Chapter Text
They’re lounging around by the lake behind the Burrow on a lazy Saturday in late May, when Harry brings it up for the first time.
“I’ve been looking at houses.”
Ron opens one eye from his position on the ground, his head on Hermione’s lap. “Houses?”
“Yeah.” Harry shrugs, pulling at the blades of grass in front of him. “I kind of…I don’t really want to live at Grimmauld Place forever.”
“I mean, I don’t blame you, mate,” Ron mutters, causing Hermione to flick him across the forehead. “Ow!”
She ignores him, putting her book down and turning to Harry with curious, thoughtful eyes. “What's going on, Harry?”
“I dunno, I just…” He sprinkles some torn up grass back on the ground like confetti. “I know Grimmauld's technically mine, and it's currently being fixed up and everything, and I don’t want to sell it. But…I guess I just don't want to live somewhere that kind of feels like…”
Like a tomb, he wants to say, but doesn't.
Ron lifts his head off of Hermione's thigh, carrying his weight on one arm as he turns sideways. “Well, I mean, that portrait of Sirius' mum isn't exactly like a warm welcoming committee, is it?”
Harry meets Hermione's eyeroll with a laugh.
Ron is grinning as he picks up the shreds of grass and throws them at him. “You know you're always welcome to stay with me and George, right?”
“My London flat's always open for you, too, Harry,” Hermione adds, voice soft as she puts a hand on his arm.
“I know.” His heart feels warm, but also like—like it's thrumming with something almost like restlessness. “And I'm grateful for you both, I am. But the only other home I've ever known was Hogwarts, and the Burrow.” He lifts his eyes to look at Ron's first, then Hermione's. “I suppose I want to find a home that I can call mine.”
Hermione's hand slides down to hold his wrist, in a touch that feels steady and familiar.
“So let's go find it,” she says, and that's how it starts.
::
“What kind of house are you looking for?” Hermione asks, looking at him expectantly.
The two of them are on the floor of her sitting room a week later, in the small flat in Muggle London she’s recently moved into—near enough to the Ministry, where she’s started a new role in the Magical Law department, but also far enough from prying wizarding eyes. He’s only been over twice since she moved in just after the war, so he takes everything in with fresh, curious eyes.
The space is airy, and cozy—something that feels like a cross between the Gryffindor common room and the Hogwarts library, but with more windows, and potted plants, and natural sunlight that streams through the sliding doors that open to a tiny balcony. Shelves line the walls, framed portraits of themselves and Hermione’s parents smiling and waving at them from where they’re displayed. A scented candle sits on the middle of the coffee table, a worn maroon and gold afghan lies across the back of the sofa, and a tattered book sits on the armchair by the window. No piece of furniture is new, and the air smells of old parchment and cinnamon and a touch of her flowery perfume.
It's so painfully, achingly Hermione—a home she made, a home that reflects her in every single corner, a home that's wholly and beautifully hers.
She notices him taking in the scene with an amused sort of smile. “Looking for decor inspiration?”
“It's just nice,” he says, gesturing around him with a wave of his hand. “Feels like you.”
“We'll find one that feels like you, too,” she says, smile soft as she nods down at the brochures and pamphlets and newspaper clippings sitting on the rug around them. “Let's start with what you like, what you're looking for.”
He gives them a cursory glance, sifting through the sheets of paper, trying to find one that speaks to him. He’s not sure if he’s just waiting for something to catch his eye, or if he’s trying to put pieces together to come up with something he’ll like. “I'm not so sure what that is yet.”
“Well,” Hermione says kindly, patient as ever, “let’s figure it out together.”
::
They check out a few houses he picks out randomly, sometimes because of the location, sometimes because of how the house looks, sometimes because the real estate agents they talk to would insist it.
They spend the better part of two weeks checking out anything from flats to houses to little cottages in and around London, in magical and Muggle communities alike. They find a pretty stone cottage near the edge of the forest. They visit a modest bungalow somewhere just outside of London, near enough to Diagon Alley. They look at a one-bedroom flat in a modern Muggle building in Camden, with a lovely view of the sunset against the city skyline.
