Chapter Text
The thing about Hermione maybe slowly invading his house, and his thoughts, and then maybe his life, is that he should’ve seen it coming. And now that he’s noticed, it’s become a little harder to ignore.
Especially when he walks into Teddy’s room at Newbarn one night, and finds them curled up on the little bed, asleep above the covers after an exhausting day of activities. Hermione’s body is folded to fit right around where Teddy is tucked into her chest, and Harry notices that the young boy’s hair is a wild, familiar brown today—just like hers, spread all over the pillows—as they breathe together in a soft, even rhythm.
His heart feels warm and tight and aching all at once, stunned at the very real realization that a quiet day like this, with no threat of danger or war—with just her and Teddy, and this soft kind of peace—is terrifyingly real and just within his grasp.
Maybe this here, with them, is what he wants home to look like.
::
Andromeda arrives to pick her grandson up just after lunch the following day, entering almost regally through the Floo. Harry takes her cloak, and watches as she dusts off excess ash and takes a cursory glance around his sitting room.
“What?” he prompts, noticing the look in her eye.
“You have a reading nook,” she says. “I don’t remember that being here the last time I visited.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Interesting,” she comments, gaze sweeping over the carefully labeled storage baskets and the little potted plants on the windowsill. “I didn’t know you were a big reader. Your shelves are a lot fuller than I remember, too.”
“Er, Hermione brought some more books over.” He tries to shrug casually and fails. “You know how she is.”
“And the garden outside,” Andromeda continues, looking out the window, “her idea, as well?”
“She plants stuff there sometimes.” He doesn’t know why he can’t keep a defensive tone from creeping into his voice. “We do it together, when we have time.”
“Hmm.”
Harry frowns. “What’s that ‘hmm’ mean, then?”
“Nothing.”
“Andi.”
Andromeda’s mouth twitches. “I just find it all a bit interesting.”
“I told you I’ve been decorating, haven’t I?”
“You certainly have,” she agrees. “Your home is lovely. I’ve also noticed that colorful throw on the armchair that I’m positive you didn’t knit. And the jar of sugar quills you keep stocked that I know for a fact that you don’t even like.”
Harry feels his face start to burn. “I never said that.”
“I do know someone who does. And also someone else who likes primroses.” She gestures at the fresh stems sitting on his coffee table, newly charmed to sparkle and let out a tinkling melody every few minutes. “And someone who’s particularly gifted at charms. And whose face is practically plastered everywhere here as much as Teddy’s is.”
“I like taking pictures of everyone,” he says, nearly stammering. “It’s been a really interesting hobby.”
“Sure, it is,” she agrees. “Though I’m sure it’s not the only thing you find interesting these days.”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to say.”
Andromeda laughs. “Oh, I’m sure you do,” she says, “but I’ll let you live in denial for much longer.”
::
When McGonagall writes to him once more, he stares at the letter for a long time. He thinks about what Andromeda had said before—“Think about what you want,”—and Hermione’s teasing tone when she called him “Professor Harry James Potter” in a way that still makes his face flame up whenever he remembers.
Instead of writing back, he scrawls, Heard you’re going back to Hogwarts, and sends it off to Neville.
Two days later, Neville sends back a photo of the greenhouses from when he met with Professor McGonagall, and another of himself and Professor Sprout, holding onto some crying Mandrakes.
At least I didn’t faint this time, he writes. But I love it, mate. I heard about you and the Defense position. If you’re still thinking about it, I don’t blame you. The castle felt different when I was there. But Sprout and I have started talking about her plans for me, and I find it quite exciting. Never thought I’d feel excited about the prospect of school; my twelve-year-old self will be appalled.
Harry laughs at that.
There’s no deadline or timeline you need to follow, Harry, Neville continues. Take your time to decide. Don’t feel pressured to make a decision. McGonagall knows you well enough to wait. Besides, Hogwarts will always be here to open its doors for you.
He shows Hermione and Ron the letter, the next time they come over and they’re sitting out by the lake now that the weather’s a little better. Kreacher’s brought out sandwiches and blankets and a self-refilling pitcher of pumpkin juice, and Harry is content to lie back and watch the pink hues swirl around in the sky as the sun sets.
