Chapter Two -- A Tall Drink Of Pumpkin Juice
--
At seven fifty-five, Harry was scrambling around his room quietly extracting things from their hiding places between the mattress and box springs, under the floorboard, in his pillowcase, behind the rickety dresser and anywhere else he'd stuck something he decided his dear aunt and uncle shouldn't know about. During the night he'd retrieved his broom from under the cupboard, careful to skip the stairs that would creak beneath his feet.
He tucked his wand into his belt carefully and folded his arms over his chest, inspecting the room. He'd gathered everything he owned and placed it in the center of the room. Harry realized his possessions had certainly increased in number – not to the amount that many people had, of course, for he only bought what he could manage to carry. The Dursleys weren't too keen on letting him buy things for himself and he was amazed he had this much. It was almost too much to manage. If it weren't for the Port Key, he certainly wouldn't be able to juggle all his items without aid of magic.
He located the final item – the tome on the floor next to the bed stand, along with the slip of parchment Ron had sent – We'll all be expecting you – and he shook his head, hoping it was true. He wasn't sure he was prepared for the wrath of Ginny Weasley in the morning on holiday – she wasn't a morning person, and her brothers had the scars to prove it.
Three minutes until eight o'clock. Harry sat on the edge of his bed and the springs squealed softly under him. He'd never have to sleep on that bed again, or hide things under the floorboard, or have to do all his homework by the mere light of one candle. So much was changing it made his head want to spin. His birthday was in three days – his seventeenth. He'd be an adult wizard by law, no longer restricted from using magic wherever he wanted to. He was going into his last year at Hogwarts, seventh year; in a year's time he'd be out in the real world.
He'd changed physically, as well, and mostly over the summer. He was still quite lean – he'd always be fairly lanky, he guessed – but he had gained a bit more muscle and was a great deal taller, reaching a good bit over six feet. He now beat his uncle's height and matched Ron's. His face looked less boyish, and not quite as gaunt as it had in years passed. But his eyes were the same startling green and his black hair, now slightly more shaggy, still constantly looked unkempt. It just looked more … intended, now.
He glanced at his enchanted digital wristwatch, which had begun steadily blinking a warning that Harry only had thirty more seconds before the port key was activated. He leapt from the bed and stepped the short distance to the center of the room. Harry carefully balanced the book on the only corner of his trunk that didn't have things piled on top and placed his hand over it firmly, preparing himself for the unpleasant pull he'd soon feel at his navel.
The young man glanced up at the mirror.
Yes, things certainly had changed.
It had been a while since Harry had been injured physically – Quidditch accidents included, it had been almost a year. Harry had never, though, been hit by Vernon. His beefy uncle always seemed more afraid of the boy, much to Harry's satisfaction, and until the previous night the thought had honestly never crossed his mind that dear uncle would lay a finger on him.
Guess I was wrong in that assumption, he mused bitterly.
Harry scrubbed his jawbone with his fingers in the spot that a bruise had occupied minutes prior and silently thanked Hermione for giving him that healing cream during fifth year. It was stiff and pale, translucent green, and carried an aroma vaguely similar to that of honey and lemon. Not at all unpleasant though, compared to tonics he'd had before, and it worked very well – the gash drawn across his cheek had disappeared along with the swelling in mere seconds, his skin mending itself. All signs that Harry had been at the raw end of a deal that was already very bad in the first place had dissipated and left him with no more than slight stubble.
He forced himself to look down from the mirror and noticed the tip of what looked to be a sugar quill just below the dresser. It wasn't of much importance however, as just when it was discovered, the very person who had discovered it vanished with a small whir of wind.
--
The light slowly poured into the room, tugging Hermione's eyelids open. A barrage of yellow clouded her vision for a moment – the sun reflected off the mirror and directly onto her face. She winced, rolling over and buried her head in the pillow, not quite ready for a new day to begin. She'd had a most interesting dream about a bowl of petunias and -- and –
No, the dream was forgotten. The sun was intent on willing her to rise. Feeling the pull she'd familiarized herself with by six prior years of weekday mornings at school, she rolled back over and hesitated, groaning, before pushing herself up and to her feet wearily.
She had to stop staying up till Merlin-knows-when with Ginny.
Stretching, she stepped the short distance to the vanity (the mirror snorted, adding an "I hope you don't plan on leaving the room like that …") and rubbed her eyes with the pads of her palms, letting them re-adjust to the light.
There was nothing quite like a morning at the burrow. Every other time of day it seemed full-to-burst with some kind of activity, but mornings left the house almost unusually silent. Much to the dismay of Mr. And Mrs. Weasley, their elder children had flown the coup in search of an independent life – Ron and Ginny were the only children that remained, and they only lived at home during summer holiday. Arthur had been leaving for work far before the sun rose every morning, and Molly had been attending Witch Empowerment sessions at Mildred Scalthe's house across the village. Every morning was filled with a thick silence that left them feeling quite deaf; Hermione found herself enjoying it immensely.
She smoothed her wayward hair with one hand and glanced back at Ginny who slept on her side facing the wall with her forearm partially covering her face. The girl slept like a rock, so it wouldn't have made a bit of difference had the house been in its normal state. She still tip-toed to the opposite wall to grab her dress robes before slinking to the door and slipping out, her cat Crookshanks underfoot.
Hermione's hand on the new hall clock was pushing towards breakfast soon; she walked down the stairs, taking each step slowly to avoid any slumberous stumbles, and, running her hand down the length of the railing as she walked, reached the bottom.
