Three Seasons to Closure

Chapter 9. Just like Old Times

As the weeks passed, the two friends continued to spend a lot of time together. They began to take it for granted that they would not only go out on Saturdays and Sunday services, but Sunday afternoon as well had become a regular affair. Harry and Hermione fell into a pattern whereby they spent nearly all of their weekend meals in each other's company. Friday nights, however, were still spent apart.

Harry was finding his breakup with Tiffany to be most distressing. She'd showed up at his flat a few times to sob on his shoulder, begging him to say that he was wrong. During these visits, he had tried to treat Tiffany with gentleness and respect, but Harry couldn't help but find his former girlfriend's loss of control torturous to endure. On the last visit, Harry had carefully repeated that he couldn't lie to her - no matter how much he wanted to, and Tiffany had stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

On the next day, Harry received a howler to his office, earning him a week's worth of jeers from his fellow Aurors. The red envelope was delivered with perfect timing - just as Harry was about to begin his weekly review of the case he'd been working on, and was witnessed by no less than twelve of his colleagues, and two supervisors. The day following the howler, Tiffany sent an owl with a long letter of apology, and that was the last Harry had heard from her.

Although he no longer had to endure the tears and yelling, Harry did not soon think he'd overcome the guilt that hovered in his chest, tightening like a vice whenever he ran across something that reminded him of the failed relationship. The sight of a feminine personal item left in his bathroom or a glimpse of a blond-haired witch would suffice to send Harry a fresh jolt of suffocating guilt. He had caused pain, quite a lot of it, to a really great witch. This kind of wrong-doing, Harry found, would not be overcome by exercise. In fact, the only times during the week that Harry ever felt good were when he was with Hermione.

Harry began to look forward to his and Hermione's get-togethers more and more as the days passed, and it was with a tremendous amount of reserve that he held back from suggesting that they meet on Fridays as well... or for that matter, during the week. He did not want to smother his friend with his own need. It had also occurred to Harry that Hermione needed the chance to find her own relationship. And so, he played darts at the Muggle bar around the corner from his flat every Friday night, with a heart full of guilt and a longing to be sitting on his best friend's sofa.

On a Friday evening, several weeks after suggesting to Harry that he end things with Tiffany, Hermione paced in her bedroom. She had decided to take the dark-haired Theodore up on his offer for a date ten days ago, and they had since gotten together three times for a night out at the University's pub. Tonight, they were going out to dinner.

As she primped, Hermione tried to get excited.

"He's nice," she reminded herself. "He's smart. He likes birds." Hermione struggled to find something more exciting to tell herself about Theodore. "He isn't ugly." She winced.

"Oh, that's awful. Hermione Granger, get over yourself or you're going to die a very old, very lonely witch!" she berated as she bent over to slide a black pump over her foot, finishing off her "date" outfit.

A knock came on Hermione's door precisely at eight o'clock.

"He's punctual," she thought, appending her mental List of Positive Things to Say about Theodore.

They Apparated to a wizarding village about a hundred miles south of London, which seemed unnecessary to Hermione as London hosted some of the best restaurants in all of the United Kingdom. When they finally arrived at the swanky French establishment, La Petit Mason, Theodore took Hermione's arm and walked her to the entrance.

"I think you're going to love this place," Theodore gushed as the two were ushered to the back of the restaurant and seated at a lovely banquette that was lavishly upholstered. Hermione took in the restaurant's décor and smiled uncomfortably. If the quality of La Petit Mason's heavily gilded doors and crystal light fixtures were any indication of the establishment's prices, she thought, this was going to be an uncomfortable date indeed. Surely Theodore wouldn't have presumed to take her to a fancy restaurant just yet, would he?

"It's lovely," she returned, placing a hand oh-so-delicately on top of Theodore in a determined effort to appear genuinely pleased, and not frightened out of her gourd.

As the evening unfolded, Hermione was trying so hard to find Theodore interesting that she found herself to be coming off as slightly condescending.

"I visited France last summer on Holiday," Theodore offered at one point during the main course.

"Oh, did you?" Hermione practically rose from her chair as she responded. "How wonderful! What was it like?"

