That's Sorted Then
Chapter 4 - That’s Sorted Then
Harry woke early to birdsong and a low hum of quiet contentment. He yawned and stretched and left his bedroom as silently as he could. The couch was empty now—Hermione must’ve slipped upstairs to her room at some point in the night—but the fleecy Gryffindor blanket was folded neatly on the armrest, her usual quiet elegance on display even in the smallest gestures.
He padded down the stairs into the kitchen and started the coffee, then cut up some strawberries. The mint he'd bought at the market was sitting in a glass of water, looking slightly wilted and, if he was honest, accusatory. He grinned at the memory of their ridiculous conversation about produce guilt, then pulled the mint closer. A quick chiffonnade and a squeeze of pomelo juice later, the strawberries looked almost decadent. Still, something felt missing, so he added a pinch of flaked salt and set the dish aside.
He reached for the canister of pinhead oats and started a pot on the hob. A pat of butter, a sprinkle of salt, just enough water—it would take a bit of time, but it would be worth it. As it simmered, Harry poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the head of the table, tugging his reading glasses from his pocket and settled in to read the morning edition of The Daily Prophet that Kreacher had left on the table.
But the words blurred almost immediately. His thoughts drifted. To yesterday. To the soft way Hermione had laughed and smiled more as the day went on. To the way she seemed lighter. To the way the tension in her shoulders had eased through the day when she wasn't trying to hold everything together. Why hadn’t he tried to give her more of that? More peace. More ease. More space to breathe.
He stood, crossed to the counter, and found the folded brain drop list they'd scribbled together at the café—the one he'd rescued after she'd tucked it absentmindedly into her planner and then promptly forgotten it. He smoothed it out on the kitchen table, its ink smudged slightly.
As he read it over, he began mentally grouping the tasks into categories—school forms, shopping, meal planning, errands. His own to-do list was very similar but he had helpers all around him. It struck him how much of it Hermione simply carried, not because she had to, but because she always did. Without being asked. Without complaint. She shouldn’t have to do this all on her own.
He grabbed a notebook and pen and a stack of sticky-notes and went to work.
Half an hour had passed when Harry heard soft footsteps. Hermione appeared in the doorway, hair still tousled, wrapped in a cardigan and sleep-soft.
"Hey," he smiled up at her. He pushed out the chair next to him and motioned for her to sit. At the same time, he stood up and poured her a cup of coffee, adding just a splash of real cream. He handed her the steaming mug and watched as she inhaled the fragrant brew deeply, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “Mmmmm…” she hummed. “Elixir of Life.”
Harry chuckled and turned back to the stove to ladle the steaming oatmeal into two bowls. He topped hers with a pat of butter, a generous spoonful of brown sugar, and a drizzle of thick cream—just like her mum used to make it. He’d overheard that detail once and never forgotten it. He also remembered that she never made it for herself, though, always saying it took too long.
“I thought you deserved the proper version today,” he said, setting the bowl in front of her. Then he brought over the small dish of strawberries and mint he’d prepared earlier. “As a topping or on the side, your call.”
Hermione blinked at the spread, then looked up at him, clearly impressed.
“You've been awake long enough to do all this?”
Harry smiled again. “Yep. And you’re going to let me help with the brain drop today” he declared. “We'll get you all sorted out.”
She raised an eyebrow over the rim of her cup. “You make that sound like an order.”
“It’s not. It’s a promise. Or... a lovingly firm insistence. From your very capable co-pilot.”
To his surprise, she smiled—really smiled—and nodded. "Alright, then."
Within the hour, the brain drop list had been annotated and sticky-noted and conversations had taken place with Kreacher, who beamed when Harry asked him to oversee weekday meals. He immediately began muttering about reorganizing the pantry, creating a rotating menu, and instituting a labeling system "so certain people stop misfiling the cinnamon." He seemed especially pleased that both households would benefit from his cooking, and declared he would be conducting surprise audits to ensure compliance with his reheating instructions.
After that, they called Mrs. Figg on the Muggle line. She was delighted to be asked to serve as Class Helper for both Hugo and Lily’s year. She responded with such enthusiasm that Hermione had her promise she’d limit the craft assignments to no more than one per month.
Then Hermione texted Annabella, her no-nonsense muggle-born nanny, looping her in on the new school schedule for Hugo and confirming pick-ups and swim practice coordination. Annabella responded with a thumbs-up emoji and a snarky GIF of a nanny wielding a wand like a lightsaber.
Hermione smirked, shaking her head. “I think she’s already threatened to unionize,” she told Harry.
He began clearing up as she sighed and stretched and nodded at the table scattered with their papers, pens and notebooks. "I really do feel so much better. Thank you."
She stood and grinned at him. "Well, if we are going out into the wide world, I need to go get cleaned up. I'm sure I look a fright."
Harry gave her a slow, exaggerated once-over, then met her eyes. He looked into them just a beat and shrugged. "You're always beautiful," he said softly.
Her cheeks flushed at once. She rolled her eyes and pivoted to march towards doorway to the stairs. "And you're blind, Harry Potter!" she shot over her shoulder and he heard her running up the stairs before he could respond.
