The Old Leather Couch

Standard Disclaimer: Harry Potter is a registered of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. I own nothing except the plot. No infringement is intended and no profit is being made.

Warnings: HP/SS slash (Please don't read if you don't like slash or this pairing in particular.)

Summary: Their relationship seen through Hermione's eyes. Not a happy ending.

Rating: PG-13

Author's Note: First attempt at fanfiction. Constructive criticism appreciated.

Hermione holds a hot cup of tea in her hand as she stares at the old leather couch that is tucked away in a corner of her living room.

Of course, it wasn't much of a living room anymore – ever since she had begun writing and researching for her reference book on the Second War, it had turned into a strange mix of library, dining room, and, occasionally, bedroom, with her coffee table as the pillow. This way, she need not waste any writing-time walking to different corners of her flat. Anything she might need would be Acciod over, easy as that. Yet, even with all the time she's saving, Hermione has learned that waking up with a crick in her neck, drool on her parchment, and ink in her hair is not the best way to prevent writer's block.

Now that the book is almost finished, Hermione has managed to clear out part of the floor and all of the couch, (it used to be covered with old Daily Prophets, Evening Prophets, and a few Quibbler magazines) mostly because Harry stays on the couch most nights. Hermione isn't quite sure what to think of that. She and Harry had drifted apart shortly after the war. Even now they barely talk. She had been convinced that they would never be able to resume their friendship, notafter the falling out between him and Ron over his relationship with Snape.

So, it's understandable that she was surprised the first time Harry stayed on her couch.

Remembering back, that was the only time Snape had bothered to come and find Harry after what Hermione could only assume was a particularly bad argument.

Close to two in the morning, Hermione (in the middle of writing, of course) answered her pounding door, wand-in-hand – just in case, though it proved to be unnecessary. Harry had stumbled in, alcohol on his breath and shadows under his eyes. He didn't say much, and only seemed to withdraw more into himself when hearing Hermione's concerned queries: 'What happened?' 'Are you all right?' 'Is there anything I can do?' The last question received a quiet reply.

'Can I stay here tonight?'

And of course, Hermione couldn't say no.

Later that morning, Hermione was awoken by knocking. This time, Severus Snape stood in the doorway. His expression was unreadable, though Hermione thought she saw his eyes flash as he took in her appearance – wearing a nightgown with pencils sticking out of frizzier-than-normal hair.

Snape seemed penitent toward Harry. Though Hermione could see that anger was close beneath the surface.

That evening, Hermione had written a letter to Harry, to make sure everything was all right, hoping that he might open up to her again after all those years. The letter was returned unread, though a typically Snapish scrawl in a corner stated bluntly, 'Potter will be fine. He does not need your concern.'

And Hermione assumed that was true, that life would return to what she now considered to be normal. The old newspapers went back on the couch, and sandwiches and newly-sharpened quills could be seen flying toward the coffee table in the living room.

Then, two weeks later, it happened again. Though this time, there was more alcohol, less talking, and no Snape. And Harry left in the morning. The owl returned with the mail unread. A week later, Harry returned, this time sporting a black eye that he didn't quite remember to cover with a glamour. Soon, it had become a semi-regular occurrence. As the book progressed to its final stages, Hermione slept more – this time in her bedroom – and decided to leave a spare key in a flowerpot outside her door.

And of course, Hermione never stopped asking Harry, asking him anything.

Once in a while, Ron would be there, visiting Hermione when he got a day off in his Auror training. He was usually sitting on the couch when Harry would walk in, still drunk. They would stare at each other and Harry would always look away first.

The last time Harry had stayed, he broke his silence. Hermione put down her quill and closed her books to listen.

'He never –'

Harry swallowed and tried again.

'Sometimes –'

Once more.

'Sometimes, he has trouble remembering. That I'm not my father. That I'm not James. I keep telling him. But he doesn't believe me.'

Hermione listens to the soft words, but doesn't know what to say. She closes her eyes as she hears Harry next, his voice breaking.

'He always says he's sorry.'

Today, Hermione holds a hot cup of tea in her hand as she stares at the old leather couch that is tucked away in a corner of her living room.

She decides that tomorrow, tomorrow she will clean out her guestroom, hidden somewhere beneath all the books and the cats that Crookshanks seems to make friends with. She'll even get Ron to help her. And then maybe, she'll get Harry a spare key to go along with the room.

Fin.