Getting Closer to Fine

Nine

Even though I watched you come and go, how was I to know you'd steal the show? -- Foo Fighters

*

The hour was late, but the old stone building hummed with activity. Unfortunately for the Aurors' sleeping schedules and social lives, people did insist on stealing things and hexing each other at the oddest hours of the night. The atmosphere was remarkably like that of Muggle police stations scattered across the city: people came and went quickly here, the guilty and the innocent, those charged with disturbing the peace and those sworn to protect it.

There were differences between the two institutions, of course, worlds of difference, and in a small room on the third floor, Harry sat at a well-worn table and wished for a small bit of Muggle life - fluorescent lights. Because fluorescent lights were everything oil lamps were not: clean and crisp and capable of illuminating all parts of an entire sheet of parchment equally. It was easier for Harry to blame the lamp than his own weariness, bad eyesight, or tendency towards repression for the strange tricks the words in front of him were playing. One minute he was looking at the dry, dull language of an Apparition report; the next, a serpent poised to strike, a blade glinting in the moonlight, or a red, dripping stone. Harry took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, determined as always to bury those images in the past where they belonged - where they would be tonight, if not for that book he'd bought Hermione.

The door behind him opened with a loud creak. "Go home, Potter."

Harry shoved his glasses on and whipped round in his chair. His boss was slowly walking across the office, the heavy drag of his wooden leg betraying his weariness. "But sir - I missed so much earlier today -"

Moody lifted the Apparition record from the table. "Have you found anything?"

"No, sir."

Moody grunted and threw down the parchment. "As I expected. Unfortunate, to be sure, but as I expected." He leaned heavily on the table beside Harry and the ancient wood groaned in protest. "Our Deputy Head has just informed me that we are wasting time and resources with our current course of action. We must either apprehend Crabbe or suspend the case."

"But - but - sir!" Harry took a deep breath, determined to collect himself. Aurors didn't throw wobblers. "You said it yourself - if we bring him in, we show our hand. Whoever's running him will know exactly how much we know! And what good would it do? Crabbe probably doesn't know anything. He's not the sort of person you'd clue in to your master plan."

Moody nodded slowly, the lamplight throwing dark shadows on his shaggy white hair.

"And we can't just stop," Harry continued breathlessly. "These are the first of Voldemort's possessions we've seen in over a year! We can't ignore that. And then there's that snake. . . No-one's had any luck locating that snake, have they?"

"No. We've had eyes on all of the usual shops, using a sketch Thomas made, but there have been no sightings. Apparently whoever took it wanted it for a private collection." Moody gazed at Harry steadily, piercingly. "You are quite correct in everything you say, Potter. But I think more will be gained if we continue this discussion after a good night's sleep." With a flick of his wand, Moody banished the Apparition record into a drawer. "So go home and come in tomorrow ready to help plan our new strategy."

"Yes, sir," Harry said dutifully. He rose to fetch his things from the towering mahogany rack behind the door. As he shrugged on his cloak, Harry watched Moody begin his nightly round of security charms. "Want any help, sir?"

"No, Potter. Good night."

"Good night, sir."

The flat was dark when Harry Apparated in a moment later. He tossed his cloak on the table he and Hermione had occupied earlier, now empty of her books and papers. Harry moved on down the hall, knocking a hello on the lav door as he passed. The crooning coming from within could only mean Ron was showering - that, or an Augurey had taken up residence for the winter.

Harry didn't bother to turn on a light in his room. He undressed slowly, tossing clothes on the floor in a messy pile. He should really go to bed, Harry knew, for it was well after eleven. But he had no desire to lie awake in the dark for hours, slumberless and uneasy, present worries twisting around shadows from the past. So he took his time, patting Hedwig and meticulously adjusting the heating charms before climbing into bed. Something crinkled under his ear when his head finally hit the pillow, and Harry picked it up with one hand and pulled his wand out from under the pillow with the other. He popped on his glasses. "Lumos!"

<>

Thank you again for the book. I hope you didn't have to work too terribly late.

