A/N: Shayalonnie was magic for this chapter, and I owe all the British spelling to her, along with my heart. In other news, I've another two chapters written already, and three more after that before the end of Part One! I am so stoked!

The Ministry of Magic

15 October 1999

Inside of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, near the Auror bull-pen, there existed a room for which Auror's had consistently lobbied for decades. It was there, in the candlelit locker-room, that Harry stood beneath the spray of a hot shower after having had his arse handed to him on his first day back in the field.

"That's a nasty bruise."

Harry turned off the water and ran a hand through his hair, sweeping it back away from his face and then looking back up at the person who had spoken.

Ron stood against a row of lockers, his arms crossed and uniform pristine as usual.

"I've had worse," said Harry, grabbing a towel off of the hook beside the shower and wrapping it around his waist. His long hair continued to drip down his back, but the cold trickle was soothing against his tender skin.

"I'm well aware," laughed Ron, moving aside to let Harry into his locker. "Hermione's going to ride your arse for that later, you know."

Harry snorted. Hermione hadn't ridden anything of his lately, and it was coming to the point where he would be grateful for her chiding. It wasn't that she'd been ignoring him exactly, but her fury over the way he had acted had not abated when she had returned with Delphi that evening, nor had it dissipated once he had admitted that she had probably been right about his reaction, and then agreed to see a mind-healer.

He pulled a t-shirt over his head, wincing at the ripple of pain in his shoulders as he did so.

"What is it? Trouble in paradise?"

Harry shrugged instinctively and winced again. "You know Hermione."

Ron laughed. "Damn right I do. She having a snit?"

Harry gave a warning look, and Ron rolled his eyes in response.

"She attacked you with birds yet?"

"No," said Harry firmly. "Then again, I haven't led her on and then snogged another girl in front of her."

Ron didn't answer, only grinned more broadly. "What did you do?"

"None of your goddamned business." Harry pulled on his pants, letting the sodden towel drop to the floor. "Besides, I apologised for what I did."

"And she's still angry?"

Harry nodded once.

"Did you bring her flowers?"

"Flowers?" asked Harry sceptically. "You sure it was Hermione Granger you dated?"

"Its what my dad brings my mum when he's fucked up. She always goes all starry-eyed and—"

"Hermione doesn't like flowers," Harry cut in. "Not the ones that die."

Ron held up his hands in mock surrender. "Your call," he said, "I was only suggesting." He watched him for a few seconds more before asking, "Off to see her now?"

Harry picked the towel back up once he was dressed and rubbed it over his hair vigorously for a moment before tossing it onto a bench. "No," he said at last. "She's out tonight with some friends."

"You weren't invited?"

"Girls only," Harry clarified. "Besides, I've got to get Delphi. Watching Teddy too, actually. Going to give Andromeda a weekend to herself for once."

"Uh-huh."

"What?" asked Harry through gritted teeth.

Ron shrugged. "Nothing." But he looked so amused that Harry wanted to punch him.

"Spit it out," Harry demanded.

"I'm just wondering," said Ron, "whether you realise how pitiful you sound right now."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Hermione's gone," said Ron, his voice pitched unnaturally high to poke fun at Harry, "And I'm watching the children. By the way, have you seen my testicles? I seem to have misplaced them."

"Shut up, you prat," said Harry, flinging the soggy towel from the bench at Ron's face. "It's not pitiful to take care of my own bloody kids. Teddy's my godson!"

"No," said Ron, sounding more serious now. "You're a good father. But you're also wallowing over whatever the hell is going on between you and Hermione. It's like fifth year all over again with your angst lately."

"I'm not angsty," argued Harry, offended.

Ron folded his arms across his chest and gave Harry a disbelieving look.

"I just—" Harry floundered for a way to express himself for a moment. "I realised I have a bunch of my own personal shit to work through." Ron tilted his head to the side, his expression earnest and curious. "Like about the Dursleys," Harry finished quickly, refusing to make eye-contact now.

