Getting Closer to Fine

Seven

We're only making plans for Nigel; we only want what's best for him. -- XTC

*

Aunt Petunia was being difficult.

It was fitting that his aunt was shaping up to be the one blot on his free weekend. Harry suspected handling Aunt Petunia was rather like handling a small child - managing mood swings, distractions, petty squabbles, and the all-important feeding times. And he'd fallen down on the job today. Slept too late, hung out with Ron too long, and forgotten all about that focal point of life in a nursing home - the evening meal.

His aunt was glaring at him now, standing in the corridor outside her room, wearing an expression he'd seen countless times before. Contempt and displeasure twisted up features that could have been pleasant, that were pleasant when their owner was asleep or unconscious.

The fact that he and his only blood relative got on best when she was in some way incapacitated was one of those things Harry tried not to think about.

Convincing his aunt to postpone her supper was clearly impossible, so Harry reached for the doorknob. "I'll just wait here until you get back, okay?"

The slap that his hand received answered that question fairly conclusively.

"I'm not sure who you think you are," she said icily, "but you will not be permitted in my room unattended. You can come with me or you can go back to wherever you came from."

Deep breaths. They were essential. Deep breaths while he reminded himself that the woman in front of him was, in a word, pitiful. Because of what she'd become, a helpless shadow that never would have existed if she hadn't been the aunt of Harry Potter. Pitiful because of what she'd always been, a person who'd let jealousy run her life.

Sharp fingernails dug into either side of his earlobe, wiping all charitable thoughts out of Harry's mind. "Did you hear me? Or are you deaf as well as stupid?"

Surprise, anger, and training took over, and Harry acted on his instincts, grabbing his aunt's wrist with an exact pressure meant to numb her fingers. "You do not touch me," he said, his voice dangerously low. "You are not allowed to touch me. I will go with you, you will have dinner, and you will not touch me."

Aunt Petunia nodded, eyes wide. Harry dropped her wrist and marched up the corridor, keeping his eyes up, over the heads of any shocked little old ladies he passed. He knew his aunt was following him; her footsteps were easy to isolate, much sharper and quicker any of the others in the hallway.

As he reached the dining hall, Harry slowed and let his aunt overtake him. He had wanted to stay in her room for a very particular reason - if there was someone here that Sarah came to visit, there was every chance Piers would someday turn up as well. And that was definitely a reunion Harry could do without.

He scanned the tables carefully, looking for brown hair and a rat face amongst the sea of white and wrinkles. Satisfied that the dining hall was safe, he then followed Aunt Petunia to a table along the wall. Not surprisingly, they had a very good view of all the comings and goings in the room. It made Harry wonder, not for the first time, just how things worked in his aunt's mind; she might not be able to remember names or faces or the days of the week, but she still felt quite strongly about him - and about keeping an eye on everyone around her.

They sat in stiff silence while Aunt Petunia took what looked vaguely like shepherd's pie from a cafeteria worker, and Harry accepted a glass of water. He took a few sips, wishing that he had some aspirin or something to go with it - there was a headache building over his eye, thanks to his aunt.

"I saw you looking at my plate," she said sharply. "If you want something to eat, you'll have to get your own." She pulled her plate and glass as far away from him as possible.

*

Ron sat on the couch, stabbing a fork into the pot of noodles in his lap. Not that he was cross, because he wasn't, he absolutely wasn't. Harry had just come back from Surrey, and anyone who had been in that place visiting that woman had a bloody right to be antisocial. So the fact that they had barely exchanged two words before Harry had slipped off to his room didn't bother Ron in the least. Nor did the fact that Sarah was off somewhere doing whatever it was groups of Muggle females did.

He was going to spend some quality time with himself, that's what he was going to do. Because he could be thinky and deep, he had interests and pastimes, he didn't need people around to keep him occupied -

And he wasn't walking to the phone right now, he absolutely wasn't.

Ring. . . ring. . . .

"Hello?"

"Hullo, Hermione? You busy?"

"Oh, yes. I'm working on. . . ."

