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"You're going undercover today?" Hermione asks while packing his lunch. Club sandwiches, chips, treacle tart, and a special request of sweet tea. Something about how he needs sugar to keep himself awake.
"Yeah," Harry packs hers. Mirroring the same meal but with earl grey tea instead. He doesn't need to. She said she would go out for lunch. He laughed and shook his head when she said that. Something about always forgetting when he's not there. "I'll be out the whole day. Won't last more than that, I hope."
"Is it dangerous?" she asks, placing the container inside his shoulder bag. Fingers fumbling the belt that holds it together. Holds her together.
She doesn't understand his need to continue Auror training. Doesn't understand the purpose of going after dark wizards. They had already graduated from Hogwarts together, there was no serious need to be continuing—
"Hermione," he's in front of her, rubbing the pads of his thumbs against her knuckles. He steps back from the kitchen bar, arms opening just for her. "C'mere."
She crosses over and easily falls into his embrace. Hands clutching the back of his coat, face burrowed into his chest. Shaking from either anxiety or fear. Or both.
His hands circle her waist just as easily, head falling to nuzzle her neck. She asked him once if her hair ever got in the way of his destination. He had said yeah but when has that ever stopped me?
"I'll be alright," he whispers.
She's tracing the stray threads of his leather coat. "Promise?"
He chuckles half-heartedly. "You know I don't make promises when it comes to missions." He presses his hand against her the back of her head, pushing it gently to hear the slowing of his breath.
"It was worth a try," she mumbles, closing her eyes to listen to the way his chest expands and retracts. The way his heart beats not for just her—but for them.
Her rapid breathing slowing down to sync with his.
A ritual they secretly started years ago.
Her mother had taught her this method. A little after she came back from Hogwarts after third year. A neat trick she learned from her friend who had just gotten her masters in psychotherapy.
Her mum had covered it up as an excuse. A fib. A white lie. Saying that Hermione had looked increasingly stressed when she came back. Thought it would help.
Hermione had shook her head, neither agreeing or denying.
She knew her mother had noticed.
Noticed the dark circles that became more prominent after the first few nights back. From the nightmares that plagued her dreams after her encounter with the dementors. She had almost died then if it weren't for Harry.
The dementors weren't the only things that had caused such scars. Who knew over usage of a Time Turner would have its setbacks?
And so, her mum taught her a way to expound her body of needless stress. Alleviate the weights that burden her shoulders.
Synced breathing.
Every night, before bed, they'd embrace each other and slow down their breathing. Some nights it was her mum, some nights her dad, and some nights it was Crookshanks. The quiet purring was hard to match but it helped the exercise regardless.
Over the summer, she had gotten better.
She didn't realise how much her heart rate had increased after that year. Was it always like that?
She wasn't sure if she wanted to know.
"Hermione, I can't do it!" Harry shouts in the empty classroom. Hands rubbing his face in frustration. "A dragon? How am I supposed to fight a dragon?!"
She fidgets the hems of her robes. "Well, if you just master the Summoning Charm I'm sure it'll go alright—"
"Oh, sod the Summoning Charm!" he snaps. She flinches. He falls back to sit on a stray chair. "I can't…"
This is the first time she'd seen him crack under pressure when they're alone. An accumulation of stress perhaps.
Stress.
Maybe she can be of help.
She takes tentative steps forward, a little shaken from his outburst. She clears her throat, "Harry."
He looks up at her, eyes bloodshot and breathing rapid. Had he been getting any sleep at all?
"Do you– Do you wanna try a little exercise?" she asks, avoiding his gaze because she feels just a little embarrassed.
He rubs his eyes, glasses catching onto his fingers. "Listen, if this another spell, I think I'm done for today—"
"No!" she says loudly. He jolts. "No, it's for– for reducing stress. An exercise of sorts. You just– You looked really tired lately and I thought you might need it…"
Her words trail off, embarrassment slowly creeping up higher. She thought she must have looked desperate. With the way she fidgeted constantly and scratched the engravings of her wand. He wouldn't have agreed to otherwise.
He sighs, standing up. "Fine. What is it?"
"Alright. First, we have to hug each other—"
"Hold on," he sounds alarmed. Right, physical contact is hard for him. "I'm not sure I can do that."
