Disclaimer: I don't own anything that resides within. It all belongs to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, Warner Brothers, and various executives in England. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue me. All I have is my cats, and I like them a lot.

Feedback: Feedback is always appreciated, but be smart about it, please. Thanks.

Summary: Harry, Ron and Hermione are on a road trip in the U.S. Therefore, they spend a lot of time in a car, and in hotel rooms. They also eat a lot, for some inexplicable reason. I apologize to Ron for leaving him in Las Vegas, but I'm sure he had a good time. A little angsty, a lot Harry/Hermione, so if neither is your cuppa, just keep it moving, these aren't the droids you're looking for.

In America

Needles, CA

He didn't understand how she could read in the car.

Whenever he tried, and he had tried, several times, somewhere in those square states in the middle where everything looks the same and the road goes on and on, straight enough that it almost makes him think the world is flat after all, whenever he tried, the black words merely jumped up and down on the page. It gave him a headache, right between the eyes, which, as everyone knows, is the best place for a headache. He had rubbed the furrow that was starting to take up permanent residence on the spot and thrown the book in the backseat, hitting Ron in the head. He wasn't particularly sorry he done so, either.

But Hermione seemed to have no problem reading in the moving car, and as a result the car, a rented red Ford Taurus, was littered with books along the backseat, the floor, even the back dash. They were Muggle books, for the most part, classics Hermione had said were necessary to round out her education. He knew for a fact that she had just finished Great Expectations, and that it was now becoming prematurely yellowed in its place in the back window. He knew this because he had expressed interest in maybe taking it to read before bed at the hotel, but Hermione had smiled a little, twisted up her mouth somewhere between amusement and irony, and said, "Well, Harry, it's a great book, but it's a bit about an orphan at the beginning, you know, and he lives with an aunt and uncle who . . . don't like him much, so."

"So it's my biography, then?" Harry had said.

Hermione smiled a real smile at that. "Well. Yes. You might be better off with a magazine tonight."

He recalled this conversation as he looked at her out of the corner of his eye, saw where she had pushed the passenger seat back far enough so she could stretch her legs out and prop her feet on the dashboard. She was wearing a red v-neck t-shirt and short kaki shorts (shorter than he would have imagined her wearing), with her hair in a ponytail. Her feet were crossed at the ankle, and bare, toes clipped short and painted red. He wondered idly when her legs had gotten that long. Or that tan. She was, of course, absorbed in whatever book she was reading now, eyes glued to the page as the desert stretched out before them. Glancing again, he saw a title that suspiciously looked like Dragons of the American Southwest, and he decided silently not to ask.

Harry blinked in the glaring sun but didn't take his eyes off the road again. Lupin, of all people, (three years after Hogwarts and Harry still couldn't bring himself to call him Remus; dropping the "Professor" was a close as he had gotten), had suggested this trip, practically pushing them across the Atlantic himself. He had said that a car was really the best way to see America, and that he needed the time away now that Voldemort was once again a thing of the past. A road trip seemed like the perfect option to accomplish relaxation and sight seeing, though Harry didn't dwell long on Lupin's eagerness to put an entire ocean between Harry and everything that Britain now required of him. Ron had been eager ("It's an entire CONTINENT, mate!) and Hermione had been willing, and since those were really the only two reasons why Harry had ever done anything, he had agreed to the trip.

Not that it had been the adventure of a lifetime thus far. They had been traveling mostly as Muggles, not because they were unfamiliar with the American wizarding communities, but because, what with having to deal with the car and all (no apperating everywhere for them), it seemed to make sense. It was simpler that way. Harry and Hermione, having essentially been Muggles for half their lives were having no trouble, but Ron was a bit of a different story. Harry had quickly discovered that Ron was not to be trusted in making any kind of hotel reservations the moment they walked into their first accommodations in New York City after their arrival and Ron had not understood the trolley the bell boy used to bring their luggage to the room. ("Why does he have to use that?" "Does he have to actually push it, or does it go on its own? "I have to give him what now? Money? What on earth FOR?") Ron had also managed to book the three of them into one room with a twin bed, single occupancy. After spending the entire night on the floor underneath the working-too-well air conditioner, Harry resolved to make a secret pact with Hermione to let her be the one to book any and all accommodations in the future.

