Chapter Three

The Ribbed Original of Love

In the beginning was the word, the word

That from the solid bases of the light

Abstracted all the letters of the void;

And from the cloudy bases of the breath

The word flowed up, translating to the heart

First characters of birth and death.

—Dylan Thomas

Hermione knocks on the door. Her hand is steady, but her heart beats with faltering trepidation.

She waits a small eternity before she hears movement on the other side, and finally, the door swings open revealing her friend's disheveled form.

It is obvious she has woken him from slumber; his face is creased and unshaven, his hair is untidy—more so than usual, and he is clad only in what appears to be a hastily pulled on pair of ragged pajama pants, riding low on his hips.

His face is painted with surprise. "Hermione, what're you doing, here?" he asks in a sleep-husky voice.

She smiles and feigning nonchalance, shrugs. "I was in the neighborhood. I thought I'd drop in for a visit."

He looks confused. "It's rather early for visiting, isn't it?"

"Harry, it's one o'clock in the afternoon," she says shooting him a reproachful look.

"Oh," he says, looking faintly sheepish.

"Now, are you going to invite me in, or do you fancy having afternoon tea on your doorstep?"

An uncomfortable look flits across his face. "Ah…well…you see." Seeing the resolute look about her he quickly capitulates. "Sure…of course. Come in," he says, resignedly, and moves back, allowing her room to enter.

She walks past him, briskly. She surveys the living room, raising her eyebrows. "You've cleaned," she observes. The space is spotless, free of its usual bachelor-accumulated detritus.

"I had to, some time or another," he says, appearing vaguely ill at ease. He shrugs, appearing to dismiss the matter, and then gestures toward the kitchen with a brief dip of his head. "Something to drink?"

"If it's no bother."

A small smile curls the corner of his lips. "You're never a bother to me, Hermione," he says cheekily.

She moves with him to the kitchen, helping herself to a glass of water as he starts rummaging in the cupboards.

"Omelet?" he asks.

"Sure."

She busies herself toasting and buttering the bread, while he simmers some onions and tomatoes in a frying pan, and beats some eggs in a bowl.

"Aren't you afraid you'll get burnt?" she asks, with a nod at his shirtless state.

He shrugs, glancing down at his naked chest. "I think I can take it."

She rolls her eyes. "Men! Cooking over a hot stove with no shirt on. Honestly. Such conceit," she says, disparagingly.

"Why, Hermione, are my man nipples making you…uncomfortable?" he asks, leering mockingly at her.

Hermione snorts. "Hardly. Violently ill, more like."

"Are you sure it's not unrequited lust you're feeling?" Harry asks, grinning at her.

"Sod off," she says, trying to quell a mounting blush. Though Hermione has admitted to herself, in her darkest, deepest, most private thoughts, that Harry has grown up to be quite the looker, she'd rather cut out her tongue than reveal her thoughts on the matter to anyone. Ever.

Harry makes a rude noise, which Hermione ignores.

The pair continue their bantering, and in short order, they have a late breakfast assembled.

They pass the time savoring their meal—eggs, toast, and steaming hot tea. Whilst talking about inconsequential things, Hermione studies her friend, seeing, despite his apparent best efforts, lines of strain around his mouth and faintly bloodshot eyes. She surreptitiously inspects his bare arms but sees no puncture marks or bruises on them.

Hermione is usually unskilled at deception, but apparently her attempt at light-hearted banter is credible because she seems not to have raised his suspicions. He appears relaxed, almost, in her presence.

Visiting Harry, a day after Tonks's revelation, is an impulsive act—one she feels direly unprepared for—carried through because of an urgent need to assess him; to see, with her own eyes that he is well, unharmed by his own folly.

Harry directs a question at her, pulling her from her grim musings and she rejoins the conversation, deciding to put aside her worries, for a short while.

Their conversation is halted mid-laugh when the creaking sound of Harry's bedroom door opening reaches their ears. A light tapping of bare feet on wooden floors moves down the hall, approaching them, until a young woman, clad in a short camisole and low-slung knickers, appears in the kitchen's entryway.

"Oh, there you are. I was wondering where you'd got to," she says, to Harry, looking not at all self-conscious.

