wl_mods (wl_mods) wrote in wizard_love, @ 2011-03-10 01:08:00 |
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Entry tags: | *fic, 2011, harry, hermione |
Special delivery for subtle_horizon
Title:I'm Not the Kind That Likes to Tell You
or
Five Meals Harry Made for Hermione, and One They Made Together
Author/Artist:
Recipient's LJ name: subtle_horizon
Pairing(s): Harry/Hermione
Rating: R
Summary A love story in five courses, one engagement party, and thirteen years.
Word Count: 10,600
Warnings/Content: mild infidelity
Disclaimer: I own neither Harry Potter nor the lyrics by New Order or Susan Enan
Author's/Artist's notes: This story was partially inspired by New Order's "Age of Consent" and Susan Enan's "Bring On the Wonder". Give them a listen while you're reading! (I've had them on repeat for days!) Thank you to the mods for being kind, understanding, and organized—this was a really fun fest to be a part of!
/ I'm not the kind that likes to tell you
Just what I want to do/
5.
"Hi. Hermione. Thought I'd come see you tonight. I'm avoiding Snape's essay, and you're not there to get me to do it, so...
"I, um, I brought us some soup from the kitchen. The House Elves... they don't really like me nosing about down there with them, but I—like to make things for myself sometimes. Helps me think. So, I made us some beef and barley stew. It was one of my favorites at the Dursleys because I could always make so much of it. There'd be loads left over and they'd have to let me eat it or it'd spoil. They didn't believe in freezing leftovers—more work for me, that way.
"You look all right tonight—a little better, I think. Maybe it's just the light. It won't be long before the Mandrakes are ready and you'll be back with me—with Ron and me again. He really misses you, even though he doesn't come out and say it. He's strange about stuff like that.
"Tell you what: I'll make you beef and barley stew soon as you're up and about again. I'd make it for you every week we're home for the summer if I could—if it meant being anywhere else but Little Whinging. If it meant I could be with you and Ron. I'd clean your house, too. I'm good at that.
"Come back to us, Hermione. We need you now more than ever."
4.
/Let's go to the hills
where the outlines are clear/
Harry was sneaking into the girls' dormitory to meet with Hermione about forming a DADA study group—one he was supposed to lead. All three bits of that sentence had his stomach winding itself into knots, but that last part in particular was making him sweat—though the first part would earn him a not inconsiderable amount of bargaining power with his dorm-mates.
Under his invisibility cloak, he stepped over lacy knickers and black knee socks. Dean would trade the sweets his mother always sent him, and Seamus would find some way to get him firewhiskey. Ron would probably get all flustered and blustery, but then—
"Harry, is that you? Those are Lavender Brown's knickers you're poking at with your toe, I hope you realize. And they've been there a week."
Harry jolted and threw off his cloak, flushed all the way to his scalp. "Er—sorry. I got distracted by the—you know." A slim eyebrow shot up as Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, and Harry laughed, his embarrassment fading. "And anyway, a week is nothing. There's something growing in a pair of Ron's manky old socks under his bed."
With a shudder, Hermione looked at the various undergarments scattered over every square foot of the room except her own. "I suppose, in comparison, these would be quite diverting."
Harry grinned as he sat down beside her on her bed. "Don't judge me. I brought you sandwiches since we're skipping lunch."
Her eyes lit up and Harry felt glad that she was excited for what he made her. "Oh, did you use that fantastic mustard from last time?" At his nod, she moaned in delight. "You make the most amazing sandwiches I ever tasted."
Unshrinking the wrapped sandwiches from his pocket, he set both on a plate between them. "I'm glad you like them."
After a large bite, Hermione took a drink of water from a glass on her nightstand. "It's so nice you make them yourself; everyone else relies on the unpaid work of House Elves—including me, I'm sad to say. But I was always rubbish in the kitchen."
Harry shrugged as he took a bite of his own sandwich. "I've perfected the art of the sandwich over the years."
"And what inspired this noble pursuit?"
"Making Dudley's for him every day. He only ever wanted ham and cheese, so when I came here, I decided to experiment."
Hermione's sandwich froze on its way to her mouth. Then she very carefully returned it to her plate. "Harry..." she began, regarding him with her most penetrating stare. "What relationship do you have with food."
Harry hesitated. "I like to eat it?"
"Food preparation, then. Don't be intentionally thick."
"I... don't really understand what you're asking me."
"I'm wondering if, since our first year, you made food for Ron and me out of some sense of obligation, inspired by the Dursleys. I'm wondering if, since they basically treated you like their own personal House Elf, you don't feel the same way here."
Feeling uncomfortable at how quickly she'd leapt to that insight, Harry continued to eat just so he had something to do with his hands and didn't have to speak. Finally, when Hermione refused to look away – and Harry thought she hadn't even blinked – he put down his sandwich and took a slow breath. "I make food for my friends because I want to and because I'm good at it. When I first—came to Hogwarts, I—" He swallowed. "I mostly only did it because I was good at it, and because I thought you'd like me better if I—"
He flinched back as Hermione very nearly launched herself at him, upsetting the plate of food as she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him hard on the cheek.
"But I don't think that anymore!" he said hastily.
"One of the many reasons we're forming this DADA study group is so I can learn some proper hexes to try out on those horrid Dursleys! Harry, why didn't you tell me?"
He tried to pull away from her, and finally, she let him go, sitting back to rescue the toppled sandwiches. "And what would I tell you, exactly? I like to cook and make food for my friends. I like to do it for you, not my gluttonous family. I'm trying not to be weird about it, but obviously it's not working."
Hermione's skin was flushed bright pink, and Harry couldn't tell whether she was embarrassed herself, or if she was righteously angry on his behalf. But then she resolutely picked up her sandwich and began to eat again, and Harry relaxed. The conversation appeared to be over.
They ate in silence after that, and he found his eyes and mind wandering. He thought about what the Ravenclaw tower might look like, if it was tidier, if it smelled as good, if Cho left her knickers on the floor, if her knickers were as lacy as Lavender's, or if they were more practical. She was a Seeker, after all. That ought to require more practical undergarments. He knew he preferred—
"Honestly, Harry, they're just bits of fabric and lace. They're really not that interesting. I'd show you mine to prove it, but I know Ron would turn purple if he ever found out, so..."