Ron also had the tendency to become carsick at the slightest provocation, as it turned out, either because he didn't have much experience in cars or because he was prone to it anyway. Whichever was the case, he had spent most of the trip thus far curled up in the backseat moaning, when he wasn't regurgitating his breakfast back out onto the side of the road. Hermione had tried to brew him a quick anti-nausea potion in a motel bathroom in Washington, D.C., but it didn't take to Ron, causing a rather itchy rash on his forearm, instead. "Awww, here you go and stop your moaning," Hermione had said two days later, chucking a bottle of Calamine lotion and a roll of Tums into the backseat. "You're an angel of mercy," Ron had muttered, opening the Tums roll and chewing three of them at a time.

Not that Hermione didn't have her own drawbacks. For one, both he and Ron were quite happy to let her read for the entire time, as it kept her from driving, or asking to drive, or getting involved behind the wheel of the car in any possible way. Hermione, it turned out, was an absolutely terrible driver. Harry and Ron had tolerated her bobbing and weaving well enough on the relatively straight highway, but after a harrowing ninety minutes on a road in the north Georgia mountains, during which time Harry was convinced that while he had survived facing Voldemort several times, he was going to die at the hands of Hermione Granger, an American car, and gravity. He had finally emerged from the car white knuckled and to Ron kissing the pavement. Luckily for both of them Hermione put up little resistance to their insistence that she not be allowed the driver's seat again; she seemed to have learned when she was beaten, but took her subtle revenge when Ron was driving by offering her driving advice whenever she felt it was necessary. After being told rather loudly to bugger off somewhere in Mississippi, Hermione remained silent, reading, but everyone in the car knew she had made her point anyway.

It seemed they were driving directly into the sun again, and even though he had to squint, it made Harry feel as if he could continue towards it forever, never losing it, never wavering.

Hermione caught his eye and smiled. "We really should get you some sunglasses. Maybe the clip-on kind?"

"No, I'm good," he said, and squinted some more.

Las Vegas, NV

They had spent the previous two days in Las Vegas, where Fred and George Weasley had apperated to meet them the second day.

"You can't just apperate onto the Strip in the middle of the day!" Hermione had hissed.

"My dear Hermione, you obviously haven't been here long enough! We are the least strange thing within a quarter of a mile!" Fred cheerily informed her while George clapped her so hard on the back she stumbled forward and stepped on Ron's heel. "So, where are we staying?"

They were, in fact, staying at the Mirage, which Ron loved because he could get everything he wanted and never have to leave the building, ever. The twins immediately headed for the slot machines, which they found fascinating. Ron, Harry and Hermione roamed from table to table, trying out games and generally loosing their money, except for Hermione, who turned out to be quite the poker player.

"It's all about keeping track of the cards and watching the other players," she had explained as they walked away from the table with her sizable winnings. "Simple, really . . ."

"Yeah, and miniature golf is all about geometry," Ron said, sitting at the blackjack table.

"It is, Ron," Hermione began, but then the dealer had already started and Ron piped up with, "Hit me."

"Gladly," Hermione muttered under her breath. Ron lost the hand with a 23. Harry smiled.

The five of them met for dinner, where Fred and George spent most of their time telling Harry, Ron and Hermione about the slot machines. "They're so bright . . ."

"And noisy," George continued.

"And if you get the right combination . . ."

"You get money!"

"But aren't there huge odds against you winning anything substantial?" Hermione asked around her salad.

"Hermione, that's not the point," Fred said, patting her arm and reaching for the bread basket.

"So what is the point then?"

"The point is, young Hermione, that we're working on a system." George answered.

"Oh, no," Harry started.

Fred held up a hand. "Nothing illegal, mind you. Don't get riled."

"Really?" Ron asked.

"Honest," George answered.

Harry still wasn't convinced, but Ron shrugged, so he let the matter drop. "Do you want to see a show tonight?" he asked instead.

"What kind of show?" Hermione asked. "I was thinking that the magic shows might be worth a laugh."

"Oh, no!" Ron exclaimed. "Those seem so awful! Pulling a rabbit out of a hat? What kind of magic is that?"

"I don't know, Ron. Those Penn and Teller blokes look alright," Harry replied.

"Of course they do, Harry," Hermione said matter-of-factly, sipping her soda.

"I mean, it's a rabbit. How is that magical? Plus those little buggers bite . . ."

"What do you mean, about Penn and Teller?" Harry asked over Ron's rambling.

