For the first time in a while, Harry didn't wake up in the half darkness, in a cold sweat, still hearing Voldemort's voice echoing in his ears. On the contrary, on this particular morning, he was awakened by the warmth of sunlight on his face—warmth that seemed to radiate everywhere, though that might have been the particularly pleasant dream he'd had. He couldn't remember all of it, but he could distinctly remember bouncing on clouds made of a maze of twisting brown hair that smelled like citrus.
He smiled inwardly, remembering Hermione's appearance the day before. He hadn't realized how on edge he'd been about her absence—about what could happen to her at home—until he saw her.
Well, felt her, was more accurate because before he'd even had a moment to process that she was in front of him, she'd folded herself in his arms, and then she'd been kissing him… not that he particularly minded that. No, that part had been perfect.
It all would have been perfect if it wasn't for the fact that she'd had a bad time at home. That much was evident from the loneliness in her eyes, the frown on her face, the hitch in her voice when she told him about her summer. And then there'd been the tears.
And the only thing he'd thought to do was hold her because he was fundamentally underprepared to know how to do anything else. He didn't know the words to say to comfort anyone, didn't know what to do with emotions. For too many years he'd been told not to have any.
Hermione had actually started opening up to him—to tell him about her problems instead of bottling them up and running off to the library or the loo or wherever it was she disappeared to when she was upset—and all he could offer her was a hug.
Some boyfriend he was. He had to learn how to be better at this. She always seemed to know what to say to make him feel calm.
He felt a nibble on his finger and opened his eyes. A blurry white puff—Hedwig, he assumed—was nipping at his hand. He pulled on his glasses and sat up. From the look of the sun outside, he'd actually managed to sleep in a bit—though, considering his usual wakeup time, that wasn't saying much.
Hedwig was staring at him affectionately, a small pile of birthday presents behind her.
There was a box of Honeydukes chocolate from Ron, socks that heated up whenever there was snow from Dobby (which was not particularly useful now, but would be a godsend in the winter), and a small, beat-up package from Hagrid containing a compilation of German wizarding fairy tales. Of course, most of them seemed to be about erklings and read more like horror stories. Still, Harry was touched that Hagrid remembered, considering he was on a quest to find the giants and likely hadn't been near human civilization in a very long time.
Harry also opened Luna's present, which had arrived with Neville's. She'd made Neville a charcoal drawing of Luna, Neville, Harry and Hermione sharing a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, so he wasn't surprised that he received a watercolor of the four of them jumping on clouds. Like Neville's, the four of them moved around in the picture. Harry's eyes couldn't look away from Hermione's hair—Luna had managed to capture how each curl and tendril seemed to have a life of its own. Every once in a while, Harry and Hermione dipped beneath the clouds.
Harry loved the present.
After staring at Hermione's mesmerizing hair for a while, he felt his stomach rumble. He put the gift in his drawer—he thought it was brilliant, but he also wanted to keep it to himself for a bit—and made his way down the stairs.
There were voices in the dining room and a clattering of teacups and spoons.
"So do you think it will go through?" Augusta said.
"Dumbledore seems to think it will," Remus replied. "We all know why Fudge is pushing for this decree, but technically, there's nothing really wrong with it."
"Doris Macmillan said her husband is incensed," Augusta added. "He doesn't like the Ministry interfering at Hogwarts at all. And Griselda doesn't much like it either. She wasn't even consulted."
Harry's stomach dropped—what was the Ministry doing that had Griselda Marchbanks and Ernie Macmillan's grandfather so peeved?
"Even if Fudge does sign it, the Board still retains complete control of Hogwarts," Sirius pointed out. "Though this is certainly more direct an attack on Dumbledore than I thought that sniveling coward was capable of."
"Well, after Fudge's attempt to get Dumbledore kicked off the Wizengamot failed, I'm not surprised he's out for blood," Augusta noted. "He knows he's losing ground with the public."
"Will the Ministry go after existing teachers?" Hermione piped up. "Does this have something to do with the inquiry into Professor Snape?"
She sounded worried—as if whatever this was had been her fault.
"Fudge would've tried this even without that, I'm sure," Remus assured her. "Albus has had a hard time filling the Defense Against the Dark Arts position for the past… decade at least."
Harry nearly snorted. That was an understatement.
"Still, I wouldn't put it past the Ministry to use this as a springboard to root out Dumbledore loyalists at Hogwarts as well," Sirius reasoned.
"Does Snape count?" Neville asked, a note of derision in his tone.
Harry couldn't see it, but he felt Sirius' smile at that comment. He peeked his head in—the five of them were seated toward one end of the dining room table, an empty seat saved for him. They were drinking tea and chatting away, and while their conversation clearly wasn't the happiest, it all looked comfortable and familiar and warm.
Hermione turned her head, immediately sensing his presence, and a brilliant smile graced her face.
"Harry!" she greeted, standing to give him a hug. "Happy Birthday!"
He wrapped his arms around her—this was the first real birthday hug he'd ever gotten—and then she pulled him by the hand into the seat next to her.
"Happy Birthday, Harry," Sirius said, clapping him on the shoulder, as the others wished him well as well.
It was a completely foreign thing to him, and when Diggy served the breakfast—eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, porridge (there was practically every option Harry could think of)—he felt a tightness in his chest.
"What's going on with the Ministry?" he asked to distract himself from the feeling.
Remus' smile abated. "Don't worry about that today," he said.
Harry leveled a look at him, and Remus chuckled.
"Right," he said. "Fudge has proposed an educational decree that will allow the Ministry to appoint teachers in the event that Dumbledore cannot secure one. He's floated the idea through 'sources close to the minister' in a couple of Daily Prophet articles to see how the public reacts, but we're sure he'll sign it any day now."
"Are there any open positions?" Harry asked, thinking of Snape's inquiry and the revolving door of Defense Against the Dark Arts professors. "Isn't Moody coming back?"
"No," Sirius replied. "He's been firm that it was a one year appointment. And that with Voldemort back, he's needed elsewhere."
"That won't do us a lot of good if we get stuck with some Ministry stooge," Harry said grumpily, and from the commiserating looks on Neville and Hermione's faces, they agreed.
"Albus has some things in the works," Remus said confidently, though Harry wasn't sure how much of that was true and how much of it was Remus' faith in the headmaster.
Remus had always trusted Dumbledore fully—but they all knew the Defense Against the Dark Arts position wasn't exactly a popular job (probably on account of the last few winding up dead, insane, fired or kidnapped). Dumbledore would probably have to do a worldwide search to find someone crazy enough to take the job…and they'd likely wind up with one of Fudge's lackeys anyway.