Harry's attention very abruptly returned to Hermione and he barked a surprised laugh. "So, we're both agreed I shouldn't see your knickers."
A wary smile twisted the corner of her mouth, and her blush returned. "Right. At least, not at this juncture."
"S'okay. I'm not sure we're ready for that in our friendship." He grinned at Hermione's hurried search for something to hit him with, then ducked when she swatted him with a bit of rolled up parchment.
"Let's get started, then, all right?" she scolded with another arched brow. "We need to figure out what sorts of defensive spells you can teach us—which ones you already know, and which ones you think we can learn together. Maybe a few more advanced spells?"
There was a bit of mustard below her lip and Harry had to fight the urge to wipe it off with this thumb. He'd forgotten to bring napkins from the kitchen. "Yeah, sounds good. If we're going to risk being expelled, we might as well go all-out."
Hermione looked slightly ill at the word 'expelled,' but quickly rallied. "That's the spirit. You-Know—Voldemort won't care whether we're at Hogwarts or if we've been expelled. We shouldn't limit ourselves just because we might be caught. Umbridge won't likely differentiate, either."
Abruptly, the thought of Hermione forcibly removed from Hogwarts, the place where she thrived, was a picture too sorry to bear. "He wouldn't care about you at all if it weren't for me, if you weren't my friend. This study group will only put you in greater danger."
Hermione looked down at her unfinished lunch, then took another hesitant bite. "I disagree," she said, after she'd swallowed. "As a Muggleborn witch, I will be among the first he targets. This is just as important for my protection. Don't think you're the only reason, we're forming this group. Your ego's large enough as it is."
She said it fondly, but he still flushed and again dropped his eyes to the spot of mustard. "Well, before you go and get one, as well, you should know you've got mustard on your face." Without thinking, he leaned forward and rubbed his thumb across her lip, wiping it away. Then, because he still wasn't thinking, he licked the mustard off his thumb.
Realizing they were both embarrassed now, Harry ducked his head and wished fervently for something to say, but in a moment of divine intervention, who should decide to flounce into the dormitory, but Lavender Brown. Harry grabbed his cloak and threw it over himself and Hermione, hiding their books and food underneath.
They didn't fit as well beneath the cloak as they used to, not being eleven any longer, but after a quick shuffle, all toes and fingers were tucked out of sight. He supposed he could have left Hermione uncovered, as this was her room, but it was too late now, so they sat pressed together in total silence as Lavender took a turn about the room, looking rather maudlin.
As they watched, she went to Hermione's trunk and opened it, shuffling through the contents. Hermione's eyes widened and she was about to shout in indignation when Harry clapped his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. He met her angry gaze and shook his head. Lavender had removed one of Hermione's jumpers and gone to the mirror, holding it up in front of herself as though checking the fit. When she tossed it on her bed and removed her own top, it was Harry's turn to boggle. He didn't think Lavender's more ample... didn't see how she could fit into any of Hermione's clothes. And now that she'd taken off her own, Harry was given the opportunity to see this for himself—the moment before Hermione covered his eyes with her hand.
He could feel her making small squeaking noises against his palm, but he didn't let go and neither did she. They sat there together, blind and mute, until the lid of Hermione's trunk opened and closed again, and the soft shuffle of Lavender's footfalls headed toward the exit and she finally left.
"I didn't know Lavender was so good at Transfiguration," Hermione said when Harry released her. "She made that frumpy top look quite fetching. Or maybe it's just her larger bust size. Either way, how odd. I wonder if she does that with Parvati's things?"
Harry was opening and closing his mouth like a fish, uncomfortable with everything that had just happened.
Finally, Hermione looked at him and broke out into laughter. "This is why I never have to worry about boys undoing the slide charm on the girls' staircase. You get so stupid sometimes."
Harry closed his mouth and couldn't disagree with her.
3.
/I pushed you down deep in my soul for too long/
Harry Potter, age seventeen, was a clever thief. Hermione didn't know this about him, even though, in their tent, alone out in the woods, there was very little they could hide from one another.
Harry had been a thief as soon as he'd learned to take Dudley's worn-out toys, and a clever one once he'd figured out how to knick food from the cupboards. Not that it'd helped—he was still bloody short.
In primary school, Harry had made Dudley's lunch but wasn't allowed more than scraps for his own meal and, with no money of his own, he'd learned to take from lunch lines—juice and fruit, packaged items that he could slip into his pockets or overlong sleeves. He didn't take from other children because the concept of personal property was something Harry cherished; he didn't want to deprive others of their own. But school property, and groceries—that was different.
Under penalty of being sat on, he'd taught Dudley how to do it when his cousin had caught him nicking crisps from a corner shop, so Harry never particularly enjoyed his thievery. He was glad to be rid of it when he'd come to Hogwarts.
In the woods with Hermione, the itch of helplessness and frustration made him want to take something, to steal something for her.
So he did something dangerous and stupid: he left her alone and Apparated to the back alley behind the supermarket he'd always gone to as a child. He wore his invisibility cloak, of course, and he left a note by her bunk, assuring her of his safety and immediate return. Then, like a ghost, he wandered down the aisles of the shop and nicked as many of her favorite foods as he could carry: grapes, fancy olives, tomatoes even though they weren't in season, hard cheese, crusty bread, and tangerines. He shrank them and put them in Hagrid's small sack. Before he left the supermarket, he stood in the breakfast isle and tried to imagine what it felt like to be anonymous, to look the same as twenty other boxes of corn flakes. Then he returned to her.
She was, of course, angry with him and proved it by slapping him hard on the shoulder.
"Did you think that I would leave you, Hermione?" he asked. "Alone. In the woods, by yourself." He rubbed his shoulder and tried to determine whether she'd been crying. He didn't think so; she'd never been very good at hiding it.
"Do I think you haven't thought of leaving me behind out of some misguided desire to protect me? I'm positive you have." She took his hand and squeezed his fingers together. "But that's not why I was worried. I didn't—how would I know if you were taken?"
