Harry Potter Fic: the light in the room

[fated_addiction]

the light in the room
harry potter ; harry/hermione ; pg ; 4,830 words
the best laid plans are usually the quietest ones in the room. post-deathly hallows au.

notes: It may take me a year, but I will finish these Christmas requests damn it. This is for marie_j_granger, who is just the loveliest and probably one of my oldest lj friends. ♥

-

They are fighting again.

The loud, awkward sounds hit her wall from next door; half-murmurs, suspicious cries of names and insults make Hermione’s fingers dig into the pages of her book with a sigh. She tries not to look up either, her door open wide in front of her.

“I don’t understand,” Ginny snarls from the hallway. There is the sound of a door flinging open and Hermione keeps her gaze glued to pages in front of her. “It’s a simple question, Harry. It’s simple - what do you want? What do you even want from me?”

“Gin - ”

Hermione’s mouth dries. There’s a rustle and she hears a zipper, Ginny, then, breathless with anger. They move in front of her door and Hermione catches the two of them, small figures against her mirror next her bed. Stay quiet, she thinks.

“I’m tired,” Ginny says softly. Hermione forces her gaze back to her book. The lines manage to blur together. The other girl laughs softly. “I’m so tired, Harry, I don’t even know if I want you anymore.”

Hermione hears the sharp, slight inhale of his breath. When she looks up, she catches Ginny whirling around and moving away from her door. Harry is standing still; his hands shove into his pockets as the door, down the hall, slams loudly. The sound echoes.

She turns the page and it’s Harry, then, that sighs. She hears him move to her door and stills, catching the shadow of his figure as it stretches over her bed. She bites her lip.

“I didn’t mean to leave my door open,” she says quietly. She’s careful too. Her fingers spread over her book. “I didn’t know you were here until -” she hesitates, adding. “I didn’t know,” she finishes.

“You’re fine,” he murmurs.

She closes her book. Harry doesn’t look at her.

It’s the two of them now. Ron moved out the spring before, engaged and wrapped around a glowing Lavender Brown, something Hermione isn’t entirely sure what to think of.

She emerges from her bedroom, hesitating at the door as she listens to the sounds of cupboards slamming closed. Her arms fold against her chest and she wanders into the small kitchen. Harry sits himself at the table, picking up one of her books. There’s a bottle of whiskey next to him.

“What’s going on?” she asks. He doesn’t look up. When he opens the book, a letter falls out from between the pages. It’s unopened. He holds it up. “From my parents,” she murmurs, shrugging.

“Oh.”

He looks up at her. She turns and moves to the sink, picking out one of the cups she left inside earlier. She moves to the table and sits next to Harry. Reaching for the bottle, she unscrews the cap.

“You don’t have to,” Harry begins. “I -”

“Shut it,” she says.

She pours the whiskey into cup, settling it between them. She meets Harry’s gaze, pushing it towards him. The corners of his mouth twitch and he picks the cup, wrapping his fingers around the handle. When he brings the whiskey to his mouth, she looks away.

The cup hits the table hard. “You can be angry too, you know,” she says absently.

“I’m not,” he says.

She shakes her head. Her mouth quirks with amusement. Reaching for the bottle again, she refills the cup. Her hands wrap around it and she meets Harry’s gaze, pressing the rim to her lips. The whiskey smell is hard. There’s a memory too; it’s her father, maybe, the odd argument with her mother and one of those holidays that never commits the right way.

The alcohol is bitter, anyway. She swallows. “You know,” she murmurs. “I thought I’d miss Ron, him being here - you and me and him. Remember what we said? The three of us, we’d be happy here, no matter what.”

Harry scoffs. He takes the bottle from her side. She watches as he pours more into the cup.

“I know how it sounds,” she says.

He pushes the cup towards her. She picks it up, thoughtfully, and studies the way the whiskey just sits in the cup, swaying slowly, swaying lightly, and then stilling completely. She runs her fingers against the rim and then laughs, shaking her head.

