a little picnic of strawberry ice cream and a rich chocolate tart. Hermione conjured candles and levitated them. Harry conjured thick blankets and cushions and cast warming charms on them. It was very cozy and clandestine.

“I was about to rip my hair out,” Hermione was saying.

“Why did I let you convince me to go to these things?” Harry asked her.

“So we could run away from them,” she said, smirking.

“Which is much more satisfying than not going in the first place.”

“You get it,” she laughed.

They sat close enough for their knees to touch. Harry noticed a smear of chocolate at the corner of Hermione’s mouth. Without thinking, he wiped it away with his thumb, the rest of his fingers braced against her neck and collarbone. Her skin was soft, and Harry remembered the feeling of her lips against his.

She shivered at his touch, and Harry was absolutely certain she was thinking of it, too. No one was watching. They were entirely alone. He could kiss her and no one would be any the wiser.

A little voice at the back of his brain whispered, But what about Ron?

Harry cleared his throat and removed his hand. “Sorry. You had a little something.”

“Right,” she said weakly, touching where his fingers had been.

 

Harry stared up at the canopy of his four-poster bed. Why did he have to be so stupid about these kinds of things? If Hermione wanted him to kiss her (and he had good reason to think she did), why did he have to think about Ron? It was not as though he could have them both – that was mere fantasy that did not happen in real life.

But why not? he asked himself seriously. If it’s something we all want, would that be so wrong?

And that begged the question: did they all want it? Ron had kissed Harry so easily the night of the Slug Club party, but had he done it just to get to Hermione?

Harry was getting better at reading girls – he could see Hermione was attracted to him, and it was a very exciting thought that could get him into some very big trouble. She was also attracted to Ron, though he didn’t know if she liked one of them better than the other. Perhaps he and Ron were interchangeable in her estimation. Which didn’t feel very good, if he thought about it.

But Harry was completely lost when it came to boys’ signals. He thought about summer. Many of the things that happened, Harry could maybe chalk up to being comfortable with each other, or simple curiosity. They way he held Harry’s hand as they watched the Mooncalves dance. How he glanced at Harry when they bathed in the lake.

And yet… sometimes… there were deeper moments that passed between them. Harry remembered the night they had made Hermione’s wristwatch, their fingers entwined as they looked into the stars reflected in each other’s eyes as the Memorari spell for Hermione took hold. In the daylight, Ron was the warmth of copper and gold. At night, he was silver, sapphire, and moonstone.

Harry thought of Hermione. In her hair, topaz and gold. Her skin was rose quartz and ruby when she blushed. In low light, her dark eyes were onyx.

Beautiful. Brilliant. Dazzling. Precious. Priceless. Words to describe the people most important to Harry.

Harry shivered with the depth of his feelings. He felt so deeply, it hurt. He ached as much as he burned. He despaired at the thought that, even if they were all attracted to each other, that did not mean Ron and Hermione would be open to… what, a threesome? It sounded cheap to put it that way – something merely sexual. “Throuple” was too close to “throw up.”

Harry didn’t know what to call it. He supposed it didn’t matter… should some miracle happen, and it came to pass, he could worry about it then.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“Oh, Harry, I’m glad I ran into you,” said Ginny. “Slughorn asked me to give you this.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, taking the little ribboned scroll without looking up. He was in the library during a free period between his morning classes and lunch, hoping to get a little peace and quiet while he worked on Quidditch strategies.

“You seem to be in trouble,” Ginny said.

Harry glanced up at her. “Did you already open it?” he asked.

“I can neither confirm nor deny.” Her smirk and the poorly retied bow gave her away.

Harry pretended to scowl, but they both knew he didn’t care. He unrolled the scroll. It was a notice (phrased as an invitation, for whatever reason) that he would be serving his detention with Slughorn that evening.

Ginny was squinting down at his Quidditch strategy plans. “Those are unfinished,” he warned her.

“Leave them with me and they won’t be,” she said, smiling in a devilish way that pronounced her resemblance to Ron.

“Don’t you have OWLs to worry about?” Harry asked her as Hermione wandered in from her Ancient Runes class. Harry started to pack up his things.

Ginny scowled at the reminder. “Slughorn let slip there are scouts coming to every match now. I think you should schedule more practices.”

“Do you want to go pro, Ginny?” Hermione asked.

“More than anything,” she said fervently. “I’ll be waiting for your notice, Harry.”

It was a reminder that just because Harry’s career ambitions did not include Quidditch, that did not mean everyone on his team felt the same. He felt all the worse for the loss to Slytherin, and hoped his father would stay far, far away from their next match.

“What are you thinking about?” Hermione asked him, noticing his introspection as they went to lunch. 

“Quidditch,” he said.

“Of course,” she said.

“Was there something you wanted me to think about?” he asked her, smirking.

“Not exactly, no,” she said, trying to blow a stray curl out of her eye. She couldn’t quite manage it with her arms full of her books. Harry tucked it out of the way for her. “Thanks,” she said with a shy smile.

They passed Lavender, who was sitting with Parvati at the very end of the table. It was clear she had been crying, but was doing her best to keep her composure. Harry felt his chest tighten as he watched the way she sat stiff-backed, her eyes cast determinedly at her plate as she cut her meat.

Harry’s mother would sit just the same, back when things were especially tense between her and his father. She would sit as straight as possible, as if bracing for impact, with her eyes cast down. That was the worst. When she could not even look at Harry.

It was on his mind all through lunch. Ron was there, his appetite and sense of humour totally unaffected. Harry wondered if Lavender knew about the mistletoe. Hermione kept glancing at Harry with a shrewd and analytic expression that he knew meant he’d be the subject of an inquiry later. But she wouldn’t get the chance that evening, as Harry had his detention with Slughorn.

“Harry, m’boy!” Slughorn greeted him. “You’re just the person I need. I’ve got a fun little surprise for my February classes, so not a word! We’ll be studying love potions.” He grinned cheekily at Harry.

“What do you need me to do, sir?” asked Harry.

“Brew, of course. Can’t study a potion without examples, now can we? Now, concocting love potions is, of course, verboten for students, but as you’re under my instruction, we won’t worry about all that. You didn’t bring your Potions book, did you? I forgot to mention… Ah, well. You can use a spare copy of mine.”

If Hermione had been there, she would have crowed with vindictive satisfaction to see Harry attempt to prove himself without his mother’s book. What she didn’t take into account, however, was that Harry didn’t just blindly copy his mother’s instructions in class. He read her notes and looked up the ingredients she substituted so he could learn more about them, and retained the information to apply it to other things. He almost wished Hermione was there to prove her soundly wrong.

Harry followed the instructions and made adaptations he knew, such as crushing sopophorus beans instead of cutting them, and suggested using penstemon instead of lady’s mantle. Not all of the potions were starting fresh – a few had been stewing for some time and needed the next stage of ingredients.

“Ah, excellent,” said Slughorn towards the end. “I must say, I hope you misbehave more often! This has been most pleasant.”

Harry’s answering smile was rather stiff.

“Before you go, young man, come and have a whiff of this one. I’m saving it for my sixth and seventh years – very, very dangerous. It can catch one off guard, and I think a fair warning is a good reward for a night of hard work, eh? Most illuminating, the classes in which we study this. You’ll see what I mean.”

He motioned Harry over to a potion that had been simmering under a lid since Harry first came in the room. Slughorn took off the lid with a flourish and instructed Harry to close his eyes as he wafted the spiralling steam towards him. Harry obliged and inhaled carefully.

He had expected a sort of synthetic fragrance, like a perfume trying to replicate a scent – most of the other love potions had a sweet or floral smell. But what Harry experienced was something entirely different. Many scents overlapped and made Harry feel as if he had been transported far away. Back to the Potter estate. He could smell the clean, weedy scent of the lake. He smelled the new planks of the landing and the surrounding woods, the stone of the cottage and the blooming wisteria. The longer Harry stood there, the more scents came in waves. There was petrichor, and campfire smoke, and the faint whiff of whisky and cream soda cigarettes.

And most potently, a combination of woodsy cologne and magnolia perfume. 

I am in so much trouble, Harry thought as he opened his eyes. He hadn’t realised how close he had moved to the potion – he had stooped so low to its surface that his glasses were fogging up in the steam. Slughorn replaced the lid sharply.

“Yes, Amortentia is most intoxicating,” said Slughorn. “It’s the most powerful love potion known to man. Of course, you’ll learn that love potions don’t create true love – just a powerful infatuation. But Amortentia is in its own class because it mimics real love so convincingly. It smells like the things that attract a person most, so it’s not even a struggle to convince someone to drink it.”

Harry frowned in thought. That was putting it mildly. But he did not want to ask Slughorn questions. Anyway, Slughorn was still talking. He loved to hear himself talk.

“There are always students who laugh or scoff when I say how dangerous Amortentia is. But I have seen enough of life to never underestimate the power of lust and obsession.”

Harry thought of his former Potions professor – a man who had sought to ruin adult lives because of a teenage obsession he’d never let go of. And he thought of his father – what the thought of his wife having an affair had driven James to. Was that what had truly broken him? Was that really all it might take?

“I see I’ve given you quite a bit to think about,” said Slughorn, smiling in a knowing sort of way that annoyed Harry. “And now you’ll be on your guard come Friday.”

 

*     *     *      *      *

 

The next evening, Ron played chess with Seamus in the common room. Harry knew better than to distract him and sat at a table, looking down at a piece of parchment that was headed, “Dear Mum,” but completely blank otherwise. She had said Harry could talk to her about James, but Harry took that to mean she wanted him to confide in her, not ask questions about the end of their marriage.

As he tried to find the right words, constantly scratching out and retrying different phrases, Hermione came up and briefly ran her fingers through his hair. A pleasant shiver ran down his spine at her touch. “All right,” she said as she sat down. “What’s on your mind?”

“Not much,” he lied. “Just trying to think about what to write home.”

“Come on. Out with it.” She leaned forward on her elbows, her hands folded on the table.

Harry stared down at his mess of a letter and toyed with his quill. “I don’t think I’m ready to talk,” he said.

“Oh,” she said quietly. Harry glanced up at her. She was looking at him nervously. “Is it me?”

“No.” He tickled the backs of her fingers with the feather end of his quill. “I’m just… ‘having a night with my feelings,’ ” he said, quoting her words from a year ago.

It’s been almost exactly a year since she broke up with Viktor Krum, he thought with some surprise. He wondered if she ever felt sad about it, even though it had been her decision. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lavender go up the stairs to the girls’ dormitories. His gaze followed her up the spiral. Hermione noticed him watching.

“Is she okay?” Harry asked without thinking.

“Fine,” Hermione said, a brittleness to her voice. Her mouth was tight, her eyes fixed intently on Harry.

He took her hand. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Overthink.”

“It’s what I do,” she said. “Something is wrong and you won’t tell me what it is, so I have to guess. You’ve been… different ever since the last Slug Club supper.”

“I don’t mean to be,” Harry said. He should have figured she would notice. Hermione was an observant girl who did not let things go.

She sighed, looking down at their joined hands. “Do you promise it’s not me? And you’ll tell me soon?”

“You’ll be the first to know,” he said.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Dear Mum,

I am very sorry for how I’ve been. I miss having dinner together and talking how we used to. How is Guide? I would have taken very good care of her and been very responsible. I just want you to know I had a plan and wasn’t just being an impulsive brat. But I’m glad you have her. You’re right – she should be with you and keeping you company. Does someone look after her when you’re at work?

It's funny. I’m surrounded by people at Hogwarts. All the time – I share a dormitory and I have Ron and Hermione and I’m so rarely alone, but it’s easy to feel lonely sometimes. Did you ever feel that way?

The food is always good here, but I miss cooking and baking with you. Even without magic.

Love,

Harry

 

Dear Harry,

I know you are going through a difficult time. Believe it or not, I was sixteen once and I remember the challenges of adolescence. I love you very much, darling, and I’ll always forgive you.

It’s very easy to find children almost old enough for Hogwarts to kitten-sit. You don’t have to worry – Guide is getting everything a growing cat needs.

I sense you want to ask for advice of some kind. Perhaps you’re finding it difficult to ask in a letter. I understand – we always do our best talking at the dinner table, don’t we?

I suppose now is a good time to let you know that I’ve rented a little house in Hogsmeade. It’s not permanent. I’m splitting my time between there and Godric’s Hollow. I just needed a change of pace.

When is your next Hogsmeade weekend?

Love,

Mum

 

Harry smiled as he refolded his mother’s letter. He checked the notice board in the common room. The first Hogsmeade weekend of the year was the day after Valentine’s Day, which fell on a Friday this year.

The very thought of being able to see his mother before an official break buoyed his spirits. He wished some of the younger students could have the same – one of the first-year boys cried every night after coming back from Christmas break.

“I’m glad for you, Harry,” said Hermione when he told her and Ron. “I know she means a lot to you.”

“It’s been just her and me for ages,” Harry said. “Even before my dad moved out.”

The week of Valentine’s Day, most of the student body went feral. Hermione dryly commented that someone must have poisoned the well. Harry chalked it up to Valentine’s Day falling so close to a Hogsmeade weekend, and a new student committee (comprised mostly of girls) started collecting charity donations via a Cupid Connection service, where amorously inclined students could purchase Valentines that would be delivered by cherubs.

Slughorn’s classes were only making things worse. All week, he covered love potions in his classes, though they were more wink-wink, nudge-nudge sort of lessons since they were a banned substance. They would study what went into them and they would write essays on their effectiveness, but the only potions that were present that week were the ones Harry and Slughorn had concocted in advance.

As Slughorn lectured, Harry looked over his mother’s notes in Advanced Potion-Making on a love potion called Infusion of Infatuation. Unlike the rest of the book, she had written almost nothing on this page, except, “Don’t accept food or drink from people you don’t trust,” and “Always keep your drinks in sight.”

He noticed Hermione was standing far too close to him to be fully innocent, and sure enough, when he looked up, she was surreptitiously trying to read it sideways. Her eyes went comically wide when she realised she was caught. Harry merely gave her an I-have-nothing-to-hide sort of look and slid his book to her.

At dinner, Ginny pushed rudely between Ron and Harry to sit next to him. “Oi!” said Ron, gesturing at his school jumper, which now had soup slopped down it thanks to her.

She rolled her eyes and cast a scouring charm on him before turning to Harry. “Do not, under any circumstances, consume items that don’t come directly from the kitchens for the foreseeable future.”

“What? Why?” said Ron.

“Because,” said Ginny darkly as Hermione leaned in to listen as well, “I was just in the loo, and there were about a dozen girls discussing tactics on how to get you to swallow a love potion.”

“Where are they getting the potions?” asked Hermione severely. Harry recognized the I-have-a-prefect-badge-and-I-know-how-to-use-it gleam in her eye.

Ginny shrugged. “No idea. Could be anything from home-brews to an illicit trade or possibly theft, but they shut up when they saw me. They’re all gagging for you to take them on a romantic Hogsmeade date. Maybe you should just ask someone and make it clear you’re occupied all day.”

“Why are you taking this so calmly?” Ron directed at Harry, who was piling fried mushrooms on his steak.

“I am screaming on the inside,” said Harry truthfully.

“Anyway, think about what I said,” Ginny said. She gave them all a conspiratorial nod and left to sit with her friends.

Harry took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. High up where the rafters would be if they were visible, it was drizzling under the dark evening sky. Why were teenage girls so intense and terrifying? “Would you two like to go on a romantic date with me to Hogsmeade this Saturday?” he said to Ron and Hermione. “If things go well, I’ll introduce you to my mother.”

“Things are moving so fast,” Ron said demurely.

“What if she doesn’t approve of me?” said Hermione, pressing her hand to her heart.

Harry laughed. “I think you should worry more about my Gran.”

“Unless you have a wheelbarrow full of mooncalf poo to win her over,” said Ron, making them all laugh.

“What to get for the witch who has everything,” said Hermione, her eyes twinkling.

They had an enjoyable rest of the evening, teasing and laughing the whole way back to the common room, then sitting in companiable quiet as they worked on homework.

It was almost enough to make Harry forget about the looming threat of love potions.

Almost.

 

February 14 was an absolute circus, and Harry could not wait for it to be over. He cringed every time a fluttering golden cherub approached him with a box of chocolates, eyeing each and every one with deep suspicion. Ron got a few anonymous admirer cards. Hermione, to her surprise, was inundated with floral arrangements. She looked like a walking flower shop until she cast an Expansion charm on her schoolbag.

Harry and Ron shared a look, silently asking the other if they might have anything to do with all that. Harry certainly didn’t – he could cast his own Orchideous charms, thank you very much, and he’d give them to her in person.

Peeves, that indomitable spirit of mayhem, was fully in his element, ripping bouquets out of the hands of students and throwing the petals like a particularly violent confetti cannon. He disrupted classes with “love poems,” which were actually limericks filthy enough to make even Professor McGonagall blush, and Harry thought she’d seen and heard everything.

“Why did anyone think this was a good idea?” said Harry crossly, shaking baby’s breath and daisy petals out of his hair as they left the Transfiguration classroom. “What are they collecting for, anyway? ‘Love for the Loveless?’ ”

Hermione answered him stiffly. “No. It’s for Sanctum. You know, the charity that helps Muggleborns get out of unsafe communities? The one whose benefit was poisoned?”

“Oh,” said Harry weakly.

“Quite,” she said.

Ron gave Harry a smirk that said, “You really put your foot in it, mate.”

When she had gone off to her Ancient Runes class, Ron decided he was going to go back to the common room and study where it was warm until his next class. Harry said he’d be along, and went to the Great Hall, where the Cupid Connection booth was set up. Golden cherubs and tiny fairies floated amidst an effusion of flowers, cards, and boxes of fancy chocolates (generously donated by Honeydukes, a magical confectioner in Hogsmeade).  Brynne was running the cash box as Luna conjured flowers for an alarmed-looking fourth-year. As Harry waited his turn, he listened as Luna serenely told the boy that asters attract Parselmouths.

“Do they?” Harry asked Brynn in an aside, smirking.

In answer, Brynn rolled her eyes and pointed at a small placard that was just out of view of Luna. “Sorry about my colleague,” it said in gilded script.

Harry swallowed a laugh. Brynne motioned to several large posters that listed prices and services, and handed him a flyer about the Sanctum charity.

As the boy paid for his bouquet, Luna gave it to one of the cherubs to deliver. “Hello, Harry!” she said once business concluded. “Are you here to collect your undelivered Valentines? We’re having trouble keeping up. Or maybe you want to send one?”

“Er, no,” Harry said, blushing. “I just wanted to make a donation.”

Brynn wrote something in her notebook and showed it to him. “You’re no fun,” it said, accompanied by a frowny face.

“You’re right,” he said, lowering his voice, “being the target of a potential poisoning is definitely not fun.”

“Poisoning?” said Luna with interest. “I knew it. Honeydukes really does put billiofrog venom in their chocolates! Nobody would listen! It’s in the nougat ones – it hides the flavour.”

Brynn pointed at her placard again with a tight smile.

“Not that kind of poisoning,” Harry said.

Brynn scribbled, “Love potions?”

“Ah ha, you know something!” said Harry, pointing a finger at her.

“People say all k-k-k-k-kinds of things around me because they think I c-c-c-c-can’t talk,” she said smugly. Briefly, Harry wondered what kind of secrets she carried as a result.

“Being different can make you invisible,” mused Luna. “It’s how wrackspurts get around.”

“Sure,” said Harry, sharing another look with Brynn as he dropped galleons into her cupped hands.

Later, in Potions class, Slughorn instructed the whole class to close their eyes as he uncovered the Amortentia potion. He winked at Harry, who made no secret of the fact that he was watching the rest of the class, paying particular attention to his best friend and his best mate. Forewarned, he stepped back and lifted his robes over his nose to mitigate the effects.  

Hermione’s and Ron’s faces went from indulgent scepticism to intense concentration. As Harry had done, the entire class involuntarily surged closer to the potion, as if lured by a siren’s song. Ron and Hermione leaned against each other.

That’s interesting, Harry thought.

What was even more interesting, and perhaps surprising, was that neither of them looked particularly shocked. Almost as if they expected what the potion might smell like. Which was strange, as Slughorn had not revealed the name of the potion and Harry had kept his word not to warn anyone else. Perhaps it was cruel and selfish that he hadn’t given Ron and Hermione at least a hint, but Harry thought desperate times called for desperate measures. All’s fair in love and war, or something like that, he rationalised to himself.

When they opened their eyes, Hermione and Ron looked at each other – a deep look that Harry had shared once or twice with them both. And then they both looked around for Harry, and Harry was momentarily transfixed by the intensity of Ron’s blue eyes and Hermione’s brown.

He knew then that a long conversation was well past due. He was glad they were all going to Hogsmeade tomorrow. All Harry had to do was muster up the courage to say something. He remembered a bit of advice his mother had given him in a letter what felt like ages ago: “Sometimes, you just have to be brave, take a risk, and hope for the best.”

It was sound advice for a Gryffindor.

 

That night, Harry went to bed later than usual, doing his best to bolster his courage and come up with a script. Eventually he gave it up as a bad job and decided he would just have to wing it.

When he finally lay down, there was a hard lump under his pillow. Harry reached underneath and lit his wand to see. It was a small box of chocolates. He almost chucked it, but the note stuck to it bore Hermione’s handwriting: “Meet me in Hogsmeade tomorrow, under the bridge. You know which one. –Hermione x”

Harry listened to Ron’s snoring. He had said Hermione had given him chocolate, too, so that was all right, but the note flummoxed Harry. He knew the bridge – everyone who had a boy- or girlfriend knew which bridge, but why would she write that? Had she written the same thing to Ron and was having a cheeky little laugh at their expense?

Oh, well, Harry thought, taking a chocolate and biting into it. I’ll ask her tomorrow.

 

Harry awoke stiff and sore. He had slept poorly, plagued by intense, sexual dreams featuring wild hair and dark eyes. He felt hot and disoriented, perhaps even a little short of breath, but he was elated. He could not wait to go to Hogsmeade. Visions of that bridge and all the things that could happen beneath it made Harry get dressed at top speed. He caught a glance of himself in the mirror – there were spots of colour along his cheekbones and his green eyes were bright.

He felt he took too long getting ready, though he must look his best for her. His heart was just aching to see her. No, he didn’t need to eat or drink or even breathe, he just had to get to Hogsmeade. She said to meet him there, and he would. Nothing else mattered. Absolutely nothing!

Harry took no notice of the other boys in the dormitory. He shook off Ron’s greeting and went out of the dormitory and down the stairs.

Hermione came down the girls’ stairs at the same time he did, and she smiled brightly at him. “Hi, is Ron behind you?” But he pushed rudely past her, knocking her off balance.

“Harry!” she said reproachfully, but he did not care, so focused was he on getting out of there as fast as humanly possible. “Where are you going?” she called after him. “Wait!”

“No!” Harry said, not even looking at her. Something was wrong with his voice – it was coming out as sort of a slur. “I’ve got to see Romilda!”

 

But where was Romilda? He would go to the bridge just like she told him to, but why couldn’t he see her before then? He wanted her right now. He wanted to put his hands in her hair and kiss her lips and her throat and her body. He wanted to touch all of her, take her clothes off, make love to her. The longer he went without her, the angrier he got.

It felt like his whole life had been wasted before her. Anyone who would try to keep them apart would face his wrath. He breathed ragged breaths, stumbling on the cobbles of the high street. He didn’t remember leaving the castle or the grounds or going past Filch or anything at all – all he could think about was getting to Romilda. Now.

He turned at someone calling his name – but it was just a woman with red hair. She couldn’t possibly know him – the only person in his life worth knowing was Romilda.

Romilda. Where was she? The bridge was in sight, and – yes! There she was! Oh, that glorious hair, those beautiful eyes, her skin, that smile – she was everything to him. Everything. There would never be anyone or anything else.

When he finally, finally made it to her, he lifted her up in a crushing hug. “I missed you so much,” he slurred into her hair. “So much.”

“Wow, I didn’t think you’d be this enthusiastic,” she said, chuckling nervously. But why should she be nervous? This was meant to be!

“How could I not be? I want you,” he said, caressing her face and looking dreamily into her eyes. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted. I can’t bear to be apart from you any longer.”

“Well, if you insist,” she said, tentatively running her fingers through his hair. Harry’s eyes fluttered at the feeling. It was electric, he was tingling all over, and if he didn’t kiss her right that second, he would die.

When she let him, he was enraptured. Everything was right. This was perfect. This was what life was meant to be lived for – her lips on his.

But her lips were not enough. “Please,” he begged against her neck. “Let me touch you. Everywhere.”

“This is moving kind of fast,” she said, but she arched her body into him, eager to get as close as possible.

“I have to have you,” Harry said. “Don’t be nervous. We’re supposed to be together.”

Someone was calling his name again. That same woman from before. But there were more voices, too. Another woman. And a man. But they didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Harry’s whole body ached with desire for her.

“Are you all right?” Romilda asked.

“Kiss me again and I’ll be fine. You’re all I need.”

“Okay,” she said happily, and Harry’s heart felt fit to burst with joy as their lips met again. Her mouth opened against his as he felt across the front of her robes and their kisses got sloppier. Harry loved it – it was the happiest moment of his life, and why were their clothes still on?

Romilda giggled as Harry started to pull off his cloak.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING WITH MY SON?!”

Romilda shrieked and jumped back as if she’d been electrocuted. “Don’t stop!” Harry said. He couldn’t see without her – everything was blurry and too warm and he needed her so much –

Harry couldn’t make sense of anything. All he knew was that Romilda was no longer in his arms, and there was a horrible jabbering of voices. Impossibly high pitched and fast, and unbearably slow and deep. “Romilda,” he cried. “Romilda! Where are you?”

He stumbled and his knees hit the ground. Before he could fall all the way, someone caught him. A man, or a tall boy – he smelled like a forest. But Harry didn’t want the forest, he wanted – he wanted Romilda, his love…

The overlapping cacophony of voices was painful, pressing deep spikes into his eardrums. But now it sounded as if the world were burning – a great crackling and roaring of fire. All Harry could smell and feel and taste was smoke. It was in his eyes, stinging and making them water. He could hardly breathe, so filled with fire was he.

It was a relief when the world went black, and Harry fell into perfect silence. His only regret was that he could not take Romilda with him.

 

Chapter 8: Coming Back to Life

Harry slowly regained consciousness. It was as though he was adrift in a misty sea, in which the sky and water were indistinguishable from each other. As he grew more aware, he thought he must be lying down, but he did not know if he was face down or up. There was light that seemed far too bright through his closed lids, and he perceived almost no scent or sound at all. The temperature was neither hot nor cold. He couldn’t remember how he got there or what he’d been doing before now.

“Lily, he’s coming around,” said a masculine voice. Sirius. Harry opened his eyes to see his godfather sitting in a chair and lowering a book he must have just been reading.

“Oh, thank god,” came his mother’s voice. She sounded calm despite the words. She came over briskly, her lime green healer’s robes swishing noiselessly. So he was in a bed at St. Mungo’s.

“Good to see you awake, darling,” she said cheerfully. “How are you feeling?”

“Thirsty,” he said, trying to massage his throat. But his hand wouldn’t quite obey him.

“That’s a good sign. You’re going to feel very weak for a while,” his mother said, noticing how he was struggling with his arm. There was a globule of pale green potion attached to it, feeding him nutrients directly into a vein like a giant backwards leech. Harry thought it was what was causing the weird spasming until his mother said, “You’ve had some nerve damage.”

Sirius patted his shoulder bracingly as his mother used her wand to slightly raise the head of Harry’s bed. “Let’s get some juice into you and take your vitals.”

“What happened?” he asked shakily.

“Love poisoning,” she told him. “Someone spiked your chocolate with a poorly made Infatuation Infusion.”

Harry tried to remember as Sirius held a cup of apple juice for him that he sipped through a straw. The last clear memory he had was reading Hermione’s note on the chocolates. “Hermione wouldn’t do that,” he said in confusion.

“It wasn’t Hermione,” Sirius said. Harry was surprised to notice his eyes looked a little puffy. “A girl forged Hermione’s handwriting to make you think the chocolate was from her.”

“She went to great lengths to plan it all out,” said his mother, her voice frosty. “And she might have gotten away with it, at least for a little while, if she had bothered to make her potion properly.”

Harry groaned. He felt dizzy and weak. “We can talk about it later,” his mum said firmly. “Let’s get you better, first.”

He fell asleep again almost immediately.

 

Over the next week or so, Harry slowly learned what had happened to him. He never gained a full memory of it – only little bits and pieces. Most of the time, he had trouble staying awake. Ron and Hermione were allowed to leave Hogwarts to visit him once his mother deemed him fit for company, and Ron had to hold Hermione back from hugging him too tight. She cried a lot, that first visit, and even Ron looked misty.

“Was it all that bad?” Harry asked. His mother hadn’t acted worried, which had reassured him and made him wonder why everyone kept looking at him like he was about to kick off any second.

“Mate, you’ve been unconscious for almost a week,” Ron said. “When you collapsed, you were barely breathing – your mum had to do some fast thinking.”

“She was incredible,” Hermione said, her reverence clear even through her tears. “Oh, if she hadn’t been there –” she broke off, unable to finish the thought.

“Why were you there?” he asked.

She couldn’t speak, so Ron answered. “You were acting really weird, not like yourself at all, and Hermione connected the dots when you said Romilda’s name. She made me get Hedwig to send a message to your mum while she ran to Hogsmeade after you.”

“You’re too fast,” she sobbed. “I couldn’t keep up with you at all. I didn’t know if you took a secret passage or what.”

Ron wrapped a comforting arm around her as he said, “Your mum got the message and was already out looking for you – I used a broom and picked up Hermione once I sent Hedwig.”

“You flew on a broom?” Harry said incredulously to Hermione.

“Of course I did,” she insisted. “It was a matter of life and death.”

“Surely not death,” said Harry, smiling weakly, but Ron and Hermione shared a grim look. “I – really?”

Hermione looked away, overcome again. Ron cleared his throat. “That potion poisoned you,” he said. “Badly. And because it was in you for so long, it had totally saturated your blood – they had to replace it all to stop it circulating and causing more damage.” Harry knew about this, from his mother, but it sounded different coming from Ron like this.

“Well, that must be why I feel like a new man,” Harry said. “Oh, cheer up, Hermione, I’m all right – better every day.” He reached out for her and she came into his arms immediately. Ron put his long arms around both of them.

“You scared us, mate,” he murmured into Harry’s hair. Harry closed his eyes.

“It’s not his fault,” Hermione said viciously. “Romilda’s lucky we were focused on you. I might have actually killed her.”

“What did happen to her?”

“She ran,” said Hermione. “They caught her when she tried to go home through the Three Broomsticks’ fireplace.”

“So their Floo is monitored?”

“Not usually,” said Ron. “The Department of Improper Use of Magic was called. Like I said, it was bad.”

“They might charge her with a crime,” said Hermione.

“Really?” said Harry in surprise. While love potions were banned at Hogwarts, they weren’t illegal. Fred and George even sold some through Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

“Well, we don’t know that for sure,” said Ron quellingly. “But she has been expelled.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He didn’t know why it made him feel guilty. It shouldn’t. All the same, he couldn’t help but feel that if he had been smarter and just waited to ask Hermione about the chocolate, the attempt would have been foiled and it would have just been a near miss. Maybe even a laugh. Romilda would get detention and probably learn a lesson.

“Don’t do that,” said Hermione.

“Do what?” Harry asked her.

“Overthink,” she said gently.

At that moment, Harry’s mum bustled over. “Sorry to do this to you, darlings, but visiting hours are coming to a close.”

“Oh, please, Ms. Evans, just a little longer?” pleaded Hermione.

His mother smiled at her indulgently. “You’ve been here for hours, love. You need to take care of yourselves, too – oh, don’t look at me like that, Harry. Fine. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

“I don’t want to go back to school,” said Hermione sadly.

“Why, what’s happening at school?” Harry asked.

Ron chuckled. “Nothing, other than an astounding set of rumours that just won’t die. What she means is you’re not there.”

“Oh,” said Harry.

“I know, I know, you have to get better first,” she said. “But we miss you, so don’t take too long, okay?”

“I’ll do my best,” said Harry, giving a weak salute as his heart fluttered at her and Ron’s smiles. “I miss you, too.”

Ron stood up and tweaked one of Hermione’s curls familiarly. “We do have to go, Hermione. Poor bloke hasn’t been to the loo since we got here and he does deserve his dignity, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” Hermione agreed awkwardly as she got to her feet.

Ron leaned over Harry. “Give us a kiss goodbye,” he said casually, as if it was something they always did.

Harry startled and gaped at him. “I – what, really?”

Ron blinked at him. “Well, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but seeing as how you almost died…”

Harry blushed. “No, I want to,” he mumbled. Ron kissed his cheek and Harry returned it, and then it was Hermione’s turn. It was all very chaste. Very appropriate for best friends.

“Goodbye,” Hermione said, her brown eyes welling up again.

“I’ll get better,” Harry said, squeezing her hand. He reached out to Ron, too. “I promise.”

He felt stronger already.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry didn’t want to stay at St. Mungo’s. Everyone kept telling him not to worry about school or Quidditch or tutoring, and he put on a brave face and said he never worried about those kinds of things, but there is something very demoralising about being in hospital and not being allowed to wear your own pyjamas or go to the loo on your own. He had, much against his will, grown a stupid little beard while unconscious.

But he didn’t have a choice, and he bore it with as much grace as he could manage. Once a day, an Apprentice Healer by the name of Augustus Pye came and helped him regain his muscle dexterity with focused exercises (which he called “occupational therapy”) and gentle nerve strengthening spells. Pye, a Muggleborn, specialised in complementary medicine. His mother was a Muggle doctor, and so he and Harry bonded over something they had in common: enduring disgusting medical stories at family dinners.

As Harry regained his strength and his vitals improved, his mother cleared him for more visitors and allowed him to keep his cards and flowers at his bedside (sweets and treats were still absolutely out of the question). So far, she had allowed only family (Sirius and Remus were included in this) and Ron and Hermione. Grandad was a welcome visitor – his optimism and good cheer were like a balm to Harry. And he was necessary to keep Gran in check, who was prone to fussing even at the best of times.

Harry loved Gran very much, but as he got older and wiser, he realised his father had been greatly spoiled by her and Harry wasn’t keen on letting her do the same to him. James had come along when Fleamont and Euphemia Potter were in their early sixties, long after they had given up hope of having a child. During one of their many talks, Harry’s mother had explained that Gran had immediately gone into menopause after giving birth to James. It had truly been their very last chance. She saw James as her miracle child and had treated him accordingly.

“Hormones do horrible things to women, Harry,” his mother had said knowledgeably. At the time, Harry had dryly thought his mother was the golden child of her own family and didn’t have much room to talk, but he’d wisely held his tongue.

There was a day when Sirius came to save Harry from his own facial hair. It made him think of his father, when he had first taught him to shave. It was a little awkward letting someone else shave him, but it was also kind of nice to be cared for in a non-medical way. The hot towel was an especially nice touch.

Feeling vulnerable, Harry asked Sirius if his father knew he was in hospital.

“Yes,” said Sirius. He paused the blade and appraised Harry. “Are you up for this conversation?”

“If he doesn’t want to see me, just say so and get it over with,” Harry said. He knew people never wanted to give bad news when a person was recovering, in case it set them back, but he felt he could trust Sirius and Remus to tell the truth.

“He came by while you were unconscious,” Sirius said as he lifted Harry’s chin and pulled the blade carefully down his throat. “But we thought it best, once you were awake, that you should decide if you want to see him.”

“Who is ‘we?’ ”

“Well, your mother and I.”

“And Remus?”

At that Sirius smirked a little. “He’s so wrapped around your mother’s finger at this point that he’ll go along with anything she says.”

Harry didn’t really like how that phrase sounded, but was too weak to argue. “I don’t know if I want to see him. Dad, I mean.”

“I thought you might feel that way, so I encouraged him to write you a letter so you could decide on your own.”

“Did you tell him what to write?”

“No,” said Sirius. He was finished now, and gently applied a cedar-scented aftershave that made Harry think of Ron. “It’s sealed. I’m here if you want to read it with me, though.”

But it would take Harry another day to decide. Sirius left it on his bedside table, only the corner visible behind a vase of roses and heliotrope from Ron and Hermione. When he was finally ready, he opened it with Sirius at his side.

Dear Harry,

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I haven’t been around. There’s nothing I can say, no excuse that will make things right, but if you can find it in your heart, I would like to see you.

Love,

Dad

Harry handed the letter to Sirius, who turned his back and pretended to read for longer than necessary so Harry could cry without feeling scrutinised. He felt pathetic – James never cried. His mother had tried many a time to reassure him that it was a failing of James and not Harry, but he could not help it. For better or worse, his father was Harry’s foremost example of what men were supposed to do with their feelings.

“I can’t see him,” Harry said in a choked voice. “He’ll make this all about him; I just know it.”

Sirius turned back around and hugged Harry. “Don’t worry about any of that. I’ll tell him, and you just work on getting better.”

“Is there any hope for him, Sirius?” Harry asked, looking up at the ceiling over Sirius’ shoulder.

Sirius thought for some time. As he let go of Harry, he said, “James is the kind of person that has to hit rock bottom before coming back up. This really shook him. He’s talking to me again, and I think he’ll listen so long as it comes from me. I always have hope for him, Harry. That’s just who I am.”

Harry reached out and gripped Sirius’s forearm. Harry didn’t look at him as he said, “You could have stopped coming when he did. But you didn’t. I just want to say… that matters. It matters a lot.”

“I love you, Harry,” Sirius said, and cleared his throat. “For your own sake – not just because you’re his son. Maybe it’s silly for men to say that to each other, but it’s true.”

Harry wiped his eyes, and waited until he could speak again.

“Love you, too.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

All told, Harry stayed a whole month and a week besides at St. Mungo’s. During that time, an alarming amount of Weasleys came to visit him (thankfully not all at once), and even Mr. and Mrs. Granger came once with Hermione.

His school friends mostly came in small groups – few were brave enough to come on their own. Harry understood – no one liked facing mortality and weakness alone. Neville and Ginny were the only ones who would come solo. Brynne and Luna came together, as did the Creevey brothers, and Dean and Seamus. There had been a particularly fun afternoon that left Harry feeling drained but happy when all four of his dormitory mates came, swapping stories and Chocolate frog cards. Harry was still too traumatised to eat any sweets that did not come directly from the hands of Gran or his mother.

Every member of Hogwarts and St. Mungo’s staff had sent Harry a card, and he could not put anything on his bedside table without knocking several of them to the ground. His mother strung them artfully along the rods of his privacy curtains, where they looked like cheerful pennants.

Professor McGonagall came to visit once and reassured him that Hermione had taken on his tutoring duties, something Hermione had not told him. He was incredibly touched, knowing she had done it entirely out of affection for him, and wished she would have told him herself so he might kiss her for it.

The only other professor to visit (aside from Remus) was Headmaster Dumbledore, which was a very strange, but not unpleasant experience for Harry. The man had a palpable presence that left Harry with a measure of awe. He looked like a dignified old gentleman, with his long and brilliantly silver beard and hair and half-moon spectacles, but there was a sense of power in him that Harry had trouble defining. Perhaps it was a holdover from his epic defeat of the incredibly powerful Dark Wizard Grindlewald, who had sought to conquer Europe in the 1930s and 40s. In spite of that, or perhaps because of it, Professor Dumbledore was a very humble man who was more interested in talking about Transfiguration (which he had taught before Professor McGonagall) and knitting patterns. Harry didn’t know why, but he had a strong conviction that in another life, they might have been friends.

While Harry was doing his best to focus on his recovery, he was frustrated with his own body and its unwillingness to heal as fast as he wanted it to. The nerve damage that the botched love potion caused gave him occasional tremors and spasms in his hands and arms, which he found humiliating. His mother reassured him they would eventually go away – he was young, and she and her colleagues were very skilled. He smiled and nodded and agreed with her to her face, but secretly he despaired he might never regain the physical dexterity that he had so taken for granted, especially where Quidditch was involved.

In his absence, Harry had appointed Ron and Ginny as co-captains of the Quidditch team, but Ron was far too focused on Harry to do much more than attend practice. Harry had expected that – Ron’s title had been mostly honorary so as not to hurt his feelings, but he would never, ever admit that Ginny was better suited to captaincy. She now played Seeker and Dean Thomas had replaced her as Chaser.

“We’re not as good without you,” Ron said. “But it’s good we’ve got a reprieve.” Harry had missed the last two matches: Hufflepuff vs. Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff vs. Slytherin. Gryffindor would not play again until May, against Ravenclaw. “We’ve still got a chance at the Cup, Harry.” It was a mark of Ron’s and Harry’s friendship that Ron did not add, “Despite our loss to Slytherin,” out loud.

“Mum might not let me fly for the rest of the year,” said Harry, focused intently on toying with a corner of his blanket.

“Never mind,” said Ron bracingly. “We’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it. You matter more than Quidditch.” For some reason, that made Harry tear up and he looked away.

His mother took most of her breaks with him, where they had tea and talked the way Harry had missed so much.

“I’m sad I didn’t get to see your house,” said Harry one day.

His mum shrugged. “It’s not much. It’s very small, but it will still be there when you’re well enough.”

“Do you think you’ll move there permanently?” Harry asked.

“Probably not,” his mother said. “I like Hogsmeade, but I miss being among Muggles when I’m there. And it’s bloody cold!”

Harry gave her a shrewd look. “We don’t have to pretend with each other. I know it’s because you want to be near Remus.” He also knew, thanks to the Marauder’s Map, that Remus could be found taking secret passages to Hogsmeade on the regular, and his mother could be found taking the same passages into Hogwarts.

She grinned sheepishly. “All right, that’s true. Don’t be too hard on me, Harry. He makes me happy.”

“I wasn’t,” insisted Harry. “I want you to be happy, Mum.”

She beamed at him and patted his cheek. “You’re the best son a mother could ask for.”

“Even with all the trouble I’ve been causing?”

“Pfft,” she said. “I have been privy to many conversations about other people’s teenage sons, and from what I gather, I’ve got it pretty easy.”

“I reckon I’ll just have to try harder,” he teased.

The whole situation spurred some very interesting conversations that he couldn’t wait to relay to Hermione and Ron. Some salacious, some merely interesting. Harry wanted to know why love potions weren’t illegal.

“They are in some countries,” his mother answered. “You know, forward-thinking ones. But I hope you don’t think I just sit idly by and wring my hands – I do go into the Ministry from time to time to air my professional opinion.”

“Do they dismiss you because you’re Muggleborn?”

“Often,” she said, a steely glint in her eye. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up. There were quite a few years where I would just keep my head down and my eyes on what’s in front of me, but you know what? I’m tired of that.”

“And I love you for it,” Harry said admiringly. He knew exactly which years she meant.

“You know,” she said, “I’ve worked here for ages – you’d think I’ve seen everything, and yet at least once a week I encounter or hear about some new way someone has injured themselves or someone else in the pursuit of sexual pleasure. Ingesting potions is only one way to do it.”

“Is there a ward for that?” asked Harry with great interest.

“It happens in every department. Every single one. So often there’s an umbrella term for it: Sexual Misadventure,” she laughed.

“Sounds like a good band name,” he said, making her snort. “You can’t start something like that and not finish,” he said, biting into a buttered crumpet. “Give me examples.”

“All right, I suppose you are sixteen and made of sterner stuff. Keep in mind, though, these are all cautionary tales.” Harry nodded enthusiastically. “People misuse medical potions all the time – there was a warlock who only took vampires as lovers. He used the Blood Replenishing potion so much he developed a dependence on it, even during dry spells. He had an overabundance of blood and we had to drain him in a way that was significantly less fun.”

“Oh dear,” said Harry, his eyes wide.

“And it’s not my department, but all the Healers on the ground floor –” (Artefact Accidents, Harry remembered) “– are full of tales about all the things people will insert into their orifices, claiming they accidentally sat on it. We’re talking vegetables and glass bottles, self-lighting candles and there was even a strange-looking beetle. The Spell Damage wards are crammed with patients who get too confident about enhancing their own anatomy – mostly men who can’t accept the penises they’re born with, but there was a woman who would insist upon sleeping with giants and nearly hollowed herself out to manage it.”

“Oh my god,” said Harry, covering his mouth with his hands.

“Well, you asked, darling. I could go on, but it’s time for you to rest.”

“Nooo,” whinged Harry in disappointment. “But I suppose I don’t want to hear about the first floor.” (Creature-Induced Injuries.)

“Indeed you don’t,” she said, shuddering.

Upon reflection, she said one more thing as she plumped Harry’s pillows and smoothed his blankets. “You know, all this doesn’t mean that using magic to enhance one’s sex life is wrong. As with anything, it just means you need to be careful.”

“Where do normal people whose mothers aren’t Healers learn about that kind of thing?”

“Books, actually,” she said. And because she blushed (which she rarely ever did), Harry didn’t ask any further questions.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

At the end of March, Harry was finally released from St. Mungo’s. His mother took work off to keep an eye on him at their home in Godric’s Hollow. It was Easter break at Hogwarts, and Hermione and Ron had promised to come by for part of it, which he was eagerly looking forward to. He wished they could meet at the lakeside cottage, but his mother was still far too vigilant of his condition to allow him to wander very far. Guide had nearly doubled in size and had not forgotten him as Harry had feared. She liked to sit curled up on his lap when his mother was busy and bring him her little toys so he might play with her.

Harry was very attuned to his mother by now. She was cheerful to his face, but she was too pale, and Harry felt an aura of sadness underneath it all that had nothing to do with him and had not been present while he was in hospital.

After five days of his mother’s insistence that everything was fine and her sole priority was taking care of her son, Harry took matters into his own hands. He sent Hedwig off and within the hour there was a knock upon the front door. Harry listened from his bedroom, aided by an incredible invention of Fred and George called an Extendable Ear.

“What are you doing here?” his mother whispered. “We agreed not to while he’s home.”

“I miss you,” he said in that tone Harry knew was only for her.

“We’re not teenagers, Remus. Harry needs to come first right now.”

“I know, but –”

“I need you to respect me on this.”

“Mum,” Harry called loudly, taking the flesh-coloured string from his ear and winding it back up, “Can you get me a cup of tea when you get one for Remus?”

There was a pause from the sitting room, where Harry smirked to imagine his mother’s face as it slowly dawned on her that her son had set her up. “Oh, that little brat,” he thought he heard her say, and he snorted, very pleased with himself.

Harry gave them a head start to get settled and then went to the kitchen, where his mother was just pouring Harry’s cup. He sat down across from Remus and shared a covert smile. It was almost a repeat of Christmas – the full moon was the night before, and Remus looked tired but joyful in Lily’s presence.

As his mother put his cup down sharply in front of Harry, she gave him a filthy look. “You are an interfering, meddling little shit.”

“And you are a stubborn witch who has been putting everyone else first for far too long,” he said. “D’you think it makes me feel good to see you lonely?”

“I’m not lonely,” she said defensively, crossing her arms as she leaned against the kitchen counter.

Harry scoffed. “You’re a terrible liar. I don’t know why you think you have to banish Remus from the house. I’m not going to wither and die if he’s here.”

Remus was drinking his tea very quietly with an innocent expression Harry thought he must have learned from Sirius. His mother glanced furtively at him before she said, “You don’t understand. You’re not a parent – your children have to come first. That’s what we agreed on.”

“Mum, be reasonable. Remus isn’t some random bloke you found in a ditch who thinks I need to be put in my place.”

“Not usually,” Remus couldn’t help saying.

“Fair,” Harry grinned. But when he looked at his mum, she looked about to cry. “Mum. Talk to me.”

She glanced at Remus again, as if she felt she shouldn’t say anything in front of him. But she saw Harry’s determined face and sighed. “Darling, for so long you looked after me. You’re still doing it. It’s not supposed to be that way. I was in a dark place and it was my responsibility to find help or lean on other adults, but instead I let you cheer me up and stand between me and your dad. I can’t take back all those years, but I’ll be damned if I go back to them. You – you should have been free to be a child!” She wiped her eyes angrily.

Harry was quiet. He knew something about holding on to guilt for things you couldn’t control or take back. “You are not alone anymore,” he said into the silence. “If you need help, and adults to lean on… well, you’ve got one.” He looked at Remus, who swallowed. “Don’t just let him come around when I’m not here, or only when things are going well.”

Remus and his mother shared a very long look that contained many unspoken words. “I am going to take my tea in my room,” he said to his mother sternly. “When I come back out, I expect Remus to still be here and you to have relaxed a bit.”

“You’re so bossy,” she grumbled.

“Don’t make me do it again,” he warned, standing and taking his lukewarm cup with him.

 

After that, Remus was there every day (and Harry suspected a few nights, but he was not eager to prove it). Harry spent his time building up his strength with short walks and eating enough protein for his mother to make dinosaur noises whenever he grabbed a snack. He cuddled and played with Guide, read, wrote letters, and counted down the days until Ron and Hermione would visit. He was disappointed that they could not come at the same time, but his new mantra was that he would take what he could get.

The morning Ron was to come, Harry was a bit of a nervous wreck. They had not seen each other since Harry was in hospital and the dreaded beard had started to creep back. Now Harry was clean-shaven, his hair cut to a respectable length, and he was wearing actual clothes.

He waited at the sitting room window. Ron would come on the Knight Bus. Their house had been disconnected from the Floo network – Harry suspected but never confirmed that it was on the advice of his father, who always had a surge of conscientiousness for security whenever he worked a difficult case or read The Daily Prophet for too long.

Harry saw Ron coming up the street and threw the door open just as he reached the front gate. Ron’s face lit up in a way that Harry had never seen before, that took his breath away and made his heart race. Ron hugged him tightly and kissed his cheek, which made Harry’s knees wobble in an embarrassing way. “Smooth,” Ron said, laughing and ruffling Harry’s hair. “You look good, mate.”

“I am among the living again and must therefore look it,” Harry said, unable to stop grinning.

“Hello, Ron,” Harry’s mother said warmly as they went inside. “Tea after your harrowing journey?”

“Please,” said Ron. “Always exciting, the Knight Bus.”

As Ron regaled Harry and his mum with a hyperbolic tale of his journey, Harry was very aware of how good Ron looked. There was something about the way he wore his clothes – was it how they fit over his chest and shoulders? The ease in which he rolled up his sleeves, baring his freckled forearms? Or was it because Harry had memories of how quickly he could pull them off before they went swimming in the lake?

Get a grip, Harry told himself, though part of him was very proud that his libido was back after being ill for so long. That had to be a good sign, didn’t it?

They spent the day mostly talking and walking a little in the fresh air. Now that they were alone, without his mother or Hermione there to overhear, Harry wanted to know more about the day he’d been poisoned.

“Well, I told you the gist of it,” Ron said. “What more do you want?”

“I don’t remember it very well. I mean… did I – did Hermione see…” He didn’t know how to ask what he meant and gestured feebly.

“Ah,” Ron said. “Well, she was holding it together very well, all things considered. At the time we were more worried about you making a prat of yourself – well, no, that was just me. I think Hermione knew something was really wrong.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“Saw the note – showed it to Hermione. Good thing I did. Anyway, we kind of got there the same time as your mum and things were a right mess. You were… well…” Ron cleared his throat.

“Just tell me. I have to know.”

“All right – you had your tongue down her throat and your hands were all over her tits.”

Harry covered his face with his hands and Ron patted his shoulder sympathetically.

“Your mum screamed at her to get her hands off you or something like that – can’t remember exactly, and Romilda ran off, and as she was telling us you might not even recognise us and we’d have to restrain you, you fell. I caught you and you were burning up. There were these nasty red streaks all over your skin and your mum started shouting to hold you still. Before I could blink, she cast this spell that made you go into some kind of stasis so the poison would stop circulating, but later she said it was really dangerous and they only do that when it’s life or death, because if you’re in that state for too long, your organs start to die off without oxygen. She Apparated you straight to St. Mungo’s and then Hermione and I were all alone.

“We didn’t really know what to do, but Hedwig was circling overhead and so Hermione sent a letter to the Headmaster. He came with Professor McGonagall and they spoke to us in a private room at the Three Broomsticks. He asked us to show him the note and the chocolate, so we went back to the castle and did that. And then we had to wait until someone could tell us something about how you were.”

“Wow,” Harry said. “Kind of an exciting day for you.”

Ron chuckled. “That’s one way of putting it.” His tone was light, but when Ron briefly squeezed Harry’s hand, Harry could feel him shaking.

Harry was lost in thought for a while as they walked across a field. Vaguely he realised they were on the path to the Potter Estate, as if they were always subconsciously thinking of the lake. “Was Hermione upset with me?”

“What? Why would she be upset with you?”

“I dunno,” Harry mumbled. “I think I might have pushed her or something.”

“A fate from which she’ll never recover,” said Ron solemnly. “Come off it. She knows you weren’t yourself. I actually had to take her wand to stop her from throwing a curse at Romilda. I think she really would have hurt her. Like, in a way you can’t come back from.”

“Mum never seemed very worried,” Harry said uncertainly. “I mean, yeah, I felt like death warmed over and she’s been really strict about everything, but she never acted like she was going to lose me. So I thought it couldn’t have been quite that bad.”

“She’s a pro, Harry – it’s her job to make everyone feel like they’re going to pull through. And she’s incredible – it was like watching an avenging angel, the way she knew just what to do and saved your life like that. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve got a little schoolboy’s crush on her.”

Ron was the only person Harry would ever let get away with a joke like that, and he shoved him playfully. “She’s taken. Big bloke, super jealous. Runs with a gang and has prison tattoos all over his face. Unbelievably hairy.”

Ron laughed. “I’ll bet he’s the only one she let see how worried she was.”

“I hope so,” Harry said, remembering what she had said about finding other adults to lean on.

“Is it still weird? Them being together?”

“Not really,” Harry said. “I mean, she’s making it weirder than it has to be.” Harry told Ron what had happened the other day when he invited Remus over and told off his mum for keeping him at arm’s length.

Ron thought it was terribly funny. “I can’t imagine telling off my mum. No way! She knows best about absolutely everything and the only one that can argue with her is Dad, but he has to go and hide until she gets it all out of her system first.”

“They’re cute,” Harry said fondly.

“Ugh, don’t be disgusting,” Ron said. “They’re so old.”

“Well, with any luck, we will be too, someday.”

Ron put his arm around Harry. “I’ve been lucky since the day I met you,” he said.

 

Harry’s mother put a mattress on the floor of Harry’s bedroom for Ron and made it up with her wand. “Thanks, Lily,” Ron said. “I’ll be very cozy.”

“It’s weird that she wants my friends to call her by name,” grumbled Harry as he doused the lamps and got into bed. “I can’t even think about doing the same with your folks or Hermione’s.”

“Well, she is a bit younger than the lot,” Ron said fairly. “And she’s just cool.”

They lay quietly in the dark for a while. Harry lay on his back with his hands behind his head on the pillow, his knees pulled up. He wasn’t ready to go to sleep just yet. There were still more things he wanted to ask Ron. Things they just… hadn’t really talked about. Things that were easier to talk about in the dark.

“What really happened with you and Lavender?” Harry asked.

Ron was quiet, and for a moment Harry thought he wouldn’t answer. “I realised I wasn’t being fair to her,” he said. “I didn’t care about her the way you’re supposed to care about a girlfriend.”

“You don’t mean to say you didn’t actually like her?”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I did like her. I reckon I still do – she’s funny and she’s cute, but what we had was all… physical. When she started talking about visiting me in the summer and meeting each other’s folks and my older brothers, I sort of froze up. I couldn’t picture it. I let it go on longer than I should have.”

His voice went very small. “It was a shite thing I did to kiss not just one but two people before I broke it off with her.” Harry said nothing. He could not bear it if Ron told him that moment under the mistletoe meant nothing to him. He knew it wasn’t fair to Lavender, but the memory of Ron’s and Hermione’s kisses helped get Harry through the loneliness of his convalescence.

Against his will, Harry thought of his father. It’s not the same, Harry told himself vehemently. Dad was married – he had been married for twelve years and had a kid. It wasn’t a stupid little kiss – he slept with her. Harry had not once asked who she was. It was the one thing he was certain he never wanted to know.

“What does that mean for your next relationship?” Harry asked in what he hoped was an offhand way.

“It means if I want to be casual, I’ll say so up front. Honesty’s the best policy, and all that.”

“Sensible,” Harry said lightly.

 

Sometime in the night, Harry woke to Ron pushing him. “ ‘M awake,” Harry said vaguely.

“No, you’re not,” said Ron. “Budge over. Your mum’s a great Healer, but that mattress she conjured is filled with concrete.” Harry rolled to the far side of the bed and was asleep again in seconds. He wouldn’t remember the exchange at all. Ron would wake up before him and slip out, leaving Harry none the wiser.

When Harry’s mother gently peeked in the next morning to see if they were awake and wanted breakfast, she was surprised to find her son curled on his side, his best friend spooning him with one arm wrapped around him almost lovingly. They were sound asleep, their chests rising and falling peacefully in sync. Slowly, she closed the door and went about her business.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry didn’t know why, but even after Ron left, he felt peaceful and happy. Perhaps it was the anticipation of Hermione coming next. He noticed his mother watched him more carefully than was warranted, and it felt very different than her medical assessments. He had no idea what that was about and shrugged it off. He had things to do.

“Stop that,” his mother told him when she caught him conjuring flowers and putting them in vases. “Wand.” She held out her hand expectantly. “Now.”

“Do you want me to become an Obscurial?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “That’s not how it happens and you know it.”

“I’ll lose all my magic if I can’t use it, Mum.”

“You go all summer without it,” she said as he reluctantly handed his wand over.

“Or do I?” he muttered when her back was turned.

“I heard that.”

“Or did you?”

She used her wand to throw a daffodil at him. “Why do you want to decorate the house so badly, anyway?”

“No reason,” Harry said. “I just like a bit of colour.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Dad,

I’m back home. I don’t know if I want to see you. You really fucked up when

Thanks for writing. Maybe you can come by and we can

You should have tried harder. If my son got poisoned you can sure as hell bet nothing could

Why are you so

You cheated on Mum, so what makes you think we’d ever

 

Dear James,

I formally invite you to kindly go fuck yourself.

Your former son,

Harry Evans

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

When Hermione came, she was pink-cheeked from the brisk air and had cherry blossom petals caught in her curls. The sun gilded the top of her head, making it appear as if she had a halo. “Ah, the dew-rich flowers of gold Persephone!” his mother exclaimed, catching sight of her through the front window.

“Shh,” Harry said. “Don’t embarrass me.” He opened the door as she huffed, offended.

“Harry!” said Hermione. She gently cupped his face between her hands before pulling him down into a hug, as if checking to make sure he was real. Harry kissed her temple.

“The trees just love you this time of year,” Harry said, delicately picking petals out of her hair as they pulled away from each other.

“You have no idea,” she said, shaking out her curls. A pink cascade fluttered down out of them, as if she truly was the goddess of spring. Harry swallowed nervously.

He felt his mother’s eyes on him and turned his head just enough to squint pointedly at her through the glass. She startled, caught.

“Welcome,” she said, rallying as Harry ushered Hermione into the sitting room. She held Guide in her arms and waved her little paw.

“Thank you,” Hermione said. She crinkled her nose at the kitten, her eyes sparkling.

“Can you hold this for me while I make tea?” said Harry’s mother, dumping Guide into Hermione’s arms.

“Delighted,” breathed Hermione. “She’s such a sweet little thing!”

“Be warned – sometimes she lets her inner tiger out. So does Harry, come to think of it.”

“Mum,” he admonished as Hermione giggled. He lowered his voice and said, “She’s lying. I don’t bite.”

“Too bad,” said Hermione, looking up at him through her lashes.

“None of that,” Harry said as his whole lower body clenched, but he secretly hoped she never stopped. “I am in recovery.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to come back to Hogwarts?” she asked as they followed his mum into the kitchen.

“Yes,” he said, as his mum said, “We’ll see.” Harry scowled at her. She smiled sweetly at him as she took her tea to her office.

Hermione had an agenda for her visit. She was very eager to help him catch up with school and transition back into normal life whenever his mother cleared him to go back to Hogwarts.

“This is what I’ve been working on with Brynn, Oran, and Kelsey,” said Hermione, showing him her tutoring notes. “Lachlan and Morag didn’t want to continue until you’re back.”

“What rude little blighters,” Harry said comfortably.

“Honestly, I’m not fussed,” Hermione said. “I just wish I had your patience.”

Harry touched her hand. “It means a lot to me that you took them on,” he said. “You didn’t have to.”

“Well, don’t thank me yet – I may have set them back a few years and made a bigger mess than I helped for all you know.”

“Doubtful,” he said. “Anyway, I don’t think Brynn really needs me anymore now that she’s so adept at nonverbal spells and alternative incantations.”

“She just likes you,” Hermione said shrewdly.

“Ah, if that were true, she wouldn’t still go now that I’m out of commission.”

Hermione glared at him. “I’m likeable enough.”

“I know,” Harry said. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

She shrugged. “We connected a little over us both being Muggleborn. She told me her parents never took her to a speech and language therapist, even though she asked.”

“What’s that?” Harry asked.

“They are a sort of… well, they’re not doctors or healers, but they help people with speech issues. Stammers, that kind of thing.”

“Can Muggles cure it, then?”

“Well, maybe not completely,” she said. “I knew a girl in primary school who went to therapy and her stammer got loads better. There’s all sorts of support for Muggle children in schools with learning disabilities.”

“Ah,” Harry said. The phrase was unfamiliar to him and sounded sort of clinical.

“I just think it’s a shame that the wizarding world doesn’t have anything like that,” Hermione was saying. “If it can’t be cured by a potion or a spell, you’re just expected to suffer.”

“I wouldn’t say Brynn suffers,” Harry said, not sure why he felt so defensive.

“No, of course not,” Hermione said, looking mortified. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Harry thought about Healer Pye and his occupational therapy exercises. “It’s changing, I think,” he said. “Mostly because Muggleborns, like your brilliant self, are bringing their knowledge and ideas into their fields.”

“Well, that’s hopeful.”

She brought out her Transfiguration notes, but Harry shook his head. “Mum confiscated my wand,” he said.

“That’s the nice thing about having seventeen-year-old friends,” she said, smiling in a way that was decidedly naughty.

It was a reminder that Harry had missed Ron’s seventeenth birthday. He felt especially guilty about it. Before Romilda had poisoned him, Harry had had plans to collaborate with Hermione to make him something special just like he and Ron had done for Hermione’s birthday. Not necessarily a watch, but he did rather like the idea of them all having matching ones.

“What did you get Ron for his seventeenth?” Harry asked.

“He and I were in agreement that we would wait until you were ready before celebrating.”

“Really?” Harry said, not sure if the thought made him feel guilty or happy.

“Of course, Harry,” she said, chuckling. “We’re kind of a package deal.”

“Well, in that case…” he said, and they put their heads together to come up with a present for Ron. They were still working on it when Harry’s mum came back to start dinner.

“Don’t tease,” Harry said as she leaned over to peer at their sketches. “There are no artists at this table.”

“There are now,” she said, sitting down and folding her hands demurely.

“Really?” said Hermione.

“Shall I show you my portfolio?”

“Yes, please!” said Hermione as Harry said pointedly, “I’m hungry.”

“That’s right – I forgot to mention – Healer Evans cleared you to start cooking again,” she said, raising her wand. “Accio sketchbook!”

A battered leather book zoomed into the room. Harry’s father had given it to her many years ago. As she opened it, he caught a glimpse of the handwritten inscription he knew said, “for Lily, with all my love.” Harry had seen the drawings inside many times, but she had not used it since before Harry started Hogwarts. He could see dust on the top edges of the pages.

“Wait, Mum,” he said, suddenly remembering as he rummaged in the icebox. “Don’t show her that before we eat – it’ll put her off her food.”

“Harry!” Hermione admonished, as if he were being deliberately unkind.

“You’ll see,” he said darkly, taking stock of dinner options.

“Ohh,” Hermione said weakly as his mother turned a page. When Harry looked over, she was an interesting shade of green.

“Is it the entrail expulsion or the suppurated penis?” Harry asked. Hermione shook her head, not wanting to answer.

“Sorry,” his mother said, shuffling the pages forward to something more appropriate, but she looked wickedly amused.

“I tried to tell you,” said Harry, shutting the icebox. “Right. We’re getting takeaway. There’s not much in the village, but there’s pizza and a Chinese place that does just about anything.”

“Ooh, that’s right – they have those spicy Szechuan king prawns!” his mother said eagerly. 

“I’m not that hungry,” Hermione said weakly. “And definitely not for prawns.” She shuddered. “I think I have just eliminated a potential career.”

“I am sorry my mother showed you her drawing of diseased genitalia,” Harry said, as though he were the long-suffering parent of a poorly behaved toddler. “You’d think she’d know better at her age.”

“You’re very talented,” said Hermione to Harry’s mother. “It may as well have been a photograph. I’ll just have some very bland white rice, if you don’t mind.”

“All right, get your coat then,” said Harry.

“Oh, I thought –”

“We don’t have a phone,” Harry’s mother said. “So we have to order in person.”

“It’s a short walk,” Harry said. “And the fresh air will do you good.” She was no longer green, but she was very pale.

As Hermione went to get her coat where it was hanging by the front door, Harry rounded on his mother. “What did you have to show her that for?” he hissed.

“I forgot it was in there,” she laughed. “Don’t be so prudish.”

“I’m used to all your disgusting paraphernalia and stories and shite, but could you at least try and restrain yourself when she’s here?”

“All right,” she said, raising her hands and narrowing her eyes. “Just remember how it feels the next time you decide to test my patience. And get me those spicy prawns, please – there’s money in my desk.”

When he’d gotten it and ushered Hermione out the front door, his mother held him back. “Harry,” she said, looking contrite, “I am sorry. Some ginger ale should set her right if the clear air doesn’t.”

Once Harry and Hermione reached the front gate, Harry said, “I’m sorry about that.”

“I don’t mind that much,” she said, and took his hand comfortably as they walked. “It was just shocking – I was expecting something less graphic, like nature studies or still lifes.”

“I mean, she does those, too – or at least, she used to. She just draws whatever she thinks is interesting. And I reckon you have to find gross things interesting to be a healer.”

“If you’re bored then you’re boring, I suppose.”

“Well, let’s forget about it,” Harry said. “I don’t know how we’re going to work on Ron’s present when I don’t have a wand.”

“I have a wand,” she said. “I don’t mind if you use it.”

Harry suppressed a shiver. It was a deeply personal thing to use another’s wand. Not all wands would accept a second master, even temporarily. The relationship between the two people would have to be very close indeed.

“Hm,” he said, attempting levity by stroking his chin theatrically, “but isn’t that irresponsible of a prefect? To encourage law-breaking?”

“Perhaps,” she said sweetly. “But I don’t think you’d like me very much if I was a perfect saint.”

“And is me liking you so important?” he grinned.

“Very,” she said, giving him a look that made his hand tremble in her grasp.

 

On their way back, laden with plastic bags full of polystyrene containers, Hermione said, “It’s too bad you don’t have a telephone. You could talk to me every day.”

Harry hadn’t considered that. He didn’t think he’d ever used one before, though he knew the general idea.  “I was under the impression you have to have electricity first.”

“Among other things, that’s true. How do you talk to your Muggle grandparents, anyway?” she asked.

“Letters.”

“By owl?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “We do know how to use Muggle post, Hermione – we’re not all cavemen grunting and bashing each other over the head with clubs.”

“It just doesn’t seem very convenient,” she said.

“Only if you’re used to doing it differently.”

“Fair enough.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“I’m fine now,” she said. “Like I said, it was just the shock.”

They went around the cottage to enter through the kitchen door. “Ahh, ambrosia,” Harry’s mother said as they entered, bringing in the rich, savoury scents of spiced pork, prawns, and vegetables. “My thanks to Hebe and Ganymede.”

“Have you been reading Greek poetry or something, Mum?” asked Harry.

For some reason she blushed as she answered, “Maybe.”

Harry stared at her. “I don’t want to know,” he finally said.

 

Despite their considerable wealth, their family cottage was rather small. On the ground floor were the kitchen, sitting room, a bathroom, and Harry’s bedroom. They didn’t have a formal dining room or second sitting room. Upstairs was the main bedroom, another bathroom, and a second bedroom which used to be Harry’s nursery. Once he’d grown enough, he’d moved into the larger bedroom downstairs and his nursery was converted into an office that his parents used to share, but gradually became Lily’s as James spent more of his time in the Ministry’s Auror office than at home.

When Hermione stayed overnight, she always slept on the pull-out couch in the upstairs office. As Harry said goodnight to her at the bottom of the stairs that evening, he felt a slight pang of loss. He wished they could stay up late talking in his room and fall asleep together.

He knew his mother wouldn’t actually mind if they did (though she might raise her eyebrows), but he was not about to suggest it to Hermione. Whatever simmered between them felt fragile – he did not want to ruin their friendship by going too far.

That did not mean he let go of his fantasies or tried to suppress them. He imagined all the things he could do to her in his bed with the door closed. He wanted to be slow with her – build the tension until it snapped. Slowly walk his fingers from her ankle to her knee, seek the heat between her thighs. Feel her wetness on his fingers, sink them inside her. Tease her until she was gasping and moving against his hand. Spread her thighs, give her a knowing look as her eyes turned dark with desire, to watch her expression as he finally learned how she tasted, what she looked like in her most intimate of places.

For the two nights Hermione stayed, he would lie awake, thinking such things until he was sure everyone was asleep, and then he would grip himself beneath the sheets and succumb to pleasure. But it was not only her he thought of. Visions of Ron would come, sometimes undressing Hermione as Harry watched, sometimes touching himself in a mirror image of Harry. He knew what Ron looked like naked, from all the accidental and surreptitious glances that came with living and bathing in such close proximity. Harry knew he was freckled all over and loved it.

He had never seen Ron erect. He wanted to touch him, feel the glide of his flesh under his hand and learn what would make his knees buckle, what made him bite his lips and shiver. Harry wanted to know what he tasted like; what it felt like to have his best friend come under the ministrations of his tongue.

When Harry would bring himself to a peak, after the waves of oblivion overtook him and he slowly came back to his senses, he would feel – loss. Ache. Hopelessness, feeling that it would never come to pass. Being so weak and fragile after his poisoning had sapped much of his confidence.

Even though his strength was coming back, Harry was still trying to find his courage.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

At breakfast on Hermione’s last morning, Harry dropped his cup of coffee and it spilled all over the table. His hand had started spasming and he could not hold it. “Sorry,” he said, looking away from Hermione with his face flaming. He tried to play it off as mere clumsiness, hiding his hand under the table, but his mother wasn’t having it.

“Show me,” she said in a voice that brooked no arguments.

But his arm would not obey him. His forearm and hand tensed and relaxed outside of his control. His mother gently probed the crook of his elbow and the inside of his wrist with her fingers as his arm jolted all over the place. She cast gentle, cool charms that reduced the jerking to a mere tremor. “Have you been doing your exercises?” she asked him in the way that said she already knew the answer and was only asking to give him the opportunity to be truthful.

“No,” he mumbled, glancing furtively at Hermione. She was focused on siphoning up the spilled coffee and keeping Guide out of the puddle on the floor.

Harry’s mum looked at him seriously. “This is going to keep happening unless you keep them up. I’ve been trusting you to do this on your own, because I know you’re a responsible boy, but if you won’t, I will have to keep a closer eye on you. Do you want to go back to school?”

“Yes,” Harry said, hanging his head.

“Good. Then you know what to do.”

Harry didn’t mean to sulk, especially on the last day of Hermione’s visit, but he felt emasculated and weak, worried that she would think less of him. He had been lucky that he’d never had an attack in front of her until now, and all his embarrassing bodily issues in hospital were kept discreetly from her notice.

“Shall we go outside?” she asked, noticing his black mood. “A little sunshine always helps me when I’m feeling low.” She smiled encouragingly at him.

He nodded without returning the smile.

The magnolia tree in the back garden was blooming and they sat on the bench underneath it, where the branches hung low and partially obscured them from view. The sweet, citrusy fragrance was all around them, indeterminable from Hermione’s perfume. It made him feel as if he were wrapped fully in her embrace.

Hermione leaned her head on his shoulder. “Talk to me, Harry.”

He wanted to put his arm around her, but he didn’t trust it would not betray him again. Instead, he leaned his head against hers, so her hair tickled his cheek. “I hate this,” he said after a moment of silence. “All of it. This… loss of control. I had no control over myself, not even my own thoughts under that love potion, and even now it keeps taking control of me. How am I supposed to do magic properly if it just comes on like this with no warning? What if – what if it’s forever?”

“I doubt it will be… you heard your mother about the exercises. But even if it was, Harry – I’m not going anywhere, and neither is Ron. I mean, if that’s something you were worried about.”

“Maybe,” he said lowly.

She entwined their fingers and Harry closed his eyes. Her hands were so often warm and he loved how small they looked when wrapped in his large ones. Like he was protecting her.

“If it was me or Ron that had been poisoned, would you stop coming around? Would you stop caring about us for things we can’t control?”

“Never,” Harry said fervently. His hand twitched in her grasp.

“Then can you accept that we feel the same about you?”

He nodded against her hair. They sat that way for some time, Harry feeling stronger by the minute as she toyed with his hand, tickling his palm as she lightly ran her delicate fingers along it.

“Come on,” she said giving herself a little shake. “Let’s see about your magic, then.” She took out her wand and handed it to him. He rolled it between his palms, getting a feel for it. It felt friendly and… determined? As if it were eager to prove its mistress’ will that he should use it.

Feeling self-conscious at the intent way Hermione watched him, he conjured rings of coloured smoke with it. As he gained confidence, he levitated fallen magnolia petals and directed them with fluid movements, making them swirl around them like water.

Hermione’s eyes grew dark as she stared at him. There was something incredibly intimate about using her wand, and a pulse of heat shimmered into existence between them. It was as though he caressed a piece of her soul as he channelled his magic through it. Harry’s eyes were drawn to her mouth as she bit her lips.

Very slowly, so she could stop him if she wanted, he guided a single magnolia petal along her jawline, then down her throat, and ghosted it across her collarbones.

“Harry,” she said, shivering. Whether it was a plea or a warning, he couldn’t tell.

“Shall I stop?” he asked, letting it rest in the V of her neckline, where a tantalising flush was spreading across her skin.

“I –”

“What are you two doing out there?” came Harry’s mother’s voice. She sounded cross.

“Nothing,” Harry said, shoving Hermione’s wand back at her. The petal fell into her shirt. “Just talking.”

“Well, I’m sorry to break things up, but it’s time to go. Hermione, your parents will be expecting you home soon.”

“Right,” Hermione said breathlessly. She had not taken her eyes off Harry once.

Chapter 9: Palsy Potter

Notes:

All your beautiful comments have kept this story alive. From the depths of my heart, thank you <3

Once the holiday was over, his mother allowed Harry to go back to Hogwarts with the caveat that he had to keep doing his exercises, he had to always be with another person (which made Hermione very nostalgic about Girl Guides, for some reason), and under no circumstances was he allowed to eat anything that did not come from the kitchens or fly on his broom. “Or anyone else’s,” his mother said sternly, “in case you were thinking about loopholes. Follow the spirit of the law, Harry, or you’re coming right back here.”

Harry was not at all happy about two of those conditions. The idea of having a minder made Harry feel small and childish. He deeply valued his independence and though he greatly appreciated everything everyone had done for him, he chafed against the fact that he needed so much help. The no-flying rule made Harry want to break things, but his mother had all the authority of St. Mungo’s behind her, and he had to take what he could get.

Get a grip, he thought, giving himself a little shake and a pep talk. At least I’ll see Hermione and Ron every day now. And he would have things to occupy his brain again. He liked to read, but he was not Hermione and could not do it all day every day.

Harry was confused at all the attention and well-wishes he got on his first day back, even from students he didn’t know the names of and had never interacted with. Hermione shared a look with Ron. “You still think yourself unpopular, do you?” she said dryly.

“What does anyone care about some bloke who was stupid enough to eat poisoned sweets and still gets the shakes sometimes?”

Brynn overheard them as she passed by in the corridors on the way to her next class. “At least your sh-sh-sh-sh-shakes are temporary,” she said, giving him a very pointed stare.

“Thanks, Brynn,” he said comfortably, “I love how you put things in perspective and don’t make anyone feel like they’ve put their foot in their mouth.”

“And how does your foot taste, Harry?”

“Manky,” he said, chastened. She smiled sweetly at him as she scurried away. Hermione watched her go.

“No, Hermione, I do not like her like that,” Harry said, interpreting the furrow between her eyes.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she said, offended.

“No, you were going to stew about it and make dastardly plans.”

“Hmph,” she said.

“What would it matter if Harry did like her, anyway?” said Ron fairly. “He’s a free man.”

Harry wondered just how comfortable he and Hermione had gotten in his absence.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Dad,

I’m back at school. Mum won’t let me fly so I’ll bet you

Why didn’t you try writing again after

I still don’t want to see you because

Sirius is a better dad than you. You should be the one trying

I’m trying to let go of what you

 

Dad,

I wish you hadn’t messed up. I’m glad you wrote, but I’m still angry. Don’t give up. Just do better.

Love,

Harry

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry had missed over a month of special Apparition lessons, which both his mother and Madam Pomfrey agreed he should take next year once his spasms were fully gone. Ron and Hermione were already halfway to their licensing exams. Harry watched them go off to lessons once a week, his heart full of jealousy. Not of their closeness – Harry accepted wholeheartedly that if he wanted to be with them both, they should want each other as well. What he hated was that he was not there with them, learning how to disappear and reappear at will.

While Ron was at Quidditch practice, Harry was feeling sulky in the library. Once a day, Hermione brought her class notes from the last month and helped him catch up on all the lessons he’d missed. He caught on quickly and was feeling less and less like he was doomed to fail.

“It’s a good thing you’re so brilliant,” she said, which was the highest of compliments coming from her, but Harry was not in good enough spirits to accept it. He desperately wanted to fly again. There wasn’t a window with a view to the Quidditch pitch in the library.

Hermione understood. “I’m sorry. I know all this is frustrating to you,” she said gently.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

“Oh, don’t do that,” she said, snapping Advanced Defensive Charms shut. “Just because I’m not into Quidditch the same way you and Ron are doesn’t mean I can’t understand what it’s like to lose something important to you.”

“I’ll bet I’m well and truly useless to my dad now,” he said peevishly.

Hermione went still. “Do you really believe that?”

“I dunno,” he mumbled. “Not like he’s here to tell me otherwise.”

“He’s not,” Hermione said, “But I am.” She sounded on the edge of impatience. She was a very kind and understanding witch, but she did have her limits when it came to self-pity. Being sad was one thing. Deliberately seeking out things to whinge about was another.

“Sorry,” Harry grunted. “I’m being an ungrateful berk, aren’t I?”

“It’s a good thing you’re so pretty,” Hermione said, making him laugh.

“Well, if I’m pretty, then you’re beautiful,” he said, reaching out to touch her face familiarly. His hand looked very large cupping her cheek, and it didn’t tremor. It made him feel strong and manly, and he needed to feel that way now more than ever.

She melted into his palm. “I have missed you so much, Harry.”

He smiled. “Has Ron not been paying you enough compliments when I’m not around?”

Hermione flinched back, looking guarded. “He does.”

Harry immediately missed her warmth. He flexed his hand. “Hermione,” he said softly. He wasn’t exactly sure what to say. He didn’t know how to express that it didn’t matter to him if she was just as affectionate with Ron; he just didn’t want her to stop.

“Well,” she said in a falsely cheerful voice. “Shall we crack on?”

“Right,” Harry said uncertainly.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

At the end of the first week back, Harry, Hermione, and Ron used Harry’s Map and Cloak to sneak out of Gryffindor Tower after midnight on a clear Saturday. Ostensibly, it was to stargaze up on the Astronomy Tower, but in reality, Harry and Hermione had finally finished Ron’s present and were ready to give it to him.

It had taken absolutely no effort to convince Ron – he was always up for an adventure. Harry brought firewhisky that he’d smuggled in a cologne bottle, Ron brought a variety pack of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes cigarettes, and Hermione brought a disapproving scowl.

Harry conjured a nest of blankets and cushions as Ron cast warming charms on them and levitated candles. Hermione placed strong locking and silencing charms on the tower door. She checked the Map nervously, looking for Mrs. Norris or Filch. Satisfied no one was coming, she conjured three glasses and sloshed a thimble of whisky into each.

Harry picked a cigarette at random and lit it with one of the candles. He lay flat on his back, enjoying the curious fizzy sensation as he inhaled. He blew out a stream of peach flavoured smoke, admiring the way it glimmered and complemented the twinkle of the stars. “Missed this,” he said.

“I didn’t,” said Hermione crossly as Ron lit up.

Harry grinned. “Drink more and it won’t bother you so much. No, I mean being here with you two. It’s like we brought a little bit of summer with us.”

“Yeah,” said Ron. He clinked his glass against Hermione’s. “I can’t wait to be at the lake again.”

Harry turned his head to look at Hermione. She was already looking at him, and they shared a smile as Harry nodded.

“We can go back there sooner than you think,” she said, her dark eyes shining in the candlelight.

Ron looked at them curiously. “Happy birthday,” Hermione said as Harry put the little wrapped package into Ron’s hand.

“Now, please don’t judge us,” said Harry as Ron opened it up to reveal what appeared to be a gold-rimmed monocle on a matching chain. “We’re very good at spells, but we don’t have your flair for artistry.”

“I’m sure I’ll look very dapper,” Ron said, smiling.

“It’s not really for style,” said Hermione. “Look through it.”

As Ron peered into the little eyeglass, Hermione gave Harry’s hand a quick squeeze of anticipation.

“Hey!” said Ron in delight, grinning at the moving image he saw. “How did you do this?”

“It’s sort of like a very limited Pensieve,” she said. “We put our favourite memories together in the glass for you. You can take them out and add your own, though – it doesn’t hold very much.”

“Thanks!” said Ron brightly. “I love it.” He beckoned them both closer and kissed each of their cheeks. His lips were warm from the whisky. Harry lingered just a little against Ron’s jaw with a kiss of his own. Hermione watched with an unreadable expression.

“You can wear it on your pocket watch, like a fob,” Harry said as Ron looked through it again. “It has an unbreakable charm on it, so you can take it with you to boring events and have something to amuse you.”

“I’d say you should patent it and make a ton of money, but I like having something unique.”

“Very prestigious,” agreed Hermione as Ron lay down next to Harry and balanced the glass over his eye as he took a drag. He exhaled and Harry turned his head so he could watch the light of the smoke dance across the lines of Ron’s jaw and neck.

“I nicked a deception detector from Remus,” said Harry as Hermione nestled into the blanket on the other side of Ron. “Let’s play Truths.”

“Absolutely,” said Ron as Hermione sputtered in indignation. “Oh, hush, Hermione. He didn’t really nick it – he’ll give it back. What rules are we playing?”

Harry thought about it as he levitated a small silver and glass pyramid over their heads and prodded it with the tip of his wand. If it detected deliberate concealment of truth, it would glow blue.

The rules of Truths were fairly simple. They would take turns asking questions that everyone must answer truthfully. Questions had to be open-ended, and only the asker was exempt from answering. Over the years, Hogwarts students adapted the game to keep it interesting by adding rule subsets. One of the most common was to play by different Founder’s rules – a penalty or point system based on the values of each House.

“Hm, I don’t know. What do you think, Hermione?”

“Oh, well…” Harry grinned at her tone. She was torn between disapproval of Harry’s casual disregard for other people’s things and the desire to play a game that rewarded nosiness. “Rowena’s rules,” Hermione decided. Liars would have one chance to either amend their answer or correctly answer a trivia question. A second lie or an incorrect answer would lose a point. There would be no positive points – in general, Ravenclaws didn’t believe in rewards for doing the bare minimum.

Harry waved his wand and all the candles went out. Truths was a game best played in the dark. Now the only light came from the stars and the waxing crescent moon. He shivered in the cold night air.

Ron pulled a blanket over Harry and tucked him in, making him chuckle. “We gotta keep you warm, mate. You won’t heal if you’re cold all the time.”

Wryly, Hermione said, “If you’re so concerned about his recovery, Healer Weasley, why are you letting him smoke?”

Ron squirmed just a little. “Erm, everything in moderation? But you’re absolutely right.” Harry felt the tips of Ron’s fingers on his lips, and a split second later, Ron twitched Harry’s cigarette out of his mouth and ground it out on the stone wall.

It was Harry’s turn to squirm. It had been a blatantly disrespectful move and had given him an almost instantaneous erection. He did not understand it at all, only that he loved it and it made him want to misbehave all the more. “Jesus Christ,” he said before he could stop himself. He angled himself so the tent he pitched would not be immediately obvious should someone become too observant. “Just for that, I get to ask first.”

Hermione giggled at his choice of swear. “Shh,” Ron said, and she squealed.

“No tickling,” she wheezed. “It’s not fair!”

“Are we playing or not?” asked Harry.

“Go on, then,” said Ron. “Ask away. I am an open book.”

Harry thought for a second. “What was the worst way a spell ever backfired on you?”

“Tried to curse Fred with Mum’s wand when I was seven. It flew out of my hand and got lost in the garden.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” said Hermione reasonably.

“Well, it wasn’t the spell so much as the bollocking I got for it,” he laughed. “It took days to find it – a gnome had gone underground with it and it got lodged when Dad tried to summon it.”

“I have never had a spell backfire,” said Hermione proudly.

Harry watched the deception detector intently. “Are you sure there’s no tickling allowed?” asked Ron as the device remained decisively dark.

“Definitely,” said Hermione. “The potential for poor aim is too high.”

“That’s exactly the point,” said Harry, grinning. “Your go, Hermione.”

“How often do you eat things you’ve dropped on the floor?” asked Hermione.

“Only when the floor is clean,” said Harry.

“Only when it’s food,” said Ron. “My turn.”

They went through questions that ranged from tame to disgusting, rolling in the blankets as they laughed at each other’s answers and the ridiculousness of the whole thing. Hermione was at a distinct disadvantage – Ron and Harry knew most of each other’s most humiliating moments and habits simply by sharing a dormitory for six years.

“What’s the most embarrassed you’ve ever been?” asked Harry.

“Got caught bad-mouthing another girl in Guides,” said Hermione. The detector immediately turned blue as Ron and Harry laughed and teased. “Amend or trivia?” Harry demanded.

“Trivia, of course,” came her answer.

“All right, let me consult with my associate.” Harry and Ron whispered together for a moment to come up with a good enough question to stump her. Harry suppressed a shiver as Ron cupped his hand around Harry’s ear to whisper directly into it.

“What years did Ralston Potter serve on the Wizengamot?” Harry asked smugly, certain he had her.

“1612-1652,” she said primly. “He was a supporter of the Statute of Secrecy as opposed to declaring war upon Muggles.”

“Well?” asked Ron as Harry gaped. “Is she right?”

“Erm, I don’t know, actually,” said Harry, making Ron laugh. “We’ll say yes, since she’s always right.”

“Oh, not always,” she said with a grin in her voice. “Anyway, Ron, you have to answer the question about the most embarrassed you’ve been.”

“Has to be the time my mum confronted me about my… er, dirty socks, not knowing the Lovegoods had stopped by.”

“What’s so humiliating about dirty socks?” Hermione asked as Harry chortled.

Harry and Ron laughed for a long time against each other before they could answer. “You tell her,” said Ron.

Glad it was dark, Harry said, “Until boys learn vanishing spells, socks are the most convenient way to contain a wank.”

“Oh my god,” said Hermione, dissolving into uncontrollable and contagious giggles that made Harry want to kiss her.

After that, the night took a marked turn as they asked questions that were more and more suggestive. Soon it was no longer a game as the rules of taking turns fell by the wayside – now it was merely a tantalising conversation.

Ron wanted to know the last time any of them had walked in on someone else having sex. Harry had only ever overheard his parents a long time ago, Hermione had once walked in on her parents when they were watching a film and she was supposed to be in bed. Ron said he saw Percy and his girlfriend Penelope when Percy still lived at the Burrow.

“Why’d you shudder?” asked Harry. “Was it something kinky and depraved?”

“No,” said Ron crossly. “It was the most vanilla thing ever. No imagination at all.”

“My Mum has horror stories from St. Mungo’s – I think I’m okay with boring,” said Harry.

Hermione lit her wand to check the Marauder’s Map again. Harry watched her face turn scarlet in its light as he asked, “When was the last time you wanked?” She immediately doused her wand.

Ron said unblushingly, “This morning in the shower.” He then rolled towards Hermione expectantly as Harry propped himself up on his elbow so he could peer over Ron at Hermione’s silhouette.

“About three hours ago,” she said, her voice sounding as though she had put her hands over her face.

Ron and Harry cheered uproariously, making her sputter and dive under her blanket. “Don’t be embarrassed,” grinned Harry. “It’s good advice to rub one out before a date.”

“Is that what this is?” Ron asked.

“Nobody answer!” squealed Hermione as the boys laughed.

“All right, you two,” she went on, becoming stern. “Someone has to be responsible here. It’s after three and time to go to bed.”

“Excellent,” said Ron. “There’s room for you in mine.”

“Oi!” said Harry as Hermione sputtered.

“I meant you, too!” Ron laughed. Harry resisted the urge to fan himself as a wave of heat rose upwards from his collar.

“Enough, enough!” squealed Hermione. “Filch is in his room and Mrs. Norris is headed for the dungeons. Let’s vanish all the evidence and get out of here!”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

April passed, during which Harry happily resumed his tutoring job. The transition had been mostly seamless thanks to Hermione’s work in his absence and all her help catching up with his classes.

Umbridge was not the substitute teacher for Defence Against the Dark Arts during the full moon that month. The sixth-year Gryffindors were overseen by Harry and Ron’s former Divination teacher, Professor Trelawny, who looked distinctly out of place in her gauzy shawls, bangles, and spectacles that magnified her eyes to ten times their size. She constantly shuffled a pack of ordinary playing cards like a nervous tic while going on in ominous tones about forewarning being the best defence against all the horrors life had to offer.

Harry had to continually choke back laughter at all the exasperated looks Hermione kept throwing at him and Ron. He desperately wanted to lean in and whisper, “You wanna get out of here?” and run off with them to secret stairwells.

An article in the Daily Prophet explained the change in faculty – Dolores Umbridge had been arrested under suspicion of poisoning Sanctum’s charity benefit over the summer. There was a photograph of Harry’s father leading her away, her fluffy cardigan-clad arms bound behind her. She looked tearfully defiant. “I am only sorry that I was caught,” she seemed to say. She would go to Azkaban while she awaited trial.

Hermione propped her chin on Harry’s shoulder to read the article as Ron held her hand. The two boys remembered what Hermione had said over the summer about how news of crimes against Muggleborns made her feel.

Instead of chucking the paper after it had made its rounds, Harry kept it. It would flit in and out of his conscious thoughts during odd times. He was not sure how he felt about the reminder that his father, despite all the things he had done in his personal life, was still a skilled Auror who had done much good in his profession. James had been heading the case the whole time.

But while that simmered in the back of Harry’s mind, there were other things to keep at the forefront. He still had healing to do – he was not yet tremor-free. He felt self-conscious about doing his strengthening exercises, so he only did them when he and Ron were the only ones in the dormitory. Ron always stopped what he was doing to watch and, if needed, assist. He had great interest in the why and how behind it.

“I don’t really know,” said Harry, flexing both hands open as far as he could, then slowly closing them into fists. “You’d have to ask Healer Pye, or my mum.”

“I just might,” Ron said, as if surprised by his own curiosity.

Harry noticed Ron had been making much more of an effort in Potions and Herbology classes. He caught Ron reading through his mother’s old Potions book more than once, his brow furrowed in thought. And in Charms class, he stayed behind to ask tiny Professor Flitwick questions. Charms was Ron’s only Outstanding OWL grade. Harry knew he was talented and very intelligent, but Ron was not as academically inclined as him and Hermione. Or at least, he hadn’t been up until now.

“I think Ron might want to be a healer,” Harry said to Remus when they had tea one afternoon. The full moon was coming up, and Harry knew he often felt melancholy during this time.

“Do you think he’d be good at it?” Remus asked, smiling.

Harry thought about it. “He’d have to work on his bedside manner, but yeah, I do.” The thought made him feel warm and proud. Ron had previously shown more of an interest in lucrative career options such as business or banking, likely a holdover from having little money his whole life, but healing paid very well.

Remus said, “Your mother said he asked a lot of questions. Mostly about you and what your recovery would look like, but he also seemed interested in her day-to-day duties and how departments collaborate with each other.”

Harry had a vision of Ron in lime green healer’s robes, examining a patient and smiling in a reassuring way. It made his heart feel all melty and wobbly. He didn’t think Ron would be put off by his mother’s medical drawings. In fact, he could almost see him light up over them.

I want that for him, Harry thought passionately. I want him to be happy and fulfilled.

He took a drink of tea to hide his face, sure that all the things he felt would be written as boldly as a neon advertisement across his features.

“How is Mum?” Harry asked.

“Very well,” said Remus, all of his feelings evident in his soft expression. “She would like to see you on the next Hogsmeade weekend. And Ron and Hermione. She’s very fond of them.”

“They’re fond of her, too,” Harry said. “They’ve quite worshipped her ever since I was poisoned.”

“Understandable,” Remus replied, smiling widely. “She’s… well, I don’t know if there are words for what she is. Incredible, for one thing, but even that seems small…” he trailed off as he saw Harry’s smirk. Remus cleared his throat and gave himself a little shake, remembering who he was talking to. “Sorry,” he said gruffly.

“Don’t be,” Harry said. “It’s good to know that if something happens to me, there’s someone who’ll take care of her. And I know she’ll say she doesn’t need taking care of, or that I shouldn’t, but… well, you get what I mean.”

Remus nodded. “I’ll never need to be told how lucky I am. It feels, for the first time ever, like there was a reason I was cursed. I don’t know if we would have ever… without the Wolfsbane potion…”

Harry looked at him shrewdly. “I know there wasn’t anything going on before Dad and her split. But it sounds like you’ve been in love with her for ages.”

Remus sighed. “I think you know something about how it feels to have someone accept you exactly as you are, without judgement. I couldn’t help it.”

“I know,” Harry said quietly, thinking of Hermione and Ron. He thought about how they had come to his house after Scout had died and he’d fallen into a deep depression that he couldn’t pull himself out of. How they had put their arms around him, and it had made him feel whole again.

I think I’ve been in love with them ever since that day, Harry thought, even if I didn’t know what it was.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Dad,

I’m not ready to see you yet. I’m still angry at how badly you

I saw the article in the Prophet. Well done, but don’t think it changes

Did you take that case just because it put you closer to Mum?

 

Dear Dad,

I miss what we used to have. If you hadn’t fucked up so badly, we’d have all sorts of things to talk about. Like that Sanctum case. Maybe you would have asked me questions about what Umbridge was like in the classroom, and I could have gone on record to say how bigoted she was. We could play Quidditch or just fly around and I could feel like a normal son.

But if you hadn’t fucked up, Remus and Mum would have never gotten together. Even if you’d never had an affair, or managed to work it through despite that, I don’t think you’re the kind of person she needs. She and Remus are right for each other. He doesn’t shut her out and she sees him for who he is.

I wish I knew where I stood with you. I don’t think I should have to ask – you’re the adult. All the same, I wish I could talk to you.

Love,

Harry

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

In May, Harry resumed Slug Club suppers. The only improvement upon them was that Ginny started coming – she had impressed Slughorn enough in Quidditch and an incident in the corridors where he witnessed her perform an incredibly powerful Bat Bogey hex against Draco Malfoy, for… well, nobody really cared why. She stayed on as captain and Harry said she could borrow his Firebolt for the final Gryffindor match against Ravenclaw.

“Don’t be a prat,” Harry said sternly to Ron as he got that familiar envious gleam in his eye. “Keepers do not need speed, they need stability, which your Cleansweep provides. You can support your sister for once.”

“Don’t pretend you know anything about siblings,” Ron huffed. “Do you have a thing for her or something?”

“Other than the fact that she – erm, never mind.” Harry looked away so Ron would not see his face. He had been dangerously close to saying, “she looks like you.”

“Can I at least fly it after practices?”

“ ‘Course you can,” said Harry with a winning smile.

Slytherin flattened Hufflepuff, but Brynn wasn’t as downtrodden as Harry might have expected. They talked about the match after their next tutoring session. Hermione was there, acting as Harry’s minder for the evening while Ron was at yet another Quidditch practice. “We don’t usually like g-g-g-g-games that have winners and losers,” she said. “We like to work together so everyone wins.”

“You’d all make excellent Girl Guides,” Hermione approved.

Brynn shrugged. “I wouldn’t even say it properly. C-c-c-c-can you imagine me trying to tell each one of my five aunts what we did in G-G-G-G-G – oh, forget it.”

“Do Hufflepuffs not make exceptions for Quidditch and Triwizard tournaments?” Harry asked.

“Okay, fine, you g-g-g-g-got me. I resent sports and activities I c-c-c-c-can’t say. Don’t g-g-g-g-get me started on those nasty marbles.”

“Nasty marbles?” said Harry in confusion.

“Gobstones,” said Hermione.

Harry laughed. “To be fair, nobody likes Gobstones.”

As Harry and Hermione made their way to the Quidditch pitch to watch the last bit of practice, Harry asked, “Do you miss being in Guides?”

“Yes,” she said wistfully. “I didn’t want to quit, but obviously most witches and wizards find it silly, doing things the hard way when you have a wand. And of course, everyone thinks I’m a swot.”

“You are,” said Harry, taking her hand, “but you’re our swot.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry kept telling himself he’d talk to Ron and Hermione eventually, but as is the nature with such things, the longer he put it off, the harder it got. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement between him and Hermione that casual affection and flirting was fine, but it would go no further. He wasn’t sure why and mostly found himself frustrated and having to ease his pressure gauge in the shower.

Lavender, Harry was relieved to note, had moved on and seemed cheerful. Hermione reported Lavender had a new boyfriend, but wouldn’t tell who it was. Harry had no idea how Ron felt about it, if he cared at all, but Harry was not about to poke that dragon.

Ron was so often tired to the point that Harry considered having his mother examine him. When asked, Ron insisted he was fine, just having trouble sleeping sometimes.

One night, Harry awoke to a sort of rustling and whispering. Pleasant little sounds, so quiet he wasn’t sure how they’d woken him up. He sat up, suddenly parched.

But as he got out of bed to go for the water jug, both arms started spasming.

Great, Harry thought.

The tiny noises stopped. Harry couldn’t even reach for his glasses. There was nothing for it. He would have to go to the hospital wing and have Madam Pomfrey sort him out.

“Ron,” he whispered, looking down at the rug and hating that he had to ask for help. “You awake?”

There was a low murmur and a flurry of sudden movement, and then Ron was there. “Lumos,” Ron said, and his wand flared. He immediately saw what Harry’s issue was.

“They won’t stop,” Harry muttered. “And I’m thirsty.”

“Go back to sleep,” Ron said sharply when Seamus and Dean poked their heads out of their curtains to see what was the matter. Neville was still snoring.

Ron poured some water and helped him drink, gently cupping the base of Harry’s skull as he titled his head back. “Sorry,” Harry said, unable to look at him as the water slopped a little from all his twitching.

“No worries,” Ron said, siphoning the spill with his wand. He seemed awfully alert for having just been woken up. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to sleep and was just reading or something.

He gently put Harry’s glasses on for him and kept a large, warm hand between his shoulder blades as they walked through the castle to the hospital wing. Humiliated though he was, Harry felt a surge of gratitude for Ron’s comforting presence.

They didn’t encounter anyone save for Filch’s cat, Mrs. Norris. “Hospital wing,” Ron directed at her scathingly, “if that’s allowed.” She watched them go, but made no effort to find the irascible caretaker.

“Have you been doing your exercises?” Madam Pomfrey asked him matter-of-factly as she performed a nerve calming spell.

“Every day,” said Harry anxiously. “Why am I not getting better?”

“You are getting better,” Ron insisted.

“Healing can be a matter of two steps forward, one step backward,” Madam Pomfrey agreed. “Especially with an intricate thing like nerves.”

Harry felt a surge of anger at Romilda. And at himself, for being so careless after Ginny had warned him.

“Can you teach me that spell?” Ron asked Madam Pomfrey.

“I’m afraid not,” she said. “You’d need the full understanding of what it does and why, when to use it and when not to, which you won’t have without undergoing years of study under an established healer.”

“Oh,” said Ron, looking mildly disappointed.

Once Harry’s tremors subsided and Madam Pomfrey ushered them out, Harry hugged Ron on impulse. Ron returned it. “Thanks,” Harry said as Ron held him in his strong, freckled arms.

Ron kissed Harry’s temple, making Harry’s heart race. “Anytime.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione visited Harry’s mum in Hogsmeade. Her rented house was small, about the size of the lakeside cottage, but without the porch and sweeping view, although a little of the mountains could be seen from the upstairs windows. She said on clear days she could hear the bells of Hogwarts chiming the hour.

Harry’s mum served them freshly made ginger biscuits and tea. “Very domestic,” Harry approved as he picked up Guide and rubbed his face in her fur. He had noticed there was a second toothbrush in the bathroom and an expensive-looking shaving kit in a leather case with “RL” engraved on the outside. He imagined if he snooped any further he might find a pair of men’s pyjamas in the wardrobe.

“How are you darling?” his mother asked, kissing the top of his head as he, Ron, and Hermione sat at the rickety kitchen table. There was barely enough room for the tea service on it.

“I’m fine,” Harry said. He held Guide like a baby and she purred and rubbed her head under his chin.

“Is he?” Harry’s mother directed at Ron and Hermione.

“I help him with his exercises every day,” said Ron dutifully.

“He’s never alone,” said Hermione.

“Ginny has his firebolt,” said Ron, trying not to scowl.

“And I only eat food from the kitchens,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. He gave Guide a little kiss on her nose.

“Excellent,” his mother said brightly. “Well done.”

Harry’s mum’s house was on the far opposite side of the village from the infamous bridge. Harry wondered if the bridge had been a popular spot during her Hogwarts days. Perhaps she and his father had…

Well, it was best not to dwell on that.

There was not much time left in school – the next weekend would be the final match between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw and would decide the Quidditch Cup, and then it would be a few short weeks between final exams and the Leaving Feast.

And then summer at the lake, which filled him with equal measures of anticipation and anxiety. He set it as a final deadline. For better or worse, they would have that conversation before school ended. If things went poorly, Harry would have a whole summer to recover from heartbreak.

It was a pleasant visit with his mother, though she did insist upon a formal examination with diagnostic spells. Before she began, she flicked her glance at Ron and Hermione, then back at Harry with her eyebrows raised. “So long as I don’t have to undress, they can stay,” he said.

“Wouldn’t be anything I haven’t seen before,” said Ron comfortably. Harry thought he saw his mother’s eye twitch and Hermione’s brow furrow. He supposed a statement like that could be taken a few ways.

Ron watched Harry’s mother light her wand to test Harry’s pupil dilation. Harry asked pointed questions for Ron’s benefit, though Harry already knew many of the answers by merit of being a healer’s son.

The front door opened as his mother listened to his heart, and Remus stepped in. “Oh,” he said, stopping short. “I forgot it was a Hogsmeade weekend.”

“Well, shut the door behind you, will you? It’s chilly,” his mother said, then muttered, “It’s always chilly.”

Remus went awkwardly to an armchair in the corner of the sitting room, where he unrolled an edition of the Daily Prophet and disappeared behind it.

Harry’s mother went on with his examination, ignoring Harry’s raised eyebrows and smirk. Harry was deeply amused that Remus hadn’t knocked. She had Harry flex his arms and hands, and he asked, “Why did the love potion poison me? You said it was because Romilda’d made it badly, but could you tell what she’d done wrong?”

“Well, she admitted what she had done when she was investigated, and they brought the chocolates to me, but yes, there are ways I can tell what she did before any of that. Infusion of Infatuation is supposed to give you a sort of daydreaming, puppy love. It’s not supposed to stimulate sexual arousal. In fact, the ingredients are supposed to suppress erections in men.”

Harry saw Hermione blush deeply and turn her head away as his mother went on. “She tried to subvert all that by adding aphrodisiacs and vasodilators, but she didn’t have the skill or knowledge to do so properly.”

“I hate her,” exclaimed Hermione. “Expulsion was too good for her – she should be imprisoned.”

“Have you ever been to Azkaban, Hermione?” Remus asked curiously, lowering the paper. “Or encountered a dementor?”

“No,” she said defiantly. “But I've read about them. She – she almost killed Harry – surely if anyone deserves it…”

“Regardless, the Ministry draws the line at sending anyone under seventeen to Azkaban,” Remus said. “We’ll cover the more powerful Dark creatures in seventh year, and perhaps you’ll understand –”

“You don’t mean to say you advocate mercy for someone like her!” said Hermione hotly.

“Easy,” Harry’s mother said. She was done examining Harry. “What she did was horrible and she deserves to answer for what she’s done. And she’s lucky that it’s going to be decided by someone that isn’t close to the situation, otherwise I would have thrown her in a cell myself.”

Remus said, “Justice is impartiality and the belief that everyone deserves a fair trial.”

“Hmph,” said Hermione, crossing her arms. Harry’s mother smiled at her in an understanding way.

All that aside, it was a pleasant visit. But at the end, Harry’s mum asked if she could talk to him alone. “All right,” he said cautiously.

She beckoned him into the second bedroom upstairs, which was set up similarly to her office at their cottage in Godric’s Hollow. She wasted no time. “I know we’ve talked at length about how to be safe, but I realise that we’ve only ever talked about sex between men and women. We’ve never talked about it between men –”

“Hang on, Mum,” interrupted Harry. “Why now?”

His question threw her. “Well, I thought – I mean, wouldn’t you want to know –?”

“I just don’t see how it’s relevant,” he said, but he couldn’t help the blush that rose up his neck. What did she suspect?

She appraised him for a moment. “All right, don’t talk to me,” she said coolly, “but I’m sending you with a book. If you don’t need it, someone in your dormitory might.”

“Mum,” he said, hoping this conversation wasn’t audible through the door, “What are you on about?”

“Just. Take it,” she said. “And write to me with questions.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Dear Harry,

I am glad to hear how well you are doing. I’m proud of how you’ve managed to keep in good spirits and make the best of a horrible situation.

I’m keeping busy, of course. I went to Diagon Alley to check on my business investments, and by that I mean the grand opening of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. It’s a good thing Fred and George weren’t around in our day or none of us ever would have passed our NEWTs!

I want to let you know that your father has been writing to you, but has left the letters in my care for if and when you are ready to read them. I will keep them until you ask for them.

Love,

Sirius

P.S. I’ve left a bottle of whisky in the secret passage behind the old crone’s hump. Use it wisely. If your mum finds out, I will deny everything.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Ginny insisted that Harry look over her Quidditch strategies that week. Her usually sleek hair now mirrored her frazzled state of mind. Harry patted her shoulder as reassuringly as he could. The stress of her upcoming OWLs was nothing compared to this last match. Professional Quidditch scouts would be watching.

“You’ve got to come back next year,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “I don’t care about being captain – I just want to be Chaser again. Whatever you three get up to in the summer? Make sure Quidditch features in those plans!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry said meekly.

Gryffindor won against Ravenclaw and the combined points over the whole year won them the Quidditch Cup by a slim margin. Ginny had caught the Snitch while Gryffindor was a hundred points up and put them just barely ahead of Slytherin overall. Harry lost his head and jumped up and down with the crowd, shouting with joy and pride and wishing with all his might he could be down there with his team as a sobbing Professor McGonagall presented them with the Quidditch Cup.

Harry lifted Hermione up in a hug that was so enthusiastic their cheeks smushed together. Ron turned just then to look at them, and they waved and beamed at each other like idiots.  

When Harry went down to congratulate the team, Ginny caught him just outside the changing rooms. For the moment, they were alone, and she pushed Harry against the wall and kissed him full on the mouth. “That’s for making me captain,” she said. “Don’t take it too seriously, because I’m hung up on someone else.” And she left while Harry tried to figure that one out.

There was a massive party in the common room immediately after, where everyone wanted to extoll the virtues of each team member. Ron was basking in the glow of admiration – his goalkeeping and agility had been especially good from all the extra practices. There had been a moment where he had flipped upside down to block a goal and Harry just knew he was going to dream about it for months. He couldn’t stop smiling – the way Ron held himself, his shoulders held back with pride and confidence, grinning easily at the compliments and making jokes, made Harry’s heart swell until it felt it would burst with all the love he felt for him.

And every time Harry looked over at Hermione, he would see the same expression on her face. Their eyes would meet, and they’d share a look that said, “He’s ours, and isn’t he wonderful?” Hermione did not have to care about Quidditch to appreciate Ron’s success, and Harry loved her all the more for it. This is it. It’s time, Harry thought. Once and for all. Now or never.

He beckoned them both to come close, and he leaned in and murmured, “You wanna get out of here?” It was very late, long after curfew, but when had that ever stopped them?

They slipped out with the help of the Marauder’s Map and Harry’s Invisibility Cloak. He and Hermione led Ron to a secret stairwell that was excellent for escaping events and having secret picnics, where a bottle of Padfoot’s Wildfire Whisky waited for them.

“What have you two turned me into?” sighed Hermione, holding out her glass as Harry sloshed a generous amount into it.

“Someone who is fun to be around,” said Ron, kissing the top of her head.

“And I think we can all agree that Grandad is to thank for this glorious transformation,” Harry said, playfully fluffing her curls.

“To Grandad,” chuckled Ron as he and Harry leered good-naturedly at Hermione. “The absolute legend.” Hermione blushed and beamed at them both, looking pleased with herself.

“Ginny says we have to practice over the summer,” Harry said as they arranged themselves on the stairs so they could sit close enough to touch while still having full view of each other. The risers were low and wide, which made them awkward to climb but not terrible to sit on.

“Yeah, she threatened me, too,” Ron grinned.

“Will your mum let you fly by then?” asked Hermione. Harry watched her throat work as she swallowed a mouthful of whisky.

“Merlin, I hope so,” said Harry. “It’s been terrible, having to watch and not be part of it.”

“We missed you, too, Harry,” said Ron. “Don’t tell her I said so, because if you do I’ll deny it, but my sister’s a good captain. She’s not you, but if it had to be anyone, she was a good choice.”

“To Gryffindor,” grinned Harry and they clinked glasses. Ginny’s kiss, as enthusiastic as it had been, could not hold a candle to the ones he had shared with his best mate and his best friend. The ghost of those three kisses seemed to have followed them to this stairwell, and Harry found his eyes drawn to each of their mouths far more than strictly necessary.

Hermione cleared her throat. “I want to say something.” When Ron and Harry looked at her, she looked impassioned and determined. “These four years… ever since we’ve been friends – they’ve been the best of my life.

“I used to be one of those girls that cried every night. Every night. I was so lonely. You remember what I was like, then. As excited as I was to finally understand what I was, and that there was a place for me, nothing was as I expected. I didn’t have any friends before Hogwarts, at least no one I was close to, and I didn’t have any here, either. I didn’t understand what I was doing wrong – my mother and father had always taught me to ‘just be myself,’ so I was. But it wasn’t good enough, and… well, as I said, every night I would cry myself to sleep.”

“When did you finally stop?” Harry asked her.

She took a deep breath. “The night a troll attacked me, and two boys came to my rescue.” Her voice became very small as she went on. “I hope you can forgive me for being a little possessive. I didn’t want to go back to crying in the dark.”

“A little possessive?” snorted Ron. Harry kicked his ankle and frowned at him. It had taken guts to say all that.

Harry took Hermione’s hand and pressed it gently. “If you do find yourself in that state again, you’ll come find us, won’t you? I’ll cry with you, if that’s what you need.”

“Harry, you’re so sweet,” she said softly. “Stop, or I’ll cry right now.”

“Listen,” Harry said, feeling like the moment had finally arrived. He licked his lips. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you both –”

But he didn’t get the chance. Ron interrupted him to say, “I just think you two should know… I’ve been seeing someone.”

“Oh,” said Hermione. There was a long pause. “Who is she?” she asked hesitantly.

Harry let go of her hand. He felt suddenly numb, as if he couldn’t hold on to anything. He couldn’t speak at all.

Ron cleared his throat. “He, actually. Seamus.”

Harry’s heart dropped down to his feet. He was horrified to feel his eyes prick and a lump rise in his throat. The only thing he was glad for was that it was dim in the stairwell, and neither of them noticed what this news had done to him.

It devastated Harry. All those little noises in the dormitory after everyone else was asleep, how tired Ron had been… it now made perfect sense. Ron had been sharing beds with Seamus. Why not my bed? Harry thought, anguished. If he’s into men, why not me? Why Seamus?

He wiped his eyes under his glasses. He didn’t understand…

Ron was still talking, but Harry could not hear what he was saying for the rush of blood in his ears. He could not bear it. He could not stay for one more second. Wordlessly, he stood up and left. Hermione was now saying something and neither of them seemed to notice him leave. He didn’t know where he was going, he didn’t know where he could go to escape this.

He had been so foolish to hope. To believe that he could have them both.

Harry wandered the castle aimlessly, not at all caring if he got caught being out long after curfew with whisky on his breath. What did it matter? There was nothing that could be taken away that he hadn’t already lost. He didn’t notice an ominous shadow overhead until it was too late.

“Why, looky what we have here! It’s Palsy Potter!” came Peeves’ voice.

“Go away,” Harry said dispassionately.

“Oooh, what a mood!” the poltergeist said in a gleeful, singsong voice. He swooped down to float in front of Harry. “Shall Peevesie guess what’s made Potter go Potty?”

Harry shrugged and kept walking. His neck grew hot as Peeves continued to taunt him.

“I know! Potty’s got the bug. The luuuuuurve bug!”

Harry stopped short and flexed his neck.

“Thought so!” gloated Peeves. “Potty’s in a tragic triangle! Doomed!” His delighted cackled made all of Harry’s hair stand on end.

“Go away,” said Harry again, deathly still.

But Peeves continued to whoop and spin in circles with joy. He owed his very existence to the emotional turmoil of teenagers – it was no wonder he’d found Harry so easily. Harry reached for his wand, but it wasn’t there. In his state, he’d left everything back at the stairwell – his wand, his Invisibility Cloak, the Marauder’s Map.

He looked up at Peeves, his vision tunnelling as a hot wave of rage began to rise inside him as the poltergeist sang:

Oh, when loves brings a tingle, who’s bound to stay single?

Paaaaaal-sy Potter!

Greedy and needy, his heart’s always bleedy:

It’s Paaaaaal-sy Potter!

Granger means danger and Weasley’s a teasley –”

“GO AWAY!” roared Harry as a powerful gale swept down the corridor, extinguishing the braziers and ripping portraits off the walls as their inhabitants squealed in terror. There was a deep grinding and rumbling like the noise of a freight train as the stones of the wall shuddered against each other. Peeves was hurled away, cursing and screaming in shock and anger.

Harry closed his eyes as the storm continued to rage around him. It had been years since he’d done accidental magic, and it had never overtaken him quite this way. He didn’t know how to stop it.

“Harry! Harry!” His eyes snapped open. What was Sirius doing here? His godfather stood at the end of the corridor, his wand drawn and his arm over his eyes as he braced himself against the winds that still emanated from Harry. His long dark hair whipped around him.

“Finite Incantatem!” shouted another voice. Remus.

The winds died, the rumbling stopped, and Harry was left drained, on the verge of collapse. Sirius raced forward and caught him, holding him tightly and murmuring soothing words as if Harry was a small child.

“I’ve got you – it’s all right,” he was saying as Harry screwed up his face against Sirius’ shoulder.

“Come on then – my office,” Remus said. “It’s just around the corner.”

Sirius led Harry along, one hand strong and comforting between his shoulder blades, the other wrapped around his forearm, where he could feel a tremor begin. Palsy Potter, Harry thought miserably.

“Tea,” muttered Remus as they entered his office, as if reading off a list of instructions to himself.

Sirius guided Harry to sit down at the little table while Remus busied himself with the tea service. Harry remembered the last time the three of them had sat at this table, where they had discussed his father after he’d come to the Quidditch match in December. There was a fourth chair now, as if they had saved a place for the memory of James.

They said nothing, waiting for Harry to decide if he wanted to speak, be comforted, or just sit. He gripped his spasming forearm with his opposite hand, willing it to be still.

“I guess you heard Peeves,” said Harry hesitantly. Sirius and Remus flicked their gaze to each other before slowly nodding.

“I can’t help it,” Harry said, hanging his head. “I’m… I’m in love with them both. If someone forced me to choose between them, I just couldn’t. And I don’t think… I don’t think they’ll ever feel the same. It’s just not normal,” he choked out.

Remus tapped the teapot with his wand and it immediately began to gush steam. He poured three cups of tea while Harry went on. “I can’t talk to Mum. I don’t know that she’d understand. I don’t know that you’d understand, but I don’t know what else to do.”

Briefly, Sirius gripped his hand. Remus passed Harry his cup.

“I think this might be your field of expertise, Sirius,” Remus said gently.

“You don’t have to go,” said Harry quickly. If there was anyone who knew what it was like to be something entirely beyond your control, it was Remus. “Please don’t go.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Remus said softly. Harry nodded and let out a shaky breath.

“Tell us what happened,” said Sirius, and Harry explained as best he could. How he had been just on the verge of telling them how he felt, how long it had taken for him to bolster his courage.  

“I don’t know why it makes me feel like this,” Harry said, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I didn’t feel this way when he was with Lavender, or when Hermione was with Krum… The closest I felt to it was when Hermione decided to go to the Christmas party with McLaggen. And I know I’m not blameless, but I really wanted…” He couldn’t go on.

 “It sounds like you had a whole scenario built up in your head, and suffered a great disappointment when it couldn’t play out,” said Sirius. “How long have you felt this way about them?”

“Oh, ages,” said Harry. “Though I don’t think I knew just how strongly until right before… right before I was poisoned. Slughorn’s class, the – the Amortentia, I…”

“Ah,” said Remus and Sirius in unison.

“You don’t even have to drink it for it to tell you a lot about yourself,” Remus said wisely.

Harry wondered if Slughorn had introduced it when they had been at school. Had it showed Remus he was in love with Lily even back then? Or had all that come later, with the Wolfsbane potion as Remus had said? Had his mother… what would it have been like for her? Did the potion change over time? Would Amortentia have smelled like James and Remus both, or only one? Perhaps neither?

“Harry,” said Sirius. “I know I seem a terminal bachelor, but I’ve had my share of falling in love and heartbreak. Too much, maybe.”

“Are you going to tell me you were in love with my mum, too? Or… or even my dad?” Harry did not look at him.

“No,” Sirius said quietly, and Harry believed him. “Our relationship was never like that. We were brothers. More so than I am with my flesh-and-blood brother, Regulus. And anything I might have felt for Lily as a boy – well, it was hard not to, you know. She’s a talented and beautiful witch. But it was a schoolboy’s crush that she never returned, and I don’t have any regrets or lingering feelings.

