Chapter Text
The pub was a bustle of noise and smells, all under dim lighting. Spilled ale tried to stick Harry’s feet to dirty floorboards, and the roar of voices was punctuated with the clink of forks on plates, the thud of glasses hitting the table. It wasn’t the type of place Harry would typically choose for a first date — any date, really — but that was good. No one was snooping around in a random pub on a Wednesday evening look for Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. And even if they were, the glamour Harry wore was sure to make their efforts fruitless.
Still, Harry was tense. He believed in his magic and trusted the glamour not to falter, but that in itself made his skin itch. This was a first date and already it was based on a lie. Not just any first date, but a blind first date. He didn’t know who he was meeting. His date didn’t know who she was meeting. And when she left, she still wouldn’t know who she spent the evening with.
That’s the point, Harry reminded himself. It was why he let Ron set this up, it was why they picked an out of the way pub, it was why he sported the glamour in the first place. Because Harry wanted someone who didn’t want Harry Potter . He wanted to be with someone who wanted to be with him, not the celebrity. So he set up a date where he wasn’t Harry Potter. He was Henry Evans, and if this date went well, maybe he could be Harry Potter during the next one.
Maybe.
Harry let out a breath, trying to force himself to relax as he scanned the pub. It was far more busy than he expected it to be, no single person standing out amongst the crowd. Ron was no help in this department either, having given Harry a vague “you’ll know her when you see her,” when he asked who to be on the lookout far. Harry himself had been given a garish purple tie with golden swirls to wear so he could be easily identified, but it wasn’t very helpful in the moment when he couldn’t decide if he should get a table or continue standing in the corner. Be more visible and look like an idiot, or sit down and potentially never find his date?
“Oi, you wanna order something or you content standing there like a coat rack?”
Harry jumped a little before turning to face the man leaning over the bar. The bartender stared back, brow raised, his bald head gleaming under the dull lights.
“Um, sorry,” Harry muttered, making his way to the bar as heat flushed his face. Another reason this blind date was a bad idea: not only was Harry not fond of lying, but he was shit in social situations. An unfortunate result of being raised bullied and isolated, and then famous and isolated. “Can I get a butterbear?”
“Coming right up.” The bartender walked away, brow still raised curiously. Harry turned away and resumed scanning the pub. Groups of people were scattered across the floor, everyone ranging from obviously friends to what looked like business colleagues. He recognized the uncomfortable stiffness of doing work outside of the workplace , and the youthful glee of students who should probably be doing homework instead of hanging out.
The pub was just on the edge of wizarding society, perfectly centered between a wizarding village and a muggle mall, and the crowd inside was a healthy mix of wizards and muggles. Wizards and witches had become better at blending into muggle society since the fall of The Dark Lord, and muggle culture wasn’t as stigmatized. Still, Harry could point out a wizard from a mile away. The tip of a wand poking out of a sleeve, a clothing combination that couldn’t be excused, eyes a little too wide glued onto something completely mundane. All of it screamed Wizard in bright neon letters.
A part of Harry almost hoped that his mystery date wouldn’t be a witch. It was one of the few ways to guarantee he wouldn’t end up with a fan girl: you couldn’t be attracted to The Boy Who Lived when the title meant nothing to you. But even as the fleeting thought passed his head, Harry knew he didn’t truly want that. He wanted someone he could be himself with, and that didn’t include someone he had to hide magic from. Plus, where would Ron even meet a muggle to set him up with? The man couldn’t even use a phone.
“Here you go,” the bartender announced as he came back with a giant mug in hand. Harry gave a quiet thanks before returning to his surveillance. Just as he was beginning to grow tired and think that this was perhaps all a big prank, the bell above the door rang, announcing a new patron.
A woman walked in, and the first thing Harry noticed about her was her hair. It was a wild explosion of brown curls, framing her round face like the fur hood of a winter cloak. Golden skin spoke of hours in the sun, as did the splattering of freckles on her face and arms. The thing that caught Harry’s eyes the most, however, was the dress hugging her frame, curving over wide hips, cinched at small waist. It was a deep purple, with intricate gold detailing along the cuff of the sleeves and hem of the skirt.
Her dress looked a lot like the tie hanging from Harry’s neck.
It wasn’t a perfect match: to say so would be an insult to the dress. Where the fabric Harry bore was gaudy and loud, her dress was flattering, its wrap-around style mature and its pattern eye-catching. The purple was deeper and the gold softer than Harry’s own, a better blend than the clash of colors that was his tie. Where the pattern on Harry’s tie was a mess of loops and swirls, the pattern on the woman’s was more intentional, nearly floral. But still, the similarities were enough to make Harry perk up.
