Harry woke later than usual. For a moment, he could not account for why his brain felt like it was lined in razor wire.
Then, yesterday flooded back.
He looked to his right and saw Ginny asleep on her stomach, sheets hugging her hips. Harry extricated himself and dressed quietly in the apricitic sunlight from the window.
Like lowering the needle of a record player, his mind picked up its fixation exactly where it left off. The events of the forest, their goodbye. A few fitful hours' sleep had done nothing to calm the swell of anxiety in his chest.
Treading out of the room, he glanced at Ginny. The sun was white on the flawless plane of her back. He turned away, disgusted with himself.
"Chief? Director Lakey for you."
Harry's brow furrowed. He didn't remember an appointment. "Send him in."
Gwen stepped aside and Lakey barged in like a snowplough, even teeth incongruous in his grizzly-bear face.
"Mornin'," he said brightly, gripping Harry's hand. "Wanted to catch you before lunch. Thought I'd give you an update on Callahan."
Harry nodded and gestured towards the couch.
"Annie Wilkes submitted her full report this morning. Can't beat her turnaround time," Lakey grinned. "No evidence of an Imperius Curse. No evidence of enchantments, a mind-altered state, or even mental distress. Of course, she only examined up to a few hours before the attack, so we'll have to take her conclusions for what they're worth. There's always the chance his actions were premeditated, but that seems unlikely given the circumstances. He was there on orders, after all."
Harry pressed his lips into a hard line. "What d'you make of it all?"
"Well, it certainly suggests Callahan is and has been an anti-Muggle bigot for some time," Lakey said smoothly. "Someone who was apparently very good at hiding it until a few days ago. We'll have to develop that at trial, of course."
Harry looked through the warped-glass of the windows surrounding his office. It always made him feel like he was in a fish bowl.
"They believe he was under the Imperius," Harry grunted. "The lot of them. When will the evaluation be made public?"
Lakey looked sympathetic. Magical evaluations were very rare in Britain these days, usually saved for the most heinous offenders. The subjection of Callahan to the procedure would not be well-received.
"Don't worry," said Lakey. "We'll add the evaluation as an amendment to the arraignment on Saturday. The press never looks past the charge sheet. They'll read the Ministry statement and be done with it. Your Aurors probably won't hear about it until the trial begins. At that point, we'll call in every favor we have at the Prophet to downplay the magical evaluation and emphasize the nastiness that is Theo Callahan."
Harry gave the Director a level look. He was not accustomed to such candor regarding press manipulation, but Lakey was one of the best there ever was. His ability to influence public opinion, especially after Voldemort's fall, was legend. Half of the Muggle and Muggle-born protection laws were on the books because of him.
Harry glanced out the window again. Several pairs of eyes flicked away. The Aurors were on edge, Callahan's absence a gaping hole. All Harry wanted was a few weeks of quiet so that everyone could forget about Callahan…and the woman who would prosecute him.
He looked at his hands and asked the question. "How's Hermione?"
"Hermione?" Lakey chuckled. "Fine, fine. She was in the office even earlier than me, marking up Annie's report for review. She'd written a summary before I could even read a word."
Harry smiled, but his stomach dropped unexpectedly. Somehow he was disappointed Hermione was...productive? Like she couldn't be bothered by what had happened yesterday? He glanced at the stacks of files on his desk laid out like a city skyline, damning evidence of his own lack of productivity.
"It's the case," Lakey was saying. "She can feel how important it's going to be. I was worried Callahan was getting to her before she even started, but whatever you said yesterday must've helped."
He cleared his throat. "Right, well. I'm sure she'll do great. She always does."
An awkward silence followed and Lakey took it as his signal to leave. The director looked out the window as he stood, noting the same wave of eyes flashing away.
"Harry," he grinned. "Should we need to consult on this case in the future, feel free to come to my office. You'll always have a warm reception there."
Harry grimaced apologetically. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement did not have many friends among the Aurors these days.
As Lakey bounded out, Gwen slipped inside. "Your wife owled, sir. She wanted to remind you about dinner with the Weasleys tonight. She said to pick up beer and something to cook and she'll be done at the Prophet around six."