“But none of that’s important. What I was going to say is that I’ve been around. It might not be a common thing to love more than one person, but it’s not abnormal. Or impossible, even, to have a relationship.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Harry despondently. “It’s never going to happen.”

“Harry,” Remus said. “You’re sixteen. I know it might feel like your life is over, but it just isn’t.”

Sirius nodded, clapping Harry’s shoulder. “Be patient. Anything could happen. You don’t know if this relationship he’s in will last. There will be other opportunities to tell him how you feel.”

“Until Hermione finds someone,” Harry said, despairing at the thought.

“Is a relationship with her out of the question?” Sirius asked.

“I thought you might say that. Why should I want both when there’s one available? You don’t understand.”

While Harry moodily folded his arms on the table and rested his chin on top, Remus and Sirius seemed to have a wordless conversation composed entirely of raised eyebrows, chin jerks, and head nods.

“Here is what I think,” Sirius finally said, putting a soothing hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You have had a great shock and disappointment. Everything feels hopeless because it’s fresh. I think you should finish your tea and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow is Sunday. Take some time to take care of yourself – have a good breakfast, maybe a long, hot bath. Don’t make any decisions while you’re feeling like this.”

“I don’t want to go back to the dormitory,” Harry said. “Not when… Ron and Seamus…” He couldn’t bear to think about it.

“Well, you don’t have to go just yet,” said Remus. “Have another cup, maybe a calming draught.”

“No,” said Harry, his heart rate spiking. “No potions.”

“Right. Sorry,” said Remus, wincing.

Harry stared at the empty chair across from him. He hated that he imagined his father in it. Would he think that Harry’s feelings were like cheating? Would that make him approve or would he be hypocritical about it?

He buried his face in his arms. He tried to think of his mother’s reaction, but that made him feel even worse. She would feel like Harry was a duplicitous little maggot. How could she not, when James had betrayed her so badly? But what does it matter? he thought. It’s never going to happen.

“Can I ask you something?” asked Sirius, breaking into his thoughts.

Harry shrugged without looking up.

“How long have you known you were into boys as well?”

“I don’t know that I am,” said Harry truthfully. “I’ve only ever been attracted to… him.”

“Ahh,” said Sirius in an understanding way. “Perhaps that’s why it hurts you so much.”

“Maybe,” mumbled Harry.

“Did you think, or hope, it was the same for him? That you’re the only boy he’d ever have feelings for?”

“Dunno,” Harry said shortly. He was starting to feel stupid and childish, and it made him angry.

“I think that’s worth reflecting on,” said Sirius. “A little self-awareness can only help us moving forward.”

 

When Harry finally went back to Gryffindor Tower, he was surprised to find Ron and Hermione in the common room. They’d fallen asleep on a couch, leaning against each other, waiting up for Harry. Crookshanks was curled up on Ron’s lap, his fluffy head resting comfortably on Ron’s wrist. He watched Harry with intelligent eyes and Harry put a finger to his lips. Crookshanks blinked peacefully at him.

Hermione held the Map on her lap, Harry’s wand balanced on top. She must have dozed off before she could wipe it. Gently, so she wouldn’t wake, Harry took them from her. He wasn’t ready to talk to them just yet. He tiptoed up to his dormitory, hoping he would fall asleep before Ron could come back. He shot a filthy glare at the closed curtains of Seamus’ bed.

Before Harry wiped the map, he glanced at it, curious to see if anyone else was out and about after hours. He did a double take, certain his eyes were playing tricks on him due to the late hour and his fragmented state of mind. Peering closely, he saw as clear as day a little dot labelled James Potter. It was in the corner of Remus’ office, exactly where the empty chair had been, accompanied by Sirius Black and Remus Lupin.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry managed to avoid any serious conversations for a fortnight. Much like after Hermione had said she wasn’t going to the Christmas party with him, Harry was perfectly polite during classes and avoided them the rest of the time, opting to study for upcoming exams by himself in secluded classrooms where he would not come across either of them. The Map and his Cloak made it easy. He reckoned his disobedience of his mother’s rules would become known to her soon, but he just couldn’t bring himself to care. So what if she swooped in and brought him home?

He didn’t see his father’s ink dot on the Map anymore after that night. He was starting to think it had just been an anxiety dream, for in what world would his father willingly sit with Remus, who was living part time with his ex-wife? The very man he’d believed had an affair with her?

And so, Harry managed to keep to himself until after exams the first week of June. There would be another two weeks before the Leaving Feast and the train back to King’s Cross. He tried not to think of the long stretch of lonely summer ahead of him.

He should have known better than to think he’d get away with it. The day after exams was a Saturday, and he was outside in a courtyard. He pretended to read, but he was really watching Ginny out of the corner of his eye as she sunned herself on a bench. He compared her red hair and freckles to Ron’s and her brown eyes to Hermione’s and wondered if she might have him. If Harry couldn’t have Ron, and he couldn’t have Hermione, then perhaps…

Suddenly, Ginny noticed him looking and scowled.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said as Harry made to get up and leave. “I am not against jinxing your feet to the ground so you might as well hear what I have to say.”

Harry said nothing. He was confident that he could hold his own against whatever she threw at him, but it would be a pyrrhic victory.

“Right,” she said, tossing her long hair haughtily as heads started to turn in their direction. “Walk with me.”

Harry gritted his teeth and followed her to the hillside where the gamekeeper’s cabin was nestled at the foot. She whirled to face him, breathing heavily.

“Right,” she said again. “So. My brother tells you he’s seeing someone, a boy, and you immediately shun him. I never would have thought it of you.”

“I’m not shunning anyone,” he said moodily.

“No?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “You treat him like a fucking pariah. He’s still the same person, or are you afraid of him now? Think it’s catching?”

“What?” said Harry. “What are you on about?”

Ginny drew her wand on him. “The only reason I haven’t hexed you already is because I used to respect you, and you deserve to know just what I think of you. But don’t you dare think I won’t. I don’t care if I lose my spot on the team – my family comes first.”

Harry raised his hands to show he was unarmed. “What exactly do you think is happening?”

“Ron came out to you, and you rejected him. You’re a fucking bigot.”

Harry’s mind went curiously blank, as if his synapses had short-circuited. “No,” he finally said. “That’s not it. That’s not it at all.”

“You have ten seconds to explain,” Ginny said, poking her wand into his chest.

He stared at her. It was slowly dawning on him that pulling away from his friends had caused a much deeper harm than admitting how he felt ever could have. Just like my dad, Harry thought miserably. He wanted to close his eyes against it all.

“I don’t care that he fancies men,” Harry said quietly to Ginny. “I only care that he doesn’t fancy… me.” It was painful to say it out loud.

She lowered her wand and gaped at him. “How can someone so intelligent, so talented, be so bloody stupid? Merlin and Morgana, Harry. You have to talk to him. Right now.”

“But I –”

“No fucking ‘buts,’ Harry. If you care about him at all, you won’t let him go another second thinking that you don’t.”

 

Harry desperately searched the Marauder’s Map for Ron’s ink dot. He finally found it at the Quidditch pitch, in the stands. There were other dots zooming around on the field, and a small crowd close to the inner edge of the stands, but Ron was alone at the highest, outermost ring.

When Harry caught sight of him, his copper hair and bare arms were gilded by the descending sun. It threw Harry back in time, to a summer when he had shaken his wet hair out of his eyes and thought his best friend was beautiful. He watched Ron for a moment, his heart squeezing painfully as he noticed his eyes were red and he sat with his shoulders slumped. It was a stark contrast to the last time they’d been together – he’d been vibrant then, standing straight and tall with confidence.

Ron was staring at nothing, deeply lost in thought and didn’t even notice Harry approach.

“Hey,” Harry said softly.

“Hey,” Ron said. He looked apprehensive, and didn’t stand to greet Harry.

“Can I sit down?” Harry asked.

Ron shrugged. “Free country,” he said.

“Thanks.” They sat in silence, watching an assortment of students flying on broomsticks with detachment. “I, erm… Your sister just kicked my arse. Told me off for being a stupid git.”

“Did she?” Ron asked politely.

“Yeah. And – erm, I mean to say… I haven’t been avoiding you for the reasons she seemed to think I was.”

Ron made a noise that indicated indifference. 

Harry took a deep breath. “What I am trying to say is that I’m sorry. I was… feeling sorry for myself when I left that night. And I should have said why, but… I wasn’t thinking straight. I reckon I’m still not.”

Ron’s brow furrowed. “Sorry for yourself?” he said in confusion.

Harry cleared his throat. “I didn’t like hearing you were with Seamus. Not because I care that you’re into men, but it was because… because I wanted you to be with me.”

Ron exhaled sharply. He was perfectly still. “What are you saying?”

“I am saying I have feelings for you,” Harry said, looking out over the opposite side of the stands to the Great Lake. “I am saying I have feelings for you and Hermione. I was just about to tell you before you said that about Seamus, after Hermione said what she did about crying at night before we became friends.”

Harry swallowed, a lump in his throat making it difficult to get the words out. “You’re the only bloke I’ve ever felt like that for. I didn’t know – I still don’t know if I’m attracted to men or just you.”

“Terribly confusing,” Ron said, a wry twist to his lips.

“A bit,” Harry replied, hope rising as a spark returned to Ron’s eye. “And if you don’t feel that way about me, I understand. I just… I’m sorry I let you think I thought less of you.”

Ron closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and exhaled. “If you had stayed instead of leaving that night, you would have heard me say things were only casual with Seamus. I learned my lesson with Lavender, and he and I agreed about that up front. He knows… he knows I’ve been hung up on you for ages.”

Harry felt dizzy. He was glad he was sitting, or his legs would have buckled. “Ron,” he said.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Ron said. “I was stupid, too. I thought by saying I was with Seamus, that it might… I dunno, open your mind up to the possibility. I didn’t realise you already felt that way.”

Harry wiped his eyes under his glasses. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“I’m sorry, too,” said Ron. He held out his hand, palm up, and Harry took it, entwining their fingers. Ron’s hand was just slightly bigger than his, and it made him feel protected and safe.

“What happens now?” asked Harry.

Ron chuckled. “I suppose there’s more to say, isn’t there?”

“Hermione,” Harry said immediately.

“Yeah. Hermione.” Ron said her name with a caress and a smile that Harry knew meant he had never given up on her.

“Is she… erm, how is she?”

“Upset. She’s been… well, she’s supportive of me. I was kind of worried she wouldn’t – you know, because her parents are Muggles, and Muggles usually aren’t quite as accepting… but she’s been wanting to be alone a lot. I don’t know if that’s because of how you’ve been acting or if she’s struggling to accept me.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said again, and they sat in silent contemplation, still holding hands.

After a while, Harry cleared his throat. “In the interest of honesty, and being clear… I never stopped wanting Hermione.”

“I still fancy her, too. Hard not to. She’s brilliant.”

“I don’t know what that means, really. If someone made me choose between you, I couldn’t.”

“Maybe it just means we’re a package deal,” Ron said, a small smile on his lips. 

“Would she, though?” asked Harry with a twinge of anxiety. “It might be overwhelming. We’re… kind of tall and looming.”

Ron laughed. “That’s what you think she’ll worry about?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, grinning, but he sobered quickly. “I just don’t want her to feel like we’re ganging up on her, like we’re imposing a choice or something.” Harry knew what it felt like to have your choice taken away from you. It left scars.

“Right,” said Ron. “Well, what do you think we should do?”

Harry looked at Ron, his tall frame and strong arms, his cornflower blue eyes and expressive mouth that always seemed to curve in a smile. He stared at his lips, remembering the night Ron had kissed him under the mistletoe. He had been too shocked then to know he should savour and enjoy it. But… he could now, if Ron would let him.

“I think you should kiss me,” Harry said.

In answer, Ron smiled and gently cupped Harry’s jaw between his hands. As they looked into each other’s eyes, Harry’s heart galloping in his chest and electricity sparking at every point of contact, he noticed there were tiny flecks of green on the outer edge of Ron’s blue irises. It made him think of Hermione, and the rings of green that were just around her pupils.

Something we have in common, thought Harry as his eyes fluttered closed. All three of us. There’s green in all of our eyes.  

And when Ron kissed him, his lips warm and perfect, Harry thought of the lake, and all the possibilities it offered.

Chapter 10: The Rules

Harry and Ron agreed approaching Hermione would require nuance and tact. They decided to keep things as they were until the right time. Which was terribly frustrating for Harry, knowing that two sets of bed curtains and a promise to wait for Hermione were the only things separating them.

She had been thrilled to see Harry and Ron had made up and that Harry’s abrupt departure had been a misunderstanding, but she must have felt things were still fragile since she did not question it too carefully when Harry and Ron said they would like to keep the details between themselves for now. Still, Harry knew better than to let his guard down. Hermione was not a witch who let things go, and he reckoned she was only biding her time and coming up with strategies to make them talk. Briefly he envisioned her tying him up.

They all said goodbye to each other on Platform 9 ¾ with hugs, cheek kisses, and plans to stay most of the summer at the lakeside cottage. When Hermione turned her back to go home with her parents, Harry and Ron shared a lingering look before going off to their own families.

“Hello, darling!” Harry’s mother said, pulling him into a hug. “Ready for summer?”

“Definitely,” Harry grinned.

“Am I going to see you at all?”

Something in her tone made Harry look closely at her. “That depends,” he said lightly, trying to discern what she was after. “Are you clearing me for freedom?”

“In certain doses, perhaps,” she said.

She’s nervous, Harry thought. “All right, Mum,” he said, “What’s up?”

“Tell you in the car,” she said as they reached the loading zone outside the station. “I had to park a bit further away. I’ll go get it while you wait here.”

“Be sure to check for kittens in the engine.”

She laughed. “Guide will be happy to see you, I’m sure.”

As Harry waited, he idly watched the crowd of travellers ebb and flow. Sometimes, when he was in public places, he liked to play a little game in his head he called “Spot the Wizard,” where he would try to discern if an eccentrically dressed person was a Muggle, or a hopelessly out-of-touch witch or wizard. A good clue was the age of the person – younger witches and wizards, in general, paid more attention to Muggle styles. Something about youth and the all-encompassing pursuit of blending in.

People who were young adults in the 1960s were harder to determine – the long hair and flowing clothes of the magical population were perfectly in line with Muggle hippies. For them, he had to rely on their confidence (or lack thereof) with automated ticket stiles and banknotes.

His mum pulled the Fourtrak up to the kerb and Harry loaded his things into the boot. “All right,” he said as he got into the passenger seat and clicked his seatbelt, “what’s got you so nervous?”

“I’m not nervous,” she said, checking her mirrors as she merged into London traffic.

“Mum, you’re sweating. Just tell me.”

She blew out a shaky breath. “I asked Remus to move in for the summer. I should have asked your opinion first, but it was… kind of a spur of the moment thing.”

“Oh, Mum,” he said, imitating his Muggle grandmother’s disapproving tone. “What will the neighbours think?”

“I don’t care,” she said. “I only care what you think.”

“It’s fine,” Harry said easily. “I was expecting it at some point. Are you getting married?”

“Goodness, Harry,” she said, “What makes you think I’m eager to do that again?”

“Well, you see, I’ve heard it makes a difference when it’s with the right person…”

“Yes, well, it hasn’t even been a full year yet, Harry.”

“Have you introduced him to Grandma and Grandpa?”

“Not yet,” she sighed.

“You’re not afraid he’ll spook, are you?” he asked. “He’s over the moon for you. Er, no pun intended.”

“Why are you so invested in my love life?” she asked. “I would have thought you of all people would understand why I’m keen on taking things slow.”

“Ah, yes, because sharing a cozy little house in Hogsmeade after six months together is slow.”

“You’re incorrigible,” she said, but there was amusement in her tone. “And it was only four months.”

Harry laughed. “In all seriousness, Mum… I almost died, and that puts a lot of things into perspective. I want you to live your life and be happy.”

She glanced away from the road to give him a soft smile. Reaching across with one hand, she ruffled his hair. “Stop being so mature,” she said.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry spent only a week at home before leaving for the lakeside cottage. Once his mother had examined him and cleared him fit for freedom, he could not wait to get started. “Can we do family dinners more often, though?” he asked his mum. “Or something else? I don’t have to be at the lake all the time.”

“Darling, you never have to ask. I’m always happy to spend time with you.”

Harry smirked at her. “Well, you did raise me to be polite. I imagine you have plenty of things you don’t want me to interrupt.”

“Oh, stop that,” she said airily. “I know how to lock a door.”

While Harry was in his bedroom packing, Remus stood in the hallway and cleared his throat awkwardly. Harry looked up and grinned. “If you’ve come to thank me for vacating, I accept gold or baked goods.”

Remus chuckled. He lowered his voice and said, “I just meant to ask if… things are all right between you and your friends.”

“Never better,” said Harry. He didn’t elaborate and Remus didn’t ask, but he smiled at Harry, taking stock of the brightness in his eyes, the spots of colour in his cheeks.

Suddenly, Remus twisted around in surprise, peering down at something on the floor. “What the –? Oh, it’s you.” He bent and picked up Guide. “Silly little thing – she always knows when my shoe’s untied.”

Guide mewed and attacked Remus’ sleeve. He smiled indulgently at her and tickled her belly. “I never thought I liked cats before.”

“They have a way of working into your heart,” Harry said.

“It helps that she is especially cute.”

“Take care of her for me, okay?” Harry said. He looked up at Remus’ face, and Remus smiled understandingly.

“She’s safe with me – I promise.”

Harry nodded, feeling a strange sense of both loss and relief. But then, they weren’t really talking about the cat.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry waited by the front gate that separated the Potter estate from the main road and paced back and forth. Ron and Hermione were coming on the Knight bus again, and he was practically buzzing with anticipation.

Harry jumped back as the purple triple-decker bus popped into existence before him. The brakes squealed and the bus lurched to a stop as Harry heard the thud of chairs being thrown forward. Hermione stepped off first, looking especially pretty in a white sundress with blue flowers printed on it, though she seemed a little unsteady on her feet. Harry caught her around the waist as her knees wobbled.

And then Ron was there, wrapping his arms around all three of them as they exchanged chaste kisses and hellos.

“Cheers, Stan!” Ron called to the conductor as he tipped their luggage out after them. “I’ll be sure to tell everyone about the care and consideration the Knight bus takes with its passengers and their belongings.”

“You look like you could use a ginger ale,” Harry said to Hermione, who was pale. He kept his hand on her waist as he bent to pick up her travelling bag. “No Crookshanks?”

“Dad wanted to keep him for a bit longer,” she said. “He and Mum will come by sometime to see your mum, and maybe bring him then,” she said.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Harry said. “I didn’t know they were friends.”

“It’s new, I think,” she said, “but who knows what they all get up to when we’re at school?”

“You realise this is the last summer we get to be kids?” said Ron, his blue eyes bright with excitement. “Let’s make it count.”

They walked to the cottage, the boys taking turns holding hands with and wrapping arms around Hermione. There was a distinct undercurrent of electricity that vibrated between Harry and Ron. Now that they had confessed their feelings to each other, Hermione was the last piece of the puzzle, and they had a whole summer to work up to telling her how they felt.

“We’ve got some work to do,” Harry said after they had passed the manor and said hello to Gran and Grandad. “The cottage has been empty all year.”

“Aw, you didn’t spruce it up for our arrival?” said Ron. “How unchivalrous of you.”

“Shh,” Hermione said. “How many secluded cottages do you have for your own personal use? Besides, we’re seventeen and can use our wands!”

“You can,” Harry said. “Alas, I am underage.”

“Oh, come off it, Harry. No one will come knocking; you know how the Trace works,” scoffed Ron.

“You can use my wand again,” Hermione whispered to him, making Harry’s lower half clench.

“Naughty girl,” he whispered back.

“Do witch and wizard children play ‘house?’ ” asked Hermione as they turned a bend and the cottage came into sight. “You know, where they pretend at being mums and dads? Or is that too ordinary?”

“Sure,” Ron said, “except they argue about who feeds the ghoul and who degnomes the garden.”

“We get to play house all summer,” said Harry.

“Bagsy on being the daddy,” said Ron, suddenly bending to scoop up Hermione and throw her over his shoulder. She squealed with laughter. Unseen by her, Ron wiggled his eyebrows at Harry as he held her across the backs of her thighs, her dress pulled tight against her lovely arse. Her long hair cascaded over Ron, almost to the backs of his knees, giving the impression that he was wearing a furry, brown cape.

He carried her that way into the cottage, Hermione pretending to protest through her giggles.

“Keep wiggling like that and your knickers are going to be on full display,” Harry said, watching with interest as her skirt hiked further up.

“They’re very utilitarian and disappointing,” she said, muffled against Ron’s back.

“Nah, your arse is in them, so that makes them interesting,” grinned Ron.  

“Oh, good heavens,” said Hermione as Ron put her down. “Are you two going to be this way all summer?”

“If you let us,” said Harry as she fluffed her hair and primly pulled her dress back into place. Her face was bright red.

“We’ll see,” she said. “Get to work.”

 

It was not quite warm enough that afternoon for a swim, but the canoe was just begging to be taken out and they spent a good couple of hours rewarding themselves for their hard work by paddling around, drifting, and observing a group of turtles basking on a sunny log. Harry’s eyes glazed over as Hermione launched into a dissertation on reptiles and how none of the freshwater turtles in Britain were native.

“Did you know turtle spleens are used in the Blood Replenishing Potion?” said Ron.

“Better swim for it, mates,” Harry warned the turtles as the canoe slowly drifted past. “That reminds me of something Mum told me…” And Harry relayed his mother’s stories about Sexual Misadventure at St. Mungo’s.

“Good band name,” said Ron, making Harry and Hermione laugh.

“What I can’t fathom is why anyone would put glass up there?” said Hermione. “That’s just begging for trouble.”

“Hormones do terrible things to people,” said Harry.

“How do you make a hormone, Harry?” asked Ron, grinning cheekily.

“Refuse to pay her,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. Everyone knew that one.

Except Hermione, apparently, as she doubled over with giggles. “That’s terrible,” she said. 

“It’s a definite way to ensure lacklustre service,” agreed Ron.

“Lustre? I barely know her,” said Harry.

They paddled back to the landing, the two boys convulsing Hermione with dirty jokes and teasing. “You’re not even drunk,” observed Harry. She rarely laughed this hard or this often without alcoholic influence.

“On attention, maybe,” chortled Ron.

“I can’t help it,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “I love summer.”

“Summer loves you,” Harry said. He was mildly disappointed that she’d changed out of her dress into a more practical outfit of shorts and a linen shirt – it would have made getting into and out of the canoe much more interesting.

After dinner that evening, they cheered as the first campfire of summer flared to life in the fire ring. Harry skewered a marshmallow and handed it to Ron, then did the same for himself. “A man after my own heart,” Ron murmured to him.

“So,” said Hermione, settling comfortably in her chair with a bottle of chilled butterbeer. “What kind of trouble are we getting into this summer?”

Harry and Ron shared a secret glance. Ron snorted. “You want to get into trouble?”

“Hey,” protested Hermione, “I think I have done a very good job of sneaking around and suppressing all my better instincts with you two.”

“There’s always room for improvement,” grinned Harry. “I propose skinny dipping.”

“Excellent idea,” approved Ron. His marshmallow caught fire as he stared at Hermione.  

“Oh, honestly,” laughed Hermione, her blush evident in the firelight. “Not that kind of trouble.”

“Aw, but that’s the best kind,” said Ron sadly as his flaming marshmallow melted off the stick and dropped into the fire.

“Here,” Harry said, offering his perfectly toasted one. He watched as Ron ate it and licked his fingers. Harry swallowed and Ron gave him a very knowing look. He had no idea how they were going to keep their hands off each other once they were alone in their room and the lights went out. They had not kissed since that day in the Quidditch stands, only shared lingering looks and occasionally held hands when no one was looking. By some miracle, no one had seen them that day, or at least if they had, the fact had not made it to the rumour mill.

Harry was not ashamed. They had agreed to take things slow out of their shared feelings for Hermione. It was the same reason Harry had not acted on his feelings for her, despite all her signals pointing to the fact that she wanted him, too.

That night, after Hermione’s light went out, Harry shut their door and he and Ron exchanged notes in whispers, treating their pursuit of Hermione much like a Quidditch strategy. Harry asked, “Has she shown you any signs that she’s into you?”

“Definitely,” said Ron with a satisfied grin. “She’s always finding excuses to touch me or hold my hand when we’re alone. Almost kissed a few times, especially when you were at St. Mungo’s and we were leaning on each other, but she’s holding back. I reckon I have been, too, come to think of it. Haven’t wanted to push for fear of losing her.”

“If she fancies us both, maybe she’s feeling conflicted. Like she’s cheating or something.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Ron.

“It’s not exactly a normal arrangement, is it? Most people are a one-partner-only sort of thing.”

“What if we each found a way to get her alone, and let her know it’s fine if she fancies us both?”

“That might work,” said Harry. He had been close to telling her that very thing once, in the library when he’d been feeling sorry for himself and asked Hermione if Ron was paying her enough compliments. “Or we could just be up front and tell her we want an unconventional relationship…”

Ron and Harry sat quietly, thinking. “Honestly,” Ron said slowly, “I think seduction is a skill. And like anything, it requires practice to learn.”

Harry felt heat flood his lower belly as all his fantasies started to rise at the back of his brain. “All right," he said, unconsciously licking his lips, "let’s just keep flirting with her and see where it goes.”

“Or she gets so sexually frustrated she explodes. What about… should we flirt with each other in front of her?”

Harry thought about it. “It might make her pull back if she thinks we’re together. Or get jealous, and then she’ll start playing games. You know she likes attention.”

“Okay,” said Ron. “But… eventually I want her to know. I don’t like hiding from her.”

“I know,” said Harry, “but think of it as a surprise rather than a secret. There’s something exciting about delayed gratification, isn’t there?”

“Hmph,” grumbled Ron, who wasn’t exactly known for patience outside of a chess match, but he admitted Harry had a point.

Harry would come to question that wisdom many times. The weather became warm enough for swimming and seeing Ron and Hermione with minimal clothing severely tested his resolve. She still had that fucking little white dress that turned see-through when she pulled it over her wet swimming costume. All he could imagine was what it would be like if she did agree to skinny dipping and what would show through the thin fabric then.

His only consolation was that Ron was struggling the same way. He could feel the heat in his best mate’s gaze whenever he thought no one was looking. It made Harry feel electric all over, knowing he was just as attractive to Ron as Ron was to him. He wondered what Ron liked most. Harry used to have more muscle tone when he was at his peak for Quidditch season. Staying in position on his firebolt through high-speed manoeuvres required a lot of focused strength, but his time in hospital and off his broom had softened him in a way that made him self-conscious about taking off his shirt.

His face he would always see as being too close to his father’s and therefore not fully his own. But his eyes he would always like. They were a striking green with thick, black lashes and he liked the reminder that no matter how he felt about his father, there would always be something of his mother in him. He rather thought Hermione and Ron liked them as well, since he managed to get his way much more easily if he looked at either of them a certain way.

Harry loved Ron’s broad shoulders and strong arms, the way his torso flowed into narrow hips and the fine red and blond hairs on his body that made him glow in the sunlight. Harry loved his freckles and found himself wanting to trace patterns between them with the tips of his fingers. Ron’s blue eyes managed to convey both innocence and impishness depending on his mood. His smile made Harry want to melt into a puddle.

Hermione had a smile that made Harry feel sappy and a little stupid. He found it so hard to say no to her, especially because getting her way meant she would beam at him and make him feel like he had done something worthy and important. She also had a dusting of freckles, but they were not usually prominent during the school year, as most of it was spent inside or under cloud cover. In the summer, they bloomed across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. When the occasion called for less clothing, they were visible on her shoulders as well, making her look like a cinnamon-sprinkled confection that made Harry’s mouth water.

That wasn’t to say that Harry spent all his time ogling and pining, or that they only played all summer. They all occasionally left for a few hours at a time to be with their own families, and they would help Harry’s grandparents around the estate. Gran was about to have her 100^th birthday in mid-July, and she had invited much of the British magical population for a three-day bash. There was quite a bit to do to get ready, though she and Grandad had been planning since the year before. The Quidditch field was getting a little shaggy and needed mowing and reseeding, and the goalposts were in line for repair. The manor needed a good airing and a polish – Gran was opening all of the bedrooms and the old servants’ quarters (which had not been needed since the 1700s) for overnight guests.

“Where is everyone else going to stay?” Harry asked Gran, comparing the number of her affirmative RSVPs to the amount of rooms at the manor. He noticed Slughorn was on the list and did his best not to grimace.

“Oh, I imagine some will leave at night and come back, and we’ve hired a company to set up luxury tents in the big meadow by the orchard. Everyone will be very comfortable.”

She had also hired catering, a gourmet chocolatier, and various musicians and entertainment troupes. There would be archery competitions and duelling clubs, pantomime, and various magical games and sports, including hippogriff jousting. “It’s just like a Renaissance Festival,” said Hermione one evening, when they had all gone to join Harry’s mother and Remus for takeaway pizza.

“Oh, I know,” said Harry’s mother with excitement. “It’s all over the top, of course, but I’m really looking forward to it.”

Harry knew that James was invited, but had not yet sent his RSVP. Harry, for the most part, ignored the whole idea of seeing his father again. He still didn’t know how he felt, and he had not yet asked Sirius for his father’s letters. He had not wanted to think about it, because doing so made him feel so conflicted that his mood bled into his interactions with other people.

“What’s a Renaissance Festival?” asked Ron.

“It’s a sort of event where Muggles pretend to live in medieval or other historical times,” explained Harry’s mother. “You know, before the Statute of Secrecy – you can wear all your robes and talk about magic and dragons and go perfectly undetected, so long as you act like you’re playing as a witch or wizard.”

“So Muggles do know about us?” said Ron with a bit of alarm.

“No, of course not,” soothed Hermione. “Because we all used to live together in society, our stories of Merlin and dragons and all that persist, but since we separated, it’s now seen as make-believe and whimsical things to entertain themselves with – you know, they just see it is as fantasy.”

“Wild,” said Ron, his eyes sparkling with interest and a little mischief. “So you’re telling me I could go into a crowd of Muggles dressed like Neville’s gran with a gnome on a lead, and no one would blink?”

Harry’s mother laughed as Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Well, of course there are limits as to what you can get away with.”

“What’s the point for Muggles, though?” asked Harry. “Is that all it is? Entertainment?”

“A little,” said Hermione. “But there’s also a learning aspect to it. The ones that are a bit more serious on history, at least as they believe it to have happened, do something they call ‘living history,’ where people can learn about the past by watching people work, speak, and create things in historically accurate ways. And some of the festivals have famous battle reenactments, like the one in Tewkesbury, and little stalls where you can buy food and handmade things you could find at the time in history, like leather pouches and chainmail, or jewellery.”

“We haven’t changed so much,” said Remus, correctly interpreting Harry’s look of confusion. “For example, Aguamenti charms are the same in 1998 as they were in 1698, but between now and then for Muggles, there have been all sorts of advancements in things like water storage, pipes, sanitation… things advance so much faster for Muggles. That’s part of the appeal – life is nowhere near the same for them now as it was back then.”

“Do witches and wizards go to the festivals, though?” asked Hermione.

“Well, not many,” said Remus. He and Lily smiled at each other.

“After Gran’s do,” said Harry’s mother, “I’m afraid anything Muggles put on will seem rather tame in comparison. Hard to compare horses to hippogriffs. Oh, but that reminds me – Hermione, did your parents get their invitation? I was working when Gran sent them, so I’m not sure if she did the stamps and addresses correctly.”

Hermione, Harry and Ron all looked at each other in surprise. “If they did, they didn’t say anything,” said Hermione.

“Do you think they would come?” asked Harry’s mother.

“I really don’t know,” Hermione said. “Mum gets a little nervous in places like Diagon Alley.”

“Aren’t there Muggle-repelling charms on the estate?” said Ron. Harry kicked his ankle under the table. “Ouch!” Ron looked at Harry, not sure what he’d said to deserve that.

“The Grangers would be guests,” said Harry, raising his eyebrows at Ron.

“Right, but the Statute – I just mean, how do they get past them?”

“A countercharm placed on them,” said Hermione, “that makes them temporarily immune. And the repelling charms only work as a barrier – once you are inside, they don’t have any effect.”

“But you can’t cast the countercharm if you’re underage,” said Ron. “How did they get into Diagon Alley before?”

“We had to arrange for someone to come and do it. Ministry, usually.” Hermione’s tone sounded casual, but Harry noticed tension in her shoulders and a tightness to his mother’s mouth. “Were any other Muggles invited?”

“Just those attached to a witch or wizard already – spouses, parents.”

“Oh,” said Hermione. “Well, I will ask them the next time I see them.”

Harry thought of Emily’s family. “I don’t suppose the Sorensons could be on the invite list?” he said.

His mother’s mouth got even tighter. “No. The Ministry –” (she spit out the word like a curse) “– wouldn’t allow it.”

Harry and Ron looked at each other, then at Hermione, who was staring into space and appeared as though she had something very painful on her mind.

On their way back to the lakeside cottage, she was very quiet. When they went inside and lit the lamps, she looked tired and worn down. Without words, Harry held out his arms and she folded herself into him.

“Sometimes, I don’t feel like I belong anywhere,” she said against Harry’s exposed collarbone as Ron wrapped his arms around them both and rested his chin on the top of Hermione’s head.

“You belong with us,” said Ron.

She made a little hum in the back of her throat. “But you can’t always be with me,” she said.

A chill swept through Harry at her words. He knew she was a fiercely skilled witch and more than capable of fighting her own battles, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to protect her, to hold her and keep her safe. He thought he saw the same thought flash in Ron’s eyes, and they held her more tightly.

“Don’t bother us with silly things like reality,” said Harry lightly. “We’re going to live here forever and never get jobs and always be a package deal.”

He felt her smile against him. Her lips and breath on his bare skin were doing things to him and he was annoyed with himself for feeling aroused when the situation called for gentle sympathy and comfort. Perhaps she understood his struggle, as she extricated herself from between the two boys. “Thank you,” she said, not looking at them, and she went upstairs to change clothes. Harry and Ron regretfully watched her go.

When Harry was certain she was occupied, he wrapped Ron in a tight hug. It was comforting and warm, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world for Harry and Ron’s lips to find each other. Harry kissed him slowly, tracing the lines of Ron’s neck and shoulders with his fingers.  

“This is against the rules,” said Ron, breaking the kiss to lean his forehead against Harry’s.

“I know,” said Harry breathlessly with his eyes closed and his heart fluttering in his chest. He licked his lips, tasting Ron there and once again questioned if it was the right thing to do to hold back.

“It will be that much better with Hermione,” Ron reminded him.

“I know,” Harry said again. “I just… I missed this.”

Ron covered Harry’s hands with his own and entwined their fingers, where they were splayed along Ron’s jaw. “Don’t tempt me,” Ron whispered, and pulled away.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

By some phenomenon that Harry didn’t fully understand, a few times a year, the lake would turn suddenly warm. Harry couldn’t make any sense of it – it was completely random and just as likely to happen in the middle of winter as in the summer. He chalked it up to some ancient spell one of his ancestors had done, and didn’t think about it too much.

One night as he, Hermione, and Ron were laughing and drinking around the campfire, Harry looked out at the lake and noticed steam rising off the surface. Hermione was indulging in her habit of sharing a chair and was half on his lap when he patted her thigh without looking around. “Look,” he said excitedly, not noticing how high on her leg he’d gotten and the resulting flush on her cheeks. “Freeze the flames and let’s go for a swim!”

“You’re joking,” she frowned. “It can’t be more than two degrees above freezing.”

“You’ll see!” Harry called over his shoulder as he ran down the slope to the landing.

Ron, game for most things Harry suggested, was right behind him, so neither heard Hermione’s long-suffering sigh as she used her wand to cast a flame freezing charm.

“Get naked,” Harry said to Ron as he pulled his pants off his ankles.

“Right, because a sausage fest won’t alarm her at all,” grinned Ron as he took off his shirt and watched Harry with rapt attention.

“Nude bathing is a time-honoured and perfectly respectable tradition,” insisted Harry, staring blatantly at the lower part of Ron’s obliques, “with many benefits to one’s health and general well-being.”

Ron pushed him off the landing. Harry came up laughing and shaking his hair out of his eyes. But he turned deadly serious as he watched Ron push down his shorts and pants. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before, except… Ron was half hard.

Oh my fucking Merlin, Harry thought, swallowing as he felt a warm tingling between his own legs. If he touches himself, even a little, I am going to come right here in the water.

But Ron didn’t; he just chuckled at Harry’s expression and did a perfect forward flip off the end of the landing.

Hermione didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss. She was watching her feet so she didn’t trip in the dark, walking slowly and with great dignity.

“You two are such slobs,” she said as she reached the landing, flicking her wand at the piles of clothing they had left behind. They folded themselves neatly, and Harry’s glasses gently came to rest on top of his underwear. Hermione did a double take as she realised just how undressed they had gotten, then looked with wide eyes at the two boys grinning at her from the steaming, moonlit lake.

“Come in,” said Ron. “The water’s fine!”

“Much warmer than it looks,” agreed Harry as Hermione shivered in the chill air.

“What makes it do that?” she asked, firmly averting her gaze as she sat to dangle her feet in the water. “Is there a warm spring nearby?”

“No idea,” said Harry, “but it’s temporary. Aw, come on – it’s lovely and warm. Get in!”

“I don’t think so,” she said haughtily, but Harry had known her long enough to know that tone. It said, “I-will-pretend-to-be-a-good-girl-but-I-really-want-to-misbehave.”

“Please, Hermione?” said Ron with as guileless an expression as he could muster.

“Yes, please?” Harry said. If she’d just look at me, I could convince her, he thought.

Finally, she turned her head and Harry looked up at her in the way he did that almost always got him his way.

“Oh,” she said, wavering. “All right. But I am not getting naked. Turn around.”

Harry started to repeat his opinion on nude swimming as they obliged, but Ron shushed him. “Do not spoil this for me,” Ron said, pointing an accusatory finger at Harry.

A soft splash signalled Hermione’s entrance, and they turned around, cheering obnoxiously and teasing as she rolled her eyes and smiled.

“You need to stop doing that,” Hermione told Harry sternly as she swam closer.

“Doing what?” he asked.

“That thing you do with your face when you want something,” she said. “It’s not fair.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Harry innocently. “It is not my fault I am naturally charming and likeable.”

“It’s a power you should only use for good,” said Ron. “It even works on me.”

Hermione cast him a quick, appraising glance, but said nothing.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take off your undies?” Harry said sweetly to her, repeating the look.

She splashed him, her face blushing an attractive silver in the moonlight. “Stop that,” she said, but was unable to suppress a giggle.

They mucked about late into the night, splashing and talking and playing stupid games like chasing the shine of the moon on the water, and Harry and Ron tried intermittently to convince Hermione to strip all the way. She would laugh each time, getting cheekier with her replies. When Harry announced he had turned into a prune and was getting out now, he looked at Hermione. She gave him a challenging look as if to say, “And?”

Harry snorted and hauled himself onto the landing without further ado.

Hermione sputtered and disappeared under the surface of the water. When she spoke again, her voice came from under the landing. “I didn’t think you’d actually do it!” she squealed. Ron’s laughter echoed across the lake.

“I am offended that the sight of my arse has sent you two into hysterics,” Harry said.

“It is very pale, mate,” Ron said, chortling. “Like a second moon rising above the water.”

“And it wasn’t just your arse,” Harry heard Hermione mumble.

“I heard that, Hermione.”

“You did not!” she protested.

“Points out of ten?” grinned Harry.

“Shut up,” she said, but Harry could hear the smirk in her voice.

“Ten out of ten; an exemplary penis,” said Ron, sending Hermione into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. “I’ll get out and you can rate mine.”

But Hermione had met her limit. She would not come out from under the landing until Harry and Ron had dressed and were on their way up the slope to the cottage.

“Watch out for grindylows!” Harry called through cupped hands as he walked backwards.

“You think you’re so funny!” she shouted back.

“I am,” grinned Harry to Ron.

They celebrated their success around the fire in whispers and meaningful glances and hand gestures that bordered on lewd until Hermione appeared over the edge of the slope and announced she was going to bed. She would not make eye contact as she walked past them. Harry and Ron looked at each other and shrugged. Harry put out the fire with his wand.

Not much later, as Harry was just starting to drop off to sleep listening to the frogs and nightjars out the open window, he heard Ron murmur, “I meant it. Ten out of ten.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

That weekend, Ron and Hermione both went to see their families, and Harry was by himself at the cottage for an afternoon. He decided to take the canoe out to the middle of the lake and let the current take him while he read.

He wished he had thought it through a little better… the bottom of the canoe was not exactly comfortable, and he had left his wand on the couch inside the cottage. But he wasn’t ready to admit defeat. He had two books with him – one, a novel Hermione had recommended, and the second, the book his mother had given him when the three had visited her in Hogsmeade. He had not opened it at all since she had pushed it into his hands.

As excited as he was at the possibility of sex with Ron, there were certain acts he viewed with apprehension and uncertainty, and there were parts of his body he wasn’t sure about using for pleasure. The book was written for wizards by a wizard, but his mother had scribbled her own notes in the margins and blank spaces about using things that didn’t require a wand, like condoms and lubricant. The matter-of-fact advice, written in her familiar handwriting, was reassuring.

At the very back of the book was a note written on a bit of parchment, stuck into the crease of the spine. He read,

Dear Harry,

No matter who you love or how you love them, no matter how far you go or how close you stay, I will always be your mum. It’s my privilege and joy to love you and keep you safe. Always.

Love,

Mum

“Aw,” he said aloud, deeply touched. He tenderly tucked the note back in place.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

There came a day at the very beginning of July on which Harry decided it was time to stop putting things off. He sent Hedwig with a short note, and she returned a day later with a packet of letters.

“Good job,” Harry told her, stroking her back as she settled on his arm and nipped him affectionately. She didn’t usually hang about for long – she preferred to hunt and soar and scope out the other owls in the area. Once she came back with a strange plastic band on her leg and a very sheepish expression as Harry removed it.

Hermione had to explain she had been caught by a Muggle scientist and tagged, likely curious as to what a snowy owl was doing in Britain. “They don’t harm the birds,” Hermione said quickly at Harry’s thunderous expression. She explained the concepts of wildlife conservation and tracking, patting his shoulder reassuringly.

“And did you make it easy for them?” Ron asked Hedwig, more than a little amused that Harry’s owl, who could usually be counted amongst the more intelligent of her species, was dumb enough to get caught. She hissed at him and took off through the open window. Harry winced as her talons grazed his forearm, leaving scratches.

“Please don’t taunt my owl – she’s had a very harrowing experience,” Harry said to Ron, rubbing his arm.

Ron ignored that and motioned for Harry to hold out his arm, where the scratches were starting to ooze blood. Ron’s hands were cool and soothing. He gently prodded Harry’s flesh with his wand. The scratches healed instantly.

Hermione watched with a soft expression on her face. Harry caught her eye and they smiled at each other as Ron cleaned up the leftover smears of blood with a conjured cloth.  

“Thanks,” Harry said quietly.

Ron’s eyes sparkled as he pressed a quick kiss to Harry’s arm, just like his mother used to when he was small. “There, all better,” Ron said, and Harry chuckled.

“Maybe don’t do that to your real patients,” Harry said.

“There are always exceptions,” Ron grinned.

“What are those?” Hermione asked, indicating the letters Hedwig had brought.

“Letters my dad wrote to me over the year,” said Harry. “I… haven’t opened them yet.”

“You haven’t spoken about him much,” Hermione said tentatively.

“No,” said Harry. He was quiet for a long while, idly shuffling the stack. “Look,” he finally said, “there’s something I haven’t said. The reason he and my mum split…” Harry explained what had happened, how their former friend Pettigrew had planted seeds of doubt, and Harry’s father had an affair in what he thought was retaliation. How Sirius chose to act as a buffer between them.

Ron looked completely gobsmacked. “How could anyone cheat on someone like your mum?”  

“I don’t know,” said Harry, feeling defensive for some reason. “I’m not interested in his excuses.”

Hermione was scrutinising him so intensely, it was hard to look at her.

“Anyway,” he said, clearing his throat, “I reckon he’s either going to be at Gran’s party or people are going to ask about him, and it’s time to go through these.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione and Ron share a glance that Harry had become familiar with over the years. The one that seemed to discuss him without words, as if he was the object of an ongoing conversation between them. It didn’t bother him as much as it used to.

Hermione decided to curl up on the opposite end of the couch with a very thick novel. Ron settled himself into an armchair with a book Harry recognised as one of his mother’s medical textbooks. Harry smiled to himself as he slit open the first letter with his wand. Sirius had helpfully labelled the envelope of each one with the date.

Dear Harry,

I hope it’s okay that I write to you. I know I have no right, after the way I’ve been. I’m bad at these kinds of things. But I wanted to try. For you.

Love,

Dad

---

Dear Harry,

I became an Auror because I wanted to protect your mum. When you came along, I felt even more strongly that this is what I was meant to do. But it came at a cost. The world isn’t black and white, and I don’t think I was ever strong enough to navigate all the grey without losing myself.

I was asked to do terrible things. Things I was ashamed to tell even my wife and my best friends. Instead of refusing or resigning, or pushing for reform, I bowed my head and told myself it was all for a greater good.

Love,

Dad

 ---

Dear Harry,

I can’t explain why I did all the things I did. Something happened. Or maybe a lot of things happened, and I didn’t know how to deal with them. It’s always been easier to ignore things, or drown them, or pretend they don’t exist.

Somewhere along the line, I became someone I hated so much that I didn’t want to look in the mirror.

Love,

Dad

Harry scowled. There was too much, “I did this because,” which only proved his suspicion that his father would make any attempts at reconciliation all about himself. Harry tamped down his curiosity about the things James said he’d been asked to do. He stacked the rest of the letters and put them away. He’d had enough for now.

Hermione had not turned a page in quite some time. He turned his head sharply and caught her staring at him over the top edge of her book. She blushed and raised the book to hide her face. Harry smirked and tugged on her bare ankle. “Don’t pretend, Hermione,” he said flirtatiously. “I know when you’re watching me. I can feel the heat of your gaze.”

Ron held his book open on his lap and looked up.

“I am merely concerned for your emotional well-being,” she said formally, not emerging from behind her book. She jerked her leg out of Harry’s grasp, which just made him want to tickle her.

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Hermione asked, lowering her book.

“No,” he said. “I want to play Quidditch.” Harry looked at Ron, who immediately dogeared the page he was on.

“Don’t do that!” Hermione shrieked indignantly. “Use a bookmark!” She conjured one and sent it sailing at Ron, hitting him in the forehead.

“Oi!”

“That is not your book; what made you think it was acceptable to fold it?!”

Harry scoffed. “Have you seen how my mother treats her books?”

“Besides,” said Ron, “I do have this lovely thing called a wand. Have you seen them, Hermione? They can do all sorts of things; they can even restore things to their original state!” He tapped the corner of the book with his wand and the crease disappeared, leaving the page perfectly smooth.

“It’s still a horrible habit,” she said with her nose in the air.

Harry tickled her behind her knee, making her squeal.

“Ohh, I’ve had enough of you two,” she said crossly, which only made Harry want to tease her even more. “Go play with your brooms and leave me in peace.”

Harry and Ron grinned at each other.

“All right, darling,” Ron teased as he stood up. “But we expect dinner on the table and our slippers warmed and ready when we get back.”

“I’ll tell you where you can shove your slippers,” Hermione grumbled.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” said Harry as he leaned in to kiss her cheek. “For all you know, we like having things shoved in certain places.”

“I’m getting an idea,” she said, her dry tone in opposition to the flush rising on her chest.

“Give us a kiss,” Ron said, leaning down to fill the space Harry vacated. He got her on the corner of her mouth. “Oops, missed,” he grinned cheekily.

Hermione startled. She went very tense and looked at Harry with a measure of alarm, as if afraid of his reaction. Harry shrugged and rolled his eyes to show that he didn’t take it seriously. “Save me one for later,” was all he said as he and Ron left.

“You absolutely could have gotten one in,” said Ron, pushing Harry once they were out of Hermione’s earshot.

“Nah,” Harry said, though he had half a mind to turn around and go for it. “Did you see how she squirmed when I said that? I’ll let her fret about it. It’s only fair after all the games she’s played with us.”

“D’you think she touches herself when she’s alone?” Ron asked.

“Yeah,” said Harry, clearing his throat. “She told us so when we played Truths on the Astronomy Tower.”

“I mean when she’s here.”

Harry thought for a moment. “Maybe?” he said uncertainly. He tried not to imagine it – he wouldn’t be able to sit on his broomstick if he did.

Ron was quiet. “Is wanking against the rules?” he finally asked. “I mean, so long as it’s in the dark and we’re quiet about it?”

Harry groaned, wishing he was sitting so he could cross his legs. “You already have, haven’t you?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny.” Ron’s chuckle was low and gravelly, and it made Harry start to sweat.

“You shouldn’t have said anything,” Harry said. “It’s hard enough as it is.”

“What, the rules or your knob?”

“Both,” admitted Harry, squirming. “Shut up, please.”

Ron put an arm around Harry. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“I’ll leave it up to your discretion,” said Harry, his neck, chest, and face flaming.

Harry was grateful that Ron didn’t keep teasing him. The walk to the newly refreshed Quidditch field was long enough for Harry to get himself under control again. “Next time, I’ll ask you to side-apparate me,” said Harry, wiping sweat off his brow as they got their brooms out of the shed.

“Nope,” said Ron cheerfully. “Walking is good for you. Get your strength back, good dose of fresh air and sunshine and all that.”

“Hmph,” said Harry, but he didn’t really mean it. He kind of liked Ron telling him what to do. “Can I start smoking again?”

“Ah, why not?” grinned Ron.

They played and flew around for hours, cooling themselves off during rests with Aguamenti charms and conjuring comically large folding fans that were more for slapping each other than anything else.

As Harry circled high above the field, searching for the snitch while Ron practiced dodging bludgers, he spied Hermione coming out of the woods, reading as she walked. He spiralled off to intercept her. She startled when he dropped down sharply in front of her.

“ ‘Scuse me, love – what’s a pretty little bird like you doing all alone?” he asked gruffly. “You want a lift?”

“You know I don’t fly,” she said, stowing her book in her bag and eyeing his broom as if it would suddenly attack her.

“You did once. With Ron. I’m a better flyer than he is; let me take you up.”

“You’re a more reckless flyer than he is,” she argued. “And I told you; that was life and death.”

“Hermione,” he said, pressing his hand to his heart. “I am going to die if you don’t sit on my broom. You can’t have that on your conscience, now can you?” He gave her the look.

“Don’t do that!” Hermione said, squeezing her eyes shut. “You are too pretty to be allowed!”

“Please?” he said softly. “You know I’ll keep you safe.”

“Oh,” she groaned, patches of colour visible on her chest. “Well… all right, then.”

Harry bit his lips to keep himself from gloating. He directed her to sit behind him. She clutched him around the waist tightly. “Go slowly.”

“You can’t go slow on a firebolt,” he said brightly, and kicked off from the ground.

To Hermione’s credit, she didn’t scream – she only clutched him so tightly his lower half was in danger of losing circulation. “Stop the bludgers!” Harry called to Ron with a big, stupid grin. “New player!”

“No fair!” shouted Ron, waving his wand to put the bludgers back in their case. “She’s supposed to try out like the rest of us!”

“Special privilege,” said Harry. “She’s sleeping with the captain.”

“I am not!” Hermione protested hotly against his back.

Not yet, anyway, Harry amended hopefully. He flew her around the field, going as slowly as he could.

“Boo-ooo-ring!” Ron drawled through cupped hands. “Show her the sloth grip roll, Harry!”

“Don’t you fucking dare!” shrieked Hermione. “That’s it; put me down. I regret everything!”

Harry might have gone on teasing her, but he could feel her trembling with genuine fear. “It’s all right, Hermione,” he soothed. “I’ll put you down.” He flew down gently under the large oak he and Ron took their breaks under. She wobbled when she got off and collapsed onto the grass.

“Ron,” Harry called. Hermione looked far too pale for his liking.

At Harry’s tone, Ron rushed over.

“I am fine,” she insisted as Ron looked her over. “I just need some water and firm, solid ground.”

“I’m sorry,” said Harry, feeling useless and upset with himself. He conjured a cup and filled it with water. “I won’t do it again.”

She took it from him and gulped it down. “I’m fine,” she said again. “Go play.”

“Nah, need a rest,” said Ron as he and Harry set their brooms aside and started conjuring a cheerful little arrangement of cushions atop a picnic blanket.

“This is nice,” said Ron. “All we need is some foo–”

“There you three are,” came Gran’s voice from behind the tree. A large, round picnic hamper levitated beside her, looking like an orbiting moon. “I saw you practicing and thought you’d get hungry.” Harry surreptitiously hid his wand under the picnic blanket.

“You’re an angel, Mrs. Potter,” said Ron, eagerly peering into the basket when she set it down.

“So I’ve been told,” she said, smiling.

She sat with them on a little wooden stool as they tucked into chicken salad and bacon sandwiches, and fresh cherries and plums from the orchard.

“D’you have any ulterior motives in feeding us, Gran?” smirked Harry as he wiped plum juice from his chin. Ron and Hermione were watching him intently. Harry didn’t know what they found so interesting about him eating a plum, but he was starting to feel self-conscious.

“Do I need a reason to dote on my only grandson and his friends?”

“No, but I do appreciate directness.”

“Oh, all right. I wanted to talk to you. But later,” Gran said, her gaze flicking between Ron and Hermione before resting on Harry. Harry suppressed the urge to sigh. He felt he knew what she wanted. It had been a very long time coming.

“I’ll come find you,” Harry promised.

She smiled and vanished the remains of the picnic. “I’ll be in the manor,” she said. “Lots to do – there’s a doxy nest in the attic.”

 “I can ask my brothers, Fred and George, to come help you get rid of it,” Ron said. “They use the venom and eggs in their products.”

“That would be lovely,” said Gran as she stood, her knees creaking. “Fleamont and I are too old to be dealing with such things.”

Harry watched her go. She was still a spry and active witch, but she was starting to slow down a little. “What do you think she wants to talk to you about?” Hermione asked Harry.

“My dad, probably,” Harry said, not looking forward to it. They had completely avoided the topic for a very long time now.

“I don’t envy you,” said Ron.

“Do you want to walk back with her? Get it over with?” asked Hermione.

Harry sighed. “Yeah, all right. See you later.” He stood and flexed his neck and hands. He hadn’t had a single spasm or tremor since that night in Remus’ office. He had wondered off and on if his father had been in the chair opposite, under a different invisibility cloak or something.

He frowned as he walked. It had never occurred to him to wonder why his father had given him the Cloak when it made much more sense for him to keep it, especially if it was as powerful as his grandfather said. All Harry used it for was mischief – surely it would be put to better, more noble use by someone who hunted Dark Wizards for a living.

“Gran,” he called, jogging to catch up to her. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted you to hear it from me that your father is coming to the party,” she said, confirming his suspicion.

“Right,” Harry said, his stomach dropping. They walked in silence for some time. The gravel road from the field to the manor ran along the west edge of the orchard, where the sweet, tangy scent of ripe cherries and sun-warmed leaves wafted through the branches. Over the hum of honeybees, Harry heard a static-like hissing from the further-off woods that Hermione had told him were cicadas.

“How long is he staying?” Harry asked, deciding to start with an easy question.

“All weekend,” she said. “He’ll have a tent in the meadow. I wanted him to stay in the manor, but he’s being stubborn.”

Harry was starting to feel a little queasy. Not too long ago, Harry would have jumped at the chance to confront his father – to hex him or finally tell him exactly what he thought of him. But now… he just didn’t know what to think. His father was trying to reach out. And wasn’t that what Harry had wanted? He knew seeing him again was a possibility, but now that it was a certainty…

“I wish you two would make up,” Gran said, breaking into his thoughts. “It’s such a shame how long this has gone on.”

“It’s not a simple matter, Gran,” Harry said, wondering if anyone had dared tell her just how poorly her precious son had behaved.

“Well, I hate to see him like this,” she fretted. Harry narrowed his eyes. He knew a patented Euphemia Potter guilt trip when he saw it. “He just loves you so much, Harry.”

“He has a funny way of showing it,” Harry said as neutrally as he could. At Gran’s slight pout, he stopped short. “Thanks for telling me, Gran. Forewarning is the best defence.” He turned a sharp about-face on her protests and strode back to the Quidditch field.

He wished he hadn’t left his wand – blasting a few rocks might help him feel better, but Gran would have confiscated it if she knew he carried it. And he would have resented handing it over to her far more than he would to his mother.

“Back so soon?” Hermione said when he entered the shade of the oak. Ron had gone back to practicing.

“Wasn’t much to say,” Harry shrugged, watching Ron perform a spectacular evasive manoeuvre that set his heart slamming against his ribcage. “Dad’s coming to the party.”

“And… how do you feel about that?” she asked him. She patted the cushion next to her and smiled at him prettily, inviting him to confide in her with an understanding look in her deep brown eyes. The rings of green around her pupils were prominent in the natural light.

Utterly charmed, Harry sat. “Sick,” he said honestly.

She nodded sympathetically. Harry looked away from her and out at Ron, who was fully focused on his practise and hadn’t noticed Harry return. “I don’t know if I hate him or not, Hermione. There’s still something inside me that wants him to notice and be proud of me, you know, for the things I care about, but I can’t find it in me to forgive him for what he did to Mum.”

Hermione was quiet, digesting his words. “If your mother forgave him, do you think you would?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, surprised by the very idea. He’d always thought you were supposed to carry grudges about that kind of thing forever.

“Do you ever talk to her about it?”

“Not really,” Harry admitted. “I know she wants me to. I just… I’ve worried about her feelings for so long, I can’t get past this… block, when it comes to him.”

Hermione took his hand. “I think you should try. I don’t think she’s quite as fragile as you think.”

“You didn’t see her before, Hermione. She was on the verge of crying, all the time. Even when she was putting on a smile for me. We talked about so much, but not him. I hated it.”

“She seems awfully happy now.”

“She is,” Harry said, squeezing her hand, “and I couldn’t stand it if something I said or did broke that.”

“Harry…” Hermione said. He turned his head to look at her. The look she was giving him was full of conviction. “You don’t see yourself clearly. You are someone who brings joy to other people. Even when you’re being bloody exasperating, it’s so easy to forgive you because of where it comes from – how much light is inside you.”

Harry’s heart nearly burst out of his chest at her praise, though he couldn’t fully believe it. “What?” he said, ducking his head so she wouldn’t see him blush. “No. I’m sullen and moody and I hide when I’m upset.”

“Only sometimes,” she allowed, grinning. “The rest of the time, you are an utter delight. Why else do you think I have flown on a broom twice for you now?”

“I thought that was just because of my face,” he said, smirking.

“Your eyes more than your face,” she said breathlessly. She blushed when she realised what she’d said.

“I want to kiss you for being so nice,” Harry said. She blushed even deeper.

“Oh, but –” she looked out at Ron, and back at Harry with a confused expression.

“Hermione,” Harry said, raising their joined hands and kissing the back of hers. She was trembling. “I don’t care if you fancy him, just so long as you fancy me, too.”

She bit her lips. “Well, that’s never been a problem,” she admitted. “I’ve always been selfish.”

Notes:

... I am in horny jail.

Chapter 11: Green Lights

Harry smiled at Hermione and turned her hand to kiss her palm, his lips lingering on the lines in the very centre. She sat rigidly, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. Her eyes were dark and Harry was reminded of the day he had used her wand.

“I want to try something,” he said, looking intently at her.

“Anything,” she said, before wincing. “I mean… what do you have in mind?”

He let go of her hand and reached under the picnic blanket for his wand. “Here,” he said, holding it out to her. “See if it responds to you.”

“You’re asking me to play with your wand?”

Harry smirked and wondered if she would ever be able to make innuendos without blushing. “Just be gentle,” he said. “The tip is sensitive.”

She snorted and took his wand with delicate fingers, lingering for just a moment as their skin touched. “It feels… determined,” she said. Harry smiled – he should have expected an analysis. “Gentle, but commanding.” As Hermione caressed his wand, getting a feel for it, Harry swallowed. Merlin, that’s hot, he thought.

She swished it and a stream of bubbles came out, shining like iridescent crystals as they drifted out of the shade and into the sunlight. “Maybe even a little vulnerable,” she said huskily. She looked at Harry knowingly.

A familiar heat washed over Harry. It bloomed and shimmered in the space between them. Her gaze dropped to his mouth as he watched the peaks of her breasts tighten beneath her shirt. It was as though their magic became seamlessly and infinitely entwined, like a Celtic knot or double ouroboros. Distinct, yet more powerful because of its unity. No physical intimacy could quite compare.

Suddenly Harry felt someone watching. He looked out of the corner of his eye and saw Ron hovering on his broom, leaning on his forearms and gazing at the scene with rapt attention. His hair gleamed in the sun, as if he were wearing a rose-gold crown. Harry could feel Ron urging him to make a move.

“Come here,” Harry said, before she could notice Ron staring. She shifted to close the gap between them and Harry cupped her cheek to pull her gently closer. Her eyes closed and Harry placed a slow kiss on the same corner of her mouth that Ron had kissed her only a few hours before.

“Thank you for the courage,” Harry said, smiling wickedly at her as he took his wand back and summoned his broom. He mounted it and zoomed after Ron, who was acting as though he had never stopped practicing. Glancing back, Harry saw Hermione flop backwards onto the cushions, her hands over her eyes as she uttered a frustrated groan. Harry laughed to himself, euphoric with Hermione’s confession and her reaction to him.

Later, he would debate with himself whether or not to tell Ron what she’d said. With a sense of unease, he decided not. Hermione had confessed to Harry, but he felt it wouldn’t be fair or right if he took away her opportunity to say it to Ron, or Ron’s opportunity to declare his feelings to her.

It’s all very complicated, Harry thought. He had been coming to the slow realisation that even happy, monogamous relationships could be challenging, and becoming three – as a true relationship, not merely a sexual fantasy – would have all kinds of unforeseen difficulties.

When Ron asked him what exactly had led to the moment Harry had kissed Hermione, Harry said she had been incredibly kind to him about the news that his father was coming to Gran’s party, and he wanted to even the score after Ron had kissed her earlier that day.

“It was so sexy watching her use your wand,” Ron said with relish. “What did it feel like?”

Harry gestured feebly, unable to fully describe it. He started to sweat at the memory, and of the day she’d let him use hers. “Like nothing else,” he finally said. “And I highly recommend it.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Gran kept them so busy preparing for the party that they had no more time for themselves, save sneaking off for ten minutes at a time and having a drink around the campfire at night, too exhausted to do much else.

Fred and George came by and tackled the doxy nest on the top floor while Harry, Ron, and Hermione went through all the guest bedrooms and stripped the linens from all the beds. “They haven’t even been slept in!” Harry protested to Gran, raising his voice to be heard over the insectoid buzzing of doxy wings, thuds, and shouts coming from the floor above them. “What do we have to wash them all for if they’re already clean?”

“They get musty,” said Gran, utterly scandalised at Harry’s laissez-faire attitude to hospitality. “And dust in there while you’re at it. And open the windows and doors so the rooms can air.”

Harry was not supposed to be using magic, but neither Ron nor Hermione was about to rat him out. Hermione put herself on lookout duty, bursting into song whenever an adult came near. Harry thought she just wanted an excuse to sing while she worked. But he didn’t complain – he liked listening to her.

“She’s so cute,” Harry said in aside to Ron as he hastily stowed his wand. Gran strode down the long hallway of the second floor where they were working, levitating the piles of sheets and pillows and making them follow her to the basement laundry room.

“Too right,” said Ron, smiling.

After a simple dinner at the manor, Fred and George followed them back to the lakeside cottage for whisky and cigars around the fire. Hermione begged off and went to bed early. She could tolerate Harry and Ron smoking the fizzy cigarettes, but anything stronger was too much to ask of her. Harry watched her go upstairs. While it was nice to have a boys’ night, he couldn’t help but feel as though they had chased her off.

They played cards and talked about the new Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes shop in Diagon Alley, and George demanded to know why Harry and Ron hadn’t been by yet.

Fred chuckled. “Would you venture out much if you had a house to yourself with someone like Hermione? Merlin, she’s looking good.” He winked at Harry.

“Watch it,” growled Harry and Ron.

George grinned. “Poor Hermione. Do you challenge her potential suitors to duels on the regular?”

Harry and Ron looked at each other, frowning. “She hasn’t told us of any,” Harry said. “Why, are you one of them?”

Fred and George laughed. “Of course not,” said Fred. “I’d bet a thousand galleons that you lads have ruined her prospects of dating entirely.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Ron.

“Figure it out,” said George.

They called it a night after Fred won the game. After the twins had left, Harry turned to Ron. “Do they know about us?”

“Nobody does except Ginny, and she knows not to tell. I’ve got more than enough blackmail material on her that she’ll leave well enough alone.”

Harry ignored that. “But she doesn’t know how we feel about Hermione?”

“I know she’s my sister, but she’s not stupid. She probably suspects.” He rinsed out the whisky glasses in the sink as Harry leaned against the counter. He looked shrewdly at Harry. “Have you told anyone?”

“About us? Not exactly,” said Harry uncomfortably. He told Ron about the night he’d left him and Hermione in the stairwell, omitting the embarrassing facts that he’d been taunted by Peeves and done accidental magic. “I didn’t tell them how it worked out, though,” he finished.

“Right,” said Ron.

“I’m sorry,” said Harry, unable to interpret Ron’s expression. “I probably shouldn’t have said anything to them.” He had never asked Remus or Sirius if James had been there to overhear that night, and he didn’t tell Ron now that he’d seen his father on the Map.

“I dunno,” said Ron. “If they didn’t care, I reckon I don’t have to.”

As they lay in their beds that night, Harry put his arms behind his head and watched the lake reflections on the ceiling. “D’you think Fred’s right?” he asked. “About us ruining Hermione’s chances of dating?”

Ron was quiet for some time. “I dunno. Are you saying maybe she only likes us because we’ve run everyone else off?”

“Maybe,” said Harry, though he couldn’t think of anything he’d done on purpose to discourage anyone interested in her. “Other than McLaggen and Krum, I didn’t notice anyone sniffing around.”

“She got all those flowers on Valentine’s Day, though,” said Ron.

“I thought those were from you.”

“I thought they were from you!”

“Shite,” they said in unison.

“S’pose it was stupid to think we’d be the only ones to notice. She is kind of beautiful,” Ron said dreamily.

“And everything else,” said Harry. “Witty and clever and talented and very sweet.”

“When she wants to be,” chuckled Ron. “D’you ever wonder why she wasn’t sorted into Ravenclaw?”

“No,” said Harry honestly. “I reckon the Sorting Hat knows its job. I just count my lucky stars that we’re all in the same house.”

“Yeah,” said Ron. They stared at each other.

Harry cleared his throat. “Do you think it’s breaking the rules if I asked you to hold me?”

Ron smirked. “You can ask.”

Harry lowered his gaze, then looked back up intently. “Please?”

Ron shivered. “I can’t resist when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Harry asked as Ron took him into his strong arms. He knew – he just wanted to hear Ron say it. He rested his hands on Ron’s hips as he breathed a relieved sigh. This was where he belonged.

“Like you see me. Exactly as I am, and that I’m enough.”

“You’re more than enough,” said Harry, smiling against Ron’s neck. “You’re perfect.”

“Now you’re breaking the rules,” chuckled Ron, but he didn’t let go. Slowly, the atmosphere shifted and transformed into something heavy and charged until both their hearts were racing. They held each other closely enough to feel the other slowly grow hard. Ron was taller than Harry, and Harry could feel him press just against his hip. Harry was against Ron’s upper thigh.

“Rules are made to be broken,” Harry said lowly.

“They’re mostly your rules, mate. Come on. Be fair,” he groaned as he gently pushed Harry away. “We agreed to wait for Hermione.”

Harry groaned as well. “You’re right. Just keep in mind… I don’t think she’s very experienced. Even if she says yes… she might want to take things slow.”

Ron stared vacantly at a point behind Harry’s shoulder. Harry could almost see the thoughts swirling in Ron’s blue eyes. When he looked at Harry, the heat of his gaze was so intense, Harry felt his legs quiver.

“I would wait forever if it meant I could have you both,” Ron said.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

There was a night by the fire in which Harry pulled out another of his father’s letters. Hermione had set up a portable… what had she called it? A DC player? and it was playing a mix of music that she said she had “burned.” Harry thought he’d heard some of it before, perhaps in a pub or on his mother’s favourite Muggle radio station.

Ron was entranced by the iridescent plastic discs and insisted Hermione teach him how to work it. “Dad would love this,” he said. “Can you get it to play the Weird Sisters?”

As she struggled to explain why it didn’t work like that, Harry read his father’s letter.

Dear Harry,

Sirius has been encouraging self-reflection and self-awareness. In all these letters about explanations, I’m still making excuses. You were right about me, and I deserved your contempt. All I can say is I’m sorry, and I want to change. I want to be the father you need and deserve. If you are ever ready to see me, or write to me, I will try to listen more than I talk.

Love,

Dad

Harry scowled. It was almost upsetting that James wasn’t doubling down – it made Harry feel like he wasn’t allowed to be angry anymore. He said as much when Hermione tentatively asked what was in the letter.

“Well, I can stay angry for you, if you like,” Ron said, exhaling glimmering smoke. “Or Hermione can – she’s excellent at holding grudges.”

Hermione sputtered as Harry said, “I think I need to talk to Mum first.” The thought filled him with anxiety. He took a cigarette from the carton, frowning as he noticed their stash was getting a little sparse. Should have asked for more while Fred and George were here.

“What about the fact that he stopped you from getting prefect?” asked Hermione with a glare that was usually reserved for admonishing other students about rule-breaking. Harry wondered sometimes if she didn’t think ruining academic opportunities was a greater sin than cheating. He remembered one night from their first year, before they’d become friends, when they’d all accidentally been locked out of Gryffindor Tower. She had followed Ron and Harry out of the portrait hole, scolding and hissing after them because she’d caught wind Draco Malfoy had goaded Harry into a midnight duel, only to turn around and find the Fat Lady had gone off on her own adventure. Hermione had been too scared to stay in the corridor alone, and went along with Harry and Ron begrudgingly. It had been a setup – they’d been caught by Peeves, who almost got them caught by Filch, and they’d very nearly been beheaded by an overly zealous suit of armour that took its job of guarding the trophy room far too seriously. When they’d finally returned, Hermione was livid and had said furiously, “I hope you’re pleased with yourselves. We could all have been killed – or worse, expelled.”

Harry smiled at the memory. How times had changed – she’d gone from a little swot who cared only about House points and showing off how clever she was, to a beautiful girl who would sneak whisky at Christmas parties and insist on the attention of two boys at once.

But there would always be something of the know-it-all in her, and Harry loved that. He realised he’d taken too long to answer her question, stuck in his reminiscence. “I don’t know, Hermione,” he said. “It’s been a while since I was angry about that. I almost died, and it doesn’t seem like the big deal it used to. I can forgive most things done to me, anyway.”

“I love and hate that about you,” she said.

“I’m thinking of giving up prefect, anyway,” said Ron, “so you can have it.” He had another one of Harry’s mother’s books open on his lap.

“What? Why?” said Hermione in alarm.

Ron shrugged without looking up. There was an edge to his voice as he said, “I’ve got to focus on bringing my grades up. I’m not like you two – not everything comes naturally to me.”

Harry and Hermione looked at each other in surprise. It had been a long time since Ron had lashed out. “Are you okay, Ron?” Hermione asked tentatively.

“Fine,” he said. “Just… thinking about my future for once. I’m annoyed with myself for not taking things seriously. I never used to think about life after Hogwarts. Not really. McGonagall got quite shirty with me at my career meeting for only thinking about ways to make loads of gold with next to no effort.”

“What made you change your mind?” asked Harry, though he thought he knew.

“Your mum,” Ron said without hesitation. “How she knew just what to do when you collapsed. You were on the brink of death, but she saved your life and stayed so calm doing it. Seeing her and the other Healers at St. Mungo’s doing that kind of thing every day, with no thought of reward or even thanks… It was inspiring.”

Harry and Hermione smiled at each other. “You’ll make an incredible Healer, Ron,” said Hermione affectionately.

The tips of Ron’s ears went pink, but he shook his head. “Not if I can’t get top NEWTs. Wanting isn’t getting.”

“We’ll help you,” said Hermione as Harry nodded in agreement.

“Whatever you need – we’re with you,” said Harry.

Ron’s eyes were bright as he looked between Harry and Hermione. He seemed lost for words, unable to express what he was feeling, but Harry understood. It was hope… and hope is a very powerful magic.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

A few days before the party, Gran sent Harry to the orchard, where she said his mother was picking up all the smashed, rotting fruit to compost. It was just before sunset, the trees casting long shadows. The ground still held the heat of the day even as the air began to cool, and the evening was perfumed with the intermingled scents of ripe plums, cherries, and apricots. When he got there, the ground was immaculate, and his mother was nowhere in sight. “Mum?” he called.

“Who sent you?” he heard her voice call out sharply.

“Gran, obviously – she said you were here.”

“Did you come alone?”

“Yes,” Harry said with amusement. “Mum, why all the cloak and dagger? Where are you?”

She suddenly shimmered into existence right in front of him. He jumped back. “Jesus, Mum,” he said, clutching his heart.

“Good disillusionment charm, eh?” Her cheeks were pink, she had grass in her hair, and there was a distinct whiff of something familiar around her.

“Mum,” Harry said in shocked tones. “Have you been smoking?”

“No,” she said quickly, like the guilty liar she was.

Harry burst out laughing. “You have! You’ve been lying on the grass, having a smoke – there’s even ash on your shirt! I’m telling Grandma!”

She looked down and brushed off the evidence. “Do that and I will plaster that picture of you in the bath on every Hogwarts bulletin board.”

He cringed, knowing exactly which one she was talking about. “Punishments are supposed to fit the crime. That’s a low blow, Mum.”

“Pfft,” she said, sitting back down on the grass. “Everyone has a bathtub or naked baby bum picture. It’s how parents keep their children in line.”

“But how do children keep their parents in line?” Harry smoothed his shorts and sat down next to her. “Especially naughty ones who smoke. How long have you been doing that?”

She looked sheepish. “Off and on, ever since I started as a trainee Healer. Mostly off. Stress brings it back.”

“I’m shocked. I never knew.”

“I certainly didn’t want you to know, lest it encouraged you to pick it up.”

Too late for that, thought Harry.

“I really don’t do it often; I promise,” she said, looking at him as if she was afraid she’d disappointed him.

“What’s got you so stressed?” he asked.

“Guess.”

“Dad’s coming.”

“Right in one,” she said. “Nothing like seeing your ex to make you feel like a washed-up old hag.”

“You’ve already seen him? As in, in person?” said Harry in surprise.

“He’s… been around,” she said evasively, lying back onto the grass.

Harry’s brow furrowed. “And he got rid of the beard and is looking fit, I reckon.” He spoke flippantly, but the very idea spiked a fear in Harry that he didn’t quite understand. Didn’t all children of divorce wish deep down that their parents would get back together? He thought of Remus. How happy he made his mum, and how… Harry realised he really did want to see them married someday.

She squinted suspiciously at him. “Have you seen him?”

“No. Just a guess based on your context clues. He’s been writing to me.”

“Oh,” she said, but she didn’t sound very surprised.

“All right, Mum, no more of this evasiveness. Tell me what’s up with you two and we’ll compare notes. It sounds as though you’re attempting to co-parent.”

“Ha,” she said. “Not exactly. You don’t need that. All right, I’ll tell you.”

As Harry lay back in the warm grass and looked up at the undersides of the cherry trees with his arms behind his head, his mother explained that ever since Harry had been poisoned, James had been slowly trying to make things right.

“Did he apologise to you? For the affair? And all the years before?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Do you forgive him?” Harry turned his head to look at her.

She was silent, staring up at the trees, her green eyes suddenly sad in the way Harry remembered from all those years of unhappiness. He grabbed her hand and squeezed. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “Forget I said anything.”

“Stop that,” she said, giving his hand a little shake. “Just because it’s upsetting doesn’t mean I can’t talk to you about it. Right?” She looked at him intently.

“Er, right,” he said.

She let go his hand to put her hands behind her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t know. I told him I needed time, and it was more important to me that he made an effort to reconcile and apologise to you before I’d even think about it.”

“That’s funny. I thought the same thing, except about him apologising to you.”

She blew out a breath, and a lock of her hair puffed away from her face. “I loved him so much once, and I would have done almost anything to hear him apologise, try to save our marriage, be the father and husband he used to be. But once I started paying attention to just how he hurt you, how he went out of his way to take away things that really mattered to you, it was like all the love and respect I had for him evaporated in an instant. I think that’s what I grieved most. The fact that I used to love him, but couldn’t find it in me anymore.”

Harry turned his head casually away, as if he had seen something interesting, but it was really to hide his face. It was like he and his mum were mirror images – angry and upset on behalf of each other. Except in Harry’s case, he still loved his father.

“Even though he’s looking good to you now?” Harry said.

He heard her sigh. “That was more of a comment on how I look. You always want your cheating ex to look worse and be worse off than you.”

Harry turned back to look at her. “You’re beautiful, Mum. Always have been, always will.”

“Pfft,” she said. “I’m old.”

“You’re not even forty,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “Just take the compliment, will you?”

“All right, thank you,” she said, and sighed again. “I think we got married too young.”

“What made you do it?” Harry asked. “I mean, other than me.”

His mother stared at him. “What makes you think it was you?”

Harry gave her an incredulous look. “I can do maths, Mum. I know my birthdate and I know your wedding date and I know I was not premature. It doesn’t take a deep thinker.”

She groaned and put her hands over her face. “I don’t want you to think that was the sole reason. We were already looking for an excuse – any excuse, and you provided a very happy one. We were young and dumb and in love and I just had this delusion that one day he’d grow out of being such a fucking mummy’s boy.”

That startled a laugh out of Harry, but then he grew very quiet. “Am I a mummy’s boy?”

“I don’t spoil you like one, do I?”

“No, but I do adore you, Mum.”

“The feeling is mutual,” she said, smiling, “but it’s different. And you’re old enough to see that.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Has anyone been brave enough to tell Gran that he had an affair?”

“Yes. Your grandfather. He’s been an angel, really. I think he recognises the role he chose to play by not talking Gran down more often. Not that Gran isn’t kind to me or would ever blame me, she just has a blind spot a mile wide where James is involved. She knows objectively he really hurt us, but she doesn’t understand why people can’t look past it the same way she does.”

Harry wondered about his father’s letter. If Gran had spoiled him so much, never said no or held him accountable for his actions, how did he handle being under a supervisor at work? “Dad wrote that he’d done things as an Auror. Things he didn’t want to tell us, and it changed him.”

“I imagine it was a lot of things,” she said softly. “We don’t exist in a vacuum, Harry.” When he looked at her in confusion, she had to explain the Muggle phrase.

Harry thought for a while, reliving the memories of his childhood, and thinking of how James said he’d become an Auror to protect Lily. It was a vigorous, three-year training program, and they only took on people who’d already proven they had great potential. He must have been very motivated indeed. “I know he loved you too, Mum,” he said softly. “I just hope you know it was real. Even if it didn’t last, even if he fucked it up.”

His mother took a shaky breath. “Thank you,” she murmured. “That’s good to know.”

“I’m just glad you didn’t have to wait long before you found someone better.”

She chuckled and smiled so brightly her face was utterly transformed into something that made Harry’s heart swell with happiness. “That’s just the thing, Harry. He was there all along. I feel horrible that I made him wait. Remus makes me feel… Alive. Like I can truly breathe again and be the person I was afraid I’d lost somewhere along the way. I can be your mum, and not your responsibility. I am myself again.”

Harry took her hand again, unable to say how much it meant to hear her say that. But she understood. And he understood just how she felt – Ron and Hermione made him feel the same way. For one shining moment, he thought of telling her so.

But then something inside him deflated as he thought of his father again, how he managed to make every important moment about himself.

How long is he going to cast a shadow on my life? Harry wondered.

His mother squeezed his hand, breaking into his thoughts. “How did you get so wise?”

Harry smiled. “A very wise woman raised me.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

That night was clear and full of stars, lit by a waxing crescent moon. Harry, Hermione, and Ron climbed out of Hermione’s window onto the cottage roof and made what had become one of their signature nests of warmed cushions and blankets, using sticking charms to keep themselves in place on the steep pitch. The Milky Way was clearly visible, and Harry knew they would never see it if Godric’s Hollow were any closer to Gloucester.

Harry procured a bottle of Asti he’d stolen from the manor’s cellar when Gran had put him on inventory duty. He’d told Hermione it was a thank you gift for all their hard work. She pretended to believe him – she was still a bit miffed at Gran, who had put her on tree-trimming duty. Gran had not shown any sympathy nor allowed Hermione any time afterwards to pick out the mess of twigs, leaves, and bits of bird nests that fell into her curls, leaving them matted and bushy.

Now, her curls were clean and shiny again, reflecting bits of moon- and starlight that made it appear as if she had tucked diamonds and sapphires into her hair. Harry wanted to bury himself in it.

“We’re such classy people,” said Ron as Harry popped the cork. Ron had one arm around Hermione, who was pretending to be cold. She held out hers and Ron’s flutes eagerly.

“More than that, we deserve this,” said Harry as he poured. “Cheers.”

“Oh, that’s a bit… sweet,” said Ron when he’d taken a sip.

“I like it,” said Hermione with relish. “If you don’t, that just means more for me.”

“Ah, Hermione,” Ron said fondly. “I love that you’re turning into such a lush.”

She giggled. “I am not.”

“Luscious, definitely,” said Harry, playing with her curls with one hand as he took his first taste of the sparkling vintage. “Very sweet… and the wine is, too. Don’t get excited, Hermione – I’m keeping my glass.”

They worked their way through the bottle, groaning and complaining over all the work they’d done, laughing at stupid puns and occasionally tickling Hermione to make her squeal. It didn’t take much – she had partaken more of the wine than she usually did with whisky.

“Watch where you’re putting your hand,” she giggled at Ron.

“Can’t,” he said innocently. “It’s dark.”

“Terribly improper,” she said primly.

“I can show you improper,” he said with a low, throaty chuckle that made Harry start to sweat.

Hermione leaned into him. “I wouldn’t actually know the difference.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Harry.

“It means nobody’s ever touched me improperly before.”

Harry and Ron were quiet. “Really?” Harry finally said. “Like, never?”

She snorted. “Surely that doesn’t surprise you. You know how uptight I am.”

Harry was surprised, and by the little of Ron’s expression Harry could make out in the moonlight, he was as well. “I just thought – at least Krum… I mean, you stayed with him.”

“Which means what, exactly?” said Hermione. “I stay with you two all summer, and nothing happens.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Harry heard Ron whisper into her ear. As close as they were sitting, Harry could feel her shiver. He sympathised – if Harry had a look, then Ron definitely had a whisper.

“Stop that,” she said breathlessly. “You know what I mean.”

“We’re not your boyfriends, though,” said Harry, trying to keep the regret out of his voice.

Ron said, “Again, not for lack of –” but Harry covered Ron’s mouth with his hand.

“Are you trying to ruin this?” Harry said to him incredulously. “Hermione is trying to tell us just how much of a virgin she is.”

She laughed and leaned against Harry, making his heart flutter. “The answer is very.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to?” Ron asked, his voice muffled under Harry’s palm. Harry reluctantly removed his hand. He liked the tingle that Ron’s lips left where they touched him.

“No,” she said, and there was longing in her voice. “I do. It’s just – I’m not the kind of girl that can jump straight into it like that. It’s not like there’s never been an opportunity, or that no one’s ever tried to make a move – I just never let it go very far. And no, it’s not out of some naive idea that first times have to be perfect or that I’m waiting for marriage or some shite… I just want it to be with someone I trust. It’s… different for girls. When word got out about you and Cho, Harry, you got high-fives and everyone forgot about it pretty quickly. It wasn’t like that for her. The same girls who would have done anything to be in her place called her a slag and wrote it on the walls.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Harry quietly.

“Mari-what’s-her-name was just begging to be hexed,” she said viciously.

“I thought you did that just for Harry,” said Ron. “I didn’t think you liked Cho.”

“I don’t,” said Hermione. “That doesn’t mean I think she deserved to have her private thoughts aired like that. And I did do it for Harry – I can have more than one reason.”

Harry said nothing. Neither he nor Ron had ever told her that Cho had called her a nasty bint behind her back and accused Harry of cheating with her.

“You are a powerful and terrifying witch,” said Ron, pulling her back against him and nuzzling just under her ear. In the low light, Harry saw her eyes flutter closed, her lashes as dark as a raven’s wing against her pale skin. 

“Well, now you know,” she breathed. “And you two can take the mickey out of me for my lack of experience, especially in light of your escapades.”

“What do you know of our escapades?” asked Harry cautiously. His eyes flicked to Ron, who was looking back at him.

She snorted. “I share a dormitory with two of your exes and was there for the whole diary thing. I know a lot.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what she wrote?” asked Harry with exasperation as Ron gasped, “Lav would never.”

Hermione made a sharp, angry scoff. “Still calling her ‘Lav,’ are we?” She pulled away from him to lean against Harry instead.

“Sorry,” said Ron, flinching as Harry automatically put his arm around her. “Habit. I just… I didn’t think she’d say anything.”

“Well, she did,” Hermione huffed. “She said a lot. Parvati, Cho, and Lavender all said a lot.”

Harry knew that she never would have gone into such detail if it wasn’t dark and she hadn’t been drinking. By the end of her tirade, Harry learned that Cho’s favourite features of his were his eyes and she liked how his dick looked and even more how it felt, and while Ron hadn’t had sex with Lavender, they had gone down on each other, though it had not been particularly satisfying for either of them.

“You don’t mean to say Ron never told you!” exclaimed Hermione, catching sight of Harry’s wide-eyed expression.

“I, unlike some people, am discreet in my sexual endeavours,” said Ron with dignity. “And he never asked, anyway.”

“A shame,” said Harry. “I could have asked you for tips.”

Ron laughed. “I was very bad at it,” he said. “It would have been like the blind leading the blind.”

“What she never explained is what she didn’t like about it,” said Hermione incredulously, as if she could not fathom why someone wouldn’t. “You didn’t try something completely daft like using your teeth, did you?”

Harry cracked up, which set Ron off, and the two boys fell against each other and laughed for some time. “No,” Ron finally wheezed, “nothing like that. It just didn’t go anywhere.”

“First times are just weird,” said Harry sagely. “There is no getting around it.”

“Is there some girl I’m missing, Harry?” asked Hermione tightly. “Have you put your mouth on someone like that?”

“No, but Merlin would I love to,” he said fervently. Hermione blushed all the way from her hairline to her shirt.

“It’s way easier with boys,” Ron admitted, and Harry went suddenly quiet. He had not once asked about Seamus. He hadn’t wanted to know. It was still painful to think of Ron with other boys.

Hermione sputtered indignantly. “We are not as complicated as books and television want you to think,” she said hotly. “What’s so difficult about finding something that’s so obviously right there if you just look?”

“I don’t mean that, and you know I don’t have a telly thing to watch, anyway. Though, if that’s what you watch on it, maybe I should get one. What I mean is, I know my way around my own knob, so it’s not that much of a stretch to guess what would get another bloke off.”

“Oh,” said Hermione. She noticed Harry’s sustained silence, and watched him for a very long time, even after Ron cleared his throat and changed the subject. Eventually, she gingerly laid herself down between the two boys and rolled herself into a blanket. She pillowed her head on her hands and curled her body just slightly around Harry, as if she sensed his vulnerability.

Harry watched her as she closed her eyes. She was so lovely; the way her skin glowed pale in the faint light of the moon was as though she’d been blessed by Artemis herself. He thought… perhaps now, under the stars and the influence of sparkling wine, was finally the moment to tell her everything. Harry looked at Ron and saw the same thought flicker in his eyes.

But before either of them could speak, she let out a deep, contented sigh. She had fallen asleep. Ron shook his head in mock disappointment, and Harry stifled a snort. “Lightweight,” Harry whispered, stroking her curls.

“C’mon, let’s get her to bed,” murmured Ron. Ron gently picked her up as if she weighed nothing, still wrapped up in her blanket as Harry guided him down from the ridge along the roof’s valley and back through the window. Harry’s hands hovered protectively around her head until they reached her bed.

Harry helped lay Hermione on her on her side as Ron reassured him she had just overindulged and needed to sleep it off. They doused her lamp and tiptoed out of the room, leaving the door just slightly ajar. 

“I’ll check on her later,” whispered Ron, noticing the worry written on Harry’s face. “Get some sleep.”

“You’re very good at taking care of us,” said Harry, giving Ron a hug before going to get ready for bed. Ron smiled and kissed Harry’s temple.

Fully trusting that Ron had everything in hand, Harry slept deeply. He didn’t even stir when Ron got up to check on Hermione, or when he came back to bed. But if he had, he would have noticed Ron standing in the hallway for a moment, listening to his best friend and his best mate breathing, his hand unconsciously touching his heart.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The day before Gran’s party, Harry awoke in the grey of predawn. Something had woken him, but he wasn’t sure what. He rolled over to try and go back to sleep, but soon gave it up as a bad job. He could sleep through the racket the birds made each morning, but once he was awake, they made it impossible to go back to sleep. He got up, stretched, and went to the bathroom.

When he came back, he saw Ron was awake, lying on his back on the bed closest to the door and staring blearily up at the ceiling.

Movement out on the lake caught Harry’s eye and he went to stand in front of the window. There was a light fog on the water and some dark furred or feathered animal was swimming out there. But something about the movement was wrong… Harry squinted, trying to make it out.

His eyesight was not particularly terrible, and he could usually get away with foregoing his glasses for things like swimming and being around the house, but whatever was out there, it was too far to see without them.

His scrutiny caught Ron’s attention. “What?” he said as Harry grabbed his glasses from the bedside table.

“Weird animal or something,” Harry grunted, fumbling them on. “Oh, no, it’s Hermione. What’s she doing out there so early?” What he had mistaken for an animal was just her dark hair spread out in the water behind her. Harry saw what he thought was fog was actually steam – the lake had turned warm again.

“Dunno. Practicing for the swim team?” suggested Ron, yawning and coming to look. As they watched her idly, her hair moved in the gentle current and Ron and Harry stopped breathing. It was instantly apparent why she had chosen to swim alone.

She was naked.

In perfect sync, Harry and Ron slid slowly down to crouch on the floor, their eyes just above the windowsill. Harry’s heart was racing, and he felt a familiar tightening between his legs.

“What if,” Ron whispered, his voice shaking, “we just… pretend we already had the same idea. ‘Oh, Hermione, we thought you were still asleep, didn’t want to wake you, but now that we’re here…’ ”

“I dunno,” Harry whispered back, but he really, really wanted to. “We shouldn’t be looking at all.”

“Come off it, you know she’s looked at us, and more than once. Fair’s fair.” Harry remembered the flutter of her bedroom curtain when he and Ron had washed in the lake last summer.

Hermione turned and swam back toward the landing. Her breasts were a mere suggestion under the steamy surface of the water.

“There is no way I’m getting down there without her noticing what it does to me,” admitted Harry.

“Same, mate.” Harry glanced over. Ron was looking back, below his waist.

Oh, my god. Merlin and Morgana.

They both startled at a loud, irritated voice. “You two think you’re so slick! I know you’re watching – I can see your hair, Ron!”

“Fuck!” they both said, dropping below the sill. Ron tried to flatten his bright hair. 

“You two stay down until I get out!”

“Please can we look, Hermione?” Ron shouted back. Harry snorted, which set off Ron, and they both started laughing.

“Do not laugh when I’m naked!” shouted Hermione, sounding scandalised, and Harry bit his lips as Ron clapped both hands over his mouth. But he detected a whisper of humour in her voice. It was very encouraging.

“You look good,” Harry shouted.

“Incredible,” Ron agreed.

She made an angry, frustrated groan. “Flattery will get you nowhere, you lechers! Now stay down!”

A loud splash and the creak of wood boards indicated she had hauled herself up on the landing.

“Can we look now?” begged Harry. 

“This was such a mistake,” he thought he heard her mutter. Ron and Harry grinned at each other.

“Please?” they said in unison.

She sighed. After a moment of charged silence, she said, quietly enough that Harry almost didn’t hear her, “If you can get down here before I dry off… fine, you can look.”

Ron was stronger than Harry, but Harry was faster. Without hesitation, he shoved Ron off balance and bolted out the door and thundered down the stairs. He cleared the back porch and steps with a well-timed leap and skidded down the slope in his bare feet. He reached the landing as Ron staggered out the back door.

“You cheeky bastard!” Ron shouted at the top of his lungs. “Hermione, do not give him a show until I get there!”

Hermione was wrapped demurely in a large white towel, sitting on the landing with her legs tucked to her side. Her arms were wrapped protectively around herself and her face was bright red. She looked out at the lake.

Ron stumbled on his way down and landed in an ungainly heap next to Harry. He shot upright like a prize fighter. “I’m okay,” he said. “You haven’t dried off yet, have you?”

It broke the tension. Hermione started laughing. “I’ve never seen either of you move so fast. That leap, Harry…”

Harry grinned, trying not to leer. “I mean, you put one hell of a carrot in front of us, Hermione.”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s a fucking gazelle,” Ron said impatiently. “Show us your tits.”

Harry punched Ron’s shoulder without looking at him, but Hermione just laughed even harder. “All right, but I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

Harry and Ron both began talking at once, protestations and insistence that they were going to love them, that there was nothing she could show them that would disappoint them.

“Not even if you had a third nipple,” Ron finished.

“I don’t,” Hermione wheezed. She unwrapped the upper half of her towel. “See?”

Harry heard Ron draw a sharp breath next to him. Harry couldn’t breathe at all. They were perfect. They were neither large nor small, but they were full and hung attractively. Her nipples were small and pink. They peaked in the chill air. A rivulet of water suddenly ran from her wet hair and dripped off her right nipple.

“Holy fuck,” Harry whimpered without thinking. “Hermione.”

“What?” she asked, suddenly self-conscious as she started to cover herself again.

“No, don’t put them away – please don’t put them away,” Ron begged. “They’re incredible.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed nodding fervently. “I meant ‘holy fuck’ in a good way. A very good way. Look, you can see how much we like them,” he said, indicating below his and Ron’s waists.

“Oh, honestly,” she said, blushing deeper. But she quit trying to cover herself.

Harry was torn between what felt like a thousand wants. He wanted to touch her, touch himself, touch Ron, pull off the rest of her towel, get naked, get Ron naked, lick off those drips of lake water…

But he had not been asked to do any of those things. So, with his heart slamming against his ribs, he just stared at Hermione’s lovely, gorgeous, magnificent breasts, how they moved as she breathed, and squirmed at the discomfort of being so incredibly hard.

“All right, enough,” she said bossily and covered herself again amidst their protests. “No, you listen to me,” she said, raising her voice to be heard. “The deal was you got to look. That’s it – that’s all. You’ve seen them and now you can stop pestering me.”

She stood and primly walked up the slope. Harry and Ron watched her the whole way until she disappeared through the back door of the cottage.

“My balls have never been bluer,” Ron muttered.

Harry laughed. “I dunno. There’s something to be said for delayed gratification.”

Ron shoved him off the landing.

The lake was as warm as bathwater. Hary swam under the landing and resurfaced silently, relieved he hadn’t lost his glasses.

“Harry?” he heard Ron call tentatively, then more urgently, “Harry!”

From below, Harry saw Ron lay down on his front to peer over the edge of the landing. Harry went under again and positioned himself below Ron.

In a single, smooth manoeuvre, Harry gripped the edge of the landing and lifted himself far enough out of the water to land a kiss on Ron’s lips. Ron flinched back in surprise and Harry laughed as he dropped back into the water.

“Hey!” Ron said. “Not fair. Come back and do that properly.”

“Sure,” Harry grinned, hauling himself up. He dripped all over Ron as they sat together at the edge of the landing, legs dangling into the water. Harry wrapped an arm around Ron and kissed him warmly on the mouth. It was slow, and soft, and sweet. The only thing missing was…

“When are we going to tell Hermione?” Ron asked, speaking Harry’s thoughts aloud. “Don’t get me wrong, I love this –”

“I know. She should be here, too.”

“Merlin, her tits are incredible,” said Ron. “Even better than I imagined.”

Harry grinned, reliving the memory. That little drip of water off her nipple was going to haunt his dreams. “I can’t believe she actually showed us.”

“It’s a good sign, innit?”

“The greenest of lights. Come on, let’s go for a swim while it’s still warm.”

“Maybe she’ll come back,” Ron said brightly as they undressed. He glanced at the upper floor windows before kissing Harry again. Harry gently cradled Ron’s jaw with his fingers, enjoying the sharp rasp of his stubble against his own. He couldn’t help but smile – he had never been happy quite like this before.

The sun rose just as they slipped into the water. Harry loved the way Ron looked when the golden light touched his hair and skin. He seemed to glow, like an ancient god of the sun. Harry couldn’t help but stare, a stupid, sappy little grin on his face.

More incredibly, Ron was staring back. As if he thought Harry was beautiful, too.

 

They were busy the rest of the day with last minute party preparations, which was mostly watching Gran boss around all the staff she’d hired and exchanging furtive looks with each other that had nothing to do with the party.

Around the fire that evening, Ron lit Harry’s cigarette for him, and they smoked in silence. Hermione’s CD player was playing soft music. It was mellow and rhythmic, the perfect background to a night of firewhisky and cigarettes.

“Why are you two so quiet?” Hermione asked. She had lightened up considerably about their smoking, though she did still look mildly disapproving.

“Just thinking about your tits,” Harry said dreamily.

“Yeah,” agreed Ron.

She blushed and crossed her arms over her chest. “Can we just forget about all that, please?”

“No,” said Ron, chuckling.

“I’m going to dream about them,” said Harry. “God, Hermione, they’re perfect.”

Hermione groaned. “I have made such a mis–”

“If you say ‘mistake,’ I’ll never forgive you,” threatened Ron.

She grumbled, “Well, if you’re going to keep bringing it up…”

“It’s your fault for being so gorgeous,” Ron said.

“And generous,” said Harry, grinning. “If we didn’t say so before – thank you.” Hermione watched the way he brought his cigarette to his mouth and drew on it.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she snapped, snatching it from his mouth. Ron chuckled at her language.

“Hey!” Harry protested, but his irritation turned to shock as she took a long drag, exhaled a stream of glimmering white smoke, and put it back between his parted lips, her fingertips lingering on his bottom lip. She didn’t even cough.

Harry suddenly figured out why their stash was so low.

“That,” said Harry weakly, “was really fucking hot.” He crossed his legs tightly.

“Our Hermione has been holding out on us,” Ron laughed. “Come on, come on – do that to me. Harry’s right – it was so sexy.”

She rolled her eyes but gently repeated the motion for Ron. Her chest and neck were flushed. Watching her cheeks hollow like that did things to Harry – the suggestion of what else she might put in her mouth…

Hermione stood to pour a thimble of firewhisky into a glass. Her dress had rucked up a little and Harry and Ron watched with interest as she pulled it down. It seemed like every summer her skirts got shorter and her necklines got lower.

“Go easy, Hermione,” Ron warned as she knocked it back. “We’ve got a long day in the sun tomorrow.”

“Let me worry about me,” Hermione said lazily. “Oh, I love this song,” she said, closing her eyes and swaying to the music. The guitar and bass lines wove together in a sensual rhythm as two men with smooth, raspy voices sang about a woman.

Harry and Ron watched her for a moment, before something inside Harry said, Now.

He stubbed out the remains of his cigarette and stood up. He came up behind Hermione and slowly slid his arms around her waist. He put his chin on her shoulder and swayed with her. She gasped softly.

The singers crooned about “doin’ things I thought I couldn’t,” and if that wasn’t an apt description for his, Ron’s, and Hermione’s relationship, he had no idea what was. It made him feel… hedonistic and deliciously wicked.

He got closer, pulling her back so her lovely, firm arse was against him. He gently turned with her so they faced Ron, who watched with dark eyes. Harry caught his gaze and smiled languidly before pressing a kiss to Hermione’s shoulder, right where it reached her neck.  

She shuddered and gripped his arms where they linked around her. Ron casually made his way over. The song was coming to an end, and Harry pointedly looked at the player. Ron understood and pushed a button that made the song restart. I will never be able to listen to this song again without getting hard, he thought blissfully.

He gently sucked a mark onto Hermione’s neck as they continued to move to the music. “Harry,” she whispered, but she was looking at Ron. He understood. She was confused by the way Ron was watching – knowing, completely without envy and clearly aroused. Ron came closer and put his hands on Hermione’s hips.

Harry felt her shudder all over. “Ron, what –” But she broke off as Ron leaned in and kissed Harry over her shoulder. Harry closed his eyes.

All he could think was, Finally. The sensations… sliding under and over his skin… across his lips… inside his chest, his lungs, and between his legs… it was the most erotic moment of his life.

So far, Harry thought, the heat of anticipation flooding his lower belly.

Harry dropped his lips back to Hermione’s neck. She made a noise of pleasure in the back of her throat that Harry could feel under his mouth. Ron moved one hand to tangle in her curls as he leaned in to kiss her lips. She shuddered as their mouths moved languidly against each other.

“What –” Hermione tried to say again, but Harry gently shushed her.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispered against her skin. “Just do what feels good.”

Hesitantly, she put her arms around Ron’s neck and kissed him again. Then she turned in Harry’s arms and kissed him, too. Her lips were incredibly soft, and warm, and deliciously full. Harry could taste Ron’s lips on them. She was trembling all over, her breasts pressed against his chest.

I knew it, Harry thought with possessive satisfaction. She’ll have us.

He broke the kiss just to lean his forehead against hers. He swayed with her for a moment, staring down into her dark eyes. Their hips pressed together as they moved to the music and he knew she could feel his excitement.

Harry looked over at Ron and turned Hermione into his waiting arms before sitting down to face them. It was incredibly hot watching them move together, sometimes kissing, sometimes just staring at each other as if hypnotised as the song played on a loop.

Ron turned her around so he was dancing with her the same way Harry had started the whole thing. He whispered something into her ear and she snorted. “What?” said Harry.

Hermione giggled. “He said I should flash you.”

“That’s a brilliant idea,” he said, staring at the front of her dress. But she groaned, as if in frustration.

“Another time, perhaps,” she said, looking at her watch. “Ron’s right – we do have a long day tomorrow.”

“No, I’m not,” Ron said. “I’m very wrong – oh, bugger,” he muttered as Hermione pulled away from him, giving her heavy curls a shake.

“Don’t go just yet,” Harry said. “You kissed him for longer. Come sit with me.” He patted his knee.

She hesitated for only a second before coming over and lowering herself gingerly onto his left thigh. Harry scooped up her legs so she was fully on his lap with her legs dangling over the armrest. His heart pounding, he wrapped his left arm around her waist as she put her arms around his neck. Their lips met as Ron sat across from them.

They kissed for some time, Harry’s right palm warm on her hip. It would take so little effort to walk his fingers up to her breasts, or use his smallest finger to hook the hem of her dress and pull it up…

But this was all very new to Hermione, and Harry didn’t want to overwhelm her. All too soon, she made that same frustrated groan. The one Harry knew meant, “I-am-having-a-good-time-but-I-am-a-responsible-girl.”

She kissed Harry one more time before twisting off his lap.

“Good night,” she said. “And… tomorrow, we need to talk.”

Ron immediately made noises of protest and only stopped as Hermione kissed him, lingering just a little with her fingertips at his jaw. Harry said, “Or we could just stay up all night and – oh, she’s gone.”

“Why does she keep walking away like that?” Ron said in frustration, his hand still outstretched after her.

Harry grinned. “The art of seduction, mate. Always leave them wanting more.”

 

Hermione’s door was firmly shut when Harry and Ron went to bed. They had stayed up, kissing a little as the fire slowly died, and made a promise to save anything more for when Hermione was ready. Neither of them felt it was fair unless she decided for good that she wanted nothing to do with this.

Harry thought about it. He would have to accept it if she didn’t want to go any further. Things often looked different in the cold light of day, and even though all her signals pointed to ‘yes’ tonight, she could very well change her mind tomorrow. Hermione, like Harry, was a chronic overthinker.

But Harry’s heart sank at the thought of it. Everything felt right when they were together.

Notes:

Nobody posted my bail, so I'm still in horny jail. Sorry! But not really.

Chapter 12: Thank God You Have Two of Them

There was a pounding on the front door of the cottage at six the next morning. Harry ignored it, thinking it was just part of his dream, and it stopped. There was only a minute of reprieve before it started again, and Harry opened his eyes as Ron groaned and rolled out of bed. “I think I know who that is,” he muttered darkly.

“Gran?” yawned Harry.

“Worse,” said Ron. “Make sure Hermione doesn’t come down in those tiny little shorts.”

Harry lay in bed for a moment longer, blinking up at the ceiling. As his brain began to wake up, he started to remember fragments of last night. He bolted upright, suddenly excited.

As he tapped on Hermione’s door, he heard a cacophony of loud, familiar voices exchanging exuberant greetings downstairs.

“What?” he heard Hermione call crossly from behind her door.

“Can I come in?”

“Whatever.”

Harry slipped inside and closed the door behind him. “A cavalry of Weasleys has arrived,” he said casually.

She sat up and fumbled for her watch from her bedside cabinet. “What the devil do they think they’re doing here at this hour?”

“I dunno, but I hope it’s to fix breakfast.” He sat at the foot of her bed.

Hermione chuckled, sort of throaty and low. “How many?”

“By the sounds of it, all of them. Maybe even a few uncles.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” she snapped, scrubbing her cheeks with her hands. She squinted at him. “How are you so alert?”

Harry smiled slowly. “I hope you haven’t forgotten last night.”

She froze. Her eyes opened very wide. “Oh,” she said.

“Yes,” Harry said, boldly stretching out next to her and propping himself up on his elbow. “You don’t regret anything, do you?”

She stared at him, and Harry felt a definite shift in the atmosphere. “No,” she said firmly. “But I do want to talk about it.”

“That’ll have to wait,” Harry said regretfully. “I am sure someone is bound to come up the stairs soon.”

“All right, get out then.”

Harry grinned. “Better change – I can see your nipples through your shirt.”

“Out!” she said, covering herself with one arm, but she giggled.

 

When Harry went downstairs a few minutes later, dressed but neither shaven nor showered, he counted seven Weasleys crammed into the ground floor – Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Charlie, Ron, Ginny, and someone Harry thought might be one of Mr. Weasley’s brothers. Out of the sitting room window, he saw seven more Weasleys – Fred and George, Mrs. Weasley’s twin brothers Gideon and Fabian Prewett, Percy, and two boys who did not look quite old enough for Hogwarts. Fred and George were doing something at the fire pit.

Mrs. Weasley, to Harry’s relief, was in the process of lighting the hob as Mr. Weasley, Charlie, and Ron unpacked bags of food onto the counter.

“Morning, Harry!” said Mr. Weasley amiably as Ginny snuck up the stairs to look for Hermione amidst jocular greetings. “Have you met my brother, Richard?”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Harry, shaking hands with the only person in the room Harry didn’t know. He was balding in the same pattern as Mr. Weasley and bore a strong resemblance to Charlie around his eyes and nose.

“Delighted,” said Richard. “Heard loads about you from Ron. My boys are outside – Edward and Edmund. Don’t worry,” he added, lowering his voice, “everyone gets them mixed up. My fault for not putting my foot down when my wife named them.”

“Are they twins?” Harry asked. “And is your wife here?”

“Irish twins,” he said, chuckling. “Edward’s older by ten months. Nadine will be along later. Wanted to give her a bit of a lie-in.”

“Very considerate of you,” grinned Harry, making a mental note. “Are there points for being a good husband?”

“Not points, but perks, definitely.” Harry laughed.

Despite the early hour, Harry was happy to have his second family crammed into the tiny cottage. It gave him a brief glimpse into what life would be like with siblings and cousins he actually liked. He chatted briefly with Charlie before going back to the kitchen.

“Can I help you, Mrs. Weasley?” Harry asked, squeezing his way between Bill and Ron. She was cracking eggs onto a huge, steaming griddle that covered the whole surface of the hob, where slices of streaky bacon and blood sausage were just starting to sizzle. There were several loaves of homemade bread and mountains of fresh fruit on the counter. The satsumas were peeling themselves, a set of knives sliced the bread, and Harry noticed a colander swishing grapes under cold water in the sink.

“Sweet of you, Harry,” she replied, turning to pat his cheek hello, “but I can manage. Although, can you send Edward and Edmund in? They said they wanted to do the muffins.”

“I’ll come with,” said Ron. “Getting a bit stuffy in here.”

Harry saw that Fred and George were roasting tomatoes and mushrooms and simmering a pot of beans over the fire. Gideon and Fabian were setting up a large vat of coffee on the porch on a table next to jugs of fruit juices that Percy was fussily arranging in perfect rows.

“All right, Harry?” Gideon said, clapping him on the shoulder as Ron shouted for his cousins to go inside. “Sorry for the invasion. You know how my sister gets.”

“I suspect the decision was up to more than just Mrs. Weasley,” grinned Harry.

“Ah, well, Ronny was getting a little too independent,” he laughed, ruffling Ron’s hair. Ron shrugged and smiled. Harry knew only Gideon and Mrs. Weasley could ever get away with calling him that – Fred bore a scar from the last time he’d tried it.

Harry heard more shouts of greetings from inside – either Hermione had just come downstairs or another unanticipated guest had arrived. Harry peered through the sitting room windows. The answer was both – Harry saw more red hair beyond Hermione’s curls and thought for a moment it was another Weasley, but it turned out to be his mother. As he watched, Remus followed her through the front door.

“What exactly is everyone doing here?” Harry wondered aloud.

“I dunno. Maybe nobody answered at the manor,” said Ron.

“Or they just followed their nose,” Harry said, inhaling deeply. His mouth watered at all the delicious scents coming from the fire pit and the open cottage windows.

“D’you think we have enough plates?” said Ron.

“No, but we can conjure more. There are more than enough wands here.”

“Ha,” said Ron. “That’s what Ginny says when she’s sick of being the only girl – ‘there are too many wands in this room.’ ” Harry snorted. Briefly, he wondered if Hermione would think there were too many wands in their… was this a relationship now? Really and truly? His heart lifted even further at the thought.

He rapped sharply on the window, then beckoned to his mother as she turned away from hugging Hermione. She nodded to him and squeezed through the scrum of Weasleys, pulling Remus along by his hand. Her hair was only a few shades darker than their signature copper.

“All right, darling?” she said, hugging Harry and kissing his cheek.

“ ‘Lo, Mum! Remus,” he said, grinning and pulling him into a quick one-armed hug. “What’re you doing in our corner of the woods?”

“Breakfast,” said Remus with relish.

“We could smell it from the road,” said Lily as she accepted Ron’s kiss to her cheek with a warm smile.

“Is Gran not receiving guests yet or something?”

“We didn’t even try – I didn’t feel like being put to work,” she said airily. “I wanted to see you, but it looks like everyone else had the same idea.”

“From what I understand, this isn’t even half of the Weasley clan,” said Harry.

“It’s true,” said Ron. “Grandad and my great uncles and their families are supposed to be coming, and Uncle John has five grown boys and a good bit of them are married with their own kids.” Harry knew Ron had cousins at Hogwarts, but they weren’t close enough for much more than a friendly nod or hello in the corridors or common room.

“How do you keep track of them all?” she asked as Ginny and Hermione came out onto the porch.

“Nametags,” said Ginny. “ ‘Hey, you!’ also works.”

A loud burst of swearing and hissing clouds of steam erupted from the fire ring, where the beans had boiled over. “I told you to watch them!” shouted George.

“And I told you to shove it up your arse,” Fred shouted back.

Hermione covered her laughter with her hand.

“Oi! No eating on the couch!” Ron bellowed, glaring through the window at Edmund or Edward. “And get your shoes off the furniture!”

“Make me!” the boy shouted back.

“Little git,” Ron muttered darkly, stomping back inside.

Remus and Lily went to introduce themselves to the Weasleys they hadn’t met yet. Once the commotion at the firepit died down, Fred called to Hermione and beckoned her over with a smirk and a curled finger that Harry knew not to trust. Harry shot him a filthy look in warning.

“Watch out for Fred,” he murmured to Hermione as she brushed past him. “You look good enough to eat.” She was wearing one of her pretty sundresses and her hair was done in a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck. Hermione smiled at him, her brown eyes shining.

“So nice that you three have such a cozy little nest all to yourselves,” Ginny said with a very pointed look.

Harry smirked back at her. “I never thanked you for kicking my arse,” he said. “Without you, I probably would have kept being stupid and nothing… would have been possible.”

“I know,” said Ginny, grinning at him. “Try not to fuck it up, all right?” She patted his bicep and went over to George.

Ron came back out with a grumpy expression and looked over at Hermione and Fred. Harry gritted his teeth as Fred flirtatiously touched a stray curl of Hermione’s. He indulged a quick fantasy about slicing Fred’s hand off with a severing charm. “I’ll take care of that,” Ron said, correctly interpreting Harry’s look. “When he least expects it.”

“What’s he playing at?” complained Harry.

Ron shrugged. “You know Fred. He likes his chaos.”

Mrs. Weasley called, “Breakfast’s ready! Where are the beans?”

“In hell,” muttered George as he took the tray of roasted tomatoes and mushrooms inside.

The tiny cottage was positively stifling with the heat of the cooking and mass of bodies, and Ron was adamant no one could eat in the sitting room. Harry and Hermione caught each other’s eye as they heard him arguing with Charlie and Bill over it. Even after the two Mr. Weasleys took it upon themselves to conjure chairs all over the porch and around the fire ring, it was still a tight fit. Harry lost half of his mushrooms to an unfortunately aimed elbow.

“Someone should have brought a dog,” Ron said dryly, eyeing similar spills around the area.

“Grapes and tomatoes are toxic to dogs,” said Hermione.

“Why do you know everything?” Ron asked her.

“Because you don’t,” she said primly, making Harry laugh.

It was a truly enjoyable morning. Hermione and Ginny disappeared for a bit, and Harry thought it had something to do with too many wands. Ron had once told Harry and Hermione she was the only Weasley girl that had been born in seven generations. At the time, it had sent Hermione waxing philosophic on all the properties of the number seven in Arithmancy as Ron pulled faces at yet another instance of being overshadowed by a sibling.

Which was why Harry adored watching Ron here, confidently ordering his family around as if the cottage were a castle. He stood so tall and handsome, and Harry’s heart fluttered every time he caught a glimpse of him. As much as he enjoyed this morning’s invasion, Harry could not wait to get Ron and Hermione alone again. When she and Ginny returned, they were giggling about something.

Lily set off fireworks with her wand around ten and announced that it was almost time for the party to start. “If you’re staying the whole weekend, don’t dawdle if you want first crack at sleeping arrangements.”

“And nobody leaves until this place is spotless!” added Ron, glaring sternly around. “That goes double for you,” he said, pointing at Edmund and Edward.

“Thanks for coming,” Hermione said as people started to leave in groups of twos and threes.

“And thanks for leaving,” said Harry comfortably.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were the last to leave. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said to her as she hugged Hermione. “It was delicious, as always.”

“Don’t mention it, dear,” she said. “Ron says you cook all summer. Whenever you want a break, you come see me, all right?”

“I will,” Harry grinned, bending low to hug her goodbye.

The silence felt loud after a morning of noise and movement. Harry felt tired in a happy sort of way, as he always did after any Weasley gathering.

The mood slowly shifted as they realised the three of them were well and truly alone for the first time since last night. There was the heady undertone of sexual excitement, but also the awkwardness of being the first to bring it up.

“D’you want first shower, Hermione?” Ron asked her politely.

Harry smiled to himself. It wasn’t just politeness – going after Hermione meant showering amidst steamy clouds of her lovely magnolia perfume, even if there were long strands of hair left in the drain.

“Thank you,” she said.

Ron and Harry noticed her blush as she turned away. “Do you want us to join you?” Ron asked.

“You know, just in case you slip and fall,” said Harry, looking innocent.

“Oh, honestly,” she said, her whole face aflame. “Don’t think I’m just going to fall into bed with you two because of last night.”

“We didn’t say anything about beds,” said Ron, pretending to be confused.

“Unless you want to talk about beds,” Harry said, giving her a slow smile.

She averted her eyes in the way she did when she didn't want to be charmed. “I want to talk, but not about that. Not yet,” she said, and her shy, slightly apprehensive tone made Harry stop teasing.

“All right. Whenever you want to,” he said.

She cleared her throat, still looking away. “What are you two going to do while I’m in there?”

Harry and Ron looked at each other. “D’you want us to hold off and wait for you?” Ron asked.

“You don’t have to,” she said, but her voice and the way she held her shoulders stiffly said she hoped otherwise.

“We don’t mind waiting, Hermione,” Harry said softly. “We’ve only ever kissed each other.”

“You swim naked together,” she said immediately.

“I mean, we’ve been naked around each other loads simply because we share a bathroom and a dormitory. Are you telling me girls aren’t the same?” said Ron.

“Well, the context is different,” she mumbled.

“We’ll wait until we can talk about it,” Harry said, and Ron nodded in agreement.

Hermione looked between the two of them and gave them an apprehensive smile before going up the stairs.

Ron turned to Harry, his blue eyes sparkling. “So it wasn’t a dream? Last night really happened?”

“It really did,” said Harry, unable to keep the grin off his face.

 

Hermione showered and dressed in a rush. “I can’t believe I forgot – I have to meet my parents in Godric’s Hollow or they can’t get past the charms!” she said with great agitation.

“At least give us a kiss before you – oh, bugger, she’s gone,” grumbled Ron. Hermione had apparated away. “Don’t suppose you’ll kiss me?” he said to Harry.

“I would love to,” said Harry, “but we just agreed to her face not to.”

“I know,” Ron said sadly. “It was a rhetorical question.”

“Suppose we’d best get ready,” Harry said, rubbing his jaw. “Can I go first? I need to get rid of this,” he said, indicating the two-day patchy growth of stubble.

“Sure,” said Ron. “D’you think we can get Hermione alone? Or is she going to be with her parents all day?”

“Ha,” said Harry. “If you think your dad and Mr. Granger are going to be anything other than attached at the hip, you’ve never met them.” He almost rubbed his hands together in glee. Much of the Potter estate was wooded, which meant plenty of places to sneak off and smooch.

Harry and Ron had lived together long enough to amicably share routines. They worked around each other easily with unspoken rules – whoever had to shave got first shower, and did so while the second took their turn. The only hang up was how steamy the mirror got, until Ron had the brilliant idea to put an anti-fogging charm on it.

