Title: Close My Eyes
Summary: Months after the War ends, the Wizarding world tries to repair the damages. Some go to healers to have their war wounds cured; others just cover them with a plaster. Harry/ Hermione/Ron.
Rating: M
Pairings: Harry/ Hermione/Ron, implied Hermione/OMC
Warnings: Alcohol Use, Anal Sex, Bisexuality, Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Attempted Rape, Language, Oral Sex, Slash, Threesomes, Violence
Disclaimer: I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I am making no money from the writing of this story.
Author's Note: I realise this is a pairing that few like, but I wanted to try my hand at it, to see if I could pull it off realistically and likeably. I hope you will give it a chance. At 14 chapters, this story is nearly complete, and will not be left hanging; it will be posted in its entirety, being updated on a regular basis. I am looking for a beta, so if you are interested, please get in touch.
I never ask for reviews, so will consequently never hold chapters "hostage" for them. I appreciate each and every one, however, and value your input and encouragement.
Chapter One: Going Back
It was peculiar to see Hogwarts from that side. In the past, he had always seen Hogwarts as an impenetrable fortress, well protected by the wizards and witches that made up the staff of the school. In the past, it had never occurred to him that his teachers were mere human beings, prone to mistakes, and sometimes made unwise decisions. It had never occurred to him that sometimes they were scared, too.
Now, seeing parts of the school in shambles, he had a different perspective. It was hard to have a child's perspective of anything as you watched wee Professor Flitwick try various charms on the Hufflepuff table, trying to get blood stains out. It was to hard look at the Great Hall and see rows of tables and benches, rather than see the rows of bodies that had been lined up months ago.
"Potter?" McGonagall prodded."Did you hear me?"
Harry blinked. He turned to see McGonagall standing by his side, waiting for his reply. "Um, yeah. Seventh floor, behind the portrait of Gunhilda Groosemoor. Password is…"
He stopped. What had she said the password was? He had done that a lot lately. He got so caught up in his thoughts and memories that he didn't hear people talking to him, or missed the tail end of speeches.
"'Bravery', Potter." McGonagall was tapping her foot.
Oh, that made sense. It was the Gryffindor Head's quarters. "Kind of an obvious password, don't you think?"
"If you're worried about Gryffindors breaking in and robbing you, feel free to change the password."
He wasn't worried about that. He was worried about Gryffindors coming in and dumping ice water on him as a prank. He was worried about members of his fan club, or the press, sneaking in and invading his privacy.
"I'm not taking your quarters, am I, Professor?" McGonagall had been Head of Gryffindor for many years.
"I am taking over as Headmistress. I now have separate quarters."
"Oh. So now you sleep in Dumbledore's quarters?" Harry regretted saying that as soon as the words came out of his mouth.
McGonagall's lips thinned. "Potter, I do believe you have lessons to plan, and a classroom to claim."
"Right." Harry hefted his trunk and began pulling it behind him.
"Levitation charms, Potter! For goodness' sake, you're a teacher now!"
Harry hadn't thought about that. Magic wasn't usually his first instinct. When it came to things like lifting, moving, hefting, heaving, cooking, and cleaning, he almost always began the Muggle way. It was how he grew up. Using his wand wasn't on the forefront of his mind when Defence wasn't involved.
"Wingardium Leviosa!" He levitated the trunk out of the Great Hall.
The War had changed a lot about Harry's world. So many people had been killed, maimed, or were otherwise indisposed. Professor Snape, the former Potions teacher, former Defence teacher, and former Headmaster, had been killed by Voldemort's snake. Remus Lupin and his wife, Tonks, had both been hit by the Killing Curse. Moody was dead. Fred was dead. Hedwig was dead – it was the first time Harry went to Hogwarts that he wasn't lugging a bird cage.
"Ah, Potter, good to see you." Slughorn greeted Harry in the Entrance Hall.
"Good to see you, Professor." Harry continued his way to Gryffindor Tower.
