Come Together
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter One: Orthagon Alley
one and one and one is three ~ The Beatles
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Hermione could never say exactly when things started to change.
Maybe it was the day she'd seen him in Orthagon Alley for the first time, his face glowing with happiness, a streak of dirt under one eye, his Quidditch robes stained with grass. She'd definitely felt something then: an odd feeling, like her heart was quivering and about to burst.
She'd missed him at University, but then, she'd missed Ron too. Yet every time she closed her eyes to think of Hogwarts, a pair of green eyes swam into her mind, unbidden. Green eyes, round glasses, black hair, a scar.
Maybe it began the summer after they graduated, after the Defeat, when Harry vanished for weeks at a time, not sending Owls, only to reappear at the Burrow looking thin and distracted. Ron would send Pig to her with short notes. "He's back." "Gone again."
She didn't sleep much that summer. A part of her seemed to be missing.
But maybe nothing had changed at all. Maybe it had always been this way, and she just hadn't noticed.
Maybe she hadn't wanted to notice.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
But something had definitely been different on that late September day she'd first seen Harry in Orthagon Alley. She'd gone to pick up Ron from King's Cross that afternoon; Harry couldn't make it, since it was the team's first practice after two weeks of away games. He'd promised to meet them at the house. Ron had stumbled off the train, his arms brimming with packages and luggage, looking even taller and thinner than usual, Pigwidgeon chirping excitedly in his cage. His face split into a grin when he saw Hermione, and he planted a brotherly kiss on her cheek as they juggled the packages and Pig's cage.
"Too much bloody luggage to Apparate," Ron said as they made their way through the crowded station. "Never knew I had this much junk."
"Oh, you can always Apparate in later -- it's worth walking the first time," Hermione said, leading the way towards the street. "The concealment spell on the street entrance is quite charming. Harry's been gone, but he should be back by the time we get home."
"Home." Ron sighed and shook his head. "That's a strange word for a place I haven't even seen yet."
Hermione smiled. Oddly enough, though she'd only been there a week, her new flat was already starting to feel like she'd lived there for ages. Just knowing that Harry and Ron were living in the building, even if they weren't there yet, seemed to make all the difference.
It had been over six months since Harry and Ron had seen each other, and at least three months since Hermione had seen Harry. It had been almost an entire mind-boggling year since the three of them had all been together. And now, their time apart was about to come to an end. With the news that Ron had accepted a new job in London as a Ministry Barrister, and that Hermione would be starting a new doctorate program at London's Hornswoggle University, Harry had wasted no time in finding the three of them a shared living space in the wizarding center of town. Tonight, they would be living under the same roof for the first time since they'd left Hogwarts almost four years ago.
Hermione and Ron had protested -- they knew Harry was always looking for an excuse to splurge a bit of his fortune on his friends. But Harry had insisted on buying a place. He had already been in London for two years, and knew the city better than either Ron or Hermione; and besides, he explained, he hated his current flat. Apparently his neighbors kept cats and his hallway always reeked of tunafish.
Hermione hadn't bought that excuse, however. She knew Harry better than that.
In any event, Hedwig had visited Ron and Hermione late that summer to deliver large yellow envelopes. Hermione had hardly been able to contain her excitement when she'd opened her envelope to reveal a bright wizard photograph of a narrow brick apartment house. It looked quite old and charming, squashed between other similar houses, with white trim, a slate roof, and delightful bay windows nestled in its upper stories. Hermione turned the photo over to read, "231 Orthagon Alley, London." The envelope also contained a large brass key and a note in Harry's awkward uphill scrawl.
Dear Hermione, Here it is! I really hope you both like the new place. It's in a great location, just around the corner from the Leaky Cauldron, and not too far from the Hornswoggle library. I hope you don't mind, I've picked a flat for you -- the one on the top floor. It just reminded me of you.
Hermione grinned to herself.
The key in the envelope is your key to the building and your flat. It's enchanted, so it will vanish the first time you use it, and you'll always have access to the building and to your own door. I've modified the spell so that you and Ron also have access to my flat as well. Makes things easier. Anyway, I can't wait to see you both. Miss you more than I can say. Love, Harry.
"Hermione? Isn't this the street?"
Hermione blinked. She'd almost walked right past their turnoff in her preoccupation, while Ron had been blithely chatting away. This wasn't like her at all.
"Sorry! Sorry. I was just a bit turned around."
Or thinking about something else, more like. Miss you more than I can say. Hermione flushed slightly and groped for a change of subject, realizing that she no longer knew what Ron had been talking about.
"I'd never heard of Orthagon Alley before I got Harry's Owl," she began quickly. "I'd heard of Origin Alley -- who hasn't, I mean, it's the posh place to live if you're a wizard in London. And I always assumed there were more concealed wizard neighborhoods in the city, but I hadn't heard of this one."
She'd lapsed into a recitation of facts because she was flustered. Still babbling after all these years.
"Percy mentioned it once," Ron said, seemingly oblivious to her nervous chatter. "I think it's very old. Not a lot of vacancies -- once people move in, they tend to stay. Probably because it's quite close to the good pubs." He winked.
Hermione rolled her eyes, then looked up and stopped suddenly.
"Wait -- I think this is it."
The Leaky Cauldron was Hermione's landmark to navigate to the Orthagon Alley entrance; she led Ron on a series of small twists and turns through narrow residential streets and eventually came to a halt in front of an unremarkable row of flats.
"See it?" she said quietly. "Unfocus your eyes a bit. It's an archway between those two buildings."
Ron squinted, then nodded, and with a quick glance in both directions, the two of them stepped forward through the arch. It led to a small manicured garden with high walls on all sides; a fountain on one wall with a spouting stone fish provided the only noise. Hermione set down a suitcase, took out her wand, and tapped the fish twice. A portion of the back wall suddenly sprang aside, revealing a narrow alleyway.
"Wicked," Ron murmured.
The two of them walked through the entrance and under an old painted street sign that read "Orthagon Alley" as the wall slid into place behind them. Ron's eyes were wide.
"Hermione, this is amazing. Look at this place!"