Hermione stood in the living room for several moments with half-lidded eyes, weighing her options. Breakfast was almost ready, and she wanted to get a shower before anyone else – she didn't feel like performing hot-water charms so early in the day – but the worn couch in the corner looked so very inviting…
She'd dragged herself half way to the sofa when he heard the door squeal behind her, and she saw a head of mussed red hair pop out from the kitchen.
"Oy, you're up now. I cooked breakfast, if you want any."
Though she was famished, she knew that she'd be forced to eat his food even if she wasn't – which wasn't a bad thing, really. Ron was an excellent cook; two years of summer lessons from his mother had proven to do some good to the second youngest Weasley and from what she'd tasted since her arrival at the burrow, his skill had only improved. As it was, she hadn't eaten very much at dinner the previous night and the thought of any kind food left her salivating; the appeal of *his* food was enough to persuade her to the kitchen. She groaned, gave a last longing look towards the furniture and padded towards the door as his head disappeared into the adjacent room.
She slid into a seat heavily and eyed the assortment of foods on the table – her boyfriend had obviously gotten up early. There was hardly any place to set a plate as the table was loaded with all the different types of breakfast foods imaginable, many of which she'd never encountered before. She lifted her eyes to look at Ron – he met her gaze expectantly, bracing his hands on the edge of the table and leaning his entire body weight forward in a very bartender-esqe fashion.
"What'll you have?"
"Hmm …" she tapped her finger against her cheek, flashing her teeth when she yawned. "A piece of toast … some of those fish tarts … oh! Are those Chipolatas? One, please ... a cauldron cake … er …that's all for the moment."
"You'd better be having seconds," Ron chided. "I've been up since six."
"No one made you get up that early."
"But don't you want to get those brain cells moving?"
"At eight o'clock on a holiday?"
"This, coming from a girl who studies ahead for fun."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "We're coming up on beginning of term, you know, and it wouldn't--"
"Hurt me to study – I know, I know." Ron wiped his hands on his pants.
"I'm not saying you have to memorize your lessons, Ron. It wouldn't hurt to look over them, though. Get a head start, you know?"
Ron shook his head, and Hermione decided it best not to push him – criticizing his study habits at eight in the morning wouldn't do any good. It was a lesson she'd learned years back, but it was amusing to bring up the subject every once and a while.
She took a bite of chipolata and sighed slightly; the boy really could cook, she mused. "Don't worry, I have a feeling there won't be a problem getting rid of all this." She wiped her mouth with a napkin, laid it back in her lap carefully, and reached for her pumpkin juice.
"Oh!" Ron smacked himself in the side of the head, checking his wristwatch. "Blimey, it's nearly eight…"
"And?"
"And Harry'll be here any minute--"
"What?" Hermione released the grip on her glass and it toppled; pale, pulpy orange liquid soiled the floor and wall. She gaped at Ron.
He blinked. "Oh, Merlin, I forgot to tell you! Hedwig came this morning. Harry's coming today. Should be here any time now…"
She stood up, chair tipping backwards and meeting the floor with a dull thud. "What? How? Why didn't you tell me? Did Dumbledore approve this? Why, look at my hair, and I haven't taken a shower or anything…" she turned and sprinted into the downstairs WC, smoothing her hair down, gargling water, straightening her pajamas. "Where're my slippers? I can't believe you didn't tell me! And I haven't wrapped his birthday present, and Ginny's still working on her gift. The den is a mess – won't you pick up your chess set? -- I'm covered in pumpkin juice! – You didn't tell Ginny? What time is it?"
From his perch at the counter, Ron watched the flailing arms and wide eyes with a fair amount of amusement.
"Come on, Hermione. It's only Harry."
"Oh, I know, but I'm a mess. I haven't seen him in over a month, and …"
"Ah, I'm sure he'll be happy just to see you. He's been staying with the Dursleys. Sit down before I go mad!"
Hermione paused, hands poised on her hair, and calculated the half-amused, half-annoyed expression plastered on Ron's face. She sighed, completed her ponytail, and placed her hands on her hips.
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"You *did* ask Dumble--"
"Yeah, yeah. Wrote him at the beginning of the summer. He said the wards still work and all, and Harry will be fine. Dad and I were planning for it to be a surprise, but he was at the ministry until late last night, 'course. I meant to tell you all. Now," he wiped his hands on his pants unnecessarily, "You need your wand?"
She managed a stunned "Yes, thank you" and he cast a summoning spell -- it floated down the narrow staircase, through the living room and into her expectant hands. "Thanks…" She mumbled a few hasty spells to smooth out her hair and transfigured her sticky, orange stained pajamas into a knee- length denim skirt and white v-neck shirt. She walked into the bathroom again – this time with a much more leisurely stride – gave a satisfied nod, and strode into the kitchen again. "Better," she grinned.
Ron pushed himself from the counter and opened his mouth to say something – but his words never escaped him and were immediately forgotten and a small whir, promptly followed by a resounding thump, and an "Ouf!" emanated from the living room.
--
Harry's eyes snapped open in time to see a blur of warm colors before he toppled forward, instinctively thrusting his palms in front of him – he barely prevented his face slamming into the hardwood floor, glasses flying off his head and clattering across the floor.
"Ouf!" he winced, took a deep breath.
His senses were quickly overwhelmed by the burrow – the scent of Molly Weasley's perfume and breakfast foods, sun filtering through the window with a morning breeze and the sound of footsteps, tow sets; one heavy and clumsy, one light and even.
"Oy, Harry!" he felt a pair of strong hands heave him up by the shoulders; a tall, limber blur, pale, with a mop of bright orange hair. He shook his head and smiled.
