The Best Medicine

There's something lingering in my mind as I wake up. I think it'sMonday morning. I wanted to say something, but I can't remember it right now; I feel a hand nudge me gently, shaking me softly, distracting me from the fuzzy thing I've been dreaming of. I can feel the sun's heat on my blanket, warming me, perhaps overly so. I roll over a bit, half-asleep. I see my rose-colored blanket, like the color of a sunset in a painting, with the pale shape of a hand silhouetted against it. "The alarm hasn't gone off yet, let me sleep," I say quietly.

"I need some eggs," Harry says. "I'm really sorry to wake you up, but I was wondering if you can lend me some."

"Eggs?"I ask, confused, half-asleep still and very unsure of what eggs have to do with anything. "What do you need eggs for? It's so early. It's too early to be asking me for eggs, Harry!" Tired, I become very amused very easily. I laugh and pull the covers over my head, so my giggling is muffled. "It's 6 o'clock in the morning, and you're asking me if I have any eggs - don't you see the humor in this? Oh, it's so early, Harry."

Harry sits on my bed and pulls the covers down from over my head, smiling and not sure if it's really all that funny. Harry is the kind of person who would never yank the covers off you, not even in an emergency. "I'm sorry for waking you up. But I don't have anything left in my house to eat, and you've always got something. I'll make you some, too, if you want," he says, smiling down at me. I make a nod at him, and he gives my hair a tug before getting up and going out of the room.

I lie quietly in bed for five minutes or so more. The sun casts very yellow shadows on my wall. I look out the window, right next to my bed, and see sunrays slip over the city, glide over the buildings and stone of the streets. From my room I can see part of the St. Stephen's Tower - Big Ben, as they call it. It's all lit up with a morning glow, and a dark shadow falls from under it. I hear the very early bustle of the city, see the taxi cabs wind down fast through corners, and feel the rumble of the underground station very near here. There's a faint sizzle in the kitchen; indeed Harry has found the eggs.

I smooth my hands over my legs and know that, despite the little uncomfortable quivers of my heart, life is good.

My alarm goes off. It's a standard magical alarm which chirps like a bird as opposed to the obnoxious blaring. Fortunately, it doesn't go off until I'm completely out of bed. I stumble to my feet, push open my door, and enter the kitchen.

Harry is stirring eggs in my good pan, which I brought from my parents' house when I moved out. He looks so maternal, so at ease doing a basic chore. Even though he's more magically inclined than Ron and I combined, sometimes he likes to do household chores himself, without any help from magic. I think it's partially because he's so used to having done it at the Dursleyhouse, unaware for so long of his capabilities. His life was not so complicated then; it wasn't happy, but it was very simple. I don't blame him for trying to make his life easier, for liking to do things like a normal person, like he's Joe Anybody.

Imagine - Harry Potter likes to make eggs, all by himself, at a little after 6 in the morning, just because he likes to remind himself that he's a human being, that he's real, not just a man you hear about in the gossip column once in a while.

He sees me coming. He finishes up and leaves the eggs to cool, and sits on my counter, which he knows I don't really like, but he's so tall and it's much easier for him. For him I break the rules. I always have.

"I really am sorry to have woken you up - but I don't have anything in my kitchen except for leftovers from dinner three nights ago. It wasn't very good three nights ago, and I doubt it'll be better now," Harry apologized.

I smile and hop onto the counter with him. "It's okay. My alarm went off a few minutes ago. Losing five minutes sleep isn't going to kill me," I tell him. I cock an eyebrow at him. "Did you even try going to Ron's flat?"

Harry shakes his head and laughs. "Of course not; I have to drag Ron with me to go buy food, or he'd never do it himself. I figure that if I'm down to my last bit of food, his shelves have been empty for a week, if not more."

"That would explain why he's been going out with a few of his work partners for the last few days for meals," I chuckle. "It's good that he's made friends at the Quidditch Supply Store, though; I was afraid that he wouldn't, and that he might be shy."