They had done it this way for years. Except now there was less hiding behind towels and curtains and many more lingering looks and blatant stares. Harry’s muscle tone was coming back over his and Ron’s summer Quidditch practices, which did wonders for his confidence.

While Harry loved all the sexual undercurrents that came with sharing space this way, he also loved the simple domesticity of it. The ritual and proximity were comforting, and he missed it on days when Ron was not there. Harry hoped Hermione would someday be comfortable enough to be included in daily routines. He imagined her there right now, sharing the mirror, her trying not to jostle his blade with her elbow as she put her hair up and Ron towel-dried himself.

There is so much to look forward to, he thought. So long as I don’t fuck it up.

By the time Harry and Ron had finished (Ron had taken an inexplicable amount of time choosing the right shorts), they were running late and had missed the grand opening of Gran’s party. It was Friday, and the party would last until late into the night on Sunday, July 14, which was her actual birthday.

Grandad had explained there was meant to be a natural progression to the party – the first day was all about getting one’s bearings, settling in, and enjoying the entertainment. There would be bonfires and fireworks at night, and music and activities all day. Anyone wishing to compete in the tournaments could brush up their skills. On Saturday, the races and competitions would begin in earnest, and there were event schedules tacked up everywhere so no one would miss anything. On Sunday there would a grand feast in Gran’s honour, where she would magnanimously bestow prizes upon the winners and give a speech.

As they walked along the road that led to the manor and the main areas of the estate – Ron took Harry’s hand and interlaced their fingers. “Hermione can’t complain about this,” Ron reasoned. “Nothing romantic at all about two blokes walking through the woods hand-in-hand.”

Harry chuckled. “Speak for yourself. My knees are weak.”

Ron grinned, mischief sparkling in his blue eyes. “I can help with that,” he said. He let go of Harry’s hand and in one smooth move, literally swept Harry off his feet and carried him like a princess, making Harry shout in surprised delight.

Harry laughed harder than he had in quite some time, his arms around Ron’s neck and feeling both utterly ridiculous and completely smitten as Ron carried him along the road effortlessly. He thought about Hermione, too, and how they could take turns carrying her however she liked. He could not wait to see her again, though it had only been an hour or so since they last were together.

Ron finally put him down as they got closer to the meadow where they had seen the mooncalves last summer. The archery range was set up in the meadow, festooned with long ropes of brightly coloured pennants strung between trees. Only a few attendants were there so far.

“Hang on,” said Harry, an idea occurring to him. He told Ron his idea, and together they rigged up a roadblock of rocks and branches, and conjured a rustic sign that read, “Restricted access.”

“See if that doesn’t guarantee us some privacy at night,” said Harry, viewing their work with satisfaction.

“Or whenever,” said Ron. “If we had more time we could put up some of those protective charms we learned about in Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

“As is, we have to rely on the honour of our fellow wizards and witches.”

“And a few Muggles,” said Ron.

Once they passed the meadow, there were signs along the road directing guests to the archery range and the footpath to the Quidditch field. They started to see signs of life heading in the opposite direction – a few Hogwarts students and a group of chattering witches that included two Harry recognised as having modelled for Sleekeasy, their perfect, shiny hair setting them apart from their friends. 

Ron had naturally perfect copper waves that needed no intervention. “Must be nice,” Hermione had muttered darkly when Ron confessed all he did was wash and comb it. Harry had snorted and gently tugged the end of one of her curls.

“Too bad about my face, though,” smirked Ron, which had flustered Hermione.

As they got closer to the manor and its sweeping front lawn, they came across more knots of people, many that Harry did not recognise. A few were Weasleys, who Ron introduced him to as Harry immediately forgot their names. There was a family from the village whose two boys ran up to say hello and ask if he’d brought his firebolt and if he was going to use it in the broom races tomorrow all in the same breath.

“D’you think it would be fair if I did?” he asked, smiling.

“No!” said the younger of the two. “That’s the whole point!”

Ron laughed. As the boys ran off, following signs to the Quidditch pitch, Harry looked around for Hermione, but at this point, she could be anywhere on the whole estate. He wished he had an enchanted map to find her.

“We better find your Gran,” Ron said. Harry spotted Grandad in the English garden on the west side of the manor, chuckling with a familiar dark-haired man in glasses.

Oh, fuck. How could I have forgotten? Harry thought as he froze in place. Ron saw him staring, and put a bracing arm around his shoulders.

“What do you need?” Ron murmured close to his ear.

“Distance,” said Harry immediately.

“All right, let’s find Hermione, then.”

“How?” asked Harry in agitation.

“Point me to Hermione,” Ron said, holding his wand flat in his palm. It turned like the needle of a compass, pointing down the road that went past Grandad’s potion shop, in the direction of the meadow where all the luxury tents were.

“Clever,” said Harry, clutching at the distraction. “Where did you learn that one?”

“Invented it,” said Ron casually, leading the way.

“Blimey, Ron,” said Harry, deeply impressed. “That’s brilliant!” Harry was very good at spells, and could combine them to do creative and powerful things, but he had never attempted to invent one.

“Yeah, don’t cream your pants,” said Ron crassly, making Harry laugh.

“I could if you helped me,” Harry said, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Stop that,” grinned Ron. “There she is.” He stowed his wand as Harry looked where he was pointing.

She had her arm linked through her mother’s. They were laughing about something together, Hermione’s nose crinkling in the way that indicated her enjoyment was genuine, as Mr. Granger and Mr. Weasley chatted and gesticulated with great excitement. As Harry and Ron approached, Harry realised they were comparing Muggle vs. Magical tents, both overjoyed to explain and be explained to.

“Why are they so cute?” asked Harry, watching the two men fondly. His own father was still on his mind. It made him sad that he couldn’t imagine him relating to either Mr. Weasley or Mr. Granger particularly well.

“Kindred spirits always are,” Ron said sagely.

A familiar ginger cat came sprinting along the road. “Crookshanks!” said Harry and Ron together, but Hermione’s cat had other things on his mind and spared no time, not even a glance, for Harry and Ron. He disappeared into the bracken.

Hermione looked up at their voices. “Go on,” Harry heard Mrs. Granger say affectionately, doing a little shooing motion. “We’re in good hands.”

Hermione walked towards them with a deliberate casualness that Harry knew meant she was inwardly bursting to run and skip over to them like an eleven-year-old.

“Oh, no, did you have to wear those shorts?” was the first thing Hermione said to Ron. She seemed flustered.

“What’s wrong with them?” asked Ron, looking down.

“Nothing, they’re just…” she gestured helplessly, staring.

“Oh,” Harry said, understanding. “She means your arse looks incredible in them and she can’t concentrate.”

“Oh, really,” smirked Ron.

“Shut up,” snapped Hermione, her cheeks an attractive shade of pink. “Come on, what do you want to do first?”

Ron looked around to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard, and gave Hermione a look that was similar to the one Harry used when he wanted something. “Snog,” he said.

“Oh,” she said in a breathy voice. Harry noticed her squirm. “Erm, is now the time?”

“Any time’s the time for me,” Harry insisted. 

“Well, all right,” she said slowly, and looked around – her parents and Mr. Weasley were far down the road. “Over here.”

“Can we agree that kissing whenever and whoever we like is acceptable?” Ron said as they followed Hermione behind the trunk of a massive oak.

“You mean only between the three of us?” said Hermione sternly. Harry covered a grin – her implied “or else” amused him to no end.

“Of course,” said Ron. “We’re exclusive.”

“Package deal,” said Harry.

“All right, I can agree to that,” she said cautiously.

“Oh, good,” said Ron, and pulled her against him. She melted into him, her arms going around his neck. Harry stared as they kissed passionately. Ron lifted her up, and the way his freckled, long-fingered hands looked splayed over her dress had Harry growing half a bar.

Hermione broke the kiss to look over at Harry. Ron kissed just under her jaw. “Harry,” she breathed as her eyes fluttered closed.

Harry did not need telling twice. Ron gently put Hermione down so she could turn to Harry. But Ron did not let go, he merely moved his mouth to Hermione’s shoulder as Harry put his hands on her hips and leaned down to kiss her full on her mouth. She put her arms around his neck. One hand slid into his hair, and Harry’s eyes rolled back with the pleasure of her fingers against his scalp.

“What did you – do with the mark I made last night?” asked Harry between kisses. The skin on her neck was smooth, though he knew he’d left a little love bite.

“You couldn’t have expected me to keep it,” she breathed, torn between arousal and sternness. “What – would I tell my parents and all those – ah – Weasleys that were here this morning? Oh! Oh my god, Ron – do that again.”

Ron chuckled. Harry was no longer half-hard; he was at full attention, pressing into the softness of Hermione’s belly, just below where Ron’s arms were joined around her. Her little gasps of pleasure were driving him insane.

“I – I can’t believe this is real,” she said as Harry kissed a line down the side of her neck and Ron pulled the opposite shoulder of her dress and bra strap off so he could have better access. “It’s like a dream.”

“Hopefully not a nightmare,” Ron said against her skin.

“No,” she insisted, shivering. “Like it’s too good to be true. As though I’ve used all the luck I ever had in my life to get here.” When Harry’s lips hit a spot just where her neck met her shoulder, she shuddered all over and could no longer speak. He could feel the points of her breasts rubbing against his chest, Ron’s arms keeping her from fully pressing against Harry.

Harry heard voices on the road, but he was confident they were hidden from view, and there was no reason for anyone to come around to this side of the tree. As caught up in the moment as he was, he didn’t realize they were standing in a thick patch of ferns that were tickling the backs of his knees.

Hermione froze when she heard them. Harry pulled back just slightly to see her face and Ron stopped his exploration of Hermione’s bare shoulder. “They can’t see us,” Harry whispered.

“I know,” Hermione whispered back, “but you know… we really can’t do this all day.”

“Why not?” Ron said petulantly.

Hermione shushed him. “Because it’s all right for you if we get caught – people will see it as boys being boys, but I’ll become the Slag Queen,” she hissed, pulling her dress back into place.

“Long live Her Majesty,” said Ron solemnly.

“I’m serious,” she said, but she was giggling.

Harry liked the feel of her laughter against him. He kissed Ron over Hermione’s shoulder. “Come on,” Hermione insisted. “Let me go.”

With reluctance, Harry and Ron stepped away from her as she asked, “How’s my hair?”

“Gorgeous as always,” said Ron.

She beamed at him. “I mean, do I look like I’ve just been for a snog in the woods?”

“Not by your hair,” Harry said. “But your lips are definitely red.”

“Morgana, that’s the best kind of lipstick, innit?” said Ron, staring with a satisfied look on his face, proud that he and Harry had done that to her.

“Did you leave any marks this time?” she asked, rubbing her lips self-consciously.

“Not for lack of trying,” said Harry and Ron in unison. They all three looked at each other, then burst out laughing. Harry’s heart felt ready to explode with happiness.

“All right,” said Hermione, her dark brown eyes sparkling. “So we’ve snogged.” She ticked it off on her fingers. “What’s next?” Harry held out his hand to help keep her steady on the loamy ground as they walked back to the road.

Ron said, “In terms of physical stuff or…?” 

“The party,” she said. Now that they were away from behind the oak, and other people were around, she seemed shy.

They did as much as they could fit into the rest of the day – they sought out Gran to thank her for her hospitality and wish her well, cheered on the hippogriff jousting, checked out the little market made up of open-sided tents that ringed the large front lawn, visited the catering tent for spit-roasted meats and vegetables, and briefly stopped to chat when they saw people they knew (but they casually went in the opposite direction when they saw Harry’s father). There was a tense moment when Ron said hello to Seamus. Hermione took Harry’s hand and gave him a look that said, “I-know-I’m-one-to-talk-but-stop-acting-jealous.”

As the sun started to dip below the horizon, they stopped to listen to one of the bands Grandad had hired. He’d been in charge of music and finding vendors for the market, and Harry thought he’d done a very good job. Harry spotted Ginny on the fringe of a crowd of people dancing. She looked sort of forlorn – which was at odds against her usual confident personality.

“Be right back. You two should dance,” Harry said to Hermione and Ron.

Ron immediately bowed over her hand and formally requested a dance. She accepted, her eyes soft. Harry squeezed around the edges of the crowd to get to Ginny.

“Hey,” he said. He had to speak up to be heard over the music.

She looked up and shook herself a little. She hadn’t noticed him approach. “Hey,” she replied.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” she said, looking out at the crowd.

“No, you’re not,” he said, trying to figure out who she was looking for. Or at.

“No, I’m not,” she agreed.

“Is it the person you’re hung up on?” he asked bluntly.

Ginny wrinkled her nose. “How’d you guess?”

“I know what pining looks like,” he said. “Come on – out with it. You helped me with my problem and I’m eternally grateful. I want to return the favour.”

She looked around, then motioned him closer, standing on tiptoe to speak close to his ear. “All right. Look, don’t get your knickers in a knot over it, but he’s a Slytherin.”

“Ohh,” Harry said, understanding the problem immediately. Gryffindors and Slytherins, in general, loathed each other, as did their families. It was a very Shakespearean situation. “If it’s Malfoy, I’m out.”

“No – fucking – way,” she said. “But he is in your year.”

“It’s Zabini, isn’t it?” he said, his eyes darting around. He was the only Slytherin boy in his year who didn’t look like a troll or a ferret. Sure enough, there was Blaise Zabini, looking tall and imposing on the other side of the dancing area. He held a glass of what Harry guessed was mead and looked around in a manner that Harry associated with purebloods of generational wealth – casual, bored, as if they were above it all. He was chatting with a girl Harry thought might be a Slytherin fifth year.

“Yeah,” she mumbled.

“Ah, poor Juliet,” Harry said dryly. At that she did crack a smile. “Aren’t you worried his mum will do you in the same way she’s done all her husbands?”

“Not if we elope to America,” she said, but she was joking.

“I mean it, Ginny – you’ve got to be careful with mummy’s boys.”

“I don’t think he is one any more than you are,” she said coolly.

“My mum made a solemn oath to preserve life,” he said. He was quiet, thinking of her. “Is he a blood supremacist?”

“No,” she said defensively.

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s half-blood,” she said. “His dad’s a Muggle. And still alive, before you ask. He wasn’t rich enough to bump off. And if you haven’t noticed, Harry, our family isn’t what you’d call ‘well-off,’ either, so I’m safe.”

“How are you so… nonchalant?” He had almost said blasé, but that seemed too on the nose.

She shrugged. “I’m attracted to danger. It’s why my crush on you was so short-lived.”

He ignored that for now. “I don’t know, Ginny. I want to help you, but –”

“I never said I needed your help,” she snapped. She stalked off, leaving Harry more than a little confused.

I didn’t know Slytherin accepted anything other than purebloods, thought Harry. But then, he usually tried not to think of Slytherin.

He watched Ron and Hermione. They looked unbearably cute, and clearly so happy to be with each other. Before he could decide to join them, he felt a shift in the atmosphere. When he looked to his right, he was not surprised to see his father there. “Harry,” James said.

Harry looked him over, nodded, and turned back to watch Ron and Hermione. His heart was pounding as he and his father stood in silence. Harry did not know what to say. He had read all of his father’s letters, but had not replied to a single one. And while Harry felt a painful sort of hope to hear his father’s voice after so long, he was acutely aware of a repressed anger rising inside him.

“Good to see you,” his father said tentatively.

“Right,” said Harry stiffly.

“How are y–”

“Let’s be clear,” Harry said, turning to face his father. He crossed his arms. “I’m not ready to talk to you yet. You can stand near me, but I don’t want to hear anything until I ask you. Can you agree to that?”

His father nodded, though his lips were tight. Harry was past caring if James thought he was impudent. If his father was truly sorry, he would act like it.

“Good,” said Harry, and turned back to look for Ron and Hermione. He caught sight of them just as Hermione turned her head and beamed back at him. She did a double take when she saw who was standing next to him. She stopped dancing and patted Ron’s face urgently. Unfortunately for Ron, she wasn’t looking at him when she did, and got him in the eye.

Ron rubbed his eye and squinted over at Harry and his father. It was both endearing and comical, the deer-in-the-headlights looks on their faces, the way they tried to act casual as they sauntered off the dance floor, hovering nearby and muttering suspiciously to each other behind their hands.

With only a short glance at his father, Harry went to them.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Where?” asked Ron.

“Anywhere,” said Harry.

It was dark now, and Harry saw lots of little magic fires popping up across the front lawn in different colours, where groups of friends and families huddled around with drinks, stories, and laughter. It made the vast open space look like a long string of rainbow fairy lights. All the windows and doors of the manor were open, and Harry could hear more conversation and laughter from inside.

He didn’t really want to go all the way back to the cottage. He wasn’t done with the evening; he just wanted a moment. There was still a fireworks show to watch, and he wanted to stay up late around somebody’s campfire – he wasn’t picky about whose.

“Do you want to talk about it?” asked Hermione as they wandered around the edges of the lawn.

“No,” said Harry, suddenly pulling her to him and nuzzling into her shoulder. “I want to be distracted. I want you both to help me put all this aside for a little while.”

Hermione pulled away, looking apprehensive. Harry winced. He realised how he must seem – dark and demanding. “I don’t mean it like that, Hermione. Just… I could do with a cuddle.”

She relaxed. “I think I know how to do that.”

“I definitely do,” said Ron, hugging Harry. He kissed him gently at the corner of his mouth.

“Let’s just sit by ourselves for a bit,” Hermione said, looking around.

Not much later, by the light of one of Hermione’s signature bluebell flames and partially shielded by a shrub, Harry decided he did want to talk, but not about his father. He wanted to talk about themselves, what all this meant for them. “Are… are we telling anyone?” he asked. He lay with his head in Hermione’s lap, watching as she and Ron kissed each other. It was an interesting angle.

“What, like an announcement?” Ron smirked, looking down at him. “We could do it with a Howler.”

“Spell it out with fireworks,” Hermione said. She stroked Harry’s hair, sending electric tingles down his spine.   

They were jokes, Harry knew. Hermione was right about how it would be different for her if the exact details of their relationship came to light. It was not at all a common occurrence outside of pornography, or at least Harry didn’t think it was. He’d never heard of anyone in a trio, anyway, except for what Sirius had vaguely alluded to the night he’d told him and Remus how he felt.

He was still figuring out what to call it. Triad was another option, but he wasn’t fully sold on it.

“Seriously,” Harry said.

He could feel Hermione tense. “Probably not yet,” she said softly.

“All right, so we’re just a sexy little secret,” Ron said, kissing her again. 

“For now,” she insisted. “I just want to keep you both to myself for a while before I worry about what anyone else thinks. Is that wrong?”

“No,” said Harry. “Ron’s right – there is something naughty about sneaking around.”

“With each other,” Hermione insisted.

“Obviously, Hermione,” said Ron. He leaned down to kiss Harry. Harry closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of Hermione’s thighs below him and Ron’s lips against his.

“What’s your opinion on Ron and me?” asked Harry as Ron sat up again. “You know we’re going to be alone together much more often just as a matter of course. Are you going to get jealous?”

She was quiet. “I don’t know,” she said. “I never believed it was a possibility before. To have you both. People don’t get lucky like this. I always thought… one day I’d have to choose. But I hated the idea. And I thought if I never let it get to that point, I could have all of your attention. Or make you choose for me. The longer I took to decide, the worse it felt. Like I was being unfaithful.”

“Hermione…” Harry said. He sat up so he could kiss her tenderly. She took his hand when they broke apart.

“I want to be fair to you,” she said, licking her lips. “I don’t want to keep you two apart. I just… I’m afraid you’ll want to move… faster with each other than I’m ready to go with you. And you’ll leave me behind for it.”

Ron put his arms around her. “Never,” he said. Then, after a beat, he asked, “Would you wanna watch?”

Harry smacked him on the thigh, but Hermione laughed. “Eventually,” she admitted. “I love having all your attention, but I’d be lying if I said I don’t get excited about the thought of you two sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” asked Ron seductively, kissing her neck. She made a little noise that Harry was starting to realise meant one of them had found a really good spot. He paid close attention – Ron’s lips were right where her neck met her shoulder.

“Can I be blunt?” Harry asked, squirming. “Ron, stop for a second, she can’t speak when you do that.”

“I aim to please,” Ron said, pulling away. Hermione made a frustrated little groan.

“Yes, that’s the point,” said Harry. “Hermione. I think we should be on the same page, especially if we’re going to keep snogging like this. Do you want to have sex with us? I don’t mean right now, just… ever?”

Ron went very still, waiting for her answer.

“Someday,” she promised. She blushed deeply as she mumbled, “Though, I have no idea how to make it fair when there’s three of us.”

Harry looked at Ron, then back at Hermione. “I don’t care about firsts, or keeping score,” Harry said. “Just that you’re happy.”

Hermione smiled at him. When she looked to Ron, he shrugged. “I don’t, either. You get a choice between the one who has, and the one who hasn’t. Though, I think I can speak for Harry when I say it would hurt our feelings if you went with one of us, but then refused to with the other.”

“I would never,” said Hermione, taking both of their hands. “Never. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. There has never been any doubt in my mind how much I care about you both. Equally.”

They took turns kissing each other in the blue light of the fire. Before anything could get too heated, a single rocket flared up into the sky, whistling as it went, and burst into bright, crackling stars, signalling the beginning of the fireworks. Hermione dimmed the intensity of their fire with her wand.

Grandad had hired a company to set them off in an empty field to the northwest of the Quidditch pitch. They could be seen from nearly anywhere on the estate where the trees did not block the view and where guests were allowed.

“Nice!” said Ron, admiring the next volley. “George said some of theirs are in the lineup. They’re going to be richer than the Malfoys, just you wait.”

“Nobody’s richer than the Malfoys,” scoffed Hermione.

“I dunno, I’ll bet Blaise Zabini’s mum has comparable wealth,” said Harry, smirking.

“The black widow?” said Hermione. “How has nobody thrown her in Azkaban when it’s such an open secret?”

“Bribes and blackmail, I expect,” said Ron. “It’s how the Malfoys keep their Dark Artifacts collection and avoid raids, despite tip-offs. And before you ask, no, my dad does not accept bribes – we wouldn’t struggle just to get stuff for school if he did.”

He and Hermione shared an uncomfortable look as the fireworks exploded overheard, bathing them in red and green light. Ron so clearly resented his family’s lack of money, but also refused to accept expensive gifts or handouts. He had his pride. Harry consoled himself that Healing would pay very well.

“Anyway,” Ron said, settling back onto his elbows with his legs straight out in front of him, “I brought these.” He procured a small packet of WWW cigarettes from his pocket. “They’re pineapple.”

Hermione took one, then glanced around as if to assure herself that no first-years or authority figures were looking, and allowed Ron to light it for her with his wand. She took a long draw, pulling on the little flame and looking like a pro as she did it. Harry wondered how long she’d been holding out on them.

“What made you change your mind about these things?” Ron asked, but his eyes were on Harry as Harry lit up. They liked watching each other take their first long pulls – the suggestion of lips encircling the tip and cheeks just slightly hollowing was always titillating. 

“I read the carton,” she said in a resigned sort of way.

“And noticed they were non-toxic and non-addictive, did you?” Harry grinned at her. He liked the pineapple flavour, though his favourite was still cream soda, and the effervescence in his mouth and lungs was pleasant and relaxing.

“Yes, smart arse, I did. Should have figured wizards would find a way to remove all the things that make them bad for you.”

“All that’s left is the pleasure,” Ron said pointedly.

“If you’re going to ask me to show you my tits again…”

Harry cracked up as Ron said, “Maybe just your arse.”

“When do we get to see them again?” Harry asked, admiring the way the faint light of the smoke combined with the sharp, coloured flares from the fireworks and danced across her neckline and collarbones. Harry loved her little dresses. The one she was wearing exposed just a hint of cleavage. He had been distracted by it all day.

“And when can we touch them?” asked Ron.

“You can see them when we’re alone, but not all the time, and at my discretion,” Hermione said promptly, as if she was answering a question in class. Her voice became shy as she added, “And… if you want to… you can touch them right now.”

“Thank god you have two of them,” Ron said fervently. “You just lie back and watch the fireworks.”

Harry could not believe their luck as they all lay down with Hermione in between. Ron conjured a blanket overtop them as Harry put out their cigarettes. They each rolled to face her and Harry slowly, reverently, slid his left palm over her stomach, then up to her ribs, and finally over her left breast. He was trembling just as much as Hermione. “Just… be gentle,” she said breathily. “They’re sensitive.”

Harry couldn’t see what Ron was doing, though their hands occasionally touched as they lavished attention upon each of her breasts. Harry’s sole priority was to make her feel good, so that she would invite this more often. Do not fuck this up, he told himself. No matter how much you want to put her nipple in your mouth.

He consoled himself that there would be time. He could be patient. Harry palmed and cupped over the fabric of her dress, thumbed over her peaked nipple and gently took it between his fingers, imagining how they had looked just yesterday, with water dripping off them. He was hard and straining against her hip. He watched her face, the flush evident even in the darkness, as the fireworks boomed and crackled and whistled. Her eyes were closed, her lashes trembling.

Later, Harry would not be able to recall a single part of the show, save for how the flares reflected on Hermione’s face and in her curls. Her soft gasps could easily be mistaken for wonder at the show of rockets and mortars, but Harry knew better. She arched her back and squirmed at the pleasure of their combined touch.

At one point, she stiffened and her head turned to Ron. Harry could feel him tugging on the bodice of her dress. “No,” she said softly. “Not under my clothes, please.”

“Sorry,” said Ron sheepishly, stopping immediately. “Got too excited. This has to be one of the best things we’ve ever done.”

“Bar none,” agreed Harry.

Hermione laughed. “Sorry, did you say ‘bar on?’ Because I can feel that you both do.”

“Does that bother you?” Harry asked, pulling slightly away from her hip.

“No,” she said quietly. “I… like that you’re into it. Just… don’t get pushy, or – or ask me to do anything with them.”

“We won’t,” Harry promised.

Ron added, “But if you ever want to, you know, you have my permission to go ahead.”

“Same,” said Harry quickly.

Hermione nodded. She kissed Harry first, then turned to Ron for another. “I think we should stop now,” she said, though her voice was filled with regret. “The show’s over.”

Neither Harry nor Ron had noticed. “Give us a moment to compose ourselves,” said Ron, sitting up. “Deep breaths.”

“Think of frog spawn. Or venomous tentacula,” said Harry. “That helps me.”

“One more thing,” said Hermione. “What… what happens if two of us are alone… and we want things to happen, but the other one isn’t there?”

Harry knew she was mostly talking about him and Ron, and they looked at each other. “Do you have something in mind?” Harry asked.

She nodded, looking anxious. “But only if you agree. I want to be fair.”

“Go on,” said Ron.

“I want us all to be there for the firsts,” she said. “And once any particular, er… act has happened with all three, it’s fair game to repeat it in pairs, alone. Would that be all right?”

Ron nodded as Harry said, “Sounds fair to me.”

“I’ll do you one better,” said Ron. “My memory glass.”

“What?” Hermione asked.

“Once it becomes fair game, whichever two are erm, participating – they put the memory into the glass for the third. To peruse at their leisure.”

Harry laughed. “So it’s gone from housing wholesome memories to wank material?”

“I do not mind,” said Ron. “Is that acceptable, Hermione?”

“Yes,” she said eagerly. “Erm, heartfelt to hand felt?” She blushed at her own joke as Harry and Ron cracked up.

“One last kiss before we go crash someone else’s party,” said Harry, starting to vanish all the cushions and blankets. Hermione shivered in the sudden chill.

Ron came to him first, kissing him briefly but warmly with his hands cupping Harry’s face. Then Hermione kissed Ron as he linked one arm behind her back, and then it was Harry’s turn, her palms resting against his chest.

 

They stayed up very late. They lingered for about an hour at a campfire mostly attended by older Hogwarts students, letting conversation wash around them as they tried to pretend there wasn’t a shimmer of heat radiating between the three of them. Harry tried to talk to Ginny again, but while she seemed to be back to her normal self, Harry could tell she didn’t want to revisit their conversation. He let it go. Perhaps Hermione would have better luck.

Dean and Seamus bummed smokes from Ron while Harry pretended in his head that he was a cool, unaffected boyfriend who never got jealous. Hermione would not take another, frowning disapprovingly when offered, though Harry knew as well as Ron it was just a performance for the benefit of the other students. “Ah, that’s right,” Ron said, amusement written all over his fire-lit face. “You’re a good girl.” He blew a stream of smoke towards her.

Hermione turned away, but not before Harry saw her blush. “Rude,” said Harry, waving the glimmering cloud away. “Hogwarts clearly does not screen its prefects properly.”

“It did once,” Hermione said peevishly.

“Twice,” chimed in Colin Creevey.

“Thrice,” said Ernie Macmillan, an occasionally pompous but usually likeable Hufflepuff in Harry, Hermione, and Ron’s year.

“Not me,” said Hannah Abbot. “I’m absolutely unqualified.”

“No, you’re not,” said Neville quietly, and she smiled at him. Harry wondered how long that had been going on.

He also noticed Dean’s gaze lingering on Ginny. Tough luck, mate, Harry thought. There’s apparently a new interpretation of ‘he’s too good for her.’

“I wonder where Mum’s run off to?” wondered Harry as he, Ron, and Hermione went in search of other fires. “I hope she didn’t go home yet.”

Harry noticed a very large black dog at a campfire of mostly pretty witches in their late twenties or early thirties, the red and pink flames glinting off its fur. Three women were scratching it all over as it panted happily and a fourth smooched its muzzle. Hermione noticed as well, looking scandalised.

“Padfoot, you little scamp,” said Harry jovially, interrupting the ministrations of the women. “I wondered where you’d got to.”

Sirius looked at him sheepishly as Harry raised his eyebrows as high as he could. “He keeps wriggling out of his collar.”

“C’mon, boy,” said Ron with a wicked grin. “Want to go walkies?”

Harry grinned at the petulant little sneeze Sirius made as he reluctantly followed Ron, his ears and tail drooping amidst feminine protests and goodbyes.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” said Harry without heat. “Are women no longer attracted to you? You have to resort to trickery? Go use your power for good.”

“Like stealing sausages,” suggested Ron. “Hey, can you eat grapes and tomatoes right now, or will they make you sick?”

Sirius grumbled and slunk off as Hermione snorted.

“It’s nice to be reminded that adulthood does not equal maturity,” said Harry. He headed toward the largest group of people on the lawn with the biggest fire, correctly assuming it was a Weasley-Prewett gathering.

Amidst loud greetings and offerings of food and drink, Harry, Hermione, and Ron found a place to settle in near Fred and George. Someone had conjured Adirondack chairs like the ones at the cottage, and Hermione and Harry shared a chair as Ron settled at their feet, casually leaning against both of their legs. Harry wondered if them sitting like this might raise suspicion, but then he noticed the inebriation level of the surrounding people and stopped worrying. Ron pointed out the family members Hermione and Harry didn’t know. Young red-haired children scampered around, the adults shouting for them to be more careful, but not getting up to enforce it.

Gideon came up to ruffle Ron’s hair again and pushed three bottles of butterbeer into their hands. “All right, Ronny? Harry, Hermione?”

“Cheers,” said Harry, chivalrously uncorking Hermione’s for her.

He noticed his mother talking to the Grangers, with Crookshanks in her lap. It must have been a very serious conversation, as she didn’t look around for quite some time. Harry waved once he’d finally caught her eye. She waved back, but then turned right back to the Grangers. Harry wondered where Remus was, but once Fred and George started cracking jokes, he was effectively distracted.

Harry might not have noticed if he hadn’t become so attuned to him – Ron was carefully tying Fred’s shoelaces together from a distance with his wand. He remembered what Ron had said that morning about “taking care of” Fred’s shameless flirting with Hermione. Harry looked the other way.

As the night went on, and everyone around them got more and more pissed, they found little ways to touch each other. Hermione surreptitiously stroked Ron’s hair, and he tilted his head back against her knees to give her better access. Ron cupped Harry’s calf once or twice, and Harry played with Hermione’s curls behind her back.

When she started to sag against him, Harry asked, “Are you tired?” Ron turned his head and she nodded.

“Let’s go home, then,” said Harry. As they said their goodnights, Fred stood up and immediately went down hard too close to the fire, singing the top of his head. George lazily put him out with an aguamenti charm as their uncles shouted with laughter. George looked with amusement at his twin’s shoelaces.

“Classic,” he said approvingly, but did nothing to untangle them.

“Nice look,” smirked Ron to Fred as Harry looked innocently concerned. His remaining hair was bedraggled and drenched, and he was glaring suspiciously at his little brother. “Drowned rat chic. ‘Night!”

Hermione gave Ron and Harry a questioning look that they both pretended not to notice as they started to walk back to the cottage. None of them noticed Harry’s mother’s gaze on their backs as Crookshanks leapt off her lap, stretched, and trotted after them.

“We could just apparate back,” said Ron as they reached the wooded part of the road. “Hermione’s good at side-along.”

“Hermione is about to drop and would probably splinch me,” said Harry, snaking his arm around her. She was walking along in an almost automatic way, her eyes drooping.

“I would not,” she murmured, but there was no conviction in her argument.

“Aw, you’re adorable,” said Harry, kissing her cheek. “We’ll carry you back.” He princess carried her just as Ron had done to him that morning. Harry and Ron smiled at each other as Hermione nuzzled sleepily into Harry’s neck.

“Such a sweetheart,” said Ron, stroking her curls as they walked. She wasn’t heavy and Harry happily carried her most of the way, feeling manly and more than a little bit lucky. He passed her off to Ron as they got closer to the cottage, more to allow his best mate the pleasure than out of a need to stop.

She was not quite asleep as Ron carried her sideways up the dark, narrow stairs, but her eyes were closed and the cadence of her breathing was slow and content. Harry took off her shoes and they both tucked her into her bed. She smiled and murmured happily as she rolled over and fell fully asleep. Crookshanks hopped up and curled at her hip, blinking contentedly at Harry and Ron.

“Just think,” said Harry as they took a moment to watch her with tender affection. “Tomorrow, we get to do this all over again.”

“Maybe forever,” said Ron, and he kissed Harry.

 

Chapter 13: Duel Emotions

Harry and Ron woke up Hermione by flopping down on her bed. “Good morning, Beautiful,” Ron said as she propped herself up on her elbows and glared at them.

“You aren’t allowed to compliment me until I’ve had caffeine,” she said.

“I will follow your rules when they make sense,” Ron retorted, “but that’s ridiculous. You are the loveliest creature to exist.”

“Did you cast stupefy? Because I am stunned,” said Harry, wiggling his eyebrows.

Hermione groaned and burst into giggles. “That’s terrible,” she said. Harry smiled. He meant it to be seductive, but really it was just sappy. He loved the sound of her laughter – it felt like it filled every part of him, guarding against his tendencies toward brooding and melancholy.

Over coffee, Harry and Ron continued to flirt and find excuses to touch her, kiss her hands, her lips, her shoulders. Harry loved the range of emotions on her face and in her body language. Fondness, a shy sweetness, and more than a little arousal. He loved the way she unconsciously bit her lips, or licked them after a particularly good kiss, as if she was not quite done tasting him and Ron.

“We should go,” she said regretfully as Harry caught her against the counter and kissed her sweetly, gently tracing the lines of her neck with his fingers. She was wearing yet another pretty dress, all white, but this one had a little tie in the front. Harry had no idea if it was functional or merely decorative, but the very idea that her perfect breasts could be revealed with one strategic pull was very distracting. “We’ll miss breakfast.”  

“We don’t have to,” said Ron, staring as his coffee got cold. “We do know how to cook and we do know of a few charms to keep people away from our little love nest.”

Hermione cringed. “Don’t say ‘love nest’ ever again.”

“Why not? It’s definitely a nest. A pretty hen and two cocks live here.”

She snorted and hid her face in Harry’s chest. “Make him stop,” she said as he stroked her curls.

“How? He’s bigger than me.”

“Hmm, is he now?” she asked. Her tone was flirtatious, but she held herself uncertainly, as if to ask, “Am-I-doing-this-right?”

Ron looked at Harry and telegraphed with raised eyebrows and head nods, “Shall-we-tell-her?”

Harry smirked. “He’s a bit longer, but I’m slightly thicker.”

“Oh,” she said, and Harry could feel the heat of her blush through his shirt. “Erm. Do you compare them often?”

He and Ron laughed. It had been a while since they’d done a side-by-side comparison – he thought the last time was probably when they were thirteen, but just from seeing each other in the nude fairly often, he knew it was still true. Back then, it had never been anything more than simple curiosity about whether his size was normal or not. “Not for a while,” said Ron. “But blokes are just like that. Everything is a competition.”

“Who wins this one?”

“Let’s just say this is one of those situations where everyone’s a winner,” grinned Harry.

Hermione was quiet. Harry couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Perhaps balancing their statements against whatever she’d seen of them in the lake.

“Do girls not compare? Like, at all?” asked Ron.

“Not exactly,” she said. “I mean, you try to hide at first, but you catch glimpses, and after a while you stop being shy about it, but nobody comments, or stands next to each other having full conversations in the nude.”

“Too bad,” said Harry. “It’s very liberating.”

She scoffed and disentangled herself from Harry. “Let’s go,” she said. “I’m hungry.”

Harry resisted the urge to make sausage jokes.

Crookshanks followed behind them on the road, skittering off here and there into the undergrowth and coming back with his thick fur stuck full of twigs and bits of leaves.

“Oh, clever boy; did you catch that all by yourself?” Hermione crooned as he brought a large, limp spider and laid it at her feet.

The arachnid twitched and flipped itself over. “NOT DEAD!” shrieked Ron, jumping backwards. He tried to climb Harry in his panic as the spider scuttled towards them.

Harry fended off Ron and bent down to let it crawl onto his palm. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” asked Ron, now turning to Hermione for comfort. “Kill it!”

“What’s it done to you?” asked Harry, calmly taking it to a tree and putting it on a branch. Hermione was holding back laughter. “Live free, mate,” he told it.

Ron shuddered. He glared down at Crookshanks in disgust, who was staring at Harry as though confused as to why nobody ate his present. “Next time, finish the job,” Ron said to the cat.

Crookshanks blinked at him and sauntered back into the brush. Harry went to hug Ron, but he turned away, scowling. “Don’t touch me with spider-hands. I’m not impressed.”

Hermione took Ron’s hand as she tilted her face up to Harry. Harry took the hint and kissed her, his stomach fluttering as he briefly cupped her cheek in his palm. “I am,” she said, smiling up at him as if he were a hero.

“Well, just… wash your hands,” Ron grumbled.

Hermione swung Ron’s hand, supremely unconcerned. “Did you know there are Acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest?”

“Hermione, we’re about to eat. Can you not?” said Ron.

When they got to the catering tent, Harry was very glad Hermione didn’t listen to Ron about staying in for breakfast. There were all sorts of fancy, mouth-watering dishes that none of them knew how to make – eggs benedict and Florentine, omelettes, a variety of quiches made with everything from smoked salmon to morel mushrooms, crepes, and a dizzying array of French pastries that Harry couldn’t pronounce to save his life, though he enjoyed listening to Hermione try.

“Say that last again?” Harry grinned.

“Chaussons aux Pommes?” she said, until she realised he was having her on. “Oh, you’re terrible.”

They found a gaggle of current and former Hogwarts students to sit with. Cedric Diggory was there, saying hello to some of his former Quidditch teammates from Hufflepuff. Harry looked at him curiously. He knew objectively that Cedric was considered handsome, and that winning the Triwizard Tournament had only added to his appeal, so Harry thought looking him over would help him figure out if he was attracted to men in general, or just Ron.

It’s just Ron, Harry thought, his brow furrowed. There was simply no comparison, and Harry couldn’t even explain why. Even the features that were similar between Cedric and Ron – they only stirred anything in Harry when they were on Ron.

He noticed Ron and Hermione looking at him, and Harry ducked his head sheepishly. He waved at his mother, who was sitting with several of her St. Mungo’s colleagues a table away. She looked a little pale but otherwise happy as Remus spoke close to her ear about something. She smiled and gave Remus a little kiss on the cheek.

He saw his father looking at them from a few tables over. Even Harry had to admit he did look much better without the beard, and his clothes looked like he’d learned how to press them, at least.

Unless his mummy’s doing his laundry, he thought unkindly. Once a week, Harry, Ron, and Hermione took their own laundry to the manor, but Harry would never dream of having Gran do it, even if he did learn the hard way that there was a reason to sort the colours and there was such a thing as too much starch. Hermione was very secretive on laundry days, which made him wonder if she was lying when she said her knickers were “utilitarian and disappointing.”

Harry’s father was sitting with a group of Aurors and a few Unspeakables from the Department of Mysteries. Harry turned away before his father noticed he had seen him. He noted with surprise that Ginny was sitting next to Blaise. They didn’t speak much, but Harry knew enough about attraction by now to see that there was something there. It wasn’t just an unrequited crush of Ginny’s. When had that happened?

Slug Club suppers, Harry remembered. That’ll do it.  

He still didn’t know how he felt about that. Perhaps it was his relationship with Ron that was making him feel elder-brotherly and protective towards Ginny. Should he tell Ron? Hermione?

She might already know about it, Harry thought.

Harry decided to keep it to himself for now, but perhaps he would keep an eye on the situation.

He needed a third eye – it seemed he had one on Hermione and one on Ron at all times. It was unfair how good they looked – Hermione in that perfectly modest dress with that fucking indecent tie, and Ron in another pair of shorts that showed off the shape of his arse and a button-down shirt that was open just enough to show the hollow at the base of his throat where his collarbones met. Harry wanted to suck a love bite there.

When they’d all three eaten, Hermione said she wanted to enter one of the archery competitions, which were starting soon. Harry and Ron were up for it and wanted to check out the broom races and games afterwards. “Do not write that down,” Ron frowned at Hermione. “No schedules or lists.”

“Why not?” she asked incredulously. “What’s wrong with having a plan?”

“Spontaneity is the spice of life,” insisted Ron.

“I thought it was variety.”

“Same thing.”

“I think Hermione should be allowed to write down whatever she wants,” said Harry. He lowered his voice. “Just so long as you include times for snogging and maybe touching.”

“Perhaps looking?” said Ron innocently.

Or licking, added Harry in his head.

“Don’t push your luck,” she said primly, but the way her shoulders went slightly back and her spine straightened, unconsciously pushing her breasts forward, said otherwise.

There was a decent-sized crowd along the road to the archery range, so they didn’t get a chance right then. It was a very nice day, partly cloudy and warm, but not quite warm enough to be considered hot. One of the wandering troubadours Grandad had hired was strumming a guitar, the sound complimented by the natural melodies of birds singing and cicadas hissing, and leaves rustling in the sporadic breeze. The light, herby scent of vegetation and wildflowers interweaved with the intoxicating notes of Hermione’s magnolia and Ron’s forest scents. Harry inhaled deeply as they walked along the road.

When they got to the range, they listened with the crowd as the two attendants explained the rules and the setup. Later, there would be more advanced competitions, but the first one of the day was simple target shooting. There were five targets with ten concentric rings in five colours – yellow at the centre, and moving outward to red, blue, black, and white. There was a queue at each target, and five people at a time would send a volley of five arrows and be awarded points based on where they hit. The contestants with the highest points would advance until there was a winner. Harry was not pleased to see Draco Malfoy smirking with one of his cronies, Vincent Crabbe. He nudged Ron and they both turned to sneer at the Slytherins, a look that was returned with interest. Hermione noticed nothing.

Harry eyed her suspiciously as she put on an armguard with an air of practiced ease. She considered the rack of bows carefully, her slender fingers dancing lightly across each one before making her final choice. She generously waved Ron and Harry before her in their queue.

Ron’s first shot went wide and flew off into the bracken. His second, third, and fourth went into the outer white ring. His last made it into the black ring. Harry and Hermione cheered for him and he looked smug. “Not bad for a first timer,” he insisted.

The spirit of competition arose in Harry, and he whispered to Hermione as Ron put his bow back on the rack and an attendant retrieved his arrows with their wand. “Any tips?”

“What makes you think I know anything?” she whispered back far too innocently.

“Call it a hunch,” he said. Harry didn’t do much better – he hit the outer ring three times, the black ring once, and hit the line between the blue and the black rings with his last shot. “Nice,” Hermione said generously as Ron thumped him on the back.  

It was almost no surprise to Harry to see Hermione adopt what appeared to his untrained eye to be perfect posture and form. Her first arrow hit the target at just the outer edge of the yellow circle. One of the attendants rang a bell as Ron whooped in delight. In rapid succession, Hermione shot her next three arrows, each one making a satisfying thock! as they sank into the surface of the target. They all hit somewhere in the yellow circle and caused the attendant to ring the bell three more times. She hissed in disappointment as her fifth hit just at the inner edge of the blue ring. Harry noticed the self-assured smirk had slid right off Malfoy’s face.

“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” asked Ron excitedly as Hermione put her bow neatly on the rack and pulled the hem of her dress down. His neck was flushed in the way Harry knew by now meant he was very aroused. Harry felt heat rise up his own neck.

Hermione shrugged and smiled mysteriously. Harry had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with Girl Guides. He’d tickle it out of her later.

They sat down on a bench further back to watch the other participants, cheering on the younger children and heckling their Hogwarts peers and (in Ron’s case) a few Weasley uncles. They went perfectly silent as Professor McGonagall stepped up and shot her arrows into the blue and red rings, as if she was teaching a lesson and would scold them if they interrupted.

Hermione and Malfoy were in the group that advanced – Harry, Ron, and Crabbe were among the disqualified. They watched as she continued to advance, sitting very close together and trying not to squirm at how hot Hermione’s confidence and skill were. With every hit on the target, Harry twitched as though a naughty little cousin of the more wholesome Cupid was using him for target practice.

A new mantra ran on loop in Harry’s brain: Don’t get hard. Don’t get hard. Don’t get hard.

“D’you think she’ll let us get her alone after this?” breathed Ron into Harry’s ear.

“If she doesn’t, I’m going to spontaneously combust,” he whispered back. He wished he had memorised the spell from the book his mother had given him that made unwanted erections go away – his mantra was not working. He surreptitiously put a hand in his pocket and tried to reposition himself through the fabric so it was not so obvious, glad that being on the end of the bench and sitting by Ron shielded him from view of the other contestants. He had no idea how Ron kept himself in check.

But Harry’s focus was soon diverted. As the tournament went on and became more competitive, he became very invested in the outcome. Hermione beat out round after round of contestants, advancing until it was down to only her and Malfoy. The tension between them was tangible. Harry knew Malfoy would not live down the humiliation if a Muggleborn beat him at something he was good at.

Harry and Ron watched in perfect silence as Malfoy stepped up first. He aimed a filthy look at Hermione, then turned to sink, one, two, three, four, and five arrows into the centre circle.

Malfoy muttered something to Hermione as she passed, but she did not look at him at all. Unconsciously, Harry took Ron’s hand, and they gripped each other tightly as Hermione took position at the shooting line, looking for all the world like the ancient goddess of the hunt. She took her time lining up each shot. Three hit inside the yellow circle. The fourth hit directly on the centre dot.

And then she turned to Harry and Ron, taking heart at their answering smiles. Her gaze lingered for a single heartbeat on their joined hands. She nodded to herself, positioned her body once more, and nocked her arrow. She drew back on the string, sighted down the shaft, and took a deep breath in and out. Without realising it, Harry and Ron echoed her breathing.

She released the string and Harry’s vision tunnelled as the arrow flew. It split her last arrow with a loud splintering noise. She’d won!

Harry and Ron leapt up and let out a tremendous roar. They ran and lifted her up between them as she laughed and ruffled their hair fondly, her bow forgotten on the ground. “Fuck you, Malfoy!” Harry said and threw a two-finger salute in the scowling loser’s face, which was immediately lost in the furore of cheering from the other contestants and the frantic ringing of the bell.

The smiling attendants brought over a gold winner’s medallion in the shape of a target with a raised arrow and presented it to Hermione. She held it aloft, blushing and grinning in a surprised sort of way. She was used to winning academic awards, but this was something that required physical skill. Harry knew how that felt, and he could have burst with pride.

He noticed Malfoy slink off, his face red with fury and shame. Crabbe tried to say something to him, but Malfoy shoved him angrily. Harry couldn’t imagine treating his friends like that.

And we’re not just friends anymore, he thought happily as he and Ron put Hermione down. Before letting go, they kissed her cheeks between them.

“Now you two have to win something,” she said cheerfully as Ron carried her on his back towards the Quidditch field.

“We have,” said Ron tenderly. “You.”

She buried her face on his shoulder. Ron turned his head to kiss her temple as Harry hugged them both from the side.

“How on earth did you manage to get through that whole thing without giving us a lecture on the history of archery or technical explanations?” Harry asked.

“With humility and self-restraint,” she said, her voice muffled in Ron’s shirt. “When did Ron get so smooth and romantic?”

“He’s always had it in him,” said Harry as Ron laughed. “He’s a very dashing fellow.”

“I’ve got nothing on you, Hermione,” said Ron. “God, that was incredible watching you beat Malfoy like that. And you did it in a dress, even.”

“I love your dresses,” said Harry. The way Ron was carrying her made her skirt ruck up. His large, freckled hands on her bare thighs were doing things to Harry. “Would you mind if I had a closer look at this one?”

Hermione propped her chin on Ron’s shoulder to look at him. Her eyes were shining. “Don’t you want to enter the flying competition?”

“I’m already among the clouds when I’m with you,” he said, putting a hand to his heart and grinning at her.

“Oh, stop that,” she said, but she smiled at him. “Shall we… find some shelter?”

“Twist my arm, will you?” said Ron, and immediately veered off towards a thick stand of bushes that was far enough off the path that they wouldn’t be overheard so long as they were quiet. Harry casually restored the trail of trampled undergrowth with his wand behind them. It looked pristine, as though three randy teenagers had not been through.

When they were fully hidden, Hermione slid off Ron’s back into Harry’s waiting arms. He kissed her slowly, his palms warm on her hips and her arms around his neck as Ron scraped out a little clearing with his wand and conjured a thick quilt over it. They were getting very good at this sort of thing, and Ron was so fast at it he barely missed anything. “C’mon,” he urged, patting the quilt as he sat down cross-legged.

To Ron’s surprise and delight, Hermione let go of Harry to gently drop sideway across his lap and put her arms around his neck. “I love your enthusiasm,” he said, and kissed her.

Harry sat and watched, his heart flying. It was very early days, but he hoped that someday they would get to the point where observers could touch themselves. He had been very careful about doing so lately – he kept it to the shower and late at night, when he was sure Ron was asleep.

He truly meant what he’d said last night about not caring about firsts. He liked to watch and knew how to take turns. Ron held one arm around Hermione’s shoulders while the opposite hand slowly explored safe places, like her side, her waist, her hip and the outside of her thighs. They kissed unhurriedly, as though they had all day. Which… Harry supposed they did, for the most part, if they wanted to.

And if Hermione would allow it. Normally, she was not the type of girl to wait for suggestions, but she was different when it came to anything further than kissing. Perhaps it was a combination of inexperience and the uncommonness of being with two boys at once – it was completely uncharted territory for any of them.

She squirmed on Ron’s lap and broke the kiss, hiding her face in his shoulder, but Harry could see her blush. “Sorry,” said Ron softly. “I can’t help it.”

“I know,” said Hermione as Harry tried to figure out what exactly Ron had done wrong. “I want you to be excited, it’s just… new. I’ll get over it.”

Oh, thought Harry. Ron was poking into Hermione. His imagination took things much further – the thought of the same thing playing out while fully naked. He felt waves of heat run up his neck and flood his abdomen.

He cleared his throat, not sure if making suggestions was allowed, but he reasoned that Ron appreciated bluntness and Hermione liked rules and having things spelled out. “If you let him touch you, it probably won’t be as… startling. But tell him, or show him what you want, so he doesn’t have to guess.”

“I’m terrible at guessing,” Ron agreed.

Hermione nodded. She looked at Harry, and then at Ron. She took Ron’s hand and guided it over her breast. Ron kissed her lips softly, and she seemed to relax. “Gently,” she reminded him.

And he was. He used only the hand she had indicated, and he continued to kiss her as he reverently moved his hand across the front of her dress. When she parted her lips for him, Harry felt lightheaded. Neither of them were being what Harry would call noisy, but the intermittent little sounds of pleasure they made, combined with brief glimpses of tongue, was driving him mad.

“Are you – feeling left out, Harry?” asked Ron between heated kisses.

“I might like a turn,” he managed. He was flushed all over, desperate to touch himself or be touched. He wasn’t picky about who came to him next.

Hermione was also a delicious shade of pink, with deep red patches on her chest. She twisted out of Ron’s lap and shuffled over to him on her knees. “You asked if you could see my dress?” she said, looking eager but nervous.

“I did,” he said, looking at her intently as she bit her swollen, red lips. He put one arm around her back and pulled her against him, the other hand between them. “I am dying to know what will happen if I pull this little string here,” he said. He watched her face, so he could stop if she showed any hesitation, as he very gently tugged the end of the feature in question.

“Oh,” she said. “Well… maybe you should try it and find out.”

It took everything in him to play it cool, but by god he was going to make sure she enjoyed this enough to ask for it daily. “Sit back against Ron,” he instructed. He guided her to tuck her legs to the side as Ron scooted forward and held her around her stomach.

To Harry’s immense satisfaction, the tie was functional. As he pulled, the bow came undone and the bodice of her dress slackened, exposing just a little more of the upper swells of her breasts. He glanced up at her, asking permission. She nodded.

He tugged on the neckline until the front of her bra was fully visible. It was pale pink and lacy, with little scallops on the top edge. Harry swallowed – that combination of sex appeal and delicate femininity had him hard and squirming in both pleasure and discomfort. Ron looked down over her shoulder. Harry could hear how fast they were all breathing, and imagined that all their hearts were thrumming at the same rapid tempo as his own.

Harry wasn’t sure how far Hermione wanted him to go. He hoped one day she would feel confident enough to initiate instead of taking a passive role. It would take time, and encouragement. “Show me what you want,” he said. “I want to know what feels good.”

Hesitantly, she took both his hands and guided them onto her breasts. She let go, allowing him to explore as he liked. Through the coarse texture of the lace, he could feel her nipples harden, and he thumbed over her right one to see how she reacted. She gripped Ron’s arms, her thighs rubbing together as she squirmed. He took it gently between his first finger and thumb and her head fell back against Ron’s shoulder.

“You are so fucking sexy,” Ron whispered into her ear. She squeezed her eyes shut and shivered. Harry saw her arms erupt in gooseflesh. “And amazing, and beautiful.”

As Ron continued to whisper praise into her ear and against her neck, Harry touched her with both hands, enjoying the soft feel of her skin and the sight of how her breasts fit into his large hands. The way Ron was holding her pushed them up higher. He ran the pads of his fingers along the edge of her bra, not dipping inside, just testing, waiting to see if she would ask for more.

But she didn’t. She began to tense up. He took his hands off her. “Are you all right?” Harry asked.

“I’m sorry,” she said, hiding her face in her hands. “I’m so frustrated with myself – I love this, I love everything about it – I… I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” said Ron, resting his chin on her shoulder. He began to put her dress back to rights, pulling the fabric back over her breasts as Harry tied it up, trying and failing to make the bow look as neat as it had been. “We’re kind of a lot.”

“No, you’re not,” she murmured. “I’m just… not enough.”

“Do not say anything like that ever again,” said Harry as Ron also protested. Harry pulled her forward into a warm hug. “It’s new, and we’re not going to push you.”

“But isn’t it frustrating for you?” she asked. “You… you’ve been with other girls, or boys, and you’re used to going further.”

“I think you’re overestimating our prowess,” smirked Ron.

“But you’re so good at this,” she insisted, letting go of Harry to sit beside him.

“Because it’s you,” said Harry. “It’s different. I don’t know how to explain it, but it is.”

Ron looked very thoughtful. “You know how we can all use each other’s wands?” he said. “Like, there’s no resistance at all?” Hermione and Harry nodded, wondering where he was going with this.

Ron and Harry had done so for the first time just the night before, after they’d tucked Hermione in and gotten ready for bed. They’d squeezed themselves into Ron’s bed and dimmed the lamp, taking turns casting coloured lights and shadows across the ceiling with each other’s wands. It had been just as charged between them, with the same heat and intimacy that he’d felt both times with Hermione. Ron had admitted he and Hermione had also shared their wands while Harry was talking to his mother in the orchard.

Now, Ron swallowed and said, “I don’t really know how, but I think it’s connected somehow.”

“Our wands?” asked Hermione.

“No. Our magic,” he said, touching his heart. “It’s how we understand each other so well.”

Drawn by some impulse, they all joined hands, forming a triangle. Harry felt a very powerful sense of rightness, of alignment, as if in every past, future, or parallel life, they would somehow find each other. He could see, no, feel the same awareness touch Ron and Hermione.

It sent a shiver down all their spines.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

By the time they finally got to the Quidditch field, most of the competitions were over and they were all getting hungry for lunch. Hermione was apologetic for taking time away from the things the boys wanted to do, but Ron and Harry regretted absolutely nothing. The final event was a trick shot competition, which Harry and Ron enjoyed and advanced through several rounds. Soon, though, only the best Chasers remained, and Harry and Ron happily went to sit with Hermione in the stands to watch.

Ginny won by a very slim margin against former Gryffindor captain Angelina Johnson. She accepted her winner’s medal amidst cheers and the clicking of camera shutters, though when she caught sight of Harry and Ron, she gave them each a disappointed scowl.

“What’s her problem?” bristled Hermione.

Harry and Ron laughed. “She knows we weren’t at our best,” said Harry.

“I thought you were incredible,” she insisted.

“And we adore you for it,” said Ron, throwing an arm around her. “Nothing like a good stroke to the ego.”

“And other things,” Harry muttered, making her blush.

They followed the crowd out of the stands as people started to seek out food and other entertainments. Harry saw a group enjoying drinks under the same oak Hermione had used his wand under. They were Aurors, but his father was not among them.

There was the famous Alastor “Mad Eye” Moody drinking from his personal flask – when he’d lost his eye, he had replaced it with a magical one that Harry’s father once said was “a bit of a nightmare for HR,” whatever that meant. He was with his protégé, a young Metamorphmagus called Tonks. She could change her appearance at will, and was sporting shocking pink locks. There were also Kingsley Shacklebolt (the Head of the Auror office), Alice Longbottom, and a woman in her late twenties or early thirties that Harry knew by sight but not name.

Ron saw him staring. He leaned over to murmur, “There’s your mum.”

Harry shook himself and looked around. She was standing by herself about twenty feet further on. “You go ahead,” Harry said to Hermione and Ron, walking towards his mother. He was shocked at her comportment as she also stared at the group of Aurors.

She was enraged. Harry could almost feel the malevolence roll off her. She hadn’t seen him, so intent was her glare, and didn’t notice his presence until he stood right next to her. Before he could speak, she tossed her head angrily and said through gritted teeth, “So you thought securing an invitation for HER was a good idea, did you? Did you come together? How could you – oh,” she said, stopping short when she realised she was talking to her son.

“Did you think I was Dad?” Harry asked mildly.

“No,” she lied.

Harry narrowed his eyes at the Aurors. “Which one?” he asked. Outwardly, he appeared calm, but inwardly, a slow wave of hatred was rising. He had never wanted to know, but now that it was right in front of him…

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said tightly.

“I am very glad you are a bad liar, Mum. Which one?”

“Forget it. I’m not telling you.”

“I’ll just figure it out, you know.”

She scoffed angrily. “Not from me, you won’t.”

“What’s the point in protecting her? Or him?”

The question brought her up short. She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it. Harry waited as she thought it through. “I am still humiliated,” she finally said, closing her eyes. “I spent so long hiding it, just so I could pretend that he still loved me.”

Harry hugged her. “I love you,” he said. Without realising it, he was falling back into the old habit of trying to make up for his father.

“So do I,” said a soft voice. It was Remus. Harry had not noticed him come up. Reluctantly, he let go of his mother, and she went to him. The way Remus held her, and the way she sighed, as if in relief… as if she was where she belonged…

It hurt, but not in a bad way. It was a mix of deep pride and happiness, with the smallest measure of grief that he was no longer the centre of her life.

Harry wondered if this was how parents felt watching their children grow up.

 

He was very quiet when he went to lunch. For the first time in what felt like ages, he wanted to be alone, and found a vacant table at the very edge of the catering tent. Now his father was eating with Sirius and the group of Aurors, and Harry was hyperaware of all his interactions with Tonks, Alice Longbottom, and the third female Auror. He could not tell which one it was – neither his father nor the women gave anything away.

Harry’s enthusiasm for the afternoon events had waned. Had his father come with his former (or current) mistress? Did he have any say over her invitation? Did Gran or Grandad know who his father had taken up with?

He wondered if Sirius would tell him who she was. Probably not, he thought, watching him and James laugh together in the same boisterous way they did whenever they drank together. He wondered if Sirius was telling him a dirty joke or relaying a story of one of his one-night stands.

Harry was angry at Sirius, too, for what Harry felt was duplicity. How could the same man who said he loved him for his own sake, cared for Harry when he was in hospital, and went to his mother’s side in the middle of the night to comfort her, just sit there laughing like nothing had happened? Like James was a decent person?

“Harry?” It was Hermione, standing tentatively next to him. He looked at her. “What’s wrong? Why are you sitting alone? We’re right over there,” she said, nodding over at Ron, who was sitting at a table with his Prewett uncles and his mother.

“Sorry,” Harry said. “Just… wanted a little space.”

“Oh,” she said, looking hurt.

Quickly, he took her hand, realising how that sounded. “It’s not you, Hermione. Or Ron. Really. You know me – it’s been too long since I’ve had a fit of the sullens.”

“It’s your dad, isn’t it?”

“Isn’t it always?”

She ran her fingers through his hair, and he closed his eyes at her touch. “Come find us later?”

“I will.” He squeezed her hand and she smiled at him. She set a piece of parchment on the table as she left, patting it meaningfully.

Harry picked it up. It was the same list of events and times that were tacked up all around the estate, with a few circled. He laughed when he noticed she’d added a new event: “Snogging. Touching TBD.”

But Harry would not get to do either of those things the rest of the day. After he finished eating, he wandered by himself for a bit. He stopped to cheer on some of the Godric’s Hollow children playing a complicated game of their own invention that involved flags, sticks, and a battered Muggle football. He bought a few things at the market stalls and said hello to Dean Thomas, who was intently watching a magical portraiture demonstration.

On his way to find Ron and Hermione again, he passed the duelling tournaments. He stopped to listen to the rules, which were very strict and, in Harry’s opinion, took all the fun out of it. The tournaments were not open to anyone under seventeen – Grandad had not succeeded in persuading the Ministry to make an exception to underage magic for the weekend.

He felt, rather than saw, his father come to stand next to him. They watched in silence as the contestants traded minor jinxes and hexes. A Healer stood nearby in bright red robes – part of a volunteer team of Mediwizards that roamed the estate all weekend. His mother had been cajoled into accepting a shift sometime today, though Harry wasn’t sure exactly when.

“Not entering?” Harry asked his father on impulse.

“That wouldn’t be sporting,” James said lightly. “I have an unfair advantage.”

“Do you?” said Harry in an unconscious imitation of Malfoy at his most condescending.

James shrugged. “I might be a sack of shit, but I am good at my job.” He paused, then said tentatively, “Remus says you’re top at duelling in your year.”

It was meant as an olive branch, but Harry wasn’t ready to accept it as such. He bristled. James noticed, and looked at Harry shrewdly. “There’s a lot you want to say, so let’s have it.”

“No,” said Harry, making a snap decision. “Let’s see how good you actually are. You’re always comparing, wanting me to be like you, so fine. Let’s compare.”

“You’re challenging me to a duel?” said James incredulously.

Harry nodded. “The far east meadow. No seconds.”

His father squinted at him. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

The honest answer was no, but Harry wasn’t about to tell him that. He nodded again.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry knew it was a mistake the second his father bowed to him. Seeing his face, grinning as if it was just for fun, as if they were friends and nothing had happened between them, brought back all the rage that Harry had been trying to let go of. Really, he’d only been stuffing it down.

James was a very skilled duellist and had years of experience behind him, but Harry had youth, agility, natural talent, and no desire to hold back.

Harry opened with a stinging jinx, which his father easily deflected. He blocked his father’s knockback jinx with barely a thought and cast a hurling hex right back. He had no interest in childish spells – no tickling or tap-dancing or teeth-elongating. Harry wanted it to hurt, to make James finally feel all that he’d done.

With each repulsion, each dodge, each spell that didn’t connect, Harry became more and more enraged. When the smirk finally fell from James’ face, when he saw that Harry meant it, Harry felt a powerful surge of vindictiveness. I will show you exactly how this feels, he thought.

This is for cheating! he thought as he cast a percussive hex that succeeded in knocking his father to the ground. James leapt back up as if it was nothing. For each curse he threw, Harry had a litany. This is for humiliating Mum! This is for lying! This is for never coming around! This is for taking away prefect! This is for trying to make me into you! Harry didn’t even need a shield jinx, he was so fast and adept at dodging and deflecting. Soon he realised his father had stopped casting any spells back at him, and Harry’s curses were only slamming into a powerful protego charm, making a noise like a fist against a window with each hit.

“Fight back, damn you! Fight back!” Harry shouted. There was no way an Auror of James’ calibre could possibly be this passive, would refuse to send more powerful curses. He was holding back, which only fuelled Harry’s ire. “I’m not a child – fight me!”

The power of Harry’s blasting curse broke through the shield with a shattering sound, and before James could raise another, Harry threw an impediment jinx that slowed him down just as he raised his wand. This is for all the times you put Mum down!

As if from a far distance, he heard Sirius shouting. Harry ignored it and cast a final spell that had nothing but fury and pain behind it.

This is for giving up when I needed you.

His father’s wand arm was frozen in place. He had no hope of dodging it. As if in slow motion, Harry watched a red blade of light slice into his father’s wand arm, severing it completely between the elbow and the wrist.

“No,” Harry gasped, instantly full of remorse. He dropped his wand and raised his hands, horrified at what he’d done. He’d gone too far. And now he had no idea what to do as the immobile stump of his father’s arm spurted blood like a grotesque fountain.

“What have you done?” shouted Sirius. Sirius cast a silver dog, a patronus, and it bounded off at top speed as he cast a quick spell on James’ arm, reducing the arterial spray to a trickle, then covered it with a cloth and put pressure on it.

James’ face was white, but he didn’t look nearly as terrified as Harry knew he would be in such a situation. He felt a sudden puff of air as his mother apparated into the space between Harry and his father.

“For fuck’s sake,” she snapped. “Why did it have to be you?”

Harry looked away as she reattached the severed portion of James’ arm with her wand. He was not squeamish, but he couldn’t bear to see the damage his own foolish rage had caused.

And all for what? he thought, anguished.

“Mum,” Harry said. “I – Dad. Dad, I’m sorry!” His fists were clenched in his hair; he could barely breathe. “I didn’t mean…”

But you did mean it, a voice whispered in his mind. You wanted to hurt him.

Not like this! he thought.

Don’t turn away from what you’ve done. Look at him – look what your loss of control did.

With great effort, Harry looked back at the scene he’d caused. His impediment jinx had either worn off or been lifted by someone – James was slumped on the ground, splashed with blood, as Lily knelt in front of him and turned his newly restored arm this way and that, testing her spell and asking questions about pain and range of movement in a professional manner. Sirius’ arm was around his father’s shoulders.

“It’s been a long time since you’ve patched me up,” James said neutrally, but the look he gave her was anything but.

“Don’t,” said Lily angrily. “Just. Don’t.”

She motioned to Harry and he looked guiltily between his parents. Sirius was staring at him with an unreadable expression. A cold wave of shame washed over Harry – he felt he might drown in it.

“He’s had worse,” his mother said shortly, and held out her hand. Hesitantly, Harry went to her and took it, and she apparated them away to Grandad’s office in his workshop, which was further along the eastern road and was closed to guests.

It was a familiar place. When he was a small child, he had played under the desk with chocolate frog cards and a set of figurines his grandfather kept for just such a purpose. They were still there, in a neat row on the windowsill, a fine layer of dust covering them.

“Sit,” his mother said sternly. Harry obeyed. “Explain.”

Harry tried to tell her what happened without bringing any of his thoughts or feelings into it – just straight facts. They were cold and horrible, black and white. I attacked my father. It wasn’t a duel – I just wanted an excuse to hurt him. And I got it.

“I need to go back,” Harry said desperately, feeling a horrible urge to cry like a child. “I need to say I’m sorry.”

“He heard you,” she said dispassionately. “You’re not going anywhere near him while you’re in this state.”

Defiance rose in Harry, and he clung to it as though it were a raft in a raging sea. “Don’t protect him. Don’t try to tell me you’ve never thought of doing the same,” he choked out.

“We’re not talking about me,” she said, refusing to take the bait.

“For Christ’s sake Mum; can’t you just scream at me or something? Why do you have to be so… fucking calm all the time?” He didn’t deserve her understanding, not after what he’d done. There wasn’t a way to come back from this.

She crossed her arms. “And what would losing my temper accomplish, Harry? Would it make you talk to me? Would it fix things or take it all back?”

“No,” he said, and closed his eyes. “But it would at least make me feel less awful about losing mine.” And then he did cry, for the shame and grief of it all. His mother held him as though he were a boy again, bruised by his cousin. Except this time, he’d been the one to hurt someone. His own father, whom he’d never stopped loving despite everything. He did not understand how his mother could bear to touch him after what he’d done.

How long she comforted him, he didn’t know. When he was finally calm enough, he spoke. “I thought I was doing fine. I thought I’d be able to forgive him – he sounded sorry in his letters. But I don’t know what happened. I saw his face and something snapped, Mum. I didn’t know I could… I didn’t know it was in me to hurt him like that.”

His mother was quiet for some time. “I think we all have that inside of us,” she said, “especially when we’re young and at our most impulsive. I’m not saying what you’ve done is right, nor am I saying you shouldn’t face any consequences. But Harry, I am glad you feel this way. Remorse, and shame… even fear – they can be tools to shape how we behave in the future. It won’t be up to me to decide what consequences you’ll face. I wasn’t the one you wronged.”

“Yes, you were,” he said, putting his face in his hands. “You taught me better. I thought I was better. I’m a terrible excuse for a son.”

She took a deep breath. “Harry, you’re a human, with all the complexities that come with it. Do you really think I’m entirely blameless?”

“Yes,” he said stubbornly.

“Well, I’m not. I’ll tell you something – when I saw him like that… I had a horrible desire to just let him bleed out. I hesitated while I considered it.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Well, it felt like I hesitated.”

Harry sighed. “Mum. Can’t you just treat me like the maggot I am and not try to make me feel better?”

“No,” she said, and brushed her hand along the top of his head. “Mums aren’t allowed to let their children wallow and think horrible things about themselves. We put things in perspective and help them do better.”

Harry thought about that for a while. “What did you mean when you said he’d had worse?”

“He has. He’s had limbs shorn off and other horrific injuries caused by Dark magic that resisted healing and caused those terrible scars he keeps hidden. Back when we were young, in his early days as an Auror, he’d sometimes come home bloodied and bruised, or cursed. He should have gone to St. Mungo’s, or to the Auror Mediwizard on duty – anyone more experienced than me, but he always said he preferred my touch to a stranger’s. I thought it was romantic.” She wiped her eyes angrily. “There were a lot of things I thought were romantic, but really they were just… toxic. Don’t make my mistakes, Harry. Choose better.”

When she looked at him, Harry thought about telling her about Hermione and Ron, to perhaps reassure her that he had chosen better. But maybe she wouldn’t see it that way. Perhaps it would only make her worry more, and Harry didn’t want to cause her any more grief, any more disappointment than he already had.

They won’t want you after this, anyway, that horrible voice in his head whispered as a cold fist of fear gripped his heart.

You’ve ruined everything.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

That night, Harry tried to gain solace from the lake as he sat on the porch, looking out over its silvery surface that reflected the quarter moon. Nighttime always brought different scents – a fresh dampness, with fading notes of sun-warmed grass and some night-blooming flower that wafted on the breeze. There were the songs of crickets and frogs and nightjars, and the calls and hoots of all the owls that came with the weekend guests.

Harry closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the chair and listened, hoping he would find stillness soon. His thoughts raged inside his mind, unwilling to be quieted. The duel – no, the attack, and all the emotions it stirred within him. He supposed a part of him should feel vindication for all the pain his father had caused to Harry and his mother, or even relief that he’d finally done something, instead of just sitting around and brooding or whinging. But the only things he felt were fear and guilt.

It was very painful to remember the look on Hermione’s face as he told her and Ron what he’d done, as if she was afraid of him. And the crestfallen look on Ron’s face, too. He had told them the truth, because he owed it to them. While they didn’t shun him outright, Harry felt as though they were thinking it, and he was now just waiting for them to drop the axe.

Harry put his head in his hands. God, what a mess he’d made of everything.

He’d asked to be alone, and Ron and Hermione had respected him, but now he was lonely. He felt tainted. Dirty, and undeserving of their care and concern.

Suddenly, he felt a shift in air pressure and looked up to see Hedwig land silently on the rail of the porch. She carried a letter and his wand. He had completely forgotten that he’d never gone back for it after he’d dropped it.

“Sit with me a moment, won’t you?” he asked her, and she hopped over to settle on his knee, her wings outstretched until she found her balance. He took his wand and the letter from her and set them on the armrest, not ready to look at it yet. He stroked Hedwig’s back and head as he tried not to think of what his father might have written. Perhaps this would be the last he ever heard of him – James would disown him for this.

“Was he angry, Hedwig?”

She turned her head to look at him and made soft little clicking sounds that usually meant she was feeling happy or peaceful. She blinked softly at him. “Well, that’s encouraging. Thank you,” he said, stroking her beak. Hedwig nipped at him affectionately and spread her wings again, asking permission to fly away. “Go on, then. Be safe.” She hopped to the rail and alighted from it, flying as silently as a ghost over the silver lake. His heart lifted, as it always did when watching her fly.

Harry opened the letter and read:

Dear Harry,

I know I deserved everything you threw at me today. There was no reason for me to expect anything different. I’m not at all angry, just sorry. Your mum was right – I have had worse, but that is not the point right now.

Sirius encouraged me to tell you something. I’m not sure if it’s the right thing to do, but he thought it might help us understand each other better. I would do anything for that.

Before I start, I want you to know that your mum doesn’t know any of this. Or Remus. I only recently told Sirius after keeping it from everyone for so long. I might have never told him if he hadn’t asked just the right question at just the right time. Maybe you understand by now that secrets, especially painful ones, can poison you if you let them.

I know you know the story that Peter told me that your mother and Remus were having an affair, and that for a long time they thought I believed it enough to break up my own marriage. And then, it came out years later that I took up with a woman in retaliation.

It’s true that I fucked everything up. If I had just gone home and talked it out with Lily, asked Remus, or talked to Sirius, none of what comes next would have happened. Instead of seeking out people I trusted, I hid like a coward and got incredibly drunk. I had been drinking a lot – there was always stress and horrible things I saw and did every day at work, and I kept a bottle in my desk at the Ministry. Someone knocked on my door, and when I opened it, it was Lily.

I wasn’t even angry by then, just devastated. I wanted to make her forget Remus, remember what she loved about me. So when she threw herself at me, I didn’t just let it happen; I gave it my all. It wasn’t until it was over that I realised she wasn’t your mum. If I had been sober, I would have seen it right away. Her voice was wrong, she was acting strange, and her features weren’t quite right. She tricked me.

Something broke in me after that. I felt diseased. I lashed out and became someone unbearable. I wasn’t aware of what I was doing or why I was doing it, but now I understand I was pushing everyone who showed me kindness or would have understood away. I didn’t feel I was worthy of anyone. I loved my wife, and I had cheated on her. It was entirely my fault for not realising who she was right away – I was an Auror, and I’d always thought I was a good one. I knew how to look for deception, and I failed.

I couldn’t tell anyone. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t. So I pretended to your mum that I’d done it on purpose. I still thought she and Remus had betrayed me. When I finally realised and accepted the truth, it was too late. Even then, I could have said something, done my best to heal and make up for the hurt I’d caused. Instead, I doubled down and drank even more.

I am beyond ashamed. It was entirely my fault. One of the worst parts is that I know Lily would have forgiven me if I’d only chosen to treat her like my partner, to open up and ask for her understanding. I see so much more of her in you than myself. If I could not be the father you deserve, at least she is the mother that you deserve and need. For that, I am grateful.

None of this excuses what I’ve done. I hurt you, I lied to you, I put down all the things that mattered to you, I was a horrible example of what it means to be a man, and I made you think I didn’t love you anymore. For that, I can’t forgive myself. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t even expect you to believe me. As much as I wish I could, I can’t erase or rewrite the past. I want you to know that I will do anything to make it up, to do better in the future, if you will let me. I love you so much, Harry, and I’m sorry.

Love,

Dad

Harry put down the letter and took off his glasses. He’d already been wiping tears away while reading it, but now he burst into full-on sobbing with his head in his hands. He knew what it was like to feel unclean, unworthy of care or affection. He knew what it meant to be tricked, to have someone take your choice away and make you believe you were acting of your own free will. Only in Harry’s case, Romilda hadn’t succeeded in that final step. Harry usually tried very hard not to think about what it would have done to him if she had, but now… through his father, he had a bitter understanding.

Would he have pushed Hermione and Ron and his mother and everyone else away? Would he have become the same person as his dad? He didn’t know. He hoped not. His heart was broken for his father. He believed him, and Harry could not bring himself to be angry for anything – not now, not anymore. He only felt worse for what he’d done.

Harry looked at the letter again. “I love you so much, Harry, and I’m sorry.” For how long had Harry been desperate to hear that? To feel it? He pressed the parchment to his heart, as if he could absorb it all, have it written there and keep it for always.

“Harry?” It was Ron’s voice.

He had not heard Ron and Hermione come down, but they were there now, standing uncertainly at the open back door. “What is it?” asked Hermione. Harry cringed. He must have been loud if it woke them.

Harry took deep breaths, trying to get a grip, pull himself together. His father had confided something deep and painful, something he felt great shame for. No matter how easy it would be to just tell them what his father had written, it was not in Harry’s nature to deliberately break confidences, especially not those of people he loved.

I love you, Dad, he thought.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” he choked out.

“You didn’t,” said Hermione, coming to sit on his lap. She curled her legs up and snuggled into him as his arms went automatically around her. “I wasn’t really sleeping.” A measure of calm washed over Harry.

“Neither was I,” said Ron, and he leaned down to wrap his warm, comforting arms around Harry’s shoulders, and kissed the top of his head. Harry took a deep, shuddering breath.

Hermione and Ron were his comfort and his strength. They always had been. Perhaps even before he’d met them. It felt like some stroke of destiny, that every moment of his life had simply been preparing him to love them. Harry wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve them both. He was only grateful to whatever powerful, inexplicable magic allowed it to be so.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry stood outside his father’s tent just before the sun was about to rise. He had the letter tucked safely into his pocket. His father was an early riser, and Harry didn’t have to wait long before he emerged, dressed and scrubbing his cheeks to get the blood flowing.

His father stopped short when he saw him. Harry didn’t really know what to say, so he did what he felt was the next best thing. “Want to go flying?” Harry asked with a small smile.

The slow smile that spread across his father’s face was everything to Harry, and they walked in silence to the field. He knew what would happen. They would fly, and play around, and once they were on the ground again, sweaty and windswept and happy, they would talk.

As the sun rose and they took to the sky, they threw a quaffle back and forth to get a feel for each other again. His father was rusty, as if he had not been on a broom for a while, but he quickly got back into the swing of it. As the morning went on and more partygoers woke up, some of them came to the field to watch. When Harry looked down, he saw several children bouncing in excitement, the littlest ones holding toy brooms while the older ones among them carried well-loved hand-me-downs.

“Come and play!” he called.

“Us, too?” cried a little boy with a splintered toy broom that looked ready to fall apart.

“Of course,” said Harry.

Soon Harry organised two games (he called them leagues, much to the amusement of his father). The older children played with his father at the far end of the pitch, and Harry played on the ground with the youngest ones, close to where their parents watched with varying levels of apprehension and amusement. As he patiently explained the rules and gave them flying tips, there was a clicking sound, and Harry looked up to see Colin Creevey taking photographs.

“Oh, watch out,” Harry said, grinning. “The Daily Prophet’s here! Make sure you get their best sides, sir,” he directed with mock seriousness to Colin. “Future Quidditch stars, the lot of them.”

The kids tittered and posed and pulled faces as Colin snapped a few more shots. “Incredible,” Colin said in his reedy, cheerful voice. “My best work. Win me the Vic Odden Award, it will!”

“And you all made it happen,” said Harry to the grinning children, though he had no idea who Vic Odden was or why he gave out awards.

When he looked up again, he saw Sirius, Remus, and his mother watching both games from the stands. Sirius was heckling James, with Remus and Lily looking on with polite smiles, though there was still a palpable tension there. He hoped that his father could find it in himself to tell them all the truth, so that perhaps he could lean on them the same way Harry could lean on Hermione and Ron.

He knew in his heart it was too late for his parents to ever be together again, and while it caused only the smallest pang of regret, Harry knew it was for the best. Sometimes, even good people just aren’t suited for each other, and some hurts run too deep to come back from. But his father was right. Harry knew that his mother would forgive him, because that’s just who she was. It was something they had in common.

As parents started to call their children back for breakfast in the catering tent or in their own family tents, Harry motioned to his father, who flew over and dismounted. Harry looked at his mother, hoping she would not see it as a betrayal for him to reconcile with her ex-husband who had wounded her so deeply. She watched him intently, her green eyes so like his own when he was deep in thought. Finally, she nodded, and turned to put her head on Remus’ shoulder as he put both arms around her.

As Harry put away their brooms, he noticed his father watching Remus and Lily with regretful eyes. “Come on,” Harry said, putting a bracing arm around his shoulders. “Let’s walk.” I’m taller than him, now, he thought with surprise. He had not seen his father since before his last two growth spurts.

“I read your letter,” Harry finally said as they put their brooms away and headed for the old carriage roads to the north, away from the bustle of the party and the prying eyes of other guests. They did not look at each other, which made it slightly easier for Harry. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” his father said fervently, and Harry could almost feel the waves of shame and humiliation roll off him. “I made bad choice after bad choice. It’s me that’s sorry.”

Harry knew how difficult it was for James, a man who had for so many years deflected blame and bottled up his own feelings, to say this. Harry was quiet, giving his father space to talk if he wanted to. But his father didn’t really want to talk about himself. He wanted to listen, which was a pleasant surprise. He wanted to know what Harry had been doing, how he felt about things.

“You really like kids, don’t you?” his father asked.

“I do,” said Harry, straightening up and smiling brightly. “I like teaching them things, watching them figure out what they like and what they’re capable of.”

“I’m sorry I meddled,” James said quietly. “I don’t know why it mattered so much for you to be like me, and not like yourself.”

Harry was quiet. It meant a lot to hear his father say that. He finally turned to look at him and said, “It’s not going to be perfect or easy, but if you can try to move forward, I can, too.”

“That’s all I want,” said his father. Harry was surprised and more than a little touched to see his father’s hazel eyes were bright. He wiped them under his glasses. “Even though I’ve got nothing to do with it, I’m proud of who you are.”

Harry choked up and pulled him into a hug. “I missed you, Dad,” he said.

His father squeezed him back. “Me, too, Harry. I missed my boy.”

Chapter 14: We Will Wait

Gran considered Harry and James’ reconciliation her greatest birthday present. All Sunday she watched Harry or his father, whether they stood together or not, with tears in her eyes.

“She’s going to take all the credit for this; mark my words,” Harry muttered darkly, startling a laugh out of his father.

Ron and Hermione were, understandably, confused as to Harry’s abrupt about-face. He would have to tell them something. They were together now, he reminded himself. That meant treating them as partners. If nothing else, he could learn from his father’s mistakes.

Sunday was the final day of the party, and it ended with a sumptuous feast to rival those at Hogwarts, a pantomime of the Tale of the Three Brothers, and an even more spectacular fireworks show. Harry wasn’t sure exactly how much time he should spend with his father now. He was torn between wanting to regain what was lost, but also to nurture his new relationship with Ron and Hermione.

“I’m sorry for… how I’ve been,” he told them as the last fireworks faded, and people started calling their goodbyes and well-wishes and thank-yous.

Hermione took his hand. “Let’s go home,” was all she said. It took them some time just to get to the road as their families and friends sought them out to say goodbye and make vague promises to meet up again. Always “soon.”

“You’ll talk to me?” Harry’s mother asked, looking up at him seriously. “This week?”

“I promise,” he said, hugging her. “You know Gran’s going to make us clean up – I’m sure we’ll see you as early as tomorrow.”

“I have to work!” she said brightly. “Have fun!” And she took Remus’ hand and apparated away with a soft pop!

“You don’t mean that, do you?” Ron said to Harry, appalled. “After all the things we did to get this place ready?”

Harry shrugged as they started walking. “That’s just her way. It’s how you know you’re family.”

“Well, when you put it that way…”

“It’s still pants,” said Hermione crossly. “If I get put on tree duty one more time…”

Harry laughed and gently tugged on the end of one of her curls. He saw his father being fussed over by Gran and waved at him. Harry pretended he didn’t see Gran motioning him over. He was not about to wade into that bog.

Hermione was watching him shrewdly. “Out with it,” she said when they were alone on the road to the lakeside cottage.

Harry explained as best he could, that his father had finally told him what had made him break without giving details. Neither were exactly satisfied by his vagueness.

“It was… really personal,” Harry said. “I can’t say more than that. But it was enough for us to maybe understand each other again.”

“Well, if you want to forgive him, that’s not up to me,” said Ron. “And thank god it’s not, because it sounds fucking complicated.”

“That it is,” agreed Harry.

“Hmph,” said Hermione. “Don’t expect me to understand. But I won’t say anything more.”

Harry tickled her. “Yes, you will,” he said as she giggled and squirmed away from him. “You’re nosy and interfering and I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

“I suppose it’s back to normal life for us,” said Ron, throwing an arm around Harry. “Merlin, it’s quiet.”

“It’s nice,” said Hermione with a happy sigh. “It was a fun weekend, but I missed our usual routine.”

“What, doing nothing?” said Ron.

“Not nothing. At least… not anymore,” she said suggestively.

“Be careful, Hermione,” said Harry. “Keep talking that way and you’ll get us all into trouble.”

“I love trouble,” said Ron dreamily. “We haven’t seen your tits for three days.”

“Oh, honestly,” she said. “Touching them isn’t enough?”

“No,” said Harry and Ron.

“We can’t get enough of you,” said Ron. He let go of Harry and picked up Hermione. She put up no resistance whatsoever, and returned his kiss with enthusiasm.

“Watch it,” said Harry, grabbing Ron by his shirt to keep him from running off the road as Hermione kissed him all over his face and neck. “Distracted driving is drunk driving,” he said, remembering his mother saying something similar during his driving lessons.

“Sorry, did you want a turn?” asked Ron politely.

“Yes,” said Harry. Ron set Hermione down and she went to Harry. Just as she reached for him, Ron playfully elbowed her to the side and picked up Harry for a snog.

“Why, you cheeky bastard,” said Hermione, sounding impressed. Harry and Ron laughed. Harry felt like he was in a romance novel with his feet dangling and his fingers in Ron’s hair.

They took far too long to get back to the cottage that way, taking turns exchanging kisses and caresses between the three of them. The boys protested when Hermione announced she was going to bed.

“We have all day tomorrow,” she promised.

“We could have all night, too,” Ron mumbled when she was out of earshot.

“Patience,” said Harry, pulling him in for a hug.

It was on his mind as he slipped between the sheets. Harry thought it was a shame the beds in the cottage were so small. He wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to share one. Not even for sex – just for the comfort of being close to each other all night.

The best he could do for now was fall asleep to the sound Ron’s breathing, and dream of him and Hermione.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Three days after the party, Harry went alone to have dinner with his mother. He went over early, so he could have food on the table as she arrived home from her shift at St. Mungo’s. His mother was particularly fond of pasta, and he made a nice carbonara that had gone over well with Ron and Hermione. Guide greeted him at the door with a little meow and rubbed herself around his ankles. Remus was on his way out, looking pale and a bit peaky as the full moon approached. He made a point of saying he would be gone for a while as Sirius had invited him to test out a short-aged whisky that he was hoping to distribute as “Moony’s Moonshine” before the end of the year.

“Don’t drink and drive,” Harry quipped, putting his bag of ingredients down so he could scoop up Guide. “Look at you,” he said to the little cat. “You’re all grown up. Still small and sweet, though.”

“Mrr?” she said, and rubbed her head under his chin.

It was different, cooking alone. He was used to Ron and Hermione hovering nearby, having conversations and laughing together at his inevitable mistakes. And ever since they got together, Hermione would come up behind him and put her arms around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder blades as he worked. Ron liked to lean against the counter and steal kisses when Harry reached for the spices.

He loved them so much, and even though he adored his mother and was looking forward to spending time with her, he missed them. Harry had given them both long hugs and kisses goodbye, insisting they were “for the road.”

His mother’s timing was perfect – she came through the Floo just as Harry was plating dinner.

“Oh, have I missed this,” she said, inhaling deeply as she wafted the aroma towards her face.

“Does Remus not cook?” asked Harry as they sat down together.

“He does,” she said cautiously. “He’s just not particularly… intuitive. But he is very good at picking wines.” She summoned a bottle of Pinot Grigio from a little wine rack in the corner of the kitchen and poured two glasses.

“Liquid courage, Mum?” Harry asked.

“No, just class,” she said airily, making Harry chuckle.

“Oh my god,” she said at her first bite, closing her eyes. “I know you did not learn this skill from me. Or your father.”

“I am an individual, Mum,” Harry said. “And I always liked your cooking.”

“It’s so kind of you to lie like that,” she said, laughing. The pasta carbonara had turned out even better than the first time he’d made it, though Harry’s palate was not refined enough to tell if the wine was good or not. It tasted like wine.

“Does Sirius make spirits named after all of his friends, do you know?” asked Harry.

“Yes, and himself, though their nicknames are so stupid that they make for some terribly cheeky jokes. Especially ‘Prongs’ and ‘Moony.’ ”

Harry almost made a joke about how many times his mother would have been “moony-d,” but he stopped himself, horrified his mind even went there.

“Speaking of your father…” she began.

Harry nodded in resignation, indicating for her to go on.

“You’ve made up, then?”

“Yes,” Harry said quietly. “He said he deserved… what I did to him.” He looked down at his plate.

His mother was still, and Harry knew it was in surprise. Clearly, she had not expected that. “Do you agree?” she finally said.

“No, and I’m never going to.” When he looked up at her, she was scowling, but he couldn’t guess why. He straightened up. “Mum… I – I haven’t forgotten how he hurt you. I’m not trying to… excuse anything, or…” Harry gestured uselessly, not able to put words to what he meant.

She finished her last bites of pasta in silence. “Listen,” she finally said, looking intently at him. “Leave that part up to me. If you forgive him for the wrong he’s done to you, let what’s between him and me alone.”

“All right,” he said, but inwardly he still clung to the habit of shielding his mother from his father. “Have you… talked at all?”

“Not since Saturday,” she said. “I’m not ready. Seeing her brought it all back again.”

Harry pushed around a stray bit of pancetta that was too small to stab with his fork. He sensed his mother might tell him who “she” was, but now that he knew the full story… He would rather hear it from his father.

“I saw him on the Map one night,” Harry said. “In Remus’ office, with Sirius.”

“The what now?”

Harry winced. You blithering idiot. She didn’t know about the Map.

She stared at him, realisation dawning in her eyes. “You couldn’t possibly mean the Map? The Meandering Map, or whatever they called it?”

“Marauder’s Map,” said Harry automatically, then bit his lips.

“Uh huh. And who gave it to you?”

“I found it,” he said, knowing she would see right through it. “It was just lying on the ground, all innocent and minding its own business, and I took it with me.”

“And just so happened to figure out how to work it? All by your ickle self?”

“Yes, Mum; I am a very clever boy.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “It was Sirius, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Harry, seizing on the lie. If Remus hadn’t told his mother, Harry certainly wasn’t going to rat him out. “And he’s not sorry; so don’t bother with him.”

“Is he ever?” his mum said.

“Sometimes,” Harry replied, thinking of the role his godfather played in Harry’s and his father’s reconciliation. “But never about mischief or illegal activity.”

“No, I suppose that’s part of his, er, charm,” she said, half disapproving, half fond. “But that’s beside the point. You said you saw your father on the Map?”

“Yeah, shortly before term ended.”

She shrugged. “It hasn’t been just you and me he’s been trying to fix things with. I’m not too surprised.”

“I just wondered if anyone had told you. I had been in the office right before, and I don’t know if he was… listening.”

Harry’s mother used her wand to get the washing up started. “I don’t know, Harry. As I’m sure you can imagine, James is a bit of a sore subject for me, and Sirius and Remus don’t bring him up around me if they can help it.”

“Right,” he said uncomfortably, taking note of the hard set of her shoulders.

But when the dishes were cleared and the table was clean, she relaxed a little. “Is there anything else you want to tell me, darling?” she asked gently. Guide jumped up into her lap and Harry’s mum stroked between her eyes with her smallest finger. The cat closed her eyes and purred.

Harry thought of saying no, that there was nothing. But that wasn’t fair – she always knew when there was something up with him. Some extra magic that came with motherhood. Or perhaps women in general. “Not yet, Mum,” he said. His relationship with Hermione and Ron was still too new, and deep down Harry was still afraid of fucking it up, or of making his mother cry again.

It was irrational, he knew. His mother loved him and was a very understanding witch, but Harry couldn’t shake the fear that she might think unfavourably of Hermione and Ron. He wanted her to love them, too.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry loved mornings at the lakeside cottage. They no longer allowed each other to lie in. It was early days, and they were too eager to spend all their waking moments together. Hermione always pretended to be cross when woken up, but the boys knew she really loved it.  

One morning Harry and Ron rose at almost the exact same time and crawled into Hermione’s bed for a quick snuggle. “Go away,” said Hermione, her eyes still closed, but she was smiling. There was barely room for the three of them – Harry’s arse was hanging half off the edge of the mattress, though he was squeezed as tightly as possible against Hermione’s back. She usually wore her hair piled on top of her head for bed, but she either hadn’t put it up the night before, or it had come undone in the night. Harry buried his face in it, enjoying the light floral scent and the texture, somehow both silky and coarse.

Crookshanks meowed loudly and headbutted Ron in the manner of hungry felines. “Just a minute, Crooks,” Hermione said, reaching up to pet him. He rubbed his whole body along the parts of her he could reach and purred. Harry wished he could get away with doing that. He consoled himself by pulling her hair to the side and kissing just below her ear.

“What’s for breakfast?” she asked, rolling to face Harry.

“Toast,” he said. “And I’m not making it.”

“Aw,” pouted Ron. “I like your cooking.”

“Toast isn’t cooking,” insisted Hermione.

“Then you shouldn’t have a problem with it,” Harry said. It earned him a swat to the chest, which he liked for some inexplicable reason. He put his arms around her, which was difficult since they were all squashed so tightly together.

“Don’t hog,” Ron said, also wrapping his arms around Hermione, making them all into a big tangle of limbs and wild curls.

“All right, enough,” said Hermione after only a few minutes. “Get out – you’re both very sweet, but you’re also very smelly.”

“That’s man musk,” said Ron as Harry laughed. “Thought women were supposed to like it.”

“I might agree if there was only one of you, but together it’s overpowering,” she said, wriggling in a way that made heat rise up Harry’s neck.

Harry relented on making breakfast – he wanted more than just toast, anyway, and it was cruel to leave Hermione and Ron to fend for themselves. He took out a loaf of homemade bread and began to slice it with his wand, thinking of doing French toast. Just the day before, his mother had sent it over with Remus’ long-eared owl, Celene. Her accompanying note had included a little cartoonish drawing of a wolf carrying a serrated knife in its mouth and a speech bubble with the words, “We made this yeast-erday.” Harry had chuckled and tried to quash the slight regret that came with knowing his mother had found someone else to bake with.

We’ll do my cake this year, he promised himself.

He heard the shower running upstairs and wondered who it was. Harry imagined both Ron and Hermione washing each other, soapy water running off Hermione’s breasts and down Ron’s abdomen. It was such a vivid fantasy, he almost ran upstairs to see if it was true.

He heard the slightly muffled sound of Ron singing. He didn’t always sing in the shower, but Harry and Hermione adored it when he did. Sometimes Harry would catch Hermione absently humming one of his tunes and it always made him grin.

When he came down, his copper waves were in perfect order and he smelled very nice indeed. The first slices of French toast were just coming off the griddle. Ron called back up the stairs, “Hermione! You better hurry, he’s starting to serve!”

Harry smiled as he heard Hermione squeal and scramble down the steps, still in the tiny little shorts she wore to bed. “Forget hygiene,” she said, and sat expectantly at the little dining table.

“You dirty little hypocrite,” said Ron, leaning down to kiss her.

“You know she never smells,” said Harry, flipping a slice. “It’s the most magical thing about women.”

Ron inhaled against her neck. “Mm,” he said. “There’s a whiff of something –” (Hermione scowled and smacked at him) “– but it’s very sexy.” He pressed his lips to the spot she liked, where her shoulder met her neck, and she made the tiniest noise of pleasure at the back of her throat.

“Stop that,” said Harry sternly. “I can’t focus when you two go at it.”

But Harry was also a dirty hypocrite. When Hermione got up for seconds, Harry caught her by the waist and pulled her in for a snog. She tasted sweet, like cinnamon and maple syrup. “Don’t let – the food burn,” she said between heated kisses. Without looking, he turned off the hob and lifted her up to set her on the counter.

“Better?” he asked as he stepped between her legs and gave her the look that always made her melt. His plate of a half-eaten stack of French toast went skittering to the side.

The pleading noise she made was both undignified and arousing. As they kissed, she allowed him to roam his hands over her – the outside of her thighs, her hips, breasts, and even her arse. Her eyes were dark and her breaths shallow. Harry wondered if she would let him touch between her legs.

But instead, he put his hand over her heart, and felt it thrum behind her ribs like a caged bird.

Ron wanted his turn and Harry reluctantly stood back and tried to eat the rest of his breakfast as he watched Ron take more liberties than he had, his hands lingering much longer on her arse, and he dipped his head to kiss the upper swells of her breasts. She allowed it for a little while, then began to push him away gently, her face flaming.

“Sorry,” Ron said. He sounded a little hurt.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Hermione said, though she was unable to look at him. “I’m just… nervous.”

They finished breakfast, Harry and Ron pretending their testicles were any colour other than blue.

Hermione leaned against the counter after rinsing her plate at the sink, her brow furrowed as she thought of something. “Please don’t misunderstand,” she began, looking over at them where they still sat at the table. “I love being the centre of your attention. But… you don’t seem as affectionate with each other when I’m around.”

Harry and Ron looked at each other. Ron nodded at Harry – he was better at explaining things with a marginally better sense of tact than Ron. “Well, this whole thing started when we realised we both fancied you,” Harry said. “How we felt about each other came on more slowly. At least it did for me,” he amended. “We’ve known for a while that you like the attention, and we’re happy to give it to you.”

When Hermione looked at Ron, he shrugged. “Princess treatment is hot,” he said simply. “And I like watching.”

“Same,” said Harry with feeling.

“Well, all right,” she said, but didn’t look fully convinced. “Just so long as you’re not… holding back because you think I won’t like it.”

Harry and Ron looked at each other. “Do you want to watch? As in, right now?” Ron asked her. Harry went still, very interested in her answer.

She bit her lips in the way Harry knew meant she was turned on. “Yes,” she said quietly.

Harry and Ron grinned at each other. Ron beckoned to Harry with one finger, and Harry resisted the urge to leap over the table to get to him. He sat sideways on Ron’s lap and put his arms around his neck, and Ron put his arms around Harry’s waist as they kissed. There was still a little flavour of Hermione on Ron’s lips that Harry couldn’t fully describe, or explain why they each tasted different. He only knew that he loved it when they mixed, like a heady cocktail.

It made him very curious about what else he might taste there, should things progress in the way Harry wanted – to make each other come under the attention of tongues and lips.

Perhaps Ron was thinking of taste as well – he bit Harry’s bottom lip, and Harry let out an involuntary moan as Ron’s tongue parted his lips. They had not done this in front of Hermione yet, and her watching only heightened the thrill, the eroticism.

Harry’s eyes were closed, so he did not see Hermione’s reaction, but if he could, he would have seen her nipples harden under her dress as she squirmed with want, one of her hands clenched and pressing hard into her lower belly.

Ron moved his mouth to Harry’s neck, trailing a line of open-mouthed kisses right to the spot that always rendered Hermione speechless. Harry understood it now – oh, god did he understand. And the way Ron laughed against him, low and dark, the vibration of it only adding to the pleasure… Harry was already hard, and so was Ron, pressing into Harry’s arse cheek, and he knew if Ron reached down to touch him there, even a little, he would lose himself entirely and get down on his knees between Ron’s legs. Only Ron and Hermione could make him feel like this.   

“Jesus Christ,” he heard Hermione whimper. Harry opened his eyes to look at her. She was flushed and sweating, clearly struggling with her own response to seeing Harry and Ron like this.

“Hermione,” Harry gasped as Ron sucked a mark onto his collarbone. “Come here. Fuck, I –”

He broke off as Ron’s hand slid from his back to his sternum, his fingers splayed and leaving trails of heat. Hermione was mesmerised – rooted to the spot. Harry didn’t think she’d even heard him.

“How far do you want to go?” Ron asked with that fucking whisper of his as his hand slid lower, just below Harry’s navel.

“As far as you do,” said Harry. “As far as Hermione wants.” He saw now that she was blushing and starting to look away. He took pity on her – as aroused as she was to watch, she was still shy. He didn’t want to push her.

“Hey,” he said gently to Ron, licking his lips. “Wait.” He subtly jerked his head at Hermione. Ron looked, and removed his hand.

“I’m sorry,” said Hermione in distress as she put her face in her hands. “I’m that stereotype – the blushing virgin.”

“Good band name,” said Ron as Harry got off his lap. Harry scowled at him. “I mean, it’s all right, Hermione.”

Harry and Ron went to sandwich her in a hug. Harry twisted awkwardly sideways to keep his erection from poking her.

She relaxed at their touch. “I have thoughts,” Hermione said, slightly muffled by her hands.

“Thoughts about what?” asked Ron.

“You two,” she said seriously. A cold swoop of fear ran through Harry. He was suddenly certain she was going to say she’d changed her mind. That all this was too much, too weird, and moving too fast. That she was done.

“What about us?” asked Ron. He sounded perfectly at ease, but Harry couldn’t speak at all.

She took her hands away from her face. “What I said about… being there for all the firsts.”

“Go on,” said Ron.

“It’s just not fair if you’re ready to go further with each other, but I’m not yet. It would be one thing if we’re a couple, but we’re not, so that means rules have to be different, right? As… as long as you promise not to leave me or get bored because I’m too uptight.”

“You’re not uptight,” Harry said. Ron levelled an “oh-really?” look at him over Hermione’s head, but Harry ignored him. “This is new. As in we’ve only been together for what, not even a fortnight?” He was so relieved to be wrong about her concerns that he wanted to laugh.

“Officially, anyway,” corrected Ron. “I think we’ve had feelings for much longer than that.”

“Ages,” said Hermione softly. “I broke up with Viktor because of how I felt. Nobody was ever going to measure up to either one of you.”

“Merlin, Hermione,” said Ron. “Our egos are inflated enough as it is without you comparing us to International Quidditch prodigies.”

“I’ve made it,” Harry said with satisfaction. “This is all I’ve wanted in life – to know the girl of my dreams thinks I’m dreamy.”

“You know you are. You both are. I just wish I had known you felt the same sooner.”

Ron snorted. “Hermione, we are not subtle. We gave you all the hints in the world.”

“I mean I didn’t know I could have you both, or that you’d want each other.”

“Even after the mistletoe incident?” grinned Ron. “You told us to kiss each other.”

“I was joking!” said Hermione crossly. “I was annoyed at how pushy you were getting. I didn’t think you’d actually do it!”

“You know better than to make dares, Hermione. We’ll do anything to impress you,” said Ron. He titled up her chin with his fingers to kiss her.

“What exactly are you worried about?” asked Harry, when they all broke apart. “What about sex or anything else makes you nervous?”

She blushed. “I’ll admit I don’t know much about… any of this. For once I can’t just research it safely from the library. But… I mean, the very little I’ve been, er, exposed to… Just the idea of… erm… you know…”

“Just say it, Hermione,” said Ron. “We’re too thick to get it unless you spell it out.”

“Pornography,” she said, unable to look at him.

“Ohhhh,” said Harry and Ron in complete understanding. They looked at each other solemnly.

“Neither one of us expects anything like that,” said Harry, and wondered what exactly she had seen to make her so anxious. There were loads of possibilities.

“Well, that’s a relief,” she said, but she didn’t look exactly relieved.

“What did you see?” asked Ron curiously.

“Erm… it all seemed very rough, and athletic, and erm, sticky.” She was very red, and quiet when she said, “To be honest… it didn’t look like much fun for the girls. It looked like it would be painful.”

Harry remembered having a conversation with his mother ages ago, when he’d just started to become curious and aware of the existence of dirty magazines. His father had merely patted him on the back and said it was normal, but after he’d gone about his business, Harry’s mother pulled him into the kitchen to sit down together at the table.

She’d told him none of it was real – it was all a performance for men, thought up by other men. “Good sex happens between two people who trust and respect each other,” she had said seriously. “If you go into it expecting what’s in those kinds of magazines, you’ll not only be disappointed, you will disappoint, and probably hurt, your partner.” And she had gone on to explain further about what he could expect, and how to be empathetic during a very vulnerable experience. Back when they’d only been talking about girls.

All that advice had worked out very well for Harry. Even if the relationship had turned sour in the end, he and Cho did have mutually enjoyable sex. Harry told Hermione and Ron what his mother had said, and reassured her that neither he nor Ron had any inclination to hurt her or make her do anything she didn’t want. That it wasn’t fun if even one person wasn’t enjoying themselves.

“Forget about anything you saw,” Ron said. “All of it. We’re not beasts like that.”

“No, I didn’t think you were,” she mumbled, looking chastened. “I just don’t think I’ll be very good at it.”

“What does that even mean?” Ron said in confusion.

“I don’t know,” she said, cupping her elbows. Harry hugged her and she leaned into him. “I just don’t want to disappoint you.”

“You couldn’t,” said Ron. “It’s like pizza. Even bad pizza is good just because it’s pizza.”

Hermione and Harry laughed, and she nuzzled into Harry’s chest, her arms around his waist.

“I, for one, am enjoying the natural progression of things,” said Harry. “Tits today, arse tomorrow. Er, not literally tomorrow. You know what I mean.”

“I’m getting an idea,” she said. She seemed much more relaxed. “I’m glad we talked.”

 

That afternoon was hot, and they took the canoe out for a bit. Hermione wanted to show them how to properly self-rescue in the event of a rollover. Harry liked it when she ordered them around – he had loads of respect for her outdoor knowledge and alternatives to magic. He imagined a group of grown wizards and witches getting lost in the woods without their wands as Hermione swooped in, barking orders and showing up even the snobbiest of purebloods.

“Pay attention, Harry!” she snapped from the landing. She was wearing that little white dress thing over her swimming costume. “I’m trying to teach you how to save your own life!”

“All right for you,” Ron called back, treading water. “You’re nice and dry. C’mon, Harry, put it on your shoulder already – one, two, three!”

“Instructor’s privilege,” she retorted as they succeeded in flipping the canoe upright. “I’ve already done this loads of times. Now bail it out.”

“With what, exactly?” said Ron, looking around.

“You never actually quit Guides, did you, Hermione?” said Harry, voicing aloud a suspicion he’d had for a while.

“What’s it to you if I take a week or two to go gallivanting in the wilderness every summer with other girls that actually like me? Scoop it out with your arm!”

“You’re fucking joking, Hermione,” Ron said, looking at how much water was in the bottom of the canoe.

Harry grinned and ignored Ron. “When’s your next trip?”

“August,” she said. “And no, you can’t come. I’d never get you back from the other girls.”

“Harry, would you please focus?” said Ron irritably.

When they’d gotten the hang of the operation and could perform it to Hermione’s satisfaction, including getting back in by flopping like giant fish, Harry and Ron joined her on the landing, fully soaked. She squealed and laughed when Ron shook his hair out, spraying her with droplets.

“Where are you going?” asked Harry, already feeling like he missed her. Pathetic, he chided himself.

“It’s a canoe trip,” she said. “Just under a week along the River Wye.”

“That’s ages,” Harry whinged. 

“Hang on, Hermione,” Ron said, frowning as something occurred to him. “I thought you said you didn’t have any friends before Hogwarts.”

“I said I didn’t have any close friends,” she clarified. “And once I did go to school, I could only do Guides for a little bit each summer. Hard to get close to someone when you don’t ever see them, and can’t call them on the phone or even write to them the rest of the year.”

“I feel deceived,” Ron said.

“I’m sure you’ll get over it,” she said dryly. “I’m allowed to have secrets.”

“Just seems weird to hide something that is such a big part of you, and you actually enjoy,” Harry said.

“Just like we’re doing right now by not telling people we’re together?” she asked fairly.

“Touché,” said Harry, raising his hands in surrender. “But to be fair, this kind of enjoyment is not for prying eyes.” He pulled her in for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss.

“You’re – getting me all wet,” she complained without heat, returning his enthusiasm. She scraped her fingernails along his scalp, making Harry shudder.

“Do that again,” he whispered to her.

“I’d love to watch him get you properly wet,” Ron said when Hermione surfaced for air, his tone leaving no doubt as to what he meant.

Harry expected Hermione to blush, but she just smiled and kissed the very tip of his nose. Harry stood up and held out his hand to her. She took it and stood as well. “So,” he said. “You’re going on a canoe trip, and you thought it appropriate to make us do all the work without participating? Doesn’t your survival count on you having the proper amount of practice?”

“A big part of Guides is leadership,” she said, looking very nervous at the look on Harry’s face. “You know, delegating tasks and being able to teach – oh no!”

Before she could run, Harry picked her up and threw her over his shoulder as she squealed and wiggled. Harry resisted the urge to give her arse a slap for being so naughty, but he did give her left cheek a friendly squeeze. “You know, Ron, I will get her properly wet,” he said, and tossed her off the end of the landing into the water.

As she surfaced, sputtering and laughing, Ron shouted, “Don’t panic! Help is on the way!” and dove in after her. She swam away from him as he called, “Miss, Miss – I must insist you stay still – this is a rescue!”

“Aye, hen – dinnae flap!” Harry shouted through cupped hands in the worst Scots he could manage. He cannonballed in after them and they played games and splashed around like the kids they still were.

Ron wolf-whistled when Hermione took off her sodden dress and threw it on the landing, where it hit the boards with a wet splat. “Take it off, love!”

She appraised him with a coquettish look that made Harry’s cock twitch, and went under. When she emerged, she had her swim top in hand and also tossed it on the landing to cheers and more whistles from Harry and Ron.

“You did do those privacy charms, didn’t you?” she asked Ron and Harry anxiously, looking around as if someone might be peeping from the surrounding woods. She swam closer and Harry could only nod as he and Ron stared. Harry did not know breasts floated and was totally mesmerised by the way they pushed up as she tread water. Her nipples were tight from the cold.

“Don’t make this weird,” she added dryly, “or I won’t do it again.”

After that, their games turned decidedly adult. Breath-holding contests turned into underwater kissing challenges and she let them touch her (“Only above the waist!”) and pull her against them whenever they wanted without having to ask. Before long, she grew confident enough to insist Harry and Ron strip to make things fair, though she went bright red when they actually did.

“Just so you understand,” Harry said to her as he slapped Ron in the face with his pants, making a loud thwap (“OI!”), “you are going to witness an erection at some point.”

“I know,” she said shyly as Ron splashed Harry.

But even then, Ron and Harry knew not to push things too far. They tired sooner than Hermione, a result of their earlier exertion with the canoe, and they had completely forgotten to make her practice.

“Oh, well,” she said cheerfully as they walked single file up the slope to the cottage. She held the little dress over her chest in a loose attempt at modesty and pretended she wasn’t sneaking glances at Harry and Ron’s bare arses. “I know what I’m doing, and we’re really not that likely to tip. We’re very competent, you know.”

“I expect no less,” said Ron.

“I’m knackered. I don’t want to cook tonight,” complained Harry when they went inside the cottage.

“Then get dressed and we’ll invade the Burrow,” Ron said.

“Are you sure?” asked Hermione.

“Mrs. Weasley said whenever I got tired of cooking to come by,” Harry reminded her, brightening at the idea.

“It’s only fair after the stunt they pulled the Friday before. And it’s Sunday!” Ron said with a huge grin. “She does an incredible Sunday roast, and there’s always someone dropping in. Too bad when it’s Percy, but sometimes it’s someone fun.”

“Just so long as it’s no one who will enquire about your dirty socks,” said Hermione innocently.

Harry and Ron nearly fell over laughing. Ron turned to put an arm around her, but she dodged him, suddenly flustered, and quickly went upstairs.

“I didn’t mean to spook her,” Ron said to Harry, looking sheepish. “I forgot. Just… it feels natural being naked around each other.”

“You definitely don’t have anything to be shy about,” said Harry admiringly, giving Ron a thorough once-over.

“No, I don’t suppose I do,” Ron said, flexing shamelessly. “I shouldn’t have showered this morning – now I’ve got to do it all over again.”

Taking Hermione’s words from that morning to heart, Ron and Harry shared the shower, washing each other’s hair and exchanging gentle kisses, their palms and fingers gliding easily over chests and stomachs. But when Harry reached between Ron’s legs, he was surprised when Ron grabbed his hand to stop him. “I want to save that for Hermione,” Ron murmured. “Don’t you?”

Harry thought about it. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”

Hermione went into the bathroom after them, giving them a smile that didn’t quite hide her true feelings. Harry was glad Ron had stopped him – no matter what she had said, it was clear it made her sad to be left out. It made Harry feel awful that she felt she had to pretend for them.

As she showered, Harry and Ron pulled their memories from their temples with their wands, and gently coiled the gleaming silver strands into Ron’s memory glass. Ron went into Hermione’s room and set it gently on her bedside table. After some consideration, they wrote her a short note:

We will wait. Love, H & R

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry’s earlier prediction that his reconciliation with his father would not be perfect or easy proved true, though they made the effort to spend time together every couple of days after his father was finished at work. It was a slow coming back together, of reinventing, instead of revisiting, habits in the way they spoke and reacted to each other. Harry had felt resentment and confusion for so long, it was hard to relearn the easy affection he’d once had for his father. Even though Harry forgave him, and understood him, sometimes the old hurts would rise up out of nowhere. Like muscle memory.

They flew together and played Quidditch, but they also took long walks along the same trails they had hiked when Harry was small enough for his father to carry him. They talked, and touched on the edges of serious subjects, but withdrew the second the other appeared remotely uncomfortable. Harry still didn’t know what kinds of things his father had to do as an Auror that caused him to start drinking so heavily. There were two planned gatherings James had to postpone when his assignments ran long or changed suddenly. It was not exactly a standard 9-5 job.

“Where do you live now?” Harry asked curiously on the single occasion they went to a pub in Godric’s Hollow.

“A flat in London. Just a few blocks from the Ministry entrance,” his father answered. “Kind of a shithole, really. Someone’s always cooking fish on Fridays and it makes the whole building smell.”

“Can I come by sometime?”

James smiled at him. “Sure. Just keep your expectations low.”

Harry noticed that his father ordered only a single beer, and did not pressure Harry to drink. He wondered if it was for show, or if he was truly cutting back.

“How is Scout these days?” his father asked comfortably.

Harry stared at him, his heart sinking. “Scout died, Dad,” he said softly. “The same Christmas Mum told me about the divorce.”

James blinked as it dawned on him just how long it had been since they’d had anything to say to each other. “Oh,” he said. “I… I didn’t know. That’s too bad.” He was silent for a while, digesting the news.

“We buried her under the magnolia in the back garden,” Harry said. “I thought… I thought Mum would have told you.”

“It never came up,” his father said sadly. “We got her as a kitten when we first moved in together.”

It was nice to reminisce about Scout, though Harry felt the hurt bubble up again. If he’d been around… he would have known, he told himself. All he had to do was ask, but he left her behind, too. He said nothing aloud.

He did tell his father about Guide, how they’d found her and how he’d tried to take her to Hogwarts, which made his father laugh. “I would have, too,” he said. Harry had to remind himself that it was not a comparison, but a connection.

“I heard you’re about to become Head Auror,” Harry ventured after James paid the bill and they went out the front door of the pub. It was well after sunset, but the heat of the day still lingered along the ground and the road’s cobbles.

“Where did you hear that?” asked his father.

“Slughorn,” shrugged Harry.

“Oh, yeah. He’s got his sausage fingers in loads of pies, doesn’t he?”

“Gross,” said Harry, making James chuckle. They walked through the village, towards the path to the Potter Estate.

“He’s not exactly wrong, but not exactly right,” said his father. “It’s true I have my hat in the ring, and I’ve worked hard to get there. But I’m not the only one up for consideration.”

“Dad,” Harry said slowly. “Why are you still an Auror if it’s so bad that it makes you drink?”

James barely batted an eye before he answered, as if he had a reply ready at all times. “Because there’s a lot of good that I’ve done there. Someone has to do it, may as well be people who are in it for the right reasons.” He thought for a while, before he added, “And maybe it’s selfish, but I want to cling to the good I’ve done. I can do more as Head Auror. Maybe… change the things that make it so awful. I’m not the first Auror to blow up their personal life or hurt their family because of the pressure.”

Harry was quiet. He thought all this was far too new and tentative to continue that line of questions. Instead, he asked about the Sanctum case that had led to Umbridge’s arrest.

“It’s not closed,” said James. “She’s still got to be tried by the Wizengamot and we think she had an accomplice. She’s been in the Ministry for ages and never showed any aptitude for potions.”

“But she does have a history of bigotry,” said Harry, clenching his jaw.

His father glanced at him. “Yes, she does,” he agreed. “And it’s been ignored for a long time. Head Auror is on the path to Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which is in charge of vetting Ministry workers. And as you can imagine, the efforts to check for and keep out blood supremacists even at the highest levels of government are… lacking.”

“I see,” said Harry, impressed. His father had a plan.

They walked past Lily’s cottage, and James put his hand on the gate. “Sorry,” he said gruffly, jerking back his hand as if he’d been burned. “Forgot.” They kept walking after a long, wistful glance from James at the home that had once housed a loving family. His family. When it used to be whole.

“I think you should tell Mum what you told me,” Harry said, keeping his eyes straight in front of him.

James cleared his throat. “No,” he said softly. “I only told you because you… understand what it’s like.”