Hermione blinks at the girl, surprise clearly written on her face. "Oh," she says. "I-hello."

Harry has the grace to blush. "Uh—Hermione, this is…uh…um…"

"Nola," says the girl, saving him. She smiles briefly at Hermione, and then turns to look at Harry. "I was wondering if I could use the toilet before I go."

"Oh, yeah. Sure. It's down the corridor. Second door on your right," he says, pointing.

"Thanks."

The girl leaves, and silence falls, broken only by the sound of a door opening and then thudding shut.

Hermione finds her voice. "Harry," she hisses, "who is that girl?"

Harry scratches the back of his neck—a nervous habit—shrugs and says, "Someone I met."

"When did you meet her?" Hermione demands.

There is a pause before Harry answers, embarrassedly. "Last night."

"My God, Harry, the girl's a tart," Hermione exclaimed. "And for that matter, so are you!"

"What?" Harry says looking indignant. "Men can't be tarts. She's…just someone with whom…I've had a…limited acquaintance."

"It can't be that limited if you've already taken her to bed. You don't even know her name."

"I did. I do. I'd forgotten it, that's all." He shrugs, lamely. "A few pints will do that to you," he explains.

"What about Tonks?" Hermione hisses.

"What about her?" Harry says with deliberate obtuseness.

"Does she know about…?" Hermione asks waving her hand behind the absent Nola.

"We have an arrangement that suits us perfectly," Harry says, defensively.

"Perfect maybe," Hermione argues, full of doubtful skepticism, "but for whom? She doesn't deserve such inconsiderate treatment. Least of all from you, Harry."

"Tonks knows exactly what I'm about," Harry cuts in angrily. "Her eyes are wide open in that regard. No need to defend her from me." He rises to his feet, moving about in an agitated fashion.

Hermione knows she's crossed a line. Tonks is a taboo subject as far as Harry is concerned. But Hermione has always gone where angels feared to tread. She opens her mouth to speak, again, but promptly closes it shut when Nola—dressed this time, albeit scantily—saunters into the kitchen.

"Could I have a glass of water before I go?" asks Nola of Harry.

Harry stares at her for a beat, and then blinks as though coming out of a trance. "I—yeah…sure."

He fills a glass with water, and hands it to her.

She sips the water daintily, surveying Harry's apartment through the open kitchen. "Nice place you've got here," she says, appreciatively. "You must've paid through the nose for it."

"Er…thanks," Harry says.

She drains her glass. "Thanks…Hal, was it?" she says, returning the glass to Harry.

"Harry."

"Harry, then," she amends. She gives him a slow, speculative smile. "Give me a ring, sometime, will you?" She reaches out, squeezing his arm, warmly. "You've got great moves, not like some blokes I know who wouldn't know what to do with the bits dangling between their legs if you paid them."

He flicks a glance at Hermione, but he can't stop the amused smile from tugging at his lips. "I'm glad you think so."

She looks at Hermione. "It was nice meeting you, love."

"I'm sure it was," says Hermione in a derisive tone.

Nola seems unaffected. Hermione feels like doing something violent to the girl.

"Let me show you out," Harry says, and moves to escort the girl to the door.

Hermione remains seated and hears them exchange a few words in low tones, silence, and then the closing of the door.

Harry comes back into the kitchen with a lit cigarette in hand.

"Harry," she starts off exasperatedly, but doesn't continue. He's heard her anti-smoking spiel before.

"Oh, why do I even bother speaking? You and Ron never listen to me."

Harry exhales a thin stream of smoke through pursed lips. "Come, now, love. I wouldn't say that," he says, smiling charmingly at her.

"Oh?" Hermione questions. "Well, I've seen small evidence of that," she says, getting up to leave.

"You don't have to leave on my behalf," Harry says, getting up with her.

"I'm not," she says. "I have some small errands to run. I just wanted to stop in and see how you were doing."

"And now you can rest easy," Harry says, not unkindly, making a face at her.

She pauses at the door, and looks into his eyes, searchingly. "Harry, you know I love you, right?"

Harry looks surprised. "Of course, Hermione. I love you, too."

She reaches over to him, and he envelops her in a warm hug, careful not to touch her with his smoldering cigarette.

