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The Burrow is loud in the best way.
There are so many people there these days—lots of grandkids and spouses, girlfriends and boyfriends and family friends. There’s plenty of food on the table, not enough chairs and not enough space. Percy’s already getting into a loud discussion with his father and his wife about some new Ministry raid or another. George is wrestling with Louis and little Fred on the floor of the sitting room, their heads locked under his arms. Ron and Victoire look to be in an intense chess match over by the window, while Angelina and Dominique egg them on. Meanwhile Bill, Hermione, and Fleur sit on the sofa, deep in serious conversation—most likely about Hermione’s werewolf protection act she’s been trying to pass for the last year and a half.
Molly’s bustling in and out of the kitchen, threatening to throw a full body-bind on anyone who so much as touches the trifle before it’s officially ready for rest of the banquet. Ginny’s standing under an archway, Neville at her hip, straightening a crooked “Happy 30th Birthday!” banner in Gryffindor colors that’s been charmed to erupt with confetti every ten minutes. The rest of the children are with Luna, who seems to be telling them one of her famous stories to varying expressions of awe, confusion, and wonder.
Harry stands by the threshold of the back door, and pauses to take it all in.
He hasn’t seen the house this full of chaos and laughter in a while. For the longest time, there had been a lot of heartache—hidden behind restoration efforts and volunteer work and quiet dinners, while the family dealt with their grief. For the longest time, the toils of the war, the ghosts of their losses, had clung stubbornly on.
Now—now, the light’s slowly coming back, shining into the dark edges they all keep hidden.
Teddy breaks him free from his reverie, popping up behind his elbow to yell—quite loudly—“Vic!” and run towards his favorite Weasley member before Harry could pull him back and remind him of his manners.
“Indoor voice, Ted!” he yells after him, not using his own indoor voice at all.
Heads swing in his direction at the sudden commotion, and then soon—even more madness descends.
Shouts of “Harry!” and “Oi, the birthday boy’s here!” and “Unca Harry, what took you so long?” fill his ears, lost in tangled limbs as people fly at him from several different directions.
Underneath it all, he feels a warm hand at his shoulder—and then there’s Ron, thumping him on the back with a loud “Late as always!” Then Ginny, grinning as she embraces him, warm and comfortable despite years of being apart. Then there’s Hermione—all familiar curves and bushy hair and that lingering cinnamon scent that follows her around and clings to his clothes.
Her lips press against his cheek, and then she’s mumbling, “Happy birthday, Harry,” against his skin as her thumb brushes under his jaw.
When she pulls away, he feels his heart pounding, suddenly thrown off his axis.
But then Molly’s at his elbow, beaming and teary-eyed, pulling him to her and crying, “Oh, you darling boy, you! Thirty years old! Thirty!”
It gives him enough of a distraction from the strange feeling—an overwhelming urge to take Hermione’s waist again, and get lost in the feel of the dip of her waist, the warmth of her neck.
For now, he turns back to the party, and pushes that traitorous thought away.
::
Ginny and Fleur bring out a gigantic cake, decorated with a full-on Quidditch pitch on the top layer, with little player figurines zooming in and around the goal posts. Teddy is excited, demanding that Harry make a wish when he blows out the candles.
Everyone cheers when he does, eyes closed and wish kept like a secret. When he leans back, he looks at all of them: their smiling faces, the tears in Molly’s and Hermione’s eyes, the antics of George and his kids jumping and hollering in the background. His cheeks are a little pink, eyes a little soft, surrounded by all this attention, but he lets himself bask in the feeling for once.
Because the truth is—he never really thought he’d be here.
He hadn’t expected eighteen. Nineteen had felt like a bonus—and every year after that had felt like a fluke too, like maybe a part of him had been expecting the shoe to drop year after year.
But now…now he’s thirty. An unbelievable number thirteen years ago, when war was all he knew. A huge milestone now, one he never thought he’d get to cross.
He’s thirty, and he’s surrounded by his family, feeling unbelievably loved, and endlessly warm.
::
She finds him at the back garden of the Burrow, sitting on a large rock by the lake—because of course she does.
“Trying to escape your own party?” she says knowingly, mouth twitching at the corners.
“Just needed a breather,” he says, scooting over and patting the space beside him. “There’s no place to have a bit of quiet in that house these days.”
