Chapter Text
Harry knew there was something wrong with him. And not just the cut on his eyebrow.
He glanced around the Hog's Head, glad that he and Hermione had gone there instead of the Three Broomsticks. For all that Aberforth Dumbledore was now considered a hero due to his efforts in the war, he was still a bit of a surly bastard and most didn't take well to his company. Harry found him rather comforting in a strange way.
The man in question stood behind the bar, silently wiping the counter with a dirty flannel, all while Hermione dabbed a clean cloth from her bag to Harry's brow.
"Are you sure you don't just want Madam Pomfrey to do this for you?" she asked.
Harry shook his head. "I'd always rather it be you."
Madam Pomfrey would ask questions and worry. There would also be the chance that someone else might see him and begin whispering. It was why he'd wanted to avoid the Broomsticks: the gossiping. War hero or not, Harry carried with him the same celebrity, and now it felt worse. Before, when he had been just a potential Heir of Slytherin or the boy who had lied about Voldemort's return, he'd expected the worst. Now, it was as though people were just waiting for him to fall from grace.
It didn't help that the castle was especially crowded these days. There were the usual round of students—new and returning—but there was also what were being called the "returning eighth years", students who had either missed their seventh year due to the war or had elected to retake it in order to actually have a chance at passing their NEWTs.
Harry hated the idea of walking back to the castle and having people give him looks. Then again, he had been serving an awful lot of detention so far this year. Most professors took it easy on him, but the headmistress had little patience for his trouble. Harry adored McGonagall for that, even if it meant he spent some evenings polishing candelabras.
"Did many people see?" he asked, squinting as Hermione pulled the cloth away to examine the cut.
She gave him a terse look that would have sent his eleven-year-old self running for the hills. As it was, Harry felt mostly immune to her scoldings and temper these days. Mostly.
"Did many people see Harry Potter, most famous wizard in all of Britain sucker punch the Seeker for Puddlemere United in the centre of Hogsmeade?"
He let out a small huff. "I am not the most famous wizard in all of Britain."
He was.
"And I did not sucker punch him."
He had.
"Do you want to tell me why you picked a fight with Ginny's new boyfriend?"
Letting out an exhausted sigh, he was tempted to scrape his hands down his face in frustration before he remembered that he was still bleeding. Harry had got in a good first few hits, but Ginny's new bloke was admittedly bigger, broader, and older by two years. Harry would not admit that the man had faster reflexes. That would have been too big of a hit to his ego.
"Because he's an arsehole?" he finally offered.
Hermione did not look amused. "And what's your excuse for punching Zacharias Smith in the nose last week?"
Harry let out a quiet snort of laughter. That had been the best part of the school year thus far. "Because Smith is a cunt."
Thwapping him on the head, Hermione hissed something about language that Harry couldn't quite make out, as the searing pain went through his brow and right to the back of his eye. "Ow, Hermione!"
Squinting up at her through his good eye, he saw that she looked contrite, though it appeared as though she were trying to keep up the stern facade.
"And Anthony Goldstein? Was he a—" She blushed, a soft rosy colour on her dark skin, appearing unable to bring herself to say the word. "Was he that too?"
"No," Harry muttered, looking down. "But he was being a bit of a twat."
"Oh, well that's alright then."
He smiled up at her, ignoring her obvious sarcasm and leaning against her shoulder a bit. "I knew you'd see it my way."
The smile, of course, helped to hide the unease he was feeling. His magic felt like it was often overflowing, or worse yet, building up behind a dam, the pressure pushing against his skin, ready to burst at any minute. The fights, he knew, were related somehow, but Harry didn't give them too much thought. He'd taken worse from Dudley over the years growing up, after all. And most of the pricks he ended up in a tussle with really deserved it—or something, but Harry did always hate disappointing both Hermione and McGonagall.
Hermione patted his head, running her fingers through his hair in a fruitless attempt to tame it, and then gave up with a small huff.
"My point is, you've been awfully… aggressive lately."
Harry averted her gaze. She worried. He hated when she did that. "I know." Hell, that aggression had been one of the reasons he'd opted out of Kingsley's offer to join the Auror Training Programme that summer. In addition to wanting to help restore Hogwarts, Harry didn't feel he was safe enough to just be let loose on Wizarding Britain. Not all Dark Wizards had Horcruxes and needed killing, after all.
