Chapter 37
Notes:
Guys, first of all, I want to sincerely thank everyone who waited patiently and never gave up hope. Your support really does matter. Secondly, I want to apologize for the long absence and officially state that this fic is NOT abandoned! I think about it often, and as soon as I have more time, I will definitely complete it. Anyway, enjoy the new chapter! It turned out a little more disturbing than I originally intended, but I hope it still doesn't ruin the experience for you.
Chapter Text
The drive back to the Grangers' house passed in awkward silence, though fortunately, it was too short to become a true ordeal.
Mr. Granger drove the car in exemplary law-abiding fashion, never exceeding the speed limit and keeping his eyes fixed firmly ahead, occasionally tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Meanwhile, Mrs. Granger was occupied checking messages on her pager.
Harry and Hermione, sharing the back seat along with the bags that didn't fit in the boot, barely exchanged a few whispered words. Both were still too unsettled by the earlier conversation at the café to chat and joke as they usually would.
Whatever had triggered Hermione's sudden surge of extraordinary courage, it had clearly faded, and she had fallen quiet again. Every so often, she cast brief glances at her friend, as if wanting to make sure he was really all right and not on the verge of another breakdown like yesterday. Eventually, she stopped doing even that, turning instead to gaze out the window, completely lost in thought.
To tell the truth, Harry felt utterly out of sorts. Hermione and her family... It was all just too much. Too strange. Too… normal. Almost too good to be true.
And it was happening far too fast. He simply couldn't keep up with everything going on and spent most of the time clueless about how to behave "properly," worried that he might accidentally reveal just how much of a freak and a savage he really was when it came to ordinary human interactions. He constantly felt as though he were carrying a massive, flat pan filled with boiling oil, desperately trying not to spill it all over himself.
At Hogwarts, among kids his own age, it was somewhat manageable, especially with Ron. Truthfully, Harry's fondness for Ron and his family was partly because they often acted even worse than he did, which meant he could just relax around them and stop obsessing over the possibility of making a fool of himself.
In a similar way, he felt around Hermione, though for a different reason – he knew his kind-hearted friend would never judge him and would always accept him as he was, no matter what he might do. Despite her perfectionist streak when it came to schoolwork, Hermione was remarkably nonjudgmental in most other areas… But Harry couldn't say the same about her parents. So far, everything he'd learned about them practically screamed that they were perfectionists to the core. How could he even think of trying to impress them? He was nothing but a walking mess and a mistake, something everyone around him had never tired of reminding him for most of his life!
Brooding over this, he caught himself, not for the first time, entertaining the cowardly urge to slip away unnoticed…
But where would he go in that case? Not back to Privet Drive, surely... And he had no idea how to get to school without a train ticket or a flying car at his disposal. Maybe he could try going back to London and sneaking into the Leaky Cauldron to wait out the rest of the holidays? Or perhaps he could write to the Weasleys and ask them to take him in?
"Enough," Harry cut himself off sharply. "This is all nonsense! You can't just run away and leave Hermione here on her own. You knew it would be hard when you agreed to come. It's too late to back out now! Besides, Hermione's probably struggling too. Just because she's holding it together for both of you doesn't mean she's not scared as well. You need to find a way to support her…"
"Hermione?"
"Hmm?"
Harry reached for her hand resting on the soft car seat and clasped it with his own, sticky with nervous sweat. Her hand felt cold too, despite the car's heater being on.
"Are you okay?" he whispered, barely audible, trying to meet her eyes without drawing the adults' attention.
"Yes… thank you, I'm fine," Hermione said with a strained smile before pulling away again. It disappointed Harry, though he couldn't blame her. After the recent public confession, things were awkward for both of them, especially around the elder Grangers.
"…who will probably find out everything soon enough and skin me alive," the boy sighed deeply and exhaled slowly, trying – and failing – to calm his nerves.
At that very moment, he caught Mr. Granger's piercing gaze in the rear-view mirror – grim, too assessing, and entirely uncomfortably focused on him. Harry nearly choked on his own breath.
"Oh , no … He's looking at me?! Bloody hell … Does he … suspect something? But … how?! Why?! Did he… did he hear something last night?! And Mrs. Granger too?! Were we too loud?! Or… oh God… did we leave something on the sofa?! Or the carpet?! No, no… we cleaned everything up, didn't we? We did… right? Oh, no …"
Harry's pulse spiked, pounding loudly in his head as he frantically tried to piece together how Hermione's father might have figured everything out.
"He knows! He knows! He… knows? But if he does, then why hasn't he done anything yet? ! Is he waiting for us to confess? Does he want me to admit it? And why is Mrs. Granger acting like nothing happened? Has he not told her yet? "
By the time the car glided smoothly onto the driveway, Harry had worked himself into a full-blown panic. Struggling with the door handle, his shaking fingers eventually managed to get it open. He climbed out, forcing himself to focus on unloading the bags, his movements stiff and mechanical.
"Does he know? Or doesn't he? Is he planning to do something to me? Or to Hermione?! Will he yell at us? Is he going to throw me out? And Hermione… he wouldn't… he wouldn't hurt her, right?! He wouldn't hit her over this… would he?! "
"Harry?"
"Huh?!" He recoiled in panic, instinctively dodging the approaching object as he had done so many times when his relatives swung a bag or a fist at him. The suddenness of the movement and his too-sharp reflexes caused his shoes to slip on the icy sidewalk, and he began to stumble backward, almost falling if not for someone catching him just in time.
"You alright, boy?" Mr. Granger was holding him firmly by the shoulders (or more accurately, by the scruff of his jacket), looking at him with a probing expression, which Harry could have sworn was slightly annoyed.
"I… I'm sorry, sir. I slipped."
"Be careful," something in his tone made Harry break out in a cold sweat.
"Does he mean…?! "
"Harry! Are you hurt?" Hermione was already rushing over to the two of them, grabbing her friend's shoulders and inspecting him far too intently from every angle, as if he really might have sustained some sort of injury.
"I'm fine, Hermione. Just caught on something," he mumbled, embarrassed.
"Here, take my hand. It's really slippery…"
It felt awkward to let the girl take charge and fuss over him, but Harry was too nervous to argue. His heart was still in his mouths, and secretly, he was relieved when someone else was once again between him and Mr. Granger. He doubted that this large grown man, towering over him by nearly twenty inches and three times wider than him, would hit him right in the street where neighbors could see, but with things like this, you could never be completely sure.
* * *
Apart from the previous minor incident, the four of them peacefully finished unloading and carrying the rest of the shopping into the house, after which the children were sent upstairs with instructions not to come down until the clock showed seven.
"Why are we not allowed to go downstairs?" Harry asked, genuinely curious, as he climbed the stairs behind Hermione.
"Oh, it's just one of those silly family traditions…" she replied vaguely, rolling her eyes. "I think my mum and dad just want to show that I'm still not quite grown up."
"Not grown up enough for what?" Harry wanted to ask, but he stayed silent.
There were so many truly adult things that he and Hermione weren't supposed to do, but did anyway, because it was simply necessary to survive. Could there really be something worse than that? And what did the first floor of the Grangers' house have to do with it?
Just in case, he decided not to get involved in this matter, so as not to accidentally offend anyone. Who knows what customs might be in other households... Besides, it's not always a bad thing to be forbidden from something. After all, he and Hermione really were just kids! It was nice to be reminded of that every once in a while.