Shrugging, he pulled the sack over his head and put it on their table. "I'd've Apparated back for you and dragged you along. We're faster than they are." She was still holding his hand as he reached into the bag for his shrunken groceries. "And anyway, I brought you some things. Thought we'd have finger food for breakfast. You always liked that, right?"
Nodding, she helped him set out food and plates, then sliced the tomatoes while he pealed the tangerines and separated them into individual slices. They ate the cheese and tomato on fresh bread and Hermione hummed her delight at the salty, stuffed olives. "I used to nick these from the supermarket," she murmured. "When I was a girl and mum wasn't looking. They had them out in these wonderful displays; I couldn't resist. S'embarrassing now, of course."
Harry smiled and popped another in his mouth, reveling in the sharp taste and decadent texture. "'Course."
They fed each other grapes and tangerine wedges for dessert because Hermione thought it was funny, and Harry accidentally-on-purpose touched her lips as he fed her each piece of fruit.
"Sorry I worried you," he said quietly after he'd put a grape in her mouth. "But it was nice to see people again, walk around with them, pretend to be one of them, at least for a while."
Hermione chewed and swallowed her grape, giving him a considering look. "That does sound nice. Sometimes I think there must be anonymity somewhere in the world—Los Angeles, Vancouver, Toronto... Mombasa or Madrid."
"Hm," he agreed. "Anonymous as an olive or a tomato, or a tin of tuna."
Looking incredulous, Hermione began to laugh. "A tin of tuna, Harry. Your idea of anonymity is a tin of tuna?"
"Or a tomato," he said a bit defensively. "And maybe it's a stupid analogy but it's easy to visualize. What would you be?"
Laughing and trying to speak all at once, she could barely get out her answer. "What would I be? I don't know, what do you think?"
Harry exaggeratedly scratched his chin in thought. "Chocolate biscuits."
"Too sweet," she said, wrinkling her nose. "I'd be something more nutritious." To illustrate, she popped a piece of tangerine into her mouth. "Like an orange."
"What would Ron be?"
It was meant to be a harmless question, but her expression instantly soured. "Frozen peas. I always hated frozen peas. Or maybe... I don't know, something heavier. I don't want to think about it, actually."
Harry nodded and stuffed three grapes in his mouth at once, feeling clumsy and juvenile.
"I don't know why I feel like this," she whispered. "I hate it, but I want him to come back so badly."
Choking down the grapes, Harry cleared his throat. "I want him to come back, too, Hermione. He's our best friend."
"I know you want him back, but I... feel so awful that he's gone—like I'm missing something." She shook her head and rubbed her eyes, sniffing angrily. "And I sound like a bloody daft cow. I'm going to go read for a bit."
Harry nodded even though she didn't look at him. Then, not knowing what else to do, he diced the remaining tomato and some of the cheese for omelettes, if the eggs weren't off by now.
2.
/I'm not the kind that needs to tell you
Just what you want me to/
The Dursleys'd never had him baking bread when he lived with them, but after three years after the war, after the pieces had fallen where they were going to, Harry began to bake a little – experiments mostly, with sourdough, sweet breads and soda bread, rolls and biscuits.
He nodded his head in time with the music from the radio and kneaded the dough, trying very hard not to think about Hermione in her knickers and his t-shirt sprawled on his couch.
'Not thinking' involved more vigorous kneading and humming under his breath.
She'd shown up so late last night it was actually early, still clutching a bottle of wine—which was new. Hermione enjoyed the occasional glass of wine, but he'd never seen her swigging right from the bottle. Last night, according to her, had been an experiment. She and Ron'd had an enormous roe, during which he'd asked her to marry him, and she'd stormed out, ending up at Harry's flat when her experiment in drinking as a coping mechanism ran its inevitable course.
Harry let her sleep as he waited for the dough to rise once, then again, and finally for the forty minutes in the oven while it baked, thinking there was nothing he'd rather wake up to than the smell of fresh bread. Although, waking up to Hermione in his t-shirt wouldn't be horrible, either.
He didn't quite know what he was feeling—certainly that squirming in his gut when his two best friends fought, but also excitement and possibility. Whatever happened, things would be different when Hermione woke up. He was waiting in the last few moments of an era, one where they were still Harry, Ron, and Hermione. This couldn't be like every other fight Ron and Hermione'd had: loud and dramatic but ultimately inconsequential. Ron had asked Hermione to marry him. If she said yes, then... And if she said no...
Harry shoved his hands into his oven mitts and pulled out a round loaf of sourdough, admiring the way the crust had pulled apart at the top where he'd cut a star into the dough. Transferring it to a cooling rack, Harry tossed the mitts onto the counter and retreated to his bathroom, keeping his eyes on the carpet when he passed the living room.
Standing in front of his mirror, Harry looked his reflection in the eye. "Steady on," he murmured. "Don't let it happen now. Not now, when the last think she need is—"
"Harry? Are you in there? I need to use the—I think I'm going to be sick."
"Right," he called, yanking open the door to find her holding her stomach, her face white as his sheets. He stepped aside and she rushed past him, barely making it to the toilet. Then, oddly, he didn't try to look away anymore.
Her shoulders hunched as her stomach heaved, and Harry went to stand next to her, putting his hand on her spine. "I've got some hangover potion," he murmured. "Then you should drink some juice and have a bite to eat."
Sinking down by the side of the toilet, Hermione nodded and tried to smile. Harry pulled a roll of toilet paper out from under his sink and handed it to her so she could clean up a bit. Taking it and gingerly wiping her face, Hermione spoke softly, her voice a little rough.
"Oh, Harry," she said. "What am I doing? More importantly, why am I doing it?"
Reaching around her, Harry flushed the toilet. "You had a fight with Ron, and you got pissed after. It's one of the oldest, time-honored traditions between couples." Sacrificing his own toothbrush, he put toothpaste on it and handed it over to Hermione. "Do you want to get off the floor now or rest for a bit longer?"
She took the offered toothbrush and then let him help her to her feet. "I think I'm okay. I feel loads better now that's out of my system."
Back in the kitchen, Harry cut two thick slices of bread for each of them and slathered them with butter. Then he served up their breakfast in front of the telly. Hermione slid closer to him when he joined her on the couch so that they leaned together, shoulder to hip.
