"[Kloves] felt a certain pull between [Harry and Hermione] at that point. And I think he's right. There are moments when [Harry and Hermione] touch, which are charged moments. One when she touches his hair as he sits on the hilltop reading about Dumbledore and Grindelwald, and [two] the moment when they walk out of the graveyard with their arms around each other. Now the fact is that Hermione shares moments with Harry that Ron will never be able to participate in. He walked out. She shared something very intense with Harry. So I think it could have gone that way."

J. K. Rowling, 'Harry, a history'

""

She was shivering under the big brown pashmina scarf she had wrapped around her shoulders. It was rather chilly for August, and that night especially was cold due to the humid mist hanging low over the streets of London. Harry put his arm around her and tried to warm her up by rubbing her arms. She smiled gratefully at him, although he doubted his attempts really did much good. Ron was running late, and they had no other option but to wait for him there on that small side street next to Tottenham Court Road.

They had spent the afternoon shopping on Diagon Alley. Ron had stayed behind for a pint at the Leaky Cauldron together with Ginny and Neville, whom they had ran into earlier, while he and Hermione had impulsively decided to take a stroll in the Muggle world. It had been rather nice, in a bit of an odd way. Hermione was the only person Harry knew who understood his strange nostalgic attachment to the Muggle world, to the world of normalcy and foreseeability where they had both once belonged, unable to even imagine a different kind of life for themselves. Tonight had been a rare opportunity for them to spend time together alone. After the War had ended they had both married, and although they lived very close to one another and met frequently both at work and outside, it was a rare treat for them to meet without the company of a crowd consisting of family, friends or colleagues.

Harry had often found himself missing both Ron and Hermione; he missed their breakfasts together, their adventures together, all those things he had for years taken for granted. The Chosen One had always lived just one day at a time, and then, abruptly, he had found they had run out. The breakfasts, the adventures, the days spent loitering under the giant tree by the lake. In a way it also made him feel a little left out to know that Hermione and Ron were sharing a home together, a life where he didn't belong in. Living with Ginny was great, but she had always been more of a lover than a friend to him. He missed his old friends.

While Harry was deep in his thoughts and peered up and down the street to see the familiar-looking car appearing from somewhere (from nowhere, most likely), Hermione was eyeing people who passed them by without sparing a glance at them. They were both dressed up in quite a wizardly manner but it was nothing new to the passers-by; this was London, after all. Hermione looked relatively normal in her long dress but they had been a little worried about Harry's cloak. In the darkness, however, it looked just like a normal black overcoat if you didn't look closely enough. Nothing the Ministry's Statute of Secrecy Department would get their knickers in a twist about. Hermione's gaze moved from the passing people to the surrounding buildings. Suddenly she gasped and grabbed Harry's hand, making him jump – an old reflex.

"Harry! Do you recognise that coffee place?" Hermione said breathlessly and pointed across the road.

Harry turned his head to look towards the shabby coffeehouse she was pointing at. It didn't look familiar at all until he caught a sight of the interior through the windows. Then it hit him: this was the coffeehouse they had planned their next move in, years ago, after they had escaped the chaos of Bill and Fleur's wedding. It still looked just as dingy and uninviting as it had the first time, but still Harry felt a strange lump rise to his throat as he stared at the dirty windows. That was where it all had started; the beginning of their very long journey. Next to him, Hermione was holding her breath as she marvelled at the sight, and he knew she was thinking the same thing. Before Harry had the time to ask, Hermione turned towards him.

"Let's go in," she whispered. "I want to see it."

Harry nodded silently, not wanting to break the strangely moving moment. They crossed the road together, still holding hands, two people who, to the outside eye, were an ordinary couple on their way to have a cup of coffee in a somewhat badly-chosen coffeehouse.

The door wailed softly when Hermione pushed it open. A quiet atmosphere greeted them upon their entrance; there was only one other customer, an old man who was playing cards by himself at a table next to the counter. The waitress was, of course, different from the unfriendly girl that had worked there last time. Harry briefly wondered what had happened to her. Had she left her job after the strange events that had taken place there? Or had she been fired after being unable to explain the destroyed property?

Harry followed Hermione to the same booth where they had sat years ago, and they both chose the same seats they had sat on last time. The only difference was that now they were two instead of three. And of course the table was different from the one that had been between them last time, since the old one had been destroyed. The dark-haired waitress came to their table and gave them a lukewarm smile, handing out two worn out menus. They steered clear of coffee, ordering tea instead. Hermione took off her scarf and folded it neatly in her lap. Then she rested her face between her hands and turned to pensively look out of the window. Her skin was still tanned from the summer, and her cheeks were flushed from the walk. It was Harry who broke the silence.