“We’re not sixteen anymore.”

He scoffs. “It’s not about that.”

“Isn’t it though?” she asks, and brings the cup to her mouth. Her lips press into the rim and then she forces herself to swallow. She coughs just a little bit. “None of us are over it,” she murmurs.

“I am,” he says. “I’m so bloody over it sometimes I can hardly stand it. I get the questions, you know. About Dumbledore. About Snape. About every stupid moment leading up to that point - it’s been three years, Hermione. Ron’s moved on. Gin’s moved on and clearly doesn’t want me to be a part of her life this way and all I can think is I will move as fast and far as I damn well please, okay?”

He’s not talking to her, but he’s still talking to her; Hermione tries to pick apart his words, but ends up stopping herself midway. She’s tired. The whiskey is slowly wrapping itself around her. She puts the cup down and pushes it back towards Harry.

“It’s been three years,” she says quietly.

“I know.”

“Why won’t you talk to someone?”

He scoffs. “Why won’t you?”

His gaze is heavy. She can feel him watching her, waiting for some kind of reaction. This isn’t Harry, but it’s Harry and she wonders if she’s getting the Harry that he gives to Ginny, to everyone else. There’s a part of her that’s stuck too, but they’re past explanations as it is.

Then she’s angry. She’s angry and confused and it hits her like a sudden rush, flushed and stretching over her cheeks. Harry’s already grabbed the bottle again and she reaches for the cup, pulling it to herself. Her eyes are wide and her mouth narrows closed.

Hermione pushes herself to stand. “Don’t use me as an excuse.”

She does not go to a wizarding university. Her appearances are limited to the Ministry and all those odd, long and weary heroes’ sightings that the three of them have been condemned to ever since the war ended. Magic is and will be apart of her; her parents remain unfixed. If, she thinks, unfixed and fixed are the right way to think about it.

Ginny catches her for coffee though, after class, since Hermione has always been attached to her routines. It’s comfortable.

“We’re done,” she announces. She materializes from behind her too, watching as Hermione pays for her cup. Hermione swings her bag over her arm and turns to face the other girl. “I’m sorry you had to hear that, but I’m just so tired of me and him and I reckon the ridiculous things that come with being in a relationship with him.”

“It’s not his fault,” Hermione says quietly. Ginny snorts and shakes her head. “Ron said that too,” she interjects. “Neither of you let anyone else be angry at him, you know.”

Hermione’s mouth curl.

“Habit,” she says.

Ginny rolls her eyes. But they talk, they talk until Hermione has to head back into her next class; the university is wide and open, full of students and teachers alike, people who don’t know her, and it’s something scary, completely scary at how important this sense of anonymity is to her, outside of the very few people she still talks to.

They stop though before Hermione goes inside. She moves them into the grass, outside one of the windows in the front of the building. She leans against the wall and Ginny is watching her carefully.

“You’ll do the right thing,” she says to Ginny.

“What?”

Hermione shakes her head. “You want me to tell you that you’ll do the right thing for yourself. I reckon that’s all either of you - Ron too - wants to hear these days. But now, here, I’m telling you seriously. You’re going to do the right thing, Gin. And he’ll do the right thing for himself too, prat or not,” she adds, forcing a half-smile.

The other girl doesn’t say anything, but she stares. Hermione feels too aware of the fact and manages to balance her coffee and her books without losing some sense of herself.

“I should go,” she manages. She nods towards the door. “Class and all.”

Ginny smiles. It’s tight and familiar.

There is a lot that isn’t talked about: there is the death of Dumbledore, of Snape, of Lupin and Tonks, of Harry’s sense of good and evil, the idea that all those shades of gray are real and very, very much alive.

Harry’s in auror training, like Ron, but never needed to take the test - he took it for Ron, he tells her later. It’s about being even, he insisted. And when Ron found out, it was then, Hermione supposes, life really started to move on and their best friend decided to step on without the two of them.