* * *
At first, they briefly went back to their rooms to change into something more comfortable yet still festive. When Harry put on his brand-new tweed trousers, socks, and shirt – perfectly tailored to his size – for the first time, he had to admit that Hermione's shopping frenzy hadn't been quite as dreadful as he'd thought… though he certainly wouldn't want to go through anything like it again anytime soon.
After that, he spent a little more time sitting in the room assigned to him, aimlessly swinging his legs in soft house slippers with a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles print, and lazily glancing around the room. There wasn't much to look at, really. The bed, the desk, the wardrobe, a bookcase (already crammed full with a variety of well-worn volumes), a bedside table with a desk lamp on it, a carpet on the floor – everything here looked perfectly ordinary, classic, and solid, just like the rest of the house.
Harry had already had a good look at every item in the room that morning, having woken up at the crack of dawn out of habit to start preparing breakfast for the Dursleys… and only after several long seconds did it dawn on him that there were no Dursleys here, and that he wasn't on Privet Drive at all but miles away from Little Whinging. Apart from the initial relief this realization brought, it also meant he had no idea what his current household responsibilities were. The thought that he might not have any responsibilities here at all simply hadn't occurred to him.
Would Mr. and Mrs. Granger want him to make breakfast, or should he clean the toilet and bathroom first? Harry wasn't sure. While he wasn't a big fan of cleaning toilets, at the Dursleys', it usually meant he could quickly take a shower while Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were still asleep, and they couldn't forbid him from using their precious water.
Then again, perhaps the Grangers weren't so particular about such things? Yesterday, during the brief tour of the house, Mrs. Granger had told Harry he could use either of the bathrooms on the first or second floor whenever he liked. On the other hand, Harry had plenty of bitter experience with adults who would apparently allow him something, only to punish him harshly later – either because he hadn't interpreted their words precisely enough or simply because their mood had suddenly changed.
Tormented by doubts, he sat stupidly on the bed for some time, looking at the dawn breaking outside the window and completely not knowing what to do. However, he really didn't want to start smelling bad, especially around Hermione… Like if she decided to hug him again or… or do something else...
Such thoughts, and even more so the mind-bending memories of the previous night, immediately sent a sweet shiver through Harry's stomach, but he suppressed the feeling with a stern reminder that the elder Grangers would soon wake up, which meant he didn't have much time. If he still wanted to have time to use the shower, he should do it right now.
"If I'm fast and quiet enough, they'll probably never know," Harry thought, and with that, he tiptoed into the bathroom, quickly rinsed off, and brushed his teeth, trying to make as little noise as possible and conserve water. Afterward, he stealthily went downstairs.
There, as expected, he was also greeted by silence – so deafening that he nearly jumped out of his skin when he made eye contact with Mr. Granger, who was peacefully sipping coffee at the table with a newspaper in hand.
"Oh… Good morning, sir!"
"Morning…" the man muttered indistinctly, still not looking up from his reading.
It seemed that, just like Hermione, her father wasn't much of a morning talker either. Or maybe he just didn't like Harry… Or maybe it was both.
And yet, before Harry could retreat back, drowning in awkwardness, Mr. Granger showed some mercy on him:
"Tea?"
"Er… yes, sir. Thank you. I wouldn't mind."
"The tea leaves and sugar are on the second shelf to the left. The cheese and meat are in the fridge."
So, he was telling Harry outright to help himself? Well, that was fine! If Harry Potter was good at anything, it was handling kitchen tools.
"Thank you, sir," he repeated, just in case, before setting about making himself a simple snack.
Judging by the fact that the room once again fell silent, save for the soft rustle of pages and the bubbling of water in the kettle, Mr. Granger didn't seem inclined to engage in small talk or offer Harry any further instructions.
"Does he want me to figure out what to make for breakfast? Or should I take out the trash and wipe down the shelves first?"
The boy didn't dare take more liberties than he'd already been granted. He didn't even know what the Grangers preferred to eat in the mornings! Perhaps they liked toast, fried eggs, and bacon like the Dursleys? Or maybe porridge? Or they might favour croissants with orange juice, like those families in TV sitcoms? Hermione definitely seemed to prefer warm croissants with various fillings… But Harry didn't want to take any chances. The last thing he needed was to waste their food on something that would end up in the bin anyway!
In the end, they sat together with Mr. Granger for almost an entire hour, during which Harry drank two full cups of tea and ate five thick ham and cheese sandwiches (he ate them cautiously one after another, glancing sideways at the man to check his reaction, but Mr. Granger seemed to pay him no attention at all, and over time, Harry relaxed a little).
When Potter was seriously considering pouring himself a third cup of tea, footsteps were heard from upstairs, and soon after, the female half of the family appeared at the kitchen door.
Hermione and her mother both looked sleepy and disheveled, with half-closed eyes and the same frowning "Don't touch me if you want to live!" expression on their faces, which Harry had already gotten to know well from his friend. Even their hair was flattened and tousled on the same sides, as if the same cow had secretly licked them both during the night.
"Hermione really looks a lot like her mum," for some reason, this fairly obvious thought stirred a strange reaction in Harry's chest. He felt… sadness?
He supposed he might have looked much the same standing next to his own father, the man he was constantly compared to – if only James Potter had lived to raise him. Then again, maybe all those people were mistaken, fooled by his glasses and wild black hair, and Harry actually took after his mother more? He would have given anything to know for sure…
Realizing that he was once again envious of Hermione, who had two living parents while Harry had none, he immediately felt ashamed. It certainly wasn't Hermione's fault that he grew up an orphan. Besides, he knew almost nothing about her own childhood and couldn't judge. The fact that Mr. and Mrs. Granger hadn't beaten her or yelled at her in front of him might not mean anything. He knew how deceptive facades could be.
Embarrassed and annoyed with himself, he automatically started setting the table and taking food out of the fridge, earning a couple of surprised glances from the Grangers and one concerned look from Hermione. However, at that moment, he was so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn't notice.
Fortunately for him, Hermione was quick to catch on. She immediately ran to the fridge to help Harry get the eggs, vegetables, and everything else for the simple breakfast he had planned.
"Here, let me wash the herbs and mushrooms while you chop the meat."
"Huh? Oh, right…"
Only now did it dawn on him what he was actually doing – rummaging through someone else's kitchen without permission, like a complete idiot, and that was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid!
"Great!"
Although he was well aware of how stupid he had been, it was too late to retreat. He had already chopped half the ham, working at his usual speed, as he had done in his relatives' house since he was five, and Petunia considered him to be of a suitable age to be trusted with a kitchen knife. He was simply acting on reflexes.
What would the Grangers think of him?!
Hermione's mother was indeed looking at him now with a curious, uninterpretably intense gaze, and even her husband had momentarily put down his newspaper, for the umpteenth time studying Harry with a mix of curiosity and disbelief, as if the boy were some strange exhibit from the depths of a curiosity cabinet.
"Harry?"
"Hm?"
"Could you pass me that bowl, please?"
Despite the palpable tension in the air, he and Hermione worked smoothly together and soon finished preparing a few simple dishes for four.
Right in front of the table, Potter stalled again, just like yesterday, unable to override his subconscious instinct – to eat separately from the rest of the family unless told otherwise. So, Hermione, out of habit by now, took him by the elbow and confidently seated him next to her.
"Well… this is quite impressive," Mrs. Granger commented, eyeing her portion of steaming, fluffy omelette with mushrooms and ham, generously garnished with herbs. In addition, there were golden-brown fried sausages, crispy toast, and sliced fruit on the table.
"Indeed," Mr. Granger nodded in agreement before taking a generous bite of the omelette. "Hmm… Not bad at all! I didn't know you'd learned to cook, Hermione."