Professor Slughorn had agreed to continue his duties as Potions Master, now that the threat of Voldemort was not looming over his head. Since Professor McGonagall had become Headmistress, there was a new Transfiguration teacher, one Harry hadn't met yet. The Defence position was supposedly no longer cursed, but still no one wanted the job. They didn't trust it. They were wise, Harry supposed.
Harry was a lot of things, but not wise. When McGonagall had asked him to teach Defence – just for the 1999-2000 school year – he was unable to say 'no'. Had it been any other position offered, at any other school, he wouldn't have done it. But it was Hogwarts, and they needed him. The students needed him, to learn Defence, so that they could protect themselves.
There was no one better suited for the job than Harry. After all, Voldemort had been the best teacher of Defence there had ever been, and Harry had been his best student.
o-O-o
"Three Butterbeers, please."
"Two Butterbeers, one Firewhiskey. Just bring the bottle."
"Ronald!"
"It's a last hurrah; Hogwarts students can't bring spirits on the premises. Leave me alone, Hermione."
"Um, two Butterbeers and a Firewhiskey. We don't need the bottle." Harry compromised.
The Three Broomsticks hadn't changed much, despite the War. It was still the same as it had always been, to Harry. Nothing had changed, except Madame Rosemerta; she looked like death warmed over.
Not that his friends looked any better. Hermione had dark circles under her eyes, and was noticeably pale. Her hair, for once, was not bushy, but hung in limp strands. Her eyes were constantly red and swollen, but she never cried in front of Harry. Ron had made no mention of her crying in front of him.
Of course, Ron made little mention of anything these days. He ate, he drank, he had become, in essence, a complete arse. He had gotten worse when he got his NEWTs results back, telling him he had to repeat a year at Hogwarts, or take the offered at-home course. 'There is no fucking way I'm going back there as a student,' he had said.
Harry could sympathise. He had a feeling that he hadn't passed his NEWTs either, but had been given a free pass because he was Harry Potter. And to be fair, his essays and theory work could be called 'mediocre' in most subjects. Ron was allergic to the word 'studying'.
"You drink too much, Ron," Harry said. "It'll destroy your hearing."
"His liver, kidneys, and overall health. His hearing will be unaffected." Hermione corrected.
"Yeah, my liver. And all the smoking you're doing is going to kill you faster than my liver can shrivel up and die." Ron retorted.
Harry looked down at the cigarette in his hand. He couldn't really remember when he started smoking, oddly enough. At some point when they were looking for Horcruxes. It had made him sick the first couple times, but how it helped him relax now was worth it.
"Ron, you can't be hungover tomorrow. You will be expelled!" Hermione warned as Ron took his first sip of Firewhiskey.
"Well, that's my problem, isn't it? Bottoms up!"
Harry, Ron, and Hermione had spent their summers both together and apart. Hermione had spent the first few days following the Last Battle at the Burrow, helping with funeral preparations for deceased Order members. Harry had been busy at the Burrow, also, only he was hiding from reporters, journalists, and biographers. He had also been in charge of the body count, and involved in the decisions of how to dispose of Voldemort's body.
For once he had been involved in the decisions. For once, a little too late.
During the time Harry had spent at the Burrow, he hadn't noticed Ron's Firewhiskey habit. He knew Ron liked Firewhiskey, of course, but had only seen him drink it every now and then, and never a whole bottle of the stuff at once. Only in recent weeks had Harry noticed that Ron was teetering on the edge of sober on a regular basis.
"He's not going on the Hogwarts Express tomorrow; he can sleep in." Harry took his glasses off and began wiping off the lenses with his shirt before remembering his wand. "He's gonna Apparate to Hogsmeade and walk from there."
Hermione sighed. "The habits you two have developed aren't healthy."
"Says Hermione, who's playing therapist." Ron challenged her. "Like you're therapist material."