“You’ll know her when you see her,” Ron had said. This must be his date.
The woman looked around the pub, her eyes passing over Harry without a glimmer of recognition. Just as Harry wanted, but still the feeling of being ignored churned something in his gut. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, like nostalgia gone sour. Harry stood up.
Now, here’s the thing about going from bullied and socially isolated, to a recognizable celebrity in a blink of an eye: you never learn how to interact with people. Or, rather, you never learn how to initiate interaction. First everyone flees to avoid the delinquent freak from the otherwise perfectly normal family, and then everyone scrambles to get the attention of the infamous boy that defeated death as a baby. At no point after his 11th birthday did Harry have to stop and ask himself, “how do I get this person to talk to me? How do I make a friend?” The scar on his head did the work for him. And before his 11th birthday attempting to make friends was a pointless battle, so he rarely bothered to dwell on the process then either.
So now, at 25-years-old, Harry had little idea how to get his date’s attention.
He walked up to her, but found his mind blanking once he was actually in front of her. It didn’t help that the woman seemed to look right through him, her eyes dancing along the heads of the crowd, searching. Harry cleared his throat, and only then did he get the woman’s full attention.
“Hi, I’m Ha-Henry,” Harry said, figuring a formal introduction was as good of a place to start as any. The alias fell off his tongue ungracefully, leaving behind the taste of deceit and ash. He hoped the fake name — Henry — was close enough to his real name that the fumble could disguise itself as a nervous stutter.
The woman looked at him, brows drawn, the corners of her lips pulled down into a small frown. The look of confusion. There was no spark in her eyes, no ah-ha , this must be my date moment as she scanned him from head to toe. Her gaze lingered on the ugly tie that stuck out like a sore thumb against an otherwise normal outfit, but still her expression remained blank. Harry didn’t know what to make of this.
“Hello,” the woman eventually said. Or maybe she said it right away, right after Harry introduced himself. But the moments her eyes raked down his body seemed to last entire minutes, and the wait for her to recognize the tie as the sign it was a never ending eternity.
What was the next step? Did Harry simply gesture to the tie and wait for the woman to come to her own conclusions? Did he outright say “I’m your date” and hope for an agreement? Or should he take the look on her face for what it was — a dismissal — and walk away? Perhaps this was all a prank, the joke on him as he sat around in an ugly tie all night waiting for someone who would never show, approaching girls and making a fool of himself. It wasn’t an impossible thought: ever since he started working at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, Ron had been getting more and more into pranking, delighted now that he was the one orchestrating them rather than being on the receiving end.
This being a prank would explain the sudden interest Ron and George had in his love life. Harry hadn’t even wanted to come on this date, but they had been persistent. But would they really put in all the effort of convincing him for nothing more than a cheap laugh and a potentially angry friend?
George might, but Ron? Harry wasn’t so sure.
Suddenly, the woman before him made a small noise in the back of his throat. She was staring off into the distance as a rapid fire of fleeting expressions flashed across her face: recognition, disgust, annoyance, resignation, and then surprise as her eyes found Harry again. As if she had forgotten he was standing there. She blinked and schooled her face back into a neutral look, but now her attention was solely on Harry.
She looked… different, somehow. As if the simple action of paying attention morphed her. Her eyes were a deep brown, like molten chocolate, and they seemed lit from the inside. A deep fire, a deeper intelligence: her stare was like a spotlight and Harry was caught in it.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Were you saying something? I’m afraid I was distracted. Thought I recognized someone.”
“Oh — I — uh —” Don’t stutter, don’t stutter, don’t stutter. Despite the fake name, and the glamour, and the discreet location, Harry could already imagine the headlines if someone the likes of Rita Skeeter caught him so flustered over… over what? A girl's eyes ?
Blimey, Potter! How pathetic could you be?
“I was just saying that I think you’re my date?” Harry forced out, his hands coming up to nervously twist at the tie around his neck. It was a truly hideous thing.
The woman’s eyebrows flew up at his words. Her gaze followed his hands to the tie that so nearly matched her dress; the swirls of gold on purple that declared them a pair, that looked so bad on him but so good on her.
“I’m your…?” Another quick storm of emotions took over her face: surprise, confusion, and something Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on, a look that made her eyes burn . And then a smile. “Right!” she exclaimed. “You’re my blind date, of course. I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you. My friend hardly gave me a description to go off of.”
