Three Seasons to Closure

Chapter 15. Silencing the Pain

During the weeks following Harry and Hermione's pivotal date, they spent every minute that could be spared in each other's company. Hermione found herself chewing on the end of her quill during work hours or at evening classes and thinking of Harry. She tried hard not to let her mind wander in that direction too often, but the freshness of her relationship with Harry made it so much more of an interesting subject to muse over than her medical research or Comprehensive Magical Genetics text. The frustrated witch eventually conceded to setting aside all of her research except that relating to her newest side project - the extrication of a spell caster's imprint from a victim's own magical signature. Since this particular bit of work would help Harry enormously in his stalwart struggle to make amends to any and all of the Muggle Street War's innocent victims, Hermione knew that she would have much less trouble achieving the level of concentration she was accustomed to.

As she sat in her kitchen, unraveling the first of a large pile of scrolls, Hermione smiled. "Yes," she thought, "this will due; I can feel like I've actually accomplished something this week. And, I can feed this unrelenting obsession that I've acquired concerning a certain sexy wizard."

It was Wednesday night, and Hermione had just arrived back at her flat after attending a course lecture on uncertainty calculations in magical gene traces - which she'd only managed to half-listen to. This evening, however, promised to be free of distractions: Hermione had her Harry-related project to keep her occupied and Harry had sent Hedwig to the Ministry that afternoon with a note indicating that he had an evening training session to attend. Not that a distraction in the form of a handsome Auror getting home from a long, adventurous day of work wouldn't have been welcomed - the scroll's arrival had caused a terrible feeling of loss when Hermione had read it and she had ached for Harry's company almost immediately. However, though Hermione couldn't help but feel terribly alone and neglected without her boyfriend's company, the prospect of burying herself in the data contained in those rolls of parchment still held strong appeal,.

"Hermione, you've been alone practically your whole life! Don't be pathetic," she chastised as thoughts of Harry, dressed in his dark, battered uniform, threatened to nudge their way to the top of her mind's occupations. Setting down the parchment and rubbing her eyes, Hermione strolled across the kitchen to her refrigerator. Food usually served well to satiate a wandering mind. She opened the door and rummaged through the drawers, collecting enough of the makings to conjure up a decent salad, which she ate along with a large pot of rose tea as she began pouring over the long-anticipated data.

As the evening progressed, and with each new parchment unrolled, Hermione's mind became more and more sharply focused. The data was in excellent form, and the inquisitive nature within Hermione slowly took her over. She had worked tirelessly over the past several weeks to run experiments and collect data in a tedious and repetitive process until she had finally achieved the right set of circumstances, and the results of all of those laborious days were proving to be worth every stained lab coat and chewed up quill. It looked irrefutable now, to Hermione, that she had before her a clean set of imprints from the mall explosion victims and a proven set of steps to follow in order to analyze them.

The analysis part was a bit more art than witchcraft, and Hermione enjoyed the process immensely. Working with Dr. Hughes and another colleague who specializes in alchemy, she had devised a combination of potions and spells that worked much better than traditional methods for capturing the essence of a magical signature. It was an amazing spectacle, really, to watch. The spell victim (each of her newts, originally) was doused in a dark blue, opaque potion and then subjected to a string of seven very intricate charms. Within minutes, a purple cloud would begin to swirl around the newt's paws and then it would glide upward over the animal, vanishing in a puff after it cleared the head. As the cloud swirled, little sparks flew out and collected on awaiting sheets of parchment, capturing the essential characteristics of the newt's magical signature.

The improvement that Hermione and her fellow researchers had made was that the spell imprints collected in this manner were much cleaner and more crisply-defined than any they had previously seen. These spell imprints would be far easier to decipher, which please Dr. Hughes immensely as it would make the diagnosis of spell-induced maladies easier.

