Harry stared at himself in the mirror. He was not a vain person, but tonight his appearance warranted extra attention. Or, more accurately, his lips did.

They seemed normal. Nothing outwardly different about them. Not too thick or too thin. A pale pink color. Average male lips, really.

But they were not normal. Minutes ago, they had been pressed against Hermione's lips. Her tongue had slipped past them. And he had done the same to her. These lips had touched her neck, the hollow of her throat.

He had felt her shiver.

Harry sighed. He had replayed what happened in the foyer upwards of fifty times and each time it seemed equally unbelievable.

They had kissed. Again.

And, this time, they couldn't cast it off as stress or a lapse in judgment. True, they'd both been drinking, but neither had been close to drunk. He had asked to kiss her and she had consented. It was a choice they made together.

"What're you doing?" said Ginny.

Harry spun around, lowering his fingers from his lips.

"Nothing," he said quickly.

She gave him a strange look but moved towards the sink. Turning on the taps, she started rinsing her face.

Harry glanced at his wife.

Not for the first time, a voice very much like Hermione's whispered in his ear: coward.

Harry grimaced and paced into the bedroom.

Cowards. That's what Hermione said they were if they didn't ask themselves what they were doing. So what were they doing? And why had he done that? Again.

He thought of that dark pulse of warmth. That overpowering need to be close to her. He thought of his body's reaction to her. The way he came alive under her touch with a forcefulness and desperation he'd never experienced before.

It was intoxicating. He wanted more of it. Since that moment in the forest, he'd wanted more but hadn't been able to admit it to himself. Until tonight.

He was attracted to her. Deeply.

The truth of this thought hit Harry hard in his chest. He had to sit down.

He was attracted to his best friend. He was attracted to his sister-in-law. His other best friend's wife. A married woman.

Oh, this is bad, he thought. This is really bad.

He undressed in a daze, absently placing his glasses on the side table before getting into bed.

Perhaps due to sheer exhaustion, Harry couldn't dwell on the rising panic in the back of his mind.

He thought instead of the kiss. How overwhelmingly right it had felt. Like two massive tectonic plates suddenly snapping into alignment.

He could not think of what that meant and, in the next moment, he thought nothing at all.

Harry charged into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at nine the next morning. He ignored the waves and greetings from Hermione's colleagues, making a beeline for her office.

He still wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say. He'd been awake since six and the intervening hours had provided no further clarity on how to manage the maelstrom of thoughts and emotions in his head.

A part of him just wanted to see her. Then, he would know what to do.

"Chief Potter!" said Rochelle, Hermione's assistant. "So wonderful to see you, sir!"

"Is Counselor Granger in?" He could see her office was empty.

"Yes, sir, I think so. At least she was when I got in. Let me check her schedule." She consulted a large calendar book at her desk. "Ah, she's in a meeting with Director Lakey and a few others. Would you like me to pop in and see if she can step out?"

"Yes. Thanks," he added as an afterthought.

Left alone, Harry lowered himself to a chair. He dug his fingers into his hair and pressed very hard, trying to soothe the aching pressure between his temples.

Rochelle returned after only a minute.

"I'm sorry, Chief Potter. She said she isn't available. In fact, she won't be taking any meetings today, which I found strange because..."

Harry heard nothing else. The floor seemed to drop out from under him. Turning towards the exit, he failed to remember whether he said goodbye to Rochelle or not.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. Fucking shit. Motherfucker. Fuck.

He had never been turned away from seeing her. Never. Boardroom meetings were known to break up at DMLE because Harry Potter wanted to see Hermione Granger.

She...she wouldn't speak to him.

Back in his office, Harry closed the door and activated the privacy wards. He sat unseeingly at his desk.

She hadn't even given him a chance to explain himself, he thought bitterly. Not that he had known what he would say if she had.

Was this it, then? Hermione was willing to overlook the first kiss, but not the second? Now she thought he'd taken things too far and she was done with him?