Harry gave a sigh of relief, shoulders slumping as the nerves finally receded. He allowed himself to smile as he said, “Same here. ‘You’ll know her when you see her,’ was all I got. That and this ugly tie.”
“So it wasn’t your decision to wear it?”
“Of course not! Bloody thing would send a girl running. Make them think I’m demented or something.”
“Yes, it is quite hideous.” The sentence was punctuated with a giggle. It was a quiet thing, muffled further by the hand clasped over her mouth. But still Harry’s heart leapt at the sound, and leapt higher because he had caused it. Underneath her palm, Harry could just make out the red dusting her cheekbones. He took in the way her shoulders subtly bounced, and how her curls swayed with the motion.
She’s pretty . The thought was unbidden, just a whisper across Harry’s mind. He barely noticed it as it was quickly chased by another thought: This could be fun. Maybe this blind date would be as bad as he’d anticipated.
The laughter stopped. The woman raised a curious brow.
Harry realized he was staring.
“So —” Harry coughed, feeling the back of his neck burn. He forced his eyes away, slightly turning his body to nod at the room around them. “Do you want to get a table or sit at the bar? Or we can leave, if pubs aren’t your thing…?”
The words came out dumb and awkward; Harry tried not to wince too obviously. He hated this, hated the way he couldn’t talk to this stranger without clammy hands and trailing sentences. He felt like he was 9-year-old again, racing to make friends with the transfer student before Dudley and his gang could turn her against him. He probably looked like a fool then, and he certainly looked like one now.
“A table is fine,” the woman said, and Harry gladly took the excuse to turn away from her fully. He once again looked over the crowd, this time for an empty table rather than a specific person. Finally his eyes landed on a tiny spot in the back corner, sandwiched between a group of teenagers and a man that looked 3 seconds from unconsciousness. It wasn’t much for privacy, but that’s what magic was for.
“C’mon,” Harry said over his shoulder, barely allowing his eyes to skim over his date before leading the way through the crowded maze of tables and bodies. As they walked, Harry took the time to compose himself. Despite the rough start, they had managed an easy conversation and he even made her laugh. That was a good sign! As long as Harry managed to not get too in his head and kept the staring to a minimum, the date should go smoothly.
“I can take this off now, right?” Harry asked as they took their seats, his hands already moving to loosen the tie. Now that he found his date, surely he didn’t have to wear the attention grabber the entire time. It didn’t match the rest of his clothes at all: a plain white button up, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and worn jeans. Nothing too fancy that he’d stand out in a pub, but not too sloppy for a first date either.
“Of course,” the woman said. Harry wasted no time taking the tie off and shoving it into his pocket. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Henry.” The name came much smoother the second time.
“I’m Hermione.” And with that, the woman — Hermione — stuck out her hand to shake. It was instinct only that made Harry reach out and take it. His mind was elsewhere, wrapping and unwrapping itself around the syllables of her name.
Hermione.
A unique name, undoubtedly, and yet something about it rang familiar. There was a tickle in the back of his brain, a small voice that said you’ve heard it before. You know this woman.
Hermione.
“Are you feeling well?” Hermione asked, and Harry realized that he had held onto her hand for a bit too long. The handshake had moved into uncomfortable territory. Quickly, he snatched his hand back and layed it in his lap.
“I’m so sorry! Your name is just really familiar. Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so…”
It made sense but didn’t at the same time. Harry was sure he would remember this woman if they had met before. They’ve only interacted for a few minutes so far, and yet so much of her was already burned into his brain: the fire in her eyes, the stiffness of her spine, the way her hair seemed to defy gravity as it bounced around her shoulders. But Hermione wasn’t a common name; where else would Harry had heard it?
“Are you sure? Did you attend Hogwarts? Maybe we passed each other in the hallway.”
Hermione’s mouth twisted at the question, followed by a curt shake of the head. “Unlikely. I only attended Hogwarts for two months.”
And suddenly the mystery of where Harry heard her name before was the furthest thing from Harry’s mind.
“Two months? That’s it? Were you one of the visiting students that came for the Triwizard Tournament?” Harry doubted it but it was the only excuse he could think of. Transfers in and out of Hogwarts were rare, if they even happened at all. Harry couldn’t remember any off the top of his head. Even the Triwizard Tournament wasn’t a perfect excuse as those students had visited for the entire year, but perhaps she left early? Called home due to an emergency or scorned after not being chosen by the goblet?