Hermione allowed her boss to think that she was working hard toward this goal, but in actuality, she had been hunting for a way to link the faint signatures - mere whispers of cast Destructo spells - that she'd collected from Harry's hair samples to the London Seven. She'd performed the spells on the strands of hair in her own office so that she wouldn't draw any undue attention to this aspect of her studies, and Harry had gotten permission to have the seven prisoners cast the incriminating spells on various worms and spiders. All that was left now for Hermione to do was to examine the data in the set of parchments that she had piled neatly on her table. In half of them were the shapes and smells and other enigmatic attributes of spells cast upon a handful of the poor Destructo victims, and in the other half were the Destructo spell signatures derived from the London Seven themselves, from the fated worms and spiders.

Hermione shook her head, as she always had to, in order to clear her mind of the horrors that these Muggle-borns must have endured. She looked out the window and gave herself a moment to remember that the unfortunate witches and wizards were at peace now. The sun had already set, and the October sky was lit beautifully by the moon, which seemed to amplify this notion. Fall evenings, she thought, seemed to be the most restful stretches of time. Blues and greens mixed gently with the deep blue sky and highlighted the cold air, preparing, it seemed, for the winter that was to come.

As she willed her thoughts away from the imagined faces of victims in the London Mall incident, Hermione thought of her boyfriend. Boyfriend - the word still sounded so strange, and yet she loved saying it over and over again inside her head. It struck her as strange that Harry hadn't mentioned the spell identification project at all in at least a week. In fact, though he did follow through with obtaining the spell samples from his detainees, Harry hadn't ever remembered to ask about the data Hermione had kept on her mantle and wanted to show him on the night of their first date. Hermione smiled as she poured a third cup of tea into a sturdy floral cup and stirred sugar into it. She didn't want to flatter herself, but it did seem as if Harry was just as preoccupied lately as she was. He was always smiling, laughing, or acting silly with her. It was probably pretty revolting, she thought, from the viewpoint of their friends and acquaintances, but it was hard not to pick up on the fact that the two were quickly becoming enamored with each other. It felt at once immensely pleasurable and painfully addictive, falling for Harry.

Once she settled back into her work, Hermione became enraptured in it, and she suffered no further interruptions by wayward thoughts of Harry. She worked throughout the evening, and by morning had moved her stack of scrolls, a bowl of crisps, and a large mug of coffee to her living room. She felt that familiar, jumpy alertness that came with too much caffeine and too little sleep. Her brain was alight with ideas and she had done her best to capture each and every newly born research proposal as they hatched in multitudes from the night's musings. The London Seven were as good as convicted, she thought wryly. She'd connected their magical signatures in no less than one-hundred ways to the spells cast on the mall victims, and Hermione knew that this was as close to conclusive proof as the wizarding community was ever likely to demand.

Having achieved success on the mall bombing so quickly during the night, and having consumed an entire pot of tea, Hermione had then let her mind dance about to examine what other uses her department could find for the Spell-Caster Identification Method - or SCIM, for short - as she'd begun to refer to it. The tired witch longed for bed, but had given up on the notion when she saw the sun coming up and realized that she was far too exhilarated to get any useful rest. She put on a pot of coffee instead and let herself wallow in the importance of the evolution she and her department had just achieved: the possibilities for sick witches and wizards, and for Aurors like Harry seeking justice, and yes, the very positive implications this would have for her own career at the Ministry. It was during nights like this that Hermione felt like she was being her truest persona: "Hermione, the brain".

It didn't take a week before the significance of Hermione's and Dr. Hughes' research burst forth from the Department of Magical Maladies and leapt about from desk to desk at the Ministry of Magic with a vibrant energy of its own. Some top administrators had immediately seen the potential in smoothing out the jagged edges of their relationship with the Muggle world, and Hermione had been ordered to submit a full report to the Minister of Magic within days of informing Dr. Hughes of her recent findings. Under normal circumstance, Hermione may have bristled at the politicization of a medical finding, but she was too wrapped up in her own personal life, for once, to care a great deal. And, she rationalized, the results are true: there was no doubt in her mind that the London Seven had mutilated hundreds of people and she was more than happy to serve up the data that would lead to their eventual conviction.