"If it was a hippogriff, then maybe, but a rabbit . . ."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake Ron, the trick is about pulling something out of nothing, not about the damn rabbit!" Hermione snapped quickly. "As for Penn and Teller, how is it that you managed to go through seven years at Hogwarts and not read Hogwarts: A History?" she sighed.

Harry shrugged and smiled a little, "We had you, Hermione."

"I'm not that flattered, Potter," Hermione answered, but she smiled. "Anyway, Penn and Teller are real wizards. They graduated from Hogwarts in '66. They just modify their stuff for a Muggle audience."

Ron gaped at her. The twins merely kept tucking into their burgers and fries. Harry laughed outright at Ron's face. "Maybe we should go see them then, check them out, wizards to wizards," Harry suggested.

"I'm in," Hermione said.

"We're going to stick around and work on the slots," George added. "We're close to a breakthrough." Fred nodded.

"Ron?" Harry asked.

"Nah, but thanks. I want to try craps. Sounds like it might be my kind of game."

Hermione managed not to spit her bite of salad out across the table. But only just.

"Oh, grow up, Hermione," Ron groused, and then threw a spoonful of mashed potatoes at her. Later, as he and Hermione were walking back to the hotel from the show, Harry watched people on the still crowded street. Some were drunk, visibly so, staggering or swaying, either alone or with friends. Others obviously had somewhere to go, some show, some appointment, as they were rushing, moving along in groups, brushing other people's shoulders and hands in their haste. The lights were reflecting off of his glasses, creating a strange pin-prick effect on the inside, and he had long since tuned out Hermione's eager analysis of Penn and Teller's show.

"Harry . . . I said, Harry . . . Harry, are you listening to me?" Hermione's voice somehow started to penetrate the bright lights around him.

He turned to her. "Huh?" Harry asked, rather articulately.

Hermione gave him a slight reproving look, one eyebrow raised, but didn't otherwise comment. "As I was saying, Harry, what would you think about leaving Ron here and driving up the west coast by ourselves?"

Harry momentarily stopped walking. "Why on earth would we do that?"

Hermione linked her arm through his and kept them both walking. "Well. In case you didn't notice, I don't think Ron's been having the greatest time so far. I mean, the car really does make him sick, and he's been having fun here. And what with Fred and George to hang out with, I thought maybe he'd rather stay here, and then meet us, rather than drive with us."

Harry considered for a moment, and was a bit ashamed to admit to himself that he was not as much worried about Ron's feelings as his own—did he really want to leave Ron behind for the next three weeks? He wasn't so sure . . . until he pictured Ron heaving into the bushes outside of Kansas City.

"Do you think he'll want to stay?" he asked.

Hermione nodded. "I think so. But that's not what worries me."

"Then what does worry you?" "Okay, Harry. Give me the worst case scenario: Ron, Fred and George left unsupervised in Las Vegas for three weeks."

Harry pretended to think hard. "They lose all their money and meet us in Seattle broke, dirty and hungry."

"I said worst case scenario not most likely scenario, Harry," Hermione used the hand that wasn't on Harry's arm to punch him lightly in the shoulder.

"Yes. Right. Worst case." He paused. "Ron gets horribly drunk one night, and marries a Muggle waitress, whom he refuses to divorce and ends up having to take home to the Burrow. Fred and George develop their system for the slot machines, but then promptly get arrested and spend the next 12 days in jail, until Arthur has to come all the way from London to bail them out."

"Hmmm." Hermione considered. "Do you think we can chance it?"

"Well, as Ron at least has a decent shot at getting laid should the worst happen, I say we should go for it." Harry grinned at the blush that crept into Hermione's cheeks, visible even in the glow of neon around them.

"Right, then," she said, and quickly bumped her hip into his. And so it was that Harry and Hermione left Ron with the twins in Las Vegas and headed for the California coast on their own, leaving strict instructions on where they were to meet in Seattle, and when, and how no one under any circumstances was to get married or arrested. Or end up on television. As Harry left his and Ron's room in the morning, Ron had patted his shoulders and said, "Good luck, mate," and Harry, for the life of him, couldn't quite figure out why. Blythe, CA

Harry woke up in a cold sweat, and couldn't remember where he was, except that he knew instinctively that someone else was sleeping in the room with him, a feeling born out of sleeping in a dormitory with four other boys for seven years and then sleeping more or less alone for the last three. He couldn't tell who the other person was, though, and was reaching for his wand on the nightstand when he caught sight of the shoulder length brown hair stretched out on the pillow on the bed next to his.