She presses her face to his warm chest, savoring the muffled sound of his beating heart.

She releases him, "All right, then," she says sniffing exaggeratedly. "Go take a bath. You stink."

After making a rude gesture at her, Harry closes the door, and Hermione leans back against the wall, her breath leaving her body, tremulously.

How, she wondered, had it come to this?

Three Years, Ten Months Ago

Harry was lying atop his bed, staring, unseeing, at the wall, when his dull musings were interrupted by the distant sounds of the doorbell chiming to life.

Harry roused, briefly, from a heavy stupor to wonder at the identity of the person at the door, before he quickly lost interest.

A short time passed—unnoticed by Harry—before a sharp knock sounded on his bedroom door. Startled, he lurched abruptly from his curled position, stretching his body and tight muscles before planting his feet on the floor. "Come in," he called out, wearily.

The door opened, and there, standing framed in the entrance of his bedroom door was a strange young woman—that is, until she opened her mouth. "Wotcher, Harry!"

"Tonks," Harry said, standing to greet her. A small smile curled the corner of his lips. "What're you doing here? It's not been three days, has it?" He'd been diligent about that, if not much else, at least.

"No. I come bearing gifts," she said, jovially. "And birthday greetings from your friends."

"Oh!" Harry said, surprised. He hadn't realized it was his birthday.

Tonks took his silence as an invitation and entered the room more fully. She emptied, onto Harry's bed, a brown, leather rucksack of its weighty contents. "These are from Ron, Hermione, Ginny, the twins—I'd be careful of those if I were you. Cakes from Mrs. Weasley, and—here it is—this is from me," Tonks, said, finishing her monologue, and extended a gaily wrapped parcel to Harry.

Harry blinked, still standing in frozen surprise, until his limbs became unstuck and he moved to accept the gift, all the while blushing and stammering. "I…oh…well, thank you."

"You're welcome," Tonks said, simply, smiling at him.

"Can you stay a while longer?" he asked, shyly. He was suddenly eager for company.

"Not today, I'm afraid. This is a drop and run," she replied, indicating the packages on the bed. "Another time, perhaps?"

"Yeah, sure," he said, resignedly. It was clear he didn't expect there to be another time.

Then, Tonks did something really strange: she shifted closer to him, and pressed a kiss, softly, on his forehead; right over the famous scar on his head. She drew back, eyeing him, critically. She did not like what she saw. Weariness drew lines on the planes of his face, and his recent growth did not hang well on his frame.

Harry began fidgeting under the scrutiny of her gaze, picking at the edges of the outer wrapping of the gift still clutched in his hands.

"Happy Birthday, Harry," Tonks said. She smiled disarmingly at him for a short moment, and then Disapparated with a loud crack.

A week passed before Tonksturned up again.

They sat on singed grass in the backyard under the shade of a leafy poplar tree and ate curry tandoori chicken out of white take-away containers.

"You've not been corresponding with your friends," Tonks stated. It was not a question.

Harry shrugged, only mildly perturbed by her non sequitur. They'd previously been discussing the merits of Wizarding versus Muggle music. Tonks was a music aficionado, andshe was aghast at the state of Harry's knowledge—or decided lack, thereof.

"You ought not to waste their friendship," she said mildly. "They are the truest you will ever find."

They sat in a small silence, before Tonks spoke, again. "Your aunt is looking at us quite strangely."

Harry looked up. It was true. Aunt Petunia was looking at them intently from behind the kitchen curtains. She hurriedly twitched them shut when she realized she had caught their attention.

Harry shrugged again, used to his family's eccentricities. "She's probably afraid of what the neighbors will say."

"I see," Tonks said, after which she changed the topic, and they began speaking about other things.

Two days later, Tonks dropped in for a visit. It was raining outside, so they sat on Harry's bedroom floor, partaking of a small feast. Tonks introduced the different dishes sitting in the white Styrofoam: gai sate, grilled marinated chicken with a peanut dipping sauce; and po taak, a soup made from prawns, salmon, and calamari in a chili, lime, and lemongrass broth.

"I should see about taking up another language, then," Harry joked.

"What d'you mean?" Tonks replied, puzzled.