Theodore pursed his lips, "It was nice. Haven't you said that you'd been to France many times?" he asked.

"Oh yes," Hermione said, fiddling with her fork and feeling quite silly. "Um...what part of France do you say you visited?"

The conversation continued in this semi-excruciating manner all the way through dessert. It was a great relief to Hermione when Theodore finally suggested that they get back, and offered her an arm to begin the grueling process of journeying home. He valiantly took Hermione through the myriad of Apparition points and landed her at long last in an alley near her apartment building, from which point they walked to her flat in silence. Theodore smiled as they entered the lobby and walked to the door of her flat, but he wore an expression that suggested a fair bit of disappointment.

Hermione was furious with herself. She had been an appalling date. Theodore had obviously gone to a lot of trouble to plan something special, and in return he got to spend the evening with someone who acted more the part of his babysitter than his romantic interest. She was a spoiled witch and a louse of a date. Spoiled, because she spent two days out of each week in the company of one of the most interesting and fun - not to mention handsome - wizards in all of England. How could anyone else seem worth her time?

"I had a great time, Hermione," Theodore said, looking straight into her Hermione's eyes and reaching to grab her hands. "Thank you," he continued, as he leaned over and attempted to kiss her.

"Ummm," Hermione muttered, turning her head and landing Theodore's kiss on her cheek. "I did too," she lied. "Thank you. Thank you very much." She watched with remorse as her date bid her goodbye and marched awkwardly down the hall, disappearing from view.

"Alohamora!"

The door to Hermione's flat flew open and she slammed it shut behind her, not even bothering to check if any Muggles had witnessed her flagrant wand flourishing.

"Damn you, Harry!" she shouted to no one. "Who's going to measure up, huh? Who?"

Hermione paced violently around her flat, venting her frustrations.

"Who on Earth is going to seem interesting when your childhood was practically a Shakespearian tragedy? You still fight dark wizards with all your secrecy and fancy spell work. Answer me this, Harry - you with the dark eyelashes and sexy teeth!" She was shouting now, her face pink with anger. "Who am I going to want to spend time with when I practically fall over the chance to watch toast dry with Harry Bloody Potter!"

The frazzled witch blustered about her flat, changing her clothes and washing her face. She flung herself down on her sofa and swatted her wand in the direction of the television. Flicking through the channels, she finally felt herself begin to relax. "Calm down, Hermione," she scolded aloud. "It was just a bad date. Not every witch and wizard are meant to be together."

She gave her wand another quick, downward thrust to turn the television off, disgusted with the poor selection of shows. Hermione rested her head on the deep cushion.

"And stop blaming poor Harry for everything," she added.

The next morning, Harry's face appeared in Hermione's fireplace at ten past seven. He was just about to call on her when he saw a sleeping form on the sofa.

"Have a rough night?"

Hermione jumped. Being woken up by a raspy voice issued from a face-shaped flame was scary to say the least. It took a few moments for Hermione to gain her bearings.

"Who's there? Wha'? Sofa. Right. Oh, Harry. Okay, everything's fine."

Harry laughed. It was always a treat to catch Hermione Granger without her full faculties. Watching her putter about trying to figure out where she was and who or what was talking to her was...priceless.

"Yes. Everything's okay," Harry said. "So, want to join me for a Quidditch game? We'll have to use a Portkey, and walk a bit due to the volume of fans but --"

Hermione cut him off. "Quidditch?" She was just about to suggest something else for them to do, but Harry was prepared.

"Ron will be there," he said.

Bolting into sitting position, Hermione practically squeaked at Harry in the fireplace. "Ron! Oh Harry, I haven't seen Ron since Christmas! Are Sally and the kids coming as well?"

"Yes, all of them. I'd like to stop off at Diagon Alley to get some gifts for the little ones, if that's all right?" Harry said, waiting for a reply, his smirking image flickering in the fire.

"Oh, Harry, yes! Yes, I'd love to go. Come right over, I'll get ready as fast as I can. You can make us some breakfast while you wait." Hermione dashed out of the room, neither bothering to say "Goodbye" to Harry nor worrying that it might be rude to ask him to fix them a meal.