The panic he had shut out last night returned. This outcome was exactly what he had most feared. His attraction to her aside, he could not bear to think of her angry with him. To fall in her eyes...it meant something to him.

Again, he pressed hard at his temples as the waves of regret overcame him. It was only when Gwen knocked softly at his door to tell him the Auror Guild's chairwoman had arrived for their appointment that he was able to pull himself together.

By the next morning, Harry was driven to distraction.

He waited desperately for some sign Hermione was willing to speak to him. But this, too, proved futile when he learned Yvain and Cassy would be in Gloucester for the day, meaning they were with Hermione.

The next day was Friday. Harry hadn't slept. He rolled out of bed feeling as though he'd ingested several litres of doxycide. He had not seen Hermione for two days…maybe a record for them, not counting her seventh year at Hogwarts. Ginny was starting to notice.

"Darling, are you all right?" she said as Harry walked torpidly into the kitchen.

"Didn't sleep well."

"Are you sick? You're pale."

He shrugged, moving towards the coffee she had prepared. He only had the energy to pour himself cereal and, sitting across from Ginny, he desolately stirred the little flakes in their milky bath. The spoon made a high whirring sound on the bottom of the bowl.

Ginny looked at him reproachfully over the Prophet. "Do you need to go to Mungo's?"

He picked up his spoon. "No."

She watched him for a moment before saying, "Maybe this will cheer you up. You know the annual Prophet Christmas party?"

He grunted.

"Well, this year it's going to be a smaller affair while they renovate the newsroom. More like a cocktail party than the usual gala."

Harry said nothing, deeply uninterested.

"You remember Jonathan and Liesel from the Enchanted Life section? Well...they asked me whether we would be interested in hosting a party for New Year's?"

Harry looked up in disgust. "What? Why?"

"Well, I think they thought—and I agree—that it'd be a shame not to have a larger celebration. Plus, they know we've got a ballroom here."

Harry stared at her. "Is that really a good idea?"

"I know what you're thinking," she said quickly, "and I promise, it wouldn't just be for the Prophet. You can invite people from the AD, Ron can invite the guys from the shop…and Hermione from Magical Law Enforcement."

"We just had a party here two years ago."

She raised her brows, letting him reflect on that sentence. "That was for family," she said evenly.

Harry couldn't argue. When you invited the entire Weasley clan to something, you usually got around a hundred people.

"Oh, don't be such a grump," she said, laughing at his expression. "Why do we have this big, beautiful house if we're not going to use it? Wouldn't it be nice to have it full of people on New Year's Eve? We could watch the fireworks from the balcony..."

Harry sighed, knowing there was no point in trying to talk her out of it. "We'll have to clean."

"I know," she said happily, recognizing his surrender. "We can hire people for that."

"So long as they keep away from the study. You know I have sensitive files there."

She stood, taking her mug to the sink. "Well, maybe you can go through the house and make sure you've put away all the things you don't want people to find. You could get Ron and Hermione to help. Didn't they offer once?"

At the mention of Hermione's name, his stomach turned. He nodded mutely.

"Then it's settled!" Ginny said. "I'll tell Jonathan and Liesel. People will go mad when they find out."

"Why?"

She gave him a superior sort of smile. She was often amused by Harry's complete lack of appreciation for his own fame. She came up to his chair and embraced him from behind.

"C'mon, darling, you know any party we throw will be big. We'll be turning people away at the door. Oh, and you'll have to invite the Minister…"

Harry sighed again, her arms heavy around his shoulders. "Sure."

"Wonderful!" she said, standing straight. "Well, I'm off then. You feel better, okay? You look horrible."

That afternoon, Harry was vainly trying to work through some files when Gwen popped her head into his office.

"Chief," she said urgently. "Commissioner Hewett is on the telly-phone for you."

Harry looked at his Muggle telephone. It was almost completely hidden by rolls of parchment. He barely used it, save the rare occasions he needed to speak with the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.

Gwen closed the door and Harry picked up the receiver.

"Commissioner?"