Hermione.

Right. Hermione.

He was in a cheap hotel with Hermione. They had headed out from Las Vegas that morning, intending to cut down through southern California to their next major destination, San Diego. They hadn't made it as far as they wanted, and stopped for the night, sharing a single room with double queen beds and one bathroom. They had shared a pizza and gone to bed early.

Right. It was just Hermione. Out of habit, he pressed the heel of his palm to his scar, but it wasn't hurting at all. No burning. No twitching, even. Of course not. He had won that battle six months ago.

Right.

Harry turned his head, hoping to get a glimpse of the clock, also on the nightstand. But he didn't have his glasses on, and the red lights just burned back at him in a small blur. Sighing, he put his glasses on with a trembling hand and got carefully out of bed, peeling back the covers and heading quietly towards the bathroom, working hard not to wake Hermione, whose bed was closest to the bathroom.

Once inside, the lights horribly bright and the door locked, he put down the toilet seat lid and sat down on it, putting his head in his hands. He didn't even remember what the dream was about; he rarely did these days, just woke up sweating and shaking. He couldn't even quite decipher feelings; he was afraid, but not terrified, and what fear he was feeling seemed . . . petty. Blue, but not sad, per se. Annoyed, but not angry. He was feeling a little bit of everything, and nothing very strongly at all.

Eventually he got up, ran the cold water out of the tap, and splashed his face a few times, turning the water off and patting his face off with a towel. Harry took the paper off of one of the glass tumblers and turned the tap on again to fill it. He drank half of it in one gulp and threw the other half back down the drain. He turned the light off before he left the bathroom, opening the door quietly, still hoping he had managed not to wake Hermione.

He thought he had succeeded as he tip-toed back out into the dark. He was halfway back to his bed when her voice floated up into the darkness, "Harry, are you alright?" As he looked over, focused at her bed for the first time, he could see her half sitting up, propped up on her elbows, her eyes tracking him in the moonlight. He had the slightest surge of tension explode in spider-webs across his chest and arms, that feeling of adrenaline that surged whenever he felt tracked, or trapped. He didn't realize he hadn't answered her until Hermione spoke again, this time sitting up all the way.

"Harry?" She sounded flustered, confused; it was a tone of her voice he had not known before a year ago, or that he had ever become accustomed to.

"I'm fine, Hermione. It's nothing. Go back to sleep." Harry reached his bed, and sat on the side nearest Hermione's.

As he had predicted, that answer did not satisfy Hermione. "Did you have a nightmare?"

"No," he sighed. "Not exactly."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I don't actually remember. I woke up, got some water, and now I'd like to go back to sleep." He couldn't resist adding, "But only if that suits you, of course."

Hermione was silent for a few moments, but the room was so quiet that Harry could hear the short breaths she was drawing through her nose. "You know. I mean. You're not. Who has. Sometimes."

It was the least well said thing he had ever heard come out of Hermione's mouth. "What?"

"You're not the only one who has . . . trouble . . . sometimes." Hermione's head hit the pillow with a smooshing sound, and Harry knew she had lied back down again. "So you don't have to be all defensive about it., you know."

Harry took the opportunity to lie back down, too, though there was something in Hermione's tone of voice that gave him the impulse to stay sitting up, to ask her what she meant, to argue with her that he wasn't defensive, but she had already turned onto her side, with her back away from him.

"Good night, Hermione," he said instead.

"Good night, Harry," floated over from the other bed.

Before he took his glasses off, Harry noted that the clock said it was 3:48. They found a small café for breakfast the next morning, eating outside in the sunshine and small breeze, on a white plastic table under a large blue and white striped sun umbrella. So far the meal had been mostly silent; neither he nor Hermione mentioned the night before.

"Do you think we can make it to San Diego today?" Hermione asked, pouring milk into her tea.

Harry looked up from his eggs and bacon. "I think so. Shouldn't be too long from here, actually."

Hermione nodded and went back to her toast. "Good."

There was silence for a few more minutes until Harry asked, "We're not in the middle of a row, are we?"

Hermione smiled slightly into her plate but didn't look up.

"I'm serious, you know."

This time, Hermione did look up. "I know. And no, we're not."

"Brilliant. Because for a while here, it felt like we might be."

Hermione quirked the corner of her mouth up. "Obviously, Harry, you have very little experience with arguments. They usually involve a little more yelling. And sometimes the throwing of things."