When Harry and Hermione arrived at Diagon Alley, they found that it was mostly empty on this chilly September morning. They spent an hour fiddling with toys and spell books in Miss Monica's Toy Cupboard - a brightly-colored store that was full to bursting with books, toys, and talking advertisements. It felt to Hermione that it was rather a shock to the senses to walk into such an establishment just after having woken up. After browsing for a bit more, she suggested that since Ron had two toddlers, one of each sex, she should pick out the girl toy and Harry should select something for the boy.

"It's not like we know what we're doing!" Harry said. "Neither of us had any toys like this when we were their age." Harry was holding a stuffed dragon and petting it. He yelped and jumped back when the toy dragon blew fire at him.

"Not that I had toys of any kind," he muttered softly.

Harry stated this simply, probably not realizing that he'd spoken at all. But Hermione's heart stopped instantly. She felt her face grow cold as Harry's off-handed comment penetrated her faculties. It had never occurred to Hermione that a child - any child, much less a child that she would later come to know - could be so neglected. No toys at all? Her eyes misted and her throat tightened.

Among all the colors and sounds in Miss Monica's little shop, Hermione sank deep into her own world, hearing nothing and seeing only what was forming inside her head. In her mind, a small dark-haired boy sat on a vacant floor with a tear-stained face. The boy was watching a large, fat boy with blond hair play with trucks and balls, his side of the room representing a veritable toy store while the dark-haired boy sat alone.

"No. They couldn't have. They wouldn't have!" she heard herself say.

Hermione tried to reach out to the little boy Harry inside her head to tell him that it would be okay. "In a few years, you'll have all the money you need. Just hang in there," she wanted to tell him. Hot tears fell down her face as Hermione suddenly recalled another detail that Harry had recently let slip.

"Harry," Hermione choked, turning her head to face a very frightened looking Harry, "why did Hogwarts address your acceptance letter to 'The Cupboard under the Stairs?'"

She held her breath and tried to act as if this was just a casual question, wiping her eyes and picking up a banshee doll, pretending to examine it.

Harry's face froze. With one tiny question, Hermione saw her dragon-battling Auror of a friend turn into a wispy ghost. The look on Harry's face let her know that he was not going to discuss this subject under any circumstances. Briefly, Hermione wondered if he was deciding whether or not to use a memory charm on her. She sniffed and summoned up her Gryffindor courage as she continued in as nonchalant of a manner as she could manage.

"A few weeks ago, when you were still with Tiffany, you mentioned it...in a third party sort of way."

"Oh," Harry said, swallowing. The toy dragon bit him and he pulled his thumb away, looking at the toy. "Nothing, really. It's just where the Dursley's kept their mail."

Harry took a deep breath and added, "I'm all done now, I think. This wizard-eating dragon is just the thing for Ron's pride and joy, no?" He had a hopeful look now, clearly considering the subject of his Hogwarts letters settled. "The fire doesn't hurt, it actually feels cold."

Hermione, for some reason unknown to herself, couldn't let the subject drop. She knew it was reckless to be so inconsiderate of the fact that Harry obviously didn't want to discuss it. It was calculably stupid to risk putting a rift in their friendship, but she couldn't help herself. She had to find out.

"No, Harry. People don't keep their mail in cupboards."

She sat down on the floor, leaning against a shelf full of colorful costumes.

Harry stood above his friend, breathing hard. "Just drop it, Hermione. There's nothing there." He spoke through clenched teeth and his voice was angry now.

"No," Hermione continued, tears falling down her cheeks, "people don't put mail in cupboards. And I know how that correspondence spell works, Harry. It finds the intended receiver wherever they are."

She looked up at Harry. He was livid but she didn't care. Her heart was breaking.

"Those monsters! Those evil trolls! They locked a little boy up in a cupboard!"

Hermione started to sob uncontrollably, her shoulders were shaking and her voice came cracked. Hermione and Harry and Ron, their bond was as strong as welded steel. She adored them and they admired her. How had she and Ron let Harry down like this? How could they not have known?

"Oh, Harry," she cried, "I'm so sorry. All these years...Why didn't I ever ask this before? Your childhood at the Dursleys...I feel so selfish..."