Trial proceedings had taken place for the conviction of the group on the current charges of extortion, and each had received a five year sentence to Azkaban for those crimes. Harry assured Hermione that this would be more than sufficient to hold them while new charges were pressed on three hundred counts of murder and over twelve-hundred counts of misuse of magic, collectively.

The unfortunate consequence of the Ministry's interest in the mall murders for Harry, however, was that he was once again being hailed as a hero and flaunted publicly for his involvement, and he had spent an excruciating week trying to avoid attracting attention in both the wizarding and Muggle worlds. The Auror Department leaked the story of the London Seven being definitively linked to the London Mall bombing to all major Muggle newspapers and the two prominent wizarding papers simultaneously, and the air practically crackled with excitement over the news. This time, Harry found that his anonymity in Muggle London had been compromised as well. The London Mall incident, after all, had been a defining event for many Muggles, who'd recognized it as the last act of what they'd perceived as random and violent youth uprisings, and they'd long hungered for resolution for the senseless murders.

On a Thursday afternoon, Harry was hiding in his office at Auror Headquarters, trying to avoid hearing of or speaking about a lengthy article that had been published in the morning papers. He shook his head as a familiar, scrawny little brown owl landed haphazardly on his desk. As he reached into his top desk drawer for a treat to give to Son of Errol (a name that Harry thought of as rather unfortunate), Harry removed the parchment roll from the bird's tiny claw.

The letter read:

"Harry,

Much to talk about. I'm coming to London this afternoon and you are going to buy me a drink.

Ron"

Harry smiled for the first time since he'd read the Daily Prophet over breakfast. Ron's plain wit and gently assuming manner always brightened a dull mood. Those qualities had endeared Ron to Harry from their very first meeting, and he suddenly realized, as he summoned a quill to draft a reply, that he missed his friend terribly.

Later that afternoon, the two friends met at the Leaky Tavern for lunch. Harry ordered two shots of fire whisky from the bartender and returned to the table where Ron sat drumming his fingers impatiently. Harry's nerves were frayed, more so than they had been in years. Anxiety and despondency had fermented within him as he'd spent the entire morning lamenting over the unwanted attention that the articles had been causing.

"It's not like you haven't been through this before," Ron said, smirking at Harry over his menu. "This isn't anything compared to when Voldemort tucked it in."

Harry looked up at Ron and tried to put on a brave face. "No, I supposed it isn't," he replied. Ron had a point, Harry had to concede. Publicity and attention of this magnitude were not exactly foreign to Harry, and he knew that time would dampen the excitement. Within months, in fact, Harry guessed that life would quiet down to the normal buzz, and he wouldn't have to feel like a giant walking portraiture of himself - as he did when so much attention was focused on him. Today, however, Harry was still filled with rancid anxiety that increased with every handshake, wink, and knowing stare that he was subjected to. He felt helpless, boxed in, strangely lonely, and in need of an escape.

Only thoughts of Hermione, in fact, had kept him in London that morning - trudging through his work day in hopes that it would pass quickly so that he could be back in his girlfriend's arms. Thoughts of Hermione, Harry mused, were pretty much all he had lately. If he'd been struck with the idea, weeks ago, of asking his best friend out on a date in order to quell his own incessant need for her company, he had been sorely mistaken. Harry stared at the shotglass in front of him.

"Well, there is more than one way to escape," he thought.

"Looks like you could really use that drink, mate," Ron said, grinning slightly with amusement. "I knew you'd be out of sorts over the press articles." Ron took a large gulp of fire whisky and set his glass on the table next to Harry's, gesturing toward his friend's drink. "Go on, you know you need it."

"Yeah. I do. Thanks," Harry said, grabbing his drink and knocking it back in three swallows.

