Author's Notes: See Chapter One for disclaimer. It still applies, I'm sure. Thanks to everyone who reviewed. This can be archived anywhere, just send me the link so I can pop on by now and then.

Also, there's a slash (that means m/m, in this case) relationship that's discussed in this chapter (Remus/Sirius), though certainly not graphically. But if that generally leaves you with any feeling that ends in -ick, then you should probably just skip it.

Finally, sorry for the strange HPs that break up the scenes. I couldn't get this to accept anything else I did here, or in Word. But it should be less confusing. Thanks.

San Francisco, CA

A week later, Harry and Hermione were wandering up and down an open air market, buying souvenirs. Hermione tugged on Harry's hand to pull him farther down the street and said, "We have to look for Remus. What do you think he would like?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know? A book?"

Even facing her back, Harry could tell Hermione had rolled her eyes. She looked back over her shoulder at him and stuck out her tongue. "You could try being a little more original, Harry," she said, as if that would suddenly shed light in the previously dark corners of Harry's mind and the right gift would come to him immediately.

As they walked through the crowd on a Sunday afternoon, weaving among the customers and the vendors, Harry was just gratified to feel the weight of Hermione's hand in his. Over the past week, that was what had become marvelous to Harry: all the regular, every day contact he and Hermione had had all along. When she touched her fingers to his passing the sugar bowl at breakfast, or bumped his knee under the table, or patted his arm on the beach: those were the moments that Harry thrilled to. The sex, as expected, was brilliant, but it was when Hermione squeezed his hand over by a jewelry vendor that his heart wanted to leap out of his chest.

He put his hand up to his forehead to block out some of the glare of San Francisco's sun and see better what Hermione was looking at. She was, indeed, at a jewelry vendor, and she had picked up a jade pendant that matched the green and white sundress she was wearing. As she turned it first right, then left, it caught the sun's reflection and glimmered almost white. She went to put it down, and Harry caught her wrist, "Let me get that for you," he said.

"Harry, no," Hermione protested, and her cheeks brushed a pretty, light pink.

"Hermione, really. It's no trouble." Harry started digging in his back pocket for his wallet.

"No, Harry." Hermione giggled. "The size of the pendant is too large for me. I doubt you could even see my face around it."

"Oh." Now it was Harry's turn to blush.

"But the thought was lovely, Harry." Hermione reached up and kissed his cheek before she moved a little further along the vendor's area. She had been looking along the rows of open boxes with cotton and handmade pieces inside when she suddenly said, "Oh."

"What?" Harry asked. He looked around her to try to catch a glimpse of what she was looking at. Hermione reached over and then held up a silver pendant with brown leather straps to hold it together.

"Are you sure, Hermione? It doesn't really seem . . . like you," Harry ventured.

"Not for me, Harry. For Remus." Hermione held the pendant out towards Harry. He leaned over and tried to make out what exactly the pendant was. He could just make out some kind of animal, with its mouth open, inside the silver ring.

"It's a wolf?"

Hermione rolled her eyes—again—and tutted. "It's not a wolf, it's a dog."

Harry squinted. "Are you sure?"

In answer, Hermione turned to the maker, who had been hovering around them, both earlier with the jade pendant and now. "Sir, can you tell me what this piece is?"

"Of course, my dear." The man took the pendant from Hermione's fingers. "This is a silver pendant of a dog, howling. The pendant is held together with genuine leather, and is guaranteed for the lifetime of the piece." He handed the piece back to Hermione, along with a business card.

"Thank you, sir." Hermione gave him a dazzling smile. She turned to Harry. "So what do you think?"

"Why would Lupin want a pendant of a dog?"

Hermione gave him a look he couldn't decipher. "I swear, Harry, sometimes you're more obtuse than Ron." She held up the pendant towards the man to indicate she wanted to buy it. She made the purchase and took the little white paper bag the man handed her, swinging it gently down to her left side.

As they continued to walk through the market, Hermione's flip-flops slapping softly on the pavement, Harry suddenly blurted "Oh, Sirius!"

Hermione squeezed the hand she was holding, and looked up at him. "Took you a long time to finally come up with that, Harry." She smiled a smile that could, in the right light, Harry thought, be called a smirk.

"Not all that long, Hermione," Harry said, and fell silent for a moment. "You knew about them?" he asked.

