Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s two weeks after graduation when they become roommates.

It’s quite a natural, easy decision, Hermione thinks, although it does raise a few eyebrows. Ron in particular doesn’t understand why he isn’t invited to be a third roommate, or why Ginny never sleeps over even when her relationship with Harry starts to develop and eventually ends, but after a couple of months it becomes clear that Harry and Hermione’s apartment is exactly that: theirs.

There’s no sharp learning curve. After spending months inside a tent together, both of them know the other’s mannerisms as if they were their own, even when adjusted by the fact that they have running water, a full kitchen, and big bedrooms. A routine forms, and it keeps its shape even after five years pass in what feels like the blink of an eye.

Hermione, always the one who wakes up earlier, starts the coffee machine and uses the bathroom first before putting together a quick breakfast. Harry arrives in the middle of her eating, and drinks a cup of coffee while munching on the plate she’s made for him, informing her of what his plans are for dinner.

She leaves for work first but comes back home later than him, and it’s always to the aroma of whatever food he’s cooking wafting through their place. His Auror robes are haphazardly hung on the hook near the door, but he keeps his white shirt and black slacks, though both of those items are always crinkled after a full shift. He’d ask her about her day as the food simmers, and she’ll ask the same as they take a place on the table. If they’re not too tired after finishing and cleaning the kitchen, both of them will take a place on the sofa and continue whatever discussion had been interrupted in favor of being responsible adults.

Today is different. When she walks inside the apartment, Hermione can immediately feel something is off. There are no Auror robes on the hook. The television is also on, its volume low enough to not be a disturbance, and it’s accompanied by tired sighs that belong to the same person she’s looking for.

She steps into the living room and stares at the wizard. Harry is sitting on the sofa, his body seemingly boneless, slumped into the soft cushions as if they’re the only thing keeping him somewhat upright. The deep red of his Auror robes isn’t enough to hide the splatters of blood on the fabric, which also shine on the collar of his white shirt. Stubble peppers his jaw, undefined and making him look older and somehow more tired than he appears to be. His glasses are crooked and one of them is cracked, the spider web pattern making the reflection of his eye break as he turns his head and stares at her.

“Hey,” Harry murmurs, and his lips lift into a tired smile. “I haven’t made dinner yet. Sorry.”

“How bad is it?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, absently putting her briefcase on the other side of the sofa and stepping in front of him.

“Not bad at all, it’s not mine,” Harry answers softly, looking around him. His face shifts into a guilty expression. “I probably got some of it on the sofa.”

Hermione can already see spots of muted red on the grey cushions, but it’s something of little importance when he’s looking defeated and more tired than she’s ever seen him since they graduated. There’s an attempt on his part so sit straighter, but it doesn’t change much, and she’s left staring at him as he sighs heavily and leans back into the sofa.

“What happened?”

“Are you hungry?” He asks instead, eyes turns upwards to stare at the ceiling. “There’s some beef in the fridge, I think. I can cook it and we can pair it with—”

“—What happened, Harry?” Hermione interrupts, and she refuses to move from her spot in front of him, eyes pinning him down.

His hesitation doesn’t last long, but it’s accompanied by the avoidance of her gaze and the tightening of his fists. When he speaks, his voice is almost flat, sounding as if he was speaking to Head Auror Robards instead of her, but there’s hints of anger and sadness all over his words. He tells her of a raid, a last minute one that had half the Auror force scrambling around, and explains the amount of illegal items they found deep inside the headquarters of a smuggling group.

It sounded like a successful raid, and Hermione doesn’t catch the problem with it until Harry’s frown deepens and tells her that there was only one arrest made for the entire amount of items they discovered.

“There were more there, we fought them,” Harry whispers, lazily signaling to his stained robes. “They were there but when we got around to rounding them up, they…I don’t know where they went. The bloke we caught wasn’t even that important. We’re not going to get anything from him.”

Hermione nods, and takes a seat at his side, trying to search for his gaze. “It’s still an arrest.”

“It’s a fucking joke,” He huffs. “He’ll go down for everything we found but the other blokes are all running around with most of their assets intact. They’ll be back in no time.”

There’s nothing Hermione can say or do to disprove such a statement because he’s right, and both of them know it. She’s had her fair share of cases where the results are unsatisfactory, bordering or completely crossing the line of unfair. It’s not a great number of cases that end like that, thankfully, but the negative emotional response to those that do always clings to them like mud, heavy and hardening and difficult to shake off.

So where words fail her, actions will suffice. She leaves the sofa, making sure to pass a hand through his hair and tell him to stay put. Harry doesn’t say much, merely looking at her with confused eyes that follow her until she’s rounding the hallway towards the entrance.

It’s thirty minutes later when she’s walking back inside, hands full of takeout and nose pink from the cold. Harry is still on the sofa, same position as before, but he perks up at the sight of the brown paper bag clutched in her fingers. All semblance of proper manners is completely gone as she takes back her seat at his side, kicking off her heels and rummaging the bag to separate the meals.

“I got your favorite, from that place you like,” Hermione says, passing him a white carton.

Harry hums, takes it, and his smile finally makes an appearance again, though softer and smaller. “You’re the best.”

“So you’ve said.” Hermione answers, and turns towards the television.

Nothing interesting plays on the screen, but she jumps channels until she randomly stops in the middle of what appears to be an action movie and leaves it at that. At her side, Harry sighs and straightens in his seat, seemingly regaining all the strength he’d had before the raid, and shuffles closer to her while commenting on the characters’ actions as if he’d been watching the movie since the beginning.

It’s not a perfect solution, and she knows that Harry can’t bottle everything forever, but the food and company does seem to take a weight off his shoulders. A deeper conversation can wait for a day where he doesn’t look two movement away from succumbing to his exhaustion. After years of knowing him, she’s learned that it’s better to let him process all of it himself before her questions can get answers.

She makes a mental note to research a spell to clean off the dried blood on the sofa as she leaves it, eyeing the empty cartons and wondering how mad her future self would be if she just leaves them there for tomorrow. It’s almost eleven thirty and she has several early meetings…though cleaning it up won’t take much—

“Go to bed,” Harry unknowingly interrupts her thoughts, shrugging off his red robes and throwing them into the ground. “I’ll clean up.”

“We can do it in the morning,” Hermione comments, slightly hesitant.

“It won’t take long,” He answers, already bent down to pick the trash from the coffee table. “And I have a day off tomorrow, courtesy of that shitty raid.”

She’s relieves that there won’t be a mess waiting for her in the morning, but Harry’s demeanor is still somewhat muted. “Be quick, then. You should go to bed, too. You need rest.”

“Yes, honey,”

The term of endearment is startling enough that there’s a surprised laugh bursting through her throat. Harry looks back, glasses still broken but with a smirk upon his lips while he straightens back up, hands full of empty cartons and disposable napkins.

“‘Honey’?” Hermione asks, raising an eyebrow.  

“Yes, darling?”

“Stop,” Hermione chuckles. “What are you doing?”

Harry shrugs, and his smile grows wider. “I thought it was time for a change.”

“And you decided to start with ‘honey’ of all things?”

“Well, you brought me food and kept me company after one of the worst days I’ve had on the job, which is sweet,” He stated, and the mischievous spark in his eyes already allows her to guess what his next words are. “Very sweet, you know…like honey.”

“Good night, Harry,” Hermione rolls her eyes, turning on her heel to hide the amused smile on her face.

“No cute name for me?”

“You’ll always be Harry,” She answers, turning to look at him one last time. “I’ll always be Hermione, not matter how cute of a name you call me.”

Harry nods, but there’s a strange look in his eyes now, as if he’s staring at her but not seeing her. The tension that had been there before returns quickly, but he shakes his head and gives her a reassuring smile that doesn’t feel as authentic as his usual ones.

“Hermione?”

“Hmm?”

“Thanks,” Harry says, his fingers fiddling with the trash in his hands.

Hermione smiles. “Don’t stay up too late, alright?”

“Yes ma’am,”

“If you keep calling me things, I’ll have to return the favor,” She threatens, but her smile undermines the statement.

“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” Harry counters.

“Hmm…Good night, loverboy.”

She takes his chuckle as her sign to leave, waving silently at him before finally making her way towards her bedroom, the tiredness dragging her limbs. She hears him moving around as she prepares for bed, and when she’s laying down in the dark, the sound of his bedroom door opening and closing act as the cue that makes her brain slow down enough to allow her to sleep.

There’s something about the end of a month that makes the entire department suddenly forget how to file things on time. Five years and counting since she started working at the DMLE, and she still grumbles under her breath every time the calendar’s number reaches anything beyond 25 and waits as piles upon piles of documents find their way into her desk, all of them marked urgent and with dates of days past.

