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The front door to Harry’s cottage creaks open with a soft groan of hinges. Hermione steps inside sideways, balancing a paper bag in each arm and one pressed precariously to her chest with her chin. She’s careful not to trip over the entry rug that always curls up at the corner. She kicks the door closed behind her with the heel of her shoe, as quietly as she can.
No need to call out for Harry. She knows where he is, she can hear the soft creak upstairs, his voice quietly reading behind a closed door.
James’ bedtime.
As she sets the bags down on the counter, she looks out toward the living room, glowing in that way Harry’s home always does. Soft lamplight spills across the floor. Streamers hang half-heartedly from the ceiling. Balloons scatter across the living room floor, in colorful, careless clusters.
Hermione shrugs off her coat and hangs it by the door.
She smiles.
He’s trying.
She loves that about him.
And with a whispered charm and a wave of her wand, she begins to decorate the living room properly. She picks up toys and tidies as she goes, straightening little things without thinking, a habit from years of showing up to help.
She pauses at the mantle.
Photographs line the shelf in mismatched frames, Harry holding James for the first time. James’ first steps. Birthdays, holidays, messy-faced moments that make Hermione’s chest ache.
And in the center, Ginny.
Sun-soaked in the living room armchair, caught mid-laugh. Her hair is loose, one hand resting over the curve of her pregnant belly. Her cheeks are warm with light, her whole face soft with that bright, excited happiness.
It’s the only picture of her and James together.
Hermione’s throat tightens. She blinks once, hard, and looks away. She doesn’t let herself linger there.
She moves on.
On the kitchen table, there’s a large hand-painted banner that reads Happy Birthday James in messy child’s writing, clearly James’ contribution. Hermione hangs it centered over the mantle, adjusts it until it’s straight, then returns to the kitchen.
She begins unpacking. Eggs, flour, sugar, sprinkles. A dozen types of candy she absolutely overbought.
She pulls out an old recipe card and sets it beside the egg carton.
And just as she pushes her sleeves up and reaches for the flour, she hears the door upstairs open, then close. Footsteps pad down the hall. The stairs creak as Harry makes his way downstairs.
She turns to find Harry in the doorway, bunched up socks, messy hair pushed back, wand tucked into the waistband of his sweats. He looks exhausted. And infuriatingly good.
“I was going to-” he starts, then stops. “Thanks, Hermione.” His voice tired.
His eyes flick to the living room, to the streamers and balloons, the banner hung up, and he smiles, grateful.
“Of course,” she says, moving toward the refrigerator. “You’ve had your hands full all day.” She pulls out the milk and sets it on the counter. “Will you reach the big mixing bowl for me?”
“Sure.” Harry moves in behind her.
His hand closes around her waist as he reaches over her, and for a moment, he presses close enough that Hermione feels the heat of him through her jumper.
Her breath catches. Not enough for him to notice. But enough that she has to force her hands to keep moving.
“You weren’t kidding,” he says, voice amused. “You really did bring the whole pantry.”
“I’m not going to let your son’s fifth birthday be ruined by boxed cake mix, Harry.”
She starts measuring flour. “Flour, sugar, baking soda, or baking powder?” she mumbles to herself.
He grins. “Boxed cake mix can be good.”
Hermione huffs, brushing her hair back with a flour-dusted hand. “Spoken like a man who’s never baked anything in his life.”
Harry watches her, watches the way she moves around his kitchen as if she belongs.
“You’ve got something…” he gestures vaguely to his own cheek.
Hermione flushes and wipes at her face, only to dust more flour across her cheek.
He steps a little closer, mouth curving. “No, not there.”
She swipes again.
“Still…”
She glares. “Harry.”
Before she can wipe again, he steps in closer than expected and reaches out. His thumb brushes her cheek, softly. The brush of flour clings to his fingertip.
But he doesn’t pull away right away. His hand lingers, thumb ghosting just beneath her cheekbone like he’s forgotten what he’s doing. His eyes flick down to her lips.
Hermione swallows. Almost drops the measuring cup.
“There,” he says, quietly.