"Thanks, Dad," Hermione blushed at the praise. "Actually, it's not too different from what we do in Potions…"
"Ah, so that's where this came from!" the man chuckled (seemingly for the first time, as far as Harry could remember), instantly looking much less intimidating. "Your Potions professor must be quite good."
Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance, then burst out laughing in unison.
"Snape, a good teacher? Now that's rich! "
After that, Harry's mood improved to the point where he began to eat his portion with gusto, despite the lingering nervousness and the sandwiches he'd already eaten. Like all teenagers, he felt hungry almost constantly and now happily stuffed his mouth, glad that he could do this even on vacation.
"Harry, did you used to cook at home?" Mrs. Granger's sudden question caught him about halfway through his portion, causing him to choke on a piece of sausage.
"Er… y-yes, ma'am," Harry croaked. "My aunt taught me how to cook."
"Oh, I see… Quite… admirable of her."
"Yeah…"
Harry wasn't sure if he should say anything else, so he grabbed the glass of water in front of him and and took several large sips, trying to wash away the awkwardness.
Fortunately, no one asked him anything else for the rest of breakfast, and then they all quickly got dressed and headed into the city for the whole day, so Harry almost completely forgot about his morning embarrassment.
* * *
Now, sitting alone in the spare bedroom, left to his own devices again for a while, he could calmly assess the day that had been… well, not nearly as bad as he had feared. Even though Hermione had given him a lot of anxiety in that café, Harry was actually glad that at least part of the truth had finally been revealed. He hated lies and omissions more than anything else in the world, and although he was terrified of the Grangers' reaction, he knew that this couldn't go on forever. This endless waiting was killing him.
When they found out about him and Hermione, they would be… um… very angry, wouldn't they? Well, of course, it would be like an explosion in a fertilizer factory, so to speak… Harry just wished he knew how big the radius would be in advance, so he could prepare for the consequences.
It would be one thing if they were simply yelled at or even hit – he was used to that and only hoped that he would get the brunt of the slaps (he would never ever let anyone hit Hermione, not even her parent, they would have to beat him senseless first). But if Mr. and Mrs. Granger decided to throw their daughter out of the house...
If… when Hermione got pregnant, how much time would she and Harry have to arrange their future? Six months? Less? Harry still knew next to nothing about it. Surely it would be noticeable almost immediately? You know, her belly and everything…
"And what about classes? Oh… She won't have to leave Hogwarts, will she?!"
He really hoped Dumbledore had some trick up his sleeve for that too, because if Hermione was forced to drop out of school, she was going to be furious! It was almost like taking away her magic, only she'd have to have a baby on top of that!
Her and Harry's lives had already changed beyond recognition, and it was only going to get worse... Babies were always crying, and hungry, and... er... dirty in their nappies, right? They also liked to wake up in the night... and scream for no reason... and crawl... and drool all over everything? Harry vaguely remembered something like that from his own childhood, growing up with Dudley, who even then had looked like a fat, nervous, squealing pig. If Harry's own child was anything like 'Little Diddy'... God, that would be a disaster!
Nervously biting the nails on his right hand, Potter was so deeply immersed in worrying about present and future problems that he shuddered with surprise when there was a soft knock on the door.
"Harry? Are you there? Can I come in?"
"Yeah… Come in!"
His friend, who he couldn't stop thinking about for a minute, had also changed into a plaid skirt and a sweater with a geometric pattern of snowflakes. She was carrying a tray with two glasses of milk and a plate of cookies, and under her arm was a box of chess pieces. She was looking at Harry a little nervously, although she tried to hide it behind a deliberately relaxed expression, which had become somewhat of a tradition lately.
"Are you… alright?"
For a moment, he wanted to snap at her, to yell, because no, damn it, he was not alright! Not even close! None of this was alright, and, as far as he could tell, it never would be again!..
Harry took a slow, deep breath through his nose, silently ordering himself to calm down and not lose his temper.
"She didn't mean to upset me. She's just worried about me... "
Hermione's concern was entirely justified, given how nervous he had been acting these days. In some ways, being here was even worse than being with the Dursleys… At least there, he'd known what to expect, having studied them inside out over ten long years. But he knew absolutely nothing about the Grangers, and now he felt like a sheep in a minefield – constantly one wrong step away from an explosion.
He was just so tired of constantly fearing a disaster he couldn't stop anyway…
Maybe coming here really had been a bad idea. Perhaps he should've told Hermione the truth – that he was, in fact, terribly afraid of meeting her parents and didn't want to come… but then she'd find out what a coward he truly was.
"You're a lousy Gryffindor, Potter! No wonder the Hat tried to put you in Slytherin," his inner voice sneered.
"Want to play?"
At first, he blinked in confusion, staring blankly at the black-and-white board she held out to him.
"Ah… Yeah, sure."
"Daydreaming again, you numbskull!"
"Although I'm sure it won't be as interesting as school. I mean, they're not enchanted and…"
It was indeed a very Muggle set, but Harry felt a little better just looking at it. Not that he was any good at it, of course… He was a long way from Ron or even Neville. Before Hogwarts he didn't even know the rules, and now Ron beat him all the time, but Harry didn't mind. Chess was so strongly associated with a magical castle and home that he was glad to have the opportunity to feel it now.
"It's fine. Honestly, I don't really like playing enchanted chess. They're so bossy and always arguing with me…" Harry admitted. "Just don't tell Ron!" he quickly added.
"Not a word," Hermione grinned conspiratorially, and Harry felt, as if by magic, another weight lift off his shoulders.
Chapter 38
Chapter Text
Sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of the bed, Hermione and Harry began arranging the wooden pieces on the chessboard. It was a beautiful and rather expensive handmade set, crafted from mahogany and boxwood with evident skill. It had been gifted to Hermione's father several years ago by one of his colleagues, but it had rarely been used since then. None of the adults ever had enough time to bother with such "nonsense," and Hermione herself didn't like chess enough to play it alone.
But she didn't mind playing with Harry today, especially knowing how much he enjoyed it (even if he almost always lost).
While waiting for the boy to finish setting up the white side of the board, Hermione absentmindedly twirled one of her pieces between her fingers – a beautifully carved figure of a medieval warrior on horseback. Unbidden, a memory surfaced in her mind of a very different chess knight – a giant, terrifying stone golem with blind, soulless eyes and an enormous sword that had come perilously close to smashing Ron's head last year… That terrifying image still occasionally visited her in nightmares in the middle of the night.
Shivering slightly, Hermione forced herself to snap out of the unpleasant memory and return to the present, pushing the lingering anxiety as far into her subconscious as she could. She had enough real problems to deal with right now; there was no sense in dwelling on something long past that couldn't hurt her anymore.
She looked again at the little piece in her hand, which, though crafted with remarkable precision, was still just ordinary wood – silent and motionless. Not magical at all. Somehow, that was both comforting and a little disappointing.
It was funny how, after just a year and a half at Hogwarts, even she had started to find Muggle chess a bit unusual – she'd grown so accustomed to their animated, chatty magical counterparts.
"Pawn from E2 to E4!" Harry's voice broke the silence as he instinctively gave the command aloud, out of habit.
"With your hands, Harry!" Hermione giggled.
"Oops. I forgot…"
With her soft snort of amusement, Harry moved his white pawn two squares forward, opening the game. Hermione responded with the classic E7 to E5 move, and without much thought, Harry followed up with his knight, leaping from G1 to F3.
