Three Seasons to Closure

Chapter 12. Listening to Instincts

It was once again Friday, and Harry hovered anxiously on his broomstick, some hundred feet above the floor of the Auror's flying arena. Wizards and witches in shiny black robes whizzed about at breakneck speeds. They were just finishing up with their broom paces for the week, going through a floating obstacle course and shooting spells at trainers, who were wearing heavy, yellow protective gear. This was usually Harry's favorite part of the week - making air currents as he tested the limits of his broom skills and flourishing is wand about, shouting spells that he was never likely to get to use in real life. Today, however, flying and mock-fighting didn't seem to hold any magic for him; Harry just wanted to go home.

"That's it for today," a reverberating voice sounded, as if reading Harry's mind. Red sparks erupted from the training coach's wand and the wizard's voice echoed loudly through the stadium. "On with the weekend with you, you're dismissed," he shouted. Four-dozen flyers erupted in simultaneous expressions of relief and anticipation as they pulled up on their broom handles and moved into position to find a clean landing spot. Harry's friend, Tom, let out a whistle from behind and made a stop sign gesture to indicate that Harry should slow up.

"Harry!" Tom called out once he brought his broom up even with Harry's Firebolt. "Are you free tonight? I've got a couple of hours to myself, and some of the guys want to sneak out for a bit. Fancy an ale or two?"

Harry steadied his pitch and began a descent spiral. "Sorry, Tom," he hollered over the rush of air created by the two brooms, "I can't tonight."

Tom cocked an eye and grinned. "Got a hot date, eh?"

"No," Harry answered, "no date."

Giving a puzzled look, Tom shrugged his shoulders and landed his broom. Not much in the mood for chatting, Harry stored his Firebolt and headed for the locker rooms in silence, walking beside his friend and doing his best to look appropriately apologetic. The other male Aurors in the locker room chatted busily about weekend plans and exchanged sarcastic jibes, which were largely directed at the training staff's new "Rules of Safety and Conduct" which had been posted throughout the arena. Harry listened good-humoredly, and laughed heartily when one of the wizards decided to jump on top of a dressing bench, hand over heart, and recite the ten rules, twisting the words into Limerick form as he did so.

Harry wrapped a towel around his waist and headed into the now-vacated shower area for a good long soak. He felt ill at ease, and desperately wanted the anxiousness that sat in his stomach to go away. It was Friday, it had been a good week at work, and he should be looking forward to the weekend like all the other blokes. As Harry stepped into a stall and twisted the faucets to his liking, Tom poked his head around the corner.

"Have fun then. See you Monday!" Tom shouted.

"Okay. Monday," Harry called back, numbly. He stepped forward and let the warm water massage his tired shoulders a bit. Slowly, Harry could feel the anxiety release its hold - but it was now replaced by the all-too-familiar, impetuous tick that he sported every Friday night.

"Now, then," he thought, "what in Merlin's beard am I going to do with myself tonight?"

When Harry arrived at his flat, he spent a little time tidying up his bedroom, thinking about his various options. Flying had left him full of adrenaline, and he had already been quite wound up from a series of happy circumstances at work. Harry's department had just wrapped up their year-long investigation into the "London Seven", and it was now clear that a conviction was imminent. It would only be a matter of days or perhaps a week or two now as the hearings and trial were concluded, dispensing with all required formalities.

There were five wizards and two witches on trial: all ex-Death Eaters who had seemed to have disappeared from the wizarding community just after Voldemort's death. Years ago, Harry had been given information from the old Order that tied this particular group to the London Mall bombing, but he had been unable to garner any verifiable evidence that linked them to the mass murder. Begrudgingly, Harry had eventually come to terms with the fact that he'd never be able to conciliate the Muggle world by serving up the worst of their killers - in modern times, anyway - and instead came up with a plan to arrest the clan on evidence of smaller crimes. The plan, it turned out, had worked with astonishing effectiveness. Through months and months of stake-outs and magical monitoring, the department at last found evidence that Dark magic was indeed still being used by the group. They had been living, it was discovered, among the Muggles: using Dark spells to terrify certain key officials - bank managers, police captains, and judges - and making a smart living out of receiving payments from the bank while avoiding any involvement from the Muggle law enforcement.