"Right, thanks," he said, running a distracted hand through his unruly hair.
He'd entirely forgotten about Wednesday dinner. He was supposed to be at the Auror Training Centre today, but begged off to finish going through his files. Now he had to pick up food, visit Ron at work, and prepare to see Hermione again. In comparison to the latter, everything else seemed rather manageable.
Down the narrow aisles of Dwendell's Market Hall, a large grocery in the heart of Diagon Alley, Harry trudged towards the butchery with a six-pack of Redstone's Enchanted Ale balanced on his hip.
A few people were staring at him. Hardly unusual. Ron once told him people found it disconcerting to see Harry Potter doing normal things. Like seeing a teacher in public or a hippogriff on a unicycle. It just wasn't right.
Head down, Harry got in the queue behind two witches. Enchanted knives and cleavers hacked and filleted slabs of meat behind the glass display, but Harry took none of it in. He'd see Ron in a few minutes and Harry was going to figure out what was wrong with himself before then.
First point of business: He'd kissed Hermione.
Inevitable question: Why?
Dunno really.
Expand on that.
Well, like she said, we never had. It was curiosity, wasn't it?
Why were you curious?
Is it a crime to be curious? I've known her twenty-six years. In all that time, we've never kissed.
And that didn't seem right?
Well, it seemed…odd.
Why?
Well, we know everything about each other...Shouldn't I know what kissing her is like?
I don't know if that's how it works. She's your best friend. Your sister-in-law, remember? Not to mention your best friend's wife.
Oh, yes. I'd completely forgotten, thanks.
So why'd do it?
He paused, fingers numb against the perspiring six pack in his hand.
Her lips. They were beautiful. In that moment, she was beautiful.
So you did it because you were attracted to her?
Well, yes. But for that moment.
So you'd never do it again?
Never? I mean…I doubt it'll come up.
So you'd do it again, if it came up?
No. Of course not. It was a mistake. An innocent mistake. We took things too far. The kiss itself wasn't unpleasant, of course. It was…
It was what?
Look. Just because we kissed doesn't mean I want to sleep with her. She's always been pretty. I've always known that. But she's my best friend. I can certainly be her best friend and find her attractive, can't I? Surely that's how many men are about their female friends?
Why did you sleep with Ginny last night?
Well, she started it, didn't she?
But you didn't want to do it. Not really.
I can't very well say 'no' when she gets going like that. She's my wife.
There was another reason though. Something about Hermione.
What? That sleeping with Ginny helped me forget about Hermione? Yes, okay. That's the answer you're looking for. And it worked. I don't regret it.
But you do, though. Why?
He hesitated. Because, for a moment…I thought of her. I thought…I wanted for a moment, for it to be her.
What does that tell you?
That I'm fucked? That that kiss fucked me up. I can't focus. I can't work. I've got to get over this or I'm going to do something stupid.
What're you most worried about right now?
Ginny finding out about the kiss, for starters. Seeing Ron after I've kissed his wife. My work. That fucking Callahan case…
But what are you most worried about?
He hesitated. That Hermione won't speak to me.
"Number, Chief Potter?"
Harry looked up. He was at the front of the queue without noticing how he got there. His order was ready in less than a minute.
Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes drew close like a storm cloud. As Harry sidestepped shoppers and street merchants, he tried to string together his thoughts like flobberworms on a clothesline.
So, all right. He'd had some unfortunate feelings about Hermione in the forest and in bed that same night. But what of it? The kiss was a shock and he wasn't thinking clearly. None of it meant anything. It didn't change anything. At the core, he and Hermione were fantastic friends. It had always been and would always be like that. And that meant any attraction he felt towards her was not only inappropriate but dangerous given their personal relationships and present circumstances. He would simply have to put it behind him, and if that meant waiting a few days before having a real conversation with Hermione, so be it.
Harry nodded to himself, reassured. Steps from the display windows, however, someone called his name. Harry turned and found her instantly. Like he was a compass and she was due north.
Fuck.
