HP Fic: morning, when it evens

[fated_addiction]

notes: Well. This definitely didn’t start out as a follow-up to and in the winter i lost my hands, but it kind of happened anyway. It could very well stand alone too, but I’m living in a post-war universe, you guys. Anyways, this is for sunny_serenity, who has been nothing but super lovely and sweet. Merry Christmas, lady!

morning, when it evens
harry potter; harry/hermione ; 5,402 words, pg
the suburbs: we were young and simple once. that was a long time ago. post-war au. spoilers for the deathly hallows.

-

There is life, after. This is what they tell you, of course.

Everyone is watching.

The boys buy a small place in Godric’s Hallow, around the corner from the pub; there are boxes at the door and Ron’s sweaters are spilling out of one, where at the top it’s merely labeled from mum.

“It’s lovely,” Hermione says quietly, looking around at the empty space. Harry stands by the door and Ron’s at the window. They are both watching her as she takes it all in. “I mean, I don’t know what you want me to say. Are you going to paint at all? Posters and photos? I suspect you’re going to have to learn how to cook as well.”

Ron scoffs. “I cook,” he insists, and Harry rolls his eyes. Ron flushes. “I do! Mum and Ginny locked me in the bloody kitchen - said something about me having to learn how to survive on real food.”

“Wise advice,” she says dryly.

Behind her, Harry chuckles. He moves to where he stands, slinging an arm around her shoulder as she continues to look around. There is very little light, she thinks. She studies Ron and the window.

“But seriously,” Harry murmurs, and he leans in, kissing the side of her head. “What do you think?”

Both boys are watching her, waiting and it’s more than uncomfortable, she isn’t quite sure what she should say to make them stop. Slowly, she untangles from Harry and slides her hands into her jacket pockets.

Hermione forces a smile. “It’s lovely,” she says.

She stays in London. There is no real need for her to leave. Hermione doesn’t know how to press the issue of her parents again and figures that London is her best bet for trying, at the very least.

For her, home is now a small flat near the theatres, where she gets a job serving tea and coffee to passing tourists and university students, all of which have no time or interest to stop, ask, and say some kind of hello. She likes it, of course. She decides that she likes the anonymity of it all. It’s mostly about the space.

“You know,” her boss says to her. It’s midweek and it’s sort of quiet, sullen even as the two of them watch people disappear for holiday shopping. There are few students in the shop as well, tucked into corners as they study for the last of exams. “We haven’t talked about your time off for the holidays, Hermione. You do know you get it.”

Hermione laughs softly, nodding. “I know.” She pauses, biting her lip. “I - I haven’t thought about it, to be honest.”

Her boss smiles. “Just let me know.”

It’s easy to smile back here; Hermione lets the man pass too, watching him disappear towards the back and into the kitchen. She stays at the counter, leaning against it and rapping her fingers against the top. It’s good, she thinks, staying here. She knows there’s a place for her at the Weasley home, getting letters from Ron, Ginny, and Harry all at once, just to let her know. It’s nice to know there’s that too.

She isn’t sure if she wants it.

The truth is somewhere in there too, deeper if she really thinks about it, if there’s a chance and opportunity for admissions. She will never tell Harry and Ron that she’s sort of sad that they never asked her to live with them, but then she gets it too. It’s good for school, they tell her, waiting. Everybody knows she’s not going back to finish. There’s Harry as well, Harry harboring the secret that she has yet to really go and bring her parents back, memories and all.

“I’m stuck,” she says, out loud.

“Sorry?”

Hermione blinks. There’s a boy at the counter, handsome and smiling as he offers her money. She blinks again, then blushes, taking it from him.

“Tea, right?” she guesses, and her heart’s pounding, as she swallows. The boy laughs and nods. “Wonderful,” she says.

It doesn’t matter, she thinks.

Her flat is home. It’s an odd way of looking at it, but it is. She keeps her photos small and littered against a mantel; they are of Harry and Ron, Ginny and herself, and the few, odd schoolmates like Luna and Neville that she does try to see from time to time.

She is always home late. There are groceries on her kitchen counter and she moves to make herself some tea before she settles in. Her routine is mostly quiet, mostly lonely, but it’s the only thing that seems to keep her head all together and sane.