She’s not the only one working on this. Every prosecutor has their own pile of files to sort through, which makes their shared workspace look entirely too chaotic for a Tuesday morning. She sighs and leans back into her chair, glaring at the papers still waiting on her signature before swiveling her chair towards the desk behind hers.

“Mister Williams, do you have any files that have to do with arrest from two weeks ago?” Hermione asks. “I think I’m missing some of them. You were the other prosecutor on the case, weren’t you?”

Williams is older than her by only a couple of years, but his eyes are kind and he’s been helpful on more than one occasion whenever the end of the month gets to be a bit too much. He’s the only other prosecutor that arrives before her on the mornings, and probably the only person she’d be concerned to go against in court, considering the type of stories she’s heard about him.

“Yes,” Williams answers, and leaves his seat, smiling at her. “Let me drop these off to be filed and I’ll get those to you.”

Hermione nods, and takes that as a chance to take a small break while she turns back to her desk and glares at the stack of papers sitting dangerously close to the edge of it. She’ll probably have to stay a bit late today, but if she keeps working at this same pace, as long as there are no other papers she needs from her coworkers, she might actually finish this earlier than expected.

“That bad?”

She doesn’t need to turn around to know who it its. “It’s the end of the month, and as always, you Aurors can’t turn in things on time.”

Harry leans against her desk, scoffing softly. “Why are you lumping me in with the other blokes? I almost always file things on time.”

“Almost being the interesting word in there,” Hermione counters, raising an eyebrow at him. “Seven years of education with five years of writing reports and I know you still do it all at the last minute.”

“Not when the files are from your cases, though.”

“Because you know better,” She smirks.

Harry nods. “That I do, which is how I know that you haven’t taken lunch yet, have you?”

“Have you seen my desk?” Hermione raises her eyebrows. “I’m not stepping away from here anytime soon. I’d like to go home at a somewhat reasonable hour.”

“Good thing I just so happen to pass by here and decided to stop and say hello, then,” Harry says, and offers her a paper bag that she’s only realized is there when it’s directly in front of her face. “Nothing greasy that will get on your fingers and ruin the files, and nothing liquid that can be spilled on accident. A meal that is perfectly safe to eat at your desk.”

Her stomach rumbles now that there’s food directly in front of her field of vision, and she’s quick to reach for it. “You didn’t have to do this, Harry.”

“And you have to stop saying that,” He chuckles. “I’m not going to let you work while hungry.”

She’s already taken a bite out of the sandwich he’s brought her—and she doesn’t remember tasting something similar, but it’s flavorful enough that she reminds herself to ask the place from which he purchased it—when Williams appears back, nodding at Harry and exchanging pleasantries while he ruffles through his papers.

“Here’s everything I have on that case you asked,” Williams says, and drops even more papers at her desk. It’s a good thing it’s made of strong wood. The older man nods at the quick, confusing hand gesture she makes as a way of expressing her gratitude, and addresses her best friend. “Auror Potter, it’s good to see you again. I heard about the raid last week. Sorry about that.”

“Thanks, Williams,” Harry answers, frowning softly.

“Was there something you needed?” Williams asks. “We’re all busy here, but if it’s urgent…”

“Oh, no,” Harry shakes his head, and straightens, nodding at her. “I was just dropping off some lunch for Hermione. I know how chaotic these days are for you guys. I didn’t want her to work through her break again. Last time she did, she damn nearly bit my arm off as I was preparing dinner.”

Hermione pauses before taking another bite, scoffing and kicking weakly at his heels, making him take a step away in an effort to dodge further play attacks. He’s not exactly exaggerating; she'd been more hungry that she thought she’d be, and he was cooking one of her favorite dishes, so of course she was desperate to sit down and eat after being on her desk for a full day of work, but to go as far as to describe her desperation as ‘nearly bit my arm off’’?

“Ah,” Williams nods, but there’s a confused shine on his eyes as he looks between witch and wizard. “I didn’t realize you were her boyfriend. I must be losing my observation abilities if I’ve let such a thing slip past me even after years of working with Miss Granger.”

Hermione tries to deny it, but there’s a bite barely chewed in her mouth and her hands are busy holding the sandwich, so she’s left looking at her fellow prosecutor with widened, humorous eyes. At this point in her life, being confused as Harry’s girlfriend is no longer a surprise.

“I’m sure you’re as sharp as ever, Williams,” Harry says, and grins as he addresses her. “I’ve got to go, or Robards will decide to use me as a dummy to practice on. I’ll see you at home, darling.”

She knew he’d pull something like this, but it’s still makes her shake her head and raise an unamused eyebrow at his retreating back. When she’s finally able to speak with her words, she finds Williams staring at her in curiosity.

“He’s not serious,” Hermione says, pausing her eating. “He’s been calling me names like that all month.”

“And…you think he’s not serious?” Williams asks.

“I know he isn’t,” She shrugs. “Whoever finds the corniest name wins. It’s a fun game.”

“Ah,” Williams nods, but still looks as if he doesn’t quite understand what she’s explaining. “Right.”

Hermione continues to eat, reading files and signing what she can while still feeling Williams’ inquisitive stare at the back of her head, but the older man doesn’t ask her anything more.

Sunday lunches at the Weasleys are a weekly thing, even after Harry and Ginny’s break up and her own undefined relationship with Ron fizzling out years ago. Although a bit awkward at the beginning, courtesy of those two events, Molly Weasley wasn’t going to take no for an answer when inviting her and Harry to spend a few hours each Sunday at the Burrow.

She enjoys them, especially considering that work keeps her busy enough that she might go months without physically seeing the redheaded family if it wasn’t for these lunches. It’s loud, the space too cramped for the number of people sitting there, but she feels warm and content as she accept another glass of juice from Arthur. Harry is sitting across from her, arguing with Ginny about something Quidditch related, with Ron periodically giving his opinion while he eyes the food on the stove with all the desperation of somebody who hasn’t eaten anything for days.

Surprisingly, things quiet down as they eat, the conversation soft over the dishes splayed around the table. She exchanges words with George, barely managing to keep the scowl off of her face at the description of his new prank product that will, supposedly, ‘make every student at Hogwart a genius at taking notes’. Hermione refuses to question that further, but is intrigued at the technical aspects of how such a thing can be achieved.

It’s after everyone is done that the real chaos begins, and she’s dragged to a table outside to watch with mild interest as Harry, Ron and Ginny taunt themselves into playing backyard Quidditch, with Hermione as referee, for some reason. Even after telling them over and over that the only thing she knows about the sport is its name, they insist that she calls the fouls and keeps score, so she sits at the table with a cold lemonade and keeps trying to remember the name of that odd, dangerous looking move that Ginny pulled to gain the upper hand.

The game doesn’t last long, mostly because even with the love that Harry and Ron have for it, Ginny is the one who plays it professionally, and it shows in the way she manages to lose them while clinging to the old Quaffle. Even Harry, with his superior speed on a broom, has trouble trying to take the ball away from her hands.

She can unashamedly declare Ginny the winner without the other two fighting her on it, which is a good thing. At this point in their game, about an hour in, she’s long lost count of the points she was supposed to keep, her mind wandering off towards the work that waits for her tomorrow morning.

“Don’t say it,” Ron grumbles, taking a seat at the table. “We already know who won.”

Ginny smirked, copying him. Even windswept and with tracks of dirt along her cheeks, she looks less tired than the two wizards. “As if it was going to be anyone other than me. I do this for a living, you know?”

Ron scoffs, and turns to Hermione. “But that move she pulled at the last second was illegal, wasn’t it, Hermione?”

Hermione pauses, eyes moving to each of her friends: Ron is clenching is jaw, apparently trying to communicate the right answer through his wide, pleading eyes; Harry is bemused, raising his eyebrows at her in a silent question; Ginny frowns, but stays quiet and awaits her answer.

“The balls was in your hands, and then it was on hers, and then she threw it through the goal post,” Hermione states, her voice full of confidence even when she can’t quite remember the chronology of events she just described. “It’s a point.”

“There it is,” Ginny grins.

Roan groans, and covers his face with both his hands, his words coming out muffled. “You’re the worst, Hermione.”

Said witch hums unapologetically. “I told you that I didn’t know anything about Quidditch. Why you all insist on asking me to be referee is beyond me.”

“It’s more fun this way,” Harry says, and chuckles. “We never quite know who is going to win with you in charge, especially considering you tend to zone out quickly. You don’t even remember the points of this game, do you?”

“You what?”

“It’s not entertaining, at all, to be watching you three fly around while throwing some old ball,” Hermione defends herself against Ron’s incredulous tone of voice. “Ginny still wins most of the time, anyway.”