He stared as she approached him. He wasn't remotely ready for this shit. Alarm bells clanged in the back of his skull. Fight. Flight. Freeze. He went with freeze.
She looked incredible—curls loose and free, cheeks pink in the crisp wind barreling down the alleyway. She wore a navy coat and leather gloves. Had she been waiting for him? Harry wasn't sure if this thought filled him with more dread or exhilaration.
"Hermione."
She was very direct. "I wanted to talk to you. Do you have a moment? We could step into a café or something."
"Er," he stammered. He looked down at the shopping in his hands and Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. He could think of no other answer.
"Yeah, all right," he said. "Were you waiting for me?"
She smiled with some embarrassment. "I suppose I was. How about Fortescue's? It's around the corner."
He nodded like his opinion held weight.
They found an outdoor table far from the street. Their waitress placed a menu in Harry's stiff hands and he looked, unseeingly, at the list of sundaes, hot drinks, and pastries. He did recognize the name at the top of the menu, of course. Florean Fortescue. He was killed during Voldemort's second rise. Harry had a brief flash to his third year when the kindly old man gave him free sundaes every half hour.
The waitress took their orders (two macchiatos). When she left, Hermione spoke like a magistrate reading out a sentence.
"Harry, I don't know if you've thought much about what happened yesterday. I've thought about it a lot and I thought we had better talk before things become too awkward…"
Harry nodded straightaway. He felt a flicker of hope at her words. It was just like Hermione to confront a difficult situation head-on and with as little fuss as possible.
"I'm not sure what came over us in the forest but, whatever it was, it wasn't a good idea." Despite her fixed expression, her fingers were twisting under the wrought-iron table. "I've been under a lot of stress at work. And the kids just left, of course. I wasn't thinking clearly. Sometimes you make dumb decisions in the heat of the moment. I'm sure you've thought something similar?"
Harry nodded again. But his stomach writhed like he'd swallowed a handful of asp larvae.
Kids, work, stress. These were the reasons she'd kissed him.
Her lips, attraction, lust. Those were his.
He remembered how she'd felt in his hands. The way her head tilted when she opened her mouth under his lips. Her soft moans that had him painfully hard in seconds. He kissed her because it felt good, because he wasn't sure he wanted to stop. But Hermione—who'd just lost her firstborn to Hogwarts, who was starting the most important case of her career—had been overwhelmed and vulnerable. Intentionally or not, he'd taken advantage of that.
Before he could slip further into the patented Harry Potter shame-spiral, their waitress appeared with their order. Once she'd gone, Hermione continued.
"I hold none of this against you, Harry," she said, adamant. "You're my best friend. I would never do anything to harm that. I'd do anything to..." she stopped, faltering for the first time. "You know how important you are to me, how much I need you with me. I'd hate to think what happened yesterday would make you question that. And from a more practical and selfish standpoint," she smiled hesitantly, "I need you now more than ever. We have the Callahan case, after all."
He nodded again like the bobble-head outside Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. But his heart was lodged somewhere around his larynx.
She cleared her throat and took a steadying breath. "So, what happened yesterday," she finally said, "was a mistake. A one-time thing. I'm so sorry and I'm sorry if it caused you any worry…"
The din of the café thrummed in his ears. He could feel that strange heat prickling up the back of his neck. He tried to think of anything to say in response.
"There's no reason you should apologize," he eventually grunted. "You weren't exactly the only guilty party."
Hermione smiled grimly and looked down at her coffee, stirring it uselessly. The milk had already been thoroughly emulsified.
"Can I ask you something else?" she said without raising her head.
"What?"
"Did you…have you told Ginny what happened?"
Harry blanched. "No. Why? Have you told Ron?"
He hoped he didn't sound as panicky as he did in his head.
"No! Not at all," she said immediately, looking relieved. "I had this thought last night. We—er—did you realize that where it happened…was the same place Ron saw us doing the exact same thing twenty years ago?" She shook her head. "I can't possibly tell him something like that."