Hermione didn't bother to ask him to clarify his question. "Of course. Anyone who spent any time with them did. That summer at Grimmauld Place . . . they tried to be discreet, I'm sure, what with all of us around . . . but the way they'd look at each other sometimes. I don't know. It's like they just knew each other." She shrugged.

Harry nodded, understanding. "Sirius told me, outright. Said he didn't want to keep secrets from me." Harry half-smiled at the memory. "I think it's the only time I ever saw Sirius embarrassed. Talking about his love life." He paused. "Of course, the keeping secrets part didn't include information about the prophecy." Any smile that the memory of a fidgeting Sirius had brought onto Harry's face promptly disappeared.

Hermione squeezed his hand again, and tugged, leading him toward the right side of the street and the woman selling fabrics. "You know he wanted to tell you. He would have if he could."

"Yeah," Harry said.

They walked a little further, content in silence, Harry listening to the flow of conversation and people around them—a mother trying to comfort a toddler having a tantrum, two girl friends giggling, a middle aged woman having her fortune read in one of the booths.

"It must be hard for Remus," Hermione commented quietly, picking up the thread of the conversation.

"Yeah. About Sirius," Harry murmured, a little unsure about the conversation now that there was a fluttering of sorrow in his stomach.

"Hmmm. About Sirius. About everyone, really. I can't imagine what it's like for him . . . to sort of be the only one left." As she said this Hermione kept walking, though Harry stopped in his tracks. Hermione's perpetual motion broke their hands apart. "Harry?" she questioned.

Harry paused, undone, not sure whether to give out the flip response that was lurking in the corner of his throat, or to tell the truth about why his feet had stopped. In almost the same moment, he knew that it was too late, that if the casual remark was going to come, it should have been immediate, not stuck in his jaw while Hermione looked at him that way, with her eyes questioning and her freckled nose slightly scrunched. He sighed as she stepped back toward him.

"I can. I can imagine it. I have, loads of times," to his utter surprise, his voice sounded absolutely normal. Hermione stood facing him, not speaking, just looking at him, her gaze telling him how hard it was for her to keep quiet, but how she knew that was the right thing to do here.

Harry sighed again. "Well, you know. Facing Voldemort only had a limited amount of outcomes. First being, he'd kill me. Second, I'd kill him. But even if I killed him, I guess I always figured he'd kill everyone I . . . cared about . . . first." He paused, and pursued his lips, as if he could keep the words inside that way. This was the most he'd ever said about what he'd thought during the war, and they both knew it. "I mean. He'd taken away any family I'd ever had . . . my parents, Sirius. I figured he'd even have gone after the Dursleys, if he thought they meant anything to me, or me to them. It just seemed . . . well . . . mostly there was no possible way you and Ron and Lupin and the even the Weasleys wouldn't be next." He hummed softly. "Dying would have been easy, then."

Hermione came up on tip-toe and held his face in both hands, saying "You always did know how to brood, Harry," before kissing him soundly, and for a long time. She held him close for a while, rocking gently back and forth, almost as with a child.

Harry wrapped his arms around her in reply and held tightly until a loud whistle and an even louder, "Get a room!" sounded from a male voice nearby.

Hermione let go abruptly and huffed, nearly stamping her foot. "Bloody rude Americans—stupid gits!"

Harry laughed. "C'mon. Let's go back to that room we have," he said, and guided Hermione down the road with the arm he still had around her waist.

HPHPHPHPHP

Harry stepped out of the bathroom that night to the sight of Hermione rooting through one of his suitcases.

"Hey!" he protested, one hand coming up to comb through his wet hair.

Hermione didn't even look up. "Where are your leather pants?" she asked, throwing more random clothing out of Harry's bag.

"I . . .don't . . . what? What?" he asked, stumbling over to where Hermione was and snatching the bag from where she'd set it on the foot of the bed.

She eyed him, amused. "Still have those Seeker reflexes, I see," she commented. "The leather pants," said very slowly, as if Harry were either very young or very stupid. "The ones I know you packed. Where are they?"

Harry continued to clutch the bag to his chest as if she'd just insulted his maidenhood. "What? What pants?" When Hermione outright laughed this time, he switched tacks. "How do you know I own a pair of leather pants?"

Hermione laughed again. "As if you and Ron are really that stealthy. It's good for us you were always on our side; you two would have made terrible death eaters. You both bought a pair, last year, in preparation for Pansy's birthday party."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "You weren't at that party. You had a cold."

Hermione grinned, "But I heard the stories."