"Apparently not; in fact, he tells me that there's a young lady he's got an eye for. She works behind the counter, making sales, but turns out to be quite the Quidditch expert, and rather pretty, he says," Harry replies. He leans back, lying on the counter as though it were a sofa, crossing his arms behind his head.

I give a sideways smirk, always interested in this topic; Ron's past romantic interests always have been entertaining to see play out. "Hopefully she's not another veela-type," I reply. "I should hope Ron has learned to avoid them by now."

At this, too, Harry snorts and snickers. "The last one was a half-veela, wasn't she? I saw her once; she looked so pale and eerie, like a unicorn," he comments. "And didn't she have a drinking problem? Sounds like a bad combination."

"Oh, didn't Ron tell you about that? There was a terrible incident, and she got quite intoxicated with pomegranate liquor, and they ended up at St. Mungo's. Needless to say, I think Ron figured out himself to get out of that relationship," I reply, giving a slight smile. "Poor Ron."

Harry gives a similar smile, but seems somewhat aloof. He sits for a moment, mumbling likewise sympathies for Ron. I glance up at the ceiling where he's looking. "Let's get some eggs, shall we?" he says suddenly, sitting up, not making a look at me. I get us both plates and forks, and once we're settled with full plates at the table, Harry starts talking again. "Hermione, I have a somewhat serious question for you."

I nod. "Let's hear it. What seems to be the problem?" I ask, and stab a forkful of egg.

"Do you think I should start dating again?" he asks, leaning forward. There is a curiosity in his gaze, his glasses somewhat askew, hiseyes bigger behind them, bolder, greener, more inquisitive.

I chew, and try to swallow. I can't, because my throat hurts, and deep down in my chest, behind my heart. So, this painful subject is breached once more. I make a brief escape route for my eyes, looking down, not trying to think of an answer even to his question, but trying to think how I can avoid from showing that I can never answer this question honestly.

I manage to catch my breath. "Do you think you should?" I ask very evasively.

He makes a shrugging motion and prods his eggs with the end of his fork, seeming to have suddenly lost his appetite. "I don't know. I'm kind of lonely," he confesses.

Now I really can't eat. I feel like I've got the worst case of heartburn, but eggs don't give you that. Harry just said he was "lonely," as though he was "alone." But I have always been there for him. I went looking for clues for Harry when the Chamber of Secrets was opened, and was petrified by the sight of that serpent for him. I stayed up late to let him copy my homework that I worked so hard on. I defended him against Malfoy. I told him when Ron broke his arm and needed help that he should go ahead, because he was the hero, not me. I stepped up to fight, and was clever and broke rules and ran from Filch and did so many things that I never knew I could, and knew I shouldn't - all for Harry. I've been his sidekick, breaking all my own morals, all my own boundaries, getting rid of parts of myself, because he needed me to. I would give up more than that for him. I would give everything, if he so much as asked.

If I could step in front of him and take a blow for him, take the problem away for him, I would, always, if I knew he needed it. Haven't I always? And he calls himself "lonely," as though he has absolutely no one in the world.

Harry seems to see that I'm not saying anything, and opens his mouth to speak again. "Maybe this isn't something you can understand. Maybe I should just ask Ron," he says.

"Why?" I manage to ask. "Because I'm - a girl?"

"No - well, maybe." Harry fidgets uncomfortably, and I know why he was so hesitant and uneasy about asking. He puts down his fork, as though he can't swallow either. It clatters. "Maybe it's not so much that I'm lonely, but - I've never had a good relationship, not ever, Hermione. It makes a person - kind of itchy, and impatient."

"If you're going to say you think it's your fault, it's not," I reply coolly, trying to be unspecific, general, unbiased.

"No, no. I wasn't going to say that. But I mean - haven't you ever just wanted to have somebody to hold you, Hermione?" Harry asks me very suddenly. I feel my hand suddenly shake, and I hope he's not waiting for an answer, because I just was asked a question that I can't raise my hand and call out the response to. I simply - do not know, and it startles me. Harry apparently feels awkward at my silence, and puts his head in his hands.