Ron is fascinated by the elevators, the appliances, and the landline they find in another flat. He comments on the paint colors, and praises the proximity to Muggle restaurants and shops. Hermione, meanwhile, compliments the stunning views, the natural light, the big spaces to fill up with new furniture and books.
Harry walks from room to room, from house to house, from property to property. His friends watch him with expectant expressions, waiting for him to decide.
He’s not sure what he’s looking for, exactly. Maybe he’s waiting to feel something different, or for something to reach out to him—like a calling of some sort.
But there’s none of that there.
He shakes his head no, and Ron sighs as Hermione crosses off another one on their growing list.
::
It isn’t until his wizarding real estate agent, Miranda, takes them to a little lakeside house that he feels it.
It’s a quiet little space in a no man’s land on the Kent and East Sussex border, somewhere in between magical and Muggle communities. It’s unplotted and heavily warded, away from curious eyes who would be eager to catch a glimpse of the ‘Boy Who Lived’. It’s not that large, but modest; a charming two-storey, three-bedroom brick house where a sweet old witch used to live, before she moved somewhere closer to her remaining family.
The moment he walks in, he feels an odd sense of energy run through him.
“You feel that?” he murmurs to Hermione, who’s also looking around with wide, interested eyes.
“Yeah,” she replies. “It’s like the house magic’s welcoming us in.”
They walk through the house, with Miranda blabbering away as Hermione takes notes, and then they circle the property. In the backyard is a large stretch of open water, and beyond it, he can’t see where the nearest house is—just a wide expanse of grassy fields and vegetation.
He turns to find Hermione and Ron watching him silently. “What do you think?”
“It’s kind of isolated. But the house is pretty great. And it has ‘mysterious bachelor’ vibes,” Ron says, mouth breaking into a grin. “Or anti-social hermit, depending on who you ask.”
Harry laughs as Hermione nudges Ron’s ribs with her elbow. “Ignore him,” she says with an eyeroll that’s almost affectionate. “I think it’s beautiful. The view of the water alone is absolutely dreamy, and the open space…you can fly out there and no one will see.” Her smile is gentle. “But it’s going to be your house, Harry. How does it make you feel?”
He hums, not sure how to answer.
They step back into the house, and he pictures it: a bookshelf and an armchair by the window. One of the bedrooms upstairs, turned into a room for Teddy, the other into a study, with a library maybe. He mentally puts up pictures on the walls, and gives the kitchen cupboards a splash of color—maybe something bright and cheery, like the same shade of yellow as the sundress that swishes around Hermione’s legs. He imagines summers playing Quidditch in the backyard, and thinks of buying wooden lounge chairs by the lake, where the three of them can drink and talk into the night, under a blanket of stars.
He’s not exactly sure yet how home is supposed to look like, but maybe—maybe this is where he can start building.
::
“Welcome to Newbarn, Mr. Potter,” Miranda says, handing him a set of keys, the day after he officially signs the papers. “The owner of this house…she’d grown up here. She said many memories have lived within these walls. She always wanted more good ones in them.” She smiles gently. “Merlin knows you, of all people, deserve it.”
The words stick with him, the day Ron and Hermione help him move in, a few weeks after he turns eighteen.
It goes as he’s expected it to: loud and chaotic. Hermione’s drawn up an organization plan that goes sideways when Ron accidentally Vanishes the box labels; Kreacher tries to help but retreats to the kitchen when he sees the manic look in Hermione’s eyes; and Harry just tries his best to follow her instructions and keep things from spiraling out of control. They figure it out eventually, and soon Ron is dramatically grumbling about sore muscles, and Kreacher is bringing them dinner that they eat off of plates on the sitting room floor.
He manages to convince Hermione to stop rearranging his hallway closet by bringing out a bottle of wine and three glasses, chuckling at the way she makes these funny sort of grabby hands. They get tipsy on his sitting room floor, and soon, Ron is snoring by the fire, and Hermione is curling up like a cat on the sofa.
His mind is fuzzy on alcohol and contentment, and he thinks maybe this is what Miranda was talking about: making memories, good ones, that the house deserves to keep.
::
Harry explores his newfound freedom with a different kind of curiosity.
He discovers it all as he goes—the food he likes to cook, the brand of detergent he prefers, the thread count he wants for his bedsheets. He finds the best place to buy fresh fruit, the type of music he likes to play around the house, the little rituals that make up his time alone.