Love from,

Hermione

Harry sighed. He'd acted such an idiot when he'd stumbled across that entry in Hermione's book, and she was sure to have noticed. Not just noticed, but read and memorised every word, and found at least six other sources on the topic. He wasn't even sure why it was affecting him so much. It wasn't as if there weren't other, more frequent, reminders of the night in question. And he wouldn't even rank it as the worst night of his life. In the top five, yes, certainly, but there were plenty of other things his brain could've picked to obsess over. . . Maybe he was just tired, or stressed from work, or still a little ill. Or a combination of the three.

Harry tucked the note and wand back under his pillow, then laid his glasses on the bedside table. He stretched out, watching the fuzzy patterns the streetlights made on the ceiling, and resigned himself to a long night.

*

There were a few advantages to sleepless nights, Harry had to admit. They gave him plenty of time to think, and given five or six hours, he occasionally had a good idea. Or recalled someone else's. Sometime in the hours before dawn, he remembered Hermione's great Polyjuice scheme from second year. It was a little risky, maybe, but Harry thought something similar might be the perfect solution to their Crabbe problem. A way to question Crabbe and escape detection, a way to appease the powers-that-be and maintain secrecy.

Moody and Dean finally agreed (although it took some time for Dean to get over the shock of learning that Hermione had made Polyjuice when she was twelve). Harry and Dean spent some time studying Apparition records, and discovered that Crabbes Junior and Senior liked to meet at a Knockturn Alley pub on a fairly regular basis. At least once a fortnight, and always on a Tuesday.

"What do you want to bet," Dean remarked, "that Tuesday is ladies' night?"

That had been hours ago, and now Harry was walking home from work, the smell of exhaust on the night air making it perfectly clear that he had passed through the Leaky Cauldron into the Muggle world. He wasn't entirely certain why he'd decided to walk tonight, but it felt good to be doing it, especially now that he'd left the wizarding alleys. The Muggle streets were, arguably, less exciting than the twisting ones he'd just left; for starters, fairy lights without real fairies in them hadn't twinkled properly to Harry in years. But it was a wonderful thing to be one average bloke in a crowd of hundreds, in a city of millions, and Harry took his time, window-shopping as he went. It was December now, after all, and the number of presents required for the Weasley clan alone was seriously daunting. And then there was Remus. Harry flinched, trying to remember the last time he'd owled the man, much less visited. His Christmas gift would have to make up for that, somehow. And then there was Dean, and Hermione. . . .

When Harry entered the flat an hour later, he was halfway through with his one purchase of the evening, a bar of Christmas-tree-shaped chocolate. He checked the answerphone, and was relieved not to see any blinking lights. He carried a slight dread with him always, that Aunt Petunia would do something, something that would get her locked up in one of the special wings of the residential home for good. And there was that niggling worry for her safety, even though he had long ago covered her room with protection spells. As all seemed quiet tonight, Harry flipped on a lamp and stretched out on the couch with the Prophet and the remnants of his snack. Before long, his restless night caught up with him, and sleep won out over earnest articles about the tax rate.

He didn't hear Ron come in, but woke with a start when the phone rang. Harry eavesdropped shamelessly as he struggled out from the depths of the newspaper and readjusted his glasses.

"Yeah, he's here, but he's asleep. . . yeah, pretty late, and he left early this morning too. . . No, I don't know how well he slept, because I was asleep too, wasn't I?"

Harry lunged across the room and took the phone away from Ron, who gave it up with a shrug. He had a pretty good idea who the caller was. "Hermione?"

"Oh, you're up!" she said, somehow managing to sound both contrite and delighted. "Did I wake you?"

"Yes," Harry yawned, "but don't worry about it."

"Okay, I won't." She drew in a breath. "Harry - I need to talk to you. I need to ask you a favour - well, I say favour, but you wouldn't have to do much, it would be me doing the actual work, that's assuming he agrees of course -"

"Slow down," Harry interrupted. There were several things that got Hermione this excited - Arithmancy, house-elves, library cataloguing systems, just for starters - and Harry was fairly certain that this conversation would be best continued on a full stomach. "Why don't you come over here and tell me about it? We could do Chinese takeaway or something."

