So no London in this chapter, 'fraid to say. Originally this was going to just be some short thing and I was going to do it as a double publication- this and chapter seventeen. But then the chapter just wouldn't end, and made itself long enough to be a chapter in its own right. So now you'll just have to wait a fortnight until 17.

Sorry (not Sorry)

Also, I have come to a decision about pairings (finally). They are officially Tony/Hermione and Harry/Steve BROMANCE, which MAY- but also MAY NOT- at some point in the deep, dark and VERY DISTANT future, extend into slash. And if it does eventually evolve into such, I will let you know well in advance.

HOWEVER, Great Expectations is not here to focus on either pairings, so honestly guys, don't fret if you don't like either, because I have this kind of weird aversion to writing romance in any great capacity, so it's really just there to fuel some low-key tension between them.

To ReadPaxJoy, your sirius comment was glorious. Put a smile on my face for hours. The beauty of autocorrect.

Umm, that's all I guess. Enjoy, I suppose :)

WARNING: contains the rumourings of spoilers for Thor 2.

Part One: Great Expectations

Chapter Sixteen: Bad Manners

She's cast a silencing charm on her room. He can tell not so much from the absolute silence that envelops his footfalls in the hallway as the lack of noise that he knows should be coming from her room.

Because he can feel her magic, broken and grief-stricken and erratic; bouncing off the walls with no direction and biting at his aching ankles like an angry dog. It's been a long time since he's felt her magic go this haywire. The last time was when her mother died; hit by some careless bus driver. And Hermione was strong- Merlin, she was one of the strongest people he knew- but there were some losses that no amount of determination or strength could halt the flow of tears for.

He tests his hand on her door, balancing her meal carefully. There's no corresponding sting of wards, for which he's grateful. Without a wand, there's little he can do against her wards. He tries the handle.

It's locked.

"Hermione?" he calls, hoping fervently that she'd only cast it as a one way charm, "Can I come in please?"

Silence from inside; though that's hardly surprising. A lengthened pause; he's half tempted to ask Jarvis to open it for him, but thinks better of it. Something like that would likely just piss her off.

The door swings open. He lets out a small smile of victory.

"Hey Harry," she croaks from inside her darkened room. He can just see the silhouette of her body, lying face-up on the bed. The reflected lights of the city from the low cloud cover (glowing murky orange, reminiscent of those sordid apocalyptic movies Luna liked to watch) alight on her hair. He turns on the dimmer light, keeping it as low as possible.

He takes stock of the room silently.

The few impersonal ornaments in the room have been strewn across the floor. He can see on the opposite wall a large dent; the alarm clock that should be sitting on the dresser next to her bed lies not far from her attempt at renovation. Coat hangers are thrown far from the door to her expansive walk-in-wardrobe and the few clothes Tony gifted her with lie in sad heaps in corners.

He breathes a sigh of relief to see that at least the undoubtedly expensive painting hanging above her bed is untouched.

"Hi Hermione," he murmurs softly, navigating his way carefully though her mess.

"I lost control a bit Harry." He eyes the hole in the wall, setting her untouched meal down on the bedside table before he sits down on the bed carefully. His bones hurt; a deep ache that tells him he probably shouldn't have ditched the crutches in the kitchen. Not that he's going to mention this to Hermione.

"I can see that."

She rolls onto her side, facing him. Her legs curl up into the foetal position as she hugs her side with her good arm. He rests a comforting hand on her knee. Her left arm lies unmoving across her chest, still wrapped carefully in its white cotton sling. He can see the handle of her stolen wand tucked beneath her pillows.

He waits for her to say something. Harry suspects she may have learnt from him the unfortunate habit of clamming up when someone asks what's wrong. It's better to wait, he's found, and let the words come out on their own. She doesn't disappoint.

"You were talking with your mouth full." She says finally, avoiding his eyes.

Oh.

He'd reminded her of him. Not good.

"I'm sorry." He chokes, roughly pushing away the rising grief and anger (and fear) that comes with his remembrance. Hermione sniffs, rubbing at her face.

"Don't be. It's not your fault."

He rubs her knee comfortingly again, as he thinks the exact opposite.

"It's a horrendous habit though," he says sheepishly, confident he's not giving anything away.

She laughs through her nose, "It is. It's a wonder he managed to keep it to be honest."

He laughs softly, remembering the countless times she'd turned her nose up at Ron's eating habits. So uncouth, she'd primly call him, half in disgust, half in fondness, wizards should be classier than that. Which of course would just antagonise him and motivate him to display even worse manners than before- just to get a smile out of her. He thinks fondly of meals at the Weasley's- their numbers diminished by the war but their hearts still warm and strong- where Ron and Ginny (and later, his wife Edaena) had goaded Hermione with their grotesque food-filled smiles into laughing and hiding her reluctant smile.