"Only when it's you and Ron," Harry commented, scooping up eggs with a piece of toast.

"I have never thrown anything at Ron," Hermione countered, indignant.

"I wasn't talking about you," Harry grinned. "Remember that book of spells, sixth year?"

Hermione suddenly grinned, too. "I don't think Ron was aiming at me."

"Well, you're entitled to that opinion. I just think he has a really bad arm."

They both laughed a little, and some of the tension eased in Harry's chest, allowing him to sit back in his chair and drink his tea. The sun glinted off the white varnish of the table, gleaming. Imperial, CA

Harry was starting to daydream about plush hotel carpet under his feet and a long, hot bath when Hermione looked up from Pride and Prejudice. "Harry, can I ask you something?"

Harry contemplated making a joke, but from the tone of Hermione's voice stopped him.

"Er—alright. Shoot."

"Well. I've been thinking about what to do now that the war is over. And I was wondering if you had any idea about what you wanted to do."

Harry took a second and drummed the back of his hand against the steering wheel. "I haven't really thought about it much. Just getting used to not running around the back woods of England, I guess." He paused. "What makes you ask?"

In answer, Hermione waved the book she was holding. "Just thinking. I've been applying to Uni, you know."

"No, I didn't know. Excellent, Hermione. Muggle university?"

"Yes. I just . . . well, there's so much more out there to learn, to know. Doesn't seem that terrible of a way to spend the next few years." Hermione shrugged, then smiled. "I think that's brilliant," Harry laughed. "Really, really brilliant."

Hermione's smile stretched itself into a grin. "Well, I'm glad you approve, Harry. But you still didn't answer my question."

Harry shrugged. "Just haven't thought much about it."

"You just going to knock around that big old place by yourself?" By that big old place, she meant 12 Grimmauld Place, which Harry had more or less inherited from Sirius, and then from the Order, and where he had been living since he left Hogwarts.

Harry shrugged again, just a slight lift of his left shoulder. "Eh, it's not so bad. I even know how to keep Sirius' mother quiet now," he smiled over at Hermione, only to find she wasn't smiling at all.

"Harry."

"What?"

She sighed. "Harry. No plans? What would you like to do now? Maybe Auror training?"

"To tell the truth, Hermione, no, I haven't been making many life plans. I was too busy trying to figure out how to kill Voldemort before he killed me." His voice was just a tad more brittle than he had intended. If Hermione noticed, she didn't mention it.

He sighed. "As for Auror training, well. I had thought about it, certainly. But I think I've had enough of fighting dark wizards for a lifetime, you know. Well, at least for the next few years, anyway." At that, Hermione did smile at him.

"What about teaching then?" Hermione carefully took note of which page she was on in her book, closed it, and laid it gently onto her lap.

Harry shrugged. Again. "Don't know how good a teacher I'd be."

"Harry!" Hermione laughed, a few full gales of it, and Harry looked over at her, startled.

"What's so funny?"

"'Don't know how good a teacher I'd be.'" She quoted him. "Harry. Do you remember the D.A.? How good we got, at all of fifteen, with you teaching us? And all you've taught me and Ron since then?" Her voice became a bit of an admonishment. "Harry."

"Where would I teach, Hogwarts?" Harry asked her.

"Er—yes." Hermione's tone made it clear that she thought he had suddenly gone daft. "Snape started teaching at Hogwarts when he wasn't much older than you."

"Well, with Snape as a role model . . ." Harry trailed off, amused. "I see your point. But I stand by my example," Hermione huffed, but from years of experience, Harry knew she wasn't really annoyed.

"Besides, I think I'd like to put a little distance between myself and any possible students. Being three years older than the seven years just doesn't seem to command much authority."

"Even if you're Harry Potter?"

"Maybe especially if you're Harry Potter."

Hermione hummed, but didn't respond right away. "You could be an international wizard playboy—travel, see the world, drink on the beach, tropical islands, surrounded by women . . ."

"Be on the over of Witch Weekly every other issue . . ."

"Exactly." Hermione giggled. "Not a bad idea, though, actually. You could use the relaxation."

"And this isn't relaxing?" Harry gestured with one hand to take in the car, scattered with books, soda cans and coffee cups, and Hermione herself.

"Well. It's not the Caribbean with fruity drinks and bikini clad girls." Hermione couldn't stop herself from giggling again.