“With respect,” said Harry with a bite of impatience, “that’s stupid. If you mean to make things right, you can start with the truth.”

“Right,” said James tersely.

There would be more moments like that, where they would have to push through their old tendencies to criticize and clam up.

“Look, I’m sorry,” said Harry as they reached the edge of the Potter Estate, where they would part ways until the next time.

“No,” said James quickly, “You’re probably right. I’ll think about it.”

Harry would take what he could get. He gave his father a quick hug and said goodnight, already looking forward to seeing Ron and Hermione again, even if it was just to look in on them as they slept. He lit his wand and walked more quickly than was necessary on the dark path. He heard Hermione’s voice in his head, admonishing him for not anticipating tripping hazards like tree roots and brambles.

She had been very nature conscientious lately. She went out in the canoe every single day, sometimes by herself and sometimes with Harry or Ron, practicing knots, loading, unloading, and launching from the shore with a very serious expression. She admitted some of the times she went to see her parents were actually Girl Guide meetings to prepare for the upcoming trip. Harry was a little hurt that she had hid her continued involvement for so long. He didn’t think it was childish or strange. He and Ron benefitted daily from her skills and saw how happy it made her. And a happy Hermione was a sweet and snuggly Hermione.

The trail went past the old landing that was on the opposite side of the lake from the cottage, and when Harry looked out on the water, he saw a light there. He squinted, thinking a hinkypunk had made its way onto the estate, but then he heard Hermione’s voice carry across the water. She was singing.

Normally her Guiding songs were robust and cheerful, and she put him in mind of a happy little warbler when they walked along the estate’s trails under the canopy of trees. Tonight, her song was different – something slow and plaintive. It sounded like a love song. Harry stopped to listen.

He sensed, rather than saw, that she was alone, and wondered why. He looked towards the lakeside cottage and saw all the windows were dark. There was no orange flicker from the firepit – there was only the dim, greenish glow of the single lamp on the porch. Had she and Ron had a fight?

When she finished her song, Harry sent green sparks up from his wand, beckoning Hermione over. She turned and paddled towards him, and Harry waited at the end of the landing like some left-behind lover in the telly shows his Muggle grandmother liked to watch. Hermione pulled expertly alongside the landing and Harry saw her light was a large battery-operated lantern, and Crookshanks was sitting in the prow, looking grumpy. Harry laughed to see him as Hermione threw him a line.

“I thought you were alone, but I see you have a partner,” he said, tying her off.

“Yes,” she said, her dark eyes shining. She was lit from below, lending her an air of mystery. “He’s useless at paddling, but excellent company.”

“How did you get him to come out with you?”

“Bribery,” she said, and Harry saw an empty tin of sardines glinting near her feet. He reached out to scratch under Crookshanks’ chin.

“Mrr?” the cat said in a scratchy voice.

“Glad to see you, too,” said Harry. “And you, Hermione. What are you doing out here alone? At night, no less? You and Ron aren’t having a disagreement, are you?”

“No, Mum,” she said comfortably. “I told him he could go to bed. I am practicing for all sorts of conditions and visibility, with only Muggle equipment. It’s only too bad this lake doesn’t have any rapids or strong currents.”

“We have wands. I am sure we could fix that.”

“Brilliant,” she said, beaming at him.

“Not right now, though,” said Harry. “Hop out for a bit. Watch the stars with me.”

“Very romantic,” she said approvingly. Harry held the canoe steady as she climbed onto the landing. Crookshanks jumped up as well, stretching and shaking his paws one by one before lifting one back leg over his head to groom his arsehole. “Charming,” she said quellingly, and flipped off the lantern as she and Harry lay down side by side.

Harry chuckled. “Can you imagine if humans were that flexible?”

“You and Ron would never leave the house,” she said dryly, and Harry burst into giggles. He pulled her against him as she joined in.

“Naughty,” he said, and kissed her warmly, his fingers tangling in her curls. They snogged unhurriedly for some time, just enjoying the beautiful night and each other. The chill rising up from the water gave them an excuse to cuddle and cast warming charms on each other’s clothes.

“What do you want for your birthday, Harry?” Hermione asked, placing her hand over top his where it rested on her cheek. She laced their fingers together.

“I have everything I want,” he said, not even having to think about it. He kissed her again and he felt her smile against his mouth. He thought about telling her he loved her.

“You know what I mean,” she said. “I have my watch, Ron has his memory glass…”

“And you know it doesn’t work like that,” Harry replied, briefly stroking her bottom lip with his thumb. “You have to think of it on your own.”

“I know,” she said. “We’re just not as creative with magic as you are.”

“I am sure I will love anything, Hermione.”

She sighed happily and snuggled into his side. Harry looked up at the sky, where only a few clouds broke up the expanse of stars. It was lit by just a sliver of moon. A pinprick of light steadily moved across Harry’s vision, too slow and steady to be a meteor. “How do Saturn lights work, Hermione?” he asked.

“Satellites,” she corrected gently. Harry listened and played with her curls as she told him as much as she knew. She told him about all the ways Muggles had reached for the stars and how they used math and science to do it. He didn’t fully understand it all, but he loved it when she shared her knowledge – his brilliant, beautiful girlfriend.

“What do you think Ron is dreaming about right now?” Hermione asked him.

“He’s probably just pretending to be asleep, maybe looking out the window and worrying about you, or waiting for me to come home,” Harry said.

“I reckon we better go, then, and set his mind at ease.”

It was the only thing that could make Harry want to leave. “This was nice,” he said, and kissed her one last time before he stood up.

“It was,” she said, looking up at him with shining eyes. He held out his hands to help her up and they got back into the canoe, Harry at the back. There was only one paddle, and Harry had half a mind to warble in mock Italian as he started to ferry her across the lake like a bucolic gondolier.

Before they could go very far, there came a loud yowl from the landing.

“Oh, we forgot Crooks!” cried Hermione. Harry dug his paddle in and swung the canoe around.

“Sorry, pal,” Harry said sheepishly, directing the canoe close enough so Crookshanks could leap onto Hermione’s lap. The cat growled, making his displeasure known.

“I’m so sorry, my beautiful boy,” Hermione crooned. She apologised and complimented him all the way across the lake while Harry contemplated how he’d react if she started calling him her beautiful boy.

When they got back to the landing by the cottage, Crookshanks leapt out and scampered up the slope without looking back. “Poor Crookshanks,” said Hermione. “He didn’t really want to go out with me, and then I had to forget him.”

“He’ll forgive you,” Harry said. “It’s me he’ll stay mad at.” He realised Hermione had not asked him once about his father, and wondered if it was deliberate or she just hadn’t thought to.

“No, he loves you,” Hermione said as she climbed out and tied off the canoe. She held it steady as Harry got out. “Can you get all my gear for me? I left my wand in the cottage and I don’t want to unload it properly in the dark.”

“Why would you leave your wand?” Harry asked as he levitated her bags and the lantern. “What if something happened out there?”

“Oh, don’t worry so much,” she said, tilting her face up to kiss him. “It’s flat water and I know what I’m doing. You and Ron are so over-protective.” She gently took his wand out of his hand and directed her things up the slope ahead of them.

“Come on, Hermione – you’re always scolding us for things like running in the woods or forgetting sun protection charms. You can’t tell me going out on the lake alone in the dead of night without your wand is any better. At least it’s not a full moon.” He held her free hand. “I’m actually surprised Ron just let you go like that.”

Hermione was silent. “Don’t get mad at him,” she said, stopping and pulling on Harry’s hand as they reached the back porch. “I lied. He did go to bed early, but I snuck out once I was sure he was asleep.”

“Hermione,” Harry groaned.

“What?” she said defensively. “You’re not my dad.”

“No,” he said, “That’s true. But is your dad the only one that’s allowed to keep you safe?”

“Yes,” she said stubbornly.

Harry snorted and put an arm around her. “Ron and I like being manly cavemen who protect their woman. Can’t you just indulge us?”

“No.”

He touched just under her chin with two fingers and tilted her face so she would see the sincerity in his eyes. “Please, Hermione?”

“Oh…” she said, starting to melt, just how he knew she would. “That’s not fair.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Well, maybe just this once,” she said. Harry kissed her with his arms around her waist. Her palms rested on his chest. It was short and sweet – they were both tired.

But for once, Hermione left the bathroom door open while she cleaned her teeth and washed her face. She put her hair up into a loose twist on the top of her head while Harry took his turn at the sink, and they spoke in whispers and low voices, so as not to wake Ron, who was breathing deeply and obliviously across the hall.

“Speaking of your dad,” said Harry, “d’you think he’d curse me and Ron if he knew our actual intentions?”

“Well, as he’s a Muggle, a curse wouldn’t do anything…”

“You know what I mean,” he said, tapping her nose. She wriggled it adorably as she thought about his question.

“I really don’t know. On one hand, he never really put up a fuss about me coming to stay here, but I don’t think it ever entered his mind that his prim, responsible little girl would take up with two boys at once. I’ve had one boyfriend, and I wasn’t exactly effusive when I talked about him. He and Mum probably think I’m asexual or something.”

“I suppose that’s… helpful. For now, anyway.” As anxious as the idea of telling all their parents made him, he knew it wasn’t something they could keep a secret forever.

He had a sudden vision of all three of them dressed in white, joining hands in a woodland meadow carpeted with bluebells. Just before sunset, so the edges of everything were soft and gilded.

Forever, he thought, feeling a bright and effervescent hope rise up in his chest.

 

Notes:

Hope the fluff in this chapter made up for the angst in the last one ;)

I wanted to let you know my update schedule might be a little sporadic over the next couple of weeks. I’m going on a trip and won’t have as much time to write. I will update and reply to comments when I can; I just don’t want anyone to be too disappointed if I can’t make the usual Thursday deadline or if I take a few days to get back to you! I adore all your comments <3

Chapter 15: The Fly in the Ointment

Notes:

Surprise! Can't believe I got this done on time - sorry it's not as polished. I'm posting it a day early so I can focus on packing, and I won't be writing at all the next few days. I may be slow on replying to comments as well (but please keep leaving them, they mean so much to me <3).

The day before Harry’s birthday, he went to make his cake with his mother. She had taken the whole day off to spend it with him. “It’s your seventeenth!” she had exclaimed when he asked if she was sure. “Your last birthday cake as my little boy.” His mother had grown very sentimental of late.

Ron and Hermione were not awake when he looked in on them. He kissed Hermione gently on her forehead. She mumbled happily in her sleep and rolled over as he tiptoed away.

When he went to do the same to Ron, Ron grabbed his arm without opening his eyes and murmured, “Stay.”

“I can’t, mate,” Harry whispered, stroking Ron’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Another time. Give Hermione a proper kiss for me.”

“Only if you kiss me first,” Ron said, opening his eyes, “so I can pass it on.”

Harry smiled and obliged. He lingered against Ron’s lips for a moment, brushing his fingers across the stubble on Ron’s jaw. “I’ll miss you,” he said, and Ron chuckled.

The sun was just rising as he set out on the path to Godric’s Hollow. His mother let him in to the cottage, bleary-eyed and tousle-headed.

“Rough night, Mum?” he asked her cheerfully as she poured herself a cup of coffee. He kissed her cheek and rolled up his sleeves.

They spent all morning on the cake – when finished, it would be three tiers of triple layered Victorian sponge, with strawberry jam and lemon curd between each layer and vanilla frosting all over the outside. As the sponge cooled, they whipped up the frosting and curd and made decorations out of white chocolate and caramel, which they would put on tomorrow just before serving in addition to glazed fruits. They laughed and talked like they always did, and his mother tuned their wireless to a Muggle radio station at his request. He wanted to impress Hermione by knowing the songs, not realising just how much music Muggles had created over the years.

Remus looked on occasionally with a tender smile Harry knew was just for Lily, but for the most part, he let Harry and his mother be, puttering around the garden or reading in the sitting room with Guide on his lap. When Harry saw him through the kitchen door to the back garden, kneeling down to pull a weed as Guide tried to chew on it, he had a sudden flashback of his father and Scout doing the same many years ago.

“Mum…” Harry asked. “Is it… difficult, living here? You know, with Remus, when there are so many memories of Dad?”

“Sometimes,” she admitted, licking a bit of frosting off her wrist. “But there are so many memories of you here, too. Good memories. I fell in love with this place first – it took a little convincing for James. He wanted something bigger, you know, back when we thought we’d have more children.”

“Why did you change your mind? About more children?” Harry asked.

“We didn’t, or at least not until much later, when it was clear it wasn’t going to happen and things were deteriorating between us. Don’t look so sad,” she said, smiling wistfully. “You know it would have only made things harder, the way it all turned out.

“Oh, Harry, you were such a delightful baby – always smiling and laughing, and you grew into just the sweetest little boy. We both felt so sad and lost when it was time for you to go to Hogwarts. I kept it together for you the first time at the station, but when the train pulled away, I just sobbed my heart out.”

“Aw, Mum,” Harry said, deeply touched. He was surprised to see her wipe tears away, and even more so when he felt himself start to get choked up. He should have expected it – this was his last day as a child. Tomorrow, in the eyes of wizarding law, he would become a man.

He hugged her tightly and cleared his throat. “I’ve really loved being your little boy.”

She chuckled. “Well, no matter how big you get, and even when you’re too old to be considered a boy anymore, you’ll always be my son. And even after I’m gone, I’ll always be your Mum. Put that on my tombstone, won’t you?”

“Merlin, Mum – what’s gotten into you?” he asked, suddenly fearful. He pulled back to search her face. “Don’t be so grim.”

“I’m sorry, darling,” she said. “You’ll understand someday – having children makes you consider your own mortality at the strangest times.”

“Well, stop it,” Harry said. The very idea of losing her, no matter how far in the future, was beyond distressing. He didn’t know what kind of person he’d become without her love and guidance.

They finished earlier than expected. As his mother started to pack things away, something about the way she moved, or perhaps it was the expression on her face, sent him back in time. Exactly two years ago, Harry and his mother made his cake for his fifteenth birthday. He remembered the fight he’d had with his father, how he had told James off for mistreating Lily and spat that he hoped he drowned in his own whisky.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” she said. “What’s on your mind?”

He looked at her. “It’s nothing,” he said. “I’m just tired. Late nights around the fire. You know how summer is.”

“Must be nice,” she huffed. “Meanwhile, I’m up to my elbows in regurgitant patients.”

“Not another mass poisoning?” asked Harry.

“Sadly, yes. And before you ask, yes, Auror James Potter was in to ask questions. Honestly, I like his work persona better – oh, sorry,” she said at the look on her son’s face.

“It’s fine,” Harry said. He tried to quash the annoyance at the fact that his father’s refusal to tell anyone what happened to him meant that Harry was also unable to talk about it. But the thoughts were soon pushed out of his head as he pondered what another poisoning meant, despite Dolores Umbridge being locked up.

The accomplice, he thought. A horrible idea began to race through his brain – perhaps it wasn’t a single accomplice. What if it was a Dark society of sorts?

“Was it against Sanctum again?” Harry asked.

She looked at him shrewdly. “Don’t go thinking this is a mystery you have to solve, Harry. You should stay away from anything that would make you even consider being an Auror.”

“I just want to know. I’m allowed to be curious,” he retorted, with more than a little resentment. He was surprised at her – she usually trusted him to know his own mind, and preferred to guide him in a way that allowed him to make informed decisions for himself. She didn’t try to sway him one way or the other, or impose her own choices. That had always been his father’s role.

His mother shook herself. “It wasn’t Sanctum,” she said reluctantly. “Their events are now attended by undercover Aurors. It was a fundraiser for an up-and-coming politician, running for a seat on the Wizengamot. He’s Muggleborn.”

“Fuck,” Harry said.

She looked resigned. “Listen, if you really want to know more about it, read the Prophet. Or… fine, ask your dad. God knows I wish you wouldn’t, but I can’t control you.”

“Let’s just forget about it,” said Harry. He wasn’t interested in an argument. Not with her. And she was right – there were other ways to get news that wouldn’t drive a wedge between them or make her worry about him. He didn’t usually read the newspaper much during the summer, but it wasn’t an expensive subscription, and he had plenty of pocket money.

“I’m sorry I brought it up.” His mother looked contrite. She glanced around at the now spotless kitchen and the cake sponges cooling on a rack. “We’ve got plenty of time to do the next step – why don’t we go out for a bit?”

“Whatever you like,” Harry said, eager to put any unpleasantness behind them.

“You better mean that,” she said, “because I’ve been staring at flyers for an art exhibition in Cheltenham every time I go into the village. Dress Muggle – I’m going to side-apparate you.”

Dress Muggle was rarely a problem for Harry and his friends – they only really had to be careful about motifs, especially if they were charmed to move. Mr. Weasley had stories about indignant witches and wizards being fined for wearing scarves decorated with fluttering snitches and band shirts that waved and winked at Muggles. He looked down at his clothing. Shorts and a button-up shirt with tiny pine trees embroidered on it. Perfectly respectable.

“Are you coming with us, my love?” she called to Remus, who was half listening from the sitting room.

“You two have fun,” he said comfortably. Harry peeked in at him; he was reading the Prophet with Guide on his lap. Harry saw a partial headline – “Aurors Investigate Latest Poisoning, Calling Into Question –” before his mother grabbed his arm and apparated them away.

Harry hated apparition – it felt like being forced into an impossibly tight rubber tube, and for the split second it took, he was always certain the pressure would make his eyeballs and testicles pop like grapes. “It’s different when you’re the one doing it,” Hermione had told him. “I don’t know why, but you don’t really feel it when you’re in control. Side-along’s the worst.”

The venue for the exhibition was a giant hall inside an all-girls boarding school. The hall was built in Gothic style, with three floors that ringed a central space. The art consisted entirely of paintings. “It’s all Impressionism,” his mother said as they made a circuit through the hall. “Some of it’s original – borrowed from museums, but most of them are modern artists working in the style. Some are fresh takes on famous works. Look, there’s a picture here of the original ‘Godspeed’ by Edmund Blair Leighton, but the artist switched the genders of the subjects and did it Impressionist style.”

Harry had never been particularly interested in paintings, especially ones that stayed unnervingly still, but it made his mother happy, and so he listened as she spoke about things he would never learn at Hogwarts: different art movements and how each one paved the way for the next, and famous painters and their styles. He had a thought that Impressionism was like viewing the world without his glasses – sort of soft around the edges.

It made him happy to see that his mother had started drawing again. She had brought her sketchbook and coloured pencils, and sat down on a padded bench to start a new drawing. She was not the only one – there were other hobbyists and students with charcoals and pastels, pencils, or pen and ink. As she flipped open the cover, Harry saw the inscription there in his father’s handwriting, “For Lily, with all my love.” He wondered why she kept it there when she could have easily erased it with her wand.

“You go on,” his mother told him. “I’m happy here for now.”

Harry wandered idly, mostly just playing his crowd-watching game of “Spot the Wizard.” The jury was still out on an old woman in what appeared to be a tie-dye nightgown when he felt a most curious prickle over his scalp. He turned slowly on the spot and saw a series of large paintings on the wall.

It was as if the artist had somehow taken all the most treasured memories and desires from Harry’s heart and transferred them onto canvas. All the paintings were of the same three people – two men and a woman. The similarity went so far in that the tallest man was fair-haired, the other dark, and the woman had long brown curls or waves. Every painting depicted the three in some sort of affectionate embrace. None were explicit, though three of the paintings were of nude swimming scenes.

Harry’s heart was thundering in his chest – he could hear the rush of it in his ears. He looked at the small, white cards that showed the titles and information about the work and artist. The series was called Shared Love, the painting titles were mere numbers, but there was nothing else. Not even the artist’s name. He wondered why someone who could make something so beautiful would want to hide.

He didn’t know how long he stared, drinking in every painting, going right up to each one to inspect the brushstrokes, only that it was long enough for his mother to finish whatever she was sketching. Harry shook himself and smiled down at her. “Can I see your drawing?” he asked.

“It’s not finished,” she said, smiling back mysteriously.

They didn’t stay much longer. Harry had to resist an almost supernatural pull to go back and continue his study of those paintings. He now understood what his mother meant when she said art could “speak to you.”

Harry went home that evening tired but happy. They had assembled and iced the cake, doing everything except putting on the glazed fruit and decorations. When he walked home, he was still thinking about the paintings. He also thought of the things he’d bought for Ron and Hermione at the market during Gran’s birthday weekend, and reflected that he’d felt similarly when he saw them – they had spoken to him. He had to remind himself to be patient. The occasion had to be just right.

Tomorrow, before any afternoon or evening festivities, Harry had insisted on having the morning to himself, with Ron and Hermione. His best mate and his best friend. His boyfriend and his girlfriend.

It gave him a little hit of giddiness whenever he thought of them that way.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

On his birthday, Harry awoke to the smell of bacon and coffee. Ron’s bed was empty, and when he peeked into Hermione’s room, her bed was made up and Crookshanks was stretched across the duvet like a fluffy throw, his tail twitching as he blinked at Harry. Harry threw him a lazy salute and went into the bathroom, yawning and scratching his chest.

When he went downstairs, he saw Hermione pouring coffee and Ron at the hob. “Happy birthday!” Hermione exclaimed as she caught sight of him. She went to him and pulled him down into an enthusiastic kiss.

“C’mere and give us a kiss, too,” Ron said. “If I take my eyes off this, I’m going to ruin it.”

“Twist my arm,” said Harry, obliging. He could taste traces of Hermione’s lip balm on Ron’s lips. “Have you two started without me?” he asked, running his thumb roughly along Ron’s lower lip. Ron bit him, surprising a laugh out of Harry.

“That’s what you get for having a lie in,” Hermione said in a voice that made him want to run for Ron’s memory glass to see exactly what they’d been up to.

“It’s my birthday, though,” said Harry. “I’m supposed to have a lie in.”

Ron shrugged. “Two things can be true,” he said. Harry leaned against the counter as Hermione handed him a cup of coffee with just the amount of cream and sugar he liked. His fingers lingered against hers as he took it.

As Ron served overcooked bacon and undercooked eggs on toast, he said, “It’s a good thing your Gran has a big do planned later. You know Hermione and I are shite at cooking.”

“I wouldn’t mind a smaller party,” said Harry, tactfully ignoring the truth of Ron’s statement as he gamely crunched his way through the bacon. “Gran tends to go overboard.”

“But it’s your seventeenth!” said Hermione. “And you’re her only grandchild. You can’t deprive her of the chance to spoil you.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Hermione, but she already spoils me every chance she can get, birthday or not.”

“D’you think if we told her we’re together, she’d start to spoil me?” asked Ron thoughtfully.

“Just help her with her plants and tell her how pretty she is and see if you don’t find more galleons in your pockets,” Harry said, making Hermione laugh.

“Even one galleon would be more than I’ve had in a while,” muttered Ron.

“What do you want to do until this afternoon?” asked Hermione, eager to change the subject.

“Go swimming,” Harry said. “Probably snog. Get reacquainted with your tits.”

“If I recall correctly, you spent at least twenty minutes saying goodnight to them,” she said dryly, now used to the boys’ constant fascination with them.

“I missed them in my sleep,” Harry insisted. “And I think they missed me, too.”

“They’re definitely straining to get to you,” Ron said, touching the front of her dress, where the points of her breasts were visible.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “At least let me finish my coffee,” she said. Her tone was casual, but Harry could see the telltale flush of arousal bloom on her chest.

 

Swimming so early wasn’t the best plan. The heat of the day was not yet enough to combat the cold of the lake, and after about half an hour, they all hauled themselves up on the landing, shivering. Ever since that incredible first time, Hermione no longer wore a top when they swam, and the boys always swam nude. Hermione insisted it would help her get used to them if they wanted things to progress. Neither one of them were unhappy with the arrangement, though Harry did feel sometimes that her last little scrap of swimsuit was mocking him.

Ron lay face down on a towel, muttering about warming up under the sun. Harry lay on his back, leaving a gap between them for Hermione and put his arms behind his head. “Don’t judge,” he said when he saw Hermione looking between his legs. “The water was cold.”

Ron snorted. Harry closed his eyes and focused on the warmth of the sun, thinking it might make her feel safer to observe him if he wasn’t staring back at her. He felt the boards of the landing shift as she lay down, and felt her skin, still cool and damp from the lake, all along his side.

Soon he felt her fingertips on the very centre of his chest. Harry lay still as she drew patterns in the hair there, wondering if she minded how dark it was. She traced along his collarbones and ran her palm along his shoulders and upper arms, back over his chest and down lower, across his abdomen and along his oblique muscles. She was just exploring. Learning his body and becoming comfortable with it.

He opened his eyes to look at her and saw she was staring at his face. Harry also saw Ron had rolled to watch, his head propped up on his arm. Hermione swallowed and moved just the very tips of her fingers lower, following the trail of hair from Harry’s navel with an aching slowness until she reached the thickest of it, just at the base of his shaft.

Harry felt himself grow hard, the slow rise causing no embarrassment between any of them. She’d seen them both like this now – the heat of her fascinated gaze always made them react, but she had never been brave enough to touch them. Harry suspected she loved having this sort of power, of being desired so much that just a look would set either of them off.

To Harry’s shock and delight, Hermione didn’t stop there. She ran the pad of her ring finger along the length of him, from the base to the very tip. Harry tried to keep still, but his hips raised up involuntarily and he bit his lips to keep from moaning pathetically. Encouraged by his reaction, she did it again, this time with two fingers.

Harry was so intent on the sight and sensation of her fingers on him that he almost didn’t notice Ron’s large, freckled hand slowly creeping around Hermione. He ran it over her thigh, her hip, then her belly. He briefly cupped her breast, then slid it along her arm, guiding her to wrap her hand fully around Harry. “Like this,” Ron whispered, kissing her shoulder, and together they stroked Harry as his back arched. He no longer felt the chill of the lake.

For the first time, Harry was glad Ron had been with another wizard before him. Ron knew exactly what he was doing. The pressure of his grip was perfect, and so was the slow and assured way he worked Harry’s flesh as he taught Hermione what to do. “Use your thumb,” Ron murmured to her, and demonstrated on a spot just below the head that had Harry suddenly gasping.

“H-Harder,” Harry said when Hermione tried it. She was an eager student and complied. “Oh, my god,” he whispered, thrusting into their palms. Ron showed Hermione how to squeeze the end just a little tighter after each stroke, making Harry’s toes curl. He wasn’t exactly sure what other sounds came from his mouth after that, but he was past caring.

Ron murmured something to Hermione that Harry didn’t catch, but she let go of Harry as Ron continued to bring him closer to the edge. Harry started to protest until she moved to lay halfway on top of him, her breasts pillowed on his bare chest as she kissed him. Harry closed his eyes as she ran her fingernails over his scalp just the way he liked and parted his lips with her tongue. The glide of his tongue against hers as Ron continued to stroke him was an exquisite pleasure he had never experienced before.

Harry would later wish he could have played it cooler, or lasted longer, but he lost his head entirely and wrapped both arms around Hermione to hold her so tightly against him she could not escape even if she wanted to. Ron increased his pace and gripped just a little harder, and Harry broke the kiss only to bury his face in Hermione’s neck. He wasn’t sure whose name he moaned, perhaps an amalgamation of both, as his hips jerked up and he came with a whimper and a full-body shudder.

It was not like any climax he’d had before – it was forceful and intense. Hermione stroked his hair as he shook in waves. When Harry was fully spent, he felt a sort of happiness that made him feel boneless and fuzzy. No one had ever made him feel like this before.

Hermione kissed his cheek as his heart rate began to slow and he clumsily stroked her wet curls. “You’re tangling her hair, mate,” Ron said casually, as if they had not just given Harry the best orgasm of his life.

“I don’t mind,” said Hermione as she sat up.

“You say that now,” said Ron. “Erm, are all our wands in the cottage?”

A bit of Harry’s post-climax bliss started to fade as he considered why Ron was asking. He sat up straight and took stock of the aftermath. “Sorry,” he said in mortification.

“Do not apologise,” Hermione said sternly. She touched a spot on the side of her breast and rubbed her fingers together curiously. Ron was matter-of-factly wiping off his hand with a corner of his towel that he’d dipped in the lake.

Harry cleaned himself with his face flaming.

“Why are you blushing?” asked Ron in disbelief. “What did you think was going to happen?”

“I didn’t expect there to be that much,” Harry mumbled. “Sorry, Hermione.” He remembered when she’d admitted to being apprehensive about stickiness.

“Oh, hush,” said Hermione, though she was blushing, too. “I’ll just take it to mean it was good for you.”

“Very good,” said Harry with feeling, looking back and forth between them. “Stupendous, actually. I mean… thank you? Er, when can I…?”

Ron laughed, and Harry’s heart made a besotted little wobble. “We’ll worry about returning favours later,” he said, correctly guessing Harry’s question. He kissed Harry sweetly on the mouth, his eyes soft with affection. “You look like you’re about to drop.”

“Aw, I’ve read that men get drowsy after orgasms,” said Hermione fondly. “So it’s true?”

“Yep,” said Harry comfortably.

Ron’s brow furrowed. “What exactly have you been reading?”

“Nothing,” said Hermione quickly as Harry laughed.

“Do women not get sleepy?” Ron asked as they all settled more comfortably. Harry lay down on his side between Hermione and Ron and curled his body around Ron’s hip. Ron stroked Harry’s cheek with the backs of his fingers, looking down at him adoringly.  

Harry almost answered for Hermione, but wisely snapped his mouth shut at the last second. “I suppose we do,” she said thoughtfully. “But… you know, I’ve never had it, er, done to me, so I can’t exactly compare.”

“I would happily do it to you, Hermione. You know, for science,” grinned Ron.

“You can when it’s my birthday,” said Hermione fondly, brushing her hand through his damp, copper waves. He caught her hand and kissed the pads of her fingers. She bit her lips, and Harry felt her thigh clench against his back.

“Is that a promise?” Ron asked breathlessly.

“We’ll see,” she said mysteriously. She dropped her hand to stroke Harry’s hair. “Happy birthday, Harry.”

“Mm, yeah,” Harry said stupidly. He rolled towards her and put his head in her lap and his arms around her waist.

“Have a kip, mate,” Ron chuckled. “You sound drunk.”

“On attention, maybe,” Harry said as he closed his eyes. He liked the feel of Hermione’s bare thighs against his cheek.

He fell asleep like that, lulled into somnolence by the warmth of the sun and Hermione’s gentle fingers in his hair. As he slept, she and Ron spoke to each other in whispers and low voices, exchanging deeply affectionate looks and caresses.

“He’s so sweet,” Hermione said, looking down at Harry with soft eyes. Ron smiled in agreement and kissed her, his fingers joining hers in Harry’s hair.

As their kiss became slowly more heated, Hermione spoke against Ron’s lips. “I want to do that to you, next.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Ron groaned, and closed his eyes. “Let him sleep on his birthday.”

“He wouldn’t mind,” said Hermione coquettishly. “You know he wouldn’t.” She put her hand on his thigh.

“He’d want to watch,” Ron said, his voice shaking, “with a few more brain cells. I mean it, Hermione. Later.”

“You’re right, of course,” she said magnanimously. She confidently ran a single finger along the underside of Ron’s hard cock and kissed him again as he shivered. “Later.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

It was a struggle not to let anything show, to pretend that nothing was different, as though Hermione and Ron were still only Harry’s best friends. He wouldn’t have been too fussed if they’d decided to cancel everything and stay naked.

But it was still a nice party. It was almost like old times, with both his parents there and smiling at him, even if they didn’t speak to each other much. It was fun to watch Grandad tease Hermione and overhear his mother and Ron talking about things like types of bone fractures, when to use potions versus spells for healing, and how complementary medicine was working its way into St. Mungo’s. Remus and Sirius argued lightly about whether cigarettes or cigars paired better with whisky.

Grandma and Grandpa were talking to Gran and complimenting the change in décor since they’d last been there, which was at Harry’s eleventh birthday party. At one point, Harry gave his mother a “have-you-introduced-them-to-your-new-boyfriend?” look. She rolled her eyes and ignored him.

His Muggle grandparents were in their mid-seventies, yet they looked the same age as Gran and Grandad. He thought that it was cruel how witches and wizards lived so much longer than Muggles. Gran and Grandad could have anywhere from thirty to one-hundred more years in them, but Grandma and Grandpa would be lucky to have much more than ten. Hermione would lose her parents much sooner than him or Ron.

Perhaps she felt it, too, and that was why she made it her special mission to act as guide for Harry’s grandparents, patiently explaining wizard turns of phrases and spells whenever they looked lost or confused. “Such a sweet girl,” Grandma said to him in an aside. Her green eyes sparkled with a knowing look.

Oh, Grandma, you don’t know the half of it, thought Harry. He wondered what they might think if they knew the truth about where Harry’s heart lay. Things were awkward enough with the whole debacle with James, who mostly kept to the outer edges of the party, though Harry did witness him and Ron having what appeared to be a cordial conversation.

Harry noticed Hermione turn cool whenever his father was nearby. Harry frowned at her, and she shot him a defiant look in return. He wasn’t sure if it was worth the argument to pull her aside and tell her to knock it off, but he was definitely annoyed. She might think her heart was in the right place, but Harry wasn’t interested in right and wrong at that exact moment.

He watched his father out of the corner of his eye when his mother brought out his cake, remembering how little James had thought of their tradition. Harry’s father wasn’t one to gush, but the way his eyes went wide at the first taste, and how he later sheepishly asked if he could take home a leftover slice was enough for Harry.

This year was different in that he didn’t get very many tangible items. It was a standard practice of Gringotts to automatically assign a new vault to a witch or wizard when they turned seventeen, but his mother, father, both sets of grandparents, and Sirius all contributed to it, leaving him with enough to manage without any income for at least a year so long as he was frugal. Harry didn’t look at Ron as he said thank you, knowing it was a sore spot that his parents could not put anything aside for him. Bill and Uncle Gideon had given him some gold, and while it was a generous sum, the comparison to Harry’s made it look small.

If he would just let me, I’d share everything, Harry thought.

Harry hadn’t yet thought much about where he would live after Hogwarts. He considered the lakeside cottage home, but it didn’t legally belong to him. Well, home is wherever Ron and Hermione are, he comforted himself as he opened a gold pocket watch from his parents.

There was an effusion of cards from his Hogwarts friends, teachers, neighbours, just about every Weasley, and the Grangers. Out of the corner of his mouth, Sirius let him know there were several bottles of whisky waiting for him on the back porch of the lakeside cottage, and not to tell Lily.

But that wasn’t all Sirius had for Harry. “This isn’t exactly a present,” he said. “More like an heirloom of sorts. And it’s for all three of you.” Ron and Hermione watched Harry pull off the wrapping to reveal three identical mirrors, each one about the size of a greeting card.

“James and I used these to talk to each other when we were in separate detentions. I figure you could, as well. Just say the other person’s name into it, and they’ll connect.”

“Ooh, like video telephony,” said Hermione in excitement as Harry gave one to her and Ron. Harry remembered what she had once said about wishing he had a telephone so she could talk to him every day.

“Sure,” grinned Sirius. Harry was only half listening as Sirius explained the spellwork he’d done to make two mirrors into three – he was watching Ron whisper something in Hermione’s ear that made her blush and push him. Harry didn’t notice his mother narrow her eyes at them.

“And these go with them,” said Harry’s father, handing a leather case to each of them. “Can’t tell you how many times we had to use reparo because we were too stupid to protect them.”

Harry almost laughed at Hermione’s face – she couldn’t very well snub James and still accept a gift, and such a practical one at that. She settled for a nod and a half smile as she accepted hers. But when she opened the cover flap and saw her initials, HJG, embossed there in gold, her expression softened. “Thank you,” she quietly said as she gently tucked her mirror inside.

He couldn’t be entirely sure about Hermione, but Harry saw the gesture for what it was – James’s recognition of just how much Hermione and Ron meant to Harry.

“Cheers!” Ron said brightly. “Always nice to get presents on someone else’s birthday.”

Gran poured drinks and made a very awkward toast about “family coming back together,” which everyone had to smile and nod through because she was a centenarian now. Grandad smoothed things over with a follow-up toast full of good-natured ribbing and heartfelt fond wishes for Harry’s future.

When they went home that night, Harry and Ron were feeling pleasantly buzzed, but it was clear Hermione had overindulged. She giggled most of the way through the woods and insisted upon the boys taking turns carrying her, which neither Ron nor Harry were upset about. She stole kisses and whispered mildly naughty things in their ears.

“Stay with me,” she pleaded when they took her upstairs to bed. “At least until I fall asleep.”

But she was asleep the second her head touched the pillow. Ron chuckled, and Harry smiled down fondly at her. “Lightweight,” he said.

 

In the morning, Hermione’s bed was empty, and Harry found her sitting at the little dining table with a cup of coffee in front of her, massaging her temples.

“Oh, dear,” Harry grinned at her. “Did someone get in over her head last night?”

She grumbled something under her breath that Harry didn’t quite make out. He went to the sink to fill a glass of water and set it next to her coffee cup. “Healer Weasley would insist you stay hydrated.”

“Is he still asleep?” she asked, running her finger around the rim of the glass.

“Yeah. I think he was up a few times to make sure you were okay. Thought I’d let him have a lie in.”

She groaned and put her head in her hands. “How embarrassing.”

“Nah,” Harry said bracingly. He opened the icebox and considered breakfast. “It’s what friends – er, boyfriends, are for. Are you hungry for anything?”

“Just some toast, if you’re making it.”

“Sure,” Harry said, getting out another loaf of bread from his mother and Remus.

He cut off and toasted two slices with his wand. “Butter? Jam?”

“Just a little butter,” she said, sipping the water. Harry slid the plate to her, then fixed himself a bowl of cereal and sat down across from her.

Hermione glared at him as he ate. “Do you have to chew so loudly?” she snapped.

“It’s Kappa Krunch,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“Hmph,” she said. “Wish I’d quit after the first toast.”

“Live without regrets, Hermione,” he said cheerfully.

He meant to be flippant, but Hermione looked down into her coffee cup. Harry recognised the furrow in her brow that indicated she was having an internal debate. He waited.

She looked up and saw him staring at her. Hermione took a deep breath, resolve written across her face. “Can I ask you something, Harry?”

“Okay,” he said nervously.

She swallowed. “Why are you suddenly just… okay with everything your father did to you? And your mum?”

Harry thought for a long time before answering. “I’m not,” he finally said. “But I do forgive him.”

“I just don’t understand,” she said. “He abandoned you. He cheated on your mum. He took away prefect from you. And it all upset you enough to duel him, and the next morning you two were flying like nothing happened. Now you’re going off to see him on the regular and he’s at your birthday after two years of missing them, and even giving me a present… What is it? Is it a – a male thing? Please explain it to me, Harry, because I just can’t see it.”

It was painful to see just how upset she was, and all on his behalf. He tried to be gentle with his words. “I really can’t tell you why, Hermione. He told me that… something happened to him. Can you accept that the reason was enough for me?”

“No,” she said petulantly.

Harry smiled ruefully. “All right, can you at least respect that this is my decision?”

She scowled back down into her coffee. “Fine,” she said in a small voice. “But I still don’t understand.”

Before they could discuss anything more, Ron came down in just his pants, yawning.

“Hot out, is it?” said Hermione waspishly as Harry wolf-whistled.

“I’m not complaining,” said Harry.

“Get with it, Hermione. I am god’s gift to humanity,” said Ron, comfortably scratching his balls. Harry laughed as she scoffed. “Anyway, now that you’re sober, I think we have something for Harry, don’t we?”

“Yes,” she said, straightening up. “Sorry.”

“Is it another hand job?” asked Harry eagerly.

Ron snorted. “Nothing that good, sorry. Your birthday present.”

“Wait, don’t you want to… I don’t know, put on a shirt or something?” said Hermione.

“Don’t tell me you’re uncomfortable now?” said Ron incredulously.

“No,” she sputtered. “I just think – the occasion, you know – for decorum… oh, honestly.” She gave up, noticing Harry’s unabashed ogling.

“I like your pants,” Harry said to Ron. “I’d like them even better on the floor.”

“Later,” chuckled Ron.

“I thought you were going to ask him to hand them to you,” muttered Hermione.

“And be predictable? Never,” said Harry, blowing her a kiss.

“Stop getting distracted,” said Ron. “Hermione, where did you hide it?”

“Please say in your drawers,” said Harry.

“In a manner of speaking,” she said primly. She got up and went upstairs. As she passed Ron, she trailed her fingers just under his navel. Harry snorted at the way his eyes went wide.

When she came back, she handed a small, wrapped package to Harry. She sat down next to Ron and laced her fingers in his as they watched him open it.

It was a silver pendant on a thin leather cord. Harry took it out and inspected it. The pendant was about the size of a Muggle quarter and shaped like an upside-down triangle, with a pattern that looked, at first glance, like a clock in the centre. As he turned it, he noticed it was more like a compass. What he thought were clock hands were two needles that pointed in the same direction no matter how he turned it. One needle was yellow gold, the other rose gold.

“The rose gold is mine,” said Hermione, “and the yellow is Ron’s. They’ll always point to us, no matter where any of us go.”

“Is it your Point Me spell?” Harry asked Ron, incredibly impressed. Ron nodded, trying not to look too pleased with himself.

“We weren’t sure what you think of jewellery,” Hermione said nervously. “We can change it to anything, you know, if you don’t like it around your neck.”

“It’s perfect,” said Harry, and put it on. “Now I can’t lose you,” he said happily. It hit just below the hollow at the base of his throat.

“No chance of that,” said Ron softly.

Harry stood to kiss them both. “We’ll match now,” he said to Ron, referring to the corded leather bracelets he usually wore. They were all different widths and colours, sometimes decorated with intricate knots or stone beads. Ron had a rotating collection – they were something he could make himself with scraps or transfigured items. Harry noticed he had started toward the end of the school year. Harry liked how they drew attention to Ron’s long-fingered hands.

Once again, he thought of his secret gifts for Ron and Hermione, but told himself it was still too soon. Perhaps at the very end of the summer, or even Christmas.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

On the first day of August, one Hogwarts owl delivered three envelopes to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Each one contained the standard school equipment list, but Harry and Hermione’s contained a surprise. Inside were congratulatory letters and badges for Head Boy and Head Girl. Harry’s heart leapt in his chest, but he quashed the urge to whoop. He looked at Hermione, and saw that she was just as unsure how Ron might take the news of being passed over in favour of Harry, who had never been a prefect.

Ron snorted at their expressions. “Stop that. You know I don’t care. I said I wanted to focus on academics, and I meant it. Congratulations – you’re now Head Swots!” He pulled them both in for an enthusiastic mess of kisses and hugs.

“I’ve got to write to Mum and Dad,” Hermione said excitedly. “Can I piggyback when you send Hedwig to your mum, Harry?”

“Sure,” Harry said easily. “I’ve got to write two letters, though I wouldn’t be surprised if Remus knew and told Mum already.”

“Well, I’m nothing to write home about,” said Ron amiably. “I’m going to start a fire and read for a bit – come find me when you’re done.”

But not even half an hour later, just as Hedwig soared away over the lake with three letters attached to her leg, Ron was proven wrong. Hermione sat on his lap and shared a cigarette with him as they went over healing charms and medical terminology, aided by another one of Lily’s books.

Harry noticed a barn owl fly up and land silently on the porch rail. “For you, Ron,” Harry said, detaching the envelope. He wasn’t paying much attention as he handed the letter over – the owl was very friendly and hopped right up onto Harry’s arm, asking for attention. He laughed and stroked her back between her wings, and wondered if perhaps she’d delivered to him before. “Good job,” he told her. “You can come over anytime.”

Ron idly kissed Hermione before he opened the envelope and fished the letter out. “Not yet, Nosey Parker,” Ron scolded her lightly, and clasped it to his chest before she could read it.

“Fine,” she huffed, and twisted off his lap as the owl flew off. Harry watched her fly over the expanse of the lake as he put his arms around Hermione. He hoped Ron’s letter was nice and long, so he could get in a proper snog. She gave him the last drag off her cigarette before flicking the stub into the fire. Harry could taste mango on her tongue.

They had barely gotten into it before Hermione roughly pushed Harry’s face away, frowning intently at Ron. Harry looked over in alarm. He was holding his letter in one hand and covering his face with the other. His shoulders shook, and Harry realised he was crying. “Ron,” Harry gasped, unable to comprehend what kind of horrible news could bring him to tears.

Wordlessly, Ron held out his letter. Hermione snatched it from him, looking grim, as Harry put a bracing hand on Ron’s shoulder. Together they read:

Dear Mr. Weasley,

St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries would like to congratulate you on your acceptance to our student internship program. We extend this opportunity to only a select few, and we are pleased to welcome you during the 1997-1998 academic year.

From September to August, you will be expected to spend 50 hours each month actively assisting and learning from our gifted and esteemed Healers. Your schedule will be determined during a meeting with Emmet Helfring, our schedule coordinator. At that time, you will be given further information on expected duties and code of conduct. Please send an owl promptly to coordinate.

Congratulations and welcome!

Warmest regards,

Mdm. Octavia Cuthbert

Head of Apprenticeships and Placement

St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

Harry and Hermione finished reading at the same time, and looked at each other in stunned silence. Harry mirrored the slow, proud smile that crossed Hermione’s face. They both turned to Ron and began cheering and talking at once.

“Congratulations!” Hermione squealed.

“Why didn’t you tell us you’d applied?” Harry laughed. He wrapped his arms around Ron and kissed the top of his head as he continued to shake with silent sobs. He’d noticed Ron had been a bit vague and secretive about his correspondence over the summer, but had chalked it up to some Weasley family drama or a possible birthday surprise for him, and hadn’t pried.

“I didn’t think I’d get it,” Ron choked out. “I couldn’t stand it if I’d done all that work just to let you d-down.”

“You couldn’t,” said Hermione passionately, sitting back down on his lap and throwing her arms around him. “Oh, my god, Ron, you could never let us down.”

“I wanted it so much. I can’t believe it. I just can’t,” said Ron as he hugged Hermione tightly. “All that studying you two did with me… And your mum, Harry…”

“What’s Mum got to do with it?” asked Harry.

“She helped me with my application essay, and wrote one of my letters of recommendation,” he said. “Her, and Madam Pomfrey, and Professor Lupin. Even Professor McGonagall. I asked them not to say anything, just in case…”

“How could you be in any doubt?” scolded Hermione. “They had to accept you. They just had to!”

“No, they didn’t… it’s so competitive. I was so sure my OWLs wouldn’t be good enough, but…”

“Everyone saw something in you,” said Harry fiercely. “If they’d have asked me, I would have –”

“Stormed the building and made it worse,” interrupted Hermione.

Harry scowled at her. “No,” he insisted. “I would have shouted it from the rooftops that Ron’s going to be the best Healer in the world.”

“You’re biased, mate,” said Ron, but he was looking up at Harry with a beatific look on his face that made Harry’s heart feel as though it could burst with pride and happiness. “Oh, Merlin; I’ve got to write to Mum! Straightaway. She’ll send me twelve howlers a day if she hears it from someone else first! Ahh, fuck, Hedwig’s gone.”

“I’ll call for Mercury,” Harry said. “If he’s not out delivering, he’ll be here. You go write.” He motioned Hermione off Ron’s lap and Ron ran inside to find a quill and parchment.

Before calling his grandfather’s owl, Harry lifted Hermione up and swung her around in a little happy dance. She laughed and put her arms around his neck. “Healer Weasley!” she cried.

“Healer Weasley,” agreed Harry with a grin.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The very next evening, Mrs. Weasley whipped up an impromptu feast in Ron’s honour and invited the whole Weasley and Prewett clans, as well as everyone who had written a letter of recommendation. Ron asked her to invite the Grangers as well, earning him a hug from Hermione. Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey had other engagements, but sent letters of congratulations.

Uncle Gideon was the first through the door, twenty minutes early. He pulled Ron into a rough hug and tousled his hair, roaring greetings and proclamations that he was so proud and knew Ron had it in him all along and promised to injure himself so Ron could practice. Harry could tell why he was Ron’s favourite Uncle – he never missed an opportunity to sing Ron’s praises, no matter how many times his six siblings overshadowed him. Ron was Gideon’s favourite nephew.

Once everyone had arrived, Harry looked over all the guests. In addition to Gideon were his brother Fabian, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Fred and George, Percy and his new girlfriend Audrey, Bill, Ginny, Lily and Remus, Uncle Richard and Aunt Nadine with Edmund and Edward, and Mr. Weasley’s other brother John with his youngest son Chauncy.

Throughout the night, owls kept arriving with congratulations and a few presents from Ron’s family and friends. Harry had to leap to catch Sirius’ owl, Magnus, who was far too excited to deliver properly. Ron smiled as he opened Sirius’ letter. He read it, and his brow furrowed. With a searching look at Harry that made him nervous for some reason, Ron wrote a quick reply and sent Magnus back.

It became apparent within the hour what that was about when Harry caught sight of Sirius and James, of all people. He wondered if he’d asked to be invited or was just crashing. They had come in quietly and drew no attention to themselves.  

Harry was further shocked when he later saw Ron casually chatting with James. Ron made some joke that made Harry’s father laugh, then clapped James on the shoulder before excusing himself. Harry heard Hermione huff next to him.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said darkly, crossing her arms.

“Oh, it’s something,” he disagreed. “Out with it.”

“No,” she said, and walked away from him before he could resort to tickling, teasing, or tempting.

His father still remained a very sore subject between him and Hermione. She had promised to respect Harry’s decision to keep his father in his life, but really it just meant she refused to talk about him and got shirty whenever he was mentioned.

What Harry didn’t realise until that night was that Hermione did discuss James. Just not with Harry. At one point, he lost sight of Hermione and Ron. Unfazed, he went into the garden, thinking he could sneak a cigarette or two with George. Before he could, he overheard Ron and Hermione speaking in low voices behind a large peony bush. Harry listened.

“I can’t believe he’s here,” said Hermione’s voice.

“Who?”

“You know exactly who. Harry’s father.” She spit the last word out like a curse, enunciating each syllable. “There’s no reason for him to be here.”

“Oh,” said Ron. “Right.”

“Is that all?” she said. “Is everything just fine with you? After all he did?”

“I just think that –”

“I would have thought all the respect you have for Lily, at least, would make you see reason, but no!”

“That’s not fair –”

“You’re right, it’s not!” Hermione said heatedly. “If Harry hadn’t done it, I would have cursed him myself! I have half a mind to right now!”  

“Hermione,” Ron said. He rarely sounded so stern and serious with her. “Please listen to me.”

“I... oh, all right,” she said apologetically. “I’m listening.”

Ron’s voice turned gentle. “No matter what we feel about him, he’s part of Harry’s life. Harry chose to forgive him, to fix what’s broken, and we’ve got to respect that.”

“Letting him crash your party, though?” she said. She sounded on the edge of tears. “That goes too far!”

“He didn’t crash, Hermione. I invited him.”

“You… what?”

“I invited him,” Ron repeated calmly. “Sirius sent his congratulations, and I wrote back saying he should come, and bring Harry’s dad if he could make it.” He sighed. “Hermione. This is… this is what it’s about. Being supportive even when you don’t agree. Harry can decide what’s best for himself. And if he changes his mind someday, well, we’ll be there for him then, too. Please don’t cry.”

“I just don’t understand,” she said, and Harry’s heart broke to hear her sound like that. Her words were muffled, as though she spoke them into Ron’s chest. “He won’t tell us what’s going on, and I don’t know why you decided now, at your party that’s supposed to be all about celebrating you, was the time for all this. You could have just left it alone and nobody would have cared or even noticed.”

“Party invitations make great olive branches, Hermione. You don’t have to talk to him, but please… for Harry’s sake, and for mine, just try to be civil.”

Harry went back inside, feeling uneasy. Harry’s mother, whom Harry still believed James had hurt far worse than himself, could accept his decision. She was even able to talk cordially to James without rolling her eyes or walking in the opposite direction. And Ron cared enough to embrace the idea of moving forward. Why was it so hard for Hermione? Why was she so stuck in the past?

In the end, Harry decided not to tell them he’d overheard. He hated it when Hermione was upset, and in this case, there was absolutely nothing he could do to ease her mind or make her come around. It would just have to be one of those things they agreed to disagree on.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“Harry, I think we should go see your mum. She was Head Girl – she can offer all sorts of advice and help us figure out what to expect.”

“Don’t leave me out,” said Ron. “I’ve got some books to return to her and I’m not against being put to work. I owe her so much.”

“All right,” said Harry, though he was mildly apprehensive about not giving her some kind of warning. He reasoned with himself that she did say she knew how to lock a door.

On their way through the village, they came across Emily’s family, the Sorensons.

“Oh, that’s Emily – the little girl I told you about,” Harry said.

“She is not having a good day,” Ron observed. The poor girl was in the throes of a complete meltdown, her face red as a brick wall as she screamed and thrashed in the middle of the street.

Her parents looked almost fearful, her mother attempting to talk her through it without touching her. Her father glanced around furtively, as if expecting to be reprimanded or attacked. Several Muggles were starting to stare.

“Oh,” Hermione said sadly. She was watching the scene with a look of complete understanding.

A large stone suddenly flew from the ground and crashed through the window of the nearest shop. People startled and looked around at the noise.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged glances. “The Statute –” Hermione began.

“Will be broken if we don’t do something,” Ron said ominously. “Hermione, try and distract people. Harry, let’s see about the family.” Harry followed as Ron strode towards the Sorensons.

“Hello, Emily,” said Harry, kneeling down next to her as she continued to cry and wail.

“I don’t want to! I don’t want to! I don’t want to!” she was screaming, completely past reason.

“Oh, Harry, not now,” Emily’s mother said with a panicked expression. “She’s… when she gets like this, we have to…”

“Looks like she’s overtired,” said Harry.

“You know, my mum raised seven children,” Ron chattered in an artful, socially oblivious sort of way, commanding Mr. and Mrs. Sorenson’s notice. “My little sister, when she got tired? Oh, you wouldn’t believe it…”

Harry wasn’t sure how, but Ron managed to capture their attention completely as Harry focused on Emily. “Look,” he said, opening his palm, where an enchanted dragonfly glittered. Whatever Hermione had done was keeping a crowd from forming, and Harry’s body blocked the view of magic from the Sorensons. Emily immediately stopped screaming to watch, transfixed, though her body still shook with emotion and the occasional hiccough.

“What is it?” she asked in wonder.

“Try and catch it,” he encouraged her, and she lifted herself up from the cobbles. She rubbed her eyes with grimy fists before reaching out. The dragonfly dissolved in her grasp, and reformed on top of her arm. She gasped. “How did that happen?” grinned Harry. “Try again.”

He didn’t let her play with it long – there was only so much time Ron and Hermione could buy him. “Okay, Mr. Dragonfly has to go now, all right? Say goodbye.”

“Bye bye, Mr. Dragonfly,” Emily said, blowing it a kiss as it faded away.

“Feel better?” Harry asked her.

She nodded and rubbed her eyes again. She reached out for Harry and he picked her up. She put her chin on his shoulder and her arms around his neck. Harry felt her body sag with exhaustion.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Sorenson said tensely, reaching out for Emily. “I really think we should go.”

“So soon?” asked Ron as Hermione came up.

“These are my friends Ron and Hermione,” Harry said.

“Er, charmed,” said Mr. Sorenson stiffly.

“I’ll carry her for you,” insisted Harry brightly. Emily was already asleep in his arms. “Where were you headed?”

“We were trying to go for a walk, she’s been so cooped up, but… I think we had best go home.” Mrs. Sorenson looked close to tears.

“I know for a fact all three of us put our parents through the exact same thing,” said Ron as they all walked along, the Sorensons looking less and less comfortable as the three teenagers escorted them home. Harry gave him a warning look. He knew the consequences for deliberately breaking the Statute of Secrecy.

“Doubtful,” Mrs. Sorenson said. “She’s… well, I don’t know what’s wrong with her!”

“It’s all right, Jan,” said Mr. Sorenson warningly. “Just a phase. Let’s just go inside. Thank you,” he said, taking Emily from Harry as they reached the front gate of the Sorensons’ cottage.

“If you want me to look after her sometime, just send word with my mum,” Harry said, hoping they would.

Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Sorenson answered. They went inside, looking around furtively and leaving Harry, Ron, and Hermione firmly on the other side of the gate.

Slowly, the three walked back the way they came, all the way to Harry’s mother’s cottage. They didn’t say much until Harry’s mother greeted them and went into the kitchen to make tea and get a packet of biscuits. Remus was out hiking with his father, a retired Ministry worker.

“The Statute of Secrecy is such horseshit sometimes!” Hermione burst out furiously. “Can you believe not one of us is allowed to explain exactly what that poor little girl is going through?” There were frustrated tears in her eyes.

Up until now, Harry had always thought this kind of thing was amusing – imagining how Muggles might deal with a child that always winds up on top of the cabinet the second their back is turned. They were cute and funny stories that witches and wizards told each other – their child’s first display of magic. It had never occurred to him just how frightening and dangerous a small child could be when they couldn’t control their magic when their parents didn’t even believe in magic.

“I’ll bet she’s been cooped up because they’re afraid to let her out and play,” Hermione went on. “There are a lot of little witches about her age she could play with right here in the village, parents they could commiserate with and ask for advice, but no; of course not, the precious Statute doesn’t allow them to. She’s going to have what, five or six more years of all that until she’ll know what she is?”

“What’s going on?” asked Harry’s mum, poking her head out of the kitchen.

“Emily,” said Harry, and explained what happened.

“Oh, right,” she said sympathetically. “I did get in touch with the Ministry about her – they said to leave it be and they were ‘aware of the situation.’ ” Her tone and the hard line of her mouth told Harry exactly where she thought they should shove that order.

“If they’re aware, why don’t they ever do anything?” Hermione said angrily.

It was a rhetorical question, but Harry’s mother answered it anyway. “Because doing something would require them to actually believe Muggleborns and their families are part of the magical community and deserve a place in it. It’s why Sanctum exists as an independent charity instead of being Ministry run.”

Harry and Ron were silent as Hermione and Lily shared a look that was equal parts rage and grief. As wizards who had been raised to know exactly what they were and what their place was, Harry and Ron would never truly understand the pain that Hermione and Lily experienced – the pain of not fully belonging in either world. It made Hermione’s struggle to make friends at Hogwarts that much more heartbreaking.

Harry cleared his throat. “Tea,” he said vaguely, snagging Ron by the belt loop and pulling him into the kitchen to get it.

He didn’t need help – he just wanted to give Hermione and his mother a moment. As he heard them murmuring to each other in the sitting room, Ron said, “I wish I could fix it. The whole thing. Your mum’s right – it all boils down to actions speaking louder than words. People look down on my dad for taking his job seriously, as if it’s a sin to care about Muggles and want them to be safe. From our kind, no less.”

“Do you think they’d obliviate Emily’s parents if it came down to it?” Harry asked grimly.

Ron paled. “Merlin, I didn’t even think of that. That’d just be cruel. What if they already have?”

“Fuck,” said Harry with feeling.

It would be in the background of his thoughts for some time after that, humming alongside the friction that kept cropping up between Harry and Hermione where his father was involved. It was strange, that juxtaposition of loving her and wanting to do anything for her but also feeling maligned by her simply for making a choice she didn’t agree with.

If he told her his father’s secret, would she understand Harry’s decision then? Or would she see it as an excuse? Would she think even less of his father? Harry didn’t expect her to love James, nor did he really want his father to try and win her over, but he wished with all his heart that she would love him enough to let him decide what was best for himself.

Chapter 16: Broken

Notes:

I'm back! I just finished this chapter last night, so I didn't have any time to edit - please forgive the lack of polish.

The following week, they decided there was no time like the present to get ready for the upcoming school year. Ron had his meeting with the schedule coordinator at St. Mungo’s, and came back looking contemplative, happy, and important, with a lemon-yellow folio that was stuffed full of his schedule and all the information about what he could expect (and was expected to do) as part of the student internship program. They all three went to see Harry’s mother two more times for her advice. Harry was grateful for his mother’s calming presence, especially on Hermione, who tended to get worked up when faced with big responsibilities.

Harry went alone to see his father, though Ron offered to go. Harry turned him down gently, not wanting anything to drive any further wedges between Hermione and himself or her and Ron. It was hard enough with her turning cool towards Harry on the days he went to visit James – he didn’t want her to do the same with Ron.

His father had very relevant and useful advice on Head Boy, especially because he had gotten the role despite not having been a prefect, either. When Harry asked what he thought made Professor Dumbledore choose him, he sheepishly said he had buckled down and put his talent and intelligence towards focusing on his studies and less on mischief, wanting to impress Lily. He admitted, with a rueful set to his mouth, that the advice to do so had come from Remus.

“I suppose even then he knew her better than I did,” he said. “Better than I ever could.”

Harry briefly touched his father’s shoulder. “Don’t get caught up in the past, Dad,” he said. “You’re allowed to move on, and be happy, too.”

James raised his eyebrows in surprise, as if the concept was foreign to him.

This year, James was present during their trip to Diagon Alley to get school supplies and books. Harry spent most of it tense and alert, painfully aware of Hermione’s cold shoulder. He was almost relieved to get away from her when he, James, Ron, and Ginny went into Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Ginny, of course, knew about the history between Harry and his father. She was a very observant witch and didn’t mind telling off anyone she thought deserved it (and she had the detention record to prove it). So Harry was completely taken aback when she very calmly asked James his opinion on whether or not it was worth spending the money on professional broom repairs, or if she ought to teach herself how.

“Oh,” he said, looking just as surprised as Harry. “Well, I suppose that depends on the problem, and the model… what do you have?”

Harry looked suspiciously at Ron as Ginny and his father discussed brooms and charms that gave an advantage to Chasers, but Ron was casually checking the fit of a set of shin guards that Harry knew for a fact he didn’t need.

They all regrouped at Flourish and Blotts. Hermione very pointedly turned her back on Harry and his father as she snagged Ron by the arm and dragged him over to a section that included books on healing charms and potions. Lily shrugged and gave Harry a look that said she knew what that was about before trailing after them.

“She doesn’t let things go, does she?” commented Harry’s father lightly.

Harry tensed. It wasn’t anything he didn’t already think about her, but it sounded very tone-deaf coming from his father. “Not really,” Harry said stiffly.

“Sorry,” grunted James, sounding embarrassed. “Didn’t mean it as a criticism.”

“She just cares about things a little harder than most people,” Harry said defensively. “It’s one of the best things about her, actually.” Except when it’s directed against me, he thought wryly, though he would never admit that to his father.

“I know,” his father said softly. “She reminds me of your mum that way.” The quiet admiration in James’ voice was unmistakeable, disarming Harry entirely.

The only thing left after purchasing their books was to visit Fred and George’s joke shop, Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. Harry watched with curiosity as the adults left him, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny alone to get a drink, followed by a parade of levitating schoolbooks, potion ingredients, and school robes. James trailed behind the group, as if he was still not sure he was allowed. Lily looked back at him, and motioned impatiently for him to catch up.

Hermione murmured something under her breath that sounded like, “Not her, too.”

“Hermione,” Ron said softly. Her mouth went tight, and Harry recognised the defiant look that occurred whenever someone told her to do something she was morally opposed to. Certain there were no other Hogwarts students around and that it was safe to do so in front of Ginny, Harry pulled her into a bracing hug and kissed the top of her head. He let go quickly, in case she felt like biting. But she only looked at him searchingly. He didn’t know what she was looking for.

“You know, you three are not nearly as slick as you think you are,” Ginny mused dryly.

“What have you heard?” asked Hermione.

“Nothing new, exactly,” she said, leading the way to number ninety-three. “People have been speculating for ages. Your… antics at your Gran’s party have only made it worse.”

“Antics?” said Ron.

“Oh, come off it,” said Ginny, rolling her eyes. “You three are constantly touching each other and running off to do Morgana knows what.”

“We’re just very affectionate friends,” said Harry indignantly, making Ginny burst out laughing.

“Keep saying that,” she said. “Merlin knows I could do with a laugh.”

** “Whoa,” said Ron, stopping in his tracks.

Set against the dull, poster-muffled shop fronts around them, Fred and George’s windows hit the eye like a firework display. Casual passersby were looking back over their shoulders at the windows, and a few rather stunned-looking people had actually come to a halt, transfixed. The left-hand window was dazzlingly full of an assortment of goods that revolved, popped, flashed, bounced, and shrieked; Harry’s eyes began to water just looking at it. **

The right-hand window was covered over with a large purple poster emblazoned with flashing yellow letters that read: ARE YOU RESTLESS WITH REGULARITY? DO YOU QUESTION THE STATUS QUO? THEN BIN YOUR BRAN FLAKES, EMBRACE THE ERRATIC, AND POP IN A POO-DE-LOLLY! NEVER HAVE A DULL DAY AGAIN!

“What a nice, tasteful little shop,” said Ron, laughing.

“Incredibly class,” snorted Harry. Hermione simply stared, mesmerised. Harry placed one finger under her chin to close her mouth. She shook herself as Ron and Ginny led the way inside.

** It was packed with customers; Harry could not get near the shelves. He stared around, looking up at the boxes piled to the ceiling: Here were the Skiving Snackboxes that the twins had perfected […] Harry noticed that the Nosebleed Nougat was most popular, with only one battered box left on the shelf. There were bins full of trick wands, the cheapest merely turning into rubber chickens or pairs of briefs when waved, the most expensive beating the unwary user around the head and neck, and boxes of quills, which came in Self-Inking, Spell-Checking, and Smart-Answer varieties. A space cleared in the crowd, and Harry pushed his way toward the counter, where a gaggle of delighted ten-year-olds was watching a tiny little wooden man slowly ascending the steps to a real set of gallows, both perched on a box that read: REUSABLE HANGMAN - SPELL IT OR HE'LL SWING!

“ ‘Patented Daydream Charms…’ ”

Hermione had managed to squeeze through to a large display near the counter and was reading the information on the back of a box bearing a highly coloured picture of a handsome youth and a swooning girl who were standing on the deck of a pirate ship.

“ ‘One simple incantation and you will enter a top-quality, highly realistic, thirty-minute daydream, easy to fit into the average school lesson and virtually undetectable (side effects include vacant expression and minor drooling). Not for sale to under-sixteens.’ You know,” said Hermione, looking up at Harry, “that really is extraordinary magic!”

“For that, Hermione,” said a voice behind them, “you can have one for free.”

A beaming Fred stood before them, wearing a set of magenta robes that clashed magnificently with his flaming hair. **

“You’re looking lovely as always,” he said, taking her hand and giving the back of it a little kiss. Hermione wrinkled her nose in amusement.

“Yes, she’s fucking gorgeous – paws off,” snapped Ron as Harry scowled.

“People are allowed to compliment me, Ron,” said Hermione primly, gently taking her hand back from Fred. She flexed it, as if comparing Fred’s touch to Ron and Harry.

“We look with our eyes, not with our hands,” said Harry pointedly. Fred laughed and raised both hands in surrender as George came up behind him.

“All right? Come for the grand tour?” he asked. “Brilliant. Follow me!”

He and Fred led them on a twisted path through the shop, weaving through excited children and their parents as they pointed out different products, dodging self-igniting fireworks and random bursts of confetti. Ron deftly swatted away a screaming rocket before it could lodge itself in the eye of an oblivious six-year-old boy.

Fred laughed. “Nice reflexes. But it wouldn’t have hurt him. We’re not totally careless – we do add safety features. You know, where practical.” He winked at Hermione.

“Speaking of safety, Harry, you’ll find this interesting,” said George. He indicated a display of what appeared to be jewellery in various styles. “Wearable potion and poison detectors. Our dear brother here made a very convincing argument –”

“A threat, more like,” said Fred.

“– which our beloved sister concurred with, to stop carrying love potions,” finished George matter-of-factly. “But we thought, why stop there? We read the news; we hear stories from Dad. We just donated loads of these to Sanctum – they grow hot when in the presence of poison or potions meant to trick or deceive.”

“Very effective,” said Fred as Harry leaned down for a closer look. He was impressed and more than a little touched that Fred and George had decided to use their incredible skill for such a purpose.

“The designs are so pretty,” said Ginny, toying with a Celtic knot pendant.

Harry was just thinking they looked familiar when George explained that they partnered with a skilled witch they had met at Gran’s 100^th. She had run a stall at the little market, selling her wares. She provided the jewellery, and Fred and George worked their magic on it.

“How much?” asked Harry, already fishing in his pocket for his mokeskin wallet.

“Free, if you can convince a kiss out of Hermione,” said Fred.

“Easy,” said Harry, and hooked an arm around her waist.

She blushed and pushed his face away before he could steal a kiss. “I’m certain that’s not what he meant,” she said.

“No one’s in any doubt, you sodding reprobate,” Ron growled at Fred. “He’s got plenty of gold.”

“Nice vocabulary,” smirked Fred.

“Is there no family discount?” asked Ginny hopefully.

“Only for sisters who don’t call us names,” said George easily.

“Cheers,” Ginny said. She turned to Harry and beamed at him. “Sorry, Harry, but I’m not about to waste it on you.” Harry laughed as she wandered off to find something for herself.

They were interrupted by a blonde witch in magenta WWW robes. “ ‘Scuse me, Mr. Weasleys,” she said, “but I’ve got a customer asking about the difference between Peruvian darkness powder and Mayan shadow dust, and I’m out of my depth.”

“Right you are, Verity. We’ll let you browse,” said George to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “Don’t forget to visit our back room. Seventeens and above only!”

“You’ll find a free catalogue there for your more… discreet orders,” said Fred with a roguish grin as he and George followed the witch through the crowd.

“You really asked them to stop carrying love potions?” Harry asked Ron mawkishly.

“ ‘Course I did,” said Ron. He ruffled Harry’s hair affectionately.

“Oh, honestly,” said Hermione, looking around. “Ginny’s right – we do touch each other a lot, don’t we?”

Ron was quiet for a moment. “Do we really care what other people think?”

“Of course,” said Hermione sternly. “D’you want your internship revoked? Or Harry and me to be stripped of Head Boy and Girl?”

“They couldn’t do that,” scoffed Harry. “Our personal lives have nothing to do with any of that.”

“Oh, no?” said Hermione, crossing her arms. “Did neither of you read the part where we’re supposed to show ‘upright moral character’ in our academic and personal lives? I’m not so sure our interpretation of morality matters. Besides,” she went on ruthlessly, before either of them could argue, “standards are very different for you two. I don’t want to spend my last year at Hogwarts called a slag or any other horrible names someone could come up with.”

Harry and Ron were silent. “We don’t want you to, either,” said Ron finally. Harry nodded in a resigned sort of way. Not only was she right; he wasn’t ready to tell his parents. He was surprised neither Sirius nor Remus had told either of them. Harry was now reasonably certain his father hadn’t been there the night he’d told Remus and Sirius, unless James was a very good actor. Things were going reasonably well between Harry and James, and Harry knew better than to tickle a sleeping dragon.

“Pick any one,” said Harry to Ron and Hermione, turning back to the poison detecting jewellery. “And don’t start, Ron – I’m allowed to buy you things.”

“Thank you,” said Hermione. Ron looked at her for a while, and Harry knew what he was thinking. Out of the three of them, Hermione was the most likely to be in danger, with the growing number of poisonings against Muggleborns. Or perhaps it had always been that way, and Harry was simply too stupid to pay attention, despite having a Muggleborn mother and girlfriend, not to mention friends. Once more, his mother’s gentle chiding drifted across his conscience: “I’m afraid you’re a bit privileged, darling.”

Ron picked out a thin leather bracelet with three beads of silver filigree spaced evenly around the circumference. Hermione chose a small Celtic knot pendant that resembled a golden three-leaf clover.

Harry’s scalp pricked when he touched a bracelet of thin, intricately braided leather. Its clasp was a small silver disc engraved with a curious design of a circle and vertical line within a triangle. Hermione said it could be a rune, but it wasn’t one she recognised. Ron thought it was a stylised eye. Harry liked that the design was close to the Point Me pendant Ron and Hermione had made for him.

Hermione playfully took Ron by the collar and pulled him through a nondescript curtain that had an age-restriction spell woven into it. Harry followed quickly, hoping it was empty so he could steal a kiss. Or cop a feel, he thought cheekily.

But it wasn’t. It was a small space filled with things like the famous WWW cigarettes and more dangerous varieties of fireworks, but there were also potions with labels Harry couldn’t make out. Worse, they found Parvati and Lavender there, giggling over whatever catalogue Fred had been referring to. The tiny room went suddenly silent as they all stared at each other.

“We… were just leaving,” Lavender said, her face pink. “Erm, see you at school.”

“Merlin, that was awkward,” said Ron after the curtain swung shut, rubbing his neck.

“Hmph,” said Hermione. “You can talk to me about awkward when you have to share a dormitory with them.”

“Well, we share one with Seamus,” said Harry darkly. Ron’s ears turned pink, but he said nothing, which Harry felt was far worse than saying something.

“What were they looking at?” Hermione wondered, not really paying attention to the sudden tension between Harry and Ron. She picked up a catalogue from a stack as Ron took a closer look at the potions.

“Oh – really,” Hermione sputtered, her face red. “Discreet orders, indeed.” She dropped the catalogue and left the room quickly.

Harry picked it up and leafed through it with interest as Ron looked over his shoulder. “I’d be leery of ordering anything like that,” said Ron dryly. “I’m not sticking anything up my bum or her fanny from the creators of the snacks that make you vomit and give you boils.”

“Assuming she ever lets us near there,” said Harry. “Such fascinating shapes.”

“Patience, mate,” said Ron. He turned back to the potions and listed the properties of each one aloud. “ ‘Stamina, engorgement, widening, lengthening, strengthening, stretching –’ ”

“Sounds like a recipe for Sexual Misadventure,” mused Harry.

“ ‘– levitation, contortion, libido enhancement, refractory period reduction…’ That one sounds good, actually,” said Ron.

“No,” insisted Harry, who was very biased against potions, “otherwise there’s no reason to take turns. Doesn’t it weird you out that your brothers came up with all this?”

“Ah, don’t pretend you know anything about siblings,” said Ron, patting Harry’s cheek. “Oh, look – they’ve got fancy flavours.” He was looking at something on the shelves behind Harry.

“What now?” Harry said without turning to look. Ron was standing very close to him, and he smelled even nicer than usual.  

“The cigarettes,” Ron clarified, grinning at Harry. “ ‘Strawberry basil, blood orange and rosemary, lemon raspberry, piña colada, sangria… Classy.”

“Get a few,” Harry said. “Hermione cleared us out of the mango.”

Ron plucked a few off the shelves over Harry’s shoulder, then leaned in for a kiss. Harry put his arms around Ron’s neck and closed his eyes as Ron put his hands on Harry’s hips.

“Oh!” said a shocked feminine voice that was definitely not Hermione or Ginny. Harry’s eyes snapped open as Ron whipped his head around, but she was gone; the only indication anyone had been there was the swaying curtain.

“Did you see who it was?” asked Harry tensely as they broke apart.

“No,” said Ron. “We better go.”

When they found Hermione, she was all the way across the shop and hadn’t seen anyone go in or out. “You better hope it wasn’t someone from Hogwarts,” she said, pointing a finger angrily at them. “We just talked about this!”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

In the morning, Hermione was up before dawn, but she didn’t wake Ron and Harry until the sun came up. “Good morning!” she sang brightly as she lifted one side of Ron’s covers and climbed on top of him. He immediately wrapped his arms around her.

“Hi,” he said sleepily.

Harry rolled over and put a pillow over his head. They’d had a late night around the fire, talking about the upcoming school year with excited anticipation. Up until now Hermione had kept much of her ambition close to the chest, but after what had happened with Emily, she was more forthcoming about wanting to do more for Muggleborn children and their families. She hadn’t decided whether she could achieve more by working at the Ministry or as a part of independent organisations like Sanctum.

Harry had strong thoughts and feelings on what he felt was Hermione making herself into a target. Something sinister was brewing in their world – Harry could just feel it. But he didn’t voice his concerns just then. He wanted more time to think on it first. He knew what it felt like to be told what one should and shouldn’t do.

This morning, she had other things on her mind. “I have a mad idea,” she said, nuzzling into Ron’s neck.

“Whatever it is, my answer is yes,” he said. He played with the end of her plait. “Especially if sex is involved.” Harry took the pillow off his head and rolled up onto his elbow.

“Oh, honestly – is that all you ever think about?”

“You’re talking as though you didn’t climb into my bed and lie on top of my morning wood.”

Hermione promptly rolled off him, which caused him to protest. “Get up,” she said, “and I’ll show you my idea.”

She kissed Harry before traipsing out of their room. He and Ron blinked at each other. Ron gave Harry a slow smile that made his heart start to pound. “Want to climb onto my morning wood?” Ron asked, lifting his covers so Harry could see.

“Definitely,” said Harry as he complied. “Just so long as you don’t mind mine poking you back.”

“That’s the best part,” Ron said, and laughed in the way Harry loved, low and sensual. Harry kissed Ron with his fingers in his hair, and Ron roamed his hands over Harry’s back and shoulders. They were both bare-chested, and otherwise separated only by two layers of thin fabric. They began to move against each other, a sweet friction building that had them both panting against each other’s mouths. When Ron moved his hands onto Harry’s arse, palming him roughly over his pants, Harry shivered.

“ARE YOU COMING?” cried Hermione from the bottom of the stairs, startling them both. “WE HAVE THINGS TO DO TODAY!”

“We’re trying to come!” Ron called back in an annoyed voice as Harry groaned in frustration. “You could help!”

“Or watch,” mumbled Harry.

There was absolute silence from Hermione as she deliberated between keeping on task and watching Harry and Ron get distracted. “Well… it can wait,” she said to herself, and Harry and Ron grinned at each other as they heard her come upstairs.

She sat down on Harry’s bed and asked shyly, “What do you want me to do?”

“Just watch for now,” said Harry. He sat up between Ron’s legs.

“Audience participation is strictly voluntary,” added Ron, “but booing is not allowed.”

Hermione laughed and drew up her legs to rest her chin on her knees. “Pretend I’m not here,” she whispered.

“Fat chance,” muttered Harry. He reached inside Ron’s pants to spring him free. Harry swallowed and wrapped his hand around Ron’s length. Ron propped himself on his elbows and watched with dark eyes as Harry slowly began to stroke him.

Every time Harry tried something different – a change in pace, or grip, or even how he looked at Ron – he paid close attention to Ron’s reaction. If he raised his hips or let his head fall back, bit his lips or gasped or moaned, Harry would do it again. And out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Hermione’s reactions, to learn the things she liked to watch.

Both Ron and Hermione liked it quite a bit when Harry smeared the clear bead of moisture that welled from Ron’s tip with his thumb, and pressed hard under the head the same way Ron had taught Hermione on Harry’s birthday.

Hermione cleared her throat gently. “I want to help,” she said.

Harry looked at her in a way that made her bite her lips and the flush on her chest deepen. “You can figure out where else Ron likes to be touched,” Harry said.

“And take that off,” said Ron breathlessly, tugging at her shirt as she crossed the gap between beds. “Er, please,” he added at the sharp look she gave him.

Her shirt was one of a few she wore for more rigorous outdoor activities – linen, with buttons down the front. Harry’s cock twitched with each one she undid, until she shrugged out of it and unhooked her very utilitarian bra. She tossed it carelessly aside and angled herself so Ron could touch her, thumbing over the hard points of her breasts as Harry continued to stroke him.

Hermione ran her palms over Ron’s body, his arms and his chest, the lightly defined core muscles that came from Quidditch practice. Ron’s hips raised when she reached his inner thighs. Hermione made the smallest noise of amusement at the back of her throat. She focused her attention there, sliding her hands all along them and making small circles with her thumbs.

A deep flush on Ron’s chest signalled he was close, and Harry made a spur-of-the-moment decision. He leaned down, keeping his hand wrapped around Ron at the base of his shaft, and took Ron into his mouth. He swiped his tongue, hard, just under the head.

Harry’s eyes fluttered closed at the utterly indecent moan that Ron made. He tasted incredible, better than Harry could have imagined. Harry was hard and desperate for release. He reached into his own pants and gripped himself as he sucked gently at first, then harder as Ron’s breathing became heavier and deeper. “Fuck, Harry,” Ron gasped, then his whole body shuddered and his hips jerked upward as he came into Harry’s mouth.

Harry swallowed all four waves, revelling in the satisfaction of finally learning Ron’s taste, how it felt to have his lips around him, of making him climax.

“Oh, my god,” said Ron as Harry sat back and licked his lips. “Where the fuck did you learn to do that?”

Harry shrugged, smiling smugly. “I guessed.”

“Fuck me,” Ron said weakly, reaching out a hand. Harry took it and entwined their fingers together, his heart fluttering at the tenderness of the gesture. They looked at Hermione.

“You’re not disappointed, are you?” asked Ron, voicing aloud what Harry was thinking at the look on her face.

“No,” she said immediately. “I was just… I liked it when Harry came on me, and I was hoping…” She blushed.

Ron laughed languidly. “Give me about fifteen minutes.”

Harry cleared his throat. “There is someone here who still could.” He had not let go of himself and stroked firmly, trying to relieve some of the pressure.

She smiled at him sweetly. “Later. This was a very nice distraction, but I do have plans for us today.”

“That is deeply unfair,” complained Harry. Ron stroked his thumb along Harry’s in sympathy.

“I promise,” Hermione said, touching her hand to her heart. “Let me show you my idea, and we can go right back to this.”

“Can you at least keep your tits out?” Harry asked petulantly.

“No, I need them in place,” she laughed, getting dressed again.

“When do we get to make you come – oh, she’s gone,” said Ron sadly.

When they had gotten dressed and went downstairs, Hermione had all the bags she’d been practicing loading and unloading into the canoe lined up in a neat row. Upon closer inspection, one of them appeared to be a tent.

“Are we going camping?” Ron asked her.

“Yes,” she said, her eyes sparkling with the same fervour that occurred when she had a new book or spell to learn.

“What’s the point?” said Harry, still irritable from his lack of release. “We’re surrounded by nature here and we’ve got a hob and toilet.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Ron asked him, before Hermione could respond tartly. “I’m game. But if you like, you can stay here, and Hermione and I will go off and have a great time. Alone.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Harry grumbled, and started to make breakfast as Hermione happily laid out her plan, not at all derailed by Ron’s attempts to interrupt her with kisses.

She wanted to be gone for four days. She had a long checklist of to-dos (several were already crossed out), shopping and packing lists, a little chart of daily jobs for each of them, and she insisted they help come up with a menu.

“I don’t care as long as there’s marshmallows,” said Ron.

Hermione scowled at him. “I am not slogging all the way through the woods just for you to whinge and complain at the food – have a preference!”

“Hermione, this looks like loads of work,” Harry said, scanning all her lists while Ron thought about food.

“Yes, that’s the point. I’ve got all the canoe stuff down, but I need to practice everything else without a wand! Do you want me to fail?”

“Of course not,” said Harry quickly. He wasn’t really against camping; he was just cross. He started to thaw when she hugged him tightly. She was always so sweet and happy when she got her way, and he felt a greater need to please her the longer she remained unmoved on Harry’s forgiveness of his father.

And she rewarded him that evening, as promised. The second the washing up from dinner was taken care of, Hermione bossily pushed Harry into the sitting room and onto the couch. She had him watch as Ron undressed her all the way to her sensible knickers, making him hard and squirming with anticipation. Hermione whispered to Ron and he nodded at her. He pulled her into a hot, open-mouthed kiss as his hands roved all over her body, everywhere above the waist he could reach. The way he gently took her nipple between his fingers, the way it made her eyes flutter closed, how his large, splayed hand could cover most of her arse had Harry nearly whimpering with need.  

There was something incredibly erotic about Hermione being almost entirely naked while the two of them were clothed. Harry undid his fly and pulled his cock out and stroked himself while Hermione and Ron kissed and touched passionately, making little noises of pleasure. “Take this off, please,” Hermione said, tugging at the hem of his shirt. Ron pulled it over his head and tossed it playfully at Harry, making him laugh as he batted it aside. Ron picked Hermione up, making her thighs part on either side of him as he held her up by the arse and kissed that spot where her neck met her shoulder. She gasped, that breathy little “oh!” that Harry and Ron loved. His erection pressed between them, and Harry swallowed at the thought of how she might feel wrapped around him like that.

Hermione squealed in surprise when Ron tossed her onto the couch next to Harry. She soon recovered as Ron tugged off Harry’s shirt and kissed him roughly. She placed her hand on Harry’s cock and stroked him confidently. She looked into his eyes without embarrassment.

Harry loved that she was becoming less and less shy every time they did something like this. It made him feel trusted, which he felt he needed from her now more than ever.

Ron sat on the other side of him, and kissed Harry’s neck and put love bites all over his abdomen and chest. Harry shivered when Ron’s tongue ghosted briefly over his left nipple. He watched with fascination between the way Ron’s lips moved over his skin and the way Hermione’s breasts jiggled with each stroke of her hand, thumbing just under the head in little circles. His hips raised up and he thrust into her hand, making her smile with self-satisfaction.

Harry ran his fingers through Ron’s hair with one hand as the other scrabbled for purchase against the couch cushions. He was determined to last a little longer this time, but it was a near thing under their combined attention, knowing Hermione wanted him to come on her, though she didn’t say where.

“He’s close,” Ron murmured to her, and wrapped his hand around Harry just under hers so when she pulled away, the transition from her small, soft palm to Ron’s large, slightly calloused one was seamless, with no pause in rhythm. He kissed Harry sweetly on the mouth and Harry’s heart did that stupid little wobble it always did whenever he or Hermione turned tender.

“I know,” Hermione said excitedly. She scrambled to straddle Harry as Ron’s hand continued to move, bringing Harry closer and closer to the edge of orgasm. Just as she had the last time, Hermione held him and pressed her body as close to him as she could, only now Harry could feel the heat between her legs. And instead of kissing him, she breathed, “Please, Harry,” into his ear, and Harry’s eyes squeezed shut as he gripped her arse with both hands and came.

It was so incredible to Harry that she wanted this. Her head fell back and she moaned as Harry shuddered with pleasure and spilled himself between them, over her stomach and the undersides of her breasts. “Oh, god,” she whimpered, moving against him in a way that kept Harry coming for longer than he ever had before.

When it was finally over, Hermione kissed him with great enthusiasm. “I loved that,” she whispered against his mouth. “Leave it for a moment,” she added as Harry started to look for his wand. She pulled away from him and peered down at the mess, a very satisfied smile on her lips. Some had gotten on the waistband of her knickers, and Harry was gratified to see a wet spot below it, emphasising the cleft between her legs that still remained both a mystery and a promise to Harry and Ron.

“I want to touch you,” Harry said, pressing his thumb into the groove between her pelvis and thigh.

“Not yet,” she said, turning shy, and gently removed his hand. Harry wondered what was holding her back now. Wasn’t it a natural thing to want to be touched after all this? She was wet and he and Ron had expressed more than once that they would love to please her. Was it shame?

Or maybe it was the unresolved friction still between them. The resentment Hermione continued to show towards not only his father, but Harry’s rising enjoyment in his outings with him, hurt Harry very much. He had been so demoralised by the whole thing that he didn’t feel like he could say so, not even to Ron.  

Harry cupped Ron’s cheek to pull him closer so they could all touch foreheads. He just wanted them both close so he could forget all that and focus on the afterglow. He could draw comfort from Ron – his quiet acceptance of Harry and his efforts to keep the peace made Harry love him all the more. Perhaps Hermione would relent if he held her more often, and put all the love he felt for her into his embraces.

Please don’t leave me, he thought. Ron and I loved you first. You’re the reason we’re here.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Before they were to set out on their trip, Harry was supposed to go on a hike with his father, but his work took him on a last-second assignment and he had to cancel. Harry imagined Hermione getting all smug about it and decided to visit Sirius instead.

Sirius had a very nice terraced house in Chelsea, with a magically expanded back garden that had charms to keep out the city noise and smog. It was shady and several degrees cooler than the rest of the city, and they played Nine Men’s Morris with chess pieces under the wisteria arbour with frosty glasses of butterbeer.

The pieces had to be constantly reminded that they were not, in fact, playing chess. “What fun is a game without any pawns to sacrifice?” grumbled a bishop.

“Shut it, your Holiness,” squeaked an opposing rook.

“Too bad about your hike,” said Sirius. He directed a knight into position against its protests that it could only move in an L-shaped pattern. “Your father and I used to love this game. I even had a set of proper pieces, but I left a lot behind when I ran away. Regulus probably has them now.”

Harry knew that Sirius did not talk to his family, except to his brother Regulus very, very occasionally. The Black line was riddled with insanity and blood supremacy: Sirius said it was a result of all the inbreeding between the purebloods who refused to marry anyone with Muggle ancestry. Before she died, his mother, Wallburga Black, had made it a habit to disown anyone who did otherwise. “She didn’t believe a family tree should branch,” Sirius often joked.

Sirius had rebelled against his family for many years before finally running away when he was sixteen. Harry’s Gran and Grandad took him in, and had loved him as a second son. He and James were like brothers.

I really shouldn’t have been surprised that Sirius stuck by him through it all, Harry reminded himself, because my dad did it for him.

Harry brought his attention back to the present. He shrugged. “It happens. You don’t get normal hours, being an Auror.”

“That’s true, at least not until you’re too old or wounded to fight.”

“Or die on assignment,” Harry said idly. It was a possibility he had lived with for so long, it wasn’t exactly a fear… Of course his father would always come home from work. He wondered what case his father was working on. He couldn’t always tell Harry, but sometimes Harry guessed based on what the Daily Prophet reported on.

Sirius looked at him curiously, but didn’t comment on Harry’s blasé tone. Instead, he said, “I’m so glad you and your father are getting along so well. I haven’t seen him this happy in a long time.”

Harry smiled ruefully as he captured one of Sirius’ pieces. (“That’s the king! We win! What do you mean, ‘that’s not how it works?!’ ”)

“I wish Hermione felt the same,” Harry said.

“Oh?”

Harry thought before answering. “She can’t let all the things that happened between him and me go. I can’t talk her out of it. Ron’s tried. Even Mum is able to be civil, but Hermione just… I haven’t told her what happened to Dad. Not even that it was… similar to what happened to me. I haven’t told anyone.”

“Nor should you,” agreed Sirius. “Though I imagine it’s frustrating having to hold onto it.”

“It is,” said Harry, running a hand through his hair. “It really is. I don’t like keeping secrets from her; for Merlin’s sake, I don’t even like telling her ‘no.’ It’s just – people would understand, wouldn’t they? Especially Mum. Why did he have to pretend he meant to have an affair? Why’d he turn himself into the bad guy? He’s still working with her – she just got away with it! Why can’t he just tell people?”

Sirius sat back and crossed an ankle over his knee. Casually, he asked, “How often do you talk about the time you were assaulted and very nearly raped?”

Harry blanched. Even the game pieces were shocked into silence. He’d never described his attack that way. Not aloud. He knew, through conversations with his mother, that rape wasn’t always violent, or limited to men attacking women. He just didn’t like putting himself in the victim category, not when so many others had it worse.

Sirius went on. “Imagine if that girl’s potion had worked the way she’d intended. How would you feel? Who would you tell?”

Harry’s immediate thought was Ron. But… the longer he thought about it, the less sure he was. In the moment, he’d truly believed his actions were his own. Even now, he didn’t like talking about it, especially to Hermione. He’d been deeply ashamed that she had seen him touching another girl, even if he wasn’t himself.

He stayed silent as Sirius watched him.

Sirius softened as Harry looked at him miserably. “Listen,” his godfather said. “I don’t want to tell you that your feelings are wrong, or not allowed. I just don’t want you to fall into the trap of deciding how someone else should process their pain.”

Harry hung his head. “But… I’m drowning under this… gag order. I can’t even tell the people that matter the most to me. It’s causing so much stress between me and Hermione – I… I think she might even leave me over it.”

“Ah,” said Sirius carefully. “I didn’t realize things were so fragile.”

Harry bristled. “They aren’t ‘fragile,’ ” he said defensively. “Look, forget I said anything. It’s just complicated.”

“Right,” said Sirius, with a hint of amusement. “Complicated. Have you told your mother about the three of you being in a relationship?”

“No,” said Harry, not liking the direction things were headed.

“And why not?”

“Because… she wouldn’t understand…”

Sirius saw right through him. “Try again,” he said, gesturing for Harry to go on.

Harry sighed. “I don’t want her to worry, or tell anyone else until I’m ready to…” He trailed off at the oh-really look on Sirius’ face. “Oh, bugger off.

Sirus’ expression turned innocent. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re not helping,” Harry said, but he was smiling. He sobered at his next thought. “Why the fuck do I have to carry the knowledge of… of my dad… you know. Why do I have to carry it alone? I just… Mum would understand. Merlin, she’s the one I really want to talk to. But he has to tell her first.”

“I know,” said Sirius quietly. “I’m trying to encourage him. Gently. You know, because of my point about not deciding how others should process pain…”

Harry was only half-listening. “I want to tell Hermione, but I don’t… I don’t want to have to just to make her stay.” He explained all the ways he had tried to make her understand or forget about the whole thing. He didn’t voice aloud the fear that Ron might also leave if she did.

“…And Ron’s okay with letting me decide how to feel about my dad, but Hermione? She just can’t let things go,” Harry finished.

Sirius thought quietly for a moment. They had mostly forgotten about the game, and the pieces were getting restless, although their chatter had stopped for the time being. Sirius said, “Hermione seems like a girl whose head is often at war with her heart. Which one do you think is greater?”

“Her heart,” Harry said immediately.

“Then appeal to that. Instead of trying to make a better argument, speak to her from your heart.” Sirius touched his own. “She has feelings, too. Don’t dismiss them.”

“I… I didn’t think I was,” Harry said uncertainly.

“Well, maybe not. But you know what I always say about self-reflection.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry took the conversation with Sirius to heart, and over the next couple of days, he tried practising in his head what to say to Hermione. When that became too jumbled and he fell into his patented spiral of overthinking, he wrote it down in a letter. If the conversation got too heated, he could always slip it under her door. He kept it hidden, folded up tightly in his mokeskin wallet that would only open for him.

The night before they were supposed to leave on their camping trip, Harry, Hermione, and Ron had dinner with his grandparents at the manor. Hermione found an eager listener in Grandad, and she happily told him absolutely everything about the way Girl Guides navigated the outdoors.

“You’re absolutely certain you’ll be back before the full moon?” said Gran sternly over Battenberg cake.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Potter,” said Ron brightly. “Even if Hermione won’t let us use them, we will have our wands. We’ll get back in time whether it’s the normal way or the Muggle way.”

“Make sure you do,” she said. “Oh, but that reminds me… I want to move the yew to that same meadow you saw the mooncalves. Its roots are getting a little too close to the manor, and you’ve seen how the road is humping up over them. Fleamont and I are far too old to be doing it – I’ve already asked Remus and Lily. With you three helping, it’ll be done in no time.”

The yew she was referring to was over a thousand years old. The tree had been cared for by generations upon generations of Harry’s family, long before they took on the name of Potter. There were even a few Ollivander wands made from its wood. It had been moved a few times by Harry’s ancestors when it outgrew its location, but always with great care. It was a mark of deepest trust that Gran wanted them to take on the operation.

But Harry knew Hermione would not see it that way. He could almost hear her think, “Fucking tree duty again.” He bit his lips to keep from smirking at her.

“Well, count me in,” said Ron affably as Harry nodded.

“All right,” Hermione agreed.

“Make your Guide promise,” Ron said out of the corner of his mouth as Gran narrowed her eyes at Hermione, doubting her sincerity.

“Yes, all right – Guide’s honour,” Hermione said, making the sign with her right hand.

“Well, that’s settled, Euphemia,” said Grandad, rubbing his hands together. “We’ll do it the day before the full moon, right when you get back. I’ll work on getting the ground and the roots nice and soft between now and then.”

Ron’s brow furrowed. “But what about Professor Lupin–?”

“I know what you’re thinking, but he insisted,” said Grandad. “Lily’s invented some concoction that helps him – werewolves, that is, keep their strength up through the waxing gibbous phase. She won’t share the recipe – cheeky girl. She says I’ll just try to patent it and make more gold.” He laughed.

“She doesn’t mean it,” he added at the look on Hermione’s face. “She’s just perfecting it.”

Harry was surprised. His mother had never once mentioned she was working on something like that. She was the type to adapt potions, but it was the first he’d heard of her inventing something. He was a little hurt that Grandad knew, but Harry didn’t.

“It all sounds nice on paper,” said Gran, “but I’d hate to see it in the hands of a monster. Someone like Greyback.”

Fenrir Greyback was the werewolf that had bitten Remus when he was only five years old. He was currently serving a life sentence in Azkaban, but for over a decade, he had been the wizarding world’s equivalent of the bogeyman. He deliberately positioned himself near his victims before the full moon, and had a perverted appetite for children, especially girls. Mad-Eye Moody had lost his real eye during the battle that brought Greyback in.

“Well, I imagine the ingredients might come a little dear to someone who’s on the run from justice,” soothed Grandad.

“Still,” she murmured.

Ron decided to stay a little later that evening to help Gran with her lumos lunaria plants – they could only be tended under a waxing gibbous moon. She gave him the same smile she usually reserved for James and Harry.

“Bet you a galleon he comes back with… erm, a galleon,” whispered Harry to Hermione.

“You’re on,” she whispered back.

They walked to the lakeside cottage, the moon sending bright shafts of silvery light through the trees. “Such a beautiful night,” Hermione said, and snuggled into Harry’s side. He stopped to kiss her, the fingertips of his right hand resting at the hollow just below her throat. He could feel her heart under his palm, fluttering faster and faster the longer he kissed her.

When they finally broke apart, they stood for some time, just looking into each other’s faces. For once, Harry didn’t feel that undercurrent of resentment – he only felt the joy of being together, knowing Ron would follow later.

But until then, Ron would be gone for quite some time. Maybe tonight… we can finally talk, heart-to-heart, Harry thought. He looked at her beloved, beautiful face and made a silent promise with his hand still on her heart. I will listen to you, because I love you.

“Come on,” he whispered to her. “Let’s go home.”

They walked with their arms around each other. When they entered the cottage, Harry pulled her into an impromptu waltz, making her giggle. They twirled around the tiny kitchen for a bit, laughing together as they bumped up against the cupboards.

“Let’s go to your room,” Harry said. “I want to talk.”

“Okay,” she said. “I think I know what you want to say. But let’s get comfortable first.”

It should have been a warning to Harry, how easily she agreed, the understanding look she gave him. But Harry could not have anticipated what happened next.

After they’d both changed into pyjamas, they lay down together on Hermione’s bed. Harry thought things would go better if they held each other as much as possible. Perhaps she felt the same, as she snuggled immediately into his arms.

“You want to talk about your father,” she said softly. There was affection in her voice.

“Yeah,” he said. “I just want you to know, I’m sorry I pushed back so hard, and that I’ve been so secretive. You have a right to feel the way you feel, and I don’t want you to forgive him if you don’t feel it. All I want is to move on with him, without feeling like it’s a betrayal to you. And I think my biggest mistake here is refusing to hear you out. But I’m listening now, and I won’t say anything until you tell me to.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “I was too harsh. I should have trusted you to have a good reason.”

Something wasn’t adding up. There wasn’t nearly as much resistance as he expected. “You… seem awfully understanding,” Harry said in confusion.

“I… well, I know why now,” she said in a small voice. “Why you forgave him.” She swallowed nervously.

Slowly, she disentangled herself from Harry and reached into the drawer in the table next to her bed. She pulled out a familiar letter, with familiar handwriting. “This belongs to you.”

Heat rose up Harry’s chest and neck as his shoulders and hands tensed up. He stood up with deliberate slowness. “Please tell me that’s not what I think it is,” he said through gritted teeth, but he knew it was. It was the very same letter that contained James’ confession. Harry felt a hot swoop of anger in the pit of his stomach.

“Well, yes,” she said nervously. “I – I read it this morning.”

“You had no right to do that!” Harry exploded, snatching it back so forcefully that the parchment cut her finger. “Couldn’t you just leave it alone, Hermione? Why d’you have to pick, and pry, and meddle? What part of ‘it’s not mine to tell’ is so alien to you? Why wasn’t me saying I didn’t want to talk about it enough?”

“Because you shut me out and I don’t accept!” she cried, suddenly just as angry. “You don’t get to call me your girlfriend and touch me all over but not actually let me in! Am I just some whore to you?”

“You know you’re not!” shouted Harry, deeply wounded that she could think so little of him. “And don’t try to fucking turn it like that! We’re talking about betrayal!”

“Yes, we are,” she shouted, jabbing a finger at him. There were tears in her eyes. “You told me. You said – you said I was nosy and interfering and you wouldn’t have me any other way! And now you’re angry because I’m exactly what you thought!”

“And you said you were allowed to have secrets,” he said. He didn’t want her to start crying and then have to backpedal, as if he had no right to feel this way. Everything he’d wanted to say to her, all the ways he’d wanted to listen, were out the window, flying away into the night along with his composure. He was absolutely furious with her, and he wasn’t going to let her get away with it. “So am I, Hermione!”

“Fine, then, no more secrets!” she screamed, leaping up and gesticulating theatrically. “I’ll be an open book from now on! Go on, ask me anything!”

“Absolutely not – you don’t get to change things when it only suits you!”

“You told Ron, didn’t you?” she cried. “That’s why he’s so accepting. But you didn’t want to give me the same chance –”

“I didn’t tell him a bloody thing, Hermione. I didn’t have to. You see Ron, unlike you, actually cares about me!”

She blanched as though he’d slapped her, and Harry immediately knew he’d gone too far. All of his anger was suddenly gone. They stood and stared at each other. Harry felt a horrible sense of fear and foreboding that made his heart stutter in his chest, the breath catch in his lungs.

“If that’s really how you feel… then maybe this whole thing was a mistake,” she finally said, and burst into tears.

A pit opened up in Harry’s stomach, threatening to swallow him whole. “That’s not… no, I don’t – Hermione, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, all right? I didn’t mean it.”

“I think you did,” she sobbed. “And I think we should take a break.”

“No,” Harry begged. He could barely breathe to get the next words out. “Please. Please, I’m so sorry. Don’t – what about Ron?” Harry clutched desperately at anything that would give her pause, make her stay. Anything so she would, for once in her life, not follow through.

“He’s going to take your side, anyway,” she said, putting her face in her hands. Harry wanted desperately to touch her, to comfort her, but he knew she wouldn’t allow it. “He always does, Harry, and you know it. We were never really three.”

“That’s not true,” gasped Harry. “Hermione, please. Don’t do this. We’re not – nothing is right without you. Please don’t do this.”

“I have to,” she said, raising her face. There was resolve in her eyes, despite the tears that flowed freely. “I’ll go h-home.”

“Home is here,” Harry insisted brokenly, not realising that instead of gesturing at the room, he had pressed a fist to his heart.

“Not anymore,” sobbed Hermione.

Just then, the front door banged open and Harry and Hermione’s heads turned towards Ron’s voice. He sounded frantic.

“I heard you from outside,” he called, running up the stairs. “Hermione, you can’t –”

But she didn’t allow him to finish. Before Ron or Harry could reach out for her, or say anything more, she apparated away, leaving behind only the faint scent of magnolias, and two broken hearts.

Notes:

I just want to express my love for you all... The comments, kudos, sweet little notes in your bookmarks... I was getting little pings on my trip and even though I couldn't reply right away, they made me so happy. And 204 subscriptions??? 204 of you liked this story enough to get notified when it updates? Oh my gosh <3

Chapter 17: Guiding Light

Hermione struck a match and held it to a handmade fire starter she’d crafted at a Guide meeting. It was made out of a paper muffin cup filled with cotton wool, a cinnamon stick, dried orange peel, and held together with melted candle wax. It was both pretty and functional, and made her campfire smell nice.

It flared up easily, and Hermione watched as the fire spread quickly to tinder, then kindling. This was the part she always struggled with – waiting until the flames had really caught and were strong enough to add the bigger pieces of wood.

She tried not to think of Harry and Ron, the ways they would tease her if it didn’t work and she’d have to restart, or how they’d cheer once the blaze was well and truly going. Thinking of them would come later, once everything was perfect and all her camp chores were done. When she would be safe to cry and fall apart.

Just barely audible against the crackling and snapping of the fire, the River Severn burbled and rushed just out of sight. Hermione was in the Forest of Dean, a place she and her parents had once camped when she was nine. She carefully added two split logs to the flames and felt a welcome sense of competence and pride as they began to blacken and catch fire. Now you have to name it, she thought, and sing the song. It was a tradition she’d never voiced aloud with the boys, but she always did in her head. She had a fondness for old lady names, and so she named her fire Agnes, after the founder of Girl Guides.

Softly, she sang the tune that predated even the Statute of Secrecy, that wizards and Muggles used to sing together by firelight:

Rise up, o flame, by thy light glowing

Show to us beauty, vision, and joy

Some people had religion to teach them how to live and treat others. Hermione had Girl Guides. Although, you really haven’t lived by those principles lately, she thought. It’s good you’re going away with the girls.

Being around other girls who shared her values was a huge part of why Hermione kept going back every summer, but it was also why she had kept it so close to her chest for so long. She wanted to hold onto something feminine and something entirely Muggle, something that was just for her, when her best friends were boys who had always known they were wizards.

She had never found another witch who was a Girl Guide, though every Muggleborn girl knew what they were. Surely, they had to exist somewhere. She amused herself with the idea of starting a new unit of little witches, teaching them all the ways to live in and enjoy the natural world without a wand. They’d call themselves a coven and wear custom neckerchiefs and it would be adorable.

Her heart squeezed painfully as she thought of the vision that had slowly been forming as Harry and Ron grew more into themselves. A kinder world in which all magical children, Muggleborn or otherwise, could learn and play together from the very first signs of magic. Harry would teach them, Hermione would guide them, and Ron would heal them. It was perfect. And she’d blown it all to bits.

No, you don’t, she sternly told herself. You have dinner to cook and the washing up after. You can think about that later.

She wasn’t much of a chef, but she could manage if it was done over a fire, even if it was a bit bland sometimes. The fire would have to burn down a little more and make a good bed of coals before she could get started, but she was determined not to think about anything unpleasant while she waited. She stuck a potato all over with the fork from her dad’s old Boy Scout mess kit, then rubbed a bit of oil over it before covering it in aluminium foil. She had a bit of steak that she seasoned with salt and pepper, already chopped into pieces just the right size for sticking on a skewer with bell peppers, mushrooms, and onions. She made a second skewer of unseasoned chicken for Crookshanks, who was off exploring.

She only had fresh food for the first day and a half – her cooler wasn’t efficient enough to keep things cold for long. After that it was dry and tinned goods. What she did have was prepped by Harry based on her instructions, but she wasn’t going to think about that. She wasn’t going to think of the confident way he wielded a chef’s knife, or the soft, proud way he smiled every time she and Ron took their first bites. She wasn’t going to think about how they were all supposed to be doing this together, but instead she was going it alone. She wasn’t going to dwell on any of that because it hurt too much.

Protein, starch, greens, she thought. A perfectly balanced meal. And tomorrow, I’ll crack an egg into the leftovers. Easy. Practical.

Her prep work done, Hermione got out her penknife and worked on a walking stick she’d had since she was fourteen that was covered with little shapes and words to denote each Guiding trip she took. It was a tradition she’d picked up from her father – he’d done so as a Boy Scout and was much better at it than she was. He had several walking sticks carved with the shapes of animals and silly faces. Her favourite was a burrowing owl he’d carved to look like it was peeking out of a little hole. He’d done it long before she’d known all the things she could do were magic, and she liked to think it was one indication that “they’d always known,” even if it wasn’t true. 

Hermione just didn’t have the patience to learn the finer points of whittling and woodcarving. She would carve the names of the places she’d gone and the year in precise block lettering, and she could do simple shapes like a leaf or arrow. She’d even managed an acorn once, though she’d nearly pulled her hair out trying to get the detail on the cap just right. Overall, when it came down to fiddly skills, she much preferred lashing and knots – things that were pretty in their symmetry and practicality. Things that had a specific set of directions and could be repeated for the same results.

But just whittling a little – that was fun, and good for passing time. She tidied up the outline of a canoe and the year of what would eventually read, “1997 RIVER WYE.” She was definitely not thinking that she should be especially careful not to cut herself, since Ron was not here to heal her. And she also wasn’t thinking about his large, freckled, beautiful hands that could tie the smallest knot or break apart a split log.

Soon enough, she had a nice bed of coals to cook her dinner. While the steak and veg sizzled on a foldable grate, she put a kettle of water on to boil for her wash water and a cup of tea. She had a tiny camp stove that she would use in the morning for breakfast.

She enjoyed her dinner – there was something about camping that made even the simplest food taste like a five-star meal. She wasn’t thinking about the perfect seasoning that Harry would have done, and she wasn’t thinking of Ron when she toasted a marshmallow to golden perfection. She wasn’t imagining sharing chairs and cigarettes and whisky and snogging and touching.

Washing up was easy – since it was just her, Hermione had foregone the usual three bucket system (hot wash, warm rinse, cold sanitise, she reminded herself) and just gave it all a “wipe, swipe, and sprinkle,” as Sam, one of her Guide leaders, would say.

And now, everything was mostly done. The fire was dying, and Hermione would stay with it, enjoying a cup of tea until it was safe to extinguish. Hmm, ‘enjoy’ is a bit of a strong word, she thought, grimacing at the lemon and ginger blend she’d filched from her parents’ house the night before. She should have been more discerning, but in her defence, she’d been quite distraught. Her mother only drank herbal teas, just barely steeped, because black tea stained one’s teeth. She never added sugar, not to tea or anything else, because that was also bad for dental health.

Hermione sometimes wondered if her mother’s neuroses had anything to do with such a boring diet. She smirked wryly, thinking her mother would probably keel over dead if she knew all the things her perfect little daughter got up to. Sneaking out after curfew. Drinking. Smoking. And not to mention… But no, she wasn’t thinking about that.

Crookshanks emerged from a gorse bush, his thick ginger fur stuck full of twigs, crushed leaves, and spiderwebs, carrying a large black feather and looking very pleased with himself. If he hadn’t been part kneazle, Hermione never would have brought him, but he was able to understand and follow her rules not to hunt the local wildlife, except she couldn’t get him to leave spiders alone. He also had the uncanny ability to sense unscrupulous individuals, and kept her safe.

“Such a mighty hunter,” she complimented him as he dropped the feather at her feet. It looked to be from a crow, or perhaps a raven. She’d have to check her field guide later. She played with Crookshanks, dabbing the feather at his tufted little paws and tossing it for him as he swiped at it and leapt after it.

When he started to get bored, she fed him his bits of chicken and settled back against a fallen log. She stroked him as he chomped greedily and made rude little eating noises, which reminded her of Harry and his unreasonably noisy cereal.

Harry. You’ve put off thinking about him for long enough now, haven’t you?

Hermione sighed deeply. Ron had chased her to her parents’ house the night before, trying to convince her to come back. And it had almost worked – he’d held her on his lap in the sitting room and cuddled and kissed her and spoke in that voice of his. Her parents had not woken up – most likely because her father slept deeply and her mother wore earplugs to block out his snoring. In the event of a home invasion, they were doomed.

She wanted to go back, but things were different now. Hermione didn’t know how to come back from something like this.

She hadn’t even meant to snoop, or at least it hadn’t started out that way. She’d been looking for Ron’s memory glass that morning while the boys were busy showing off their axe wielding skills to each other, shirts off and everything despite Hermione’s warning that it was better to wear clothes for protection.

The glass was in the drawer of Harry’s nightstand, right on top of a folded bit of parchment. She picked it up curiously, reasoning that he couldn’t be that fussed about it if he didn’t bother to secure it – he always kept his most private things in his mokeskin wallet. And he was always teasing her about being nosy. She thought it was probably one of Lily’s cute little drawings. She didn’t know that it was the letter, not until it was too late.

Even then she could have dropped it and closed the drawer, but Hermione was not the type of girl who could resist reading anything. It was how she learned things. The only reason she knew anything about sex or relationships was because her mother had given her a book.

And she’d only wanted to understand. It didn’t seem to matter how hard she tried – Harry was simply never going to let her in. Hermione blinked against the tears that started to well up. She felt she’d given so much to the boys, of her body, of her heart. She’d battled through so many fears and insecurities just to be with them.

More importantly, she hadn’t intended to hurt Harry. And she’d been so sure he’d told Ron. Hermione could not fathom accepting anything she could not understand, so logically, Ron must have known.

Harry should have told me, she thought, hugging her knees to her chest. I know why he didn’t want to, but what made him think I wouldn’t understand? Or that I couldn’t keep a secret? And how can he possibly believe I don’t care? I’m so in love with him and Ron, I can’t even think straight most of the time.

She already felt so left out and lonely in their relationship. The boys had so much history, so much in common, they were together first, and they were already around each other so much… It was clear to Hermione that they loved each other. She was almost certain they’d already told each other so.

Hermione knew in her heart it should be up to Harry on whether to forgive his father. But she just couldn’t. The way Harry looked, on the verge of crying, every time his father didn’t show up, or showed up and sent gifts all while pretending nothing happened… Well, just that in itself was unforgiveable, let alone everything else.

Harry thinks he’s so good at pretending, she thought. He thinks he’s this stoic person. But I can see everything in his eyes, in his body language. I just know him. And he won’t look after his own heart! He’ll just forgive and forget, and open himself up for his father to hurt him again. It was driving her mad, just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for James to do another about-face on Harry, making him twice as devastated. And Ron couldn’t see it. He kept dismissing her at every turn, didn’t want to listen to her concerns…

She hated how similar Harry and his father looked. Across the room and from the back, they were nearly identical, except Harry was taller. The very idea of mixing them up, accidentally hugging James from behind or touching him when she only saw him out of the corner of her eye… it was distasteful and disturbing. She didn’t want him to get close – ever.

The things he’d done! Showing up out of the blue and distracting Harry badly enough to lose to Slytherin… Turning Professor McGonagall into the bad guy and denying him prefect… both things mattered so much to Harry – they were part of his core. They were only two of the many things she loved and admired about him.

Hermione was terrified of flying. It was the lack of control that scared her, combined with a fear of heights. But oh, did she love watching Harry and Ron fly. Before Ron had joined the Quidditch team, he would sit closer than strictly necessary to her in the stands, watching Harry dive and swoop and roll. She’d feel Ron tense with every move, his blue eyes following Harry circling above the action far more often than the more exciting play between Chasers, Keepers, and Beaters. Even back then, she’d suspected that Ron was in love with Harry. It wasn’t until the summer between fifth and sixth year that she noticed Harry looking back at him.

And once they were on the team together… Her eyes couldn’t decide who she wanted to watch more. She had to sit alone because she could never pay attention to the score, she would just watch, getting more and more worked up with every spectacular move, every dashing grin. Sometimes during a break in the action they’d find her in the stands and wave, and that just made it so much worse. She’d leave the matches with weak knees and wet knickers.

Hermione had been certain Harry would be made prefect. She knew how proud of his initiative and skill Professor McGonagall was. She wasn’t a teacher who showed affection, but Hermione paid enough attention to notice that she smiled at him nearly as often as Hermione. The only reasons Hermione outperformed Harry in Transfiguration were that her essays were better, and she focused more in class. Harry was simply intuitive with his magic and spent a little more time in the lecture parts of class observing other people or daydreaming. He did things that she knew were quite advanced… like Ron’s eye glass and her watch. Putting memories and feelings into objects – it was something even experienced adults struggled with, that combination of charmwork and transfiguration.

And it wasn’t that Ron didn’t deserve prefect. He’d risen to the responsibility, even if he was a bit lax on rule enforcement and had a tendency to bend the rules to benefit himself. He was amazing at shielding younger students from bullying and very skilled at Charms and Herbology. He was a diligent worker when he wanted to be – all of his OWL grades except Divination and History of Magic were above average. No, it was that Harry had wanted it. He adored children and younger students, and they really responded to him. Just a “C’mon, mate,” and a smile from him could achieve what all of Hermione’s austerity could not. His father had thought none of that was important. It was like James couldn’t see Harry at all. And he was his father – of all the people supposed to love you…

Back in the present, Crookshanks meowed in his way that said, “pay attention!” She shook herself. Her campfire was now just blackened bits of charcoal and the tiniest glow of embers. Nearby was a little pot filled with water that normally held her mess kit, with a stick that was well-soaked enough to poke at burning logs. Now, she used it to spread out the embers. She threw handfuls of water onto them, causing a hissing sound and little jets of steam. Sprinkle, stir, feel, she thought. Or SSF, for the sound it makes.

Sam and Josie, the adult Guides who led Hermione and five other girls, had all sorts of acronyms and rhymes and mnemonic devices for remembering all the methods and rules. Josie was American and had lived in the Pacific Northwest region until five years ago. She still slipped up sometimes and called them Girl Scouts instead of Guides or Rangers, but Hermione kind of loved that about her.

The bits of burned logs were barely warm to her hand when she was done. The sun was going down, and for once Hermione didn’t feel like reading before bed. She looked around at her little campsite, checking for any bits of food or trash, but she’d done a good job cleaning up.

She packed her leftover food into her little cylindrical cooler and shoved it inside the one magical concession she allowed herself – a large Muggle backpacking rucksack with an undetectable expansion charm. It was necessary – without Harry and Ron, she simply couldn’t carry everything by herself. She probably could have managed without the charm if she had a much smaller tent, brought less water, and planned to use more dehydrated food, but it couldn’t be helped.  

She remembered Ron performing it for her just that morning, and helping her put everything in. Harry was nowhere to be found, but Hermione was actually relieved. She wasn’t ready to face him.

“Don’t report me,” Ron whispered to her, looking around conspiratorially. “It’s kind of illegal.”

“I’m a prefect, not a Ministry official,” she promised. “Take care of this for me, won’t you?” She cradled her wand for a moment, then gently put it into his hands.

“You need to take it with you,” he said, caressing it between his fingers and making her shiver just slightly. “If I can’t keep you safe...”

“I’ll be fine,” she insisted. “Muggles do it all the time, and besides, I’m taking Crooks. Remember what happened with McClaggen?”

“Ah, yes,” Ron said mistily, putting his hand to his heart. “It’s too bad Madam Pomfrey put his face back to rights – I thought it was an improvement.”

“You’ll have to be careful with that attitude,” she said. “Healers take an oath to do no harm.”

“I’m not there yet, Hermione.”

“You will,” she said passionately. “If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that. You’re going to be better even than Lily.”

His blue eyes opened wide with surprise. “I love your confidence, but she’s the cream of the crop. I’m really, really looking forward to learning from her.”

He looked down at Hermione in a way that had her questioning all her resolve to go it alone. Harry’s eyes were more intense, but Ron’s were warmer. “Are you sure I can’t come with?”

“You stay,” she said softly. “I meant it when I said I need some time to think.”

“You know he’s sorry,” he murmured.

Hermione went quiet. She’d been right that Ron would take Harry’s side. Even though he was warm and sweet and still talking to her, he was urging her to bridge the gap while extolling Harry’s virtues, making excuses for him. He was treating it all like a minor tiff, as though things weren’t different now. As if she hadn’t been hurt enough to insist on a break from the best thing that had ever happened to her.