"Trust me, Harry. It'll be fine," she stuffs her wand in her pocket, arms opening. She's shaking a little. Unsure if he'd actually go through with it. "You do trust me, right?"
"Of course I do," he says with resolution. His jaw clenching. Either from mixed feelings, frustration, or other things, she doesn't know. He seems to have made up his mind as swallows and raises his arms stiffly.
She steps forward, pushing his back to enter her short arms. He tenses even more.
"Right, now, focus on my breathing," she says briskly. Trying to keep things platonic. Best friends hug, right? "Match it. Sync with it."
She feels him focusing on it, possibly trying to keep unwanted thoughts at bay. His shoulders slowly losing tension.
She doesn't say anything. He's quiet. Very quiet.
But slowly their breaths sync.
They stay there for a while.
They don't talk about it after.
After that, they started seeking each other out with secrecy. It didn't need words. Didn't need explanations. She'd know from the look in his eyes when he'd ask for one.
She gave it to him without hesitation.
It was quick and easy.
Five minutes of breath control before pulling away and going about their day.
It became a routine. A cycle. A quiet ritual.
It had helped him through the worst of the competition. The worst of the high tension D.A. lessons. The worst of his detentions. Quidditch matches. Nightmares.
They'd silently agreed to not talk about it. Keep it normal. No comments of the sort. Never mention it to anyone else, not even Ron. They know he'd find it weird. Even though it wasn't.
Because best friends hug, right?
One time, they skipped it.
A horrible row before a battle in the Ministry.
They could barely look at each other, much less hug each other.
And yet, the one time they skipped it, she nearly died. The feeling of her body growing cold, sinking into darkness and never be able to feel his warmth again.
He silently vowed to never skip it again.
She, on the other hand, had not seen it that way at all.
Or maybe she didn't want to.
At sixth year, she had ask for it to stop.
Hormones and puberty had hit. Teenagers becoming more aware of certain things. Their bodies growing fuller or broader in places. Crushes forming and jealousy rearing its ugly head in the wrong places.
She didn't want to be in the middle of that.
He refused. Said 'it wasn't a big deal. We'd been doing for two years now and there's never been a problem. Why stop now?'
It frustrated her. She knew how he looked at Ginny. How his eyes always strayed towards hers. She didn't want to be apart of that. Didn't want to be the reason why they broke apart.
She loves him too much to deprive him of finding his own happiness.
Which is why, she gave in. Unable to say no whenever he'd come and ask her for a hug.
"Why don't you do it with Ginny? She's your girlfriend, Harry!" she argued. She's tired. She does need their hugs. But she doesn't want him to know that.
She doesn't want to admit her dependency on it.
"Why do we have to argue about this all the time, Hermione?!" He ruffles his hair in frustration. "It's because she isn't you, alright! It's not the same!"
She freezes. Does he know what he's saying right now? Does he realise how ridiculous this looks? Her breath comes out in rapid stutters. Frustration and panic slowly rising to her chest and tightening her insides like a knot.
He steps closer to her, his hands settling on the sides of her shoulders. A tight smile that's supposed to be reassuring yet isn't all the same. "Best friends can hug too, right?"
She looks at him, her heart beating so fast it's like a symphony in her ears. An ugly symphony. The sound so treacherous it makes her want to pull her hair out. Makes her want to scratch her skin.
Makes her nauseous.
Makes her—
fall into the confines of his embrace.
His body encasing hers, covering her ears of the horrible sound. She can feel his chest inhale and exhale. The breaths deep and encompassing. Like a sedative washing over her.
"Right," she mumbles, boneless. Not finding it in her to pull away. The exhaustion of the weeks they've spent arguing coating her senses.
She never did pull away.
They had momentarily paused their nestling escapades. It was hard to do it in secrecy when their mutual best friend always had short bursts of hypertension. That, added with the fact he was hogging her attention.
She didn't mind it. She needed a distraction. The world outside was no longer safe. Her parents were shipped and gone, not even remembering their beloved daughter.
And worst of all, the light of her life was doomed to die.
Maybe that's why, when Ron left, they immediately sought each other out. Physically. Intimately. The breath control exercise going out of hand due to the fear the ongoing war induced.