He flies out in the backyard like Hermione had suggested, and explores the woods beyond his house. He checks out the small market in the little wizarding town nearby, enters a few shops, and stocks up on random kitchen ingredients and gardening supplies, just because he can.
Kreacher makes him tea when he asks, but otherwise stays out of his way. Andromeda brings Teddy over, and they spend many quiet afternoons playing and napping out in the grass.
It’s all very…normal. He doesn’t quite have a routine, and sometimes he feels a little restless, like he’s trying to figure out what he wants to do now that he’s got his own house, no dark wizards to catch, and all this free time.
But he thinks maybe that’s the point—he’s trying, and that’s what counts.
::
Hermione’s head pops up in the Floo while he’s busy polishing his broom by the coffee table.
“Can I come over?” she asks, and he shrugs, and then she suddenly appears in a cloud of ash and green flames.
“I got you a housewarming present,” she says in lieu of a greeting. “I know, I know—it’s a bit late, but…I needed time to put everything together.”
The leather-bound book she passes him is plain and nondescript. “What’s this?”
“It’s a photo album. Like the one Hagrid got you in first year.”
“Oh.” He’s not sure what he was expecting. He wonders what he’d find inside.
“I, er, well…Dennis Creevey wrote to me around a month and a half ago,” she says, not meeting his eyes as he tentatively pries open the cover. “Said he found a bunch of Colin’s old film rolls and negatives in his old trunk. I had them developed…and then I thought of writing to Hagrid, and he sent over some more photos and newspaper clippings he managed to find, too.“
He flips the cover with the slightest tremble in his hands.
“It took a while to compile everything,” Hermione says. “But I hope you like it.”
There’s a photo of Hermione and Neville, waving from the stands in the Quidditch pitch. One of the Gryffindor team, all suited up with Harry and Ginny leading the pack. One of the secret photos of the D.A. in the Room of Requirement. Another of him and his dormmates, playing Gobstones in the middle of the common room, and then another of him with Hermione and Ron, laughing as they walked down the castle halls.
He flips to more, and finds a faded wedding photo, one he’s seen before, of a different angle of James and Lily’s kiss at the altar. One he smiles at, a little sadly, fingers running down the edge of the page before he flips to the next.
He stops at a photo of Remus, Tonks, and tiny newborn Teddy, whose bubblegum pink hair is the same shade as his mum’s. They’re smiling at the camera, Tonks’ hand making Teddy’s chubby fingers lift in a little wave. Harry’s eyes are fixed on Remus, who looks younger and lighter and happier than he’s ever seen him.
“Andi gave me a copy of that,” she murmurs. “She said you might like it.”
Harry smiles faintly, lump in his throat, unable to look at it for much longer.
“The rest are blank,” Hermione says quietly. “They’re for you to fill up…with some more happy memories of your own.”
He doesn’t say anything—just closes the album and reaches for her. The way she folds into his arms is familiarity and comfort and warmth, all rolled into one familiar bundle of cozy jumpers and bushy hair.
::
She brings over books the next time she drops by, arms laden with a generous stack of paperbacks and hardcovers.
He watches her march to his shelves with amusement. “Why are you invading my house?”
“Your shelves have lots of empty spaces and are therefore unacceptable,” she retorts, and he shrugs, because when it comes to her and books, there’s really no room for arguments.
She arranges them according to genre, then title, and then he stands at her shoulder and slots the photo album into a space somewhere in the middle, making her smile.
When she disappears into the Floo, vowing to bring more, he notices she managed to drape a knitted afghan over his sofa, leave a bunch of intricate coasters on his coffee table, and charm a watering can to tend to the plant he left by the door.
He didn’t even know when it happened or how she did it—but his mouth twitches, and lets her take care of him, anyway.
::
Things start to shift when he finds a copy of the Daily Prophet next to his morning coffee—something Kreacher had probably picked up and left for him. He takes a sip as he eyes the front page headline: Hogwarts School to defer reopening to next year.
A letter from the Headmistress lies next to it, embossed with the school seal.
Dear Mr. Potter, it goes, it is my greatest pleasure to invite you for a teaching apprenticeship at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
His eyes widen.