She clears her throat and steps back like she isn’t thinking about his lips. Nope, never. “I’m using Molly’s recipe,” she says, holding up the card. “I can’t actually read most of it, but I’ve memorized the basics. How hard can it be, right?”
She turns to grab the flour. The bag tips sideways.
Boom.
It explodes in a puff of white, coats the counter, and lands like snowfall in her hair. Hermione stands in it, blinking through the haze as Harry doubles over laughing, loud and unhelpful.
“Perfect...”
He grins at her, eyes bright, warm, and she turns away before he can catch the way her lips tug upward, too.
“Right,” she mutters, pulling her wand from her back pocket.
With a quick flick, the flour lifts off her clothes and hair, spirals like smoke, and disappears neatly into the bin.
“I’ll stir,” Harry offers, still amused. “You measure. That seems safer.”
Hermione rolls her eyes, bringing the mixing bowl toward her. “You say that like I’m the hazard here.”
“You are,” he says, grinning. “But a charming one.”
She gives him a look, one that should be threatening but isn’t.
They settle into a rhythm. Hermione reads the recipe aloud, squinting at Molly’s faded handwriting, brow furrowed. Harry dumps ingredients. Sprinkles spill everywhere.
“Harry!”
“I’m improvising.”
“This is baking. You can’t improvise.”
“Says who?”
“Says every culinary authority since-” She breaks off as an egg slips from her fingers and lands with a wet slap on the floor. She stares down at it.
Harry whistles low. “Brilliant technique, that.”
“Oh, shut up.”
They finally pour the sprinkled batter into two tins and put them into the oven before anything else goes wrong. Harry slides them onto the rack with exaggerated care.
Hermione leans her hip against the counter, setting a timer.
“See?” Harry says, straightening. “No more spills.”
Hermione snorts. “You spilled half the sprinkles.”
“That was intentional…”
“That was disastrous.”
Harry grins, eyes bright. “You like me anyway.”
Hermione opens her mouth to argue, but she pauses because he’s too close again. Like he’s testing the air between them, waiting to see if it holds.
Harry reaches for the dish towel and flicks it over his shoulder like he’s suddenly very pleased with himself. “Right,” he says, turning toward the living room. “We’ve got… what, forty minutes?”
“Forty-five,” Hermione corrects automatically.
“Of course,” he says, laughing under his breath. “Forty-five.”
He heads for the sofa, and Hermione follows. She flops onto the cushions. Harry drops down beside her and brings her legs up over his lap.
For a moment, they just sit, listening to the oven hum and the house settle around them.
Hermione’s gaze drifts across the room.
The balloons. The banner. The crooked streamers she fixed.
And the mantle.
Her eyes catch, as they always do, on the one in the center. She looks away quickly.
Harry’s voice cuts through the quiet. “You’re doing that thing again.”
Hermione blinks. “What thing?”
He turns slightly toward her. His hand on her knee.
“I am fine.”
Harry makes a soft, unimpressed sound.
Hermione exhales. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting,” he says, quieter now. “It’s just...”
Hermione’s fingers curl around the edge of the cushion. She can feel him watching her. Always patient, too kind.
And then he reaches out, like it’s nothing, and tugs a single curl lightly. Hermione’s pulse jumps.
“Your hair,” he murmurs. “Still got flour in it.”
“I do not.”
“Yeah, you do.”
She glares at him. “Stop looking at my hair.”
Harry’s grin softens. He leans in, slow, so slow Hermione has time to stop it, to make a joke, to move away.
She doesn’t.
His gaze drops to her mouth.
Hermione’s breath stills.
He’s close enough now that she can feel the warmth of him again, only now there’s no mixing bowl between them, no flour cloud, no sprinkles to blame.
He tilts his head.
Hermione’s eyes flick, without meaning to, back to the mantle.
To Ginny.
Harry follows her gaze.
He stops.
The moment hangs there, suspended. Harry’s throat bobs as he swallows. Hermione’s chest aches.
“I’m sorry,” she says, immediately, because she doesn’t know what else to say.