“Neville’s right,” Hermione says. “You have all the time in the world to figure it out.”
He watches her profile in the fading light of the sun—the way she’s relaxed into her chair, unopened book on her lap, drink in her hand. Her hair’s up in a messy bun, leaving strands falling loosely around her face, and he feels a sudden itch to push them back, hand trailing against her jaw.
He thinks she looks really, annoyingly, achingly pretty. Why has he never seen it before?
He wrenches his eyes away before either of his friends could notice.
“Maybe I’m just starting to figure out what I want,” he mumbles, staring out at the water.
“That’s good, mate,” Ron says. “Next step’s letting yourself want it.”
::
The way that Hermione’s taken to Flooing into his house out of the blue is something he’s so gotten used to that he doesn’t really think about it much anymore, especially now that they’re deep into planning Teddy’s first birthday party. Usually she’s dropping off groceries too, or just looking for someone to listen to her tirades. Harry listens every time, and enjoys the look of surprise on her face whenever she realizes he’s actually paying attention—like he hasn’t been reading up about her work on the Prophet or listening to the wizarding radio for news on her creature equality act.
They usually end up in front of the fire, her scribbled notes on party favors and guest lists spread around them as they drink her favorite wine; and when it gets a little too late and they get a little too drunk, he asks if she wants to stay the night, and she ends up tangled around him in his bed, like it’s nothing new. Like it’s normal.
It makes his heart race, every morning he wakes up and sees her face in the sun—and he wrestles with the desire and longing, of maybe wanting more of something like this.
::
The thought is terrifying, really—this realization that maybe he’s feeling something for Hermione that he shouldn’t. That she’s his best friend, and maybe the most important person in his life, but she’s also Ron’s ex-something, and she’s also Hermione.
She’s always been many things in his life. His best friend, mostly. His confidante, his sounding board, the voice of morality and goodness in his ear. His fiercest defender and his favorite late-night drinking buddy and walking partner around the lake behind Newbarn.
But also she’s Hermione—Hermione who’s started to wear pretty dresses, drinks him under the table, and curses like a sailor when she’s frustrated. Hermione, who giggles when she’s drunk and dances to random music and keeps chewing on the ends of her quill when she’s stressed out. Hermione, who talks with her hands and goes on tangents about the Ministry bigots and who loves deeply and cares passionately and just wants to help make the world better .
She’s also Hermione—who smiles at him prettily and makes his heart pound and makes him wonder what it would be like to maybe just take her by the waist, cup her jaw, and kiss her senseless. Who makes him wonder what her mouth would taste like or how soft her skin would feel and how wet she would be if he slides a hand up her skirt and touches her in ways he’d never let himself think before.
Hermione—who fills his thoughts and his house and his dreams and oh dear god, maybe he’s in too deep way more than he’s ever realized.
::
Teddy’s first birthday party at Harry’s house is met with loud celebration and a meticulously decorated backyard. The Weasley clan is there, as well as Neville and Luna and Dean, and Ginny calls them via Floo and sends over a kid-sized Holyhead Harpies jersey for Teddy to wear for the occasion.
Hermione brings out the cake she baked with Fleur and Molly’s help, its frosting blue like the night sky, with a little moon made of fondant in the middle, and little edible glitter sprinkled all over it like stars. She takes it to where Harry stands with Teddy in his arms, and he meets her eyes above the candles.
“Make a wish for Ted, Harry,” Andromeda says, and he watches the way Hermione’s mouth quirks upwards on one side, making his heart flutter funnily inside his chest.
He helps Teddy blow the candle, but holds the wish he makes inside his heart like a secret.
“Happy birthday, mate,” Harry says to Teddy as the crowd erupts in cheers. Hermione leans over to kiss the top of Teddy’s head, her hand snaking around Harry’s waist as she leans in, and he inhales a whiff of her familiar perfume that melts his insides.
Ron snaps a picture of the moment using Harry’s camera, grinning and raising an eyebrow at the wide-eyed look Harry makes.