Harry wasn't sure why he found this so funny. Maybe it was because he'd barely slept. Maybe it was because he needed something else to latch onto, apart from the mental pummeling he was giving himself. Or maybe it was because he needed to distract himself from the way Hermione's lips looked as they closed around the rim of her cup.
For whatever reason, he couldn't stop the bark of laughter that tore out of his chest.
"Fucking Christ, we did," he said, trying to control himself. "That's just...fuck."
Hermione's eyes shone, hysteria jumping from him to her. "I know. We couldn't have picked a more horrible spot even if we'd planned it."
"Could've been the Cannons' pitch. Then he'd probably murder us."
Hermione sputtered into her drink. And finally they both laughed aloud, a hint of the manic laced underneath. A few café-goers turned in their direction.
After a moment, Hermione wiped at her eyes and Harry smiled at her. Somehow, he felt he could breathe again. Like her laughter had dislodged the vise around his chest.
The two of them had reached some sort of rapprochement. He'd process his odd feeling of disappointment later. For now—by acknowledging their joint culpability and appalling lack of judgment—they'd somehow emerged on the other side. Still friends. If slightly traumatized by what they'd been capable of together.
"Lakey visited me today," said Harry once they'd both quieted. "No Imperius."
"Seems so," she sighed. "I talked to Callahan's counselor this afternoon. He'll plead guilty to all charges, apparently."
Harry was almost lightheaded with relief. This day was certainly taking a turn. "That's great," he breathed. "That's fantastic news."
She only shrugged. A lawyer's ability to find a negative angle to anything was rather astounding.
"He'll be looking for a plea bargain, in that case. Let's see what Bruton suggests. Community service? A letter of apology?" she mocked.
"This Bruton is Callahan's counselor? Didn't you say he hates Muggles?"
"Hates? Maybe I should've said a strong disposition against them. On purely philosophical grounds, of course. He'd never admit to something so common as old-fashioned bigotry." She pushed her hair off her shoulders and, for a brief moment, Harry caught a glimpse of the woman he'd seen commandeer countless courtrooms. The only thing he could liken it to was a hawk bearing down on a snake.
"His name is Edward Bruton," she went on. "God, he must be upwards of ninety. From an old pureblood family, surprise surprise. He never joined Voldemort, but I think he was fairly supportive of the anti-Muggle legislation during that time."
Harry nodded. He wanted to say something reassuring, something she wouldn't interpret as condescension. Before he could think of anything, a disturbingly familiar voice called out their names.
"Hermione? Harry?"
They jumped like two teenagers in the backseat of a Ford Anglia.
Ron was on the other side of the café's enclosure. Two large boxes were wedged beneath his chin. Heart returning to his throat, Harry watched as his other best friend weaved between the tables towards them. He felt certain the word GUILTY must be glowing on his forehead.
Hermione looked similarly rattled.
"Well, what're you two doing here?" asked Ron brightly, setting down the boxes.
"Just a late lunch," she lied briskly. "We've been discussing a case."
"Oh." Ron glanced at the table. "You only had coffee for lunch?"
Hermione laughed, a little too forcefully but still believable. "No, we just finished. We were wrapping up with some coffee. I'm going back to the office before dinner. I'll need the caffeine."
"Oh, shit." Ron looked apologetically at Harry. "I was supposed to meet you a half hour ago, wasn't I? The man who delivers our Peruvian Darkness Powder couldn't find our address. Had to track him down all over Diagon Alley. Got it though," he said, tapping the boxes with his boot.
"Yeah, no problem," said Harry, having trouble looking up at Ron's handsome, angular face.
"Well, I should get back," Hermione said. She gulped her lukewarm coffee and stood. She placed a hand on her husband's arm. "See you at dinner?"
Ron nodded and bent low to kiss her cheek. Harry studied the clasp of her briefcase.
She removed several galleons from her coat pocket, considerably more than was necessary for coffee, but they were supposedly paying for a full meal. She said goodbye and disapparated. Harry matched Hermione's amount with his own, picked up one of Ron's boxes, and followed him back to the street. Their waitress stared at the small pile of galleons.
Harry shook his head. Their act of deception should benefit someone.
