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Chapter Text

The Ministry cafeteria at half past eight in the morning was a sorry thing. Lukewarm tea, toast that tasted like paper, and a revolving door of underpaid, overtired civil servants pretending not to be falling apart.

Hermione Granger, dressed in a no-nonsense charcoal blazer and heels she swore she wouldn’t wear again after yesterday’s sprain-inducing sprint to catch a lift, sat hunched over a folder stuffed with budget proposals from the Department for Magical Cooperation. She wasn’t even in that department. She was in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, newly minted as the youngest Deputy Head of the Statutory Reform Office. But as was becoming the norm, everything lately required her input.

Across the room, someone muttered her name.

Harry Potter slid into the seat opposite hers, one eyebrow raised and a banana in his hand. His tie was slightly askew, his Auror robes bore what looked like soot, and he looked like he hadn’t slept properly since the Battle of Hogwarts—which was, regrettably, three years ago.

“You’re up early. Ministry collapse imminent?” he asked, peeling the banana like he was conducting a forensic inspection.

Hermione didn’t look up. “If the Ministry collapses, it’ll be from the inside. Bureaucratic implosion. Death by memo.”

Harry nodded solemnly. “Sounds brutal. Do I at least get to blow something up before that happens?”

“You blew up my mailbox.” She finally looked at him, brushing a curl out of her face. “Three owls. Two parchments marked ‘urgent’. One written entirely in caps lock. I thought the Prophet was going to break another scandal.”

He grinned. “That was the scandal. You were two days behind signing off on the joint clearance for the Muggle-Wizarding Borders Act. I had to stall Robards with an exploding quill demonstration just to buy us time.”

She gave him a look. “Harry. The Borders Act is your project.”

“And yet here we are.”

They stared at each other for a beat. The kind of look only shared by two people who’d faced death together and now faced something much worse: government policy.

He took a bite of the banana. “So. Have you spoken to Ron?”

Hermione’s mouth flattened. “Not since he sent a letter by owl addressed to Miss Granger of the Tower of Righteousness, accusing me of emotional sabotage and career overreach.”

“Ouch,” Harry said, wincing. “Better than Ginny, though. She sent me a Howler that just said ‘grow up’ and then imploded into confetti.”

Hermione barked out a laugh despite herself. “What colour was the confetti?”

“Gryffindor red. Of course.”

Silence stretched again, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable one. There was too much history between them for awkwardness. Still, there was something else there—raw, newly exposed. Uncertainty in a world that used to make sense.

They were both out of relationships that had once felt written in stone. Ron and Ginny were back at the Burrow, licking their wounds and blaming the war, the Ministry, the pressure, each other.

Harry and Hermione, meanwhile, had buried themselves in work.

It was easier.

“Look,” Harry said, nudging her folder aside. “We need to coordinate on this Muggle-Wizarding access stuff. There’s another meeting with the Muggle Liaison Office on Thursday, and they want us both there. In suits.”

She groaned. “If I have to hear Nigel from Muggle Liaison explain electricity to the Magical Transport Office one more time, I’m going to hex his presentation.”

Harry looked delighted. “I’d pay money to see that.”

“You’d pay in Ministry credits, which are fictional,” she muttered, scribbling a note in the margin. “Fine. Thursday. Eleven. But I’m not doing the talking.”

“You always do the talking.”

“That’s because when you talk, you end up insulting the French delegate or asking if floo powder causes lung damage.”

He looked entirely unbothered. “Valid question.”

She laughed again, then immediately frowned as if it were treasonous to show joy in a cafeteria that smelled vaguely of cabbage. “We were supposed to be happy by now,” she said suddenly.

Harry didn’t answer straight away. He looked at her—really looked. At the smudges under her eyes, the edge of tiredness behind the brilliant mind, the quiet ache of disappointment she hid behind competence and regulation.

“So were they,” he said finally. “Ron and Ginny. Everyone, really.”

A pause.

“We tried, didn’t we?” she said.

“Yeah.” He pushed the banana peel aside. “We just didn’t… land in the same places.”

She tilted her head. “You’re being unusually reflective for someone who once tried to transfigure a memo into a sandwich.”

“That was an emergency,” he said, mock-offended. “And I stand by it.”

She smiled softly. “We did land in the same place, though. Here.”

He blinked. “In this cafeteria?”

“In each other’s orbit,” she said, almost to herself.

He looked down, then back at her. “Well. At least you’re better than the toast.”

She snorted. “A glowing endorsement.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, more relaxed than he had been in weeks. Maybe even months. “We’ll get through this bit too. Just like always.”

“I know,” she said, packing up her folder and finishing her tea. “But next time, I’m choosing the bloody project.”

“Deal,” he said, grinning. “Just no international committees.”

She extended a hand. “Truce?”

He shook it. “Always.”

And as they stood, the day unfolding with its usual set of ridiculous demands, interdepartmental drama, and magical mishaps, Harry and Hermione walked side by side—not quite whole, not quite healed, but somehow, together.

Right where they were supposed to be.

Chapter Text

The takeaway containers steamed softly between them, the living room blanketed in stacks of parchment, colour-coded tabs, and a growing pile of discarded curry cartons. Hermione sat cross-legged on the floor, barefoot and in trackies, hair pulled into a messy knot that had survived both a five-hour policy review and two near-flu-related breakdowns in Magical HR.

Harry was curled sideways on the sofa, balancing a carton of chicken tikka on one knee, reading aloud from the Muggle-Wizarding Borders Act’s revised draft in a voice that sounded increasingly like he was doing a bad impression of Percy Weasley.

“‘Clause 12.3: Wand concealment in Muggle spaces shall be regulated according to subsection—’ Merlin’s pants, who writes this stuff? Are we sure this wasn’t drafted by a cursed quill?”

Hermione didn’t look up from her notes. “That clause is mine.”

Harry froze mid-bite.

“Of course it is,” he said, swallowing. “Exceptionally clear. Reads like poetry.”

She smirked. “Oh, shut up and highlight subsection 14.2—Robards will ask why you gave the Muggle Enforcement Team clearance to carry anti-apparition wards.”

Harry squinted. “Because last time I didn’t, one of them got left mid-apparition and turned up in Devon missing both eyebrows.”

Hermione winced. “God.”

“Yeah. He kept calling it ‘a learning experience’ in front of the press.”

Silence stretched between them, interrupted only by the soft scratch of Hermione’s quill and Harry’s half-hearted attempt to levitate a mango chutney packet with his wand.

It plopped back on the floor with a sticky splat.

“You’re bored,” Hermione said.

“I’m catastrophically bored,” he replied. “But also weirdly content. This is the most fun I’ve had since someone sent Umbridge a cursed bouquet of honking daffodils.”

Hermione looked up, suspicious. “That was you.”

“Allegedly.”

She rolled her eyes and moved another stack of notes. A thin sheen of exhaustion clung to her like static. Harry noticed it for the first time—not just work-tired, but heart-tired. The kind of fatigue that didn’t go away after sleep, because it came from somewhere quieter and more permanent.

“You miss him,” he said softly.

She didn’t answer straight away. Just capped her ink and stared at the curry-stained minutes of a meeting that should have never happened in the first place.

“Yes,” she said eventually. “But I also miss who I was when we were happy. And I can’t decide if that’s the same thing.”

Harry nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. “Yeah. I get that.”

He didn’t say I miss her too, though he did. Ginny had been fire and sunlight and brilliance—but also everything he thought he was supposed to want. Somewhere along the line, the pieces stopped fitting. She’d tried. He’d tried. Sometimes it wasn’t enough.

Hermione rubbed her temples. “We keep trying to fit old lives into new shapes. It’s not working.”

“Well,” Harry said, “at least we’ve stopped pretending we’re fine.”

“Speak for yourself,” Hermione muttered. “I gave a whole presentation yesterday with a migraine, a missing bra strap, and two different shoes.”

He blinked. “I didn’t notice the shoes.”

“They were the same colour. That’s how far I’ve fallen.”

Harry chuckled, and for a long moment, the heaviness in the room eased.

“You’re still you, though,” he said. “More you than I’ve seen in a while.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah. Under all the policy and the panic, you’re still the Hermione who made study schedules for the Horcrux hunt.”

“That’s a terrible comparison.”

“Still true.”

She laughed despite herself, then leaned back on her elbows, looking up at the ceiling. “You know, sometimes I think… maybe this is it. Just… this.”

Harry followed her gaze.

“You mean the takeaway curry and department-level existential dread?”

“I mean…” She hesitated. “Maybe the fairytale ended after the war. Maybe this is the epilogue. Paperwork and tired smiles and cold tea.”

He considered this. “Maybe. But I don’t think happy endings have to look like storybooks.”

She glanced over at him.

“I think they look like people who stayed. Who chose to keep showing up. Even when it was easier not to.”

He wasn’t trying to be profound. But the words settled between them like truth.

Hermione looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable in her expression.

“Tea?” she asked finally, voice softer than usual.

He nodded. “Always.”

She stood and padded into the kitchen, leaving him with his half-eaten tikka and the quiet realisation that this—however messy, however imperfect—felt real. More real than anything had in a long time.

Hermione returned with two mugs and slid his across the floor to him.

“Milk, no sugar,” she said.

“Like you’d forget.”

They sipped in silence, parchment rustling like leaves, and the weight of the world felt—for just one night—a little lighter.

Chapter Text

The Ministry’s International Collaboration and Integration Room was the sort of place that made even the most seasoned officials suddenly remember they had urgent dental emergencies. The chairs were too stiff, the lighting made everyone look like they’d died three days ago, and the magically expanded windows gave an unnerving view of the Thames rushing backward.

Hermione sat at the head of the long table, a stack of hand-prepared parchment in front of her, her notes marked in three inks—black for facts, red for corrections, and green for things she’d say only if provoked. She was wearing a navy shift dress and her hair was pulled back into a French plait so precise it could have passed inspection from the Department of Mysteries.

Harry sat two seats down, all in black Auror robes, arms crossed, trying his best to look like he hadn’t woken up thirty-seven minutes ago and run from Level Two to Level Five with a half-buttoned cloak.

The Muggle Liaison Office had turned out in full force. Nigel Whimple, Head Liaison and part-time self-declared "translator of the Muggle mind," sat near Hermione, already mansplaining a section of her own report to someone from Portkey Regulation.

“I just think,” Nigel was saying in the sort of tone reserved for overly confident gits and toddlers explaining gravity, “that if Muggles are that disoriented by sudden appearance and disappearance, perhaps we ought not be so concerned with their comfort. I mean—realistically—they’re already confused by roundabouts.”

Hermione blinked.

Harry felt his entire spine tighten.

“Mr Whimple,” she said, voice pleasant as a meadow full of landmines, “while your observations on Muggle driving infrastructure are, no doubt, the result of careful anthropological fieldwork from the front seat of your cousin’s Volvo, I’m afraid they’re irrelevant to the matter at hand.”

Nigel blinked. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“What you meant,” she said, sitting slightly forward, “was that we should discount the experience of an entire population for whom we are legally, ethically, and magically responsible, because you find them a bit silly. And what I am saying, Mr Whimple, is that your job is not to approve of the Muggle condition. Your job is to liaise. Perhaps a refresher course in your own department would help reacquaint you with the term.”

Silence.

Stunned silence.

Even the enchanted windows paused their ripple.

Nigel made a noise like a deflating balloon. “I—I didn’t mean to offend—of course we’re responsible, I only—”

Hermione turned a page crisply, as if dismissing both him and the subject entirely. “Then let’s proceed.”

Harry very nearly applauded.

Instead, he just cleared his throat into his hand and caught her eye for a second—no smile, just a flicker of warm pride. She didn’t look back for long, but she’d caught it. She always did.

The rest of the meeting carried on more smoothly, thanks in large part to everyone being too terrified to speak without checking the legal footnotes Hermione had distributed earlier.

Harry took the floor near the end, talking through the practicalities of enforcing magical concealment laws without traumatising half of Surrey. When Hermione gently corrected one of his numbers, he gave her a mock salute. A few people laughed.

By the time they adjourned, several Ministry departments were pretending they’d volunteered for follow-up tasks, and Nigel Whimple had lost all colour in his face and was busy consulting his shoes.

As they stepped out into the corridor, Hermione exhaled. “God. I hate diplomacy.”

Harry handed her the takeaway flask of tea he’d stashed in his robes. “You’re better at it than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

She took it, sipping gratefully. “I don’t know about that. I just… don’t like being spoken to like I’ve never read a book.”

“You don’t like being spoken to like you’re not the book.”

She shot him a look that was half reprimand, half amusement. “Don’t make me blush. It ruins the effect.”

He grinned. “It was brilliant. You surgically dismantled him with three sentences and not even a raised voice. I saw Nigel sweat through his robes.”

“I’m not proud of that,” she said, a little too quickly.

Harry raised a brow. “A little?”

She hesitated. “Maybe a bit.”

They walked in companionable silence toward the lifts, the echo of their footfalls the only sound for a while.

Hermione tucked a curl behind her ear. “You don’t miss it, do you? The spotlight. The public thing.”

Harry shrugged. “I miss the simplicity of clear good and evil. I don’t miss the pressure. Or the speeches. Or the endless bloody photo ops.”

She nodded, thoughtful.

“But I do like this,” he added. “Working with you. Fighting the slow battle. It’s harder, somehow. But real.”

She smiled at him, a quiet, knowing smile. “Real’s good.”

The lift dinged.

As the gates opened, and they stepped inside, Harry glanced at her sideways. “Want to meet for dinner later? Nothing dramatic. Just food not made by Ministry elves.”

She looked over at him. “You buying?”

He smirked. “On the Ministry’s tab.”

She laughed, head tipping back for the first time that day, and for a brief moment, the war, the heartbreak, and all the things they thought they’d lost didn’t weigh quite so heavily.

They weren’t fixed. But they were forward. Together.

And that was something.

Chapter Text

The Bull Pit—formally Auror Combat Chamber 3B—was as subtle as its nickname suggested. A sprawling, scorched duelling piste encircled by enchanted shields, scarred from years of hexes, sparks, and the occasional misjudged Confringo. The air inside always smelled faintly of ozone and old adrenaline.

It was just after four on a Wednesday, and the usual midweek Duel Defence drills were well under way. Half the Auror department was lined along the perimeter, sparring in pairs, their spells echoing off the walls in sharp bursts. Someone had brought in training dummies that retaliated, and someone else had already charmed one to scream dramatically when hit.

Harry Potter, sweating in his black training robes, wiped a hand across his brow as he stepped back from disarming his third opponent in a row. He was already being watched—he always was—but today there was a buzz threading through the Pit.

Because Hermione Granger was here.

She shouldn’t have been. As Deputy Head of the Statutory Reform Office, Hermione's natural battleground was legal frameworks and Ministry oversight, not magical combat. But the Joint Enforcement Training Bill now required senior interdepartmental liaisons to undergo practical assessment, and someone—likely a grudge-bearing scribe in Logistics—had booked her in today.

Harry had found out about five minutes ago, and had promptly spat out his water.

And now she was standing opposite him on the duelling floor, rolling her sleeves up with methodical calm, expression unreadable, wand already in hand. A few curls had come loose and framed her face, her boots were scuffed, and her wand hand was bandaged at the wrist from parchment burn.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” he asked, lifting a brow.

She flexed her fingers. “Are you?”

A ripple of attention spread around them like the start of a Quidditch match. The noise from the other sparring pairs softened. Heads turned. A few Aurors paused mid-duel. Even Proudfoot stopped pretending to fill out his clipboard.

They stood silently. No preening. No stance flourishes. Just that strange stillness they’d always shared when facing something head-on together.

And then—

“Begin!” came the command from Shacklebolt, who’d turned up purely, it seemed, to enjoy the spectacle.

Hermione struck first—an elegant, precise Expulso that Harry sidestepped with ease, countering with a Stupefy that she turned into smoke. He grinned. She didn’t.

It wasn’t showy. It was clean, fast, and utterly lethal.

Their feet moved in mirror: a side-step from her was answered with a spin from him, his Protego Maxima eating her Petrificus with a shudder of gold. She pressed hard after that, casting four spells in quick succession that most duellists couldn’t manage without either tripping or dropping their wand.

Harry blocked three and deflected the fourth—straight back at her.

She let it whip past her left cheek like she’d meant to catch it with her breath.

The crowd had gone still.

The two of them moved like a dance—a private one, etched into them through years of fighting beside each other, through instinct instead of instruction. They circled, traded blows, shifted weight, and responded without hesitation. Each time one feinted, the other knew. Each time one surged, the other gave way just enough, and returned with greater force.

It was beautiful, terrifying, and entirely unplanned.

He cast a Disillusionment Charm mid-duel—Hermione closed her eyes and aimed her hex exactly where he was, not where he had been. He gasped as it caught his ribs with a humming jolt. She looked entirely unapologetic.

He tried binding her feet—she tore the spell apart in mid-air and turned it into a flame whip, forcing him back.

When his cloak caught fire, he managed, “You’re not holding back.”

She flicked the flames away for him. “Neither are you.”

By the time they disarmed each other simultaneously—both wands clattering to the floor, breathing hard, robes clinging to sweat-slicked skin—the Bull Pit had gone completely silent.

They just stood there, face to face, flushed, panting.

The bond between them crackled in the space like a held note. Not romantic, not platonic, not easily named—something older, more enduring, forged in tents, forests, and whispered plans before battle. A language not spoken aloud.

The silence lasted longer than it should have.

Shacklebolt finally cleared his throat. “Well, then.”

Someone dropped their wand. Someone else swore.

Harry stepped forward, picked up both wands, and handed hers back to her handle-first, with a slight bow. She accepted it like royalty.

They didn’t say anything to each other. They didn’t need to.

As they stepped off the piste together, side by side, someone near the front muttered, “That wasn’t a duel. That was… coordinated warfare.”

Another said, awestruck, “They’re terrifying.”

Hermione paused at that. Looked over her shoulder. “Thank you,” she said brightly. “We do our best.”

Harry snorted, dragging a towel across his neck. “You realise they’ll all be talking about this for weeks.”

“I expect at least one formal complaint from Whimple,” she replied. “And possibly a memo accusing us of undermining morale.”

They walked toward the lockers. There was a spring in her step. Something lighter than usual behind her eyes. He felt it too—that rare, electric feeling of being known. Of being seen and not found lacking.

Harry looked over at her.

“You should duel more often.”

She smirked. “You should read more often.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, then grinned. “Touché.”

Chapter Text

It was raining again, because of course it was.

Conference Room Seven, Ministry of Magic, was full to the brim with middle-to-senior level officials pretending not to mind that they'd had to skip lunch. Tea sat untouched, growing cold on side tables, while parchment rustled and the overhead enchantment flickered slightly with each distant crack of thunder.

Harry Potter sat at one end of the room, flanked by Aurors, posture deceptively relaxed, thumbs hooked into the belt of his robes. He was in black, as always, but had actually combed his hair, which meant he knew this was a serious one.

At the other end of the table sat Hermione Granger—Deputy Head of the Statutory Reform Office, co-author of the Unified Code of Magical Conduct, and the only person who could make half the room break out in stress hives with a single arched eyebrow.

She wore deep grey robes, cut in clean lines, the kind of understated elegance that looked like it wasn’t trying, which of course meant it was. Her sleeves were rolled to the wrist, showing a quill mark on one hand and a discreet silver ring on the other. She had brought notes, naturally. Twelve pages’ worth. Footnoted.

The subject of the meeting was The Expansion and Oversight of Domestic Use of Defensive Charms — a deceptively dry title for a bill that had already sparked arguments across five departments.

Harry was here as speaker of the Auror Office.

Hermione was here representing Magical Legislative Affairs.

They were, technically, on opposite sides.

And they were both grinning.

“Let me be perfectly clear,” Hermione began, voice calm, clipped, and very, very precise. “I’m not arguing that Defensive Charms shouldn’t be taught more broadly. I’m saying we cannot rush distribution of counter-hex training manuals to the general public without appropriate safety and misuse clauses. Otherwise we may as well leave Sectumsempra in the library under ‘light reading’.”

A few people chuckled. Harry did not. He raised a brow, drumming his fingers lightly against the wood.

“Well, with all due respect, Deputy Granger, if we keep coddling the wizarding public, we’ll end up right back where we were four years ago—unprepared, under-trained, and entirely reliant on three teenagers and dumb luck.”

Hermione’s mouth twitched. She opened a folder. “Oh, I see. So now we're rewriting history to make ‘dumb luck’ sound like a tactical asset.”

Laughter this time. Even Shacklebolt smothered a grin.

Harry spread his hands innocently. “You’re the one who insisted I passed my DADA practical by instinct rather than comprehension.”

“Because your Patronus turned into a shield.”

“A very effective shield.”

