Hello, Fanfiction people! This is my first attempt at a fic despite years of reading and enjoying the work of other authors. Please be sure to let me know what you think.
This is a Harmony fic from top to bottom and will be also mildly bashing some of the Weasleys (nothing too horrible, I promise). The rating is set to M as the content in subsequent chapters will likely warrant it. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: Does anyone really take this stuff seriously or do we just do it for the pleasure of the tradition? Anyway, I own absolutely nothing to do with Harry Potter and Joe Rowling's glorious intellectual property.
Anger. Was it anger? Harry was unsure. It was strong, that much was sure. But how could he possibly be angry with Ron? Ron who had done nothing but sacrifice for him. Ron who 'd had his moments, but was undoubtedly one of the best people in Harry's life. So how, pray tell, could the emotion he felt when Ron entered his mind be anger? It likely wasn't, Harry mused. Anger he'd felt before. Rippling currents of primordial rage that threatened to drown him like a man pulled beneath the waves of a vast, dark ocean. Snape, Lestrange, Malfoy, and Riddle. Names that still stiffened his muscles and raised the hairs on the back of his neck. A list of villains he couldn't even begin to think of associating his best friend with. So no, Harry thought, it mustn't be anger. If not anger then what, though? Betrayal? That seemed to ring truer, but Harry couldn't possibly think of a reason for it, and it seemed an inadequate descriptor of the feelings swelling within him. No, what Harry was experiencing smacked too much of desire, riddled with too much want for this to be merely betrayal. What then but the one word that brought more fear into Harry than Riddle's name ever had: jealousy. Harry Potter, The Boy-Who-Lived, was horribly, terribly jealous of Ronald Weasley. And jealously, well, jealously acts like water in winter as it works its way into the cracks in stone. It is subtle, quiet, and horribly undervalued as a threat to stability. Then, on the coldest, darkest of nights, the harmless water freezes, becoming a hoary sapper intent on leveling the structure it had infiltrated.
"Oy, mate, you've got to start taking some time off," Ron managed around a mouthful of pasty. His desk looked like the sight of a pastry massacre, crumbs flung across towers of ink stained papers.
"You know I can't, Ron," Mumbled Harry, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose, attempting in vain to fight off an oncoming headache. Whether Ron, or the massive amount of backlogged forms was the cause of the inbound irritant, he had yet to determine.
"All I'm saying is that you're no good to the Ministry, my sister, or bloody me if you run yourself into the ground," Ron stated in his best impression of Hermione. It made Harry's skin crawl. He loved the two of them dearly, but ever since the marriage, Ron acted like he was the only person on the planet who knew the "real" Hermione. Every impression, every new inside joke Harry wasn't a part of, every reference of future plans sapped at Harry's increasingly exhaustible source of patience.
"Fine, mate, I take your meaning, but just let it be, okay? There is nothing I can do until these requisition forms are managed."
"Give them to Neville, Harry. They're not part of your job as it is."
"Ron..." Harry stared at him blankly for a moment, expecting against reality that Ron would marshal his admittedly flaky memory. After half a minute of silence, Harry sighed. "Neville is in Finland. You know this. You are heading there in four days to assist in shutting down that Finnish Spiketail breeding ring. We literally spoke about this yesterday at lunch." Ron deadpanned at the mention of heading to Finland and pulled a face that let Harry knew he hadn't been listening at all yesterday.
"Finland? With Neville? For how long?" Harry shrugged.
"As long as it takes, Ron. If you'd been listening yesterday, you'd remember that I told you that Neville sent an owl back asking for assistance. The program is farther along than the initial assessment had placed it. I'm sending you, MacDonnell, Madlaki, and I'm contracting in Charlie as a dragon expert for the shutdown."
"Harry, why?" Ron moaned and slumped over in his chair. "Finland with Neville, Charlie and MacDonnell? Madlaki's an alright bloke, but MacDonnell always smells like peat bogs and too much scotch..." Harry held up a finger attempting to silence the rant before it could develop any farther.
"Mate, I love you, but if you complain one more time," The finger became a hand as Ron opened his mouth to protest. "I will pull rank and have you transferred to your father's department." Ron's eyes widened at this and he settled back into his seat, silent. That silence, draped over the two of them like a blanket of snow, lingered for far longer than Harry had expected it to. For a moment, he wondered if he'd overreacted and began to form some words of apology.