He swallows heavily, then distracts himself by helping Hermione cut the cake.
::
Later, she flops down on his sofa with a glass of wine, looking exhausted but happy. He knows exactly how she feels, dropping down beside her, his head falling on her shoulder.
“It was a good party,” she tells him, sipping her drink daintily.
“There’s so much to clean up,” he replies, making her laugh.
“Molly took care of most of it before we stopped her,” she says. “Andi helped too.”
He hums, then falls quiet.
“Think Ted had a good time?” he asks.
“I know he did.” She grins. “Ron has the pictures to prove it. I already can’t wait to see them.”
“Me too, but knowing Ron, I hope his finger’s not blocking most of them.”
She laughs again, and he feels warmer than ever, especially when her fingers dance against his wrist before sliding up his palm.
“I think I need more albums.”
“I can take care of that.” Her fingers slot into the spaces between his. “Teddy’s going to have so many photos to look at when he’s older.”
“I always think about what you said. About filling the albums up with memories.”
She smiles. “Got a lot of good ones, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Then, feeling brave, he says, “This one’s one of them.”
Her hand tightens in his, and they fall silent again, as she continues to sip her wine.
“You did good, Harry.”
“We did,” he corrects her. “You helped plan it. And decorate. And buy all the shit we needed. All I did was clean the house.”
“And cook most of the food with Kreacher’s help,” she corrects him, shaking her head. “But I’m not just talking about the party. I meant this house, the way you’re settling.” She pauses for a moment, taking another long sip of her wine as she looks at him out of the corner of her eye. “You look happy.”
“Maybe I am,” he says. “But I also feel a little…I still feel a little restless sometimes. I like having time to myself. I’ve never had this much free time before. But also I feel like maybe I could be doing more.”
“Like what?”
“Like at Hogwarts.”
“Oh.” Her eyebrow lifts. “You’re thinking of the Defense position.”
“Yeah, I am.” He takes a deep breath and thinks back on McGonagall’s last letter, the one still sitting unfolded on his desk next to Neville’s. The one he still hasn’t replied to. “I think—I think it’s something I could be good at. And something I’d actually like. Like you said.”
“Well, I don’t want to say I told you so, but…”
He pokes her on the side, causing her to jump and spill some of her wine. “Harry. Ticklish!”
“Oops,” he laughs, as she puts down the glass and wandlessly cleans up the spill.
Her other hand stays entangled in his.
“If you take the apprenticeship,” she says, settling back on the cushions and burrowing deeper beside him, “when’s that going to happen?”
“August,” he answers. “I’d still have June and July off. But I wouldn’t have to live at the castle; Neville said that McGonagall told him she would be able to connect one of the Floo channels to our houses, so we could still go home and everything.”
“At least I’d still see you a lot.”
He grins. “You see me plenty.”
“Not enough,” she says, a little quietly, a little seriously. “I always want you around.” She shrugs, like she hadn’t just totally short-circuited his brain.
“Me too,” he says, a little hoarsely, as his brain tries to catch up with his heartbeat.
The thing about Hermione is—she’s always been emotionally intelligent, always attuned to his thoughts, always seeming to know how he feels. When she glances up at him, he realizes how close their faces are—the way her breath is warm on his neck, and the way he can see the way her eyelashes flutter against her cheek.
He thinks he’s so beyond doomed, heart tingling at the way her thumb brushes against the pulse point on his wrist.
He wants to say, You’re really fucking pretty. He wants to tell her, I’ve been thinking of traveling a little bit for the summer and I want you to come with me. He wants to confess, I’ve been thinking about you way too much and about how you fit here and how you’ve made my house a home and now I kind of maybe want you to stay forever, if you want to.
He thinks Hermione can tell, the way her eyes move around his face, the way her breath stutters, the way her fingers press a bit more against his wrist.
“Harry,” she says, mouth brushing lightly against his jaw. He breathes her in, feeling the curve of her waist beneath his palm as he pulls her a little bit closer.
