She
Chapter Three - She
It was the early days of keeping house and Harry was living on takeaway and denial.
Curry, chips, lukewarm meat pies, and whatever dodgy sandwich he could grab on the way home from the Ministry—he ate them standing up in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, usually still wearing his work robes, tie askew, mind somewhere between a case file and his latest dream about the Department of Mysteries.
Ron was living upstairs at Grimmauld, buried in training manuals for the Office of Magical Family Welfare & Safety Compliance. Hermione and Ginny were sharing a flat off Diagon Alley—small, drafty, and filled with books and hairpins and the constant scent of over-steeped tea. Ginny was rarely there. The Holyhead Harpies had claimed her, and Wales was far enough to feel like another world. She’d return once or twice a month and fall into Harry’s bed with a kiss and a laugh. They’d have enthusiastic sex, and then she’d disappear again before he’d properly woken up. It wasn’t distance that hurt, not exactly. It was the weight of always missing each other.
Hermione, meanwhile, was neck-deep in Healer training. She was existing in a perpetual haze of ink-stained fingers and magical anatomy charts. When she did appear, it was with a yawn and a blink of bleary eyes as she focused on whatever massive medical textbook she had pulled out of her bag.
Tonight was meant for all four of them. Dinner at Grimmauld. A rare pause in the chaos. Harry had set the table, unearthed a recipe, and even wrestled Kreacher into letting him handle the cooking—though not without a series of offended huffs, as if Kreacher couldn't believe his kitchen was being commandeered by someone with such tragically poor culinary instincts.
It hadn’t been easy. He still didn’t quite understand how to care for a house-elf. How to give instructions and appreciation. How to treat Kreacher with kindness without condescension. How to accept being looked after without guilt clawing up his throat. He knew Kreacher watched him eat greasy takeaway with a look of ancient, righteous disappointment—and still, Harry didn’t know how to ask for anything different.
Ginny missed her Portkey. Again.
Ron, to Harry’s astonishment, begged off to work with an actual study group—he had an exam coming up, and Hermione, always supportive, had simply blinked in surprise at Ron’s sudden academic enthusiasm and praised his study habits.
And so it was just her. Hermione. Coming alone.
“You shouldn’t have to eat alone,” she said, voice brisk and kind over the Floo. “Besides, I’m sure it’ll be… edible.”
Harry had nearly believed her.
Kreacher had not.
The chicken hissed angrily in the pan, as if protesting its second death. Harry squinted at it, prodding it with a spatula that had already melted slightly on one corner. The smell wasn’t bad, per se. Just… suspicious.
Behind him, Kreacher stood on the stone hearth like a guardian gargoyle, arms crossed, expression pinched as though someone had asked him to eat a sock.
“Too hot,” the elf muttered, nose twitching. “Pan is too hot. Chicken will burn on the outside and stay raw in the middle. Kreacher knows this. Kreacher has seen this before.”
“I turned it down,” Harry said without turning around. “I think.”
“Master thinks,” Kreacher sniffed. “Master does not know. Master waves the spoon like a wand and expects miracles.”
Harry sighed. “I just want it to taste decent.”
“Kreacher sees no salt. Kreacher sees no pepper. No garlic. No charm. No plan. Only fear.”
Harry turned to face him, cheeks slightly flushed. “I seasoned it.”
“Kreacher sees Master seasoning with ashes and despair.”
“I’m doing my best,” Harry muttered, jabbing at a potato that was disintegrating in the boiling water.
“Kreacher sees Master’s best. It looks like food the goblins refuse to bury.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair. “You could help, you know.”
“Kreacher could. But Kreacher remembers when Master Harry says, ‘No, Kreacher, I want to do it myself. It’s fine, Kreacher. I’ve got it handled, Kreacher.’” The elf scowled, eyes glinting. “So Kreacher will stand here and not interfere. Kreacher will watch with horror.”
The pan popped, and Harry jerked back as a drop of oil flew past his temple.
“Kreacher was wrong,” the elf muttered. “Kreacher will also duck.”
A heavy silence followed. The carrots simmered to mush. The potatoes frothed ominously. The chicken sulked in the pan.
Harry stirred the potatoes with a defeated expression. “Ginny was supposed to be home.”
Kreacher said nothing.
“She missed her Portkey. Ron bailed. Hermione’s coming and I just—I didn’t want to get takeaway again.”
The silence stretched a bit longer.
Then Kreacher sighed, a long-suffering sound like a bell tolling for culinary dignity.
“Kreacher will not save this meal. But Kreacher will also not let Miss Hermione be poisoned.”
Harry looked up, startled.
“Miss Hermione is kind,” Kreacher continued, voice lower now. “Miss Hermione brings Kreacher books about house-elf history. Miss Hermione eats whatever Kreacher cooks and always says thank you, even when she does not like the turnips.”