“Not always!” Ron states. “And this time it was an important game!”

“You say that about every game.”

“This one was! It was a Quidditch bet!”

“And?”

“And now he has to clean my room for the next two weeks,” Ginny says, and her grin grows impossibly bigger.

“I’m not doing anything,” Ron crosses his arms. “That move was illegal and Hermione isn’t keeping score like she’s supposed to.”

“You didn’t have a problem with that when she said you won last time,” Ginny accuses him.

“Because I did win, fair and square!”

“Just clean her room, mate,” Harry interrupted the brewing argument. “She’s won more games than us combined, and I’m sure Hermione is going to keep score better next time.”

“I’m not,” Hermione states.

“You’re all arseholes,” Ron grumbles.

“Sure we are,” Harry grins, patting Ron’s shoulder as he leaves his seat, his next words addressed to the witch across from him. “I’m going to get us something to drink. Want a refill, darling?”

Hermione nods, and silently hands over her empty glass and exchanges a smile with him. It takes her a moment to realize that the table has fallen completely silent in the second that she took to answer his question, but she’s still confused when she turns back to the other two occupants and finds them with shocked expressions.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Ron asks, mouth hanging open.

“Hmm?”

“‘Darling’? What the hell?”

 “It’s just a game.” Hermione answers, and sighs softly. She’d gotten so used to Harry calling her all manner of names when they’re together that she’d forgotten, for a moment, that he’s only done it once and only in front of Williams. It’s no surprise her friends are baffled by what appears to be a sudden change.

“What we played was ‘just a game’,” Ginny says, her eyes flickering from the other witch towards the door where Harry disappeared, and back again. “That was a nickname. A cute one. Did you two forget to tell us something?”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Hermione explains. “It’s a dumb game we’ve been playing for months. We call each other cute things and try to find the corniest ones. I’m winning.”

“What, did you call him handsome?” Ron asks, sarcastic.

“I called him ‘pumpkin’ yesterday,” Hermione answers.

Ron cringes, and Ginny lets out a surprised chuckle before speaking. “That’s…that’s cute.”

“He didn’t think so,” Hermione smirks.

“And what do you win? How long it lasts?” Ron asks, still looking at her as if she gained a second head.

She shrugs, and tilts her head to the side. “That’s…actually a good question. We haven’t set the terms for the winner yet, and for the duration…we didn’t speak of it either.”

Hermione is sure that the dumbfounded expression on Ron’s face is equal, or extremely close, to the one she used to wear when the redhead would tell her he did every bit of homework without any help or reminder. Ginny, on the other hand, raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Are you dumb?” Ginny asks. “I’m seriously asking.”

“Excuse me?”

“You and Harry go around calling each other pet names, and you think it’s a game?” Ginny’s voice is slow, accentuating every word as if making sure that the other witch is listening correctly. “Do you hear yourself?”

Hermione has a an answer on the tip of her tongue when, thankfully, Harry returns to the table with four glasses hovering in front of him, courtesy of his wand. She plucks hers out of the air, taking a long sip and watching as Harry seats back into his chair and realizes that his three companions are all staring at him.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

“Nothing, darling,” Hermione answers, dragging the last word.

Harry pauses, eyes flickering to her and then to the still quiet redheads that are looking at them both with suspicious eyes. He sighs, leaning into the back of the chair an offering her a smile that’s a mix between apologetic and humorous.

“Shit, it slipped out, didn’t it?” Harry comments.

“Yeah, it did,” Ron intervenes, pointing an accusing finger at his friend. “So…what is going on?”

“It’s a game,” Harry explains. “She’s winning.”

“That’s right, pumpkin,” Hermione says, and revels at the way he cringes softly, glaring playfully at her. “But it’s two times that you’ve called me something in public. I might start doing the same.”

Harry doesn’t answer, unbothered while shrugging and staring at her with unblinking eyes, as if daring her to follow through. Hermione smirks, and nods slightly before breaking eye contact.

Ron frowns, and he looks ready to say something, but Ginny slaps a hand across his mouth and shakes her head. Hermione is too far away from them to hear what the youngest redhead whispers to her brother, but it stops him from commenting further. The confused look in his eyes doesn’t go away though, and it’s still there throughout the afternoon.

He catches her just as she’s pulling on her coat to leave, Harry already waiting outside to apparate back to their apartment together. Hermione smiles at him, adjusting the new layer of fabric and turning towards her redheaded best friend, who is looking at her while leaning against the doorframe.

“Are you sure it’s just a game?” Ron asks suddenly, making her pause.

“Yes, Ron,” Hermione answers and rolls her eyes. “Is it so hard to believe?”

“Well, you…you’ve never liked to be called things like that, remember?” Ron says, scratching the back of his neck nervously. “I tried it once, and it didn’t end well.”

“You say that like I did something to you,” Hermione chuckles. “I simply asked you to refrain from using such names for me.”

“And Harry can?” Ron asks, and to her relief, there’s no trace of jealousy, only confusion in his voice.

“He doesn’t mean them,” Hermione explains. “As I said, it’s a game, a fun and dumb one, but still just a game. He can call me whatever he wants because he doesn’t mean it, so I don’t really mind.”

“So if you knew he did mean them, you wouldn’t be okay with that?” Ron asks.

“No, I wouldn’t,” The denial is quick, but the words don’t sit as well in her tongue as she thought they would.

Ron stares at her, searching her eyes for something, and apparently finding it. He nods, humming for a moment before shrugging.

“Weird game,” He says. “You’re winning, right?”

“Yes, I am, and I have many more corny names that I’m waiting for the perfect moment to call him,” Hermione says. “He opened the door for us to play in public, so I’m taking full advantage of that.”

Ron winces softly. “I want to know but at the same time I don’t. You’ve come up with very terrible names, haven’t you?”

“They’re cute,” Hermione answers, but she can’t keep the laugh out of her voice. “But I am not without mercy. I’ll keep some of them to myself.”

“Hermione, you ready?” Harry’s voice drifts inside from the window.

“You better go before your pumpkin gets concerned,” Ron grins.

“He’s not going to like it if you call him that,” Hermione says, and steps towards the door. “Good night, Ron.”

Harry is waiting for her a couple of paces from the Burrow, and offers her his arms the moment she is within reach.

Hermione walks through the bullpen, Harry’s Auror robes hanging from her arm and with a smile on her face.

They’d had lunch together today, and his attention had been all over the place, so much so that he’d forgotten his robes at her office and she’d only realized it after several minutes. Hermione had already been worried about his absentminded answers as they talked, but him forgetting such an important part of his job made her decided to drop by and check on him immediately, all while thinking that maybe there was one thing that could cheer him up.

She found him swiveling his chair from side to side, bored eyes staring at his desk, which was—surprisingly—free of files. She slowed down her steps, able to stand at the opening to his cubicle without him realizing, and knocked softly on the short wall.

“You forgot your robes, muffin,”

Harry’s reaction was exactly as she expected: at her knock, he turned his chair in her direction, ready to greet her, but her words made him choke out an incredulous laugh. Around her, Hermione can feel several Aurors’ eyes on them, which only makes her grin at the wizard staring at her.

“That’s…” Harry winces slightly, but there’s a smile on the edge of his lips. “That’s the worst one yet, I think. You just had to save it for the bullpen, didn’t you?”

“You opened this door,” Hermione counters, stepping inside the cubicle and leaning against the edge of his desk, handing him the robes. “You okay? You seemed…distracted during lunch.”

She all but confirms there’s something bothering by the way his eyes lose all traces of humor. He takes the robes, folding them carelessly and dropping them on his desk. There’s a frown present now, and his jaw is tight as he leans his head back and stares at her.

“I’m…thinking of resigning,” He admits, his voice quiet. “I have a letter and everything, but I haven’t turned it in. I don’t know if I should.”

“Why not?” Hermione asks. “If you already made a letter…”

Harry exhales heavily, avoiding her gaze. “It’s…Being an Auror is everything I worked for during Hogwarts, and it’s not a terrible job, but…I don’t know. I…I hate coming into work every day, Hermione. I didn’t realize it until that arrest I made three weeks ago, when I got hurt enough to be sent to Saint Mungo’s. Robards gave me two days off to recover, and I was…relieved. I didn’t had to come in, and I was happy about it.”

Hermione nods, and remembers the night that their little game started: Harry, looking exhausted and disillusioned with the outcome of his work. It had taken him a few days to fully bounce back from it, but she knew he still thought about it every time another case was on the verge of ending similarly. At the moment, he doesn’t look physically tired like that time months ago, but there’s a heaviness in his eyes that she remembers seeing back when they only had a tent for shelter. Hopeless, almost, and it makes sigh sadly and reach for him, gripping the sleeve of his white shirt.