Sirius smiled awkwardly—did he share Harry's belief that this might not be a task Dumbledore was up to?—and cleared his throat.
"That's enough of that," he said in a tone that left no room for discussion. "It's your birthday. And I for one think you should do absolutely nothing but nonsense today."
Sirius was as good as his word. Of course, Harry shouldn't be surprised given how Neville's birthday had gone.
Neville hadn't wanted anything big, so they'd spent the afternoon playing Bardles. It was a wizarding game, named after the type of balls they used, that was similar to bowls or bocce, only whenever someone knocked one of the bardles further away from the jack, their bardle erupted in celebration, spraying everyone in the vicinity with paint the color of the ball.
Hermione and Harry had been particularly competitive, and Sirius' only aim in the game seemed to be to spray everyone with as much paint as possible, so by the end of it, they were all covered in blue, yellow and purple paint.
Neville had just been so delighted to see his normally prim and proper Gran in such a state, the vulture atop her hat now fully purple, he didn't even care that he didn't win. (Harry, however, had been perfectly satisfied with his victory.)
Then Sirius had insisted they all jump in the lake in their clothes—Gran, too.
"To clean up," he said good-naturedly as an explanation, but as soon as they were in, he created a giant wave pool.
Harry had been particularly pleased when Hermione, shrieking in delight, was knocked into him by a wave. She'd thrown her arm around him, eyes shining, and he'd been reminded of the way she looked at him when he told her he knew she was his hostage during the second task—only now her teeth weren't chattering and her hair wasn't forming icicles, and they weren't separated by her very heavy robes. No, in their summer clothes, they weren't separated by much at all.
Harry had quite liked that, too.
Later, after they were in dry clothes, and after they'd had dinner and cake, Neville opened his presents. He'd gotten an expensive looking set of gardening tools from his Gran, some fancy-looking fragrance from Sirius that he insisted any girl would like (after one sniff, Hermione confirmed that Sirius' statement was accurate), a homework planner from Hermione (which she insisted was so much more than a homework planner, and after she showed them some of the features, they grudgingly admitted she was right), and a collection of Roald Dahl books from Harry.
"This one's your favorite right?" Neville asked, pointing to James and the Giant Peach.
"Yeah," Harry agreed, "but I think you'll like this one best."
He pointed to Matilda. He didn't see how Neville wouldn't enjoy a protagonist who got her revenge on her awful bully of a teacher. (Well, headmistress, but the parallels to Neville and Snape were still there.)
"You didn't get The Witches?" Hermione asked, looking through the books.
Harry shrugged. "Felt a bit derogatory," he confessed. "And besides, I reckon you were probably right about the ending of that one."
Hermione hadn't liked that the main character—a little boy—got stuck as a mouse and would die long before he should have. Harry didn't mind the ending so much when he was younger—at least the boy had his grandmother—but he found it a bit unsettling now.
After Neville opened his presents, they'd set off fireworks in the yard. Neville's face lit up with delight, and Hermione had rested her head on Harry's shoulder, the weight of her a calming presence. Feeling Hermione curled up against him, watching Neville's joy, the way Sirius animatedly put on a show for them all, and seeing the way Gran surveyed the scene with a look Harry couldn't quite decipher but which he didn't think was displeasure, Harry thought it was the most perfect day that had ever existed.
Of course, he had no idea what Sirius had planned for his birthday. When Sirius had asked what he wanted to do, Harry had shrugged—he'd never had a birthday party before, so he'd be grateful for anything they did.
But perhaps he should have given Sirius some sort of guidance because he was liable to come up with pretty much anything. Well, anything he could think up on the Longbottom's land because it had been made very clear that aside from their quick trip to the village, Harry wasn't supposed to go anywhere.
When he and Neville returned downstairs from their bedrooms after getting dressed, the others were waiting for them. Except it wasn't the others. There were three adults, all of whom appeared to be in their forties, all wearing perfectly nondescript muggle clothes: a dark-haired woman and two blonde men. There was also a plain-looking girl with pin-straight blonde hair and blue eyes. She looked completely different, but he'd recognize Hermione's smile anywhere.
"What's this?" Harry asked, exchanging a confused look with Neville.
"A jailbreak," one of the blonde men—Sirius—replied, as Remus plucked Harry's glasses from his face and turned them into sunglasses. Sirius, meanwhile, started to work on the rest of Harry's appearance. When he was done, Harry's hair was a light brown with bangs that hid his scar, and his eyes were a slate grey. Neville similarly had his appearance changed.
"Where are we going?" Harry asked, eager for the unexpected trip.
"Out in the muggle world," Augusta answered.
"I doubt any of Voldemort's spies would even know how to navigate where we're going, but the disguises are a good bit of extra security just in case," Sirius added.
He took hold of Harry's hand, while Augusta paired with Neville and Hermione with Remus.
"Once we get there, we're muggles," Remus said sternly. "No magic, no talk of magic, no using the word muggle."
He looked the most nervous about the plan, but the fact that he was going along with it meant he must've thought it was okay.
Hermione shot him a look of sheer incredulity. "Yes, that will be very hard to pretend," she said pointedly, sharing a smile with Harry. They'd thought they were muggles most of their lives.
Harry felt the familiar lurch of apparition—he really did prefer brooms—and the next thing he knew, he and Sirius were standing in the entranceway of a theme park.
He'd never been to one before. Dudley had gone, of course, but Harry had always been sent to Mrs. Figg's.
"What do you think?" Sirius asked nervously, looking down at Harry with a hopeful expression.
Harry had no idea what to think. He'd never expected… he knew Sirius would do something, but nothing like this.
"I think it's brilliant!" Harry declared.
Hermione immediately moved closer to him, slipping her hand in his. He could tell what she was thinking. She clearly wanted him to have this, but her tight grip told him she was nervous about the whole plan.
"Are you sure this is okay?" she asked the adults tentatively. "All these people…"
"The thing about staying out of sight, Hermione, is it's a lot easier to blend in when there are a lot of people around to blend in with," Sirius explained. "And who's going to be paying attention to us here when they're all so focused on their own fun?"
Hermione seemed to consider that and nodded, though she didn't loosen her grip on Harry's hand.
Once they'd entered the park, moving amongst the crowds of people, jostling them this way and that, Hermione's grip loosened. Sirius' words had seemed to sink in—that or she remembered that they looked completely different, were in a park hours away from Neville's home (which no one knew the location of anyway), and most wizards didn't even know parks like this were a thing that existed.