She took a bite of the sourdough and sighed. "Mm, Harry, this is amazing—so chewy, and the crust is perfect."
"Thanks, Mione," he said, looking down at their plates. "I'm glad you like it."
"You know I like everything you make—you're very talented. I—still get so angry I'm speechless when I think about why you learned to cook so young, but I'm learning to see past that, as it's obviously something you love."
Harry smiled. "Thanks. I, um, I like cooking for you, especially. You—you always notice."
Taking another bite, she leaned her head back on the cushions. "No one in the Wizarding world thinks about where food comes from. It always just appears or charms itself into existence. Even those who don't have House Elves use magic to cook. What you make is special because you put so much time and thought into it."
Harry looked sidelong at Hermione, watched her blink up at his ceiling. "Do you think you'll say yes to Ron?" He hadn't meant to ask that then. Or ever.
Hermione rolled her head on the cushion to look at him, her expression strangely blank. He searched her dark eyes and thought seriously about Obliviating her to be rid of the question, but he was still rubbish at that spell. "I don't know, Harry. What do you think I should do?"
Harry opened his mouth to speak and nothing came out for several heartbeats. "You want to know whether I think you should marry my best mate."
"Would you marry Ron?"
"That's a strange question."
"Well, would you?"
Harry put his uneaten slice of bread on the coffee table. "Ron is—he's loyal and clever and brave at the right moment, the moment when you need him the most. He's not the best at expressing those things every day, but I don't ever doubt him. Even when I want to strangle him. He's the best there is."
"So, you would marry him."
"I don't know—yes? Maybe? You've been with him for three years; you should know, right?"
"Actually, we were broken up for two months when I left for that year at Cambridge." Pulling the length of her hair over her shoulder, she began to twist it into a lose braid. "You would marry him based on the length of your relationship; is that right?"
"No, that's not what I said. And, anyway, I'm not marrying him, Mione. I want him for a best mate, not a husband." Hermione's eyes raised to his and her mouth twitched. "Which isn't to say he wouldn't make a good husband. For you. Bugger."
She didn't smile at him like he thought she would. "Harry... is there a reason I shouldn't marry Ron?"
He looked away, face heating. "I—really can't answer that for you. It's not any of my business; it's between you and Ron." His throat closed and he struggled to swallow, unable to say anything else.
"'It's none of your business,'" she echoed.
"Right. None of my business."
"Harry—" Her fingers gripped his chin and forced his eyes up. He could see the beginnings of anger in the way her eyelids twitched. "How could you think this has nothing to do with you?"
He had the strange urge to pull his clothes tighter around him, zip up his jumper and hug himself. The way she was looking at him—he knew what he should say, what he needed to say. Which, of course, wasn't what he said. "I—Hermione, I can't do this. It's your choice, yours and Ron's. Please don't ask me to—"
Still gripping his chin, Hermione leaned into him, bumping her nose against his a moment before she kissed him. It wasn't like any of their normal kisses—on the forehead or cheek. Her lips were wet and her tongue, when she pushed it into his mouth, tasted like sourdough and hangover potion. She made a soft, angry sound in her throat and angled her chin up, putting her other hand on his throat.
He let himself kiss her for longer than he should have and, when he leaned away, she let him go, her breath coming quickly. "Why did you do that?" he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Hermione watched him do it and he realized she probably thought he had hated it, which was the opposite of true, but his throat had frozen on any reassurance he could think of.
"Because you were never going to, and I wanted to know what it felt like before I married someone else."
"Oh." Harry stared at her still-wet mouth, then met her eyes. "You're going to marry Ron, then. You knew that when you came here."
Her eyes narrowed and Harry thought she might actually hate him. Then she stood and Disapparated on the spot, leaving behind her clothes from the previous night, along with her wallet. Harry's lips and hands started to buzz and, leaning forward, he put his head between his knees to keep himself from passing out.
1.
/Do you find this happens all the time
Crucial point one day becomes a crime/
Naturally, he threw them an engagement party six months later and cooked all the food himself. He called in a favor from Malfoy and had the party at the Manor for the extra indoor space, the superior kitchen, and the House Elves—all of whom he had asked very nicely for help. The Weasleys had, of course, offered to host, but Harry knew the kind of food Molly made (and would still bring) and he wanted to try things a bit more adventurous than meat pies and pudding. Lavender and Seamus decorated and Dean brought his iPod, which was brilliant. Dean and Luna had worked out the playlists ahead of time, and since they both had excellent taste, he didn't have to worry about bad music at his party. Ginny promised to keep Draco on his best behavior, so all Harry had to worry about was his own.
As he spooned bruschetta onto toast points, he spoke quietly to himself, and if the House Elves heard, they didn't comment. "Hermione, I'm so happy for you. Truly. Ron's the luckiest man alive. He's my best mate, and so are you, so you deserve to be happy. Together. You make Ron a better person, Mione. And Ron—he can teach you a lot, too. Humility, patience. Tolerance. No, of course you're not settling. How could you think that? Ron's my best mate; he deserves someone brilliant—which you are, so. It's perfect."
The party itself was a raucous and wild affair with loud music, charmed lights, and lots of dancing. With all the noise and shadows, Harry kept mostly to himself, removing empty plates and replacing them with full ones. Perhaps sensing his mood, most everyone left him alone—everyone except Luna.
"You all right, Harry?" she asked, cornering him with his hands full.
"Luna!" He smiled and tried to edge toward the kitchen. "Are you having a nice time?"
Luna nodded and looked out over the crowd, her face lit and then hidden in shadow by the lights. "Oh yes. It's a wonderful party. It's been so long since I've seen all our friends together... and happy to be together."
Harry's smile slipped a bit. "Yeah. Well, it is a happy occasion, so... that only makes sense."
Luna turned her wide pale eyes on him. "I suppose. If everyone's happy, then it must be a happy occasion. Are you happy, Harry?"
"Well, I—Course I am. I'm throwing the party, aren't I?"
Luna was silent for a moment, then reached for his hands, taking the empty platters he held and returning them to the table. "Come dance with me, if that's all right." She didn't given him much room to protest.