“Resign, Harry,” She murmurs, and hold his gaze when he looks up at her.

“Really?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Hermione asks. “Did you think I was going to tell you to suck it up?”

“No, no, but…” Harry frowns, and the fabric of his sleeve in her hands in replaced by his fingers. “I know what you and everybody else went through to make sure I made it out alive of that whole war. I don’t…I don’t want to make it seem as if I’m…spitting on that by giving up on this. Being an Auror is what I’m supposed to be, isn’t it? Hero of the war and everything?”

She can’t take guilt that suddenly takes over his eyes, so she shuffles closer and turns his chair fully towards her, grasping the arms of it and making sure his gaze if fully connected with hers before she speak.

“We went through a lot to keep you safe, Harry,” Hermione states. “But we did that because we care about you, not because of what you would become after everything. We want you to live, and you’re not going to do that if you let everybody else’s expectations drive you. Resign, Harry, and find something that does make you happy.”

Hermione stares at him, and wills him to understand. Harry stares at her silently, too close now that she’s leaning towards him, and the guilt in his eyes fades away slowly, giving place to something earnest that is quickly hidden behind a layer of relief.

“Thanks,” Harry whispers. “Just…thanks.”

Hermione leans back and nods at his words. “Now, go into Robards office and give him your resignation letter. You can worry about finding another job tomorrow.”

“I don’t have to actually,” He says, and straightens in his chair, reaching for a folded piece of paper sitting on the other side of his desk and hands it to her.

The logo on the already broken wax seal makes her pause, but her eyes slide over the page quicker than her usual reading speed, and she can feel the smile across her face grow with each word. After, when she’s read it two times over, Hermione folds the letter again but keeps it in her hands.

“You said yes,” She says. “Right?”

“Not yet, I have to resign from here first—”

“—let’s go, then,” Hermione interrupts, getting up and tugging on his arm.

Harry follows her lead, though he stays rooted to his standing spot. “Eager to get rid of me, Prosecutor Granger?”

“Of course not,” She says, and taps the folded letter into his chest. “But this…Professor of Defense at Hogwarts? Harry, that’s…I think that’s a perfect fit for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you having doubts?”

“I’m not exactly professor material,” Harry huffs.

“I beg to differ,” Hermione says. “And you want to do it, don’t you?”

Harry nods slowly, passing a hands through his hair. “I think it would be…nice.”

“You’ve got more experience than you should, at your age, and even if you want to say it doesn’t count, Dumbledore’s Army gave you some teaching experience.” Hermione smiles. “Professor McGonagall also sent you a letter personally, which I believe speaks of how highly she regards you.”

Harry blows out a breath, as if the weight of the offer has finally set in, but nods resolutely. “I’ll go see Robards, hand in my resignation, and answer McGonagall.”

“And then you’ll go and best the best Defense professor Hogwarts has ever seen,”

“That’s a bit too much pressure on my shoulders, sweetheart,” Harry says. “Let’s just leave it at…I’ll try my very best.”

She doesn’t accompany him to Robards office, but she stays at his cubicle and helps him clean it up and box his things. She walks him to the lift and towards the exit of the Ministry, her steps feeling heavy and her heart squeezing at the fact that he won’t be four rows away from her office anymore. Their living arrangements are the same and Harry is looking more relaxed than she’s seen him in months, and it serves to soften the bittersweet feeling that settles in her bones.

Being promoted to Head Prosecutor is a half expected surprise. Working her way up the ranks has always been in her plans, but the speed of actually doing so is not something she could have predicted. At 23, she figured she had at least another four years before being considered for such a position, but her boss entered retirement early and, apparently, decided that the Department was going to be in good hands if she was the one to look after it.

He praised her when informing her of his plans to name her as his replacement, and though Hermione always strived to do her best and be recognized for it, she felt bitterness rise in her throat as he made sure to tell her that her role in the war played no small feat in his decision. Even with that hanging over her head, she accepted the title and was left with only a week to sort through her case load before taking on the job.

Seven days later and on her first day as Head Prosecutor, she’s sitting at her desk in her new office and ready to start the day when the door opens and the person she expects the least enters the room.

“Harry?” Hermione asks, thoroughly confused. “What are you doing here?”

He grins, and closes the door before walking towards the chair in front of her desk. There’s a white, cardboard box in his hands, which he promptly sets in front of her. “Not happy to see me?”

“That’s not it,” She answers, shaking her head. “But you’re supposed to be at Hogwarts finishing all your material for the school year. You only have two weeks, remember?”

“I’m aware,” He shrugs, and takes a seat. “But I haven’t seen you in days and I figured your first day on a new job was enough of an excuse to escape class planning for a couple of moments. Go on, open it.”

Hermione hums, but otherwise stays quiet as she reaches for the box. Its lid opens without an issue, and gives her full access to the small, round cake inside of it. The frosting is deep blue, with purple icing decorations over the upper and lower edges. The words ‘congratulations, dear’ were written in cursive, sparkling in the light of her office and in the same shade of purple as the decorations.

“You couldn’t help yourself, could you?” Hermione asks, pointing at the second word on the cake.

His grin widens. “I have to catch you off guard once in a while. I’m losing.”

“And you’ll continue to lose,” She counters, smirking. “Want a piece?”

“Why do you think I’m sticking around?”

Transfiguring her letter opener into a knife, two folders into paper plates and forks, she cut two pieces and offered him one, all the while taking a moment to take him in. She hadn’t seen him for almost a month. His employment had been close enough to the start of the school year that he’d had to stay at the castle and work with McGonagall every day to come up with a proper class plan before September First. They’d exchange letters here and there, and he’d come into their apartment when she told him she was being promoted, but only for a couple hours before he had to go back.

She could already see the changes. He seemed to sit straighter now, his shoulders no longer pulled down by an invisible force, and the usual tightness around his jaw was gone. His Auror robes, white shirt and black slacks had been replaced by a maroon suit, a tie of the same color, and a black shirt. His hair was as wild as ever, and his glasses sat comfortably on the bridge of his nose, but the most clear change was on his jaw: where before he was either clean shaven or with a couple days’ worth of stubble, he now had had a full, short beard.

“You okay?”

With a shake of her head, Hermione snaps out of her thoughts and nods, signaling to him. “Yeah, I’m just…admiring Professor Potter.”

Harry shuffles in his seat, smoothing a nervous hand down his suit jacket. “I figured I should get used to my new type of uniform before the start of the school year.”

“Well, it fits you well, pookie,” She compliments him.

His mouth is full of cake by now, but he still pulls a face at her words. In between her laughter she joins him in eating, savoring the rich flavors of the cake and reveling on the comfortable silence.  He’s done before her, snooping through her files when an opened envelope catches his attention.

“It’s the invitation to the Ministry ball,” Hermione explains, pointing at it with her fork. “Since I’m Head Prosecutor now, I do have to attend,”

“You don’t look happy about it,”

“Would you be?” She raises an eyebrow. “Hours spent with politicians who either want to talk about the war, or want to complain about how things are changing…Going to one back when I was first hired was enough and I’d rather not go, but it comes with the job, I guess.”

Harry nods. “You got a date?”

Hermione shakes her head. “No. I’ll go and spend just enough time there to not appear rude, and then I’ll leave.”

“Do you want a partner in crime for that?”

Hermione pauses, frowning. “What?”

“I can go with you, if you want,” Harry offers, fingers fiddling with his empty plate.

“You hate these things,” Hermione points out.

“Yeah, but you said you won’t be staying long,” He explains. “And besides…they can’t be that bad if I’m with you. I could be your date, if…if you want one.”

“That’s sweet, Harry, it is,” She says, and can’t help melting a bit at his willingness to attend an event that he clearly dislikes because of her. “But I don’t want you to bored, or worse, accosted. There’s going to be reporters around. I’ll just go by myself, or I’ll find a date.”

Harry’s expression shifts so quickly that she’s taken aback. Gone is the layer of nervousness and easiness, replaced by a hard frown and avoidant eyes. He clears his throat, adjusting his position on the chair and rubs the back of his neck. When he speaks again, there’s a tension on his voice that isn’t completely masked by the forced cheeriness that echoes in his words.

“I really don’t mind,” He says. “I know how to avoid reporters now, and I won’t get bored if I’m going with you.”

He’s not pleading, per se, but he’s on the verge of insisting even when faced with all the things that normally make him run the other way. Reporters, politicians, questions about his life and his work—there’s no better way to make him retreat into himself than putting him in a situation when he has to deal with either of those, but Harry is seating there and all but assuring her that he won’t mind being her date even if all those things are a certainty.

