Chapter Two

For the most part, the days of the summer after the War went slowly for Harry and Hermione. The mental healer from St Mungo's suggested that they adopt some sort of routine, but the pair weren't particularly keen on that, which was mainly because Hermione deemed it near impossible. They didn't get nearly enough sleep to set strict bedtimes or mealtimes. Their lives, their dreams and their thoughts were too erratic to apply anything normal like a routine to their everyday activities.

They did, however, fall into their own strange rhythm. The mornings were void of plans always, except for the one morning that Kingsley asked to meet with Harry at the Ministry - alone. Harry didn't talk to her about the bulk of the meeting's discussions but he did mention that they discussed a potential memorial of some sort to be erected at Hogwarts. Hermione didn't comment in fear of a fresh round of tears claiming her.

Their breakfasts were usually eaten early, because neither of them could sleep past seven o'clock in the morning, and not for a lack of trying. Lunch wasn't something they formalised though, mainly because they sometimes weren't even at the house. In the afternoons, they liked to venture out of the house - if they were feeling up to it.

They would spend hours in the Muggle library down the road from the house, just reading classic novels or poring over history books. Harry always mentioned how strange he found it that there was an entire magical history running parallel with that of the Muggles', and they had absolutely no idea.

Sometimes, they went to a mall, just to browse the windows and maybe be around people who didn't know that they were integral parts of the heroes of the Second Wizarding War. Harry liked to go to the cinema, to sit in a dark room and focus all of his attention on a screen. Hermione hadn't guessed that he would enjoy films all that much but she was learning more and more about him the more time they spent together.

Harry even went for a haircut one afternoon and the barber was very vocal when he complained about the work the last person to cut Harry's hair had done. Harry sneaked a look at Hermione who couldn't stop herself from bursting out laughing. Resources had been limited in the tent.

"Is it really that bad?" she'd asked.

The barber had stared at her. "Worse."

And Harry had spent the rest of the day teasing her about it. It was all that she would allow, really, because she didn't want to tell him just how different he looked. Because he did. The boy was gone now and he was replaced by a tall, strong-jawed man with a haircut to drive women crazy. Even Hermione had to admit he looked quite handsome. His hair was still, and would remain, messy but boy did he wear it well.

The nightmares were still there. They occurred fewer and farther between but even Harry's strong arms couldn't keep them away all the time. On those mornings, when she woke up to admit to him that she'd had a nightmare; a dark look usually descended over his face, as if he felt like he had failed. As if he thought he wasn't enough for her.

They were left alone in their magical exile - and recovery - until their Hogwarts' letters arrived. Harry received them from a Hogwarts Owl and set them down on the kitchen counter, intent on waiting for Hermione until he opened his. Not that he had any burning desire to read it. As far as he was concerned, he had learned all he needed to know in this world. What more could Hogwarts really teach him?

Hermione found Harry in the kitchen, like she usually did. She was, of course, still in her pyjamas, not that either of them minded. They could spend full days in their sleeping attire. But, as soon as she laid eyes on him, she could tell that something was wrong. From the way he was standing, leaning against a counter, with his mug of some hot beverage held up to his lips; she knew something was amiss. His eyes were distant.

"Harry?" she queried worriedly.

It took him a moment to focus on her. His brow creased as he studied her, taking in the appearance of her body. All was good. Well, physically, at least. He cleared his throat. "They arrived," he said softly, his eyes indicating the two letters on the counter.

Hermione's breath caught. She wondered when they would arrive and, truthfully, she was quite certain they were late. Perhaps Professor McGonagall wanted to give them more time to recover before they had to make a decision. Didn't they know that no amount of time would ever be long enough?

"Well?" Hermione asked, looking at Harry.

He raised and then dropped his shoulders. "Well what?" he asked innocently.

"Aren't you going to open your letter?"

"Aren't you going to open yours?"

She sighed. Then, looking at his mug, she asked, "Is that coffee?"

Harry acknowledged her desire to postpone opening the letters but he didn't comment. "Actually, it's tea," he said, mischief glinting in his eyes. "We're out of coffee."