She laughs, gracefully hopping up on the rock and bumping his shoulder with hers. “It feels good, though,” she says thoughtfully, gazing out at the water, “having the Burrow be that noisy again.”
His eyes slide down to her flowy skirt she adjusts over her bare thighs, stretched out in front of her and making his face grow warm. He hadn’t seen her that morning; she’d left Grimmauld early, a note about helping Molly and Ginny with preparations on the kitchen counter. The skirt is new, he notes; the fact that he lingers on it isn’t.
He quickly averts his gaze and stares out at the lake like it’s the most interesting thing in existence. “It does,” he replies, hoping she doesn’t notice the way his breath catches.
“How’s it feel then, old man?” She nudges his arm with her elbow, smiling cheekily. “Being thirty?”
“Excuse you—you’re older than me,” he retorts with a laugh as he pushes her playfully back. “It doesn’t feel…that monumental, you know. Maybe just an aching back more often than usual.”
She grins. “Your students still challenging you to Quidditch games?”
“I’ve never felt so out of shape in years,” he admits with a slight whine. “They’re making me look so bad.”
“Better make good use of those Quidditch gloves I got you to practice more, then,” she smirks, foot catching his as it dangles in the air in front of them.
They sit in quiet for a bit, with him watching her profile out of the corner of his eye. The hazy mid-afternoon sun glazes across her skin, eyelashes fluttering against her cheek as she squints up at the sun.
He looks away before she can catch him looking.
“It feels weird,” he says, disrupting the quiet.
“What does?”
“Being thirty.”
“Because you’re officially an adult?” she teases.
“No,” he answers, “because I never expected to get this far.”
He watches her face fall and instantly winces.
“I’m sorry.” He drags a hand across his face and sighs. “I just totally ruined the mood, didn’t I?”
“Just a little.” Hermione’s voice is small, and when Harry rights his glasses, he sees her looking at him with her eyes stormy and lips pursed. “You say that every year.”
He sighs again, then kicks at her foot gently in apology.
“Remember when I told you about seeing Dumbledore at King’s Cross?” His voice is quiet. “That day I…”
Her voice is quipped when she says, “Yes,” telling him that she does not, in fact, like to be reminded of that moment.
“He said I had a choice.” He watches a flock of birds soar above them, a neat V in the sky as they sail into the horizon, and for a minute, he envies them—that freedom. “To go ‘on’.”
Hermione doesn’t respond, but he feels her eyes trained on the side of his head.
When he turns to face her, her eyes are bright with tears, but her expression is set to a fierce kind of determination. “Did you ever consider it?”
“No,” he exhales. “No, not really.”
She nods slowly, like she’s trying to absorb his words, the implication of them. Then her hand creeps to his lap and finds his. She clutches his fingers tightly, then covers them with her other hand. Gazing up at him, she whispers, “I’m glad you stayed.”
Her lips press to his cheek for a long, long moment, their hands entwined between them. Harry closes his eyes, and for a little bit, in this tiny pocket of the world where he wishes time would slow, it’s just him and her. Just them.
He wishes to encase the feeling in a little bubble, put this pocket of a moment inside another pocket—one to protect and keep close. Easy to access when he needs a minute to breathe, and remember why, exactly, he chose to live.
::
When the party dies down sometime after a long dinner, Hermione nudges both Harry and Ron’s arms from where she’s sandwiched between them on the lumpy sofa, all three of them a little tipsy and full.
“Ready to go?” she asks softly.
Ron nods, standing up with a giant stretch and reaching over to ruffle Louis’ silvery-blonde hair.
“Right—we’re off to Grimmauld,” he announces loudly, tugging at Harry and Hermione’s hands and unceremoniously pushing them in the direction of the Floo. “Everybody say their goodbyes—you lot have five minutes, or else we’ll be here all night just trying to leave.”
“At least take some leftovers with you!” Molly shrieks, already waving her wand to wrap up some of the food.
“Teddy,” Hermione calls over to where Teddy’s engaged in what seems to be a heated game of Gobstones with Percy’s children. “Time to go home.”
Teddy groans loudly but obeys, gathering his things with the halfhearted, pouting protest of a thirteen-year-old who doesn’t really want to leave. Ron punches him lightly on the arm as he walks up forlornly, and Hermione holds back an eye roll and a laugh when Teddy grins and punches him back.