There was silence for several long seconds before Ron spoke, and when he did his voice was even and serious.

"One of my worst memories from before the war was rescuing you from Privet Drive," he said. Harry looked up at the words, shocked as Ron continued. "It wasn't that I wasn't glad we got you out of there, mate— but I had nightmares sometimes afterward, that my parents had put bars on my windows and left me in my room without food. I don't think I realised how completely fucked up a thing it was until years later, but it was always uncomfortable to think about."

"I—I didn't realise," said Harry.

Ron shook his head and shrugged. "You wouldn't have," he said. "It was all you had until you had us. You didn't know it wasn't normal. You were a kid. And I'm glad—really glad—that you're getting to a point where you're ready to work it all out in your head. Hermione and I, we worried about you."

And Harry was coming to understand that now, to realise that his friends had always wanted what was best for him, and had known his struggles more intimately than even he had.

"Thanks," said Harry.

"Yeah, of course." Ron sighed and stood up straight. "I should probably get—"

But before he could finish his sentence, a silvery Patronus burst into the room. The swan was graceful and lovely, and when it spoke, Harry recognised the thick French accent at once.

"Harry, you must come to retrieve Hermione," came Fleur's voice. "She is not well."

The message ended with a burst of giggles, and Harry stared blankly at the spot where the swan had stood.

"Was she pissed?" asked Ron, looking amused now.

"I think so," said Harry, who was just as shocked as Ron. "I guess I need to go."

"Good luck, mate," laughed Ron, clapping Harry on the back and then apologising when Harry swore at the sudden pressure on bruised flesh.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

The Leaky Cauldron

15 October 1999

"Hermione?"

Merlin, how had she never realised how artistic gum could be? As she lay beneath the long wooden table, she traced the patterns of multi-coloured chewing gum that had accumulated on the underside of the thing over the years. What flavour had that what been, she wondered? Really, the table was a canvas, and the way it spun above her seemed to highlight the hard work a generation or more of gum-chewers had done there.

"Hermione, get out from under the table,"

"Ugh," she groaned. Looking away from the chewing gum masterpiece was enough to set her off again, and she felt another wave of nausea roiling in the pit of her stomach.

"Come on, you," said a firm voice.

She felt a pair of hands wrap themselves around her upper arms, hoisting her out from beneath the table and out onto the sticky plank floor of the Leaky Cauldron.

"Angelina, could you please stop swaying like that?"

The woman grinned, but from her angle, Hermione thought it looked more like a grimace. "You're pissed."

"I don't get pissed," Hermione protested.

"Plastered? Smashed? Wasted?"

"Uh-uh," said Hermione.

"Well—" Angelina put her hands on her hips. "Whatever you are, Fleur's just sent word to Harry to come collect you."

Hermione's gaze, which had before darted from one light on the room to another, focused abruptly on Angelina, who was staring down with one arched eyebrow and a smug expression.

"You're enjoying this," Hermione accused her.

"It's not often I get the chance to be the responsible friend." Angelina winked. "Come on now, sit here." She hoisted Hermione up, helping her to stabilise on her thin, strappy high heels for a moment before sitting her down on the nearest bench. "Now, you wait here for Harry while I go Floo George and—"

"Don't want to wait for him," Hermione grumbled, standing up shakily and then steadying herself on the table. Angelina leaned forward, taking Hermione by the shoulders and sitting her back down.

"Sit," she ordered, and then Angelina made her way across the room to where Fleur stood giggling, her voice unnaturally high. Was that Bill standing in front of the woman, wrapping an arm possessively around her waist and growling at the men who had gathered around the silvery blonde? Where had he come from?

At that point, Hermione lost track of Angelina, and not wanting to be left waiting at the bar forever, she stood. Merlin, when had her high heels become so wobbly? She leaned down and fumbled with the buckle for a moment before hooking a finger in the strap and pulling it down over her heel. She did the same to the other and held them in one and as she began to walk toward the open pub door.