Hermione had to admit that she quite loved when he used pronouns such as 'we' and 'our' when he spoke about the house. It made her feel less alone, now that she too was essentially an orphan. "That can't be," she said hotly, moving towards him. "I swear we just bought some." She took hold of his hands to bring his mug down so she could look into it and she was hit by an undeniable whiff of coffee bean. "But...?"

Harry couldn't hold back his laugh any longer. "Goodness, Hermione," he said, between laughs. "It's just coffee, you know? Your addiction is worrying."

"Oh, you," she said, slapping her palm against his chest. "I almost started crying," she said, knowing that that would really make him laugh. Really, these days, anything and everything made her cry.

Harry set his mug down and put his hands on her shoulders. "You're going to have to get used to it, you know," he said seriously. "Hogwarts doesn't have coffee."

"Oh, then we're definitely not going," she said just as seriously.

Harry swallowed, dropping his hands down to his sides. "What are you saying, Hermione?"

Hermione stepped back from him, not wanting to strain too much to look him in the eye. "Do you want to go back, Harry?"

"Do you?"

Hermione swallowed. She knew that if she pretended she didn't want to, he would know. Also, he would immediately know that her indecision had everything to do with him. It would just add to the guilt he so clearly already felt.

"Do you, Hermione?" he asked again. "And I want the truth."

She stepped back again, feeling her heart start to race. She wouldn't be able to recover without him if he decided he didn't want to go back with her. And how could she spend days without him, honestly? She spent every second of every day desperately having to know where he was. Even when he was just in the bathroom, she panicked. It really was very unhealthy. But then again, there were worse things with which to be obsessed.

"Tell me," he demanded somewhat kindly. "Do you or do you not want to go back for our final year?"

There, again, he used the pronoun 'our' and she very nearly admitted to him her every secret thought. Without a word, Hermione picked up her Hogwarts' letter and ripped it open, barely noticing the badge that fell to the ground.

Harry waited in silence, watching her intently. He noticed the slight upturn on the edges of her mouth, and he made his decision. "What does it say?" he asked, his impatience getting the better of him.

Hermione passed the letter to him.

"Open mine?" he asked, taking her letter. His eyes skimmed over the words, a precious smile spreading across his face. When he looked back up at Hermione, she was positively beaming. "What?"

She almost jumped with her excitement as she handed over his letter, having retrieved the badge from the floor. Now there were three sitting patiently on the kitchen counter, waiting to be acknowledged.

Harry held both letters in his hands, and Hermione watched, desperate for a reaction from him. Once he was done, he set both letters down and looked at Hermione. "Professor McGonagall really wants us back at Hogwarts, doesn't she?"

"It doesn't matter what she wants, Harry," she said strongly. "What do you want?"

They stared at each other for a long moment, neither of them wanting to chance voicing the words that would disrupt whatever rhythm they currently had.

Harry broke their silence. "Okay, this is what I know," he said, meeting her gaze. "Whatever we decide, it's going to be together, okay? I know that I will go with you if it's what you want, and I know that you will stay with me if that's what I want."

Hermione absently nodded, knowing that he was telling the truth. They were the type of friends who would do that kind of thing for each other. As obsessed as she was with school and learning, in this moment, he was her priority.

"So, maybe we don't decide right now," he suggested; "and maybe we talk to Ron as well. How does that sound?"

Hermione's gaze did not once drift from Harry's. This conversation they were having involved, quite possibly, the rest of their lives. He was right, after all. It wasn't a decision they could make lightly. And maybe it would do them well to discuss it with the mental healer from St Mungo's as well. "Okay," she eventually said.

Harry nodded once. It was probably the most word-filled conversation they'd actually had since they returned from Australia. It wasn't that they didn't talk; it was just that they didn't actually have to. Over the years, they'd manage to develop such an understanding of each other that they normally didn't even need words to communicate.

Hermione clapped her hands together, signaling the end of the discussion. "So, breakfast?"

"He's late," Hermione said, checking her wristwatch for the third time.

"It's a Muggle shop," Harry said calmly. "Maybe he's lost. Give him a minute."

