He'd never really been to Hermione's house. He'd seen it. He'd even been inside, but those opportunities had been brief. It hadn't been like going to the Weasley's or the Lovegood's. Then he'd had the chance to actually look about. He'd been able to browse the books on their shelves, and the photos over the mantle. Any visit to Hermione's home had been brief and had usually resulted in he and Ron standing outside while Hermione ran in for something she'd forgotten.

It was only the outside of the house that Harry had any degree of familiarity with. In the years since he'd last seen it it had changed little. Maybe some of the flowers and bushes out front had grown, and the cars in the driveway were newer. Little things, too inconsequential to matter to him.

He wasn't sure what he was expected to feel. Should he be nervous about seeing Hermione? Or angry? The only thing he really knew was that he needed to see her. He'd forgotten how much he'd missed her until Ginny had cried her name at the house. Everything, even the impending trip to Azkaban seemed to pale at the chance to reunite with one of his very best friends.

He took the last few steps to the door and checked his pocket watch. It was only five. People were usually home by five right? And not at work and not eating? Five had to be an optimal choice for an impromptu visit. As if of it's own volition his finger rose to press the doorbell. He could hear it muffled by the door itself. A loud and tinny noise, followed by the loud slap of feet against carpet. Whoever was coming to answer was running at a fair clip.

The door swung open and Harry found himself waist to face with a young boy. He looked about Lily's age and he had big warm brown eyes filled with curiosity. It was those eyes, and not the very curly hair on top his head that told Harry who he was.

"You must be Hugo," he said. He held out his hand in greeting.

The boy took it and gave as firm a handshake as possible for a nine year old. "Hugo Thomas. Who are you?"

Not the least bit of tact. Definitely Hermione's son. "I'm—"

"Harry Potter."

His name came out as a whisper, but he heard it well enough and looked over Hugo's head. Hermione was standing on the stairs wearing a jumper and jeans. Her hair had been pulled back with little whisps of it flying free and framing a face that had no right to look as young as it did. She'd grown a little taller, and a little thinner and a little fuller but she was still, "Hermione."

She came down the steps and held the door open. Hugo looked from his mother to Harry in confusion. "Hugo," she said absently, "tell your grandmother we've got another for dinner."

He looked back at Harry with what he assumed was a suspicious look and then ran towards the kitchen. Hermione came closer, stepping out onto the doorstep and closing the door behind her. "Hello," she said softly. They were nearly the same height, at least that hadn't changed. He didn't have to look down quite as he did with Ginny.

"Hello."

"Did Ron tell?"

"What?"

"That I was back?"

"No Ginny. How did Ron—"

"I went looking for you two at the Ministry. Ginny told you?" Her voice went up at the end and she scowled, "I asked her not to."

"I cornered her," he offered. "I was about a step from making a potion to get it out of her."

"And she used to be such a good little liar."

He scoffed, "She still is, but when I have my eye on something there's not much one can do to stop me."

She took her hand from the door handle and raised it to touch his cheek, then paused and seemed to ask him for permission. He wasn't aware of his face or even his eyes shifting, but whatever she saw told her it was all right. Her hand closed the gap and stroked his cheek. "Harry Potter," she said in that private little tone she always got when commending him, "The great hero, always gets his man."

"Or woman, in this case," he said. It came out a bit more sheepishly then he'd intended.

Suddenly Hermione punched him. It was surprising, because she had always preferred hitting him upside the head, and because the blow to his shoulder actually hurt. She had bony little fists that jabbed right into his flesh. "Ow!" He rubbed at the spot and stepped back.

Hermione kept coming forward, "That's for cheating on Ginny and breaking up your marriage. What were you thinking?"

"What was I thinking? I wasn't the one getting off with a teammate!"

"Getting off with a—but Ginny said there was a woman?"

"Yes," her confusion evaporated any irritation Harry might have had. He'd learned to be very patient when explaining the dissolution of his marriage to Ginny Potter-Weasley. "Ginny was the one sleeping with a woman."

