title: salubrious

pairing(s): (eventual) h/g ; r/hr

an: greetings, all. here we are again... I've been sitting on the chapter two prompts in the future for awhile, so now we are one step closer! please leave a review, let me know what you think. to all those that have reviewed or favorited, thank you so much. I'm just here, humbly writing this little fic at the end of my spring break, wondering why the fuck my body decided to give me a fever. Reviews heal my sickness, so. Review. yaknow.

.

salubrious

He realizes that he doesn't have anything to wear.

That is the thought he wakes up with, one day before the memorial service.

The room that would have housed the seventh year boys has been left to them, the "Golden Trio", as he's heard people say. Never to his face, most people who see him just want to convey gratitude or hug him or just stare.

A part of him regrets that he has essentially kicked the rest of the boys his and Ron's year out of their proper home-away-from-home. It resembles yet another inconvenience he has imparted on his friends.

At the same time, he is less tense in their absence.

The night before, he had seen Ron trudge up the stairs carrying a clear garment bag that starkly displayed the somber black color of the cloth it protected.

The room seems quiet and still, he notes, before he opens his curtains. Perhaps Ron and Hermione had gone down to eat already.

Instead, a pensive Hermione is perched on Ron's bed, staring expectantly at him as he appears.

A bit shocked, he opens his mouth to start some sort of speech, but she cuts him off before he can even get started.

"I figured that today we should go into Diagon Alley to get dress robes for the Memorial. I know neither of us want to do that but we have to have something to wear and I never packed anything like that. And it might be too dangerous to go home."

He closes his mouth and nods.

Harry looks around. "Where's—"

"Ron?" she cuts in once again. "He got up earlier and went to be with the rest of them. They're…" at this, her composure slips a bit, but she recovers. "They're finalizing some of the details about… about the funeral."

Harry can't manage a better response than a quiet "oh".

"So," she says sharply on an exhale, "go get dressed. And grab your Invisibility Cloak on the way out."

~.~

Madame Malkin's shop is still standing, though it neither has escaped the war. Things that could have been magic-ed better have been left in disrepair, windows taped with plastic instead of fixed glass, a layer of soot and dust accumulating on the store's sign.

The open sign still rests face up on the door.

Madame Malkins is crouched cautiously behind the counter, wand raised and eyes afraid.

"Show yourself," she demands, but her voice trembles.

Hastily, Hermione and Harry slide the cloak off, revealing themselves with empty hands held high.

Madame Malkins terror quickly morphs from shock to disbelief as she studies them.

"Harry Potter…?" she whispers softly to herself, but he can hear her from where he and Hermione stand in front of the doorway.

"We are incredibly sorry for frightening you," Hermione says, Madame Malkin's eyes flicking quickly to look at Hermione, as if just realizing she was there.

"I hope you understand our discreetness," he apologizes, "Since… since the war ended, it's been difficult to get around peacefully."

His voice seems to shake her out of her stupor.

"Of course, of course," she replies, bustling from around the counter and beckoning them further inside the shop. "What do you need? Something for the memorial?"

"Yes," Hermione replies curtly, and all he can do is nod.

The next thirty minutes are a whirlwind of different sets of robes they need to try on. To Harry, they all look the same, though some fit slightly better than others.

Madame Malkins doesn't comment on his frailness, on how his measurements have definitely decreased, but maybe it is not as evident to her, how what he has been through has physically changed his body.

She seems happy to do something, happy to be doing her job. They don't ask her if business has been slow, but her regular chatter indicates what he guesses to be true.

When she is finally satisfied with both of their garments, they follow her to the counter, where she bags the clothes and pushes them across the surface.

"How much will that be?" he asks, fishing around in his pockets for his change-purse.

"No, no," she smiles waveringly, "No, I won't take your money. Free of charge. Thank you."

Despite their insistence, she manages to shoo them out of the shop without paying. As they put on the Invisibility Cloak and prepare to Apparate back to Hogsmeade, the uncomfortable weight in his stomach never leaves.

Maybe if he pretends that they're only borrowing the clothes, it will go away.