Where had everyone gone?

The night air was cool against her skin as she walked, and Hermione realised that she had left her jacket in the pub. She turned to retrieve it and found herself facing a building she didn't recognize. Where was she? She had thought that the door through which she had left the Leaky Cauldron would lead her into Diagon Alley, but this looked like Muggle London. How was she supposed to Apparate with Muggle's milling about willie nillie? For that matter, how was she supposed to Apparate? Destination, desire, and development? Delinquency?

She turned, swishing her cloak around herself, and stumbled into a storefront. A middle-aged man passing her on the street looked askance and then quickly averted his eyes as he continued on his way.

She heard someone whistle and closed her eyes. She just needed a moment, and then she could try again.

"Hermione!"

Her eyes flew open.

"Harry?" She said his name beneath her breath, not completely sure it was him she had heard.

"Hermione!"

Definitely him. She groaned and pushed herself back up to stand on her own two feet. Where had he come from?

After determining the direction from which his voice had come, Hermione turned her back on it, making her way down the street. She realized as she walked that she had managed to lose her shoes somehow, but she refused to turn back and look for them. She didn't want to talk to Harry right now. In fact, she didn't even want to see him. She'd accepted Fleur and Angelina's invitation to a girl's night because she wanted a break from being thoroughly annoyed at the man. How dare he intrude on her evening?

"There you are," said someone behind her, and the person sounded relieved. "Hermione, slow down."

It was Harry. Hermione kept on walking.

Behind her, the Boy Who Was Annoying sighed and then followed her. Hermione made a frustrated sound and then whirled to face him. She held out a finger, because she couldn't recall where she'd left her wand, and poked him in the chest with it.

"Leave me be," she demanded and then walked past him in the general direction the Leaky Cauldron.

He followed, his work boots heavy on the pavement behind her with every step.

"You're a terrible sneaker," Hermione threw over her shoulder at him.

"I'm not trying to sneak." Did he look amused?

"Good. Because you're bad at it. You'd make a terrible Auror."

"Would I?"

"Definitely."

She kept on her way, stumbling over something in the middle of the walkway. She heard Harry chuckle and a warm arm wrap around her from behind, keeping her from landing flat on her face.

"These yours?" he asked, and he dangled a pair of familiar-looking strappy high heels in front of her. She snatched them away from him and sat down to put them on. Harry watched, his jaw dropping.

"Hermione, stand up," he said, "I can see your—"

Someone across the street whistled and Harry turned, his expression thunderous, to shout back.

"Fuck off, you arsehole!"

Hermione looked down and realized that her short skirt had ridden up her thighs and was bunched at her hips, exposing her underthings to the world.

She swore, stumbling up again and yanking down her hem.

She was only wearing one shoe now, but Hermione didn't fancy showing her knickers off again, so she continued her walk, Harry close behind and beginning to fume silently, which irritated her to no end. What right did he have to be upset? He was the one who had insulted her and then gone on to ignore the hurt completely. She had every right to be furious, and he should be begging for her forgiveness, not huffing behind her in consternation.

At last, Hermione reached the front of the Leaky Cauldron again. She made her way in, intent on reaching the Floo, but before she'd gone five feet Harry was standing in front of her again, a solid wall of muscle and messy black hair.

"Get out of my way," she demanded, keeping her eyes on his jaw.

"Hermione, please look at me."

"No."

He sighed.

"Look, I've brought you something." He held out a vial of neon yellow liquid that Hermione recognized.

"Is that sober-up?"

He nodded.

"No thanks," she said, perfectly aware that she was sounding belligerent now. "I worked hard for this buzz."

Harry snorted.

"Buzz? Hermione, you're completely plastered."

"So what if I am? Going to accuse me of something else? Not taking things seriously? Not being a fit guardian for my own bloody god-daughter?"

"What?" To his credit, Harry looked genuinely appalled at the suggestion.