And she doesn’t need a date, but good company is always welcomed, especially in the type of atmosphere that is created at the Ministry Ball. Hermione knows his presence would make time pass faster, and she won’t be trapped inside her own thoughts in an attempt to ignore whatever stale conversation she will inevitably be pulled into.

“I’ll probably be dragging you around the room,” Hermione says, hesitant but hopeful. “You’re not the only one with people to avoid, even if I am expected to socialize with certain Ministry workers.”

Harry shrugged, and his face relaxed a bit. “I’m quick on my feet.”

“Good, because I also like to dance,” Hermione says. “So if you don’t want to…”

“You say that like we haven’t danced before,” Harry says, smiling. “Granted, an old tent isn’t the best place for that but I think we did alright.”

“You better bring your best moves, then,” She states, tone light. “Dancing is the best way to avoid uncomfortable conversation and I intend to use it until my feet hurt. You better keep up.”

“I was chasing criminals around while you were sitting behind a desk,” Harry counters, grinning, and she knows his previous playfulness is fully back. “I’ll be fine. It’s you I’m worried about. I’m quite the dancer, love.”

“Says who? And ‘love’? It’s like you’re not even trying to come up with a corny name,” She points out cheekily. “I’ll win at this rate.”

“Says me,” He glances at his wristwatch, sighing softly, and ignoring the last parts of her statement.

“You have to get back?” She asks, frowning.

“Unfortunately,” Harry mumbles, and leaves his seat. “All those class plans aren’t going to write themselves. Do you have your dress yet?”

Hermione shakes her head. “No. Ginny’s Quidditch team was also invited after their winning season, so I’ll go shopping for something nice with her in a couple of days.”

“Tell me what color you pick when you have it. I need to match my tie and robes.”

“You really are taking this seriously,” Hermione comments, her smile turning soft as she stares up at him.

“It’s your first ball after being promoted,” He points out. “If I’m going with you, the least I can do is look somewhat presentable.”

“Somewhat?”

“I can’t make any promises about this,” Harry points to his head, tugging one lock of his hair. “It does what it wants, but I’ll make it look a bit nicer.”

She nods, and there’s nothing else to say but goodbye. As she stares at the way his back disappears beyond her office door, Hermione leans back into her chair and smiles widely. Perhaps green would be a nice color on them both.

Days later, in the middle of the dance floor as they twirl around, she decides that yes, it was. Harry’s tie and outer robes match her dress and are only a couple of shades below his own eye color, which makes her compare those three things constantly, always lingering on the color behind his glasses.

It’s in the middle of the sofa section of the store where Hermione thinks that maybe what she and Harry are doing doesn’t fall into the friendship category.

It all starts with a broken coffee table, a plan to replace it, and a trip to the closest store they could find. Repairing it with a spell would have been a simple thing to do, but magic doesn’t last forever and she’s almost entirely sure that they’re the only magical people living in their apartment building; she refuses to risk exposure of their actual lives, so the next best thing to do is go out and buy a new table.

The options are nice and it’s a quick decision, but then her eye catches sight of a beautiful nightstand and remembers that she wanted to replace hers back when they first moved in together. Harry, following her, comments out loud that it might be nice to replace his bedframe, so she lets him guide her through the store in search for it and soon they have an entire list of things to buy with their now combined budget.

They talk about their sofa, which isn’t completely worn, but it is old, has more than a few lumps on the cushions and has seen blood spilled on its fabric—even if magic had gotten rid of that, the dark brown spots still fill her vision sometimes when she takes a seat—so she doesn’t deny that it’s time for a new one.

It’s there when it hits her: they’re standing in front of a sofa, dark blue and cozy looking, and she’s…she’s leaning against his shoulder with her arm around his and his voice drifting to her, explaining how comfortable they’ll be during their night ins and Hermione freezes.

“You okay?

She tenses, but doesn’t move except to gaze up at him, finding his face closer than she thought it’d be. The fabric of his jacket is warm to the touch of her cheek, her hand is nestled on the inside of his bent elbow, and he’s leaning down to look at her with a curious look.

“Yes…yes!” Hermione says, apparently unable to control her volume or pitch on that word, and clears her throat. “Yes, it’s…it’s just expensive, that’s all. I don’t think we can afford it.”

Harry frowns, and gives her a confused look. “We can. We already checked, and we can afford either of the sofas on this side of the aisle. If you don’t like this one—”

“—no, I like it,” She interrupts. “I do. Let’s take it.”

He gives her another look, this one longer and with a bit more worry to it, but eventually nods and steers her towards whatever nearby employee can help them put in their order. It’s an easy process, and she thinks that whatever momentary weirdness came over her during that minute is a glitch that she can avoid in future situations.

Hours later, at night, Harry places a quick kiss on the top of her head as he passes by her side, mumbling ‘good night’ before he disappearing into his bedroom and Hermione freezes again. She doesn’t sleep well, tossing and turning most of the night, courtesy of the thoughts that she’s been trying to outrun for years.

It’s not the end of the world, but it does feel like it, and it’s a bit insulting, if she’s honest. She’s still young, yes, but Hermione was sure she’d left all this behind at Hogwarts. A crush on one of her best friends back when they were teenagers was one thing, but to have a crush on her other best friend, the one she lives with, and realizing it later than she should have?

An unfunny joke, if she’s ever heard one. (Because it was just a crush…right?)

It doesn’t go away, because it couldn’t be that simple, of course, so Hermione does her best to somehow not clue Harry into her thoughts. She’s half successful, conversation still flowing and spending more time with him now that he’s back to living in their apartment, but there’s a noticeable distance between them now. She doesn’t sit as close to him as before, and there’s no more exchange of nicknames between them—at least not from her side. Harry continues to do it, but it’s not as often now that she doesn’t respond. She doesn’t mind. (She does. The names had started silly but by this point, she’d looked forward to them; Harry had a way of looking at her tenderly whenever one of them left his mouth.)

The small line they had crossed after the Ministry Ball—leaning closer when talking, sitting close enough that their shoulders brush repeatedly, whispering in each other’s ears in an attempt to keep other people form hearing—suddenly feels heavier and bigger, and she takes measures to not even go near the edge of it, not when she’s still reeling from the revelation that maybe her feelings aren’t as platonic as she thought.

Harry gives her space, murmuring concerned questions and apparently calmed by her assurances that there’s nothing wrong, but there’s only so many times that she can wave him off before his worry overflows.

She’s signing documents and reading through reports when her door opens and shuts, all in the span of a couple of seconds. When she looks up, Harry is in front of her desk, frown deep and chest heaving as if he’d been running towards her office. He's still dressed formally—a new, deep grey suit she’d helped him pick out right before the start of the school year—and there’s traces of soot on his shoulders and sleeves, which tells her he just finished with his last class of the day and took a floo directly to the Ministry.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Hermione demands. “You can’t storm in like that, Harry! What if I was in the middle of a meeting?”

“I asked your assistant and she said you were free,” Harry states, his eyes still pinning her down. “What’s wrong, Hermione? And don’t give me any of those  bloody excuses from before. You’ve been acting weird this past week and I want to know why.”

“Oh, you want to know why?” The sliver of panic she feels is suddenly buried under a layer of indignation. “Why do you think it’s any of your concern?”

Harry huffs. “Because I know it has something to do with me. I want to know what I did wrong, so I can apologize for it, or…or I don’t know. I just want to know why you’ve been acting like this.”

“I haven’t acted any different,” Hermione says, and she can’t look him in the eye as she lies to him. She gets up from her desk, four books in her hands, and proceeds to put them in their proper place as she continues to speak. “I’ve just been busy with work, that’s all, but we still see each other a lot.”

Harry chuckles humorlessly. “Yeah, but when we do, you can barely look me in the eye. You always look as if you’re two seconds away from bolting, and…you don’t call me names anymore.”

Hermione bites her lip, putting the last book on its place in the bookshelf, and stays with her back to him. “Is that what this is about? Some names?”

Harry shrugs helplessly. “Did it make you that uncomfortable? I thought…you started doing it too, when we came up with that game, so I thought you were okay with it but…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I’ll stop, okay? I won’t use them anymore and we can stop the game. You’re the winner.”

She doesn’t feel like one, especially with the morose tone of his words, but a part of her feels relieved at his words. They stand there, him close to her desk and her all the way over in front of the bookshelf, and silence settles heavily around them. Her fingers are still holding onto the spine of the book as if it’s an anchor, but she eventually lets go and turns to face him.

Harry has his arms crossed loosely, hip leaning against the edge of her desk and eyes set on her, though they avoid hers when she searches for his gaze. The invisible line between them now feels like solid wall, and maybe she could let it go on like that: a clear, unmistakable boundary that pulls them on different directions and preserves their friendship for what it currently is.

