"It's not exactly my house, Harry," she reminds him, a bit bashful. "I was going to fill the shelves or help you clean up the old one, if there's anything left to clean?"
"Not really? I've been mostly doing it some evenings after work or on weekends. It gives me something interesting to do." It's helped take his mind off work and the rut he's found himself in. Seeing the changes from what Grimmauld Place looked like during the war and what it's turned into, Harry can't help but feel proud of it. He's done that.
Heaving a sigh, he looks lazily over at Hermione sitting in one of his favorite chairs.
She lets a small, sad smile slip at that - this is what fills his time with joy? Cleaning an old and definitely cursed (in places) house after work?
She has to bite her tongue not to give him the same spiel of how he doesn't have to keep saving the world, and how he's done enough for wizarding Britain and doesn't owe them his inner peace even now.
He's giving her a look that he might not realise reaches deep, has the flutter in her belly startle into a frenzy all over again.
She clears her throat.
"Get some pen and paper." No quills in this house, they die like men - men with a loyalty card to Paperchase.
Hey, it's not as pathetic as it sounds! He gets a space that is thoroughly his and he got there with his own two hands and a bit of magic and paint. The cleaning bit is a drag, but Kreacher is definitely too old for all of that and wasn't all that helpful to begin with so.. there's that.
He still goes out to the pub or watches Quidditch matches every once in a while! He even read a muggle novel recently! Well. He started it.
Knowing when an order is an order, Harry groans as he makes himself stand up and retrieve a notebook and pen. Pens are superior in every way and his hand doesn't get stained with ink. When would the wizarding world learn the superiority of the ink pen?? Instead of moving back to the sofa, he sits at the foot of Hermione's chair, resting his back against the arm she's not occupying.
"Bullet points first," she murmurs, shifting in her seat so that she can take the bottle for another sip, and curl up in the armchair in a way that lets her touch him.
Looking over his shoulder while he writes is the main goal, sure, but she also has her hand right there and his hair is so nice to play with that she has to.
"The bullets might have to be a resume to begin with, we can do the cover letter after."
"Okay, bullet points. I got Outstanding in Defense Against the Dark Arts on my OWLs?" Sure, he didn't take his NEWTs, but he'd gone right into Auror training after the war was over and the dust had settled. Did he need those? Oh gods, does he need to take them? There's no way he'd pass if he took them today.
Instead of working himself up over that, he lets out a breath and clears his throat. Okay, moving on. "Bullet two: I taught a group of twenty-five students defensive spells in secret in Fifth Year. Bullet three: I defeated Voldemort. And that's about all I've got."
How did one even put together a resumé? This seems silly. Not that he thinks it should just be given to him, he doesn't want special treatment! He just doesn't know how to put all his skills down on paper. What's important and what isn't? He's distracted by the hand playing with his hair and hums contentedly, letting his head rest against the chair's arm while he thinks.
He pushes his glasses up his face while he rubs at his eyes. "This is exhausting already."
She rolls her eyes at that and points out: "That's because you're being too self-deprecating and not drunk enough."
While she has him leaning his head back, she holds the bottle out.
"Here, have another sip." She looks at the abysmally short list, while still twirling his hair around her fingers, a pleasant buzz settling in now. "You know that cleverness and books are not all that vital for defense against the dark arts, and furthermore you've done more than those three things.
"But put the Auror training in first, dates included. It wouldn't be the first time an Auror taught the class and you know it."
If a Death Eater disguised as an Auror could be their professor for a year, Harry would be stellar.
True enough, he wasn't drunk enough, so he takes the invitation and steals the bottle back, taking a few healthy mouthfuls before handing it back and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Her fingers twirling about his hair give him the mental note that maybe he should get a haircut sometime soon, but it feels so pleasant... maybe he shouldn't?
"You don't think so?" He turns back to his notebook and skips a few lines, writing down his Auror training and the date he started.
"Er, what about searching for the Horcruxes? Problem-solving and perseverance?"