By some grace of god, Ron was chatty that night. He took no notice of Harry's strange reticence and filled the void with familiar talk of Quidditch, the shop, and the kids. All Harry had to do was nod and grunt at odd intervals.
Lily and Hugo were upstairs doing homework (read: playing). Harry and Ron were in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Ginny and Hermione would arrive soon. Ron peeled the boiled potatoes with a fork, the skins trailing down the counter and onto the floor. There was a spell for it but neither of them were very good at it. Harry was preparing the oven for the pork roast. He'd already snipped a few sprigs of rosemary from the pot above the sink.
Harry was testing the heat with his wand when they heard the front door slam.
"Hey, hey," Ron called, catching sight of his sister. She gave him a one armed hug before turning to Harry.
"Sorry I'm late," she grumbled, burrowing into his shoulder. "Had to re-write an article from one of our new correspondents. Merlin, I hope he improves. This is the second time."
Ron chuckled. "I hope you get the byline at least."
"Too right," she groaned.
Her small, warm hand rubbed Harry's side and he stiffened as a flash of moonstruck memory scorched his mind. He gently broke away from her.
"Pepper," he mumbled, reaching for the spice rack.
Ginny breathed deeply through her nose. "Smells fantastic. You two been working hard, have you? Is there some theme tonight?"
"Only the finest Anglo-Saxon fare for you, sister," said Ron, wiping starchy hands on a dishtowel. "Meat and potatoes."
"How inventive."
Their regular Wednesday dinners had started out of necessity. When Ginny and Hermione left Hogwarts (Hermione had returned for her final year) and joined Harry and Ron in London, they quickly discovered that, of the four of them, only Harry and Ginny knew how to cook. Ginny from helping her mum. Harry from self-preservation. Uncle Vernon was less likely to hit him if his Beef Wellington was cooked through.
In those early months, Harry and Ginny cooked for Ron and Hermione (and often George and Angelina) in their small flat in the Whitechapel neighborhood of London. Hermione learned quickly and Ron stumbled along, picking up essentials like frying eggs and boiling pasta. He still forgot to salt the water sometimes, though.
Once they'd mastered a few recipes, she and Ron started returning the favor. To be honest, Harry had preferred when he or Ginny cooked. Hermione followed recipes so exactly she often became irrationally angry when Ron tried to make substitutions or threw in a few spices "just to see what would happen." The end result wasn't always appetizing. And that's when they discovered Muggle carryout. But man cannot live by butter chicken alone.
The front door slammed a second time as Harry was sliding the roast into the oven. Hermione tramped inside looking exhausted but happy.
"Hi," she greeted them, dropping her briefcase with a definitive thud. "Smells good."
"Don't get excited," Ron drawled, carrying six plates to the table. "Meat and potatoes."
She collapsed onto a chair. "I'd eat anything, to be honest. Where're the kids?"
"Upstairs studying," said Harry.
"Of course they are," she said, not believing a word. "I'll check on them."
"C'mon, Hermione," Ron groaned as she stood. "Let them alone, will you?"
She didn't bother turning around. She returned five minutes later looking pleased.
"Were they working?" Ginny asked, rinsing lettuce under the tap.
"They are now," she answered. "I put an Anti-Procrastination Charm on the door."
"Merlin," said Ron, grabbing a handful of silverware from a drawer. "I'm so glad mum wasn't like you. You'll suck the joy out of their childhood, do you know that?"
Harry knew the joke stung because Hermione didn't answer right away.
"It's a Wednesday night," she said coolly. "They weren't given much. They can play after."
He ignored her. "What else do we need?" he asked Harry. "Bread?"
"Yeah, check the pantry."
From the corner of his eye, Harry watched Hermione sit down again and rub the tendons in her ankles. Content the boys had it under control, Ginny sat across from her.
"How's the Callahan case coming?" she asked. "Harry told me you've been busy."
"It's going all right," Hermione replied. "He'll be arraigned on Saturday."
"Does it…does it look like he did what they're saying?"
"I can't really comment, but I think we have a strong case."