"I can't believe it's only been seven years," he said. "It feels like it's been much, much longer. Do you know what I mean? So many things have changed. The War being over and everything..."

Hermione turned her gaze towards him. There was a strange look in her eyes. She looked tired and sad. Harry wondered if his own eyes mirrored her feelings. He certainly felt old and sort of... worn out. It hadn't been easy to adjust back to normal life after all the strange, phenomenal, heartbreaking things that had happened during his school years. It had been hard to accept that the adventurous life he had once been forced to live had at some point become a part of him; a part he now missed, being deprived of it. Hermione didn't comment.

"I don't think Ron is coming, Harry," she said instead. "He must have misunderstood when or where he was supposed to pick us up. Or maybe he's had a drink too many."

Something about the way she said it suggested that it wouldn't be the first time, and Harry was oddly reminded that every family had its secrets, outside the knowledge of even the closest of friends. Hermione didn't continue on the subject, instead picking up the previous one.

"It really has been a long time," she said and smiled slightly, sadly. "I actually thought of this place a few weeks back. I was wondering if I would find it if I came back to look for it." She hesitated for a moment. "I never did, but I'm happy we came across it now. God, we were such children the last time we..." but she didn't finish her thought. Harry understood anyway. Her hand was across the table, and Harry was just about to take it into his, when the waitress returned with two cups of black tea and placed them on the table in front of them.

"Excuse me, could we also get two cups of coffee, please?" Hermione asked the girl, and Harry stared at her in surprise. The coffee definitely hadn't been worth having even once. Hermione shrugged her shoulders at him.

"For old times' sake, you know."

The waitress scribbled the order into her notebook, looking perhaps just a little surprised at the order. Perhaps coffee wasn't what this coffee place was known for, if it actually was known for anything, really. Then she left. The old man near the counter was still dealing cards to himself, and didn't pay any attention to them.

Hermione poured some milk into her tea and absent-mindedly stirred her spoon around in the cup. Harry was gazing at her. She still had that same sad look in her eyes. He hadn't noticed it before, but then again, he couldn't really remember the last time he had even properly looked. He tried to imagine what Hermione would look like to a stranger. Years spent with her made him a bit biased: she was Hermione, and that was all. To a stranger she would probably be an ordinary girl, a bit prettier than average, but just a bit. Not the type that would turn your head on the street. Ordinary. But Harry knew better. He could see the remarkability in her every feature. Remarkability which might have been invisible to others, but not to him. He cast his eyes to his own drink. He had really missed her.

As though having heard his thoughts Hermione suddenly smiled and said: "I've missed you, Harry. I miss being able to sit with you like this. Quietly. Not constantly having to talk."

Harry looked back up. This time he did take her hand into his. He couldn't quite say the words back to her, but he thought she understood him anyway. She was still smiling. The waitress returned with the coffees and they exchanged mischievous grins.

"What shall we toast to?" she asked him. He raised his drink and she mimicked him.

"To the old times!" he proclaimed.

"To the old times," repeated she.

They toasted the big mugs together, smiling widely at the memory of the last time they had ordered coffee here. The liquid looked more like espresso than coffee and undoubtedly the taste would be rather similar too. They took a careful sip of the tar-like substance and then both made a face as the bitter taste hit their taste buds. It was just as horrible as it had been last time. It was nice, still, to share the experience.

As they sipped at their teas and coffees Hermione was gazing at him pensively, and he got the feeling she was about to ask him something. He waited. And finally Hermione almost blurted out:

"I've been thinking of the time we were travelling together, Harry. A lot. I just..." she struggled to find the words. "Sometimes I feel like I can't go on living like this. Working. Signing documents. Day after day, just working. Not using spells, just writing about them. Signing more documents. Arguing with Ron about whose turn it is to cook and what. Worrying about what to do on weekends to make life a little more bearable. I miss it – us – so much. Even though it was hell when it happened, I miss the feeling I was actually doing something." She paused and bit her lip with an anguished expression on her face, as though regretting her confession already and longing to be able to force the words back down her throat.

Harry understood her all too well. How often had he lied in bed in the mornings, feeling like he didn't really have a good enough reason to get up and start another day of meaningless living? He was quite surprised to hear Hermione was feeling it too. She if anyone was a master of keeping herself under control, to work herself towards a bigger goal than the everyday struggle.

But were there any bigger goals left?

"I think I know what you mean," Harry said slowly. "Ginny calls it my God complex. She thinks I just need to feel like I'm part of something bigger-than-life to feel complete. But... it doesn't really make it any easier to know why I feel the way I do. It doesn't make the feeling any less real." He sighed tiredly and absent-mindedly rubbed at the scar on his forehead, though it had stopped hurting years ago. "I wish I could get excited about moving to a bigger house, or about starting a family, but I just can't. I've tried to – to please her... but I'm just not sure if I can, ever..."