With her hands free, she shifts in the armchair - notices with some pleasure that it's a fairly large one, because she can curl herself up in it properly, so really this room begs to be a reading room - and comes to rest her cheek on one of the armrests so she can read over shoulder better.
It may feel like she's draped over his shoulders like a scarf, her knees on one side of his head, toes tucked into the space between armrest and seat cushion. It may feel like that because she's left her hand where it was, between idly toying with his hair and idly rubbing the nape of his neck.
"That would be for sure something to include, but Harry - I'm talking about Dumbledore's Army specifically. You have taught students defensive charms back when Umbridge wasn't allowing it, and it should not have been up to you to teach that sort of thing but you did it so well regardless. Oh, include that fact that you can encourage students to persevere, and you like helping them thrive or achieve their potential."
She looks at him now, noticing finally that she's sprawled with her face very close to his face, and is rendered speechless by how utterly beautiful his eyes are.
Hermione-scarf aside, he's appreciative of the warmth at his back, even if it's imagined. It could be the wine in his belly with only a few biscuits or the fact that his best friend is curled behind him, her hands toying with the hair at his nape causing him to break out in goosebumps. His feelings for Hermione feel so tangled and complicated, and it just feels so good that it's the pair of them here. He kind of doesn't want to finish the task at hand because it means they'll have to move.
"It might not have been my responsibility, but I'd have felt worse if I hadn't." Leaving so many without knowing how to defend themselves hadn't sat right, even putting all his previous experiences with defenselessness into a dark recess. He quickly makes another bullet point and scrawls Dumbledore's Army next to it with what Hermione said. It had felt good teaching everyone and seeing their progress, watching them gain confidence in what they could do.
He'd gotten so lost in his head that Hermione's voice close to his ear startled him, his heart jackrabbiting against his ribcage. Turning toward her, he wets his lips trying to gather those scattered thoughts as he takes in how pretty her hair looks today. He hadn't mentioned it earlier. Looks nice.
"Erm.." Harry clears his throat. "I've got nothing at home. Takeaway fine?"
She catches that quick gesture, and catches her breath. The wine has muddled her sensed just a bit, only made things fuzzy in places, and yet the proximity of Harry's face, of her lips to Harry's lips, is crystal clear. Stands out.
She blinks, his nonsensical question confusing her.
"I didn't ask about food," she murmurs.
She should pull away before she embarasses herself like an utter fool. Hermione Granger is not an utter fool.
Oh, he's being put on the spot again and those intense brown eyes are on him and she's so close--why hadn't he noticed the curve of her nose before? He can feel the embarrassed flush creeping up his neck and his face feels almost unbearably warm.
He clears his throat before he dares speak, knowing his voice would waver. He knows he's being given an opportunity here, fix what he said and circle it back to.. what? How he'd very much like to close the distance between them? How he thinks her lips will taste like wine?
Get over yourself, blockhead. Don't screw up the best thing you've already got.
Instead, he lets himself down and averts his gaze to the notepad. "Right, sorry. I uh. Think this might be it?"
It'll be the hill he dies on until he gets his head out of his ass, the legacy of one Harry James Potter. More stubborn than he needs to be, especially when it comes to his own wishes if they involve someone else.
He's disappointed in himself, even more so as that sigh ghosts across the nape of his neck and he has to stifle the urge to reach up and cover the spot.
Harry huffs out a laugh, but it's half-hearted at best. "Better than every Professor who has taken the role the past eight years, bar one." Obviously, Lupin was the one they all deserved and Snape had ruined that. Because of course he had.
He takes the bottle, taking a few large drinks that he will probably regret later on. Harry can't help the fond smile as her lips touch the crown of his head and he bumps his head back against her knee as a retort.
"Oh, I don't know, Hermione." He pauses, turns toward her and shrugs. "I've got nothing. I was going to comment how someone might prefer something else and I've completely lost it."