She could do it, but Harry…his eyes are full of confusion and guilt and she knows that if she lets him leave her office like this, the rift between them would become too big to fix. Even with that, she still hesitates, and it’s not until Harry sighs and straightens, ready to leave, that she speaks.

“It’s not about the names,” The words are softly spoken, but in the silence between them they might as well have been screamed. “It’s not…I wasn’t uncomfortable, especially considering that you didn’t actually come up with bad names. It’s just…it was a game, right?”

Harry frowns, but nods, and steps closer to her. From this distance, she can see the way his fists clench and then hide away in his pockets.

“It was a fun game,” Hermione says. “But…”

She can’t speak. Whatever words she says next are guaranteed to change their dynamic forever, no matter the outcome, and she hadn’t prepared herself for that. Naïve, yes…did she really think she could get away with hiding her feelings, when Harry is the person that knows her the most?

“But…?” He whispers. “Just tell me, Hermione.”

“It started as a game, but then…it didn’t feel like a game anymore,” Hermione whispers, and leans her back against the bookshelf. The edge of the horizontal shelves dig into her skin, grounding her. “I mean…what were we doing, Harry? Calling each other cute names? Living together and shopping for furniture? You being my date to a Ministry Ball, knowing the kind of rumors that that would spark? What were we thinking?”

“I don’t care about that,” Harry says.

“Maybe, but it still happened. All those things…they’re not roommate things, Harry. They’re not…things that friends do. We shouldn’t have let it go so far—I shouldn’t have let it go that far, considering…that I really liked it.”

“I’m…I’m not following.”

She really is going to have to come out and say it, isn’t she?

“I…I really, really like you, Harry,” She doesn’t look at him, leaning her head back into the bookshelf and staring at the ceiling. “And not…not like I should. I didn’t know…I don’t know when or how it started, but it did and now I need us to stop acting how we have been because we are not together and it’s no longer a game to me, so please…no more names, no more dates…I can’t live with you if we keep doing things you don’t actually mean.”

There’s an urge to run. It’s her own office, her own space, and she’s no coward, but she spares a second to plan out the perfect escape route but quickly dismisses it. Even if she were successful in hiding away, she still lives with him. It’s the first time in five years she’s regretted it.

“I did mean them.”

She can almost hear her neck crack with how fast it swings down to look at him, and her breath hitches when she finds him standing right before her. He’s left all the confusion behind, and there’s only a strange mixture of relief and regret shining on his eyes, along with a sliver of nervousness that manifests itself in the way his words tumble out of his mouth.

“I did mean it, all of it,” Harry confesses. “But it…it wasn’t supposed to be like this, Hermione. I’ve…I’ve liked you, for a long time, I don’t know when…I think the tent, maybe, but I don’t…All I know is that I woke up one day and I realized that I…loved the kind of life we were building together, and then…then you had a date for that first Ministry Ball you attended and…I got jealous. I mean, the bloke had you on his arm and he kissed you on the cheek and all I could do was stand there and wish it was me. You never saw him again, I think, but it was enough for me to get my head out of my ass, but at that point we were living together and I didn’t…I didn’t know if you ever felt something like that for me. I mean…I did ruin your life more than once, didn’t I?”

Hermione frowns, forgetting for a moment what they’re doing. “Harry—”

“—your parents don’t remember you and you got hurt so many times, so I—” Harry continues to speak, words falling more desperately. “I didn’t say anything but I knew, so I was trying to…to see if I could get over it but I couldn’t, and the more time passed…I didn’t want to get over it, so I tried to tell you, but I was coward every time and then that night I slipped up and called you honey and…I went along and made it seem like I was teasing you because I was afraid to tell you my feelings, and then I continued with it because I didn’t know how to tell you about them without all of it sounding like a joke. I’m sorry.”

It’s a lot to take in, so Hermione does what she does best, and tackles the issue one thing at a time. “Why honey?”

He’s confused at her questions, but answers. “Sirius…Sirius told me once that it was the name my mom used on my dad all the time. Guess it stuck with me.”

“That’s…sweet,” She murmurs.

Harry nods, and the silence returns, but mellower this time. There’s none of the previous tension, although their gazes still avoid each other and she doesn’t take a step to or back from him. Her brain is still trying to catch up on everything, reeling from her confession to his and remembering everything that they’d been doing for the past months that led them to this. In her mind, Hermione is flabbergasted at the fact that she hadn’t questioned her own feeling before the trip to the store, especially considering the odd looks she and Harry had been getting for some time now. Then again, they’d been getting those kinds of looks since Hogwarts, so maybe she had subconsciously ignored them.

“Hermione,”

“Hmm?” She comes back to the moment, and finds him even closer than before, their bodies barely a step away from each other.

Gone is the nervousness, replaced by sheer determination that she’s only seen on him few times before, all of them during war time. He looks directly into her eyes—in the light of her office, she can count three different shades of the green he got from his mother, flecks of them melting into each other and wow, what a beauty to behold—and though she can sense his hesitation, he shakes his head and speaks.

“I’m done being a coward,” Harry says, his voice only loud enough for her to hear. “I’d like you to hear what I have to say.”

Hermione nods, the ‘yes’ choking in her throat and wondering what the next words out of his mouth will be.

“I…I’m not going to stand here and tell you that you’re it for me, because the truth is that I don’t know,” He says, taking a deep breath. “You hold an incredibly especial place in my heart, Hermione, and there’s nothing in this world that will ever change that, but…somehow, someway, my feelings for you shifted into something…more. It’s not going away, and I don’t want it to go away, so…I think we should try. A relationship of our own…I don’t know the end result of it, but it’s an uncertainty I’m willing to explore with you.”

Hermione stands there and…stares. She can only stare as Harry speaks, words gaining confidence the more words leave him, though his jaw is tight and the skin above his beard is gaining color fast. She doesn’t mean to undermine his speech, much less make this moment anything other than serious, but she stares at him for another moment and laughs.

Harry frowns. “Are…are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Hermione whispers, calming down. “I’m not laughing at you, I promise, but it’s…We’re so stupid.”

“Huh?”

“Us, Harry, by Merlin, we’re so stupid,” Hermione chuckles. “Not realizing that we have feelings for the other, and then doing that dumb game…I’m tempted to let you win, only because you already knew your feelings had changed while I really, truly believed it was a game.”

“Wait, so you didn’t know?” He asks, confused.

“It only hit me when we were in that store, looking at the sofa,” Hermione answers, and she can feel her cheeks heat up. “That’s why I’ve been acting so weird. I thought I should get over it, but I’ve had as much luck as you had.”

“Oh,” Harry mumbles. “So…”

“So…”

“What do you say?” He asks, and she’s sure his heart is about to beat out of his chest, judging by how his breathing is stuttering as he gathers air.

“About?”

“Us, dating, trying,” He answers.

Hermione hums, and though she’s already made up her mind, she feels like being playful after the heaviness of the conversation. “I think that people who want to take someone on a date should ask that person out.”

Harry pauses, unsure, but the look in her eye must give him the answer he’s seeking. He smiles, soft and nervous. “Would you like to go out with me? I’ll pick you up. I know where you live.”

She chuckles, and reaches for his jacket, pulling him into a hug that has her arms winding around his torso and his own coming around her shoulders. She presses her face into his chest, smiling at the rapid pace of his heart, and answer him. The word ‘yes’ is muffled, but she’s said it loud enough for him to understand, and feels him tighten his hold and lean his head down against hers.

“People who date also kiss, you know?”

Harry huffs out a small laugh. “There’s a lot of things people who date do, and I’ll do them all with you. Come here.”

He tugs her head back, just enough to lean down and capture her lips against his, and Hermione decides that the paperwork on her desk can wait.

She doesn’t have notion of the time that passes as they kiss against the bookshelf, but when they draw away from each other, her lips are swollen and her chest is heaving from the effort to regain the breath she’s lost. Her hands moved from his jacket to his collar, keeping him in place, and she feels his fingers digging softly into the sides of her waist. Breathes mingling together and with the steel of his glasses pressed against the bridge of her nose, Hermione smiles at the thought that crosses her mind.

“Keep doing it,”

“Let me get some breaths in,” Harry answers, his laugh breathless as he leans back to gaze down at her.

“Yes, that too, but I mean…keep saying them,” Hermione says. “The names. I like them.”

“…okay, honey.”

They don’t keep their new relationship a secret, but they have a plan that goes out the window when Ron catches them kissing as they arrive at the Burrow on a Sunday.

“If this is another one of your weird games, I’m drawing the fucking line,” Ron says, unimpressed and gaze flickering between each of his best friends. “Kissing? You two can’t be this dumb. Maybe Harry, but you, Hermione? The hell?”