"Chief Potter? This is Jack. How are you, sir?"

While the Muggle's voice was scratchy across the line, Harry could hear him well enough. Because the AD was located on the first floor of the Ministry—and thus still relatively close to the surface of Muggle London—the technology wasn't rendered completely useless by the presence of magic.

"I'm well," Harry lied. "What can I do for you?"

"I got a report from Edinburgh today. Thought you might be interested."

Harry grabbed a sheaf of parchment and a quill. "Go ahead."

"You remember that suspect you were after last month? What was his name? Darren Rudge or something?"

"Deedrick Rudge?" Harry said quickly. This was the former Death Eater Callahan had been sent to find the night he tortured the Camerons.

"That's the one," Hewett said. "Well, he was spotted in a village outside Edinburgh last night, or at least someone who fits the description. Witness' name is Ethel Hardwick. One of our type, obviously. She told the officer on the scene that she heard someone rummaging in her bins late last night. Said the man was bald and had a long scar running up the back of his head. Sound like your man?"

"It does. How'd you hear about this?" Harry asked, surprised a minor incident in Scotland had reached London so quickly.

"Well, I know how much trouble this git's caused you," the Muggle said. "And...after what happened to the Camerons, I put out a special notice that anyone matching Rudge's description should contact Scotland Yard immediately."

"Thank you," Harry said with sincerity. "I'll send someone over to interview her. See if we can learn anything else. Address?"

Hewett gave it to him.

"You'll send one of your…better officers, won't you?" Hewett asked awkwardly.

Harry grimaced, embarrassed the Muggle had to ask that.

"Yes, you have my word. I'll go myself, if you like."

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that," he said quickly. "I trust your judgment. I'll talk to you soon, Harry."

"Bye Jack and thanks."

Harry replaced the receiver, feeling grimly satisfied. Deedrick Rudge had not been seen since the day of the Callahan incident. While his Aurors had conducted several searches and had brought in known associates for questioning, the proverbial trail had gone cold.

Harry looked out at the Auror pool. He would send someone trustworthy this time and his mind immediately landed on Matthew Durkheim, the same Auror he had taken to the Muggle hospital after Hermione's attack. Besides Gwen, there was no one he trusted more in the AD.

Harry stood and rifled through a nearby cabinet, looking for Rudge's file. There was a quiet knock at the door.

"Come in!" he yelled over his shoulder.

A soft click and then, "Hi."

Harry spun.

"Her-Hermione!" he almost shouted. He backed into the cabinet, his face going scarlet. "I—er—It's good to...do you want to sit down?"

She glanced at the couch and shook her head. She kept her eyes on the floor, curls shielding her face.

"I was thinking of going on a run tomorrow," she said, voice small, "down by the River Isis. Do you know the place?"

"B-by Oxford?" he stammered.

"Yes," she said, still not looking at him. Her entire attention seemed consumed in fiddling with the lock on his door. "Would you like to come? It'd be better going with you than disturbing Yvain and Cassy's weekend."

Harry stared at her, trying to gauge her expression.

"Er, all right," he eventually said.

"Does nine work? You can come to the house and we'll apparate from there."

"Sure." He desperately needed to tell her he was sorry. "Hermione, I'm—"

"I'll see you then."

She turned out of the room before he could finish.

The next morning, Harry dressed in a state of nervous agitation—grey long-sleeve shirt. Black joggers. Black trainers.

Ginny was still asleep. As he always did, he gently nudged her awake to tell her he was leaving.

"Gin," he whispered. "I'm heading out."

"W-what?" she mumbled.

"Run with Hermione. I told you last night. I'll be back for lunch, all right?"

She nodded sleepily, turning onto her other side.

Moments later, he stood on the steps of Ron and Hermione's home. The pale sunlight lent the surroundings a bluish hue and the air was laden with fog. He knocked on the door and wrapped his arms around himself.

Hermione appeared a moment later, as though she'd been waiting just behind the door.

"Hermione," he said softly.

"Hi."