She leaned in slightly, tone mock-thoughtful. “Tell me, Auror Potter, does instinct draft legal guidelines? Does instinct ensure wand usage in crowded areas won’t end in spontaneous combustion?”

Harry leaned forward too, resting his elbows on the table. “No, but instinct keeps people alive long enough to read your guidelines.”

The room rippled again — awe, amusement, nervous tension. Some looked between them like spectators at a tennis match. Some just looked grateful they weren't the ones being torn to intellectual shreds.

Neither raised their voice. Neither broke composure. But the air crackled with the kind of sharpness you didn’t get from scripted speeches or prepared talking points. This was two minds in motion, dancing and clashing, steel wrapped in velvet.

They sparred for another twenty minutes — Hermione dismantling precedent like scaffolding, Harry cutting through hypothetical scenarios with field cases and hard numbers.

By the end, they’d edged towards compromise.

The Head of Public Safeguards exhaled loudly, half-laughing as she collected her quill. “Merlin. This is exactly why no one dares mess with you two.”

There was a beat of silence, and then a few people actually nodded.

Shacklebolt, always the diplomat, smiled. “Perhaps next time we should just let you lot sort it out and send us the minutes.”

The meeting wrapped with the usual scraping of chairs and stacking of parchments. People filtered out in small groups, muttering about compromise drafts and urgent tea.

Harry waited by the doorway, arms crossed, as Hermione finished tucking her notes into her satchel.

When she looked up, he smirked.

“You know,” he said, “that robe’s a bit unfair.”

She paused. “Unfair?”

“To the rest of us trying to concentrate.”

She rolled her eyes, but a flush crept into her cheeks. “It’s not a robe, it’s a ‘structured professional ensemble’.”

“Whatever it is, you made several undersecretaries forget how to breathe.”

“Well,” she said, breezing past him, “perhaps they'll draft fewer nonsense bills now.”

He followed her down the corridor, his shoulder brushing hers as they turned toward the lifts.

“You were brilliant, by the way.”

She glanced at him sidelong. “You weren’t half-bad yourself.”

“Only half?”

“You did refer to hexing Whimple as ‘necessary crowd control’.”

“I stand by it.”

She laughed, soft and sudden, and he looked over at her—just long enough to catch that flicker of fondness she rarely let show when wearing her Ministry face.

They stepped into the lift together, both quiet for a beat.

Not rivals.

Not opponents.

Just two people who understood each other better than anyone else could—and sometimes needed to argue just to remember how much that meant.

The lift doors closed behind them, and the Ministry kept spinning.

Chapter Text

The Muggle pizza place just off Camden High Street wasn’t fancy. Sticky tables, laminated menus, the faint smell of garlic clinging to the curtains—but it was open late, never asked questions about robes tucked under jackets, and served a deceptively good margherita.

Harry held the door open for Hermione, who walked in still carrying a folder under one arm, though she had sworn—sworn—she wasn’t bringing work to dinner.

“Table in the corner,” he said, nodding.

She slid into the booth, exhaled like she was deflating, and set the folder aside with only a small look of longing. Harry clocked it but said nothing, just gave her a wry smile as he dropped into the seat opposite.

A moment passed in companionable silence. The waitress arrived, chewed gum throughout their order, and barely blinked when Hermione asked for a half-and-half—mushroom and black olives on one side, plain cheese on the other.

“You always do this,” Harry said, once the drinks arrived. “Get the same toppings. Not even a variation.”

Hermione took a sip of her lemonade. “You’re the one who eats pizza like you’re still a twelve-year-old with a food pyramid made of toast.”

“Pizza is a food group.”

She gave him the look. The one with the eyebrow.

He chuckled, leaning back against the cracked red vinyl. “So. Today.”

Hermione raised her glass in mock toast. “To our ongoing campaign of strategic bullying across the Ministry.”

“I wasn’t even trying to win. I just wanted Whimple to stop talking.”

She grinned. “You’re very good when you’re cross. You go all clipped and self-righteous. It’s quite effective.”

“Thanks. You go all cold and polite and make people regret their entire education.”

They clinked glasses.

Harry leaned in, elbows on the table, dropping his voice slightly. “Honestly, though. That duel the other day... You were scary. In a good way.”

Hermione tilted her head, mock-insulted. “I’ve always been scary.”

“Yeah, but that was next level. You were reading me like a book.”

“Well,” she said, smiling, “I’ve had practice. You still tell on yourself when you're about to use a shield charm. Your left heel pivots half a second early.”

Harry stared. “I what?”

“You do. Always have. Hogwarts, sixth year. I noticed during the D.A. sessions.”

“That’s—are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

He looked impressed. “Merlin. I can’t believe you remember that.”

She shrugged, pleased. “You remember things too. You always used to shield me first in group duels.”

“I still do,” he said, casually, before he could stop himself.

Hermione looked at him, surprised. But not discomfited. Just warm. Quiet.

“Old habits,” she said softly, after a beat.

Another silence, but this one didn’t stretch. It rested.

The pizza arrived, steaming and misshapen in that perfect homemade way. They both reached for slices at the same time, and Harry gave a mock growl when Hermione nicked the larger one.

He took a bite, leaned back, and said, “I missed this, you know.”

“Pizza?”

“Us. Working like this. Side by side. Bickering. Outthinking everyone else in the room. Saving the day.”

Hermione picked at her crust, smiling gently. “We were a bit unbearable today, weren’t we?”

“Oh, one hundred percent. Jenkins looked like he was about to feign unconsciousness just to leave the room.”

“I didn’t even mean to push so hard,” she said. “I just… I don’t know. I get a bit carried away when I know I’m right.”

Harry grinned. “And when am I going to be the one to stop you?”

Her expression softened further. “Never.”

They sat in the haze of the shared joke, the sort of thing that only made sense after years of near-death experiences and Ministry memos.

“Do you remember the Gryffindor common room?” she asked suddenly. “Late at night, during exam season? You and Ron would be fast asleep by the fire, and I’d still be at that tiny table by the window, rewriting my Arithmancy notes.”

He nodded, mouth full of pizza. “You used to mutter to yourself.”

“Still do.”

“I used to stay awake longer than Ron,” Harry said. “Just so I could walk you up to bed when you finally gave in.”

Hermione looked at him. “You did?”

“You always looked knackered, but I knew you’d sit there until your quill snapped.”

Her smile was tired and soft and real.

“I suppose,” she said, “some things don’t change.”

They finished their meal slowly, not rushing, not filling every silence. Just sharing space, like they’d done for years—shoulders brushing in battle, hands grabbing for the same book, a look across the room that meant we’ve got this.

As they stood to leave, Harry held the door again. Outside, the rain had stopped, and the streetlights glowed amber in the slick of the pavement.

“Same time next week?” he asked.

She tucked her hair behind her ear, thoughtful. “Maybe sooner.”

He grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

She walked beside him, close but not too close, and for once, the world didn’t feel like it needed saving.

Just… enjoying.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

The Ministry’s Level Four canteen was predictably uninspiring: grey linoleum floors, chipped Formica tables, and a self-service tea trolley that wheezed every time someone pushed the sugar lever. Still, it had the one thing no department memo or staff revision meeting could provide — uninterrupted, unremarkable space to breathe.

It was Friday. Late afternoon. Most people were pretending to work. Harry and Hermione had given up the pretence entirely and were now squinting at a shared parchment spread across the table, half a teacake between them.

Neville Longbottom was halfway through a sausage roll and a story about a plant exploding in someone’s cloakroom. He taught at Hogwarts now, but came into the Ministry some Fridays to assist with Herbological Compliance legislation. Mostly, it gave him an excuse to see friends and steal biscuits.

Across from him sat Luna Lovegood, serene as always, dressed in sensible robes and a pair of earrings shaped like moons. She now consulted for the Department of Mysteries—unofficially, of course, which made her the most interesting person in any room, especially when she said things like:

“They’ve changed the tempo, haven’t they?”

Neville blinked. “Sorry, what?”

Luna gestured vaguely at Harry and Hermione, who were now leaning over the parchment in identical thinking poses—elbows on table, fingers pressed to temples, brows furrowed in shared concentration.

“They used to move like parallel lines,” Luna went on, sipping her tea. “Now it’s more like... orbit. Pulling each other around.”

Neville gave a short laugh. “You’ve lost me, mate.”

“I haven’t,” said a soft voice behind them.

Padma Patil had just sat down, dropping a folder onto the table and nodding in greeting. She worked in International Affairs, two floors down, and had a sharp eye for patterns—not just in policy.

“They’re always like this,” she said. “Have you noticed? Even in staff briefings, if Harry walks in late, he looks for Hermione first. And if she’s not there, he stands.”

Neville frowned. “That’s just—habit, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps,” said Luna. “But sometimes, the universe moves in circles until people realise they’re in the centre of each other’s maps.”

That got a few eye rolls—but not from Padma, who looked thoughtfully towards Harry and Hermione as they bickered lightly over an amendment clause.

“No,” Hermione was saying, “because if you frame it like that, you're giving Robards the perfect excuse to bury the enforcement policy in red tape.”

Harry scratched his chin. “And if we don’t, we’ll get five separate complaint letters from the Portkey Travel Board about misuse of authority.”

“Then we draft two versions. One that placates, and one that actually functions. Give them the version they want, then file the real one.”

Harry grinned. “Remind me again who’s meant to be the underhanded one here?”

“You,” she replied cheerfully, taking another bite of teacake. “But I learn from the best.”

Luna leaned over to Padma. “See?”

Padma just smiled, sipping her coffee.

Eventually, the parchment was rolled up, and Harry stretched with a groan. “Merlin. I feel like my brain’s been kneaded.”

Hermione glanced at the clock. “We’re due in Legal in ten minutes.”

“Oh, joy,” he muttered. “Shall we?”

They stood in unison, gathered their things, and left the canteen walking side by side, their conversation continuing seamlessly into the corridor.

Neville watched them go, then turned back to the table. “Right. So, what were you lot on about earlier?”

“Only that they’re onto something,” Luna said, vaguely.

Neville blinked. “Like a case?”

“No,” she said serenely. “Like each other.”

Neville choked slightly on his tea. “What, Harry and Hermione?”

Padma shrugged. “You don’t think so?”

“They’ve been best friends for ages,” Neville said. “I mean, they lived in a tent for a year and didn’t kill each other. That’s already something.”

Luna’s voice was quiet, but certain. “It’s changing. They haven’t noticed, but it’s there. The way they move together. Not just physically. The rhythm of thought. The rest of us shift around them.”

Padma hummed, thoughtful. “It’s not obvious. It’s just… comfortable. The kind of closeness you don’t perform. You just live.”

Neville still looked baffled, though not opposed. “Well, I suppose if they were going to end up with anyone…”

“They wouldn’t end up with,” Luna interrupted. “They’d just be. Like starlight. No announcement. Just suddenly—there.”

Padma smirked. “You should write poetry.”

Luna tilted her head. “That was poetry.”

**

Down the corridor, Harry and Hermione waited outside Legal Affairs, Hermione scanning the plaque on the door, Harry already half-bored.

“Did you notice Luna watching us again?” Harry asked offhandedly.

“She always watches,” Hermione replied. “She’s probably charting our compatibility based on quill strokes.”

He laughed. “She told me once I was the reincarnation of a Romanian cloud herder.”

“Well,” Hermione said, stepping forward as the door opened, “you are very good in storms.”

He looked at her, amused.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She glanced sideways at him, her smile small but fond. “Good. Because it was.”

And then they were inside again, back to work, back to the rhythm they didn’t realise had become second nature.

The orbit continued.

Chapter Text

“Shall we take a car?” Hermione asked, already halfway through buttering her toast.

Harry blinked. “A car?”

She looked up, her tone impossibly casual. “Well, yes. I do have a driver’s licence. And it’s a four-hour train journey to West Cornwall, not counting delays, plus we’d have to rent a car there anyway for the site visit.”

“You’re suggesting we do a Muggle-style road trip?”

Hermione smiled, wide and mischievous. “Unless you’d rather Apparate every morning after full-day hikes through uncharted magical zones?”

“…car sounds great.”

The car was a modest silver hatchback Hermione had hired in her name. Harry, who hadn’t driven anything more complex than a Ministry broom since 1998, was relegated to navigation and snack duty.

They were headed for a half-collapsed wizarding observatory hidden in Bodmin Moor, its wards long broken, its artefacts potentially hazardous. The Department for Magical Research and Documentation had only just received clearance to assess it — and Hermione Granger, ever the eager scholar, had elbowed her way into the assignment.

Due to the site’s history of magical instability, she was required to bring security.

Enter Harry.

“Remind me again why we’re doing this like university students on a research grant?” he muttered, twisting open a bottle of Ribena as they passed a sign for Penzance.

“Because it’s efficient, cost-effective, and I rather like driving,” Hermione replied, eyes fixed on the road. “Also, we’re not being tailed, hexed, or attacked. That’s already an upgrade from most of our past trips.”

Harry gave a wry grin. “Can’t argue with that.”

They wore Muggle clothes, the easy kind — jeans, trainers, soft jumpers. Harry had shoved a duffel bag in the boot without much thought; Hermione had packed two bags and a folder of colour-coded documents.

The B&B they’d booked — the only one within twenty miles with availability — was run by an elderly woman named Mrs Prowse, who had a formidable grey beehive and seemed more impressed by Harry’s green eyes than Hermione’s Ministry badge.

“One room,” she chirped, pushing a key across the counter. “En suite. Cosy.”

Hermione smiled. “Thank you.”

Harry, ever the Auror, glanced at her. “One room?”

“Didn’t fancy separate ones. It’s only for two nights. We’ve shared tighter spaces.”

“Tighter spaces” being a charitable euphemism for a damp canvas tent in 1997 with a Horcrux between them and an uncertain future.

The room was small but pleasant. A window overlooked fields of bracken, and the bed — double, firm — was made neatly with crisp white sheets.

That evening, after hours traipsing through wild, wet hills and sketching magical ley lines in Hermione’s enchanted notebook, they came back aching and windburnt.

Harry went for a long, hot shower while Hermione examined her boots for Puffapod residue. She’d changed into leggings and one of Harry’s spare hoodies — something oversized and faded from his days playing weekend footie with Teddy — and was lying on the bed reading when he came out with a towel around his neck and damp curls sticking out in every direction.

“You nicked my hoodie,” he said, not unkindly.

“You own four jumpers exactly alike,” she replied without looking up. “You won’t miss this one.”

He threw the towel at her.

They ordered chips and curry from the village chippy, sat on the bed watching some terrible quiz show, and bickered about whether or not Harry could actually pass the written portion of a Muggle driving test.

“You’d fail the sign recognition round,” Hermione said confidently, dipping a chip in her sauce.

Harry, mouth full, frowned. “I’d smash it.”

“You still don’t know the difference between ‘Give Way’ and ‘No Entry’.”

“I do. One means don’t. The other means… go politely?”

Hermione nearly choked laughing.

That night, they set up a wall of pillows between them.

“Just to keep things orderly,” Hermione said.

“Right. No accidental smothering,” Harry replied.

“Exactly.”

“Or sleep-kicking.”

“You’re the one who kicks.”

“I’ve seen you punch your pillow like it owes you money.”

“Sleep aggression is a valid trauma response—”

“Goodnight, Hermione.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

Sometime before dawn, the pillows migrated.

Harry stirred first.

There was soft warmth all along his left side, and something ticklish was caught against his cheek. He blinked groggily.

Hermione.

Fully curled into him, one hand under his shirt, breathing steadily against his neck. Her hair — thick, slightly bushy from sleep — was everywhere. He was pinned beneath one leg, her knee hooked over his thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His brain stalled.

She made a small sound, half-sigh, and nuzzled deeper into his shoulder. Her hand twitched, palm flat against his ribs.

Harry went still. Not tense. Not alarmed. But aware.

Warmth bloomed in his chest — something frighteningly tender and unbidden. Not a surge, but a realisation. Quiet and dangerous.

Oh.

He didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

He knew this shouldn’t matter — that they were best friends, long-time comrades, bonded through fire and grief. They’d done this before, hadn’t they? Fallen asleep in train carriages, passed out on common room sofas, huddled together under Disillusionment Charms.

But this was different.

His fingers itched to touch her. Not in any inappropriate way — just to brush a strand of hair off her face, to trace the curve of her shoulder where it pressed against him.

He tamped it down.

The moment passed.

He lay there quietly, memorising the weight of her.

When Hermione woke an hour later, she sat up with a groggy huff, rubbing her eyes.

“Oh. Sorry. I think I —” She blinked, clocking their positions, then grinned sleepily. “Guess the pillow barrier wasn’t much of a barrier.”

Harry shrugged, forcing a smile. “Pillows never stood a chance.”

She stretched, unbothered, and padded off to the loo.

He watched her go, heart steady but loud, thinking: I’m in trouble.

Chapter Text

Harry was in trouble.

Not in the obvious, headline-making sort of way — there were no dark wizards on the loose, no explosions in Diagon Alley, no rogue goblins testing magical prototypes. No, this was subtler. Quieter. Infinitely more maddening.

It started with a pillow.

More accurately, it started the moment he woke up with Hermione curled against him like she had every right to use his chest as a pillow and his hip as a mattress. And it shouldn’t have meant anything — they’d shared a tent, shared danger, shared grief. They’d grown up together, for Merlin’s sake.

But now?

Now he noticed things. Little things. Constant, persistent, deeply inconvenient things.

Like how she pushed her hair behind her ear with her knuckle when she was concentrating. Or how she always tilted her head when she asked a question she already knew the answer to, as though testing whether you did too. Or how she had exactly three freckles just under her jawline and one on her right shoulder, which he shouldn’t know about but had glimpsed when she’d changed shirts the other morning with total, oblivious comfort.

He was flabbergasted with himself.

This was Hermione.

Hermione, who hexed his quill to insult him when he procrastinated. Hermione, who once used a Permanent Sticking Charm to keep a spreadsheet on the fridge. Hermione, who once nearly cried over a sock drive for house-elves.

Hermione, who’d been his best mate for more than half his life.

And now, apparently, also Hermione, whose smile made his stomach do something extremely stupid.

He tried to ignore it. Blamed the long hours. The late nights. The fact that he hadn’t dated anyone in months. A year? He wasn’t keeping count.

He chalked it up to emotional dependency. Proximity. Maybe even leftover trauma. Surely that was it.

But then.

Then came the hot spring.

They were in the field for ten hours — mapping, sketching, recording magical residue and dodging enchanted toads that exploded into glitter when startled. Hermione, as ever, was tireless, knee-deep in bracken, scribbling in her field journal like she was cracking the next great unsolved mystery.

It was dusk when they found it.

Nestled behind a stand of gnarled ash trees, veiled in steam and half-warded with ancient Celtic runes, lay a hidden hot spring. The water shimmered with residual magic, clear and iridescent, surrounded by polished stones and moss.

Hermione’s eyes lit up like Christmas.

“Oh, Harry,” she breathed, practically bouncing on her heels. “Look at it — look at the sigils! This must’ve been enchanted centuries ago. Can you feel the ambient warmth? It’s harnessing geothermal magic in combination with—” She turned, mid-ramble, suddenly grinning. “Please can we have a dip once we’re done?”

Harry blinked. “What, now?”

“Yes! We’ve got one more section to mark and then we’re free until the morning. We’re filthy, exhausted, and sore. Don’t you want to?”

“I mean…” He scratched the back of his neck. “We didn’t exactly bring swimmers.”

Hermione’s grin widened. “There’s a village two miles off. Bet there’s a shop.”

“Right. Because rural magical villages are known for their thriving swimwear retail.”

But she was already dragging him along the path, hair flying and voice breezy with laughter. “Come on. Live a little.”

The shop was small, dusty, and run by a man named Ronan who looked vaguely like a turnip in a waistcoat. But — miracle of miracles — it had a rack of Muggle bathing costumes, likely for the odd tourist who wandered too far.

Harry found something dark and unoffending.

Hermione took longer. Much longer.

When she finally emerged from the changing curtain, holding a tag in one hand and a plastic bag in the other, she looked slightly flushed.

“I found one. It’s nothing dramatic.”

Harry didn’t ask. Didn’t want to know.

They walked back under a purple sky, the world quiet around them. The spring steamed invitingly as they approached, bathed in golden light from Hermione’s floating orb.

“Er — you go first,” Harry said gallantly, waving her on.

She smirked. “You think I’m shy?”

He gave her a look. “It’s not about shyness. It’s called basic decency.”

Hermione huffed a laugh and disappeared behind a boulder.

Harry turned his back and changed quickly, trying very hard not to think about anything.

Not the tent. Not the pillow. Not the way she’d looked this morning in his hoodie, chewing on a pencil.

He was chest-deep in the spring by the time she reappeared.

And then.

Then he was doomed.