While many wizards and witches were involved in psychiatric care, few were willing to make the effort to go to Hogwarts multiple times a week for therapy sessions. So many of the students had seen and experienced things at Hogwarts the previous year, and in their family lives. They needed psychiatric evaluations and care to continue their lives as healthily and normally as possible. Hermione, though not a trained therapist, had volunteered to talk to the students several days a week, when she was not at home with her parents or at her job at her local Muggle library.
Hermione flushed. "There aren't many magical people suited for the job right now! So many people have had their lives, their families, everything important to them ripped away! I am one of the lucky ones. I can help."
"How are you one of the lucky ones?" Ron scoffed. "Everyone around you has died, your parents have their heads screwed on backwards, and that bloke you were with the other night wasn't exactly a sea monster."
Harry didn't mention that the only reason everyone around Hermione died was because she was around him. "What bloke the other night? Did you two break up? Why does no one tell me these things? Why? What was wrong? I thought-"
They ignored him. "I'm one of the lucky ones because my two best friends made it. And I know as messed up as I am right now, they are just as bad, or worse. They understand it, and even if they complain, don't judge it."
Hermione had a very good point there. Harry's two best friends were alive, miraculously. And despite the fact that he smoked like a chimney, drew his wand at every little sound, and almost fell asleep as they spoke to him, they didn't judge him. They worried and even complained to him, but they didn't pass judgment on him. Like everyone else in the world would. And did.
Perhaps they were each one of the lucky ones.
A waiter sauntered over to them. He wore very form-fitting robes, and Harry was sure the waiter's apron was not made to accent that particular part of the body. "Would any of you like another one?"
"No, thanks," Hermione quickly said, before Ron could speak. "Not now."
"Are you sure? They're on the house for the three of you tonight." The waiter put a hand on his waist.
On the house? Harry hadn't been to the Three Broomsticks in quite a long while, but he had experienced that same sort of hospitality wherever he went of late. Everyone wanted to serve him, as thanks for killing Voldemort… as if he had had any other choice.
"Another Butterbeer would be great, actually." Harry didn't want to insult Madame Rosmerta by turning down her kind offer – he had learned that the hard way at a Wizarding establishment near Surrey over the summer. "Thanks."
"Anytime, Harry." The waiter sat Harry's frothy Butterbeer down slowly, before putting his finger under Harry's chin, bringing Harry's eyes to meet his. "Don't be a stranger."
The waiter sauntered off, much like he came, only turning around briefly to wink at him before offering a young couple some Ogden's Old.
Hermione snorted into her Butterbeer. "I think you have an admirer, Harry."
"That was bloody disgusting." Ron made a face. "He should be written up for that. Right in public!"
Harry clenched his teeth. He could feel his face burning, and hoped his friends assumed it was from embarrassment. His stomach turned into knots, feeling like ice.
Who was that guy? And how had he known?
Harry had, over the summer, come to terms with his sexuality. It had given him quite a bit of grief over the past several years, but he had been too busy worrying about Voldemort to worry about whether he liked men or women. However, with Voldemort dead and no longer having the Order of the Phoenix breathing down his neck, he was free to explore his options.
Rather than going back to the Dursleys over the summer when the Burrow became too much to bare, he had gone to Grimmauld Place. Permanently smelling like a wet dog and an exploded Weasley prototype, he had tried to clean the house up and make it his own. He could not shake the cold feeling from the house, and the eerie silent void, so spent more often than not trolling Muggle bars, where Wizarding reporters wouldn't look for them.
There he had tried out all his options. He had not had knowledge of gay lingo and codes, but quickly picked it up, His first time at a gay pub had been a real experience. A lot, if not all, the attention he got from girls in the Wizarding world was because of his status, not his looks or personality. But these blokes didn't know he was famous, wealthy, had three biographies out on him, and was in talks about a chocolate frog card. They just liked him for him, well, him.
Blokes, he found, were more than likely looking for a quick shag than girls were. Whether in the dirty loo, in the alley behind the pub, in the back of a cab, or in their flat, many were not out for an actual relationship. Which was fine – he needed all the sex he could get. It took his mind off Voldemort. After several orgasms, it even helped him sleep.