"Oh." Hermione was thoroughly deflated. She sat heavily on the stoop and Harry quickly joined her. "I was all worked up over it. Ready to give you a good telling off."

"It's all right. After she found out Molly still gave me a talk. I'm pretty sure she's convinced we can still work it out."

Hermione laughed. He'd forgotten what a laugh she had. It did something inside of him, pleasing him in a way few people's laughs could. He'd forgotten about what he'd always done to get that laugh. Doing and saying anything to see her smile. It was like an addict getting their first fix after a long while. Completely perfect and intoxicating.

"And Ginny's gay now. That's something," she continued.

"It is. Soon as the divorce was final she was going through woman like a…"

She looked at him, those perfectly tended to eyebrows raised.

"It was a lot of woman. Ron about died."

"Ron's always been a bit dramatic when it came to his sister's love life."

It was too much to actually look at Hermione. He'd squashed all those feelings of longing for his best friend years ago. And she was back and sitting right next to him and he felt like he was about to explode. His body hummed, his heart beating so fast he was afraid it would pop out of his chest and titter across Hermione's lawn. He kept trying to wipe the smile off of his face. It was causing his cheeks and jaws to ache, but the dull pain was worth it to have Hermione sitting next to him.

"Congratulations on making Head Auror." And it was like she was immune to it all, unaffected by their reunion. There was that little crooked smile she'd always had when not being overwhelmed by studying and fighting the yearly evil. He must have been staring at her too long because she looked at him again, "What?"

"Nothing."

She sounded as though she thought he was teasing her, "What?"

"You're here Hermione. Back home. I missed you."

The crooked smile faltered a bit, "I missed you too Harry." She leaned into him, putting her arm around his shoulder and pulling him close so she could rest her head on his shoulder.

They sat like that a while, quiet and happy in each other's company.

"I'm sorry about your wedding Harry." It was a quiet apology and one that was surprisingly sincere. "I should have said something sooner. Sent you an owl or paid you a visit, but I didn't."

He reached up and took the hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"I never thought I'd see the day I found it easier to talk to Ron then you. It was my fault."

"It wasn't Hermione."

She shifted and withdrew her hand. "No Harry. What I did at your wedding. What I did to you? It was inexcusable."

He caught her hand again and held it close. Then he made sure he looked her directly in the eye. He'd had a long time to stew on what had happened, and though Ginny and Ron didn't have details they'd been fully aware of how it had upset him. But if he wanted Hermione back in his life he had to forgive it.

"It's in the past. I'm just glad your here now."

Their eyes locked and Harry was surprised he was unable to look away from the warmth and unshed tears he faced. Something seemed to compel him towards her. Something buried deep down. He was terrified of it. More terrified of leaning in then he'd been when facing a group of Death Eaters with only his wand and his wits. Hermione's face was a mask, her thoughts a cypher.

And then the door opened and saved them both from whatever force that had pulled them together.

"Hermione, Harry, time for dinner."

He stood up abruptly to face Hermione's mum. So fast that Hermione's hand sort of flopped out of his own and hung there of it's own accord. It was like they'd been caught doing more then just talking and he felt a rush of heat as his cheeks turned red.

"Mrs. Granger," he said.

Hermione's mother had always been an amiable woman. Not an overwhelming force of nature like Molly Weasley. Harriet Granger had always been a bit quiet, and pleasant, and thoroughly confused. Here on her own turf she'd traded the confusion at the wizarding world for a healthy dose of confidence. "Hello Harry," she said, "my grandson has graciously informed me that you're staying for dinner." It was a statement but it came out nearly like a question. Harry looked to Hermione for approval.

"Yes," she offered, "dinner for now, maybe a glass of sherry afterwards."

He looked at her in surprise, "Sherry? Really?"

"Well of course. Who doesn't enjoy a glass of sherry after dinner?"

"Many people," Harriet muttered.

"It's not my fault you prefer your sherry sweet mum."