She wore an oversized green pullover with black leggings. He could see the strap of a camisole underneath, which was a paler green. Her curls were pulled back with a strong elastic.

"H-how are you?"

"Fine. Are you ready?" she said brusquely.

"Yes."

Hermione held out her hand and he took it. A moment later, he was whipped through the air, Hermione pressed to his side.

They landed in a heavily wooded park. He could hear the slow trickle of the river close by. Otherwise, it was exceptionally still.

Without a word, Hermione released his hand and took a few steps away. She started stretching. Harry watched her a moment, wondering if he should speak. He decided against it and began stretching himself. From nerves, he kept glancing over at her. The pullover disguised her slim frame but not the graceful outline of her legs. He looked away.

Hermione had taken to running after leaving Hogwarts. Harry knew she didn't consider herself an athletic person, much more inclined to the sedentary life of a student, but being on the run from Voldemort had changed all that. When Hermione moved in with Ron and George immediately after graduation, she took up running as an escape when her small and testosterone-laden flat became too much. She hadn't stopped since.

When it looked like Hermione had completed her circuit, Harry spoke.

"Hermione, I just wanted to tell you—"

"Harry," she said, placing her hands on her hips and looking at the ground. "Let's just run, okay?"

He felt a flash of annoyance, but something in her comportment stopped him from forcing the issue. She wasn't going to speak until she was ready.

So, they took off running.

The path Hermione chose was lined with ancient trees that tangled at their apex, creating a shaded archway. To his right, Harry could see the River Isis, a branch of the Thames that ran through the Muggle university of Oxford. They encountered few people. In the distance, Harry could hear the hum of a leaf blower and a siren coming from town.

Hermione kept her eyes forward. Her face was tight, though she seemed to relax as they found their stride, Harry going slightly slower than normal to stay by her side.

Twenty minutes in, the university proper came into view. Despite his nerves, Harry almost smiled. If he squinted, the turrets and towers could be mistaken for Hogwarts. The cold stone was over a thousand years old, predating Hogwarts by several decades. There was a time when wizard and Muggle scholars attended the university together. Before the Founders. Before Statute of Secrecy.

"You see that tower over there?" Hermione said at last.

"Yeah."

"That's Magdalen College. Let's race there, okay?"

Harry glanced at her, gauging her mood.

"All right, but you know I'm faster than you."

She finally cracked a smile. "You're not."

"Hermione, c'mon."

"You're not," she repeated. "I'm just as fast as you."

"You're not, but fine."

She might've rolled her eyes.

"On the count of three, okay? One. Two. Three!"

They each ran at their full strength, feet kicking up pebbles on the path. Harry found he was smiling, the same light-headed elation of flying a broom coursing through him. After ten yards, he began to pull away but he slowed himself so that she remained within striking distance.

"Oh, fuck you!" he heard her laugh behind him. "Don't you dare slow down for me!"

Harry grinned and ran at a full tilt. At last, he reached the outer wall and touched the stone. He spun around, breathing hard. Hermione had slowed to a jog, but smiled as she too touched the wall. She placed her hands on her knees, catching her breath.

"Told you," he panted.

"I used to be better…" she breathed.

"You're good. I'm just better."

She glared at him but there was no real anger behind it. "Well, it's not in my job description to work out like it is in yours. I'm not paid to exercise."

Harry spotted a bench near the river. "Let's sit, okay? I haven't run like that in a while."

She agreed and they settled themselves, catching their breath and watching the slow movement of the water. The River Isis did not have a natural bank, more a walkway of stone. A few long, skinny boats were moored along the wall, sloshing in the current.

Hermione unzipped her pullover. Harry tried not to focus on the way the thin camisole clung to her breasts.

"Have you ever been to Oxford?" she asked.

Harry dragged his eyes to the river. "Once or twice. There are magical families in the area. I didn't know about this running path, though. It's nice."

She stared at the water. "Did I—did I ever tell you I wanted to come here as a child?"

"To Oxford?"

