A/n: This is a Secret Santa Story written for my beloved Miranda, who loves herself some good ol' Harmony. It's my first time writing Harmony, but I do love Harry and Hermione's friendship to death, so it was fun regardless.
Also written for Quidditch Supplies for restriction prompts: [10G] Don't mention Hogwarts, Don't mention the war, No purebloods.
Also written for Reserve League Season 1, Round 13: Freestyle.
Chemistry
Hermione flicked her wand to pause the quill mid-scrawl when she heard the whoosh of the Floo. Strange, she thought, looking over her shoulder at the open doorway leading into the hall. He isn't meant to be back until tomorrow.
She listened for the familiar sounds of woollens being put away and the floorboards creaking, but none came. Swallowing, she eyed the quill beside her as it hovered expectantly over the length of parchment, waiting for her to resume her dictation.
It's happened, the voice in her head said with a sense of finality. Maybe not, she replied, but she couldn't shake off the sense of trepidation. She watched the quill for a long moment, debating what to do. Pretend not to be home and give him some space? Go find him?
Before she could decide, muffled footsteps sounded from the next room. Lethargic and heavy, as though the person was carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders, they trudged towards Hermione's study. When she finally looked over her shoulder again, her best friend stood in the open doorway, looking worse for wear, subdued and downtrodden.
"Oh, Harry," she said gently and stretched out her arms.
Harry plodded over to her, gaze fixed on the floor, and fell into her embrace with a withering sigh. She dug her heels into the carpet and braced herself, supporting his weight as he folded over like a ragdoll in her arms.
"It's done," he murmured into the crook of her neck, and tears pricked her eyes.
"Oh, my love," she whispered, tightening her arms around him, holding him close. After a moment, he returned the hug, squeezing her tight.
They stood that way for a long time, Hermione swallowing down her own sadness so she could shoulder Harry's. The quiet was only broken by the incessant ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway and Harry's defeated sighs.
Finally, he loosened his grasp and moved back, letting her look up at his face. Tears welled up instantly at the sight of his gaunt cheeks and the bags under his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept or eaten well for days, and a sickly pallor clung to his features.
"I'm tired, 'Mione," he said at last, his voice cracking. He met her gaze, and his eyes looked haunted and forlorn.
"Let me run you a hot bath," she said softly, ushering him towards the door. He went without complaint, letting her lead him through the short corridors of their flat and into the smallish bathroom. As he undressed, she turned away and filled up the bathtub, casting a few spells to quicken the process, adding some essential oils here, some soothing bath salts there.
Harry came to stand beside her, a bath towel hanging low on his hips, and Hermione grimaced at the scars and bruises covering his skin from years of Quidditch and Auror work. She didn't get to see them often, and she was thankful for it because it only served as a reminder of how much he'd been through.
"I'll be in the kitchen," she said, picking his clothes from the floor and tossing them in the hamper. "Call me if you need anything."
"I'll be fine," he mumbled, letting the towel fall to the floor and sliding into the bath, uncaring of whether or not she was still there.
She watched him rest his head back and close his eyes with a sigh, the steam from the bath fogging up his glasses. After a moment, she shut the door softly and headed to the kitchen.
It had been thirty minutes. Hermione was wondering if she should go check on Harry when he appeared in the doorway. He was wearing his comfiest pair of pyjamas and slippers, the ones she'd gifted him last Christmas, and he'd even towel dried his hair. She smiled despite herself.
"I've made you some tea," she said as he perched on the barstool by the kitchen counter, "and some soup."
"Thanks," he said, reaching for a spoon.
She watched him eat for several minutes, a small smile on her face, glad to see that he was taking care of himself this time, unlike all of the previous ones.
He picked up the bowl and drank the soup, setting it down with a sigh of content. The colour was slowly returning to his cheeks, but the sadness still clung to his sagging shoulders. Harry nodded and looked up at Hermione, offering her a small, grateful smile.
