Ron and Hermione had been married for five years before they decided to get a divorce. It was typically messy, although they hadn't had any kids, so it wasn't as bad as it might have been. Harry was their go-between, remaining a faithful friend to each throughout the process. He himself was single; he and Ginny had broken off their relationship amiably two years after Voldemort's Fall, and they were still friends. Harry had never quite been the same after dying and being reborn: people usually didn't see things exactly his way, and Harry found most daily activities pointless exercises void of meaning. In fact, the only people who truly understood him in all the five years after V-Day (as folks of the wizard world often called the last day of the War) were Ron and Hermione. And now they were splitting up.

Harry only hoped the two would somehow overcome their differences and be friends again. He was actually looking forward to them not living together – for not a day of the five years had gone by without some argument playing out in the Weasley house. He was, of course, used to their bickering and fighting and silent treatments from Hogwarts, but it had increased with every year they had spent together. Their love, Ron told Harry on a night he had spent in his mate's cottage on the West coast, was not enough to withstand her ridiculous standards or, as Hermione sobbed to Harry's jumper the next afternoon, Ron's obnoxious habits and juvenile pleasures. Harry stood by both friends, insisting only to not be called upon to speak against either Ron or Hermione; although the divorce forever soured Mrs Weasley's view of Hermione, things mostly settled down after the marriage vows' magic had been countered at the Ministry of Magic, and all documents mentioning the union had been altered.

As the house Ron and Hermione had shared was a gift from Mr and Mrs Weasley, Ron was its legal owner; so it was on the classically wet, stormy night of the marriage's end that Hermione arrived on Harry's porch, her hair especially frizzy, with a small parcel in one hand and her wand in the other.

'Harry,' She said quickly as he opened the door to the chilling wind. 'I know I said I'd be staying with my parents in London, but my uncle's in town from Germany and my Gran's in the hospital for an eye surgery, and the house is full, and –'

'Hermione be quiet.' Harry cut in, standing back from the door to let her through. 'This house has three bedrooms I don't use, and you could probably magic up a spare if it didn't.' She smiled weakly at him and shuffled through to the boot room, water dripping off a slightly glowing bubble around her.

'I never did learn the anti-wet charm properly,' Harry remarked with good natured envy. 'Flitwick'd be proud.' This coaxed a broader smile from his friend, and he led her to the nicest of his three spare rooms.

It faced the rocky cliff, which could be seen through the welcoming window-seat in more climate weather; the high four-posted bed was covered with a quilt Mrs Weasley had made for the Harry, the colours of the sea and canopied with fine white netting; a small white dresser stood on one wall, and a night stand with a mirror and washing bowl and pitcher was beside the bed. Ginny had decorated it and painted the walls a delicate shell green, and admonished Harry to put all female guests there. He felt the shadow of a smile on his face as he thought of how she had loved having money for once in her life: she had dressed both of them well, created the little piece of heaven where Harry still lived, and convinced Harry to travel with her: Ireland, France (to visit Fleur's family), Hungary (to say hullo to Viktor Krum and play some Quidditch), China, Egypt (Ginny got back in touch with the friends she had made while visiting there as a child), finally to Greece and the ancient ruins there. It had been fun, educational, good for Harry, and Ginny was ecstatic; Harry only wished he could have stayed in love with her, yet he knew they were both better off for it all.

Hermione came into the Sea Room (every room had a theme: sea, forrest, blue willow, Gryffindor for Harry's), sighed gratefully, and sank onto the trunk at the foot of the bed.

'Do you have anything – clothes, books – did you forget to pack?' Harry asked. Hermione looked up, surprised, and chuckled.

'Harry, you are so silly, sometimes I wonder which of us has more muggle blood!' She brandished the parcel. 'Just a simple shrinking charm, lightweight spell, and it all fits so nicely into this valse.' Harry blinked.

'Oh. Right. Well, you forgot you could conjure fire that one time first year. But,' he hastened to say as Hermione opened her moth with a retort 'Of course you were only eleven. And had just escaped Fluffy.'

'Harry, has your memory always been so good?' He shook his head, went to the bed and folded down the covers.

'I think dying has a way of sharpening everything you've lived through,' he said softly. Hermione didn't reply; she conjured a candlestick and Harry lit it with a gentle flick of his wand. It was like that with Ron and Hermione: they understood Harry, knew what he needed knew the value of silence; he could only hope to be as good a friend to each of them in return.

***

Harry woke early, with the sun as he always did. The morning dawned, all remains of last night's storming washed away. He took the path which laced its way down the cliff to the rocky beach below; he had broken a light sweat when he reached the pebbled shore, but it was still cold in the land's shadow. Working fast to keep off the chill, Harry stripped (magicking a bubble round his clothes to keep them clean and in place) and ran into the water. He swam with powerful long-practiced strokes, slicing through the waves in flashes of water droplets; he had begun swimming every morning to wake himself up and remind himself how to stay alive not long after V-Day, and the habit stuck. The currant was strong, and he tacked his way back to shore, finally body-surfing on the rollers to land. The cliff still hid the sun, and Harry shivered before quickly casting a drying spell and dressing for the climb back up.