Because Hermione, wrapped in a periwinkle two-piece that was all clean lines and effortless curve, stepped delicately into the water like some goddess of logic and archaeology, and Harry’s brain stopped.

Absolutely stopped.

“Oh,” he said.

Hermione raised a brow. “What?”

“Er. Nothing.”

She waded in, sighing with pleasure. “Merlin, this is heaven. I might never leave. You’ll have to go back to the Ministry and explain to Shafiq that I’ve abandoned research in favour of aquatic hermitage.”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

She looked… serene. Luminous. Hair pinned up with a spare quill, legs folded beneath the surface, skin glowing in the warm light. Her eyes were closed. She smiled to herself, content and unselfconscious.

And Harry — Harry was trying not to look. Not to think. Not to feel anything.

It was just because he hadn’t dated in a while. That was all. It was his hormones, or the moon, or some rogue aphrodisiac plant they'd stepped on in the moors. It had to be.

Because if it wasn’t—

“You alright?” Hermione asked, peeking one eye open.

Harry coughed. “Fine. Great. Brilliant.”

She laughed gently. “You look like someone handed you a dragon egg and asked you to babysit.”

“Well, you’re the expert,” he replied, forcing a grin. “Dragons, magical springs, research… periwinkle.”

She tilted her head. “Periwinkle?”

He froze. “Did I say that out loud?”

She blinked at him, bemused. “Yes?”

He groaned and covered his face with one hand. “I’m going underwater now.”

“Don’t drown.”

“I might. Save me if I do?”

“Only if you admit I was right about the ley lines.”

“I’d rather drown.”

She splashed him.

And just like that, the moment passed — but not really.

Because Harry knew now.

He was in trouble.

And it wasn’t going away.

Chapter Text

They’d finished the site work by late afternoon, a good day’s progress wrapped up in Hermione’s immaculate field notes and Harry’s meticulously adjusted protection wards.

“Dinner?” she suggested, tying her hair into a loose knot with a pencil she’d pulled from behind her ear. “There’s a little restaurant by the square that looked promising. Their board said something about pumpkin and goat’s cheese tart.”

Harry had never met anyone else who could make root vegetables sound like a reward.

He didn’t argue.

The restaurant was small and warm, with mismatched chairs, candlelight flickering in lanterns, and jazz music drifting softly through an ancient wireless perched on a wooden shelf. Muggle-run, though wizard-friendly — the specials menu had a charm on it that rewrote itself in six languages depending who was reading.

Hermione beamed at the ambience. Harry beamed at Hermione.

They sat in a corner table by a window, the kind of spot where time moved slower. She ordered for them both — “He’ll have the duck, and yes, I’d love a glass of the local red” — and he watched her without realising he was watching.

She was wearing one of her Muggle dresses — navy blue, simple, with tiny buttons down the front. It floated just above her knees and swayed when she moved. Her curls were still damp from the spring, left loose now, and her skin was flushed from the sun.

Harry was doomed.

The old server shuffled over, all bright eyes and bent spine, balancing a tray like it was an extension of her arm. She set the plates down with the kind of grace that only came from years of doing it by instinct.

Then, with a smile and a glint of mischief, she leaned in to Harry and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “You’re a lucky man. She’s beautiful, that one. Clever-looking too. Don’t let her get away.”

Harry choked slightly on his wine.

Hermione looked up, a napkin still pressed to the corner of her mouth. “Sorry, what was that?”

The server winked. “Told him he’s a lucky one.”

Hermione laughed, the kind of warm, surprised laugh that made Harry’s chest twist painfully.

“Oh, he knows,” she teased, then went right back to cutting her tart as if she hadn’t just turned Harry’s stomach upside down with a single joke.

The server bustled off. Harry stared into his plate and willed his heart to behave.

She’s joking, Potter. She’s always joked like that. It’s nothing.

But it didn’t feel like nothing.

That night, they returned to the inn. A sleepy place with old wooden beams, a rattling radiator, and a room still with just one bed.

They didn’t even argue about it anymore.

“Same sides as last night?” she asked, already slipping out of her dress and into one of his oversized old jumpers — a soft grey one that should’ve been declared a lethal weapon.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling on a T-shirt, not trusting himself to look too closely at bare legs and ridiculous freckles and the way she tucked her hair behind her ear like she had no idea what she was doing to him.

She climbed into bed first, plumped her pillow, and pulled the covers up with a satisfied sigh.

Harry slid in beside her, carefully maintaining the initial pillow barricade. It didn’t matter. It never did. Within minutes, she was asleep — warm and soft and entirely at ease — and like the night before, she gradually drifted across the divide until her arm was slung over his middle and her leg was tangled with his.

And that damned freckle.

That stupid, perfect little freckle just below the strap of her top, peeking out from the collar of his jumper like a tiny secret.

It had no right to be doing what it was doing to him.

Harry lay frozen, staring at the ceiling, pretending his heart wasn’t hammering loud enough to wake the whole building.

It was just a freckle.

It was just Hermione.

Except it wasn’t just anything anymore.

It was her scent — something like honey and ink and warm summer air. It was the tiny unconscious sigh she gave when she settled into sleep. It was the way she trusted him — utterly, without condition — and never once looked at him like she was afraid he’d drop her.

It was the way being with her made him feel more himself than anything else ever had.

He closed his eyes.

It’s just friendship, he told himself, for the thousandth time.

Except the trouble with friendship — when it’s built on everything — is that sometimes, without even realising it, it becomes more.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t even sure when he’d stopped wanting to stop it.

Chapter Text

The meeting was held in Conference Room Seven — a lofty chamber with narrow windows and a long glass table that made everyone feel simultaneously important and uncomfortable.

Hermione was already there when Harry arrived. She’d laid out her notes in crisp piles, annotated in three colours, and was speaking quietly to someone from the Department of International Magical Law.

Harry took his seat across from her. Usual arrangement now — opposing departments, clashing perspectives, but always polite.

At least until she started talking.

“…we cannot prioritise magical efficiency at the expense of diplomatic transparency,” Hermione said evenly, tucking a loose curl behind her ear as she flipped a page. “If this project is meant to show mutual trust, then the enchantments on Muggle-visible sites must be reported fully to the Liaison Office. Not three weeks after the fact.”

The rest of the table nodded or scribbled something.

Harry was meant to speak next.

He didn’t.

Because he was staring at her.

And not just looking — really, properly staring. He didn’t hear her argument. Didn’t even register the last three sentences.

He caught a flicker of her expression — a slight crease of her brow as she waited — and then it hit him: she was beautiful. Not just clever, not just brilliant or steady or someone he trusted more than anyone else on the planet. She was stunning.

And he had no idea what she’d just said.

“Harry?” came Kingsley's voice from the far end of the table, just faintly amused. “Anything to add from Enforcement?”

He blinked. “Er—yes. Sorry. I was—uh…”

Hermione tilted her head, something like suspicion in her eyes.

“I was just going over my notes,” Harry said quickly, flipping through a page that might as well have been blank for all he was seeing.

A beat.

Hermione’s lips twitched.

The moment passed.

But something had shifted. At least in him.

Later that day, after most of the Ministry had emptied out and the corridors were dim and echoing, Harry ducked into the tiny Auror kitchenette for a cup of tea.

Luna was there.

Of course she was.

She was sat cross-legged on the counter, pouring honey into a chipped mug and wearing an oversized Ministry-issued jumper with glittering Dirigible Plum earrings.

“Long day?” she asked serenely, not looking up.

“Something like that,” Harry muttered, reaching for the kettle.

“Your aura’s gone all tangled,” she said.

“…Right.”

She let the silence hang just long enough for him to think it might be over.

Then: “It’s Hermione, isn’t it?”

He froze. “What?”

Luna looked up, dreamy as ever. “You were looking at her in the meeting like you’d forgotten what your name was.”

“I was not.”

“You were,” she said simply, blowing gently on her tea. “You looked as if your heart had just realised something before the rest of you had caught up.”

Harry didn’t reply.

“She doesn’t know yet,” Luna added, not unkindly. “But you do.”

He took a slow breath. “I don’t know what I know.”

“That’s the funny thing about knowing,” she said. “It happens whether you want it to or not.”

She hopped off the counter and gave him a gentle pat on the arm as she passed.

“I think it’s lovely,” she said, and then she was gone, floating off down the corridor like mist in the morning.

Harry stood there, mug in hand, feeling slightly like someone had just cast Revelio on him without permission.

And the worst part?

She wasn’t wrong.

Chapter Text

The training room smelled faintly of sweat, old wards, and dragon leather. Sunlight filtered through the charmed ceiling, casting soft golden patches onto the duelling piste.

Hermione had her hair twisted up, sleeves rolled to the elbows, wand firm in hand. Harry, opposite her, grinned — not the cocky sort, but something quietly competitive.

It was their third duel that month. Officially, a training demonstration for junior Aurors. Unofficially, a bit of stress relief.

They always drew a crowd.

“Ready, Potter?”

“Always, Granger.”

It started fast — neither held back. Spells flicked through the air like music, paced and measured. Banter occasionally slipped in, something about technique or favourite hexes. She’d caught him once in a leg-lock jinx and teased him for the next week. He retaliated with a stinging jinx and a takeaway curry.

Today, Hermione was sharper than usual.

Harry noticed, but too late.

Her Disarming Charm came low and fast — textbook perfect — and Harry parried just a half-beat behind. He tried to pivot, counter, but his footing caught on a patch of uneven flooring. The jolt knocked him sideways.

He landed with a hard, sick thud — wand skidding across the mat.

The room stilled.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice cracked through the silence.

He groaned, winded, hand on his ribs. “I’m—fine—” he wheezed.

Hermione was already kneeling beside him. She didn’t speak at first, just pressed a diagnostic charm over his side with shaking fingers.

“Fractured,” she muttered. “Bloody hell—Harry, what were you doing? That spell wasn’t meant to land.”

“Bad footing,” he rasped, trying a smile, but it faltered under her expression.

Hermione wasn’t looking at the injury anymore.

Her eyes had gone far away.

“Hermione?”

She blinked hard.

“I just—when you hit the floor like that—” Her voice dropped, hoarse. “It reminded me of… Godric’s Hollow. And every bloody time I thought—”

He reached for her hand.

Her fingers were cold.

And then she did something unexpected.

She leaned forward and hugged him — right there in front of a half-circle of stunned trainees.

Her arms wound tightly around him, forehead pressed into his good shoulder, and she breathed in slow and shaky like she needed to remind herself he was alive.

Harry didn’t care about the rib. He wrapped his good arm around her.

No words.

Just understanding.

In the far corner of the room, Luna stood beside a bewildered Neville and a coffee-holding Padma.

“They’re alright,” Luna said airily, as if she hadn’t just seen her two oldest friends crumble and rebuild in the space of ten seconds.

Neville nodded. “He’ll be fine. Hermione probably feels worse than he does.”

“Oh, it’s not the injury,” Luna said softly. “It’s just… something’s brewing.”

Padma frowned. “What’s brewing?”

Luna smiled, eyes still on Harry and Hermione.

“Something they haven’t named yet. But they will.”

She took a sip of her tea as if that explained everything.

And maybe it did.

Chapter Text

Hermione stood at Harry’s door, clutching a tin of ginger biscuits and a flask of pain-relieving potion.

She’d debated for an hour whether to drop by.

Logically, he was fine. Bruised ribs. Minor fracture. Easily mended with a couple of potions and a lie-in.

Emotionally… she’d seen something in his face as he hit the mat. And worse — she’d felt something twist in her gut that she hadn’t felt in years. That helpless jolt of war-era panic.

Harry opened the door in joggers and a faded Cannons t-shirt — his hair worse than usual, which was saying something. His glasses sat askew.

“Hermione.”

“I brought biscuits.”

“That’s very specific,” he said, stepping aside. “You alright?”

“No. Are you?”

“Ribs are rubbish. Pride’s worse. But you know, still breathing.”

They sat on the sofa, the awkwardness only half real. She passed him the potion. He took it with a soft grunt and tipped it back.

“I hate that I hurt you,” she said, quietly. “Even if it was an accident. I was showing off.”

“You weren’t,” he said. “You were brilliant. I was a pillock.”

“You could’ve cracked your skull.”

“I’ve done worse.”

“That’s not comforting.”

He smiled, but it faded when she looked away.

“Hermione…”

She shook her head, blinking hard. “I just saw you fall and—I don’t know. It hit me. All of it. Like it was 1998 again and we were back in that bloody tent and I couldn’t fix anything.”

She sniffed and wiped at her eye.

Harry reached for her hand.

“You fixed more than you know.”

They sat quietly, fingers laced.

Then came a knock at the door.

Harry made to rise, but Hermione pushed him back and went instead. When she opened it, Luna stood there, holding a paper bag and a tiny potted succulent with a note stuck in the soil.

“Evening,” Luna said serenely, floating past her into the flat. “I brought samosas. And Trevor says this plant helps with tension. He’s a Herbologist now.”

“Is Trevor your toad or a person?” Harry asked from the sofa.

“Both,” Luna said airily. “But the toad’s more qualified.”

She placed the food on the coffee table and passed the plant to Hermione.

The note read:

Some things need time. Others need tea and quiet company.
— L.

Hermione smiled despite herself.

Luna perched cross-legged on the arm of Harry’s sofa like a gentle, knowing owl.

“You know,” she said after a beat, “most people think it’s terrifying how you two move around each other. Like magnets. Or moons.”

Harry raised a brow. “Moons?”

“You’re always caught in each other’s gravity. You pull, and the other adjusts without even noticing.”

Hermione blinked. “That’s just friendship.”

“Is it?” Luna tilted her head. “Funny, how no one else makes you move like that.”

Harry flushed. “Luna…”

“I’m just saying,” she said serenely, opening the bag of samosas. “That maybe the things you think are normal aren’t just normal. And maybe what happened on the mat today wasn’t about injury, but realising you’d mind — very much — if the other one didn’t get back up.”

Hermione stared at her lap.

Harry stared at Hermione.

Luna crunched on a samosa.

“Also,” she added lightly, “you two should eat. Emotional revelations are exhausting.”

Harry chuckled under his breath. “Luna?”

“Mm?”

“Don’t ever change.”

She beamed. “That would be terribly inefficient.”

They ate together, silence falling comfortably — not heavy, not strange. Just easy.

Hermione reached again for Harry’s hand as they talked about anything but feelings, and Harry let her.

Chapter Text

The first time Harry saw Hermione padding into his kitchen in one of his old Quidditch shirts, he very nearly dropped his mug.

It was too early, he told himself. Too early to be this aware of the shape of her bare legs. Too early for his brain to go foggy because her hair was a wild, glorious mess and she was humming something that might’ve been a Muggle lullaby. Too early to be shaken by a single, tiny freckle on her right shoulder, peeking out from the stretched collar like it was trying to kill him.

He turned quickly to fiddle with the kettle.

“I think the hot water’s being moody again,” she said behind him, yawning. “I’ll give it a stern talking to after coffee.”

“Or I could try magic,” he offered.

“Magic doesn’t scare a proper plumbing system, Harry. It’s like arguing with Molly Weasley — bold of you to try, but you’ll lose.”

He chuckled, passing her a mug.

It had been a week since her building’s pipes had burst. She’d arrived at his doorstep, soaked, annoyed, and holding a sad-looking plant that had survived the Great Flat Flood of 2002.

“Just until the contractors are done,” she’d said.

“Stay as long as you like,” he’d replied, perhaps too quickly.

Now, mornings had taken on a rhythm. Hermione sat cross-legged on the sofa, nursing her coffee, correcting briefing documents with a red quill she charmed to hover above the cushion. Harry made toast. They listened to the wireless, bickered over which section of the Prophet to read first, and somehow always managed to leave for the Ministry at the exact same time.

People noticed.

“Potter, Granger—are you living together now or just bloody synchronised?” someone from Level Six called in the lift one morning.

“Coincidence,” Hermione replied airily, brushing lint from Harry’s lapel like it was second nature.

Harry, meanwhile, stared at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe.

The trouble, really, was that this all suited him far too much.

Hermione was tidy in the kitchen but catastrophic with parchment. She sang when she brewed tea but never noticed she did. She read by the window at night in his old Hogwarts jumper, one leg tucked under her, and left half her notes on the side table. She didn’t ask if she could wear his clothes. She just did.

And Merlin help him — he liked it.

He liked that she was here. That their lives clicked together with a sort of ease he hadn’t realised he’d been craving.

But he couldn’t let himself like it too much.

This was Hermione.

They’d fought a war together. Slept back to back on forest floors. Cried, bled, grown up side by side.

She was still Hermione. Still the one who argued with him about elf labour laws and tax exemptions for potioneers over dinner. Still the one who fell asleep halfway through documentaries but remembered the important bits in the morning. Still the one who made his flat feel less like a storage cupboard and more like a home.

And absolutely, categorically, not someone he was allowed to fancy.

Which was difficult. Because she had that freckle. The one on her shoulder that only showed when she wore that particular shirt — the one from the Cannons-Harpies match two years ago. His shirt. She’d knotted it at the waist the other night while brushing her teeth, hair up, face clean of makeup, looking… unfairly radiant.

He was doomed.

Back in the kitchen, Hermione opened the fridge and frowned. “Did you eat the last of the leftover lasagne?”

He coughed. “Er… maybe. I was hungry after training.”

She made a noise of mock offence. “I labelled it, Harry.”

“I know,” he said sheepishly. “But you put a smiley face on the label. I thought it meant I was allowed.”

“It meant I was feeling whimsical,” she deadpanned, grabbing the eggs. “You owe me an omelette.”

As she whisked and tutted, he leaned against the doorframe, watching her.

There was a war still going on in his head. A tug-of-war between logic and longing. Between history and the present. Between don’t ruin this and you already have, haven’t you?

“Harry?”

“Mm?”

“You’re staring.”

“Just—thinking.”

“About?”

He blinked. “How I’m going to make it up to you for stealing your whimsical lasagne.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile was soft.

Later, they’d walk into the Ministry together. She’d talk about the hearing with the Department of Magical Transportation and he’d nod along, completely forgetting what she was saying because her hand brushed his arm when they crossed the atrium.

And maybe, just maybe, Luna would catch him looking and shake her head with a tiny smile.

Because everyone else could see it.

But Hermione still hadn’t.

And Harry… Harry was trying not to fall too far, too fast.

But the freckle wasn’t helping.

Not even a little bit.

Chapter Text

It was late. The sky had turned a soft bruised violet, and rain tapped lightly against the windows like it wasn’t trying too hard to be noticed.

Hermione had her feet tucked beneath her on the sofa, hair twisted up messily with a biro she’d stolen from Harry’s desk, and she was reading one of the Ministry’s less urgent intelligence reports — the kind that likely wouldn’t mean much until someone tried smuggling cursed goblets through customs.

Harry, meanwhile, was nursing a second glass of wine, stretched out in the armchair by the fire, his socked feet tapping a soft, slow rhythm on the worn rug.

The flat was quiet, warm, full of the low hum of familiarity.

It had become like this more often than not. Dinners cooked together or brought home in paper bags. Hermione muttering to herself over law drafts. Harry refolding the laundry Hermione kept forgetting in the basket. Arguments over whose turn it was to buy coffee. Companionship in its most ordinary, comforting form.

And yet tonight, something in Harry was restless.

He wasn’t even sure what started it — maybe it was the way she casually reached for her wine glass with one hand while flipping a page with the other. Maybe it was the faint scent of her shampoo still lingering from her shower. Or maybe it was the fact that she had a sock of his on and one of hers, like she hadn’t even thought about it.

But it was there — bubbling just beneath his ribs.

He took a breath, then said it far too casually for what he meant.

“You should move in.”

Hermione didn’t react at first. Not dramatically, anyway. She just turned the page, blinked, paused, and slowly looked up.

“…What?”

Harry sat forward, wine glass forgotten. “I mean it.”

She blinked again. “You want me to… move in. Permanently?”

He nodded, mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah.”

There was a long pause.

“Harry,” she said, frowning faintly, “you—you’re not saying this because you feel sorry about the flat, are you?”

“No!” He leaned forward. “I mean—no, I’m not. Your flat’ll be fine in a week or two. But even if it wasn’t, that’s not it.”

She tilted her head, guarded now in the way only Hermione could be when someone caught her completely off guard.

“Then why?”

He hesitated. He hadn’t planned this. He hadn’t really thought it through beyond I like her here and I don’t want her to leave.

“Because,” he said finally, quietly, “you’re already here.”

She blinked.

“You never go back unless you have to feed the plant. Half your books are on my shelf. You’re in my kitchen more than I am. I wake up and you’re in my shirt making tea like this is just… how things are meant to be.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And I like it. I like having you here, ‘Mione.”

Her mouth opened slightly but no words came.

He rushed on, suddenly embarrassed. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be forever. It could be until you sort a new place, or the lease runs out. Or not. But it feels like—like it makes sense. Doesn’t it?”