She is home late, struggling to hold the books in her arms with her bags when Harry meets her at the door. He shoves his wand back into his bag, trying to grasp his keys.

“Hey,” he greets. There is a bruise starting to darken against his jaw, spreading under and against his throat. He flashes a grin, shaking his head. “I’m fine,” he says. “Just a friendly spar -”

She shakes her head. “Don’t want to know.”

Harry opens the door and lets her inside, grabbing her bag off her shoulder. His knuckles brush gently against her coat.

“Better day?” she asks.

“I’m fine,” he says again.

“All right.”

She chooses not to press on, shrugging out of her coat and dropping it over the hooks by the door. Harry removes his cloak too; he does it slowly, carefully, as he were hoping she wouldn’t notice. But she is frozen to her spot, watching him. He is tense and when the fabric falls away from his neck, there is a line of bruising that is starting to form along his throat. It’s been awhile and she swallows.

“I’m fine,” Harry murmurs, and the third time leads to the sudden twist of his mouth, heavy-handed and uncomfortable. He steps forward and in front of her, peering down at her with unreadable gaze. “Some idiot decided it would be all right to take on - well, it doesn’t matter. ‘pparently there’s a running wager about kicking my arse during my time in the program.”

Her eyes widen. “Harry - ” her hand reaches for his throat, her fingers brushing over the bruises. She misses the wince; Harry does not pull away. “I don’t suppose you -”

“Broken arm,” he supplies. “Ended up in the hospital ward.”

She snorts. His mouth twists.

“I’m really okay, Hermione.”

Hermione laughs softly in turn. Her fingers still brush over the bruises too. She bites her lip, thoughtful. “I know,” she murmurs, and Harry is watching her again, the same gaze, and his mouth pursing slightly. She thinks she should stop touching for once, suddenly too aware of how close she is and how, only days before she listened to Ginny and Harry split.

But she cannot help herself, and even as she draws her hand back, she lets it drop to his shoulder and pulls him down into a hug. He bends and she laughs and the sheer ridiculousness of his size, over hers, is something suddenly apparent. Harry is not Ron, who still seems forever endless in the way he towers over all of them, but Harry still has this strange ability to make her feel like she fits.

She feels his hands rest at her hips, then start to slide, spread against her back; her fingers brush lightly along the back of his neck and she allows herself to sigh softly.

“I know you’re okay,” she says. He snorts and his nose presses into her shoulder. He’s stifling a laugh and she cannot help but smile. Her fingers brush against his hair. “Hear me out, yeah?” she murmurs. “You know as well as I do that I’ll worry - whether it’s you telling me not to or me telling myself it’s just not happening. I know you’re hurting, and I know you feel guilty, and I’m sorry - I wish I - I wish I could do something for you. For the both of you,” she says.

He makes a soft sound. “You’re a better friend, love,” he says.

She does not know what to say. There isn’t really anything left to say that hasn’t already been said and in their own roundabout way, she and Harry have sort of been left to forge on their own. It is a scarier thought now; she looks at him and manages to smile, drawing back, knowing full well that what she meant to say weren’t the right words quite yet.

“I’ll make dinner,” she tells him.

“S’my night.” He looks at her in amusement. “You’re not that great at this, yeah?”

She smacks his arm. “We are not talking about my cooking, Harry Potter.” She grins then. “You do like my cookies.”

He laughs. “So let’s have cookies then.”

They bake. Harry gets cookie dough in her and laughs, that low, impossible laugh that makes her flush and sigh, shake her head like she’s fourteen again and that kind of crush on your best friend is the sort of thing that just breaks your heart on a daily basis. But the kitchen is a mess and somehow, she ends up sitting on the counter, long legs swinging slowly as she licks some of the dough off of her fingers. Harry is watching her, carefully, and it’s strange kind of weight, one that somehow ends with her smiling.