"No," she said immediately. "No, not if Ron's staying in. It's about. . . well, you know. And I don't want to have to listen to his nonsense. Will you come here instead?"

"All right," Harry agreed, wondering exactly how he was going to stop Ron from coming. Food was a Ron magnet.

As expected, his flatmate was bouncing on the balls of his feet, thrilled by the prospect of food, when Harry rang off a moment later. It took a reminder that Sarah might ring, a hint that Hermione's flat just might be harbouring a giant spider, and a promise to bring home any and all leftovers for Harry to be allowed to Apparate away on his own.

*

Hermione was setting the table when he popped into her little flat, his arms full of white cardboard cartons. "Wow," Harry said. "You've been busy." And she had. Two tall, slim red candles flickered in the middle of the table. Their bases were ringed by dark holly, its berries matching the colour of the candles perfectly. An impossibly small living Christmas tree stood in front of the window, covered in miniature white lights and delicate wooden ornaments. Underneath it - Harry gulped - rested a pile of perfectly wrapped gifts.

Hermione smiled. "Oh, I'm not done yet," she said, helping him set the boxes on the table. "Do you like the tree? I used a really interesting charm on it. Sort of a shrinking charm, but it magnifies all of the subject's other characteristics at the same time."

Harry sniffed appreciatively. "It does smell extra-foresty."

She beamed. "And it'll get more so as we get closer to Christmas, not less. There's a fascinating temporal dimension to the charm, but it only works if you apply it at just the right moment in the downward swish. . . ."

"Fascinating," Harry agreed politely, fumbling with the nearest carton. "Are you ready to eat?" He sat down across from her at the table and began heaping bits of everything onto his plate. For a while, the only sound was the clicking of their chopsticks.

"So, this favour," Hermione said.

Harry nodded encouragingly, his mouth full of chow mein.

"Will you take me to see Remus, the next time you go?"

Harry coughed, sputtered, and dropped his chopsticks with a clatter. "What? Why?"

"We had a meeting today," Hermione said excitedly. "Witch Weekly has promised us some more space. And Roger and Sally-Ann think a series of interviews would be really effective - you know, what it's like to be a vampire in today's society, or a giant, or a werewolf. . . ."

"Ah," Harry said faintly. "And they want you to interview Remus."

"Yes," she said. "Do you think he'd do it? It could be anonymous, even. It'd be brilliant if he would - I'm the only one who's in touch with a werewolf at all, you see."

Harry nodded. He did see. And he didn't see how he could say no. Of course Hermione had no way of knowing what the thought of visiting Remus was doing to his insides; it wasn't sensible for him to still be like this, years after Sirius's death, and so it never would have crossed her mind.

Looking across the table at Hermione's bright, hopeful eyes, he sighed. "I'm sure he will," Harry said, folding up the napkin in his lap, eating no longer seeming like an attractive option. "I'll owl him tonight."

Harry waited until Ron went to bed to keep his word. Before long, he was lobbing piece after piece of parchment at the bin, and Hedwig was hooting in reproach or impatience. "Oh, belt up," he said. "You'll get your letter when I'm good and done, and not a minute before." Harry refilled his quill and stared at another sheet of parchment, ignoring the stray drops of ink speckling its edges, and waited for inspiration to strike.

Remus would be pleased to hear from him, Harry told himself firmly. He'd be proud of Hermione and ready to support her and glad to have them come out for a visit. And Hermione would take care of all the awkward pauses; she would talk and talk and there would be no room for any other words to float in the silent spaces between them.

Harry told himself that, and he wished he could believe it.

*

Hedwig had flown away with Harry's final draft and returned with Remus's pleased reply by the end of the week. Harry was mulling it over in his mind on Friday as he and Dean left work on foot, heading for what was supposed to be a night of food, drink, and fun. Dean accepted his silence good-naturedly as they walked down Charing Cross Road, headed for a pub halfway between the Leaky Cauldron and the Underground station.

The place was busy when they arrived, and it was a lucky thing that Hermione and Sarah had already claimed a small corner booth for them. Harry slid in beside Hermione, who placed her fizzy lemon on the table and helped him out of his coat. He became uncomfortably aware as she did so that his day's work had left him smelling of sweat, grime, and dragon slobber. Harry shifted away as unobtrusively as he could, deciding it would be a good idea to keep his arms as close to his sides as possible for the rest of the evening. Watching from across the table, Dean grinned widely.