Hermione was quiet.

The fire crackled softly. The rain pattered against the glass.

And then she exhaled, long and slow.

“My lease is almost up,” she murmured, eyes distant.

“Right,” he said, almost swallowing the word.

“And you’re not… asking this for any other reason?” Her gaze flicked to him, sharp again. “Not out of guilt, or—”

“No. Merlin, no.”

She looked at him a long moment more, her expression unreadable.

“I wasn’t planning on renewing the lease anyway,” she said finally, carefully.

Harry blinked. “You weren’t?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t feel like home anymore. I’m barely there. Half the time I’m just looking for an excuse to come back here.”

His heart stuttered.

“And I… I like it here, too,” she added softly, almost like a confession. “I didn’t expect it to feel so easy.”

Harry gave a crooked smile, the nervous kind he used to wear at Quidditch matches.

“So… that’s a yes?”

She hesitated again — not out of fear, but calculation. Hermione never leapt into anything. She weighed it. Considered it.

And then she smiled, a slow, thoughtful smile that felt like something blooming.

“I suppose it is.”

He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“But,” she added, raising a brow, “if I’m moving in, we’re reorganising the kitchen. I’ve had enough of your chaotic drawer system.”

Harry snorted, relief cracking into laughter. “I’ll let you colour-code it.”

She leaned forward and clinked her glass to his. “Deal.”

And in the warm quiet of his living room, Harry Potter realised — rather terrifyingly and wonderfully — that the person he’d fought a war beside, lived in tents with, debated over wand rights and security protocol with… had, somehow, without either of them noticing, become home.

Chapter Text

“Tell me again,” Harry muttered, glaring down at the elegant invite on his desk, “why we still go to these things.”

Hermione looked up from her folder without lifting her chin, her eyes half-lidded with the same distaste. “Because refusing a formal invitation from the Department of International Magical Cooperation tends to be frowned upon, Harry.”

“Well, so is drinking three Firewhiskies and hexing a Bulgarian delegate, but no one blinked when Frobisher did that last year.”

Hermione gave a tight smile. “He married the delegate six months later.”

Harry blinked. “Seriously?”

She nodded. “They live in Sofia now. Have a pug.”

He stared at her, then sighed heavily and flopped backwards in his chair. “Still not going.”

“You are.” She flicked her quill at him.

“Says who?”

“Says your name is listed under Honourable Guest of the Wizengamot and Head Auror. You're literally on the programme.”

Harry let his head loll to the side and gave her a pitiful look. “You’re going too?”

“Regrettably. I’m giving a short speech on international Muggle policy reforms.”

“Of course you are.” He sat back up. “Alright. But only if—” he paused, trying to think of the least painful way to spend the evening— “Only if we go together.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“As dates,” he added quickly, then winced, “I mean—not like that. Just, you know, like we always end up stuck next to each other anyway. Might as well call it what it is.”

She considered this for half a second before nodding, cool as ever. “Fine. But if we’re calling it a date, I get to approve your tie.”

Harry snorted. “Deal.”

Chapter Text

The ballroom at Clarion Hall was already buzzing when they arrived, Hermione in a floor-length midnight blue dress with clean, elegant lines and her hair pinned with subtle silver clips. Harry, for once, had managed to comb his hair and wore a tailored dark suit with no robes — a small protest, though Hermione had picked out his tie (deep emerald green, because of course she had).

“Is it too early to leave?” Harry murmured as they were ushered inside.

“Too early to spike the punch, maybe,” Hermione replied, glancing around the room full of bureaucrats, diplomats, and Ministry press with a barely-concealed grimace.

They made the rounds. Smiled at the appropriate people. Nodded through two speeches too many. Laughed at jokes that weren’t funny.

To their credit, they made a good team. They always had. Harry would lean in with a dry remark when she was cornered by a droning official from Magical Transport. She’d step in with a pointed question when he was being trapped by someone from the Prophet.

But inevitably, the whispers started.

“They came together.”

“Potter and Granger? Really?”

“I always thought—”

Cameras flashed. Questions were tossed their way with too-slick smiles.

“Just here to enjoy the evening,” Hermione said coolly to one reporter.

Harry smiled blandly and added, “She’s the date of the year, isn’t she?”

When they finally managed to break free and found themselves out on the balcony, both let out identical sighs.

Hermione leaned against the stone balustrade. “Remind me to ask Kingsley why the Minister never seems to attend these himself.”

“Because he’s clever,” Harry said, loosening his tie.

She turned to him with a smirk. “Well, this was less dreadful than usual.”

“You’re only saying that because they didn’t put you next to Norbert-the-Norwegian-Accident-Prone-Dragon-Wrangler this year.”

Hermione laughed. “He tried to show me photos of his burn scars.”

“Romantic,” Harry deadpanned.

They fell into a familiar silence. The kind that had years behind it. Hermione glanced sideways at him.

“You weren’t too miserable, were you?”

Harry met her gaze, then smiled — soft, wry, genuine.

“Not with you.”

She looked away quickly, her expression unreadable. “Good. Because you owe me pudding for this.”

“Oh, definitely. The overpriced kind. With extra cream.”

“Deal.”

And behind them, through the doors, the gala carried on — music, politics, posturing.

**

The music shifted, mellow and smooth, as couples took to the polished floor under the charmed lights. A gentle saxophone glided over the low murmur of conversation, and Harry, who had been nursing a glass of sparkling water at their small table, let his eyes follow Hermione as she made her way back from a conversation with a diplomat from Prague.

She looked beautiful. Effortlessly so. Her dress skimmed her frame with elegance, her curls soft now from the humidity, strands falling loose in a way that made something in Harry’s chest tighten.

And then a man stepped into her path.

Harry straightened in his chair.

He didn’t recognise him — dark hair, Ministry badge, confident stance. His expression was polished and polite as he said something that made Hermione laugh. Then, to Harry’s mild horror, the man extended a hand.

Dance?

Hermione hesitated for a second — she always did when it came to unnecessary social flourishes — but took the offer with a gracious smile.

Harry watched, arms folded now.

At first, it was nothing. Hermione was speaking, the man listening intently. They moved well enough — Hermione could hold her own at a formal event, always had — but the way his hand drifted just a bit lower on her back, the way he leaned in when speaking, that was when something hot and uncomfortable curled behind Harry’s ribs.

He sipped his water too fast. Coughed. Set the glass down harder than necessary.

“Well,” came a serene voice from beside him, “this is interesting.”

Luna had appeared — Merlin knows from where — her eyes half-lidded, dreamy as ever, her champagne untouched in her hands.

Harry blinked. “What is?”

She hummed, watching the dancers with mild interest. “The way you’re watching her. Like you’d rather Accio her back with your eyes.”

“I’m not— I’m not doing that,” he mumbled.

Luna turned her gaze to him, unnervingly clear when she wanted it to be. “He’s holding her a little close.”

Harry frowned. “Exactly!”

“Mmm.”

“That’s not proper posture for a waltz, is it?”

“No.”

“And he’s—he’s practically whispering in her ear.”

“He is,” Luna agreed, with no particular concern. “He smells like expensive hair gel and desperation.”

Harry gave her a sideways look. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I danced with him earlier. He’s one of those men who thinks intelligence is a challenge.”

Harry made a face. “Brilliant.”

They watched in silence for a few more bars of the music. Hermione didn’t look distressed — far from it — but she had shifted her frame slightly, inching just enough space between them. A familiar look passed over her face: polite amusement, tinged with boredom.

Harry exhaled slowly. “I know she can handle herself.”

“Oh, of course,” Luna replied, breezily. “But you’d prefer if he wasn’t touching her.”

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked down at the table.

Luna tilted her head thoughtfully. “You’ve felt like this before, haven’t you?”

He glanced up, eyes narrowing slightly. “Like what?”

She gave a serene little smile. “That freckle on her shoulder is a giveaway, you know.”

Harry choked slightly on his own breath. “Luna!”

But she was already walking away, muttering something about pudding and the alignment of Saturn.

**

Hermione returned not long after, cheeks slightly flushed, smoothing her hands down the sides of her dress as she sat back beside him.

“Well,” she said with a sigh, “I haven’t danced with someone that smug since Viktor at the Yule Ball.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, still mildly tense. “You alright?”

She glanced sideways, catching something in his tone. “Of course. Why?”

He shrugged. “Just… didn’t like how close he was standing.”

Her brow lifted — amused, not mocking. “Jealous, Potter?”

He stared at her. “Should I be?”

Her smile deepened, unreadable. “Not unless you want to be.”

She reached for a canapé, and the moment passed — or, at least, was tucked neatly away.

But Harry wasn’t quite sure what to do with the tightness still in his chest… or the memory of Luna’s voice, soft as smoke:

You’d prefer if he wasn’t touching her.

Too bloody right, he would.

Chapter Text

The next morning was blessedly quiet. No pressing reports, no unscheduled floo calls, no emergency briefings. Just a drizzle clinging to the windowpanes of the Auror Office and the soft scrape of parchment across a polished desk.

Harry sat in his office, chin propped on one hand, staring at the memo he’d read three times but hadn’t absorbed once. His thoughts were doing loops — not about work, not about the new security measures in Wales, not even about the minor injury report still waiting to be filed.

No. His thoughts, maddeningly, kept circling back to Hermione.

To the way she looked last night, flushed from dancing. To the way her fingers had trailed across the table as she’d leaned in to tease him. The freckle. The smirk. Her laugh.

And that bloke. With the wandering hands.

Harry groaned under his breath and scrubbed both hands over his face.

A knock at the door spared him further spiralling.

“Come in.”

Neville stepped in, relaxed in his usual easy-going way, holding two coffees.

“You looked like you needed rescuing,” he said, handing one over.

Harry blinked. “From what?”

“Whatever it is you’re brooding about.”

Harry accepted the coffee with a muttered thanks. Neville didn’t press. Just sat himself down in the chair opposite, looking like he had all the time in the world.

Eventually, Harry spoke. “Did Luna… say something to you?”

Neville sipped his coffee and didn’t even pretend to deny it. “She notices things. Doesn’t always say them in plain terms, but… yeah. She mentioned you’ve been a bit tangled up lately.”

Harry stared into his coffee. “She always knows, doesn’t she?”

“She’s Luna.”

Harry exhaled, slow. “It’s Hermione.”

Neville waited.

“I’m—I think I’m—” Harry stopped. Changed tack. “I’ve been having these thoughts. And it’s ridiculous, because we’ve lived together before, and we’ve been friends for over two decades, and she used to date Ron, and I don’t even know when it started but it’s like—every time I look at her, I see something else now. And I can’t unsee it.”

Neville didn’t flinch. Didn’t look shocked.

“And I know it’s wrong,” Harry went on, “or at least, not right. It’s Hermione, for Merlin’s sake. My best friend. And Ron—”

“Hasn’t dated her in years,” Neville said calmly. “And has a girlfriend now.”

“I know, but still—”

Neville held up a hand. “Let me ask you something. If she were anyone else — any other brilliant, beautiful woman you got on with — would you be asking me whether it was proper?”

Harry opened his mouth. Shut it. Looked down.

“I didn’t think so,” Neville said gently. “You’re only questioning it because it’s her. Because it’s been years of history and friendship and war and work. But that’s not a bad thing, Harry. That’s the foundation of something real.”

“But what if it messes everything up?” Harry asked quietly.

Neville smiled, soft and understanding. “Then don’t be an idiot. Don’t rush. Just... stay where you are. She trusts you, right?”

“Completely.”

“Then you’ve got time. If something’s changing — really changing — she’ll notice too. Eventually.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Luna said something like that. Sort of.”

Neville chuckled. “She probably phrased it as a prophecy involving ferrets or moon tides.”

“Something like that.”

There was a pause. Rain tapped lightly against the glass.

“You’re not wrong for feeling this way, mate,” Neville said finally. “You just have to figure out what to do with it.”

Harry took a sip of his now-warm coffee, staring out the window.

“And what if I keep seeing that bloody freckle on her shoulder every time she borrows one of my T-shirts?”

Neville grinned. “Then you’re well and truly doomed.”

Chapter Text

The rain had finally let up by the time Hermione let herself into the flat with a light click of the door. Crookshanks wound around her ankles in greeting, his grumble more of a complaint than a welcome.

“I know, I’m late,” she said, scooping him up before he could dart towards the kitchen. “Harry’s home though, isn’t he?”

She heard the tell-tale clink of a spoon against a mug from the other side of the flat. Not a word of greeting, but the soft strains of some Muggle record Harry liked to play when the flat got too quiet. Bowie, tonight.

Hermione padded in, still holding Crookshanks who was now purring like a broken kettle.

Harry was standing in the kitchen in track bottoms and a plain T-shirt — hers, funnily enough. She’d been looking for that.

“You’re in my top,” she said, amused.

Harry startled slightly, as if caught. “Er. Yeah. It was in the wash. Thought it was mine.”

“It says Oxford University across the front in your least favourite font.”

He glanced down. “Right. Easy mistake.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “You feeling alright?”

“Fine,” he said too quickly, then cleared his throat. “Long day.”

She didn’t push it.

**

It started small after that.

At the Ministry, he was oddly quiet in meetings. Not in a way anyone else would notice — but Hermione did. She always noticed. He’d go strangely still whenever she spoke. Seemed distracted when they went over briefings, often staring just a second too long before blinking and pretending he’d heard every word.

Twice now he’d shown up with mismatched socks. Mismatched. Harry was many things, but slapdash about socks was not one of them.

One morning, she caught him pouring orange juice into his tea.

“Harry.”

“Hm?”

“You’ve just committed a war crime.”

He looked down at the mug in horror. “Oh for— I was thinking about the… thing.”

“What thing?”

He didn’t elaborate. Just grimaced and muttered something about having to owl Neville.

At home, the oddities continued. He’d bump into her in the hallway and then just… stop, mid-stride, as if startled she was there. He’d linger at the kitchen door while she made coffee, as though he’d come in with a purpose and completely forgotten it. And once, once, she was fairly sure he’d walked past the bathroom while brushing his teeth and run smack into the wall.

Still — it was Harry. And Harry could be… a bit of a mess sometimes. So Hermione, busy as ever, filed it away under Harry Being Strange and moved on.

That is, until the Wednesday evening she came home from a policy debate with the Department of International Magical Co-operation, dropped her bag at the door, and found Crookshanks sitting in the hallway, licking his paw in a way that was altogether too smug.

She followed the sound of something sizzling to the kitchen.

Harry was there, apron on backwards, frying something that looked aggressively untrustworthy, and mouthing something under his breath.

“You alright?” she asked.

He jumped. Nearly dropped the spatula.

“Hermione. Hi. You’re… early.”

“It’s half-seven.”

“Oh. Right. Must’ve lost track.”

She approached slowly, eyeing the pan. “Are you cooking?”

“I thought I’d have a go,” he said, like it was a perfectly ordinary Wednesday thing.

“You hate cooking.”

“I tolerate it. You’ve had a long day.”

She folded her arms, leaning against the counter. “You’re acting weird.”

Harry tensed. “Weird how?”

Hermione tilted her head. “Weird like… you’re nervous. Or guilty. Or like you’re planning to disappear into the wilderness with only a tent and your wand again.”

He barked a laugh, too loud. “Nothing like that.”

She watched him a moment longer, then let it go — mostly because the pan looked like it might catch fire soon.

“Alright. But if you burn the eggs, you’re on your own.”

He smiled — a bit too wide — and went back to cooking, humming tunelessly under his breath.

Hermione shook her head, bemused, and walked out of the kitchen.

Behind her, Crookshanks sat in the doorway, tail flicking, watching Harry as if he knew exactly what was going on — and was simply waiting for the humans to catch up.

Chapter Text

“Absolutely not,” Hermione declared, arms folded as she stared down the Ministry memo.

Harry, lounging sideways at the long Auror conference table with a biscuit in hand, glanced up. “What’s ‘absolutely not’?”

She held up the parchment like it had personally offended her. “This new flying proficiency regulation for all senior-level personnel. Emergency response training, they’re calling it. I call it utterly unnecessary.”

“Well, it is the Department of Magical Transportation running it. They’ve got to make themselves feel important somehow.”

Hermione shot him a withering look. “I haven’t touched a broom since we left Hogwarts. And that was under duress.”

Harry tried to suppress a smile and failed. “You always looked like you were doing long division in your head while airborne.”

“I was doing physics,” she sniffed. “Because that’s what flying should follow. Not wizarding whim.”

He laughed. “You know you’re going to have to do it, right?”

Hermione slumped into the seat beside him. “Don’t remind me.”

There was a pause. Then Harry tilted his head, watching her from the corner of his eye.

“I could help.”

She turned to him suspiciously. “Help how?”

“Flying lessons. In the evening. I’ve got that old Cleansweep still. It’ll be like fifth year all over again.”

Hermione looked deeply sceptical. “The last time you said that, I nearly fell into the Black Lake.”

“You didn’t,” he said, grinning. “Neville did.”

“Comforting.”

But she said yes.

**

The following evening found them standing in a quiet patch of field just outside Ottery — the same place Harry sometimes came to fly when he needed air and quiet. The Cleansweep stood upright between them, looking perfectly innocent and wildly menacing all at once.

Hermione eyed it like it might bite.

“Right,” Harry said, ever the coach now. “First, just mount it. We’re not taking off yet.”

“I’m aware of the basics, thank you,” she muttered, swinging a leg over with all the grace of someone stepping onto a wet log.

Harry bit his tongue.

“I just need to… adjust…” she shifted awkwardly. “Merlin, why does it feel so unbalanced?”

“Because you’re stiff as a board. Relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re sitting like it’s a throne.”

She glared at him. “You’re very smug when you’re not the one terrified of falling to your death.”

“Tell you what,” he said, swinging his own leg over and getting on behind her, “we’ll fly it together.”

She turned, startled. “What?”

“I’ll steer. You just hold on. It’ll help you get used to the movement.”

Before she could protest, he’d already shifted closer, arms bracketing hers on the handle, chin brushing her shoulder.

Hermione froze.

“This alright?” he asked quietly.

Her mouth had gone a bit dry. “Yes. Fine. Perfectly professional.”

Harry didn’t comment, but she could feel his breath catch with the laugh he was trying to swallow.

He gave the broom a gentle nudge off the ground.

They lifted slowly, Hermione instinctively gripping the handle tighter. The wind lifted her curls, half-blinding Harry who had to blow a strand away from his face.

“Bloody hell, your hair,” he muttered, spitting out a curl.

“Sorry,” she said, laughing nervously. “Should’ve brought a tie.”

“You’re alright,” he said softly. “You’re doing fine.”

They hovered there, maybe three metres up, the evening wind brushing past, dusk beginning to settle over the hedges. Hermione’s back was warm against his chest, and he felt her body start to ease. Tentative. But trusting.

“I suppose this isn’t too dreadful,” she said eventually.

“I’d call that progress.”

They flew a short circle around the field, Hermione’s hands still gripping the broom, Harry guiding them gently, his voice low and steady in her ear. Somewhere along the way, her shoulders relaxed, her posture softened. She let the broom follow Harry’s lead. It was oddly intimate — not in the way of romantic grand gestures or charged silences, but in the quiet, shared experience of trust.

When they landed, Hermione stepped off with wobbly knees but a small triumphant grin.

“That,” she said, “was not as terrible as I expected.”

Harry offered her a lopsided smile. “You didn’t even scream once.”

“I was being brave.”

“You were clenching your teeth the whole time.”

She rolled her eyes, cheeks slightly flushed. “Next lesson’s tomorrow?”

“Absolutely. And maybe next time I’ll wear goggles. Your hair’s a health hazard.”

She smacked his arm lightly, and he caught her wrist without thinking — just for a beat. Long enough for the moment to stretch.

Then she pulled away with a quiet laugh, shaking her head as if to say honestly, you and Harry bent to hide a grin, suddenly aware that whatever this was… it was shifting.

Chapter Text

The plan had started innocently enough.

Neville, being a good sport (and, as Harry suspected, quietly briefed by Luna), had mentioned that he too could use a bit of brushing up on his flying. “Not all of us became Quidditch heroes,” he’d said with a chuckle, patting his stomach. “Bit different once you’re over twenty.”

So it turned into a group thing.

Sunday afternoon, just outside Ottery St Catchpole. The same open field from their last session — now featuring three battered brooms, a thermos of tea courtesy of Luna, and the general air of people pretending they were still young enough to run around without consequences.

Hermione had arrived in jeans and one of Harry’s old jumpers — the green one with the stretched sleeves she kept nicking “by accident.” She looked fresher than she had in weeks, cheeks pink, curls pulled into a bun that had already begun to collapse.

She even waved at the broomstick when she approached it, like greeting an old friend she still didn’t entirely trust.

