My apologies to my readers. Somehow, during my upload, I'd completely missed Chapter 4, instead mislabelling chapters 5 and 6 as chapters 4 and 5, respectively. The issue has now been corrected, and you should be able to follow the correct sequence.
As I am working on both of my works, "Changes", and "New Beginnings" at the same time, it will be approximately two days between each upload for each book. Please critique, as I am only human, and do make mistakes.
Harry Potter was hearing things. More specifically, a voice. A rather squeaky, almost annoying voice to be exact. Now, normally this would involve a rather quick trip to St. Mungo's, scrutiny by medical personnell, and perhaps quarantine. This time, no such trip was needed, as his sleep befuddled mind slowly began to wake up and to register what exactly his ears were hearing.
"Mr. Harry Potter sir!", the voice squeaked. "It is time to wake up!. Today is your Hermie's birthday!" At that, Harry's eyes snapped wide open and he immediately began to panic. He glanced at the custom alarm clock he'd had made. An even more miniature model of Dobby, the loving elf who'd given his life to save Harry's, stood on his bedside table, large eyes blinking owlishly. Harry smiled, somewhat sadly.
"Thanks Dobby. I'm awake now. Wake me same time tomorrow!", he told the animated version of the little elf. Throwing back the covers, he groaned, and sat up, muscles still protesting from the violent training he'd been undergoing lateley in his Auror training. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stumbled to his feet and made his way slowly to the lavatory. Standing somewhat unsteadily, he scraped his hand over his scruffy face, and grimaced at the image that was staring back at him.
After his last growth spurt he'd topped out at a little over one point nine metres, and his bony frame had begun to fill out with regular meals and exercise. His whipcord thin body was now covered in layers of muscle, and his shoulders had broadened out nicely. Right now every muscle hurt, and the evidence of fading bruises were apparent in several locations. Auror training was much more rigourous than it had been in years past, at Harry's suggestion, and now he was paying for it.
After graduation, he and Hermione had elected to return to Hogwarts to finish their education, rather than just accept it as a reward for their services to the wizarding world. During those months he and Hermione had bonded even more, and soon after her and Ron's burgeoning relationship had failed. Ron had taken the easy way in life, as academics were not his strong suit. He'd accepted a reserve keeper position with the Cannons, and despite their mediocre performances, with his fame drew huge crowds for the team. It helped that he'd grown even more since school, bulking up and filling out his Quidditch robes. With the fame, came the girls, and Hermione's ire. After a Howler from her, at yet another picture of Ron with an avid fangirl, he'd been told in no uncertain terms he could keep his fame, as that was exactly what he deserved. As usual, Ron had been befuddled, and didn't get the picture until Hermione refused to visit the Burrow over the Christmas break when he was off on leave from the team.
He'd tried talking to Harry, but had been surprised when his best friend had told him he was lucky that a Howler was all he got, given Hermione's talent with hexes. Ron had gulped loudly, turning a little green around the gills. "Brilliant, but scary!", he quipped, and clinked glasses with Harry. Sharing a drink of firewhisky beside the fireplace in Number 12, Grimmauld place, Harry's home, was one of the few moments the two friends had shared since school. Their lives were now far too busy and complicated to carry on as they had in years past.
All this passed through Harry's mind as he readied himself for a shower. Stepping under the steaming stream from the shower nozzle, he lowered his head, allowing the water to flatten down his normally wild hair. Relief began to ease it's way through his tired frame, and after twenty minutes or so, he was feeling more like his normal self. Refreshed, he dressed more carefully than he normally would. Black jeans, with a polo shirt Hermione had given him on his birthday just passed, accentuated his tall stature and widening shoulders. A plain black belt with a silver buckle and a set of sturdy Doc Martens completed the look. Looking at the full length mirror in the master bedroom, he smirked, satisfied with the look.
"Twinky?", he called. A small 'pop', and his newest house elf was bowing in front of him. Sighing, he resigned himself to the house elf's foibles. No matter how many times he asked, they couldn't help themselves and still bowed and scraped way too much for his liking, and most definitely Hermione's.
"Mr. Harry sir wishes his usual breakfast?", Twinky asked, curtseying in greeting.
"Actually, no Twinky. Just a light breakfast today. I'm going to be quite busy, and my stomach is a little nervous!", he told her. "Hermione's going to be here later, and...", Harry blushed, and shrugged to her.
"I understand Mr. Harry! Mr. Harry's Hermione is coming today! Yippee!", the tiny elf cheered, jumping up and down, clapping her little hands in delight.
"She's not my Hermione, Twinky!", he admonished. He didn't want his housel elves making his best friend, and maybe hopefully more, uncomfortable. Inside, despite what he was telling Twinky, a flicker of hope glimmered deep in his chest. It'd been over a year since Ron and Hermione had broken up, and she'd been too immersed in her own work at St. Mungo's to seriously date anyone, that he knew of. "Today, it's all abut her," he told Twinky. "Let's have breakfast, and then get the house set up!"