As they merged into the crowd of friends and family, Harry sighed in something like relief. Luna put her arms around his neck and rested her head against his shoulder as though this was something they did often. Circling her waist with his arms, he pressed his cheek to her hair and closed his eyes. He exhaled an unsteady breath.
"I'm in such a mess, Luna," he murmured. "I've really done it to myself this time."
Her fingers were cool as they scratched through the hair at the back of his neck. They felt good, soothing.
"Throwing a party for the girl you love is perfectly dashing and romantic," she said. "It's the 'engaged to your best friend' part that's messy. Gives the impression that you're happy for them—"'
"Which I am."
"—instead of heartbroken."
"Which I am, also," he whispered. When Luna offered nothing further, Harry changed the subject. "Anything new with you since I saw you last Christmas?"
Luna's laughter was light and quick, as, to his surprise, she pulled him into a tight hug. "I was hoping you'd ask me that, Harry." Taking his hand from her waist, she slid it around to her front, right over her stomach—where Harry felt a distinct bump. Holding her at arm's length, he sputtered out, "Are you—" Her smile was enormous, luminous. Lowering his voice, he whispered his question, though he was almost certain of the answer. "Luna, are you pregnant?"
"Yes!"
"That's—well, that's great! That's so great! Congratulations!"
"Thank you, Harry. Dean and I are very excited."
"Does this mean you'll finally be getting married?" She hesitated with her answer and Harry nearly slapped his own forehead. "Not that you need to be married in order to raise a child. You and Dean will be brilliant parents, with or without the Ministry's recognition."
Leaning up, Luna kissed him lightly on the lips. "Thank you for saying that, Harry. Dean wants to get married, so we will, though we don't know when—probably not until after the baby comes. You're the first person I've told, actually. I hope you don't mind."
He laughed in delight and kissed her in turn. "Mind? I'm so happy you did! And I'll jealously guard this secret until you tell me it's okay, at which time I'll tell everyone I know that you told me first."
Luna smiled in that way she had where he knew she thought he was being ridiculous but was too polite to say so. "If that would make you happy."
"Believe me; it would."
"I do." Her pale eyes focused over his shoulder and then returned to his. "Hermione's over there, and she's not talking to anyone at the moment. Now might be a good time for you to approach her."
And, just like that, the momentary giddiness he'd felt over Luna's good news drained right out of him. "Approach her—she's not a Hippogriff. And, anyway, I haven't the foggiest idea what I should say to her."
"Ask her if she likes the food. It is very good, Harry."
"Thanks, but—"
"Food is very easy to talk about, almost as easy as the weather. But you should hurry; I think Neville may be about to ask her to dance."
With that impetus, Harry said goodbye to Luna and made it to Hermione's side just before Neville and just as the music changed to something manic. It was a song he knew, from one of the many cassette tapes he'd nicked once he'd discovered music the summer after his second year at Hogwarts. Courage bolstered by the rush of their friends to the center of the dance floor, and with an apologetic smile to Neville, Harry took Hermione's hand and pulled her after him.
"Dance with me," he called over his shoulder. Her guarded expression melting into a warm smile, Hermione reached for his other hand. At 21, Harry still didn't know how to dance, so he bounced and twisted about like everyone else until he felt Hermione's small hand on his hip. He stilled and tensed, when she leaned close.
"It's a wonderful party, Harry. Thank you."
Mirroring her gesture, he touched his lips to her ear. "'Course. Anything for you—my two best friends, I mean. It's the least I can do for you."
"Harry..."
He started dancing again because, if he didn't, he might do more than speak quiet words of devotion into her ear. His gaze bounced from one guest to the next, everyone dancing and laughing. He spotted Ron making his way toward them and felt his throat start to close with the strength of some incipient emotion he wasn't prepared to deal with.
This wasn't the last time he'd see Hermione before she was married—the wedding wasn't for six months—but as Ron approached, Harry felt like she'd be entirely beyond his reach after tonight, after this song.
So he pulled her into a tight hug, an arm across her shoulders and buried in her hair. "I'm so happy for you," he said, hoping that the ambient noise would disguise the hitch in his voice. "Happy, and sad. I love you, Hermione."
She jerked in his arms, as though trying to draw back, but he held on. When Ron tapped him on the shoulder, Harry let her go and didn't meet her eyes, turning instead to embrace Ron, thumping him on the back and smiling. "Dance with your fiancé, all right?"
Ron grinned at him and nodded, pulling him close again to kiss him hard on the temple. "Hell of a party, mate. You'll be my best man, won't you?"
Harry wasn't surprised by the question, even though it was rather abrupt. "Course I will. I'm honored."
"Great!"
Hermione stared at him until Ron turned and they disappeared back into the crowd. Harry took a few deep breaths and made his escape to the kitchen.
He stayed until the end of the party, and past, to help with cleanup. Even though the House Elves were making quick work of dishes, crumbs, and spilled food, Harry gathered up plates and cups because it was something he could do without thinking. Cleaning up after the Dursleys was something he'd grown so used to he'd come to think of it as time he could spend elsewhere, wherever he could escape to in his own mind.
So he very nearly hexed Hermione when she returned and began to stack plates with him.
"Bloody hell, Hermione," he said. "What are you doing here? The party's over."
She gave him a sidelong look before answering. "I—came back to see if you needed help. Ron went home with Molly and Arthur to indulge their fantasy that we don't actually sleep together."
Harry snorted a quiet laugh. "All the magical talent and power in the world, and the simplest facts of human relationships elude them."
Smiling distractedly, Hermione pulled her hair back into a loose tail. It had looked beautiful down for the party. She looked beautiful in her ruffled purple dress that swept to her knees. "It's good to have someone who can retain perspective," she murmured, returning to work.
Wiping his hands on a cloth napkin, Harry turned to face her. "I'm losing you—very soon," he said. "And it's going to kill me. Speaking of perspective." He swallowed. "I never told you, which was so, so stupid, but I couldn't hurt Ron like that. I can't. It has to be your decision to marry him, obviously, but it's going to kill me."
A House Elf wearing a pair of shorts up to her armpits walked past them, snapped her fingers, and made all the dishes they'd stacked disappear. The silence stretched taught between them until Harry wished he had something breakable to throw. Instead he reached for Hermione's hand and hooked their fingers loosely together.