“I want to stay friends,” he tells her quietly. Hermione studies him. She sits on Harry’s bed, her legs tucked underneath her as she watches him get dressed. He is fumbling with his tie in front of his mirror. “Weird, right? Me wanting to stay friends - I know she’s furious at me, I know - I guess, I’m rather angry too, strangely. We’ve been fighting so long …”

It’s dinner, Hermione remembers. This is Friday night and Harry’s made reservations somewhere in the middle of London; there was something about neutral territory for him and Ginny. She was only half-listening. Ginny told her the same story too.

“Do you know what she wants?” she asks.

“What?”

“Gin,” Hermione murmurs. “Do you know what she wants? What you going to do if she tells you she still wants to be angry?”

“I don’t know,” he says.

She laughs softly. “Harry.”

“I don’t know!” he says again. He shakes his head, rubbing his eyes. “”I mean, I haven’t really thought it through - I figure that’s what got me here, you know? I reckon m’lucky enough that we can get to this point. She’s still mad, isn’t she?”

Hermione shrugs. Her fingers drop into the covers of his bed, pulling lightly at the sheets. She bites her lip, not entirely sure how to go about it; it’s awkward, and it may be the only thing Ron and her ever really, truly agreed on, being between Harry and Ginny. When they got on, they go on; it was the fights that were the worst, not like hers and Ron’s that somehow ended up in a few rounds of laughter and whys, but silence. Harry and Ginny were, are brilliant at somehow.

“She is,” she says finally, carefully. Ginny is her friend. It’s a strange line to maintain between them. “But you should wait until you talk to her, you know? I’m not the one with the answers.”

He laughs a little and moves to the bed, bowing over her and pressing his lips against her forehead. Her lips curl and she sort of shies away, reaching for his tie and gently straightening it.

“You’ll be fine.”

He sighs a little. “I hope so.”

They don’t talk about it anymore and Harry draws back. She stands, slipping from the bed and moving out into the hall to leave him to his thoughts.

Hermione will wait up.

She misses her parents at the strangest of moments, moments where she isn’t entirely sure if doing the right thing was really doing the right thing. It wasn’t just a simple memory charm, this was week’s worth of preparing and making sure that she had completely disappeared from their lives so that, should it happen, they were protected even if she couldn’t do it herself.

It still makes her feel like a little girl.

But she is still waiting for Harry, settled on their couch; her books are scattered over the small coffee table and the tea in her hands is getting cold. The television is on too, but she watches it absently wondering if this is just going to be another one of those times where everything eventually ends up working out. It is late.

The key in the lock is faint.

She hears it turn, straightening but not moving. Her fingers curl into her cup and she bites her lip hoping for some sense of a resolution. It goes deeper than that, and her stomach is well into its way to form those knots, those horrid knots that remind her that she is closer to Harry that she is to Ron, that there is reason and envy, and that straightening these thoughts, all these thoughts is a very scary thing for her.

“Hermione?”

She blinks, looking up. “Hey,” she murmurs. She takes Harry in, watching him toss his keys to the side. His hair is mussed, his tie hanging haphazardly off of his neck and his jacket rumpled. He moves to sit with her on the couch and then stretches his legs out.

“It’s after one,” he says.

“I know,” she murmurs. She waves a hand towards her books. “I have a French exam and I tried to study.”

He snorts. “I keep meaning to tell you that they’re trying to get me an’ Ron to get you working for the Ministry again. Took a little break, but they’re back at it I guess.”

She shakes her head. “Persistent lot,” she mutters.

“Would you though?” he asks suddenly. He reaches for her tea, pulling it away. He puts it on the coffee table. “Go and work for the Ministry? I mean, you’re brilliant at anything you do -”

“No,” she says.

He looks at her, surprised. She knows where this conversation is going. They’ve had it before, in variation.

“I don’t want to.” She shrugs. “I suppose it’s as simple as that. It’s not to say that I’ve - I don’t know. I’m not shutting my magic out, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I know. I guess I just don’t understand.”