"You know," Ron mused as he shook his head at Harry's distraught demeanor. "I give it two or three weeks and the Muggles will forget your name. After all, to them you're just a scruffy-looking detective who cracked the case of the century." He rubbed his chin and then added, thoughtfully, "Could take more time of course among the wizards, though - I'd give it three, four months, tops. Then things will be back to normal."

"Right," Harry replied, staring at his empty cup. He was amazed to discover that he already felt better. The whiskey had left his chest feeling a little warm and he welcomed the slight numbing sensation that followed. The strong liquid seemed to stretch and pull at the tight muscles in Harry's chest and abdomen, relaxing them just enough to produce a slightly tranquil effect. "I'll just get us another round, yeah?" Harry said, rising from his chair.

"All right," Ron replied, finishing his drink and handing the glass to Harry.

After drinking a second round of potent fire whisky, the two friends fell into a comfortable conversation. Harry enquired about Sally and the kids and Ron related several of their most recent adventures with the young toddlers.

"I don't see why you get so worked up anyway," Ron said after Harry came back to the table with a third round of whisky, abruptly returning to their original topic. "Why don't you just bask in glory for a change. Enjoy the attention." He smiled at Harry, who pulled a disgusted face and took a sip.

"You're such a sulky git sometimes, Harry," Ron added.

Harry glared at his friend. "I'm not sulky," he said with a stern voice. "It's all crap, that's all. They don't even bother to check the full story. They hardly mention the rest of the Aurors and let's not forget the fact that it was Hermione who linked the gang to the mall, not me." Harry took a breath, feeling a little dizzy from his drinks. He looked up at his oldest friend - who was now laughing loudly - and allowed his anger to dissipate. He didn't have to explain anything to Ron, he knew. Ron was just playing him.

"Okay," said Ron as he leaned over the table and folded his hands together expectantly. "Now for the real reason I'm here."

"The real reason?" Harry asked. "You didn't come to London to help me hide from reporters?"

"Nope," Ron replied, holding his pose, not offering any further explanation.

"Umm, so do I have to guess?" Harry asked again. Apprehension was building within him as his mind quickly surmised what Ron was after. "He knows," Harry thought.

"I don't think you'll have to strain yourself too hard in order to figure it out," Ron replied patiently. A smile was fighting to form on his mouth as he stared at Harry.

"Right," Harry said. "I'll go and get another round, then." Harry left a laughing Ron at their table and strode somewhat clumsily back to the bar for another round of drinks. If he and Ron were about to have the talk, Harry certainly didn't want to be sober for it. Ron cheerfully put down a fourth glass of fire whisky as he peppered Harry with questions regarding his two best friends and their intentions toward each other. Although Harry had feared a resurgence of an age-old jealousy, he found that Ron didn't seem to be put out in the least by the news that his old girlfriend and best friend were now together.

"How did you find out, anyway?" Harry asked.

"Not the way I should have," Ron answered, eyeing Harry shrewdly over his whisky glass. "Ginny has a friend who knows a bloke named Brian..." he continued.

"Right," Harry interrupted. "Small world, eh?"

"It is if you're a wizard," Ron replied, smiling. "You were going to tell me, weren't you?" he added. A slight slur was now muffling his speech and Harry laughed at his friend's lack of tolerance. His busy family life left Ron little time for going out with his mates, Harry guessed.

Setting his glass down, Harry smiled back. "Yeah," he said. "I wasn't sure whether I wanted to tell you, but I definitely wanted you to know." Harry laughed at his jumbled thoughts. "You know?"

"Sure," Ron said. He clinked his glass with Harry's and raised it into the air. "It's weird, you two getting together after all this time. And, I secretly think that she'll never get over me, so there's that. But," Ron said, leaning in toward Harry, "Sally has been saying for years that you two should get together. She thinks you're a good match."

Harry smiled shyly. "She does?"

"Yeah, well if Hermione can't have me," Ron said, smirking, "I'd want her to have the..." He paused and flicked his wand over the table, causing Harry's eyes to shoot wide open. A huge image of the front page from the morning's Daily Prophet floated high over their heads and revolved slowly about its axis.