"This fine, Hermione. Just fine," Harry said, and turned right. San Diego, CA

As Harry and Hermione went to check into the hotel, they discovered that the room they'd reserved had not two beds, but one, and there were no other rooms available.

"S'okay, Hermione," Harry had said as they stood at the front desk. "I can sleep on the floor. Or we can get a cot."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to make the Boy Who Lived Twice sleep on the bloody floor. We're both grown-ups. We can share a bed for one night." Hermione signed the paper the desk clerk put in front of her. "That is, if I can trust you not to seduce me." She sounded serious, but Harry could see the grin at the corners of her mouth.

"Hermione!" Harry tried his best to sound righteously offended. "As if I would take advantage of a young girl like that!"

They started to walk away from the desk towards the elevator. Hermione snorted. "Like I don't know all of your best lines. She lowered her voice into a rough approximation of Harry's. "'Oh, but I just barely survived that last battle!' Or this one: 'We should sleep together now, because we both might die tomorrow!' Oh! And then there's my personal favorite: 'But I'm Harry Potter—I would never make you do anything you don't want to do.'

They stepped into the elevator. Harry put his hand to his chest in a gesture of complete shock. "Hermione! I'm mortally wounded!"

Hermione laughed, but didn't say anything else.

"Besides, I'm certain that it's Ron who uses the 'we might die tomorrow' line," Harry added as they stepped out of the elevator.

"How can you be so sure about that?" Hermione asked as they walked down the hall and she put the electronic key in the door.

"Because he used it on me two years ago," Harry answered as they walked through the door. Harry woke up rather abruptly, but for a few seconds couldn't figure out why. As he lay perfectly still, the room was silent. There was a body next to him, but that was just Hermione; they were sharing a hotel room. They were on a trip together; Ron was in Las, Vegas. He'd been asleep for a while, but had no dreams that he could remember.

So why was he suddenly wide awake in the middle of the night?

He began cataloging his surroundings again. The curtains were slightly open, rustling because they'd left the window cracked, too. The only light was sliding through the opening in the curtains and coming through the crack under the door from the hallway. The bed was shaking, but otherwise the room was quiet. Wait, the bed was shaking? Why would the bed be shaking? He himself was in that perfect stillness that came from years of waking suddenly but not wanting to tip of any enemies. If the bed was shaking, that had to mean . . .

"Hermione?" Harry whispered softly into the darkness, calling as softly as he could. There was no real answer, but there was a slight shift in the bed, and Harry knew she had heard him. He rolled over gently to face her.

Hermione was flat on her back, the sheets pulled up to her chin. Her eyes were wide open, wider even than he thought he'd ever seen them, and even in the dark he could tell that her face was a ghostly white and her knuckles matched. She was shaking almost furiously under the sheets, and her mouth was pressed into a thin, even line.

"Hermione?" he ventured again, propping his head up on his hand and elbow. "Are you okay?"

She didn't say anything at first, but she nodded, and Harry's chest eased a little, though not by much. "Is there anything I can do? What's the matter?"

Hermione shook her head, but a few seconds later she managed to whisper, "It's nothing. I didn't mean to wake you."

Harry managed to pry the fingers of her closest hand off of the sheets and just held her palm in his for a minute, stroking the back of hand. He could see that tears were now squeezing themselves out of the corner of her eyes and running down the very edge of her face towards her ears. "Hermione, please. Was it a dream?"

Hermione shook her head, but didn't speak. Harry continued to stroke her hand softly, and she didn't remove it. After a while she whispered, horse, "Panic attack."

Harry leaned in closer, not sure he had heard her. "What, Hermione?"

"Panic attack. I have them. Sometimes."

"Why didn't you tell me? I've never seen you have one."

He thought that if she were feeling better, she would have smiled. "I usually hide it better. It's . . . embarrassing." She spoke very slowly, as if convincing herself that her voice still worked.

Harry's thumb added more pressure to the back of Hermione's hand. "No, Hermione. Hermione. Don't be embarrassed. There's nothing to be embarrassed about."

She shook her head, but didn't otherwise respond.

After a few minutes, he said, softly, "Tell me what you're thinking."

She was quiet for so long that he was sure she wasn't going to say anything. Then, quietly, "I think . . . I tell myself that it's not going to last long. Five minutes, ten minutes, it'll all be over. I just have to ride it out. I just have to last that long. Nothing's really wrong. I'm here, you're here, everything's okay. Nothing bad is happening. It'll be over soon. It'll be over soon. This won't last forever . . . It won't . . . " Her voice trailed off from the mantra that Harry knew it was. He merely intertwined their fingers and remained silent.