He goes on, "I mean, not just someone who you can talk to, and laugh with, but haven't you wanted someone who will - someone who you can fall asleep with in bed, and wake up in the morning with, like it's the most normal thing in the world? Haven't you wanted someone who will just kiss you, and not even question it? It would be real casual and all that," he said.

Again, I note how my hands are very shaky, and how I don't know what to say, or what to feel, but I can almost hear my heart in my chest, thundering like the underground train rolling to a halt in the station down the street.

He gets frustrated, and puts his fist on the table, like he's grappling with himself. "I don't know what I'm talking about," he says irritably, "so never mind."

"Okay," I reply. But when I look up at him, he's trying to say something again. "I mean, you can keep going if you want."

Harry blushes, as though he's embarrassed to be revealing all of this to me. Harry looks at me. "I want to - be in love, Hermione. Not just to love someone, but be in love with them. I've never felt that. And I'm getting old. I'm 23 and I've never been in love. People start getting married at this age. It's not that I'm unhappy, but that -"

He pauses, looking down at his eggs again. He looks out the window, at the floor. He looks everywhere but at me. "I've been through a lot in my life, Hermione. Both of us have. And I sometimes feel like I've gotten the short end of the deal. I've seen and felt death, depression, fear, the greatest loss, but I've never been in love." He gives a little laugh. "Doesn't that seem kind of unfair to you?"

I crack a smile, too. "Yeah, it seems very unfair," I remark calmly, trying to soothe the sparks going off all the way down my chest.

"Do you think I'm being unreasonable, though? Maybe I'm just really impatient," he admits. He glances at the clock on my wall. "I'm going to be late for training, Hermione. Thank you for listening - and thanks for the eggs."

"Of course," I say, too dazed to speak more than five words at a time. I turn around to watch him go. He places his plate and fork in the sink and quickly sets a spell to work to clean them up. I sigh and know that, despite anything we might hope, life is indeed very complicated these days.

He thanked me for the eggs, I tell myself.

Angry, and not sure why this upsets me so much, I put my dishes in the sink, too, and leave the spell running on. I head into my room to take a shower and get ready for classes, trying to not think about what just happened, because I don't know what to make of his questions.

All I know is that if there was anyone I would want to just hold me, it would have to be Harry.

~

The topic doesn't come up until later that night. After his Aurortraining for the day, Harry comes over to my flat to ask me a question about a subject in his book. Halfheartedly, in the middle of talking it over, he asks me, "Why aren't you dating, Hermione?"

I pause. "I don't have time, Harry," I say with a sigh, exasperated and frustrated because part of me feels like I'm not being honest. "I have a lot of schoolwork to do. And, besides, if I dated, I wouldn't be able to help you with your work at night," I add teasingly, to keep the conversation light.

We are sitting on my old blue couch in my sitting room, his book between us and the window with the city's twinkling lights and mayhem behind us, far away, out the window and out of our world. Harry stretches his long legs out a little, chuckling.

Then he scoots a little closer to me, tilting his head. "You should date, though," he says, as though it's a fact, putting his arm behind my back on the couch.

"Why?" I ask, lacking emotion purposefully in my voice so that he doesn't know how curious I am.

He pats at his hair thoughtlessly, looking at me with a green glance that unnerves me, because I know he's scrutinizing me. At times like these, even when he's looking at me real hard, he feels so distant. "Well, you're pretty," he finally tells me softly. "You could get a lot of guys."

Wait.

He called me "pretty." He complimented me. He complimented my looks. Harry thinks I'm - pretty.

I feel the color rush into my cheeks faster than a lightning strike and a slight smile crack on my face. I look down at the writing in the textbook, not even sure if I can manage any words. No, I certainly can't speak. I glance up at him. Harry looks amused at me, which only makes me blush more, because I know he's still looking at me, and I wonder if he's still thinking about my looks, or if he thinks about it often.

"You really think so?" I ask hesitantly and quietly.

Harry's smile widens. He gives a sort of obvious shrug. "Of course I think so," he answers simply. His hand behind me on the couch brushes against my hair. "You're beautiful." He says it like it's a fact, like it's natural to say, like I knew that.