Harry had the good grace to blush. Hermione giggled. "For Merlin's sake, Harry, they're only pants. And we are going out tonight. So I think you should wear them. Now where did you pack them?" She made to snatch the bag out of his hands, but Harry remained faster than she was, and stepped out of her way.

"We're going out tonight?" he questioned, taking a good look at Hermione for the first time since he'd stepped out of the bathroom. She was dressed in a very fetching, very tight teal tank top that looked blue in one light and green in another, and a rather form fitting black mini that flared slightly at the hem. She had charmed her hair into a French twist, but bits of it were being unruly already, curling around her face and neck. But it was the knee high vinyl boots that really topped the outfit.

"Yes, Harry. We are going out tonight. We are young, free, and in San Francisco on vacation. I'm not spending the entire trip holed up in a hotel room with you."

"You haven't complained about that so far," Harry reasoned, still looking her up and down.

"Well, no. And I'm not now. I just think we should spend some time outside of a Hyatt." She paused. "And what are you looking at?"

"You," Harry answered, simply and truthfully. He could actually watch the blush spread up from Hermione's collarbone to her cheeks.

"Harry," she said softly. "It's not too much, is it?"

"I. Er. No, no. Not as long as I get to be your company for the evening, anyway," Harry grinned. Hermione smiled in return.

"Good. Now. Where are the pants?"

He should have known she wouldn't be put off track for long. "In the blue suitcase," he pointed, and watched her open it. She gave a small sound of triumph and pulled out a pair of black leather pants.

"Brilliant. Now, I think you should match them with that black short sleeved shirt you have—you know, they one that's a little shiny." She turned to him and handed him the pants. "Maybe we'll even put a little gel in your hair . . . go with the messiness instead of trying to fight it," she speculated as Harry opened one of the drawers and took out a pair of boxers. Hermione made a bit of a strangled noise.

"What?" Harry asked, closing the door and keeping the boxers in his hand.

"Well, you're not going to wear those, are you?"

"I. No, Hermione, I'm going to put them on my head as a hat." He watched Hermione roll her eyes. "Yes, I'm going to wear them." He shook his head, slightly exasperated.

"Not under those pants." At Harry's nod, she added, "Really?"

"Why wouldn't I wear them?"

"Well, I know boys don't think as much about these things, but . . . well. You don't want any kind of lines under those pants."

"Lines? What kind of lines?"

"Airlines, Harry. Little planes and schedules," Hermione grinned. "Panty lines, Harry."

"Oh."

"In other words, those pants are so tight, you'd be able to see your kickers through them."

"So?"

"So? It's not very attractive, that's all."

"And what am I supposed to do instead?" Harry asked, honestly a bit ruffled.

Hermione laughed, but didn't answer, instead watching as comprehension dawned on Harry's face.

"No. No! I'm not going to not . . . no."

"Harry. It's no big deal."

"I. No, Hermione. Everyone will just have to see what kind of kickers I have on."

"Harry. I can't believe you're such a prude!" Hermione was still giggling.

"I am not! I'm not a prude. I just don't feel like . . . I." Harry took a second look at Hermione as another thought struck him. "What about? Are you . . ."

At this, Hermione laughed so hard she had to sit down on the bed. "I'm wearing a thong, Harry. That also helps solve this particular problem."

"Oh," Harry said. Then he grinned. "Well, that'll be fun for later."

Hermione laughed, but she did blush again. Harry suddenly loved being able to make her flush that delightful pink color.

"Good," she said. "Now get dressed so we can get this show on the road."

"Fine," Harry said, keeping his boxers firmly in hand.

"You're really going to wear them?" Hermione asked.

"Yes."

"Even if I know you'll look better without them."

"Yes."

"Merlin, you really are stubborn," Hermione observed.

"That's a bit of the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?" Harry asked, removing the shirt Hermione had suggested from the closet. When he looked back, Hermione looked genuinely annoyed.

She gave him a little mock-glare when she saw him looking at her while he pulled his shirt on. "I can't believe our first fight is about whether or not you're going to wear kickers," she said.

He laughed, and looked down to button his shirt. "Oh, c'mon, Hermione, don't be dramatic. This is far from our first fight! We didn't go at it like you and Ron did, but you remember that time . . ." Harry trailed off when he looked up and caught a brief glance at Hermione's face, which was half turned down, suddenly studying the carpet. Our first fight, he thought. Oh. Oh.

"Hermione," he started, but was interrupted when Hermione slapped her thighs gently and stood up, her manner suddenly transforming into her brisk, business-like self.