Exchanging simple moves, they passed the time before dinner, occasionally throwing in a remark or a lighthearted joke, but mostly remaining silent. Hermione had plenty of questions brewing about Harry's recent behaviour, but for now, she held back, sensing intuitively that he wasn't ready to talk about it yet.
The way he had acted at breakfast, and yesterday too… And how he always seemed to track Hermione's father's movements whenever he entered the same room… It all screamed that something was wrong. Hermione vaguely remembered reading about something like this in a psychology book a couple of years ago, but unfortunately, nothing specific came to mind. She deeply regretted she had never been particularly interested in that subject – if she had, it might have been easier to understand what was wrong with Harry and how she could help him.
That she could help him, Hermione had no doubt. She just needed more information to figure it all out… to make it right.
At school, Harry's odd behaviour wasn't as noticeable. But now, in the calm setting of an ordinary, non-magical house, without all the distractions of midnight duels, trolls, broomstick flights, exploding cauldrons, poltergeists, and dangerous dark wizards, Hermione could see it much more clearly.
Looking at Harry as he was now, next to her parents, the word "trauma" came to mind all on its own.
Someone – surely his horrid relatives, Hermione was almost certain! – had hurt Harry so badly that he couldn't stop flinching or stammering whenever an adult who wasn't one of his teachers directed any attention towards him.
But he was such a calm, sweet, and kind boy – nothing like the rough, loud, and often obnoxious boys she was used to seeing! He was such a good person! Somehow, he managed to get along with nearly everyone, except, of course, the likes of outright jerks like Malfoy. And yet, those horrible people, those… Dursleys, still hurt him! Why did they hate him so much? Was it because he was an orphan living under their care? That just didn't make any sense! Harry wasn't a stranger to them – how could they not love him?
No matter how much Hermione thought about it, she couldn't find any answers. She suspected Harry might know, but he stubbornly kept quiet, and she had no idea how to approach him without risking his anger. For all his usual gentleness, Harry could be terribly hot-tempered when it came to personal or too painful topics for him at times. Unlike Ron, who often exploded over little things but just as quickly got over them, Harry could hold a grudge for a very long time.
The last thing Hermione wanted was for him to be angry with her. Truth be told, the thought of Harry ignoring her or avoiding her for weeks on end genuinely frightened her.
And it wasn't even because she was in love with him… or at least, she didn't think she did. Did she? Oh, she wasn't sure of anything anymore…
The only thing Hermione knew with absolute certainty at this moment was that Harry meant an incredible amount to her. As her best friend, first and foremost. But also as so much more than a friend.
She could no longer ignore the fact that she felt something far deeper for Harry than just friendly affection.
She felt something… powerful. Something deep inside her.
Was this what falling in love with someone was supposed to feel like? As if you were swept up and carried away by a storm every time you simply looked at them?
Was she so captivated and charmed by Harry Potter that it could truly be called a romantic crush? Or had it already gone far beyond that, and she was actually in love with him without even realizing it herself?
Although she had recently confessed to her parents that she felt a serious romantic interest in Harry, the truth was that she had no real experience in such matters. She only instinctively sensed that this was something entirely different from the simple childhood crushes she'd had before – like the one she'd recently harbored for Lockhart (may that fool get hiccups forever!) or, much earlier, back in nursery school, for the older boy whose family used to live next door.
When Hermione looked into Harry's utterly enchanting, brilliant, and deeply expressive emerald-green eyes, hidden behind the lenses of his old, worn glasses, she felt... warmth. And a fluttering in her chest. And anticipation. And excitement – a little nervous, perhaps, but mostly joyful!
She wanted to touch Harry, and for him to touch her too. Not just in… that way. Not just… sexually.
She simply wanted to be close to him, to feel his presence next to her. She wanted to talk to him – about everything in the world. She wanted to walk with him, and hold his hand, and kiss his cheek, and his lips, and embrace him, and…
* * *
Hermione shook her curly head, quickly banishing the treacherous thoughts that had all too swiftly veered south – a frustratingly frequent occurrence of late.
Whatever the case, alongside her rapidly growing feelings for Harry, she also couldn't ignore or pretend not to notice the way he sometimes looked at her… as if she were the very center of his universe.
When she thought about it, they had always been close – almost like brother and sister, as some of their classmates had jokingly remarked more than once. But lately, they had grown even closer.
There was this special connection between them now – not just physical but something deeper. Slowly but surely, they were tuning into each other, and it was happening surprisingly effortlessly – far more so than with anyone else Hermione had ever known, even her own parents or other relatives. It was as if… as if she and Harry were two halves of the same whole, or something equally ridiculous and hopelessly romantic!
"Lavender and Parvati would die of envy," Hermione thought with a silent snort, trying to mask her nervous excitement and suppress the warm, fluttering sensation spreading through her chest.
It felt like quicksand: the more she resisted, the faster she sank into the whirlpool of unstoppable romance. At this rate, it wouldn't be long before she started binge-reading trashy romance novels – or worse, turned to poetry herself and flooded poor Harry with terrible verses of her own creation!
" Eeww…"
Shuddering at the all-too-vivid mental image, Hermione absentmindedly moved her rook two squares forward, giving Harry the perfect opportunity to claim it with his bishop. She didn't even notice, too lost in thoughts about the boy sitting across from her, with whom her relationship had recently become far too complicated and tangled.
So, Harry was her first real love. That much was as clear as day now. And what on earth was she supposed to do about it? After all, he wasn't just her friend or her boyfriend – he was her husband… That last fact made everything infinitely more complicated.
She couldn't simply let herself fall head over heels for Harry – at least one of them had to remain level-headed and rational. If she, too, completely lost her wits… ugh…
And yet, that's exactly how she'd behaved last night when she'd practically thrown herself at him right there in the living room! What, pray tell, had she been thinking when she made that utterly ridiculous decision?! Well, the truth was, she knew exactly what part of her had been doing "the thinking" in that particular moment, and that made it a hundred times worse!
The truth was, she had been almost completely out of control that night. But what was even more horrible was that some… not so tiny part of her still felt elated and excited at the thought that they could be caught at any moment.
Was this also a consequence of the ritual? Was it the magic that was forcing her to behave like this? Because... because she hadn't gotten pregnant yet? Was it her personal curse to gradually go mad from the animalistic need to mate and reproduce, regardless of any consequences or morality?
But she still drank the potions Madam Pomfrey had told her to take, and checked every day the amulets Professor Dumbledore had given her! So why... why couldn't she stop thinking about Harry like that, even in her parents' house? Even under the threat of their secret being revealed immediately?!
She wasn't that lustful and impulsive by nature... was she?
Hermione used to be proud of her restraint, and even looked down on other children who seemed unable to wait five minutes before plucking a treat or a present, even when they were told not to. She also never had a problem doing routine, monotonous work that required concentration for hours.
And now she suddenly found herself completely unable to stop herself from staring at Harry, wishing she could press her lips to his…
"But he's such a good kisser," she immediately thought involuntarily and blushed at the memory of Harry awkwardly and passionately kissing her face and neck, while his hands wandered over her shoulders and chest. At that moment, he was so shameless and assertive... completely different from his current self – a wary, frightened boy, literally shuddering at every rustle.
Hermione missed "the Hogwarts" Harry, but she also wanted to understand what was wrong with this Harry and how to get him to talk to her. Ever since they had arrived here, he had been acting more and more withdrawn and distant around her. Even when he tried to act like his usual self, Hermione could see something gnawing at him, causing him to become more tense and agitated with each passing day. It was incredibly frustrating, especially since this time she had no idea what to do about it.