Beautiful.

At this, I chuckle, like a schoolgirl, childishly, and am distraught and feel silly to let words like "pretty" and "beautiful" get to me, but it was said by Harry, whom I can't decide how to feel towards, but - it felt like pieces fell together when he said that to me.

Suddenly, Harry gets sort of uncomfortable, and I see the distantness back in his face, like he doesn't understand my reaction, which is reasonable, because I can't even understand my reaction. He looks down at the book. Maybe he didn't mean it to be such a compliment. Maybe he's just trying to be nice to me. Maybe that's just something you say to your friends, because you just don't think they'll take it so seriously -- because your friend isn't supposed to be in love with you, anyway.

I struggle for reason, and try to keep my head on straight, and stop giggling suddenly. "Well, I mean - it takes a lot more to get a guy than looks, Harry," I say quickly, cliché as it might be.

He shrugs. "Oh, sure, but you've got plenty going for you, Hermione." He says it in a casual manner, just like he wants his romance to be - casual and easy and, moment by moment, I think I could be falling in love with him.

He suddenly brushes me off. Harry looks away, to the side, like maybe a picture has caught his eye on my wall. Is it just words that he's saying? Now he turns from me, like - like he only half-meant it.

Does he know what he's doing? Does he know what he's saying?

I'm about to say something, but Harry interrupts me. "Besides, Hermione, I think it'd make you happier," he says, shifting in his seat and pulling his arm back from behind me. He pulls the book a little closer to himself. "It would be fun. I'm sure there's a lot of guys out there who would be just perfect for you, who you could really click with."

I feel my stomach twist. The words "a lot of guys" seem to refer to other guys, as in guys other than Harry.

Harry, so comfortable, a culmination of everything in life that I've enjoyed in the more than 10 years I've known him - could it be any other way than him and me? Doesn't he see how obvious it is? It works, this idea of him being together with me. Two friends, best friends, who would go to the end for each other - isn't it only natural that they should fall in love?

I could be everything he wants, the one that he could just - fit with.

I lean back stiffly where his arm was, giving a semblance of an appreciative smile. "You seem to think it'll do me real good, Harry. But I told you, I'm - happy where I am right now. What could make me happier?"

He grins at me boyishly. "I bet there are lots of those smart-types out there, with big glasses and backpacks as big as yours - well, maybe not quite as big," Harry tells me, half-teasingly, maybe. "You could talk with a guy like that for hours all about The History of Hogwarts, and stay up all night studying for your university classes."

I just keep thinking that Harry has big glasses.

Harry doesn't know anything. But he laughs at himself, because he thinks he does. His mood has suddenly gone from off-kilter to mischievous. He leans in. "Or," he whispers, his smile twisted, "you could stay up all night - 'studying.'" I laugh, too, trying to pretend that everything is normal as can be. I wish he wouldn't talk to me about "studying."

"I think I would rather spend my time I actually studying, Harry! It would be horrible to show up to class, not being prepared for a lecture, and then having to explain how I didn't prepare because I was kissing someone all night long -" I stop, embarrassed. "Oh, I don't even want to think about it."

"All right, then. We won't think about it," he says, getting serious again. "Aren't you supposed to be helping me actually study, anyway?" His tone is somewhat vexed, somewhat playful - unsure.

"Um - we were talking about shield spells," I say awkwardly. He blows hot and cold on me - and we fall into the monotonous cycle of book reading.

~

It'sseveral days later. Darkness has fallen hard tonight, and I'm rushing frantically around. I slam my bedroom door closed and fumble with my lock, impatiently, worriedly. My hands reach for a shirt, a black skirt in my closet, some shoes that don't fit well but look nice enough.

The door to my flat opens. I hear it open with a burst. I hear Harry's footsteps, falling down on my floor. I know it's Harry because he steps heavier than Ron does, and he doesn't shuffle. My heart starts to race, his presence making me even weaker, even more afraid.

He knocks on my bedroom door. "Hermione, are you in there?" he asks, seeming to be very rushed.