There is something to living alone though. Perhaps, she’s looking for something, hoping that it would be somewhat therapeutic, somewhat hopeful in helping her figure out what’s going on in her head. She sleeps most nights too, of course, and others she’s left to sitting wide-awake, sometimes with a book, sometimes with the odd war memory that nobody really remembers that she has. No one asks, and she shouldn’t be okay with that. It’s easy though.

The knock surprises her. She catches a glance at the clock over her stove, listening as a second knock sounds through her flat. “Coming,” she murmurs, but not loud enough. The kettle goes over the stove and she moves to the door.

When she opens it, Harry is standing sheepishly on the other side.

“Hello,” he says.

Her mouth twitches. “Hello,” she says back.

“I -” he looks down, and then up, and then behind her, searching for something. He laughs nervously. “Can I come in? Ron’s snoring again, and I’m a little jittery - I head to the Ministry tomorrow for that interview and then there’s that bloody ball tonight that I don’t really fancy going to.”

She nods, but says nothing. She steps back and lets him inside, taking his coat as he shrugs out of it awkwardly.

“Just get in?”

Hermione carries his coat, brushing past him to the kitchen. She hangs it the coat up in a small closet off to the side.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “I locked up tonight.” She licks her lips. With nothing in her hands, she brushes them against her hips. She moves to the stove too. “You’re not nervous about the interview,” she says gently.

“I’m worried about you,” he says instead.

Her lips curl. It’s what she likes best about Harry, his inability to really hide from his own concerns. This isn’t about you, she wants to say, but it’s not the right thing to say to Harry. It’s not the right thing to say either and she’s not entirely sure how to be selfish about it.

“I know,” she murmurs. She studies the kettle. “I know that if I tell you I’m fine, you’re just going to know that I’m lying, and I’d rather not - I’d rather not get into that, you know?”

“Sure,” he says. He moves to the counter too. He stands against it, pressing his palms against the surface. “You just - you shouldn’t feel like you can’t talk to any of us, Hermione. I can see you, you know. I see how you look at Ron an’ me, Ginny keeps mentioning that it’s getting harder to talk to you, and I just -”

“You all know what you want,” she interrupts.

He shakes his head. “But is that what it’s really about?”

“I don’t know.”

She rubs her eyes. He sighs and she catches it, swallowing back her own. It’s rather odd, she thinks, the two of them like this. But both Harry and herself have this tendency to talk this way; in some odd corner, away from the others, as adults becoming more than just adults.

“Part of it is, I think,” she says carefully. “There is a lot I haven’t decided on how I want to deal with - I mean, that doesn’t make sense, does it?” She laughs softly and the sound is very strange. “There are things,” she says again, “that I don’t know how to deal with and I feel so, so far away from myself right now. Like I’m watching my life happening and there’s no real way to make it stop and weigh and predict and make sense of outcomes.”

“Your parents,” he guesses.

“Maybe.”

“Hermione -”

She flashes a smile and it’s humorless, tired. She’s glad he’s not Ron. She could see Ron here, maybe asking her the same things, rehearsed and maybe coached, but worried nonetheless. It’s odd, sometimes, how much of her thoughts go to what one does and what the other can’t do.

“I’ve never really been a part of either place, you know.”

He studies her. “That’s not true,” he says quietly.

“It’s easier for you,” she continues, and it’s like she hasn’t heard him, “because you’re Harry Potter - this isn’t - I’m not trying to be mean, you know. I know you hate when people get this way. But I just have my books and my things and being useful,” she manages. Her heart is racing. “I don’t really know how to explain it,” she adds.

Harry says nothing. He comes around the counter, leaning against it by the stove. He doesn’t reach for her and she doesn’t make a move either, looking down at the floor.

“I have nightmares,” she murmurs.

“Malfoy Manor,” he says.

Her eyes close. Yes, she almost says. “It’s part of it,” she says softly. She rubs her eyes. “It’s a lot of it,” she says.

“So talk to me,” he says.

He’s genuine. He even smiles, the corners of his mouth turning. He reaches out then too, his fingers brushing against her arm. Between them, the kettle starts to whistle and then screech. She looks away from him.

“Cups,” she says, and Harry sighs loudly, moving away from her to grab the cups in her cabinets. She picks up the kettle and follows him, pouring in the water in each cup as Harry settles the bags into them. They stare at the water and she shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

“For what?”

“I don’t know. I feel - I should be sorry. This is why I didn’t want to tell you. Or the others. It’s just easier to deal with -”

“Alone?” Harry interjects, and his fingers curl around her wrist. He leans in and she shakes her head. “I’ve tried that. Dealing with things alone never works out well. Or I, well, I’ve never really been the one who knows how to talk about feelings no less.”