"Ron – Hermione," he nodded to a fuzzy figure who was crouched on the floor, muttering a spell under her breath. She placed the repaired glasses in his hand.
He slipped on his glasses as the petite brunette stood up so quickly she almost toppled over, gave a jovial "Harry!" and fiercely wrapped her arms around his midriff. He jolted, rather taken aback by the sign of affection even after only a month with the Dursleys, and hesitated before slipping one arm around her.
Ron rolled his eyes, giving Harry a comical look.
"My…" Harry looked down at Hermione, who pulled back, placing her hands on her hips again, and she pursed her lips. "My, my. Goodness, Harry, How tall're you now?"
He shrugged, pushed his glasses up with his index finger. "I've sprouted a bit, I s'pose."
"Sprouted? You barely look like Harry anymore! What, with the height, the muscles …"
"'Scuse me?" Ron mocked indignation and slung an arm around her shoulder. Harry laughed.
Being back at the burrow was quite literally a homecoming for him, rather like returning to Hogwarts every year. He gazed around the room fondly. The walls were painted a florid orange pink (as they had been since Harry could remember) and photographs were placed at intervals, displaying nine heads of fiery hair and nine faces smiling warmly at him. As his eyes fell upon the last picture which was hanging low in a corner just above Mrs. Weasley's hunter green over-stuffed sitting chair, his stomach fluttered. In the frame the youngest redhead lounged on the low-hanging limb of a birch, her back resting in the divot where it diverged from the trunk. Her limber legs straddled the thick branch and swung limply, and her toes wiggled gently in the wind -- it was one of the only times he had seen her sans socks. She seemed to be thoroughly engrossed in a book, though Harry was sure he caught her peering over the top of the hardbound tome with smiling eyes. Subsequently, he was almost positive her body was shaking with mirth, which didn't surprise him a bit. The picture looked as if it was made very recently, and on a rather warm and muggy day. She was wearing a sleeveless top -- he could've sworn it was one of Ron's beaters, probably from third year. He decided he liked it on Ginny much better, as it was already rather form-fitting and the heat caused it to cling --
"Hungry?"
Harry shook himself from the stupor that had suffocated his stream of consciousness and tilted his head. "Hmm?"
"Are you hungry? Ron's gone crazy cooking, again and you've probably not had breakfast yet. He made Chipolatas …"
"Oh? That sounds good. Is Hedwig here?"
Ron nodded his head slightly. "Just early this morning. She's dead tired, mate."
"Ah, I've worn her down," Harry grinned. "I'll run up to see 'er before I get settled, if you don't mind."
Ron waved his hand absently, muttering "Go on, then – and bang on Gin's door a few times on your way, eh? Honestly, I cooked this nice big breakfast!"
Harry started slightly and made a face that Ron couldn't quite read; but, as quick as the Weasley boy had seen it, it had been replaced by his friend's trademark half smile.
"Right. Be back down in a moment, then --" and he turned and took the steps slightly faster than normal and two at a time, passing the door to Ginny's room completely.
--
Ginny inhaled sharply and opened her eyes with a start, clutching her pillow and pressing the palm of her other hand hard against the wall. Her vision was bombarded with brilliant hues of red and orange that faded quickly into a gray; her hands abandoned the wall and pillow for her face and she rubbed her eyes furiously. The first thought that fully registered was that her head throbbed sharply at the temples. She rolled away from the wall and onto her back heavily.
"Dream." She exhaled. She'd had a dream. A dream about … something.
Ginny frowned at herself, kicking a leg out from the confines of the covers and pushing over a book that had teetered on the edge of the small bed for two days. It fell with a short, mournful thump. She registered the sound in a part of her mind that would probably stay dormant for at least another fifteen minutes and willed her eyes to stay open long enough to adjust to morning.
"Dream …" She couldn't help a shudder and it rocked her body, forcing her to press harder on her temple in a vain attempt to lessen the pain. Across the room a thin outline of treetops quivered in the wind. She blinked. Trees, woods. Dream. What was that dream about?
The temporarily dormant sector of her mind also controlled coherent thought.
She yawned, pushed herself to her feet clumsily and stumbled forward, ignoring the mirror as it spat a nasty remark. Running a hand through her thick, wayward hair, she swung open the door and padded out into the hall. Eight paces right, she pulled with all her weight at the door until the dormant sector got impatient and reminded her to push the door open, which she did with a fair amount of ease. She looked at the medicine cabinet mirror, her deadpanned expression staring back. The muscles in her forehead contracted with confusion.
"Dream," she muttered. "There was a dream …" And she swung open the medicine cabinet and rifled through different bottles and packages, finally clutching a small, triangular vial containing a thick, cobalt blue liquid: MacMillian's Practically-All-Ailment Tonic, Single Dose. She pulled out the stopper and drained the liquid, grimacing as the thick, salty fluid slid down her throat.
She slammed the cabinet shut, stared into the mirror for a moment. Her headache remained. She groaned and dragged herself out of the bathroom.
"Ouf!" she slammed into a body and toppled forward, grasping the person by the shirt to gain her balance -- but whoever it was, was apparently caught off guard and came crashing to the floor as well. They lay in a heap, scrambling to untangle limbs.
She might have tried to associate the collision with her dream, but her mind chose that exact moment to awaken and the dream lay forgotten somewhere between the medicine cabinet and the site of collision. The pain in her crown had now doubled. "Gods, Ron, can't you watch where you're going?"
"Sorry, I'd taken my glasses off." The male voice replied, stuttering slightly.
"Well, you can take your bloody glasses and --" She froze.