"Where to first?" Sirius asked.
Harry looked down at the map in Remus' hands, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the biggest rollercoaster on it.
"That," he said decidedly.
He felt Hermione's grip tighten, heard Neville's slight intake of breath—though from the look of resolve on his face, he was determined to do this for Harry—and saw Sirius' grin broaden.
"An excellent choice," he nodded, leading them toward the ride.
Rollercoasters were a serious business and Harry finally understood why Dudley loved going so much. They went on every coaster multiple times—well, everyone but Augusta—and even Neville seemed to enjoy himself. Once he realized that rollercoasters had things like safety bars and seats and a track, and didn't go quite as fast as brooms, they didn't seem quite as scary to him.
Harry liked flying on a broom better, but he couldn't deny how fun a rollercoaster could be… especially when Hermione was clutching him, holding onto him for dear life.
"Oh, I don't like this, I don't like this at all," she muttered before every dip or turn or loop, reminding Harry of how she'd clung to him on their hippogriff ride third year. Only he'd been too young then to realize what a thrill it could be.
Still, she always had a brilliant smile once the ride finished, her eyes shining, and she was always excited to go again, so Harry didn't think she actually hated it so much.
There were coasters with loops, and corkscrews, ones that just went really fast, and one that was indoors. Neville seemed to like that one best.
"If I don't know what's coming, it's less scary somehow," he explained.
They did more than rollercoasters, of course. There were rides that swung from side to side, the pirate ship, log flumes, a river rapids ride, a haunted house, various rides where they spun around really fast, a carousel.
Gran even joined in on some of them, though she found the haunted house "a bit derivative."
They stayed until the park closed, packing in as much as they could. When they left, Harry's heart was light and his stomach was full of every sort of junk food there was. He thought that was it, but when they returned to the house, Diggy had a cake waiting for him.
He wasn't sure where to look when they all sang "Happy Birthday!" to him, so he stared intently at the cake. He didn't know what to wish for either—this day had already been perfect and he didn't want to sully it with a wish like "for Voldemort to just go away."
"Time for presents," Neville said eagerly, and Harry blinked at him in surprise.
Well, of course there would be more presents. Hermione had always gotten him one, and the others would, too, but Harry had honestly forgotten all about it.
He opened each one eagerly: a wireless radio from Augusta that was identical to the one in Neville's room; a book on battle Transfiguration from Remus; a new pair of quidditch gloves from Neville, which he'd heard Viktor telling Cedric were the absolute best for seekers during one of their training sessions last year; and a camera from Sirius.
"Thank you," Harry said genuinely, looking down at the camera. He actually had memories he'd want to remember now.
Finally, he turned to Hermione's present. He opened it slowly, revealing a wooden box the size of a large textbook. But when he opened that, the box sprang into a large blue table the size of one you'd play table tennis on. A bag full of small white balls popped up next to it.
To be honest, Harry wasn't sure what it was.
"Is that a transfiguration table?" Remus asked.
Hermione nodded, turning to Harry.
"When you told me you were learning battle Transfiguration, well I just thought… see I'd read this in-depth interview with Quinby Masters—he's one of the foremost experts on Transfiguration… he revolutionized the transfiguration of farm animals for cross-border transportation. Anyway, he said that when he was younger, he had a transfiguration table and it helped him hone his skills, and even now when he's stuck on a problem, he plays with one because it helps him think better," Hermione explained anxiously, twisting her hands around nervously.
"I wasn't sure—but you'd said you really liked the lessons, and with a table like this…" she looked at him, trailing off, unsure.
Hermione had always given him great gifts, but they'd usually been food or quidditch related. This was the first time she'd ventured out of that comfort zone.
"How does it work?" Harry asked, still not exactly sure what a transfiguration table was.
"Oh!" Hermione said, her face lighting up the way it did whenever she got to explain something. "Well you put the ball on the table and transfigure it into something, and then your opponent transfigures that into something, and you go back and forth like table tennis," she said. "Only the table acts as a barrier—whatever you transfigure can't go beyond the table, and it'll only go up in the air five feet. And you can practice transfiguring large things—like a dragon or a bear—in miniature first. So you can use it as just a fun game, or you can use it to work out strategies—"
Harry could already see the possibilities. There had been a couple of times when they'd been training when the transfiguration had gone a bit wrong and if Sirius hadn't been there, someone might have been injured. With this, they'd be able to safely continue training when they went back to Hogwarts. The room of requirement was great, but Harry wasn't sure if it could save them from a bear (not that he was anywhere near that level yet).
"It's brilliant!" he said, smiling at Hermione.
"R-really?" she asked, still uncertain of her present.
"Yeah," Harry nodded emphatically. It as exactly the sort of thing he needed for training, and exactly the sort of thing that could be fun just because. One thing he'd learned this summer is the wizarding world had a lot more to offer in terms of games than just quidditch, wizard's chess and exploding snap.
Harry ran his fingers over the ball, suddenly feeling the urge to try it out. "Want to have a go?" he asked, looking up at Hermione hopefully.
She nodded happily, and Sirius and Remus started clearing furniture to make more space. As it turned out, Harry's birthday wasn't over just quite yet.
Everything felt better with Hermione at Wiggentree Manor. It was like it had been at Easter, only better, because now Harry could kiss Hermione whenever he wanted and Sirius was also here.
He also found that he was having fewer and fewer nightmares—whether that was because of Hermione's presence or just a coincidence, he wasn't sure, but he was grateful for his nighttime reprieve.
Hermione wasted no time settling into the manor, getting caught up on everything that had been going on that they hadn't been able to put into letters. He had been dreading telling her about the nightmares—hadn't wanted to see the fear in her eyes—but while she was clearly scared when he told her about Voldemort's weapon, she was also resolved, and her logical approach to the matter calmed his nerves.
"Whatever he's after, the Order knows about it," she reasoned. "So it's not like we can be blindsided by it."
Still, Harry, Hermione and Neville all agreed that Dumbledore must know what the weapon was—and the fact that he was keeping it a secret, even from Sirius, was puzzling.
Hermione also joined them in the lake and Neville in the greenhouse when Harry and Sirius played swivenhodge (though Harry and Sirius found themselves playing less and less of that, as the four of them made use of the transfiguration table instead).