She doesn’t want to talk about this though, and probably, in the same way he’s obviously not talking about Ginny. She manages a smile, shaking her head and leaning over to kiss his shoulder.

“I lived two different lives, Harry,” she says quietly. Her eyes close and her head drops, resting against his shoulder. “It was different for me, going home - not to take it away from you - I guess I’m trying to sort out what I want, and what I need, and … and how I’m supposed to live with the decisions that I’ve made. I’ve accepted that I can’t change a lot of things.”

He makes a soft sound, and she looks up to see him press his forehead against hers. They study each other and Hermione tries smiling. But her mouth can’t turn and she’s stuck, serious, wondering if he really gets what she’s trying to tell him.

“You’re a brave girl, Hermione Granger.”

She laughs, even as he says it so solemnly, like it’s the most important thing in the world that she needs to hear. She kisses his cheek, ignoring the look of disappointment on his face.

“So they tell me,” she murmurs. She shakes her head, amused. “Between the Ministry and the Prophet - who by the way, has somehow decided to speculate on the lack of my love life and the promise of yours, and Ron’s surprising ability to settle down.”

Harry scoffs. “Don’t pay any attention.”

“I don’t.”

She pats his knee. She moves to stand, forgoing her books and instead, ruffling Harry’s hair. You don’t have to tell me, she thinks.

“I’m off to bed,” she says, and steps back, reaching for her tea. Harry leans back into the couch, nodding. His gaze is downcast and he seems to be elsewhere, all of the sudden.

“You’ll be okay, you know,” she says too.

His lips curl. “Stop.”

“You will,” she tells him. “And if not, you and I will sit here tomorrow and talk about other things again. You -” she pauses, shrugging. “You don’t have to tell me anything and maybe tomorrow, it’ll be different, but I’m here for whatever you need me to do.”

Harry says nothing. She lets him be.

In the morning Harry comes into her room. She’s left the door wide open and doesn’t quite remember falling asleep, stretching as he drops down to her bed. He grins ruefully at her.

“You’ve missed your class,” he says.

“Canceled,” she supplies. She looks at him in amusement. “Thank god,” she says, “or I don’t think I would’ve made it anyway.”

He laughs. Ron is supposed to come over later in the day, she remembers. They do this once in awhile; the three of them, dinner and just sitting around, reminding themselves that they are, in fact, in alive. There is nothing more certain than that, she thinks, even if the tradition is only understood between the three of them.

“Can I ask you something?” Harry murmurs. His hand presses against the space next to her hip and she turns, rolling onto her side to see him. His eyes darken and the strap of her tank top starts to slide down her shoulder. She doesn’t notice and Harry blushes. “I mean,” he mumbles. “If that’s - that’s okay?”

Her mouth curls. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Sometimes I forget how to talk to you - you’re intimidating,” he rambles, “and I - don’t know. I don’t want to disappoint you and I feel a bit awful since you’ve kind of - not kind of, you’ve been there for me without question all these years and I can’t keep it together and just come out and ask you if you’re okay and if there’s anything that I can do for you because you don’t need to be -”

“Harry,” she interrupts gently. She studies him. “Harry, what’s wrong?”

He stares at her, an expression of horror and embarrassment written firmly against his face. She softens almost instantly, sitting up and drawing her legs underneath her. The blankets twist and Harry lets out this sigh, taunt and tense and something she hasn’t heard in a very long time.

“Ginny told me something.”

She blinks. “Okay.”

“I don’t really know how to begin, I suppose.” She’s quiet, and he laughs a little, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I’m - I wonder if it’s the sort of thing that can just happen, just happen instantly when you tell someone.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

He smiles. “I don’t know,” he murmurs. “Do you - I mean, of course, you do - you know that feeling of being really close to something, knowing full well that it’s the scariest sort of thing, and yet…”

He trails off, about to launch into another rambling fit. She touches his arm and he jumps, blushing.