"Everything is okay, Hermione. It's okay."

Harry knew she was feeling at least slightly better because she answered him almost immediately. "I know. I know."

"It just doesn't feel that way sometimes, does it?" Harry supplied.

Hermione nodded. After another long few minutes, she blew out a breath. "I'm okay, Harry. It's okay. You don't have to . . . you can go back to sleep." She turned her face towards his in the darkness.

"Nah, I'm fine. Sleeping's overrated anyway," Harry said, looking at the blur of her nose next to the pillow.

"Really, Harry, I feel better . . . it's fine."

"Brilliant. Then why don't you try to sleep, and I'll just stay right the way I am."

"Harry." She sounded a bit annoyed, which Harry counted as a good sign.

"Hermione," Harry answered, in exactly the same tone of voice. He knew she'd given up when her shoulders relaxed a little, but she didn't take her hand back, and Harry didn't release it. He waited until he could tell from her slow and even breathing that she had gone to sleep again, brushed the back of her hand with his lips, and then settled back against the pillow to sleep himself. The next day, they bought sandwiches and juice and sodas and went down to the beach, Hermione in a turquoise and yellow bikini and sarong, Harry in red trunks and an old black t-shirt.

As they stretched out on the blanket, Harry said, "What was it you were saying yesterday about being in a tropical place and surrounded by beautiful women?"

Hermione laughed, clear as a bell, and the couple in beach chairs next to them looked over. "I stand corrected," she answered as she grabbed an orange juice container and took a swig out of it. "Well. As long as you realize that you were wrong."

"I do."

"So if I was right, then you were . . ."

"You're not going to get me to say it, Harry."

"I will one day."

"No, you won't, Harry." Santa Barbara, CA

After spending a few pleasant days in San Diego, and one rather mediocre day getting lost trying to find Brad Pitt's house in Los Angeles ("I still don't understand what you and Ginny see in that Thelma and Louise movie." "Oh, just shut up and take a left, Harry."), Harry and Hermione arrived in Santa Barbara.

In the intervening days, they had come to sleep in the same bed together by unspoken mutual consent, though they didn't come into any other contact than that, though Harry, unknown to Hermione, had taken to holding her hand after she'd gone to sleep. He found it immeasurably comforting, and hoped that when she found out, which he had no doubt she would eventually that she would think it the same. And not, he thought wryly to himself, creepy.

That night in Santa Barbara, Hermione took a long bath with vanilla salts, while Harry had a beer out of the mini-bar and watched a movie on HBO. He kept calling to the bathroom with commentary on the movie, which he knew Hermione was finding increasingly irritating, which was at least 70% of the fun in doing it for Harry. After the movie, while Hermione was still in the bath, Harry took a minute and called Ron in Las Vegas.

"Ronald!" Harry greeted when Ron finally picked up the phone at the other end after 12 rings.

"Sorry, I think you have the wrong telephone, mate," Ron said unnecessarily loudly and started to hang up.

"No, no! Ron! It's Harry! Harry!"

"Oh, Harry, mate! Hello! Still trying to get the hang of these bloody things, you know."

"Yes, even after all these years. Infernal contraptions."

"Are you mocking me Potter? Because I definitely detect some mocking."

"No, no, not at all ickle Ronniekins," Harry laughed.

"So are you calling for any reason other than to make fun of me, Mr. The- First-Time-I-Got-Drunk-I-Heaved-All-Over-the-Shoes-of-the-Girl-I-Was-Trying- to-Get-Into-Bed?"

"Well, not anymore," Harry replied.

"Good," Ron said. "How are you? How's Hermione?" As if on cue, Hermione stepped out of the bathroom in an old Gryffindor t-shirt and black sleep shorts. Harry cupped his hand over the receiver and said, "It's Ron. He says hi."

"So how badly has he screwed himself up so far?" Hermione asked, towel drying her hair.

Harry took his hand off the receiver. "Hermione says she's well, and that she hopes you're having a good time."

"I heard what she really said, you idiot. Your hand isn't that thick. And tell her I love her, too."

"Will do. You are doing okay, yes?"

"Yes. And the twins are still free men, so all in all, this is working out better than expected."

"Brilliant."

"How's your part of the trip going?"

"Good. We're in Santa Barbara now. We've seen a lot of the beach against the Pacific. It's lovely."