“Right,” Harry clapped his hands once, mock-official. “Today’s lesson: altitude confidence and soft turns. That means you, Longbottom.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your recruits,” Neville muttered, adjusting his glasses and looking resigned.

Luna was already floating lazily several feet above them, serene as a drifting kite.

“I’ll watch from here,” she called.

Hermione raised a brow. “Not joining us properly?”

“I prefer to observe things from above,” Luna replied, deadpan. “Patterns are clearer. Also, less risk of being clobbered by someone who never really learned to steer.”

Neville winced. “That was one time.”

They all managed a few circuits at low height, Neville swearing every time a gust of wind pulled at his sleeves. Hermione did reasonably well on her own for a few minutes — tense, but far more balanced than she used to be. Harry could see it in the way she wasn’t clinging to the handle with white knuckles anymore.

But when the turns got tighter, and Neville nearly crashed into a tree (Luna swerved effortlessly), Hermione coasted back down and dismounted with a slightly breathless laugh.

“Right,” she said, “I’ve reached the limit of solo flight today.”

Harry landed beside her and held out his hand.

“Back on with me?”

She hesitated, then shrugged — light and easy. “If you must.”

Truthfully, it was Hermione who settled herself first, Harry swinging on behind her in the now-familiar routine. Arms either side, breath near her neck.

It was supposed to feel professional. Friends. Functional.

But it didn’t.

Because somewhere between the second and third lap, Hermione laughed.

Not the stiff, startled kind she used to produce when things were just passable — a proper, open laugh that echoed over the field. Her head tipped back slightly, and she turned to say something, only to find Harry already watching her — close, too close — and something shifted. Again.

The broom dipped slightly from the momentary lapse in attention.

“You alright back there?” she asked, amused.

“Yeah,” Harry said, voice lower than he meant. “Just… yeah.”

They banked left, flying tighter than before, and she leaned into the turn without fear.

From above, Luna hovered upside down, observing them from a peculiar, batlike position.

“You’re sharing a broom again,” she noted aloud, as if no one else had noticed.

Hermione squinted upward. “It’s more efficient.”

“Mmm,” Luna said dreamily. “Looks like fun.”

Neville had landed again and was digging around in the picnic bag for biscuits. “It’s definitely something.”

Harry cleared his throat. “We’re just training.”

“Of course,” Luna murmured, now turning midair in a slow roll.

They continued flying — two full laps, tight turns, small dips, Hermione laughing more than she had in weeks. Harry was glad she couldn’t see his face, because his expression wasn’t entirely composed. Her body relaxed against his. She trusted him — utterly — and he was in trouble.

Later, after the brooms were packed away and Luna handed out steaming mugs of tea, Hermione sat cross-legged in the grass, nudging Harry’s knee with her own as she told Neville about nearly losing a shoe in the wind.

Harry watched her talk, his own cup long forgotten.

That jumper was slipping off one shoulder again.

And that freckle — the one near her collarbone, annoyingly small and impossibly distracting — caught his eye like a magnet.

“Harry?”

He blinked. “What?”

“You were staring at my tea.”

“Right. No. Just… thinking.”

Luna passed him a biscuit without looking. “Maybe about something that isn’t tea.”

Harry took it and looked away.

He really needed a new plan.

Because whatever this was — this thing between them — it was no longer something he could fly past.

Chapter Text

It started with a very normal request.

Andromeda, unflappable as ever, had stopped by Harry's office just before lunch.

“Something’s come up,” she said. “A healer appointment. I hate to ask, but could you and Hermione mind Teddy for the afternoon? He’s already packed. Just keep him alive.”

Hermione, sitting across the desk mid-lunch with her soup and files, looked up. “Of course. We’d love to.”

Harry, very full of trepidation and half a sandwich, nodded. “Sure. No problem.”

By two o’clock, Teddy Lupin — chatty, and thoroughly uninterested in naps — had taken full possession of Harry’s flat, his toy dragon perched on the sofa, and was wearing Hermione’s spare scarf like a cape.

And Hermione?

Hermione was sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing Harry’s old Quidditch jersey, barefoot, with Teddy curled against her like a particularly opinionated kitten, reading The Tales of Beedle the Bard in a soft voice.

She didn’t even notice she was casually humming.

Harry stood in the kitchen doorway holding a half-washed bottle and a towel, and staring — just… staring — like he was watching his entire emotional equilibrium unravel in real-time.

Teddy, now sucking his thumb and babbling about broomsticks, looked exactly like Harry had at that age. Right down to the messy hair and lopsided grin.

Hermione murmured something, shifted the toddler gently in her arms, and kissed the top of his head like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Something inside Harry’s ribcage went sideways.

He dropped the bottle in the sink, missed the basin entirely, and let it clatter against the tap.

Hermione looked up. “You alright?”

“Fine,” he croaked. “Just… water. Bottle. Nothing exploded.”

Hermione smiled at him — that soft, tired, contented sort of smile she wore only when she was truly relaxed — and then went back to her reading.

Harry turned, walked into the hall, and immediately sent a patronus SOS.

The silvery stag galloped to Luna and Neville with a simple, urgent message:

“Need help. Hermione is wearing my jersey and cuddling my godson and I’m having a full-blown emotional crisis. Send biscuits.”

Neville arrived ten minutes later, slightly out of breath, holding a bag of Muggle jelly babies.

Luna arrived eight minutes after that, drifting in like a serene storm cloud, wearing a sundress and carrying a small box of runes.

They found Harry sitting on the steps outside, dramatically hunched over with his head in his hands like a man who’d seen too much.

Neville sat beside him and handed over the sweets.

“Alright,” he said. “What’s happened? Is the toddler breathing?”

“He’s bloody fine,” Harry muttered, shoving two jelly babies in his mouth. “She’s the problem.”

“Which she?” Luna asked, peering through the window.

“Hermione.”

Luna smiled beatifically. “Ah. Wearing your jersey, cuddling the child, and reading aloud like a domestic goddess?”

Harry made a wounded noise.

Neville blinked. “Sorry, mate, that sounds lovely. Are you having an allergic reaction to love?”

“Thank you, Neville,” Harry snapped. “Very helpful.”

Luna sat beside them both and set her rune box between her knees.

“You could tell her how you feel,” she said, arranging the stones in a careful circle. “Or you could continue spiralling until one of you accidentally proposes while brushing your teeth.”

Neville looked concerned. “Wait, is that on the table now?”

“Not unless she starts using my toothbrush,” Harry muttered, standing and pacing like a man trapped by fate and soft knitwear.

“She’s wearing my jersey, Nev.”

“She probably grabbed it out of the laundry basket,” Neville said reasonably. “Or maybe she likes the smell.”

Harry made another strangled sound.

“See, that’s the issue,” Luna said dreamily, flicking a rune into place. “He wants her to like the smell. He wants her to never stop liking the smell.”

Neville squinted. “Is this the part where we cast something or just drink tea?”

“Harry’s heart has already exploded,” Luna said. “It’s too late for spells.”

“Great,” Harry muttered. “Glad I called reinforcements.”

Neville patted him on the shoulder. “Look, mate. All jokes aside? If seeing her with Teddy made something click — that’s not scary. That’s clarity. You love her. You’ve loved her. Everyone but you knows.”

Luna nodded, still upside down now on the step.

“We’re just waiting for you to catch up.”

Harry groaned.

From inside the flat, Teddy shrieked something about dragons, and Hermione’s warm, laughing voice followed after — lilting, familiar, entirely his undoing.

“She’s got no idea,” Harry mumbled.

“Even better,” Luna said brightly. “It’ll be more romantic when you fumble it horribly and she kisses you anyway.”

Neville offered another jelly baby. “Want us to hang around for emotional support?”

Harry shook his head.

“No. Go home. I’ve got nappies, existential dread, and my best friend in my jersey. I’ll cope.”

Luna and Neville stood, nodded like satisfied meddlers, and vanished with zero subtlety.

Harry took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and opened the door to find Hermione wearing his jersey, laughing, with Teddy now asleep in her lap.

She looked up and smiled. “There you are. You okay?”

“Yep,” he lied.

She patted the sofa beside her.

“Come sit. You look flushed.”

He sat.

And told himself this was fine.

Absolutely fine.

Just his entire future sitting next to him, reading bedtime stories in his jumper.

No big deal.

Chapter Text

It had been building for weeks.

Harry had tried — really tried — to squash it down. The glances, the longing, the moments of aching softness he hadn’t meant to show.

But between Hermione wearing his jumper, Hermione tucking Teddy into bed, and Hermione smiling at him like that — he was doomed.

Tonight was no different.

They’d had leftover curry. Hermione had talked politics. Harry had watched the way she tucked her hair behind her ear and grinned when she proved a point. They washed up in quiet rhythm, her shoulder brushing his now and then. Crookshanks had climbed onto his lap when they sat down to read.

It was domestic. Entirely ordinary. And completely unbearable.

She was brushing her teeth when he cracked.

He leaned against the bathroom doorframe, watching her in her mismatched pyjamas (his old Gryffindor Quidditch tee and tartan bottoms), and something snapped.

He had to say it.

Now.

Even if it was in a bathroom.

Even if she had a mouth full of foam.

“I—um. Hey. Hermione?”

She looked up, toothbrush in hand, mid-brush. “Mm?”

Harry swallowed. “So… I’ve been meaning… I mean, it’s been… You and me. I just think it’s… something. Isn’t it?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, still brushing.

“I mean, the thing is—bloody hell—okay, right, what I’m trying to say is that I might—well, I do—I fancy you, alright?”

She froze.

And stared at him.

Toothbrush still in her mouth.

Toothpaste foam gathering around her lips.

Harry winced. “I mean—fancy. And maybe more than fancy. Definitely more. And I know it’s stupid, and I know there’s Ron, but it’s you. It’s always been—Merlin—I sound like a bloody idiot.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, the silence stretching into an unbearable chasm.

Hermione slowly finished brushing, very methodically, spit out, rinsed, dabbed her mouth with the towel.

Then she looked at him, expression neutral.

And said, utterly calmly:

“Harry.”

“Yeah?”

“I caught about three words of that.”

He blinked. “Oh.”

She leaned on the sink, arms folded, one brow arched. “Do you want to try again when you’re slightly more coherent? Preferably not while I’m brushing my molars?”

He flushed scarlet. “Right. Yes. I just… yeah.”

She gave him a half-smile — fond, amused, totally maddening. “Go to bed. We’ll talk in the morning. Or whenever you learn how to use your words.”

Then she kissed his cheek, patted his chest like he was a half-witted Labrador, and padded down the hall.

Harry stood in the bathroom, heart pounding, feeling like he’d just tried to disarm a bomb using only oven mitts and sarcasm.

Crookshanks passed him on the way in and gave him a look that seemed to say “Really?”

He groaned and thunked his head against the doorframe.

“Brilliant, Potter. Just brilliant.”

Chapter Text

Harry had planned to do better.

He’d lain awake half the night rehearsing it in his head — all the calm, rational things he would say to Hermione after his garbled “I fancy you, probably always have” ramble the night before.

He was going to be composed. Mature. Possibly charming.

Instead, the universe — and a very traitorous old t-shirt — had other plans.

He woke up on the sofa, the smell of toast drifting from the kitchen, and the unmistakable sounds of Hermione humming along to the radio — some old Muggle tune that made the flat feel too warm and far too domestic.

He stumbled in, yawning, wearing joggers and the faded Weird Sisters t-shirt he usually reserved for laundry days.

Hermione stood at the stove barefoot, hair in a loose bun, mug of tea in one hand and spatula in the other.

“Oh, good morning,” she said without looking. “You look like someone hit you with a mild confundus.”

He rubbed his eyes. “I feel like it.”

“Scrambled or fried?”

“Surprise me,” he said, collapsing into a chair.

She did. With both.

They ate in the usual companionable silence, interrupted only by Crookshanks attempting to climb onto the table and Hermione scolding him with the efficiency of a magistrate.

Harry was halfway through his eggs when he noticed she was wearing his grey hoodie.

The soft, oversized one that had mysteriously vanished three weeks ago.

On her, it looked... unfairly good.

She was also wearing tiny pyjama shorts that left her legs very distracting and very bare.

Harry looked away, focused hard on his toast, and promptly dropped jam in his lap.

“Bugger,” he muttered, grabbing a napkin.

Hermione handed him another napkin and returned to sipping her tea, completely unbothered, eyes still scanning The Daily Prophet open on the table.

“Listen,” Harry began, trying to keep his voice steady, “about last night—”

“Oh, when you had a neurological incident while I was brushing my teeth?”

He winced. “Right. That.”

She turned a page. “You were very eloquent.”

“I was not—”

“You stuttered through a vague conversation and then looked like you’d swallowed a Niffler.”

“I was nervous!”

Hermione finally glanced up, meeting his eyes. There was a flicker of something in her expression. Wry. Curious. Gentle.

“You’re Harry Potter. You’ve faced literal dragons. What on earth could make me so nerve-wracking?”

He stared at her. Then, very simply, without meaning to — without preamble or planning — he said,

“Because I’m already halfway in love with you, and I don’t know what to do with it.”

Hermione froze.

He froze.

Even Crookshanks paused in the middle of batting a spoon off the counter.

“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered, pressing his palms to his eyes. “That wasn’t how I meant to say it. I was going to rehearse. And be... articulate.”

The silence stretched.

And then Hermione said, very softly, “Harry.”

He braced himself.

But when he looked up, she wasn’t angry or shocked. She looked... oddly shy.

“You should’ve said that before I made you eggs.”

His mouth fell open slightly. “What?”

“Now if I say something back, it’ll look like I’m just being nice to you because you’re emotionally vulnerable and I’ve just fed you. I’ve lost the moral high ground.”

He blinked. “So… are you saying something back?”

She reached across the table and touched his hand.

Her fingers were warm. Her expression was careful, but open. Hermione-ish.

“I don’t know what to do with it either,” she admitted. “But you’re not alone in it. That’s… probably the most coherent thing I can offer before I finish my tea.”

He exhaled, chest loosening in a way he hadn’t realised was possible.

Crookshanks, unimpressed with human emotional breakthroughs, leapt up and knocked the spoon off the counter at last. It clattered to the floor.

They both laughed.

And just like that, it felt real.

Uncomplicated. Complicated.

Theirs.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t over dinner.
It wasn’t during a walk in the park, or over wine, or after another soft night tangled up in each other.

It happened, of all places, on the blasted Underground.

They’d been out in Muggle London for a quiet Saturday — no press, no robes, no obligations — just them, a couple of takeaway coffees, and an afternoon wandering through old bookshops and street markets. Hermione had found a copy of Middlemarch with marginalia so intense it became a second book. Harry had eaten a bacon sandwich he declared “life-changing.” She rolled her eyes, but he’d caught her smiling.

They were on the platform at Green Park, Hermione babbling excitedly about the annotated bits she'd found, Harry watching her with that warm, dopey look he often wore around her now — the one that made her ears go pink and her sentences slightly less articulate.

The tube whooshed in. They stepped on. It was nearly empty.

They grabbed a pole to steady themselves, shoulder to shoulder, Harry’s hand warm on hers. He was looking at her. She turned, caught him, smiled.

And that’s when it happened.

At the exact same time — same breath, same beat, no warning —

“I love you.”

They both blinked.

Then stared.

Hermione laughed, hand flying to her mouth in disbelief. “Did you just—?”

“You said—!” Harry grinned, wide-eyed, chest full to bursting. “Did you just say—?”

They both dissolved into laughter — giddy, stunned, completely ridiculous laughter — right there in a swaying train car between stops, like two teenagers who'd somehow tricked the universe into something too good to be true.

He leaned in and kissed her — hard. Not rough or messy, just full. Like he’d been waiting a decade to do it properly. She kissed back, wrapping her arms around his neck, her book bag thumping against his hip. He kissed her cheeks, her forehead, and every freckle across her nose and shoulder that he could reach, whispering, “Love you. Love you. Love you.”

Hermione gasped between kisses, laughing breathlessly, “Harry, people—!”

“I don’t care,” he murmured, brushing his nose against hers, utterly besotted. “You love me.”

“You love me,” she whispered, eyes shining. “Oh, Harry.”

And he grinned — really grinned — like someone who’d just scored a goal, passed his NEWTs, and been handed a lifetime’s supply of treacle tart, all at once.

Chapter Text

It started with brushing teeth. Together, like they’d done dozens of times now — half-asleep, nudging each other for sink space, Harry with toothpaste on his nose and Hermione with her hair clipped up in some abstract, barely-functional twist.

But that night was different.

It wasn’t even discussed, not properly. So when they finished up, when she padded back into the bedroom already in one of his old jumpers and he followed, neither of them reached for the spare blanket or the sofa.

Harry lifted the duvet silently. Hermione slid in beside him.

And it just was.

They lay on their sides, noses nearly touching. For a long moment, they just looked at each other in the moonlight that spilled softly through the half-open curtains.

“Hi,” she whispered, with the smallest, unsure smile.

“Hi,” he echoed, heart thudding.

It was Hermione who leaned in first, cupping his face with hands that trembled slightly. The kiss started tentative, like everything between them might collapse if they moved too fast. But then Harry sighed into her mouth, and her hand slid to the back of his neck, and something old and eternal settled into place.

They didn’t rush. They didn’t fumble.

Every time he touched her, Harry checked. A glance. A pause. A whispered, “This alright?” and “Tell me if it’s too much.”

It never was. It was perfect.

The freckle — that damned little freckle on her right shoulder that had been driving him mad for months — got its proper due. A kiss. Then another. Then a slow trail of them, reverent, like it was something sacred.

When Hermione gently stopped him, hand on his chest, she searched his eyes, cheeks flushed with something between trust and vulnerability.

“I haven’t,” she said softly, barely audible. “Not with anyone.”

Harry felt a jolt go through him — of surprise, then fierce protectiveness, then awe.

“Alright,” he said, voice rough, brushing her fringe from her brow. “No pressure. Nothing happens unless you want it to. I mean it.”

She gave a quiet laugh, the sound breaking around a breath. “I want this. With you.”

Then it was slow, like learning a language they’d always known but had never dared speak aloud.

Touch by touch, kiss by kiss, breath to breath — they found a rhythm together that was seamless, right. Harry held her like she was the most precious thing in the world — not because she was delicate, but because she mattered.

And Hermione met him every step of the way. Sure, nervous, and brave as ever.

After, she curled into his side, one arm flung over his chest, leg hooked around his. Her hair spilled over his shoulder and the top of her head tucked just beneath his chin.

He didn’t move for a long time.

The soft pink light of morning crept across the room, slow and warm.

Harry stirred, eyelids fluttering open, body deliciously sore in places he hadn’t realised would ache.

And there she was.

Half on top of him, a proper starfish of a woman, her wild hair in his face, her leg still draped over his.

Hermione.

Asleep. Breathing evenly. Peaceful. Absolutely beautiful.

His arms were around her like they’d been there forever.

Harry tilted his head slightly and looked down at her, trying not to move too much — not because she was heavy (she wasn’t) but because it felt like he’d somehow become her pillow of choice and he didn’t dare ruin it.

He let out a breath, barely a whisper.

How the bloody hell did I get so lucky?

She loved him. Somehow, despite everything. Despite their complicated pasts and the years of friendship and the missed chances and the war and the hesitation… she loved him.

And he loved her. Madly. Deeply. Permanently.

He pressed a featherlight kiss to her temple.

Hermione stirred, murmuring something into his chest that sounded suspiciously like “Mmmph… warm.”

He smiled against her hair.

In that moment — wrapped up in each other, limbs tangled, hearts at peace — Harry Potter knew he didn’t need anything else.

She was it.

Always had been.

Chapter Text

The Auror Department’s duelling floor was a loud, echoing space full of controlled chaos — spells firing, feet scuffling, barked orders, the occasional yelp, and a lot of bravado from over-caffeinated twenty-somethings in training robes.

Harry stood at the edge of the mat with his arms folded, observing the latest batch of recruits who were being run ragged by their drill instructor. From the mezzanine, you could see a dozen wand flashes going off in every direction — but from the floor, he could see technique. And right now, it was rubbish.

“You’re not painting a mural with your wand, Sanders,” he called dryly. “Straight wrist, or the Shield Charm’s going to bounce off your own forehead again.”

A chorus of sniggers. Sanders looked abashed.

Just then, the double doors opened and in swept Hermione, clutching her regulation robes, hair in a high twist, cheeks flushed from sprinting down from a Muggle liaison meeting.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, breathless. “I had to chase an entire committee down for a clause redraft and then got stuck in the lift with Perkins who—never mind. What’s happening?”

Harry turned, smirking, wand tapping his open palm. “You’re just in time to help me demonstrate a proper duelling sequence.”

Hermione froze. “You want me to duel you?”

One of the younger Aurors let out a low whistle. “This is gonna be brilliant.”