Burying her face in her hands, Hermione gave in to a full-out breakdown. She let herself cry until she felt Harry stoop down next to her and place a heavy arm around her shoulder.

"Shh...Come on now," he was saying. "Look, do you see me crying?"

Hermione looked up at his vague expression. But seeing his handsome face only reminded her of the cute little boy she'd been picturing in her head, and she sobbed again. She was lost. Harry hadn't come up with a second denial, and the fact the skinny little Harry Potter had considered a cupboard to be his room in that dreadful household sat with her like poison. His little self had clearly taken note that someone, somewhere had discovered the Dursley's nasty secret, or he wouldn't have remembered where the letters were addressed to at all. Hermione felt a rush of despair. What else had he endured? What else had little Harry been deprived of while she had been lavished with books and entertainment and hugs and kisses? Hermione couldn't stop crying, oblivious to the stress that she was causing her friend to endure.

"That's it. We're getting you out of here," Harry said forcefully, and he Apparated them both to Hermione's flat. He gingerly walked the sobbing witch over to her sofa and laid her down, combing her hair with his fingertips to unstick it from her soppy face and neck. Hermione gave a sniff and looked up at Harry.

"Be back in a bit," he said, and he disappeared into her kitchen.

"OK," Hermione told herself. "Stop. Look at Harry. You're making him feel dreadful."

She took a deep breath. Being back in her own home, Hermione was beginning to come to her senses and realized that she was giving Harry a good deal of unneeded drama. She closed her eyes, sitting up, and summoned a box of tissues from the bathroom. Blinking back tears and blotting her nose, Hermione drew a bit of comfort from the clinking sounds of a teapot and porcelain mugs slapping against each other which was coming from the kitchen area.

"Get it together. Just get it together," she pleaded with herself. "You're not helping him now. He's a grown wizard. You're only embarrassing him, and now he's off making you tea."

Even as she thought this, Hermione realized that if she knew Harry - and she did - she also knew that he would be feeling more shameful than anything as he busied himself in his best friend's kitchen. This last thought had the unfortunate effect of reinvigorating Hermione's sorrow, and she began to sob again. What it was that had gotten into her, Hermione did not know. She only knew what she felt at the time - regret, sadness, anger, injustice, and a strong desire to fix something.

"I've put the tea on. Muggle style, I...I don't know the spells," Harry said, sitting beside Hermione on the sofa. "Shh...it'll only be a little while now." Harry grabbed a handful of tissues and began to dab at Hermione's face. "You're a right mess. You won't be chatted up by any Quidditch players looking like this." He gave a tiny smile and set the tissue box down on the sofa table.

Harry was uncomfortable. Exceedingly uncomfortable. He had no idea what had happened to Hermione, and he wished terribly that he would have come up with a better reason for the stupid cupboard address. His closest friend was crying harder than he'd ever seen her cry, and he hated himself for being the cause. And now he needed to pull her out of this fit, which made Harry feel vastly inadequate.

Situations that called for comforting used to expose the worst of Harry's faults. He was sterile and stiff. Many of his early arguments with girlfriends, in fact, revolved around his being "unfeeling". Slowly, though, he had learned that if he copied certain things that he'd seen the girlfriend do to comfort others, she would seem appeased. Over time, in fact, putting an arm around someone or patting their back became more or less second nature. Harry had purged himself of the last remnants of his upbringing. He felt as normal as any wizard.

Why then, he thought, was Hermione trying to paint him as some kind of invalid? He felt a small amount of anger beginning to creep back in as he watched his friend struggle to regain her composure. Harry crinkled his forehead and stared at Hermione. She had lifted her head and was sort of petting his hair now. It felt odd. She lifted her other hand and cradled his face, saying, "Sorry. I'm so sorry. I should've helped."

Harry stared at her.

"Poor little thing..." Hermione continued, sitting up and turning toward Harry, cupping his face again with her hands.

A wet face suddenly lunged forward and planted a kiss on Harry's right cheek. Then left cheek. Forehead. Chin. Harry fought to keep from saying something hurtful and his friend now placed her hot, wet lips directly on his, planting a firm kiss there and holding it for several seconds before giving over to sobs again.