Issuing charges of extortion and use of Dark magic, Harry had led a unit of Aurors in the capture of the "London Seven" months ago, and this week Harry was finally able to sit in a ministry courtroom for their hearing. He had been working long hours for weeks, helping to prepare witnesses and going on interviews to get as much corroboration as he could find. As he sat in a beautifully carved bench in the Ministry's courtroom late in the week, Harry had tried to derive a greater sense of satisfaction. They were going to prison, he had reminded himself, and it would be much more difficult, if not impossible for any of the seven to ever return to the wizarding world once they got out.

He had been careful this week not to let his hopes get raised over his clever friend's research down at the Ministry's Department of Magical Maladies. Hermione had locked eyes with his own, there in her stuffy little office, and she had that look: that "I've got it covered, Harry, don't you worry about a thing" look that she sometimes got. In the courtroom, the Auror had periodically shaken all memories of his friend and her "look" from his head. It would not do to remain hopeful, he reasoned, and Harry really didn't want Hermione to be involved with the case.

Harry had even tried to talk to Hermione after Sunday service and convince her to forget all about performing research on spell caster identification. He didn't want her brought back into that old world of Dark wizards and killings, and he also didn't want her to feel as if she'd let him down if the research didn't pan out. But she had ignored him completely, saying that she was too tired from her trip to "talk about work," as she'd put it. Harry smiled at the thought. It would be so Hermione for her to push all of her own plans - plans that would help sick wizards and that actually offered some promise of success - just to give him, Harry, a bit of hope. Would she ever stop trying to help him, comfort him...save him?

Harry cast a few more cleaning spells and turned around in his bedroom to admire his own handywork. "Looks good enough for a single wizard," he thought. "Now what?" Still restless and excited about the case, Harry knew that he really did feel like celebrating tonight. Perhaps he should have taken Tom up on his offer. They could have reminisced about the arrest. It had been quite a night, indeed, when they had finally captured the seven suspects. The ex-Deatheaters had been caught by surprise, and Harry's group was lucky to receive only minor injuries during the raid, but there had been an amazing display of fancy spellwork on the part of Harry's team, and it spun into a rather good story when told right.

But, Harry realized, he didn't really feel like talking to Tom and the others. Nor did he feel much like shooting darts. Heading into his bedroom, he disrobed, deciding to change out of his work clothes. Since he didn't have any plans in particular, he found that he was rather at a loss to decide what to wear. He wrapped himself in a large, green towel and shuffled slowly into his kitchen, peaking into the refrigerator. "There's never anything to eat in here," Harry complained out loud. "Looks like I'll be going out, after all." He sat down at the table, and drummed his fingers on the wood.

It was painfully clear to Harry that he wanted to see Hermione. He knew that he wanted to go out. With Hermione. Apart from a small bit of lingering anxiousness, he was in a very good mood, reflective and excitable, and there was only one person in the whole of London with whom he wanted to share this good mood. But he was also beginning to sense a growing problem concerning his constant desire to spend every available free moment with his leggy friend.

And since when had he started thinking of Hermione in physical terms? For weeks now, whenever Hermione popped into his mind, she was wearing a short skirt, or her black dress from the wedding they'd attended together. He'd even had a particularly disturbing image pop into his mind during an intensely boring meeting the other day, involving Hermione in her old school uniform - one which embarrassed him deeply. Harry drummed his fingers harder, and let out a sigh. It was futile to ignore the fact that, once again, he had some thinking to do.

Staring at Hedwig, who was perched outside his kitchen window, Harry finally came to a decision. Relentlessness had won out over his reserve, and he now knew that he had to break the "No Friday" rule and see if Hermione was up for doing something. If she was...then, great. If not...well, then maybe he'd give the thinking thing a try. "...best send an owl," Harry considered. Flooing at this time of day would be considered a bit presumptuous. For all he knew, Hermione could be out on a date.

"A date."