Harry blinked.
“So,” Kreacher said, stalking forward and peering into the pot with a look of deep mourning, “Kreacher will stay. And Kreacher will watch. And if Miss Hermione makes a face, Kreacher will know. And Kreacher will remember. And Kreacher will also keep the antidote for mild food poisoning close at hand, just in case.”
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but the Floo flared with a burst of green flame.
Hermione stepped out, brushing soot from her sleeves and looked around with a smile. “It smells...interesting.”
Harry grimaced. “That’s generous.” He began plating the chicken with all the optimism of a condemned man arranging flowers for his own funeral.
She took off her coat and hung it on the hook by the hearth.
“What are we having?” she asked, peering over his shoulder at the sad beige mound of poultry, carrot pulp, and what might once have been potatoes.
Harry hesitated. “Chicken. With… accompaniments.”
Hermione blinked. “Ah.”
She sat down at the kitchen table, folded her napkin, and gave him a bright, determined smile—the kind of smile one gives to a toddler who has just presented a mud pie with a daisy on top.
Harry set the plate in front of her and put one at his place also. He dropped into his own seat and she took a bite.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
Smiled again.
“Such… ah…assertive texture.”
Harry took his own bite and promptly spit it out, burying his face in his hands. “Oh, Merlin, it’s terrible!” he groaned.
She hesitated, then reached over and patted his arm. “It’s edible. Technically. That’s a start, right?”
From the shadows of the pantry, a long-suffering sigh issued forth. “Kreacher sees Miss Hermione lying. Kreacher is wounded by her sacrifice.”
Harry lifted his head just in time to hear a sharp ding-dong echo through the front hall.
“What the—?”
Kreacher appeared beside him, arms folded, looking rather smug. “Kreacher took initiative. Kreacher did what needed to be done.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow.
“Kreacher used the Muggle phone. Kreacher has mastered the art of ‘pepperoni with mushrooms and extra cheese.’ Kreacher does not trust Master Harry with poultry. Kreacher trusts pizza.”
Harry gaped at him. “You ordered takeaway?”
“Kreacher knows the number by heart now,” the elf said primly. “Kreacher has seen too much.”
Hermione laughed, covering her mouth with her napkin. “Honestly, I’m not even mad. I was hoping someone would save me.”
Harry shook his head, equal parts mortified and relieved. “I’m never going to live this down.”
Kreacher disappeared to collect the delivery, muttering, “Kreacher has saved Miss Hermione from Master Chef Harry's masterpiece...'Regret à la Mode.'”
Hermione burst into giggles.
Harry moved around the kitchen confidently. All of these years later, Grimmauld Place was truly his home and the kitchen was its heart- the base of gathering for his family and friends. The kitchen had been redone—lighter paint, real lighting charms, an actual extendable table where people could sit and talk. Harry had slowly, painfully, learned to cook. He'd taken classes at the local muggle cooking school beginning not long after that fateful chicken dish and somewhere along the way, it had clicked. He knew he was a good cook. And tonight, he was glad to be able to pull together a spectacular meal for his friends.
He adjusted the heat beneath the cast-iron skillet, watching the beef sear into a rich, golden crust. The carrots were already glazed and gleaming in their dish, topped with fresh sprigs of rosemary and flecks of pink salt, held with a stasis charm. A salad waited for assembly on the counter—fresh arugula glistened with moisture and bright apples and crisp pears waited to be sliced into thin slivers with red onion. He quickly whisked together a homemade vinaigrette with dijon mustard, garlic and balsamic in a base of good olive oil and set it aside.
Elvis Costello played in the background, the brass and bounce of “(I Don’t Want to Go to) Chelsea” giving his chopping rhythm as he tackled the onion, pears, and apples.
The Floo crackled.
Hermione stepped out with a swirl of green flame and a bottle of wine clutched in her hand like a gift offering. “Reserve from that Muggle vineyard in Kent,” she announced. “I figured it might redeem whatever you’ve burnt.”
“Charming,” Harry said, grinning. No matter how far he'd come, Hermione still liked to joke that his culinary journey began with an attempt to serve her 'boiled despair with a side of undercooked salmonella.' “Regret à la Mode” had become a running gag between them, passed around like an inside joke too good to ever retire.
Kreacher emerged from the pantry like a curtain-dwelling cat, "Kreacher remembers," he muttered darkly, "the day the despair boiled over. Kreacher still has the scorched pan to prove it."
Hermione grinned and came forward to kiss Harry’s cheek in greeting—just a brush, familiar and easy like she had done a million times before, but Harry caught a whiff of her scent and felt a flutter through his chest.
Kreacher extended the loaf of bread he was holding on a wooden paddle.
“Miss Hermione,” he intoned solemnly. “Kreacher has prepared a proper accompaniment. Focaccia with rosemary and sea salt.”