Hermione had to agree; she'd spent a blissful week settling in, and each day had seemed more unreal than the next. The street was paved with cobblestones and lined on each side with a row of trees, which were currently showing off their finest display of brilliant fall color. The houses were squished together in a decidedly cozy way, and a few of them had small shops on the bottom floor with striped awnings. "Walrymple's Market," read one sign. "Dugbog's Books," said another. The alley ended in a cul-de-sac, with a large grassy park in the center. The park was crisscrossed with paved paths that wound their way among shade trees and benches.
"That one," Hermione said, pointing.
Ron did a little dance in the street.
They rushed up the front steps of 231 Orthagon Alley, Hermione reaching for the doorknob. "I can let us in, I've already used my key -- "
But Ron was shifting packages in his hands so he could examine a large brass horn that was hanging on a scrolled hook next to the front door.
"Is this what I think it is?" he asked incredulously.
Truth be told, Hermione had spent at least twenty minutes gleefully examining the old butler's horn on the day she'd arrived at the flat, but she found herself impatient with Ron's distraction. Harry would be home by now, and --
"It's a butler's horn," she said quickly. "Common in very old wizard houses, fell out of fashion about a hundred years ago. You talk into it and people in the building can hear your voice from little brass horns near the doors inside."
Babbling again.
Ron chuckled. "There's nothing you don't know, is there, Hermione? Let's see if this antique still works." Holding the horn to his mouth, Ron cleared his throat and spoke into it loudly.
"Oi! Would this be the fine residence of the Boy Who Never Combs His Hair?"
A loud and unmistakable whoop echoed from the dusty depths of the horn. Ron whooped back. Hermione was overwhelmed with a rush of happiness as something deep within her broke down in a wave that felt like relief. Her eyes stung with tears.
A moment later, the door to the house flew open, and a scarlet-and-white-robed blur shot from the doorway. Ron's packages were forgotten. Suitcases, supper, and a squawking Pigwidgeon hit the ground as Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger tangled themselves into a fierce six-armed hug.
They pulled apart at a particularly loud squawk of protest from Pig, whose cage had landed sideways on the front stoop. Harry and Ron were laughing; Hermione, blushing, attempted to brush away the tears that were streaking her cheeks.
"Oh, Hermione, don't cry," Harry said, reaching out to wipe her cheek with his thumb. His bright eyes met hers briefly and Hermione felt a jolt in the pit of her stomach. Her heart was pounding in her ears and she felt heat rise through her face. Why did she feel so odd? It was just Harry. Even though she hadn't seen him in months.
Just Harry.
"Yeah, Hermione. You know we can't handle it when you cry," Ron said, beginning to gather his luggage.
"Right," Harry said, scooping up Pigwidgeon's cage. "It might make us start crying too, and then we'd have to drink ale and eat spicy sausage for two weeks to reassert ourselves as men."
"Don't forget the loud belching," said Ron.
Hermione was laughing now, her heart still beating fast. She watched Harry's broad shoulders as he bent and straightened to pick up another suitcase. He turned and leaned against the front door to hold it open for them.
An image of Harry from years ago suddenly swam into Hermione's mind. Harry, eleven years old, standing at Hogsmeade Station with Hedwig's cage, nothing but glasses and hair, skinny and small under his Hogwarts sweater. Hermione held the image in her mind next to Harry now, twenty-one, tall and solid and rougishly handsome, wearing his England Quidditch robes as if he'd been born in them, standing in the doorway of a house he owned.
Same messy hair, same glasses, same jagged scar. Same look in the depths of his brilliant green eyes.
This was still her Harry.
Why, then, was her cheek on fire with the tingling imprint of his touch?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Hermione's head felt oddly light as they climbed the stairs to Ron's flat on the second floor. Harry and Ron, here, now, after so long. The three of them had slipped into conversation with the ease of a favorite pair of old jeans, as if no time had passed at all since they'd last been together. Hermione felt as if the past year apart had been a vivid dream from which she'd just awoken, and that if she went upstairs to her own flat, her volumes of books from her old University would be gone.
Everything was the same, but something was different.
She couldn't stop looking at him.
She wanted to be next to him, to feel him lean into her, feel his hand on her shoulder, smell his familiar scent. Looking at him again was like drinking butterbeer on an icy day in Hogsmeade. It was like oxygen.
Had it always been like this?
"Want to come and look around upstairs, then, Ron? My flat's on the third floor, Hermione's up top."
They'd finished depositing Ron's luggage in his flat, but Ron was still standing in the sitting room, mouth agape.
Harry was leaning against the doorframe, clearly enjoying every minute of Ron's reaction. "You alright there, Weasley?"
"Shut up, you prat. Can't a fella have a look round his new flat for a few minutes?"
"It's been more than a few. And I need to shower and get out of these practice robes. Want to just meet at my place for supper?"
"Yeah, alright," said Ron. He blinked, then looked meaningfully at Harry. "Hey, Potter," he drawled, his face breaking into a sly grin. "Would those be... England Quidditch practice robes?"
Harry ran a hand through his hair, and when he looked up, Hermione saw that he was blushing.
"Why yes, I believe these are England robes."
Ron had adopted his best impression of Professor Snape and was pacing the room.
"Would you be wearing them, Potter... because... you actually play for England?"
Ron did a good Snape; Harry grinned and played along. "Well, yes, sir."
"You mean to tell me -- " Ron turned to him triumphantly, waggling a finger -- "You're the one and only first-string seeker for the finest Quidditch team in all the land?"
Harry was a shade of red to match his famous robes. "I, well -- it appears so."
Ron dropped the facade and pulled Harry into a rough hug. "Sorry, mate," Ron said, clapping him on the back. "Some days I still can't believe it. I've got to make you say it every so often, or it doesn't seem real."
Harry's meteoric Quidditch career did seem a bit surreal, even if no one was surprised when he began playing professionally. He'd wandered aimlessly after Hogwarts, after the Defeat, haunted and uneasy. But after a year's time, Harry settled in a shabby London flat, content for the moment to reflect and write letters. One day he'd quietly gone to Quidditch trials for the local team, Puddlemere United, and was immediately signed as Seeker.
It had been some time since he'd last played Quidditch, and he still looked shaky that season, as if he never slept. But he'd flown like no Seeker ever had, and led Puddlemere to an undefeated record and their first league victory in ten years. The morning after their final match, he'd gotten a call from Morris Whiggam, the coach of England's national team. With Harry aboard, last year had been England's best season in decades, and The Boy Who Lived, recently The Boy Who Defeated You-Know-Who, was now The Boy Who Saved The National Team. If it hadn't been for a painful loss to Ireland in the finals, they would have gone straight to the Cup.