There was no need for further explanations regarding the subject. Hermione already knew Ginny wanted them to start a family, and that he wanted to wait. He didn't even know what he was waiting for; all in all, this would be the perfect moment to start a family. Or at least there was nothing specific stopping them from starting one - no money trouble, no uncertainty about work, no occupying projects. Harry had never told it to Ginny, but deep down he had to admit that he was scared of becoming a father. Out of all the things he knew he could do well, being a father was hardly one of them.

Hermione pushed hair out of her eyes and took his hand again. She had an understanding look on her face.

"I know what you're thinking, Harry. But I think you would make a wonderful father someday. Not having had a father doesn't mean you couldn't be a good one yourself. Maybe this just isn't the right time for you yet? Don't worry about it, Harry. Ginny will understand."

Her reassuring words made him feel a bit better, but they also upset him slightly. Was he really this easy to read? He stole a glance at her face. He couldn't read her at all as easily. Even now when their eyes met, he could hardly see through the walls she had lately put around herself. He didn't know what she was thinking. And yet she looked at him with a smile, her eyes as warm and brown as ever. Familiar, through and through. Hermione.

"I never thanked you for not leaving with Ron," Harry said quietly. "You know, in the forest. So... thank you. It meant more to me than I can ever tell you."

Hermione nodded and squeezed his hand.

"You know I would do it again, anytime. If you asked me. Or even if you didn't," she said softly. Her eyes were still gazing into his, and even though she was smiling, he saw it again. The sadness. Her words made something inside Harry throb, as though she had carefully decoded some hidden meaning into them, something which he longed to understand. For a split second he imagined what it would be like to still be with her in the woods, eternally searching for the Horcruxes, forever, until their hair was grey and they had gotten lost in the forest for good. It was a strangely pleasant thought - the idea of escaping with her into the dark inviting forest, never to return. But then, the accusing face of Ginny surfaced before his mind's eye, and Harry quickly shrugged the thoughts off his mind. They were wrong. It had always been Ron and Hermione, Harry and Ginny. Why would he even think about abandoning his wife? Surely Hermione hadn't insinuated what he had for a moment imagined she had.

But still... somewhere in the back of his mind, the thought buried itself deep. The green leaves of the forest, the icy ground, the tent which had been their home, calling for them... the sound of a gush of wind in the treetops, the open fire that kept them warm. Hermione's deep brown eyes looked at him solemnly, but she said nothing more. She withdrew her hand and took a sip of her already cool tea. The skin of her cheek looked soft even in the harsh light of the fluorescent light bulbs. Harry's eyes lingered on it.

"How are things with you and Ron?" Harry heard himself say. He regretted the question immediately, but it was too late to take it back. Hermione didn't even flinch. She slowly lowered the mug of tea on the table and wiped imaginary dust off the scarf still in her lap. She took a tissue out of her pocket and wiped the table free of crumbs. Then she crumpled it up and put it into the blue ashtray in the middle of the table. She looked uncomfortable. Just as Harry thought she wasn't even going to answer, she spoke.

"I think he's coping with the situation in the best way that he can. It's hard on him, to see me unhappy for reasons he can't do anything about. He used to try... he arranged stuff. Like hiking. Fishing. That sort of stuff. But it's not really him. I know him pretty well, Harry. He just wants a comfortable life. A steady paycheck, a couple of get-togethers a week with friends, good food, good drinks... 'It's things like this we fought for', is what he says to me. And he's right. But I want more. I want to dream, and I want to do big things. Am I selfish? Maybe." Hermione almost spat the last words out of her mouth. She had turned her eyes away.

Harry didn't know what to say. He knew Ron too – and it was exactly like Hermione had said. Ron just wanted everyone to get along and enjoy their lives, because that's what he thought people naturally should do after a big war. And that's exactly why Harry had fought the War: to be able to live and love and celebrate. But there had been consequences, too: lives lost, permanent lines that had appeared on the sides of people's mouths, the guilt of the survivors. Harry sometimes felt he would have preferred dying to being forced into this strange role of a happy family man. Was that how she was feeling, too?

"Do you think this is all it's ever going to be?" Hermione asked very quietly. She was still looking out of the window, at the wetly glistening asphalt outside. "I always thought there would be more."

Hermione was stirring the spoon in her tea again, it clinked quietly against the cup's sides. Harry didn't really know why he did it, but he stood up, and walked around the table to sit next to her. Then he pulled her against himself, and held her. Hermione briefly looked surprised, then pleased. She wrapped her right arm around his back and rested her head against his shoulder. Right that moment Harry felt a deep, strong surge of affection for her. Good old Hermione, always there for him. Now it was his turn to be there for her. She felt warm against him, and he was slightly surprised to realise that this was actually the first time in years he had held anyone apart from Ginny this close. Getting married had changed things somehow: things that would have once been normal had become forbidden. But there was a small seed of rebellion still alive inside him. Tonight belonged to Hermione and him. At least this small sliver of the evening before they had to return home; he knew it would only take a moment to slip back into their old roles and close the door behind themselves.

