Getting Closer to Fine

Twelve

You said "I'm feeling fine" but it didn't really rhyme. --They Might Be Giants

*

"I'm going for another. Sure you don't want one?"

"No thanks, this is fine," Harry said, indicating his club soda. He took a sip as Ron headed back to the bar. He felt well enough, but there was no sense tempting fate; this was, after all, the first time he'd been out of the flat in days.

"I'm still not sure why we let Hermione and Percy take over our home," Ron said, upon returning. "Aren't you upset? Isn't it a bloody great injustice?"

"It's not like they threw us out by force," Harry said reasonably. "They're only 'taking it over' because you didn't want to stay."

"If we'd stayed, we would be number one, bored," Ron began ticking points off on his fingers, "number two, roped into doing something, number three, very bored."

"You make a good case," Harry said. "Really though, I don't mind. This civil-rights stuff is awfully important to Hermione."

"I know." Ron ran his finger around the rim of his glass. "I just think - she gets carried away. It's like S.P.E.W, you know? Except. . ." Ron shrugged, out of words.

Harry blew out a breath. But not all the letters have been so nice. . . . "Except that was school. Yeah."

He wished he knew what was being said back in their flat. Was Percy promising his support? Probably. Percy was smart enough to look at this Beings' Rights Act, or whatever Hermione and her friends were calling it, and see it for the good idea it was - not to mention clever enough to realise what it could do for his career. He'd have a completely new name for himself. . . .

Harry took a long drink from his glass. It was probably just as well he wasn't there right now. It would be hard to display the kind of enthusiasm he'd once had for Hermione's project, and too, Ron might very well be right. As things moved from the planning stage to the action stage, Hermione was likely to find jobs for them. He pictured himself and Ron standing on a corner in Diagon Alley, forcing leaflets on passers-by.

But of course - Harry grew cold at the thought - that wasn't really what they'd want from him. There was a much more obvious, public role for the Boy Who Lived to play, and if Hermione asked, how could he say no?

He must have groaned, or possibly moaned, because Ron turned to him then with an expression of concern. "All right?"

Harry endeavoured to look all right. "Yeah."

Ron drank more quickly after that, though, and before too much longer his glass was empty. He caught Harry's eye, Harry nodded, and the two rose from their seats and began shrugging on their coats. Sometimes words weren't necessary when you'd known each other forever.

Then again. . . . They'd walked to the pub, as it was just two blocks from the flat, and as they exited the pub Harry set off down the pavement, assuming they'd walk back as well. Ron appeared to have a different plan; he grabbed Harry's arm and pulled him into the shadows behind a nearby telephone booth.

"We could Apparate."

"We could," Harry said, with a grin. The word 'lazy' was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back.

"But we wouldn't want to just show up in the lounge - might interrupt them, you know Hermione wouldn't appreciate that."

"Ah," said Harry, catching on. "My room, then? Quietly?"

"See you there," Ron said, and blinked out of sight.

Harry arrived in the bedroom a beat behind Ron, who immediately went to the door and pressed his ear against it. Harry was just reaching for the lamp when Ron turned round and made a slashing motion with his hand. "They're still at it," he whispered.

Swallowing a laugh - Ron was now crossing the room on careful tiptoes - Harry sat down on the edge of the bed and untied his shoes. 'No' didn't, as a rule, take very long to say, and the fact that Percy and Hermione were still talking meant odds were extremely good that he was on board. Harry sighed, and scooted back on the bed. If Ron weren't here, he'd go to the mirror and practise his pleased excited face until it was perfect. Perhaps he could do it anyway, sans mirror, as ridiculously dark as the room was. . . .

"Did someone just knock on the door?"

Harry considered this. "Out there? Maybe."

"Oh, Merlin, I bet it's Sarah," Ron said, jumping to his feet. He took two steps toward the bedroom door, then dithered. "If I don't go out there, maybe Percy'll just think she's a friend of Hermione's. Or yours."

"Mmm," Harry said supportively.

Ron put his ear to the door. "I think - yes, it is. Damn. I tried to ring her before we went out, why couldn't she've just been home then?"

Harry decided to offer practical advice rather than comment on the likelihood of women being where you wanted them to be at any given point in time. "If you're going out there, remember, you'd better Apparate."