Harry stepped back and caught Hermione's eye; his look was unreadable. Hermione felt an odd disconnect, then realized why. She usually knew what Harry was thinking.
"I hope you both don't mind," he said quietly. "Living with me, I mean. It's not exactly low-profile."
So that was it.
"Of course not, Harry," Hermione began.
"Come on, Harry, don't be silly," said Ron. "I'm used to it anyway. I almost went into it professionally, you know -- Ron Weasley, Sidekick to the Stars."
Harry was grinning again. "So you'll be okay with it, then."
"Oh get out," said Ron, smiling back.
Surprised at her own boldness, Hermione reached out and caught Harry's hand in her own. She squeezed it.
"Very okay," she said.
Harry's eyes met hers. He squeezed back.
"I mean it, though," said Ron. "Get out. You definitely need a shower, Potter."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The sanctity of her own flat was both welcoming and terrifying. Welcoming, because it was a chance to straighten her thoughts, which were clearly in need of organizational attention. Terrifying, because in every room of the flat, Hermione thought of Harry. It just reminded me of you, he'd said in his letter.
It was quite a compliment. The flat, on the top floor of the building, was nestled among the eaves of the roof like a contented cat, all funny angles and cozy corners. It was slightly smaller than Harry and Ron's flats, but it was filled with large south-facing bay windows and built-in bookshelves. Best of all, underneath the bay window across from the sitting room fireplace was a windowseat with giant pink-and-white striped cushions. Crookshanks was curled up on the seat in the fading golden light, and began to purr contentedly as Hermione entered the room.
Shutting herself into the bathroom, which had a lovely claw-footed bathtub -- it just reminded me of you -- Hermione splashed water on her face and attempted to smooth down any wild curls that had escaped into frizz. She'd pull herself together, go back downstairs, and everything would be normal. She was a very logical person, after all, and her feelings could be explained. She was just a bit overwhelmed and happy to see her best friends again. It was causing her to focus on Harry. That was all.
Ron was already in Harry's flat by the time Hermione came downstairs, pulling packages out of a lumpy shopping bag and rummaging in the kitchen cabinets. The flat was filled with the unmistakable aroma of Molly Weasley's famous fried chicken, which brought an instant smile to Hermione's face. Summer nights at the Burrow, eating cold drumsticks and drinking apple cider on the back porch, Harry on one side, Ron on the other. The faint sound of explosions somewhere in the distance -- Fred and George at work on some new bit of terror. And the muttering of garden gnomes as they made their way stealthily back into Mrs.Weasley's tomato patch.
"I hope your mum knows how much I've missed this chicken."
Ron looked up and grinned, handing Hermione an empty salad bowl and a damp head of lettuce as she approached the kitchen counter. "Oh, she knows all too well. She was hoping it would lure the two of you back to the Burrow for the holidays."
Hermione smiled. "It's a distinct possibility."
Ron was now piling the steaming chicken onto a plate; it was still hot, thanks to Mrs.Weasley's warming charm. He waggled his eyebrows at Hermione and licked his fingers, then reached for a piece that had fallen from the plate.
"Ron!"
Ron ignored her disapproving look. "Y'know, after all that's happened, I can't believe we're here. We're living together and having bloody Sunday dinner."
"It's Friday."
"You know what I mean, 'Mione."
Hermione felt her heart swell. "I do. Believe me, I've been thinking about it all day. I couldn't wait for you both to be here."
"I know. Just the three of us." Ron rolled a tomato across the counter and passed Hermione a knife. "I've been nervous about my job, and I hadn't even seen my own flat, but now... now it's like I'm home, or something." He held out his arms to Hermione, grinning. "C'mere."
Hermione moved into Ron's embrace, laughing as he made a big show of not touching her with his chicken-covered hands. Her head almost reached the center of his chest; he was now nearly a foot taller than she was. He smelled gingery, familiar, sweet. She didn't feel dizzy just having him near; she didn't feel like his touch would make her tremble. He just felt like Ron. Good, Hermione thought. I must be feeling better. I must have gotten over whatever was wrong with me earlier.
Ron gave her a long squeeze, then broke away, grabbing a dishtowl to wipe his fingers. "Check for salad dressing, will you? I'm a bit afraid to open Harry's fridge."
"Oh, so you want me to do it then? Thanks."
"You always had a stronger stomach in Potions."
Hermione sighed. "I'll do it. You finish setting out the bread."
There was nothing frightening immediately visible in Harry's refrigerator, but Hermione had to bite her lip to keep from laughing as she swung open the refrigerator door -- the contents were so undeniably Harry. Milk, a six-pack of Broomstick Bitter with two bottles gone, and a half-empty package of Irish-style bacon. Further investigation revealed three eggs, an ancient paper box that may have once contained Chinese takeout, a bottle of catsup, and two chocolate frogs.
"Out of luck," Hermione said, closing the fridge. "Unless you want catsup on your lettuce, that is."
"Let me guess. Milk, beer, and sausage?"
"Bacon today. And two chocolate frogs."
"Serious?"
"Don't you go eating them, Ron, it's half the food in there."
"I won't." Ron grabbed his coat from the back of one of Harry's kitchen chairs. "I'll just pop down to the store and get some dressing then. Back in a flash."
He did mean it. With a soft "pop," Ron vanished, leaving Hermione alone in the kitchen.
She found her eyes moving around the room, taking in Harry's flat properly for the first time. The kitchen was on the small side, but functional, with a tall counter partially separating it from the sitting room, and a table with four chairs in front of one large bay window. Hermione guessed that one of the reasons Harry had chosen this flat was its open layout -- high ceilings, big windows, and a large sitting room fireplace. Roomy, but comfortable. Hermione saw a row of frames arranged haphazardly across the fireplace mantle, and wandered closer to get a better look.
She almost teared up again. In almost every frame, beaming happily and waving, were images of herself and Ron, sometimes with Harry as well. There was a photo of Harry's parents, James Potter looking even more like Harry than ever before, and one of Hagrid, with his arm around Madame Maxime, now the new Mrs.Hagrid. One of Dumbledore, eyes twinkling as usual, and one of all the Weasleys together. One of a certain large black dog. And one -- Hermione lifted the frame to peer at it. One of herself, alone, possibly in the Gryffindor common room. She looked lost in thought, reading a large musty volume. Colin must have taken the photo without her knowing, trying to catch the bookworm in action. How embarassing. Why would Harry keep this old thing?
