Ginger Ale
Chapter 1: #2 Not Champagne

God works in a mysterious way-

The Church can sleep and feed at once.

- T. S. Eliot

'Squeamish.' Yeah, that pretty much covered his mood, for all extents and purposes, but he couldn't be blamed for that. Seeing as the last time he'd been caught in this decorated hallway the whole structure was quaking and the blood pooled fresh on the uneven stone floor.

There had been a symphony of pleading noises, grasping hands, and lumbering shadows criss-crossing with the steady intent of those who were short sighted by too much terror and pain.

Back then these doors, "... mahogany Harry, can you imagine...?", had led into so many titanic moments for him, so many blunders, and he could see the pumpkin juice dribbling down Ron's stubble chin, feel the slimy bastard's eyes burning into the back of his skull, smell the combination of hair product and cat dander that was Hermione, hear the conniving laughter of the Slytherin prince, and taste...

Well, all he could taste was bile, but that wasn't surprising, memories of that time always led to a churning feeling in his stomach.

The Great Hall stood before him, but it was no longer protected by the massive paneled wooden doors that Ron had marveled at in their youth. He'd been present to watch them burn six months ago now, alongside a dwindling generation of youths, all present on Hogwarts' greens in shell shocked admiration of the flames.

Harry Potter walked into the once welcoming banquet hall, what with a legendary air, breathe taking atmospheric view, and blatant attempt to awe with it numerous festivities. While it's current grandeur was a bit more subdued, the awkward splintering beams up above seemed fit for the row upon row of white-grey covered cots, and the somber attitude was the exact opposite that which filled the room under the late great Albus Dumbledore's reign. This was probably the reason why it fit the current director of affairs' personality so perfectly.

Hermione Weasley's crew cut hair bristled as she crossed her arms before her and leveled a stare at a man who appeared rather apathetic to her exclamations. It was the suit, even though notably patched from wrist to elbow, that made him look unbelievably foreign. The fact that he must have been all of nineteen years made him irreversibly laughable.

"Yes, yes, of course I realize that your warding process hasn't been followed," Her contempt was pretty apparent, but more so was the ridicule she was badgering the fledgling official with. "It is simply impossible to bend the layers of Hogwarts' ground work to allow for these new wards to be placed with any hope of longevity, Mr. Ackart." It appeared to be a frustrating argument for the witch, whose voice was firm, yet given time would soon surely rise to a shout.

It was then that Hermione noticed her old time friend's over due arrival, and he rather wished she hadn't. Her annoyance was displaced on to Harry for an uncomfortable moment and he gave her a grave smile in return. Thankfully her attention shifted back as the other man began to speak his piece, again.

Let it be said that the most famous Potter did then play with the fraying ends of his too large sleeves in an attempt to bring no additional attention to himself.

"Mrs. Weasley these steps have been undertaken by a great many, with undeniably proficient results, and it is the Ministry's current enacted policy that for any such... place of healing," He coughed into the word and continued, quite undaunted by Hermione glower. "To be registered as such, this facility need be subject to certain regulations."

They both seemed to glance about the transformed building, recognizing that some funding could not go amiss, from those splayed across any open bit of floor, the coughing which always had someone singing its chorus, to the discord of students acting the part of medics. For a moment the man appeared to be considering the state of things, then reached into a pocket, which Harry had previously thought for show, and handed the imposing woman a flamboyantly colored business card.

As if having achieved an understanding, Mr. Ackart's entire demeanor underwent a dramatic change. This time he coughed quite abashedly. "If you can have one of the men, listed here, survey the grounds and come to the conclusion that these new precautions need not be implemented, well then a file can be requested from the Department of Public Facilities and Procedures then sent to the Department of Magical Medical Management."

Finding something motivating about being reacquainted with his conscious, the bureaucrat pressed onwards. "And I suppose you could seek to cover the cost of such an important assessment through the Ministry's means as well."