"I'm sorry," she muttered.

Hermione was still holding Harry's face with both hands, and he didn't think he would be able to escape easily. Her emotions were off the scale, and Harry didn't want to do anything to upset her further. Keeping careful eye contact, he removed his head from his friend's grasp cautiously and rifled through his brain for clues as to what was going on.

"This," thought Harry, "is precisely why I don't tell anyone about the Dursley years." He had lived through it, hadn't he? And, he considered, he hadn't turned out too badly by most standards. He had a decent job, hadn't blown his inheritance or anything stupid, and then there's the small matter of him having vaporized Voldemort, wasn't there? Unveiling details of his earliest years to the few people in this world that he loved would only serve to cause those people pain. And Harry never wanted to give Vernon and Petunia Dursley that kind of power over anyone he cared about, not ever. He had protected himself...in his own way, and now he could protect his friends too by keeping the more unsettling anecdotes buried deeply and forgotten about.

He was touched, though, by the depth of emotion that Hermione seemed to be feeling on his behalf. For all its bizarreness, this was not an altogether unenjoyable turn of events. When she leaned over again and started smoothing Harry's hair down, he decided that it was time to take action. "Right," he said. "You've gone completely over the edge if you think you can make my hair stay flat!" Was she insane?

Harry marched into the kitchen and returned with a steaming mug of tea. "Drink this. Relax a bit, and freshen up. It'll make you feel better. Okay?" he pleaded, pushing the mug into Hermione's hands and lifting it to her mouth.

She accepted the cup and drank, and Harry took the opportunity to study her, smiling.

"You know," he said, "it wasn't that bad."

Hermione looked up at him, her tear-soaked eyes looked almost eerie as they reflected the light in the room.

"It was a large cupboard, big enough for a cot and plenty of space to spare. I didn't fret about it...it was normal to me," Harry added. He ruffled his friend's hair and smiled again. "You know, it all ended shortly after I started at Hogwarts, anyway."

Harry was looking directly into Hermione's eyes now, willing his words to drill into her skull and replace whatever misconceptions she'd conjured up in there. "Everything was better - I was happy once I went to Hogwarts," he said. "My childhood, as I remember it, began the day I got that letter."

Hermione smiled back and grabbed more tissues. She dabbed her eyes and wiped her nose in a very unglamorous fashion. "Sorry," she said in a small voice. "Must be some kind of maternal instinct coming out of me..."

Harry gave an uncomfortable chuckle. "Well, I may not remember my Mum, but I'm fairly certain she never gave me a kiss like that!"

"Harry!" Hermione shrieked, smacking his arm hard. Her face was drawn in a look of astonishment, embarrassment and disgust, all rolled into one. "Don't say things like that!"

"Sorry," Harry apologized. "You okay here for a bit while I go back and get the toys?" Hermione nodded. "Good. Just pull yourself together, I'll be right back." She nodded again. "Mum."

"Harry!" Hermione shouted to an empty room as Harry had already Apparated back to Diagon Alley.

A much more cheerful Hermione sat between her two oldest and most cherished friends in a bleacher high above the ruckus of a Chudley Cannons match. Ron and his wife, Sally, sat to Hermione's left, and Harry sat to her right. Two darling little children, Jonathon and Sarah, kept themselves entertained by climbing up and down in their seats and eating a huge assortment of finger food.

It was difficult to hold a proper conversation, Hermione was finding. She and Sally exchanged small talk by bending forward and talking over Ron. Poor Sally never seemed to be able to complete a single sentence, as one or the other of her children kept tapping her on the elbow or yelling "Mummy!". Ron and Harry were bending forward in similar fashion to talk over Hermione, adding to the chaos. Then, of course, there was the matter of a very loud Quidditch game being played out below them.

Yet, Hermione had to conclude that she was having a great time. She missed Ron terribly. They were a very different sort of friends, she and Ron. "Definitely platonic, there," she thought as she gave him a small smile. Ron winked, and then turned back to Harry.

