Chapter 17

Hermione

I tried to convince Winky that I didn't need her supervision to bathe.

She burst into tears.

Which is the only reason I'm in a clawfoot bathtub large enough to fit three grown men with my eyes closed, letting her massage soap into my hair. She conjured a footstool to stand on, from where I have no idea. But she's humming lightly as she scrubs at my scalp, and I don't want to admit how wonderful it feels.

I chose to ignore how quickly the tears stopped the moment I agreed to let her help me.

"That feels fantastic, Winky," I tell her anyway, because it does, and she deserves to know it. But now her humming has the distinct tone of cockiness behind it, and I'm afraid I've just signed my death warrant. I'll never be allowed to bathe alone again. I feel it in my bones.

"Winky uses a special potion. Mistresses' hair will be much easier to brush. Tip."

She places a soft finger under my chin and tilts my head back. Water begins to cascade down my back as she rinses the potions from my hair.

A knock startles me out of my revere, and Harry's voice comes through the door.

"You okay, Mi?" he asks, and his voice has a hollow quality. I can't decide if it's from the wood separating us or because of what happened at his Aunt and Uncle's house. The bond between us is all muddled, somehow. It's like wading through quicksand, everything tacky and thick.

"Yeah," I tell him, lifting my voice so he can hear me through the expansive space that is the bathroom.

The bathroom, it's a lot. White and grey marble from top to bottom. Double sinks, a separate shower room. Floor to ceiling windows. There's a loveseat in one corner and a chair in another. Fluffy white linens that must be brand new. Nothing in this house could still be that white. The entire suite is over the top. I find it ironic, if I'm being honest, that so much of the house is cast in darkness, but the master suite will be bathed in light for the majority of the day.

It's not any more than I've come to expect from wealthy pureblood families, but it's a strange feeling in my stomach knowing that technically, in the eyes of the law, Harry and I own it now. We own a lot more than that. The combined portfolio of the Potter-Black estates is expansive, and the Townhouse is just the tip of the iceberg.

Harry is still standing outside the door. I feel him there, like an open wound. The harder he tries to contain his emotions, the more it makes my head hurt.

"You can come in, Harry. I'm decent."

If you ignore the fact that underneath the foot of bubbles, I'm completely naked, I am.

The door handle twists, and the wood creeps open, if only just a crack.

"I just wanted to check on you before I go find a shower," he says, and I can see his reflection via the giant mirror that takes up half the wall. He meets my eye in the glass, then quickly looks down at his feet.

He's finally ditched the waistcoat and his shirt is completely open, hanging from his shoulders and untucked from his black jeans. His belt is open and loose around his hips.

Merlin, that's an even better look on him then the actual outfit was. The lines of his muscles are evident, from the hard ridges of his abdomen and the tight v of his hips.

Every single scar that graces his body I see in a new light. If I tried, I could probably put a memory to every wound. The one's I was there to witness firsthand, and the ones I weaned from his mind when I saw that fucking cupboard.

"You can come in farther than that," I try again. The door opens wider, but Harry doesn't take another step. "Honestly, Harry," I sigh in exasperation. "Last week you were stripping down to your pants in front of me without a care in the world. Today, you find out that we're actually married, and you can't look me in the eyes when I'm literally covered from the neck down. I didn't realize you were such a scaredy cat."

He meets my eye in the mirror again, and the Gryffindor courage flares behind his glasses. He enters the room, shutting the door until it's only a crack. He doesn't walk over to me but instead, moves to the counter and hoists himself up so he's sitting on the edge with his feet dangling above the floor.

What is it about bare feet that are so sexy? Maybe it's the fact that we always see people in shoes. Bare feet seem intimate in a way few other things can. Even in the tent, he almost always wore socks.

Am I honestly getting turned on by Harry's feet?

The buzz from earlier must have been stronger than I thought. Which makes perfect sense, because if that's what Harry feels like all the time, then I don't know how his body can possibly keep all the magic thrumming through him contained.

"How are you?" he asks, leaning forward with his hands gripping the countertop. His posture seems to deflate, the hardness of his shoulders drooping into a soft curve.

I yank my eyes away from the tempting vision Harry presents and focus on his words.

"I'm okay," I try to assure him. "I promise."

I don't think either of us really believes that, but it's worth a try.

His smile is gentle, the green of his eyes sparkling in the low-lit room.

Winky leaves her perch from behind my back and drapes a fluffy robe over the seat of a wingback chair in the corner by the windows, then she silently leaves the room, shutting the door gently behind her.

When Harry meets my eye again, he looks like he's about to cry.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione. I had no idea I could do that to you."