Ron didn't wear glasses. Ron's voice wasn't nearly as deep. She sniffed. And Ron didn't wear … was that cologne? Ginny was now almost fully awake and she lifted her gaze to scan the perpetrator, her eyes sliding over his lank form. And Ron didn't own khaki pants and a shirt like that … didn't have that *physique* …
She gasped. Ron definitely didn't have a mop of messy, ink-black hair and bright green eyes.
"Harry?"
The boy -- man -- across from her, still on the floor, grinned at her. "Morning." He dusted off his slacks and began climbing to his feet.
"Mwhssi?" She shook her head, dazed, mouth open, staring up at him wearily. For a moment she thought to ask if he was the product of an illness-induced hallucination, because his appearance was oddly surreal -- she didn't remember his voice as quite so low, and the person before her was quite a bit taller and more muscular, though still on the lean side. But his eyes held everything that made him Harry. She could see the flecks of darker green around the edges fading into the bright emerald that lay just before the black core, and in them she could see what his face couldn't seem to show anymore – a certain degree of innocence was held there.
Then her eyes widened and she scrambled to her feet, pausing for a moment to take him in again, her tall drink of pumpkin juice; she then gave a small squeal and bowled into him, half laughing, half crying. "What -- when -- how – wh -- ? Harry!" He wrapped his arms around her without hesitation, his chest vibrating low with mirth even though he was still rather winded from the fall.
"I got here this morning by way of Port Key – I thought Ron told you?"
"No – 'course, we're talking about Ron, here." Her face was still pressed against his chest. The act was half way out of affection, and half because she didn't want him to see the way her eyes were watering.
She honestly didn't know why -- she *had* missed him, deeply, and had informed him of the fact in the letters she wrote. But there was something deeply unsettling about the thought of someone seeing her cry, especially Harry.
He'd seen her cry before. Everyone who'd ever met Ginny had probably seen her choke back tears at one time or another. But now, she was sixteen. She was experienced, stronger. She didn't want to cry anymore. With the war looming in the wizarding world, she had no choice.
With a pang, she realized how long it had been since she actually stopped to think about the Dark war. She'd gotten rather used to it, after three grueling years of double-DADA classes and heightened security everywhere at the orders of the Ministry of Magic. She was sorry to admit it, but as the attacks seemed to come to a halt, and Voldemort was still in hiding (though very powerful), the air had become slightly more relaxed.
And it was amazing that she could feel that way, after all that had happened.
She guessed he could sense something -- he pulled back but looped his arm around her shoulder as she cleared her throat.
"You've certainly changed, haven't you? Been taking Sir Yaffe's Amazing Growth Spurt Potion lately?"
He chuckled. "I've heard this before somewhere."
"I take it you've talked to Hermione, then."
"Yes, for a moment." He paused, removed his hand from her shoulder and tipped his head towards the floor, squinting. Her muttered something she couldn't quite make out and pulled his wand out from its place tucked in his belt. "Accio glasses -- ah!" Ginny watched as the glasses wobbled on their perch at the edge of a stair before flying into his open hand. He tucked his wand back into place and slipped on his glasses, making sure to adjust them with his index finger as they'd already started to slip down the bridge of his nose. He turned to Ginny, looking quite relieved to actually see her face clearly; she knew he was as good as blind without them.
"I was just on my way to breakfast. Ron told me to wake you up, but I suppose I was too late. Join me?" He jerked his head toward the staircase, his face expectant. She shook her head slightly.
"No, I think I'll get the shower before Hermione does. I should be down in a while, though…" she blinked several times and shook her head to herself, hair flying.
He nodded, still smiling, though his disappointment was evident. "I'll see you in a few minutes, then. We can catch up on what's been going on the past week." His voice stayed warm and inviting but Ginny immediately recognized he meant to bring up why she hadn't written him. She hoped he hadn't been too bothered by it – explanations would come later, though.
As he was about to turn her face twisted into a sleepy smile and she padded back up to him, wrapping her arms over his shoulders. She raised to tips of her toes, just enough to press her lips against his jawbone without tilting her head back. She pulled back, gave a slight smile –
"Welcome back, Harry." He gave her a brief, fond glance before turning to descend the stairs.
She waited in silence until he was completely out of view before screwing her face and stalking back to the bathroom. She proceeded to shut the door harder than she meant to, wincing as the sound sliced the air, and balanced herself on the edge of the bathtub, her heart thumping wildly.
Just what was she on about, kissing him?
*It was a friendly kiss. He knows that.*
No, a cheek kiss would've been friendly -- a peck. But her kiss was on the jaw, clearly out of territory for a friendly kiss. And it had lingered, too. She didn't pull away for seconds, which definitely made it seem more intimate -- to her, at least. Did he feel the same way? He was completely casual about it; she was sure his ears weren't burning like hers, his face flushed with embarrassment. Maybe *he* saw it was a friendly kiss. They were friends, after all -- very close friends -- but was their friendship close enough to license out of territory kissing?
*Gods, Hermione's magazines are destroying my brain cells.*
She sat for a moment, absolutely furious with herself, before hoisting herself up and turning to the tub. She ran the water as hot as she could get it – her headache had considerably worsened in the last few minutes and felt as if it were ready to spread throughout the rest of her body. She must be getting ill, she decided. MacMillian's tonic usually worked instantaneously, but apparently hadn't taken effect.
*I'll wait for it to work then,* she decided.
After that kiss, she didn't mind taking her time before going downstairs to breakfast.
--
(A big thanks to everyone who left notes! Sorry it took so long to get out! Also, thanks to Amy, my beta reader and Comma Slayer … Rach, my long distance sanity … Gladys, the Waffle House waitress! Next chapter, coming soon!)
