Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
AN: Thanks to Smithback, Vera Rozalsky, Cheryl Grant, Gryffenclaw's Princess, Arpad Hrunta, greaves, and Eillibsniknej for your reviews. Thanks for favorites and follows, too.
The "Penseive depositions" is credit to Vera's Amends.
Chapter Ten
6 December 2005, late afternoon
I have two choices now: stay here and wait, or go home.
I am not particularly partial to either. I do want to see Harry, but I could be waiting for nothing for all I know. And if I leave, I might miss out on my chance. I stand there for a moment like this, trying to decide what to do, still holding the family photo in my hand. I realize I'm tapping my foot, and immediately stop.
I shake my head. I can always come back another day, but I might not have the nerve then.
"…I'm telling you mate, she needs support."
My ears perk almost painfully because I am once again physically aware of Neville's voice, and it's right at the door. I want to stamp my foot in frustration - why does he always show up?
And then I hear another voice, familiar and alien at the same time - Harry.
"I still just can't believe you found her. I'd kill to see her again - wait, I thought I locked this?"
I hear the door jiggle, and then open - I feel the slight rush of cool air sweep inside the office, and I turn my face toward the two men walking inside. It's fairly dim in here now - according to the magic windows the sun is setting - and I don't think they're aware of my presence.
Or maybe I thought too soon. Neville knows, and he's staring right at me with a look of complete confusion on his face. Harry waves his wand to illuminate the office. The sudden bright light makes me squint a little.
"Hermione?" Neville says.
I can't speak, not yet. Not when Harry turns to look in the direction Neville's staring, and his face turns from curiosity to a sort of joy that can't be described with words. I'm not even entirely sure 'joy' is the right word, either: Harry looks like he can't believe his eyes and he isn't daring to truly believe that I'm here. Neville shifts his weight and crosses his arms, and a strange smug-like look crosses his features.
"Hermione…" Harry says slowly, and I nod my head a little. I realize I'm still holding the photo and hastily put it back down on the desk.
"Hi, Harry," I say quietly. "I decided to visit you today."
Neville's smug look has turned into a genuine grin. He hovers in the background and Harry takes a few steps toward me, as if still trying to decide that I'm actually real and not a figment of his imagination.
"It's been…" he starts.
"Seven years, yeah," I finish for him. I glance between him and Neville, trying to figure out why he is here and not at Hogwarts.
Silence passes between us all. I am rooted in my spot, heart thumping madly and my brain trying to register what's going to happen next. I expected high drama, however it's anything but: everyone, including me, seems lost for words and unable to make a move.
Finally, Neville clears his throat. It's a quiet sound, but it jars Harry into finally speaking.
"I've…I've really missed you, Hermione," he says, his voice wavering. He steps forward and takes a moment to perhaps question himself, but then embraces me, and I hesitate a moment before giving in and hugging him back properly. His familiar scent invades my mind, and I'm suddenly filled with images of Hogwarts, summers at the Burrow, Horcrux hunting in the woods. The imagery is far too much right now. I open my eyes and look over at Neville; the sight helps me focus. I remind myself that it's alright. Everything is alright.
Harry finally parts and looks at me for a long moment. "When Neville told me he found you, I couldn't believe it."
Neville's grin drops and he looks at his feet.
"He told you that, did he?" I ask. I note the color rising to Neville's cheeks and raise my eyebrows. Of course Neville told him that. I remember that the thought had crossed my mind when I first walked through the Ministry's door. I wait for the rush of anger, but it doesn't come.
"I told him because I needed advice," Neville says firmly, although he looks rather nervous.
"Actually, it was a bit of a row because he wouldn't tell me where you lived, or anything really," Harry says, a hint of bitterness in his voice. "I was all for breaking down your door. But Neville said…" he pauses for a moment. "Neville said that you didn't want to be found." His face drops, and I see a sadness in his eyes I cannot explain.