"Right. We're still at the pub. Thanks, ma-"

Tapping on the bedroom door. Ron shot a frantic look at Harry before pulling it open.

"Hi," said a befuddled-looking Sarah. "Er - why are you two hanging around in the dark?"

"Ah - the light hurts Harry's eyes?"

Harry, who was in the process of flipping the switch on the lamp, winced convincingly.

"How'd you know we were here?" Ron asked, ushering Sarah in and closing the door behind her.

"Hermione said it was worth a try," she replied. She perched on the foot of the bed. "I met your brother. He's very. . . polite."

"Good word," Harry said.

"Did he show any signs of leaving?" Ron asked.

"Erm. . . ."

"Told you, Harry. Taking over."

Harry sighed, defeated.

Sarah gave Harry a look of such deep sympathy that he blinked in confusion. Then he twigged on. No, don't worry, Ron's brother isn't stealing my girlfriend - and then, girlfriend? Yes, he thought, and no, because the word was too small somehow, but all the bigger ones weren't the sort he'd ever been good with at all.

"Percy invited me to one of your mum's Sunday dinners," Sarah said. "At least, I think that's what he did. You know, I have a university education and he used some words I don't think I've ever heard before."

"Oh God," Ron said, putting a hand to his head, "that's brilliant. That's just brilliant. And shut it, Harry."

"What?" Harry asked, chortling. "I haven't said anything. . . ."

"I don't have to go, Ron, it's not a big deal," Sarah said, and Harry was sure she was thinking of her own family - he doubted she was in a hurry to introduce him to her own brother, and while he didn't really know her parents, he pictured them as larger, older, more opinionated versions of Piers. At the same time, he had sense enough to know that Ron was teetering on the edge of making a serious mistake here. Sarah was probably already wondering if he was ashamed of her.

Luckily, Ron seemed to know it, too. "They're just really overwhelming," he said quickly. "Tell her, Harry."

Harry nodded. "It's true. I'm still afraid to be alone with his twin brothers."

"Hey," Ron said, mock-indignantly, "at least I don't have to take her home to a werewolf."

Sarah's eyes got very big and round. "A werewolf?" she squeaked. "As in - werewolf?"

*

Harry entered the office to find Dean there alone, a dusty book open in front of him and several more piled on the floor nearby. They exchanged nods, the most greeting they tended to manage at this hour of the morning, and Harry set about the business of removing his cloak, fishing a wrapped-up piece of toast out of his pocket, and generally getting ready for the day.

"He around?" Harry asked, jerking his head towards Moody's desk.

"Yeah," Dean said, "at a meeting."

Harry took a moment to hope it was a very thorough, very long meeting, as he was in no hurry to see his boss again, considering the dressing-down he'd received at their last encounter. He pulled out a chair and sat down beside Dean. "What're you doing?"

"Looking for potions and things that use dragon's blood. Trouble is, there's too bloody many of them."

"Ah. Fun." Harry pulled a book off the pile, opened it to the table of contents, and joined in. He was uncomfortably aware that Dean had probably been doing this all week, in moments between other cases, while he'd been lying around snogging. And dealing with blinding headaches and nausea and. . . Still.

But he was back now. And while he wasn't going to be sick or pass out anytime soon, the headaches had never really gone away, and there was something not right about that. And when he put the headaches beside the dreams, Harry was becoming more and more afraid that it totaled up to something very not right.

It had been three a.m., this time, when he'd woken from the same dream he'd been having for what felt like forever. He'd spent the hours before dawn trying to clear his mind, trying to turn it into a blank slate, an empty shell, a nothing. But it was extremely hard when his thoughts kept circling back to the fact that only one person in the world had ever, could ever manipulate his mind from a distance.

But why in the world Voldemort would return from the almost-certainly-dead to have him to relive that night, with Nagini and the Dursleys and everything, Harry couldn't imagine. And the fact that it made no bloody sense was nearly enough to convince him that it wasn't happening at all.

Pages rustled; after a while, Dean spoke. "So - ah - you all right, now?"

Harry looked up. "Yeah."