“No, my—” Hermione made a noise in the back of her throat, and Harry got the feeling that this wasn’t a topic she liked to talk about. But before Harry could apologize and move the conversation to safer territory, Hermione continued.
“There was an… incident… in my first year. It scared my parents really badly so they pulled me out. They’re muggles and were already unsure about sending me away to this mystery magic school so when I nearly died two months into the school year…”
Harry’s jaw tightened at the phrase nearly died. He knew better than anyone how easy it was to meet a nasty end in the halls of so-called “safest school in the world.” Harry gave the woman before him a strong look over, noticing that she looked to be about his age.
“Lemme guess. The troll?”
Two months into the school year could mean November, but in Harry’s opinion, Halloween made much more sense. It had been an interesting and annoying phenomenon during the first few years of Harry’s Hogwarts year: every single Halloween something bad happened. In first year a troll was loose in the castle, in second year the Chamber of Secrets was opened, in third year Sirius Black — who, at the time, Harry thought was a serial killer coming to harm him — had gotten into Hogwarts and attacked the Fat Lady painting, and in fourth year his name flew out of the Goblet of Fire. Nothing notable happened on Halloween after fourth year, but by then Voldemort had regained his body and murdered Cedric Diggory so it wasn’t that much of a relief.
Out of all those events, the troll was the only one that had an immediate, life threatening effect on other students besides Harry. Maybe the Chamber of Secrets too, but if Hermione had been petrified she wouldn’t have been able to leave the hospital wing until the end of the year, never mind Hogwarts.
“Yeah, the troll,” Hermione confirmed, her shoulders slumping.
Harry frowned, thinking back to that day 14 years ago. The memory of 1st year was blurred, buried under the trauma of everything that happened that year and every year after. He could clearly remember the Mirror of Erised, the feel of the Philosopher’s stone clutched in his hands, the withered face attached to the back of his professor’s head. But the rest wasn’t as clear. He remembered…
He remembered… the night of the troll… the panic on Percy Weasley’s face that he tried so hard to conceal… Ron pulling on his arm, dragging him along to follow the rest of the group back to the dorms.
“ We have to warn her!”
“Are you bloody crazy! We’ll die if we go! The professor will get her!”
He remembered charms class before the attack. The frustration radiating off Ron is droves, and the angry storm he was after.
"It's no wonder no one can stand her. She's a nightmare, honestly.”
A shove. Tears.
“I think she heard you.”
“So? She must’ve noticed she got no friends.”
Over hearing Parvati tell Lavender about someone hiding in the bathroom. Crying. Wanting to be left alone.
He remembered the aftermath of the attack. The destroyed girl’s bathroom. The conversation he overheard the professors having.
“... a student in the bathroom…”
“... attacked by the troll…”
“... in the hospital wing”
“... contact her parents…”
Oh.
Oh.
“So that’s where I heard your name from,” Harry said, bringing himself back to the present.
“Suppose so. I imagine the incident and my transfer was quite the gossip afterwards.”
Not really, Harry almost said, but thought better of it. There was certainly a tension between the first year Gryffindors after: the girls whispering about the roommate they lost, the boys wondering if they were the cause of it. Ron had been particularly quiet about the matter, and Harry had been nearly drowned in guilt. Guilt from not checking on her after watching her run off in tears, guilt from not going to fetch her when they heard about the troll. Guilt for sitting in the common room, warm by the fireplace and surrounded by the other boys, while Hermione had faced a troll alone.
But after a while that had faded away and life moved on. Other near death experiences happened until the first one was drowned out. But now, sitting here in a pub with the girl he failed to protect in front of him, Harry couldn’t figure out how he’d ever forgotten about that day.
How did he forget Hermione Granger?
There were other questions in his mind. How did she and Ron reconnect? Why would Ron set him on a blind date with her? But Harry chose to ignore it all in favor of, “So how did you learn, y’know—”
Harry suddenly became aware of the public place they were in. It was a ridiculously late observation — they had already talked about trolls and mystery magic school s out loud. Still, with his wand hidden under the table, Harry made a vague gesture and silently casted a white noise spell. It was simple spell to block out the sounds of the tables around them, and caused anyone attempting to listen in on them to hear nothing but vague mumbling. After all, hearing absolutely nothing would be suspicious.
“Tutors,” Hermione said, after taking a moment to appreciate Harry’s spell work. “I’m still working on nonverbal magic.”
“Don’t ask me for advice, I have no idea how I do half of what I do.” Hermione gave a small chuckle at that, and Harry smiled. So the topic of her transfer hadn’t saddened her too much.
