If he could distill the whole of his summer to this, Harry thought, it could possibly be the best summer he'd ever had.

Harry was lying on his back on the floor of Hermione's bedroom. His fingers were interlaced behind his head, his ankles crossed… he lay as one might outdoors under a pale sky soaking up the sun. He just happened to be in his best friend's room. Hermione was sitting Indian-style atop her pink bedspread, sorting through muggle mail that had come for her while she was at Hogwarts but that hadn't been important enough to forward on by owl. The house was astoundingly quiet; Hermione's parents had both left for work that morning. Harry wasn't used to such peaceful stillness. Aunt Petunia didn't work so she was always at the house on Privet Drive, and usually when Harry was there Dudley was, too, and peace and quiet would run screaming bloody murder at the sight of Dudley Dursley. Throw in Uncle Vernon's thundering, blustering presence and Harry lived in a veritable cacophony of ugly noise, a din he was so accustomed to that he'd never noticed the anarchy of sound. Then, at Hogwarts, there were always other students in the same classroom, in the same dorm, at the same table at meals, even communal loos. There was no true solitude. Even at the Weasley home it was like a family-size train station of activity, enjoyable but still busy. When Jake and Miranda left that morning and it was just Harry and Hermione an enormous silence fell over the house.

Harry didn't know it could be that quiet without it also being a bad sign. In Harry's experience, it got very, very quiet before really bad things happened, but that wasn't the quality of this silence. It was like the house dozed off when the owners left, content and secure, and Harry thought it very much like a breath of fresh air he'd never known he wanted, didn't suspect could exist. There was also a kind of release of an underlying knot of tension when Jake and Miranda were gone. He felt calmer, better able to breathe, to relax, to finally stop worrying what he might do wrong. It was just him and Hermione and that was what he'd been longing for since King's Cross.

Hermione had mentioned her mail and Harry had just tagged along without asking. Hermione didn't question him following her around the house, right into her bedroom. While Hermione gathered her stack of letters and crawled up on to her bed Harry had wandered around her room, taking it in with his eyes and occasional questing fingertips. The room was very Hermione. A queen-sized bed with a fluffy pink comforter took up the lion's share of the room. Her walls were lined with shelves that had been put up to accommodate the rows of books. Not a surprise in the least. She had a desk with parchment, quills, and stacked books on it. It looked as though she'd last studied on it yesterday rather than before the beginning of term. Harry had stopped at the only aesthetic adornment in the room, a painting on the wall of a commanding, bearded man and a young, beautiful brown-haired woman in a dark forest. The woman huddled close to the older man's side, as though sheltering in the brace of his form. The artistry was very elegant and detailed, clearly lovingly rendered. It looked like an art museum piece, or maybe like one of the portraits in Hogwarts just waiting to begin moving. It also looked as though it meant something more than just a nameless man and nameless woman. It had made him look to Hermione in question. "It's Prospero and Miranda from The Tempest," Hermione said then smiled to herself in private amusement. "It used to be my mother's, her father's before that. Suppose you could call it an heirloom."

Harry supposed the duck of her head suggested a painting for an heirloom should have been silly, but it seemed perfectly suitable to him. Without so much as a flick of the eyes to pass judgment on her family treasure, Harry left the painting and stretched out on the floor much as he'd lain beneath the tree beside the Black Lake at Hogwarts.

He'd been lying there for half an hour in complete silence. Hermione went through her mail on the bed, unrushed and methodical. Harry listened to the sound of tearing envelopes, folding papers, smoothed creases, sorted piles. It was oddly hypnotic and soothing. He started at the ceiling, perfectly happy to lie on her floor all day while she settled back into her home life.

"You want me to move over?" Hermione asked after what seemed a timeless content in Harry's half-focused mind. He blinked and looked up and over at her. "Huh?"

Hermione was looking down at him from the bed. "I asked if you wanted me to move over so you can lie out on the bed? It just looks like I'm about to bore you to sleep." A very faint, slightly apologetic smile touched her mouth.

Harry didn't move a muscle to get up. "You're not. This is nice."

"Lying on there while I read mail? Oh, Harry, you don't expect me to believe that, do you? We can do something else if you want." Hermione put her letters down in a show of willingness.

Harry resolutely refused to move. How was he supposed to tell her that this was probably the best first day of summer of his young life? That if he were at Privet Drive he'd be doing chores enough to make a house elf cry mistreatment or that he'd be forced to endure not-so-mock boxing matches with Dudley where he'd be punished if he made a showing for himself? She didn't need to hear that any more than he wanted to say it.

"Where are all your pictures of Ron?" Harry asked.

Hermione froze a moment. "What?"