Ron watched the tap drip while he let her talk for what seemed to be an appropriate amount of time. "Okay, so, do you want to come over?"

"Did I give the impression that I have time to come over? Because I certainly didn't mean to. And I didn't even mention the two hundred pages I need to read, or -"

Ron sighed, quietly. Maybe he should've tried Sarah instead - maybe she was back early. . . .

No. Bad idea. Because even if he was being a recluse, Harry was home, and while Sarah was taking the magic thing well, there were still things she didn't know. Things about Harry, things about Voldemort, things about the Dursleys. . . .

He had been thinking of her, of course, when he'd pared down his story. Hadn't wanted to overwhelm her with so much information, all at once. Considerate, that's what he was.

Full of crap, yes, that too.

Part of him simply didn't feel like talking about things that he preferred not to think about. And then part of him, that part he tried to pretend didn't exist anymore, was enjoying the fact that to Sarah, Harry was nobody special. He wasn't famous, wasn't rich, wasn't a hero. . . hell, she hadn't even looked at his scar twice.

". . . so I'll do that, and see you in a few minutes," Hermione said, cutting into Ron's contemplation.

There was a click, and Ron hung up the receiver in disbelief. If he'd just heard correctly, Hermione had given in, agreed to do what he wanted rather than what she wanted, and he'd completely missed out on how that had happened. He hadn't even begun his counter-attack yet.

*

Hermione wrinkled up her nose automatically upon arriving in the boys' flat. The lounge was, as always, awash in clothes and books and cups and all matter of indeterminate stuff.

Ron waved cheerily at her from the couch, where he was slurping something out of a pot. She smiled back and headed for the wooden table shoved against the room's far wall. On the way she couldn't help but notice that the light was off in Harry's room. Huh. And he'd had the audacity to tell her that she worked too hard.

"Want some?" Ron stood up and walked over to her, pot outstretched.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Thank you, but you finish it. Really."

She pushed a Quidditch magazine aside and set her bookbag down on the table. She'd agreed to a change of scenery, yes, but not to abandoning her work. Hermione fished around in her bag a little, then sat down with a stack of parchment and a quill.

The slurping sounds began advancing. Hermione rolled her eyes. Either Ron was completely daft at reading body language, or completely determined to get his own way. Doing her best to ignore him, Hermione turned to the article she had promised to edit for Sally-Ann Perks, an exposé of the paltry legal status the wizarding world offered to most beings and beasts.

She was able to work in near-silence for an entire two minutes before Ron plopped down beside her and waved his fork into her field of vision. "What's all this, then?"

"I told you over the phone," Hermione said, trying and failing to control her temper. "Do I speak a different language? Have you been hexed to only comprehend speech that is about you?"

Ron opened his mouth, then, amazingly, closed it without saying anything rude. "Tell me again?"

"Well. . ." Hermione launched into somewhat shortened version of what she'd explained to Harry the previous week. To give Ron credit, he seemed to be listening; at least, his eyes were open and he nodded in most of the right places.

Most of them.

"You want to give beasts the same rights as wizards? Are you mad? Colonies of Acromantula storming the Ministry and proclaiming their right to eat young, tasty, good-looking humans for dinner?"

"Honestly, Ron. You could exaggerate for a living, you know that? We're not talking about all beasts. And don't think I missed that little reference to yourself, there. Once again, it's all about you."

"It's not about me! It's about you being out of your bloody mind! Once again!"

"Just shove off, Ron. Just shove off!"

Hermione flung her chair back and marched out of the room and down the hallway. The world had that fuzziness around the edges it always got when she was too busy arguing to breathe or focus her eyes properly; so maybe it wasn't surprising that the door she burst through led her into Harry's room, instead of the loo as she'd intended.

"Well, this proves Dean wrong," said a muffled voice.

"What? Harry?"

"There's a woman in my bedroom on a Saturday night. And it didn't cost a single Knut."

She made her way over to the bed and plopped down beside the supine figure with a pillow over its face. "Did you hear. . .all that?"

"I think they heard you in Scotland."