“I know,” he says. He stares at the photograph for a moment longer. Then he looks back at her, eyes bright in a way that makes Hermione’s throat tighten.
“I just…” he starts, and the words falter. He tries again. “Sometimes it feels like I’m not allowed to want anything. Not even to move on. Not even-”
He cuts himself off.
Hermione’s heart stutters.
Harry’s gaze drops to her hands. “You,” he says quietly. “You make me feel…”
Hermione swallows.
“Harry…” Her voice comes out rougher than she wants.
He gives a small, helpless laugh. “See? That’s what I mean. I keep flirting like an idiot, and you keep pretending, and I keep-”
His eyes lift to hers.
“I keep wanting…” he admits, softly. Harry’s hand tightens on her knee, like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s choosing to be brave.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low. “And I will.”
Hermione’s throat works.
She should.
She believes she should.
Instead, she shakes her head, barely.
Harry exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. Then he leans in.
His mouth brushes hers, gentle at first. Hermione’s eyes flutter closed, her breath catching in the space between them.
And then something in her gives.
She kisses him back.
It’s soft, and slow, and so familiar it makes her heart race. Like this is how it should have always been.
Harry’s other hand rises to her face, cupping her jaw with careful tenderness. His thumb rests at her cheekbone, the same place he touched in the kitchen, and Hermione’s fingers curl into the front of his shirt before she can stop herself.
The kiss deepens.
Harry makes a quiet sound against her mouth, something between relief and want, and Hermione feels it like a pulse.
When he pulls back, only an inch. Only enough to breathe. He rests his forehead against hers. Hermione’s eyes stay closed. Harry’s breath is warm against her lips. For a moment, neither of them moves.
Neither of them speaks.
The world narrows to the quiet of the cottage, the soft weight of his hand at her jaw, the steady press of his forehead to hers.
Hermione’s chest rises, falls.
She swallows.
“We shouldn’t-” she starts, voice rough.
“Don’t,” he murmurs.
Hermione’s eyes open.
“It feels like…” Hermione’s voice breaks, and she hates it. She clears her throat and tries again. “It feels like I’m taking something that isn’t mine.”
Harry’s hand slips from her jaw to the side of her neck, fingers warm there.
“You’re not,” he says.
“Harry,” she aches.
He shifts back just enough to look at her properly. His eyes flick, briefly, toward the mantle.
Toward Ginny.
Then back to Hermione.
“I loved her,” he says simply. Like it’s a fact carved into stone.
Harry’s voice drops. “I still do.”
Hermione nods once, because of course. Because she knows. Because she loved her too.
“And I miss her,” he continues, quieter now. “Every day.”
His thumb strokes once at the side of her neck.
“But I’m here,” he says. “And you’re here,” Harry’s eyes search hers.
Something twists in Hermione’s chest, sharp and hot. She looks away. She can’t help it. Her gaze drifts back to the photograph on the mantle. Ginny, sunlit and laughing, hand over her belly like she’s holding the future.
Hermione’s throat tightens.
He just breathes out, slow. Then he turns her face back toward him, fingers under her chin, gently.
“Hermione,” he says softly. “Look at me.”
She does.
Harry’s gaze holds hers, steady and sure, like he’s done running from the truth.
“She would have wanted you here,” he says.
Hermione flinches.
Harry shakes his head. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t pull away.”
Hermione swallows hard.
Harry’s voice softens. “She loved you.”
Hermione’s eyes burn.
“She would have wanted you to be happy,” Harry says.
Hermione’s breath trembles.
Harry’s thumb brushes the corner of her mouth. Like he’s memorizing her.
“I can’t,” Hermione whispers.
Harry’s gaze turns into something like exhaustion. Something desperate.
“You can,” he says.
Harry’s forehead touches hers again.
His voice is so quiet it feels like a confession. “Please...”
Hermione’s eyes squeeze shut.
For one terrifying second, she almost lets herself.
Almost leans into it.
Almost says yes.
And then…
The oven timer goes off.
Hermione jerks back like she’s been hexed. Harry stills, blinking, like he forgot there was an oven at all. Hermione scrambles to her feet too fast, heart pounding.