"Is that THE chicken?"
Harry's shout came from the bathroom, his voice echoing. He must still be in the shower. Hermione's pulse quickened. Stop it, Hermione, she thought. You've seen Harry Potter half-naked dozens of times. He's seen you in a bathing suit and wrapped in a towel. He has buttoned and zipped you up the back if you couldn't do it yourself. Just pull yourself together.
"If you mean Mrs.Weasley's chicken, then yes," Hermione called back, trying to steady her voice, which seemed shakier than usual.
"Thought so. Can smell it from here. Be right out!"
"Take your time, Ron's gone to the -- "
The bathroom door flew open, and Hermione's voice took a quick holiday in mid-sentence as Harry stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist. He was attempting to comb his wet hair into submission, and at first Hermione saw nothing but his scar, the jagged line that ran angrily down one side of his forehead and nearly into one dark eyebrow. And then, seemingly by accident, Hermione's eyes wandered hungrily to the rest of Harry, who suddenly did not look at all like the boy she'd seen half-naked before.
Harry had always seemed endearingly fragile to Hermione, his small, thin frame belying a deep strength that could only be seen on the Quidditch field, or when fighting some manifestation of evil. He was mostly ribs and bony knees, and always looked as if he needed an extra helping of supper, no matter how many extra helpings Mrs.Weasley heaped onto his plate.
But now --
To say Harry had filled out considerably wouldn't have accurately described the change; he'd left behind "painfully thin" and "skinny" and settled comfortably into "athletic" and "slender." It had been apparent under his robes, but Hermione drank in the evidence for the first time, her eyes travelling over his broad shoulders, the smooth muscles of his chest, the strength visible under his pale, cool skin. She felt warmth build somewhere inside and spread quickly up to her cheeks, which instantly blazed with color.
She felt Harry's eyes on her, and looked up to see that he'd gone just as red as she had.
Bloody hell, she'd embarrassed him by blushing. What was the matter with her?
Harry coughed and set down his comb, glancing around the flat. "Er, where's Ron?"
"I'm sorry," she said, not knowing why she was apologizing, not able to meet his gaze. Her cheeks still felt hot. "He went to the store to get something."
As if on cue, a soft "pop" told Hermione that Ron was back. She turned to see him shrugging off his coat in the kitchen, and felt herself go limp with relief.
"Got the dressing. You didn't have much of a selection, Harry -- but good Lord, what has that team been feeding you? Because I think I need some of it."
Ron was staring at Harry now, which filled Hermione with even more relief. See, Harry's really changed, she thought. I couldn't help reacting. She stole another glance at Harry and took a deep breath.
She still wanted to reach out and touch every inch of him.
Not good.
Harry chuckled. "Too much butterbeer, most likely."
Ron grinned. "I don't think so. Looks like a steady diet of exercise, and a whole bloody lot of it."
"I hope that's it. I've put on more than a stone since I moved to London."
"Well you certainly don't fly any slower for it," Ron said. "You're even faster now, and you know it."
Harry smiled wryly. "Easier to dive when gravity's got a better hold on you, maybe."
"Oh, hush," Hermione said, suddenly feeling the need to shift the topic far away from Harry's physique, the image of which was now seared in her mind like a photograph. "Let's not talk about putting on weight since school, I've been terrible."
Ron laughed. "Oh come off it, Hermione."
She expected to hear Harry's easy laugh in response, and found herself looking up at him when it never came. He was staring at her solemnly, his green eyes fixed on hers. Her heart stopped.
"I think you look wonderful," Harry said.
The room fell silent. Harry's gaze didn't waver; for a long moment, Hermione looked back at him, forgetting to breathe, her cheeks tingling with color again.
Harry blinked suddenly and ran a hand through his hair. "What am I doing? Standing around in a towel when there's Weasley chicken getting cold in the kitchen, that's what. Sorry, be right back." He vanished into the bedroom, leaving Hermione staring at the place where he'd just been standing.
Ron cleared his throat. "Hermione? Want to dress the salad?"
She'd been thinking more of undressing Harry, but nearly jumped when she realized it. Good Lord. "Oh! Yes. Sorry."
"You okay?"
"F-fine." Hermione was making a mental note to send herself to bed with a hot cup of tea as soon as they were done with supper. "Bit spaced out. Long day."
Ron nodded, setting out silverware. "Are your classes very hard? I can't believe you're going for a second degree."
"Hard, yes, but very interesting. I have some wonderful professors so far."
Ron smiled and gave her a poke as she set the salad bowl on the table. "You do like those professor types, eh?"
Hermione poked him back. "It's not like that, and you know it. David's been the only one."
"So far."
"Ron!"
"Just saying..."
"Oh, how about you, then? Please, do enlighten me with regard to your fabulous love life."
Ron grinned. "It's been dismal, thanks. The only kicks I get these days involve torturing you about your taste in men."
Harry emerged from the bedroom, ruffling his messy hair, clothed now in a navy jumper and old jeans. "What's this, then? Are we talking about Ron's love life?" He pulled up a chair at the table as the three of them sat down; Ron pretended to toss a piece of chicken at him.
"Nothing to talk about," Ron said, putting the drumstick on his own plate and helping himself to salad. "I think Ginny's got a new love interest, though. You'll never believe it. She'll kill me if I tell you."
Harry and Hermione stared at Ron expectantly.
Ron looked innocent.
"So are we supposed to not kill you after you say something like that?" Hermione began, as Harry chuckled.
"Okay, you twisted my arm." Ron lowered his voice in a conspiratorial whisper. "It's... Colin Creevey."
"Really?" Hermione and Harry chorused together. The three of them broke into laughter.
And for a little while, they were the Trio, sharing supper, exclaiming about Ginny's unlikely romance, washing dishes, as Hermione tried to forget about what had been causing her heart to pound that afternoon, tried to relax and focus on the smiling faces at the table, her two oldest and dearest friends. Just friends.
It was only back in her own flat, after a hot cup of tea and a long bath, as she lay awake in bed and saw only Harry, that Hermione knew nothing would ever be the same.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter One: Orthagon Alley
one and one and one is three ~ The Beatles
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Hermione could never say exactly when things started to change.
