A/N: I have been a fan for so many years, but this is my first ever time contributing as a writer. This will be little snippets from DH—effectively the "missing moments" that every author just has to do. I'm hoping to stray from overdone scenes but will, of course, try my hand at what I think are the "essentials" (eg Shell Cottage, holding hands at Grimmauld Place, etc). All of these will be R/Hr or trio friendship, which is what this first one is here.
Title is from the song of the same name by CAAMP.
1. Over the Orchard at Sunrise
Upon opening the door to the garden at the Burrow, Harry was greeted by the burning orange of a rising sun over the orchard. It was quite early—he'd left Ron sprawled out on his own bed, open-mouthed and snoring, in search of some time alone before another day of the wedding preparations Mrs. Weasley would no doubt subject them to.
As he peered deep into the backyard, however, he found that the spot at the top of the hill he often took to for respite was already occupied by one bushy-haired silhouette.
He supposed that, on second thought, he wouldn't mind some company.
There was a light breeze blowing over the hill, making a rather chilly morning of what would undoubtedly be another day of oppressive August heat and humidity. Giant cumulonimbus clouds were floating in from the west, suggesting more insidious weather for the afternoon. Hermione sat with her knees pulled to her chest, already dressed in jeans and a maroon jumper that looked suspiciously like it might've belonged to a tall, redheaded Keeper.
As Harry approached, he marveled at Hermione's smallness. He knew he wasn't particularly tall—not by a long shot with Ron as a best friend—and had always been quite slim, yet as sixth year came to a close, he found that he effectively dwarfed all five feet of Hermione. It was genuinely comical to see her next to Ron.
He cleared his throat so as to not startle her with his arrival and she looked over her shoulder, offering him a hollow smile and patting the grass next to her in invitation.
They sat in companionable silence for a while.
"So," said Harry gently, pausing a bit as if to steel himself for what he was to say next, "Hermione Wilkins, huh?"
A shiver flushed through Hermione's body and she sighed heavily next to him. She did not turn to face him, leaving him to admire the way the rising sun cast strips of light across her features. Hermione, the girl he'd loved like family since that first year at Hogwarts so long ago, was no longer a buck-toothed know-it-all; she was a young woman, and a beautiful one at that.
A young woman who had sacrificed so much just by being his friend.
"Well, that's just the point, isn't it?" she said softly. The pitch of her voice was a bit higher than normal, and Harry recognized this as something that happened quite often when she was trying to keep her emotions in check. "Hermione Wilkins doesn't exist."
"Seems a bit of a relief to me."
Hermione's head whipped around and Harry caught a glance of the dangerously unreadable expression on her face. "Excuse me?"
Harry shrugged, leaning to the side to bump her shoulder with his. "Well, yeah," he said in a casual tone. "Reckon it sounds like she'd be a bit daft, with a name like that."
Hermione was speechless. It was something that didn't happen often, but when it did, Harry knew the perpetrator was either in grave danger or—
A lovely laugh rent the air and Harry puffed out a massive exhale of relief before joining in. After a moment, Hermione sighed again and dropped her head on his shoulder. A bit of her wild hair tickled his nose.
"And Hermione Granger is much better, is she?" she asked, and he could hear the bit of insecurity that would never quite go away buried deep beneath the light tone of her words.
"Oh, loads."
He felt her cheek pull up in a smile against his shoulder as she relaxed. Harry didn't think she'd ever recover from that day in first year when she'd overheard Ron raving about how she was a nightmare. He snorted loudly at the thought of it, imagining what his first year self would say if he knew then that Ron would end up absolutely head over heels for bossy, proper, and top-mark-earning Hermione.
Perceptive as always, Hermione did not miss his outburst, pulling her head from his shoulder and studying his face. "What are you on about?"
Her eyes were radiant in the sunlight and he studied them: walnut brown, wiser and deeper than the spritely, firecracker cedar of Ginny's. So much about Hermione's appearance had changed over the years, but those eyes were the same—scrutinizing, ingenious, kind.
"Nothing," said Harry. "I just hadn't realized that Mrs. Weasley knitted you a jumper this year."
The effect was instantaneous—Hermione's entire face turned red. "Very funny." She tried valiantly but failed to stifle the grin creeping from one corner of her mouth to the other.
Harry roped an arm around Hermione's shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze, not tearing his eyes away from where the sun had finally finished climbing over the horizon. "We'll find them, you know. After." When, how, or after what, he had no idea. But there was no doubt in his mind—he would find Monica and Wendell Wilkins and fix their memories if it was the last thing he did.
The smile had vanished from Hermione's face and he watched as she brought the back of her hand to her face to swipe away what was undoubtedly a tear that she hadn't wanted him to see. He gave her shoulder another squeeze and said, "You're brilliant, Hermione. Absolutely brilliant."
She met his gaze, her eyes threatening to overflow with tears, and offered a small but genuine smile. "Thanks, Harry."
The moment was shattered as Ron came stumbling up the hill, his shock of orange hair standing up in all sorts of different directions. "Merlin's cock, Harry—"
"Honestly, Ron, do you need to be so—?"
"—I wake up and you're nowhere to be found—"
"—it's hardly difficult to have at least a tiny bit of tact—"
"—check Ginny's sodding room and you're not bloody there—"
"Ronald!" Hermione screeched, standing to her full height and advancing on Ron. She had to crane her neck just to be eye level with his chin. "Watch your language!"
"Well, what d'you expect, Hermione?" Ron roared, throwing his hands into the air in frustration. "We're in the middle of a bleeding war, here, plotting to traverse across the bloody planet in search of little slivers of You-Know-Who's soul, and I wake up and you're both gone, so I search the bloody house just to find it looks like you've been snatched out of bed—"
Ron abruptly stopped speaking, leaving a comical, resonant silence in the wake of his booming ire. His eyes seemed finally take in Hermione in her entirety, and a look of utter confusion mixed with what Harry thought might've been just a bit of unbridled glee settled on his face.
"Hang on—is that my jumper?"
Hermione's jaw dropped open as if she were going to say something, but nothing came out for several moments.
"DEARS!" Mrs. Weasley's angry call came from the Burrow's back door.
Ron cringed and took what seemed to be an involuntary step back towards the garden, much like a dog who'd reached the end of his electric fence. "Coming, Mum!" He turned to Harry and Hermione. "We'd better get back quick; the Delacours will be here in a couple of hours and I reckon there are a couple bits of ceiling left to be scrubbed—"
"NOW!"
Hermione brushed past them and hurried down the hill back towards the house. Harry noticed she was now in a cotton tee shirt.
He turned to Ron, who was holding the bundled up jumper in his hand and staring at it like it had once belonged to the captain of the Chudley Cannons.
"Mental, women are," he mumbled, and they began their descent back toward the Burrow.
Harry would take it with him to the grave, but he was certain that out of the corner of his eye he saw Ron pull the jumper to his nose and inhale deeply once, twice, three times.