"Too sunny?"

"A bit."

"Hmmm. Who would think we'd miss the weather in England? Anyway, I have to go, Fred and George and I are having dinner with three lovely Muggles."

"Don't marry one of them, Ron."

"I won't."

"Ron."

"Seriously."

"Okay. Have fun, then."

"You, too. Take care of our girl."

"I will." He heard the line click as Ron hung up.

Hermione had thrown the towel she was using on her hair back into the bathroom and was drawing a brush through her hair, wincing slightly when she hit a tangle. "So Ron is well?"

"Yes. He sounds like he's having a good time."

"Good. And Fred and George . . ."

"Are not currently in jail, and have not previously been in jail."

"Brilliant." Hermione finished with her hair and flopped onto the bed next to Harry. She smelled strongly of vanilla and Harry involuntarily took a deep breath. "I hate to do this to you, Harry, but I am rather tired. Would you mind if we went to sleep now?

Harry looked down at his jeans and t-shirt, and his empty beer bottle and said, "No, not at all. Just let me change." Later, when Harry woke up, he knew why the bed was shaking. Because he was. His hand went to his head, to his forehead, to run through his hair automatically. He hoped that he could find his glasses on the way to the bathroom. He hoped there was a bathroom. He hoped he could find water there, and mostly, he just hoped that he didn't wake up Hermione on his way to this bathroom that he wasn't sure existed.

"Harry?"

Too late.

So instead of getting up, instead of stumbling his way to the bathroom for a drink, he leaned up one elbow and tried a crooked smile, which even to him was more shaky than crooked.

"Harry, what happened?" Hermione made to sit up but Harry stayed her, pushed her back on the shoulder with his free hand.

"Nothing. Nothing. Dream, that's all. Nothing." He scrubbed his hand across his eyes.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Hermione's voice drifted up towards Harry.

Harry shook his head no, but wasn't sure she would see it in the dark, so he also croaked out, "No. Cedric. 'S'okay."

"Do you want me to get you a drink? I'll get you some water; let me get you some water." Hermione made to get up, and as she did, the scent of vanilla rose with her and before he had even finished the thought, before he had even realized he had the thought, before the thought itself, Harry kissed her. Kissed her, not gently at all, but urgently, with his mouth open, his tongue at her lips, and when her mouth opened in return, he kissed her more, and more, until her head was pressed back into the pillow and her hair was spread around her and all he could smell was vanilla and Hermione and it was more and not enough.

She said nothing, just sighed into his mouth, and it was all he could do to remember to breathe, to move his hands, to press his weight against her body and down into the bed, to pull her shirt over her head, to touch her and to hear her gasp against his collarbone, to find her, to move with her, to press his face against her neck and to play with her hair when it was over.

As they settled down to sleep, together, it was all he could do to remember what had woken him in the first place. And has he found out, he could not. They ordered room service the next morning, loads of eggs and sausages and pancakes and juice and tea and coffee. As she was fixing a mug of what had previously been very black coffee with cream, Hermione asked, "So are we going to have the mandatory morning after talk now?"

Harry rocked back in his chair a little and replied, "I wasn't aware that it was mandatory."

"Obligatory, then."

"Okay."

Hermione scooped eggs onto her plate and said, "You didn't take advantage of me, Harry," in the way that she had, the way that made even the most extraordinary circumstances seem absolutely pedestrian. If the sky had suddenly turned purple and started raining snitches, she would have informed him of that in exactly the same tone.

"I never said that I did." Harry tried to match her tone and failed completely and utterly.

She raised her eyebrows at him. "Just because I dropped Divination doesn't mean that I can't read your mind."

"You can't . . ." he began, but stopped, not entirely sure that she, in fact, couldn't read his mind.

Hermione laughed and stretched her bare legs out from underneath her robe. She had thrown her head back to laugh, and Harry couldn't help but look at the long, now golden, stretch of her throat. She noticed and turned her head for his benefit, so he could see the other side, too.

"But," Harry started. "If you . . . ." Harry seemed not to be able to form much in the way of a verbal thought today. Luckily for him, he was with Hermione, as he always seemed to be at such times.

Hermione picked up her coffee and looked Harry in the eye. "Harry, you may be nearsighted even with your glasses on, but I am not." She smiled. "Besides, you're Harry Potter, and you'd never make me do anything I didn't want to do. Now eat your toast."

Harry laughed, and knew he had nothing to fear.