“Hermione,” he says, heart pounding when he feels her lips move to his neck, then his jaw again, then under his ear—the faintest whisper of a touch that lights up every nerve in his entire body. Then, fueled by wine and a touch of reckless bravery and maybe a hint of desperation, he says hoarsely, “If you don’t stop me, I’m going to kiss you.”
He sees her eyebrow raise—a little jokingly, like a challenge—in a way that makes his blood heat up.
“So kiss me,” she whispers, and he leans in and does as she asks.
::
Kissing her feels like a revelation. She tastes like sugar, and wine, and her—a lethal combination that he feels deep down inside his chest. His hand slides into her hair, as the other pulls at her waist until she gets the hint, straddling him with her legs on either side of his hips, and her mouth opening above his as he breathes her in.
It feels both foreign and familiar at the same time, but easy. Like they’ve been doing this forever. Like maybe they’re meant to be, especially when he feels her smile into the kiss.
“Harry,” she whispers with a roll of her hips that robs him of breath, “bed.”
They stumble into his bedroom, laughing a little when her back hits the door in his haste to get her through it. He presses her into the mattress, hands grasping at skin under her blouse and lips trailing over her neck like he’s trying to tell her everything he’s always kept secret into his kiss.
His hands shake as he fumbles with the buttons, kissing his way down every inch of newly exposed skin. Her hands pull almost impatiently at his shirt, tugging it above his head, and they laugh softly when his hair gets stuck on a long, loose piece of thread.
When he pushes his hair away from his forehead, he sees her watching him with a look in her eyes—hot, blazing, and tender all at once.
“You’re staring,” she breathes, flushed.
“You’re staring,” he retorts, grinning as he leans down and trails kisses down her jaw, then her neck, his tongue lapping slowly at a freckle on her shoulder, making her gasp. Then his tongue slides lower, trailing down her chest as his hand reaches between them, finding her wet and warm and wanting.
“Harry.” Her hands dig tightly into his shoulders as his tongue swirls around her breast.
He slides two fingers inside her, murmuring “You feel so good,” into her skin; he strokes her slowly, deliberately, until he watches her fall apart—back arching and mouth opening in a silent gasp that leaves him nearly undone.
::
When he slides into her, it’s slow, and deep, and careful, until it’s not. It’s gentle until his hands are pushing her knees wider; it’s tender until he feels her roll her hips upward to meet his hard thrusts. Then they’re moving together with abandon, all skin and sweat and breathless pants and whimpers that he’ll never be able to unhear—until she falls apart beneath him, and he follows soon after, emptying himself inside her until he’s breathless, voice dissolving into a moan against her shoulder.
He collapses beside her, spent, as he tries to get his breathing under control. When she turns to him, flushed and pink and sweaty, there’s a small smile on her face that will be etched into his mind forever.
She reaches with a shaky hand to cup his jaw, pulling his face upward to meet his mouth with hers in a slow, deep kiss.
It feels like a long time coming.
::
He wakes up to sunlight glancing off of her bare, freckled shoulder, and before he can think about it, he nuzzles closer, lips brushing against her skin, followed by his tongue.
“Mmm,” she hums, turning her head and smiling sleepily at him. “Never too early for a little kiss.”
He laughs, cups her neck, and tangles his tongue around hers.
She pulls away, breathless, as he feels himself harden against her thigh. “Morning,” she murmurs, still sleepily, and he watches the sunlight streak across her cheekbones, with her hair scattered all over her pillow, her breasts pressed against his chest, and he can’t help the way he groans against her neck.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, tongue pressing against her collarbone as his hand makes its way up her thigh, making her gasp as his finger slides against her clit.
“Shut up,” she breathes out.
“What?” He’s laughing against her jaw. “You are.”
“Stop it.”
“You’re blushing,” he says, observing the way her neck reddens, the flush traveling down to her chest.
She grumbles, “I’ll show you blushing,” then pushes him back against the bed as she slides down his chest and hips before he can even fully process what’s happening.
She swallows his cock in her mouth, making him cry out loud in surprise, and sweet Merlin, he thinks he can wake up to this—to her, in his bed—for possibly forever if she’ll let it.
They don’t make it out of bed ‘til much, much later.