--
At seven fifty-five, Harry was scrambling around his room quietly extracting things from their hiding places between the mattress and box springs, under the floorboard, in his pillowcase, behind the rickety dresser and anywhere else he'd stuck something he decided his dear aunt and uncle shouldn't know about. During the night he'd retrieved his broom from under the cupboard, careful to skip the stairs that would creak beneath his feet.
He tucked his wand into his belt carefully and folded his arms over his chest, inspecting the room. He'd gathered everything he owned and placed it in the center of the room. Harry realized his possessions had certainly increased in number – not to the amount that many people had, of course, for he only bought what he could manage to carry. The Dursleys weren't too keen on letting him buy things for himself and he was amazed he had this much. It was almost too much to manage. If it weren't for the Port Key, he certainly wouldn't be able to juggle all his items without aid of magic.
He located the final item – the tome on the floor next to the bed stand, along with the slip of parchment Ron had sent – We'll all be expecting you – and he shook his head, hoping it was true. He wasn't sure he was prepared for the wrath of Ginny Weasley in the morning on holiday – she wasn't a morning person, and her brothers had the scars to prove it.
Three minutes until eight o'clock. Harry sat on the edge of his bed and the springs squealed softly under him. He'd never have to sleep on that bed again, or hide things under the floorboard, or have to do all his homework by the mere light of one candle. So much was changing it made his head want to spin. His birthday was in three days – his seventeenth. He'd be an adult wizard by law, no longer restricted from using magic wherever he wanted to. He was going into his last year at Hogwarts, seventh year; in a year's time he'd be out in the real world.
He'd changed physically, as well, and mostly over the summer. He was still quite lean – he'd always be fairly lanky, he guessed – but he had gained a bit more muscle and was a great deal taller, reaching a good bit over six feet. He now beat his uncle's height and matched Ron's. His face looked less boyish, and not quite as gaunt as it had in years passed. But his eyes were the same startling green and his black hair, now slightly more shaggy, still constantly looked unkempt. It just looked more … intended, now.
He glanced at his enchanted digital wristwatch, which had begun steadily blinking a warning that Harry only had thirty more seconds before the port key was activated. He leapt from the bed and stepped the short distance to the center of the room. Harry carefully balanced the book on the only corner of his trunk that didn't have things piled on top and placed his hand over it firmly, preparing himself for the unpleasant pull he'd soon feel at his navel.
The young man glanced up at the mirror.
Yes, things certainly had changed.
It had been a while since Harry had been injured physically – Quidditch accidents included, it had been almost a year. Harry had never, though, been hit by Vernon. His beefy uncle always seemed more afraid of the boy, much to Harry's satisfaction, and until the previous night the thought had honestly never crossed his mind that dear uncle would lay a finger on him.
Guess I was wrong in that assumption, he mused bitterly.
Harry scrubbed his jawbone with his fingers in the spot that a bruise had occupied minutes prior and silently thanked Hermione for giving him that healing cream during fifth year. It was stiff and pale, translucent green, and carried an aroma vaguely similar to that of honey and lemon. Not at all unpleasant though, compared to tonics he'd had before, and it worked very well – the gash drawn across his cheek had disappeared along with the swelling in mere seconds, his skin mending itself. All signs that Harry had been at the raw end of a deal that was already very bad in the first place had dissipated and left him with no more than slight stubble.
He forced himself to look down from the mirror and noticed the tip of what looked to be a sugar quill just below the dresser. It wasn't of much importance however, as just when it was discovered, the very person who had discovered it vanished with a small whir of wind.
--
The light slowly poured into the room, tugging Hermione's eyelids open. A barrage of yellow clouded her vision for a moment – the sun reflected off the mirror and directly onto her face. She winced, rolling over and buried her head in the pillow, not quite ready for a new day to begin. She'd had a most interesting dream about a bowl of petunias and -- and –
No, the dream was forgotten. The sun was intent on willing her to rise. Feeling the pull she'd familiarized herself with by six prior years of weekday mornings at school, she rolled back over and hesitated, groaning, before pushing herself up and to her feet wearily.
She had to stop staying up till Merlin-knows-when with Ginny.
Stretching, she stepped the short distance to the vanity (the mirror snorted, adding an "I hope you don't plan on leaving the room like that …") and rubbed her eyes with the pads of her palms, letting them re-adjust to the light.
There was nothing quite like a morning at the burrow. Every other time of day it seemed full-to-burst with some kind of activity, but mornings left the house almost unusually silent. Much to the dismay of Mr. And Mrs. Weasley, their elder children had flown the coup in search of an independent life – Ron and Ginny were the only children that remained, and they only lived at home during summer holiday. Arthur had been leaving for work far before the sun rose every morning, and Molly had been attending Witch Empowerment sessions at Mildred Scalthe's house across the village. Every morning was filled with a thick silence that left them feeling quite deaf; Hermione found herself enjoying it immensely.
She smoothed her wayward hair with one hand and glanced back at Ginny who slept on her side facing the wall with her forearm partially covering her face. The girl slept like a rock, so it wouldn't have made a bit of difference had the house been in its normal state. She still tip-toed to the opposite wall to grab her dress robes before slinking to the door and slipping out, her cat Crookshanks underfoot.
Hermione's hand on the new hall clock was pushing towards breakfast soon; she walked down the stairs, taking each step slowly to avoid any slumberous stumbles, and, running her hand down the length of the railing as she walked, reached the bottom.