The whole of what he'd just said made entirely no sense to Harry; however 'Mrs. Weasley' was sufficiently pleased, even though the suited man could not identify it. An entertaining scene began as Hermione took a step towards the man, who was quick to reply by hastily shuffling backwards, when her hand shot out he'd then proceeded to lift his palms defensively, and when she smiled a devilish grin, this ego driven man for the Ministry of Magic, a man who lived for titles and pretense, proceeded to. . .

Hiccup, flush a scarlet red, and nearly jolt at Harry's muffled laughter.

He soon realized his miscalculation, and with his nerve returned to him, he clasped his hand with hers, and spoke admirably. "Mrs. Weasley." Hermione gave him a reassuring smile. "Mr. Ackart." The handshake between them completed.

Harry was still smiling as the embarrassed teen made his way out.

- - - - - - - -

"Do you have that effect on everyone?" Harry asked the young lady strolling besides him, with an amused look on his handsomely scarred features. At her pointed stare, he realized further explanation might be needed. "This new ability of yours to convert the scum of the ministry's bowels?" The inspector in question had left the once premier school towards mid morning, however as their languid pace continued, the setting sun cast longer shadows, and a slight chill took to the evening March air.

Hermione's intend reply was also frigid.

"No," Her retort came abruptly as she bumped into the shorter man, though neither seemed to mind much. "Although occasionally I do deal with the ones that have some sympathy left, mostly I'm forced to contend with soulless little money mongers that only care about the power plays that the Wizengamot members are up to now that Scrimgeour's condition is… as such." Her disposition looked entirely too bitter. Harry took it upon himself to jar her frame by means of an elbow to the side; he was shoved somewhat harshly in retribution.

"Oi, Hermione!" A sore shoulder was, decidedly, worth the small smile she graced him with, the first Harry had seen from her in months.

The corridor they walked, with such an awful slope towards its right side, took the two companions past a familiar courtyard. The same that the both of them had conjointly visited on select Saturdays though back then a grumbling red head accompanied them, the laughter of their little troupe.

- - - - - - - - -

"Ronald!" The intended target turned about to watch a one girl stampede descend upon no other than himself, such was his luck. And although Harry was his best mate, the infamous child took the time to place a bit of distance between Ron and his rather obviously distraught, love interest.

"Ronald Bilius Weasley!" The snickers and sneers of his nearby peers had him ducking down, unsuccessfully, into the overly large handmade sweater his mother had bestowed him with. "Yes Hermione?" His reply came out more meekly then he'd ever admit to, and more of their classmates were looking on then he'd care to think about.

"You were supposed to wait for me back in the common room! Can't you even remember the simplest thing I ask you to do?" The upturn of her nose, the clench of her jaw, the pout of her lips, Ron wondered if by merely simpering he could calm her down, after all, Hogsmeade would be a waste if she was angry the whole trip.

"Ronald, are you going to answer me?" He considered what he should say, but, as always, Ron was a stumbling fool around Hermione and no planning could ever help that. "I was just talking to Harry about practice times and- well, I guess I just… forgot?" Brilliant, just brilliant.

Hermione consequently drew a book from her ever present bag and ignored the fleet of people avidly glancing at the almost couple. It was that precise moment that Professor McGonagall herded the lot towards the stretch of waiting carriages. After the brief goodbye to Harry, the girl stormed over and chose their coach; Ron was quick to follow with a wave in Harry's direction, and a look heavens ward.

There was no escaping the mess of hair and torment that was an enraged Hermione Granger.

- - - - - - - - -

It was definitely a mistake coming this way. Harry could tell by the tremble of her hands as she gripped the opening, and the mile long stare she had in affect. He wondered how long the delicate band on Hermione's right hand would torment her. He placed a hand over Hermione's own, gripping her shoulder with the other, and drew her away as calmly as he could.

The guilt would probably forever plague him for the thought, which felt like a betrayal to his first and dearest friend, but he would just as long wish for the day that Ron's presence, and that ring, were left buried somewhere apart from the stricken woman sobbing against his chest.