It started with embracing more than usual.
It used to be a weekly thing back in Hogwarts.
Now it turned into a daily occurrence.
'To reduce the effects of the locket, yeah?'
Then a twice a day occurrence.
'Once when we wake up, once before we sleep.'
Then three.
'For every meal.'
Then four.
'Every time we switch shifts.'
Then—
"Harry…" she whimpers underneath him. Cheeks flushed, pupils dilating, breaths mingling. Still synced despite the strenuous exercise.
His lips are on the tops of her breasts. The vast planes of her collarbone. The sides of her neck. Everywhere, anywhere all at once.
She doesn't remember how they got here. How they got into this situation of undress. Was it during their talk? During their attempt at syncing their breaths? After they went to lay down on the shared cot? Is it late? Are those the crick—
His mouth slides against hers, tongue invading and silencing her thoughts. He's taking her breath away, literally. But also giving her his. His fingers massaging the scalp of her head.
It's heady. Suffocating. Overwhelming. Intoxicating.
She doesn't know where she begins and where he ends.
Her eyes slowly close, unable to keep them open. Her body melting into his addictive embrace. The last thing she sees is the man with piercing green eyes. The man that holds onto her figure as if she was made of porcelain. Handling her with care despite the harsh winters.
Their breaths never once unsyncing.
They missed an embrace twice again. Not that it was either of their faults.
She doesn't want to relive the memories of the Manor. He doesn't want to relive the end of the war. Just know that they went back to their routine immediately after. The same routine, yet different in flavour.
They didn't go back to the industrial taste of their prospective partners.
Instead, they went back to the sugary scent of each other.
The flavour tasting vaguely of sweet pumpkin pie.
Harry's late.
Hermione's worried sick.
Her shift at St. Mungo's had ended earlier than usual. One of the rarer days to be letting her off early. Yet also, one of the worst days.
The sound of the door opening and closing, heavy duty boots hitting against the wooden floor. She surges up immediately, running down the stairs hair all over the place from the hours of messing it up.
Harry looks up at her, midway through shrugging off his coat. He flashes her a classic lopsided grin. She ignores its gleaming effect, opting to probe his appearance instead. Glasses askew, bruise on the back of his neck, burns on the tips of his coat. The tension in her shoulders relieving itself of its tight duties. No major injuries. Good.
She sighs before coming over to take his bag. "Do I even want to know?"
He hangs up his coat, before reaching over to the side table where they have an assortment of sweets. "Not really." Unwraps a drop and pops it into his mouth. Lemon. "Want one?"
"No," she shakes her head, exasperation and relief painting over her features. "Too sour."
He shrugs before popping another one. "Suit yourself."
"Harry," she fidgets the hems of her scrubs. He must have assumed she just came back like him. "Can I?"
He looks at her, hands dropping the letters he had just picked up. Baffled for a bit because she rarely initiates them before bed these days. Takes him a bit to recover before a slow smile spreads across his lips.
"Of course," he opens his arms wide for her. She wraps her arms around his torso immediately. Her nose inhaling the scent of musky perfume and burnt wood.
"I was worried, you know," her voice is muffled.
"Mhm," he nuzzles his face into her nape. "You always are. That's why we do this."
"That's not the only reason why."
"Ah, yes, could never forget that," he smirks. "Is that on the schedule tonight?"
She makes a movement that feels like a nod. Her face still glued to his chest.
He chuckles. "Well, if my beloved Healer would so kindly tend to my bruises, then we could get a move on with our plans."
She grumbles before pulling away. Setting his bag beside the wall. An annoyed look on her face for cutting their hug short. She makes quick work of his wounds. Dittany leaves and medicinal herbs were already stuffed in her pockets anyways.
"There," she finishes the last of her diagnostics. "Done." He'll be fine. She knows he asks her to tend them for her assurances rather than his.
His face brightens. A wolfish grin overlapping with the glint in his eyes. She knows that look anywhere. She tries to look for an out, eyes searching for the doorway. Sensing her about to bolt, he immediately throws her over his shoulder.
"Harry!" she punches his back. "Put me down! I have to shower first!"
"Perfect," he trudges upward to their bedroom unbothered, an unyielding grip on her body. "I'll join you then."