While we are not yet fit to reopen our doors this year, given the ongoing restoration efforts, plans are already in motion to resume classes next year. It’s my belief that given your academic history, your demonstrated skill, and your public records and accolades, you are the rightful candidate to be the school’s new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor when we are ready to reopen.
Normally, such a position would require NEWTs to be considered, McGonagall continues, but given the circumstances, our apprenticeship program should suffice in giving you the proper training and guidance you would need, should you choose to take the role. You will be working under my tutelage, and you will be shadowing myself during lessons…
His eyes glaze over the technicalities of the rest of her letter as his mind buzzes.
A teaching apprenticeship.
A Hogwarts professor.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
It all sounds a bit mad, if he’s being honest. A professor, him? He’s barely out of school himself, and McGonagall thinks he can teach little kids proper spellwork and dueling techniques and ways to defend themselves?
You did teach the D.A., a pragmatic voice that sounds suspiciously like Hermione says in his ear.
He brushes it off, eyes catching the tail end of the Headmistress’ letter.
If you should want to, she says, and if you’re ready, the castle would love to welcome you back anytime.
He stares at the photo of the school on the front page of the Prophet—thinks of discreet meetings in vanishing rooms and practicing spells and charms in secret.
But then he also remembers: rubble, and explosions, and wandfire. Evil red eyes, a whisper of the end, and the smell of smoke and war and death.
I’m not ready, he thinks, and files the paper, the letter, and the memories away.
::
He tries not to think about it much after, and locks up the letter in his drawer—out of sight, out of mind.
He doesn’t tell his friends, and he’s not exactly sure why.
::
Unknowingly, Hermione manages to be a welcome distraction by being a constant presence around Newbarn.
At first, he thinks maybe she suspects he needs more help around the house, when he finds her out in the front yard, crouching down by the windowsill, digging her hands into the dirt.
“You need more plants,” she huffs, as he bends down to get his hands dirty, too.
Then he thinks she believes he’s a little lonely, when he discovers the daffodils that hum a cheerful tune when he walks past them in the backyard, or when he finds himself staring at fresh flowers in vintage vases on his kitchen table.
“Primroses,” she says, beaming. “They’re so pretty, don’t you think?”
Then he suspects she finds his place dull and lifeless, when he realizes she’s been leaving even more stuff behind—like her and Teddy’s finger paintings tacked on the fridge, next to a grocery list in her handwriting, or the freshly-washed floral sheets he finds in his linen closet.
He figures he can do his part, too, and makes copies of the photos in the album, frames them and puts them up around the house. He finds Hermione looking at a photo of him and Teddy in its place of honor on the mantel, and when she looks up at him with such a soft, fond smile, his breath catches.
He almost wishes he could capture that look, that moment, and frame it up, too.
::
He finds something special near Christmas, as he’s walking down an alleyway of vintage furniture and knickknacks: a camera, sitting innocently at the window of a tiny camera shop. He’s inside and the owner is teaching him how to use it before he even really processes it; and then later, he finds himself whistling happily as he makes his way to the Leaky to Floo back home.
He brings it out on Christmas morning to surprise Ron and Hermione, who have both been sleeping over for the holidays. He snaps a photo as she giggles over his and Ron’s burnt brunch attempt, snaps another one when Kreacher attempts to salvage it, and then another when Ron charms the tablecloth to change into Christmas colors.
Andromeda arrives just in time to rescue them with a fruitcake she baked herself, and when Hermione readily takes little Teddy in arms, Harry takes a photo of that, too.
He watches his godson giggle at the silly faces she makes, and when he turns, he sees Andromeda looking at him with a speculative gaze. He covers the flush that creeps up his cheeks with the camera as he continues to snap away.
Later, he finds Ron watching him too, a slightly suspicious look that Harry ignores—the same way he ignores the steady staccato inside his chest. He’s just excited about his new camera, he thinks, and he’s taking lots of pictures to fill his album. It’s okay, it’s nice. It’s fine.
If Hermione ends up being in most of them, well—it’s not Harry’s fault she looks really nice in that blue jumper now, is it?
::
The new year greets him with wine and office politics, as Hermione pops up in his Floo after hours, in a flurry of righteous anger.