He loped across the yard and into the house, pointing his wand at the stove before he noticed the frying pan already on a fire, three eggs sizzling in it. He whipped around to see Hermione sitting at the medieval kitchen table (a darkly stained heirloom from his father's family pitted and scratched in years long gone). She was reading from a large leather-bound book that hovered above her lap, and a page had just turned as she got to the bottom of it; she looked up when Harry came in though, and a book mark rushed to place as she absently nodded the book to fall shut on the table.

'Morning, Harry. Had a nice swim?' She asked with genuine cheerfulness. Her tears were long since spent (mostly into Harry's shirtfront) over Ron, and it was now merely a relief to be out of magic contract and away from the perpetual arguments. Besides, it was impossible to wake up to a beautiful day in Cliff's Cottage and not feel wonderful: there was something in the air, some nameless magic which lightened the spirit and cleared the mind.

Harry, relieved to see her at ease, nodded and sat opposite her on the long oaken bench. He lay a small white seashell on the dark, worn tabletop, and pushed it towards her.

'For you, because you can't see your mother right now.' He flipped it over and the iridescent Mother-of-Pearl interior glowed in the morning sun.

Hermione practically giggled. 'Thank you, Harry, that's every so kind of you,' she said, delicately fingering the shell. 'Say, look! This could be strung as a necklace!' She pointed to the tiny hole through one corner, perfectly round. Harry smiled. 'I put it there. Here,' he said, and conjured a fine chain from his room. 'Put it on this.'

Hermione did this, and fastened it around her neck.

'Oh Harry, it's really lovely. Thank you ever so much!' She reached across the table and squeezed his hand, before jumping up in alarm.

'The eggs! Oh dear, I hope they haven't burnt!' Harry laughed mildly, and waved his hand behind him; the pan lifted off the stove, a kettle began to boil, toast was popped down in the toaster, and the kitchen went about making breakfast.

'Don't worry, Hermione. Ginny bought no-burn pans and we placed anti-fire charms on everything in here. I couldn't botch a meal if I tried to!' Hermione sank down to the bench in relief, but her eyes were glued to the very active kitchen.

'Harry, even I don't know how to charm a full meal with no human assistance.' She looked appraisingly at him. 'That's quite a skill.'

'I've had loads of practice: I truly hate cooking, so I figured out how to avoid it. You could learn too, it's really no big deal,' Harry babbled. His pale cheeks had actually blushed pink; he could do magic Hermione couldn't? Five years out of school and this was still a rather exciting rarity. He felt the urge to tell Ron, but then remembered why Hermione was staying at his house with chagrin.

Hermione meanwhile was inspecting his job, watching two table settings bob merrily to the table and a pot of coffee being brewed.

'It's quite marvelous, Harry. All these simultaneous actions, and the toast is even buttered!' She walked back to the table where a full breakfast was being laid out.

The sugar bowl and cream pitcher stood expectantly at Harry's elbow.

'Now see here,' He said to them. 'We have company. What have I told you about company? Go serve her first!'

The two condiments rather huffily marched across the table and stood at attention by Hermione's coffee; the sugar bowl tapped its foot; Hermione's mouth hung agape.

'You have to tell them how much you want. Sorry, they're terribly rude, but I can't seem to teach them manners.'

She shook her head and snapped her jaw shut. 'Right, of course. Er, two sugars and a lot of cream, please?' As the bowl and pitcher went to work, Hermione giggled and began to eat.

'You know, it reminds me of this muggle movie I saw when I was a little girl, The Adventures of –'

'Alice in Wonderland,' Harry finished with her, and they both burst out laughing.

'I saw it too, in school, I think.' Harry said. 'That's where I got the idea!'

'My, isn't it funny how long ago that seems? Living without magic, I mean.' Harry nodded, digging into his scrambled eggs. 'Ron never understands my interest in muggles, their history and cultures and such. He always thinks I a bit off for liking them, like his dad.'

Shrugging (a move Harry commonly made in discussions about his friends) Harry said, 'I suppose he just doesn't have the background to understand or appreciate muggles.' Harry himself had been happy to leave all non-magic people and things behind, but he knew he associated everything muggle with the Dursleys, and was as biased as Ron, if more thoughtful.

They spent the rest of breakfast in easy silence, as only true friends can enjoy, broken only by Hermione's occasional comments and exclamations about Harry's expert kitchen magic and Harry's embarrassed denials of any such expertise.

After breakfast Hermione took to the window seat in her room and resumed reading (a 'fascinating record of the Roman warlocks' invasion of Britain in AD 43!') and Harry set to editing a paper he was writing on proper disarming techniques for his Auror training.

Suddenly a large tawny owl swept through the window, dropped a note from its beak, and settled onto the vacant owl perch by the window. Harry snatched the letter from the air before it could land, and glanced at the front. It was from Ron, and Harry ripped open the seal and set to well-practiced deciphering of Ron's scrawl.

Harry,

Hermione left last night, as you know. I thought she was to stay with her parents, but they sent word (missed her) that they would see her for some wedding of her uncle's. Hoping she's with you - although I would like to come over. Perhaps when she's out? Send word please.

Mum wants you to come to George's birthday party next week, don't know why she couldn't write you herself.

Ron

Harry hastily penned a reply,

Ron,

Hermione's here and well. Hope you are okay too. I'll come visit tomorrow? Tell Molly I'll be there.

Harry

sealed it, and gave the letter and a treat to Ron's owl, who swept gracefully out.

________

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