"Maybe if they'd let me play Quidditch," he said petulantly.
She gave him a look, a famously Hermione look that managed to be both sympathetic and exasperated.
"Yes, well, it would hardly have been fair to the younger years. Still—" She pulled out her wand, aiming it at the cut above his eyes and healing it before she continued, "—you're not completely wrong. It was an outlet for your more hostile tendencies."
Hermione fell silent, and when she had stopped tending to his eye, he reached up to tenderly rub at it, enjoying the dull ache now that the stabbing pain had subsided. His knuckles still felt a good kind of sore, not that he'd ever admit so out loud.
"It's not because I was jealous," he blurted out, not entirely sure why he needed to clarify. "Ginny's . . . boyfriend," he said, rolling his eyes a bit at the word. "He was just being all pompous and . . . When we broke up, I said that she deserved better than me. I'm not a catch, but she didn't have to take a step down, you know."
"Twelve steps down. Did you see him staring at Lavender's arse?"
He had. He had also caught Ron staring at Lavender's arse, but he decided to keep that bit to himself for the sake of friendship.
"Exactly." He smiled, feeling a bit of his tension bleed away as he looked up at her, glad that the disappointed expression had faded. "Twelve steps down, yeah?"
Hermione's cheeks reddened a bit but her expression didn't change. "Yes. And don't let it go to your head, but from what I hear in the common room, you're the biggest catch," she said with more force than strictly necessary, and Harry cringed, "that most fifth years can imagine."
He rolled his eyes at the thought. "Just what I want out of life: fifteen-year-old witches swooning," he said sarcastically and let out a quiet groan as he remembered the awkward hell that had been Romilda Vane during his sixth year. "Feel free to magically shut them up for me, would you?"
Hermione laughed. "As satisfying as that might be, I think I'll let my aggression out elsewhere." She paused, eyes widening. "Oh!"
Snickering at the sudden blush to her cheeks, Harry stood up and gave her a friendly shoulder bump. "Dare I wonder what aggression Hermione Granger needs to let out. Should I warn anyone to start running for the hills?"
"Harry," she cautioned.
He raised his hands to his mouth to make his voice louder as he continued. "Attention fellow witches and wizards, stay away from birds, centaurs, and jars." He let out a loud laugh as she smacked his arm lightly, watching the way her mouth fell open in objection.
"Merlin, Harry. That isn't what I meant." Her cheeks were still rosy. "I was just thinking maybe you would benefit from an alternate form of, erm, energy release. A way to express yourself so that punching people isn't your only outlet. "
"I'm really bad at calligraphy," he said, teasing her.
"But you're brilliant with a broom, and I'm sure you'll be excellent at lots more things once you take the time to explore them."
He raised his good eyebrow. "Like sweeping?"
"No!" She swatted at his shoulder again. "Quidditch. Flying. Sports things. Stuff. Oh, you know what I meant."
Grinning, Harry asked, "Can you go into more detail about this 'sports things'?"
Before she had a chance to hit him again, the door opened and a bleeding Ron stepped in. Harry and Hermione turned to look at him, dusting his jumper off and looking at the bar. "Aberforth? Firewhisky if you would?"
"Ginny?" Harry asked, gesturing to Ron's split lip.
"Twat," Ron angrily muttered, and then he quickly added, "Her bloke. Not Ginny." His head swung toward the entrance, and he looked actually terrified his sister might have heard. Harry didn't blame him. "Prat picks a fight with Harry Potter of all people? Is he mental? Even if you weren't who you are, you're my best friend, and Ginny needs to just . . ." He huffed in obvious frustration. "Stop dating, or . . . something! You know, you're both lucky you're only children."
Harry patted Ron on the back, handing over the Firewhisky that Aberforth had silently placed on the counter. Harry set down a few coins in exchange for the drink before giving it to Ron. "Thanks for having my back, mate."
"Yes, thank you for encouraging his behaviour, Ron."
Harry narrowed his gaze a bit at Hermione, who was looking very disapproving. "Should I remind you that he's bleeding too?"
She just stared at him for a moment before seeming to regain her senses and waving him off dismissively.
"Yeah, but this time I didn't start it," Ron said proudly, swallowing down half of the firewhisky in one large gulp before wiping his face off on his sleeve. "Do I get points for that 'Mione?"