“I need wine,” she mutters, brandishing a big bottle at him, “and someone to rant to.”
“Bad day?” he says wryly, but catches the cloak she tosses at him with ease.
“You can say that,” she says, eyes rolling as she leans in, her lips lingering on his cheek, making him feel oddly warm. “Just the Wizengamot being condescending arses who think I’m ‘too young’ and ‘too inexperienced’ and ‘too opinionated’ to have a say in anything.”
He grabs the wine glasses, and they get drunk in front of the fire as he lets her talk his ear off, him humming and agreeing at all the right spots. She laughs hysterically later, well into the night, when he trips on the carpet and nearly faceplants on the floor.
“Not funny, Hermione,” he grumbles, trying to heave himself up and failing. “Having a crisis here.”
She laughs harder as she tries to help him up, elbows banging against each other as they fight to stay upright. In the end, he ends up on his back on the floor, Hermione next to him with her hands braced on the coffee table, their giggling echoing around the room.
“You look so stupid,” she says.
“Your fault,” he retorts, arm over his eyes. “I’ve never been this drunk before, Merlin.”
“Let’s commemorate it, then.” She picks up the camera from the coffee table and snaps a picture of his wide-eyed stare before he can protest. Then she flops down on the rug next to him, head settling in the space between his neck and shoulder, before she turns the camera lens towards them and takes the shot.
“You’re sloshed,” he points out. “You sure you even took those pictures right?”
“‘Course I did!”
“Well, if I look awful in them,” he grumbles, “it’s all your fault.”
“I can sell them to the Prophet and make a fortune, though,” she says, before they both dissolve back into drunken laughter, rolling into each other’s bodies on the floor.
She’s a little breathless when she says, eyes shining up at him, “Thanks for cheering me up.”
“I think the wine did that,” he replies, and he doesn’t understand why his pulse starts ramming wildly in his throat when her hand comes up to slide across his chest, all the way to his jaw.
She shakes her head, tugging lightly at the ends of his hair. “Just you,” she says, breath ghosting across his neck. He feels his entire body thrumming, as he gently takes her waist and pulls her closer before he can really think it through.
She falls asleep like that, her nose in his neck. His heart refuses to slow down—a steady thump, thump, thump inside his chest that carries a different kind of weight.
::
“What’s on your mind, Harry?”
Tea with Andromeda always feels comfy, and safe. He hasn’t known her long, but her eyes are kind, her hands gentle, and her smile holds a tiny bit of mischief—one that reminds him painfully of Tonks.
Andromeda is more subdued than her daughter, but just as clever, and resilient. She looks at Harry not with pity, but with a gentleness, a quiet understanding that he appreciates.
It’s how Harry had imagined his mum to be, in retrospect, when he lets himself think of his parents. So he’s glad, more than anything, that Teddy has her to grow up with.
And that Harry, in a way, has her too.
“Do I look more haunted and troubled than usual?” he says, voice dry as he mulls the question over.
She laughs. “None more than usual,” she says, adjusting a tired and sleepy Teddy in her arms. “But your eyes look very far away.”
“It’s nothing big,” he says. “It’s just…well, I’ve been living here for a while now.”
Andromeda nods.
“And I feel like I’ve sort of been…I dunno, nesting? Like I’m trying all these different things—and I really do like it; I like having a lot of free time. It’s just, well—I hear all of these stories Hermione has about the Ministry, how she’s trying to get all these big changes implemented. Ron’s practically flourishing at the joke shop, and he’s been busy taking care of his family. And I’m just here, by myself, flying alone or taking walks or—or gardening, or cooking.” He meets Andromeda’s eyes. “And I kind of feel like maybe I should be doing more. Helping people. Maybe getting a useful job. I dunno. Maybe it would be better than just sitting here…taking my time doing god knows what.”
“Harry,” she says carefully, “don’t you think you’ve done more than enough for other people?
He squirms in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable.
“You’re only eighteen,” she tells him, like a reminder. “And you’ve had an…unusual childhood.” She smiles wryly. “People expected so much of you your entire life, and when it came down to it, you delivered—so unselfishly.”
“People are expecting me to be an Auror,” he mumbles, “continue the fight.”
