Title: After Happily Ever After (1/?)
Author:![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
sdk
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Harry/Hermione
Rating: PG (this part)
Genre: Romance/Friendship
Length/Word Count: Chaptered, 1348 words (this part)
Summary: Thirty-two years later...
Warnings: DH Spoilers, Epilogue compliant
Notes: Written forrandom_loves's Birthday! Harry Birthday! She requested Harry and Hermione falling in love at age 50/51. Not an affair. Thanks to quite_grey for the beta, any remaining mistakes belong to me. Comments and Concrit are most welcome!
Disclaimer: The following is based on fictional characters that I don't own doing fictional things in a fictional world that I didn't create. No copyright infringement intended, no money's being made.
After Happily Ever After
Part one
“You’re going gray,” Hermione said, quirking her lips as she leaned on the counter next to Harry, watching him heat the tea kettle with the tip of his wand.
“Oh, shut it.”
“Just here.” Her fingers ghosted over the tips of his ears. “More silvery really.”
Harry batted her hand away. “You’re making me feel old.”
Hermione laughed as she stretched up to grab two cups from the top cabinet. “Honestly, it looks good on you; dignified.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not like mine.”
“Pfft,” Harry said. Hermione didn’t miss the way his eyes strayed to the smattering of gray framing her face. “What gray hair?”
Hermione nudged his elbow but didn’t respond as he prepared their tea in her small kitchen. She followed him to the breakfast nook, a short square table nestled up against a bay window, big enough for two to fit comfortably. Three was a tight squeeze, but Hermione rarely had need for something larger.
“So, what’s this about?” Hermione settled in on the wooden chair, pouring a dash of milk into her tea. Harry took his plain.
“What do you mean?” Harry cocked his head, the sunlight catching on the silver streaking back from his temple.
“That innocent act stopped working thirty years ago.”
“What innocent act?”
“You never just pop by for tea, especially on a Sunday morning.” Hermione gave a wry smile before bringing the cup to her lips.
“All right, all right,” Harry said, raising his hands in surrender. “I thought it would be better to ease into this, but I can see that’s impossible with you.”
“You should have known better.”
“Right.” Harry smiled, but his eyes tightened subtly. Anyone else might not have noticed, but Hermione wasn’t just anyone.
She leaned forward. “What’s wrong?”
“Ginny…well,” Harry shook his head. “I won’t be at the Burrow for Christmas Eve this year.”
“What?”
His gaze dropped to the table, his fingers fiddling with a napkin. “I won’t be going to the Burrow—not this year…I don’t know if—probably not again.”
She reached out automatically, stilling his hand with a brush of her fingers. “What happened?”
He didn’t speak, the soft whirr of the refrigerator the only sound in the kitchen for a long moment, and as she twined their fingers together to squeeze his hand, she suddenly knew what had happened.
He wasn’t wearing his ring.
“Oh Harry,” she whispered, and he looked at her then with a pained smile turning quickly to a grimace.
“It’s for the best.”
“When?” she prodded gently, but he slipped his hand out of hers and scrubbed his cheek with his palm.
“Last week.” He turned to the window, taking a small sip of tea. “It just wasn’t working out. It hasn’t been for a while.”
“Does Ron know?”
“No,” Harry said quickly. “Unless she—she might have told him; I don’t know…she didn’t take it all that well. I haven’t—we haven’t told the kids yet. I wanted to give her some time to calm down.”
Hermione nodded, though he wasn’t looking her way. She was bursting with questions—why after twenty-five years? Was he absolutely sure? Had they tried counseling? But she clamped down on her curiosity, forcing down tea to keep her mouth busy. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t guess the answers; she’d been married to Ron for fifteen years before she’d realised she wasn’t in love with him any longer. Counseling hadn’t worked, temporary separation had barely eased the tension between them; in the end the only solution that had helped their relationship was finally getting divorced.
She was about to remind Harry that she and Ron had managed to become friends again (she felt closer to him now than she had during the last few years of their marriage), but Harry’s face darkened, stifling her words.
“You know, she had the nerve to say that I’d waited until she was too old to find anyone else?” Harry slammed his cup on the table. “That I’d ruined her for any other men—that no one would take Harry Potter’s castoffs—like she’s a castoff! Like that’s all this meant to me?”
“That’s quite ridiculous.” Hermione reached across the table to grab his hand again, but he jumped up, averting her grasp, and began to pace back and forth across her kitchen. “According to Wizarding standards, she’s not even middle-aged, and—”
“Twenty-five years, right—I mean, yeah, I did hold on until the kids were out of the house, and maybe I knew things were going badly after Lily went off to Hogwarts and it was just the two of us again, but whenever I tried to talk to her she just—” The soles of his shoes slapped hard against the kitchen tiles. “She always had some place to be—something to do, work, Quidditch practice or doing the dishes or preparing dinner—she never let me cook! I’m a good cook, Hermione, you know that don’t you?”
He stilled, finally meeting her eyes. His pleading look tugged her from her chair and she went to him, slipping her arms around his shoulders; he buried his face into her neck, squeezing her waist.