Across London, Hermione was having a panic attack. "Ok", she told herself, "it's a major panic attack." Her face was red, and she was having a hard time breathing. "I'm going to Harry's!", she squealed out loud, jumping up and down. A knock on her door interruped her glee, and she turned to see her mother poke her head around the door.
"Hermione? Are you okay?", Emma Granger asked, a concerned look on her face. Hermione was not normally an emotional person, and hearing her squeal like a teenager was not the norm.
In answer, her daughter dashed to the door and yanked it all the way open, throwing herself into her mother's arms. Sobs began to wrack her small frame, and her mother suddenly knew the issue.
"Oh, Hermione!", she said in a slightly exasperated voice, rocking her little girl. 'Young woman', she corrected herself. "I don't understand why you just don't tell him!"
Hermione snuffled, and stepped out of her mother's embrace. Red rimmed eyes almost glared at her mother. "I don't know. Maybe because he might re..re.. reject me!", she stuttered.
In response, Emma Granger began to laugh. Not a snort. Not a giggle. No. Rather a full bellied laugh that continued till she had to bend over, gasping for breath, tears running down her face. Hermione's father stopped his path to the bathroom and took in his wife and daughter with a glance.
Hermione, eyes red from crying, and his wife, laughing her respectable ass off at her. "Harry?", he asked his wife, exasperatedly. She nodded, still unable to speak. Snorting, he stepped out and continued to the bathroom, not wanting to get involved in 'that', again. He and his wife had badgered Hermione to approach Harry about her feelings, but the shy bookworm personality was still quite prevalent.
In the bedroom, Emma finally regained her composure and faced her daughter. "Young lady, sit, and listen!", she ordered. When Hermione didn't respond quite quickly enough, her mother pushed her down to sit on her bed.
Emma pulled her daughter's desk chair over, and sat, hands on knees and met her daughter's eyes. In her mind, she was trying to formulate her questions and advice in a manner Hermione's logical mind would accept. Getting an idea, she began. "Ok, dear. Why would you believe Harry would reject you?"
"Well, he's never once ever thought of me that way!", Hermione began, but was cut short by her mother's rather unladylike snort.
"As if! Are you daft, young lady?", her mother 'snorked' in response. "That young man's been pining after you for years!"
Hermione's eyebrows were in danger of threatening her hairline. Her mother, educated, professional, and a doctor of dentistry, had just 'snorked' in derision at her. 'Snorked'! "Mum, why on earth would you think that. He's never once expressed anything of the kind. Nothing!"
Emma Granger, Doctor of Dentistry, groaned and lowered her head into her hands. In her head, she saw all the 'moments', her daughter and the man who loved her had shared. Long looks of almost tragic longing, hugs that lasted too long, kisses that were more than chaste. The excitement they both couldn't contain when meeting again, after being apart for any amount of time. Casual observers could almost feel the pheremones in the air whenever they were in the same room.
After the fall of Voldemort, the Trio, as they'd become to be known, were invited to many soiree's. At McGonagagall's urging they had attended, Hermione and Harry much more reluctantly than Ron. In the wizarding world, success more often depended on political connections than ability. In that way both worlds were much alike. On many occasions Hermione had dragged her parents along, in order for them to get to know Harry a little better, and to offer an escape from the 'fans'. Mingling, both her and Nathan had observed that Harry and Hermione were loathe to be very far apart from one another. As one beautiful woman approached Harry, Hermione's face, normally happy and bubbly when in Harry's vicinity, changed. Nathan and Emma Granger gasped as their lovely, giving daughter, snarled, and made to lunge forward. Nathan had acted quickly, and grabbed his daughters arm, and shoved his half-finished glass of whiskey into her hand. Looking to where Harry was being led onto the dance floor, and to the whiskey in her hand, Hermione had gulped the whole glass down in one draught. "He's mine!", she'd whispered, and that was when her parents had looked at each other, knowing that their daughter's heart was his.
Harry, for his part, had been seen to rather abruptly, and sometimes rudely, intercept men heading in Hermione's direction, often with a gleam in their eyes. Harry often didn't say anything, just stood there until their eyes moved from Hermione's rather attractive backside to find themselves looking into a pair of brightly burning green eyes. Harry would just simply shake his head 'no', and quite often received a 'gulp' in answer. On one occasion the intended interloper had sneered, and made to brush Harry away with a motioning hand. Emma had gripped Nathan's arm, her wide eyes giving him the direction to look.
"Oh dear! That poor man!", was all he got out before there was a 'bang!'. The interloper, apparently a high-ranking ambassador, flew backwards to land rather ungracefully piled up against a pillar in the hall. He'd struggled to his feet in indignation, sputtering. His aides rushed over to his assistance, and to calm him down. The ambassador knew of Harry Potter, 'The Boy Who Lived', but did not put two-and-two together. He was trying to barge his way back through the crowd to where Harry was now twirling Hermione around the dance floor. One aide, putting aside his own ambitions to ever getting a promotion, refused to budge and drew his employer's eye.
"Utt of my vay!", the ambassador ordered, hatred plain on his face.
