He suggests we go Italian tonight, which is fine by me. The restaurant is nice, definitely on the pricey side, but not stuffy. I'm surprised when he orders a chicken dish.

"You love pasta."

"Too messy."

Ah, so he wants to minimize the chances of ending up with sauce on his shirt.

"You don't need to impress me, Harry. We've eaten together a hundred times before."

"That was then."

"And this is now?" I smile at the cliche.

Our food appears on the fancy china. As we dictate our orders clearly to the menu, Harry strikes up some conversation.


"So, have you read any good books lately?"

I laugh. "That's so contrived, such a date question."

He hangs his head a bit. "I know."

"Okay, my turn. What would you do if you had a million galleons?"

"I have a million galleons." He's apologetic.

"Remind me again why I'm paying half the rent?"

"Because you're not exactly poor?"

"True. So, how do we blow our money?"

"Wanna go to Tahiti?"

"Bora Bora." I'm sure about this one. I've seen pictures of little huts built right over the water. If that's not paradise, I don't know what is.

"Why there?"

I tell him about the little huts and how they bring you breakfast by loading it up on a little boat. And if you want fish, they catch it right there and the water is so clear and the sand below is so white that you can see everything, every fish.

"Living on water?" He's not convinced. "I thought you hated water."

"It looks beautiful." I assure him. And I know I'm giddy and excited and probably sound like a kid at Christmas, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"Okay. I could do that. Maybe sometime."

"I guess that's different about us now. Money, time, opportunity. Most people would kill to have just one of those three and we might have all of them."

"We're spoiled brats." He grins.

He's careful to follow all of the 2 bazillion steps Mr. Manners has established to be a vital part of dinner etiquette. It's too formal and it bugs me after a while, so I pick up my fork and spear a piece of chicken on his plate, wanting to see who ordered a better entree. He relaxes a bit when I do that and we thankfully fall back into our old pattern. I smile at my successful plan.

We talk about our jobs. How being the editor of a brand new paper was stressful and how I'm starting to feel like I got in over my head and perhaps I should go back to St. Mungo's. Harry firmly says he believes in me. I say the same when he tells me he thinks he's going to implode, having to handle the press and meetings without his teammates.


"What do you want for your birthday?" I ask him while we're waiting for dessert.

"God. I'm almost a quarter of a century. It's scary, you know, to be able to say 'I remember, almost 20 years ago years ago...'. But it's also nice to have a good house and freedom. You don't have to get me anything, I cashed in on enough favours and free dinners and cleaning."

"Still. I have to get something. Why not push me in the right direction?"

"Bora Bora is that a way." He points and laughs.

"You've got expensive taste."

"Not like you wouldn't get anything out of it."

The implication is pretty obvious to both of us.

. . . .




I try and pay for half of the meal, but he'll have none of it, and insists that he'd like to do this properly. I'm having a nice evening, there's no point in arguing, so I let it go.

"It's so nice outside, you want to just walk around a little?" He asks me and I comply. I do realize that it's a beautiful night but we're draped in darkness now and that always makes people go a little wonky.

"If I hadn't known you for so long, it would be easier," I admit.

"Why?" He's zipping up his jacket and I find it distracting.

"Because then it's easier if you break up. Or if I see you with a Holly or a Taryn, it's alright in a way, because it comes down to a risk to benefit ratio. It's so high with us. If we lose this," I motion between us, "then maybe we lose everything else too."

He laughs. "You really haven't changed much. Still trying to make everything logical. Our little Hermy." Then his face turned serious. "But it doesn't have to be that way."

"Yeah, but Harry, how many times have you dated somebody and then when it went downhill, all you wanted was to never cross paths again. That's a natural response."

"I never had a relationship I wasn't invested in. I wouldn't ask you out if I didn't think it could go somewhere. And even that night when I got drunk, in the morning, I was afraid you'd yell or be really angry, but I still wanted to see you, cross your path, if you will."

We walk in silence for a few minutes.

"I have an uncle," I begin my story, "And he married this great woman and they've got two kids, not really kids anymore, they're both older than me. And his whole life, he'd come home late or flirt with every woman at the Christmas party they went to."

He gives me a pained look. He knows why I'm telling the story.

"And when I got older, I asked my mom why my aunt put up with it for 30 years and my mom just said, 'Well, you know he's a womanizer.' Just like that. Like it was a personality trait or something and therefore it made it okay."

"I flirt with girls. But that's it."

"I guess it's a matter of being second fiddle your whole life."