"Harry you simply must help my daughter. She seems to think a dry sherry is better then a sweet."

Harry looked between the two woman, utterly confused. "I actually" he started, "I've never had sherry."

If both women had weaker constitutions they might have fainted dead away at what Harry said. They shared a look over Harry's shoulder and then swarmed, grabbing him by the arms and pulling him into the house and towards the kitchen. The whole while a myriad of facts spewed forth from their mouths. Did he know sherry came only from a small region in southern Spain? Did he know that any good Brit preferred the sweet cream sherry? Or that any good sherry drinker should prefer the dry oloroso? By the time they reached the kitchen Harry had learned more about sherry then he'd ever known about any drink, ever.

Hugo was sitting with a young girl Harry presumed to be Rose, and an older man with grey streaks through his thick brown hair. It had been quite some time since Harry had seen Hermione's father, and the same seemed to be true for the older man. He looked at Harry curiously, as if trying to put a name to the face he was looking at.

Hermione and Harriet, so consumed with educating a sherry virgin, completely neglected to introduce Harry to the people in the kitchen. He took it upon himself, quietly murmuring a hello to Hugo Sr. and offering the firmest handshake he could muster at the moment. Hermione's daughter, Rose, watched him with wariness. She must have taken after her father in many respects for though she had the delicate nose and slender physique of her mother, her hair was something not very Granger like at all. It was all blond and shiny looking with not the least bit of curl.

He stuck his hand out expectantly and said, "You must be Rose. I've heard a bit about you. I'm your mother's friend, Harry Potter."

The girl's mouth didn't fall open, her eyebrows didn't suddenly leap up the length of her forehead, but she still displayed all the telltale signs of a person in shock. It was almost unnaturally subtle how her eyes seemed to widen and her face seemed to go slack. There was no twitch of muscle just a smooth transition from surly teenager to awe struck girl. She took his hand carefully-reverently and then looked to her brother as if to assure herself that it was all really happening.

Hugo had found a large glass of milk in the interim and was drinking it and watching Harry. "Did you really make my mom fly on a hippogriff?" Hugo looked so very much like Hermione that it was still a little alarming to hear him speak with the methodical, deep tones of an American.

"She told you about that?"

"And about the time you all had to face a three headed dog," Rose said. Her face had tightened a little and looked more normal, but her American accent, like her brother's, was a bit unsettling.

"That's all she told you? Nothing about riding thestrals or brokering peace with giants or attending a party for a bunch of decapitated gho—"

Hermione had stopped talking sherry with her mother and came up behind Harry, squeezing his shoulder and leaning over to serve him a glass of pale looking vino. "They don't need to know about everything I did in school."

"If they don't learn it from your friends they'll just learn it from a teacher at Hogwarts. Those people have memories like an elephant." Hugo and Hermione's parents all snickered. Rose, finding it less amusing, stared hard at Harry.

Hermione laughed. It was warm and throaty but with this little tinkling note that made her sound younger then the few lines around her eyes suggested. "That maybe true, but they all also adored me. I'm not particularly worried about Professor McGonagall embarrassing me."

"Okay maybe not the teachers, but I'm nearly positive Moaning Myrtle knows more then you'd care her to reveal."

Hermione's face turned bright red at the very thought of what terribly embarrassing things the ghostly girl might know. "Moaning Myrtle," Harriet said, "what sort of parent names their child Moaning Myrtle?"

Hugo Sr had just taken a rather large sip of his sherry and his lips pressed together tightly as he enjoyed the drink. "It's those wizards," he said before Harry or Hermione could explain, "you've heard the names they give their kids. Am I right?" He looked to his daughter and then to Harry, "you both know I'm right. Wizards saddle themselves with the oddest names."

Hermione took a sip of her sherry and caught Harry's glance rolling her eyes dramatically. Harry hid his own grin with a long drink from his glass. The sherry was indeed good, and also very dry. "How do you like it," she asked quietly.

"It's good," he responded, just as softly.