Neville sighs, a soft sound. I stand there for a moment, acutely aware that right now, at this moment, I am facing the consequences of what I did. It's all over Harry's face; plain to see. That what I did hurt him. I remember Neville's statement when trying to justify coming after me - "When I saw you that day, it was like seeing a ghost."
How cruel I'd been to Neville when he said that. How unforgiving, and utterly ruthless. I look between Harry and Neville, now, taking in their apprehensive faces. They're afraid of my reaction. And rightly so - I've proven myself unpredictable to the both of them, but mainly to Neville himself. I took all his attempts and threw them in his face, because I was afraid, afraid of facing the consequences of what I'd done, but claiming fear of the Wizarding world.
But these people aren't the enemy, no - the enemy is myself.
6 December 2005, evening
I am staring down at a wonderful portion of Shepard's pie, dimly aware of voices and laughter around us. Harry, Neville and I are nestled in a corner booth at The Leaky Cauldron, and with the dim lighting in this place, we are sufficiently shrouded from everyone around us.
I take a bite, savoring the hearty flavor of the meat and potatoes. Neville and Harry have tucked into theirs, too, and there is silence for a moment. I contemplate my surroundings. There is an old Wizarding photo behind us of an old man and a plump woman next to him, waving merrily at the camera from a booth. Next to it is a bowtruckle on a plaque. I stare at its glossy beady eyes for a moment and then return my attention to my dinner mates.
Harry is still eating, but every now and then his eyes flick in my direction; Neville is seated next to me so I don't know how many worried looks he's shooting my way. I sigh a little. Dinner is delicious, but we may as well be at a wake for how solemn everyone is.
"How's everyone's dinner?" I ask finally, weary of the silence. I take a sip of my pint, its dry hoppy flavor exploding in my mouth. A perfect complement to the Shepard's pie, but I suppose we're beyond small talk at this point.
"It's great," Neville says. I turn to look at him, and am quite comforted by the easy smile on his face. "I haven't been here in awhile."
"I come here at least once a week," Harry says. "You really can't beat their Shepard's pie."
"I've never had any this good before, I don't think. Except maybe Mrs. Weasley's." The words are out of my mouth before I know it, and then I look down at my plate, my face turning very red and thankful the lighting is so dim.
After a beat, I'm aware that my hand resting on the seat is enfolded in Neville's; I look over at him and he squeezes it, just enough to say, I'm here. It's soft in my mind, but as real as if he had leaned over and whispered it in my ear. My eyes drop from his and down his face. I take in the shadows his jaw casts over his neck, his steady breathing beneath his sweater. I imagine how warm he would be to move closer to, to rest my head on. I take a deep breath and catch his scent, and somehow, that seems more personal than him holding my hand. I feel my body heat in response to his scent, and I feel a strange sense of longing.
It is then that I know I desire him. Not just physically, although that plays a part. I desire his heart, and his soul. I want to hold all of him, everything that makes him breathe and feel. I have been lost all these years, wondering where my escape was. Wondering how I could keep it all up. It was as if a part of me was bracing myself for this. Someone to walk into my life and change it all.
Neville's hand squeezes mine again and I jerk to reality. I don't know exactly how long I've been staring at him, but obviously too long for comfort: even in this light, I can see his blush.
"Sorry," I say. "I guess I was lost in thought."
"Quite alright," Neville says.
He licks his lips, bites the bottom one. I stare at the movement, transfixed. I force myself to tear away and turn my head back to Harry.
Harry has an odd look on his face, as if he wants to say something but isn't sure how to put it. Suddenly, the look is gone, and he takes a hearty swig of his pint.
Neville and I do the same, and I realize his hand is still on mine. I wonder at that, because the moment he was trying to comfort me for is long passed; at least to me. All I am aware of now is how warm it is in here; how much I desire the man sitting next to me. It's an uncomfortable feeling because I can't do anything about it here.
"What are you doing for Christmas, Harry?" I ask, trying to distract myself.