Maybe it was the day she'd seen him in Orthagon Alley for the first time, his face glowing with happiness, a streak of dirt under one eye, his Quidditch robes stained with grass. She'd definitely felt something then: an odd feeling, like her heart was quivering and about to burst.
She'd missed him at University, but then, she'd missed Ron too. Yet every time she closed her eyes to think of Hogwarts, a pair of green eyes swam into her mind, unbidden. Green eyes, round glasses, black hair, a scar.
Maybe it began the summer after they graduated, after the Defeat, when Harry vanished for weeks at a time, not sending Owls, only to reappear at the Burrow looking thin and distracted. Ron would send Pig to her with short notes. "He's back." "Gone again."
She didn't sleep much that summer. A part of her seemed to be missing.
But maybe nothing had changed at all. Maybe it had always been this way, and she just hadn't noticed.
Maybe she hadn't wanted to notice.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
But something had definitely been different on that late September day she'd first seen Harry in Orthagon Alley. She'd gone to pick up Ron from King's Cross that afternoon; Harry couldn't make it, since it was the team's first practice after two weeks of away games. He'd promised to meet them at the house. Ron had stumbled off the train, his arms brimming with packages and luggage, looking even taller and thinner than usual, Pigwidgeon chirping excitedly in his cage. His face split into a grin when he saw Hermione, and he planted a brotherly kiss on her cheek as they juggled the packages and Pig's cage.
"Too much bloody luggage to Apparate," Ron said as they made their way through the crowded station. "Never knew I had this much junk."
"Oh, you can always Apparate in later -- it's worth walking the first time," Hermione said, leading the way towards the street. "The concealment spell on the street entrance is quite charming. Harry's been gone, but he should be back by the time we get home."
"Home." Ron sighed and shook his head. "That's a strange word for a place I haven't even seen yet."
Hermione smiled. Oddly enough, though she'd only been there a week, her new flat was already starting to feel like she'd lived there for ages. Just knowing that Harry and Ron were living in the building, even if they weren't there yet, seemed to make all the difference.
It had been over six months since Harry and Ron had seen each other, and at least three months since Hermione had seen Harry. It had been almost an entire mind-boggling year since the three of them had all been together. And now, their time apart was about to come to an end. With the news that Ron had accepted a new job in London as a Ministry Barrister, and that Hermione would be starting a new doctorate program at London's Hornswoggle University, Harry had wasted no time in finding the three of them a shared living space in the wizarding center of town. Tonight, they would be living under the same roof for the first time since they'd left Hogwarts almost four years ago.
Hermione and Ron had protested -- they knew Harry was always looking for an excuse to splurge a bit of his fortune on his friends. But Harry had insisted on buying a place. He had already been in London for two years, and knew the city better than either Ron or Hermione; and besides, he explained, he hated his current flat. Apparently his neighbors kept cats and his hallway always reeked of tunafish.
Hermione hadn't bought that excuse, however. She knew Harry better than that.
In any event, Hedwig had visited Ron and Hermione late that summer to deliver large yellow envelopes. Hermione had hardly been able to contain her excitement when she'd opened her envelope to reveal a bright wizard photograph of a narrow brick apartment house. It looked quite old and charming, squashed between other similar houses, with white trim, a slate roof, and delightful bay windows nestled in its upper stories. Hermione turned the photo over to read, "231 Orthagon Alley, London." The envelope also contained a large brass key and a note in Harry's awkward uphill scrawl.
Dear Hermione, Here it is! I really hope you both like the new place. It's in a great location, just around the corner from the Leaky Cauldron, and not too far from the Hornswoggle library. I hope you don't mind, I've picked a flat for you -- the one on the top floor. It just reminded me of you.
Hermione grinned to herself.
The key in the envelope is your key to the building and your flat. It's enchanted, so it will vanish the first time you use it, and you'll always have access to the building and to your own door. I've modified the spell so that you and Ron also have access to my flat as well. Makes things easier. Anyway, I can't wait to see you both. Miss you more than I can say. Love, Harry.
"Hermione? Isn't this the street?"
Hermione blinked. She'd almost walked right past their turnoff in her preoccupation, while Ron had been blithely chatting away. This wasn't like her at all.
"Sorry! Sorry. I was just a bit turned around."
Or thinking about something else, more like. Miss you more than I can say. Hermione flushed slightly and groped for a change of subject, realizing that she no longer knew what Ron had been talking about.
"I'd never heard of Orthagon Alley before I got Harry's Owl," she began quickly. "I'd heard of Origin Alley -- who hasn't, I mean, it's the posh place to live if you're a wizard in London. And I always assumed there were more concealed wizard neighborhoods in the city, but I hadn't heard of this one."
She'd lapsed into a recitation of facts because she was flustered. Still babbling after all these years.
"Percy mentioned it once," Ron said, seemingly oblivious to her nervous chatter. "I think it's very old. Not a lot of vacancies -- once people move in, they tend to stay. Probably because it's quite close to the good pubs." He winked.
Hermione rolled her eyes, then looked up and stopped suddenly.
"Wait -- I think this is it."
The Leaky Cauldron was Hermione's landmark to navigate to the Orthagon Alley entrance; she led Ron on a series of small twists and turns through narrow residential streets and eventually came to a halt in front of an unremarkable row of flats.
"See it?" she said quietly. "Unfocus your eyes a bit. It's an archway between those two buildings."
Ron squinted, then nodded, and with a quick glance in both directions, the two of them stepped forward through the arch. It led to a small manicured garden with high walls on all sides; a fountain on one wall with a spouting stone fish provided the only noise. Hermione set down a suitcase, took out her wand, and tapped the fish twice. A portion of the back wall suddenly sprang aside, revealing a narrow alleyway.
"Wicked," Ron murmured.
The two of them walked through the entrance and under an old painted street sign that read "Orthagon Alley" as the wall slid into place behind them. Ron's eyes were wide.
"Hermione, this is amazing. Look at this place!"