“Noted.”
“It must’ve been hard for muggle parents to find tutors for magic. I didn’t even realize that was a thing, honestly.”
“Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall helped set it up. They were the ones to convince them to let me continue to study magic in the first place. Mum and Dad wanted nothing to do with it.”
Harry nodded. “I can understand why. I’m glad they were swayed, though.”
“Me too. Professor McGonagall had to go into very graphic details about how untrained magic is just as dangerous, if not more so, than a troll attack. And how if I didn’t learn how to control my powers and had a bout of accidental magic in front of muggles, it could get me into legal trouble with the Ministry.”
Harry snorted and said, “Yeah, I know all about getting in trouble with the Ministry, trust me.”
Hermione raised a brow, questioning. Oops. Harry was getting a little too comfortable, forgetting that he was not currently himself. Getting in trouble with the law was a sketchy trait for a normal person.
“There was a dementor attack,” Harry explained quickly, cheeks warming at his blunder. “I produced a patronus to save a muggles life and nearly got my wand snapped for it.”
“Even though you saved a life?”
Even though the muggle was my cousin and already knew about magic. But Harry didn’t say that part.
“They didn’t really care.”
Hermione made a sound of disgust and rolled her eyes. “How idiotic. Would they really rather we just let a muggle die? Does non-magical lives really matter so little to them?”
Harry was taken back by the passion in her voice, the splotches of angry red beginning to highlight her face.
“Well, to be fair, this was 1995. Voldemort—”
“The Ministry cared little about muggles long before him,” Hermione snapped, cutting Harry off. “And honestly, I’m not surprised. It’s not just non-magical lives they don’t care about, it’s non-human magical lives as well! Werewolves, and goblins, and house elves—”
Hermione stopped, her jaw clenching shut. Her hands were clenched into tight fists, her knuckles near white. She took a deep breath before speaking again.
“I’m sorry. I can get quite… passionate… about these things. I don’t have many people I can talk about it with either, so I tend to explode when I get started. I’ll shut up now”
“No!” Harry damn near shouted. Hermione’s eyes widened at Harry’s reaction, her body jerking away in her seat at his sudden enthusiasm. “No, please, continue. I want to hear about it.”
Hermione eyed him wearily. Suspiciously. “…Really?”
“Yes, I’m curious!”
Okay, maybe that was a lie. Maybe Harry didn’t give two fucks about what Hermione was saying. Maybe he wasn’t listening at all. But he was watching. Watching the way her eyes burned as she talked. Watching how she gestured animatedly with her hands. Watching the way she opened up, heart on her sleeve as she talked about a topic she obviously cared deeply about. It was… beautiful. And mesmerizing. Harry wanted to see more.
But the suspicious look didn’t ease up. Of course it didn’t, this was Hermione Granger. Harry remembered the little girl with bushy hair and prominent front teeth that entered his and Ron’s train compartment all those years ago. She was helping Neville find his missing toad. He remembered the way she quickly sat to see Ron’s spell in action, and the brief flash of disappointment when it didn’t work. He remembered the way she brandished her wand with more confidence than a 1st year that hadn’t started school yet should have, and the way she easily fixed his glasses. He remembered, "You're saying it wrong. It's Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the 'gar' nice and long,” and the first feather that made it into the air that faithful charms class.
He remembered the studious girl with so much knowledge, so eager to share it. And he remembered how no one ever wanted to hear it.
So? She must’ve noticed she got no friends.
Harry stood up.
“I’ll get us some drinks, and then you can tell me all about how the ministry, and the house elves, and maybe some about your tutoring. Please?”
Hermione frowned. “Are you sure? I don’t want to bore you.”
“I’m sure. What do you want?” Harry smiled extra big, hoping to relax his date a bit. Slowly she began to untense, just a bit. She somehow managed to look both hopeful, and like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“A butterbear is fine,” Hermione eventually said.
“Two buttbears, got it. Any food?”
“Hmm… just chips for now. Thank you.”
“No problem! I’ll be back in a second.”
The date went smoothly from there. Harry found himself talking little, which was probably the best lest he accidentally say something too Harry Potter-ish and blow his cover. Hermione being raised away from the wizarding world for the most part gave him a lot of room for error, but Harry wasn’t sure how much and he didn’t want to risk it. All he really needed to do was prod her every now and then to keep her going, to ensure that she was not boring him in the slightless. That, plus the occasionally anecdote to sate her own curiosity, and things was good.