Harry, without getting up, turned his head toward the bureau to the other side of him. There were three framed wizard pictures that had caught his eye on his first investigative circuit of the room. One was of him and Hedwig first year sitting together on a hilltop, boy and owl appearing almost equal in size considering how small Harry had been then. Harry had no idea anyone had been present with a camera when it was taken, but there was no mistaking himself and Hedwig, that mop of wild black hair and the pristine white feathers were dead giveaways. It was the way he'd spent time alone with Hedwig at Hogwarts on countless occasions, the relaxed posture of both boy and bird in the photo seemingly seeking counsel and wisdom from one another in long conversations that never contained a single word. As sunlight glinted through breaks in the clouds beyond the two figures, little Harry would periodically reach out and stroke Hedwig's back.

Another was a picture of the common room during a party celebrating a Gryffindor Quidditch win last year. Harry was prominently featured in the image, still decked in his Quidditch robes and looking a bit worse for wear, grass-stained, bruised, and hair messier than usual, but he was grinning like a fool, his expression slightly punch-drunk (which made sense, after a good game Harry felt a little high from the rush of it all). He still held the snitch in his hand, the golden wings beating between his fingers for escape. Oliver Wood was hoisting bootlegged butterbeer in the background while Fred and George made wild gesticulations, clearly recreating some fantastic bludger hits. Angelina was standing on the arm of the couch with broom in hand, as though seriously giving thought to hopping on and doing a victory lap around the common room in defiance of all school rules.

The third was a new addition, a picture from fourth year. It was himself and Hermione at the Yule Ball. They were standing together on the staircase, Harry looking quite more dashing in his dress robes if he did say so himself (considering he felt like one of McGonagall's baboons) than he'd thought at the time, and Hermione looking just as breathtakingly lovely as she had the first moment he saw her descend the steps. Harry remembered when that picture was taken all too well. After the mortifying first dance when he'd felt like crawling under a table to avoid the attention directed on him, the dance floor had filled up and Harry had managed to escape to the outskirts. Parvati hadn't been thrilled with her disappearing date but Harry hadn't intended to dance any more than absolutely necessary. Except Hermione hadn't allowed him to get away with it. She'd begged pardon from Viktor for a song, dragged Harry on to the floor, and pretty well ordered him to dance and have a good time. And for that one dance with Hermione, he had. There wasn't a gut-tightening pressure to not be a fool with Hermione… when he stumbled or found himself counting under his breath Hermione just laughed and gave him these strange mini-hugs… placing her cheek to his, tugging faintly on his shoulders, then stepping back and smiling encouragement. The picture was taken after that one fun dance with Hermione. They'd run out to the corridor nearly fit to burst with laughter… Harry had been so intent on the steps that he'd steered them both into several couples and by some strange alignment of chance had maneuvered themselves between Dumbledore and McGonagall who'd been dancing together. How they'd managed that Harry still had no idea. Dumbledore had smiled and exclaimed, "Why, Harry, I'd be delighted to change partners, but really, one should ask to cut in before doing so." With anyone but Hermione he would have been utterly humiliated, but Hermione had adapted the cheek-to-cheek hug, threw in an arm around his neck, and suddenly the light laughter in his ear had made him burst into laughter, too. When they'd started drawing queer looks they'd rushed out to the corridor in stitches. That's when a voice had called their names, they'd turned, and caught a flash of Colin Creevey and his ever-ready camera.

Harry hadn't known Hermione got that picture from Colin until he saw it on her bureau. While at the time he and Hermione had merely been standing next to each other on the steps, in the photo their doppelgangers took it upon themselves to pose. Hermione moved into Harry's side, draped her arm around his neck, and dropped her head to his shoulder, while Harry's arm came up and wrapped around her waist. Harry lifted an eyebrow at their likenesses for their… shameless openness. They were both smiling brightly and looking like they were having a very good time. The laughter from seconds before the camera flashed was still in their faces. It was before that ugly fight between Ron and Hermione (how very typical) that had left Hermione at the end of the evening in tears.

Harry looked at the picture now and marveled at the pair of them. They looked so happy… so… He wouldn't think 'good together' because he believed he shouldn't, but they weren't a poorly matched couple. They didn't look like awkward counterparts, which was more than he could say for him and Parvati or even Hermione and Krum. Ron had a point, the Bulgarian brute was a bit of a pumpkin-head.

It took a moment of looking for Harry to notice that Ron wasn't in the pictures on Hermione's bureau; he wasn't even in the background of the Gryffindor celebration.

Harry looked back at Hermione and said again, "You haven't any pictures of Ron."

Hermione looked up at her pictures, seemed to only then see them and that Harry was right, then she tensed. "Oh." A blush colored her cheeks.

Harry was suddenly more interested in her answer than he'd been when he asked the question.

Hermione shifted and waved an overly-dismissive hand. "Well, you know, he takes rotten pictures. Seems he's always making some face."

Harry smiled. She was right. Best way to describe Ron in photographs would be an Irish Setter puppy just untangled from a self-made disaster and giving a look that said 'quite a mess, this is. What's one to do?' "Well, yeah, I suppose you're right, but that's Ron."