"I should have been the secret keeper." She whispers out of the blue, hand coming up to cover her haunted eyes.

He sighs heavily. He'd suspected this might be on her mind.

"The only difference that would have made would be you lying dead in the Ministry now."

Her hand slides down to cover her mouth. The look in her eyes say everything and it scares him, because it reminds him of himself.

Would that have been so bad? Those sad eyes say. Inwardly he cringes; bright eyes so defeated. And he understands her pain. Ron and her had been lovers for long enough that it mattered, and best friends for even longer. And it wasn't as if she'd pined for him when they'd broken apart, but she'd never found another man. A decade did much to quench the flame, but not enough to destroy the sense of attachment she'd once shared with him; like cold ashes in an abandoned hearth, never removed and never replaced.

Ron of course was oblivious to it all; had moved on easily enough. But Hermione was left like Harry; awkward and lonely in a generation either dead, mad or married (and sometimes, a mix of all three). There seemed to be no one for them in their world. And yeah okay, there had been that one night with Hermione; the one that neither had ever spoken about, because neither were willing to touch upon the inherent wrongness of that night and the borderline incestuous nature of their coupling. But they'd both been lonely and depressed, and above all drunk (not to mention they hadn't been laid in years) and alcohol had easily found their solace in the other.

Hermione never seemed to match the men she dated. They'd always wanted different things; had different priorities and it broke Hermione's heart every time they asked for something she wasn't prepare to give (her freedom; her independence; her ideals; her career). And of course, the last few years were too focussed on research and hiding places for her to give the idea of seriously settling down any true thought.

Their unified loneliness tied them together much like it had when Ron had abandoned them during the Horcrux hunt. They were devoted to each other in a way Ron could never be again. He had a wife, a baby and a family. A life. A good one, and it was something they'd never grudged him for. Even so, he and Ron were dear friends; the closest of brothers. The thought of Ron's death burnt like a hot poker through his heart, brittle and tragic and threatening to tear him apart if he let it.

"Yes," he whispers eventually, finding his tongue but feeling just as broken. He pulls her hand away and kisses it softly, "It would have.

"Because then I'd have been alone." Alone in this world to deal with both your death's. And that was something he never could have abided by.

A tear creeps slowly down his best friend's face. She makes no move to remove it.

"Why did he have to die Harry? Why did they have to kill him?" she croaks, squeezing at his hand. He looks at the door, unable to stare at her eyes anymore. They ask too much of him.

"Why do Death Eaters do anything?" He knows she knows the answer- she's too smart not to.

"But he had a family! Edaena and Reggie-" her voice breaks and she grimaces, "-Alone now... We should never have made him secret keeper." There's anger now; at themselves; at the Death Eaters; at their new situation.

"It made sense at the time." And heaven help him, but it had. When they'd first set up the safe house, Edaena had only been a cautious maybe on Ron's part, and Reggie an un-thought of notion. By the time Ron's son had come along it was too late to change secret keepers.

"Do you think they're still alive?"

"I don't know." It's not quite a lie. It was likely that they had used Ron's family as a bargaining tool, to get past the fidelius charm. Enough coercion and he can see their friend swaying, no matter how steadfast his loyalty to them was. Edaena was his wife, Reggie his son. A bargain would have been struck for their protection. Harry couldn't fault him for it- he would have likely done the same thing in Ron's place.

Whether the Death Eaters had followed through on the deal was another matter entirely.

"It would have happened eventually," he reasons, not just for her, but for himself; the thoughts in her mind almost identical to his own, "They would have found me, one day. Used you, or Ron as leverage, your children. The Weasleys; whatever. I couldn't hide for the rest of my life." However long that will be.

She lets go of his hand and sits up. He pulls her into his embrace, her arm curling up around his side.

"I'd just hoped they'd give up. Or die."

He snorts. If only he could be so lucky.

"It just feels wrong, you know? To be here without Ron. Like there's a piece missing. It should be the three of us facing the brave new world, just like when we were kids. I keep on turning, expecting him to be there, but he's not and it just feels so wrong." It sounds almost as if she's forcing back a sob by the end of her spiel, though her voice seems calm enough.

He forces out a chuckle, "At least I look the part." Hermione hits his chest with her open palm.

"We can't all have eternal youth, you tit."

"Yes, well…" he trails off. Try as he might, he can't find anything light-hearted to say back to that. The term 'eternal youth' positively terrifies him, knowing it can be used in connection with himself. Whatever the Deathly Hallows granted him, it's likely he'll live long past Hermione's life-span- extended by magic or not. She – just like everyone he knew- would grow older- frailer- whilst he remained trapped forever in the scrawny body of a teenage boy. And one day she would die and he would be alone again. The thought hurt almost as much as Ron's death. He pulls her closer and, as if sensing his line of thought, her arm hugs him tighter.