"Good." Dean was still looking down at his book, but Harry could tell he wasn't done - and that whatever he had left to say, he really didn't want to say. "On that last job," he said finally, "you didn't tell me everything. And if you had, you know," he turned his hand palm-up, flat on the table, "ten minutes earlier, I would've reacted as if you'd been poisoned. Which would've meant considerable unnecessary risk for both of us."

Not to mention, Harry thought, if you'd run into any sort of trouble whilst doing surveillance, I'd have been completely useless to you. "Er, yeah." He, too, stared at the book in front of him. "It won't happen again."

"'kay."

Pushing guilt aside, Harry flipped a few more pages. It was an impossible task, trying to guess the what when they didn't know the who or the why. Unless someone really knew how Death Eaters thought, and knew potions inside-out, going at things from this angle was just taking stabs in the dark. Harry realised he'd just come awfully close to wishing Snape were still alive, and resisted the urge to bury his face in the book and moan.

"I can't help but think," Dean said, "there's no sign they're up to anything hugely nasty, is there? I mean, Voldemort's things, yes, and Crabbe mentioned the Dark Mark, but. . . no sign of any major players, and, it's been months and nothing's actually happened."

Harry wished he could join in this bout of positive thinking. "I hope you're right," he said.

Both Dean and Harry were nodding off over their books when Moody came in, and both started in their seats at the door-slamming, owl-chittering, and roaring that accompanied his return.

"What in Merlin's name is this?"

"Er," Harry said, "that's my friend's owl."

"Yes," Moody said dangerously, "I know it's young Weasley's owl. I remember him most specifically, as he chose to roost in my pocket once during the middle of an extremely secret Order meeting." He glared at Pigwidgeon, clenched in his fist. "This bird should be contained. Risky enough to let it fly all over Black's house, but to send it here?"

"I'm sure he didn't exactly send it here," Harry said. "I think I, ah, let him think I was staying home a day or so longer."

Moody gave him a look which managed to convey very clearly that he had better be well enough to be back at work, because if he as much as sneezed Moody wouldn't be responsible for the consequences.

Harry swallowed, and put out a hand. "May I have him?"

Moody let go, and Pigwidgeon flew over to Harry and, after dropping a letter in his lap, began nibbling cheerfully upon the earpiece of his glasses. Harry unfolded the parchment and read the three words there, then read them again, and again. Complete and utter puzzlement gave way to foreboding as Ron's attempt at a cryptogram began to make sense.

MASSIVE QUANTITY BERK

Fingers suddenly a little clumsy, Harry re-folded the note and tucked it in his pocket. He would tell Moody later, when he'd decided on how to explain Ron's involvement in their case without sending the man into a state of paranoid cardiac arrest.

Dean wanted a sign, Harry thought, and now they had one.

*

Hermione loved her little flat. She had two very small rooms and a bath near the top of an old terraced house, which meant things like hardwood floors, ancient appliances, and a good view of a street full of similar houses from her windows. Her downstairs neighbours had a yappy dog, which she didn't like and Crookshanks didn't like, but a few soundproofing charms let them pretend it didn't exist.

She liked to get up late on Sunday mornings - but not too late, nine-thirty was just about right - make some tea, then pad back to bed in her pyjamas and surround herself with books and a purring cat. This morning she was deep into Goblins and E.T.: How Failed Memory Charms Influence Muggle Science Fiction when the peace was disturbed by a very loud crash and a "Bugger!" from the next room.

Hermione grabbed her wand, even though she was fairly certain she recognised the voice, and went to see what was going on. She stood in the doorway to the lounge for a moment and stared, then said, "Why, hello there, Father Christmas. Brought me a present?"

"Oh -" Ron unfolded his top half from the fireplace, and turned, still kneeling on the hearth. "Hi, Hermione, does this thing work?"

"Of course."

"Oh. Good." He stood and dusted soot off himself and onto her nice clean floor.

She crossed her arms over her chest. Her winter pyjamas weren't at all on the skimpy side, but still, they were pyjamas. "I have a phone, you know."

"Oh right, can I use it to ring Sarah?"

"Yes," she said, "but, and this is just a thought, you could've rung me, too."

He smiled, that really annoying, disarming Ron smile. "Didn't want to wake you."

She threw up her hands and sputtered. "Nice of you," she finally managed, "would you mind telling me what this is all about?"