"He bothering you, girl?" asked someone from behind her.

"Too right he is," she responded, and then pushed her way past him. She didn't hear what was said once they were out of her view, but soon Harry was back at her side, and this time he was pulling her by the arm, down a hall and into a storage room near the loo which he shut firmly behind himself. She didn't argue much on the way—she wasn't seriously concerned about what he might do—but once they were inside, she did complain about the smell.

Frowning, Harry told her "You'll get over it," and then drew out the sober-up potion once more.

"Take this. Please."

Hermione eyed the vial through half-lidded eyes and then, having determined that the amount of potion in the vial would not completely ruin her mood, nodded once. She drained the potion in one swallow and felt it take effect immediately. The room stopped spinning, and she could think in complete sentences again. The roiling in her stomach receded and the sensation of floating she had been enjoying dissipated, bringing her down to earth a little tipsy, but otherwise well.

She hated it.

"Happy?" She asked bitterly.

Harry was watching her, his jaw tense and teeth gritted.

"Feel better?"

"Worse," said Hermione.

"What were you thinking?"

Her eyes narrowed to slits.

"I don't believe that's any of your business," she answered mutinously.

"Like hell. You're my girlfriend! We live together! And I find you so pissed you can barely walk, wandering around Muggle London without shoes?"

"I needed to blow off steam," Hermione argued. "I was perfectly safe. Angelina and Fleur were—"

"Back at the pub! Fleur left with Bill already, and Angelina was frantic because she couldn't find where you'd gone!" Harry was looking properly upset now, and Hermione allowed herself to feel a little guilty before banishing the sentiment in favour of her own righteous anger.

"Why do you care?" Hermione spat, "It's not as if you think very highly of me, after all."

"Not as if I— what the hell are you talking about?" He looked confused but Hermione didn't care. The anger and the hurt she had been harbouring this past week was bubbling to the surface, and she didn't have any desire to stop it.

"You told me," she hissed, "That I didn't love Delphi as much as you do. You expect me to just forget that without an apology? She's a daughter to me, Harry, just as much as she is to you! I was there the moment she came into your life. I have just as much claim to her and love for her as you do, and I will not be treated as if I'm some threat to—"

Before she said more her voice was muffled as Harry pulled her close and covered her mouth with his, his hands clutching her and holding her against him as she first struggled and then became overwhelmed by his kiss. God, he tasted like heaven. It was unfair how good he smelled and felt and—

She punched him in the stomach and he doubled over, releasing her.

"Don't you kiss me like that," she shouted, "like you're trying to shut me up!"

"I wasn't trying to shut you up, you daft drunk," he said, rubbing his stomach where her fist had made contact. "I was happy!"

Happy? Happy that she'd told him off?

"You don't get to be happy when I'm so miserable! You owe me an apology, Harry Potter!"

"I thought I had apologized!" he said. "I told you I was wrong, that I was sorry for—"

"For reacting poorly about seeing a mind healer," Hermione replied. "But you never apologized for saying I didn't care about Delphi! Don't you see? That's what I've been upset about, not your stupid, obstinate refusal to do what's in your own best interest! That girl is my daughter, Harry! And you just acted as if she were some afterthought to—"

He kissed her again, and Hermione pushed him away.

"Stop kissing me!" she shouted. But Harry was grinning and seemed to be on the verge of happy laughter.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just— you called her your daughter."

She had. It felt so right she'd barely noticed how awkward it must have been for him. Considering they weren't properly—

"Marry me."

When she looked back at him again, it was to see him sinking down to one knee, a look of pure joy on his face that she had not been expecting.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm sorry for what I said. I was stupid, and thoughtless, and wrong. And I love you." He was grinning, and she wasn't sure whether the scene was real, or the product of a drunken hallucination.

"Ouch, fuck! What was that for?" Harry rubbed his jaw where she had landed a punch. Hermione's knuckles ached.