"You don't. . . " Hermione bit her lip. "You don't agree with him, do you?"

"No. I think it's bloody brilliant, really."

Hermione flushed, pleased, and tried to ignore the little voice popping up in the back of her mind, telling her how very much Harry's words - I think it's brilliant - might mean to many witches and wizards. This is your best friend, she told herself firmly. He hates being famous. And it would be a betrayal to ask him to cash in on it for you.

"Why am I talking to a pillow, anyway?" she asked, twitching it aside. Harry winced, his eyes closed.

Hermione's antennae went up at once. "What's wrong? What did you do to yourself this time?" She scanned him as critically as the light spilling in from the corridor would allow, looking for gashes and swellings and extra limbs.

"Nothing. Nothing, just a headache."

"Uh-huh." She knew what Harry's nothings usually meant. Concussion, probably, in this case. She reached into her pocket stealthily and drew out her wand.

"Put it away," Harry said, through closed eyelids.

She cursed inwardly at that intuitive - and sometimes eerie - sense of movement that was such a part of Harry. It had kept him alive and in one piece for years, won numerous Quidditch matches for Gryffindor, and got on her nerves on more than one occasion. "If you'll just let me-"

"No, Hermione." His hand circled her wrist, making proper wand-flicking impossible. "It's just a headache, courtesy of Aunt Petunia. Perfectly normal."

She bit her lip. "Can I get you painkilling potion, then? I've some in my bag. . . . "

He shook his head, gingerly. "No, thanks. I've had aspirin, and I don't want to put any magic on top of that."

Hermione nodded. He was right about that - magic that affected the bloodstream was rather tricky, and using it on one that had been altered in any way was even more so.

She leaned back against the headboard, settling in. Ron didn't deserve her company anyway.

*

Monday morning found Harry and Dean standing respectfully in Moody's office, hands idle at their sides, while their boss thumped around the room and made thoughtful noises. Dean's eyes kept sliding closed, and Harry helpfully elbowed him at intervals. Moody dealt with inattention quickly, magically, and thoroughly.

Harry had learned that the hard way, because his attention often wandered in this office, even when he was properly awake. The walls were lined floor-to-ceiling with shelves, and on them were a great many objects that attracted the eye by whirring and buzzing and blinking multi-coloured lights. Crouch Jr.'s Hogwarts office had been well-stocked with Dark Detectors, but in comparison, his quarters had been those of a man just a twinge concerned with issues of safety and secrecy.

Moody's office was filled Sneakoscopes and Secrecy Sensors of various sizes, tucked in and amongst gauges marked with all sorts of unusual symbols, a giant barometer, and something that bore a close resemblance to the weathervane at Number 4 Privet Drive. Any space on the shelves not taken up by magical items contained books on topics so dark and disturbing - know thy enemy - Harry doubted Madam Pince would even place them in the Restricted Section.

Harry nodded. He was sure, too, that whatever was going on was being organised by someone else, someone both evil and intelligent. Crabbe and his friends weren't known for their minds, and they definitely hadn't given off criminal mastermind vibes the other night in Knockturn Alley.

Moody sat down heavily at his desk. "Here's the plan, boys. We will not apprehend Crabbe, at least, not yet. I'm going to continue to have the copies of the Apparition records for Crabbe and his buddies sent straight to me. We'll know where he goes, when he goes, and if he meets up with anyone else while he's there. If anything interesting does happen, you two must be ready at a moment's notice."

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, sir."

"Here-" Moody thrust a stack of records in their direction. "Get busy. Try to determine a pattern of his activities."

Harry and Dean nodded and settled down at the table in a corner window and began to work silently, while Moody rustled parchment at his desk and grunted intermittently. Apparition records certainly saved the Aurors a lot of legwork, for which Harry was grateful, but they also made him nervous. He didn't like the fact that someone sitting in an office could track his comings and goings, could watch dates, times, and places inscribe themselves on the ever-lengthening parchment of his Apparition license.

