November 5. Bonfire Night.
Hermione remembered nights sitting by a fire with her parents, listening as they told her about their patients or regaled her with memories (their favourite to tell was when they met at dental school; they had been partners in a project of some kind). But she remembered that if she waited long enough, after her mother went in for the night and he had enough mulled wine in his system to make his imagination loose, he would tell her stories.
When she was younger, he would give her absurd, wild folklores for the reason behind Bonfire Night (it was a time to ward off evil spirits, it was a prelude to the winter months, that it was a sacrificial event, placed perfectly weeks before the winter solstice).
But as she grew older, and they realised that magic was real, he stopped telling her stories. She didn't know if it was because he didn't feel comfortable talking about magic and ghosts and spells to someone who's actually seen magic and ghosts and spells or if it was for some other reason she'd never find out. But he stopped telling her stories and started giving her advice instead.
~~~
He stared into the heart of the fire, where the flame shifted between burning blue and white.
They sat in silence, their mugs of spiced cider warm in their hands. Hermione had her eyes on the stars and planets above, marking their positions for future reference. Constantly, she reminded herself that their paths held no credibility to the living world below them.
The Moon was almost full, with only the barest sliver left in darkness. Uranus was angled far from the Sun, given its position. Saturn and Pluto had both seemed pretty full, though it could've been her eyes tricking her. She remembered spying Venus as the sun set, illuminated by the last of the dying light. Mars had been awfully full as well, which she noted with distaste.
She silently searched for the Scorpion, giving her father time to gather his thoughts and the courage to speak.
They breathed quietly together. Hermione could see the soft white puffs of air her father made in the light of the fire. She noticed the rise and fall of her father's chest. She looked at him and took the time to catalogue all the differences since she last saw him, much like how she expected he was doing.
His hair was greyer– much greyer. There were lines making their way into his face, into the corner of his eyes and his forehead and the sides of his mouth. It didn't look like his weight had changed (he had always had that sort of middle-type body. Always with enough cushion so that when she hugged him, he felt solid and soft, as opposed to the knobby lankiness of Harry). It seemed like he was battling a cold, based on the soft coughs that echoed from his lungs and the gentle way he raised his pocket kerchief to his nose and sniffed.
She tried to see herself through his eyes. She imagined she looked tired. Worried, maybe. There was too much going on back at school, with Harry's frequent nightmares and the knowledge of the Dark Lord being back. And there was too much air between her and her father, too many things unspoken throughout the years that she couldn't begin speaking then, in front of the fire, with the planets shining their ominous messages onto them.
Her father cleared his throat in a deliberate way, different than if he were simply doing it to get rid of blockage, signalling to her that he was about to begin talking. And not a breath later, he spoke. 'You know as well as I do, at this point, how your mum and I met.' His eyes shifted from the fire to her.
She nodded, looking him in the eyes. 'At dental school. You were working on a project together.'
He smiled a little at the memory and Hermione felt her heart melt for her father. 'Helen and I knew about each other, of course,' he said. 'We had a couple of mutual friends, and it's hard not to know about the smartest woman in the school.' He sighed. 'She was so determined. If there was something to know, she wanted to know it. She was going to school for dentistry but, if she wanted to, she could've been anything she wanted.' He chuckled and smiled at Hermione, his eyes soft. 'You take after her, you know.'
Hermione nodded. Her father said she took after her mother. Her mother said she took after her father. She didn't mind either way.
'She was brilliant. Beautiful. Lord knows why she chose me. I was so quiet, so awkward. And I had this stupid haircut and I wore suspenders and these dorky glasses.' He shook his head, the boyish smile still on his face. 'But she chose me nonetheless. She said she fell in love with my quietness and my ramblings when I got nervous. She said she fell in love with my smile and the way I would laugh at her jokes. I fell in love with her for the way she would take my hand and hold it while we were walking or sitting or studying together. I was prone to panic attacks, back then. I worried so much over tests and grades and the future. But almost every time your mum was there. Holding my hand, talking me gently out of it.
'I know you're not a child anymore, Hermione. And I know you've matured. From a clever girl to a strong, brave woman. And I want you to know that you deserve the best.'