"He's so stubborn …"
Unfortunately for her, even that trait of his had become something she'd grown to love, simply because it was Harry. What had once annoyed her about him – and what still seriously irritated her in others – now seemed endearing when it came from Harry.
Love was a strange thing indeed... It brought imbalance and chaos into Hermione's usually structured life, and while she didn't like that, she also seemed entirely powerless to do anything about it.
* * *
Sighing, Hermione absentmindedly moved one of her pieces, capturing an opposing pawn. Harry mumbled something unintelligible in response and retreated his queen to a safer position, away from her knights.
"I wonder, would Harry and I have ever become like this if it weren't for the ritual? Would he have ever noticed me on his own?" she thought, not for the first time, as her mind wandered down the familiar path of "what if" scenarios.
What if they hadn't done that ritual? What if they'd decided Ron was a better fit? Would she still feel the same way about Ron now as she did about Harry? Would the red-haired boy occupy her thoughts the way Harry did? Would she want to hold Ron's hand? Spend time with him? Hug him? Would she want to... sleep with him?
"Hermione?"
"Huh? Oh, right…" she replied, making another absentminded move, barely glancing at the board. All her thoughts were now preoccupied with trying to imagine Ron in Harry's place.
She imagined his pale, freckled face, blue eyes, and bright red hair – a combination of features that perhaps wasn't her favourite, but was certainly far from as repulsive as, say, Goyle's troll-like mug or Parkinson's bulldog face.
Ron's features, like Harry's, were still rounded with the softness of childhood, though they would surely sharpen with time (and likely be covered in spots, but that was an entirely different matter). Besides, he was already much taller than Harry and broader in the shoulders. If it had been Ron Weasley in Harry's place, even now she would have had to stretch up to kiss him…
Would she even want to kiss him?
His mouth was so wide, and his lips – big and fleshy… They always seemed greasy, too, since he was perpetually chewing on something.
Harry's lips, in contrast, were thinner and pale pink, and as Hermione now knew for certain, they were very soft – almost as soft as her own. Except that he often bit them out of nerves and did not take care of them at all in the cold.
Ron's hands were huge and shovel-like, as were his large, clumsy feet, and his whole appearance was reminiscent of a St. Bernard puppy, with his disproportionately large limbs and awkward, angular body. Compared to him, Harry resembled a frail, pale snowdrop, barely able to hold itself against the wind (though he'd probably hate such a comparison). That, too, would likely change soon, once he, like everyone else, was hit by puberty, and provided he ate well regularly. But for now, he still looked much younger and weaker than Hermione.
They must have looked really strange together from the outside... And yet, she couldn't care less about that.
Magic or not, she could feel her heart racing more because of Harry. Not anyone else.
"I just want to be with Harry. I... I really like him," Hermione thought, biting her lower lip as she secretly studied Harry's delicate features, partially hidden from her by his long dark fringe, while he frowned and carefully examined the chessboard, thinking over his next move.
Due to the strong tilt of his head, his glasses had slid down to the tip of his nose, and Hermione had to fight the urge to reach out and adjust them.
Despite the fact that there had been several moments of downright over-the-top physical intimacy between her and Harry, it had, in a way, become an obstacle to their usual, premarital, interactions. Whereas before she could easily hug him in front of everyone or ruffle his hair and the like, now such behavior could be interpreted in two ways. Of course, no one except the two of them and a few other professors at Hogwarts knew about any of this yet, but... Hermione knew, as did Harry himself, and that was enough to turn any, even the most banal and innocent manifestation of physical intimacy between them into something much more ambiguous and piquant.
So she held back.
Hermione clutched the hem of her skirt to resist temptation and waited for Harry to move his rook so that her king was in danger.
"Check!" Harry grinned, clearly pleased that he had "caught" her, and Hermione had to bite back a smile of her own. He was absolutely terrible at calculating moves. Even with barely any attention to the board, she could still beat him easily if she wanted to.
But instead, she found herself wanting to… give in to him. Not give up control, no. She was still in control of this, the game and the situation as a whole, just like she always had, but she just… wanted to try. Just once.
She wanted to give in to Harry. Let him win and get his trophy…
She was… obviously thinking exactly what she shouldn't be thinking. Again.
"Bugger."
Being so close to Harry and not being able to touch him was literally draining her of her mental and physical strength, making Hermione feel more and more on edge. Even if it wasn't particularly noticeable to others, inside she was practically screaming with frustration and burning need every time she and Harry were alone, like now.
"Two more weeks! Oh, God… How am I even going to survive this when I can barely contain myself even now?!"
It was this endless, maddening dissatisfaction that was, in large part, the reason she had forced the issue in the café so radically. In the grand scheme of things, it hadn't even been a conscious choice... not entirely. She simply couldn't stand the uncertainty surrounding her and Harry's status with her family any longer.
Over and over for the past month, she'd been running through the same question in her head: how would her mum and dad react when they found out?
Would they try to take her away from the magical world again? Would they try to send Harry away and demand that she breaks off their relationship? Would they say that they were very disappointed in her and had expected better from her? Would they say that their daughter should have been smarter and more perspicacious, and that she should have known better than this?
But she wasn't smarter! She wasn't more perspicacious! She did not know any better than to brew that God damn potion and curse herself and her best friend for the rest of their lives!
So yes, she, Hermione Granger, the only scion of an intelligent and respectable hereditary family of doctors, was completely stupid. Inattentive. She hadn't bothered to study the circumstances of the ritual more closely, and she hadn't thought about the side effects that always – always! – come with such things.
And now she was going crazy – literally – with the desire for Harry to impregnate her. She wanted it so much that she now dreamed every night about them having sex – in a variety of positions, even ones she had never thought about before (she also suspected that 90% of them were completely contrary to human anatomy and the laws of physics).
It got to the point where literally a few hours after her and Harry's nighttime escapade, Hermione woke up again with a sticky wetness between her legs and an aching, empty vagina, so the first impulse in her sleep- and lust-fogged mind was to go and find Harry and, if necessary, force him to fill her. She stopped only when she realized she had her hand on the doorknob.
By now she was so desperate that she almost didn't care that she was going to carry a child for the next nine months, as long as Harry gave her what she needed most – his seed inside her as soon as possible! Preferably right now!!
* * *
"Alright, breathe. Calm down. Just breathe. Think about something else… Like… about presents. Yes, presents! What mum and dad are going to give you this year…"
But everything she could think of, including new encyclopedias or some fancy electronic gadgets, was far inferior to the "gift" she truly wanted with all her being.
She needed – physically needed – Harry's baby inside her, just to breathe.
"This is compulsion. This is magic talking, not me… This is all magic. I have to control myself. I have to… Damn it…"
"H-Harry…"
"Huh?"
"Harry, I need…" she couldn't finish the sentence because suddenly her stomach was twisted by a spasm of pain so sharp and intense that her breath stopped and tears came to her eyes.
"I…" her vision swam and she felt like she was about to pass out.
"Hermione?!" Harry jumped up to her in a panic, grabbing her shoulders and preventing her from hitting her face on the corner of the bed.
"Harry… in m-my… my ba…" the words came out with difficulty as she desperately clung to the slipping threads of reality in front of her.
"What? Hermione, please, I don't understand!.."
As if from the side, she saw her cottony body being laid on the carpet. Her jaw barely moved as she croaked with the last of her strength:
"Prof… Dumble… The potion… is in my…"
"Oh… Okay. The potion! I get it! Alright. Just breathe, okay? Don't pass out! I'll be right back!" Having shouted this, the boy rushed out with a crash, leaving Hermione alone with another wave of white-hot pain.