When they were in the Auror Room, transfiguration was a serious business, but the table felt like something else altogether—it was freeing in a way, trying to come up with new and inventive things to turn the ball into. They often played in teams—Sirius and Neville against Harry and Hermione—and he felt a pride he'd never really felt before when Sirius would applaud the way he turned a vase into a butterfly, or when Hermione shrieked in excitement, wrapping her arms around his neck when his iguana turned out all right.
He wasn't as good as her at it—her transfigurations were always flawless, while his butterflies sometimes still bore the pattern of the vase—but Transfiguration didn't feel as pointless as it did when they were in class and turning matchsticks into needles.
The Auror Room was a different story. Hermione wanted to join him in his lessons and Sirius gladly agreed. Hermione's bubbles were far better than his—she created thousands effortlessly, and where it took him awhile to get the hang of changing their shapes, she did it perfectly right off the bat.
But when they battled Sirius, Harry found he had the upper hand. Most of the time, Hermione's transfigurations were flawless, but sometimes she faltered under Sirius' practiced, relentless attack. Usually, this only happened when he threw a fireball or flying swords at her (and, obviously, Sirius always stopped them before they could do any damage).
It frustrated her, he could tell, the way she'd accomplish the transfiguration 10 times, but then slip up when Sirius hit her with something she didn't expect. She'd furrow her brow in concentration, chewing on her lip, tripling her efforts to focus on the task.
"How do you do it?" she asked him once, a note of discouragement in her voice.
"You're better at Transfiguration than me," Harry pointed out to her.
"But you don't freeze up when Sirius attacks you with a fireball," Hermione said, clearly exasperated.
Harry shrugged. He didn't really think it would be best to point out to his girlfriend that he had a bit more practice than her at dodging things that were trying to kill him.
"I just don't really think about it," Harry said instead. "I just react."
Hermione looked dubious.
"It's like when you slapped Malfoy or when Neville hit Snape with that spell," Harry continued. "Sometimes you just have to act on instinct."
Hermione looked at him thoughtfully and then rolled her shoulders back. He could hear her mentally lecturing herself to just act.
She needed to relax.
He could probably help her out with that.
And absolutely, that's something that he did… or tried to, anyway. Augusta seemed to be everywhere, reading her paper or knitting the world's longest scarf in whatever room Harry and Hermione happened to be alone in.
Neville tried to run interference—asking his grandmother to go out to the greenhouse with him or to give her opinion on what color he should paint his room. But even when Augusta was gone, Diggy always seemed to choose that moment to deep clean wherever Harry and Hermione were.
"Come on," Harry whispered to her once Diggy set about polishing the goblin-made silver mirror across from the sofa where they were seated.
Hermione looked at Diggy, a crease marring the space between her brows—he didn't know if she'd ever be okay with Diggy's situation, even if the Longbottoms did treat her well—before following him outside.
Harry's path was purposeful. He hadn't been in the Secret Garden since Neville forced him to go see the baby bowtruckles, but Hermione was here now.
She grinned when she realized their path, increasing her pace slightly. They practically sped through the greenhouse.
Harry made sure to look at her face as they entered the garden, and sure enough, was rewarded with a look of complete peace and delight, her features transforming instantly.
They settled down on a patch of grass near a swirl of dahlias, gardenias and roses, the wildlife rising up around them, acting as an extra barrier to everything outside.
"I missed this place," she said, her hand playing absentmindedly with a blade of grass.
"Next year, you've got to be here for the baby bowtruckles," Harry said. "I've never seen anything like it."
Hermione looked at him contemplatively. "Do you think you and Sirius will be here next year?" she asked. "Maybe he'll have bought a place by then."
Harry shrugged. He wasn't all that used to thinking about the future.
"Sirius told me he and Augusta have planned for this place to be protected under the Fidelius for a long time," he said. "I don't think he's thinking about us going anywhere."
Hermione nodded. "I suppose with You-Know-Who, everything is on hold," she said.
She paused and Harry suddenly felt on guard, her hesitation causing the hairs on his arms to stand up.
She took a deep breath and plowed ahead. "Neville told me you've had a lot of dreams," she said diplomatically.
You've been talking about me?" Harry asked, his voice sharp. He didn't like that at all.
"Yes, Harry," she said.
Hermione didn't look at all apologetic about it. If anything, there was a hint of exasperation in her tone.
"The same way you and I talk about Neville when he's going through something," she added. "Because we care about you. And if you're having these dreams—"
"I don't want to talk about the dreams," he said flatly. "It's not a big deal."
Just a mixture of Winky and Crouch being murdered, the Cruciatus curse, his mum pleading for his life as a baby, and whatever Voldemort and his followers were up to now, since Harry somehow had a direct connection into Voldemort's mind. None of that was any sort of deal at all.
Hermione didn't look convinced either.
"I didn't press it when we were at Hogwarts, but… Harry, you have to talk to someone about these things," she implored.
He knew he was being a hypocrite. He wanted her to tell him about her parents, to open up about her problems—even if he was rubbish at saying the right thing—and he really shouldn't be shocked that she wanted him to do the same.
But even still, he didn't want to think about the dreams, didn't want to think about that night in the graveyard. When he was awake, he was somehow able to compartmentalize all of that and he didn't want to open those doors.
"Can we just be in the garden?" he asked. He heard the pleading note in his voice and he hated it.
Hermione studied him for a long time, her warm, brown eyes raking over him, compassion flowing out of her. She nodded slowly, and Harry let out a breath.
He smiled, feeling more centered now that that was over.
"I didn't really suggest coming out here to talk anyway," he said.
Hermione looked around the garden, and to his surprise, blushed crimson.
"We were in this garden when I first realized I wanted to kiss you," she confessed.
Really? But that was months ago. Harry didn't want to think about how much better his life would've been if Hermione had just acted on her feelings. Even if he hadn't known how he felt back then, he'd like to think her lips would've helped his brain to catch up.
She looked nervous, and Harry felt like he should reciprocate so she wouldn't feel so vulnerable. "For me, it was in the library," he said.
Hermione's eyes were alight with pleasure. "Really?" she blurted. "The library?"
Harry leaned in, unable to resist the delight on her face.
"You're very in your element there," he said, his lips hovering close enough to hers to feel their breath mingling together. "I could watch you read those books for hours."
"You have," Hermione said dryly, gliding her hand into his hair, and pulling him closer. "Next time we're in the stacks, let's try out your idea."