Hermione rolled her eyes. 'Dad,' she whinged.
He shook his head. 'No, no. I mean it. You deserve a good man who'll treat you right. Who'll listen to you talk about your books and let you cry on his shoulder. You need a man who'll stand with you when everybody's against you. You're a good woman, Hermione. And I know that whoever you choose, you'll treat them like they're your entire world. But you need someone who'll treat you the same.'
She sighed, her face warm. 'What brought this on?' she muttered into her hands.
He smiled wryly. 'A father can never be too careful with his little girl. Especially when she's going to a school halfway across the country.'
Hermione groaned, dragging a hand down her face. 'Dad! Nobody at school even sees me like that,' she added.
He shrugged. 'Perhaps you've just never noticed. You did mention last year that that boy— what was his name? Viktor?'
She jerked up, eyes wide. 'He was just a friend! He just didn't want to bring some groupie with him to the Ball.'
He shrugged again. 'Whatever you say, dear. But you're a beautiful young woman, and smart, and talented…'
She wrinkled her nose. 'There are better girls than me at school.'
He smiled at her, swirling his drink. 'Some people may think differently. I'm just saying, Hermione: don't settle. You deserve better.'
She pressed her lips together and dumped the rest of her cider down her throat. 'All right. I won't.'
Ben Granger nodded, satisfied with her answer. He leaned back in his chair and finished off his wine.
~~~
It's been three weeks since the spare bedroom became Harry's Room. Three weeks since Hermione started her job at the shop. Harry was left alone in Hermione's house from six in the morning to one in the afternoon. For the most part, he slept through that time. Until Hermione came home, he filled the hours with cleaning her house (he had picked up on more of her habits and began to understand what he should and shouldn't touch) and reading her books. Crookshanks kept him company, staring at him when he thought he wasn't watching.
There was a telly, which Harry used liberally. The background noise of mid-day soaps filled the house, and when he tired of them he turned the radio on, letting the local station fill the air.
But the best time was when Hermione got home. He'd hear her keys in the door, a soft jingle and the click as the lock turned. And he'd run to her like a dog, a small smile growing on his face as he tried to contain his relief that she made it through another day. That she was home. That she was safe.
She'd always smile back and kick her shoes off, dropping her bag on the floor as she wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly.
He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and squeezed back, breathing in her smell of dusty books and vanilla.
They'd spend the rest of the day in content silence. The radio filled the house. At one point Harry would seek Hermione out and ask if she was feeling hungry. Based on her answer, he'd either go start dinner or wait another hour.
They'd eat.
Talk a little.
Let the radio play.
They moved around each other. Slowly recognising the other's small habits. Slowly moulding themselves around the other until they were a pair of gears, teeth perfectly aligned, working in tandem.
Hermione hadn't expected to do anything for Bonfire Night. She hadn't even known what day it was until somebody had mentioned it at the shop. Going home that day, she didn't want to do anything to disrupt the rhythm she and Harry had subconsciously created in their lives.
Harry brought it up at dinner.
'It's Bonfire Night,' he told her, cutting into his pork. He had recognised the day, based on dinner. Pork loin marinated in mulled wine, roasted brussel sprouts, and steamed baby potatoes. Served with glasses of mulled wine. Hermione wondered where he had gotten the wine from first, then if he realised how much the drink meant to her, especially on November 5.
'So it is,' Hermione agreed, popping some potato into her mouth.
'The neighbours came by again,' he said.
She looked up at him. 'Oh?'
'They invited us to their bonfire.'
'Did you want to go?'
Hermione watched as he moved his food around his plate, stalling. She let him, using the time to read his body. His shoulders were tense underneath his shirt. The table shook from his leg bouncing insistently beneath it. He was trying to keep his expression neutral but there was a tenseness in his jaw, a flicker in his eyes that betrayed his anxiety. His hair was messy– messier than normal– which meant he had been running his hands through it.
From all telltale signs, he didn't want to go.
So what was stopping him?
He cleared his throat and looked up. His eyes darted around before settling somewhere on her face. 'If you want to go,' he started.
Ah.