Eventually the hours grew long, and Hermione’s voice grew hoarse from talking. They gathered their belongings, split to bill — Hermione insisted, despite all of Harry’s protests, and made their way outside.
Harry sucked in a sharp breath as he stepped into the night. It wasn’t until now, when the crisp wind kissed his face and pimpled his skin, that he noticed how humid the pub was. The collar of his shirt stuck uncomfortable to the back of his neck and the chill quickly reddened his skin, leaving Harry feeling a mess.
The feeling worsened standing next to Hermione. The change of temperature seemed to only make her more stunning: the red of her cheeks and nose reminded him of the blush on a porcelain doll, and the humidity of the pub had frizzled her hair into a cloud around her head. Harry longed to reach out and touch the curls — they looked impossibly soft.
A little sigh escaped Hermione’s plush lips as she leaned against the brick wall of the pub. A shiver ran down Harry's spine, one that he couldn’t blame on the weather — after all, it was mid spring. It wasn’t cold, just colder than inside the pub. No, this shiver had nothing to do with the air, and everything to do with Hermione and the light fixture attached to the wall above her, its golden light shining directly on her, her hair becoming a brilliant copper underneath its beam.
She was so pretty. No. Beautiful. That was the word. It was already hard to believe that Ron had somehow reunited with Hermione, had somehow gotten into her good graces despite their first year fight that directly led to Hermione’s near death encounter with the troll. But it was even harder to believe that Ron hadn’t attempted to get with her himself, and instead chose to give Harry a chance with this blind date.
Or maybe it wasn’t that hard to believe. Ron never did enjoy an intellectual discussion that wasn't about chess maneuvers: not in Hogwarts, and certainly not now. Harry couldn’t imagine what they would’ve talked about during this date…
Either way, Harry owed Ron something big for this. That much was obvious.
“This was fun,” Hermione said, tilting her head to look at him.
Was. Harry didn’t like that: the past tense, as if their night together was already over and gone. It sounded like a dismissal, like the closing of a book. Perhaps if he was a different man, Harry would’ve said something. Maybe he would’ve prodded and poked, pushing her to keep the night going. A new location, another drink, maybe even heading back to his or hers together. But Harry was only himself and he wasn’t that brave — not with a stranger, not on the first date. So instead he turned his head and gave a smile.
“I agree. I wasn’t expecting to enjoy myself this much.”
“I wasn’t expecting to enjoy myself at all.” The words were barely out her mouth before her eyes widened slightly and her lips made a small o. “Not like that of course! I’m just no good at holding conversation so this type of thing is usually more painful than fun!”
Harry couldn’t help but laugh, taking in the flush that colored her from neck to ears, and the way she leaned closer as if closing the space between them gave her explanation more weight. Hermione huffed, lips pulling into a frown.
“Stop laughing at me.”
“I’m not laughing at you, promise! You’re just so—”
Cute. That was the word he was going to say. You’re just so cute. But luckily Harry’s brain caught up to his mouth, and he had the wherewithal to clamp his jaw shut and keep the word locked in his chest.
“I’m so what,” Hermione prodded. And Harry could see it, the way she was slowly shutting down. The suspicious furrow of her brows, the tense of her shoulders. She was starting to withdraw and Harry had to pull her back.
This was Hermione Granger, Harry had to keep reminding himself. The woman before him was the same little girl that had clashed so badly with his best friend as kids. The same girl from 1st year that disappeared after the troll incident. The same girl who got caught in the bathroom with the troll because she was crying in there. Crying because of Ron and the harsh words she overheard. This was a girl who was used to being bullied — of course she wouldn’t take being laughed at lightly. Harry knew his next words would make or break the entire night.
“Relatable,” Harry settled on quickly. 10 years with the Dursleys had taught him well how to pick his words carefully and fill in the blank without missing a beat. “You’re so relatable. I’m also not the best at conversation. Usually people approach me or I’m by myself, so this was certainly a new experience. I’m glad to share it with you.”
It took everything within Harry to not pump his fist at the way she visibly brightened. The smile that split her face was big enough to show teeth, and Harry was confident that this flush of red had nothing to do with embarrassment or temperature adjustment. It was the happiest Harry had seen her all night, and despite the nearly disastrous blunder it took to get here, he was glad the night had not ended before he got to witness it.
“I’m glad too.”
Now was the time. If Harry was to suggest anything to keep the date going, it would have to be right then, when Hermione was smiling and the silence between them was not yet awkward. But Harry’s mouth remained closed, his tongue unable to find words to shape itself around, and the silence stretched on. One beat. Two. Now it was uncomfortable, Harry could see it in the way Hermione began to shuffle her feet. His own skin began to tingle with nerves and disappointment.