Hermione regarded the boy beside her. She wanted to put a hand on his thigh to tell him just how deeply she appreciated how calm he was being with all that was going on, but she stopped herself. A part of her felt that it would be too intimate of a gesture to do in public. She definitely wouldn't have hesitated if they had been at home.

Home?

When she first moved from the Burrow back to the house in which she grew up, it hadn't felt like home. But now it did? With Harry.

Always, with Harry.

"There he is," Harry said, lifting his head. "Wow, has his hair always been that red?"

Hermione bit back a laugh as she too scanned for the third member of their precious trio. Ron looked particularly distraught to her, as if being in the Muggle world was a little too foreboding. Now, that made her smile.

Harry stood up to greet Ron, and then Hermione stood. When she sat down, she and Harry exchanged a worried look. He smelt like he'd been drinking, heavily. In fact, he looked like he'd been drinking. His eyes were bloodshot and his words were somewhat slurred as he complained about how hard it had been to find the petite bistro that Harry and Hermione had come to love.

"Ron, are you okay?" Hermione asked, her tone worried and concerned.

Ron stared at her. "Well, of course I'm not okay!" he almost yelled. "Honestly, why did the two of you want to meet here of all places? Please tell me that it's important, because the sun is bloody bright."

Harry leaned back, not wanting Ron to breathe on him. He sneaked another look at Hermione, silently asking a question.

Hermione shook her head. Now was definitely not the time to mention the possibility of returning to Hogwarts come September. Now, they had to address the more important issue. "Ron," she began, sitting up straight. "Have you been drinking today?"

Ron frowned, his brows knitting together. "What?"

"Drinking, Ron," Harry spoke up. "Have you had anything to drink today?"

"Yeah, so?"

"You do know that it isn't even noon yet, right?"

"So?"

Harry took a breath, cringing at the severity of his friend's tone. "Look, we're just worried," he said calmly. Harry, always calm.

"Why?" Ron barked. "It's not like you cared before?"

Harry frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"The both of you just took off, left me here all by myself. What else was I supposed to do?"

Hermione's eyes widened. "What?"

"You heard me," Ron ranted on, his anger directed at Hermione. "You and Harry prancing about Australia, having a great time, while I stayed here and dealt with everything. My brother died! He died, and you just left."

Harry had to admit he was stunned. Was Ron not listening when they told him what happened in Australia? Didn't he care? "We didn't just leave you," Harry said, determined to take the attention away from Hermione. She definitely didn't deserve to have any of his harsh words spoken to her. "You didn't want to come, remember?"

Ron stared at him blankly. Something seemed to click in his distant memories. "Oh, right, you did ask, didn't you? I forgot about that."

Harry frowned. What was happening? "Ron, where did you come from right now?"

"What?"

"Where were you before you came here?" Harry asked, clarifying his question for the inebriated boy to understand. "Did you come from the Burrow?"

Ron started to laugh. Like, really laugh and, if they hadn't drawn attention to themselves before, they definitely had now. "Are you serious? Do you think Mum would allow this?" He used his hands to indicate his current state. "She'd kill me." He laughed again. "Then I'd be dead... like Fred."

Hermione stood up quite suddenly. From within her jacket, she used her wand to silence Ron. She turned to Harry. "Let's go."

Ron glared at them once he realised he couldn't speak. He folded his arms across his chest, determined not to move.

Harry wasn't having any of it. Even if they were in Muggle territory, he knew that the situation with Ron was dire. Neither he nor Hermione would forgive themselves if anything ever happened to him. It was just his way of self-soothing, and it was going to drive him right into the ground. They couldn't just sit back and watch it happen.

In the following days, Harry and Hermione had to adjust the rhythm to their days. Instead of immersing themselves in thoughtless Muggle activities in their afternoons, they rather visited Ron at St Mungo's. He didn't want to see them at first, which made Hermione cry every time. She hated that she was always so emotional, but Harry always assured her that it was okay.

When Ron did finally agree to their visit, he was still rather angry with them, and he was unafraid to tell them so. The second he had started on Hermione, Harry stepped up, taking all the blame.

"I don't care if you hate me right now," Harry said strongly. "You cannot honestly sit there and tell us that this was not what you needed. Look, you have to get better, Ron. For your family, for us, and for yourself. We all need you."