"Going to take Sarah to the Burrow this afternoon," he explained. "I thought Floo Powder was the best way to go."

Hermione frowned. "Hmm. I would've thought a Portkey, no risk of her getting off at the wrong stop - could your dad not get you one?"

Ron shuffled a bit. "Ah. Well. They don't know she's coming."

"Oh, Ron, that's not fair to your mum, she needs to know!"

"It'll be all right. She always does plenty of food on Sundays, because she never knows who's going to show. And I figure if Fred and George don't know Sarah's going to be there -"

"They won't have time to come up with too much," she finished. "Is Harry going?"

"Think so. He went to work an hour ago, but he said it would only be for a little while. I asked him to meet me here."

"I bet he knocks." Hermione gave Ron a final Look, then said, "I'll go get ready - you make yourself at home. There's tea in the kitchen."

"Ta, Hermione," Ron said, and she left him to it.

She took a hot shower, washed and dried her hair, and put on a dab of perfume. Then it was time to decide on clothes, and for the first time in a long time she found herself actively considering what Harry might think of each top as she pulled it out of the drawer. She'd got so used to thinking he'd never notice, but she was pretty sure that wasn't the case now. . . . She ended up with dark blue jeans and an orangey-brown v-neck jumper that wasn't revealing or attention-seeking (nothing Hermione owned could be described as 'attention-seeking'), but it wasn't shapeless, either.

Satisfied, Hermione headed for the bedroom door. She paused with her hand on the knob: Harry was speaking in the other room.

". . . told him that we met in St. James's Park, and that I checked all the bushes for listening devices and the ducks for Animagi before you came, and that after you gave me the information, I memory-charmed you."

"Was he satisfied with that?" Ron asked, laughing.

"I think. But if you ever happen to see him again, remember, you know nothing. I wouldn't put it past him to try and test you."

"Gotcha." Ron paused. "So - ah - was it helpful?"

Harry's voice was a little muffled; Hermione thought he might be running a hand over his face. "Very. Now that we know Burke's been playing middleman with those large shipments of dragon's blood, we've a much better shot at figuring out where it's going." Harry paused. "And here I thought Burke was packing it in. Since Borgin died, that shop's been closed more days than not."

"You going to interrogate him? Veritaserum?" There was a trace of wistfulness to Ron's words, and Hermione wondered if Harry heard it. Being an Auror would always be a little bit cool to those boys, she thought, no matter how happy and successful Ron was at his own job, no matter how much Harry's took out of him.

"Probably not. We'll start with surveillance, see what he does when the next load comes in. See who comes to buy it."

Hermione leaned against the door. It'd been days since she'd found out, but she hadn't got over it yet. Harry had confided in Ron, asked for his help, told him something he wasn't supposed to tell a soul. He'd been right to do it, too: Ron had found the answer. She couldn't have.

It was so completely and perfectly logical she could cry.

*

When faced with a roaring fire and told that she was going to have to step into it, Sarah didn't back away or protest or question anyone's sanity. She was, Hermione had noticed, a person who expressed a lot of things with her eyes, and as she stood and stared at the flames they grew very large indeed. Hermione tried to think of something helpful to say.

"If you keep your eyes closed, you probably won't throw up."

That wasn't it. Hermione shot Harry a frown over her shoulder.

Sarah gave Harry a wobbly smile, then looked up at Ron. "You're going with me, right?"

"Of course," Ron said, in a voice so strong and reassuring that Hermione wondered where the idiot who'd broken into her flat that morning had gone. He took Sarah's hand. "Whenever you're ready."

Sarah took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes closed. "Okay."

Ron tossed the powder on. When the flames were high and brilliant green he hugged Sarah to his chest, then carefully walked them both into the fireplace. "The Burrow!" he said, and in a whoosh they were gone.

Hermione let out a breath. She'd never actually seen a Muggle travel by Floo before, and in the back of her mind had been muttering dousing charms, just in case. "She really trusts him," she said quietly.

"Yeah," Harry said, and she felt him move closer. "Hi."

She turned and greeted him properly. "We should go," she said finally, reluctantly.

"Suppose so," Harry said, but he didn't move his hands from her waist, or his head from where it rested alongside hers. As they stood there, not moving, just breathing, Hermione had the sudden, frightening feeling that she was the only thing holding him up.