Looking down at their joined hands, she murmured. "We're really going to have this conversation here, at Malfoy Manor, at the engagement party you threw for Ron and I."
"You came back, didn't you?" He took a slow breath and tugged gently, drawing her into him. With her shoes on, they were the same height. He touched the soft fabric of her dress with tentative fingers until his palm covered her waist. Then, making a quiet, hungry sound in his throat, he slid his hand around to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. His other hand he sank into her hair at the very moment he kissed her. It was as though everything had slotted itself into exactly the right place. She grabbed the front of his shirt with both hands and fisted her fingers in the expensive fabric, her knuckles digging into his ribs, mouth open and eager against his. Sliding his hand down over her arse to her thigh, he tugged her leg up against his until he could feel all of her the way he'd wanted to since she'd kissed him in his flat—and probably long before that.
Then those sharp knuckles shoved him hard, stealing his breath as she pushed him away. Her breath came in short gasps and he could see she was trying not to cry, which made everything he'd just done feel horrible. "How can you think it's okay to do this, now?" She accused, her dark eyes furious.
Brow wrinkling in distress, Harry clenched his fists. "I didn't know, before. I didn't know what I felt because I—never—How could I?"
Hermione shook her head, and he thought she may have smiled, though she was also certainly crying, now. "You do these things and you don't even know you're doing them, Harry. It's just you; I know that, but... since Third Year, I knew. Ron doesn't know when he's being spiteful, and you... you don't know when you're in love with someone. You don't know how what you do makes others feel—how it made me feel."
"Then why didn't you say something? I would have—"
"Because you didn't know. And we were about to die in a war, and I—did love Ron. And then you were with Ginny for that disastrous year. Then I was at Cambridge."
"It wasn't a complete disaster; I—"
"You were cold to her, Harry. You were always the Chosen One to her. You both relied on that role until Draco took her right out from under your nose. Until you let him."
Harry's jaw tightened. "You've had this figured out for that long, then, have you? But since I didn't know what I felt—or since I couldn't name it for you—you decided you'd be with Ron instead, someone who loves you, but drives you mad. You can't just—decide to marry him because I'm too thick or too much of a coward to tell you I love you. You can't do that to Ron—or to yourself. He's a good man, but I think he'll make you a terrible husband. And we can't—I won't let us all be miserable because of this moment, when you could decide something else."
Casting his eyes toward the bar, Harry summoned a bottle of Old Ogden's and two tumblers. He poured a generous amount for both himself and Hermione, then drank his without waiting for her. Hermione stared down at the whiskey he'd poured her but didn't touch it. "Don't diminish my choices, Harry Potter. Don't tell me what I should or shouldn't have done based on what you didn't do. You don't need to save me." Finally, she picked up the glass and swallowed the whiskey in two large gulps. Shuddering, she turned to go. "I'll Floo you later."
When she'd Disapparated, Harry sighed and dropped into the closest chair. The ballroom was utterly silent now, and immaculate, thanks to the House Elves. When he heard the click of expensive shoes on polished floors, he looked up to see Draco approaching with what appeared to be a cigar box.
"Those are for celebrating, Malfoy," Harry grumbled, "which isn't what I'm really in the mood for just now, thanks."
Taking a seat opposite him, Draco snorted. "What, not even at your own party? How revealing."
"Bugger off."
"No, I'm sitting here and smoking a cigar with you, whether you like it or not. I have reason to celebrate."
Harry raised his eyes to see Draco lighting and puffing on what was undoubtedly a very expensive cigar. "Yeah? Why."
"I'll be a Weasley within the year. And I've decided you're the only one of the lot I want to smoke with."
Pouring himself more whiskey and Draco his first, Harry lifted his glass in a toast. "I'm not a Weasley. Not that it hasn't been attempted."
Draco's shoulders lifted in a graceful shrug. "Close enough." He passed the box of cigars to Harry. "And talking of 'close approximations,' Molly's only daughter marrying is twice the occasion as her youngest son tying the knot with a witch far too smart for him. She'll hardly notice if it doesn't actually happen."
Harry lit the cigar with the end of his wand and tried not to accidentally inhale any of the foul smoke. "Yes, she will. But thank you for trying to make me feel better. It may work after a few more rounds. And congratulations, by the way."
Draco smirked and raised his glass.
+1.
/I saw you this morning
I thought that you might like to know
I received your message in full a few days ago
I understood every word that it said/
Harry was unemployed and had been for the past two years. So, he supposed it was more accurate to say that he was still unemployed, and unemployed by choice. After he'd completed his final year at Hogwarts and almost three years of Auror training, he had made a few decisions about what he thought he could do with his life, not just what he wanted to do. After all, a life came down to what a person could do and what they couldn't. Harry had been able to kill Voldemort; he wasn't able to confront the prospect of continued violence and danger.
And he didn't want to have anyone telling him what to do, where to be, or how to behave, as he had done his entire life until that point, so he'd decided to try not working for a while.
As it turned out, Harry liked not working. Not working left him all the time he wanted to play Quidditch, read stacks of trashy mystery novels, and cook.
Tonight, he had plans for all three—or close to it, anyway. There was a Harpies match on the wireless and a new book he picked up from the library waiting for him on the couch. Now, all he had to do was figure out how to make homemade Indian curry taste as good as takeaway. This was no easy task; he'd been trying off and on for three years. His attempts never had enough sauce or enough flavor, and he was sure the secret had something to do with making the dish significantly less healthy. Salt and ghee, probably. Trouble was, he didn't want to get fat experimenting with curry, much as he enjoyed experimenting with food, generally.
Chopping extra chilies and garlic, Harry silently defied his curry to taste like nothing. When his fireplace roared to life, he looked up, eyes narrowed. Who would be—?
"Harry? Are you home? It's smells like a curry house in here; have you eaten yet?"
Leaving his knife on the counter, Harry nearly ran to his living room, wiping his hands on his apron as he went. He found Hermione there, her cheeks flushed with cold and smudged with soot, her hair dusted with snow and barely tamed by her knit hat.