Because it was all in the license, a bit of fine print that most seventeen-year-olds were entirely unaware of. The license wasn't just a legal permit, and the test wasn't just an assessment of a wizard's ability to Apparate; the Ministry captured a wizard's magical signature during that exam, a perfect copy of him doing the spell. Harry wasn't sure what that looked like, because his world was completely black during each split-second of Apparition. But in his imagination, it was very much like one of Priori Incantatem's ghostly echoes - shadow-Harry embedded in the license parchment along with temporal and locator spells. And that was enough to put a queasy, unsettled feeling in his stomach every time he really thought about the whole process.

A sharp elbow jabbed into his side, and Harry jerked his head up, blinking, to meet Dean's eyes. "All right?" his partner mouthed.

Harry nodded and turned back to his work, determined to focus this time. Really, Dean and Hermione are starting to have a lot in common, he thought somewhat petulantly. Maybe they should get together sometime. . . .

Or maybe not. Harry smiled to himself, remembering how nice it had felt on Saturday night, to have her sit with him and talk quietly with him, and distract him from the fact that his head threatened to throb right off his neck. He'd fallen asleep with her sitting beside him, propped up against the headboard, and woken vaguely lonely and disappointed in a sunny, empty room.

Of course - Harry turned a sheet of parchment more vigorously than was strictly necessary - he'd just been a last resort, a haven from bickering and conflict.

And being alone was underrated anyway.

*

Harry poured a bit of Mrs. Skower's Magical Mess Remover onto a cloth, tucked his head and shoulders into the grimy interior of his oven, and tried to forget about work. For the past week, he and Dean had been in a holding pattern of waiting, watching, and working on other cases that seemed small in comparison to the schemes of Death Eaters and the threats uttered by carved snakes.

Harry attacked the splatters and splotches of burnt-on food, remnants of one of Ron's experiments at combining magic and Muggle appliances. It felt good to be doing something, to be straining his muscles, wiping sweat off his forehead, and, above all, making a problem disappear.

He worked contentedly for some time, ignoring the stains multiplying on his shirt and the fumes filling the flat. He was just aiming his wand at a particularly nasty spot when he heard a telltale popping sound behind him. "Hullo!" he called over his shoulder, before muttering a blasting charm.

The resulting explosion made the cooker rock forward on its base, and Harry dove out and across the kitchen floor, landing in a heap at his guest's feet.

"Hey," he said, blinking up at Hermione. He re-settled his glasses, paying no attention to her knee-length skirt, or the black stockings that disappeared into it.

"Hullo," she replied. "Is there evil lurking in the cooker? Did it attack you?"

"Sure." Hermione pulled him up and held onto his arm as he wobbled, his head suddenly fuzzy.

"You all right?"

"Yeah." Harry rubbed his forehead. "Yeah, just the fumes, I reckon. What's in that stuff, anyway?" He gestured towards the bottle beside the oven.

Hermione looked shocked. "Harry! That was first year! Twelve uses of dragon's blood, remember?"

"Oh, right. But they were never very specific, you know. A cleaner, an incendiary, a preservative. . . ."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You mean you and Ron only memorised the bare bones of what you needed for the exam."

"Something like that." Harry leaned on the counter, hoping that he looked casual. His head was pounding, and a sick feeling was growing in his stomach.

"Harry?"

Damn. Didn't work.

"Be right back." He headed for the loo, stumbling a bit as he moved rather more quickly than his head would have liked. When the door closed behind him, he sank to the floor, putting his head down between his knees in an attempt to stop the swirling and the dots before his eyes, a position he'd learned in years when sudden head pains had been more common and inherently more worrying.

When his world stopped turning and his stomach settled, Harry stood and faced himself in the mirror. He was pale, and he was dirty. Not a fit sort of company for Hermione - assuming she had come over to visit him in the first place.

A little soap, water, and wand work later, Harry left the loo to find Hermione hovering in the corridor. "I'm fine, really."

"Good," she said, looking skeptical.

"What brings you over, anyway? I think Ron's still at work." He looked away as soon as the words came out of his mouth. He hadn't meant to say that, he hadn't meant to be whiny, there was nothing whatsoever for him to be whiny about. . . .