"That's exactly what I needed."
"Glad to hear it," she said, leaning forward slightly, waiting.
He looked down at his bowl, as though expecting it to present him with lines to read from, then spoke in a slow, measured way.
"She wanted us to be friends, but I told her I couldn't do it. I told her we'd broken up too many times using the same premise, only to get back together and go through it all over again. I told her it gave us both false hope, and we deserved better."
His voice caught at the end, and Hermione reached out to take his hand in hers. "You did the right thing, Harry."
"Did I?" he asked, his voice strangled. When he looked up at her, his expression was so helpless that it broke her heart. She squeezed his hand.
"You did."
"But what if it's not right for her? What if—"
"You did what's right for you, and that's all you could've done."
He groaned, pressing his hands to his face. "I knew this would be the end when we decided to get back together, you know? We even said it would be the last time." He shook his head. "So why does it feel like I've made a terrible mistake?"
Hermione thought about what to say for a moment. This wasn't the first time Harry had been honest to her about how he felt, but this was definitely the first time he'd done so with no prompting from her end.
Before she could respond, he asked, "Was this what it felt like when you and Ron broke up?"
She grimaced, then quickly schooled her expression, but Harry had already noticed her reaction. He said quickly, "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to bring it up."
Hermione waved a hand. It wasn't as if she hadn't expected the question—it was just that he'd caught her off guard with it.
"It was different with Ron and me," she started, then shook her head. "Actually, it doesn't matter—for whatever reasons it ended, we decided it was what was best for us, and although it didn't seem so back then, it definitely does now."
Harry nodded slowly. "I think you guys were right in sticking with the first breakup. Maybe if Ginny and I hadn't gone back and forth so many times, we wouldn't have ripped each other apart until neither of us could handle the sight of the other."
"But at least you guys tried," Hermione said. "Sometimes I wonder if Ron and I gave up too quickly—if we didn't put up enough of a fight."
Harry laughed. "How idiotic is this? What's the point second-guessing the past when it's already passed?"
Hermione scoffed. "Can't argue with that."
Harry took a long swig of his tea and hummed in thought. "You know," he began pensively, and Hermione could guess what he was about to say even before he said, "I wonder if it would've worked out better if you and I had ended up together."
Hermione sipped at her own tea, smiling into her mug. It was a conversation they had had before—mostly in jest, but she knew he had given it serious thought once or twice, as had she.
"It's not too late," she joked, setting her mug down.
He shook his head, reaching out to idly play with the lace trimming on the edge of her sleeve. "I wouldn't have the balls to do it," he murmured. "I'd be too afraid to destroy the one important relationship I've got left."
She wasn't sure what it was—the sad puppy look on his face, or her inability to take a challenge lying down—but she felt oddly compelled to prove him wrong.
"I don't think we'd ruin anything," she said, the confidence in her voice sounding foolhardy even to her. When Harry scoffed, she turned her wrist so he'd be forced to stop playing with her sleeve and take her hand in his. He looked up at her, weary. "Think about it."
He was already shaking his head. "Hermione…"
"No, really. I mean, we've been living together for all these years and have only ever had minor arguments—" she held up a hand when he started to refute that claim and kept going, "—and we're always supportive of each other's schedules and working habits."
"Which probably isn't the best thing, considering what workaholics we both are," Harry interjected.
She ignored him. "We've always taken care of each other, and you're my best friend for life—what could go wrong?"
Harry raised his eyebrows, a wry smile on his face. "You're forgetting one very important thing."
"What's that?"
He puckered his lips and made exaggerated kissing sounds. "Chemistry," he said.
Hermione rolled her eyes, then swatted at him when he kept at it. "Stop that!"
"Chemistry's important, you know," he said, the usual, light-hearted tone returning to his voice. "Can absolutely make or break any relationship."
Hermione scoffed. "You'd give up the chance of an incredible relationship because there may not be enough chemistry?"