It was such a shock to see her that Harry couldn't think what to say for several heartbeats. When it looked like she might turn and go back through the Floo, his brain and mouth finally engaged. "N—no, I haven't eaten; I've only just started. You're back a day early... Is everything all right?"
At his words, she relaxed a little. "Better than all right. As it turns out, the Wizarding Bundestag in Berlin is fantastic with time management. We finished a half day early so I could come home tonight instead of tomorrow morning. They arranged a portkey for us." Pulling the hat from her head, she shook out her hair. "I started to walk from the office once I got back, but I didn't want to wait that long to see you, so I flooed from the Leaky Cauldron. I hope you don't mind."
Harry's wide grin came instantly, a reflex. "'Course not. I'm glad you came tonight. Maybe you can help me finally figure out what's missing from my curry. I want it to taste like takeaway."
Shrugging out of her coat, Hermione laughed. "Salt and fat—it fixes everything. Or sugar and fat."
"Yes, well, but I'm trying to avoid those, actually."
"Then I don't see how I'll be of much use to you."
"We can at least drink together in the kitchen."
"Sounds fantastic. Shall we start now?"
Laughing in turn, Harry led the way in to the kitchen and pointed Hermione toward the liquor cupboard. She chose a bottle of red and set about uncorking it while Harry reheated the spice paste he'd concocted just before she arrived. "This isn't what I would have cooked with you tomorrow; it's a bit advanced for a beginner—maybe a bit too advanced for me, actually."
Hermione looked up from pouring two generous glasses of wine. "I know I should have owled that I was coming. I don't have to stay if you'd rather not have our lesson—"
Shaking his head, Harry interrupted her, "No, course you can stay. I'm happy to show you how to make curry. But maybe you don't want to have to think about anything tonight—after your trip?"
"Harry, I barged into your flat a night early. I wanted to see you as soon as I got in. If you want to teach me about curry, I am happy to learn."
Smiling and accepting the proffered wine glass, he clinked it gently against hers. "Okay, then. I'm glad you made it home safe. I'm glad you're back." They both drank from their glasses and then set to work.
"Well, I've already got the base going. You always start with the spices and the oil or butter—clarified butter, in this case. So, I've already done that. But I'm going to add extra garlic and chilies because my curry never tastes like anything." He glanced at Hermione to see her watching dutifully as he scraped the garlic and chilies off the cutting board into the pan. "I can, um, write up the spices I used, if you like."
"That'd be lovely, thanks."
Nodding, Harry refocused on the paste in the pan. "Then, once this has cooked for a bit and smells really good, you add whatever vegetables you want, usually the crunchiest ones first, then the softer ones, but I'm going to add broth to this, so they'll all simmer quickly. I haven't cut up the mushrooms yet, if you'd like to do that."
He watched her get started and then added all the vegetables he'd cut up before she'd arrived, stirring them until they were coated in the paste. Next, he went to the microwave to get the broth he'd thawed from the freezer, and on his way back, put his hand lightly on her shoulder, mindful not to startle her while she held one of his sharpest knives. "This isn't potions; they don't have to be perfect."
Hermione looked up at him and flushed. "If I think of this as a potion, it makes much more sense. You should see me make omelettes, even after you've shown me how easy they are."
Harry left her to it and poured the broth into the pan and covered it. "Cooking involves adapting and improvising—two words that I think Snape hated, at least when it came to potions. You have to know how to change a recipe."
Hermione considered this as she finished chopping the mushrooms. "Yes, but Snape was also the Half-Blood Prince, and he did quite a bit of improvising when he edited your Potions textbook."
Taking the mushrooms from her and adding them to the curry, Harry stubbornly disagreed. "But he was only looking for greater precision. I don't think cooking can be so exact. The same dish can be different every time and be just as good."
Picking up her wine again, Hermione laughed. "Not when I make it."
"You'll get there," he said on his way to the fridge. "You always do." Harry collected the rest of the ingredients from the fridge and the cupboard and returned to the counter, spreading the items out in front of them, unsure of what to say next. When Hermione said nothing, he went to the sink to wash the cilantro.
"I—was in Berlin with Padma Patil," she finally said as she reached for the apron hanging on its hook by the door. Harry'd bought it for her when they'd started their cooking lessons. It had flying cookbooks and wooden spoons on it, though they didn't actually flutter. He and Hermione didn't use any magic when they made food together, so not even the apron was charmed.
As Hermione tied it around her waist, she smiled faintly. "You'll never guess who she's started seeing."
Harry tore the roots off the cilantro and said, without looking up, "Ron Weasley." When Hermione didn't respond, he glanced up at her. "Am I right?"
Her eyes were narrowed, her mouth twitching with the beginnings of a smile. "How did you know?"
"Luna Lovegood," he answered. "She told me she encouraged Padma to give him another chance; the Yule Ball was nine years ago, after all. You dumping him was the best thing anyone's done for him—he finally had to grow up." Wincing, he cast a quick glance at Hermione, just as she took a large swallow of her wine. "Not that I think you were—that is—that you kept him back. That's not what I—"
"I looked after him," Hermione said quietly, staring into her glass. "He let me take care of him without realizing. He had such a head for chess, except where I was concerned. He'll have to work to win Padma over, start to think the way he did when we were younger."
Harry kept his eyes on the tins of tomatoes in front of him. "I like that there's something I can teach you," he said. "Brilliant as you are, I like that I can—"
She touched his hand, interrupting him, smoothing her thumb over the scar on the back of his palm. "You've always—I've always had so much to learn from you, Harry." He looked up to see her face was flushed, maybe with the heat of the kitchen or the wine. "Friendship and bravery—love. I knew the words, but I didn't know what they really were until I met you."
He felt his face heat and turned his hand over so their fingers twined together. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me," he whispered. Not knowing what to say next, he inhaled quickly and handed her the knife again, carefully pulling his hand from hers. "You can chop the cilantro while I open these." He nodded at the canned tomatoes and tomato sauce and didn't look at her when she murmured her assent.
Removing the lid from the curry, Harry stirred the vegetables, satisfied that the sauce was thickening. He peeled off the tops to the tomatoes and added them, listening to the sound of Hermione's knife on the cutting board. While he stirred the curry again, he watched her struggling with the small wet leaves as they stuck to her knife and fingers.