Hermione stood in the living room for several moments with half-lidded eyes, weighing her options. Breakfast was almost ready, and she wanted to get a shower before anyone else – she didn't feel like performing hot-water charms so early in the day – but the worn couch in the corner looked so very inviting…
She'd dragged herself half way to the sofa when he heard the door squeal behind her, and she saw a head of mussed red hair pop out from the kitchen.
"Oy, you're up now. I cooked breakfast, if you want any."
Though she was famished, she knew that she'd be forced to eat his food even if she wasn't – which wasn't a bad thing, really. Ron was an excellent cook; two years of summer lessons from his mother had proven to do some good to the second youngest Weasley and from what she'd tasted since her arrival at the burrow, his skill had only improved. As it was, she hadn't eaten very much at dinner the previous night and the thought of any kind food left her salivating; the appeal of *his* food was enough to persuade her to the kitchen. She groaned, gave a last longing look towards the furniture and padded towards the door as his head disappeared into the adjacent room.
She slid into a seat heavily and eyed the assortment of foods on the table – her boyfriend had obviously gotten up early. There was hardly any place to set a plate as the table was loaded with all the different types of breakfast foods imaginable, many of which she'd never encountered before. She lifted her eyes to look at Ron – he met her gaze expectantly, bracing his hands on the edge of the table and leaning his entire body weight forward in a very bartender-esqe fashion.
"What'll you have?"
"Hmm …" she tapped her finger against her cheek, flashing her teeth when she yawned. "A piece of toast … some of those fish tarts … oh! Are those Chipolatas? One, please ... a cauldron cake … er …that's all for the moment."
"You'd better be having seconds," Ron chided. "I've been up since six."
"No one made you get up that early."
"But don't you want to get those brain cells moving?"
"At eight o'clock on a holiday?"
"This, coming from a girl who studies ahead for fun."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "We're coming up on beginning of term, you know, and it wouldn't--"
"Hurt me to study – I know, I know." Ron wiped his hands on his pants.
"I'm not saying you have to memorize your lessons, Ron. It wouldn't hurt to look over them, though. Get a head start, you know?"
Ron shook his head, and Hermione decided it best not to push him – criticizing his study habits at eight in the morning wouldn't do any good. It was a lesson she'd learned years back, but it was amusing to bring up the subject every once and a while.
She took a bite of chipolata and sighed slightly; the boy really could cook, she mused. "Don't worry, I have a feeling there won't be a problem getting rid of all this." She wiped her mouth with a napkin, laid it back in her lap carefully, and reached for her pumpkin juice.
"Oh!" Ron smacked himself in the side of the head, checking his wristwatch. "Blimey, it's nearly eight…"
"And?"
"And Harry'll be here any minute--"
"What?" Hermione released the grip on her glass and it toppled; pale, pulpy orange liquid soiled the floor and wall. She gaped at Ron.
He blinked. "Oh, Merlin, I forgot to tell you! Hedwig came this morning. Harry's coming today. Should be here any time now…"
She stood up, chair tipping backwards and meeting the floor with a dull thud. "What? How? Why didn't you tell me? Did Dumbledore approve this? Why, look at my hair, and I haven't taken a shower or anything…" she turned and sprinted into the downstairs WC, smoothing her hair down, gargling water, straightening her pajamas. "Where're my slippers? I can't believe you didn't tell me! And I haven't wrapped his birthday present, and Ginny's still working on her gift. The den is a mess – won't you pick up your chess set? -- I'm covered in pumpkin juice! – You didn't tell Ginny? What time is it?"
From his perch at the counter, Ron watched the flailing arms and wide eyes with a fair amount of amusement.
"Come on, Hermione. It's only Harry."
"Oh, I know, but I'm a mess. I haven't seen him in over a month, and …"
"Ah, I'm sure he'll be happy just to see you. He's been staying with the Dursleys. Sit down before I go mad!"
Hermione paused, hands poised on her hair, and calculated the half-amused, half-annoyed expression plastered on Ron's face. She sighed, completed her ponytail, and placed her hands on her hips.
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"You *did* ask Dumble--"
"Yeah, yeah. Wrote him at the beginning of the summer. He said the wards still work and all, and Harry will be fine. Dad and I were planning for it to be a surprise, but he was at the ministry until late last night, 'course. I meant to tell you all. Now," he wiped his hands on his pants unnecessarily, "You need your wand?"
She managed a stunned "Yes, thank you" and he cast a summoning spell -- it floated down the narrow staircase, through the living room and into her expectant hands. "Thanks…" She mumbled a few hasty spells to smooth out her hair and transfigured her sticky, orange stained pajamas into a knee- length denim skirt and white v-neck shirt. She walked into the bathroom again – this time with a much more leisurely stride – gave a satisfied nod, and strode into the kitchen again. "Better," she grinned.
Ron pushed himself from the counter and opened his mouth to say something – but his words never escaped him and were immediately forgotten and a small whir, promptly followed by a resounding thump, and an "Ouf!" emanated from the living room.
--
Harry's eyes snapped open in time to see a blur of warm colors before he toppled forward, instinctively thrusting his palms in front of him – he barely prevented his face slamming into the hardwood floor, glasses flying off his head and clattering across the floor.
"Ouf!" he winced, took a deep breath.
His senses were quickly overwhelmed by the burrow – the scent of Molly Weasley's perfume and breakfast foods, sun filtering through the window with a morning breeze and the sound of footsteps, tow sets; one heavy and clumsy, one light and even.
"Oy, Harry!" he felt a pair of strong hands heave him up by the shoulders; a tall, limber blur, pale, with a mop of bright orange hair. He shook his head and smiled.
"Ron – Hermione," he nodded to a fuzzy figure who was crouched on the floor, muttering a spell under her breath. She placed the repaired glasses in his hand.
