Champagne Problems
Hermione arrives home exactly one hour after her contract hours end, hauling along with her two grocery bags of various alcoholic drinks. As she sets them on the polished counter, she comments on the cleanliness of the kitchen, a prideful smile adorning Ron’s face all the while. He helps her out of her jacket before leading her through each room showing off all of the cleaning he did in each of them; a discrete wave of Hermione’s hand rearranges a few parchments in her study that had been organized by subject rather than date. Once Hermione is finished getting a tour of her own home, she settles back in the kitchen to unload her groceries. She reveals three bottles of liquor and two of wine, the liquor coming from Hogsmeade, and the wine coming from a muggle grocery store in London.
“This is my favorite chardonnay,” She explains, slotting it on the otherwise barren wine rack. “But I've only ever been able to find it at Sainsbury's. I figured I would pick up a bottle of Bollinger while I was there, do you still have a penchant for champagne Harry?”
Harry stares at the bottle of Bollinger in his friend’s hand.
Hermione is absolutely right, Harry adores champagne, she even got his favorite brand. The same brand he served at his wedding. The brand he drank so much of that he vomited, being scolded for it by his newlywed wife. She regarded him with a fond smile then, petting his sweaty hair and kissing his scar.
“If I’d known I was marrying a drunkard, I would have bought just one bottle for us to share later tonight.” She had said. “So I could keep a close eye on you.”
The words were sweet and playful and full of adoration. Would he ever be adored like that again? If he drank himself sick tonight, would Ron or Hermione let him lay his head in their lap and play with his hair as he drifted in and out of sleep? Would they love him the way Ginny once had? Did he deserve that kind of love?
Harry can’t think, limbs numb, head floating. His eyes won’t focus. He can hear Hermione speaking, he can’t listen, he’s incapable of listening, like he's stuck in a grain entrapment. His mind is straining trying to respond, but the only thing he can think about is the way Ginny looked at him that night. He can’t see anything but sharp blue eyes etched in black liner.
…
Cold. Something is cold on his neck. He blinks, a shiver running down his spine and arms, and he finally locks eyes with Hermione. Her’s are brown, almost as dark as her pupils, experience grants him the knowledge that they’re warm amber in candle light.
“Harry…” She says and her voice is softer than Ginny’s.
“Mhm?” He manages. The realization that the cold sensation on his neck is an ice cube, being held there by Ron, dawns on him. “What the hell?”
“You alright ‘Arry?” He says instead of explaining himself.
“I’m fine, why are you-” He bats the ice away. “That's torturous, don’t do that.”
“I didn’t know what else to do.” Ron’s bristles. “It worked, didn’t it?”
Harry looks between Ron and Hermione, anxiously. “I… what are you talking about?”
“You went somewhere, Harry.” Hermione says, wringing her hands. “It was almost like… like backthen.”
‘Back then.’ They all knew what that meant, and quite honestly, it made Harry a bit embarrassed. To think he's reverted back to pre-war times, all over some booze? Utterly humiliating.
“Oh, no that's not what that was at all.” Harry assures her with a smile. “I was just lost in thought, really.”
This does nothing to smooth the crease in Hermione’s brow, or stop Ron’s teeth from chewing his lip. Hermione moves to fiddle with the gold locket around her throat.
“You can tell us anything, Harry, you know that.” Her voice isn’t as soft now, authoritative, although equally as gentle. “I want you to tell us if something is bothering you.”
Harry chews on the skin of his inner cheek, gripping the material of his trousers in sweaty fists. “I know, I will ‘Mione.”
She smiles softly, taking a step to hug Harry around his middle. He inhales deeply, returning the hug. She smells like vanilla and ink. Ron envelopes them as well, offering a few words that Harry misses. He smells like chocolate and campfire. Nothing has ever smelled so much like home.
- ••
Harry helps Ron prepare dinner as well. Ron’s cooking abilities are shaky, but he has gotten much better since he stopped being coddled by his mother. Harry watches Ron spread tomato sauce in even layers over dry noodles, humming softly to himself as he does so.
“I’m sorry for snapping earlier.” Harry says, tapping his fingers against the bowl containing the cheese. “I know you were just trying to help.”
“S’no problem, mate, we’ve had worse spats about dumber things.” He says, craning his neck to look down at the other with a soft smile. “Besides, I’d rather you be upset at me than comatose.”
