Chapter Text
After they finished school, Ron and Hermione went on a holiday together.
Hermione was headed off to a prestigious university and Ron was starting a bartending gig with a loose plan to “figure out all that future stuff later.” Hermione had the feeling they needed to bond before things got chaotic, or they might not remain friends. She couldn’t admit how lonely that prospect made her feel.
Ron, of course, was thrilled at the suggestion, even though when Hermione said she wanted to camp, he laughed for a solid minute before he finally believed she was serious. (She had her own reservations about sleeping and eating outdoors, but it was a budget-friendly way to be away for several days, and she was sure she’d manage.)
The second morning, Hermione woke up to find the tent was cold, and she and Ron had rolled toward each other, snuggling through their sleeping bags for warmth. Though she froze with horror at the awkwardness, Ron’s soft snores assured her she was the only one who knew they were pressed closely together, so she relaxed and watched Ron’s chest rise and fall and felt the shape of his bony calf between hers for a full minute before she carefully pulled away.
Outside the sky was swelling with a foggy sunrise. The smell of the tea off the camp stove woke Ron. He came out rumpled and stretching with an artless sleepy smile, and Hermione had to look away.
“Where today?” he asked, plopping down on the blanket beside her.
“I’d like to take the hike in the guidebook past Mount Ven.”
“The one that’s supposed to be haunted?” Ron’s brow furrowed, like he was truly concerned. Hermione grinned and sipped her tea. He caught her eye and snorted. “What? Why tempt fate?”
She rolled her eyes. “The legend says we’re in no danger so long as we stay out of its shadow. If we walk in the morning, we’ll be fine.”
Ron shrugged, like he wasn’t bothered, but Hermione watched him fidget and couldn’t help laughing again. He glared at her, so she did her best to hide her amusement as they finished breakfast and got dressed one at a time in the tent before starting off.
The mountain was easy to spot. In the range of low hills, it was the only one that stood out enough to cast a long shadow. It had a rocky face with a crooked, spiraling path upward that led into a narrow, dark cavern. Hermione couldn’t help pointing it out. “That’s must be where the Mountain King comes and goes.”
Ron elbowed her and scowled, but he was grinning a moment later. He looked at the mountain thoughtfully as they walked, the sun burning the cool off the grass and small trees along the path so the whole world seemed to sparkle. It was beautiful, but Hermione found herself distracted by the familiar shape of Ron’s hand, relaxed and swinging with each step against his thigh. In the last year or so, he’d grown soft red hair on the backs of his wrists fading to white-blond on the backs of his hands.
She was so busy looking at Ron, in fact, that he was the one who noticed the boy first.
They came over a rise and a large, smooth stone was positioned just off the path. The boy sat there. He looked to be about their age, but he wore crude clothing, convincingly primitive like he’d just stepped off the set for a medieval film. His eyes were unnaturally bright and green, and his long black hair was tied back at the nape of his neck.
He didn’t seem nearly as surprised to see them as they were to see him. He smiled, warm and shy. “Hello. I’m Harry. May I walk with you?”
Hermione and Ron exchanged a look, taken aback.
“Um, sure,” Ron said before Hermione could think of a reason to say no. The boy’s smile was blinding. He stood up hastily from the rock and gestured for them to walk on, and he fell into stride with them. Hermione noticed he wore leather boots that were stitched up the back with leather lacing instead of sewn with thread.
“Are you, like, a roleplayer?” she asked. People dressed up and did reenactments or cosplay, she was vaguely aware.
Harry looked at her with those eerie eyes, perfectly guileless. “I’m just Harry.”
Ron walked slowly along beside them. Harry was about Hermione’s height, so Ron’s stride was half again the length of either of theirs. He was looking carefully at Harry’s clothing, seeming to be just as confused as Hermione.
“Where did you come from, mate?”
Harry looked forward and tilted his head, like he liked the way the sun felt on his face. His eyes fluttered half-closed even as he answered. “From the Mountain.”
Ron stumbled in shock, and Harry shot out a hand to catch his elbow with unnatural speed and grace. The hair rose on Hermione’s arms. But as soon as Ron had his balance, Harry let him go.
“So you’re the Mountain King’s boy. His bride,” Ron said, nodding like it was a reasonable thing to claim.