I jerk in surprise, the bubbles in the tub floating out and away from where they've been concentrated.

"You didn't do anything, Harry! It was me that lost control! Or did a blow to the head scramble your memories? I'm the one that lost my cool." I bring my knees up until they poke out of the water and wrap my arms around them. "I can't believe I did that. I mean, they deserved it. But—" Anger rips through me, hot and savage, before disapparating just as quick.

"Gods, Harry. Is it always like that?"

The power riding through him and the struggle to keep it contained, it left me speechless. No wonder his temper is always on a hair trigger.

His lips tip up in a half smile.

"You get used to it," he quietly replies.

"Ugh," I groan and drop my forehead onto my knees. "Everyone saw it, Harry. The Headmaster, Professor McGonagall. Half the Wizards there work for the ministry! Every time I fill out a job application, they're going to remember that one time I went mental in Harry Potter's living room."

Harry laughs at that, full bodied and throaty. I lift my head to glare at him but can't seem to do it when I see the happiness in his face.

"So now they know the real you," he grins. "Brilliant, but scary."

"Hardy-har-har," I snap at him. I rest my cheek against my knees, trying to think back to seeing that cupboard. "I don't even remember what happened, to be honest. Not really. I just remember being so incredibly enraged. I knew, of course, that they'd hurt you. But I don't think I understood the true meaning of it until I saw the vent. It wasn't even the cupboard. Not really. It was knowing that to keep you alive, they had to put holes in your cage for you to breathe."

I look at Harry, and it steals my breath away. How can a boy who was treated so poorly, have grown into such a man? He would do anything for the people he loves. Kill for us, be killed. He's suffered inhumanities that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Hell, the first thing he did when given a second chance was go to his oldest antagonist and offer him help. How did a boy kept in a cage learn to become such a man as this?

I can't wrap my head around it.

"I saw the doggy door upstairs," I say. "I figured they used it to feed you when they locked you in. But you had a room. A window. They didn't replace the bars after the Weasley's yanked them out. For some reason I always thought of your time with the Muggles in an abstract sort of sense. I couldn't imagine the horrors you suffered until I saw them. Now I almost wish I never had. Because it's all I can see. You as a toddler, locked and crying in that tiny closet."

I have seen it now. I've lived it. Felt it with him. Only we were barely three, and we didn't understand why Dudley got all those toys and was always hugged, and we cried until we passed out.

He almost died that day. Not for the first, or the last time.

Harry wondered if we could share memories. The answer to that question is a big fat yes.

I don't realize I'm crying until Harry is beside me, sitting on his knees on the outside of the tub and wiping the tears from my cheeks.

The edges of his shirt get wet, the fabric rendered see through and heavy with water.

"Save your tears, Love. It's not worth it. They aren't worth it, and neither am I."

He swipes his thumbs across my cheeks, and I sigh in pleasure at the feel of his hands on me. Even in such a platonic way, it makes my blood sing.

"But I am sorry," I insist, trying and failing to ignore the way my skin heats under his touch. "I'm sorry for the way they treated you and I'm sorry for losing my shit after I've continuously told you to keep yours together. And I'm even more embarrassed that I don't even remember what happened. One minute I was seeing you in that cupboard the next I was slumped against your chest."

"Yeah," Harry says and ugh, his martyrdom complex is really going to get annoying. His shoulders slump and my chest aches with his pain. "So, you don't remember them telling us that it was my fault. Guess you got a little taste of my resentment and ran with it. My bad."

I shake my head.

"Uh-huh. Nope. Sorry. You can't take the blame for this one. Maybe you fueled my little flare-up, but the hatred was all mine. You were right, we should have left them to rot."

Harry takes my hand in his and links our fingers, my pruney skin looking deformed where he holds them between our faces over the water.

"No," he sighs. "You were right, as usual. Nobody deserves what Voldemort would do to them, even the Dursley's. I gave Dudley my mirror. Remind me tomorrow to get the other half from Sirius. We'll have to find another way to communicate with people. If we can get another few sets of those, or some other means. But I gave Dudley mine, in case anything ever happens, and they need help. I didn't stick around to discover the end results of Dumbledore's negotiations. I'll ask tomorrow what's being done for them. But either way, I made the effort." He pulls my hand towards him and kisses the inside of my palm before releasing the digits. "Dudley wasn't so bad, outside of his parent's influence."

"I'm proud of you," I tell him honestly.

He shrugs, ducking his head, always uncomfortable with praise.

"We'll see if anything comes of it. I'm not sure which way I want it to fall yet."

I can understand that. There's a lot of water under that bridge.

Harry takes a lock of my hair, still hanging damp down my back and over my collar bones, and twirls it in his fingers.