"Yes," she said quietly, "maybe when I was seven or eight. I was told Oxford was the best university in the country, and then and there—as kids do—I decided it would be the only place I'd go. I told Mum and Dad I would study literature and political philosophy. I even knew what those subjects were back then," she laughed, shaking her head. "I had this whole idea that I would play field hockey and have lots of friends and get accepted to some doctoral program. Like it had all been preordained."

He glanced at her. She'd never told him this before.

She dug the toe of her trainer into the ground. "But then…I got my Hogwarts letter and, once I got it, there was really no question in my mind that I would go. It explained the unusual things that kept happening to me. I also thought—at the time—that it explained why I had no friends. I thought, if I go to this place, I'll finally be around people like me, people that will want to be around me. Oxford and all the rest didn't matter anymore. I didn't look back for eight years."

"Eight years?"

She smiled a little ruefully. "Yes. I never regretted coming to Hogwarts. Especially after meeting you and Ron. But once...I did think about what my life might've been if I had never gotten that letter." She glanced at him. "Can you guess when it was?"

He shook his head.

"Hogwarts graduation."

"How d'you mean?" said Harry, brows drawing together. He didn't remember Hermione being anything but incandescently happy that day. She was first in the class, of course. The programme noted she was the most accomplished student since Albus Dumbledore.

"It was on stage, after my speech." She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "I had this strange feeling of being outside myself, of feeling totally separate from everyone. I think it was the natural culmination of how I felt my entire seventh year."

"I don't understand."

She smiled again. Pulling her feet up to the bench, she hugged her knees.

"You forget I was a year older than all the other students. It was only a year, but somehow that made a difference. Add to that, I was Head Girl. The girl who was on the run with Harry Potter. The brightest witch of her age. I think it was hard for people to approach me. I didn't have you or Ron. I didn't have any of my former classmates. I felt...isolated, at times."

Harry nodded. He understood that feeling to his bones. He still felt it now.

"Anyway, it was on that stage that, for the first time in eight years, I thought of Oxford. I thought of a life where I never learned I was a witch. And I thought...it might've been okay," she murmured, as if speaking blasphemy. "Maybe, I'd be at Oxford working towards my degree, towards some impressive job. And maybe that would've been nice." She shrugged. "There are certainly more opportunities for post-secondary education in the Muggle world."

Harry nodded. Going to university was not common in their world. The economy followed an apprenticeship model in which young wizards applied to a specific business or organization and learned the skills of that trade directly from practioners. Purely academic pursuits were largely seen as extraneous. As such, there were only three wizarding universities in the world: one in France, one in China, and one in America.

They didn't say anything for several minutes. On the water, an old man directed a boat down the river with a long pole.

"I'm sorry I avoided you this week," she finally said, voice barely audible. "I just...I wasn't ready to see you so soon after...I needed time to think. Can you forgive me?"

He nodded immediately, struck that she felt the need to ask him for forgiveness.

"I'm the one who should apologize. If I hadn't—"

She cut him off with an incredulous look, though there was real fondness behind it. "Please spare me your guilt complex, Harry. We both messed up, okay?"

He said nothing. In the next moment, however, Hermione took his hand.

"I've thought a lot about why we did that again," she said, staring at their fingers. "I don't presume to know what's in your head, but I thought about the things we talked about last time...after the forest. About how stressed we've been at work with the Callahan case. About the kids leaving. But I think...for me...that can't explain all of it. I've been stressed before and we've never acted like this."

Harry felt numb under her touch. Somehow, he knew her next words would be very important.

"I think there's something wrong with me and Ron."

Harry watched her, seeing what it cost her to say that sentence aloud. Elsewhere—buried within him—there was something else, a sense of deep dejection.

