Chapter 7

Harry

Once again, I feel her before I see her. I look up towards the dormitories and watch as Hermione descends the stairs. Her hair is braided back, her red Gryffindor sleep pants exchanged with plaited blue and green ones. Her shirt is long-sleeved and grey and two times too big for her, drooping to the side and showing a long expanse of shoulder and arm.

On closer look…It's one of my shirts.

But we're not in the tent.

"You should be asleep," I admonish her when she's close enough. How long has Hermione slept in one of my shirts?

She collapses onto the couch beside me, pulling her feet up and into her lap.

Mi tries, and fails, to hide a yawn.

"I did go to sleep. For a little while. But your brooding woke me up."

"I'm not brooding," I reply without hesitation.

She shrugs, covering her mouth with her hand as another yawn rips through her body.

"Sure, you're not. I set an alarm for one a.m. before I went to bed tonight, so I could come downstairs to check for you."

I flip up my wrist, not yet accustomed to the fact that the watch the Weasleys gave me for my coming of age is no longer on my arm.

"What time is it?" I ask her, and she smirks at me.

Her wand buzzes where it's shoved through her hair.

She turns off the alarm with the flick of a finger and pulls the stick of wood from her braid.

"One o'clock," she says with a smile.

"You're impossible, Witch," I grouch at her. "You should be in bed."

I go back to staring at the fire. It's dying rapidly, the light in the room diminishing with the red and orange embers.

I lift my arm, and she automatically scoots over, but instead of laying against me, she lies down on the couch, her head resting on my lap.

"Seriously, Mi. Why aren't you asleep?" I ask, my fingers already gliding over the top of her head. Her eyes close at my touch.

"I could say the same to you," she counters, always prepared for a verbal spar.

I'm not asleep because every time I close my eyes, I see her dying. But I'm sure that's not an appropriate answer here.

"Just thinking," I tell her, hoping she leaves well enough alone.

Naturally, she doesn't.

"I know," she replies with a sigh. "I wasn't lying. I can hear it from my four-poster. I could feel it. Like a bumble bee buzzing in the back of my mind. It's muddling up my own thoughts."

I scoff at the outrageous accusation. We sit in silence for a few moments, and I watch the fire burn down to ashes while ignoring how soft the skin of Hermione's forehead feels under my thumb.

"Today went well, I thought."

She says it hesitantly, her mind leaping in a thousand different directions while her mouth picks an easy route.

"Yeah," I agree, letting my head fall back on the couch. "I was pleasantly surprised, to be honest."

This is the first time we've been alone since we woke up. We haven't had a chance to talk without prying ears.

"Sirius is officially free. Already filed paperwork for your adoption."

I don't really need a recap. I was there for all of this. But it's best to let her get it out of her system. Hermione likes to think out loud sometimes.

"Yup," I say, only paying half attention.

"How long do you think you'll have to stay at the Dursleys this summer?"

I shrug and trail my pointer finger down the outline of her hair line and over the curve of her jaw.

"Month. That's usually the way it works, isn't it? A week or so after my birthday."

"When are we going to the Ministry? Oh!"

I cut her off before she finishes.

"Yes, I heard Madam Longbottom took her oath this afternoon."

Mi huffs that I beat her to it.

"It's only temporary, until a new Minister can be voted in."

I chuckle lightly at that.

"You didn't spend six years rooming with her Grandson. I'd bet money she's in the job until she dies. Even then, her ghost might keep the spot."

I dig my fingers into her scalp, loosening more of her hair. Then, "How did you hear about it? You were in the library for hours."

She's basically purring under my touch.

"Heard it in the hallway. By the way, Professor McGonagall gave me permission to borrow books over the summer. Madam Prince went ballistic, but I have the stack we talked about."

Is she actually purring? It sounds like she's purring.

"That's nice."

She wiggles a little, settling her head deeper into my lap and her ass into the cushions.

"I'm still irritated you didn't warn me before you told Ronald," she says, though she doesn't seem all that irritated to me.

"I thought you could hear me brooding," I counter. "Certainly, you knew it was going to happen."

She huffs in pretend annoyance.

"Yes. I did. But I didn't realize it would be ten minutes after I woke up."

She smells like fruit. Strawberries and vanilla or something. It's distracting me. It's a different smell than what I associated with her with all those months in the tent. Of course, she wasn't getting regular packages of supplies from home via Owl Post then either. By the end, I think we were all using the same soap and shampoo.

She's probably waiting for my response.

"I woke up to the loud sounds of four Weasleys standing over us and asking each other why you were asleep in my bed. The other three dropped the subject when I threatened to stab Ron with the sword, but funnily enough, that didn't seem to discourage Ron the way you think it would. I had to give him something, and my initial excuse only made it worse."

Her eyes pop open, looking for me in the dimness.

"What did you say?" she demands in soft tones.

Even though her hair is braided, nothing short of magic that neither she nor I possess can keep the glory that are her curls contained. Already bits are popping out here and there, and I twirl a particularly twisty strand around my fingers.

A smile tips up my lips when I think about her hair.