She pulled her knees up to her chest, pressed her forehead against them, and clenched her teeth, holding back a painful groan.
"Harry… Please… Harry…"
She needed Harry.
She needed Harry!
"Harry…"
"Hermione, here!"
The next moment, the glass neck of the bottle was pressed against her mouth, and she felt on her tongue the already familiar caustic sweetness of the potion that she had been taking every day for the past month.
The image in front of her eyes slowly began to come into focus, and the first thing she saw clearly was Harry's pale face leaning over her, his wide eyes filled with horror as he stared at her, still uncertain whether she was going to die right there in his arms. Hermione herself wouldn't have been able to guarantee 100% that she would not, as her ears were still ringing so loudly.
"Are you good?"
"Better…" she rasped. "Help me get up."
They were quite lucky, because just a minute after Hermione managed to regain her vertical position, footsteps were heard on the stairs, and her mother's figure appeared in the doorway.
"Is everything alright here?"
"Uh… yeah, of course."
"Yes, ma'am. We… uh…"
"…had an argument over the game," Hermione weakly pointed to the scattered chess pieces on the floor and gave the woman the best smile she could muster, fully aware of how poorly her lie sounded.
"Please, mum, fall for it! Please, just go away! "
"Hmm… Well then…" Emma slowly drawled, still looking at the disheveled, somewhat uncheerful teenagers in front of her with disbelief.
Probably, she thought that if they had just been secretly making out or something like that, they should have looked more guilty and less frightened?
"Dinner's in five minutes, so you can go wash your hands and come downstairs."
"Cool!" they replied in unison.
Whether she truly believed them or not was hard to tell, but she still left them alone.
* * *
"Hermione, listen…" Harry began immediately after he made sure that her mother had really left and was not eavesdropping at the door.
"Harry, I… P-please… don't… Don't," she still hadn't come to her senses enough, so she continued to stutter, choking on air. All her previous concentration was barely enough to keep from fainting again.
"What do you mean?" Harry was now looking at her with genuine bewilderment, which quickly turned into resentment when Hermione, without any transition, abruptly moved away from him, not allowing him to touch her anymore, although before that she herself asked him for help.
But how could she explain?
"Please, just... don't."
"Please, understand! Please!"
How could she say that out loud? Even after everything that had happened between them already, how… how could she tell Harry that at that very moment she couldn't stand his touch without being overcome by an almost overwhelming urge to fall back onto the floor and spread her legs for him, begging him to fuck her right there on this fucking carpet, in her fucking childhood room, while her fucking parents were downstairs making fucking Christmas dinner?!
How could she?!
"Fuck!"
"Just... don't touch me now, okay? Please. Please, Harry…"
"I… Okay, Hermione. If you want me to leave you alone…"
"No! It's not like that!" She interrupted, with despair in her voice, and then repeated more quietly: "It's not like that…"
She tried to meet his eyes, hoping that at least she could convey to him what she couldn't say out loud, and fortunately it worked. Harry's brows were still furrowed in confusion, but at least he wasn't trying to walk away anymore.
"You… oh. Okay."
"Thank you."
He was probably still not entirely sure what exactly was going on or what his mistake, if there was one, had been, but he nodded anyway.
"Of course. Whatever you need, Hermione."
After that, an awkward silence fell between them as they mechanically gathered up the chess pieces and put them back in the box.
"Well… I guess we should head downstairs, huh?" Harry looked at her uncertainly, still a bit bewildered. He couldn't stop scanning her with his eyes for signs that she was about to have another episode.
Hermione would have given anything to know when it would happen again. Given that the potions had almost stopped helping her, she didn't have much time left.
"Yeah. Let's go."
"Oh Lord, please, please, I just want to survive this Christmas without any more drama!"
It was probably the closest she'd come to a prayer in her whole life, and that was despite the fact that she didn't believe in any gods. Right now, however, Hermione was ready to pray to any of them, even ones that didn't exist, if it meant she could make it just a little bit longer – until she and Harry were back at Hogwarts, under the care of an experienced Healer and other adult witches and wizards who could help them.
The thought of what would happen to her if she finally "collapsed" and go crazy right here, in the presence of her parents, was something Hermione refused to even think about.
Chapter 39
Chapter Text
Still teetering on the edge of a panic attack after Hermione had once again nearly died right in front of him just ten minutes earlier, Harry walked aimlessly down the corridor to the ground floor to join the Grangers for dinner. His eyes were fixed intently on the back of his best friend, still walking somewhat unsteadily ahead of him. He was trying not to miss a moment in case she suddenly started to lose consciousness again or something equally terrifying happened.
When Hermione, out of nowhere, suddenly doubled over in pain in the middle of their game, clutching her stomach with a pained gasp before collapsing to the floor – deathly pale and almost not breathing – Harry froze completely for a brief moment.
"No! Not again! Hermione!.."
For an instant, he truly thought she was dead – so pale and motionless she had become.
Then her mouth opened slightly, and a hoarse, barely audible request escaped. With the blood pounding in his ears, Harry didn't immediately catch what she was saying, but one word – "potion" – managed to penetrate his muddled thoughts.
He vaguely remembered rushing into Hermione's room and rummaging through her bag, frantically searching for the bottle she needed. Only after the ruby-coloured liquid had made it into her mouth and she began to recover did Harry realise he could finally breathe properly again himself.
It felt like a nightmare repeating itself – the hospital wing all over again – with the only difference being that now he and Hermione were in the Muggle world, in her parents' house, where they had to hide everything.
Thankfully, the potion worked quickly, and Hermione seemed to be fine again… but what if she wasn't? What if the effect wore off and she collapsed again? What would he do then?!
Should he… write to someone and ask for help? Should he contact Dumbledore?
Hedwig, whom he had released before heading to the platform, had returned earlier that morning and was now resting on her perch in the guest bedroom he was staying in. And though she was surely tired after such a long flight, Harry had no doubt she would agree to make the journey back to deliver an urgent letter…
Unable to stop worrying, Harry nervously bit his lower lip as he automatically wandered down the stairs, his legs still trembling from the adrenaline.
Too shaken and on edge to truly focus on his surroundings at the moment, he instead kept his eyes fixed on the chestnut-colored curls ahead of him and didn't immediately notice that something was different on the ground floor.
"Oh…" Harry froze on the last step, staring in mild stupor at the Christmas garlands and lights strung along the cornices – decorations that most definitely hadn't been there before. "This is…"
"Merry Christmas!" Mrs. Granger suddenly appeared in front of them, holding a large tray of biscuits. It seemed that whatever moratorium on sweets might have existed in this house was completely forgotten today.
The woman was still wearing a flour-dusted kitchen apron, and her face glowed with a soft smile directed at both children, which made Harry feel both strangely warm and just… strange, especially in contrast to the nightmare he'd just endured, which Mrs. Granger knew nothing about.
"Thanks," Hermione replied with a smile, making an effort to appear carefree, and grabbed a biscuit shaped like a snowman. "Merry Christmas!"
She then shot a pointed look at Harry out of the corner of her eye. He was still standing there, hesitant and unsure whether Mrs. Granger's words and the invitation to enjoy the biscuits were really meant for him as well.
Mrs. Granger, however, remained where she was, patiently waiting for him to overcome his awkwardness. Left with no other choice, Harry finally reached out and grabbed the nearest biscuit, a star-shaped one.
"Thank you, ma'am. And… uh… Merry Christmas to you too!"
"Thank you, Harry."