“So… I’ll owl you?” Harry finally said. Any sense of accomplishment from making Hermione smile was utterly drained.
“I don’t have an owl, so I wouldn’t be able to respond quickly… You wouldn’t happen to have a phone, would you?”
She looked embarrassed to ask, and Harry understood why. Despite the renewed interest in muggle culture in a post-Voldemort wizarding world, technology was one of the things wizards could just never grasp. Asking a wizard if he had a phone was like asking an introvert out to a party: you rarely got a yes .
But luckily, Harry was muggle raised. Had he forgotten to mention that?
“I do, actually,” Harry said, fishing in his pants pocket for the nokia cellphone he carried around. It wasn’t used much — most of his friends were wizards and witches — but he always kept it charged in case of an emergency. Or if Dudley called him in a panic.
Hermione again brightened, and Harry decided it was a sight he could get used to. It was almost addicting: the smooth motion of her lips pulling upward, the way she seemed to glow from the inside out. She pulled a Blackberry out of her purse, and the smile on her lips remained as they exchanged numbers. Harry was sure he was smiling too.
“I’ll call you?” Harry asked.
“Yeah.” A beat of silence, and then, “get home safe.”
“You too.”
With a small wave and a look around, Hermione turned and apparated away. In just a second, a distinct pop and the rush of displaced air was all that remained of Harry’s date.
That and the low heat burning in Harry’s chest.
“Where the bloody hell have you been?”
Harry jumped, hands flying to his wand. He’d barely found his footing after apparating into his apartment before the voice shocked him. He twisted, fingers wrapping around familiar wood, lips shaping into the beginning of a defensive spell—
— only to catch sight of familiar red hair and freckles.
“ Blimey , Ron, I damn near hexed you!” Harry shouted. He huffed out a breath, forcing his muscles to relax and trying to ignore the adrenaline that flew through his veins. It was a side effect of fearing for his life for the last 14 years: he was quick to get on edge, and slow to come back down.
“ I should hex you, ” Ron said. “Do you know how hard it is to get a pretty girl to clear her schedule for a mystery date in a shifty pub? Lavender was ready to blow my head off for wasting her and Ella’s time!”
“Lavender and Ella? What are you talking about?” Harry asked, not recognizing the second name and having know clue what Lavender Brown had to do with Ron sneaking into his apartment and yelling at him.
“Don’t act stupid. I aint gonna lose my girl ‘cause you thought it’d be fun to stand up her friend!”
“I’m not acting, I don’t know what you’re on about! Now stop yelling at me and explain yourself.” Now Harry was scowling, the warmth left over from the date quickly souring into something angry and bitter. “Go on, take a breath and explain.”
Ron looked as if he was ready to blow. As if he was gonna apparate away any second, or perhaps walk over and sock Harry in the face. But he didn’t do either of those things, and instead stood stiff as he sucked in air through his teeth. One breath, two breaths, three breaths, four. Until the red started to drain from his face and his fists uncurled at his side.
Good, Harry thought. Seemed the anger management exercises Lavender had forced Ron into were working.
“Feeling better?” Harry asked when Ron seemed significantly calmer. The redhead rolled his eyes and moved to take a seat on Harry’s couch. Harry followed him.
“Hardly. Lavender’s refusing to talk to me until Henry Evans gives a personal face-to-face apology to Ella for standing her up.”
“And who is Ella?”
“Your date, dickhead. Where were you, anyway? Got cold feet or somethin’?”
Harry’s brow furrowed, confused. “I was on my date. I didn’t stand anyone up…”
Now Ron, too, looked confused. “According to Lavender you did. She threw a good fit about it.”
“And the girl I was supposed to meet up with is named… Ella?”
“Ella Adamson,” Ron confirmed. Then his eyes went wide, and his mouth quirked with mirth. “Harry, please tell me you didn’t shack up with the wrong broad!” A hearty laugh followed, and Harry felt his cheeks burn.
“Stop laughing, Ron. It isn’t funny.”
“It bloody well is! What she looked like? The girl you went out with?”
Harry let out a huff, not wanting to answer the question. He did anyway. “Curly brown hair, brown eyes—”
Ron cut him off with a howl of laughter. “Ella’s a blonde, mate! With blue eyes!”
“How would I know that? It’s not like you told me! ‘You’ll know her when you see her,’ what type of description is that!?”