"Fine. That's just... fine, Harry. See you when I get back." With that, Ron got up stiffly, threw on his long coat and strode out of the room without another word. Harry sighed again, realizing he'd been doing a lot of that lately, and sunk his head into his hands. Proportionality had been something he'd been struggling with lately. It seemed to him that the more on his plate, the worse his ability to respond reasonably to vexing situations. The poor Weasley clan had been feeling the brunt of this neurosis more than any others lately. Whether it was Ginny's incessant need to have the "baby talk", Molly's not-so-subtle digs about moving closer to the Weasley homestead, or Ron's... well... "Ron-ing", it seemed that it was now beyond Harry's ability to put on a smile and soldier on.
Shaking himself out of his funk, Harry fingered the stack of requisition forms in front of him. "Requisition Form 26b: Bezoar Stones and other Anti-Poison Ingredients" topped the list. Flipping through the pages, giving each a cursory glance, Harry found himself agreeing with Ron's assessment. The twelve-hour days were draining Harry's passion and focus for his job. Being an auror had always come with a galvanizing purpose and drive, but lately, the responsibility associated with his promotion to head of the department had taken him away from the things he loved. Perhaps, Harry thought, that was why he had been so cross with Ron just now. He would have traded places in an instant, flying off to Finland with all the enthusiasm that Ron seemed to lack. The field was where he belonged and he felt like he couldn't be any farther from it. Images of "The War" danced behind his eyes, taunting him with a rose-colored recollection of those months on the run with Ron and Hermione. Cold logic forced Harry to acknowledge that for most of that time, he was miserable. Cold, constantly hungry, and always alert to the sounds that echoed outside of the tent, it was a trial which he had just barely managed to make it through. Yet, at the same time, it was impossible to remember those months without having the feeling that there was something truly special about that time. So close to his mortality, Harry had felt alive in a way he hadn't in the six years since. It was that resurgent sense of life and his lack of it that begged conversation.
He wanted desperately to talk to someone who understood what he was feeling. He and Ron obviously needed some time apart after their previous conversation and, if Harry was being honest, Ron wasn't the person to talk to about this sort of thing. Ron had been brutally honest in the years since the war about his distaste for the events during their "Seventh Year". In the end, Harry knew there was only one person he wanted to talk to.
"You know he's very cross with you, Harry. I haven't seen him like that in a very long time." Hermione fixed Harry with a look of mingled concern and exasperation as she sunk into the armchair across from him. They were sat in a couple of overstuffed leather-back armchairs next to a fireplace at a little pub in Windsor. The two couples had been frequenting the place in the years after the war. It was a muggle area for the most part and provided the group with a degree of anonymity they couldn't get anywhere in the Wizarding world. Sipping on the cider Harry had ordered for her before she arrived, Hermione raised an eyebrow in his direction. "Want to tell me what happened? Ronald wouldn't say anything other than a mumbled, 'Bloody Harry and his stupid bloody power trip'."
"My bloody power trip? If he would have just listened-," Harry stopped himself and took a deep breath. "Hermione, Ron pulled the same nonsense he always does. Unless I'm talking about the Cup or food, I might as well be conversing with an empty chair." Harry spun his empty pint glass between his index finger and his thumb absently while staring at the flickering flames.
"Harry, I know he's difficult at the best of times. Trust me." She pulled a small knowing smirk. "I promise I'll talk to him about listening if you promise to try and be a bit more patient with him." She flicked Harry playfully in the forehead, trying to grab his attention. "Deal?" Blushing slightly as he realized he'd just been about to do to Hermione what he'd been so upset with Ron about, he smiled back at her.
"Deal. How's work?" Hermione shrugged and looked away dismissively.
"It's fine."
"Doesn't sound fine." Harry cocked his head to the side slightly affecting a faux aura of concern. "What's wrong, 'Mione? Are the kids being mean to you? Won't listen to their teacher? Charming your books to make rude noises when you open them?"
"You're a prat, you know that, Mr. Potter?" She shot back at him, but a smile cracked the corners of her mouth. "No, it isn't the kids. They're fine. I just... I don't know, Harry. I thought that teaching would be everything I'd ever wanted. All the time in the world to continue my studies and help pass on knowledge to the next generation of wizards? My dream, right?"
"I would have thought so, yeah. You'd been wickedly successful with Ron and I." She laughed and shook her head.
"I'd say that remains to be seen." Harry affected a mock expression of shock and outrage which Hermione returned playfully. The two of them, even more so than he and Ron, had managed to remain the teenagers they'd been at Hogwarts when they were together. There was a timeless quality to their friendship that didn't seem to be affected by the tribulations of adulthood. Even if they hadn't seen each other in a week or two, a little banter would send them travelling straight back to that red and gold common room. "I'm just..." She shook her head and shrugged again, "I don't know."