"I think...we've been growing apart for a while and Rose's leaving has made things worse. He loves her so much. I think it's hard for him adjusting to not having her around everyday." She sighed. "And then there's the Deputy Director offer. He's said, in so many words, that he doesn't want me to take it. He thinks I'm overworked and that if I was made Deputy, it would only be a matter of time before I'm appointed John's successor. Then, I'd have even less time for him and Hugo. I think he feels abandoned. I've had to infer all this, mind you. Ron won't come out and say what he feels. And the fact that we can't talk about it—at least not in any productive way—worries me too."

Harry thought of the argument he'd overheard the night after their first kiss. When Ron had told Hermione "there's always a choice."

She turned over his hand and traced the lines there.

"And it doesn't help that you're so wonderful," she whispered. "So..."

She stopped and Harry barely breathed.

"That's the worst part of all this, though," she eventually said. "When I've been feeling so low, so disconnected from Ron, I've—I've used you to fill that hole. And that's so incredibly selfish. So unfair to our friendship. And so cowardly not to face up to what's going on in my marriage..."

They were quiet. Harry had hoped—when this moment came—he would know what to say. But he didn't. He really didn't. Seeing her like this, all he could think to do was to be there for her, to ease—by whatever small measure—any discomfort he might be responsible for.

"You haven't used me," he said quietly. "We both messed up, right? I wanted to kiss you, Hermione."

She closed her eyes. "Don't say that."

"But it's true. Since the forest, I've wanted to do it again. You can't know how much I've thought about it."

She removed her hand. "Please, don't."

"You have no idea how attractive you are. How hard it is to be away from you sometimes."

She looked genuinely frightened. "You—you don't mean that."

Harry wanted to push back, to tell her he did. But something in her face stopped him. His words were not having the intended effect.

"I'm saying this because you aren't the only selfish one," he said quietly. "At least you have a valid explanation about why this happened. I'm not sure I do."

She stared at him for a long moment. Her face had gone very pink.

"So...what are we going to do?"

"What do you want to do?" he asked. Immediately, Harry felt this was the right question. He would not do anything to make her uncomfortable. He would do nothing to make her feel worse.

"Well, obviously, what we're doing is wrong," she said slowly. "So, we need to stop."

Harry nodded. But there was a tug at the back of his mind—a feeling of wrongness, of misalignment.

"We can't risk hurting those around us. The kids..."

He nodded again, feeling the grim truth of her words.

"So, I reckon we have to try again," she said softly. "But we have to mean it this time. We can't let something like that happen again." She released a slow breath. "And...I'm going to fix things with Ron."

"Got it," Harry said and then, to ease the worried look in her eyes, he added, "no more snogging."

She laughed despite herself. "No more snogging."

They got coffee in town. Hermione bought a croissant, which she shared with Harry as they walked along the river towards their Apparition point.

Hermione told him about her friend Lyra's new baby. Harry told her about Albus' last letter home. Eventually, they fell into a comfortable silence, nodding occasionally to the Muggle couples, joggers, and dog-walkers on the path.

As they passed Magdalene College again, however, Hermione spoke.

"Did you really mean what you said? About...about just wanting to kiss me. Was that the only reason?"

Harry glanced at her. She was studying her pastry very closely.

"Yeah, I reckon so."

She nodded. "So, there's...nothing going on with you and Ginny? Anything that would've..."

She didn't seem to have the words to capture what she was asking, but Harry understood.

"No, not like that. We're...we have been fine."

She nodded again, but her unasked question stretched out between them: If things are fine, what are you doing? To this, Harry had no answer.

"I'm sorry about you and Ron," he said quietly. "He has been different since Rose left."

Hermione sighed. "She's her father's daughter. They think alike. Ron runs every new Wheezes product by her, did you know that? He's never asked for my opinion on anything," she laughed. "With Hugo leaving in two years, maybe he's just terrified of being left alone with me."

"That's not true."

She shrugged. "Maybe we should've had more children."

Harry wasn't sure, but she didn't seem to be entirely joking. He could think of nothing to say to that and, thankfully, Hermione turned the conversation to the Callahan case, recounting the recent interviews she'd conducted with the ex-Auror's former schoolmates, teachers, and girlfriends.