“But that’s the thing, Harry—you don’t have to be if you don’t want to be.” Andromeda reaches out and lays a hand on his. “You fought a war when you were a kid. Now you get to live—on your own terms.”
Harry thinks of his house: the broom shed he and Kreacher are building in the backyard, Teddy’s bedroom he’s been painting, the fruit bowl and the flowers he keeps replenished. He thinks of his new, quiet, relatively boring life—and of visits in the Floo, and laughter by the lake, and a head on his shoulder as he falls asleep.
“Think about what you want, my boy,” Andromeda says, “not what you think you should.”
“It’s a little hard.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” She leans back in her chair. “Maybe you just think it is because you’re not letting yourself want it. And you should let yourself want things without feeling guilty. You, of all people, deserve that kind of simple mercy.”
He nods, almost absentmindedly, looking out into the garden—at the singing daffodils, and the humming primroses that Hermione managed to charm to withstand different temperatures—like he’ll find the answers there.
“You’ll figure it out,” Andromeda says, squeezing his arm.
“Yeah,” Harry agrees, relaxing back into his seat and taking a sugar cookie. He feels a little lighter when he continues, “I’ve got time.”
::
Hermione is handing money to the florist when Harry finally brings up the letter. “McGonagall wrote to me again.”
“Again?” she repeats, pausing as her hands wrap around the bouquet of wildflowers. “Wrote again about what?”
He pauses. “An…apprenticeship at Hogwarts. She, er, wants me to train to be the Defense professor. She first wrote to me a while ago but I didn’t…I wasn’t sure about it yet. Still.”
“Have you written back?”
“I said I’ll think about it.” He sighs. “That was months ago.”
“Hmm.”
They resume walking past the stalls in the Muggle market they’ve been exploring, relatively quiet. After a while she says, “She wrote to Neville, too, you know.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm,” she says. “Neville talked a little about it in some of his letters. He said yes to a Herbology apprenticeship, and he’ll be training under Professor Sprout; you know she loves him. Maybe he can give you some insights.” She punches him lightly on the arm. “You were good with the D.A., you know. And you’ve always been annoyingly good in Defense. Maybe…maybe it’s just something to think about more.”
He nods, then admits, “I suppose I did like teaching the D.A.”
“You did,” she muses. “Professor Harry James Potter has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
He winces. “Stop.”
Her shoulders are shaking when he gives her the finger, not exactly sure why his face absolutely flushes.
::
Ginny arrives to Sunday brunch at the Burrow as they’re settling down for afternoon tea, her first time back in Ottery St. Catchpole since she joined the Harpies for training. She greets Ron with a punch on the arm, Hermione with a warm embrace, and Harry with a kiss on the cheek that doesn’t linger. He thinks she looks the same, but different—still fiery, and pretty, and chatty, but a little tanner, and softer around the edges.
She slides into the seat across from him, and tells them stories of the team’s tour, making everyone laugh with forbidden gossip and exciting adventures across Europe. When she shoots him a smile, it makes him think of lazy days at Hogwarts, when he was sixteen and maybe clinging on to any hint of normalcy he could find. There’s no spark now, though, he realizes—no fireworks, no frantic racing of his pulse. Just fondness, somewhere deep inside him that Ginny will probably always manage to shake loose.
“What was Edinburgh like?” Hermione asks her from the seat next to him, eyes wistful as she bounces a slobbering Teddy on her lap. “Ooh, and Paris? I haven’t been in years.”
Ginny’s eyes light up. “You’d love the wizarding libraries, Hermione. And there’s this artifact museum you have to see—hang on, I’ll show you pictures.”
They spend the rest of the afternoon, ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the photos Ginny spreads on the kitchen table. George passes out bottles of butterbeer and firewhiskey, Ron tries to weed out Quidditch secrets, and Hermione doesn’t stop asking questions in a way that makes him pause.
He watches her quietly after, makes a mental note of Edinburgh and Paris, Dublin and Berlin, of wizarding towns, wizarding tombs and artifacts—and maybe, just maybe, starts to wonder, too.
::
He manages to develop his first few rolls of film a few months after he got the camera. The shop owner Ed teaches him how to brew the developing potion, and when his first batches of photos are finally ready, his grin splits wide open in a way that’s almost embarrassing, except he doesn’t really care.