The September sunshine was warm and golden as they made their way toward Marchmont Street. Their first stop was uniform shopping at a small but well-stocked department store that catered to local schools. Hugo and Lily were both enrolled at St. Oswin, the same Muggle primary school James, Rose, and Albus had attended before them. Harry had made the choice early on to give his children a grounding in the Muggle world, and absent of Ron’s opinion to the contrary, Hermione had quickly agreed. The school was small, diverse, and deeply committed to inclusive education—a place where both of them felt their children could have something approaching a "normal" childhood. They often spoke of the richness that experience had brought, especially in contrast to their own early years.
From that stop, they wandered through a side street just off the high street, where a small secondhand bookshop caught Hermione’s eye. She paused at the window, then glanced at Harry. “Five minutes. I swear. I’m not even going to buy anything.”
Fifteen minutes later, she emerged with a paper bag cradled in her arms and a sheepish smile. Harry had taken up a seat at the coffee shop across the way. “Only three,” she said. “Well… and two more. But one’s for Hugo.”
Harry smirked but didn’t comment. He only took the bag from her and carried it without a word.
Then after a brief argument about whether it was acceptable to alphabetize a to-do list by urgency or whether that was just absurdly impractical, Hermione rang Molly and Arthur on Arthur’s new cellphone to ask if the kids might come for overnights every other Saturday.
“Of course, dear,” Molly had shouted, so quickly and cheerfully that Harry was half-convinced she’d already embroidered the pillowcases with 'Sleepover Saturday'.
All of it—dozens of small tasks and little fixes— finished before lunch.
Now they sat in a tucked-away café along the Regent's Canal, sunlight dancing on the water and water curling quietly through the trees. Ducks glided past in uneven groups, children laughed somewhere nearby. Hermione nibbled the edge of her sandwich and sighed, looking up at him.
He gave her a questioning look.
“The Board of Directors meeting is on Tuesday,” she said.
Harry tilted his head. “The Elira research, right?”
She nodded. “It’s strong. I know it is. Theo and I have gone over the data at least two dozen times and the preliminary outcomes are beyond anything we’d hoped for. But I hate being the one to talk about it in front of people. I always sound like I’m trying too hard.”
“You always sound like you know what you’re talking about,” Harry said gently. “Which, coincidentally, you do.”
Hermione gave a small smile. “Still. The attention—it wears me out.”
He reached over and tapped the table. “Remember the W.A.N.D. hearings? You were magnificent.”
“I didn’t sleep for three days before and afterward,” she groused, but her cheeks were pink.
They sat in silence a while, the kind that felt full, not empty.
“What about you- your new recruits?" she asked. "You've got a busy week ahead, too."
Harry shrugged. “Seamus and Katie will take care of getting them into training, thank Merlin. I’m mostly signing papers and pretending I understand departmental budgets. Draco’s promotion to Senior Investigative Auror means he'll be coordinating all of the details I hate.”
"All the details he loves," she added.
"I may have to set him on interdepartmental budgets."
She smiled. "Do you think you're going to miss being partners like you have been?"
"Oh, in some ways," he shrugged. “But we may work more closely now than we ever have. Our offices are right across from each other. And when we go into the field, we'll be paired up. I think it's probably a good thing for us to transition a bit now that we are getting old and decrepit."
Hermione cast a critical eye over Harry. "Good Godric, you're hardly decrepit, Harry!” She grinned. “And you’re the head of the entire city’s magical enforcement,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice. “Doesn't that make you an eminently fanciable Chief Inspector or something?”
He chuckled. “Makes me someone who gets yelled at a lot in memos.”
After the meal, they strolled back through the shops, peering into windows, unhurried now that the day felt like it had shape and structure. They stopped here and there to point out curiosities: a set of engraved stationery, a football jersey in West Ham colours, a ridiculous teapot shaped like a badger. It was slow and meandering and felt like rest to Harry.
Hermione tugged him to a halt outside a dress shop, pulling him gently out of the flow of foot traffic. In the window, a mannequin stood draped in a shimmering golden gown with a high neck and a low, artfully-gathered back. The folds of the skirt fell in elegant, sculptural waves.
"Oh, that’s exquisite," Hermione breathed, her tone wistful.
Harry looked at her in surprise.
“The Mungo's Michaelmas Gala’s coming up," she explained.
Harry arched an eyebrow.
“If the presentation goes well to the Board of Directors, Theo and I will probably be featured guests at it. Get glamorous, wear uncomfortable shoes, shake hands, charm potential investors, dance with whomever asks.”
He looked back at the dress. “Do you have a date?”
Hermione gave a delicate snort and glanced at him. “Roger Davies asked me.”
Harry turned towards her and said nothing, but one eyebrow definitely climbed higher.
“I haven’t said yes,” she defended.
She turned back to the dress. She hesitated, her fingers tracing the shop’s window edge as she took a deep breath and without turning to him spoke quietly, “I don’t suppose… I mean, would you want to come with me?”
Harry’s heart stuttered, just a little. His breath hitched but he kept his voice even. “I would." A beat. "I do."
She turned to him, eyes warm.“You do?”
“Of course,” he said, trying to maintain a casual tone. “Unless you've promised to go with Roger so you can debate medical filing protocols all night.”
“I haven’t even promised to reply to him,” she murmured looking at her shoes.
“Then don’t,” Harry said firmly and put his hands on her upper arms. “I’m taking you to Michaelmas.”
She met his gaze.
"That's sorted then," she said quietly.
He smiled, soft and sure, and she smiled back—smaller, but no less real.