"Why do you think I put up with Ginny's antics for this long?" he said, raising his mug in toast. She pulled a face, making him laugh. "In all seriousness, though," Harry said, "I love you too much to jeapordise what we have."
Hermione nodded, running a finger along the rim of her mug. "But what if we do have great chemistry? We won't know until we try."
She didn't even know why she was still pursuing this train of thought—but somehow she just felt compelled to.
Harry exclaimed in exasperation. "I regret bringing this up," he said, shaking his head.
Hermione laughed at that. Once she'd quieted down, she noticed that their moods had lightened considerably—even Harry's smile was genuine.
"Hey," she said, leaning forward.
Harry groaned. "Now what…"
Hermione grinned. "Wanna go up to the roof?"
They perched on a blanket atop the ledge, surrounded by a bubble of warmth that warded away the November cold and wind. There were no stars to see from the rooftop in the middle of London, and the incessant sounds of traffic never truly stopped, but it was strangely calming nevertheless.
Hermione had first moved into the two-bedroom flat two years prior, and Harry had showed up at her doorstep a few weeks later, after a particularly nasty breakup with Ginny. He'd ended up staying for so long that Hermione had grown accustomed to his company and suggested he just move in.
They'd discovered the rooftop getaway a few months later.
Harry had found it first, after a mean row between them, and it had soothed him so much that he'd come straight down and dragged a kicking and screeching Hermione up to show her. It had shut her right up.
The complex their flat was in was one of the tallest buildings in London. If you squeezed around the back of the large water tower, a ledge jutted out at just the right angle so it captured all of its brightly lit, sparkling glory. Sitting there, it felt like you were floating above the city, watching over it like a guardian deity.
It was a magnificent secret to have. It was their magnificent secret.
Harry passed her the flask to her with a contented sigh. She took it, taking a long swig and reveling in the burning trail the whiskey left down her throat. Harry stretched and groaned, cracking his neck as he dangled his feet over the side.
"That's dangerous," Hermione murmured, placing the whiskey on the rough cement.
"You're dangerous," Harry retorted childishly, reaching down to take the flask.
She didn't let go, and his fingers wrapped around hers, warm and surprisingly soft. Startled, she glanced at him, and their eyes met.
The city's lights flickered in his glasses, and his eyes were clear glass orbs behind them, sparkling even brighter than the lights they reflected. She was so lost in them that by the time she realised she had leaned in, he'd closed the distance between them and captured her lips with his own.
The kiss was soft and tender—a quick peck more than anything else—and when they pulled away, they broke into awkward laughter. Hermione wrapped her arms about her and shuddered, but she wasn't cold. Her heart was racing and her lips tingled. Her cheeks were flushed and she felt giddy.
It's the alcohol, she told herself.
She placed her hand beside her, palm upturned, telling herself she was waiting for Harry to pass her the flask but wondering if she was anticipating something more. Her heart fluttered when the cool metal of the flask was pressed into her palm. She took a quick swig without paying much attention to what she was doing and replaced it on the ledge.
Harry's hand closed over hers once again, and her heart nearly burst out of her chest.
The flask disappeared from her fingertips, leaving behind a sense of disappointment, but the emptiness didn't last very long. Harry placed the flask down several inches from her hand, but as she reached out for it, he took her hand in his and intertwined their fingers together.
He squeezed her hand, and Hermione felt a rush of emotion. Whatever said and done, kiss or not, he was her best friend, and she was grateful to be there with him.
Although she was the one who had pushed a relationship so strongly earlier, she seemed to be the one too afraid to see the expression he wore just then. Instead, she squeezed his hand back, and allowed herself to appreciate the warmth surrounding her without dwelling too much on it.
They sat in silence for a long time, simply listening to the sounds of the city below them, and Hermione couldn't help but think that if nothing else, Harry would no longer be able to use lack of chemistry as an excuse anymore.