"Sometimes I wish we were back in the forest," Hermione said quietly against his shoulder, interrupting his train of thought. Harry stiffened slightly, scared of the precise echo of his own thoughts heard on her lips. He could feel the temptation waking up in his heart. Hadn't he been happier in the forest with her, even with the burden of the Horcrux wrapped around his neck, than he was here, in his comfy little life with his young pretty wife?

But he was shaken back to reality from his thoughts when Hermione suddenly pulled herself away from him. She straightened herself and spoke in a very business-like tone.

"Well, maybe we should go. We could take a taxi back to the Leaky Cauldron, see if Ron is still there and if not, just Apparate back home."

Hermione took out her purse and left a bill on the table, paying for them both. Then she wrapped the brown pashmina back around her shoulders and stood up. Harry was sad to leave. It had been an oddly touching night. Different from the others. It felt like a thousand old memories had begun to unleash themselves inside him; him and Hermione walking away from the graveyard with their arms around each other. Her muffled tears in the night when she had cried in loneliness because Ron had left her. His strange helplessness next to her pain. The search for edible mushrooms and berries, and her horrible cookery. Harry smiled sadly as he got up. He thought of her hand in his when they had slept. The loneliness contrasted by the strong sense of togetherness; two lost children alone in the big dark world.

The waitress came to collect their money and they went to the door. Before stepping out Harry threw one last glance at the coffee place and at the booth which they had just abandoned; the four mugs on the table, and the crumbled piece of tissue in the ashtray. He tried to memorise the booth where everything had begun, so long ago. He wondered if he would ever come back there.

He turned to look at her, and saw her waiting outside. He stepped out and offered his arm to her, and she slipped her own arm around it. Together they walked back to Tottenham Court Road, towards all the traffic and crowds of Muggles. The street was emptier now; the shops had already closed. Hermione hailed a taxi and they slipped inside. They were quiet throughout the ride, and he remembered what she had said earlier: I miss being able to sit with you like this. Quietly. Not constantly having to talk. That was the good thing about Hermione: they could be completely at ease with one another without needing to fill the silence with meaningless words. That's how they had spent most days, long ago. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. She looked like she was a million miles away, perhaps in the green forest where they had once lived, even though her warm hand had again slipped into his.

Harry hoped they would meet again like this. Alone. But at the same time he felt a twinge of worry over his thoughts. The relationship between them was no longer as uncomplicated as it had once been. Something had changed, quietly, perhaps a long time ago. Tonight he finally saw and understood it. There had been moments... he had simply been too occupied with his daily life to see the gradual change, too blind to take notice of the little moments and what they had meant for both him and to her. But he saw it now.

The taxi came to a stop. Harry paid the driver and they got out. The Leaky Cauldron with its dingy, unnoticeable facade towered in front of them. Hermione was about to step in, but he remained where he stood and didn't let go of her hand.

"Hermione, don't go yet."

She turned and looked at him in the eyes, so very close to him now. The soft brown of her scarf made her eyes look black in the night, like two dark tunnels he wanted to jump into, if only he had the courage. Her hair looked a little messy; it kept falling from the bun she had tied it up in. Again he thought what they would look like if some stranger saw them standing there on the street, hand in hand, gazing into each other's eyes. They would look like just any other normal couple. The thought made him reckless. And brave.

And so he pulled her even closer to him, very tenderly. There was a brief moment of doubt: what if he had misunderstood, been blinded by his imagination? But then it was too late to think – she pressed her lips against his, very softly, as though it didn't count as a kiss if their lips only barely touched one another. Her lips were cool against his, and her fresh laundry scent encircled him. Their hands were still joined but other than that, they didn't touch each other. It was a kiss of friendship, a kiss of a past wasted and wanted; a kiss of deep understanding, reassurance and trust. A kiss of love.

Then she moved back, her lips still lingering near his for a split second before they were gone. She turned and opened the door for him. When he passed her by he felt her touch his hair very gently. Their eyes met. He hesitated for a moment.

He briefly thought of all the real couples, sharing intimate moments, hidden by darkness. Couples who shared kisses with other meanings. Kisses of desire, of promise, of happiness. He thought of her lips on his, and their memory made his lips burn. He thought of the green mornings in the forest, and of Hermione sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees outside the tent, looking at the sunrise through the trees. For a moment, he remembered it all.

Then they stepped into the pub together, closing the door softly behind themselves. It didn't make a sound.