“It’s a real kiss,” Harry says, passing a hand against his mouth. She’s left some traces of lipstick there.

“Yeah, I saw that,”

“What he means,” Hermione intervenes, and grasps Harry’s hand, showing them both to the redhead. “Is that it’s not a game. We’re kissing because we’re…together.”

She hesitates at the end, and only because, even with years passed between them, Hermione and Ron do have some sort of history that goes beyond their friendship. It never went anywhere, and there’s no way it’d go anywhere now, but years ago they’d been dancing on the same edge and now she stands here and declares that his best friend is her current boyfriend. Not to mention that beyond the entrance, most likely waiting on them to come in, is Harry’s ex-girlfriend, Ron’s sister and one of her best friends. It’s the kind of formula that gives place to a mess of drama, broken relationships and a punch or two.

But Ron? Ron scrutinizes them with his eyes and then sighs, relieved. “Okay. Good.”

“Good? That’s it?” Harry asks, trying—and failing—to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

They’d talked about their best friend’s possible reaction, but there’s few things they could do to prepare and so they decided to just tell him and watch out for it. She’d been expecting some silence, maybe a glare or two, but it was clear that Harry had prepared for a more explosive scenario. She’s beyond glad it doesn’t come to pass.

“What else do you want me to say?” Ron shrugs, and beckons them to come inside. “Ginny will probably have more commentary than me. She’s the one who told me to shut up and not say anything.”

Ah. So that’s what happened that Sunday.

Ginny does have more to say when she’s sitting with her, but it’s less teasing and more exasperated. “Fucking finally. I was this close to losing my mind when we went dress shopping. Searching for a green dress and saying that Harry was going to be your date, and he was going to match you? I had to bite my tongue.”

Hermione huffs. “You couldn’t have possibly known it was going to end like this. Being someone’s date to a ball is hardly a love confession.”

“Not for most, but for Harry?” Ginny countered, raising an eyebrow. “Besides, it was less of that and more of how you looked when you talked about him.”

“What?”

The redhead shrugged, but looked entirely too smug for Hermione’s liking. “The eyes don’t lie, yours or his.”

Hermione is unsure of how to answer that, so she speaks the thought that’s been plaguing her since she entered the Burrow. “Are we…are we okay? I mean, I know it’s been years, but Harry is still your…”

“Ex?” Ginny says, and tilts her head to the side. “I mean, sure he is, but I don’t mind. You know we never actually got around to dating much, and after the war…well, we ended on good terms and we’re good friends now. There’s nothing more there, same as you and Ron.”

Hermione nods, and relaxes against the chair. “Okay.”

“You’re still our Quidditch referee, though,” Ginny grins. “And no favoring Harry.”

“I don’t pay enough attention to the game to be able to do that,” Hermione laughs. “You’ll probably win most of the time, anyways.”

“Of course I will.”

Things don’t change much. Ron jokes that they did it all backwards—living together before even realizing that there were feelings between them—and they’re now stuck navigating a relationship that feels both advanced and brand new.

A new routine forms: on days that he has class, Harry wakes up earlier and makes the coffee and breakfast, leaving before she’s even out of the shower. On those days, Hermione makes sure to leave her office at a reasonable hour to make them both dinner and, sometimes, do some laundry. On his days off, she’s out of the door before he even wakes up, but he takes care of the grocery shopping and dinner for the day, sometimes dropping by with lunch and new, entertaining gossip from his young students. It’s a nice dynamic, and one that settles in easily after a few trials and errors.

The thing that changes the most is their physical intimacy. They’re no strangers to it, but before it had been firmly kept at whatever iteration of a hug they needed, but now…now there was a lot of kissing involved, some cuddling beneath blankets on the sofa, and…sex.

She’s had sex before, Harry isn’t her first, but he is the one that feels the most fulfilling. He’d been shy their first time, both of them had as they navigated the next important step of their relationship, but they’d fit together and in between harsh breaths and skin slapping against skin, both of them shed whatever lingering doubt was still in their minds.

Hermione is woman enough to admit that, before she even thought about the possibility of them dating, she’d found him handsome. Was there attraction there? Perhaps, but it was always something she put out of the reach of her mind, unwilling to entertain it. Now? Now he’s her boyfriend and she finds him hot as fuck, so it’s no wonder that the kissing soon turns into making out, which leads to situations like this.

Her breath hitches, her thighs trembling from the effort of lowering her weight. His fingers dig into the flesh of her hips, keeping her into a steady pace as his cock enters her, torturously slow and with more than one curse uttered from her mouth. She stabilizes herself using his shoulders, littered with nails marks and scratches from her own hands, but there’s no sign of pain on his face: he’s looking at her through half lidded eyes, mouth dropped open and forehead shiny with sweat.

It feels like forever until she drops completely on him, hissing softly at the feeling of being filled completely, and his hands drops from her hips to the back of her thighs, spreading her open even more as his hips roll against her.

“That feel good, honey?” Harry murmurs.

And that’s another thing that changes: there’s no more nicknames for her when in public. Harry saves them for this, to whisper in her ear whenever he’s having his way with her, and though they sound a bit out of place for the type of dirty talking they do, Hermione revels on them.

“Yes,” She whispers against his hair.

She barely able to spare a thought for the sofa—she’s going to have to clean it thoroughly tomorrow, again—before Harry’s hips snap up against her. With his hands still on her thighs, her own movements are restricted to grinding as he sets a slow, hard pace. His face disappears into her chest, teeth finding her nipples and biting—

She pulls at his hair, forcing his head back and descending into his lips with a fierce want as her legs struggle against his hold, eventually breaking it and allowing her to bounce faster on top of him. The surface of the sofa doesn’t give her much leverage, and her frustration is apparent when a movement that takes her too high makes him slip out of her.

He doesn’t give her time to do anything more than huff, dragging her body down until she’s laying all across the cushions. He’s on top now, pulling at her legs until he’s resting her knees on top of his shoulders, and then presses them against her. Her lower body bents, her legs spreading and her ass leaving the sofa, and she’s left grasping at whatever she can reach as she feels his cock sliding into her again.

It’s faster now. She drags him into her more by locking her calves at his nape and pulling him forward as his rhythm drags moan after moan out of her. She manages to catch him for a kiss or two, but both of them are breathing harshly enough that it’s nothing more than a smashing of lips and teeth.

She’s already come once, on his mouth, so it’s no surprise when she feels her pleasure coil in her belly more rapidly than it usually would. His hips keeps slamming against her, and his hands have wandered from her legs to her chest, kneading and pinching and she’s—she’s close.

She feels him slow down, and then press into her more, her legs bending farther, and then his voice reaches her, out of breath and lower while his hips regain some of their speed.

“You like it like this, don’t you?” Harry murmurs. “Tell me.”

Hermione opens her mouth, and answers, but she knows no words form. A hitch of breath and a high pitch whine are the only things she can produce.

“Come on, sweetheart,” He continues, and pauses his thrusts. “Use words.”

She heaves, and nods frantically. “Yes, I…I like it. Please, I—”

His cock slides out, only to promptly enter her again, faster and rougher while one of his hands travels between her legs, fingers exploring her folds and oh—

Her body tenses fully for a moment, thighs pressing against his head and keeping him inside of her before she lets go. The pleasure shudders through her for a long moment, walls tightening around his cock as he thrusts again, one, twice—

She knows he’s reached his climax when he groans, stilling himself inside of her and keeping her in place even after her own pleasure has fizzled out. She stares at him through half closes eyes, breathing heavily, and lets out a soft moan as his cock slides out of her. Her knees drop from his shoulders and she knows she’s going to feel sore about that tomorrow, but there’s a delicious ache in the middle of her legs that makes it all worth it.

He drapes over her, keeping some of his weight off of her, but drops kissing to her neck before traveling upwards, seeking her lips. It’s a slow kiss, both of them now satiated, but he still makes sure to bite her softly before leaning back. His hair is sticking to his forehead, and she can see the scratches all over his shoulders from this position.

“We’re going to be sore if we fall asleep here,” She whispers.

“We’re going to be sore either way,” Harry says, and smirks lazily, adjusting himself on his side and pulling her towards him.

Yes, not much changes, but the things that do…she’s not going to complain about them.

This is all Harry’s fault.

He doesn’t do it intentionally—she doesn’t think so, at least—but it’s still his fault and Hermione promises herself that she’ll have some sort of revenge for the embarrassing position that she now finds herself in, right in the middle of meeting for Merlin’s sake.

Williams keeps talking, informing her of the cases he’s overseeing, but the words fall on deaf ears as her mind refuses to focus. The words she’s staring are also impossible to decipher, and she hopes the heat she feels all over her face is somehow not noticeable.