“You’re an excellent cook,” Hermione said, cupping the back of his head. “Really.”
“You’re not just saying that, are you?” Harry said, his voice muffled against her collar.
Hermione huffed lightly. “You know me better than that.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.”
Hermione wasn’t sure how long they stood there, Harry curled into her, hiding his face against her shoulder; Hermione pulled him closer. He didn’t cry, but she hadn’t expected him to, and eventually he relaxed his grip. He drew away, rubbing the heel of his palm over his forehead.
“Thanks,” he said. She was reluctant to let go, but he backed up a couple of steps, his gaze firmly on the floor.
“Where are you staying?” she asked quietly.
“Grimmauld Place.”
Hermione frowned; as far as she knew, Grimmauld Place hadn’t been inhabited since their brief stay after Bill and Fleur’s wedding—it was likely just as gloomy as when they’d left it, too. No place for Harry to live, even temporarily.
“I have a guest bedroom.”
He glanced up at her. “No, Hermione, I couldn’t ask—”
“You didn’t,” she stated firmly. “I’m offering and I insist.”
“Well, I insist that I can’t accept,” Harry said, but there was a faint trace of a smile on his lips.
“In that case, I guess we’re going to find out which of us is the most stubborn after all these years.” She folded her arms across her chest, but the corners of her mouth turned up against her will.
“I can’t impose—”
“Did you forget that I offered?” Her lips twitched.
“No, but still, I don’t want to just barge in—”
Hermione squashed the urge to roll her eyes. “You’re not barging in. I’m offering. I want you to stay here.”
Harry opened and closed his mouth, emitting a nonsensical protest, but Hermione knew she was two seconds away from winning this round.
“Besides, I wouldn’t mind having an excellent cook around the flat for a while.”
“You are rubbish at it,” Harry admitted, tilting his head to the side. “I would be doing you a favour; saving you from—”
“My dreadful culinary skills?”
Harry shrugged, his smile growing faintly. “Something like that.” He looked at the floor for a split second, then back at her. “Is tonight too soon?”
Hermione almost grinned with her victory, but she settled for a small smile matching his. “No, tonight’s fine.”
“Good—I mean, all right, then.” Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I guess I’ll, er, go and get my stuff—you’ll be here when I get back? You don’t have any plans or—”
“I’ll be here,” Hermione said with a nod.
“Okay.” Harry turned toward the door, but paused mid-stride and a moment later engulfed Hermione in a brief hug, whispering, “Thanks.”
“Anytime,” Hermione said, and her eyes lingered on his back as he walked to her front door.
Go to Part 2
Shelly's fic index
Author:
sdkFandom: Harry Potter
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Harry/Hermione
Rating: PG (this part)
Genre: Romance/Friendship
Length/Word Count: Chaptered, 1348 words (this part)
Summary: Thirty-two years later...
Warnings: DH Spoilers, Epilogue compliant
Notes: Written for
random_loves's Birthday! Harry Birthday! She requested Harry and Hermione falling in love at age 50/51. Not an affair. Thanks to quite_grey for the beta, any remaining mistakes belong to me. Comments and Concrit are most welcome!Disclaimer: The following is based on fictional characters that I don't own doing fictional things in a fictional world that I didn't create. No copyright infringement intended, no money's being made.
After Happily Ever After
Part one
“You’re going gray,” Hermione said, quirking her lips as she leaned on the counter next to Harry, watching him heat the tea kettle with the tip of his wand.
“Oh, shut it.”
“Just here.” Her fingers ghosted over the tips of his ears. “More silvery really.”
Harry batted her hand away. “You’re making me feel old.”
Hermione laughed as she stretched up to grab two cups from the top cabinet. “Honestly, it looks good on you; dignified.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not like mine.”
“Pfft,” Harry said. Hermione didn’t miss the way his eyes strayed to the smattering of gray framing her face. “What gray hair?”
Hermione nudged his elbow but didn’t respond as he prepared their tea in her small kitchen. She followed him to the breakfast nook, a short square table nestled up against a bay window, big enough for two to fit comfortably. Three was a tight squeeze, but Hermione rarely had need for something larger.
“So, what’s this about?” Hermione settled in on the wooden chair, pouring a dash of milk into her tea. Harry took his plain.
“What do you mean?” Harry cocked his head, the sunlight catching on the silver streaking back from his temple.
“That innocent act stopped working thirty years ago.”
“What innocent act?”
“You never just pop by for tea, especially on a Sunday morning.” Hermione gave a wry smile before bringing the cup to her lips.
“All right, all right,” Harry said, raising his hands in surrender. “I thought it would be better to ease into this, but I can see that’s impossible with you.”
“You should have known better.”
“Right.” Harry smiled, but his eyes tightened subtly. Anyone else might not have noticed, but Hermione wasn’t just anyone.
She leaned forward. “What’s wrong?”
“Ginny…well,” Harry shook his head. “I won’t be at the Burrow for Christmas Eve this year.”
“What?”
His gaze dropped to the table, his fingers fiddling with a napkin. “I won’t be going to the Burrow—not this year…I don’t know if—probably not again.”