“I’d thought you’d recognize it! You met her before, when Lavender brought her to Ginny’s birthday!”
“Then you should’ve said ‘look for someone you recognize,’ or ‘you met her before,’ or 'hey, Harry, she has blonde hair and blue eyes!’ Anything other than ‘you’ll know her when you see her!’ What poppycock!”
Ron didn’t respond, too lost in his own laughter. Harry scowled and crossed his arms, entertaining the idea of sending a soft hex his friend’s way. It’s not that Harry was angry, it was just embarrassing. He hated being the butt of the joke. It made him feel like he was back in the Dursleys’ house.
At least he finally knew how Ron had reconnected with Hermione and set up the date. Answer: He didn't. This entire night was just a wonderful coincidence.
Harry waited for Ron to gather himself, taking the time to calm himself. He tried to remember if he saw a blonde enter the pub at any point, lost and looking for someone. His memory came up blank: he only had eyes for Hermione, entranced by the way she came alive when explaining something. A knot of guilt twisted in his stomach; he felt bad for Ella. Who knows what plans she canceled for the date, only to end the night alone. It probably didn’t help that Harry took off the ugly tie that marked him as her date.
“You’re gonna have to explain this to Lavender,” Ron said, once he had caught his breath.
“I know. I will.”
“Good. It took a lot of convincing to get her to set her friend on a date with a stranger she never met.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry.”
Ron threw up a hand and clasped it on Harry’s shoulder, jostling his whole body. “Eh, it’s not that big of a deal. Lavender made a big stink over it but she’ll forgive me. Did you at least have a good time?”
Harry didn’t even have to think about it. He didn’t have to verbalize his answer either: the smile stretching across his face as he thought back on the night spoke for itself. “Yeah, I did.”
“Well, you still owe me, then! If it wasn’t for me you would’ve died alone in this apartment!”
Harry rolled his eyes, following Ron’s lead as the redhead stood up. Maybe he was exaggerating, but he wasn’t wrong. Harry would’ve never gone out searching for a love life without intervention.
“I’ll see ya tomorrow, then. I suggest you start working on that apology. You’ll have to grovel pretty hard for Lavender to forgive us!” Ron said, walking over to the center of the sitting room.
“I’ll get on my knees and everything. See you.”
And with one last wave and a distinct pop, Ron was gone.
Harry’s shoulders dropped. The silence almost felt weird after a night of talking, yelling, and laughter.`He reached above his head and stretched, a massive yawn escaping his mouth. His arms flopped back to his side.
Well, there was really nothing left to do besides get ready for bed.
Harry made his way towards the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. He was halfway out the shirt by the time he entered the bathroom, and was letting it drop to the floor when something caught his eyes.
A stranger.
Harry’s hand flew to his wand, yanking it from the holster on his hip and aiming it at…
… at…
… at the mirror. The stranger in his bathroom wasn’t a stranger at all, simply his reflection staring back at him with wild, near paranoid, eyes.
But it wasn’t him he was seeing in the mirror. The man looking back at him had dark brown hair whereas Harry had black, the soft waves sweeping to the side. Thick, straight eyebrows accentuated light blue eyes, and light stubble covered his entire jaw and upper lip. The man in the reflection was not Harry Potter.
Oh right.
The glamour .
Harry waved his wand and muttered a counter spell, then watched as the man melted away. Wavy brown hair was replaced by black hair that didn’t quite lay flat, bright blue eyes became a vivid green, and the stubble melted away to smooth, hairless skin. There he was.
Harry frowned at his reflection, taking in every detail of himself. This was not the man Hermione Granger had a nice date with. If Harry were to walk up to her like this — like himself — she would not recognize him. Or maybe she would, because everyone recognized The Boy Who Lived, but she would not recognize him as the man she opened up to tonight. The man that listened to her talk for hours about this passion and that. The man who made her laugh. The man she gave her number to.
No, that man was Henry Evans.
Harry waved his wand again. The glamour reappeared.
“Hello,” Harry said to the mirror. “My name is Henry Evans.”
He felt the way the lie rolled off his tongue. Weird, unconvincing. Passable with the excuse of first date nerves, sure, but that was it. It didn’t come with the effortlessness of someone who’d used the name for 25 years of life.
A wave of the wand. Glamour down.
Oh well, it didn’t matter. Harry would tell Hermione the truth soon enough, and Henry Evans would become nothing but a distant memory. A funny meet cute story to tell at parties.
Harry placed his wand on the counter and began his night routine.