SAVIOR AND HERO TO WIZARDS AND MUGGLES ALIKE

Ron laughed hard as he read the subtitle to a large moving picture of Harry decked in full Auror dress uniform. The Auror looked nervous and out of place in the wizard photograph, and his eyes kept their focus down and away from the viewer. Harry had to attempt three spells to vanish the picture and flushed with embarrassment as the bar's full patronage erupted in rowdy chatter. Many witches and wizards were now pointing conspicuously at him as recognition dawned on them.

"Git," Harry spat, pocketing his wand as the image finally split into 100 pieces and floated upward and out of view.

"Sorry," Ron said, his eyes tearing up with laughter. "I couldn't help myself. After all, you did steal my girl and all."

"Right," said Harry humorlessly. "I'll take a punch to the jaw next time if it's all the same to you."

"I'll remember that," said Ron as he straightened up and pursed his lips to suppress his laughter. Looking over Harry's shoulder, Ron added, "Hey, looks like Hermione's got competition already."

Harry turned around to see who Ron was referring to. He let out a breath when he saw that he recognized the girl approaching their table. It was Alice, who looked completely unadorned without Meg and Brian at her sides.

"Harry," she said as she reached the table. "I just wanted to..."

Harry gasped as he was pulled into a tight hug. Alice let out a sob and buried her face in his shoulder.

"Alice, are you okay?" Harry asked, pulling back gently from her grip.

"You sure have a way with witches, Harry," Ron teased as Alice released Harry and stood back up next to their table.

"Ron," Harry said, "this is Alice. She and her friends are regulars here at the Leaky. Hermione and I have spent many evenings drinking Extras with her lot."

"And," Ron continued, "do you make them all cry or is it just the females."

Alice wiped her eyes with her hand and shook her head. "My parents are Muggles," she stated simply. "My cousin, Richard, and his girlfriend...they died at the mall at the end of the war. I always suspected it was He...Voldemort, but I could never say anything to my family, not without being sure."

She pressed her hand on top of Harry's and gave Ron a puzzled look. "You're Ron Weasley, aren't you?" she asked.

"Um, yeah," Ron responded.

Alice giggled uncomfortably. "I always forget who you are," she said, addressing Harry again. You and Hippy seem like such regular people. I keep forgetting that you two," she turned to Ron, "and Ron...did, um, what you did."

"Hippy?" Ron asked, looking at the two.

Alice ignored Ron's question. She dropped her gaze to her hand on top of Harry's. "And now, well, I can't tell you how much it helps for my family...to know how it happened, to be able to connect faces to the cause. It'll be a relief for them - they can free up that place in their minds that always worried over whether it can happen again, and why my cousin had to die."

"He shouldn't have died. None of them should have died," Harry said. He kept his eyes focused at a spot in the middle of the table. He didn't want Alice's thanks. Didn't she understand that he was just as responsible for her cousin dying in the first place as for delivering his killers to Azkaban or Muggle jail or wherever they were bound for?

"No," Alice replied. "No, they shouldn't have. But, it's a particularly cruel thing to have a loved one murdered and to never know who did it...or why. There was no illness to be blamed, no accidental circumstances: just these faceless, evil people who we kept trying to picture."

Alice gave Harry another hug and looked over his shoulder at Ron. "Closure is important, Harry, and you gave it to us. Closure is rare and precious and lucky to be obtained," she said. Harry felt Alice's words impact him as she said them. "You went out and hunted it for us, Harry, and I'm so very grateful."

The tearful witch released Harry once again and shook Ron's hand, her solemn demeanor dissipating as she glanced around the pub. "Well, I'm off," she said, giving a tiny wave. "I just stopped in to see if anyone was here. Looks like I found someone, didn't I?" She gave Ron a wink and smiled broadly, adding, "See ya Hunky!"