"For that, you get your face mended."
Watching her tend to Ron's wounds, Harry purposely tried not to recall the war, particularly the splinching incident in the forest when he was certain Ron would bleed out on the ground. As the image forced its way into his mind, he clenched his fists and looked away, trying to distract himself. "Hermione's going to find something for me to do that's not Quidditch."
Ron snorted. "Better off finding someone to . . ." He stopped and looked up at Hermione, who looked livid. "Er . . ."
"By all means, don't stop on my account. Someone to what?" Her hands were on her hips now, her wand stowed neatly away as she scowled at him.
Ron glanced at her, then back down at the rest of his drink. He sighed and swallowed it down then cleared his throat. Standing up, he stared down at her, looking as though he were summoning that legendary Gryffindor courage. Harry watched in great amusement, already feeling what was coming and with absolutely zero inclination to stop his friend from the hole he was about to step in.
"Better off finding someone to polish his knob." The words fell out of Ron's mouth just as quickly as his feet carried him back out the door of the pub.
Harry let out a bellowing laugh.
"Coward!" Hermione shouted after him, and then she turned back to face Harry. "I'd like to see him say something that crass in his mother's hearing."
Shrugging, Harry couldn't wipe the smile from his face. The pain in his brow had almost gone away completely, and the day was already looking brighter.
"I think he's a glutton for punishment. I, on the other hand, am done with being on the receiving end of that. We better follow after him or we'll miss curfew, and I don't want another detention." Without another word, Harry reached down and collected her new book bag—complete with what felt like twelve new volumes—shifting the strap over his shoulder. "You coming?"
She smiled at him, tucking her wand away up her sleeve and threading her arm through his as she'd done a hundred times before. "Let's go, Rocky," she said, gently touching his still-aching brow to inspect it before giving him a small smile.
There was something wrong with Harry. Hermione knew this was true because she'd made a study of him lately. He was jumpy, angry, and had developed an astonishing lack of patience that Hermione hadn't seen in him since their fifth year.
Yes, there was something wrong with him, and she was going to solve it. This time, she knew, it was no bloody Horcrux in his head, no Dark Lord stoking a connection he barely understood to manipulate Harry into acting rashly. So this she could handle.
In all likelihood, the restlessness she'd observed in him was nothing more than stress, stress that he had been bottling up without a pressure release valve and which was now leaking messily out of any odd corner it could find. And if that was the case, all she needed to do was find an outlet.
"Pass the jam, will you Ron?" She pointed at the small bowl to his left and he handed it over from where he sat beside her without comment. That had become normal for Ron lately. He still ate at the same breakneck pace he'd always done, but now he was doing it with the urgency of a man who didn't know when he'd see his next meal and thus, had no time for conversation. Honestly, she couldn't blame him, not when she knew for a fact he was just as intimate with starvation as she was.
And then there was Harry. Harry, who brooded over his food lately, stabbing it with fork and knife as if it had somehow offended him. The latest victim of his ire was a bowl of porridge he was marauding, his grip tight on the spoon which was his instrument of chaos.
She watched him from across the table, looking for the tension in his shoulders that had become his constant companion of late. It was there, but not as prominent as usual. Of course, he'd gotten into another fight since Hogsmeade, this time with a Ravenclaw seventh year. She hadn't heard what the other boy had said, but Ron had told her it had been unflattering toward Luna, so maybe the Ravenclaw had deserved it.
She really needed to get the outlet thing sorted out. Who knew how many more detentions Harry could get before the Headmistress started threatening Expulsion. Boy who Lived or not, he could hardly walk around hitting people at random and expect to keep his place at the school. And speaking of school...
"Have you both finished your essays for Slughorn?" She asked.
Ron swallowed and loaded his fork again. "Leave off, Hermione, you'll put us off our food."
She rolled her eyes, turning to Harry instead. He was looking down at his plate and frowning.
"Hermione, we're not twelve anymore. You don't need to remind us." His voice was soft yet firm, but she smarted a bit at the censure all the same.
"Aren't we?" she asked, keeping her tone light. "I could have sworn I saw Lockhart in the corridor on my way in."
Ron snorted. "Can you imagine? McGonagall'd have the peacock for lunch."
"I wonder if that's his Patronus," said Harry, and this time Ron choked on a mouthful of pumpkin juice.