::
He finds breakfast waiting downstairs, along with Hermione, who’s dressed in one of his dress shirts tucked into yesterday’s trousers. He thinks it’s really unfair, the way she looks in a messy bun and his clothes, like it’s not doing things to him.
“I have to run,” she says apologetically, “work calls.”
He thinks it’s stupid, the way his heart starts pounding. “Oh. Alright.”
Like she knows what he’s thinking, and she probably does, she leans in to grab at his shirt and pull him closer, mouth closing over his in a deep, lingering kiss.
Her forehead presses against his when she says, “We’ll talk tonight, okay?”
He’s a little dazed and breathless when he replies, “Okay,” and she laughs when he tries to chase her mouth.
“Harry,” she says, letting him kiss her again. “I’m already late.”
“Fine,” he says, stealing one last kiss. “But come home early, okay?”
She freezes at the word, the way he does.
Then she relaxes visibly, hand on his jaw as she presses her mouth to his one last time. “I will,” she says softly, “I promise.”
She disappears into the Floo, leaving behind a small note with a smiley face next to his plate.
He sticks it on the door of his refrigerator, next to the photo of her and Teddy by the lake with their cheeks smushed together, and his face feels warm, his entire body tingling, his heart full and happy and alive.
::
He makes an elaborate dinner with Kreacher’s help, and Hermione is a little stunned when she Floos in later that night, looking at the spread with her eyes shining.
“Er,” he says, suddenly feeling shy and stupid and exposed. “I, um, wanted to surprise you.”
She grabs him by his shirt and kisses him, her lips warm and slow. When she pulls away with a sigh, one of her hands still cling onto his shirt, like she wants him near still. “What are you doing to me, Harry?”
He grins into her temple. “I’ve been asking myself the same question about you for the past couple of months.”
She looks at him with surprise, and something almost like disbelief. Like she hadn’t seen this coming. Like he hadn’t been showing signs, like she hadn’t been slowly moving into his house and into his life deeper and deeper until they both lost track of the invisible line they’d never crossed before.
“Hermione,” he says carefully, “I don’t think you’ve realized how you are in every corner of this house. Your pictures, your things, your shoes and your singing flowers and even the clothes you keep leaving behind. I’ve built a reading nook by the window and put a bench in the backyard because you like to look at the stars. My cupboards are full with your favorite wine and you have a side of the sofa that’s yours and you might as well have a side of the bed, too, because there’s no one else I’d want to be there.”
He slides his hand around her waist, drawing her closer to him as her hand clenches tighter around the front of his shirt, her breath shaky against his collarbone.
“You’ve made a space for yourself in this house and I’ve been making room for you before I ever even realized it,” he tells her, voice quiet. “You think I haven’t been thinking about you, waking up with you, waiting for you to come home and start ranting about the idiots at the Ministry? You think I haven’t been rearranging this house and my life around you since maybe the war? You think I wouldn’t want you in my life in every single way I can have you?”
Hermione’s eyes are wide and full of tears as she looks up at him. “Harry.”
“Hermione,” he says, hands sliding around her waist and pulling her closer, “I don’t regret last night, and I really like having you here, and kissing you is something I’ve been thinking about for months. And this here, you coming home here is…is just—”
“I know,” she says softly, hand sliding up his neck. “I know, Harry. Did you not realize I’ve just been waiting for you all this time?”
He catches the tear that falls out of her eye as she takes a deep, shaky breath. “Guess I haven’t.”
“These are happy tears,” she clarifies, “just to be clear. And you’re an idiot.”
They laugh into each other’s mouths as they press closer, as he backs her up slowly into the counter and makes her inhale sharply when his hips line up against hers.
He swallows her gasp, and suddenly there’s not a lot of talking.
::
Half of the next rolls of film he develops are full of floaty sundresses and wild brown curls and the prettiest smile he’s ever seen.
Ed, the shopkeeper, smiles at him knowingly when he returns to replenish his film stash and ingredients for the developing potion.
“You’ve been blowing right through these rolls,” he says, laughing when Harry flushes. “Got a good muse, have ‘ya, Mr. Potter?”