They’re all moving photos—mostly of him, Teddy, Hermione, Ron; some with Andi and the Weasleys, some with an annoyed Kreacher, some of just the house—snippets from the last few months, lovingly preserved on paper.
He sticks most of the photos from Christmas in his album, ignoring the way he notices that blue jumper again; the others he adds to the growing number of frames around the house. When he finds the photo of him and Hermione—drunk, wide-eyed, and laughing on the sitting room rug—he stills.
He puts it on the mantel, then watches it for another beat that probably goes on for far too long.
::
Hermione notices it the next time she’s over. He sees her stop in her tracks on her way to the kitchen, and his heart does a funny flip when she picks it up and stares at it for a moment, too.
“Told you I can take a nice picture, even drunk,” is all she says, but he notes the way her smile doesn’t leave her face for the next hour.
::
The thing is, he’s starting to really notice that she’s at Newbarn nearly every other day now—at odd hours, in the weekends, late at night after a grueling day at work.
He doesn’t really question it, not really, not when her presence seems to brighten up the rooms, and he hates the way he notices the difference. It’s absolutely not helping the way he seems to be noticing every damn thing—like the way she sucks on the end of a sugar quill when she’s thinking, or the way her cheeks flush pink when she’s full of wine, or the way her eyes crinkle when she laughs.
It means nothing, he vows, it’s just Hermione.
If he notices he’s buying more rolls of film, stocking up on sugar quills and licorice sticks, and storing bottles of her favorite wine in the cupboards, well—that means nothing, too.
::
He walks into a Muggle bookshop, intending to buy some pens, when he spots the travel guide for Edinburgh.
He takes it before he can think twice, then picks up another one of Dublin, then Paris, then Berlin. Then he heads back to Flourish & Blotts for books on international magical sites and history, dropping a handful of galleons into the shopkeeper’s hand absentmindedly as he examines the covers.
“Planning a trip, lad?” the shopkeeper says, eyes curious above his spectacles.
He scratches his head, a little embarrassed. “I, er…I’m just doing research, I suppose. No actual plans yet or anything. I don’t even know where to start.”
The shopkeeper smiles. “Well, I’ve got a magical map and an itinerary you might like. It’s, let’s say, personal—from my own trip after Hogwarts. I can lend it to you, and maybe you can start from there?”
Harry doesn’t know why he takes it, or even why he buys those books. Nor has he even stopped to really think about taking some time to travel, not until that afternoon with Ginny at the Burrow. But he does remember Hermione’s curious eyes and excited chatter, and then he thinks of what Andi said—about time, and wanting, and figuring it out.
Maybe this is just him, starting to do just that.
::
It’s odd, really, what triggers it.
It’s a list, tucked somewhere between the photos on his fridge, under a smiley face magnet he never realized was there before.
Teddy’s 1st birthday party checklist! it says at the top in Hermione’s loopy handwriting, followed by obscenely meticulous lists of ‘things to do’, ‘things to buy’, and ‘gift ideas???’ He doesn’t know when she stuck it there, but he does vaguely remember her writing it one evening as he plied them with wine.
Later, he finds two pairs of boots and one pair of heels in his hallway closet when he goes looking for his gardening gloves—and he’d have missed it if he hadn’t tripped over the laces.
Then, he discovers her cloak hanging on the rack by the door, and then a stray scarf in his kitchen. One of her Muggle fiction books is somewhere by the sofa, and a knitted hat with irregular stitches sits by the windowsill, as if randomly placed and eventually forgotten.
The singing flowers have expanded to his front yard. Beetroot, rosemary, and thyme have started growing in the little garden plot he’s been meaning to water. Scented candles have made their way to his unfinished study and his bedroom, and he wouldn’t have clocked it if Kreacher hadn’t lit one of them, making it smell like lavender while he slept.
Harry doesn’t realize how much of her has been covering this house until now, now that he’s really looking—and there’s all these little bits and pieces of her, in every room of the Newbarn house.
Like she’s burrowing herself there, weaving herself deeper into his life and thoughts even more than she already is. Every single day he looks around his house, and is reminded of her, and it scares him a little, the way he’s maybe kind of okay with it staying that way.
Like maybe she has always had a place there, too.