“I should get going,” she said.

Ron gave her a wistful look and cupped her face. He leaned down to press a sweet kiss to her lips that had her knees feeling a little weak. She loved the shape of his mouth, the softness of his lips. It made saying goodbye that much harder.

Hermione sighed. Ron had such confidence that she’d come back and things would be fine, but she really wasn’t certain at all. At least Ron still wants you, she consoled herself. At least he doesn’t think you’re a horrible, unfeeling beast.

“Come on, Crooks,” she said, chirruping to her favourite feline. “Bedtime.”

Crookshanks gave a longing look to the surrounding forest, but obediently followed Hermione into the tent. She lugged her rucksack inside behind them and zipped the flap shut. She looked sadly at the sleeping bag in the fading light. She’d had a naughty little plan to “forget” all but one and expand it so they could all sleep tangled up together.

You and your schemes, Granger. You know they’ll sleep with with you if you just ask.

But where was the fun in that? She imagined their reactions for a moment. Of course they would see right through her. Ron would have given an exaggerated sigh and said, “I have never experienced such suffering.”

“Damned inconvenient,” Harry would have agreed. And then they’d both strip to their pants (or less) and she’d sleep between them, wrapped up in their warmth all night. Maybe they would even…

Well, probably not, Hermione thought. She wanted to have sex, sometimes desperately, but whenever the moment came, she’d clam up. Her body tensed up all over, as if expecting pain, and her brain started up its litany of, “Not yet, not yet, not yet.”

And then she’d spiral, thinking how she’d disappointed them yet again, and that eventually they would get tired of waiting and leave her for each other, or for a girl who would put out. She dismissed the memory of them showering together and deciding to wait for her. It would be so easy for them to just change their minds.

If I did have sex with them, would it have changed things? Would Ron want to listen to me? Would Harry have trusted me with his father’s secret? Should I have just… gone ahead? Done something I didn’t feel ready for?

Her lower body clenched at the thought, and her heart stuttered with a familiar fear. It’s going to hurt no matter what, whether I feel ready or not. I just know it. I’m too tight down there. Some girls just have more leeway to start with, but I don’t.

Last summer, one of her Guide friends, Jenny, had confided that she’d had sex for the first time with her boyfriend just a couple of days before. She thought she’d wanted it, but once it started, it hurt, and she didn’t feel she could tell him to stop. She admitted she was still bleeding, evoking both sympathy and horror from the other girls.

Hermione’s mother’s voice flitted across her brain. “Boys only want one thing, darling. It’s best if you wait until you have your career in place before worrying about any of that. By then, they’re all men and no longer boys. It’s what happened with your father and I.”

Hermione had resisted the urge to correct her grammar. It wouldn’t have gone over well.

Oh, Mum, she thought, shaking her head. You taught me sex was all about saying “no,” about keeping boys away from my body. You never taught me that I would not only want to say “yes,” but “oh GOD yes PLEASE.” What am I supposed to do now?

She allowed herself to think, just for a second, on the alarming bits of pornography she’d tried. Until Harry and Ron had reassured her they expected no such thing from her, she’d had quite a few questions and fears. Would they expect to both be inside me at once? Do I have to take it up the arse? I don’t think I have the attention span to have one in my mouth and the other in my fanny. I just don’t know how to please them when I’m only one little blushing virgin. It had been an incredible relief to hear Harry say that he knew it was all just a performance for men, and for Ron to say they weren’t beasts and had more realistic expectations, that they were eager to please her.

Even so, a little of that fear and apprehension still lingered.

By torchlight, she undressed for bed and succumbed to the crying fit she’d put off all day. She’d spent all of last night crying, too. What would happen if she went back, and she and Harry couldn’t reconcile?

Ron would choose Harry, she thought, curling up in a ball. She didn’t bother to wipe her tears away as Crookshanks wiggled his way into her sleeping bag. I’d lose them both. But Harry won’t forgive… oh, I fucked up so bad. I shouldn’t have done it. At the very least, I could have just pretended I didn’t know, just put it back and forgotten about it. It even sounded like he was about to finally tell me the truth, anyway.

But Hermione had wanted to be honest. It had eaten at her all day. She felt she had to come clean, but she’d been so clumsy with it, and now he’d never want her again… by now, with some distance, with her gone and not nattering at him, he’d see just how much better off he and Ron would be without her. When she got back, if he saw her at all, it would only be to tell her to stay away. And she’d have to get used to living in Hampstead again, having lonely summers pining after the two boys she was in love with but couldn’t have.

“You’re just a bit… much.” Now it was Lavender in her head. She’d said it back in third year, when Hermione had finally had it with all the whispering behind her back and the snide comments, and insisted her dormitory mates just tell her what was so wrong with her. She’d bristled against it at the time, but in all honesty… it was true. She was a swotty little girl used to getting her way, and could not understand why nobody liked her the same way her parents did, or respected her intelligence the same way her fellow Guides did.

Crookshanks purred and curled up under her chin, disregarding the mess of tears and snot that trickled into his fur as Hermione ignored how filthy he was and cuddled him. “My precious boy,” she sniffled. “You’re the only male in my life who loves me just as I am.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

In the morning, Hermione slept through the birdsong, but woke when the sun brightened her tent. She rubbed her eyes. They were puffy and gritty. As miserable as she was, her cat’s attempts at comfort had eventually worked enough for her to fall asleep. Now, she would fall into a different sort of comfort – that of working her way down a list.

Crawl out of the tent, stretch, find a spot to pee. Feed Crookshanks. Get out the stove, put a kettle of water on and light it. Get out the instant coffee. Once the water boils, make a cup and save the rest of the water for washing. Stir in some powdered milk and enough sugar to give her mother a stroke.

Heat up leftovers in a minuscule skillet. Scramble an egg into them and cook. Dish it onto her mess kit plate. Eat. Don’t forget to enjoy the morning.

Hermione closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Beyond the smell of her cooking and coffee, there was the scent of dewy leaves and other flora, of loamy soil and the clean, mossy scent from the river. She heard it faintly, chuckling against a rocky peninsula, the birdsong adding a dissonant sort of harmony.

She opened her eyes and took stock of her campsite. Just her tent, her stove, dishes, the fire pit, and her magical rucksack with everything else. No chair – she sat on a little waterproof cushion, not at all bothered by the dirt.

“The joys of being young,” she heard her mother say, and imagined her grimace as she struggled to get up off the ground. Between her knees and her back, her mother no longer did the whole camping thing. Which suited Hermione just fine. Violet Granger had never been a Guide, but still had the cheek to constantly second-guess Hermione’s and her father’s knowledge on… everything. She was also a “bit much.”

Hermione pulled out her wildlife guide to identify Crookshanks’ feather as a crow’s (most likely corvus corone) and a rosemary beetle (chrysolina americana) that was, unsurprisingly, crawling in some wild rosemary (salvia rosmarinus). “Very on the nose, mate,” she told it, unconsciously imitating Harry’s casual way of talking to animals. She brushed her hand in the rosemary and brought it to her nose, thinking of Harry.

The nice thing about magical perfumes and other scents was that they mimicked them exactly – none of that artificial cloyingness that came with Muggle fragrances. If a wizard put on a cologne that was called Arctic Ice, he could expect to smell like a glacier.

Harry didn’t use cologne – Hermione wasn’t entirely sure where his light rosemary scent came from; perhaps his aftershave. It wasn’t the laundry soap or his shampoo. Maybe he just naturally smelled that way. Whatever it was, his fragrance paired nicely with Ron’s Forest Grove cologne. Together, they smelled like a secret herb garden in the woods, even when they were both smelly from exertion or first thing in the morning. Notes of man musk.

She didn’t need to be thinking of the time they climbed into her bed for a morning cuddle. On with her list. The day promised to be hot and full of sunshine. Wash up. Clean her teeth, wash her face, put on sunscreen, get dressed, check her plait. Pack up and move to the next site. She dispersed the stones and scattered the ashes of her fire ring, and packed the charcoal remains into a little bag.

“What do we always remember when we leave a place?” she heard Josie and Sam say.

“Leave no trace,” she thought back, in chorus with the five other girls.

If things had gone the way they were supposed to, Hermione would be chattering away at Harry and Ron about her upcoming canoe trip. She didn’t mention the other girls much, though she thought of them often. She had meant it when she said she’d never get Harry and Ron back from them – her boys were just too pretty and compelling for anyone to resist. It was bad enough at school, listening to the loo and dormitory chatter about Harry and Ron’s looks and sexual prowess – she didn’t need it in the summer, too. She still didn’t know how an ugly duckling like herself had ever managed to pull the two most handsome boys she’d ever laid eyes on, and at some point, they were going to wise up and find someone else.

If they haven’t already, she thought despondently.

God, they’re beautiful, though. Tall, broad-shouldered, thick-haired. Trim and athletic with lightly defined muscles. Intense green eyes and warm blue eyes, and thickly lashed, though Ron’s were fair – only a shade darker than his hair. Add in their easy charm, their voices and laughter… it was unfair. No one else would ever make her feel the way they did, no one else could ever hold her heart the way they did… and never having to choose between them? People just didn’t get lucky like this. It was a dream, the best kind of fairytale.

And you had to go and fuck it all up. And for what? Because you just had to be right?

Hermione finished packing and hefted her rucksack onto her back, ready to find her next site. Tonight, she’d try and find something even closer to the river, perhaps leave the tent packed and just sleep under a tarp. She chirruped to Crookshanks, who was surveying the land from the crotch of a tree. He scampered down and ran behind her, his bottlebrush tail held high.

As she walked, she switched her walking stick between hands and swung her arms, getting the blood flowing. She hadn’t really allowed herself to think about Harry’s father, the revelation that he’d been raped, and how it had made her feel in that moment. She’d wanted to remain angry, to hold onto all the resentment and to feel right. In truth, it had set her reeling with shock. Even pity.

Magic can cure so many things, but it doesn’t allow for healing the mind, no, the soul of a person. There are no therapists. How can anyone function after something like that without any tools to cope?

It doesn’t excuse how he treated Harry. I don’t think anything can do that. But I understand why Harry would forgive him. When he loves someone, he loves them so deeply – he’ll forgive anything. I just wish he loved me that way. I’m glad I left before he could wise up and leave me.

But she was lying to herself. Hermione wasn’t glad she left. Her heart felt dark and empty now that she had closed that door. The way Harry had pleaded with her to stay… his apologies, the anguished look in those green eyes that always made her melt into a stupid little puddle… She wiped tears away, trying to get a grip, to think rationally in the way she had always prided herself on.

He’d only been upset because of how badly you hurt him. He was sorry for what he said, not because you didn’t deserve it, or because it wasn’t true, but because he’s just Harry. He holds himself to a higher standard than anyone else. Because he is kind.

And you are not.

 

The following two days were more or less the same. Hermione would pack up when she felt like it, then walk until she found another suitable site, doing her best to make them as different as possible so she could practice setting up and taking down in all kinds of conditions and terrain.

On her third morning, she heard a warbler in the trees, and it made her think of a pretty song that Josie had taught them. She amused herself for a bit, singing her favourite songs to herself as she packed up her site. As she walked in search of the next one, she passed a patch of yellow flowers she thought at first glance to be lilies, but her field guide told her they were loosestrife (lysimachia vulgaris). But of course, they reminded her of Harry’s mother. Hermione always looked forward to seeing Lily – she was calm and reassuring and understanding in ways that her own mother could never.

Harry doesn’t realise how good he’s got it. God, if I had someone I could just ask things without worrying all the time… Hermione loved her mum, but it was as though a pane of semi-transparent glass separated them sometimes. Her mother, both her parents really, could no longer relate to her. What did they know of magic, or of the feeling that the world you’re supposed to belong to for the rest of your life… doesn’t fully accept you?

Sometimes, Hermione wished Lily was her age so they could truly be friends. Well, not exactly, or else how would she have Harry? But she wished she had a friend like Lily… even Mr. and Mrs. Evans had similar personalities to her own parents. In the magical world, Ginny was as close as she got, but they didn’t see each other all that much anymore. They would share rooms and tents when Hermione went to stay with Ron for parts of the summer or holidays, and they talked about all the sorts of things girls are supposed to – boys, exams, professors and classmates, gossip and parents. But there was that glass there as well. Ginny didn’t know about primary school, or football, or the kinds of music she listened to, and she’d never seen a film or television show. They couldn’t call each other on the phone when the masculine energy got to be too much.

There was Brynn… Hermione liked her, and got the impression that it was reciprocated… but at Hogwarts, Hermione was always distracted by Ron, Harry, prefect duties, the Slug Club, exams, schoolwork, and the horrible one week per month that amped up her anxiety at the same time it robbed her of sleep. And now with NEWTs approaching and Head Girl thrown into the mix…

You should still try, Hermione thought. She wondered if Brynn liked camping.

Hermione’s time as a Girl Guide was fast expiring. After this summer, she would no longer be a girl in the organisation that had given her so much, had become a deep part of her very core, as much as her magic. She would no longer live in a place where she could be reached by telephone or Muggle postal service. She would be expected to cut ties with all but her parents, be friendly with Muggles but never friends again. To her Guide friends and mentors – Jenny, Louise, Claire, Theresa, Marie, Sam and Josie – she would just… disappear. After four summers of working and learning together, of joy and friendship, songs, and promises to make the world better…

I’ve been so preoccupied, I haven’t even let myself grieve the loss of all that. Perhaps it’s denial. It’s not something I want to face. It’s always been there for me, just around the corner… and nobody’s upset with me when I can’t come during the rest of the year.

Hermione wasn’t the only girl from her group who was there only, or mostly, in the summer. Louise’s parents were divorced and lived in different countries, but it was not an amicable split. She didn’t like to talk about her home life at all. And Theresa was just as academically inclined as Hermione, preferring to spend the school year focused on her studies. She very rarely attended meetings from September to May. Claire, Jenny, and Marie were the “ride-or-die crew,” as Josie called them, and met year-round, all-weather, in Hampstead Heath. They had sashes full of badges, whereas Hermione and Louise were lucky to get one or two over the summer. Louise didn’t care, but Hermione chafed a bit at her lack of (visible) achievement – one of the things she had always loved about Girl Guides were the little fabric awards that proclaimed to the world that she had learned something and was proficient at it.

I must be feeling better if I can think about them, and not how miserable I am about my love life, she thought to herself. But really, it was inevitable, being surrounded by nature and using the skills she’d learned with them. They were part of who she was, too.

 

That evening, it rained, and she had far too much time to think about the boys while she and Crookshanks took shelter.

Now you have to decide what to do, she thought, eating a commercially manufactured meal of tuna, corn, and beans directly out of the tin as Crookshanks meowed like a starving kitten and pawed at her wrist. Will you beg for them to take you back? Do you think they would? Or will you not even try – just go back to Hampstead and call it all a fairytale that ended at midnight?

“Stop that,” she said sternly to Crookshanks. “You had plenty of your own, and you managed to spill it on my sleeping bag!”

“Mrr?” he said, making biscuits on her thigh and purring.

Like the pushover she was, Hermione relented. “Oh, all right, let me pick out some of the good bits for you. I can’t resist when you’re being so sweet and handsome. You’re such a good boy.” She held out a bit of tuna between her fingers and Crookshanks drew in her hand with both paws to lick it out of her grasp.

She remembered Ron scooping up Crookshanks to sit on his lap, and how Harry would pick him up and croon to the big cat like a baby. “What do you think I should do, Crooks?” Hermione asked him. “I’m about to go mad with all this back and forth.”

Crookshanks licked his paw and washed his face with it. Well, what do you want to do? he seemed to say.

If it’s a fairy tale, and it’s not one of those dark German ones, then it has to end with happily ever after, she thought. Out loud, she said, “I want to go back. I want to make it work, and be with them. I love them so much. But… I don’t know how.”

What would a Girl Guide do?

“Look to her principles.” Finished with her dinner, she pulled out a pen and a notebook she used for all her camping planning and to-dos. Sam had given one to each of the girls, and it had the Guide logo stamped on the front and the recently updated Guide Law printed on the inside of the cover:

1. A Guide is honest, reliable and can be trusted.
2. A Guide is helpful and uses her time and abilities wisely.
3. A Guide faces challenge and learns from her experiences.
4. A Guide is a good friend and a sister to all Guides.
5. A Guide is polite and considerate.
6. A Guide respects all living things and takes care of the world around her.

Thank Morgana they got rid of the lines about being cheerful and obedient, she mused. All right, Granger. Pick the most relevant line, turn it into a question, and do what you do best. Answer in the form of an essay, as though your whole future depends on the grade.

She considered each line, tapping the little numerals with the end of her pen. She thought about choosing line one, but she’d already fucked that bit up and she didn’t think berating herself over and over again was going to be helpful. Line two was not exactly relevant at the time.

All right, line three. How do I face this challenge and learn from my experiences?

Two hours later, Hermione massaged her right hand and looked over what she’d written. She had gotten so used to writing with a quill on parchment which was constantly trying to roll up un her that her hand was stiff. More than a few times, she’d tried to dip her pen into an ink bottle that wasn’t there, or reached for her not-present wand to erase a rubbish sentence.

It’s all rubbish, honestly. I’ve never written a worse essay. But I know what I have to do, and what to say. I just hope it’s enough.

Having a script and course of action soothed Hermione more than crying ever could, and she felt relaxed enough to finally focus on something that was just for fun. She rummaged in a side pocket of her rucksack for her novel and found it next to something she definitely didn’t pack. She pulled her wand out into the torchlight and inspected it. No wonder Ron had let her go so easily without it – he’d snuck it into her bag without her knowing. There was a piece of paper stuck to it, from one of her spiral bound notebooks. Even though she was surrounded by nothing but Muggle-manufactured things, it was still startling to see Ron’s handwriting on anything other than parchment.

Hang on, she thought, peering more closely at the wand. This is… Ron’s.

She laid it gently on her sleeping bag and unfolded the paper with shaking fingers.

Dear Hermione,

Please take care of this for me. I’ll sleep better, knowing that even if I can’t be there, at least a part of me is, keeping you safe. I’m terrible at romance and letters like this, but it’s the thought that counts, right? And my thoughts are full of you. When you come home, I’ll be waiting with open arms. We both will.

Love,

Ron x

Hermione’s heart did the most pathetic little flip-flop. Not good at romance, my arse, she thought, brushing fresh tears away. She flopped down onto her back and, satisfied Crookshanks couldn’t tease her for it, she kissed Ron’s signature and the little x.

I don’t deserve him, she thought soberly. But maybe… maybe love isn’t about deserving, after all.

 

It was still raining the next morning. Hermione hummed to herself as she read her book, not minding the fishy smell that clung to everything after Crookshanks’ mishap with the tuna. There was a curious smugness that came from being dry while the rest of the world was soaked. Besides that, she was feeling calm and ready to go home. And when she got there…

Oh no. She almost gasped aloud at the thought. I’d totally forgotten. I promised to help Harry’s Gran. Fucking tree duty again! If she wasn’t so eager to please Harry’s grandparents, Hermione would have begged off.

Maybe the rain will keep up, she thought, half hoping.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry had always thought that a broken heart was supposed to feel cracked, or shattered, or splintered. That pain made an otherwise healthy organ brittle, and by extension, crushable. He hadn’t realised “broken” meant his heart no longer worked properly. The rhythm wasn’t right – it was always grinding to a halt, like a stalled car, or whining constantly like an engine that just couldn’t turn over. Sometimes it squeezed forcefully, collapsing on itself with nothing inside to give it shape. Other times, it felt like it was not there at all.

Ron, however, did not seem to agree that the world had ended. He eventually lost patience with Harry’s moping. “She’s coming back, Harry. She’s camping, for fuck’s sake. You didn’t even want to go!”

“Yes, I did,” pouted Harry.

“That’s not cute,” Ron scowled, jabbing a finger at him. “Now buck up and make me lunch – I’m starving!”

It had been like this for days, though Ron was much more patient and understanding when he wasn’t hungry. The only way Ron had been able to get Harry’s mind off any of this thus far was to physically pick Harry up, put him on his Firebolt, and threaten to put a sticking charm on him until they’d played for at least an hour. But it hadn’t been necessary. The fresh air, sunshine, and adrenaline rush helped kickstart Harry’s heart back into functioning for a little while.

“She’ll come around,” Ron now said bracingly over a ham sandwich the size of a hippogriff. “She’s got to. She knows you. She’s hurt, but she knows in her heart you didn’t mean it. We’re supposed to be together. We all feel that. She’ll come back if we just give her space, let her know we’re always going to be here.”

“I’d let her curse me if she wanted,” Harry said. He had a sudden memory of that horrific duel with his father, how James had held back and let Harry “win.” It was ironic how this had only brought him to a further understanding of his father.

“You’re allowed to be hurt, you know,” said Ron dryly. He’d been saying it a lot, though Harry had yet to agree. He really should have known Hermione would hatch a scheme to dig it out of him.  

Harry sighed, picking at his much smaller sandwich. “I should have just told her,” he said quietly as Ron took a bite so large that it would have made Hermione wrinkle her nose in disgust. “The rules are different when you’re in a relationship.” He had told Ron what was in his father’s letter, feeling it was unfair for Ron to be the only one that didn’t know.

Ron said nothing. The knowledge hadn’t changed Ron’s opinion on the matter at all – he believed Harry had a right to keep secrets, for himself or for other people, and he knew his own mind. It wasn’t up to Ron to agree or disagree, just to support him no matter what Harry decided. They both knew it was not a perspective Hermione could get behind, to just accept things as they were, and not try to change it.

Harry turned away, pretending to cough, so Ron wouldn’t see him sniffling again. He’d even taken to sleeping in Hermione’s bed, because it smelled like her. Ron had rolled his eyes at him, but crawled in and held him all night.

But now, Ron loudly said, “That’s it.” He stood up and took Harry by the collar.

“Hey!” Harry sputtered, accidentally knocking over a bottle of butterbeer.

“I have been a very patient man,” said Ron, tugging Harry upstairs. “But no more Mr. Nice Guy. I am taking you to the Burrow, where Ginny will sort you out.”

“You wouldn’t,” gasped Harry.

“I would,” Ron insisted, shoving Harry in front of him into the bathroom. He turned on the shower and put his hands on his hips. “Now you’re going to get in the shower and scrub all that self-pity off yourself. Make yourself a clean slate so she can fill you with sense.”

“Why Ginny, though?” asked Harry as Ron plucked off his glasses and set them on the sink. He blinked owlishly at Ron as he began to pull Harry’s clothes off roughly. Harry hadn’t been in the mood for anything naughty, but if Ron kept manhandling him like that, all authoritative and no-nonsense, with that this-is-for-your-own-good look in his cornflower blue eyes, that was going to change real quick.

“Because she’s the only one you have a healthy fear of. Because you’re not listening to me, and I’m not too proud to bring in an expert on arse-kicking.”

“All right, all right,” said Harry, starting to grin as Ron undid his fly. “I just hope I can afford her rates.”

“Finally, some humour,” Ron said, and stood up to gently cup Harry’s jaw. He ran his thumb over Harry’s bottom lip before leaning in to kiss him softly on the mouth.

Before Harry could really lean into it, Ron ripped back the shower curtain and shoved him into the shower. “Self-pity. SCRUB,” Ron reminded him with a stern look and pointed finger that reminded Harry of Hermione. But for the first time, it didn’t hurt to think about her.  

 

Harry didn’t really need Ginny to kick his arse, but he let her out of gratitude for all the times she’d done it before, saving him from himself.

“I am sorry I have been a miserable sack of goblin dung,” Harry said in an aside to Ron that evening as they both perked up over Mrs. Weasley’s incredible cooking and cheerful chatter. She was still aglow at Ron’s St. Mungo’s internship, beaming and patting his cheek whenever she could reach, and shovelling large portions of roast and rosemary potatoes onto his plate.

Ron’s gratified smile at his mother’s praise and attention made Harry feel guilty. He really should have been more excited and supportive of him. Instead, he’d let his own feelings get in the way.

Hermione will come back, he finally allowed himself to hope, and we can work through things, and go back to the way it was, and be there for Ron. Fully, without drama.

The thing that Harry and Hermione had in common was that it was difficult for them to bask in good feelings and rest when nothing was wrong. Their minds were far too active and got restless when there wasn’t a problem to solve. Which had the unfortunate result of them creating problems that had no business existing.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley beckoned Ron, Harry, and Ginny into the back garden for a surprise, where a large something was covered by a cloth. “I hope you don’t mind we didn’t have this at your party, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said, “but we were taken a bit by surprise.”

“We’re very proud of you, Ron,” Mr. Weasley said. He took off the cloth to reveal a cage with a small, dusty looking owl blinking sleepily up at them. “We hope he’ll inspire you to write and tell us everything.”

“Oh, Merlin!” said Ron, plopping immediately down on the patio stones to look. Harry smiled, his heart doing that stupid wobbly thing as Ron touched his finger to the bars and chirruped softly to the owl, who regarded him for a moment before touching his beak to his finger. “A burrowing owl, innit? Does he have a name?” Ron asked excitedly.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley glanced at each other. “Well, yes,” Mr. Weasley said, clearing his throat. “Doug. He’s a… he’s a little bit older, we couldn’t afford… but I imagine, if you want to rename him, he could get used to it…”

“He’s perfect,” Ron insisted, grinning widely. “Doug. I’ll have to learn all about you, won’t I? No time like the present.” He opened the cage and scooted back. Doug blinked at him, but slowly came out on long, spindly legs.

“That’s… nauseatingly cute,” said Ginny as Ron got to know his new owl, his blue eyes sparkling as he fed him owl treats from where Doug perched on his long calf. For all his bluntness and size, despite all the ways he could be rough and coarse and loud, there was a gentleness to Ron that came out when it mattered most.

“What, the owl, or your brother?” Harry asked out of the corner of his mouth. Ginny scowled, annoyed to be caught complimenting someone related to her. Harry patted her on the shoulder. “Relax. I won’t tell.”

“Too right, you won’t,” Ginny said. “I’ve got too much dirt on you.”

“Funnily enough, Gin, it feels pretty clean and pure,” he grinned.

“You’re all three disgusting,” she said, pretending to hold back vomit.

 

With a new feathered friend to keep them both occupied, Harry slowly began to relax, so that by the morning Hermione was supposed to come home, he felt ready to see her, even if his stomach did feel full of flitterbloom. He would listen and apologise. “And accept her apology!” insisted Ron, but Harry just shrugged. He didn’t care if she did or didn’t. He just wanted her back.

Speaking of, he was starting to get anxious that she wasn’t back already. It was raining, which was probably what was delaying her, but Harry’s thoughts weren’t of mundane things like not wanting to be wet and muddy while packing up. What if she slipped into a river? he fretted. Met a boggart or something? He said none of it aloud, lest someone accuse him of insulting her intelligence.

“We’d better crack on,” Ron eventually said to Harry as they watched the rain blur the surface of the lake from the sitting room window. “We’re already late. Too much longer and your Gran will come to root us out.”

“Are you calling my grandmother a boar?” asked Harry, hoping to fluster him.

“I would never,” said Ron, offended. “I was going for a tree pun. Your Gran is a marvellous, celestial being.”

“How much money did she give you?”

“Never you mind,” said Ron, and tapped Harry affectionately on the nose. “And I’m not walking the whole way in the rain.” He held out his hand and Harry steeled himself before he took it. His grip seized around Ron as the nefarious pressure of apparition squeezed the most tender parts of his body.

Harry was instantly drenched the second it released right in front of the ancient yew his grandmother wanted them to move. Before he could complain about it, he turned and caught sight of a slender figure in jeans and a bright yellow rain poncho.  

“Hermione,” breathed Harry. “You’re – you’re here!”

“I promised your Gran I’d help,” she said before Ron pulled her into a crushing hug.

“Guide’s honour, if I remember,” said Harry. She hid her face in Ron’s chest, and Harry’s heart sank. So she hadn’t forgiven him.

But before he could spiral any further, she reached out for his hand. “We’ll talk, I promise,” she said. “Let’s just get this fucking tree job done so we can go home.”

Harry laughed in relief, resisting the urge to kiss her hand as his mother and Remus called a greeting from the road in front of the manor.

“I am going to kiss you so hard when we’re alone,” Ron said to her. “Fair warning.”

“I look forward to it,” said Hermione. “I missed you.”

The rain thankfully began to let up as Gran and Grandad, protected by spelled cloaks, explained what they wanted. Much of the yew’s roots were already above ground, but Grandad made a sounding with a spell Harry didn’t know, and the ground glowed to show the tangled web the rest of them made just below the surface of the earth. They extended laterally all the way out to the drip line of the yew’s canopy.

“Erm, Lily,” said Remus awkwardly as Gran and Grandad went inside the manor, insisting their bones were too old to be out in the damp and chill and they trusted everyone else to have it in hand. “We don’t need all five of us. Perhaps – perhaps you should sit this one out. Why don’t you and Harry, er, catch up while we take care of this?”

“What’s he on about?” asked Harry incredulously. His mother glared at Remus, who blushed and turned his back to her, suddenly very focused on going over the plan with Ron and Hermione.

“Oh, he’s just being a bit of a caveman. Something about the full moon approaching makes him all weird and protective. It’ll go easier if we just humour him.” She and Harry took shelter in the tree line across the lawn, over a hundred feet away from the action.

As Remus, Ron, and Hermione took their places on the outer edge of the root line, Harry felt all the hairs on his scalp and neck stand up. “On three,” Remus called as they all raised their wands.

“WAIT!” Harry bellowed as Remus began counting, but it was too late.

Dozens of bowtruckles came swarming out of the tree, dropping down on top of them from the gnarled branches, chittering and gouging with their razor-sharp fingers. Hermione screamed as one leapt onto her face.

Harry’s vision tunnelled as the bowtruckle slashed at her and a red mist sprayed onto its twig-like body. He didn’t stop to think. He was right next to her in a split second, slicing the bowtruckle in half and blasting the rest away with a powerful repulsion jinx. Harry caught Hermione, blood spurting between her fingers as she tried to cover her right eye. “MUM!” he shouted.

She and Ron were there in an instant. Lily was shouting instructions, but Harry could not understand them in his shock. Ron pulled Hermione’s hand away from her face as she screamed and fought him, fully at the mercy of her limbic system. Harry’s heart dropped into his stomach and he hissed before he could stop himself. It looked horrible – he did not see how she could possibly keep that eye.

“Harry, let me,” Ron said urgently, and Harry stepped back as Ron took her in his arms as she continued to struggle. “It’s all right, love – we’ve got you,” Ron said to her, keeping her hand away so Lily could assess the damage. Harry’s stomach churned with fear as he looked on helplessly. He barely noticed Remus’ arm around him. The sound of Hermione’s screams cut through him like physical pain. The adrenaline flooding his system would not allow him to stay still, and he shook Remus off to pace in agitation.

Lily jabbed her wand at Hermione. “Stupefy!”

Hermione went instantly limp and silent in Ron’s arms. Her face was a mask of blood, with pale streaks where her tears had run.  Lily cast a spell that formed a web of liquid around what remained of Hermione’s eye.

“We’re going to St. Mungo’s,” she said. She put her arms around Hermione and Ron, and with a soft pop! they were gone.

Notes:

Oof, what a day for AO3 to go down! How are you all doing?

I really struggled with this chapter after writing from Harry’s POV for so long… but honestly, he was just crying in bed the whole time, and that was too much to ask you lovely readers to endure 9,000+ words of. Please let me know if you enjoyed the perspective shift, or if I should never do it again!

Also, I'm volunteering at a camp all next week and might not get the next chapter done on time. But I will definitely have new experiences with teenage drama to write about :D

Chapter 18: What Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

Notes:

Sorry this was so late. I was so busy this week, I'm shocked I got anything done, especially this extra-long chapter.

Harry stared at the space they had just been, stunned. The whole thing could not have lasted more than five minutes, and yet it felt like it had been hours. Remus was beside himself with regret. “I should have anticipated that – a tree that old and strong…”

But Harry could not respond. His gorge rose and he was suddenly sick on the wet grass. He was shaking all over, and he sat down hard, feeling like his legs could no longer support him.

Remus gripped his shoulder and sat down heavily beside him. “You’re hurt,” Harry said, noticing the deep scratches on his forearms that joined an old scar he’d had for as long as Harry could remember. Harry wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“Not much,” Remus replied lightly, conjuring a cup of water for Harry. “I’m no great shakes at healing, but I imagine your grandad will have dittany or something.”

“Right,” Harry said in a daze. But they didn’t move right away. Harry was reliving the horror of seeing Hermione so grotesquely wounded as he was powerless to stop it. Bowtruckles were normally such peaceful creatures – they must have thought there was a threat to their tree. There were still a few of them around, gathering up woodlice and retreating back into the twisted trunk and branches of the ancient yew as calmly as if nothing had happened.

At Harry’s feet was the one he’d killed. It was scarlet with Hermione’s blood. Harry looked away. He couldn’t regret it, at least not yet, but there was something pathetic and sad about its tiny, broken body.

“Come on,” Remus finally said, giving him a bracing little shake. “We’ll see about these scratches, and then I’ll apparate you to St. Mungo’s. Although you could probably do it yourself… Did you realise you’d apparated?”

“No,” said Harry in surprise. “All I could think about was getting to her.”

“You didn’t even splinch yourself,” said Remus quietly. “That was some of the fastest thinking I’ve ever seen.”

“Not fast enough,” said Harry miserably, full of guilt. “Do you… do you think they can save her eye?” Now that the initial shock and adrenaline were wearing off, he was starting to feel tired and weepy. He now fully understood why Hermione had cried so much the first time she had visited him after he’d been poisoned.

“I don’t know,” Remus said gently as they stood. “Let’s not fret about it until we hear from the Healers.” They went inside to tell Harry’s grandparents. Gran listened with her hands over her mouth.

“We didn’t hear a thing – these old walls are so thick…”

As Grandad used a dropper to apply dittany to Remus’s wounds, Gran fussed over Harry.

“Oh, my sweet boy!” she said, tears in her eyes as her hands fluttered over him. “Oh, look at your poor hands – let me help –”

“No,” said Harry, more sharply than he meant to. He pulled his hands out of her grasp. “It’s not my blood.”

“Well, thank Merlin for that, but let’s get it cleaned up –”

“No!” Harry said again. It was irrational, like a stupid superstition, but he didn’t want to care for himself at all until he knew Hermione would be all right.

But of course she’ll be all right! he admonished himself. She’s with Mum and Ron!

Ron…

“Remus,” Harry said urgently. Remus shook his arms as the dittany took effect. “Was Ron hurt, too? Is that why Mum took them both?”

“No more than me, from what I could tell. Fleamont, is Mercury nearby?”

“I thought we were going there, not sending a message!” said Harry indignantly.

“We are,” Remus said shortly, and turned back to Grandad. “Would you please send him to Henry and Violet Granger to tell them what’s happened?”

“Oh,” mumbled Harry, feeling stupid, as Grandad said, “Of course. I’ll bring them there myself. Poor girl. Take heart, grandson.”

He patted Harry’s cheek with his wrinkled, warm hand and smiled at him with kind, hazel eyes. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You’d best get on before Gran rallies, or she’ll never let you leave.”

 

The welcome witch at St. Mungo’s recognised Harry. “Hello, dear. Good to see you on the other side of things,” she said. When Harry asked anxiously after Hermione, she said she was on the first floor. “But you’ll have to wait, I’m afraid,” she said, checking her clipboard. “Healer Stratford’s still patching her up.”

“Not Mum – I mean, Healer Evans?” said Harry with mild alarm. He didn’t know anything about Healer Stratford.

“It’s not her department,” she said. At the look on Harry’s face, she smiled at him. “Your girlfriend’s in good hands. You can wait here or in the tearoom on the fifth floor – a memo will find you when she’s ready for visitors.” She indicated a flock of lime green paper gliders that were circling overhead, much like the memo system the Ministry of Magic used.

“Where do you think Mum is?” asked Harry as he and Remus headed for the stairs. “How could she just hand Hermione off to someone else like that?”

“Have a little faith,” said Remus stiffly. “I’m sure she did what was best.”

Harry grumbled mutinously.

When they reached the fifth floor, Harry spotted his mother in the hospital shop, browsing a rack of cards. “She’s going to be absolutely fine, darling,” she reassured Harry, taking both of his hands in her own. His looked big and clumsy next to hers, but he was glad Remus had talked him into washing them.

“It looked nasty, but it was an easy fix for them,” she went on, beckoning him to sit down at a rickety little table. “Truly, Harry – and she’s beyond lucky it was Healer Stratford on duty. She’s the best.”

“I thought you were the best,” Harry said, trying not to whinge.

She laughed. “I am,” she said, flipping her dark red hair. “In my own department. I know what I’m good at and I know when to defer to a colleague. Ego makes for a terrible Healer.”

“Where’s Ron?” Harry asked as Remus set down two steaming cups of tea, a third one levitating at his shoulder. Harry nodded his thanks.

“With her,” his mum said. She lifted her face to Remus, and he bent to kiss her. “I pulled a few strings so he could stay at her side, though nobody really resisted, seeing as how he’s already been accepted. It’s quite the induction to his internship, isn’t it?”

Harry squeezed her hands in gratitude, both for her actions and for her attitude. He suddenly found it hard to speak and bent his head so she wouldn’t see him screw up his face.

“Darling,” Harry’s mum said as Remus pretended to read a poster on hospital hygiene. “She is going to be just fine.”

Harry nodded. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe her. He just wanted to see it for himself.

He had only finished half of his tea and was mid-sentence when he felt something zoom into his hair. “What the –” he said, raising his hand and pulling out a crumpled paper glider.

“That’s your cue,” his mother said, standing. “You go ahead – second door on the left in the first-floor corridor. We’ll be down in a bit.”

Harry went back down the stairs to the first floor, where he went through a set of double doors into a wide corridor. Doors set at intervals denoted different wards dedicated to a specific type of creature-inflicted injury. Harry walked to the correct one, which bore the words, “Inanis Virtus Ward: Scratches, Gouges, and Lacerations.”

Harry took a deep breath and pushed the door open. The ward was relatively small, with room for only five beds, and lit by illuminated crystal globes in the middle of the ceiling. There was a curtained nook where Harry could just barely see an orderly in lemon-yellow robes through a gap.

Hermione was half-reclined in a corner bed and listening to Ron, who was holding her hand. There was a large white bandage over her right eye, and her hair was done in a loose plait over her left shoulder.

“Aw, there he is!” said Ron cheerfully as Harry rushed over.

Harry took Hermione’s other hand. “How are you?” he asked breathlessly.

She nodded, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Harry wanted to touch her face, if only to reassure himself that she was solid and alive, but pulled his hand back at the last second.

“Healer Stratford patched her right up,” Ron said, raising Hermione’s hand so he could kiss the back of it. Harry noticed she had the same kind of potion globule attached to her arm that Harry did when he’d been here. “I’ll spare you the gory details, but her eye is just fine. She won’t even scar.”

“Then what’s the bandage for?” asked Harry.

“There’s a little bit of potion still on there, just keeping it lubricated and healthy. She can go home when it’s all used up.”

“I’m just glad… I’m glad you’re okay, Hermione,” Harry said, clearing his throat. “I was really scared.”

Hermione shuddered. She had not looked at him once. Harry looked desperately at Ron, who mouthed, “Later.”

He turned his head as he heard familiar voices in the corridor. “Your parents are here,” Harry said as the door opened and in spilled Mr. and Mrs. Granger, followed by Lily.

“See you in a bit, love,” Ron said to Hermione as her parents rushed to her side. “C’mon, Harry.”

“But I just got here – oh, all right – don’t push me.”

“We’ll just let them talk for a bit,” said Ron with authority as they entered the corridor. Ron shut the door firmly behind them.

The full weight of the situation came crashing down upon Harry at once. The shock and horror of the injury, the fear that he might lose her for good, so close on the heels of losing her temporarily, and now the powerful relief that she was alive and whole. Ron held him as he cried like a child.

“I wasn’t fast enough,” Harry said between sobs.

“Are you joking, mate?” said Ron, kissing his cheek. “I’ve never seen anyone move so fast in my life. It only got one swipe in before you’d blasted it off her and stopped the other ones from attacking us. I had no idea you could apparate.”

Harry ignored that and snuggled into Ron, taking comfort in the way he stroked his back and murmured to him. “She’s fine, mate,” said Ron.

“No, she’s not,” said Harry, the sight of her thousand-yard-stare seared in his brain. “She wouldn’t even speak or look at us.”

“Yeah,” said Ron softly. “She’s still in shock.”

On the other side of the door, Harry heard his mother loudly announce she was going into the corridor and she’d be back later. He stepped back from Ron hastily as the door opened, ignoring Ron’s narrowed eyes.

The second her foot crossed the threshold, Harry said, “Can we go back in, yet? I just got here.”

She gave him a very understanding smile. “Soon. I just wanted to talk to you two. About visiting hours. Oh, don’t look at me like that, Harry. You know how it works.”

“Are you telling me you were able to swing Ron being there during surgery but staying outside of hours is out of the question?” he said hotly.

“Don’t be silly. We allow student interns to view and assist with procedures, but you remember being here, Harry. You should afford Hermione some dignity,” she said pointedly. “I’m going back up for some more tea – maybe a biscuit.”

She left them alone in the corridor. Harry looked at Ron, who wore an almost patronising expression. “Mate,” Ron said, taking Harry’s hand. “She’s not going to get better if we don’t allow her to rest. You know how she gets – we’d just make it harder on her.”

“You wouldn’t,” Harry said mulishly. “You’re good at this.”

Ron lit up, as if Harry could not have said anything more flattering. “Am I?”

“Of course,” said Harry. “You and Mum… You saved her life. I was totally useless.”

“No, you weren’t,” said Ron fervently. He hugged Harry tightly. “Healer Stratford saved her eye,” he murmured against Harry’s temple, “but you saved her life.”

Harry put his arms around Ron’s waist and closed his eyes. After a while, he felt Ron’s posture shift as he said, “I’m going to say something, and I don’t want you to take it the wrong way, all right?”

“Okay,” Harry said cautiously as Ron let him go. He found it hard to look back into Ron’s eyes, so intent was his gaze. He put a hand on Harry’s shoulder so he couldn’t twist away.

“I really need you to buck up. Hermione needs you to buck up. In order for us to be there for her, we’ve got to be there for each other, too… and that won’t happen if you shut down like you did over the past few days.”

“Right,” said Harry quietly.

“We’re going to be as positive as possible, even if we don’t feel it. She doesn’t need to worry about your feelings or mine while she’s recovering. What you just said, about not feeling like you were fast enough, or any other version of I-am-responsible-for-every-misfortune – keep it to yourself. And we’re not going to mention your fight at all, not until she does. Not even to say sorry.”

“Still think I’m blameless in all that?” Harry couldn’t help asking petulantly.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Harry,” Ron sighed. “Stop it.”

“All right, sorry,” Harry said. He knew Ron was only talking sense, but there was still a bit of him that was offended by his insinuation that Harry made everything about himself.

That was always Dad’s job, he thought. I suppose apples really don’t fall far from their tree.

Just then, Grandad came down the corridor with Remus. Grandad carried an effluviant bouquet of flowers while Remus had a card. Harry wasn’t sure how Hermione would feel about having other visitors. Her vacant stare and refusal to speak frightened him, and he wanted to shield her from anyone seeing her in a way she would not willingly present herself. But he didn’t know how to say any of that.

Remus looked at him in a way that made Harry feel as if he could see right through him and said, “You’ll take these in with you, tell her we’re thinking of her?”

Harry felt a surge of gratitude for Remus’ intuitive kindness. On impulse, Harry gave him a quick hug. Remus returned it and gave him a bracing shake.

“Poor girl,” Grandad said. “She’s such a sweetheart – can’t believe anything could harm her.”

“I should have known there would be bowtruckles,” said Remus sadly.

“Well, that’s the thing,” said Grandad. “Branches of them come and go, but there haven’t been any for… let’s see… at least a decade now. Not sure where they all came from.”

“They can’t stay there,” insisted Ron. “They could attack again.”

“Not to worry,” said Grandad. “We’ll hire a specialist to handle it. Euphemia’s beside herself; she feels it’s all her fault for asking you lot to move it – thinks she should have done it herself.”

Harry imagined Gran in Hermione’s place. At her age, she might not have survived such an injury, especially if there had been no one to fend off the attack. “No,” he said quietly.

Ron’s brow furrowed, as if he had just thought of something. He looked at Harry. “How did you know? You tried to warn us right before…”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t know. Something just felt horribly wrong.”

“Well, thank god. You know, your father has something of that,” said Grandad lightly, knowing Harry was sensitive about comparisons. “I daresay it’s what keeps him alive despite the cases he goes on…”

Except for the scars, Harry thought as he noticed Remus’ discomfort. But then, what’s a scar if it means you lived?

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

When Hermione was released from St. Mungo’s, her eye was perfectly healthy and lovely. There would be no lasting effects.

Physically, anyway. It took her some time before she could finally speak again. She looked down at her hands as she told Ron and Harry that she wanted to go home with her parents and Crookshanks.

“That’s probably best,” said Harry with a brittle cheerfulness.

“I’ll come back,” she said, trying to soften what was an unmistakeable blow for the two boys. Harry had hoped she would want to keep Ron close at least. Even if he wasn’t a Healer yet, he still had that confident, upbeat attitude, and had studied enough to know what complications or after-effects to look for.

Ron had gotten on very well with Healer Stratford, a tall, dignified witch with long silver hair in an impeccably neat bun, and she had nothing but good things to say of him to Lily, which Harry overheard. He hadn’t really seen Ron in what Harry now considered his “natural habitat,” and it was nice to hear that Ron had done exactly what was asked of him as they’d repaired Hermione’s eye and waited for the right time to ask questions, writing the answers down studiously.

Indeed, when they went back to the lakeside cottage together, Ron looked over those notes and tucked them into a special folio. He was laden with more books, this time from St. Mungo’s lending library, and spent a good amount of time poring over moving anatomical diagrams of the eyes and nervous system as Doug perched on his knee and made happy little chirping noises. Harry made a note to himself to buy Ron some of his own books, perhaps add another bookcase to the cottage, as the one in the sitting room was already overflowing with Hermione’s novels, nonfiction, and field guides.

Harry was a little jealous that Ron had something to occupy his time and keep him calm while Harry fretted. “Go play with your mum’s cat,” Ron told him when Harry said as much to him.

Harry took him seriously and went over to his mother’s cottage while she was at work. “Hi,” he said when Remus answered the door. “Is Guide home?”

Remus chuckled and stepped back. He was pale from the recent full moon. It had been a near thing for him to get home in time for his transformation in the furore of Hermione’s ordeal.

Harry heard a tiny little “Mrr?” near his ankles and he bent to pick up the little cat, who rubbed her head under his chin.

“How’s Hermione?” Remus asked.

“All right, s’far as I know,” said Harry. She’d only been gone a few days, but he’d written to her on each one. Hedwig had the uncanny sense of the owl to know just when to show up to deliver a letter.

“I imagine it’s difficult, being separated,” said Remus with an understanding smile.

Harry nodded. Hermione’s six-day trip with her fellow Guides was coming up, and he hoped he’d see her before then. “Wish I had a telephone, actually.” He tickled Guide’s belly and was delighted when she grabbed his hand without extending her claws. She suckled gently on the tip of his smallest finger. Harry’s mother said it was a result of losing her mum too young.

“Funny enough, Lily said the same thing. We’re thinking about connecting the cottage to electricity.”

“Is that even allowed?” asked Harry. “I mean… it isn’t free, is it?” He knew that there were strict Ministry regulations on how wizards and witches were expected to live amongst Muggles. For the most part, they lived in little pockets in small, mixed villages, but there were those, like Sirius, who lived in greater metropolitan areas. However, Harry didn’t know of anyone who lived, as Hermione called it, “on the grid.”

Because the magical community was not really supposed to exist, only a certain amount of wizarding currency could legally be exchanged for Muggle money, and there were even more regulations about how and why it could be done. Harry didn’t think merely wanting to have a telephone was one of those things that would pass inspection.

“Ah, let us worry about that,” smiled Remus. “You can always call her from one of the phone boxes in the village, if you keep it short.”

Harry didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to him before. He had a vague memory of being inside one of the red kiosks with his mother on a rainy day when he was a small child, and the Ministry’s guest entrance was disguised as one, but he’d never tried to use one.

On his way home, he stopped at the one outside the village’s Muggle post office just to look, earning himself a suspicious stare from an old lady who seemed to come out of nowhere. “Are you finished?” she asked him sharply, rapping on the glass. He exited quickly.

His problem wasn’t coins – he had those. He would have to enter a series of numbers to reach Hermione. It wasn’t like a Floo call, in which simply having a vague address was enough. She’d never given him hers. There hadn’t been any point.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Dear Hermione,

You asked how I could just be okay with all the things my dad did. I told you the truth when I said I wasn’t. Some days are still really hard. But he’s trying to be better, and that’s worth a lot to me.

He wasn’t always like this. He taught me to fly and how to be careful with my first signs of magic. Sometimes he would be gone on a case for a while, but when he came home, he helped me with my maths and history homework like he was just a regular dad with a regular job, never mind what it cost him.

Some of my first memories are of him holding me on his lap, reading stories to me, and no matter how tired he was, he would still do all the funny voices. Sometimes on his way to work, he took me to Mrs. Figg’s house for school and would remind me to be respectful, because Mrs. Figg was a sweet lady who knew so much about both worlds. For a long time, I didn’t know Squibs or Muggles were people that some wizards looked down on, because my dad never did. He respected them the same as his own friends and colleagues.

When I was maybe ten, I spent a summer tagging along after some village kids that were in second or third year at Hogwarts. They let me play with them because I was good at flying. I really don’t remember why I wanted to – probably because I thought they were cool or something. I think I told you the Creeveys used to live in Godric’s Hollow – they moved away shortly after their mum died, but I don’t think I told you this story.

Both Colin and Dennis showed signs of magic before they turned eleven. We all knew, but of course we weren’t allowed to tell them anything. They tried to follow us, too, but the other kids got really mean. I don’t even remember what led up to it, except the biggest one knocked Colin down into the mud and he got a nosebleed. They all laughed at him and said things like, “He really is a mudblood!” I guess them using that word made me realise they were no good. I told them off and said I’d send my dad after them. I didn’t realise until much later that it was an actual threat – I thought it was just the usual “my dad could beat up your dad” shite, but he’s put enough blood supremacists in Azkaban to have a reputation.

I took Colin home, thinking Mum could patch him up and I could cheer him up somehow, but it was Dad there. Mum kept some Muggle healing things at home and Dad pretended to use them, but really he had his wand under the table. You know how Colin is, he just had to tell Dad the story and make it out like I was some kind of hero. When Colin went home for dinner, my dad said he was really proud of me not just for standing up for him, but also making sure he was okay after. He said that even kindness could be an act of bravery. He said if I wanted to be his friend, that Colin would always be welcome here.

All I want from my father is to find his way back to the man he was, the one he still is under it all. Things aren’t perfect, and they probably never will be. But I felt things were perfect between you, me, and Ron. I don’t want this to ruin that. I feel you pulling away from me, and it hurts. I don’t want to lose you, and I don’t want you to feel that I’m not listening. I just want you to hear me, too, and I want you to know that me forgiving him doesn’t mean that I care about you any less.

Please write back, and tell me all your thoughts, even if you think I won’t like them. I want to know you, too.

Love,

Harry

Harry refolded the letter and put it back in his mokeskin wallet, trying not to think that if he’d just kept his father’s letter there, none of what followed would have happened. He could have said all that aloud to Hermione, and maybe she’d be here sitting on his lap instead of back in Hampstead with her parents.

Before he could brood any further, he heard music outside, and Ron calling to him from the landing.

“What?” Harry called back, sticking his head out their bedroom window.

“I said it’s boiling! What are you doing inside?” Ron was standing fully nude in the sun, looking for all the world like a red-haired Apollo. He just needed a strategically-placed lyre.

But I like him better without one, Harry thought, staring between Ron’s legs.

“Moping,” Harry shouted, making Ron laugh.

“Points for honesty. Come down and I’ll make you forget about it!”

“Twist my arm,” Harry mumbled to himself. He pulled his head back inside and took off his bracelet and set it down on the bedside table next to his pendant, which he had left there so he could watch Hermione’s rose gold compass needle while he sulked. He disrobed as he walked, carelessly dropping his shirt, shorts, and pants along the way.

As he came down the slope, he noticed the music was coming from Hermione’s CD player, a sort of lazy, wistful beat that felt like everything Harry liked about summer.

“I will never get tired of seeing you naked,” Ron said as Harry stepped onto the landing.  

“You say that now,” said Harry, “but what about after I get my career-ending injury, and have to sit on the couch all day and get fat on junk food and takeaway because no one else knows how to fucking cook?”

“What injury ends a professor’s career?” Ron mused as Harry came right up to him. He splayed his hand over Harry’s flat abdomen.

“I dunno,” said Harry. Ron’s touch had him half-hard, and Harry pulled him in by the hips for a kiss. He hadn’t been in the mood for anything for what felt like ages, but really, it had been less than a week.

Ron kissed Harry back, the movement and taste of his lips familiar and comforting. “Have you been using Hermione’s lip balm,” asked Harry between kisses, “or have you been seeing her on the sly?”

“If you can sleep in her bed because it smells like her – then I get to use the things that – taste like her.” Ron broke the kiss only to lean his forehead against Harry’s. “I miss her, too, Harry,” he said in a voice that was suddenly full of sadness. Harry hadn’t heard him sound so dejected since the day he’d found him in the Quidditch stands.

“I know,” said Harry, chastened at the reminder that he was not the only one who had feelings. He put his arms around Ron, and Ron immediately returned his embrace.

Ron cleared his throat and said, “I just wish… I wish she would have come home, you know? I could take care of her.”

“She hurt your feelings,” Harry said in sudden realisation. Ron saw it as Hermione’s lack of confidence in him.

“No,” said Ron, but Harry wasn’t convinced. “She didn’t make that choice to hurt me. It’s not about me at all.”

“She’s not here, Ron,” Harry said, kissing his cheek. “You don’t have to pretend.”

Ron sighed and rested his chin on Harry’s shoulder. It was a while before he spoke. “All right. I had this whole thing built up in my head. I just wanted to take care of her. Check on her at night, make sure there weren’t any complications after it all. Fuss over her a bit. Bring her tea in bed and have you make all the right foods.”

Harry smiled wistfully. “That sounds nice. What kind of things should I make?”

“Sweet potatoes, carrots, oranges, apricots… salmon and trout. Mostly orange things.”

“Why orange?”

“Vitamins for eye health,” Ron said.

“There are apricots in Gran’s orchard,” said Harry. “We’ll go pick her some later?”

Ron nodded. “I know she’s fine. I just want to see her.” He let go of Harry and turned away. Harry pretended he didn’t see Ron wipe his eyes.

“What are we listening to?” Harry asked, trying to lighten the mood. He didn’t recognise the singer – a man with a smooth baritone, backed up by a jangling piano line and soft electric guitar chords.

“Some Irish singer,” Ron said. “She had several of those disc things with his name on it.”

“It’s nice,” said Harry, stepping back and coaxing Ron into a dance. It wasn’t much more than revolving on the spot together, but dancing to Hermione’s music was soothing and made them feel like she was thinking of them, too.

Ron twirled Harry and they both laughed. He drew Harry back in and kissed him, his right hand resting over Harry’s heart. Harry hoped Ron could feel how much he loved him with every beat. He wanted to tell him.

When they had enough of the hot sunshine, they dove into the lake to cool down. Ron floated on his back and Harry copied him. They held hands as they drifted in the lake’s gentle current and looked up at the blue sky.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asked.

Ron chuckled. “How much d’you think Hermione saw last summer? You know, when she was looking at us when we were washing off in the lake?”

“All of it, probably,” Harry grinned. “Must have liked what she saw.” After a pause, he couldn’t help asking, “D’you think we can work through things?”

“Most definitely,” Ron said confidently, giving his hand a squeeze. “You two… just don’t know anything about conflict. You’re only children, for fuck’s sake. Bloody frustrating.”

“If you’re about to tell me we have a sibling relationship, I am going to be sick into the lake and then I’m going to punch you.”

“Well, I hate to tell you, but that’s just what a sibling would say,” Ron laughed.  

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“Hello?”

“YES, HELLO.”

“Erm, can I ask who’s calling, please?”

“WHO ARE YOU?”

“You’ve called me!”

“YES. DID I GET IT RIGHT?”

“Is that – Ron Weasley?”

“HOW DID YOU KNOW?”

“Wild guess. I’ll go get Hermione.”

“THANK YOU.”

Hermione laughed all the way to the receiver. “You don’t have to shout, Ron,” she said into it as her father rolled his eyes and left the room.

“IS THAT REALLY – I mean, is that really you, Hermione? You sound funny.”

“It’s just the connection,” she said. “It’s always a little tinny sounding.”

“Right.” Ron was still a little louder than strictly necessary, but at least he’d stopped shouting. “Don’t tell Harry I called you. He wants to be the first to figure it out, but he forgets I’ve got a brain.”

“Oh, don’t exaggerate. He thinks the world of you. How did you get my number?”

“Dad had it. Your dad gave it to him – didn’t you know they chat sometimes?”

“I – why would I? I’ve been living with you!” Her father had never mentioned it, but she shouldn’t be surprised. He and Mr. Weasley were thick as thieves. Two peas in a pod. “Where are you calling from?”

“Outside the village library. Very appropriate, don’t you think?” Ron sounded very pleased with himself, and Hermione smiled to imagine the smug look on his face. She missed him and Harry terribly. It had been on her parents’ insistence that she went back to Hampstead for the time being, and she hadn’t fought them. She wouldn’t have to worry about being “on” around them. While she didn’t need any physical care, she wasn’t sure about being vulnerable around the boys that way. She was different now. Healed outwardly, but not inside.

“Very,” she replied. She paused for a moment. “What’s the real reason I shouldn’t tell Harry you called?”

“Aw, I don’t mean it. You can tell him whatever you want. I just… wanted to practice doing follow-up questions without him around to take the piss. Is that all right? I mean, you sort of are my patient, aren’t you?”

Hermione chuckled. She thought about making a “playing doctor” joke, but she’d have to explain it. Another time. “I am. All right, ask away.”

Ron went through a list of very professional questions about her pain level and symptoms like loss of vision or headaches. At the end, he said, “How did I do? Did I sound like a Healer?”

“You always do,” she reassured him softly. It was hard for her to imagine him as anything else, now.

“Ah, come on, Hermione. Give me some real criticism.”

She laughed. “All right. Let’s start with basic phone etiquette, and then we’ll talk about your bedside manner.”

“Phone-side manner?”

“That, too.”

When she’d given her feedback, she relaxed. “I miss you,” she said, knowing she sounded like every besotted teenage girl on the planet.

Soon it’ll be, ‘No, you hang up,’ she thought.

“None of that,” said Ron. “I’m a professional. I’ll get reported for inappropriate patient relations.”

“Better than for Sexual Misadventure.”

Ron’s laughter was a balm for Hermione’s lonely little heart. She’d been without her boys for far too long. “Next time you call, bring Harry, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Ron said quickly. “It’s probably cruel of me to not include him, but…” He trailed off, and Hermione knew why.

“So much happened that he and I didn’t get a chance to talk.” It was an understatement. It was the most terrifying ordeal she’d ever been through, including that time with the troll. At least then, she hadn’t been injured. She gingerly felt the outer edges of her eye socket with the pads of her fingers.

“It can wait, I think,” said Ron. “He’s not going anywhere.”

“I know,” she said softly. The look on Harry’s face when he first saw her, the way he gripped her hand… How fast and brave and quick-thinking he’d been… all that was enough to tell her he still wanted her very much. “It’s just… I had a whole script of what I wanted to say to him.”

“Ah,” Ron said vaguely.

Hermione smiled. “Shall I read it to you first? And then you can give me some real criticism?”

“I would never. I like my bollocks the shape they are, thanks,” he said, making her laugh. Seriously, he added, “No, I think it’s best you two talk first.”

“You’ll be there, though? I… I don’t want it to become an ‘it only concerns the two of us’ thing… We’re… we’re still together, aren’t we? I didn’t mean it when I said I wanted a break.”

“Well, we had a break. Harry’s been… well, he’ll probably deny it, but before you came back, he was mostly crying in the foetal position. Even the walls were dripping at one point – I know he was doing it, but since I don’t think he meant to, I’m not about to tell him.”

“Oh, no… I really hurt him, didn’t I?” Hermione’s heart twisted.

“It’s because he regrets what he said. You know how he spirals – he’s more critical of himself than anyone else. If I’m honest, I think you leaving hurt more than reading his letter ever could. None of us are whole without the others. A fight, even one that feels big… It can’t stop this, Hermione. Nothing can.”

Hermione was silent. She wasn’t really able to hope yet. Not until she spoke to Harry.

Ron went on. “I’m not saying what you did was right. I’m not saying what he said was right, either. I’m saying… we will get through this. With patience. And apologies.”

“Are you sure?” Hermione couldn’t help asking.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. Not even of being a Weasley – I don’t remember being born; I could have been a changeling for all anyone knows.”

Hermione smiled. “I’m sure your mother would have something to say about that.”

“Ah, you’ve seen one baby, you’ve seen them all,” Ron said comfortably. “I could have just as easily been replaced by any ginger kid. She had to sleep sometime.”

“Not to hear my Mum tell it,” said Hermione. “She says between my colic and Dad’s snoring, she was lucky to get five minutes of uninterrupted sleep.”

“Baby snatching would take one minute, tops.”

Hermione laughed and wished he was there, holding her on his lap again, so she could run her fingers through his hair and kiss him just for being himself. She loved how he made her laugh.

“Oh bugger,” said Ron. “There’s an old bat goggling at me through the glass – I should probably go. Will you come home before your trip?”

“I promise,” she said. She thought about saying she’d come right now, except for… Well, I’ll think about that tomorrow.

 

*     *     *     *     *  

 

Not even a full day later, Harry and Ron apparated into a hydrangea bush in the Grangers’ back garden.

“What the fuck, Ron?” exclaimed Harry as he fought his way out of it.

“This wasn’t here two summers ago!” Ron said defensively. He shook hydrangea petals out of his hair before looking back on the damage they’d done. “At least I didn’t splinch us.” He put the flattened bush back to rights with his wand.

“Pretty good growth for only two years,” Harry said, impressed. He wished Ron hadn’t brushed off the petals – the blue against his bright hair looked pretty and romantic, like some forest nymph.

“HENRY!” they heard Mrs. Granger shriek from inside, along with the sound of breaking china. “SOMEONE’S IN THE – oh.”

The boys waved sheepishly at Hermione’s mum through a closed set of French doors, where she was using a napkin to mop tea off a crossword puzzle she’d been doing at the dining room table. She did not look amused as she called for Hermione.

Hermione came to the door, her lips pressed tight as though she was trying not to laugh. Her hair was up in a messy twist, with frizzy little tendrils poking out here and there. She looked utterly adorable. A real sight for sore eyes, Harry thought, unable to keep the stupid grin off his face.

“Come in, then,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

“It’s a nice day,” Ron said pointedly.

“Looks like rain,” she said shortly, all the mirth wiped off her face in an instant.

Harry looked up at a mostly blue sky, with fat, happy clouds scudding across it. Ron held out his hand to check for drops.

“Just… come in, will you?” she said. Her mother disappeared under the table, and Harry heard the plinking sound of teacup shards being shunted into a pile.

“Sorry,” Ron said as Harry bent and said, “Allow me.” He repaired the cup with his wand and siphoned up the tea Mrs. Granger hadn’t mopped up yet.

“Embarrassed what the neighbours will think?” asked Ron as Hermione led them past the kitchen into the second sitting room.

“No,” she said, closing the door behind them and beckoning them to the sofa. The room was where they kept the telly – for whatever reason, Hermione’s parents didn’t think it was class to have it on full display in the formal sitting room. “You know, you could have called ahead, or even just come on the Knight Bus and rang the bell instead of scaring my mum.”

“Harry made a nice lunch; I wanted to keep it down.” Ron subtly pulled his collar away from his neck as they all sat down with Ron in the middle. The window and doors to the garden were closed, making the room warmer than strictly comfortable.

“Do your parents have the day off, then?” asked Harry. Her parents ran their own private dental practice, and while they were not nearly as wealthy as the Potters, they did well enough to own a detached, five-bedroom home just across the street from Hampstead Heath. Harry wondered, but had never asked, if Hermione’s parents, like his own, had once wished for more children to fill such a grand home.

“Mum only works four days a week. Dad’s at work; he’s not actually here. Mum only called him as a reflex.”

“Someday, she’ll think to call the person with a wand,” Ron said.

“But I’m almost never here; why would she? And why are you here?” Hermione asked. She didn’t sound like she was trying to be rude – she only seemed mildly confused. As if she couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to see her, let alone the two boys who were madly in love with her.

“Because you’re here, silly,” said Ron easily. “But if you want us to go, we can.”

“No, of course I don’t want that,” she said. “I only thought…” She glanced around Ron at Harry. She seemed flustered to find him looking back at her.

“Am I not allowed?” asked Harry, trying to smile. He was less and less sure of his decision to listen to Ron and just show up. She’d looked happy to see them, but… maybe he’d been mistaken.

“Of course you are,” Hermione murmured. They were awkwardly silent, neither of them knowing what to say now that they were not protected by the distance of parchment and owl, or wire and receiver.

Ron looked between them and nodded to himself, as if making a decision. He stood and took Harry’s left hand and Hermione’s right. He placed them together, then repeated the motion with Harry’s right and Hermione’s left. Harry automatically ran his thumbs across her knuckles as Ron moved into an adjacent armchair. “Talk to each other,” Ron said. “I won’t interrupt.”

Harry and Hermione looked at Ron before slowly turning their gazes toward each other. There was something small and vulnerable in Hermione’s eyes, as if she was afraid of what he might say to her. Perhaps that was why she took a deep breath and spoke first. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was wrong to read your letter.”

Harry had told himself he didn’t care if she would apologise or not, he just wanted her back. But hearing her say the words, to admit fault… well, it soothed something inside Harry. “I’m sorry I said you didn’t care about me,” he said.

“I know why you did,” she said, looking down again. “I didn’t act like I cared about you. I’m sorry for everything I said.”

Harry squeezed her hands. “Was there a reason why you said it?” he asked gently. “I’ll listen.”

Hermione sighed. “I had a whole… essay I wrote, all the things I wanted to say to you, all the ways to say I’m sorry. It was terrible – I would have gotten a T if it had been on an exam. I’m very bad at admitting I’m wrong.”

Harry was quiet for a moment. “I don’t think it’s wrong to want to know things, or to feel like… do you feel like I’ve used you?” he asked, remembering how hurt he’d felt when she said he’d treated her like a whore.

“Not really,” she said. She let go his hand to wipe her eyes. Harry noticed she was babying the right one. Was it still hurting her?

“What do you mean, ‘not really?’ ”

“I just felt… I gave you so much already, but I was hurt that you didn’t want to reciprocate. Or I thought you didn’t.”

“I wanted to tell you,” said Harry. “But I didn’t want to betray a confidence.”

“I understand that now,” she said. She looked at him. “I missed you so much. Both of you.” She reached out a hand to Ron, and he took it. “I didn’t mean that I wanted a break. I just… I feel insane sometimes. Like I don’t know my own mind.

“I didn’t set out to read your letter. I just want you to know that. I found it when I was looking for something else. But I shouldn’t have read it, anyway, and I won’t do it again.”

They continued to talk and explain and apologise, only breaking apart for the few moments Hermione’s mum came in to ask if they wanted anything. Ron was now part of the conversation, and he and Harry listened as Hermione told them the ways she felt insecure – the only girl, the only one with no sexual experience, how she’d been the last to join both their friendship and their romantic relationship. The more they talked, the more Harry suspected she felt sharing one’s thoughts was the height of intimacy, and that she wouldn’t be able to fully let go of her physical hangups until she felt as though things were equal.

“It’s going to hurt. I just know it,” she said when the conversation turned to sex, and explained how one of her Guide friends had a horrible experience. “No matter how gentle you are… it won’t matter. I’m… too tight.” She blushed and looked away.

Ron could not help saying, “Hermione, I hate to sound horrible, but that was a Muggle experience. You know there are all kinds of ways magic can help. All three of us are pretty good at spells, you know.”

“You can say ‘stop’ at any time,” Harry added. “Any time. Have we done something that made you feel that you can’t? Or that we won’t?”

Hermione thought. “No,” she finally said. “I just… don’t you get frustrated with me? For stopping you all the time?” The look on her face said she was frustrated with herself.

“No,” Harry and Ron said together.

“Just a little confused,” said Harry honestly. “Most of the time, you stop us from pleasing you. Er, what… what exactly do you think is going to happen?”

“That you’ll want something I can’t give,” she said. “Like… it’s supposed to end with… erm, penetration.” Harry hid his amusement at how she managed to be both explicit and allusive with just one word. He thought it was cute, and by the glance he and Ron shared, Harry thought he felt that way, too.

“You see?” Hermione said, noticing. “That’s part of why I feel this way. How you look at each other when I say something, like I’m being ridiculous or childish.”

“Oh,” said Harry, as Ron said, “That’s not it at all.”

“We just really, really like you,” said Harry. “And we look at each other to kind of say that to each other without saying it. Erm, I can’t really explain. But you and Ron do it to me, too.”

“And you two do it to me,” said Ron. “Can we just agree that it’s not a bad thing?”

“Also, can we agree that penetration is not the end goal?” said Harry. “God, I’d love to make you come with just my tongue. Not even for you to do it back to me. I just want to.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, blushing even deeper.

“Do not leave me out of that,” Ron blurted. “Merlin, just the thought is getting me rock hard. Er, sorry.” He looked contrite.

Now that he’d brought it up, Harry found it hard to stop imagining it, with Ron and him taking turns between her legs. Or both at once. Not now, he thought irritably as he felt himself grow hard, too.

Hermione gave a tiny smile, glancing between him and Ron. “Really? Just the thought?”

Harry held her hand with both of his and raised it to his lips. “You have no idea,” he said darkly.

“Well… someday, I’ll let you,” she promised shyly. “Just… give me time.”

“I’d wait forever, Hermione,” Ron said.

“Me, too,” said Harry. It amused just as much as it confused him that she didn’t know just how desirable she was. “I’m sorry if you ever felt we pushed you into anything.”

“Oh, please don’t get me wrong,” Hermione said quickly. “I would love to. Sometimes it’s all I can think about. I just… I can’t understand why there’s this block there.”

“We will do things on your time,” said Ron, caressing her other hand. He smiled. “You know, in case that’s what’s keeping you from coming home.”

“That’s not it,” said Hermione, looking away.

“Hermione,” Harry blurted as a drip of sweat trickled down his ribs. “Can we open a window or something? It’s boiling in here.”

“No!” she exclaimed, gripping both their hands so tightly that her knuckles went white.

“All right, sorry, just a suggestion,” said Harry as she relaxed her grip.

“What’s up?” asked Ron gently. “Can we not go outside?”

Hermione said nothing, but she glanced out the doors leading outside with… fear? She looked away from them quickly. Harry didn’t know what she saw out there.

“I don’t want to,” she finally said, not looking at them.

“What?” said Ron. “What do you mean?”

“Just that,” she said in a small voice. “I’m not… I mean… all those trees…”

Harry suddenly understood why she stayed here, in a suburb of London, and had not returned to the cottage surrounded by woods, despite clearly missing him and Ron. His heart broke for her. She had always loved the outdoors. He imagined what she might feel after such an attack. Every twig would look suspicious; every rustle of a leaf would feel like a threat. Harry wondered if she had nightmares.

“Come here,” said Ron, patting his knee, and Harry quashed the twinge of jealousy that occurred when Hermione immediately stood to sit on Ron’s lap. He was surprised at himself – he hadn’t felt anything like that in quite some time.

“You think you’ll be attacked again,” said Ron. Harry scooted to the end of the couch that was closest to the armchair.

Hermione hid her face in Ron’s neck and nodded. “What if… what if it happens along the river?” she murmured, referring to her upcoming canoe trip. “You know, I can’t take a wand. But… it didn’t even help when I did have one.”

“That was a one-off, Hermione,” said Ron gently. He rubbed her back. “You know trees like that are rare. Most of them are in the deepest of woods or cared for by witches and wizards on private property, not along a river teeming with Muggles.”

She said nothing.

“Have you… have you spoken to anyone about this?” Harry asked. “You know, you said Muggles sometimes pay someone to talk to…”

She twisted to look at him incredulously. There were tears in her eyes. “And what would I tell a Muggle therapist, Harry? That a creature that doesn’t exist ripped apart my eye? This eye, the one that’s perfectly intact with no hint of damage at all? They’d have me committed to an institution!”

Harry and Ron looked at each other in confusion. “Oh, I can’t even explain,” Hermione said, putting her face in her hands and leaning against Ron. “It’s like… going to Azkaban, except you’ve done nothing wrong except been ill in your mind.”

“What the fuck?” said Ron loudly.

“Shh,” said Hermione. “Mum will hear you. Not like… it’s not really a prison…”

“You don’t have to explain right now,” said Harry, starting to get upset simply because she was.

“It doesn’t even matter,” Hermione said miserably. “I’ll just have to stay here. I just can’t… I can’t go on that trip. I know it’s going to be so disappointing – we worked so hard to plan it, and we all have our own jobs and were looking forward to it, and now they’ll have to pick up my slack and we won’t be an even number so someone will have to either squish into someone else’s canoe or be in one alone… and I w-won’t even be able to explain w-why!”

Ron looked at Harry over Hermione’s head as she cried. They shared a look as if to ask, “what-should-we-do?”

Harry knelt in front of the chair and wrapped his arms around Hermione, so they were a tangle of limbs. Little by little, she quieted. “Hermione,” Harry said softly. “You’ve got to go. It’s… it’s all part of who you are. You know, it’s close to your heart.” He was explaining it poorly.

Ron tried a different approach. “Look at it logically. It made sense that there would be bowtruckles in that tree, because it’s ancient, its wood is wand quality, and only witches and wizards tend to it. It’s horrible that not a single one of us anticipated it, especially those of us who have known what bowtruckles are our whole lives. I’m so sorry it was you that paid the price.

“Now think of the River Wye. Muggles are on it all the time, especially the parts you said you’re travelling. You’ve learned in all your reading and studies that bowtruckles, and most other magical creatures, for that matter, avoid heavily populated areas. It’s so, so unlikely to happen again, and even if it does, you’ll be on your guard. Just… take your wand, anyway. Expand one of your pockets so it can be hidden.”

“I can help you line it with mokeskin, if you want,” said Harry. “There are lots of clever ways to hide things.”

Hermione’s shoulders were still stiff, as if she didn’t agree with a word they were saying. Harry tried again. “Hermione… I just want you to know we get how much of a part of you Guides is. It’s not just about a trip that you’ve planned for… It’s something that keeps your roots strong, if you’ll forgive the tree analogy. We’re two stupid blokes who’ve always known we were wizards. We don’t know very much about Muggles at all, only that you came from them, and we’ll always be grateful because it made you who you are. There is not a single girl in the world like you.”

“I didn’t know you understood what it meant to me,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”

Ron stroked Harry’s hair. “I’m not as eloquent as Professor Potter over here,” said Ron, “but he said it exactly right. Anything that makes you, you… well, it’s worth keeping, innit?”

She nodded. “Thank you,” she said again. She kissed Ron, and leaned down to kiss Harry, too. He closed his eyes, revelling in the feeling of her lips and her trust in him again. Finally, his life was back in alignment.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“If you so much as put a scratch on my car, I swear to Christ I will tan your hide the old-fashioned way,” Harry’s mother said to him as she reluctantly handed over the keys to the Fourtrak, which was parked in front of the lakeside cottage. In Harry’s pocket was a bit of parchment, freshly transfigured to mimic a Muggle driver licence. His age was listed as eighteen, and the picture was incredibly unflattering and disturbingly still. He did not know what on earth he did to deserve his mother’s indulgence in the matter – she had always insisted he get his licence the proper way, with written and practical tests and perhaps more intensive classes taught by professionals. But she’d taught him well, and he’d come a very long way from the first lessons where he stalled and lurched the car along the dirt roads of the estate.

“I would never,” said Harry easily, giving her a grateful hug. When she turned away, he added under his breath, “And even if I did, how would you know? I have a wand.”

“I heard that,” she said sharply, turning back around. “Give those back.” She held out her hand expectantly.

“No,” said Harry, grinning. He held them aloft, then with a quick twist of his wrist showed her his empty palm. “Ooh, look, they’re gone! Magic,” he whispered mysteriously with a theatrical gesture, imitating a quack magician on a television show Grandpa liked to watch. When he “pulled” the keys out of his mother’s ear, Hermione doubled over with a fit of the giggles, which was probably what made Lily roll her eyes and give up more than anything. It was hard to be upset when his and Ron’s normally disciplined girlfriend lost control like that.

Not that she knows that’s what Hermione is to us, Harry thought with far too much confidence in his own discretion.

In the boot of the Fourtrak was Hermione’s camping and personal gear for six days on the River Wye. On top was a canoe that Harry’s grandparents had bought as an early birthday present for Hermione, tied securely by her own hand. It had been Grandad’s idea – he’d been so utterly charmed by Hermione’s stories and enthusiasm for her Guiding trips that he’d gone out and bought it the very next day. It had waited during her absence and through her attack, demurely covered by an oilcloth in the old carriage house. The second she’d come home to the cottage, just two days ago, they’d brought it over.

Harry admired the dark teal canoe in the morning light. It was much sturdier and lighter than the old red one, and as it was bought in a Muggle shop in Gloucester, it needed no transfiguration to pass muster. The salesman had convinced Grandad to modify it with rope lacing just under the gunwales so Hermione could easily tie and store her gear, and there were grab loops at the bow and stern for easy tying off. Hermione had sputtered and protested, saying it was too much, and she couldn’t possibly accept. “Oh, tosh,” said Grandad. “Euphemia’s been dying to spoil you somehow, and this is the perfect opportunity.”

Harry had leaned down and murmured in her ear not to argue, because she’d hurt their feelings. It was true, but mostly Harry just wanted her to have it, and to get used to lavish gifts that meant she was part of the family. He knew Gran was secretly drawing up plans for a new greenhouse and was going to gift it to Ron once it was built.

“Say goodbye to Gran and Grandad on your way out,” Harry’s mum said. “They’ll get a kick out of seeing you off with all your gear. You look very smart,” she directed at Hermione, straightening her military style cap for her and giving her a warm smile. Hermione hugged her and Harry’s heart did the most ridiculous wobble.

Crookshanks gave a pitiful meow as he twined around Harry’s ankles. “I’m so sorry, my beautiful boy,” Hermione crooned to him as she opened her arms. He leapt up into them. “You’re the best camping buddy I could ask for, but we’ll be on the river the whole time. There’s not enough sardines in the world for that.” He mewed again, sounding like a kitten. “Oh, don’t, Crooks,” she said, getting misty-eyed. “I’ll miss you, too.” She buried her face in his thick fur.

“You’ll take care of him for me, won’t you?” Hermione couldn’t help asking as Harry and Ron reached out to pet him.

“More like he’ll take care of us,” said Ron.

“He’s just the right blend of nurturing and protective,” agreed Harry. He looked at his mother, who backed away, suddenly wary.

“Oh, no, don’t look at me like that – oh, fine,” she said in resignation. “I’ll keep him company until you two get back. And speaking of; you’d best be off. Map’s in the glovebox, and traffic should be light, but you never know. Take care, darlings.”

With luck, it was about an hour and a half’s drive from Godric’s Hollow to a campsite near Glasbury-on-Wye, where the rest of the girls would load their canoes and launch. Mr. and Mrs. Granger would meet them there to see her off, and Harry and Ron would pick her up again on Friday in Monmouth.

Harry’s mum gave them all cheek kisses and hugs, then took Crookshanks into her arms as the three got into the car and set off, Harry driving with Ron and Hermione in the back seat. They waved to Lily out their windows and Harry saw her wave Crookshanks’ paw in the rearview mirror before kissing the top of his head. There was a picture of her doing the same to him when he was a baby.

They stopped only briefly at the manor. Gran handed a picnic hamper through the back window (which Harry tried to refuse, but Ron told him to shut it as he cradled it like it was his firstborn). “I don’t like the idea of you getting lunch on the road,” she fussed.

“Nothing like food from home,” agreed Ron, nodding enthusiastically. He got out to kiss Gran’s wrinkled cheek.

“Flirt,” Harry muttered under his breath as he drummed his fingers on the wheel impatiently. Hermione snorted.

“Godspeed, sweetheart,” said Grandad to Hermione, resting his forearms on the window. “Take pictures for me, won’t you? And take care of those pretty curls.” He tweaked the end of one of her plaits and she smiled at him.

“That’s enough, you charming old goat,” said Harry as Hermione assured Grandad she had a camera and plenty of film. “We’ve got places to be.”

“Thank you again!” called Hermione once Ron got back in and they were off again.

Harry soon wished Hermione or Ron could drive, so he might have a turn snogging in the backseat like they kept doing. It was very distracting, and he needed to concentrate. Despite teasing his mother, he was well aware he had been afforded an enormous privilege, and was far from keen on fucking it up.

They stopped to enjoy Gran’s lunch at a nice little grassy area by a church in Letton, and since they were making excellent time and would likely be early, they dawdled once they were finished. They lay down on their backs and pointed out shapes in the clouds. Hermione was between them, and when she and Harry locked eyes, she pressed her whole body against him as she kissed him.

She laughed when he wrapped his arms around her and rolled so she lay on top of him. “God, I’m going to miss you,” he said, tossing her hat carelessly aside. Ron cupped her arse cheek and watched as Harry and Hermione snogged.

“If you two keep doing that – I’m never going to be able to leave,” she said breathlessly between kisses.

Harry and Ron knew she was only half-joking. After quite a bit of encouragement, and a few walks around the estate with their arms around her and vigilantly watching the trees, Hermione’s enthusiasm had risen again. She still flinched sometimes, when a sudden gust of wind moved a branch or a squirrel raced up a tree trunk, but Ron was confident that with time, she would be okay. It would take patience, and an uneventful trip into nature would do wonders to reassure her that her attack had been a freak accident.

“Oi,” Ron said as their kiss deepened. “Share.”

“No,” said Harry selfishly, holding her tighter. “You had her the whole way here. You think I didn’t notice your hand in her shirt, you pervert.”

Hermione giggled. She liked it when they pretended to fight over her. There would always be something in her that loved being the centre of their attention.

All too soon, she sighed against Harry’s neck in the way that meant, “I-am-having-a-good-time-but-we-have-to-go-now.” Harry sighed, too. He’d only just got her back, and while he was happy to see her eager to rush off into nature again and be with friends that offered something he and Ron could not, he was still reluctant to let her go so soon.

 

When Harry finally pulled into the car park, Hermione fretted that they were late. “No,” said Ron, checking his watch. “Everyone else is early.”

“They’re as keen as you are, I expect,” said Harry, smiling awkwardly as a girl with hair almost as dark as Harry’s waved enthusiastically at Hermione through the window. Mr. and Mrs. Granger arrived just as Harry and Ron began to unload Hermione’s bags. The original plan was for them to pick the three up on their way from London, but the Potters’ gift of a canoe forced a change of plans.

Ron wondered to Harry why they were so keen to drive over three hours just to hug Hermione and wave at a river, but Harry shushed him. “It’s a rite of passage,” Harry said importantly. “Like when our parents send us off on the Hog – the train.”

Hermione and four other girls greeted each other, showing off their specialty gear, checking out each other’s outfits and hyping themselves up. The last girl to arrive sauntered over in fishing waders and endured the good-natured teasing with a smug smile on her face, as if she knew something they didn’t. There were six girls all together, including Hermione, and you could not find a more different-looking bunch anywhere.

There were two adult women gathering crisply printed forms and chatting with the parents. They both looked as though they could be anywhere from twenty to thirty-five. One was of average height and very slim, with brown curls streaked with premature grey and done in a tight plait. She wore a red and blue, perfectly folded and tied neckerchief, and there was a general air of boyishness about her. The other was tall and had an easy-going air, and her long, straight dark hair, brimmed leather hat, and red bandana put Harry in mind of a cowgirl. He was unsurprised to hear her speak with an American accent.

As he and Ron untied the canoe and brought it down to a little stretch of rocky shore, Harry became aware of the appreciative glances of Hermione’s Guide friends. He and Ron were the only teenage boys there – the rest of the crowd was a mishmash of parents and younger siblings. Harry wished he’d thought to ask what Hermione told everyone about them – were they just her best friends? Her gay best friends? Could he kiss either one of them or what?

He and Ron stood awkwardly off to the side, talking to each other in low voices and trying not to say anything that might paint them as anything other than ordinary Muggle boys. Harry especially wanted to ask all sorts of questions. He wanted to know about the strange fabric that repelled water and how they were going to keep their food cool and why some of it looked shrivelled and what that liquid they were smearing over their faces was, but he had no idea which of that was common knowledge and whether asking about it would just paint him as a buffoon. At the very least, he wanted to appear worthy of a girl as intelligent as Hermione.

Harry and Ron smiled at Hermione whenever she looked over at them. She looked very practical with her hair in two tight plaits under her military style cap, which now had a grass stain. There was nothing stylish about her loose shirt and shorts or her strange mesh shoes, but Harry thought she looked competent and very, very cute. By the look in Ron’s eyes, Harry knew he felt the same.

Mr. and Mrs. Granger were talking with another couple in a manner that told Harry they were friends. He half-listened to their conversation about Scouting or Guiding trips they’d taken in their own youth. “I was never a Guide,” he overheard Mrs. Granger say. “But Hermione took to it like a duck to water. I still have all her old sashes.”

“Once she learned about badges, there was no stopping her,” Mr. Granger chuckled, and Harry and Ron smiled knowingly at each other.

Soon Harry noticed it wasn’t just appreciative glances being thrown his and Ron’s way… They overheard several excited whispers as the girls spoke to each other out of the corners of their mouths and behind their hands.

“…love red hair…”

“…both so tall!”

“…never seen eyes that green…”

Harry winked at Ron and he grinned back.

Harry eyed the growing pile of camping equipment and wondered how anyone could possibly hope to wrangle order out of this chaos. His question was soon answered as one of the adult Guides checked her wristwatch and called for the girls to get moving.

The six girls jumped into action and became a well-oiled machine. Everyone knew what their task was, whether that was sorting gear, running down a checklist, putting canoes into position, or loading, and the two adult women mostly looked on and took pictures.

Harry was definitely impressed.

“No, Dad!” complained the girl who had first waved at Hermione. Her father was holding everyone up by trying to give unhelpful tips about knots. “We’ve got this. We’ve been doing this all summer!”

“But you can help us launch,” one of the girls called to Harry and Ron amidst giggles and cheers.

“Sure,” the boys promised, ignoring Hermione’s pointed scowl.

“Come on, Hermione. Introduce us!” said another girl, and the rest chorused their agreement.

“What did I tell you?” she murmured to them. She rattled off five names – Jenny, Louise, Claire, Marie, and Theresa, and indicated that the woman with the neckerchief was Sam and the cowgirl was Josie. It was Louise that had waved at Hermione.

Hermione’s lips were a bit tight as she said, “These are my best friends, Harry and Ron.”

“We knew you had to be,” Theresa said immediately. “She never shuts up about you.”

“ ‘Friends,’ ” Marie finger-quoted with a smirk.

“That’s enough chatter, you lot,” said Sam. Hermione looked relieved to be interrupted, though she was unable to hide her blush.

When the overzealous father had finally been convinced to step back to let the girls work and everything was ready, all that was left were goodbyes. Harry wasn’t sure what was allowed, and he looked at Ron, while Hermione hugged and said goodbye to her parents, hoping perhaps Hermione had given him a clue. But he looked just as lost as Harry.

Hermione turned away from her parents and looked at the boys. “Oh, come here,” she said, pulling them both into a hug.

“Can we kiss you?” whispered Ron, so quietly that Harry barely heard him.

“On the cheek,” she murmured back, eyeing her parents.

It would have to do. Harry and Ron kissed her cheeks between them and stepped back. Her eyes were sparkling with excitement even as she said, “I’ll miss you.”

“Ah, you’ll be too busy having fun to even remember us,” Harry said.

“Should have packed our pictures so you’ll know what we look like when we come and fetch you,” said Ron.

“I did,” said Hermione, smiling softly. She pulled out a small gold locket from the neckline of her shirt and opened it to show that she had tucked still versions of their pictures in each half. “We’re allowed one ‘luxury item.’ This is what I chose.”

“Aw,” said Harry, touched.

“Ah, yes, we’re ‘just friends,’ ” said Ron knowingly. “Just a couple of blokes you wear against your heart. Nothing romantic about that.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said fondly, tucking it back into her shirt. But she didn’t look around furtively this time.

“Load up, girls!” called Josie.

There were four canoes on the shore, partially in the water and loaded neatly. Louise stepped into the front of Hermione’s, Jenny and Marie shared another, then Claire and Theresa, and finally Sam and Josie had one that looked as though it was well-cared for, but had nevertheless been on many a trip like this.

“Ah, the maiden voyage!” said Sam, looking over at Hermione’s canoe approvingly as Josie crawled over their gear to get to the bow. “What’s her name?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said, taken aback. “We’ve only just met.”

“What’s yours called?” asked Louise.

“Daisy,” said Josie, patting the gunwale of her much-loved vessel. “Unless she’s in trouble, and then I call her by her full name, Juliette. I brought her over from America. We’ll have to do a christening once you’ve decided, Hermione.”

“Aren’t you supposed to have champagne for that?” asked Claire hopefully. She was the one in fishing waders, standing waist deep in the water.

“I brought a fizzy drink,” said Jenny. “Come on, let’s go already!”

“Harry, Ron!” called Marie. “You promised. Chocks away!”

“That’s for aeroplanes!” argued Theresa.

“Oh, shush, they get my point,” Marie said comfortably as Ron shoved her canoe into the water. “Thanks, handsome!”

Hermione splashed her with her paddle before she could get very far. “Whoops!” she said cheerfully as Jenny doubled over with laughter in the bow. Even Marie was grinning as she shook out her wet hair. “Slipped. Just checking to see if it works. It’s new, you know.”

“I’ve got it,” said Claire amiably to Harry. “Thanks, though.” Theresa waved at them from the front as the canoe slipped fully into the water. Josie and Sam were already paddling along at the centre of the river, which just left Hermione and Louise.

“Safe journey,” said Harry as he and Ron launched their canoe.

“Don’t forget to write!” said Ron.

“Nice friends you have, Hermione!” they heard Claire call from far ahead.

“They’re not my friends. They’re my boyfriends!” said Hermione brightly, and turned to blow them a cheeky kiss. Harry’s heart leapt as Ron “caught” it and slapped it onto Harry’s cheek, making the girls erupt into delighted giggles and cheers that echoed along the river. The boys put their arms around each other’s shoulders and waved and called goodbye until the last canoe went around a bend.

Into the sudden silence, Mr. Granger said, “Her what now?”

Chapter 19: Her What Now?

If the look on Mr. Granger’s face once Hermione’s words finally sank in was any indication, Ron supposed the clock was ticking on telling his parents that he was in a relationship with Harry and Hermione. As Harry drove them back to Godric’s Hollow with his left hand in Ron’s right, Ron looked out the window and thought about it.

His older brothers had put Mum and Dad through a lot – Bill’s string of affairs with foreign women, Charlie’s dangerous career with dragons, Percy’s – well, maybe not Percy, but Ron had definitely lost count of the Howlers Mum had sent the twins, especially during the years they were operating an illegal mail order business.

Ginny was a source of consternation for his mother simply because she chafed against unfairness. Ron was not oblivious to the fact that Ginny was asked to do far more chores that involved picking up after him and his brothers and helping in the kitchen. He often thought, Good for her, whenever she rebelled, but never really intervened. It benefitted him too much when she didn’t.

It likely wouldn’t shock his parents too badly, especially after Mum overheard Bill talking about his second ménage à trois, but the difference was that this couldn’t be explained away as something merely sexual, or a phase he would grow out of. At least not once it was clear Ron was going to marry Harry and Hermione.

He thought Lily knew. Harry was a bit stupid where she was concerned, and still thought she was in the dark just because Harry hadn’t outright told her. But Ron wasn’t. He knew what it meant when she’d given Harry a book about sex with men, or how she watched Harry with Hermione. More than that, though, was Ron couldn’t believe that Remus would stay quiet. Not when he was as in love with Lily as Ron was with Harry and Hermione.

Harry’s father was a bit of a mystery. Ron knew that James would be the last person Harry would tell, simply because he felt the relationship between him and his father was too fragile to reveal something unconventional about himself. Ron shrugged. He wasn’t about to tell Harry what to do about all that.

But the Grangers… Ron didn’t think it was a leap to anticipate that they’d rush to confront Ron’s and Harry’s parents, demanding to know if they’d known all along, and what they were going to do about it, and how dare your sons defile our precious daughter! It wouldn’t matter to them that they were all seventeen and therefore consenting adults.

Ah, it will be quite the day when Hermione finally allows herself to be “defiled,” Ron thought with amusement. He was with Harry one-hundred-percent – he would love to make her come however she wanted it, merely for the pleasure of the experience. He had Harry to turn to for release if she was too shy to return it.

But she’s not very shy about that, he thought, remembering with relish the times they’d worked together to make Harry come, the way her head fell back when he finished on her. And how she’d said she wanted him to as well. If their stupid fight and that cursed branch of bowtruckles hadn’t derailed everything, it might have already happened.

Ron had been so sure it would have had they all gone camping together. There was something about being outside that made Hermione far more susceptible to seduction. Amidst the flora and fauna of the woods and countryside, she was serene and happy. It was her place to be herself. It was unbelievably cute – a rich suburban girl that loved both pretty dresses and grubbing around in the dirt. The bowtruckle attack had set her back, but Ron knew it was only a matter of time before she found her way back to the things she loved. He was sure she would come back tired, dirty, and elated.

He looked over at Harry and ran his thumb over Harry’s knuckles. Without looking away from the road, Harry raised Ron’s hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. Ron thought it was terribly romantic, and thought about what might happen if he asked Harry to pull over and cast a couple of disillusionment charms.

It got even worse when Harry turned his hand to kiss his open palm, and gently sucked the tip of his ring finger. “What’s gotten into you?” asked Ron, trying to act cool and composed, but Harry’s touch always made his heart race. Add in those intense green eyes, and it was a guaranteed recipe for butterflies in his stomach. He hoped that feeling never stopped.

“Still can’t believe she called us her boyfriends in front of everyone,” Harry said happily against Ron’s palm. He nipped his mound of Venus, right at the base of his thumb.

“I know,” said Ron, feeling himself grow hard as Harry continued to lavish attention on his hand. He’d never really considered it an erogenous zone before now, but there were all sorts of new and exciting things that Harry and Hermione brought out in him.

He wasn’t about to bring Harry’s mood down with inconsequential things like Mr. Granger’s access to hatchets and knives and Ron thought Hermione had once mentioned a machete. He’d quickly pulled Harry by the collar back to the car the second Mr. Granger had said, “Her what now?” with a vague, overly cheerful, “Goodbye, lots to do, have to be going now.” The stupid, sappy sod had been so caught up in rapture that he hadn’t noticed the looks on the Grangers’ (or any of the other parents’) faces.

And Ron knew what that was all about. Harry had thought, however briefly, that Hermione had been lost forever, starting with their fight. Ron thought they’d both been equally dramatic. He’d been in enough fights with his family over similar things – reading Percy and Ginny’s diaries and overhearing private conversations through thin walls. It was bound to happen when you lived in a small space and were susceptible to poor decision-making and hormones.

Only children, Ron scoffed to himself. Singletons. Must be nice, living in quiet, domestic bliss all the time.

Ron understood Harry’s fear after Hermione’s attack. It had been a particularly gory injury and a delicate surgery to undo it, which he knew better than to describe to Harry. Any other patient, fine – Harry wasn’t squeamish after living with a Healer his whole life. But Hermione? Or if it had been Lily or Mrs. Potter? Harry was very stupid and a bit soft about the women in his life. And Ron loved him for it. If they had daughters, Harry would be in deep trouble.

Ron cleared his throat as Harry took the tip of his index finger into his mouth. The glide of his tongue, the slight suction… he wondered sometimes how Harry was so good at turning him on. It didn’t even have to be something like this – Ron was often fighting his own response whenever Harry was in the kitchen in that bloody apron of his. He always imagined him naked under it – the sight of his bare arse was one of Ron’s favourite things. “Pull over, will you?” Ron said in what he hoped was a casual tone of voice. “I don’t care where.”

Harry chuckled, low and sensual. It was the same laugh when he drank or smoked, as if he were ready for sex at any time. He turned off the single carriageway onto a dirt road that looked promising. And sure enough, not too far along, there was just enough space to park at the side of the road and run off into the trees, holding hands and giggling like the besotted idiots they were.

It really hadn’t been that long since they’d conjured one of their little nests of blankets and cushions for nefarious purposes, but when you’re young, just a few weeks feels like ages. Ron pushed Harry down and lay beside him, pulling him in for a proper snog. “I love this,” Harry said, his green eyes full of excitement. “I’ll never understand how I have you both.”

“Don’t overthink it, mate,” Ron said, and then Harry could not speak at all. Ron had found that spot at the junction of his shoulder and neck, the one that made Hermione go just as quiet. Ron loved the taste of Harry, adored making little love bites on him that would need to be healed before they went anywhere. It gave him the most caveman sort of satisfaction to see Harry admiring them in the mirror, turning to and fro and touching them with his fingertips.

Ron could be rough with Harry. He could push him against walls and trees and counters, and it was absurdly gratifying to see and feel how quickly he got hard. Now, he pulled Harry’s collar aside and bit his collarbone, right next to the pendant with one needle pointing to Ron and the other to the west, barely containing his own excitement when Harry moaned.

Ron usually liked it when Harry wore shirts with buttons, when he could slowly undo each one and listen as Harry’s breath hitched in his lungs. Today, he couldn’t be arsed. He wanted Harry hard and in his mouth, gasping and squirming under the attention of his tongue and lips. Harry laughed as Ron sat up and unzipped Harry’s shorts, helpfully raising his hips as Ron pulled them off. Ron snorted when he saw Harry was wearing those ridiculous pants of his with the embroidered snitches that fluttered all over them, the glint of the gold thread looking for all the world like they were cheekily winking at him. Harry always insisted they were lucky.

Well, today they are, Ron thought, palming Harry through the fabric.

“What?” asked Harry as he propped himself up on his elbows to look.

“Nothing. I just like your pants,” said Ron.

“You should see what’s in them,” Harry grinned.

“That’s the whole point,” said Ron, springing him free.

“Going to ruin them with a mess, are you?”

“No. I intend to swallow it all.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Harry, his head falling back as Ron stroked him just the way he liked. Ron watched Harry’s throat work for a moment. There was something incredibly hot about the way he swallowed when Ron touched him, and he loved this angle, where he could see his Adam’s apple bob and the underside of his jaw.

Ron pushed Harry’s thighs apart and settled between them, his mouth less than an inch from his tip. He looked up at Harry, who was staring back at him again, at his eyes dark with desire, and felt his thighs tremble around him. Ron grinned wickedly and decided to tease him, pushing up his shirt to kiss across his abdomen, pulling down the waistband of his pants just enough to suck a mark onto his hipbone. Harry’s hips jerked up involuntarily.

“Hold still,” Ron said, pressing hard under Harry’s navel and enjoying the clench of muscle under his splayed hand as he ghosted his lips across Harry’s shaft, making it twitch.

“You’re killing me,” said Harry, but he sounded far from upset. Ron sucked another mark onto his opposite hip, and brushed his fingers through the dark hair at the base of him. When he very gently cupped Harry’s testicles through his pants, Harry squirmed with pleasure.

“Should I put you out of your misery?” Ron asked lightly.

“I’ve got no plans,” Harry said, a satisfied smile on his face. “Take your time, or don’t. I am just enjoying the – ah,” he groaned as Ron took his tip into his mouth.

Ron was a good student of anatomy. He tried many different things with his lips and tongue, with pressure and suction, and paid attention to what made Harry gasp, what made his hips rise up or his thighs spread further, what made him swallow and what made his muscles tense up. Harry liked open-mouthed kisses along the whole length. He liked it gentle at first, short licks and slow circles with Ron’s tongue and his thumb. He liked it when Ron wrapped his hand all the way around him. And Ron loved all of it, because Harry was into it.  

When Harry gasped, “Oh my god,” as Ron slowly swiped his tongue from the middle of his length to the very tip, he did it again. And again, and again, over and over until Harry was a moaning, squirming, begging wreck, his hands grasping and clenching in the blanket as his heels bunched it up.

And when he was close, with his eyes squeezed shut and whole body tense, Ron closed his lips around the tip and gripped Harry hard at the base, moving his tongue to catch up all the pre-come and savouring the taste. He sucked once, twice, and Harry moaned Ron’s name and shuddered as he came into Ron’s mouth. Ron swallowed all of it, loving the flavour and the feeling of Harry’s spasming cock under his palm.

When Harry became soft and squirmed with hypersensitivity, Ron moved to lay next to Harry, slipping his arm under Harry’s head so he could rest on it like a pillow, plucking off his glasses and putting them safely at the edge of the blanket. He knew there wasn’t much hope of reciprocation, at least not now, as Harry was already looking drowsy. It’s fine, thought Ron, happy at the thought that they truly had nothing better to do. He could just get lost in his thoughts while Harry curled into his side, flushed and satiated.

“Do you know that you’re beautiful?” Harry asked him languidly, brushing his fingers along Ron’s jaw.

“I did get called handsome today,” Ron said comfortably, his heart flipping over at Harry’s praise. It was still incredible to him that Harry thought him just as attractive as Ron found him. Charlie would sometimes say that ginger was an acquired taste, and while the rest of them would often laugh and make more jokes, Ron knew there was a bit of sadness behind it. Charlie was gay, and very lonely in Romania.

“They’re nice girls,” Harry said, his eyes already starting to close, “but they can’t have you.”

“Don’t worry,” chuckled Ron. “None of them were as pretty as you.”

“Or Hermione.”

“Yeah,” Ron said. “There isn’t a woman in the world as beautiful as our Hermione. What are we supposed to do while she’s off gallivanting, I ask you?”

“More of this,” Harry said, snuggling close and kissing Ron under his chin.

Ron stroked the hair at Harry’s temples and watched as he slowly fell asleep, his thick upper lashes resting softly against the lower like the feathers of a raven’s wing. He wondered how Harry would look once silver started to show in the black strands, smile and laugh lines adding character and history to his beloved face.

I don’t care if it’s never been done before, Ron thought with determination. I am going to marry them. We’re meant to be together – you can’t just use someone else’s wand without it meaning something. Amortentia doesn’t smell like your best friends and make you feel like you’re home as some cheap party trick.

Despite not being an inventive thinker, at least not like Harry, Ron had invented a spell on the fly to find his other two thirds whenever he wanted. It had been one of the easiest, most intuitive spells he’d ever done. Their hearts simply called out to one another. I love you, Ron thought, willing it towards Harry, hoping he might hear and feel him as he dreamed.

In his sleep, Harry smiled.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Ron decided to start with Dad that very day. It was Sunday, so there would be a roast for dinner, but Ron knew if he went early enough, Dad would be tinkering in his garage. Mr. Granger couldn’t call him – Dad always called Saturday evening from the phone box outside of the village post office.

The garage was always the place to have a chin wag when one of the Weasley children needed something – messing about with Muggle stuff always made him so happy and relaxed. Even Mum knew to send her children there – Dad was simply better at heart-to-hearts.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t be there?” asked Harry nervously after Ron gave him a long kiss goodbye.

“Nah. I know how to talk to them, and when to dodge if Mum starts throwing frying pans or something.”

“Would she?” asked Harry, and Ron laughed. He patted his cheek reassuringly and kissed him one more time before he stepped out the front door of the cottage and apparated to the Burrow’s front drive. He looked up at his childhood home and his heart lifted just a little. He no longer lived there – he considered the lakeside cottage home, despite it only being borrowed from Harry’s grandparents, but the Burrow would always be one of his favourite places. More good memories than bad.

It was an overcast and muggy afternoon in Devon, and Ron was already sweating by the time he walked the twenty feet to the front door. “Mum?” he called, poking his head inside.

“Is that you, Ronny, dear?” she called from the kitchen. “Come in, then; I’m just taking some biscuits out of the oven.”

Only Mum would bake on a day like this. Ron had really just intended to give his mother a peck on the cheek hello and find his dad, but biscuits were biscuits. Besides, it would be cruel to deny his mother the opportunity to tell him he was too thin. He hoped they were those lemon and lavender ones.

“Are you staying for supper?” she asked, chuckling when he kissed the very top of her head. Was she smaller, or had he had another growth spurt? Hard to tell when he only wore shorts and short sleeves all summer. “I’m a bit late starting on the roast, I’m afraid. I thought Ginny would help, but she’s off practicing Quidditch.”

“If it wouldn’t be a bother.”

“Goodness, such manners. You needn’t be so formal with me, dear.” She reached up to pat his cheek as he used his wand to levitate the two pans of hot biscuits to cool high overhead, joining three pans already up there. Mum never made less than five dozen of anything, even now, when it was just Ginny still at home.   

“Sorry, Mum. Just a lot on my mind.”

“Well, your father’s in the garage. Take some biscuits, won’t you? Lots – you’re far too thin!”

Ron smiled. On impulse, he leaned down to hug her. “Love you, Mum.”

“What’s gotten into you?” she asked incredulously, though she squeezed him back tightly.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just miss you, that’s all.”

In truth, he was nervous. He was mostly certain this would be a non-issue; after all, she’d been through this before when Charlie came out, but he knew… she had been mildly disappointed. Not because she didn’t accept him. She just had a habit of building up narratives in her head of how her children’s lives were going to turn out, and she’d been trying for years to set Charlie up with one of her friend’s daughters and have the grandchildren she knew she wasn’t going to get out of Bill (save by accident). He dashed both hopes when he announced he was gay and leaving for Romania in the same sentence.

Ron didn’t want to see that look on her face again. Loving Harry or Hermione was something she could accept, but both of them? He had no idea what she’d think. He would never tell, but he’d really loved being the centre of her attention for once, basking in her pride and joy after getting the internship. He didn’t want it to go away.

He wasn’t stupid – he knew what it meant for his parents to have seven children, only stopping after they’d finally had a girl. Every last one of his brothers knew that if any of them had been girls, the ones after would not exist. It hurt sometimes, knowing he wasn’t what his mother really wanted. He didn’t even remember a time where he was the baby – Ginny had come so soon after him.

His mother shooed him out the back door after pushing a hastily wrapped bundle of still-warm biscuits into his arms. Ron munched on two at once (Fuck yeah, lemon and lavender) as he crossed the garden to the garage.

“Ah, Ron!” his father said, holding out his arms and pulling him into a hug. Ron grinned and clapped him on the back. “Good to see you, son. Here, I’m just tinkering under Angie’s bonnet today.”

“Kinky,” said Ron, making his father laugh. “I won’t tell Mum.”

“Angie” was the old Ford Anglia that his father had modified over the years – most of the upgrades unknown to his wife. It had an expanded interior, an invisibility booster, and it could even fly. Fred and George had been taking it on secret joyrides for years, and sometimes they even let Ron come along, but they’d always laugh and refuse when he asked them to teach him to drive it. They’d told him Angie didn’t like him enough, and while it would sound like a joke to someone outside the family, there truly was something about the car, as if Dad’s love and care had made it partly sentient.

“Best if you don’t,” agreed Dad. “What brings you out here?”

“Got something to tell you, before I break Mum’s heart.”

“Another coming out, is it?” smiled his father as his deft fingers scuttled over his Muggle tools, trying to decide which one would fit whatever job he was doing.

Ron snorted. “Actually, yeah.”

Dad stopped what he was doing and pulled out a stool for himself. He pulled up another with his wand, and he and Ron sat across from each other, only the workbench and the bundle of biscuits between them, which sort of made it feel like there was a bit of Mum in the room. She put as much love into her bakes (and knit) as Dad did to his car.

“Now then, I’m listening,” said Ron’s dad. His blue eyes were kind and understanding.

This is why we always start with Dad, thought Ron, as he said aloud, “Not a whole lot to say. Harry and I are together now.”

“But that’s wonderful!” exclaimed his father. “Friendship is one of the best foundations for love!”

“Well, that’s the other thing,” said Ron, taking a deep breath. “It’s not just Harry. I’m with Hermione, too.”

Dad’s brow furrowed. “That’s… do they know?”

“They’re together, too. We’re all three together.”

“Oh.” His father took a biscuit and thought for a bit. That was the thing about Dad. He didn’t make snap reactions like Mum did.

“Anyway,” said Ron, trying to shrug off the tension in his shoulders, “I wanted you to hear it from me, before Mr. Granger.”

“You’ve told Henry?”

Ron chuckled and told the story, right down to the, “Her what now?” Dad had taken a bite of biscuit at just the wrong time, and laughed so hard he sprayed wet crumbs all over the workbench and Ron, which set Ron off, too. Their laughter, very much alike, bounced around the garage and filled Ron up with hope.

“Oh, that’s fantastic. A move worthy of Fred and George!” said his father, wiping his eyes.  

“Never knew she had it in her,” said Ron, wiping away a mixture of crumbs and tears. In his case, there was a bit of relief in them. He understood Harry’s desire to reconcile with his father. There was nothing like having your dad on your side.

“Ah, but poor Henry. What a revelation! And I assume you took Harry and ran?”

“How’d you guess?”

“You’re still alive, that’s how.” A fresh wave of laughter hit them and it was some time before they could calm down.

“Seriously, though… you know him better than I do,” said Ron. “Any chance he’ll accept?”

Dad thought for a while, the fingers of one hand curled under his chin while the other hand cupped his elbow. “Perhaps with time. Fathers are strange about their daughters. Muggles are even a bit stranger about anything other than heterosexuality.”

“Right,” mumbled Ron.

Dad reached across the workbench and gripped his forearm. “I’ll talk to him,” he said, “but it would be important to know – how safe are you being?”

Ron had a mad impulse to mess with his dad, to guilelessly ask, “What do you mean? What’s ‘safe?’ ”  After all, it had been Harry and Hermione who had taught him anything about that kind of thing. But even Ron knew when to hold a joke in. “Nothing’s happened to worry about that,” Ron mumbled, looking down at the biscuit in his hand.

“Yes, but… it will, if you stay together. If I’m going to talk him down, I have to be able to reassure him his only daughter isn’t going to go home pregnant and broken-hearted. He’s already on edge after her attack, and whatever fight you three had that made her go back for a night.”

“That’s all resolved,” Ron insisted. “She’s fine, and she and Harry made up.”

“Try to see it from his point of view,” said Dad, wiping biscuit crumbs into a little pile. “Fathers want to protect their children, especially their daughters, and it scares him that he can’t protect her. She’s a witch; he’s a Muggle. He can’t even protect himself or his wife from his own daughter, should she lose control of her magic. What hope would he have against you or Harry, if he felt he had to go after you?”

Ron was silent. Not for the first time, he imagined having a child. Before, those thoughts had always been happy and formless – he’d never even considered boy or girl, just a tiny someone he could play with and teach things, or patch up when they fell down. Now, he imagined having a daughter, and being in exactly the same situation as Mr. Granger.

“We… we’re good blokes,” Ron finally said. “We’re not beasts like McClaggen or anyone just after a bit of sport… Dad, we really love her. We want to protect her, too. If she does end up… you know, without meaning to… we would do the right thing.”

Dad sat back and considered Ron. “I believe you.” After a long pause, he added, “I’m sorry your mother and I didn’t make a better effort to teach you about… being safe, and things. That’s the thing about being a parent – you always think you’ve got time, that your children aren’t interested in all that and you’ll know when it’s time… until one day they come home and tell you they’re already two steps ahead of you. You’d think we would have learned, having seven children, but we didn’t.” His father looked sad. “You grow so fast.”

Ron was inclined to be forgiving in the moment. “Aw, Dad, don’t. Can’t be helped – there’s seven of us and two of you. You’re wildly outnumbered.”

“Still. There’s a lot we failed at. I probably should have tried harder to get promoted, so we weren’t always scraping…”

“Come on,” said Ron. “There was always food on the table – loads of food. Mum taught us pretty well before Hogwarts. We knew you loved us. That alone makes a difference.” It was easier to not be upset about money now that he had some, with the prospect of much more, should he make it as a Healer.

“Well, that’s true. We do love you. That’s been the one thing we know we’ve done right.”

Ron smiled softly. “We love you, too. Thanks, Dad.”

“Of course. I’m very, very proud of you, Ron. If being with Hermione and Harry is what makes you feel fulfilled and happy, then I’m happy, too.” He stood up and came around the workbench to hug Ron. He was shorter than Ron by a good few inches, but he still felt like a child, warm and safe, whenever Dad held him.

“I’m sorry if this mucks things up between you and Mr. Granger, Dad.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Dad said when they broke apart. “I can be quite charming and persuasive when I want to be. How do you think I managed to pull a dish like your mum?”

 

They decided it was best for Dad to tell Mum, after a nice family dinner and after Ron had gone back home. Dad had said it was at least something he’d learned from the children before – absorb Mum’s first reaction, then let her come around when she’d had her feelings and was ready to be supportive. She always came around in the end. As sharp as she could be around the edges sometimes, she was all soft on the inside. Like a sweet little marshmallow, he thought fondly.

Ron had gotten in a few rounds of Quidditch with Ginny before dinner, which only showed him how lax he’d become. Too much time getting a second broom handle watching Harry doing Wronski feints and not enough time goalkeeping. He and Harry would have to really up their game – it was almost time for school to start.

When he went home to Harry, he was on the back porch, reading with Crookshanks on his lap. He was smoking what smelled like a blood orange and rosemary cigarette, which only amplified Harry’s scent. The wisteria had been charmed to bloom through every season except winter, and Ron inhaled the combination of its blooms, Harry, and the lake, remembering the whiff he’d gotten of Amortentia, which had confirmed his feelings were far more than just a silly crush. Harry was understandably leery of any and all potions these days, but Ron was grateful that Amortentia told him he did not have to choose between Harry and Hermione.

Oh, the look on Hermione’s face… I wish I’d been confident enough back then to understand it. She felt it, too.

“All right?” Harry asked as Ron leaned down for a kiss. He put his book aside and closed his eyes. Crookshanks meowed in greeting.

“Just fine,” Ron said. “It’s like I told you – they’ve been through too much to let it bother them.”

“Even your mum?”

“Er, well, we’ll know for sure in a day or two.” He gently picked up Crookshanks to sit on Harry’s lap, his legs dangling over the armrest. As Crookshanks resettled himself on Ron’s stomach, Ron told Harry everything, including his worries about Mum. He looked at Harry, who was thinking hard. Ron took his cheek into the palm of his hand as he said, “I’m telling you the truth that I understand why you put off telling your mum, and I’m not going to judge if you decide to keep waiting.”

“Thanks,” said Harry quietly. He lit another cigarette, drew deeply on it, and gave it to Ron. “It’s been just us for so long. Even when Dad was there, he was checked out. I had to take care of her. I don’t want her to… worry. Or… feel like she didn’t raise me right. I know that’s stupid,” he added defensively.

Ron thought about telling him his suspicion that she already knew, but thought Harry should work through that one on his own. He also didn’t tell him his other suspicion. He could be totally wrong, after all. “Mums are weird about their sons,” he said, making Harry chuckle.

“D’you think Mr. and Mrs. Granger will tell her?”

“Well, the advantage for us is that they can’t just call her up and lay into her about how she’s not raising you right. Dad’s probably calling him right now. If things don’t go well, he’ll tell us.”

“Cross that bridge when we come to it, aye?”

“Aye, laddie. Dinnae flap.”

Harry laughed at Ron’s terrible Scots and kissed him. Ron tasted the blood orange and rosemary on his lips. “What are you reading?” asked Ron.

“One of those dirty novels Hermione pretends she doesn’t read,” Harry said.

“You’ve been in her things?” Ron asked incredulously. He thought they’d learned that lesson, unless he was trying to get back at her or something.

“No,” said Harry. “I caught the title before she whipped it back under the covers, so I went and got another copy from the library.” He showed Ron the cover, where a man with dark red hair in a billowing white shirt held a swooning woman with blond curls on a beach.

“Treasure of the Heart,” Ron read aloud. “Ooh, read me a bit. Something naughty.” Ron took a drag and exhaled, watching the smoke drift and shimmer in the low light as Harry opened the book and flipped through it. He chuckled before reading:

“Anastasia could bear it no longer. She must have him, or she would surely perish. There was no one around, no risk of being interrupted. What would it matter? No one could judge her but God, and he had forsaken them on this bloody rock in the middle of nowhere.

“ ‘Damien,’ said she. ‘Damien, I – I’ve changed my mind. If you’ll have me… Please. Take me.’

“Damien grinned wickedly, putting Anastasia in mind of a shark in search of a meal. ‘If you insist,’ said he, prowling towards her with hunger in his eyes. ‘But you must be absolutely certain, for once I start, I cannot stop.’

“ ‘I – I’m certain,’ said Anastasia, now quivering with lust. She had never felt this way before, deliciously wicked and full of passion. Oh, what would Mama think to see her precious little girl now? But Anastasia could not bring herself to regret a thing, not even now as they faced no hope of rescue.

“It was all in his eyes, those impossibly blue eyes, as blue as the Spanish sky of her home. But she must not think of home now, or she would quaver. No, she must be brave, for Damien was all Anastasia could have ever wanted.

“ ‘Show me how much you want me, Annie.’

“ ‘Ah! How many times must I tell you I detest that name!’ cried Anastasia. ‘We shall go no further until I have your understanding on this!’

“ ‘Forgive me, Anastasia. You are far too easy to tease.’ He took one step closer, and another, looking her up and down, in the places where her formerly opulent gown had been torn upon those blasted rocks. ‘Show me,’ he said again with a purr –”

“God, that’s pure trash,” laughed Ron, unable to endure another word. “A purr?  I know she likes cats, but Merlin, that’s the worst. This from the same girl who reads five-thousand-page biographies of the most boring wizards you can imagine?”

“Gotta keep things fresh,” laughed Harry. “I’m enjoying it, anyway. It’s like candy. You know it’s not good for you, but you still want it.”

“Hm, I suppose I can understand a craving for sweet things,” Ron said, putting a finger under Harry’s chin and staring expectantly at his mouth. He loved the shape of his lips, the wide cupid’s bow of the upper, the slightly thicker bottom lip that was just right for biting. He’d discussed it with Hermione once, and she’d told him all the girls were completely mad for Harry’s mouth, too.

Harry took the hint and closed the gap between them, his hand gently stroking the back of Ron’s neck. The book fell to the floor, and Ron felt Harry smile against his lips.