And then he stepped away, and that was that. "Shall I put the fire out?"

"Yes, thanks," Hermione said. "And I'll just go check Crookshanks' food dish -"

When they arrived at the Burrow, Hermione and Harry found everyone gathered in the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley seemed to be winding down from a flustered state; she was busy telling Ron what a bad idea it had been to bring Sarah by Floo. Fred, George, and Ginny were hovering in the background, wearing delighted grins, while Mr. Weasley was looking after Sarah in his quiet way, bringing her a glass of water.

"Harry! Hermione!" Ron said, in a tone of a man being thrown a life preserver. "Well, now that there's so many of us here, we really should get out of your way, eh Mum?"

"Capital idea, little brother," said one of the twins, with a wicked smile. "Lead on!"

Hermione followed the tide of younger Weasleys and guests to the sitting room. Ron had a protective arm around Sarah, as if to warn his brothers that they would have to come through him first. Hermione thought, or maybe she hoped, that his fears were misplaced - if she knew the twins, they would be nothing but gracious to Sarah, and completely merciless toward their brother.

Harry had been walking ahead of her, but as everyone settled on various couches and chairs, he held back a little awkwardly. Hermione couldn't help but flush as she realised he was waiting to see where she chose to sit. She chose a puffy footstool, and moment later, he sat there as well, facing the opposite way.

"So, Sarah," Ginny said brightly, "I'd like to say we've heard so much about you, but. . . ."

"Oh, that's rich," Ron said. "Coming from little Miss Secret Parade of Boyfriends."

And they were off. Harry's back was warm against hers and Hermione leaned into him, content to enjoy the show.

*

Lunch was wonderful, and the largest meal he'd eaten in a long time; Harry was afraid he was in danger of exploding. What he really wanted to do was lie on his back somewhere and play dead, but he followed the twins and Ron out to the garden dutifully. Fred and George had something they wanted to show him - meaning there really was a possibility of little bits of Harry being strewn all over the lawn before the day was over.

"In here," George said, pushing at the door of the garden shed. They all filed in, blinking against the gloom. Harry and Ron hovered near the doorway out of an instinctive self-preservation, while Fred lit an old lantern.

"Here's Sweetie," George said, gesturing. Sweetie appeared to be a pair of gleaming metal scissors, hanging from a peg on the wall amongst shovels and rakes and Muggle television aerials.

"Nice," Harry said politely. He couldn't help but notice that the scissors' blades were bound together with metal twine.

Beside him, Ron took a step backwards.

"Sweetie's a bit of an experiment in the Home Hygiene line."

"Why go to a barbershop -"

"Or your mother's house -"

"Or pester your girlfriend -" (This last was accompanied by a significant look at Ron.)

"When Sweetie can give you a perfect haircut in minutes?"

"Because I like my ears?" Ron offered.

The twins laughed. "Silly boy, I can't imagine why."

"Erm," Harry said, as George lifted Sweetie off the wall, "if she's for hair, why is she all tied up in a shed?"

"Ah. Well, you see, this model is a tad. . . zealous. She's proven herself a bit much for normal hair."

"Great on hedges, though."

"And you, Harry Potter, have hair that. . . well. Has anyone ever used the word normal to describe those locks of yours?"

"Oh no," Harry said, one hand already scrabbling for the doorknob.

"You needn't be alarmed - see here, Fred's already got his looks back -" George pointed reassuringly at a spot on the side of his brother's head.

Just then, the door opened with a loud, long creak. "What ho, Percy!" Fred said. "We missed you at lunch."

"Yes, well, some hooligan thought it would be funny to plant lager bottles in a Muggle pub that were charmed to whisper abusive statements to the person drinking them. You can, I'm sure, imagine the fracas that resulted on a Saturday night. I've been dealing with things since about one o'clock this morning," Percy drew himself up importantly, "thus allowing our father to have a proper Sunday's rest."

"That's a shame," George said, trying and failing not to look amused. "Now that you're here, need a trim?" Sweetie's blades clicked ominously against their restraints.

"No, thank you," Percy said, frowning. "I'd like to speak with Harry a moment, if I may."