He closed the fraction of a distance between them, felt the softness of her lips, the taste of her tongue, the way her hands gripped his hair when he moved to explore her neck, her collarbone, her earlobe, the way she whimpered involuntarily and molded against him when he did. He smelled the citrus of her hair mingling with the fragrance of the roses and the gardenias, and the only thought that he had before settling into thoughts of her was to hell with Voldemort and the future: Being with Hermione, snogging the girl he cared about more than anyone else in the world, in this garden that they both loved so much, was all that mattered in this moment.
Even with Hermione's help questioning the portraits and going through the books in the library, they were no closer to figuring out anything about Helga Hufflepuff's office or the house elves.
Sirius had asked Dumbledore and Professor Sprout about it on one of his trips to Hogwarts to create the maps for the professors, but reported back that neither of them had ever heard of any such room.
"Well that's disappointing," Hermione frowned when he told them the news. "If any living person would know, it would be them."
It was raining out, so they were all lounging in the sitting room, reading books and comics, listening to the wireless radio.
"We've still got Hannah's journals though," Neville pointed out from his spot on the floor. "From what you said, there are still hundreds to go through."
Hermione had told them all about her trip to Hannah's, excitedly reporting everything she'd learned about Hogwarts from those books.
"And," Sirius added, "as someone who spent more time at Hogwarts exploring the castle than he did going to classes, I can tell you that sometimes all you need to do to find what you're looking for is to go looking for it."
"Yeah," Harry agreed. "Think of all those prefect patrols you'll have, Hermione. That'll give you hours to look for hidden rooms and passageways."
Hermione flushed. "Well, we have no idea—McGonagall could pick anyone—there's no guarantee that it'll be me, of course," she rushed out, shooting a flustered look at Harry.
Neville snickered. "Now, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," he laughed, sharing a grin with Harry.
"Of course," Neville added thoughtfully, "the two of you will be searching on those prefect patrols together."
Harry shot him a confused glance. "You think it will be me?" he asked, surprised.
Neville leveled a look at him. "Who are Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore going to pick? Seamus?" he asked incredulously.
Well, no, probably not Seamus.
"Well, there are loads of us," Harry said. "And I've gotten into plenty of trouble—"
"So did Remus and he was prefect," Sirius pointed out.
"Yes, but look at the alternatives to Remus," Harry said. "From what you told us, it was either him or the friends who convinced him to get into trouble in the first place."
Sirius grinned. "That's true," he said. "Minerva had slim pickings that particular year." He surveyed Harry and Neville. "She's got a lot more to work with now."
Harry hadn't spent a lot of time thinking about who would be prefect, if he were being honest. He did like the idea of nighttime patrols with Hermione, and he definitely liked the idea of getting recognition for something that wasn't about his scar or his quidditch skills, but that was about him. And yet… there was a big part of him screaming at him not to hope for anything, that he'd just be disappointed.
Hermione shook her head, pulling Harry from his thoughts.
"Regardless, prefect patrol is supposed to be about patrolling the hallways, not finding secret rooms," she said, a hint of a scolding to her tone.
"Spoken like a true prefect," Sirius muttered, flipping a page in his book.
Harry and Neville shared a grin. Hermione sat up straighter, looking like she wasn't sure if that was supposed to be an insult or a compliment. Knowing Sirius, it was probably a bit of both.
"Well, we don't have to wait until Hogwarts to search for the office," she said, clearly having decided to ignore Sirius' comment. "Hannah's invited me back next week, and she said you two could come too if you want."
But Harry couldn't go. Sirius put his foot down that his jailbreak had been a special treat for his birthday, but it wasn't safe for Harry to be wandering around wizard dwellings without any protection, even if a member of the Order was with him.
"So it's not safe for me, but it's safe for Neville and Hermione?" he asked incredulously.
"No one's keeping tabs on them the way they are on you," Sirius told him.
It seemed like a stupid argument to Harry, which was exactly what he told Sirius.
Sirius sighed. "I know you don't like it," he said, "but everything we're doing is to keep you as safe as possible."
At least Sirius didn't say something stupid like "keep you safe." Safe was something Harry would never be as long as Voldemort was alive.
He wanted to argue more, but he figured the only thing he'd accomplish by pushing the matter would be getting Neville and Hermione barred from going to Hannah's, too.
Still, Sirius seemed to feel bad about Harry's frustration and right before lunch the next day—another rainy, gloomy day—he suggested that they all go to Order headquarters—another place that was under the Fidelius—so that Harry could see Ron and the other Weasleys.
The way they were all treating him with kid gloves still rankled, but he wasn't about to turn down a trip to see his other friends and get a peek at headquarters just because he was feeling sullen.
And so, Augusta and Sirius apparated them to a London street—Harry was under his invisibility cloak—showing them all a slip of paper that told them all that headquarters was at 12 Grimmauld Place. And just like that, a townhouse appeared between numbers 11 and 13.
They entered through a battered door, and a damp, rotting smell immediately hit Harry. Old-fashioned gas lamps were lit, spreading odd flickerings of light over peeling wallpaper, a threadbare carpet and age-blackened paintings.
Sirius, who was standing completely erect, a tightly wound energy emanating from him, put his finger to his lips and then pointed to moth-eaten curtains.
"My mother," he mouthed. "You don't want to wake her."
Augusta sniffed. "She was a mean old hag until the day she died," she retorted, cluing Harry into the fact that they must be talking about a portrait behind the curtain.
"You knew his mother?" Hermione asked.
"With the way she screamed, everyone who lived in the surrounding three counties knew my mother," Sirius remarked, leading them up a flight of stairs.
The wall was covered in plaques that held the shrunken heads of dead house elves. Harry felt revulsion churn through him, and he sped up his ascent.
"Oh!" Hermione cried when she saw them, shuddering.
They made it to the landing and into a drawing room that was in almost as sorry a state of affairs as the entryway, though a fire was going in the fireplace and the smell in the room was more musty than rotting, at the very least. Magazines littered the end table and there was a half-played game of chess on the table, so someone had been using this room.
"I'd better find Molly," Sirius said. "She's been cleaning up this decrepit house of horrors—she's had to with her family living here—but I should see if she needs any help."
"I'll join you," Augusta added firmly.
"I'm sure the others will be down soon," Sirius said. "If not, Ginny's room is down the hall and the boys are upstairs. Just keep clear of Kreacher."
"Who's Kreacher?" Neville asked.
"The family house elf," Sirius snarled. "He's as demented as my mother."
Harry and Hermione exchanged a confused glance. Sirius had been downright supportive of their cause to help the house elves; they'd never expected him to refer to one so cruelly.