She reached out automatically, stilling his hand with a brush of her fingers. “What happened?”
He didn’t speak, the soft whirr of the refrigerator the only sound in the kitchen for a long moment, and as she twined their fingers together to squeeze his hand, she suddenly knew what had happened.
He wasn’t wearing his ring.
“Oh Harry,” she whispered, and he looked at her then with a pained smile turning quickly to a grimace.
“It’s for the best.”
“When?” she prodded gently, but he slipped his hand out of hers and scrubbed his cheek with his palm.
“Last week.” He turned to the window, taking a small sip of tea. “It just wasn’t working out. It hasn’t been for a while.”
“Does Ron know?”
“No,” Harry said quickly. “Unless she—she might have told him; I don’t know…she didn’t take it all that well. I haven’t—we haven’t told the kids yet. I wanted to give her some time to calm down.”
Hermione nodded, though he wasn’t looking her way. She was bursting with questions—why after twenty-five years? Was he absolutely sure? Had they tried counseling? But she clamped down on her curiosity, forcing down tea to keep her mouth busy. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t guess the answers; she’d been married to Ron for fifteen years before she’d realised she wasn’t in love with him any longer. Counseling hadn’t worked, temporary separation had barely eased the tension between them; in the end the only solution that had helped their relationship was finally getting divorced.
She was about to remind Harry that she and Ron had managed to become friends again (she felt closer to him now than she had during the last few years of their marriage), but Harry’s face darkened, stifling her words.
“You know, she had the nerve to say that I’d waited until she was too old to find anyone else?” Harry slammed his cup on the table. “That I’d ruined her for any other men—that no one would take Harry Potter’s castoffs—like she’s a castoff! Like that’s all this meant to me?”
“That’s quite ridiculous.” Hermione reached across the table to grab his hand again, but he jumped up, averting her grasp, and began to pace back and forth across her kitchen. “According to Wizarding standards, she’s not even middle-aged, and—”
“Twenty-five years, right—I mean, yeah, I did hold on until the kids were out of the house, and maybe I knew things were going badly after Lily went off to Hogwarts and it was just the two of us again, but whenever I tried to talk to her she just—” The soles of his shoes slapped hard against the kitchen tiles. “She always had some place to be—something to do, work, Quidditch practice or doing the dishes or preparing dinner—she never let me cook! I’m a good cook, Hermione, you know that don’t you?”
He stilled, finally meeting her eyes. His pleading look tugged her from her chair and she went to him, slipping her arms around his shoulders; he buried his face into her neck, squeezing her waist.
“You’re an excellent cook,” Hermione said, cupping the back of his head. “Really.”
“You’re not just saying that, are you?” Harry said, his voice muffled against her collar.
Hermione huffed lightly. “You know me better than that.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.”
Hermione wasn’t sure how long they stood there, Harry curled into her, hiding his face against her shoulder; Hermione pulled him closer. He didn’t cry, but she hadn’t expected him to, and eventually he relaxed his grip. He drew away, rubbing the heel of his palm over his forehead.
“Thanks,” he said. She was reluctant to let go, but he backed up a couple of steps, his gaze firmly on the floor.
“Where are you staying?” she asked quietly.
“Grimmauld Place.”
Hermione frowned; as far as she knew, Grimmauld Place hadn’t been inhabited since their brief stay after Bill and Fleur’s wedding—it was likely just as gloomy as when they’d left it, too. No place for Harry to live, even temporarily.
“I have a guest bedroom.”
He glanced up at her. “No, Hermione, I couldn’t ask—”
“You didn’t,” she stated firmly. “I’m offering and I insist.”
“Well, I insist that I can’t accept,” Harry said, but there was a faint trace of a smile on his lips.
“In that case, I guess we’re going to find out which of us is the most stubborn after all these years.” She folded her arms across her chest, but the corners of her mouth turned up against her will.
“I can’t impose—”
“Did you forget that I offered?” Her lips twitched.
“No, but still, I don’t want to just barge in—”
Hermione squashed the urge to roll her eyes. “You’re not barging in. I’m offering. I want you to stay here.”
Harry opened and closed his mouth, emitting a nonsensical protest, but Hermione knew she was two seconds away from winning this round.
“Besides, I wouldn’t mind having an excellent cook around the flat for a while.”
“You are rubbish at it,” Harry admitted, tilting his head to the side. “I would be doing you a favour; saving you from—”
“My dreadful culinary skills?”
Harry shrugged, his smile growing faintly. “Something like that.” He looked at the floor for a split second, then back at her. “Is tonight too soon?”
Hermione almost grinned with her victory, but she settled for a small smile matching his. “No, tonight’s fine.”
“Good—I mean, all right, then.” Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I guess I’ll, er, go and get my stuff—you’ll be here when I get back? You don’t have any plans or—”
“I’ll be here,” Hermione said with a nod.
“Okay.” Harry turned toward the door, but paused mid-stride and a moment later engulfed Hermione in a brief hug, whispering, “Thanks.”
“Anytime,” Hermione said, and her eyes lingered on his back as he walked to her front door.
Go to Part 2
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