Caught in a rush of farewells, Harry turns to find Molly at his shoulder, holding out a large bag of food containers. “Stuff yourselves well,” she says, then places both palms on Harry’s cheeks, looking suddenly misty-eyed and fond. It reminds him of all the times she used to do that exact same thing over the years—and that even now, at thirty, it still makes him feel warm, and whole, in that same way he did when he first stepped foot inside their home. This home.
“Thank you for the party, Molly,” he says, mouth slightly smushed between her hands. “It was wonderful, truly.”
“It was nothing, Harry, dear—you don’t turn thirty every day!” She takes a longer look at him now, thumbs brushing over his beard in that fussing, motherly way of hers. “You deserve it. All of it.” She pauses. “And more than you think.”
When he leans over to hug her, she gently cradles the back of his head, and he holds on for much longer than he usually does.
::
They step out of the Floo and into the quiet Grimmauld Place—a sharp contrast from the noise and chaos of the Burrow. Harry feels a twinge of melancholy at leaving the Weasleys, as he often does, yet he feels a sense of comfort too, at the familiar sight of the house he now calls home.
Ron heads straight to the fridge, where he’s already pulling out bottles of his favorite Muggle beer, and a pack of Ogden’s that Harry keeps stashed mostly for him.
Hermione rolls her eyes, shrugging off her cloak and draping it across the back of a chair. “You could at least wait ’til Teddy’s asleep, Ronald.”
“I’m thirteen; I know what drinking is,” Teddy says, offended. “I’ve even tried butterbeer!”
Harry just rolls his eyes, already starting to usher him out the door. “Dunno who gave you beer,” he warns, “but you’re thirteen, and don’t think I’m letting that slide. We’ll circle back to that in the morning. Now get ready for bed.”
“But it’s only ten o’clock!”
“And it’s way past your bedtime.”
“It’s the weekend.”
“Overruled.” He points at the stairs. “Bed.”
Teddy rolls his eyes too, in almost the exact same way Harry did, before grumbling all the way up the stairs, stomping his feet and slamming doors as he goes.
Harry sighs, then turns to find a grinning Ron with arms full of alcohol, and a smirking Hermione with a hand on her hip.
“Don’t start.”
“What a right proper dad you are,” Ron comments.
“Shut it.”
“You were just as moody when you were ‘round his age, Harry.” Hermione grins. “Just wait for the rest of his teenage years.”
“And I thought his toddler years were a handful.” Harry sighs. “And I know you gave him the butterbeer, Ron.”
He leaves Ron sputtering in protest as he goes off to put away the leftovers, Hermione laughing behind him.
::
When Harry peeks inside Teddy’s room thirty minutes later, he finds him already fast asleep in bed, sprawled out in his Hufflepuff pajamas, like he collapsed there out of exhaustion. Hermione peers over his shoulder and lets out a quiet laugh.
“Why couldn’t he be like that when he was seven and giving us a hard time?” she whispers, walking over to the bed to tuck him in properly, and Harry can’t help but grin.
He lingers by the doorway, arms crossed in front of his chest, just watching. Watching as Hermione brushes hair away from Teddy’s face, and then kisses his forehead—the gesture so gentle that it makes Harry’s heart beat uncomfortably loud, throat suddenly tight. Because this isn’t the first time she’s done this. Because this has been his life for the last five years since Andromeda died, and Hermione helped him and Teddy pick up the pieces.
She’s as much a part of Teddy’s life as he is, as much a fixture and constant in Harry’s life as she’s always been. And the thought is terrifying in its entirety—the way he craves it, the way he deeply, utterly, secretly wants it.
When Hermione turns to him, she must notice something on his face, because a tiny frown appears between her brows. He takes a deep breath, wills his heart to calm down, and smiles, saying he's just feeling a little emotional today.
::
They head up to the rooftop where Ron is waiting, lanky legs stretched out on a blanket he enlarged. He hands them bottles of beer from the cool box at his feet—one of his favorite “Muggle contraptions”, as he’s so often declared—and Harry and Hermione settle around him in a practiced routine they’ve kept for years. In the quiet that falls, Harry lets out a long, deep exhale, feeling the ruckus from the day finally die down.