Ron said nothing more and Hermione bit back a sob as they were leaving. She leaned into Harry, tempted to take his hand. The magical world was different to the Muggle word. Her seeking comfort from her best friend might be twisted into something else and they both didn't need any more publicity.

George was seated in the waiting area of the Rehabilitation Wing of the hospital when they emerged from behind double doors. He stood up at the sight of the young witch and wizard. Their greetings were brief, George quick to query after his brother's wellbeing.

"He doesn't want to see you either?" Hermione asked curiously.

George shook his head. "I think he's embarrassed. Mum hasn't even left her bedroom. I didn't even know it was this bad."

"Neither did we," Harry admitted sadly. "But now he can get the help he needs. Hermione and I see a mental healer here."

"Is it helping?"

Harry and Hermione exchanged a look. Hermione decided to speak for both of them. "It's not something that can be rushed."

George understood the truth of that. He was trying to be brave in the wake of the loss of his other half. Perhaps he was just hiding it better than his little brother was. "Mum mentioned that the two of you wanted to talk to him about going back to school. What have you decided?"

Again, they exchanged a look. As soon as Ron was admitted, their decision changed. This time, though, Harry spoke for both of them. "Hermione is going back," he said, masking the pain saying it out loud caused him. "I'm staying. He needs me here."

George thought about that for a moment. "He needs someone, Harry. It doesn't necessarily have to be you." When neither teenager responded, he continued. "You were both going to go back, weren't you?"

Hermione let out a breath. "We thought we deserved a normal year," she said sadly. "It'd be nice to act like the children we're supposed to be."

George just nodded his understanding. The pair before him definitely hadn't had it easy. But then, neither had his brother. "I think you should both go," George declared. "I'll keep an eye on Ron. He mentioned his interest in the joke shop anyway. Maybe I can put him to work, keep him busy."

They seemed skeptical.

George managed a smile. "You had to know that Ron was never going to go back to school," he said. "He loves you both, but not that much. So you should go. He'll be fine. I'll make sure of it."

Hermione read the unmistakable determination on George's face and it settled some of the unease she was feeling. She was ready to jump at the opportunity to have Harry with her but it was still a decision that depended heavily on the outcomes of Ron's treatment. And September first was suddenly right around the corner.

"We'll think about it," Harry finally said.

Which was what Harry did. That night, it took him much longer to fall asleep. Hermione could even feel the tension in the way his arms held her. Ever since they'd decided that she would go and he would stay, the way he held her changed, like he was trying to make each moment last.

Hermione lay with her head against his chest, his heartbeat the only thing worth hearing. It was a sound she knew she would never tire of hearing; not when she had once been convinced it had disappeared from the world. While she lay there, the length of her body pressed against his; she too couldn't stop her mind from drifting. She thought about a lot of things all at once while she absently drew circles with her fingers on his t-shirt clad chest.

His breathing was ragged, as if his thoughts were messing with his respiratory system. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Harry?" Hermione whispered, knowing he would be awake. "What are you thinking about?"

Harry didn't want to tell her that he found the feel of her breath slightly ticklish, fearing that she would move away if she knew. He kept it as his precious little secret. "About Ron," he whispered back.

"Do you really not care if he hates you right now?"

Harry didn't even have to think about it. "Yes. That part doesn't matter. He just needs to get better."

"Do you think he'll be okay?" she asked, fully aware that she suddenly sounded like a little girl. Her worry over her redheaded friend was threatening to get the better of her.

Harry was anticipating her tears. "I do, yes. He's got support now. Healer Patrick will help him through it."

"The same way he's helping us?" she asked, slight snark in her tone. They'd been seeing the mental healer from St Mungo's since even before they made the trip to Australia, and Hermione was quite certain that the nightmares - on those occasions that she did have them - were at the same intensity as they were that first week after the end of the war.

"I think he's helping us understand that whatever we're feeling is okay," he said softly. "We can feel the anger and the anguish, the pain, the guilt and the fear. We can feel it all and know that it's normal."

"Is it?"

Harry shifted a little and placed a gentle kiss atop her head. "What I feel, you feel. It doesn't actually matter if it's normal or not; as long as you understand me."