"That or a mirror," said Hermione, hitting Ron on the back. She waited until he'd recovered before she spoke again.
"So, about those essays?"
This time, both men groaned audibly.
"Yeah, yeah. I've got it," said Ron, and Hermione turned her gaze toward Harry.
"I've still got time to finish mine," he said, not looking her in the eye as he poured himself a glass of water out of the silver pitcher between them.
Hermione raised both brows. "Class is this afternoon. Are you planning on writing it over lunch?"
"What does it matter?" He sounded irritated now, and Hermione felt Ron shift beside her as Harry continued, "I'll get it done. And if I don't, then I just won't be a potions prodigy."
"Harry—" she began, but he looked up, meeting her gaze with an expression she couldn't quite describe but felt in her bones.
"It's one essay. I'll do it."
Hermione's heart was beating loudly now, and she didn't know why. What she did know, was that there was no way Harry was getting a footlong essay done well between classes today. Couldn't he see what an issue that was?
"Slughorn liking you isn't going to get you through your NEWTS, Harry," she said, and she could hear the lecturing tone of voice she used, shriller than she'd like and breathier than usual. Still, she continued. "The essay isn't for the grade, it's to learn the material. You'll need to know what's on there to pass the test and get the E so you can go on to aurora training and—"
She stopped, her mind going completely blank as she felt a warm hand take hers from across the table, strong, calloused fingers wrapping around her own and giving them a gentle squeeze. She looked at the hand and then followed it up, past the wrist and then the arm to a pair of bright green eyes that were looking at her in a way she'd never been looked at before.
"Hermione. I don't care what Slughorn thinks of me." Harry's voice had taken on that soft yet firm quality from before, and she couldn't just hear it, she could feel it down to her toes. "But I do care what you think of me. I'd prefer that you not think I'm a child that needs to be followed up on to make sure my chores are done. I'm a grown man…" Hermione let out a breath she'd been holding in, a little too loudly perhaps because Harry's eyes narrowed. "Despite the fact that I share the same wardrobe as the eleven-year-olds in this castle."
And then she blinked because he was right. She could see the stubble on his chin that he hadn't bothered to shave for several days, and the way his robes fit just a touch too tight to accommodate shoulders which had broadened since the end of the war. He was right. He was a grown man. They were all grown now.
"We both love you, Hermione," Harry continued, his voice softer now, and Hermione felt her own heart thumping away in her chest. "And I know you have good intentions. But it would please me very much if you stopped talking about the bloody essay."
Hermione swallowed. She wanted to respond, wanted to tell him he was risking his whole academic career with his negligence, risking his future as an Auror and the normal life he'd fought so hard for during the war… But there was something about the way he was looking at her that made her bite her lip and shift under his gaze.
She swallowed again and studied the set of his jaw, the gleam in his eye. He looked so sure of himself, so certain that she would listen. He looked like the man she'd gotten to know so well in the tent last year when Ron had gone and it had been just the two of them. Attentive, responsible, commanding… Harry.
Blinking, she lowered her gaze to her own plate as he let go of her hand and lifted a forkful of egg to her lips.
"Merlin, Hermione," Ron said with a choking gasp, "you're not going to let him off the hook that easy, are you? I get at least ten minutes of haranguing when I skip assignments."
"He's a grownup," she answered when she had swallowed her bite. "I trust him to make his own decisions." She could feel Harry's eyes on her as she spoke, but she kept her own gaze riveted on her plate.
Ron stared at her, incredulous.
"A grown-up. Really." He sounded confused.
Across from her, Harry shifted back on the bench, his movements unhurried and languorous. "Legal and everything. I defeated a dark lord, you know."
Hermione smiled, raising a glass of pumpkin juice to hide the curve of her lips as she lifted her gaze at last and met Harry's green eyes again across the table. She watched as he took another spoonful of oats, how his hand had loosened on the spoon and the tension in his shoulders had eased almost completely.
Interesting.
"Bloody hell, don't look now," said Ron.
Of course, they looked up, and just in time to see Ginny enter the room. She scowled when she spotted them, her gaze particularly venomous when it landed on Harry.
"I don't think she's forgiven you yet, mate," said Ron, stuffing another forkful of beans into his mouth.
Hermione watched as the tension flooded back into Harry's shoulders, as his hand tightened around his spoon.