Harry gestured at the food. "It's just…I've never eaten food like this before…I can hardly pronounce their names…it's very good, though," he hastened to assure her, worried that he might have offended her somehow.

"Not at all," Tonks replied in a faux snooty voice, "I'm merely trying to expand your culinary palate, Harry. British food is so common. Nothing at all exotic about its flavors."

After they finished their repast, they indulged in a game of exploding snap, with a hastily erected silencing charm thrown over the room, by Tonks after having been chastened by Aunt Petunia's strident "Boy!" being shouted up the stairs.

Punk music poured out from the wireless Tonks had given him for his birthday in gritty, discordant tones, and rain lashed the windows and the plants and the trees outside.

Harry can't pinpoint when he and Tonks began engaging in carnal relations.

That's not to say he doesn't recall the surprise he felt when she first pressed against him, her lips touching his; the wonder he felt when he beheld her naked body for the first time or the terrible awkwardness he felt when he slid his cock into her warm channel.

It's just from that point onward the summer seemed to take on a surreal glow. The exact mechanics of his days became lost in a miasma of heat and lust.

Was it the day his aunt soundly berated him for dropping a whole roast on the floor? Was it the day Tonks appeared in his bedroom, grimly agitated about goings-on at the Ministry? Or was it the day Mundungus Fletcher arrived on his family's doorstep, remarkably tipsy and clutching a packet letters from his friends?

Harry was unable to come up with an adequate reply.

At first, the sex was not very good, which left Tonks yearning to shape and mold his desires and Harry straining to fulfill this strange, elusive need.

And it was a large need. They fucked on Harry's bed, on the floor, against the door, and one day when the Dursleys were out of the house, they fucked in the bath against the cool tiles, albeit without much coordination or skill.

Harry was a quick study.

They transferred that need to Grimmauld Place when Harry was transported to Headquarters at summer's end, rubbing slickly and frantically together, alternately trying to kindle and put out a fire.

And so it continued the remaining weeks of the summer until Harry left for school, them fucking with wild abandon. Harry having found an outlet for his grief, and Tonks, a young lover she could tame.

Tonks lands wearily on her parents' doorstep. She had just spent an arduously long and strained afternoon with Ron and Hermione discussing various ways of addressing Harry's problem.

They'd gone round and round in circles, neither Ron nor Hermione coming to an agreement and Tonks vacillating between the two.

They'd finally agreed that they needed to seek the help of a professional healer. Of course, that had given rise to the unaddressed problem of finding one who'd be trustworthy and discreet. It wouldn't do for word of The-Boy-Who-Lived's peccadillo to hit the streets.

Tonks sighs, feeling weary beyond measure.

She opens the door with a wave of her wand and a muttered incantation.

"Mum, Dad," she calls into the silent house. Odd, she thought. They must have gone out.

Then she hears a thump, and then a scurrying sound, followed by the scampering of tiny feet running across the bare floor.

A small dark-haired little boy—no more than two years old—runs, full-tilt, down the hall, a tall, regal-looking woman walking sedately behind him. "Mummy, Mummy!" he cries.

"Emmy!" she cries in return.

Tonks bends down, her face splitting in a beaming smile, and scoops him into her arms. She plants kisses, furiously, over his small face. The boy in her arms squeals with tickled delight.

"Oh, my Emmy, I've missed you so much," Tonks murmurs into his soft neck.

"Me too, Mummy," he says, his tiny arms encircling her neck. He leans back to look at her. His large, green eyes sparkle brightly at her from underneath his tumbled mop of hair. "I misthed you!"

Note: On a point of clarification, it is presently June 2000, wherein Harry is 19 and Tonks is 26. In the past, it is July/August 1996, wherein Harry is 16 and Tonks is 23.

Thanks to my beta, abigail, for her help in correcting my mistakes, especially my overzealous use of commas, and for pointing out that there needed to be a point of clarification.

Thanks to all those who reviewed the last chapter. I apologize for the long wait. My muse took an extended vacation. There are literally four different versions of chapter three currently sitting on the cutting room floor. None of them floated my boat.

Oh, and no offense is meant by the line about British food being common.

The poem by Dylan Thomas is called In the Beginning.

See chapter one for disclaimer.