Hermione had to agree; she'd spent a blissful week settling in, and each day had seemed more unreal than the next. The street was paved with cobblestones and lined on each side with a row of trees, which were currently showing off their finest display of brilliant fall color. The houses were squished together in a decidedly cozy way, and a few of them had small shops on the bottom floor with striped awnings. "Walrymple's Market," read one sign. "Dugbog's Books," said another. The alley ended in a cul-de-sac, with a large grassy park in the center. The park was crisscrossed with paved paths that wound their way among shade trees and benches.
"That one," Hermione said, pointing.
Ron did a little dance in the street.
They rushed up the front steps of 231 Orthagon Alley, Hermione reaching for the doorknob. "I can let us in, I've already used my key -- "
But Ron was shifting packages in his hands so he could examine a large brass horn that was hanging on a scrolled hook next to the front door.
"Is this what I think it is?" he asked incredulously.
Truth be told, Hermione had spent at least twenty minutes gleefully examining the old butler's horn on the day she'd arrived at the flat, but she found herself impatient with Ron's distraction. Harry would be home by now, and --
"It's a butler's horn," she said quickly. "Common in very old wizard houses, fell out of fashion about a hundred years ago. You talk into it and people in the building can hear your voice from little brass horns near the doors inside."
Babbling again.
Ron chuckled. "There's nothing you don't know, is there, Hermione? Let's see if this antique still works." Holding the horn to his mouth, Ron cleared his throat and spoke into it loudly.
"Oi! Would this be the fine residence of the Boy Who Never Combs His Hair?"
A loud and unmistakable whoop echoed from the dusty depths of the horn. Ron whooped back. Hermione was overwhelmed with a rush of happiness as something deep within her broke down in a wave that felt like relief. Her eyes stung with tears.
A moment later, the door to the house flew open, and a scarlet-and-white-robed blur shot from the doorway. Ron's packages were forgotten. Suitcases, supper, and a squawking Pigwidgeon hit the ground as Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger tangled themselves into a fierce six-armed hug.
They pulled apart at a particularly loud squawk of protest from Pig, whose cage had landed sideways on the front stoop. Harry and Ron were laughing; Hermione, blushing, attempted to brush away the tears that were streaking her cheeks.
"Oh, Hermione, don't cry," Harry said, reaching out to wipe her cheek with his thumb. His bright eyes met hers briefly and Hermione felt a jolt in the pit of her stomach. Her heart was pounding in her ears and she felt heat rise through her face. Why did she feel so odd? It was just Harry. Even though she hadn't seen him in months.
Just Harry.
"Yeah, Hermione. You know we can't handle it when you cry," Ron said, beginning to gather his luggage.
"Right," Harry said, scooping up Pigwidgeon's cage. "It might make us start crying too, and then we'd have to drink ale and eat spicy sausage for two weeks to reassert ourselves as men."
"Don't forget the loud belching," said Ron.
Hermione was laughing now, her heart still beating fast. She watched Harry's broad shoulders as he bent and straightened to pick up another suitcase. He turned and leaned against the front door to hold it open for them.
An image of Harry from years ago suddenly swam into Hermione's mind. Harry, eleven years old, standing at Hogsmeade Station with Hedwig's cage, nothing but glasses and hair, skinny and small under his Hogwarts sweater. Hermione held the image in her mind next to Harry now, twenty-one, tall and solid and rougishly handsome, wearing his England Quidditch robes as if he'd been born in them, standing in the doorway of a house he owned.
Same messy hair, same glasses, same jagged scar. Same look in the depths of his brilliant green eyes.
This was still her Harry.
Why, then, was her cheek on fire with the tingling imprint of his touch?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Hermione's head felt oddly light as they climbed the stairs to Ron's flat on the second floor. Harry and Ron, here, now, after so long. The three of them had slipped into conversation with the ease of a favorite pair of old jeans, as if no time had passed at all since they'd last been together. Hermione felt as if the past year apart had been a vivid dream from which she'd just awoken, and that if she went upstairs to her own flat, her volumes of books from her old University would be gone.
Everything was the same, but something was different.
She couldn't stop looking at him.
She wanted to be next to him, to feel him lean into her, feel his hand on her shoulder, smell his familiar scent. Looking at him again was like drinking butterbeer on an icy day in Hogsmeade. It was like oxygen.
Had it always been like this?
"Want to come and look around upstairs, then, Ron? My flat's on the third floor, Hermione's up top."
They'd finished depositing Ron's luggage in his flat, but Ron was still standing in the sitting room, mouth agape.
Harry was leaning against the doorframe, clearly enjoying every minute of Ron's reaction. "You alright there, Weasley?"
"Shut up, you prat. Can't a fella have a look round his new flat for a few minutes?"
"It's been more than a few. And I need to shower and get out of these practice robes. Want to just meet at my place for supper?"
"Yeah, alright," said Ron. He blinked, then looked meaningfully at Harry. "Hey, Potter," he drawled, his face breaking into a sly grin. "Would those be... England Quidditch practice robes?"
Harry ran a hand through his hair, and when he looked up, Hermione saw that he was blushing.
"Why yes, I believe these are England robes."
Ron had adopted his best impression of Professor Snape and was pacing the room.
"Would you be wearing them, Potter... because... you actually play for England?"
Ron did a good Snape; Harry grinned and played along. "Well, yes, sir."
"You mean to tell me -- " Ron turned to him triumphantly, waggling a finger -- "You're the one and only first-string seeker for the finest Quidditch team in all the land?"
Harry was a shade of red to match his famous robes. "I, well -- it appears so."
Ron dropped the facade and pulled Harry into a rough hug. "Sorry, mate," Ron said, clapping him on the back. "Some days I still can't believe it. I've got to make you say it every so often, or it doesn't seem real."
Harry's meteoric Quidditch career did seem a bit surreal, even if no one was surprised when he began playing professionally. He'd wandered aimlessly after Hogwarts, after the Defeat, haunted and uneasy. But after a year's time, Harry settled in a shabby London flat, content for the moment to reflect and write letters. One day he'd quietly gone to Quidditch trials for the local team, Puddlemere United, and was immediately signed as Seeker.
It had been some time since he'd last played Quidditch, and he still looked shaky that season, as if he never slept. But he'd flown like no Seeker ever had, and led Puddlemere to an undefeated record and their first league victory in ten years. The morning after their final match, he'd gotten a call from Morris Whiggam, the coach of England's national team. With Harry aboard, last year had been England's best season in decades, and The Boy Who Lived, recently The Boy Who Defeated You-Know-Who, was now The Boy Who Saved The National Team. If it hadn't been for a painful loss to Ireland in the finals, they would have gone straight to the Cup.