They snogged and smoked lazily for some time, just enjoying the night and each other, petting Crookshanks and telling him what a sweet, handsome, good cat he was. When Harry’s cigarette burned down, Ron shared his. And when it was time for bed, Harry insisted it was far too hot inside the house, and conjured a mattress and blankets right on the porch for them. As they both stripped down to their underwear, Ron remembered, what seemed like ages ago, when Lily had done the same for him on the floor of Harry’s room. When he lay down next to Harry, he was relieved to note his conjuration skills were better than his mother’s. It was very comfortable. Crookshanks made biscuits on Harry’s pillow and curled up on it, blinking peacefully at the two boys. “I’ll share,” Ron said to Harry, smiling.

Ron rolled to face the lake, and Harry spooned him from behind. He fell asleep listening to Harry’s peaceful breathing, the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore, and the soft sounds of the creatures of the night. His last thought was of Hermione, if perhaps she was also falling asleep to the sounds of water, and thinking of them, too.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Ron thought of Hermione often and missed her very much, but he couldn’t deny that it was nice to have Harry to himself for a bit. He even joined Harry and James on a hike, which he knew would not be possible if Hermione were there. He was quiet, mostly just enjoying the birdsong and the way the light filtered through the trees, trying to find a bit of natural green that matched Harry’s eyes and only half-listening as he and his father chatted about the things Harry would be expected to do as Head Boy.

“How is – Hermione?” James asked, catching Ron’s full attention. He picked up on the hesitation to say her name. James was in no way deluded about her feelings. The difference was that James seemed to accept that he deserved her ire, while Harry still struggled with it.

“She’s fine,” Harry said lightly, and Ron noticed the set of his shoulders, as if bracing himself against criticism. Ron understood. He wasn’t as oblivious as everyone seemed to think – Harry was reluctant to share the things that mattered to him most, for fear that James would turn on him again.

The truth was… Ron was pretty much on Hermione’s side. He did not actually like James. He just had the grace not to show it, to follow Harry’s lead and fake it if necessary. And he wasn’t about to admit his feelings to her, lest she try and scheme to gang up on Harry. He didn’t think it would happen now – Harry and Hermione realised very quickly they were unfit for “breaks,” and Hermione had learned a hard lesson about the difference between being right and being happy. Ron just hoped it meant they would actually talk to each other instead of avoiding difficult conversations.

When the fuck did I become the peacemaker? he wondered with wry amusement. He and Hermione used to get into it far more often than her and Harry, likely a result of their tendencies towards jealousy. But Ron hadn’t felt that way in quite some time. He’d gotten everything he wanted – a spot on the Quidditch team, the best-looking and most brilliant boy and girl in the whole world, and now a real chance at becoming a Healer. He even had a bit of gold in his very own Gringotts vault, thanks to Bill and Uncle Gideon.

Absolute legends, he thought. It wasn’t something he’d expected at all, but it made him feel secure. One less thing to worry about.

James said, “I’m glad. I would have sent her a card, or flowers, but I don’t think she would have taken it well.”

“Probably not,” agreed Harry, and Ron heard the sadness in his voice.

“I get it,” James said, briefly touching Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. If you think she’ll accept, tell her I’m thinking of her. But if not, don’t.”

Harry was quiet. He glanced back at Ron, where he walked about ten paces behind. It suddenly occurred to Ron that James knew about Harry’s feelings for Hermione, but Ron didn’t know if he knew about himself and Harry as well. He was either a very good actor, or had no suspicion at all. He didn't know how he felt about that.

James went on, “I don’t mean to sound awful, but when I heard she was at St. Mungo’s, I was glad to hear it was a bowtruckle.”

Ron felt the tips of his ears go red. What the fuck does that mean? he thought, clenching his teeth together.

“Because of the rising attacks on Muggleborns?” Harry asked, and Ron relaxed when James nodded.

“It’s not just poisonings anymore. Something’s really going on. I can’t say very much, but if you hear anything, not matter how small, don’t dismiss it. Tell me.”

“D’you think it’s more than one person?” asked Harry.

“Can’t say,” James said. “Just… keep her close, won’t you?” He glanced back at Ron when he said it.

“We always do,” Harry said. Ron noticed that he didn’t mention Hermione was away at the moment. Perhaps they’d already talked about it. Or perhaps Harry was just as reluctant to share the things that Ron and Hermione cared about. Hermione thought Harry was careless with his own heart, but she didn’t seem to see that Harry was still very guarded with his father.

It’s an ongoing conversation, I reckon, Ron thought. It’s not over just because they fought once. His thoughts turned wry. There should be an award for putting up with all their shite. Perhaps a nice gold trophy in the shape of a bleeding heart, or a pile of goblin dung. I’d have at least twenty and could smelt them down for a good nest egg.

The thing with Harry and Hermione… You had to match their energy before you could talk them down. Sometimes it was exhausting, but worth it. He loved them both, and you were supposed to do things for people you were in love with.

Which was why he had chased after Hermione when she’d run off instead of giving her time to cool down. She had definitely been in the wrong, reading Harry’s letter, but Ron definitely wasn’t blameless when it came to snooping. He didn’t think it was a very good idea to confess about the time he’d opened her underwear drawer when he’d stayed at the Grangers’ house two summers ago, or that he knew she used to keep her letters from Viktor Krum inside a stash of dirty novels that she hid behind neat rows of perfectly respectable biographies and textbooks. There had been nothing accidental about either of those discoveries.

So Ron understood why she had read Harry’s letter, even though she knew it was wrong. Harry had a tendency to get broodier than the Burrow’s hens and refuse to share his feelings. It was something Hermione, who always sought to understand, couldn’t get behind. And she got cross when she couldn’t understand something.

Harry liked to tease her whenever she was cranky, and Ron loved watching him do it. Harry had always had a way with women, whether he realised it or not, likely a result of his mother’s influence and those impossibly persuasive eyes of his. Ron just made them laugh.

Which is very good, too, he told himself fairly. It was definitely something that drew Hermione to him. “Tell me something you like about me,” he’d said to her on one of the few mornings they were both up before Harry. “I love how you make me laugh, no matter what,” she’d whispered in his ear, and he’d put her up on the counter to touch her and kiss her deeply.

Harry interrupted his thoughts. “Are… are all the Aurors taking it seriously?” he asked.

“Well, Kingsley is, which means if he feels someone isn’t, they’ll get pulled into his office right quick. But he’s just one man, and while he can reprimand Aurors or reassign them, he can’t change what they think. I wish we had more Muggleborn Aurors.”

“You should hold a student recruitment,” Harry suggested.

James tilted his head. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said. “That’s exactly the kind of thing you should think about as Head Boy. Not just ways to represent the school, but ways to connect students to professionals.”

“Slughorn’s all over that – don’t worry.”

James laughed. “No, he’s not. He only does it to benefit himself.”

Ron couldn’t agree more. He’d been completely ignored by Slughorn except for the bare minimum required to grade his essays and potions in class. He barely knew Ron’s name. That’ll change, thought Ron. No one else in our year got the St. Mungo’s internship. And when Slughorn started trying to make up to Ron, he would grin and bear it. He was not going to do anything to ruin this chance. Any help he could get, he would take it. He didn’t have anything else to fall back on. This was it.

He knew that he could not say something stupid like it was all thanks to Romilda for poisoning Harry and making him realise he wanted to be a Healer. He felt so strongly about his calling that it could have been anything that finally lit that spark inside him. Even that drawing in Lily’s sketchbook that had shocked Hermione so badly.

Hermione especially had been so encouraging. He still got misty-eyed when he remembered how he’d gotten the acceptance letter while she was studying with him. Well, distracting him, mostly, with her pretty arse on his lap and her dress rucking up, sharing a cigarette with him, which was far sexier than having one of her own.

Stop that, he told himself. You do not need a bar on while walking with Harry and his dad. That’s fucking weird.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

When Harry went to help his grandfather with a new formulation of Sleekeazy, Ron went for a walk around the estate. He found the old fort in the woods that Harry and Ron used to spend their summers in, before Mr. Potter had restored the lakeside cottage and allowed them to use it. There was a sticky ring of whisky in one of the old bottles, Muggle cigarette butts in a rusted tin of indiscriminate origin, a mouldy pile of dirty magazines, and bits of trash that had been strewn about by wind or critters.

Ugh, we were disgusting, Ron thought, wrinkling his nose. Hermione would have a stroke if she knew. This probably violates about fifty of her Girl Guide rules about nurturing nature, or whatever.

He decided to clean it up, knowing Harry wouldn’t mind. So much easier with vanishing spells, he thought. “Evanesco!” The bottles and trash were gone in seconds, but the magazines at the middle of the stack were still partly intact.

It still amused Hermione to no end that the subjects in magical photographs took breaks when they weren’t being viewed. She probably didn’t realise she had a specific chuckle for when she caught them. She also had a different chuckle for cute animals, and even another for cute kids. Because Ron was thinking of her in a wholesome way, it was that much more shocking to turn a page to see a large group of men and women scramble up off a grouping of couches, hastily stubbing out cigarettes before putting dicks in arses and mouths and rutting away.

Ron no longer cared for pornography that depicted fellatio as stiff and rough, with unmoving lips, overly hollowed cheeks and deep throating. There were such better ways to please a man, from the overt to the subtle. He liked it when men were enthusiastic but still tender – kissing and touching in ways that said they were there for the person, not just the sex. But Ron could never find that kind of thing.

I suppose if Healing doesn’t work out, I could always go into porn production. Uncle Gideon would think it was a laugh and probably send me some startup money. Everything was a laugh to Uncle Gideon – he often wished his mum would have taken a leaf out of his book instead of shouting so much.

He didn’t tell Harry or Hermione that he still sought out porn, though admittedly it wasn’t all that often. Ron didn’t want either of them to feel that he was unhappy with their level of intimacy. Sometimes, you just wanted a wank. He reckoned he would lose interest once things progressed further between the three of them.

One of the men in the picture looked a bit like Seamus, and Ron closed the magazine quickly. That was another thing he and Harry didn’t talk about. Harry hadn’t wanted to know. It was the one of the very few things that really drove Harry mad with jealousy. Oh, he tried to be cool about it, and he might have succeeded in keeping Ron in the dark about his feelings, save Hermione was always watching him and Ron. That was her way. She observed, because she wanted to know things.

And she let him know how upset it made Harry, even after he’d tried to make it clear that he and Seamus had only been casual. Poor Seamus was just as hung up on Dean as Ron was on Harry, and was perfectly understanding of Ron’s predicament. The difference… well, Dean was straight.

But there was always hope, even if he didn’t say so to Seamus. For a long time, he’d been certain Harry was straight. In fact, he was almost certain Harry still considered himself straight. The stupid fuck, he thought affectionately.

He vanished the magazines, feeling in a way that he was saying goodbye to his younger self. But there was no sadness in it. He had everything he wanted, and there was nowhere to look but forward.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

When it was time to go get Hermione, he could tell Harry was nervous by the way he clenched and unclenched his hands, swallowed more often, and took the occasional deep breath. He could not explain to Ron why. It had only been six days. Ron sort of understood – it was that patented Harry Potter spiral, his tendency to overthink while underestimating his own worth, but Ron didn’t have that problem. In fact, Ron was confident that nearly a week around so much oestrogen would make Hermione eager for a bit of testosterone. The only thing that had him sweating was the possibility that the Grangers might be there.

The original plan had been that only Ron and Harry would pick her up, as it was a Friday and the Grangers were working. But that was before Ron’s father had talked to Mr. Granger. It had not gone well, though Dad had convinced him not to tell anyone in the magical world, as it would likely cause serious trouble for Hermione at school. The sad thing was that Dad was not lying. He had driven home that being three would likely cause a lot of heartache, and not everyone would accept it. It might be different when they were all older, when people cared less about personal lives, but for now, it could get very nasty very quickly.

Dad would not say exactly what Mr. Granger had said, only that there was a lot of shouting through tears about betrayal and calling Hermione “my darling little girl” in a voice that made it clear his heart was broken. Dad did mention in a casual sort of way that Lily might have more luck convincing them, which made Harry look both sad and uncomfortable.

Ron checked his watch as they drove. It wasn’t exactly a guarantee that the girls would come back exactly on time. They’d been given a six-hour window just before they’d left Glasbury-on-Wye, and the girls were supposed to check in with their parents by phone at a few stops along the way to confirm where they were and if they were still on time. Neither Harry nor Ron knew if they were, because the Grangers refused to take their calls. Mr. Granger was not speaking to Dad, either.

Ron wondered if they gave Hermione a bad time of it when she called them. He hoped not. Mum still hadn’t come around yet, which Ron was pretending not to be upset about it. She always came around. She just had to.

So here they were, on their way to Monmouth, ready to wait six hours or more to see Hermione and give her a bollocking for the mess she’d put them in, not knowing if the Grangers would whisk Hermione away or initiate a shouting match on the steps of the town rowing club.

When they got there, they tried one more time to reach the Grangers, this time with the sequence of numbers that would connect them to Mr. and Mrs. Granger’s dental practice. Harry made the call. When he came out, his lips were tight. “Their secretary said they left a message for us, to be dictated exactly: ‘Between 12 and 2pm. Do not call again.’ ”

“Bugger,” said Ron, his heart sinking. He looked at his watch. It was only 10 am. “Well, what do you want to do for two to four – hey, don’t look so down, mate. We knew it was kind of a long shot for them to be accepting. You know Muggles aren’t great about that.” Ron sat down next to Harry on the kerb and put an arm around him.

“I know. I just… hoped it would be different. I know what it feels like. I didn’t want that for her.”

“I hate to sound callous, but maybe it will help her understand you and your dad better.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “Probably not,” he said.

Ron laughed. “Yeah, probably not.”

They decided to do a little exploring around the town. They had an early lunch at a pub, bought a birthday present for Hermione, then got some ice cream and went to sit on the lawn near where the girls would land. It was a bit overcast, but Ron liked it that way. He was far more prone to sunburns than Harry and Hermione, and he always seemed to miss a spot when he applied sun-protection charms. There were some children nearby kicking around a football. “A two-dimensional sport,” said Harry. “But kind of cute.” Ron smiled. He knew Harry was just itching to go play with the kids – they looked like they could be anywhere from eight to ten years old.

At twelve-o-clock exactly, they became hypervigilant, watching the river and speculating on the condition of Hermione’s hair after six days without access to Sleekeazy. Ron recognised some of the other girls’ parents and siblings starting to gather as well. He also noted a few disapproving stares. Oh, well, he thought. You can’t please everyone. He put an arm around Harry and kissed his cheek.

Harry looked at him in surprise, then glanced around furtively. “They’re Muggles,” Ron said in a low voice. “And they kind of already know, don’t they?”

He visibly relaxed. “True,” Harry said, and gave Ron one of his knee-trembling smiles as he laced their fingers together and kissed the back of his hand.

And that was how they waited – watching the river, exchanging the occasional small touch or kiss. Nothing that could be considered indecent. At least by wizarding standards, Ron thought, feeling more eyes on them.

Ron and Harry sat up straight as they heard faint singing from upriver. “Come on,” said Ron, standing and holding out his hands to help Harry up. They clasped hands and went down the wide concrete steps that led down to the river’s edge. Four canoes were floating towards them, eight voices singing a robust song about… a dinosaur? My kind of stupid, he thought. I’ll ask Hermione to teach it to me. The Eds would get a kick out of it.

The grin on Harry’s face was a mirror image of his own as they caught sight of Hermione, her and Louise leading at the front. They waved just as Louise called, “Boyfriends at one-o-clock! Paddle, Hermione!”

He could hear the other girls’ good natured catcalls and whistles. Well, at least some Muggles don’t care. Ron felt a rush of gratitude for Hermione’s friends as he watched her deftly steer towards him and Harry, momentarily transfixed by the sight of her. She was radiant, leaning forward as if it would get her there faster.

“Give us a hand,” she called as they pulled up to the steps. Ron and Harry jostled against each other, silently fighting for first rights at tying off Hermione’s end.

“Oh, that’s nice,” said Louise in a tone that reminded Ron very strongly of Ginny. “There’s more than one end, you know!”

Ron shoved Harry in that direction. “Oi! I’m going, I’m going!” he scowled. Ron’s attention was diverted between doing the knots right and surreptitiously checking over Hermione, looking for signs of injury, especially to her right eye.

The second both ends were tied, Ron lifted Hermione directly out of the canoe, swinging her up in his arms as she laughed and gave him one of the most enthusiastic kisses he’d ever gotten. He barely heard all the cheering from the other girls as he returned it with relish. Everything felt right again. “I missed you so much!” Ron said, and let her down to go to Harry. Not to be outdone, he dipped her, the smarmy bastard, making her squeal with delight as she kissed him, too.

“Hey, hey!” called Sam as she and Josie pulled up last. “We’re not done, here!”

“Step back, gents!” said Josie amiably. “Plenty of time – let the ladies work.”

“Quick, quick!” Hermione beckoned excitedly to Harry and Ron, and when they bent their heads down to her, she whispered, “I have something wonderful to tell you. About Louise!” Hermione beamed at them both, patted Harry on the chest and Ron on the bicep before going to unload the canoes with the other girls.

Ron looked in bewilderment at Harry as they stepped back. Ron wondered what it could be. Was she also in a threesome? He tried to listen to the girls for clues as they teased each other and made inside jokes, but he couldn’t figure it out.

When it was empty, Harry and Ron carried Hermione’s canoe to the Fourtrak, lifting it high over their heads (not showing off, not really) and not minding the muddy drips that trickled out of it. When they came back, the girls were posing as a group for pictures. Hermione gave her camera to Ron (he was better at framing shots than Harry) and he snapped a few.

The girls then all turned sober as they stood in a circle with their arms around each other’s shoulders. Jenny and Marie waved Josie and Sam in, and together, they sang a soft song in a four-part round, swaying unconsciously.

“That’s pretty,” Ron murmured to Harry. On impulse, he took another picture.

“It’s a goodbye,” Harry murmured back. He looked surprised.

“What?” said Ron. “Like, for real, you think?” Harry nodded.

Sure enough, when she came back to Harry and Ron, Hermione burst into tears. They looked at each other over her head as they held her. “That was it,” she cried. “That was the last one. After this year, we’re n-not girls anymore. Claire and Jenny and Theresa and Marie – they can finish out the year if they like, but Louise and me? Back to b-boarding school, where nobody else is a Guide.”

She was genuinely grieving. When Ron looked around, every last one of the other girls were wiping tears away, too. Even the adults Josie and Sam looked misty-eyed and as though they were putting extra effort into that stiff upper lip. He wondered what it meant for them, when their girls grew up. Would they start again, or was this it for them, too?

Ron took Harry’s hand, and he squeezed it back. Ron knew it was much harder on Harry to see Hermione cry. And she couldn’t really stop, even while they were loading the car. Harry took her into his arms.

“Sorry,” she sobbed into his chest, but Harry lifted her chin with one hand and wiped under her left eye with the other. As Ron came up to hold her from behind, Harry said to her, “I get it,” and bent to kiss her sweetly.

Hermione nodded, then turned in Ron’s arms so he could kiss her, too. Even red-eyed and sniffling, Ron thought she was beautiful. “It’s all right, love,” he said gently. He was fully aware they were attracting stares again, but didn’t care. Harry leaned towards him over Hermione and Ron kissed him on the mouth.

Hermione sighed deeply, as if in relief. She allowed Harry and Ron to hold her for a bit longer, until she finally said, “Take me home, please.”

 

“And I won’t even be allowed to be friends with them anymore!” Hermione finished, after a long, rapid-fire account of how upset she was, how much she would miss everyone and everything, how she had been both eager for and dreading the trip for this exact reason, and how terribly unfair all the rules of their world were.

“You’re right,” said Ron, holding her tightly in the backseat and gently wiping away her tears. She flinched when he touched under her right one, but didn’t stop him. “It’s monstrously unfair.”

Hermione was silent, lost to her thoughts. They went several miles before anyone said anything.

“What did you want to tell us about Louise?” Harry asked as he flipped his indicator to turn onto the next road.

“Oh,” sniffled Hermione. She brightened just a little. “She’s a witch.”

“What?” exclaimed Ron and Harry. They both began to talk and ask questions at once, “How do you know? Did you always know? What happened?”

Hermione spilled the story. “On the fourth night, when we had to go out for a slash, there was a boggart in the woods! I pulled out my wand without even thinking, but then, she had one, too!”

“No fucking way,” said Ron. He looked her all over again for cuts or bruises, resisting the urge to perform diagnostic spells. “Was anyone hurt? Did any of the others see?”

“No, we dealt with it quickly,” Hermione scoffed, waving her hand dismissively. “Pull over, Harry; you’re not paying attention to the road.”

Harry found a little patch of dirt that had just enough room for the Fourtrak to squeeze onto the shoulder as he asked, “Why isn’t she at Hogwarts?”

“That’s just the thing - she will be!” Hermione breathed, all sadness gone for the moment in her excitement. Harry turned off the engine and she chattered into the sudden quiet, “Her dad’s French, and she lives with him during the school year, so she’s been going to Beauxbatons, but she hates his guts. She put her foot down and she’s going to go her last year at Hogwarts. We barely slept the rest of the trip! We put a silencing charm on the tent and talked and talked until just before sunrise. We never guessed about the other, not once! Oh, I just hope she’s in Gryffindor, that would be incredible!”

Hermione burst into tears again, but Ron knew the difference between her happy and sad sobs by now. And this was a little of both. Even though she and Louise could continue to be friends and stay in touch and now go to school together, they would still have to leave behind the other four girls and the two leaders.

Harry clambered between the front seats to sit on the other side of Hermione. “I’m so glad you two convinced me to go, just… thank you!” She kissed them both with great enthusiasm, then giggled as she pushed them to kiss each other. “On the nights I slept, I dreamed of you,” she said to them.

“I dream about you both even when I’m awake,” said Harry, one hand stroking Ron’s hair, the other playing with the end of Hermione’s plait. “Great way to pass the time.”

“I want to sleep with you both,” she blurted, but then blushed at his and Harry’s wide-eyed stares. “Not like that,” she said. “I just missed you so much; I want you to hold me all night. Please?”

“Oh, I dunno, Hermione,” Harry said playfully, smiling with his eyes sparkling in that way that made it hard for Hermione and Ron to think rationally. “There’s just not enough room in my bed.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Ron. “Lie on top of me and there’s plenty.”

“Oh, shut it, you two,” Hermione said happily, pulling them both back in for more kisses. “We have wands for that kind of thing.”

The very suggestion of them all being in Hermione’s bed all night was doing things to Ron. They were going to have to set some very clear boundaries, or he would not be able to resist pushing the ones already in place. He’d missed her so much.

“Please touch me,” Hermione sighed, taking one of their hands and placing them on her breasts. “I can’t tell you how much I needed this. Every dream… I would wake up so…”

“So what?” asked Harry in that low voice. Ron was already half hard with her soft breast in his palm, and that voice of Harry’s sent him the rest of the way. Lieutenant Weasley, reporting for duty, he thought nonsensically.

“Wet,” she said, closing her eyes as Harry kissed her neck. “You have no idea.”

“Fuck, Hermione,” Ron groaned. He kissed her sloppily, opening her mouth with his tongue. She kissed him back, and bit his lower lip a little too hard. Ron flinched.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, pulling away and blushing.

“No, you don’t,” Ron said, grabbing her chin. “Do not hold back. Do it again.” Now that he was ready for it, the way she sucked his lip between her teeth was incredibly hot, and he moaned. Just as he did, Hermione did, too, but Ron rather thought it was because of Harry, who had very stealthily parted the first three buttons of her shirt and gently pulled the cup of her bra down. He had her nipple in his mouth. She hadn’t let them do that before now, but Ron wasn’t jealous. Least of all because Hermione was palming his erection through his shorts.

Before they got much further, a passing lorry shook the Fourtrak. Hermione came to her senses just long enough to grab Harry by the hair and say, “CAST – A – DISILLUSIONMENT – CHARM.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry said, scrambling to grab his wand.

As he cast it on the outside of the car and the canoe strapped to the roof, Hermione pulled Ron in by the back of the neck for more snogging. Her lips were red and swollen, Ron’s favourite lipstick on her. Her tongue was eager as she undid his belt and unzipped his shorts. He exposed her other breast and cupped it, rolling the nipple gently between his fingers as Harry resumed suckling on her other one.

She pulled Ron out of his pants and said desperately, “Harry.”

Harry’s response of, “What?” was muffled.

“Go down on Ron. Please.”

“I live to serve,” said Harry excitedly as he lay prone across her lap. “What are you going to do while I do?”

“Watch. And touch myself,” she said, unbuttoning her shorts. “Move, please.”

They scrambled to reposition themselves, giggling amidst exclamations of, “Ow!” “Hey!” and “Watch it!” so Hermione had her back against the door closest to the road, and Harry pushed the front passenger seat as far forward as it would go so that he could kneel, curled like an upright prawn, between Ron’s legs. Ron took off Harry’s glasses and set them down on the seat between them.

Hermione frowned as she put one knee upright against the seatback and let the other fall open at the front edge. “Why did your mother never put an expansion ch–”

“Do NOT mention anyone’s mother right now,” Ron said darkly.

“Oh, fine,” said Hermione. “But it’s kind of cramped.”

“Morgana preserve me,” said Ron weakly, he and Harry staring as she slipped her hand inside her shorts and began to move it. Ron wondered just how wet she was, if maybe she’d let them touch, too.

“Don’t make this weird,” she breathed, “Or we’ll never do it again. Get to work.”

“God, I love it when you’re bossy,” said Harry, and took Ron into his mouth. Ron resisted the urge to close his eyes and let his head fall back against the seat – he wanted to watch Hermione. She looked incredible like that, her legs spread and perfect breasts out, jiggling with the movement of her hand. He could not wait for the day she would show him and Harry all the ways she liked to be touched, so they could work together to make her come.  

He had a vague plan to ask if she would please let him see so he could study female anatomy. A practical lesson for a future a Healer, nothing dodgy at all, but then Harry sucked hard at his tip and Ron couldn’t think about anything at all, except things like, “Yes,” “Oh my god,” and, “Please!”

All his focus narrowed down to the warmth of Harry’s mouth, the pressure of his tongue and his hand at the base of his shaft, the way he alternated using his hand and his mouth, the little string of pre-come that stretched and snapped at the corner of Harry’s mouth when he pulled back for a second to catch his breath. “Oh, fuck,” whimpered Ron when Harry pressed his thumb, hard, under the head and stroked upwards, forcing more out that he could lick off with his tongue.

He was torn between watching Harry’s mouth on him and watching Hermione as she stroked herself with one hand and grasped a nipple with her other hand. On impulse, he put his arm along the back of the seat, and she took her hand off her breast to lace her fingers with his. Her palm was warm and there was sweat at her temples and in the hollow of her throat.

Ron was close, and if he knew anything from reading so much about anatomy, that flush on Hermione’s chest meant she was too. “Hermione,” he moaned, gripping her hand. “Harry – oh Merlin, do that again.” Harry chuckled, low and sexy, and pumped hard with his hand while sucking on the head and keeping his tongue against that spot. Ron couldn’t keep his hips still, or stop himself from gasping from the pleasure of it all. Hermione was also making rhythmic little noises, returning the pressure of his hand.

Suddenly, as the pressure inside him spiked and Ron felt himself just on the very edge, Harry sat back and pressed his thumb, hard, right at the spot his tongue had just been, and Ron came all over Harry’s neck and chest with a drawn-out groan. Hermione cried out as well, a high, sensual sound that was in sync with Ron’s third wave as her hips jerked upwards and her head fell back against the window with a loud thud.

Ron shivered as Harry said, “Shit, are you okay?”

“Oh, more than okay,” breathed Hermione. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Harry laughed at her swearing and Ron’s heart wobbled, all floppy and weak from its recent workout. He couldn’t believe this, how hedonistic and wild, how good it felt to not only come under Harry’s attention, but within seconds of Hermione.

“I see why you like it, Hermione,” Harry said, his green eyes sparkling with mirth. His face was flushed and he adjusted himself through his shorts. As Ron came down from his climax, he looked around blearily. Harry must have cast a cooling charm in addition to the disillusionment – by all means, the car should have been stifling from the hot sunshine pouring in through the windows, which were all steamed up, but he felt cool and comfortable, and very, very happy.

“Don’t think you’re getting away,” said Hermione to Harry, breathing heavily. She took her hand out of her shorts and was just about to give her orders when Harry leaned over and caught her hand. Ron saw her fingers were still wet, and to his and Hermione’s shock, Harry put them in his mouth.

“Harry!” she squealed, going bright red, but by the way her eyes darkened and the fact that she let him, Ron knew she liked it. A lot. He only wished he’d thought of it first, but in his defence, his brain was mostly mush. His softened cock twitched just a little.

She didn’t pull her hand away as Harry closed his eyes and savoured the taste of her, making the smallest noise of pleasure at the back of his throat. Ron enjoyed the sight, remembering just how it felt when Harry had done that to him. “Hey,” he said, his head lolling back against the seat. “Share.”

Hermione took her hand back as Harry grinned, “Sorry, all gone.” He licked his lips obnoxiously. Ron punched his shoulder.

“Stop that,” said Hermione sharply. She was still blushing, but dipped her hand back between her legs.

Ron scooted closer to her, ignoring Harry’s protested, “Oi! Watch my specs!” and took her hand when she offered it. He held her wrist between both hands and kissed the very tips of her fingers, watching her reaction as he darted his tongue out to taste her.

“Oh, my god,” he couldn’t help murmuring. She tasted incredible – womanly and erotic, better than he’d expected or even hoped. She bit her lips unconsciously, and her hand trembled in his grasp when he drew the tip of her index finger into his mouth.

“Poor Harry’s been very patient,” she breathed.

“He has,” said Harry pointedly.

Ron laughed lazily and let go of Hermione’s hand. “You know we’ll be stranded if you get him off. He always falls asleep after.”

“I do not,” Harry insisted. “And if Hermione wants to show me how much she missed me, then you’ve got nothing to say about it.”

Ron hid a smile. He didn’t really mind if Harry fell asleep – he was feeling ready for a kip himself.

“I do want to,” Hermione said. “Budge up.”

They shuffled around again, jostling against and rolling over each other so that Hermione was now kneeling behind the passenger seat between Harry’s legs and Ron looked on from the space Hermione had vacated. She hadn’t put her tits away and Ron got smacked in the face by one in the scuffle. “Careful, my eye!” Hermione said shrilly when Harry’s hand got too close.

“Is it hurting?” Ron asked as Harry jerked both hands away from her.

“No,” said Hermione, touching gingerly around the edge of the eye socket. “Just… still nervous about it.”

“Try not to baby it,” Ron advised. “You’ll let me look at it later?”

She nodded. “Now you,” she said to Harry, unbuckling his belt and tugging at his shorts and pants. He lifted his arse helpfully and she pulled them down to his ankles. “Be nice,” she said, with just a bit of shyness. “I’ve never done this before.”

The way Harry was already dripping, Ron knew it would not take long. “Are you planning on swallowing or taking it on your tits?” he asked with a chuckle.

“My tits, obviously,” she scoffed. She used her upper arms to push them upward. She worked Harry with her hand at first as he bit his lips and watched her with dark eyes. When he started to squirm, she took him into her mouth. If his reaction was any indication, her lack of experience would not be an issue. His eyes fluttered closed and he moaned as she experimented, watching his face go through various expressions of delight.

When Harry’s neck flushed deep red and his hands scrabbled against the window and the seat, Ron started to get excited again. He couldn’t quite get it all the way up, but he touched himself, anyway, enjoying the feel of his own hand as he watched his girlfriend suck off his boyfriend.

“Hermione,” Harry warned breathlessly, “I’m…”

Hermione hummed at the back of her throat and pulled back, pushing her tits up with her hands against Harry’s cock as he stroked himself. He came with a sigh and a satisfied laugh. Most of it was caught between her tits, but a little hit her throat and she shuddered.

“You have a kink,” Ron said, grinning.

“One you both benefit from,” she retorted.

Harry was too blissed out to say anything. He was slumped awkwardly, with his head and neck bent backwards over the seat back, but Ron had never seen him look so comfortable. He stroked Harry’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. The car smelled like sex and sweat.

Ron looked at Hermione, who was squirming with discomfort. “D’you want another go?” he asked her, knowing that women had a much, much shorter refractory period.

“Oh, probably,” she said. “But later. I haven’t slept well, and I’m tired.” She vanished the mess with her wand and started to put herself back to rights.

“Bye, tits,” Ron said, waving as she pulled her bra cups back up, making her laugh. “I’ll miss you.”

Hermione sat between the boys and leaned on Ron. He put his arms around her and Harry leaned on her. They curled around each other in an ungainly tangle of limbs. As Ron started to doze, he heard Hermione whisper in wonder, “I can’t believe I have you both.”

Notes:

I'm so sorry. I didn't learn my lesson, and I got thrown back in horny jail.

Chapter 20: Ready

On the drive back to Godric’s Hollow and the lakeside cottage, after a nice, refreshing kip, Harry was once again alert. It wasn’t a particularly long drive from Monmouth, but Friday traffic wasn’t fun. He was a little nervous – he had never driven in heavy traffic or construction. His passengers were making it difficult to focus. Ron wasn’t exactly pawing at Hermione, but his hand was on her knee, and he did occasionally press a kiss to her shoulder or neck. Hermione was aware of Harry’s constant glances in the rearview mirror, her pretty brown eyes meeting his each time and giving him knowing looks.

“I’m sorry I threw you two to the wolves,” Hermione said. “Did… did Dad give you much trouble?”

“He didn’t have a chance,” laughed Harry. “Ron scented danger and hauled me off.”

“Well, that’s something,” she mumbled.

“Don’t worry about it, Hermione; it was the best joke you’ve pulled on us,” said Ron.

There would be time to discuss it later. “Come on,” Harry said. “Tell us the best parts of your trip.”

“And I want to hear about the boggart,” said Ron.

He and Ron listened, occasionally sharing fond glances with each other in the mirror as she talked about the other girls, the inside jokes and the near-capsize of Marie and Theresa’s canoe in a stretch of rapids.

The boggart she was very blasé about, though Harry felt that was carefully contrived. She would have encountered her worst fear before she knew it was a boggart – it wasn’t like in a classroom, where you waited your turn and steeled yourself for the thing you were about to face. In third year, Hermione’s had been a troll, for obvious reasons, and she’d put it in a leotard, tutu, and toe shoes. Ron’s was a spider that he’d made tap-dance, complete with a little top hat and cane. Harry hadn’t had a turn with it – it had been vanquished by the student ahead of him. He had been wracking his brains, trying to figure out what his might be, but he wasn’t afraid of much in terms of creatures or creepy-crawlies. His fears were different. Abandonment. Suffocation. Loss of control. The death of his mother.

It was actually a very personal thing to a witch or wizard – you didn’t just walk up to someone and ask, “What’s your boggart?” Ron and Hermione had said it was sort of like being naked in public – everyone witnessing you turn into a blibbering puddle of terror, giving them ammunition to torture you if they pleased. It was just a good thing it hadn’t been a double lesson with Slytherin, or the school would have had to shut down. Though she didn’t say, Harry knew Hermione’s new boggart would have been a bowtruckle. Maybe she’d tell them the whole story, the real story, another time.

She couldn’t wait to develop her pictures, though she was disappointed it would have to wait for so long to develop them properly – there were only two full days between today and September 1.

“Ask Colin if he will,” said Harry. “Unless… you have nudes in there. Then don’t.”

“Honestly, there might be,” she said. “Marie stole my camera for a bit – it’s the kind of thing she’d do for a laugh.”

“What, take pictures of you all?” asked Ron, sounding suspiciously interested.

“Yes, because we all just stand around in the nude like river nymphs, waiting for a photographer,” she said waspishly. Harry imagined Hermione draped in a white sheet made transparent by water, her curls wet and cascading over her shoulder. For some reason, he thought of it as a painting in a gallery. He certainly thought her beautiful enough to model, even if he didn’t actually want other people to see her naked.

It also reminded him of that drip of lake water off her nipple, the first time she’d shown them her breasts.

Hermione went on, “No, I mean of herself. It would not surprise me one bit to find a picture of her fanny or arsehole between my shots of otters and campfires just for the shock value.”

Harry and Ron burst out into boyish laughter. Harry decided he really liked Hermione’s friends, for the playful, confident, slightly vulgar side of her they brought out. First leaving them on the shore after calling them her boyfriends, and then… what on earth had possessed her to touch herself like that, and boss them around with specific wants, when she’d always been so shy before? He wasn’t complaining. He just couldn’t wait until she let him and Ron between her legs. That little tease, allowing them to taste her on her own fingers. Unbelievably hot, he thought, licking his lips and swallowing at the memory.

He was very much looking forward to tonight and the two more after. He’d enjoyed sharing a bed with Ron so much he’d already had it in mind to ask her, and then she just asked for it on her own! Three nights would give each of them a turn at being in the middle. Would she let them sleep naked? Would she touch herself again?

In the backseat, Hermione and Ron were snogging again. He squirmed, thinking about at all the possibilities, feeling sweat trickle down his ribs. He had to slam on the brakes when a car merged in front of him suddenly, effectively breaking Ron and Hermione apart. “Sorry,” he said.

Focus, Harry, he told himself. You only need two appendages on the steering wheel.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Hermione considered her mental to-do list. There were only two full days left before leaving on the Hogwarts Express, and while Ron and Harry had all their things stored in the manor, she had left all her school things at her parents’ house. Things between them were so unpleasant that she strongly considered leaving them behind and repurchasing what she needed through owl order, or in Hogsmeade.

It was her fault. She’d been feeling far too happy and confident. She’d let the intrusive thoughts win and announced her relationship with Harry and Ron as she paddled away, laughing her way down the River Wye without any regard for anyone’s feelings but her own. She considered herself very lucky that Ron and Harry thought it was one of the funniest things she’d ever done.

At lights out and out of earshot of Sam and Josie, Hermione’s Guide friends were eager to hear all the salacious, whispered details, which… Hermione was embarrassed to admit that she’d embellished to appear more experienced than she was. It was scandalous, made all the more so by Hermione’s usual primness.

But the nice part was that she didn’t feel judged. Not by them, at least. Her parents… oh, was that another story. She remembered the first call she’d made from a phone box in Hereford – a lot of pleading and tears from her mother, who seemed to believe this was an act of rebellion on Hermione’s part. Her father, however, believed she’d been seduced and held against her will. They both demanded to know if she was pregnant, and, “What about AIDS?” They actually pleaded with her to leave Hogwarts and attend a Muggle school for her last year, which offended Hermione so much she had slammed down the receiver.

The second call had gone even worse. They had done research and brought in legal arguments – Harry and Ron, being under twenty-one, could be prosecuted for homosexual acts, regardless of consent. Bigamy was never going to be legal. They were not amused to hear that magical laws were different, and since neither she, Ron, nor Harry were Muggles and technically did not exist, Muggle law did not apply to them. And then there was a whole lot of arguing back and forth about whether seventeen was really an adult. Hermione lost her composure and shouted into the phone, causing the waiting girls to whip their heads around.

She huffed at the memory. She could try to sneak back in the middle of the night, but that was too much subterfuge for her liking. Well, that was that, then. She’d just buy the things she needed. There was money in her Gringotts vault – they couldn’t take that back, at least. And Harry and Ron both offered to help, if it wasn’t enough.

It was only… there were a few sentimental things she couldn’t just buy… her old diary, her Girl Guide sashes, her photo albums, her letters from Viktor, which she’d kept mostly out of nostalgia. They hadn’t parted on bad terms, and it was a nice confidence boost to remember that he’d noticed her out of all the girls in Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, and Hogwarts, not to mention his Bulgarian teammates… Viktor wasn’t much of a looker, but he did have that accent and he was very skilled and famous. He could have had anyone, and he wanted her.

But he didn’t light her on fire the way Harry and Ron did. He never made her squirm with want, or wake up panting and wet, having to secretly rub one out behind her bedcurtains before even starting her day.

Part of her considered having sex with Harry and Ron just to spite her parents. But that wouldn’t be right, and it didn’t erase her worry about not only pain, but performance. She thought what they had going was a pretty good compromise. But after feeling Harry and Ron’s tongues on her slickened fingers, watching them disappear into their mouths, and having Ron’s palm warm on her knee most of the way home, never inching any higher even though she wished he would, she decided she was going to let them go down on her.

No, not let. I am going to ask. It’s high time I start initiating more. She’d been absolutely gagging for them all week, especially at night and during quiet moments to herself, however sparse those had been, and now that they were going back to school… there would not be another opportunity.

She could worry about her parents later.

 

That first night, a combination of nerves, exhaustion, and her cat kept her from going through with it. She’d had an unfortunate amount of time to overthink, to worry that maybe she wouldn’t taste all that good when they were at the, erm, source, or if even a tongue would cause discomfort inside her. Would they be put off by hair? Should she get rid of it? And what if… well, what if whatever they did was enough to break her hymen, and she bled on them? It was too horrible to think about.

Crookshanks cried on the other side of the shower curtain, upset at this new, however brief, separation. “You’re being dramatic, my darling,” Hermione crooned over the sound of the water. “I won’t be long.” She sighed and tried to tune him out as she washed between her legs and considered what it meant to let someone touch her there. It would require an awful lot of trust. She could fit exactly one finger inside before there was discomfort, and hers were much thinner than Harry’s and Ron’s. There was just no fucking way a penis was going to fit in there without pain.

Jenny said it was only the first time that hurt, which Marie confirmed. Hermione’s stupid book from her mother said the vagina was elastic enough to deliver a baby through, but she’d heard enough whispered conversations about perineal tearing and stitches after her older cousin had a baby to believe it. Hermione wished her chronic need to ask questions would stop failing her whenever there was a grown woman who might actually answer them.

You’re being stupid, she told herself sternly as she towelled off. She did her hair, vowing to never take Sleekeazy for granted again, and walked across the hall to her bedroom wrapped in only a towel and half-wishing one of the boys would be there so she could stop thinking about it. No such luck. Just Crookshanks, following her and purring expectantly. She shut the door behind his bushy tail.  

Now the issue was… what to wear? What did she have that was sexy but not too sexy? Should she put her hair up, in a plait, or leave it down? Should she wear her perfume or would that be overwhelming? “What do you think, Crooks?” she asked her cat.

You’re overthinking again, he seemed to say as she widened her bed with her wand. The sheets smelled like rosemary and forest grove, and she smiled, imagining Harry and Ron cuddling, perhaps missing her. It gave her only the tiniest twinge of loneliness.

All right. Wear your hair up for bed like you always do, and the usual shorts and camisole. You said you just wanted to be held all night, so act like it. It was a bit too early to be changing into pyjamas, but she did it anyway, just wanting to feel comfortable after so many days away from home.

Harry looked up from the kitchen counter and what appeared to be the beginning of a large caprese salad and half a salmon, both of which Hermione eyed with eager anticipation. After nearly a week of tinned and dehydrated meals, something so light and fresh would be heaven.

“I missed your tiny little shorts,” Harry said with a leer.

“And all those pretty little freckles,” Ron said from the dining table, biting his lips as he stared at her collarbones and shoulders. “Thank you for not wearing a bra.”

Crookshanks hissed at them. Hermione rolled her eyes.

So much for “not too sexy.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

In the morning, Harry awoke slowly, not exactly sure where he was or why he felt so happy. As he remembered, his heart began to flutter. Hermione had gone to bed early last night, so exhausted that she was dozing upright in her chair at dinner. Crookshanks’ soothing purr from her lap did not help matters. Ron and Harry had followed later after a quiet agreement that they would not make any moves unless Hermione did first.

This morning, Harry was the littlest spoon, Hermione’s arm thrown over his waist and Ron’s hand warm on his hip. He very carefully and slowly got out of bed so as not to wake them. He liked getting up early to make breakfast for his girlfriend and boyfriend. It was one of his love languages: “I will feed you to keep you healthy and happy.”

After a fond look at them all snuggled up, Harry showered and dressed quickly. When he was done, he bumped into Ron on his way out of the bathroom and his stomach flipped over as Ron lit up at the sight of him. Harry hoped he never stopped looking at him like that. They shared a tender embrace and a kiss before Harry went downstairs, Crookshanks following eagerly for his breakfast.

“Forgiven for last night?” Harry asked the cat as he measured out a scoop of Kitty Krispies into his little ceramic bowl.

“Mrr?” said Crookshanks, and Harry took it to mean “yes.”

Ron came down just as Harry was finishing a cup of coffee and deciding what to make. He hadn’t showered, having done so just the night before, and still smelled like a mix of himself and Hermione’s perfume. Hermione wasn’t up yet, and Harry didn’t usually start breakfast until he heard the creak of her bedroom floorboards. She was fairly predictable in the amount of time it took her to get ready, and Harry always timed it perfectly to be just serving as she came down the stairs. Ron had toast or cereal if he was up early and starving.

But this morning, Harry was starting to get hungry waiting for her. “Is she really not up yet?” he asked Ron, looking at his watch. It was near nine already.

“Aw, let her sleep,” said Ron. “You know she hasn’t gotten much.”

“I know, but she’ll be upset if we let it go on when you know she’s got a to-do list five miles long.”

“We’ll help her and make it go faster.”

“No chance – I intend to be as much of a distraction as possible. God, I missed her,” Harry said as he joined Ron in a bit of toast. Ron was quiet, the only sound the crunch of the toast and the birds out the window.

Finally, he said, “I missed her, too, but… it was nice, wasn’t it? Just having each other to ourselves?”

Harry smiled. “Absolutely,” he said, reaching out to take Ron’s hand. “That was the best part. We’re going to have a lot of time just the two of us, you know, at Hogwarts. Unless they’ve decided to mix the dormitories this year.”

“Here’s hoping,” said Ron, grinning. “Last night was really nice.”

Harry nodded. “Tonight, I want to be in the middle.”

“We’ll vote on it. Can you please just make breakfast? We do know warming charms to keep it hot for her.”

Harry laughed and stood up to get started. He kissed Ron and tousled his hair. “Whatever you say, handsome.”

Ron got himself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter to talk to Harry. They mostly argued about Quidditch and whether England would ever make the Cup, if the Falmouth Falcons were better than the Chudley Cannons, and when to hold tryouts for the Gryffindor team.

“That reminds me,” said Harry, “I heard some gossip about the Holyhead Harpies on the wireless the other day. Wilda Griffiths defected to Puddlemere. Think Katie Bell has a chance of replacing her?”

Ron made a noise of interest. “Well, she’s definitely good enough, but I think…”

“You think what?” said Harry, turning around to see what had made Ron trail off. He immediately understood when he caught sight of Hermione.

She was wearing yet another pretty little dress that had a short skirt and some of the thinnest straps Harry had ever seen. It was as tight as a glove from the neckline to her waist, and… Fuck, are those buttons? Harry thought. Her hair was loosely twisted up, leaving those delicious freckles on her shoulders in full view. She looked sexy and a little bit tousled and Harry forgot how to breathe.

“Is something burning?” she asked, sniffing delicately. She was either completely unaware of her effect on Harry and Ron, or perfectly aware of it and a very good actress.

“Er,” said Harry.

“Oh, honestly,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. He suddenly realised what he must look like, standing as still as a statue with his spatula in mid-air and his eyes popping out, because Ron looked exactly the same, only he held his cup of coffee halfway to his mouth.

“HARRY!” Hermione suddenly shouted, staring at something over his shoulder. “Fire!”

“Fuck!” said Harry and Ron, snapping out of it and taking stock of the flames shooting out of the pan and the thick black smoke furling into the air.

“Anti Ignem,” said Ron, hastily waving his wand. The fire and smoke vanished instantly, leaving a crispy mess of blackened eggs and sausage stuck to the bottom of the pan. Harry stared down into it and sighed.

“That’s entirely your fault, Hermione,” accused Ron.

“My fault?” she said incredulously.

“Yes,” Ron said as Harry dejectedly poked at the remains of what had promised to be a very nice breakfast. “You know how we get when you wear dresses, and that one is hotter than any you’ve worn so far. Even that one with the tie.”

She put her nose in the air. “Don’t blame your lack of control on my fashion choices.”

“What he means,” said Harry, “is that you are very pretty and we’re stupid.”

“How dare you call her pretty,” said Ron, slapping Harry on the chest in a way that made heat flood his stomach. “She’s fucking gorgeous.”

“Oh, stop,” said Hermione with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Well, no matter how you look, I can’t feed you charcoal,” said Harry, tossing the pan into the sink and dusting off his hands. “We’re going out. C’mon, Ron, we’d better change.”

Hermione watched them go upstairs with an unreadable expression.

When they got into their bedroom, Harry pushed Ron against the wall and kissed him full on the mouth.

“Fuck, Harry,” said Ron, his hands on Harry’s hips. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m dying of sexual frustration,” Harry insisted. “Sleeping with you two, that little dress, and then you have to go and do this.” He thumped Ron’s chest in an imitation of how Ron had done it to him downstairs.

“Notes for the future,” said Ron, pulling Harry tightly against him for another kiss. Just briefly, Ron flicked his tongue against Harry’s lower lip. Before Harry could lean into the heat of it, Ron roughly pushed him away. “Save it for later,” he said. “I’m starving.”

They decided to go to one of the village pubs for breakfast. Hermione had put on a little denim jacket and magically lengthened her skirt while the boys were upstairs, pretending it had been that way the whole time when Ron commented on it. Ron had fretted over whether he looked Muggle enough to pass, and Hermione used it as an excuse to smooth his collar and brush a hand over his copper waves before brightly saying, “You’ll do.”

“And me?” Harry murmured to her as she squeezed past him.

“You know you look good; you don’t need anything from me,” she said, patting his chest without sparing him a second glance. Harry gritted his teeth, wondering if she knew what that kind of thing did to him.

“Is this because I burned breakfast?”

“Definitely,” she teased. “And don’t kiss me, or we’ll never get to where we’re going.”

“Can I kiss you?” asked Ron sweetly.

“No,” she breathed. “I mean, later.”

The pub had a brunch menu, which Hermione looked over with a sad expression.

“What’s up?” asked Ron.

She shrugged. “Just… Mum and I used to go out for brunch.” She told them about the phone calls.

“What are aids?” asked Ron. Harry thought it meant the kind of thing Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes sold in its back room – his mother sometimes called them “marital aids” with a wry expression. Hermione gave them both a blank stare, and Harry recognised her signature how-do-I-explain-this-Muggle-thing-to-you? expression.

“It’s… a disease passed through sex or contact with contaminated blood. It’s an acronym for Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome.” She lowered her voice, glancing at the Muggles in the pub and choosing her words carefully. “I don’t know if there is a cure for… our people, or if we can’t contract it. Some people think only gay men can get it, but that’s obviously rubbish.”

She explained the symptoms as best as she could. “I don’t think we can get it,” said Ron, looking grave. “I’ve never heard of anything like that. Have you, Harry?”

Harry shook his head. “No. Mum says we share some minor diseases like the common cold or herpes, but the things that kill … we don’t even contract them. Like cancer.”

“We… we don’t?” she said in breathless shock. “Like, at all?”

Ron shrugged. “Why do you think we can live for so long, Hermione? We’ve got our own diseases, but those are rarely lethal anymore.”

“I… I guess I didn’t think about it that much. My mum’s parents both died of cancer. And… maybe she and Dad will, too.”

Harry reached for her hand under the table. Ron offered his across it. She took them both, looking incredibly upset.

“You can’t know that,” Harry said gently.

“No, I suppose not. But… it could be anything. They… they won’t live as long as we will, and what if something happens to them… while things are still bad between us?”

“They’ll come around,” Ron said bracingly. “They’ve just got to. Parents don’t just give up on their kids.”

Harry said nothing. The truth was, they could and sometimes did. Just because Harry’s father came around eventually, it was not guaranteed that Hermione’s would. James could always leave again.

And I don’t know if I’d forgive him a second time.

They let go of each other so Harry could take their orders to the bar. When he got back to the table, Hermione had both her hands in Ron’s. His large, freckled hands looked strong and protective around her small and delicate fingers. He thought about Ron’s conversation with his father. Perhaps that’s what Mr. Granger would need to understand – that Harry and Ron sought to protect Hermione in ways that he, as a Muggle and even as her father, could not.

She would always be safe with them. They were not out to deflower her and leave her a broken, weeping mess. Harry was offended at the very idea. “Have you spoken to your parents since you got home?” he asked her.

Hermione looked up at the ceiling, her eyes glistening. “Can we talk about something else? Anything else?”

Harry quickly agreed and pressed a kiss to her temple as Ron squeezed her hands. He noticed the waitress give them a funny look as she took another customer’s order. Small village life, thought Harry vaguely.

Over omelettes and quiche, tea and orange juice, and conversations about the weather and listening to more stories of Hermione’s trip, their collective mood lifted.

“I really like your dress, Hermione,” said Ron, staring at her cleavage.

Harry touched her knee under the table.

Hermione let out a shaky breath and murmured, “Maybe I’ll let you underneath it.”

“Really?” said Harry and Ron. Harry watched Ron’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

She nodded, and Harry could feel her trembling even as she squirmed. “Can I say something, though?”

“Anything,” said Harry as Ron said, “Go on.”

Hermione bit her lips. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to ask for my permission all the time. I… I like being spontaneous. You said I could always say no, right?”

“Anytime,” said Ron as Harry nodded. 

“So… the new rule is, what exactly?” asked Harry, wanting to be absolutely clear.

In a voice filled with suggestions, Hermione said, “Do what feels good.” Harry remembered saying those exact words against her skin, lit by firelight and swaying to music.

It was definitely more than Harry had expected, and by the look on Ron’s face, he thought the same. “One thing,” said Ron, very seriously. When he was sure he had Hermione and Harry’s undivided attention, he said, “Promise we’ll say no if it goes too far. All of us. No letting it go on because you think you can’t say it.”

“Promise,” said Harry and Hermione.

 

There is something about a secluded trail in the woods that offers all sorts of possibilities. Hermione made the mistake of taking off her jacket. One of those tiny little straps on her dress fell down as she did, and she didn’t bother to pull it back up.

Harry tripped over a root as he stared. Ron caught him before he went all the way down. Hermione looked over her bare shoulder to give them both a look that was pure heat, then kept walking.

Ron stopped Harry with an open palm to his chest. Harry bit his lips and gave him a you-know-what-that-does-to-me look. She was now about fifty feet ahead of them. Harry noticed she had dissolved whatever spell had lengthened her dress.

“Hermione,” Ron announced loudly, “you’re killing us.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” she said innocently, not turning around.

Ron squared his jaw, flexed his neck, and tore after her. After a split second of hesitation, Harry followed. Hermione whipped around just as Ron caught her and trapped her against a tree. She looked up at him desperately, biting her lips as she squirmed, all her teasing composure gone in an instant. “Hold still,” he said, “or I might accidentally rip your naughty little dress.”

He undid each of those maddening little buttons one by one as Hermione looked down at his hands with dark eyes. When he got to the last one, Ron looked pointedly at Harry.

She didn’t protest when Ron took both Hermione’s hands and roughly pinned them to the tree over her head with one large hand. The position pushed her breasts upward as Harry slid his hands inside her dress, parting the fabric until they were fully exposed and cupped in his hands. He thumbed over both nipples, and she arched her back.

“Stay put,” said Ron, and cast a sticking charm on her wrists, keeping them bound to the tree. He bent low to kiss her and she bit his lip before allowing him to slide his tongue inside her mouth as Harry knelt in front of her and kissed the side of her left breast. She angled her body towards him, and she gasped softly into Ron’s mouth as Harry trailed slow, open-mouthed kisses all over her breasts. She moaned as he drew the tip of her left into his mouth and laved over it with the flat of his tongue. Soon, Ron followed suit, kissing his way down her throat and right side.

“Oh,” whimpered Hermione. Ron wrapped one large hand around her thigh, just above her knee. He walked his fingers upward, under her skirt. When Harry realised what was going on, he sat back on his heels to watch.

Hermione looked at Harry, and the heat in her gaze made his breath catch. She looked incredible like that, her arms above her head, her body flushed and exposed from her neck to her navel. Her lips were red and swollen from Ron’s kisses.

She didn’t look away from Harry as Ron trailed the fingers of his left hand higher. She parted her thighs just slightly. Harry swallowed. He knew he must look slightly mad, flushed and wide-eyed at the scene before him. He was hard and thought about whether he wanted to touch himself while watching Ron do dirty things to her or go back to participating.

Both have their merits, Harry thought, his heart pounding with excitement.

Ron lifted her skirt just a little and Harry caught sight of lacy black knickers. Ron was also flushed underneath the freckles Harry loved so much. Hermione bit her lips and Harry just adored the telltale blush that rose from her chest, fading from deep red into pink along her neck and cheeks.

“Hermione,” Ron groaned as he thumbed aside her knickers. “You’re practically dripping.”

“I know,” she said with only the smallest bit of embarrassment. “It’s all your fault. Both of you.”

Hearing her say that did something to Harry and he knelt in front of her again. He ran one hand up the back of her thigh and the other between her legs.

“Jesus,” Harry said. She was, indeed, wet enough to leave a spot on the front of her knickers. Ron’s thumb swiped her clit in a slow, up-and-down motion, rendering Hermione momentarily speechless.

But when Harry slid his hand up over her arse, she found her voice again. “Please,” she begged in a whisper, squirming against Ron’s thumb. “Please, take them off.”

Harry hesitated for just a second. Did she really mean it? Was that conversation at breakfast really all it took for her? She’s trusting you, he told himself, so you should trust her back that she means what she says.

“And what shall we do once we have?” asked Harry in a low, teasing voice that sounded far more confident and cool than he felt. He slid her knickers all the way to her ankles, where she helpfully stepped out of them. Acting on both whim and a recurring fantasy, Harry tucked them into Ron’s pocket. Ron chuckled – that low, sensual rumble that always made Harry’s cock twitch.

“Put your mouths on me,” she said, and shivered. Harry could have come on the spot just hearing her say that. Don’t you dare, he thought to himself. Do not fuck this up; not when you’ve been dreaming about it for Morgana knows how long.

Ron eyed her hands and said, “Let’s put you down, first.” Harry was already conjuring a blanket nest. Ron removed the sticking charm and gently rubbed sensation back into her arms and hands. There was something sweet and tender about the gesture – Ron taking care of her even as he trembled with anticipation. She winced at the pins and needles sensation, but looked up at Ron gratefully. He kissed the tips of her fingers, then bent to kiss her mouth.  

“Harry first,” said Ron as he lay Hermione down on the blanket.

Hermione nodded fervently. “Agreed.”

“What?” said Harry, as surprised as he was pleased. “I’ve never done it – I thought you’d want Ron –”

“Harry, have you ever seen yourself eating a plum?” interrupted Hermione impatiently.

“Oh,” said Harry.

 

Hermione’s nerves were a mere tremor in the earthquake of her eagerness. In truth, she didn’t care that much who went first, only that it happened soon, before she could overthink. Heat curled low in her belly, making her impatient. Ron sat cross-legged to watch, his cock already hard and in his hand as he stroked it languidly. She wondered if it would take him long.

And then she forgot about everything else as Harry looked at her that way as he lay down between her legs and pushed up her skirt. His gaze as he put his mouth on her for the first time removed any and all hesitation on her part.

Harry was slow, and Hermione had to remind herself that this was his first time, too, though if she hadn’t known it, she never would have guessed, he made her feel so good. He explored her with his lips first – little kisses, closed-mouthed at first, becoming more and more heated as Hermione gasped and moaned with every movement, especially when he made the same noise of pleasure in the back of his throat that he had the first time he’d tasted her on her own fingers.

When he ran his tongue along her labia, Hermione could no longer focus on watching him. Her head fell back and she closed her eyes, losing herself to sensation. She couldn’t believe she’d made them wait for this. Now she wasn’t going to want anything else. Her hands clenched in the blankets.

When the tip of Harry’s tongue touched her clit, her hips bucked up against his face. “Sorry,” she whispered, mortified.

“Don’t be,” said Harry. He pressed low on her abdomen with one warm palm to keep her in place. It was a new sensation, one she didn’t know she liked until now. Harry’s hand somehow both relieved and increased the pressure building inside her.

“Fuck, this is hot,” murmured Ron to himself as Harry resumed. Harry chuckled against her, the sound vibrating briefly against her clit. Hermione squirmed as he experimented between her legs, learning what she liked. Were he to ask her, she wouldn’t be able to say – she liked all of it. The long licks, the short nips, the gentle suction on her clit… It was all new and exciting and she felt sexy in the way only Harry and Ron could make her feel. She didn’t know what she was so worried about – this was wonderful.

Hermione was so wrapped up in the pleasure of it, she didn’t even flinch when Harry gently slid his smallest finger inside her. It felt amazing, the slight stretch, the way he went slowly, with shallow movements in and out. “Oh, my god,” she whimpered. It was all so much – overwhelming in the best way.

Ron watching only elevated the experience. She turned her head to stare at him as Harry brought her closer and closer to orgasm. His eyes were dark, lips twitching involuntarily as he stroked himself towards his own release. Something inside Hermione gave her the audacity say, “Don’t come.”

“Rude,” Harry said, licking his lips and looking up at her.

Seeing her own arousal on his mouth and the way her thighs spread on either side of his face did things to her and she bit back a moan.

“I want him alert when it’s his turn,” said Hermione, not sure where she found the confidence to be so demanding when she had no idea what she was doing. When Harry dipped his head again and pressed his tongue firmly against her clit, she couldn’t speak at all. His finger slipped out of her and she almost protested, until she felt him press another inside. Possibly his middle or index. She could feel herself stretch around him again, but it was entirely pleasurable.

Ron let go of himself, but he looked very cranky about it. Hermione laughed lazily and held out her hand to him. “I promise I’ll take care of you,” she said as he gripped her hand tightly. “Just be patient.”

“So you want me to just… sit here?” Ron asked as Harry chuckled.

“You can take my dress off, if you want,” she said. The way the skirt was bunching up behind her lower back was becoming uncomfortable, and the friction of the open bodice against her nipples was a bit much. And the idea of being fully naked, while the boys were fully clothed… well, there was something decidedly delicious about that.

Harry made a noise of protest as Hermione sat up so Ron could take her dress by the hem and peel it off of her. Harry lifted his palm off her abdomen, but he didn’t remove his finger from inside her. Index, then, she thought.

Not once had Hermione felt the need to say “no.” Especially not now, completely exposed, nipples peaked, wet and squirming with want. Ron tossed her dress aside and lay down beside her, his arm behind her head. Gently, he used his other hand to stroke along her jaw. She turned her face to him, and he kissed her gently.

As Harry lowered his head again to lave over her clit, Ron walked his fingers down her neck, resting his freckled palm against her flushed chest, feeling her heartbeat, where Hermione laced her fingers overtop his. He continued to kiss her as her hips moved against Harry’s insistent mouth. Harry now had both arms hooked around her thighs, holding her against him as he increased the pressure of his tongue. Briefly, he moved it lower to dip inside her, and she moaned against Ron’s lips.

And when Ron moved to kiss her neck, right in that spot she liked, it was all over for Hermione. Her hips jerked up, hard, as her orgasm consumed her. She cried out softly, more like a pleading whimper than anything. Ron laughed, low and satisfied. Harry held her against him through every wave, every shiver, reluctant to take his mouth off her.

Hermione had never felt more alive, had never come in a way that made her both completely satiated and yet wanting more, for it to never end. And then she remembered that it didn’t have to end yet – she had a second partner, just as eager and willing to give her a second climax.

“Don’t be greedy, mate,” Ron admonished Harry, who now kissed Hermione all along her thighs as intermittent little spasms continued to make her shiver. “Budge up.”

 

Ron laughed as Harry huffed. He reluctantly sat up so Ron could take his place between Hermione’s legs. Before he could move fully out of the way, Ron grabbed Harry roughly by the chin and kissed him, seeking to taste Hermione on his lips and tongue. Even better than before, thought Ron, his eyes fluttering closed. I can taste them both this way.

“You should kiss her,” Ron whispered directly into Harry’s ear. “If she wants.”

Harry shivered and kissed him one more time, grinning at him in the way that always made Ron want to give him whatever he asked for.

“Come on, no secrets,” Hermione complained, breathing heavily and her chest flushed red from her first orgasm. With his hand over her heart, Ron had felt the exact second she’d come, that spike in rhythm and the sudden wash of heat over her skin. And now it was his turn to do that to her. Ron smiled with anticipation.

Harry moved to hold Hermione just as Ron had, his crooked arm pillowing her head and the fingers of his other hand moving over her breasts, as if playing chords and trills on the keys of a piano.

“He says I should kiss you,” Harry murmured. Ron watched for a moment, curious as to Hermione’s reaction. By the way her lips moved hungrily against Harry’s, how her tongue sought to taste herself, Ron knew she liked it. He smirked, satisfied that his suggestion had been a good one. He admired Hermione, fully naked before him, all the places he’d longed to see open to his gaze and his touch.

He brushed his fingers through the dark hair between her legs. He noticed her labia and around her clit were bare, as if this was something she’d anticipated and planned for. The very idea made him smile with a primitive sort of pride. She wanted them as much as they wanted her, as much as they wanted each other.

As Harry kissed and touched Hermione, her hips began to move in a sensual rhythm that had Ron dripping pre-come. She was so wet, both from herself and Harry, and Ron decided he’d spent enough time looking. He lay down prone between her thighs, feeling both pleasure and discomfort as his weight pressed his erection between himself and the blanket. There would be a wet spot there later.

At the first touch of his tongue, Hermione moaned and Ron felt her left foot arch against his side. He tried very hard to focus only on Hermione, despite his own secret insecurities that she would like it just as little as Lavender had. But her sighs and moans and movements were all very encouraging, and Ron became more and more confident as he brought her back up from resolution to plateau.

He loved the taste of her, the trace of Harry’s mouth and fingers left on her slickened skin. He knew why Harry hadn’t wanted to stop – Ron could do this all day if Hermione would let him. He placed the very tip of his index finger at her opening, testing her resistance. It slid easily inside her, though Ron could feel she hadn’t been exaggerating – she was very tight. She clenched around him and he began to withdraw, worried he had hurt her, but she said, “Please don’t stop. That feels so good.”

Ron flicked his tongue over her clit just as he curled his finger inside her. “Ah!” said Hermione, her hips bucking up against his face. But he didn’t hold her down like Harry had. He wanted her to move against him, to mitigate the sensation and pressure that would be far more intense now that she’d already come once.

Her climax came faster the second time, but Ron was not disappointed. It made him feel incredibly masculine and sexy, that he could make her feel like this, her body spasming around his finger and against his tongue. He loved the way she sounded when she came, high and breathy and uncontrolled. She wasn’t loud, not by any means, but she was genuine, and that fact more than anything else had Ron trembling and eager for relief.  

“Oh my god,” Hermione said, and Ron sat up. He looked at her for a moment, satisfied at how her pupils were so dilated her eyes were almost black, how she was flushed from her breasts to her hairline with a light sheen of sweat on her skin. His cock twitched at the sight of Harry’s long fingers resting on her stomach, at the knowing expression on his face when he looked between Hermione and Ron. When Ron lightly rested his palm on Hermione’s thigh, she shivered again.

He stretched out to lay next to her, resting his head on his crooked arm and entwining his fingers with Harry’s on the blanket above Hermione’s head. She rolled to kiss him, lazily running her tongue along his lower lip, tasting herself as her fingers caressed the hair at the nape of his neck.

“So… that thing you said, about taking care of me?” asked Ron hopefully, making Hermione and Harry laugh.

 

Hermione was as good at her word, but she took them back to the cottage first. She chuckled as Harry and Ron worked to put her dress back to rights, Ron slipping it over her head and arranging the skirt while Harry buttoned it back up neatly. When Ron tried to give her knickers back, she’d smirked and said, “Keep them. They look better in your pocket.” And then she’d led them back to her bed, where she stripped and sucked them off one at a time, then let them rest while she went about to do whatever she had on her list for the day. Harry wondered how she managed to stay so alert.

“The difference between men and women, mate,” Ron said, before rolling over onto his side and heaving a deep sigh of satiation.

She could have pulled me by the dick all the way around the lake and I wouldn’t have complained, Harry thought. He lay with his fingers laced behind his head, looking up at the ceiling and listening to Ron’s peaceful breaths, the birdsong and chirring insects outside the window. He was really going to miss this place. The thought of leaving the cottage empty and shuttered for nine months made him feel guilty, as if he were abandoning a pet he’d promised to care for.

He thought about going back to Hogwarts, where he and Ron would be separated only by bedcurtains, while Hermione would be cut off from them, guarded by an overzealous dormitory staircase that detected penises (or something). Where they would have to pretend they were not together. “We’re just friends; thank you for asking.”

That was the worst part. The longer they were together, the more wrong it felt to hide. Even when it caused problems with parents. At some point, you just had to be honest. To live your life authentically.

It’s time to tell Mum, he thought with a tremor of the heart, and hope she’ll understand… that I’m living my life and finding love on my own terms.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“Do you have everything you need?” Hermione said into the receiver.

“Yes, Mum,” came Louise’s comfortable reply. “And yes, I have a ride to the station, and yes, I do know the platform number, and yes, I do have a jumper, because I know the Scottish Highlands are chilly.”

“Right,” said Hermione. “Sorry. I can’t help myself.”

Louise laughed. “It’s fine. I’d take you over my own mum any day.”

Hermione smiled, but didn’t go down that road. She knew how little Louise liked talking about her home life, and it wasn’t because she had been hiding that she was a witch. She’d been forced to call her stepfather “Dad” despite only knowing him for a year. In fact, he was the fifth or sixth “Dad” she’d had, not including her biological father.

“There was a totally different reason I wanted to call, actually,” said Hermione. “Erm, about me and my –”

“Boyfriends, yes,” Louise interrupted, sounding both intrigued and amused.

“Yes,” said Hermione, unable to stop the smile that bubbled up just from the mere thought of Ron and Harry. “Well, it’s just that… we’re not exactly open about our relationship at school.”

“I figured as much. Don’t worry, I won’t tell. Cross my heart. But you know, almost nobody at Beauxbatons would have blinked an eye.”

“Yes, the sexual freedom of Europe; I get it.”

“Everyone is sexually free except moi. You’ll have to give me a list of who’s available at Hogwarts. This is going to be my year, Hermione – I’m going to finally catch a boyfriend.”

“I’ll conjure you a net,” smirked Hermione.

“No need – I nicked David’s fishing net. Think it’s big enough to catch the average Hogwarts boy?” David was her stepfather – she never called him “Dad” behind his back.

“Maybe one of the Creevey brothers – they’re small.”

“You act like you’re joking, but I’m not picky.”

Hermione thought about it. Colin was actually very sweet and adorably passionate about photography. He just didn’t do it for Hermione. She really did like her Quidditch players.

“I just hope you’re in Gryffindor,” Hermione said for maybe the fiftieth time.

“Oh, I don’t know, Hermione; it will probably be good for us to get some distance.”

“Shut up,” said Hermione, smiling. “Lavender and Parvati might not be so bad, but it’s awful that they’re my boyfriends’ exes. They still compare them sometimes and it drives me insane. I need a buffer. New blood in the mix.”

“Selfish, you are. What about my needs?”

They laughed together. Hermione hadn’t realised just how much she needed another girl in her corner. Someone who just got her. They already had a (mostly joking) plan to round up the Muggleborn and half-blood girls and start a new Guides group. They would lean into all the Muggle stereotypes about witches and bring their cats and owls along and call them their familiars. It was fun to imagine, even if it would never actually happen. They talked about it for so long, Hermione had to put more coins into the phone.

“I’ll bring my badge sash, and we’ll come up with new ones just for us,” said Louise. “Wouldn’t it be wild if we could actually tell the other girls, and Sam and Josie, what we are?”

Hermione’s heart twisted at the idea. “It would,” she said. “But you know why we can’t.”

“I do,” said Louise. “But you know what? Fuck the status quo. Who is going to know if we at least keep in touch? Does the Ministry wire-tap every phone in the UK?”

“No, but some of them do work in Muggle post offices.”

“Well, that’s what codes are for,” laughed Louise. “I meant it about my sash, though. You really should bring yours. Even if we’re the only ones doing it.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Ron was ready. He was so ready. He had his St. Mungo’s folio and the new medical textbooks Harry had bought him as a “just because” present packed carefully in a corner of his trunk. He could not wait to get his lemon-yellow robes on the first day of his internship. His first day would be on the second weekend of term and he was nearly crawling out of his own skin with excitement.

He couldn’t decide which aspect of Healing he was most looking forward to. He very much enjoyed reading about the various systems of the body – nervous, circulatory, muscular, skeletal, and reproductive were his favourites so far, but honestly… there were so many things, he could easily change it up every couple of years and never get bored.

Ron looked over his trunk once again, running down his Hogwarts list and confirming that yes, he had everything. He flipped the lid shut and snapped the fasteners closed. He levitated it and took it out of the second-floor bedroom they’d been storing all their things in, down the back staircase that used to be for servants back when the “upstairs, downstairs” mentality had been a thing.

His trunk followed him out the front door and as he passed the English garden, where Mrs. Potter was cutting stalks of lavender. She hummed like a happy little honeybee as she put them in an old-fashioned herb basket. She waved at him, and he set his trunk down to walk over.

“My mum makes biscuits with lemon and lavender,” Ron said. “Is that what you’re planning?”

“No,” she said with a smile that Ron was starting to feel was just for him. “Fleamont is trying his hand at changing the scent of his concoctions and I’m just bringing him some flowers. I’ll get some roses and jasmine later, maybe a little heliotrope. I don’t really bake with lavender, or rose for that matter. It can be overpowering if you don’t get it right. Are you all packed?”

“Yep,” said Ron comfortably. “Got everything for Hogwarts and St. Mungo’s; just need to get my broom from the shed and give Doug a bath.” Doug, being a burrowing owl, was delightfully disgusting. He lived in a hole underneath the porch lined with his own faeces and ate the dung beetles it attracted. It was lucky he actually liked being washed and dried all the time – Hermione had turned a bit green when Ron explained why, though she couldn’t deny his little piping noises were adorable.

“I’ll pack you a lunch for the train,” Mrs. Potter said, patting his arm fondly. “And you should take some of my flowers and herbs; even ordinary things like rosemary and lavender have healing properties.”

“Rosemary boosts circulation, right?”

“And lavender speeds wound healing and aids sleep. Very good!” Ron followed Mrs. Potter around amiably, holding the basket for her and letting her pat his cheek or bicep whenever she felt like it. He knew Harry could get impatient with her fussing, but Ron didn’t mind at all. It wasn’t even the galleons she slipped him – he just liked the undivided attention and spending time with her, soaking up her knowledge about plants and listening to embarrassing stories about Harry. Both his grandmothers had died long ago. He had only vague memories of them – wrinkled hands and soft waists, but he couldn’t remember which of them snorted when she laughed and which one still had all of her red hair.

Sometimes Mrs. Potter had Ron help with her scrapbooks, and he thought it was so cute when she got caught up in her memories, touching the edges of the photographs and smiling down fondly at them. She put in little dried sprigs of herbs and flowers as decoration between them, and wrote her captions in a fine, copperplate hand. Mrs. Potter would laugh at herself when she got her photos of Harry and James mixed up, which made Ron think he was definitely the better choice to help her with this than Harry. Harry hated comparisons and any reminder of how they looked so similar.

Ron couldn’t deny it was true, but it was Harry’s eyes and the way he carried himself that made all the difference. There was a sharp intelligence in James’ hazel eyes, but Harry’s were fathoms deep with intense emotion. Sometimes it was hard to look at Harry – his gaze could be so compelling when he wanted something. Morgana preserve us if he ever decides to start a cult, Ron thought.

Harry had an easy, loose walk that was sexy and confident, and Ron loved watching him from behind. Even in those stupid school robes, he managed to wear them like there was absolutely nothing underneath them. And the silly sod wasn’t even aware of his own magnetism. Ron had been so sure Hermione had liked Harry much more just by the way she would watch him, not realising that she would watch Ron just as intently when he wasn’t looking.

She recently said she liked his shoulders and his arse, and had patted him familiarly on the bottom as he walked past her. He did not want to admit just then how much it did to him. They were not at that stage yet. He suspected she and Harry both had some hangups there, but Ron could be patient when he wanted to be, especially if the payout was worth it.

You should not be thinking about that while gadding about with Harry’s gran, he chided himself.

As much as Ron was looking forward to going back to school (when had that happened?), he was really going to miss summer. He loved Hermione’s little dresses that drove him crazy and those shirts that emphasized Harry’s collarbones and that delicious little hollow between them. He would miss the easy affection they all shared, the little touches and glances, not to mention all the nudity and oral sex.

Stop that, he reminded himself again as Mrs. Potter told a story about the time Harry had gotten stung by a bee when he was three years old and decided to run through her rosemary plants. “Lily scolded him for crushing them, and said getting stung was a ‘natural consequence,’ but she was being too hard on him. He was only a baby, after all.”

Ron didn’t think calmly teaching a toddler to be careful was being hard on him at all, but he said nothing. He remembered the day he’d fallen into a rosebush and his Mum had actually kissed his scratches before healing them in a rare show of patience. She’d even given him a cuddle and a biscuit. A lemon and lavender one, he remembered. That’s probably why I like them so much.

What’s taking you so long to talk to me, Mum? he thought sadly. I didn’t really break your heart, did I?

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Hermione gave up and resorted to subterfuge. She just couldn’t justify spending money on duplicates of her school supplies, and Louise helped her realise that it would hurt to leave her most sentimental treasures behind. Not that she usually took them to Hogwarts, but she felt a need to cling more strongly to the things that comforted her. It would take a special sort of courage to sleep alone again, to pretend she was single while her boys were only separated by a few feet every night. Perhaps they’d sneak into each other’s beds while she remained lonely.

The only fellow students who knew for certain about their unorthodox relationship were Ginny and Louise. Hermione fully trusted Louise with her life, and knew Ginny would keep it to herself, but Hermione was hyperaware that accidental tongue slips were a thing. While Harry was very confident in the power of the Map, his Cloak, and the mirrors to aid in sneaking around, Hermione felt all it would take was one unguarded glance, one overheard conversation, for everyone to know what they were to each other.

She could forget about Head Girl and all her career ambitions if that happened. Ron could forget about the internship, perhaps Healing altogether, and as for Harry, parents would not want their children to be taught by a professor living an “alternative lifestyle.”

So the solution is to live a double life for… what, as long as we’ll live? Hermione wished she had Ron’s gift of not overthinking, his we’ll-cross-that-bridge-when-we-come-to-it mentality. But he wasn’t the only one who didn’t seem to understand the full extent of what being three meant – Harry would not suffer for lack of work. He had security in family wealth. His mother and his grandparents, especially his grandmother, would never disown him for something like this. He would never be destitute based on someone else’s disapproval.

Hermione knew she was privileged, too, though her parents had made, not inherited, their own wealth. As such, they had done their best to teach her the value of working for money. They would not give her handouts, especially now that she had disappointed them so thoroughly. She hadn’t spoken to them once since that last phone call. She hadn’t tried, afraid that they would refuse her calls. At least this way, she could wrap herself up with indignation. This way, it wasn’t her fault.

And now, here she was, just after dark, getting ready to sneak into the place that had been her home for nearly eighteen years like a fucking thief with Harry’s Cloak tucked into her pocket and a list of all the things that were going to go wrong running through her head. She should be getting ready to go to sleep with her boyfriends on their second to last night together, maybe getting eaten out, and not doing… whatever this was.

“You know, you don’t have to do this,” Hermione said nervously to Fred and George.

“Are you joking, Hermione?” asked George, rubbing his hands together with excitement. “We wouldn’t dream of missing out!”

“This is what we live for!” said Fred, putting his hand over his heart. “And once it’s all over and you want to thank us, I wouldn’t say no to a little ki– ouch!”

Ron had punched Fred’s shoulder, making George laugh. He clapped his little brother on the back and said, “Enough horseplay. Let’s go before Dad notices Angie’s missing.”

Chapter 21: To Know Your Heart

It was absolutely the most ridiculous caper they’d ever attempted, but Hermione could not talk the boys out of it. “This is so stupid,” she said for perhaps the fiftieth time from the back seat of the Ford Anglia that belonged to Mr. Weasley. Stupid and deeply unnerving – she may as well have been a floating pair of eyeballs in the sky. She was doing her best to pretend she was just in an aeroplane. She was not looking down through the invisible floor at the dark countryside and city lights far, far below.

She could feel Ron on one side of her and knew George was on the other, against the window. The backseat had been magically stretched to the size of a park bench and could comfortably fit at least five Weasley children. Harry, under Fred’s guidance, was driving, not that she could see either one of them. She heard Fred chuckle.

“We’re all ears for a better idea,” said Ron’s voice.

“No, you’re not!” she exclaimed. “I had a perfectly sensible plan to apparate in and take the Knight Bus home, but noo-oo-oo, that was too practical. You had to involve your brothers, and it just had to be a dodgy flying car!”

The car suddenly lurched sideways and threw her against George. “It doesn’t even have seatbelts!” she shouted, knowing full well it was the car itself that had done it, and not Harry. She was too annoyed to care.

“She doesn’t mean it,” said Fred’s voice soothingly, and it sounded like he was patting the dashboard. “She’s just cross.”

“For good reason! Next time, I’m staying on the ground, where I belong!” Quidditch players, she thought angrily. No regard for their own safety or mortality, or anyone else’s, for that matter. Why the fuck did I say “yes?”

…It was because of Harry’s “please” face, and they all knew it.

“Did you hear, Fred? She said, ‘next time,’ ” said George with a smirk in his voice.

“You know what I mean,” she said, and crossed her arms over her chest.

As the crow flies, it shouldn’t have been a terribly long drive (er, flight?) to London, but it was made a bit complicated by the fact that the invisibility function wasn’t exactly stable. She startled as they all suddenly popped back into existence over a large farmhouse with an obviously homemade satellite dish.

“I think that Muggle saw us,” said Harry nervously.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Hermione. “He was wearing a foil hat.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” asked Ron.

Hermione started to explain that they had probably just made the man’s lifelong ambition and absolutely no one sensible would believe him, but she was distracted by Harry’s ungainly landing on a deserted country road.

“Good call,” said Fred knowledgeably. “You can dip back up when the invisibility comes back on. I think it just gets overheated – we don’t usually take it this far.”

This could already be done by now, Hermione thought, but she didn’t say a word.

“Let me drive on the way back,” said Ron.

“You don’t know how,” said Fred easily.

“And whose fault is that? I’ve been asking for years for you to teach me, or at least let me try!”

The three Weasleys bickered with each other for an annoying amount of time, making Hermione glad for once that she was an only child. She wondered what Harry thought.

Just as they were approaching a single carriageway, they all disappeared again, and Harry drove back up into the sky. She did have to admit (but only to herself) that there was something very, very sexy about a man who could drive well. Other than their surprise landing, their journey had been smooth.

Hermione’s thoughts were interrupted when she felt Ron’s hand on her thigh and his lips whispering, “Shh,” against her ear.

How the fuck does he know exactly which parts of me are where when we’re both invisible? she thought. She closed her eyes and allowed him to slowly walk his fingers up under the hem of her shorts. Maybe it would help her relax. It was dark enough that it would probably be fine if the invisibility failed again.

You slag, she thought to herself, letting your boyfriend stealth finger you in the backseat of a car. What’s happened to you?

Whatever it was, she liked it. There were plenty of opportunities to be prim, perfect, prudish little Hermione, and now was not one of them. She clamped her mouth shut, pulled one knee up to her chest, and let her head rest against the invisible seat back as Ron did naughty things with those deft fingers of his.

All too soon, they were hovering over her parents’ house in Hampstead. “Moment of truth, Hermione,” said George on her left, and Ron took his hand away from her.

“You don’t expect me to just rappel down midair, do you?” she asked incredulously.

“Don’t worry, Hermione, I’ve got a harness that will hold us both. But you’ll have to put your arms around my neck and your legs around my– OUCH! Will you quit that?!” It sounded as though someone had slapped Fred on the back of the skull.

“Wasn’t me,” Ron said comfortably.

“It was me,” said Harry irritably.

Hermione strongly considered actually going down with Fred. She didn’t really like him that way, save for his slight resemblance to Ron, but she did like the attention, which she knew was mostly for show. And maybe it would make Harry and Ron consider more carefully the next time they wanted to get Fred and George involved.

But when she allowed herself to look straight down onto the roof, she felt like she might be sick. She began to tremble against Ron.

“Put Angie down in the drive, Harry,” said Ron.

“Can do,” said Harry amiably as he complied. When he killed the engine, the car and everyone in it were visible again.

All the windows of the house were dark, indicating that her parents had gone to bed. It was very unlikely they would wake – her father slept deeply and her mother wore earplugs, but Hermione wasn’t about to get caught sneaking around her old bedroom with one or both of the boys that had caused so much trouble. “Let me go in alone,” she implored. “Please. Even if I do get caught, they won’t attack me.”

She thought she heard Harry mumble, “Physically, anyway,” but couldn’t be sure.

Hermione patted his shoulder as Ron quietly opened the door and slid into the warm night air. Hermione shook her hair back and put on Harry’s Invisibility Cloak. She took a deep breath at the front door before using her wand to unlock it and slip inside.

Perhaps for the last time, Hermione walked through her childhood home. The house with too many bedrooms that were once filled with hopes for siblings, hopes that slowly died over the years. Her mum was always very private about her own struggles, but Hermione was an observant girl and knew what those trips to hospital meant. Hermione wondered, if those brothers or sisters had made it to term, would the things she did matter quite so much? Would her achievements be lost amidst theirs, like Ron’s had been with his siblings? Would her faults and mistakes be more easily forgiven?

You’d think it would make Mum and Dad more appreciative of the child that did make it, she thought miserably, shutting the door to her old bedroom behind her and flipping on the light. Is loving my best friends really bad enough to throw me away? They’d always liked and trusted Harry and Ron – they barely made a fuss when I went to live with them. Maybe they thought they were gay, and I’d be “safe” from them. Well, the truth turned out to be a bit more complicated than that.

As Hermione used her wand to gather her things, a song from one of her favourite princess films began in her head. “Look at this stuff – isn’t it neat?” She had thought, more than once, about Ariel and her father. How she’d cried out, “Daddy, I love him!” and he’d gone on to viciously destroy all her treasures. That ominous and foreboding, “SO BE IT!” always gave her chills. As Hermione grew older, she realised just how fucked up that scene was, for Triton to rip his daughter’s heart out, to treat her curiosity and search for knowledge as the gravest of sins. She’d spent her whole life filling that cave with wondrous things she’d risked her life to get.

But when Hermione was little, it barely registered. It was just part of the story, and her dad had given her legs and attended her wedding in the end, so it was all okay! That’s the nature of a child’s love, she thought. They blindly trust their parents to make things turn out all right, and just as blindly forgive their faults… Oh.

She covered her face with her hands. You have been monstrously unfair to Harry.

It didn’t take her long to pack up her room. Hermione had already taken most of her books and clothes and CDs to the lakeside cottage, bringing more and more back each time she visited her parents or went to a Girl Guide meeting. She had long since given away her old dolls and cuddly toys, save a little raven she’d gotten from the Tower of London on a school trip. It was already packed into her school trunk, one of her little reminders of her Muggle roots.

She took the photographs on the walls but left the bedding and furniture, her jigsaw puzzles and board games that she’d long outgrown, the flute under her bed that she’d quit once she started Hogwarts, and after some deliberation, the posters that she got through the library’s summer reading program that depicted famous book covers. Her favourite was Matilda. It was the book that had encouraged her to try doing magic, that had told her, “Yes, there is something different and wonderful about you.” Well, maybe I’ll keep that one, she thought, and rolled it up like a scroll of parchment. It left a rectangle of brightly patterned wallpaper behind, emphasizing just how many years it had hung there.

“Well, goodbye,” she whispered, taking one last look at the room that had housed her for most of her seventeen-and-eleven-twelfths years. When she’d had her fill, she flipped off the light and took her trunk with her.

Shortly after George turned on the engine and the car and all its occupants disappeared, as it rose into the air, Hermione saw a light go on in her parents’ bedroom. Her father’s silhouette came to the window, and Hermione was surprised by the surge of emotion that filled her chest.

Without realising it, she reached out her hand, but it only knocked against the invisible window.

 

Harry and Ron held Hermione between them in the backseat as George drove home, his twin in the front seat to help navigate. There had been no point lying to Fred and George about why they went out to Hermione’s home to steal her things in the middle of the night. It took very little explanation – they’d shown up at WWW and Ron had announced, “Hermione, Harry, and I are in a relationship. Her parents don’t approve and we need Angie to get her stuff.”

“Knew it,” Fred had said to George. “Cough up.” 

“I never took that bet, you prat!”

“Worth a shot,” grinned Fred. He sighed theatrically. “But it breaks my heart, knowing I wasn’t enough for Hermione.”

Now, nobody said anything. There was only the sound of the air rushing over the outside of the car and the rumble of the engine. As they flew over the northwest edge of Oxford, the invisibility went out again and George landed in a field.

He turned off the engine and he and Fred twisted around to peer into the back seat. “Cheer up, Hermione,” George said bracingly. “Take it from us, who are nothing but disappointments – parents go through a process.”

“First, denial,” said Fred. “ ‘No, not our precious darling! She would never!’ ”

“Second, bargaining,” said George. “ ‘Please come home, dear – we’ll buy you a pony to help you forget those nasty boys!’ ”

Hermione snorted as Fred went on. “Third! Anger!” He mimed boxing as he bellowed, “ ‘HOW COULD THEY! THOSE BEASTS! I’LL GIVE THEM THE WHAT FOR!’ ”

“Fourth, depression – ‘We’ll never see our precious baby again! Woe! Misery! Anguish!’ ”

“And finally, acceptance,” said Fred, blinking owlishly. “ ‘If you want two in your mouth at once, darling, then we’re very happy for you. Your mother can give you advice from her university days.’ ”

Hermione let out a shocked squeal before joining Harry and Ron in raucous laughter. Ron rubbed her back as she rolled against Harry, tears running down her cheeks. “She – she would never,” she wheezed.

George smirked. “Sounds like you’re in denial. Nobody thought you would, either, Miss Perfect – you had to learn it from somewhere.”

Fred lit a cigarette with his wand and drew on it deeply. “Here, love,” he said, holding it out between two fingers to Hermione. Harry scowled as she took it, still giggling off and on.

“Why does knowing she’s ours now not make any difference to you?” Ron asked angrily as he rolled down the window.  

Fred laughed. “What do you think? I always knew she was yours. Can’t blame a bloke for trying.”

Harry half expected Hermione to protest, to say something like she didn’t belong to anyone, but she didn’t. She just snuggled between him and Ron.

As he lit up his own cigarette, George said seriously, “You should know, though, that every smarmy bastard will try it on with you, Hermione, not just harmless gents like my business partner here. Once they know.”

Hermione went very still, seeming to withdraw inside herself. “We’re not telling people,” Harry said.

“And I’ll hex anyone that tries,” said Ron darkly.

“That’s the spirit,” said Fred, passing more cigarettes around. “Always be ready for a spot of violence.”

 

“You can be in the middle again, Hermione,” Ron said as he stripped down to his pants. Harry stretched and yawned, and Ron was momentarily mesmerised by the glimpse of his abs when his shirt lifted.

“Are you sure?” said Hermione. “We agreed – three nights, so everyone gets a chance to be in the middle… and Harry wanted next.”

Ron and Harry looked at each other. “We want you in the middle,” said Harry. He didn’t need to say why – over nine months of school, with only Christmas and Easter holidays to offer any chance at sleeping with her again.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have started,” Hermione mused sadly as she doused the lamps with her wand and they all three lay on their backs, their hands and shoulders touching, “because now I’m just going to miss you even worse.” Crookshanks curled up on Hermione’s pillow.

Ron was exhausted and just wanted to sleep. Fred and George had finally let him drive for the last stretch, but since it was his first time ever driving, and because they were so high up in the air, he’d been overly tense, and now his body was feeling the aftereffects.

So he was annoyed when Harry and Hermione kept talking. Ron rolled over with his back to Hermione and his face to the window and considered asking them to shut up, but Harry’s tone changed, and it made him listen. “Hermione,” Harry said, as if something had only just occurred to him, “are you… do you have a thing for… girls? At all?”

Hermione was quiet. Ron rolled back over to look at her, but got a face full of Crookshanks’ tail instead. He spat fur out as quietly as he could while Hermione cautiously asked, “Why are you asking me this?”

“I dunno,” Harry mumbled. “It’s just… I didn’t know I had a thing for Ron for a long time.” It wasn’t anything Ron didn’t already know. Ron had been drawn to Harry since they were eleven years old, when he met a boy with the greenest eyes he’d ever seen on the school train, but hadn’t known for certain that he was in love with him until maybe the middle of fifth year.

“I never have,” Hermione said lightly. “I might be prudish and reserved, but it’s not because I’m secretly gay or bisexual. I’m not. But even if I was,” she said, her tone hardening, “that wouldn’t change things. We’re three. End of story. Not two, or four, or any other number.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Harry said, sounding defensive.  

“Not unhappy, are you?” she pressed ruthlessly. “Were you going to ask to bring in another girl to even things out?”

“Of course not!” said Harry heatedly. Crookshanks growled a warning at him.

“Because that’s exactly what George was talking about – everyone’s going to think they can get in on this, they won’t believe it’s really a closed relationship –”

“Do not fight,” said Ron with as much authority as he could muster. “If you two can’t get along, I’ll be in the middle to separate you two.”

“No!” said Harry and Hermione as one, clinging to each other automatically.

“Good,” said Ron. If he hadn’t been so knackered, he would have laughed. Instead, he said, “Now kiss, and then will you please go the fuck to sleep!”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Their last day was spent triple checking their trunks and getting the cottage ready to be vacated. Harry’s gran insisted they do it themselves this year, since they were all adults now and nothing was stopping them from using their wands. Hermione suggested they do as much work as possible early in the morning and spend the rest of it being children for the last time.

“Doug, you filthy animal,” said Ron fondly to his owl in his little burrow under the porch after he’d finished sweeping. “Enjoy your nest while you can – tomorrow we’re off!” Ron didn’t tell him he would have to scour all the droppings the little owl had so proudly placed ever since he’d moved in. Best not to break his cute little heart.

Doug tilted his head and chirped as if to say, “Okay! Where are we going?”

“Hogwarts. You’ll love it.” He looked up as Hedwig landed silently on the porch railing. “Hedwig will show you the ropes.” She clicked her beak in a very dignified way. The Hogwarts owlery was equipped for every species of owl and all their weird nesting quirks, thanks to Professor Grubbly-Plank, the Care of Magical Creatures teacher. She was the first one anyone went to if their pet was sick or injured.

Ron sometimes thought he should have stuck with Care of Magical Creatures. He knew Harry had deliberated before making the choice to drop it, and since Ron made most of his academic choices based on whether or not he’d be in class with Harry, he did as well. I’ve probably always been a little bit in love with him, he thought.

Ron sat down on one of the chairs around the fire ring to rest for a second, and considered Harry and Hermione’s near fight last night. This morning, rather, he thought, and yawned. Thankfully, Harry and Hermione had apologised to each other, which meant they’d learned a lesson from the last time. Harry doubted his own worth, worried that if Hermione liked girls, it would mean less of her affection for him and Ron. Hermione was feeling jealous and worried that her Guide friends were more appealing than her, especially Louise.

It had never occurred to Ron to be jealous of any of Hermione’s friends. Likely the anticipation of what dormitory life would look like for the three of them had gotten into Harry’s head, combined with the fact that one of her Guide friends was coming to Hogwarts and had a one-in-four chance of being sorted into their House.

Ron wondered about Louise, whether Hermione’s high opinion of her would match up to the reality. Could she really be trusted not to say anything? Would she become part of their friend group? Were they still a friend group now that they were more than friends?

Ah, knock it off, he thought. Overthinking is for Harry and Hermione. I’ll let them worry about it.

Doug came out of his hole to sit on Ron’s knee and gently tapped his wand with his beak. Ron smiled and made a circular motion with it. “Pluvio!” he said, and a light mist came out of the tip. Doug peeped with delight and ruffled up his feathers underneath the little shower. Ron was careful not to overdo it. He had never had a pet of his very own before, and had researched burrowing owls at length, determined to give Doug the best care possible.

“What are you doing?” asked Harry, coming out onto the porch to stroke Hedwig’s beak. She chirped happily at him.

“Making my owl happy,” said Ron as Doug bobbed up and down. Little rainbows formed in the spray.

Harry smiled. “Hermione and I are mostly done. We’ll put on the shutters and store the canoes tomorrow on our way out. Want to help with the charms?” He meant the spells that would protect the house against damp, rot, and vermin while it remained empty.

“Sure,” Ron said easily. “Awfully nice of your grandparents to let us live here and store our things as we like.”

Harry shrugged. “There’s more than enough space. Too much for one elderly couple.”

“Still,” Ron murmured. “We’re not coming back again, are we?” His heart felt heavy at the thought. He stopped the mist and used his wand to send warm currents of air over Doug’s feathers.

Harry looked stunned, as though the thought had never once occurred to him. “I – I guess not. I mean… maybe they’d still let us?”

Must be nice, never having to worry about money or lodgings, thought Ron with a bite of jealousy.

“We do have to think about where to live after Hogwarts,” said Ron.

“Not until after Hogwarts,” said Harry. “Splitting rent three ways and needing only one bedroom helps.”

“What’s that about one bedroom?” asked Hermione, tucking herself into Harry’s side.

“After Hogwarts,” said Harry. “We’re going to live together, right? Properly.”

“Oh,” she said happily. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to.”

“Why wouldn’t we want to?” asked Ron incredulously. “We can’t very well go down on you every night if you live somewhere else. Nine months without you is going to kill us.”

“Every night?” she said, blushing slightly. “Did… did you really like it that much?”

“Fuck yes,” said Ron as Harry said, “Absolutely. Didn’t you?”

“I thought I’d been fairly obvious.” She hid her face in Harry’s chest.

Ron smirked. She wasn’t this reserved in the backseat last night.

“No need to be shy about it,” said Harry, wrapping his arms around her and kissing the top of her head. “I love making you feel good.”

“I don’t know what’s happened to me,” she said, hugging Harry back. Ron could hear the smile in her voice.

“You have discovered the joys of sex,” said Ron. “And we’re delighted.”

She chuckled. Harry played with a tendril of hair that had escaped from her twist. Hermione lifted her face and he kissed her. Ron thought it was sweet, the way her eyes fluttered closed and how Harry’s fingers lightly traced the lines of her shoulder blades through her shirt.

How far they’d come. There was once a time when he couldn’t bear to think of Harry and Hermione together. He was so easily consumed by jealousy back then. Now, he smiled as he watched them, his boyfriend and his girlfriend.

Hedwig spread her wings and flew down the slope to the lake, flying just along the surface. When Doug flew after her, Ron got up and started on the charms, letting Harry and Hermione snog. It was only fair – how many times had he and Hermione fumbled around in a backseat while Harry drove, unable to participate or even watch?  

 

Hermione adored a good snog, and Harry was a very, very good kisser. He rarely dove right in – he started slowly, with soft little kisses, touching her gently in perfectly appropriate places like her cheek, the small of her back, her hands… then deeper kisses, open-mouthed but no tongue, his fingers moving to more sensitive places like her neck, into her hair, along her ribs, her hips. He was good at listening to her body language – when she would begin to move against him eagerly, her tongue seeking his, he would pull her closer, kiss her neck, make little love bites, touch her breasts and her thighs. If they had time and privacy, he would begin to touch under her clothes, expose her breasts, lift her skirt higher…

Harry drove her absolutely mad sometimes. He made her feel like she could do anything, especially when he looked at her like he was now – a lazy smile that told her he knew exactly what he was doing, his green eyes half-lidded behind his glasses. Hermione took them off, tucking them safely in the breast pocket of her shirt. He chuckled and ran his thumb along her bottom lip, the rest of his fingers resting warmly along the side of her neck.  

“I love this,” Harry said as he leaned his forehead against hers. “Just being with you.”

Hermione’s heart fluttered. That was the other thing about Harry. He could turn simple truths into the most tender confessions. “Me too,” she breathed. “I’ll miss this so much.” She kissed him at the very corner of his mouth, where he had kissed her what felt like ages ago. When he’d reassured her that he didn’t mind if she fancied both him and Ron, back when she thought it just meant they’d share her.

She’d never been so happy to discover they wanted each other, too.  

Harry picked her up and her legs parted on either side of him, his hands holding her up under her arse. She was wearing athletic shorts and a stained shirt that had once been her father’s – clothes meant for cleaning, and wished she was wearing a dress so he could easily touch her with just a swipe of the thumb under the edge of her knickers. Now that she’d opened that door, she never wanted to close it.

“You know,” she said between heated kisses as Harry walked her to the nearest chair, “we did all those – privacy charms – for a reason.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he said in a low voice against her neck. “Ron told me what you two were doing in the backseat last night. Naughty.”

“He’s such a grass,” she said.

“What’s that?” He set her down in the chair and knelt in front of her.

“A dirty little sneak, that’s what,” she said, the heat of anticipation curling low in her abdomen as Harry easily pulled off her shorts and knickers.

He balled them up and hurled them far away into the trees, making her giggle when he said, “And stay away!” He sat back on his heels for a second, looking at her the same way Ron looked at dinner.

“Where did he go, anyway?” Hermione asked. She wondered if she could spread her legs wide enough for both of them.

“He’ll be back,” Harry said with confidence, reaching between her legs. As with snogging, he didn’t just dive in. He teased her, just barely touching her with the pad of his thumb along her outer labia. She could feel his hand tremble, and couldn’t decide if she liked him looking at her face or at her cunt better.

From inside, Hermione could hear Ron. “BE RIGHT THERE!” he shouted.

Hermione laughed. “Caught on, did he?”

But Ron didn’t come outside. She and Harry stared at each other with dawning horror as they heard him noisily stomp towards the front door. “Someone’s here!” Hermione squealed, snapping her legs shut.

“Quick!” Harry said, summoning her shorts with her wand.

“The – the charms,” she stammered, fumbling to get them on as Harry tried to block her from view. “Won’t they hide –”

“They only work if someone’s trying to spy, not if they’ve been invited in!” Harry said in a furious whisper. “Hurry up!”

“So Ron’s a grass and a prat,” she hissed back as he fished his glasses out of her pocket.

She got her shorts on just as Ron and Harry’s mother came out onto the porch. Hermione stood up and adopted what she hoped was a look that said, “oh-what-a-pleasant-surprise,” and not, “your-son-was-just-about-to-do-depraved-things-to-me.” She hoped and prayed that Lily would not notice the fact that her shorts were inside out.

“Mum!” said Harry in a falsely jovial voice. “Smashing to see you!” Hermione noticed he kept his hand in his pocket. She wished the earth would open up and swallow her. She looked helplessly at Ron, who was poker-faced.

“I came to check in on the plan for tomorrow,” Lily said. “Is now a bad time?”

“No, not at all,” said Hermione, as Harry said, “Suits me.”

“Right,” Lily said, looking between them curiously. “Your father wants to drive with us to the station, Harry. I said I’d ask, but it’s up to you.” She looked directly at Hermione.

Hermione’s stomach felt suddenly full of lead. She looked away. Her first thought was, Absolutely not! But she didn’t have the power to say anything. She very well couldn’t ask for a ride from her parents.

Our last trip of the summer, and I’ll have to spend the whole way with my mouth clamped shut, fighting my tendencies to cry when frustrated. Or worse, make small talk.

Lily said, “I’ll just take a walk while you three have a little chin wag.”

“Actually, I’ll come with,” said Ron. “I don’t have an opinion. I’ll go with whatever they decide.” He gallantly offered Lily his arm.

“Delighted,” she said as she took it.

“Er,” said Harry, but they were already on the trail that led around the lake.

 

Harry looked at Hermione imploringly. “Don’t do that, Hermione,” he said, catching her hand just as she turned to walk away from him, an anguished expression on her face. “Look, just… talk to me, all right? He doesn’t have to come if you don’t want him there!”

“Why can’t he just meet you on the platform?” she asked petulantly, unable to look at him. “He already lives in London, doesn’t he?”

Harry furrowed his brow. “That’s true. I don’t know why he wants to drive with us.”

“I think I do,” Hermione said. “It’s because it’s our last year. You know, it’s the last September first we’ll ever have. Likely he thinks he can make up for the years he…”

They looked at each other. Harry wanted to listen to her, but he didn’t want a fight. The look on her face said more or less the same thing. Hermione sighed. “I know I don’t have any right to feel the way I do about him.”

“You have the right to feel however you want,” Harry said, taking her hand and leading her to the porch, where they sat side-by-side on the top step. “I mean it. We had a plan already, and we don’t have to change it just because he had an… an attack of conscience, or whatever. You can say ‘no,’ Hermione.”

“I feel like anything I say would be the wrong thing,” she said after a moment of thought. “I don’t want him there. I don’t want the last bit of summer to be… taken over by bad feelings and resentment. But I feel you’ll resent me if I take away something you want.”

Harry thought about that. “What if I told you I don’t want him there?”

She stiffened. “I would wonder if you were telling the truth.”

“I am,” Harry said. “I love my dad, but I don’t want to play ‘happy family’ with him and Mum when we’re not. He… as much as I want to move on, it can’t be the same as it was.”

Hermione leaned against him and he put his arm around her. “I’m sorry I ever made it hard on you,” she said quietly.

Harry didn’t say anything, though her apology soothed him. He’d told her the truth, but that didn’t mean he didn’t wish sometimes that she could be as flexible as Ron. And yet, he couldn’t exactly fault her for it when her resentment of his father was on his own behalf. He felt the same way about her parents at the moment. He could understand their anger at him and Ron, but treating Hermione as if she was a little girl acting out for attention was inexcusable. She knew her own mind and her heart.

And if she loved him and Ron… who was anyone else to say it was wrong?

 

Ron respected Harry’s decisions, but that didn’t stop him from privately questioning them. For example… out of all three of them, he had the most understanding and level-headed mother. And yet, Harry still hadn’t told her about their (admittedly unorthodox, but nevertheless stable and loving) relationship. At least Ron thought it was stable. Tables with three legs were sturdier than those with two, after all.

“Nice day,” said Lily amiably.

“It’s always a nice day at the lake,” said Ron. “I’m really gonna miss it.”

“Well, the nice thing is that it’s not going anywhere. It will be here next summer.”

“Won’t be the same, though. No more days of doing absolutely nothing – I expect we’ll be spending all our time scouring the employment section in the Daily Prophet, eating nothing but discount rice and beans. Besides. The place doesn’t belong to us.” Harry might have a better idea as to what his grandparents would allow, but Ron knew better than to depend on it.

Lily scoffed. “Please. Have you met Euphemia Potter? If she hasn’t already bullied Fleamont into deeding the cottage and the whole lake to Harry, I’ll eat my cat.”

Ron still had trouble accepting that some people had enough money and property to just… give away large tracts of land on a whim. When he was younger, he used to imagine himself as a wealthy baron of some kind, complete with top hat, monocle, and condescending air. In his fantasies, he’d hidden his gold and used it for all the things he’d wanted growing up but couldn’t have – a Firebolt even better than Harry’s, top box tickets to every pro Quidditch match, mountains of candy he didn’t have to share, an owlery full of the fanciest owls, expensive clothing that was new and tailored especially for him. Games and toys that weren’t broken or battered because his brothers had them first.

Most of all, a wand of his very own. It was the very first thing he’d bought with his seventeenth birthday money from Bill, which Ron thought was fitting since he’d been using Bill’s old wand for most of his Hogwarts days. Ron hated sharing because it had been forced upon him his whole life. Hermione didn’t mind sharing so long as you asked her first and it wasn’t something deeply personal to her.

Harry, however, had a permanently open pocketbook. You could take almost anything of Harry’s and he’d just smile and shrug it off. He always paid when they went out or bought something for their collective use. When Ron had once grudgingly asked how he could stand it, he’d merely patted Ron’s shoulder and said, “That’s what money is for. Sharing.”

It was an extremely naïve view, but still one of the things Ron found charming about him.   

“How is Hermione?” Lily asked, bringing him back to the present.

“All right,” Ron said, mentally shaking himself. “She’s still babying her eye, not that there’s anything wrong with it.”

“No, that’s psychosomatic. You’ll see a lot of that – more often with Muggleborns who grew up with imperfect healing that took ages. It will pass. Does she have nightmares?”

“Not that she’s told me,” said Ron as they passed the tree he had pinned Hermione to not even twenty-four hours ago. He didn’t look at it, not wanting to give anything away.

As they walked around the lake, they talked at length about Lily’s career as a Healer. Ron was happy to soak up her knowledge and advice about dealing with difficult patients, how to give compassionate care when it was ill-received, and tips on self-care to avoid burnout. She warned him that dark humour was absolutely necessary to survive, but it was only to be shared amongst fellow Healers.

She recounted interdepartmental pranks that had their laughter ringing off the trees and the surface of the lake. The retirement party in which everyone took Polyjuice potion to turn into the retiree and make farewell speeches as him had Ron doubling over, especially when Lily did the voices.

As they neared the cottage again, Lily looked at the blackthorn that signalled the end of the trail. There was a sparkle in her eye, as if she saw something that greatly amused her. “Hm,” she said. “It appears somebody lost something.”

Ron gasped. Hanging from a thorn and waving as proudly as a flag were Hermione’s pink knickers. As casually as he could manage, and hoping his ears weren’t as red as they felt, Ron said, “Er, it was windy the last time we hung our clothes. I’ll, erm, let her know.”

He turned his back on her knowing look.

 

“Well, what have you darlings decided?” Harry’s mum asked as she and Ron returned from their walk.  

“We’d like to stick with the plan as it is,” said Harry formally. “I’ll… I’ll tell Dad.” Hermione shifted next to him.

His mother shook her head. “He made me the messenger – I’ll take care of it.”

Harry wanted to argue. There was no reason for her to get in between them like that. But she gave him a very stern look that said, “If-you-make-this-difficult-I-will-pull-out-the-bathtub-photos.” He settled for mumbling mutinously.

“Anyway, that was all,” she said, turning away from Harry. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Wait, Mum, don’t you want to – oh, she’s gone.” She had apparated away.

That was weird. He looked at Ron, who also looked away, the tips of his ears red. What exactly had they talked about on their walk? He was hoping to catch her alone, to finally tell her. But it couldn’t exactly be helped. Harry supposed he’d have to either write it in a letter or wait until a Hogsmeade weekend, which was usually not for at least a month once term started.

“Come on,” Hermione said, eager to stall any more conversations about his father. “We’ve done as much as we can. Let’s do something fun.”

They decided to paddle around in the old red canoe for a bit, just for nostalgia’s sake. Harry had a feeling that after today, they would always use Hermione’s. When they pulled in their paddles to drift, and Harry turned around on his seat, he saw her looking at it where it was tied to the landing.

“Have you named her yet?” Harry asked her.

“Still deciding,” she said, her brow furrowed. “I don’t know the next chance I’ll get to take her out.”

“You should organise something with your Guide friends,” said Ron.

“She’s not exactly allowed –” began Harry, but Ron shushed him.

“Are you going to tell?” he asked, giving Harry a very hard stare over Hermione’s head.

“Of course not,” said Harry. “But how are you going to explain away the fact that they can’t contact you like a Muggle? Are your parents going to take messages for you?”

Hermione was quiet. Harry winced, worried that he’d gone too far.

“You’re probably right,” she finally said sadly.

Ron glared at Harry. “Mate. Just what, exactly, the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked incredulously.

Harry scowled. “I didn’t mean you can’t, or that you shouldn’t,” he said mulishly. “Just that you should think things through. Have a plan if you get caught or something.”

It was Hermione’s turn to look incredulous. “Harry, when have I ever not thought about something?”

“Never mind,” he muttered. “I’m just hungry.” He didn’t actually want her to give up on her friends – far from it. He was just worried about her, which always made him a little stupid.

“Accio sandwich,” said Ron sarcastically, raising his wand, but he came to regret it when three wrapped packages flew out the back window, zoomed across the lake, and smacked him full in the face. “Fuuuuuck!” he shouted as he went overboard, tilting the canoe far enough to capsize.

Hermione and Harry barely had time to shout before they were dumped into the lake.

“Cold cold cold!” Hermione gasped when she surfaced. Harry had trouble treading water, he was laughing so hard.

“What the fuck just happened?” asked Ron in shock. He swam after the canoe.

“Hermione and I – made lunch – ahead of time,” wheezed Harry.

“All our hard work!” she said irritably, striking out after Ron.

“At least the fish and turtles will be happy,” said Harry, not at all upset. He’d lost his glasses, but at least his wand was still in his pocket.

He and Ron righted the canoe in no time. “Well, I’m not,” said Ron as Hermione used her wand to bail it out.

“That’s cheating, Hermione,” Harry grinned.

She rolled her eyes at him and summoned his glasses from the bottom of the lake. “Just hold it steady while I get in.”

“I’ve got to say, I’m so glad you chose a white shirt,” Ron said, staring as she flopped into the canoe with a wet squelch. Her shoes squeaked on the bottom.

“You lech,” she said, leaning and shifting her weight to allow Harry in next. He held his hand out for his glasses, but she put them on her own face and fluttered her eyelashes at him.

“Think you’re funny, do you?” he asked, grinning.

“Think you’re funny, do you?” she mimicked with a grin of her own.

Ron laughed. As he clambered in, Harry noticed he had a very excited look on his face. “I just had the best idea,” he said. When he told them, Hermione was perfectly still and silent.

“You… can’t possibly think that will work,” she said slowly.

“I will try anything that gets us alone,” said Harry, starting to grow hard at the thought.

“But… it’s a potion,” said Hermione with a look at Harry.

“I know,” he said. “But if you make it, I’ll trust it.”

“Please say ‘yes,’ Hermione,” cajoled Ron. “It’s a brilliant plan.”

“Well…” she said, looking back and forth between him and Harry. “I suppose… it’s worth a try.”

“Fuck yeah!” shouted Ron, leaping forward to hug her.

“Oh, no, don’t–!” began Harry, but the rest of his sentence was thrown into the lake as the canoe wobbled and went over again.

It seemed to be a sign that the universe wanted them to go swimming, so they did, clumsily stripping and throwing wet clothes and wands into the canoe. Before she tossed hers in, Hermione conjured a makeshift anchor out of lakeweed.

“You don’t think we’ll get another visitor, do you?” Hermione asked nervously, looking around at the shore and the trees.

“Do you doubt the efficacy of our charms?” asked Ron, wiggling his eyebrows to drive the double entendre home.

“Never,” she said, and swam over to kiss him.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Just before their last campfire of the summer, Ron announced he wanted to carve their initials into a tree. Hermione frowned and lightly smacked his bicep. “We don’t harm living things,” she scolded.

“One of the porch posts?” suggested Harry, and Hermione nodded.

They argued over the order of their initials. Hermione insisted that the only fair way was to make them alphabetical, but Ron was against being last. Harry thought he understood – he was the youngest of seven brothers and had been followed a year later by their only sister. He was often overlooked.

Harry tried to defuse the situation by saying he liked it that way because his name meant he got to be next to them both, but then Hermione and Ron became unhappy because their names were not next to each other.

“Let’s make it a circle, then,” said Harry, raising his voice to be heard over the squabbling. “With our first names instead of our initials.”

Hermione marked it neatly with a pencil and they took turns carving into the wood with their wands. “Make it deep,” she commanded, “so it will last.” She carved the year into the circle’s centre – 1997.

They held hands as they admired their work. Harry couldn’t explain why gooseflesh suddenly erupted all over his body. It was as though something touched him from another plane of existence. Perhaps one of those other lives where they would always find each other. Lives that existed on the outer edges of his dreams, forgotten as soon as he awoke.

“Whether we live here or not…” said Harry, a lump rising in his throat at the possibility, however slim, of losing their sanctuary, “let’s promise to come back. Every year.”

“Promise,” murmured Hermione.

“Forever,” said Ron.

 

*     *     *     *     *  

 

In the middle of the night, something woke Ron. He sat up slowly, so as not to wake Harry or Hermione, and looked around at the room, lit only by the moonlight reflected off the lake. He had been dreaming of something that left him with a sense of warmth and peace, but the more alert he became, the less he remembered. Soon, he realised it was Hermione that had woken him.

She was crying.

“Hermione?” he whispered, touching her shoulder on top of the blanket.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a shaky whisper. “Go back to sleep – I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Come on, love. Talk to me.”

“Shh, you’ll wake Harry.”

“ ‘M awake,” said Harry blearily.

“No, you’re not,” said Ron.

“No, I’m not,” he agreed with a happy sigh.

Ron lay back down and cuddled Hermione. “He’ll either wake up or he won’t,” Ron murmured. “Hard to tell sometimes. He talks in his sleep a lot.”

Hermione wiped her face with her hand. “What does he say?”

Ron smiled as he toyed with one of Hermione’s curls. At Harry’s request, she hadn’t put her hair up that night. “Mostly nonsense. It’s cute. One time he said, ‘If you paint it purple, maybe it’ll die.’ When I asked him about it, he just shrugged and said he’d been dreaming about a duck, but there was no paint involved.”

She snorted in spite of herself. “That is cute,” she said. “I wish… I wish I had learned that about him for myself. Do you talk in your sleep?”

“Not much,” he said. “Do you?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “No one’s ever said anything.” She sniffled.

“Talk to me,” Ron urged her. “What’s got you so upset?”

She buried her face in his chest. “I’ll miss this so much. I’m going to be so lonely, pretending we’re not together, having to sneak around just to kiss you, meanwhile almost nothing is different for you two.”

“That’s not true,” yawned Harry, rolling to spoon her from behind. “We have to pretend, too.”

“Remind me why we’re pretending again?” said Ron.

“Something about professional conduct and showing moral fibre,” said Harry. “Hermione explained it better.”

“It was rhetorical,” Ron said, pushing Harry’s shoulder. “I know why.”

“At least you two can talk to each other at night,” Hermione said sadly. “And it’s much easier for you to steal kisses.”

“You’ve been in the boys’ dormitory before – our staircase is far more accepting of the fair sex,” Ron said. “No need to behave differently just because we know something everyone else doesn’t.” He tried not to think about what might happen behind a locked door.

“But what about what Ginny said? About how people have been speculating for ages? And whoever saw you two snogging…”

“Hermione, you’re going to work your knickers into a knot with all that overthinking,” said Ron, kissing the top of her head.

“She’s not wearing any,” said Harry cheekily. Hermione squealed and wriggled against Ron.

“I am, too!” she cried. “And don’t pinch me!”

“Sorry,” said Harry in a voice that said he wasn’t.

“Are you sure?” asked Ron, smirking as he groped her bottom. He said absolutely nothing about Harry’s mum witnessing Hermione’s knickers in all their pink and practical glory. He supposed he should be grateful they weren’t one of her more daring pairs.

“Yes,” Hermione giggled.