She sighs after a time, her voice coming out small and sad, "I wish we weren't here."

"Me too."

"I miss home."

"Me too."

"What are we going to do if there are no wizards here?"

"I don't know… have a party to celebrate your righteousness?" She snorts and hits him again, but doesn't say anything. They fall silent; they seem to be doing a lot of that now. He can just hear the soft hum of the air-conditioning- forever on in the tower- the only noise in the room. It's a comforting sound; in a way it reminds him of the constant thrum of latent magic at the Burrow or Grimmauld Place back when they were kids.

"At least-" he pauses, swallows back his pain and starts again, "-at least I'm here with you." She doesn't reply for a time and he contents himself on listening to her quiet breathing.

"I couldn't dream of a world without you, Harry. It would be a duller place."

He smiles, "And I'd be lost without you. Wouldn't even know where to begin."

She snorts in disbelief, "Nonsense. You'd end up in Britain eventually- provided you didn't manage to get yourself tied up in knots with SHIELD or some other lot first."

"Hermione; I fell from thirty-thousand feet and survived. Kind of hard not to get tied up with SHIELD."

"Hnn. Good point."

"Do you think they'll let us make our own way soon?"

She moves away, pushing herself back to lean against the headboard, "They'll probably let us out on good behaviour at some point," she says slowly, red-rimmed eyes turned thoughtful, "I've seen the way Fury looks at us though- and some of those Avengers. They don't trust us, but I think they want to."

"He looks at us like we're a commodity." He replies disapprovingly, "He reminds me of Dumbledore, but with a shittier temper. Happy to manipulate us for the greater good." He won't deny the bitterness in his voice remembering the former headmaster's scheming. Everything might have turned out alright in the end, but it hadn't come without its consequences- an unshakable sense of betrayal for his mentor who'd been willing- happily or not- to groom him for his own death was only one in a long list.

"I think he wants us to join the Avengers Initiative." The words seem to just blurt out of her, like she's been keeping them desperately under lock and key. He eyes her, thinking on it. It's a plausible theory; from what he'd gained of SHIELD and the Avengers, they were there to take care of things ordinary enforcer's couldn't. He can see Fury adding them to his list pretty easily- if he ever trusted them enough for it. Harry kind of suspects it wouldn't take that much really; after all, Thor was an alien from another planet and his brother had apparently been a megalomaniac, but Fury seemed content enough to keep him in the Avengers.

"Would you?" he asks, curious to hear her answer. She smiles at him, but her eyes are troubled.

"I'd really rather not."

"Why?"

"It's been a long time since I've been in combat Harry." She replies dryly (and is it just him, but does it seem forced?), scratching at the skin underneath her bandages, "Research has always been my forte and you know it."

He does know it. But he also knows that she is more than underselling herself. She'd been a formidable duellist during the war, with a ruthlessness born of practicality that sometimes terrified even him. She played dirty as much as she'd played clean; it was the only way to come out of combat with Death Eaters alive.

She hadn't been awarded an Order of Merlin for just being the great Harry Potter's companion after all.

"Would you?"

He frowns, thinking on it. He'd kind of hoped combat and the like would have passed onto someone else by now. He couldn't see himself being tied down to SHIELD like it seemed many of the Avengers were. Certainly not as an agent like Steve or Romanov, to be put on missions and a steady payroll. He'd much rather his money come from somewhere else thank-you very much.

And gosh, wasn't that weird; a payroll. It had been a long, long time since he'd had to worry about an income, but suspects it's going to be something that will come up more and more in the future. Especially if they never manage to find the Veil.

All that said, he couldn't see either of them standing out of the firing line in the event of an emergency. For all that Hermione had accused him of nursing a hero-complex, it wasn't like she didn't have a 'saving people' thing of her own. Granted, it was tempered by her practicality, but it was there nonetheless. Come a crisis, he can see both of them fighting aside the Avengers, attachment to the team (which he suspects was what Fury was hoping for when he allowed them to live in the tower) or not.

"I'd help them out, I guess," he finally says, "If just depends on what they'd want me to help them with."

She nods slowly, "Stark says he works with SHIELD as a consultant. He's not really an agent; more or a freelancer or a mercenary, but only for SHIELD."

"That sounds alright." He hedges. Hermione hums her affirmation.

They fall silent again. Harry thinks on everything that's happened to them; the kidnapping; the torture; begging for mercy on Hermione's behalf in the depths of the Ministry. Her agonized screams and the rancid smell of burning flesh. He almost wishes that those memories were still locked away and hidden from him. His eyes fall unbidden on his right forearm, where the bandages he'd removed that morning no longer hide the squirming mess of purple scarring. In some places where the blood's grown stagnant- caught in the wreckage of scarified tissue- it's so dark it's almost black. It's a sickening sight, but he can't help but find an odd degree of fascination in it. The Dark Mark may be a sign of evil, but maybe- maybe he could take it as something else. Perhaps it were possible to take his Dark Mark- unwillingly gained – as a badge of honour, a reminder of home and everything that he and his family had fought against; a symbol for something else entirely.