She laughs. “Oh?”

“Ron thinks it’s why the girls love me.”

She snorts, and he laughs. “Because of your feelings?”

They both laugh again, really laugh, and in a strange sort of way, it’s appropriate. Her kitchen suddenly seems ridiculously small and tight, almost ready to swallow her. She stands closer to Harry, almost too close, and she lets her fingers drift over her tea. The steam stirs under the tips of her fingers and she smiles a little too.

“Thanks,” she murmurs.

“For what?”

“For coming here.”

Harry leans in and kisses her cheek. “Why wouldn’t I?” he says, and she can feel him smile against her skin. “You’re important to me too, Hermione. I want you to be happy.”

She’s quiet. She leans back into him too. Her eyes close and she lets herself have this one, simple moment without trying to think about it too much. And maybe that, there is the problem, maybe she thinks too much about everything that’s happened, that may or may not happen.

“I don’t know where to start,” she says. This is not an admission.

Harry sleeps on her couch. She finds out later, in the morning, that Ron and Lavender Brown are getting reacquainted. There is something about a holiday party and not telling Hermione, but Hermione finds herself unable to really care about either way.

“He can do what he wants,” she tells Harry too. She’s making breakfast, amused as he stays, sitting on the couch. She’s made coffee and his hands are wrapped around one of her larger mugs. “We were never together,” she points out. “We thought about it. Ron is simply better at immediate decisions than I am.”

“I may just stay over here,” Harry says dryly.

She smiles but she also knows it’s not true. Harry and Ron are enjoying their flat, and the lack of pressure they have when it comes to things like unpacking and settling in. She’s sure that if Molly Weasley ever threatened to come and visit, it would be a different story.

But her mind wanders back to the previous conversation, the one that they had before, and she finds herself watching Harry again. His hair is sticking up, over his eyes and glasses, even as they slip against his nose. He’s smiling at her, still, and his t-shirt is wrinkling over his arms.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” she says quietly.

He catches her gaze. “I know.”

“Do you?”

“I know,” he repeats. “I also know that you’re my best friend and if I were to tell you the same thing, you’d ignore me.”

Her lips curl. “I suppose I would.”

“Are you happy here? In London, I mean. Working at a coffee shop - I never imagined you, you know, working at a coffee shop. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, Hermione, but I thought -”

“I think I’ve had my fill of saving the world,” she interjects. She doesn’t forget about Harry and Ron’s strange, but predictable lifelong dream of being aurors. They drink like they’re there already, she thinks with amusement. She has no place in that, nor does she have the energy; they’ve already told her that there are a lot of disappointed people.

“You didn’t answer the question,” Harry murmurs.

She shrugs. She turns, finishing with breakfast. She puts together a heavy plate of eggs and toast, walking it to the couch and to Harry. She hands him the plate and then his fork and knife.

“I suppose people think I’ve lost it,” she says. In amusement, she remembers the few articles that they all started to clip out of the Prophet in the beginning; suddenly, again, it was about love lives and good form, what Harry Potter and his friends were off doing and saving.

“That’s not true,” Harry says.

She shrugs.

“It’s okay, you know.” She sits next to him then. Her legs curl underneath her and she pulls some of his blankets over her. “Nothing’s really that neat, if you think about it.”

“You think too much.”

Hermione laughs. Harry’s too serious.

“I don’t think enough,” she murmurs.

She watches as Harry takes a bite of her eggs too. Her lips curl and suddenly, he’s inhaling the rest of his plate. It’s an odd thought, she thinks, but she kind of misses their time alone together, when it was just the two of them and that silly, silly tent. She feels childish, thinking about it, and selfish, too selfish, because there’s Ron, there’s always Ron, and it’s a struggle to remember that too.

“Would it make me a terrible person?” she asks. “If I didn’t go back and give my parents - well, help them remember who I was?”

Harry looks down. “I’m not the person to ask.”

She softens and sighs. “Sorry,” she murmurs.

They sit quietly then, mostly because Hermione can’t bring herself to finish where she was going. She knows exactly what she wants to hear, but wanting and needing are two entirely different things and sometimes, she’s not ready for both.

Her flat starts to open up too. The light from outside is crawling into her small living room, over books and plates, Harry’s boots in the corner, and her keys, left alone from when she walked in last night. Her gaze wanders to her pictures at the mantel again.