She leans back into the armchair, running her fingers through his hair again, summoning the notebook in her hand to read over the list.
Distance, where there can be some. She's fighting half a bottle of wine here to be pragmatic for him - the things she does for love.
"There are some obvious downsides," she murmurs, "which would come up in an interview. Such as that students can be difficult, and that it doesn't pay as much as Aurors do."
She scrunches up her nose. "Alrigh, posh boy, I've seen you eat leftovers two evenings in a row before - maybe don't lead the interview with 'it isn't about the money' or you'll be Hogwarts' first underpaid professor."
"What does my love of leftovers have to do with my financial status?" He waves a hand, dismissing the notion. "That's fine, so long as they do something with what they're not paying me. Like helping First Years get school supplies if they can't afford it."
It just punches through her, right to the heart of her, making her suck in a breath quietly. The generosity of him. The casual consideration, the history behind it - was that Harry, when he was first taken to Diagon Alley? Small and hungry and aware that he couldn't afford a single book? Before Hagrid revealed he was richer than bloody Midas, with his Potter vaults and his inheritances.
She leans over in her chair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, before letting her arm drape over his shoulder and sliding so she can kiss his temple, his cheek. Quickly delivered, each kiss is a stamp of the overwhelming amount of love she has for this man.
Diagon Alley is such a vivid memory, and even if he didn't have anything but the clothes on his back at the time, it was probably the best day of his life. It was as overwhelming then as it is now to consider the massive wealth tucked away in his vault. Less now, but Harry's not very materialistic, so if he can make sure new students coming in don't have to struggle? He's all for it. He remembers watching the Weasleys use what little they had, getting things secondhand and making things work somehow.
He's pulled out of his own head by Hermione's quick little kisses and her warm arm wrapped around his shoulder. He can feel the flush of embarrassment high on his cheeks, and he reaches up to rest his hand on her arm.
"It'd be nice to do good and feel like it meant something."
She lingers there, because being affectionate with Harry has always been completely easy for her, even when she's interrogating the depth of her feelings for him. Also, because the man just continuously looks like he is in need of a hug.
"Harry, of course it meant something," she murmurs softly, squeezing his shoulder. "All you've been through, everything that's been demanded of you - I'm going to harp on about how you deserve a break forever, but I don't want you to think that it's been for nothing. You have no idea - the students, Harry. They're so different from what we were like when we were little, it fills me with such hope to see it - Slytherins and Gryffindors huddling together to study. Bloody hell, even the Quidditch games are full of genuine sportsmanship, and none of that peacocking everyone did when we were in school ourselves. You did that - you made that hope possible."
He's never been one to shy away from physical affection, but he's got a decade of catching up to do. Harry doesn't like to think of all the missed opportunities and abuse in his life before Hogwarts- it's too much to unpack and a burden on his mind where one isn't needed. He's built a life for himself and has the best friends he could ever hope for as well as a family he is pleased to call his own. Honorary Weasley is still a Weasley.
Tipping his head back to rest on her, he does consider what she says, and as she speaks he can't help but think what he'd said sounded a bit dramatic. He's coming across all wrong and doesn't mean to sound stroppy about it or 'woe is me'. "It wasn't just me, 'Mione. It was everybody who stood up because they decided it was enough. I didn't have a choice, they did. And they chose to do things differently."
It's good to know that things at Hogwarts are different, more unified now that the dust has settled and normalcy can be challenged. He knows it wasn't all him, it was everybody and they don't give themselves enough credit for their bravery. "I think I want to be to students what Professor Lupin was to me."
The admission from him fills her chest and makes it expand with something - he is all at once so bright and hopeful and stunning that it's almost hurts to look at him - and tears gather at the corners of her eyes.
"Yes - yes, you should," she croaks out, leaning over him to press a kiss to his forehead, close to the hairline - close to the scar. "It might be the wine and the partial grading exhaustion speaking, but I am so proud of you I could kiss you, Harry Potter."