- - - - - - -

"Back in September we weren't sure what to do with the place." Neville Longbottom gently planted the wormwood seed with a whisper, though if he were merely talking to the plant or casting some sort of wand less spell, Harry hadn't a clue. "So much blood, and death eater mischief, besides the issue of the wards holding and the fact that we didn't know if Hogwarts could even stand the damage that'd been done to her." The man with a boyishly pleasing face glanced over at Harry with an uncharacteristic amount of seriousness.

"You were gone," Harry flinched, despite how often the general public usually castrated him, he wasn't impervious to the opinion of those he respected, and had unfailing disappointed.

"Refugees had poured into every crevice available, we weren't sure who we could trust, there was never enough of anything to go around, the ministry was telling us to evacuate the premises, and better yet, a horde of all manner of things dark and gruesome had amassed at the front gates." He settled back on to his knees and eyed his progress, tallying a number on his worn fingers. Harry shifted uncomfortably; his back had never been rigid enough to deal with Neville's field of work, and even being seated on the ground for this long had his spine in knots.

As if finally sensing Harry's discomfort, the other man continued retelling his account of events of the last six months. "We took every kid and cripple able enough to walk around with a wand in hand, collected anything sharp and pointy that we could find, and unpacked each joke item we ever got from Zonko's shop." He actually laughed at that. "What a ridiculous sight we were, dressed up in cumbersome armor, hefting completely ornamental swords, wizards and witches with taped wands and oozing wounds."

Neville stared critically at Harry at that, as if expecting criticism, and feeling the urge to argue a point, he spoke with more ferocity. "We didn't know. We hadn't been the brightest or the boldest, and that's why almost a month after the final battle we were still here. The whole lot of us, indecisive, or without anywhere to go, or just kind of waiting for it all too just end." He frowned after that, choosing his next few words carefully and with some hesitance.

"But then, then we had our own miracle, or more precisely, a pair. You've already spoken to Hermione today right? She's one of um'."

Harry attempted to goad the botanist on. "And the other?" Neville just gave the impatient lad an earnest grin, his fingernails already cleaving the dirt that would start a new row. "I suppose they'll just have to tell you them self."

- - - - - - - - -

For Harry, it was a surreal bit of torture to see Ginevra Weasley after all their time spent apart. To Harry she had seemed eternally young, and her undying, undaunted, hero like view of him had served to underline that point. The problem with the here and now was that he couldn't connect the woman before him, all curves and finesse, to his best friend's kid sister.

Harry really didn't care to defile his mate's memory by bed hopping with Ginny, however attractive she'd turned out to be. Unfortunately, out here on this very open field it was difficult to claim having not seen the scarlet tresses headed his way, and turn tail and running certainly wasn't an option. A mere awkward conversation, he owed the youngest of the Weasley brood at least that.

He actually staggered as Ginny threw her arms around his neck and yanked him down for a spontaneous, abrupt, and sloppy kiss. Harry speculated as to whether or not Ron would have condemned him the moment they shared, which he had no part in instigating.

He would later come to the understanding that what they experienced had no sense of familiarity, just clinging desperation and loss, an instant where two wrecks met, both trying to feel any piece of something worthwhile.

Ginny, for her part, just held the man tightly to her chest as they sat upon the old cratered quidditch pitch. The scars upon his too pale cheeks forced his tears to roll down those same rivulets. Harry wanted to be desensitized to the point of non-recognition, instead a remorse inducing fem fatal made him hyper aware of everything he had stewing on the back burner.

He clasped her blouse in both palms as he started to quake, whimpering into a breast of a young girl, without reserve. "It'll be okay Harry, for us, and for Ronnie, and everyone else."

Seeing as the past was a forever ongoing barb and the present just the means of a cruel joke, Harry saw no harm in believing the fallacy, for awhile longer.

- - - - - - - - -

By the time he had re-entered the entrance hall, his features were smoothed back into a façade of tranquility. However soil was still stuck to his britches and he had yet to resolve the weakness in his knees.