"You can, um, you can do it this way. I'll—I'll show you." Pressing close to her side, he covered her hand with his. "Do it like this," he said. Very gently, he scraped the leaves from her fingers with the edge of the knife. Then, when they were clean, he grouped the stems together and curled her fingers over them so the knuckles of her left hand faced the knife in her right. "Do it as quick as you're comfortable. Keep the tips of your fingers curled under. A skinned knuckle is better than a finger cut to the bone. Which I've done," he added, wincing.
She turned to give him a sympathetic look and stilled there, her eyes lowered and maybe looking at his mouth. Harry didn't think she was even breathing. "I wanted to learn how to cook," she said, voice soft and barely audible. "But, more than anything else, I wanted to be with you, have you close to me like this."
Resting his hand on her shoulder, he twisted a bit of her hair between his fingers, just brushing her neck. Shivering and offering him a quick smile, she leaned closer to him. He met her half way, sharing a breath before finally kissing her. He felt her quick breaths through her nose, short gusts of air warming his nose and lips. Then he tilted his head and opened his mouth enough to kiss her upper lip, sucking gently. He kissed with his eyes open, watching for her reaction, her rejection, but when she finally turned, it was to face him directly, her hands slipping easily around his waist.
"Thank you, Harry," she whispered into his mouth, pulling him and turnings so that they backed up against the counter.
He steadied them with one hand, spreading the palm of his other across the small of her back. "For what?"
"Waiting for me. Thank you for waiting."
Pressing his forehead to hers, he lightly kissed her cheeks and her nose, finally closing his eyes when it seemed this was actually happening. "We both waited."
She fisted her hands in the back of his shirt, and kissed him in return, careful touches of her lips to his jaw and cheek bones. "We're done now, though?"
"Merlin, I hope so."
Fingers tugging at his shirt, Hermione kissed him again, easily sliding her tongue into his mouth. She put her hand back on the counter, very nearly slicing herself on the knife where it rested on the cutting board, and Harry pulled away.
"Let me—" He pushed the chopped cilantro back from the edge of the counter, eying the curry as it bubbled merrily under the glass lid. "I should turn this down—"
Hermione's hands framed the sides of his face, pulling him back to her. "Turn it off for now, Harry. Maybe the... the flavors will mix more thoroughly if we let it sit awhile."
He laughed and reached for the stove, turning off the flame. "You could be right."
No sooner had the stove turned off than Hermione put both her hands on Harry's hips and steered him backward through the kitchen toward the living room. He grunted in surprise as she, first, backed him up against the door frame and pinned him there with her legs. She kissed him hard enough that he bumped his head and they both laughed, apologizing together. She held him there and looked at him, tracing his features with her eyes, as though she also needed to reassure herself that they were finally doing this.
Then she took his hand and led him over to his couch, the couch where she'd kissed him more than two years ago. With very little ceremony, she pushed him down onto the cushions and then stood in front of him, fidgeting with the hem of her jumper. Inhaling sharply, she tugged her jumper and long-sleeved shirt off over her head, leaving only her bra. Harry stared up at her and couldn't say anything—could barely catalog that the bra was charcoal gray with a small bow in the middle, between her breasts. And her breasts were—
He realized she was looking at him expectantly and he scrambled to shed his own undershirts and jumper, leaving his hair standing up with static and his nipples tingling with the chill in the room. If he had to guess, he thought her downcast eyes were staring at the soft fold of his stomach and the dark hair around his belly button. Now that he wasn't in Auror training, his love of cooking had begun to show a little, though he'd never regret having enough food to eat and the luxury of enjoying it.
Hooking his fingers in her belt loop, Harry pulled her down on top of him and slid his arm around her waist. Hermione leaned into him, laid open-mouthed kisses along his throat, and, natural as their breathing, started rocking against him.
Harry pushed his head back into the cushions in an effort to see her face and mumbled, "Want to watch you," into the space below her ear. When she sat back, Harry lifted his hips to meet hers and traced his fingers up the graceful curve of her spine. Every bit of her – her fingers gripping his arms, her knees pressed into his legs, her thighs, the gentle curve of her belly, the tops of her breasts, the muscles flexing in her arms, her open mouth and watchful dark eyes, her flushed cheeks – all of her was so gorgeous, so erotic, he didn't want to even blink. He wanted every part of her to sink down into him, be with him whenever he closed his eyes.
"You're so beautiful," he said, leaning up to kiss her and bite at her lips.
Laughing, Hermione nipped at his ear. "I always thought you were too handsome for your own good." Her words gusted along his skin as she gripped his shoulder and sucked a mark into his neck. "Now that I can touch you, I don't mind so much."
Harry laughed with her, shivering at the feel of her teeth. "We'll be one of those annoyingly attractive couples—"
"—Who ride everywhere on bicycles and do the shopping together on weekends. I am very much looking forward to it. Could you—put your hand just there—yeah, like—" She maneuvered his hand between their bodies until it fit against her the way she wanted and ground hard against it.
Harry held her, breathed in her familiar scent, and tasted as much of her skin as he could reach until he couldn't last any longer. When he came, he didn't close his eyes, but watched Hermione watching him. Then, after catching his breath and removing the rest of their clothes, he rolled her underneath him and didn't let her up until they were both flushed and sweating, laughing, joyful, exhausted, and very very hungry.
*
Returning to the kitchen on stiff legs, wearing mismatched pieces of Harry's pyjamas, Harry lit the stove while Hermione poured more wine. They stood together at the counter, sampling the curry with two spoons, attempting to determine what it still needed. Finally, Hermione went to the small table in the corner where Harry ate his breakfast every morning, and grabbed both the salt shaker and the sugar bowl. Returning to the stove, she glanced once at Harry, daring him to stop her, and dumped in two teaspoonfuls of sugar and several firm shakes of the salt shaker. Tasting the curry again, she added a bit more salt, then offered Harry her spoon.
He tasted it and smiled, leaned forward to kiss her, and tasted tomato, chili, cumin, salt and sugar on her tongue.
"It's delicious."
/You're not the kind that needs to tell me
About the birds and the bees/
End.