"Hopefully I'll be spending it at home with Ginny and James. If I don't get called in," Harry replies, a knowing grin crossing his face before he takes another drink. He sets his mug down with a soft clunk. "I got called in last Christmas."
"Why?" I ask.
"Mostly it's because of who I am. After Voldemort fell, the Ministry underwent a huge…cleansing. Mass trials, raids, inventory sweeps, Pensieve depositions…I can't really explain everything all at once because it took over two years to completely get through everything. At the end of it all, a lot of crooked people lost their jobs, criminals went to Azkaban, and fresh faces were hired on."
Harry takes another drink, and my mind is trying to take in all this information. Neville hadn't told me any of this. I once again remember his hand is still on mine.
"Anyway…I'm Head Auror, but I might as well be Minister of Magic with the kind of weight they put on me sometimes. Which leads me back to last Christmas. They used to put up a huge tree near the fountain in the Ministry, decorated for the holidays. Well, last year someone had cursed it as a joke, and it was going berserk. Hitting people with its branches, chucking ornaments in every direction. The Auror on duty was the newest bloke, and he went sort of mad and flooed me before consulting anybody else because he thought a Dark Wizard was trying to off people with our Christmas tree. He flooed right into my living room while we were having breakfast and was shouting that 'The Boy Who Lived' had to save the Ministry from the killing tree."
Harry is telling this story in a very serious voice, but Neville bursts out laughing.
"Mate, you never told me that," Neville says, and takes his hand from mine to wipe his eyes. He sets it down on the table, and I feel a sense of loss.
"It's a little embarrassing," Harry says, wincing. "Not exactly the Ministry's finest moment."
I take another drink, and a tiny bite of potatoes. "And then what happened?" I ask.
"I flooed right in and fixed it all up. We didn't put up a tree this year just in case, but the bloke who cursed it came forward and we had him do extra staff duty to make up for the mishap."
Neville is still chuckling. I don't personally see what is so funny. But then I realize: it's been seven years since any true fear of Dark Wizards. Most of the people here have been out of the shadow of fear I refused to leave.
We finish our pints and Neville pays for mine, as I don't have any Wizarding money. We approach the fire in preparation to floo back to the Ministry, and I glance at the door that leads to the magical entrance of Diagon Alley. I wonder, vaguely, when or if I'll have the courage to go through there again. I look at my Muggle purse and find myself thinking I don't have any real reason to.
Neville puts a hand on the back of my shoulder, a slight nudge. I am all too aware of the pressure, the warmth. I look at him, trying to appear emotionless, but I know it's no use: I see the flicker of something cross his features. I try to smile, but only manage to lift the corners of my mouth. It doesn't reach my eyes, and I don't know why I even bothered.
6 December 2005, late evening
Neville and I walk through the streets back to my flat, his arm linked in mine, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. I take a moment to look at him, something I feel I do a lot. The cold air has reddened the tip of his nose and cheeks a bit, and I have a strong urge to pull him closer to me, even hold his hand. It would be easy to slide my arm down and grab it, but I don't.
I don't know what these feelings really mean. And I can't act impulsively when I've had no time to really think about any of it.
"Harry was happy to see you," Neville says, glancing at me. The street lights reflect off his eyes, and I have to look away.
"I know."
"You will see him again, won't you?"
"I promised I would."
Silence. I don't know why I'm annoyed with this conversation, but I am. I feel a pang in my chest, and know I'm not doing this right. Neville has been nothing but good to me, and somehow I always manage to turn it sour.
"Look…I'm sorry. It's just been a trying day, I guess," I say.
Neville stops walking and turns to face me. My heart begins to hammer in my chest because his face is heartbreakingly sad. I reach up to touch his cheek, not really aware of my actions. The skin is cold from the wind, a little rough from stubble beginning to grow. I part my lips to speak, but he pulls me in for one of his crushing hugs, and I drop my hand from his face to rest on his shoulder.
"I…am proud of you," he says into my hair.
I don't reply, because I have no idea what to say. So I wrap both of my arms around him and hold him as tightly as I dare.
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