Sirius caught their glance and laughed bitterly. "You've never met him," he explained curtly. "I agree with you that house elves should be treated better—Merlin knows my family's habit of beheading them to showcase them as art is as despicable as it gets—but just like not all wizards are good, not all house elves are either. Kreacher's been alone for years, taking orders from my twisted mother's painting. And even before that he was… well, he fit right in with my mad family. Just stay out of his way and leave him to me to deal with."
Harry nodded slowly, but didn't like this change in Sirius. Ever since they'd entered this house, he'd been different. His tone was bitter, his face closed off. Sirius didn't want to be here at all.
Sirius and Augusta left, and the trio all glanced around, taking in their surroundings.
It was a gloomy, depressing place. Even with all of the Weasleys filling it, Harry didn't see how Ron or Ginny could have had any sort of fun here this summer. Any bitterness he had felt toward Ron for his letters, the ones that seemed to be taunting him about being at headquarters, evaporated.
Being at headquarters was awful.
He wandered over to the chessboard, studying the game. Black seemed to be winning, but he wasn't very good at chess, so he couldn't be sure. What he was sure about was that this must be Ron's game.
There was a loud crack behind them and then a familiar voice warned, "Don't you dare touch that game, Harry!"
He turned. Fred and George were standing in the middle of the room, practically on top of Neville.
"Sorry about that Neville," George apologized, stepping away. "Still getting the hang of it."
"It's all right," Neville said, greeting the twins.
"So you passed your apparition tests then?" Hermione asked curiously.
"With distinction," Fred beamed proudly, flopping down on the sofa and flipping open one of the magazines.
"What are you lot doing here?" George asked, taking a seat in the armchair. Harry, Hermione and Neville followed suit. "Not that we're not happy to see you, of course. Have they roped you into cleaning, too?"
"No," Harry said. "We just wanted to see you all."
Fred grinned. "Well, we quite like you, too," he said.
Harry turned back toward the chessboard. "Why didn't you want me to touch it?" he asked.
Fred and George exchanged a glance.
"Because Ron would murder you, that's why," Fred explained.
"Wouldn't that be a twist ending? Harry Potter survives You-Know-Who multiple times, killed by a 15-year-old with a crush," George snickered.
"What?"
"He and Mandy Brocklehurst have been exchanging letters all summer," Fred said. "They're pretty boring—"
"He let you read them?" Harry asked incredulously.
Fred and George looked at him like he was dense.
"Well, when he just leaves them out for anyone to see, right under his pillow—"
"You shouldn't have done that!" Hermione chastised.
"Ginny's the one who found them," Fred said nonchalantly.
"Still," Hermione scolded, "you didn't have to read them. They were private letters!"
Fred did not look like he cared at all about that. He shrugged, adding, "Anyway, they've been playing chess against each other all summer and he's very serious about the game."
"He just about attacked me when I turned the rooks into tiny teddy bears," George added.
Neville, Hermione and Harry all exchanged a glance: If this was how Ron's summer had been going, there's no way he'd be in a good mood today. And Harry couldn't really blame him.
What he didn't get is why Ron didn't mention any of this in his letters.
The door to the drawing room opened and a red-haired girl popped her head inside.
You're here!" Ginny cried. She ran over to Hermione and grabbed her hand, dragging her up from the sofa.
"Come on!" Ginny demanded, pulling her from the room. Harry didn't even have a chance to say anything before the two girls disappeared from sight.
George shook his head. "She's been acting weird all summer too," he commented.
"All of our siblings are nutters," Fred said to his brother adopting a faux-commiserating tone. "We're the only normal ones in the bunch."
Harry and Neville exchanged a grin, which the twins clearly caught.
"I think they're mocking us brother," Fred said.
"Never," Harry snarked.
Neville glanced at the forgotten stack of cards on the table next to him. "Exploding snap?" he suggested.
Fred shrugged. "All right," he agreed.
"Better than cleaning," George added gaily. "I think maybe Mum'll forget about it for a minute while you lot are here."
But Harry couldn't play just yet. He and Hermione had decided ages ago that they'd tell Ron and Ginny they were together before they went back to Hogwarts, and this might be their only chance.
Hopefully, Ron wasn't in too bad of a mood.
"I'm going to go find Ron," Harry announced, standing up.
Neville nodded at him, communicating his understanding that Harry and Ron had to talk alone.
"Upstairs and to the right," Fred said to Harry, vaguely pointing at the ceiling while he focused on the cards Neville had given him.
Harry exited the room and looked up the long, dark, foreboding staircase, wondering what he'd find when he got up there.
This level was as desolate and gloomy as the two below it. Cobwebs hung in the corners and while Harry could tell Molly and the rest of the Weasleys had tried hard to make it livable, he didn't think anything could help this house.
There was one door with light peeking out through the crack between the door and the floor. Harry knocked.
"Come in!" Ron called.
Harry found him laying on a bed, listlessly paging through a copy of Which Broomstick. When he saw Harry, he sat up.
"Hey!" he said, perking up. "I wondered… thought maybe you were Sirius. No one in my family bothers to knock."
Harry nodded, sitting on the empty bed across from Ron. The mattress was bare, but it looked like it had been cleaned recently.
"Yeah, I heard that the twins and Ginny have been snooping," Harry said.
Ron's face went dark. "But if I went reading Ginny's diary, Mum'd lecture me for a week," he retorted. "Never mind that she's the one who went writing in a diary to a lunatic murderer."
Harry didn't really know what to say to that. He'd never had siblings, but he had a feeling that if he said anything negative about Ginny behind her back, Ron might see it as an insult and round on him for it, even though Ron had been the one to say something first.
"Hermione yelled at Fred and George for invading your privacy," he said instead, thinking that might make Ron feel better. "She's in Ginny's room now, and I reckon she'll tell her the same."
"Really?" Ron asked, the surprise evident in his expression. It was then that Harry realized just how fundamentally changed things between Ron and Hermione were—they may have fought bitterly in years past, but the Ron they were both best friends with would never be shocked that Hermione would defend him when his siblings were clearly in the wrong. Everyone knew Hermione was incapable of staying silent when she thought someone had done something immoral.
"Of course," Harry said. "She's your friend."
Ron didn't look particularly convinced by that statement. Harry felt his stomach drop.
"You didn't mention Mandy in your letters," Harry said, wanting to change the subject.
Ron's ears turned red. "Oh, well," he said, staring intently at the magazine. "It's not much of anything, you know. We're just talking about chess mostly."
He didn't sound particularly convincing.
"But she's all right," he added happily, smiling slightly.