It gets everywhere. The witch is always shedding. The entire tent was covered in it. In the showers, on the furniture. I even pulled strands of the stuff off my balls a time or two. I'm convinced that Hermione's hair has its own soul, its own personality. It took me ages until I could lay next to her without it smothering me in my sleep. That's when she started braiding it back at night.

"It doesn't matter," I tell her when I remember to speak. "Suffice it to say nothing short of time travel would have gotten me out of the mess I made."

"Hfpt," she huffs, letting her eyes slip closed again.

Taking stock of the fact that now both of my hands are playing with Hermione's hair, I stretch one out along the back of the couch and move my other arm to the arm rest.

"If it's any consolation," I try, hoping I sound more tactful than I feel, "I don't think he'll be as obnoxious this time around."

"Doubtful."

"I mean it," I say. "Between what we told him, and what he heard Dumbledore say, I think he'll be a lot more palatable. It'll be you and he at the Tea Shop for Valentine's Day, mark my words."

She tenses against me, and my hand flits to her forehead automatically before I have a chance to stop myself. I run my thumb across the lines there and watch as they smooth under my touch.

"That's not going to happen," she says softly.

There's nothing in her voice. No regret, no sadness. Just plain and simple truth.

"Why not?" I ask her. Thanks to a year of torture, my voice is calm, and my fingers don't tremble where they trail up and down the outline of Hermione's face. "I know we never talked about it. Which is kinda weird actually, because you and I talk about everything but that. But I thought you liked him. He liked you. Likes you, even now. Even if he doesn't know how to say it."

My throat is dry and scratchy, and I have to swallow several times before I can continue.

"It's almost like fate," I prompt her. "You have the chance to do it right, this time. To skip the pain, he caused you and get right to the good parts."

There. I said it. I did the right thing.

She opens her eyes at last, and even looking at her from upside down, she is so very lovely.

"But he did cause me all that pain. And—" she shrugs, and her weariness makes me sad for her. "I liked him. But, how much of that was because I liked him, or because I was alone and liked being liked? I know that doesn't make sense, but I can't explain it any clearer than that. The truth of the matter is, Ron and I wouldn't even be friends without you. You make him tolerable."

A puff of air escapes me. It would almost be construed as a laugh if I wasn't concentrating so on the Witch with her head in my lap.

Even in the near total darkness, I can see the blush as it colors her skin.

"I'm not saying that if you died for real tomorrow, we wouldn't still be friends. But not like we are today. We all have our parts to play, and I understand that now. I even get what you were saying about too much time in the library, as heathen as that thought is. But the big difference between my relationship with you and my relationship with Ronald is you go to the library with me, even when you don't want to. Ron won't."

My other hand joins the first and starts twirling her hair around my fingers again.

"Even if it happened, it wouldn't have lasted long. A few dates maybe. A snog or two. Then we'd go back to trying not to kill each other with you playing peacemaker."

That I do laugh at.

"You're beautiful, Mi," I say, not even caring that it gives away too much. "Not to mention the smartest person anyone has ever met, Dumbledore included. No offense to my best Mate, but certainly you're not saying that you thought Ron was the best you could do?"

She lifts a finger to her face, and I smile when she gives herself a pig's snout while itching her nose.

"I guess that is what I'm saying. I didn't have any girlfriends besides Ginny, because Harry Potter was my best friend. They either all hated me because they assumed we were together on the side or wanted to use me to get to you."

I didn't know that.

"I didn't know that," I repeat so she can hear me.

She lifts a shoulder then lets it fall again.

"Same goes for the boys. I'll admit, there were quite a few that asked me out. Most of the straight ones from fourth year up if we're laying it all on the table. But they were either using me to get at you or wanted to prove that they could nab Harry Potter's girl. Ron was all that was left. And you…"

Anger rushes through me.

"Ow," comes from a little voice below, and I jerk when Hermione's hand touches mine, releasing the pulling grip I suddenly had on a strand of curls.

"I'm sorry, love," I say absently, running my fingers over her head.

But…

"Who?" I demand, already building a list of assholes.

McCormac for sure. She never did tell me what that wanker did to her to make her hide like a hunted animal at Slughorn's party.

"It doesn't matter, Harry."

Her hand squeezes mine again.

"The fuck it doesn't," I exclaim. "Tell me who, and what they did to you. I promise I won't kill them," I add at the wide-eyed expression on her face. Maim, torture, disfigure. Maybe, pull out Hermione's sneak spell and use it to write douche across their faces.

But I won't kill the fuckers.

I swear.

Probably.

Hermione starts laughing, and I pause in my mental disembowelment to look down at her.

"Really?" she asks, and I blush as I realize I must have been talking out loud.

"Sorry," I mumble, and she pulls her lips over her teeth to control her smile.

"What about you and Ginny?" she prompts, and I can't contain my gag.

Her eyes widen in surprise. Now that it's almost completely dark, it's easy to read her face.

"Yeah," I say. "That's a hard pass."

"What? Why?"

"Sixteen-year-old Ginny was fun. Fourteen-year-old Ginny?" I shiver involuntarily. "Besides that, I may be stuck in this body, but I'll be eighteen in a few weeks. Pedophilia doesn't do it for me, thanks."