"But he was a good Auror, wasn't he? That's what Harry told me. If he did it, it must have been for a really good reason, right?"
"There's a good reason for the Cruciatus?"
Harry felt the temperature in the room plummet several degrees.
"Ah, so that part is true?" said Ginny, slightly smug that she'd gotten a detail out of Hermione. "But why would he do it? Aurors don't go after Muggles without cause. I haven't heard any justification of…"
"Muggle bigotry isn't enough of a justification?"
Hermione's eyes were like knife points. Harry didn't know how Ginny stayed in her chair. But his wife gave Hermione a smile of patient skepticism, like when James told her he didn't know how a Bludger had crashed through the window of her study.
"I'm only saying maybe there's more to the story than we know right now," said Ginny. "I reckon it's possible it has something to do with their being Muggles, but that seems unlikely. To me anyway. Veteran Aurors just don't start cursing Muggles."
"Funny. Since that's exactly what happened."
Ginny held up a placating hand, laughing a little uneasily under Hermione's gaze. She'd learned years ago not to debate Hermione on certain subjects, but she still found herself doing it from time to time. It was the journalist in her. There were conversations over house-elf liberation Harry wished he could forget.
"Okay," she surrendered. "It just seems a shame that he should lose his whole career, have his wand snapped, and possibly spend years in Azkaban over—"
"Over a couple of Muggles. That's what you mean, is it?"
Ginny gave a long-suffering sigh. "I just mean he was a very good Auror."
Thankfully, Ron chose that moment to return. "I can't find the bread."
Harry cleared his throat. "Gin, would you show him?" He busied himself with the onions. "Got my hands full…"
She shrugged and followed Ron to the pantry.
Harry looked at Hermione. She was staring at the table, but looked up when she felt his eyes. She smiled wryly. Can't help myself, can I? it seemed to say.
He smiled back. No, you can't.
Fifteen minutes later, the food was ready. Lily sat between her parents on one side of the table, the Weasleys on the other side. Hermione took the seat opposite Harry.
Dinner passed pleasantly enough. The kids requisitioned all conversation for the first ten minutes with stories of petty injustices and small triumphs at school. Ginny and Ron invariably slipped into Quidditch talk and Hermione grilled Lily and Hugo for an upcoming history exam. Harry sat listening to both conversations, trying to ignore the strange churning in his stomach that had nothing to do with the potatoes.
He was looking at her too much. He was sure of it.
He'd never considered how much he looked at her before, but now it seemed he couldn't go three seconds without his eyes landing on the arc of her face. He felt it must be incredibly obvious to everyone at the table what he was doing, yet no one seemed to notice a thing. He timed himself between glances. But counting the seconds only heightened his need to look at her.
He couldn't explain what he was trying to find in that face, a face he knew as well as his own.
Were they fine now? Were they back to normal? Would they pretend yesterday never happened? Or would it be secret knowledge—buried away but not forgotten?
He stared at her as if the laugh lines bracketing her lips would contort and spell out the answers to all his questions.
A foot ran against his leg under the table. Harry jumped, fork clattering onto his plate. He looked up into Hermione's eyes.
"Sorry," she mouthed.
He nodded, ever the bobble-head, and attempted a smile.
A mistake. Just a mistake.
"Daddy!" Lily said in her high, clear voice.
"What, sweetie?"
"I was saying," she said, as if her father were particularly slow-witted tonight (hell, she wasn't wrong), "me and Hugo have to come up with a hero for the Winter Pageant."
"Hero?"
"Yes! And I wanted to pick you, daddy," she said, though it looked like she was regretting her choice.
"Oh," said Harry, not liking the sound of this. "Are you supposed to pick someone you know or anyone will do?"
"Anyone," Lily answered. "I think most everyone in the class is picking Quidditch players and famous wizards…"
"Oh, then sweetie…" Harry hesitated. He'd been to several of the Winter Pageants at Lily's school before. There were always a few kids who chose him, much to his embarrassment, and while Lily's choice was touching, Harry had always been grateful James and Albus never suggested something similar.
Luckily Ron overheard their conversation and stepped in.