Another elbowed him. “She’s gonna kick his arse.”

Harry looked entirely too pleased with himself. “Fancy showing them how it’s done?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Oh, you’re on, Potter.”

Someone muttered, “Lovers dispute, Auror edition,” earning a wave of laughter.

They stepped onto the mat, standing ten paces apart. Wands at the ready. A hush fell.

Harry bowed, smirking. “Go easy on me, love.”

Hermione smirked right back. “You wish.”

The first volley of spells was almost decorum: a textbook disarm, a shielding charm, a swift banishing hex — just enough to show form and footwork.

But it escalated quickly.

One moment Harry sent a barrage of Stunners; the next, Hermione leapt aside and redirected the spell into a mirrored arc that nearly had him flat on his back. He retaliated with a clever binding hex, which she dispelled mid-air before rolling behind a column and firing a silent jinx that turned his boots temporarily to stone.

The recruits were wide-eyed.

“They’re not holding back, are they?” one whispered.

“Did he just laugh while getting hexed?”

“Is it weird I’m a bit turned on?”

“YES. Shut up.”

From the mezzanine, Kingsley had wandered in, arms folded, watching with a small smile. Luna appeared beside him, arms full of files and a butterbeer in hand, entirely serene.

“They’ve got marvellous rhythm,” she said dreamily.

Kingsley gave her a sideways look. “You mean magical rhythm?”

“Oh no. The romantic sort. Look at how they circle each other — completely attuned. Like they’re bonded. Probably kissed on a moving vehicle recently.”

Kingsley chuckled. “They always did make a formidable pair.”

Back on the mat, Hermione cast a complex refracting charm that made Harry’s next attack hit thin air. She grinned. “Too slow.”

Harry grinned right back, huffing, then slid low and cast a disarm so quick and silent it had her wand skidding across the floor.

The entire floor gasped.

But before anyone could cheer, Hermione grinned, held out her hand — and wandless magic summoned it back. She blew imaginary smoke from the tip, utterly smug.

Harry looked stunned. Then… proud. “Show-off.”

She shrugged. “You love it.”

“I do.”

Another gasp. That last bit had slipped out just a bit too loudly.

The match ended when they both landed simultaneous stunners and collapsed onto the mat in a heap, laughing and breathless. Harry reached for her hand, still wheezing.

Hermione turned her head toward him. “You’re infuriating.”

“You’re dangerous.”

Someone yelled from the side, “I ship you!”

Padma, who’d just arrived holding a bag of sweets from WWW, stared and asked, “Wait — are they duelling or flirting?”

Luna beamed. “Both!”

Neville, with tea in hand, simply nodded. “They’re in sync. On and off the mat.”

Harry groaned. “Can someone not narrate our relationship for five minutes?”

Hermione grinned. “They’ve waited for some years, Harry.”

The room erupted into applause as they both got to their feet, brushing themselves off and taking exaggerated bows.

One recruit leaned toward another and whispered reverently, “Merlin help us if they ever have a row.”

Chapter Text

“Try not to be too brilliant,” Harry muttered under his breath as he adjusted his tie outside the Wizengamot chamber.

Hermione glanced sideways at him, lips twitching. “Don’t be daft. I’ve never once toned it down for you.”

He gave her a look. “You have, actually. That time we argued about the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Act, and you let me finish a sentence.”

“I was ill that week,” she replied breezily.

He smirked, then gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Just don’t fall in love with me all over again when I win.”

Hermione laughed. “If by ‘win’ you mean speak passionately and then immediately be out-argued by someone better prepared, then yes, I’ll be terribly impressed.”

They were, of course, on opposite sides of a proposed legislation around Auror oversight reforms. Harry, of the Auror Office, was adamant about preserving operational autonomy. Hermione, reformist to her core, was championing transparency and checks.

They kissed each other briefly — an oddly charged peck in a quiet corridor — and parted ways like two fencers heading to the piste.

Inside, the gallery was packed. The Prophet had sent three reporters. Even Luna had come to watch, perched beside Neville, who was eating a pocket scone in a very deliberate attempt not to fidget.

Hermione rose first. “What we’re proposing isn’t about bureaucracy. It’s about trust. Magical law enforcement should be held to the highest standards — not because we doubt them, but because we believe in them. Strong institutions don’t fear accountability. They invite it.”

Her voice rang, her tone measured, eyes scanning the room. Harry watched her from his bench, lips pressed together, respect evident even in his scowl.

When it was his turn, he stood slowly. “I’m proud of what our Aurors do every day. And no, it’s not always neat and tidy. But they save lives. They do what needs doing when no one else will. My fear is that too much red tape might cost someone their life before a quill’s even lifted.”

They went back and forth — rebuttal after rebuttal, like a beautifully choreographed duel. She cut through sentiment with sharp logic; he met her with lived experience and empathy. People leaned in. Someone in the back actually whispered, “Merlin, this is better than the Quidditch final.”

At one point, Hermione quoted something Harry himself had written in a training memo five years earlier, to which Harry simply muttered, “That’s below the belt,” earning a few quiet chuckles and a smug raise of her brow.

When the debate finally closed, applause erupted — not for who won (Hermione, narrowly), but because the whole chamber knew they’d just witnessed something magnificent. Two people who cared deeply — about the work, the people, and each other.

Later, outside the Ministry, the summer evening was soft and golden. Harry was waiting near the steps, hands in his pockets, watching Hermione emerge with her files tucked under one arm and her hair starting to frizz in the humidity.

“Congratulations,” he said, with a rueful smile. “You were bloody amazing.”

She stopped in front of him, mock-suspicious. “No attempt to defend your honour?”

He shrugged. “I’ve just accepted that you’re smarter than me.”

“That’s not true,” she said, stepping closer. “You’re just stubbornly practical and charmingly reckless. People fall for it.”

Harry tilted his head. “People?”

“Me,” she said simply.

He didn’t respond — not verbally. He just kissed her. Right there on the Ministry steps, still half-dressed in their official robes, while witches and wizards passed by and tried not to stare (some failed spectacularly).

It was not their first kiss. But it was the first post-debate kiss, and that made it particularly sweet.

When they pulled apart, Harry was grinning.

“You’re a menace,” he said.

“Likewise,” she replied, smoothing his collar. “You’ll be impossible at breakfast, won’t you?”

“Only slightly smug.”

From somewhere nearby, a voice called, “Get a room! Or better yet, a legislative subcommittee!”

They both turned to see Luna walking by with a knowing smile, Neville trailing behind her, shaking his head.

“Just imagine how productive Parliament would be if all debates ended that way,” Luna added serenely.

Hermione laughed, and Harry squeezed her hand.

“Yes,” he murmured. “But I still think I should’ve won.”

She leaned in, whispering in his ear, “You can win tonight. If you’re lucky.”

He blinked, then nearly tripped over the next step down.

The Ministry might’ve closed for the day, but it seemed sparks weren’t limited to the debating floor.

Chapter Text

It started with a smell.

A junior clerk from Magical Records had brought in a box of warm sausage rolls — the good kind, from that bakery in Muggle Bethnal Green that everyone swore by — and the scent wafted through the Department of Magical Law Enforcement like a homing spell.

Hermione was halfway through reviewing a proposed amendment to the Goblin Trade Act when her stomach rolled.

She blinked at the parchment.

Then, without a word, she stood up, barely made it to the loo, and threw up everything she hadn’t even eaten.

They called Harry from the Auror training grounds. “She’s pale and a bit clammy, sir,” one of the interns said nervously. “We thought… better safe than sorry.”

Harry was already halfway to the lifts.

By the time he arrived, Hermione was sitting in her office, a conjured glass of water in hand, her normally neat bun beginning to sag and eyes dazed like someone hit her with a Confundus.

“Hey,” Harry said gently, crouching in front of her, all business momentarily forgotten. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” she replied automatically, then winced. “Well. No. I vomited. But I’m not ill ill. It was probably just something I ate.”

Harry pressed the back of his hand to her forehead without thinking.

She gave him a look. “I’m not twelve, you know.”

“You also once worked through dragon pox,” he reminded her. “Forgive me if I don’t trust your sense of your own health.”

Hermione snorted, then reached for her bag. “I’ll go to Mungo’s if it’ll make you feel better.”

“I’ll come,” he said immediately.

She tried to wave him off, but he followed her anyway.

They ran a full scan at St Mungo’s. Hermione lay flat on the diagnostic bed, her eyes trained on the magical readouts hovering in midair, her hand resting in Harry’s.

He was trying not to chew his fingernails — a habit she’d mostly helped him break, except in times of extreme stress.

The healer — a kind woman with silver spectacles and a mild Cornish accent — came back with a small frown.

“Well,” she began, flicking her wand to zoom in on the floating readouts. “It appears the contraceptive charm you've been using didn’t take.”

Hermione blinked. “What?”

“You’re pregnant,” the healer said, not unkindly. “Roughly six weeks.”

The room was suddenly very quiet.

Hermione sat up a little. “But— I cast it. I always cast it. We’re not careless.”

“You did,” the healer confirmed. “But your file indicates long-term exposure to curse damage — residual effects from Dolohov’s spell during the war. It may have interfered with the charm’s efficacy. Rare, but not unheard of.”

Hermione’s mouth opened, then closed again.

Harry still hadn’t said a word. His hand was warm around hers.

She finally looked at him, wide-eyed, and whispered, “I… I didn’t think… I didn’t think I could.”

He blinked at her. “Are you alright?”

She nodded slowly, still in shock. “Just… surprised.”

Harry cleared his throat. “Do you want to be?”

Hermione gave a breath of a laugh. “I don’t know. I think so? It’s just—this wasn’t part of the plan. I mean, we’ve been dating for less than a year. We don’t even have a cat together — Crookshanks doesn’t count — and now we’ve got a whole hypothetical person and I haven’t even read a proper book on wizarding pregnancy—”

“Hermione,” Harry said gently.

“—and I don’t even know if we’ve ever discussed names. We’ve argued about furniture, and how many bookshelves is too many—”

“Hermione.”

“—and now I’m crying, aren’t I?” she said, reaching for a tissue.

“You’re crying because you’re Hermione,” Harry said softly. “Not because this is bad.”

He hesitated, then added, “It’s not bad. It’s us. It’s just… sooner than we thought.”

She gave a wet chuckle and sniffled. “I’ve derailed our lives.”

“You’ve made it more interesting,” he said, brushing a curl away from her cheek. “Also, I love you.”

She looked up. “Even now?”

“Especially now. And if it turns out you’re growing someone with your brain and my hair—Merlin help us, but we’ll manage.”

She laughed again, weak but genuine, and he kissed her temple.

They walked out of Mungo’s hand-in-hand, still quiet, still processing, but full of something brand-new.

Hope.

Chapter Text

Harry had never liked banks.

Gringotts was all sharp corners and stern goblins and the faint smell of scorched parchment — and every time he stepped inside, he remembered dragons and near-death experiences.

But today, he wasn’t there to rob the place. He had come for something that had waited long enough.

“Mr Potter,” said the goblin at the front desk, not bothering to hide the suspicion in his tone. “How… unexpected.”

“I’d like to access my family vault,” Harry said calmly.

“Very well,” the goblin sniffed. “Follow me.”

The Potter vault was colder than he remembered.

There was still something solemn about it. Generations of things untouched, treasures and artefacts he barely understood — gold, of course, and heirlooms, but also things like a delicate christening gown, a box of letters in his mum’s handwriting, and the little velvet case he had come for.

He knew exactly where it was.

He had only opened it once before — years ago — out of curiosity, back when he was still half-convinced he’d never fall in love properly, not the way his parents had. Not in a way that made something like this feel right.

But now he held the box with steady hands.

Inside was Lily Potter’s ring — a slender band of white gold, with a sapphire framed by tiny diamonds, delicate and elegant.

Nothing flashy. Nothing showy. Just real.

Like Hermione.

He tucked the box into his coat pocket and left the vault with a nod, the goblin eyeing him curiously all the way back up.


He didn’t rush it.

Harry sat on the sofa that evening, barefoot in joggers, hair a mess, his fingers absently stroking Crookshanks’ back as the cat curled possessively in his lap. He watched Hermione, who was arguing gently with the wireless — some talk show about Ministry housing reform.

She was wearing one of his old jumpers. Her curls were tied up loosely, and she looked comfortable and cross and entirely herself.

“I want to marry you,” he said suddenly.

Hermione blinked. “Pardon?”

“I mean it,” Harry said, standing up, surprising Crookshanks, who leapt down with a huff. “I want to marry you.”

She turned to him, brows knit. “Harry…”

He fumbled in his pocket, suddenly feeling absurdly nervous. “I didn’t get this because of the baby. Or because I think we have to. It’s not a grand gesture to make things right.”

He opened the box. The sapphire caught the light.

“I got it because I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time. Probably longer than I understood. And I know we haven’t even been dating a full year but that doesn’t change what’s true.”

He took a breath.

“This feels like the most natural thing in the world. You and me. We've built a life together already. It just happened. No drama. No fanfare. We made a home without even trying.”

She was staring at him, eyes wide, lips parted.

He laughed nervously. “Say something.”

“You—” Hermione started, then sat down heavily on the arm of the sofa. “You really went to Gringotts?”

“Yep.”

“And that your Mum’s ring?”

He nodded.

She reached for it, as if to touch it — then paused. “I love you too, Harry. I think I’ve been in love with you longer than I admitted to myself. But are you sure this isn’t about the baby?”

“I promise,” he said gently. “The baby’s just… a bonus. You’re the whole point.”

She laughed softly, then burst into tears.

Harry panicked. “Wait — is that a no?”

“It’s a yes,” she sobbed, laughing and wiping her face with her sleeve. “Yes, you idiot. Of course it’s a yes.”

He grinned, knelt clumsily, and slid the ring onto her finger.

It fit perfectly.

Later, they curled up together on the sofa, under one of the throws Hermione had insisted on buying, the wireless still muttering forgotten in the background.

“Did you imagine this?” she murmured.

“Not exactly,” Harry said. “But it feels like I’ve always been waiting for it.”

And Hermione, warm against him, her hand resting over her stomach, simply smiled.

Chapter Text

It was a quiet Sunday morning, the kind where the sunlight made lazy streaks across the kitchen floor and Crookshanks refused to move from his patch of warmth. Hermione was in one of Harry’s old T-shirts, half-buttoned over her bump, hair tied up in a loose knot, and she was reading the latest Ministry memos with mild disdain while buttering toast.

Harry watched her with the dumb sort of grin that hadn’t quite left his face in weeks.

“Harry?”

“Hm?”

She looked up at him, tilting her head. “Can we go for a broom ride?”

His toast fell.

“I—sorry, what?” He blinked, properly startled. “Did you just—did you just ask to go on a broom?”

“Yes.” She said it like it was nothing. “But I want to sit in front. Like when you were teaching me.”

Harry dropped into the chair opposite her, giddy. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“I’m not planning to fly solo or do Wronski Feints,” she said dryly. “I just… I know how much it means to you. And I rather liked the last few broom lessons. Especially the… er, holding-on-from-behind bits.”

Harry’s face split into a wide grin.

“I’m going to need a moment to collect myself.”

She rolled her eyes affectionately, taking a bite of toast. “Ten minutes. Then meet me in the garden.”

Ten minutes later, Harry was already standing in the back garden, holding his favourite broom like he was about to mount a Thestral parade.

Hermione stepped out, bundled in one of his jumpers and a soft scarf, boots tied properly and expression determined.

“You’re sure?” he asked gently.

“I’m sure.”

So he swung a leg over first, then helped her up in front, arms wrapping instinctively around her as she settled herself against him.

“This feels familiar,” she murmured as his chin tucked into the crook of her neck.

“You’ve no idea how happy this makes me,” Harry whispered, his voice warm with delight. “I’ve got you, and the baby’s safe, and we’re going to fly.”

She tilted her head just slightly, enough to kiss him over her shoulder.

He launched.

The wind nipped at their cheeks, the sky a clear canvas of soft clouds and blue, and Hermione, to Harry’s shock, was actually laughing.

“See? You do like it.”

“Don’t push it.”

But she was smiling, properly smiling, her hands resting lightly on the handle while his arms stayed firm around her, steering with ease.

They glided in silence for a bit, high above the trees, the world below falling into a peaceful hush.

Then Harry whispered, “Do you trust me for a longer ride?”

“I’m already flying through the bloody air on a broomstick, Harry.”

“Fair.”

He dipped slightly, then turned them gently west.

They landed just outside the village, behind a copse of trees not far from the familiar old house. Hermione looked around, surprised.

“This is…”

“Godric’s Hollow,” Harry said softly, taking her hand as they began to walk.

They strolled slowly down the path, hand in hand, broom slung over Harry’s shoulder, until they reached the graveyard gate.

He stopped, swallowed, then turned to her.

“I’ve brought you here before,” he said. “But never like this. I wanted to formally introduce you.”

Hermione’s eyes welled, and she squeezed his hand tightly.

They stood before the gravestone of Lily and James Potter, the carved words still as poignant as ever.

Harry let go of her hand only to crouch, brushing away a few fallen leaves. “Mum. Dad. I’d like you to meet Hermione. She’s… well, she’s everything. And we’re having a baby.”

Hermione knelt beside him, touched the stone lightly with her fingertips, and whispered, “Hello. Thank you for him.”

Harry kissed her temple, eyes wet but smiling. “They’d have adored you.”

“Your mum would’ve probably asked me about ten questions a minute.”

“Not unlike you.”

They laughed softly, shoulders pressed close.

The sun was just beginning to dip as they took off again, Hermione once more in front, arms relaxed now, hair whipped gently by the breeze.

She turned her face to him mid-flight, eyes dancing. “You’re getting another kiss.”

“Mid-air?”

“Obviously.”

He didn’t need telling twice. Their lips met with a whoosh of wind and giddy laughter, Hermione’s hand reaching back to tangle in his hair.

“You’re going to crash us,” she said breathlessly.

“Worth it.”

There were more kisses. Mid-air snogging, stolen over the countryside, until Harry finally circled them back home, grinning like a teenage idiot and whispering against her ear, “Next time, I’m teaching the baby.”

Hermione chuckled. “Only if I get to be in front again.”

“Deal.”

And with one last kiss, they floated back down to earth, heartbeats still soaring far above.

Chapter Text

The evening after the flight to Godric’s Hollow was quiet, in that contented, soft sort of way that comes only when all things felt in place.

Harry had lit a few candles, more for the atmosphere than the light, and Crookshanks had curled himself, grumbling, at Harry’s feet on the sofa. Hermione was reclined into Harry’s chest, legs tucked beneath her, and he was absent-mindedly rubbing circles on her back, both of them warmed under the same thick jumper she'd stolen from his drawer.

They weren’t speaking much. Just the occasional murmured, “Pass the tea,” or “That owl again,” when a Ministry memo flew past the window and gave up mid-flight.

Then, just as Harry had begun tracing patterns on the bump through her pyjamas, Hermione stirred.

“I want to marry you,” she said, quite clearly, but still into his chest.

Harry blinked.

She tilted her head, smiled. “Soon. Over the weekend if we can.”

His heart tripped a beat.

“No fanfare,” she continued, voice steady but hopeful. “Nothing big or showy. Just us. People who love us. Kingsley, maybe Minerva. Andromeda, Teddy. Neville and Luna, obviously. And I suppose The Quibbler can have the media rights—Luna will insist on writing something poetic.”

Harry grinned against her hair. “She'll probably compare our vows to solar flares or intelligent mushrooms.”

Hermione chuckled. “Exactly.”

He kissed her temple and murmured, “Alright then. Let’s get married this weekend.”

The next morning, Harry popped back into Gringotts, earning a wary glance from the goblin who’d helped him the week before.

“Forgot something?” it asked.

“Should’ve just asked for the Potter family bonding rings while I was at it,” Harry said, half-laughing. “Bit of a week, you know?”

The goblin gave him a look that bordered on pity.

Still, when the velvet box was handed to him, his fingers trembled just slightly. The rings were simple—gold brushed with platinum, etched with the quiet, ancient runes of soul bonding. Old magic, sacred magic. The sort of promise no charm could fake and no curse could break.

Exactly what he wanted.

***

The glen was quiet save for birdsong and the rustle of late summer leaves.

Kingsley stood at the front, robes uncharacteristically modest, glasses perched on his nose as he read over a small scroll with a smile tugging at his mouth.

Minerva sat near the front, tartan shawl firmly in place, sniffing discreetly into her handkerchief. Andromeda stood beside her, one hand resting on Teddy’s shoulder, who was bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, his hair a proud Gryffindor red.

Neville and Luna stood hand in hand, both wearing wildly mismatched robes—Neville’s were pressed, Luna’s had a constellation stitched in glowing thread. She looked utterly enchanted.

Hermione arrived by broom.

