In Forgotten Corners

I

Harry paced stiffly across the worn wooden floor of his room, hands clenched at his sides as he cursed himself under his breath. This was the fifth time, he realised roughly. At least! He'd not thought to count until it had happened more than once. Or twice. His hair became even more mussed as he shook his head; he was too old for this, he mused, far too old. It was just one week after his twenty-first birthday, and now his body was behaving like it should have when he was fourteen.

Fourteen. He remembered so little about that year, yet somehow so much at the same time; what remained easiest to recall was the Triwizard Tournament, Cedric's death and the terror of what happened in the graveyard, even his extended row with Ron. Surrounding that, though, Harry could recollect his dorm mates -- even Neville! -- behaving in all sorts of odd ways during their middle years. Even discounting the influence of Fleur Delacour, he could recall things now that he had not realised he hadn't been a part of, then; perhaps he'd been too preoccupied.

He'd had but one relationship, in fifth year, and calling it that was stretching it more than just a bit. Yes; he'd been too preoccupied with Death Eaters, and prophecies and Voldemort trying to kill him. Kissing Cho had been his only experience so far.

Well -- Harry paused in his tracks -- that wasn't entirely true.

He'd kissed Ron, once. Or rather, he'd let Ron kiss him. It was sort of a favour during their seventh year. His best mate, despite having been fawning over Hermione for years by then, had told Harry that he thought maybe, perhaps he might be-- But Ron wasn't, of course. Harry chalked up the entire thing to a fear of commitment on the part of his friend. Ron had been with Hermione for nearly two years at the time, and their school days were drawing to a close; he thought she might be expecting more from him than he felt ready to give. Harry realised Ron must have been terrified if he was looking that desperately for a way out.

Even so, even if the kiss was just a last ditch effort to find excuses, Harry remembered that kiss better than any he'd ever had with Cho. He frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose, and resumed walking up and down the floorboards.

Hermione knew about that kiss, of course; she always figured these things out sooner, rather than later. What Harry could not quite understand was that she was grateful.

Harry remembered the sharp and unfamiliar pang of jealousy he'd felt then. He spent nights, sometimes, lying awake in bed and wondering what it would be like to have someone to make plans with after their years at Hogwarts came to pass. To make plans for something -- anything -- grand or simple. It was the someone he missed; the something had been laid out in front of him for nearly as long as he could remember. But it was short lived, this feeling, inevitably and completely overtaken by the distractions of Voldemort.

As it turned out, and somewhere inside Harry knew that he never should have thought otherwise, he'd had more than one someone at his side when school finally ended, even if it wasn't in the way he'd once imagined. And by some miracle they had all three of them survived the war, and the defeat of Voldemort, despite heavy losses to both sides.

Ron and Hermione, now living at the Burrow after the final battles claimed most of the Weasley family, had asked him to come stay with them. He had declined, though he couldn't say precisely why, only that Remus had told him finally that Sirius had left him No 12 Grimmauld Place those six years ago. Remus had mentioned in passing that now, with the war over, he thought it was time the old shell of a house was lived in, and Harry found himself blurting out a request that maybe, could he possibly, if it were all right, live there, too?

And so here he was, his first footsteps some six months ago long since brushed away by the sweep of a broom. This was, he reminded himself again, the fifth time he'd had to beg off some meal or chore with a poorly mumbled excuse and something strategically held at the front of his trousers as he made a hasty escape.

He crossed his arms, angry about missing most of supper with Remus. This only ever happened at the most inopportune times, only in this house and only while Remus was around. When Remus was wiping away a spot of clotted cream from the corner of his mouth with a thumb, or insisting on preferring manual labour to magic -- especially when it came to moving things out of the attic -- and sweating just a little too much in the cool air.

His breath caught for a second, and Harry swallowed thickly as a thought struck him, seeming to sap the strength from his legs. He fumbled for a support, finding it in the nightstand beside his bed, and wrapped his fingers around the corner so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

This really was not the time, nor the place -- nor the person! he thought frantically -- to be developing some juvenile crush. Not in this place, not with Remus, who was, he reminded himself, twice his age. Harry sank to the bed and put his head in his hands. No. No, things would have to carry on as they had been, and Harry would just have to deal with this responsibly.

There was a soft knock on the door, and Harry's head shot up.

"Harry?"

He cleared his throat and moistening his dry lips with a flick of his tongue. "Yeah? I mean, yes?"

"I cast a warming charm on your dinner, Harry." Harry's ears burned to hear his name again. "You can finish it whenever you like."

Harry fought back a cough. "Oh... thanks, then. I'll be down in a minute."

"All right." Remus' soft voice seemed to slip through the door with little effort. "I'm to bed, then. Goodnight, Harry."

Too long a stretch of silence, then, "Goodnight, Remus." Harry dropped his face back into his hands as he heard muted footfalls recede down the hall. Suddenly, he wasn't very hungry.