Harry didn't know Mandy well at all. The Gryffindors and the Ravenclaws didn't share any classes, and so he'd never spoken to her, but he was glad for anyone who made Ron's summer a little less miserable.
"How's your summer been?" Harry asked.
Ron shrugged. "Fine," he said. "We've been cleaning loads. The Order's been in and out—we've seen Snape a bunch so that's been a real highlight."
Ron explained about the Order meetings, how his Mum tried to keep them out, and all about Fred and George's extendable ears. From the sound of it, Harry really had learned more about what the Order was up to at Wiggentree Manor than Ron had learned here.
"A word of warning," Ron said. "Things between Mum and Sirius are a bit… tense."
"Why?" Harry asked, shocked.
"Well, you know how Mum feels about Fred and George's joke shop idea," he said. "But once Sirius saw the extendable ears—they were in the middle of a huge row with Mum about it—he got real interested in the shop. Whenever he's here, he's always got his head together with the twins, whispering about something. Ginny and I reckon maybe he's thinking of investing. At least, that's what Mum seems to think and she's clearly not pleased about it."
"Why not?" Harry asked, incensed. "She can't possibly still want them to get some stuffy Ministry job."
Ron shrugged. "Who knows?" he said. "She certainly hasn't been as keen on the Ministry since Fudge went mad. Dad and Percy have had a right state of it there, and she was beyond angry when Fudge tried to get Dumbledore sacked from the Wizengamot."
"But she still doesn't think the joke shop is a good idea?"
Ron shrugged again. "Not really," he said. "But she's been all over the place. The only thing that seems to make her happy lately is that Bill took a desk job in London."
"Is he here?" Harry asked.
"He's at work now, but yeah, he's staying here," Ron said. "Percy took one look at this place and rented a flat on his own."
Harry couldn't blame him.
"What about you?" Ron asked. "How's your summer been?"
"Good," Harry said, suddenly feeling nervous. This was the opening to tell Ron about Hermione.
He shouldn't feel nervous about it. There was no reason for Ron to have a problem with their relationship—if anything, getting this secret out in the open should only bring them closer together. It was a way of getting things back to normal.
"Really good, actually," Harry said, sitting up straighter. "Living with Sirius has been brilliant and…"
Ron sat up straighter too picking up on Harry's hesitation.
"Well, listen," Harry said, "some things have changed. Hermione and I—we're sort of dating."
He glanced at Ron uneasily, wondering what he'd see. Ron was staring back at him, a blank expression on his face.
"You and Hermione."
"Yes."
"Are sort of dating."
"Yes."
"What does 'sort of' mean?"
"Er…. The same as regular dating, I suppose."
Ron was silent, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"You and Hermione."
"Yes."
More silence.
"But… why?"
Harry felt a pit of his stomach. "What do you mean why?" he asked edgily.
"Well, it's just… she's just… you've been friends for years," Ron blurted, fumbling wildly for what he was trying to say. "And you've never seemed to be interested at all!"
Harry shrugged. "Well, I'm interested now," he said. "And, you know, that was also when we were eleven. I wasn't particularly interested in snogging any girl when I was eleven."
Ron's eyes widened comically at that particular thought.
"You two have snogged?" he exclaimed.
Harry turned red, thinking of two days ago in the Secret Garden when Hermione had pushed him up against the Wiggentree. The bark had been rough and unyielding against his back, and she'd been soft and warm in his arms, her tongue exploring his mouth in intricate detail. Harry didn't think Hermione did anything in half measures.
"Well, yeah," he said in a strangled sort of voice.
Ron shook his head slightly, not even seeming to see Harry.
"Who else knows?" he finally asked. "Neville?"
There was a jealous tinge to the way he said Neville.
"Yeah," Harry said slowly, deciding to omit that Neville had known back at Hogwarts. "We're both living with him and his Gran, so they know. And Sirius and Remus, too."
"Of course," Ron said, his voice clipped. "Of course you'd tell your best friend first."
Harry felt the anger rising in him. The only reason Neville had had the opportunity to become his best friend is because Ron had decided he didn't want the title for months.
And sure, he'd gone to Neville for advice and not Ron, but that's because Hermione hadn't exactly been a safe topic for him and Ron back then.
"Well, Neville was happy for me when I told him," Harry shot back. "Are you?"
Ron's head shot up, bewildered.
"Of course I am!" he retorted. "I just don't know why you couldn't tell me about it first."
"Because you and Hermione have been weird around each other for ages," Harry snapped. "What was I supposed to say, 'Ron, I fancy the girl you've been avoiding for weeks'? What would your advice have been?"
"So Neville knew before you started snogging her?" Ron asked, seizing that bit of information.
"I'm not going to apologize for confiding in a friend," Harry said through gritted teeth. "I just wanted to tell you I'm dating Hermione."
Ron stood up, then didn't seem to know what to do with himself, pacing around in a circle like a cat before turning to Harry, one hand on his hip.
"I just don't… you and Hermione… but she's so… she's so… infuriating sometimes."
"Funny," Harry said flatly, "I was thinking the same thing about you just now."
Ron looked like he'd been slapped.
"Why were you friends with her for years then?" Harry asked. "You must've liked something about her to keep hanging around her, especially with the way you too always fought."
Harry was standing now, too.
"Well, of course I liked her," Ron muttered. "But there's a difference between hanging around a girl and—"
He cut off, turning red.
The pit in Harry's stomach deepened. He knew about Ginny's theory that Ron had once had a crush on Hermione. Was it possible?
But no. He'd just gone all red about Mandy.
"Ron… do you like Hermione?" Harry asked.
"What?" Ron exclaimed, sputtering. "Of course not! She's bossy and she studies all the time, and she barely knows anything about quidditch, and she's always yelling at me about something! It'd be like dating my mum!"
Ron shuddered at the thought, but a part of Harry thought maybe Ron was protesting too much.
Or maybe Harry was just seeing something that wasn't there.
Ron ran a hand down his face, rubbing his cheeks. They both stood there silently, considering each other.
"I just didn't realize the two of you would ever be interested, that's all," Ron finally said. "But I think it's great—really!"
He didn't seem particularly enthusiastic about the idea, but he did seem eager to end the fight.
Then Ron seemed to realize something and his enthusiasm seemed genuine.
"What?" Harry asked.
"I just realized," Ron said happily, "this is why you've been siding with her, isn't it?"
He walked over to Harry, clapping him on the shoulder. "You could've just told me you fancied her and wanted to get on her good side," he chirped, grinning at Harry. "I would've understood that."