"No, sir, you don't understand!", his aide was pleading. Nathan and Emma were edging closer, attempting to intervene in case they had to. Harry would eat that man alive if he had designs on 'his' Hermione. In doing so, they overheard everything.
"Vhat!", the ambassador snapped. His eyes were following Harry with murder in them.
"Sir! That's him! That's Harry Potter! Hermione Granger is his best friend. and you just attempted to 'come-on' to the one person Harry would never allow to be hurt! Sir! He'll kill you just for fun, and here, in London, no one would ever say anything! They're inseparable!"
As all this sank in, the ambassador's jaw dropped. He'd been so focused on Hermione, and the figure she cut in her evening gown, he hadn't really paid attention to the young man who'd stepped in front of him. All he'd seen was an uppity young wizard, dressed in casual clothes, completely unbefitting such an occasion as this, attempting to keep a distinguished personage such as himself from his desires.
"No!", he protested, but then saw the man's face as the couple turned on the dance floor. The long black hair, disarrayed as if he'd just stepped off a quidditch pitch, hid the telltale scar. Gone were the black, round-framed glasses. However, the piercing green eyes were a dead give-away. The ambassador also saw the sinuous grace with which Harry moved. He took note of the large, blunt fingered hands, broadening shoulders, and muscular frame. What made him really stop, however, was the way he was looking at Hermione. In his look was such love and adoration it was impossible to miss.
The ambassador, a man of known intelligence and reknown, paled. An accomplished wizard in his own right, the power radiating off Harry was now evident. As the young couple danced, Harry's magic, unrestrained as he lowered his guard around Hermione, had them almost floating over the dance floor. The tales of the battle were now widely known, and that a 'boy', had defeated Voldemort were understated. Harry's magical powers were reputed to be greater than that of even the legendary Albus Dumbledore. Combine that with the fact he'd been having yearly battles since he was eleven years old, and Harry was believed to be an unstoppable force. And that was when he wasn't pissed off.
Defeated, the ambassador made his apologies to his hosts and departed. Behind him his aides sighed in relief. If their venerated employer had pursued Miss Granger, they would now be scraping bits of him off every nearby surface, and face a mountain of paperwork on their return to their home country.
Watching him go, Nathan Granger smirked. "Our Hermione's never been safer!", he murmured to his wife.
"No Nathan", Emma disagreed. He met her eyes questioningly. "Our Hermione, is no longer just our Hermione. She's Harry's, and he's her's!", she explained. "No harm will ever befall our daughter as long as there's breath in Harry's body." They'd mingled some more the remainder of the evening, before apparrating home with Hermione, a new understanding of Harry and Hermione's feelings for one another in their hearts.
Right now though, Emma was struggling to put into words everything she and Nathan had seen, and felt, around their two favorite people.
"Have you never wondered why Harry's never dated since Ginny?", she asked her daughter.
"Well, he told me they'd just grown apart. That after the battle, when we were all recuperating, the Weasley's were mourning Fred, and they didn't have much alone time. After all the burials, came the ceremonies. The gifts. The Order of Merlin. They were never given time, and when they finally got it, they found they were two different people!", Hermione explained to her mother.
Emma was nodding in understanding. But she had also seen the way Harry looked at her daughter, and knew there was a little more to the story. Taking her daughter's hands in her's, she looked at her with all the love a mother can. "Hermione. They didn't 'connect', because his heart wasn't in it. It was somewhere else. It just took him a few years to realise it!", she informed Hermione. Hope began to dawn in her daughter's eyes.
"Your father and I have watched you two for a long time, and we've seen the way you both look at the other. Yes, you both!", she affirmed at Hermione's shocked look. "You can't take three steps without looking for Harry, and he's as bad or worse. The poor boy almost panics when you're out of his sight. And don't forget when you two fall asleep!"
Hermione blushed at the memory. Harry often visited after the battle, after Hermione had asked the Ministry's help to get her parent's back. Once their memories were restored, they had spent many hours regaling her parents of the terrors and traumas they'd endured. The only details they left out were the more gruesome bits from the last battle. Her parents always went to bed first, and left the two quietly talking or watching tv in comfortable silence. Many mornings they woke to find Harry stretched out on the sofa, Hermione snuggled in his arms.
When sitting, they often found themselves touching each other, as if they needed the other close, to reassure themselves of the other's presence. The only one's who didn't notice were Harry and Hermione. Inside, they were healing of the wounds their lives had left on them, and the comfort they gave each other could not be replaced by doctors or therapy. Even now, Hermione often found herself waking in the night in terror, reaching for Harry's body, only to remember where and when she was.
Emma watched her daughter's realization sink in. Soon, the happy Hermione was settling back into place on her countenance, and they began discussing what she should wear to her birthday party.
"I don't know mum. Don't you think that's a little too...daring?" The outfit in question was laid on the bed.
"That's the point, entirely my dear. Poor Harry won't know what hit him!", she tucked her daughter under her arm in a conspiratorial hug. "After tonight, he'll be yours!"