“I’m not a boy,” Harry said, but his smile was steady and he didn’t look offended.
“Right. Sure. Me either,” Ron hastened to say. Hermione couldn’t tell if he was playing along for fun, or at Harry’s expense. Either way, she didn’t feel comfortable joining in.
“What’s it like, living in the Mountain?”
“Cold,” Harry said. “Dark.”
“That sounds awful,” Hermione said bluntly. Harry looked at her, beginning to walk again. She found herself falling into step with him.
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Harry said. “I take my walks.” He smiled at them. “It wasn’t always like this. But eventually the Mountain King came to understand that not everyone can live beneath the mountain contentedly.”
Hermione didn’t know what to say to that. She still wasn’t sure what to make of Harry. Was he pretending, or mad? He had a strange accent, she thought, but she didn’t know enough about the local language to be sure.
“You speak English very well,” she observed.
“Thank you,” Harry said, seeming to mean it. “I’ve been reading in English for many years. Time passes strangely in the Mountain.” He paused, watching his feet as they walked. The silence grew a bit strained until he said, “Would you tell me about yourselves?”
For whatever reason, they did. Harry was easy to talk to. He was engaged by even the silliest or most trivial stories. And Hermione was feeling nostalgic about all the years in school with Ron, her first, best, and possibly only friend. Her friend she thought she might soon lose. As the hours wore on and they came to the other end of the circular trail, close to their campsite, strange Harry — mad or playacting or both — felt like a fast friend.
So Hermione didn’t object when Ron asked if he wanted to stay with them.
A raven landed on a tree branch and Harry looked at it thoughtfully, then nodded, smiling. “I’d love that,” he said.
They warmed soup on the fire and stayed up late. Harry showed them how to build a better, hotter fire, nursing it into a steady, high flame several feet tall, then put on an expert shadow-puppet show. When they were weary from a day of walking and an evening of laughter, Ron mentioned turning in. Hermione hesitated. Having Harry in the single tent seemed a step too far.
“I’d prefer to sleep out here,” he said calmly before she could voice any concern. “Good night, you two,” he said, rolling his leather vest into a bundle so he could use it to pillow his head. Ron went in with a little wave, and Hermione lingered, frowning.
“Are you sure?” she asked uncertainly. “I might have an extra blanket.”
He smiled at her with perfect contentment. “I’m sure. I like to feel the breeze.” Then he searched her face, suddenly solemn. “He feels the same, you know.”
Somehow, Hermione knew instantly what he meant. She blushed and shot a look over her shoulder at the tent, but the flap was already closed. Rustling noises from within suggested Ron was getting into his sleeping bag, not hearing them.
“Am I that obvious?” she muttered.
Harry laughed, a sound like bells. “Yes,” he said kindly. “But so is he.”
Hermione felt a strange hyper-awareness of Ron as she settled into her sleeping bag next to his. It took ages to fall asleep. She thought of Harry, lying on the ground beneath the starry sky, and wondered if it might be true. If he might be a boy who had walked into the mountain’s shadow and been spirited away to live somewhere lost to time and space.
When she woke up, she and Ron were tucked together again, and he was studying her face. When her eyes opened their gazes locked for a frozen moment, and then Ron’s cheeks were red and he was rolling away, muttering apologies.
Harry was already up, making the tea. He smiled knowingly and Hermione hid her answering grin against her shoulder.
“Harry, mate!” Ron exclaimed, coming out. “You weren’t a figment of our imagination, after all!”
“No, quite real,” Harry confirmed. “You have the strangest tea-making contraption, but I figured it out,” he added proudly.
Harry wanted to walk, so they did. Despite all sense, Hermione and Ron were deeply invested in the stories he told of the Mountain and its King.
“But he’s your captor,” Hermione insisted, surprising herself with her vehemence. “You shouldn’t love him.”
Harry smiled at her sadly. “What other choice do I have?”
“He’s a bad man,” Ron insisted quietly. “You could...you could come with us, you know.”
Harry’s grin grew slowly wider. “Could I? What would I do?”
Ron looked thoughtful. “You could stay with me. I’ve got room in my new flat. We could find you a job.”
“A job?” Harry looked delighted by the idea. “Doing what?”