They sit up there for a while, just drinking and talking. It’s a familiar scene, one they try to stick to as best as they can in between their busy careers. Harry’s never told them, but he’s always looked forward to these nights, sitting up here on the roof with just the three of them, no one else—it’s the only real time he feels like he can truly breathe.
Harry leans back for moment, watches the way Ron and Hermione argue with a different kind of cadence than from when they were kids; different, even, than from when they were together. They’re more teasing now, less tense, but not any less fond; he thinks back on the awkwardness and barbed words in the early years of their breakup, and can’t hold back a smile now—at the familiar way Ron scowls and Hermione rolls her eyes in loving exasperation.
“What are you grinning at?” Ron asks him, frowning.
“Nothing,” Harry says, but he can’t stop his grin from widening.
“Fine, keep your secrets then, birthday boy,” Ron replies. “We’ll get them out of you sooner or later.”
Hermione just smiles, then holds out her bottle in between them.
“To thirty,” she says, her eyes catching Harry’s.
The boys clink their bottles with hers, and when Harry settles back on his elbows, he sees her watching him as she takes a swig, eyes sparkling—like she’s holding back words, and maybe a secret of her own, too.
::
Ron falls asleep slumped against the cool box.
Hermione shakes her head, conjuring pillows and a deck chair and levitating Ron's prone form on it gently, grumbling about how he hasn't changed a bit. Harry watches them with sleepy eyes, still sipping quietly at a firewhisky, until Hermione lays back down on the blanket and closes her eyes.
“Seen the papers today?” she asks, breaking the silence.
“No,” he mumbles. “What headlines did they come up with this time?”
“Nothing particularly unique, which was a disappointment.” Hermione purses her lips. “Just a generic ‘Milestone Year for the Boy Who Lived’.”
“They’re treating thirty like it’s grand, or ancient,” Harry says, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “And I bloody hate that name. Why they’re still using it up to now is beyond me.”
“Catchy, I suppose.”
“Well, I hate it.” He exhales. “I never—it never really felt earned.”
Hermione pauses, eyes opening to frown up at him. “How could you say that? After—after everything you’ve been through?”
He shrugs, taking another long pull of his drink. “Most of that was just luck.”
She scoffs. “That’s not true.”
“It is.” He shakes his head. “I don’t—let’s not talk about it right now.”
She clenches her jaw, looking like she’s about to protest. Harry is grateful when she just falls silent again, hopefully letting it drop.
“You're not just the Boy Who Lived, you know,” she says suddenly, her voice louder in the stillness.
He sighs. “Hermione…”
“Not to me.” She looks down at her empty bottle, picking at the label like a nervous tic he’s familiar with. “You're—you're the boy who chose to.” Her eyes flick upwards to his. “There's a difference.”
He stills, his throat automatically tight.
“You chose to stay,” she continues, eyes blazing. “To fight, to live. And that’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?”
“Hermione,” he whispers hoarsely.
She smiles grimly. “Even if, to the press, thirty means geriatric, apparently.”
His eyesight is wet and blurry, a laugh releasing in disbelief.
“Yeah,” he says finally. His chest feels unbearably full. “Yeah, I suppose it is.”
“I can’t believe—” she stops, her own eyes bright with tears. “I’m just…I’m just so glad you’re still here. Solid and—and beautiful—and so, so alive.”
“Oh,” he says, nearly breathless. “I—Hermione. Stop. You’re—”
“I’m telling the truth,” she laughs wetly. “And this is…this is a one-time thing, okay? Just because it’s your birthday.”
His cheeks start to become pinker. “Right.”
Silence again, a tinge of awkwardness coloring the air.
Before he can think, before he can truly process what he’s saying, he says, “Dumbledore always said…that love kept me alive.” He pauses. “And it did. Not just because of my mum, or my dad. But Ron, and you… You were there when no one else was. I’m here largely because of you.”
“Oh, stop selling yourself short,” she says, sniffling as she wipes at her eyes.
“You've saved my arse so many times than I can count,” he counters. “And if I get to grow old and live, like you said, well. You’re a big part of that. Blimey, I just turned thirty. And you're still here.”
“Yeah,” she whispers. “I guess I always will be.”
They fall silent, unable to look at each other any longer.
He takes a deep breath, then her hand. “So am I.”
::
Birds are chirping faintly in the distance when they wake a grumpy Ron, hoisting his arms on their shoulders as they walk down the stairs. They deposit him in the room that's always been his, and shut the door behind them.