It just doesn’t seem right.

The shop is half-full again, and her boss is somewhere outside, hanging Christmas lights and garlands alike. Hermione stands at the counter, the paper spread out in front of her as she quietly listens to two students arguing about Shakespeare, women, and economics.

“Ophelia,” she says loudly, suddenly, and the two students look up, eyes wide, just as she realizes she’s spoken out loud. She draws back, smiling shyly and shaking her head. “Sorry,” she murmurs.

They wave her off with awkward smiles and Hermione sighs, shaking her head. She wishes they were busier. It’s too much time alone, alone with her head and her thoughts, alone with everything that she hasn’t quite figured out what exactly does she need to go and move on. Maybe it’s not about the moving on anymore.

But the door opens, the bell tied to the handle smacking against the glass. Hermione looks up and stops. Her eyes are wide.

“Hello!”

Her mother heads to the counter, breathless and flushed with the cold. Her jacket looks heavy and she drops a few of her bags at her feet, a few curls slipping against her face.

“Could I get a coffee to go?” she asks, and drops her purse over the counter. Hermione suddenly feels impossibly still. Her mother smiles, waiting. “It’s so bloody cold out there,” she adds. “My husband insists that we had to do our shopping today, of course.”

“Of course,” she murmurs numbly.

This is a mistake, she thinks. Her heart races faster and faster and she really doesn’t know how her hands are moving. She pulls a cup off of one the stacks, a lid, and she’s going through the motions thinking oh god and oh god and there’s no one around her to really know what’s going on.

She didn’t plan for this. When she turns again, she puts the cup down between the two of them. She forces a smile.

“Is it busy out there?”

Her mother laughs, nodding. “Oh god, terribly so. I nearly got caught in between two women fighting over a pair of - well, I don’t even know. My husband just wants a nice jumper.”

“Sounds about right,” she manages. She swallows. Dad, she thinks.

“What about you?” the other woman asks. She leans against the counter, trying to seem casual enough. She doesn’t know what else to do. Her mother seems to return the sentiment too. “I imagine you’re itching to get out there - have any shopping?”

Hermione blushes. “Oh - I - no,” she stammers. She forces herself to take a deep breath. “I haven’t really planned anything yet, shopping-wise.”

Her mother laughs. “You sound like - ” she stops too, in mid-sentence, coffee raised and her eyes glazing over briefly. For a moment, Hermione thinks she’s going to say my daughter and it’s hopeful, strangely hopeful, until her mother shakes her head. “Sorry,” she says. “It’s been a terribly long day. I think it’s time for me to go home.”

Hermione draws back. Her hands tremble.

“Sure, of course.”

Her mother smiles and steps back, coffee in hand and her bags back in the other. She turns briefly with a nod.

Hermione doesn’t say goodbye.

Lavender is walking out of the flat when she arrives, her cheeks flushed as she greets Hermione.

“They’re inside!” she calls cheerfully, and then she’s down the stairs, leaving Hermione completely confused and in no mood to think about it. There’s nothing, really, to her and Ron as it is. There were long talks about being friends and staying friends, simply because it’s about stability.

When she walks into the flat, her hands start shaking in her coat pockets. She’s tries to hide it too. She catches Ron as he sits on the couch, shirtless and smiling, stretching back when he sees her.

“Hermione! Oi, how are you this fine day?” he asks and she manages a quick sighs, her eyes watering. She looks down for a moment. “Hermione?” Ron asks warily.

“M’fine,” she mumbles. “And apparently so are you - is Harry around?”

“Just came back, actually,” Ron says. “I reckon he’s trying to figure out what to do with his room. Mum’s coming in on Sunday,” he scoffs. “To check on us or something.”

“Makes sense,” she says.

She steps deeper into the flat, looking around. Nothing’s changed, she thinks. It’s so like them. Her fingers brush against the couch too and when she looks down, Ron’s head drops back and he grins up at her.

“All right?”

“Sure,” she says. She looks at him in amusement. She swallows back all thoughts of her mother. They don’t need to know, she thinks. Part of her prefers to tell Harry first; but Harry knows and Ron, well, Ron tries and guesses most days.

“Right then. I’m going to shower,” he says, standing. “Or whatever. Promised Lavender -”

“Got it,” she says quickly.