"I came over to see you, actually," she replied, sounding a bit hurt. "I wanted to show you something. But I think we should get you out of here."

"Okay. How about a walk?"

*

Ron was examining his teeth in the mirror when he heard the knock at the door. Unless the old bat next door had grown even more unreasonable about appropriate volume levels for his wireless, it had to be Sarah. With one final check at his reflection, Ron went to the door to meet his date.

"What is that awful smell?" Sarah asked, standing on tiptoes to give him a peck on the cheek.

"Harry was cleaning, I reckon." Ron made a face to demonstrate how very much a waste of time he considered such an activity to be.

"More power to him. Are you ready to go?"

"Nearly. Just need to grab a coat."

Sarah followed Ron back to back to his room, petting Pig while he sorted through a heap of clothes at the foot of his bed. "Shouldn't you let your owl out? The air in here can't be good for his little brain."

Ron snorted at the accuracy of her description. "He can get out if he wants." He pointed towards the top corner of his window, where the glass had been replaced with a small flap. "He's just nuts."

He tugged his Muggle coat out of the pile and slid it on, stuffing his hands in the pockets. "Oh, thank Merlin," he muttered, pulling out three tenners.

Sarah laughed. "Hey, when do I get to go to your bank, anyway? I'm not going to believe in these goblins until I see them, you know."

"Well. . .see, I'm working nearly every minute that they're open. And you wouldn't be able to get there - or back, probably - without me. And I don't think the goblins would like it if you stayed with me all day. They can be nasty buggers."

Her face creased up in disappointment. "But Harry or Hermione could bring you by," he added hastily. "Harry'd be best, probably."

"Why Harry?"

Because he's the saviour of the known world, and even the bloody goblins respect that. "He's a really good customer. Has a big account."

"Oh." She linked her arm through his, seemingly unfazed by the concept of a well-off Harry. "That'd be brilliant. Are you ready now?"

"Yeah." It's a start.

*

Harry and Hermione were walking side-by-side towards the Long Water in Kensington Gardens. The night was cold, but nothing compared to November in Scotland; Harry amused himself by making clouds with his breath until he caught sight of Hermione's how-old-are-you-again? expression. It was still early, just gone six o'clock, so there were still a good number of people strolling the lamp-lit walkway. It didn't seem the right sort of setting for muggers, or worse, but Harry scanned each passer-by carefully just in case.

They reached a well-lit bench near the lake, and Hermione sat and tugged Harry down beside her. She rustled in her bag a moment, then handed over a copy of Witch Weekly. "There. Page fourteen."

Harry grinned as he took in the title of the article: Burdened Beasts. "That's fantastic, Hermione. Right near the beginning of the magazine and everything." He studied the page a bit more. "And - should I know Sally-Ann Perks? Her name sounds familiar."

"She was in our year - Hufflepuff, I think. She's a brilliant writer. I was flattered when she asked me to help with this."

"Well, why wouldn't she ask the cleverest witch in our year? Makes sense to me."

Hermione punched his arm lightly. "I just - you don't have to read the whole thing. I just wanted you to see it."

"I want to read it. All of it. But - not in the dark."

"Well, of course not."

They sat quietly for a moment. Harry watched the artificial light and the moonlight reflect off the water; there were twinkling Christmas lights up in the trees already, and the dancing bright spots made the scene truly charming. Still, there was something sad, or maybe just mundane, about watching a lake with no giant squid to reach out and tickle you with its tentacles. . . .

"Harry."

He turned his head to look at Hermione. She had scooted up quite close to him, cold, probably, and he dropped an arm around her shoulders without thinking. "Yeah?"

"Is everything. . . .okay, lately? It's just. . . ." She gestured helplessly, and Harry turned away slightly, suddenly resenting her proximity, and her adeptness at reading his face.

"Things are fine."

"Are you sure? Work, and your aunt, and. . . everything?"

"Yes."

It wasn't a lie if she didn't ask for a precise definition of fine.