"Ron's on his way," Harry said, ignoring Dean. "Pig attacked us in the middle of Diagon Alley."

"It's been said before, but I'll say it again," Dean remarked. "That bird is a menace."

Hermione gave Sarah an approving sort of look, then frowned as she caught sight of Dean's bandaged hand, resting on the tabletop. "Dean! What happened?"

"Oh, nothing much," Dean said carelessly. "We were confiscating some dragon eggs, and one hatched on us. Bugger bit me."

Hermione sucked in a breath. "Did you go to the infirmary? Dragon bites can get nasty - remember Harry, what happened to Ron?"

"Oh yeah," Dean nodded, "you don't have to worry about me. I've got sense. Now that one over there-"

"Why don't you go get us a couple of pints, Dean?" Harry interrupted, pulling his left sleeve down over his wrist in an attempt to hide a few tell-tale claw marks. Scratches weren't as dangerous as bites, he was fairly certain, although he doubted Hermione would see it that way.

"All right," Dean said affably. As Dean left, Sarah leaned forward and saved Harry from any further scrutiny. "So dragons are illegal, then? I thought Ron said his brother worked with them?"

"They're mainly kept in colonies now, sort of like zoos. Or they live way out in the wild. Ron's brother works at one of the colonies," Harry explained. He scanned the room out of habit as he spoke, but no-one seemed untowardly interested in their conversation. A hectic London pub was, Harry thought, one of the best places in the world for sharing things that were rather secret and having them attract no attention at all. Which was another reason his and Dean's plans for Crabbe would hopefully go off without a hitch.

"They're so large, it's very hard to keep them from Muggles. That's the main reason it's illegal for private individuals to own them," Dean said, appearing at Harry's elbow and handing over a brimming glass. "And they're dead fierce," he added, settling back into the booth. "Takes loads of trained wizards to handle just one grown dragon."

"Plus, they're powerfully magical," Hermione said. "From their hides to their blood to their heartstrings. So if someone can manage to raise one to adulthood, or at least adolescence - which only takes a few months, really - they stand to make a pretty steep profit."

"Oh, that's so sad," Sarah said, frowning. "They're so beautiful - wait, at least, I suppose they are. If they look anything like what you see on telly."

"Basically, yeah," Dean replied. "Muggles use ancient drawings as their sources, and those were based on the real thing. But there are some differences, here, let me show you-" Dean grabbed a napkin, Sarah handed him a pen, and he began outlining a Hungarian Horntail with quick, fluid strokes.

Harry turned to Hermione and said, very quietly, "We're on. We're to go down tomorrow afternoon, and stay the night."

"Tomorrow?" She looked suddenly, feverishly delighted. "But - I'm not ready - I have to sort out all my questions - I have to pack-"

"You only need one change of clothes, and I'm sure you've written down plenty of questions already."

"Well, of course - but that's just a draft - oh, Harry, there's so much to do!"

"It'll be fine," Harry said reassuringly. He meant it - he knew she would be fine, even if he had no such guarantees about himself.

"What'll be fine?" Ron arrived at the end of their table.

"Er, something for school. You wouldn't be interested," Hermione said quickly.

Dean rose to let Ron into the booth beside Sarah, but she slid out as well. He shrugged and sat back down.

"I'm sorry, Ron," Sarah said, grabbing his hand, "but I've got to go. I'm meeting a girl from my class about our networking project."

"Now? It's Friday bloody night!"

"I know," Sarah said, "but this is the only time she could do it. And it'll leave me the rest of the weekend free."

"Well, all right then," Ron said grudgingly. "All weekend?"

She stepped closer, flushing a little, and repeated deliberately, "All weekend."

"I'd better go as well," Hermione said, picking up her parka. Harry stood obediently to let her out. "I've lots to do. You boys stay out of trouble." She squeezed Harry's shoulder in farewell.