She manages to smile and turns, heading to the back of the flat. There’s a hallway, still cluttered with boxes - mostly Ron’s things again, she thinks. Her fingers brush against a few of them, more jumpers, a few photos, and things that Mrs. Weasley sent along for the two of them.

Harry’s room is at the end of the hall. The door is open and she takes a deep breath, moving to stand against the open frame.

“Hi,” she says softly, and Harry is on his bed, books open in front of him. He’s studying, she thinks in amusement.

“Hey,” he says.

Her mouth opens and she can’t really bring herself to say anything, not yet. Her mouth twists and she shakes her head, moving to sit next to him on the bed. She kicks her shoes off, dropping her coat off her arms. She hangs it off the side of the bed, looking back at Harry.

“My mum came into work today,” she says calmly.

His eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you all right?” he asks slowly, reaching for her hand. It’s almost instant. Instead, she lies back on the bed next to him, curling her legs to the side and studying the book in his lap.

“No,” she murmurs.

“What can I do?”

Her lips curl softly and she shakes her head. Of course, she thinks. She reaches out, brushing her fingers against his knee.

“Nothing,” she answers. “I - you’re here.”

“Is that enough?”

She looks up at him, surprised. Harry’s serious though, his brows knotted together. Her throat feels tight.

“Of course,” she says. “I just - I still don’t know what to do. I mean, you know I went to see them …” She trails off. It’s odd memory, one that continues to live in her head, how she went off to see her parents in Australia with every intention of making things right. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. Harry knows. “I mean, I looked at her today and she - I swear, Harry, she recognized me. Even if it were for the briefest of seconds; she knew who I was.”

“That’s good, right?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I should - I didn’t think any of this through. I thought I was protecting them. I still think I did the right thing, that I’m doing the right thing.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he tells her quietly. “I reckon I understand why you did what you did. But … the war’s over, Hermione. We all have to move on with our lives.”

She looks up at him. Her fingers are still at his knee, rubbing lightly over his jeans. It’s small and almost inconsequential, but the gesture is entirely too intimate for anyone else.

“They’d get it, you know. My parents would be angry,” she says, “but at the end of the day, they’d understand.”

“Of course.”

Her eyes start to burn and she turns onto her back, pressing her knuckles into her eyes as she exhales. The sound and the feeling are sharp, cutting into her mouth. Her lips purse hard.

“But then I think - ” her voice starts to tremble, “then I think about the possibility of something else happening, of something else always happening, and I don’t know if I could - I know I couldn’t live with myself if something were to happen to them. I know it’s selfish, Harry. I know that - but knowing who I am or not, I still manage to feel a little like me.”

It’s the closest she’ll ever get to saying because I’m your friend. Those words are sharper, heavier and for another place and another time. They still sit and wait for her though.

She knows everything is different too. First, it’s whatever is between the three of them. They’re older now, like it or not; the war changed everything, changed them, and changed how they see people. Becoming aurors isn’t going to solve that, she wants to tell them both.

“I feel awful,” she whispers.

Harry’s fingers are in her then, slowly combing through the curls. She realizes that she’s crying, her eyes wide and wet, right under her fingers. She pulls her hands away.

“Do you want to go see them?” Harry asks softly, and it’s a loaded question, it’s more than a loaded question, but she doesn’t even know how to begin to touch it.

She leans into his hand. “Is it bad that I’m not ready?”

“No,” he murmurs.

They’re quiet then. It’s just easier, she thinks. It’s suddenly about small comforts. She doesn’t know what to say anymore. There’s no reason to speed through this, and there is no one waiting for her to get better, to pretend to get better; there is just this part of her who doesn’t know how to move forward like everyone else.

Her eyes start to close and she listens as Harry turns a page in his book, and then another one, sighing off-handedly. Her mouth twitches and he chuckles softly, still moving his fingers through her hair.

“Not everyone is okay,” he says. His fingers drop against her forehead, rolling a circle against her skin. “We just try and hide it differently. Plus, you’ve taken care of me an’ Ron long enough, you know?”

She laughs softly. Her mouth brushes against his leg as she turns into his touch too.

“S’not an excuse,” she murmurs.

“It’s good enough for me,” he says. “The point being is that you can’t really expect too much from yourself. It isn’t fair. You’ve got to let yourself live too. And maybe it’s doing what you’re doing, living in London, working there and what not. Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s bringing your parents back, maybe it’s not. You just don’t know.”