Mr. Granger was found in an armchair in the living room, as usual, with a newspaper in hand, though he was now dressed in a cheerful, brightly colored sweater featuring Santa and the words "Keep Calm and Ho Ho Ho On!" – something Harry would never have expected from him. However, before Potter could dwell on this last thought, it slipped from his mind, replaced by the sight of something entirely new and extraordinary.
The room, as he remembered it from that morning, had been completely transformed.
No, it was still filled with bookshelves lined up along every wall, and even the sofa – about which he tried not to think too much – was still in its rightful place. However, now the unmistakable spirit of Christmas had clearly taken residence here: the fireplace was adorned with a large green wreath and fragrant holly branches, along with tiny figurines of little spruces and porcelain angels.
The centerpiece of the arrangement was a large, beautiful Christmas tree adorned with glass baubles and twinkling lights that flickered mysteriously in the dim glow of the lamps and the roaring fireplace. At the very top of the tree stood a proud five-pointed star, and at its base lay a heap of brightly wrapped gifts in all shapes and sizes – presents the Grangers had prepared for each other this year.
"Merry Christmas, dad!" Hermione said, approaching her father and kissing him on the cheek.
"Merry Christmas, sweetheart," he replied with a warm smile before shifting his gaze to Harry.
For a moment, they continued to look at each other: Harry – nervous and wary, with a sharp urge to turn and flee back upstairs, and Hermione's father – appraisingly, once again trying to figure out how to interact with this uneasy, unfamiliar boy who, through some absurd twist of fate, had suddenly become something like a member of their family.
Finally, the man sighed and said evenly:
"Merry Christmas."
"And to you, sir."
In the tense silence, the voice of Hermione's mother calling her from the kitchen broke through, asking for her help with something. Hermione hesitated briefly before finally leaving the room. Before she did, she cast Harry one last glance – whether it was a warning or simply to ensure he'd be okay left alone with her father, Harry couldn't tell.
"But it's me who should be checking on her right now, not the other way around, after what just happened. What if she feels unwell again? What if she collapses again?!"
Having no idea how to occupy himself to silence the maddening thoughts swirling in his head, and feeling even more out of place as a result, Harry eventually perched on the very edge of the sofa (discreetly glancing at the upholstery – it was spotless, thank heavens!). He tried to appear relaxed and natural (which likely made him seem even more stiff), while Mr. Granger continued to rustle the pages of his newspaper, pretending not to notice him.
"Ahem…" A soft, deliberate clearing of the throat from the armchair after five excruciating minutes made Harry straighten up and look over at the man once more.
Mr. Granger was once again scrutinising him with that deep, piercing gaze that sent an icy chill down Harry's spine. This time, however, Harry tried his best not to waver or look away.
"So… As I understand it right, you and Hermione have been friends since your first year?"
"Oh… so it's going to be that kind of conversation. Alright then."
"Yes, sir."
"I see…"
"Hermione, please , please come back soon!.."
"We met on the train," Harry muttered uncertainly, desperately trying to think of something else to say that would sound appropriate and not like he was painfully pulling his own teeth with pliers. "Hermione was helping Neville look for Trevor, and Ron and I… uh… well, we were already sitting in the compartment when she came in."
He wasn't sure whether he should explain who Neville and Trevor were, or if Mr. Granger already knew about them from Hermione's letters… And if he didn't, would he even want to know in the first place?
"And after that, you became friends?"
"Does he not know about the troll?" Harry wondered, surprised.
And only then he realised that his friend might not have shared everything about her life at school with her family… It was an odd thought, especially since he himself would much rather face mortal danger again than voluntarily confide in adults about his problems. But that was mainly because, until recently, the vast majority of adults in his life hadn't cared about him at all. On top of that, he had already learned the hard way that, in his case, speaking out usually only led to his problems growing larger and more numerous, not being resolved.
Still, he'd always assumed – almost by default – that Hermione had a different, more trusting relationship with her parents… Was he wrong about that too?
Now entirely unsure what he could say and what he couldn't, lest he ruin the "cover story," Harry spent a few moments deep in thought, pretending to study the lights on the Christmas tree. In the end, unable to come up with anything better, he settled on a vague, neutral answer:
"Not exactly, sir. We became friends around Halloween. Hermione… uh… helped Ron and me a lot." He chose not to elaborate on how exactly she did that and hoped Mr. Granger would never find out that Hermione had lied to the professors to save them from detention or worse.
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, sir. She's very clever and… uh… hardworking. I think she knows almost as much as our professors!" Harry tried to sincerely praise his friend in a way he thought a serious adult would appreciate. Still, it sounded as though he and Ron had befriended Hermione solely because of her academic abilities.
Mentally cursing himself, he hastily tried to fix his blunder:
"I mean… Hermione's really cool, sir! She's a very strong witch, and she's smart, and kind, and… and she's very brave and… uh… lovely… and I… I think I'm really lucky she wanted to be friends with me because… uh… before Hogwarts, I didn't have… well… I didn't talk to people much at my old school and… well… Hermione and Ron… they're both my best friends, and…"
"Oh God, just shut up already, you nobhead! What the hell are you even saying?!"
Harry abruptly clamped his mouth shut, his teeth grinding as he blushed furiously, cutting himself off mid-sentence and looking away. Mr. Granger continued to watch him silently, just as he had while Harry rambled on with utter nonsense.
He must think Harry was a clinical idiot by now! Harry was convinced he was an idiot himself.
What was wrong with him, for heaven's sake?! Why was he always like this? Why couldn't he just make his useless mouth say the right words for once?! All he'd wanted was to tell Hermione's dad that he thought she's an amazing person and that he was lucky to have her as a friend. Instead, it had turned into a tangled, incoherent mess!
It was even worse than Potions class because, at least there, he had every right to be angry at Snape for tormenting him. But he had no right (or reason) to be angry with Mr. Granger, who, in fact, had been fairly polite to him so far.
It was Harry who was acting like a nervous paranoid fool all the time. The problem was with him, not with someone else.
* * *
Burning with shame and anger at himself, Harry glared darkly at his fingers, which had already crumpled the fabric of his new trousers at the knees.
Several more seconds passed, during which he tensely awaited Mr. Granger to scold him for his incoherence, order him to leave so he wouldn't ruin the mood with his sullen presence… or even throw a newspaper at him, the way Uncle Vernon often did when Harry irritated him with his foolishness or fidgeting.
"Damn it… What's taking him so long?!"
"Well, it's very comforting to know that Hermione now has friends who value her so much."
"Wait… what? That's it?"
Overwhelmed with relief that he wasn't about to be shamed and sent from the room, Harry missed the fleeting sadness and regret in Mr. Granger's deep tone. Nor did he catch the subtle shift in the man's gaze – now tinged with something akin to approval.
"Uh… yes, sir. She's wonderful."
"Who's wonderful?" a woman's voice came from the doorway.
"Hermione," Harry answered automatically without thinking, then blushed again as he noticed Mrs. Granger standing there.
"Really?" she raised an eyebrow in exaggerated surprise, though a flicker of amusement glimmered in her eyes.
"Uh…"
"Mum!" Hermione, standing just behind her, gave her a nudge in the side, to which Mrs Granger merely smiled knowingly. Hermione responded with her customary eye-roll, though the effect was slightly undermined by the pink flush spreading across her cheeks.
Watching their exchange, Harry found himself smiling shyly, too.
And only a moment later did he finally notice the glass bowl with some kind of salad in Hermione's hands and he quickly jumped up from his seat to help.
"No need, it's fine…"
But Harry wasn't listening anymore.