“What kind of things do you know how to do?” Hermione asked.
“I can tend animals, and crops,” Harry said. “I would remember how to do those things.”
Ron frowned. “Not a lot of call for that, these days.”
Hermione looked at him sharply, protective of Harry’s feelings for reasons she couldn’t quite reconcile. “Sure there is. Livestock or pets. He could be a...a dog walker! Or work in an animal shelter.”
“Animal shelter?”
Harry was mystified by a world where homeless animals received such care. His smile was wistful. “The future isn’t so bad,” he said when Hermione finished.
She grimaced. “I don’t know. There are wars and hunger and bad people who seem to profit from it all.”
“That’s just the world,” Harry said, touching her arm in a way that was instantly comforting. It was something about his touch, gentle but sure, and the way he met her eyes so she knew he understood. “That’s how it is in all times.”
That night, two ravens settled on the branch. Harry watched them for a long moment, then asked if either of them knew any good songs.
In the tent, when she thought he must already be asleep, Hermione inched her hand closer to Ron’s, which lay lax between them, upturned. When her little finger brushed his thumb, Ron took a deep breath. Awake, then.
She went still in the dark for a moment that felt like it lasted forever, until his hand turned and covered hers. Their fingers slid together, loosely interlaced.
When they woke up tangled together, neither one of them pulled away or made excuses.
Outside, Harry had already banked the fire. He grinned at them both, bright as the sunrise. “Are you ready to walk?”
It wasn’t a bright day; indeed, it was overcast, the coiling clouds seeming to radiate from the Mountain. The weather dampened their moods and somehow, Hermione thought she had to convince Harry to come with them, back to the city. She couldn’t believe he was the prisoner of a supernatural Mountain King, but he was obviously troubled and needed help.
When they stopped to eat cold sandwiches, shivering while the wet breeze blew, not quite raining on them, she turned to Harry and gripped his arm. She opened her mouth, ready to let some speech pour forth, thought nothing she’d rehearsed in her mind that morning sounded right.
“It’s all right, Hermione,” Harry said, meeting her stare like he knew exactly what she was going to say.
“But we want to help you.” Her voice trembled. She felt Ron’s hand land tentatively on her back.
“Yeah, mate,” Ron said quietly. “Please, come with us.”
Harry looked back and forth between them while the wind pulled a few tendrils of his dark hair from the knot he’d tied it all into on the back of his head. They got in his eyes and made him seem less real than ever, or more, standing there with the mountain behind him in his leggings and coarse linen shirt.
“You’ve helped me,” he said finally, perfectly earnest. “Now I know the tune to all The Beatles’ greatest hits.”
Hermione laughed despite herself. Ron hugged her gently around the waist. They walked back to the camp.
“Harry,” Hermione said, turning to him at the edge of the clearing. A raven had landed on that same branch. There must be a nest nearby. “Will you at least think it over? Just, sleep on it. You wouldn’t have to stay with us forever. It could just be a visit.”
Harry smiled gently. The rustle of a second raven’s wings and the branch dipped beneath its added weight. The birds sat close together, looking discontent in the evening drizzle.
Ron was behind her again. Hermione wondered for a moment if Harry was right; if Ron felt as she did. If the new thing that seemed to have grown today from their shy touches was too fragile for reality, or if they could carry it into tomorrow and the days after.
“You’re going to have everything you want,” Harry said, looking between them. Then he looked up and to his right, where a third raven had begun to descend from the patch of grey sky still visible there. Hermione found herself watching it, too, as it circled once, then swept toward the branch to join the first two, its claws outstretched. The second it made contact, Harry was gone.
Hermione made a small, plaintive sound, drowned out by the flurry of all three ravens taking flight, their wings beating against one another before they managed to separate. Ron hugged her tightly, and the rain began to come down.
The next morning they went to the rock where they’d found Harry.
“Was it even real?” Hermione wondered.
Ron was gazing out at the Mountain. “It looks different,” he murmured.
Hermione looked too, through the gauzy morning sun and the fog from the wet ground below. Where the rocky face of the mountain had shown a path and a cavern entrance the first day, it was now a smooth and unbroken stretch of stone. Hermione thought she heard a few notes of soft singing in the wind, but she wasn’t sure.