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A Symphony of Thursdays

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Hermione tapped her thumbnail on the bathroom counter, doing the math again in her head. There was no point to it, really, she had a goddamn Mastership in Arithmancy, she wasn’t about to mess up a casual sum. But she did it again anyway. 

“Forty-four,” she murmured, and once again felt a wave of panic threaten to overtake her. 

Just then, much to her relief, her wand timer went off, and she silenced it immediately. Then, she reached for the stick propped on the edge of the sink, and the earth dropped away from her feet. 


The word, in clear blue lettering, bored deep into her head, and she felt a peculiar type of numbness sweep through her body. Her stomach twisted, and she wondered if she was about to throw up, was this what morning sickness felt like—?

They’d been together — officially — for six weeks, and she was almost embarrassed to admit how simple it was. Any doubts she’d ever had about dating her best friend had quickly evaporated. That was, of course, until her period was two weeks late.

“Hermione?” came Harry’s call, followed by the sound of his voice on the stairs. She’d left him in the study, neck-deep in some text on ghouls with Bertie on his lap, part of his usual Sunday afternoon lesson prep. “Why don’t we order in for dinner, I’d Impedimenta someone for some pad thai—” He stopped, probably in the doorway to his bedroom — our room, she corrected herself, she’d been living here for almost three weeks, now that Harry wasn’t staying nights at Hogwarts — and called out, “Hermione? Are you up here?”

“I’m here,” she called out, surprised to find her voice so steady. Hermione pushed the test into the basin of the sink and turned away from the mirror as he came into the bedroom, a part of her wondering if she was about to tell him the truth, but of course she was going to tell him the truth, what else—?

“Oh.” Harry appeared in the doorway of the bathroom, and she could see the worry outlined in his frame, the concern in his gaze. “Everything all right?”

“Yes, of course.” She tried to smile, and instantly knew that it didn’t work. “Pad thai sounds good.”

“Okay.” He looked at her for a moment, then took a step closer. “What’s wrong?”

Bollocks. “Harry.” Hermione gripped the counter for support, wondering where on earth this would go. “Harry, I’m pregnant.”

A beat passed. Then two. Then three. Hermione began to wonder if Harry had gone comatose standing up. 

But then, to her astonishment, he gave her a grin that was blinding, brighter than the sun. “What?” he said. “Really? You’re sure?”

She could only nod, numbness sweeping through her again. “Yes, I’ve—” She reached for the test, held it up. “I took this, and I did the spell, and I checked the math—”

Harry made a strangled sound, reached for her, pulled her into a hug. He was trembling, she noticed, and then he began to laugh. 

“What?” Hermione said now, trying and failing not to laugh as well. “You’re— you’re happy about this? Are you joking? I’ve only just started as Assistant Head, I’m not even teaching until January, and in case you’ve forgotten, Harry, we aren’t married—

“I— I don’t care—” he spluttered, then pulled away to beam at her, his eyes shining with emotion, and Hermione felt a lump form in her throat; she’d never seen him like this before. “Look, I know it’s unplanned, and more than a little unconventional, but—” He grinned again, at a loss for words. “You’re pregnant!”

Heat flooded Hermione’s face. “I think so, Harry, yes, but—”

“Well,” he said, then sobered. “If you don’t want to be, if you want to wait—”

“Harry.” She held onto him, felt the sure warmth of his body, his presence, and her anxiety melted like snow. “Of course I wasn’t sure. We’ve only been together for a few months, barely, and I didn’t know how you’d feel about this. But if you’re ready for it, if you want it—”

“Yes, yes, I—” He kissed her, and Hermione kissed him back, dropping the pregnancy test somewhere on the floor. His mouth was firm, plush, and she sighed happily. Harry pulled away to press a kiss to her temple, her cheek, her nose. “You’re going to be such a good mum—”

She laughed, a touch hysterical, and said, “McGonagall really will have to stay another year, I guess—”

“Damn right, she will.” Harry laughed too, then paused, looking down at her, holding her close. “This was all I ever wanted, Hermione.” His voice was low, and she swallowed, telling herself not to cry. “Really.” He pressed another kiss to her forehead. “You, and a family of my own.”

She hiccupped, sweeping a finger under her eye. “Harry, stop—”

“No, I won’t.” Harry pulled away, ducking back into the bedroom with a wink. “Talking about my feelings in front of the Wizengamot really made me turn over a new leaf, I’m a different man, Hermione—”

“Harry.” Hermione laughed again, giddy and overwhelmed. “You’re being ridiculous—”

“I know.” He reappeared in the doorway, looking smug. “Ridiculous enough to plan ahead.” A small black box appeared in his hand. “How about it, Granger?”

Hermione’s heart leapt into her throat, and she found that again, she couldn’t speak.

“You don’t have to say yes to this, if you don’t want to,” he said, lowering himself to one knee. “If you don’t want to get married, or get married yet, that’s fine. I won’t be angry.” Harry smiled up at her, and Hermione thought she might really faint this time. Harry Potter, the smug little shit, her best friend in the entire world, the love of her life, down on one knee on Grimmauld tile, ring box in hand. “You just got a little ahead of me, that’s all. Nothing new about that, though.” He popped open the box, and she gasped at the sight of the ring — bright gold, definitely an antique, with a shining garnet surrounded by a wreath of diamonds. Gryffindor colors, she thought absurdly, and wanted to smack him and kiss him all at once. 

“It was my mother’s,” he said, his voice soft. “Her eighteenth birthday present from my grandparents, so I’m told. She left it in my vault.” Harry cleared his throat again. “So, Hermione?”

“Ask me, Harry,” she whispered. “Ask me properly.”

“Hermione Granger.” He grinned, and if she’d thought it blinding before, it was nothing compared to now. “Marry me?”

“Yes,” she breathed, reaching for him, feeling a thousand fireworks explode in her stomach. “Yes, Harry, you absolute—”

Then they were kissing, heated and electric and sloppy, and Harry broke away to slide the ring onto her finger, and she clung to him, unable to think, her heart soaring and—

“Just out of curiosity,” Harry mumbled. “Did you figure out when it was? When we—?”

“Oh.” Hermione attempted to gather herself, nodded. “I think it was— that night, at the club— I guess we were too drunk, we must’ve forgotten—”

“Ah.” He straightened up, smirking again, pulling her close and sliding his hands up her back. “Well, I really liked your underwear, you know—”

Laughing, Hermione pushed him backwards, and they tumbled into the bedroom, breathless and ecstatic, and she clung to him, overcome with love and excitement, and undeniably ready for everything that was coming next.