While he'd been lounging here, chatting and relaxing, Hermione must have been helping her mother in the kitchen – right after she'd barely recovered from her episode that nearly killed her! And he, a stupid muppet, had let her do that!
Ignoring the girl's faint protests, he firmly took the heavy bowl from her hands and then began quickly carrying the rest of the dishes from the kitchen before she could do it herself.
"How gallant of you, Harry," Mrs Granger remarked, casting a meaningful look at her husband, who raised his hands in mock surrender.
"What? I hung up the lights and brought in the tree…!"
* * *
Exchanging a few words here and there (with Hermione's parents and Hermione herself doing most of the talking again), the four of them leisurely and contentedly cleared the plates on the table, all while an old Christmas radio concert played softly in the background. Unlike the Dursley residence, where evenings like these were typically accompanied by a blaring television and modern music videos, the Grangers clearly favoured a more restrained, retro aesthetic.
This was reflected even in their holiday feast, where the centrepiece of the table was a beautifully roasted goose served with cranberry sauce and vegetables. Petunia, in their place, would undoubtedly have chosen something "fashionable," like lobster – something she could later boast about to the neighbours – or perhaps some kind of exotic sauces that Harry would have hated on sight simply because it was him who would have had to quickly learn how to prepare them. And, of course, he would have been expected to do so flawlessly, unless he wanted to be locked away without a crumb of food until the very New Year's…
Blinking hard to chase away stupid thoughts of the stupid Dursleys and their stupid house – all of which were far too distant now to warrant any concern – Harry speared another slice of fragrant ham with his fork and placed it into his mouth with relish. Chewing it thoroughly, he reached for his glass and took a generous sip of mulled wine – very weak, but still mulled wine nonetheless.
It was unexpected, really, but the Grangers, for all their outward propriety, apparently saw no issue with letting the children have a small cup of warm, spiced wine during the celebration – as long as it was their only one of the evening, of course.
By this point, Harry could honestly say that he was enjoying the dinner, despite all the accompanying troubles. Of course, the worry for Hermione and the upcoming Big Talk with her parents hadn't disappeared and still hung over him like a sword of Damocles, but right now, it somehow... felt a little blurred and distant. Maybe it was thanks to the first alcohol he'd ever had, or perhaps it was simply the abundance of delicious food in the company of family... that wasn't truly his family, but... in a way, kind of was.
Hermione seemed to have recovered from her fall and was enjoying the moment too. Right now, she and her father were chatting excitedly about some recently launched series about aliens and a pair of American FBI special agents investigating paranormal phenomena. Apparently, it was some kind of horror movie, and quite bloody and disgusting at that, but Hermione looked genuinely disappointed that she wouldn't be able to watch it live on TV, because by that time she would already be back at Hogwarts.
"Well… you could always stay home and watch the series here," Mr. Granger suggested jokingly, but Harry, like everyone else at the table, caught the hidden hint in his words, which immediately made him tense up and stop chewing.
"Yeah. Or I'll just watch it on tape later," Hermione shrugged calmly before scooping up another spoonful of potatoes. "The entire season will probably be out by summer…"
They continued in this vein until late at night, exchanging conversations about movies and books and school and the following summer, which the Grangers apparently planned to spend in France. As it turned out, in addition to Hermione's maternal grandparents, there were also a whole bunch of her French cousins living there.
Without a word, Harry and Hermione carefully avoided all the "triggering" topics, such as the three-headed hellhound guarding the chambers with the Philosopher's Stone, or deadly obstacle courses, or even most deadly bludgers, or the Heir of Slytherin, which, strictly speaking, had been the cause of this whole crazy ritual situation.
Harry didn't know how much Professor Dumbledore had told Hermione's parents, or whether he had mentioned the actual reason why she, Harry and Ron had decided to take such a desperate step in the first place. And if they did know, would they have seen it as a mitigating factor or, on the contrary, as an aggravating one?
Or maybe they would have decided that since dark wizards and other deadly dangers were roaming around Hogwarts all the time, they should immediately take their daughter away from such a horrible place?
"They won't do it! Hermione would never willingly drop out of school. And they have no right to decide for her! Even if they try, I… I just won't let them! Unless Hermione herself says she wants to leave…"
Professor Dumbledore had said that, as Hermione's husband, Harry had the right to speak on her behalf in matters like this. But Potter would never dare to do anything against her will. It was already more than enough that the two of them were now forever bound by the chains of ritual vows.
"If we really do have to leave here forever," he mused, stabbing his spoon into his Christmas pudding, "I suppose I could… probably rent us a room somewhere? Or… erm… maybe even buy a house? Oh! I… I actually have the money for that!"
Stunned by this "sudden" revelation, he almost choked.
Blimey! How had he not thought of this before?!
He really did have money all this time – the very same money his mum and dad had left him! While it likely wasn't as much as the Malfoys had, it didn't need to be. The last time Harry checked (no more than four months ago, when he was shopping for school supplies), there had been an entire pile of gold in his vault! That meant he and Hermione definitely wouldn't have to worry about money… at least for some indeterminate amount of time.
Even if her parents eventually kicked them out, he and Hermione wouldn't have to live on the streets after all!
Feeling as though an entire galaxy – and a few major solar systems to boot – had just been lifted off his shoulders, Harry happily drained the last of the mulled wine in his cup in one go. Then he leaned back on the sofa seat, looking around with a contented and just slightly dazed expression.
The adults and Hermione were still deep in discussion about something (it seemed to be some highly scientific topic, half of which Harry could barely understand, even though it was all in English). Thankfully, no one seemed to expect him to actively contribute to the conversation. He could simply drift along with the soothing white noise, enjoying the pleasant fullness in his stomach, the warmth of the dwindling fire in the hearth, and the startling realization that his future might not be quite as grim and hopeless as he had imagined before.
Well, yes, he was only twelve, and already married, and his "family" situation was actually completely wild... He also still didn't have his own home or any adults who could actually take care of him, other than Dumbledore, who had his hands full as it was… But he had his inheritance. His money.
"I wonder how much there really is?"
He sincerely hoped it was enough to buy a house. Not necessarily a grand mansion – just a simple home, or even a modest little cottage somewhere remote. Harry would be absolutely thrilled to have a place of his own. A place he could truly call home… He had never dared to dream of such a thing before!
"If I asked Hermione to live there with me… would she say yes?"
He tried to picture the still-uncertain future, where he lived on his own – or just with Hermione – and it felt… actually, not bad at all!
If there were no one there to yell at him or hit him, and if he and Hermione had enough money to buy food and clothes… and pay the utility bills… all in all, Harry was pretty sure he could handle most of the household tasks on his own – even without using magic. After all, he'd managed to do it at the Dursleys' for the past ten years!
How hard could it really be, especially if he didn't have to spend 24/7 catering to his stupid spoiled cousin, his cleanliness-obsessed aunt, and her spiteful fat husband, whose apparent life mission was to "beat the freakishness out of Harry Potter"?
"I can do this," Harry realized with a surprising sense of clarity.
Filled with this newfound, unexpected confidence, he sank even further into the sofa, staring absentmindedly at the colourful lights on the Christmas tree with a silly grin on his face. In that moment, he felt completely boneless – in the best way possible: calm and carefree, like a jellyfish drifting gently on the ocean waves. Floating along the current of his sleepy thoughts, he swayed on the waves of contentment and serenity, a feeling so rare for him that it was almost foreign…
Already on the verge of sleep, he kept dreaming of a future with no Dursleys, no overseers of any kind… Just him, his cosy new home, and Hermione, whom he could hug and kiss whenever he wanted…
And it was utterly, absolutely perfect.