"Shit," she said, as the pain radiated throughout her hand and she shook it instinctively. "I'm sorry, Harry! I just— I wasn't sure this was real!"

"Christ," he muttered, rubbing his jaw and then looking up at her from beneath dark lashes. His eyes were a brilliant green, full of amusement and love and a bit of bruised ego… and she knew as they met hers that it really was Harry kneeling in front of her, that he loved her, and that she wanted to kiss him more than she wanted her next breath.

His next smile came slowly, like a sunrise, and as she watched it bloom, a matching expression grew on her own face.

"I don't want you to answer me now," Harry said at last, "because I'm not convinced you're not still smashed, but I want to marry you, Hermione. It doesn't have to be today, or tomorrow, or even this year, but—" He reached into his cloak pocket, withdrawing a small velvet box. "I've been carrying this bloody thing with me for almost a month now, and I'd love nothing better than to see it on your finger. I want to spend a lifetime with you, to hear Delphi call you mum and to be able to call you my wife and—"

She kissed him, bending down and wrapping her arms around his neck and drawing him up to stand with her. She devoured his lips and she licked and sucked and gloried in the taste of his mouth.

Things moved quickly after that kiss. Hands roamed and the knickers she had been so embarrassed by before dropped to the floor. Harry dropped to his knees and made her see stars, not cobwebs in the dingy inside of a storage closet. First with his fingers, talented and nimble, and then with his tongue, which was quickly becoming just as dextrous as his seeker's hands.

Before long, Harry was on his feet again, and his tongue was hot on the shell of her ear as his whispered words took her to new heights.

"You're precious, darling. You're going to come for me again, understand? No, don't just nod, I want to hear you."

"Harry please, I want to!"

"What do you want? Tell me."

"To come. Please, God, let me come."

She could feel his wicked grin against her neck as his fingers continued their slow, steady torment of her oversensitized folds.

"Surely that's not all you want, Hermione. With that prodigious mind of yours, I'm sure you can be more specific."

Bloody hell. He was going to make her think when all she wanted was to come apart at his touch again.

"Harder. Little circles on my—my—"

"You're what?" he breathed.

"My clit."

He obliged, using his thumb to stroke here there and then brushing two fingers over the slick core of her.

"What about here?" he asked, dipping just the tips of those fingers inside of her and then withdrawing them.

"Your fingers. Inside." She was panting now, and she felt him dip one finger inside of her again.

"How?"

She groaned in frustration.

"Deep. Full. Please!"

He added another finger and she felt him begin to use them in earnest, curling them upward and brushing against that spot inside of her that always made her scream. She bit her lip to keep in the sound but Harry chuckled against the corner of her mouth and then did something that made her cry out in abandon.

"Come," he demanded. "For me. Let me hear you."

And Merlin but she did. Every soul in the pub must have heard her. And when she was finally twirling back down to earth, she felt him slide into her, hot and heavy and impossibly hard between her thighs and then up into the part of her that was made to cradle him.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he growled. His words vibrated against her neck and she felt herself glowing with contentment and eagerness for yet another release. As he pressed against her, rocking and thrusting and sliding in and out, that familiar, delicious pressure began to build once again. She whimpered the closer it came and the higher she flew, and then sobbed aloud when she felt herself beginning to quiver and pulse around his shaft, felt her entire world condense and expand in one, disconcerting and supremely satisfying rush.

Her thighs were slick and wet with the evidence of their mingled pleasure when he withdrew, and her eyes were bleary with contentment.

"Holy hell," she said at last when she had managed to gather enough brain cells to string together more than a single word.

Harry chuckled into her hair and then began to nuzzle her cheek.

"You're perfect," he said. And then he paused, wrapping his arms around her anew and holding her so close she could feel his heart beating against her chest. "And I am so…so sorry for what I said. You have to know I don't think—"

"I know," she said, feeling a weight lifted from her, and the wonderful happiness that replaced it. "I know."