My breathing tightens in my chest, and I have to concentrate so it doesn't sound like I'm gasping at the intimacy of his touch.

He's been doing it for weeks now and didn't even realize it.

He clears his throat before he speaks.

"I guess it's my turn to apologize."

I don't need to ask what for. His guilt is thick in the air.

"I'm waiting," I say, and fold my lips over my teeth to stop myself from smiling.

"Do you know what a gluten allergy is?"

What?

I jerk in surprise so hard the water splashes up the side of the tub.

"No," I shake my head. "I don't."

Harry gives me a tiny smile.

"Me neither. But I have one."

The silence is heavy between us, even if it's a comfortable weight. The tub is heated with a charm, the temperature never dropping below what's comfortable. I can sit here all night, if need be, until he gathers the courage to say what he's got to say.

Of course, the pile of bubbles is little more than a creamy film at this point, my chest exposed from mid breasts up.

"At first," he starts, leaning back on his hands. "He said it like a slip. I told you the bloke was angry. He was railing at me, about how I was supposed to die in my sleep with my soulmate, some doll named Granger."

I blink away the excitement and fear, ignoring the way elephants bounce up and down in my belly. Try to keep my face as neutral as possible. I know I can't, so I wrap my arms around my knees again.

"I tried to ask right then, but he blew right over me. I was dead, but all he cared about was how it affected him. Then later, when he was coming up with his abysmal plan, I looked at the file sitting open on his desk. There it was, in black and white. Hermione Jean Potter-Black, soulmate. I think, when he went through all those stupid titles we'll be saddled with the rest of our lives, Bond Mate was even listed."

My eyes widen as he says that, and I think back to our first night back, when he was listing off what he remembered.

"If we ever figure out how to share memories on purpose, I'll let you see the entire thing," he says.

"I'm holding you to that."

There's too much flowing through me. Too many feelings. Too many thoughts. What's his and what's mine? I don't even know anymore. But at the same time, there isn't nearly enough. Because I can't tell what he's thinking, and he's not offering it willingly.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask when it becomes apparent, he's not going to say anything more. Harry leans forward and pulls at the back of his neck, shrugging his response.

I can see his heartbeat pick up in the pulse point on his throat.

"I don't know. What was I supposed to say? What even is a soulmate anyways? Do you know the answer to that yet? Because I still don't. Now the soul bond thing," he says, and his lips tilt up in a smile. "What Ragnok said about us sharing a soul?"

He huffs out a laugh and his smile splits his face in two. He looks almost giddy, and I feel my own giddiness rise up in return. I want to laugh, and I want to cry and I don't understand either emotion except for the fact that when Harry looks at me like that…when he stares at me like I hung the moon and the stars? I know I'll do anything and everything in my power to keep him looking at me like that for the rest of my life.

No matter how long that is.

"The soul bond I understand. Intrinsically." He flattens his hand in the air, and flames burn on his palm. "Like magic." He closes his hand, and the fire vanishes. "Two halves of a whole?" His grin is otherworldly. Happiness bubbles in my chest and Merlin it should be illegal to feel this delighted. "You are everything that I'm not," he says through a smile. "You're smart, beautiful, patient."

"I'm not that patient, Harry," I cut him off, and he laughs, and grins, and God's I'm blushing, and I have no idea why.

My fingers lift to my face, trying to hide my smile, but there's no controlling it at this point.

"I know you're not. I was trying to be gentlemanly. Between the two of us I have buckets more of the stuff. Never be a teacher, Mi. You'll make them cry in the first week."

I try to be offended by that. I should rage against his impertinence. But when he's right, he's right, and Harry is almost always right. It's a bit annoying, really.

"Still," I say, and give him a pointed look. "You could have said something. It's been different this time, hasn't it? We've been different. We could have figured it out sooner if you would have told me."

"Told you what?" he demands, impatience making his voice tight. "That stupid file said I died in the arms of a soulmate. A girl who I'd basically been halfway in love with since I was eleven. Who I was pretty sure was in love with my best friend. Then on top of it, the file was already wrong! Because the only reason I was there to see your name next to mine to begin with was because I was dead a hundred and fifty years before it said I should be. Why should I believe anything written inside of it? So yeah, I didn't say anything to you. If there was a way I could undo the soulmate thing, I would. In a heartbeat."

He shoves up from the floor, his shirt billowing behind him as his anxiety propels him to pace the length of the bathroom.

"But you already know that, don't you, Hermione? You know me better than I know myself. You know that if there was a way, if I could hide you somewhere and keep you as far from what's about to happen as humanly possible, I would. I'd have never let you come with me last time, if I thought there was even the smallest chance I could have survived as long as I did without you. Which there wasn't. So, you came with me on the hunt, and then you died."