Harry stepped back and caught Hermione's eye; his look was unreadable. Hermione felt an odd disconnect, then realized why. She usually knew what Harry was thinking.
"I hope you both don't mind," he said quietly. "Living with me, I mean. It's not exactly low-profile."
So that was it.
"Of course not, Harry," Hermione began.
"Come on, Harry, don't be silly," said Ron. "I'm used to it anyway. I almost went into it professionally, you know -- Ron Weasley, Sidekick to the Stars."
Harry was grinning again. "So you'll be okay with it, then."
"Oh get out," said Ron, smiling back.
Surprised at her own boldness, Hermione reached out and caught Harry's hand in her own. She squeezed it.
"Very okay," she said.
Harry's eyes met hers. He squeezed back.
"I mean it, though," said Ron. "Get out. You definitely need a shower, Potter."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The sanctity of her own flat was both welcoming and terrifying. Welcoming, because it was a chance to straighten her thoughts, which were clearly in need of organizational attention. Terrifying, because in every room of the flat, Hermione thought of Harry. It just reminded me of you, he'd said in his letter.
It was quite a compliment. The flat, on the top floor of the building, was nestled among the eaves of the roof like a contented cat, all funny angles and cozy corners. It was slightly smaller than Harry and Ron's flats, but it was filled with large south-facing bay windows and built-in bookshelves. Best of all, underneath the bay window across from the sitting room fireplace was a windowseat with giant pink-and-white striped cushions. Crookshanks was curled up on the seat in the fading golden light, and began to purr contentedly as Hermione entered the room.
Shutting herself into the bathroom, which had a lovely claw-footed bathtub -- it just reminded me of you -- Hermione splashed water on her face and attempted to smooth down any wild curls that had escaped into frizz. She'd pull herself together, go back downstairs, and everything would be normal. She was a very logical person, after all, and her feelings could be explained. She was just a bit overwhelmed and happy to see her best friends again. It was causing her to focus on Harry. That was all.
Ron was already in Harry's flat by the time Hermione came downstairs, pulling packages out of a lumpy shopping bag and rummaging in the kitchen cabinets. The flat was filled with the unmistakable aroma of Molly Weasley's famous fried chicken, which brought an instant smile to Hermione's face. Summer nights at the Burrow, eating cold drumsticks and drinking apple cider on the back porch, Harry on one side, Ron on the other. The faint sound of explosions somewhere in the distance -- Fred and George at work on some new bit of terror. And the muttering of garden gnomes as they made their way stealthily back into Mrs.Weasley's tomato patch.
"I hope your mum knows how much I've missed this chicken."
Ron looked up and grinned, handing Hermione an empty salad bowl and a damp head of lettuce as she approached the kitchen counter. "Oh, she knows all too well. She was hoping it would lure the two of you back to the Burrow for the holidays."
Hermione smiled. "It's a distinct possibility."
Ron was now piling the steaming chicken onto a plate; it was still hot, thanks to Mrs.Weasley's warming charm. He waggled his eyebrows at Hermione and licked his fingers, then reached for a piece that had fallen from the plate.
"Ron!"
Ron ignored her disapproving look. "Y'know, after all that's happened, I can't believe we're here. We're living together and having bloody Sunday dinner."
"It's Friday."
"You know what I mean, 'Mione."
Hermione felt her heart swell. "I do. Believe me, I've been thinking about it all day. I couldn't wait for you both to be here."
"I know. Just the three of us." Ron rolled a tomato across the counter and passed Hermione a knife. "I've been nervous about my job, and I hadn't even seen my own flat, but now... now it's like I'm home, or something." He held out his arms to Hermione, grinning. "C'mere."
Hermione moved into Ron's embrace, laughing as he made a big show of not touching her with his chicken-covered hands. Her head almost reached the center of his chest; he was now nearly a foot taller than she was. He smelled gingery, familiar, sweet. She didn't feel dizzy just having him near; she didn't feel like his touch would make her tremble. He just felt like Ron. Good, Hermione thought. I must be feeling better. I must have gotten over whatever was wrong with me earlier.
Ron gave her a long squeeze, then broke away, grabbing a dishtowl to wipe his fingers. "Check for salad dressing, will you? I'm a bit afraid to open Harry's fridge."
"Oh, so you want me to do it then? Thanks."
"You always had a stronger stomach in Potions."
Hermione sighed. "I'll do it. You finish setting out the bread."
There was nothing frightening immediately visible in Harry's refrigerator, but Hermione had to bite her lip to keep from laughing as she swung open the refrigerator door -- the contents were so undeniably Harry. Milk, a six-pack of Broomstick Bitter with two bottles gone, and a half-empty package of Irish-style bacon. Further investigation revealed three eggs, an ancient paper box that may have once contained Chinese takeout, a bottle of catsup, and two chocolate frogs.
"Out of luck," Hermione said, closing the fridge. "Unless you want catsup on your lettuce, that is."
"Let me guess. Milk, beer, and sausage?"
"Bacon today. And two chocolate frogs."
"Serious?"
"Don't you go eating them, Ron, it's half the food in there."
"I won't." Ron grabbed his coat from the back of one of Harry's kitchen chairs. "I'll just pop down to the store and get some dressing then. Back in a flash."
He did mean it. With a soft "pop," Ron vanished, leaving Hermione alone in the kitchen.
She found her eyes moving around the room, taking in Harry's flat properly for the first time. The kitchen was on the small side, but functional, with a tall counter partially separating it from the sitting room, and a table with four chairs in front of one large bay window. Hermione guessed that one of the reasons Harry had chosen this flat was its open layout -- high ceilings, big windows, and a large sitting room fireplace. Roomy, but comfortable. Hermione saw a row of frames arranged haphazardly across the fireplace mantle, and wandered closer to get a better look.
She almost teared up again. In almost every frame, beaming happily and waving, were images of herself and Ron, sometimes with Harry as well. There was a photo of Harry's parents, James Potter looking even more like Harry than ever before, and one of Hagrid, with his arm around Madame Maxime, now the new Mrs.Hagrid. One of Dumbledore, eyes twinkling as usual, and one of all the Weasleys together. One of a certain large black dog. And one -- Hermione lifted the frame to peer at it. One of herself, alone, possibly in the Gryffindor common room. She looked lost in thought, reading a large musty volume. Colin must have taken the photo without her knowing, trying to catch the bookworm in action. How embarassing. Why would Harry keep this old thing?