"Harry, I'm getting dressed. You're going to have to wait," I reply nervously, trying to do up the last few buttons on my shirt.

"Well, will you be long? It shouldn't take this long for you to get dressed." I hear him pacing a bit, and I can't tell if he's upset or if he's excited.

I leave a button undone and fling open the door, almost hitting him with it. He steps back, and gives me a triumphant sort of smile.

"Would you let me get dressed, please, Harry? I'm going to be late," I say shakily. Harry seems to be glad to at least be able to talk to my face rather than the door. He comes in and sits on my bed and watches me fidget self-consciously in front of the mirror.

"I'm shocked that I'm the last to hear this news," he says lightly, leaning back and propping himself up with one elbow. "I can't believe you didn't tell me you have a date tonight."

"So, Ron must have told you," I say, trying to pin up my hair. "I told him not to say anything, but I guess he couldn't keep his mouth shut."

"Well, you didn't tell me, so I had to find out from somebody," he says, partially amused. Now, glancing back in the mirror, I see he is partway smirking, but also trying to hide his amusement. "Why didn't you want me to know?" Harry asks, looking at my face in the mirror quietly, muffling a smile.

"Because I knew you'd come in," I explain, trembling, "and you would be asking me about this - this date." I put emphasis on the word, just like he did. I struggle to put up another strand of hair and it falls out again. Frustrated, I stab at it repeatedly.

I go on, "And - I knew you'd be asking about who the guy is, and if he's a smart type like you said - and you would take all the credit for having encouraged me into it. And you -"

I pause, my eyes getting watery, and I throw down the hairpin.

"These pins - they don't work. My hair's too thick for them --"

"Just leave it down, Hermione," Harry says, standing up and smoothing out my hair, suddenly solemn. "And don't cry, please, don't. Your hair looks fine down." He looks at my face in the mirror again. "I didn't mean to upset you."

I know that Harry doesn't mean to. But he doesn't even know what he's talking about, like usual.

I'm standing here all dressed up for someone else and it doesn't feel right, especially with Harry right behind me, touching my hair. I feel like I'm going out on a date and it's some sort of revenge - revenge again him for not seeing the obvious, revenge to prove that he's right and I might be pretty after all.

But I don't want to fight anyone. Harry told me to go out on a date, but I feel like I'm fighting myself, and that I'm not proving anything.

I just don't know.

He smoothes out my hair some more, and I don't say anything. This was all Harry's idea, and now I'm crying all over my dark shirt, because I don't know what I want to do. Maybe I should cancel, or maybe I should go kill Ron, or maybe--

"Hermione," he says. "You don't have to go if you don't want to."

"But, Harry --" I begin to say, but he turns me around so that my back is to the mirror, and I'm pinned between and a reflection of my sorry self.

"Hermione, listen to me. Don't feel pressured to go on a date just because I said so. If you say you're happy how things are, then don't go out. I don't want you to be upset," Harry tells me. His eyes are dead serious behind his glasses.

"He's a nice guy, though," I say quietly, looking up at Harry, and it suddenly strikes me that he's holding me close to comfort me, and that his shirt is warm. "And - he does have big glasses." I give a small sort of smile, and he smiles, too, and we almost understand each other for a second.

"Your call," he says. He gives me a small kiss on the forehead, and lets me go before I can fathom that, yes, Harry just kissed me on the forehead. He turns to go and leave, and, desperately, I know I have to say something, because I just can't let him walk out, thinking that he made me upset. I can't just let my best friend walk out of my flat, right after I've been crying, because I need him right now instead.

"Harry?" I call out, and he stops to turn around. "Harry, do you mind if I change out of these clothes and come over to your flat instead, and I can make you soup -" I suddenly am aware how stupid I am, how lovesick to be bribing him with soup.

Flustered, I start again. "I mean, I think it would be better if I didn't go and stayed put instead."

Harry nods. "If you come over, I can make some soup for you. It'll make you feel better," he says quietly. "And - you still have a pin in your hair, over on the right side." I reach up, glancing in the mirror to pull it out, and I hear the front door close.