Hermione fiddled with the corner of a letter. "Yes, well…" and whatever she meant to say just fell away into nothing.

Harry watched her intently. There was something there, something he should catch, something he should suddenly, miraculously understand, but he couldn't figure it out.

Hermione sighed and the instant was gone.

He'd have to try and catch it later… he could only hope it gave a gold glint for him to grab when it made another pass.

"Why have the one of me and Hedwig?" he found himself asking, at first to redirect the conversation. Only once he said it did it have a form that truly puzzled him. "Something sad about that picture, I think." Maybe it was the expanse of the Hogwarts grounds in the background, or the cloudy sky, or maybe the fact that in that picture his eleven-year-old self and a single owl were the only signs of life.

"I know," Hermione said slowly. She looked down at Harry, studied him a moment, then looked up toward the picture in question. She frowned thoughtfully. "I guess it was the first time I'd seen someone else as… alone as me. Would it be terrible of me to admit that it made me feel better?"

Harry could never believe anything Hermione felt was fundamentally wrong. "No." He understood that in all its trappings without a single misgiving. He'd spent his entire life before Hogwarts not knowing what it meant to have a friend. He knew Hermione had come to Hogwarts much the same in that respect. He'd intellectually known it, but he'd never given pause to feel on it before. It set an ache in his chest to think Hermione had ever felt the kind of loneliness he used to accept as normal for him. She was better than that kind of dark emotion.

"Well, won't ever be a concern for either of us again, will it?" he said with determination as he sat up on the floor and faced her. He couldn't let himself think of Hermione feeling like that ever again.

Hermione looked up at him and smiled. "No, it won't."

They stared silently at one another a moment, and may have spent a good while longer doing it, but were interrupted when Hermione's bedroom door opened and Kimmy came in. In addition to her boxer short overalls (this time sporting moving hippogriffs), she also wore a pair of stars-spangled shorts on her head, the tips of her ears poking out either leg hole and looking like some kind of silly chef's hat.

Hermione bit her lip to stop from laughing.

Harry hoped his grin would be taken as one of greeting and not the prelude to a laugh. "Hi, Kimmy."

"Hellos, Mister Potter and Miss Granger. Is all well? No mischief?" she looked between Harry and Hermione openly.

"Mischief? No, why do you ask? Have you been talking to Professor McGonagall?" Harry asked.

Hermione let loose the laugh in her chest; Harry knew it was in large part for Kimmy's boxer hat.

Kimmy sat down on the floor like Harry and answered, "When Masters Albus and Aberforth were young and quiet it usually meant mischief. You twos were very quiet in here for a long time. But I see nothing afoot. Mister Potter and Miss Granger are better behaved than Masters Albus and Aberforth, then!"

Hermione turned to putting away her read letters. "I suppose it would be a betrayal to the headmaster to ask what exactly that means?"

Kimmy smiled serenely at Hermione. "Most certainly, but it's regrettable I cannot say. Some very good times had we three so very long ago."

Hermione looked only a little disappointed that they wouldn't hear of the adventures of young Albus Dumbledore. "You're a good elf, Kimmy."

Kimmy only nodded in secret amusement at those untold memories dancing behind her eyes.

Harry rose from the floor. "Shall I make us lunch?"

"Oh, you don't have to do that, Harry. Just give me a few minutes to finish up here and I'll scrounge us up something, or we could even order out."

"I could do lunch!" Kimmy leapt up eagerly and raised her hand as if to snap a small feast into existence that very second.

Harry waved them both off. "No, really, I'd rather do it." Harry smiled at Hermione with strange pride in his voice. "You wouldn't know it, but I'm rather good in the kitchen." Harry's smile barely slipped. "That was one thing the Dursleys made sure I learned." He shook off the gloom of his aunt and uncle. "Come on, let me impress you, Hermione."

"Oh, impressive, are you?" Hermione teased.

Harry just continued to smile cheekily.

Hermione chuckled and gave in. "Okay, but don't go to too much trouble, you're a guest here, you know. And it's summer holiday. It's just not proper."

"Nothing extravagant, I promise."

"Oh, but do let Kimmy help!" Kimmy pleaded. Harry began to think the house elf was probably just as out-of-sorts with so little to do that he was. His summers were usually more like a labor camp. It felt weird to just lie back all day and relax without a Snape-essay length list of chores to be finished.

"Sure, Kimmy, truth be told I may know my way around a kitchen, but not this kitchen. I could use some help finding everything I need."

Hermione moved to rise from the bed, "Oh, I could-"

"Sit. Stay. Kimmy and I will take care of it." Harry bade Kimmy follow him and left Hermione in her room to finish her mail. He was actually looking forward to cooking for Hermione. She didn't know he was good at this, and it felt so very infrequent that he was able to boast a talent outside of Quidditch and Defense Against the Dark Arts. It seemed ever rarer that he was actually better at something than Hermione, the witch who seemed to have no limits to her abilities.