Well—sort of. She sat in front of Harry again, wrapped in white that shimmered only slightly in the light, her curls pinned back with a single lily. As they dismounted, Harry took her hand, and they didn’t bother walking down any aisle—just moved straight towards Kingsley, already grinning.

“I believe,” Kingsley said with a rumble of good humour, “we’ve waited long enough for this.”

Harry’s hand was wrapped tightly around Hermione’s, and his thumb rubbed the back of her fingers as though grounding himself.

The ceremony was short. Magical. Intimate in a way that was more powerful than any fanfare could’ve brought.

When it came to vows, Hermione went first. She didn’t have a script, didn’t need one. Her voice only wobbled once.

“I think… I think I’ve loved you far longer than I realised,” she whispered, “and you’re still the only one who makes me feel like I’m the safest and the bravest person in the room at once. You’ve never made me choose between love and purpose. You just… see me. And I see you. I promise to never stop.”

Harry’s eyes were already glassy, but he took a breath and stepped in.

“You make me laugh when I need it most. You challenge me to be better. You’ve always been my home. I promise to protect you, to listen to you, and to never forget how lucky I am that you love me back. I think I’ve loved you since first year. Took me forever to realise it was that simple.”

Hermione’s lips trembled, and she pressed her forehead against his.

Kingsley cleared his throat, emotional himself.

“Harry James Potter and Hermione Jean Granger…”

He waited until they were looking at each other again, eyes full, hands clasped.

“…then I declare you bonded for life.”

Hermione turned and beamed at Harry; her eyes, too, were full of tears.

There was a small pop of magic that glimmered around them like fireflies. A soft gust of wind, scented like lilies and lavender. The old soul-bond magic settling in with a hush.

Teddy cheered. Luna wept. Minerva blew her nose like a trumpet and pretended it didn’t happen.

They kissed, laughing into it, and Harry’s hands found her waist like he’d been doing it his whole life.

“Married,” he whispered in awe, forehead to hers. “You’re my wife.”

Hermione’s grin was incandescent. “Yes. And you’re my husband.”

And then they kissed again, only this time, Crookshanks darted through the flowers and got into the official Quibbler photograph.

Chapter Text

🗞️ "The Sun Marries the Moon: Love, Logic, and Lightning in a Meadow"
By Luna Lovegood-Longbottom, Special Correspondent & First Witness

It happened quietly, as all the best magic does.

On an unassuming Saturday afternoon, nestled between the hedgerows of Devon and the golden pull of late summer, Hermione Jean Granger and Harry James Potter bound their lives together in a soul bonding ceremony — witnessed only by the closest of hearts and the most well-behaved owls.

Yes, dear readers — Harry and Hermione are married. Calm down. Breathe. Yes, really.

💫 A Wedding Without Fanfare (Except That Magical Pop at the End)

The ceremony, held in a glen known only to friends of the couple and a few enchanted badgers, was officiated by Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt himself, who was overheard saying (between dabbing his eyes), “About time, really.”

Hermione wore what can only be described as elegance spun into fabric — simple, glowing, and stitched (rumour has it) with preservation charms and one protective rune hand-drawn by the groom himself. “Just in case we fly in,” Harry was heard saying. And yes — they did arrive on the same broomstick.

Harry looked positively starstruck from the moment she dismounted — readers, I would know; I was there — and continued to look increasingly undone with love throughout the ceremony.

Their vows were quiet and soul-deep. No grand proclamations. Just truth. The sort that stirs the wind and makes you believe that the world still has beauty left in it.

💍 Rings, Runes, and Ron’s Reaction

When asked about the soul-bonding rings (etched with ancient runes, sourced from the Potter vault), Harry reportedly said, “Should’ve grabbed them the first time round, would’ve saved me the nerves.”

Ron Weasley — best mate and proud purveyor of punchlines — was not present due to a last-minute emergency at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes (rumoured to involve a sentient hat stand and a mutinous pygmy puff rebellion). However, upon hearing the news, he simply grinned and said, “About time. If anyone deserves each other, it’s those two. I always knew.”

He then added, “Hope Harry remembers she always wins arguments. Even magical ones.”

📸 A Photograph of Forever (With Crookshanks)

The official photograph, which The Quibbler is honoured to debut on page 3, features the happy couple mid-laugh, surrounded by glimmers of soul-bond magic and one very smug Crookshanks tangled in Hermione’s hem.

Teddy Lupin — ring bearer, flower scatterer, and honorary chaos maker — called the event “the coolest, most grown-up thing ever.” He wore a tie. For five whole minutes.

Minerva McGonagall was spotted dabbing her eyes behind a transfigured hat-veil. “It was romantic,” she said firmly. “Dignified. And Potter even combed his hair.”

Neville Longbottom, husband to this humble correspondent, offered this: “They’re like flame and flint. When it’s right, it’s obvious. Took them long enough.”

🌙 Final Words from the Bride and Groom

As the ceremony wound down and fairy lights blinked awake in the hedgerows, I asked the newlyweds how it felt.

Hermione, radiant and windswept, laughed and leaned into Harry’s side. “It feels inevitable. But also — like a miracle we almost missed.”

Harry just grinned — boyishly, brightly — and kissed her temple. “Feels like home.”

And that, dear readers, is what magic really is. Not just spells or stories. But love — honest, unexpected, and stubborn as anything.

From all of us at The Quibbler:

Congratulations to Mr and Mrs Potter. May your love always fly, even when the broom wobbles.

Chapter Text

They moved in on a Tuesday, because Hermione liked the idea of beginning in the middle of the week — something about avoiding Mondays and superstition around Saturdays. Harry just went along with it, happy to carry boxes and hand over mugs of tea while Crookshanks made himself at home on every newly-placed blanket.

The cottage had white stone walls and ivy creeping like slow lace around its windows. There was a little brook running behind the garden, just as the estate agent promised, and it burbled on and on like it had always known them. Out front was a worn wooden gate that creaked when it opened and a path that curved like a smile. There was even an old apple tree whose branches hung low, like it had bent over in welcome.

“Smells like home,” Harry murmured the first night, walking barefoot on the old oak floors, Hermione padding along beside him in one of his hoodies.

“Smells like dust and wood polish,” she replied, but she smiled all the same.

They had chosen it together, carefully, like everything else they did. Hermione had wanted light — windows that opened wide and let in morning air. Harry wanted space for a garden, “for the baby to run around someday,” he’d said, his hand brushing her small bump like it was still something that surprised him.

They found both in this cottage. And as the days stretched into weeks, life settled in like the gentle hum of that brook outside their window.

Harry took to fixing up the nursery like he’d been training for it in secret. Hermione would find him there late in the evenings, wand behind his ear, surrounded by open tins of paint and floating picture frames trying to find the right wall. He’d charmed stars into the ceiling and drawn runes of protection so old Hermione had to squint at the translation books to check them.

“You’re nesting,” she teased one night, leaning against the doorway.

“I am not.”

“You are absolutely nesting.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder, a smudge of mint green on his cheek. “Well, you’re the one who wants all the books alphabetised by topic and author.”

“That’s not nesting,” she replied primly. “That’s being reasonable.”

Their days grew into small rituals. Tea first thing in the morning, usually brought by whichever one of them had been kicked awake by Crookshanks. Late afternoons were spent walking hand in hand by the brook, Hermione’s hair in a loose braid, Harry occasionally skipping stones like a boy again. She’d laugh when he got smug about a particularly good one.

Sometimes they’d garden. Hermione read every Herbology guide she could find, while Harry just stuck things into soil and somehow, magically, they grew. “Must be all the talking you do to them,” she accused.

“They like encouragement.”

Hermione raised a brow. “You’re literally complimenting a tomato.”

“Well, it’s a very handsome tomato.”

At night, they curled into each other on the sofa, all legs and warmth and shared pages of whatever book Hermione was rereading that week. Harry would sometimes read aloud, and Hermione would quietly correct his pronunciation, which led to mock arguments and snogging by chapter three.

There were still post owls and meetings at the Ministry, of course. Still laws to rewrite and threats to disarm. But coming home — their home — felt like closing the door on noise and letting peace stretch its limbs.

One morning, as the spring air rolled through the open kitchen windows and Harry stood barefoot making toast, Hermione watched him from the doorway.

He caught her gaze, tilted his head. “What?”

“Nothing. Just thinking this—” she gestured vaguely to the warm clutter of their kitchen, his messy hair, the slightly crooked calendar covered in reminders — “is exactly what I wanted. Even before I knew I wanted it.”

Harry smiled, crossed to her, pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. “We’re not flashy, are we?”

“No. We’re… domestic.”

He laughed. “We’re boring.”

“We’re blissfully boring.”

She leaned into his chest, hand sliding over the familiar shape of him, feeling their baby flutter slightly between them.

Outside, the brook sang its steady song. Crookshanks snoozed in a sunbeam. A new life waited in the nursery, painted with stars and dreams.

And in their cottage, wrapped in peace and the simplest kind of love, Harry and Hermione knew — this was home.

Chapter Text

To be fair to Hermione, the Healer did say hormone shifts were common — “heightened sensitivity, emotional waves, increased affection,” and whatnot. She’d nodded seriously, jotted everything down in a neat little notebook. Harry, meanwhile, had gone pink to the roots of his ears and tried very hard not to imagine the very recent moment when Hermione had tugged him back into bed at nine in the morning… on a Tuesday… while half-dressed for work.

Not that he was complaining.

Not at all.

“You’re very obliging,” she murmured against his neck one evening, nuzzled under his chin like he was her favourite armchair and not an Auror with mildly sore hips.

Harry blinked, blinking up at the ceiling, still recovering. “You’re very persuasive.”

Hermione chuckled, the sound positively smug. “You said something about being my devoted husband…”

“‘Devoted’ doesn’t mean I should be on house-elf stamina rations.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” he wheezed. “Happily married. Delighted. Ecstatic. In awe.”

She kissed him thoroughly, then muttered something about how she’d done all the work again, and Harry just closed his eyes and offered up silent thanks to Merlin, fate, and whatever star he’d been born under.

Still, it wasn’t without its moments.

They’d fallen off the sofa once. That was a Tuesday, too. Crookshanks had stalked off in a huff, and Harry had a suspicious wand-burn on his jumper from where it’d been accidentally pressed during a slightly overzealous button unfastening.

And Luna — Luna had a sixth sense for it.

Once, she showed up unannounced with a woven basket full of what she called “harmonising fruit and energising tinctures” and a small jar labelled for stamina. Harry had turned the colour of a Weasley jumper.

“These help with balance,” she said serenely, offering them a jug of something that smelled like elderflower and a poor decision. “And besides, it’s good for the baby.”

Hermione had accepted it with interest.

Harry avoided eye contact for a week.

Later, Hermione pulled him onto the bed, straddled his lap and kissed him until he forgot his own name. Between kisses, she whispered something about Luna having a point, and Harry may or may not have started composing thank-you letters in his head.

He never sent them.

But he did keep the jar.

Their affection wasn’t just physical, though. It was in the way Harry brought her sliced apples and warm tea without asking.

In the way Hermione ran her fingers through his hair when he sat with his head in her lap after long days.

They whispered dreams into each other’s skin, they giggled under blankets, they shared long, quiet looks across the kitchen table that said everything and nothing all at once.

One afternoon, Luna arrived again with an enchanted embroidery hoop that played soft harp music.

“I stitched it with moonstone thread,” she said lightly, handing it to Hermione. “It helps soothe hormones and curious toes.”

Harry blinked. “Moonstone thread?”

“Charged during the full moon. Perfect for romance, actually.”

Hermione beamed. Harry quietly began to suspect that Luna was playing a very long game of matchmaking — years late, but with perfect precision.

That night, Hermione curled into Harry’s arms, her skin warm, her breath calm. She mumbled something about how she hadn’t expected to feel this cherished during a time she once thought would be all swollen ankles and backache.

“Turns out,” Harry said, kissing the tip of her nose, “you’re radiant when bossy and pregnant.”

She smacked him. Then kissed him again.

And he happily, willingly obliged — as always.

Chapter Text

It started with a simple request.

“Fancy a swim?” Hermione asked one Saturday morning, leaning against the kitchen doorway, looking as close to divine as a heavily pregnant woman could manage — hair twisted into a bun, sun hat in hand, and a glint in her eyes that was equal parts mischief and summertime ease.

Harry looked up from his cup of tea and blinked. “Now?”

She smiled. “Now.”

“Brook?”

“Where else?”

He stared for a beat longer than necessary. “You’re not talking about a paddle, are you?”

“No, Harry.” She tossed a towel at his face, grinning. “A proper swim.”

Ten minutes later, he was standing knee-deep in the brook, the cool water rushing around his ankles while he watched Hermione—his brilliant, beautiful wife—step out of her sundress in one fluid motion to reveal that periwinkle two-piece bikini that, frankly, should’ve come with a health warning.

She was glowing.

Not just in the ‘pregnant woman in her second trimester’ sort of way, but in the way Hermione always glowed when she was entirely herself — confident, sharp, barefoot on soft moss and entirely unaware she was the sun in someone’s sky.

“Sweet Merlin,” Harry muttered.

“What was that?” she asked, wading in with a splash.

“Nothing,” he croaked, eyes wide. “You look—”

“I know,” she said breezily, smoothing a hand over her bump and casting a cooling charm over the water. “Luna says I’m radiant.”

“She’s underselling it.”

Hermione raised a brow, then paused mid-step when she noticed Harry hadn’t moved.

He was still gawping like a bloke who’d never seen a woman in swimwear before. Never mind that they shared a bed and she’d been wearing less just this morning when she asked him to help her get out of her pyjama shorts and—

“You’re staring,” she said, trying to sound cross and failing.

“There’s that freckle again,” he replied, voice hoarse.

“Harry James Potter.”

“I can’t help it.” He splashed over to her. “It’s right there, being all...freckly.”

“You’ve stared at it for days.”

“I’m married to it now.”

“To me.”

“Yes, but the freckle came with you, and frankly I feel like I’m the one being teased at this point.”

She laughed, throwing her head back, and he was momentarily undone by the curve of her smile and the soft swell of her belly. She’d never looked more at home in her skin, and he, utterly unashamed, couldn’t stop reaching for her.

So he did.

He scooped her up with a delighted yelp, carrying her deeper into the brook until she was squealing and swatting at him, laughing so hard her shoulders shook.

“Harry, you absolute menace! You’re making the baby excited!”

“She’s inherited my love of swimming already.”

“She’s inherited your nonsense.”

“She’s perfect,” he murmured, hands skimming her sides gently.

“Harry…”

“I know. I’m being soppy.”

“A bit.”

“And I know we said we’d just have a relaxing dip, not...whatever I’m imagining doing to you on that flat rock over there.”

“Harry!”

“But it’s your fault for being radiant.”

“Blame the freckle again, why don’t you.”

He grinned. “I do. Daily. It haunts me.”

They swam for a while, wrapped in each other, teasing and laughing, the afternoon sun soft against their skin. At one point, Hermione climbed onto the bank to sit, feet trailing in the water, her bump rising proudly like a badge of magic and life and love made real.

Harry joined her, head on her lap, tracing lazy circles along her thigh.

“You’re going to be a wonderful dad,” she whispered, half-lulled by the trickle of the brook.

“You’re going to be everything,” he replied simply.

She smiled and looked down at him, brushing his fringe from his face.

“Harry?”

“Mm?”

“The freckle’s winning again.”

He groaned, flipped onto his stomach, and placed a long, reverent kiss right on it. Then another. And another, until Hermione was breathless from laughter and dragging him on that flat rock he mentioned earlier.

Chapter Text

The rain had come gently in the late afternoon, trailing soft streaks down the windowpanes and casting the whole cottage in a kind of golden hush. It wasn’t cold, but Harry had still lit the fire — more for the comfort of the crackle than the warmth — and Hermione had taken her usual spot on the sofa, legs tucked to one side, her head pillowed on Harry’s thigh, a thick blanket tossed haphazardly over them both.

He had one hand resting absently on her bump and the other balancing a book — her well-thumbed copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard.

“You're spoiling me,” she said sleepily, her eyes half-closed.

“Reading to you?”

“Mm-hmm. And rubbing my back. And bringing me hot chocolate with extra marshmallows.”

Harry leaned down and kissed her hair. “You’re carrying our child, Hermione. I feel like I should be building you a temple.”

She snorted. “You’re definitely overcompensating.”

“Absolutely.”

“...Don’t stop though.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

He turned another page and carried on reading — voice low and gentle, filling the room with the steady cadence of the old tale. Every so often, he paused to drag his fingers lightly across her skin — absent, loving, as if even now he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

It happened halfway through the story.

He’d just read, “And though she was afraid, the young witch stood tall before the shadow and declared—” when something beneath his palm moved. Firm and distinct. Like a push from within.

He stopped reading.

Hermione blinked open one eye. “What is it?”

Harry didn’t answer at first. He just stared down at her bump like it had spoken to him directly. His mouth opened and closed once, then he let out a small, astonished sound — halfway between a laugh and a sob.

“You felt that?” she asked, sitting up a bit straighter.

“I—” He nodded, swallowed. “Yeah. That was—blimey. That was her, wasn’t it?”

Hermione reached for his hand and placed it back on her belly, guiding it gently. “She’s been active since we got back from the brook.”

Almost instantly, there it was again — a little thump against his palm. More certain this time. The sort of thing that made time collapse and expand all at once.

Harry’s breath caught. “Hi,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Hi there, little one.”

Hermione’s hand found his cheek just in time to catch a tear.

“Oh, love,” she said, brushing it away.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffed, grinning helplessly. “I’m being ridiculous.”

“You’re being beautiful.”

“I just—” He looked down again, eyes wide, utterly undone. “That’s her. That’s our daughter.”

“She’s saying hello.”

“Or telling me to get on with the story.”

Hermione laughed. “She does like your voice.”

Harry pressed another kiss to her bump, still grinning like a fool, and then held his cheek against it, arms wrapped protectively around her middle as if he could keep the whole universe there with him, in that single moment.

“I love you,” he whispered. To both of them.

And with her fingers threaded in his hair and the rain still whispering against the windows, Hermione leaned down, kissed the crown of his head and said, “We love you too.”

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger-Potter was midway through a rather spirited conversation with the Head of Magical Transportation when her water broke.

There was a beat of silence in the corridor outside Courtroom Two. She looked down, blinked, and then looked up again at the unfortunate young wizard she’d been sternly lecturing about the backlog of apparition licences.

“Oh,” she said, brows raised in polite surprise. “Well, that’s inconvenient timing.”

The poor boy went nearly grey.

Within the hour, the entire Ministry knew. She was escorted to the on-site Healer’s Wing by a flurry of panicked interns and one frantic Kingsley, who cancelled the rest of her day by simply declaring, “You’re in labour, Hermione. Do shut up.”

Still, she kept her wand on hand and charmed her paperwork into mid-air completion, muttering about efficiency as she settled into the conjured bed. But there was one small matter weighing more heavily than contract clauses and regulation reviews.

Harry wasn’t here.

He was halfway across the Atlantic on a high-security magical extraction mission — one of those Auror assignments so classified Hermione had known only the vague outline: foreign Ministry involved, a delicate political situation, and a midnight portkey out of Dover. He’d only been gone a day.

And now, apparently, she was going to have the baby.

**

In Washington D.C., Harry Potter was arguing with a very stern American liaison officer while trying not to shout.

“She’s in labour. I need to go.”

“We’ve nearly wrapped up the target transfer, Potter. Another few hours—”

“No. You don’t understand.” He ran a hand through his hair, his whole body thrumming with frantic energy. “This isn’t negotiable. My wife’s in labour and I missed her first scan because of bloody vampires in Transylvania. I am not missing the birth of our daughter.”

His voice cracked on the word.

The American gave him a look — not unsympathetic — and muttered something into a glowing coin. Ten tense minutes and three escalating Floo calls later, Harry had clearance and a direct international portkey to St Mungo’s, courtesy of Kingsley, who barked down the line, “Move, Potter, or I’ll fire you for dereliction of marital duty.”

The portkey dropped him just outside the maternity ward, windblown, pale, and wild-eyed. He nearly knocked over a mediwitch in his scramble to find the right room.

“Hermione!” he shouted, heart galloping.

“About bloody time!” came her voice, weak but clear, from the room on the left.

She was pale but glowing in that strange, surreal way women are when they're doing something completely miraculous and terrifying. Her curls were damp with sweat, her expression strained, but the moment she saw him, her whole face softened.

“You’re here,” she breathed.

Harry was already at her side, dropping his travel bag, his cloak, and what little composure he had left. He cupped her face, kissed her forehead, her nose, her temple, her mouth.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m here. You didn’t—have you—?”

“She’s taking her time, like her dad with socks,” Hermione murmured, gripping his hand. “But yes. It’s happening.”