I open my mouth to respond, but Harry does it for me.

"I mentioned soulmates. The night we came back. I'm assuming you went straight to the library?"

He stops several feet from the tub and glares at me, his eyebrow lifted in question. I hate looking up at him like this. If we're going to fight, it should be on equal footing. But I can't exactly stand up to my full height at the moment.

Or could I…?

"Yes," I say, lifting my chin as high as I can.

Nakedness would probably win me this fight pretty quick.

He jerks his chin and resumes his pacing.

"Didn't find anything worthwhile. If you had, you'd have told me."

He's right, dammit.

He knows it too.

"So, telling you would have done nothing. Given us something extra to worry about maybe. Made you think I was going mental. Clouded your judgement. Because how could you possibly pick what would actually make you happy with a darkness like Harry Potter's soulmate hanging over your head."

He stops, and turns to me, running his fingers through his hair. It looks wild, his chest is bare, the shirt framing it like a picture and what are we fighting about again?

"I asked the Unspeakables why we weren't informed of the Soul Mate Bond. They told me that notices were sent out, hundreds of years ago. For both the Soul Bonds and Mate Bonds. But one day a soulmate notification was sent out to a Pureblood wife, whose soulmate turned out to be a squib working in her home. It caused problems, as I'm sure you can imagine. She never would have known if they hadn't told her first. The Ministry stopped with the notifications after that. Now they simply inform the bank and let them deal with any complications that may arise."

He falls into a squat with his hands on the rim of the tub and runs his fingers along the line of my jaw. I'm very painfully aware that my layer of protection bubbles has long since disappeared.

"I wasn't keeping it from you. I was trying to give you the ability to choose. What would I have said, Mi? 'By the way, some stranger told me we're soul mates. Would you like to run away and get married now?' What would you have said?"

I open my mouth to refute him, then shut it again without saying a word. I'd have told him he was out of his mind.

"Honestly, Mi. In the grand scheme of things, it felt…" He hesitates, searching for a word. "Inconsequential."

Ouch. That hurts.

"What am I going to do with a soulmate? Especially when I'd just been told that dying and coming back to life was a hobby of mine. I saw you in the Great Hall, kissed you, because it felt like a damn good idea given the circumstances, and promptly pushed all thoughts of soulmates from my mind. I didn't think of it again, even with the—" his voice hitches in his throat, and he sucks in air like he's trying not to drown. "Even with the fact that I can hardly breathe when I can't see you, until Ragnok told us we were married. Only then did the term soulmates filter back into the front of my mind."

I can see that. It's a very Harry thing to do. Act first and worry about the consequences when he gets to that part. Or forget about them entirely.

Guess what? We're there.

"What about now?" I prompt, terrified of the answer, even though I can feel his joy singing through my blood.

"I'm sorry you're stuck with me," he says with a rueful expression. "But I could never be sorry that I get to spend my life with you. If you'll have me, that is."

I bit my bottom lip so hard I taste blood against my tongue to keep from yipping from the happiness I feel.

"It's a little late to ask, don't you think?" I tease him.

"I'll ask you every day for the next hundred and fifty years if that's what you want, Mi."

I pull the drain to the tub with a pulse of magic, and rise from its depths, standing at my full height with Harry still on his knees.

"Bloody hell, Hermione," he breathes.

His eyes trail from my feet hidden in the bathtub and up my legs. Heat flushes his skin as his eyes rake my bare flesh, pausing only for a moment at the point between my legs, before following the trails of water dripping down my curves. His gaze feels like it's burning, the echo of desire molten hot in my veins.

"Get my robe for me, would ya?" I ask him, and I want to jump and dance and sing that my voice comes out so perfectly even. He scatters on the floor, almost toppling over in his rush to get his feet under him. He sprints the few feet to the chair and yanks the robe off the cushion, shaking it out and holding it open.

"Help me get out," I tell him. "I'm afraid I'll slip."

I hold my hand out for him and he grasps it, his fingers trembling where they grip mine. I lift one leg from the tub, then the other, dropping down several inches from the added height of the claw foot ceramic. He opens up the robe again and I slip my arms in one at a time, pulling it closed around my front and knotting the tie across my hips.

"Shower's all yours," I tell him, squealing internally at the way his eyes have glazed over and his mouth is hanging open. I place a hand on his chest, no longer surprised at the heat that radiates from him. I lift up on my tip toes and place a kiss on his cheek, then leave him standing in the bathroom, blinking like a moron long after I've left.

I'll have to remember that for future references.

Nakedness wins fights after all.