She takes the first opportunity she has to dismiss Williams, assuring him that his work is good—which she trusts she is; if it had been any other prosecutor, she’d have cut the meeting short and rescheduled—and waiting until the door was shut and locked before beginning to pace around her office.

It’s a problem. A real, sort of embarrassing problem that has been present for some time now and that she completely missed until this two hours ago.

Harry had dropped by with lunch, delivering regards from McGonagall and some of the other staff before asking about how her day was going. It was a very simple and normal conversation, and though he’d had to go quicker than she’d hoped, it couldn’t be helped to she happily received his parting kiss.

The problem started when he leaned back, grinning down at her and—

“See you at home, darling.”

(“Fuck, just like that, darling.”)

Hermione had stuttered her reply and watched as he turned on his heel and left, leaving behind a startling revelation that had her shudder and go through two meeting before she had to admit defeat. Her mind wasn’t paying attention to her work anymore, firmly stuck on the names.

Because it wasn’t just that one, of course. The more she tried to stop thinking about it, the more she did and she could almost hear his voice whispering in her ear:

“You work too hard, sweetheart.” A shake of his head and a glare to her files.

(“Open your mouth, sweetheart. I want to hear you.” Two of his fingers, prying her lips open delicately, staying inside of her mouth until she was moaning around them.)

“Hey, beautiful.” A grin and a wink.

(“Eyes on me, beautiful.” A sharp thrust. She whines, but searches for his gaze.)

“Are you about to steal my job, honey?” He looks at his student’s essay on her hand, but she assures him that she’s just reading them for fun. His students are creative when they want to be, more now that their parents have told them exactly who their professor is.

(“You’re so good at that, honey,” His voice is huskier when he moans, and she can only hum in response, her mouth and throat currently busy.)

“Fuck,” Hermione whispers, and stops her pacing, hiding her face behind her hands. Her face feels hot to the touch.

“Are you okay?”

Harry’s voice drifts to her ears, and she turns around. He’s back again, looking at her with a small frown as he closes the door at his back.

She doesn’t ask why he’s here, instead taking three large steps to him direction, and jabs a finger at his chest. “You!”

“Me?” He asks, confused, but backs against the door.

“You…You!” Hermione repeats, and lets out a frustrated breath. “You did this.”

“I didn’t,” Harry denies quickly. “…I think.”

“This is all you fault,” She laments, but the sudden burst of petty anger is gone, and she falls into him. “You don’t even know, do you?”

“I just came to get my jacket,” He explains, and rubs her back. “I forgot it.”

“It’s your fault I’m like this,” Hermione mumbles against his chest.

“Beautiful?”

(“I need to get a mirror in here,” Words whispered against her ear, fingers digging softly into the flesh of her breast. “You need to look at yourself like this, beautiful.”)

“Stop,” Hermione leaves his embrace, hissing the word. “Stop…don’t call me that, not here.”

Harry frowns, and she knows he must be incredibly confused, so she huffs and decides to be as blunt as she can in the middle of her office.

“I…really, really like it when you call me that,” She whispers, pulling at the collar of her dress shirt. “The others…I like all of them.”

Thankfully, he catches the meaning behind the words. She knows her face is beyond red, so maybe that clues him in, but either way, Harry’s face shifts from dumbfounded to realization. He hums, and there’s a smile that splits his face slowly, smug enough that she has half a mind to hex him.

“This is a problem,” Hermione states flatly.

“Is it?” Harry tilts his head to the side. “I don’t think so.”

“You didn’t have to go through meeting with…with…” She clears her throat. “I couldn’t concentrate.”

“I bet.”

His voice is different now, lower and huskier, and his eyes…Hermione swallows, staying still as his hands reach for the belt around her waist, pulling her against him. He’s so warm she silently wonders why he even came back for that jacket, or maybe…maybe it’s just her own body heat, which seems to be out of control and somehow keep climbing.

“What were you thinking about?” Harry whispers.

“You already know,” She murmurs, and looks down, taking a stuttering breath at the sight of his hands unbuckling her belt. He’s slow doing it, pulling the leather from the loops of her pants until it’s free, and drops it to the side.

“I want you to say it,” He says, and he’s at her button and zipper, slowly undoing the first and waiting for a moment, fingers grasping the pull tab.

She looks up at him, finding his eyes flickering between his hands and hers, a silent question behind them.

“Make me,” She answers.

Harry hums, and both of them look down. He’s had enough practice of getting her out of her clothes that undoing her pants is no trouble. The become loose at her waist and he wastes no time in pulling them down, bending a bit to grasp at her leg to help her out of them. Hermione stays quiet, throat becoming drier by the second and by Merlin, were they really about to do this in the middle of her fucking office?

“Did it start like this? What you were thinking of?” He asked softly, now standing back up again. He’s still leaning against the door, keeping her closer while he thumbs the upper edges of her panties, making her shudder.

Hermione keeps quiet. Normally, she’d be talking his ear off during this, moaning and whispering what feels good and how much she likes it, but his little habit of calling her names has become a problem and for revenge, she decided to make him work for what he wants.

…it might be harder than she thought, though.

Harry is more impatient than other times, either because he needs to go back to Hogwarts, or because her current defiance is turning him on, but he’s quick in slipping her panties off too. This time he leaves them at her knees, and nudges her legs as far apart as they can go with her underwear around them.

 Her hands look for him, grasping at his upper arms as a couple of his fingers part her folds. She knows she’s wet, she’s been like that since he left with his that greeting that made her spiral, so it’s a relief when he’s finally touching her. She looks down, watching his fingers explore her as if they don’t do it on a regular basis, but his other hand tugs her chin up.

His kiss is fierce, swallowing her mouth and the moan she lets out when one of his fingers enters her, curling and probing around. She can hear nothing more than the breaths that escape their kiss and the wet sound of him fingering her, but she’s thankful that he keeps kissing her through every little sound of pleasure she makes. They’re pressed against the door, and if someone was to pass close by and hear them…

He breaks the kiss but keeps her close enough that their noses touch. His hand speeds up, and he adds another finger, which forces her to bite her lip and tug at his sleeves. She wants to spread her legs more, wishes to wind them around his waist and tempt him to join her in this, but Harry seems determined to make this all about her.

“Tell me,” He murmurs, his hand slowing down only enough for his thumb to fins its place right at her clit.

Hermione groans and moans, and shakes her head, but she knows it’s a losing battle. He knows how to push her buttons and drive her to the edge but stop her from falling into it, and he’s going to take full advantage for that.

His hand slows down. “Come, tell me. Did I call you beautiful? Was it like this, fast and rough?”

“You could be rougher,” Hermione whispers, voice breaking slightly.

He chuckles, and then—

“Harry,” She whines, feeling his fingers retract.

He moves, only just enough to pull her underwear down further, and then his right leg is in the middle of her legs. He pulls at her shirt, pressing her fully against him in a way that forces her hips to rest against his thigh. The friction of the fabric of his pants sends a jolt of pleasure through her spine and where it would otherwise border on painful, she’s wet enough that she can grind against it comfortably.

It’s exactly what he wants her to do. “Go on, darling. Give me something nice to think about while grading essays.”

He grabs her hips and guides her, pressing her down on his thigh until she takes over the movement. Her breaths come out quicker, her hands now gripping his belt to keep him in place as she speeds up. His leg moves up against her, creating a rhythm that has her chest stuttering and thighs trembling, and she’s so, so close.

“That’s it, love,” Harry whispers in her ear. “Faster, go on.”

Hermione nods against his shoulder. She can already feel her orgasm approaching fast, belly taut with tension and heartbeat climbing erratically—

She tenses against him, biting into his shoulder to muffle the loud moan that claws through her throat. His hands quickly travel to her ass, keeping her in place until her climax passes her through and her whole weight falls against him, her chest heaving and eyes half closed.

He shuffles in place, removing his leg from between hers—there’s a big, dark spot on the middle of his thigh, and she makes a mental note to remind him to clean it before leaving her office—before winding his arms around her, letting her ride the aftershocks of her orgasm.

It’s minutes later, when she regains enough of her energy, that she speak. “You’re not allowed to do that anymore.”

“Hmm? You didn’t like it?” He asks, and she knows he’s smirking even when her face rests against his shoulder.

“Not that,” Hermione huffs. “I did like it, but…you can’t call me names in public again, Harry. I mean it. I can’t be horny like this all the time.”

“Alright,” He agrees, and she feels a kiss on the top of her head. “I’ll keep it between us them.”

“And in the bedroom,” Hermione comments, and then pauses. “…maybe on some other places, too.”

“Duly noted, honey.”