"That's not why—"
But Ron wasn't listening to him because the door had opened—Ron was right about his privacy—and Ginny was standing there, leaning her hip against the doorway. Hermione was standing behind her.
"Mum needs us in the kitchen, Ron," Ginny announced glumly. Ron's shoulders slumped.
"Great," he muttered. "More work."
"We'll come help in a minute," Hermione told Ginny and Ron as the siblings left. Ron gave Hermione an inscrutable look as he passed her.
Hermione shut the door and looked at Harry anxiously.
"How'd it go?" she asked.
"How'd it go for you?" Harry questioned.
"Oh, I didn't really get a chance," Hermione said, looking flustered. "I know we said we would when we saw them, but we didn't talk first—Ginny pulled me out of the room so fast. But she and I sort of, er, heard shouting up here. So… I guess it didn't go well?"
Harry sat back down on the bare mattress. "I honestly don't know," he said.
Hermione sat down next to him, placing her hand on top of his. Harry closed his eyes, feeling a surge of warmth as she did.
"What did he say?" Hermione asked delicately.
Harry didn't want to tell her that Ron had called her infuriating, knowing that would only hurt her.
"He was jealous that I told Neville first," he said. "And he seemed to think that the only reason why I told him to be nicer to you was because you were my girlfriend."
Harry was getting angry just thinking about it—as if the only reason he told Ron off for what he'd done at the Yule Ball was because he fancied Hermione. Harry hadn't even fancied her back then!
He felt Hermione stiffen beside him, her hand gripping his more tightly.
"Is that what I am?" she asked. "Your girlfriend?"
Harry turned to look at her, surprised. She was biting her lip and her eyes were wide. He couldn't read what he saw in them.
Well, wasn't she? He knew they'd never talked about it explicitly, but they'd been snogging since June and they'd had a whole discussion about telling Ron and Ginny they were together, and… well, wasn't she?
"Aren't you?" he blurted, feeling panic rising in his throat. "You're my best friend and we snog—isn't that what a girlfriend is?"
He'd always known he'd be rubbish at relationships, always known he'd find a way to screw this up somehow, but he didn't really think he'd manage to find a way before she was even his girlfriend. Was he supposed to have asked her? Was that a thing?
He peeked at Hermione, whose face had softened.
"Yes," she said quietly. "I suppose that's exactly what a girlfriend is."
She kissed him gently, and as she did, he felt the anxiety pour out of him. This was right.
She deepened the kiss, pulling him toward her possessively, but something was niggling him.
"Hermione," he said, breaking away from her.
"Hmm?" she asked, planting butterfly kisses across his cheek, his jawline, his neck.
God, she was testing him.
"Did you really not know?" he asked, willing himself not to give in to her ministrations and to focus on the conversation they had to have.
Hermione's lips froze against his neck. She pulled back, her hands falling from his neck and hair to her lap. Harry felt the loss of her warmth.
"Well, I knew it was more than snogging," she said, looking down at her hands. "But we'd never made it official so…"
"So why didn't you say anything?" Harry asked.
He hadn't said anything because he thought they were both on the same page. But if she was sitting there wondering what they were, why hadn't she just talked to him?
Hermione shrugged one of her shoulders uncomfortably. "I don't know," she said, looking anywhere but at him. "At first, it felt ridiculous to bring it up after what happened at the Third Task. And then I didn't want to broach it in a letter. And since we've been at Neville's together—there's You-Know-Who and the war, everything the Order is doing, our training, searching for answers on the house elves… a label just seemed so inconsequential."
It wasn't like her. Hermione liked knowing things. If this were a class, she wouldn't consider any detail inconsequential.
Of course, this wasn't a class. This was a relationship. In the classroom, Hermione was completely sure of herself, completely confident. Even though they were best friends, even though they knew each other better than anyone, being in a relationship was new to them both. Maybe she was as unsure of how this whole thing was supposed to work as he was.
He found the thought oddly comforting.
"Is that why you didn't talk to Ginny?" he asked. "Because you weren't sure what to tell her?"
"Yes," Hermione admitted. "I figured we'd talk about it at some point, but Sirius sprung this trip on us last minute. But then you clearly did talk to Ron, so… I should have just brought it up."
There was a chastising note to her voice.
"I probably should've asked you to be my girlfriend," Harry said. "Instead of just assuming it."
"This isn't the 1400s," Hermione pointed out. "I could've asked you."
They turned to look at each other, grinning.
Harry reached up to her cheek, cradling her head in his hand, his grin fading as his face turned more serious.
"Listen, I know my life is complicated and that my problems sometimes take over everything," Harry said, feeling like that was the understatement of the year, "but nothing about this—us, you—is inconsequential, okay?"
It was vitally important that she know that.
An affectionate smile blossomed on Hermione's face, warming everything. The anxiety in her eyes was replaced by something decidedly more heated, a mixture of possessiveness and craving that Harry found intoxicating.
"Okay… boyfriend," she whispered, capturing his lips with hers, sending a shockwave of desire through him. Harry groaned, leaning forward. Hermione yielded until she was laying on the mattress, her hair spread out in intricate swirls of patterns, Harry hovering above her.
He was vaguely aware that they were in Ron's room, but at this particular moment, he couldn't bring himself to care. All he cared about was her.
He wasn't sure how long they were there, but Harry was sure he didn't hear the very loud crack behind them.
He did, however, hear Fred's booming voice.
"Oi!" Fred shouted from behind them. "Mum wants you both downstairs for lunch."
Harry felt Hermione's hands pushing Harry off her as she quickly shot up and adjusted her clothes. Her hair was a mess and her lips were puffy, and Harry didn't think she'd ever looked prettier.
She adjusted the hem of her shirt, shooting an embarrassed look at Fred.
"You could've knocked," Harry said grumpily.
Fred raised his eyebrow. "I also could've let Mum come and get you like she wanted," he said pointedly. "You're welcome."
Well. Fred was certainly better than Mrs. Weasley.
Fred shook his head at them. "You're both lucky your hair always looks awful," he remarked. "You can hardly tell the difference. Now, come on then, we don't want the food to get cold. Plus, if you take any longer Mum'll start to get suspicious."
Hermione shot Harry a fretful glance—they definitely did not want to have any sort of "talk" with Mrs. Weasley.
"Right," Harry said quickly, hopping off the bed.
"Time for lunch then, let's go," Hermione added, making a beeline for the door.
As Harry followed her out the door, he heard Fred snicker and another large crack behind him.