"Ah, fuck me," he said.
"Doesn't look like she'd fancy that much," Hermione quipped.
Ron gave her a dirty look and took another bite of breakfast.
The boys weren't the only ones war had changed. Hermione didn't like to acknowledge it, but her life had changed too. She slept with her wand now, sliding it under her pillow where she could keep a hand on it just in case. She slept with a dagger too, but she kept it tucked safely in her bedside drawer. And she didn't like to be looked at. Before the war, she'd accumulated a certain amount of vanity. She'd been clever—very clever—and she enjoyed the attention that came with that quality. Praise from her professors, admiration from her friends, and jealousy from her competitors. She'd been the first to raise her hand in any class. She'd been the one with the answers.
But now? Now she liked observing more than participating. She wasn't hiding her intelligence, not really, but the looks and the praise no longer pleased her as they once had. How could they when they came from people who didn't really know her? Didn't know she'd spent the Summer tracking down parents she'd obliviated in haste, only to realize that what she'd done was permanent. There were no counter charms for Muggle's who'd lost their memories, there was no hidden bank of feelings she could tap into to convince them she was who she claimed to be. She'd taken it all. She'd performed two perfect obliviations. Lockhart would have been proud.
Yes, war had changed her, but, the end of the war had changed her more.
So she paid attention to the lecture, listening as other students raised their hands and gave the answers she wrote in her notebook, and as Professor Barebone droned on about human to animal temporary transfiguration, her mind began to wander.
So did her eyes.
Harry sat on the other side of Ron, his hair a mess as he scribbled on a roll of essay grade parchment. She felt a twinge of guilt for having pressed him about it earlier, and then a twinge of something else when she remembered the weight of his hand over hers.
What had it been about that interaction that had left Harry so serene? What had melted the stress away and left him with that satisfied look he'd had before Ginny had walked in glaring daggers?
She sighed, pulling out a little notebook she kept in her bag and opening it up over her class notes on the desktop. She flipped through its pages until she landed on a list she'd made two nights ago. It was titled, "Outlets" and had twelve or so words one after another in a column down the centre of the page.
She studied it, looking back and forth between the list and Harry until she huffed and tore a blank page from the back of the notebook and wrote seven words across it in a tight cursive.
What do you like most about Quidditch?
Surreptitiously, she jabbed the note with her wand. Is disappeared at once, and on the other side of Ron, Harry startled for just a moment before looking her way and then back down again.
She waited patiently as he scrawled something underneath her question and then sent the note back to her.
Reconsidering your lack of love for the game?
She bit her lip to keep from laughing.
Please. If Viktor Krum couldn't make me love that sport, I don't think anything can. And you didn't answer my question.
There was that damned tension in his damned shoulders again.
You still writing to Krum?
Occasionally. We're pen friends. Answer?
Harry leaned down to give his reply, running a hand through his hair and then looking her way once he'd sent his reply back to her.
Fine. I guess, aside from flying, I liked the competition. The control. It was just me out there with the Snitch, trying to win for my team.
He was still watching her. She smiled at him and wrote back.
Thank you… I think we ought to try running.
It had been low on her list before, but if what Harry needed was control and solitude? Well, a brisk jog seemed like a good fit. He could set the pace, choose the distance, and have all the alone time he needed.
Didn't you get enough of that last year?
She gave him a pointed look and sent the note back without dignifying his comment with a response.
Fine. If you want to run, I'll run.
She smiled again.
Want is a strong word. But I think it might help. Outlet and all that. Tomorrow morning? I'll invite Ron to join.
She watched as Harry smirked down at the note and wrote his reply.
If you can get Ron to actually run before breakfast, I'll buy you a new homework planner.
She needed a new planner, actually. Challenge accepted.
I'll hold you to that. You'd be surprised the things I'm capable of talking Ron into… is that a yes?
Harry made a face.
As long as you never tell me what things you're capable of talking Ron into.
Hermione snorted softly.
"Something to share with the class, Miss Granger?"
She vanished the note as Professor Barebone approached.
"No sir," she answered, and then put her notebook away. She stole a glance at Harry as she did so, noting that the tightness from his shoulders had crept into his jaw now. Hopefully running the next morning would work as she hoped because she wanted nothing more than to banish that tension to hell.
"Eyes front then," said Professor Barebone, and Hermione did as she was told.