"Oh, sweet Merlin, yes. Absolutely," Harry said.

He followed Percy out into the winter sunshine. The garden was dreary at this time of year, trees bare, grass a dull brown, no gnomes in sight. He hugged his arms to himself.

Percy cleared his throat. "Hermione mentioned that your work has been keeping you quite busy of late. More so than usual."

Crap.

"I don't know if that's true," Harry said carefully. "I always work a lot."

Percy held up a hand. "I realise your profession requires you to maintain the highest levels of secrecy. I am not asking - would not ask - you to break a trust. I'd just like to hear your opinion as a member of law-enforcement, especially after what I've just witnessed. . . . Are there a great number of people in our society today who are not as enlightened and forward-thinking as we would hope?"

"Lots of Voldemort-sympathizers?" Harry said, when he had processed all that. "Sure. Well, maybe not 'lots'. . . I don't know. But yeah. They're out there."

"Thank you, Harry. It's important that I have the clearest possible picture of the socio-political landscape if I am to be involved in re-shaping it in any significant way."

It wasn't a conscious thought. Something - a snake-whisper from a dream, pain that had never really gone away, a dozen other thoughts and fears, something - made Harry stop Percy as he turned to go back to the house. "Listen," he said, "if it was me, I'd. . . take my time with things. I just would."

Percy looked at him intently, then gave a short nod. "Thank you," he said again, and left.

*

After the washing-up, the girls settled down at the kitchen table with mugs of mulled cider and second helpings of pie. Ginny and Sarah were getting along famously; Ginny had been telling embarrassing childhood stories about Ron for some time and was, Hermione suspected, about one step away from pulling out the photo albums.

Hermione was sipping her coffee and thinking her own thoughts, when suddenly -

"So, how long's it been going on, Hermione?"

"It? What?"

"You know what," Ginny said. "Or should I say, who."

"I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about," she said in her most business-like voice. And then, at the looks on their faces, conceded, "Two weeks, more or less." She could estimate down to the hour, but that would just be pathetic.

Sarah and Ginny made twin excited noises.

There was no escaping this conversation, so Hermione plunged in, willing her cheeks to stop burning. "How'd you two know?"

"Well," Ginny said, "first off, there was all the smiling."

"What smiling?"

"Oh," Sarah said, "there's been smiling."

"And then," Ginny continued, "we have the seating arrangements in the lounge, earlier."

"And at lunch, he refilled your pumpkin juice when you were getting low - twice."

"That's just good manners," Hermione protested.

"He's a boy," Sarah returned.

"He's Harry," Ginny added.

"So why aren't you two, you know, public?" Sarah asked.

That was the big question, and Hermione didn't answer. Ginny did, after a moment. "Because he's Harry, and he's as emotionally savvy as, as -"

"As a toothpick?" Hermione said with a slight smile. "No - maybe - I don't know." That was probably part of it, Harry's part of it, but her own reticence was slightly different. Fourteen days was no time at all; they could fall apart next week, they could fall apart tonight.

She didn't want the world to know if they didn't make it. She'd have a hard enough time showing her face to Harry again.

"Maybe it's that," she said, pointing at Ginny. "What you just did. We'd have to tell Ron first, and when they're alone in that flat of theirs he'd be rude about me."

Ginny cocked her head to the side and Hermione was afraid, for a moment, that she might have taken offence. "He would," Ginny said. "He might not do it on purpose, but yeah, the last thing you need is his perceptions of you as a girlfriend colouring Harry's."

Hermione pushed her hair off her face and looked at Sarah. There was an awful lot of shared boy-history around this table, and candor, she felt, was the way forward. "I was seventeen when Ron and I dated. I wasn't at my best. Not that he was, either," she added.

"No-one's at their best at seventeen," Sarah said diplomatically. "Wait, how old are you?" she asked Ginny.

"Eighteen," Ginny said with a grin. "So that's all right, then."

"You'll just have to lay down the law with Ron," Sarah said. "When you're ready. Tell him he's not allowed to say or do or think anything when it comes to you and Harry. Or," she smiled, "or I can."

"And tell him I'll hex him if he does," Ginny put in.

Hermione smiled at them both. "Thanks, you two. I may take you up on that." One of these days.

*