"Platonic." The word echoed inside Hermione's head again as she thought about the "liberties" that she and Harry were prone to take lately. Although she felt that she should probably feel strange about their new level of closeness, she somehow couldn't bring herself to do it. Whatever she and Harry had created for themselves, it fit her like a favorite pair of pajamas. A huge roar erupted in the stands, having something or other to do with the match, but Hermione barely heard it. "I've never been happier," she thought, struck with the preposterousness of this notion. But, wasn't it true?

As the game proceeded, Hermione fell back from conversation a few more times to reminisce, sneaking glances at the laughing and smiling Ron, who was obsessing over flying moves and bludger fouls with Harry. The three friends, though thick as thieves during their school years, had been gently dissected into "Hermione and Harry" and "Ron and Harry" over time. This was probably due to the fact that Ron and Hermione had once been a couple, and because Ron was now a married wizard. Married people just didn't keep friends of the opposite sex.

Hermione tried not to think of how she would feel when Harry eventually married. There was no doubt in her mind that it would reshape their friendship into the same kind of distant, though loving, relationship that she now shared with Ron. She knew it was terribly selfish of her, but couldn't help but hope it wouldn't be too soon.

The six went to dinner at a nearby pub and then went about the sad business of parting ways. Hermione hugged everyone, and each of the children politely recited, "Thank you for the lovely toys!"

Hermione laughed and hugged Sally again. "They're lovely children, Sally! And I know this is all your doing."

"Too right!" Sally replied.

Ron gave a false hurt look and hit Harry on the back. "So long, mate! Try not to get yourself killed or anything," he chided. Then, he turned to Hermione and pulled her into another hug. "And you, get your nose out of those books. You're head is going to explode someday very soon. I can tell." The children laughed as Ron made a very impressive exploding noise for their benefit. Taking advantage of the noisiness, Ron leaned forward and whispered in Hermione's ear, "You and Harry?"

Hermione kept her head still, but gave Ron a look of distaste. "Ron, we're still just friends," she whispered back. "You're letting your imagination get the best of you. Now just take care of yourself and..." Hermione was feeling a sudden pull at her heart again as she prepared for another long separation from her much-loved friend. Why did things all have to change for them? It had been an emotional day, and Hermione seemed to be feeling everything with heightened intensity.

"Just take care," she choked.

Harry was still laughing at the children, who were mimicking Ron's exploding noises, grabbing their heads and pretending that their brains too were going to blow up. He glanced sideways and saw that Hermione's eyes were tearing up. Not wanting her to suffer another breakdown, Harry quickly bid Sally goodbye and grabbed Hermione's arm to take the long walk back to a deserted junkyard, from which they were to take the Portkey back to Hermione's flat.

"Care for another cup of tea?" Harry asked when they arrived. "I'm beat!"

"Sure, I'll get it," Hermione said as she headed into the kitchen.

"Nope," Harry said forcefully, jogging to beat his friend to the threshold and blocking her path. "I'm still in the mood to fuss over you. Now, just sit down and be quiet for a second while I find everything again."

Hermione smiled. "I'm not made of glass, Harry. I promise." Harry filled the teapot and lit the stove, throwing a look of skepticism toward Hermione.

She smiled at his doubtfulness. "No," she said. "No more tears, I'm cried out anyway." Hermione leaned her elbows on the table, folded her hands together and dropped her chin into them. "It's normal, you know...to be upset when someone you love, someone special to you, is hurting."

Harry grabbed two teacups from the cupboard and set them on the counter. It never mattered who said it or in what context, the "L" word always filled him with just a little bit of anxiety. "I'm not hurting," he said without emotion. "It was ages ago. Honestly!"

"I know," Hermione sighed. "I was crying for Little Harry. For the you that you once were," she said, matter-of-factly.

"Insane," Harry replied, measuring tea leaves into a strainer and shaking his head. "You're insane."

The evening passed without any more tears, just as Hermione had promised. The two friends watched their television programs until the early hours of the morning, chatting a bit on occasion. They went through their standard retellings of childhood adventures with Ron. They laughed as they recalled little things that Jonathan and Sarah had said and done. They talked about how their lives had changed through the years, and assured each other that they themselves hadn't changed a bit.