He let out a breath and sank into the chair beside her. “I would’ve hexed the American Ministry if they didn’t let me through.”

She smirked. “I was just about to send a Howler.”

It was just after midnight when their daughter arrived, red-faced and wailing and perfect. The Healer gently placed her in Hermione’s arms, and Harry watched, transfixed, as the world narrowed into this tiny, new person blinking up at them.

“She’s got your nose,” Hermione said, voice hoarse with awe.

“And your bossy scowl,” Harry whispered, completely undone.

Hermione laughed — watery, elated — and nodded.

“Heather Jamie Potter,” she said softly, gazing down at their daughter.

Harry kissed her brow again, and then their daughter’s.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “For waiting.”

“Wouldn’t have done this without you.”

“You’d have managed.”

“I didn’t want to.”

They sat like that for a long time. Heather gurgled in her sleep, Harry held them both, and the storm of the world quieted outside their little hospital room.

Somewhere far off, The Quibbler prepared its morning headline. But in that moment, all Harry could see was this: the woman he’d loved for most of his life, holding the daughter he never thought he’d be lucky enough to have.

And he promised them both, right then and there — he’d always, always make it home in time.

Chapter Text

Luna Lovegood’s owl, a rather bossy-looking tawny with a penchant for pecking fingers, arrived precisely three days after Heather Jamie Potter was born.

It landed on the windowsill of the nursery just as Hermione was re-fastening a sleepy baby into her wrap and Harry was halfway through singing a lullaby he’d definitely made up on the spot.

“She’s sending something,” Hermione murmured, letting the letter float in mid-air and unwrap itself. “It’s from The Quibbler. Oh no.”

Harry froze. “Should I brace myself?”

Hermione smirked. “Absolutely.”

The parchment rolled out — not an article, but a pre-print of the cover story, complete with Luna’s illustrations and editorial flair. Across the top in glittering blue ink read the headline:

“Welcome to the World, Heather Jamie Potter!
The Little Witch Who Floored the Chosen One (Emotionally).”

Below was a sketch of baby Heather wrapped in a Gryffindor scarf, with a full head of curls and a surprisingly unimpressed expression. Next to her was a cartoon of Harry fainting dramatically into Hermione’s arms, wand flying.

“Born at midnight, in a flurry of contractions and calm authority. Heather Jamie Potter made her debut after several hours of firm negotiation with her mother, and a last-minute broomstick chase by her father who portkeyed across continents to arrive just in time. (Some say he may have Apparated directly from America by sheer force of paternal will, but this remains unconfirmed.)”

The article was warm, funny, full of curious little details only Luna could’ve gathered — and ended with a quote from Hermione:

“We’re so grateful. She’s healthy, loud, and very opinionated. She fits right in.”

And Harry’s contribution?

“I can’t believe she’s real. Also, I haven’t slept since Tuesday.”

The announcement went viral, so to speak. Even The Prophet reprinted excerpts (without permission), and for once, the wizarding world responded with overwhelming joy.

No pomp, no scandal — just a quiet collective cheer at seeing their heroes become parents.

By the end of week one, Harry and Hermione had sorted themselves into a sort of loving, magical chaos.

They moved as a unit, passing Heather between them with the kind of unspoken rhythm that only years of friendship and war could forge.

Hermione worked a flexible schedule, returning to her desk in short bursts while Harry took paternity leave (which Kingsley signed off on in all caps: “GO BE A DAD, POTTER.”)

The nursery Harry had built — soft green walls, floating picture frames, shelves charmed to adjust with Heather’s age — quickly became the heart of the house. He’d stocked it like a fortress: nappies, potions, emergency chocolate for Hermione, and an enchanted kettle that whistled lullabies when the baby cried.

Hermione, ever the planner, tried to schedule feeds and naps — until Heather decided she was more of a “chaotic neutral” baby. Still, she managed just fine, often with Heather snoozing in a sling while she prepared talking points for Wizengamot debates.

Harry, meanwhile, discovered that he quite liked early mornings — not for the sunrises, but for the way Hermione looked in one of his old jumpers, cradling their daughter like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They learned that Heather liked being sung to (badly), that she hated changing robes, and that she had Harry’s pout and Hermione’s glare — which, combined, was lethal even at two weeks old.

And in those quiet hours — after the cries were soothed, and the cottage settled — Harry would often find Hermione dozing on the sofa, Heather on her chest, books abandoned beside them.

He’d sit and watch, every time, with a heart so full it made his chest ache.

One night, as they sat outside by the brook — baby monitor hovering by their side — Hermione reached over and took his hand.

“Do you think we’ll always feel this lucky?”

Harry looked at her, then up at the stars.

“I already feel like I’m stealing something.”

She smiled. “We earned this.”

“Yeah.” He kissed her hand. “We bloody well did.”

And just as a breeze stirred the grass and the water babbled quietly, the baby monitor crackled.

Heather let out a wail from the nursery.

They both stood in the same second — bumping into each other, laughing, kissing in passing, then heading inside as a team.

Just as they always had. Just as they always would.

Chapter Text

Returning to the Auror Office after paternity leave wasn’t easy — not because Harry didn’t want to be there. He loved his job.

Loved the structure, the adrenaline, the endless paperwork that came with having the highest security clearance in the Department.

But it all seemed a little dimmer now compared to the soft magic of his home, of Hermione’s sleepy smile in the morning, and the warm weight of Heather curled on his chest.

Still, he showed up on Monday. On time. Trimmed. Slightly bleary-eyed, maybe, but grinning like an idiot. The corridors of Level Two hadn’t seen that much cheer since Kingsley had retired.

“Potter, you’re smiling,” Robards said, squinting at him suspiciously as he came into the main office with a folder tucked under one arm. “What’ve you broken?”

Harry chuckled, flopping into his chair like a man content with the universe. “Absolutely nothing, sir. Life’s just... really good.”

Savage raised a brow. “You’re talking like someone who’s either had too much Firewhisky or is in love.”

“Both,” Harry replied unashamedly, popping a biscuit in his mouth. “Except the Firewhisky’s swapped for two-hour naps and reheated tea.”

A few chuckles echoed around the office. No one missed the way Harry was practically glowing. His usual tousled hair hadn’t improved, but his eyes were warmer, softer. He was all edges worn smooth.

Then it happened.

During the weekly briefing, with a dozen Aurors gathered around the table and parchments floating mid-air, Harry reached into his robe pocket for a quill.

What he pulled out instead: a pair of tiny pink socks, no bigger than his thumb.

The room went still for half a second — and then erupted.

“Is that—?”

“Potter, are you carrying baby socks to meetings now?”

“Please tell me you didn’t use them to wipe your glasses.”

Harry stared at them in his palm. Heather’s socks. Fuzzy. Still with a bit of Hermione’s laundry scent. He blinked at them, then laughed so hard he had to grip the table.

“Must’ve grabbed the wrong pocket,” he said sheepishly, cheeks a bit pink.

“Oh, that’s it, he’s gone full Dad,” muttered Niles from across the room.

“Completely besotted,” said another. “Look at him! He’s not even denying it.”

Harry held the socks up like a proud flag. “Why would I? Look at these! You ever seen anything cuter?”

Savage covered her mouth. “Potter, please. Have mercy.”

He shrugged. “They belong to my daughter. Heather. She’s the most beautiful witch in Britain. Ask her mum.”

“Mate, we weren’t going to argue,” someone muttered.

“Can’t argue with a man in love,” came another voice.

And it was true — Harry didn’t even care. Let them tease. Let them roll their eyes and nudge each other with knowing grins.

Because at the end of the day, he’d go home to Hermione’s laugh, the way she kicked off her heels and kissed his chin because her lips couldn’t reach his cheek when she held Heather.

He’d go home to the faint scent of baby powder, half-folded laundry on the sofa, the crib by the window, and that one freckle on Hermione’s collarbone he couldn’t stop kissing.

Let them laugh.

Harry James Potter was floating.

And he’d never been happier in his life.

Chapter Text

The garden at their cottage was in full bloom that afternoon, sunlight dappled across white cloth-covered tables, scattered with vases of fresh-cut wildflowers.

There was lemonade (spiked and not), Molly’s treacle tart, and Arthur trying to chat up a particularly stubborn solar-powered fairy light contraption Luna brought as a gift.

Harry stood near the brook, nervously adjusting the little flower crown that kept slipping off Heather’s mop of dark curls. She blinked up at him with big curious eyes, already tired from being passed around like the crown jewel of the Potter family.

Hermione, radiant and relaxed for the first time in weeks, came over with Neville and Luna in tow, both of whom looked stunned, and a little misty-eyed.

“You sure?” Neville asked again, as though he couldn’t quite believe it.

Hermione nodded warmly. “We wouldn’t have asked if we weren’t.”

Luna beamed, and gently ran a finger down Heather’s chubby arm. “I already love her like a nargle loves mischief. Thank you, both of you.”

“You’ll have to put that on your godparent résumé,” Harry joked, shifting Heather to his shoulder.

Kingsley officiated — informal but eloquent, as always. He stood beneath the old willow tree, robes crisp and voice deep as he welcomed everyone. Minerva nodded along solemnly. Andromeda dabbed her eyes. Teddy, stood protectively nearby, puffed with pride.

Neville and Luna each placed a hand on Heather’s back as Kingsley intoned the blessing, followed by the godparent’s promise to guide and love her unconditionally.

Then came Hermione’s favourite part:

“…We name this child Heather Jamie Potter,” Kingsley said, with a small smile to Harry, “in honour of her fierce mind, her boundless heart, and the legacies she carries.”

Hermione turned and beamed at Harry; her eyes, too, were full of tears.

“…then I declare you bonded for life — all of you,” Kingsley added, voice cracking just slightly.

Applause rippled. Fleur sniffled. Percy wiped his eyes. George nudged Ron and muttered, “You cry more than me, you marshmallow.”

And then, of course, came the gifts.

There were many heartfelt presents — a tiny enchanted greenhouse from Neville, a locket with photos of Lily and James from Andromeda, a celestial chart from Luna hand-illustrated in watercolours and glittering charms.

And then George stepped forward with a box and an utterly innocent face.

“Couldn’t resist. It’s tradition,” he said, and handed it to Hermione.

She raised a brow. “This isn’t going to explode, is it?”

“No more than your daughter’s nappy, on a bad day,” he said cheerfully.

Harry snorted.

Inside was a tiny, soft onesie — white, with bold enchanted red letters across the front that read:

“Potter Stinks!”
…when I poo.

The letters shimmered as if with smoke. There was even a little musical charm that triggered when the nappy got full — a loud raspberry noise followed by, “Blimey, that’s a stinker!”

The entire garden burst into laughter.

Molly groaned. Ron doubled over. Hermione shook her head, trying not to laugh.

“I thought it was rather fitting,” George said smugly. “A tribute to the Triwizard and the aroma of doom she’s capable of.”

“She’s not even weaned yet,” Ginny pointed out, grinning.

George winked. “All the more terrifying.”

Harry lifted Heather in the air and grinned at her. “You’ve got your first prank gift, love. That’s how you know you’re truly a Potter.”

The rest of the afternoon was filled with stories, music, too many desserts, and a soft hum of joy that clung to the air like spring.

And as evening fell, and Heather finally fell asleep tucked against Hermione’s chest, Harry pressed a kiss to their daughter’s hair and whispered, “She’ll never lack love.”

Hermione nodded, half-asleep, and murmured, “Not with this lot.”

Chapter Text

It was just past midnight when Harry padded barefoot into the nursery, drawn by the soft, familiar hum of Hermione’s voice. The nightlight cast a warm amber glow across the room, and there she was — cross-legged in the armchair beside the cot, her dressing gown slipping off one shoulder, their daughter nestled close at her breast.

Heather suckled contentedly, one tiny hand fisted into Hermione’s curls. Her little legs kicked lazily, rhythmically, as if she were swimming in a dream.

Hermione’s head turned when she sensed him in the doorway.

“She was a bit fussy,” she said softly, sleep-deep voice smoothing through the quiet like a lullaby. “Dreamt herself into a right state. But she’s settled now.”

Harry didn’t answer at first. He just stood there, hand against the doorframe, like if he moved too quickly he’d shatter something sacred.

“You okay?” Hermione asked, brow creasing gently as she looked up at him.

Harry nodded. Then shook his head. Then stepped forward like gravity pulled him in.

“I just…” He crouched in front of them, his hand resting lightly on Hermione’s knee, “I keep thinking I’ve reached the limit of how much I can love you… and then I see you like this, holding her, feeding her, just… giving so much. And somehow, I fall harder.”

Hermione blinked, her lips parted. The surprise softened into something warm.

Harry leaned in and pressed a kiss to Heather’s downy head, then to Hermione’s shoulder, then her cheek.

She reached out, tugging him close with one hand, still holding Heather with the other. Harry wrapped his arms around them both, forehead pressed to Hermione’s temple, eyes closed.

“Sorry,” he murmured, voice thick. “Didn’t mean to get soppy. You’re just… you’re magic, Hermione. Real magic.”

Hermione smiled into his hair. “That’s the hormones talking.”

Harry let out a wet chuckle. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just finally clever enough to see clearly.”

They stayed like that for a while — a quiet pile of love and limbs, heartbeats syncing in the hush of the nursery. Outside, the wind stirred the trees, and the brook murmured its usual song.

Heather hiccuped in her sleep, released her latch, and gave a tiny sigh as Hermione adjusted her. Harry carefully helped, his touch so gentle it made Hermione’s heart ache.

He kissed her again — properly this time, reverently, like he’d waited his whole life for this version of her and couldn’t quite believe he got to keep it.

“I love you,” he whispered, as he kissed the corner of her mouth.

Hermione smiled against his lips. “You’re stuck with us now, Potter.”

Harry looked down at their daughter, then back at Hermione.

“Good,” he said, eyes shining. “Because this… this is everything.”

Chapter Text

The house was still, lit only by the soft flicker of the fire and the gentle sway of moonlight through the nursery window. Heather had finally drifted off after a rather dramatic protest against bedtime, and Hermione, after checking for the third time that their daughter was truly asleep, made her way down the hall with slippered feet and an exhale of relief.

She found Harry in the kitchen, half-leaning against the counter, nursing a mug of tea. His hair was even messier than usual — evidence of the battle he’d just endured with a squirming baby and a brush. He looked up when she came in, and smiled in that easy, unguarded way he reserved just for her.

“She’s out,” she said softly, stepping into his space.

“Was she ever in?” he teased, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her in closer. She fitted perfectly beneath his chin, warm and familiar.

For a moment, they stood in the quiet, breathing each other in. The ordinary, beautiful domesticity of it all was almost overwhelming.

Hermione looked up at him — really looked. The fine lines near his eyes had deepened a little, softened by laughter and nights of little sleep. His stubble was a touch uneven, and his glasses sat slightly crooked, like he hadn’t realised he’d bent them again. He was, quite possibly, the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

But what caught her most — what rooted her there, blinking back a sting of emotion — was the way Harry had grown into himself. This version of him, steady and certain, gentle and strong… he was everything.

“You’re really good at this,” she murmured.

Harry looked down, puzzled. “At what?”

“At life. At us. At being a father. I see you, Harry.” Her voice caught slightly, but she didn’t look away. “You come home from work and you’re here — fully, completely. You help with the late feeds, you still kiss me like you’re not tired, and you somehow manage to look besotted when you’re covered in spit-up.”

Harry chuckled, setting his mug aside. “You’re not wrong, I am besotted. With both of you.”

Hermione’s hand slid up his chest. “It just… sometimes I stop and think — a year ago, you were still just my best friend. My stupid, loyal, wonderful best friend.”

“And now I’m your stupid, loyal, wonderful husband,” he said, mock pride in his tone.

She laughed against his shoulder. “It feels surreal, doesn’t it? Like we blinked and found ourselves in a different life.”

Harry looked at her then, eyes gentle. “I don’t think it’s a different life. I think it’s the same one we were already building. We just didn’t know how much better it could get.”

Hermione didn’t respond straight away. Instead, she rested her hand over his heart, feeling it beat steady and strong beneath her palm. This man, who had saved the world — now spent his mornings assembling high chairs and his evenings singing lullabies in slightly off-key whispers. And he was hers.

“I’m grateful,” she said quietly. “For all of it. For you.”

Harry pressed his lips to her forehead. “Me too. Every bit.”

And in that small kitchen, in the house they now called home, with sleep still crusted in their eyes and baby toys scattered at their feet, Hermione knew — beyond magic, beyond fate, beyond any war they’d ever fought — this was the greatest thing they’d ever done.

Chapter Text

It’s half one in the morning, and the house is still.

Heather stirred not long ago, bit of a fuss, probably a bad dream or just the usual baby business of not knowing what she wants.

Hermione had just got her settled back down, and I offered to take over — but she gave me that look, the one that says “You need sleep too, Mr. Potter.”

Except I don’t. Not really. Not when everything in my chest feels this full. So here I am at the kitchen table, writing by wandlight because I don’t dare turn the overheads on and wake anyone.

Some days it hits me harder than others — how far I’ve come.

I used to sleep in a cupboard. A cupboard. I still flinch sometimes when I pass one. My first real birthday present was a cake Hagrid sat on by accident. And then I spent seven years dodging curses, duelling dark wizards, and learning far too young that some scars don’t fade with a flick of your wand.

And through it all — through every year, every fight, every moment where I thought I wouldn’t make it — there was Hermione.

She never left.

When I pushed everyone away, she stayed. When I didn’t speak, she read me. When I nearly gave up, she gave me reason not to.

I don’t think I realised until much later that she didn’t just help keep me alive. She wanted me to live. Not survive. Not exist. Live.

And now… look at us.

She’s upstairs in a faded jumper, hair all frizzed from sleep, arms wrapped round our daughter.

Our daughter. Heather Jamie Potter.

She looks like me, but she’s got Hermione’s clever little frown, and sometimes I swear she’s trying to figure out the theory of everything while chewing on her own foot.

I never imagined I’d have this. Not really. Not in the way that felt safe to hope for. A home. Not a house — a home.

Where love isn’t something earned through good behaviour, but something constant, like gravity.

I don’t have to brace myself when I walk through the door anymore. I don’t have to count how many meals are left in the pantry. I don’t have to listen for footsteps with dread.

Instead, I hear Heather’s laugh, I hear Hermione singing to herself while making tea, I hear the wind through the garden and the soft clink of baby bottles drying by the sink.

It’s not flashy. It’s not grand. It’s everything.

I married the person who’s always known who I am, even when I didn’t. She gave me her hand, her heart, her trust — and now this tiny, perfect little human who kicked the hell out of me from the inside and still somehow makes me cry just by breathing.

This is the life I want. Not the one I was told I could have. Not the one I was offered after the war. The life I chose.

Stability. Security. And a ridiculous amount of love.

I don’t know if I believe in fate. But I know I believe in Hermione.

And if this is what comes after the war, after the dark, after all that loss — then bloody hell, I’d fight it all over again.

For this.

For them.

— H

Chapter Text

Harry slipped into bed with the caution of a man defusing a live explosive — not because he was afraid of Hermione, but because sleep, these days, was a precious thing, and she’d only just managed to drift off after feeding Heather. The sheets were still warm on her side; she’d only recently curled back under them, limbs arranged in that vaguely elegant sprawl of exhausted new motherhood.

He lay still for a moment, flat on his back, arms tucked in, barely breathing. He watched her in the dim light — soft curls framing her cheek, her breath rising and falling steadily. He told himself he wouldn’t disturb her.

That lasted all of ten minutes.

At dawn, like clockwork, Hermione shifted. Still asleep, half-aware at best, she mumbled something about “your arm makes a good mattress”, and then promptly rolled onto him. Entirely. Head tucked into the crook of his neck, one leg slung over his hip, her hand somewhere under his shirt, as though trying to claim as much surface area as possible.

Her hair — bushy, wonderful, mad — fanned across his face, and he blew out a breath to free his nose from a rogue curl.

He smiled.

There she was. Hermione, in all her early morning, snuggly, utterly chaotic glory. Pregnant just months ago. Brilliant witch, fierce debater, unstoppable force of the magical world — and apparently, determined human duvet.

And there he was. Holding her like it was the only thing that had ever made sense. Because it was.

He closed his eyes and tucked his chin against her forehead, pressing a soft kiss into her hair. Her hand shifted slightly, fingers flexing against his chest like she knew, even in sleep, that he needed grounding too.

This was his life.

Not a prophecy. Not a battle. Not a scar.

Just this.

A sleepy wife using him as a body pillow, hair in his face, and a baby in the next room who’d no doubt start hollering the moment they both finally drifted off again.

He wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Harry Potter smiled to himself, one hand resting gently on Hermione’s back, and whispered into the hush of the morning,

“Yeah… this’ll do.”

And he meant it.

-FIN-