He slipped on his glasses as the petite brunette stood up so quickly she almost toppled over, gave a jovial "Harry!" and fiercely wrapped her arms around his midriff. He jolted, rather taken aback by the sign of affection even after only a month with the Dursleys, and hesitated before slipping one arm around her.
Ron rolled his eyes, giving Harry a comical look.
"My…" Harry looked down at Hermione, who pulled back, placing her hands on her hips again, and she pursed her lips. "My, my. Goodness, Harry, How tall're you now?"
He shrugged, pushed his glasses up with his index finger. "I've sprouted a bit, I s'pose."
"Sprouted? You barely look like Harry anymore! What, with the height, the muscles …"
"'Scuse me?" Ron mocked indignation and slung an arm around her shoulder. Harry laughed.
Being back at the burrow was quite literally a homecoming for him, rather like returning to Hogwarts every year. He gazed around the room fondly. The walls were painted a florid orange pink (as they had been since Harry could remember) and photographs were placed at intervals, displaying nine heads of fiery hair and nine faces smiling warmly at him. As his eyes fell upon the last picture which was hanging low in a corner just above Mrs. Weasley's hunter green over-stuffed sitting chair, his stomach fluttered. In the frame the youngest redhead lounged on the low-hanging limb of a birch, her back resting in the divot where it diverged from the trunk. Her limber legs straddled the thick branch and swung limply, and her toes wiggled gently in the wind -- it was one of the only times he had seen her sans socks. She seemed to be thoroughly engrossed in a book, though Harry was sure he caught her peering over the top of the hardbound tome with smiling eyes. Subsequently, he was almost positive her body was shaking with mirth, which didn't surprise him a bit. The picture looked as if it was made very recently, and on a rather warm and muggy day. She was wearing a sleeveless top -- he could've sworn it was one of Ron's beaters, probably from third year. He decided he liked it on Ginny much better, as it was already rather form-fitting and the heat caused it to cling --
"Hungry?"
Harry shook himself from the stupor that had suffocated his stream of consciousness and tilted his head. "Hmm?"
"Are you hungry? Ron's gone crazy cooking, again and you've probably not had breakfast yet. He made Chipolatas …"
"Oh? That sounds good. Is Hedwig here?"
Ron nodded his head slightly. "Just early this morning. She's dead tired, mate."
"Ah, I've worn her down," Harry grinned. "I'll run up to see 'er before I get settled, if you don't mind."
Ron waved his hand absently, muttering "Go on, then – and bang on Gin's door a few times on your way, eh? Honestly, I cooked this nice big breakfast!"
Harry started slightly and made a face that Ron couldn't quite read; but, as quick as the Weasley boy had seen it, it had been replaced by his friend's trademark half smile.
"Right. Be back down in a moment, then --" and he turned and took the steps slightly faster than normal and two at a time, passing the door to Ginny's room completely.
--
Ginny inhaled sharply and opened her eyes with a start, clutching her pillow and pressing the palm of her other hand hard against the wall. Her vision was bombarded with brilliant hues of red and orange that faded quickly into a gray; her hands abandoned the wall and pillow for her face and she rubbed her eyes furiously. The first thought that fully registered was that her head throbbed sharply at the temples. She rolled away from the wall and onto her back heavily.
"Dream." She exhaled. She'd had a dream. A dream about … something.
Ginny frowned at herself, kicking a leg out from the confines of the covers and pushing over a book that had teetered on the edge of the small bed for two days. It fell with a short, mournful thump. She registered the sound in a part of her mind that would probably stay dormant for at least another fifteen minutes and willed her eyes to stay open long enough to adjust to morning.
"Dream …" She couldn't help a shudder and it rocked her body, forcing her to press harder on her temple in a vain attempt to lessen the pain. Across the room a thin outline of treetops quivered in the wind. She blinked. Trees, woods. Dream. What was that dream about?
The temporarily dormant sector of her mind also controlled coherent thought.
She yawned, pushed herself to her feet clumsily and stumbled forward, ignoring the mirror as it spat a nasty remark. Running a hand through her thick, wayward hair, she swung open the door and padded out into the hall. Eight paces right, she pulled with all her weight at the door until the dormant sector got impatient and reminded her to push the door open, which she did with a fair amount of ease. She looked at the medicine cabinet mirror, her deadpanned expression staring back. The muscles in her forehead contracted with confusion.
"Dream," she muttered. "There was a dream …" And she swung open the medicine cabinet and rifled through different bottles and packages, finally clutching a small, triangular vial containing a thick, cobalt blue liquid: MacMillian's Practically-All-Ailment Tonic, Single Dose. She pulled out the stopper and drained the liquid, grimacing as the thick, salty fluid slid down her throat.
She slammed the cabinet shut, stared into the mirror for a moment. Her headache remained. She groaned and dragged herself out of the bathroom.
"Ouf!" she slammed into a body and toppled forward, grasping the person by the shirt to gain her balance -- but whoever it was, was apparently caught off guard and came crashing to the floor as well. They lay in a heap, scrambling to untangle limbs.
She might have tried to associate the collision with her dream, but her mind chose that exact moment to awaken and the dream lay forgotten somewhere between the medicine cabinet and the site of collision. The pain in her crown had now doubled. "Gods, Ron, can't you watch where you're going?"
"Sorry, I'd taken my glasses off." The male voice replied, stuttering slightly.
"Well, you can take your bloody glasses and --" She froze.