"Well, Harry, you just hurry and get dressed now. I'll meet you in the lobby; I had wanted to talk to the concierge about where a good place to go might be." She took a small bag off the dresser and moved towards the door.

"Hermione . . ." Harry started again, but by that time, Hermione was out the door.

HPHPHPHPHP

The club the concierge had recommended to Hermione was noisy, clouded and smoke free, since this was, after all, California. They went to the bar first, Harry ordering a Coke and Hermione a water, as Harry had yet to turn 21, though only by a little more than two weeks, and Hermione wouldn't be of age in the States until even later. Neither wanted to go to the trouble of being carded. The bartender looked less than happy with the cheap orders, but Harry tipped him well, which seemed to take the slight frown off his face.

Hermione watched the dance floor while Harry watched Hermione. She had chatted amiably in the cab on the way over, and Harry had answered in kind, though he knew that the stream of conversation was an even worse sign than if Hermione had been quiet. She talked about everything and nothing at once: the view, wondering how Ron was doing, what the club would be like, if the car was okay where they had parked it. The only thing that kept Harry from being seriously worried was the fact that she hadn't yet launched into some fascinating tale of rebellion that they had heard in History of Magic. Mostly she acted as of nothing had happened, and Harry was tempted, at least for the moment, to pretend it was nothing, too.

He watched as she brought the water up to her lips, drinking occasionally, drumming her nails first on her thigh, then on the bar. Her head was bobbing a little to the music, unconsciously so, Harry thought. He saw her eyes as they roamed over the people around them, stilling here or there on someone particularly interesting looking to her. A young woman who had leaned over between them to get a drink order in jostled against Hermione's back a little, though Hermione didn't seem much ruffled by the contact.

They stayed like that for many minutes, and the bartender looked about ready to ask them if they needed anything else, and rather peevishly at that, from the look on his face, when Hermione suddenly jumped off the stool. "Come," she said, holding her hand out to Harry. "Let's dance."

So dance they did. Hermione found them a spot on the dance floor, which was harder than it should have been, and started to move. Harry had never been that good of a dancer, mostly due to self-consciousness, he thought. He could never quite let go of that part of him that always felt watched, looked at, Boy-Who-Lived scrutinized, and therefore, no matter how much he wanted to just be normal, he could never really let himself relax. When they were in school, he and Ron and Neville would spend hours some Sunday nights practicing dancing together; Neville, surprisingly enough, was quite a good dancer, for all of his apparent clumsiness. Ron used to joke that if only Snape would play music in potions class, Neville might suddenly become much more coordinated. Harry didn't doubt that the suggestion might actually have proven to be true if put into practice.

So here amongst a throng of Californians, Harry strived to be passable, and went back to watching Hermione, to watching how she moved, how the strobing lights hit the contours of her body; behind her knee, up her thigh, the concave curl of her back. She moved, he noticed, mostly to the bass line, as if the shaking he could feel in his chest, and which he could vicariously sense in hers, was what made her feet go in, out, side to side, her arms, up, down. He watched her face that had a look of quiet intensity, as if, dance, like all things to Hermione, required a certain amount of attention, and a pinch of concentration. Harry thought, in a rush of realization so acute it made the air leave his lungs in a rush, that the only time he had seen her face lose that keen look of attention, of intelligence, was when they made love, and it made him stumble backward slightly, into a man taller than he was, who grunted slightly, but moved to the side to give Harry additional room. If Hermione noticed that his place on the dance floor had changed, she didn't mention it, coming back to him with a slide of her hips and quick shuffle of feet.

They were well into their fifth song when Harry saw Hermione's face change, just slightly, tinged with blue that was coming from the swirling lights around them, red coming next to highlight some of the slight copper in her hair. She bit her lower lip, just briefly, and then suddenly turned and disappeared into the crowd so rapidly that if Harry hadn't known better, he would have thought she had apperated right out of the club.

A bit bewildered, Harry started off after Hermione, trying to find her, following in the general direction she had gone in. Though he tried, he couldn't see her at all in the crowd; he was tall, but not tall enough to see through the swarm of wriggling bodies. He gingerly went in the direction of the loos, but a long line for the women's told him quickly that unless Hermione was causing the hold-up, she wasn't in that area. He briefly thought about how useful a Marauder's Map would be at a place like this as he worked his way back through the crowd, again in what he thought was the direction Hermione had taken. This time, he noticed a door at the back marked with one of those lovely red Muggle exit signs, and opened it until it was slightly ajar.