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Heaving a sigh, he looks lazily over at Hermione sitting in one of his favorite chairs.
"So. About this letter..."
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She has to bite her tongue not to give him the same spiel of how he doesn't have to keep saving the world, and how he's done enough for wizarding Britain and doesn't owe them his inner peace even now.
He's giving her a look that he might not realise reaches deep, has the flutter in her belly startle into a frenzy all over again.
She clears her throat.
"Get some pen and paper." No quills in this house, they die like men - men with a loyalty card to Paperchase.
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He still goes out to the pub or watches Quidditch matches every once in a while! He even read a muggle novel recently! Well. He started it.
Knowing when an order is an order, Harry groans as he makes himself stand up and retrieve a notebook and pen. Pens are superior in every way and his hand doesn't get stained with ink. When would the wizarding world learn the superiority of the ink pen?? Instead of moving back to the sofa, he sits at the foot of Hermione's chair, resting his back against the arm she's not occupying.
"Right. Bullet points or just wing it?"
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Looking over his shoulder while he writes is the main goal, sure, but she also has her hand right there and his hair is so nice to play with that she has to.
"The bullets might have to be a resume to begin with, we can do the cover letter after."
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Instead of working himself up over that, he lets out a breath and clears his throat. Okay, moving on. "Bullet two: I taught a group of twenty-five students defensive spells in secret in Fifth Year. Bullet three: I defeated Voldemort. And that's about all I've got."
How did one even put together a resumé? This seems silly. Not that he thinks it should just be given to him, he doesn't want special treatment! He just doesn't know how to put all his skills down on paper. What's important and what isn't? He's distracted by the hand playing with his hair and hums contentedly, letting his head rest against the chair's arm while he thinks.
He pushes his glasses up his face while he rubs at his eyes. "This is exhausting already."
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While she has him leaning his head back, she holds the bottle out.
"Here, have another sip." She looks at the abysmally short list, while still twirling his hair around her fingers, a pleasant buzz settling in now. "You know that cleverness and books are not all that vital for defense against the dark arts, and furthermore you've done more than those three things.
"But put the Auror training in first, dates included. It wouldn't be the first time an Auror taught the class and you know it."
If a Death Eater disguised as an Auror could be their professor for a year, Harry would be stellar.
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"You don't think so?" He turns back to his notebook and skips a few lines, writing down his Auror training and the date he started.
"Er, what about searching for the Horcruxes? Problem-solving and perseverance?"
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It may feel like she's draped over his shoulders like a scarf, her knees on one side of his head, toes tucked into the space between armrest and seat cushion. It may feel like that because she's left her hand where it was, between idly toying with his hair and idly rubbing the nape of his neck.
"That would be for sure something to include, but Harry - I'm talking about Dumbledore's Army specifically. You have taught students defensive charms back when Umbridge wasn't allowing it, and it should not have been up to you to teach that sort of thing but you did it so well regardless. Oh, include that fact that you can encourage students to persevere, and you like helping them thrive or achieve their potential."
She looks at him now, noticing finally that she's sprawled with her face very close to his face, and is rendered speechless by how utterly beautiful his eyes are.
Christ, Hermione. Get a hold of yourself.
"Any other thoughts?"
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"It might not have been my responsibility, but I'd have felt worse if I hadn't." Leaving so many without knowing how to defend themselves hadn't sat right, even putting all his previous experiences with defenselessness into a dark recess. He quickly makes another bullet point and scrawls Dumbledore's Army next to it with what Hermione said. It had felt good teaching everyone and seeing their progress, watching them gain confidence in what they could do.
He'd gotten so lost in his head that Hermione's voice close to his ear startled him, his heart jackrabbiting against his ribcage. Turning toward her, he wets his lips trying to gather those scattered thoughts as he takes in how pretty her hair looks today. He hadn't mentioned it earlier. Looks nice.
"Erm.." Harry clears his throat. "I've got nothing at home. Takeaway fine?"
Smooth, Harry. Real smooth. King of smooth, even.