'The ladies said it started at seven. I'd just need to clean up and shower and change my clothes but really, it's up to you whether or not we go. I mean, I'd be fine if we just stayed home, you know. Watched a film or whatever. But if you want to go, I'd still be fine with it. The ladies said that there wouldn't be a lot of people though I'm not sure what their definition of 'a lot' is. But really, it's up to you.'
Hermione smiled and reached across the table to take his hands. His eyes snapped up to meet her gaze, softening when they noticed her smile. She squeezed his fingers and told him, 'I'm fine with staying home, Harry. I'm sure they understand us staying back and doing our own traditions.'
He smiled, visibly relaxing. 'Okay. Brilliant. Thanks.'
She nodded, letting go of one of his hands to pick up her fork again. He began to pull back with the other but she tightened her fingers around his for a second. She wanted to hold his hand right now, for a reason she couldn't understand. Before her mind could dive into whatever it was, she locked the thought away, keeping it for another day. So she had only tightened her hold for a second, giving him the option to stay or to go. And though she would've preferred he stayed, she would've let him go.
But he squeezed her fingers back and kept his hand in hers. Her hand in his. Shifting so it was easier to keep.
And they ate.
Talked a little.
Let the radio play.
~~~
Hermione sat on the sofa, a book against her knees. The telly was on silent, some drama from the BBC channel. The classic rock music station played to fill the silence. Elton John, she reckoned.
The shower shut off from down the corridor, faintly, the shower drape skidded along the rail. A page and half of a song later the pipes stopped whistling.
The Moon is associated with a person's intuition, emotional make-up, and unconscious habits, rhythms, memories, reactions, and moods. It is associated with femininity, maternal instincts, the urge to nurture, the home, the need for security, and the past. Though these meanings may vary or invert depending on the phase of the Moon. When waxing…
Harry padded into the room, yawning. Hermione lifted her arm, opening the blanket in invitation. He sat, taking his half with a small 'mmm' in thanks. She leaned into him, letting her head fall against his shoulder. His t-shirt was soft against her cheek, warm from his body heat. He smelled clean, like soap and their detergent and she could feel his heart beat through the cotton, steady.
She probably wouldn't ever tell him but sitting with him was her favourite part of her day. When her mind would slow and she could just relax. It was quiet in her house, sure. Peaceful, of course. But it wasn't until Harry came that she had been able to actually relax. Perhaps not in a constant state but it was the moments that mattered.
His hand found hers and he took it, simply holding it. Her breathing evened out and she watched as the actors moved in hazy blurs across the telly. His thumb moved in lazy circles against the back of her hand. Slowly, her eyes fell closed.
~~~
Harry was in trouble.
She woke, her heart in her throat, her wand in her hand. There were explosions, screams, flashes of spells.
It was Voldemort, back and on the hunt.
She threw the blanket off her shoulders, jumping to her feet. 'Homenum Revelio,' she whispered, turning her wand.
There were two people in the house.
Herself.
And Harry.
She turned to her side, her wand pointed at his throat. He was stiff on the sofa, his own wand in hand. She should've blown him to pieces. A single Bombarda and whoever he was would be in pieces up the walls. But something stopped her. An alarm bell that warned against such an action.
'What did I say to you the day you graduated from the Auror Academy?'
He blinked and licked his lips. 'Give me a moment,' he muttered, holding up a hand. 'There's a lot going on and that was ages ago.'
She pressed her wand deeper into his throat. She should've been scared. She should've blown up or at least Stunned whoever this was. She was gonna die because her gut told her not to harm this person who looked like Harry but she couldn't know that it was Harry and if he would just answer the damn question.
'You said you were proud of me,' he said. 'And that you were going to miss me. That you loved me and knew that I was going to do great things. And to never give up.'
It was enough. She could've dropped her wand. But there was more. Anyone could've guessed that she had said that.
'You said not to look for you.' He flinched as red light lit up the world outside the house, as explosions thundered outside, but he never looked away. 'I didn't know what you meant then. I do now. And I'm sorry but we– I never stopped.'
She dropped her arm and pulled him against her. He shook against her as fireworks went off outside. Because that's all it was. Fireworks.
They weren't back in the War.
Voldemort was gone.
He was safe.
She was safe.
It was Bonfire Night.
November 5.