There Hermione sat, on a small step leading to the alleyway in front of her, the dumpsters that were lined up and down the street clearly marking what the alley was used for. Harry came out of the door fully and let it shut with a brief click behind him. She had tucked her knees up toward her and rested her chin on top of them. Harry sat down on the step next to her but didn't comment.

"If this weren't bloody California, I'd be able to have a god-damn cigarette," Hermione said abruptly.

"I didn't know you smoked," Harry said mildly.

She shrugged. "Not very often, really. But it makes me feel better. Sometimes."

Harry nodded but didn't say anything, content not to push Hermione, and a little unsure of what he would say, anyway.

Eventually Hermione sighed. "Sorry about that back there. Crowds just make me jittery sometimes."

"Yeah," Harry acknowledged.

"I don't know. Too many people make me feel . . . trapped. So I get a little anxious. I guess it reminds me of . . ." she trailed off.

"Death eaters?" Harry asked casually, as if he'd just mentioned the name of some innocuous school club.

Hermione shot him a look that was a lot shrewder than he actually felt comfortable with. "Well. Yes." She paused. "How much of that do you remember?"

Harry shrugged. "Not much, actually."

"Yeah, well. There were a lot of them," Hermione scrunched her shoulders up, then let them back down again.

They sat in silence for a little while longer until Harry could tell by her slower breathing that Hermione had to have relaxed slightly. "Look, Hermione . . . about earlier . . ." he started.

She didn't even pretend that she didn't know what he was talking about. "I'm sorry, Harry. I was being . . ."

"A girl?" he provided for her, but smiled and tipped his shoulder against hers, softening any sting the words might have had.

Hermione tried a smile back. "Well. Yes." She started to open her mouth to continue, but Harry stopped her, placing the tips of his fingers on her lips.

"Hermione, listen. I'm not very good at this stuff. You must know that. I mean, you saw what a mess I made out of all that Cho business."

"You were 15, Harry," Hermione said. "I would hope that you'd have learned something between then and now."

"See, that's just the thing, though. I haven't. Or I didn't. Or something. It's like, while we were in school, I was so busy worried about Voldemort, or passing my classes, or taking extra DADA lessons and Occlumency lessons and dueling lessons, that, well, while everyone was off growing up, learning this stuff, I was . . ." he searched to find the right words. "Well, I was off with Snape learning to keep him out of my mind while he kicked the stuffing out of me."

Hermione laughed slightly, and put her hand on his knee. "And while you were doing that, what did you think we were doing? Having special classes with McGonagall titled 'How to Behave in Romantic and Sexual Relationships'?"

Harry thought about it briefly. "Er. Yeah, actually."

Hermione laughed a real laugh this time. "We weren't, Harry. Everyone in the world, the two of us included, has just been left to muddle through it ourselves."

Harry turned that over in his mind, but continued. "Maybe. But at least you all, I don't know, got to practice a little? At least with each other? Isn't that part of what school was supposed to be about? I don't know, I just feel like . . . I missed that. I had no practice. And then after Hogwarts, it was just more of the same, only more intense. More fights, more battles, more work. More fear." Harry took a breath. "Sirius was right in some ways. I am a lot less like my father than we thought."

Hermione knitted her eyebrows, but didn't say anything yet, except, "Harry."

"No. My dad . . . my dad, he was good at stuff, without even trying. School, friendships, girls . . . I've always had to work at it. At all of it," he finished, lamely.

Hermione took his hand in hers. "Harry. We all have to work at this stuff. On our work, on our relationships. No one has it all figured out." She laughed a little ruefully. "Not even me."

Harry started to contradict her, but Hermione was firm. "Harry. I may be smart. I might be the cleverest witch of my age. But I always have to work at things. We all do. That's part of life. Part of the fun. Anything that's worth something is worth working for. I'm sure even your dad knew that." She smiled. "Besides, if you'd listen to Remus for half a second, you'd hear that your dad had to work awfully hard at wooing your mum."

Harry thought back to the scene he'd seen in Snape's Pensieve. "Maybe you're right."

Hermione squeezed his hand. "Of course I'm right."

Harry brought their hands up to his lips and kissed the back of her hand. "I am sorry for being an insensitive prat before."

"Apology accepted," Hermione said, "on the condition that you continue to try to muddle your way through this with me."

Harry kissed her on the lips this time. "Of course." He could feel her smile against his mouth.