Thoughts were more or less tumbling out of Harry's head haphazardly now, and he found himself obeying them without analysis, summoning a piece of parchment as he whistled for Hedwig. Harry motioned his wand in a complicated swirl which caused a feather to fly out from a utility drawer, dip itself in ink, and whiz across the kitchen to land in Harry's opened palm. Harry wrote "Hermione, want to go out? Love Harry" on the scroll, rolled it up, and flicked his wand toward the window to let Hedwig in. Attaching the note to the owl's eager claws, he patted his bird and smiled. "Have a nice flight, girl," Harry said, watching her take off from the kitchen table and soar out of view, the window shutting unceremoniously behind her.

When Hedwig had disappeared from sight, the antsy wizard got up from his chair and paced back and forth in his kitchen, staring at the floor. The black and white tiles were making him dizzy as he completed a tenth round about the room. Questions kept licking the surface of Harry's consciousness and he was doing his best to ignore them. He sighed again. It was Friday, after all, and he had been in such great spirits today. It was very likely that Hermione would be busy, and Harry was dreading that he'd end up spending the evening alone in his flat...with these disturbing notions nagging at him. He was beginning to feel that he needed to write out a list - or something along those lines - and figure out why he felt like such a stranger in his own skin lately.

"I should ask Hermione," Harry thought, laughing at the irony. Considering that his brilliant and lovely best friend was likely the central subject of his mind's troubles, he rather thought that begging her to help was out of the question. Harry paced a bit more. What was it that Hermione had said he should have done during Tiffany's two-week "stay of execution" (as he'd always referred to the period of time he'd been given to reflect on their relationship)? Harry looked at the ceiling while he searched his memory.

"Right, a bath and a cup of tea," he recalled. "Absurd."

Unfortunately for Harry, the excitement of the week had seemed to have awakened his philosophical side. As the evening wore on, he couldn't bring himself to overlook the gnawing sense of importance, dread and inevitability that hung over him. Harry was having feelings, and they weren't going to go away. An hour had passed now since he had written a note to the only person he wanted to spend the evening with, and Harry still found himself insufferably alone.

He was in his kitchen again, pouring tea into a delicate purple-flowered teacup that sat on a dainty saucer. The teacup was part of a set that Tiffany had purchased and left behind. It felt silly to be drinking from such a thing, but Harry had thought that perhaps it might help him sort out his feelings...get in touch with his "inner witch", so to speak. To add to the humility, Harry had prepared a bath as well. He didn't own bath bubbles or any such products, but the tub in his bathroom was now filled - for the first time since Harry had moved into the flat - with scalding hot water. Steam was rising from the surface and saturating the small room, making it intolerably muggy.

Harry was still dressed in his green towel, which he had wrapped loosely around his waist, and he pulled his boxers off from underneath. He balanced the teacup in both hands and entered the bathroom, cringing. A cooling charm would definitely be needed, Harry thought, if he didn't want to suffer a heat stroke. Briefly wondering whether this would diminish the affect of the bath and tea, Harry let out a loud groan. He turned from the bathroom and resumed his pacing just inside the living room. After all of the preparations, he just couldn't see how boiling himself inside and out was going to bring about any wisdom.

- Pop -

The teacup rattled in its saucer and Harry started as he registered a distinctive noise not two feet from where he stood. Hermione had just Apparated into his living room and was, without warning, standing within an arm's length, sporting a huge smile.

"Am I interrupting something good?" she asked coyly, her grin widening as her eyes raked slowly over Harry's form. They took in his attire, focused only momentarily on the clattering porcelain, and finally landed on Harry's face - which now wore a desperate and scared kind of expression.

Harry didn't speak. He stepped back uncomfortably, feeling a bit shy.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Hermione said, though she looked anything but sorry. She looked to be thoroughly enjoying the sight of the famous Harry Potter caught in such a compromising position.

"Are you running a bath?" she asked. Then, her head twisted and she cast her eyes about Harry's flat, adding quickly, "Do you have company?"

"What? No!" Harry marched sternly past Hermione to his sofa, setting the cup and saucer down roughly on the table. He started to drop down, defeated, into the cushions but, remembering his attire, thought better of it and stood back up, facing Hermione. "What are you doing here?" he asked, taking the opportunity to tighten the knot on his towel now that his hands were free.