She took a deep breath, trying to commit to memory how safe she felt when she was in his arms. "What happens when I go back?"

Harry's breath hitched. He knew she wouldn't have been able to ask this question in the light. This was a conversation for the darkness. "You go back," he said simply. "And you have the most normal year you possibly could. Merlin, you'll probably be so bored."

She let out a light laugh. "Probably." Then, steeling herself, she asked, "Do you think George was serious about what he said?"

"Yes," he said after a moment. "Well, he believes he's serious."

"Are you considering his offer?" she asked tentatively. She was certain that the offer was making Harry think that he was, essentially, choosing between his two best friends and he would absolutely hate that.

"I did," he admitted. "For all of a few seconds. As much as I can't stand the thought of having you so far away; Ron needs at least one of us here. It's what has to be done, and I won't stand for your not going on account of us."

Hermione felt her first tears fill her eyes, making her vision blurry, even in the dim moonlight shining in. "I hate this."

Harry's arm tightened around her, pulling her in closer against his chest. "I hate this too."

In the dark, they had to talk to each other. On any other occasion, she was sure he would have looked at her in a certain way and wordlessly told her that he agreed with her sentiment. Somehow, this was better. She needed to hear his voice, the rasp, the uncertainty and the strength all rolled into one glorious tone. Hermione learned that, after the war, Harry's declarations on how he felt or how he saw things came from a place of a lot of thought. He wasn't rash anymore, just diving in head first. No, he was calculated, calm, even severe. Anything he said carried meaning. He'd picked at his own thoughts until he deemed them worthy to speak out loud.

It was probably the one thing that showed Hermione how much he had grown. Also, a part of her was certain that he carried the knowledge of his slip-up with Voldemort's tabooed name with him. That utterance had nearly cost them dearly. Hermione still had the scar to prove it. She supposed, at the point, she and Harry had matching Dark Marks on the underside of their arms. Quite the pair, weren't they?

"You'll write to me every week," Hermione stated, rather than asked. "And I'll figure out how to charm some mirrors like you and Sirius had so we can talk. And you'll visit me every Hogsmeade weekend, without fail."

Harry knew these were demands. He didn't even think to question them.

"And you'll take good care of yourself. Make sure you eat, and get sleep. Behave yourself, as well. I don't want to get home and find that you've gotten yourself into trouble now."

Harry laughed lightly, and she could feel his body shake with his mild glee. "What kind of trouble could I possibly get into?"

"Well, you are Harry Potter," she pointed out. "Trouble tends to seek you out and plant a bullseye on your back."

"This is true," he said softly, the amusement gone from his tone. "But I do like to think those days are behind me."

Hermione continued to draw shapes on his chest, the heat of him so comforting. In a few short days, she wouldn't have this anymore. In a few short days, she would be forced to face the nighttime without him. And the daytime. And mealtimes!

As if he could feel her distress, his hold on her tightened, if that were even possible. "I'm going to write to you every few days," he said. "I can't wait for those mirrors so we can call each other whenever we want. I'll even call during History of Magic to help keep you awake while Professor Binns goes on and on. And I'll be at every Hogsmeade weekend without fail, and I will attend every Quidditch match. Also, I'll be the one to pick you up when you come home for Christmas break, with flowers and chocolate and lemon poppyseed muffins."

Again, he called it 'home' and her heart fluttered. That, on top of everything he said, made her feel less uneasy about what was to come. She would be coming home to him. It was so comforting and assuring knowing that this was their place. Even though Hermione didn't dare go anywhere near her parents' bedroom, she couldn't help feeling a little unwelcome in her own house. But with Harry, it felt like the place they had to be. She'd even suggested Grimmauld Place to him, which he'd quickly dismissed. Hermione had yet to ask him for his reasoning, afraid that he would go and leave her behind.

"Thank you, Harry," she whispered against him, tears once again springing to her eyes.

"For what?"

"For being my family."

Harry didn't trust himself to speak. So, he just pulled her closer, buried his face in her hair and forced his own tears away. He was her family now. She'd always been his. Slowly, inaudibly, Harry whispered three little words that he was sure she wouldn't hear.

You are mine.