Harry shut his eyes and felt his face burn again. He kept them closed as he listened to the steady stream of sarcasm Ron unleashed upon hearing the bar friends' little term of endearment. It felt more on days like today, to Harry, that he needed all the Gryffindor courage he could muster. Blasting through doors and throwing up shields to apprehend a criminal only required concentration and well-timed bursts of adrenaline. Opening himself up for the world to see, whether it was to be revered or made fun of, required strength of character that was not inborn in Harry.

The two friends stayed at the Leaky Tavern for many more hours, having a bite to eat and buying each other rounds of drinks. Hermione had sent an owl at dinnertime, reminding Harry that she had a class in the evening and wouldn't see him until late. Grabbing a napkin that was inscribed with the a Leaky advert, "If it doesn't leak, don't drink in it," Ron scratched back a reply to let her know that Harry was in good hands, and that she would have to do without him for the evening. The two old friends then succeeded in getting quite drunk as the evening progressed and Harry had to insist that they walk to a coffee shop in order to sober up a bit before attempting to Apparate. They had gotten into one of those moods where everything appeared funny, and they laughed to the point of tears as they recalled familiar stories from their teenage years and poked more fun at Harry's recent reemergence into the world of celebrity.

"I feel alright," Harry thought, surprised at the revelation, as he stood behind a dumpster behind the coffee shop in the spot that Ron had just Disapparated from. He was tired and more than a bit tipsy, and closed his eyes, willing his vision to remain still. Harry wanted to remember why he felt better. Was it just the alcohol or had it been the comforting words from Ron or Alice that had made his apprehension fade away? He had at one point relaxed so much that he even remembered smiling and waving at the strangers who pointed at him later in the night. Harry was more than slightly inebriated, to be sure, but it was a relief to do something with himself rather then just to wish he were back in his flat. At one point in the evening, Ron had dared him to flash a Gilderoy Lockhart grin at a group of whispering witches, who all looked to be about nineteen or twenty in age, and ask if they'd like him to autograph their cloaks. Wisely, Harry recalled, he'd turned down the dare.

This had been fun, thought Harry, but an evening of good-humored drinking with his very first friend hadn't quite erased that always-present desire to see his very second friend, and he smiled sloppily as he pointed his wand at his chest to Apparate. It surprised Harry slightly when he found Hermione's flat to be dark and seemingly lifeless when he arrived in her living room; the hours had passed quickly, and alcohol was impeding his better senses.

"Hemione," he called, "are you home yet?" When he heard no answer, Harry stumbled into the kitchen and called again. "Hemione?"

In her room, Hermione slowly pried her eyes open and tried to process the sounds she was hearing. It had sounded, at first, like someone was moving furniture around in her flat, but she knew this couldn't be the case at this hour. Grabbing her wand, she cocked an ear toward the door to her bedroom, which had been left wide open as she always left it.

"Hermione?"

Hermione suppressed a smile when her late-night visitor revealed himself by calling out lazily from her kitchen, as if this were the normal thing to do at three-thirty in the morning. She got out of bed and went straight to her bathroom to take care of a few things, laughing as she heard the continual banter coming from the room next door. When she finally emerged into the kitchen, she saw Harry sitting at her table, munching happily on a slice of bread and smiling up at her.

"I wondered when you'd come out," he said, grinning. "I've come to visit."

"Yes, you did," Hermione answered, laughing again. "And at what time did you decide to pay me a visit?"

Harry reached into his pocket and drew his wand. He swung it forward and cast a spell against the kitchen wall. It read, "Fifty-four degrees upon the Fahrenheight scale and a fair night for a broom ride." Harry furrowed his brow and brought his arm back again to give the temporal spell another attempt. Wisely, Hermione lunged toward her boyfriend and took his wand out of his hand.

"No, Harry," she scolded haughtily, "you're an Auror, for goodness' sake. You know better than to cast spells when your..." Hermione set the pilfered wand down on her table and studied Harry for a few seconds, "three sheets to the wind, by the looks of it."