Ron watched with a dazed expression as the girls wove their way through the pub. "Do you think," he began, sinking down in the booth and nearly squashing Dean, "do you think that means nights, too?"

*

Harry got up and padded into the kitchen early the next morning (before ten, anyway), and fetched himself some cereal and juice. He settled down on the couch to eat, choosing a patch sun-warmed patch and being careful not to spill. He made quiet, quick work of his breakfast.

Harry had finished his breakfast and was shoving a final pair of socks in his duffle bag when Ron stumbled in, his hair looking rather like it had on that unforgettable day when his curiosity about electrical outlets had got the better of him. "Mumph," Ron said, staggering towards the teakettle. "You off, then?"

"Yeah. See you."

"See you."

Harry spent a few hours in Surrey with Aunt Petunia, who alternated between sniping and ignoring him entirely, stopped for a late lunch, and then turned up at Hermione's. He knocked on the door, even though the security spells had been designed to allow him to Apparate straight in. Girls and privacy went hand-in-hand, in his experience.

The door swung open, and Harry grinned as he caught sight of Hermione's bag, which was leaking bits of paper and threatening to burst at the seams. "Are you ready?" he asked.

"Nearly," Hermione said, struggling with the zip. "How do we get there? It's been simply ages since I went, and I think we had a Portkey that time."

"Well. . . we can't Apparate right to his front door. Not if we value our appendages." Harry wasn't sure if that was completely true, but he also didn't like the idea of the coordinates to Remus's house being marked down on their Apparition licences. "So we could fly," he grinned at Hermione's shudder, "or we could Apparate to the little Muggle village and walk from there. It's not too far."

"Sounds perfect."

After some discussion over who would carry what bags (Harry was eventually allowed to carry them all, but only after Hermione had lightened them with a spell) and Crookshanks's food supply was double-checked, they Disapparated. They appeared a few seconds later on the outskirts of a tiny borough in East Anglia. The town was quaint, but when they turned their back on it and set off down the winding country road, a wild, flat, lonely landscape stretched out before them. Harry wasn't sure if he liked it or not.

"It's so. . . still," Hermione murmured, gesturing at the fields surrounding them, lying brown and dormant for the winter. The only variations on the scenery were deep canals punctuating the fields, and far-off trees rimming the edges of the farmland.

"Yeah," Harry said. "I think that's why Remus likes it here. Solitary. Peaceful."

"Are you sure you know the way?"

"Positive. We follow this road until we get to the big oak tree." Hermione raised her eyebrows at him, conveying effectively with one look something women have thought about men and directions for generations. "That's not as silly as it sounds," Harry protested. "It's huge, and it's right in the middle of a field. Look around. Do you see anything like that?"

"Well, no."

"Right. So trust me, you won't be able to miss it when we get there."

They hiked on in silence, old, crumbling asphalt crunching under their feet. Harry listened to all the quiet outdoorsy sounds he never was able to hear in London, and found himself wishing he knew how to identify birds by their calls, or exactly what animal was lurking in the ditches by the way the dry grass rustled.

"Are you sure Remus is all right with this?"

"Absolutely," Harry said. "Although I do think he'd like to stay anonymous. But he thinks you're brilliant, you know. He's always thought so."

Hermione's cheeks turned pink.

The sun was low on the horizon when Harry and Hermione spotted the massive oak, standing tall in the centre of a field, silhouetted against a reddening sky. Harry jumped over the ditch at the side of the road, then reached for Hermione's hand to help her do the same. Her legs weren't quite as long as his, but she made it across with room to spare. They struck out across the field, heading directly for the tree.

Travelling cross-country wasn't exactly easy, Harry learned quickly. He and Hermione discovered that there was a trick to it, but only after a bit of stumbling and the acquisition of some glorious mud stains. They tried to measure their strides so that they hit the troughs in between the rows of winter wheat, holding onto each other's arms and laughing at their missteps.

As they drew closer, the outline of a little cottage became visible just beyond the oak. To their eyes, it was small and snug, with a thatch roof and curls of smoke drifting out of the chimney. Harry supposed it looked like a rundown shack to the person who owned the land, and that the farmer suddenly remembered he'd left the kettle on any time he happened to wander too close.