“I wish I did.”

She looks up at him and he smiles, leaning back over her. He brushes her hair from her eyes and she watches as his teeth scrape against his lip. She finds herself swallowing back a sigh.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, and it’s sudden, honest, and something that completely surprises her. His fingers stop at her cheek.

“You’re a liar,” she murmurs. Her lips curl too.

He shakes his head. “You are,” he says. “And you should know that too - you should how grateful I am to have you here.”

“Harry,” she mumbles. She can’t bring herself to start anything though. She doesn’t know where her voice goes. It’s the way that he’s looking at her, wide-eyed and steady, as if he’s seeing her for the first time. Something inside of her flutters and she’s ready, ready to steel herself, but somehow she cannot bring herself to look away.

Harry leans over her again. The book in his lap shuffles and falls back into the bed. There is the sound of paper wrinkling. Outside the door, too, they can hear laughter - but it registers for neither one of them.

She thinks oh god again, and then again, watching him as his fingers brush under her jaw. She isn’t ready, she thinks too, but her mouth parts and she swears, swears he may kiss her.

Harry’s mouth opens against her jaw. She inhales and her hand comes up, curling in his shirt. She can feel herself twist into him, heavy on her side. He makes a soft noise and she can’t really tell what’s happening, turning herself closer to him. His mouth turns too and she catches it, just slightly, the corner of her mouth resting against his.

“I - ” Harry starts, murmuring. Her fingers tighten in his shirt and she feels the bed shift, as he stretches out to lay next to her. He pulls back slightly and her heart is racing. “I - ” He starts again, but she shakes her head.

“Can I - can I just stay here? Just for a little while,” she says softly. Harry’s hand slides away from her face, draping over her waist. “I just - I don’t feel like going home right now.”

He nods and says nothing. He draws her closer, letting her settle into the crook of his arm. Her fingers relax in shirt and for a moment, she lets her eyes close.

She needs this, she thinks.

The Prophet is on the kitchen table in the morning. Hermione finds it before Ron and Harry, awake and padding barefoot through the flat. She has to be at work in a few hours and is wearing the same clothes from yesterday still.

Her fingers brush over the paper. It reads Ministry Ball! across the top with smiling pictures of the few people that she knows. She sees Ron and Harry pictured in the back too, bent together and talking. She imagines if she really wanted to look there would be a Rita Skeeter article a few pages in. She leaves the paper alone.

“All right?”

She jumps, looking up and Ron’s walking into the kitchen, his eyes narrowed. He’s careful, shuffling forward.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “Sure.”

“Harry awake?” he asks.

She bites her lip. Be careful, she tells herself. She knows how Ron gets, still gets, and it’s just another round of things that are left, waiting for her to deal with. It’s unfair and hard and even though there were things said it never seems to be enough.

“No,” she murmurs. Her fingers brush against her hips. “We were up late talking,” she manages. She’s hesitating too. “He was studying.”

“I know,” he says.

There’s a ron somewhere behind him then, soft enough to be an afterthought but loud enough for her to hear it and for Ron to flinch in front of her. She softens. She’s almost amused too.

“Lavender?” she asks dryly.

“Yeah,” he says. He shrugs too.

“Go on,” she murmurs. “Don’t want to keep you,” she says. He moves to her first, smiling shyly. His mouth brushes against her forehead and then he turns, bounding off and back to his bedroom. She can hear a door shut and she sighs, relieved too. “Of course,” she murmurs.

There are boxes still, in the kitchen.

Harry takes her to work later that morning, the two of them sharing a mug of tea as he carries his books in another hand.

Her mind is somewhere back at her flat, in her brief conversation with Ron, in the previous night; she won’t touch it though. There’s no excuse. It just isn’t the time for her. This is nice though, she can’t help but think.

The shop is close though, and she can see the Christmas lights blinking against the window frame, at the door, and tucked into a garland that is strung along the side. There is no one going in or out yet and she almost stops to check her watch, thinking that she might be a little early.

She takes a deep breath first.

When they stop by the door, Harry catches her by the arm. He smiles and she’s not quite sure what he wants, her mouth curling anyway. It’s that feeling again, the one that circles the pit of her stomach, that turns into knots that flutter and pull right into an ache. Her lips part and she lets her teeth slide lightly against her skin, trying now to swallow.

“What?” she asks.

He shakes his head, as if it were that simple. “Let’s make this a routine,” he says.