She beamed. “You always know what I like.”
Kreacher gave a small bow, then turned to Harry. “Does Master Harry require anything else? Or has Kreacher earned the right to his supper in peace?”
Hermione snickered and Harry waved him off. “We’re good. Thanks.”
With a final sniff of approval, Kreacher disappeared with a pop.
Hermione wandered over to the hob, eyeing the pan with an approving hum. “It smells divine. What can I do?”
Harry handed her a small cast iron skillet. “Toast the walnuts?”
She took the pan and set it on the hob, lighting the burner underneath it as she added the walnuts from the bowl. “Which music decade are we living in now? 1979?”
“Elvis is timeless.”
“I can’t decide if that’s charming or tragic.”
He shrugged, still slicing the apple. “Better than one of your nine Vaughan Williams symphonies—you know, where The Lark rises again and again over the moor at dusk"
Hermione gasped and narrowed her eyes. “That is slander. Besides, at least my music has melodies. You have an entire playlist called ‘Pensive and Sardonic.’”
“It’s curated.”
“It’s insufferable.” She swirled the walnuts in the pan.
The song shifted. The opening notes of She floated through the kitchen.
Hermione paused.
“Oh,” she breathed, softer now. "I do love this one. Remember when we saw Notting Hill?”
“‘Course I do. You, me, Ron, Ginny. At that tiny Muggle cinema in Camden. You cried.”
"I did not."
"You absolutely did." He put down his knife and turned to her.
She opened her mouth to deny it, then closed it again, smiling. “Maybe a little.”
He watched as the memories moved over her face and stepped closer extending his hand. “Dance with me?"
Her eyes flicked to his, warm and wide. She took his hand and he pulled her to him. His arm went around her waist and his hand flattened on her back, pressing her nearer to him. He felt her breath hitch and she moved her head towards his shoulder. He caught the scent of her hair - something herby and sweet. He took a deep breath in and when she sighed, he felt it deep in his chest.
They swayed on the kitchen floor, salad forgotten, the scent of roasting beef and warm bread wrapping around them. He felt her breath warm on his neck, her cheek resting on his shoulder. It was the kind of contact they’d shared a thousand times before, and yet—tonight—it felt different.
Harry pulled back, just slightly, enough to see her face, and she also stilled and looked up. They were inches apart. Her eyes were soft and gentle. He gazed into them as her expression changed. She lifted her head slightly and he searched her face. She bit her lip and he swallowed. Her lips parted. His mouth felt dry and his pulse seemed to pick up speed. Her eyes flitted to his mouth. He opened it to…say something, maybe? To ask…
CRACK!
The kitchen Floo roared to life.
Draco Malfoy cleared his throat and his drawl sliced into the air. “Are you two burning something?” His eyebrows were raised and he was offering his trademark smirk, scrutinizing the scene carefully. Harry knew he was missing nothing.
Hermione gasped and pulled away, turning back to the pan—smoke was curling up in thin gray tendrils.
“Bollocks!” Harry lunged for the hob.
Hermione gave out a weak laugh and sagged against the counter. Harry wanted to reach out to her, to assure her somehow, but something stopped him and he drew back his hand. He caught Draco's eye who again arched an eyebrow at him as if to ask, "And what was that ?"
Theo emerged from the Floo with his nose scrunched up, sniffing the air. “Harry Potter, Master Chef!" he proclaimed. He walked over to peer into the smoking pan. "Those are deeply neglected walnuts.”
Harry drew a shaky breath “Let’s do pecans." He raked his hand through his hair. "Less pretentious.”
"Rather moreso, I think," Draco mused, eyeing him. He handed over the box from the patisserie to Hermione. "Your dessert, madame." He gave a slight bow.
Hermione took the box, opened it and inhaled deeply. Then she passed it to Theo. "Make yourself useful, Nott," she said, gesturing to the platter Harry had set aside to accept the tarts.
Hermione grabbed the wine Theo had exchanged for the tarts and handed it to Harry, her cheeks flushed and rosy. “Oh, go on. Open this," she whispered. "I’m too embarrassed." She chuckled low.
He just smiled, his heart still tripping over itself.
-------
Dinner was glorious. The pecans were exactly what the salad needed, the beef was tender and perfectly rare. The carrots were crisp and sweet. The tart was flaky, delicate, and delicious.
Harry nursed a glass of the ridiculously expensive Chateau Margaux that Draco and Theo had brought from the Malfoy Manor's cellars. The two had announced their intention to depart, claiming an early morning schedule.
"Some of us aren't going to be lazy ne'er-do-wells the entire weekend, Potter," Draco offered, clapping his hand on Harry's shoulder as he rose. "Some of us have reputation-management brunches and charity duels to attend."
Harry scoffed, knowing full-well that Draco loved both of those sorts of things.