"Oh, can't you be a bit more original, Lily?" her teased. "Your Uncle Ron is a very famous wizard." He puffed out his chest and jutted his jaw for his niece's consideration, which made her squeal with laughter. "Your Aunt Hermione has her own Chocolate Frog card," he threw in.
"You all have Chocolate Frog cards!" Hugo giggled.
"Yes, all except your Aunt Ginny," Ginny laughed. "Which I've never understood! I was at the Battle of Hogwarts. Don't I deserve a card too?"
"Not everyone at the Battle can have their own card," Ron said matter-of-factly. "Harry, Hermione, and I are the ones who actually destroyed stuff. You just stayed at school…"
"Stayed at school," Ginny repeated, indignant. "School was no picnic that year, as you well know, Ron Weasley. If we hadn't been there to save your arse when you lot finally showed up…"
"Gin," Harry warned, looking at Lily.
The siblings quieted. Harry and Hermione shared a look and she nodded.
"Your dad's a great choice for a hero, Lily," said Hermione. "But don't let that stop you from considering other options. It doesn't have to be your dad. You can pick anyone you like."
Lily considered her words. "Okay," she said slowly. "We do have to dress up as our hero and I'm not sure I want to dress up as daddy," she giggled. "Maybe I'll pick you, Aunt Hermione?"
It was Hermione's turn to look uncomfortable. Harry laughed aloud at the look on her face before falling silent at the look on Ginny's.
"Well, you've got a while until Christmas," Harry finally said. "Just take your time and think about it."
"Who are you going to pick, Hugo?" Ron asked.
Hugo looked at his father and said quite plainly: "Damien Donovan."
The table laughed. Donovan was a Seeker for the Falmouth Falcons who'd recently retired with one of the best records in the league.
"Oh," said Ginny, returning to herself. "I didn't know you liked Damien so much. Let me know when you start your project and I'll arrange a get-together for you both. How does that sound?"
Hugo's mouth fell open, his little eyes rounding out like galleons. "Thanks Aunt Ginny!"
By the time they finished dinner it was nearly ten o'clock. Harry went upstairs to open Albus' room. Hugo would sleep there until his parents were ready to leave. Ginny took Lily to her own room.
Harry was coming down the grand staircase when he heard heated voices in the library. He slowed his steps, listening hard.
"I'm handling everything, Hermione. Everything." His whisper was sharp, like ice falling from trees. "I've made dinner the past six nights and you know I can't keep Hugo on top of his work—"
"Oh," she breathed, "so all the years I fixed dinner were never a problem until you had to do it yourself."
Ron sighed heavily. "That's not what I meant. Hugo asks where you are all the time. What am I supposed to keep telling him?"
They were silent.
"Tell him his mum is working hard on a case," she said, voice very small. "That she wants to be with him but, sometimes, she has to make sacrifices."
"And how d'you reckon I make a nine-year-old understand that?" Ron snapped.
Harry heard nothing for several seconds.
When Hermione next spoke, her voice was breaking in that fine, high resonance he'd known too well as a younger man. Echoes of heartache and pain. He had not heard it for many years and it stopped his heart cold in his chest.
"Please. Please don't do this. Don't make it worse…you know I don't have a choice."
"There's always a choice."
Silence again.
Soundlessly, Harry descended the last few steps just as the door to the library opened behind him. They started upon seeing him. Hermione's eyes were red, but otherwise she looked unchanged.
"Oh, Harry," she said as Ron stuffed his hands in his pockets. "What were you and Ginny thinking for the rest of the night?"
Harry shrugged. "I dunno. I didn't ask if she had anything planned."
At that moment, Ginny appeared at the top of the stairs and lightly padded down to them. "Were we going to listen to the match? I have the Wireless set up in the other room…"
Ron looked considerably more cheerful at this suggestion and the three of them followed Ginny to the back of the house. In its own dedicated room, the Wireless was a large contraption. Originally a three spectrum dial Muggle radio from the 1940s, it had been modified to pick up magical frequencies protected with Muggle-repelling charms. The three-foot apparatus stood on a sturdy table with amplifying speakers on each side. Ginny kept a small writing desk nearby where she'd take notes on the matches she couldn't attend in person.