When they arrived at the cottage's front door, Harry took a deep breath, then knocked. As he stepped back to stand beside Hermione, he noticed that Remus had done a bit of Christmas decorating himself; there were large clumps of holly hanging on the windows and the door. Just then, the door opened, and Harry found himself face to face with Remus, looking a little bit older and a little bit more worn than the last time they'd met. For a moment, the three of them stood there, looking at each other. If Sirius had been there, he would have rushed forward, trapped Harry in a bear hug, ruffled his hair, and said something to make them all laugh. That knowledge hung in the air between them, in one frozen moment; then Remus reached forward and clasped Harry's hand in both of his own. "It's wonderful to see you," he said. It sounded like he meant it.

"Yeah," Harry said, relaxing a little, "you too." Remus turned to greet Hermione, then ushered them inside. The narrow hallway was as bare as Harry remembered, one small table, one coat rack, one faded rug on the floor. Remus didn't have many trinkets and knickknacks of his own; he'd spent too many years moving from one job to another to acquire a lot of things.

"Harry, you know where the spare room is. Why don't you drop your bags in there, then meet us in the kitchen for dinner? Just sandwiches, I'm afraid. . . ."

"Sandwiches are perfect." Harry hung his coat on the rack, then went down the corridor while Remus and Hermione turned into the little kitchen. He stopped short when he stepped into the bedroom, which contained an old wardrobe, a night table, and just one big bed. He'd forgotten about that. Harry dropped their bags onto it a trifle uneasily and went to the kitchen, where their host was setting out tea, sandwiches, and biscuits. He snagged a chocolate biscuit and popped it in his mouth at once. Walking was hungry work.

"How are things in London?" Remus asked, pouring the tea.

"Busy," Hermione said, and Harry nodded his agreement, mouth still full. "We're all running round in different directions," Hermione went on. "Harry's got work, and Ron's got his new girlfriend, and I've got exams coming up. . . ."

"Like you haven't been revising since the first day of term," Harry said, eyeing the sandwich plate.

"Well, yes, but that's just common sense. It's high time I stepped up my schedule, now."

Harry rolled his eyes.

"Sugar?" Remus asked.

"Yes, please. Two lumps." Harry stirred them in, then reached for a large sandwich. They drifted into a silence that was almost, but not quite, companionable. Harry supposed, uncomfortably, that it was his turn to talk, to share some of his day-to-day life with Remus. He put down his sandwich abruptly and turned to Hermione. "Tell Remus about what you and your friends are doing. You can explain far better than I did."

Hermione took the opening and ran with it, very enthusiastically. Harry sighed in quiet relief and let his eyes wander around the kitchen. It was nothing like his and Ron's, that was for certain. There were no open tins scattered on the counter, no stacks of dirty dishes threatening to reach the ceiling. Remus's kitchen was a room Aunt Petunia would have appreciated, Harry thought as he looked around. Neat, clean, organised. Although she probably could have done without the newts splashing happily in a tank on the window ledge, or the cauldron tucked into the corner by the Aga stove.

"More tea, Harry?"

"Yes, thanks."

Remus refilled their cups. "Hermione, what sort of responses have you lot received?"

"We've had some really thoughtful, really nice letters of support." Hermione shifted in her chair. "But not all the letters have been so nice."

"What do you mean, not so nice?" Harry's voice was sharp.

"It's not a big deal, Harry," Hermione said. "I never - we never - expected everyone to agree with us. Look at Ron, for goodness' sake."

"But that's - that's just Ron," Harry said. "Name me something you two have ever wholeheartedly agreed on. You can't. And besides, I think he's with you on lots of things. Fair trial procedures and freedom of expression and all that. The beast part just - shook him up a little."

Remus nodded and set down his cup. "Exactly. And I'd be quite surprised if Ron was the only one. Hermione's talking about changing the world most wizards and witches grew up in. That's not always easy for people to accept."

"We knew that," Hermione said, nodding. "But we thought, it's as good a time to try as any. Maybe even better than most, with Voldemort gone. The world's already just changed, for the better, and we thought with everyone being all optimistic these days. . . ."