“Cake,” she says, voice too bright. Too normal. “The cake-”
“Right,” he says, swallowing.
Hermione moves into the kitchen like it’s a lifeboat. Like it’s safety. Like it’s something she can control.
Behind her, Harry stays on the sofa for a moment longer, staring at the mantle.
Then he stands and follows.
Hermione yanks the oven mitts from the hook a little too quickly. She pulls the cakes from the oven and sets them on the counter. Steam rises from the sponges in slow curls, filling the kitchen with the sweet smell of sugar and vanilla.
Harry hovers near the doorway, hands in his pockets, like he doesn’t know where to put himself anymore.
Hermione reaches for her wand, and with a careful flick, she draws the heat out of the cakes in gentle spirals, cooling them evenly so they won’t sink. Within moments, they’re cool enough to touch.
Harry watches her, a faint smile returning as if he’s grateful for something to focus on.
“Magic,” he murmurs. “Always cheating.”
Hermione finally glances at him. “It’s not cheating. I’m being efficient.”
“Same thing,” he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
Hermione flips the first cake onto a plate, and Harry steps in beside her, setting out the icing tubs and piping bags, eager to do anything that doesn’t involve sitting in silence again.
Hermione reaches for the first tub and pops it open.
Pink.
She stares.
Harry laughs as he leans over her shoulder. “Oh, no.”
Hermione exhales. “I thought I grabbed blue.”
Harry’s eyebrows lift. “That’s… aggressively pink.”
“It’s cheerful…” she says, dipping a spatula in and beginning to smooth it over the cake’s uneven surface. “He’s five. He’ll love it, right?”
“I dunno,” Harry says. “Feels like we’re summoning Umbridge.”
Hermione gasps. “Take that back!”
He just chuckles, reaching for the piping bag and filling it with green icing.
“I’ve got the lettering.”
“Do you even know how to pipe icing?”
“Nope,” he says cheerfully, and leans over the cake.
Hermione watches warily.
But Harry’s brow furrows in concentration as he pipes slow, thick green letters across the cake.
HAPPEE BIRTHDAE JAMES
He steps back to admire his work, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.
Hermione leans in. “Happee Birthdae? You misspelled both words!”
“I know,” he says.
She pauses. “Wait. Is that…?”
Harry just shrugs, wiping a bit of green from his thumb. “Figured he should have a cake like mine.”
He says it casually, but Hermione’s chest pinches as she looks at the mess of letters.
Pink frosting. Sloppy green writing.
Her voice softens. “That’s actually really sweet.”
He shrugs again, avoiding her eyes this time. “Don’t make it weird.”
Harry reaches behind her to swipe a dollop of pink icing from the side of the cake.
Before she can stop him, he smears it right onto the tip of her nose.
Hermione freezes. Blinks at him.
“Oh,” she says softly. “You are so dead.”
Harry grins, shameless. “Am I?”
Hermione lunges for him.
Harry yelps and bolts, laughing as he dodges her and slips around the kitchen island.
“Harry! Get back here!”
He darts past the sink, past the fridge, past the doorway, and behind the couch. Hermione chases him. There’s laughter and half-hearted threats, frosting smears and whispered curses.
She finally catches him by the hem of his shirt and yanks him back with a triumphant grin.
His eyes go wide. “Hermione!”
His sock catches on the rug as she pulls, and they lose balance at the same time.
Harry tries to catch her.
Hermione tries to catch him.
They crash onto the couch in a tangled heap. Hermione landing on top of him, chest to chest, her palms braced on either side of his head.
She’s laughing.
Breathless.
And then she’s not.
Harry’s hands are on her hips.
Hermione’s eyes drop to his mouth.
“Hermione…” he says, quiet now, low. “I-”
She kisses him.
No hesitation this time.
Just her lips on his, warm and sure, like she’s finally made a decision.
When she pulls back, her forehead stays against his.
He looks up at her, hair frizzed, nose frosted pink, cheeks flushed, and everything goes quiet.
Her voice is soft.
Sure.
“I love you too, Harry.”