"Well," Hermione said, still not making any attempt to hide her mirth, "I thought it was a bit umm...formal...of you to send an owl rather than just Flooing." She cast a glance at Harry's face. He didn't appear to appreciate what she was saying. "I thought I was being amusing," she continued, "by just casually popping by to give you a reply." Hermione chewed on the side of her cheek, her smile disappearing. "You know, ironic contrast?" she muttered uneasily.

"Oh, like a joke?" Harry asked, smiling.

"Right. I should realize by now that people just don't get my jokes," Hermione said as she smiled back, timidly. "Anyway," she continued, "umm..."

An awkward period of silence followed and Harry felt a strange urge to laugh - picturing involuntarily what this little scene in his flat must look like if anyone were there to observe it.

"Hermione?"

Hermione jumped as Harry attempted to interrupt her thoughts. She was flat out staring at him and he was beginning to feel more than a little bit self-conscious. They were close friends, and had been for well over a decade, but he suddenly felt rather exposed standing there in his bath towel with Hermione's eyes directed at his chest.

"What are you doing here?" Harry repeated.

"Oh, yes!" Hermione said, loudly. "Anyway, I just wanted to say that I'd love to go out." She gave a proud smile.

Maybe it was an effort to regain his manliness, or perhaps his humility had made him feel rather...reckless, but Harry was immediately struck with an idea. An untamed thought that should probably have been ignored for some reason had just taken over his brain at this particular moment. And the untamed thought escaped, unedited though his mouth.

"Can we make it a date?" he blurted.

Harry felt his heart beating at an uncomfortable rate now. Had he actually said that aloud? He fought back the muscular impulses in his face, wanting to flinch, and struggled to present something more mannish: confidence would be good, but he'd settle for a simple "not insane" at this point.

Hermione looked thunderstruck. She was staring once again at his towel, and Harry felt another surge of embarrassment wash over him. "What have I done?" he asked himself, helplessly. But, for Harry Potter, the Dark-wizard fighter, strong emotions always drove him to rely upon instincts. It was not in Harry's nature to stop and think things over during times of duress or turmoil - that was Hermione's job. So he plodded on boldly, speaking with much more self-assurance than he was actually feeling.

"I don't want to go to that stupid Muggle bar anymore, and I don't want to be here alone on Fridays," he said. "I want to spend Friday nights with you."

A vague look overtook Hermione. For a moment, she gave no evidence that she'd been listening to Harry at all. Then finally, she looked up at him.

"A date?" she asked.

"Yes. A date," Harry replied. "You know, when a witch and a wizard go someplace together?"

Hermione nodded.

"And enjoy each other's company?" Harry continued. "And get to know each other better?"

"Right," Hermione said in a strange voice. She stood up straight and looked directly into Harry's eyes. Harry laughed lightly as he knew she was trying to determine whether he was drunk or had been cursed. "Seems in order," she said, beneath her breath. Harry blinked. Hermione's gaze fell to the towel and then snapped quickly back to his face.

"Okay," Hermione answered, and then she Apparated home.

Harry let out a giant breath and stared at the cup of tea sitting mockingly on the sofa table.

- Pop -

Once again, Harry's head snapped to the source of what he recognized as an Apparition as Hermione reappeared in his flat only a second after having left.

"What...what time?" she asked.

"Oh," Harry said, giving a forced laugh, "How about in an hour. Seven o'clock. I'm starved, we can get dinner." Harry hadn't thought about what they were actually going to do, and began to frantically piece together ideas. He sifted through names of restaurants that he'd been to and tried to imagine himself and Hermione sitting at one of the tables. Nothing seemed to appeal particularly to him, at the moment, as he really didn't care where they went. He'd already seen to his immediate needs: food and Hermione's company. "Perhaps I could suggest that we get some groceries and have dinner in the flat?" he thought briefly and then quickly discarded the idea. "Right," he reminded himself, "this is a date."

"Care to go to Luigi's?" asked Hermione. "I love that place."

Harry smiled. Hermione to the rescue. "Luigi's will be fine. See you at seven?"

"See you at seven," Hermione said, disappearing with another "pop".