"For the love of all, Hermione, you do try to be a lazy ne'er-do-well this weekend," Theo scolded as he kissed her cheek goodbye. "Next week, we conquer the world, and I refuse to be photographed next to a tired, rumpled, if brilliant, witch. Get some rest."
He turned to Harry with a knowing wink. "You are tasked with getting her to bed, Potter." Harry glared at Theo.
"I'm right here," Hermione muttered, but her smile gave her away, and Harry ignored the flush he felt on his face as he stood with Hermione to walk the couple to the Floo on the first floor.
As the light from the Floo faded, Kreacher appeared with soft pop , a dishrag already over one arm. "Kreacher sees no one has been poisoned. Kreacher will now begin sanitizing what Master Harry calls a kitchen."
Harry stretched and walked towards the sofa. "Thanks, Kreacher. You're the best."
Kreacher sniffed with the barest hint of affection. "Miss Hermione, do you require anything before Kreacher retires to the kitchen?"
"No, thank you, Kreacher. Everything was perfect."
"As always," Kreacher muttered, and disapparated with a soft crack.
Hermione was still standing near the fireplace. "I should go home.." she began.
Harry turned and regarded her. She was watching him.
"Or...you could stay.”
Harry's heart stuttered a bit as she brought her eyes up to his. He stared for a minute. Hermione stayed at Grimmauld all the time. She and the kids had their own bedroom. Why the hell was this weird?
He cleared his throat."Notting Hill?"
She raised an eyebrow. "You're not too old for rom-coms, Potter?"
"You cried, remember?"
"Still slander."
"I'll make tea. You pick the blanket."
She grinned. "Deal.” She looked down at her clothes. “I'm not wearing jeans all night and I took all of our summer stuff home last time."
He huffed, pretending that she was inconveniencing him. "Dresser drawer. Top left. You know the drill."
Hermione grinned again and headed up the stairs towards his bedroom.
Harry turned and walked into the clean kitchen, reaching for the kettle. He'd just set it on the hob when Kreacher reappeared with a sharp crack.
"Kreacher will make the tea. Master Harry will go sit down before he ruins the evening with oversteeped regrets."
Harry opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again and smiled. "Thanks, Kreacher."
He returned to the sitting room and dimmed the lights with a flick of his wand. A few minutes later, he heard Hermione coming back down the stairs. She'd changed into his old Gryffindor Quidditch jersey, which hung on her like a dress, and had commandeered a pair of his boxers underneath. She was carrying the fleecy Gryffindor blanket Andromeda had made for him after the war.
She curled up on one end of the sofa, tucking her legs underneath her. Harry took the other end, a respectful cushion of space between them. The film started.
Harry’s attention wandered and his mind spun. He looked into his mug of tea. This entire day with Hermione had been so odd.
Today was the first time in...months, he realized… that he had come to a full stop. Everything had been so busy and full lately. Even when he’d had time off, it had been just a few hours. And the little holiday he and the kids had taken had been all about providing them with experiences and time together. He realized he was just plain weary at a deep, deep level. Maybe that was the reason for this strange day.
Harry watched the steam curl out of the mug. He thought about Hermione and her schedule. He realized with a start that she never seemed to have time of her own. She was always on the move, always juggling more than any human should, maybe even more than any one human could . He shot her a sideways glance. She was always so capable, so unflinchingly competent, so put-together. He watched her, holding her mug with one hand, chewing on her lip and picking at her cuticles again with her empty hand as she stared at the screen. She had to be exhausted.
Maybe they were both just needing to recalibrate—maybe that's what was going on.
Hermione let out a big sigh and looked up, meeting his eyes. “We’re thinking too hard,” she offered sagely. She gave him a soft smile and then stretched her legs out towards him with a raised eyebrow.
He smirked, understanding her invitation, and set down his mug, grabbing her feet and shifting her a bit closer to more easily prop her feet in his lap. She sighed and shifted further so that she was fully lying down. He began rubbing her feet, thumbs working into her arches, then moving up to her calves, tracing the firm lines of muscle there. She sighed again, then yawned, deep and contented and within minutes her eyes were drifting closed.
By the time the film reached its final montage, Harry had watched the film almost entirely by himself. Hermione was fast asleep, her head nestled into the pillow he had conjured for her, her breathing slow and even.
Harry watched the screen—Grant and Roberts on a bench in the park, at peace with the world— but he wasn’t really seeing it. Elvis Costello was singing them into the credits. Harry knew the words by heart,
“She may be the reason I survive
The why and wherefore I'm alive
The one I'll care for through the rough and ready years
Me, I'll take her laughter and her tears
And make them all my souvenirs
For where she goes I've got to be
The meaning of my life is she”
Harry’s gaze kept drifting back to Hermione. A realization was dawning.
She.