Ron restrained himself. He really, really, liked her arse, although he didn’t think she was quite ready to learn just how much. But he couldn’t exactly stop his body’s reaction to his hands on her cheeks. Not without a wand, anyway.

She went quiet when she noticed.

“Sorry,” Ron said in unison with Harry.

Hermione laughed. “You’re both very predictable.”

“And you’re very beautiful,” said Ron. She tilted her face upwards and he kissed her. He closed his eyes and held her as their lips moved against each other, his hands in her luxurious curls that were somehow both coarse and silky. He loved kissing her. In backseats, in beds, standing, sitting… He felt he couldn’t get enough of her, especially now when time was running out.

“Hey,” said Harry, unconsciously licking his lips and squirming. “Share.”

 

*     *     *     *     * 

 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione scanned the crowd on Platform 9 ¾. The air was thick with the heat of the scarlet steam engine and the smell of machine oil and coal. Harry stopped himself just in time from holding Hermione’s hand, knowing she was half-hoping to see her parents.

“There’s Mum,” said Ron hopefully. “Oh, she’s waving – see you soon!” He gave Harry and Hermione a look that had relief written all over it. Harry and Hermione watched as Mrs. Weasley hugged her youngest son around the middle. She looked very small next to Ron. When they parted, she reached up to pat both of his cheeks, her eyes glistening.

“Oh, it looks like she came around,” said Hermione wistfully.

“Yours will, too,” Harry reassured her in a voice that was more confident than he felt, because she needed hope right now. “Just… give it time.” He patted her shoulder, already missing the easy way he used to hold her.

They watched Ron hug his father and get his hair ruffled by Uncle Gideon. Harry felt a spark humming between all three of them, made all the more potent by the fact that they could no longer act on it.

“I didn’t think Edward was old enough for Hogwarts,” said Hermione as Ron came back, looking happy. Harry looked in the direction her face was turned and saw one of Ron’s younger cousins with a trunk and a travelling basket that was meowing.

“He just looks younger than he is,” said Ron comfortably. “I’m going to go exercise my prefect authority on him.”

“In that case,” said Hermione, “I am going to go and exercise my Head Girl authority on you.”

“Kinky. My safeword is ‘marshmallow.’ ”

Harry snorted. He was about to tag along just to see Edward’s cat, until he saw a familiar figure wading towards him in the sea of excited students and their families.

“Dad!” Harry said, pulling him into a hug, hoping to make up for denying letting him drive with them. “Thanks for coming.” He didn’t know what his mother had said, if she’d tried to soften the blow or just said “no” outright.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” said his father, smiling wistfully. Harry was glad Hermione was not there, or she might not have been able to resist snorting in disbelief. “What do you have there?” He looked down at a notebook in Harry’s hands.

“Notes for the meeting with the prefects,” said Harry. He and Hermione had put their heads together the night before and in the car on the way to London.

“Right,” said his dad. “Feeling good?”

Harry nodded. He supposed he should be nervous about the responsibility, or even public speaking, but he wasn’t. It was exactly what he’d wanted.

Soon, Harry’s mum came through the barrier. “Any trouble parking?” asked Harry as he put an arm around her.

“No,” she said, acknowledging her ex-husband with a cordial nod. “But I cheated. Don’t tell.”

“I heard nothing,” he said.

“Ask no questions, hear no lies,” agreed James innocently. Lily snorted, allowing him a small smile. It seemed to be an inside joke.

Remus came through shortly after and, after an awkward glance at James, pulled Lily into a hug.

James cleared his throat and excused himself. Lily narrowed her eyes at his back. I wonder when this will stop being weird, Harry thought. To hide the awkward moment, Harry clapped Remus on the shoulder and grinned. “Aren’t you supposed to be at Hogwarts already?”

“You know there’s this handy little thing called apparition, don’t you?” said Remus, putting his arm around Lily. “And Floo powder.”

“Stop; he’s here for me,” said Harry’s mother, her eyes misty and bright. “You know, because it’s the last September first we’ll ever have, and I’m going to turn into a little puddle right on these bricks.” She tapped her toe on the platform floor.

“At least until I have kids,” Harry promised.

“With Hermione?” she blurted. She bit her lips and winced at her own impulsivity.

Harry glanced at Remus, wondering if he had told her. His professor shook his head slightly, the look on his face telling Harry he had not. Harry’s eyes searched the crowd on the platform, and he saw Hermione and Ron, standing together but surrounded by Weasleys. They were speaking quietly to each other with rapt attention, as if in their own little world. They must have felt his gaze, because they looked up as one and smiled at him.

Harry took a deep breath and held their gaze before turning to his mother. “If I’m lucky… yes, Mum. With Hermione. And… and Ron.” He swallowed, giving her a desperate sort of look that said, “Please understand. Please be happy for me.”

The delighted smile she gave Harry was everything. “I have never seen three people more suited to each other,” she said. “All I’ve ever wanted for you is your happiness. Are you happy, darling?”

“Very,” Harry breathed. “I’m so happy, Mum. I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but I am.”

She opened her arms and he went to her gladly, wrapping his arms around her small frame the same way she had done for him when he was a child. “It’s nothing you did, love,” she said softly. “It’s who you are. All the goodness, the love in you. How could anyone help loving you just as much?”

Harry choked back a sob. He hadn’t known just how much he needed to hear that. “I love you, Mum,” he said shakily.

His mother raised on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I love you too, Harry. Always and forever. No matter what you do, no matter where you go, I’ll always be your mum.”

When he stepped back, they were both blinking furiously. She smiled up at him, and with a mischievous twist of her lips, she said, “I don’t mean to take anything away from this moment, darling, but I’ve known for a while now.”

“What?” he said, looking at her with wide eyes. “How?”

She reached far up to smooth his hair and the tears spilled over. “Someday, you will understand what it means to know your child’s heart. Thank you, Harry, for allowing me to look after it for seventeen years.”

“I love you, Mum,” he said again. He wiped his eyes under his glasses. “No matter what, I’m always your son.”

Notes:

Hey! I’m going on vacation next week and I’m 95% sure my next chapter will be late. While you wait, please let me know in the comments what “loose ends” you think are still dangling – I’ve left too many to remember them all T.T You are all so good at finding my plot holes and I’m holding you personally responsible for my panic-fuelled rewrites at 1 am XD

Seriously, though – I love it. Your comments always inspire and encourage me <3

Chapter 22: Charisma

“Well, now you have to tell me who else knows so I don’t mess things up for you,” Harry’s mother said.

Harry blanched. He didn’t want to answer. He glanced around for Remus, but he had quietly disappeared at some point. She gave him a look. “How about I pretend I’m not miffed that I’m the last person you told, and you just give me a list.”

Harry ducked his head and looked at the bricks of the platform as he answered, “Erm, well, Ginny, Fred and George, Remus and Sirius, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and Mr. and Mrs. Granger. Erm, and Hermione’s friend Louise, and all her Guide friends plus all the Muggles that were there when they went off on their trip.”

That was a depressingly long list, Harry thought.

She looked up to the sky. Harry realised she was trying not to cry. Quickly he pulled her into a hug. “Mum. Please don’t be upset.” He was upset enough at himself. She should have been one of the first people he told; to ask her advice and share the joy it brought him. He had been so foolish to wait.

“I am not upset,” she lied, her voice breaking. “I am only very emotional today.”

“I wanted to tell you,” he said. “I really did. I just… I don’t know why I couldn’t. I didn’t want you to –”

She cleared her throat as she interrupted him. “Harry, can we please just… can we talk about it later? You don’t have time to deal with me. I’ll get over it.” She gently pushed him away as she blinked furiously, and Harry was yet again reminded of how hiding his feelings hurt the people around him far worse than being honest ever could.

“Is that why Hermione’s parents aren’t here?” asked his mother.

Harry nodded in resignation. “They don’t approve.” He looked around, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to them or their conversation. He briefly told her about their legal arguments and concerns about AIDS.

“None of those things apply to us,” she said, frowning. “Except for herpes. None of you have herpes, do you?”

“No, Mum,” said Harry, absolutely mortified as he looked around furtively, praying no one heard the word “herpes” coming from his mother’s mouth. “Hermione tried to tell them all that, but they weren’t pleased. I don’t know if they believed her or just thought she was bluffing so they’d get off her back.”

She looked at him and asked in a quiet voice, “I know I taught you to be safe, and that Ron knows, too. But does Hermione? Is she on the potion?”

“I don’t know,” Harry muttered. “She knows about it, but we haven’t gotten there yet.”

“Poppy – Madam Pomfrey, that is, gives it out to any girl who asks,” she said quickly. “And don’t wait until the last second to talk about it. Part of being responsible is being proactive.”

“I am, Mum, but I don’t think Platform 9 ¾ is the best place to have this little chat.”

“Pfft. I would offer a full seminar if the Board of Governors would allow it.”

Harry didn’t know whether to be amused or horrified by the idea of his mother demonstrating condom use to Draco Malfoy and the like.

He and his mother turned their heads at the sound of Hermione’s laughter. Harry smiled softly before he could stop himself – her eyes were shining and her nose was crinkled up as she laughed at something Ron or Mr. Weasley had said. Mrs. Weasley patted her cheek fondly, and Hermione smiled wistfully at her, neither of which was lost on Harry’s mum. “It sounds like the Grangers could use some professional reassurance,” she said slowly.

“Oh, Mum, I don’t know if that’s a good id–”

“HARRY!” a familiar voice interrupted them.

“Sirius!” Harry grinned as his godfather pushed through the crowd. He was effectively distracted and didn’t notice his mother’s calculating look.

Sirius pulled him into a tight hug and clapped him on the back. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Just lost track of time.”

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Harry said.

“Ah, well – I was here for your first train ride to Hogwarts, I couldn’t very well miss your last.”

“You almost missed it,” Lily said irritably, checking her watch. “Ten minutes, Harry. Make them count.” She looked around and found that Remus was talking to James, and she went casually in that direction. Harry wanted to follow, just to make sure nothing was amiss or went awry, but Sirius clicked his fingers in front of Harry’s face.

“She’s fine, Harry,” Sirius said. “Let her be.”

“What do you know?” Harry said grumpily.

“More than you,” he grinned. “Give me a chance to be sentimental. It’s my right as your godfather.”

Harry listened with a wry smile as Sirius reminisced on the very first time Harry went off to school, wiping away imaginary tears and sighing theatrically. “You must have been half the size you are now. Just a little boy, wide-eyed and knowing nothing of the world.” He pulled a photograph out of his waistcoat pocket and showed it to Harry.

An eleven-year-old version of himself waved and smiled nervously at him, with his father’s arm around his shoulders and his mother holding his hand. As he watched, his mother smoothed his hair with her other hand. “Gawky thing, wasn’t I?” Harry laughed. “Hadn’t grown into my hands and feet yet.”

“Or those knobbly little knees,” Sirius said. “Like a puppy.”

“You’d know.”

Sirius chuckled. “Moony would know better than me.”

Harry was often caught off guard on how blasé they were about Remus’ condition. Sirius laughed at the expression on his face and gave his bicep a light punch. “Don’t look like that,” he said. “If you can’t have a sense of humour about even grave things, you may as well be in the grave.”

“Puns, is it? You’re dead to me.”

“That’s the spirit,” laughed Sirius. “And speaking of ‘spirits,’ I hope being Head Boy hasn’t warped your sense of propriety. Call upon me when your whisky stash runs low.”

Harry put his hand over his heart and bent his head toward Sirius conspiratorially. “On my honour. I’ve got plenty disguised as Sleekeazy samples.”

“Good man,” said Sirius, clapping him on the back. “Don’t suppose Hermione will have an attack of conscience?”

Harry levelled a look at him. “Who do you think helped me come up with it? She knows the logo better than Grandad.”

“She should do a promotional shoot for him. Like Fiadh Moran and all those other Quidditch stars did.”

“Funny, I’ve told her that, but she still won’t try out for the team.” He looked around for her, and saw that she’d found Louise and they were talking animatedly.

The train’s warning whistle blew. “That’s your cue,” Sirius said as his mother, father, and Remus rushed over for final hugs and goodbyes.

As Hermione passed his mother, Lily pulled her in for a long hug. “Goodbye, darling. Write to me – I’m never too busy for you.” Whatever she said next made Hermione’s eyes go very bright and her lips tremble as she squeezed her back, but the words were lost in the noise and furore of the crowd of students shouting farewells, the thuds of trunks being hastily shoved onto the train, and the indignant shrieks and howls of protest from jostled pets.

“Come see me in Hogsmeade!” his mother said as he gave her one last hug. He promised and kissed her cheek.

“Dad, come to a match, all right? I’ll write to you with dates,” Harry said as James hugged him tightly.

“Ron, Ginny! Look after your cousin!” Harry heard Mrs. Weasley call.

“Which one?” Ron and Ginny said. They high-fived without even looking at each other.

“Gerroff, Mum!” Edward complained to his mother as she tried to wipe a spot of something off his nose. Harry chuckled to himself, wondering if there would be a bossy, bushy-haired eleven-year-old to tell him there was dirt on his nose.

From the train, they all waved and called goodbye, each student filled with varying levels of excitement and nerves, each parent vacillating between worry and pride, each left-behind sibling already scheming what to steal now that they had full and complete access to their older sibling’s rooms and belongings.

Harry was surprised to see his parents holding hands as they waved, Remus’ arm around Lily’s waist and Sirius’ hand on James’ shoulder. As he wondered what it all meant, and what he’d come home to, Hermione cleared her throat. “Come on, you two – we have a meeting to run.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“So, to recap, look after the younger ones, stop conflicts, enforce rules. It’s up to you as to how, but I recommend a healthy dose of fear,” Hermione joked at the end of the meeting.

“Or just asking nicely,” said Harry, winking. Several prefect girls tittered. Hermione stopped smiling.

“Any questions?” asked Hermione briskly, looking around at the group of familiar and new faces. Ernie MacMillan puffed up importantly, ready to do his duty. Draco Malfoy was already looking at the exit, a look of boredom on his thin, pointed face while Pansy Parkinson sneered at Hermione. Hermione maintained a look of polite professionalism while inwardly crowing over being picked for Head Girl over that dumb cow.

Colin Creevey looked, as always, positively excited about everything. He had grown taller over the summer, but was nowhere near Harry and Ron, who were at six-foot and six-foot-four, respectively. Hermione eyed Colin, trying not to look too obvious as she considered her promise to help Louise find a boyfriend.

That will have to wait, Hermione told herself as a new Slytherin prefect asked a question about what special privileges he could expect. Focus, Granger. As she answered the majority of the questions, Harry looking supportive at her side, a few prefects nudged each other, smirking, as if daring to ask something stupid, but none of them actually ventured a question.

“All right then, off you go,” Harry said amiably. “Come find us if you have trouble.”

“And don’t forget to watch your House message boards for the next meeting!” Hermione added quickly, before anyone could run off. “We’re going to talk about student enrichment.”

“She means things that are just for fun,” Harry clarified. There was a murmur of interest at that.

“That went well,” Hermione said brightly to Harry and Ron as the prefects scrambled for the exit, their vigour not yet quashed by the impending stress of classes and exams. Soon, Hermione thought, already adding several items to her to-do list in her notebook. She used an old-fashioned (by Muggle standards – it was positively new-fangled by wizarding standards) fountain pen that had once belonged to her father – his initials, which were the same as her own, were enamelled in gold on the side.

“I’ll talk to your parents,” Lily had said, “but no matter what, you are my daughter, too.” It was how Hermione knew Harry had finally told her. She wished she could kiss him. She wished her parents had been there, just to show they still loved her even if they didn’t approve. There were a lot of things she wished, but they would also have to wait.

“I don’t know enough about how these things usually go to agree or not,” said Harry.

“Well, nobody cried, so it went very well, I say,” said Ron.

“Er,” said Harry, looking concerned, “is that a common occurrence?”

“Crying? It’s worse around holidays and exams,” Hermione said. “But I have never once cried in a prefect meeting.”

“Only before and after,” Ron smirked.

“You’re horrible,” Hermione said without heat, tapping his nose with the butt of her pen. “Just you wait. If you don’t cry this year trying to stay on top of NEWTs and Quidditch and your internship, I’ll play Chaser for England.”

“Lucky for you, there could be a vacancy,” said Harry, tweaking one of her curls. As no one else was in the compartment, she allowed it. She tuned him and Ron out as they started gossiping about pro Quidditch trades and went out into the corridor.

Harry sometimes teased that Hermione would someday replace him as Seeker – her eyes were very sharp and could spot contraband at fifty paces. Indeed, by the time they made it to the end of the train, she had confiscated two fanged frisbees, three dungbombs, and a poo-de-lolly.

“Are those even banned?” asked Ron. “Seems like it would be useful on meatloaf nights; I always get a little stopped up.”

“Don’t be crude,” said Hermione, scowling at the unwelcome mental image. “Everything from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes is banned.”

“Please tell me Filch isn’t making the prefects search the post again,” groaned Ron.

“Don’t worry – I have an argument in mind if he tries it,” answered Hermione.

“Since when does Filch listen to student arguments?” asked Harry.

“I meant for the Headmaster. Speaking of, Harry and I report to him this evening.”

“Already? You can’t even settle in?”

“Such is the life of Head Swots,” said Hermione easily, making Ron laugh.

Harry and Ron went into a compartment that contained their other three dormitory mates and Hannah Abbott, but Hermione went on to look for Louise. She found her in a compartment with Brynn, Luna, Ginny, and Susan Bones. Luna was deeply engrossed in a copy of The Quibbler and didn’t even look up.

“Hide your porn, ladies; the Head Girl’s on deck,” announced Ginny as Hermione tossed her contraband onto a seat.

“Oh, really,” sputtered Hermione. “Who even reads that in broad daylight?”

“Nobody actually reads it, Hermione,” said Louise.

“Semantics,” said Hermione, waving airily to hide her embarrassment. But why are you embarrassed? We’re all girls here. She squared her shoulders and added, “And anyway, who says pornography is limited to only visual media?”

Ginny laughed. “If anyone would know about reading dirty things, it would be you.”

“How was the prefect meeting?” asked Susan, tactfully changing the subject.

“Fine,” said Hermione.

“No trouble from Slytherin?” asked Ginny.

“Honestly, they’re not all bad,” said Susan before Hermione could answer.

Brynn nodded and said, “They j-j-j-just save their animosity for G-G-G-Gryffindors.”

“Even Malfoy and Parkinson?” Ginny shot back.

“No, they’re arseholes, but it’s not because of their house,” said Susan.

Louise cleared her throat. “So, am I to understand that if I am sorted into Gryffindor, I will be expected to abhor Slytherin? And vice versa if I’m a Slytherin?”

“Eurgh,” said Ginny as Hermione said, “Oh, don’t say that.” Both girls shuddered.

“I think Gryffindors can be very-closed minded,” said Luna serenely, turning a page.

Before Ginny or Hermione could bristle, Susan picked up the confiscated poo-de-lolly and inspected it. “Why would you take someone’s candy? Unless you wanted it for yourself – I heard the teachers have a special alihotsy stash for themselves.”

“Do not eat that,” warned Ginny, indicating the lolly, “unless you enjoy explosive diarrhoea.” Susan quickly dropped it.

“What’s that about alihotsy?” asked Hermione, frowning. Professors are supposed to show higher standards, she thought with disapproval.

“Oh,” said Susan, settling into her seat. “Professor Sprout grows it for ‘lessons,’ but sometimes you can smell it on the professors’ clothes, as though they’ve smoked it.”

“All of the professors?” said Hermione in shock.

“Mostly Sprout, Trelawny, Sinistra, and Hooch.”

“No!” said Hermione.

“Oh, lighten up, Hermione,” said Ginny. “Not everyone has as high moral standards as you do.”

Hermione blushed, trying not to think about last night and how decidedly lacking in morals it was. “I’m not – that is, there’s nothing wrong with, er, imbibing on occasion, it’s just – well, they’re teachers!”

“So?” laughed Ginny.

Louise looked at Susan with admiration. “You are a treasure trove of information. I hope I’m in Hufflepuff,” she said. Susan smiled at her.

“Oh, Louise…” Hermione said, feeling quite hurt. She doesn’t want to be in the same House as me?

Louise patted her hand. “It’s not up to me, mon chéri,” she said.

“Ooh,” said Susan. “Keep doing little French phrases like that and you’ll snag a boy right quick.”

“A few Slytherins speak French,” Brynn added helpfully.

“It is too up to you,” said Hermione desperately. “The Sorting Hat takes your choice into account – it almost put me in Ravenclaw but I asked it to put me in Gryffindor and it did.” She said this very fast, and flushed when all the girls looked at her. She hoped no one questioned her too closely – the truth was she’d taken a gamble on being in the same house as the two cutest (if a little grubby) boys she’d ever seen. She’d been sorted before Harry and Ron, but had been listening very hard to their conversation on where their families had been sorted and where they wanted to be. At the time, she didn’t understand the rush of relief she’d felt when they’d both been announced as Gryffindors.

“Well, it won’t matter too much,” said Louise. “We can still sleep over.”

“Oh,” said Brynn. “It doesn’t work like that. You have to stay in your own House.”

“What?” said Louise, looking dumbfounded. “But that’s ridiculous! At Beauxbatons, we had Fridays and Saturdays for inter-house sleepovers.”

Luna said, “That sounds very nice! Hermione, you could petition the Headmaster. You’re Head Girl.”

Hermione nodded, but she wasn’t really paying attention. Did Louise really not care whether she was in the same House? They’d made so many plans – how were they supposed to carry them out if they never saw each other?”

“Do you at least have bonfire nights?” asked Louise.

“No,” said Ginny. “But who needs permission to set things on fire?”

The other girls wanted to know all about Beauxbatons, but Hermione suddenly wanted to be alone. “Need the loo,” she said. “Er, carry on.”

This year was supposed to be different. She and Louise were supposed to be in the same House, same dormitory, and become even closer than before. It was already going to be lonely enough not sleeping with Ron and Harry… and it wasn't that Lavender and Parvati were terrible people… They just had very little in common except the boys they'd been with, and they definitely weren't going to be swapping stories. Not if Hermione had anything to say about it.

In the corridor, she was watching her feet and not where she was going. She bumped up against someone. “Sorry,” she said, and looked up to see Malfoy sneering at her.

“Watch it, Granger,” he said. “Not everyone cares about your authority.”

“Run along, now,” she said condescendingly. She gave a two-finger salute to his back, but hastily flipped it around and tried to play it off as examining her fingernails when she noticed a fourth-year boy watching through the window of the nearest compartment. He excitedly whispered to his friends, jerking his head at her.

When they all turned to look, Hermione groaned inwardly and escaped into the tiny bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror, at the Head Girl badge glinting on her chest. What’s happened to you? she thought. You’ve got to buck up – be Head Girl. No more smoking, no more drinking, no more childish hand gestures or rude language. No more vices!

When she opened the door, two of her vices were standing in the corridor.

“Patrolling?” she said casually, ignoring the flip-flop of her heart and the swoop in her stomach at the sight of her boys. “I approve.”

“Not patrolling. On the pull,” said Harry, his eyes flashing with mischief. “For beautiful, brown-eyed girls with long curls and a… lust for life.”

“And lucky for us, we found one,” said Ron, wiggling his eyebrows at her.

“None of that,” said Hermione, looking around furtively. “You can’t flirt with me like that – people will notice.”

“We have always flirted with you at school,” said Ron indignantly. “People will notice if we don’t.”

“Whether that’s true or not,” Hermione said primly, “we have to set a better example of proper behav–”

“Do not finish that sentence,” said Ron warningly. “We brought the Map and the Cloak and the Mirrors for im-proper behaviour.”

“Don’t interrupt me. I never said anything about having proper behaviour. Just the illusion of it. No flirting.” She adjusted the hem of her skirt and primly walked along the lightly swaying corridor. She saw the flash and heard the pop of a firecracker behind the lowered screen of a compartment and opened the door. “No fireworks on the train,” she said sternly. “Hand them over.”

I should make a special bag just for confiscations, she thought as she put the girl’s stash of catherine wheels and sparklers in her pocket. She could feel Harry and Ron exchange glances behind her back and sighed to herself.

It was going to be a very long year.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Ron watched Hermione across the table during the Sorting. She was anxious, doing that little lip bite and bouncing slightly on the bench as “Guillon, Louise,” was called to the front. There were titters and a wolf-whistle or two as Hermione’s friend went to the stool, standing out like a sore thumb in the sea of tiny eleven-year-olds. Louise smiled in a patient, yes-I-know-how-ridiculous-I-look sort of way.

Ron knew Hermione was crossing all her fingers and possibly her toes, hoping and praying her friend would be sorted into Gryffindor. Entirely for her sake, he looked up and made a wish on the first star he saw.

He heard whispers of “hatstall” run up and down the tables the longer the Sorting Hat took to decide. It fit just right on Louise’s head, and Ron felt a pang of sympathy – on a first year’s head, it slipped over their eyes and took away the pressure of having to look a certain way while your future hung in the balance. Louise, however, looked calm and unworried, her eyes cast down on her hands folded in her lap.

“GRYFFINDOR!” the Hat suddenly roared, and Hermione forgot herself entirely as she leapt up with a triumphant, “YES!” She rushed to hug Louise and usher her to sit beside her.

“Oh, good,” Ron heard Harry say happily. They were sitting beside each other, probably closer than necessary.

“D’you like her, then?” asked Ron.

“I don’t know yet, but Hermione does. And I like Hermione.”

Ron chuckled. He liked a happy Hermione. He hoped her and Harry’s meeting with Dumbledore wouldn’t take too long – he had plans. Last night was too good to wait until Christmas break to repeat. But he wasn’t going to think about that right now. He needed his wits about him.

The line of yet-to-be-sorted first years seemed never-ending. Ron counted backwards and thought, What was it about 1986 that had so many wizards procreating? And Muggles, he added fairly, glancing at Hermione, whose face was shining with glee. Harry’s going to have his work cut out for him comforting them all. Some of them already looked weepy.

You could help with that, an internal voice that sounded like Hermione’s admonished him. You’ll need the practice, dealing with scared children.

All right, Ron said to himself, straightening up. No time like the present. He squeezed up against Harry and patted the space on the bench next to him as a newly minted Gryffindor boy deliberated on where to sit. Unless he made a loyal group of friends quickly, Ron could tell he was going to struggle socially – he wore unfashionable specs, had a bad buzzcut, and was overweight. 

“Good on ya, mate,” said Ron as he scrambled to sit down. “Welcome to the best House in Hogwarts. Ron Weasley.” He shook hands with the boy, who said his name was Milton Wumple. Oh, dear, Ron thought, but he gave nothing away. “Have you met our ghost? Sir Nick Purpleton, or some such.”

“I know you mean Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington,” said Nearly Headless Nick, straightening his transparent ruff importantly.

The boy stared at him in awe through his glasses. “Did you know Shakespeare?” he blurted.

Ron hid his smile, remembering the time Harry had once quoted part of a sonnet at him. He was being deliberately cheesy, but Ron still thought it was romantic and sweet.

When he looked across the table, Hermione beamed at him, as if he had done something unbelievably important. Harry squeezed his hand under the table.

His heart lifted. It was going to be a good year.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry let Hermione take the lead during their meeting with Headmaster Dumbledore, for which Professor McGonagall, as Deputy Headmistress, was also present. It wasn’t meant to be a long meeting – the Headmaster simply wanted to get to know them a little, as his decision to make them Head Boy and Girl was based on knowing them on paper and through the other professors’ perceptions, not in person. He also wanted to know their impressions of the prefects and if they foresaw any troubles.

Harry considered bringing up the most recent attack on Muggleborns that appeared in the Daily Prophet, but as it hadn’t happened at school, he wasn’t sure how relevant it would be. The way his father had encouraged Harry to go to him if he heard anything had Harry slightly paranoid that something could be brewing at Hogwarts, but hadn’t known how to bring it up with Hermione without using the words, “My dad said.”

Just push through and talk to her, he told himself. If nothing else, she’s got to respect he’s a good Auror.

The meeting ran longer than Harry thought it should have – Hermione apparently had used her time on the train to get a feel for what other students wanted for enrichment events and was bubbling over with enthusiasm. They were all good ideas, but he was starting to look forward to his bed and wished this could have been a separate meeting, preferably one during the day.

When it was finally over, the castle was mostly empty, save a few ghosts and the occasional patrolling teacher or prefect. “You’re not going to dock any house points for students breaking rules, are you?” she asked casually. Prefects could dock or award points, but unlike the faculty, they had a set amount they could do each day, and an enchanted quill in the Headmaster’s office kept a record of who was involved in each incidence. Head Boy and Girl had a higher allotment.

“Probably not,” said Harry comfortably. “I believe rewards for good behaviour is a far more effective method than punitive measures. You said so yourself on the train – it’s up to us how we enforce rules.”

“Well, yes… it’s just frustrating sometimes that people listen to you better than me. Like you’re not even trying and people just do what you want.”

“Try it my way for a while and see what happens. I’ll bet boys at least would listen if you used your feminine wiles.”

Hermione turned and gave him a dangerous look. “Say that again. Slowly.”

He raised his hands and backed away. He swallowed. “No need. I realise how it sounds. Forget I said it.”

“Maybe I should dock you house points,” she said as she stalked after him. Harry fetched up against the stone wall of the corridor.

“No, Hermione, you’re the one breaking rules.” He licked his lips involuntarily. That look in her eyes, teasing and predatory, was doing things to him. “We’re not allowed to flirt.”

“I am not flirting,” she said trapping him against the wall with her outstretched hands. “We are having a conversation about whether it is appropriate to use one’s sexual charisma to get others to comply.”

“Tell me to do something and we’ll see if it works.”

Just as Hermione took his tie in her fist, there was a noise around the corner. She let go and stepped several paces back just as wand light spilled down the corridor. “Oh, it’s just you two,” said Coraline, a new Hufflepuff prefect. There was relief in her voice. “I didn’t want to have to deal with rule-breaking on the first night.”

“Terrible feeling,” agreed Hermione brightly.

“Not the best policy,” said Harry, poker-faced.

“Well, see you later,” said Coraline, and made her way back down the corridor.

Hermione looked up at Harry. The spell between them had broken. At least for her. “Well, that decides that, I suppose,” she said with regret.

“No, it doesn’t,” said Harry. “There’s a secret passage just behind that tapestry and –”

“Harry, it’s late, and Ron’s not here.”

“But we agreed last night… It was fine to go off in pairs if that’s the only thing we could manage.”

“I know… and maybe I’ll feel different as the year goes on, but Harry… it’s only the first night back and we almost got caught. We’ve got to go.”

He didn’t agree one bit, but he knew better than to force the issue when her mind was set. Harry knew her well enough to know when she was pretending to be firm and when she actually was. He was reasonably certain he could eventually wear her down, but he wasn’t like that.

Harry followed Hermione back to Gryffindor Tower. She allowed him one quick kiss before they went down the corridor that led to the portrait of the Fat Lady. He felt it wasn’t enough, and it made him sadder than if she hadn’t kissed him at all.

Ron was snoring peacefully when Harry got to his dormitory. His bed curtains were open, as though he’d waited up for Harry but fell asleep. Harry sighed, remembering the days his Mum used to do that for his father. Harry hoped he hadn’t disappointed him. Hermione was right – it would have been wrong to sneak off and snog or whatever while Ron was awake and waiting, wondering when they’d come back.

He couldn’t help feeling that it was going to be a lonely year.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

As Ron shaved his chin and considered growing a moustache, he overheard the other boys discussing the Sorting from the night before. “What the fuck was going on with that kid’s hair?” laughed Dean Thomas, and Ron knew he was referring to Milton. “He was nearly bald! He looks like a lumpy magic eight ball.”

Ron had no idea what he meant, but poked his head out of the bathroom to scowl at him anyway, shaving cream still covering half his face. “He’s adopted. His parents are white and couldn’t be arsed to learn about his hair.”

After a moment of embarrassed silence, Dean mumbled, “Poor kid.”

Ron shrugged. He wasn’t going to be too hard on Dean – a few years ago, he would have been saying shite behind his back, too.

Harry coughed. “He just needs a friendly, knowledgeable person to nudge him in the right direction,” he said in a way that was both innocent and pointed.

While Dean looked thoughtful, Neville hastily changed the subject. “Hope we start with Herbology – can’t wait to see what Sprout’s been growing over the summer. The Venomous Tentacula was just going through puberty at the end of last year.”

As the other boys recoiled and chortled at the word, Seamus said, “I’m glad I dropped it. Plants give me the creeps.”

“Feed me, Seymour,” sang Dean soulfully. It must have been an inside joke, since Seamus cracked up.

“Exactly,” he said.

Ron went back to his task, deciding that now was not the time to experiment with facial hair. Hermione probably wouldn’t like kissing him anymore, and Harry was already mildly jealous of how thick Ron's grew in. Ron didn’t mind hair or the lack thereof. Face, body, limbs, genitals – it was all good for him. He just loved seeing his boyfriend and his girlfriend naked. He’d already caught a glimpse of Harry this morning as he got into the shower.

The dormitories were set up so that there was one room for every year on each of the seven floors. All dormitories on the odd-numbered floors had a smaller attached bathroom with a couple toilets, sinks, and a large mirror. The three bathrooms on the even floors were significantly larger, with showers and tubs, but were not attached to a dormitory. Each year had the same dormitory for the full seven years of Hogwarts, and Harry, Ron, Neville, Dean, and Seamus had been on the seventh floor since their first year. For some reason, 1980 and 1979 had been low birth years, and as a result there was quite a bit more room in theirs and Hermione’s dormitories.

Not like this year. There have to be at least twenty new students in Gryffindor alone. He figured Hermione had probably counted them, but he didn’t care enough to ask her. Other dormitories had bunk beds. Ginny said that while being on the top bed was fun when she was a first year, she was definitely over it now. “Can’t believe I haven’t broken an ankle going for a slash in the dark,” she’d said.

While thoughts of beds eventually left Ron’s head, student numbers did not. Everywhere he went, he had to be careful not to step on a first year. Harry was more concerned with their emotional state and admitted to Ron he hadn’t slept well, expecting to be awoken at any moment to comfort someone. But either this year’s batch were made of stronger stuff or someone else had been called upon, as the seventh-year boys had been undisturbed all night.

“I had plans for you both last night,” Ron said in an aside to Harry as they waited in the queue for their class schedules. Hermione and Louise had been first through and whisked off to Ancient Runes with barely a hello for the boys.

“Meeting went late,” yawned Harry. “Hermione was full of vim and vigour for all her ideas about this year.”

“You can’t possibly be surprised,” said Ron. “When is she not?”

Harry shrugged and smiled. “What did you have in mind?”

“Ah, tell you later,” said Ron. It was their turn.

Ron’s schedule had quite a few breaks during the day, meant for study. Harry was already frowning at his, mumbling to himself about where to put Quidditch practices, tutoring, and meetings with the faculty and prefects. “Are you officially joining the Slug Club this year?” Harry asked him.

“Yeah,” said Ron. Slughorn had done another lunch meeting on the train, and Ron had received an invitation this year exactly as he’d expected. “I’ll take whatever puts me ahead.”

“Damn,” Harry said, but at the hurt look on Ron’s face, he amended, “because I was going to quit if you weren’t. They’re really not as helpful as you’d think.”

“Reckon I’d like to see for myself,” said Ron coolly. He felt seen, for once, even if he didn’t particularly like Slughorn. He wasn’t keen to let Harry spoil it for him, whether he meant to or not.

“Right,” said Harry, wincing. “Sorry.”

They had a free period just then and went to the library. Ron thought more about the Slug Club meeting on the train and tried to see it from Harry’s point of view. Slughorn had gone on about Harry’s Quidditch skills and asked questions on how he got along with his father and grandfather, either not noticing or not caring about Harry’s discomfort. Harry had said nothing about his ambition to be a teacher, and Ron wondered why. Perhaps he felt he’d be kicked out if Slughorn knew he had no intention to go pro, had a strained relationship with his dad, and wasn’t interested in running the Sleekeazy company.

If I feel seen, he must feel invisible. As they were shielded by the huge stacks of books, Ron pulled Harry into a one-armed hug and quickly kissed his temple.

“What was that for?” asked Harry, the worry lines on his face smoothing into a smile.

“No reason,” said Ron. “I just like you.”

 

In Ancient Runes class, Hermione was faced with the alarming revelation that if she was not careful, she would be outperformed by her best girl friend. Louise had an almost preternatural gift for spoken and written languages. Hermione had been both surprised and impressed to learn that Louise not only spoke English and French fluently, she was also fluent in Spanish and could muddle along in Dutch and German. For fun, she had taught herself Latin and Ancient Greek.

Hermione had only rudimentary French from summer lessons, and she had also studied a tiny bit of Latin to help with her incantations and understanding of unfamiliar spells she found in books. But it did not come as naturally to her as for Louise. Hermione swallowed her discomfort seeing someone do better at a subject she prided herself on, knowing Harry and Ron would not hesitate to take the mickey out of her for turning everything into a competition.

She knew that her drive for high academic achievements came from her parents, mostly her mother. Almost all of her pocket money and special privileges were rewards for high marks, awards, and other achievements. She had been conditioned to it for so long that she couldn’t stop, even now that she was not actively being rewarded by her parents. The lack of their attention and pride felt like the harshest punishment to Hermione.

But she wasn’t going to think about that. She was going to keep her head in the present.

“This is going to be fun,” said Louise brightly as they left the classroom. “I was worried it wouldn’t be much of a challenge. Who was that sitting across from us?”

“Anthony Goldstein. He’s a Ravenclaw and a prefect. Got your sights on him, do you?”

“I’ve got my sights on all of them. At least until I can start narrowing it down.”

Hermione was amused. “Why does it matter to you so much? What’s so important about having a boyfriend?”

“Says the girl with two,” Louise snorted. “Are you telling me it’s better to be single? Can I have one of yours, then?”

“No,” said Hermione indignantly. “And it’s only better to be single when the alternative is having a bad boyfriend.”

“Well, what do you think of Anthony, then?”

“He’s nice,” said Hermione. “I don’t know much about him personally, but he always has a good attitude in prefect meetings and he gets good marks in class.”

“Why am I not surprised that that’s all you notice,” said Louise with amusement. “Is he single? Does he have a good relationship with his mother?”

Hermione laughed. “How would I know? You should ask him!”

“Don’t suppose Hogwarts does speed-dating…”

“Speed – excuse me, what on earth does that mean?”

“It’s a new thing,” Louise said, and went on to explain how it was an organised event in which participants are given a time limit to talk to a potential partner, then move along to the next. “…and if they like someone, they can request their number from the event coordinator, but they only give it out if the other person asked, too,” she finished.

“How do you know so much about it?”

Louise pulled a face. “Well, I overheard Mum telling her friend she’d done one not too long ago.”

“But isn’t she – aren’t she and David married?”

“Hah,” said Louise without humour. “That’s never once stopped her. Look, can we talk about something else? I’m sorry I brought it up.”

Hermione was quiet. This was how it was between her and Louise. She would get little snippets about her life, but Louise never wanted to dwell on uncomfortable things. Hermione knew even less about her French father, though Louise was happy to talk about Beauxbatons and France.

Maybe that will change, Hermione thought, now that we know the other is a witch.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The second Sunday of term, Ron was in the Hospital Wing, taking advantage of the hour before dinner to have a cup of tea with Madam Pomfrey and tell her all about his first two days at St. Mungo’s. He was tired, but elated. He had never been more certain that this was what he was meant to do.

The first day had been mostly orientation – learning the ins and outs of the hospital and meeting the Healers he’d be working with, but on the second day there had been an exciting moment in which he’d been allowed to assist with a delicate operation to remove an elephant trunk from a wizard’s face and restore his original nose. Ron had not expected to learn about elephant anatomy in his course of work at St. Mungo’s, but he was fast learning to expect the unexpected. It was not a simple matter of vanishing spells – the man’s vascular and muscular system were tied into the trunk and it required precision, skill, and knowledge to remove and reverse.

He had barely gotten into it before the door to the Hospital Wing opened and Hermione wobbled in. Her face was bloodless and she looked about to faint. The reason why became obvious when Ron saw her left arm flopping about like a flesh-coloured rubber glove – somehow, she’d lost all the bones in her arm.

“What happened?” Ron asked as he helped her sit down on the bed nearest to the door. She didn’t appear to be in pain; just squeamish and upset at whatever had caused it. He felt an aura of calm settle over him as he watched Madam Pomfrey gently examine Hermione’s arm, murmuring that the muscles, nerves, and skin were all present and accounted for.

Hermione didn’t want to explain at first, and Ron’s first thought was that she’d had an accident practicing Transfiguration that she was embarrassed about. No one had brought her in, so she’d likely been alone when it happened.

When Madam Pomfrey went to her office to get a bottle of Skele-Gro, Ron sat next to her and cradled her face with his hands. “It’s all right, love – just tell me what happened so we can patch you up. Nobody else has to know.” To his shock, she started to cry.

“It was that munter Parkinson,” she said, angrily wiping tears away with her right hand as Ron put his arm around her waist. “She cornered me in the loo, words were exchanged, and she hexed me, only my wand was in my bag and I had to block it with my a-arm.”

“Twenty points from Slytherin,” Ron said, using his full allotment for the day. It was only too bad it didn’t roll over each day – like Harry, he usually couldn’t be arsed about docking points. “Did you hear the incantation she used?”

“No,” said Hermione angrily. “It was nonverbal. Oh, Ron, I was so stupid. I let her get under my skin. My smart mouth got me into this.”

“Stop that,” said Ron. “You didn’t curse yourself. What did you say to her?”

Hermione admitted there was a rumour circulating that Harry and Ron were in a secret relationship, which Parkinson had oh-so-helpfully relayed to taunt Hermione. And it seemed to have worked – there was pain in Hermione’s voice as she told the story.

“She said, ‘It’s just too bad that being Head Girl didn’t make you enough for either one of them. Everyone knows you chase after them like a bitch in heat.’ ”

Ron focused very hard on stretching his hands so he would not ball them into fists. “Fucking bint,” Ron said. “What did you say back?”

“I said, ‘You would know. Obviously, Malfoy prefers human girls or he would have taken up with your pug-face long ago.’ ”

Ron burst out laughing and kissed her. “That’s incredible. I wish I could have seen the look on her face at that. Well done!”

“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” Hermione scowled, looking down at her useless arm. “I just wish I’d taken the high road.”

“That would be highly unsatisfactory, though I am sorry you got cursed for it.”

Hermione was quiet. Ron played with the ends of her curls, waiting for her to speak, but she didn’t. “What are you thinking?” he asked her softly.

“Just… the rumour,” she said miserably. “I reckon whoever saw you and Harry at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes decided not to keep quiet. Unless you two have been, erm, indiscreet?”

“No,” said Ron. All three of them had been far too busy during the day and too tired at night to even try sneaking around. “Unless someone in our dormitory noticed me looking at Harry’s bum in his stupid pants with the lip prints on them. Bloody suggestive.” There was one on his right cheek that seemed to be mocking Ron.

“Oh, I like those,” Hermione said, dabbing gingerly at her right eye. “But my favourite are the dark blue ones with all the constellations. They twinkle.”

Ron snorted and took her good hand. He idly wondered why Madam Pomfrey was taking her time getting the potion. “Don’t tell anyone, all right?” Hermione said softly. “I don’t want it getting back to her. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction.”

“All your secrets are safe with us,” Ron said as he stroked her hair. He knew without asking that Harry was exempt. “And don’t flap about any stupid rumours. People eventually stopped speculating about Harry and Romilda, didn’t they?”

“With help from my wand,” Hermione muttered darkly.

“That’s the spirit,” said Ron, grinning.

She huffed. “No, it isn’t. I’m Head Girl – I can’t very well go around cursing people for gossiping.”

Ron shrugged. “People will get bored and move on, or something more scandalous will happen and they’ll forget it. We could even start our own rumour, if you like.”

Before they could amuse themselves with ideas, Madam Pomfrey strode briskly over with a set of pyjamas and a large bottle with a cheerful skeleton in a waistcoat printed on the label. After administering a large spoonful to Hermione, who gagged and looked as though she might vomit, she said, “I’m afraid I’ll have to keep you all night. Growing bones is a nasty business.”

“So is that,” gasped Hermione, nodding at the Skele-Gro.

Madam Pomfrey ignored her commentary. “Move along, Mr. Weasley, while I help Miss Granger get changed.”

“I can do it – err, no, you’re right, I can’t,” said Ron at the scandalised look on Madam Pomfrey’s face and the don’t-give-us-away-you-prat look on Hermione’s. He wandered into the matron’s office and looked at the glass-fronted cabinet where she kept her Healing potions and instruments. Lily had once told him that the forebears of the Skele-Gro and Pepperup potions had been invented by one of Harry’s ancestors in the twelfth century. Ron made a mental note to ask her about the potion for werewolves she was working on the next time he saw her – she hadn’t been on duty at St. Mungo’s over the weekend.

His schoolbag was just outside the door, and as he grabbed it, he peeked into the ward, hoping to catch a glimpse of Hermione in a state of undress. No such luck – Madam Pomfrey had put up curtains around her bed. He rummaged inside his bag and found what he was looking for.

Opening the leather case, Ron said very clearly to the Mirror, “Harry Potter.” The surface fogged over, and when it cleared, Harry’s face was staring back at him.

“What’s up?” he asked. “I was just trying to figure out when to hold the first practice.” Quidditch trials had been earlier that week, though they’d only really needed a new Chaser. Dean Thomas had made it on, though it had been a close match between him and Seamus. Peakes was nearly unseated as Beater by Louise, whom Ron suspected had a lot of pent-up anger, if the force she hit Bludgers with was any indication. At Ginny’s suggestion, Harry had formed a four-person reserve team this year comprised of Louise, Seamus, a third-year Seeker, and a fifth-year Keeper whose names Ron had yet to remember.

“Come to the Hospital Wing,” Ron said. “Hermione’s with Madam Pomfrey.”

“Why?” Harry asked, immediately worried.

“Don’t freak out – she’s fine.” He explained as briefly as he could. Hoping to distract Harry from the thoughts that made him look like a thundercloud, Ron said, “She could use some moral support from her second-favourite bloke.” He grinned obnoxiously at Harry.

“But you’re already there,” Harry retorted. He snapped the cover shut on his mirror and the connection was broken – Ron saw only himself reflected back at him.

“Visiting hours are almost over,” Madam Pomfrey said sternly as Harry entered the room just a few minutes later. He was out of breath, as if he had run through the whole castle to get there, the silly sod. The delighted look on Hermione’s face was indication that Ron had done the right thing.

“There aren’t exceptions for Head Boy?” asked Harry sweetly, if slightly winded.

Fat chance, mate, Ron thought, but was startled when Madam Pomfrey reluctantly said, “Oh, all right then. I’ll have dinner sent up from the kitchens.”

How the fuck does he do that? Ron thought in equal parts admiration and disbelief. Pomfrey never relents on visiting hours. Has he done a beguiling charm on himself or something?

“You’ve missed your calling,” said Ron after Pomfrey had gone into her office and closed the door. “You should be a politician.”

“Boring,” scoffed Harry as he and Ron sat on either side of Hermione.

“Hey, now,” she said warningly. “A lot of good can be done in a position of – ouch!” She winced and rubbed her boneless shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” asked Harry with a concerned look on his face.

“Pins and needles,” she said.

“It’ll get worse,” Ron said easily.

“Thanks, Ron,” said Hermione with false brightness.

“You’re welcome,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose. Hermione’s eyes flickered around the room, but the ward was empty except for the three of them. “That’s why we’re here – to distract you until Madam Pomfrey kicks us out.”

“She might not,” said Hermione, looking at Harry. “Ron’s right – you should consider using your charisma for good cause.”

“I want to be a teacher,” Harry insisted. “Or something with kids. Are there Guides for boys, Hermione?”

“Boy Scouts,” she said, “but you don’t get paid to lead. Volunteer work only.”

“Well, I don’t n– erm, never mind.” Ron just knew he’d been about to say something stupid, like “I don’t need money.”

“Here’s the thing, Harry,” Hermione began. She winced again and tried to rub her arm, but Ron gently stopped her with the admonishment to let the potion work.

“They’ll grow back funny if you don’t leave them alone,” he said.

“Eurgh,” Hermione said, turning a bit green.

“What were you saying?” asked Harry quickly.

“Right. I mean to say, there is no primary school for wizards before Hogwarts, or even creche. Your choices are to teach in Muggle schools and hope the Ministry doesn’t catch wind, or here at Hogwarts, and you’re going to run up against the fact that there are no open positions and the Headmaster would likely see you as too close to students’ age to command the proper authority.”

“Because of all the girls and boys who’ll have crushes on you,” said Ron helpfully.

“I could do what Mrs. Figg did for me,” said Harry stubbornly, ignoring Ron’s flirting. “I don’t want to go into politics, Hermione.”

She shook her head. “That’s not what I’m saying.” As she spoke, her voice rose with conviction, and she gesticulated with her right arm. “I’m saying that if you want to teach young magical children, including Muggleborns, you are going to have to create a program and build a school that doesn’t exist. How do you think that’s going to happen? By charming people into not only seeing that it should exist, but in a way that makes them want to make it happen with you. You’ll have to convince the Ministry to fund it, or schmooze donors to get it off the ground. Hire support staff. Find land to build on or an appropriate building.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” said Ron, impressed.

Harry was quiet, digesting Hermione’s words. She softened as she went on, “If you’ve got a dream, you’ve got to work for it, Harry. It won’t be handed to you. You already have an incredible gift that’s more than just… seducing me and Ron all the time. It’s the power of persuasion. An animus. So use it.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, and Ron reached behind Hermione to take his hand. “You wouldn’t have to do it alone. I’ll help,” he said. “You’ll need a school nurse, anyway.” Harry chuckled and squeezed Ron’s hand.

“You know I will,” said Hermione, turning up her nose importantly. “I’m far too nosey and interfering to let you two do anything alone.”

“I love that about you,” said Harry quietly. “I’m sorry I ever said otherwise. I didn’t mean it.”

“Water under the bridge,” said Hermione, and kissed Harry.

Madam Pomfrey eventually did make them leave. After dinner, she gave Hermione another potion so she would sleep through the worst of the regrowing. “Once your elbow starts coming in, you’ll thank me,” she said.

“Can’t they stay?” asked Hermione, looking at Ron and Harry.

“I’m afraid not – I’ve already allowed you quite a bit of leeway. I’m running a hospital, not an inn.” At the pleading look on Hermione’s face, she amended, “But I don’t see why they can’t stay until you’re asleep.” She walked away, muttering about growing soft in her old age.

“You’re the one that should go into politics,” said Harry appreciatively, fluffing her pillow. She was already looking drowsy as she settled as comfortably as she could. Ron tucked her in and they both kissed her goodnight.

“What are we doing about Parkinson?” Harry asked darkly as he and Ron walked back to the common room. For Hermione’s sake, they had both swallowed their rage and focused on distracting her and staying positive, but now that she was safe and healing, there was nothing to distract them from thoughts of revenge.

“Murder sounds good,” said Ron. “Make it look like an accident.”

“We could anonymously gift her a pet snake. A really cranky, venomous one. D’you know where we could find a sack of tarantulas?”

“NO SPIDERS,” Ron said, his heart quavering at the very thought. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Harry shrugged. “Lots. I can think of plenty of horrible fates for that fucking harpy.”

“Dress her up like a prawn and throw her to the Giant Squid,” suggested Ron.

“That’s animal cruelty – you can’t poison a beloved member of the Hogwarts community.”

Nothing they came up with would actually fly, but it was fun to imagine. He was surprised a crack about Malfoy had gotten to her – or perhaps it was the likening of her appearance to a dog’s. He thought she would have been used to that by now…

“Hermione’s the queen of revenge,” Ron said. “Don’t know why she’s so against it all of a sudden. We didn’t tell you because you were recuperating and didn’t need to know, but there was a nasty rumour going round last year that you – you know what? Never mind.” Ron cleared his throat.

“Ron,” Harry said, looking at him gravely. “You may as well tell me.”

“All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Someone was spreading lies that you and Romilda were an item, but it went sour and you faked being poisoned to get away.”

Harry visibly recoiled. “Do people really think so little of me?”

Ron laced their fingers together and kissed the back of Harry’s hand. “Most people didn’t believe it for a second. But it got under Hermione’s skin especially. She has an alarming amount of blackmail now and nobody really knows if she was responsible for the noodle incident –”

“Jesus. Even I heard about the noodle incident. You’re telling me that was her?”

“She still won’t confirm or deny.”

“That’s so cold. But also… kind of hot?”

“I told her that,” grinned Ron, remembering with fondness how her cheeks went pink. “She smacked me with her Ancient Runes book.” He rubbed his arm without thinking.

Harry hissed in sympathy. “That thing’s got to weigh at least three stone.”

“Worth it,” said Ron with relish.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

It only took one night for Hermione’s bones to regrow, and she was back to normal and pretending nothing happened the next day, making Ron worry a little about her mental state and whether she was doing something like disassociating – she still didn’t talk about the boggart she and Louise had defeated, glossing over what should have been an incredibly frightening experience and changing the subject.

After Transfiguration class, Professor McGonagall made him explain why he’d taken so many points from Slytherin in one go. He tried to be vague in order to keep his promise to Hermione, that he was in the Hospital Wing when a student with an injury said they’d been cursed by a Slytherin.

“While I can appreciate your… zeal in standing up for other students, I’m afraid you cannot take or award points based on hearsay,” she said evenly.

“It wasn’t,” said Ron hotly.

“Did you witness the incident yourself?”

“I saw the aftermath,” he said. “And sh– they had no reason to lie.”

“Perhaps not, but until a witness or the injured party does come forward, I’ll be reinstating those points. Twenty points to Slytherin.”

Ron gritted his teeth against all the ways he wanted to retort. He seethed with righteous indignation all through Defence Against the Dark Arts class, which fell near a full moon and was taught by a very nervous stand-in from the Ministry’s Department of Magical Education. Why Hermione’s love for reporting rule-breaking failed her now of all times, he didn’t know. Not wanting to give Pansy the satisfaction seemed a flimsy excuse. Harry had no idea what she was thinking, either.

Ron idly watched one of her curls move in a light draft where she sat in the row ahead of Harry and Ron. Hermione had started sitting with Louise more often in classes, unless they had classes with Hufflepuff, and then Louise sat with Susan Bones. Hermione said it was mostly that she wanted her friend to feel included, but also because sitting next to her boyfriends was just flirting with disaster. Ron smirked and took her at her word, but Harry had to be reassured she was not pulling away.

They had started the year learning about Unforgiveable Curses, which was only making the substitute’s nerves even worse. Shame Harry’s not interested in government work, Ron thought. The Department of Magical Education’s sent us some real winners.

He intended to ask Professor Lupin when he got back what made these three curses so unforgiveable when there were so many other ways to really hurt someone with magic, and not even the Dark stuff that damaged souls. He’d already seen or heard about some at St. Mungo’s. The entrail-expelling curse, for one, and it had even been a Healer who’d invented it. He’d have a hard time forgiving someone if they used it on him. Or anyone else he cared about.

And whatever curse Parkinson used on Hermione… What was even the point? He could sort of see it if it was to remove a bone to heal it and then put it back, but to vanish them entirely? It was just cruel. And that was assuming the spell had worked as intended… Perhaps Parkinson had meant something nastier and it didn’t go as planned.

Barely two weeks in and his girlfriend had already been attacked. Was this an early indication of what the school year was going to be like? Hermione was Head Girl. Generally people had more sense than to deliberately antagonise authority figures.

Harry was suspicious it had to do with Hermione being Muggleborn, and Ron was inclined to agree. Something horrible was brewing in their world. Just three days ago, there’d been an article in the Daily Prophet that several Diagon Alley businesses had their front windows broken and an ominous symbol consisting of three runes burned into the doors. No one had been hurt, but Ron knew at least two of the businesses had ties to Sanctum.

Ron felt a tap at his elbow. He’d been so wrapped up in his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed Harry scribbling a note to him. Ron glanced up at the teacher, whose back was turned as he wrote something on the blackboard, then down at the note: You okay?

He looked at Hermione. Her face was turned to the side, and he could tell she was watching him out of the corner of his eye. A wave of protectiveness rose in him as he wrote back: I think you should tell your dad about Hermione’s attack.

Harry pulled a face. She won’t like that, he wrote.

It’s bigger than just her. You know that. She’ll have to come to terms with it.

Harry didn’t write back, but he nodded.

Good, thought Ron. We’re on the same page.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

That Friday was Hermione’s eighteenth birthday. She allowed Ron and Harry to kiss her on the cheeks between them as they gave her her present in the common room just before heading to breakfast. They’d enchanted a cut crystal vase that would keep any plant put inside it fresh for a full year. She could even restore dried plants to full bloom. They’d put a bouquet of heliotrope and roses inside it.

“That’s really advanced magic!” she exclaimed, putting the vase down to give them each a hug. “And it’s pretty.”

“Would you expect any less?” asked Harry flirtatiously.

“No, of course not,” she said. “Wait for me while I put it away,” she said.

Ron and Harry watched her all the way up the spiral staircase until she disappeared from view.

“You two aren’t obvious. Not at all,” said Ginny as she came down the stairs, followed by Louise.

“What do you mean?” asked Harry in a tone that was far too innocent to be genuine.

“Puppy eyes,” said Louise. “And you’re drooling a little.”

Ron felt the corner of his lip before he could stop himself. He scowled as Ginny and Louise laughed all the way to the portrait hole. “Think they’re funny, do you?” he muttered to Harry, who had bit his lips to hide his smirk.

“Yeah,” he said, putting a friendly arm around Ron’s shoulders. “What d’you think about sneaking out tonight and giving Hermione a proper birthday?”

“Twist my arm,” said Ron, straightening up as Hermione came back down.

 

That evening, when Ron came downstairs after a shower, he saw Hermione studying at a table with Louise. He watched her for a moment, the way she smiled at her friend and the way her brow furrowed as she concentrated, causing a little vertical line between her eyebrows. Her hair was loose, her curls defined and shiny. She’s so beautiful, he thought, his heart fluttering in his chest. He wanted so badly to go up to her, put his arms around her and rest his chin on the top of her head as he read her essay over her shoulder and asked about her day.

But the common room was far from empty – there was a gaggle of hyperactive second years giggling and talking loudly over each other and several knots of study groups and friends. Ron had to settle for a mere, “All right?”

“Hi,” Hermione said, lighting up at the sight of him. “Where did you come from?”

“Heaven,” said Ron casually, making her snort. “Can I join you?”

“You don’t have to ask me,” said Hermione.

Louise narrowed her eyes and sized him up. “I dunno, Hermione. He looks dodgy.”

“I think you mean super mysterious and cool,” said Ron.

“Well, so long as you’re quiet, I don’t care,” said Louise, giving the second years a hard stare.

Ron went back upstairs to get his books from his dormitory. On his way up, he stopped at the second-floor bathroom and saw an unexpected sight. Milton Wumple was sitting on a chair in front of the mirror as Dean patiently tidied up Milton’s hairline with a straight-edge razor and instructed him to grow out the rest. An array of hair products littered the edge of the sink, most of them Muggle brands in plastic bottles, but there was a bottle of Sleekeazy, too.

“Oi, Harry!” Dean called, catching sight of him in the hallway.

“Someone say m’name?” Harry asked, coming in.

“This the best your grandad can do?” Dean asked sceptically, pointing his chin at the bottle of Sleekeazy.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“May as well say, ‘for white people only.’ Doesn’t do shit for us,” he said, indicating him and Milton, who smiled tentatively back at Dean.

Harry shrugged. “Owl him and tell him how to make it better. If you send it with Hedwig, he’ll answer.”

“That nice girl gave it to me to try,” Milton piped up. “I think she’s your friend. With the long curly hair.”

“Yeah, that’s Hermione,” said Dean before Ron or Harry could answer. “One of the hottest girls in school.” Ron noticed his own scowl mirrored on Harry’s face.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Milton said, looking embarrassed. “But she is really nice.”

“Good luck getting her attention,” Dean muttered.

Ron cleared his throat. “Looking good, Milt!” he said.

“Thanks!” Milton said brightly, all aglow under the attention of the older boys. Harry forgot himself for a second and smiled at Dean in his I-see-you way and Ron noticed Dean straighten his shoulders, as if charged with an important responsibility.

Huh, Ron thought. Hermione’s really on to something. It’s more than sexual attraction.

“Oh, wait a tick,” said Harry, looking more closely at the Sleekeazy bottle. “This isn’t… hmm. I think Hermione must have reused this bottle for something else and forgot about it. But you should still write to my grandad – he’s always tweaking his formulas and he’ll send you samples if you ask. I’ll give this back to Hermione.”

Harry lowered his voice and said in an aside to Ron, “No wonder it didn’t work – this is firewhisky.” Ron choked back a laugh.

When Ron had finished in the bathroom and got his books from his dormitory, he found Harry at the table with Hermione and Louise, writing what appeared to be a letter. Hermione had angled her body artfully away from him, as if to say, “I-am-being-very-respectful-and-not-snooping.”

Ron smirked and sat on Harry’s left. He arranged his books and got to work. He hadn’t had much time to work on his regular schoolwork – he’d done a total of sixteen hours at St. Mungo’s over the weekend and hadn’t been as responsible during the evenings. He really had to catch up – he was doing fine in Charms, Potions, and Herbology, but Transfiguration was already kicking his arse, and after that elephant trunk surgery, he was going to need to up his game.

He was cracking on quite well, chugging along as steady as a train for at least a half hour, until he noticed Harry’s left hand on his knee under the table. Ron closed his eyes and put out a brief plea to whatever ancient god was responsible for resisting sexual temptation, but it was little use. He just didn’t have the willpower to brush off his boyfriend’s hand, which was inching its way up his thigh with tantalising slowness.

Ron shifted his weight as he grew hard, trying not to sweat while he read the same sentence over and over again. He glanced at Harry, who was looking cool and unaffected as he wrote his letter. His body blocked Ron from the rest of the common room, while Hermione and Louise could see nothing from their side of the table.

The tips of Harry’s fingers touched Ron through his trousers. His cock was trapped between Harry’s hand and his right leg, and the pads of Harry’s fingers found the spot they both liked, right below the head. He got the pressure just right so the fabric of his pants didn’t rub much against his exposed head, and instead of circles, he pressed down and released, repeating the motion as Ron felt his neck grow hot and a spiral of pleasure build inside him.

What’s his end goal? To make me cream my pants right here in the fucking common room? Ron thought. And then, Do I care? Harry shifted his weight subtly, and Ron imagined how hard he must be as well. I do care, he decided as Harry continued to bring him closer to the edge, but I’ll let him get awfully far before I stop him.

He thought of the three of them lying naked together on the landing at the lake, Hermione touching Harry for the first time as Ron showed her what to do. He remembered the sight of himself disappearing into Hermione’s mouth as she learned what he liked, the heat of her tongue and the eagerness of her lips, the way she said, “Tell me what feels good.” She had been much gentler than necessary, but it was endearing and all Ron could think was how much he loved her.

And as he remembered Harry’s mouth on him, the way those green eyes looked directly into his own, perhaps even his soul, how he’d somehow known even that first time exactly how rough Ron could take it, he put his hand on top of Harry’s and very subtly shook his head. Harry let go. It was a near thing – a bit longer and he would have been in a right mess. Ron took slow, deep breaths as quietly as he could.

Louise had noticed nothing. Hermione, however, had become very in tune with Ron’s and Harry’s signals and knew something was up. She glanced between them, equal parts excited, wary, and even a little jealous. Well, that’s that, thought Ron. They were going to sneak off tonight and do something about it.

 

Hermione’s imagination was going wild trying to guess whatever was happening under the table. It was very discreet – the only indication was the flush on Ron’s neck, which could easily be explained away as heat or stress, and the slight, intermittent tensing of Harry’s left bicep. Was he touching Ron through his trousers or had he pulled him fully out? She wanted to crawl underneath the table and find out, perhaps participate with her mouth.

She consoled herself with the knowledge that her plan was mostly complete. She’d sweet-talked Slughorn into giving her signed permission to check out Moste Potente Potions from the library’s Restricted Section, broke curfew on a full moon to pick fluxweed under its silvery light, and written to Lily to ask where one could get boomslang skin and powdered bicorn horn.

Hermione squirmed a little, remembering Lily’s tongue-in-cheek reply:

Dear Hermione,

I’m glad you reached out to me. It would certainly raise eyebrows with your professors or even a canny shopkeeper to request such potent ingredients. I can think of a few rather dangerous potions you might brew with them, but you’re a very smart girl and I’m sure all your pursuits are entirely academic. Do remember that Madam Pomfrey’s first duty is to the care of her charges and not to tattle.

I’ve enclosed your requested items, and some brandy snaps. Harry doesn’t like them, so you won’t have to share.

All my love,

Lily

All that was left was to find a place to brew the potion where it would be neither discovered nor disturbed. She’d busted up enough illicit brewing operations in bathrooms and dormitories to know those were out. There were the secret corridors and passages on the Marauder’s Map, but it wasn’t guaranteed that no one else knew about them, not to mention the fumes that would accumulate in small spaces.

She noticed Ron shake his head just slightly, and Harry nodded in acknowledgement. They both looked at her. Hermione held their gazes for a second before looking down at her class notes. She really should focus. There was a Slug Club supper coming up that would take up more study time than she’d like, plus that meeting with the prefects about student enrichment.

Hermione looked up when Harry cleared his throat. She hadn’t noticed him slip a scrap of parchment across the table. She picked it up without hesitation, not feeling the need to hide from Louise, who had her own schemes of finding a boyfriend and potentially getting rid of her pesky virginity.

Meet us at the portrait hole: 1 am.

She blushed and quickly folded the parchment as she read the second line.

Wear those lacy knickers we like.

Chapter 23: Correspondence

Notes:

Hi! I was unhappy with the last chapter – I was rushing to get it out after taking a week off and as a result, it was not up to par. I went back and made some changes on 8/18/25, which start when they’re all in the Hospital Wing. Many apologies >.<

Harry and Ron crept down the stairs, a muffling charm on their shoes to keep their footsteps from sounding on the floor. Each floor was quiet as they made their way down to the common room. It was completely empty and dark, the only light coming from the windows, where a waning gibbous moon shone in a clear sky.

Hermione was standing in a patch of shadow by the portrait hole. If he hadn’t been so preternaturally attuned to her and Ron, Harry wouldn’t have noticed her. Ron drew her into his arms for a kiss, and she melted against him. Hermione then turned to Harry and kissed him, too, her fingers sliding into his hair.

“Let’s go,” Ron whispered with excitement, tapping his watch pointedly. With the help of the Marauder’s Map and Harry’s Invisibility Cloak, they sneaked through the castle to a circular room in which the entrance pretended to be a stone wall. There were two narrow windows, and one of them had a broken pane. Wind whistled across the gap, making the room feel colder than it was.

Harry repaired the window with his wand and had barely turned back around before Hermione leapt on him and kissed him roughly. Harry wrapped his arms around her as his back fetched up against the wall and returned her enthusiasm with a sense of relief – it had been torture, having to sit through the rest of the evening and waiting for everyone in the dormitory to fall asleep while he burned with the anticipation of finally being alone with Hermione and Ron.

He didn’t know what had possessed him to touch Ron under the common room table; he only felt he was drowning with frustration, and not just sexually. He was trying not to show it, but for once he was feeling overwhelmed with academics. There was so much more to being Head Boy than wearing a badge and helping out younger students – there would be times he and Hermione would have to meet with the school governors and there was even a clause in his list of duties that was ominous in its ambiguity – “Head Students may be required to leave school in order to represent Hogwarts in the wider wizarding community.” He wasn’t sure if he was cut out to be Head Boy after all.

And then Ron had to be sitting there, looking all studious and sexy, smelling fresh from a shower with his hair slightly damp, reminding Harry of the time they’d showered together. It just wasn’t fair.

As Hermione’s lips moved against his, and her lovely soft hands roved over his chest and stomach, untucking his shirt and touching underneath it, Harry let his worries go, as if they were a paper boat struggling to stay afloat in the rapids of a river.

“You two are horrible,” she said, letting go of Harry to pull Ron in for a passionate, open-mouthed kiss. She spoke heatedly between kisses from each of them, some on her lips, others on her neck and shoulders. “Feeling each other up in the common room – what if someone had seen? Do you have any idea what kind of – ah! – rumours are flying around right now?” She continued to rant as she dropped to her knees and dragged Ron’s trousers and pants down over his thighs. “We’re all in positions of authority now and we’ve got to set examples and –”

“Hermione –”

“Don’t you ‘Hermione,’ me! And another thing – while you two are blatant enough for other people to notice, I’m stuck alone and do you know how fucking cold my bed is without you? I hate it!” She took Ron into her hand and Harry had the stupidest mental image of her using his penis as a microphone.

“Hermione, we’re not –”

“Let me speak,” she snapped, and licked Ron along the underside of his shaft from base to tip. Ron shut up. “I’m already tired of pretending and before either of you –” (she paused to lick him again) “– say ‘well, then let’s not,’ I know. All right? I know how stupid it is that it’s necessary.”

“Hermione,” Harry said. “Stop, all right?”

“No! Don’t tell me to be quiet!”

“I wasn’t,” insisted Harry indignantly. “I mean you can’t give blowjobs while you’re crying.”

“I am not,” she lied, her voice breaking. She sat back on her heels and put her face in her hands.

Ron quickly put his clothes back to rights and he and Harry sat down on either side of Hermione.

“What is wrong with me?” she said in frustration.

“Nothing,” Harry and Ron said.

“Talk to us,” Harry said, putting his arm around her as she leaned into him.

“I miss you,” she cried, and she sounded so lonely and desperate that Harry’s heart broke for her. “It hasn’t been even three weeks yet and I see you all the time, but it isn’t the same. I feel like I’m going mad. You’re both able to be with each other and before long, you won’t deny the rumours and you’ll go public and you’ll either forget all about me or just keep me on the side like a dirty little secret.” Her shoulders shook with sobs.

“No, Hermione,” said Ron, putting his arms around her. “God, no.”

“We’re three or we’re nothing,” asserted Harry fervently. It had been a mistake that afternoon. He should have anticipated Hermione would feel left out. She already put so much pressure on herself, and Harry had just added more. He hadn’t really been aware of any rumours, at least not in the way Hermione was.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she said, pulling her knees up to her chest and burying her face in her arms.

Fear suddenly flooded Harry’s stomach. “Please don’t leave,” he begged before he could stop himself. “It’s not like that. We haven’t done anything more than a quick kiss, same as you.”

She lifted her head to look at him incredulously, her beautiful face streaked with tears. “I haven’t said anything about leaving. Why would I do that?”

“I dunno,” Harry mumbled, feeling stupid.

“Merlin, you two,” Ron said fondly, reaching across Hermione to ruffle Harry’s hair as he kissed Hermione’s cheek. “Chronic overthinkers.”

Hermione wiped her nose with her sleeve and sniffled. “I’m sorry I ruined your plans,” she said meekly.

“Hermione,” said Ron, and Harry could feel all the love he put into just her name. “I don’t care if we’re getting dirty or just talking when we’re alone. I love being with you two. Harry’s right. We’re three or we’re nothing.”  

As Hermione breathed a sigh, Harry’s spirits rose. Trust Ron to smooth things over and put them in perspective. He kissed Ron over Hermione’s head, slow and sweet, one hand in Hermione’s curls and the other laced with Ron’s. He had missed being with them so much. Harry took a deep breath. Their combined scent made Harry think of a secret forest grove with a magnolia tree blooming in the middle.

Harry shivered. He shifted his weight on the stone floor and decided if they were going to sit, they should at least be comfortable. He conjured a mattress, blankets, and pillows in the centre of the room. Hermione put a mild repelling jinx on the entrance that would make passersby extremely uninterested in that stretch of wall while Ron cast warming charms on the makeshift bed and sound-muffling charms on the entrance.

They crawled into bed to keep talking, letting out frustrations and confessing insecurities as they cuddled and caressed, fingers smoothing each other’s hair and pausing their conversation only to exchange gentle kisses. The familiarity of touch was both soothing and uplifting.

Ron wanted to know why Hermione was so keen on letting Parkinson get away with attacking her. He said it was only going to encourage her to keep doing it, which Harry wholeheartedly agreed with.

“I’m not,” she said darkly, and Harry got a prickle of foreboding along his spine.

“You’re scheming again, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” she said sweetly.

“Plausible deniability, is it?” Harry said, quashing the memory of his parent’s exchange on Platform 9 ¾ and the image of them holding hands.

“You get it,” Hermione laughed. “Don’t worry about it, all right? I mean that. Let me fight a few battles of my own.”

Perhaps it was the thought of his parents that had Harry not liking that idea one bit, and started to say so, but Ron shushed him, reaching his arm across Hermione to place a finger on his lips. Harry caught it in his teeth, surprising a laugh out of Ron. “Careful, you’re going to get yourself into trouble,” Ron drawled.

“That’s my intention,” Harry said, and took the tip of his finger fully into his mouth, caressing it with his tongue.

“You don’t know where that’s been,” teased Ron breathlessly.

“Hopefully inside Hermione before the night is through.”

“How rude. You know you’re not supposed to pick other people’s noses. Especially on their birthday.”

Hermione burst into giggles against Harry’s chest. The sound curled around Harry’s heart, making him feel like everything was right with the world. He wrapped both arms around her and kissed the top of her head. Ron slid his arms around her waist from behind and kissed Harry sweetly, Hermione sandwiched happily between them.

As their kiss grew slowly more and more heated, with open mouths and eager tongues, Harry felt that familiar and welcome tightening between his legs. The way Hermione was positioned, had they been naked, he could have slid right into her. Patience, he told himself. Tonight is about letting her set the pace.

Hermione squirmed between them. “Okay,” she breathed. “We’re back on track, aren’t we?”

Harry said nothing, but he rolled up onto his elbow so he could touch her. He started with his fingertips on her lips, and trailed them down her neck, between her breasts and over her stomach, all the way down to the hem of her shirt. He slipped his hand under it just as Ron mirrored his position. Their hands touched as they each slid a large palm up over her soft stomach and cupped the breast nearest to them over her bra.

Hermione sighed with pleasure as Harry and Ron lavished attention on her, thumbing over her hard nipples and using palms and fingers to build the tension within her. “It is your birthday,” said Harry lowly. “Tell us what you want.”

“Undress me,” she said immediately, and arched her back as Harry lightly scraped a fingernail over her nipple. “Oh my god,” she murmured.

“Can we light a candle or something?” asked Ron. “I want to see you.”

In answer, Harry lit one of the torches along the wall with his wand as Ron and Hermione sat up so he could take off her shirt. She raised her arms helpfully and the second it was off, Ron pulled her against him for a kiss. She smiled against his mouth as her arms went around his neck, one hand idly stroking his hair, which gleamed like copper in the firelight.

Harry undid her bra, feeling very manly and accomplished when he got it on the second try. She shrugged it down her arms without breaking her kiss with Ron. Ron brought her with him as he lay back down so she was on her knees between his legs as they kept snogging, her arse in the air. Ron’s hands roved all over her back, along her arms, into her hair as Harry scooted close and undid her trousers from behind, easing them down over her hips and arse and to her knees.

“Yes,” he whispered triumphantly as he saw she had indeed worn the little black lace knickers he and Ron liked so much. Hermione chuckled against Ron’s mouth and Harry gently guided Ron’s hand to Hermione’s right arse cheek. He squeezed enthusiastically as Hermione moaned. Harry nipped her left cheek and reached between her legs to hook a finger under the lace, sliding along Hermione’s labia until he felt her opening, slick and tight and hot. His finger slid in easily – she was so wet.

“Christ,” Harry said. His heart was already at a steady jog, but when Hermione moaned again and rocked her hips back against his hand, it went into a full sprint. He let her set her own pace as he clumsily unfastened his trousers left-handed. Hermione heard the zip and turned her head to look at him over her shoulder.

“Oh, I’m sorry Harry,” she said, as if she’d done something incredibly rude. “Let me.” She motioned for him to stand up.

Harry protested, “No, it’s your birthday, I should –” but Hermione shushed him as Ron helped pull her trousers the rest of the way off.

“No ‘shoulds,’ ” Hermione said as she knelt in front of Harry and helped him out of his trousers and pants as Ron enthusiastically pulled his own shirt over his head. “You started this, and I want you to finish.” She giggled at her own joke.

Harry took just a moment to admire his girlfriend and his boyfriend. He thought it was both romantic and sexy, the way their eyes shone and the warm light danced and flickered along their bodies, turning their skin into hues of gold and orange. He cradled Hermione’s jaw in his fingers, and she looked up at him questioningly. “Kiss me,” he said. “Please.”

She stood, and as Harry dipped his head to her, she pressed her lips and her body against him. He brushed the backs of his fingers along her cheeks and she entwined her fingers with his as her soft lips parted and moved against his own. She was not in the mood to be slow, and Harry obliged her, sliding his tongue inside her mouth and allowing her to be as rough as she wanted. He was vaguely aware of Ron divesting himself of the rest of his clothes, and felt a twinge of regret that nobody had undressed him.

Hermione rolled her hips against Harry, and his erection twitched against her stomach. When her hands lifted his shirt, she accidentally brushed the tip of it, and Harry’s head fell back as she slid her hands all over his chest and shoulders. Ron plucked off Harry’s glasses, helped him out of his shirt, and grabbed him roughly by the chin to kiss him on the mouth as Hermione kissed her way down his sternum, over his abdomen, following the trail of hair under his navel.

How far we’ve come, Harry grinned to himself. He remembered, before they’d even gotten together, how Ron had called it a “treasure trail” and Hermione had choked on her whisky, going bright red. It had been so much fun to flirt and tease her. It still is, he thought, only it’s more of a challenge to fluster her now.

He didn’t think about much else when she took him into her mouth. She was more forceful than usual – there was nothing tentative or slow about the way she sucked at the tip, gripped him at the base and flattened her tongue underneath the head. Harry could not help moaning into Ron’s mouth, kissing him furiously with one hand at the back of his neck to keep him close.

Never stop, Harry thought as the tide of pleasure rose inside him. I want you with me always. Forever. I would give up everything to stay with you. Yet again, he imagined all three of them in white, making promises of devotion and love in a meadow filled with golden light.

He was close. So close. “Hermione,” he gasped, breaking the kiss with Ron.

“Mm?”

“I’m…” He could barely speak. It was an effort just to keep standing. If she wanted him to come anywhere besides her mouth…

“She knows,” whispered Ron, kissing Harry’s neck. “Just let go.”

Hermione made a noise of agreement at the back of her throat and sucked harder. When she gently cupped his testicles, that was it for Harry. He made the most pathetic noise as he came, and Ron held him around the waist and shoulders to steady him when his knees buckled as Hermione ever so lightly squeezed. The way she looked up at him through her dark lashes, as if she was terribly pleased with herself, made Harry feel the absolute best kind of dirty and depraved. He shivered as his second and third waves overtook him.  

“Where’d you learn to do that?” Harry asked Hermione breathlessly as Ron laid him down on the mattress. He liked it the few times Ron had done it to him, and having them held while he came was on another plane entirely.

“Witch Weekly,” she said with a satisfied grin. The way she licked her lips had Harry wishing he could get hard again.

Ron made a high-pitched noise of distress. “My mum reads that!” he said hotly. “I thought it was just cake recipes!”

“Oh, did you?” she said, a glint in her eyes that meant Ron was in for a proper dressing-down. “I suppose you thought since it was a publication for women, it would only be domestic things like cleaning spells and child-raising? And you didn’t think having a girlfriend or sister or mother or wanting to be a Healer was enough reason to be curious about –” (she finger-quoted) “ ‘– women’s interests?’ ”

Harry was not about to admit he’d thought the same thing, nor ask pointedly if there were any tips on pleasing women as well as men, nor even the last time she’d read the sports section of The Daily Prophet. Ron wisely said nothing. He looked down at his fingernails, as if they were the most interesting thing ever.

“I thought so,” Hermione said disgustedly.

“Let him make it up to you,” Harry said, looking at her purposefully. He let his gaze wander over her – her long legs, those naughty little knickers, her perfect breasts, and finally, her eyes, which were dark with desire.  

She closed her eyes and pulled one knee up. “No, don’t look at me like that. I want to be upset.”

“You want to be upset with me on your birthday?” pouted Ron. He scooted closer to her and tentatively wrapped his hand around her ankle. Harry thought it was a very brave move, but she didn’t kick or shake him off.

“Well…” she said, in her I-want-to-be-persuaded voice. With tantalizing slowness, Ron walked his fingers up over her calf, watching her face as she bit her lips. Harry watched as he slid his palm over the inside of her thigh, seeking the heat between her legs. Harry’s body was tired and satiated, but his mind was wide awake and craving more. He held her in his arms and trailed little kisses over her breasts. When she arched her back and squirmed with pleasure, Harry laved over their tight points with his tongue, drawing each into his mouth in turn.

Ron took Hermione’s pretty knickers off, and kissed her thighs as he fingered her lovingly. Hermione threw an arm over her eyes and chuckled. “What?” asked Harry against her skin.

“I just… I still can’t believe how lucky I am.”

Harry held her tighter and nuzzled between her breasts. “I know,” he said as Ron murmured his agreement.

Hermione’s hips twitched upward as Ron did something between her legs. She moaned softly. Harry grinned. “I think she liked that, Ron,” he said.

“Yes, she did,” Hermione said waspishly. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not – Oh! Oh, do it again,” she begged as she clutched Harry to her.

“What did he do?” Harry asked. “So I know what to do the next time you’re cross with me.”

“Just curled my finger,” Ron said, a very pleased look on his face. “Like so.” Hermione gasped.

“Let me,” said Harry, gently laying Hermione on her back. He kissed her lips once, twice, and she smiled softly at him, her brown eyes shining with trust. “Be right back,” he promised, making her chuckle.

Hermione clutched the hair at her temples as Harry slid both of his hands all the way down her body and Ron’s finger curled inside her again. He didn’t know if she was a girl who could come on penetration alone, but he relished the idea of being allowed to find out.

Ron started to remove his finger, but Harry shook his head. Ron bit his lips as Harry orchestrated what he wanted. He slid his hand into Ron’s so the back of his hand was against Ron’s palm, and he very slowly slid his finger inside Hermione over top Ron’s so they were inside her together. Hermione squirmed with pleasure. “Oh my god,” she whimpered. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, and they scrabbled over her stomach, her breasts, fisted in the blankets and in her hair as Ron and Harry curled their fingers inside her and slid them shallowly in and out.

With his free hand, Harry pulled Ron in by the back of his neck to kiss him. There was nothing gentle about it – their tongues slid over and against each other, lips moving frantically as they made little noises of pleasure. It was messy and hot and Harry loved every second of it, kissing his boyfriend as they fingered their girlfriend.

It went on that way for mere minutes before Hermione begged, “Please. Please, I want you to use your mouths.” Before Ron could move, Harry slipped his wet fingers around Ron’s cock and stroked him.

“Fuck Merlin,” Ron hissed, his hips jerking up into Harry’s fist.

Harry snorted. “No thanks. I’d rather fuck you.” He thumbed the spot they both liked.

“I have an idea,” Ron said breathlessly. “But Hermione has to be okay with it.”

“I probably will be so long as you stop faffing about!” she said irritably. Ron saluted and bent to give her a long lick between her legs before describing what he wanted.

“Lay on your back on top of me, Hermione, and let Harry lick us both at the same time. I won’t go inside you, but it will be right there. Is that all right?”

Hermione’s thighs twitched, as if to close them, but she stopped herself. Harry was hard again and at full attention. Even if she said “no,” the thought was now in his mind and it would haunt him until she either allowed it or they came up with something as equally tantalising. “Are you on the potion?” Harry asked her, imagining the aftermath. While he waited for her answer, he pulled Ron in for another sloppy kiss, tasting Hermione on his tongue. His eyes rolled back with the pleasure of it.

“Yes,” she said. “And… yes.”

Harry had no time to let that sink in before Ron pushed him backwards and inadvertently kneed him in the face with his eagerness to get started. “Oi!” said Harry, glad his specs were safely out of the way, where Ron had dropped them on top of Hermione’s trousers.

“Sorry,” said Ron, not sounding sorry at all. He spooned Hermione from behind and rolled her on top of him. She giggled nervously as their legs got all tangled up trying to find a comfortable position. Harry rubbed his eye mutinously, but was soon distracted by the most welcome sight of Ron’s erect cock sticking up between Hermione’s legs. He was leaking pre-come and it mingled with Hermione’s wetness as Harry directed Hermione to scoot down and placed the tip of Ron’s cock just below her clit. He touched himself left-handed, knowing he wouldn’t be able to come again in such a short time frame, but he enjoyed the warmth and pressure of his palm all the same.

But it wasn’t about him right now, and it would be selfish to make it so. He used his wand to make the mattress longer so he could lay on his front as he gripped Ron at the base of his shaft and licked the full length of it, sliding easily over the tip to lave Hermione’s clit. He lavished attention on them both, using lips and tongue in a way that made them writhe with pleasure. Ron roved his hands over all the parts of Hermione he could reach, squeezing her breasts and rolling her nipples between his fingers. It looked rough, but it had Hermione arching her back and gasping. Harry was entirely focused on his task and only vaguely noticed when Ron dipped his fingers into their combined wetness. Later, he would see what happened in Ron’s memory glass. Ron slid his wet hand all the way up Hermione’s body and she eagerly licked his fingers when he placed them against her lips, tasting them both.

Ron came first, with almost no warning save a sharp intake of breath. The first wave was against Hermione’s clit and she moaned at the sensation, but Harry took him into his mouth to swallow the rest and made the smallest noise of pleasure as he cupped Ron’s testicles, same as Hermione had just done for him. They were tight against Ron’s body as he shivered in waves, his back arching.

Harry didn’t think life could get much better than this. He wanted to always stay in this bed, making love and sharing dreams and secrets and kissing and making plans. He moved his hips in rhythm against the mattress, and was taken by complete surprise as his heartrate spiked and another orgasm took him over. He spent himself into the blankets with a choked sound. Caught up in his own bliss, Ron didn’t notice, but Harry rather thought Hermione knew something was up as he shivered and squirmed in his own mess.

When he began to soften, Harry quickly paid attention to Hermione again, determined to power through his impending torpor and give her the best birthday orgasm ever. He licked all along her labia and perhaps unwisely dipped his tongue inside her, but they were all too caught up to be cautious. He sucked gently on her clit, and the taste of her mixed with Ron made him feel delectably wicked and sinful and filthy as her hips bucked upwards. He held her down with a palm on her lower abdomen and she squirmed against him, moaning louder than she ever had.   

Ron held her with one arm wrapped around her just under her breasts. His hand was large enough to hold both breasts if he wanted, but he didn’t – he alternated his attention between them and kissed her neck, where strands of her hair stuck to the sweat of her exertion. Her toes curled against his calves as Harry brought her closer and closer to the edge. With the hand that was holding her down, he fully exposed her clit with his thumb, and with his free hand, he stroked and caressed her thigh.

He counted the amount of times he swiped her clit with his tongue – one, two, three, and four, before Hermione came with a cry, her hands clutching Ron’s arms and her hips rolling upwards. Harry pressed his tongue all the way inside her and his eyes fluttered closed at the way her tight walls spasmed around it. He could not wait until the day he could feel her around his cock just like this.

“Wow,” Hermione whispered weakly when she finally stopped shaking. She stroked Harry’s hair tenderly and smiled at him across the length of her body.

“Happy birthday, Hermione,” Ron said, and Harry laughed against her thigh.

He had just enough energy to crawl up and lie down beside her as Ron rolled her gently off him, pushing her hair to the side to kiss her spine. The last thing he heard before dropping fully under was Hermione making a little hum at the back of her throat, and Ron sighing in the peaceful way he always did just before he fell asleep.

 

Harry awoke to sunshine and a loud gasp, followed by a groan of, “FUUUCK!”

“ ‘M awake,” said Harry, shooting upright and staring around blearily.

“You bloody well better be,” shrieked Hermione, shaking Ron to make sure he was awake. “It’s almost time for breakfast!”

“Oh, fuck!” said Ron, leaping off the mattress. All three scrambled for their clothes.

“That’s my sock!” said Hermione, scandalised as Harry tried to put it on.  

“Next thing you’ll try and put on her bra,” said Ron as he threw Harry’s pants with the dancing four-leaf clovers at him and pulled on the nearest shirt.

“Well, you’re wearing my shirt,” said Harry dryly.

“Too late to fix it,” said Ron. “It looks better on me, anyway.” It didn’t – he was broader in the shoulders and chest than Harry and it was far too tight.

“Quit joking, you two – it’s not funny!”

“It is, a little,” said Ron, smirking.

Harry caught his eye and grinned. “If we get away with this, it will be the funniest thing in the world,” he said.

“We’re not there yet!” admonished Hermione. “Where’s the Cloak?”

“Accio Cloak!” said Ron once he’d found his wand, but nothing happened.

“You don’t mean to say you lost it?” squealed Hermione.

“No, it’s right here,” said Harry, holding it up and frowning. “Summon it again.”

Ron tried again. Nothing. Not even a twitch.

“Will you two quit faffing about and get under it? Get the Map and let’s GO!”

 

It was a near thing, but Louise, the absolute legend, had covered for Hermione. She found a note stuck to her school robes, written in French that Hermione thought said that Louise had told Parvati and Lavender she saw Hermione leave the dormitory early to study.

Hermione admonished herself for being so careless. No matter how nice it had been to fall asleep all wrapped up in Ron’s arms and waking up in Harry’s, she couldn’t do that again. She’d been lucky once, and –

She stopped in the middle of the corridor, making students around her swerve and make irritated noises. “Luck,” she whispered, not realising she’d spoken aloud. Unless he’d used it, Harry had a vial of Felix Felices that he’d (unfairly) won in Potions class last year.

Hermione smiled, feeling like a hungry cat that has just spotted a fat mouse. Things were coming together. If she could regulate the airflow in and out of it somehow, the room from last night would make an excellent Potions lab. She added it to her mental checklist, where all sorts of schemes and plans were already in motion.

She could not concentrate the whole rest of the day, replaying all the moments from the night before. She was absolutely ravenous at breakfast and ignored Louise’s knowing look.

Hermione was so glad it was a Saturday, or she would have failed every class. It was bad enough that she was doodling all over the notes she was supposed to be studying. If they got married, would they hyphenate their surnames or just keep them as is? Granger-Potter-Weasley would be alphabetical, but didn’t sound very nice. She tried out each combination in her head, knowing it was silly and she really should crack on with her studies. But she was in love. Deeply and helplessly in love with her boys.

I used to think I was the kind of girl that would save herself for marriage, she thought. Or at least until I was much older. Back when my parents’ approval was the most important thing to me, back when I still thought sex was silly and alarming. But after last night… I know for certain I’m not. Maybe we can go back to the lakeside cottage at Christmas. There was something hopelessly romantic about the idea of giving up her virginity in front of the fireplace while snow fell outside and mistletoe hung from the ceiling.

Don’t get your hopes up, she chided herself. First times don’t have to be magical and perfect, and if you’ve learned anything from the chatter in the loo, they almost never are. If you build it up in your head like that, you’ll only be disappointed. But she didn’t really believe that. She loved Ron and Harry so much she knew they could never disappoint her, no matter how awkward or unglamorous it would be.

Ron was gone most of the day. He and Harry had nearly been late for Quidditch practice after a hasty breakfast, and Ron went to St. Mungo’s almost immediately after. Harry was across from her now, writing a letter that she was determined not to read.

She watched him for a moment, at his furrowed brow and black hair. Before he’d grown into himself, it had always looked messy unless he used Sleekeazy on it. Now he just looked carelessly sexy, as if he’d just rolled out of bed after a good shag and was on the prowl for another.

Ron had naturally perfect waves that just fell right back into place, even after a night like last night. It was soft and silky and Hermione loved running her hands through it. And those gorgeous blue eyes… so warm and full of humour and mischief and gentleness and sweetness. She had just seen him not even a few hours ago and she already missed him.

And all that was just what was on the surface of her boys. The things other people could see, but Hermione had seen… well, she couldn’t exactly say she was the only one who’d seen what was underneath their clothes. The thought made her a bit sad and lonely.

But you see their hearts, a gentle voice whispered in her mind, and she was filled with a sense of solace. Yes, I do, she thought, unaware that she had touched her own heart. But Harry saw, and he smiled at her, with those pretty green eyes sparkling in a way she knew was just for her and Ron.

He winked cheekily at her and Hermione wondered what it would look like for two boys to have sex with each other. Was it always up the arse or was there a gentler, less penetrative way? Would rubbing their cocks together feel good? Hermione wasn’t quite ready to try porn again, but she was definitely up for experimenting.

What’s happened to me? she thought, unable to stop the smile that spread across her face. Whatever it is, I like it.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Dear Mum,

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Ron and Hermione. I wanted to. There were so many times I could have told you and almost did. All the times we talked about Dad and what it meant to have healthy relationships, when we saw those paintings, and when you came to the cottage the day before September 1.  

I just got scared. We’ve always been a team, and I couldn’t face the possibility, however slim, of disappointing, or worrying, or worst of all, losing you. I see how badly it went for Hermione, and it even took Mrs. Weasley longer than expected to come around. Please forgive me. I promise I’ll be better about telling you things. I miss our talks.

Love,

Harry

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Ron could not bring himself to regret anything. It had been the best kind of sleepless night. Before Quidditch practice, he and Harry had shared the Invigoration Draught he had won in Potions class last year and it got Ron through practice and most of his shift at St. Mungo’s. He was pleased that Harry was feeling a little better about potions these days, though he was still leery of boxed chocolates, no matter how many times Ron or Hermione reminded him of the poison-detecting bracelet he always wore.

Ginny was a bit huffy during and after Quidditch practice. When Ron asked what her problem was, she snarled that Harry wasn’t taking captaincy seriously enough.

“That’s royally unfair,” Ron said, frowning at her. “He’s working his arse off to balance everything.”

“Maybe it would be easier for him if you had less interest in his arse,” she retorted, and Ron couldn’t help but laugh.

He was able to focus just fine during his rounds at St. Mungo’s. He was all over the hospital, responding to different needs across different wards. He assisted with removing a venomous tentacula sprout from a witch’s ear and administered a newfangled medicine called a “vaccine” to a set of twins that reminded him of his brothers. Healer Pye said it would keep them from ever getting dragon pox. Ron was both pleased and (perhaps unfairly) astounded to hear he had learned it from Muggles, and could not wait to ask Hermione if she’d had any before she knew she was a witch. He had all sorts of questions that Healer Pye answered patiently, and he found out wizards and Muggles shared more diseases than he’d thought – they just went by different names and had wildly different cures and treatments.

Ron did diagnostic spells on an elderly witch who couldn’t stop chirping. He dodged her flirtations, which Healer Séduis (a handsome, thirty-something man with a sultry French accent and a certain je ne sais quoi) said was an unfortunate pitfall of the job. Later, he assisted with a surgery to restore a wizard’s vocal chords after he’d accidently switched them with the strings of a viola. Ron privately thought he should have left it alone – his normal voice was rather croaky and harsh. He considered pitching the idea of novelty stringed instruments to Fred and George.

Towards the end of his shift, when he could feel an impending post-invigorative crash, Healer Pye tasked him with performing various testing charms on blood and urine samples and writing down the results, which allowed him to sit and give his brain a rest.

“Oh, dear,” Ron muttered to himself when a pregnancy test under “Weasley, Nadine” came up positive. He was under patient-Healer confidentiality and couldn’t tell his cousin Edward that he was about to become a big brother again, nor could he share the news with Harry and Hermione. That’s not even acknowledging the weirdness of handling a vial of my aunt’s piss, he thought. It was just part of the job that he’d have to get used to.

It was actually fairly common for magical families to have what Ron called (but only in his head) “litters” of children a decade or so apart. There was something about having their children go away for nine months every year for seven years that made many parents decide to have another go and fill the void. And since magic made them all live longer lives and gave them longer reproductive windows than Muggles, it was always a possibility that you might go home to a new brother or sister. Or even a new aunt or uncle. He remembered Hermione being completely gobsmacked to learn about all that when helping him study reproductive systems – she’d always assumed Mrs. Potter had been a medical miracle of sorts.

He wondered, not for the first time… but no. That would keep. He still had work to do.

 

*     *     *     *     * 

 

Dear Ron,

So sorry it’s taken me this long to write. We had an early freeze and I’ve been working overtime in the garden to get the plants all cosy for winter. I’m just glad tomato season is over; not even a bushel this year. The ice has done wonders for the apples – do have a bite and tell me what you think. I was so certain we’d have to throw out the whole crop, but we gave them a try and now I’m busier than ever baking with them.

We might have to rehome the ghoul – he’s been moaning and banging about more than usual. He usually does that for the first week or so when you children go off to school, but he’s really in a proper strop this time. I would feel a little more pity for him if he would just let us have a full night’s sleep!

Euphemia, Lily, and I have been in touch, and we’ve already decided to have a big Christmas gathering with all our families at the Potter Estate, though I don’t really know I feel about having it away from the Burrow. I know they have more room, but you know how I am about change. Mr. and Mrs. Granger would be invited of course. I do hope they come around. I can understand everything being a bit of a shock, but families belong together, especially at Christmas.

I’m so pleased things are going well for you at St. Mungo’s. I’m sure you’ll get sick of me saying so, but I’m so very proud you’ve found your calling. And Doug looks well! He’s so pleased with himself whenever he arrives with a letter.

Look after your sister and cousin Edward, though I know you’re busy. Give Harry and Hermione my love and make sure you eat enough at meals. Stay out of trouble, study hard, and remember how much we love you and are proud of you.

Love,

Mum (and Dad)

 

Dear Mum and Dad,

DO NOT GET RID OF THE GHOUL. The shock of moving him might kill him. He just needs some attention. He liked to do little pipe duets with me sometimes, you know: he bangs on the pipes and you bang back. Or you could play him some music. I left my records in my room. He likes the Belfast Banshees the best.

Those apples were incredible. Send more, please. And a pie or two. I promise I’ll share with Ed and Ginny. And those lemon lavender biscuits if you have any, but I won’t share those. Well, maybe with Hermione. She really likes them. Harry likes ginger biscuits if it’s not too much trouble.

Christmas at the Potters sounds brilliant. Mrs. Potter always wanted a big family like ours and it will make her very happy to have that big manor full up for once. Does she mean to have us all stay over or just come for a day? Hermione’s parents still haven’t written to her. She’s keeping a stiff upper lip about it, but I can tell it hurts.

I’m going to write to Dad in the next couple of days to tell him all about the complementary medicine St. Mungo’s is doing. Healer Pye taught me how to do stitches on a wound (it’s exactly what it sounds like) that wouldn’t heal with charms or potions. It was my idea to steep the thread in an infusion of dittany and murtlap, and it actually worked!

Love you,

Ron

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Dear Harry,

You could never lose me. You know I will forgive you anything. I suppose it’s a normal response for teenagers to hide from their parents. Merlin knows I hid all sorts of things from mine. However, I can’t help but feel the reason you keep things from me is not to protect yourself, but to protect me. I see you, Harry. I’m only sad I made you feel like you had to.

When is your first Hogsmeade weekend? It’s been too long since I’ve hugged you. Bring Ron and Hermione, of course. You know, to make it all official; bringing your boyfriend and girlfriend home to meet your mum. Are you using pet names, yet?

Love always,

Mum

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The first prefect meeting went well. Hermione was impressed with the level of participation. Most of them had decent ideas for student enrichment, the Slytherins showed minimal animosity, and Pansy Parkinson looked slightly nervous, as if she was just waiting for the hammer to fall. The only sticky spot was a cheeky Ravenclaw asking if the rumours about Harry and Ron were true, and if it didn’t cause a conflict of interest. To their credit, neither blushed. They simply looked at each other, shrugged, and Harry said they were best mates. Ron asked how many other people had stupid questions. It was very convincing, or at least that’s what Hermione told herself.

Head students were allowed in the staffroom during certain times. Inside were four message boards, one for each House that were magically connected to the ones in each common room via protean charm. Anything posted on the House boards would show on the staffroom boards, and vice versa. She hadn’t been much amused when the first message that showed on the Hufflepuff board was a drawing of a penis.

In late September, as Hermione was putting up notices for a girls’ outdoor enthusiasts club and dates for the first Hogsmeade weekend, there was another one, this time from Gryffindor. “Wow, you have to admit that’s excellent work,” said Harry, eyeing it expertly. “That might be Dean’s.”

“Why, does his look like that?” she asked before she could stop herself.

He smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He took the drawing out of her hand and tucked it into a folio that had other phallic drawings in it, then placed it in his bag.

“What – why –” she sputtered. She glanced around at the empty staffroom, assuring herself they were alone. “Harry, excuse me, but what the fuck?” she hissed.

Harry laughed. “Never you mind.”

“I do mind,” she said hotly. “Please tell me you’re not using that for…” Hermione couldn’t bring herself to say, “wank material.” But she couldn’t think of another reason for him to keep all that.

“What, I can’t appreciate art now?”

“Don’t tease me, please,” she said, frowning.

“I would never,” he lied, a predatory look in his eyes that made Hermione start to sweat. Since her birthday, they’d managed to sneak out only twice, and not just for that. Between the three of them, they had used transfiguration, charms, and good old-fashioned engineering to convert the circular room they were now calling "The Turret" into an illicit potions lab, though as yet with only one potion. It would be ready by the end of October, should everything go well. The only problem was that it made the room far less appealing as a den of iniquity… There is something distinctly unsexy about the gloop-gloop of a stewing potion while one is getting eaten out. It had only gotten worse the more viscous the potion became.

All that was to say she was feeling more than a little repressed, and the way Harry was looking at her right now was dissolving her resolution on proper behaviour. “Don’t tell me that… veiny appendage is doing it for you,” she said, trying to be prim.

“No,” said Harry, giving her an appreciative once-over. “You’re doing it for me. You always do.”

“Stop that,” she whispered, looking around again, though they were very much alone. Even the portraits on the walls were either snoozing or off gallivanting in other paintings around the castle.

“I don’t want to,” he said, and after a moment of hesitation, Hermione decided she didn’t want him to, either. She took off his glasses and let him push her against the wall for a snog. When he moved from her lips to her neck, she sighed happily.

Just as Harry started to unbutton her jumper, the door banged open. Hermione pushed him away as though she’d been burned, but he caught himself easily and barely wavered. Athletic reflexes, she thought with more than a little envy.

It was Professor Lupin. Hermione knew he knew, but it was no less humiliating to be caught by him. In the staffroom, of all places.

“Ah,” he said awkwardly.

Harry, however, was unphased. He merely straightened his tie and said, “Now you know how it feels. How’s Mum?”

“Very well,” Professor Lupin smiled, and Hermione ever-so-slightly relaxed. She thought it was terribly romantic and sweet how softly he would smile whenever he spoke of Lily. She didn’t realise that Harry and Ron did the same whenever they thought of her. “She’s been asking after you, wondering how you’re handling the pressure.”

“Fine,” Harry said easily, but Hermione knew he wasn’t being completely truthful. Harry tended to run his hands through his hair when he was stressed, and it had already been quite mussed up before she’d gotten her filthy little mitts on him. It was so unfair how it just made him look even sexier.

Not a dry pair of knickers anywhere, she thought dryly, scowling at the memory of how three of the sixth-year prefects were looking at him during the last meeting, as if they wanted to push him into bed.

She realised she was still holding Harry’s glasses and handed them back to him sheepishly. He shrugged and kissed her, making her blush and look furtively at Professor Lupin. What does he think he’s doing?

“I’ll hide when I have to, but not when I don’t,” he told her gently, giving her a sweet look that made her stomach flip over. “Don’t overthink it, Hermione.”

That’s a bit rich, coming from him. She straightened her clothes as Professor Lupin awkwardly pulled Harry aside and muttered something to him, looking very embarrassed.

Hermione could not bear to be there a second longer and scooted out of the room, her face flaming. There was a scrum of students in the corridor, scurrying to get to their next classes. She was halfway down the corridor before Harry called for her to wait.

“No, I’ve had enough of your… er… magnetism, thank you,” she lied, and kept walking. In truth, she could never get enough.

“Please,” he said as a gaggle of fifth-year girls passed, giggling about something.

Hermione took a firm grip on her patience and complied. “Erm,” he said, looking very sheepish. “Over here.” He casually held a tapestry away from the wall, which concealed a well-known shortcut to the Charms corridor. She followed him as though they were just passing through.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I… left a mark on you,” he said, wincing. “Let me heal it.”

“Oh, no,” she said, wondering in distress how many people had noticed. Why couldn’t he and Ron just kiss her without feeling the need to mark her, like she was their fucking territory?

Because you like it, you slag, she thought. For all your supposed feminism, you love being branded.

She lifted her chin as Harry tapped his wand gently on her neck. A sensation of gentle warmth emanated from the tip. “I reckon it’s not as nice as when Ron does it, but it’ll have to do,” he said. “I’m really sorry. I got carried away.”

“Oh, that’s all right, then. I forgive you,” she said. He was right in that Ron’s healing charms were the best, but Harry’s were still very good. It was just nice to be cared for.

“I never got rid of the one you left on my hip,” he said proudly. “It faded naturally.”

“Erm, congratulations?”

“I just mean,” Harry said, taking her hand and kissing it, “that I’m just as happy to be marked by you.” Hermione’s heart did a stupid little wobble as he looked into her eyes. His lips were soft on her fingers and she wanted to say she loved him. “I promise I’ll do better and not leave them where they’ll show,” he added.

Hermione shivered under his promise.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Dear Mum and Dad,

I wish you would just get over this already. Why is it so hard for you to accept that I’ve grown and made independent choices. It’s not like I’m shagging a whole football team or anything. Do you have any idea how it feels

 

Dear Mum and Dad,

I would like some credit for being a good daughter. I never got into trouble. I did my homework, I ate my vegetables, I didn’t make a habit of throwing fits. I got the highest marks I could and outperformed every one of my peers. I made prefect and now Head Girl! I never rebelled and I accepted your rules

 

Dear Mum and Dad,

Please just write to me. You still love me, don’t you?

Love,

Hermione

Notes:

I hope this chapter made up for the last one! Out of curiosity, do you prefer shorter chapters on a weekly update schedule, or longer ones with 1.5 - 2 weeks between updates?

Chapter 24: The Mysteries of Woman

Harry was annoyed with Hermione. For whatever reason, she was determined to avoid the topic of Pansy Parkinson. They were almost into October already, for Merlin’s sake, and not a thing had been done. She was becoming bolder with her bullying, and Hermione was… well, Harry didn’t know what the fuck she was. Bloody frustrating, for one thing.

In the corridors between two free periods, Hermione pretended not to notice as Pansy took a bag of sweets off a first year. The girl’s lip quivered and Harry strode over quick as a flash. “You can’t do that,” said Harry, summoning the bag with his wand and handing it back to the girl, who looked up at him with admiring eyes, “and you know it. Five points from Slytherin.” He felt like a right prat, but he couldn’t let her get away with shite like that. No matter what Hermione said, he was not about to try his charm on a fucking cow like Parkinson.

“Thank you so much for your support,” Harry said sarcastically to Hermione as they walked away. Five points had been a slap on the wrist and everyone knew it.

“Hm?” said Hermione innocently. “Whatever happened, you managed it beautifully.” Harry gritted his teeth. This was going too far.

Before he could argue, he was distracted by Brynn as she came up to them. “Hi,” Harry said, thinking she would want to talk about tutoring, but she was there for Hermione.

“I saw the notice about you and Louise starting a g-g-g-group for g-g-g-girls. Promise to name it something I c-c-c-can say, and I’m in.”

“Me, too,” said Susan Bones, who was nearby and overheard. “Merlin knows we need something for ourselves without men to muck it up. No offense, Harry.”

“Er,” he said. He had been about to ask interested questions, but Susan took the wind out of his sails. He tried to look supportive and unoffended as Hermione patted his arm consolingly.

“All right,” said Hermione, business-like, as she made a note in her notebook that had the Girl Guide three-leaf clover on the front. “Just so you understand that it’s entirely magic-free, and for girls in every year.” She looked at Susan pointedly.

“What do you take me for?” said Susan indignantly. “I read the notice. I said I was in, unless you’re going to be all exclusive about it.”

“No, I won’t,” said Hermione, looking taken aback but pleased. “I’m meeting Louise in the library right now; come along if you want to be on the leadership team.”

And off they went, without a goodbye or even a glance for Harry. While he stood there, feeling foolish, Ron rounded the corner at the other end of the corridor. “All right?” he said, coming up behind Harry. “What’s a pretty bloke like you doing in a place like this?”

“Pondering the mysteries of woman,” Harry said.

“Like how they always smell nice even when they’re sweaty?”

“That, too,” he said. “What did Madam Pomfrey want?”

“Cuppa,” Ron said. “I think she’s living through me vicariously.”

“Or she thinks you’re as handsome as I do,” Harry said, beginning to walk again.

Ron snorted. “Nobody thinks I’m as handsome as you do. Ginger is an acquired taste.”

“And it’s delicious,” Harry said with relish, wiggling his eyebrows at Ron. “And come on, you know that’s not true. Elderly witches especially think you’re scrummy.”

“That’s just because they can’t see and think my freckles are liver spots,” he said brightly, making Harry laugh.

“I love your freckles,” Harry said sappily. “Especially the ones on your –”

“None of that,” interrupted Ron before Harry could lay it on too thick. “Don’t you have Quidditch strategies to come up with?”

Harry pulled a how-dare-you-remind-me-of-responsibilities face and motioned for him to walk with him to the library. “Yeah. Listen, I wanted to talk to you about that. Your sister has been up my arse about what she feels is my lack of conviction –”

“I told her to lay off –”

“And I appreciate it, but I reckon she’s right. I’m going to crack up at this rate if I don’t drop something, and I wanted your opinion.”

“Not Quidditch,” said Ron. “And don’t drop the Slug Club – that’s like the one thing we all have together where we’re not expected to be in charge.”

“Well, that would just leave dropping tutoring or stepping down as Head Boy.”

“Neither of which you want to do,” said Ron, his face falling. “But Harry – you can’t stop flying. Really, you could go pro if you wanted.” It didn’t bother him when Ron said things like this – it was his way of showing admiration, that he thought his boyfriend could do anything.

And he likes how I look in the robes, he thought, resisting the urge to strut.

“I know,” Harry said modestly as they entered the library, “but I don’t –” He broke off to wave at Hermione, who was showing a large chart of some kind to Brynn, Louise, Susan, and… Harry squinted at the last girl, effectively distracted from his conversation. “Ron,” he said. “Dost mine eyes deceive me, or is a Slytherin voluntarily participating in a magic-less, Gryffindor-created endeavour?” The Slytherin in question was Astoria Greengrass, a new prefect this year. Her older sister, Daphne, was in their year.

Ron stared for a moment, just as surprised as Harry. He shook himself and tentatively said, “Your mum says women are an unstoppable force when they put their differences aside. I suppose that’s true… you should see what happens when the Weasley aunts conspire.” He shuddered.

“Still. Better keep an eye out.”

“Definitely,” said Ron, nodding seriously. “What were you saying? About Quidditch?”

“Right,” Harry said, motioning Ron to a nearby table. “Well, I wasn’t meaning that I’d quit entirely. I was thinking about passing captain off to someone else.”

“Who?”

Harry put his finger on his chin. “Hm, let’s think. Who has experience, single-mindedness, a fiery spirit, and nothing better to do?”

“If you mean my sister…”

“I do,” said Harry. “You know she was good at it. You know she loves it. You know she’ll do right by the team. Her reserve idea was brilliant.”

Ron groaned and put his head in his arms on top of the table. “You know that’s going to mean practices at six-hour intervals, a whole lot of shouting, and constant criticism of our diets. It’s like having Mum on the team.”

Harry laughed. “If I could survive Oliver Wood, you can survive Ginny Weasley.”

Harry knew Ron was just pretending to drag his feet. Ginny had been an excellent captain, and what was more, she wanted it. If Head Boy was going to put Harry towards his own goals, Quidditch Captain would put Ginny towards hers.

Part of leadership, as Hermione would say, was knowing when to do it yourself and when to delegate.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Dear Dad,

Things are going well, for the most part. Bit of pressure, as expected, to keep on top of everything, but I decided to let Ginny Weasley take control of the Quidditch team. She’s brilliant, and it won’t surprise me one bit to see her playing in the World Cup someday. I’m still playing, and our first match is November 8. You should come, if you’re not too busy. I saw that article in the Daily Prophet about the shops in Diagon Alley being attacked. Lots of gaps in the reporting – they didn’t even show pictures of the runes or anything.

You asked me to write if I heard anything about Muggleborns being targeted at school, and not to dismiss anything. Well, Hermione was attacked by Pansy Parkinson, a pureblood in Slytherin. She (Hermione) wants to play it off as just schoolgirl nonsense, but with as many times as Parkinson’s called her a Mudblood… well, we’re not sure. Anyway, I can give you more information if you think it’s important, but I don’t expect Hermione will be very forthcoming about it. I’ll try to suss out of her what I can.

Love,

Harry

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

As Quidditch practices got more vigorous under Ginny’s leadership, Ron found himself in need of more and more calories and protein. At dinner, Harry made dinosaur noises at him when he looked across the table at his plate full of meatloaf, ham, and roast chicken, but Ron thought that was rich when his plate was full of more or less the same thing.

“You’re going to need a poo-de-lolly to unclog all that,” Ginny said crassly. Hermione overheard and looked at her in disgust. “Put more fibre on there.” Ginny tried to heap a fresh spinach salad onto his plate.

“I know, Ginny; gerroff!” He roughly pushed his sister away, which was perhaps unsporting since she was so much smaller and a girl, but he’d been in the crosshairs of her wand too many times to call her helpless. He gave Harry a what-did-I-tell-you? look. Harry smirked and whispered something to Hermione. She frowned and smacked his shoulder.

Edward, who was sitting next to Ron, poked him in the elbow. “What do you think Edmund is doing right now?” he asked. Ed was getting quite clingy with Ron and Ginny, but as he wasn’t a sibling, they could show him a little more patience. He wasn’t among this year’s batch of criers, at least not that anyone had told him, but he clearly missed his family.

“Eating, probably,” Ron said, “which you don’t appear to be doing.” Ron frowned at Edward’s plate. He’d merely pushed around his bangers and mash with his fork. Which was an absolute sin, in Ron’s opinion. Hogwarts food was second only to his Mum’s cooking.

“You can have it,” said Edward, pushing it towards Ron. “I’m not hungry.”

“Your Mum’s going to murder me if you go home looking all peaky. Come on, just a bite or two.”

Edward shook his head. Ron turned to give him a proper once-over. His cousin actually looked ill, kind of clammy and flushed. Ron brushed his forehead with the backs of his fingers.

“You’re burning up, mate,” he said, and stood up. “Come on. Hospital Wing.”

“I don’t wanna,” said Edward sullenly, looking down at the table.

“You can come willingly, or I can carry you kicking and screaming,” said Ron, looming over him in all his six-foot-four glory. “I wouldn’t even need magic.”

“Fine,” Edward said, with a long-suffering sigh. “As long as you don’t tell Mum.”

“What do you take me for?” asked Ron in surprise as he led the way out of the Great Hall to the Hospital Wing. “Healer-patient confidences are a very serious thing, and I am a very serious person.”

Edward giggled at that, but sobered quickly. “Is it… going to hurt?” he asked.

“Nah,” promised Ron. “Madam Pomfrey can cure colds and flu in a second. Just a spoonful of Pepperup potion and you’ll be right.”

“I hate that stuff,” whinged Edward. “It tastes disgusting and it makes my ears smoke. Then people take the mickey out of me, saying my head’s on fire.”

Ron had been through the same thing. It just came with having red hair. He preferred the way Harry said it, that he mirrored the blaze he carried in his heart for him. Smarmy git, he thought fondly. He tried to think about what Harry did when faced with a whinging child.

“Tell you what. If you can take it like a man, you can have a go on my Cleansweep.”

“Really?” said Edward, brightening a little. “But I haven’t had all my broom riding lessons yet.”

“Hey,” frowned Ron. “I am a perfectly capable instructor. But if you don’t want to…”

“I want to,” said Edward quickly.

“All right then; no more ‘buts.’ ” Ron put his arm around his cousin and ruffled his hair fondly. Ed might be the oldest in his (growing) family, but he was still a little kid who needed looking after.

“Sometimes, I like being sick,” Edward admitted. “It means I can just read comics and Mum will let me eat in bed.”

“No expectations, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“Y’know something, Ed? That’s actually wise. With all the cures and stuff we’ve got, sometimes, just plain ol’ rest is the best medicine.”

“What’s it like at St. Mungo’s?”

Ron told him as much as he could, leaving out all the Sexual Misadventure and opting for gross-out stories of excess phlegm and sonic farts, which had Ed red in the face and clutching his sides from giggling.  

“D’you ever get sick working with sick people?” he wanted to know.

“Nah. We’ve got all sorts of protections. Germ-repelling spells and I’ve got to take a shower before I leave, and my robes can’t go home with me – they go straight to the hospital laundry. I do a lot of antiseptic spells on my hands. Look how dry and cracked they are!”

“Gross,” said Edward happily.

It took less than five minutes for Madam Pomfrey to diagnose Edward’s symptoms as early flu and administer a dose of Pepperup Potion. He looked at Ron before taking it and Ron gave him a double thumbs-up.

“Did I take it manfully enough?” asked Edward on their way to the common room. He left a trail of smoke behind them.

“Sure did,” said Ron. “If you’re feeling well enough tomorrow, we’ll head out to the pitch.”

“You’re not too busy?”

“Nah, not for this. I promised, didn’t I?”

Edward hugged him from the side, but let go very quickly. “Sorry,” he said, looking very embarrassed.

“Ah, come on then, I won’t tell,” Ron said, pulling Edward in for a proper hug.

A portrait of a witch surrounded by five wrestling and squalling children fawned with her hand over her heart. “So sweet. You lot should take notes,” she shouted to her brood.

“Still less blood than a proper Weasley brawl,” Ron commented to Edward, making him grin.

“Remember when my dad got into it with your dad over who made the best Durga martini?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Ron laughed. That particular cocktail contained veromouth, which loosened tongues and caused disastrous results. “Mum was pulling glass out of the carpet for weeks. She got fed up and sent Dad a howler at work – I wish I could have heard it! It’s so much fun hearing her get mad at people who aren’t me.”

“She sent my dad one, too!”

“She’s terrifying,” said Ron fondly.

“Sometimes,” said Edward. “But she wrote to me and sent me apple muffins, so she’s not so bad.”

“Nah, she’s not.”

“Do you… do you ever miss her?”

“Sure I do,” said Ron immediately. “Everyone misses their mum. Nothing to be ashamed of. One thing you’ll learn as you get older, Ed, is that women are some of the most glorious creatures on Earth.”

Edward said nothing, but grimaced sceptically.   