Rose stood up abruptly her chair scraping loudly across the kitchen floor and causing everyone to look to her. "Can you all stop getting sloshed on sherry so we can eat already?"

#

After dinner Harry found himself alone in the sitting room with a mantle full of family photographs. Harriet and Hermione's father were cleaning up the rather large assortment of dirty pans and had actually blanched when Harry offered to help clean up. From the sound of running water Hugo must have been taking a bath. Hermione had gone upstairs after her children to chat with Rose. Though Harry expected most teenagers to be surly, having two of his own, Hermione had apparently been appalled by her daughter's behavior at dinner. Rose had spent the meal making remarks that Harry would have characterized as snide from someone else's child. And she'd gone from starstruck around Harry to detesting him.

So Harry stood awkwardly in the small sitting room and tried to bide his time with looking at pictures. There were more then enough of Hermione through the years, and after years of wizard photographs it was very nearly comforting to look at that static images detailing the years of his friend's life. The earliest photos were amusing. Only a one or two seemed to be of Hermione when they'd gone to school together. The rest were of her and her family. Portraits of pink cheeked little babies and bland looking school photos. His eyes lingered on the larger photos. They were of the entire family, Hermione, Rose, Hugo, and a tall athletic looking blond man. The children's father, now deceased. Involuntarily he moved closer to the latest family photo. The father looked like a nice man. Even though he stared straight into the camera his hand rested on Hermione's shoulder in a loving manner, and his smile was laconic and confident. After Ron he was just the sort of man Harry had expected Hermione to end up with.

"That's a good looking family."

He turn, startled by Hermione's voice. She'd crept up softly and stood so close that their bodies touched when he turned. She smiled and stepped back, leaning on her heels to appraise him.

"They are rather smart looking aren't they," Harry said. He hoped she hadn't noticed his little flustered look just before. If she did she said nothing.

Hermione came closer until she stood shoulder to shoulder with him and stared at the mantle. Her hands were grasped tightly behind her back and she still leaned back on her heels. They stood like that, staring at Hermione's chronicled past, for maybe longer then was comfortable. Harry kept looking at Hermione surreptitiously, waiting for the pensive look that had gathered on her face to disappear. But her eyes were locked on one of the family photos and her face was screwed up in a look he'd usually only seen her wear when studying.

It was the man she was looking at. Hermione was staring at the husband that had left her.

Harry was an orphan. He'd seen nearly every parental figure he loved killed. He'd watched friends die in the war. He'd even lost his own life. But Harry's grief had always been private—personal. Standing next to a bereaved widow Harry realized he was at a lost how to comfort her. He knew only his own pain. Other's was a mystery to him.

If he was serious with himself—willing to examine his own past actions—Harry might admit that his inability to empathize with others' grief had deeply affected more then one relationship. It was easy to say that Ginny's sexuality had ended their marriage. It was much more difficult to admit that the trouble had been brewing before that. Harry had watched his wife's pain at the loss of her brother and been completely ill-equipped to handle it.

But the relationship that had been affected more was his with Hermione. The war had changed his friend. Polished her insides to into the hard nub of a diamond. He'd watched the way her romance with Ron had thrived, and he had looked away when it crumbled. And through it all he and Hermione had grown more distant. The closeness they'd shared in that drafty tent in the Forest of Dean had turned to ether.

And here again was a chance. Hermione was back. The low point of their relationship implicitly forgiven and forgotten by both. Here was a chance for Harry to develop the empathy he so frequently chose to bury. But Hermione was standing there deep in thought staring at a ghost on her wall and Harry didn't know what to do.

His mind didn't. Who knows what his heart thought. His hand though. His hand knew what to do. Of it's own accord, as if some mysterious figure had cast the Imperious curse on that one limb alone, his arm moved and his hand took her hand. Their hands, clasped tightly, fell to the space between them. Harry hoped his palm wasn't sweaty. Hermione's hand was cool to the touch and her fingers carried more callouses then was perhaps attractive for a woman.

And that hand felt right in his. He'd missed it.