The two of them linger in the hallway. The house is quiet and still, caught in that dreamy limbo between night and sunrise.
“We should get to bed,” Hermione murmurs. Then her eyes widen. “I mean—separately. Not together. Sleep in separate beds…in our completely separate rooms.”
Harry’s mouth twitches. “I got that.”
Her cheeks are pink. “Okay…just wanted to be clear.”
They linger even more. Harry feels like the world is shifting beneath him, turning and moving and he’s just going along, feeling like he’s about to topple over the edge of the precipice.
And she’s still right there.
“I should—”
“Yeah, I’ll just…” Hermione reddens, and turns toward her bedroom door.
But then she stops.
Her hand hovers over the handle, and when she turns back to face him, there’s something different in her expression. Something like resolve.
Harry’s heart starts pounding.
“Harry,” she says softly, and he can hear the slight tremor in her voice. “I—I owe you one last thing. One last part of your birthday gift.”
He blinks. “Hermione, you’ve already—”
“Nights like these…they’re meant for saying things you can’t say in the morning,” she interrupts, taking a step closer to him, fidgeting with her fingers. “For doing things you’ve been too scared to do. And I’ve been…” She takes an uneven, shaky breath. “So scared. Too much of a coward for too long.”
Before he can ask what she means, she’s crossing the space between them, rising up on her tiptoes, and pressing her lips to his.
The first thing Harry registers is softness. The fullness of her lips. The taste of whisky on her tongue. The delicate curve of her waist where his trembling hand finds purchase, seeking warmth, something to ground him in this moment.
When she finally pulls back, she doesn’t go far—or maybe Harry doesn’t let her, his hand pulling her close like he can’t quite let go just yet. His breath comes out in rough pants against her lips. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes bright with something that looks like fear and hope tangled together.
“Happy birthday, Harry,” she whispers, faint and shaky. “Maybe—maybe in the morning we can pretend this never happened, if you want. If it’s…easier.”
She turns away, one hand to her lips. And Harry’s left there, blinking after her.
He watches her reach for the door handle once more, and suddenly Harry can see it all laid out before him—like he’s at King’s Cross all over again. He can let her go—in the morning, they can pretend, and forget, and then hide behind friendship and familiarity, like they always do. It’s the safer route, Harry knows. It’s easier.
Or he can choose to go on—to a future he sees glimpses of when he looks at her and Teddy. When she laughs at his terrible jokes, or looks at him like he’s worth seeing. A happiness he can’t quite explain or fully comprehend the intensity of. A deep, aching desire he can barely keep a handle on anymore.
“Wait.” His hand shoots out before he can second-guess himself, fingers wrapping around her wrist just as she’s about to disappear behind her door.
She turns back, eyes wide and uncertain—but also, deeper—a tinge of hope.
The next thing he knows, he’s moving forward, backing her against the door.
When he kisses her, it’s with a raw kind of desperation—one he’s kept a lid on all these damn years, finally, finally spilling out. His hands cup her jaw, and she melts into him, one hand fisting in his shirt while the other snakes up to his neck, burying into his hair.
It feels like a long, slow surrender.
::
Outside, through the windows, the sky is turning a hazy blend of pinks and yellows, casting the hallway in a warm, almost dream-like glow.
When Hermione pulls away, eyes closed and a smile lingering on her lips, the light hits her face just right, in a way that makes his breath catch in his throat.
Beautiful and solid and so, so alive, his mind echoes.
Both their cheeks are pink when he gently nudges her chin up to kiss her again—slower, deeper, soft and intense all at once.
Harry smiles against her mouth.
Savors it.
Like they have all the time in the world.
::
In the morning, he finds Hermione sitting at the dining table with a still sleepy Teddy, no Ron in sight—probably still upstairs in bed, sleeping off the alcohol from the night before.
She’s watching him from across the room.
“Morning,” she says softly, all warm eyes and a smile that’s always threatened to shake something loose inside him.
He grins. “Hi.”
And then, inside his sunny kitchen, with leftover cake on the table, and a gasping, scandalized Teddy in the background of a home he made his—that they made theirs—he kisses her.
Openly, smile against smile, laughter inside each other’s mouths.
It feels like a beginning: he’s thirty, and he feels warm and solid and happy. And so, so alive.