"Bored? Unsatisfied? Feeling like the most important things you'll ever do, you've already done?" Harry offered, his smile taking on an aspect of self-awareness that came across a slightly sad. Hermione's eyes lit up and he knew he'd hit the mark.
"Ehmm... Yes. Quite, actually." She looked slightly embarrassed and Harry felt a little guilty for not being a bit more tactful. Hermione looked uncomfortable and that was the last thing he wanted.
"Sorry, 'Mione. I've been feeling the same way. Guessed you might be too." Harry reached across the small table and touched her hand with his gently in a gesture of apology.
"Really? Head Auror is something you'd dreamed about for years. I remember talking to you about it at length over more than a few of these," She gestured to the pints. Harry shrugged again.
"It's... I don't know. I just thought it would be... more. Don't ask me 'more what', because I honestly couldn't tell you. I've been trying to put my finger on it for months."
"Yeah..." Hermione mused and looked at Harry with eyes that spoke of intimate knowledge of that feeling. The two of them sat for a while, not talking, but staring at the fire. Harry got up and grabbed two more pints when Hermione had finished her cider and the two sat and drank in a silence that wasn't uncomfortable, but certainly pregnant with something neither of them could put words to.
"Do you think it broke us?" Hermione asked after an indeterminable amount of time in reflection.
"'The War?'" She nodded. "In what way?"
"I don't know, really, Harry. I just... Do you think that it changed us, somehow? Growing up like that?"
"Maybe, I don't really know."
"I feel like we are doing everything everyone told us would make us happy." Hermione fingered a lock of her hair self-consciously. The conversation was moving into uncomfortable territory and both of them could feel it. They both knew that there were emotional scars left over from the war that hadn't healed, that wouldn't. It was a conversation they'd had only sporadically across the past few years. Hermione sighed and fixed Harry with a stare that bespoke raw honesty. "I'm not happy, Harry."
"Neither am I."
"Why? What haven't we done? Excellent jobs, sturdy relationships, financial security, and in your case, overwhelming renown." Harry snorted at the last addition and rolled his eyes at Hermione to which she gave a small knowing smirk. Harry waited for a minute, collecting himself before responding.
"I've been thinking about it a lot. It's one of the reasons I asked if you wanted to pop down for a pint." He took a second and structured his words. "I've been thinking about the Forest of Dean a lot."
"What about it?" Harry shrugged in partial response.
"That it was the last time I felt... alive? I don't know. I think that's a poor word for the feeling, but I don't know a better one."
"We were miserable."
"We were."
"We were hungry. Tired and borderline obsessively paranoid."
"Yeah."
"If we'd messed up even once, neither of us would be here right now."
"Absolutely true."
"It was us against the most powerful dark wizard in centuries."
"Don't have to remind me."
"Do you want to go back?" Harry looked at her sideways.
"Go back where?"
"Go back to the forest." There was a redness creeping up Hermione's neck slowly. Harry could see it along the collar of her white button up.
"The two of us?"
"Yeah."
"What about Ron?"
"He's in Finland. And he wasn't there. Not then."
"Hermio-"
"Harry, don't. I don't want to hear it."
"What about Ginny?"
"What about her?"
"'Mione..."
"Harry, we're just going on a camping trip."
"You know that's not what she's going to see."
"I could not care less about what Ginny Weasley thinks."
"I know you two have your problems, but-"
"Don't, Harry. You're bordering on a ludicrous level of hypocrisy if you finish that sentence." Her the infectious redness had spread to her cheeks. This was a Hermione he'd forgotten existed. Hungry. Awake. "Alive". The silence crept back in. Nothing like the blanket of snow with Ron, or the somber reflection of a few minutes prior. This silence was thick. Harry felt like he could reach out and touch it. Felt its weight on his chest. And at that very moment something lit on fire in his veins. Like an ember landing on a pool of petrol. Without saying another word, Hermione got up, put on her coat, and drained her cider all while keeping her eyes locked on his. She was at the door to the pub before he'd even made to stand up. One hand on the door, she turned around and looked at him again. He nodded ever so slightly and saw her intensity crack for a second under the pressure of relief before being swallowed up again. When the door closed behind her, Harry let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.
There we are, folks! Hope there is some interest in the story, but I'm fairly committed to continuing it regardless. I love the idea of Harry and Hermione struggling under the weight of success and being forced to come to terms with the reality of the subjective nature of happiness. We'll see what type of trouble that gets them into. ;)