Ron didn't wear glasses. Ron's voice wasn't nearly as deep. She sniffed. And Ron didn't wear … was that cologne? Ginny was now almost fully awake and she lifted her gaze to scan the perpetrator, her eyes sliding over his lank form. And Ron didn't own khaki pants and a shirt like that … didn't have that *physique* …
She gasped. Ron definitely didn't have a mop of messy, ink-black hair and bright green eyes.
"Harry?"
The boy -- man -- across from her, still on the floor, grinned at her. "Morning." He dusted off his slacks and began climbing to his feet.
"Mwhssi?" She shook her head, dazed, mouth open, staring up at him wearily. For a moment she thought to ask if he was the product of an illness-induced hallucination, because his appearance was oddly surreal -- she didn't remember his voice as quite so low, and the person before her was quite a bit taller and more muscular, though still on the lean side. But his eyes held everything that made him Harry. She could see the flecks of darker green around the edges fading into the bright emerald that lay just before the black core, and in them she could see what his face couldn't seem to show anymore – a certain degree of innocence was held there.
Then her eyes widened and she scrambled to her feet, pausing for a moment to take him in again, her tall drink of pumpkin juice; she then gave a small squeal and bowled into him, half laughing, half crying. "What -- when -- how – wh -- ? Harry!" He wrapped his arms around her without hesitation, his chest vibrating low with mirth even though he was still rather winded from the fall.
"I got here this morning by way of Port Key – I thought Ron told you?"
"No – 'course, we're talking about Ron, here." Her face was still pressed against his chest. The act was half way out of affection, and half because she didn't want him to see the way her eyes were watering.
She honestly didn't know why -- she *had* missed him, deeply, and had informed him of the fact in the letters she wrote. But there was something deeply unsettling about the thought of someone seeing her cry, especially Harry.
He'd seen her cry before. Everyone who'd ever met Ginny had probably seen her choke back tears at one time or another. But now, she was sixteen. She was experienced, stronger. She didn't want to cry anymore. With the war looming in the wizarding world, she had no choice.
With a pang, she realized how long it had been since she actually stopped to think about the Dark war. She'd gotten rather used to it, after three grueling years of double-DADA classes and heightened security everywhere at the orders of the Ministry of Magic. She was sorry to admit it, but as the attacks seemed to come to a halt, and Voldemort was still in hiding (though very powerful), the air had become slightly more relaxed.
And it was amazing that she could feel that way, after all that had happened.
She guessed he could sense something -- he pulled back but looped his arm around her shoulder as she cleared her throat.
"You've certainly changed, haven't you? Been taking Sir Yaffe's Amazing Growth Spurt Potion lately?"
He chuckled. "I've heard this before somewhere."
"I take it you've talked to Hermione, then."
"Yes, for a moment." He paused, removed his hand from her shoulder and tipped his head towards the floor, squinting. Her muttered something she couldn't quite make out and pulled his wand out from its place tucked in his belt. "Accio glasses -- ah!" Ginny watched as the glasses wobbled on their perch at the edge of a stair before flying into his open hand. He tucked his wand back into place and slipped on his glasses, making sure to adjust them with his index finger as they'd already started to slip down the bridge of his nose. He turned to Ginny, looking quite relieved to actually see her face clearly; she knew he was as good as blind without them.
"I was just on my way to breakfast. Ron told me to wake you up, but I suppose I was too late. Join me?" He jerked his head toward the staircase, his face expectant. She shook her head slightly.
"No, I think I'll get the shower before Hermione does. I should be down in a while, though…" she blinked several times and shook her head to herself, hair flying.
He nodded, still smiling, though his disappointment was evident. "I'll see you in a few minutes, then. We can catch up on what's been going on the past week." His voice stayed warm and inviting but Ginny immediately recognized he meant to bring up why she hadn't written him. She hoped he hadn't been too bothered by it – explanations would come later, though.
As he was about to turn her face twisted into a sleepy smile and she padded back up to him, wrapping her arms over his shoulders. She raised to tips of her toes, just enough to press her lips against his jawbone without tilting her head back. She pulled back, gave a slight smile –
"Welcome back, Harry." He gave her a brief, fond glance before turning to descend the stairs.
She waited in silence until he was completely out of view before screwing her face and stalking back to the bathroom. She proceeded to shut the door harder than she meant to, wincing as the sound sliced the air, and balanced herself on the edge of the bathtub, her heart thumping wildly.
Just what was she on about, kissing him?
*It was a friendly kiss. He knows that.*
No, a cheek kiss would've been friendly -- a peck. But her kiss was on the jaw, clearly out of territory for a friendly kiss. And it had lingered, too. She didn't pull away for seconds, which definitely made it seem more intimate -- to her, at least. Did he feel the same way? He was completely casual about it; she was sure his ears weren't burning like hers, his face flushed with embarrassment. Maybe *he* saw it was a friendly kiss. They were friends, after all -- very close friends -- but was their friendship close enough to license out of territory kissing?
*Gods, Hermione's magazines are destroying my brain cells.*
She sat for a moment, absolutely furious with herself, before hoisting herself up and turning to the tub. She ran the water as hot as she could get it – her headache had considerably worsened in the last few minutes and felt as if it were ready to spread throughout the rest of her body. She must be getting ill, she decided. MacMillian's tonic usually worked instantaneously, but apparently hadn't taken effect.
*I'll wait for it to work then,* she decided.
After that kiss, she didn't mind taking her time before going downstairs to breakfast.
--
(A big thanks to everyone who left notes! Sorry it took so long to get out! Also, thanks to Amy, my beta reader and Comma Slayer … Rach, my long distance sanity … Gladys, the Waffle House waitress! Next chapter, coming soon!)