“Yeah,” Harry grins, a little embarrassed. “Maybe I do.”
::
It isn’t until Teddy and Andromeda’s next visit that he brings out the new album he’s compiled for his godson, full of photos from his birthday party. He and Hermione sit on the floor with Teddy, pointing out the photos and the people in them as they watch his face light up at the moving pictures.
“I’ll continue making albums for him,” he tells Andromeda, who looks teary-eyed at a photo of Hermione kissing Teddy on his chubby cheeks. “I want all his best memories kept together so he can look at them when he gets older.”
“I hope you’re doing the same, Harry,” Andromeda says, and nods at the way Hermione’s hand is tangled with his. “Looks like you’ve got a lot of new ones to keep.”
Harry smiles, catching Hermione’s embarrassed grin at the corner of his eye.
“Got a lot of space for new ones, too,” he says, feeling his heart warm when her hand squeezes his.
::
When he finally writes back to McGonagall, Hermione watches as he ties the letter to the leg of the owl, in this tiny post office near Newbarn. It nips affectionately at his finger, then they watch it fly away and disappear into a tiny speck in the sky.
“I’m a little nervous,” he says, breaking the silence, still looking upwards at the clouds. “But also a bit excited.”
“I’m glad.” She smiles. “Then it wasn’t a mistake.”
“No,” he agrees, then takes her hand. “It wasn’t a mistake.”
“I’m proud of you.” She grins mischievously. “Professor Potter.”
Their hands stay tangled together as they make their way back home, walking under the bright summer sun.
::
Her clothes start migrating to his closet more. He’s started to magically expand it, clearing drawers and shifting clothes to make more space.Her work notes and documents cover his kitchen table, her shampoo and toothbrush appearing inside his bathroom one by one.
More shoes appear in the hall closet. Owls addressed to her leave her post by his front door, like they know they’ll find her here.
He watches it happen slowly, as she shows up in his Floo every night, and he falls asleep next to her in his bed—the way she’s nesting further, the way he’s still making space for her, making his home more hers as he goes.
::
Ron finds out about two weeks after, when he finds Hermione working in his study, dressed in an old Quidditch jersey of Harry’s and practically nothing else.
She slams the door in his face after barking that she needs to get work done and therefore requires some peace and quiet, and Ron turns to Harry in the resounding echo of the door nearly taken off its hinges.
“You may have some explaining to do, Harry,” Ron says, voice almost casual. “Especially because I distinctly remember you saying something along the lines of ‘She’s like a sister to me and I reckon she feels the same way about’—”
“Ssshh,” he hisses, pulling at Ron’s arm and dragging him down the stairs.
“Well?” Ron crosses his arms, eyebrow raised like a challenge.
“Are you seriously trying to start something right now?”
“I’m not jealous,” Ron says, defensive. “You know Hermione and I talked about why we didn’t work out.”
“You’re trying to intimidate me.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then what’s that stupid haughty eyebrow for?”
“Because it’s Hermione,” Ron says, “and sorry to say, mate, but she comes first.”
Harry can’t really argue with that, so he just sighs. “I know what I said before, during the war. In the forest.”
“Mm-hmm.” Ron’s tone is annoyingly perceptive and knowing.
“But I also…” Harry takes a deep breath. “I also know what I feel now. And it’s…it’s just—it’s a bit frightening, but maybe I’ve been in denial for the longest fucking time…but I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
Ron’s expression softens.
“Mate,” he says, laying a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Thank Merlin you finally came to your fucking senses. Don’t you know she’s been in love with you for ages?”
“Oh.” Harry’s eyes are wide and surprised.
“Yes, I’ve known about it for a while,” Ron grins, “and yes, it definitely took you damn long enough.”
::
The map is folded in his drawer when he finally takes it out and brings it to where she’s busy reading on the sofa. He spreads it out on the coffee table, brings out the books he bought, the markers he’s used to draw circles on key cities around the map.
“What’s all this?” She puts her book down tentatively, wide-eyed and curious.
“I still have July off,” he says, a little nervously, “before I have to head off to Hogwarts.”
“Okay,” she says, and he can see the gears turning behind her eyes.