Could they return home? Should they even want to? This place didn't seem so bad- there were no Death Eaters at least. Hell, none of their usual history either. They could make a life here; easily. He could get himself a job- a proper job- anonymous, boring and forgotten about by most he meets. It would be like a dream come true. No constraints of a shared past and fame and rabid Voldemort followers desperate to destroy him; he could live the life he wanted to live. Best of all, he wasn't alone. He had Hermione, and for all the guilt he hid inside himself at tearing her away from her life, he couldn't help but selfishly rejoice in her company. Merlin, maybe he could even start his own family here.

And then, in the midst of his childhood dreams that had never managed to leave him in adulthood, it emerges, like a long lost wreck arising from the depths of the ocean. The force of the revelation is enough to knock him to his knees, had he been standing.

Sirius.

His hands shake at the thought. The man had fallen through the Veil! Bellatrix had only sent a stunning spell after him- or at least, it had looked like a stunning spell. The Veil was a portal, so he could very easily have survived. What if he was here? Somewhere in this world? Alive and happy, with a life of his own. The godfather that had been stolen from him all those years ago, as too many of his family were.

"Hermione," he breathes, the facts and possibilities forming an ever stronger picture in his mind, "What if Sirius is alive?"

She freezes, eyes growing wide as they lock onto his, "Oh my God," she whispers, "I can't believe I forgot about Sirius!"

He grasps her hand in his, excited at the sudden revelation, "All these years, we thought he was dead. Hermione, he's somewhere out there. Alive!" The though brings tears to their eyes. The grief and the guilt, faded only by the passage of time is erased as hope springs up, cautious and tentative, but growing with every second that passes.

Hermione looks joyful, but worried, "But he could be anywhere Harry. The Veil has so far proven itself to be unpredictable- he could have landed anywhere on the globe."

"We can find him," he says resolutely, "We have magic and technology on our side. If anyone could find him, it would be us." She smiles at him, unconvinced.

"Where would we even start? He may not have even used the same name."

"We go to London tomorrow. It's as good a place to start as any."

"And if he's not in London? Or Britain for that matter?"

"Then we use technology. He's bound to be somewhere on the muggle records. Stark is a technology genius, I'm sure he'd be able to find him. I've still got that picture of the marauders in my bag."

"Hnnn." She replies, dubious. He ignores her reservations. The possibility that more of his family is here is almost too much to handle. He stands up, intending to go to his room. Plans are whirling about his head like a tornado and he needs the darkness of his room to work them out.

A hand on the hem of his shirt stops him short. He turns back; Hermione is looking at him with pleading eyes.

"Stay, please. I don't think I can deal with another night alone."

He stares down at his best friend. Her eyes are bloodshot, and in the dim light the recesses beneath her eyes seem deeper and almost bruised-looking. He sits back down, sighing heavily. It's probably his hero-complex thing again. That or he just can't really say no to Hermione.

"Fine. But eat your dinner first." Hermione pouts. He mirrors it and she laughs, high and thin, but a laugh all the same. He climbs across the bed, wincing at the pressure on his new bones, and settles himself as she works her way slowly through her meal. He's satisfied when she slides the empty bowl across the bedside table.

She excuses herself to the bathroom and he takes the opportunity to get himself under the covers. She returns a few minutes later and crawls under them, sidling up to him almost shyly.

He sighs and pulls her into him, letting her rest her head against his chest. It feels slightly awkward- almost too intimate- and he can tell that his arm is going to go numb fairly quickly, but he won't grudge her this. Not after the week(s) they've had.

"Jarvis?" Hermione asks into the slightly uncomfortable silence.

"Yes Miss Granger?"

"Could you please turn off the lights?" they dim slowly, winking off like stars in the growing dawn. The room goes dark and she sighs in relief, "Thank-you Jarvis."

"Of course, Miss Granger." The AI replies. It sounds very human and Harry is momentarily unnerved, imagining some stranger watching them sleep. He pushes the thought away before it can creep him out.

"Harry?"

"Mmm?"

"Thank-you."

"Mmm. Shut up and go to sleep." She huffs a laugh and settles down, good hand curling into his shirt. He listens to her breathing slow, her fingers twitching sporadically in the upper realms of slumber. It does nothing to calm his thoughts, which are still running a million miles a minute. Thoughts of Sirius and a life to be made in this world plague him deep into the early hours of the morning.

All the angst. Ick. Hopefully it's the last of it I have to put up… we'll see.

Next chapter, I promise, you'll see London and the Avengers versus portkey travel. Until then, you'll have to wait.

Cinna.