Ginny settled herself at the desk and Ron took out his wand. He tapped the top of the machine and said "Arrows at Cannons."
The radio hummed into life and filled the dimly lit room with the warm rumble of excitable commentators, cheering fans, and the crack of Beaters' bats.
"Drinks?" Harry offered.
"Butterbeer if you've got it," Ron said over his shoulder, staring at the Wireless as though willing it to be a television. He winced at the sound of a sickening crunch. The commentator announced the Cannons' keeper had been hit in the gut with a superbly aimed Bludger.
"Same," Ginny called, scribbling furiously.
Harry looked at Hermione.
"I'll help you," she said.
They moved out the room, neither speaking. In the kitchen, Harry removed two butterbeers from the icebox and set them dripping on the countertop. He then took a bottle of wine from the rack above the pantry and uncorked it with a flick of his wand.
"What's that?" Hermione asked.
"It's claret. 2011."
"Vintage," she smiled. "I'll have some."
Harry summoned a pair of long-stemmed glasses and poured until the ruby liquid resembled two large Remembralls.
He set hers in front of her. "You all right?"
She looked up, then smiled a little ruefully. "Here I thought we were being quiet..."
Harry took a swallow of wine, watching her. She wasn't embarrassed. He had heard them fight for years, after all. Arguing seemed to be their preferred mode of communication. Whether it was proper wand movements or balancing work and home, that had never changed for them.
"It's the job offer," Hermione supplied, not looking at him. The wine swilled in her glass, an ichorous whirlpool.
"He's not keen, then…"
She shrugged noncommittally. "I'm not surprised."
"Ginny and I were like that," Harry offered, resting his elbows on the countertop. It was harder for her to avoid his gaze when he approached her height. "When I was made Chief, she worried about that. That I wouldn't be around anymore."
She glanced at him. "Ginny always wanted you to become Chief, Harry."
"I suppose she did," he admitted. "But that doesn't mean she liked the hours I pulled or my disappearing for days. She was happy for me, of course, but I was still constantly reminded of what I was missing and how I'd disappointed them. Two things can be true at the same time."
Hermione lifted her glass. "Amen."
Harry took another sip, watching as Hermione gathered her thoughts like scattered leaves.
"This is what I do," she said haltingly. "The job offer doesn't change anything. I'm needed at the Department and I'm needed at home. Making me feel guilty about it doesn't make it easier. I'd never ask Ron to give up his work for the children and I know he's not asking me to do that but…I don't know."
He waited.
"It's just...he doesn't have to make me feel like I'm abandoning Hugo. Like I take joy in it." The wine trembled like the surface of a pond in a strong breeze. "Sometimes, when I get home very late, I sneak into Hugo's room just to hear him breathing. Like I did when he was a baby. How each second he stayed alive seemed like a small miracle. To say goodbye to him every morning knowing he'll be asleep when I come home…how could anyone think that's easy?"
She set down her glass and her arms wrapped around her stomach like guarding an old wound. A telltale sign.
"But Ron's right," she said, voice rising like before. "I made a choice."
Without a word, Harry opened his arms. She came willingly, as though surrendering to gravity. Her breath hitched and released and he lifted her hair, brushing his fingers against delicate skin of her neck.
"Everything's going to be fine," he whispered to her.
She stayed silent, arms locked tight around him. He rubbed her back and felt her body relax against him. As the tension slowly drained from her, however, Harry felt her breath through his shirt and it sent a dark wave of heat ramming into his spine. He stiffened slightly and he knew she noticed because she gently pulled away.
"Thanks," she murmured, not quite meeting his eyes. "I know it'll be all right. Sometimes I just need to hear it."
He cleared his throat. "Anytime."
"Should we…?" She gestured to the butterbeers, which now sat in small puddles on the countertop.
"Right." Harry grabbed the necks of the bottles in his left hand, his other balancing the wine.
They passed back into the hallway of the darkened house, the distant cadence of the Wireless guiding them forward.