Harry dropped his head onto the plate he'd set in front of himself and groaned. "Ron's fault, the git," he grunted, tapping his head twice on the stoneware and lifting it again. "That wizard can't hold his whiskey, you know?"

Hermione nodded. "Right," she said. "Now let's get you into the living room where you can lie down. I know you didn't apparate in this condition, right?" She narrowed her eyes admonishingly, suppressing a desire to launch into a tirade at the carelessness of her two oldest acquaintances. Biting hard on her lip to keep from saying anything, Hermione led Harry to her sofa and guided him safely to a seat. Looking at him now, she lost all momentum to scold as she recalled what the last week had been like for the poor wizard. Harry hated newspapers, hated being reminded of the war, and hated being called a hero, and this week had been a tyranny of all three. What elation she had felt upon realizing that her precarious research had actually panned out was now gone, and Hermione felt slightly ashamed that she hadn't tried harder to keep the Department of Magical Maladies from exploited Harry in the way that they had done.

"Hey," Harry said, sitting on the sofa and smiling childishly. "Want to fool around some?"

"Right, you're in top form, aren't you?" Hermione teased, amused by Harry's all but predictable single-mindedness. "You're all talk tonight, you are."

"Want to bet?" Harry asked, patting a cushion beside him and grinning childishly.

Hermione shook her head. "No bets just yet, I want to be sure I'm right before putting down sickles..." She went into the kitchen and filled two glasses with water, leaning on the sink to give herself a moment to wake up. "I did this to him," she thought, "not Ron. It's my fault that the Muggles are all running day and night news programs about him, and my fault that he has nowhere to hide among his own."

She rubbed her fingers into her temples and tried to tell herself that it would be okay: that this will pass, and Harry will find a way to forgive her for whatever pain he is currently in. In the long run, she knew, he'd find that solace that he'd been seeking. It had to be so.

"Here we are," Hermione said cheerfully as she joined her drowsy boyfriend on the sofa and handed him a glass. "Just what the medi-witch ordered."

She watched Harry crinkle his nose at the offering and set it down on the sofa table. "Harry," she said in a serious tone. "I'm sorry about all of this. I'm sorry it got published." She lifted his chin and stared at a pair of blood-shot eyes through smudged glasses. "You've been miserable these past few days, and it's all my fault."

Harry jerked his chin out of his girlfriend's hand and gave a huge yawn. "Right," he said. "All your fault." He patted his knee and smiled up at her again, saying, "Now, come here and you can make it all better."

Hermione laughed, despite her guilty mood. "I wish I could," she said, sitting back into the cushions of the sofa and smiling wistfully.

"Look," Harry said. "It's not your fault, okay?" He patted his knee again and raised an eyebrow hopefully. When Hermione didn't take the bait he sighed and continued. "I would have been a royal git in any event because it's getting late in October," he said looking up. "It's near Halloween, and I just hate when it's sunny out but the air is real cold, and that blackish blue that is always in the sky..."

Grabbing Harry's hand, Hermione let out a breath as comprehension dawned on her. Harry's parents. She noticed that he had opened his mouth again but she shushed him and handed him back his glass of water. Harry never spoke about his feelings surrounding his parents' murder, and she didn't think it'd be fair to let him go on in an altered state. The week had been stressful enough for him, and Hermione didn't want awkward confessions to add to the pile.

"Can we fool around now?" Harry asked, coughing on the water that he'd taken in.

Hermione laughed. "Perhaps," she said, "if you're a good little wizard and drink the rest of that water before I get back. She returned to her kitchen and prepared a plate of biscuits, hoping to sober her boyfriend up a bit and thinking that they could watch some television together. When she entered the living room, she found Harry to be sprawled out on the sofa with his eyes closed and breathing quite deeply.

"All talk," she teased as she removed the sleeping wizard's glasses and rearranged his form into a more comfortable position.