“What are you trying to say, Harry?” she asks.

He bites his lip. She watches him for a moment. His brows draw together and he leans closer, into her hand as he sighs a little too. He seems to be trying to reason with himself and she waits, patiently, knowing full well that she cannot push it out of him.

“Would you mind -” he says slowly. He swallows. “If - if it’s just you and me tonight? I mean, if not I can owl Ron and tell him to come around anyway, but I’d - I’d like it if it was just you and me.”

She freezes. There is nothing other than what he says, no hidden meaning, no ulterior motive; it’s just Harry asking to spend time alone with her, nothing more or less. It is in the way that he looks at her, just her, open and honest and completely vulnerable that holds to another memory, further back when it was just the two of them, alone in the woods with a strange kind of silence and well into adulthood, which wasn’t ready for them.

“Okay.” Her lips purse. She nods. “I’d like that,” she says.

“You would?”

He blinks and she laughs a little.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugs, shying. “I don’t know,” he says. “Sometimes I feel like - I don’t know, it’s just silly.”

Hermione does not know if they are talking about the same thing; it feels like there’s something there, like there’s always been something there, and now, it’s just the two of them waiting for it to resurface. She tries not to think of Harry and Ginny, of what’s just happened, and that strange awareness that comes with motivating factors. Boys are boys. Hermione knows this too well.

“Make breakfast,” she murmurs then. “And I’ll go put on a film.”

It’s left like this.

Nothing actually happens until the end of the third movie, when Harry comes back from his room with a new jumper. She moves to the end of the couch to give him back some of the blanket, her eyes glued to the television as she watches Gregory Peck, in mild contemplation of what it could’ve been had he been able to have what he wanted with Ann. Her eyes are burning and Harry sits, laughing a little as she flashes a guilty smile.

“Can’t help it,” she admits, shrugging. He opens his arm and she shifts herself, tucking her body against his side. “I’ve always been a horrible romantic at heart.”

“I like it,” Harry teases.

It’s been a quiet sort of day, and she’s all right with that, with the fact that neither of them have really pushed to talk. It’s been awhile since she’s had this kind of day too, where it’s just about sitting and listening and just enjoying the quiet without any coming repercussions.

She looks up at him when the credits start, and the screen flashes to the lazy black and white script. She means to press her mouth against his cheek, but Harry turns slightly, just slightly, so that she catches his jaw. She’s too close and she knows it, her breath hitching as his hand flexes almost absently into her hair and there is nothing that stops her from thinking if I just moved.

Harry’s breath catches. Her fingers press against his chest and she’s almost afraid to look at him.

“You’re crying,” he murmurs. His voice is absent and his fingers move to brush against his cheek. “S’just a movie.”

“I know,” she says, and he catches her jaw, turning her to look up at him. When he smiles, her stomach twists and the knots begin to build. Don’t be stupid, she tells herself. There’s a whole line of excuses rolling around in her head, logical and enough.

But he leans down and presses his mouth against the corner of hers, resting lightly against her; she’s breathless because his mouth is too soft and she can taste the sweetness of the teas from earlier or now still - she doesn’t remember. She can’t quite but her finger to reason and lets out a soft, little sigh, pressing her mouth back against his.

He’s kissing her, or she’s kissing him, and neither of which seem to matter because what’s happening is still happening. Hermione lets her mouth open against his and her teeth skim over his lip. He makes a sound, that sound, the kind that she’s heard him before, something too close to need. She can feel his fingers sweep back, back against her neck and through her hair as he tugs her closer.

She does not know who breaks away first.

“Next movie?” he asks, manages, and his voice is low. She clears her throat and manages to nod. He keeps her close and doesn’t move, doesn’t show any signs of moving for the moment. Her mind is reeling but she leaves it alone and Harry pulls her back under his arm.

“In a minute,” she says. This wasn’t in the plan, you know.