"You may be right," Remus said. He went on to say something else, but Harry had tuned out again. His mind was consumed with the image of Hermione's fifteen-year-old hands, red and raw and swollen from contact with bubotuber pus. The Auror in him knew that a lot more dangerous things than that could be concealed in just a single sheet of parchment. He'd been far too busy worrying about his own problems lately; he hadn't stopped to think that not everyone would consider Hermione and her friends as brilliant as he did.

When the last biscuit had disappeared, Hermione excused herself for a moment. Harry took his dirty dishes to the sink and reached for the dishwashing soap. "You don't have to do that, Harry," Remus said, appearing at his elbow.

Harry shrugged. "I don't mind," he said.

"We'll do it together, then."

They began the rhythms of washing up silently, Harry lathering the dishes with soap, and scrubbing them with flicks of his wand, Remus rinsing and drying.

"You're worried about Hermione," Remus said, finally.

"Yeah," Harry admitted, eyes fixed on the plate in front of him.

"Hermione's clever," Remus said quietly. "And she knows that old prejudices die hard. She knows it first-hand."

"Yeah." Harry remembered a pale, pointy boy, standing in a grove of trees on a night when the Dark Mark lit up the sky, and then again on a train, hurtling towards London. He had warned them of what Hermione might face, both times, and he had been proven right, in the months and years that followed. "But," Harry said finally, "I don't think she knows how much sympathy for Voldemort is still out there. Not really."

Remus placed the last dish in the rack to dry, and shooting Harry a keen look, delivered one of those parting remarks he'd always been so good at: "And if she knew, she'd have to be a lot more worried about you, wouldn't she?"

Alone in the kitchen, Harry wiped down the countertop, first with force, and then more slowly. He listened to the sounds of the house - those thuds were Remus, adding logs to the fire, and those footsteps were Hermione, coming down the hall. Then voices, and after a moment or two Harry hung the damp rag over the tap and went to join them in the lounge.

The three of them sat in front of the fire and talked in a desultory way for some time longer. Remus was the first to turn in, and after he left, Harry found himself with a tough job. Deciding to sleep on the couch had been easy; it was proper, and safer, for a variety of reasons, only one of which was related to the unsettling dreams he'd had off and on all week. But getting Hermione to accept the idea was much more difficult. It was his bed, she protested, and if anyone belonged on the couch, it was her. Harry found taking hostages of three textbooks she'd simply had to bring along for the weekend to be a winning manoeuvre.

With the battle won, Harry brushed his teeth, changed into pyjama pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt. He poked his head into the spare room and said goodnight to Hermione, who was sitting up in bed and reading an incredibly thick, boring-looking book. Harry grabbed a pillow off her bed and a wool blanket from the closet, stretched out on the couch with them, and tried to sleep.

*

Hermione was still awake, her attention divided between the book propped on her knees and the papers scattered on the bed, when she heard soft noises outside her room. She was inclined to write them off at first, maybe to the dying fire hissing and spitting in the grate, but after a moment she rose and tiptoed down the hall to make certain. She opened the lounge door noiselessly and paused, a chill running up and down her spine. Harry was twisting and turning on the couch, wrestling desperately with a pillow and making sounds that weren't truly human. It frightened and worried her, hearing him upset in a language she couldn't understand. Hermione rushed across the room in stocking feet to shake his shoulder, first gently, then more soundly, until his eyes flew open and he bolted upright. "It's all right, Harry," she whispered, perching beside him on the couch.

He nodded, gulping air, and Hermione put an arm around his shoulders, pushed sweaty hair off his forehead. His face was hot under her hand. "Do you want some water?" she asked, a little alarmed. "I'll get some for you -"

Harry shook his head. "No," he said, his voice rough. He looked at her for the first time, squinting without his glasses. "Hermione, I'm sor -"

"Stop it," she cut in firmly.

"Yes ma'am," he said, with a faint grin. His shoulders relaxed slightly, and Hermione leaned back into the cushions, pulling him with her, settling his head on her shoulder. She crossed her arms over his chest, feeling its rise and fall slowly return to normal. Finally, Hermione asked quietly, "Tell me about it?"