In this most opportune moment, Harry was directly challenged to a high stakes game of wits, by a lady named Olivia. Seeing as the place was brimming with all manner of wounded folk, Harry had been expecting this encounter to happen sooner rather than later, but he definitely hadn't the imagination to anticipate this chance meeting.

In describing the scenario, he'll try to be as blunt as she, Olivia, a girl no older then six years of age with a pronounced limp and a mass of mangled curls, who was quite fast despite her disability. Her high pitched voice had carried down the hallway in order to grab his attention, and when she had it, Olivia consequently announced her name, opened her hand, and displayed to him an array of chocolate frogs melted to different degrees.

She was certainly an attention grabber, and had no discomfort at pointing to the marks on his countenance with a glimmer of laughter. She was strangely refreshing and clearly didn't mind his company, as Olivia had declared a 'staring contest' over the glorious liquefying prizes.

The both of them were now seated besides a partially dismantled ensemble of armor, animatedly pulling faces at one another in an attempt to force the other to blink, and lose out on the treats.

She laughed first, but she was destined too, after all, Harry did have his pointer finger stuffed up one nostril, and was looking at the young girl cross eyed.

"You blinked first, you did, you did!" Harry nodded in agreement. The girl hurriedly ate a single delicacy, a ring of chocolate stuck around her lips, before smiling up at him with blemished teeth and a crooked smile.

She was the most precious child he'd seen in quite some time, so when the bid was reoffered, he simply could not refuse. Olivia won every game they played without fail, but as soon as she tried to stand, their sport finally spent, Harry grasped her by the elbows and lifted her off the ground.

She grinned all the while he wiped the encrusted glop off her reddened, content face.

Yet all Harry could do was consider the stains on his sleeve as she ambled away, her expression shifted into a grimace of hurt once more, and Harry was bitter in his knowing that there was nothing he could do besides offer her back a touch of tenderness.

It wasn't enough.

- - - - - - - - -

Hermione, for all appearances, seemed to be ungracefully smashed. Her body slumped over an antique chair that looked much like a throne, snores muffled by the velvet material of the armrest she was so heavily drooling upon, and a tumbler was cast on its side by her feet.

It seemed that she had started the grievances without him.

Harry proceeded to place the glass atop the oak desk besides her sleeping form, and fetched the thread worn quilt that had slid off her still figure, remaining fretfully immersed in dreams if her drawn face was anything to go by.

"Potter, it would do you well to let her sleep." Harry remained bowed over his female friend before turning to face the man he did not know how to address.

"Snape."

- - - - - - - - -

"It's not champagne." Hermione factiously said, as she stared into the glass, the lack of bubbles, and annoying hiss of spent carbonation made this rather apparent.

Severus grimaced at the unexpected taste that left a bit of fuzz at the back of his throat. "Yes, I thought that'd be rather obvious for a scholar such as you fashion to be." Hermione snorted at his dry humor.

"Well," Hermione further contemplated, while sipping at the unappealing beverage. "It does have an uncanny resemblance."

As her head became a hefty weight upon her neck and shoulders, she totaled it up to the unusual amount of emotional wear she had experienced that day.

"It is no longer the first of this month." His tone was lofty, unconcerned, but Hermione gave him a kind, tired smile anyways, because she knew better. A throaty, "Thank you", escaped her before the drugged woman passed into slumber.

Severus shook his head in playful annoyance, a quick smile lightening the usually severe features.

March 1st, Ronald Bilius Weasley's date of birth, had finally come and gone.

- - - - - - - - -

I forgot to put in an author's note, silly me.

Well this is obviously not HBP nor DH compliant.

The summer after fifth year is when all the big stuff went down.

Harry left in August, was gone for six months, and then came back March 1st.

All these proceedings happened that very same day.

If you have any questions, don't be afraid to ask.

And…

All my writing starts out slow, so you'll get the picture of whatever is going on.

My pieces don't have a ton of drama, or emotional foreplay, until it's built up, and I know a lot of people aren't into that. Sorry.

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