“I’ve been thinking…” He clears his throat, then points to his messy scrawl all over the map. “Well, Edinburgh and Paris might be a good place to spend it in, don’t you think?”
She stares at the map, unblinkingly.
“I mean…” He scratches the back of his head. “I can help you talk to Kingsley, to give you time off, and only if you want to, but I’ve made these—these plans, and this color-coded itinerary, and there’s this little ancient wizarding artifact museum just outside Edinburgh, and a magical art gallery hidden somewhere by the Louvre—I looked it up, mind you—and I dunno, if you want to change anything it’s okay by me, or if you want to keep it shorter, whatever, as long as you—”
“Harry,” she interrupts, still wide-eyed and breathless, “you’re rambling.”
“I, er.” He takes a long, deep breath. “Sorry.”
“Stop being sorry,” she laughs, then peers more closely at the map and his little notes, humming and ooh-ing at some points. “How long have you been planning this?”
“Not long,” he answers, still feeling sheepish. “I, uh, got the idea when Ginny came home and then there’s this bookshop owner who lent me his map and…” He coughs. “I…well, I thought of you.”
“Oh.” Her eyes are glassy and her bottom lip is trembling.
“Only if you want to.”
“I do,” she breathes. “I’d go anywhere with you, you know that, right?”
His heart soars inside his chest, but he reins it in, because he’s got another thing on his mind, one more thing to worry over, one more tiny thing he’s terrified of fucking up. “Okay, good…good.”
Her mouth quirks. “Good?”
“Good.” He nods, vigorously, suddenly nervous all over again. “And then maybe, when we get back…I have, er, a duplicate key. To the house.”
“To the house?” she repeats, eyes growing even wider.
“Er, yes.” He shifts his foot. “And it’s yours, if—if you want it.”
“If I want—you big stupid idiot,” is all she says, a bit tearfully, as she tackles him into the rug, and he laughs breathlessly as he catches her kiss.
“I take it that’s a yes,” he says, and she slaps his chest, hard and unrelenting.
“Idiot,” she says again, fondly, eyes bright and happy as he rubs at the skin with a joking grimace. “I already practically live here. Did you ever think I would say no?”
::
She breaks the lease to her flat in June.
Ron watches them unpack Hermione’s magically expanded boxes and suitcases, stuffing his mouth with chips and being generally unhelpful as Hermione barks instructions about where to put everything, what to rearrange, and oh dear, she’ll need to reorganize a bunch of things in the kitchen pantry and the hallway closet at this rate.
“How are you going to fit all her damn books?” he asks, mouth full.
Harry wipes his brow. “I, er, had Kreacher help me build a library in the attic upstairs.”
Ron throws his hands up as Hermione squeals excitedly, not having heard this until now.
“Of course you have,” he says, but he’s grinning as Hermione throws her arms around a startled Harry’s neck.
::
The map is carefully folded, tucked between the travel guide books they’ve annotated with color-coded notes, and kept inside her expanded sling bag. His camera is in his abnormally large backpack, the one he bought at a Muggle shop because he wanted to feel like “a real Muggle traveler”, making Hermione roll her eyes with a fond smile.
She tucks her house key into a small pocket of her bag, and Harry’s hand finds hers as they walk to the sitting room.
“We’re right on schedule,” Hermione says, glancing at her watch. “Train isn’t leaving until half ten. Ready?”
They’re Flooing to Ron and George’s flat, where they’ll Apparate to King’s Cross, then take a Muggle train down to Edinburgh. Harry’s never been on a lot of Muggle transport before, and hasn’t in years. He’s a tiny bit excited, already having double checked their train tickets four times since they’ve woken up.
“Ready.” He smiles, feeling almost giddy.
He feels her laugh at the expression on his face, and when he looks up, she’s watching him with the softest, fondest, gentlest smile he’s ever seen on her.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she chuckles. “Just hold on to me.”
He just grins, fingers tightening around hers, almost like second nature, like they’ve been doing this their whole lives.
In a way, he thinks as they step into the Floo, they kind of have.
And now they have the rest of their lives to do it, too.