She heard his intake of breath, felt him flinch, and was certain his next word would be no, just as she'd expected his earlier apology. Hermione lifted her arms, to let him get away - she would not be pushy - but Harry grabbed her hand with warm fingers. "No, don't go," he said.

"All right," Hermione said, curling her fingers around his.

"I always do that, don't I? Like last weekend. I don't know why."

Hermione caught her breath. I know why, she wanted to say. It's called conditioning, and I'll never tell you this, but I hope that uncle of yours is rotting in hell for it. "It's all right," she whispered.

"It's not, really," Harry said. He turned his face away from her then, although it wasn't like she could see it anyway; with his head level at her chin, her best view was of tufts and spikes of dark hair. "I was just - remembering something from the summer before seventh year."

Hermione nodded, held him a little tighter. She remembered the beginning of seventh year. She remembered how Harry had come back to Hogwarts pale and closed-off, with a dead uncle, a dead cousin, and a batty aunt. He'll speak of it when he's ready, Dumbledore had told them, but Harry had never been ready. Hermione hadn't been surprised. His family had always been something removed from their relationship, set apart, something he mentioned on occasion but she and Ron hardly dared to.

"Did it - did it have to do with a snake?"

He nodded, his hair tickling her cheek. "Yeah. Nagini. Voldemort's snake."

"It wasn't easy. He made me slit her throat. . . but it wasn't as hard as the basilisk, either."

"No, I suppose not," Hermione said, befuddled. Why on earth? She flicked her mind back to her new book. There had been something in there, a vague, half-explained legend about snakes with stones in their throats. . . .

"And then he killed Dudley." His voice trembled, his shoulders as well. "There was blood everywhere, so much blood. . . " He was shaking openly now, and Hermione squeezed him tight, held him as close to her as she could, as if she could banish whatever horrid images were replaying in his mind.

"I'm sorry," he said, finally.

"Don't be." She smoothed down his hair, fingers brushing against his forehead. "You're so hot," she murmured, worriedly.

"Was hot in my dream."

"Still." She thought for a moment. "And I'm not helping, am I?"

He rolled toward her, shifting in her arms, shaking his head. "No, you're all right."

"Okay." He went quiet then, and she let him, hoping he would be able to sleep, peacefully. His hair was soft on her cheek, his breath warm on her neck, and she tried to keep her mind focused on those things, rather than let it try to visualise exactly what had happened, years ago. It bothered her more than she would ever admit, the gaps in her knowledge of Harry: of the places he'd been, the things he'd seen, the ways he'd found to deal with it all. The boys laughed at her and got exasperated with her sometimes, and mocked her need to know everything, but to Hermione, that desire was natural and right and not funny at all.

When his breath came even and deep, Hermione closed her eyes, and tried to join him in sleep.

*

When Harry woke, he froze. He sensed the unfamiliarity of the place, the strangeness of arms around him, holding him down, and very nearly panicked.

Then he cracked his eyes open, and realised whose arms they were.

Her face was very close to his, close enough for him to see perfectly, even in the darkened room, even without his glasses. She looked worried in her sleep, little wrinkles creasing her forehead, her lips pressed together in a frown.

Without pausing for thought, Harry shut his eyes and closed the gap between them, brushing her lips with his own. She didn't respond. He hovered there, barely a millimetre from her mouth, hardly daring to breathe, until he couldn't stop himself from leaning in and meeting her lips again.

He kept his eyes firmly closed. If she woke, if she was shocked, if she was disgusted, he could pass it off as an aberration of sleep. Nothing more. Just one of those things that happens, sometimes.

And then - and then it almost seemed as if she were kissing him back. She didn't make a sound or show any overt sign, but there was pressure there, now, that hadn't been there before. Slight and silent and wonderful. Harry's body was tense with the effort of not moving, of keeping up the illusion of sleep, but his heart pounding so that he was sure she could hear it, could feel it through his chest. He drew back, finally, astounded at himself and his own daring.

He was excited and terrified and quite possibly mad. He had kissed Hermione Granger.

He wondered if he'd ever have the nerve to do it again.