The foolishness of youth, thought Ron with amusement. He’ll learn soon enough.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Hermione was quite tired of this particular Slug Club supper. The last one had been interesting – Tilden Toots (a botanist with his own radio programme), and his wife Daisy Hookum (an author who had given up magic for one year and wrote My Life as a Muggle) had been the guests of honour, and Hermione enjoyed listening to their stories and asking questions. Even if she did find Ms. Hookum a bit pretentious and prejudiced, it had still been a decent evening.

Tonight was different. Ron was off doing a late shift at St. Mungo’s and there were no guests, just Slughorn trying to schmooze information out of students about their connections and trying to push friendships that just weren’t going to happen. He’d brushed off Harry’s idea of having non-famous guests – people in everyday positions to inspire students to think about their future careers. Hermione had encouraged Harry, of course, but privately thought he should have expected Slughorn to shoot him down. He’d have more success petitioning Professor McGonagall and having a separate event closer to the career consultations students had with their Heads of Houses in fifth year. She’d just… give him a gentle nudge.

So now she was sitting there, with Harry on her right, smiling politely and pretending to be interested while fantasizing about secret stairwells and blanket nests and saying goodbye to her virginity in December. Who would she want to go first? Harry had experience, but there was something to be said about her and Ron having their first times with each other. Maybe she’d let them choose between themselves. Hermione squirmed in her chair, resigned to the fact that there was going to be a wet spot on her knickers. She was close to her time of the month, which always got her a bit hot under the collar and made her more prone to distraction than usual.

She tried to pay attention to the announcement Slughorn was making about… something. He flicked his wand upwards, and a large silver screen descended from the ceiling. Oh, goody, she thought sarcastically, a slide show. Sure enough, Slughorn moved a projector into position and extinguished all the oil lamps. She remembered her parents had once put her through the same thing to show off their pictures of a long trip they’d taken across Europe in their twenties. It had been right before their first vacation as a family to France.

Don’t think about them right now, she said to herself. She was getting very good at compartmentalising unpleasant things.

The room was dark – remarkably so. Slughorn had covered the windows, and some magic of the projection made it so no light reflected onto the audience. It was incredibly disorientating. She looked to her left and couldn’t see Harry at all – not even a glimmer off his glasses. On the screen were pictures of Slughorn with students that had gone on to be very famous.

It could have been interesting, except… she felt a familiar arm around her shoulders. Someone else had noticed just how dark the room was. Hermione sent a brief, desperate plea to the gods of social functions that Slughorn would waffle on for a very long time.

It wasn’t inappropriate at all. Best friends put their arms around each other all the time. It was fine. Even if the lights went on right now, nothing would be amiss. At least not until Harry’s other hand lightly squeezed her breast. Her nipples tightened immediately. 

Before she could react, his lips were at her ear. Gooseflesh erupted all over her body. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered in that tone that he fucking knew turned her into a quivering little mess of jelly.

She should. She should definitely tell him to stop. Push him away. Tell him this was stupid and far too risky. Dig deep, find the prude within and let it guide her far away from temptation.

Instead, she let the intrusive thoughts win, and whispered into his ear, “Never.”

His hand left her breast and for a split second she wondered what she’d done wrong. Until she felt those oh-so-subtle fingers on her right knee. Oh, Hermione thought with mounting excitement. As he walked them up her thigh, under the hem of her perfectly respectable dress, his lips moved to her neck. He was very careful to be slow and silent. His arm around her shoulder kept her tight to his side. Hermione bit her lips and tried not to pant.

She kept her hands folded demurely on the table, spread her legs just enough, and let him rub little circles on her inner thigh. He read her body like Braille, as if the little bumps of gooseflesh spelled out, “yes-yes-sweet-jesus-yes!”

Just as his fingertips hooked under the edge of her knickers, feeling how wet she was, the projector made a loud clunking noise and there was a distinct smell of melting celluloid as the picture on the screen disintegrated. Harry let go of her just as the lamps lit themselves and Slughorn let out a cry of distress. “My memories!” he exclaimed. But no one was paying any attention to him, as there was a much more interesting scandal playing out amongst the students, who, up until now, had been completely invisible.

Two seats down from Harry, Ginny Weasley was scrambling off Blaise Zabini’s lap. The room was completely silent for all of two seconds before the room was full of shocked titters and wolf-whistles. Hermione groped for her wand, ready to start blasting if things got out of hand, but Ginny merely shook her long hair back and bowed with a salacious grin.

And that is how you beat a scandal, Hermione thought, genuinely impressed. By leaning into it.

 

Ron was in a foul mood by the time his shift ended. They were short several orderlies that evening, so instead of learning and assisting with procedures and patients, he’d been shunted to grunt work – moving laundry, delivering meals, sanitising vials and cauldrons, vanishing the contents of bedpans, scouring bodily fluids out of the ceiling…

He didn’t want to admit it, but it was rather humiliating to be seen running menial tasks when he was meant to be learning to be a Healer. When introduced as an Intern, patients had treated him with the same respect as a Trainee Healer. Doing the work of an orderly meant he was far too busy to even talk to patients, and they barely even looked at him. He was just part of the wallpaper.

The only thing he felt grateful for was that it had been a partial shift. He was off at ten o’clock (he was too cranky to remind himself to use the twenty-four-hour clock) and back in his dormitory by ten-thirty. All beds but one had their curtains closed, the subtle (and not so subtle) sounds of sleep emanating from within.

He changed into some silk pyjamas Harry had bought him, hoping something luxurious would help him feel better. They were blue, because Harry loved him in that colour, and silk because Harry thought he deserved the best of everything. Ron liked them, but he mostly wore them because it made Harry so happy to waste money on him.

Unfortunately, the reminder of the differences between their attitudes about money did nothing for his dark mood.

“Where have you been?” Ron whispered suspiciously when Harry waltzed into their dormitory just as Ron climbed into bed, his lips red and hair mussed up more than usual. He looked very dashing in his dark trousers, waistcoat, and rolled up shirtsleeves.

“Snogging our girlfriend,” whispered Harry brightly. “You should try it sometime.” Ron’s jaw clenched. He hadn’t taken advantage of sharing a dormitory with Harry out of respect for Hermione’s feelings, and Harry hadn’t tried to, either. But to hear Harry admit so cheerfully that he and Hermione had gone off without him… it wasn’t against any rules they’d set for themselves, and it wasn’t as though he would have been available to participate, but Ron felt… alone. He was away from Hogwarts so often now, and there was no longer anything that Ron and Hermione had just for the two of them.

Harry must have noticed something was up, and stood beside him to touch his shoulder. “Hey. Talk to me,” he said, and looked straight through Ron with those bloody green eyes of his. Ron thought about saying that everything was fine and possibly even congratulating Harry or asking for details, but he didn’t. He said nothing, because for once, he didn’t feel like this was something he could gloss over.

It had been so long since he’d felt like this – jealous and moody and ready to lash out. To his mortification, he felt tears threaten and he looked up at the ceiling. Quickly, he doused the lamp and the room fell into darkness.

“Mate,” Harry murmured gently, and there was deep affection and concern in his voice. He cradled Ron’s jaw in his fingers and bent to lean their foreheads together. “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me.”

Ron turned away and wiped his eyes furiously. He was going to tell him, he just didn’t want Harry looking at him whilst he did. “I hate that you have so much time with her, and I don’t,” he finally said. “I miss you. I hate pretending we’re not together when you are right there every single night. And now you’re just… having a lark with Hermione like I don’t matter. And before you say it, I know those were rules we set. I just… it feels different.”

Harry was silent. “I’m so sorry,” he finally said. “Neither of us did it to hurt you.”

Ron nodded, and bit his lip to keep it from quivering. What was wrong with him?

He allowed Harry to climb into bed next to him. Harry shut the curtains with his wand and cast a sound-muffling charm on them. He took Ron into his arms, and Ron immediately curled into him with his head on his chest. “You know you don’t have to pretend with me,” Harry murmured into his hair.

“It’s just pressure,” Ron said, but he couldn’t stop the tears from spilling over. “I’m sure I’m failing Transfiguration, and I need to get good enough NEWTs to become a Healer. I want to be with you both and it’s just not happening. Look how happy you are when you come from seeing her. I want that, too.”

Harry stroked his back and his hair, kissing him on top of his head. They sat like that for a while, Harry cuddling Ron as he got it all out of his system. He could hear Harry’s heartbeat against his ear, strong and steady, blood pumping through ventricles and atria. He heard and felt the expansion and contraction of his lungs, healthy and hale, and it soothed him. Ron desperately wanted to say how much he loved him.

Was it too soon for that? I’m going to love them in a year even more than I love them now, he said to himself. But Hermione’s not here, and it wouldn’t be right. He didn’t want to get back at them. He just wanted to be included.

“You know what I think?” Harry said.

“What?”

“I think you and Hermione should go on a date. Hogsmeade’s this weekend. I can putter around with Mum while you two spend some quality time.”

Ron snorted. “You’re taking the piss.”

“No, I’m not,” said Harry, stroking Ron’s cheek. He was overdue for a shave, and Harry’s fingers rasped the stubble on his jaw. “If you want something that’s just for the two of you, you should give it a go.”

“Why are you being all… understanding?” asked Ron.

“I’m a very understanding sort of fellow,” smirked Harry. “And I want you to be happy,” he added softly.

“I am happy,” Ron said. “Just a bit out of sorts at the moment.”

“I’ll kiss it all better,” Harry promised, and Ron’s heart quivered in his chest. His breathing accelerated with eager anticipation as Harry lay Ron on his back. Ron plucked Harry’s glasses off his nose and balanced them on the headboard.

It was one of the best snogs Ron had ever had. It started slow, with gentle kisses on lips and light caresses on jaws and necks and shoulders. When Ron’s lips parted, Harry immediately nipped his bottom lip the way he liked. In response, Ron slid his tongue against Harry’s as Harry began to unbutton the shirt of his pyjamas. His hands were shaking, and Ron’s heart skipped a beat. Harry always seemed so cool and collected – it made Ron even more aroused to know he could be affected, too.

Harry broke the kiss to nip along Ron’s jaw, and trailed open-mouthed kisses down his neck, across his collarbones. Once he’d undone the last button, he made love bites over Ron’s sternum and on his stomach as Ron’s toes curled and his fingers pressed into Harry’s defined oblique muscles, just above the iliac crest.

Ron didn’t protest at all as Harry undressed him completely. His skin was delightfully hypersensitive under Harry’s attention, and the feeling of the soft cotton sheets against his naked body made him squirm with pleasure. God, did he need this.

“Come on; you too,” Ron whispered as he pulled at Harry’s clothes. Harry chuckled and let Ron help undress him. There was absolutely nothing seductive or smooth about it. Ron just wanted him naked and on top of him as quickly as possible or he just might die.

In almost no time, they were writhing against each other, breathing heavily through heated kisses, with Ron’s hands roving all over the parts of Harry he could reach. Quidditch did wonderful things to Harry’s physique, and Ron loved the feeling of his tight arse under his large palms. Harry held Ron with one arm between his shoulders and the mattress, his other hand in his hair. They were hard against each other, the pleasurable friction of their cocks sliding over and against each other and between their bodies, and the heat of their skin making them both spiral closer and closer…

It was incredible. Ron had sort of done this, with Seamus, but it wasn’t nearly as tender or as fucking hot as it was now. Harry kissing him passionately with his fingers running against his scalp was something else entirely. But…

“Harry, wait,” Ron said, licking his lips. He stilled his hips with difficulty.

“What?” Harry asked, sounding frustrated, but to his credit, he did stop.

“This is a first. It’s… it’s against the rules. I almost forgot… Hermione…”

“Fuck,” said Harry, immediately full of remorse. He did not let go of Ron, nor roll off him, but he was still. They were hot with exertion, sweat blooming in the places their skin touched, both of them breathing heavily with hearts thrumming away behind their ribs. As their heartbeats slowed and the tide of passion ebbed, a feeling of shame washed through Ron. No matter how left out he felt, it wasn’t right to break the rules that were there in order to keep things fair.

“D’you… do you think we should tell her? ’Fess up?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know,” said Ron. They had stopped, but would it hurt her to know that they’d gotten this far in the first place? Would she be understanding? Ron knew Harry would not be able to bear saying or doing anything that would make her cry. As suave and seductive as he was, he was also incredibly tender-hearted. Ron loved that about him.

It would be up to Ron, then. He sighed, already dreading it, even though he knew it was the right thing to do.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Hermione did not understand why her boys suddenly had trouble looking at her. Or even each other. What had happened? Had they had a fight? They didn’t seem tetchy with each other, just… furtive. Maybe even a little sad? And when she asked, they insisted nothing was wrong and they would talk later, which only threw Hermione’s imagination into high gear.

Had Harry told Ron about the Slug Club supper, and it had made him upset? It wasn’t against the rules… Ron had done the same thing to her in the backseat of the Ford Anglia on that ridiculous trip to get her things from her parents’ house. Perhaps Harry had told him about Ginny and Blaise, and he was taking it badly. She could see that.

But perhaps it was something worse. Had they… oh, no, had they decided being three was too much after all, and were just trying to find a way to let her down easy? That would be monstrously unfair – it had been their idea in the first place, kissing her and each other while dancing to one of her favourite songs… She still shivered whenever she remembered it, and the words they’d each whispered to her… Harry starting it all with, “You don’t have to say anything. Just do what feels good.”

And then Ron’s lips against her ear as they faced Harry: “You should flash him. Let me help with your dress.”

But Hermione couldn’t find it within herself to be indignant about the thought of them leaving… No, she would be devastated. A completely broken, weeping, inconsolable wreck.

Please, no, she begged inside her mind. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You can’t let me go when I love you this much. I’m never in my life going to find anyone even close to you. Let it be anything else. It took everything in her not to take their hands and refuse to let go until they spoke to her.

They acted… well, not exactly normal, but studious in class. Even Harry took notes, though he doodled around the edges – little stick figures duelling and flying on brooms. It reminded her of when he and Ron used to annoy her by playing hangman in History of Magic class instead of paying attention or taking their own bloody notes.

All those memories… the funny, the heartwarming, even the exasperating, would be tinted with sadness if they broke up with her. She could never revisit them without her heart breaking. It would bleed all the colour out of her world.

Hermione did something she had never done during class – would never do in class if she weren’t going absolutely barmy. She scribbled a note and passed it to Harry, who was sitting in between her and Ron. He looked confused, as if Hermione passing notes during Transfiguration put him in an alternate reality. She elbowed him and telegraphed with her eyes to read-the-fucking-note!

“PLEASE talk to me!” it said. Harry’s brow furrowed as he read it, then passed it to Ron. They nodded solemnly at each other. Ron started to write back, but Professor McGonagall, ever the barometer for rule-breaking and unruliness, stopped her lecture, raised her wand, and summoned the note.

Harry was quicker and vanished the note in midair, his aim impeccable. “Mr. Potter!” Professor McGonagall sputtered, completely disarmed as her hand clutched empty air.

Harry smiled sheepishly at her. “Sorry, Professor,” he said. “Reflex.”

“Five points from Gryffindor,” she said sternly, but for a split second, Hermione saw her lips twitch in an almost smile. The other students looked around curiously at the three of them, wondering what they’d done to earn a reprimand.

They still had the rest of Transfiguration and then Defence Against the Dark Arts to get through. Hermione barely noticed when Harry earned back the lost points with a series of correct answers about incantations.

Between classes, there wasn’t a chance to insist they talk to her – the corridors were packed and it took focus and agility to navigate a safe path between all the students. Defence was being taught by Professor Trelawny, and as she was just prone to waffling on about absolutely nothing, Hermione had little to distract her from her thoughts. She considered writing another note, but by now she was so agitated it would have been completely illegible.

Ron cleared his throat as Hermione worried her lip, wondering what was so wrong with her that both her parents and her boyfriends thought she was worth leaving and how she could fix it. Harry nudged her as Ron coughed.

Hermione blinked and straightened up. Everyone was looking at her. Had she spoken aloud? Whimpered in distress or something? Get it together, Granger!

“Are you with us, my dear?” asked Trelawny in a dramatic whisper. “I sense your aura is drifting. Full moons can occlude the energies of the planets and obscure the inner eye. But perhaps you’re experiencing astral projection?”

“Thankfully, I am immune,” Hermione said dryly, and stamped on her inner shrew before she went on to tell Trelawny where to shove her inner eye.

Professor Trelawny blinked at Hermione, then narrowed her eyes behind her overlarge spectacles, clearly deliberating if Hermione deserved a reprimand or not. Hermione kept her expression neutral, and Trelawny moved on.

Hermione felt a tap at her elbow. She looked down to see a note in Ron’s handwriting. Tomorrow, we’ll talk. Promise.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Harry said goodbye to Ron and Hermione as they entered the village, murmuring, “Kiss each other for me, won’t you?” Hermione smiled at him tentatively. She had, as expected, picked up that something was wrong. She was nearly in tears; their promise to talk had done nothing to soothe her anxiety, and as a result, Harry was very near tears as well. Both boys had done their best to be as affectionate with her as their surroundings would allow, but it wasn’t quite enough.

Ron, ever the optimist, was certain he could smooth things over. “Listen,” he’d said the night before, “I know we’ve usually left this kind of thing to you, but give me a go. I think I’ve proved myself after the spot of bother between you two this summer.”

Harry had little choice but to agree – he’d already promised to see his mother and to let Hermione and Ron have some alone time. The weather was unseasonably sunny, despite the cold, and Harry had enjoyed the ruddiness it brought to his boyfriend’s and girlfriend’s cheeks and noses. He decided to take it as a good omen. His spirits lifted at the thought of seeing his mother.

He knocked on her door and smiled when she opened it. “Hallo, Mum!” Harry said, and bent to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Look at you – you are even more beautiful than when I left you on the platform. What’s your secret?” He wasn’t trying to flatter her – it was the truth. She looked younger somehow… her hair was shinier than normal and her skin was full of colour and good health. She was wearing an oversized, forest green jumper with autumn leaf appliques that complemented her eyes and red hair.

“You charming little git,” she said as he came inside, though Harry could tell she was pleased. “How on earth does anyone survive someone like you?”

“They don’t,” he grinned. “I leave behind me a wake of devastation and ruin. I wake up every day wondering how to cause as much trouble as possible.” She rolled her eyes at him.

“Where are your other two thirds?” his mother asked, looking through the doorway behind him curiously.

“They are having a romantic date.” His mum blinked at him, and he laughed and shut the door. “Don’t worry about it. It’s terribly complicated.”

“As long as everything is going well and you’re all happy…”

“We are,” he said reassuringly. “I just wanted to see you. Is Remus home?”

“No,” she said, looking nervous. “He’s off to the shops on some errands for me. He thought I should stay home and keep warm…”

“Very considerate,” Harry approved as his mother motioned him into the tiny sitting room, where her favourite tea set that was only for her favourite guests sat on the coffee table, next to the morning edition of the Daily Prophet. “I’ll take it to mean you two are still getting on,” he said as she poured him a cup of tea.

“Of course,” she said in surprise. “Did you have any doubts?”

“Naw, Mum. Just taking the piss. I do have a magic map that tells me how often you sneak into his office.”

“Eurgh! You little creep.”

Harry laughed. “It’s not my fault his office just so happens to be near a favourite spot of mine.”

“Hmm,” she said shrewdly, and looked as though she was about to ask what he meant, but changed her mind. “You know what? I don’t want to know.”

“You definitely don’t,” chuckled Harry. “In all seriousness, I’m glad for you, Mum. You’re so good for each other.”

“We are,” she said, a soft look in her eyes. She looked up at him, and Harry suddenly knew what it felt like to be on the other side of one of his fervent looks. “I know you don’t want to hear me go on, but I love him, Harry. It’s been so long since I felt anything close to this. He makes me happy.”

“I want you to be happy,” said Harry softly, taking her hand and squeezing it.

“Good,” she said. She swallowed, looking scared. Her hand shook and she took it back. “Because… There’s something I have to tell you. And I wish it could wait for the just the right time, but…”

She was very, very pale, her rosy glow gone in an instant. “Mum,” Harry said, worried she was about to faint. “Just tell me.”

His mother took a deep breath and said, “I’m pregnant.”

The house went so still and silent that Harry could hear the faint tick of her wristwatch. “What?” he said in a very small voice.

“I’m having a baby,” she breathed in a quavering voice. Her eyes, so like his own, were wide. She looked positively frightened, whether of the fact itself or Harry’s reaction, he wasn’t sure.

“That’s…” Harry cleared his throat. The lump in it was making it hard to speak. “Actually, Mum, that’s kind of wonderful,” he finally managed, and burst into tears.

She followed suit, as if it was impolite not to cry, too. “Do you mean it?” she sobbed. “You’re n-not angry?”

“How could I be angry?” he said incredulously. He leapt up, knocking the teapot over as he rushed to hug her tightly. “I’m going to be a brother!” It was not something that Harry knew he wanted, but now that it was happening, it was as though he had wanted it all along. “How could you think I’d be anything other than delighted?”

“I don’t know,” she said, sniffling into his shoulder. “I’m not exactly rational these days.”

Harry laughed. “Congratulations,” he said, unable to stop smiling. “How is Remus feeling?”

“Terrified,” she said as they let go of each other. “But also elated.”

“When are you due?”

“Late May or early April.”

“So you’re about three months along?”

“Yes,” and she looked nervous again. “I wanted to tell you sooner. I just… the first trimester is… what if I had lost…”

“I get it,” he said gently. “I suppose we’re even now, for me keeping Ron and Hermione from you.”

“If that’s how you want to see it, fine. No more keeping things from each other.”

“Deal.” Harry shook her hand formally, making her smile. He pulled her into a tiny little waltz around the living room as they giggled like idiots and bumped into furniture. The upturned teapot was making a little waterfall off the coffee table, but neither of them noticed.

Harry thought of something and counted backwards three months. She had likely gotten pregnant around the same time he and Ron had gotten together with Hermione. He grinned. “Forgive my impertinence, Mum, but my guess is that this wasn’t on purpose.”

“You cheeky little git!” she said, pushing him away and blushing deeply. “Trust you to take good news and flip it on its side.”

“Aw, Mum. I didn’t mean it like that. I just think it’s adorable. I mean, you’re a Healer, and always talking to me about being safe –”

“I know, all right? Jesus.” She ran her hands through her hair. “You’re such a little brat sometimes.”

“You said you could forgive me anything.”

“Don’t take my magnanimousity for granted.”

“That is not a word, and you know it. Can I get you anything? Should you be standing?”

“I am pregnant, not an invalid,” she said haughtily, but she was smiling.

“Tell me everything,” Harry said as they sat back down. He righted the teapot and siphoned up the spill with his wand. “Are you taking reduced hours at work? Are you sick often? Did you tell Grandma yet?”

“Oh, goodness me, no,” she said, ignoring the first two questions. “Can you imagine? She’s already a bit… weird about me being with a werewolf, though of course she doesn’t understand fully…”

“So, what’s your plan? To wait until you’ve given birth? Are you going to try and hide your bump with a disillusionment charm or something?”

She scowled at him. “I’ll get to it,” she said. “Just… let me deal with it, all right?”

“Ah, well,” Harry said, grinning. “It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve had to tell her about an inadvertent pregnancy. She’ll just think it’s on par for you.”

His mother put her face in her hands. “Don’t make me regret telling you,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, immediately contrite. “I won’t tease if it upsets you.”

She sighed. “No, it’s fine. You’re absolutely right… It’s not a mistake, not by any means, it’s just… I’m nervous that I’m repeating my life over again. I… I really haven’t been with Remus all that long, if you think about it.”

“But it’s different than it was with Dad. You know that. Even I know it, and I’m a stupid little berk.”

“No, you’re not,” she said fondly. “You’re a sweet boy with a bit of a naughty streak.”

“Well, hopefully you’ll have a perfect little girl who never gives you a second of trouble.”

“Pfft,” she said. “You’re in for it if you think any girl is capable of being perfect.”

“Mine is,” he said, his heart fluttering in his chest at the thought of Hermione.

“Eurgh, that’s disgustingly sweet. Like that pavlova Petunia makes.” She shuddered.

“Do you two talk at all?” Harry asked curiously. He didn’t know much about his aunt and uncle, nor his cousin. He knew what they looked like, through pictures at Grandma’s house, and sometimes she liked to brag about Dudley’s exploits – she could show his enormous cousin pummelling the shit out of other enormous boys on her telly. Apparently, he was the Senior Inter-School Boxing Champion of the South East, whatever that meant.

He didn’t really care about the Dursleys, but he cared about his mother, which was why he asked.

“Not really,” she said. “We used to have these incredibly awkward teas before James and I got married, really more for the appearance of being sisters than any actual affection for each other. Your father and Vernon had a… disagreement, and that was the last time we ever visited. She didn’t come to my wedding or invite me to hers.” She looked sad, but in a way that was more like muscle memory. As if it was so long ago, it didn’t really hurt anymore, but you were supposed to pretend it did.

Harry knew the last part. “Was it Dad’s fault?” he asked, only half-joking.

His mum rolled her eyes. “If it wasn’t him, it was going to be something else.” She turned sober. “Sometimes… the reason we don’t do a better job of keeping our Muggle roots, is that they sometimes don’t want to be kept.”

Harry was quiet, thinking of Hermione. “Did you… did you ever talk to Hermione’s parents?”

“Not yet,” she said. “I thought I’d give them time to work things out on their own before I went kicking down doors. I was hoping to see her.” She looked at him pointedly.

Harry raised his hands. “She’ll be along. Er, I think. Unless she and Ron get… erm, caught up.”

She stared at him. “All right; I lied. I do want to know. How on earth do you three make it work?”

“Patience and communication?” Harry said. “I dunno, Mum.”

“You don’t feel at all jealous that they’re off on their own?”

Harry shrugged, feeling a bit shy to talk about it. “It was my idea,” he said. “Hermione and I have a lot of time together, so do Ron and I. They don’t have anything, and he’s at St. Mungo’s so much… Well, you’ve got to try and make things fair.”

“Wise,” she said pensively. She asked more questions, thankfully none of them invasive, and they spent an enjoyable time together, just chatting and catching up, until Remus came home, laden with small parcels wrapped in brown butcher’s paper and tied with twine.

Harry stood up to give him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Mum’s told me the good news!” he exclaimed.

Remus looked incredibly relieved, and he smiled widely and patted Harry’s cheeks before Harry let him go. “I’m glad you took it so well. You never know, with baby news…”

Harry looked at him in shock and said, “Baby? What baby? Mum?!” Remus went white as Harry turned to his mother.

“HARRY!” she cried in exasperation, and Harry burst out laughing. She turned quickly to Remus. “He’s being the most horrible little shit today! I told him about the baby. What is wrong with you?” She smacked Harry with the Daily Prophet as he pretended to fend her off.

“Mercy! Mercy! I surrender,” he cackled, conjuring a white flag with his wand and waving it.

“Do you see what we have to look forward to?” She punctuated each word with a swat as Harry continued to dodge and laugh. “Do – you – see – what – I’ve – had – to – put – up – with?! Bloody Christ!”

Remus massaged his heart and watched the scene with tentative amusement. Harry let her tussle with him a bit longer before jumping up and snatching the newspaper out of her hand. He tossed it aside, making the pages fly everywhere, and lifted her up in a big hug. He kissed the top of her head with an exaggerated mwah! and said, “I’m only cheeky because this is the best news ever. Can I watch the baby sometimes? Please? And can I sneak out to cook you healthy foods and bake nice things and help you paint the nursery?”

His mother laughed. “Darling, you have so many things to crack on with. You don’t need to worry about me. I’ve done this before.”

“It’s been seventeen years and you’ve probably forgotten everything. Please don’t shut me out, Mum,” Harry pouted.

“No, no, do not look at me like that – oh, for fuck’s sake, Harry. Fine, if it doesn’t get in the way of your studies and your duties, I won’t scold you for coming to see me. But I won’t defend you one jot if you get caught, either!”

“I would never!” he said, offended. “And anyway, Remus would cover for me, won’t you, Remus?”

“No,” said Remus amiably. “We’re past the trial period. I’ve proven myself worthy and I don’t need your approval anymore.”

Lily laughed and hugged Remus as Harry pretended to be offended. He wanted to ask if they were going to get married, but decided to ask another time, in case it was a sore point. He was absolutely certain Remus would marry Lily in a heartbeat. He might have already asked. But his mother would want to wait. She would not want to repeat the mistakes she’d made with his father.

If things had been different back then, would Remus be my father? Would I even be me? Harry wondered. What will my brother or sister be like? Will they have green eyes like mine and mum, or blue like Remus? If we don’t have the same eyes, we won’t look at all alike – I’m too much like Dad. The thought made him inexplicably lonely.

He wondered, ever so briefly, if his father would ever move on and have more children. For some reason, he could not picture it. A vision of the last time he’d seen him flashed across Harry’s mind – standing on the platform with his hand in Lily’s and Sirius’ hand on his shoulder. He wanted to ask her about it, but… now didn’t seem like the time to even mention his father.

“Did you see Ron and Hermione while you were out and about?” Harry asked Remus as he unpacked all his parcels, which turned out to be sandwiches from a local delicatessen.

“I waved at them – looked like they were headed towards the Jaunty Jarvey. I’ve got cheese and pickle, coronation chicken, or prawn and mayo.”

“Bagsy,” said Lily forcefully, twitching the cheese and pickle away from Harry. Before he could protest, she said, “Pregnancy rights. Is that that new pub? We should give it a try.”   

“What’s the fourth one?” asked Harry, not to be distracted.

“Haggis and egg,” said Remus as he unwrapped it. “It’s mine.”

Harry gave him a disgusted look as the smell of cooked sheep offal permeated the room. “Mum, I take it all back. I disapprove after all.”

“Ooh, Remus, not haggis,” Lily said, pinching her nose shut. She turned an alarming shade of green. Harry conjured her a bucket just in time.

“I believe this has just become a haggis-free home, mate,” Harry said to Remus, looking tactfully away from his mother.

“Sorry,” Remus said, vanishing his sandwich with a sad look on his face. He stood to hold Lily’s hair back.

“Not your fault,” Lily gasped over the rim of the bucket. “Just comes out of nowhere sometimes.”

“Is that normal?” asked Harry with concern. “Thought it was supposed to be only in the morning.”

“It’s a misnomer,” she said, and was sick again. “And yes, it’s normal.”

“Can I have your cheese and pickle, then?”

“You’re awful,” she said weakly. “No.”

Harry sighed and picked up the chicken sandwich. He was very glad he wasn’t squeamish, or it would have put him off his food.

“Sorry, darlings, I think I’ll go lie down for a while,” his mother said.

Remus followed to help her get settled, his fingertips on the small of her back as they went up the narrow, twisting staircase to the second floor. Harry finished his sandwich and reassembled the Prophet he’d scattered. There was a scratch at the door, and when Harry looked out the peephole, there was no one there. Cautiously, he opened the door a crack and something small and furry squeezed past his shins.

“Well, hello!” Harry said to Guide. “Wondered when I’d see you. D’you know you’re going to have to share the attention in a few months?” He picked the little cat up and whispered into her fur, which was cold from being outside. “I still can’t believe it.” Guide purred and rubbed her head under his chin.

Still giddy with the news, Harry did a little polka around the room with his mother’s cat, holding her little white paw and humming “Up She Rises.” He thought of all the things he already knew about babies and what he’d have to learn. Perhaps he’d visit one of the village bookshops and see if there wasn’t a book that might help him.

He didn’t know the midwives of Hogsmeade, but he did know one in Godric’s Hollow. She was his mother’s friend, Marlene McKinnon, and they had been within a couple years of each other at Hogwarts. Marlene worked alongside Lily at St. Mungo’s for a time before deciding her talents and knowledge were best served providing care for women and children. She and her wife, Mary, had an eight-year-old son that Harry looked after sometimes and played with on his grandparents’ Quidditch field.

Witches gave birth almost exclusively at home. Ron was too young to remember when Ginny was born, but every Weasley brother from the twins and up was present for at least one sibling’s birth and had a story to tell, from the time Mrs. Weasley broke Mr. Weasley’s hand during a particularly bad contraction at Percy’s birth, to the time a gnome got into the house during her labour with Fred and George. George had been the first sibling to hold Ginny, and they remained close to this day.  

I’m not an only child anymore, Harry thought happily. Ron won’t be able to tell me I don’t know about siblings. He kissed Guide on her little pink nose. She was an excellent sport about it and blinked peacefully at him. He stopped in the middle of the room as another wonderful thought hit him. This might not be my only sibling. They might go on to have more children together.

Harry shivered with happiness. He could not wait to tell Ron and Hermione.

Notes:

Thank you so much for your feedback on chapter length and update preferences! Responses were varied, so... I'll just put out chapters when they feel "right" and hope you'll all forgive me. <3

Chapter 25: La Petite Mort

Hermione was more than relieved to find out the reason Harry and Ron were being so… whatever was because they felt guilty for getting carried away. Ron took her around the outskirts of the village, where no students usually visited, and told her what happened.

She breathed a deep sigh and closed her eyes. “Hermione,” Ron said, his voice pleading. “We’re so sor– oh!” He put his arms around her as she hugged him tightly. A few tears trickled out of the corners of her eyes, but they were undetectable against his dark wool coat.

“I thought you were about to break up with me,” she admitted.

“Oh, Merlin. No, never,” he said tenderly, lifting her chin to kiss her. “How many times do any of us have to say that we’re three or nothing? Package deal. We’re moving in together after Hogwarts and that’s that. I hear the Shrieking Shack has rent low enough to scream about.”

Hermione laughed and kissed him again.

“So you’re not upset?” Ron asked tentatively, his gloved thumbs stroking her chin gently.

“I can’t feel anything other than relieved right now.” Hermione was unwilling to let him go, and wished Harry were there to hold her, too. “Maybe I’ll feel differently later, but… I’m glad you told me.”

“Promise you’ll say so if it changes?” he said, his lovely blue eyes soft and warm. He cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand, and she closed her eyes and melted into it.

“Okay,” she breathed. She would have promised him anything in that moment. She almost told him she loved him.

“You look so pretty today,” Ron said, smiling affectionately. “I mean, you always do, but I like how rosy you get in the cold. Love it just as much as your freckles in the summer.”

“All right, Prince Charming,” she laughed. “I forgive you; you don’t have to lay it on so thick.”

“I mean it,” he said, and kissed her. “The Great Outdoors suits you.”

As their tender kisses slowly turned into a proper snog, Hermione began to feel that familiar stirring of audacity thrumming alongside her racing heart. The feeling that made her want to take risks and throw her voice of reason down three flights of stairs. “D’you want to… go somewhere else?” she asked in a low voice.

“Over here,” Ron whispered, and pulled her into a narrow gap between houses. He lifted her up and her legs naturally wrapped around him. She was so warm with arousal that she barely felt the cold stone of the wall through her wool overcoat as he pushed her against it.

“I love – how easy it is for you – to carry me around,” she said between kisses.

“I love carrying you,” he chuckled. “And kissing you – and touching you – and tasting you.”

“Oh, my god,” she whispered, his heated mouth sucking a mark just under her jaw. He was hard between her legs, and she squirmed against him. She imagined what it would be like to just… let him slide into her. Did she really have to wait until December? It would be so easy – just split a few seams and…

“Someday,” she whispered into his ear, feeling deliciously wicked, “I want you to fuck me against a wall. Just like this.”

“Hermione,” he said in a choked voice as his hips pushed her more firmly against the wall. “I am having enough trouble as it is. Since when do you talk dirty?”

“It’s your fault,” she said, her hips pressing back in a push-and-pull that had her gasping with pleasure. “You and Harry, and you know it. I was a perfectly respectable girl before you. Next time you two get caught up, just… ring me on the Mirror, all right? Isn’t that what it’s for?”

“You kinky little minx,” he said, biting her earlobe. “You wanna watch? Touch yourself while you do?”

“Yes,” she moaned, imagining all the ways her boys could get each other off. She kissed him sloppily, not caring about appearance or anything other than pleasure. “As long as you don’t hide it from me.”

“Never again,” Ron said. Hermione moaned as he loosened her muffler and kissed all up and down her neck as he continued to grind against her. “What do you want to see? We take requests.”

“I am – oh! – dying to see what you did that was hot enough to make you feel guilty. Were you naked?”

“Completely,” he whispered. His erection was pressing against her just right, causing an upward spiral of pleasure inside her as she pictured the scene.

“Who was on top?” she breathed.

“Harry.” Ron had lost his hat somewhere along the way, and Hermione’s fingers were in his hair, the static electricity from her gloves making it stand on end.

“How close were you to coming?”

Ron chuckled, a low, gravelly rumble that had Hermione quivering and her toes curling inside her boots. “As close as you are right now, I’d say.”

She meant to laugh, but it came out like a high, desperate sort of sound. He was right. She was very, very close. The friction and heat of their bodies made her sweat and clench all her pelvic muscles. She could feel her chest grow hot, and she trembled with imminent release. “I’m shocked you could – ah! – stop. Oh, my god.” Her head lolled to the side as Ron hit that spot where her neck met her shoulder and sucked another mark. She was too far gone to be embarrassed by the sheen of sweat there, but Ron didn’t seem to mind at all.

When he kissed his way back up her neck and whispered, “Go on, then,” into her ear, that was it. She came, softly crying his name as she shuddered, the pleasure flooding from between her legs all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes, over her scalp. Hermione smiled, feeling the best kind of dirty and depraved.

As she came down from her orgasm, she became acutely aware of the exertion of holding her own legs up. Her thighs and hips especially were going to be sore. But that’s just all the more excuse for Ron and Harry to carry me, she thought happily. Hermione was not above enjoying a bit of caveman masculinity or even possessiveness. When it suited her, anyway. She liked Fred’s flirting because it riled up Harry and Ron.

Sweat trickled down her ribs and under her breasts as she asked, “Did any of that feel good for you?” Ron gently let her down. Her knees wobbled and he steadied her.

“A bit,” he said. “Too much longer and I’d be rubbed raw. Thank you for coming so quickly.” Ron grinned at her and bent to kiss her. “I just love making you feel good,” he whispered against her lips. He gently rubbed his nose against hers and her still-racing heart flip-flopped in her chest.

“Well,” she said shakily, “it would be very impolite of me to not immediately return the favour.”

“Oh, you don’t have t–” 

“Shut up,” Hermione said without heat as she cast a cushioning charm on the cobbles and dropped to her knees in front of him. Ron bit his lips. She could never get enough of her boys – on their own, together… any way she could have them, give and receive pleasure.

Ron’s woolly hat was on the ground next to her, and she dusted it off before handing it up to him. As she undid the button on his trousers, Ron stilled her hands. “Wait, wait – someone could see –”

“Oh, now you’re worried about that?” Hermione said dryly. “Where was your sense of modesty when you were dry-humping me against the wall just now?” She pointed her wand towards the street and cast two spells: “Cave inimicum. Muffliato.” She looked up at Ron demurely through her lashes and fluttered them, making him laugh.

“Well, for one thing, nothing was exactly exposed,” he said, pulling his hat over his ears. “You would definitely feel differently if I’d been giving you an Aussie kiss.”

She laughed. “Probably.” She took off her gloves, pulled his zip down, and gently reached inside to spring him free. He was already dripping pre-come. “For the record, you have nothing to be self-conscious about.” She wasn’t flattering him. It was absolutely true. Ron and Harry had very attractive penises, and she wasn’t the only one who thought so. She had no idea what the average size was, but based on the loo and dormitory chatter, they were both slightly above it. And they looked significantly better than the drawings that kept cropping up on the message boards.

“Not about self-consciousness,” he said, a quiver in his voice as he looked down at her hand stroking him. “Or modesty, really. Just… discretion.”

“The better part of valour,” she said vaguely, relishing the feel of him in her palm. “Well, whatever. I love how it looks.”

“I love how it looks with your hand wrapped around it,” he said, licking his lips. She swiped her thumb across the tip and Ron’s head fell back against the wall. She smirked. Hermione just adored knowing she could make him feel this way.

“How about my tongue?” She demonstrated, licking just under the head.  

“Even better,” he breathed as she slid her other hand along his thigh – up and down, side to side, making slow little circles with her thumb. She could feel the tension of his muscles through his trousers. He was trembling. “Hermione. I am not going to last long.”

“I won’t tell,” she whispered, and took him as far into her mouth as she could. Ron closed his eyes.

Hermione paid close attention to his reactions as she explored him with her tongue, lips, and hand. She was a good student and strove to improve every time. By the way his hands scrabbled against the wall and the way his lips twitched involuntarily, she thought she was doing a pretty good job. Soon she closed her eyes as well, focusing on the entrancing taste and feel of him. Before Ron and Harry, she hadn’t ever expected to like this kind of thing. So far, everything about sex and temptation had been a joyous surprise.

As promised, Ron did not last long. A sharp intake of breath was the only warning he gave before coming inside Hermione’s mouth. “Shit, sorry!” he said as she swallowed, but Hermione wasn’t sure what he had to be sorry for. He’d done exactly what she’d meant for him to do. She licked her lips primly, tucked him gently back in, closed the zip, and stood up.

She asked him about it as they helped each other make themselves presentable enough to re-enter public. Hermione used her bare fingers to comb his hair back into place as he straightened her muffler and hat. Ron ducked his head sheepishly and said, “I dunno. It happened faster than I thought it would. It was unchivalrous of me to not at least give you a warning.”

Hermione laughed and tapped his nose fondly. “I don’t think this is what anyone had in mind when coining the word ‘chivalry.’ Perhaps it’s one of those words that defies explanation.”

“Like irony.”

“Sure,” she laughed, and pronounced him presentable. She thought he looked incredibly handsome and put-together in his thick jumper under his coat. Ron was a man who could make home knit look like it belonged in a Paris fashion show. She wasn’t ashamed to admit she’d swooned a little when he and Harry came down the dormitory stairs.

And I wasn’t the only one, she thought with dark amusement as she dissolved their concealment charms, remembering the appreciative glances other girls tried to hide. Lavender Brown was actually making noises about trying to win Ron back. Things hadn’t worked out with her last boyfriend, and they’d broken up over the summer. Hermione couldn’t really be angry at her – she didn’t know Ron and Harry were taken, and they were incredibly dishy. Can’t blame a girl for trying and all that.

Hmm, thought Hermione with wry amusement. I am much more forgiving after orgasm. I should be careful not to make any big decisions for at least a few more hours.

“All right,” said Ron lazily, his blue eyes sparkling at her. “We’ve got all day. What’s next?”

“Food,” she chuckled as his stomach growled.

 

Ron surreptitiously pinched himself as they walked towards the more populated areas of Hogsmeade. He had expected tears and feelings of betrayal, not… whatever the fuck that was. Had he just been rewarded for bad behaviour?

Whatever it is, I love it, he thought. He wondered if what they had just done would be obvious to anyone else. He’d healed the love bites on her neck and she’d cleaned the spot off the front of his trousers, but…

“Oh, look – there’s Professor Lupin!” said Hermione, looking completely unaffected. She stood on her toes to wave at him. Lupin waved back, the other arm full of little packages as he hurried down the street that led to the home he shared with Lily, his shoulders raised against the cold.

They agreed to go over later, but Ron was glad Harry went there alone first. He thought Lily might have something very important to tell him. He’d kept his suspicions to himself, but had a little running tally of clues in his head. Harry would absolutely attack him with blunt objects if Ron said he noticed specific changes to his mother’s body. Ron likely wouldn’t have noticed anything if he hadn’t been studying so much and been so attentive to all things medical and anatomical. Over a short time, her breasts had grown just a little bit bigger and she winced when anyone accidentally brushed them or got near them.

Definitely don’t tell Harry any of that, he reminded himself. But there were other signs that were perfectly appropriate for an aspiring Healer to take note of. On the few occasions they ate together, she was either completely ravenous or picked at her food. He hadn’t seen her much at St. Mungo’s – she kept regular weekday hours, and Ron had to take his shifts on weekends and wherever else he could fit them in, but the little bit he’d shadowed her or been working in her department, he’d seen her nipping off to the toilet far more often than any grown adult had a right to.

Harry himself had mentioned how sentimental she’d gotten as of late, but he’d chalked it up to turning seventeen and it being his last year at Hogwarts. The silly sod probably hadn’t even thought of the possibility. But Ron wasn’t going to say a word, not even to Hermione. Not until Lily said something (or nothing – he could always be wrong, after all).

The Jaunty Jarvey was a quiet pub that stood alone across the river that ran on the north side of Hogsmeade, with a wooden sign artistically burned with the likeness of the creature for which it was named. There was a bycocket hat on its head, an ostentatious plume stuck in the brim. “Didn’t this place used to be a gardening shop?” Hermione asked, looking around the interior. It was a homey sort of place, with heavy exposed beams and, as expected, Jarvey-themed motifs in the glasswork and pictures on the walls. Though it lacked the lived-in, well-loved feel of the Three Broomsticks, it had both character and promise. Ron especially thought the live honeysuckle growing along the tops of the booth partitions was a nice touch.

Ron shrugged. “Maybe.” When he took their order to the bar, he saw a little collection jar with a note that said, “For Sanctum.” He put a couple of sickles in, trying not to think that if Harry were here, he would have dropped in several galleons like it was nothing.

He told Hermione about it as he slid a half pint of butterbeer across the table to her. She looked pleased. “I think that speaks well of the proprietor,” she said.

“Unless it’s moral posturing,” he said.

“How do you mean?”

“Like those old-money warlocks who donate loads of gold to whatever cause makes them look good. You know, so they can appear like they care without doing any actual work.”

“Like the Malfoys?”

“Nah, they don’t give to charity; they are solely about luxury and bribes. I mean like the Virtus family. Their names are all over St. Mungo’s, including the ward you were in.”

“Oh,” Hermione said quietly, and gingerly touched under her right eye. She frowned, thinking. “But, for that kind of thing, St. Mungo’s makes perfect sense. There’s no controversy donating to a hospital – you’ll look a hero no matter what. Sanctum is different. After the poisonings and those businesses being defaced in Diagon Alley, it’s definitely a statement to be out and proud about a connection to it.”

“You’re right,” Ron said. He looked at her, debating whether to ruffle her feathers after such a good morning. “Did… Harry ever tell you he wrote to his dad about Pansy attacking you?”

Her lips went tight. “Yes. Total overreaction.”

“I don’t think so,” Ron said. “Ask Harry to show you what he wrote back.” There were no other students in the pub, and he reached across the table to hold her hand. “Don’t let your dislike of James muddy the bigger picture, love. There’s something brewing, and you know it.”

Hermione shivered. “I know.” Ron brushed the backs of her knuckles with his thumb.

Their food arrived, and they changed to lighter subjects.  

“Did I see Errol delivering a letter from home yesterday?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah,” said Ron. “Nothing new or exciting.”

“No new siblings?”

Ron had chosen the wrong moment to take a swallow of ale. “Why – why would you – say that?” he coughed, trying to mop up the mouthful he’d spat on the table with his jumper sleeve.

“I wasn’t serious,” she said, looking at him askance.

He very much wanted to tell her his suspicions about Harry’s mum, and about his aunt and the pregnancy testing charm he’d done at St. Mungo’s, but that was definitely grounds to get him kicked out of the programme. So, he didn’t, and tried to play it cool. “Don’t you always tell me seven is one of the most powerful numbers? Why would Mum and Dad mess with that?”

“It’s up there with three and twelve, yes,” she said sweetly.

Ron groaned. “I do not need five more siblings, Hermione. No one does.”

“I wouldn’t have minded at least one,” she mused, but then a shadow seemed to cross her face.

“What is it?” asked Ron.

“It’s nothing,” she said, giving herself a little shake.

“What if your sibling hadn’t any magic? Like Lily’s sister.”

“No, we both would have it, like the Creeveys,” she said with supreme conviction. Ron raised his eyebrows, but didn’t argue. Perhaps she felt a magical sibling would have at least had her back, made it possible to talk their parents down.

“Would you want a younger sibling or older? Or a twin?” Ron had a sudden vision of two Hermiones and was very, very glad she couldn’t see into his mind.

Hermione thought for a moment, nibbling at her chicken and mushroom pie. “Older,” she decided. “It would have been nice to have someone looking out for me.”

That was the thing about only children. They had idealised notions of siblinghood. No one ever wanted to imagine that your older sibling would try to trick you into an Unbreakable Vow, or laugh when you broke your arm. And no one’s imaginary little sister told porkies about you and smiled smugly behind Mum’s back whilst she shouted at you. They all had small alliances and truces that shifted when it suited them, but the most united Ron and his siblings had ever been was their unspoken pact not to rat each other out to Mum. Only Percy the Prat refused to honour it, but he was probably adopted, anyway. He was Head of Accounting at the Ministry, though he really aspired to be Minister for Magic. Ron usually tried not to think about that on a full stomach.

He was about to tell her all that, about siblings not being all they were cracked up to be, but stopped at the dejected expression on her face. “Have you heard anything from your parents at all?” he asked softly.

“You know I haven’t,” she said. “I thought about writing, but… I don’t know what to say that hasn’t already been said. I’m not going to apologise, because I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Ron thought back to September 1, when his mother had hugged him on the train platform. She had merely said, “That’s all right, then,” and patted his cheeks. It was not her way to explain herself. Mum expressed her feelings through food and knit. If she was cross with you in a way that shouting couldn’t fix, you could expect lesser portions and skipped stitches in your jumper. If she was proud of you, she would throw you a party, boast to all her friends, and buy you the most lovable second-hand owl. If you wanted a heart-to-heart with apologies and explanations, you went to Dad. But Platform 9 ¾ was not the place, and Ron didn’t care quite enough to poke the dragon.

Ginny later told him more of the story: “Well, Mum was moping about, muttering to herself, looking at all the family photographs and sighing at every – single – fucking – picture in your baby album. Probably wondering where she went wrong.” Ginny rolled her eyes. “I was so sick of it. I asked her if she wished you had two girlfriends instead. That way, they could gestate more grandchildren at once and she could be certain they were all yours.”

“Please tell me her wand was not on her person when you said that,” said Ron, aghast.

“What do you take me for?” Ginny said indignantly. “In any case, I was wearing one of those invisible shield hats George invented. Anyway, after the usual, ‘just who do you think you are talking to your mother like that?’ she was pretty quiet for a few days. I like to think it shook her up a bit, made her realise she was being a bit silly, or perhaps she had to sit with her own prejudice and didn’t like how it felt. Who knows with Mum, anyway.”

They both rolled their eyes. Who knows, indeed. “Thanks, Ginny,” Ron said quietly. It took a special sort of bravery to stand up to Mum like that.

She considered him. “I know it’s not really our thing to be… sentimental. But you’re my brother.”

“The only one you’ve got,” he said, puffing up his chest, and she snorted.

“Just remember this when it’s my turn to bring home someone Mum disapproves of,” she said with a small smile.

Back in the present, Ron took Hermione’s hand again. “If being with you and Harry is wrong, I don’t want to be right,” he said, smiling.

“So cliché,” she grinned.

 

Ron and Hermione didn’t really have much shopping to do – they were both trying to save their money for things they would need after Hogwarts that their parents couldn’t (or wouldn’t) afford to help them with – rent, furniture, food, and the like. Neither was about to follow Harry’s advice to just use his money for everything. They had their pride.

After a secret smoke in an alley behind the Hog’s Head and a walk along the river in which they sneaked kisses and the occasional touch, Hermione declared she had seen enough and was ready to go sit by a fire somewhere.

“Had enough of me, have you?” he teased.

“No, never,” she said, hugging his arm. “But we do have a boyfriend who might miss us by now. And I promised his mum I’d come by.”

When they knocked on the door of Lily’s cottage, Harry threw open the door and beckoned them inside with great excitement. He closed the door after Ron and gave them each an enthusiastic kiss. “Mum’s under the weather,” Harry said, “and Remus is grading essays in the office. Come to the kitchen – I’m making ginger biscuits.”

Ron noticed a floury handprint on the front of Hermione’s coat where Harry had given her left tit a casual hello. “Got a little something there,” he said as he brushed it off for her. Hermione giggled. She shrugged out of her coat, and Ron gallantly took it and hung it up on a hook by the door.

He heard a tiny, “Mrr?” by his ankles, and before he could lean down to pet the little cat, Hermione scooped her up and murmured to her how much she missed her, how Crookshanks sends his best, how she was the prettiest little darling, and if she shouldn’t make her a little Girl Guide sash… Ron stamped on the urge to roll his eyes. He liked cats and wasn’t above talking to them, but his girlfriend and boyfriend were on a completely different planet. He had no idea how Guide and Crookshanks put up with all the stupid crooning. He was convinced they purred out of politeness, though Harry would tell him any animal that licks its own anus was incapable of decorum and social niceties.

Which only told Ron that Harry hadn’t heard many stories of Sexual Misadventure. Muggle contortionists had nothing on a wizard with a wand and a will.

Ron stroked the cat’s head while Hermione watched Harry cut circles out of a sheet of dough he’d rolled out on the dining table. It took up most of the surface area, and there was another loaf of dough waiting its turn on the counter. “Are you intending to feed an army?” asked Hermione wryly.

“Something like that,” said Harry mysteriously. “Put a chilling charm on these, would you?”

“A – what? Why?” asked Hermione, but Ron understood.

“Something about the cold makes the flavours more potent,” said Ron, and rolled up his sleeves. He cast the charm his mother had taught him on the little dough circles, and used his wand to help Harry slide them onto pans.

“And makes them keep their shape,” added Harry.

Ron caught sight of Hermione’s flushed face, and furrowed his brow. “What’s up?” he asked her.

“Er, it’s nothing,” she said, looking away and flexing her fingers.

Harry chuckled. “She thinks men who bake are hot.”

Ron wiggled his eyebrows at her. “There’s no shame in that, Hermione.”

“I’m not ashamed,” she murmured, her gaze flicking towards the stairs and away. “We’re just… in your mum’s house.”

As if summoned, the ancient staircase began to creak and groan as someone came down. “Hello, darlings,” said Lily when she appeared.

“Feeling better?” asked Harry solicitously. Ron looked at her shrewdly. She looked in excellent health to him. Robustly so.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, waving Harry off as if embarrassed. She took stock of the kitchen. “Just how much do you think we can eat, Harry? And if you leave a single crumb for me to clean up, so help me…”

“I won’t!” Harry insisted. “You said I could.”

She sighed. “I did. Just… take some back to school with you, all right? Otherwise, I will eat them all, and I will get fat.”

Harry looked very smug about something.

Lily sat down on one of the chairs Harry pulled away from the table, and Guide immediately squirmed out of Hermione’s arms to go sit on her lap. Ron couldn’t resist smiling at Hermione’s look of rejection. She glared at him and rolled up her sleeves to hide her disappointment in work. Perhaps hoping to smooth over the cat’s faux paw, Lily turned to Hermione. “Remus said it looked like you were headed for that new pub – did you go?”

Ron kept working, but looked Lily over out of the corner of his eye as Hermione told her about the Jaunty Jarvey. She didn’t look the same as the pictures of his mum when she was pregnant – sort of tired and cranky and puffy, but that wasn’t any indication.

When Hermione mentioned the donation jar for Sanctum, Lily lit up. “That definitely makes me want to go over. What’s on the menu?”

Harry was looking impatient as he kept working. Several times, he opened his mouth as if to interrupt them, and eventually resorted to outright rudeness as the conversation turned to the weather. “Mum. Mum. MUM,” he pestered. She looked at him in exasperation. “Can I tell them? Please?” Her lips went tight, and cautiously, she nodded.

Harry drew himself up importantly. “My mum,” he announced solemnly, “is up the duff.”

Ron wished he’d made a bet with someone gullible. Lily put her face in her hands and shouted, “HARRY!”

Hermione clapped both hands to her mouth, her brown eyes round and shining. “Is he serious?” she asked Lily.

“Yes,” she huffed as Harry dodged her attempts to cuff his ear. “Though I never would have said it that way.”

“Yes, you would,” Harry insisted as Hermione squealed and hugged her. “I’ll bet you owled Marlene as soon as you knew with those exact words.” She rolled her eyes.

“Congratulations,” Ron said gently, and bent to kiss Lily’s cheek, but gingerly, to avoid dusting her with flour. She gave him a look that said, “you-already-knew-didn’t-you,” and patted his bicep fondly. Ron grinned and neither confirmed nor denied.

Ron was quiet during the conversation about due dates and nurseries and morning sickness. He was watching Hermione. Would she want to have children? She seemed excited for Lily, and Harry, but Ron had never seen her with a baby, or any small children, really. For some reason, Harry’s neighbour, Emily, flitted into his mind. He wondered how she was. Ron also wondered if Ginny was right about Mum, if the thing that had bothered her the most was that she might have a grandchild that carried none of her genes. Could she welcome Harry’s biological children as fully as Ron’s?

As Harry and Hermione started in on what life had been like as only siblings, Lily motioned to Ron and murmured so only he could hear, “As you’re learning to be a Healer, I won’t be offended by invasive questions and will happily volunteer information. Just maybe don’t ask them in front of Harry – he’s going to be a bit of a mess.”

“Yeah, he is,” Ron chuckled. “He’s already weird about you as it is.” He winced, realising how that sounded. “I mean, he’s very protective of you.”

“I know,” she said, her eyes soft with both affection and regret. “It’s… a whole thing. Bit unhealthy. Something we’ve got to work on.”

“How incredibly un-British of you,” Ron smirked.

“We’ll see,” she said mysteriously.

“Are you going to help or keep flirting with my mum?” Harry demanded pointedly. “She’s taken, by the way.”

“You overestimate my charm,” said Ron. “Lightning doesn’t strike twice – I’ve already got all the woman I can handle.” He levitated the prepared pans high above as they waited for their turn in the oven.

“I suppose you mean me,” said Hermione hesitantly as both Harry and Ron grinned obnoxiously at her.

“I dunno,” teased Harry. “You’re sort of useless in the kitchen.” She huffed as Lily glared sharply at Harry.

“Pick it up, Hermione,” said Ron playfully. “Who taught you to handle a cutter like that?”

“Nobody,” she said crossly, a vertical line of frustration between her brows. Hermione hated being bad at anything, but Harry and Ron often said it was very good for her.   

Harry took pity on her and showed her a more efficient technique, putting his buttery, floury hands on top of hers to guide her through it. Hermione blushed and Ron learned something entirely new about himself. He realised he could watch hours of Harry teaching Hermione kitchen techniques – his looks of encouragement and casual touches were downright indecent.

They spent the whole rest of the afternoon working together to finish the biscuits. Before this, Ron hadn’t exactly enjoyed baking much, even though he knew how. His mother was very particular about her bakes, and usually wound up shooing him out and doing it all herself. But Harry genuinely enjoyed having him and Hermione work with him, no matter how many mistakes they made, and that made all the difference.

 

The only thing to bring down Harry’s mood was the special evening edition of the Daily Prophet. Remus had it first, looking more and more grim as he read it. When he finished, he looked at Lily with a fierce, burning sort of protectiveness, then at Hermione. “What is it?” asked Harry sharply.

In response, Remus handed over the paper and Harry looked down at the front page. Splashed across the front was the headline, “Poisoner’s Sentence Reduced in Exchange for Information: Dark Association on the Rise.” With a sense of foreboding, he read the article.

Harry barely registered that everyone was looking at him as he read, his brow furrowed in concentration. The article reported that there was, indeed, a nefarious shadow organization attacking Muggleborns and those with connections to their causes. Kingsley Shacklebolt went on record to say this was now the Auror Department’s top priority, and a task force of the most experienced and skilled Aurors had already been formed. Anyone with information that led to an arrest would receive a cash reward and, if necessary, protection provided by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

It's happening, Harry thought as a potent cocktail of fear and righteous anger seared his veins. Mum and Hermione and Brynn and the Creeveys and Justin Finch-Fletchley and all their families… they’re all in very real danger.

As he looked at the two most important women in his life, Harry suddenly understood what drove his father to become an Auror.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Dear Harry,

I’m glad you wrote – even names are helpful. Enough children parrot their parents’ sentiments that how they behave at Hogwarts can be an indicator of someone worth investigating. If it ever comes down to it, I can have a different Auror talk to Hermione. Hopefully it won’t.

This will probably sound revolting to you, but it wouldn’t be a bad idea to make friends with a few Slytherins, and I don’t necessarily mean as an exercise in espionage. It’s silly to hold onto house rivalries as an adult. What house you were in doesn’t actually dictate who you are as a person, just the values you held onto at the time of your Sorting. Merlin himself was in Slytherin. 

The Prophet has its own agenda in reporting things the way they do… it’s not an unbiased publication by any means. But as for not showing the runes… As you might know from anyone who studies them, they are full of nuance. They can mean a sound, an ideal, a warning, etc. Just knowing the rune’s name isn’t enough to decipher the meaning, and having every amateur rune translator and their mum spreading speculation and rumour is a recipe for disaster and panic. We have a specialist looking into them; that’s all I can tell you.

I’ve put in my request for time off so I can come see you play. Sirius wants to be there as well, is that all right?

Love,

Dad

Hermione frowned and delicately gave Harry’s father’s letter back to him. They were sitting on the good couch in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room. Ron was away at St. Mungo’s, and she and Harry were just killing time until their meeting with the prefects, which was in about an hour. “You said that was before yesterday’s article?”

Harry nodded, all seriousness and intensity. She had never seen this kind of fervour in him, and if she was honest with herself, it scared her. She imagined she now understood how all the women throughout history felt when war loomed… the threat of what was coming was, as yet, too ambiguous to truly fear it, but the concrete possibility of losing her men to the unrelenting machine of war gripped her with cold terror.

Her grandfathers were both retired RAF, and they had defended London during the Blitz. All the while, their wives worked far below, doing their best to keep calm and carry on while bombs fell around them. Until now, that had just been part of someone else’s story – something that felt even less real to Hermione than the princess films she’d loved as a child. Now, she wondered what that would have been like… having to go on living, doing normal things like food shopping and darning holes in their clothes, all the while wondering if today was the day you were going to get that call, or get fed to the machine.

Hermione shook herself. Perhaps that was being a bit dramatic. A few bampots who’d banded together and graffitied a wall or two didn’t mean there’d be a war. Not every broken window signified Kristallnacht, not every rune was a swastika, not every alliance was the Axis Powers.

But the poisonings… Hermione shivered and unconsciously twisted the chain that her poison-detecting pendant hung from. She’d gotten out of the habit of wearing it, but it had been the first thing Harry asked her about after they’d all read the article.

It wasn’t lost on her that the men had passed the article between themselves first, despite it being most relevant to her and Lily. If she was going to even consider the possibility of war in the magical world, she was going to have to shift her thinking. She would not have to cloister herself – if it came down to it, she’d be in the (metaphorical) trenches. Witches were on an equal footing with wizards when it came to combat – a wand negated the need for testosterone and big muscles in battle. The most skilled duellists and Aurors relied on speed, agility, and quick-thinking. It would be a mistake to dismiss a diminutive witch or reedy-looking wizard as an opponent based on looks alone.

That didn’t stop the innate desire of wizards to put themselves in harm’s way to protect their families. Humans were human, regardless of magic or lack thereof. Hermione didn’t really know how to feel – there had been a tiny part of her, before she knew what she was, that felt safe in the knowledge that she, by virtue of her sex alone, would never be drafted against her will.

Do wizards even have designated armies? Or are we so small that it’s expected for civilians to fight? She had a terrifying image of helping Lily put on the sort of medieval-looking armour that Aurors wore, the enchanted leather distended by her pregnant belly, as a masked and hooded horde marched towards them.

Stop that! she told herself firmly. That’s not going to happen! The Head of the Aurors declared this was their top priority! Hermione’s faith in authority was the only thing that could pull her out of this self-inflicted spiral, and she clung to it like a life raft. As much as she loathed to admit it (and she never would say it aloud), the thought of Harry’s father being on that special task force was comforting. He was an incredible Auror, with a long track record of success. And he was right about runes – translations were incredibly nuanced and difficult.

“Hey,” said Harry, breaking into her thoughts. “What are you thinking?”

Hermione thought about lying to him. But that wasn’t fair, and she hated it when he did it to her. “I’m scared,” she admitted. “Of what it all means. We’ve always been told that Hogwarts is the safest place, especially under Headmaster Dumbledore” – (who had defeated a Dark wizard that nearly succeeded in conquering a whole continent, after all) – “but… what if it isn’t?”

“We’ll protect you,” Harry said immediately, and put his arm around her. Because she really was scared, for once she didn’t care if anyone was watching, and leaned into him.

“That’s part of what scares me,” she said quietly. “What might happen to you trying to stop whatever might come for me. Didn’t… didn’t you say your father had to do some terrible things? Things that… changed him?”

“I’m starting to understand him more and more now,” he muttered.

An icy flood of fear filled Hermione’s stomach. The words by themselves were innocuous, but it was the conviction with which he said them, as if he might make all the same choices if pushed. “No,” she said before she could stop herself.

“No?”

“No,” she insisted, her heart racing. She thought she might be sick. “I don’t want… please. Please don’t follow that path. You’re too – you mean too much to me to lose. Just let… let the Aurors do their job and – stick to your own plans.” Hermione knew she wasn’t making sense. He hadn’t said anything at all about giving up his dreams to be a teacher.

“Stay at home while there’s a Dark organisation out there, that seems to be growing bigger and bolder, by the way, that wants to hurt people like you? People like my mum? Is that what you mean?” She’d made him angry, but even in her distress, she could see it wasn’t really at her.

“Isn’t that what you’d tell me to do?” she asked him coolly, and they both remembered their last day on the lake, where he’d vaguely discouraged her from keeping in touch with her Girl Guide friends.

“That’s different,” he said stiffly. “I’m not a target.”

“Hah,” she snorted without humour. “Just being friends with me paints a big one on your back.” She gently shrugged his arm off her shoulder.

“I don’t care,” he said furiously.

“I do,” she said, feeling tears prick. She blinked impatiently. Harry got weird whenever she cried, and she didn’t want it to derail this conversation. He had to see it her way. He just had to, even if she had to make him.

But he noticed, even though she tried to turn away from him. “Then let’s run away together. All three of us,” he said, changing tack fast enough to make Hermione wonder if emotional whiplash was something that could be treated by a Healer. She desperately wanted Ron here. He was so calm. He could be trusted to be sensible. He could rein Harry in.

“Where?” she said in exasperation. “This isn’t limited to Britain, and you know it.”

“A remote island in the middle of the Pacific,” he said. “We’ll build a utopia and only let good people in.”

Hermione was too upset to argue with him about the morality of taking it upon yourself to deem people as wholly good or bad. She felt sore, her muscles tense with worry. But Harry could see the defiance was there, just simmering under the surface. “Just play along, all right?” he pleaded, and gave her that fucking look.

She wanted to… But she couldn’t. Not even those intense green eyes could soothe the tide of fear that built inside Hermione, like waves gaining power in a storm. “Stop that,” she said dispassionately, looking away. “We – we can’t go to the prefect meeting like this. Just… can’t you let me have my feelings?”

“Hermione –” Harry began to plead, but Hermione suddenly needed to be alone. It wasn’t the healthiest way of dealing with conflict, but she didn’t want to risk saying something she’d regret if he didn’t stop cajoling her. She left him there, his hand outstretched after her, as she went to her dormitory – the one place he couldn’t follow.

Unless he decides to crack the staircase’s secret, she thought dryly. He could probably do it, too, if he really put his mind to it. The brainy git. Put him together with Ron and all his newfound knowledge of human transfiguration, and they’re unstoppable.

Hermione flopped down onto her bed. The problem with being alone… was that she was now alone. She wanted her boys at the same time that she didn’t. Her feelings just wouldn’t settle. And she’d only have to face Harry again in under an hour.

She thought of Ron again. Yesterday had been so nice, spending all that time with him. It must be so nice inside his head, just… focusing on one problem at a time. Not fully aware of what she intended to do, she pulled her Mirror out from her bedside table. She was halfway to saying, “Ron Weasley,” before she stopped herself. He’s working, for fuck’s sake! You can’t just… ring him whenever you feel like it.

Hermione had to settle for just thinking about him, which led to pining, reminding her of the years between realising she had feelings for Ron and Harry and that beautiful summer night that she still thought of when she touched herself intimately.

Would rubbing one out even help? she thought. Worth a shot, I suppose… and I have something that can help.

Just that morning, long after she’d said goodbye to Ron and shortly after Harry had gone off for a tutoring session, Hermione had put her hand in her pocket and frowned when her fingers touched cold metal. She had pulled it out and saw one of the boys had slipped Ron’s memory glass into her pocket when she wasn’t looking. Why hadn’t they said anything? He and Harry usually liked to make a bit of a production of handing it over, winking and flirting and once Harry had even held it above her head and tried to get her to jump for it, but her dignity would not allow that. Tickling was far more effective, anyway.

She’d reached into her pocket again and pulled out a scrap of parchment. “For when you’re alone,” it read in Ron’s handwriting. Heat curled low in her abdomen, and she’d been just about to nip into her dormitory before Harry had sat her down to talk about his father’s letter. She was glad he’d done it; she liked him being honest with her, but she knew he never would have if he could have read her mind.

Hermione closed her bed curtains, cast the necessary privacy charms, and took the glass out of her pocket. She felt very, very naughty, stripping naked and sliding between the sheets in the cold light of day, but sometimes, one has to do what one has to do.

The memory glass wasn’t like a true Pensieve – it showed you a memory in highly realistic detail, but you could not immerse yourself in it fully. More like watching an IMAX film. Hermione lay down on her back and balanced the glass over her left eye, relaxing her mind and opening it to whatever thing Ron wanted to show her. She sort-of hoped it was what he and Harry had gotten up to the other night.

It wasn’t, but once Hermione sussed out what it was, she could barely contain her excitement. It appeared to be a memory from this past summer, though she couldn’t think exactly when.

Ron was alone on the landing, the sun low in the sky but not quite sunset. He sat with his feet in the water and leaning back on his hands, clearly enjoying the weather and serenity of the lake they all loved so much. He was completely naked, appearing to glow like a golden deity where the sun touched his skin and glimmered in the fine red and blond hairs on his body.

Hermione lightly cupped her breasts, the warmth of her palms contrasting with the cool sheets.

Something amused Ron, and he smiled. He looked down between his legs as his thoughts made him grow slowly erect. But he didn’t touch himself. He merely lay back, closed his eyes and put his hands behind his head, as his cock continued to stiffen until it was at full attention, pointing proudly upward out of the thatch of red hair. His hips made ever so slight rhythmic movements, his imagination providing stimulation. In the sunlight, a small bead of pre-come glistened at Ron’s tip.

Hermione took her left nipple between her fingers and gently rolled it. She loved watching her boys get aroused – the lengthening and engorgement, the smooth, gradual exposure of the head. She slowly slid her right hand down her stomach and pressed hard over the spot where heat coiled, remembering the first time Harry had done it with his own hand. Her pelvic muscles clenched against the pleasurable tingle the pressure caused.

Sweat began to bloom in the hollow below Ron’s throat. He was no longer smiling, and there was tension in his muscles. He trailed his large right hand over his chest, along the defined lines of his pectorals, ghosting over nipples that were tight and pebbled against the light breeze that stirred his hair.

Though Hermione could not quite get behind the fanaticism of Quidditch, she could not deny it did marvellous things to her boys’ physiques. She moved her hand from her abdomen to the nest of curls between her legs, and lightly ran her fingers through it, back and forth. Her back arched slightly, her skin alive and electric against the soft cotton sheets.

Ron’s hand slid lower, over his abs and obliques, slowly, teasingly, as if a lover guided his hand. His whole left arm flexed as his hand fisted in the hair at the nape of his neck, and a look of intense concentration crossed his face. Now there was sweat at his temples, dampening his pretty copper waves.

Hermione moved her right had lower as the left continued pinching and rolling her nipple. She ghosted over her clit as she gently slid the tip of her middle finger just inside her opening. She teased herself, running the slickened finger along her labia, her hips mirroring Ron’s movements in his memory.

Ron licked and bit his lips, losing control of his facial expressions as pleasure built inside him. Finally, he gripped himself, just below the head, stroking slowly with assured movements as his heels skittered against the boards of the landing.

When she touched her clit with two fingers, Hermione’s heels dug into the mattress. Ron looked incredible like that, fully lost to his own pleasure, with no regard for performance, without self-consciousness, and his glorious, perfect body writhing sybaritically. It was almost like watching an art film, with the perfect lighting and natural beauty as backdrop. Hermione lost track of time as she rubbed herself in circles.

The hand that had been in his hair now delicately touched his jaw and neck in specific places, as if remembering heated kisses and love bites. His fingers were rougher over his lips, and he bit the mound of Venus on his palm before trailing that hand lower, down to his stomach, his fingers following the trail of hair below his navel. 

Hermione moved her left hand to her other nipple and applied more pleasure as she stroked her clit, changing to up-and-down movements that had her panting. She moaned quietly.

Ron increased the pace of his right hand. His face and neck were flushed as he pulled his legs up so he could roam his left hand all over his thighs.

Hermione remembered Harry’s words, back when things were new and she was nervous… “You can figure out where else Ron likes to be touched.” She could almost feel the muscle under her hands, the way Ron had moaned and licked his lips. It was a memory she revisited often.

Ron brushed his fingers through the hair at the base of his shaft, then cupped his testicles as he moaned, “Hermione.”

Hermione gasped aloud. Now she understood why Ron chose to share this with her. Thoughts of her had done this to him. What was he imagining? Something they’d already done, or something he wanted to do to her? Her hips arched up off the bed and she moaned again.

Now Ron’s chest was red. He was right on the edge. His right hand moved furiously on himself, his left hand continuing to rove all over – all the places that gave him pleasure.

Hermione’s wet fingers were just as fast on her clit. She squirmed in the dampness she was making on the sheets. No one could make her wet like Ron and Harry. No one ever would. Not as long as she lived.

“Hermione,” Ron whispered again desperately. His hips raised up off the boards of the landing as his tip trickled pre-come onto his hand. He was breathing raggedly, his eyelids and lips fluttering and twitching with unconscious movement. He adjusted his hand so he could use his own wetness as lubrication.

Hermione was determined to hold on, to wait until the memory of Ron came until she let her own orgasm take her. It was a sort of exquisite torture, stilling her hand when she got too close, waiting for the pressure to abate before moving it cautiously again.

Suddenly, Ron’s chest went deep vermillion and his back arched as he came with a groan, his semen spurting onto his belly and chest.

Her scalp tingled, her back arched, her thighs clenched. Completely lost to her own rapture, Hermione cried, “Ron!” as her climax ripped through her, hot and wild, pleasure shooting along her nerves, all the way from her clit to the tips of her extremities. She clamped her thighs shut around her hand as more waves shook her.

Ron put his left arm over his eyes and chuckled, as if surprised and impressed by his own audacity. He lay there for a while, dazed, as his chest heaved with exertion. Eventually, he sat up and shook himself. When he rolled off the landing into the water, the memory faded to black.   

As the waves of climax began to recede, Hermione took the memory glass off her eye and blew out a shaky breath. That was… the best wank I’ve ever had. She stretched and smiled like a satisfied cat, feeling boneless and deliciously wanton and womanly.

Out of the corner of her eye, at the edge of her dazed brain, she saw her curtains twitch, as though in a draft. Hermione wasn’t worried – she’d done all the privacy charms. It was an unspoken rule of dormitory life – if your curtains were closed, you were not to be disturbed unless it was dire; you didn’t ask what someone was up to, and you never opened any curtains that weren’t yours.

Which was why it was the worst shock of her life when they parted just slightly.

“Occupied!” Hermione shouted, her sudden panic and dazed state of mind making her stupid. She pulled the covers all the way up to her chin.

“I know – I’m really sorry,” said Louise’s embarrassed voice. “But, erm, you must have accidentally reversed your silencing charms. Didn’t you hear me?”

Hermione’s stomach suddenly felt full of lead as the realisation slowly dawned on her that Louise would have heard her masturbating. She cringed as her whole body flushed with mortification, and she squirmed fully under the covers. She could smell sweat and her own arousal, which only fuelled her shame. “No,” she whispered. “I didn’t. Not at all. Did… did you…” Hermione couldn’t bear to finish that sentence.

“Yeah,” Louise mumbled. “I heard.”

“Oh no,” Hermione squeaked. Her face was unbearably hot. She wanted to cry. Or perish. Could vanishing spells be self-inflicted?

Louise cleared her throat awkwardly. “It’s… it’s fine. We all do it,” she said bracingly.

It took a little bit of time before Hermione was able to poke her head out of the blankets again and speak. Even though she sort of wished Louise wouldn’t have said anything at all… it was better her best friend than anyone else. “Well… I’m glad it was just you,” she said timidly.

“Erm, well, that’s just the thing,” Louise said. “I walked in with Lavender. She heard… she heard, too.”

“Heard… No,” Hermione whispered. The lead in her stomach turned to a writhing pit of snakes. She felt like throwing up.

Louise sighed. “Oui… la petite mort. When you called his name.”

Notes:

I apologise if I have ever used one of your "squick words." There are only so many ways to describe sex in a poetic way. But I will ALWAYS spell it "come." As a noun, as a verb. Always.

Chapter 26: Lost and Found

Harry was terribly confused. He’d seen Lavender and Louise go up the dormitory stairs maybe fifteen minutes after Hermione had left him feeling foolish and ignored. Not even a minute later, Lavender came storming down the stairs, alone and scowling, her hands curled into fists and angry tears in her eyes. She left the common room, the Fat Lady shrieking indignantly as Lavender banged the portrait open and shut behind her.

His fellow Gryffindors looked around at each other, muttered a little, then shrugged and went back to their regularly scheduled activities. Harry would have done the same, except he knew whatever had just happened involved his girlfriend. He considered the girls’ staircase, wondering if he could possibly bribe it into letting him up. He didn’t think his natural charm would work – Harry wasn’t its type.

He had an ever-evolving opinion of the structure. For a long time, he’d thought, as did everyone else, that the staircase merely detected the presence of male genitalia, and ejected any possessors that attempted to climb it. However, nobody was willing to test the theory by cursing off their own penis and testicles. After a first-year boy was rumoured to make it all the way up the stairs without setting off the alarm or the slide, Harry thought it ignored innocent mistakes and innocent intentions. Until it dumped another boy down arse over elbow when he was just trying to give back a girl’s homework assignment that fluttered out of her hand.

Two years later, the first ‘boy’ returned from summer break as a girl, and it was then that Harry realised the spellwork of the staircase was far more nuanced. Now he believed it to be partly sentient, with a similar Legilimency magic as the Sorting Hat. It knew, even if you didn’t, when you belonged with the girls.

Which didn’t help Harry right now. He knew what he was and so did the staircase. While he pondered how to plead his case to the stairs, Louise came down, looking overly poised and formal. “Harry,” she said quietly to him, “Hermione asked me to ask you for your cloak, please. She said you’d know which one.”

Harry raised his eyebrows at her, but didn’t ask questions. He stood, got his Invisibility Cloak from his trunk in his dormitory, and brought it to Louise to take to Hermione, all the while trying to take a leaf out of Ron’s book and not overthink. He was as cool as a cucumber. Floating on a river of calm. Stable as a table. An orange cat with no thoughts.

Not long after, he felt a gentle tug on his elbow, and went with an invisible Hermione out the portrait hole and into the corridor. She did not speak or take off the Cloak, but kept a trembling hand at his back. It was their habit to arrive early to prefect meetings, to make sure they were still on the same page about the agenda and such.

There was a smattering of students in the corridor, so as soon as he could, Harry turned off into a secret alcove he knew about from the Map. Gently, Harry reached behind his back to take Hermione’s hand, then followed her arm up with his fingers, over her shoulder until he found the hood of the cloak and gently pushed it back to reveal her face. It was a little disconcerting, looking down at only her floating head.

“Come on,” Harry said softly. “Talk to me. Are you still angry?”

“I was never angry,” she said, unable to meet his eyes. “And I haven’t forgotten anything. I just… something happened, and it’s absolutely humiliating.”

“Tell me.” He cupped her face and stroked along her cheekbone with his thumb. She did, her face hot under his palm, and once or twice Harry wiped frustrated tears of embarrassment away from the corners of her eyes.

It was a mark of how much Harry loved her that he didn’t laugh. If it had happened to anyone else, he would have. Maybe she would see the humour in it later. Or maybe not. Was wanking culture different for girls? He couldn’t remember if his mum had said anything about that in their many frank discussions on sex, only that she’d told him it was both normal and common, and while it was prudent to be discreet about it, there was no shame in it.

All the same, he appreciated Hermione’s trust in telling him all this.

“I don’t know what to do!” Hermione exclaimed. “I have to live with her! I can’t believe I made such a mistake, doing a one-way broadcast.” Harry bit his tongue and didn’t chuckle at her unintended pun.

“I dunno, is it… is it something you can actually talk about?”

Her head looked at him incredulously. “Have you gone mad? NO! That’s one of the few things we don’t talk about. At least in the dormitory – Guides is a different thing, but… it doesn’t matter if we know we all do it; we pretend we don’t.”

“That sounds… exhausting,” Harry said neutrally.

“It’s the way it is,” she said. “She – she’s been talking about trying to get back together with Ron, and all along I’ve had to pretend we’re all just best friends, not at all interested in each other that way, and now she knows I’ve been lying… what if she tells people?”

“Would she sink that low?”

Hermione’s hands appeared at her temples to tug at her hair in frustration. “That’s just it – I don’t know. We’ve always got along fine, aside from an unavoidable tiff here and there, but… well, Louise said she left looking like a thundercloud.”

“Er, yes, that’s true,” said Harry awkwardly. The look on Lavender’s face did have a sort of angry recklessness to it. “She’ll probably tell Parvati, if nobody else.”

Hermione made a noise of distress and flipped the Cloak’s hood back over her head. “Aw,” Harry said. “I didn’t mean that like a bad thing… I mean, look, wasn’t Parvati just as annoyed as you about what Lavender and Ron were like when they were together? You even conspired together with that performance about McLaggen. Wouldn’t that give Parvati a clue at least towards your feelings about him?”

“Parvati thought I was trying to get with you last year,” Hermione’s voice said from lower down the wall, as if she’d gone to sit against it on the floor. “I didn’t exactly correct her, because she was half right, and I was shocked she’d be willing to help, knowing your, erm, history. But maybe now, like a true friend, she’s going to support Lavender no matter what. A lot of things can change in a short time.”

Something in the way she said that made him ask, “You’re not actually worried that Lavender will succeed, are you?”

Hermione was quiet. “She’s prettier than me,” she finally said.

“No, she isn’t,” Harry said, sitting down next to the place her voice came from. “And even if she was, which just isn’t possible, you’ve got to know how into you we are. Everything about you is beautiful, especially what’s inside.”

“You’re going to make me cry,” she said, and he felt her head against his shoulder and her hands lace themselves around his arm.   

“It’s true,” he said, leaning his head against hers and closing his eyes. He wondered if telling her and Ron that he loved them would make a difference in her feelings of security or not. But Ron was not here, and that wouldn’t be right. Maybe at Christmas he could tell them.

After a few moments of just snuggling that way, Hermione timidly said, “Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“What if… people start thinking Ron and I are together?”

Harry’s heart squeezed painfully. He tried to answer her levelly, but there was a bite to his words as he asked, “Are you asking my permission?”

“Harry, no. That’s not what I’m saying,” she said, sounding hurt. “Don’t be like that. I’m trying to say it… it hurt hearing when people thought the two of you were together, and I don’t want that for you.”

Her admission soothed Harry, and he felt he could be honest in return. “I would rather people just thought we’re all very affectionate friends than thinking any two of us are together.”

Hermione nuzzled into his arm. “I’m sorry. I fucked up.”

Harry shrugged. “We all have. It’s very hard pretending. We’re bound to slip up.”

“Why are you so forgiving?” she asked.

“Because I can’t count the number of times I’ve gotten off to thoughts of you and Ron,” he grinned. “And I’m secure enough in myself to believe if I sent you a similar memory, you’d be calling out my name.”

“Ooh, yes, I would,” she said immediately. Harry laughed.

“D’you feel any better? Are you ready to show your face?” he asked. “We have a meeting to lead.”

Hermione took a deep breath. “All right. But I’m keeping your Cloak. For emergencies.”

 

Towards the end of the prefect meeting, Hermione was breathing much easier (though that ominous little tickle at the back of her brain would likely never go away until the other shoe dropped). There was no indication that any part of her indiscretion had reached the prefects, and going down a checklist and ticking boxes all the while telling other people what to do was always a balm for her soul.

“All right,” Hermione said briskly. “We’ve got only six days left until our very first Bonfire Night.” The prefects straightened up with interest and Hermione allowed herself a smile – she was looking forward to it as well. “I want to remind everyone that whether this goes well or not will determine if the Headmaster will allow more events. All usual school rules apply, though curfew is obviously extended.”

Coraline raised her hand. Hermione nodded at her. “If we’re to be enforcing rules all night, does that mean we can’t participate?” All heads swivelled towards Hermione, very keen on hearing her reply. She glanced at Harry, who smiled reassuringly at Coraline, making the poor girl blush.

“We’ll take it in shifts,” he said. There was a murmur of excitement at that.

It had been Harry’s suggestion to allow a more casual dress code during prefect meetings, but Hermione insisted they still wear their badges and that she and Harry, at least, dress in uniform (though he would untuck his jumper and he would roll up his sleeves and he would loosen his tie, not realising he raised the temperature of the room several degrees when he did so). She had to admit, Harry was good for morale.  

“Exactly,” said Hermione. “I’ve drawn up a chart –” Groans broke out before Hermione could finish. “Well, how else is it supposed to be fair?” she said exasperatedly. They always did this when she brought out the charts and graphs she worked so hard on. It was starting to hurt her feelings.

Harry chuckled good-naturedly. “I, for one, appreciate your charts, Hermione, especially the color-coding and attention to detail – I could never. And you all know she’s spot on – it’s got to be fair.” There were a few grudging nods, and the grumbling died down. Hermione didn’t know how he did it. It wasn’t fair.

“And listen,” he added, turning serious, but with that hint of gentleness that made Hermione very careful to keep herself from looking as smitten as she felt. “You’ve really got to look out for the younger ones. Not just because, you know, fire and the Forbidden Forest… but gatherings like this can really make them miss home. Just… be kind, you know? Offer an ear, let them know you used to feel the same way. Even if you didn’t.” He smiled and shrugged. That was the thing about Harry. He could appeal to peoples’ hearts.

“Right,” she said, and at Harry’s encouraging nod, she showed her time chart, and was gratified to see them all writing it down. She really had tried to be fair, and Harry had helped her divide the prefects into teams where they were most likely to be good influences on each other. Astoria Greengrass seemed to be the only person Draco Malfoy was inclined to listen to, which was… something. And Pansy Parkinson was at her least acrimonious around Ravenclaws.

Once the meeting had concluded and everyone had filed out of the room, Harry asked Hermione, “What do you think about having pizza at meetings? Mum swears by it during staff meetings at St. Mungo’s.”

“Food’s not a bad idea, but good luck getting delivery out here.”

“Ah, can you imagine if we could? I would kill for a spring roll.” Harry cleaned the blackboard with a fine mist of water from his wand.

“Or a nice curry,” Hermione agreed, using her wand to douse the lamps. “You know, it might not be a bad idea to try and diversify the Hogwarts menu. I miss all those pastries from when the Beauxbatons students were here during the Triwizard tournament.”

“Say the name of that one with the apples again,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows at her.

“Non, espèce branleur,” she smirked.

“Ooh, been studying with Louise, have you?” Harry asked with a gleam in his eye. “Say something else.”

Like that, is it? Hermione thought, noticing the light flush on his neck and the way he bit his lips. She looked around, but they were quite alone. She stepped close and tugged on his tie, turning her face up to him.“Embrasse-moi,” she whispered tenderly. And show me you love me, she thought.

Harry smiled at her in the way that always made her melt into his arms. He cradled the back of her skull with one hand as he kissed her, slow and sweet. “So you understand that one,” Hermione murmured when they broke apart.

“Not the words. I just understand you,” he said, leaning his forehead against hers.

 

Half a thousand miles away, at St. Mungo’s, Ron was working on the fourth floor, which was for spell damage. His whole shift was in the Falsima Virtus Ward, which was dedicated to blood curses and other hereditary spell damage. There wasn’t much in the way of surgery here – a lot of it was managing chronic conditions with varying prognoses. This could range anywhere from prescribing balms for birthmarks that twinged a bit to preparing incurable witches and wizards for end-of-life care.

He was usually good at keeping on task when he was at work, but during his break, Ron sat down with a cup of tea, fretfully chewing on a hangnail. What had he been thinking, giving Hermione that memory? God, she must think he was no better than a prancing peacock. He could have just given her something nice to reminisce about, like when they’d gone to Diagon Alley and shared an ice cream the summer between fourth and fifth year, or one of the times he and Harry pined and sighed after her like the love-struck fools they were, extolling her virtues. Or the first time they’d kissed each other alone.

But no. It had to be him beating the bishop on the landing. So what if the lighting had been nice? What did he think he was, a porn star? He groaned inwardly, vanished his undrunk tea, and went back to work. When he returned to the ward, he saw a little girl sitting on one of the beds with her mother. Healer Pye waved him over.

Ron worked with Healer Pye more often than any other Healer, mostly because his specialty in complementary medicine was highly sought after across all the wards. There was a rumour going around that the Hospital was looking to hire another Muggleborn Healer for that exact reason. Ron wondered if he could ever study medicine in the Muggle world. Probably not, he thought a little sadly. You’ve got to be able to really integrate in order to do that. “This is Intern Weasley,” Healer Pye said. “He’s assisting and learning to be a Healer while he completes his final year of Hogwarts.”

“Hello,” Ron said, and they exchanged pleasantries. Part of being a Healer was having a good bedside manner, which Hermione had been helping him with, but he had also learned a lot from observing Lily while Harry was recovering from his poisoning. It could be tricky, to walk the fine line between confident reassurance and honesty, especially when the prognosis was not good.

Whilst Healer Pye spoke with the girl’s mother, Ron took a look at her chart. Blood curse. It had skipped a generation – her grandfather had been a curse-breaker for Gringotts and came across an unfortunate one that made his heart muscles weaken, and it had claimed his life early. Had it happened after he’d had children, they would have been spared, but the curse had happened in his youth. The chart, of course, didn’t show any personal details, such as why someone would intentionally reproduce with such a condition, or whether the symptoms had shown up after it was too late to connect the dots.

Ron put her chart down. “Hi,” he said to her quietly, kneeling down to speak to her on her level. He probably should be listening more carefully to the conversation between adults, but the look on the girl’s face and the way she clung to her mother tugged at his heart. He could ask Healer Pye questions later. “What’s your name, love?”

“Lucy,” she said shyly.

“What a pretty name,” he said. “Lucy, I’m Ron. It’s very nice to meet you. How old are you?”

She held up five fingers. “Five,” Ron said, smiling. “A very important age. What’s your favourite colour, Lucy?”

“Red,” she said more confidently. “But also pink. Because it has red in it. And white.”

“Very clever,” Ron said approvingly. “Did you know purple has red in it, too? So does orange.”

“Like your hair?” she asked.

Ron took a lock from the top of his head between his fingers. It was just long enough to see the ends. “Do I have orange hair?” he asked in surprise. “Funny. I thought it was red.”

Lucy giggled. “It is more red,” she agreed. Her grin showed she had lost one of her bottom incisors. “But a little bit orange.”

“Well, I’ll take it. What colour is your hair?”

“Can’t you see it?” she asked, clutching at the fine blond strands and pushing them forward for him to look.

“Oh, I can. But I want to hear it from you, so I don’t make a mistake.”

“It’s yellow,” she said. “But Mum says it’s blond.” Lucy rolled her eyes to show Ron what she thought of that.

“Both are very nice colours,” he said.

“She calls me her little blondie-bear,” Lucy confided.

“Oh, no! I don’t know how to take care of bears! I’ve only looked after people!”

“I’m still a people,” she laughed. “It’s just pretend.”

“Phew,” he said, clutching his heart and sitting back on his heels. “I was afraid you might eat me.”

Ron noticed her mum and Healer Pye had stopped their conversation to watch Ron and Lucy. Her mum was smiling fondly at him. “Uh, oh, Lucy,” Ron said conspiratorially. “I was supposed to pay attention. Looks like I’m in trouble.”

“Not with me!” she insisted.

He did listen as Healer Pye outlined a new treatment they could try, though he made sure to smile or wink at Lucy every so often. It was something called a pacemaker, a little device Muggles used to regulate the beating of the heart with electricity, though this one would run on magic instead of a battery, which Ron knew was a mysterious little power source that turned chemicals into energy. His father loved batteries and had a large collection, which had alarmed Hermione when he told her how old some of them were.

Lucy’s chart showed they’d already tried muscle strengthening potions and spells, which would work for a bit, until the curse broke through, and she’d have to come to St. Mungo’s again to repeat the process. Lucy clung to her mum and shrank away from Healer Pye as he raised his wand to start the spells. “I want him to do it,” she begged, pointing at Ron.

Ron blinked in surprise. He knew the spells, of course, and had performed them as part of the process for certain surgeries, but never on a person so young and small. Healer Pye started to nod, but her mother interjected, with a politely regretful tone that told Ron she was trying to say she wasn’t confident in his ability without hurting his feelings. “Oh, darling; he’s still learning how.”

“But Mum,” she whispered loudly. “You said people have to practice to learn.”

“Not this time, sweetie,” she said, not looking at Ron.

Ron smiled at Lucy. “It’s not a problem,” he said. “I can learn by watching, too. And you can trust Healer Pye. He’s very good. He healed my b– my best friend, you know.” He’d almost said “boyfriend.”

After Healer Pye did the spells and left a little informational pamphlet about the pacemaker so Lucy’s mum could read it at her leisure and decide, Ron said goodbye to Lucy, shaking her hand in a very business-like way, which made her giggle. He followed Healer Pye to a little side room to discuss everything. “Sorry I wasn’t paying attention,” Ron said, sure he was about to be lectured. “She just… she looked scared.”

Healer Pye smiled at him. “No, you did exactly right.” He turned sober. “It’s always tough when they’re little like that. And this sort of curse is more aggressive in females.”

“D’you have children?” Ron asked him, wondering how many children he’d seen over the course of his career.

“No. Not even a spouse. ‘Fraid I’m a bit of a chronic worker. Doesn’t leave me much time go out and look.”

Ron asked other questions related to Lucy’s case, and Healer Pye went through her treatment plan and her chart for a little bit before they had to see their next patient. In the back of his mind, Ron wondered about his oldest brother, Bill, and if he’d ever been cursed on the job. It might be a personal question, but Ron got along best with his two oldest brothers who had mostly matured past the age of tormenting younger siblings by the time he was born. He even remembered Bill levitating him to make him laugh and Charlie sneaking him rides on his broom when he was very small. As a result, Ron did not fear heights.

When he returned to Hogwarts, he was just in time for dinner. He was already thinking about his pile of homework, and hoped Harry would be free later to help him with a Transfiguration spell he was struggling with. He sat across from Hermione, who looked nervous when she first caught sight of him and wouldn’t meet his eye, and he remembered, with a sinking of his heart, the ill-chosen memory. How did one even go about apologising for that? Or explaining his thought process? Because he hadn’t really been thinking. Even Louise, who was normally very friendly with him and liked comparing and contrasting the European Quidditch teams with those of Britain and Ireland, had trouble looking at him. Hermione wouldn’t tell her… would she? Just how much did girls talk, anyway?

Louise sat next to Hermione, who was now casting furtive looks along the table, but Ron couldn’t tell what or who she was looking at.

“Is she upset with me?” Ron muttered to Harry.

To his surprise, Harry hid a snigger, and murmured back, “She got a little too excited by that memory you gave her. Tell you later.”

While Ron was mildly relieved Hermione had liked it, he still didn’t understand what Louise had to do with anything. But he was far too hungry to really worry, and heaped his plate with a bit of everything he could reach, looking pointedly at Ginny when he ladled a sizeable helping of mixed beans on. She nodded primly and went back to chatting with Demelza Robbins. It looked like she had a drawing of Quidditch plays at her elbow, and he suddenly remembered there was supposed to be Quidditch practice tonight. Ron sighed inwardly, not looking forward to the late night of study ahead of him. He was running low on sleep as it was.

Harry filled him in on the prefect meeting he’d missed, which cheered him up a bit. Bonfire Night was going to be fun. There would be a large fire for the whole school at some point, and Hermione and Louise had promised they’d teach the whole school that dinosaur song, but for the rest of the evening there would be smaller campfires for students to huddle around and toast things. The first through second years would go to bed two hours before the end, followed by the third and fourth years an hour later, leaving the rest of the night for fifth years and up. Ron, Harry, and Hermione had already agreed to share a fire with Louise, Susan Bones, Colin Creevey, and a few other sixth and fifth years, including Astoria Greengrass (upon whom the jury was still out, but Hermione and Louise said she was all right).

Even though they would be surrounded by others, with no opportunity to drink or smoke, it would bring a little bit of summer into the Scottish autumn, and Ron smiled, thinking on all his favourite memories of the lake.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Over the next few days, Lavender pretended nothing had happened, which was far more disconcerting to Hermione than any confrontation. She was being lured into a false sense of security – she just knew it. Louise volunteered herself for a reconnaissance mission, but Hermione was wholeheartedly against doing anything that would make this whole thing spread any further than it already had.

And “spreading” was what got you into this fucking mess in the first place, she admonished herself. Just keep your legs shut from now on! She had handed Ron’s memory glass back at the soonest opportunity and suggested that the boys hold onto it for a while. By the knowing smirk on Ron’s face, she reckoned Harry’d told him what happened, the cheeky bastard.

But in a way, she was relieved that she didn’t have to tell Ron anything. It was horrible enough relaying the story to Harry, and discussing their ex-girlfriends with her boyfriends was not her idea of a good time.

On Wednesday, the other shoe dropped. During a free period, Louise pulled Hermione into a secret passage and spelled the tapestry shut behind them. “Good news first,” she said, and Hermione’s heart burst into a sprint. “Lavender seems to be keeping her mouth shut about l’incident.”

“So far,” Hermione mumbled.

Louise ignored that and said, “The bad news is you were seen having a smoke with Ron in Hogsmeade, and it –”

“That’s the only thing – the smoking?” Hermione interjected hopefully.

Lousie looked at her with shrewd eyes. “Yes, as far as Susan told me. Why, did you get up to something else with him?”

Hermione hung her head. “I am a whore,” she said dejectedly.

Louise burst out laughing and hugged her. “Yes, you are, and I love you for it. You’ll have to tell me exactly where you went so I can try it once I finally get my mitts on a man. But let me finish! Anyway, the sighting combined with l’incident –”

“Do we have to call it that?” protested Hermione.

“Stop interrupting me, you whore,” Louise said, startling a chuckle out of Hermione, “or I’m going to call it exactly what it was in plain English. I am trying to say these two events combined has lit a fire under Lavender’s arse, and she’s forging ahead in her plans to get Ron back.”

Hermione blinked. “So… she thinks I’m scheming as well, but haven’t succeeded yet, and is trying to beat me to the punch?”

“Such a smart little cabbage,” Louise said, patting Hermione on the head. She was taller than Hermione by a couple of inches. “So now you find yourself in the enviable position of being between a rock and a hard place. You can’t insist you don’t like him, but neither can you go public with him without wounding poor Harry.” She grinned at Hermione. “Are you quite, quite sure you wouldn’t mind letting me have one –”

“Louise!”

“Ahh! I was only taking the piss! Put your wand away!” Louise raised her hands in front of her and ducked.

Hermione scowled. “Sorry, reflex,” she said as she stowed her wand in her bag. “What am I supposed to do now? About Lavender, I mean?”

“Well, you could just let her try it on with Ron, and let him turn her down. And if she confronts you about not making a move, you can just say some merde like you don’t want to ruin your friendship.”

“Or I could start a rumour he has scrotal rot and make him completely undesirable,” Hermione muttered mutinously. Louise laughed, knowing she didn’t mean it. For now, anyway – she hadn’t reached that level of desperation yet. She fretted about all the things Lavender might try. “What if she shows him her tits?”

“I think you’d be safe. By the way he looks at you, I always thought he was more of an arse guy.”

Hermione went bright red and covered her face. “Louise!” she groaned. She wasn’t quite ready to think what that meant.

“Relax, Hermione,” Louise said, rolling her eyes. “She already has, anyway, and more besides, and he still wants you. Quit being so down on yourself. I love you, but it’s sort of exhausting.”

“Sorry,” Hermione mumbled.

“I know exactly what will keep your mind off your love life.”

“What’s that?” Hermione said warily.

Louise grinned. “You can think about mine. What’s your opinion on Dean Thomas?”

 

The same day, Harry took tea with Remus shortly after dinner, leaving Ron and Hermione to study Transfiguration together. He wanted to ask Remus something he’d been considering since that Saturday, when the article had come out about the rising shadow organisation.

“How’s Mum?” Harry began, and Remus smiled in the way he did only when talking to or about Lily.

“She’s well. Little trouble sleeping – her dreams are very vivid and wake her up sometimes. Just the other night, I heard her smacking her lips and slurring, ‘Are those courgette tomatoes?!’ She woke up crying because they didn’t exist, but she was sure they would have tasted heavenly.”

Harry laughed, thinking that was one of the cutest things he’d ever heard. Maybe he’d sneak out at dinner and attempt a ratatouille for her. He’d have to ask Remus to do the shopping… what vegetables were in season?

Remus smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Back when she was pregnant with you, James told me she dreamed about vegetables, too.”

Harry looked at him, surprised he could mention his father so casually. Remus knew what he was thinking. “We’ve decided to move forward. We might never be as close as we once were, but at least we can be friends.”

“That’s… good,” Harry said, hating himself for wondering if his dad weren’t scheming to get back with his ex-wife through a friendship with Remus. He thought of September 1, and decided he had to talk about it before it drove him mad. “I saw him and Mum holding hands on the train platform.”

“Yes,” he said awkwardly. “They’ll always be connected, because they have you. I imagine they’ll feel… closer to each other during each of your milestones.”

“Does that bother you?” Harry asked, watching Remus carefully.

Remus’ lips twitched in an almost frown, and he didn’t meet Harry’s eyes. “I won’t deny it isn’t hard sometimes. I’ve never loved anyone but her.”

Harry didn’t say aloud what he was thinking: And you had to watch the love of your life fall for one of your best friends and have his child, only to be mistreated by him. You waited for twenty years.

Remus cleared his throat. “Speaking of your father,” he said. “He’s actually coming by soon. And Sirius.”

“What? Why?”

“Just to catch up. I don’t think he means to disrupt you, or else he would have told you he’d be here… But he’ll be delighted to see you, I’m sure. If you want.”

Harry thought about it. It was probably better to ask his father his question, anyway. He looked at Remus, who was looking a bit shifty. What wasn’t he telling him? “When’s he coming?”

Remus consulted his pocket watch. It wasn’t the battered, dull one Harry was used to seeing him with. It gleamed a brilliant gold and looked new. He wondered if it was a gift or if he’d bought it himself. “In about five minutes. If you’d rather not just now, best be off.”

Harry’s heartbeat quickened. He would have liked a little more time to compose himself – his father’s visits still made him a bit nervous, even though they were getting on well. Remus seemed to understand, and smiled reassuringly at him. “Yeah, all right,” Harry said slowly.

“Oh, and erm… they don’t know Lily’s expecting, so just…”

“Got it,” said Harry. To hide his nerves, he stood, ostensibly to peruse Remus’ bookshelf, which was crammed full of large tomes of defensive spells and bestiaries and all sorts of things you’d expect from a Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, but something surprising caught his eye. He was looking at what appeared to be a large book of sheet music when he heard the whoosh of the fire and saw a flash of green reflect off the surfaces of the books.

“James!” Sirius’s voice said joyfully, and Harry turned around, thinking his father had arrived without his notice. But it was only Sirius, shaking ash off his jacket.

“Oh!” Sirius said, looking very embarrassed. “I thought…” He cleared his throat. “Er, I mean, hi, Harry. I didn’t expect to see you.”

Harry grinned, smothering the twinge that always occurred when anyone mistook him for his father. At least it was understandable in this situation. He crossed the room to give Sirius a one-armed hug. Sirius pinched his cheek. “How do you keep growing taller?” he asked affectionately.

“Sunlight, clean water, and good soil,” Harry said.

The fire flashed green again and his father stepped through, a bright spark in his hazel eyes. He looked younger, somehow. Perhaps it was the expression on his face – the anticipation of spending time with the men he’d grown up with seemed to smooth the hard lines that came with the stress of being an Auror. “Harry!” he said in surprise. A huge grin spread across his face.

“Hi, Dad,” Harry said. “Okay if I gatecrash?”

“Anytime,” James said fervently, and Harry hugged him. His father ruffled his hair.

It was perhaps one of the nicest gatherings Harry had ever been to with his father and his mates. They sat at the little table, eating snacks and playing cards. James was no longer drinking, and out of respect for his newfound sobriety, neither did Remus or Sirius, despite James’ reassurance that they didn’t have to abstain on his account.

“As long as it doesn’t stop me from having a cigar, I don’t mind,” said Sirius. Remus wrinkled his nose, but didn’t say anything as he played his hand.

James noticed. “Aw, come on, Mooney,” he said amiably, though there was the slightest bit of awkwardness in using the old nickname. “Did you quit?”

“Sort of,” mumbled Remus, looking furtively at Harry as Sirius lit up.

“He doesn’t care,” said Sirius, exhaling fragrant smoke and indicating Harry with a jerk of his head. “He smokes, too.”

“Does he?” asked James with interest, smirking at his cards, but he didn’t look upset.

“Do not tell Mum,” Harry said quickly, looking between the three men, who burst into raucous laughter.

“Would be the height of hypocrisy for her to tell you off,” James grunted. “She was a chimney until she fell pregnant with you.” Remus’ eye twitched.

“Still,” said Harry awkwardly. He glanced down at his cards, willing his leg not to bounce and give it away. “Are you going to play, or what?” he asked Sirius.

“Fuck, is it my turn?” He clamped his cigar between his teeth and hastily threw down a couple of cards. “James is the only one of us who never smoked.”

“I have enough poison inside me, thanks,” James said. Harry flinched, knowing what it felt like to actually be poisoned.

Sirius blew smoke towards him. “Prude.”

“Dog.” They laughed. Harry almost didn’t notice, but there was something in the way Sirius looked at his father…

James threw down a single card with a satisfied expression. Harry pounced, slapping all his cards down onto the table with a smirk. He’d won the round. “You cheeky bastard!” James said in surprise as Sirius and Remus groaned and threw their cards down.

“It’s not an insult if it’s true,” Harry grinned at him, but he was looking at Remus out of the corner of his eye. His potential stepfather gave nothing away.

“No chance of them out of you, is there?” James asked, pulling a face at his son’s sass. For once, Harry didn’t blanch or scowl at his father’s commentary on his love life. It felt different this time, as if he was genuinely asking.

“Not at the moment,” Harry said. He was still not ready to tell his father. Not when things were going so well. James opened his mouth as if to ask more, but closed when Sirius cleared his throat.

Remus counted the cards on the table and marked the score on a scrap of Muggle notebook paper with a pencil. Over the next round, talk turned to work. Sirius wondered if he shouldn’t start selling cigars as well as whisky, and in spite of himself, Remus immediately launched into a passionate dissertation about pairings.

The elephant in the room was Saturday’s Daily Prophet article. They all knew, without being told, that James was leading the special task force that was on the front lines of what Hermione feared could turn into a war. She was much more knowledgeable about such things, being an avid reader of history and having grandparents who lived through the most recent conflict that had involved almost all of the Muggle world. It had happened alongside Grindlewald’s rise and defeat, but as he hadn’t sought to conquer the British Isles, it was easy to dismiss as something that couldn’t happen here.

“Dad,” Harry said slowly, “what kind of… tests and things do Aurors go through?”

Remus looked up at him sharply, but his father was calm as he responded, “Why do you ask?”

Harry shrugged. “Just… looking at options. You know, the way the world seems to be going…”

James was very quiet, considering his only son while thinking about what he wanted to say. “I won’t deny that you could make a good Auror,” he finally said. “But it would cost you. To track and hunt down Dark wizards… you have to think like them, sometimes be like them. You’ve learned by now that Dark magic is soul-altering magic. It’s powerful, and there’s always a temptation to use it, especially in the heat of the moment when all you can think about is survival. When you… cut off my arm –” (Harry blanched, not wanting to remember or remind anyone else about it) “– you didn’t use a curse, you used a severing charm. Had you actually cursed me, it might not have been reversible. And you likely wouldn’t have felt much remorse for it – Dark magic is sort of self-anaesthetising. You know the kinds of scars I have. I’ve inflicted just as many, because the choice was stop them or die, or worse, watch others die.”

The card game had stopped entirely, so meaningful was the conversation. James pulled down the neck of his shirt, where a jagged, horizontal scar ran along his collarbone. Sirius’ mouth hardened. Harry knew it had been inflicted many, many years ago, but had never truly healed. It still opened sometimes. He wondered if it had been one that his mother had tried to heal as a young and inexperienced Healer.

James asked, “Are you prepared to do this to someone else?”

Harry took the question seriously, and allowed himself to think on the nightmares that had plagued him ever since that article. Hermione’s tortured screams behind a locked door… Ron’s arms in the grip of strange, tentacled monsters that looked like brains… his mother, standing in front of a baby’s cot, falling under the green light of the killing curse. “If it means protecting Mum, or Hermione, or anyone else, then… yes,” he said determinedly.

“Could you still do it, knowing that you’d stop being the person they loved? That you’d lose them anyway, if not to death, then to your own darkness and self-loathing?” he asked, with fathoms-deep pain in his voice. “Look at me, Harry. As little as I want to bring up the past… could you live with yourself, knowing that it could turn you into someone like me?”

“But… you didn’t lose me,” Harry insisted stubbornly, ignoring the prickle at the corners of his eyes. He would not look weak in front of his father.

“And that is exactly what I’m getting at, Harry. I know, maybe better than you, that your forgiveness of me has nothing to do with who I am, and everything to do with the person you are. You didn’t get that from me,” James said. “You’d make a good Auror, Harry, because when you make promises, you mean them, and you put all of yourself into the things you do. But the world becomes much darker when good men like you lose themselves. I think, if you’ll allow me to say it, that you’re more suited to fighting Darkness a different way.”

“How d’you mean?” Harry asked, worried his father was calling him soft. For some reason, his father glanced at Remus before answering.

“People listen to you. They look up to you. You’re a born leader, and what’s better, you don’t seek positions of authority for the power it gives you. You simply find joy in helping other people thrive. It was my mistake for not seeing that for so long, for believing, perhaps wishing, that you were like me. You’re not, and Harry, I’m glad.” James squeezed Hary’s hand. Harry looked down, feeling startled. It had been a very long time since his father had initiated a touch that affectionate. “What I do is in reaction to what some men become. You can prevent it.”

Harry was silent. When he looked at his father, he saw a blazing look of pride there, and it made a lump rise to his throat. How long had he wished that his father would see and accept him for who he was? And now… he felt he could finally begin to believe it, that his father was truly proud of him.

He couldn’t speak, but his father went on. “You should be a teacher, Harry, because you see people. Their strengths, their deepest flaws, and you love them, anyway. If more people have someone like you in their lives, especially when they’re young, encouraging them to feel their own worth and pursue the things that improve even just a little corner of the world… That means something, Harry. It means less of my kind is needed.”

Harry heard a sniff, and looked around to see Sirius was looking at James and blinking furiously. Remus cleared his throat. He was looking misty, too.

“What?” asked James, looking around at his friends in confusion.

Remus and Sirius looked at each other solemnly. Sirius couldn’t speak, but he nodded at Remus, who looked at James and softly said, “You’re back.”

Harry’s heart leapt with something he couldn’t put words to just then. But before he could say a single word, Sirius burst into tears.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Dear Mum,

I hope you’re well and not taking long shifts at work, and eating healthy and doing all the things pregnant people are supposed to. I’ve been meaning to sneak out and cook you something, but it hasn’t happened yet because we’ve been pretty busy planning and getting ready for Bonfire Night. I’m sure Remus has told you about it, hopefully he has also told you that professors are allowed to bring their spouses, so you should hurry up and get married. I hear Gretna is lovely this time of year. Wink wink, nudge nudge.

In all seriousness, I know you said you’re worried about repeating parts of your life again, but you told me yourself over the summer, that day we talked in the orchard, that Remus makes you feel like you’re the person you’d thought you’d lost. You might call me an impertinent little brat, or meddling, but I truly think you deserve him, and he deserves you.

You said you only ever wished my happiness. I wish the same for you. Be happy, Mum.

Love always,

Harry

Harry felt a pang of emotion as Hedwig left his arm and made a sweeping dive down the tower wall of the Owlery. She took a detour over the Great Lake to soar joyfully along the surface of the water, which had thin, nearly invisible patches of rime over it. His heart always lifted when he saw her flying, even today, in spite of himself.

“What was that big sigh for?” Ron asked from the Owlery floor, where he was playing some kind of game with Doug, who had a little hole in the wall all to himself. He was the only Burrowing Owl, and Ron was worried he was lonely, fretting that he wasn’t able to come see him as often as he wanted. He had leapt at the excuse to come up and see him.

“Just… giving Mum a son’s blessing to get married and be happy,” Harry answered. “For whatever it’s worth, anyway.”

“It’s worth a lot,” Ron said seriously. “You know that. But you don’t look exactly happy.”

“I am,” Harry insisted. “I’m just having my feelings. I don’t think she’ll forget about me, and I’m dead chuffed to have a little brother or sister, but… well, I don’t know what.”

“Change just makes for big feelings,” Ron said wisely. “I’m sure you’ve got time to come to terms with it all.”

“You’re probably right, but a bit of me wonders what she’s waiting for. Remus isn’t Dad, and she’s not twenty anymore.”

“She probably just wants to look not-pregnant in her wedding gown,” Ron said casually, now tossing live wax worms for Doug to chase after. He chuckled as his owl ran on comically long legs, his talons tip-tapping adorably on the stone. “I mean, what will the neighbours think?”

“The neighbours can bugger all; she’s probably more worried about her mum.” As he watched, he saw an enormous tentacle grab something on the surface of the lake and pull it under.

“You don’t think she’d be worried about your dad, would you?”

“Probably,” Harry said, his eyes scanning the lake, keen to get another sighting of the giant squid. “But I don’t think it would actually stop her. Remus said he doesn’t know she’s expecting.”

“I would not tickle that dragon, if I were you,” said Ron, cringing. “She’s not showing yet, so she could probably hide it for a bit.”

“Still,” Harry mused. “I wish he’d move on, too.” His thoughts were full of the night before.

“Dunno if he’s as forgiving of himself as you are.”

Unwilling to tell Ron he’d hit it bang on the head, he said, “Hah, shows what you know. I very rarely forgive myself.”

“You know what I mean, Harry.”

Harry’s heart fluttered at the way Ron said his name – sort of gently reproving. He turned to look at Ron. “Yeah, I do,” he said.

Doug sang, “Hoo-h-hoooo!” in his reedy little piping voice from where he perched on Ron’s knee. He reminded Harry of a flute.

“You should do a duet with Hermione,” Ron said brightly to Doug. “She’s good.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at him. “When have you heard her play? She’s never done it for me.”

Ron laughed. “Didn’t ask her, did you? Summer between fourth and fifth, when I went to stay. I teased her until she did it. Her mum came running up all excited; totally spoiled it.” That had been then, back when Harry and Ron still saw each other as competition. It felt like forever ago. “Bet she’d do it for you if you asked her nicely,” Ron said, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

Harry tried to find the least grubby patch of floor near Ron so he could sit down. He gave up and sat across Ron’s lap, dislodging poor Doug and making Ron laugh. Doug screeched at him, then ran into his little hole.

“Aw, sorry,” Harry said. “I didn’t mean to offend him.”

“He’ll get over it,” Ron said, putting his arms around Harry and giving him a soft kiss on the mouth. Harry closed his eyes. They sat that way for a while, just cuddling and kissing, keeping each other warm. It wasn’t exactly the most romantic setting – it was very smelly, with castings and feathers and bird droppings everywhere and the owls weren’t exactly quiet or still, but… he was with Ron, and that was what mattered.

“Did you ever tell your father about us three?” Ron asked, brushing his nose against Harry's, making his stomach feel as if it was full of flitterbloom.

“Not yet,” Harry said, surprised that Ron asked. “I… I think I’m getting closer to it, though.” He thought of last night.

As Sirius cried with his face in his hands, Remus pulled Harry gently away, citing Harry’s curfew, though they both knew it wasn’t for another hour or so. James was so startled at Sirius’ reaction that he didn’t even notice when they left.

Remus walked with him along the panelled corridor, lost to his thoughts.

“What did you mean?” Harry asked. “When you said that my dad is back?” He thought he knew, but wanted to hear Remus say it out loud.

Remus thought carefully before answering. “He was a good man when we were young. He lost himself somewhere along the way. Sirius never gave up on him – he was so sure James could find his way back someday. I… well, I wasn’t. I didn’t think I could forgive him for all the things he did to you and Lily. When she urged me to, I grudgingly agreed to give him a chance, but I was sceptical, and reserved. It was only just now that I realise Sirius was right. People can always come back, if they choose to, if they put in the work. And he has.”

Quietly, Harry asked, “Why did Sirius… I mean, there’s nothing wrong with crying, but…” He didn’t know what he was trying to ask.

“Perhaps it’s something you’ll learn with age,” Remus said softly. “How something joyful can dislodge grief, make you feel everything at once. I imagine Sirius has been hiding his feelings for a long time.”

“Feelings…”

“The desire to see his best friend again,” Remus said quickly. “As he was. It’s harder, when you lose someone to themselves… it’s as though they’ve died, but you can’t fully grieve, because they’re still standing there. Like a ghost that couldn’t go on.”

Harry told Ron this. He didn’t say much in response. Like Harry, it had given him a lot to think about. Harry thought of Hermione, and her parents. Like Sirius, she was hiding her feelings. But Harry and Ron not only loved her, they knew her, and could feel she was compressing a deep, aching grief. Hermione always sought to understand. It was her love language. When her parents refused to open themselves to understanding her, it caused scars. Like the one Harry’s father had shown him. Ones that would always reopen.

Harry looked at Ron, wishing this was something his large, freckled, skilled hands could heal. Ron’s magic ran deeper than that which could be channelled through a wand. But from experience, Harry knew it would have to be a decision. Not just of her parents to let go of ego and tradition, to reach out and listen, but also of Hermione to listen and forgive.

It was the only way to heal a scar.

Notes:

Sorry this chapter was a little shorter than usual – it took a lot out of me emotionally T.T I want to thank you all so much for your continued interest. I still can’t believe 275 of you like this enough to get email notifications <3 <3 <3 I’m curious as to where you all came from? I’ve seen some of you come over from Reddit, but how did the rest of you end up here? What were you looking for, and what made you stay?