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She blinks, his nonsensical question confusing her.
"I didn't ask about food," she murmurs.
She should pull away before she embarasses herself like an utter fool. Hermione Granger is not an utter fool.
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He clears his throat before he dares speak, knowing his voice would waver. He knows he's being given an opportunity here, fix what he said and circle it back to.. what? How he'd very much like to close the distance between them? How he thinks her lips will taste like wine?
Get over yourself, blockhead. Don't screw up the best thing you've already got.
Instead, he lets himself down and averts his gaze to the notepad. "Right, sorry. I uh. Think this might be it?"
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This is it, she thinks. Neither of them are the type of reckless to play fast and loose with friendship bonds. It'll be the hill they die on.
She lets out a soft sigh, breath unwittingly whispering across the crook of his neck, and reaches over his shoulder to point under the pro column.
"Loads better than Lockhart, and actually more qualified. Add that."
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He's disappointed in himself, even more so as that sigh ghosts across the nape of his neck and he has to stifle the urge to reach up and cover the spot.
Harry huffs out a laugh, but it's half-hearted at best. "Better than every Professor who has taken the role the past eight years, bar one." Obviously, Lupin was the one they all deserved and Snape had ruined that. Because of course he had.
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Harry and Hermione.
"Also possibly more handsome than all of them," she adds, because she's had wine and the thought just bursts out of her, chased by a tiny giggle.
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"Oh, I don't know, Hermione." He pauses, turns toward her and shrugs. "I've got nothing. I was going to comment how someone might prefer something else and I've completely lost it."
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Distance, where there can be some. She's fighting half a bottle of wine here to be pragmatic for him - the things she does for love.
"There are some obvious downsides," she murmurs, "which would come up in an interview. Such as that students can be difficult, and that it doesn't pay as much as Aurors do."
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"Students can be difficult? Try teaching a room full of your peers." It's mostly a joke, at least. Harry sighs, rubbing over his face.
"I'm not saying this as a brag, but I've got more money than I even know what to do with. I don't care about the money."
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Yeah, he'd be fine with that, actually.
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She leans over in her chair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, before letting her arm drape over his shoulder and sliding so she can kiss his temple, his cheek. Quickly delivered, each kiss is a stamp of the overwhelming amount of love she has for this man.
"The fucking heart of you, Harry Potter."
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He's pulled out of his own head by Hermione's quick little kisses and her warm arm wrapped around his shoulder. He can feel the flush of embarrassment high on his cheeks, and he reaches up to rest his hand on her arm.
"It'd be nice to do good and feel like it meant something."
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"Harry, of course it meant something," she murmurs softly, squeezing his shoulder. "All you've been through, everything that's been demanded of you - I'm going to harp on about how you deserve a break forever, but I don't want you to think that it's been for nothing. You have no idea - the students, Harry. They're so different from what we were like when we were little, it fills me with such hope to see it - Slytherins and Gryffindors huddling together to study. Bloody hell, even the Quidditch games are full of genuine sportsmanship, and none of that peacocking everyone did when we were in school ourselves. You did that - you made that hope possible."
shhh I missed them too
Tipping his head back to rest on her, he does consider what she says, and as she speaks he can't help but think what he'd said sounded a bit dramatic. He's coming across all wrong and doesn't mean to sound stroppy about it or 'woe is me'. "It wasn't just me, 'Mione. It was everybody who stood up because they decided it was enough. I didn't have a choice, they did. And they chose to do things differently."
It's good to know that things at Hogwarts are different, more unified now that the dust has settled and normalcy can be challenged. He knows it wasn't all him, it was everybody and they don't give themselves enough credit for their bravery. "I think I want to be to students what Professor Lupin was to me."
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"Yes - yes, you should," she croaks out, leaning over him to press a kiss to his forehead, close to the hairline - close to the scar. "It might be the wine and the partial grading exhaustion speaking, but I am so proud of you I could kiss you, Harry Potter."
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