Harry bites his cheek at this, guilt settling deep in his stomach,
You’re making him worry for nothing.
“Whatever the case, I’m just glad you’re here.” Ron says as he lays another layer of pasta down. “I’ve missed you like crazy, we don’t get to see each other as much anymore. Sure, the reason you’re here is awful, but at least something good has come from all of this.”
“When did Ron Weasley learn to focus on the positive?” Harry teases him, falling into a sense of safety easily.
“Around when Ron Weasley became Ron Granger-Weasley.” He answers, finishing the final layer of the dish. “I know it’s cliche, but ‘Mione’s good for me, I think.”
“Yeah I get that, she’s good for me too, I feel compelled to clean up after myself around her.” Harry laughs.
“Well, yeah, but also it’s just, she makes me feel… secure, y’know?” He rubs his neck sheepishly. “She’s headstrong, not afraid to feel her feelings. She doesn’t play mind games, doesn’t keep you guessing, she tells you. I never have to worry about telling her what I’m feelin, because I know no matter what it is, she’d be more mad if I bottled it up. She’s just so…”
He seems to remember where he is and what he’s doing, “Hmm, sorry mate, probably not helping cheer you up.” He laughs airily and slots the glass pan into the oven.
“Oh, don’t be sorry that you love your wife, I love your wife.” Harry says fondly, then grins wide. “Oh and I love you too, my darling boyfriend!”
Ron laughs heartily, shoulders shaking. He throws his arms out in an exaggerated manner. “Oh but of course, how could I forget my beloved!”
He strides forward taking Harry’s face in his hands and squishing his cheeks a bit. Harry’s laughter fizzles to a huffy exhale through his nose. His heart beats, loud. It’d be a miracle if Ron couldn’t feel it at the pulse point in his neck. Ron’s laughter dwindles to a warm smile and he just stares at Harry for a moment.
“Am I interrupting?” An inquisitive voice asks from the doorway. The boys turn to see a freshly showered Hermione– Harry admires the way that tiny water droplets roll from the ends of her hair to darken the fabric of her jumper– regarding them with an entertained expression. Ron doesn’t miss a beat, releasing him and approaching Hermione with the same valor he did Harry moments earlier.
“Oh the Phoenix of my ashes, my tantalizing tornado, the butter in my beer,” He takes her hands and spins her like a dance before planting his lips on her cheek. “My soggy kitten.”
“Okay, it was sweet until you said soggy.” She rolls her eyes, meeting Harry’s. “Someone’s affectionate today, is it Harry that brings that out in you, lover?”
Harry observes them, his heart has not stopped beating harshly at his ribcage, making a sickening thump. Ron’s lithe frame towers over Hermione, stooping to wrap his long freckled arms around her middle, getting his own cheek wet in the process. Hermione nuzzles into Ron, breathing deeply, her hair clinging to the dark skin of her face where Ron had twirled her. Harry thinks they look so right together, so comfortable, so beautifully juxtaposed. He thinks that he could bridge the height gap if he were a part of this embrace. That would make it even more right, but he can’t, so he just admires the art that is his friends from afar.
“Oh I just can’t help myself,” Ron nuzzles his face into the crown of Hermione’s head. Her hair hangs lower when wet, curl pattern neatly defined with a comb, showing the true length of her hair. Her skin glows, dewy and smooth, apples of her cheeks rounded through her smile. She is beautiful.
She’s not your wife, you shouldn’t be looking at her like that.
There is nothing wrong with thinking your friend is beautiful. She is, Harry would be a fool to try to deny that. So he doesn’t, he admires her. Her top is pulled tight where lanky arms, scarred and freckled, hold her like she’ll fall apart if they don’t. He traces the arms up to their owner. His red hair falls in his eyes as he nuzzles his wife’s head. The strands tickle his long nose, also dotted with freckles and acne scars and a reddish tint. Half of his smile is visible through bushy hair and it reaches his eyes easily. His pale ears poke through his bright hair and Harry recalls him wanting to get an industrial piercing when they were teenagers. He recalls many of Ron’s ambitions, much of Ron.
The atmosphere doesn’t feel correct for reminiscing, though. The only two people he would possibly reminisce about are right in front of him. Why think fondly of what was, when you have something better right now.