When they reached their Apparition point, Hermione turned to him.

"Would you come to the house? Ron said he had something to show you."

"Er—all right," he said. "What is it?"

"Something to do with Quidditch. I may have tuned out," she said with a smile.

He laughed and, in the next moment, they stood back on the steps to her home. Inside, they found Ron preparing a late breakfast.

"Smells good," Hermione said cheerfully, though there was something forced to it.

She watched over the cooking while Ron took Harry upstairs to his Quidditch room, which housed a refurbished Muggle film projector to watch live games and a sizable treasure trove of Cannons collectibles and regalia. Ron showed him an autographed jersey from the Cannons' star Beater, Vindictus Hobbes, who had recently retired after a Bludger de-broomed him for the first time in his career.

"Vin sent it to me directly," Ron said proudly. "It's the jersey he wore in that final match, can you believe it?"

Harry, who seemed to be having trouble looking at Ron, touched the material reverently. "That's amazing."

Between his fame from the second Wizarding War and having a renowned sport reporter for a sister, Ron Weasley was easily the Cannons' most famous supporter. Every year, Ron held a major fundraiser for the team and they even named their Keeper's defensive strategy "the Weasley."

Returning downstairs, Harry fixed them tea while Hermione and Ron ate, having declined their attempts to get him to join. He had promised Ginny to be home for lunch.

Sipping his tea, he watched his two best friends. They still cared for each other greatly. He could see that. That fondness, that ability to get under each other's skin—it was still there.

They'll be fine, he thought. If Hermione was committed to fixing things, they'd be fixed. She rarely failed at anything she wanted.

Harry thought of what he had felt by the river, that odd sense of dejection. He understood what it meant but pushed it aside at Oxford in order to carry on a conversation with her. But as Ron and Hermione talked without him, he could no longer keep it at bay.

Her feelings towards him were not like his towards her. If Hermione had so much as given the word, he would have kissed her again. He would've done it, without question.

She did not feel like that. She could take into account things like Ron, the children, their careers, all that they were gambling with. Her feelings were not so overpowering as to render her senseless.

But Harry also knew there was nothing for it. She had been entirely clear that it could not happen again. That she didn't want it to happen again.

And he would respect that. He would not make her unhappy.

"Oh, I almost forgot," said Ron, nudging Harry with his elbow. "This just came in. Late birthday present for Hermione."

Reaching into his jacket, he removed a small Muggle envelope. He handed it to her.

"What is that?" Harry heard himself ask.

"Tickets to some show she's been wanting to see."

"Not just any show!" Hermione beamed, revealing small slips of paper with colorful writing. "An opera! Oh, Ron, how did you know?"

"I didn't know you liked opera," said Harry.

"I'm just getting into it," she said, touching the tickets carefully. "My parents are mad about it and they've been encouraging me to go. Oh, Ron, this is so thoughtful!"

She reached over and embraced him tightly. Harry felt like a hand was slowly curling around his heart.

"I even used a telly-phone to get them," Ron said smugly.

"So, you're going too?" Harry asked, though he knew the answer.

"I 'spose. Not particularly looking forward to it," he laughed.

"You'll love it," Hermione promised him.

"I'd better head out," Harry said, getting up. "Ginny's probably wondering where I am."

The Weasleys nodded and Hermione walked him to the door while Ron started the washing up.

"Have everything?" she asked.

"Yeah. Thanks."

A pause. "Thanks for coming with me today."

"Of course. Enjoy the opera."

She smiled. "It's not until December."

"Oh. Right."

"I'll see you Monday?"

He nodded, unable to meet her eyes. Hesitant, she took his hand and pushed herself onto her toes to kiss his cheek.

"Is that all right?" she asked a little apprehensively.

"Yeah. Always," he murmured. As she stepped away, he could smell her body—fresh grass, fallen leaves, the faint scent of sweat that touched her neck. Where he had kissed her once.

She released his hand and he disapparated, eyes shut against the whirlwind of sound and color.