"Harry, that's horrible," she croons, trying and failing to control her laughter. "And completely inaccurate. A four-year difference isn't that bad."

"Maybe in ten years' time it isn't. Right now? No. Besides that…"

This is why we didn't talk about this sort of stuff; I realize. It's awkward and uncomfortable and I have to do it, since she was honest with me.

"You know that whole only wanting to date you to get to Harry Potter thing?"

She nods, my hand spread wide on the side of her face.

"Hi." I say. "I'm Harry Potter. Nineteen years from now, we could have been married with three children, and in the back of my head, I'd always wonder; was it me, or my name?"

"It's a rubbish name," Hermione says, and it catches me so off guard I burst into laughter before I can check myself.

"Thanks," I smile, fixing my glasses and returning my hand to her hair.

The silence that falls is easy, and I can almost hear her brain kick back into gear, going off in another direction.

"The meeting went better than expected."

I agree. Much better. I went into it all righteous indignation, and left…well, I'm still pissed off. But if I can't punch Ron for things he hasn't done yet, I suppose the same goes for Dumbledore too.

"Professor Dumbledore didn't mention the Horcruxes," she continues, "but I didn't really expect him to. At least he was up front about the prophecy. And now more people are aware of it than last time. Sirius and the Weasleys needed to know. If nothing else, Arthur will be able to help contain Mrs. Weasley's instincts to keep you hidden away. She knows now that no matter what, you're going to have to take a position of leadership in the coming confrontations."

Great. Just what I want.

"Joy," I say dryly.

"Don't be like that," Hermione coaxes. She heaves herself into a sitting position, turning to face me. Without thinking my hand reaches out to pull her back, and I tighten it into a fist to stop the motion. She pivots to face me on the couch. "I know it's frustrating, but it's a necessary development. We spend a lot of time with the Weasleys, Harry. We need her on your side."

I remove my arm from the back of the couch and scrub my hands over my face.

"It's not that, Mi. I'm fourteen again."

"Fifteen, in a month," she's quick to interject.

"Fantastic. Fifteen. Even if we told them everything we know, no one will believe us."

"That doesn't matter," she insists. "What good will telling anyone do anyway? We've, and by that, I mean you obviously, have already changed the most recent events. Nothing else happens for ages. By then, we'll have adjusted our game book, and either subvert him, or be able to skip it altogether. Excluding the breakout from Azkaban, which I'm still pondering how to prevent, I doubt anything will be like it was before."

"So, you're telling me this whole thing was pointless."

My throat closes and I shove up from the couch, suddenly desperate to run. To fly. To grab my Firebolt and take Hermione and go hide in the Forest of Dean for the rest of our natural lives.

My arms cross over my chest and I dig my nails into my arms to keep from screaming at the top of my lungs.

"No!" Hermione cries, turning so her feet hit the floor. "I'm telling you you've already done it, Harry. You've already won!"

She grabs my hand as I stalk past her, hauling me to a stop.

"Professor Dumbledore admitted to the prophecy with witnesses. He requested that he give you private lessons next year without being prompted. By this point in the last timeline, he was already making plans to shut you out. Refusing to make eye contact. He was terrified that if he looked in your face, he'd see Voldemort looking back at him.

"But he can obviously tell that something is different. That you've shed your connection to Voldemort, or that you're strong enough to overcome it. He trusts you Harry, without a year of Umbridge and a possession by Voldemort to make it happen. This war isn't one fight. It's going to be filled with hundreds of little battles, and you've already won the first bouts!"

She reaches for my other hand and tugs, and I almost collapse on top of her before I twist and land on the couch beside her instead.

"Mi," I say, unsure of anything anymore.

Hermione squeezes my chin between her fingers, forcing me to look at her.

"I know you're frustrated, Harry. I know how much you despise sitting still when you feel like you need to move. But you do nothing without a purpose, even brooding on the couch at one a.m. What were you doing down here instead of going to bed?" she demands, her voice firm. It cuts me with its edge.

"Waiting for Dobby," I reply automatically, the truth slipping out before I can consider a lie. "I wanted to bond him as soon as possible. He didn't show up tonight."

She releases my face, running her hand over it gently instead.

"Dobby doesn't start cleaning the dorms until fifth year. We'll go to the kitchens together tomorrow."

My shoulders collapse under the weight of her stare, and I fall backwards on the couch, pulling her with me.

"It wasn't pointless, Harry," Hermione says softly, after we've sat for so long, I thought she'd fallen asleep.

"Yeah, okay," I agree.

I hold my mouth shut through a yawn. Subterfuge is worthless between her and I though. I've known it since I was eleven.

"Think you could sleep?" she asks.

Listening to Ron's snores? Not a chance.

"Maybe," I lie.

Hermione flicks her wand, and the couch stretches to twice its width.

I go where she shoves, lying flat on the couch. She maneuvers me how she wants me, using my bicep as a pillow and curling her back into my side.

"I've set the alarm for six," she mumbles through a yawn. "If anyone wakes us up before then, run them through with the sword."

From one moment to the next, she's asleep.

I follow her a heartbeat later.