"Hermione, do you know how many women I've made love with?"

"No." I'm not sure I want to know.

"None."

I look at him, shocked. "Impossible."

He sighs. "Made love, Hermione. There has to be love in the first place to do that, and that's never happened."

I continue to stare. "Okay."

"Don't you see? They'll never have me like you will. Can." He quickly corrects himself. "Can."

"I know what you meant." I assure him. He wore his heart on his sleeve tonight, I appreciate how difficult it must have been. That's why, when he seeks out my hand, I grab his and hold on tightly, comfortably.

. . . .




It's strange to be on a date and then head back to the house we're sharing. The good thing is, we don't have to stand on the front porch and figure out who makes the first move or good-bye kiss or whatever. The bad thing is, there's always the hallway in front of our rooms.

"Do you have a busy day tomorrow?" He asks me.

"Yeah. You?"

"Of course. They're still hounding me about the damn broom exhibition." He looks at the time. "You wanna watch TV for a little while?"

"Sure." I'm relieved we don't have to say goodnight yet.

He finds an old episode of Iron Chef, and even though squid grosses him out, he settles on this channel.

I've never before given any thought to how we sit next to each other. I've never been afraid to put my feet up on the coffee table or to rest my head against his shoulder or for him to put his feet in my lap. I'm pretty sure he's thinking the same thing now; we're side by side, not touching, sitting up stiffly.

"Did you have a nice time?"

"Yeah." I can't lie. I'm trying to figure out how to work in touching some part of him. He's too close for me to resist. I wonder if he'll ask me out again. If his mother comes here for his birthday, I'm dead. She'll know, she'll see it in my face. I don't care. I scoot closer to him. I'm not his sister, but I'm also still not his type. I'm in between somewhere. I don't care.

*




I meant what I said about how I can't breathe when she's near me. Take now, for example.

She's close to me on the couch and is staring straight ahead at the TV screen.

"Ugh," I comment, turning my face away from the squid.

"Have you ever had it?" she laughs.

"No, and I don't think I will, thank you."

"It's good to try new things."

"Would you settle for my trying something a little less disgusting?"

"Like what?"

I think for a moment. "Sushi?"

"You've never had sushi?" she asks incredulously.

"You have?"

"Sure," she shrugs.

"Like raw fish?"

"Yeah," she laughs.

I give her a doubtful look.

"Will you try it?"

"Maybe."

She smiles to herself.

"That's on the list, isn't it?" I ask her.

"What?"

"That I'm afraid to try new things."

She nods slowly.

"So if I try sushi, will you cross that off?"

She shakes her head.

"Okay, then I'll try squid."

. . . .




The Iron Chef finishes with the squid and I flip through the channels, looking for something else.

There is the usual barrage of infomercials and I finally stop flipping for a moment.

I turn to Hermione.

"Can I cross off that I'm not your type?"

"Harry..."

"Because we have fun together, Hermione. We can talk to each other. Or we can sit here and not talk. And because last night, when I kissed you, you asked me to do it again. And all of this makes me think that even if I wasn't your type before, maybe you've changed your mind."

"I haven't."

"You're not attracted to me? Is that it? Okay, I'll admit, this hair," I point to the dark unruly mass. "My feet are too big and I'm weird. I do that nostril thing too much. I can't dance and ..."

"Aren't you supposed to be pointing out your finer points?" she interrupts me.

"I was getting to that."

"Okay."

"I am all these things, but when I smile, I mean it. And when I kiss you, I can feel that you want me. I think I have nice eyes. And these hands..." I hold them out in front of her. "They can be pretty useful."

She takes one. "Soft," she murmurs.

"That too."

I keep my eyes on her.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you mind..." she blushes.

"What?" There, now I can't breathe again. Does she want to. . .

She nods at the TV and I tear my eyes away from her and focus on the screen.

"What is this?" I manage to choke out after a moment. Some old lady is describing how to use ... oh, sweet merciful... Merlin…

"It's a sex show!" I exclaim and try to change the channel.

This woman, Sue something-or-another, is now talking about nocturnal emissions.

I can't change the channel fast enough. This is not happening.

Hermione doubles over, laughing.

"It's just sex," she says.

I'm not watching a sex show with Hermione! "It's late," I say and turn the TV off.

I head upstairs and she follows me and then stops at her door.

"Harry?"

"What?"

"Sweet dreams." She closes her door and I can still hear her laughing.

"They're about you!" I remind her and the laughter stops.