"Is that THE chicken?"
Harry's shout came from the bathroom, his voice echoing. He must still be in the shower. Hermione's pulse quickened. Stop it, Hermione, she thought. You've seen Harry Potter half-naked dozens of times. He's seen you in a bathing suit and wrapped in a towel. He has buttoned and zipped you up the back if you couldn't do it yourself. Just pull yourself together.
"If you mean Mrs.Weasley's chicken, then yes," Hermione called back, trying to steady her voice, which seemed shakier than usual.
"Thought so. Can smell it from here. Be right out!"
"Take your time, Ron's gone to the -- "
The bathroom door flew open, and Hermione's voice took a quick holiday in mid-sentence as Harry stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist. He was attempting to comb his wet hair into submission, and at first Hermione saw nothing but his scar, the jagged line that ran angrily down one side of his forehead and nearly into one dark eyebrow. And then, seemingly by accident, Hermione's eyes wandered hungrily to the rest of Harry, who suddenly did not look at all like the boy she'd seen half-naked before.
Harry had always seemed endearingly fragile to Hermione, his small, thin frame belying a deep strength that could only be seen on the Quidditch field, or when fighting some manifestation of evil. He was mostly ribs and bony knees, and always looked as if he needed an extra helping of supper, no matter how many extra helpings Mrs.Weasley heaped onto his plate.
But now --
To say Harry had filled out considerably wouldn't have accurately described the change; he'd left behind "painfully thin" and "skinny" and settled comfortably into "athletic" and "slender." It had been apparent under his robes, but Hermione drank in the evidence for the first time, her eyes travelling over his broad shoulders, the smooth muscles of his chest, the strength visible under his pale, cool skin. She felt warmth build somewhere inside and spread quickly up to her cheeks, which instantly blazed with color.
She felt Harry's eyes on her, and looked up to see that he'd gone just as red as she had.
Bloody hell, she'd embarrassed him by blushing. What was the matter with her?
Harry coughed and set down his comb, glancing around the flat. "Er, where's Ron?"
"I'm sorry," she said, not knowing why she was apologizing, not able to meet his gaze. Her cheeks still felt hot. "He went to the store to get something."
As if on cue, a soft "pop" told Hermione that Ron was back. She turned to see him shrugging off his coat in the kitchen, and felt herself go limp with relief.
"Got the dressing. You didn't have much of a selection, Harry -- but good Lord, what has that team been feeding you? Because I think I need some of it."
Ron was staring at Harry now, which filled Hermione with even more relief. See, Harry's really changed, she thought. I couldn't help reacting. She stole another glance at Harry and took a deep breath.
She still wanted to reach out and touch every inch of him.
Not good.
Harry chuckled. "Too much butterbeer, most likely."
Ron grinned. "I don't think so. Looks like a steady diet of exercise, and a whole bloody lot of it."
"I hope that's it. I've put on more than a stone since I moved to London."
"Well you certainly don't fly any slower for it," Ron said. "You're even faster now, and you know it."
Harry smiled wryly. "Easier to dive when gravity's got a better hold on you, maybe."
"Oh, hush," Hermione said, suddenly feeling the need to shift the topic far away from Harry's physique, the image of which was now seared in her mind like a photograph. "Let's not talk about putting on weight since school, I've been terrible."
Ron laughed. "Oh come off it, Hermione."
She expected to hear Harry's easy laugh in response, and found herself looking up at him when it never came. He was staring at her solemnly, his green eyes fixed on hers. Her heart stopped.
"I think you look wonderful," Harry said.
The room fell silent. Harry's gaze didn't waver; for a long moment, Hermione looked back at him, forgetting to breathe, her cheeks tingling with color again.
Harry blinked suddenly and ran a hand through his hair. "What am I doing? Standing around in a towel when there's Weasley chicken getting cold in the kitchen, that's what. Sorry, be right back." He vanished into the bedroom, leaving Hermione staring at the place where he'd just been standing.
Ron cleared his throat. "Hermione? Want to dress the salad?"
She'd been thinking more of undressing Harry, but nearly jumped when she realized it. Good Lord. "Oh! Yes. Sorry."
"You okay?"
"F-fine." Hermione was making a mental note to send herself to bed with a hot cup of tea as soon as they were done with supper. "Bit spaced out. Long day."
Ron nodded, setting out silverware. "Are your classes very hard? I can't believe you're going for a second degree."
"Hard, yes, but very interesting. I have some wonderful professors so far."
Ron smiled and gave her a poke as she set the salad bowl on the table. "You do like those professor types, eh?"
Hermione poked him back. "It's not like that, and you know it. David's been the only one."
"So far."
"Ron!"
"Just saying..."
"Oh, how about you, then? Please, do enlighten me with regard to your fabulous love life."
Ron grinned. "It's been dismal, thanks. The only kicks I get these days involve torturing you about your taste in men."
Harry emerged from the bedroom, ruffling his messy hair, clothed now in a navy jumper and old jeans. "What's this, then? Are we talking about Ron's love life?" He pulled up a chair at the table as the three of them sat down; Ron pretended to toss a piece of chicken at him.
"Nothing to talk about," Ron said, putting the drumstick on his own plate and helping himself to salad. "I think Ginny's got a new love interest, though. You'll never believe it. She'll kill me if I tell you."
Harry and Hermione stared at Ron expectantly.
Ron looked innocent.
"So are we supposed to not kill you after you say something like that?" Hermione began, as Harry chuckled.
"Okay, you twisted my arm." Ron lowered his voice in a conspiratorial whisper. "It's... Colin Creevey."
"Really?" Hermione and Harry chorused together. The three of them broke into laughter.
And for a little while, they were the Trio, sharing supper, exclaiming about Ginny's unlikely romance, washing dishes, as Hermione tried to forget about what had been causing her heart to pound that afternoon, tried to relax and focus on the smiling faces at the table, her two oldest and dearest friends. Just friends.
It was only back in her own flat, after a hot cup of tea and a long bath, as she lay awake in bed and saw only Harry, that Hermione knew nothing would ever be the same.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~