Justin (Harry didn't know his last name) had been most helpful in that. A very attractive man, several years older than Harry, he had guided Harry through a lot of the things gay men participated in. He had been the first bloke Harry had given oral sex. He had encouraged Harry to 'bottom', to be the one penetrated, and assured Harry it wouldn't hurt much if he relaxed.
Well, it had fucking hurt. It still hurt, every time he had sex. But it was worth it. Whenever someone was deep inside him, the ecstasy he felt was worth any of the pain. He had 'topped' for Justin, too, who encouraged him to be versatile, so keep his options open. Blokes were much tighter than girls were. He supposed that girls were that tight there, too, but he had never tried it with a girl.
He liked girls. They had nice curves. Their bodies were quite interesting in a way blokes' weren't. He had had sex with a few, and while he quite liked it, they weren't the same as blokes.
He had come to the conclusion, though timidly, that he preferred men to women. He hadn't yet told anyone, though; he needed to be ready. Once Ron and Hermione knew, the risk of the rest of the Weasleys finding out was heightened considerably. Once they found out, the odds of someone spilling the beans were enormous, and then it would be only a matter of hours before the tabloids announced that Harry Potter was a poof.
And why would that be a problem? Is it an issue of being embarrassed, or wanting privacy? Because if it's the former, you could have some re-evaluating to do.
Harry watched the feminine waiter out of the corner of his eye. Did he know him? How did the bloke know Harry's preferences? Was Harry that obvious? If he knew, a bloke Harry had never met before, what did that mean for Ron and Hermione? Ginny and the rest of the Weasleys? Did they know?
"Earth to Potter! Come in Potter!" Hermione waved her hand in front of Harry's face. "Did you hear me?"
"No; he's too busy daydreaming about Mr. Suave." Ron grumbled.
Hermione's lips upturned. "Jealous, Mr. Weasley?"
"Shut it! That's disgusting!" Ron turned as red as his hair.
"What'd you say, Hermione? I was distracted, sorry." If Ron thought Harry was disgusting, what did that mean for the future of their friendship? They had been through so much together, but Ron seemed pretty firm on his views of homosexuality, no doubt stemming from the Pureblood culture the Weasleys tried so hard to stay away from. After all, two men having children was impossible, and all Purebloods wanted were children. If Harry was with a man, they could never have children unless they used methods than were also frowned upon.
Harry had never talked to his friends about homosexuality, period. He had always known Ron found two blokes together disgusting, but Ron was always the first to notice two girls touching each other even semi-inappropriately. Two girls couldn't have children together, either.
Hermione, Harry imagined being a bit more lenient, but she was Muggleborn, growing up in London of all places. Muggles didn't care much if you were gay or straight, Harry knew. He would never be worried about holding hands with a boyfriend in public; it wasn't as if the shop owners could or would kick him out. He had heard horror stories while at the pub, but had been assured that such experiences were not day-to-day, that while gay people were murdered, mugged, and beaten on the streets of London, straight people were, too. That was somehow, in its own way, surprisingly comforting.
His friends would accept him, in the end. Harry knew they would. They loved him too much to not. It was just a matter of getting up the courage and confidence to tell them. Despite all that Snape had said, Harry wasn't too confident. Privately, he agreed that maybe he could be a bit arrogant, but not confident.
"It's getting late." Hermione pushed her hair back behind her ear. "We all have big days tomorrow; maybe it's time to turn in."
As Harry left the Three Broomsticks that night, he glanced back at the flamboyant waiter. It took a lot of guts for a guy to flirt with another guy, being unsure if he was gay. But this guy had seemed so confident, without a doubt.
The guy caught Harry's gaze and winked at him.
Harry quickly followed his friends out the door.
Coming up next in Close My Eyes…
Chapter Two: Unforgettable Unforgiveables
